PR 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM 
 The Estate of 
 
 Preserved Smith. 
 
 
Cornell University Library 
 
 PR 5850.E88a 
 
 Complete poetical works, 
 
 3 1924 013 573 633 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013573633 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 
 
THE 
 
 COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 
 
 \ 
 
 V \ OF 
 
 ^VILLI AM WORDSWORTH 
 
 WITH 'AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY 
 
 / JOHN MORLEY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THOMAS Y.^CROWELL & CO. 
 ..--PUBLISHERS 
 
f]ii-] li^. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The poet whose works are contained in the present volume was born in the 
 little town of Cockermouth, in Cumberland, on April 7, 1770. He died at Rydal 
 'Mount in the neighboring county of Westmoreland, on April 23, 1850. In this 
 long span of mortal years, events of vast and enduring moment shook the world. 
 A handful of scattered and dependent colonies in the northern continent of 
 America made themselves into one of the most powerful and beneficent of states. 
 ^ The ancient monarchy of France, and all the old ordering of which the mon- 
 archy had been the keystone, was overthrown, and it was not until after many a 
 violent shock of arms, after terrible slaughter of men, after strange diplomatic 
 combinations, after many social convulsions, after many portentous mutations of 
 Empire, that Europe once more settled down for a season into established order and 
 system. In England almost alone, after the loss of her great possessions across the 
 Atlantic Ocean, the fabric of the State stood fast and firm. Yet here, too in these 
 eighty years, an old order slowly gave place to new. The restoration of peace, after 
 a war conducted with extraordinary tenacity and fortitude, led to a still more 
 wonderful display of ingenuity, industry, and enterprise, in the more fruitful field of 
 commerce and of manufactures. Wealth, in spite of occasional vicissitudes, 
 increased with amazing rapidity. The population of England and Wales grew from 
 being seven and a half millions in 1770, to nearly eighteen millions in 1850. 
 Political power was partially transferred from a territorial aristocracy to the middle 
 and trading classes. Laws were made at once more equal and more humane. 
 During all the tumult of the great war which for so many years bathed Europe in 
 fire, through all the throes and agitations in which peace brought forth the new 
 time, Wordsworth for half a century ( 1 799-1850) dwelt sequestered in unbroken 
 composure and steadfastness in his chosen home amid the mountains and lakes of 
 his native region, working out his own ideal of the poet's high office. 
 
 The interpretation of life in books and the development of imagination under- 
 went changes of its own. Most of the great lights of the eighteenth century were 
 still burning, though burning low, when Wordsworth came into the world. Pope, 
 indeed, had been dead for six and twenty years, and all the rest of the .Queen Anne 
 men had gone. But Gray only died in 1771, and Goldsmith in 1774. Ten years 
 later Johnson's pious and manly heart ceased to beat. Voltaire and Rousseau, those 
 two diverse oracles of their age, both died in 1778. Hume had passed away two 
 years before. Cowper was forty years older than Wordsworth, but Cowper's most 
 delightful work was not produced until 1783. Crabbe, who anticipated Words- 
 worth's choice of themes from rural life, while treating them with a sterner realism, 
 was virtually his contemporary, having been born in 1754, and dying in 1832. The 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 two great names of his own dale were Scott and Coleridge, the first born in 1771, 
 and the second a year afterwards. Then a generation later came another new 
 and illustrious group. Byron was born in 1788, Shelley in 1792, and Keats in 
 1795. Wordsworth was destined to see one more orb of the first purity and 
 brilliance rise to its place in the poetic firmament. Tennyson's earliest volume of 
 poems was published in 1830, and " In Memoriam," one of his two masterpieces, 
 in 1850. Anyone who realizes for how much these famous names will always stand 
 in the history of human genius, may measure the great transition that Wordsworth's 
 eighty years witnessed in some of men's deepest feelings about art and life and 
 " the speaking face of earth and heaven." 
 
 Here, too, Wordsworth stood isolated and apart. "Scott and Soutftey were 
 valued friends, but he thought little of Scott's poetry, and less of Southey's. Byron 
 and Shelley he seems scarcely to have read; and he failed altogether to appreciate 
 Keats. {Myers.) Of Blake's "Songs of Innocence and Experience" he said, 
 "There is something in the madness of this man which interests me more than the 
 sanity of Lord Byron and Walter Scott." Coleridge was the only man of the shin- 
 ing company with whom he ever had any real intimacy of mind, for whom he ever 
 nourished real deference and admiration, as one "unrelentingly possessed by thirst 
 of greatness, love, and beauty," and in whose intellectual power, as the noble Unes 
 in the Sixth Book of the " Prelude ' ' so gorgeously attest, he took the passionate interest 
 of a man at once master, disciple, and friend. It is true to say, as Emerson says, 
 that Wordsworth's genius was the great exceptional fact of the literature of his 
 period ; but he had no teachers nor inspirers save nature and solitude. 
 
 Wordsworth was the son of a solicitor, and all his early circumstances were 
 homely, unpretentious, and rather straitened. His mother died when he was 
 eight years old, and when his father followed her five years later, two of his uncles 
 provided means for continuing at Cambridge the education which had been begun 
 in the rural grammar school of Hawkshead. It was in 1787 that he went up to 
 St. John's College. He took his Bachelor's degree at the beginning of 1791, and 
 there his connection with the university ended. 
 
 For some years after leaving Cambridge, Wordsworth let himself drift. He did 
 not feel good enough for the Church; he shrank from the law; fancying that he 
 had talents for command, he thought of being a soldier. Meanwhile, he passed a 
 short time desultorily in London. Towards the end of 1 791, through Paris, he 
 passed on to Orleans and Blois, where he made some friends and spent most of ' 
 year. He returned to Paris in October, 1792. France was no longer standing 
 on the top of golden hours. The September massacres filled the sky with a lurid 
 flame. Wordsworth still retained his ardent faith in the Revolution, and was even 
 ready, though no better than " a landsman on the deck of a ship struggling with a 
 hideous storm," to make common cause with the Girondists. But the prudence of 
 friends at home forced him back to England before the beginning of the terrible 
 year of '93. With his return closed that first survey of its inheritance, which most 
 serious souls are wont to make in the fervid prime of early manhood. 
 
 It would be idle to attempt any commentary on the bare facts that we have just 
 recapitulated; for Wordsworth himself has clothed them with their full force and 
 meaning in the "Prelude.", This record of the growth of a poet's mind, told by the 
 poet himself with all the sincerity of which he was capable, is never likely to be 
 popular. Of that, as of so much more of his poetry, we must say that, as a whole. 
 It nas not the musical, harmonious, sympathetic quality which seizes us in even the 
 prose of such a book as Rousseau's " Confessions." Macaulay thought the " Prelude" 
 a poorer and more tiresome " Excursion," with the old flimsy philosophy about the 
 effect of scenery on the mind, the old crazy mystical metaphysics, and the endless 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 wildernesses of twaddle; still he admits that there are some fine descriptions and 
 energetic declamations. All Macaulay's tastes and habits of mind made him a poor 
 judge of such a poet as Wordsworth. He valued spirit, energy, pomp, stateli- 
 ness of form and diction, and actually thought Dryden's fine lines about to-morrow 
 being falser than the former day, as fine as any eight lines in Lucretius. But his 
 words truly express the effect of the " Prelude "on more vulgar minds than his own. 
 George Eliot, on the other hand, who had the inward eye that was not among 
 Macaulay's gifts, found the " Prelude " full of material for a daily liturgy, and it is 
 easy to imagine how she lingered as she did, over such a thought as this — ■ 
 
 ' ' There is 
 One great society alone on earth : 
 The noble Living and the noble Dead." 
 
 There is, too, as may be found imbedded even in Wordsworth's dullest work, many 
 a line of the truest poetical quality, such as that on Newton's statue in the silent 
 Chapel of Trinity College — 
 
 "The marble index of a mind forever 
 Voys^ing through strange seas of Thought alone." 
 
 Apart, however, from beautiful lines like this, and from many noble passages of 
 high reflection set to sonorous verse, this remarkable poem is in its whole effect 
 unique in impressive power, as a picture of the advance of an elect and serious 
 spirit from childhood and school-time, through the ordeal of adolescence, through 
 close contact with stirring and enormous events, to the stage when it has found 
 the sources of its strength, and is fully and finally prepared to put its temper to the 
 proof. 
 
 The three Books that describe the poet's residence in France have a special 
 and a striking value of their own. Their presentation of the phases of good men's 
 minds as the successive scenes of the Revolution unfolded themselves, has real 
 historic interest. More than this, it is an abiding lesson to brave men how to bear 
 themselves in hours of public stress. It portrays exactly that mixture of persevering 
 faith and hope with firm and reasoned judgment, with which I like to think that 
 Turgot, if he had lived, would have confronted the workings of the Revolutionary 
 power. Great masters in many kinds have been inspired by the French Revolution, 
 Human genius might seem to have exhausted itself in the burning political passion 
 of Burke, in the glowing melodrama of fire and tears of Carlyle, Michelet, Hugo; but 
 the ninth, tenth, and eleventh Books of the " Prelude," by their strenuous simplicity, 
 their deep truthfulness, their slowfooted and inexorable transition from ardent hope 
 to dark imaginations, sense of woes to come, sorrow for human kind, and pain 
 of heart, breathe the very spirit of the great catastrophe. There is none of the 
 ephemeral glow of the political exhortation, none of the tiresome falsity of the 
 dithyramb in history. Wordsworth might well wish that some dramatic tale, endued 
 with livelier shapes and flinging out less guarded words, might set forth the lessons 
 of his experience. The material was fitting. The story of these three Books has 
 something of the severity, the self-control, the inexorable necessity of classic tragedy, 
 and like classic tragedy it has a noble end. The dregs and sour sediment that 
 reaction from exaggerated hope is so apt to stir in poor natures, had no place here. 
 The French Revolution made the one crisis in Wordsworth's mental history, the one 
 heavy assault on his continence of soul, and when he emerged from it all his great- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ness remained to him. After a long spell of depression, bewilderment, mortification, 
 and sore disappointment, the old faith in new shapes was given back. 
 
 "Nature's self, 
 By all varieties of human love 
 Assisted, led me back through opening day 
 To those sweet counsels between head and heart 
 Whence grew that genuine knowledge, fraught with peace, 
 Which, through the later sinkings of this cause, 
 Hath still upheld me and upholds me now." 
 
 It was six years after his return from France before Wordsworth finally settled 
 down in the scenes with which his name and the power of his genius were to be for- 
 ever associated. During this interval it was that two great sources of personal infiu- 
 eiice were opened to him. He entered upon that close and beloved companionship 
 with his sister, which remained unbroken to the end of their days; and he first made 
 the acquaintance of Colerid^. The character of Dorothy Wordsworth has long 
 taken its place in the gallery of admirable and devoted women who have inspired 
 the work and the thoughts of great men. *' She is a woman, indeed," said Coleridge, 
 "in mind, I mean, and heart; for her person is such that if you expected to see a 
 pretty woman, you would think her rather ordinary; if you expected to see an 
 ordinary woman, you would think her pretty." To the solidity, sense, and strong 
 intelligence of the Wordsworth stock, she added a grace, a warmth, and liveliness 
 peculiarly her own. Her nature shines transparent in her letters, her truly admir- 
 able journal, and in every report that we have of her. Wordsworth's own feelings 
 for her, and his sense of the debt that he owed to her faithful affection and eager 
 mind, he has placed on lasting record. 
 
 The intimacy with Coleridge was, as has been said, Wordsworth's one strong 
 friendship, and must be counted among the highest examples of that generous 
 relation between great writers. Unlike in the quality of their genius, and unlike in 
 force of character and the fortunes of life, they remained bound to one another by 
 sympathies that neither time nor harsh trial ever extinguished. Coleridge had left 
 Cambridge in 1794, had married, had started various unsuccessful projects for com- 
 bining the improvement of mankind with the earning of an income, and was now 
 settled in a small cottage at Nether Stowey in Somersetshire, with an acre and a half 
 of land, from which he hoped to raise corn and vegetables enough to support himself 
 and his wife, as well as to feed a couple of pigs on the refuse. Wordsworth and his 
 sister were settled at Racedown, near Crewkerne, in Dorsetshire. In 1797 they 
 moved to Alfoxden in Somersetshire, their principal inducement to the change being 
 Coleridge's society. The friendship bore fruit in the production of " Lyrical Bal- 
 lads" in 1798, mainly the work of Wordsworth, but containing no less notable a con- 
 tribution from Coleridge than the "Ancient Mariner." The two poets only received 
 thirty guineas for their work, and the publisher lost his money. The taste of the 
 country was not yet ripe for Wordsworth's poetic experiment. 
 
 Immediately after the pubUcation of the "Lyrical Ballads," the two Words- 
 worths and Coleridge started from Yarmouth for Hamburg. Coleridge's account 
 '\n Satyrane's Letters, published in the "Biographia Literaria," of the voyage and 
 of the conversations between the two English poets and Klopstock, is worth turning 
 to. The pastor told them that Klopstock was the German Milton. "A very 
 German Milton indeed," they thought. The Wordsworths remained for four wintry 
 months at Goslar in Saxony, while Coleridge went on to Ratzeburg, Gbttingen, and 
 other places, mastering German, and "delving in the unwholesome quicksilver mines 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of metaphysic depths." Wordsworth made little way with the language, but worked 
 diligently at his own verse. 
 
 When they came back to England, Wordsworth and his sister found their hearts 
 turning with irresistible attraction to their own familiar countryside. They at last 
 made their way to Grasmere. The opening book of the " Recluse," which is published 
 for the first time in the present volume, describes in fine verse the emotions and the 
 scene. The face of this delicious vale is not quite what it was when 
 
 " Cottages of mountain stone 
 Clustered like stars some few, but single most, 
 And lurking dimly in their shy retreats. 
 Or glancing at each other cheerful looks 
 Like separated stars with clouds between." 
 
 But it is foolish to let ourselves be fretted by the villa, the hotel, and the tourist. 
 We may well be above all this in a scene that is haunted by a great poetic shade. 
 The substantial features and elements of beauty still remain, the crags and woody 
 steeps, the lake, " its one green island and its winding shores ; the multitude of little 
 rocky hills." Wordsworth was not the first poet to feel its fascination. Gray visited 
 the Lakes in the autumn of 1769, and coming into the vale of Grasmere from the 
 north-west, declared it to be one of the sweetest landscapes that art ever attempted 
 to imitate, an unsuspected paradise of peace and rusticity. We cannot indeed com- 
 pare the httle crystal mere, set like a gem in the verdant circle of the hills, with the 
 grandeur and glory of Lucerne, or the radiant gladness and expanse of Como : yet it 
 has an inspiration of its own, to delight, to soothe, to fortify, and to refresh. 
 
 "What want we? have we not perpetual streams. 
 Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields, 
 And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds, 
 And thickets full of songsters, and the voice 
 Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound 
 Heard now and then from morn to latest eve, 
 Admonishing the man who walks below 
 Of solitude and silence in the sky. 
 These have we, and a thousand nooks of earth 
 Have also these, but nowhere else is found. 
 Nowhere (or is it fancy?) can be found 
 The one sensation that is here; . . . 
 
 'tis the sense 
 Of majesty, of beauty, and repose, 
 A blended holiness of earth and sky, 
 Something that makes this individual spot, 
 This small abiding-place of many men, 
 A termination, and a last retreat, 
 A centre, come from wheresoe'er you will, 
 A whole without dependence or defect. 
 Made for itself, and happy in itself, 
 Perfect contentment. Unity entire." 
 
 In the Grasmere vale Wordsworth lived for half a century, first in a little cottage 
 at the northern corner of the lake, and then (1813) in a more commodious house at 
 Rydal Mount at the southern end, on the road to Ambleside. In 1802 he married 
 Mary Hutchinson, of Penrith, and this completed the circle of his felicity. Mary, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 he once said, was to his ear the most musical and most truly English in sound of all 
 the names we have. The name was of harmonious omen. The two beautiful sonnets 
 that he wrote on his wife's portrait long years after, when "morning into noon had 
 passed, noon into eve," show how much her large heart and humble mind had done 
 for the blessedness of his home. 
 
 Their life was almost more simple than that of the dalesmen their neighbors. 
 " It is my opinion," ran one of his oracular sayings to Sir George Beaumont, "that 
 a man of letters, and indeed all pubhc men of every pursuit, should be severely 
 frugal." Means were found for supporting the modest home out of two or three 
 small windfalls bequeathed by friends or relatives, and by the time that children had 
 begun to come, Wordsworth was raised to affluence by obtaining the post of distribu- 
 tor of stamps for Westmoreland and part of Cumberland. His life was happily 
 devoid of striking external incident. Its essential part lay in meditation and compo- 
 sition. 
 
 He was surrounded by friends. Southey had made a home for himself and his 
 beloved library a few miles over the hills at Keswick. De Quincey, with his clever 
 brains and shallow character, took up his abode in the cottage which Wordsworth 
 had first hved in at Grasmere. Coleridge, born the most golden genius of them all, 
 came to and fro in those fruitless unhappy wanderings which consumed a life that 
 once promised to be so rich in blessing and in glory. In later years Dr. Arnold built 
 a house at Fox How, attracted by the Wordsworths and the scenery; and other 
 lesser lights came into the neighborhood. " Our intercourse with the Wordsworths," 
 Arnold wrote on the occasion of his first visit in 1832, "was one of the brightest 
 spots of all; nothing could exceed their friendliness, and my almost daily walks with 
 him were things not to be forgotten. Once and once only we had a good fight about 
 the Reform Bill during a walk up Greenhead Ghyll to see the unfinished sheepfold, 
 recorded in " Michael." But I am sure that our political disagreement did not at all 
 interfere with our enjoyment of each other's society; for I think that in the great 
 principles of things we agreed very entirely." It ought to be possible, for that 
 matter, for magnanimous men, even if they do not agree in the great principles of 
 things, to keep pleasant terms with one another for more than one afternoon's walk. 
 Many pilgrims came, and the poet seems to have received them with cheerful equa- 
 nimity. Emerson called upon him in 1833, and found him plain, elderly, white- 
 haired, not prepossessing. " He led me out into his garden, and showed me the 
 gravel walk in which thousands of his lines were composed. He had just returned 
 from Staffa, and within three days had made three sonnets on Fingal's Cave, and was 
 composing a fourth when he was called in to see me. He said, ' If you are interested 
 in my verses, perhaps you will like to hear these lines.' I gladly assented, and he 
 recollected himself for a few moments, and then stood forth and repeated, one after 
 another, the three entire sonnets with great animation. This recitation was so 
 unlocked for and surprising — he, the old Wordsworth, standing apart, and reciting 
 to me in a garden-walk like a schoolboy declaiming — that I was at first near to 
 laugh; but recollecting myself, that I had come thus far to see a poet, and he was 
 chanting poems to me, I saw that he was right, and I was wrong, and gladly gave 
 myself up to him. He never was in haste to publish; partly because he corrected a 
 good deal. ... He preferred such of his poems as touched the affections to any 
 others ; for whatever is didactic — what theories of society and so on — might perish 
 quickly, but whatever combined a truth with an affection was good to-day and good 
 forever." {^English Traits, ch. i.) 
 
 Wordsworth was far too wise to encourage the pilgrims to turn into abiding 
 sojourners in his chosen land. Clough has described how, when he was a lad of 
 eighteen (1837), with a mild surprise he heard the venerable poet correct the ten- 
 dency to exaggerate the importance of flowers and fields, lakes, waterfalls, and 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 scenery. "People come to the Lakes," said Wordsworth, "and are charmed with 
 a particular spot, and build a house, and find themselves discontented, forgetting 
 that these things are only the sauce and garnish of life." 
 
 In spite of a certain hardness and stiffness, Wordsworth must have been an 
 admirable companion for anybody capable of true elevation of mind. The unfortu- 
 nate Haydon says, with his usual accent of enthusiasm, after a saunter at Hampstead, 
 "Never did any man so beguile the time as Wordsworth. His purity of heart, his 
 kindness, his soundness of principle, his information, his knowledge, and the intense 
 and eager feelings with which he pours forth all he knows, affect, interest, and 
 enchant one." {Autobiog. i. 2g8, 384.) The diary of Crabb Robinson, the corre- 
 spondence of Charles Lamb, the delightful autobiography of Mrs. Fletcher, and much 
 less delightfully the autobiography of Harriet Martineau, all help us to realize by 
 many a trait Wordsworth's daily walk and conversation. Of all the glimpses that we 
 get, from these and many other sources, none are more pleasing than those of the inter- 
 course between Wordsworth and Scott. They were the two manliest and most 
 wholesome men of genius of their time. They held different theories of poetic art, 
 but their affection and esteem for one another never varied, from the early days when 
 Scott and his young wife visited Wordsworth in his cottage at Grasmere, down to 
 that sorrowful autumn evening (1831) when Wordsworth and his daughter went to 
 Abbotsford to bid farewell to the wondrous potentate, then just about to start on his 
 vain search for new life, followed by " the might of the whole earth's good wishes." 
 
 Of Wordsworth's demeanor and physical presence, De Quincey's account, silly, 
 coxcombical, and vulgar, is the worst; Carlyle's, as might be expected from his 
 magical gift of portraiture, is the best. Carlyle cared little for Wordsworth's poetry, 
 had a real respect for the antique greatness of his devotion to Poverty and Peasant- 
 hood, recognized his strong intellectual powers and strong character, but thought 
 him rather dull, bad-tempered, unproductive, and almost wearisome, and found his 
 divine reflestions and unfathomabilities stinted, scanty, uncertain, palish. From 
 these and many other disparagements, one gladly passes to the picture of the poet as 
 he was in the flesh at a breakfast party given by Henry Taylor, at a tavern in St. 
 James's Street,, in 1840. The subject of the talk was Literature, its laws, practices, 
 and observances: — "He talked well in his way; with veracity, easy brevity, and 
 force ; as a wise tradesman would of his tools and workshop, and as no unwise one 
 could. His voice was good, frank, and sonorous, though practically clear, dis- 
 tinct, and forcible, rather than melodious ; the tone of him business-like, sedately 
 confident, no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about being courteous: a fine wholesome 
 rusticity, fresh as his mountain breezes, sat well on the stalwart veteran, and on all 
 he said and did. You would have said he was a usually taciturn man, glad to unlock 
 himself, to audience sympathetic and intelligent, when such offered itself. His face 
 bore marks of much, not always peaceful, meditation; the look of it not bland 
 or benevolent, so much as close, impregnable, and hard; a man multa tacere loquive 
 paratits, in a world where he had experienced no lack of contradictions as he strode 
 along! The eyes were not very brilliant, but they had a quiet clearness; there was 
 enough of brow, and well shaped; rather too much of cheek (' horse-face,' I have 
 heard satirists say), face of squarish shape and decidedly longish, as I thmk the 
 head itself was {i/s 'length' going horizontal): he was large-boned, lean, but still 
 firm-knit, tall, and strong-looking when he stood; a right good old steel-gray figure, 
 with a fine rustic simplicity and dignity about him, and a veracious strength looking 
 through him which might have suited one of those old steel-gray Markgrafs (Graf = 
 Grau, ' Steel-gray ') whom Henry the Fowler set up to ward the marches, and do 
 battle with the intrusive heathen, in a stalwart and judicious manner." 
 
 Whoever might be his friends within an easy walk, or dwelling afar, the poet knew 
 how to live his own life. The three fine sonnets headed " Personal Talk " so well 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 known, so warmly accepted in our better hours, so easily forgotten in hours not so 
 good between pleasant levities and grinding preoccupations, show us how little his 
 neighbors had to do with the poet's genial seasons of " smooth passions, smooth 
 discourse, and joyous thought." 
 
 For those days Wordsworth was a considerable traveller. Between 1820 and 
 1837 he made long tours abroad, to Switzerland, to Holland, to Belgium, to Italy. 
 In other years he visited Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. He was no mechanical tour- 
 ist, admiring to order and marvelling by regulation; and he confessed to Mrs. 
 Fletcher that he fell asleep before the Venus de Medici at Florence. But the 
 product of these wanderings is to be seen in some of his best sonnets, such as the first 
 on Calais Beach, the famous one on Westminster Bridge, the second of the two on 
 Bruges, where " the Spirit of Antiquity mounts to the seat of grace within the mind — 
 a deeper peace than that in deserts found " — and in some other fine pieces. 
 
 In weightier matters than mere travel, Wordsworth showed himself no mere 
 recluse. He watched the great affairs then being transacted in Europe with the 
 ardent interest of his youth, and his sonnets to Liberty, commemorating the attack 
 by France upon the Swiss, the fate of Venice, the struggle of Hofer, the resistance 
 of Spain, give no unworthy expression to the best of the varied motives that animated 
 England in her long struggle with Bonaparte. The sonnet to Toussaint I'Ouverture 
 concludes with some of the noblest lines in the English language. The strong verses 
 on the expected death of Mr. Fox are alive with a magnanimous public spirit that 
 goes deeper than political opinion. In his young days he had sent Fox a copy of the 
 " Lyrical Ballads," with a long letter indicating his sense of Fox's great and generous 
 qualities. Pitt, he admits that he could never regard with complacency. " I beUeve 
 him, however," he said, " to have been as disinterested a man, and as true a lover of 
 his country, as it was possible for so ambitious a man to be. His first wish (though 
 probably unknown to himself) was that his country should prosper under his admin- 
 istration; his next that it should prosper. Could the order of these wishes have 
 been reversed, Mr. Pitt would have avoided many of the grievous mistakes into 
 which, I think, he fell." "You always went away from Burke," he once told 
 Haydon, " with your mind filled; from Fox with your feelings excited; and from 
 Pitt with wonder at his having had the power to make the worse appear the better 
 reason." 
 
 Of the poems composed under the influence of that best kind of patriotism which 
 ennobles local attachments by associating them with the lasting elements of moral 
 grandeur and heroism, it is needless to speak. They have long taken their place as 
 something higher even than literary classics. As years began to dull the old penetration 
 of a mind which had once approached, like other youths, the shield of human nature 
 from the golden side, and had been eager to " clear a passage for just government," 
 Wordsworth lost his interest in progress. Waterloo may be taken for the date at 
 which his social grasp began to fail, and with it his poetic glow. He opposed Cath- 
 olic emancipation as stubbornly as Eldon, and the Reform Bill as bitterly as Croker. 
 For the practical reforms of his day, even in education, for which he had always 
 spoken up, Wordsworth was not a force. His heart clung to England as he found it. 
 "This concrete attachment to the scenes about him," says Mr. Myers, " had always 
 formed an important element in his character. Ideal politics, whether in Church or 
 State, had never occupied his mind, which sought rather to find its informing princi- 
 ples embodied in the England of his own day." This flowed, we may suppose, from 
 Burke. In a passage in the seventh Book of the " Prelude," he describes, in lines a 
 little prosaic but quite true, how he sat, saw, and heard, not unthankful nor unin- 
 spired, the great orator. 
 
 " While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth, 
 Against all systems, built on abstract rights." 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The Church, as conceived by the spirit of Laud, and described by Hooker's 
 voice, was the great symbol of the union of high and stable institution with thought, 
 faith, right living, and "sacred religion, mother of form and fear." As might be 
 expected from such a point of view, the church pieces, to which Wordsworth gave 
 so much thought, are, with few exceptions, such as the sonnet on ' ' Seathwaite Chapel, ' ' 
 formal, hard, and but thinly enriched with spiritual grace or unction. They are 
 ecclesiastical, not religious. In rehgious poetry, the Church of England finds her 
 most affecting voice, not in Wordsworth, but in the "Lyra Innocentium," and the 
 " Christian Year." Wordsworth abounds in the true devotional cast of mind, but less 
 than anywhere else in his properly ecclesiastical verse. 
 
 It was perhaps natural that when events no longer inspired him, Wordsworth 
 should have turned with new feelings towards the classic, and discovered a virtue 
 in classic form to which his own method had hitherto made him a little blind. 
 Towards the date of Waterloo, he read over again some of the Latin writers, in 
 attempting to prepare his son for college. He even at a later date set about a 
 translation of the "j^ineid " of Virgil, but the one permanent result of the classic move- 
 ment in his mind is " Laodamia." Earlier in life he had translated some books of 
 Ariosto at the rate of a hundred lines a day, and he even attempted fifteen of the 
 sonnets of Michael Angelo, but so much meaning is compressed into so little room 
 in those pieces that he found the difficulty insurmountable. He had a high opinion 
 of the resources of the Italian language. The poetry of Danle and of Michael 
 Angelo, he said, proves that if there be little majesty and strength in Italian verse, 
 the fault is in the authors and not in the tongue. 
 
 Our last glimpse of Wordsworth in the full and peculiar power of his genius is 
 the Ode ' * Composed on an Evening of Extraordinary Splendor and Beauty. " It is the 
 one exception to the critical dictum that all his good work was done in the decade 
 between 1798 and 1808. He lived for more than thirty years after this fine com- 
 position. But he added nothing more of value to the work that he had already 
 done. The public appreciation of it was very slow. The most influential among 
 the critics were for long hostile and contemptuous. Never at any time did Words- 
 worth come near to such popularity as that of Scott or of Byron. Nor was tliat all. 
 For many years most readers of poetry thought more even of " Lalla Rookh " than 
 of the " Excursion." While Scott, Byron, and Moore were receiving thousands of 
 pounds, Wordsworth received nothing. Between 1830 and 1840 the current turned 
 in Wordsworth's direction, and when he received the honor of a doctor's degree at 
 the Oxford Commemoration in 1839, the Sheldonian theatre made him the hero of 
 the day. In the spring of 1843 Southey died, and Sir Robert Peel pressed Words- 
 worth to succeed him in the office of Poet Laureate. " It is a tribute of respect," 
 said the Minister, "justly due to the first of living poets." But almost immediately 
 the light of his common popularity was eclipsed by Tennyson, as it had earlier been 
 eclipsed by Scott, by Byron, and in some degree by Shelley. Yet his fame among 
 those who know, among competent critics with a right to judge, to-day stands 
 higher than it ever stood. Only two writers have contributed so many lines of 
 daily popularity and application. In the handbooks of familiar quotations Words- 
 worth fills more space than anybody save Shakespeare and Pope. He exerted com- 
 manding influence over great minds that have powerfully affected our generation. 
 "I never before," said George Eliot in the days when her character was forming 
 itself (1839), "met with so many of my own feeHngs expressed just as I should 
 like them," and her reverence for Wordsworth remained to the end. J. S. Mill has 
 described how important an event in his life was his first reading of Wordsworth. 
 " What made his poems a medicine for my state of mind was that they expressed 
 not mere outward beauty, but states of feeling and of thought colored by feeling, 
 under the excitement of beauty. I needed to be made to feel that t^iere was real 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 permanent happiness in tranquil contemplation. Wordsworth taught me this, not 
 only without turging away from, but with greatly increased interest in the common 
 feelings and common destiny of human beings." {Autobiog., 148.) This effect of 
 Wordsworth on Mill is the very illustration of the phrase of a later poet of our own 
 day, one of the most eminent and by his friends best beloved of all those whom 
 Wordsworth had known, and on whom he poured out a generous portion of his own 
 best spirit : — 
 
 " Time may restore us in his course 
 Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force : 
 But where will Europe's latter hour 
 Again find Wordsworth's healing power? " 
 
 It is the power for which Matthew Arnold found this happy designation, that com- 
 pensates us for that absence of excitement of which the heedless complain in 
 Wordsworth's verse — excitement so often meaning mental fever, hysterics, distorted 
 passion, or other fitful agitation of the soul. 
 
 Pretensions are sometimes advanced as to Wordsworth's historic position, which 
 involve a mistaken view of literary history. Thus, we are gravely told by the too 
 zealous Wordsworthian that the so-called poets of the eighteenth century were 
 simply men of letters; they had various accomplishments and great general ability, 
 but their thoughts were expressed in prose, or in mere metrical diction, which 
 passed current as poetry without being so. Yet Burns belonged wholly to the 
 eighteenth century (1759-96), and no verse writer is so little literary as Burns, so 
 little prosaic; no writer more truly poetic in melody, diction, thought, feeling, and 
 spontaneous song. It was Burns who showed Wordsworth's own youth "How 
 verse may build a princely throne on humble truth." Nor can we understand how 
 Cowper is to be set down as simply a man of letters. We may, too, if we please, deny 
 the name of poetry to CoUins's tender and pensive " Ode to Evening ; " but we can 
 only do this on critical principles, which would end in classing the author of " Lycidas " 
 and " Comus," of the "Allegro " and " Penseroso'," as a writer of various accomplish- 
 ments and great general ability, but at bottom simply a man of letters and by no means 
 a poet. It is to Gray, however, that we must turn for the distinctive character of the 
 best poetry of the eighteenth century. With reluctance we will surrender the Pindaric 
 Odes, though not without risking the observation that some of Wordsworth's 
 own criticism on Gray is as narrow and as much beside the mark as Jeffrey's 
 on the " Excursion." But the "Ode on Eton College " is not to have grudged to 
 it the noble name and true quality of poetry, merely because, as one of Johnson's most 
 unfortunate criticisms expresses it, the ode suggests nothing to Gray which every 
 beholder does not equally think and feel. To find beautiful and pathetic language, 
 set to harmonious numbers, for the common impressions of meditative minds, is no 
 small part of the poet's task. That part has never been achieved by any poet in 
 any tongue, with more complete perfection and success than in the immortal " Elegy," 
 of which we may truly say that it has for nearly a century and a half given to greater 
 multitudes of men more of the exquisite pleasure of poetry than any other single 
 piece in all the glorious treasury of English verse. It abounds, as Johnson says, 
 "with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which 
 every bosom returns an echo." These moving commonplaces of the human lot. 
 Gray approached through books and studious contemplation; not as Wordsworth 
 approached them, by daily contact with the lives and habit of men and the forces 
 and magical apparitions of external nature. But it is a narrow view to suppose 
 that the men of the eighteenth century did not look through the literary conventions 
 of the day to the truths of life and nature behind them. The conventions have gone, 
 or are changed, and we are all glad of it. Wordsworth effected a wholesome 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 deliverance when he attacked the artificial diction, the personifications, the alle- 
 gories, the antitheses, the barren rhymes and monotonous metres, which the reigning 
 taste had approved. But while welcoming the new freshness, sincerity, and direct 
 md fertile return on nature, that is a very bad reason why we should disparage 
 poetry so genial, so simple, so humane, and so perpetually pleasing as the best 
 verse of the rationalistic century. 
 
 What Wordsworth did was to deal with themes that had been partially handled 
 by precursors and contemporaries, in a larger and more devoted spirit, with wider 
 ampUtude of illustration, and with the steadfastness and persistency of a religious 
 teacher. " Every great poet is a teacher," he said ; " I wish to be considered as a 
 teacher or as nothing." It may be doubted whether his general proposition is at 
 all true, and whether it is any more the essential business of a poet to be a teacher 
 than it was the business of Handel, Beethoven, or Mozart. They attune the soul 
 to high states of feeling; the direct lesson is often as naught. But of himself no 
 view could be more sound. He is a teacher, or he is nothing. "To console the 
 afflicted; to add sunshine to daylight by making the happy happier; to teach the 
 young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, and feel, and therefore 
 to become more actively and sincerely virtuous" — that was his vocation; to 
 show that the mutual adaptation of the external world and the inner mind is abl^ 
 to shape a paradise from the ' ' simple produce of the common day " — that was 
 his high argument. 
 
 Simplification was, as I have said elsewhere, the keynote of the revolutionary 
 time. Wordsworth was its purest exponent, but he had one remarkable peculiarity, 
 which made him, in England at least, not only its purest but its greatest. While 
 leading men to pierce below the artificial and conventional to the natural man and 
 natural life, as Rousseau did, Wordsworth still cherished the symbols, the traditions, 
 and the great institutes of social order. Simplification of life and thought and 
 feeling was to be accomplished without summoning up the dangerous spirit of 
 destruction and revolt. Wordsworth lived with nature, yet waged no angry railing 
 war against society. The chief opposing force to Wordsworth in literature was 
 Byron. Whatever he was in his heart, Byron in his work was drawn by all the forces 
 of his character, genius, and circumstances to the side of violent social change, and 
 hence the extraordinary popularity of Byron in the continental camp of emancipa- 
 tion. Communion with nature is in Wordsworth's doctrine the school of duty. 
 With Byron nature is the mighty consoler and the vindicator of the rebel. 
 
 A curious thing, which we may note in passing, is that Wordsworth, who clung 
 fervently to the historic foundations of society as it stands, was wholly indifferent to 
 history ; while Byron, on the contrary, as the fourth canto of " Childe Harold " is 
 enough to show, had at least the sentiment of history in as great a degree as any 
 poet that ever lived, and has given to it by far the most magnificent expression. 
 No doubt, it was history on its romantic, and not its philosophic or its political 
 side. 
 
 On Wordsworth's exact position in the hierarchy of sovereign poets, a deep 
 difference of estimate still divides even the most excellent judges. Nobody now 
 dreams of placing him so low as the Edinburgh Reviewers did, nor so high as Southey 
 placed him when he wrote to the author of "Philip van Artevelde" in 1829, that a 
 greater poet than Wordsworth there never has been nor ever will be. An extrava- 
 gance of this kind was only the outburst of generous friendship. Coleridge deliber- 
 ately placed Wordsworth " nearest of all modern writers to Shakespeare and Milton, 
 yet in a kind perfectly unborrowed and his own." Arnold, himself a poet of rare 
 and memorable quality, declares his firm belief that the poetical performance of 
 Wordsworth is, after that of Shakespeare and Milton, undoubtedly the most con- 
 siderable in our language from the Elizabethan age to the present time. Dryden, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Pope, Gray, Cowper, Goldsmith, Burns, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats — 
 "Wordsworth's name deserves to stand, and will finally stand, above them all." 
 Mr. Myers, also a poet, and the author of a volume on Wordsworth as much dis- 
 tinguished by insight as by admirable literary grace and power, talks of " a Plato, 
 a. Dante, a Wordsworth," all three in a breath, as 'stars of equal magnitude in the 
 great spiritual firmament. To Mr. Swinburne, on the contrary, all these panegyrical 
 estimates savor of monstrous and intolerable exaggeration. Amid these contentions 
 of celestial minds it will be safest to content ourselves with one or two plain observa- 
 tions in the humble positive degree, without hurrying into high and final compara- 
 tives and superlatives. 
 
 One admission is generally made at the outset. Whatever definition of poetry 
 we fix upon, whether it is the language of passion or imagination formed into regular 
 numbers; or, with Milton, that it should be "simple, sensuous, passionate;" in any 
 case there are great tracts in Wordsworth which, by no definition and on no terms, 
 can be called poetry. If we say with Shelley, that poetry is what redeems from 
 decay the visitations of the divinity in man, and is the record of the best and hap- 
 piest moments of the best and happiest minds, then are we bound to agree that 
 Wordsworth records too many moments that are not specially good or happy, that he 
 redeems from decay frequent visitations that are not from any particular divinity in 
 man, and treats them all as very much on a level. Mr. Arnold is undoubtedly right 
 in his view that, to be receivable as a classic, Wordsworth must be relieved of a 
 great deal of the poetical baggage that now encumbers him. 
 
 The faults and hindrances in Wordsworth's poetry are obvious to every reader. 
 For one thing, the intention to instruct, to improve the occasion, is too deliberate 
 and too hardly pressed. "We hate poetry," said Keats, "that has a palpable 
 design upon us. Poetry should be great and unobtrusive." Charles Lamb's friendly 
 remonstrance on one of Wordsworth's poems is applicable to more of them. "The 
 instructions conveyed in it are too direct; they don't slide into the mind of the 
 reader while he is imagining no such matter." 
 
 Then, except the sonnets and half a score of the pieces where he reaches his top- 
 most height, there are few of his poems that are not too long, and it often happens 
 even that no degree of reverence for the teacher prevents one from finding passages 
 of almost unbearable prolixity. A defence was once made by a great artist for what, 
 to the unregenerate mind, seemed the merciless tardiness of movement in one of 
 Goethe's romances, that it was meant to impress on his readers the slow march and 
 the tedium of events in human life. The lenient reader may give Wordsworth the 
 advantage of the same ingenious explanation. We may venture on a counsel which 
 is more to the point, in warning the student that not seldom in these blocks of 
 afflicting prose, suddenly we come upon some of the profoundest and most beautiful 
 passages that the poet ever wrote. In deserts of preaching we find, almost within 
 sight of one another, delightful oases of purest poetry. Besides being prolix, 
 Wordsworth is often cumbrous; has often no flight; is not liquid, is not musical. 
 He is heavy and self-conscious with the burden of his message. How much at his 
 best he is, when, as in the admirable and truly Wordsworthian poem of "Michael," he 
 spares us a sermon and leaves us the story. Then, he is apt to wear a somewhat 
 stiff-cut garment of solemnity, when not solemnity, but either sternness or sadness, 
 which are so different things, would seem the fitter mood. In truth Wordsworth 
 hardly knows how to be stern, as Dante or Milton was stern; nor has he the note of 
 plangent sadness which strikes the ear in men as morally inferior to him as Rousseau, 
 Keats, Shelley, or Coleridge; nor has he the Olympian air with which Goethe 
 delivered sage oracles. This mere solemnity is specially oppressive in some parts of 
 the " Excursion " — the performance where we best see the whole poet, and where the 
 poet most absolutely identifies himself with his subject. Yet, even in the midst of 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 these solemn discoursings, he suddenly introduces an episode in which his peculiar 
 power is at its height. There is no better instance of this than the passage in the 
 Second Book of the " Excursion," where he describes with a fidelity, at once realistic 
 and poetic, the worn-out almsman, his patient life and sorry death, and then the 
 unimaginable vision in the skies, as they brought the ancient man down through dull 
 mists from the mountain ridge to die. These hundred and seventy lines are like the 
 landscape in which they were composed; you can no more appreciate the beauty of 
 the one by a single or a second perusal, than you can the other in a scamper through 
 the vale on the box of the coach. But any lover of poetry who will submit himself 
 with leisure and meditation to the impressions of the story, the pity of it, the 
 naturalness of it, the glory and the mystic splendors of the indifferent heavens, will 
 feel that here indeed is the true strength which out of the trivial raises expression 
 for the pathetic and the sublime. 
 
 Apart, however, from excess of prolixity and of solemnity, can it be really con- 
 tended that in purely poetic quality — in aerial freedom and space, in radiant purity 
 of light or depth and variety of color, in penetrating and subtle sweetness of music, 
 in supple mastery of the instrument, in vivid spontaneity of imagination, in clean-cut 
 sureness of touch — Wordsworth is not surpassed by men who were below him in 
 weight and greatness? Even in his own field of the simple and the pastoral has he 
 touched so sweet and spontaneous a note as Burns's " Daisy," or the " Mouse "? 
 When men seek immersion or absorption in the atmosphere of pure poesy, without 
 lesson or moral, or anything but delight of fancy and stir of imagination, they will 
 find him less congenial to their mood than poets not worthy to loose the latchet of 
 his shoe in the greater elements of his art. In all these comparisons, it is not 
 merely Wordsworth's theme and motive and dominant note that are different; the 
 skill of hand is different, and the musical ear and the imaginative eye. 
 
 To maintain or to admit so much as this, however, is not to say the last word. 
 The question is whether Wordsworth, however unequal to Shelley in lyric quality, to 
 Coleridge or to Keats in imaginative quality, to Burns in tenderness, warmth, and that 
 humor which is so nearly akin to pathos, to Byron in vividness and energy, yet 
 possesses excellences of his own which place him in other respects above these 
 master-spirits of his time. If the question is to be answered affirmatively, it is clear 
 that only in one direction must we look. The trait that really places Wordsworth 
 on an eminence above his poetic contemporaries, and ranks him, as the ages are 
 likely to rank him, on a line just short of the greatest of all time, is his direct appeal 
 to will and conduct. "There is volition and self-government in every line of his 
 poetry, and his best thoughts come from his steady resistance to the ebb and flow of 
 ordinary desires and regrets. He contests the ground inch by inch with all 
 despondent and indolent humors, and often, too, with movements of inconsiderate 
 and wasteful joy." (J?. H. Hutton.') That would seem to be his true distinction 
 and superiority over men to whom more had been given of fire, passion, and ravishing 
 music. Those who deem the end of poetry to be intoxication, fever, or rainbow 
 dreams, can care little for Wordsworth. If its end be not intoxication, but on the 
 contrary a search from the wide regions of imagination and feeling for elements of 
 composure deep and pure, and of self-government in a far loftier sense than the 
 merely prudential, then Wordsworth has a gift of his own in which he was approached 
 by no poet of his time. Scott's sane and humane genius, with much the same aims, 
 yet worked with different methods. He once remonstrated with Lockhart for being 
 too apt to measure things by some reference to literature. "I have read books 
 enough," said Scott, "and observed and conversed with enough of eminent and 
 splendidly cultivated minds; but I assure you, I have heard higher sentiments from 
 the lips of poor uneducated men and women, when exerting the spirit of severe yet 
 gentle heroism under difficulties and afflictions, or speaking their simple thoughts as 
 
14 
 
 to circumstances in the lot of friends and neighbors, than I ever yet met with out of 
 the pages of the Bible. We shall never learn to respect our real calling and destiny, 
 unless we have taught ourselves to consider everything as moonshine compared with 
 the education of the heart." This admirable deliverance of Scott's is, so far as it 
 goes, eminently Wordsworthian; but Wordsworth went higher and further, striving 
 not only to move the sympathies of the heart, but to enlarge the understanding, and 
 exalt and widen the spiritual vision, all with the aim of leading us towards firmer 
 and austerer self-control. 
 
 Certain favorers of Wordsworth answer our question with a triumphant affirma- 
 tive, on the strength of some ethical, or metaphysical, or theological system which 
 they believe themselves to find in him. But is it creditable that poets can permanently 
 live by systems ? Or is not system, whether ethical, theoloj.ical, or philosophical, 
 the heavy lead of poetry? Lucretius is indisputably one of the mighty poets of 
 the world, but Epicureanism is not the soul of that majestic muse. So with Words- 
 worth. Thought is, on the whole, predominant over feeling in his verse, but a pre- 
 vailing atmosphere of deep and solemn reflection does not make a system. His 
 theology and his ethics, and his so-called Platonical metaphysics, have as little to do 
 with the power of his poetry over us, as the imputed Arianism or any other aspect of 
 the theology of " Paradise Lost " has to do with the strength and the sublimity of 
 Milton, and his claim to a high perpetual place in the hearts of men. It is best to 
 be entirely sceptical as to the existence of system and ordered philosophy in Words- 
 worth. When he tells us that " one impulse from a vernal wood may teach you more 
 of man, of moral evil and of good, than all the sages can," such a proposition 
 cannot be seriously taken as more than a half-playful sally for the benefit of some 
 too bookish friend. No impulse from a vernal wood can teach us anything at all of 
 moral evil and of good. When he says that it is his faith, " that every flower enjoys 
 the air it breathes," and that when the budding twigs spread out their fan to catch 
 the air, he is compelled to think "that there was pleasure there," he expresses a 
 charming poetic fancy and no more, and it is idle to pretend to see in it the 
 fountain of a system of philosophy. In the famous " Ode on Intimations of Immor- 
 tality," the poet doubtless does point to a set of philosophic ideas, more or less 
 complete; but the thought from which he sets out, that our birth is but a sleep and a 
 forgetting, and that we are less and less able to perceive the visionary gleam, less and 
 less alive to the glory and the dream of external nature, as infancy recedes farther 
 from us, is, with all respect for the declaration of Mr. Ruskin to the contrary, 
 contrary to notorious fact, experience, and truth. It is a beggarly conception, no 
 doubt, to judge as if poetry should always be capable of a prose rendering; but it is at 
 least fatal to the philosophic pretension of a line or a stanza if, when it is fairly 
 reduced to prose, the prose discloses that it is nonsense, and there is at least one 
 stanza of the great "Ode" that this doom would assuredly await. Wordsworth's 
 claim, his special gift, his lasting contribution, lies in the extraordinary strenuous- 
 ness, sincerity, and insight with which he first idealizes and glorifies the vast universe 
 around us, and then makes of it, not a theatre on which men play their parts, but an 
 animate presence, intermingling with our works, pouring its companionable spirit 
 about us, and "breathing grandeur upon the very humblest face of human life." 
 This twofold and conjoint performance, consciously and expressly — perhaps only too 
 consciously — undertaken by », man of strong inborn sensibility to natural impres- 
 sions, and systematically carried out in a lifetime of brooding meditation and active 
 composition, is Wordsworth's distinguishing title to fame and gratitude. In "words 
 that speak of nothing more than what we are," he revealed new faces of nature; he 
 dwelt on men as they are men themselves, he strove to do that which has been 
 declared to be the true secret of force in art, to make the trivial serve the expression 
 of the sublime. "Wordsworth's distinctive work," Mr. Ruskin has justly said 
 
INTRODUCTION. ,5 
 
 ("Modern Painters," hi. 293), " was a war with pomp and pretence, and a display of 
 the majesty of simple feelings and humble hearts, together with high reflective truths 
 in his analysis of the courses of policies and ways of men; without these his love of 
 nature would have been comparatively worthless." 
 
 Yet let us not forget that he possessed the gift which to an artist is the very root 
 of the matter. He saw nature truly, he saw her as she is, and with his own eyes. 
 The critic whom I have just quoted boldly pronounces him " the keenest eyed of all 
 modern poets for what is deep and essential in nature." When he describes the 
 daisy, casting the beauty of the star-shaped shadow on the smooth stone, or the 
 boundless depth of the abysses of the sky, or the clouds made vivid as fire by 
 the rays of light, every touch is true, not the copying of a literary phrase, but the 
 result of direct observation. 
 
 It is true that Nature has sides to which Wordsworth was not energetically alive 
 —Nature " red in tooth and claw." He was not energetically alive to the blind and 
 remorseless cruelties of life and the world. When in early spring he heard the 
 blended notes of the birds, and saw the budding twigs and primrose tufts, it grieved 
 him amid such fair works of nature, to think "what man has made of man." As if 
 nature itself, excluding the conscious doings of that portion of nature which is the 
 human race, and excluding also nature's own share in the making of poor Man, did 
 not abound in raking cruelties and horrors of her own. ^'- Edel set der Mensck," 
 sang Goethe in a noble psalm. " Hiilfreich und gut, denn das allein iinterscheidet 
 ihn, von alien Wesen die wir kennen.'' " Let man be noble, helpful, and good, for 
 that alone distinguishes him from all beings that we know. No feeling has nature : 
 to good and bad gives the sun his light, and for the evildoer as for the best shine moon 
 and stars." That the laws which nature has fixed for our lives are mighty and 
 eternal, Wordsworth comprehended as fully as Goethe, but not that they are laws 
 pitiless as iron. Wordsworth had not rooted in him the sense of Fate — of the 
 inexorable sequences of things, of the terrible chain that so often binds an awful end 
 to some slight and trivial beginning. 
 
 This optimism or complacency in Wordsworth will be understood if we compare 
 his- spirit and treatment with that of the illustrious French painter whose subjects and 
 whose life were in some ways akin to his own. Millet, like Wordsworth, went to 
 the realities of humble life for his inspiration. The peasant of the great French 
 plains and the forest was to him what the Cumbrian dalesman was to Wordsworth. 
 But he saw the peasant differently. "You watch figures in the fields," said Millet, 
 "digging and delving with spade or pick. You see one of them from time to time 
 straightening his loins, and wiping his face with the back of his hand. Thou shalt 
 eat thy bread in the sweat of thy brow. Is that the gay lively labor in which some 
 people would have you believe? Yet it is there that forme you must seek true 
 humanity and great poetry. They say that I deny the charm of the country; I find 
 in it far more than charms, I find infinite splendors. I see in it, just as they do, the 
 Uttle fiowers of which Christ said that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like 
 one of them. I see clearly enough the sun as he spreads his splendor amid the 
 clouds. None the less do I see on the plain, all smoking, the horses at the plough. 
 I see in some stony corner a man all worn out, whose han han have been heard ever 
 since daybreak — trying to straighten himself a moment to get breath." The hard- 
 ness, the weariness, the sadness, the ugliness, out of which Millet's consummate skill 
 made pictures that affect us like strange music, were to Wordsworth not the real part 
 of the thing. They were all absorbed in the thought of nature as a whole, won- 
 derful, mighty, harmonious, and benign. 
 
 We are not called upon to place great men of his stamp as if they were 
 collegians in a class-list. It is best to take with thankfulness and admiration from 
 each man what he has to give. What Wordsworth does is to assuage, to reconcile, 
 
i6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to fortify. He has not Sfiakespeare's richness and vast compass, nor Milton's sublime 
 and unflagging strength, nor Dante's severe, vivid, ardent force of vision. Probably 
 he is too deficient in clear beauty of form and in concentrated power to be classed by 
 the ages among these great giants. We cannot be sure. We may leave it to the 
 ages to decide. But Wordsviforth, at any rate, by his secret of bringing the infinite 
 into common life, as he evokes it out of common life, has the skill to lead us, so long 
 as we yield ourselves to his influence, into inner moods of settled peace, to touch 
 "the depth and not the tumult of the soul," to give us quietness, strength, steadfast- 
 ness, and purpose, whether to do or to endure. All art or poetry that has the effect 
 of breathing into men's hearts, even if it be only for a space, these moods of settled 
 peace, and strongly confirming their judgment and their will for good, — whatever 
 limitations may be found besides, however prosaic may be some or much of the 
 detail, — is great art and noble poetry, and the creator of it will always hold, as 
 Wordsworth holds, a sovereign title to the reverence and gratitude of mankind. 
 
 J. M. 
 October, 1888. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 In this edition the Poems of WoRDSVifORTH are arranged in the order of their 
 composition, in accordance with Mr. Knight's chronology printed in the Transactions 
 of the Wordsworth Society. The date at the left hand, after each poem, is that of 
 its composition; the date at the right gives the time of its first publication. The 
 text and notes are taken from the edition of 1857. 
 
WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS„ 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AS A SCHOOL EXERCISE AT 
 HAWKSHEAD, ANNO ^TATIS I4. 
 
 " And has the Sun his flaming chariot 
 
 driven 
 Two hundred times around the ring of 
 
 heaven. 
 Since Science first, with all her sacred 
 
 train, 
 Beneath yon roof began her heavenly 
 
 reign ? 
 While thus I mused, methought, before 
 
 mine eyes, 
 The Power of Education seemed to rise; 
 Not she whose rigid precepts trained the 
 
 boy 
 Dead to the sense of every finer joy; 
 Nor that vile wretch who bade the tender 
 
 age 
 Spurn Reason's law and humor Passion's 
 
 rage; 
 But she who trains the generous British 
 
 youth 
 In the bright paths of fair majestic Truth : 
 Emerging slow from Academus' grove 
 In heavenly majesty she seemed to move. 
 Stern was her forehead, but a smile serene 
 ' Softened the terrors of her awful mien.' 
 Close at her side were all the powers, 
 
 designed 
 To curb, exalt, reform the tender mind : 
 With panting breast, now pale as winter 
 
 snows. 
 Now flushed as Hebe, Emulation rose; 
 Shame followed after with reverted eye. 
 And hue far deeper than the Tyrian dye; 
 
 Last Industry appeared with steady pace, 
 A smile sat beaming on her pensive face. 
 I gazed upon the visionary train. 
 Threw back my eyes, returned, and 
 
 gazed again. 
 When lo ! the heavenly goddess thus be- 
 gan, 
 Through all my frame the pleasing ac- 
 . cents ran : 
 
 "'When Superstition left the golden 
 
 light 
 And fled indignant to the shades of night; 
 When pure Religion reared the peaceful 
 
 breast 
 And lulled the warring passions into rest. 
 Drove far away the savage thoughts that 
 
 roll 
 In the dark mansions of the bigot's soul. 
 Enlivening Hope displayed her cheerful 
 
 ray. 
 And beamed on Britain's sons a brighter 
 
 day; 
 So when on Ocean's face the storm sub- 
 sides. 
 Hushed are the winds and silent are the 
 
 tides; 
 The God of day, in all the pomp of 
 
 light. 
 Moves through the vault of heaven, and 
 
 dissipates the night; 
 Wide o'er the main a trembling lustre 
 
 plays. 
 The glittering waves reflect the dazzling 
 
 blaze; 
 Science with joy saw Superstition fly 
 Before the lustre of Religion's eye; 
 With rapture she beheld Britannia smile, 
 
 17 
 
1 8 LINES WRITTEN AS A SCHOOL EXERCISE AT HAWKSHEAD. 
 
 Clapped her strong wings, and sought 
 
 the cheerful isle, 
 The shades of night no more the soul in- 
 volve. 
 She sheds her beam, and, lo ! the shades 
 
 dissolve; 
 No jarring monks, to gloomy cell con- 
 fined. 
 With mazy rules perplex the weary mind; 
 No shadowy forms entice the soul aside, 
 Secure she walks, Philosophy her guide. 
 Britain, who long her warriors had 
 
 adored. 
 And deemed all merit centred in the 
 
 sword; 
 Britain, who thought to stain the field 
 
 was fame. 
 Now honored Edward's less than Bacon's 
 
 name. 
 Her sons no more in listed fields advance 
 To ride the ring, or toss the beamy lance ; 
 No longer steel their indurated hearts 
 To the mild influence of the finer arts; 
 Quick to the secret grotto they retire 
 To court majestic truth, or wake the 
 
 golden lyre; 
 By generous Emulation taught to rise. 
 The seats of learning brave the distant 
 
 skies. 
 Then noble Sandys, inspired with great 
 
 design. 
 Reared Hawkshead's happy roof, and 
 
 called it mine. 
 There have I loved to show the tender 
 
 age 
 The golden precepts of the classic page; 
 To lead the mind to those Elysian plains 
 Where, throned in gold, immortal Science 
 
 reigns ; 
 Fair to the view is sacred Truth displayed. 
 In all the majesty of light arrayed. 
 To teach, on rapid wings, the curious soul 
 To roam from heaven to heaven, from 
 
 pole to pole, 
 From thence to search the mystic cause 
 
 of things 
 And follow Nature to her secret springs; 
 Nor less to guide the fluctuating youth 
 Firm in the sacred paths of moral truth. 
 To regulate the mind's disordered frame. 
 And quench the passions kindling into 
 
 flame; 
 The glimmering fires of Virtue to enlarge. 
 
 And purge from Vice's dross my tender 
 
 charge. 
 Oft have I said, the paths of Fame pursue, 
 And all that Virtue dictates, dare to do; 
 Go to the world, peruse the book of man. 
 And learn from thence thy own defects 
 
 to scan; 
 Severely honest, break no plighted trust, 
 But coldly rest not here — be more than 
 
 just; ^ 
 Join to the rigors of the sires of Rome 
 The gentler manners of the private dome;. 
 When Virtue weeps in agony of woe, 
 Teach from the heart the tender tear to 
 
 flow; 
 If Pleasure's soothing song thy soul en- 
 tice, 
 Or all the gaudy pomp of splendid Vice, 
 Arise superior to the Siren's power, 
 The wretch, the short-lived vision of an 
 
 hour; 
 Soon fades her cheek, her blushing 
 
 beauties fly. 
 As fades the checkered bow that paints 
 the sky. 
 So shall thy sire, whilst hope his 
 breast inspires. 
 And wakes anew life's glimmering trem- 
 bling fires, 
 Hear Britain's sons rehearse thy praise 
 
 with joy. 
 Look up to heaven, and bless his darling 
 
 boy. 
 If e'er these precepts quelled the pas- 
 sions' strife. 
 If e'er they smoothed the rugged walks 
 
 of life, 
 If e'er they pointed forth the blissful 
 
 way 
 That guides the spirit to eternal day. 
 Do thou, if gratitude inspire thy breast, 
 Spurn the soft fetters of lethargic rest. 
 Awake, awake ! and snatch the slumber- 
 ing lyre. 
 Let this bright morn and Sandys the 
 song inspire.' 
 
 ' ' I looked obedience : the celestial 
 
 Fair 
 Smiled like the morn, and vanished 
 
 into air." 
 
 1785. 
 
 1850. 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 19 
 
 EXTRACT 
 
 FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, 
 COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF LEAV- 
 ING SCHOOL. 
 
 Written at Hawkshead. The beautiful image 
 with which this poem concludes, suggested itself 
 to me while I was resting in a boat along with my 
 companions under the shade of a magnificent row 
 of sycamores, which then extended their branches 
 from the shore of the promontory upon which 
 stands the ancient, and at that time the more 
 picturesque, Hall of Coniston, the seat of the Le 
 Flemings from very early times. The poem of 
 which it was the conclusion was of many hundred 
 lines, and contained thoughts and images most 
 of which have been dispersed through my other 
 writings. 
 
 Dear native regions, I foretell, 
 From what I feel at this farewell, 
 That, whereso'er my steps may tend. 
 And whensoe'er my course shall end. 
 If in that hour a single tie 
 Survive of local sympathy, 
 My soul will cast the backward view, 
 The longing look alone on you. 
 
 Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest 
 Far in the regions of the west. 
 Though to the vale no parting beam 
 Be given, not one memorial gleam, 
 A hngering light he fondly throws 
 On the dear hills where first he rose. 
 1786. 1815. 
 
 WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH . 
 
 Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. 
 
 The kine are couched upon the dewy 
 grass ; 
 
 The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, 
 
 Is cropping audibly hisdater meal : 
 
 Dark is the ground; a slumber seems 
 to steal 
 
 O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless 
 sky. 
 
 Now, in this blank of things, a harmony. 
 
 Home-felt, and home-created, comes to 
 heal 
 
 That grief for which the senses still sup- 
 ply 
 
 Fresh food; for only then, when mem- 
 ory 
 
 Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends 
 
 restrain 
 Those busy cares that would allay my 
 
 pain; 
 Oh ! leave me to myself, nor let me feel 
 The officious touch that makes me droop 
 
 again. 
 1786? 1807. 
 
 AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 The young Lady to whom this was addressed 
 was my sister. It was composed at school, and 
 during my two first college vacations. There is 
 not an image in it which I have not observed; 
 and now, in my seventy-third year, I recollect the 
 time and place where most of them were noticed. 
 I will confine myself to one instance : 
 
 "Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, 
 Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale, — 
 The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, 
 Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted 
 
 flocks." 
 
 I was an eye-witness of this for the first time while 
 crossing the Pass of Dunmail Raise. Upon 
 second thought, I will mention another image : 
 
 " And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines 
 Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger 
 lines." 
 
 This is feebly and imperfectly expressed, but I 
 recollect distinctly the very spot where this first 
 struck me. It was in the way between Hawks- 
 head and Ambleside, and gave me extreme pleas- 
 ured^ The moment was important in my poetical 
 history ; for I date from it my consciousness of 
 the infinite variety of natural appearances which 
 had been unnoticed by the poets of any age or 
 country, so far as I was acquainted with them ; 
 and I made a resolution to supply, in some degree, 
 the deficiency. I could not have been at that 
 time above fourteen years of age. The descrip- 
 tion of the swans, that follows, was taken from 
 the daily opportunities I had of observing their 
 habits, not as confined to the gentleman's park, 
 but in a state of nature. There were two pairs 
 of them that divided the lake of Esthwaits and 
 its in-and-out-flowing streams between them, 
 never trespassing a single yard upon each other's 
 separate domain. They were of the old magnifi- 
 cent species, bearing in beauty and majesty about 
 the same relation to the Thames swan which that 
 does to the goose. It was from the remembrance 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 of those noble creatures I took, thirty years after, 
 the picture of the swan which I have discarded 
 from the poem of Dion. While I was a school- 
 boy, the late Mr, Curwen introduced a little fleet 
 of those birds, but of the inferior species, to the 
 lake of Windermere. Their principal home was 
 about his own island ; but they sailed about into 
 remote parts of the lake, and, either from real or 
 imagined injury done to the adjoining fields, they 
 were got rid of at the request of the farmers and 
 proprietors, but to the great regret of all who had 
 become attached to them, from noticing their 
 beauty and quiet habits. I will conclude my 
 notice of this poem by observing that the plan of 
 it has net been confined to a particular walk or 
 an individual place, — a proof (of which I was 
 unconscious at the time) of my unwillingness to 
 submit the poetic spirit to the chains of fact and 
 real circumstance. The country is idealized rather 
 than described in any one of its local aspects. 
 
 General Sketch of the Lakes — Author's regret 
 of his youth which was passed among them — 
 Short description of Noon — Cascade — Noon- 
 tide Retreat — Precipice and sloping Lights — 
 Face of Nature as the Sun declines — Mountain- 
 farm, and the Cock — Slate-quarry — Sunset — 
 Superstition of the Country connected with that 
 moment — Swaus — Female Beggar — Twilight- 
 sounds — Western Lights — Spirits — Night — 
 Moonlight — Hope — Night-sounds — Condu- 
 
 Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to 
 
 rove 
 Through bare gray dell, high wood, and 
 
 pastoral cove; 
 Where Derwent rests, and listens to the 
 
 roar 
 That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high 
 
 Lodore; 
 Where peace toGrasmere's lonely island 
 
 leads, 
 To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald 
 
 meads; 
 Leads to her bridge, rude church, and 
 
 cottaged grounds, 
 Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland 
 
 bounds; 
 Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander^ 
 
 sleeps 
 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled 
 
 steeps; 
 
 " These hnes are only appKcable to the middle 
 part of that lake. 
 
 Where twilight glens endear my Esth- 
 
 waite's shore, 
 And memory of departed pleasures, more. 
 Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy 
 
 child, 
 The echoes of your rocks my carols wild : 
 The spirit sought not then, in cherished 
 
 sadness, 
 A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. 
 In youth's keen eye the livelong day was 
 
 bright, 
 The sun at morning, and the stars at night, 
 Alike, when first the bittern's hollow bill 
 Was heard, or woodcocks ^ roamed,the 
 
 moonlight hill. 
 In thoughtless gayety I coursed the 
 
 plain. 
 And hope itself was all I knew of pain; 
 For then, the inexperienced heart would 
 
 beat 
 At times, while young Content forsook 
 
 her seat. 
 And wild Impatience, pointing upward, 
 
 showed. 
 Through passes yet unreached, a brighter 
 
 road. 
 Alas ! the idle tale of man is found 
 Depicted in the dial's moral round; 
 Hope with reflection blends her social 
 
 rays 
 To gild the total tablet of his days; 
 Yet still, the sport of some malignant 
 
 power, 
 He knows but from its shade the present 
 
 hour. 
 But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain? 
 To show what pleasures yet to me re- 
 main, 
 Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, 
 The history of a poet's evening hear? 
 When, in the south, the wan noon, 
 
 brooding still. 
 Breathed a pale steam around the glaring 
 
 hill. 
 And shades of deep-embattled clouds 
 
 were seen. 
 Spotting the northern cliffs with lights 
 
 between; 
 When crowding cattle, checked by rails 
 
 that make 
 
 2 In the beginning of winter, these mountains 
 are frequented by woodcocks, which in dark 
 nights retire into the woods. 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 A fence far stretched into the shallow 
 lake, 
 
 Lashed the cool water with their restless 
 tails. 
 
 Or from high points of rock looked out 
 for fanning gales : 
 
 When school-boys stretched their length 
 upon the green; 
 
 And round the broad-spread oak, a ghm- 
 mering scene. 
 
 In the rough fern-clad park, the herded 
 deer 
 
 Shook the still-twinkling tail and glan- 
 cing ear; 
 
 When horses in the sunburnt intake ' 
 stood. 
 
 And vainly eyed below the tempting flood. 
 
 Or tracked the passenger, in mute dis- 
 tress. 
 
 With forward neck the closing gate to 
 press — 
 
 Then, while I wandered where the hud- 
 dling rill 
 
 Brightens with water-breaks the hollow 
 ghylP 
 
 As by enchantment, an obscure retreat 
 
 Opened at once, and stayed my devious 
 feet. 
 
 While thick above the rill the branches 
 close, 
 
 In rocky basin its wild waves repose, 
 
 Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy 
 green. 
 
 Cling from the rocks, with pale wood- 
 weeds between; 
 
 And its own twilight softens the whole 
 scene, 
 
 Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams 
 shine 
 
 On withered briars that o'er the crags 
 recline; 
 
 Save where, with sparkling foam, a small 
 cascade 
 
 Illumines, from within, the leafy shade; 
 
 Beyond, along the vista of the brook. 
 
 Where antique roots its bustling course 
 o'erlook, 
 
 ^ The word intake is local, and signifies a 
 mountain enclosure. 
 
 ^ Ghyll is also, I believe, a term confined to 
 tliis country : ghyll, and dingle, have the same 
 meaning. 
 
 The eye reposes on a secret bridge * 
 
 Half gray, half shagged with ivy to its 
 ridge ; 
 
 There, bending o'er the stream, the list- 
 less swain 
 
 Lingers behind his disappearing wain. 
 
 — Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, 
 
 Blandusia's praise, wild stream, should 
 yield to thine ! 
 
 Never shall ruthless minister of death 
 
 'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel 
 unsheath; 
 
 No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned 
 with flowers. 
 
 No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy 
 bowers; 
 
 The mystic shapes that by thy margin 
 rove 
 
 A more benignant sacrifice approve — 
 
 A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood 
 
 Of happy wisdom, meditating good. 
 
 Beholds, of all from her high powers re- 
 quired. 
 
 Much done, and much designed, and more 
 desired, — 
 
 Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth 
 refined. 
 
 Entire affection for all human kind. 
 Dear Brook, farewell ! To-morrow's 
 noon again 
 
 Shall hide me, wooing long thy wild- 
 wood strain; 
 
 But now the sun has gained his western 
 road. 
 
 And eve's mild hour invites my steps 
 abroad. 
 While, near the midway cliff, the sil- 
 vered kite 
 
 In many a whistUng circle wheels her 
 flight; 
 
 Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, 
 apace 
 
 Travel along the precipice's base; 
 
 Cheering its naked waste of scattered 
 stone. 
 
 By lichens gray and scanty moss o'er- 
 ■ grown ; 
 
 Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or 
 thistle's beard; 
 
 3 The reader who has made the tour of this 
 country, will recognize, in this description, the 
 features which characterize the lower waterfall in 
 the grounds of Rydal. 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 And restless stone-chat, all day long, is 
 
 heard. 
 How pleasant, as the sun declines, to 
 
 view 
 The spacious landscape change in form 
 
 and hue ! 
 Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood 
 Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and 
 
 wood; 
 There, objects, by the searching beams 
 
 betrayed. 
 Come forth, and here retire in purple 
 
 shade ; 
 Even the white stems of birch, the cot- 
 tage white. 
 Soften their glare before the mellow 
 
 light; 
 The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage 
 
 wide 
 Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat- 
 house hide. 
 Shed from their sides, that face the sun's 
 
 slant beam, 
 Strong flakes of radiance on the tremu- 
 lous stream : 
 Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty 
 
 cloud 
 Mounts from the road, and spreads its 
 
 moving shroud; 
 The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of 
 
 fire. 
 Now shows a shadowy speck, and now 
 
 is lost entire. 
 Into a gradual calm the breezes sink, 
 A blue rim borders all the lake's still 
 
 brink; 
 There doth the twinkling aspen's foliage 
 
 sleep. 
 And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy 
 
 deep: 
 And now, on every side, the surface 
 
 breaks 
 Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening 
 
 streaks; 
 Here, plots of sparkling water tremble 
 
 bright 
 With thousand thousand twinkling-points 
 
 of light; 
 There, waves that, hardly weltering, die 
 
 away. 
 Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray; 
 And now the whole wide lake in deep 
 
 repose 
 
 Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror 
 glows. 
 
 Save where, along the shady western 
 marge. 
 
 Coasts, with industrious oar, the char- 
 coal barge. 
 Their panniered train a group of pot- 
 ters goad, 
 
 Winding from side to side up the steep 
 road; 
 
 The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful 
 edge 
 
 Shot, down the headlong path darts with 
 his sledge; 
 
 Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse 
 illume 
 
 Feeding 'mid purple heath, "green 
 rings, ' ' 1 and broom ; 
 
 While the sharp slope the slackened 
 team confounds, 
 
 Downward the ponderous timber-wain 
 resounds; 
 
 In foamy breaks the rill, with meny 
 song. 
 
 Dashed o'er the rough rock, lightly leaps 
 along; 
 
 From lonesome chapel at the mountain's 
 feet. 
 
 Three humble bells their rustic chime 
 repeat; 
 
 Sounds from the water-side the ham- 
 mered boat; 
 
 And blasted quarry thunders, heard 
 remote ! 
 
 Even here, amid the sweep of endless 
 woods. 
 
 Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and fall- 
 ing floods. 
 
 Not undelightful are the simplest charms. 
 
 Found by the grassy door of mountain- 
 farms. 
 Sweetly ferocious,^ round his native 
 walks. 
 
 Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch 
 stalks ; 
 
 Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his 
 tread; 
 
 ^ "Vivid rings of green." — Greenwood's 
 Poem on Shooting. 
 
 2 " Dolcemente feroce." — Tasso. In this de- 
 scription of the cock, I remembered a spirited 
 one of the same animal in V Agrieuliure, ou 
 Les Gcorgigues Frani^oiSi of M. Rossuet. 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 23 
 
 A crest of purple tops the warrior's head. 
 
 Bright sparks his black and rolling eye- 
 ball hurls 
 
 Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; 
 
 On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion 
 throat, 
 
 Threatened by faintly-answering farms 
 remote : 
 
 Again with his shrill voice the mountain 
 rings,' 
 
 While, flapped with conscious pride, re- 
 sound his wings. 
 Where, mixed with graceful birch, the 
 sombrous pine 
 
 And yew-tree o'er the silver rocks re- 
 cline; 
 
 I love to mark the quarry's moving 
 trains. 
 
 Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and 
 numerous wains; 
 
 How busy all the enormous hive within, 
 
 While Echo dallies with its various din ! 
 
 Some (hear you not their chisels' clink- 
 ing sound?) 
 
 Toil, small as pygmies in the gulf pro- 
 found ; 
 
 Some, dim between the lofty cliffs de- 
 scried, 
 
 O'erwalk the slender plank from side to 
 side; 
 
 These, by the pale-blue rocks that cease- 
 less ring, 
 
 In airy baskets hanging, work and sing. 
 Just where a cloud above the mountain 
 rears 
 
 An edge all flame, the broadening sun 
 appears; 
 
 A long blue bar its aegis orb divides. 
 
 And breaks the spreading of its golden 
 tides; 
 
 And now that orb has touched the pur- 
 ple steep 
 
 Whose softened image penetrates the 
 deep. 
 
 Lross the calm lake's blue shades the 
 cliffs aspire, " 
 
 With towers and woods, a, "prospect all 
 on fire; " 
 
 While coves and secret hollows, through 
 a ray 
 
 Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. 
 
 Each slip of lawn the broken rocks be- 
 tween 
 
 Shines in the light with more than earthly 
 green: 
 
 Deep yellow beams the scattered stems 
 illume. 
 
 Far in the level forest's central gloom : 
 
 Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the 
 vale. 
 
 Directs his winding dogthe cliffsto scale, — 
 
 The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glitter- 
 ing rocks, 
 
 Hunts, where his master points, the inter- 
 cepted flocks. 
 
 Where oaks o'erhang the road the ra- 
 diance shoots 
 
 On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted 
 roots; 
 
 The druid-stones a brightened ring un- 
 fold; 
 
 And all the babbling brooks are liquid 
 gold; 
 
 Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, 
 
 Gives one bright glance, and drops 
 behind the hill.i 
 In these secluded vales, if village fame. 
 
 Confirmed by hoary hairs, beUef may 
 claim; 
 
 When up the hills, as now, retired the 
 light. 
 
 Strange apparitions mocked the shep- 
 herd's sight. 
 The form appears of one that spurs his 
 steed 
 
 Midway along the hill with desperate 
 speed; 
 
 Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, 
 while all 
 
 Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. 
 
 Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show 
 
 Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro; 
 
 At intervals imperial banners stream. 
 
 And now the van reflects the solar beam; 
 
 The rear through iron brown betrays a 
 sullen gleam. 
 
 While silent stands the admiring crowd 
 below. 
 
 Silent the visionary warriors go. 
 
 Winding in ordered pomp their upward 
 way. 2 
 
 1 From Thomson. 
 
 2 See a description of an appearance of this kind 
 in Clark's Survey of the Lakes, accompanied by 
 vouchers of its veracity, that may amuse the 
 reader. 
 
24 
 
 AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 Till the last banner of the long array 
 
 Has disappeared, and every trace is fled 
 
 Of splendor — save the beacon's spiry 
 head 
 
 Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning 
 red. 
 Now, while the solemn evening shad- 
 ows sail, 
 
 On slowly- waving pinions, down the vale; 
 
 And, fronting the bright west, yon oak 
 entwines 
 
 Its darkening boughs and leaves, in 
 stronger lines; 
 
 'Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to 
 stray 
 
 Where, winding on along some secret 
 bay, 
 
 The swan uplifts his chest, and backward 
 flings 
 
 His neck, a varying arch, between his 
 towering wings : 
 
 TTie eye that marks the gliding creature 
 sees 
 
 How graceful, pride can be, and how 
 majestic, ease. 
 
 While tender cares and mild domestic 
 loves 
 
 With furtive watch pursue her as she 
 moves, 
 
 The female with a meeker charm suc- 
 ceeds. 
 
 And her brown little-ones around her 
 leads. 
 
 Nibbling the water lilies as they pass. 
 
 Or playing wanton with the floating grass. 
 
 She, in a mother's care, her beauty's 
 pride 
 
 Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side; 
 
 Alternately they mount her back, and rest 
 
 Close by her mantling wings' embraces 
 prest. 
 Long may they float upon this flood 
 serene; 
 
 Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, 
 and green, 
 
 Where leafy shades fence off the bluster- 
 ing gale, 
 
 And breathes in peace the lily of the 
 vale ! 
 
 Yon isle, which feels not even the milk- 
 maid's feet. 
 
 Yet hears her song, "by distance made 
 more sweet," 
 
 Yon isle conceals their home, their hut- 
 like bower; 
 Green water-rushes overspread the floor; 
 Long grass and willows form the woven 
 
 wall, 
 And swings above the roof the poplar tall. 
 Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk, 
 They crush with broad black feet their 
 
 flowery walk; 
 Or, from the neighboring avater, hear at 
 
 morn 
 The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow 
 
 horn; 
 Involve their serpent-necks in changeful 
 
 rings. 
 Rolled wantonly between their slippery 
 
 wings. 
 Or, starting up with noise and rude 
 
 delight. 
 Force half upon the wave their cumbrous 
 
 flight. 
 Fair Swan ! by all a mother's joys 
 
 caressed, 
 Haply some wretch has eyed, and called 
 
 thee blessed; 
 When with her infants, from some shady 
 
 seat 
 By the lake's edge, she rose — to face 
 
 the noontide heat; 
 
 Or taught their limbs along the dusty road 
 
 A few short steps to totter with their load. 
 
 I see her now, denied to lay her head. 
 
 On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built 
 
 shed. 
 Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry. 
 By pointing to the gliding moon on high. 
 — When low-hung clouds each star of 
 
 summer hide. 
 And fireless are the valleys far and wide, 
 Where the brook brawls along the public 
 
 road 
 Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching 
 
 broad. 
 Oft has she taught them on her lap to lay 
 The shining glow-worm; or, in heedless 
 
 . play, 
 Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted; 
 While others, not unseen, are free to 
 
 shed 
 Green unmolested light upon their mossy 
 
 bed. 
 Oh ! when the sleety showers her path 
 
 assail, 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 25 
 
 And like a torrent roars the headstrong 
 
 gale; 
 No more her breath can thaw their fingers 
 
 cold, 
 Their frozen arms her neck no more can 
 
 fold; 
 Weak roof a cowering form two babes to 
 
 shield, 
 And faint the fire a dying heart can yield ! 
 Press the sad kiss, fond mother ! vainly 
 
 fears 
 Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its 
 
 tears; 
 No tears can chill them, and no bosom 
 
 warms, 
 Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in 
 
 thine arms ! 
 Sweet are the sounds that mingle from 
 
 afar. 
 Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the fold- 
 ing star. 
 Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling 
 
 sedge, 
 And feeding pike starts from the water's 
 
 edge, 
 Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and 
 
 bill 
 Wetting, that drip upon the water still ; 
 And heron, as resounds the trodden 
 
 shore, 
 Shoots upward, darting his long neck 
 
 before. 
 Now, with religious awe, the farewell 
 
 light 
 Blends with the solemn coloring of night; 
 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the 
 
 mountain's brow. 
 And round the west's proud lodge their 
 
 shadows throw. 
 Like Una shining on her gloomy way. 
 The half-seen form of Twilight roams 
 
 astray ; 
 Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild 
 
 and small. 
 Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom 
 
 fall; 
 Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres 
 
 pale 
 Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. 
 With restless interchange at once the 
 
 bright 
 Wins on the shade, the shade upon the 
 
 light. 
 
 No favored eye was e'er allowed to gaze 
 
 On lovelier spectacle in faery days; 
 
 When gentle Spirits urged a sportive 
 chase. 
 
 Brushing with lucid wands the water's 
 face: 
 
 While music, stealing round the glimmer- 
 ing deeps. 
 
 Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted 
 steeps. 
 
 — The lights are vanished from the 
 
 watery plains; 
 No wr^ck of all the pageantry remains. 
 Unheeded night has overcome the vales: 
 On the dark earth the wearied vision 
 
 fails; 
 The latest lingerer of the forest train, 
 The lone black fir, forsakes the faded 
 
 plain; 
 Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no 
 
 more. 
 Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers 
 
 hoar ; 
 And, towering from the sullen dark- 
 brown mere, 
 Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps 
 
 appear. 
 
 — Now o'er the soothed accordant heart 
 
 we feel 
 A sympathetic twilight slowly steal. 
 And ever, as we fondly muse, we find 
 The soft gloom deepening on the tran- 
 quil mind. 
 Stay ! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, 
 
 stay ! 
 Ah no ! as fades the vale, they fade 
 
 away: 
 Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains ; 
 Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear 
 
 retains. 
 The bird, who ceased, with fading light, 
 
 to thread 
 Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed. 
 From his gray reappearing tower shall 
 
 soon 
 Salute with gladsome note the rising 
 
 moon. 
 While with a hoary light she frosts the 
 
 ground. 
 And pours a deeper blue to ^Ether's 
 
 bound; 
 Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of 
 
 clouds to fold 
 
26 
 
 AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. 
 Above yon eastern hill, where darkness 
 
 broods 
 O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, 
 
 and woods; 
 Where but a mass of shade the sight can 
 
 trace. 
 Even now she shows, half-veiled, her 
 
 lovely face : 
 Across the gloomy valley flings her light, 
 Far to the western slopes with hamlets 
 
 white; 
 And gives, where woods the chetkered 
 
 upland strew. 
 To the green corn of summer, autumn's 
 
 hue. 
 Thus Hope, first pouring from her 
 
 blessed horn 
 Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's 
 
 own morn, 
 Till higher mounted, strives in vain to 
 
 cheer 
 The weary hills, impervious, blackening 
 
 near; 
 Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the 
 
 while 
 On darling spots remote her tempting 
 
 smile. 
 Even now she decks for me a distant 
 
 scene, 
 (For dark and broad the gulf of time 
 
 between) 
 Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, 
 (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my 
 
 way; 
 How fair its lawns and sheltering woods 
 
 appear ! 
 How sweet its streamlet murmurs in 
 
 mine ear !) 
 Where we, my Friend, to happy days 
 
 shall rise. 
 Till our small share of hardly-paining 
 
 sighs 
 (For sighs will ever trouble human 
 
 breath) 
 Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of 
 
 death. 
 But now the clear bright Moon her 
 
 zenith gains. 
 And, rimy without speck, extend the 
 
 plains: 
 The deepest cleft the mountain's front 
 
 displays 
 
 Scarce hides a shadow from her search- 
 ing rays; 
 
 From the dark-blue faint silvery threads 
 divide 
 
 The hills, while gleams below the azure 
 tide; 
 
 Time softly treads; throughout the land- 
 scape breathes 
 
 A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by 
 wreaths 
 
 Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen 
 wood. 
 
 Steal down the hill, and' spread along the 
 flood. 
 The song of mountain-streams, un- 
 heard by day. 
 
 Now hardly heard, beguiles my home- 
 ward way. -, 
 
 Air listens, like the sleeping water, stilU 
 
 To catch the spiritual music of the hill, 
 
 Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep. 
 
 Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from 
 sleep, 
 
 The echoed hoof nearing the distant 
 shore. 
 
 The boat's first motion — made with 
 dashing oar; 
 
 Sound of closed gate, across the water 
 borne. 
 
 Hurrying the timid hare through rustling 
 corn; 
 
 The sportive outcry of the mocking owl; 
 
 And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl; 
 
 The distant forge's swinging thump pro- 
 found; 
 
 Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely 
 hound. 
 1787-89. 1793. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT 
 AT EVENING. 
 
 This title is scarcely correct. It was during a 
 solitary walk on the banks of the Cam that I was 
 first struck with this appearance, and applied 
 it to my own feelings in the manner here 
 expressed, changing the scene to the Thames, 
 near Windsor. This, and the three stanzas of 
 the following poem, " Remembrance of Collins," 
 formed one piece ; but, upon the recommendation 
 of Coleridge, the three last stanzas were separated 
 from the other. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 27 
 
 How richly glows the water's breast 
 Before us, tinged with evening hues, 
 While, facing thus the crimson west. 
 The boat her silent course pursues ! 
 And see how dark the backward stream ! 
 A little moment past so smiling ! 
 And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 
 Some other loiterers beguiling. 
 
 Such views the youthful Bard allure; 
 But, heedless of the following gloom, 
 He deems their colors shall endure 
 Till peace go with him to the tomb. 
 — And let him nurse his fond deceit. 
 And what if he must die in sorrow ! 
 Who would not cherish dreams so sweet. 
 Though grief and pain may come to-mor- 
 row? 
 1789 1798 
 
 REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS. 
 
 COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR 
 RICHMOND. 
 
 Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 
 Thames ! that other bards may see 
 As lovely visions by thy side 
 As now, fair river ! come to me. 
 glide, fair stream ! for ever so, 
 Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 
 Till all our minds for ever flow 
 As thy deep waters now are flowing. 
 
 Vain thought ! — -Yet be as now thou art, 
 That in thy waters may be seen 
 The image of a poet's heart. 
 How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 
 Such as did once the Poet bless. 
 Who murmuring here a later 1 ditty. 
 Could find no refuge from distress 
 But in the milder grief of pity. 
 
 Now let us, as we float along. 
 For him suspend the dashing oar; 
 And pray that never child of song 
 May know that Poet's sorrows more. 
 
 * CoUins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the 
 last written, I believe, of the poems which were 
 published during his lifetime. This Ode is also 
 alluded to in the next stanza. 
 
 How calm ! how still ! the only sound, 
 The dripping of the oar suspended ! 
 — The evening darkness gathers round 
 By virtue's holiest Powers attended. 
 1789 1798 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR 
 AMONG THE ALPS. 
 
 Much the greatest part of this poem was com. 
 posed during my walks upon the banks of the 
 Loire in the years 1791, 1792. I will only 
 notice that the description of the valley filled 
 with mist, beginning — "In solemn shapes," 
 was taken from that beautiful region of which 
 the principal features are Lungarn and Sarnen. 
 Nothing that I ever saw in nature left a more 
 delightful impression on my mind than that 
 which I have attempted, alas I how feebly, to 
 convey to others in these lines. Those two 
 lakes have always interested me especially, 
 from bearing, in their size and other features, 
 a resemblance to those of the North of Eng- 
 land. It is much to be deplored that a district 
 so beautiful should be so unhealthy as it is. 
 
 THE REV. ROBERT JONES, 
 
 FELLOW OF ST. JOHN's COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 However desirous I might have been of giving 
 you proofs of the high place you hold in my 
 esteem, I should have been cautious of wound- 
 ing your delicacy by thus publicly addressing you, 
 had not the circumstance of our having been com- 
 panions among the Alps, seemed to give this 
 dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any 
 scruples which your modesty might otherwise 
 have suggested. 
 
 In inscribing this little work to you, I consult 
 my heart. You know well, how great is the dif- 
 ference between two companions lolling in a post- 
 chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly along 
 the road, side by side, each with his little knap- 
 sack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How 
 much more of heart between the two latter ! 
 
 I am happy in being conscious that I shall have 
 one reader who will approach the conclusion of 
 these few pages with regret. You they must 
 certainly interest, in reminding you of moments 
 to which you can hardly look back without a , 
 pleasure not the less dear from a shade of mel- 
 ancholy. You will meet with few images with- 
 out recollecting the spot where we observed them 
 together; consequently, whatever is feeble in my 
 
28 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 design, or spiritless in my coloring, will be amply 
 supplied by your own memory. 
 
 With still greater propriety I might have in- 
 scribed to you a description of some of the fea- 
 tures of your native mountains, through which 
 we have wandered together, in the same manner, 
 with so much pleasure. But the sea-sunsets, 
 which give such splendor to the vale of CKvyd, 
 Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet village of 
 Bethgelert, Menai and her Druids, the Alpine 
 steeps of the Conway, and the still more inter- 
 esting windings of the wizard stream of the Dee, 
 remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that my 
 pencil may never be exercised on these subjects, 
 1 cannot let blip this opportunity of thus publicly 
 assuring you with how much affection and esteem 
 1 am, dear Sir, 
 
 Most sincerely yours, 
 London, 1793. W. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Happiness (if she had been to be found on earth) 
 among the charms of Nature — Pleasures of 
 the pedestrian Traveller — Author crosses 
 France to the Alps — Present state of the 
 Grande Chartreuse — Lake of Como — Time, 
 Sunset — Same Scene, Twilight — Same Scene, 
 Morning ; its voluptuous Character ; Old man 
 and forest-cottage music — River Tusa — Via 
 Mala and Grison Gipsy — Sckellenen-thal — 
 Lake of Uri — Stormy sunset — Chapel of 
 William Tell — Force of local emotion — 
 Chamois-chaser — View of the higher Alps — 
 Manner of life of a Swiss mountaineer, inter- 
 spersed with views of the higher Alps — Gol- 
 den age of the Alps — Life and views contin- 
 ued — Ranz des Vaches, famous Swiss Air — 
 Abbey of Einsiedlen and its pilgrims — Valley of 
 Chamouny ^ Mont Blanc — Slavery of Savoy 
 
 — Influence of liberty on cottage-happiness 
 
 — France — Wish for the Extirpation of 
 slavery — Conclusion. 
 
 Were there, below, a spot of holy ground 
 Where from distress a refuge might be 
 
 found. 
 And solitude prepare the soul for heaven; 
 Sure, nature's God that spot to man had 
 
 given 
 Where falls the purple morning far and 
 
 wide 
 In flakes of light upon the mountain side; 
 Where with loud voice the power of 
 
 water shakes 
 The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes. 
 Yet not unrecompensed the man shall 
 
 roam. 
 Who at the call of summer quits his home, 
 
 And plods through some wide realm o'er 
 
 vale and height, 
 Though seeking only holiday delight; 
 At least, not owning to himself an aim 
 To which the sage would give >• prouder 
 
 name. 
 No gains too cheaply earned his fancy 
 
 cloy, 
 Though every passing zephyr whispers 
 
 joy; 
 
 Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, 
 Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. 
 For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn; 
 And peeps the far-off spire, his evening 
 
 bourn ! 
 Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, 
 And dear the velvet green-sward to his 
 
 tread : 
 Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's 
 
 flaming eye? 
 Upward he looks — " and calls it luxury : " 
 Kind Nature's charities his steps attend; 
 In every babbling brook he finds a friend; 
 While chastening thoughts of sweetest 
 
 use, bestowed 
 By wisdom, moralize his pensive road. 
 Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide 
 
 bower, 
 To his spare meal he calls the passing 
 
 poor ; 
 He views the sun uplift his golden fire, 
 Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's 
 
 lyre;l 
 Blesses the moon that comes with kindly 
 
 ray. 
 To light him shaken by his rugged way. 
 Back from his sight no bashful children 
 
 steal ; 
 He sits a brother at the cottage-meal; 
 His humble looks no shy restraint impart; 
 Around him plays at will the virgin heart. 
 While unsuspended wheels the village 
 
 dance, 
 The maidens eye him with inquiring 
 
 glance, 
 Much wondering by what fit of crazing 
 
 care, 
 Or desperate love, bewildered, he came 
 
 there. 
 
 1 The lyre of Memnon is reported to have 
 emitted melancholy or cheerful tones, as it was 
 touched by the sun's evening or morning rays. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 29 
 
 A hope, that prudence could not then 
 
 approve, 
 That clung to Nature with a truant's love. 
 O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps 
 
 led; 
 Her files of road-elms, high above my 
 
 head 
 In long-drawn vista, rustling in the 
 
 breeze; 
 Or where her pathways straggle as they 
 
 please ' 
 By lonely farms and secret villages. 
 But !o ! the Alps ascending white in air. 
 Toy with the sun and glitter from afar. 
 And now, emerging from the forest's 
 
 gloom, 
 I greet thee. Chartreuse, while I mourn 
 
 thy doom. 
 Whither is fled that Power whose frown 
 
 severe 
 Awed sober Reason till she crouched in 
 
 fear? 
 That Silence, once in deathlike fetters 
 
 bound, 
 Chains that were loosened only by the 
 
 sound 
 Of holy rites chanted in measured round? 
 — The voice of blasphemy the fane 
 
 alarms, 
 The cloister startles at the gleam of arms. 
 The thundering tube the aged angler 
 
 hears. 
 Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps 
 
 away his tears. 
 Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their trou- 
 bled heads. 
 Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night 
 
 o'erspreads; 
 Strong terror checks the female peasant's 
 
 sighs, 
 And start the astonished shades at female 
 
 eyes. 
 From Bruno's forests screams the affright- 
 ed jay, 
 And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. 
 A viewless flight of laughing Demons 
 
 mock 
 The Cross, by angels planted^ on the 
 
 aerial rock. 
 
 1 Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the 
 spiry rocks of Chartreuse, which have every ap- 
 pearance of being inaccessible. 
 
 The " parting Genius " sighs with hollow 
 breath 
 
 Along the mystic streams of Life and 
 Death. 2 
 
 Swelling the outcry dull, that long re- 
 sounds 
 
 Portentous through her old woods' track- 
 less bounds, 
 
 Vallombre,' 'mid her falling fanes, de- 
 plores. 
 
 For ever broke, the sabbath of her 
 bowers. 
 More pleased, my foot the hidden 
 margin roves 
 
 Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut 
 groves. 
 
 No meadows thrown between, the giddy 
 steeps 
 
 Tower, bare of sylvan, from the narrow 
 deeps. 
 
 — To towns, whose shades of no rude 
 noise complain, 
 
 From ringing team apart and grating 
 wain — 
 
 To flat-roofed towns, that touch tfle 
 water's bound. 
 
 Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound. 
 
 Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive 
 chng. 
 
 And o'er the whitened wave their shadows 
 fling — 
 
 The pathway leads, as round the steeps 
 it twines; 
 
 And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. 
 
 The loitering traveller hence, at evening, 
 sees 
 
 From rock-hewn steps the sail between 
 the trees; 
 
 Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark- 
 eyed maids 
 
 Tend the small harvest of their garden 
 glades; 
 
 Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to 
 view 
 
 Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad 
 and blue, 
 
 And track the yellow lights from steep to 
 steep. 
 
 As up the opposing hills they slowly 
 creep. 
 
 2 Names of rivers of the Chartreuse. 
 8 Names of one of the valleys af the Char- 
 treuse. 
 
30 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed 
 In golden light ; half hides itself in shade : 
 While, from amid the darkened roofs, 
 
 the spire, 
 Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like 
 
 fire: 
 There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw 
 Rich golden verdure on the lake below. 
 Slow glides the sail along the illumined 
 
 shore. 
 And steals into the shade the lazy oar; 
 Soft bosoms breathe around contagious 
 
 sighs. 
 And amorous music on the water dies. 
 How blest, delicious scene ! the eye 
 
 that greets 
 Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; 
 Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood 
 
 that scales 
 Thy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales; 
 Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the 
 
 shore. 
 Each with its household boat beside the 
 
 door; 
 Tfiy torrents shooting from the clear-blue 
 
 sky; 
 Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' 
 
 ^ nests, on high; 
 That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, 
 
 descried 
 Dim from the twilight water's shaggy 
 
 side, 
 Whence lutes and voices down the en- 
 chanted woods 
 Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten 
 
 floods; 
 Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue 
 
 or gray, 
 'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from 
 
 morning's ray 
 Slow-travelling down the western hills, to 
 
 enfold 
 Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold ; 
 Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin 
 
 bell 
 Calls forth the woodman from his desert 
 
 cell, 
 And quickens the blithe sound of oars 
 
 that pass 
 Along the steaming lake, to early mass. 
 But now farewell to each and all — adieu 
 To every charm, and last and chief to you. 
 Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shade 
 
 Rest near your little plots of wheaten 
 
 glade; 
 To all that binds the soul in powerless 
 
 trance. 
 Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing 
 
 dance ; 
 Where sparkling eyes and breaking 
 
 smiles illume 
 The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. 
 — Alas ! the very murmur of the streams 
 Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous 
 
 dreams. 
 While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to 
 
 dwell 
 On joys that might disgrace the captive's 
 
 cell. 
 Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's 
 
 marge. 
 And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge. 
 Yet are thy softer arts with power 
 
 indued 
 To soothe and cheer the poor man's soli- 
 tude. 
 By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's 
 
 home 
 Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam. 
 But once I pierced the mazes of a wood 
 In which a cabin undeserted stood; 
 There an old man an olden measure 
 
 scanned 
 On a rude viol touched with withered 
 
 hand. 
 As lambs or fawns in April clustering lie 
 Under a hoary oak's thin canopy. 
 Stretched at his feet, with steadfast up- 
 ward eye. 
 His children's children listened to the 
 
 sound ; 
 — A Hermit with his family around ! 
 But let us hence; for fair Locarno 
 
 smiles 
 Embowered in walnut slopes and citron 
 
 isles : 
 Or seek at eve the banks of Tusca's 
 
 stream. 
 Where, 'mid dim towers and woods, her ' 
 
 waters gleam. 
 From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, 
 
 retire 
 The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, 
 
 aspire 
 
 ^ The river arong whose banks you descend in 
 crossing the Alps by the Simplon Pass. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 31 
 
 To where afar rich orange lustres glow 
 Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, 
 
 and snow : 
 Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine 
 The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, 
 Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervi- 
 ous gloom 
 His burning eyes with fearful light illume. 
 The mind condemned, without re- 
 prieve, to go 
 O'er life's long deserts with its charge of 
 
 woe, 
 With sad congratulation joins the train 
 Where beasts and men together o'er the 
 
 plain 
 Move on — a mighty caravan of pain : 
 Hope, strength, and courage, social suf- 
 fering brings, 
 Freshening the wilderness with shades 
 
 and springs. 
 • — There be whose lot far otherwise is 
 
 cast: 
 Sole human tenant of the piny waste. 
 By choice or doom a gypsy wanders here, 
 A nursling babe her only comforter; 
 Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy 
 
 rock, 
 A cowering shape half hid in curling 
 
 smoke ! 
 When lightning among clouds and 
 
 mountain-snows 
 Predominates, and darkness comes and 
 
 goes. 
 And the fierce torrent, at the flashes 
 
 broad 
 Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring 
 
 road — 
 She seeks a covert from the battering 
 
 shower 
 In the roofed bridge; ^ the bridge, in that 
 
 dread hour. 
 Itself all trembling at the torrent's power. 
 Nor is she more at ease on some still 
 
 night, 
 When not a star supplies the comfort of 
 
 its light; 
 Only the waning moon hangs dull and 
 
 red 
 Above a melancholy mountain's head, 
 
 * Most of the bridges among the Alps are of 
 wood, and covered : these bridges have a heavy 
 appearance, and rather injure the effect of the 
 scenery in some places. 
 
 Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant 
 
 sighs. 
 Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary 
 
 eyes; 
 Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, 
 Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock. 
 Listens, or quakes while from the forest's 
 
 gulf 
 Howls near and nearer yet the famished 
 
 wolf. 
 From the green vale of Urseren smooth 
 
 and wide 
 Descend we now, the maddened Reuss 
 
 our guide; 
 By rocks that, shutting out the blessed 
 
 day, 
 Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as 
 
 they; 
 By cells 2 upon whose image, while h2 
 
 prays, 
 The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to 
 
 gaze; 
 By many a votive death-cross ^ planted 
 
 near, 
 And watered duly with the pious tear. 
 That faded silent from the upward eye 
 Unmoved with each rude form of peril 
 
 nigh; 
 Fixed on the anchor left by Hira who 
 
 saves 
 Alike in whelming snows, and roaring 
 
 waves. 
 But soon a peopled region on the sight 
 Opens — a little world of calm delight ; 
 Where mists, suspended on the expiring 
 
 gale. 
 Spread rooflike o'er the deep secluded 
 
 vale. 
 And beams of evening slipping in 
 
 between. 
 Gently illuminate a sober scene : — 
 Here, on the brown wood-cottages * they 
 
 sleep. 
 There, over rock or sloping pasture creep , 
 
 2 The Catholic religion prevails here : these 
 cells are, as is well known, very common in the 
 Catholic countries, planted, hke the Roman 
 tombs, along the road side. 
 
 3 Crosses, commemorative of the deaths of 
 travellers by the fall of snow, and other accidents, 
 are very common along this dreadful road. 
 
 ^ The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys 
 are all built of wood. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 On as we journey, in clear view dis- 
 played, 
 The still vale lengthens underneath its 
 
 shade 
 Of low-hung vapor: on the freshened 
 
 mead 
 The green light sparkles ; — the dim 
 
 bowers recede. 
 While pastoral pipes and streams the 
 
 landscape lull, 
 And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, 
 In solemn shapes before the admiring eye 
 Dilated harjg the misty pines on high. 
 Huge convent domes with pinnacles and 
 
 towers. 
 And antique castles seen through gleamy 
 
 showers. 
 From such romantic dreams, my soul, 
 
 awake ! 
 To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake 
 In Nature's pristine majesty outspread, 
 Winds neither road nor path for foot to 
 
 tread : 
 The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch 
 Far o'er the water, hung with groves of 
 
 beech; 
 Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend. 
 Nor stop but where creation seems to end. 
 Yet here and there, if 'mid the savage 
 
 scene 
 Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, 
 Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep 
 To reach a small wood-hut hung boldly 
 
 on the steep, 
 — Before those thresholds (never can 
 
 they know 
 The face of traveller passing to and fro,) 
 No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell 
 For whom at morning tolled the funeral 
 
 bell; 
 Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark 
 
 foregoes, 
 Touched by the beggar's moan of human 
 
 woes; 
 The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat 
 To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat, 
 Yet thither the world's business finds its 
 
 way 
 At times, and tales unsought beguile thb 
 
 day. 
 And there are those fond thoughts which 
 
 Solitude, 
 However stern, is powerless to exclude. 
 
 There doth the maiden watch her lover'i 
 sail 
 
 Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale; 
 
 At midnight listens till his parting oar. 
 
 And its last echo, can be heard no more. 
 And what if ospreys, cormorants, 
 herons, cry 
 
 Amid tempestuous vapors driving by. 
 
 Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear 
 
 That common growth of earth, the food- 
 ful ear; 
 
 Where the green apple shrivels on the 
 spray, 
 
 And pines the unripened pear in sum- 
 mer's kindliest ray; 
 
 Contentment shares the desolate domain 
 
 With IndependencCj child of high Dis 
 dain. 
 
 Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies. 
 
 Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom lii£s,_ 
 
 And grasps by fits her swofd, and often 
 eyes; 
 
 And sometimes, as from rock to rock she 
 bounds 
 
 The Patriot nymph starts at imagined 
 sounds. 
 
 And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs 
 aghast. 
 
 Whether some old Swiss air hath checked 
 her haste 
 
 Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught be- 
 tween the blast. 
 Swoln with incessant rains from hour 
 to hour. 
 
 All day the floods a deepening murmur 
 pour: 
 
 The sky is veiled, and every cheerful 
 sight : 
 
 Dark is the region as with coming night; 
 
 But what a sudden burst of overpower- 
 ing light ! 
 
 Triumphant on the bosom of the storm. 
 
 Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious 
 form ! 
 
 Eastward, in long perspective glittering, 
 shine 
 
 The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the'" 
 lake recline; 
 
 Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams un- 
 fold. 
 
 At once to pillars turned that flame with- 
 gold : 
 
 Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shun 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 33 
 
 The Tivj-A that burns hke one dilated sun, 
 
 A crucible of mighty compass, felt 
 
 By mountains, glowing till they seem to 
 melt. 
 But, lo ! the boatman, overawed, be- 
 fore 
 
 The pictured fane of Tell suspends his 
 oar; 
 
 Confused the Marathonian tale appears, 
 
 While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. 
 
 And who, that walks where men of an- 
 cient days 
 
 Have wrought with godlike arm the 
 deeds of praise, 
 
 Feels not the spirit of the place control. 
 
 Or rouse and agitate his laboring soul ? 
 
 Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills. 
 
 Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, 
 
 On Zutphen's plain; or on that highland 
 dell, 
 
 Through which rough Garry cleaves his 
 way, can tell 
 
 What high resolves exalt the tenderest 
 thought 
 
 Of him who passion rivets to the spot. 
 
 Where breathed the gale that caught 
 Wolfe's happiest sigh. 
 
 And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's 
 eye; 
 
 Where bleeding Sidney from the cup re- 
 tired, 
 
 And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas ' ' 
 expired? 
 But now with other mind I stand alone 
 
 Upon the summit of this naked cone. 
 
 And watch the fearless chamois-hunter 
 chase 
 
 His prey, through tracts abrupt of deso- 
 late space, 
 
 'Through vacant worlds where Nature 
 never gave 
 
 A brook to murmur or a bough to wave. 
 
 Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred 
 keep; 
 
 Jhro' worlds where Life and Voice and 
 ■Motion sleep; 
 
 Where silent Hours their deat'.Iike sway 
 extend, 
 
 ' For most of the images in the next sixteen 
 verses, I am indebted to M. Raymond's interest- 
 ing observations annexed to his translation of 
 Coxe's tour in Switzerland. 
 
 Save when the avalanche breaks loose, 
 
 to rend 
 Its way with uproar, till the ruin, 
 
 drowned 
 In some dense wood or gulf of snow 
 
 profound. 
 Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf 
 
 abortive sound. 
 
 — 'Tis his, while wandering on from 
 
 height to height. 
 To see a planet's pomp and steady light 
 In the least star of scarce-appearing 
 
 night ; 
 While the pale moon moves near him, 
 
 on the bound 
 Of ether, shining with diminished round, 
 And far and wide the icy summits blaze. 
 Rejoicing in the glory of her rays : 
 To him the day-star glitters smalj and 
 
 bright. 
 Shorn of its beams, insufferably white. 
 And he can look beyond the sun, and 
 
 view 
 Those fast-receding depths of sable blue 
 Flying till vision can no more pursue ! 
 
 — At once bewildering mists around him 
 
 close. 
 And cold and hunger are his least of 
 
 woes; 
 The Demon of the snow, with angry roar 
 Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. 
 Soon with despair's whole weight his 
 
 spirits sink; 
 Bread has he none, the snow must be his 
 
 drink; 
 And, ere his eyes can close upon the day, 
 The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. 
 Now couch thyself where, heard with 
 
 fear afar. 
 Thunders through echoing pines the 
 
 headlong Aar; 
 Or rather stay to taste the mild delights 
 Of pensive Underwalden's ^ pastoral 
 
 heights. 
 
 — Is there who 'mid these awful wilds 
 
 has seen 
 The native Genii walk the mountain 
 green? 
 
 2 The people of this Canton are supposed to 
 be of a more melancholy disposition than the 
 other inhabitants of the Alps; this, if true, may 
 proceed from their living more secluded. 
 
34 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 Or heard, while other worlds their charms 
 
 reveal, 
 Soft music o'er the aerial summit steal? 
 While o'er the desert, answering every 
 
 close, 
 Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes 
 
 and goes. 
 — And sure there is a secret Power that 
 
 reigns 
 Here, where no trace of man the spot 
 
 profanes. 
 Nought but the chdlets^ flat and bare, on 
 
 high 
 Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky; 
 Or distant herds that pasturing upward 
 
 creep, 
 And, not untended, climb the dangerous 
 
 steep. 
 How still ! no irreligious sound or sight 
 Rouses the soul from her severe delight. 
 An idle voice the sabbath region fills 
 Of Deep that calls to Deep across the 
 
 hills, 
 And with that voice accords the soothing 
 
 sound 
 Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round; 
 Faint wail of eagle melting into blue 
 Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' 
 
 steady sugh ; ^ 
 The solitary heifer's deepened low; 
 Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling 
 
 snow. 
 All motions, sounds, and voices, far and 
 
 nigh, 
 Blend in a music of tranquillity; 
 Save when, a stranger seen below, the 
 
 boy 
 Shouts from the echoing hills with sav- 
 age joy. 
 When, from the sunny breast of open 
 
 seas. 
 And bays with myrtle fringed, the south- 
 ern breeze 
 Comes on to gladden April with the sight 
 Of green isles widening on each snow- 
 clad height; 
 When shouts and lowing herds the valley 
 
 fill, 
 
 ^ This picture is from the middle region of 
 the Alps. Chalets are summer huts for the 
 Swiss herdsmen. 
 
 ^ Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the 
 sound of the wind through the trees. 
 
 And louder torrents stun the noon-tide 
 hill. 
 
 The pastoral Swiss begin the cHffs to 
 scale. 
 
 Leaving to silence the deserted vale; 
 
 And like the Patriarchs in their simple 
 age 
 
 Move, as the verdure leads, from stage 
 to stage : 
 
 High and more high in summer's heat 
 they go. 
 
 And hear the rattling thunder far below; 
 
 Or steal beneath the mountains, half-de- 
 terred. 
 
 Where huge rocks tremble to the bellow- 
 ing herd. 
 One I behold who, 'cross the foaming 
 flood, 
 
 Leaps with a bound of graceful hardi- 
 hood; 
 
 Another, high on that green ledge ; — he 
 gained 
 
 The tempting spot with every sinew 
 strained; 
 
 And downward thence a knot of grass he 
 throws, 
 
 Food for his beasts in time of winter 
 snows. 
 
 — Far different life from what Tradition 
 hoar 
 
 Transmits of happier lot in times of yore ! 
 
 Then Summer lingered long; and honey 
 flowed 
 
 From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe 
 abode : 
 
 Continual waters welling cheered the 
 waste, 
 
 And plants were wholesome, now of 
 deadly taste : 
 
 Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had 
 piled. 
 
 Usurping where the fairest herbage 
 smiled : 
 
 Nor Hunger driven the herds from pas- 
 tures bare, 
 
 To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty 
 fare. 
 
 Then the milk-thistle flourished through 
 the land. 
 
 And forced the full-swoln udder to de- 
 mand. 
 
 Thrice every day, the pail and welcome 
 hand. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 35 
 
 Thus does the father to his children tell 
 Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too 
 
 well. 
 Alas ! that human guilt provoked the rod 
 Of angry Nature to avenge her God. 
 Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts 
 Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. 
 'Tis morn: with gold the verdant 
 
 mountain glows 
 More high, the snowy peaks with hues of 
 
 rose. 
 Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted 
 
 hills, 
 A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, 
 A solemn sea! whose billows wide 
 
 around 
 Stand motionless, to awful silence bound : 
 Pines, on the coast, through mist their 
 
 tops uprear. 
 That like to leaning masts of stranded 
 
 ships appear. 
 A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue. 
 Gapes in the centre of the sea — and, 
 
 through 
 That dark mysterious gulf ascending, 
 
 sound 
 Innumerable streams with roar profound. 
 Mount through the nearer vapors notes 
 
 of birds. 
 And merry flageolet; the low of herds, 
 Thebarkof dogs, theheifer'stinklingbell. 
 Talk, laughter, and perchance a church- 
 tower knell : 
 Think not, the peasant from aloft has 
 
 gazed 
 And heard with heart unmoved, with soul 
 
 unraised : 
 Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less 
 Alive to independent happiness, 
 Then, when he lies, outstretched, at even- 
 tide 
 Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side : 
 For as the pleasures of his simple day 
 Beyond his native valley seldom stray, 
 Nought round its darling precincts can he 
 
 find 
 But brings some past enjoyment to his 
 
 mind; 
 While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's 
 
 urn. 
 Birds her wild wreaths, and whispers his 
 
 return. 
 Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, 
 
 Was blest as free — for he was Nature's 
 
 child. 
 He, all superior but his God disdained. 
 Walked, none restraining and by none 
 
 restrained. 
 Confessed no law but what his reason 
 
 taught. 
 Did all he wished, and wished but what 
 
 he ought. 
 As man in his primeval dower arrayed 
 The image of his glorious Sire displayed, 
 Even so, by faithful Nature guarded, here 
 The traces of primeval Man appear; 
 The simple dignity no forms debase; 
 The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace : 
 The slave of none, of beasts alone the 
 
 lord. 
 His book he prizes, nor neglects hij 
 
 sword ; 
 Well taught by that to feel his rights, pre- 
 pared 
 With this "the blessings he enjoys to 
 guard." 
 And, as his native hills encircle ground 
 For many a marvellous victory renowned. 
 The work of Freedom daring to oppose. 
 With few in arms,^ innumerable foes, 
 When to those famous fields his steps are 
 
 led. 
 An unknown power connects him with 
 
 the dead : 
 For images of other worlds are there; 
 Awful the light, and holy is the air. 
 Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul, 
 Like sun-lit tempests, troubled trans- 
 ports roll; 
 His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers 
 
 amain. 
 Beyond the senses and their little reign. 
 And oft, when that dread vision hath 
 past by, 
 
 ^ Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in 
 very small numbers have gained over their op- 
 pressors, the house of Austria ; and in particulai , 
 to one fought at Naeffels near Glarus, where 
 three hundred and thirty men are said to have de- 
 feated an army of between fifteen and twenty 
 thousand Austrians. Scattered over the valley 
 are to be found eleven stones, with this inscrip- 
 tion, 1388, the year the battle was fought, mark- 
 ing out, as I was told upon the spot, the several 
 places where the Austrians, attempting to make a 
 stand, were repulsed anew. 
 
36 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 He holds with God himself communion 
 
 high, 
 There where the peal of swelling torrents 
 
 fills 
 The sky-roofed temple of the eternal 
 
 hills; 
 Or when, upon the mountain's sileirt 
 
 brow 
 Reclined, he sees, above him and below. 
 Bright stars of ice and azure fields of 
 
 snow ; 
 While needle peaks of granite shooting 
 
 bare 
 Tremble in ever-varying tints of air. 
 And when a gathering weight of shadows 
 
 brown 
 Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down; 
 And Pikes, of darkness named and fear 
 
 and storms,^ 
 Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, 
 In sea-Hke reach of prospect round him 
 
 spread. 
 Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy 
 
 red — 
 Awe in his breast with holiest love unites, 
 And the near heavens impart their own 
 
 delights. 
 When downward to his winter hut he 
 
 goes, 
 Dear and more dear the lessening circle 
 
 grows; 
 That hut which on the hill so oft em- 
 ploys 
 His thoughts, the central point of all t,js 
 
 joys. 
 And as a swallow, at the hour of rest. 
 Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, 
 'So to the homestead, where the grand- 
 sire tends 
 A little prattling child, he oft descends, 
 To glance a look upon the well-matched 
 
 pair; 
 Till storm and driving ice blockade him 
 
 there. 
 There, safely guarded by the woods be- 
 hind, 
 He hears the chiding of the baffled wind. 
 Hears Winter calling all his terrors round. 
 And, blest v/ithin himself, he shrinks not 
 
 from the sound. 
 
 ^ As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror ; Wet- 
 ter-Horn, the pike of storms, etc., etc. 
 
 Through Nature's vale his homely 
 
 pleasures glide, 
 Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride; 
 The bound of all his vanity, to deck, 
 With one bright bell, a favorite heifer's 
 
 neck; 
 Well pleased upon some simple annual 
 
 feast, 
 Remembered half the year and hoped the 
 
 rest, 
 If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, 
 Of thrice ten summers dignify the board. 
 — Alas ! in every clime a flying ray 
 Is all we have to cheer our wintry way; 
 And here the unwilling mind may more 
 
 than trace 
 The general sorrows of the human race; 
 The churlish gales of penury, that blow 
 Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of 
 
 snow. 
 To them the gentle groups of bliss deny 
 That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. 
 Yet more; — compelled by Powers which 
 
 only deign 
 That solitary man disturb their reign, 
 Powers that support an unremitting strife 
 With all the tender charities of life, 
 Full oft the father, when his sons have 
 
 grown 
 To manhood, seems their title to disown; 
 And from his nest amid the storms of 
 
 heaven 
 Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was 
 
 driven; 
 With stern composure watches to the 
 
 plain — 
 And never, eagle-like, beholds again ! 
 When long-familiar joys are all re- 
 signed. 
 Why does their sad remembrance haunt 
 
 the mind? 
 Lo ! where through flat Batavia's willowy 
 
 groves. 
 Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves; 
 O'er the curled waters Alpine measures 
 
 swell. 
 And search the affections to their inmost 
 
 cell; 
 Sweet poison spreads along the listener's 
 
 veins. 
 Turning past pleasures into mortal pains; 
 Poison, which not a frame of steel can 
 
 brave. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 37 
 
 Bows his yoimg head with sorrow to the 
 grave. 1 
 Gay lark of hope, thy silent song re- 
 sume ! 
 
 Ye flattering eastern lights, once more 
 the hills illume ! 
 
 Fresh gales and dews of life's delicious 
 morn. 
 
 And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, 
 return ! 
 
 Alas ! the little joy to man allowed 
 
 Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud; 
 
 Or like the beauty in a flower installed, 
 
 Whose season was, and cannot be re- 
 called. 
 
 Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or 
 care, , 
 
 And taught that pain is pleasure's natu- 
 ral heir, 
 
 We still confide in more than we can 
 know; 
 
 Death would be else the favorite friend 
 of woe. 
 'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow 
 that shine, 
 
 Between interminable tracts of pine. 
 
 Within a temple stands an awful shrine, 
 
 By an uncertain light revealed, that falls 
 
 On the mute Image and the troubled walls. 
 
 Oh ! give not me that eye of hard disdain 
 
 That views, undimmed, Einsiedlen's^ 
 wretched fane. 
 
 While ghastly faces through the gloom 
 appear. 
 
 Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear; 
 
 While prayer contends with silenced 
 agony, 
 
 Surely in other thoughts contempt may 
 die. 
 
 If the sad grave of human ignorance bear 
 
 One flower of hope — oh, pass and leave 
 it there ! 
 The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine 
 spire, 
 
 Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire : 
 
 Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day 
 
 1 The well-known effect of the famous air, 
 called in French Ranz des Vaches, upon the 
 Swiss troops. 
 
 2 This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of 
 relief, by multitudes, from every corner of the 
 Catholic world, laboring under mental or bodily 
 afflictions. 
 
 Close on the remnant of their weary 
 
 way; 
 While they are drawing toward the sacred 
 
 floor 
 Where, so they fondly think, the worm 
 
 shall gnaw no more. 
 How gayly murmur and how sweetly taste 
 The fountains ^ reared for them amid the 
 
 waste ! 
 Their thirst they slake : — they wash their 
 
 toil-worn feet 
 And some with tears of joy each other 
 
 greet. 
 Yes, I must see you when ye first behold 
 Those holy turrets tipped with evening 
 
 gold, 
 In that glad moment will for you a sigh 
 Be heaved, of charitable sympathy; 
 In that glad moment when your hands are 
 
 prest 
 In mute devotion on the thankful breast ! 
 Last, let us turn to Chamouny that 
 
 shields 
 With rocks and glooiny woods her fertile 
 
 fields : 
 Five streams of ice amid her cots descend. 
 And with wild flowers and blooming 
 
 orchards blend; — ^ 
 A scene more fair than what the Grecian 
 
 feigns 
 Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; 
 Here all the seasons revel hand in hand : 
 'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets 
 
 fanned. 
 They sport beneath that mountain's 
 
 matchless height 
 That holds no commerce with the sum- 
 mer night. 
 From age to age, throughout his lonely 
 
 bounds 
 The crash of ruin fitfully resounds; 
 Appalling havoc ! but serene his brow, 
 Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow ; 
 Glitter the stars above, and all is black 
 
 below. 
 What marvel then if many a Wanderer 
 
 sigh, 
 While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, 
 That not for thy reward, unrivalled Vale ! 
 
 ^ Rude fountains built iind covered with sheds 
 for the accommodation of the Pilgrims, in their 
 ascent of the mountain 
 
38 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal 
 gale; 
 
 That thou, the slaves of slaves, art 
 doomed to pine 
 
 And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, 
 
 To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. 
 Hail Freedom ! whether it was mine to 
 stray, 
 
 With shrill winds whistling round my 
 lonely way. 
 
 On the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath- 
 clad moors, 
 
 Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scot- 
 land's shores; 
 
 To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breath- 
 ing rose, 
 
 And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; 
 
 Still have I found, where Tyranny pre- 
 vails. 
 
 That virtue languishes and pleasure fails. 
 
 While the remotest hamlets blessings 
 share 
 
 In thy loved presence known, and only 
 there; 
 
 ^ifa?7-blessings — outward treasures too 
 which the eye 
 
 Of the sun peeping through the clouds 
 can spyt 
 
 And every passing breeze vrill testify. 
 
 There, to the porch, belike with jasmine 
 bound 
 
 Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is 
 wound; 
 
 The housewife there a brighter garden 
 sees. 
 
 Where hum on busier wing her happy 
 bees; 
 
 On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow ; 
 
 And gray-haired men look up with live- 
 lier brow, — 
 
 To greet the traveller needing food and 
 rest; 
 
 Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's 
 guest. 
 And oh, fair France ! though now the 
 traveller sees 
 
 Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the 
 breeze; 
 
 Though martial songs have banished 
 songs of love. 
 
 And nightingales c^esert the village grove, 
 
 Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's 
 alarms. 
 
 And the short thunder, and the flash of 
 
 arms; 
 That cease not till night falls, when far 
 
 and nigh. 
 Sole sound, the Sourdl prolongs his 
 
 mournful cry ! 
 
 — Yet, hast thou found that Freedom 
 
 spreads her power 
 Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage- 
 door: 
 All nature smiles, and owns beneath her 
 
 eyes 
 Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. 
 Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters 
 
 glide 
 Through rustling aspens heard from side to 
 
 side, , 
 
 When from October clouds a milder light 
 Fell where the blue flood rippled into 
 
 white; 
 Methought from every cot the watchful 
 
 bird 
 Crowed with ear-piercing power till then 
 
 unheard; 
 Each clacking mill, that broke the mur- 
 muring streams. 
 Rocked the charmed thought in more 
 
 delightful dreams: 
 Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling 
 
 leaf 
 Awoke a fainter sense of moral grief; 
 The measured echo of the distant flail 
 Wound in more welcome cadence down 
 
 the vale; 
 With more majestic course^ the water 
 
 rolled. 
 And ripening foliage shone with richer 
 
 gold. 
 
 — But foes are gathering — Liberty must 
 
 raise 
 Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen 
 
 blaze; 
 Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to 
 
 tower ! — 
 Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour ! 
 
 * An insect so called, which emits a short, 
 melancholy ciy, heard at the close of the summer 
 evenings, on the banks of the Loire. 
 
 2 The duties upon many parts of the French 
 rivers were so exorbitant, that the poorer people, 
 deprived of the benefit of water carriage, were 
 obliged to transport their goods by land. 
 
GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 ii 
 
 Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's per- 
 verted ire 
 
 Rouse hell's ovifn aid, and wrap thy fields 
 in fire: 
 
 Lo, from the flames a great and glorious 
 birth; 
 
 As if a new-made heaven were haihng a 
 new earth ! 
 
 — All cannot be: the promise is too fair 
 
 For creatures doomed to breathe terres- 
 trial air : 
 
 Vet not for this will sober reason frown 
 
 Upon that promise, nor the hope disown; 
 
 She knows that only from high aims en- 
 sue 
 
 Rich guerdons, and to them alone are 
 due. 
 Great God ! by whom the strifes of 
 men are weighed 
 
 In an impartial balance, give thine aid 
 
 To the just cause; and, oh ! do thou pre- 
 side 
 
 Over the mighty stream now spreading 
 wide: 
 
 So shall its waters, from the heavens 
 supplied 
 
 In copious showers, from earth by whole- 
 some springs. 
 
 Brood o'er the long-parched lands with 
 Nile-like wings ! 
 
 And grant that every sceptred child of 
 clay 
 
 Who cries presumptuous, " Here the flood 
 shall stay," 
 
 May in its progress see thy guiding hand. 
 
 And cease the acknowledged purpose to 
 withstand; 
 
 Or, swept in anger from the insulted 
 shore. 
 
 Sink with his servile bands, to rise no 
 more ! 
 To-night, my Friend, within this hum- 
 ble cot 
 
 Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot 
 
 In timely sleep; and when, at break of 
 day. 
 
 On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams 
 play. 
 
 With a light heart our course we may 
 renew, 
 
 The first whose footsteps print the moun- 
 tain dew. 
 1793- '793- 
 
 GUILT AND SORROW; 
 
 OR, 
 INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN. 
 
 Unwilling to be unnecessarily particular, 1 
 have assigned this poem to the dates 1793 and 
 '94 ; but in fact much of the " Female Vagrant's " 
 story was composed at least two years before. 
 All that relates to her sufferings as a sailor's wife 
 in America, and her condition of mind during her 
 voyage home, were faithfully taken from the 
 report made to me of her own case by a friend 
 who had been subjected to the same trials and 
 affected in the same way. Mr. Coleridge, when 
 I first became acquainted with him, was so much 
 impressed with this poem, that it would have 
 encouraged me to publish the whole as it then 
 stood ; but the mariner's fate appeared to me so 
 tragical as to require a treatment more subdued 
 and yet more strictly applicable in expression than 
 I had at first given to it. This fault was corrected 
 nearly fifty years afterwards, when I determined 
 to publish the whole. It may be worth while to 
 remark, that, though the iucidents of this attempt 
 do only in a small degree produce each other, and 
 it deviates accordingly from the general rule by 
 which narrative pieces ought to be governed, it 
 is not therefore wanting in continuous hold upon 
 the mind, or in unity, which is effected by the 
 identity of moral interest that places the two * 
 personages upon the same footing in the reader's 
 sympathies. My rambles over many parts of 
 Salisbury Plain put me, as mentioned in the pref- 
 ace, upon writing this poem, and left on my 
 mind imaginative impressions the force of which 
 I have felt to this day. From that district I pro- 
 ceeded to Bath, Bristol, and so on to the banks 
 of the Wye, where I took again to travelling on 
 foot. In remembrance of that part of my jour- 
 ney, which was in '93, I began the verses — 
 " Five years have passed." 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS POEM, 
 PUBLISHED IN 1842. 
 
 Not less than one-third of the following poem, 
 though it has from time to time been altered in 
 the expression, was published so far back as the 
 year 1798^ under the title of "The Female Va- 
 grant." The extract is~of siich length that an 
 apology seems to be required for reprinting it 
 here : but it was necessary to restore it to its 
 original position, or the rest would have been 
 unintelligible. The whole was written before the 
 close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather 
 as a matter of literary biography than for an* 
 
40 
 
 GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 other reason, the circumstances under which it 
 was produLed. 
 
 During the latter part of the summer of 1793, 
 having passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in 
 ■/lew of the fleet which was then preparing for 
 ^ea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the 
 war, I left the place with m'ilancholy forebodings, 
 rhe American war was still fresh in memory. 
 The struggle which was beginning, and which 
 many thought would be brought to a speedy close 
 by the irresistible arms of Great Britain being 
 added to those of the allies, I was assured in my 
 own mind would be of long continuance, and 
 productive of distress and misery beyond all pos- 
 sible calculation. This conviction was pressed 
 upon me by having been a witness, during a long 
 residence in revolutionary France, of the spirit 
 whicli prevailed in that country. After leaving 
 the Isle of Wight, I spent two days in wandering 
 on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though culti- 
 vation was then widely spread through parts of it, 
 had upon the whole a stall laore impressive ap- 
 pearance than it now retains. 
 
 The monuments and traces of antiquity, scat- 
 tered in abundance over that region, led me 
 unavoidably to compare what we know or guess 
 of those remote times with certain aspects of 
 modern society, and with calamities, principally 
 those consequent upon war, to which, more than 
 ^ other classes of men, the poor are subject. In 
 those reflections, joined with particular facts that 
 had come to my knowledge, the following stanzas 
 originated. 
 
 In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in 
 the minds of those who are well acquainted with 
 Salisbury Plam, it may be proper to say, that 
 of the features described as belonging to it, one 
 or two are taken from other desolate parts of 
 England, 
 
 I. 
 A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum's 
 
 Plain 
 Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half 
 
 bare; 
 t>".ooping his gait, but not as if to gain 
 Help from the staff he bore; for mien 
 
 and air 
 Were hardy, though his cheek seemed 
 
 worn with care 
 Both of the time to come, and time long 
 
 fled: 
 Down fell in straggling locks his thin 
 
 gray hair; 
 A coat he wore of military red 
 But faded, and stuck o'er with many a 
 
 patch and shred. 
 
 II. 
 While thus he journeyed, step by step 
 
 led on, 
 He saw and passed a stately inn, full 
 
 sure 
 That welcome in such house for him was 
 
 none. 
 No board inscribed the needy to allure 
 Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old 
 
 and poor 
 And desolate, "Here you will find a 
 
 friend I " 
 The pendent grapes glittered above the 
 
 door ; — 
 On he must pace, perchance 'till night 
 
 descend, 
 Where'er th*^ dreary roads their bare 
 
 white lines extend. 
 
 The gathering clouds grow red with 
 stormy fire. 
 
 In streaks diverging wide and mounting 
 high; 
 
 That inn he long had passed; the dis- 
 tant spire, 
 
 Which oft as he looked back had fixed 
 his eye. 
 
 Was lost, though still he looked, in the 
 blank sky. 
 
 Perplexed and comfortless he gazed 
 around, 
 
 And scarce could any trace of man de- 
 scry. 
 
 Save cornfields stretched and stretching 
 without bound; 
 
 But where the sower dwelt was nowhere 
 to be found. 
 
 No tree was there, no meadow's pleas- 
 ant green. 
 
 No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; 
 
 Long files of corn-stacks here and there 
 were seen. 
 
 But not one dwelling-place his heart to 
 cheer. 
 
 Some laborer, thought he, may per- 
 chance be near; 
 
 And so he sent a feeble shout — in vain; 
 
 No voice made answer, he could only 
 hear 
 
GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, 
 Or whistling thro' thin grass along the 
 unfurrowed plain. 
 
 Long had he fancied each successive slope 
 
 Concealed some cottage, whither he 
 might turn 
 
 And rest; but now along heaven's dark- 
 ening cope 
 
 The crows rushed by in eddies, home- 
 ward borne. 
 
 Thus warned he sought some shepherd's 
 spreading thorn 
 
 Or hovel from the storm to shield his 
 head. 
 
 But sought in vain; for now, all wild, 
 forlorn, 
 
 And vacant, a huge waste around him 
 spread; 
 
 The wet cold ground, he feared, must be 
 his only bed. 
 
 And be it so — for to the chill night 
 
 shower 
 And the sharp wind his head he oft hath 
 
 bared; 
 A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour 
 Hath told; for, landing after labor hard. 
 Full long endured in hope of just reward, 
 He to an armed fleet was forced away 
 By seamen, who perhaps themselves had 
 
 shared 
 Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless 
 
 prey, 
 'Gainst all that in his heart, or theirs 
 
 perhaps, said nay. 
 
 For years the work of carnage did not 
 cease. 
 
 And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed. 
 
 Death's minister; then came his glad 
 release, 
 
 And hope returned, and pleasure fondly 
 made 
 
 Her dweUing in his dreams. By Fancy's 
 aid 
 
 The happy husband flies, his arms to 
 throw 
 
 Round his wife's neck; the prize of vic- 
 tory laid 
 
 In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears 
 
 flow 
 As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble 
 
 she could know. 
 
 Vain hope ! lor fraud took all that he had 
 
 earned. 
 The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 
 Even in the desert's heart; but he, re- 
 turned, 
 Bears not to those he loves their needful 
 
 food. 
 His home approaching, but in such a 
 
 mood 
 That from his sight his children might 
 
 have run. 
 He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his 
 
 blood; 
 And when the miserable work was done 
 He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's 
 
 fate to shun. 
 
 From that day forth no place to him 
 
 could be 
 So lonely, but that thence might come a 
 
 pang 
 Brought from without to inward misery. 
 Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang 
 A sound of chains along the desert rang; 
 Fie looked, and saw upon a gibbet high 
 A human body that in irons swang. 
 Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; 
 And, hovering, round it often did a raven 
 
 fly.i 
 
 It was a spectacle which none might 
 
 view. 
 In spot so savage, but with shuddering 
 
 pain; 
 Nor only did for him at once renew 
 All he had feared from man, but roused a 
 
 train 
 Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. 
 The stones, as if to cover him from day, 
 Rolled at his back along the living plain; 
 He fell, and without sense or motion lay; 
 But, when the trance was gone, feebly 
 
 pursued his way. 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
42 
 
 GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 XI. 
 
 As one whose brain habitual frensy fires 
 Owes to the fit in which his soul hath 
 
 tossed 
 Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, 
 Even so the dire phantasma which had 
 
 crossed 
 His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost. 
 Left his mind still as a deep evening 
 
 stream. 
 Nor, if accosted now, in thought en- 
 grossed. 
 Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem 
 To traveller who might talk of any casual 
 theme. 
 
 Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness 
 
 piled. 
 Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; 
 He seemed the only creature in the wild 
 On whom the elements their rage might 
 
 wreak ; 
 Save that the bustard, of those regions 
 
 bleak 
 Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light 
 A man there wandering, gave a mournful 
 
 shriek. 
 And half upon the ground, with strange 
 
 affright, 
 Forced hard against the wind a thick 
 
 unwieldy flight. 
 
 All, all was cheerless to the horizon's 
 
 bound; 
 The weary eye — which, whereso'er it 
 
 strays, 
 Marks nothing but the red sun's setting 
 
 round, 
 Or on the earth strange lines, in former 
 
 days 
 Left by gigantic arms — at length sur- 
 veys 
 What seems an antique castle spreading 
 
 wide; 
 Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise 
 Their brow sublime : in shelter there to 
 
 bide 
 He turned, while rain poured down 
 
 smoking on every side. 
 
 Pile of Stone-henge ! so proud to hint yet 
 
 keep 
 Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and 
 
 hear 
 The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's 
 
 sweep. 
 Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless 
 
 year; 
 Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker 
 
 rear 
 For sacrifice its throngs of living men. 
 Before thy face did ever wretch appear, 
 Who in his heart had groaned with dead- 
 lier pain 
 Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter 
 
 now would gain. 
 
 Within that fabric of mysterious form. 
 Winds met in conflict, each by turns 
 
 supreme; 
 And, from the perilous ground dislodged, 
 
 through storm 
 And rain he wildered on, no moon to 
 
 stream 
 From gulf of parting clouds one friendly 
 
 beam. 
 Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; 
 Once did the lightning's faint disastrous 
 
 gleam 
 Disclose a naked guide-post's double 
 
 head, 
 Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of 
 
 pleasure shed. 
 
 No swinging sign-board creaked from 
 
 cottage elm 
 To stay his steps with faintness overcome; 
 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watqry 
 
 realm 
 Roaring with storms beneath night's star- 
 less gloom; 
 No gypsy cowered o'er fire of furze or 
 
 broom; 
 No laborer watched his red kiln glaring 
 
 bright. 
 Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's 
 
 room; 
 Along the waste no line of mournful light 
 From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed 
 
 athwart the night. 
 
GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 43 
 
 At length, though hid in clouds, the 
 
 moon arose; 
 The downs were visible — and now re- 
 vealed 
 A structure stands, which two bare slopes 
 
 enclose. 
 It was a spot, where, ancient vows ful- 
 filled, 
 Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build 
 A lonely Spital, the belated swain 
 From the night terrors of that waste to 
 
 shield: 
 But there no human being could remain, 
 And now the walls are named the " Dead 
 House " of the plain. 
 
 Though he had little cause to love the 
 
 abode 
 Of man, or covet sight of mortal face. 
 Yet when faint beams of light that ruin 
 
 showed, 
 How glad he was at length to find some 
 
 trace 
 Of human shelter in that dreary place. 
 Till to his flock the early shepherd goes. 
 Here shall much-needed sleep his frame 
 
 embrace. 
 In a dry nook where fern the fioor be- 
 
 strows 
 He lays his stiffened limbs, — his eyes 
 
 begin to close; 
 
 When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed 
 
 to come 
 From one who mourned in sleep, he 
 
 raised his head, 
 And saw a woman in the naked room 
 Outstretched, and turning on a restless 
 
 bed: 
 The moon a wan dead light around her 
 
 shed. 
 He waked her — spake in tone that 
 
 would not fail, 
 He hoped to calm her mind; but ill he 
 
 sped, 
 For of that ruin she had heard a tale 
 Which now with freezing thoughts did all 
 
 her powers assail; 
 
 Had heard of one who, forced from 
 storms to shroud, 
 
 Felt the loose walls of this decayed Re- 
 treat 
 
 Rock to incessant neighings shrill and 
 loud, 
 
 While his horse pawed the floor with 
 furious heat; 
 
 Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet. 
 
 Struck, and still struck again, the troubled 
 horse : 
 
 The man half raised the stone with pain 
 and sweat. 
 
 Half raised, for well his arm m^ht lose 
 its force 
 
 Disclosing the grim head of a late mur- 
 dered corse. 
 
 Such tale of this lone mansion she had 
 
 learned, 
 And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep 
 
 half drowned, 
 By the moon's sullen lamp she first dis- 
 cerned. 
 Cold stony horror all her senses bound. 
 Her he addressed in words of cheering 
 
 sound; 
 Recovering heart, like answer did she 
 
 make; 
 And well it was that, of the corse there 
 
 found. 
 In converse that ensued she nothing 
 
 spake ; 
 She knew not what dire pangs in him 
 
 such tale could wake. 
 
 XXII. 
 But soon his voice and words of kind in- 
 tent 
 Banished that dismal thought; and now 
 
 the wind 
 In fainter howlings told its rage was 
 
 spent : 
 Meanwhile discourse ensued of various 
 
 kind. 
 Which by degrees a confidence of mind 
 And mutual interest failed not to create. 
 And, to a natural sympathy resigned. 
 In that forsaken building where they sate 
 The Woman thus retraced her own unto- 
 ward fate. 
 
44 
 
 GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 "ByDerwent's side my father dwelt ^ 
 a man 
 
 Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; 
 
 And I believe that, soon as I began 
 
 To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed. 
 
 And in his hearing there my prayers I 
 said: 
 
 And afterwards, by my good father 
 taught, 
 
 I read, and loved the books in which I 
 read; 
 
 For books in every neighboring house I 
 sought, 
 
 And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleas- 
 ure brought. 
 
 XXIV. 
 " A little croft we owned — a plot of 
 
 corn, 
 A garden stored with peas, and mint, and 
 
 thyme. 
 And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday 
 
 morn 
 Plucked while the church bells rang their 
 
 earliest chime. 
 Can I forget our freaks at shearing time ! 
 My hen's rich nest through long grass 
 
 scarce espied; 
 The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy 
 
 prime; 
 The swans that with white chests up- 
 reared in pride 
 Rushing and racing came to meet me at 
 
 the water-side. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 "The staff I well remember which up- 
 bore 
 
 The bending body of my active sire; 
 
 His seat beneath the honied sycamore 
 
 Where the bees hummed, and chair by 
 winter fire; ' 
 
 When market-morning came, the neat 
 attire 
 
 With which, though bent on haste, my- 
 self I decked; 
 
 Our watchful house-dog, that would tease 
 and tire 
 
 The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; 
 
 The red-breast, known for years, which 
 at my casement pecked. 
 
 XXVI. 
 ' ' The suns of twenty summers danced 
 
 along, — 
 Too little marked how fast they rolled 
 
 away: 
 But, through severe mischance and cruel 
 
 wrong. 
 My father's substance fell into decay: 
 We toiled and struggled, hoping for a 
 
 day 
 When Fortune might put on a kinder 
 
 look; 
 But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; 
 He from his old hereditary nook 
 Must part; the summons came; — our 
 
 final leave we took. 
 
 xxvix. 
 
 " It was indeed a miserable hour 
 
 When, from the last hill-top, my sire sur- 
 veyed. 
 
 Peering above the trees, the steeple tower 
 
 That on his marriage day sweet music 
 made ! 
 
 Till then, he hoped his bones might there 
 be laid 
 
 Close by my mother in their native bow- 
 ers: 
 
 Bidding me trust in God, he stood and 
 prayed; — 
 
 I could not pray : — through tears that fell 
 in showers 
 
 Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas ! 
 no longer ours ! 
 
 ' ' There was a Youth whom I had loved 
 
 so long. 
 That when I loved him not I cannot say : 
 'Mid the green mountains many a thought- 
 less song 
 We two had sung, like gladsome birds in 
 
 May; 
 When we began to tire of childish play, 
 We seemed still more and more to prize 
 
 each other; 
 We talked of marriage and our marriage 
 
 day; 
 And I in truth did love him like a brother, 
 For never could I hope to meet with such 
 another. 
 
GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 45 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Two years were passed since to a dis- 
 tant town 
 
 He had repaired to ply a gainful trade : 
 
 What tears of bitter grief, till then un- 
 known ! 
 
 What tender vows, our last sad kiss de- 
 layed ! 
 
 To him we turned : — we had no other 
 aid: 
 
 Like one revived, upon his neck I wept ; 
 
 And her whom he had loved in joy, he 
 said. 
 
 He well could love in grief; his faith he 
 kept ; 
 
 And in a quiet home once more my 
 father slept. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " We lived in peace and comfort; and 
 were blest 
 
 With daily bread, by constant toil sup- 
 plied. 
 
 Three lovely babes had lain upon my 
 breast ; 
 
 And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I 
 sighed, 
 
 And knew not why. My happy father 
 died, 
 
 When threatened war reduced the chil- 
 dren's meal: 
 
 Thrice happy ! that for him the grave 
 could hide 
 
 The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent 
 wheel, 
 
 And tears that flowed for ills which 
 patience might not heal. 
 
 XXXI. 
 " ' Twasa hardchange; an evil time was 
 
 come; 
 We had no hope, and no relief could 
 
 gain; 
 But soon, with proud parade, the noisy 
 
 drum 
 Beat round to clear the streets of want 
 
 and pain. 
 My husband's arms now only served to 
 
 strain 
 Me and his children hungering in his 
 
 view; 
 In such dismay my prayers and tears 
 
 were vain : 
 
 To join those miserable men he flew, 
 And now to the sea coast, with numbers 
 more, we drew. 
 
 XXXII. 
 "There were we long neglected, and we 
 
 bore 
 Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchoi 
 
 weighed; 
 Green fields before us, and our native 
 
 shore. 
 We breathed a pestilential air, that made 
 Ravage for which no knell was heard. 
 
 We prayed 
 For our departure; wished and wished 
 
 — nor knew, 
 ' Mid that long sickness and those hopes 
 
 delayed. 
 That happier days we never more mu«t 
 
 view. 
 The parting signal streamed — at last 
 
 the land withdrew. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 "But the calm summer season now was 
 
 past. 
 On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 
 Ran mountains high before the howling 
 
 blast, 
 And many perished in the whirlwind's 
 
 sweep. 
 We gazed with terror on their gloomy 
 
 sleep. 
 Untaught that soon such anguish must 
 
 ensue, 
 Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 
 That we the mercy of the waves should 
 
 rue: 
 We reached the western world, a poor 
 
 devoted crew. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 "The pains and plagues that on our 
 
 heads came down. 
 Disease and famine, agony and fear. 
 In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 
 It would unman the firmest heart to hear. 
 All perished — all in one remorseless year, 
 Husband and children ! one by one, by 
 
 sword 
 And ravenous plague, all perished: every 
 
 tear 
 
46 
 
 GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 
 A British ship I waked, as from a trance 
 restored." 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Here paused she of all present thought 
 forlorn. 
 
 Nor voice nor sound, that moment's pain 
 expressed. 
 
 Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'er- 
 borne, 
 
 From her full eyes their watery load re- 
 leased. 
 
 He too was mute; and, ere her weeping 
 ceased. 
 
 He rose, and to the ruin's portal went. 
 
 And saw the dawn opening the silvery 
 east 
 
 With rays of promise, north and south- 
 ward sent; 
 
 And soon with crimson fire kindled the 
 firmament. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 "O come," he cried, "come, after 
 
 weary night 
 Of such rough storm, this happy change 
 
 to view." 
 So forth she came, and eastward looked; 
 
 the sight 
 Over her brow like dawn of gladness 
 
 threw ; 
 Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue 
 Seemed to return, dried the last linger- 
 ing tear. 
 And from her grateful heart a fresh one 
 
 drew; 
 The whilst her comrade .to her pensive 
 
 cheer 
 Tempered (it words of hope; and the 
 
 lark warbled near. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 They looked and saw a lengthening road, 
 and wain 
 
 That rang down a bare slope not far re- 
 mote : 
 
 The barrows glistered bright with drops 
 of rain. 
 
 Whistled the wagoner with merry note. 
 
 The cock far off sounded his clarion 
 throat; 
 
 But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they 
 
 viewed, 
 Only were told there stood a lonely cot 
 A long mile thence. While thither they 
 
 pursued 
 Their way, the Woman thus her mourn. 
 
 ful tale renewed. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 " Peaceful as this immeasurable plain 
 Is now, by beams of dawning light im- 
 prest. 
 In the calm sunshine slept the glittering 
 
 main; 
 The very ocean hath its hour of rest. 
 I too forgot the heavings of my breast. 
 How quiet 'round me ship and ocean 
 
 were ! 
 As quiet all within me. I was blest, 
 And looked, and fed upon the silent air 
 Until it seemed to bring a joy to my 
 despair. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, 
 
 And groans that rage of racking famine 
 spoke; 
 
 The unburied dead that lay in festering 
 heaps. 
 
 The breathing pestilence that rose like 
 smoke. 
 
 The shriek that from the distant battle 
 broke. 
 
 The mine's dire earthquake, and the pal- 
 lid host 
 
 Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder- 
 stroke 
 
 To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick 
 anguish tossed, 
 
 Hope died, and fear itself in agony was 
 lost ! 
 
 " Some mighty gulf of separation past, 
 I seemed transported to another world: 
 A thought resigned with pain, when from 
 
 the mast 
 The impatient mariner the sail unfurled. 
 And, whistling, called the wind that 
 
 hardly curled 
 The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts 
 
 of home 
 And from all hope I was forever hurled. 
 
GUIL'J AND SORROW. 
 
 47 
 
 For me — farthest from earthly port to 
 
 roam 
 Was best, could I but shun the spot 
 
 where man might come. 
 
 "And oft I thought (my fancy was so 
 
 strong) 
 That I, at last, a resting-place had found; 
 'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole 
 
 life long, 
 Roaming the illimitable waters round; 
 Here will I live, of all but heaven dis- 
 owned, 
 And end my days upon the peaceful 
 
 flood.' — 
 To break my dream the vessel reached 
 
 its bound; 
 And homeless near a thousand homes I 
 
 stood. 
 And near a thousand tables pined and 
 
 wanted food. 
 
 "No help I sought; in sorrow turned 
 
 adrift, 
 Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare 
 
 rock; 
 Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift. 
 Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. 
 I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the 
 
 cock 
 From the cross-timber of an out-house 
 
 hung: 
 Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock ! 
 At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely 
 
 stung. 
 Nor to the beggar's language could I fit 
 
 my tongue. 
 
 XLIII. 
 "So passed a second day; and, when 
 
 the third 
 Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's 
 
 resort. 
 — In deep despair, by frightful wishes 
 
 stirred. 
 Near the seaside I reached a ruined fort ; 
 There, pains which nature could no more 
 
 support. 
 With blindness linked, did on my vitals 
 
 fall; 
 And, after many interruptions short 
 
 Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could 
 
 crawl ; 
 Unsought for was the help that did my 
 
 life recall. 
 
 XLIV. 
 " Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain 
 Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory ; 
 I heard my neighbors in their beds com- 
 plain 
 Of many things which never troubled me — 
 Of feet still bustling round with busy 
 
 glee, 
 Of looks where common kindness had 
 
 no part, 
 Of service done with cold formality, 
 Fretting the fever round the languid heart. 
 And groans which, as they said, might 
 make a dead man start. 
 
 "These things just served to stir the 
 slumbering sense. 
 
 Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. 
 
 With strength did memory return; and, 
 thence 
 
 Dismissed, again on open day I gazed. 
 
 At houses, men, and common light, 
 amazed. 
 
 The lanes I sought, and, as the sun re- 
 tired, 
 
 Came where beneath the trees a fagot 
 blazed. 
 
 The travellers saw me weep, my fate in- 
 quired, 
 
 And gave me food — and rest, more wel- 
 come, more desired. 
 
 XLVI. 
 "Rough potters seemed they, trading 
 
 soberly 
 With panniered asses driven from door 
 
 to door; 
 But life of happier sort set' forth to me. 
 And other joys my fancy to allure — 
 The bagpipe dinning on the midnight 
 
 moor 
 In barn uplighted; and companions boon. 
 Well met from far with revelry secure 
 Among the forest glades, while jocund 
 
 June 
 Rolled fast along the sky his warm and 
 
 genial moon. 
 
48 
 
 GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 XLVII. 
 " But ill they suited me — those journeys 
 
 dark 
 O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft 
 
 to hatch ! 
 To charm the surly house-dog's faithful 
 
 bark, 
 Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch. 
 The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue 
 
 match. 
 The black disguise, the warning whistle 
 
 shrill. 
 And ear still busy on its nightly watch, 
 Were not for me, brought up in nothing 
 
 ill: 
 Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts 
 
 were brooding still. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 "What could I do, unaided andunblest? 
 
 My father ! gone was every friend of 
 thine : 
 
 And kindred of dead husband are at best 
 
 Small help: and, after marriage such as 
 mine. 
 
 With little kindness would to me incline. 
 
 Nor war I then for toil or service fit; 
 
 My deep-drawn sighs no effort could con- 
 fine; 
 
 In open air forgetful would I sit 
 
 Whole hours, with idle arms in moping 
 sorrow knit. 
 
 XLIX. 
 ' 'The roads I paced, I loitered through 
 
 the fields; 
 Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused. 
 Trusted my life to what chance bounty 
 
 yields. 
 Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 
 The ground I for my bed have often used : 
 But what afflicts my peace with keenest 
 
 ruth, 
 ts that I have my inner self abused. 
 Foregone the home delight of constant 
 
 truth. 
 And clear and open soul, so prized in 
 
 fearless youth. 
 
 L. 
 " Through tears the rising sun I oft have 
 
 viewed, 
 Through tears have seen him towards 
 
 that world descend 
 
 Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude 
 Three years a wanderer now my course I 
 
 bend — 
 Oh! tell me whither — for no earthly 
 
 friend 
 Have I." — She ceased, and weeping 
 
 turned away; 
 As if because her tale was at an end. 
 She wept; because she had no more to 
 
 say 
 Of that perpetual weight which on hei 
 
 spirit lay. 
 
 LI. 
 True sympathy the Sailor's looks ex- 
 pressed. 
 His looks — for pondering he was mute 
 
 the while. 
 Of social Order's care for wretchedness, 
 Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, 
 Joy's second spring and Hope's long- 
 treasured smile, 
 'T was not for him to speak — a man so 
 
 tried. 
 Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style 
 Proverbial wo'.ds of comfort he appHed, 
 And not in vain, while they went pacing 
 side by side. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Ere long, from heaps of turf, before 
 their sight. 
 
 Together smoking in the sun's slant 
 beam. 
 
 Rise various wreaths that into one unite 
 
 Which high and higher mounts with sil- 
 ver gleam : 
 
 Fair spectacle, — but instantly a scream 
 
 Thence bursting shrill did all remark pre- 
 vent; 
 
 They paused, and heard a hoarser voice 
 blaspheme. 
 
 And female cries. Their course they 
 thither bent. 
 
 And met a man who foamed with anger 
 vehement. 
 
 A woman stood with quivering lips and 
 
 pale. 
 And, pointing to a little child that lay 
 Stretched on the ground, began a piteous 
 
 tale; 
 How in a simple freak of thoughtless play 
 
GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 49 
 
 He had provoked his father, who straight- 
 way, 
 
 A.S if each blow were deadlier than the last, 
 
 Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with 
 dismay 
 
 The Soldier's Widow heard and stood 
 aghast; 
 
 And stern looks on the man her gray- 
 haired comrade cast. 
 
 His voice with indignation rising high 
 
 Such further deed in manhood's name 
 forbade; 
 
 The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 
 
 With bitter insult and revilings sad; 
 
 Asked him in scorn what business there 
 he had; 
 
 What kind of plunder he was hunting 
 now; 
 
 The gallows would one day of him be 
 glad; — 
 
 Though inward anguish damped the 
 Sailor's brow. 
 
 Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poi- 
 gnant would allow. 
 
 LV. 
 Softly he stroked the child, who lay out- 
 stretched 
 With face to earth; and, as the boy 
 
 turned round 
 His battered head, a groan the Sailor 
 
 fetched 
 As if he saw — there and upon that 
 
 ground — 
 Strange repetition of the deadly wound 
 He had himself inflicted. Through his 
 
 brain 
 At once the griding iron passage found; 
 Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed 
 
 amain. 
 Nor could his sunken eyes the starting 
 
 tear restrain. 
 
 Within himself he said — What hearts 
 
 have we ! 
 The blessing this a father gives his child ! 
 Yet happy thou, poor boy ! compared 
 
 with me, 
 Suffering not doing ill — fate far more 
 
 mild. 
 
 The stranger's looks and tears of wrath 
 
 beguiled 
 The father, and relenting thoughts awoke ; 
 He kissed his son — so all was reconciled. 
 Then, with a voice which inward trouble 
 
 broke 
 Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them 
 
 bespoke. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 " Bad is the world, and hard is the 
 world's law 
 
 Even for the man who wears the warm- 
 est fleece; 
 
 Much need have ye that time more 
 closely draw 
 
 The bond of nature, all unkindness cease. 
 
 And that among so few there still be peace : 
 
 Else can ye hope but with such numerous 
 foes 
 
 Your pains shall ever with your years 
 increase? " — 
 
 While from his heart the appropriate les- 
 son flows, 
 
 A correspondent calm stole gently o'er 
 his woes. 
 
 Forthwith the pair passed on; and dowit 
 
 they look 
 Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 
 Where wreaths of vapor tracked a wind- 
 
 iHgTjrook, 
 That babbled on through groves and 
 
 meadows green; 
 A low-roofed house peeped out the trees 
 
 between; 
 The dripping groves resound with che.er- 
 
 ful lays. 
 And melancholy lowings intervene 
 Of scattered herds, that in the meadow 
 
 graze, 
 Some amid lingering shade, some touched 
 
 by the sun's rays. 
 
 They saw and heard, and, winding with 
 
 the road, 
 Down a thick wood, they dropt into the 
 
 vale; 
 Comfort, by prouder mansions unbe- 
 
 stowed. 
 Their wearied frames, she hoped, would 
 
 soon regale. 
 
50 
 
 GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 Erelong they reached that cottage in the 
 dale: 
 
 It was a rustic inn; — the board was 
 spread, 
 
 The milk-maid followed with her brim- 
 ming pail, 
 
 And lustily the master carved the bread, 
 
 Kindly the housewife pressed, and they 
 in comfort fed. 
 
 Their breakfast done, the pair, though 
 
 loth, must part ; 
 Wanderers whose course no longer now 
 
 agrees. 
 She rose and bade farewell ! and, while 
 
 her heart 
 Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow 
 
 ease. 
 She left him there; for, clustering round 
 
 his knees. 
 With his oak-staff the cottage children 
 
 played. 
 And soon she reached a spot o'erhung 
 
 with trees 
 And banks of ragged earth; beneath the 
 
 shade 
 Across the pebbly road a little runnel 
 
 strayed. 
 
 LXI. 
 A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; 
 Checkering the canvas roof the sunbeams 
 
 shone. 
 She saw the carman bend to scoop the 
 
 flood 
 As, the wain fronted her, — wherein lay 
 
 one, 
 A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 
 The carman wet her lips as well behoved; 
 Bed under her lean body there was none. 
 Though even to die near one she most 
 
 had loved 
 She could not of herself those wasted 
 
 limbs have moved. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 -The Soldier's Widow learned with hon- 
 est pain 
 
 And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, 
 
 Why thus that worn-out wretch must 
 there sustain 
 
 The jolting road and morning air severe. 
 
 The wain pursued its way; and following 
 
 near 
 In pure compassion she her steps retraced 
 Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is 
 
 here, ' ' 
 She cried aloud; and forth ran out in 
 
 haste 
 The friends whom she had left but a few 
 
 minutes past. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 While to the door with eager speed they 
 ran. 
 
 From her bare straw the Woman half up- 
 raised 
 
 Her bony visage — gaunt and deadly 
 wan; 
 
 No pity asking, on the group she gazed 
 
 With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; 
 
 Then sank upon her straw with feeble 
 moan. 
 
 Fervently cried the housewife — " God 
 be praised, 
 
 I have a house that I can call my own; 
 
 Nor shall she perish there, untended and 
 alone ! " 
 
 LXIV. 
 So in they bear her to the chimney seat, 
 And busily, though yet with fear, untie 
 Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 
 And chafe her temples, careful hands 
 
 apply. 
 Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh 
 She strove, and not in vain, her head to 
 
 rear ; 
 Then said — "I thank you all ; if I must 
 
 die. 
 The God in heaven my prayers for you 
 
 will hear ; 
 Till now I did not think my end had 
 
 been so near. 
 
 " Barred every comfort labor could pro- 
 cure. 
 
 Suffering what no endurance could as- 
 suage, 
 
 I was compelled to seek my father'.'! 
 door, 
 
 Though loath to be a burthen on his age. 
 
GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 SI 
 
 But sickness stopped me in an early stage 
 Of my sad journey ; and within the wain 
 They placed me — there to end life's 
 
 pilgrimage, 
 Unless beneath your roof I may remain ; 
 For I shall never see my father's door 
 
 again. 
 
 LXVI. 
 " My life, Heaven knows, hath long been 
 
 buithensome ; 
 But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek 
 May my end be ! Soon will this voice 
 
 be dumb : 
 Should child of mine e'er wander hither, 
 
 speak 
 Of me, say that the worm is on my 
 
 cheek. — 
 Torn from our hut, that stood beside the 
 
 sea 
 Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome 
 
 creek, 
 My husband served in sad captivity 
 On shipboard, bound till peace or death 
 
 should set him free. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 " A sailor's wife 1 knew a widow's cares, 
 Yet two sweet little ones partook my 
 
 bed; 
 Hope cheered my dreams, and to my 
 
 daily prayers 
 Our heavenly Father granted each day's 
 
 bread ; 
 Till one was found by stroke of violence 
 
 dead, 
 Whose body near our cottage chanced to 
 
 lie; 
 A dire suspicion drove us from our shed ; 
 In vain to find a friendly face we try. 
 Nor could we live togetlier those poor 
 
 boys and I ; 
 
 Lxvm. 
 
 "For evil tongues made oath how on 
 that day 
 
 My husband lurked about the neighbor- 
 hood ; 
 
 Now he had fled, and whither none could 
 say, 
 
 And he had done the deed in the dark 
 wood — 
 
 Near his own home ! — but he was mild 
 and good ; 
 
 Never on earth was gentler creature seen; 
 
 He'd not have robbed the raven of its 
 food. 
 
 My husband's loving kindness stood be- 
 tween 
 
 Me and all worldly harms and wrongs 
 however keen." 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Alas ! the thing she told with laboring 
 breath 
 
 The Sailor knew too well. That wick- 
 edness 
 
 His hand had wrought; and when, in the 
 hour of death, 
 
 He saw his Wife's lips move his name to 
 bless 
 
 With her last words, unable to suppress 
 
 His anguish, with his heart he ceased to 
 strive; 
 
 And, weeping loud in this extreme dis- 
 tress. 
 
 He cried — "Do pity me! That thou 
 shouldst live 
 
 I neither ask nor wish — forgive me, but 
 forgive ! ' ' 
 
 To tell the change that Voice within her 
 
 wrought 
 Nature by sign or sound made no essay; 
 A sudden joy surprised expiring thought. 
 And every mortal pang dissolved away. 
 Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; 
 Yet still while over her the husband bent, 
 A look was in her face which seemed to 
 
 say, 
 " Be blest; by sight of thee from heaven 
 
 was sent 
 Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of 
 
 content." 
 
 LXXI. 
 She slept in peace, — his pulses throbbed 
 
 and stopped. 
 Breathless he gazed upon her face, — 
 
 then took 
 Her hand in his, and raised it, but both 
 
 dropped. 
 When on his own he cast a rueful look. 
 
52 
 
 GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 His ears were never silent; sleep forsook 
 His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as 
 
 lead; 
 All night from time to time under him 
 
 shook 
 The floor as he lay shuddering on his 
 
 bed; 
 And oft he groaned aloud, " O God, that 
 
 I were dead ! " 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot, 
 And, when he rose, he thanked her pious 
 
 care 
 Through which his Wife, to that kind 
 
 shelter brought. 
 Died in his arms; and with thost; thanks 
 
 a prayer 
 He breathed for her, and for that merci- 
 ful pair. 
 The corse interred, not one hour he re- 
 mained 
 Beneath their roof, but to the open air 
 A burthen, now with fortitude sustained. 
 He bore within a breast where dreadful 
 quiet reigned. 
 
 Lxxni. 
 Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared 
 For act and suffering, to the city straight 
 He journeyed, and forthwith his crime 
 
 declared : 
 "And from your doom," he added, 
 
 " now I wait. 
 Nor let it linger long, the murderer's 
 
 fate." 
 Not ineffectual was that piteous claim : 
 " O welcome sentence which will end 
 
 though late," 
 He said, " the pangs that to my con- 
 science came 
 Out of that deed. My trust. Saviour I is 
 in thy name ! " 
 
 LXXIV. 
 His fate was pitied. Him in iron case 
 (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) 
 They hung not: — no one on his form or 
 
 face 
 Could gaze, as on a show by idlers 
 
 sought; 
 
 No kindred sufferer, to his death-place 
 brought 
 
 By lawless curiosity or chance, 
 
 When into storm the evening sky is 
 wrought, 
 
 Upon his swinging corse an eye can 
 glance, 
 
 And drop, as he once dropped, in miser- 
 able trance. 
 I793-94- 1842- 
 
 LINES 
 
 Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands 
 near the lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part 
 of the shore, conimauding a beautiful prospect. 
 
 Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. 
 The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Common 
 on which it stood, that ran parallel to the lake, 
 and lay open to it, has long been enclosed ; so 
 that the road has lost much of its attraction. 
 This spot was my favorite walk in the evenings 
 during the latter part of my school-time. The in- 
 dividual whose habits and character are here given, 
 was a gentleman of the neighborhood, a man of 
 talent and learning, who had I "'.en educated at one 
 of our Universities, and returned to pass his time 
 in seclusion on his own estate. He died a bachelor 
 in middle age. Induced by the beauty of the 
 prospect, he built a small summer-house on the 
 rocks above the peninsula on which the ferry-house 
 stands. This property afterwards passed into the 
 hands of the late INIr. Curwen. The site was long 
 ago pointed out by Mr. West in his *'Guide,'*asthe 
 pride of the lakes, and now goes by the name of 
 " The Station. " So much used I to be delighted 
 with the view from it, while a little boy, that some 
 years before the first pleasure-house was built, I 
 led thither from Hawkshead a youngster about 
 my own age, an Irish boy, who was a servant to 
 an itinerant conjurer. My motive was to witness 
 the pleasure I expected the boy would receive 
 from the prospect of the islands below and the 
 intermingling water. I was not disappointed; 
 and I hope the fact, insignificant as it may appear 
 to some, may be thought worthy of note by othero 
 who may cast their eye over these notes. 
 
 Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew- 
 tree stands 
 
 Far from all human dwelling : what if here 
 
 No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant 
 herb? 
 
 What if the bee love not these barren 
 boughs? 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 S3 
 
 Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the cui'ling 
 
 waves, 
 That break against the shore, shall lull thy 
 
 mind 
 By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 
 
 Who he was 
 
 That piled these stones and with the mossy 
 
 sod 
 First covered, and here taught this aged 
 
 Tree 
 With its dark arms to form a circling 
 
 bower, 
 I well remember. — He was one who 
 
 owned 
 No common soul. In youth by science 
 
 nursed, 
 And led by nature into a wild scene 
 Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
 A favored Being, knowing no desire 
 Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the 
 
 taint 
 Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and 
 
 hate, 
 And scorn, — against all enemies pre- 
 pared. 
 All but neglect. The world, for so it 
 
 thought, 
 Owed him no service; wherefore he at 
 
 once 
 With indignation turned himself away. 
 And with the food of pride sustained his 
 
 soul 
 In sohtude. — Stranger! these gloomy 
 
 boughs 
 Had charms for him; and here he loved 
 
 to sit. 
 His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
 The stone-chat, or the glancing sand- 
 piper : 
 And on these barren rocks, with fern and 
 
 heath. 
 And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er. 
 Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 
 A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 
 An emblem of his own unfruitful life : 
 And, lifting up his head, he then would 
 
 gaze 
 On the more distant scene, — how lovely 
 
 't is 
 Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it 
 
 became 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sus- 
 tain 
 
 The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, 
 
 that time. 
 When nature had subdued him to herself, 
 Would he forget those Beings to whose 
 
 minds. 
 Warm from the labors of benevolence. 
 The world, and human life, appeared a 
 
 scene 
 Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh. 
 Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 
 What he must never feel : and so, lost 
 
 Man ! 
 On visionary views would fancy feed, 
 Till his eye streamed with tears. In this 
 
 deep vale 
 He died, — this seat his only monument. 
 If Thou be one whose heart the holy 
 
 forms 
 Of young imagination have kept pure. 
 Stranger! henceforth be warned; and 
 
 know that pride, 
 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 
 Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt 
 For any living thing, hath faculties 
 Which he has never used; that thought 
 
 with him 
 Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
 Is ever on himself doth look on one. 
 The least of Nature's works, one who 
 
 might move 
 The wise man to that scorn which wis- 
 dom holds 
 Unlawful, ever. O be wiser. Thou ! 
 Instructed that true knowledge leads to 
 
 love; 
 True dignity abides with him alone 
 Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 
 Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 
 In lowliness of heart. 
 
 1795- 
 
 1798. 
 
 THE BORDERERS.i 
 
 Of this dramatic work I have little to say in 
 addition to the short note which will be found at 
 the end of the volume. I t was composed at 
 Racedown in Dorsetshire diiring lhe latter p art 
 o'f"the year 1795, and in the course of the tollow- 
 ing year7'~'HTdSt been the work of a later period 
 of lifeVit would have been different in some re- 
 spects from what it is now. The plot would have 
 been something more complex, and a greater 
 1 See Note. 
 
54 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 variety of characters introduced to relieve the 
 mind from the pressure of incidents so mournful. 
 The manners also would have been more attended 
 to. My care was almost exclusively given to the 
 passions and the characters, and the position in 
 which the persons in the Drama stood relatively 
 to each other, that the reader (for I had then no 
 thought of the Stage) might be moved, and to a 
 degree instructed, by lights penetrating somewhat 
 into the depths of our nature. In this endeavor, 
 I cannot think, upon a very late review, that I 
 have failed. As to the scene and period of action, 
 little more was required for my purpose than the 
 absence of established law and government; so 
 that the agents might be at liberty to act on their 
 own impulses. Nevertheless, I do remember 
 that, having a wish to color the manners in some 
 degree from local history more than my knowl- 
 edge enabled me to do, I read Redpath's " His- 
 tory of the Borders," but found there nothing to 
 my purpose. I once^made an observation to Sir 
 Walter Scott, in which he concurred, that it was 
 difficult to conceive how so dull a book could be 
 written on such a subject. Much about the same 
 time, but a little after, Coleridge was employed 
 in writing his tragedy of *' Remorse ; " and it 
 happened that soon after, through one of the Mr. 
 Pooles, Mr. Knight the actor heard that we had 
 been engaged in writing Plays, and upon his sug- 
 gestion mine was curtailed, and I believe Cole- 
 ridge's also was offered to Mr. Harris, manager 
 of Covent Garden. For myself, I had no hope 
 nor even a wish (though a successful play would, 
 in the then state of my finances, have been a most 
 welcome piece of good fortune) that he should 
 accept my performance ; so that I incurred no 
 disappointment when the piece was judiciously 
 returned as not calculated for the Stage. In this 
 judgment I entirely concurred, and had it been 
 otherwise, it was so natural for me to shrink from 
 public notice, that any hope I might have had of 
 success would not have reconciled me altogether 
 to such an exhibition. Mr. C.'s play was, as is 
 well known, brought forward several years after 
 through the kindness of Mr. Sheridan. \In con- 
 clusion I may observe that while 1 was composing 
 this Play I wrote a short essay illustrative of that 
 constitution and those tendencies of human nature 
 which make the apparently moiivciess actions of 
 bad men intelligible to careful observers. This 
 was partly done with reference to the character of 
 Oswald, and his persevering endeavor to lead the 
 man he disliked into so heinous a crime ; but still 
 more to preserve in my distinct I'emembrance 
 what I had observed of transition in character, 
 and the reflections I had been led to make during 
 the time I was a witness of the changes through 
 which the French Revolution passed. "X 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Marmaduke. "1 
 
 Oswald, 
 
 Wallace. J'Of the Band of Borderers. 
 
 Lacy. 
 
 Lennox. J 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 Wilfred, Servant to Marmaduke, 
 
 Host. 
 
 Forester. 
 
 Eldred, a Peasant. 
 
 Peasant, Pilgrims, etc. 
 
 Idonea. 
 
 Female Beggar. 
 
 Eleanor, Wife to Eldred. 
 Scene. — Borders of England and Scotland. 
 
 Time. — The Reign of Henry III. 
 Readers already acquainted with my Poems 
 will recognize, in the following composition, some 
 eight or ten lines which I have not scrupled to 
 retain in the places where they originally stood. 
 It is proper, however, to add, that they would not 
 have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the 
 time when I might be induced to publish this 
 Tragedy. 
 
 February 28, 1842. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene. — Road in a Wood. 
 Wallace and 'Lacy. 
 Lacy. The troop will be impatient; let 
 
 us hie 
 Back to our post, and strip the Scottish 
 
 Foray 
 Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the 
 
 Border. 
 — Pity that our young Chief will have no 
 
 part 
 In this good service. 
 
 IVal. Rather let us grieve 
 
 That, in the undertaking which has caused 
 His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his 
 
 aim, 
 Companionship with One of crooked ways, 
 From whose perverted soul can come no 
 
 good 
 To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. 
 Lacy. True; and, remembering how 
 
 the Band have proved 
 That Oswald finds small favor in our 
 
 sight, 
 Well may we wonder he has gained such 
 
 power 
 Over our much-loved Captaiu. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 55 
 
 T^al. I have heard 
 
 Of some dark deed to which in early life 
 His passion drove him — then a Voyager 
 Upon the midland Sea. You knew his 
 
 bearing 
 In Palestine ? 
 
 Lacy. Where he despised alike 
 
 Mahommedan and Christian. But 
 
 enough; 
 Let us begone — the Band may else be 
 foiled . [ Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Marmaduke and Wilfred. 
 Wil. Be cautious, my dear Master. 
 Mar. I perceive 
 
 That fear is like a cloak which old men 
 
 huddle 
 About their love, as if to keep it warm. 
 Wil. Nay, but I grieve that we should 
 part. This Stranger, 
 For such he is — 
 
 Alar. Your busy fancies, Wilfred, 
 
 Might tempt me to a smile; but what of 
 him? 
 Wil. You know that you have saved 
 
 his life. 
 Mar. I know it. 
 
 Wil. And that he hates you ! — Pardon 
 me, perhaps 
 That word was hasty. 
 Mar. Fy ! no more of it. 
 
 Wil. Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy 
 burden 
 To a proud Soul. — Nobody loves this 
 
 Oswald — 
 Yourself, you do not love him. 
 
 Mar. I do more, 
 
 I honor him. Strong feelings to his heart 
 Are natural; and from no one can be 
 
 learnt 
 More of man's thoughts and ways than 
 
 his experience 
 Has given him power to teach : and then 
 
 for courage 
 And enterprise — what perils hath he 
 
 shunned? 
 What obstacles hath he failed to over- 
 come? 
 Answer these questions, from our common 
 
 knowledge. 
 And be at rest. 
 
 Wil. Oh, Sir ! 
 
 Mar. Peace, my good Wilfred; 
 
 Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band 
 
 I shall be with them in two days, at far- 
 thest. 
 Wil. May He whose eye is over ali 
 protect you ! \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Oswald (« bunch of plants in his 
 hand). 
 Osw. This wood is rich in plants and 
 
 curious simples. 
 Mar. (^looking at them'). The wild 
 rose, and the poppy, and the night- 
 shade : 
 Which is your favorite, Oswald ? 
 
 Osiu. That which, while it is 
 
 Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal — 
 
 [ Looking forward. 
 
 Not yet in sight! — We'll saunter here 
 
 awhile ; 
 
 They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. 
 
 Mar. (a letter in his hand). It is no 
 
 common thing when one like you 
 
 Reforms these delicate services, and 
 
 therefore 
 I feel myself much bounden to you, 
 
 Oswald; 
 'Tis a strange letter this ! — You saw her 
 write it? 
 Osw. And saw the tears with which 
 
 she blotted it. 
 Mar. And nothing less would satisfy 
 
 him? 
 Osw. No less; 
 
 For that another in his Child's affection 
 Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, 
 He seemed to quarrel with the very 
 
 thought. 
 Besides, I know not what strange prejudice 
 Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours. 
 Which you've collected for the noblest 
 
 ends. 
 Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed 
 To guard the Innocent — he calls us 
 
 " Outlaws "; 
 And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts 
 This garb was taken up that indolence 
 Might want no cover, and rapacity 
 Be better fed. 
 
 Mar. Ne'er may I own the heart 
 
 That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is. 
 Osw. Thou know'st me for a Man not 
 easily moved, 
 Yet was I grievously provoked to think 
 Of what I witnessed. 
 
56 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Mar. This day will suffice 
 
 To end her wrongs. 
 
 Osw. But if the blind Man's tale 
 
 Should yet be true ? 
 
 Mar. Would it were possible ! 
 
 Did not the soldier tell thee that himself, 
 And others who survived the wreck, be- 
 held 
 The Baron Herbert perish in the waves 
 Upon the coast of Cyprus? 
 
 Osw. Yes, even so. 
 
 And I had heard the lilie before : in sooth 
 The tale of this his quondam Barony 
 Is cunningly devised; and, on the back 
 Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail 
 To make the proud and vain his tributar- 
 ies. 
 And stir the pulse of lazy charity. 
 The seignories of Herbert are in Devon; 
 We, neighbors of the Esk and Tweed: 
 
 'tis much 
 The Arch-Impostor — 
 
 Mar. Treat him gently, Oswald; 
 
 Though I have never seen his face, me- 
 
 thinks. 
 There cannot come a day when I shall 
 
 cease 
 To love him. I remember, when a Boy 
 Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath 
 
 the Elm 
 That casts its shade over our village school, 
 'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea 
 Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, 
 Till all the band of playmates wept to- 
 gether; 
 And that was the beginning of my love. 
 And, through all converse of our later 
 
 years. 
 An image of this old Man still was present. 
 When I had been most happy. Pardon 
 
 me 
 If this be idly spoken. 
 
 Omi. See, they come. 
 
 Two Travellers ! 
 
 Mar. {J>oinis). The woman is Idonea. 
 Osw. And leading Herbert. 
 Mar. We must let them pass — 
 
 This thicket will conceal us. 
 
 [ They step aside. 
 
 Enter iDONEA, leading Herbert blind. 
 
 /don. Dear Father, you sigh deeply; 
 
 ever since 
 
 We left the willow shade by the brookside. 
 
 Your natural breathing has been troubled. 
 Her. Nay, 
 
 You are too fearful; yet must I confess. 
 Our march of yesterday had better suited 
 A firmer step than mine. 
 
 Idon. That dismal Moor^ 
 
 In spite of all the larks that cheered our 
 
 path, 
 I never can forgive it : but how steadily 
 You paced along, when the bewildering 
 
 moonlight 
 Mocked me with many a strange fantastic 
 
 shape ! — 
 I thought the Convent never would ap- 
 pear; 
 It seemed to move away from us : and yet. 
 That you are thus the fault is mine; for 
 
 the air 
 Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the 
 
 grass, 
 And midway on the waste ere night had 
 
 fallen 
 I spied a Covert walled and roofed with 
 
 sods — 
 A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy, 
 Who might have found a nothing-doing 
 
 hour 
 Heavier than work, raised it: within that 
 
 hut 
 We might have made a kindly bed of 
 
 heath. 
 And thankfully there rested side by side 
 Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited 
 
 strength. 
 Have hailed the morning sun. But cheer- 
 ily, Father, — 
 That staff of yours, I cjuld almost have 
 
 heart 
 To fling't away from you : you make no use 
 Of me, or of my strength; — come, let me 
 
 feel 
 That you do press upon me. There — 
 
 indeed 
 You are quite exhausted. Let us rest 
 
 awhile 
 On this green bank. [He sits down. 
 
 Her. (^after some time). Idonea, you 
 
 are silent. 
 And I divine the cause. 
 
 Idon. Do not reproach me : 
 
 I pondered patiently your wish and will 
 When I gave way to your request; and 
 
 now. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 57 
 
 When I behold the ruins of that face, 
 Those eyeballs dark — dark beyond hope 
 
 of light, 
 And think that they were blasted for my 
 
 sake, 
 The name of Marmaduke is blown away : 
 Father, I would not change that sacred 
 
 feeling 
 For all this world can give. 
 
 Her. Nay, be composed : 
 
 Few minutes gone a faintness overspread 
 My frame, and I bethought me of two 
 
 things 
 I ne'er had heart to separate — my grave, 
 And thee, my Child ! 
 
 Idon. Believe me, honored Sire ! 
 
 'T is weariness that breeds these gloomy 
 
 fancies. 
 And you mistake the cause : you hear the 
 
 woods 
 Resound with music, could you seethe sun. 
 And look upon the pleasant face of 
 
 Nature — 
 Her. I comprehend thee — I should be 
 
 as cheerful 
 Ks if we two were twins; two songsters 
 
 bred 
 In the same nest, my springtime one with 
 
 thine. 
 My fancies, fancies if they be, are such 
 As come, dear Child ! from a far deeper 
 
 source 
 Than bodily weariness. While here we sit 
 I feel my strength returning. — The be- 
 quest 
 Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive 
 We have thus far adventured, will suffice 
 To save thee from the extreme of penury; 
 But when thy Father must lie down and 
 
 die. 
 How wilt thou stand alone? 
 
 Idoii. Is he not strong? 
 
 Is he not valiant? 
 
 Her. Am I then so soon 
 
 Forgotten? have my warnings passed so 
 
 quickly 
 Out of thy mind? My dear, my only. 
 
 Child; 
 Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken 
 
 reed — 
 This Marmaduke — 
 
 Idon. O could you hear his voice : 
 
 Alas ! you do not know him. He is one 
 
 (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged 
 
 him with you) 
 All gentleness and love. His face be- 
 speaks 
 A deep and simple meekness : and that 
 
 Soul, 
 Which with the motion of a virtuous act 
 Flashes a look of terror upon guilt. 
 Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean. 
 By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. 
 Her. Unhappy Woman ! 
 Idon. Nay, it was my duty 
 
 Thus much to speak; but think not I for- 
 get- 
 Dear Father ! how could I forget and 
 
 live — 
 You and the story of that doleful night 
 When, Antioch blazing to her topmost 
 
 towers, 
 You rushed into the murderous flames,, 
 
 returned 
 Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have 
 
 told me. 
 Clasping your infant Daughter to your 
 
 heart. 
 Her. Thy Mother too ! — scarce had I 
 
 gained the door, 
 I caught her voice; she threw herself upon 
 
 me, 
 I felt thy infant brother in her arms; 
 She saw my blasted face — a tide of sol- 
 diers 
 That instant rushed between us, and I 
 
 heard 
 Her last death-shriek, distinct among a 
 
 thousand. 
 Idon. Nay, Father, stop not; let me 
 
 hear it all. 
 Her. Dear Daughter ! precious relic of 
 
 that time — 
 For my old age it doth remain with thee 
 To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast 
 
 been told. 
 That when, on our return from Palestine, 
 I found howmy domains hadbeen usurped, 
 I took thee in my arms, and we began 
 Our wanderings together. Providence 
 At length conducted us to Rossland, — 
 
 there. 
 Our melancholy story moved a Stranger 
 To take thee to her home, and for myself, 
 Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuth- 
 
 bert's 
 
58 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Supplied my helplessness with food and 
 
 raiment, 
 And, as thou know'st, gave me that hum- 
 ble Cot 
 Where now we dwell. — For many years 
 
 I bore 
 Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmi- 
 ties 
 Exacted thy return, and our reunion. 
 I did not think that, during that long 
 
 absence. 
 My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, 
 Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, 
 Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, 
 Doth prey alike on two distracted Coun- 
 tries, 
 Traitor to both. 
 
 Idon. Oh, could you hear his voice ! 
 I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me. 
 But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. 
 ILnier a Peasant. 
 Pea. Good morrow. Strangers ! If you 
 want a Guide, 
 Let me have leave to serve you ! 
 
 Idon. My Companion 
 
 Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or 
 
 Hostel 
 Would be most welcome. 
 
 Pea. Yon white Hawthorn gained, 
 You will look down into a dell, and there 
 Will see an ash from which a sign-board 
 
 hangs; 
 The house is hidden by the shade. Old 
 
 Man, 
 You seem worn out with travel — shall I 
 support you? 
 Her. I thank you; but, a resting-place 
 'so near, 
 'T were wrong to trouble you. 
 Pea. God speed you both. 
 
 \_Exit Peasant. 
 Her. Idonea, we must part. Be not 
 alarmed — 
 'T is but for a few days — a thought has 
 struck me. 
 Idon. That I should leave you at this 
 house, and thence 
 Proceedalone. Itshallbeso; forstrength 
 Would fail you ere our journey's end be 
 reached. 
 \^Exii Herbert supported by Idonea. 
 Re-enter Marmaduke and Oswald. 
 
 Mar. This instant we will stop him — 
 Osw. Be not hasty. 
 
 For, sometimes, in despite of my convic- 
 tion, 
 He tempted me to think the Story true; 
 'T is plain he loves the Maid, and what 
 
 he said 
 That savored of aversion to thy name 
 Appeared the genuine color of his soul — 
 Anxiety lest mischief should befall her 
 After his death. 
 
 Mar, I have been much deceived. 
 
 Ona. But sure he loves the Maiden, 
 and never love 
 Could find delight to nurse itself so 
 
 strangely, 
 Thus to torment her with inventions ! — 
 
 death — 
 There must be truth in this. 
 
 Mar. Truth in his story ! 
 
 He must have felt it then, known what 
 
 it was, 
 And in such wise to rack her gentle heart 
 Had been a tenfold cruelty. 
 
 Osw. Strange pleasures 
 
 Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves ! 
 To see him thus provoke her tenderness 
 With tales of weakness and infirmity ! 
 I'd wager on his life for twenty years. 
 Mar. We will not waste an hour in 
 
 such a cause. 
 Osw. Why, this is noble ! shake her 
 
 off at once. i 
 
 Mar. Her virtues are his Instru- 
 ments. — A Man 
 Who has so practised on the world's cold 
 
 sense. 
 May well deceive his Child — what ! leave 
 
 her thus, 
 A prey to a deceiver ? — no — no — no — 
 'Tis but a word and then — 
 
 Os7u. Something is here 
 
 More than we see, or whence this strong 
 
 aversion ? 
 Marmaduke ! I suspect unworthy tales , 
 Have reached his ear — you have had 
 enemies. 
 Mar. Enemies! — of his own coinage. 
 Osw. That may be, 
 
 But wherefore slight protection such asyou 
 Have power to yield? perhaps he looks 
 
 elsewhere. — 
 I am perplexed. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 59 
 
 Mar. What hast thou heard or seen? 
 Osw. No — no — the thing stands clear 
 of mystery; 
 (As you have said) he coins himself the 
 
 slander 
 With which he taints her ear ; — for a 
 
 plain reason; 
 He dreads the presence of a virtuous 
 
 man 
 Like you; he knows your eye would 
 
 search his heart, 
 Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds 
 The punishment they merit . All is plain : 
 It cannot be — 
 
 Mar. What cannot be? 
 
 Osw. Yet that a Father 
 
 Should in his love admit no rivalship, 
 And torture thus the heart of his own 
 Child — 
 Mar. Nay, you abuse my friendship ! 
 Os2u. Heaven forbid ! — 
 
 There was a circumstance, trifling in- 
 deed — 
 It struck me at the time — yet I believe 
 I never should have thought of it again 
 But for the scene which we by chance 
 have witnessed. 
 Mar. What is your meaning? 
 Osw. Two days gone I saw. 
 
 Though at a distance and he was dis- 
 guised. 
 Hovering round Herbert's door, a man 
 
 whose figure 
 Resembled much that cold voluptuary. 
 The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and 
 
 he knows 
 Where he can stab you deepest. 
 
 Mar. Clifford never 
 
 Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage 
 
 door — 
 It could not be. 
 
 Osw. And yet I now remember. 
 
 That, when your praise was warm upon 
 
 my tongue, 
 And the blind Man was told how you had 
 
 rescued 
 A maiden from the ruffian violence 
 Of this same Clifford, he became impa- 
 tient 
 And would not hear me. 
 
 A/ar. No — if cannot be — 
 
 \ dare not trust myself with such a 
 thought — 
 
 Yet whence this strange aversion? You 
 
 are a man 
 Not used to rash conjectures — 
 
 Osiu. If you deem it 
 
 A thing worth further notice, we must act 
 With caution, sift the matter artfully. 
 [Exeunt Marmaduke (7«fl!' Oswald. 
 
 Scene. — The door of the Hostel. 
 Herbert, Idonea, and Host. 
 Her. (^seated). As I am dear to you, 
 remember, Child ! 
 This last request. 
 
 Idon. You know me, Sire; farewell ! 
 Her. And are you going then? 
 Come, come, Idonea. 
 We must not part, — I have measured 
 
 many a league 
 When these old limbs had need of rest, — 
 
 and now 
 I will not play the sluggard. 
 
 Idon. Nay, sit down. 
 
 [ Turning to Host. 
 
 Good Host, such tendance as you would 
 
 expect 
 From your own Children, if yourself 
 
 were sick, 
 Let this old Man find at your hands; 
 poor Leader, 
 
 [Looking at the dog. 
 We soon shall meet again. If thou ne- 
 glect 
 This charge of thine, then ill befall thee ! 
 
 — Look, 
 The little fool is loath to stay behind. 
 Sir Host! by all-the love you bear to 
 
 courtesy, 
 Take care of him, and feed the truant 
 well. 
 Host. Fear not, I will obey you; — 
 but One so young, 
 And One so fair, it goes against my heart 
 That you should travel unattended. 
 
 Lady ! — 
 I have a palfrey and a groom : the lad 
 Shall squire you, (would it not be better. 
 
 Sir?) 
 And for less fee than I would let him run 
 For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth . 
 Idon. You know. Sir, I have been 
 too long your guard 
 Not to have learnt to laugh at little 
 fears. 
 
6o 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Why, if a wolf should leap from out a 
 
 thicket, 
 A look of mine would send him scouring 
 
 back, 
 Unless I differ from the thing I am 
 When you are by my side. 
 
 Her. Idonea, wolves 
 
 y^e not the enemies that move my fears. 
 
 Idon. No more, I pray, of this. 
 
 Three days at farthest 
 
 Will bring me back — protect him, 
 
 Saints — farewell ! [-£j:z7 Idonea. 
 
 Host. 'Tis never drought with us — 
 
 St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims, 
 
 Thanks to them, are to us a stream of 
 
 comfort : 
 Pity the Maiden did not wait a while; 
 She could not, Sir, have failed of com- 
 pany. 
 Her. Now she is gone, I fain would 
 
 call her back. 
 Host {calling). Holla! 
 Her. - No, no, the business 
 
 must be done. — 
 What means this riotous noise? 
 
 Host. The villagers 
 
 Are flocking in — a wedding festival — 
 That's all — God save you, Sir. 
 Enter OSWALD. 
 OsTo. Ha I as I live, 
 
 The Baron Herbert. 
 
 Host. Mercy, the Baron Herbert ! 
 
 Osw. So far into your journey ! on my 
 hfe, 
 You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare 
 you ? 
 Her. Well as the wreck I am per- 
 mits. And you. Sir? 
 Os'iv. I do not see Idonea. 
 Her. Dutiful Girl, 
 
 She is gone before, to spare my weari- 
 ness. 
 But what has brought you hither? 
 
 Os'M. A slight affair. 
 
 That will be soon despatched. 
 
 Her. Did Marmaduke 
 
 Receive that letter? 
 
 Osw. Be at peace. — The tie 
 
 Is broken, you will hear no more of him. 
 
 Her. This is true comfort, thanks a 
 
 thousand times ! — 
 
 That noise ! — would I had gone with 
 
 her as far 
 
 As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have 
 
 heard 
 That, in his milder moods, he has ex- 
 pressed 
 Compassion for me. His influence is 
 
 great 
 With Henry, our good King ; — the Baron 
 
 might 
 Have heard my suit, and urged my plea 
 
 at Court. 
 No matter — he's a dangerous Man. — 
 
 That noise ! — 
 'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest. 
 Idonea would have fears for me, — the 
 
 Convent 
 Will give me quiet lodging. You have a 
 
 boy, good Host, 
 And he must lead me back. 
 
 Osw. You are most lucky; 
 
 I have been waiting in the wood hard by 
 For a companion — here he comes; our 
 
 journey 
 
 Enter Marmaduke. 
 Lies on your way; accept us as your 
 
 Guides. 
 Her. Alas ! I creep so slowly. 
 Osw. . Never fear; 
 
 We'll not complain of that. 
 
 Her. ' My limbs are stiff 
 
 And need repose. Could you but wait 
 
 an hour? 
 Osw. Most willingly ! — Come, let me 
 
 lead you in, 
 And, while you take your rest, think not 
 
 of us; 
 We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my 
 
 arm. 
 IConi/uets HERBERT into the house. 
 Exit Marmaduke. 
 Enter Villagers. 
 Osw. {to himself coming out of the Hostel) . 
 
 I have prepared a most apt instru- 
 ment — 
 The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering 
 
 somewhere 
 About this ground; she hath a tongue 
 
 well skilled. 
 By mingling natural matter of her own 
 With all the daring fictions I have taught 
 
 her. 
 To win belief, such as my plot requires. 
 \Exit Oswald. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 6i 
 
 Enter mori: Villagers, a Musician among 
 
 tlu-iii. 
 
 Host (^fo them). Into the court, my 
 
 Friend, and perch yourself 
 
 Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty maids, 
 
 Garlands and flowers, and cakes and 
 
 merry thoughts, 
 Are here, to send the sun into the west 
 More speedily than you belike would wish. 
 
 Scene changes to the Wood adjoining the 
 Hostel. — Marmaduke a;?a' Oswald 
 
 entering. 
 Mar. I would fain hope that we de- 
 ceive ourselves; 
 When first I saw him sitting there, alone. 
 It struck upon my heart I know not how. 
 Osw. To-day will clear up all. — You 
 
 marked a Cottage, 
 That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a 
 
 rock 
 By the brookside : it is the abode of One, 
 A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clif- 
 ford, 
 Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas ! 
 What she had seen and suffered turned 
 
 her brain. 
 Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone. 
 Nor moves her hands to any needful work : 
 She eats her food which every day the 
 
 peasants 
 Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has 
 
 lived 
 Ten years; and no one ever heard her 
 
 voice; 
 But every night at the first stroke of twelve 
 She quits her house, and, in the neigli- 
 
 boring Churchyard 
 Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm. 
 She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and 
 
 one — 
 She paces round and round an Infant's 
 
 grave, 
 And in the churchyard sod her feet have 
 
 worn 
 A hollow ring ; they say it is knee-deep — 
 Ah ! what is here? 
 
 \_A female Beggar rises 2ip^ rtt-bbing 
 
 her eyes as if in sleep — a Child 
 
 in her arms. 
 Beg. Oh! Gentlemen, I thank you; 
 I've had the saddest dream that ever 
 
 troubled 
 
 The heart of living creature. — My poor 
 
 Babe 
 Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread 
 When I had none to give him ; whereupon^ 
 I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, 
 Which pleased him so, that he was hushed 
 
 at once: 
 When, into one of those same spotted bells 
 A bee came darting, which the Child with 
 
 joy 
 Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, 
 And suddenly grew black, as he would 
 
 die. 
 Mar. We have no time for this, my 
 
 babbling Gossip; 
 Here's what will comfort yon. 
 
 [ Gives her money. 
 
 Beg. The Saints reward you 
 
 For this good deed! — Well, Sirs, this 
 
 passed away; 
 And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, 
 Trotting alone along the beaten road. 
 Came to my child as by my side he slept. 
 And, fondling, licked his face, then on a 
 
 sudden 
 Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his 
 
 head: 
 But here he is, {^kissing the Child'\ it must 
 
 have been a dream. 
 Osiv. When next inclined to sleep, take 
 
 my advice, 
 And put your head, good Woman, under 
 
 cover. 
 Beg. Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, 
 
 if you knew 
 What life is this of ours, how sleep will 
 
 master 
 The weary-worn. — You gentlefolk have 
 
 got 
 Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather 
 
 be 
 A stone than what I am. — But two nights 
 
 gone. 
 The darkness overtook me — wind and 
 
 rain 
 Beat hard upon my head — and yet I saw 
 A glow-worm, through the covert of the 
 
 furze. 
 Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky : 
 At which I half a.ccused the God in 
 
 Heaven, — 
 You must forgive me. 
 
 Oiui. Ay, and if you think 
 
62 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 The Fairies are to blame, and you should 
 
 chide 
 Your favorite saint — no matter — this 
 
 good day 
 Has made amends. 
 
 Beg. Thanks to you both; but, O sir ! 
 How would you like to travel on whole 
 
 hours 
 As I have done, my eyes upon the ground. 
 Expecting still, I knew not how, to find 
 A piece of money glittering through the 
 
 dust. 
 IMar. This woman is a prater. Pray, 
 
 good Lady ! 
 Do you tell fortunes? 
 
 Beg. Oh Sir, you are like the rest. 
 
 This Little-one — it cuts me to the heart — 
 Well ! they might turn a beggar from 
 
 their doors, 
 But there are Mothers who can see the 
 
 Babe 
 Here at my breast, and ask me where I 
 
 bought it : 
 This they can do, and look upon my 
 
 face — 
 But you. Sir, should be kinder. 
 
 Mar. Come hither. Fathers, 
 
 And learn what nature is from this poor 
 
 Wretch ! 
 Beg. Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels 
 
 for us. 
 Why now — but yesterday I overtook 
 A blind old Graybeard and accosted him, 
 I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the 
 
 Mass 
 He should have used me better ! — Char- 
 ity ! 
 If you can melt a rock, he is your man; 
 But I'll be even with him — here again 
 Have I been waiting for him. 
 
 Osw. Well, but softly. 
 
 Who is it that hath wronged you? 
 
 Beg, Mark you me; 
 
 I'll point him out; — a Maiden is his 
 
 guide, 
 Lovely as Spring's first rose; a little dog, 
 Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before 
 With look as sad as he were dumb; the 
 
 cur, 
 I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth 
 He does his Master credit. 
 
 Mar. As I live, 
 
 'T is Herbert and no other ! 
 
 Beg. 'T is a feast to see him. 
 
 Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders 
 
 bent. 
 And long beard white with age — yet 
 
 evermore, 
 As if he were the only Saint on earth. 
 He turns his face to heaven. 
 
 Osw. But why so violent 
 
 Against this venerable Man? 
 
 Beg. I'll tell you: 
 
 He has the very hardest heart on earth; 
 I had as lief turn to the Friar's school 
 And knock for entrance, in mid holiday. 
 Mar. But to your story. 
 Beg, I was saying. Sir — 
 
 Well ! he has often spurned me like a 
 
 toad. 
 But yesterday was worse than all ; — at last 
 I overtook him. Sirs, my Babe and I, 
 And begged a little aid for charity: 
 But he was snappish as a cottage cur. 
 Well then, says I — I'll out with it; at 
 
 which 
 I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt 
 As if my heart would burst; and so I left 
 him. 
 Osw, I think, good Woman, yoi» are 
 the very person 
 Whom, but some few days past, I saw 
 
 in Eskdale, 
 At Herbert's door. 
 
 Beg, Ay; and if truth were known 
 I have good business there. 
 
 Osw, I met you at the threshold. 
 
 And he seemed angry. 
 
 Beg, Angry ! well he might; 
 
 And long as I can stir I'll dog him. — 
 
 Yesterday, 
 To serve me so, and knowing that he owes 
 The best of all he has to me and mine. 
 But 'tis all over now. — That good old 
 
 Lady 
 Has left a power of riches; and, I say it. 
 If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave 
 Shall give me half. 
 
 Osw. What's this? — I fear, good 
 
 Woman, 
 You have been insolent. 
 
 Beg. And there's the Baron, 
 
 I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress. 
 Osw. How say you? in disguise? — 
 Mar, But what's your business 
 
 With Herbert or his Daughter? 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 63 
 
 Beg. Daughter ! truly — 
 
 But how's the day? — I fear, my Uttle 
 
 Boy, 
 
 We've overslept ourselves. — Sirs, have 
 
 you seen him? [ Offers to go. 
 
 Mar. I must have more of this; — 
 
 you shall not stir 
 
 An inch, till I am answered. Know you 
 
 aught 
 That doth concern this Herbert? 
 
 Beg. You are provoked. 
 
 And will misuse me, Sir? 
 
 Mar. No trifling. Woman ! 
 
 Osw. You are safe as in a sanctuary; 
 Speak. 
 
 Mar. Speak ! 
 
 Beg. He is a most hard-hearted Man. 
 Mar. Your life is at my mercy. 
 Beg. Do not harm me, 
 
 And I will tell you all ! — You know not. 
 
 Sir, 
 What strong temptations press upon the 
 Poor. 
 Osw. Speak out. 
 Beg. Oh Sir, I've been a wicked 
 
 Woman. 
 Osw. Nay, but speak out ! 
 Beg. He flattered me, and said 
 
 What harvest it would bring us both; and 
 
 so, 
 I parted with the Child. 
 Mar. Parted with whom? 
 
 Beg. Idonea, as he calls her; but the 
 
 Girl is mine. 
 Mar. Yours, Woman ! are you Her- 
 bert's wife? 
 Beg. Wife, Sir! his wife — not I; my 
 husband. Sir, 
 Was of Kirkoswald — many a snowy 
 
 winter 
 We've weathered out together. My poor 
 
 Gilfred ! 
 He has been two years in his grave. 
 Mar. Enough. 
 
 Osw. We've solved the riddle — Mis- 
 creant ! 
 Mar. Do you. 
 
 Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and 
 
 wait 
 For my return; be sure you shall have 
 justice. 
 Osw. A lucky woman ! go, you have 
 done good service. [Asii^e. 
 
 Mar. [to himself). Eternal praises on 
 
 the power that saved her ! — 
 Osw. [gives her money'). Here's for 
 your httle boy — and when you 
 christen him 
 I'll be his Godfather. 
 
 Beg. Oh Sir, you are merry with me. 
 In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely 
 
 owns 
 A dog that does not know me. — These 
 
 good Folks, 
 For love of God, I must not pass their 
 
 doors; 
 But I'll be back with my best speed: for 
 
 you — 
 God bless and thank you both, my gentle 
 Masters. \^Exit Beggar. 
 
 Mar. {to himself). The cruel Viper ! — 
 Poor devoted Maid, 
 Now I do love thee. 
 
 Osw. I am thunderstruck. 
 
 Mar. Where is she — holla! 
 [ Calling to the Beggar, "who returns; 
 he looks at her steadfastly. 
 
 You are Idonea's mother? — 
 Nay, be not terrified — it does me good 
 To look upon you. 
 
 Osw. {interrupting'). In a. peasant's 
 dress 
 You saw, who was it? 
 
 Beg. Nay, I dare not speak; 
 
 He is a man, if it should come to his ears 
 I never shall be heard of more. 
 
 Osw. Lord Clifford? 
 
 Beg. What can I do? beheve me, gentle 
 
 Sirs, 
 
 I love her, though I dare not call her 
 
 daughter. 
 
 Osw. Lord Clifford — did you see him 
 
 talk with Herbert? 
 Beg. Yes, to my sorrow — under the 
 great oak 
 At Herbert's door — and when he stood 
 
 beside 
 The blind Man — at the silent Girl he 
 
 looked 
 With such a look — it makes me tremble. 
 
 Sir, 
 To think of it. 
 
 Osw. Enough ! you may depart. 
 
 Mar. [to himself). Father! — to God 
 himself we cannot give 
 A holier name; and, under such a mask, 
 
64 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, 
 To that abhorred den of brutish vice ! — 
 Oswald, the firm foundation of my life 
 Is going from under me; these strange 
 
 discoveries — 
 Looked at from every point of fear or hope. 
 Duty, or love — involve, I feel, my ruin. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene. — A Chamber in the Hostel — 
 
 Oswald alone, rising from a Table 
 
 on which he had been writing. 
 
 Osw. They chose him for their Chief ! 
 
 — what covert part 
 
 He, in the preference, modest Youth, 
 
 might take, 
 I neither know nor care. The insult bred 
 More of contempt than hatred; both are 
 
 flown; 
 That either e'er existed is my shame: 
 'T was a dull spark — a most unnatural 
 
 fire 
 That died the moment the air breathed 
 
 upon it. 
 — These fools of feeling are mere birds 
 
 of winter 
 That haunt some barren island of the 
 
 north, 
 Where, if a famishing man stretch forth 
 
 his hand, 
 They think it is to feed them. I have 
 
 left him 
 To solitary meditation; — now 
 For a few swelling phrases, and a flash 
 Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind. 
 And he is mine forever — here he comes. 
 Enter Marmaduke. 
 Mar. These ten years she has moved 
 her lips all day 
 And never speaks ! 
 
 Ostv. Who is it ? 
 
 Mar. I have seen her. 
 
 Osw. Oh ! the poor tenant of that 
 ragged homestead. 
 Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove 
 to madness. 
 Mar. I met a pe'asant near the spot; 
 he told me. 
 These ten years she had sate all day alone 
 Within those empty walls. 
 
 Osw. I too have seen her; 
 
 Chancing to pass this way some six 
 months gone, 
 
 At midnight, I betook me to the Church 
 
 yard: 
 The moon shone clear, the air was stilly 
 
 so still 
 The trees were silent as the graves be- 
 neath them. 
 Long did I watch, and saw her pacing 
 
 round 
 Upon the self-same spot, still round and 
 
 round. 
 Her lips forever moving. 
 
 Mar. At her door 
 
 Rooted I stood; for, looking at the 
 
 woman, 
 I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea. 
 Osw. But the pretended Father — 
 Mar. Earthly law 
 
 Measures not crimes like his. 
 
 Osw. We rank not, happily. 
 
 With those who take the spirit of theii 
 
 rule 
 'From that soft class of devotees who feel 
 Reverence for life so deeply, that they 
 
 spare 
 The verminous brood, and cherish what 
 
 they spare 
 While feeding on their bodies. Would 
 
 that Idonea 
 Were present, to the end that we might 
 
 hear 
 What she can urge in his defence; she 
 
 loves him. 
 Mar. Yes, loves him; 'tis a truth that 
 
 multiphes 
 His guilt a thousand-fold. 
 
 Osw. 'T is most perplexing : 
 
 What must be done? 
 
 Mar. We will conduct her hither; 
 These walls shall witness it — from first 
 
 to last 
 He shall reveal himself. 
 
 Osw. Happy are we. 
 
 Who live in these disputed tracts, that own 
 No law but what each man makes for 
 
 himself; 
 Here justice has indeed a field of triumph. 
 Mar. Let us be gone and bring her 
 
 hither; — here 
 The truth shall be laid open, his guilt 
 
 proved 
 Before her face. The rest be left to me. 
 Osw. You will be firm : but though we 
 
 well may trust 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 67 
 
 The issue to the justice of the cause, 
 Caution must not be flung aside; remem- 
 ber, 
 Yours is no common life. Self-stationed 
 
 here 
 Upon these savage confines, we have seen 
 
 you 
 Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy 
 
 seas 
 That oft have checked their fury at your 
 
 bidding. 
 'Mid the deep holds of Solway's mossy 
 
 waste. 
 Your single virtue has transformed a Band 
 Of fierce barbarians into Ministers 
 Of peace and order. Aged men with tears 
 Have blessed their steps, the fatherless 
 
 retire 
 For shelter to their banners. But it is. 
 As you must needs have deeply felt, it is 
 In darkness and in tempest that we seek 
 The majesty of Him who rules the world. 
 Benevolence, that has not heart to use 
 The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, 
 Becomes at last weak and contemptible. 
 Your generous qualities have won due 
 
 praise. 
 But vigorous Spirits look for something 
 
 more 
 Than Youth's spontaneous products; and 
 
 to-day 
 You will not disappoint them; and here- 
 after — 
 Mar. You are wasting words; hear me 
 then, once for all : 
 You are a Man — and therefore, if com- 
 passion, 
 Which to our kind is natural as life, 
 Be known unto you, you will love this 
 
 Woman, 
 Even as I do; but I should loathe the Hght, 
 If I could think one weak or partial 
 feeling — 
 Onv. You will forgive me — 
 Mar. If I ever knew 
 
 My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, 
 'Tis at this moment. — Oswald, I have 
 
 loved 
 To be the friend and father of the op- 
 pressed, 
 A comforter of sorrow; — there is some- 
 thing 
 Which looks like a transition in my soul. 
 
 ■Hion 
 
 And yet it is not — Let us le, ^f^^ ^„^^^,^ „y 
 Osw. Stoop for a moment, 
 
 °' justice; g lank, 
 
 And where's the triumph if tht v,is voice 
 Must fall in the execution of his 
 The deed is done — if you will . tg^^j 
 
 so — 
 Here where we stand — that tribe ot , 
 
 gar wretches 
 (You saw them gathering for the festiva 
 Rush in — the villains seize us — 
 Mar. Seize ! 
 
 Osw. Yes, they — 
 
 Men who are little given to sift and 
 
 weigh — 
 Would wreak on us the passion of the 
 
 moment. 
 Mar. The cloud will soon disperse — 
 
 farewell — but stay, 
 Thou wilt relate the story. 
 
 Osw. Am I neither 
 
 To bear a part in this Man's punishment. 
 Nor be its witness? 
 
 Mar. I had many hopes 
 
 That were most dear to me, and some will 
 
 bear 
 To be transferred to thee. 
 
 Osiu. When I'm dishonored ! 
 
 Afar. I would preserve thee. How 
 
 may this be done? 
 Osw. By showing that you look beyond 
 
 the instant. 
 A few leagues hence we shall have open 
 
 ground. 
 And nowhere upon earth is place so fit 
 To look upon the deed. Before we enter 
 The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling 
 
 rock 
 The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft 
 Has held infernal orgies — with the 
 
 gloom. 
 And very superstition of the place, 
 Seasoning his wickedness. The De- 
 bauchee 
 Would there perhaps have gathered the 
 
 first fruits 
 Of this mock Father's guilt. 
 
 Enter Host coiiducting Herbert. 
 
 Host. The Baron Herbert 
 
 Attends your pleasure. 
 
 Osw. \to Host). We are ready — 
 {to Herhert) Sir! 
 
66 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 I hope you are refreshed. — I have just 
 
 written 
 A notice for your Daughter, that she may 
 
 know 
 What is become of you. ■ — You'll sit down 
 
 and sign it; 
 'Twill glad her heart to see her father's 
 .signature. 
 [ Gives the letter he had written. 
 Her. Thanks for your care. 
 
 \_Sits down and writes. Exit Host. 
 Oiz«. (ajzfl'f /oMarmaduke). Perhaps 
 it would be useful 
 That you too should subscribe your name. 
 [Marmaduke overlooks Herbert — 
 then writes — examines the letter 
 eagerly. 
 Mar. I cannot leave this paper. 
 
 \He puts it up^ agitated. 
 Osw. {aside^. Dastard! Come. 
 
 [yiAKtiADVVi-E, goes tozoards HERBERT 
 and supports him — Marmaduke 
 tremblingly beckons OSWALD to take 
 his place. 
 Mar. (^as he quits HERBERT). There is 
 a palsy in his limbs — he shakes. 
 \^Exeunt Oswald and Herbert 
 — Marmaduke following. 
 
 Scene changes to a Wood — ■ a Group of 
 Pilgrims oko'Idonea with them. 
 
 First Pil. A grove of darker and more 
 
 lofty shade I never saw. 
 Sec. Pil. The music of the birds 
 
 Drops deadened from a roof so thick with 
 leaves. 
 Old Pil. This news ! It made my heart 
 
 leap up with joy. 
 Idon. I scarcely can believe it. 
 Old Pil. Myself, I heard 
 
 The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter 
 Which purported it was the royal pleas- 
 ure 
 The Baron Herbert, who, as was sup- 
 posed. 
 Had taken refuge in this neighborhood, 
 Should be forthwith restored. The hear- 
 ing, Lady, 
 Filled my dim eyes with tears. — When I 
 
 returned 
 From Palestine, and brought with me a 
 heart. 
 
 Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, 
 
 comfort, 
 I met your Father, then a wandering Out- 
 cast: 
 He had a Guide, a Shepherd's boy; but 
 
 grieved 
 He was that One so young should pass 
 
 his youth 
 In such sad service; and he parted with 
 
 him. 
 We joined our tales of wretchedness to- 
 gether, 
 And begged our daily bread from door to 
 
 door. 
 I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady ! 
 For once you loved me. 
 
 Idon. You shall back with me 
 
 And see your Friend again. The good 
 
 old Man 
 Will be rejoiced to greet you. 
 
 Old Pil. It seems but yesterday 
 
 That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with 
 
 travel. 
 In a deep wood remote from any town. 
 A cave that opened to the road presented 
 A friendly shelter, and we entered in. 
 Idon. And I was with you? 
 Old Pil. If indeed 't was you — 
 
 But you were then a tottering Little-one — 
 We sate us down. The sky grew dark and 
 
 darker : 
 I struck my flint, and built up a small fire 
 With rotten boughs and leaves, such as 
 
 the winds 
 Of many autumns in the cave had piled. 
 Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the 
 
 woods; 
 Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth 
 And we were comforted, and talked of 
 
 comfort; 
 But 't was an angry night, and o'er our 
 
 heads 
 The thunder rolled in peals that would 
 
 have made 
 A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. 
 O Lady, you have need to love your 
 
 Father. 
 His voice — methinks I hear it now, his 
 
 voice 
 When, after a broad f^ash that filled the 
 
 cave. 
 He said to me, that he had seen his 
 
 Child, 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 67 
 
 A face (no cherub's face more beautiful) 
 Revealed by lustre brought with it from 
 
 Heaven; 
 And it was you, dear Lady ! 
 
 Idoit. God be praised, 
 
 That I have been his comforter till now ! 
 And will be so through every change of 
 
 fortune 
 And every sacrifice his peace requires. — 
 Let us be gone with speed, that he may 
 
 hear 
 These joyful tidings from no lips but mine. 
 [Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims. 
 
 Scene. — The Area of a half-ruined 
 Castle — on one side the entrance to a 
 dungeon — Oswald a^rfMARMADUKE 
 pacing backwards and forwards. 
 Mar. 'T is a wild night. 
 Os"i\ I'd give my cloak and bonnet 
 For sight of a warm fire. 
 
 Mar. The wind blows keen; 
 
 My hands are numb. 
 
 Osw. Ha! ha! 'tis nipping cold. 
 
 \_Blowing his fingers. 
 
 I long for news of our brave Comrades; 
 
 Lacy 
 Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their 
 
 dens 
 If once they blew a horn this side the 
 Tweed. 
 Mar. I think I see a second range of 
 Towers; 
 This castle has another Area — come, 
 Let us examine it. 
 
 Osw. 'Tis a bitter night; 
 
 I hope Idonea is well housed. That 
 
 horseman. 
 Who at full speed swept by us where the 
 
 wood 
 Roared in the tempest, was within an ace 
 Of sending to his grave our precious 
 
 Charge: 
 That would have been a vile mischance. 
 Mar. It would. 
 
 Osw. Justice had been most cruelly 
 
 defrauded. 
 Mar. Most cruelly. 
 Osw. As up the steep we clomb, 
 
 I saw a distant fire in the north-east; 
 I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon : 
 With proper speed our quarters may be 
 gained 
 
 To-morrow evening. 
 
 [Looks restlessly towards the mouth of 
 
 the dungeon. 
 Mar. When, upon the plank, 
 
 I had led him 'cross the torrent, his voice 
 
 blessed me : 
 You could not hear, for the foam beat 
 
 the rocks 
 With deafening noise, — the benediction 
 
 fell 
 Back on himself; but changed into a curse. 
 Osw. As well indeed it might. 
 Mar. And this you deem 
 
 The fittest place? 
 
 Osw. (^aside"). He is growing pitiful. 
 Mar. (glistening'). What an odd moan- 
 ing that is ! — 
 Osw. Mighty odd 
 
 The wind should pipe a little, while we 
 
 stand 
 Cooling our heels in this way ! — I'll be- 
 gin 
 And count the stars. 
 
 Alar, instill listening). That dog of his, 
 you are sure. 
 Could not come after us — he must have 
 
 perished; 
 The torrent would have dashed an oak to 
 
 splinters. 
 You said you did not like his looks — 
 
 that he 
 Would trouble us; if he were here again, 
 I swear the sight of him would quail me 
 
 more 
 Than twenty armies. 
 Osw. How? 
 
 Mar. The old blind Man, 
 
 When you had told him the mischance, 
 
 was troubled 
 Even to the shedding of some natural 
 
 tears 
 Into the torrent over which he hung. 
 Listening in vain. 
 
 Osw. He has a tender heart ! 
 
 [Oswald offers to go down into the 
 
 dtingeon. 
 Mar. How now, what mean you ? 
 Osiv. Truly, I was going 
 
 To waken our stray Baron. Were there 
 
 not 
 A farm or dwelling-house within five 
 
 leagues, 
 We should deserve to wear a cap and belh, 
 
68 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Three good round years, for playing the 
 
 fool here 
 In such a night as this. 
 
 Mar. Stop, stop. 
 
 Osw. Perhaps, 
 
 You'd better like we should descend 
 
 together, 
 And lie down by his side — what say you 
 
 to it? 
 Three of us — we should keep each other 
 
 warm : 
 I'll answer for it that our four-legged 
 
 friend 
 Shall not disturb us; further I'll not en- 
 gage; 
 Come, come, for manhood's sake ! 
 
 Mar. These drowsy shiverings. 
 
 This mortal stupor which is creeping over 
 
 me. 
 What do they mean? were this my single 
 
 body 
 Opposed to armies, not a nerve would 
 
 tremble : 
 Why do I tremble now? — Is not the 
 
 depth 
 Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach 
 
 of thought? 
 And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judg- 
 ment. 
 Something I strike upon which turns my 
 
 mind 
 Back on herself, I think, again — my 
 
 breast 
 Concentres all the terrors of the Universe : 
 I look at him and tremble like a child. 
 Osw. Is it possible? 
 Alar. One thing you noticed not : 
 
 Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder 
 Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing 
 
 force. 
 This is a time, said he, when guilt may 
 
 shudder; 
 But there's a Providence for them who 
 
 walk 
 In helplessness, when innocence is with 
 
 them . 
 At this audacious blasphemy, I thought 
 The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride 
 
 the air. 
 Osiv. Why are you not the man you 
 
 were that moment? 
 [He draws Marmadui^e to the dun- 
 geon. 
 
 -look 
 
 Mar. You say he was asleep, - 
 at this arm. 
 And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. 
 Oswald, Oswald ! 
 
 \^Leans iipon Oswald. 
 Os%ti. This is some sudden seizure ! 
 Mar. A most strange faintness, — will 
 you hunt me out 
 A draught of water? 
 
 Osw. Nay, to see you thus 
 
 Moves me beyond my bearing. — I will try 
 To gain the torrent's brink. 
 
 \^Exit Oswald. 
 Mar. (^after a pause"). It seems an age 
 Since that Man left me. — No, I am not 
 lost. 
 Her. (^atthe mouth of the dungeon ) . Give 
 me your hand; where are you, 
 Friends? and tell me 
 How goes the night. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis hard to measure time. 
 
 In such a weary night, and such a place. 
 
 Her. I do not hear the voice of my 
 
 friend Oswald. 
 Mar. A minute past, he went to fetch 
 a draught 
 Of water from the torrent. 'Tis, you'll say, 
 A cheerless beverage. 
 
 Her. How good it was in you 
 
 To stay behind ! — Hearing at first no 
 
 answer, 
 I was alarmed. 
 
 Mar. No wonder; this is a place 
 
 That well may put some fears into your 
 
 heart. 
 
 Her. Why so? a roofless rock had 
 
 been a comfort. 
 
 Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were; 
 
 And in a night like this, to lend your 
 
 cloaks 
 To make a bed for me ! — My Girl will 
 
 weep 
 When she is told of it. 
 
 Mar. This Daughter of yours 
 
 Is very dear to you. 
 
 Her. Oh ! but you are young; 
 
 Over your head twice twenty years must 
 
 roll, 
 With all their natural weight of sorrow 
 
 and pain, 
 Ere can be known to you how much a 
 
 Father 
 May love his Child, 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 69 
 
 Alar. Thank you, old Man. 
 
 for this ! \_Aside, 
 
 Her. Fallen am I, and worn out, a 
 
 useless Man; 
 
 Kindly have you protected me to-night, 
 
 And no return have I to make but prayers; 
 
 May you in age be blest with such a 
 
 daughter ! — 
 When from the Holy Land I had returned 
 Sightless, and from my heritage was 
 
 driven, 
 A wretched Outcast — but this strain of 
 
 thought 
 Would lead me to talk fondly. 
 
 Mar. Do not fear; 
 
 Your words are precious to my ears; go 
 
 on. 
 
 Her. You will forgive me, but my 
 
 heart runs over. 
 
 When my old Leader slipped into the 
 
 flood 
 And perished, what a piercing outcry you 
 Sent after him. I have loved you ever 
 
 since. 
 You start — where are we ? 
 
 Mar. Oh, there is no danger; 
 
 The cold blast struck me. 
 
 Her. 'T was a foolish question. 
 
 Mar. But when you were an Outcast ? — 
 
 Heaven is just; 
 
 Your piety would not miss its due reward; 
 
 The little Orphan then would be your 
 
 succor, 
 And do good service, though she knew it 
 not. 
 Her. I turned me from the dwellings 
 of my Fathers, 
 Where none but those who trampled on 
 
 my rights 
 Seemed to remember me. To the wide 
 
 world 
 I l3ore her, in my arms; her looks won 
 
 pity; 
 She was my Raven in the wilderness. 
 And brought me food. Have I not cause 
 to love her? 
 Mar. Yes. 
 Her. More than ever Parent loved 
 
 a Child.? 
 Mar. Yes, yes. 
 
 Her. I will not murmur, merciful God ! 
 I will not murmur; blasted as I have 
 been, 
 
 Thou hast left me ears to hear my 
 
 Daughter's voice. 
 And arms to fold her to my heart. Sub- 
 missively 
 Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith. 
 Enter Oswald. 
 Os-lu. Herbert! — confusion! {aside^. 
 Here it is, my Friend, 
 
 \_Presents the Horn. 
 A charming beverage for you to carouse. 
 This bitter night. 
 
 Her. Ha ! Oswald ! ten bright crosses 
 I would have given, not many minutes 
 
 gone. 
 To have heard your voice. 
 
 Osw. Your couch, I fear, good Baron, 
 Has been but comfortless; and yet that 
 
 place. 
 When the tempestuous wind first drove us 
 
 hither. 
 Felt warm as a wren's nest. You'd better 
 
 turn 
 And under covert rest till break of day. 
 Or till the storm abate. 
 ( 7iiMARMADUKE«i«a'i?). He has restored 
 
 you. 
 No doubt you have been nobly enter- 
 tained? 
 But soft! — how came he forth? The 
 
 Night-mare Conscience 
 Has driven him out of harbor? 
 
 Mar. I believe 
 
 You have guessed right. 
 
 Her. The trees renew their murmur : 
 Come, let us house together. 
 [Oswald conducts him to the dungeon. 
 Osw. {retttrns). Had I not 
 
 Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair 
 To its most fit conclusion, do you think 
 I would so long have struggled with my 
 
 Nature, 
 And smothered all that's man in me? — 
 away ! — 
 
 \_ Looking tozi^'ards the dungeon. 
 This man's the property of him who 
 
 best 
 Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a 
 
 privilege; 
 It now becomes my duty to resume it. 
 Mar. Touch not a finger — 
 Osw. What then must be done? 
 
 Mar, Which way soe'er I turn, I am 
 perplexed. 
 
70 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Osw. Now, on my life, I grieve for you. 
 
 The misery 
 Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts 
 Did not admit of stronger evidence; 
 Twelve honest men, plain men, would set 
 
 us right; 
 Their verdict would abolish these weak 
 
 scruples. 
 Mar. Weak! I am weak — there does 
 
 my torment lie, 
 Feeding itself. 
 
 Osw. Verily, when he said 
 
 How his old heart would leap to hear her 
 
 steps. 
 You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's. 
 Mar. And never heard a sound so 
 
 terrible. 
 Osw. Perchance you think so now ? 
 Mar. I cannot do it: 
 
 Twice did I spring to grasp his withered 
 
 throat, 
 When such a sudden weakness fell upon 
 
 me, 
 I could have dropped asleep upon his 
 
 breast. 
 Osw. Justice — is there not thunder in 
 
 the word? 
 Shall it be law to stab the petty robber 
 Who aims but at our purse; and shall this 
 
 Parricide — 
 Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dis- 
 honor 
 Be worse than death) to that confiding 
 
 Creature 
 Whom he to more than filial love and duty 
 Hath falsely trained — shall he fulfil his 
 
 purpose? 
 But you are fallen. 
 
 Mar. Fallen should I be indeed — 
 Murder — perhaps asleep, blind, old, 
 
 alone. 
 Betrayed, in darkness ! Here to strike 
 
 the blow — 
 Away ! away ! — 
 
 \_Flings away his sword. 
 
 Osw. Nay, I have done with you : 
 
 We'll lead him to the Qonvent. He shall 
 
 live, 
 And she shall love him. With unques- 
 tioned title 
 He shall be seated in his Barony, 
 And we too chant the praise of his good 
 
 deeds. 
 
 I now perceive we do mistake our 
 
 masters. 
 And most despise the men who best can 
 
 teach us: 
 Henceforth it shall be said that bad men 
 
 only 
 Are brave: Clifford is brave; and that 
 
 old Man 
 Is brave. 
 
 [ Taking Marmaduke's sword and 
 
 giving it to him. 
 To Clifford's arms he would have led 
 His Victim — haply to this desolate house. 
 Mar. (^advancing to the dungeon). It 
 
 must be ended ! — 
 Osw. Softly; do not rouse him; 
 
 He will deny it to the last. He lies 
 Within the Vault, a spear's length to the 
 
 left. 
 [Marmaduke descends to the dungeon. 
 {Alone.) The Villains rose in mutiny to 
 
 destroy me; 
 I could have quelled the Cowards, but this 
 
 Stripling 
 Must needs step in, and save my life. The 
 
 look 
 With which he gave the boon — I see it 
 
 now! 
 The same that tempted me to loathe the 
 
 gift. — 
 For this old venerable Graybeard — faith 
 'T is his own fault if he hath got a face 
 Which doth play tricks with them that look 
 
 on it; 
 'Twas this that put it in my thoughts — 
 
 that countenance — 
 His staff — his figure — Murder ! — what, 
 
 of whom? 
 We kill a worn-out horse, and who but 
 
 women 
 Sigh at the deed ? Hew down a withered 
 
 tree. 
 And none look grave but dotards. He 
 
 may live 
 To thank me for this service. Rainbow 
 
 arches. 
 Highways of dreaming passion, have too 
 
 long, 
 Young as he is, diverted wish and hope 
 From the unpretending ground we mortals 
 
 tread; — 
 Then shatter the delusion, break it 
 
 up 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 71 
 
 And 
 
 set him free. What follows? I 
 have learned 
 That things will work to ends the slaves 0' 
 
 the world 
 Do never dream of. I have been what 
 
 he — 
 This Boy — when he comes forth with 
 
 bloody hands — 
 Might envy, and am now, — but he shall 
 
 know 
 What I am now — 
 
 [ Goes and listens at the dungeon. 
 
 Praying or parleying? — tut ! 
 
 Is he not eyeless ? He has been half-dead 
 
 These fifteen years — 
 
 Enter female Beggar with two or three of 
 
 her Companions. 
 ( Turning abruptly.^ Ha! speak — what 
 
 Thing art thou? 
 {Recognizes her.') Heavens! my good 
 Friend ! [ To her. 
 
 Beg. Forgive me, gracious Sir ! — 
 
 Osw. {to her companions'). Begone, ye 
 Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind 
 And send ye dancing to the clouds, like 
 leaves. [ They retire affrighted. 
 Beg. Indeed we meant no harm; we 
 lodge sometimes 
 In this deserted Castle — I repent me. 
 [Oswald goes to the dungeon — listens 
 
 — returns to the Beggar. 
 Osw. Woman, thou hast a helpless 
 Infant — keep 
 Thy secret for its sake, or verily 
 That wretched life of thine shall be the 
 forfeit. 
 Beg. I do repent me. Sir; I fear the 
 curse 
 Of that blind Man. 'T was not your 
 money, sir — 
 Osw. Begone ! 
 
 Beg. {going'). There is some wicked 
 deed in hand: {Aside. 
 
 Would I could find the old Man and his 
 Daughter. [ir.r2/ Beggar. 
 
 Marmaduke re-enters from the dungeon. 
 Osw. It is all over then; — your fool- 
 ish fears 
 Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and 
 
 deed. 
 Made quiet as he is. 
 
 Alar. Why cam? you down ? 
 
 And when I felt your hand upon my arm | 
 
 And spake to you, why did you give no 
 
 answer? 
 Feared you to waken him? he must have 
 
 been 
 In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. 
 There are the strangest echoes in that 
 place ! 
 Osw. Tut ! let them gabble till the day 
 
 of doom. 
 Mar. Scarcely, by groping, had I 
 reached the Spot, 
 When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn 
 
 tight. 
 As if the blind Man's dog were pulling 
 at it. 
 Osw. But after that ? 
 Mar. The features of Idonea 
 
 Lurked in his face — 
 
 Osw. Psha ! Never to these eyes 
 
 Will retribution show itself again 
 With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me 
 To share your triumph ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, her very look, 
 
 Smiling in sleep — 
 
 Osw. A pretty feat of Fancy ! 
 
 Mar. Though but a glimpse, it sent 
 
 me to my prayers. 
 Osn'. Is he alive? 
 
 Mar. What mean you? who alive? 
 Osw. Herbert ! since you will have it. 
 Baron Herbert; 
 He who will gain his Seignory when 
 
 Idonea 
 Hath become Clifford's harlot — is he 
 living? 
 Mar. The old Man in that dungeon 
 
 is alive. 
 Osw. Henceforth, then, will I never 
 in camp or field 
 Obey you more. Your weakness, to the 
 
 Band, 
 Shall be proclaimed : brave Men, they all 
 
 shall hear it. 
 You a protector of humanity ! 
 Avenger you of outraged innocence ! 
 Mar. 'T was dark — dark as the grave ; 
 yet did I see. 
 Saw him — his face turned toward me; 
 
 and I tell thee 
 Idonca's filial countenance was there 
 To baffle me — it put me to my prayers. 
 Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a 
 
72 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Beheld a star twinkling above my head, 
 And, by the hving God, I could not do it, 
 [^ Sinks exhausted. 
 Osw. (^io himself). Now may I perish 
 if this turn do more 
 Than make me change my course. 
 ( To Marmaduke.) Dear Marmaduke, 
 My words were rashly spoken; I recall 
 
 them : 
 I feel my error; shedding human blood 
 Is a most serious thing. 
 
 Mar. Not I alone, 
 
 Thou too art deep in guilt. 
 
 Osw. We have indeed 
 
 Been most presumptuous. There is guilt 
 
 in this. 
 Else could so strong a mind have ever 
 
 known 
 These trepidations? Plain it is that 
 
 Heaven 
 Has marked out this foul Wretch as one 
 
 whose crimes 
 Must never come before a mortal judg- 
 ment-seat. 
 Or be chastised by mortal instruments. 
 Mar. A thought that's worth a thou- 
 sand worlds ! 
 
 [ Goes towards the dungeon. 
 
 Osw. I grieve 
 
 That, in my zeal, I have caused you so 
 
 much pain. 
 
 Mar. Think not of that ! 'tis over — 
 
 we are safe. 
 Osw. {^as if to himself^ yet speaking 
 aloud). The truth is hideous, but 
 how stifle it? 
 
 [ Turnitig to MARMADUKE. 
 Give me your sword — nay, here are 
 
 stones and fragments. 
 The least of which would beat out a 
 
 man's brains; 
 Or you might drive your head against that 
 
 wall. 
 No ! this is not the place to hear the tale : 
 It should be told you pinioned in your bed. 
 Or on some vast and solitary plain 
 Blown to you from a trumpet. 
 
 Mar. Why talk thus? 
 
 Whate'er the monster brooding in your 
 
 breast 
 I care not : fear I have none, and cannot 
 fear — 
 
 [ The sound of a horn is heard. 
 
 That horn again — 'T is some one of our 
 
 Troop; 
 What do they here? Listen ! 
 
 Osw. What ! dogged like thieves ! 
 
 Enter Wallace and Lacy, etc. 
 Lacy. You are found at last, thanks 
 
 to the vagrant Troop 
 For not misleading us. 
 
 Osw. (^looking at Wallace). That 
 
 subtle Graybeard — 
 I'd rather see my father's ghost. 
 
 Lacy {to Marmaduke). My Captain, 
 We come by order of the Band. Belike 
 You have not heard that Henry has at 
 
 last 
 Dissolved the Barons' League, and sent 
 
 abroad 
 His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate 
 The genuine owners of such Lands and 
 
 Baronies 
 As, in these long commotions, have been 
 
 seized. 
 His Power is this way tending. It befits 
 
 us 
 To stand upon our guard, and with our 
 
 swords 
 Defend the innocent. 
 
 Mar. Lacy ! we look 
 
 But at the surfaces of things; we hear 
 Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young 
 
 and old 
 Driven out in troops to want and naked- 
 ness; 
 Then grasp our swords and rush upon a 
 
 cure 
 That flatters us, because it asks not 
 
 thought : 
 The deeper malady is better hid; 
 The world is poisoned at the heart. 
 Lacy. What mean you? 
 
 Wal. {whose eye has been fixed suspi- 
 ciously upon Oswald). Ay, what 
 
 is it you mean ? 
 Mar. Hark'e, my Friends; — 
 
 [Appearing gay. 
 Were there a Man who, being weak and 
 
 helpless 
 And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, 
 
 pressed 
 By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, 
 A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, 
 Prattling upon his knee, to call him 
 
 Father — 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 73 
 
 LM.cy. Why, if his heart be tender, that 
 offence 
 I could forgive him. 
 
 Mnr. {going on). And should he 
 make the Child 
 An instrument of falsehood, should he 
 
 teach her 
 To stretch her arms, and dim the glad- 
 some light 
 Of infant playfulness with piteous looks 
 Of misery that was not — 
 
 Lacy. Troth, 't is hard — 
 
 But in a world like ours — 
 
 Mar. {changing his tone). This self- 
 same Man — 
 Even while he printed kisses on the cheek 
 Of this poor babe, and taught its innocent 
 
 tongue 
 To Hsp the name of Father — could he 
 
 look 
 To the unnatural harvest of that time 
 When he should give her up, a Woman 
 
 grown, 
 To him who bid the highest in the market 
 Of foul pollution — 
 
 Lacy. The whole visible world 
 
 Contains not such a Monster ! 
 
 Mar, For this purpose 
 
 Should he resolve to taint her Soul by 
 
 means 
 Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think 
 
 of them; 
 Should he, by tales which would draw 
 
 tears from iron. 
 Work on her nature, and so turn compas- 
 sion 
 And gratitude to ministers of vice. 
 And make the spotless spirit of filial love 
 Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim 
 Both soul and body — 
 
 WaL 'T is too horrible; 
 
 Oswald, what say you to it? 
 
 Lacy. Hew him down. 
 
 And fling him to the ravens. 
 
 Mar. But his aspect 
 
 It is so meek, his countenance so vener- 
 able. 
 Wal. {with an appearance of mis- 
 trust). But how, what say you, 
 Oswald? 
 Lacy {at the same moment). Stab him, 
 were it 
 Before the Altar. 
 
 Mar. What, if he were sick. 
 
 Tottering upon the very verge of life. 
 And old, and blind — 
 
 Lacy. Blind, say you? 
 
 Osw. {coming forward). Are we Men, 
 Or own we baby Spirits? Genuine cour- 
 age 
 Is not an accidental quality, 
 A thing dependent for its casual birth 
 On opposition and impediment. 
 Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats 
 
 down 
 The giant's strength; and, at the voice 
 
 of Justice, 
 Spares not the worm. The giant and the 
 
 worm — 
 She weighs them in one scale. The wiles 
 
 of woman, 
 And craft of age, seducing reason, first 
 Made weakness a protection, and obscured 
 The moral shapes of things. His tender 
 
 cries 
 And helpless innocence — do they protect 
 The infant lamb? and shall the infirmi- 
 ties. 
 Which have enabled this enormous Culprit 
 To perpetrate his crimes, serve as a Sanc- 
 tuary 
 To cover him from punishment ? Shame ! 
 
 — Justice, 
 Admitting no resistance, bends alike 
 The feeble and the strong. She needs 
 
 not here 
 Her bonds and chains, which make the 
 
 mighty feeble. 
 — We recognize in this old Man a victim 
 Prepared already for the sacrifice. 
 
 Lacy. By heaven, his words are reason ! 
 
 Osw. Yes, my Friends, 
 
 His countenance is meek and venerable; 
 
 And, by the Mass, to see him at his 
 
 prayers ! — 
 I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish 
 When my heart doe.s not ache to think of 
 
 it! — 
 Poor Victim ! not a virtue under heaven 
 But what was made an enfjine to ensnare 
 
 thee; 
 But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art sa'e. 
 Lacy. Idonea ! 
 
 Wal. How! what? your Idonea? 
 
 I'o Marmaduke. 
 
 Mar. Mine . 
 
74 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 But now no longer mine. You know 
 
 Lord Clifford; 
 He is the Man to whom the Maiden — 
 
 pure 
 As beautiful, and gentle and benign. 
 And in her ample heart loving even me — 
 Was to be yielded up. 
 
 Lacy. Now, by the head 
 
 Of my own child, this Man must die ; my 
 
 hand, 
 A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine 
 In his gray hairs ! — 
 Mar. (Jo Lacy). I love the Father in 
 
 thee. 
 You know me, Friends; I have a heart to 
 
 feel. 
 And I have felt, more than perhaps be- 
 comes me 
 Or duty sanctions. 
 
 Lacy. We will have ample justice. 
 Who are we, Friends? Do we not live 
 
 on ground 
 Where Souls are self-defended, free to 
 
 grow 
 Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy 
 
 wind. 
 Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which de- 
 creed 
 This monstrous crime to be laid open — 
 
 here^ 
 Where Reason has an eye that she can 
 
 use. 
 And Men alone are Umpires. To the 
 
 Camp 
 He shall be led, and there, the Country 
 
 round 
 All gathered to the spot, in open day 
 Shall Nature be avenged. 
 
 Osw. 'T is nobly thought; 
 
 His death will be a monument for ages. 
 Alar, {to Lacy). I thank you for that 
 
 hint. He shall be brought 
 Before the Camp, and would that best and 
 
 wisest 
 Of every country might be present. 
 
 There, 
 His crime shall be proclaimed; and 'ax 
 
 the rest 
 It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide : 
 Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and 
 
 see 
 That all is well prepared. 
 
 VVaL We will obey you. 
 
 {Aside.) But softly! we must lookahttle 
 nearer. 
 Mar. Tell where you found us. At 
 some future time 
 I will explain the cause. \_Exeuni. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene — The door of the ILostel, a group 
 of Pilgrims as before; Idonea and the 
 Host among them. 
 
 Liost. Lady, you'll find your Father at 
 the Convent 
 As I have told you : He left us yesterday 
 With two Companions; one of them, as 
 
 seemed, 
 His most familiar Friend. ( Going.) There 
 
 was a letter 
 Of which I heard them speak, but that I 
 
 fancy 
 Has been forgotten. 
 
 Ldon. {to Host). Farewell ! 
 Host. Gentle pilgrims, 
 
 St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy er- 
 rand. 
 [Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims. 
 
 Scene. — A desolate Moor. 
 Oswald {alone). 
 Osw. Carry him to the Camp ! Yes, 
 
 to the Camp. 
 Oh, Wisdom ! a most wise resolve ! and 
 
 then, 
 That half a word should blow it to the 
 
 winds ! 
 This last device must end my work. — 
 
 Methinks 
 It were a pleasant pastime to construct 
 A scale and table of belief — as thus — 
 Two columns, one for passion, one for 
 
 proof; 
 Each rises as the other falls : and first, 
 Passion a unit and against us — proof — 
 Nay, we must travel in another path. 
 Or we're stuck fast forever; — passion, 
 
 then. 
 Shall be a unit for us ; proof — no, pas- 
 sion ! 
 We'll not insult thy majesty by time. 
 Person, and place — the where, the when, 
 
 the how, 
 And all particulars that dull brains require 
 To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 75 
 
 They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstra- 
 tion. 
 
 A whipping to the Moralists who preach 
 
 That misery is a sacred thing: for me, 
 
 I know no cheaper engine to degrade a 
 man, 
 
 Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's 
 mind 
 
 Is shaken till the dregs float on the sur- 
 face; 
 
 And, in the storm and anguish of the 
 heart, 
 
 He talks of a transition in his Soul, 
 
 And dreams that he is happy. T We dis- 
 sect V 
 
 The senseless body, and why not the 
 mind?^ 
 
 These are strange sights — the mind of 
 man, upturned, 
 
 Is in all natures a strange spectacle; 
 
 In some a hideous one — hem! shall I 
 stop? 
 
 Xo. — Thoughts and feelings will sink 
 deep, but then 
 
 They have no substance. Pass but a few 
 minutes, 
 
 And something shall be done which 
 Memory 
 
 May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at 
 work. 
 Enter Marmadukb, from behind. 
 Osw. {turning to meet him). But 
 
 listen, for my peace — 
 Mar. Why, I believe you. 
 
 Osji). But hear the proofs — 
 Mar. Ay, prove that when two peas 
 
 Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then 
 
 Be larger than the peas — prove this — 
 'twere matter 
 
 Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to 
 dream 
 
 It ever could be otherwise ! 
 
 Osw. Last night 
 
 When I returned with water from the 
 brook, 
 
 I overheard the Villains — every word 
 
 Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart. 
 
 Said one, " It is agreed on. The blind 
 Man 
 
 Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, 
 
 Who on her journey must proceed alone. 
 
 Under pretence of violence, be seized. 
 
 She is," continued the detested Slave, 
 
 "She is right willing — strange if she 
 
 were not ! — 
 They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man; 
 But, faith, to see him in his silken tunic, 
 Fitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp. 
 There's witchery in't. I never knew a 
 
 maid 
 That could withstand it. True," con- 
 tinued he, 
 " When we arranged the affair, she wept 
 
 a little 
 (Not the less welcome to my Lord for 
 
 that) 
 And said, ' My Father he will have it so. ' " 
 Alar. I am your hearer. 
 Osw. This I caught, and more 
 
 That may not be retold to any ear, 
 The obstinate bolt of a small iron door 
 Detained them near the gateway of the 
 
 Castle. 
 By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths 
 Of flowers were in their hands, as if 
 
 designed 
 For festive decoration; and they said, 
 With brutal laughter and most foul allu- 
 sion, 
 That they should share the banquet with 
 
 their Lord 
 And his new Favorite. 
 
 Mar. Misery ! — 
 
 Osw. I knew 
 
 How you would be disturbed by this dire 
 
 news, 
 And therefore chose this solitary Moor, 
 Here to impart the tale, of which, last 
 
 night, 
 I strove to ease my mind, when our two 
 
 Comrades, 
 Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon 
 
 us. 
 Mar. Last night, when moved to hft 
 
 the avenging steel, 
 I did believe all things were shadows — 
 
 yea. 
 Living or dead all things were bodiless, 
 Or but the mutual mockeries of body. 
 Till that same star summoned me back 
 
 again. 
 Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. 
 
 Oh Fool ! 
 To let a creed, built in the heart of things, 
 Dissolve before a twinkling atom ! — 
 
 Oswald, 
 
76 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools 
 Than you have entered, were it worth the 
 
 pains. 
 Young as I am, I might go forth a teacher, 
 And you should see how deeply I could 
 
 reason 
 Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends; 
 Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects; 
 Of actions, and their laws and tendencies. 
 Osw. You take it as it merits — 
 Mar, One a King, 
 
 General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, 
 Strews twenty acres of good meadow- 
 ground 
 With carcasses, in lineament and shape 
 And substance, nothing differing from his 
 
 own. 
 But that they cannot stand up of them- 
 selves; 
 Another sits i' th' sun, and by the hour 
 Floats kingcups in the brook — a Hero one 
 We call, and scorn the other as Time's 
 
 spendthrift; 
 But have they not a world of common 
 
 ground 
 To occupy — both fools, or wise alike, 
 Each in his way? 
 
 Osw. Troth, I begin to think so. 
 
 Mar. Now for the corner-stone of my 
 
 philosophy: 
 I would not give a denier for the man 
 Who, on such provocation as this earth 
 Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath 
 
 the chin. 
 And send it with a fillip to its grave. 
 Osw. Nay, you leave me behind. 
 Mar. That such a One, 
 
 So pious in demeanor ! in his look 
 So saintly and so pure ! — Hark'e, my 
 
 Friend, 
 I'll plant myself before Lord Qifford's 
 
 Castle, 
 A surly mastiff kennels at the gate. 
 And he shall howl and I will laugh, a 
 
 medley 
 Most tunable. 
 
 Osw. In faith, a pleasant scheme; 
 
 But take your sword along with you, for 
 
 that 
 Might in such neighborhood find seemly 
 
 use. — 
 But first, how wash our hands of this old 
 
 Man? 
 
 Mar. Oh yes, that mole, that viper in 
 the path; 
 Plague on my memory, him I had for- 
 gotten. 
 Osw. You know we left him sitting — • 
 
 see him yonder. 
 Mar. Ha! ha! — 
 Osw. As 'twill be but amoment's work, 
 I will stroll on; you follow when 'tis done. 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene changes to another part of the 
 Moor at a short distance. — HER- 
 BERT is discovered seated oji a stone. 
 Her. A sound of laughter, too ! — 'tis 
 
 well — I feared. 
 The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow 
 Pressing upon his solitary heart. 
 Hush ! — 'tis the feeble and earth-loving 
 
 wind 
 That creeps along the bells of the crisp 
 
 heather. 
 Alas ! 't is cold — I shiver in the sunshine — 
 What can this mean? There is a psalm 
 
 that speaks 
 Of God's parental mercies — withldonea 
 I used to sing it. — Listen ! — what foot 
 
 is there ? 
 
 Enter Marmaduke. 
 Mar. (^aside- — looking at Herbert). 
 
 And I have loved this Man ! and 
 
 she hath loved him ! 
 And I loved her, and she loves the Lord 
 
 Clifford ! 
 And there it ends; — if this be not enough 
 To make mankind merry for evermore, 
 Then plain it is as day, that eyes were 
 
 made 
 For a wise purpose — verily to weep with ! 
 [ Looking round. 
 A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece 
 Of Nature, finished with most curious 
 
 skill ! 
 ( To Herbert.) Good Baron, have you 
 
 ever practised tillage? 
 Pray tell me what this land is worth by 
 
 the acre? 
 Her. How glad I am to hear your voice! 
 
 I know not 
 Wherein I have offended you; — last night 
 I found in you the kindest of Protectors; 
 This morning, when I spoke of weariness. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 77 
 
 You from my shoulder took my scrip and 
 threw it 
 
 About your own; but for these two hours 
 past 
 
 Once only have you spoken, when the lark 
 
 Whirred from among the fern beneath our 
 feet, 
 
 And I, no coward in my better days, 
 
 Was almost terrified. 
 Mar. That's excellent ! — 
 
 So, you bethought you of the many ways 
 
 In which a man may come to his end, 
 whose crimes 
 
 Have roused all Nature up against him — 
 pshaw ! — 
 Her. For mercy's sake, is nobody in 
 sight ? 
 
 No traveller, peasant, herdsman? 
 
 Mar. Not a soul : 
 
 Here is a tree, ragged, and bent, and 
 bare, 
 
 That turns its goat's-beard flakes of pea- 
 green moss 
 
 From the stern breathing of the rough sea- 
 wind; 
 
 This have we, but no other company : 
 
 Commend me to the place. If a man 
 should die 
 
 And leave his body here, it were all one 
 
 As he were twenty fathoms under ground. 
 Her. Where is our common Friend? 
 yiar. A ghost, methinks — 
 
 The Spirit of a murdered man, for in- 
 stance — 
 
 Might have fine room to ramble about 
 here, 
 
 A grand domain to squeak and gibber in. 
 Her. Lost Man ! if thou have any close- 
 pent guilt 
 
 Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour 
 
 Of visitation — 
 
 Mar. A bold word from you ! 
 
 Her. Restore him. Heaven ! 
 Mar. The desperate Wretch! — A 
 Flower, 
 
 Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but 
 now 
 
 They have snapped her from the stem — 
 Poh ! let her lie 
 
 Besoiled with mire, and let the houseless 
 snail 
 
 Feed on her leaves. You knew her 
 well — ay, there, 
 
 Old Man ! you were a very Lynx, you 
 
 knew 
 The worm was in her — 
 
 Her. Mercy! Sir, what mean you? 
 
 A[ar. You have a Daughter ! 
 
 Her. Oh that she were here ! — 
 
 She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts. 
 
 And if I have in aught offended you. 
 
 Soon would her gentle voice make peace 
 
 between us. 
 Mar. (^aside"). I do believe he weeps — 
 
 I could weep too — 
 There is a vein of her voice that runs 
 
 through his: 
 Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth 
 From the first moment that I loved the 
 
 Maid; 
 And for his sake I loved her more : these 
 
 tears — 
 I did not think that aught was left in me 
 Of what I have been — yes, I thank thee, 
 
 Fleaven ! 
 One happy thought has passed across my 
 
 mind. 
 — It may not be — I am cut off from man ; 
 No more shall I be man — no more shall I 
 Have human feelings ! — ( To Her- 
 bert) — 
 
 Now, for a little more 
 About your Daughter ! 
 
 Her. Troops of armed men. 
 
 Met in the roads, would bless us; little 
 
 children, 
 Rushing along in the full tide of play. 
 Stood silent as we passed them ! I have 
 
 heard 
 The boisterous carman, in the miry road. 
 Check his loud whip and hail us with mild 
 
 voice. 
 And speak with milder voice to his poor 
 
 beasts. 
 Mar. And whither were you going? 
 Her. Learn, young Man, 
 
 To fearthe virtuous, and reverence misery, 
 Whether too much for patience, or, like 
 
 mine. 
 Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy. 
 Mar. Now, this is as it should be ! 
 Her. I am weak ! ^ 
 
 My Daughter does not know how weak 
 
 I am; 
 And, as thou see'st, under the arch ol 
 
 heaven 
 
78 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Here d© I stand, alone, to helplessness, 
 By the ^ood God, our common Father, 
 
 doomed ! — 
 But I had once a spirit and an arm — 
 Mar. Now, for a word about your 
 
 Bar-ony : 
 I fancy when you left the Holy Land, 
 And came to — what's your title — eh? 
 
 your claims 
 Were undisputed ! 
 
 Her. Like a mendicant, 
 
 Whom no one comes to meet, I stood 
 
 alone; — 
 I murmured — but, remembering Him 
 
 who feeds 
 The pelican and o&trich of the desert, 
 From my own threshold I looked up to 
 
 Heaven 
 And did not want glimmerings of quiet 
 
 hope. 
 So, from the court I passed, and down the 
 
 brook, 
 Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak 
 I came; and when I felt its cooling shade, 
 I sate me down, and cannot but believe — 
 While in my lap I held my little Babe 
 And clasped her to my heart, my heart 
 
 that ached 
 More with delight than grief — I heard a 
 
 voice 
 Such as by Cherith on Elijah called; 
 It said, " I will be with thee." A little 
 
 boy, 
 A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was 
 
 gone. 
 Hailed us as if he had been sent from 
 
 heaven. 
 And said, with tears, that he would be our 
 
 guide : 
 I had a better guide — that innocent 
 
 Babe — 
 Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, 
 
 from harm. 
 From cold, from hunger, penury, and 
 
 death; 
 To whom I owe the best of all the good 
 I have, or wish for, upon earth — and 
 
 more 
 And higher far than lies within earth's 
 
 bounds:' 
 Therefore I bless her : when I think of 
 
 Man, 
 I bless her with sad spirit, — when of God, 
 
 I bless her in the fulness of my joy ! 
 Mar. The name of daughter in his 
 mouth, he prays ! 
 
 With nerves so steady, that the very flies 
 
 Sit unmolested on his staff. — Inno- 
 cent ! — 
 
 If he were innocent — then he would 
 tremble 
 
 And be disturbed, as I am. ( Turning 
 aside.") I have read 
 
 In Story, what men now alive have wit- 
 nessed. 
 
 How, when the People's mind was racked 
 with doubt. 
 
 Appeal was made to the great Judge : the 
 Accused 
 
 With naked feet walked over burning 
 ploughshares. 
 
 Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared 
 
 For a like trial, but more merciful. 
 
 Why else have I been led to this bleak 
 Waste .? 
 
 Bare is it, without house or track, and 
 destitute 
 
 Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. 
 
 Here will I leave him — here — All-seeing 
 God! 
 
 Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I 
 am, 
 
 I will commit him to this final Ordeal! — 
 
 He heard a voice — a shepherd-lad came 
 to him 
 
 And was his guide; if once, why not again, 
 
 And in this desert? If never' — then the 
 whole 
 
 Of what he says, and looks, and does, and 
 is. 
 
 Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave 
 him here 
 
 To cold and hunger ! — Pain is of the 
 heart. 
 
 And what are a few throes of bodily suf- 
 fering 
 
 If they can waken one pang of remorse? 
 [ Goes up to Herbert. 
 
 Old Man ! my wrath is as a flame burnt 
 out, 
 
 It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here 
 
 Led by my hand to save thee from perdi- 
 tion; 
 
 Thou wilt have time to breathe and 
 think — 
 Her. Oh, Mercy ! 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 79 
 
 Mar. I know the need that all men 
 
 have of mercy, 
 And therefore leave thee to a righteous 
 • judgment. 
 Her. My Child, my blessed Child ! 
 Mar. No more of that; 
 
 Thou wilt have many guides if thou art 
 
 innocent; 
 Yea, from the utmost corners of the 'earth. 
 That Woman will come o'er this Waste to 
 
 save thee. 
 {He pauses and looks at HERBERT'S staff. 
 Ha ! what is here ? and carved by her own 
 
 hand ! (^Reads itpoji the staff. ) 
 "I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. 
 He that puts his trust in me shall not 
 
 fail!" 
 Yes, be it so ; — repent and be forgiven — 
 God and that staff are now thy only 
 
 guides. 
 
 \_He leaves HERBERT on the Moor. 
 
 Scene. — An e7ninence, a Beacon on the 
 SUV in lit. 
 'Lkc^, Wallace, Lennox, etc. etc. 
 Several of the Band {^confusedly'). But 
 
 patience ! 
 One of the Band. Curses on that Trai- 
 tor, Oswald ! — 
 Our Captain made a prey to foul device ! — 
 Len. {to Wal.) His tool, the wan- 
 dering Beggar, made last night 
 A plain confession, such as leaves no 
 
 doubt, 
 Knowing what otherwise we know too 
 
 well. 
 That she revealed the truth. Stand by me 
 
 now; 
 For rather would I have a nest of vipers 
 Between my breast-plate and my skin, 
 
 than make 
 Oswald my special enemy, if you 
 Deny me your support. 
 
 Lacy. We have been fooled — 
 
 But for the motive ? 
 
 Wal. Natures such as his 
 
 Spin motives out of their own bowels, 
 
 Lacy ! 
 I learned this when I was a Confessor. 
 I know him well; there needs no other 
 
 motive 
 Than that most strange incontinence in 
 crime 
 
 Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life 
 
 to him 
 And breath and being; where he cannot 
 
 govern. 
 He will destroy. 
 
 Lacy. To have been trapped like 
 
 moles ! — 
 Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for 
 
 motives : 
 There is no crime from which this man 
 
 would shrink; 
 He recks not human law; and I have 
 
 noticed 
 That often when the name of God is 
 
 uttered, 
 A sudden blankness overspreads his face. 
 Len. Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride 
 
 has built 
 Some uncouth superstition of its own. 
 Wal. I have seen traces of it. 
 Len. Once he headed 
 
 A band of Pirates in the Norway seas; 
 And when the King of Denmark sum- 
 moned him 
 To the oath of fealty, I well remember, 
 'Twas a strange answer that he made; he 
 
 said, 
 " I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in hea- 
 ven." 
 Lacy. He is no madman. 
 Wal. A most subtle doctor 
 
 Were that man, who could draw the line 
 
 that parts 
 Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from 
 
 Madness, 
 That should be scourged, not pitied. 
 
 Restless Minds, 
 Such Minds as find amid their fellow- 
 men 
 No heart that loves them, none that they 
 
 can love. 
 Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy 
 In dim relation to imagined Beings. 
 One of the Band. What if he mean to 
 
 offer up our Captain 
 An expiation and a sacrifice 
 To those infernal fiends ! 
 
 Wal. Now, if the event 
 
 Should be as Lennox has foretold, then 
 
 swear, 
 My Friends, his heart shall have as many 
 
 wounds 
 As there are daggers here. 
 
80 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Lacy. What need of sweating ! 
 
 One of the Band. Let us away ! 
 Another. Away ! 
 
 A third. Hark ! how the horns 
 
 Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the 
 vale. 
 Lacy. Stay you behind; and when the 
 sun is down, 
 Light up this beacon. 
 
 One of the Band. You shall be obeyed. 
 [ They go out together. 
 
 Scene. — The Wood on the edge of the 
 li/oor. MaRMADUKE {alone'). 
 Mar. Deep, deep and vast, vast be- 
 yond human thought, 
 Yet calm. — I could believe, that there 
 
 was here 
 The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, 
 Remembered terror, there is peace and 
 rest. 
 
 Enter Oswald. 
 Osw. Ha! my dear Captain. 
 Mar. A later meeting, Oswald, 
 
 Would have been better timed. 
 
 Osw. Alone, I see; 
 
 You have done your duty. I had hopes, 
 
 which now 
 I feel that you will justify. 
 
 Mar. I had fears. 
 
 From which I have freed myself — -.but 
 
 't is my wish 
 To be alone, and therefore we must part. 
 Osw. Nay, then — I am mistaken. 
 There's a weakness 
 About you still; you talk of solitude — 
 I am your friend. 
 
 Mar. What need of this assurance 
 At any time i and why given now ? 
 
 Osw. Because 
 
 You are now in truth my Master; you 
 
 have taught me 
 What there is not another living man 
 Had strength to teach; — and therefore 
 
 gratitude 
 % bold, and would relieve itself by praise. 
 Mar. Wherefore press this on me? 
 Osw. Because I feel 
 
 That you have shown, and by ct signal 
 
 instance. 
 How they who would be just must seek 
 
 the rule 
 By diving for it into their own bosoms. 
 
 To-day you have thrown off a tyranny 
 That lives but in the torpid acquiescence 
 Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny 
 Of the world's masters, with the'musty 
 
 rules 
 By which they uphold their craft from 
 
 age to age: 
 You have obeyed the only law that sense 
 Submits to recognize ; the immediate law, 
 From the clear light of circumstances, 
 
 flashed 
 Upon an independent Intellect. 
 Henceforth new prospects open on your 
 
 path; 
 Your faculties should grow with the 
 
 demand; 
 I still will be your friend, will cleave to 
 
 you 
 Through good and evil, obloquy and 
 
 scorn. 
 Oft as they dare to follow on your steps. 
 Mar. I would be left alone. 
 Osw. (^exuitingly) . I know your 
 
 motives ! 
 I am not of the world's presumptuous 
 
 judges. 
 Who damn where they can neither see nor 
 
 feel. 
 With a hard-hearted ignorance; your 
 
 struggles 
 I witnessed, and now hail your victory. 
 Mar. Spare me awhile that greeting. 
 Orel). It may be, 
 
 That some there are, squeamish half- 
 thinking cowards, 
 Who will turn pale upon you, call you 
 
 murderer, 
 And you will walk in solitude among them. 
 A mighty evil for a strong-built mind ! — 
 Join twenty tapers of unequal height 
 And light them joined, and you will see 
 
 the less 
 How 'twill burn down the taller; and 
 
 they all 
 Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude ! — 
 The Eagle lives in Solitude. 
 
 Mar. Even so, 
 
 The Sparrow so on the housetop, and I, 
 The weakest of God's creatures, stand 
 
 resolved 
 To abide the issue of my act, alone. 
 Os7u. iVow would you? — and for- 
 ever? — 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 S\ 
 
 My young Friend, 
 As time advances either we become 
 The prey or masters of our own past deeds. 
 Fellowship we musi have, willing or no; 
 And if good Angels fail, slack in their 
 
 duty, 
 Substitutes, turn our faces where we may. 
 Are still forthcoming ; some which, 
 
 though they bear 
 111 names, can render no ill services. 
 In recompense for what themselves re- 
 quired. 
 So meet extremes in this mysterious world. 
 And opposites thus melt into each other. 
 Afar. Time, since Man first drew 
 
 breath, has never moved 
 With such a weight upon his wings as 
 
 now; 
 But they will soon be lightened. 
 
 OsTsj. Ay, look up — 
 
 Cast round you your mind's eye, and you 
 
 will learn 
 Fortitude is the child of Enterprise : 
 Great actions move our admiration, chiefly 
 Because they carry in themselves an 
 
 earnest 
 That we can suffer greatly. 
 
 Afar. Very true. 
 
 Osw. Action is transitory — a step, a 
 
 blow, 
 The motion of a muscle — this way or 
 
 that — 
 'T is done, and in the after-vacancy 
 We wonder at ourselves like men be- 
 trayed : 
 Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark. 
 And shares the nature of infinity. 
 Mar. Truth — and I feel it. 
 Osw. What ! if you had bid 
 
 Eternal farewell to unmingled joy 
 And the light dancing of the thoughtless 
 
 heart ; 
 It is the toy of fools, and little fit 
 For such a world as this. The wise abjure 
 All thoughts whose idle composition lives 
 In the entire forgetfulness of pain. 
 — I see I have disturbed you. 
 
 Mar. By no means. 
 
 OsTV. Compassion ! — pity ! — pride 
 
 can do without them; 
 And what if you should never know them 
 
 more ! — 
 He is a puny soul who, feeling pain. 
 
 Finds ease because another feels it too. 
 If e'er I open out this heart of mine 
 It shall be for a nobler end — to teach 
 And not to purchase puling sympathy. 
 — Nay, you are pale. 
 
 Mar. It may be so. 
 
 Osw. Remorse — 
 
 It cannot live with thought; think on, 
 
 think on, 
 And it will die. What ! in this universe. 
 Where the least things control the great- 
 est, where 
 The faintest breath that breathes can 
 
 move a world; 
 What ! feel remorse, where, if a cat had 
 
 sneezed, 
 A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been 
 Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals. 
 Mar. Now , whither are you wandering ? 
 That a man 
 So used to suit his language to the time, 
 Should thus so widely differ from him- 
 self — 
 It is most strange. 
 
 Osui. Murder ! — what's in the word ! — 
 I have no cases by me ready made 
 To fit all deeds. Carry him to the 
 
 Camp ! — 
 A shallow project; — you of late have seen 
 More deeply, taught us that the institutes 
 Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation 
 Banished from human intercourse, exist 
 Only in our relations to the brutes 
 That make the fields their dwelling. If 
 
 a snake 
 Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask 
 A license to destroy him: our good 
 
 governors 
 Hedge in the life of every pest and plague 
 That bears the shape of man; and for 
 
 what purpose. 
 But to protect themselves from extirpa- 
 tion? — 
 This flimsy barrier you have overleaped. 
 Mar. My Office is fulfilled — the Man 
 is now 
 Delivered to the Judge of all things. 
 One/. Dead ! 
 
 Mar. I have borne my burthen to its 
 
 destined end. 
 Osw. This instant we'll return to our 
 companions — 
 Oh how I long to see their faces again ! 
 
82 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Enter Idonea, with Pilgrims, who con- 
 tinue their journey. 
 Idon. {after some time). What, Mar- 
 maduke ! now thou art mine for ever. 
 And Oswald, too ! ( To Marmaduke). 
 
 On will we to my Father 
 With the glad tidings which this day hath 
 
 brought; 
 We'll go together, and, such proof 
 
 received 
 Of his own rights restored, his gratitude 
 To God above will make him feel for ours. 
 Osw. I interrupt you ? 
 Idoti. Think not so. 
 
 Mar. Idonea, 
 
 That I should ever live to see this moment ! 
 Idon. Forgive me. — Oswald knows it 
 all — he knows, 
 Each word of that unhappy letter fell 
 As a blood drop from my heart. 
 
 Osw. 'T was even so. 
 
 Mar. I have much to say, but for whose 
 
 ear? — not thine. 
 Idon. Ill can I bear that look — Plead 
 for me, Oswald ! 
 Vou are my Father's Friend. 
 
 ( To Marmaduke). Alas, you know 
 not, 
 And never can you know, how much he 
 
 loved me. 
 Twice had he been to me a father, twice 
 Had given me breath, and was I not to be 
 His daughter, once his daughter ? could I 
 
 withstand 
 His pleading face, and feel his clasping 
 
 arms. 
 And hear his prayer that I would not for- 
 sake him 
 In his old age — [Hides her face. 
 
 Mar. Patience — Heaven grant me 
 patience ! — 
 She weeps, she weeps — my brain shall 
 
 burn for hours 
 Ere / can shed a tear. 
 
 Idon. I was a woman; 
 
 And, balancing the hopes that are the 
 
 dearest 
 To womankind with duty to my Father, 
 I yielded up those precious hopes, which 
 
 nought 
 On earth could else have wrested from 
 
 me ; — if erring. 
 Oh, let me be forgiven ! 
 
 Mar. I do forgive thee. 
 
 Idon. But take me to your arms — this 
 breast, alas ! 
 It throbs, and you have a heart that does 
 not feel it. 
 Mar. {exultingly') . She is innocent. 
 \^He embraces her. 
 Osw. {aside). Were I a Moralist, 
 
 I should make wondrous revolution here; 
 It were a quaint experiment to show 
 The beauty of truth — [^Addressing them. 
 I see I interrupt you; 
 I shall have business with you, Marma- 
 duke; 
 Follow me to the hostel. [Exit Oswald. 
 
 Idon. Marmaduke, 
 
 This is a happy day. My Father soon 
 Shall sun himself before his native doors; 
 The lame, the hungry, will be welcome 
 
 there. 
 No more shall he complain of wasted 
 
 strength, 
 Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying 
 
 heart; 
 His good works will be balm and life to 
 him. 
 Mar. This is most strange f — I know 
 not what it was. 
 But there was something which most 
 
 plainly said. 
 That thou wert innocent. 
 
 Idon. How innocent ! — 
 
 Oh heavens ! you've been deceived. 
 
 Mar. Thou art a Woman, 
 
 To bring perdition on the universe. 
 Idon. Already I've been punished to 
 the height 
 Of my offence. [Smiling affectionately . 
 
 I see you love me still, 
 The labors of my hand are still your joy; 
 Bethink you of the hour when on your 
 
 shoulder 
 I hung this belt. 
 
 [Pointing to the belt on which was 
 
 suspended HERBERT'S scrip. 
 Mar. Mercy of Heaven ! [ Sinks. 
 Idon. What ails you ! [Distractedly. 
 Mar. The scrip that held his food, 
 and I forgot 
 To give it back again ! 
 
 Idon. What mean your words? 
 
 Mar. I know not what I said' — all 
 may be well. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 S3 
 
 Idon. That smile hath life in it ! 
 Mar. This road is perilous; 
 
 I will attend you to a Hut that stands 
 Near the wood's edge — rest there to- 
 night, I pray you : 
 For me, I have business, as you heard, 
 
 with Oswald, 
 But will return to you by break of day. 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene. — A desolate prospect — a ridge of 
 
 rocks — a Chapel on the summit of one 
 
 ■ — Moon behind the rocks — night 
 
 stormy — irregular soutid of a Bell — 
 
 Herbert enters exhausted. 
 
 Her. That Chapel-bell in mercy 
 
 seemed to guide me, 
 
 But now it mocks my steps ; its fitful stroke 
 
 Can scarcely be the work of human hands. 
 
 Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such 
 
 There be who pray nightly before the 
 
 Altar. 
 Oh that I had but strength to reach the 
 
 place ! 
 My Child — my child — dark — dark — I 
 
 faint — • this wind — 
 These stifling blasts — God help me ! 
 Enter Eldred. 
 Eld. Better this bare rock, 
 
 Though it were tottering over a man's 
 
 head, 
 Than a tight case of dungeoa walls for 
 
 shelter 
 From such rough dealing. 
 
 [.4 moaning voice is heard. 
 
 Ha ! what sound is that? 
 
 Trees creaking in the wind (but none are 
 
 here) 
 Send forth such noises — and that weary 
 
 bell! 
 Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night 
 Is ringing it — 't would stop a Saint in 
 
 prayer, 
 And that — what is it? never was so'jnd 
 
 so like 
 A human groan. Ha! what is here? 
 
 Poor Man — 
 Murdered! alas! speak — speak, I am 
 
 your friend: 
 No answer — hush — lost wretch, he lifts 
 his hand 
 
 And lays it to his heart — (^Kneels to hinC). 
 
 I pray you speak ! 
 What has befallen you? 
 
 Her. {^feebly'). A stranger has done 
 
 this, 
 
 And in the arms of a stranger I must die. 
 
 Eld. Nay, think not so: come, let 
 
 me raise you up: \_Raises him. 
 
 This is a dismal place — well — that is 
 
 well — 
 I was too fearful — take me for your guide 
 And your support — my hut is not far off. 
 \_Draws hifji gently off the stage. 
 
 Scene. — A room in the Hostel. — M AR- 
 
 maduke and Oswald. 
 Mar. But for Idonea ! — I have cause 
 
 to think 
 That she is innocent. 
 
 Osw. Leave that thought awhile, 
 
 As one of those beliefs, which in their 
 
 hearts 
 Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no 
 
 better 
 Than feathers chnging to their points of 
 
 passion. 
 This day's event has laid on me the duty 
 Of opening out my story; you must hear 
 
 it, 
 And without further preface. — In my 
 
 youth. 
 Except for that abatement which is paid 
 By envy as a tribute to desert, 
 I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling 
 Of every tongue — as you are now. 
 
 You've heard 
 That I embarked for Syria. On our 
 
 voyage 
 Was hatched among the crew a foul 
 
 Conspiracy 
 Against my honor, in the which oui 
 
 Captain 
 Was, I believed, prime Agent. The 
 
 wind fell; 
 We lay becalmed week after week, until 
 The water of the vessel was exhausted; 
 I felt a double fever in my veins. 
 Yet rage suppressed itself; — to a deep 
 
 stillness 
 Did my pride tame my pride; — for man3f 
 
 days. 
 On a dead sea under a burning sky, 
 I brooded o'er my injuries, deserted 
 
84 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 By man and nature; — if a breeze had 
 
 blown, 
 It might have found its way into my 
 
 heart, 
 And I had been — no matter — do you 
 
 mark me? 
 Mar. Quick — to the point — if any 
 
 untold crime 
 Doth haunt your memory. 
 
 Osw. Patience, hear me further ! — 
 One day in silence did we drift at noon 
 By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and 
 
 bare; 
 No food was there, no drink, no grass, 
 
 no shade, 
 No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form 
 Inanimate large as the body of man. 
 Nor any living thing whose lot of life 
 Might stretch beyond the measure of one 
 
 moon. 
 To dig for water on the spot, the Captain 
 Landed with a small troop, myself being 
 
 one: 
 There I reproached him with his treachery. 
 Imperious at all times, his temper rose; 
 He struck me; and that instant had I 
 
 killed him, 
 And put an end to his insolence, but my 
 
 Comrades 
 Rushed in between us : then did I insist 
 (All hated him, and I was stung to mad- 
 ness) 
 That we should leave him there, alive ! — 
 
 we did so. 
 Mar. And he was famished? 
 Osiu. Naked was the spot; 
 
 Methinks I see it now — how in the sun 
 Its stony surface glittered like a shield; 
 And in that miserable place we left him. 
 Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures 
 Not one of which could help him while 
 
 alive, 
 Or mourn him dead. 
 
 Mar. A man by men cast o0. 
 
 Left without burial ! nay, not dead nor 
 
 dying. 
 But standing, walking, stretching forth 
 
 his arms, 
 In all things like ourselves, but in the 
 
 agony 
 With which he called fir mercy: and — 
 
 even so — 
 He was forsaken? 
 
 Osw, There is a power in sounds: 
 
 The cries he uttered might have stopped 
 
 the boat 
 That bore us through the water — 
 
 Mar. You returned 
 
 Upon that dismal hearing — did you not ? 
 
 Osw. Some scoffed at him with hellish 
 
 mockery, 
 
 And laughed so loud it seemed that the 
 
 smooth sea 
 Did from some distant region echo us. 
 Mar. We all are of one blood, our 
 veins are filled 
 At the same poisonous fountain ! 
 
 Osw. 'T was an island 
 
 Only by sufferance of the winds and waves, 
 Which with their foam could cover it at 
 
 will. 
 I know not how he perished; but the calm. 
 The same dead calm, continued many days. 
 Mar. But his own crime had brought 
 on him this doom, 
 His wickedness prepared it; these expe- 
 dients 
 Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault. 
 Osw. The man was famished, and was 
 
 innocent ! 
 Mar. Impossible ! 
 Osw. The man had never wronged me. 
 Mar. Banish the thought, crush it, and 
 be at peace. 
 His guilt was marked — these things 
 
 could never be 
 Were there not eyes that see, and for 
 
 good ends. 
 Where ours are baffled. 
 
 Osw. I had been deceived. 
 
 Mar. And from that hour the misera- 
 ble man 
 No more was heard of? 
 
 Osw. I had been betrayed. 
 
 Mar. And he found no deliverance ! 
 Osw. The Crew 
 
 Gave me a hearty welcome ; they had laid 
 The plot to rid themselves, at any cost. 
 Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. 
 So we pursued our voyage: when we 
 
 landed, 
 The tale was spread abroad; my power 
 
 at once 
 Shrunk from me; plan^ and schemes, 
 
 and iofty hopes — 
 All vanished. Igave way — do you auend? 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 85 
 
 Mar. The Crew deceived you ? 
 Osw. Nay, command yourself. 
 
 Mar. It is a dismal night — how the 
 
 wind howls ! 
 Ona. I hid my head within a Convent, 
 
 there 
 Lay passive as a dormouse in mid-winter. 
 That was no life for me — I was o'er- 
 
 thrown. 
 But not destroyed. 
 Mar. The proofs — you ought to have 
 
 seen 
 The guilt — have touched it — felt it at 
 
 your heart — 
 As I have done. 
 
 Osw. A fresh tide of Crusaders 
 
 Drove by the place of my retreat: three 
 
 nights 
 Did constant meditation dry my blood; 
 Three sleepless nights I passed in sound- 
 ing on. 
 Through words and things, a dim and 
 
 perilous way; 
 And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld 
 A slavery compared to which the dungeon 
 And clanking chains are perfect liberty. 
 You understand me — I was comforted; 
 I saw that every possible shape 6f action 
 Might lead to good — I saw it and burst 
 
 forth 
 Thirsting for some of those exploits that 
 
 fill 
 The earth for sure redemption of lost 
 
 peace. 
 [Marking MarmaduKE's counlenance.~\ 
 Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity 
 Subsided in a moment, like a wind 
 That drops down dead out of a sky it 
 
 vexed. 
 And yet I had within me evermore 
 A salient spring of energy; I mounted 
 From action up to action with a mind 
 That never rested — without meat or drink 
 Have I lived many days — my sleep was 
 
 bound 
 To purposes of reason — not a dream 
 But had a continuity and substance 
 That waking life had never power to 
 
 give. 
 Mar. O wretched Human-kind ! — 
 
 Until the mystery 
 Of all this world is solved, well may we 
 
 envy 
 
 The worm, that, underneath a stone 
 
 whose weight 
 Would crush the lion's paw with mortal 
 
 anguish. 
 Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, 
 
 in safety. 
 Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those 
 traitors? 
 Osw. Give not to them a thought. 
 From Palestine 
 We marched to Syria : oft I left the Camp, 
 When all that multitude of hearts was still, 
 And followed on, through woods of gloomy 
 
 cedar. 
 Into deep chasms troubled by roaring 
 
 streams; 
 Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed 
 The moonlight desert, and the moonlight 
 
 sea: 
 In these my lonely wanderings I per- 
 ceived 
 What mighty objects do impress their 
 
 forms 
 To elevate our intellectual being; 
 And felt, if aught on earth deserves a 
 
 curse, 
 'T is that worst principle of ill which 
 
 dooms 
 A thing so great to perish self-consumed. 
 — So much for my remorse ! 
 
 Alar. Unhappy Man ! 
 
 Osw. When from these forrr.s I turned 
 to contemplate 
 The World's opinions and her usages, 
 I seemed a Being who had passed alone 
 Into a region of futurity. 
 Whose natural element was freedom — 
 
 Mar. Stop — 
 
 I may not, cannot, follow thee. 
 
 Osw. You must. 
 
 I had been nourished by the sickly food 
 Of popular applause. I now perceived 
 That we are praised, only as men in us 
 Do recognize some image of themselves, 
 An abject counterpart of what they are, 
 Or the empty thing that they would wish 
 
 to be. 
 I felt that merit has no surer test 
 Than obloquy; that, if we wish to serve 
 The world in substance, not deceive by 
 
 show, 
 We must become obnoxious to its hate, 
 Or fear disguised in simulated scorn. 
 
86 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Mar. I pity, can forgive, you; but 
 
 those wretches — 
 That monstrous perfidy ! 
 
 Osw. Keep down your wrath. 
 
 False Shame discarded, spurious Fame 
 
 despised, 
 Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found 
 life stretched before me smooth as some 
 
 broad way 
 Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests 
 
 might spin 
 Their veil, but not for me — 't was in fit 
 
 place 
 Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been. 
 And in that dream had left my native land, 
 One of Love's simple bondsmen — the soft 
 
 chain 
 
 Was off forever; and the men, from whom 
 
 This liberation came, you would destroy: 
 
 Join me in thanks for their blind services. 
 
 Mar. 'T is a strange aching that, when 
 
 we would curse 
 And cannot. — You have betrayed me — 
 
 I have done — 
 I am content — I know that he is guilt- 
 less — 
 That both are guiltless, without spot or 
 
 stain, 
 Mutually consecrated. Poor old Man ! 
 And I had heart for this, because thou 
 
 lovedst 
 Her who from very infancy had been 
 Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood ! — 
 
 Together [ Turning to Oswald. 
 We propped his steps, he leaned upon us 
 
 both. 
 Osw. Ay, we are coupled by a chain 
 
 of adamant; 
 Let us be fellow-laborers, then, to enlarge 
 Man's intellectual empire. We subsist 
 In slavery ; all is slavery; we receive 
 Laws, but we ask not whence those laws 
 
 have come; 
 We need an inward sting to. goad us on. 
 Mar. Have you betrayed me? Speak 
 
 to that. 
 Osiv. The mask. 
 
 Which for a season I have stooped to wear, 
 Must be cast off. — Know then that I was 
 
 urged, 
 (For other impulse let it pass) was driven, 
 To seek for sympathy, because I saw 
 In you a mirror of my youthful self; 
 
 I would have made us equal once again. 
 But that was a vain hope. You have 
 
 struck home. 
 With a few drops of blood cut short the 
 
 business; 
 Therein forever you must yield to me. 
 But what is done will save you from the 
 
 blank 
 Of living without knowledge that you live : 
 Now you are suffering — for the future day, 
 'T is his who will command it. — Think of 
 
 my story — 
 Herbert is innocent. 
 
 Mar. {in afaintvoice, anddoubtingly'). 
 You do but echo 
 My own wild words? 
 
 Ona. Young Man, the seed must lie 
 Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest ; 
 'Tis Nature's law. What I have done in 
 
 darkness 
 I will avow before the face of day. 
 Herbert is innocent. 
 
 Mar. What fiend could prompt 
 
 This action? Innocent! — oh, breaking 
 
 heart ! — 
 Alive or dead, I'll find him. \_Exit, 
 
 Osw. Alive — perdition! \Exit. 
 
 Scene. — The inside of a poor Cottage. 
 Eleanor and Idonea seated. 
 Idon. The storm beats hard — Mercy for 
 poor or rich. 
 Whose heads are shelterless in such a night ! 
 A Voice without. Holla ! to bed, good 
 Folks, within ! 
 Elea. O save us ! 
 
 Idon. What can this mean? 
 Elea. Alas, for my poor husband ! — 
 We'll have a counting of our flocks to- 
 morrow; 
 The wolf keeps festival these stormy nights : 
 Be calm, sweet Lady, they are wassailers 
 [ The voices die away in the distance. 
 Re turning from their Feast — my heart beats 
 
 so — 
 A noise at midnight does so frighten me. 
 -Idon. Hush! [^Listening. 
 
 Elea. They are gone. On such a night 
 my husband. 
 Dragged from his bed, was cast into a 
 
 dungeon, 
 Where, hid from me, he counted many 
 years, 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 87 
 
 A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs — 
 Not even in theirs — whose brutal violence 
 So dealt with him. 
 
 Idon. I have a noble Friend 
 
 First among youths of knightly breeding, 
 
 One 
 Who lives but to protect the weak or 
 
 injured. 
 There again ! [Listening. 
 
 Elea. 'T is my husband's foot. Good 
 Eldred 
 Has a kind heart; but his imprisonment 
 Has made him fearful, and he'll never be 
 The man he was. 
 
 Idon. I will retire; — good night ! 
 
 \_She goes within. 
 Enter Eldred {hides a bundle'). 
 
 Eld. Not yet in bed, Eleanor ! — there 
 are stains in that frock which must be 
 washed out. 
 
 Elea. What has befallen you? 
 
 Eld. I am belated, and you must know 
 the cause — {speaking low') that is the blood 
 of an unhappy Man. 
 
 Elea. Oh ! we are undone forever. 
 
 Eld. Heaven forbid that Ishould lift my 
 hand against any man. Eleanor, I have 
 shed tears to-night, and it comforts me to 
 think of it. 
 
 Elea. Where, where is he? 
 
 Eld. I have done him no harm, but — 
 it will be forgiven me; it would not have 
 been so once. 
 
 Elea. You have not ^i^rzVc' any thing ? 
 You are no richer than when you left me? 
 
 Eld. Be at peace; I am innocent. 
 
 Elea. Then God be thanked — 
 
 \^A short pause ; she falls 
 upon his neck. 
 
 Eld. To-night I met with an old Man 
 lying stretched upon the ground — a sad 
 spectacle: I raised him up with a hope 
 that we might shelter and restore him. 
 Elea. {as if ready to run). Whereishe? 
 You were not able to bring him a// the way 
 with you; let us return, I can help you. 
 [ Eldred shakes his head. 
 
 Eld. He did not seem to wish for life : 
 as I was struggling on, by the light of the 
 moon I saw the stains of blood upon my 
 clothes — he waved his hand, as if it were 
 all useless; and I let him sink again to the 
 ground. 
 
 Elea. Oh that I had been by your 
 side ! 
 
 Eld. I tell you his hands and his body 
 were cold — how could I disturb his last 
 moments? he strove to turn from me as if 
 he wished to settle into sleep. 
 
 Elea. But, for the stains of blood — 
 
 Eld. He must have fallen, I fancy, for 
 his head was cut; but I think his malady 
 was cold and hunger. 
 
 Elea. Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able 
 to look up at this roof in storm or fair but 
 I shall tremble. 
 
 Eld. Is it not enough that my ill stars 
 have kept me abroad to-night till thishour ? 
 I come home, and this is my comfort ! 
 
 Elea. But did he say nothing which 
 might have set you at ease ? 
 
 Eld. I thought he grasped my hand 
 while he was muttering something about 
 his Child — his Daughter — {starting as if 
 he heard a noise). What is that? 
 
 Elea. Eldred, you are a father. 
 
 Eld. God knows what was in my heart, 
 and will not curse my son for my sake. 
 
 Elea. But you prayed by him? you 
 waited the hour of his release? 
 
 Eld. Thenight was wasting fast; I have 
 no friend; I am spited by the world — his 
 wound terrified me — if I had brought him 
 along with me, and he had died in my 
 arms ! — I am sure I heard something 
 breathing — and this chair ! 
 
 Elea. Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. 
 You will have nobody to close your eyes — 
 no hand to grasp your dying hand — I shall 
 be in my grave. A curse will attend us 
 all. 
 
 Eld. Have you forgot your own troubles 
 when I was in the dungeon? 
 
 Elea. And you left him alive? 
 
 Eld Alive ! — the damps of death were 
 upon him — he coy Id not have survived 
 an hour. 
 
 Elea. In the cold, cold night. 
 
 Eld. {in a savage tone). Ay, andhishead 
 was bare; I suppose you would have had 
 me lend my bonnet to cover it. — You will 
 never rest till I am brought to a felon's end. 
 
 Elea. Is there nothing to be done? 
 cannot we go to the Convent? 
 
 Eld. Ay, and say at once that I murdered 
 him ! 
 
88 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 Elea. Eldred, I know that ours is the 
 only house upon the Waste; let us take 
 heart; this Man may be rich; and could 
 he be saved by our means, his gratitude 
 may reward us. 
 
 Eld. 'T is all in vain. 
 
 Elea. But let us make the attempt. This 
 old Man may have a wife, and he may have 
 children — let us return to the spot; we 
 may restore him, and his eyes may yet open 
 upon those that love him. 
 
 Eld. He will never open them more; 
 even when he spoke to me, he kept them 
 firmly sealed as if he had been blind. 
 
 Idon. {rushing out'). It is, it is, my 
 Father — 
 
 Eld. We are betrayed {looking at 
 Idonea). 
 
 Elea. His Daughter ! — God have mercy ! 
 {turning to Idonea). 
 
 Idon. {sinking down') . Oh ! lift me up 
 and carry me to the place. 
 You are safe; the whole world shall not 
 harm you. 
 
 Elea. This Lady is his Daughter. 
 
 Eld. {moved). I'll lead you to the spot. 
 
 Idon. {springing up) . Alive! — you 
 heard him breathe? quick, 
 quick — [^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene. — -A wood on the edge of the TVaste. 
 Enter OSWALD and a Forester. 
 For. He leaned upon the bridge that 
 spans the glen, 
 And down into the bottom cast his eye. 
 That fastened there, as it would check the 
 current. 
 Osw. He listened too; did you not say 
 
 he listened? 
 For. As if there came such moaning 
 from the flood 
 As is heard often after stormy nights. 
 Osw. But did he utter nothing? 
 For. See him there ! 
 
 Marmaduke appearing. 
 Mar. Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged 
 freebooters; 
 That is no substance which ye settle on ! 
 For. His senses play him false; and 
 see, his arms 
 
 Outspread, as if to save himself from fall- 
 ing!— 
 Some terrible phantom I believe is now 
 Passing before him, such as God will not 
 Permit to visit any but a man 
 Who has been guilty of some horrid crime. 
 [Marmaduke disappears. 
 Osw. The game is up ! — 
 For. If it be needful. Sir, 
 
 I will assist you to lay hands upon him. 
 Osiv. No, no, my Friend, you may 
 pursue your business — 
 'T is a poor wretch of an unsettled mind. 
 Who has a trick of straying from his 
 
 keepers; 
 We must be gentle. Leave him to my 
 care. 
 
 [Exit Forester. 
 If his own eyes play false with him, these 
 
 freaks 
 Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine ; 
 The goal is reached. My Master shall 
 
 become 
 A shadow of myself — made by myself. 
 
 Scene. — The edge of the Moor. 
 Marmaduke and Eldred enter from 
 opposite sides. 
 Mar. {raising his eyes and perceiving 
 Eldred). In any corner of this 
 savage Waste, 
 Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old 
 Man? 
 Eld. I heard — 
 Mar. You heard him, where? when 
 
 heard him ? 
 Eld. As you know, 
 
 The first hours of last night were rough 
 
 with storm : 
 I had been out in search of a stray heifer; 
 Returning late, I heard a moaning sound; 
 Then, thinking that my fancy had de- 
 ceived me, 
 I hurried on, when straight a second 
 
 moan, 
 A human voice distinct, struck on my ear, 
 So guided, distant a few steps, I found 
 An aged Man, and such as you describe. 
 Mar. You heard ! — he called you to 
 him? Of all men 
 The best and kindest ! — but where is he ? 
 
 guide me, 
 That I may see him. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 E'l'l- On a ridge of rocks 
 
 A lonesorne Chapel stands, deserted now : 
 The bell is left, which no one dares re- 
 move; 
 And, when the stormy wind blows o'er 
 
 the peak, 
 It rings, as if a human hand were there 
 To pull the cord. I guess he must have 
 
 heard it; 
 And it had led him towards the precipice, 
 To climb up to the spot whence the sound 
 
 came; 
 But he had failed through weakness. 
 
 From his hand 
 His staff had dropped, and close upon the 
 
 brink 
 Of a small pool of water he was laid, 
 As if he had stooped to drink, and so re- 
 mained 
 Without the strength to rise. 
 
 Mar. Well, well, he lives. 
 
 And all is safe: what said he? 
 
 Eld. But few words : 
 
 He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, 
 Who, so he feared, would never see him 
 
 more; 
 And of a Stranger to him. One by whom 
 Hehad been sore misused ; but he forgave 
 The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are 
 
 troubled — 
 Perhaps you are his son ? 
 
 Mar. The All-seeing knows, 
 
 I did not think he had a living Child. — 
 But whither did you carry him? S 
 
 Eld. He was torn. 
 
 His head was bruised, and there was 
 blood about him — 
 Mar. That was no work of mine. 
 Eld. Nor was it mine. 
 
 Mar. But had he strength to walk? I 
 could have borne him 
 A thousand miles. 
 
 Eld, I am in poverty, 
 
 And know how busy are the tongues of 
 
 men; 
 My heart was wiUing, Sir, but I am one 
 Whose good deeds will not stand by their 
 
 own light; 
 And, though it smote me more than 
 
 words can tell, 
 I left him. 
 Mar. I believe that there are phan- 
 toms, 
 
 That in the shape of man do cross oui 
 
 path 
 On evil instigation, to make sport 
 Of our distress — and thou art one o) 
 
 them ! 
 But things substantial have so pressed on 
 me — 
 Eld. My wife and children came into 
 
 my mind. 
 Mar. OhMonster! Monster! there are 
 three of us, 
 And we shall howl together. 
 
 \_Afler a pause and in a feeble voiee. 
 
 I am deserted 
 
 At my worst need, my crimes have in a 
 
 net 
 (/bzWz'«^/oELDRED) Entangled this poor 
 man. — Where was it? where? 
 
 [Dragging him along. 
 Eld. 'T is needless; spare your vio- 
 lence. 
 His Daughter — 
 
 Mar. Ay, in the word a thousand scor- 
 pions lodge. 
 This old man had a Daughter. 
 
 Eld. To the spot 
 
 I hurried back with her. — O save me. 
 
 Sir, 
 From such a journey ! — there was a black 
 
 tree, 
 A single tree; she thought it was her 
 
 Father. — 
 Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again 
 For twenty lives. The dayhght dawned, 
 
 and now — 
 Nay; hear my tale, 't is fit that you should 
 
 hear it — 
 As we approached, a solitary crow 
 Rose from the spot; — the Daughter 
 
 clapped her hands. 
 And then I heard a shriek so terrible 
 
 [MarmaduKE shrinks bad. 
 The startled bird quivered upon the wing. 
 Afar. Dead, dead ! — 
 Eld. (^after a pause). A dismal mat- 
 ter. Sir, for me. 
 And seems the like for you; if 't is your 
 
 wish, 
 I'll lead you to his Daughter; but 't were 
 
 best 
 That she should be prepared; I'll go be- 
 fore. 
 A/ar. There will be need of preparation. 
 
90 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 [Eldred^o« off. 
 Elea. (^enters'). Master ! 
 
 Your limbs sink under you, shall I sup- 
 port you ? 
 Mar. (^taking her ami). Woman, I've 
 lent my body to the service 
 Which iiow thou tak'st upon thee. God 
 
 forbid 
 That thou shouldst ever meet a like occa- 
 sion 
 With such a purpose in thine heart as 
 mine was. 
 Elea. Oh, why have I to do with 
 things like these? [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene changes to the door of Eldred's 
 
 cottage — ^Idonea seated — -enter Eldrbd. 
 
 Eld. Your Father, Lady, from a wilful 
 
 hand 
 
 Has met unkindness; so indeed he told 
 
 me. 
 And you remember such was my report : 
 From what has just befallen me I have 
 
 cause 
 To fear the very worst. 
 
 Idon. My Father is dead; 
 
 Why dost thou come to me with words 
 like these? 
 Eld. A wicked Man should answer for 
 
 his crimes. 
 Idon. Thou seest me what I am. 
 Eld. It was most heinous, 
 
 And doth call out for vengeance. 
 
 Idoti. Do not add, 
 
 I prithee, to the harm thou'st don? al- 
 ready. 
 Eld. Hereafter you will thank me for 
 this service. 
 Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain 
 
 proofs 
 Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt. 
 Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were 
 You should prepare to meet him. 
 I Idofi. I have nothing 
 
 To do with others ; help me to my Father — 
 \_She turns and sees Marmaduke lean- 
 ing on Eleanor — throws herself 
 upon his neck., and after some time., 
 In joy I met thee, but a few hours past; 
 And thus we meet again; one human stay 
 Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so. 
 Alar. In such a wilderness — to see no 
 thing. 
 
 No, not the pitying moon ! 
 
 Idon. And perish so. 
 
 Mar. Without a dog to moan for him. 
 Idon. Think not of it, 
 
 But enter there and see him how he sleeps. 
 Tranquil as he had died in his own bed. 
 Mar. Tranquil — why not ? 
 Idon. Oh, peace ! 
 
 Mar. He is at peace; 
 
 His body is at rest : there was a plot, 
 A hideous plot, against the soul of man : 
 It took effect — and yet I baffled it. 
 In some degree. 
 
 Idon. Between us stood, I thought, 
 A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven 
 For both our needs; must I, and in thy 
 
 presence. 
 Alone partake of it ? — Beloved Marma- 
 duke ! 
 Mar. Give me a reason why the wisest 
 
 thing 
 That the earth owns shall never choose 
 
 to die. 
 But some one must be near to count his 
 
 groans. 
 The wounded deer retires to solitude. 
 And dies in solitude : all things but man. 
 All die in solitude. 
 
 [Moving towards the cottage door. 
 Mysterious God, 
 If she had never lived I had not done it ! — 
 Idon. Alas, the thought of such a cruel 
 death 
 Has overwhelmed him. — I must follow. 
 Eld. Lady ! 
 
 You will do well; (^she goes) unjust sus- 
 picion may 
 Cleave to this Stranger: if, upon his 
 
 entering. 
 The dead Man heave a groan, or from his 
 
 side 
 Uplift his hand — that would be evidence- 
 Elea. Shame ! Eldred, shame ! 
 Mar. (^both retur^iing). The dead 
 have but one face {to himself). 
 And such a Man — so meek and unoffend- 
 ing — 
 Helpless and harmless as a babe : a Man, 
 By obvious signal to the world's protec- 
 tion. 
 Solemnly dedicated — to decoy him! — 
 Idon. Oh, had you seen him living ! — 
 Mar. I (so filled 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 91 
 
 With horror in this world) am unto thee 
 The thing most precious, that it now 
 
 contains: 
 Therefore through me alone must be 
 
 revealed 
 By whom thy Parent was destroyed, 
 
 Idonea ! 
 I have the proofs ! — 
 
 Idon. O miserable Father ! 
 
 Thou didst command me to bless all man- 
 kind; 
 Nor to this moment, have I ever wished 
 Evil to any living thing; but hear me, 
 Hear me, ye Heavens ! — (^kneeling) — 
 
 may vengeance haunt the fiend 
 For this most cruel murder : let him live 
 And move in terror of the elements; 
 The thunder send him on his knees to 
 
 prayer 
 In the open streets, and let him think he 
 
 sees. 
 If e'er he entereth the house of God, 
 The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his 
 
 head; 
 And let him, when he would lie down at 
 
 night. 
 Point to his wife the blood-stains on his 
 
 pillow ! 
 Ma?-. My voice was silent, but my 
 
 heart hath joined thee. 
 Idon. {leaning on Marmaduke). Left 
 
 to the mercy of that savage Man ! 
 How could he call upon his Child ! — O 
 
 Friend ! [ Turns to Marmaduke. 
 My faithful true and only Comforter. 
 Mar. Ay, come to me and weep. 
 
 {He kisses her.') ( JTs Eldred. ) 
 
 Yes, Varlet, look, 
 The devils at such sights do clap their 
 
 hands. 
 
 [Eldred retires alarmed. 
 Idon. Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is 
 
 deadly pale; 
 Hast thou pursued the monster? 
 
 Mar. I have found him. — 
 
 Oh ! would that thou hadst perished in 
 
 the flames ! 
 Idon, Here art thou, then can I be 
 
 desolate? — 
 Mar. There was a time, when this pro- 
 tecting hand 
 Availed against the mighty; never more 
 Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine. 
 
 Idan. Wild words for me to hear, for 
 
 me, an orphan 
 Committed to thy guardianship by 
 
 Heaven; 
 And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me 
 
 hope. 
 In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine 
 For closer care; — here, is no malady. 
 
 [ Taking his arm. 
 Mar. There, z> a malady — 
 {Striking his heart and forehead). And 
 
 here, and here, 
 A mortal malady. — I am accurst : 
 All nature curses me, and in my heart 
 Thy curse is fixed; the truth must be 
 
 laid bare. 
 It must be told, and borne. I am the man, 
 (Abused, betrayed, but how it matters 
 
 not) 
 Presumptuous above all that ever 
 
 breathed, 
 Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person 
 Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did 
 
 become 
 An instrument of Fiends. Through me, 
 
 through me 
 Thy Father perished. 
 
 Idon. Perished — by what mischance? 
 Mar. Beloved ! — if J dared, so would 
 
 I call thee — 
 Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen 
 
 heart, 
 Theiextremes of suffering meet in absolute 
 
 peace. \_IIe gives her a letter. 
 
 Idon. {reads). "Be not surprised if 
 you hear that some signal judgment has 
 befallen the man who calls himself your 
 father; he is now with me, as his signa- 
 ture will show : abstain from conjecture 
 till you see me. "Herbert. 
 
 "Marmaduke." 
 The writing Oswald's; the signature my 
 
 Father's: 
 {Looks steadily at the paper). And here is 
 
 yours, — or do my eyes deceive 
 
 me? 
 You have then seen my Father? 
 
 Mar. He has leaned 
 
 Upon this arm. 
 
 Idon. You led him towards the Con- 
 vent? 
 Mar. That Convent was Stone-Arthur 
 
 Castle. Thither 
 
92 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 We were his guides. I on that night 
 
 resolved 
 That he should wait thy coming till the day 
 Of resurrection. 
 
 Idon. Miserable Woman, 
 
 Too quickly moved, too easily giving way, 
 I put denial on thy suit, and hence. 
 With the disastrous issue of last night, 
 Thy perturbation, and these frantic words. 
 Be calm, I pray thee ! 
 
 Mar. Oswald — 
 
 Idon. Name him not. 
 
 Enter female Beggar. 
 Beg. And he is dead ! — that Moor — 
 
 how shall I cross it ? 
 By night, by day, never shall I be able 
 To travel half a mile alone. — Good Lady ! 
 Forgive me ! — Saints forgive me. Had 
 
 I thought 
 It would have come to this ! — 
 
 Jdon. What brings you hither? speak ! 
 Beg. (^pointing to M.A.'S.TAKDVVX). This 
 
 innocent Gentleman. Sweet 
 
 heavens ! I told him 
 Such tales of your dead Father ! — God 
 
 is my judge. 
 I thought there was no harm : but that 
 
 bad Man, 
 He bribed me with his gold, and looked 
 
 so fierce. 
 Mercy ! I said I know not what — oh 
 
 pity me — 
 I said, sweet Lady, you were not his 
 
 Daughter — 
 Pity me, I am haunted; — ^ thrice this day 
 My conscience made me wish to be 
 
 struck blind; 
 And then I would have prayed, and had 
 
 no voice. 
 Ido?t. (/o Marmaduke). Was it my 
 
 Father? — no, no, no, for he 
 Was meek and patient, feeble, old and 
 
 blind. 
 Helpless, and loved me dearer than his 
 
 life. 
 — But hear me. For one question, I have 
 
 a heart 
 That will sustain me. Did you murder 
 
 him? 
 Mar. No, not by stroke of arm. But 
 
 learn the process : 
 Proof after proof was pressed upon me; 
 
 guilt 
 
 Made evident, as seemed, by blacker 
 
 guilt. 
 Whose impious folds enwrapped even 
 
 thee; and truth 
 And innocence, embodied in his looks, 
 His words and tones and gestures, did but 
 
 serve 
 With me to aggravate his crimes, and 
 
 heaped 
 Ruin upon the cause for which they 
 
 pleaded. 
 Then pity crossed the path of my reSolve : 
 Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and 
 
 cast, 
 Idonea ! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal 
 Of the bleak Waste — left him — and so 
 
 he died ! — 
 [Idonea sinks senseless; Beggar, 
 Eleanor, etc., crowd round, and 
 bear her off. 
 Why may we speak these things, and do 
 
 no more; 
 Why should a thrust of the arm have such 
 
 a power, 
 And words that tell these things be heard 
 
 in vain? 
 She is not dead. Why! — if I loved 
 
 this Woman, 
 I would take care she never woke again; 
 But she WILL wake, and she will weep 
 
 for me, 
 And say, no blame was mine — and so, 
 
 poor fool. 
 Will waste her curses on another name. 
 S^He walks about distractedly. 
 Enter Oswald. 
 Osrw. (^to hitnself^ . Strong to o'erturn, 
 
 strong also to build up. 
 
 [ To Marmaduke. 
 The starts and sallies of our last encounter 
 Were natural enough; but that, I trust. 
 Is all gone by. You have cast off the 
 
 chains 
 That fettered your nobility of mind — 
 Delivered heart and head ! 
 
 Let us to Palestine; 
 This is a paltry field for enterprise. 
 Mar. Ay, what shall we encountet 
 
 next? This issue — 
 'T was nothing more than darkness deep- 
 ening darkness, 
 And weakness crowned with the impo- 
 tence of death ! — 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 93 
 
 Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient 
 
 (^ironically"). 
 Start not ! — here is another face hard by; 
 Come, let us tal-ie a peep at both to- 
 gether. 
 And, with a voice at which the dead will 
 
 quake, 
 Resound the praise of your morality — 
 Of this too much. 
 
 [/Jrazywi^OswALD towards the Cottage 
 
 — ■ stops short at the door. 
 
 Men are there, millions, Oswald, 
 Who with bare hands would have plucked 
 
 out thy heart 
 And flung it to the dogs: but I am 
 
 raised 
 Above, or sunk below, all further sense 
 Of provocation. Leave me, with the 
 
 weight 
 Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy 
 
 heart, 
 Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. 
 Coward I have been; know, there lies 
 
 not now 
 Within the compass of a mortal thought, 
 A deed that I would shrink from; — but 
 
 to endure. 
 That is my destiny. May it be thine: 
 Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth 
 To feed remorse, to welcome every sting 
 Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. 
 When seas and continents shall lie be- 
 tween us — 
 The wider space the better ■ — we may 
 
 find 
 In such a course fit links of sympathy. 
 An incommunicable rivalship 
 Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our 
 
 view. 
 [ Confused voices — several of the band 
 enter — rush upon OSWALD, and 
 seize hi7Ji. 
 One of them. I would have dogged him 
 
 to the jaws of hell — 
 Osw. Ha! is it so? — That vagrant 
 
 Hag ! — this comes 
 Of having left a thing like her alive ! 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Several voices. Despatch him ! 
 
 Osw. If I pass beneath a rock 
 
 And shout, and, with the echo of my voice. 
 
 Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it 
 
 crush me, 
 
 I die without dishonor. Famished, 
 
 starved, 
 A Fool and Coward blended to my wish \ 
 \_S miles scornfully and exultingly at 
 
 Marmaduke. 
 I'Val. 'T is done ! (^Stabs hini). 
 Another of the band. The ruthless 
 
 Traitor ! 
 Mar. A rash deed ! — 
 
 With that reproof I do resign a station 
 Of which I have been proud. 
 
 Wil. {approachinglAAKUPLmKE). O 
 
 my poor Master ! 
 Mar. Discerning Monitor, my faithful 
 Wilfred, 
 Why art thou here? 
 
 [ Turning to WALLACE. 
 
 Wallace, upon these Borders, 
 
 Many there be whose eyes will not want 
 
 cause 
 To weep that I am gone. Brothers in 
 
 arms ! 
 Raise on that dreary Waste a monument 
 That may record my story : nor let 
 
 words — 
 Few must they be, and delicate in their 
 
 touch 
 As light itself — be there withheld from 
 
 Her 
 Who, through most wicked arts, was 
 
 made an orphan 
 By One who would have died a thousand 
 
 times. 
 To shield her from a moment's harm. To 
 
 you, 
 Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the 
 
 Lady, 
 By lowly nature reared, as if to make 
 
 her 
 In all things worthier of that noble birth. 
 Whose long-suspended rights are now on 
 
 the eve 
 Of restoration : with your tenderest care 
 Watch over her, I pray — sustain her — 
 Several of the band (^eagerly"). Captain ! 
 Mar. No more of that; in silence hear 
 my doom: 
 A hermitage has furnished fit relief 
 To some offenders : other penitents, 
 Less patient in their wretchedness, have 
 
 fallen. 
 Like the old Roman, on their own sword's 
 point. 
 
94 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 
 
 They had their choice: a wanderer must 
 
 The Spectre of that innocent Man, my 
 
 guide. 
 No human ear shall ever hear me speak; 
 No human dwelling ever give me food, 
 Or sleep, or rest : but, over waste and 
 
 wild. 
 In search of nothing, that this earth can 
 
 give. 
 But expiation, will I wander on — 
 A Man by pain and thought compelled to 
 
 live, 
 Yet loathing lijp — till anger is appeased 
 In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to 
 
 die. 
 ■795-96. 1842. 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 
 
 This arose out of my observation of the affect- 
 ing music of these birds hanging in this way in 
 the London streets during the freshness and still- 
 ness of the Spring morning. 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when 
 
 daylight appears, 
 Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has 
 
 sung for three years: 
 Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and 
 
 has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the 
 
 Bird. 
 
 'T is a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? 
 
 She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 
 Bright volumes of vapor through Loth- 
 
 bury glide, 
 And a river flows on through the vale of 
 
 Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of 
 
 the dale, 
 Down which she so often has tripped 
 
 with her pail; 
 And a single small cottage, a nest like a 
 
 dove's, 
 The one only dwelling on earth that she 
 
 loves. 
 
 She looks, and her heart is in heaven : 
 but they fade, 
 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the 
 
 shade : 
 The streair. will not flow, and the hill 
 
 will not rise. 
 And the colors have all passed away 
 
 from her eyes ! 
 1797. 1800. 
 
 THE BIRTH OF LOVE. 
 
 Translated from some French stanzas by 
 Francis Wrangham, and printed in " Poems by 
 Francis Wrangham, M.A." 
 
 When Love was born of heavenly line. 
 
 What dire intrigues disturbed Cythera's 
 
 joy! 
 
 Till Venus cried, " A mother's heart is 
 
 mine; 
 
 None but myself shall nurse my boy." 
 
 But, infant as he was, the child 
 
 In that divine embrace enchanted lay; 
 
 And, by the beauty of the vase beguiled, 
 Forgot the beverage — and pined away. 
 
 ' ' And must my offspring languish in my 
 sight ? ' ' 
 (Alive to all a mother's pain, 
 The Queen of Beauty thus her court 
 addressed) 
 " No: Let the most discreet of all my 
 train 
 Receive him to her breast : 
 Think all, he is the God of young delight. " 
 
 Then TENDERNESS with Candor joined, 
 And Gaiety the charming office 
 sought ; 
 Nor even Delicacy stayed behind: 
 
 But none of those fair Graces brought 
 Wherewith to nurse the child — and still 
 
 he pined. 
 Some fond hearts to Compliance seemed 
 inclined; 
 But she had surely spoiled the boy : 
 And sad experience forbade a thought 
 On the wild Goddess of Voluptuous Joy. 
 
 Long undecided lay th' important choice. 
 Till of the beauteous court, at length, a 
 voice 
 
A NIGHT-PIECE — WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 9S 
 
 Pronounced the name of Hope: — The 
 
 conscious child 
 Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. 
 
 'T is said Enjoyment (who averred 
 The charge belonged to her alone) 
 
 Jealous that Hope had been preferred 
 Laid snares to make the babe her own. 
 
 Of Innocence the garb she took, 
 The blushing mien and downcast look; 
 
 And came her services to proffer: 
 And Hope (what has not Hope believed ! ) 
 By that seducing air deceived. 
 
 Accepted of the offer. 
 
 It happened that, to sleep inclined. 
 Deluded Hope for one short hour 
 To that false Innocence's power 
 
 Her little charge consigned. 
 
 The Goddess then her lap with sweet- 
 meats filled 
 And gave, in handfuls gave, the treach- 
 erous store : 
 A wild delirium first the infant thrilled; 
 But soon upon her breast he sunk — 
 
 to wake no more. 
 1795. 1S42. 
 
 A NIGHT-PIECE. 
 
 Composed on the road between Nether Stowey 
 and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect 
 the very moment when I was struck, as described, 
 — "He looks up — the clouds are split," etc. 
 
 — The sky is overcast 
 With a continuous cloud of texture close, 
 Heavy and wan, all whitened by the 
 
 Moon, 
 Which through that veil is indistinctly 
 
 seen, 
 A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
 So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls. 
 Checkering the ground — from rock, 
 
 plant, tree, or tower. 
 At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
 Startles the pensive traveller while he 
 
 treads 
 His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 
 Bent earthwards; he looks up — the 
 
 clouds are split 
 
 Asunder, — and above his head he sees 
 The clear Moon, and the glory of the 
 
 heavens. 
 There, in a black-blue vault she sails 
 
 along. 
 Followed by multitudes of stars, that, 
 
 small 
 And sharp, and bright, along the dark 
 
 abyss 
 Drives as she drives : how fast they wheel 
 
 away. 
 Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree, 
 But they are silent; — still they roll along 
 Immeasurably distant; and the vault. 
 Built round by those white clouds, enor- 
 mous clouds, 
 Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
 At length the Vision closes; and the 
 
 mind. 
 Not undisturbed by the delight it feels. 
 Which slowly settles into peaceful calm. 
 Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 
 179S. 1815. 
 
 6 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Written at Alfoxden in the spring of 1798, 
 under drcLimstances somewhat remarkable. The 
 little girl who is the heroine I met within the area 
 of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793. Having left 
 the Isle of Wight and crossed Salisbury Plain, as 
 mentioned in the preface to " Guilt and Sorrow," 
 I proceeded by Bristol up the Wye, and so on to 
 North Wales, to the Vale of Clwydd, where I 
 spent my summer under the roof of the father of 
 my friend, Robert Jones. In reference to this 
 Poem I will here mention one of the most re- 
 markable facts in my ov^-n poetic history and that 
 of Mr. Coleridge. In tlie spring of the year 1798, 
 he, my sister, and myself, started from Alfoxden, 
 pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit 
 Lenton and the valley of Stones near it ; and as 
 our united funds were very small, we agreed to 
 defray the expenses of the tour by writing a poem, 
 to be sent to the New Monthly Magazine set up 
 by Phillips the Bookseller, and edited by Dr. 
 Aikin. Accordingly we set off and proceeded 
 along the Quantock Hills towards Watchet, and 
 in the course of this walk was planned the poem 
 of the " Ancient Mariner," founded on a dream, 
 as Mr. Coleridge said, of bis friend, Mr. Cruik- 
 shank. Much the gi-eatest part of the story was 
 Mr. Coleridge's invention; but certain parts I - 
 myself suggested : —for example, some crime waa 
 to be committed which should bring upon the old 
 
96 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to 
 call him, the spectral persecution, as a conse- 
 quence of that crime, and his own wanderings. 
 I had been reading in Shelvock's Voyages a day 
 or two before that while doubling Cape Horn 
 they frequently saw Albatrosses in that latitude, 
 the largest sort of sea-fowl, some extending tlieir 
 wings twelve or fifteen feet. " Suppose," said I, 
 *' you represent him as having killed one of these 
 birds on entering the South Sea, and that the 
 tutelary Spirits of those regions take upon them 
 to avenge the crime." The incident was tliought 
 fit for the purpose and adopted accordingly. I 
 also suggested the navigation of the ship by the 
 dead men, but do not recollect that I had any- 
 thing more to do with the scheme of the poem. 
 The Gloss with which it was subsequently accom- 
 panied was not thought of by either of us at the 
 time ; at least, not a hint of it was given to me, 
 and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous after- 
 thought. We began the composition together on 
 that, to me, memorable evening. 1 furnished two 
 or three lines at the beginning of the poem, in 
 particular : — 
 
 " And listened like a three years' child; 
 The Mariner had his will." 
 These trifling contributions, all but one (which 
 Mr. C. has with unnecessary scrupulosity re- 
 corded) slipt out of his mind as they well might. 
 As we endeavored to proceed conjointly (I speak 
 of the same evening) our respective manners 
 proved so widely different that it would have 
 been quite presumptuous in me to do anything 
 but separate from an undertaking upon which I 
 could only have been a clog. We returned after 
 a few days from a delightful tour, of which I have 
 many pleasant, and some of them droll-enough, 
 recollections. We returned by Diilverton to 
 Alfoxden. The "Ancient Mariner" grew and 
 grew till it became too important for our first 
 object, which was limited to our expectation of 
 five pounds, and we began to talk of a Volume, 
 which was to consist, as Mr, Coleridge has told 
 the world, of poems chiefly on supernatural sub- 
 jects taken from common life, but looked at, as 
 much as might be, through an imaginative 
 medium. Accordingly I wrote '* The Idiot Boy," 
 " Her Eyes are wild," etc., " We are Seven," 
 " The Thorn," and some others. To return to 
 " We are Seven," the piece that called forth this 
 note, I composed it while walking in the grove at 
 Alfoxden. My friends will not deem it too tri- 
 fling to relate that while walking to and fro I com- 
 posed the last stanza first, having begun with the 
 last line. When it was all but finished, I came 
 in and recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, 
 and said, " A prefatory stanza must be added, 
 and I should sit down to our little tea-m^eal wi*-'i 
 
 greater pleasure if my task were finished." I 
 mentioned in substance what I wished to be ex- 
 pressed, and Coleridge immediately threw off the 
 stanza thus : — 
 
 " A little child, dear brother Jem," — 
 I objected to the rhyme, " dear brother Jem," as 
 being ludicrous, but we all enjoyed the joke of 
 
 hitching in our friend, James T 's name, who 
 
 was familiarly called Jem. He was the brother 
 of the dramatist, and this reminds me of an anec- 
 dote which it may be worth while here to notice. 
 The said Jem got a sight of the Lyrical Ballads 
 as it was going through the press at Bristol, dur- 
 ing which time I was residing in that city. One 
 evening he came to me with a grave face, and 
 said, "Wordsworth, I have seen the volume that 
 Coleridge and you are about to publish. There 
 is one poem in it which I earnestly entreat you 
 will cancel, for, if published, it will make yon 
 everlastingly ridiculous." I answered that I felt 
 much obliged by the interest he took in my good 
 name as a writer, and begged to know what was 
 the unfortunate piece he alluded to. He said, 
 " It is called ' We are Seven.' " Nay! said I, 
 that shall take its chance, however, and he left 
 me in despair. I have only to add that in the 
 spring of 1841 I revisited Goodrich Castle, not 
 having seen that part of the Wye since I met the 
 little Gill there in 1793. It would have given me 
 greater pleasure to have found in the neighbor- 
 ing hamlet traces of one who had interested me 
 so much; but that was impossible, as unfortu- 
 nately I did not even know her name. The ruin, 
 from its position and features, is a most impres- 
 sive object. I could not but deeply regret that 
 its solemnity was impaired by a fantastic new 
 Castle set up on a projection of the same ridge, as 
 if to show how far modern art can go in surpass- 
 ing all that could be done by antiquity and nature 
 with their united graces, remembrances, and 
 associations. 
 
 — A SIMPLE Child, 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death? 
 
 I met a little cottage Girl: 
 She was eight years old, she said; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air, 
 And she was wildly clad : 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair; 
 — Her beauty made me glad. 
 
ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. 
 
 97 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
 How many may you be? " 
 " How many? Seven in all," she said. 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And where are they? I pray you tell." 
 She answered, " Seven are we; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 "Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 My sister and my brother; 
 And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 "You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
 Sweet Maid, how this may be." 
 
 Then did the little Maid reply, 
 "Seven boys and girls are we; 
 Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 Beneath the church-yard tree." 
 
 "You run about, my little Maid, 
 Your limbs they are alive; 
 If two are in the church-yard laid, 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 "Their graves are green, they may be 
 
 seen," 
 The little Maid replied, 
 " Twelve steps or more from my mother's 
 
 door, 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 ■' My stockings there I often knit. 
 My kerchief there I hem; 
 And there upon the ground I sit. 
 And sing a song to them. 
 
 "And often after sunset. Sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my httle porringer. 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 "The first that died was sister Jane; 
 In bed she moaning lay. 
 Till God released her of her pain; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the church-yard she was laid; 
 And, when the grass was dry, 
 Together round her grave we played. 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the ground was white with 
 
 snow. 
 And I could run and slide. 
 My brother John was forced to go. 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 " How many are you, then," said I, 
 " If they two are in heaven? " 
 Quick was the little Maid's reply, 
 "O Master! we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead; those two are dead ! 
 Their spirits are in heaven ! " 
 'T was throwing words away; for still 
 The little Maid would have her will. 
 And said, "Nay, we are seven I " 
 1798. ^793. 
 
 ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. 
 
 " Retine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges." 
 
 — EUSEBIUS. 
 
 This was suggested in front of Alfoxden. The 
 Boy was a son of my friend, Basil Montagu, ■who 
 had been two or three years under our care. The 
 name of Kilve is from a village on the Bristol 
 Channel, about a mile from Alfoxden; and the 
 name of Liswyn Farm was taken from a beautiful 
 spot on the Wye. When Mr. Coleridge, my 
 sister, and I, had been visiting the famous John 
 Thelwall, who had taken refuge from politics, 
 after a trial for high treason, with a view to bring 
 up his family by the profits of agriculture, which 
 proved as unfortunate a speculation as that he 
 had fled from, Coleridge and he had both been 
 public lecturers; Coleridge mingling, with his 
 politics, Theology, from which the other elocu- 
 tionist abstained, unless it were for the sake of 
 a sneer. This quondam community of public 
 employment induced Thelwall to visit Coleridge 
 at Nether Stowey, where he fell in my way. He 
 really was a man of extraordinary talent, an 
 affectionate husband, and a good father. Though 
 brought up in the City, he was truly sensible of 
 the beauty of natural objects. I remember once, 
 when Coleridge, he, and I were seated together 
 upon the turf on the brink of a stream in the 
 most beautiful part of the most beautiful glen of 
 Alfoxden, Coleridge exclaimed, "This is a place 
 
THE THORN. 
 
 to reconcile one to all the jarrings and conflicts 
 of the wide world." — " Nay," said Thelwall, " to 
 make one forget them altogether." The visit of 
 this man to Coleridge was, as I believe Coleridge 
 has related, the occasion of a spy being sent by 
 Government to watch our proceedings, which 
 were, I can say with truth, such as the world at 
 large would have thought ludicrously harmless. 
 
 I HAVE a boy of five years old; 
 His face is fair and fresh to see; 
 His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
 And dearly he loves me. 
 
 One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 
 Our quiet home all full in view. 
 And held such intermitted talk 
 As we are wont to do. 
 
 My thoughts on former pleasures ran; 
 I thought of Kilve's delightful shore. 
 Our pleasant home when spring began, 
 A long, long year before. 
 
 A day it was when I could bear 
 Some fond regrets to entertain; 
 With so much happiness to spare, 
 I could not feel a pain. 
 
 The green earth echoed to the feet 
 Of lambs that bounded through the glade. 
 From shade to sunshine, and as fleet 
 From sunshine back to shade. 
 
 Birds warbled round me — and each trace 
 Of inward sadness had its charm; 
 Kilve, thought I, was a favored place, 
 And so is Liswyn farm. 
 
 My boy beside me tripped, so slim 
 And graceful in his rustic dress ! 
 And, as we talked, I questioned him. 
 In very idleness. 
 
 " Now tell me, had you rather be," 
 
 I said, and took him by the arm, 
 
 " On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green 
 
 sea, 
 Or here at Liswyn farm ? ' ' 
 
 In careless mood he looked at me. 
 While still I held him by the arm, 
 And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be 
 Than here at Liswyn farm." 
 
 "Now, little Edward, say why so: 
 My little Edward, tell me why." — 
 " I cannot tell, I do not know." — 
 "Why, this is strange," said I; 
 
 " For, here are woods, hills smooth and 
 
 warm: 
 There surely must some reason be 
 Why you would change sweet Liswyn 
 
 farm 
 For Kilve by the green sea." 
 
 At this, my boy hung down his head. 
 He blushed with shame, nor made reply: 
 And three times to the child I said, 
 " Why, Edward, tell me why? " 
 
 His head he raised — there was in sight, 
 It caught his eye, he saw it plain — ■ 
 Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
 A broad and gilded vane. 
 
 Then did the boy his tongue unlock, 
 And eased his mind with this reply : 
 "At Kilve there was no weather-cock; 
 And that's the reason why." 
 
 O dearest, dearest boy ! my heart 
 For better lore would seldom yearn. 
 Could I but teach the hundredth part 
 Of what from thee I learn. 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 THE THORN. 
 
 Written at Alfoxden. Arose out of my observ- 
 ing, on the ridge of Quantock Hill, on a stormy 
 day, a thorn wiiich I had often passed, in calm and 
 bright weather, without noticing it. I said to 
 myself, " Cannot I by some invention do as much 
 to make this Thorn permanently an impressive 
 object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this 
 moment?" I began the poem accordingly, and 
 composed it with great rapidity. Sir George 
 Beaumont painted a picture from it which Wilkie 
 thought his best. He gave it me ; though when 
 he saw it several times at Rydal Mount after- ' 
 wards, he said, '*I could make a better, and 
 would liketo paint the same subject over again." 
 The sky in this picture is nobly done, but it re- 
 minds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, 
 however, of any consequence is the female figwfe, 
 
THE THORN. 
 
 99 
 
 which is too old and decrepit tor one likely to 
 frequent an eminence on such a call. 
 
 " There is a Thorn — it looks so old, 
 
 In truth, you'd find it hard to say 
 
 How it could ever have been young, 
 
 It looks so old and gray. 
 
 Not higher than a two years' child 
 
 It stands erect, this aged Thorn; 
 
 No leaves it has, no prickly points; 
 
 It is a mass of knotted joints, 
 
 A wretched thing forlorn. 
 
 It stands erect, and like a stone 
 
 With lichens is it overgrown. 
 
 "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown. 
 
 With lichens to the very top. 
 
 And hung with heavy tufts of moss, 
 
 A melancholy crop : 
 
 Up from the earth these mosses creep. 
 
 And this poor Thorn they clasp it round 
 
 So close, you'd say that they are bent 
 
 With plain and manifest intent 
 
 To drag it to the ground; 
 
 And all have joined in one endeavor 
 
 To bury this poor Thorn forever. 
 
 " High on a mountain's highest ridge. 
 
 Where oft the stormy winter gale 
 
 Cuts like a scythe, while through the 
 
 clouds 
 It sweeps from vale to vale; 
 Not five yards from the mountain path, 
 This Thorn you on your left espy; 
 And to the left, three yards beyond. 
 You see a little muddy pond 
 Of water — never dry. 
 Though but of compass small, and bare 
 To thirsty suns and parching air. 
 
 " And, close beside this aged Thorn, 
 There is a fresh and lovely sight, 
 A beauteous heap, a hill of moss. 
 Just half a foot in height. 
 All lovely colors there you see. 
 All colors that were ever seen; 
 And mossy network too is there. 
 As if by hand of lady fair 
 The work had woven been; 
 
 And cups, the darlings of the eye. 
 So deep is their vermilion dye. 
 
 " Ah me ! what lovely tints are there 
 
 Of olive green and scarlet bright, 
 
 In spikes, in branches, and in stars, 
 
 Green, red, and pearly white ! 
 
 This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss. 
 
 Which close beside the Thorn you see. 
 
 So fresh in all its beauteous dyes. 
 
 Is like an infant's grave in size, 
 
 As like as like can be : 
 
 But never, never anywhere. 
 
 An infant's grave was half so fair. 
 
 " Now would you see this aged Thorn, 
 
 This pond, and beauteous hill of moss. 
 
 You must take care and choose your time 
 
 The mountain when to cross. 
 
 For oft there sits between the heap 
 
 So like an infant's grave in size. 
 
 And that same pond of which I spoke, 
 
 A Woman in a scarlet cloak. 
 
 And to herself she cries, 
 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! ' 
 
 VII. 
 " At all times of the day and night 
 This wretched Woman thither goes; 
 And she is known to every star. 
 And every wind that blows; 
 And there, beside the Thorn, she sits 
 When the blue daylight's in the skies, 
 And when the whirlwind's on the hill. 
 Or frosty air is keen and still. 
 And to herself she cries, 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! ' " 
 
 VIII. 
 " Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, 
 In rain, in tempest, and in snow. 
 Thus to the dreary mountain-top 
 Does this poor Woman go? 
 And why sits she beside the Thorn 
 When the blue daylight's in the sky , 
 Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, 
 Or frosty air is keen and still. 
 And wherefore does she cry? — 
 O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why 
 Does she repea't that doleful cry? " 
 
THE THORN. 
 
 " I cannot teil; I wish I could; 
 
 For the true reason no one knows : 
 
 But would you gladly view the spot, 
 
 The spot to which she goes; 
 
 The hillock like an infant's grave, 
 
 The pond — and Thorn, so old and gray; 
 
 Pass by her door — 't is seldom shut — 
 
 And, if you see her in her hut — • 
 
 Then to the spot away ! 
 
 I never heard of such as dare 
 
 Approach the spot when she is there." 
 
 " But wherefore to the mountain-top 
 
 Can this unhappy Woman go? 
 
 Whatever star is in the skies. 
 
 Whatever wind may blow? " 
 
 " Full twenty years are past and gone 
 
 Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 
 
 Gave with a maiden's true good-will 
 
 Her company to Stephen Hill; 
 
 And she was blithe and gay, 
 
 While friends and kindred all approved 
 
 Of him whom tenderly she loved. 
 
 "And they had fixed the wedding day, 
 
 The morning that must wed them both; 
 
 But Stephen to another Maid 
 
 Had sworn another oath; 
 
 And, with this other Maid, to church 
 
 Unthinking Stephen went • — 
 
 Poor Martha ! on that woful day 
 
 A pang of pitiless dismay 
 
 Into her soul was sent; 
 
 A fire was kindled in her breast, 
 
 Which might not burn itself to rest. 
 
 "They say, full six months after this. 
 
 While yet the summer leaves were green, 
 
 She to the mountain-top would go. 
 
 And there was often seen. 
 
 What could she seek ? — or wish to hide ? 
 
 Her state to any eye was plain; 
 
 She was with child, and she was mad; 
 
 Yet often was she sober sad 
 
 From her exceeding pain. 
 
 O guilty Father — would that death 
 
 Had saved him from that breach of faith ! 
 
 XIII. 
 " Sad case for such a brain to hold 
 Communion with a stirring child ! 
 Sad case, as you may think, for one 
 Who had a brain so wild ! 
 Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, 
 And gray-haired Wilfred of the glen 
 Held that the unborn infant wrought 
 About its mother's heart, and brought 
 Her senses back again : 
 And, when at last her time drew near, 
 Her looks were calm, her senses clear. 
 
 " More know I not, I wish I did, 
 
 And it should all be told to you ; 
 
 For what became of this poor child 
 
 No mortal ever knew; 
 
 Nay — if a child to her was born 
 
 No earthly tongue could ever tell; 
 
 And if 't was born alive or dead, 
 
 Far less could this with proof be said; 
 
 But some remember well, 
 
 That Martha Ray about this time 
 
 Would up the mountain often climb. 
 
 " And all that winter, when at night 
 The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 
 'T was worth your while, though in the 
 
 dark. 
 The churchyard path to seek : 
 For many a time and oft were heard 
 Cries coming from the mountain head : 
 Some plainly living voices were 
 And others, I've heard many swear. 
 Were voices of the dead: 
 I cannot think, whate'er they say, 
 They had to do with Martha Ray. 
 
 " But that she goes to this old Thorn, 
 The Thorn which I described to you. 
 And there sits in a scarlet cloak 
 I will be sworn is true. 
 For one day with my telescope. 
 To view the ocean wide and bright. 
 When to this country first I came. 
 Ere I had heard of Martha's name, 
 I climbed the mountain's height: — 
 A storm came on, and I could see 
 No object higher than my knee. 
 
GOODY BLA^LK and HARRY GILL. 
 
 xvn. 
 " 'T was mist and lain, and storm and rain : 
 No screen, no fence could I discover; 
 And then tlie wind ! in sooth, it wfis 
 A wind full ten times over. 
 I looked around, I thought I saw 
 A jutting crag, — and off I ran. 
 Head-foremost, through the driving rain, 
 The shelter of the crag to gain; 
 And, as I am a man. 
 Instead of jutting crag, I found 
 A Woman seated on the ground. 
 
 xvni. 
 " I did not speak — I saw her face; 
 Her face ! — it was enough for me; 
 I turned about and heard her cry, 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! ' 
 And there she sits, until the moon 
 Through half the clear blue sky will go; 
 And, when the little breezes make 
 The waters of the pond to shake. 
 As all the country know. 
 She shudders, and you hear her cry, 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! ' " 
 
 " But what 's the Thorn ? and what the 
 
 pond? 
 And what the hill of moss to her? 
 And what the creeping breeze that comes 
 The little pond to stir? " 
 " I cannot tell; but some will say 
 She hanged her baby on the tree; 
 Some say she drowned it in the pond. 
 Which is a little step beyond: 
 But all and each agree, 
 The little Babe was buried there, 
 Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 
 
 " I 've heard, the moss is spotted red 
 
 With drops of that poor infant's blood; 
 
 But kill a new-born infant thus, 
 
 I do not think she could ! 
 
 Some say, if to the pond you go. 
 
 And fix on it a steady view. 
 
 The shadow of a babe you trace, 
 
 A baby and a baby's face. 
 
 And that it looks at you; 
 
 Whene'er you look on it, 't is plain 
 
 The baby looks at you again. 
 
 " And some had sworn an oath that she 
 
 Should be to public justice brought; 
 
 And for the little infant's bones 
 
 With spades they would have sought. 
 
 But instantly the hill of moss 
 
 Before their eyes began to stir ! 
 
 And, for full fifty yards around, 
 
 The grass — it shook upon the ground ! 
 
 Yet all do still aver 
 
 The little Babe lies buried there, 
 
 Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 
 
 XXII. 
 " I cannot tell how this may be. 
 But plain it is the Thorn is bound 
 With heavy tufts of moss that strive 
 To drag it to the ground; 
 And this I know, full many a time, 
 When she was on the mountain high, 
 By day, and in the silent night. 
 When all the stars shone clear and bright, 
 That I have heard her cry, 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! ' " 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Written at Alfoxden. The incident from Dr. 
 Darwin'? Zobnomia. 
 
 Oh ! what's the matter ? what'sthe matter ? 
 What is 't that ails young Harry Gill? 
 That evermore his teeth they chatter. 
 Chatter, chatter, chatter still ! 
 Of waistcoats Harry has no lack. 
 Good duffle gray, and flannel fine; 
 He has a blanket on his back, 
 And coats enough to smother nine. 
 
 In March, December, and in July, 
 'T is all the same with Harry Gill; 
 The neighbors tell, and tell you truly. 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 At night, at morning, and at noon, 
 'T is all the same with Harry Gill; 
 Beneath the sun, beneath the moon. 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still ! 
 
 Young Harry was a lusty drover, 
 And who so stout of Umb as he? 
 
GOODY BLAKE AND -iiARRY GILL. 
 
 His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; 
 His voice was like the voice of three. 
 Old Goody Blake was old and poor; 
 111 fed she was, and thinly clad; 
 And any man who passed her door 
 Might see how poor a hut she had. 
 
 All day she spun in her poor dwelling : 
 And then her three hours' work at night, 
 Alas ! 't was hardly worth the telling. 
 It would not pay for candle-light. 
 Remote from sheltered village-green, 
 On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 
 Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, 
 And hoary dews are slow to melt. 
 
 By the same fire to boil their pottage, 
 Two poor old Dames, as I have known. 
 Will often live in one small cottage; 
 But she, poor Woman ! housed alone. 
 'T was well enough when summer came. 
 The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, 
 Then at her door the canty Dame 
 Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 
 
 But when the ice our streams did fetter, 
 Oh then how her old bones would shake ! 
 You would have said, if you had met her, 
 'T was a hard time for Goody Blake. 
 Her evenings then were dull and dead : 
 Sad case it was, as you may think. 
 For very cold to go to bed; 
 And then for cold not sleep a wink. 
 
 O joy for her! whene'er in winter 
 The winds at night had made a rout; 
 And scattered many a lusty splinter 
 And many a rotten bough about. 
 Yet never had she, well or sick, 
 As every man who knew her says, 
 A pile beforehand, turf or stick. 
 Enough to warm her for three days. 
 
 Now, when the frost was past enduring. 
 And made her poor old bones to ache. 
 Could anything be more alluring 
 Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 
 And, now and then, it must be said, 
 When her old bones were cold and chill. 
 She left her fire, or left her bed, 
 To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 
 
 Now Harry he had long suspected 
 This trespass of old Goody Blake; 
 
 And vowed that she should be detected — 
 That he on her would vengeance take. 
 And oft from his warm fire he 'd go. 
 And to the fields his road would take; 
 And there, at night, in frost and snow. 
 He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 
 
 And once, behind a rick of barley. 
 Thus looking out did Harry stand: 
 The moon was full and shining clearly, 
 And crisp with frost the stubble land. 
 — He hears a noise — he 'sail awake — 
 Again ? — on tip-toe down the hill 
 He softly creeps — 'tis Goody Blake; 
 She 's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 
 
 Right glad was he when he beheld her ; 
 Stick after stick did Goody pull : 
 He stood behind a bush of elder. 
 Till she had filled her apron full. 
 When with her load she turned about. 
 The by-way back again to take; 
 He started forward, with a shout. 
 And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 
 
 And fiercely by the arm he took her, 
 And by the arm he held her fast. 
 And fiercely by the arm he shook her. 
 And cried, " I 've caught you then at 
 
 last!" — 
 Then Goody, who had nothing said. 
 Her bundle from her lap let fall; 
 And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 
 To God that is the judge of all. 
 
 She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, 
 While Harry held her by the arm — 
 " God ! who art never out of hearing, 
 O may he never more be warm ! ' ' 
 The cold, cold moon above her head. 
 Thus on her knees did Goody pray; 
 Young Harry heard what she had said: 
 And icy cold he turned away. 
 
 He went complaining all the morrow 
 That he was cold and very chill: 
 His face was gloom, his heart was sorrowi 
 Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! 
 That day he wore a riding-coat. 
 But not a whit the warmer he : 
 Another was on Thursday brought, 
 And ere the Sabbath he had three. 
 
HER^'^A'ES ARE WILD. 
 
 i«3 
 
 'T was all in vain, a useless matter, 
 And blankets were about him pinned; 
 Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter; 
 Like a loose casement in the wind. 
 And Harry's flesh it fell away; 
 And all who see him say, 't is plain, 
 That, live as long as live he may, 
 He never will be warm again. 
 
 No word to any man he utters, 
 A-bed or up, to young or old; 
 But ever to himself he mutters, 
 " Poor Harry Gill is very cold." 
 A-bed or up, by night or day; 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 Now think, ye farmers all, I pray. 
 Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill ! 
 179S. 179S. 
 
 HER EYES ARE WILD. 
 
 Written at Alfoxden. Tlie subject was reported 
 to me by a lady of Bristol, who had seen the poor 
 creature. 
 
 I. 
 Her eyes are wild, her head is bare. 
 The sun has burnt her coal-black hair; 
 Her eyebrows have a rusty stain. 
 And she came far from over the main. 
 She has a baby on her arm. 
 Or else she were alone : 
 And underneath the haystack warm, 
 And on the greenwood stone. 
 She talked and sung the woods among. 
 And it was in the English tongue. 
 
 " Sweet babe ! they say that I am mad, 
 
 But nay, my heart is far too glad; 
 
 And I am happy when I sing 
 
 Full many a sad and doleful thing: 
 
 Then, lovely baby, do not fear ! 
 
 I pray thee have no fear of me; 
 
 But safe as in a cradle, here. 
 
 My lovely baby i thou^halt be : 
 
 To thee I know too much I owe; 
 
 I cannot work thee any woe. 
 
 "A fire was once within my brain; 
 And in my head a dull, dull paifl; 
 And fiendish faces, one, two, thrrs. 
 Hung at my breast, and pulled s.t me; 
 
 But then there came a sight of joy; 
 It came at once to do me good; 
 I waked, and saw my little boy, 
 My little boy of flesh and blood; 
 Oh joy for me that sight to see ! 
 For he was here, and only he. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Suck, little babe, oh suck again ! 
 It cools my blood; it cools my brain; 
 Thy lips I feel them, baby I they 
 Draw from my heart the pain away. 
 Oh ! press me with thy little hand; 
 It loosens something at my chest; 
 About that tight and deadly band 
 I feel thy little fingers prest. 
 The breeze I see is in the tree : 
 It comes to cool my babe and me. 
 
 V. 
 
 "Oh ! love me, love me, little boy ! 
 Thou art thy mother's only joy; 
 And do not dread the waves below. 
 When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; 
 The high crag cannot work me harm. 
 Nor leaping torrents when they howl; 
 The babe I carry on my arm. 
 He saves for me my precious soul; 
 Then happy lie; for blest am I; 
 Without me my sweet babe would die. 
 
 " Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 
 
 Bold as a lion will I be; 
 
 And I will always be thy guide, 
 
 Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 
 
 I '11 build an Indian bower; I know 
 
 The leaves that make the softest bed: 
 
 And, if from me thou wilt not go. 
 
 But still be true till I am dead, 
 
 My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing 
 
 As merry as the birds in spring. 
 
 vn. 
 "Thy father cares not for my breast, 
 'T is thine, sweet baby, there to rest; 
 'T is all thine own ! — and, if its hue 
 Be changed, that was so fair to view, 
 'T is fair enough for thee, my dove ! 
 My beauty, little child, is flown. 
 But thou wilt live with me in love,. 
 And what if my poor cheek be brown? 
 'T is well for me, thou canst not see 
 How pale and wan it else would be. 
 
I04 
 
 SIMON lep:. 
 
 " Dread not their taunts, my little Life; 
 I am thy father's wedded wife; 
 And underneath the spreading tree 
 We two will live in honesty. 
 If his sweet boy he could forsake, 
 With me he never would have stayed : 
 From him no harm my babe can take; 
 But he, poor man! is wretched made; 
 And every day we two will pray 
 For him that 's gone and far away. 
 
 " I 'II teach my boy the sweetest things: 
 I'll teach him how the owlet sings. 
 My little babe ! thy lips are still. 
 And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. 
 — Where art thou gone, my own dear 
 
 child? 
 What wicked looks are those I see ? 
 Alas ! alas ! that look so wild. 
 It never, never came from me : 
 If thou art mad, my pretty lad, 
 Then I must be forever sad. 
 
 " Oh ! smile on me, my little lamb! 
 For I thy own dear mother am : 
 My love for thee has well been tried ; 
 I 've sought thy father far and wide. 
 I know the poisons of the shade; 
 I know the earth-nuts fit for food: 
 Then, pretty dear, be not afraid : 
 We '11 find thy father in the wood. 
 Now laugh and be gay, to the woods 
 
 away ! 
 And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 SIMON LEE, 
 
 THE OLD HUNTSMAN; 
 
 WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS 
 
 CONCERNED. 
 
 This old man had been huntsman to the squires 
 of Alfoxden, which, at the time we occupied it, 
 belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage 
 stood upon the common, a little way from the 
 entrance to Alfoxden Park. Hut it had disap- 
 peared. Many other changes had tahen place in 
 the adjoining village, which I could not but notice 
 with a regret more natural than well-considered. 
 Improvements but rarely appear such to those 
 
 who, after long intervals of time, revisit places 
 they have had much pleasure in. It is unneces- 
 sary to add, the fact was as mentioned in tlie 
 poem ; and I have, after an interval of forty- five 
 years, the image of the old man as fresh before my 
 eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expres- 
 sion when the hounds were out, " I dearly love 
 their voice," was word for word from his own 
 lips. 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
 An old Man dwells, a little man, — 
 'T is said he once was tall. 
 Full five and thirty years he lived 
 A running huntsman merry; 
 And still the centre of his cheek 
 Is red as a ripe cherry. 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound. 
 
 And hill and valley rang with glee 
 
 When Echo bandied, round and round, 
 
 The halloo of Simon Lee. 
 
 In those proud days, he little cared 
 
 For husbandry or tillage; 
 
 To blither tasks did Simon rouse 
 
 The sleepers of the village. 
 
 He all the country could outrun. 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind; 
 
 And often, ere the chase was done, 
 
 He reeled, and was stone-blind. 
 
 And still there 's something in the world 
 
 At which his heart rejoices; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out. 
 
 He dearly loves their voices ! 
 
 But, oh the heavy change! — bereft 
 
 Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, 
 
 see ! 
 Old Simon to the world is left 
 In liveried poverty. 
 
 His Master 's dead, — and no one now 
 Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 
 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 And he is lean an3 he is sick; 
 His body, dwindled and awry. 
 Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 One prop he has, and only one. 
 His wife, an aged woman. 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall. 
 Upon the village Common. 
 
LINES WRri"'K''.N IN 
 
 EARLY SPRING. 
 
 105 
 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 This scrap of land he from the heath 
 Enclosed when he was stronger; 
 But what to them avails the land 
 Which he can till no longer? 
 
 Oft, working by her Husband's side, 
 Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 
 For she, with scanty cause for pride. 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 And, though you with your utmost skill 
 From labor could not wean them, 
 'T is little, very little — all 
 That they can do between them. 
 
 Few months of life has he in store, 
 
 As he to you will tell, 
 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 
 Do his weak ankles swell. 
 
 My gentle Reader, I perceive 
 
 How patiently you 've waited, 
 
 And now I fear that you expect 
 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 Reader ! had you in your mind 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 gentle Reader ! you would find 
 A tale in everything. 
 
 What more I have to say is short, 
 And you must kindly take it : 
 It is no tale; but, should you think. 
 Perhaps a tale you '11 make it. 
 
 One summer day I chanced to see 
 This old Man doing all he could 
 To unearth the root of an old tree, 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 The mattock tottered in his hand; 
 So vain was his endeavor, 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have worked forever. 
 
 " You 're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 
 Give me your tool," to him I said; 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 Received my proffered aid. 
 
 1 struck, and with a single blow 
 The tangled root I severed, 
 
 At which the poor old Man so long 
 And vainly had endeavored. 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought, 
 And thanks and praises seemed to run 
 So fast out of his heart, I thought 
 They never would have done. 
 — I've heard of heartsunkind, kind deeds 
 With coldness still returning; 
 Alas ! the gratitude of men 
 Hath oftener left me mourning. 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY 
 SPRING. 
 
 Actually composed while I was sitting by the 
 side of the brook that runs down from the Comb, 
 in which stands the village of AUord, through the 
 grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of 
 mine. The brook fell down a sloping rock so as 
 to make a waterfall considerable for that country, 
 and across the pool below had fallen a tree, an 
 ash if I rightly remember, from which rose per- 
 pendicularly, boughs in search of the light inter- 
 cepted by the deep shade above. The boughs 
 bore leaves of green that for want of sunshine 
 had faded into almost lily-white ; and from the 
 underside of this natural sylvan bridge depended 
 long and beautiful tresses of ivy which waved 
 gently in the breeze that might poetically speaking 
 be called the breath of the waterfall. This motion 
 varied of course In proportion to the power of 
 water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I 
 revisited this spot, after an interval of more than 
 forty years, this interesting feature of the scene 
 was gone. To the owner of the place I could not 
 but regret that the beauty of this retired part of 
 the grounds had not tempted him to make it more 
 accessible by a path, not broad or obtrusive, but 
 sufftcient for persons who love such scenes to 
 creep along without difficulty. 
 
 I HEARD a thousand blended notes. 
 While in a grove I sate reclined. 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that green 
 
 bower. 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 
 And 't is my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
io6 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 The birds around me hopped and played, 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
 But the least motion which they made 
 It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
 To catch the breezy air; 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 If this belief from heaven be sent, 
 If such be Nature's holy plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What man has made of man? 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My lit- 
 tle boy.-messenger on this occasion was the son of 
 Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the first 
 stanza was standing when I revisited the place in 
 May, 1841, more than forty years after. I was 
 disappointed that it had not improved in appear- 
 ance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of 
 the majesty of age, which, even though less per- 
 haps than any other tree, the larch sometimes 
 does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, 
 when we inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most re- 
 markable beech-trees ever seen. The ground 
 sloped both towards and from it. It was of im- 
 mense size, and threw out arms that struck into 
 the soil, like those of the banyan-tree, and rose 
 again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted 
 themselves twice, which gave to each the appear- 
 ance of a serpent moving along by gathering itself 
 up in folds. One of the large boughs of this tree 
 had been torn off by the wind before we left 
 Alfoxden, but five remained. In 1841 we could 
 barely find the spot where the tree had stood. So 
 remarkable a production of nature could not have 
 been wilfully destroyed. 
 
 It is the first mild day of March : 
 Each minute sweeter than before 
 The redbreast sings from the tall larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 There is a blessing in the air. 
 Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
 To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
 And grass in the green field. 
 
 My sister I ('t is a wish of mine) 
 Now that our morning meal is done. 
 Make haste, your morning task resign; 
 Come forth and feel the sun. 
 
 Edward will come with you; • — and, pray, 
 Put on with speed your woodland dress; 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 We '11 give to idleness. 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 Our living calendar : 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 Love, now a universal birth, 
 From heart to heart is stealing. 
 From earth to man, from man to earth: 
 — It is the hour of feeling. 
 
 One moment now may give us more 
 Than years of toiling reason : 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 The spirit of the season. 
 
 Some silent laws our hearts will make, 
 KCni'f th they shall long obey : 
 ^* for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 About, below, above. 
 We '11 frame the measure of our souls: 
 They shall be tuned to love. 
 
 Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray, 
 With speed put on your woodland dress; 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 We '11 give to idleness. 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 Observed in the holly-grove at Alfoxden, where 
 these verses were written in the spring of 1799. I 
 had the pleasure of again seeing, with dear friends, 
 this grove in unimpaired beauty forty-one years 
 after. 
 
 A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill 
 Rushed o'er the wood with startling 
 
 sound; 
 Then — all at once the air was still, 
 And showers of hailstones pattered round. 
 Where leafless oaks towered high above, 
 I sat within an undergrove 
 
EXPOSTTJLATION AND REPLY. 
 
 107 
 
 Of tallest hollies, tall and green; 
 A fairer bower was never seen. 
 From year to year the spacious floor 
 With withered leaves is covered o'er, 
 And all the year the bower is green. 
 But see ! where'er the hailstones drop 
 The withered leaves all skip and hop; 
 There's not a breeze — no breath of air — 
 Yet here, and there, and everywhere 
 Along the floor, beneath the shade 
 By those embowering hollies made, 
 The leaves in myriads jump and spring, 
 As if with pipes and music rare 
 Some Robin Good-fellow were there. 
 And all those leaves, in festive glee. 
 Were dancing to the minstrelsy. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 
 
 This poem is a favorite among the Quakers, as 
 I have learnt on many occasions. It was com- 
 posed in front of the house at Alfoxden, in the 
 spring of 1798. 
 
 "Why, William, on that old gray stone. 
 Thus for the length of half a day. 
 Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
 -'Vnd dream your time away ? 
 
 "Where are your books? — that light 
 
 bequeathed 
 To Beings else forlorn and blind ! 
 Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
 From dead men to their kind. 
 
 " You look round on your Mother Earth, 
 As if she for no purpose bore you; 
 As if you were her first-born birth. 
 And none had lived before you ! ' ' 
 
 One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake. 
 When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
 To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
 And thus I made reply : 
 
 "The eye — it cannot choose but see; 
 We cannot bid the ear be still; 
 Our bodies feel, where'er they be, - 
 Against or with our will. 
 
 "Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
 Which of themselves our minds impress; 
 That we can feed this mind of ours 
 In a wise passiveness. 
 
 "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
 Of things forever speaking, 
 That nothing of itself will come. 
 But we must still be seeking? 
 
 " — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone. 
 Conversing as I may, 
 I sit upon this old gray stone. 
 And dream my time away." 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED. 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME 
 SUBJECT. 
 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books; 
 Or surely you '11 grow double : 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks; 
 Why all this toil and trouble? 
 
 The sun, above the mountain's head, 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow 
 
 Through all the long green fields has 
 
 spread. 
 His first sweet evening yellow. 
 
 Books ! 't is a dull and endless strife: 
 Come, hear the woodland linnet. 
 How sweet his music ! on my life. 
 There 's more of wisdom in it. 
 
 And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
 He, too, is no mean preacher : 
 Come forth into the light of things. 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 She has a world of ready wealth. 
 Our minds and hearts to bless — 
 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
 
 One impulse from a vernal wood 
 May teach you more of man, 
 Of moral evil and of good. 
 Than all the sages can. 
 
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 
 
 Our meddling intellect 
 
 Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of 
 
 things: — 
 We murder to dissect. 
 
 Enough of Science and of Art; 
 Close up those barren leaves; 
 ' Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 That watches and receives. 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. 
 
 Written at Alfoxden, where I read Heanie's 
 Journey with deep interest. It was composed for 
 the volume of Lyrical Ballads. 
 
 When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is un- 
 able to continue his journey with his companions, 
 he is left behind, covered over with deer-skins, 
 and is supplied with water, food, and fuel, if the 
 situation of the place will afford it. He is in- 
 formed of tlie track which his companions intend 
 to pursue, and if he be unable to follow, or over- 
 take them, he perishes alone in the desert ; unless 
 he should have the good fortune to fall in with 
 some other tribes of Indians. The females are 
 equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. 
 See that vei'y interesting work HEARNE'syoz/r- 
 n£yfroin Hudson^ s Bay to the Northern Ocean. 
 In the high northern latitudes, as the same writer 
 informs us, when the northern lights vary their 
 position in the air, they make a rustling and a 
 crackling noise, as alluded to in the following 
 poem. 
 
 I. 
 Before I see another day, 
 Oh let my body die away ! 
 In sleep I heard the northern gleams; 
 The stars, they were among my dreams; 
 In rustling conflict through the skies, 
 I heard, I saw the flashes drive, 
 And yet they are upon my eyes, 
 And yet I am alive; 
 Before I see another day, 
 Oh let my body die away ! 
 
 My fire is dead: it knew no pain; 
 Yet is it dead, and I remain : 
 All stiff with ice the ashes lie; 
 And they are dead, and I will die. 
 
 When I was well, I wished to live, 
 For clothes, for warmth, for food, and 
 
 fire; 
 But they to me no joy can give, 
 No pleasure now, and no desire. 
 Then here contented will I lie ! 
 Alone, I cannot fear to die. 
 
 Alas I ye might have dragged me on 
 
 Another day, a single one ! 
 
 Too soon I yielded to despair; 
 
 Why did ye listen to my prayer? 
 
 When ye were gone my limbs were 
 
 stronger; 
 And oh, how grievously I rue, 
 That, afterwards, a little longer, 
 My friends, I did not follow you ! 
 For strong and without pain I lay, 
 Dear friends, when ye were gone away. 
 
 My Child ! they gave thee to another, 
 A woman who was not thy mother. 
 When from my arms my Babe they took, 
 On me how strangely did he look ! 
 Through his whole body something ran, 
 A most strange working did I see; 
 — As if he strove to be a man, 
 That he might pull the sledge for me : 
 And then he stretched his arms, how wild ! 
 Oh mercy ! like a helpless child. 
 
 My little joy 1 my little pride ! 
 In two days more I must have died. 
 Then do not weep and grieve for me; 
 I feel I must, have died with thee. 
 
 wind, that o'er my head art flying 
 The way my friends their course did bend. 
 
 1 should riot feel the pain of dying, 
 Could I with thee a message send; 
 Too soon, my friends, ye went away; 
 For I had many things to say. 
 
 I '11 follow you across the snow; 
 Ye travel heavily and slow; 
 In spite of all my weary pain 
 I '11 look upon your tents again. 
 — My fire is dead, and snowy white 
 The water which beside it stood : 
 
itlJi LAHi OF THE FLOCK. 
 
 log 
 
 The wolf has come to me to-night, 
 And he has stolen away my food. 
 For ever left alone am I; 
 Then wherefore should I fear to die? 
 
 Young as I am, my course is run, 
 I shall not see another sun; 
 I cannot lift my limbs to know 
 if they have any life or no. 
 My poor forsaken Child, if I 
 For once could have thee close to me. 
 With happy heart I then would die, 
 And my last thought would happy be; 
 But thou, dear Babe, art far away, 
 Nor shall I see another day. 
 1798- 1798. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 
 
 Produced at the same time and for the same 
 purpose. The incident occurred in the village of 
 Holford, close by Alfoxden. 
 
 In distant countries have I been. 
 And yet I have not often seen 
 A healthy man, a man full grown. 
 Weep in the public roads, alone. 
 But such a one, on English ground, 
 And in the broad highway, I met; 
 Along the broad highway he came. 
 His cheeks with tears were wet : 
 Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; 
 And in his arms a Lamb he had. 
 
 He saw me, and he turned aside, 
 
 As if he wished himself to hide : 
 
 And with his coat did then essay 
 
 To wipe those briny tears away. 
 
 I followed him, and said, " My friend. 
 
 What ails you? wherefore weep you so? " 
 
 — "Shame on me. Sir! this- lusty Lamb, 
 
 He makes my tears to flow. 
 
 To-day I fetched him from the rock; 
 
 He is the last of all my flock. 
 
 "When 1 was young, a single man. 
 And after youthful follies rr'i, 
 
 Though little given to care and thought, 
 Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought; 
 And other sheep from her I raised, 
 As healthy sheep as you might see; 
 And then I married, and was rich 
 As I could wish to be; 
 Of sheep I numbered a full score. 
 And every year increased my store 
 
 " Year after year my stock it grew; 
 
 And from this one, this single ewe, 
 
 Full fifty comely sheep I raised. 
 
 As fine a flock as ever grazed ! 
 
 Upon the Quantock hills they fed; 
 
 They throve, and we at home did thrive : 
 
 — This lusty Lamb of all my store 
 
 Is all that is alive; 
 
 And now I care not if we die. 
 
 And perish all of poverty. 
 
 "Six Children, Sir! had I to feed; 
 
 Hard labor in a time of need ! 
 
 IVIy pride was tamed, and in our grief 
 
 I of the Parish asked relief. 
 
 They said, I was a wealthy man; 
 
 My sheep upon the uplands fed. 
 
 And it was fit that thence I took 
 
 Whereof to buy us bread. 
 
 ' Do this : how can we give to you,' 
 
 They cried, ' what to the poor is due? ' 
 
 " I sold a sheep, as they had said. 
 And bought my little children bread. 
 And they were healthy with their food 
 For me — it never did me good. 
 A woful time it was for me. 
 To see the end of all my gains. 
 The pretty flock which I had reared 
 With all my care and pains. 
 To see it melt like snow away — 
 For me it was a woful day. 
 
 " Another still ! and still another ! 
 A little lamb, and then its mother ! 
 It was a vein that never stopped — 
 Like blood-drops from my heart theji 
 dropped. 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 'Till thirty were not left alive 
 They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; 
 And I may say, that many a time 
 I wished they all were gone — 
 Reckless of what might come at last 
 Were but the bitter struggle past. 
 
 "To wicked deeds I was inclined, 
 And wicked fancies crossed my mind; 
 And every man I chanced to see, 
 I thought he knew some ill of me : 
 No peace, no comfort could I find, 
 No ease, within doors or without; 
 And, crazily and wearily 
 I went my work about; 
 And oft was moved to flee from home. 
 And hide my head where wild beasts 
 roam. 
 
 " Sir ! 't was a precious flock to me 
 
 As dear as my own children be; 
 
 For daily with my growing store 
 
 I loved my children more and more. 
 
 Alas ! it was an evil time ; 
 
 God cursed me in my sore distress; 
 
 I prayed, yet every day I thought 
 
 I loved my children less; 
 
 And every week, and every day, 
 
 My flock it seemed to melt away. 
 
 "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see ! 
 From ten to five, from five to three, 
 A lamb, a wether, and a ewe; — 
 And then at last from three to two; 
 And, of my fifty, yesterday 
 I had but only one : 
 And here it lies upon my arm, 
 Alas ! and I have none; — 
 To-day I fetched it from the rock; 
 It is the last of all my flock." 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 The last stanza — "The Cocks did crow to- 
 whoo, to-whoo, And the sun did shine so cold " — 
 was the foundation of the whole. The words 
 were reported to me by my dear friend, Thomas 
 Poole ; but I have since heard the same repeated 
 of other Idiots. Let me add that this long poem 
 
 was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost 
 extempore ; not a word, I believe, being corrected, 
 though one stanza was omitted. I mention this 
 in gratitude to those happy moments, for, in 
 truth, I never wrote anything with so much glee. 
 
 'T IS eight o'clock, — a clear March night. 
 The moon is up, — the sky is blue. 
 The owlet, in the moonlight air. 
 Shouts from nobody knows where; 
 He lengthens out his lonely shout, 
 Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo I 
 
 — Why bustle thus about your door. 
 What means this bustle, Betty Foy? 
 Why are y6u in this mighty fret? 
 And why on horseback have you set 
 Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy? 
 
 Scarcely a soul is out of bed; 
 Good Betty, put him down again; 
 His lips with joy they burr at you; 
 But, Betty ! what has he to do 
 With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? 
 
 But Betty 's bent on her intent; 
 For her good neighbor, Susan Gale, 
 Old Susan, she who dwells alone, 
 Is sick, and makes a piteous moan 
 As if her very life would fail. 
 
 There 's not a house within a mile. 
 No hand to help them in distress; 
 Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, 
 And sorely puzzled are the twain, 
 For what she ails they cannot guess. 
 
 And Betty's husband 's at the wood. 
 Where by the week he doth abide, 
 A woodman in the distant vale; 
 There 's none to help poor Susan Gale; 
 What must be done ? what will betide .' 
 
 And Betty from the lane has fetched 
 Her Pony, that is mild and good; 
 Whether he be in joy or pain. 
 Feeding at will along the lane, 
 Or bringing fagots from the wood. 
 
 And he is all in travelling trim, — 
 And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy 
 Has on the well-girt saddle set 
 (The like was never heard of yet) 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 And he must post without delay 
 Across the bridge and through the dale, 
 And by the church, and o'er the down, 
 To bring a Doctor from the town. 
 Or she will die, old Susan Gale. 
 
 There is no need of boot or spur. 
 
 There is no need of whip or wand; 
 
 For Johnny has his holly-bough, 
 
 And with a hurly-bii.rly now 
 
 He shakes the green bough in his hand. 
 
 And Betty o'er and o'er has told 
 The Boy, who is her best delight. 
 Both what to follow, what to shun. 
 What do, and what to leave undone. 
 How turn to left, and how to right. 
 
 And Betty's most especial charge, 
 Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you 
 Come home again, nor stop at all, — 
 Come home again, whate'er befall. 
 My Johnny, do, I pray you do." 
 
 To this did Johnny answer make. 
 Both with his head and with his hand. 
 And proudly shook the bridle too; 
 And then ! his words were not a few, 
 Which Betty well could understand. 
 
 And now that Johnny is just going. 
 Though Betty 's in a mighty flurry. 
 She gently pats the Pony's side. 
 On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 
 And seems no longer in a hurry. 
 
 But when the Pony moved his legs. 
 Oh ! then for the poor Idiot Boy ! 
 For joy he cannot hold the bridle. 
 For joy his head and heels are idle. 
 He 's idle all for very joy. 
 
 And while the Pony moves his legs, 
 In Johnny's left hand you may see 
 The green bough motionless and dead- 
 The Moon that shines above his head 
 Is not more still and mute than he. 
 
 His heart it was so full of glee. 
 That till full fifty yards were gone. 
 He quite forgot his holly whip, 
 And all his skill in horsemanship : 
 Oh! happy,' happy, happy John. 
 
 And while the Mother, at the door. 
 Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows, 
 Proud of herself, and proud of him, 
 She sees him in his travelling trim. 
 How quietly her Johnny goes. 
 
 The silence of her Idiot Boy, 
 What hopes it sends to Betty's heart ! 
 He 's at the guide-post — he turns right; 
 She watches till he 's out of sight. 
 And Betty will not then depart. 
 
 Burr, burr — now Johnny's lips they burr, 
 As loud as any mill, or near it; 
 Meek as a lamb the Pony moves. 
 And Johnny makes the noise he loves. 
 And Betty listens, glad to hear it. 
 
 Away she hies to Susan Gale: 
 Her Messenger 's in merry tune; 
 The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, 
 And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 
 As on he goes beneath the moon. 
 
 His steed and he right well agree; 
 For of this Pony there 's a rumor, 
 That, should he lose his eyes and ears, 
 And should he live a thousand years. 
 He never will be out of humor. 
 
 But then he is a horse that thinks ! 
 And when he thinks, his pace is slack; 
 Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, 
 Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 
 What he has got upon his back. 
 
 So through the moonlight lanes they go, 
 And far into the moonlight dale. 
 And by the church, and o'er the down. 
 To bring a Doctor from the town. 
 To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 
 
 And Betty, now at Susan's side, 
 Is in the middle of her story. 
 What speedy help her Boy will bring. 
 With many a most diverting thing. 
 Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. 
 
 And Betty, still at Susan's side, 
 By this time is not quite so flurried : 
 Demure with porringer and plate 
 She sits, as if in Susan's fate 
 Hur life and soul were buried. 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 But Betty, poor good woman ! she, 
 You plainly in her face may read it, 
 Could lend out of that moment's store 
 Five years of happiness or more 
 To any that might need it. 
 
 But yet I guess that now and then 
 With Betty all was not so well; 
 And to the road she turns her ears, 
 And thence full many a sound she hears. 
 Which she to Susan will not tell. 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; 
 "As sure as there 's a moon in heaven," 
 Cries Betty, " he '11 be back again; 
 They '11 both be here — 't is almost ten — 
 Both will be here before eleven." 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; 
 The clock gives warning for eleven; 
 'T is on the stroke — "He must be near, ' ' 
 Quoth Betty, " and will soon be here. 
 As sure as there 's a moon in heaven." 
 
 The clock is on the stroke of twelve, 
 And Johnny is not yet in sight : 
 
 — The Moon 's in heaven, as Betty sees, 
 But Betty is not quite at ease; 
 
 And Susan has a dreadful night. 
 
 And Betty, half an hour ago. 
 On Johnny vile reflections cast : 
 " A little idle sauntering Thing ! " 
 With other names, an endless string; 
 But now that time is gone and past. 
 
 And Betty 's drooping at the heart, 
 That happy time all past and gone, 
 " How can it be he is so late? 
 The Doctor, he has made him wait; 
 Susan! they '11 both be here anon." 
 
 And Susan 's growing worse and worse, 
 And Betty 's in a sad quandary ; 
 And then there 's nobody to say 
 If she must go, or she must stay ! 
 
 — She 's in a sad quandary. 
 
 The clock is on the stroke of one; 
 But neither Doctor nor his Guide 
 Appears along the moonlight road; 
 There 's neither horse nor man abroad. 
 And Betty 's still at Susan's side. 
 
 And Susan now begins to fear 
 
 Of sad mischances not a few. 
 
 That Johnny may perhaps be drowned: 
 
 Or lost, perhaps, and never found; 
 
 Which they must both forever rue. 
 
 She prefaced half a hint of this 
 With, " God forbid it should be true ! " 
 At the first word that Susan said 
 Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 
 " Susan, I 'd gladly stay with you. 
 
 " I must be gone, I must away: 
 Consider, Johnny 's but half-wise; 
 Susan, we must take care of him. 
 If he is hurt in life or limb " — 
 " Oh God forbid ! " poor Susan cries. 
 
 " What can I do? " says Betty, going, 
 " What can I do to ease your pain? 
 Good Susan tell me, and I '11 stay; 
 I fear you 're in a dreadful way, 
 But I shall soon be back again." 
 
 " Nay, Betty, go ! good Betty, go ! 
 There 's nothing that can ease my pain," 
 Then off she hies; but with a prayer 
 That God poor Susan's life would spare, 
 Till she comes back again. 
 
 So, through the moonlight lane she goes. 
 And far into the moonlight dale; 
 And how she ran, and how she walked. 
 And all that to herself she talked. 
 Would surely be a tedious tale. 
 
 In high and low, above, below. 
 In great and small, in round and square. 
 In tree and tower was Johnny seen. 
 In bush and brake, in black and green; 
 'T was Johnny, Johnny, everywhere. 
 
 And while she crossed the bridge, there 
 
 came 
 A thought with which her heart is sore — 
 Johnny perhaps his horse forsook. 
 To hunt the moon within the brook. 
 And never will be heard of more. 
 
 Now is she high upon the down. 
 Alone amid a prospect wide; 
 There 's neither Johnny nor his Horse 
 Among the fern or in the gorse; 
 There 's neither Doctor nor his Guide. 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 "3 
 
 "O saints! what is becomt of him? 
 Perhaps he 's climbed into an oak, 
 Where he will stay till he is dead; 
 Or, sadly he has been misled. 
 And joined the wandering gypsy-folk. 
 
 " Or him that wicked Pony 's carried 
 To the dark cave, the goblin's hall; 
 Or in the castle he 's pursuing 
 Among the ghosts his own undoing; 
 Or playing with the waterfall." 
 
 At poor old Susan then she railed, 
 While to the town she posts away; 
 " If Susan had not been so ill, 
 Alas ! I should have had him still, 
 My Johnny, till my dying day." 
 
 Poor Betty, in this sad distemper. 
 The Doctor's self could hardly spare : 
 Unworthy things she talked, and wild; 
 Even he, of cattle the most mild. 
 The Pony had his share. 
 
 But now she 's fairly in the town, 
 And to the Doctor's door she hies; 
 'T is silence all on every side; 
 The town so long, the town so wide, 
 Is silent as the skies. 
 
 And now she 's at the Doctor's door. 
 She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; 
 The Doctor at the casement shows 
 His glimmering eyes that peep and doze ! 
 And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 
 
 "0 Doctor ! Doctor ! where 's my John- 
 ny?" 
 "I 'mhere, what is 't you want with me?" 
 "0 Sir ! you know I 'm Betty Foy, 
 And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 
 You know him — him you often see; 
 
 " He 's not so wise as some folks be :" 
 " The devil take his wisdom ! " said 
 The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 
 " What, Woman ! should I know of him?" 
 And, grumbling, he went back to bed ! 
 
 " O woe is me ! O woe is me ! 
 Here will I die; here will I die; 
 I thought to find my lost one here, 
 But he is neither far nor near. 
 Oh ! what a wretched Mother I ! " 
 
 She stops, she stands, she looks about; 
 Which way to turn she cannot tell. 
 Poor Betty ! it would ease her pain 
 If she had heart to knock again; 
 — The clock strikes three — a disma. 
 knell ! 
 
 Then up along the town she hies. 
 No wonder if her senses fail; 
 This piteous news so much it shocked her, 
 She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 
 To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 
 
 And now she 's high upon the down. 
 And she can see a mile of road : 
 " O cruel I I 'm almost threescore; 
 Such night as this was ne'er before, 
 There 's not a single soul abroad." 
 
 She listens, but she cannot hear 
 The foot of horse, the voice of man; 
 The streams with softest sound are flowing. 
 The grass you almost hear it growing. 
 You hear it now, if e'er you can. 
 
 The owlets through the long blue night 
 Are shouting to each other still : 
 Fond lovers ! yet not quite hob nob. 
 They lengthen out the tremulous sob. 
 That echoes far from hill to hill. 
 
 Poor Betty now has lost all hope. 
 Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, 
 A green-grown pond she just has past. 
 And from the brink she hurries fast. 
 Lest she should drown herself therein. 
 
 And now she sits her down and weeps; 
 
 Such tears she never shed before; 
 
 " Oh dear, dear Pony ! my sweet joy ! 
 
 Oh carry back my Idiot Boy ! 
 
 And we will ne'er o'erload thee more.' 
 
 A thought is come into her head : 
 The Pony he is mild and good. 
 And we have always used him well; 
 Perhaps he 's gone along the dell. 
 And carried Johnny to the wood. 
 
 Then up she springs as if on wings; 
 She thinks no more of deadly sin; 
 If Betty fifty ponds should see. 
 The last of all her thoughts would be 
 To drown herself therein. 
 
114 
 
 THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 O Reader ! now that I might tell 
 What Johnny and his Horse are doing 
 What they 've been doing all this time, 
 Oh could I put it into rhyme, 
 A most delightful tale pursuing ! 
 
 Perhaps, and no unlikely thought ! 
 He with his Pony now doth roam 
 The cliffs and peaks so high that are, 
 To lay his hands upon a star. 
 And in his pocket bring it home. 
 
 Perhaps he 's turned himself about, 
 His face unto his horse's tail, 
 And, still and mute, in wonder lost. 
 All silent as a horseman-ghost. 
 He travels slowly down the vale. 
 
 And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep, 
 A fierce and dreadful hunter he; 
 Yon valley, now so trim and green, 
 In five months' time, should he be seen, 
 A desert wilderness will be ! 
 
 Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, 
 And like the very soul of evil, 
 He 's galloping away, away. 
 And so will gallop on for aye. 
 The bane of all that dread the devil ! 
 
 I to the Muses have been bound 
 These fourteen years, by strong indent- 
 ures: 
 O gentle Muses ! let me tell 
 But half of what to him befell; 
 He surely met with strange adventures. 
 
 O gentle Muses ! is this kind? 
 Why will ye thus my suit repel? 
 Why of your further aid bereave me? 
 And can ye thus unfriended leave me 
 Ye Muses ! whom I love so well? 
 
 Who 's yon, that, near the waterfall, 
 Which thunders down with headlong 
 
 force, 
 Beneath the moon, yet shining fair. 
 As careless as if nothing were. 
 Sits upright on a feeding horse ? 
 
 Unto his horse — there feeding free. 
 He seems, I think, the rein to give; 
 Of moon or stars he takes no heed; 
 Of such we in romances read : 
 — 'T is Johnny ! Johnny ! as I live. 
 
 And that 's the very Pony, too ! 
 Where is she, where is Betty Foy? 
 She hardly can sustain her fears; 
 The roaring waterfall she hears, 
 And cannot find her Idiot Boy. 
 
 Your Pony 's worth his weight in gold : 
 Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy ! 
 She 's coming from among the trees. 
 And now all full in view she sees 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And Betty sees the Pony too : 
 
 Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy? 
 
 It is no goblin, 't is no ghost, 
 
 'T is he whom you so long have lost, 
 
 He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. 
 
 She looks again — her arms are up — 
 She screams — she cannot move for joy; 
 She darts, as with a torrent 's force, 
 She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 
 And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud 
 Whether in cunning or in joy 
 I cannot tell; but while he laughs, 
 Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 
 To hear again her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And now she 's at the Pony's tail, 
 And now is at the Pony's head, — 
 On that side now, and now on this; 
 And, almost stifled with her bliss, 
 A few sad tears does Betty shed. 
 
 She kisses o'er and o'er again 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; 
 She 's happy here, is happy there, 
 She is uneasy everywhere; 
 Her limbs are all alive with joy. 
 
 She pats the Pony, where or when 
 She knows not, happy Betty Foy ! 
 The little Pony glad may be. 
 But he is milder far than she. 
 You hardly can perceive his joy. 
 
LINES. 
 
 "5 
 
 "Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; 
 You 've done your best, and that is all:" 
 She took the reins, when this was said. 
 And gently turned the Pony's head 
 From the loud waterfall. 
 
 By this the stars were almost gone, 
 The moon was setting on the hill. 
 So pale you scarcely looked at her : 
 The little birds began to stir. 
 Though yet their tongues were still. 
 
 The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, 
 Wind slowly through the woody dale; 
 And who is she, betimes abroad, 
 That hobbles up the steep rough road? 
 Who is it, but old Susan Gale? 
 
 Long time lay Susan lost in thought; 
 And many dreadful fears beset her. 
 Both for her Messenger and Nurse; 
 And, as her mind grew worse and worse, 
 Her body — it grew better. 
 
 She turned, she tossed herself inched. 
 On all sides doubts and terrors met her; 
 Point after point did she discuss; 
 And, while her mind was fighting thus, 
 Her body still grew better. 
 
 "Alas! what is become of them? 
 These fears can never be endured; 
 I'll to the wood." — The word scarce 
 
 said. 
 Did Susan rise up from her bed, 
 As if by magic cured. 
 
 Away she goes up hill and down. 
 And to the wood at length is come; 
 She spies her Friends, she shouts a greet- 
 ing; 
 Oh me ! it is a merry meeting 
 As ever was in Christendom. 
 
 The owls have hardly sung their last. 
 While our four travellers homeward 
 
 wend; 
 The owls have hooted all night long, 
 And with the owls began my song, 
 And with the owls must end. 
 
 For while they all were travelling home, 
 Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do, 
 Where all this long night you have been, 
 What you have heard, what you have 
 
 seen: 
 And, Johnny, mind you tell us true.'' 
 
 Now Johnny all night long had heard 
 The owls in tuneful concert strive; 
 No doubt too he the moon had seen; 
 For in the moonlight he had been 
 From eight o'clock till five. 
 
 And thus, to Betty's question, he 
 Made answer, like a traveller bold, 
 (His very words I give to you,) 
 " The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo. 
 And the sun did shine so cold ! " 
 — Thus answered Johnny in his glory, 
 And that was all his travel's story. 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN 
 ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF 
 THE WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY I3, 
 1798. 
 
 No poem of mine was composed under circirm- 
 stances more pleasant for me to remember than 
 this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after 
 crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was 
 entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of 
 four or five days, with my Sister. Not a line of 
 it was altered, and not any part of it written down 
 till I reached Bristol. It was published almost 
 immediately after in the little volume of which so 
 much has been said in these Notes. — (The Lyri- 
 cal Ballads, as first published at Bristol by 
 Cottle.) 
 
 Five years have passed; five summers, 
 
 with the length 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain- 
 springs 
 With a soft inland murmur. ^ — Once 
 
 again 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty chffs, 
 That on a wild secluded scene impress 
 
 1 The river is not affected by the tides a few 
 miles above Tintern. 
 
Ii6 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Thought.5 of more deep seclusion; and 
 
 connect 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these 
 
 orchard-tufts, 
 Which at this season, with their unripe 
 
 fruits', 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose them- 
 selves 
 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I 
 
 see 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, 
 
 little lines 
 Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral 
 
 farms. 
 Green to the very door; and wreaths of 
 
 smoke 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 
 With some uncertain notice, as might 
 
 seem 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless 
 
 woods, 
 Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his 
 
 fire 
 The Hermit sits alone. 
 
 These beauteous forms. 
 Through a long absence, have not been 
 
 to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
 And passing even into my purer mind, 
 With tranquil restoration: — feelings too 
 Of unremembered pleasure: such, per- 
 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. 
 To them I may have owed another gift, 
 Of aspect more sublime; that blessed 
 
 mood. 
 In which the burthen of the mystery. 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 
 Of all this unintelligible world. 
 Is lightened: — that serene and blessed 
 
 mood. 
 In which the affections gently lead us 
 
 Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
 And even the motion of our human blood 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep i 
 In body, and become a living soul : / 
 While with an eye made quiet by the 
 
 power 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
 We see into the life of things. 
 
 If this 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 
 In darkness and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my 
 
 heart — 
 How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 
 
 sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro' the 
 
 woods. 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 And now, with gleams of half-extin- 
 guished thought, 
 With many recognitions dim and faint. 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity. 
 The picture of the mind revives again : 
 While here I stand, not only with the 
 
 sense 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing 
 
 thoughts 
 That in this moment there is life and food 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I 
 was when first 
 
 1 came among these hills; when like a roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely 
 
 streams. 
 Wherever nature led : more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, 
 
 than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For 
 
 nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
 And their glad animal movements all 
 
 gone by^ 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy 
 
 wood, 
 Their colors and their forms, were then 
 
 to me 
 An appetite; a feeling and a love, 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 
LINES. 
 
 117 
 
 By thought supphed, nor any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — That time 
 
 is past, 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other 
 
 gifts 
 Have followed; for such loss, I would 
 
 believe. 
 Abundant recompence. For I have 
 
 learned 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often- 
 times 
 The still, sad music of humanity. 
 Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample 
 
 power 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused. 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 
 And the round ocean and the living air, 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of 
 
 man; 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 All thinking things, all objects of all 
 
 thought, 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore 
 
 am I still 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
 And mountains; and of all that we be- 
 hold 
 From this green earth; of all the mighty 
 
 world 
 Of eye, and ear, — both what they half 
 
 create,^ 
 And what perceive; well pleased to 
 
 recognize 
 In nature and the language of the sense. 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the 
 
 nurse, 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and 
 
 soul 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor perchance. 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the 
 
 more 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay: 
 
 ^ This line has a close resemblance to an admir- 
 able Hne of Young's, the exact expression of which 
 I do not recollect. 
 
 For thou art with me here upon the banks 
 Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, 
 My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice 
 
 I catch 
 The language of my former heart, and 
 
 read 
 My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
 May I behold in thee what I was once. 
 My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I 
 
 make. 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray 
 The heart that loved her; 'tis her privi- 
 lege. 
 Through all the years of this our life, to 
 
 lead 
 From joy to joy: for she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil 
 
 tongues. 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 
 
 men. 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor 
 
 all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
 Shall e'er prevail against us or disturb 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we be- 
 hold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the 
 
 moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 
 And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
 To blow against thee : and, in after years. 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be 
 
 matured 
 Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh ! 
 
 then. 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing 
 
 thoughts 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me. 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, per- 
 chance — 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes 
 
 these gleams 
 Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 We stood together; and that I, so long 
 
ii8 
 
 THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 
 
 A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
 Unwearied in that service : rather say 
 With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper 
 
 zeal 
 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty 
 
 cliffs, 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were 
 
 to me 
 More dear, both for themselves and for 
 
 thy sake ! 
 July 13, 1798. 1798. 
 
 THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 
 
 Observed, and with great benefit to my own 
 heart, when I was a child : written at Racedown 
 and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year. The 
 political economists were about that time begin- 
 ning their war upon mendicity in all its forms, 
 and by implication, if not directly, on alms-giving 
 also. This heartless process has been carried as 
 far as it can go by the amended poor-law bill, 
 though the inhumanity that prevails in this 
 measure is somewhat disguised by the profession 
 that one of its objects is to throw the poor upon 
 the voluntary donations of their neighbors ; that 
 is, if rightly interpreted, to force them into a 
 condition between relief in the Union poorhouse, 
 and alms robbed of their Christian grace and 
 spirit, as being /breed rather from the benevolent 
 than given by them ; while the avaricious and 
 selfish, and all in fact but the humane and charit- 
 able, are at liberty to keep all they possess from 
 their distressed brethren. 
 
 The class of Beggars to which the Old Man 
 here described belongs, will probably soon be 
 extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old 
 and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a 
 stated round in their neighborhood, and had cer- 
 tain fixed days, on which, at different houses, 
 they regularly received alms, sometimes in money, 
 but mostly in provisions. 
 
 I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk; 
 And he was seated, by the highway side, 
 On a low structure of rude masonry 
 Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
 Who lead their horses down the steep 
 
 rough road 
 May thence remount with ease. The 
 
 aged Man 
 
 Had placed his staff across the broad 
 
 smooth stone 
 That overlays the pile; and, from a bag 
 All white with flour, the dole of village 
 
 dames. 
 He drew his scraps and fragments, one 
 
 by one ; 
 And scanned them with a fixed and serious 
 
 look 
 Of idle computation. In the sun. 
 Upon the second step of that small pile, 
 Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
 He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
 And ever, scattered from his palsied hand. 
 That, still attempting to prevent the 
 
 waste, 
 Was baffled still, the crumbs in little 
 
 showers 
 Fell on the ground; and the small moan- 
 tain birds 
 Not venturing yet to peck their destined 
 
 meal. 
 Approached within the length of half his 
 
 staff. 
 Him from my childhood have I known ; 
 
 and then 
 He was so old, he seems not older now; 
 He travels on, a solitary Man, 
 So helpless in appearance, that for him 
 The sauntering Horseman throws not 
 
 with a slack 
 And careless hand his alms upon the 
 
 ground, 
 But stops, — that he may safely lodge the 
 
 coin 
 Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him 
 
 so. 
 But still, when he has given his horse 
 
 the rein, 
 Watches the aged Beggar with a look 
 Sidelong and half-reverted. She who 
 
 tends 
 The toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
 She turns her wheel, if on the road she 
 
 sees 
 The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 
 And lifts the latch for him that he may 
 
 pass. 
 The post-boy, when his rattling wheels 
 
 o'ertake 
 The aged Beggar in the woody lane. 
 Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus 
 
 warned, 
 
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 
 
 119 
 
 The old man does not change his course, 
 
 the boy 
 Turns with less noisy wheels to the road- 
 side, 
 And passes gently by, without a curse 
 Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 
 
 He travels on, a solitary Man; 
 His age has no companion. On the 
 
 ground 
 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves 
 
 along. 
 They move along the ground; and, ever- 
 more, 
 Instead of common and habitual sight 
 Of fields with rural works, of hill and 
 
 dale. 
 And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
 Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to 
 
 day, 
 Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground. 
 He plies his weary journey; seeing still. 
 And seldom knowing that he sees, some 
 
 straw, 
 Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in 
 
 one track. 
 The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left 
 Impressed on the white road, — in the 
 
 same line, 
 At distance still the same. Poor Traveller ! 
 His staff trails with him; scarcely do his 
 
 feet 
 Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 
 In look and motion, that the cottage curs, 
 Ere he has passed the door, will turn 
 
 away. 
 Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls. 
 The vacant and the busy, maids and 
 
 youths, 
 And urchins newly breeched — all pass 
 
 him by : 
 Him even the slow-paced wagon leaves 
 
 behind. 
 But deem not this Man useless. — 
 
 Statesmen ! ye 
 Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye 
 Who have a broom still ready in your 
 
 hands 
 To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, 
 Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye con- 
 template 
 Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem 
 
 him not 
 A burthen of the earth ! 'T is Nature's law 
 
 That none, the meanest of created things. 
 Or forms created the most vile and brute, 
 The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
 Divorced from good — a spirit and pulse 
 
 of good, 
 A life and soul, to every mode of being 
 Inseparably linked. Then be assured 
 That least of all can aught — that ever 
 
 owned 
 The heaven-regarding eye and front sub- 
 lime 
 Which man is born to — sink, howe'er 
 
 depressed. 
 So low as to be scorned without a sin; 
 Without offence to God cast out of view; 
 Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 
 Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement 
 Worn out and worthless. While from 
 
 door to door. 
 This old Man creeps, the villagers in him 
 Behold a record which together binds 
 Past deeds and offices of charity. 
 Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
 The kindly mood in hearts which lapse 
 
 of years, 
 And that half-wisdom, half-experience 
 
 gives, 
 Make slow to feel, and by sure steps 
 
 resign 
 To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
 Among the farms and solitary huts, 
 Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages. 
 Where'er the aged Beggar takes his 
 
 rounds. 
 The mild necessity of use compels 
 To acts of love; and habit does the work 
 Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy 
 Which reason cherishes. And thus the 
 
 soul. 
 By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, 
 Doth find herself insensibly disposed 
 To virtue and true goodness. 
 
 Some there are, 
 By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
 And meditative, authors of delight 
 And happiness, which to the end of time 
 Will live, and spread, and kindle: even 
 
 such minds 
 In childhood, from this solitary Being, 
 Or from like wanderer, haply have re- 
 ceived 
 (A thing more precious far than all that 
 
 books 
 
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAE. 
 
 Or the solicitudes of love can do ! ) 
 That first mild touch of sympathy and 
 
 thought, 
 In which they found their kindred with 
 
 a world 
 Where want and sorrow were. The easy 
 
 man 
 Who sits at his own door, — and, like 
 
 the pear 
 That overhangs his head from the green 
 
 wall, 
 Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and 
 
 young. 
 The prosperous and unthinking, they 
 
 who live 
 Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
 Of their own kindred ; — all behold in him 
 A silent monitor, which on their minds 
 Must needs impress a transitory thought 
 Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
 Of each recalling his peculiar boons. 
 His charters and exemptions; and, per- 
 chance. 
 Though he to no one give the fortitude 
 And circumspection needful to preserve 
 His present blessings, and to husband up 
 The respite of the season, he, at least. 
 And 't is no vulgar service, makes them 
 
 felt. 
 Yet further. — Many, I believe, there 
 
 are 
 Who live a life of virtuous decency. 
 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel 
 No self-reproach; who of the moral law 
 Established in the land where they abide 
 Are strict observers; and not negligent 
 In acts of love to those with whom they 
 
 dwell, 
 Their kindred, and the children of their 
 
 blood. 
 Praise be to such, and to their slumbers 
 
 peace ! 
 — But of the poor man ask, the abject 
 
 poor; 
 Go, and demand of him, if there be here 
 In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 
 And these inevitable charities, 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? 
 No — man is dear to man; the poorest 
 
 poor 
 Long for some moments in a weary life 
 When they can know and feel that they 
 
 have been, 
 
 Themselves, the fathers and the dealers- 
 out 
 
 Of some small blessings; have been 
 kind to such 
 
 As needed kindness, for this single cause. 
 
 That we have all of us one human heart. 
 
 — Such pleasure is to one kind Being 
 
 known. 
 My neighbor, when with punctual care, 
 
 each week 
 Duly as Friday comes, though pressed 
 
 herself 
 By her own wants, she from her store of 
 
 meal 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the- 
 
 scrip 
 Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 
 Returning with exhilarated heart. 
 Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in 
 
 heaven. 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his 
 
 head! 
 And while in that vast solitude to which 
 The tide of things has borne him, he 
 
 appears 
 To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 Unblamed, uninjiired, let him bear about 
 The good which the benignant law of 
 
 Heaven 
 Has hung around him : and, while life is 
 
 his. 
 Still let him prompt the unlettered vil- 
 lagers 
 To tender offices and pensive thoughts. 
 
 — Then let him pass, a blessing on his 
 
 head ! 
 And, long as he can wander, let him 
 
 breathe 
 The freshness of the valleys; let his blood 
 Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; 
 And let the chartered wind that sweeps 
 
 the heath 
 Beat his gray locks against his withered 
 
 face. 
 Reverence the hope whose vital anxious- 
 
 ness 
 Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
 May never House, misnamed of In- 
 dustry, 
 Make him a captive ! — for that pent-up 
 
 din. 
 Those life-consuming sounds that clog 
 
 the air, 
 
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. 
 
 Be his the natural silence of old age ! 
 Let him be free of mountain solitudes; 
 And have around him, whether heard or 
 
 not, 
 The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
 Few are his pleasures : if his eyes have 
 
 now 
 Been doomed so long to settle upon 
 
 earth 
 That not without some effort they behold 
 The countenance of the horizontal sun, 
 Rising or setting, let the light at least 
 Find a free entrance to their languid 
 
 orbs. 
 And let him, where and whe}i he will, sit 
 
 down 
 Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank 
 Of highway side, and with the little 
 
 birds 
 Share his chance-gathered meal; and, 
 
 finally. 
 As in the eye of Nature he has lived. 
 So in the eye of Nature let him die ! 
 1798. 1800. 
 
 ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND 
 DECAY. 
 
 The little hedgerow birds, 
 That peck along the roads, regard him 
 
 not. 
 He travels on, and in his face, his step, 
 His gait, is one expression: every limb, 
 His look and bending figure, all bespeak 
 A man who does not move with pain, 
 
 but moves 
 With thought. — He is insensibly sub- 
 dued 
 To settled quiet: he is one by whom 
 All effort seems forgotten ; one to whom 
 Long patience hath such mild compo- 
 sure given. 
 That patience now doth seem a thing of 
 
 which 
 He hath no need. He is by nature led 
 To peace so perfect that the young be- 
 hold 
 With envy, what the old Man hardly 
 feels. 
 1798. 1798- 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 A TALE. 
 What 's in a Name ? 
 
 Brutus '"ill starl a Spirit as soon as Cssar ! 
 
 Written at Alfoxden. Founded upon an anec- 
 dote, which I read in a newspaper, of an ass being 
 found hanging his head over a canal in a wretched 
 posture. Upon examination a dead body was 
 found in the water and proved to be the body of 
 its master. The countenance, gait, and figure of 
 Peter, were taken from a wild rover with whom 
 1 walked from Builth, on the river Wye, down- 
 wards nearly as far as the town of Hay. He 
 told me strange stories. It has always been a 
 pleasure to me through life to catch at every 
 opportunity that has occurred in my rambles of 
 becoming acquainted with this class of people. , 
 The number of Peter's wives was taken from the 
 trespasses in this way of a lawless creature who 
 lived in the county of Durham, and used to be 
 attended by many women, sometimes not less 
 than half a dozen, as disorderly as himself. 
 Benoni, or the child of sorrow, I knew when I 
 was a school-boy. His mother had been deserted 
 by a gentleman in the neighborhood, she herself 
 being a gentlewoman by birth. The circum- 
 stances of her story were told me by my dear old 
 Dame, Anne Tyson, who was her confidante. 
 The Lady died broken-hearted. — In the woods of 
 Alfoxden I used to take great delight in noticing \ 
 the habits, tricks, and physiognomy of asses ; | 
 and I have no doubt that I was thus put upon \ 
 writing the poem out of liking for the creature / 
 tliat Is so often di'eadfully abused. — The crescent- ; 
 moon, which makes such a figure in the prologue, 
 assumed this character one evening while I was 
 watching its beauty in front of Alfoxden House. 
 I intended this poem for the volume before 
 spoken of, but it was not published for more than 
 twenty years afterwards, — The worship of the 
 Methodists or Ranters is often heard during the 
 stillness of the summer evening in the country 
 with affecting accompaniments of rural beauty. 
 In both the psalmody and the voice of the 
 preacher there is, not unfrequently, much solem- 
 nity likely to impress the feelings of the rudest 
 characters under favorable circumstances. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P.L., 
 
 ETC., ETC, 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce 
 to your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 its Manuscript state, nearly survived its Tni- 
 nority, — for it first saw the liglit in the summer 
 of 1798. During this long interval, pains have 
 been taken at different times to make the produc- 
 tion less unworthy of a favorable reception ; or, 
 rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, 
 however humble, in the Literature of our Country. 
 This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeav- 
 ors in Poetry, which, you know, have been 
 sufficiently laborious to prove tliat I deem the 
 Art not lightly to be approached ; and that the 
 attainment of excellence m it may laudably be 
 made the principal object of intellectual pursuit 
 by any man, who, with reasonable consideration 
 of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses. 
 
 The poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will 
 show, was composed under a belief that the 
 Imagination not only does not require for its 
 exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, 
 but that, though such agency be excluded, the 
 faculty may be called forth as imperiously and 
 for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, with- 
 in the compass of poetic probability, in the 
 humblest departments of daily life. Since that 
 Prologue was written, you have exhibited most 
 splendid effects of judicious daring, in the oppo- 
 site and usual course. Let this acknowledgment ' 
 make my peace with the lovers of the super- 
 natural ; and I am persuaded it will be admitted, 
 that to you, as a Master in that province of the 
 Art, the following Tale, whether from contrast 
 or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. 
 Accept it, then, as a public testimony of affec- 
 tionate admiration from one with whose name 
 yours has been often coupled (to use your own 
 words) for evil and for good ; and believe me to 
 be, with earnest wishes that life and health may 
 be granted you to complete the many important 
 works in which you are engaged, and with high 
 respect. 
 
 Most faithfully yours, 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Rydal Mount, April -j, 1819. 
 
 Prologue. 
 
 There 's something in a flying horse, 
 There 's something in a huge balloon; 
 But through the clouds I '11 never float 
 Until I have a little Boat, 
 Shaped like the crescent-moon. 
 
 And now I have a little Boat, 
 
 In shape a very crescent-moon. 
 
 Fast through the clouds my boat can sail; 
 
 But if perchance your faith should fail, 
 
 Look up — and you shall see me soon ! 
 
 The woods, my Friends, are round you 
 
 roaring, 
 Rocking and roaring like a sea; 
 The noise of danger 's in your ears, 
 And ye have all a thousand fears 
 Both for my little Boat and me ! 
 
 Meanwhile untroubled I admire 
 The pointed horns of my canoe; 
 And, did not pity touch my breast. 
 To see how ye are all distrest. 
 Till my ribs ached, I 'd laugh at you ! 
 
 Away we go, my Boat and I — 
 Frail man ne'er sate in such another; 
 Whether among the winds we strive, 
 Or deep into the clouds we dive. 
 Each is contented with the other. 
 
 Away we go — and what care we 
 For treasons, tumults, and for wars? 
 We are as calm in our delight 
 As is the crescent-moon so bright 
 Among the scattered stars. 
 
 Up goes my Boat among the stars 
 Through many a breathless field of light. 
 Through many a long blue field of ether. 
 Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her : 
 Up goes my little Boat so bright I 
 
 The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull — 
 We pry among them all; have shot 
 High o'er the red-haired race of Mars, 
 Covered from top to toe with scars; 
 Such company I like it not ! 
 
 The towns in Saturn are decayed, 
 And melancholy Spectres throng them; — 
 The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 
 Each other in the vast abyss. 
 With joy I sail among them. 
 
 Swift Mercury resounds with mirth. 
 Great Jove is full of stately bowers; 
 But these, and all that they contain. 
 What are they to that tiny grain. 
 That little Earth of ours? 
 
 Then back to Earth, the dear green 
 
 Earth : — 
 Whole ages if I here should roam. 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 123 
 
 The world for my remarks and me 
 Would not a whit the better be; 
 I 've left my heart at home. 
 
 See ! there she is, the matchless Earth ! 
 There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean ! 
 Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 
 Through the gray clouds; the Alps are 
 
 here, 
 Like waters in commotion ! 
 
 Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands; 
 That silver thread the river Dnieper ! 
 And look, where clothed in brightest 
 
 green 
 Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen; 
 Ye fairies, from all evil keep her ! 
 
 And see the town where I was born ! 
 Around those happy fields we span 
 In boyish gambols; — I was lost 
 Where I have been, but on this coast 
 I feel I am a man. 
 
 Never did fifty things at once 
 Appear so lovely, never, never; — 
 How tunefully the forests ring ! 
 To hear the earth's soft murmuring 
 Thus could I hang forever ! 
 
 " Shame on you ! " cried my little Boat, 
 
 " Was ever such a homesick Loon, 
 
 Within a living Boat to sit. 
 
 And make no better use of it; 
 
 A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon ! 
 
 " Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet 
 Fluttered so faint a heart before; — 
 Was it the music of the spheres 
 That overpowered your mortal ears ? 
 — Such din shall trouble them no more. 
 
 "These nether precincts do not lack 
 Charms of their own; — then come with 
 
 me; 
 I want a comrade, and for you 
 There 's nothing that I would not do; 
 Nought is there that you shall not see. 
 
 " Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
 We '11 sport amid the boreal morning; 
 Will mingle with her lustres gliding 
 Among the stars, the stars now hiding, 
 And now the stars adorning. 
 
 " I know the secrets of a land 
 Where human foot did never stray; 
 Fair is that land as evening skies. 
 And cool, though in the depth it lies 
 Of burning Africa. 
 
 " Or we '11 into the realm of Faery, 
 Among the lovely shades of things; 
 The shadowy forms of mountains bare. 
 And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, 
 The shades of palaces and kings ! 
 
 " Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal 
 Less quiet regions to explore, 
 Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
 How earth and heaven are taught to feei 
 The might of magic lore ! " 
 
 " My little vagrant Form of light, 
 My gay and beautiful Canoe, 
 Well have you played your friendly part; 
 As kindly take what from my heart 
 Experience forces — then adieu ! 
 
 "Temptation lurks among your words; 
 But, while these pleasures you 're pursu- 
 ing 
 Without impediment or let. 
 No wonder if you quite forget 
 What on the earth is doing. 
 
 "There was a time when all mankind 
 Did listen with a faith sincere 
 To tuneful tongues in mystery versed; 
 Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed 
 The wonders of a wild career. 
 
 " Go — (but the world 's a sleepy world, 
 And 't is, I fear, an age too late) 
 Take with you some ambitious Youth ! 
 For, restless Wanderer ! I, in truth, 
 Am all unfit to be your mate. 
 
124 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 " Long have I loved what I behold, 
 The night that calms, the day that cheers; 
 The common growth of mother-earth 
 Suffices me — her tears, her mirth. 
 Her humblest mirth and tears. 
 
 "The dragon's wing, the magic ring, 
 I shall not covet for my dower, 
 If I along that lowly way 
 With sympathetic heart may stray, 
 And with a soul of power. 
 
 "These given, what more need I desire 
 To stir, to soothe, or elevate? 
 What nobler marvels than the mind 
 May in life's daily prospect find, 
 May find or there create? 
 
 "A potent wand doth Sorrow wield; 
 What spell so strong as guilty Fear ! 
 Repentance is a tender Sprite; 
 If aught on earth have heavenly might, 
 'T is lodged within her silent tear. 
 
 " But grant my wishes, — let us now 
 Descend from this ethereal height; 
 Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff, 
 More daring far than Hippogriff, 
 And be thy own delight ! 
 
 " To the stone-table in my garden. 
 Loved haunt of many a summer hour. 
 The Squire is come : his daughter Bess 
 Beside him in the cool recess 
 Sits blooming like a flower. 
 
 " With these are many more convened; 
 They know not I have been so far; — 
 I see them there, in number nine. 
 Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine ! 
 I see them — there they are ! 
 
 " There sits the Vicar and his Dame; 
 And there my good friend Stephen Otter; 
 And, ere the light of evening fail. 
 To them I must relate the Tale 
 Of Peter Bell the Potter." 
 
 Off flew the Boat — away she flees. 
 Spurning her freight with indignation ! 
 And I, as well as I was able, 
 On two poor legs, toward my stone-table 
 Limped on with sore vexation. 
 
 " O, here he is ! " cried little Bess — 
 She saw me at the garden-door; 
 " We 've waited anxiously and long," 
 They cried, and all around me throng, 
 Full nine of them or more ! 
 
 ' ' Reproach me not — your fears be still — 
 Be thankful we again have met; — 
 Resume, my Friends ! within the shade 
 Your seats, and quickly shall be paid 
 The well-remembered debt." 
 
 I spake with faltering voice, like one 
 Not wholly rescued from the pale 
 Of a wild dream, or worse illusion; 
 But, straight, to cover my confusion, 
 Began the promised Tale. 
 
 Part First. 
 
 All by the moonlight riverside 
 Groaned the poor Beast — alas ! in vain; 
 The staff was raised to loftier height. 
 And the blows fell with heavier weight 
 As Peter struck — and struck again. 
 
 "Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the 
 
 rules 
 Of common sense you 're surely sinning; 
 This leap is for us all too bold; 
 Who Peter was, let that be told. 
 And start from the beginning." 
 
 — "A Potter,! sij^ jjg .^^^ \^y trade," 
 Said I, becoming quite collected; 
 " And wheresoever he appeared. 
 Full twenty times was Peter feared 
 For once that Peter was respected. 
 
 " He, two and thirty years or more, 
 Had been a wild and woodland rover; 
 Had heard the Atlantic surges roar 
 On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore, 
 And trod the cliffs of Dover. 
 
 " And he had seen Caernarvon's towers, 
 And well he knew the spire of Sarum; 
 And he had been where Lincoln bell 
 Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell ^ 
 A far-renowned alarum ! 
 
 ^ In the dialect of the North, a hawker of 
 earthenware is thus designated. 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 125 
 
 " At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, 
 And merry Carlisle had he been; 
 And all along the Lowlands fair. 
 All through the bonny shire of Ayr 
 And far as Aberdeen. 
 
 " And he had been at Inverness; 
 And Peter, by the mountain rills, 
 Had danced his round with Highland 
 
 lasses; 
 And he had lain beside his asses 
 On lofty Cheviot Hills : 
 
 "And he had trudged through Yorkshire 
 
 dales, 
 Among the rocks and winding scars ; 
 Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
 Beneath their little patch of sky 
 And little lot of stars: 
 
 "And all along the indented coast. 
 Bespattered with the salt-sea foam; 
 Where'er a knot of houses lay 
 0> headland, or in hollow bay ; — 
 Sure never man like him did roam ! 
 
 " As well might Peter, in the Fleet, 
 Have been fast bound, <x begging debt- 
 or; — 
 He travelled here, he travelled there; — 
 But not the value of a hair 
 Was heart or head the better. 
 
 " He roved among the vales and streams, 
 In the green wood and hollow dell; 
 They were his dwellings night and day, — 
 But nature ne'er could find the way 
 Into the heart of Peter Bell. 
 
 " In vain, through every changeful year, 
 Did Nature lead him as before; 
 A primrose by a river's brim 
 A yellow primrose was to him. 
 And it was nothing more. ' 
 
 "Small change it made on Peter's heart 
 To see his gentle panniered train 
 With more than vernal pleasure feeding, 
 Where'er the tender grass was leading 
 Its earliest green along the lane. 
 
 " In vain, through water, earth, and air. 
 The soul of happy sound was spread. 
 When Peter on some April morn, 
 Beneath the broom or budding thorn. 
 Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 
 
 "At noon, when, by the forest's edge 
 He lay beneath the branches high. 
 The soft blue sky did never melt 
 Into his heart; he never felt 
 The witchery of the soft blue sky ! 
 
 " On a fair prospect some have looked 
 And felt, as I have heard them say, 
 As if the moving time had been 
 A thing as steadfast as the scene 
 On which they gazed themselves away. 
 
 " Within the breast of Peter Bell 
 These silent raptures found no place; 
 He was a Carl as wild and rude 
 As ever hue-and-cry pursued, 
 As ever ran a felon's race. 
 
 " Of all that lead a lawless life. 
 Of all that love their lawless lives, 
 In city or in village small. 
 He was the wildest far of all; — 
 He had a dozen wedded wives. 
 
 "Nay, start not ! — wedded wives — and 
 
 twelve ! 
 But how one wife could e'er come near 
 
 him. 
 In simple truth I cannot tell; 
 For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
 To see him was to fear him. 
 
 ' ' Though Nature could not touch his 
 
 heart 
 By lovely forms, and silent weather. 
 And tender sounds, yet you might see 
 At once, that Peter Bell and she 
 Had often been together. 
 
 "A savage wildness round him hung 
 
 As of a dweller out of doors; 
 
 In his whole figure and his mien 
 
 A savage character was seen 
 
 Of mountains and of dreary moors. 
 
126 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 "To all the unshaped half-human 
 
 thoughts 
 Which solitary Nature feeds 
 'Mid summer storms or winter's ice, 
 Had Peter joined whatever vice 
 The cruel city breeds. 
 
 ' ' His face was keen as is the wind 
 That cuts along the hawthorn-fence; — 
 Of courage you saw little there, 
 But, in its stead, a medley air 
 Of cunning and of impudence. 
 
 " He had a dark and sidelong walk. 
 And long and slouching was his gait; 
 Beneath his looks so bare and bold, 
 You might perceive, his spirit cold 
 Was playing with some inward bait. 
 
 " His forehead wrinkled was and furred; 
 A work, one half of which was done 
 By thinking of his ' whens 'and ' hows ; ' 
 And half, by knitting of his brows 
 Beneath the glaring sun. 
 
 " There was a hardness in his cheek. 
 There was a hardness in his eye. 
 As if the man had fixed his face. 
 In many a solitary place. 
 Against the wind and open sky ! " 
 
 One night, (and now my little Bess ! 
 We 've reached at last the promised 
 
 Tale : ) 
 One beautiful November night, 
 When the full moon was shining bright 
 Upon the rapid river Swale, 
 
 Along the river's winding banks 
 Peter was travelling all alone; — 
 Whether to buy or sell, or led 
 By pleasure running in his head. 
 To me was never known. 
 
 He trudged along through copse and 
 
 brake, 
 ne trudged along o'er hill and dale; 
 Nor for the moon cared he a tittle, 
 And for the stars he cared as little, 
 And for the murmuring river Swale. 
 
 But, chancing to espy a path 
 That promised to cut short the way. 
 As many a wiser man hath done, 
 He left a trusty guide for one 
 That might his steps betray. 
 
 To a thick wood he soon is brought 
 Where cheerily his course he weaves, 
 And whistling loud may yet be heard. 
 Though often buried, like a bird 
 Darkling, among the boughs and leaves. 
 
 But quickly Peter's mood is changed. 
 And on he drives with cheeks that burn 
 In downright fury and in wrath; — 
 There 's little sign the treacherous path 
 Will to the road return ! 
 
 The path grows dim, and dimmer still; 
 Now up, now down, the Rover wends, 
 With all the sail that he can carry. 
 Till brought to a deserted quarry — 
 And there the pathway ends. 
 
 % 
 
 He paused — for shadows of strange 
 
 shape, 
 Massy and black, before him lay; 
 But through the dark, and through the 
 
 cold. 
 And through the yawning fissures old, 
 Did Peter boldly press his way 
 
 Right through the quarry; — and behold 
 A scene of soft and lovely hue ! 
 Where blue and gray, and tender green, 
 Together make as sweet a scene 
 As ever human eye did view. 
 
 Beneath the clear blue sky he saw 
 A little field of meadow ground; 
 But field or meadow name it not; 
 Call it of earth a small green plot, 
 With rocks encompassed round. 
 
 The Swale flowed under the gray rocks. 
 But he flowed quiet and unseen; — 
 You need a strong and stormy gale 
 To bring the noises of the Swale 
 To that green spot, so calm and green ! 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 127 
 
 And is there no one dwelling here, 
 No hermit with his beads and glass? 
 And does no little cottage look 
 Upon this soft and fertile nook? 
 Does no one live near this green grass? 
 
 Across the deep and quiet spot 
 Is Peter driving through the grass — 
 And now has reached the skirting trees; 
 When, turning round his head, he sees 
 A solitary Ass. 
 
 "A Prize ! " cries Peter — but he first 
 Must spy about him far and near : 
 There 's not a single house in sight. 
 No woodman's hut, no cottage light — 
 Peter, you need not fear ! 
 
 There 's nothing to be seen but woods, 
 And rocks that spread a hoary gleam. 
 And this one Beast, that from the bed 
 Of the green meadow hangs his head 
 Over the silent stream. 
 
 His head is with a halter bound; 
 The halter seizing, Peter leapt 
 Upon the Creature's back, and plied 
 With ready heels his shaggy side; 
 But still the Ass his station kept. 
 
 Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, 
 A jerk that from a dungeon-floor 
 Would have pulled up an iron ring; 
 But still the heavy-headed Thing 
 Stood just as he had stood before ! 
 
 Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, 
 "There is some plot against me laid;" 
 Once more the little meadow-ground 
 And all the hoary cliffs around 
 He cautiously surveyed. 
 
 All, all is silent — rocks and woods. 
 All still and silent — far and near ! 
 Only the Ass, with motion dull. 
 Upon the pivot of his skull 
 Turns round his long left ear. 
 
 Thought Peter, What can mean all this? 
 Some ugly witchcraft must be here ! 
 — Once more the Ass, with motion dull. 
 Upon the pivot of his skull 
 Turned round his long left ear. 
 
 Suspicion ripened into dread; 
 Yet with deliberate action slow. 
 His staff high-raising, in the pride 
 Of skill, upon the sounding hide, 
 He dealt a sturdy blow. 
 
 The poor Ass staggered with the shock; 
 And then, as if to take his ease. 
 In quiet uncomplaining mood. 
 Upon the spot where he had stood. 
 Dropped gently down upon his knees : 
 
 As gently on his side he fell; 
 And by the river's brink did lie; 
 And, while he lay like one that mourned, 
 The patient Beast on Peter turned 
 His shining hazel eye. 
 
 'T was but one mild, reproachful look, 
 A look more tender than severe; 
 And straight in sorrow, not in dread, 
 He turned the eyeball in his head 
 Towards the smooth river deep and cl6ar. 
 
 Upon the Beast the sapling rings; 
 
 His lank sides heaved, his limbs they 
 
 stirred; 
 He gave a groan, and then another, 
 Of that which went before the brother, 
 And then he gave a third. 
 
 All by the moonlight riverside 
 He gave three miserable groans; 
 And not till now hath Peter seen 
 How gaunt the Creature is, — how lean 
 And sharp his staring bones ! 
 
 With legs stretched out and stiff he lay : — 
 No word of kind commiseration 
 Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue; 
 With hard contempt his heart was wrung, 
 With hatred dnd vexation. 
 
 The meagre beast lay still as death; 
 And Peter's lips with fury quiver; 
 Quoth he, "You little mulish dog, 
 I '11 fling your carcase like a log 
 Head-foremost down the river! " 
 
128 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 An impious oath confirmed the threat — 
 Whereat from the earth on which he lay 
 To all the echoes, south and north, 
 And east and west, the Ass sent forth 
 A long and clamorous bray ! 
 
 This outcry, on the heart of Peter, 
 Seems like a note of joy to strike, — 
 Toy at the heart of Peter knocks ; 
 But in the echo of the rocks 
 Was something Peter did not like. 
 
 Whether to cheer his coward breast, 
 Or that he could not break the chain, 
 In this serene and solemn hour. 
 Twined round him by demoniac power, 
 To the blind work he turned again. 
 
 Among the rocks and winding crags; 
 Among the mountains far away; 
 Once more the ass did lengthen out 
 More ruefully a deep-drawn shout, 
 The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray ! 
 
 Wljat is there now in Peter's heart ! 
 Or whence the might of this strange sound ? 
 The moon uneasy looked and dimmer. 
 The broad blue heavens appeared to glim- 
 mer, 
 And the rocks staggered all around — 
 
 From Peter's hand the sapling dropped ! 
 Threat has he none to execute; 
 " If any one should come and see 
 That I am here, they '11 think," quoth he, 
 " I 'm helping this poor dying brute." 
 
 He scans the ass from limb to limb. 
 And ventures now to uplift his eyes; 
 More steady looks the moon, and clear, 
 More like themselves the rocks appear 
 And touch more quiet skies. 
 
 His scorn returns — his hate revives; 
 He stoops the Ass's neck to seize 
 With malice — that again takes flight; 
 For in the pool a startling sight 
 Meets him, among the inverted trees. 
 
 Is it the moon's distorted face? 
 The ghost-like image of a cloud? 
 Is it a gallows there portrayed? 
 Is Peter of himself afraid? 
 Is it a coffin, — .or a shroud? 
 
 A grisly idol hewn in stone? 
 Or imp from witch's lap let fall? 
 Perhaps a ring of shining fairies? 
 Such as pursue their feared vagaries 
 In sylvan bower, or haunted hall ? 
 
 Is it a fiend that to a stake 
 
 Of fire his desperate self is tethering? 
 
 Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell 
 
 In solitary ward or cell. 
 
 Ten thousand miles from all his brethren 
 
 Never did pulse so quickly throb. 
 And never heart so loudly panted; 
 He looks, he cannot choose but look; 
 Like some one reading in a book — 
 A book that is enchanted. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell ! 
 He will be turned to iron soon, 
 Meet Statue for the court of Fear ! 
 His hat is up — and every hair 
 Bristles, and whitens in the moon ! 
 
 He looks, he ponders, looks again; 
 He sees a motion — hears a groan; 
 His eyes will burst — his heart wil 
 
 break — 
 He gives a loud and frightful shriek. 
 And back he falls, as if his life were flown 
 
 Part Second. 
 
 We left our Hero in a trance. 
 Beneath the alders, near the river; 
 The Ass is by the riverside. 
 And, where the feeble breezes glide. 
 Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver 
 
 A happy respite ! but at length 
 
 He feels the glimmering of the moon; 
 
 Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sigh 
 
 ing — 
 To sink, perhaps, where he is lying. 
 Into a second swoon ! 
 
 He lifts his head, he sees his staff; 
 He touches — 't is to him a treasure ! 
 Faint recollection seems to tell 
 That he is yet where mortals dwell — 
 A thought received with languid pleasure i 
 
PETER BELL 
 
 129 
 
 His head upon his elbow propped, 
 Becoming less and less perplexed, 
 Sky- ward he looks — to rock and wood — 
 And then — upon the glassy flood 
 His wandering eye is fixed. 
 
 Thought he, that is the face of one 
 In his last sleep securely bound ! 
 So toward the stream his head he bent, 
 And downward thrust his staff, intent 
 The river's depth to sound. 
 
 No%o — like a tempest-shattered bark, 
 That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, 
 And in a moment to the verge 
 Is lifted of a foaming surge — 
 Full suddeiily the Ass doth rise ! 
 
 His staring bones all shake with joy, 
 And close by Peter's side he stands: 
 While Peter o'er the river bends, 
 The little Ass his neck extends. 
 And fondly licks his hands. 
 
 Such life is in the Ass's eyes, 
 
 Such life is in his limbs and ears; 
 
 That Peter Bell, if he had been 
 
 The veriest coward ever seen. 
 
 Must now have thrown aside his fears. 
 
 The Ass looks on — and to his work 
 Is Peter quietly resigned; 
 He touches here — he touches there — 
 And now among the dead man's hair 
 His sapUng Peter has intwined. 
 
 He pulls — and looks — and pulls again; 
 And he whom the poor Ass had lost, 
 The man who had been four days dead, 
 Head-foremost from the river's bed 
 Uprises like a ghost ! 
 
 And Peter draws him to dry land; 
 And through the brain of Peter pass 
 Some poignant twitches, fast and faster; 
 ' ' No doubt, ' ' quoth he, " he is the Master 
 Of this poor miserable Ass ! " 
 
 The meagre Shadow that looks on — 
 What would he now? what is he doing? 
 His sudden fit of joy is flown, — 
 He on his knees hath laid him down, 
 As if he were his grief renewing; 
 
 But no — that Peter on his back 
 Must mount, he shows well as he can : 
 Thought Peter then, come weal or woe, 
 I '11 do what he would have me do, 
 In pity to this poor drowned man. 
 
 With that resolve he boldly mounts 
 Upon the pleased and thankful Ass; 
 And then, without a moment's stay, 
 That earnest Creature turned away 
 Leaving the body on the grass. 
 
 Intent upon his faithful watch, 
 The Beast four days and nights had past; 
 A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen. 
 And there the Ass four days had been, 
 Nor ever once did break his fast : 
 
 Yet firm his step, and stout his heart; 
 The mead is crossed — the quarry's mouth 
 Is reached; but there the trusty guide 
 Into a thicket turns aside. 
 And deftly ambles towards the south. 
 
 When hark a burst of doleful sound !■ 
 And Peter honestly might say, 
 The like came never to his ears. 
 Though he has been, lull thirty years, 
 A rover — night and day ! 
 
 'T is not a plover of the moors, 
 
 'T is not a bittern of the fen; 
 
 Nor can it be a barking fox. 
 
 Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks, 
 
 Nor wild-cat in a woody glen ! 
 
 The Ass is startled — and stops short 
 Right in the middle of the thicket; 
 And Peter, wont to whistle loud 
 Whether alone or in a crowd. 
 Is silent as a silent cricket. 
 
 What ails you now, my little Bess? 
 Well may you tremble and look grave ! 
 This cry — that rings along the wood, 
 This cry — that floats adown the flood. 
 Comes from the entrance of a cave : 
 
 I see a blooming Wood-boy there, 
 And if I had the power to say 
 How sorrowful the wanderer is, 
 Your heart would be as sad as his 
 Till you had kissed his tears away ! 
 
130 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand, 
 All bright with berries ripe and red, 
 Into the cavern's mouth he peeps; 
 Thence back into the moonlight creeps; 
 Whom seeks he — whom? — the silent 
 dead: 
 
 His father ! — Him doth he require — 
 Him hath he sought with fruitless pains. 
 Among the rocks, behind the trees; 
 Now creeping on his hands and knees, 
 Now running o'er the open plains. 
 
 And hither is he come at last. 
 
 When he through such a day has gone. 
 
 By this dark cave to be distrest 
 
 Like a poor bird — her plundered nest 
 
 Hovering around with dolorous moan ! 
 
 Of that intense and piercing cry 
 The listening Ass conjectures well; 
 Wild as it is, he there can read 
 Some intermingled notes that plead 
 With touches irresistible. 
 
 But Peter — when he saw the Ass 
 Not only stop but turn, and change 
 The cherished tenor of his pace 
 That lamentable cry to chase — 
 It wrought in him conviction strange; 
 
 A faith that, for the dead man's sake 
 And this poor slave who loved him well, 
 Vengeance upon his head will fall, 
 Some visitation worse than all 
 Which ever till this night befell. 
 
 Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home, 
 Is striving stoutly as he may; 
 But, while he climbs the woody hill. 
 The cry grows weak — and weaker still; 
 And now at last it dies away. 
 
 So with his freight the Creature turns 
 Into a gloomy grove of beech. 
 Along the shade with footsteps true 
 Descending slowly, till the two 
 The open moonlight reach. 
 
 And there, along the narrow dell, 
 A fair smooth pathway you discern, 
 A length of green and open road — 
 
 As if it from a fountain flowed — 
 Winding away between the fern. 
 
 The rocks that tower on either side 
 Build up a wild fantastic scene; 
 Temples like those among the Hindoos, 
 And mosques, and spires, and abbe; 
 
 windows. 
 And castles all with ivy green ! 
 
 And, while the Ass pursues his way, 
 
 Along this solitary dell. 
 
 As pensively his steps advance. 
 
 The mosques and spires change counte 
 
 nance 
 And look at Peter Bell ! 
 
 That unintelligible cry 
 Hath left him high in preparation, — 
 Convinced that he, or soon or late. 
 This very night will meet his fate — 
 And so he sits in expectation ! 
 
 The strenuous Animal hath clomb 
 With the green path ; and now he wendi 
 Where, shining like the smoothest sea, 
 In undisturbed immensity 
 A level plain extends. 
 
 But whence this faintly rustling sound 
 By which the journeying pair are chasedi 
 — A withered leaf is close behind. 
 Light plaything for the sportive wind 
 Upon that solitary waste. 
 
 When Peter spied the moving thing. 
 It only doubled his distress; 
 " Where there is not a bush or tree, 
 The very leaves they follow me — ~ 
 So huge hath been my wickedness ! " 
 
 To a close lane they now are come, 
 Where, as before, the enduring Ass 
 Moves on without a moment's stop. 
 Nor once turns round his head to crop 
 A bramble-leaf or blade of grass. 
 
 Between the hedges as they go. 
 The white dust sleeps upon the lane; 
 And Peter, ever and anon 
 Back-looking, sees, upon a stone, 
 Or in the dust, a crimson stain. 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 131 
 
 A. stain — as of a drop of blood 
 By moonlight made more faint and wan; 
 Ha! why these sinkings of despair? 
 He knows not how the blood comes 
 
 there — 
 And Peter is a wicked man. 
 
 At length he spies a bleeding wound, 
 Where he had struck the Ass's head; 
 He sees the blood, knows what it is, — 
 A glimpse of sudden joy was his, 
 But then it quickly fled; 
 
 Of him whom sudden death had seized 
 He thought, — of thee, O faithful Ass ! 
 And once again those ghastly pains. 
 Shoot to and fro through heart and reins. 
 And through his brain like lightning pass. 
 
 Part Third. 
 I've heard of one, a gentle Soul, 
 Though given to sadness and to gloom. 
 And for the fact will vouch, — one night 
 It chanced that by a taper's light 
 This man was reading in his room; 
 
 Bending, as you or I might bend 
 At night o'er any pious book. 
 When sudden blackness overspread 
 The snow-white page on which he read. 
 And made the good man round him look. 
 
 The chamber walls were dark all round, — 
 And to his book he turned again; 
 — The light had left the lonely taper, 
 And formed itself upon the paper 
 Into large letters — bright and plain ! 
 
 The godly book was in his hand — 
 And, on the page, more black than coal, 
 Appeared, set forth in strange array, 
 A word — which to his dying day 
 Perplexed the good man's gentle soul. 
 
 The ghostly word, thus plainly seen. 
 Did never from his lips depart; 
 But he hath said, poor gentle wight ! 
 It brought full many a sin to light 
 Out of the bottom of his heart. 
 
 Dread Spirits ! to confound the meek 
 Why wander from your course so far, 
 
 Disordering color, form, and stature ! 
 
 — Let good men feel the soul of nature, 
 And see things as they are. 
 
 Yet, potent Spirits ! well I know, 
 How ye, that play with soul and sense. 
 Are not unused to trouble friends 
 Of goodness, for most gracious ends — 
 And this I speak in reverence ! 
 
 But might I give advice to you. 
 Whom in my fear I love so well; 
 From men of pensive virtue go. 
 Dread Beings ! and your empire show 
 On hearts like that of Peter Bell. 
 
 Your presence often have I felt 
 
 In darkness and the stormy night; 
 
 And, with like force, if need there be. 
 
 Ye can put forth your agency 
 
 When earth is calm, and heaven is bright. 
 
 Then, coming from the wayward world, 
 That powerful world in which ye dwell. 
 Come, Spirits of the Mind ! and try 
 To-night, beneath the moonlight sky. 
 What may be done with Peter Bell ! 
 
 — O, would that some more skilful voice 
 My further labor might prevent ! 
 Kind Listeners, that around me sit, 
 
 I feel that I am all unfit 
 For such high argument. 
 
 I've played, I've danced, with my narra- 
 tion; 
 I loitered long ere I began : 
 Ye waited then on my good pleasure; 
 Pour out indulgence still, in measure 
 As liberal as ye can ! 
 
 Our Travellers, ye remember well. 
 Are thridding a sequestered lane; 
 And Peter many tricks is trying. 
 And many anodynes applying. 
 To ease his conscience of its pain. 
 
 By this his heart is lighter far; 
 And, finding that he can account 
 So snugly for that crimson stain, 
 His evil spirit up again 
 Does like an empty bucket mount. 
 
132 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 And Peter is a deep logician 
 
 Who hath no lack of wit mercurial; 
 
 "Blood drops — leaves rustle — yet," 
 
 quoth he, 
 "This poor man never, but for me, 
 Could have had Christian burial. 
 
 " And, say the best you can, 't is plain. 
 That here has been some wicked dealing; 
 No doubt the devil in me wrought; 
 I'm not the man who could have thought 
 An Ass like this was worth the stealing ! " 
 
 So from his pocket Peter takes 
 His shining horn tobacco-box; 
 And, in a light and careless way, 
 As men who with their purpose play. 
 Upon the lid he knocks. 
 
 Let them whose voice can stop the clouds. 
 Whose cunning eye can see the wind. 
 Tell to a curious wurkl the cause 
 Why, making here a sudden pause. 
 The Ass turned round his head, and 
 grinned. 
 
 Appalling process ! I have marked 
 The like on heath, in lonely wood; 
 And, verily, have seldom met 
 A spectacle more hideous — yet 
 It suited Peter's present mood. 
 
 And, grinning in his turn, his teeth 
 He in jocose defiance showed — 
 When, to upset his spiteful mirth, 
 A murmur, pent within the earth. 
 In the dead earth beneath the road 
 
 Rolled audibly ! it swept along, 
 A muffled noise — a rumbling sound ! — 
 'T was by a troop of miners made. 
 Plying with gunpowder their trade. 
 Some twenty fathoms under ground. 
 
 Small cause of dire effect ! for, surely, 
 If ever mortal, King or Cotter, 
 Believed that earth was charged to quake 
 And yawn for his unworthy sake, 
 'Twas Peter Bell the Potter. 
 
 But, as an oak in breathless air 
 
 Will stand though to the centre hewn; 
 
 Or as the weakest things, if frost 
 
 Have stiffened them, maintain their post 
 So he, beneath the gazing moon ! — 
 
 The Beast bestriding thus, he reached 
 A spot where, in a sheltering cove, 
 A little chapel stands alone. 
 With- greenest ivy overgrown, 
 And tufted with an ivy grove; 
 
 Dying insensibly away 
 
 From human thoughts and purposes. 
 
 It seemed — wall, window, roof, anc 
 
 tower — 
 To bow to some transforming power. 
 And blend with the surrounding trees. 
 
 As ruinous a place it was. 
 Thought Peter, in the shire of Fife 
 That served my turn, when following stil 
 From land to land a reckless will 
 I married my sixth wife ! 
 
 The unheeding Ass moves slowly on, 
 And now is passing by an inn 
 Brim-full of a carousing crew. 
 That make, with curses not a few. 
 An uproar and a drunken din. 
 
 I cannot well express the thoughts 
 Which Peter in those noises found; — 
 A stifling power compressed his frame, 
 While-as a swimming darkness came 
 Over that dull and dreary sound. 
 
 For well did Peter know the sound; 
 The language of those drunken joys 
 To him, a jovial soul, I ween, 
 But a few hours ago, had been 
 A gladsome and a welcome noise. 
 
 Nmo, turned adrift into the past, 
 He finds no solace in his course; 
 Like planet-stricken men of yore. 
 He trembles, smitten to the core 
 By strong compunction and remorse. 
 
 But, more than all, his heart is stung 
 To think of one, almost a child; 
 A sweet and playful Highland girl. 
 As light and beauteous as a squirrel. 
 As beauteous and as wild ! 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 133 
 
 Her dwelling was a lonely house, 
 A cottage in a heathy dell; 
 And she put on her gown of green, 
 And left her mother at sixteen. 
 And followed Peter Bell. 
 
 But many good and pious thoughts 
 Had she; and, in the kirk to pray, 
 Two long Scotch miles, through rain or 
 
 snow 
 To kirk she had been used to go. 
 Twice every Sabbath-day. 
 
 And, when she followed Peter Bell, 
 It was to lead an honest life; 
 For he, with tongue not used to falter, 
 Had pledged his troth before the altar 
 To love her as his wedded wife. 
 
 A mother's hope is hers; — but soon 
 She drooped and pined like one forlorn; 
 From Scripture she a name did borrow; 
 Benoni, or the child of sorrow. 
 She called her babe unborn. 
 
 For she had learned how Peter lived. 
 And took it in most grievous part; 
 She to the very bone was worn. 
 And, ere that little child was born. 
 Died of a broken heart. 
 
 And now the Spirits of the Mind 
 Are busy with poor Peter Bell; 
 Upon the rights of visual sense 
 Usurping, with a prevalence 
 More terrible than magic spell. 
 
 Close by a brake of flowering furze 
 (Above it shivering aspens play) 
 He sees an unsubstantial creature. 
 His very self in form and feature. 
 Not four yards from the broad highway ; 
 
 And stretched beneath the furze he sees 
 The Highland girl — it is no other; 
 And hears her crying as she cried, 
 The very moment that she died, 
 "My mother ! oh my mother ! " 
 
 The sweat pours down from Peter's face, 
 So grievous is his heart's contrition; 
 With agony his eye-balls ache 
 While he behold"; by the furze-brake 
 This miserable vision ! 
 
 Calm is the well-deserving brute, 
 His peace hath no offence betrayed; 
 But now, while down that slope he wends, 
 A voice to Peter's ear ascends. 
 Resounding from the woody glade: 
 
 The voice, though clamorous as a horn 
 
 Re-echoed by a naked rock. 
 
 Comes from that tabernacle — List ! 
 
 Within, a fervent Methodist 
 
 Is preaching to no heedless flock ! 
 
 " Repent ! repent ! " he cries aloud, 
 " While yet ye may find mercy; — strive 
 To love the Lord with all your might ; 
 Turn to him, seek him day and night. 
 And save your souls alive ! 
 
 " Repent ! repent ! though ye have gone. 
 Through paths of wickedness and woe, 
 After the Babylonian harlot; 
 And, though your sins be red as scarlet. 
 They shall be white as snow ! ' ' 
 
 Even as he passed the door, these words 
 Did plainly come to Peter's ears; 
 And they such joyful tidings were, 
 The joy was more than he could bear ! — 
 He melted into tears. 
 
 Sweet tears of hope and tenderness ! 
 And fast they fell, a plenteous shower I 
 His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt; 
 Through all his iron frame was felt 
 A gentle, a relaxing, power ! 
 
 Each fibre of his frame was weak; 
 Weak all the animal within; 
 But, in its helplessness, grew mild 
 And gentle as an infant child. 
 An infant that has known no sin. 
 
 'T is said, meek Beast ! that, through 
 
 Heaven's grace. 
 He not unmoved did notice now 
 The cross upon thy shoulder scored, 
 For lasting impress, by the Lord 
 To whom all human-kind shall bow; 
 
 Memorial of his touch — that day 
 When Jesus humbly deigned to ride. 
 Entering the proud Jerusalem. 
 By an immeasurable stream 
 Of shouting people deified ! 
 
134 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 Meanwhile the persevering Ass, 
 Turned towards a gate that hung in view 
 Across a shady lane ; his chest 
 Against the yielding gate he pressed 
 And quietly passed through. 
 
 And up the stony lane he,goes; 
 No ghost more softly ever trod; 
 Among the stones and pebbles, he 
 Sets down his hoofs inaudibly. 
 As if with felt his hoofs were shod. 
 
 Along the lane the trusty Ass 
 
 Went twice two hundred yards or more. 
 
 And no one could have guessed his aim, — 
 
 Till to a lonely house he came. 
 
 And stopped beside the door. 
 
 Thought Peter, 't is the poor man's home ! 
 He listens — not a sound is heard 
 Save from the trickling household rill; 
 But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill. 
 Forthwith a little Girl appeared. 
 
 She to the Meeting-house was bound 
 In hopes some tidings there to gather: 
 No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam; 
 She saw — and uttered with a scream, 
 " My father ! here's my father ! " 
 
 The very word was plainly heard. 
 Heard plainly by the wretched Mother — 
 Her joy was like a deep affright; 
 And forth she rushed into the light, 
 And saw it was another ! 
 
 And, instantly, upon the earth. 
 Beneath the full moon shining bright, 
 Close to the Ass's feet she fell; 
 At the same moment Peter Bell 
 Dismounts in most unhappy plight. 
 
 As he beheld the Woman lie 
 Breathless and motionless, the mind 
 Of Peter sadly was confused; 
 But, though to such demands unused. 
 And helpless almost as the blind. 
 
 He raised her up; and, while he held 
 Her body propped against his knee. 
 The Woman waked — and when she spied 
 The poor Ass standing by her side. 
 She moaned most bitterly. 
 
 "Oh! God be praised — my heart's at 
 
 ease — 
 For he is dead — I know it well ! " 
 — At this she wept a bitter flood; 
 And, in the best way that he could. 
 His tale did Peter tell. 
 
 He trembles — he is pale as death; 
 His voice is weak with perturbation; 
 He turns aside his head, he pauses; 
 Poor Peter, from a thousand causes. 
 Is crippled sore in his narration. 
 
 At length she learned how he espied 
 The Ass in that small meadow-ground; 
 And that her Husband now lay dead, 
 Beside that luckless river's bed 
 In which he had been drowned. 
 
 A piercing look the Widow cast 
 Upon the Beast that near her stands; 
 She sees 't is he, that 't is the same; 
 She calls the poor Ass by his name, 
 And wrings, and wrings her hands. 
 
 " O wretched loss — untimely stroke ! 
 If he had died upon his bed ! 
 He knew not one forewarning pain; 
 He never will come home again — 
 Is dead, forever dead! " 
 
 Beside the woman Peter stands; 
 His heart is opening more and more; 
 A holy sense pervades his mind; 
 He feels what he for human kind 
 Had never felt before. 
 
 At length, by Peter's arm sustained. 
 The Woman rises from the ground — 
 " Oh, mercy ! something must be done, 
 My little Rachel, you must run, — 
 Some willing neighbor must be found. 
 
 "Make haste — my little Rachel — do. 
 The first you meet with — bid him 
 
 come. 
 Ask him to lend his horse to-night. 
 And this good Man, whom Heaven re- 
 quite. 
 Will help to bring the body home." 
 
THE SIMPLON PASS. 
 
 135 
 
 Away goes Rachel weeping loud; — 
 An Infant, waked by her distress, 
 Makes in the house a piteous cry; 
 And Peter hears the Mother sigli, 
 " Seven are they, and all fatherless ! " 
 
 And now is Peter taught to feel 
 That man's heart is a holy thing; 
 And Nature, through a world of death, 
 Breathes into him a second breath. 
 More searching than the breath of spring. 
 
 Upon a stone the Woman sits 
 
 In agony of silent grief — 
 
 From his own thoughts did Peter start; 
 
 He longs to press her to his heart. 
 
 From love that cannot find relief. 
 
 But roused, as if through every limb 
 Had passed a sudden shock of dread. 
 The IVIother o'er the threshold flies. 
 And up the cottage stairs she hies, 
 And on the pillow lays her burning head. 
 
 And Peter turns his steps aside 
 Into a shade of darksome trees. 
 Where he sits down, he knows not how. 
 With his hands pressed against liis brow. 
 His elbows on his tremulous knees. 
 
 There, self-involved, does Peter sit 
 Until no sign of life he makes. 
 As if his mind were sinking deep 
 Through years that have been long asleep 
 The trance is passed away — he wakes; 
 
 He lifts his head — and sees the Ass 
 Yet standing in the clear moonshine; 
 " When shall I be as good as thou? 
 Oh ! would, poor beast, that I had now 
 A heart but half as good as thine ! " 
 
 But He — who deviously hath sought 
 His Father through the lonesome woods. 
 Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear 
 Of night his grief and sorrowful fear — 
 He comes, escaped from fields and 
 floods; — 
 
 With weary pace is drawing nigh; 
 He sees the Ass — and nothing living 
 Had ever such a fit of joy 
 
 As hath this little orphan Boy, 
 For he has no misgiving ! 
 
 Forth to the gentle Ass he springs, 
 And up about his neck he climbs; 
 In loving words he talks to him. 
 He kisses, kisses face and limb, — 
 He kisses him a thousand times ! 
 
 This Peter sees, while in the shade 
 He stood beside the cottage-door; 
 And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild. 
 Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child, 
 " O God ! I can endure no more ! " 
 
 — Here ends my Tale; for in a trice 
 Arrived a neighbor with his horse; 
 Peter went forth with him straightway; 
 And, with due care, ere break of day, 
 Together they brought back the Corse. 
 
 And many years did this poor Ass, 
 Whom once it was my luck to see 
 Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, 
 Help by his labor to maintain 
 The Widow and her family. 
 
 And Peter Bell, who, till that night. 
 Had been the wildest of his clan. 
 Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly, 
 And, after ten months' melancholy, 
 Became a good and honest man. 
 
 J79S. iSrg. 
 
 THE SIMPLON PASS.' 
 
 — Brook and road 
 Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy 
 
 Pass, 
 And with them did we journey several 
 
 hours 
 At a slow step. The immeasurable 
 
 height 
 Of woods decaying, never to be de- 
 cayed. 
 The stationary blasts of waterfalls. 
 And in the narrow rent, at every turn. 
 Winds thwarting winds bewildered and 
 
 forlorn, 
 The torrents shooting from the clear blue 
 sky, 
 
 ^ Sec Prelude, book vi. p. 316. 
 
136 
 
 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS. 
 
 The rocks that muttered close upon our 
 
 ears, 
 Black drizzling crags that spake by the 
 
 wayside 
 As if a voice were in them, the sick 
 
 sight 
 And giddy prospect of the raving stream. 
 The unfettered clouds and region of the 
 
 heavens. 
 Tumult and peace, the darkness and the 
 
 light — 
 Were all like workings of one mind, the 
 
 features 
 Of the same face, blossoms upon one 
 
 tree, 
 Characters of the great Apocalypse, 
 The types and symbols of Eternity, 
 Of first, and last, and midst, and without 
 
 end. 
 1799. 1845. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL 
 OBJECTS 
 
 yN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING 
 THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND 
 EARLY YOUTH. 
 
 WRITTEN IN GERMANY.' 
 
 This Extract is reprinted from "The Friend." 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
 Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of 
 
 thought ! 
 And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
 And everlasting motion ! not in vain, 
 By day or star-light, thus from my first 
 
 dawn 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for 
 
 me 
 The passions that build up our human 
 
 soul; 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of 
 
 Man; 
 But with high objects, with enduring 
 
 things. 
 With life and nature; purifying thus 
 The elements of feeling and of thought. 
 And sanctifying by such discipline 
 Both pain and fear, — until we recog- 
 nize 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 
 1 See Prelude, book i. p. 274. 
 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to 
 
 me 
 With stinted kindness. In November 
 
 days, 
 When vapors rolling down the valleys 
 
 made 
 A lonely scene more lonesome; among 
 
 woods 
 At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer 
 
 nights, 
 When, by the margin of the trembling 
 
 lake. 
 Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I 
 
 went 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 
 Mine was it in the fields both day and 
 
 night. 
 And by the waters, all the summer long. 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 Was set, and, visible for many a mile, 
 The cottage-windows through the twilight 
 
 blazed, 
 I heeded not the summons: happy time 
 It was indeed for all of us; for me 
 It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
 The village-clock tolled six — I wheeled 
 
 about, 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 That cares not for his home. — All shod 
 
 with steel 
 We hissed along the polished ice, in 
 
 games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resound- 
 ing horn. 
 The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted 
 
 hare. 
 So through the darkness and the cold we 
 
 flew. 
 And not a voice was idle : with the din 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the 
 
 stars. 
 Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in 
 
 the west 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 Into a silent bay, or sportively 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous 
 
 throng. 
 
THERE WAS A BOY. 
 
 137 
 
 To cut across the reflex of a star; 
 Image, that, flying still before me, 
 
 gleamed 
 Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes, 
 When we had given our bodies to the 
 
 wind, 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, 
 
 spinning still 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels. 
 Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 Wheeled by me — even as if the earth 
 
 had rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn 
 
 train. 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and 
 
 watched 
 Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 
 1799. 1809. 
 
 THERE WAS A BOY. 
 
 Written in Germany. This is an extract from 
 the poem on my own poetical education. This 
 practice of making an instrument of tlieir own 
 fingers is known to most boys, though some are 
 more skilful at it than others. William Raincock 
 of Rayngg, a fine spirited lad, took the lead of all 
 my schoolfellows in this art. 
 
 There was a Boy; ye knew him well, 
 
 ye cliffs 
 And islands of Winander ! — many a time, 
 At evening, when the earliest stars began 
 To move along the edges of the hills. 
 Rising or setting, would he stand alone. 
 Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering 
 
 lake; 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both 
 
 hands 
 Pressed closely palm to palm and to his 
 
 mouth 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
 Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 
 That they might answer him. — And they 
 
 would shout 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again. 
 Responsive to his call, — with quivering 
 
 peals. 
 And loud halloos, and screams, and 
 
 echoes loud 
 
 Redoubled and redoubled; concourse 
 
 wild 
 Of jocund din ! And, when there came a 
 
 pause 
 Of silence such as baffled his best skill : 
 Then, sometimes, in that silence, while 
 
 he hung 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 Of ihountain-torrents; or the visible 
 
 scene 
 Would enter unawares into his mind 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven 
 
 received 
 Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
 This boy was taken from his mates, and 
 
 died 
 In childhood, ere he was full twelve years 
 
 old. 
 Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 
 Where he was born and bred : the church- 
 yard hangs 
 Upon a slope above the village-school; 
 And, through that church-yard when my 
 
 way has led 
 On summer-evenings, I believe, that there 
 A long half-hour together I have stood 
 Mute — looking at the grave in which he 
 
 lies ! 
 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 NUTTING. 
 
 Written in Germany ; intended as part of a 
 poem on my own life, but struck out as not being 
 wanted tliere. Like most of my schoolfellows I 
 was an impassioned nutter. For this pleasure, 
 the vale of Esthwaite, abounding in coppice-wood, 
 furnished a very wide range. These verses arose 
 out of the remembrance of feelings I had often had 
 when a boy, and particularly in the extensive 
 woods that still stretch from the side of Esthwaite 
 Lake towards Graythwaite, the seat of the ancient 
 family of Sandys. 
 
 It seems a day 
 (I speak of one from many singled out) 
 One of those heavenly days that cannot 
 
 die; 
 When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
 I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
 With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders 
 
 slung, 
 
138 
 
 NUTTING. 
 
 A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my 
 
 steps 
 Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure 
 
 quaint, 
 Triclced out in proud disguise of cast-off 
 
 weeds 
 Whicli for tliat service had been hus- 
 banded, 
 By exhortation of my frugal Dame — 
 Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
 At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — 
 
 and, in truth. 
 More ragged than need was ! O'er path- 
 less rocks. 
 Through beds of matted fern, and tangled 
 
 thickets. 
 Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
 Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
 Drooped with its withered leaves, un- 
 gracious sign 
 Of devastation; but the hazels rose 
 Tall and erect, with tempting clusters 
 
 hung, 
 A virgin scene ! ■ — A little while I stood. 
 Breathing with such suppression of the 
 
 heart 
 As joy delights in; and, with wise re- 
 straint 
 Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
 The banquet; — or beneath the trees I 
 
 sate 
 Among the flowers, and with the flowers 
 
 I played; 
 A temper known to those, who, after long 
 And weary expectation, have been blest 
 With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 
 Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose 
 
 leaves 
 The violets of five seasons re-appear 
 And fade, unseen by any human eye; 
 Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
 Forever; and I saw the sparkling foam. 
 And — with my cheek on one of those 
 
 green stones 
 That, fleeced with moss, under the shady 
 
 trees, 
 Lay round me, scattered like a flock of 
 
 sheep — 
 I heard the murmur and the murmuring 
 
 sound, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasure loves 
 
 to pay 
 Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure. 
 
 The heart luxuriates with indifferent 
 
 things, 
 Wasting its kindliness on stocks and 
 
 stones. 
 And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, 
 And dragged to earth both branch and 
 
 bough, with crash 
 And merciless ravage : and the shady nook 
 Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower. 
 Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
 Their quiet being: and, unless I now 
 Confound my present feelings with the 
 
 past; 
 Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 
 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
 The silent trees, and saw the intruding 
 
 sky — 
 Then, dearest Maiden, move along these 
 
 shades 
 In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand 
 Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 The next three poems were written in 
 Germany. 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known : 
 
 And I will dare to tell, 
 
 But in the Lover's ear alone. 
 
 What once to me befell. 
 
 When she I loved looked every day 
 Fresh as a rose in June, 
 I to her cottage bent my way, 
 Beneath an evening-moon. 
 
 Upon the moon I fixed my eye, 
 
 All over the wide lea; 
 
 With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 
 
 Those paths so dear to me. 
 
 And now we reached the orchard-plot; 
 And, as we climbed the hill. 
 The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 
 Came near, and nearer still. 
 
 In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
 Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
 And all the while my eyes I kept 
 On the descending moon. 
 
NUTTING. 
 
 >i39 
 
 My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
 He raised, and never stopped : 
 \s'hen down behind the cottage roof, 
 At once, the bright moon dropped. 
 
 What fond and wayward thoughts will 
 
 slide 
 Into a Lover's head ! 
 "O mercy! " to myself I cried, 
 " If Lucy should be dead ! " 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A Maid whom there were none to praise 
 
 And very few to love : 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be; 
 But she is in her grave, and, oh. 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 I TRAVELLED among unknown men. 
 
 In lands beyond the sea; 
 Nor, England ! did I know till then 
 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 'T is past, that melancholy dream ! 
 
 Nor will I quit thy shore 
 A second time; for still I seem 
 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 Among thy mountains did I feel 
 
 The joy of my desire; 
 And she I cherished turned her wheel 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 Thy mornings showed, thy nights con- 
 cealed 
 
 The bowers where Lucy played; 
 And thine too is the last green field 
 
 That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 
 
 1799. 1807. 
 
 Composed in the Hartz Forest. 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sown; 
 This Child I to myself will take; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 " Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse : and with me 
 
 The Girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 " She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn, 
 Or up the mountain springs; 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm. 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 " The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 To her; forJber the willow bend; 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 Even in the motions of the Storm 
 Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 ' ' The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her; and she shall lean her ear 
 In many a secret place 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward 
 
 round. 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 "And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear her form to stately height. 
 Her virgin bosom swell; 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and I together live 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was 
 
 done — 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 She died, and left to me 
 This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 
 The memory of what has been, 
 And nevermore will be. 
 
 1799. 1800. 
 
140 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Written in Germany. 
 A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; 
 
 I had no human fears : 
 She seemed a thing that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. 
 
 No motion has she now, no force; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees; 
 Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 
 
 With rocks, and stones, and trees. 
 
 1799. 1800, 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH 
 
 Art thou a Statist in the van 
 Of public conflicts trained and bred? 
 — First learn to love one living man; 
 Then may'st thou think upon the dead. 
 
 A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! 
 Go, carry to some fitter place 
 The keenness of that practised eye. 
 The hardness of that sallow face. 
 
 Art thou a Man of purple cheer? 
 A rosy Man, right plump to see? 
 Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near, 
 This grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
 Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
 A Soldier and no man of chaff? 
 Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
 And lean upon a peasant's staff. 
 
 Physician art thou? one, all eyes, 
 Philosopher ! a fingering slave. 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 Upon his mother's grave? 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
 O turn aside, — and take, I pray. 
 That he below may rest in peace. 
 Thy ever-dwindling soul, away ! 
 
 A Moralist perchance appears; 
 
 Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor 
 
 sod: 
 And he has neither eyes nor ears; 
 Himself his world, and his own God; 
 
 One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can 
 
 cling 
 Nor form, nor feeling, great or small; 
 A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
 An intellectual AU-in-^U ! 
 
 Shut close the door; press down the 
 
 latch; 
 Sleeo in thy intellectual crust; 
 N(>Viose ten tickings of thy watch 
 >iear this unprofitable dust. 
 
 \-) But who is He, with modest looks, 
 And clad in homely russet brown? 
 He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A n.usic sweeter than their own. 
 
 He is retired as noontide dew. 
 Or fountain in a noon-day grove; 
 And you must love him, ere to you 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky and earth, 
 Of hill and valley, he has viewed; 
 And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
 In common things that round us lie 
 Some random truths he can impart, — 
 The harvest of a quiet eye 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
 
 But he is weak; both Man and Boy, 
 Hath been an idler in the land; 
 Contented if he might enjoy the things 
 The things which others understand. 
 
 — Come hither in thy hour of strength; 
 Come, weak as is a breaking wave \ 
 Here stretch thy body at full length; 
 Or build thy house upon this grave. 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF 
 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL OF 
 
 Composed at Goslar, in Germany. 
 I COME, ye little noisy Crew, 
 Not long your pastime to prevent; 
 I heard the blessing which to you 
 Our common Friend and Father sent. 
 I kissed his cheek before he died; 
 
MArrHEVV. 
 
 141 
 
 And when his breath was fled, 
 
 I raised, while kneeling by his side, 
 
 His hand: — it dropped like lead. 
 
 Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all 
 
 That can be done, will never fall 
 
 Like his till they are dead. 
 
 By night or day blow foul or fair. 
 
 Ne'er will the best of all your train 
 
 Play with the locks of his white hair. 
 
 Or stand between his knees again. 
 
 Here did he sit confined for hours; 
 But he could see the woods and plains. 
 Could hear the wind and mark the showers 
 Come streaming down the streaming 
 
 panes. 
 Now stretched beneath his grass-green 
 
 mound 
 He rests a prisoner of the ground. 
 He loved the breathing air. 
 He loved the sun, but if it rise 
 Or set, to him where now lie lies, 
 Brings not a moment's care. 
 Alas ! what idle words; but take 
 The Dirge which for our Master's sake 
 And yours, love prompted me to make. 
 The rhymes so homely in attire 
 With learned ears may ill agree. 
 But chanted by your Orphan Choir 
 Will make a touching melody. 
 
 Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old gray stone ; 
 Thou Angler, by the silent flood; 
 And mourn when thou art all alone. 
 Thou Woodman, in the distant wood ! 
 
 Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy 
 Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum; 
 And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy ! 
 Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb. 
 
 Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide 
 Who checked or turned thy headstrong 
 
 youth, 
 As he before had sanctified 
 Thy infancy with heavenly truth. 
 
 Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay. 
 Bold settlers on some foreign shore. 
 Give, when your thoughts are turned this 
 
 way, 
 fV sigh to him whom we deplore. 
 
 For us who here in funeral strain 
 With one accord our voices raise, 
 Let sorrow overcharged with pain 
 Be lost in thankfulness and praise. 
 
 And when our hearts shall feel a sting 
 From ill we meet or good we miss. 
 May touches of his memory bring 
 Fond healing, like a mother's kiss. 
 1799. 1845. 
 
 BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS 
 AFTER. 
 
 Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat 
 But benefits, his gift, we trace — 
 Expressed in every eye we meet 
 Round this dear Vale, his native place. 
 
 To stately Hall and Cottage rude 
 Flowed from his life what still they hold. 
 Light pleasures, every day, renewed; 
 And blessings half a century old. 
 
 Oh true of heart, of spirit gay. 
 Thy faults, where not already gone 
 From memory, prolong their stay 
 For charity's sweet sake alone. 
 
 Such solace find we for our loss; 
 And what beyond this thought we crave 
 Comes in the promise from the Cross, 
 Shining upon thy happy grave. 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 In the School of - 
 
 - is a tablet, on which are 
 
 inscribed, in liilt letters, the Names of the several 
 persons who have been Schoolmasters there since 
 the foundation of the School, with the time at 
 which they entered upon and quitted their office. 
 Opposite to one of those names the Author wrote 
 the following lines. 
 
 Such a Tablet as is here spoken of continued to 
 be preserved in Hawkshead School, though the 
 inscriptions were not brought down tn our time. 
 This and other poems connected with Matthew 
 would not gain by a literal detail of facts. Like 
 the Wandeier in " The Excursion," this School- 
 master was made up of several both of his class 
 and men of other occupations. I do not ask 
 pardon for what there is of untruth in such verses, 
 considered strictly as matters of fact. It is enough 
 
142 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 if, being true and consistent in spirit, they move 
 and teach in a manner not unworthy of a Poet's 
 calling. 
 
 If Nature, for a favorite child, 
 In thee hath tempered so her clay, 
 That every hour thy heart runs wild, 
 Yet never once doth go astray. 
 
 Read o'er these lines; and then review 
 This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
 In such diversity of hue 
 Its history of two hundred years. 
 
 — When through this little wreck of fame, 
 Cipher and syllable ! thine eye 
 
 Has travelled down to Matthew's name, 
 Pause with no common sympathy. 
 
 And, if a sleeping tear should wake. 
 Then be it neither checked nor stayed : 
 For Matthew a request I make 
 Which for himself he had not made. 
 
 Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er. 
 Is silent as a standing pool; 
 P"ar from the chimney's merry roar, 
 And murmur of the village school. 
 
 The sighs which Matthew heaved were 
 
 sighs 
 Of one tired out with fun and madness; 
 The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
 Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 
 
 Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
 Of still and serious thought went round. 
 It seemed as if he drank it up — 
 He felt with spirit so profound. 
 
 — Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
 Thou happy Soul ! and can it be 
 
 That these two words of glittering gold 
 Are all that must remain of thee ? 
 
 ■799- 1800. 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 We walked along, while bright and red 
 
 Uprose the morning sun; 
 
 And Matthew stopped, he looked, and 
 
 said, 
 " The will of God be done ! " 
 
 A village schoolmaster was he, 
 With hair of glittering gray ; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass, 
 And by the steaming rills. 
 We travelled merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 " Our work," said I, " was well begun. 
 Then, from thy breast what thought. 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun. 
 So sad a sigh has brought? " 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top. 
 To me he made reply: 
 
 " Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 "And just above yon slope of corn 
 Such colors, and no other. 
 Were in the sky, that April morn, 
 Of this the very brother. 
 
 "With rod and line I sued the sport 
 
 Which that sweet season gave. 
 
 And, to the church-yard come, stopped 
 
 short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 "Nine summers had she scarcely seen. 
 
 The pride of all the vale; 
 
 And then she sang; — she would have 
 
 been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 " Six feet in earth my Emma lay; 
 And yet I loved her more. 
 For so it seemed, than till that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 
 
 "And, turning from her grave, I met. 
 Beside the church-yard yew, 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 H3 
 
 " A basket on her head she bare ; 
 Her brow was smooth and white : 
 To see a child so very fair, 
 It was a pure delight ! 
 
 "No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripped with foot so free; 
 She seemed as happy as a wave 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
 " There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confine; 
 I looked at her, and looked again ; 
 And did not wish her mine ! " 
 
 Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 
 Methinks, I see him stand. 
 As at that moment, with a bough 
 Of wilding in his hand. 
 
 1799". 180O1 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 We talked with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true, 
 A pair of friends, though I was young, 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak. 
 Beside a mossy seat; 
 And from the turf a fountain broke, 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 "Now, Matthew ! " said I, "let us match 
 This water's pleasant tune 
 With some old border -song, or catch 
 That suits a summer's noon; 
 
 "Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
 Sing here beneath the shade, 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made ! " 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree; 
 And thus the dear old Man replied. 
 The gray-haired man of glee : 
 
 " No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'T will murmur on a thousand years. 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 "And here, on this delightful day, 
 I cannot choose but think 
 How oJt, a vigorous man, I lay 
 Beside this fountain's brink. 
 
 " My eyes are dim with childish tears. 
 My heart is idly stirred. 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 Which in those days I heard. 
 
 " Thus fares it still in our decay: 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what age takes away 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 " The blackbird amid leafy trees, 
 The lark above the hill, 
 Let loose their carols when they please, 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
 " With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife; they see 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free : 
 
 " But we are pressed by heavy laws; 
 And often, glad no more, 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 "If there be one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth. 
 The household hearts that were his own; 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
 " My days, my Friend, are almost gone, 
 My life has been approved, 
 And many love me; but by none 
 Am I enough beloved." 
 
 "Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
 The man who thus complains; 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains; 
 
 " And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
 I'll be a son to thee ! " 
 At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
 " Alas ! that cannot be." 
 
 We rose up from the fountain-side; 
 And down the smooth descent 
 Of the green sheep-track did we glide; 
 And through the wood we went; 
 
144 
 
 TO A SEXTON. 
 
 And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 
 He sang those witty rhymes 
 About the crazy old church-clock. 
 And the bewildered chimes. 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 TO A SEXTON. 
 
 Written in Germany. 
 Let thy wheel-barrow alone — 
 Wherefore, Sexton, piling still 
 In thy bone-house bone on bone? 
 'T is already like a hill 
 In a field of battle made. 
 Where three thousand skulls are laid; 
 These died in peace each with the other, — 
 Father, sister, friend, and brother. 
 
 Mark the spot to which I point ! 
 From this platform, eight feet square. 
 Take not even a finger-joint: 
 Andrew's whole fire-side is there. 
 Here, alone, before thine eyes, 
 Simon's sickly daughter lies. 
 From weakness now, and pain defended, 
 Whom he twenty winters tended. 
 
 Look but at the gardener's pride — 
 How he glories, when he sees 
 Rosesj lilies, side by side, 
 Violets in families ! 
 By the heart of Man, his tears. 
 By his hopes and by his fears, 
 Thou, too heedless, art the Warden 
 Of a far superior garden. 
 
 Thus then, each to other dear, 
 Let them all in quiet lie, 
 Andrew there, and Susan here. 
 Neighbors in mortality. 
 And, should I live through sun and rain 
 Seven widowed years without my Jane, 
 O Sexton, do not then remove her. 
 Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover ! 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 THE DANISH BOY. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Written in Germany. It was entirely a fancy ; 
 but intended as a prelude to a ballad-poem never 
 written. 
 
 I. 
 Between two sister moorland rills 
 There is a spot that seems to lie 
 
 Sacred to flowerets of the hills, 
 
 And sacred to the sky. 
 
 And in this smooth and open dell 
 
 There is a tempest-stricken tree; 
 
 A corner-stone by lightning cut. 
 
 The last stone of a lonely hut ; 
 
 And in this dell you see 
 
 A thing no storm can e'er destroy. 
 
 The shadow of a Danish Boy. 
 
 In clouds above, the lark is heard, 
 But drops not here to earth for rest ; 
 Within this lonesome nook the bird 
 Did never build her nest. 
 No beast, no bird hath here his home ; 
 Bees, wafted on the breezy air, 
 Pass high above those fragrant bells 
 To other flowers : — to other dells 
 Their burthens do they bear ; 
 The Danish Boy walks here alone': 
 The lovely dell is all his own. 
 
 A Spirit of noon-day is he ; 
 
 Yet seems a form of flesh and blood: 
 
 Nor piping shepherd shall he be. 
 
 Nor herd-boy of the wood. 
 
 A regal vest of fur he wears, 
 
 In color like a raven's wing ; 
 
 It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew ; 
 
 But in the storm 't is fresh and blue 
 
 As budding pines in spring; 
 
 His helmet has a vernal grace. 
 
 Fresh as the bloom upon his face. 
 
 IV. 
 A harp is from his shoulder slung; 
 Resting the harp upon his knee. 
 To words of a forgotten tongue 
 He suits its melody. 
 Of flocks upon the neighboring hill 
 He is the darling and the joy; 
 And often, when no cause appears, 
 The mountain-ponies prick their ears, 
 — They hear the Danish Boy, 
 While in the dell he sings alone 
 Beside the tree and corner-stone. 
 
 There sits he; in his face you spy 
 No trace of a ferocious air, 
 No.r ever was a cloudless sky 
 So steady or so fair. 
 The lovely Danish Boy is blest 
 
LUCY GRAY. 
 
 I4S 
 
 And happy in his flowery cove : 
 From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; 
 And yet he warbles songs of love, 
 That seem like songs of war, 
 For calm and gentle is his mien; 
 Like a dead Boy he is serene. 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 LUCY GRAY 
 
 OR, SOLITUDE. 
 Written at Goslar, in Germany. It was founded 
 on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a little 
 girl who, not far from Halifax, in Yorkshire, was 
 bewildered in a snow-storm. Her footsteps were 
 traced by her parents to the middle of the lock of 
 a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward or 
 forward, could be traced. The body, however, 
 was found in the canal. The way in which the 
 incident was treated, and the spiritualizing of the 
 character might furnish hints for contrasting the 
 imaginative influences which I have endeavored 
 to throw over common life with Crabbe's matter- 
 of-fact style of treating subjects of the same kind. 
 This is not spoken to his disparagement, far from 
 it, but to direct the attention of thoughtful readers, 
 into whose hands these notes may fall, to a com- 
 parison that may both enlarge the circle of their 
 sensibilities, and tend to produce in them a catholic 
 judgment. 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 
 And, when I crossed the wild, 
 I chanced to see at break of day 
 The solitary child. 
 
 No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
 She dwelt on a wide moor, 
 — The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a human door ! 
 
 You yet may spy the fawn at play. 
 The hare upon the green; 
 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
 Will never more be seen. 
 
 "To-night will be a stormy night — 
 You to the town must go; 
 And take a lantern. Child, to hght 
 Your mother through the snow." 
 
 " That, Father ! will I gladly do: 
 'T is scarcely afternoon — 
 The minster-clock has just struck two, 
 And yonder is the moon ! " 
 
 At this the Father raised his hook, 
 And snapped a fagot-band; 
 He plied his work; — and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe : 
 With many a wanton stroke 
 Her feet disperse the powdery snow. 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time : 
 She wandered up and down; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb: 
 But never reached the town. 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 Went shouting far and wide; 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At day-break on a hill they stood 
 That overlooked the moor; 
 And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 They wept — and, turning homeward, 
 
 cried, 
 " In Heaven we all shall meet; " 
 
 — When in the snow the mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downwards from the steep hill's 
 
 edge 
 They tracked the footmarks small; 
 And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
 And by the long stone-wall; 
 
 And then an open field they crossed : 
 The marks were still the same; 
 They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 
 And to the bridge they came. 
 
 They followed from the snowy bank 
 Those footmarks, one by one. 
 Into the middle of the plank; 
 And further there were none ! 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to this day 
 She is a living child; 
 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome wild. 
 
146 RUTH. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
 1800. 
 
 1799. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 Written in Germany. Suggested by an account 
 I had of a wanderer in Somersetshire. 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate, 
 Her Father took another Mate; 
 And Ruth, not seven years old, 
 A slighted child, at her own will 
 Went wandering over dale and hill, 
 In thoughtless freedom, bold. 
 
 And she had made a pipe of straw, 
 And music from that pipe could draw 
 Like sounds of winds and floods; 
 Had built a bower upon the green, 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
 Beneath her father's roof, alone 
 
 She seemed to live ; her thoughts her own ; 
 
 Herself her own delight; 
 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay; 
 
 And, passing thus the live-long day. 
 
 She grew to woman's height. 
 
 There came a Youth from Georgia's 
 
 shore — 
 A military casque he wore, 
 With splendid feathers drest; 
 He brought them from the Cherokees; 
 The feathers nodded in the breeze, 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him sprung : 
 But no ! he spake the English tongue. 
 And bore a soldier's name; 
 And, when America was free 
 From battle and from jeopardy, 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 
 
 With hues of genius on his cheek 
 In finest tones the Youth could speak: 
 — While he was yet a boy. 
 The moon, the glory of the sun, 
 And streams that murmur as they run. 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely Youth ! I guess 
 
 The panther in the wilderness 
 
 Was not so fair as he; 
 
 And, when he chose to sport and play, 
 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 
 Upon the tropic sea. 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought, 
 
 And with him many tales he brought 
 
 Of pleasure and of fear; 
 
 Such tales as told to any maid 
 
 By such a Youth, in the green shade, 
 
 Were perilous to hear. 
 
 He told of girls — a happy rout ! 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout. 
 
 Their pleasant Indian town, 
 
 To gather strawberries all day long; 
 
 Returning with a choral song 
 
 When daylight is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants that hourly change 
 Their blossoms, through a boundless range 
 Of intermingling hues; 
 With budding, fading, faded flowers 
 They stand the wonder of the bowers 
 From morn to evening dews. 
 
 He told of the magnolia, spread 
 High as a cloud, high over head ! 
 The cypress and her spire; 
 — Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 To set the hills on fire. 
 
 The Youth of green savannahs spake, 
 And many an endless, endless lake, 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 " How pleasant," then he said, " it were 
 
 A fisher or a hunter there. 
 
 In sunshine or in shade 
 
 To wander with an easy mind; 
 
 And build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade ! 
 
 ' ' What days and what bright years ! Ah 
 
 me ! 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 So passed in quiet bliss, 
 
RUTH. 
 
 145 
 
 And all the while," said he, "to know 
 That we were in a world of woe, 
 On such an earth as this ! " 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 
 Fond thoughts about a father's love; 
 " For there," said he, " are spun 
 Around the heart such tender ties. 
 That our own children to our eyes 
 Are dearer than the sun. 
 
 " Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 
 
 My helpmate in the woods to be. 
 
 Our shed at night to rear; 
 
 Or run, my own adopted bride, 
 
 A sylvan huntress at my side, 
 
 And drive the flying deer ! 
 
 " Beloved Ruth ! " — No more he said. 
 
 The wajicful Ruth at midnight shed 
 
 A solitary tear : 
 
 She thought again — and did agree 
 
 With him to sail across the sea, 
 
 And drive the flying deer. 
 
 "And now, as fitting is and right, 
 We in the church our faith will plight, 
 A husband and a wife." 
 Even so they did; and I may say 
 That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
 Was more than human life. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink, 
 
 Delighted all the while to think 
 
 That on those lonesome floods, 
 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 
 His name in the wild woods. 
 
 But, as you have before been told, 
 This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold. 
 And, with his dancing crest, 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
 The wind, the tempest roaring high. 
 
 The tumult of a tropic sky. 
 
 Might well be dangerous food 
 
 For him, a Youth to whom was given 
 
 So much of earth — so much of heaven. 
 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Whatever in those climes he found 
 
 Irregular in sight or sound 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 A kindred impulse, seemed allied 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought. 
 The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
 Fair trees and gorgeous flowers; 
 The breezes their own languor lent; 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those favored bowers. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 Pure hopes of high intent: 
 For passions linked to forms so fair 
 And stately, needs must have their share 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
 But ill he lived, much evil saw, 
 With men to whom no better law 
 Nor better life was known; 
 Deliberately, and undeceived, 
 Those wild men's vices he received. 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impaired, and he became 
 The slave of low desires : 
 A Man who without self-control 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 And yet he with no feigned delight 
 Had wooed the Maiden, day and night 
 Had loved her, night and morn: 
 What could he less than love a Maid 
 Whose heart with so much nature played! 
 So kind and so forlorn ! 
 
 Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
 " O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead; 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain. 
 Encompassed me on every side 
 When I, in confidence and pride. 
 Had crossed the Atlantic main. 
 
 " Before me shone a glorious world — 
 Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled 
 To music suddenly : 
 I looked upon those hills and plains, 
 
148 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 And seemed as if let loose from chains, 
 To live at liberty. 
 
 " No more of this; for now, by thee. 
 Dear Ruth ! more happily set free 
 With nobler zeal I burn: 
 My soul from darkness is released. 
 Like the whole sky when to the east 
 The morning doth return." 
 
 Full r-.-jn that better mind was gone; 
 No hope, no wish remained, not one, — 
 They stirred him now no more; 
 New objects did new pleasure give. 
 And once again he wished to live 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
 They for the voyage were prepared. 
 And went to the seashore; 
 But, when they thither came, the Youth 
 Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 God help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she 
 
 had, 
 That she in half a year was mad. 
 And in a prison housed; 
 And there, with many a doleful song 
 Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 
 She fearfully caroused. 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew. 
 Nor pastimes of the May; 
 — They all were with her in her cell; 
 And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
 When Ruth three seasons thus had lain. 
 There came a respite to her pain; 
 She from her prison fled; 
 But of the Vagrant none took thought; 
 And where it liked her best she sought 
 Her shelter and her bread. 
 
 Among the fields she breathed again : 
 The master- current of her brain 
 Ran permanent and free; 
 And, coming to the Banks of Tone, 
 There did she rest; and dwell alone 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 The engines of her pain, the tools 
 That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools 
 And airs that gently stir 
 The vernal leaves — she loved them still: 
 Nor ever taxed them with the ill 
 Which had been done to her. 
 
 A Barn her winter bed supplies; 
 
 But, till the warmth of summer skies 
 
 And summer days is gone, 
 
 (And all do in this tale agree) 
 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 
 
 And other home hath none. 
 
 An innocent life, yet far astray ! 
 And Ruth will, long before her day. 
 Be broken down and old: 
 Sore aches she needs must have ! but less 
 Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 
 From damp, and rain, and cold. 
 
 If she is prest by want of food. 
 She from her dwelling in the wood 
 Repairs to a roadside; 
 And there she begs at one steep place 
 Where up and down with easy pace 
 The horsemen-travellers ride. 
 
 That oaten pipe of hers is mute, 
 Or thrown away; but with a flute 
 Her loneliness she cheers : 
 This flute, made of a hemlock stalk. 
 At evening in his homeward walk 
 The Quantock woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have passed her on the hills 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 By spouts and fountains v.'ild — 
 Such small machinery as she turned 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 
 A young and happy Child ! 
 
 Farewell !■ and when thy days are told. 
 Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould 
 Thy corpse shall buried be. 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
 And all the congregation sing 
 A Christian psalm for thee. 
 1799. j8oo 
 
WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 
 
 149 
 
 WRITTEN IN GERMANY 
 
 ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE 
 CENTURY. 
 
 A bitter winter it was when these verses were 
 composed by the side of my Sister, in our lodgings 
 at a draptrr's house in the romantic imperial town 
 of Goslar, on the edge of the Hartz Forest. In 
 this town the German emperors of the Franconian 
 line were accustomed to keep their court, and it 
 retains vestiges of ancient splendor. So severe 
 was the cold of this winter, that when we passed 
 out of the parlor warmed by the stove, our cheeks 
 were struck by the air as by cold iron. I slept in 
 a room over a passage which was not ceiled. The 
 people of the house used to say, rather unfeelingly, 
 that they expected I should be frozen to death 
 some night ; but, \\ ith the protection of a pelisse 
 lined with fur, and a dog's-skin bonnet, such as 
 was worn by the peasants, I walked daily on the 
 ramparts, or in a sort of public ground or gardens 
 in which was a pond. Here, I had no companion 
 but a kingfisher, a beautiful creature, that used to 
 glance by me. I consequently became much 
 attached to it. During these walks I composed 
 the poem that follows. 
 
 The Reader must be apprised, that the Stoves 
 in North-Germany generally have the impression 
 of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of 
 the Brunswick Arms. 
 
 A Plague on your languages, German 
 
 and Norse ! 
 Let me have the song of the kettle; 
 And the tongs and the poker, instead of 
 
 that horse 
 That gallops away with such fury and force 
 On this dreary dull plate of black metal. 
 
 See that Fly, — a disconsolate creature ! 
 
 perhaps 
 A child of the field or the grove; 
 And, sorrow for him ! the dull treacherous 
 
 heat 
 Has seduced the poor fool from his winter 
 
 retreat. 
 And he creeps to the edge of my stove. 
 
 Alas ! how he fumbles about the domains 
 Which this comfortless oven environ ! 
 He cannot find out in what track he must 
 
 crawl, 
 Now back to the tiles, then in search of 
 
 the wall, 
 And now on the brink of the iron. 
 
 Stock-still there he stands like a traveller 
 
 bemazed : 
 The best of his skill he has tried; 
 His feelers, methinks, I can see him put 
 
 forth 
 To the east and the west, to the south and 
 
 the north; 
 But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. 
 
 His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, 
 
 and thigh ! 
 His eyesight and hearing are lost; 
 Between life and death his blood freezes 
 
 and thaws; 
 And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky 
 
 gauze 
 Are glued to his sides by the frost. 
 
 No brother, no mate has he near him — 
 
 while I 
 Can draw warmth from the cheek of my 
 
 Love; 
 As blest and as glad, in this desolate 
 
 gloom, 
 As if green summer grass were the floor 
 
 of my room, 
 And woodbines were hanging above. 
 
 Yet, God is my witness, thou small help- 
 less Thing ! 
 
 Thy life I would gladly sustain 
 
 Till summer come up from the south, and 
 with crowds 
 
 Of thy brethren a march thou should'st 
 sound through the clouds, 
 
 And back to the forests again ! 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 This poem was composed in a grove at tho 
 north-eastern end of Grasmere lake, which grove 
 was in a great measure destroyed by turning the 
 high-road along the side of the water. The few 
 trees that are left were spared at my intercession. 
 The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to me 
 at Ennerdale, that a shepherd had fallen asleep 
 upon the top of the rock called The Pillar, and 
 perished as here described, his staff being left 
 midway on the rock. 
 
 *' These Tourists, heaven preserve us I 
 
 needs must live 
 A profitable life: some glance along, 
 
ISO 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 
 And they were butterflies to wheel about 
 Long as the summer lasted: some, as 
 
 wise, 
 Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, 
 Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, 
 Will look and scribble, scribble on and 
 
 look, 
 Until a man might travel twelve stout 
 
 miles. 
 Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn. 
 But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
 Why can he tarry yonder ? — In our 
 
 churchyard 
 Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
 Tombstone nor name — only the turf we 
 
 tread 
 And a few natural graves." 
 
 To Jane, his wife, 
 Thus spake the homely Priest of Enner- 
 
 dale. 
 It was a July evening; and he sate 
 Upon the long stone-seat beneath the 
 
 eaves 
 Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that 
 
 day, 
 Employed in winter's work. Upon the 
 
 stone 
 His wife sate near him, teasing matted 
 
 wool. 
 While, from the twin cards toothed with 
 
 glittering wire. 
 He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 
 Who, in the open air, with due accord 
 Of busy hands and back-and-forward 
 
 steps. 
 Her large round wheel was turning. To- 
 wards the field 
 In which the Parish Chapel stood alone. 
 Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall. 
 While half an hour went by, the Priest 
 
 had sent 
 Many a long look of wonder : and at last, 
 Risen from his seat, beside the snow- 
 white ridge 
 Of carded wool which the old man had 
 
 piled 
 He laid his implements with gentle care, 
 Each in the other locked; and, down the 
 
 path 
 That from his cott^e to the churchyard 
 
 led. 
 He took his way, impatient to accost 
 
 The Stranger, whom he saw still linger- 
 ing there. 
 'T was one well known to him in for- 
 mer days, 
 A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth 
 
 year 
 Had left that calling, tempted to entrust 
 His expectations to the fickle winds 
 And perilous waters; with the mariners 
 A fellow-mariner; — and so had fared 
 Through twenty seasons; but he had been 
 
 reared 
 Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
 Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. 
 Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard 
 
 heard 
 The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
 Of caves and trees : — and, when the 
 
 regular wind 
 Between the tropics filled the steady sail, 
 And blew with the same breath through 
 
 days and weeks, 
 (Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
 Along the cloudless Main, he, in those 
 
 hours 
 Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
 Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; 
 And, while the broad blue wave and 
 
 sparkling foam 
 Flashed round him images and hues that 
 
 wrought 
 In union with the employment of his heart, 
 He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 
 Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
 Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
 Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep 
 
 that grazed 
 On verdant hills — with dwellings among 
 
 trees, 
 And shepherds clad in the same country 
 
 gray 
 Which he himself had worn.i 
 
 And now, at last, 
 From perils manifold, with some small 
 
 wealth 
 Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
 To his paternal home he is returned. 
 With a determined purpose to resume 
 
 1 This description of the Calenture is sketched 
 from an imperfect recollection of an admirable 
 one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of the 
 Hurricane* 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 151 
 
 The life he had lived there; both for the 
 
 sake 
 Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
 Which to an only brother he has borne 
 In all his hardships, since that happy time 
 When, whether it blew foul or fair, they 
 
 two 
 Were brother-shepherds on their native 
 
 hills. 
 — They were the last of all their race: 
 
 and now, 
 When Leonard had approached his home, 
 
 his heart 
 Failed in him; and, not venturing to en- 
 quire 
 Tidings of one so long and dearly loved. 
 He to the solitary churchyard turned; 
 That, as he knew in what particular spot 
 His family were laid, he thence might learn 
 If still his Brother lived, or to the file 
 Another grave was added. — He had found 
 Another grave, — near which a full half- 
 hour 
 He had remained; but, as he gazed, there 
 
 grew 
 Such a confusion in his memory, 
 That he began to doubt ; and even to hope 
 That he had seen this heap of turf be- 
 fore, — 
 That it was not another grave; but one 
 He had forgotten. He had lost his path, 
 As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 
 Through fields which once had been well 
 
 known to him : 
 And oh what joy this recollection now 
 Sent to his heart ! he lifted up his eyes, 
 And, looking round, imagined that he 
 
 saw 
 Strange alteration wrought on every side 
 Among the woods and fields, and that the 
 
 rocks, 
 And everlasting hills themselves were 
 changed. 
 By this the Priest, who down the field 
 had come, 
 Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard 
 
 gate 
 Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, 
 
 limb by limb 
 Perused him with a gay complacency. 
 Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
 'T is one of those who needs must leave 
 the path 
 
 Of the world's business to go wild alone : 
 
 His arms have a perpetual holiday; 
 
 The happy man will creep about the fields. 
 
 Following his fancies by the hour, to 
 bring 
 
 Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 
 
 Into his face, until the setting sun • 
 
 Write fool upon his forehead. ■ — Planted 
 thus 
 
 Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate 
 
 Of this rude churchyard, till the stars 
 appeared 
 
 The good Man might have communed 
 with himself. 
 
 But that the Stranger, who had left the 
 grave, 
 
 Approached; he recognized the Priest at 
 once. 
 
 And, after greetings interchanged, and 
 given 
 
 By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
 
 Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 
 Leonard. You live. Sir, in these dales, 
 a quiet life : 
 
 Your years make up one peaceful family; 
 
 And who would grieve and fret, if, wel- 
 come come 
 
 And welcome gone, they are so like each 
 other. 
 
 They cannot be remembered? Scarce a 
 funeral 
 
 Comes to this churchyard once in eigh- 
 teen months; 
 
 And yet, some changes must take place 
 among you : > 
 
 And you, who dwell here, even among 
 these rocks. 
 
 Can trace the finger of mortality. 
 
 And see, that with our threescore years 
 and ten 
 
 We are not all that perish. - — I re- 
 member, 
 
 (For many years ago I passed this road) 
 
 There was a foot-way all along the fields 
 
 By the brook-side — 't is gone — and that 
 dark cleft ! 
 
 To me it does not seem to wear the face 
 
 Which then it had ! 
 
 Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 
 
 That chasm is much the same — 
 
 Leonard. But, surely, yonder — 
 
 Priest. h:j, there, indeed, your mem- 
 ory is a friend 
 
152 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 That does not play you false. — On that 
 
 tall pike 
 (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 
 There were two springs which bubbled 
 
 side by side, 
 As if they had been made that they 
 
 might be 
 Companions for each other: the huge 
 
 crag 
 Was rent with lightning — one hath dis- 
 appeared; 
 The other, left behind, is flowing still. 
 For accidents and changes such as these, 
 We want not store of them; — a water- 
 spout 
 Will bring down half a mountain; what 
 
 a feast 
 For folks that wander up and down like 
 
 you, 
 To see an acre's breadth of that wide 
 
 cliff 
 One roaring cataract ! a sharp May- 
 storm 
 Will come with loads of January snow, 
 And in one night send twenty score of 
 
 sheep 
 To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies 
 By some untoward death among the 
 
 rocks : 
 The ice breaks up and sweeps away a 
 
 bridge ; 
 A wood is felled: — and then for our 
 
 own homes ! 
 A child is born or christened, a field 
 
 ploughed, 
 A daughter sent to service, a web spun. 
 The old house-clock is decked with a 
 
 new face; 
 And hence, so far from wanting facts or 
 
 dates 
 To chronicle the time, we all have here 
 A pair of diaries, — one serving. Sir, 
 For the whole dale, and one for each 
 
 fireside — 
 Yours was a stranger's judgment: for 
 
 historians, 
 Commend me to these valleys ! 
 
 Leonard. Yet your Churchyard 
 
 Seems, if such freedom may be used 
 
 with you. 
 To say that you are heedless of the past : 
 An orphan could not find his mother's 
 
 grave : 
 
 Here 's neither head nor foot stone, 
 
 plate of brass. 
 Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our 
 
 earthly state 
 Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead 
 
 man's home 
 Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 
 Priest. Why, there. Sir, is a thought 
 
 that 's new to me ! 
 The stone-cutters, 't is true, might beg 
 
 their bread 
 If every English churchyard were like 
 
 ours; 
 Yet your conclusion wanders from the 
 
 truth: 
 We have no need of names and epi- 
 taphs; 
 We talk about the dead by our firesides. 
 And then, for our immortal part ! we 
 
 want 
 No symbols. Sir, to tell us that plain 
 
 tale: 
 The thought of death sits easy on the 
 
 man 
 Who has been born and dies among the 
 
 mountains. 
 Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do 
 
 in each other's thoughts 
 Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 
 You, Sir, could help me to the history 
 Of half these graves? 
 
 Priest. For eightscore winters past. 
 With what I ' ve witnessed, and with what 
 
 I 've heard. 
 Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-even- 
 ing, 
 If you were seated at my chimney's 
 
 nook, 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one. 
 We two could travel. Sir, through a 
 
 strange round; 
 Yet all in the broad highway of the 
 
 world. 
 Now there 's a grave — your foot is half 
 
 upon it, — 
 It looks just like the rest; and yet that 
 
 man 
 Died "broken-hearted. 
 
 Leonard. 'T is a common case. 
 
 We '11 take another : who is he that lies 
 Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three 
 
 graves ? 
 It touches on that piece of native rock 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 153 
 
 Left in the churchyard wall. 
 
 Priest. That 's Walter Ewbank. 
 
 He had as white a head and fresh a 
 
 cheek 
 As ever were produced by youth and age 
 Engendering in the blood of hale four- 
 score. 
 Through five long generations had the 
 
 heart 
 Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the 
 
 bounds 
 Of their inheritance, that single cottage — 
 You see it yonder ! and those few green 
 
 fields. 
 They toiled and wrought, and still, from 
 
 sire to son, 
 Each struggled, and each yielded as be- 
 fore 
 A httle — yet a little, — and old Walter, 
 They left to him the family heart, and 
 
 land 
 With other burthens than the crop it 
 
 bore. 
 Year after year the old man still kept up 
 A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with 
 
 bond, 
 Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank, 
 And went into his grave before his time. 
 Poor Walter ! whether it was care that 
 
 spurred him 
 God only knows, but to the very last 
 He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
 His pace was never that of an old man ; 
 I almost see him tripping down the path 
 With his two grandsons after him : — but 
 
 you. 
 Unless our Landlord be your host to- 
 night. 
 Have far to travel, — and on these rough 
 
 paths 
 Even in the longest day of midsummer — 
 Leonard. But those two Orphans ! 
 Priest. Orphans ! — Such they were — 
 Yet not while Walter lived : for, though 
 
 their parents 
 Lay buried side by side as now they lie. 
 The old man was a father to the boys. 
 Two fathers in one father: and if tears. 
 Shed when he talked of them where they 
 
 were not, 
 And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 
 Are aught of what makes up a mother's 
 heart, 
 
 This old Man, in the day of his old age. 
 Was half a mother to them. — If you 
 
 weep. Sir, 
 To hear a stranger talking about stran- 
 gers. 
 Heaven bless you when you are among 
 
 your kindred ! 
 Ay — you may turn that way — it is a 
 
 grave 
 Which will bear looking at. 
 
 Leonard. These boys — I hope 
 
 They loved this good old Man? — 
 
 Priest. They did — and truly : 
 
 But that was what we almost overlooked, 
 They were such darlings of each other. 
 
 Yes, 
 Though from the cradle they had lived 
 
 with Walter, 
 The only kinsman near them, and though 
 
 he 
 Inclined to both by reason of his age. 
 With a more fond, familiar tenderness; 
 They, notwithstanding, had much love 
 
 to spare. 
 And it all went into each other's hearts. 
 Leonard, the elder by just eighteen 
 
 months. 
 Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to 
 
 see, 
 To hear, to meet them ! — From their 
 
 house to the school 
 Is distant three short miles, and in the 
 
 time 
 Of storm and thaw, when every water- 
 course 
 And unbridged stream, such as you may 
 
 have noticed 
 Crossing our roads at every hundred 
 
 steps. 
 Was swoln into a noisy rivulet. 
 Would Leonard then, when elder boys 
 
 remained 
 At home, go staggering through the 
 
 slippery fords. 
 Bearing his brother on his back. I have 
 
 seen him. 
 On windy days, in one of those stray 
 
 brooks. 
 Ay, more than once I have seen him, 
 
 midleg deep. 
 Their two books lying both on a dry 
 
 stone, 
 Upon the hither side : and once I said, 
 
154 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 As I remember, looking round these 
 
 rocks 
 And hills on which we all of us were 
 
 born, 
 That God who made the great book of 
 
 the world 
 Would bless such piety — 
 
 Leonat^. It may be then — 
 
 Priest. Never did worthier lads break 
 
 English bread : 
 The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw 
 With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 
 Could never keep those boys away from 
 
 church, 
 Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath 
 
 breach. 
 Leonard and James ! I warrant, every 
 
 corner 
 Among these rocks, and every hollow 
 
 place 
 That venturous foot could reach, to one or 
 
 both 
 Was known as well as to the flowers that 
 
 grow there. 
 Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er 
 
 the hills; 
 They played like two young ravens on the 
 
 crags : 
 Then they could write, ay and speak too, 
 
 as well 
 As many of their betters — and for 
 
 Leonard ! 
 The very night before he went away. 
 In my own house I put into his hand 
 A Bible, and I 'd wager house and field 
 That, if he be alive, he has it yet. 
 
 Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have 
 
 not lived to be 
 A comfort to each other — 
 
 Priest. That they might 
 
 Live to such end is what both old and 
 
 young 
 In this our valley all of us have wished. 
 And what, for my part, I have often 
 
 prayed : 
 But Leonard — 
 
 Leonard. Then James still is left among 
 
 you ! 
 Priest. 'T is of the elder brother I am 
 
 speaking : 
 They had an uncle; — he was at that time 
 A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas : 
 And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 
 
 Leonard had never handled rope oi 
 
 shroud : 
 For the boy loved the life which we lead 
 
 here; 
 And though of unripe years, a stripling 
 
 only. 
 His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
 But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
 To strive with such a torrent; when he 
 
 died, 
 The estate and house were sold; and all 
 
 their sheep, 
 A pretty flock, and which, for aught I 
 
 know. 
 Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand 
 
 years : — 
 Well — all was gone, and they were des- 
 titute. 
 And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's 
 
 sake, 
 Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
 Twelve years are past since we had tidings 
 
 from him. 
 If there were one among us who had heard 
 That Leonard Ewbank was come home 
 
 again. 
 From the Great Gavel, ^ down by Leeza's 
 
 banks. 
 And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 
 The day would be a joyous festival; 
 And those two bells of ours, which there 
 
 you see — 
 Hanging in the open air — but, O good 
 
 Sir! 
 This is sad talk — they '11 never sound for 
 
 him — 
 Living or dead. — When last we heard of 
 
 him. 
 He was in slavery among the Moors 
 Upon the Barbary coast. — 'Twas not a 
 
 little 
 That would bring down his spirit; and no 
 
 doubt, 
 
 1 The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from 
 its resemblance to the gable end of a house, is one 
 of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It 
 stands at the head oE the several vales of Enner- 
 dale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale. 
 
 The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake 
 of Ennerdale : on issuing from the Lake, it 
 changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, 
 or Enna. It falls into the sea ti little be]o\» 
 Egremont. 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 155 
 
 Before it ended in his death, the Youth 
 Was sadly crossed. — Poor Leonard ! 
 
 when we parted, 
 He took me by the hand, and said to me. 
 If e'er he should grow rich, he would re- 
 turn. 
 To live in peace upon his father's land, 
 And lay his bones among us. 
 
 Leonard. If that day 
 
 Should come, 't would needs be a glad 
 
 day for him; 
 He would himself, no doubt, be happy 
 
 then 
 As any that should meet him — 
 
 Priest. Happy ! Sir — 
 
 Leonard. You said his kindred all were 
 
 in their graves, 
 And that he had one Brother — 
 
 Priest. That is but 
 
 A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth 
 James, though not sickly, yet was delicate ; 
 And Leonard being always by his side 
 Had done so many offices about him. 
 That, thougli he was not of a timid nature, 
 Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy 
 In him was somewhat checked; and, when 
 
 his Brother 
 Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, 
 The little color that he had was soon 
 Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and 
 
 pined, and pined — 
 Leonard. But these are all the graves 
 
 of full-grown men ! 
 Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away : we 
 
 took him to us; 
 He was the child of all the dale — he lived 
 Three months with one, and six months 
 
 with another, 
 And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor 
 
 love: 
 And many, many happy days were his. 
 But, whether bhthe or sad, 't is my belief 
 His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
 And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we 
 
 found 
 (A practice till this time unknown to him) 
 That often, rising from his bed at night, 
 He in his sleep would walk about, and 
 
 sleeping 
 He sought his brother Leonard. — You 
 
 are moved ! 
 Forgive me. Sir : before I spoke to you, 
 I judged you most unkindly. 
 
 Leonard. But this Youth, 
 
 How did he die at last? 
 
 I^riest. One sweet May-morning, 
 
 (It will be twelve years since when Spring 
 returns) 
 
 He had gone forth among the new- 
 dropped lambs. 
 
 With two or three companions, whom 
 their course 
 
 Of occupation led from height to height 
 
 Under a cloudless sun — till he, at length, 
 
 Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge 
 
 The humor of the moment, lagged be- 
 hind. 
 
 You see yon precipice; — it wears the 
 shape 
 
 Of a vast building made of many crags; 
 
 And in the midst is one particular rock 
 
 That rises like a column from the vale, 
 
 Whence by our shepherds it is called, The 
 Pillar. 
 
 Upon its aery summit crowned with heath. 
 
 The loiterer, not unnoticed by his com- 
 rades. 
 
 Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the 
 place 
 
 On their return, they found that he was 
 gone. 
 
 No ill was feared; till one of them by 
 chance 
 
 Entering, when evening was far spent, the 
 house 
 
 Which at that time was James's home, 
 there learned 
 
 That nobody had seen him all that day: 
 
 The morning came, and still he was un- 
 heard of : 
 
 The neighbors were alarmed, and to the 
 brook 
 
 Some hastened; some ran to the lake : ere 
 noon 
 
 They found him at the foot of that same 
 rock 
 
 Dead, and with mangled limbs. The 
 third day after 
 
 I buried him, poor Youth, and there he 
 lies ! 
 Leonard. And that then is his grave ! — 
 Before his death 
 
 You say that he saw many happy years? 
 Priest. Ay, that he did — 
 Leonard. And all went well with 
 him? — 
 
IS6 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Priest. If he had one, the Youth had 
 
 twenty homes. 
 Leonard. And you beUeve, then, that 
 
 his mind was easy ? — 
 Priest. Yes, long before he died, he 
 
 found that time 
 Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless 
 His thoughts were turned on Leonard's 
 
 luckless fortune, 
 He talked about him with a cheerful love. 
 Leonard. He could not come to an 
 
 unhallowed end ! 
 Priest. Nay, God forbid ! — You rec- 
 ollect I mentioned 
 A habit which disquietude and grief 
 Had brought upon him; and we all con- 
 jectured 
 That, as the day was warm, he had lain 
 
 down 
 On the soft heath, — and, waiting for his 
 
 comrades. 
 He there had fallen asleep; that in his 
 
 sleep 
 He to the margin of the precipice 
 Had walked, and from the summit had 
 
 fallen headlong : 
 And so no doubt he perished. When the 
 
 Youth 
 Fell, in his hand he must have grasped, we 
 
 think. 
 His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of 
 
 rock 
 It had been caught mid-way; and there 
 
 for years 
 It hung; — and mouldered there. 
 
 The Priest here ended — 
 The Stranger would have thanked him, 
 
 but he felt 
 A gushing from his heart, that took away 
 The power of speech. Both left the spot 
 
 in silence; 
 And Leonard, when they reached the 
 
 churchyard gate, 
 As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned 
 
 round, — 
 And, looking at the grave, he said, "My 
 
 Brother! " 
 The Vicar did not hear the words : and 
 
 now, 
 He pointed towards his dwelling-place, 
 
 entreating 
 That Leonard would partake his homely 
 
 fare: 
 
 The other thanked him with an earnest 
 voice; 
 
 But added, that, the evening being calm. 
 
 He would pursue his journey. So they 
 parted. 
 It was not long ere Leonard reached a 
 grove 
 
 That overhung the road : he there stopped 
 short, 
 
 And, sitting down beneath the trees, re- 
 viewed 
 
 All that the Priest had said : his early years 
 
 Were with him : — his long absence, cher- 
 ished hopes. 
 
 And thoughts which had been his an hour 
 before, 
 
 All pressed on him with such a weight, 
 that now, 
 
 This vale, where he had been so happy, 
 seemed 
 
 A place in which he could not bear to live : 
 
 So he relinquished all his purposes. 
 
 He travelled back to Egremont : and 
 thence. 
 
 That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
 
 Reminding him of what had passed be- 
 tween them; 
 
 And adding, with a hope to be forgiven. 
 
 That it was from the weakness of his heart 
 
 Pie had not dared to tell him who he was. 
 
 This done, he went on shipboard, and is 
 now 
 
 A Seaman, a gray-headed Mariner. 
 1800, 1800. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM. 
 
 Written at Towu-end, Grasmere, about the 
 same time as " The Brothers." The Sheepfold, 
 on which so much of the poem turns, remains, or 
 rather the ruins of it. The character and cir- 
 cumstances of Luke were taken from a family to 
 whom had belonged, many years before, the 
 house we hved in at Town-end, along with some 
 fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of 
 Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was 
 not in fact given to this house, but to another on 
 the same side of the valley, more to the north. 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead 
 Ghyll, 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 157 
 
 You will suppose that with an upright path 
 
 Your feet must struggle; in such bold 
 ascent 
 
 The pastoral mountains front you, face to 
 face. 
 
 But, courage ! for around that boisterous 
 brook 
 
 The mountains have all opened out them- 
 selves. 
 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 
 No habitation can be seen; but they 
 
 Who journey thither find themselves alone 
 
 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, 
 and kites 
 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 
 It is in truth an utter solitude; 
 
 Nor should I have made mention of this 
 Dell 
 
 But for one object which you might pass 
 
 by, 
 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the 
 
 brook 
 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn 
 
 stones ! 
 And to that simple object appertains 
 A story — unenriched with strange events, 
 Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside. 
 Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
 Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
 Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
 Whom I already loved; not verily 
 For their own sakes, but for the fields and 
 
 hills 
 Where was their occupation and abode. 
 And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 
 Careless of books, yet having felt the 
 
 power 
 Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
 Of natural objects, led me on to feel 
 For passions that were not my own, and 
 
 think 
 (At random and imperfectly indeed) 
 On man, the heart of man, and human 
 
 life. 
 Therefore, although it be a history 
 Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
 For the delight of a few natural hearts; 
 And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
 Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
 Will be my second self when I am gone. 
 Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
 There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his 
 
 An old man, stout of heart, and strong of 
 
 limb. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to 
 
 age 
 Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen. 
 Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 
 And in his shepherd's calling he was 
 
 prompt 
 And watchful more than ordinary men. 
 Hence had he learned the meaning of all 
 
 winds. 
 Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes. 
 When others heeded not, he heard the 
 
 South 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
 The Shepherd, at such warning, of his 
 
 flock 
 Bethought him, and he to himself would 
 
 say, 
 " The winds are now devising work for 
 
 me ! " 
 And, truly, at all times, the storm, that 
 
 drives 
 The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
 Up to the mountains: he had been alone 
 Amid the heart of many thousand mists. 
 That came to him, and left him, on the 
 
 heights. 
 So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
 And grossly that man errs, who should 
 
 suppose 
 That the green valleys, and the streams 
 
 and rocks. 
 Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's 
 
 thoughts. 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had 
 
 breathed 
 The common air; hills, which with vigor- 
 ous step 
 He had so often climbed; which had 
 
 impressed 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; 
 Which, like a book, preserved the memory 
 Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved. 
 Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 
 The certainty of honorable gain; 
 Those fields, those hills — what could they 
 
 less? had laid 
 Stronghold on his affections, were to him 
 A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 
 The pleasure which there is in Hfe itself. 
 
158 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 His days had not been passed in single- 
 ness. 
 His Helpmate was a comely matron, old — 
 Though younger than himself full twenty 
 
 years. 
 She was a woman of a stirring life, 
 Whose heart was in her house : two wheels 
 
 she had 
 Of antique form; this large, for spinning 
 
 wool; 
 That small, for flax; and if one wheel had 
 
 rest 
 It was because the other was at work. 
 The Pair had but one inmate in their house. 
 An only Child, who had been born to them 
 When Michael, telling o'er his years, be- 
 gan 
 To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's 
 
 phrase, 
 With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
 With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many 
 
 a storm. 
 The one of an inestimable worth, 
 Made all their household. I may truly 
 
 say. 
 That they were as a proverb in the vale 
 For endless industry. When day was 
 
 gone. 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 The Son and Father were come home, 
 
 even then, 
 Their labor did not cease; unless when all 
 Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and 
 
 there. 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed 
 
 milk, 
 Sat round the basket piled with oaten 
 
 cakes, 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 
 
 when the meal 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was 
 
 named) 
 And his old Father both betook them- 
 selves 
 To such convenient work as might employ 
 Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to 
 
 card 
 Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or re- 
 pair 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
 Or other implement of house or field. 
 Down from the ceiling, by the chim- 
 ney's edge, 
 
 That in our ancient uncouth country style 
 With huge and black projection over- 
 browed 
 Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
 Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a 
 
 lamp; 
 An aged utensil, which had performed 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. 
 Early at evening did it burn — and late, 
 Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, 
 Which, going by from year to year, had 
 
 found, 
 And left, the couple neither gay perhaps 
 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with 
 
 hopes. 
 Living a life of eager industry. 
 And now, when Luke had reached his 
 
 eighteenth year, 
 There by the light of this old lamp they 
 
 sate. 
 Father and Son, while far into the night 
 The Housewife plied her own peculiar 
 
 work. 
 Making the cottage through the silent 
 
 hours 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
 This light was famous in its neighbor- 
 hood. 
 And was a public symbol of the life 
 That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it 
 
 chanced. 
 Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
 Stood single, with large prospect, north 
 
 and south. 
 High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
 And westward to the village near the lake ; 
 And from this constant light, so regular 
 And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
 Both old and young, was named The 
 
 Evening Star. 
 Thus living on through such a length of 
 
 years, 
 The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must 
 
 needs 
 Have loved his Helpmate; but to 
 
 Michael's heart 
 This son of his old age was yet more 
 
 dear — 
 Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
 Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood 
 
 of all — 
 Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 159 
 
 That earth can offer to declining man. 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking 
 
 thoughts, 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
 Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
 His heart and his heart's joy ! For often- 
 times 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
 Had done him female service, not alone 
 For pastime and delight, as is the use 
 Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
 To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked 
 His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 
 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
 Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love. 
 Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
 To have the Young-one in his sight, when 
 
 he 
 Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's 
 
 stool 
 Sate with a fettered sheep before him 
 
 stretched 
 Under the large old oak, that near his door 
 Stood single, and, from matchless depth 
 
 of shade, 
 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the 
 
 sun. 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
 The Clipping Tree,i a name which yet 
 
 it bears. 
 There, while they two were sitting in the 
 
 shade. 
 With others round them, earnest all and 
 
 blithe. 
 Would Michael exercise his heart with 
 
 looks 
 Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
 Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
 By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
 Scared them, while they lay still beneath 
 
 the shears. 
 And when by Heaven's good grace the 
 
 boy grew up 
 A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
 Two steady roses that were five years old; 
 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
 With his own hand a sapling, which he 
 
 hooped 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 
 ^ Clipping is the word used in the North of 
 England for shearing. 
 
 Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff. 
 And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt 
 He as ^ watchman oftentimes was placed 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; 
 And, to his office prematurely called, 
 There stood the urchin, as you will divine, 
 Something between a hindrance and a 
 
 help; 
 And for this cause not always, I believe, 
 Receiving from his Father hire of praise; 
 Though nought was left undone which 
 
 staff, or voice. 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures, could 
 perform. 
 But soon as Luke, full ten years old, 
 could stand 
 Against the mountain blasts; and to the 
 
 heights. 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
 He with his Father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved 
 
 before 
 Were dearer now? that from the Boy 
 
 there came 
 Feelings and emanations — things which 
 
 were 
 Light to the sun and music to the wind; 
 And that the old Man's heart seemed 
 born again? 
 Thus in his father's sight the Boy grew 
 up: 
 And now, when he had reached his eigh- 
 teenth year. 
 He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
 While in this sort the simple household 
 lived 
 From day to day, to Michael's ear there 
 
 came 
 Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
 Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been 
 
 bound 
 In surety for his brother's son, a man 
 Of an industrious life, and ample means; 
 But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 Had prest upon him; and old Michael 
 
 now 
 Was summoned to discharge the for- 
 feiture, 
 A grievous penalty, but Httle less 
 Than half his substance. This unlooked- 
 for claim, 
 At the first hearing, for a moment took 
 
t6o 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 More hope out of his life than he sup- 
 posed 
 That any old man ever could have lost. 
 As soon as he had armed himself with 
 
 strength 
 To look his troubles in the face, it seemed 
 The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at 
 
 once 
 A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
 Such was his first resolve; he thought 
 
 again. 
 And his heart failed him. "Isabel," 
 
 said he, 
 Two evenings after he had heard the 
 
 news,' 
 " I have been toiling more than seventy 
 
 years, 
 And in the open sunshine of God's love 
 Have we all lived; yet if these fields of 
 
 ours 
 Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
 That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
 Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself 
 Has scarcely been more diligent than I; 
 And I have lived to be a fool at last 
 To my own family. An evil man 
 That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
 Were false to us; and if he were not false, 
 There are ten thousand to whom loss like 
 
 this 
 Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; — 
 
 but 
 'T were better to be dumb than to talk 
 
 thus. 
 When I began, my purpose was to 
 
 speak 
 Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
 Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land 
 Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 
 He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
 That passes over it. We have, thou 
 
 know'st. 
 Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
 Thriving in trade — and Luke to him 
 
 shall go. 
 And with his kinsman's help and his own 
 
 thrift 
 He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
 He may return to us. If here he stay, 
 What can be done ? Where every one is 
 
 poor, 
 What can be gained? " 
 
 At this the old Man paused,' 
 And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
 Was busy, looking back into past times. 
 There 's Richard Bateman, thought she 
 
 to herself. 
 He was a parish-boy — at the church-door 
 They made a gathering for him, shillings, 
 
 pence 
 And halfpennies, wherewith the neigh- 
 bors bought 
 A basket, which they filled with pedlar's 
 
 wares ; 
 And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 
 Went up to London, found a master there. 
 Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
 To go and overlook his merchandise 
 Beyond the seas; where he grew won- 
 drous rich. 
 And left estates and monies to the poor, 
 And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, 
 
 floored 
 With marble which he sent from foreign 
 
 lands. 
 These thoughts, and many others of like 
 
 sort. 
 Passed quickly through the mind of 
 
 Isabel, 
 And her face brightened. The old Man 
 
 was glad, 
 And thus resumed: — "Well, Isabel! 
 
 this scheme 
 These two days, has been meat and 
 
 drink to me. 
 Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
 
 — We have enough — I wish indeed 
 
 that I 
 Were younger; — but this hope is a good 
 hope. 
 
 — Make ready Luke's best garments, of 
 
 the best 
 Buy for him more, and let us send him 
 
 forth 
 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: 
 
 — If he could go, the Boy should go to- 
 
 night." 
 Here Michael ceased, and to the fields 
 went forth 
 
 With a light heart. The Housewife for 
 five days 
 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day 
 long 
 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to pre- 
 pare 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 i6i 
 
 Things needful for the journey of her son. 
 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
 To stop her in her work : for, when she 
 
 lay 
 By Michael's side, she through the last 
 
 two nights 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his 
 
 sleep: 
 And when they rose at morning she 
 
 could see 
 That all his hopes were gone. That day 
 
 at noon 
 She said to Luke, while they two by 
 
 themselves 
 Were sitting at the door, "Thou must 
 
 not go : 
 We have no other Child but thee to lose. 
 None to remember — do not go away, 
 For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
 The Youth made answer with a jocund 
 
 voice; 
 And Isabel, when she had told her fears. 
 Recovered heart. That evening her best 
 
 fare 
 Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
 Likelhappy people round a Christmas fire. 
 With daylight Isabel resumed her 
 
 work; 
 And all the ensuing week the house ap- 
 peared 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at 
 
 length 
 The expected letter from their kinsman 
 
 came. 
 With kind assurances that he would do 
 His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 
 To which, requests were added, that 
 
 forthwith 
 He might be sent to him. Ten times or 
 
 more 
 The letter was read over; Isabel 
 Went forth to show it to the neighbors 
 
 round; 
 Nor was there at that time on English 
 
 land 
 A prouder heart than Luke's. When 
 
 Isabel 
 Had to her house returned, the old Man 
 
 said, 
 " He shall depart to-morrow." To this 
 
 word 
 The Housewife answered, talking much 
 
 of things 
 
 Which, if at such short notice he should 
 
 go. 
 
 Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
 
 She gave consent, and Michael was at 
 ease. 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Green- 
 head Ghyll, 
 
 In that deep valley, Michael had de- 
 signed 
 
 To build a Sheepfold; and, before he 
 heard 
 
 The tidings of his melancholy loss, 
 
 For this same purpose he had gathered 
 up 
 
 A heap of stones, which by the stream- 
 let's edge 
 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he 
 walked : 
 
 And soon as they had reached the place 
 he stopped. 
 
 And thus the old Man spake to him: — 
 " My Son, 
 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full 
 heart 
 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
 
 That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
 
 And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
 
 I will relate to thee some little part 
 
 Of our two histories; 't will do thee good 
 
 When thou art from me, even if I should 
 touch 
 
 On things thou canst not know of. — 
 After thou 
 
 First cam'st into the world — as oft be- 
 falls 
 
 To new-born infants — thou didst sleep 
 away 
 
 Two days, and blessings from thy 
 Father's tongue 
 
 Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed 
 on, 
 
 And still I loved thee with increasing 
 love. 
 
 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
 
 Than when I heard thee by our own fire- 
 side 
 
 First uttering, without words, a natural 
 tune; 
 
 While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy 
 joy 
 
 Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month fol- 
 lowed month. 
 
1 62 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 And in the open fields my life was passed 
 And on the mountains; else I think that 
 
 thou 
 Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's 
 
 knees. 
 But we were playmates, Luke ; among 
 
 these hills, 
 As well thou knowest, in us the old and 
 
 young 
 Have played together, nor with me didst 
 
 thou 
 Lack any pleasure which a boy can know. ' ' 
 Luke had a manly heart; but at these 
 
 words 
 He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped 
 
 his hand. 
 And said, "Nay, do. not take it so — I 
 
 see 
 That these are things of which I need 
 
 not speak. 
 
 — Even to the utmost I have been to 
 
 thee 
 A kind and a good Father : and herein 
 I but repay a gift which I myself 
 Received at others' hands; for, though 
 
 now old 
 Beyond the common life of man, I still 
 Remember them who loved me in my 
 
 youth. 
 Both of them sleep together: here they 
 
 lived, 
 As all their Forefathers had done; and 
 
 when 
 At length their time was come, they 
 
 were not loth 
 To give their bodies to the family mould. 
 I wished that thou should'st live the life 
 
 they lived; 
 But, 't is a long time to look back, my 
 
 Son, 
 And see so little gain from threescore 
 
 years. 
 These fields were burthened when they 
 
 came to me; 
 Till I was forty years of age, not more 
 Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
 I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in 
 
 my work. 
 And till these three weeks past the land 
 
 was free. 
 
 — It looks as if it never could endure 
 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, 
 
 Luke, 
 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
 That thou should'st go." 
 
 At this the old Man paused; 
 Then, pointing to the stones near which 
 
 they stood, 
 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed; 
 " This was a work for us; and now, my 
 
 Son, 
 It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own 
 
 hands. 
 Nay, Boy, be of good hope; — we both 
 
 may live 
 To see a better day. At eighty-four 
 I still am strong and hale; — do thou thy 
 
 part; 
 I will do mine. — I will begin again 
 With many tasks that were resigned to 
 
 thee: 
 Up to the heights, and in among the 
 
 storms. 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 All works which I was wont to do alone, 
 Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless 
 
 thee. Boy ! 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been 
 
 beating fast 
 With many hopes; it should be so — 
 
 yes — yes — 
 I knew that thou could'st never have a 
 
 wish 
 To leave me, Luke: thou hast been 
 
 bound to me 
 Only by links of love : when thou art 
 
 gone. 
 What will be left to us ! — But, I forget 
 My purposes . Lay now the corner-stone, 
 As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, 
 When thou art gone away, should evil 
 
 men 
 Be thy companions, think of me, my 
 
 Son, 
 And of this moment; hither turn thy 
 
 thoughts. 
 And God will strengthen thee : amid all 
 
 fear 
 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that 
 
 thou 
 May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers 
 
 lived, 
 Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
 Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare 
 
 thee well — 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 163 
 
 When thou reUirn'st, thou in this place 
 
 wilt see 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate 
 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
 And bear thy memory with me to the 
 
 grave." 
 The Shepherd ended here; and Luke 
 
 stooped down. 
 And, as his Father had requested, laid 
 The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the 
 
 sight 
 The old Man's grief broke from him; to 
 
 his heart 
 He pressed his Son, he kissed him and 
 
 wept; 
 And to the house together they returned. 
 — Hushed was that House in peace, or 
 
 seeming peace. 
 Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn 
 
 the Boy 
 Began his journey, and when he had 
 
 reached 
 The public way, he put on a bold face ; 
 And all the neighbors, as he passed their 
 
 doors, 
 Came forth with wishes and with farewell 
 
 prayers. 
 That followed him till he was out of sight. 
 A good report did from their Kinsman 
 
 come. 
 Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy 
 Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous 
 
 news. 
 Which, as the Housevrife phrased it, were 
 
 throughout 
 "The prettiest letters that were ever 
 
 seen." 
 Both parents read them with rejoicing 
 
 hearts. 
 So, many months passed on : and once 
 
 again 
 The Shepherd went about his daily work 
 With confident and cheerful thoughts; 
 
 and now 
 Sometimes when he could find a leisure 
 
 hour 
 He to that valley took his way, and there 
 Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime 
 
 Luke began 
 To slacken in his duty; and, at length. 
 He in the dissolute city gave himself 
 To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
 
 Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
 To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 
 There is a comfort in the strength of 
 
 love; 
 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
 Would overset the brain, or break the 
 
 heart : 
 I have conversed with more than one who 
 
 well 
 Remember the old Man, and what he 
 
 was 
 Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to 
 
 age 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
 He went, and still looked up to sun and 
 
 cloud. 
 And Hstened to the wind; and, as before. 
 Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep. 
 And for the land, his small inheritance. 
 And to that hollow dell from time to time 
 Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
 His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten 
 
 yet 
 The pity which was then in every heart 
 For the old Man — and't is believed by 
 
 all 
 That many and many a day he thither 
 
 went. 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 
 There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes 
 
 was he seen 
 Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
 The length of full seven years, from time 
 
 to time. 
 He at the building of this Sheepfold 
 
 wrought. 
 And left the work unfinished when he 
 
 died. 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
 Survive her Husband: at his death th« 
 
 estate 
 Was sold, and went into a stranger's 
 
 hand. 
 The Cottage which was named the Even- 
 ing Star 
 Is gone — the ploughshare has been 
 
 through the ground 
 On which it stood; great changes have 
 
 been wrought 
 In all the neighborhood : — yet the oak is 
 
 left 
 
164 
 
 THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS. 
 
 That grew beside their door; and the re- 
 mains 
 Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead 
 Ghyll. 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; 
 
 OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.^ 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I will only 
 add a little monitory anecdote concerning this sub- 
 ject. When Coleridge and Southey were walk- 
 ing together upon the Fells, Southey observed 
 that, if I wished to be considered a faithful painter 
 of rural manners, I ought not to have said that 
 my Shepherd-boys trimmed their rustic hats as 
 described in the poem. Just as the words had 
 passed his lips two boys appeared with the very 
 plant entwined round their hats. I have often 
 wondered that Southey, who rambled so much 
 about the mountains, should have fallen into this 
 mistake, and I record it as a warning for others 
 who, with far less opportunity than my dear 
 friend had of knowing what things are, and far 
 less sagacity, give way to presumptuous criticism, 
 from which he was free, though in this matter 
 mistaken. In describing a tarn under Helvellyn, 
 I say — 
 
 *' There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer." 
 
 This was branded by a critic of these days, in a 
 review ascribed to Mrs. Barbauld, as unnatural 
 and absurd. I admire the genius of Mrs. Bar- 
 bauld, anS am certain that, had her education 
 been favorable to imaginative influences, no 
 female of her day would have been more likely to 
 sympathize with that image, and to acknowledge 
 the truth of the sentiment. 
 
 The valley rings with mirth and joy; 
 
 Among the hills the echoes play 
 
 A never never ending song, 
 
 To welcome in the May. 
 
 The magpie chatters with delight; 
 
 The mountain raven's youngling brood 
 
 1 Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and 
 Westmoreland, is a short and, for the most part, 
 a steep narrow valley, with a stream running 
 through it. Force is the word universally em- 
 ployed in these dialects for waterfall. 
 
 Have left the mother and the nest; 
 And they go rambling east and west 
 In search of their own food; 
 Or through the glittering vapors dart 
 In very wantonness of heart. 
 
 Beneath a rock, upon the grass, 
 Two boys are sitting in the sun; 
 Their work, if any work they have, 
 Is out of inind — or done. 
 On pipes of sycamore they play 
 The fragments of a Christmas hymn; 
 Or with that plant which in our dale 
 We call stag^horn, or fox's tail, 
 Their rusty hats they trim : 
 And thus, as happy as the day, 
 Those Shepherds wear the time away. 
 
 Along the river's stony marge 
 
 The sand-lark chants a joyous song; 
 
 The thrush is busy in the wood. 
 
 And carols loud and strong. 
 
 A thousand lambs are on the rocks, 
 
 All newly born ! both earth and sky 
 
 Keep jubilee, and more than all, 
 
 Those boys with their green coronal; 
 
 They never hear the cry, 
 
 That plaintive cry ! which up the hill 
 
 Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 
 
 Said Walter, leaping from the ground, 
 "Down to the stump of yon old ye\y 
 We'll for our whistles run a race." 
 — Away the shepherds flew; 
 They leapt — they ran — and when they 
 
 came 
 Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
 Seeing that he should lose the prize, 
 *' Stop ! " to his comrade Walter cries-' 
 James stopped with no good will : 
 Said Walter then, exulting; " Here 
 You '11 find a task for half a year. 
 
 " Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross- 
 Come on, and tread where I shall tread. 
 The other took him at his word, 
 And followed as he led. 
 It was a spot which you may see 
 If ever you to Langdale go; 
 Into a chasm a mighty block 
 Hath fallen, and inade a bridge of rock 
 The gulf is deep below; 
 
THE PET-LAMB. 
 
 1 65 
 
 And, in a basin black and small, 
 Receives a lofty waterfall. 
 
 With staff in hand across the clgft 
 
 The challenger pursued his march; 
 
 And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained 
 
 The middle of the arch. 
 
 When list ! he hears a piteous moan — 
 
 Again! — his heart within him dies — 
 
 His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost. 
 
 He totters, pallid as a ghost. 
 
 And, looking down, espies 
 
 A lamb, that in the pool is pent 
 
 Within that black and frightful rent. 
 
 The lamb had slipped into the stream. 
 
 And safe without a bruise or wound 
 
 The cataract had borne him down 
 
 Into the gulf profound. 
 
 His dam had seen him when he fell. 
 
 She saw him down the torrent borne; 
 
 And, while with all a mother's love 
 
 She from the lofty rocks above 
 
 Sent forth a cry forlorn. 
 
 The lamb, still swimming round and 
 
 round. 
 Made answer to that plaintive sound. 
 
 When he had learnt what thing it was. 
 
 That sent this rueful cry; I ween 
 
 The Boy recovered heart, and told 
 
 The sight which he had seen. 
 
 Both gladly now deferred their task; 
 
 Nor was there wanting other aid — 
 
 A Poet, one who loves the brooks 
 
 Far better than the sages' books. 
 
 By chance had thither strayed; 
 
 And there the helpless Iamb he found 
 
 By those huge rocks encompassed round. 
 
 He drew it from the troubled pool. 
 
 And brought it forth into the light : 
 
 The Shepherds met him with his charge. 
 
 An unexpected sight ! 
 
 Into their arms the Iamb they took, 
 
 Whose life and limbs the flood had spared ; 
 
 Then up the steep ascent they hied. 
 
 And placed him at his mother's side; 
 
 And gently did the Bard 
 
 Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid. 
 
 And bade them better mind their trade. 
 
 THE PET-LAMB. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasraere. Barbara 
 Lewthwaite, now living at Ambleside (1843), 
 though much changed as to beauty, was one of 
 two most lovely sisters. Almost the first words 
 my poor brother John said, when lie visited us for 
 the first time at Grasmere, were, " Were those 
 two Angels that I have just seen? " and from his 
 description I have no doubt they were those two 
 sisters. The mother died in childbed ; and one 
 of our neighbors at Grasmere told me that the 
 loveliest sight she had ever seen was that mother 
 as she lay in her colfin with her babe ni her arm. 
 I mention this to notice what I cannot but think 
 a salutary custom once universal in these vales. 
 Every attendant on a funeral made it a duty to 
 look at the corpse in the coffin before the lid was 
 closed, which was never done (nor I believe is 
 now) till a minute or two before the corpse was 
 removed. Barbara Lewthwaite was not in fact 
 the child whom I had seen and overheard as 
 described in the poem. I chose the name for 
 reasons implied in the above ; and will here add 
 a caution against the use of names of living per- 
 sons. Within a few months after the publication 
 of this poem, I was much surprised, and more 
 hurt, to find it in a child's school-book which, 
 having been compiled by Lindley Murray, had 
 come into use at Grasmere School where Barbara 
 was a pupil ; and, alas ! I had the mortification 
 of hearing that she was very vain of being thus 
 distinguished ; and, in after-life, she used to say 
 that she remembered the incident and what I said 
 to her upon the occasion. 
 
 The dew was falling fast, the stars began 
 
 to blink; 
 I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty 
 
 creature, drink ! " 
 And, looking o'er the hedge, before me 
 
 I espied 
 A snow-white mountain-lamb with a 
 
 Maiden at its side. 
 
 Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb 
 
 was all alone. 
 And by a slender cord was tethered to a 
 
 stone; 
 With one knee on the grass did the Httle 
 
 Maiden kneel. 
 While to that mountain-lamb she gave its 
 
 evening meal. 
 
i66 
 
 ±niL rjil-i^AMB. 
 
 The Iamb, while from her hand he thus his 
 
 supper took, 
 Seemed to feast with head and ears; and 
 
 his tail with pleasure shook. 
 "Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said 
 
 in such a tone 
 That I almost received her heart into my 
 
 'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child 
 
 of beauty rare ! 
 I watched them with delight, they were 
 
 a lovely pair. 
 Now with her empty can the Maiden 
 
 turned away : 
 But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps 
 
 did she stay. 
 
 Right towards the lamb she looked; and 
 
 from a shady place 
 I unobserved could see the workings of 
 
 her face: 
 If Nature to her tongue could measured 
 
 numbers bring. 
 Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little 
 
 Maid might sing : 
 
 "What ails thee, young One? what? 
 
 Why pull so at thy cord? 
 Is it not well with thee? well both for bed 
 
 and board? 
 Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as 
 
 grass can be; 
 Rest, little young One, rest; what is 't that 
 
 aileth thee? 
 
 ' ' What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is 
 
 wanting to thy heart? 
 Thy limbs are they not strong? And 
 
 beautiful thou art : 
 This grass is tender grass; these flowers 
 
 they have no peers; 
 And that green corn all day is rustling in 
 
 thy ears ! 
 
 " If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch 
 thy woollen chain. 
 
 This beech is standing by, its covert thou 
 canst gain; 
 
 For rain and mountain-storms ! the like 
 thou need'st not fear. 
 
 The rain and storm are things that scarce- 
 ly can come here. 
 
 "Rest, little young One, rest; thou ha 
 
 forgot the day 
 When my father found thee first in place 
 
 far away; 
 Many flocks were on the hills, but the 
 
 wert owned by none, 
 And thy mother from thy side for eve: 
 
 more was gone. 
 
 " He took thee in his arms, and in pit 
 
 brought thee home : 
 A blessed day for thee ! then whithe 
 
 wouldst thou roam? 
 A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam thi 
 
 did thee yean 
 Upon the mountain-tops no kinder coul 
 
 have been. 
 
 " Thou know'st that twice a day I hav 
 
 brought thee in this can 
 Fresh water from the brook, as clear a 
 
 ever ran; 
 And twice in the day, when the ground i 
 
 wet with dew, 
 I bring thee draughts of milk, warm mill 
 
 it is and new. 
 
 " Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stou 
 
 as they are now, 
 Then I '11 yoke thee to my cart like apoB- 
 
 in the plough; 
 My playmate thou shalt be; and when th 
 
 wind is cold 
 Our hearth shall be thy bed, our hous^ 
 
 shall be thy fold. 
 
 " It will not, will not rest ! — Poor crea 
 
 ture, can it be 
 That 't is thy mother's heart which i 
 
 working so in thee? 
 Things that I know not of belike to thei 
 
 are dear, 
 And dreams of things which thou cans 
 
 neither see nor hear. 
 
 "Alas, the mountain-tops that look S( 
 
 green and fair ! 
 I 've heard of fearful winds and darknes 
 
 that come there; 
 The little brooks that seem all pastimi 
 
 and all play. 
 When they are angry, roar like lions fo 
 
 their prey. 
 
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 167 
 
 "Here thou need'st not dread the raven 
 in the sky; 
 
 Night and day thou art safe, — our cot- 
 tage is hard by. 
 
 Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at 
 thy chain? 
 
 Sleep — and at break of day I will come 
 to thee again ! ' ' 
 
 As homeward through the lane I went 
 with lazy feet, 
 
 This song to myself did I oftentimes re- 
 peat; 
 
 And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad 
 line by line, 
 
 That but half of it was hers, and one-half 
 of it was mine. 
 
 Again, and once again, did I repeat the 
 
 song; 
 "Nay," said I, "more than half to the 
 
 damsel must belong. 
 For she looked with such a look and she 
 
 spake with such a tone. 
 That I almost received her heart into my 
 
 own." 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF 
 PLACES. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 By persons resident in the country and attached 
 to rural objects, many places will be found un- 
 named or of unknown names, where little Inci- 
 dents must have occun-ed, or feelings been expe- 
 rienced, which will have given to such places a 
 private and peculiar interest. From a wish to 
 give some sort of record to such Incidents, and 
 renew the gratification of such feelings, Names 
 have been given to Places by the Author and 
 some of his Friends, and the following Poems 
 written in consequence. 
 
 I. 
 Written at Grasmere. This poem was sug- 
 gested on the banks of the brook that runs through 
 Easedale, which is, in some parts of its course, as 
 wild and beautiful as brook can be. I have com- 
 posed thousands of verses by the side of it. 
 
 It was an April morning : fresh and clear 
 The Rivulet, delighting in its strength. 
 
 Ran with a young man's speea; and yet 
 
 the voice 
 Of waters which the winter had supplied 
 Was softened down into a vernal tone. 
 The spirit of enjoyment and desire, 
 And hopes and wishes, from all living 
 
 things 
 Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. 
 The budding groves seemed eager to 
 
 urge on 
 The steps of June; as if their various hues 
 Were only hindrances that stood between 
 Them and their object : but, meanwhile, 
 
 prevailed 
 Such an entire contentment in the air 
 That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
 Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance 
 With which it looked on this delightful 
 
 day 
 Were native to the summer. — Up the 
 
 brook 
 I roamed in the confusion of my heart, 
 Alive to all things and forgetting all. 
 At length I to a sudden turning came 
 In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
 The Stream, so ardent in its course before, 
 Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, 
 
 that all 
 Which I till then had heard, appeared 
 
 the voice 
 Of cominon pleasure : beast and bird, the 
 
 lamb, 
 The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the 
 
 thrush 
 Vied with this waterfall, and made a song. 
 Which, while I listened, seemed like the 
 
 wild growth 
 Or like some natural produce of the air, 
 That could not cease to be. Green leaves 
 
 were here; 
 But 'twas the foliage of the rocks — the 
 
 birch. 
 The yew, the holly, and the bright|green 
 
 thorn. 
 With hanging islands of resplendent 
 
 furze; 
 And, on a summit, distant a short space. 
 By any who should look beyond the dell, 
 A single mountain-cottage might be seen. 
 I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 
 " Our thoughts at least are ours; and 
 
 this wild nook. 
 My Emma I will dedicate to thee." 
 
1 68 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 — Soon did the spot become my other 
 home, 
 
 My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 
 
 And, of the Shepherds who have seen me 
 there, 
 
 To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 
 
 Have told this fancy, two or three, per- 
 haps, ' 
 
 Years after we are gone and in our graves, 
 
 When they have cause to speak of this 
 wild place. 
 
 May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 II. 
 
 TO JOANNA. 
 
 Written at Grasmere. The effect of her laugh 
 is an extravagance ; though the effect of the re- 
 verberation of voices in some parts of the moun- 
 tains is very striking. There is, in the " Excur- 
 sion," an allusion to the bleat of a lamb thus 
 re-echoed, and described without any exaggera- 
 tion, as I heard it, on the side of Stickle Tarn, 
 from the precipice that stretches on to Langdale 
 Pikes. 
 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
 The time of early youth; and there you 
 
 learned. 
 From years of quiet industry, to love 
 The living Beings by your own fireside, 
 With such a strong devotion, that your 
 
 heart 
 Is slow to meet the sympathies of them 
 Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 
 And make dear friendships with the 
 
 streams and groves. 
 Yef we, who are transgressors in this 
 
 kind, 
 Dwelling retired in our simplicity 
 Among the woods and fields, we love you 
 
 well, 
 Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 
 So distant from us now for two long years, 
 That you will gladly listen to discourse, 
 However trivial, if you thence be taught 
 That they, with whom you once were 
 
 happy, talk 
 Familiarly of you and of old times. 
 While I was seated, now some ten days 
 
 past. 
 Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
 
 Their ancient neighbor, the old steeple- 
 tower. 
 The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
 Came forth to greet me; and when he 
 
 had asked, 
 "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted 
 
 Maid! 
 And when will she return to us?" he 
 
 paused; 
 And, after short exchanges of village 
 
 news, 
 He with grave looks demanded, for what 
 
 cause. 
 Reviving obsolete idolatry, 
 I, like a Runic Priest, in characters 
 Of formidable size had chiselled out 
 Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
 Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. 
 
 — Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
 Engendered between malice and true 
 
 love, 
 I was not loth to be so catechised. 
 And this was my reply: — " As it befell. 
 One summer morning we had walked 
 
 abroad 
 At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
 
 — 'T was that delightful season when the 
 
 broom. 
 Full-flowered, and visible on every steep. 
 Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 
 Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; 
 And when we came in front of that tall 
 
 rock 
 That eastward looks, I there stopped short 
 
 — and stood 
 Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye 
 From base to summit; such delight I 
 
 found 
 To note in shrub and tree, in stone and 
 
 flower 
 That intermixture of delicious hues, 
 Along so vast a surface, all at once. 
 In one impression, by connecting force 
 Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 
 — When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' 
 
 space, 
 Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
 That ravishment of mine, and laughed 
 
 aloud. 
 The Rock, like something starting from 
 
 a sleep. 
 Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed 
 
 again ; 
 
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 169 
 
 That ancient Woman seated on Helm- 
 crag 
 Was ready with her cavern; Hammar- 
 
 scar, 
 And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent 
 
 forth 
 A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg 
 
 heard, 
 And Fairfield answered with a mountain 
 
 tone; 
 Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 
 Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skiddaw 
 
 blew 
 His speaking-trumpet; — back out of the 
 
 clouds 
 Of Glaramara southward came the voice; 
 And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty 
 
 head. 
 
 — Now whether (said I to our cordial 
 
 Friend, 
 Who, in the hey-day of astonishment 
 Smiled in my face) this were in simple 
 
 truth 
 A work accomplished by the brotherhood 
 Of ancient mountains, or my ear was 
 
 touched 
 With dreams and visionary impulses 
 To me alone imparted, sure I am 
 That there was a loud uproar in the hills. 
 And, while we both were listening, to my 
 
 side 
 The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 
 To shelter from some object of her fear. 
 
 — And hence, long afterwards, when 
 
 eighteen moons 
 Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
 Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 
 And silent morning, I sat down, and there. 
 In memory of affections old and true, 
 I chiselled out in those rude characters 
 Joanna's name deep in the living stone : — 
 And I, and all who dwell by my fireside. 
 Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's 
 
 Rock." 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 Note. — In Cumberland and Westmoreland 
 are several Inscriptions, upon the native rock, 
 which, from the wasting of time, and tlie rude- 
 ness of the workmanship, have been mistaken for 
 Runic. They are without doubt Roman. 
 
 The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the 
 River which, flowing through the lakes of Gras- 
 mere and Rydale, falls into Wynandermere. On 
 
 Helm-crag, that impressive single mountain at 
 the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a rock 
 which from most points of view bears a striking 
 resemblance to an old Woman cowering. Close 
 by this rock is one of those fissures or caverns, 
 which in the language of the country are called 
 dungeons. Most of the mountains liere men- 
 tioned immediately surround the Vale of Gras- 
 mere; of the others, some are at a considerable 
 distance, but they belong to the same cluster. 
 
 It is not accurate that the Eminence here 
 alluded to could be seen from our orchard-seat. 
 It rises above the road by the side of Grasmere 
 lake, towards Keswick, and its name is Stone- 
 Arthur. 
 
 There is an Eminence, — of these our 
 
 hills 
 The last that parleys with the setting sun ; 
 We can behold it from our orchard-seat; 
 And, when at evening we pursue our 
 
 walk 
 Along the public way, this Peak, so high 
 Above us, and so distant in its height. 
 Is visible; and often seems to send 
 Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. 
 The meteors make of it a favorite haunt : 
 The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
 In the mid heavens, is never half so fair 
 As when he shines above it. 'T is in 
 
 truth 
 The loneliest place we have among the 
 
 clouds. 
 And She who dwells with me, whom I 
 
 have loved 
 With such communion, that no place on 
 
 earth 
 Can ever be a solitude to me, 
 Hath to this lonely Summit given my 
 
 Name. 
 iSoo. iSoo 
 
 The character of the eastern shore of Grasmere 
 lake is quite changed, since these verses were 
 written, by the public road being carried along 
 its side. The friends spoken of were Coleridge 
 and my Sister, and the facts occurred strictly as 
 recorded. 
 
 A NARROW girdle of rough stones and 
 
 crags, 
 A rude and natural causeway, interposed 
 Between the water and a winding, slope 
 
170 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern 
 
 shore 
 Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy : 
 And there myself and two beloved 
 
 Friends, 
 One calm September morning, ere the 
 
 mist 
 Had altogether yielded to the sun, 
 Sauntered on this retired and difficult 
 
 way. 
 
 — Ill suits the road with one in haste; 
 
 but we 
 Played with our time ; and, as we strolled 
 
 along, 
 It was our occupation to observe 
 Such objects as the waves had tossed 
 
 ashore — 
 Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered 
 
 bough. 
 Each on the other heaped, along the line 
 Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant 
 
 mood, 
 Not seldom did we stop to watch some 
 
 tuft 
 Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard. 
 That skimmed the surface of the dead 
 
 calm lake, 
 Suddenly halting now — a lifeless stand ! 
 And starting off again with freak as sud- 
 den; 
 In all its sportive wanderings, all the 
 
 while. 
 Making report of an invisible breeze 
 That was its wings, its chariot, and its 
 
 horse, 
 Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul. 
 
 — And often, trifling with a privilege 
 Alike indulged to all, we paused, one 
 
 now, 
 And now the other, to point out, per- 
 chance 
 To pluck, some flower or water-weed, 
 
 too fair 
 Either to be divided from the place 
 On which it grew, or to be left alone 
 To its own beauty. Many such there 
 
 are, 
 Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that 
 
 tall fern. 
 So stately, of the queen Osmunda named; 
 Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode 
 On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the 
 side 
 
 Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere 
 Sole-sitting by the shores of old re 
 
 mance. 
 — So fared we that bright morning : froi 
 
 the fields 
 Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the bus; 
 
 mirth 
 Of reapers, men and women, boys am 
 
 girls. 
 Delighted much to listen to those sounds 
 And feeding thus our fancies, we ad 
 
 vanced 
 Along the indented shore; when sud 
 
 denly. 
 Through a thin veil of glittering haze wa: 
 
 seen 
 Before us, on a point of jutting land. 
 The tall and upright figure of a Man 
 Attired in peasant's garb, who stooc 
 
 alone. 
 Angling beside the margin of the lake. 
 " Improvident and reckless," we eX' 
 
 claimed, 
 " The Man must be, who thus can losf 
 
 a day 
 Of the mid harTest, when the laborer'! 
 
 hire 
 Is ample, and some little might be storec 
 Wherewith to cheer him in the wintei 
 
 time." 
 Thus talking of that Peasant, we ap- 
 proached 
 Close to the spot where with his rod and 
 
 line 
 He stood alone; whereat he turned hii 
 
 head 
 To greet us — and we saw a Man wort 
 
 down 
 By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunkei 
 
 cheeks 
 And wasted limbs, his legs so long anc 
 
 lean 
 That for my single self I looked at them. 
 Forgetful of the body they sustained.— 
 Too weak to labor in the harvest field. 
 The Man was using his best skill to gain 
 A pittance from the dead unfeeling lakf 
 That knew not of his wants. I will nol 
 
 say 
 What thoughts immediately were ours, 
 
 nor how 
 The happy idleness of that sweet morn, 
 With all its lovely images, was changed 
 
THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLATINE. 
 
 171 
 
 To serious musing and to self-reproach. 
 Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 
 What need there is to be reserved in 
 
 speech, 
 And temper all our thoughts with charity. 
 — Therefore, unwilling to forget that 
 
 day. 
 My Friend, Myself, and She who then 
 
 received 
 The same admonishment, have called the 
 
 place 
 By a memorial name, uncouth indeed 
 As e'er by mariner was given to bay 
 Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast; 
 And Point Rash-Judgment is the name 
 
 it bears. 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 V. 
 
 To M. H. 
 The pool alluded to is in Rydal Upper Park. 
 
 Our walk was far among the ancient 
 
 trees : 
 There was no road, nor any woodman's 
 
 path; 
 But a thick umbrage — checking the 
 
 wild growth 
 01 weed and sapling, along soft green 
 
 turf 
 Beneath the branches — of itself had 
 
 made 
 A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn. 
 And a small bed of water in the woods. 
 All round this pool both flocks and herds 
 
 might drink 
 On its firm margin, even as from a well, 
 Or some stone-basin which the herds- 
 man's hand 
 Had shaped for their refreshment; nor 
 
 did sun, 
 Or wind from any quarter, ever come, 
 But as a blessing to this calm recess, 
 This glade of water and this one green 
 
 field. 
 The spot was made by Nature for herself; 
 The travellers know it not, and 't will 
 
 remain 
 Jnknown to them; but it is beautiful; 
 ^nd if a man should plant his cottage near, 
 should sleep beneath the shelter of its 
 
 trees, 
 Vnd blend its waters with his daily meal. 
 
 He would so love it, that in his death- 
 hour 
 
 Its image would survive among his 
 thoughts : 
 
 And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still 
 Nook, 
 
 With all its beeches, we have named 
 from You ! 
 iSoo. 1800. 
 
 THE WATERFALL AND THE 
 EGLANTINE. 
 
 Suggested nearer to Grasmere, on the sanv* 
 mountain track as that referred to in the follow 
 ing Note. The Eglantine remained many years 
 afterwards, but is now gone. 
 
 ' ' Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf, ' ' 
 
 Exclaimed an angry Voice, 
 
 " Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 
 
 Between me and my choice ! " 
 
 A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 
 
 Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 
 
 That, all bespattered with his foam, 
 
 And dancing high and dancing low, 
 
 Was living, as a child might know, 
 
 In an unhappy home. 
 
 " Dost thou presume my course to block? 
 
 Off, off ! or, puny Thing ! 
 
 I '11 hurl thee headlong with the rock 
 
 To which thy fibres cling." 
 
 The Flood was tyrannous and strong; 
 
 The patient Briar suffered long, 
 
 Nor did he utter groan or sigh, 
 
 Hoping the danger would be past; 
 
 But, seeing no relief, at last. 
 
 He ventured to reply. 
 
 "Ah ! " said the Briar, "blame me not; 
 
 Why should we dwell in strife? 
 
 We who in this sequestered spot 
 
 Once lived a happy life ! 
 
 You stirred me on my rocky bed — 
 
 What pleasure through my veins yon 
 
 spread 
 The summer long, from day to day, 
 My leaves you freshened and bedewed; 
 Nor was it common gratitude 
 That did your cares repay. 
 
172 
 
 THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
 
 "When spring came on with bud and bell, 
 
 Among these rocks did I 
 
 Before you hang my wreaths to tell 
 
 That gentle days were nigh ! 
 
 And in the sultry summer hours, 
 
 I sheltered you with leaves and flowers; 
 
 And in my leaves — now shed and gone, 
 
 The linnet lodged, and for us two 
 
 Chanted his pretty songs, when you 
 
 Had little voice or none. 
 
 " But now proud thoughts are in your 
 
 breast — 
 What grief is mine you see. 
 Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest 
 Together we might be ! 
 Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 
 Some ornaments to me are left — 
 Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
 With which I, in my humble way, 
 Would deck you many a winter day, 
 A happy Eglantine ! " 
 
 What more he said I cannot tell, 
 The Torrent down the rocky dell 
 Came thundering loud and fast; 
 I listened, nor aught else could hear; 
 The Briar quaked — and much I fear 
 Those accents were his last. 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 Suggested upon the mountain pathway that 
 leads from Upper Rydal to Grasmere. The pon- 
 derous block of stone which is mentioned in the 
 poem remains, I believe, to this day, a good way 
 up Nab-Scar. Broom grows under it, and in 
 many places on the side of the precipice. 
 
 His simple truths did Andrew glean 
 
 Beside the babbling rills; 
 
 A careful student he had been 
 
 Among the woods and hills. 
 
 One winter's night, when through the 
 
 trees 
 The wind was roaring, on his knees 
 
 His youngest born did Andrew hold: 
 And while the rest, a ruddy quire. 
 Were seated round their blazing fire, 
 This Tale the Shepherd told. 
 
 " I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
 
 As ever tempest beat ! 
 
 Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
 
 A Broom out of its feet. 
 
 The time was March, a cheerful noon — 
 
 The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, 
 
 Breathed gently from the warm south 
 
 west: 
 When, in a voice sedate with age. 
 This Oak, a giant and a sage. 
 His neighbor thus addressed : — 
 
 " ' Eight weary weeks, through rock anc 
 
 clay. 
 Along this mountain's edge. 
 The Frost hath wrought both night anc 
 
 day. 
 Wedge driving after wedge. 
 Look up ! and think, above your head 
 What trouble, surely, will be bred; 
 Last night I heard a crash — 't is true, 
 The splinters took another road — 
 I see them yonder — what a load 
 For such a Thing as you ! 
 
 " 'You are preparing as before, 
 
 To deck your slender shape; 
 
 And yet, just three years back — nc 
 
 more — 
 You had a strange escape : 
 Down from yon cliff a fragment broke; 
 It thundered down, with fire and smokC; 
 And hitherward pursued its way; 
 This ponderous block was caught by me. 
 And o'er your head, as you may see, 
 'Tis hanging to this day ! 
 
 " ' If breeze or bird to this rough steep 
 Your kind's first seed did bear; 
 The breeze had better been asleep, 
 The bird caught in a snare : 
 For you and your green twigs decoy 
 The little witless shepherd-boy 
 
HEART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 173 
 
 To come and slumber in your bower; 
 ind, trust me, on some sultry noon, 
 Both you and he. Heaven knows how 
 
 soon ! 
 Will perish in one hour. 
 
 ■' ' From me this friendly warning take'- 
 
 rhe Broom began to doze, 
 
 And thus, to keep herself awake, 
 
 Did gently interpose : 
 
 'My thanks for your discourse are due; 
 
 That more than what you say is true, 
 
 I know, and I have known it long; 
 
 Frail is the bond by which we hold 
 
 Our being, whether young or old, 
 
 Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. 
 
 " ' Disasters, do the best we can. 
 
 Will reach both great and small; 
 
 And he is oft the wisest man. 
 
 Who is not wise at all. 
 
 For me, why should I wish to roam? 
 
 Phis spot is my paternal home, 
 
 It is my pleasant heritage; 
 
 My father many a happy year. 
 
 Spread here his careless blossoms, here 
 
 Attained a good old age. 
 
 ■' ' Even such as his may be my lot. 
 
 What cause have I to haunt 
 
 My heart with terrors? Am I not 
 
 [n truth a favored plant ! 
 
 3n me such bounty Summer pours. 
 
 That I am covered o'er with flowers; 
 
 And, when the Frost is in the sky, 
 
 My branches are so fresh and gay 
 
 That you might look at me and say, 
 
 This Plant can never die. 
 
 ' ' The butterfly, all green and gold, 
 
 To me hath often flown, 
 
 riere in my blossoms to behold 
 
 iVings lovely as his own. 
 
 iVhen grass is chill with rain or dew, 
 
 3eneath my shade, the mother-ewe 
 
 -.ies with her infant lamb; I see 
 
 The love they to each other make, 
 
 ind the sweet joy which they partake, 
 
 t is a joy to me. 
 
 "Her voice was blithe, her heart was 
 
 light; 
 The Broom might have pursued 
 Her speech, until the stars of night 
 Their journey had renewed; 
 But in the branches of the oak 
 Two ravens now began to croak 
 Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; 
 And to her own green bower the breeze 
 That instant brought two stripling bees 
 To rest, or murmur there. 
 
 XI. 
 "One night, my Children ! from the north 
 There came a furious blast; 
 At break of day I ventured forth. 
 And near the cliff I passed. 
 The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 
 And struck him with a mighty stroke, 
 And whirled, and whirled him far away; 
 And, in one hospitable cleft. 
 The little careless Broom was left 
 To live for many a day." 
 iSoo. 1800. 
 
 HART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The first 
 eight stanzas were composed extempore one win- 
 ter evening in the cottage; when, after having 
 tired myself with laboring at an awkward passage 
 in " The Brothers," I started with a sudden im- 
 pulse to this to get rid of the other, and finished 
 it in a day or two. My Sister and I had passed the 
 place a few weeks before in our wild winter jour- 
 ney from Sockburn on the banks of the Tees to 
 Grasmere. A peasant whom we met near the 
 spot told us the story so far as concerned the 
 name of the Well, and the Hart, and pointed out 
 the Stones. Both the Stones and the Well are 
 objects that may easily be missed ; the tradition 
 by this time may be extinct in the neighborhood: 
 the man who related it to us was very old. 
 
 Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, 
 about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and 
 near the side of the road that leads from Rich- 
 mond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a 
 remarkable Chase, the memory of which is pre- 
 served by the monuments spoken of in the second 
 Part of the following Poem, which monuments 
 do now exist as I have there described them. 
 
 The Knight had ridden down from 
 
 Wensley Moor 
 With the slow motion of a summer's cloud, 
 
m 
 
 HEART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 And now, as he approached - vassal's 
 
 door, 
 "Bring forth another horse ! " he cried 
 
 aloud. 
 
 "Another horse ! " — That shout the vas- 
 sal heard 
 
 And saddled his best Steed , a comely gray ; 
 
 Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third 
 
 Which he had mounted on that glorious 
 day. 
 
 Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's 
 
 eyes; 
 The horse and horseman are a happy pair; 
 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. 
 There is a doleful silence in the air. 
 
 A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
 That as they galloped made the echoes 
 
 roar; 
 But horse and man are vanished, one and 
 
 all; 
 Such race, I think, was never seen before. 
 
 Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
 Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
 Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their 
 
 kind, 
 Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 
 
 The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid 
 them on 
 
 With suppliant gestures and upbraidings 
 stern; 
 
 But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by 
 one. 
 
 The dogs are stretched among the moun- 
 tain fern. 
 
 Where is the throng, the tumult of the 
 
 race? 
 The bugles that so joyfully were blown? 
 — This chase it looks not like an earthly 
 
 chase; 
 Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 
 
 The poor Hart toils along the mountain- 
 side; 
 
 I will not stop to tell how far he fled. 
 
 Nor will I mention by what death he died ; 
 
 But now the Knight beholds him lying 
 dead. 
 
 Dismounting, then, he leaned against 
 
 thorn ; 
 He had no follower, dog, nor man, n 
 
 boy: 
 He neither cracked his whip, nor ble 
 
 his horn. 
 But gazed upon the spoil with silent jo 
 
 Close to the thorn on which Sir Walt 
 
 leaned. 
 Stood his dumb partner in this glorioi 
 
 feat; 
 Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeanec 
 And white with foam as if with cleavir 
 
 sleet. 
 
 Upon his side the Hartwas lying str.= ichec 
 His nostril touched a spring beneatn a hil 
 And with the last deep groan his breal 
 
 had fetched 
 The waters of the spring were tremblic 
 
 still. 
 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
 (Never had living man such joyful lot! 
 Sir Walter walked all round, north, soutl 
 
 and west, 
 And gazed and gazed upon that darliu 
 
 spot. 
 
 And climbing up the hill — (it was at leai 
 Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walte 
 
 found 
 Three several hoof-marks which the huni 
 
 ed Beast 
 Had left imprinted on the grassy ground 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Ti! 
 
 now 
 Such sight was never seen by human eyes 
 Three leaps have borne him from this loft 
 
 brow, 
 Down to the very fountain where he lies 
 
 "I 'U build a pleasure-house upon thi 
 
 spot, 
 And a small arbor, made for rural joy; 
 'T will be the traveller's shed, the pil 
 
 grim's cot, 
 A place of love for damsels that are coy 
 
 ' ' A cunning artist will I have to frame 
 A basin for that fountain in the dell 1 
 
HEART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 175 
 
 And they who do make mention of the 
 same, 
 
 From this day forth, shall call it Hart- 
 leap Well. 
 
 "And, gallant St£^ ! to make thy praises 
 
 known. 
 Another monument shall here be raised; 
 Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn 
 
 stone. 
 And planted where thy hoofs the turf 
 
 have grazed. 
 
 "And, in the summer-time when days are 
 
 long, 
 I will come hither with my Paramour; 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's 
 
 song 
 We will make merry in that pleasant 
 
 bower. 
 
 "Till the foundations of the mountains 
 
 fail 
 My mansion with its arbor shall endure ; — 
 The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
 And them who dwell among the woods of 
 
 Ure!" 
 
 Then home he went, and left the Hart, 
 
 stone-dead. 
 With breathless nostrils stretched above 
 
 the spring. 
 — Soon did the Knight perform what he 
 
 had said; 
 And far and wide the fame thereof did 
 
 ring. 
 
 Ere thrice the Moon into her port had 
 
 steered, 
 A cup of stone received the living well; 
 Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter 
 
 reared, 
 And built a house of pleasure in the dell. 
 
 And near the fountain, flowers of stature 
 tall 
 
 With trailing plants and trees were inter- 
 twined, — 
 
 Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 
 
 A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 
 
 And thither, when the summer days were 
 
 long, 
 Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour; 
 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's 
 
 song 
 Made merriment within that pleasant 
 
 bower. 
 
 The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course 
 
 of time, 
 And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
 But there is matter for a second rhyme, 
 And I to this would add another tale. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The moving accident is not my trade; 
 To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 
 'T is my delight, alone in summer shade, 
 To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 
 
 As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
 It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
 Three aspens at three corners of a square ; ■ 
 And one, not four yards distant, near a 
 well. 
 
 What this imported I could ill divine: 
 And, pulling now the rein my horse to 
 
 stop, 
 I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
 The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 
 
 The trees were gray, with neither arms 
 
 nor head; 
 Half wasted the square mound of tawny 
 
 green; 
 So that you just might say, as then I said, 
 " Here in old time the hand of man hath 
 
 been." 
 
 I looked upon the hill both far and near, 
 More doleful place did never eye survey; 
 It seemed as if the spring-time came not 
 
 here, 
 And Nature here were willing to decay. 
 
 I stood in various thoughts and fancies 
 lost, 
 
 When one, who was in shepherd's garb 
 attired, 
 
 Came up the hollow: — him did I accost. 
 
 And what this place might be I then in- 
 quired. 
 
176 
 
 HEART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 The Shepherd stopped, and that same 
 story told 
 
 Which in my former rhyme I have re- 
 hearsed. 
 
 " A jolly place," said he, "in times of 
 old! 
 
 But something ails it now: the spot is 
 curst. 
 
 " You see these lifeless stumps of aspen 
 wood — 
 
 Some say that they are beeches, others 
 elms — 
 
 These were the bower; and here a man- 
 sion stood, 
 
 The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 
 
 "The arbor does its own condition tell; 
 You see the stones, the fountain, and the 
 
 stream; 
 But as to the great Lodge ! you might as 
 
 well 
 Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 
 
 "There 's neither dog nor heifer, horse 
 
 nor sheep, 
 Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; 
 And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep. 
 This water doth send forth a dolorous 
 
 groan. 
 
 " Some say that here a murder has been 
 
 done, 
 And blood cries out for blood : but, for 
 
 my part, 
 I 've guessed, when I 've been sitting in 
 
 the sun. 
 That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 
 
 " What thoughts must through the crea- 
 ture's brain have past ! 
 
 Even from the topmost stone, upon the 
 steep. 
 
 Are but three bounds — and look. Sir, at 
 this last — 
 
 O Master ! it has been a cruel leap. 
 
 " For thirteen hours he ran a desperate 
 
 race; 
 And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
 What cause the Hart might have to love 
 
 this place. 
 And come and make his deathbed near 
 
 the well. 
 
 " Here on the grass perhaps asleep he 
 sank, 
 
 Lulled by the fountain in the summer- 
 tide; 
 
 This water was perhaps the first he drank 
 
 When he had wandered from his mother's 
 side. 
 
 " In April here beneath the flowering 
 
 thorn 
 He heard the birds their morning carols 
 
 sing; 
 And he, perhaps, for aught we know, 
 
 was born 
 Not half a furlong from that self-same 
 
 spring. 
 
 "Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant 
 
 shade; 
 The sun on drearier hollow never shone; 
 So will it be, as I have often said, 
 Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all 
 
 are gone." 
 
 "Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast 
 
 spoken well; 
 Small difference lies between thy creed 
 
 and mine ; 
 This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell; 
 His death was mourned by sympathy 
 
 divine. 
 
 "The Being, that is in the clouds and air. 
 That is in the green leaves among the 
 
 groves, 
 Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 For the unoffending creatures whom he 
 
 loves. 
 
 "The pleasure-house is dust: — behind, 
 
 before. 
 This is no common waste, no common 
 
 gloom ; 
 But Nature, in due course of time, once 
 
 more 
 Shall here put on her beauty and her 
 
 bloom. 
 
 " She leaves these objects to a slow decay. 
 That what we are, and have been, may 
 
 be known; 
 But at the coming of the milder day. 
 These monuments shall all be overgrown- 
 
THE CHILDLESS FATHER. 
 
 '77 
 
 " One lesson, Shepherd, let us two di- 
 vide. 
 
 Taught both by what she shows, and 
 what conceals; 
 
 Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that 
 jeels." 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 " 'T IS SAID, THAT SOME HAVE 
 DIED FOR LOVE." 
 
 'T is said, that some have died for love : 
 And here and there a churchyard grave 
 
 is found 
 In the cold north's unhallowed ground, 
 Because the wretched man himself had 
 
 slain. 
 His love was such a grievous pain. 
 And there is one whom I five years have 
 
 known; 
 He dwells alone 
 Upon Helvellyn's side : 
 He loved — the pretty Barbara died; 
 And thus he makes his moan : 
 Three years had Barbara in her grave 
 
 been laid 
 When thus his moan he made : 
 
 " Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind 
 
 that oak ! 
 Or let the aged tree uprooted lie. 
 That in some other way yon smoke 
 May mount into the sky ! 
 The clouds pass on; they from the 
 
 heavens depart. 
 I look — the sky is empty space; 
 I know not what I trace; 
 But when I cease to look, my hand is on 
 
 my heart. 
 
 " Oh ! what a weight is in these shades ! 
 
 Ve leaves. 
 That murmur once so dear, when will it 
 
 cease? 
 Your sound my heart of rest bereaves. 
 It robs my heart of peace. 
 Thou Thrush, that singest loud — and 
 
 loud and free. 
 Into yon row of willows flit. 
 Upon that alder sit; 
 Or sing another song, or choose another 
 
 tree. 
 
 "Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy 
 
 mountain-bounds, 
 And there forever be thy waters chained ! 
 For thou dost haunt the air with sounds 
 That cannot be sustained; 
 If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged 
 
 bough 
 Headlong yon waterfall must come. 
 Oh let it then be dumb ! 
 Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which 
 
 thou art now. 
 
 "Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny 
 
 showers. 
 Proud as a rainbow spanning half the 
 
 vale, 
 Thou one fair shrub, oh ! shed thy 
 
 flowers. 
 And stir not in the gale. 
 For thus to see thee nodding in the air. 
 To see thy arch thus stretch and bend. 
 Thus rise and thus descend, — 
 Disturbs me till the sight is more than I 
 
 can bear." 
 
 The Man who makes this feverish com- 
 plaint 
 Is one of giant stature, who could dance 
 Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. 
 Ah gentle Love ! if ever thought was thine 
 To store up'kindred hours for me, thy face 
 Turn from me, gentle Love ! nor let me 
 
 walk 
 Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor 
 
 know 
 Such happiness as I have known to-day. 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 THE CHILDLESS FATHER. 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. When I was 
 d child at Cockennouth, no funeral took place 
 without a basin filled with sprigs of boxwood be- 
 ing placed upon a table covered with a white cloth 
 in front of the house. The huntings on foot, in 
 which the old man is supposed to join as here 
 described, were of common, almost habitual, oc- 
 currence in our vales when I was a boy ; and the 
 people took much delight in them. They are 
 now less frequent. 
 
 "Up, Timothy, up with your staff and 
 
 away ! 
 Not a soul in the village this morning 
 
 will stay; 
 
178 
 
 SONG. 
 
 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, 
 On the slopes of the pastures all colors 
 
 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 boxwood, not six 
 
 months before, 
 Filled the funeral basini at Timothy's 
 
 door; 
 A coffin through Timothy's threshold had 
 
 passed; 
 One Child 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 
 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. 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 SONG 
 
 FOR THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 Though the torrents from their fountains 
 Roar down many a craggy steep, 
 Yet they find among the mountains 
 Resting-places calm and deep. 
 
 ^ In several parts of the North of England, 
 when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs 
 of boxwood 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 boxwood, and throws it into the grave of 
 the deceased. 
 
 Clouds that love through air to hasten, 
 Ere the storm its fury stills. 
 Helmet-like themselves will fasten 
 On the heads of towering hills. 
 
 What, if through the frozen center 
 Of the Alps the Chamois bound. 
 Yet he has a home to enter 
 In some nook of chosen ground: 
 
 And the Sea-horse, though the ocean 
 Yield him no domestic cave. 
 Slumbers without sense of motion, 
 Couched upon the rocking wave. 
 
 If on windy days the Raven 
 Gambol like a dancing skiff, 
 Not the less she loves her haven 
 In the bosom of the cliff. 
 
 The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, 
 Vagrant over desert sands. 
 Brooding on her eggs reposes 
 When chill night that care demands. 
 
 Day and night my toils redouble, 
 Never nearer to the goal; 
 Night and day, I feel the trouble 
 Of the Wanderer in my soul. 
 
 iSoo. iSfxi. 
 
 RURAL ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. These strut 
 tures, as every one knows, are common among! 
 our hills, being built by shepherds, as conspicuou 
 marks, and occasionally by boys in sport. 
 
 There 's George Fisher, Charles Flem 
 
 ing, and Reginald Shore, 
 Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the high 
 
 est not more 
 Than the height of a counsellor's bag; 
 To the top of Great How 1 did it pleas: 
 
 them to climb: 
 And there they built up, without morta 
 
 or lime, 
 A Man on the peak of the crag. 
 
 1 Great How is a single and conspicuous hill 
 which rises towards the foot of Thirlmere, on th 
 western side of the beautiful dale of Legbei 
 thwaite, along the high road between Keswid 
 and Ambleside. 
 
ELLEN IRWIN. 
 
 179 
 
 They built him of stones gathered up as 
 
 they lay : 
 They built him and christened him all in 
 
 one day, 
 An urchin both vigorous and hale; 
 And so without scruple they called him 
 
 Ralph Jones. 
 Now Ralph is renowned for the length of 
 
 his bones; 
 The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. 
 
 Just half a week after, the wind sallied 
 
 forth. 
 And, in anger or merriment, out of the 
 
 north, 
 Coming on with a terrible pother, 
 From the peak of the crag blew the giant 
 
 away. 
 And what did these school-boys? — The 
 
 very next day 
 They went and they built up another. 
 
 — Some little I 've seen of blind bois- 
 terous works 
 
 By Christian disturbers more savage than 
 Turks, 
 
 Spirits busy to do and undo : 
 
 At remembrance whereof my blood some- 
 times will flag; 
 
 Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the 
 crag ! 
 
 And I '11 build up a giant with you. 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 ELLEN IRWIN: 
 
 OR, 
 THE BRAES OF ICIRTLE.l 
 
 It may be worth while to observe that as there 
 are Scotch Poems on this subject in simple ballad 
 jtrain, I thought it would be both presumptuous 
 and superfluous to attempt treating it in the same 
 fl^ay; and, accordingly, I chose a construction of 
 itanza quite new in our language; in fact, the 
 lante as that of Burger's Leonora, except that 
 the first and third lines do not, in my stanzas, 
 rhyme. At the outset I threw out a classical 
 image to prepare the reader for the style in which 
 I mean to treat the story, and so to preclude all 
 comparison. 
 
 ^ The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of 
 dcotland, on the banks of which the events here 
 related took place. 
 
 Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate 
 Upon the braes of Kirtle, 
 Was lovely as a Grecian maid 
 Adorned with wreaths of myrtle; 
 Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, 
 And there did they beguile the day 
 With love and gentle speeches, 
 Beneath the budding beeches. 
 
 From many knights and many squires 
 The Bruce had been selected; 
 And Gordon, fairest of them all, 
 By Ellen was rejected. 
 Sad tidings to that noble Youth ! 
 For it may be proclaimed with truth, 
 If Bruce hath loved sincerely, 
 That Gordon loves as dearly. 
 
 But what are Gordon's form and face, 
 His shattered hopes and crosses, 
 To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes, 
 Reclined on flowers and mosses? 
 Alas that ever he was born ! 
 The Gordon, couched behind a thorn. 
 Sees them and their caressing; 
 Beholds them blest and blessing. 
 
 Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts 
 That through his brain are travelling, 
 Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce 
 He launched a deadly javelin ! 
 Fair Ellen saw it as it came, 
 And, starting up to meet the same, 
 Did with her body cover 
 The Youth, her chosen lover. 
 
 And, falling into Bruce's arms, 
 Thus died the beauteous Ellen, 
 Thus, from the heart of her True-love, 
 The mortal spear repelling. 
 And Bruce, as soon as he had slain 
 The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; 
 And fought with rage incessant 
 Against the Moorish crescent. 
 
 But many days, and many months. 
 And many years ensuing. 
 This wretched Knight did vainly seek 
 The death that he was wooing. 
 So, coming his last help to crave, 
 Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave 
 His body he extended. 
 And there his sorrow ended. 
 
i8o 
 
 ANDREW JONES. 
 
 Now ye, who willingly have heard 
 The tale I have been telling, 
 May in Kirkconnel churchyard view 
 The grave of lovely Ellen : 
 By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; 
 And, for the stone upon his head. 
 May no rude hand deface it, 
 And its forlorn |§tc jattt! 
 
 iSoo. 1800. 
 
 ANDREW JONES. 
 
 I HATE that Andrew Jones; he '11 breed 
 His children up to waste and pillage. 
 I wish the press-gang or the drum 
 With its tantara sound would come, 
 And sweep him from the village ! 
 
 I said not this, because he loves 
 Through the long day to swear and tipple ; 
 But for the poor dear sake of one 
 To whom a foul deed he had done, 
 A friendless man, a travelling cripple ! 
 
 For this poor crawling helpless wretch, 
 Some horseman who was passing by, 
 A penny on the ground had thrown; 
 But the poor cripple was alone 
 And could not stoop — no help was nigh. 
 
 Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground. 
 For it had long been droughty weather; 
 So with his staff the cripple wrought 
 Among the dust till he had brought 
 The half-pennies together. 
 
 It chanced that Andrew passed that way 
 Just at the time; and there he found 
 The cripple in the mid-day heat 
 Standing alone, and at his feet 
 He saw the penny on the ground. 
 
 He stopped and took the penny up : 
 And when the cripple nearer drew. 
 Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown, 
 What a man finds is all his own. 
 And so, my Friend, good-day to you." 
 
 And hence I said, that Andrew's boys 
 Will all be trained to waste and pillage; 
 And wished the press-gang, or the drum 
 With its tantara sound, would come 
 And sweep him from the village. 
 
 1800. iSoo. 
 
 THE TWO THIEVES; 
 
 OR, THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE. 
 
 This is described from the life, as I was in thi 
 habit of observing when a boy at Hawksheat 
 School. Daniel was more than eighty yean 
 older than myself when he was daily, thus occu 
 pied, under my notice. No book could have s( 
 early taught me to think of the changes to whicl 
 human life is subject ; and while looking at hin 
 I could not but say to myself — we may, one 0: 
 us, I or the happiest of my playmates, hve t( 
 become still more the object of pity than this ok 
 man, this half-doating pilferer ! 
 
 O NOW that the genius of Bewick were 
 
 mine. 
 And the skill which he learned on the 
 
 banks of the Tyne. 
 Then the Muses might deal with me just 
 
 as they chose. 
 For I 'd take my last leave both of verse 
 
 and of prose. 
 
 What feats would I work with my magi- 
 cal hand ! 
 
 Book-learning and books should be ban- 
 ished the land : 
 
 And, for hunger and thirst and such 
 troublesome calls, 
 
 Every ale-house should then have a feast 
 on its walls. 
 
 The traveller would hang his wet clothes 
 
 on a chair; 
 Let them smoke, let them burn, not a 
 
 straw would he care ! 
 For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream 
 
 and his sheaves, 
 Oh, what would they be to my tale of 
 
 two Thieves? 
 
 The One, yet unbreeched, is not three 
 
 birthdays old. 
 His Grandsire that age more than thirty 
 
 times told; 
 There are ninety good seasons of fair 
 
 and foul weather 
 Between them, and both go a-pilfering 
 
 together. 
 
A CHARACTER. 
 
 Wilh chips is the carpenter strewing his 
 
 floor ? 
 Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's 
 
 door? 
 Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will 
 
 slide ! 
 And his Grandson's as busy at work by 
 
 his side. 
 
 Old Daniel begins; he stops short — and 
 his eye, 
 
 Through the lost look of dotage, is cun- 
 ning and sly : 
 
 'T is a look which at this time is hardly 
 his own, 
 
 But tells a plain tale of the days that 
 are flown. 
 
 He once had a heart which was moved 
 
 by the wires 
 Of manifold pleasures and many desires: 
 And what if he cherished his purse? 
 
 'T was no more 
 Than treading a path trod by thousands 
 
 before. 
 
 'T was a path trod by thousands; but 
 
 Daniel is one 
 Who went something farther than others 
 
 have gone, 
 And now with old Daniel you see how it 
 
 fares; 
 You see to what end he has brought his 
 
 gray hairs. 
 
 The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere 
 
 the sun 
 Has peered o'er the beeches, their work 
 
 is begun : 
 And yet, into whatever sin they may fall. 
 This child but half knows it, and that, 
 
 not at all. 
 
 They hunt through the streets with delib- 
 erate tread, 
 
 And each, in his turn, becomes leader or 
 led; 
 
 And, wherever they carry their plots and 
 their wiles. 
 
 Every face in the village is dimpled with 
 smiles. 
 
 Neither checked by the rich nor the 
 needy they roam; 
 
 For the gray-headed Sire has a daughter 
 at home. 
 
 Who will gladly repair all the damage 
 that 's done; 
 
 And three, were it asked, would be ren- 
 dered for one. 
 
 Old Man ! whom so oft I with pity have 
 
 eyed, 
 I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at 
 
 thy side : 
 Long yet may'st thou live ! for a teacher 
 
 we see 
 That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. 
 iSoo. 1800. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 The principal features are taken from that of 
 my friend Robert Jones. 
 
 I MARVEL how Nature could ever find 
 
 space 
 For so many strange contrasts in one 
 
 human face: 
 There 's thought and no thought, and 
 
 there 's paleness and bloom 
 And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure 
 
 and gloom. 
 
 There 's weakness, and strength both re- 
 dundant and vain; 
 
 Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain 
 
 Could pierce through a temper that 's soft 
 to disease. 
 
 Would be rational peace — a philoso- 
 pher's ease. 
 
 There 's indifference, alike when he fails 
 
 or succeeds, 
 And attention full ten times as much as 
 
 there needs; 
 Pride where there 's no envy, there 's so 
 
 much of joy; 
 And mildness, and spirit both forward 
 
 and coy. 
 
 There 's freedom, and sometimes a diffi 
 
 dent stare 
 Of shame scarcely seeming to know that 
 
 she 's there, 
 
l82 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 There 's virtue, the title it surely may 
 
 claim, 
 Yet wants heaven knows what to be 
 
 worthy the name. 
 
 This picture from nature may seem to 
 
 depart, 
 Yet the Man would at once run away 
 
 with your heart; 
 And I for five centuries right gladly 
 
 would be 
 Such an odd, such a kind happy creature 
 
 as he. 
 1800. 1800, 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS 
 
 FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE 
 STOOD ON- ST. HERBERT'S ISLAND, 
 DBRWENTWATER. 
 
 If thou in the dear love of some one 
 
 Friend 
 Hast been so happy that thou know'st 
 
 what thoughts 
 Will sometimes in the happiness of love 
 Make the heart sink, then wilt thou rever- 
 ence 
 This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not un- 
 moved 
 Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of 
 
 stones. 
 The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell. 
 Here stood his threshold; here was 
 
 spread the roof 
 That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man, 
 After long exercise in social cares 
 And offices humane, intent to adore 
 The Deity, with undistracted mind. 
 And meditate on everlasting things. 
 In utter solitude. — But he had left 
 A Fellow-laborer, whom the good Man 
 
 loved 
 As his own soul. And, when with eye 
 
 upraised 
 To heaven he knelt before the crucifix. 
 While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore 
 Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced 
 Along the beach of this small isle and 
 
 thought 
 Of his Companion, he would pray that 
 both 
 
 (Now that their earthly duties were ful- 
 filled) 
 Might die in the same moment. Nor in 
 
 vain 
 So prayed he : — as our chronicles report, 
 Though here the Hermit numbered his 
 
 last day 
 Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend, 
 Those holy Men both died in the same 
 hour. 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE 
 IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (aN OUT- 
 HOUSE), ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE. 
 
 Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen 
 Buildings, albeit rude, that have main- 
 tained 
 Proportions more harmonious, and ap- 
 proached 
 To closer fellowship with ideal grace. 
 But take it in good part : — alas ! the poor 
 Vitruvius of our village had no help 
 From the great City; never, upon leaves 
 Of red Morocco folio, saw displayed, 
 In long succession, pre-existing ghosts 
 Of Beauties yet unborn — the rustic Lodge 
 Antique, and Cottage with veranda 
 
 graced. 
 Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove. 
 Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined 
 
 hermitage. 
 Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these 
 
 walls 
 The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and 
 
 here 
 The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from 
 
 the wind. 
 And hither does one Poet sometimes row 
 His pinnace, a, small vagrant barge, up- 
 piled 
 With plenteous store of heath and with- 
 ered fern, 
 (A lading which he with his sickle cuts. 
 Among the mountains) and beneath this 
 
 roof 
 He makes his summer couch, and here at 
 
 noon 
 Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, 
 
 the Sheep, 
 Panting beneath the burthen of their wool. 
 Lie round him, even as if they were a part 
 
THE SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 183 
 
 Of his own Household : nor, while from 
 
 his bed 
 He looks, through the open door-place, 
 
 toward the lake 
 
 And to the stirring breezes, does he want 
 
 Creations lovely as the work of sleep — 
 
 Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy ! 
 
 1800. iSoo. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A 
 STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP 
 LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, 
 UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL. 
 
 Stranger ! this hillock of mis-shapen 
 
 stones 
 Is not a Ruin spared or made by time. 
 Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, 
 
 the Cairn 
 Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing 
 
 more 
 Than the rude embryo of a little Dome 
 Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be 
 
 built 
 Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. 
 But, as it chanced. Sir William having 
 
 learned 
 That from the shore a full-grown man 
 
 might wade, 
 And make himself a freeman of this spot 
 At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight 
 Desisted, and the quarry and the mound 
 Are monuments of his unfinished task. 
 The block on which these lines are traced, 
 
 perhaps. 
 Was once selected as the corner-stone 
 Of that intended Pile, which would have 
 
 been 
 Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate 
 
 skill. 
 So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush. 
 Arid other little builders who dwell here. 
 Had wondered at the work. But blame 
 
 him not. 
 For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, 
 Bred in this vale, to which he apper- 
 tained 
 With all his ancestry. Then peace to 
 
 him. 
 And for the outrage which he had devised 
 Entire forgiveness ! — But if thou art 
 
 one 
 On fire with thy impatience to become 
 
 An inmate of these mountains, — if, dis- 
 turbed 
 By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn 
 Out of the quiet rock the elements 
 Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to 
 
 blaze 
 In snow-white splendor, — think again; 
 
 and, taught 
 By old Sir William and his quarry, leave 
 Thy fragments to the bramble and the 
 
 rose; 
 There let the vernal slow-worm sun him- 
 self, 
 And let the redbreast hop from stone to 
 stone. 
 1800. 1800. 
 
 THE SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 Written in tlie Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. 
 At the end of the garden of my father's house at 
 Cockermouth was a high terrace that commanded 
 a fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermouth 
 Castle. This was our favorite play-ground. The 
 terrace-wall, a low one, was covered with closely- 
 clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost 
 imper\'ious shelter to birds that built their nests 
 there. The latter of these stanzas alludes to one 
 of those names. 
 
 Behold, within the leafy shade, 
 Those bright blue eggs together laid ! 
 On me the chance-discovered sight 
 Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
 I started — seeming to espy 
 The home and sheltered bed. 
 The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
 JWy Father's house, in wet or dry 
 My sister Emmeline and I 
 Together visited. 
 
 She looked at it and seemed to fear it; 
 Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it : 
 Such heart was in her, being then 
 A little Prattler among men. 
 The Blessing of my later years 
 Was with me when a boy : 
 She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; 
 And humble cares, and deUcate fears; 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; 
 
 And love, and thought, and joy. 
 iSoi. 1807. 
 
'PELION AND OSSA FLOURISH SIDE BY SIDE.' 
 
 "PELION AND OSSA FLOURISH 
 SIDE BY SIDE." 
 
 Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, 
 Together in immortal books enrolled : 
 His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold; 
 And that inspiring Hill, which " did 
 
 divide 
 Into two ample horns his forehead wide," 
 Shines with poetic radiance as of old; 
 While not an English Mountain we behold 
 By the celestial Muses glorified. 
 Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in 
 
 crowds : 
 What was the great Parnassus' self to 
 
 Thee, 
 Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sover- 
 eignty 
 Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds 
 His double front among Atlantic clouds. 
 And pours forth streams more sweet than 
 Castaly. 
 iSoi. 1815. 
 
 THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 
 
 FROM CHAUCER. 
 
 " Call up him who left half told 
 The story of Cambuscan bold." 
 
 In the following Poem no further deviation 
 from the original has been made than was neces- 
 sary for the fluent reading and instant under- 
 standing of the Author : so much, however, is the 
 language altered since Chaucer's time, especially 
 in pronunciation, that much was to be removed, 
 and its place supplied with as little incongruity 
 as possible. The ancient accent has been retained 
 in a few conjunctions, as atsb and alwcl-y, from a 
 conviction that such sprinklings of antiquity 
 would be admitted, by persons of taste, to have 
 a graceful accordance with the subject. The 
 fierce bigotry of the Prioress forms a fine back- 
 ground for her tender-hearted sympathies with 
 the Mother and Child ; and the mode in which 
 the story is told amply atones for the extravagance 
 of the miracle. 
 
 I. 
 "O Lord, our Lord! how wondrously," 
 
 (quoth she) 
 " Thy name in this large world is spread 
 
 abroad ! 
 For not alone by men of dignity 
 Thy worship is performed and precious 
 
 laud; 
 
 But by the mouths of children, graciou 
 
 God! 
 Thy goodness is set forth ; they when the' 
 
 he 
 Upon the bieast thy name do glorify. 
 
 "Wherefore in praise, the worthiest tha 
 
 I may, 
 Jesu ! of thee, and the white Lily-fiowei 
 Which did thee bear, and is a Maid foi 
 
 aye. 
 To tell a story I will use my power; 
 Not that I may increase her honor's 
 
 dower. 
 For she herself is honor, and the root 
 Of goodness, next her Son, our soul's 
 
 best boot. 
 
 " O Mother Maid ! O Maid and Mother 
 
 free ! 
 O bush unburnt ! burning in Moses' sight ! 
 That down didst ravish from the Deity, 
 Through humbleness, the spirit that did 
 
 alight 
 Upon thy heart, whence, through that 
 
 glory's might. 
 Conceived was the Father's sapience, 
 Help me to tell it in thy reverence ! 
 
 "Lady! thy goodness, thy magnificence. 
 Thy virtue, and thy great humility. 
 Surpass all science and all utterance; 
 For sometimes. Lady ! ere men pray to 
 
 thee 
 Thou goest before in thy benignity. 
 The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer, 
 To be our guide unto thy Son so dear. 
 
 " My knowledge is so weak, O blissful 
 
 Queen ! 
 To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness, 
 That I the weight of it may not sustain; 
 But as a child of twelvemonths old or less, 
 That laboreth his language to express. 
 Even so fare I ; and therefore, I thee pray. 
 Guide thou my song which I of thee shall 
 
 say. 
 
THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 
 
 185 
 
 "There was in Asia, in a mighty town, 
 'Mong Christfcn folk, a street where Jews 
 
 might be, 
 Assigned to them and given them for their 
 
 own 
 By a great Lord, for gain and usury. 
 Hateful to Christ and to his company; 
 And through this street who list might 
 
 ride and wend; 
 Free was it, and unbarred at either end. 
 
 VII. 
 " A little school of Christian people stood 
 Down at the farther end, in which there 
 
 were 
 A nest of children come of Christian blood. 
 That learned in that school from year to 
 
 year 
 Such sort of doctrine as men used there, 
 That is to say, to sing and read also. 
 As little children in their childhood do. 
 
 "Among these children was a Widow's 
 
 son, 
 A little scholar, scarcely seven years old. 
 Who day by day unto this school hath gone. 
 And eke, when he the image did behold 
 Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told. 
 This Child was wont to kneel adown and 
 
 say 
 Ave Maria, as he goeth by the way. 
 
 "This Widow thus her little Son hath 
 
 taught 
 Our blissful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear, 
 To, worship aye, and he forgat it not; 
 For simple infant hath a ready ear. 
 Sweetis the holiness of youth: and hence, 
 Calling to mind this matter when I may, 
 Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth 
 
 aye, 
 For he so young to Christ did reverence. 
 
 " This little Child, while in the school he 
 
 sate 
 His Primer conning with an earnest cheer. 
 The whilst the rest their anthem-book 
 
 repeat 
 The Alma Redemptoris did he hear; 
 
 And as he durst he drew him near and 
 
 near. 
 And hearkened to the words and to the 
 
 note, 
 Till the first verse he learned it all by rote. 
 
 ' ' This Latin knew he nothing what it said. 
 For he too tender was of age to know; 
 But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed 
 That he the meaning of this song would 
 
 show, 
 And unto him declare why men sing so; 
 This oftentimes, that he might be at ease, 
 This child did him beseech on his bare 
 
 knees. 
 
 " His Schoolfellow, who elder was than 
 
 he, 
 Answered him thus : — ' This song, I have 
 
 heard say, 
 Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free; 
 Pier to salute, and also her to pray 
 To be our help upon our dying day : 
 If there is more in this, I know it not; 
 Song do I learn, — small grammar I have 
 
 got.' 
 
 " ' And is this song fashioned in reverence 
 Of Jesu's Mother?' said this Innocent; 
 * Now, certes, I will use my diligence 
 To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent; 
 Although I for my Primer shall be shent, 
 And shall be beaten three times in an hour. 
 Our Lady I will praise with all my power.' 
 
 " His Schoolfellow, whom he had so 
 
 besought. 
 As they went homeward taught him privily 
 And then he sang it well and fearlessly, 
 From word to word according to the note : 
 Twice in a day it passed through his 
 
 throat ; 
 Homeward and schoolward whensoe'er 
 
 he went. 
 On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent. 
 
 " Through all the Jewry (this before said J 
 This little Child, as he came to and fro, 
 
i86 
 
 THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 
 
 Full merrily then would he sing and cry, 
 O Alma Redemptoris ! high and low : 
 The sweetness of Christ's Mother piercM 
 
 ■ so 
 His heart, that her to praise, to her to 
 
 pray, 
 He cannot stop his singing by the way. 
 
 " The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that 
 
 hath 
 His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled 
 
 — ' O woe, 
 O Hebrew people ! ' said he in his wrath, 
 ' Is it an honest thing? Shall this be so? 
 That such a Boy where'er he lists shall go 
 In your despite, and sing his hymns and 
 
 saws. 
 Which is against the reverence of our 
 
 laws ! ' 
 
 " From that day forward have the Jews 
 
 conspired 
 Out of the world this Innocent to chase; 
 And to this end a Homicide they hired, 
 That in an alley had a privy place, 
 And, as the Child 'gan to the school to 
 
 pace. 
 This cruel Jew him seized, and held him 
 
 fast 
 And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 "I say that him into a pit they threw, 
 A loathsome pit, whence noisofne scents 
 
 exhale; 
 O cursed folk ! away, ye Herods new ! 
 What may your ill intentions you avail ? 
 Murder will out; certes it will not fail; 
 Know, that the honor of high God may 
 
 spread. 
 The blood cries out on your accursed deed. 
 
 "O Martyr 'stablished in virginity! 
 Now may'st thou sing for aye before the 
 
 throne , 
 Following the Lamb celestial , ' ' quoth she, 
 " Of which the great Evangelist, Saint 
 
 John, 
 In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that 
 
 go 
 
 Before the Lamb singing continually. 
 That never fleshly woman they did know 
 
 "Now this poor widow waiteth all tha 
 
 night 
 After her little Child, and he came not; 
 For which, by earliest ghmpse of morn 
 
 ing light. 
 With face all pale with dread and bus] 
 
 thought. 
 She at the School and elsewhere him hatl 
 
 sought 
 Until thus far she learned, that he hac 
 
 been 
 In the Jews' street, and there he last wa; 
 
 seen. 
 
 "With Mother's pity in her breast en- 
 closed 
 
 She goeth, as she were half out of hei 
 mind. 
 
 To every place wherein she hath supposec 
 
 By likelihood her little Son to find; 
 
 And ever on Christ's Mother meek anc 
 kind 
 
 She cried, till to the Jewry she wa< 
 brought. 
 
 And him among the accursed Jews she 
 sought. 
 
 " She asketh, and she piteously doth pray 
 To every Jew that dwelleth in. that place 
 To tell her if her child had passed thai 
 
 way; 
 They all said — Nay; but Jesu of his 
 
 grace 
 Gave to her thought, that in a little space 
 She for her Son in that same spot did cry 
 Where he was cast into a pit hard by. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " O thou great God that dost perform thy 
 
 laud 
 By mouths of Innocents, lo ! here thy 
 
 might; 
 This gem of chastity, this emerald, 
 And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright, 
 There, where with mangled throat he laj 
 
 upright. 
 
THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 
 
 187 
 
 The Alma Redeiiiptoris 'gan to sing, 
 So loud, that with his voice the place did 
 ring. 
 
 XXTV. 
 
 " The Christian folk that through the 
 
 Jewry went 
 Come to the spot in wonder at the thing; 
 And hastily they for the Provost sent; 
 Immediately he came, not tarrying, 
 And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly 
 
 King, 
 And eke his Mother, honor of Mankind: 
 Which done he bade that they the Jews 
 
 should bind. 
 
 XXV. 
 "This Child with piteous lamentation 
 
 then 
 Was taken up, singing his song alway; 
 And with procession great and pomp of 
 
 men 
 To the next Abbey him they bare away; 
 His Mother swooning by the body lay : 
 And scarcely could the people that were 
 
 near 
 Remove this second Rachel from the bier. 
 
 XXVI. 
 " Torment and shameful death to every 
 
 one 
 This Provost doth for those bad Jews 
 
 prepare 
 That of this murder wist, and that anon : 
 Such wickedness his judgments cannot 
 
 spare; 
 Who will do evil, evil shall he bear; 
 Them therefore with wild horses did he 
 
 draw. 
 And after that he hung them by the law. 
 
 XXVII. 
 "Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie 
 Before the altar while the Mass doth last : 
 The Abbot with his convent's company 
 Then sped themselves to bury him full 
 
 fast; 
 And, when they holy water on him cast. 
 Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was 
 
 the water. 
 And sang, O Alma Redemptoris Mater ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 "This Abbot, for he was a holy man. 
 As all Monks are, or surely ought to be. 
 In supplication to the Child began 
 Thus saying, ' O dear Child ! I summon 
 
 thee 
 In virtue of the holy Trinity 
 Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this 
 
 hymn 
 Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth 
 
 seem.' 
 
 XXIX. 
 " ' My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,' 
 Said this young Child, ' and by the law of 
 
 kind 
 I should have died, yea many hours ago; 
 But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find. 
 Will that his glory last, and be in mind; 
 And, for the worship of his Mother dear, 
 Yet may I sing O Alma ! loud and clear. 
 
 XXX. 
 "'This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother 
 
 sweet. 
 After my knowledge I have loved alwky; 
 And in the hour when I my death did meet 
 To me she came, and thus to me did say, 
 "Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay," 
 As ye have heard ; and soon as I had sung 
 Methought she laid a grain upon my 
 
 tongue. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " ' Wherefore I sing, nor can from song 
 refrain. 
 
 In honor of that blissful Maiden free, 
 
 Till from my tongue off -taken is the grain; 
 
 And after that thus said she unto me; 
 
 ' My little Child, then will I come for thee 
 
 Soon as the grain from off thy tongue 
 they take : 
 
 Be not dismayed, I will not thee for- 
 sake !" ' 
 
 XXXII. 
 "This holy Monk, this Abbot — him 
 
 mean I, 
 Touched then his tongue, and took away 
 
 the grain; 
 And he gave up the ghost full peacefully; 
 And, when the Abbot had this wonder 
 
 seen, 
 
THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 His salt tears trickled down like showers 
 
 of rain; 
 And on his face he dropped upon the 
 
 ground, 
 And still he lay as if he had been bound. 
 
 xxxni. 
 " Eke the whole Convent on the pave- 
 ment lay, 
 Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear; 
 And after that they rose, and took their 
 
 way. 
 And lifted up this Martyr from the bier. 
 And in a tomb of precious marble clear 
 Enclosed his uncorrupted body sweet. — 
 Where'er he be, God grant us him to 
 meet ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 "Young Hew of Lincoln! in like sort 
 
 laid low 
 By cursed Jews — thing well and widely 
 
 known. 
 For it was done a little while ago — 
 Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry 
 Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying 
 
 eye. 
 In mercy would his mercy multiply 
 On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary ! ' ' 
 Dec. 5, 1801. 1820. 
 
 THE CUCKOO AND THE 
 NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 FROM CHAUCKR. 
 
 The God of Love — ah^ benedicite! 
 How mighty and how great a Lord is he ! 
 For he of low hearts can make high, of 
 
 high 
 He can make low, and unto death bring 
 
 nigh; 
 And hard hearts he can make them kind 
 
 and free. 
 
 Within a Httle time, as hath been found. 
 He can make sick folk whole and fresh 
 
 and sound : 
 Them who are whole in body and in mind. 
 
 He can make sick, — bind can he and un 
 
 bind 
 All that he will have bound, or have 
 
 unbound. 
 
 in. 
 To tell his might my wit may not suffice ; 
 Foolish men he can make them out oi 
 
 wise; — 
 For he may do all that he will devise; 
 Loose livers he can make abate their vice. 
 And proud hearts can make tremble in a 
 
 trice. 
 
 In brief, the whole of what he will, he 
 
 may; 
 Against him dare not any wight say nay; 
 To humble or afflict whome'er he will. 
 To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill; 
 But most his might he sheds on the eve of 
 
 May. 
 
 For every true heart, gentle heart and 
 
 free. 
 That with him is, or thinketh so to be, 
 Now against May shall have some stirring 
 
 — whether 
 To joy, or be it to some mourning; never 
 At other time, methinks, in like degree. 
 
 For now when they may hear the small 
 birds' song. 
 
 And see the budding leaves the branches 
 throng. 
 
 This unto their remembrance doth bring 
 
 All kinds of pleasure mixed with sor- 
 rowing ; 
 
 And longing of sweet thoughts that ever 
 long. 
 
 And of that longing heaviness doth come, 
 
 Whence oft great sickness grows of heart 
 and home : 
 
 Sick are they all for lack of their desire; 
 
 And thus in May their hearts are set on 
 fire, 
 
 So that they burn forth in great martyr- 
 dom. 
 
THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 i«9 
 
 In sooth, I speak from feeling, what 
 
 though now 
 Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow; 
 Yet have I felt of sickness through the 
 
 May, 
 Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every 
 
 day, — 
 How hard, alas ! to bear, I only know. 
 
 Such shaking doth the fever in me keep 
 Through all this May that I have little 
 
 sleep; 
 And also 't is not likely unto me, 
 That any living heart should sleepy be 
 In which Love's dart its fiery point doth 
 
 steep. 
 
 But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, 
 I of a token thought which Lovers heed; 
 How among them it was a common tale, 
 That it was good to hear the Nightingale, 
 Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be uttered. 
 
 And then I thought anon as it was day, 
 I gladly would go somewhere to essay 
 If I perchance a Nightingale might hear, 
 For yet had I heard none, of all that year. 
 And it was then the third night of the May. 
 
 And soon as I a glimpse of day espied. 
 No longer would I in my bed abide, ■ 
 But straightway to a wood that was hard 
 
 by, 
 
 Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, 
 And held the pathway down by a brook- 
 side; 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Till to a lawn I came all white and green, 
 
 I in so fair a one had never been. 
 
 The ground was green, with daisy pow- 
 dered over; 
 
 Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty 
 cover, 
 
 All green and white; and nothing else 
 was seen. 
 
 There sate I down among the fair fre «h 
 
 flowers. 
 And saw the birds come tripping from 
 
 their bowers, 
 Where they had rested them all night; 
 
 and they. 
 Who were so joyful at the light of day, 
 Began to honor May with all their powers. 
 
 Well did they know that service all by 
 rote, 
 
 And there was many and many a lovely 
 note. 
 
 Some, singing loud, as if they had com- 
 plained; 
 
 Some with their notes another manner 
 feigned; 
 
 And some did sing all out with the full 
 throat. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 They pruned themselves, and made them- 
 selves right gay. 
 Dancing and leaping light upon the spray; 
 And ever two and two together were. 
 The same as they had chosen for the year. 
 Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. 
 
 Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate 
 
 upon. 
 Was making such a noise as it ran on 
 Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony; 
 Methought that it was the best melody 
 Which ever to man's ear a passage won. 
 
 XVIII. 
 And for delight, but how I never wot, 
 I in a slumber and a swoon was caught. 
 Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly; 
 And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, 
 Broke silence, or I heard him in my 
 thought. 
 
 And that was right upon a tree fast by. 
 And who was then ill satisfied but I? 
 Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the 
 
 rood. 
 From thee and thy base throat, keep all 
 
 that 's good. 
 Full little joy have I now of thy cry. 
 
1 90 
 
 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan 
 
 chide, 
 In the next bush that was me fast beside, 
 I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, 
 That her clear voice made a loud rioting, 
 Echoing thorough all the greenwood wide. 
 
 Ah ! good sweet Nightingale ! for my 
 
 heart's cheer, 
 Hence hast thou stayed a little while too 
 
 long; 
 For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here. 
 And she hath been before thee with her 
 
 song; 
 Evil light on her ! she hath done me 
 
 wrong. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But hear you now a wondrous thing, I 
 pray; 
 
 As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, 
 
 Methought I wist right well what these 
 birds meant. 
 
 And had good knowing both of their in- 
 tent. 
 
 And of their speech, and all that they 
 would say. 
 
 The Nightingale thus in my hearing 
 
 spake: ■ — • 
 Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or 
 
 brake, 
 And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell 
 
 here; 
 For every wight eschews thy song to hear. 
 Such uncouth singing verily dost thou 
 
 make. 
 
 XXIV. 
 What ! quoth she then, what is 't that 
 
 ails thee now? 
 It seems to me I sing as well as thou; 
 For mine 's a song that is both true and 
 
 plain, ■ — 
 Although I cannot quaver so in vain 
 As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. 
 
 All men may understanding have of me. 
 But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; 
 
 For thou hast many a foolish and quai 
 
 cry : — 
 Thou say'st OsEE, OsEE, then how maj 
 Have knowledge, I thee pray, what th 
 
 may be ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Ah, fool ! quoth she, wist thou not wh 
 
 it is? 
 Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis, 
 Then mean I, that I should be wondroi 
 
 fain 
 That shamefully they one and all wei 
 
 slain, 
 Whoever against Love mean aught amis 
 
 XXVII. 
 And also would I that they all were deac 
 Who do not think in love their life I 
 
 lead; 
 For who is loth the God of Love to obe] 
 Is only fit to die, I dare well say. 
 And for that cause Osee I cry; take heed 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint la« 
 That all must love or die; but I withdraw 
 And take my leave of all such compaii) 
 For mine intent it neither is to die, 
 Nor ever while I live Love's yoke t 
 
 draw. 
 
 XXIX. 
 For lovers of all folk that be alive, 
 The most disquiet have and least d' 
 
 thrive; 
 Most feeling have of sorrow woe and care 
 And the least welfare cometh to thai 
 
 share ; 
 What need is there against the truth ti 
 
 strive ? 
 
 XXX. 
 What ! quoth she, thou art all out of th; 
 
 mind. 
 That in thy churlishness a cause canst fin( 
 To speak of Love's true Servants in thi 
 
 mood; 
 For in this world no service is so good 
 To every wight that gentle is of kind. 
 
 XXXI. 
 For thereof comes all goodness and al 
 
 worth; 
 All gentilesse and honor thence comi 
 
 forth; 
 
THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 191 
 
 Thence worship comes, content and true 
 
 heart's pleasure, 
 And full-assured trust, joy without 
 
 measure. 
 And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth; 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, 
 And seemliness, and faithful company. 
 And dread of shame that will not do amiss; 
 For he that faithfully Love's servant is. 
 Rather than be disgraced, would choose 
 to die. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 And that the very truth it is which I 
 Now say — in such belief I '11 live and die ; 
 And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. 
 Then, quoth she, let me never hope for 
 
 bliss, 
 If with that counsel I do e'er comply. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Good Nightingale ! thou speakest won- 
 drous fair. 
 
 Yet for all that, the truth is found else- 
 where; 
 
 For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis : 
 
 And Love in old folk a great dotage is; 
 
 Who most it useth, him 't will most impair. 
 
 XXXV. 
 For thereof come all contraries to glad- 
 ness ! 
 Thence sickness comes, and overwhelm- 
 ing sadness. 
 Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, 
 Dishonor, shame, envy importunate, 
 Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and mad- 
 ness. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 Loving is aye an office of despair. 
 And one thing is therein which is not fair; 
 For whoso gets of love a little bliss. 
 Unless it alway stay with him, I wis 
 He may full soon go with an old man's 
 hair. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 And, therefore, Nightingale ! do thou 
 
 keep nigh, 
 For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint 
 
 cry, 
 
 If long time from thy mate thou be, or far. 
 Thou 'It be as others that forsaken are; 
 Then shalt thou raise a clamor as do I. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill be- 
 
 seen ! 
 The God of Love afflict thee with all teen. 
 For thou art worse than mad a thousand 
 
 fold; 
 For many a one hath virtues manifold. 
 Who had been nought, if Love had never 
 
 been. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 For evermore his servants Love amendeth, 
 And he from every blemish them de- 
 
 fendeth; 
 And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, 
 In loyalty, and worshipful desire. 
 And, when it likes him, joy enough them 
 
 sendeth. 
 
 Thou Nightingale ! the Cuckoo said, be 
 
 still. 
 For Love no reason hath but his own 
 
 will; — 
 For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy; 
 True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, 
 He lets them perish through that grievous 
 
 ill. 
 
 With such a master would I never be; ' 
 For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see. 
 And knows not when he hurts and when 
 
 he heals; 
 Within this court full seldom Truth avails, 
 So diverse in his wilfulness is he. 
 
 XLII. 
 Then of the Nightingale did I take note. 
 How from her inmost heart a sigh she 
 
 brought. 
 And said, Alas! that ever I was born. 
 Not one word have I now, I am so for- 
 lorn, — 
 And with that word, she into tears burst 
 out. 
 
 1 From a manuscript in the Bodleian, as are 
 also stanzas 44 and 45, which are necessary to 
 complete the sense. 
 
192 
 
 THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 XLIII. 
 Alas, alas ! my very heart will break, 
 Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus 
 
 speak 
 Of Love, and of his holy services; 
 Now, God of Love; thou help me in some 
 
 wise. 
 That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may 
 
 wreak. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 And so methought I started up anon, 
 And to the brook I ran and got a stone. 
 Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast. 
 And he for dread did fly away full fast ; 
 And glad, in sooth, was I when he was 
 gone. 
 
 And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye. 
 Kept crying " Farewell ! — farewell. Pop- 
 injay ! " 
 As if in scornful mockery of me; 
 And on I hunted him from tree to tree, 
 Till he was far, all out of sight, away. 
 
 XLVI. 
 Then straightway came the Nightingale to 
 
 me, 
 And said. Forsooth, my friend, do I thank 
 
 thee. 
 That thou wert near to rescue me; and 
 
 now, 
 Unto the God of Love I make a vow, 
 That all this May I will thy songstress be. 
 
 XLVII. 
 Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, 
 By this mishap no longer be dismayed, 
 Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou 
 
 heard' St me; 
 Yet if I live it shall amended be. 
 When next May comes, if I am not afraid. 
 
 XLVIU. 
 
 And one thing will I counsel thee also. 
 The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's 
 
 saw; 
 All that she said is an outrageous lie. 
 Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, 
 
 quoth I, 
 For Love, and it hath done me mighty 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Yea, hath it? use, quoth she, this medi 
 
 cine; 
 This May-time, every day before thou 
 
 dine, 
 Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I, 
 Although for pain thpu may'st be like to 
 
 die. 
 Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop 
 
 and pine. 
 
 L. 
 
 And mind always that thou be good and 
 
 true. 
 And I will sing one song, of many new. 
 For love of thee, as loud as I may cry; 
 And then did she begin this song full high, 
 " Beshrew all them that are in love un- 
 true." 
 
 And soon as she had sung it to the end. 
 Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence 
 
 must wend; 
 And, God of Love, that can right well 
 
 and may. 
 Send unto thee as mickle joy this day, 
 As ever he to Lover yet did send. 
 
 Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of 
 
 me; 
 I pray to God with her always to be, 
 And joy of love to send her evermore; 
 And shield us from the Cuckoo and her 
 
 lore. 
 For there is not so false a bird as she. 
 
 Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightin- 
 gale, 
 
 To all the Birds that lodged within that 
 dale, 
 
 And gathered each and all into one place; 
 
 And them besought to hear her doleful 
 case, 
 
 And thus it was that she began her tale. 
 
 LIV. 
 The Cuckoo — 'tis not well that I should 
 
 hide 
 How she and I did each the other chide, 
 
TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 
 
 t93 
 
 Lnd without ceasing, since it was day- 
 light; 
 ind now I pray you all to do me right 
 )f that false Bird whom Love cannot 
 abide. 
 
 "hen spake one Bird, and full assent all 
 
 gave; 
 "his matter asketh counsel good as grave, 
 'or birds we are — all here together 
 
 brought ; 
 ind, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is 
 
 not; 
 Lnd therefore we a Parliament will have. 
 
 LVI. 
 Lnd thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, 
 Lnd other Peers whose names are on 
 
 record ; 
 L summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, 
 Lnd judgment there be given; or that 
 
 intent 
 failiag, we finally shall make accord. 
 
 Lnd all this shall be done, without a nay, 
 'he morrow after Saint Valentine's day, 
 Jnder a maple that is well beseen, 
 iefore the chamber-window of the Queen, 
 Lt Woodstock, on the meadow green and 
 gay- 
 
 LVIII. 
 Ihe thanked them; and then her leave 
 
 she took, 
 Lnd flew into a hawthorn by that brook; 
 Lnd there she sate and sung — upon that 
 
 tree — 
 ' For term of life Love shall have hold 
 
 of me " — 
 loudly, that I with that song awoke. 
 
 fnlearned Book and rude, as well I know, 
 or beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, 
 i'ho did on thee the hardiness bestow 
 o appear before my Lady? but a sense 
 hou surely hast of her benevolence, 
 /hereof her hourly bearing proof doth 
 
 give; 
 or of all good she is the best alive. 
 
 Alas, poor Book ! for thy unworthiness. 
 
 To show to her some pleasant meanings 
 writ 
 
 In winning words, since through her gen- 
 tiles. 
 
 Thee she accepts as for her service fit ! 
 
 Oh ! it repents me I have neither wit 
 
 Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give; 
 
 For of all good she is the best alive. 
 
 Beseech her meekly with all lowliness. 
 Though I be far from her I reverence, 
 To think upon my truth and steadfastness. 
 And to abridge my sorrow's violence. 
 Caused by the wish, as knows your sa- 
 pience, 
 She of her liking proof to me would give; 
 For of all good she is the best alive. 
 
 l'envoy. 
 Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness ! 
 Luna by night, with heavenly influence 
 Illumined ! root of beauty and goodnesse. 
 Write, and allay, by your beneficence. 
 My sighs breathed forth in silence, — 
 
 comfort give ! 
 Since of all good, you are the best alive. 
 
 EXPLICIT. 
 Dec. 8, 1801. 1842. 
 
 TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 
 
 FROM CHAUCER. 
 
 Next morning Troilus began to clear 
 His eyes from sleep, at the first break of 
 
 day. 
 And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear. 
 For love of God, full piteously did say, 
 We must the Palace see of Cresida; 
 For since we yet may have no other feast. 
 Let us behold her Palace at the least ! 
 
 And therewithal to cover his intent 
 A cause he found into the Town to go, 
 And they right forth to Cresid's Palace 
 
 went; 
 But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe. 
 Him thought his sorrowful heart would 
 
 break in two; 
 For when he saw her doors fast bolted all. 
 Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall. 
 
194 
 
 TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 
 
 Therewith when this true Lover 'gan be- 
 hold, 
 
 How shut was every window of the place, 
 
 Like frost he thought his heart was icy 
 cold; 
 
 For which, with changed, pale, and 
 deadly face, 
 
 Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to 
 pace; 
 
 And on his purpose bent so fast to ride. 
 
 That no wight his continuance espied. 
 
 Then said he thus, — O Palace desolate ! 
 O house of houses, once so richly dight ! 
 O Palace empty and disconsolate ! 
 Thou lamp of which extinguished is the 
 
 light; 
 O Palace whilom day that now art night, 
 Thou ought'st to fall and I to die; since 
 
 she 
 Is gone who held us both in sovereignty. 
 
 O, of all houses once the crowned boast ! 
 Palace illumined with the sun of bliss; 
 O ring of which the ruby now is lost, 
 O cause of woe, that cause has been of 
 
 bliss : 
 Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss 
 Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this 
 
 rout; 
 Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint 
 
 is out. 
 
 Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, 
 With changed face, and piteous to be- 
 hold; 
 And when he might his time aright espy. 
 Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told 
 Both his new sorrow and his joys of old. 
 So piteously, and with so dead a hue. 
 That every wight might on his sorrow rue. 
 
 Forth from the spot he rideth up and 
 
 down, 
 And everything to his rememberance 
 Came as he rode by places of the town 
 Where he had felt such perfect pleasure 
 
 once. 
 Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance, 
 And in that Temple she with her bright 
 
 eyes. 
 My Lady dear, first bound me captive- 
 wise. 
 
 And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I 
 Heard my own Cresid's laugh; and once 
 
 at play 
 I yonder saw her eke full blissfully; 
 And yonder once she unto me 'gan say — 
 Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I 
 
 pray ! 
 And there so graciously did me behold. 
 That hers unto the death my heart I hold. 
 
 And at the corner of that self-same house 
 Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, 
 So womanly, with voice melodious 
 Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear. 
 That in my soul methinks I yet do hear 
 The blissful sound ; and in that very place 
 My Lady first me took unto her grace. 
 
 O blissful God of Love ! then thus he 
 
 cried. 
 When I the process have in memory, 
 How thou hast wearied me on every side, 
 Men thence a book might make, a his- 
 tory; 
 What need to seek a conquest over me. 
 Since I am wholly at thy will ? what joy 
 Hast thou thy own liege subjects to 
 destroy ? 
 
 Dread Lord ! so fearful when provoked, 
 
 thine ire 
 Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain 
 
 and grief. 
 Now mercy. Lord I thou know'st well I 
 
 desire 
 Thy grace above all pleasures first and 
 
 chief; 
 And live and die I will in thy belief; 
 For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, 
 That Cresida again thou send me soon. 
 
 Constrain her heart as quickly to return, 
 As thou dost mine with longing her to see, 
 Then know I well that she would not so- 
 journ. 
 Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be 
 Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, 
 As Juno was unto the Theban blood,' 
 From whence to Thebes came griefs in 
 multitude. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 
 
 195 
 
 And after this he to the gate did go, 
 Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she 
 
 was; 
 And up and down there went, and to and 
 
 fro. 
 And to himself full oft he said, alas ! 
 From hence my hope, and solace forth 
 
 did pass. 
 
 would the blissful God now for his joy, 
 
 1 might her see again coming to Troy ! 
 
 And up to yonder hill was I her guide ; 
 Alas, and there I took of her my leave; 
 Yonder I saw her to her Father ride. 
 For very grief of which my heart shall 
 
 cleave ; — 
 And hither home I came when it was eve ; 
 And here I dwell an outcast from all joy. 
 And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy. 
 
 And of himself did he imagine oft, 
 That he was blighted, pale, and waxen 
 
 less 
 Than he was wont; and that in whispers 
 
 soft 
 Men said, what may it be, can no one 
 
 guess 
 Why Troilus hath all this heaviness? 
 All which he of himself conceited wholly 
 Out of his weakness and his melancholy. 
 
 Another time he took into his head. 
 That every wight, who in the way passed 
 
 by. 
 Had of him ruth, and fancied that they 
 
 said, 
 I am right sorry Troilus will die : 
 And thus a day or two drove wearily; 
 As ye have heard; such life 'gan he to 
 
 lead 
 As one that standeth betwixt hope and 
 
 dread. 
 
 For which it pleased him in his songs to 
 
 show 
 The occasion of his woe, as best he might ; 
 And made a fitting song, of words but few. 
 Somewhat his woeful heart to make more 
 
 light; 
 And when he was removed from all men's 
 
 sight. 
 
 With a soft night voice, he of his Lady 
 
 dear, 
 That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear. 
 
 star, of which I lost have all the light. 
 With a sore heart well ought I to be- 
 wail. 
 
 That ever dark in torment, night by night, 
 Toward my death with wind I steer and 
 
 sail; 
 For which upon the tenth night if thou 
 
 fail 
 With thy bright beams to guide me but 
 
 one hour. 
 My ship and me Charybdis will devour. 
 
 As soon as he this song had thus sung 
 
 through. 
 He fell again into his sorrows old; 
 And every night, as was his wont to do, 
 Troilus stood the bright moon to be- 
 hold; 
 And all his trouble to the moon he told. 
 And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd 
 anew, 
 
 1 shall be glad if all the world be true. 
 
 Thy horns were old as now upon that 
 
 morrow. 
 When hence did journey my bright Lady 
 
 dear. 
 That cause is of my torment and my 
 
 sorrow; 
 For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and 
 
 clear; 
 For love of God, run fast above thy 
 
 sphere; 
 For when thy horns begin once more to 
 
 spring. 
 Then shall she come, that with her bliss 
 
 may bring. 
 
 The day is more, and longer every night 
 Than they were wont to be — for he 
 
 thought so; 
 And that the sun did take his course not 
 
 right. 
 By longer way than he was wont to go; 
 Arid said, I am in constant dread I trow, 
 That Phaeton his son is yet alive. 
 His too fond father's car amiss to drive. 
 
igS 
 
 THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 
 
 Upon the walls fast also would he walk, 
 To the end that he the Grecian host might 
 
 see; 
 And ever thus he to himself would talk : — 
 Lo ! yonder is my own bright Lady free; 
 Or yonder is it that the tents must be; 
 And thence does come this air which is so 
 
 sweet, 
 That in my soul I feel the joy of it. 
 
 And certainly this wind, that more and 
 
 more 
 By moments thus increaseth in my face, 
 Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore; 
 I prove it thus; for in no other space 
 Of all this town, save only in this place. 
 Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain; 
 It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain? 
 
 A weary while in pain he tosseth thus. 
 Till fully past and gone was the ninth 
 
 night; 
 And ever at his side stood Pandarus, 
 Who busily made use of all his might 
 To comfort him, and make his heart more 
 
 light; 
 Giving him always hope, that she the 
 
 morrow 
 Of the tenth day will come, and end his 
 
 sorrow. 
 iSoi. 1842. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I met this 
 woman near the Wisbing-gate, on the high-road 
 that then led from Grasmere to Ambleside. Her 
 appearance was exactly as here described, and 
 such was her account, nearly to the letter. 
 
 One morning (raw it was and wet — 
 
 A foggy day in winter time) 
 
 A Woman on the road I met, 
 
 Not old, though something past her 
 
 prime : 
 Majestic in her person, tall and straight; 
 And like a Roman matron's was her mien 
 and gait. 
 
 The ancient spirit is not dead; 
 
 Old times, thought I, are breathing 
 
 there; 
 Proud was I that my country bred 
 
 I Such strength, a dignity so fair: 
 
 I She begged an alms, like one in poor 
 
 estate; 
 I looked at her again, nor did my pride 
 
 abate. 
 
 When from these lofty thoughts I woke, 
 "What is it," said I, "that you bear. 
 Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 
 Protected from this cold damp air?" 
 She answered, soon as she the question 
 heard, 
 " A simple burthen. Sir, a little Singing- 
 bird." 
 
 And, thus continuing, she said, 
 " I had a Son, who many a day 
 Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; 
 In Denmark he was cast away : 
 And I have travelled weary miles to see 
 If aught which he had owned might still 
 remain for me. 
 
 ' ' The bird and cage they both were his: 
 'T was my Son's bird ; and neat and trim 
 He kept it : many voyages 
 The singing-bird had gone with him; 
 When last he sailed, he left the bird 
 
 behind; 
 From bodings, as might be, that hung 
 
 upon his mind. 
 
 " He to a fellow-lodger's care 
 Had left it, to be watched and fed. 
 And pipe its song in safety; — there 
 I found it when my Son was dead; 
 And now, God help me for my little wit ! 
 I bear it with me. Sir; — he took so much 
 delight in it." 
 March, 1802. 180?. 
 
 ALICE FELL; 
 
 OR, POVERTY. 
 Written to gratify Mr. Graham of Glasgow, 
 brother of the Author of "The Sabbath." He 
 was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a 
 man of ardent humanity. The incident had hap- 
 pened to himself, and he urged me to put it into 
 verse, for humanity's sake. The humbleness, 
 meanness if you like, of the subject, together 
 with the homely mode of treating it, brought 
 
ALICE FELL— BEGGARS. 
 
 197 
 
 upon me a world of ridicule by the small critics, 
 so that in policy 1 excluded it from many editions 
 of my Poems, till it was restored at the request 
 of some of my fnends, in particular my son-in- 
 law, Edwaid QuiUinan. 
 
 The post-boy drove with fierce career, 
 For threatening clouds the moon had 
 
 drowned; 
 When, as we hurried on, my ear 
 Was smitten with a startling sound. 
 
 As if the wind blew many ways, 
 I heard the sound, — and more and more, 
 It seemed to follow with the chaise. 
 And still I heard it as before. 
 
 At length I to the boy called out; 
 He stopped his horses at the word. 
 But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout. 
 Nor aught else like it, could be heard. 
 
 The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
 The horses scampered through the rain; 
 But, hearing soon upon the blast 
 The cry, I bade him halt again. 
 
 Forthwith alighting on the ground, 
 "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous 
 
 moan? " 
 And there a little Girl I found. 
 Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 
 
 "My cloak ! " no other word she spake, 
 But loud and bitterly she wept. 
 As if her innocent heart would break; 
 And down from off her seat she leapt. 
 
 "What ails you, child?" — she sobbed 
 
 "Look here!" 
 I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
 A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
 From any garden scare-crow dangled. 
 
 There, twisted between nave and spoke. 
 It hung, nor could at once be freed; 
 But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, 
 A miserable rag indeed ! 
 
 "And whither are you going, child, 
 To-night along these lonesome ways? " 
 "To Durham," answeredshe, half wild — 
 "Then come with me into the chaise." 
 
 Insensible to all relief 
 Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 
 Sob after sob, as if her grief 
 Could never, never have an end. 
 
 " My child, in Durham do you dwell? " 
 She checked herself in her distress. 
 And said, " My name is Alice Fell; 
 I 'm fatherless and motherless. 
 
 "And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 
 Again, as if the thought would choke 
 Her very heart, her grief grew strong; 
 And all was for her tattered cloak ! 
 
 The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 
 Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, 
 As if she had lost her only friend 
 She wept, nor would be pacified. 
 
 Up to the tavern-door we post; 
 Of Alice and her grief I told; 
 And I gave money to the host. 
 To buy a new cloak for the old. 
 
 " And let it be of duffil gray. 
 As warm a cloak as man can sell ! " 
 Proud creature was she the next day. 
 The little orphan, Alice Fell ! 
 
 March, 1802. 
 
 1807. 
 
 BEGGARS. 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Met, and 
 described to me by my Sister, near the quarry at 
 the head of Rydal lake, a place still a chosen 
 resort of vagrants travelling with their families. 
 
 She had a tall man's height or more; 
 Her face from summer's noontide heat 
 No bonnet shaded, but she wore 
 A mantle, to her very feet 
 Descending with a graceful flow. 
 And on her head a cap as white as new- 
 fallen snow. 
 
 Her skin was of Egyptian brown : 
 Haughty, as if her eye had seen 
 Its own light to a distance thrown. 
 She towered, fit person for a Queen 
 To lead those ancient Amazonian files; 
 Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Gre- 
 cian isles. 
 
TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Advancing, forth she stretched her hand 
 And begged an alms with doleful plea 
 That ceased not; on our English land 
 Such woes, I knew, could never be; 
 And yet a boon I gave her, for the crea- 
 ture 
 Was beautiful to see — ■ a weed of glorious 
 feature. 
 
 I left her, and pursued my way; 
 And soon before me did espy 
 A pair of little Boys at play, 
 Chasing a crimson butterfly; 
 The taller followed with his hat in hand, 
 "Wreathed round with yellow flowers the 
 gayest of the land. 
 
 The other wore a rimless crown 
 With leaves of laurel stuck about; 
 And, while both followed up and down. 
 Each whooping with a merry shout. 
 In their fraternal features I could trace 
 Unquestionable lines of that 'wild Sup- 
 pliant's face. 
 
 Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit 
 
 For finest tasks of earth or air : 
 
 Wings let them have, and they might flit 
 
 Precursors to Aurora's car. 
 
 Scattering fresh flowers; though happier 
 
 far, I ween. 
 To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock 
 
 and level green. 
 
 They dart across my path — but lo, 
 Each ready with a plaintive whine ! 
 Said I, " not half an hour ago 
 Your Mother has had alms of mine." 
 "That cannot be," one answered — 
 
 "she is dead: " - — 
 I looked reproof — they saw — but neither 
 
 hung his head. 
 
 ' ' She has been dead, Sir, many a day. ' ' — 
 " Hush, boys ! you 're telling me a lie; 
 It was your Mother, as I say ! " 
 And, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 " Come! Come! " cried one, and with- 
 out more ado, 
 Off to some other play the joyous Va- 
 grants flew ! 
 IMarch, 1802. 1807. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Written in the orchard. Town-end, Grasmere. 
 My sister and I were parted immediately after 
 the death of our mother, who died in 1778, both 
 being very young. 
 
 Stay near me — do not take thy flight ! 
 
 A little longer stay in sight I 
 
 Much converse do I find in thee, 
 
 Historian of my infancy ! 
 
 Float near me ; do not yet depart ! 
 
 Dead times revive in thee : 
 
 Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art ! 
 
 A solemn image to my heart. 
 
 My father's family ! 
 
 Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 
 The time, when, in our childish plays. 
 My sister Emmeline and I 
 Together chased the butterfly ! 
 A very hunter did I rush 
 Upon the prey : — with leaps and springs 
 I followed on from brake to bush; 
 But she, God love her, feared to brush 
 The dust from off its wings. 
 
 March, 1802. 1807. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 
 
 Suggested by what I have noticed in more than 
 one French fugitive during the time of the French 
 Revolution. If I am not mistaken, the lines 
 were composed at Sockburn, when I was on a 
 visit to Mrs. Wordsworth and her brother. 
 
 Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned 
 In which a Lady driven from France did 
 
 dwell; 
 The big and lesser griefs with which she 
 
 mourned. 
 In friendship she to me would often tell.' 
 This Lady, dwelling upon British ground, 
 Where she was childless, daily would re- 
 pair 
 
 To a poor neighboring cottage; as I 
 
 found. 
 For sake of a young Child whose home 
 
 was there. i 
 
 Once having seen her clasp with fond 
 
 embrace 
 This Child, I chanted to myself a lay. 
 
THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 
 
 199 
 
 Endeavoring, in our English tongue, to 
 trace 
 
 Such things as she unto the Babe might 
 say: 
 
 And thus, from what I heard and knew, 
 or guessed, 
 
 My song the workings of her heart ex- 
 pressed. 
 
 " Dear Babe, thou daughter of another. 
 One moment let me be thy mother ! 
 An infant's face and looks are thine. 
 And sure a mother's heart is mine : 
 Thy own dear mother's far away. 
 At labor in the harvest field ; 
 Thy little sister is at play; — 
 What warmth, what comfort would it 
 
 yield 
 To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be 
 One little hour a child to me ! 
 
 " Across the waters I am come, 
 
 And I have left a babe at home : 
 
 A long, long way of land and sea ! 
 
 Come to me — I 'm no enemy: 
 
 I am the same who at thy side 
 
 Sate yesterday, and made a nest 
 
 For thee, sweet Baby ! — thou hast tried. 
 
 Thou know'st the pillow of my breast; 
 
 Good, good art thou : — alas ! to me 
 
 Far more than I can be to thee. 
 
 "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie; 
 
 An infant thou, a mother I ! 
 
 Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; 
 
 Mine art thou — spite of these my tears. 
 
 Alas ! before I left the spot. 
 
 My baby and its dwelling-place; 
 
 The nurse said to me, ' Tears should not 
 
 Be shed upon an infant's face, 
 
 It was unlucky' — no, no, no; 
 
 No truth is in them who say so ! 
 
 " My own dear Little-one will sigh, 
 Sweet Babe ! and they will let him die. 
 ' He pines,' they '11 say, ' it is his doom, 
 And you may. see his hour is come.' 
 Oh ! had he but thy cheerful smiles. 
 Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay. 
 
 Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles. 
 And countenance like a summer's day. 
 They would have hopes of him; — and 
 
 then 
 I should behold his face again ! 
 
 " 'T is gone — like dreams that we forget ; 
 
 There was a smile or two — yet — yet 
 
 I can remember them, I see 
 
 The smiles, worth all the world to me. 
 
 Dear Baby ! I must lay thee down; 
 
 Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 
 
 Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own; 
 
 I cannot keep thee in my arms; 
 
 For they confound me ; — where — where 
 
 is 
 That last, that sweetest smile of his? 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Oh ! how I love thee ! — we will stay 
 Together here this one half day. 
 My sister's child, who bears my name. 
 From France to sheltering England came ; 
 She with her mother crossed the sea; 
 The babe and mother near me dwell : 
 Yet does my yearning heart to thee 
 Turn rather, though I love her well : 
 Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here ! 
 Never was any child more dear ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 " — I cannot help it; ill intent 
 I 've none, my pretty Innocent ! 
 I weep — I know they do thee wrong. 
 These tears — and my poor idle tongue. 
 Oh, what a kiss was that ! my cheek 
 How cold it is ! but thou art good; 
 Thine eyes are on me — they would speak, 
 I think, to help me if they could. 
 Blessings upon that soft, warm face. 
 My heart again is in its place ! 
 
 " While thou art mine, my little Love, 
 This cannot be a sorrowful grove; 
 Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, 
 I seem to find them ail in thee : 
 Here 's grass to play with , here are flowers ; 
 I 'U call thee by my darling's name; 
 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours. 
 
'MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD.' 
 
 Thy features seem to me the same ; 
 His little sister thou shall be; 
 And, when once more my home I see, 
 I '11 tell him many tales of Thee.^' 
 March, 1802. 1807. 
 
 "MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I 
 BEHOLD." 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky: 
 So was it when my life began; 
 So is it now I am a man; 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The Child is father of the Man; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 March 26, 1802. 1807. 
 
 "AMONG ALL LOVELY THINGS 
 MY LOVE HAD BEEN." 
 
 Among all lorely things my Love had 
 
 been; 
 Had noted well the stars, all flowers that 
 
 grew 
 About her home; but she had never seen 
 A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew. 
 
 While riding near her home one stormy 
 
 night 
 A single glow-worm did I chance to espy; 
 I gave a fervent welcome to the sight, 
 And from my horse I leapt; great joy 
 
 hadL 
 
 Upon a leaf the glow-worm did I lay, 
 To bear it with me through the stormy 
 
 night : 
 And, as before, it shone without dismay; 
 Albeit putting forth a fainter light. 
 When to the dwelling of my Love I came, 
 I went into the orchard quietly; 
 And left the glow-worm, blessing it by 
 
 name. 
 Laid safely by itself, beneath a tree. 
 
 The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped 
 
 with {ear; 
 At night the glow-worm shone beneatli 
 
 the tree; 
 lied my Lucy to the spot, "Look here,'- 
 Oh ! joy it was for her, and joy for me ! 
 April 12, 1802. 1807. 
 
 WRITTEN IN MARCH, 
 
 WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT 
 THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER. 
 
 Extempore. This little poem was a favorite 
 with Joanna Baillie. 
 
 The Cock is crowing, ^ 
 
 The stream is flowing. 
 
 The small birds twitter, 
 
 The lake doth glitter. 
 The green field sleeps in the sun; 
 
 The oldest and youngest 
 
 Are at work with the strongest; 
 
 The cattle are grazing. 
 
 Their heads never raising; 
 There are forty feeding like one ! 
 
 Like an army defeated 
 
 The snow hath retreated. 
 
 And now doth fare ill 
 
 On the top of the bare hill; 
 The ploughboy is whooping — anon — 
 anon: 
 
 There 's joy in the mountains; 
 
 There 's life in the fountains; 
 
 Small clouds are sailing, 
 
 Blue sky prevailing; 
 The rain is over and gone ! 
 
 1802. 
 
 1807. 
 
 THE REDBREAST CHASING THE 
 BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Observed, as described, in the then beautiful 
 orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. 
 
 Art thou the bird whom Man loves best. 
 The pious bird with the scarlet breast, 
 
 Our little English robin; 
 The bird that comes about our doors 
 When Autumn winds are sobbing? 
 Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors? 
 
 Their Thomas in Finland, 
 
 And Russia far inland? 
 
TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Ihe bird, that by some name or other 
 
 All men who know thee call their brother, 
 
 The darling of children and men? 
 
 Could Father Adam i open his eyes 
 
 And see this sight beneath the skies, 
 
 He 'd wish to close them again. 
 
 — If the Butterfly knew but his friend, 
 
 Hither his flight he would bend; 
 
 And find his way to me, 
 
 Under the branches of the tree : 
 
 In and out, he darts about; 
 
 Can this be the bird, to man so good, 
 
 That, after their bewildering. 
 
 Covered with leaves the little children, 
 
 So painfully in the wood? 
 What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st 
 pursue 
 
 A beautiful creature, 
 That is gentle by nature ? 
 Beneath the summer sky 
 From flower to flower let him fly; 
 T is all that- he wishes to do. 
 The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 
 He is the friend of our summer gladness: 
 What hinders, then, that ye should be 
 Playmates in the sunny weather, 
 And fly about in the air together ! 
 His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 
 A crimson as bright as thine own : 
 Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, 
 pious Bird ! whom man loves best. 
 Love him, or leave him alone ! 
 April iS, 1802. 1807. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Written in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. 
 
 I 'VE watched you now a full half-hour, 
 Self-poised upon that yellow flower; 
 And, little Butterfly ! indeed 
 [ know not if you sleep or feed. 
 How motionless ! — not frozen seas 
 More motionless ! and then 
 What joy awaits you, when the breeze 
 Bath found you out among the trees. 
 And calls you forth again ! 
 
 ^ See Paradise Losi, Book XI., where Adain 
 loints out to Eve the ominous sign of tlie Eagle 
 basing " two birds of gayest plume,*' <-ind tlie 
 :eiitle Hart and Hind pursued by tlieir enemy. 
 
 This plot of orchard-ground is ours; 
 My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; 
 Here rest your wings when they are 
 
 weary; 
 Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 
 Come often to us, fear no wrong; 
 Sit near us on the bough ! 
 We '11 talk of sunshine and of song, 
 And summer days, when we were young; 
 Sweet childish days, that were as long 
 As twenty days are now. 
 April 20, 1802. 1807. 
 
 FORESIGHT. 
 
 Also composed in the orchard, Town-end, 
 Grasmere, 
 
 That is work of waste and ruin — 
 Do as Charles and I are doing ! 
 Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, 
 We must spare them — here are many; 
 Look at it — the flower is small, 
 Small and low, though fair as any : 
 Do not touch it ! summers two 
 I am older, Anne, than you. 
 
 Pull the primrose, sister Anne ! 
 
 Pull as many as you can. 
 
 — Here are daisies, take your fill; 
 
 Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower: 
 
 Of the lofty daffodil 
 
 Make your bed, or make your bower; 
 
 Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; 
 
 Only spare the strawberry-blossom ! 
 
 Primroses, the Spring may love them — ■ 
 Summer knows but little of them: 
 Violets, a barren kind, 
 Withered on the ground must lie; 
 Daisies leave no fruit behind 
 When the pretty flowerets die; 
 Pluck them, and another year 
 As many will be blowing here. 
 
 God has given a kindlier power 
 To the favored strawberry-flower. 
 Hither soon as spring is fled 
 You and Charles and I will walk; 
 Lurking berries, ripe and red, 
 Then will hang on every stalk, 
 Each within its leafy bower; 
 And for that promise spare the flower ! 
 April 28, 1803. 1807. 
 
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE, i 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. It is re- 
 markable that this flower, coming out so early in 
 the spring as it does, and so bright and beautiful, 
 and in such profusion, should not have been 
 noticed earlier in English verse. What adds 
 much to the interest that attends it is its habit of 
 shutting itself up and opening out according to 
 the degree of light and temperature of the air. 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
 Let them live upon their praises; 
 Long as there 's a sun that sets, 
 Primroses will have their glory; 
 Long as there are violets, 
 They will have a place in story : 
 There 's a flower that shall be mine, 
 'T is the little Celandine. 
 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 For the finding of a star; 
 Up and down the heavens they go. 
 Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
 I 'm as great as they, I trow. 
 Since the day I found thee out. 
 Little Flower ! — I '11 make a stir. 
 Like a sage astronomer. 
 
 Modest, yet withal an Elf 
 Bold, and lavish of thyself; 
 Since we needs must first have met 
 I have seen thee, high and low. 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 'T was a face I did not know; 
 Thou hast now, go where I may. 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 Ere a leaf is on a bush. 
 In the time before the thrush 
 . Has a thought about her nest, 
 Thou wilt come with half a call. 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 Like a careless Prodigal; 
 Telling tales about the sun, 
 When we 've little warmth, or none. 
 
 Poets, vain men in their mood ! 
 Travel with the multitude : 
 Never heed them; I aver 
 That they all are wanton wooers; 
 
 ' Common Pilewort. 
 
 But the thrifty cottager. 
 Who stirs little out of doors, 
 Joys to spy thee near her home; 
 Spring is coming. Thou art come ! 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
 Careless of thy neighborhood, 
 Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
 On the moor, and in the wood, 
 In the lane; — there 's not a place, 
 Howsoever mean it be, 
 But 't is good enough for thee. 
 
 Ill befall the yellow flowers, 
 Children of the flaring hours ! 
 Buttercups, that will be seen. 
 Whether we will see or no; 
 Others, too, of lofty mien; 
 They have done as worldings do, 
 Taken praise that should be thine. 
 Little, humble Celandine ! 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth. 
 Ill-requited upon earth; 
 Herald of a mighty band. 
 Of a joyous train ensuing, 
 Serving at my heart's command. 
 Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
 I will sing, as doth behove, 
 Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
 April 30, 1802. 1807 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 Pleasures newly found are sweet 
 
 When they lie about our feet : 
 
 February last, my heart 
 
 First at sight of thee was glad; 
 
 All unheard of as thou art. 
 
 Thou must needs, I think, have had. 
 
 Celandine ! and long ago. 
 
 Praise of which I nothing know. 
 
 I have not a doubt but he. 
 Whosoe'er the man might be. 
 Who the first with pointed rays 
 (Workman worthy to be sainted) 
 Set the sign-board in a blaze, 
 When the rising sun he painted, 
 Took the fancy from a glance 
 At thy glittering countenance. 
 
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 203 
 
 Soon as gentle breezes bring 
 
 News of winter's vanishing, 
 
 And the children build their bowers, 
 
 Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 
 
 All about with full-blown flowers. 
 
 Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold ! 
 
 With the proudest thou art there. 
 
 Mantling in the tiny square. 
 
 \ 
 
 Often have I sighed to measure 
 
 % myself a lonely pleasure. 
 
 Sighed to think, 1 read a book 
 
 Ofaly read, perhaps, by me; 
 
 Yet I long could overlook 
 
 Th^: bright coronet and Thee, 
 
 And ithy arch and wily ways. 
 
 And khy store of other praise. 
 
 Blithtj of heart, from week to week 
 Thou Idost play at hide-and-seek; 
 While\the patient primrose sits 
 Like a'iieggar in the cold. 
 Thou, a) fiower of wiser wits, 
 Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold; 
 Liveliest \pf the vernal train 
 When yeVll are out again. 
 
 Drawn by wVhat peculiar spell. 
 By what chai\ni of sight or smell, 
 Does the dim-iyjed curious Bee, 
 Laboring for her\ waxen cells. 
 Fondly settle upoia Thee 
 Prized above all buc^s and bells 
 Opening daily at thy ^ade, 
 By the season multiplietd ? 
 
 Thou art not beyond the ml^n. 
 But a thing "beneath our sho^n: " 
 Let the bold Discoverer thrid \ 
 In his bark the polar sea; \ 
 
 Rear who will a pyramid; \ 
 
 Praise it is enough for me. 
 If there be but three or four 
 Who will love my little Flower. 
 May I, 1802. 1807. 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDE- 
 PENDENCE. 
 
 Written at Town-end Grasmere. This old 
 man I met a few hundred yards from my cottage ; 
 and the account of him is taken from his own 
 mouth. I was in the state of feeling described in 
 
 the beginning of the poem, while crossing over 
 Barton Fell from Mr. Clarkson's, at the foot of 
 Ullswater, towards Askham. The image of the 
 hare 1 then observed on the ridge of the Fell. 
 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night ; 
 The rain came heavily and fell in floods; 
 But now the sun is rising calm and bright; 
 The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 
 Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove 
 
 broods ; 
 The Jay makes answer as the Magpie 
 
 chatters; 
 And all the air is filled with pleasant 
 
 noise of waters. 
 
 All things that love the sun are out of 
 
 doors; 
 The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; 
 The grass is bright with rain-drops; — on 
 
 the moors 
 The hare is running races in her mirth; 
 And with her feet she from the plashy 
 
 earth 
 Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun. 
 Runs with her all the way, wherever she 
 
 doth run. 
 
 I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 
 I saw the hare that raced about with joy; 
 I heard the woods and distant waters 
 
 roar; 
 Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 
 The pleasant season did my heart employ : 
 My old remembrances went from me 
 
 wholly; 
 And all the ways of men, so vain and 
 
 melancholy. 
 
 Bhfi, as it sometimes chanceth, from the 
 
 might 
 Of ^joy in minds that can no further go. 
 As hj'gh as we have mounted in delight 
 In oui*- dejection do we sink as low; 
 To me ti^at morning did it happen so; 
 And feai's and fancies thick upon me 
 
 cariiSe; 
 Dim sadnf^ss — and blind thoughts, I 
 
 knewt not, nor could name. 
 
204 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; 
 And I bethought me of the playful hare : 
 Even such a happy Child of earth am I ; 
 Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 
 Far from the world I walk, and from all 
 
 care; 
 But there may come another day to me — 
 Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and 
 
 poverty. 
 
 My whole life I have lived in pleasant 
 thought. 
 
 As if life's business were a summer mood; 
 
 As if all needful things would come un- 
 sought 
 
 To genial faith, still rich in genial good; 
 
 But how can He expect that others should 
 
 Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 
 
 Love him, who for himself will take no 
 heed at all? 
 
 I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous 
 Boy, 
 
 The sleepless Soul that perished in his 
 pride ; 
 
 Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 
 
 Following his plough, along the mountain- 
 side: 
 
 By our own spirits are we deified : 
 
 We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; 
 
 But thereof come in the end despondency 
 and madness. 
 
 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
 A leading from above, a something given, 
 Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place. 
 When I with these untoward thoughts 
 
 had striven. 
 Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
 I saw a Man before me unawares : ■**' 
 The oldest man he seemed that ever v 
 
 gray hairs. 
 
 As a huge stone is sometimes st_ .„ ];_ 
 Couched on the bald top of ^n^ • 
 Wonder to all who do the sar" ' 
 
 By what means it could thithe .„jJl ' j 
 whence; ' 
 
 So that it seems a thing endued with 
 
 sense : 
 Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a 
 
 shelf 
 Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun 
 
 itself; 
 
 Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor 
 
 dead. 
 
 Nor all asleep — in his extreme old agi 
 His body was bent double, feet and he; 
 Coming together in life's pilgrimage; 
 
 As if some dire constraint of pain, or rr 
 
 ge 
 
 Of sickness felt by him in times long d ° 
 A more than human weight upon his f ' ' 
 
 had cast. 
 
 Himself he propped, limbs, bod , 
 
 pale face, '' 
 
 Upon a long gray staff of shaven , . 
 
 And, still as I drew near wit ^ 
 
 1 gentle 
 pace, '' 
 
 Upon the margin of that moor., a , 
 
 Motionless as a cloud the old ^ , 
 
 That heareth not the loud '• , , ' 
 ., ,, winds when 
 
 they call 
 
 And moveth all together, if-, . „ 
 
 ^ 'it move at all. 
 
 At length, himself UP i.i- u .u j 
 
 Sf d th h' ,, -settling, he the pond 
 TT ., J J -if, and fixedly did look 
 
 Upon the muddv' / i,- ul j 
 
 .'^■r, , J , /water, whichhe conned. 
 As if he had b"-^ j- ■ ^ i 
 
 . J , jen readme m a book : 
 
 li fu- p/^°S '° '^'s S'<i^' '° ''™ t^'d say, 
 '^ .horning gives us promise of a 
 ''glorious day." 
 
 A gentle answer did the old Man make. 
 In courteous speech which forth he slowly 
 
 drew: 
 And him with further words I thus be- 
 spake, 
 " What occupation do you there pursue? 
 This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
 Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid 
 eyes. 
 
'I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE.' 
 
 205 
 
 His words came feebly, from a feeble 
 
 chest, 
 But each in solemn order followed each, 
 With something of a lofty utterance 
 
 drest — 
 Choice word and measured phrase, above 
 
 the reach 
 Of ordinary men; a stately speech; 
 Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, 
 Religious men,'who give to God and man 
 
 their dues. 
 
 XV. 
 He told, that to these waters he had come 
 To gather leeches, being old and poor: 
 Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 
 And he had many hardships to endure : 
 From pond to pond he roamed, from 
 
 moor to moor; 
 Housing, with God's good help, by 
 
 choice or chance, 
 And in this way he gained an honest 
 
 maintenance. 
 
 The old Man still stood talking by my 
 
 side; 
 But now his voice to me was like a stream 
 Scarce heard; nor word from word could 
 
 I divide; 
 And the whole body of thelVIan did seem 
 Like one whom I had met with in a 
 
 dream; 
 Or like a man from some far region sent. 
 To give me human strength, by apt ad- 
 monishment. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 My former thoughts returned : the fear 
 that kills; 
 
 And hope that is unwilling to be fed; 
 
 Cold, pain, and labor, and all fleshly ills; 
 
 And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
 
 — Perplexed, and longing to be com- 
 forted, 
 
 My question eagerly did I renew, 
 
 " How is it that you live, and what is it 
 you do ? " 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 He with a smile did then his words re- 
 peat; 
 
 And said, that, gathering leeches, far and 
 wide 
 
 He travelled; stirring thus about his feet 
 The waters of the pools where they abide. 
 " Once I could meet with them on every 
 
 side; 
 But they have dwindled long by slow 
 
 decay; 
 Yet still I persevere, and find them where 
 
 I may." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 While he was talking thus, the lonely 
 place. 
 
 The old Man's shape, and speech — all 
 troubled me : 
 
 In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
 
 About the weary moors continually. 
 
 Wandering about alone and silently. 
 
 While I these thoughts within myself 
 pursued. 
 
 He, having made a pause, the same dis- 
 course renewed. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And soon with this he other matter 
 
 blended, 
 Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind, 
 But stately in the main; and when he 
 
 ended, 
 I could have laughed myself to scorn to 
 
 find 
 In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
 "God," said I, "be my help and stay 
 
 secure; 
 I '11 think of the Leech-gatherer on the 
 
 lonely moor ! " 
 May 7, 1802. 1807. 
 
 " I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE." 
 
 I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain 
 And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest 
 
 mood 
 Of that Man's mind — what can it be? 
 
 what food 
 Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge could 
 
 he gain ? 
 'T is not in battles that from youth we 
 
 train 
 The Governor who must be wise and good. 
 And temper with the sternness of the brain 
 Thoughts motherly, and meek as woman- 
 hood. 
 
2o6 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Wisdom doth live with children round her 
 
 knees: 
 Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the 
 
 talk 
 Man holds with week-day man in the 
 
 hourly walk 
 Of the mind's business: these are the 
 
 degrees 
 By which true Sway doth mount; this is 
 
 the stalk 
 True Power doth grow on; and her rights 
 
 are these. 
 May 21, 1802. 1807. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Composed just before my sister and I went to 
 fetch Mrs. Wordsworth from Gallow-hill, near 
 Scarborough. 
 
 Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain- 
 ground, 
 
 Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 
 
 Of that magnificent temple which doth 
 bound 
 
 One side of our whole vale with grandeur 
 rare; 
 
 Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair. 
 
 The loveliest spot that man hath ever 
 found. 
 
 Farewell! — we leave thee to Heaven's 
 peaceful care, 
 
 Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost 
 surround. 
 
 Our boat is safely anchored by the shore. 
 
 And there will safely ride when we are 
 gone; 
 
 The flowering shrubs that deck our hum- 
 ble door 
 
 Will prosper, though untended and alone : 
 
 Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have 
 none: 
 
 These narrow bounds contain our private 
 store 
 
 Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine 
 upon; 
 
 Here are they in our sight — we have no 
 more. 
 
 Sunshine and shower be with you, bud 
 
 and bell ! 
 For two months now in vain we shall be 
 
 sought : 
 
 We leave you here in solitude to dwell 
 With these our latest gifts of tender 
 
 thought; 
 Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron 
 
 coat, 
 Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, fare» 
 
 well ! 
 Whom from the borders of the Lake we 
 
 brought. 
 And placed together near our rocky Well. 
 
 We go for One to whom ye will be dear; 
 
 And she will prize this Bower, this Indian 
 shed. 
 
 Our own contrivance, Building without 
 peer ! 
 
 — A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly 
 bred. 
 
 Whose pleasures are in wild fields gath- 
 ered. 
 
 With joyousness, and with a thoughtful 
 cheer. 
 
 Will come to you; to you herself will wed; 
 
 And love the blessed life that we lead 
 here. 
 
 Dear Spot ! which we have watched with 
 
 tender heed. 
 Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms 
 
 blown 
 Among the distant mountains, flower and 
 
 weed. 
 Which thou hast taken to thee as thy 
 
 own. 
 Making all kindness registered and 
 
 known; 
 Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child 
 
 indeed. 
 Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, 
 Hast taken gifts which thou dost little 
 
 need. 
 
 And O most constant, yet most fickle 
 
 Place, 
 Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou 
 
 dost show 
 To them who look not daily on thy face; 
 Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost 
 
 know. 
 And say'st, when we forsake thee, "Let 
 
 them go ! " 
 
COMPOSED AT THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS. 
 
 207 
 
 rhou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild 
 
 race 
 Of weeds and flowers, till we return be 
 
 slow. 
 And travel with the year at a soft pace. 
 
 Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by. 
 And this sweet spring, the best beloved 
 
 and best ; 
 Joy will be flown in its mortality; 
 Something must stay to tell us of the rest. 
 Here, thronged with primroses, the steep 
 
 rock's breast 
 Glittered at evening like a starry sky; 
 And in this bush our sparrow built her 
 
 nest. 
 Of which I sang one song that will not die. 
 
 happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep 
 Hath been so friendly to industrious 
 
 hours ; 
 And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep 
 Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of 
 
 flowers. 
 And wild notes warbled among leafy 
 
 bowers; 
 Two burning months let summer overleap. 
 And, coming back with Her who will be 
 
 ours, 
 Into thy bosom we again shall creep. 
 May 29, 1802. 1815. 
 
 "THE SUN HAS LONG BEEN SET." 
 
 Reprinted at the request of my Sister, in whose 
 presence the hnes were thrown off. 
 
 This Iviprornptu appeared, many years ago, 
 among the Author's poems, from which, in sub- 
 sequent editions, it was excluded. 
 
 The sun has long been set, 
 
 The stars are out by twos and threes, 
 The little birds are piping yet 
 
 A:iiong the bushes and trees; 
 There 's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes, 
 And a far-off wind that rushes, 
 And a sound of water that gushes, 
 And the cuckoo's sovereign cry 
 Fills all the hollow of the sky. 
 
 Who would " go parading " 
 tn London, *'and masquerading," 
 
 On such a night of June 
 With that beautiful soft half-moon, 
 And all ttiese innocent blisses? 
 On such a night aPthis is ! 
 June 8, 1802. 1807= 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER 
 BRIDGE, Sept. 3, 1802. 
 
 Written on the roof of a coach, on my way to 
 France . 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more 
 
 fair: 
 Dull would hebeof soulwho could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty : 
 This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
 The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and tem- 
 ples lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless 
 
 air. 
 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 ! 
 1802. 1807. 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, 
 NEAR CALAIS, August, 1802. 
 
 Fair Star of evening, Splendor of the 
 
 west, 
 Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's 
 
 brink 
 Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, 
 
 to sink 
 On England's bosom; yet well pleased to 
 
 rest. 
 Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
 Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I 
 
 think, 
 Should'st be my Country's emblem; and 
 
 should'st wink, 
 Bright Star ! with laughter on her ban- 
 ners, drest 
 In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky 
 
 spot 
 
208 
 
 CALAIS. 
 
 Beneath thee, that is England; there she 
 
 lies. 
 Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one 
 
 lot, • 
 
 One life, one glory ! — I, with many a 
 
 fear 
 For my dear Country, many heartfelt 
 
 sighs, 
 Among men who do not love her, linger 
 
 here. 
 i8o2. 1807. 
 
 CALAIS, August, 1802. 
 
 Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind. 
 Or what is it that ye go forth to see? 
 Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low 
 
 degree, 
 Men known, and men unknown, sick, 
 
 lame, and blind. 
 Post forward all, like creatures of one 
 
 kind, 
 With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend 
 
 the knee 
 In France, before the new-born Majesty. 
 'T is ever thus. Ye men of prostrate 
 
 mind, 
 A seemly reverence may be paid to power ; 
 But that 's a loyal virtue, never sown 
 In haste, nor springing with a transient 
 
 shower ; 
 When truth, when sense, when liberty 
 
 were flown, 
 What hardship had it been to wait an 
 
 hour? 
 Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery 
 
 prone ! 
 i8o2. 1807. 
 
 COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON THE 
 ROAD LEADING TO ARDRES, 
 August 7, 1802. 
 
 Jones ! as from Calais southward you 
 and I 
 
 Went pacing side by side, this public Way 
 
 Streamed with the pomp of a too-credu- 
 lous day,l 
 
 When faith was pledged to new-born 
 Liberty : 
 
 A homeless sound of joy was in the sky; 
 
 ^ 14th July, 1790. 
 
 From hour to hour the antiquated Earth 
 Beat like the heart of Ma_ : songs, gar- 
 lands, mirth. 
 Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh ! 
 And now, sole register that these things 
 
 were, 
 Two solitary greetings have I heard, 
 " Good-morrow^ Citizen!''^ a hollow 
 
 word. 
 
 As if a dead man spake it ! Yet despair 
 
 Touches me not, though pensive as a bird 
 
 Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid 
 
 bare.- 
 
 1802. 1807. 
 
 CALAIS, August 15, 1802. 
 
 Festivals have I seen that were not 
 
 names : 
 This is young Buonaparte's natal day, 
 And his is henceforth an established 
 
 sway — 
 Consul for life. With worship France 
 
 proclaims 
 Her approbation, and with pomps and 
 
 games. 
 Heaven grant that other Cities may be 
 
 gay! 
 Calais is not : and I have bent my way 
 To the sea-coast, noting that each man 
 
 frames 
 His business as he likes. Far other show 
 My youth here witnessed, in a prouder 
 
 time; 
 The senselessness of joy was then sublime ! 
 Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope, 
 Consul, or King, can sound himself to 
 
 know 
 The destiny of Man, and live in hope. 
 1802. 1807. 
 
 "IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, 
 CALM AND FREE." 
 
 This was composed on the beach near Calais, 
 in the autumn of 1802 . 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free. 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 
 The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the 
 Sea: 
 
 2 See Note. 
 
COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER. 
 
 209 
 
 Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with 
 
 me here, 
 If thou appear untouched by solemn 
 
 thought. 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the 
 
 year; 
 And worship's! at the Temple's inner 
 
 shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it 
 
 not. 
 August, 1S02. 1807. 
 
 ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE 
 VENETIAN REPUBLIC. 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous east in 
 
 fee; 
 And was the safeguard of the west : the 
 
 worth 
 Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
 Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
 She was a maiden City, bright and free; 
 No guile seduced, no force could violate; 
 And, when she took unto herself a IVIate, 
 She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
 And what if she had seen those glories 
 
 fade, 
 Those titles vanish, and that strength 
 
 decay; 
 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
 When her long life hath reached its final 
 
 day: 
 Men are we, and must grieve when even 
 
 the Shade 
 Of that which once was great, is passed 
 
 away. 
 August, 1802. 1807. 
 
 THE KING OF SWEDEN. 
 
 The Voice of song from distant lands 
 
 shall call 
 To that great King ; shall hail the crowned 
 
 Youth 
 Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth, 
 By one example hath set forth to all 
 How they with dignity may stand ; or fall , 
 
 If fall they must. Now, whither doth it 
 
 tend? 
 And what to him and his shall be the end ? 
 That thought is one which neither can 
 
 appal 
 Nor cheer him; for the illustrious Swede 
 
 hath done 
 The thing which ought to be; is raised 
 
 above 
 All consequence? : work he hath begun 
 Of fortitude, and piety, and love, 
 Which all his glorious ancestors approve : 
 The heroes bless him, him their rightful 
 
 son.i 
 August, 1802. 1807. 
 
 TO TOUSSAINT L 'OUVERTURE. 
 
 TousSAiNT, the most unhappy man of 
 
 men ! 
 Whether the whistling Rustic tend his 
 
 plough 
 Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
 Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless 
 
 den; — 
 O miserable Chieftain ! where and when 
 Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; 
 
 do thou 
 Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
 Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
 Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left 
 
 behind 
 Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, 
 
 and skies; 
 There 's not a breathing of the common 
 
 wind 
 That will forget thee; thou hast great 
 
 allies; 
 Thy iriends are exultations, agonies. 
 And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 
 August, 1802. 1807. 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR 
 DOVER, ON THE DAY OF LAND- 
 ING. 
 
 Here, on our native soil, we breathe 
 once more. 
 
 The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, 
 that sound 
 
 Of bells; those boys who in yon meadow- 
 ground 
 
 ' See Nole. 
 
SEPTEMBER i, 1802. 
 
 In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and 
 
 the roar 
 Of the waves breaking on the chalky 
 
 shore; — 
 All, all are English. Oft have I looked 
 
 round 
 With joy in Kent's green vales; but never 
 
 found 
 Myself so satisfied in heart before. 
 Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass. 
 Thought for another moment. Thou art 
 
 free. 
 My Country ! and 't is joy enough and 
 
 pride 
 For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the 
 
 grass 
 Of England once again, and hear and see. 
 With such a dear Companion at my side. 
 August 29, 1802. 1807. 
 
 SEPTEMBER i, 1802. 
 
 Among the capricious acts of tyranny that dis- 
 graced those times, was the chasing of all Negroes 
 from France by decree of the government : we 
 had a Fellow-passenger who was one of the 
 expelled. 
 
 We had a female Passenger who came 
 From Calais with us, spotless in array, — 
 A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay. 
 Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame; 
 Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or 
 
 aim 
 She sate, from notice turning not away. 
 But on all proffered intercourse did lay 
 A weight of languid speech, or to the same 
 No sign of answer made by word or face : 
 Yet still her eyes retained their tropic fire. 
 That, burning independent of the mind. 
 Joined with the lustre of her rich attire 
 To mock the Outcast. — O-pe Heavens, be 
 
 kind! 
 And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted 
 
 Race ! 
 1802. 1807. 
 
 NEAR DOVER, September," 1802. 
 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood; 
 And saw, while sea was calm and air was 
 
 clear. 
 The coast of France — the coast of 
 
 France how near ! 
 
 Drawn almost into frightful neighborhood. 
 
 I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood 
 
 Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 
 
 A span of waters; yet what power is 
 there ! 
 
 What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
 
 Even so doth God protect us if we be 
 
 Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and 
 waters roll, 
 
 Strength to the brave, and Power, and 
 Deity; 
 
 Vet in themselves are nothing ! One de- 
 cree 
 
 Spake laws to ^Aem, and said that by the 
 soul 
 
 Only, the Nations shall be great and free. 
 1802. 1807. 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON, September, 
 1802. 
 
 This was written immediately after my return 
 from France to London, when I could not but 
 be struck, as here described, with the vanity and 
 parade of our own country, especially in great 
 towns and cities, as contrasted with the quiet, and 
 I may say the desolation, that the revolution had 
 produced in France. This must be borne in 
 mind, or else the reader may think that in this 
 and the succeeding Sonnets I have exaggerated 
 the mischief engendered and fostered among us 
 by undisturbed wealth. It would not be easy to 
 conceive with what a depth of feeling I entered 
 into the struggle carried on by the Spaniards for 
 their deliverance from the usurped power of the 
 French. Many times have I gone from Allan 
 Bank in Grasmere vale, where we were then re- 
 siding, to the top of the Raise-gap as it is called, 
 so late as two o'clock in the morning, to meet the 
 carrier bringing the newspaper from Keswick. 
 Imperfect traces of the state of mind in which I 
 then was may be found in my Tract on the Con- 
 vention of Cintra, as well as m these Sonnets. 
 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I 
 
 must look 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 
 To think that now our Ufe is only drest 
 For show; mean handy-work of crafts- 
 man, cook, 
 Or groom ! — We must run glittering like 
 
 a brook 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best: 
 No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 
"WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY.' 
 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense. 
 This is idolatry; and these we adore: 
 Plain living and high thinking are no more : 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
 And pure religion breathing household 
 laws. 
 1802. 1807. 
 
 LONDON, 1802. 
 
 Milton ! thou should'st be living at this 
 hour : " 
 ^ England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 " Of stagnant waters ! altar, sword, and 
 
 pen, 
 e- Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and 
 
 bower, 
 t Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 
 Oh ! raise us up, return to us again; 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, 
 
 power. 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like 
 
 the sea : 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way. 
 In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 September, 1802. 1S07. 
 
 "GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN 
 AMONG US." 
 
 Great men have been among us; hands 
 that penned 
 
 And tongues that uttered wisdom — better 
 none: 
 
 The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 
 
 Young Vane, and others who called Mil- 
 ton friend. 
 
 These moralists could act and compre- 
 hend: 
 
 They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 
 
 Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
 
 In splendor : what strength was, that 
 would not bend 
 
 But in magnanimous meekness. France, 
 't is strange. 
 
 Hath brought forth no such souls as we 
 had then. 
 
 Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! 
 No single volume paramount, no code. 
 No master spirit, no determined road; 
 But equally a want of books and men ! 
 September, 1802. 1807. 
 
 " IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF." 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
 Of British freedom, which, to the open 
 
 ■sea 
 Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity 
 Hath flowed, " with pomp of waters, un- 
 
 withstood," 
 Roused though it be full often to a mood 
 Which spurns the check of salutary bands. 
 That this most famous Stream in bogs and 
 
 sands 
 Should perish; and to evil and to good 
 Be lost forever. In our halls is hung 
 Armory of the invincible Knights of old : 
 We must be free or die, who speak the 
 
 tongue 
 That Shakspeare spake; the faith and 
 
 morals hold 
 Which Milton held. — In everything we 
 
 are sprung 
 Of Earth's first blood, have titles mani- 
 fold. 
 
 September, 1S02, 
 
 1807. 
 
 "WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN 
 MEMORY." 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has 
 
 tamed 
 Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts 
 
 depart 
 When men change swords for ledgers, 
 
 and desert 
 The student's bower for gold, some fears 
 
 unnamed 
 I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ? 
 Now, when I think of thee, and what 
 
 thou art. 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 For dearly must we prize thee; we who 
 
 find 
 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men: 
 
COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY. 
 
 And I by my affection was beguiled:. 
 What wonder if a Poet now and then, 
 Among the many movements of his mind, 
 Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 
 September, 1802. 1807. 
 
 COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY 
 ACROSS THE HAMBLETON 
 HILLS, YORKSHIRE. 
 
 Composed October 4th, 1802, after a journey 
 over the Hambleton Hills, on a day memorable 
 to me — the day of my marriage. The horizon 
 commanded by those hills is most magnificent. — 
 The next day, while we were travelling in a post- 
 chaise up Wensleydale, we were stopt by one of 
 the horses proving restive, and were obliged to 
 wait two hours in a severe storm before the post- 
 boy could fetch from the inn another to supply 
 its place. The spot was in front of Bolton Hall, 
 where Mary Queen of Scots was kept prisoner 
 soon after her unfortunate landing at Working- 
 ton. The place then belonged to the Scroopes, 
 and memorials of her are yet preserved there. 
 To beguile the time I composed a Sonnet. The 
 subject was our own confinement contrasted with 
 hers ; but it was not thought worthy of being 
 preserved. 
 
 Daric and more dark the shades of even- 
 ing fell; 
 The wished-for point was reached — but 
 
 at an hour 
 "When little could be gained from that 
 
 rich dower 
 Of prospect, whereof many thousands 
 
 tell. 
 Yet did the glowing west with marvellous 
 
 power 
 Salute us; there stood Indian citadel. 
 Temple of Greece, and minster with its 
 
 tower 
 Substantially expressed — a place for bell 
 Or clock to toll from ! Many a tempting 
 
 isle. 
 With groves that never were imagined, lay 
 'Mid seas how steadfast ! objects all for 
 
 the eye 
 Of silent rapture; but we felt the while 
 We should forget them; they are of the 
 
 sky. 
 And from our earthly memory fade away. 
 Oct. 4, 1602. 1S07. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOM- 
 SON'S "CASTLE OF INDOLENCE." 
 
 Composed in the orchard. Town-end, Gras- 
 mere, Coleridge living with us much at the time : 
 his son Hartley has said, that his father's char- 
 acter and habits are here preserved in a liveher 
 way than in anything that has been written about 
 him. 
 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 
 Whom without blame I may not overlook; 
 For never sun on living creature shone 
 Who more devout enjoyment with us took : 
 Here on his hours he hung as on a book, 
 On his own time here would he float away, 
 As doth a fly upon a summer brook; 
 But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, 
 Seek for him, — he is fled; and whither 
 none can say. 
 
 Thus often would he leave our peaceful 
 
 home. 
 And find elsewhere his business or delight; 
 Out of our Valley'^ limits did he roam : 
 Full many a time, upon a stormy night. 
 His voice came to us from the neighbor- 
 ing height : 
 Oft could we see him driving full in view 
 At mid-day when the sun was shining 
 
 bright; 
 What ill was on him, what he had to do, 
 A mighty wonder bred among our quiet 
 crew. 
 
 Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man 
 When he came back to us, a withered 
 
 flower, — 
 Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 
 Down would he sit; and without strength 
 
 or power 
 Look at the common grass from hour to 
 
 hour: 
 And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, 
 Where apple-trees in blossom made a 
 
 bower, 
 Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay; 
 And, like a naked Indian, slept himself 
 
 away. 
 
 Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was 
 Whenever from our Valley he withdrew; 
 
TO H. C. 
 
 213 
 
 F )r happier soul no living creature has 
 Than he had, being here the long day 
 
 through. 
 Some thought he was a lover, and did woo: 
 Some thought far worse of him, and 
 
 judged him wrong; 
 But verse was what he had been wedded 
 
 to; 
 And his own mind did like a tempest 
 
 strong 
 Come to him thus, and drove the weary 
 
 Wight along. 
 
 With him there often walked in friendly 
 
 guise, 
 !_)r lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 
 .\ noticeable Man with large gray eyes. 
 And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 
 As if a blooming face it ought to be; 
 Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear, 
 Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy; 
 Profound his forehead was, though not 
 
 severe ; 
 Yet some did think that he had little busi- 
 ness here : 
 
 Sweet heaven forfend ! his was a lawful 
 right; 
 
 Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy; 
 
 His limbs would toss about him with de- 
 light 
 
 Like branches when strong winds the trees 
 annoy. 
 
 Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 
 
 To banish listlessness and irksome care ; 
 
 He would have taught you how you might 
 employ 
 
 Yourself; and many did to him repair, — 
 
 And certes not in vain; he had inventions 
 rare. 
 
 Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 
 Long blades of grass, plucked round him 
 
 as he lay, 
 Made, to his ear attentively applied, 
 A pipe on which the wind would deftly 
 
 play; 
 Glasses he had, that little things display, 
 The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, 
 A mailed angel on a battle-day; 
 The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, 
 And all the gorgeous sights which fairies 
 
 do behold. 
 
 He would entice that other Man to hear 
 His music, and to view his imagery; 
 And, sooth, these two were each to the 
 
 other dear : 
 No livelier love in such a place could be : 
 There did they dwell — from earthly labor 
 
 free. 
 As happy spirits as were ever seen; 
 If but a bird, to keep them company, 
 Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, 
 As pleased as if the same had been a 
 
 Maiden-queen. 
 1802. iSii 
 
 TO H. C. 
 
 SIX YEARS OLD. 
 
 O THOU ! whose fancies from afar are 
 brought; 
 
 Who of thy words dost make a mock ap- 
 parel, 
 
 And fittest to unutterable thought 
 
 The breeze-like motion and the self-born 
 carol; 
 
 Thou faery voyager ! that dost float 
 
 In such clear water, that thy boat 
 
 May rather seem 
 
 To brood on air than on an earthly stream; 
 
 Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
 
 Where earth and heaven do make one 
 imagery; 
 
 blessed vision ! happy child ! 
 Thou art so exquisitely wild, 
 
 1 think of thee with many fears 
 
 For what may be thy lot in future years. 
 I thought of times when Pain might be 
 thy guest. 
 
 Lord of thy house and hospitality; 
 
 And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 
 
 But when she sate within the touch of thee. 
 
 O too industrious folly ! 
 
 O vain and causeless melancholy ! 
 
 Nature will either end thee quite; 
 
 Or, lengthening out thy season of delight. 
 
 Preserve for thee, by individual right, 
 
 A young lamb's heart among the full- 
 grown flocks. 
 
 What hast thou to do with sorrow. 
 
 Or the injuries of to-morrow? 
 
 Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn 
 brings forth, 
 
 111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 
 
214 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 Or to be trailed along the soiling earth; 
 A gem that glitters while it lives. 
 And no forewarning gives; 
 But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 
 Slips in a moment out of life. 
 1802. 1807. 
 
 TO THE DAISY.i 
 
 This and the two following were composed in 
 the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, where the bird 
 was often seen as here described. 
 
 " Her =* divine skill taught me this. 
 That from everything I saw 
 I could some instruction draw, 
 And raise pleasure to the height 
 Through the meanest object's sight. 
 By the murmur of a spring, 
 Or the least bough's rustelling ; 
 By a Daisy whose leaves spread 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
 Or a shady bush or tree ; 
 She could more infuse in me 
 Than all Nature's beauties can 
 In some other wiser man." 
 
 G. Wither. 
 
 In youth from rock to rock I went, 
 From hill to hill in discontent 
 Of pleasure high and turbulent, 
 
 Most pleased when most uneasy; 
 But now my own delights I make, — 
 My thirst at every rill can slake. 
 And gladly Nature's love partake, 
 
 Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 
 
 Thee Winter in the garland wears 
 That thinly decks his few gray hairs; 
 Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 
 
 That she may sun thee; 
 Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; 
 And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
 Doth in thy crimson head delight 
 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
 In shoals and bands, a morrice train. 
 Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; 
 Pleased at his greeting thee again; 
 
 Yet nothing daunted. 
 Nor grieved if thou be set at nought : 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 ^ His muse. 
 
 Be violets in their secret mews 
 
 The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; 
 
 Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
 
 Her head impearling. 
 Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim. 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 
 Thou art indeed by many a claim 
 
 The Poet's darling. 
 
 If to a rock from rains he fly. 
 Or, some bright day of April sky, 
 Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 
 
 Near the green holly. 
 And wearily at length should fare; 
 He needs but look about, and there 
 Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 
 
 His melancholy. 
 
 A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
 Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 
 Some apprehension; 
 Some steady love; some brief delight; 
 Some memory that had taken flight; 
 Some chime of fancy wrong or right; 
 
 Or stray invention. 
 
 If stately passions in me burn. 
 
 And one chance look to Thee should turn, 
 
 I drink out of an humbler urn 
 
 A lowlier pleasure; 
 The homely sympathy that heeds 
 The common life, our nature breeds; 
 A wisdom fitted to the needs 
 
 Of hearts at leisure. 
 
 Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
 When thou art up, alert and gay. 
 Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 
 
 With kindred gladness : 
 And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
 Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
 Hath often eased my pensive breast 
 
 Of careful sadness. 
 
 And all day long I number yet. 
 All seasons through, another debt, 
 Which I, wherever thou art met, 
 
 To thee am owing; 
 An instinct call it, a blind sense; 
 A happy, genial influence, 
 Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
 
 Nor whither going. 
 
TO THE DAISY. 
 
 215 
 
 Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
 Thy pleasant course, — when day 's begun 
 As ready to salute the sun 
 
 As lark or leveret. 
 Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; 
 Nor be less dear to future men 
 Than in old time; — thou not in vain 
 
 Art Nature's favorite. 1 
 1802. 1807. 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that in the great world be, 
 
 Daisy ! again I talk to thee, 
 
 For thou art worthy. 
 Thou unassuming Common-place 
 Of Nature, with that homely face, 
 And yet with something of a grace. 
 
 Which Love makes for thee ! 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 
 I sit, and play with similes. 
 
 Loose types of things through all degrees, 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising : 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
 As is the humor of the game. 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A nun demure of lowly port; 
 
 Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court. 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations; 
 A queen in crown of rubies drest; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest; 
 Are all, as seems to suit thee best. 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little Cyclops, with one eye 
 Staring to threaten and defy. 
 That thought comes next — and instantly 
 
 The freak is over, 
 The shape will vanish — and behold 
 A silver shield with boss of gold, 
 That spreads itself, some faery bold 
 
 In fight to cover ! 
 
 I see thee glittering from afar — 
 And then thou art a pretty star; 
 
 1 See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the 
 honors formerly paid to this flower. 
 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee ! 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crest. 
 Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
 May peace come never to his nest, 
 
 Who shall reprove thee ! 
 
 Bright Flower ! for by that name at last. 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 
 
 Sweet silent creature ! 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air. 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 1802. 1807. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 This and the other Poems addressed to the same 
 flower were composed at Town-end, Grasraere, 
 during the earlier part of my residence there. I 
 have been censured for the last line but one — 
 " thy function apostolical " — as being little less 
 than profane. How could it be thought so ? The 
 word is adopted with reference to its derivation, 
 implying something sent on a mission ; and 
 assuredly this little flower, especially when the 
 subject of verse, may be regarded, in its humble 
 degree, as administering both to moral and to 
 spiritual purposes. 
 
 Bright Flower ! whose home is every- 
 where. 
 Bold in maternal Nature's care. 
 And all the long year through the heir 
 
 Of joy or sorrow; 
 Methinks that there abides in thee 
 Some concord with humanity. 
 Given to no other flower I see 
 
 The forest thorough ! 
 
 Is it that Man is soon deprest? 
 
 A thoughtless Thing ! who, once unblest, 
 
 Does little on his memory rest. 
 
 Or on his reason, 
 And Thou would'st teach him how to find 
 A shelter under every wind, 
 A hope for times that are unkind 
 
 And every season? 
 
 Thou wander'st the wide world about, 
 Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt. 
 
2l6 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET. 
 
 With friends to greet thee, or without, 
 Yet pleased and willing; 
 
 Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, 
 
 And all things sufiering from all 
 
 Thy function apostolical 
 In peace fulfilling. 
 180G. 1807. 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET. 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that 
 
 shed 
 Their snow-white blossoms on my head. 
 With brightest sunshine round me spread 
 
 Of spring's unclouded weather, 
 In this sequestered nook how sweet 
 To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
 And birds and flowers once more to greet. 
 
 My last year's friends together. 
 
 One have I marked, the happiest guest 
 In all this covert of the blest: 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 
 In joy of voice and pinion ! 
 Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array. 
 Presiding Spirit here to-day. 
 Dost lead the revels of the May; 
 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 While birds, and butterflies, and flowers. 
 Make all one band of paramours, 
 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers. 
 
 Art sole in thy employment : 
 A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
 Scattering thy gladness without care. 
 Too blest with any one to pair; 
 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
 Amid yon tuft of hazel trees. 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
 Behold him perched in ecstasies. 
 
 Yet seeming still to hover; 
 There ! where the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings. 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
 A Brother of the dancing leaves; 
 Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 
 Pours forth his song in gushes; 
 
 As if by that exulting strain 
 He mocked and treated with disdain 
 The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 
 While fluttering in the bushes. 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 YEW-TREES. 
 
 Written at Grasmere. Tfiese yew-trees are 
 still standing, but the spread of that at Lorton is 
 much diminished by mutilation. I will here 
 mention that a little way up the hill, on the road 
 leading from Rosthwaite to Stonethwaite (in 
 Borrowdale), lay the trunk of a yew-tree, which 
 appeared as you approached, so vast was its 
 diameter, like the entrance of a cave, and not a 
 small one. Calculating upon what I have 
 observed of the slow growth of this tree in rocky 
 situations, and of its durability, I have often 
 thought that the one I am describing must have 
 been as old as the Christian era. The tree lay in 
 the line of a fence. Great masses of its ruins 
 were strewn about, and some had been rolled 
 down the hillside and lay near the road at the 
 bottom. As you approached the tree, you were 
 struck with the number of shrubs and young 
 plants, ashes, etc., which had found a bed upon 
 the decayed trunk and grew to no inconsiderable 
 height, forming, as it were, a part of the hedge- 
 row. In no part of England, or of Europe, have 
 I ever seen a yew-tree at all approaching this in 
 magnitude, as it must have stood. By the bye, 
 Hutton, the old Guide, of Keswick, had been so 
 impressed with the remains of this tree, that he 
 used gravely to tell strangers that there could be 
 no doubt of its having been in existence before 
 the flood. 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton 
 
 Vale, 
 Which to this day stands single, in the 
 
 midst 
 Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore; 
 Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands 
 Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
 To Scotland's heaths; or those that 
 
 crossed the sea 
 And drew their sounding bows at Azin- 
 
 cour. 
 Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
 Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
 This solitary Tree ! a living thing 
 Produced too slowly ever to decay; 
 Of form and aspect too magnificent 
 To be destroyed. But worthier still ot 
 
 note 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 217 
 
 Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, 
 Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 
 Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a 
 
 growth 
 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
 Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; 
 Nor uniformed with Phantasy, and looks 
 That threaten the profane; — a pillared 
 
 shade, 
 Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown 
 
 hue. 
 By sheddings from the pining umbrage 
 
 tinged 
 Perennially — beneath whose sable roof 
 Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked 
 With unrejoicing berries — ghostly Shapes 
 May meet at noontide; Fear and trem- 
 bling Hope, 
 Silence and Foresight; Death the Skele- 
 ton 
 And Time the Shadow; — there to cele- 
 brate. 
 As in a natural temple scattered o'er 
 With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 
 United worship; or in mute repose 
 To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
 Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost 
 caves. 
 1803. 1815. 
 
 "WHO FANCIED WHAT A PRETTY 
 SIGHT." 
 
 Who fancied what a pretty sight 
 This Rock would be if edged around 
 With living snow-drops? circlet bright ! 
 How glorious to this orchard-ground ! 
 Who loved the little Rock, and set 
 Upon its head this coronet ? 
 
 Was it the humor of a child? 
 
 Or rather of some gentle maid, 
 
 Whose brows, the day that she was styled 
 
 The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed? 
 
 Of man mature, or matron sage? 
 
 Or old man toying with his age ! 
 
 I asked — 't was whispered; The device 
 To each and all might well belong : 
 It is the Spirit of Paradise 
 That prompts such work, a Spirit strong, 
 That gives to all the self-same bent 
 Where life is wise and innocent. 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 "IT IS NO SPIRIT WHO FROM 
 HEAVEN HATH FLOWN." 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere, I remember 
 the instant my sister, S- H., called me to the 
 window of our Cottage, saying, "Look how 
 beautiful is yon star! It has the sky all to itself." 
 I composed the verses immediately. 
 
 It is no Spirit who from heaven hath 
 
 flown, 
 And is descending on his embassy; 
 Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens 
 
 to espy ! 
 'T is Hesperus — there he stands with 
 
 glittering crown, 
 First admonition that the sun is down ! 
 For yet it is broad daylight : clouds pass 
 
 by; 
 A few are near him still — and now the 
 
 sky. 
 He hath it to himself — 't is all his own. 
 O most ambitious Star ! an inquest 
 
 wrought 
 Within me when I recognized thy light; 
 A moment I was startled at the sight : 
 And, while I gazed, there came to me a 
 
 thought 
 That I might step beyond my natural race 
 As thou seem'st now to do ; might one day 
 
 trace 
 Some ground not mine ; and, strong her 
 
 strength above. 
 My Soul, an Apparition in the place. 
 Tread there with steps that no one shall 
 
 reprove ! 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 1 803-. 
 
 Mr. Coleridge, my Sister, and myself started 
 together from Town-end to make a tour in Scot- 
 land. Poor Coleridge was at that time in bad 
 spirits, and somewhat too much in love with his 
 own dejection ; and he departed from us, as is 
 recorded in my Sister's Journal, soon after we 
 left Loch Lomond, The verses that stand fore- 
 most among these Memorials were not actually 
 written for the occasion, but transplanted from 
 my " Epistle to Sir George Beaumont." 
 
2l8 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 DEPARTURE FROM THE VALE OF 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 AUGUST, 1803. 
 
 The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian 
 
 plains 
 Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains; 
 Even for the tenants of the zone that lies 
 Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise, 
 Methinks 't would heighten joy, to over- 
 leap 
 At will the crystal battlements, and peep 
 Into some other region, though less fair. 
 To see how things are made and managed 
 
 there. 
 Change for the worse might please, incur- 
 sion bold 
 Into the tracts of darkness and of cold; 
 O'er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer. 
 And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear. 
 Such animation often do I find, 
 Power in my breast, wings growing in my 
 
 mind. 
 Then, when some rock or hill is overpast, 
 Perchance without one look behind me 
 
 cast. 
 Some barrier with which Nature, from the 
 
 birth 
 Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on 
 
 earth. 
 O pleasant transit, Grasmere ! to resign 
 Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine ; 
 Not like an outcast with himself at strife; 
 The slave of business, time, or care for life. 
 But moved by choice ; or, if constrained 
 
 in part. 
 Yet still with Nature's freedom at the 
 
 heart; — 
 To cull contentment upon wildest shores. 
 And luxuries extract from bleakest moors; 
 With prompt embrace all beauty to en- 
 fold. 
 And having rights in all that we behold. 
 — Then why these lingering steps? — A 
 
 bright adieu. 
 For a brief absence, proves that love is 
 
 true; 
 Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn 
 That winds into itself for sweet retiurn. 
 
 1803. 
 
 1827. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS, 
 1803, 
 
 SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. 
 
 For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. It 
 may be proper to add that the second of these 
 pieces, thoughy^/i^ at the time, was not composed 
 till many years after. 
 
 I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, 
 
 At thought of what I now behold : 
 
 As vapors breathed from dungeons cold. 
 
 Strike pleasure dead. 
 So sadness comes from out the mould 
 
 Where Burns is laid. 
 
 And have I then thy bones so near, 
 And thou forbidden to appear? 
 As if it were thyself that 's here 
 
 I shrink with pain; 
 And both my wishes and my fear 
 
 Alike are vain. 
 
 Off weight — nor press on weight! — 
 
 away 
 Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to 
 
 stay; 
 With chastened feelings would I pay 
 
 The tribute due 
 To him, and aught that hides his clay 
 
 From mortal view. 
 
 Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
 He sang, his genius " glinted" forth, 
 Rose like a star that touching earth. 
 
 For so it seems. 
 Doth glorify its humble birth 
 
 With matchless beams. 
 
 The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow. 
 The struggling heart, where be they 
 
 now? — 
 Full soon the Aspirant of the plough. 
 
 The prompt, the brave, 
 Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 
 
 And silent grave. 
 
 I mourned with thousands, but as one 
 More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
 Whose light I hailed when first it shone, 
 And showed my youth 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 «>■^ 
 
 How Verse may build a princely throne 
 On humble truth. 
 
 Alas ! where'er the current tends, 
 Regret pursues and with it blends, — 
 Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends 
 
 By Skiddaw seen, — 
 Neighbors we were, and loving friends 
 
 We might have been; 
 
 True friends though diversely inclined; 
 But heart with heart and mind with mind. 
 Where the main fibres are entwined, 
 
 Through Nature's skill. 
 May even by contraries be joined 
 
 More closely still. 
 
 The tear will start, and let it flow; 
 Thou "poor Inhabitant below," 
 At this dread moment — even so — 
 
 Might we together 
 Have sate and talked where goivans blow, 
 
 Or on wild heather. 
 
 What treasures would have then been 
 
 placed 
 Within my reach; of knowledge graced 
 By fancy what a rich repast ! 
 
 But why go on? — 
 Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 
 
 His grave grass-grown. 
 
 There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
 (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
 Lies gathered to his Father's side. 
 
 Soul-moving sight ! 
 Yet one to which is not denied 
 
 Some sad delight : 
 
 For /le is safe, a quiet bed 
 
 Hath early found among the dead. 
 
 Harbored where none can be misled. 
 
 Wronged, or distrest; 
 And surely here it may be said 
 
 That such are blest. 
 
 And oh for Thee, by pitying grace 
 Checked oft-times in a devious race. 
 May He who halloweth the place 
 
 Where Man is laid 
 Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 
 
 For which it prayed ! 
 
 Sighing I turned away; bui. 
 Night fell I heard, or seemed to 
 Music that sorrow comes not near, 
 
 A ritual hymn, 
 Chanted in love that casts out fear 
 
 By Seraphim. 
 
 1803. 1845. 
 
 in. 
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON 
 THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE 
 POET'? RESIDENCE. 
 
 Too frail to keep the lofty vow 
 That must have followed when his brow 
 Was wreathed — "The Vision " tells us 
 how — 
 
 With holly spray. 
 He faltered, drifted to and fro. 
 
 And passed away. 
 
 Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, 
 
 throng 
 Our minds when, lingering all too long, 
 Over the grave of Burns we hung 
 
 In social grief — 
 Indulged as if it were a wrong 
 
 To seek relief. 
 
 But, leaving each unquiet theme 
 Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, 
 And prompt to welcome every gleam 
 
 Of good and fair, 
 Let us beside this limpid Stream 
 
 Breathe hopeful air. 
 
 Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight; 
 Think rather of those moments bright 
 When to the consciousness of right 
 
 His course was true. 
 When Wisdom prospered in his sight 
 
 And virtue grew. 
 
 Yes, freely let our hearts expand. 
 Freely as in youth's season bland. 
 When side by side, his Book in hand, 
 
 We wont to stray. 
 Our pleasure varying at command 
 
 Of each sweet Lay. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 How oft inspired must he have trod 
 These pathways, yon far-stretching road ! 
 There lurks his home; in that Abode, 
 
 With mirth elate, 
 Or in his nobly-pensive mood, 
 
 The Rustic sate. 
 
 Proud thoughts that Image overawes, 
 
 Before it humbly let us pause. 
 
 And ask of Nature, from what cause 
 
 And by what rules 
 She trained her Burns to win applause 
 
 That shames the Schools. 
 
 Through busiest street and loneliest glen 
 
 Are felt the flashes of his pen; 
 
 He rules 'mid winter snows, and when 
 
 Bees fill their hives; 
 Deep in the general heart of men 
 
 His power survives. 
 
 What need of fields in some far clime 
 Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 
 And all that fetched the flowing rhyme 
 
 From genuine springs. 
 Shall dwell together till old Time 
 
 Folds up his wings? 
 
 Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
 This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; 
 The rueful conflict, the heart riven 
 
 With vain endeavor. 
 And memory of Earth's bitter leaven. 
 
 Effaced forever. 
 
 But why to Him confine the prayer. 
 When kindred thoughts and yearnings 
 
 bear 
 On the frail heart the purest share 
 
 With all that live? — 
 The best of what we do and are. 
 Just God, forgive ! ^ 
 1803. 1845. 
 
 TO THE SONS OF BURNS 
 
 AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR 
 FATHER. 
 
 The Poet's grave is in a corner of the church- 
 yard. We looked at it with melancholy and 
 
 • See Note. 
 
 painful reflections, repeating to each other his 
 own verses — 
 
 " ' Is there a man whose judgment clear,' etc." 
 Extract fro»i the Journal of my 
 Fellow- Traveller. 
 
 'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 
 
 I sought the untimely grave of Burns; 
 
 Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns 
 
 With sorrow true; 
 And more would grieve, but that it turns 
 
 Trembling to you ! 
 
 Through twilight shades of good and ill 
 Ye now are panting up life's hill. 
 And more than common strength and 
 skill 
 
 Must ye display; 
 If ye would give the better will 
 
 Its lawful sway. 
 
 Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear 
 Intemperance with less harm, beware ! 
 But if the Poet's wit ye share, 
 
 Like him can speed 
 The social hour — of tenfold care 
 
 There will be need; 
 
 For honest men delight will take 
 To spare your failings for his sake, 
 Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 
 
 Your steps pursue; 
 And of your Father's name will make 
 
 A snare for you. 
 
 Far from their noisy haunts retire, 
 And add your voices to the quire 
 That sanctify the cottage fire 
 
 With service meet; 
 There seek the genius of your Sire, 
 
 His spirit greet; 
 
 Or where, 'mid " lonely heights and 
 
 hows," 
 He paid to Nature tuneful vows; 
 Or wiped his honorable brows 
 
 Bedewed with toil, 
 While reapers strove, or busy ploughs 
 
 Upturned the soil; 
 
 His judgment with benignant ray 
 Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way; 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 But ne'er to a seductive lay 
 
 Let faith be given ; 
 Nor deem that " light which leads astray, 
 
 Is- light from Heaven." 
 
 Let no mean hope your souls enslave; 
 Be independent, generous, brave; 
 Your Father such example gave, 
 
 And such revere; 
 But be admonished by his grave, 
 
 And think, and fear! 
 1803. 1807, 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL 
 
 AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND. 
 
 This delightful creature and her demeanor are 
 particularly described in my Sister's Journal. 
 The sort of prophecy with which the verses con- 
 clude has, through God's goodness, been realized ; 
 and now, approaching the close of my 73d year, 
 f have a most vivid remembrance of her and the 
 beautiful objects with which she was surrounded. 
 She is alluded to in the Poem of " The Three 
 Cottage Girls " among my Continental Memorials. 
 In illustration of this class of Poems I have 
 scarcely anything to say beyond what is antici- 
 pated in my Sister's faithful and admirable 
 Journal. 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 
 And these gray rocks; that household 
 
 lawn; 
 Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn; 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 .\ murmur near the silent lake; 
 This little bay; a quiet road 
 That holds in shelter Thy abode — ■ 
 In truth together do ye seem 
 Like something fashioned in a dream; 
 Such Forms as from their covert peep 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
 Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
 I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
 I bless thee with a human heart; 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; 
 
 And yet my eyes are filled >. 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall p^ 
 For thee when I am far away: 
 For never saw I mien, or face, 
 In which more plainly I could trace 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 Here scattered, like a random seed. 
 Remote from men. Thou dost not need 
 The embarrassed look of shy distress. 
 And maidenly shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer : 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
 And seemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays; 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech : 
 A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life 1 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving-kind — 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
 What hand but would a garland cull 
 For thee who art so beautiful? 
 
 happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell; 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 Of the wild sea; and I would have 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could. 
 Though but of common neighborhood. 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
 Thy elder Brother I would be. 
 Thy Father — anything to thee ! 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place. 
 Joy have I had; and going hence 
 
 1 bear away my recompense. 
 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
 Then, why should I be loth to stir? 
 I feel this place was made for her; 
 To give new pleasure like the past. 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
 Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part! 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
 As fair before me shall behold, 
 As I do now, the cabin small, 
 The lake, the bay, the waterfall; 
 And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 GLEN-ALMAIN; 
 OR, THE NARROW GLEN. 
 
 In this still place, remote from men. 
 
 Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow glen; 
 
 In this still place, where murmurs on 
 
 But one meek streamlet, only one : 
 
 He sang of battles, and the breath 
 
 Of stormy war, and violent death; 
 
 And should, methinks, when all was past. 
 
 Have rightfully been laid at last 
 
 Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent 
 
 As by a spirit turbulent; 
 
 Where sights were rough, and sounds were 
 
 wild. 
 And everything unreconciled; 
 In some complaining, dim retreat. 
 For fear and melancholy meet; 
 But this is calm; there cannot be 
 A more entire tranquillity. 
 Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? 
 Or is it but a groundless creed? 
 What matters it ? — I blame them not 
 Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 
 Was moved; and in such way expressed 
 Their notion of its perfect rest. 
 A convent, even a hermit's cell. 
 Would break the silence of this Dell: 
 It is not quiet, is not ease; 
 But something deeper far than these : 
 The separation that is here 
 Is of the grave; and of austere 
 Yet happy feelings of the dead : 
 And, therefore, was it rightly said 
 That Ossian, last of all his race ! 
 Lies buried in this lonely place. 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 STEPPING WESTWARD. 
 
 While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking 
 by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening 
 
 after sunset, in our road to a Hut where, in tht 
 course of our Tour, we had been hospitably en- 
 tertained some weeks before, we met, in one of 
 the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two 
 well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by 
 way of greeting, '* What, are you stepping west- 
 ward ? " 
 
 " What, you are steppingwestward?" — 
 
 " Yea." 
 — 'T would be a wildish destiny. 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 In a strange Land, and far from home, 
 Were in this place the guests of Chance: 
 Yet who would stop, or fear to advance. 
 Though home or shelter he had none, . 
 With such a sky to lead him on? 
 
 The dewy ground was dark and cold; 
 Behind, all gloomy to behold; 
 And stepping westward seemed to be 
 A kind of heavenly destiny : 
 I liked the greeting; 't was a sound 
 Of something without place or bound; 
 And seemed to give me spiritual right 
 To travel through that region bright. 
 
 The voice was soft, and she who spake 
 Was walking by her native lake : 
 The salutation had to me 
 The very sound of courtesy : 
 Its power was felt; and while my eye 
 Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, 
 The echo of the voice enwrought 
 A human sweetness with the thought 
 Of travelling through the world that lay 
 Before me in my endless way. 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER. 
 
 Behold her, single in the field, 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass I 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 Stop here, or gently pass 1 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
 And sings a melancholy strain; 
 O listen ! for the Vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No Nightingale did ever chaunt 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 223 
 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt. 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 d voice so thriUing ne'er was heard, 
 In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings? — 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And battles long ago : 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 
 Familiar matter of to-day? 
 
 Some natiual sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 
 yhat has been, and may be again? 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending; 
 I saw her singing at her work, 
 And o'er the ^ckle bending; — 
 I listened, motionless and still; 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE, 
 UPON LOCH AWE. 
 
 The first three lines were thrown off at the 
 moment I first caught sight of the l^uin from a 
 small eminence by the wayside ; the rest was 
 added many years after. 
 
 " From the top of the hill a most impressive 
 scene opened upon our view, — a ruined Castle 
 on an Island (for an Island the flood had made it) 
 at some distance from the shore, backed by a 
 Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which 
 came a foaming stream. The Castle occupied 
 every foot of the Island that was visible to us, 
 appearing to rise out of the water, — mists rested 
 upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine; 
 there was a mild desolation in the low grounds, 
 a solemn grandeur in the mountains, and the 
 Castle was wild, yet stately — not dismantled of 
 turrets — nor the walls broken down, though ob- 
 viously a ruin." — Extract from the Journal of 
 my Companion. 
 
 Child of loud-throated War ! the moun- 
 tain Stream 
 Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest 
 Is come, and thou art siient in thy age; 
 
 Save when the wind sweeps by and 
 
 sounds are caught 
 Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor 
 
 theirs. 
 Oh! there is life that breathes not; 
 
 Powers there are 
 That touch each other to the quick in 
 
 modes 
 Which the gross world no sense hath to 
 
 perceive. 
 No soul to dream of. What art Thou, 
 
 from care 
 Cast off — abandoned by thy rugged Sire, 
 Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in 
 
 place 
 And in dimension, such that thou 
 
 might'st seem 
 But a mere footstool to yon sovereign 
 
 Lord, 
 Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner 
 
 hills 
 Might crush, nor know that it had suf- 
 fered harm; ) 
 Yet he, not loth, in favor of thy claims 
 To reverence, suspends his own; sub- 
 mitting 
 All that the God of Nature hath con- 
 ferred. 
 All that he holds in common with the 
 
 stars. 
 To the memorial majesty of Time 
 Impersonated in thy calm decay ! 
 Take, then, thy seat. Vicegerent unre- 
 
 proved ! 
 Now, while a farewell gleam of evening 
 
 light 
 Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front, 
 Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and 
 
 rule 
 Over the pomp and beauty of a scene 
 Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and 
 
 woods, unite 
 To pay thee homage; and with these are 
 
 joined 
 In willing admiration and respect. 
 Two Hearts, which in thy presence might 
 
 be called 
 Youthful as Spring. — Shade of departed 
 
 Power, 
 Skeleton of unfleshed humanity. 
 The chronicle were welcome that should 
 
 call 
 Into the compass of distinct regard 
 
224 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 The toils and struggles of thy infant 
 
 years ! 
 Yon foaming flood seems motionless as 
 
 ice; 
 Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, 
 Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile, 
 To the perception of this Age, appear 
 Thy fierce beginnings, softened and sub- 
 dued 
 And quieted in character — the strife. 
 The pride, the fury uncontrollable. 
 Lost on the aerial heights of the Cru- 
 sades ! ' 
 1803. 1827, 
 
 ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 
 
 I have since been told tliat I was misinformed 
 as to the burial-place of Rob Roy. If so, I may 
 plead in excuse that I wrote on apparently good 
 authority, namely, that of a well-educated Lady 
 who lived at the head of the Lake, within a mile 
 or less of the point indicated as containing the 
 remains of One so famous in the neighborhood. 
 
 The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known ; 
 his grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in 
 one of those small pinfold-like Burial-grounds, of 
 neglected and desolate appearance, which the 
 traveller meets with hi the Highlands of Scotland. 
 
 A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, 
 The English ballad-singer's joy ! 
 And Scotland has a thief as good, 
 An outlaw of as daring mood; 
 She has her brave Rob Roy ! 
 
 Then clear the weeds from off his Grave, 
 And let us chant a passing stave. 
 In honor of that Hero brave ! 
 
 Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart 
 And wondrous length and strength of arm : 
 Nor craved he more to quell his foes, 
 Or keep his friends from harm. 
 
 Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave; 
 Forgive me if the phrase be strong; — 
 A. Poet worthy of Rob Roy 
 Must scorn a timid song. 
 
 * The tradition is, that the Castle was built 
 by a Lady during the absence of her Lord in 
 Palestine. 
 
 Say, then, that he was wise as brave; 
 As wise in thought as bold in deed: 
 For in the principles of things 
 He sought his moral creed. 
 
 Said generous Rob, " What need of 
 
 books ? 
 Burn all the statutes and their shelves: 
 They stir us up against our kind; 
 
 And worse, against ourselves. 
 
 '* We have a passion — make a law. 
 Too false to guide us or control ! 
 And for the law itself we fight 
 
 In bitterness of soul. ( 
 
 "And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
 Distinctions that are plain and few: 
 These find I graven on my. heart : 
 7'hat tells me what to do. 
 
 " The creatures see of flood and field, 
 And those that travel on the wind ! 
 With them no strife can last; they live 
 In peace, and peace of mind. 
 
 " For why? — because the good old rule 
 Sufficeth them, the simple plan. 
 That they should take, who have the 
 power. 
 And they should keep who can. 
 
 " A lesson that is quickly learned, 
 A signal this which all can see ! 
 Thus nothing here provokes the strong 
 To wanton cruelty. 
 
 "All freakishness of mind is checked; 
 He tamed, who foolishly aspires; 
 While to the measure of his might 
 Each fashions his desires. 
 
 " All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall 
 By strength of prowess or of wit : 
 'T is God's appointment who must sway. 
 And who is to submit. 
 
 " Since, then, the rule of right is plain. 
 And longest life is but a day; 
 To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
 I '11 take the shortest way." 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 225 
 
 md thus among these rocks he lived, 
 'hrough summer heat and winter snow : 
 "he Eagle, he was lord above, 
 And Rob was lord below. 
 
 5o was it — 7uouldj at least, have been 
 3ut through untowardness of fate; 
 ?or Polity was then too strong — 
 He came an age too late; 
 
 Dr shall we say an age too soon ? 
 ?or, were the bold Man living now, 
 rlow might he flourish in his pride, 
 With buds on every bough ! 
 
 Then rents and factors, rights of chase, 
 Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains. 
 Would all have seemed but paltry things. 
 Not worth a moment's pains. 
 
 Rob Roy had never lingered here. 
 To these few meagre Vales confined; 
 But thought how wide the world, the 
 times 
 How fairly to his mind ! 
 
 And to his Sword he would have said, 
 "Do Thou my sovereign will enact 
 From land to land through half the earth ! 
 Judge thou of law and fact ! 
 
 " 'Tis fit that we should do our part, 
 Becoming, that mankind should learn 
 That we are not to be surpassed 
 In fatherly concern. 
 
 "Of old things all are over old. 
 Of good things none are good enough : — 
 We '11 show that we can help to frame 
 A world of other stuff. 
 
 " I, too, will have my kings that take 
 From me the sign of life and death : 
 Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, 
 Obedient to my breath." 
 
 And, if the word had been fulfilled. 
 As mighth-SMe. been, then, thought of joy ! 
 France would have had her present Boast, 
 And we our own Rob Roy ! 
 
 Oh! say not so; compare them not; 
 I would not wrong thee. Champion brave ! 
 Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all 
 Here standing by thy grave. 
 
 For Thou, although with some wild 
 
 thoughts. 
 Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan ! 
 Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love 
 The liberty of man. 
 
 And, had it been thy lot to live 
 With us who now behold the light, 
 Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself. 
 And battled for the Right. 
 
 For thou wert still the poor man's stay. 
 The poor man's heart, the poor man's 
 
 hand; 
 And all the oppressed, who wanted 
 
 strength. 
 Had thine at their command. 
 
 Bear witness many a pensive sigh 
 Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays 
 Alone upon Loch Veol's heights, 
 And by Loch Lomond's braes ! 
 
 And, far and near, through vale and hill, 
 
 Are faces that attest the same; 
 
 The proud heart flashing through the eyes. 
 
 At sound of Rob Roy's name. 
 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 SONNET. 
 COMPOSED AT CASTLE. 
 
 The Castle here mentioned was Nidpath nea^ 
 Peebles. The person alluded to was the then 
 Duke of Queensbury. The fact was told me by 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 Degenerate Douglas ! oh, the unworthy 
 
 Lord ! 
 Whom mere despite of heart could so far 
 
 please. 
 And love of havoc, (for with such disease 
 Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth 
 
 word 
 To level with the dust a noble horde, 
 A brotherhood of venerable Trees, 
 
226 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like 
 
 these, 
 Beggared and outraged ! — Many hearts 
 
 deplored 
 The fate of those old Trees; and oft with 
 
 pain 
 The traveller, at this day, will stop and 
 
 gaze 
 On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems 
 
 to heed : 
 For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and 
 
 bays, 
 And the pure mountains, and the gentle 
 
 Tweed, 
 And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 
 Sept. i8, 1S03. 1807. 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 See the various Poems the scene of which is 
 laid upon the banks of the Yarrow ; in particular, 
 the exquisite ballad of Hamilton beginning 
 *' Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! — '- 
 
 From Stirling castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravelled; 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
 And with the Tweed had travelled; 
 And when we came to Clovenford, 
 Then said my " winsome Marrow,^* 
 "Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside, 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
 " Let Yarrow ioW., frae Selkirk town, 
 
 Who have been buying, selling. 
 
 Go back to Yarrow, 't is their own; 
 
 Each maiden to her dwelling ! 
 
 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
 
 Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 
 
 But we will downward with the Tweed, 
 
 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 "There 's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
 
 Both lying right before us; 
 
 And Dryborough, where with chiming 
 
 Tweed 
 The lintwhites sing in chorus; 
 There 's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
 Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 To go in search of Yarrow? 
 
 " What 's Yarrow but a river bare. 
 That glides the dark hills under ? 
 There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 As worthy of your wonder." 
 — Strange words they seemed of slight 
 
 and scorn 
 My True-love sighed for sorrow; 
 And looked me in the face, to think 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 
 "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's 
 
 holms. 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,i 
 But we will leave it growing. 
 O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
 We '11 wander Scotland thorough; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 
 
 " Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 
 The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow ! 
 We will not see them; will not go, 
 To-day, nor yet to-morrow, 
 Enough if in our hearts we know 
 There 's such a place as Yarrow. 
 
 " Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! 
 It must, or we shall rue it: 
 We have a vision of our own; 
 Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
 The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow! 
 For when we 're there, although 'tis fair, 
 'T will be another Yarrow ! 
 
 " If Care with freezing years should come, 
 And wandering seem but folly, — 
 Should we be loth to stir from home. 
 And yet be melancholy; 
 Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 'T will soothe us in our sorrow, 
 That earth has something yet to show, 
 The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 * See Hamilton's Ballad as above. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 227 
 
 THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND 
 HER HUSBAND. 
 
 At Jedborougb, my companion and I went into 
 private lodgings for a few days : and the following 
 Verses were called forth by the character and 
 domestic situation of our Hostess. 
 
 Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring 
 
 flowers, 
 And call a train of laughing Hours; 
 And bid them dance, and bid them sing; 
 And thou, too, mingle in the ring ! 
 Take to thy heart a new delight; 
 If not, make merry in despite 
 That there is One who scorns thy 
 
 power ; — 
 But dance ! for under Jedborough Tower, 
 A Matron dwells who, though she bears 
 The weight of more than seventy years. 
 Lives in the light of youthful glee, 
 And she will dance and sing with thee. 
 
 Nay ! start not at that Figure — there ! 
 Him who is rooted to his chair ! 
 Look at him — look again ! for he 
 Hath long been of thy family. 
 With legs that move not, if they can. 
 And useless arms, a trunk of man. 
 He sits, and with a vacant eye; 
 A sight to make a stranger sigh ! ' 
 Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom : 
 His world is in this single room : 
 Is this a place for mirthful cheer ? 
 Can merry-making enter here? 
 
 The joyous Woman is the Mate 
 Of him in that forlorn estate ! 
 He breathes a subterraneous damp; 
 But bright as Vesper shines her lamp : 
 He is as mute as Jedborough Tower : 
 She jocund as it was of yore, 
 With all its bravery on; in times 
 When all alive with merry chimes. 
 Upon a sun-bright morn of May, 
 It roused the Vale to holiday. 
 
 I praise thee. Matron ! and thy due 
 Is praise, heroic praise, and true ! 
 With admiration I behold 
 Thy gladness unsubdued and bold : 
 Thy looks, thy gestures, all present 
 The picture of a life well spent : 
 This do I see; and something more; 
 A strength unthought of heretofore ! 
 
 Delighted am I for thy sake; 
 And yet a higher joy partake : 
 Our Human-nature throws away 
 Its second twilight, and looks gay; 
 A land of promise and of pride 
 Unfolding, wide as life is wide. 
 
 Ah ! see her helpless Charge ! enclosed 
 Within himself it seems, composed; 
 To fear of loss, and hope of gain, 
 The strife of happiness and pain, 
 Utterly dead ! yet in the guise 
 Of little infants, when their eyes 
 Begin to follow to and fro 
 The persons that before them go. 
 He tracks her motions, quick or slow, 
 Her buoyant spirit can prevail 
 Where common cheerfulness would fail; 
 She strikes upon him with the heat 
 Of July suns; he feels it sweet; 
 An animal delight though dim ! 
 'Tis all that now remains for him! 
 
 The more I looked, I wondered more- — ■ 
 And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, 
 Some inward trouble suddenly 
 Broke from the Matron's strong black 
 
 eye — 
 A remnant of uneasy light, 
 A flash of something over-bright ! 
 Nor long this mystery did detain 
 My thoughts; — she told in pensive strain 
 That she had borne a heavy yoke. 
 Been stricken by a twofold stroke; 
 111 health of body; and had pined 
 Beneath worse ailments of the mind. 
 
 So be it ! — but let praise ascend 
 To Him who is our lord and friend ! 
 Who from disease and suffering 
 Hath called for thee a second spring; 
 Repaid thee for that sore distress 
 By no untimely joyousness; 
 Which makes of thine a blissful state; 
 And cheers thy melancholy Mate ! 
 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "FLY, SOME KIND HARBINGER, TO 
 
 GRASMERE-DALE! " 
 
 This was actually composed the last day of our 
 tour between Dalston and Grasmere. 
 
 Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere- 
 
 dale! 
 Say that we come, and come by this day's 
 
 light; 
 
228 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 Fly upon swiftest wing round field and 
 
 height, 
 But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale; 
 There let a mystery of joy prevail, 
 The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite, 
 And Rover whine, as at a second sight 
 Of near-approaching good that shall not 
 
 fail: 
 And from that Infant's face let joy appear; 
 Yea, let our Mary's one companion 
 
 child — 
 That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled 
 With intimations manifold and dear. 
 While we have wandered over wood and 
 
 wild — 
 Smile on his Mother now with bolder 
 
 cheer. 
 1803. 1815. 
 
 THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 
 
 A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRESIDE, AFTER 
 RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRASMERE. 
 
 The story was told me by George Mackereth, 
 for many years parish-clerk of Grasmere. He 
 had been an eye-witness of the occurrence. The 
 vessel in reality was a washing-tub, which the 
 Uttle fellow had met with on the shore of the 
 Loch. 
 
 Now we are tired of boisterous joy, 
 Have romped enough, my little Boy ! 
 Jane hangs her head upon my breast. 
 And you shall bring your stool and rest; 
 This corner is your own. 
 
 There ! take your seat, and let me see 
 That you can listen quietly : 
 And, as I promised, I will tell 
 That strange adventur? which befell 
 A poor blind Highland Boy. 
 
 A Highland Boy ! — why call him so ? 
 Because, my Darlings, ye must know 
 That, under hills which rise like towers. 
 Far higher hills than these of ours ! 
 He from his birth had lived. 
 
 He ne'er had seen one earthly sight 
 The sun, the day; the stars, the night; 
 Or tree, or butterfly, or flower. 
 Or fish in stream, or bird in bower. 
 Or woman, man, or child. 
 
 And yet he neither drooped nor pined. 
 Nor had a melancholy mind ; 
 For God took pity on the Boy, 
 And was his friend; and gave him joy 
 Of which we nothing know. 
 
 His Mother, too, no doubt, above 
 Her other children him did love : 
 For, was she here, or was she there. 
 She thought of him with constant care. 
 And more than mother's love. 
 
 And proud she was of heart, when, clad 
 In crimson stockings, tartan plaid. 
 And bonnet with a feather gay, 
 To Kirk he on the Sabbath day 
 Went hand in hand with her. 
 
 A dog too, had he; not for need, 
 But one to play with and to feed; 
 Which would have led him, if bereft 
 Of company or friends, and left 
 Without a better guide. 
 
 And then the bagpipes he could blow — 
 And thus from house to house would go; 
 And all were pleased to hear and see. 
 For none made sweeter melody 
 Than did the poor blind Boy. 
 
 Yet he had many a restless dream; 
 Both when he heard the eagles scream, 
 And when he heard the torrents roar, 
 And heard the water beat the shore 
 Near which their cottage stood. 
 
 Beside a lake their cottage stood. 
 Not small like ours, a peaceful flood; 
 But one of mighty size, and strange; 
 That, rough or smooth, is full of change, 
 And stirring in its bed. 
 
 For to this lake, by night and day. 
 The great Sea-water finds its way 
 Through long, long windings of the hills 
 And drinks up all the pretty rills 
 And rivers large and strong : 
 
 Then hurries back the road it came — 
 Returns, on errand still the same; 
 This did it when the earth was new; 
 And this for evermore will do 
 As long as earth shall last. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 22g 
 
 And, wilh the coming of the tide, 
 Come boais and ships that safely ride 
 Between the woods and lefty rocks; 
 And to the shepherds with their flocks 
 Bring tales of distant lands. 
 
 And of those tales, whate'er they were, 
 The blind Boy always had his share; 
 Whether of mighty towns, or vales 
 With warmer suns and softer gales, 
 Or wonders of the Deep. 
 
 Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred, 
 When, from the water-side he heatd 
 The shouting, and the jolly cheers; 
 The bustle of the mariners 
 In stillness or in storm. 
 
 But what do his desires avail? 
 For He must never h.rndle sail; 
 Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor floa. 
 In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat. 
 Upon the rocking waves. 
 
 His Mother often thought, and said. 
 What sin would be upon he.f head 
 If she should suffer this: " My Son, 
 Whate'er you do, leave this undone; 
 The danger is so great. 
 
 Thus lived he by Loch Leven's side. 
 Still sounding with the sounding tide, 
 And heard the billows leap and dance, 
 Without a shadow of mischance. 
 Till he was ten years old. 
 
 When one day (and now mark me well, 
 Ye soon shall know how this befell) 
 He in a vessel of his own, 
 On the swift flood is hurrying down, 
 Down to the mighty Sea. 
 
 In such a vessel never more 
 May human creature leave the shore ! 
 If this or that way he should stir, 
 Woe to the poor blind Mariner ! 
 For death will be his doom. 
 
 But say what bears him ? — Ye have seen 
 The Indian's bow, his arrows keen. 
 Rare beasts, and birds with plumage 
 bright; 
 
 Gifts which, for wonder or delight. 
 Are brought in ships from far. 
 
 Such gifts had those seafaring men 
 Spread round that haven in the glen; 
 Each hut, perchance, might have its own; 
 And to the Boy they all were known — 
 He knew and prized them all. 
 
 The rarest was a Turtle-shell 
 Which he, poor Child, had studied well; 
 A shell of ample size, and light 
 As the pearly car of Amphitrite, 
 That sportive dolphins drew. 
 
 And, as a Coracle that braves 
 On Vaga's breast the fretful waves, 
 This shell upon the deep would sv/im. 
 And gayly lift its fearless brim 
 Above the tossing surge. 
 
 And this the little blind Boy knew : 
 And he a story strange yet true 
 Had heard, how in a shell like this 
 An English Boy, O thought of bliss ! 
 Ilixd stoutly launched from shore; 
 
 Launched from the margin of a bay 
 Among the Indian isles, where lay 
 His father's ship, and had sailed far — 
 To join that gallant ship of war. 
 In his delightful shell. 
 
 Our Highland Boy oft visited 
 The house that held this prize; and, led 
 By choice or chance, did thither come 
 One day when no one was at home. 
 And found the door unbarred. 
 
 While there he sate, alone and blind. 
 That story flashed upon his mind; — 
 A bold thought roused him, and he took 
 The shell from out its secret nook. 
 And bore it on his head. 
 
 He launched his vessel, — and in pride 
 Of spirit, from Loch Leven's side. 
 Stepped into it — his thoughts all free 
 As the light breezes that with glee 
 
 Sang through the adventurer's hair. 
 
 A while he stood upon his feet; 
 He felt the motion — took his seat; 
 
230 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 Still better pleased as more and more 
 The tide retreated from the shore, 
 And sucked, and sucked him in. 
 
 And there he is in face of Heaven. 
 How rapidly the Child is driven ! 
 The fourth part of a mile, I ween, 
 He thus had gone, ere he was seen 
 By any human eye. 
 
 But when he was first seen, oh me 
 What shrieking and what misery ! 
 p"or many saw; among the rest 
 His Mother, she who loved him best, 
 She saw her poor blind Boy. 
 
 But for the child, the sightless Boy, 
 It is the triumph of his joy ! 
 The bravest traveller in balloon, 
 Mounting as if to reach the moon. 
 Was never half so blessed. 
 
 And let him, let him go his way. 
 Alone, and innocent, and gay! 
 For, if good Angels love to wait 
 On the forlorn unfortunate. 
 
 This Child will take no harm. 
 
 But now the passionate lament, 
 Which from the crowd on shore was sent. 
 The cries which broke from old and young 
 In Gaelic, or the English tongue. 
 Are stifled — all is still. 
 
 And quickly with a silent crew 
 A boat is ready to pursue; 
 And from the shore their course they take. 
 And swiftly down the running lake 
 They follow the blind Boy. 
 
 But soon they move with softer pace; 
 So have ye seen the fowler chase 
 On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast 
 A youngling of the wild-duck's nest 
 With deftly-lifted oar; 
 
 Or as the wily sailors crept 
 To seize (while on the Deep it slept) 
 The hapless creature which did dwell 
 Erewhile within the dancing shell. 
 They steal upon their prey. 
 
 With sound the least that can be made. 
 They follow, more and more afraid, 
 More cautious as they draw more near; 
 But in his darkness he can hear. 
 And guesses their intent. 
 
 "Lei-gha — Lei-gha" — he then cried out, 
 ' 'Lei-g&a ■ — Lei-gha " — with eager shout; 
 Thus did he cry, and thus did pray. 
 And what he meant was, " Keep away, 
 And leave me to myself ! " 
 
 Alas ! and when he felt their hands — 
 You 've often heard of magic wands, 
 That with a motion overthrow 
 A palace of the proudest show, 
 Or melt it into air : 
 
 So all his dreams — that inward light 
 With which his soul had shone so bright — 
 All vanished; — 't was a heartfelt cross 
 To him, a heavy, bitter loss. 
 As he had ever known. 
 
 But hark ! a gratulating voice. 
 With which the very hills rejoice : 
 'T is from the crowd, who tremblingly 
 Have watched the event, and now can 
 see 
 That he is safe at last. 
 
 And then, when he was brought to land, 
 Full sure they were a happy band, 
 Which, gathering round, did on the banks 
 Of that great Water give God thanks. 
 And welcomed the poor Child. 
 
 And in the general joy of heart 
 The blind Boy's little dog lOok part; 
 He leapt about, and oft did kiss 
 His master's hands in sign of bliss. 
 With sound like lamentation. 
 
 But most of all, his Mother dear, 
 She who had fainted with her fear. 
 Rejoiced when waking she espies 
 The Child ; when she can trust her eyes. 
 And touches the blind Boy. 
 
 She led him home, and wept amain, 
 When he was in the house again : 
 
OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 231 
 
 Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes; 
 She kissed him — how could she chastise ? 
 She was too happy far. 
 
 Thus, after he had fondly braved 
 The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved; 
 And, though his fancies had been wild. 
 Yet he was pleased and reconciled 
 To live in peace on shore. 
 
 And in the lonely Highland dell 
 Still do they keep the Turtle-shell 
 And long the story will repeat 
 Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat, 
 And how he v/as preserved. 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 Note. — It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages^ 
 that a boy, son of the captain of a Man-of-War, 
 seated himself in a Turtle-shell, and floated in it 
 from the shore to his father's ship, which lay at 
 anchor at the distance of half a mile. In defer- 
 ence to the opinion of a Friend, 1 have substituted 
 such a shell for the less elegant vessel in which 
 my blind Voyager did actually entrust himself to 
 the dangerous current of Loch Leven, as was 
 related to me by an eye-witness. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 One might believe that natural miseries 
 Had blasted France, and made of it a land 
 Unfit for men; and that in one great band 
 Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at 
 
 ease. 
 But 't is a chosen soil, where sun and 
 
 breeze 
 Shed gentle favors : rural works are there. 
 And ordinary business without care ; 
 Spot rich in all things that can soothe and 
 
 please ! 
 How piteous then that there should be 
 
 such dearth 
 Of knowledge ; that whole myriads should 
 
 unite 
 To work against themselves such fell 
 
 despite : 
 Should come in phrensy and in drunken 
 
 mirth, 
 Impatient to put out the only light 
 Of Liberty that yet remains on earth ! 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 "THERE IS A BONDAGE WORSE, 
 FAR WORSE, TO BEAR." 
 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to 
 
 bear 
 Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, 
 
 and wall. 
 Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall: 
 'T is his who walks about in the open air, 
 One of a Nation who, henceforth, must 
 
 wear 
 Their fetters in their souls. For who 
 
 could be. 
 Who, even the best, in such condition, free 
 From self-reproach, reproach that he must 
 
 share 
 With Human-nature? Never be it ~urs 
 To see the sun how brightly it will snine. 
 And know that noble feelings, manly 
 
 powers, 
 Instead of gathering strength, must droop 
 
 and pine; 
 And earth with all her pleasant fruits and 
 
 flowers 
 Fade, and participate in man's decline. 
 October, 1803. 1807. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 These times strike monied worldlings 
 
 with dismay: 
 Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the 
 
 air 
 With words of apprehension and despair : 
 While tens of thousands, thinking on the 
 
 affray. 
 Men unto whom sufficient for the day 
 And minds not stinted or unfilled are 
 
 given, 
 Sound, healthy, children of the God of 
 
 heaven. 
 Are cheerful as the rising sun in May. 
 What do we gather hence but firmer faith 
 That every gift of noble origin 
 Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual 
 
 breath; 
 That virtue and the faculties within 
 Are vital, — and that riches are akin 
 To fear, to change, to cowardice, and 
 
 death? 
 1803. 1807. 
 
23- 
 
 'ENGLAND! THE TIME IS COME.' 
 
 "ENGLAND! THE TIME IS COME 
 WHEN THOU SHOULD'STWEAN." 
 
 England ! the time is come when thou 
 
 should'st wean 
 Thy heart from its emasculating food; 
 The truth should now be better under- 
 stood; 
 Old things have been unsettled; we have 
 
 seen 
 Fair seed-time, better harvest might have 
 
 been 
 But for thy trespasses; and, at this day, 
 If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, 
 Aught good were destined, thou would'st 
 
 step between. 
 England ! all nations in this charge agree : 
 But worse, more ignorant in love and 
 
 hate, 
 Far — far more abject, is thine Enemy : 
 Therefore the wise pray for thee, though 
 
 the freight 
 Of thy offences be a heavy weight : 
 Oh grief that Earth's best hopes rest all 
 
 with Thee ! 
 
 October, 1803. 
 
 1807. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 When, looking on the present face of 
 
 things, 
 I see one Man, of men the meanest too ! 
 Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo. 
 With mighty Nations for his underlings, 
 The great events with which old story rings 
 Seem vain and hollow; I find nothing 
 
 great : 
 Nothing is left which I can venerate; 
 So that a doubt almost within me springs 
 Of Providence, such emptiness at length 
 Seems at the heart of all things. But, 
 
 great God ! 
 I measure back the steps which I have 
 
 trod: 
 And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the 
 
 strength 
 Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts 
 
 sublime 
 I tremble at the sorrow of the time. 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 TO THE MEN OF KENT. 
 
 October, 1803. 
 
 Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 
 Ye children of a Soil that doth advance 
 Her haughty brow against the coast of 
 
 France, 
 Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! 
 To France be words of invitation sent ! 
 They from their fields can see the coun- 
 tenance 
 Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering 
 
 lance 
 And hear you shouting forth your brave 
 
 intent. 
 Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore. 
 Did from the Norman win a gallant 
 
 wreath; 
 Confirmed the charters that were yours 
 
 before; — 
 No parleying now ! In Britain is one 
 
 breath; 
 We all are with you now from shore to 
 
 shore : — 
 Ye men of Kent, 't is victory or death! 
 1803. 1807, 
 
 IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY. 
 An invasion being expected, October, 1803. 
 
 Six thousand veterans practised in war's 
 game, 
 
 Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed 
 
 Against an equal host that wore the plaid. 
 
 Shepherds and herdsmen. — Like a whirl- 
 wind came 
 
 The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like 
 flame; 
 
 And Garry, thundering down his moun- 
 tain-road. 
 
 Was stopped, and could not breathe be- 
 neath the load 
 
 Of the dead bodies. — 'T was a day of 
 shame 
 
 For them whom precept and the pedantry 
 
 Of cold mechanic battle do enslave. 
 
 O for a single hour of that Dundee, 
 
 Who on that day the word of onset gave ! 
 
 Like conquest would the Men of England 
 see; 
 
 And her Foes find a like inglorious grave. 
 1S03. 1807. 
 
THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 
 
 233 
 
 ANTICIPATION, October, 1803. 
 
 Shout, for a mighty Victory is won ! 
 On British ground the Invaders are laid 
 
 low; 
 The breath of Heaven has drifted them 
 
 like snow, 
 And left them lying in the silent sun, 
 Never to rise again ! — the work is done. 
 Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful 
 
 show 
 And greet your sons ! drums beat and 
 
 trumpets blow ! 
 Make merry, wives ! ye little children, stun 
 Your grandame's ears with pleasure of 
 
 your noise ! 
 Clap, infants, clap your hands ! Divine 
 
 must be 
 That triumph, when the very worst, the 
 
 pain, 
 And even the prospect of our brethren 
 
 slain. 
 Hath something in it which the heart 
 
 enjoys : — 
 In glory will they sleep and endless sanc- 
 tity. 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 LINES ON THE EXPECTED 
 INVASION, 1803. 
 
 Come ye — who, if (which Heaven 
 
 avert ! ) the Land 
 Were with herself at strife, would take 
 
 your stand. 
 Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's 
 
 side, 
 And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your 
 
 pride — 
 Come ye — who, not less zealous, might 
 
 display 
 Banners at enmity with regal sway. 
 And, like the Pyms and Miltons of that 
 
 day. 
 Think that a State would live in sounder 
 
 health 
 If Kingship bowed its head to Common- 
 wealth — 
 Ye too — whom no discreditable fear 
 Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless 
 
 tear, 
 
 Uncertain what to choose and how to 
 
 steer — 
 And ye — who might mistake for sober 
 
 sense 
 And wise reserve the plea of indolence — 
 Come ye — whate'er your creed — O 
 
 waken all, 
 Whate'er your temper, at your Country's 
 
 call; 
 Resolving (this a free-born Nation can) 
 To have one Soul, and perish to a man, 
 Or save this honored Land from every 
 
 Lord 
 But British reason and the British sword. 
 1803. 1845- 
 
 THE FARMER OF TILSBURY 
 VALE.i 
 
 The character of this man was desciibed to 
 me, and the incident upon which the verses turn 
 was told me, by'Mr. Pool of Nether Stowey, with 
 whom I became acquainted through our common 
 friend, S. T. Coleridge. During my residence at 
 Alfoxden I used to see much of him and had fre- 
 quent occasions to admire the course oE his daily 
 life, especially his conduct to his laborers and 
 poor neighbors ; their virtues he carefully encour- 
 aged, and weighed their faults in the scales of 
 charity. If I seem in these verses to have treated 
 the weaknesses of the farmer, and his transgres- 
 sion, too tenderly, it may in part be ascribed to 
 my having received the story from one so averse 
 to all harsh judgment. After his death, was 
 found in his escritoir a lock of gray hair carefully 
 preserved, with a notice that it had been cut from 
 the head of his faithful shepherd, who had served 
 him for a length of years. I need scarcely add 
 that he felt for all men as his brothers. He was 
 much beloved by distinguished persons — Mr. 
 Coleridge, Mr. Southey, Sir H. Davy, and many 
 others ; and in his own neighborhood was highly 
 valued as a magistrate, a man of business, and in 
 every other social relation. The latter part of the 
 poem, perhaps, requires some apology as being 
 too much of an echo to the '* Reverie of Poor 
 Susan." 
 
 'T IS not for the unfeeling, the falsely re- 
 fined, 
 
 The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of 
 mind. 
 
 And the small critic wielding his delicate 
 pen. 
 
 That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old 
 men. 
 
 • See Note. 
 
234 
 
 THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 
 
 He dwells in the centre of London's wide 
 
 Town; 
 His staff is a sceptre — his gray hairs a 
 
 crown ; 
 And his bright eyes look brighter, set off 
 
 by the streak 
 Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on 
 
 his cheek. 
 
 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, — 
 
 'mid the joy 
 Of the fields, he collected that bloom, 
 
 when a boy, 
 That countenance there fashioned, which, 
 
 spite of a stain 
 That his life hath received, to the last will 
 
 remain. 
 
 A Farmer he was; and his house far and 
 
 near 
 Was the boast of the country for excellent 
 
 cheer : 
 How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury 
 
 Vale 
 Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he 
 
 dealt his mild ale ! 
 
 Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, 
 His fields seemed to know what their 
 
 Master was doing : 
 And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, 
 
 and lea. 
 All caught the infection — ^as generous 
 
 as he. 
 
 Yet Adam prized little the feast and the 
 bowl, • — 
 
 The fields better suited the ease of his 
 soul: 
 
 He strayed through the fields like an in- 
 dolent wight. 
 
 The quiet of nature was Adam's delight. 
 
 For Adam was simple in thought; and 
 
 the poor, 
 Familiar with him, made an inn of his 
 
 door ; 
 He gave them the best that he had; or, 
 
 to say 
 What less may mislead you, they took it 
 
 away. 
 
 Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on 
 
 his farm : 
 The Genius of plenty preserved him from 
 
 harm: 
 At length, what to most is a season of 
 
 sorrow. 
 His means are run out, — he must beg, or 
 
 must borrow. 
 
 To the neighbors he went, — all were free 
 
 with their money; 
 For his hive had so long been replenished 
 
 with honey. 
 That they dreamt not of dearth ; — He 
 
 continued his rounds. 
 Knocked here — and knocked there, 
 
 pounds still adding to pounds. 
 
 He paid what he could with his ill-gotten 
 
 pelf. 
 And something, it might be, reserved for 
 
 himself : 
 Then (what is too true) without hinting 
 
 a word. 
 Turned his back on the country — and off 
 
 like a bird. 
 
 You lift up your eyes ! — but I guess that 
 
 you frame 
 A judgment too harsh of the sin and the 
 
 shame; 
 In him it was scarcely a business of art. 
 For this he did all in the ease of his heart. 
 
 To London — a sad emigration I ween — 
 With his gray hairs he went from the 
 
 brook and the green; 
 And there, with small wealth but his legs 
 
 and bis hands. 
 As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. 
 
 All trades, as need was, did old Adam 
 
 assume, — 
 Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, 
 
 and groom; 
 But nature is gracious, necessity kind. 
 And, in spite of the shame that may lurk 
 
 in his mind. 
 
 He seems ten birthdays younger, is green 
 
 and is stout; 
 Twice as fast as before does his blood run 
 
 about ; 
 
TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 23s 
 
 You would say that each hair of his beard 
 
 was ahve, 
 And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. 
 
 For he 's not like an Old Man that leisurely 
 
 goes 
 About work that he knows, in a track that 
 
 he knows; 
 But often his mind is compelled to demur, 
 And you guess that the more then his body 
 
 must stir. 
 
 In the throng of the town like a stranger 
 
 is he. 
 Like one whose own country's far over 
 
 the sea; 
 And Nature, while through the great city 
 
 he hies, 
 Full ten times a day takes his heart by 
 
 surprise. 
 
 This gives him the fancy of one that is 
 
 young. 
 More of soul in his face than of words on 
 
 his tongue; 
 Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and 
 
 sighs, 
 And tears of fifteen will come into his 
 
 eyes. 
 
 What 's a tempest to him, or the dry 
 
 parching heats? 
 Yet he watches the clouds that pass over 
 
 the streets; 
 With a look of such earnestness often will 
 
 stand, 
 You might think he 'd twelve reapers at 
 
 work in the Strand. 
 
 Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate 
 
 hours 
 Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits 
 
 and her flowers. 
 Old Adam will smile at the pains that have 
 
 made 
 Poor winter look fine in such strange 
 
 masquerade. 
 
 'Mid coaches and chariots, a wagon of 
 
 straw. 
 Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can 
 
 draw; 
 
 With a thousand soft pictures his memory 
 
 will teem. 
 And his hearing is touched with the 
 
 sounds of a dream. 
 
 Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his 
 
 way. 
 Thrusts his hands in a wagon, and smells 
 
 at the hay; 
 He thinks of the fields he so often hath 
 
 mown. 
 And is happy as if the rich freight were 
 
 his own. 
 
 But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to re- 
 pair, — 
 
 If you pass by at morning, you '11 meet 
 with him there. 
 
 The breath of the cows you may see him 
 inhale, 
 
 And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury 
 Vale. 
 
 Now farewell, old Adam ! when low thou 
 
 art laid. 
 May one blade of grass spring up over thy 
 
 head; 
 And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever 
 
 it be. 
 Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves 
 
 of a tree. 
 ■803. 1815. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Composed in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. 
 
 BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice. 
 
 O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice? 
 
 While I am lying on the grass 
 Thy twofold shout I hear, 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass. 
 At once far off, and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the Vale, 
 Of sunshine and of flowers. 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring I 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
236 
 
 'SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.' 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 
 A voice, a mystery; 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy days 
 I listened to; that Cry 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
 Still longed for, never seen. 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, faery place; 
 That is fit home for Thee I 
 1804. 1807. 
 
 "SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF 
 DELIGHT." 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Ttie germ 
 of this poem was four lines composed as a part of 
 the verses on the Highland Girl. Though be- 
 ginning m this way, it was written from my 
 heart, as is sufficiently obvious. 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight; 
 A lovely Apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament; 
 Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay. 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free. 
 
 And steps of virgin-liberty; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
 
 A Creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and 
 smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine; 
 A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A Traveller between life and death; 
 The reason firm, the temperate will. 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
 A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
 To warn, to comfort, and command; 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 With something of angelic light. 
 1804. 1807. 
 
 "I WANDERED LONELY AS 
 A CLOUD." 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The 
 Daffodils grew and still grow on the margin of 
 Ullswater, and probably may be seen to this day 
 as beautiful in the month of March, nodding 
 their golden heads beside the dancing and foam- 
 ing waves. 
 
 I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 A host, of golden daffodils; 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay: 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced; but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 
 
 A poet could not but be gay. 
 
 In such a jocund company: 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought : 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 In vacant or in pensive mood. 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 1S04. 1807. 
 
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 
 
 237 
 
 THE AFFLICTION OF 
 MARGARET — 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This was 
 talcen from the case of a poor widow who lived 
 in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well 
 known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my Sister, and, I 
 believe, to the whole town. She kept a shop, 
 and when she saw a stranger passing by, she was 
 in the habit of going out into the street to inquire 
 of him after her son. 
 
 Wheke art thou, my beloved Son, 
 Where art thou, worse to me than dead? 
 Oh find me, prosperous or undone ! 
 Or, if the grave be now thy bed, 
 Why am I ignorant of the same, 
 That I may rest; and neither blame 
 Nor sorrow may attend thy name? 
 
 Seven years, alas ! to have received 
 No tidings of an only child; 
 To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 
 And been for evermore beguiled, 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
 I catch at them, and then I miss; 
 Was ever darkness like to this? 
 
 He was among the prime in worth. 
 
 An object beauteous to behold; 
 
 Well born, well bred; I sent him forth 
 
 Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
 
 If things ensued that wanted grace. 
 
 As hath been said, they were not base; 
 
 And never blush was on my face. 
 
 Ah ! little doth the young one dream, 
 When full of play and childish cares, 
 What power is in his wildest scream, 
 Heard by his mother unawares ! 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess: 
 Years to a mother bring distress; 
 But do not make her love the less. 
 
 Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 
 From that ill thought; and, being blind. 
 Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong; 
 Kind mother have I been, as kind 
 
 As ever breathed: " and that is true; 
 I 've wet my path with tears like dew. 
 Weeping for him when no one knew. 
 
 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
 Hopeless of honor and of gain. 
 Oh I do not dread thy mother's door; 
 Think not of me with grief and pain : 
 I now can see with better eyes; 
 And worldly grandeur I despise, 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
 Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
 And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; 
 They mount — how short a voyage brings 
 The wanderers back to their delight ! 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea; 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan. 
 Maimed, mangled by inhuman men; 
 Or thou upon a desert thrown 
 Inheritest the lion's den; 
 Or hast been summoned to the deep, 
 Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 IX. 
 I look for ghosts; but none will force 
 Their way to me : 't is falsely said 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 Between the living and the dead; 
 For, surely, then I should have sight 
 Of him I wait for day and night, 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds; 
 I dread the rustHng of the grass; 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 Have power to shake me as they pass: 
 I question things and do not find 
 One that will answer to my mind; 
 And all the world appears unkind. 
 
 Beyond participation lie 
 
 My troubles, and beyond relief: 
 
338 
 
 THE FORSAKEN. 
 
 If any chance to heave a sigh, 
 They pity me, and not my grief. 
 Then come to me, my Son, or send 
 Some tidings that my woes may end; 
 I have no other earthly friend ! 
 1804. 1807. 
 
 THE FORSAKEN. 
 
 This was an overflow from the "Affliction of 
 
 Margaret ," and was excluded as superfluous 
 
 there, but preserved in the faint hope that it may 
 turn to account by restoring a shy lover to some 
 forsaken damsel. My poetry has been complained 
 of as deficient in interests of this sort, — a charge 
 which the piece beginning, " Lyre! though such 
 power do in thy magic live," will scarcely tend to 
 obviate. The natural imagery of these verses 
 was supplied by frequent, I might say intense, 
 observation of the Rydal torrent. What an 
 animating contrast is the ever-changing aspect of 
 that, and indeed of every one of our mountain 
 brooks, to the monotonous tone and unmitigated 
 fury of such streams among the Alps as are fed 
 all the summer long by glaciers and ntelting 
 snows. A traveller observing the exquisite purity 
 of the great rivers, such as the Rhine at Geneva, 
 and the Reuss at Lucerne, when they issue out 
 of their respective lakes, might fancy for a mo- 
 ment that some power in nature produced this 
 beautiful change, with a view to make amends for 
 those Alpine suUyings which the waters exhibit 
 near their fountain heads ; but, alas ! how soon 
 does that purity depart before the influx of trib- 
 utary waters that have flowed through cultivated 
 plains and the crowded abodes of men. 
 
 The peace which others seek they find; 
 The heaviest storms not longest last; 
 Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind 
 An amnesty for what is past; 
 When will my sentence be reversed? 
 I only pray to know the worst; 
 And wish as if my heart would burst. 
 
 weary struggle ! silent years 
 Tell seemingly no doubtful tale; 
 And yet they leave it short, and fears 
 And hopes are strong and will prevail. 
 My calmest faith escapes not pain; 
 And, feeling that the hope is vain, 
 
 1 think that he will come again. 
 
 1804. 1845. 
 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 A PASTORAL BALLAD. 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Suggested 
 by the conversation of our next neighbor, Mar- 
 garet Ashburner. 
 
 The fields which with covetous spirit we 
 
 sold, 
 Those beautiful fields, the delight of the 
 
 day, 
 Would have brought us more good than 
 
 a burthen of gold, 
 Could we but have been as contented as 
 
 they. 
 
 When the troublesome Tempter beset us, 
 
 said I, 
 " Let him come, with his purse proudly 
 
 grasped in his liand; 
 But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, — we '11 
 
 die 
 Before he shall go with an inch of the 
 
 land!" 
 
 There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their 
 
 bowers; 
 Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide; 
 We could do what we liked with the land, 
 
 it was ours; 
 And for us the brook murmured that ran 
 
 by its side. 
 
 But now we are strangers; go early or late; 
 
 And often, like one overburthened with 
 sin, 
 
 With my hand on the latch of the half- 
 opened gate, 
 
 I look at the fields, but I cannot go in ! 
 
 When I walk by the hedge on a bright 
 
 summer's day, 
 Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's 
 
 tree, 
 A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, 
 "What ails you, that you must come 
 
 creeping to me ! " 
 
 With our pastures about us, we could ntt 
 
 be sad; 
 Our comfort was near if we ever wer' 
 
 crost : 
 
THE SEVEN SISTERS. 
 
 239 
 
 But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth 
 that we had. 
 
 We slighted them all, — and our birth- 
 right was lost. 
 
 Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son 
 Who must now be a wanderer ! but peace 
 
 to that strain ! 
 Think of evening's repose when our labor 
 
 was done. 
 The sabbath's return; and its leisure's soft 
 
 chain ! 
 
 And in sickness, if night had been spar- 
 ing of sleep. 
 
 How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where 
 I stood. 
 
 Looking down on the kine, and our treas- 
 ure of sheep 
 
 That besprinkled the field; 't was like 
 youth in my blood ! 
 
 Now I cleave to the house, and am dull 
 
 as a snail; 
 And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell 
 
 with a sigh. 
 That follows the thought — We 've no land 
 
 in the vale. 
 Save six feet of earth where our forefathers 
 
 lie! 
 1804. 1820. 
 
 THE SEVEN SISTERS ;i 
 
 OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. 
 I. 
 
 Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, 
 
 All children of one mother : 
 
 y^ou could not say in one short day 
 
 What love they bore each other. 
 
 A garland, of seven lilies, wrought I 
 
 Seven Sisters that together dwell; 
 
 But he, bold Knight as ever fought. 
 
 Their Father, took of them no thought, 
 
 He loved the wars so well. 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 
 The solitude of Binnorie ! 
 
 II. 
 Fresh blows the wind, a western wind. 
 And from the shores of Erin, 
 1 See Note. 
 
 Across the wave, a Rover brave 
 
 To Binnorie is steering : 
 
 Right onward to the Scottish strand 
 
 The gallant ship is borne; 
 
 The warriors leap upon the land. 
 
 And hark ! the Leader of the band 
 
 Hath blown his bugle horn. 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 
 The solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Beside a grotto of their own. 
 With boughs above them closing, 
 The Seven are laid, and in the shade 
 They lie like fawns reposing. 
 But now, upstarting with affright 
 At noise of man and steed. 
 Away they fly to left, to right — 
 Of your fair household. Father-knight, 
 Methinks you take small heed ! 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully. 
 The solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Away the seven fair Campbells fly. 
 
 And, over hill and hollow, 
 
 With menace proud, and insult loud, 
 
 The youthful Rovers follow. 
 
 Cried they, " Your Father loves to roam: 
 
 Enough for him to find 
 
 The empty house when he comes home; 
 
 For us your yellow ringlets comb. 
 
 For us be fair and kind ! " 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully. 
 
 The solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Some close behind, some side to side. 
 
 Like clouds in stormy weather; 
 
 They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die, 
 
 And let us die together." 
 
 A lake wae near; the shore was steep; 
 
 There never foot had been; 
 
 They ran, and with a desperate leap 
 
 Together plunged into the deep. 
 
 Nor ever more were seen. 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully. 
 
 The solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 The stream that flows out of the lake. 
 As through the glen it rambles, 
 
240 
 
 ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA. 
 
 Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, 
 For those seven lovely Campbells. 
 Seven little Islands, green and bare, 
 Have risen from out the deep : 
 The fishers say, those sisters fair, 
 By faeries all are buried there. 
 And there together sleep. 
 Sing, mournfully, oh 1 mournfully, 
 The solitude of Binnorie. 
 1804. 1807. 
 
 ADDRESS TO MY INFANT 
 DAUGHTER, DORA, 
 
 ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A 
 MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 1 6. 
 
 — Hast thou then survived — 
 Mild Offspring of infirm humanity. 
 Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things 
 The most forlorn — one life of that bright 
 
 star. 
 The second glory of the Heavens? — 
 
 Thou hast. 
 Already hast survived that great decay. 
 That transformation through the wide 
 
 earth felt. 
 And by all nations. In that Being's sight 
 From whom the Race of human kind pro- 
 ceed, 
 A thousand years are but as yesterday; 
 And one day's narrow circuit is to Him 
 Not less capacious than a thousand years. 
 But what is time? What outward glory? 
 
 neither 
 A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend 
 Through " heaven's eternal year." — Yet 
 
 hail to Thee, 
 Frail, feeble Monthling ! — by that name, 
 
 methinks. 
 Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out 
 Not idly. — Hadst thou been of Indian 
 
 birth, 
 Couched on a casual bed of moss and 
 
 leaves. 
 And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, 
 Or to the churlish elements exposed 
 On the blank plains, — the coldness of the 
 
 night. 
 Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful 
 
 face 
 Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned, 
 Would, with imperious admonition, then 
 
 Have scored thine age, and punctually 
 
 timed 
 Thine infant history, on the minds of those 
 Who might have wandered with thee. — 
 
 Mother's love. 
 Nor less than mother's love in other 
 
 breasts. 
 Will, among vjs warm-clad and warmly 
 
 housed. 
 Do for thee what the finger of the heavens 
 Doth all too often harshly execute 
 For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds 
 Where fancy hath small liberty to grace 
 The affections, to exalt them or refine; 
 And the maternal sympathy itself, 
 Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless 
 
 tie 
 Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. 
 Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours ! 
 Even now — to solemnize thy helpless 
 
 state, 
 And to enliven in the mind's regard 
 Thy passive beauty — parallels have risen, 
 Resemblances, or contrasts, that con- 
 nect. 
 Within the region of a father's thoughts. 
 Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. 
 And first; — thy sinless progress, through 
 
 a world 
 By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed. 
 Apt likeness bears to hers, through gath- 
 ered clouds. 
 Moving untouched in silver purity. 
 And cheering oft-times their reluctant 
 
 gloom. 
 Fair are ye both, and both are free from 
 
 stain : 
 But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy 
 
 horn 
 With brightness ! leaving her to post 
 
 along. 
 And range about, disquieted in change. 
 And still impatient of the shape she wears. 
 Once up, once down the hill, one journey, 
 
 Babe, 
 That will suffice thee; and it seems that 
 
 now 
 Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task 
 
 is thine; 
 Thou travellest so contentedly, and 
 
 sleep'st 
 In such a heedless peace. Alas ! full soon 
 Hath this conception, grateful to behold, 
 
THE Kin'EN AND FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 241 
 
 Changed countenance, like an object 
 
 sullied o'er 
 By breathing mist ; and thine appears to be 
 A mournful labor, while to her is given 
 Hope, nnd a renovation without end. 
 — That smile forbids the thought; for on 
 
 thy face 
 Smiles are beginning, like the beams of 
 
 dawn, 
 To shoot and circulate; smiles have there 
 
 been seen 
 Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports 
 The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers 
 Thy loneliness : or shall those smiles be 
 
 called 
 Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore 
 This untried world, and to prepare thy 
 
 way 
 Through a strait passage intricate and dim ? 
 Such are they; and the same are tokens, 
 
 signs. 
 Which, when the appointed season hath 
 
 arrived, 
 Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; 
 And Reason's godlike Power be proud to 
 
 own. 
 1804. 1815. 
 
 THE KITTEN AND FALLING 
 LEAVES. 
 
 Seen at Town-end, Grasmere. The elder-bush 
 has long since disappeared : it hung over the wall 
 near the Cottage ; and the Kitten continued to 
 leap up, catching the leaves as here described. 
 The infant was Dora. 
 
 That way look, my Infant, lo ! 
 What a pretty baby-show ! 
 See the Kitten on the wall. 
 Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
 VVithered leaves — one — two — and 
 
 three — 
 From the lofty elder-tree ! 
 Through the cairn and frosty air 
 Of this morning bright and fair, 
 Eddying round and round they sink 
 Softly, slowly: one might think. 
 From the motions that are made. 
 Every little leaf conveyed 
 Sylph or Faery hither tending, — 
 To this lower world descending, 
 Each invisible and mute. 
 
 In his wavering parachute. 
 
 — But the Kitten, how she starts. 
 
 Crouches, stretches, pav/s, and darts I 
 
 First at one, and then its fellow 
 
 Just as light and just as yellow; 
 
 There are many now — now one — ■ 
 
 Now they stop and there are none. 
 
 What intenseness of desire 
 
 In her upward eye of fire ! 
 
 With a tiger-leap half-way 
 
 Now she meets the coming prey, 
 
 Lets it go as fast, and then 
 
 Has it in her power again ; 
 
 Now she works with three or four, 
 
 Like an Indian conjurer; 
 
 Quick as he in feats of art. 
 
 Far beyond in joy of heart. 
 
 Were her antics played in the eye 
 
 Of a thousand standers-by, 
 
 Clapping hands with shout and stare. 
 
 What would Httle Tabby care 
 
 For the plaudits of the crowd? 
 
 Over happy to be proud. 
 
 Over wealthy in the treasure 
 
 Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 
 
 'T is a pretty baby-treat; 
 Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; 
 Here, for neither Babe nor me. 
 Other playmate can I see. 
 Of the countless living things, 
 That with stir of feet and wings 
 (In the sun or under shade. 
 Upon bough or grassy blade) 
 And with busy revellings, 
 Chirp and song, and murmurings. 
 Made this orchard's narrow space, 
 And this vale so blithe a place; 
 Multitudes are swept away 
 Never more to breathe the day : 
 Some are sleeping; some in bands 
 Travelled into distant lands; 
 Others slunk to moor and wood, 
 Far from human neighborhood; 
 And, among the Kinds that keep 
 With us closer fellowship. 
 With us openly abide. 
 All have laid their mirth aside. 
 
 Where is he that giddy Sprite, 
 Blue-cap, with his colors bright, 
 Who was blest as bird could be. 
 Feeding in the apple-tree; 
 Made such wanton spoil and rout. 
 Turning blossoms inside out; 
 
242 
 
 TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND. 
 
 Hung — head pointing towards tlie 
 
 ground — 
 Fluttered, perched, into a round 
 Bound himself, and then unbound; 
 Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! 
 Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 
 Light of heart and light of limb; 
 What is now become of Him? 
 Lambs, that through the mountains went 
 Frisking, bleating merriment, 
 When the year was in its prime. 
 They are sobered by this time. 
 If you look to vale or hill, 
 If you listen, all is still. 
 Save a little neighboring rill. 
 That from out the rocky ground 
 Strikes a solitary sound. 
 Vainly glitter hill and plain, 
 And the air is calm in vain; 
 Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
 Of a sky serene and pure; 
 Creature none oan she decoy 
 Into open sign of joy : 
 Is it that they have a fear 
 Of the dreary season near? 
 Or that other pleasures be 
 Sweeter even than gayety? 
 
 Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 
 In the impenetrable, cell 
 Of the silent heart which Nature 
 Furnishes to every creature; 
 Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
 Too sedate for outward show, 
 Such a light of gladness breaks. 
 Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — 
 Spreads with such a living grace 
 O'er my little Dora's face; 
 Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
 Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms. 
 That almost I could repine 
 That your transports are not mine. 
 That I do not wholly fare 
 Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! 
 And I will have my careless season 
 Spite of melancholy reason. 
 Will walk through life in such a way 
 That, when time brings on decay. 
 Now and then I may possess 
 Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 
 — Pleased by any random toy; 
 By a kitten's busy joy. 
 Or an infant's laughing eye 
 Sharing in the ecstasy; 
 
 I would fare like that or this, 
 Find my wisdom in my bliss; 
 Keep the sprightly soul awake, 
 And have faculties to take. 
 Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
 Matter for a jocund thought. 
 Spite of care, and spite of g^ief. 
 To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 
 1804. 1807. 
 
 TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND 
 (an agriculturist). 
 
 composed while we were laboring 
 together in his pleasure-ground. 
 
 This person was Thomas Wilkinson, a Quaker 
 by religious profession ; by natural constitution 
 of mind, or shall I venture to say, by God's grace, 
 he was something better. He had inherited a 
 small estate, and built a house upou it near 
 Yanwath, upon the banks of the Emont. I have 
 heard him say that his heart used to beat, iu his 
 boyhood, when he heard the sound of a drum and 
 fife. Nevertheless, the spirit of enterprise in him 
 confined itself to tilling his ground, and conquer- 
 ing such obstacles as stood m the way of its 
 fertility. Persons of his religious persuasion do 
 now, in a far greater degree than formerly, attach 
 themselves to trade and commerce. He kept the 
 old track. As represented in this poem, he 
 employed his leisure hours iu shaping pleasant 
 walks by the side of his beloved river, where he 
 also built something between a hermitage and a 
 summer-house, attaching to it inscriptions after 
 the manner of Shenstone at his Leasowes. He 
 used to travel from time to time, partly from love 
 of nature, and partly with religious friends in the 
 service of humaniiy. His admiration of genius 
 in every department did him much honor. 
 Through his connection with the family in which 
 Edmund Burke was educated, he became ac- 
 quainted with that great man, who used to receive 
 him with great kindness and consideration ; and 
 many times have 1 heard Wilknison speak of 
 those interesting interviews. He was honored 
 also by the friendship of Elizabeth Smith, and of 
 Thomas Clarkson and his excellent wife, and was 
 much esteemed by Lord and Lady Lonsdale, and 
 every member of that family. Among his verses 
 (he wrote many) are some worthy of preservation 
 — one little poem in particular upon disturbing, 
 by prying curiosity, a bird while hatching her 
 young in his garden. The latter part of this 
 innocent and good man's life was melancholy. 
 He became blind, and also poor by becomiAE; 
 
THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 243 
 
 surety for some of his relations. He was a 
 bachelor. He bore, as I have often witnessed, 
 his calamities with unfailing resignation. I will 
 only add that, while working in one of his fields, 
 he unearthed a stone of considerable size, then 
 another, then two more, and, observing that they 
 had been placed in order as if forming the segment 
 of a circle, he proceeded carefully to uncover the 
 soil, and brought into view a beautiful Druid's 
 temple of perfect though small dimensions. In 
 order to make his farm more compact, he ex- 
 changed this field for another; and, I am sorry 
 to add, the new proprietor destroyed this interest- 
 ing relic of remote ages for some vulgar purpose. 
 
 Spade ! vyith which Wilkinson hath tilled 
 
 his lands, 
 And shaped these pleasant walks by 
 
 Emont's side, 
 Thou art a tool of honor in my hands ; 
 I press thee, through the yielding soil, 
 
 with pride. 
 
 Rare master has it been thy lot to know; 
 Long hast Thou served a man to reason 
 
 true; 
 Whose life combines the best of high and 
 
 low, 
 rhe laboring many and the resting few; 
 
 Health, meekness, ardor, quietness secure. 
 And industry of body and of mind; 
 And elegant enjoyments, that are pure 
 As nature is; too pure to be refined. 
 
 Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing 
 [n concord with his river murmuring by; 
 3r in some silent field, while timid spring 
 [s yet uncheered by other minstrelsy. 
 
 Who shall inherit Thee when death has 
 
 laid 
 ^ow in the darksome cell thine own dear 
 
 lord? 
 That man will have a trophy, humble 
 
 Spade ! 
 V trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword. 
 
 f he be one that feels, with skill to part 
 ■■alse praise from true, or, greater from 
 
 the less, 
 ^hee will he welcome to his hand and 
 
 heart, 
 "hou monument of peaceful happiness ! 
 
 He will not dread with Thee a toilsome 
 
 day — 
 Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate ! 
 And, when thou art past service, worn 
 
 away. 
 No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate. 
 
 His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; 
 An heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou 
 
 be: — 
 High will he hang thee up, well pleased 
 
 to adorn 
 His rustic chimney with the last of Thee ! 
 1804. 1807. 
 
 THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
 That shrinks, like many more, from cold 
 
 and rain; 
 And, the first moment that the sun may 
 
 shine. 
 Bright as the sun himself, 't is out again ! 
 
 When hailstones have been falling, swarm 
 
 on swarm, 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees 
 
 distrest, 
 Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm. 
 In close self -shelter like a Thing at rest. 
 
 But lately, one rough day, this Flower I 
 
 passed 
 And recognized it, though an altered form. 
 Now standing forth an offering to the 
 
 blast. 
 And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 
 
 I stopped, and said with inly-muttered 
 
 voice, 
 '" It doth not love the shower, nor seek 
 
 the cold: 
 This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
 But its necessity in being old. 
 
 " The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the 
 
 dew; 
 It cannot help itself in its decay; 
 Stiff in its members, withered, changed 
 
 of hue." 
 And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was 
 
 gray. 
 
244 
 
 AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK. 
 
 To be a Prodigal's Favorite — then, worse 
 
 truth, 
 A Miser's Pensioner — behold our lot! 
 O Man, that from thj fair and shining 
 
 youtli 
 Age might but take the things Youth 
 
 needed not ! 
 
 1804. 1807. 
 
 AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KES- 
 WICK. 
 
 This place was presented to me by Sir George 
 Beaumont with a view to the erection of a house 
 upon it, for the sake of being near to Coleridge, 
 then living, and likely to remain, at Greta Hall 
 near Keswick. The severe necessities that pre- 
 vented this arose from his domestic situation. 
 This little property, with a considerable addition 
 that still leaves it very small, lies beautifully upon 
 the banks of a rill that gurgles down the side of 
 Skiddaw, and the orchard and other parts of the 
 grounds command a magnificent prospect of Der- 
 went Water, and of the mountains of Borrowdale 
 and Newlands. Many years ago I gave the place 
 to my daughter. 
 
 Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should 
 rear 
 
 A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, 
 
 On favored ground, thy gift, where I 
 might dwell 
 
 In neighborhood with One to me most 
 dear. 
 
 That undivided we from year to year 
 
 Might work in our high Calling — a bright 
 hope 
 
 To which our fancies, mingling, gave free 
 scope 
 
 Till checked by some necessities severe. 
 
 And should these slacken, honored Beau- 
 mont I still 
 
 Even then we may perhaps in vain im- 
 plore 
 
 Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. 
 
 Whether this boon be granted us or 
 not, 
 
 Old Skiddaw will look down upon the 
 Spot 
 
 With pride, the Muses love it evermore, 
 1804. 1845. 
 
 TO THE SUPREME BEING. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 The prayers I make will then be sweet 
 
 indeed 
 If Thou the spirit give by which I pray: 
 My unassisted heart is barren clay. 
 That of its native self can nothing feed : 
 Of good and pious works thou art the 
 
 seed. 
 That quickens only where thou say'st it 
 
 may: 
 Unless Thou show to us thine own true 
 
 way 
 No man can find it : Father ! Thou must 
 
 lead. 
 Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts 
 
 into my mind 
 By which such virtue may in me be bred 
 That in thy holy footsteps I may tread; 
 The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, 
 That I may have the power to sing of thee, 
 And sound thy praises everlastingly. 
 1804. 1807. 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. | 
 
 This ode is on the model of Gray's Ode to 
 . Adversity, which is copied from Horace's Ode 
 to Fortune. Many and many a time have I been 
 twitted by my wife and sister for having forgotten 
 this dedication of myself to the stern lawgiver. 
 Transgressor indeed I have been, from hour to 
 hour, from day to day : I would fain hope, how- 
 ever, not more flagrantly or in a worse way than 
 most of my tuneful brethren. But these last 
 words are in a wrong strain. We should be 
 rigorous to ourselves and forbearing, if not in- 
 dulgent, to others, and, if we make comparisons 
 at all, it ought to be with those who have morally 
 excelled us. 
 
 "Jam non consilio bonus, sed more e6 perduc- 
 tus, ut non tantum recte facere possim, sed nisi 
 recte facere non possim." 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love , 
 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove; 
 Thou, who art victory and law 
 When empty terrors overawe; 
 
A SKV-LARK. 
 
 245 
 
 From vain temptations dost set free; 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail 
 humanity ! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them; who, in love and truth, 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! 
 around them cast. 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright. 
 And happy will our nature be. 
 When love is an unerring light. 
 And joy its own security. 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 
 Live in the spirit of this creed; 
 Yet seek thy firm support, according to 
 their need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried; 
 No sport of every random gust. 
 Yet being to myself a guide. 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, 
 if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul, 
 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 I supplicate for thy control; 
 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires: 
 
 IWy hopes no more must change their 
 
 name, 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 
 
 Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
 And the most ancient heavens, through 
 Thee, are fresh and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
 Oh, let my weakness have an end! 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice; 
 The confidence of reason give; 
 And in th^ light of truth thy Bondman 
 let me live ! 
 1805. 1807. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 For thy song, Lark, is strong; 
 Up With me, up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 Singing, singing. 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing. 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary 
 
 And to-day my heart is weary; 
 
 Had I now the wings of a Faery, 
 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 
 There is madness about thee, and joy 
 
 divine 
 In that song of thine; 
 Lift me, guide me high and high 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 
 
 Joyous as morning 
 Thou art laughing and scorning; 
 Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
 And, though little troubled with sloth, 
 Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth 
 To be such a traveller as L 
 Happy, happy Liver, 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain river 
 Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 
 
 Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven. 
 Through prickly moors or dusty ways 
 
 must wind; 
 But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 
 As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
 L with my fate contented, will plod on. 
 And hope for higher raptures, when life's 
 
 day is done. 
 1805. 1807. 
 
246 
 
 FIDELITY. 
 
 FIDELITY. 
 
 The young man whose death gave occasion to 
 this poem was named Charles Gough, and had 
 come early in the spring to Paterdale for the 
 sake of angling. While attempting to cross over 
 Helvellyn to Grasmere he sHpped from a steep 
 part of the rock where the ice was not thawed, 
 and perished. His body was discovered as is 
 told in this poem. Walter Scott heard of the 
 accident, and both he and I, without either of us 
 knowing that the other had taken up the subject, 
 each wrote a poem in admiration of the dog's 
 fidelity. His contains a most beautifld stanza : — 
 
 " How long didst thou think that his silence was 
 
 slumber. 
 When the wind waved his garment how oft didst 
 
 thou start." 
 
 I will add that the sentiment in the last four lines 
 of the last stanza in my verses was uttered by a 
 shepherd with such exactness, that a traveller, 
 who afterwards reported his account in print, was 
 induced to question the man whether he had read 
 them, which he had not. 
 
 A BARKING sound the Shepherd hears, 
 A cry as of a dog or fox; 
 He halts — and searches with his eyes 
 Among the scattered rocks : 
 And now at distance can discern 
 A stirring in a brake of fern; 
 And instantly a dog is seen, 
 Glancing through that covert green. 
 
 The Dog is not of mountain breed; 
 
 Its motions, too, are wild and shy; 
 
 With something, as the Shepherd thinks, 
 
 Unusual in its cry : 
 
 Nor is there any one in sight 
 
 All round, in hollow or on height; 
 
 Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; 
 
 What is the creature doing here? 
 
 It was a cove, a huge recess, 
 
 That keeps, till June, December's snow; 
 
 A lofty precipice in front, 
 
 A silent tarn ^ below ! 
 
 Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
 
 Remote from public road or dwelling, 
 
 ^ Tarn is a snuiU Mere or Lake, mostly high 
 up in the mountains. 
 
 Pathway, or cultivated land; 
 From trace of human foot or hand. 
 
 There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 
 The crags repeat the raven's croak, 
 In symphony austere; 
 Thither the rainbow comes — the cloud — 
 And mists that spread the flying shroud; 
 And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, 
 That, if it could, would hurry past; 
 But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 
 
 Not free from boding thoughts, a while 
 The Shepherd stood; then makes his way 
 O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog 
 As quickly as he may; 
 Nor far bad gone before he found 
 A human skeleton on the ground; 
 The appalled Discoverer with a sigh 
 Looks round, to learn the history. 
 
 From those abrupt and perilous rocks 
 
 The Man had fallen, that place of fear ! 
 
 At length upon the Shepherd's mind 
 
 It breaks, and all is clear: 
 
 He instantly recalled the name, 
 
 And who he was, and whence he came; 
 
 Remembered, too, the very day 
 
 On which the Traveller passed this way. 
 
 But hear a wonder, for whose sake 
 
 This lamentable tale I tell ! 
 
 A lasting monument of words 
 
 This wonder merits well. 
 
 The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, 
 
 Repeating the same timid cry. 
 
 This Dog, had been through three months' 
 
 space 
 A dweller in that savage place. 
 
 Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 
 When this ill-fated Traveller died, 
 The Dog had watched about the spot. 
 Or by his master's side : 
 How nourished here through such long 
 
 time 
 He knows, who, gave that love sublime; 
 And gave that strength of feeling, great 
 Above all human estimate ! 
 1805. 1807. 
 
TRIBUTE. 
 
 247 
 
 INCIDENT 
 
 CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVORITE DOG. 
 
 This Dog I knew well. It belonged to Mrs. 
 Wordsworth's brother, Mr. Thomas Hutchinson, 
 who then lived at Sockburn on the Tees, a 
 beautiful retired situation where I used to visit 
 him and his sisters before my marriage. My 
 sister and I spent many months there after our 
 return from Germany in 1799. 
 
 On his morning rounds the Master 
 Goes to learn how all things fare ; 
 Searches pasture after pasture, 
 Sheep and cattle eyes with care; 
 And, for silence or for talk, 
 He hath comrades in his walk; 
 Four dogs, each pair of different breed. 
 Distinguished two for scent, and two for 
 speed. 
 
 See a hare before him started ! 
 — Off they fly in earnest chase; 
 Every dog is eager-hearted, 
 All the four are in the race : 
 And the hare whom they pursue, 
 Knows from instinct what to do; 
 Her hope is near; no turn she makes; 
 But, like an arrow, to the river takes. 
 
 Deep the river was, and crusted 
 Thinly by a one night's frost; 
 But the nimble Hare hath trusted 
 To the ice, and safely crost; 
 She hath crost, and without heed 
 All are following at full speed. 
 When, lo ! the ice, so thinly spread, 
 Breaks — and the greyhound, Dart, is 
 overhead ! 
 
 Better fate have Prince and Sv\? ALLOW — 
 
 See them cleaving to the sport ! 
 
 Mtjsic has no heart to follow, 
 
 Little Music, she stops short. 
 
 She hath neither wish nor heart. 
 
 Hers is now another part : 
 
 A loving creature she, and brave ! 
 
 And fondly strives her struggling friend to 
 
 From the brink her paws she stretches. 
 Very hands as you would say ! 
 
 And afflicting moans she fetches, 
 
 As he breaks the ice away. 
 
 For herself she hath no fears, — 
 
 Him alone she sees and hears, — 
 
 Makes efforts with complainings; nor 
 
 gives o'er 
 Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no 
 
 more. 
 1805. 1807. 
 
 TRIBUTE. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG. 
 
 Lie here, without a record of thy worth, 
 Beneath a covering of the common earth ! 
 It is not from unwillingness to praise, 
 Or want of love, that here no Stone we 
 
 raise ; 
 More thou deserv'st; but this man gives 
 
 to man. 
 Brother to brother, this is all we can. 
 Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee 
 
 dear 
 Shall find thee through all changes of the 
 
 year: 
 This Oak points out thy grave ; the silent 
 
 tree 
 Will gladly stand a monument of thee. 
 We grieved for thee, and wished thy 
 
 end were past; 
 And willingly have laid thee here at last : 
 For thou hadst lived till everything that 
 
 cheers 
 In thee had yielded to the weight of years ; 
 Extreme old age had wasted thee away, 
 And left thee but a glimmering of the day; 
 Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy 
 
 knees, — 
 I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 
 Too weak to stand against its sportive 
 
 breath, 
 And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. 
 It came, and we were glad; yet tears were 
 
 shed; 
 Both man and woman wept when thou 
 
 wert dead; 
 Not only for a thousand thoughts that 
 
 were, 
 Old household thoughts, in which thou 
 
 hadst thy share; 
 But for some precious boons vouchsafed 
 
 to thee. 
 
248 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 Found scarcely anywhere in like degree ! 
 For love, that comes wherever life and 
 
 sense 
 Are given by God, in thee was most in- 
 tense; 
 A chair; of heart, a feeling of the mind, 
 A tender sympathy, which did thee bind 
 Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind : 
 Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw 
 A soul of love, love's intellectual law : — 
 Hence, if we wept, it was not done in 
 
 shame; 
 Our tears from passion and from reason 
 
 came. 
 And, therefore, shall thou be an honored 
 name ! 
 1805. 1807. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 Sweet Flower ! belike one day to have 
 
 A place upon thy Poet's grave, 
 
 I welcome thee once more : 
 
 But He, who was on land, at sea. 
 
 My Brother, too, in loving thee. 
 
 Although he loved more silently. 
 
 Sleeps by his native shore. 
 
 Ah ! hopeful, hopeful was the day 
 When to that Ship he bent his way. 
 To govern and to guide : 
 His wish was gained : a little time 
 Would bring him back in manhood's 
 
 prime 
 And free for life, these hills to climb; 
 With all his wants supplied. 
 
 And full of hope day followed day 
 While that stout Ship at anchor lay 
 Beside the shores of Wight; 
 The May had then made all things green; 
 And, floating there, in pomp serene, 
 That Ship was goodly to be seen. 
 His pride and his delight ! 
 
 Yet then, when called ashore, he sought 
 The tender peace of rural thought: 
 In more than happy mood 
 To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers ! 
 He then would steal at leisure hours. 
 And loved you glittering in your bowers 
 A starry multitude. 
 
 But hark the word ! — the ship is gone ; — 
 Returns from her long course : — anon 
 Sets sail : — in season due, 
 Once more on English earth they stand : 
 But, when a third time from the land 
 They parted, sorrow was at hand 
 For Him and for his crew. 
 
 Ill-fated Vessel ! — ghastly shock ! 
 — At length delivered from the rock, 
 The deep she hath regained; 
 And through the stormy night they steer; 
 Laboring for life, in hope and fear, 
 To reach a safer shore — how near, 
 Yet not to be attained ! 
 
 " Silence ! " the brave Commander cried: 
 To that calm word a shriek replied. 
 It was the last death-shriek. 
 — A few (my soul oft sees that sight) 
 Survive upon the tall mast's height; 
 But one dear remnant of the night — 
 For Him in vain I seek. 
 
 Six weeks beneath the moving sea 
 
 He lay in slumber quietly; 
 
 Unforced by wind or wave 
 
 To quit the Ship for which he died, 
 
 (All claims of duty satisfied; ) 
 
 And there they found him at her side; 
 
 And bore him to the grave. 
 
 Vain service ! yet not vainly done 
 For this, if other end were none. 
 That He, who had been cast 
 Upon a way of life unmeet 
 For such a gentle Soul and sweet. 
 Should find an undisturbed retreat 
 Near what he loved, at last — 
 
 That neighborhood of grove and field 
 
 To Him a resting-place should yield, 
 
 A meek man and a brave ! 
 
 The birds shall sing and ocean make 
 
 A mournful murmur for his sake; 
 
 And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and 
 
 wake 
 Upon his senseless grave. 
 
 1805. j8is. 
 
ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 249 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE 
 CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR 
 GEORGE BEAUMONT. 
 
 Sir George Beaumont painted two pictures of 
 this subject, one of which he gave to Mrs. 
 Wordsworth, saying she ought to have it ; but 
 Lady Beaumont interfered, and after Sir George's 
 death she gave it to Sir Uvedale Price, in whose 
 house at Foxley I have seen it. 
 
 I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged 
 
 Pile ! 
 Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of 
 
 thee : 
 I saw thee every day; and all the while 
 Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 
 
 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
 So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
 Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was 
 
 there; 
 It trembled, but it never passed away. 
 
 How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no 
 
 sleep; 
 No mood, which season takes away, or 
 
 brings : 
 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. 
 
 Ah ! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's 
 
 hand, 
 To express what then I saw; and add the 
 
 gleam, 
 The light that never was, on sea or land, 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream; 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary 
 
 Pile 
 Amid a world how different from this ! 
 Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 
 
 Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure- 
 house divine 
 
 Of peaceful y^rs; a chronicle of 
 heaven; — 
 
 Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
 
 The very sweetest had to thee been given. 
 
 A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 
 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; 
 No motion but the moving tide, a breeze. 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 
 
 Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 
 Such Picture would I at that time have 
 
 made : 
 And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
 A steadfast peace that might not be be- 
 trayed. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 't is so no 
 more ; 
 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 
 A power is gone, which nothing can re- 
 store; 
 
 A deep distress hath humanized my Soul. 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 A smiling sea, and be what I have been: 
 The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; 
 This, which I know, I speak with mind 
 serene. 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would 
 
 have been the Friend, 
 If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore. 
 This work of thine I blame not, but 
 
 commend; 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 'tis a passionate Work! — yet wise 
 
 and well. 
 Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 
 That Hulk which labors in the deadly 
 
 swell. 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
 And this huge Castle, standing here sub- 
 lime, 
 
 1 love to see the look with which it 
 
 braves. 
 Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time, 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and tramp- 
 ling waves. 
 
 Farewell, farewell the heart that lives 
 
 alone. 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the 
 
 Kind! 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
 Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. 
 
250 
 
 'WHEN TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD.' 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, 
 And frequent sights of what is to be 
 
 borne ! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me 
 
 here. — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 
 1805. 1807. 
 
 "WHEN TO THE ATTRACTIONS 
 OF THE BUSY WORLD." 
 
 The grove still exists, but the plantation has 
 been walled in, and is not so accessible as when 
 my brother John wore the path in the manner 
 here described. The grove was a favorite haunt 
 with us all while we lived at Town-end. 
 
 When, to the attractions of the busy 
 
 world. 
 Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen 
 A habitation in this peaceful Vale, 
 Sharp season followed of continual storm 
 In deepest winter; and, from week to 
 
 week, 
 Pathway, and lane, and public road, were 
 
 clogged 
 With frequent showers of snow. Upon a 
 
 hill 
 At a short distance from my cottage, 
 
 stands 
 A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont 
 To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 
 Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place 
 Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. 
 Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow. 
 And, sometimes, on a speck of visible 
 
 earth. 
 The redbreast near me hopped; nor was 
 
 I loth 
 To sympathize with vulgar coppice birds 
 That, for protection from the nipping 
 
 blast. 
 Hither repaired. — A single beech-tree 
 
 grew 
 Within this grove of firs I and, on the fork 
 Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's 
 
 nest; 
 A last year's nest, conspicuously built 
 At such small elevation from the ground 
 As gave sure sign that they, who in that 
 
 house 
 Of nature and of love had made their home 
 Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long 
 
 Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, 
 A few sheep, stragglers from some moun- 
 tain-flock. 
 Would watch my motions with suspicious 
 
 stare, 
 From the remotest outskirts of the 
 
 grove, — 
 Some nook where they had made their 
 
 final stand. 
 Huddling together from two fears — the 
 
 fear 
 Of me and of the storm. Full many an 
 
 hour 
 Here did I lose. But in this grove the 
 
 trees 
 Had been so thickly planted, and had 
 
 thriven 
 In such perplexed and intricate array; 
 That vainly did I seek, beneath their stems 
 A length of open space, where to and fro 
 My feet might move without concern or 
 
 care; 
 And, baffled thus, though earth from day 
 
 to day 
 Was fettered, and the air by storm dis- 
 turbed, 
 I ceased the shelter to frequent, — and 
 
 prized. 
 Less than I wished to prize, that calm 
 
 recess. 
 The snows dissolved, and genial Spring 
 
 returned 
 To clothe the fields with verdure. Other 
 
 haunts 
 Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright 
 
 April day. 
 By chance retiring from the glare of noon 
 To this forsaken covert, there I found 
 A hoary pathway traced between the trees, 
 And winding on with such an easy line 
 Along a natural opening, that I stood 
 Much wondering how I could have sought 
 
 in vain 
 For what was now so obvious. To abide, 
 For an allotted interval of ease. 
 Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come 
 From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; 
 And with the sight of this same path — 
 
 begun. 
 Begun and ended, in the shady grove. 
 Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind 
 That, to this opportune recess allured. 
 He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 
 
ELEGIAC VERSES. 
 
 251 
 
 A heart more wakeful; and had worn the 
 
 track 
 By pacing here, unwearied and alone, 
 In that habitual restlessness of foot 
 That haunts the Sailor measuring o'er 
 
 and o'er 
 His short domain upon the vessel's deck, 
 While she pursues her course through the 
 
 dreary sea. 
 When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's 
 
 pleasant shore, 
 And taken thy first leave of those green 
 
 hills 
 And rocks that were the play-ground of 
 
 thy youth. 
 Year followed year, my Brother ! and we 
 
 two. 
 Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
 Each other's mind was fashioned; and at 
 
 length, 
 When once again we met in Grasmere 
 
 Vale, 
 Between us there was little other bond 
 Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
 But thou, a Schoolboy, to the sea hadst 
 
 carried 
 Undying recollections ! Nature there 
 Was with thee; she, who loved us both, 
 
 she still 
 Was with thee ; and even so didst thou 
 
 become 
 A silent Poet; from the solitude 
 , Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful 
 
 heart 
 Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 
 And an eye practised like a blind man's 
 
 touch. 
 — Back to the joyless Ocean thou art 
 
 gone; 
 Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 
 Could I withhold thy honored name, — 
 
 and now 
 I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. 
 Thither do I withdraw when cloudless 
 
 suns 
 Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and 
 
 strong; 
 And there I sit at evening, when the steep 
 Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful 
 
 lake. 
 And one green island, gleam between the 
 
 stems 
 Of the dark firs, a visionary scene ! 
 
 And, while I gaze upon the spectacle 
 Of clouded splendor, on this dream-like 
 
 sight 
 Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, 
 My Brother, and on all which thou hast 
 
 lost. 
 Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while ThoiL, 
 Muttering the verses which I muttered first 
 Among the mountains, through the mid- 
 night watch 
 Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck 
 In some far region, here, while o'er my 
 
 head, 
 At every impulse of the moving breeze, 
 The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like 
 
 sound. 
 Alone I tread this path; — for aught I 
 
 know. 
 Timing my steps to thine; and, with a 
 
 store 
 Of undistinguishable sympathies, 
 Mingling most earnest wishes for the day 
 When we, and others whom we love, shall 
 
 meet 
 A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. 
 1805. 1515. 
 
 Note. — This wish was not granted; the la- 
 mented Person not long after perished by ship- 
 wreck, in discharge of his duty as commander of 
 the Honorable East India Company's Vessel, the 
 Earl of Abergavenny. 
 
 ELEGIAC VERSES. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 COMMANDER OF THE E.I. COMPANY'S SHIP THE 
 EARL OF ABERGAVENNY, IN WHICH HE PER- 
 ISHED BY CALAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, FEB. 6, 
 
 1805. 
 
 Composed near the Mountain track that leads 
 from Grasmere through Grisdale Hawes, where it 
 descends towards Paterddle. 
 
 " Here did we stop ; and here looked round, 
 While each into himself descends." 
 
 The point is two or three yards below the out- 
 let of Grisdale tarn^ on a foot-road by which a 
 horse may pass to Paterdale — a ridge of Helvellyn 
 on the left, and the summit of Fairfield on the 
 right. 
 
 I. 
 The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo ! 
 That instant, startled by the shock, 
 
252 
 
 LOUISA. 
 
 The Buzzard mounted from the rock 
 Deliberate and slow : 
 Lord of the air, he took his flight; 
 Oh ! could he on that woful night 
 Have lent his wing, my Brother dear, 
 For one poor moment's space to Thee, 
 And all who struggled with the Sea, 
 When safety was so near. 
 
 Thus in the weakness of my heart 
 I spoke (but let that pang be still) 
 When rising from the rock at will, 
 I saw the Bird depart. 
 And let me calmly bless the Power 
 That meets me in this unknown Flower. 
 Affecting type of him I mourn ! 
 With calmness suffer and believe. 
 And grieve, and know that I must grieve, 
 Not cheerless, though forlorn. 
 
 Here did we stop ; and here looked round 
 
 While each into himself descends. 
 
 For that last thought of parting Friends 
 
 That is not to be found. 
 
 Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight, 
 
 Our home and his, his heart's delight, 
 
 His quiet heart's selected home. 
 
 But time before him melts away. 
 
 And he hath feeling of a day 
 
 Of blessedness to come. 
 
 Full soon in sorrow did I weep, 
 
 Taught that the mutual hope was dust. 
 
 In sorrow, but for higher trust, 
 
 How miserably deep ! 
 
 All vanished in a single word, 
 
 A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard; 
 
 Sea — Ship — drowned — Shipwreck — 
 
 so it came. 
 The meek, the brave, the good, was gone; 
 He who had been our living John 
 Was nothing but a name. 
 
 That was indeed a parting ! oh, 
 
 Glad am I, glad that it is past; 
 
 For there were some on whom it cast 
 
 Unutterable woe. 
 
 But they as well as I have gains; — 
 
 From many a humble source, to pains 
 
 Like these, there comes a mild release; 
 Even here I feel it, even this Plant 
 Is in its beauty ministrant 
 To comfort and to peace. 
 
 He would have loved thy modest grace, 
 Meek Flower ! To Him I would have 
 
 said, 
 " It grows upon its native bed 
 Beside our Parting-place; 
 There, cleaving to the ground, it lies 
 With multitude of purple eyes. 
 Spangling a cushion green like moss; 
 But we will see it, joyful tide ! 
 Some day, to see it in its pride. 
 The mountain will we cross." 
 
 — Brother and Friend, if verse of mine 
 Have power to make thy virtues known, ; 
 Here let a monumental Stone i 
 
 Stand — sacred as a Shrine; | 
 
 And to the few who pass this way. 
 Traveller or Shepherd, let it say, 
 Long as these mighty rocks endure, — 
 Oh do not Thou too fondly brood, 
 Although deserving of all good, 
 On any earthly hope, however pure ! ^ 
 1805. 1845. 
 
 LOUISA. 
 
 AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A 
 MOUNTAIN EXCURSION. 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. 
 I MET Louisa in the shade, 
 And, having seen that lovely Maid, 
 Why should I fear to say 
 That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, 
 And down the rocks can leap along 
 Like rivulets in May? 
 
 She loves her fire, her cottage-home; 
 Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
 In weather rough and bleak; 
 And, when against the wind she strains, 
 Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains 
 That sparkle on her cheek. 
 
 ^ The plant alluded to is the Moss Campion 
 {Stlene ncanlis of Linnaeus). See Note. 
 
VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 
 
 253 
 
 Take all that's mine " beneath the moon," 
 If I with her but half a noon 
 May sit beneath the walls 
 Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 
 When up she winds along the brook 
 To hunt the waterfalls. 
 1805. 1S07. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY 
 
 WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAK- 
 ING LONG WALKS vN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Composed at the same time and on tlie same 
 view as " I met Louisa in the shade ; *' indeed, 
 they were designed to make one piece. 
 
 De.\r Child of Nature, let them rail ! 
 — There is a nest in a green dale, 
 A harbor and a hold; 
 Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shaltsee 
 Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 
 ' ,\ light to young and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a shepherd boy. 
 
 And treading among flowers of joy 
 
 Which at no season fade. 
 
 Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 
 
 Shalt show us how divine a thing 
 
 A Woman may be made. 
 
 Thy thoughts and- feelings shall not die. 
 Nor leave thee, when gray hairs are nigh, 
 A melancholy slave ; 
 But an old age serene and bright. 
 And lovely as a Lapland night, 
 Shall lead thee to thy grave. 
 1805. 1807. 
 
 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.i 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Faithfully 
 narrated, though with the omission of many 
 pathetic circumstances, from the mouth of a 
 French lady, who had been an eye-and-ear-wituess 
 of all that was done and said. Many long years 
 after, I was told that Dupligne was then a monk 
 in the Convent of La Trappe. 
 
 The following tale was written as an Episode, 
 in a work from which its length may perhaps ex- 
 clude it. The facts are true ; no invention as to 
 these has been exercised, as none was needed. 
 
 1 The first four lines occur in The Prelude, 
 book ix. p. 346. 
 
 O HAPPY time of youthful (overs (thus 
 My story may begin) O balmy time. 
 In which a love-knot on a lady's brow 
 Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven ! 
 To such inheritance of blessed fancy 
 (Fancy that sports more desperately with 
 
 minds 
 Than ever fortune hath been known to do ) 
 The high-born Vaudracour was brought, 
 
 by years 
 Whose progress had a little overstepped 
 His stripling prime. A town of small 
 
 repute, 
 Among the vine-clad mountains of Au- 
 
 vergne, 
 Was the Youth's birth-place. There he 
 
 wooed a Maid 
 Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit 
 With answering vows. Plebeian was the 
 
 stock. 
 Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock. 
 From which her graces and her honors 
 
 sprung; 
 And hence the father of the enamored 
 
 Youth, 
 With haughty indignation, spurned the 
 
 thought 
 Of such alliance. — From their cradles up. 
 With but a step between their several 
 
 homes. 
 Twins had they been in pleasure; after 
 
 strife 
 And petty quarrels, had grown fond again ; 
 Each other's advocate, each other's stay; 
 And, in their happiest moments, not con- 
 tent, 
 If more divided than a sportive pair 
 Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are 
 
 hovering 
 Within the eddy of a common blast. 
 Or hidden only by the concave depth 
 Of neighboring billows from each other's 
 
 sight. 
 Thus, not without concurrence of an age 
 Unknown to memory, was an earnest given 
 By ready nature for a life of love. 
 For endless constancy, and placid truth; 
 But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay 
 Reserved, had fate permitted, for support 
 Of their maturer years, his present mind 
 Was under fascination; — he beheld 
 A vision, and adored the thing he saw. 
 Arabian fiction never filled the world 
 
254 
 
 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 
 
 With half the wonders that were wrought 
 
 for him. 
 Earth breathed in one great presence of 
 
 the spring; 
 Life turned the meanest of her imple- 
 ments, 
 Before his eyes, to price above all gold; 
 The house she dwelt in was a sainted 
 
 shrine ; 
 Her chamber-window did surpass in glory 
 The portals of the dawn; all paradise 
 Could, by the simple opening of a door. 
 Let itself in upon him: — pathways, 
 
 walks, 
 Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit 
 
 sank, 
 Surcharged, within him, overblest to move 
 Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world 
 To its dull round of ordinary cares; 
 A man too happy for mortality ! 
 
 So passed the time, till whether through 
 
 effect 
 Of some unguarded moment that dissolved 
 Virtuous restraint — ah, speak it, think 
 
 it, not ! 
 Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who 
 
 saw 
 So many bars between his present state 
 And the dear haven where he wished to be 
 In honorable wedlock with his Love, 
 Was in his judgment tempted to decline 
 To perilous weakness, and entrust his 
 
 cause 
 To nature for a happy end of all; 
 Deem that by such fond hope the Youth 
 
 was swayed. 
 And bear with their transgression, when I 
 
 add 
 That Julia, wantingyet the name of wife. 
 Carried about her for a secret grief 
 The promise of a mother. 
 
 To conceal 
 The threatened shame, the parents of the 
 
 Maid 
 Found means to hurry her away by night. 
 And unforewarned, that in some distant 
 
 spot 
 She might remain shrouded in privacy. 
 Until the babe was born. When morning 
 
 came 
 The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his 
 
 loss, 
 And all uncertain whither he should turn, 
 
 Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but 
 
 soon 
 Discovering traces of the fugitives, 
 Their steps he followed to the Maid's re- 
 treat. 
 Easily may the sequel be divined — 
 Walks to and fro — watchings at every 
 
 hour; 
 And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she 
 
 may. 
 Is busy at her casement as the swallow 
 Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach. 
 About the pendent nest, did thus espy 
 Her Lover ! — thence a stolen interview. 
 Accomplished under friendly shade of 
 night. 
 I pass the raptures of the pair; — such 
 theme 
 Is, by innumerable poets, touched 
 In more delightful verse than skill of mine 
 Could fashion; chiefly by that darling 
 
 bard 
 Who told of Juliet and her Romeo, 
 And of the lark's note heard before its 
 
 time, 
 And of the streaks that laced the sevtring 
 
 clouds 
 In the unrelenting east . ^ — Through all her 
 
 courts 
 The vacant city slept; the busy winds. 
 That keep no certain intervals of rest. 
 Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy dis- 
 played 
 Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat 
 Aloft; — momentous but uneasy bliss ! 
 To their full hearts the universe seemed 
 
 hung 
 On that brief meeting's slender filament! 
 They parted; and the generous Vau- 
 dracour 
 Reached speedily the native threshold, 
 
 bent 
 On making (so the Lovers had agreed) 
 A sacrifice of birthright to attain 
 A final portion from his father's hand; 
 Which granted, Bride and Bridegroom 
 
 then would flee 
 To some remote and solitary place. 
 Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven, 
 Where they may live, with no one to be- 
 hold 
 Their happiness, or to disturb their love. 
 But iio-u of this no whisper; not the less. 
 
VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 
 
 255 
 
 [f ever an obtrusive word were dropped 
 Touching the matter of his passion, still, 
 [n his stern father's hearing, Vaudracour 
 Persisted openly that death alone 
 Should abrogate his human privilege 
 Divine, of swearing everlasting truth, 
 Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved. 
 " You shall be baffled in your mad in- 
 tent 
 If there be justice in the court of France," 
 Muttered the Father. — From these words 
 
 the Youth 
 Conceived a terror; and, by night or day. 
 Stirred nowhere without weapons, that 
 
 full soon 
 Found dreadful provocation : for at night 
 When to his chamber he retired, attempt 
 Was made to seize him by three armed 
 
 men, 
 Acting, in furtherance of the father's will. 
 Under a private signet of the State. 
 One the rash Youth's ungovernable hand 
 Slew, and as quickly to a second gave 
 A perilous wound — he shuddered to be- 
 hold 
 The breathless corse; then peacefully re- 
 signed 
 His person to the law, was lodged in 
 
 prison. 
 And wore the fetters of a criminal. 
 Have you observed a tuft of winged 
 seed 
 That, from the dandelion's naked stalk. 
 Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use 
 Its natural gifts for purposes of rest. 
 Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and 
 
 fro 
 Through the wide element ? or have you 
 
 marked 
 The heavier substance of a leaf -clad bough. 
 Within the vortex of a foaming flood, 
 Tormented? by such aid you may conceive 
 The perturbation that ensued; — ah, no ! 
 Desperate the Maid — the Youth is 
 
 stained with blood; 
 Unmatchable on earth is their disquiet ! 
 Yet as the troubled seed and tortured 
 
 bough 
 Is Man, subjected to despotic sway. 
 For him, by private influence with the 
 Court, 
 Was pardon gained, and liberty procured; 
 But not without exaction of a pledge, 
 
 Which liberty and love dispersed in air. 
 He flew to her from whom they would 
 
 divide him — 
 He clove to her who could not give him 
 
 peace — 
 Yea, his first word of greeting was, — 
 
 "All right 
 Is gone from me; my lately-towering 
 
 hopes. 
 To the least fibre of their lowest root. 
 Are withered; thou no longer canst be 
 
 mine, 
 I thine — the conscience-stricken must 
 
 not woo 
 The unruffled Innocent, — I see thy face. 
 Behold thee, andmy misery is complete !" 
 "One, are we not?" exclaimed the 
 
 Maiden — "One, 
 For innocence and youth, for weal and 
 
 woe? " 
 Then with the father's name she coupled 
 
 words 
 Of vehement indignation; but the Youth 
 Checked her with filial meekness; for no 
 
 thought 
 Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense 
 Of hasty anger rising in the eclipse 
 Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er 
 Find place within his bosom. — Once 
 
 again 
 The persevering wedge of tyranny 
 Achieved their separation : and once more 
 Were they united, — to be y^t again 
 Disparted, pitiable lot ! But here 
 A portion of the tale may well be left 
 In silence, though my memory could 
 
 add 
 Much how the Youth, in scanty space of 
 
 time. 
 Was traversed from without; much, too, 
 
 of thoughts 
 That occupied His days in solitude 
 Under privation and restraint; and what, 
 Through dark and shapeless fear of things 
 
 to come, 
 And what, through strong compunction 
 
 for the past. 
 He suffered — -breaking down in heart 
 
 and mind ! 
 Doomed to a third and last captivity, 
 His freedom he recovered on the eve 
 Of Julia's travail. When the babe was 
 
 born, 
 
256 
 
 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 
 
 Its presence tempted him to cherish 
 
 schemes 
 Oi future happiness. " You shall return, 
 Julia," said he, "and to your father's 
 
 house 
 Go with the child. — You have been 
 
 wretched; yet 
 The silver shower, whose reckless burthen 
 
 weighs 
 Too heavily upon the lily's head. 
 Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. 
 Malice, beholding you, will melt away. 
 Go ! — 't is a town where both of us were 
 
 born; 
 None will reproach you, for our truth is 
 
 known ; 
 And if, amid those once-bright bowers, 
 
 our fate 
 Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. 
 With ornaments — the prettiest, nature 
 
 yields 
 Or art can fashion, shall you deck our boy. 
 And feed his countenance with your own 
 
 sweet looks 
 Till no one can resist him. — Now, even 
 
 now, 
 I see him sporting on the sunny lawn; 
 My father from the window sees him too; 
 Startled, as if some new-created thing 
 Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods 
 Bounded before him; — but the unweet- 
 
 ing Child 
 Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's 
 
 heart 
 So that it shall be softened, and our loves 
 End happily, as they began ! " 
 
 These gleams 
 Appeared but seldom ; of tener was he seen 
 Propping a pale and melancholy face 
 Upon the Mother's bosom; resting thus 
 His head upon one breast, while from the 
 
 other 
 The Babe was drawing in its quiet food. 
 — That pillow is no longer to be thine. 
 Fond Youth ! that mournful solace now 
 
 must pass 
 Into the list of things that cannot be ! 
 Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears 
 The sentence, by her mother's lip pro- 
 nounced. 
 That dooms her to a convent. — Who 
 
 shall tell. 
 Who dares report, the tidings to the lord 
 
 Of her affections? so they blindly asked 
 Who knew not to what quiet depths a 
 
 weight 
 Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down : 
 The word, by others dreaded, he can hear 
 Composed and silent, without visible sign 
 Of even the least emotion. Noting this, 
 When the impatient object of his love 
 Upbraided him with slackness, he returned 
 No answer, only took the mother's hand 
 And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain. 
 Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed, 
 Was a dependant on the obdurate heart 
 Of one who came to disunite their lives 
 Forever — sad alternative ! preferred. 
 By the unbending Parents of the Maid, 
 To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed. 
 — So be it ! 
 
 In the city he remained 
 A season after Julia had withdrawn 
 To those religious walls. He, too, de- 
 parts — 
 Who with him? — even the senseless 
 
 Little-one. 
 With that sole charge he passed the city- 
 gates, 
 For the last time, attendant by the side 
 Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan. 
 In which the Babe was carried. To a hill. 
 That rose a brief league distant from the 
 
 town. 
 The dwellers in that house where he had 
 
 lodged 
 Accompanied his steps, by anxious love 
 Impelled ; — they parted from him there, 
 
 and stood 
 Watching below till he had disappeared 
 On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely 
 
 took, 
 Throughout that journey, from the vehicle 
 (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes !) that 
 
 veiled 
 The tender infant : and, at every inn. 
 And under every hospitable tree 
 At which the bearers halted or reposed, 
 Laid him with timid care upon his knees, 
 And looked, as mothers ne'er were known 
 
 to look. 
 Upon the nursling which his arms em- 
 braced. 
 This was the manner in which Vau- 
 dracour 
 Departed with his infant ; and thus reached 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 Z57 
 
 His father's house, where to the innocent 
 
 child 
 Admittance was denied. The young man 
 
 spake 
 No word of indignation or reproof, 
 But of his father begged, a last request, 
 That a retreat might be assigned to him 
 Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell. 
 With such allowance as his wants re- 
 quired; 
 For wishes he had none. To a lodge that 
 
 stood 
 Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the 
 
 age 
 Of four-and-twenty summers he with- 
 drew; 
 And thither took with him his motherless 
 
 Babe, 
 And one domestic for their common needs, 
 An aged woman. It consoled him here 
 To attend upon the orphan, and perform 
 Obsequious service to the precious child. 
 Which, after a short time, by some mistake 
 Or indiscretion of the Father, died. — 
 The Tale I follow to its last recess 
 Of suffering or of peace, I know not 
 
 which : 
 Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, 
 not mine ! 
 From this time forth he never shared 
 a smile 
 With mortal creature. An Inhabitant 
 Of that same town, in which the pair had 
 
 left 
 So lively a remembrance of their griefs, 
 By chance of business, coming within 
 
 reach 
 Of his retirement, to the forest lodge 
 Repaired, but only found the matron 
 
 there. 
 Who told him that his pains were thrown 
 
 away, 
 For that her Master never uttered word 
 To living thing — not even to her. — Be- 
 hold ! 
 While 'they were speaking, Vaudracour 
 
 approached; 
 But, seeing some one near, as on the latch 
 Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he 
 
 shrunk — 
 And, like a shadow, glided out of view. 
 Shocked at his savage aspect, from the 
 place 
 
 The visitor retired. 
 
 Thus lived the Youth 
 Cut off from all intelligence with man. 
 And shunning even the light of common 
 
 day; 
 Nor could the voice of Freedom, which 
 
 through France 
 Full speedily resounded, public hope. 
 Or personal memory of his own deep 
 
 wrongs. 
 Rouse him : but in those solitary shades 
 His days he wasted, an imbecile mind ! 
 1805. 1820. 
 
 THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. 
 
 BY MY SISTER. 
 
 Suggested to her while beside my sleepmg 
 children. 
 
 The days are cold, the nights are long. 
 The north-wind sings a doleful song; 
 Then hush again upon my breast; 
 All merry things are now at rest. 
 Save thee, my pretty Love ! 
 
 The kitten sleeps upon the hearth. 
 The crickets long have ceased their mirth; 
 There's nothing stirring in the house 
 Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse. 
 Then why so busy thou ? 
 
 Nay ! start not at that sparkling light; 
 'T is but the moon that shines so bright 
 On the window pane bedropped with rain : 
 Then, little Darling ! sleep again. 
 And wake when it is day. 
 1805. 1815. 
 
 THE WAGGONER.! 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The ch.ar- 
 acters and story from fact. 
 
 In Cairo's crowded streets 
 The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in 
 
 vain, 
 And Mecca saddens at the long delay. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 TO 
 
 CHARLES LAMB, ESQ. 
 
 Mv DEAR Friend, 
 
 When I sent you, a few weeks ago, 
 the tale of Peter Bel], you asked " why Thb 
 
 ' See Note. 
 
258 
 
 THE WAGGONER. 
 
 Waggoner was not added? " — To say the truth 
 — from the higher tone of imagination, and the 
 deeper touches of. passion aimed at in the former, 
 I apprehended this httle Piece could not accom- 
 pany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, 
 if I am not mistaken, The Waggoner was read 
 to you in manuscript, and, as you have remem- 
 bered it for so long a time, I am the more en- 
 coui'aged to hope, that, since the localities on 
 which the Poem partly depends did not prevent 
 its being interesting to you, it may prove accept- 
 able to others. Being therefore in some measure 
 the cause of its present appearance, you must 
 allow me the gratification of mscribing it to you; 
 in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived 
 from your Writings, and of the high esteem with 
 which 
 
 I am very truly yours, 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 Rydal Mounts May 20, 1819. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 'T IS spent — this burning day of June ! 
 Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is 
 
 stealing; 
 The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, 
 
 is wheeling,' — 
 That solitary bird 
 Is all that can be heard 
 In silence deeper far than that of deepest 
 
 noon ! 
 Confiding Glow-worms, 't is a night 
 Propitious to your earth-born light ! 
 But, where the scattered stars are seen 
 In hazy straits the clouds between. 
 Each, in his station twinkling not, 
 Seems changed into a pallid spot. 
 The mountains against heaven's grave 
 
 weight 
 Rise up, and grow to wondrous height. 
 The air, as in a lion's den. 
 Is close and hot; — and now and then 
 Comes a tired and sultry breeze 
 With a haunting and a panting. 
 Like the stifling of disease; 
 But the dews allay the heat. 
 And the silence makes it sweet. 
 Hush, there is some one on the stir ! 
 'Tis Benjamin the Waggoner; 
 Who long hath trod this toilsome way, 
 Companion of the night and day. 
 That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer. 
 Mixed with a faint yet grating sound 
 
 • See Note. 
 
 In a moment lost and found. 
 The Wain announces — by whose side 
 Along the banks of Rydal Mere 
 He paces on, a trusty Guide, — 
 Listen ! you can scarcely hear ! 
 Hither he his course is bending; — 
 Now he leaves the lower ground. 
 And up the craggy hill ascending 
 Many a stop and stay he makes, 
 Many a breathing-fit he takes; — 
 Steep the way and wearisome. 
 Yet all the while his whip is dumb ! 
 The Horses have worked with right 
 
 good-will. 
 And so have gained the top of the hill; 
 He was patient, they were strong, 
 And now they smoothly glide along, 
 Recovering breath, and pleased to win 
 The praises of mild Benjamin. 
 Heaven shield him from mishap and 
 
 snare ! 
 But why so early with this prayer? — 
 Is it for threatenings in the sky? 
 Or for some other danger nigh? 
 No; none is near him yet, though he 
 Be one of much infirmity; 
 For at the bottom of the brow, 
 Where once the Dove and Olive-bough 
 Offered a greeting of good ale 
 To all who entered Grasmere Vale; 
 And called on him who must depart 
 To leave it with a jovial heart; 
 There, where the Dove and Olive-bough 
 Once hung, a Poet harbors now, 
 A simple water-drinking Bard; 
 Why need our Hero then (though frail 
 His best resolves) be on his guard? 
 He marches by, secure and bold; 
 Yet while he thinks on times of old. 
 It seems that all looks wondrous cold; 
 He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head. 
 And, for the honest folk within. 
 It is a doubt with Benjamin 
 Whether they be alive or dead ! 
 
 Here is no danger, — none at all ! 
 Beyond his wish he walks secure;' 
 But pass a mile — and ihen for trial, — 
 Then for the pride of self-denial; 
 If he resist that tempting door. 
 Which with such friendly voice will call; 
 If he resist those casement panes, 
 And that bright gleam which thence will 
 
 fall 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 259 
 
 Upon his Leaders' bells and manes, 
 Inviting him with cheerful lure : 
 For still, though all be dark elsewhere. 
 Some shining notice will be there, ■ 
 Of open house and ready fare. 
 
 The place to Benjamin right well 
 Is known, and by as strong a spell 
 As used to be that sign of love 
 And hope — the Olive - bough and 
 
 Dove; 
 He knows it to his cost, good Man ! 
 Who does not know the famous Swan ? 
 Object uncouth ! and yet our boast. 
 For it was painted by the Host; 
 His own conceit the figure planned, 
 'Twas colored all by his own hand; 
 And that frail Child of thirsty clay, 
 Of whom I sing this rustic lay, 
 Could tell with self-dissatisfaction 
 Quaint stories of the bird's attraction ! ^ 
 
 Well ! that is past — and in despite 
 Of open door and shining light. 
 And now the conqueror essays 
 The long ascent of Dunmail-raise; 
 And with his team is gentle here 
 As when he clomb from Rydal Mere; 
 His whip they do not dread — his voice 
 They only hear it to rejoice. 
 To stand or go is at their pleasure; 
 Their efforts and their time they measure 
 By generous pride within the breast ; 
 And, while they strain, and while they 
 
 rest. 
 He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure. 
 
 Now am I fairly safe to-night — 
 And with proud cause my heart is light-: 
 I trespassed lately worse than ever — 
 But Heaven has blest a good endeavor; 
 And, to my soul's content, I find 
 The evil One is left behind. 
 Yes, let my master fume and fret. 
 Here am I — with my horses yet ! 
 My jolly team, he finds that ye 
 Will work for nobody but me ! 
 Full proof of this the Country gained; 
 It knows how ye were vexed and strained. 
 And forced unworthy stripes to bear. 
 When trusted to another's care. 
 Here was it — on this rugged slope, 
 
 1 This rude piece of self-taught art (such is the 
 progress of refinement) has been supplanted by a 
 DrofcEoional production. 
 
 Which now ye climb with heart and hope, 
 I saw you, between rage and fear. 
 Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear. 
 And ever more and more confused, 
 As ye were more and more abused : 
 As chance would have it, passing by 
 I saw you in that jeopardy: 
 A word from me was like a charm; 
 Ye pulled together with one mind; 
 And your huge burthen, safe from harm. 
 Moved like a vessel in the wind ! 
 — Yes, without me, up hills so high 
 'T is vain to strive for mastery. 
 Then grieve not, jolly team ! though tough 
 The road we travel, steep, and rough; 
 Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise, 
 And all their fellow banks and braes. 
 Full often make you stretch and strain. 
 And halt for breath and halt again. 
 Yet to their sturdiness 't is owing 
 That side by side we still are going ! 
 While Benjamin in earnest mood 
 His meditations thus pursued, 
 A storm, which had been smothered long. 
 Was growing inwardly more strong; 
 And, in its struggles to get free. 
 Was busily employed as he. 
 The thunder had begun to growl — 
 He heard not, too intent of soul; 
 The air was now without a breath — 
 He marked not that 't was still as death, 
 But soon large rain-drops on his head 
 Fell with the weight of drops of lead; — ■ 
 He starts — and takes, at the admonition, 
 A sage survey of his condition. 
 The road is black before his eyes. 
 Glimmering faintly where it lies; 
 Black is the sky — and every hill. 
 Up to the sky, is blacker still — 
 Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, 
 Hung round and overhung with gloom; 
 Save that above a single height 
 Is to be seen a' lurid light. 
 Above Helm-crag 1 — a streak half dead, 
 A burning of portentous red; 
 And near that lurid light, full well 
 The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel, 
 Where at his desk and book he sits, 
 
 1 A mountain of Grasmere, the broken sum- 
 mit of which presents two figures, full as dis- 
 tinctly shaped as that of the famous Cobbled 
 near Arroquhar in Scotland. 
 
26o 
 
 THE WAGGONER. 
 
 Puzzling aloft his curious wits; 
 
 He whose domain is held in common 
 
 With no one but the ancient woman, 
 
 Cowering beside her rifted cell, 
 
 As if intent on magic spell; — 
 
 Dread pair, that, spite of wind and 
 
 weather. 
 Still sit upon Helm-crag together ! 
 
 The Astrologer was not unseen 
 By solitary Benjamin; 
 But total darkness came anon. 
 And he and everything was gone : 
 And suddenly a ruffling breeze, 
 (That would have rocked the sounding 
 
 trees 
 Had aught of sylvan growth been there) 
 Swept through the Hollow long and 
 
 bare: 
 The rain rushed down — the road was 
 
 battered, 
 As with the force of billows shattered; 
 The horses are dismayed, nor know 
 Whether they should stand or go; 
 And Benjamin is groping near them 
 Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear 
 
 them. 
 He is astounded, — wonder not, — 
 With such a charge in such a spot; 
 Astounded in the mountain gap 
 With thunder-peals, clap after clap, 
 Close-treading on the silent flashes — 
 And som.ewhere, as he thinks, by crashes 
 .\mong the rocks; with weight of rain. 
 And sullen motions long and slow. 
 That to a dreary distance go — 
 rill, breaking in upon the dying strain, 
 A rending o'er his head begins the fray 
 
 again. 
 Meanwhile, uncertain what to do. 
 And oftentimes compelled to halt. 
 The horses cautiously pursue 
 Their way, without mishap or fault; 
 And now have reached that pile of stones. 
 Heaped over brave King Dunmail's 
 
 bones ; 
 His who had once supreme command. 
 Last king of rocky Cumberland; 
 His bones, and those of all his Power, 
 Slain here in a disastrous hour ! 
 
 When, passing through this narrow 
 strait, 
 Stony, and dark, and desolate, 
 Benjamin can faintly hear 
 
 A voice that comes from some one near, 
 A female voice; — " Who e'er you be. 
 Stop," it exclaimed, " and pity me ! " 
 And, less in pity than in wonder. 
 Amid the darkness and the thunder. 
 The Waggoner, with prompt command 
 Summons his horses to a stand. 
 
 While, with increasing agitation, 
 The Woman urged her supplication. 
 In rueful words, with sobs between — 
 The voice of tears that fell unseen; 
 There came a flash — a startling glare. 
 And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare ! 
 'T is not a time for nice suggestion. 
 And Benjamin, without a question. 
 Taking her for some way-worn rover, 
 Said, "Mount, and get you under 
 cover ! " 
 
 Another voice, in tone as hoarse 
 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 ! ' 
 
 " 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 
 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 ! 
 We've had in half an hour or less 
 A twelvemonth's terror and distress! " 
 
 Then Benjamin entreats the Man 
 Would mount, too, quickly as he can: 
 The Sailor — Sailor now no more, 
 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 6fty things beside, — 
 Go, and I'll follow speedily I " 
 
 The Wagon moves — and with its load 
 Descends along the sloping road; 
 And the rough Sailor instantly 
 Turns to a little tent hard by: 
 For when, at closing-in of day. 
 The family had come that way, 
 Green pasture and the soft warm air 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 26 r 
 
 Tempted them to settle there. — 
 Green is the grass for beast to graze, 
 Around the stones of Dunmail-raise ! 
 
 The Sailor gathers up his bed, 
 Takes down the canvas overhead; 
 And, after farewell to the place, 
 A parting word — though not of grace. 
 Pursues, with Ass and all his store. 
 The way the Wagon went before. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 If Wytheburn's modest House of prayer, 
 As lowly as the lowliest dwelling, 
 Had, with its belfry's humble stock, 
 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 — 
 Its bead-roll of midnight, 
 Then, when the Hero of my tale 
 Was passing by, and, down the vale 
 (The vale now silent, hushed I ween 
 As if a storm had never been) 
 Proceeding with a mind at ease; 
 While the old Familiar of the seas. 
 Intent to use his utmost haste. 
 Gained ground upon the Wagon fast. 
 And gives another lusty cheer; 
 For spite of rumbling of the wheels, 
 A welcome greeting he can hear; — 
 It is a fiddle in its glee 
 Dinning from the Cherry Tree ! 
 
 Thence the sound — the light is there — 
 As Benjamin is now aware, 
 Who, to his inward thoughts confined. 
 Had almost reached the festive door. 
 When, startled by the Sailor's roar, 
 H^ hears a sound and sees a light, 
 And in a moment calls to mind 
 That 't is the village Merry-night ! ' 
 
 Although before in no dejection. 
 At this insidious recollection 
 His heart with sudden joy is filled, — 
 His ears are by the music thrilled. 
 His eyes take pleasure in the road 
 
 1 A term well known in the North of England, 
 and applied to rural Festivals where young per- 
 sons meet in tlie evening for the purpose of dan- 
 cing. 
 
 Glittering before him bright and broad; 
 
 And Benjamin is wet and cold. 
 
 And there are reasons manifold 
 
 That make the good, tow'rds which he's 
 
 yearning, 
 Look fairly like a lawful earning. 
 
 Nor has thought time to come and go. 
 To vibrate between yes and no; 
 For, cries the Sailor, " Glorious chance 
 That blew us hither ! — let him dance. 
 Who can or will ! — my honest soul. 
 Our treat shall be a friendly bowl ! " 
 He draws him to the door — " Come in. 
 Come, come," cries he to Benjamin! 
 And Benjamin — ah, woe is me! 
 Gave the word — the horses heard 
 And halted, though reluctantly. 
 
 "Blithe souls and lightsome hearts 
 have we, 
 Feasting at the Cherry Tree ! " 
 This was the outside proclamation. 
 This was the inside salutation; 
 What bustling — jostling — high and low ! 
 A universal overflow ! 
 What tankards foaming from the tap ! 
 What store of cakes in every lap ! 
 What thumping — stumping — overhead ! 
 The thunder had not been more busy: 
 With such a stir you would have said, 
 This little place may well be dizzy ! 
 'T is who can dance with greatest vigor — 
 'T is what can be most prompt and eager; 
 As if it heard the fiddle's call. 
 The pewter clatters on the wall; 
 The very bacon shows its feeling. 
 Swinging from the smoky ceiling ! 
 
 ^V steaming bowl, a blazing fire. 
 What greater good can heart desire? 
 'Twere worth a wise man's while to try 
 The utmost anger of the sky: 
 To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast. 
 If such the bright amends at last. 
 Now should you say I judge amiss, 
 The Cherry Tree shows proof of this; 
 For soon of all the happy there, 
 Our Travellers are the happiest pair; 
 All care with Benjamin is gone — 
 A Cassar past the Rubicon ! 
 He thinks not of his long, long strife ;- 
 The Sailor, Man by nature gay, 
 Hath no resolves to throw away; 
 And he hath now forgot his Wife, 
 Hath quite forgotten her — or may be 
 
262 
 
 THE WAGGONER. 
 
 Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth, 
 Within that warm and peaceful berth, 
 Under cover. 
 Terror over. 
 Sleeping by her sleeping Baby. 
 
 With bowl that sped from hand to hand, 
 The gladdest of the gladsome band. 
 Amid their own delight and fun. 
 They hear — when every dance is done. 
 When every whirling bout is o'er — 
 The fiddle's squeak'^ — that call to bliss, 
 Ever followed by a kiss; 
 They envy not the happy lot. 
 But enjoy their own the more ! 
 
 While thus our jocund Travellers fare, 
 Up springs the Sailer from his chair — 
 Limps (for I might have told before 
 That he was lame) across the floor — 
 Is gone — returns — and with a prize; 
 With what? — a Ship of lusty size; 
 A gallant stately Man-of-war, 
 Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car. 
 Surprise to all, but most surprise 
 To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes, 
 Not knowing that he had befriended 
 A Man so gloriously attended ! 
 
 "This," cries the Sailor, "a Third- 
 rate is — 
 Stand back, and you shall see her gratis ! 
 This was the Flag-ship at the Nile, 
 The Vanguard — you may smirk and 
 
 smile. 
 But, pretty Maid, if you look near. 
 You '11 find you 've much in little here ! 
 A nobler ship did never swim, 
 And you shall see her in full trim : 
 I 'U set, my friends, to do you honor. 
 Set every inch of sail upon her." 
 So said, so done; and masts, sails, yards, 
 He names them all; and interlards 
 His speech with uncouth terms of art, 
 Accomplished in the showman's part; 
 And then, as from a sudden check. 
 Cries out — "'Tis there, the quarter- 
 deck 
 On which brave Admiral Nelson stood — 
 A sight that would have roused your 
 
 blood ! 
 One eye he had, which, bright as ten. 
 Burned like a fire among his men; 
 
 1 At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a par- 
 ticular note from the fiddle summons the Rustic 
 to the agreeable duty of saluting his partner. 
 
 Let this be land, and that be sea. 
 Here lay the French — and thus came 
 we! " 
 Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound, 
 The dancers all were gathered round. 
 And, such the stillness of the house. 
 You might have heard a nibbling mouse; 
 While, borrowing helps where'er he may, 
 The Sailor through the story runs 
 Of ships to ships and guns to guns; 
 And does his utmost to display 
 The dismal conflict, and the might 
 And terror of that marvellous night ! 
 " A bowl, a bowl of double measure," 
 Cries Benjamin, "a draught of length, 
 To Nelson, England's pride and treasure, 
 Her bulwark and her tower of strength ! " 
 When Benjamin had seized the bowl, 
 The mastiff, from beneath the wagon. 
 Where he lay, watchful as a dragon, 
 Rattled his chain; — 'twas all in vain. 
 For Benjamin, triumphant soul ! 
 He heard the monitory growl; 
 Heard — and in opposition quaffed 
 A deep, determined, desperate draught ! 
 Nor did the battered Tar forget, 
 Or flinch from what he deemed his debt : 
 Then, like a hero crowned with laurel. 
 Back to her place the ship he led; 
 Wheeled her back in full apparel; 
 And so, flag flying at mast head, 
 Re-yoked her to the Ass : — anon, 
 Cries Benjamin, *' We must be gone.'' 
 Thus, after two hours' hearty stay, 
 Again behold them on their way ! 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 Right gladly had the horses stirred, 
 When they the wished-for greeting heard. 
 The whip's loud notice from the door, 
 That they were free to move once more. 
 You think, those doings must have bred 
 In them disheartening doubts and dread; 
 No, not a horse of all the eight. 
 Although it be a moonless night. 
 Fears either for himself or freight; 
 For this they know (and let it hide. 
 In part, the offences of their guide) 
 That Benjamin, with clouded brains, 
 Is worth the best with all their pains; 
 And, if they had a prayer to make, 
 The prayer would be that they may take 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 sfi3 
 
 With him whatever comes in course, 
 
 The better fortune or the worse; 
 
 That no one else may have business near 
 
 them, 
 And, drunk or sober, he may steer them. 
 
 So, forth in dauntless mood they fare, 
 And with them goes the guardian pair. 
 
 Now, heroes, for the true commotion, 
 The triumph of your late devotion 
 Can aught on earth impede delight, 
 Still mounting to a higher height; 
 And higher still — a greedy flight ! 
 Can any low-born care pursue her. 
 Can any mortal clog come to her? 1 
 No notion have they — not a thought. 
 That is from joyless regions brought ! 
 And, while they coast the silent lake, 
 Their inspiration I partake; 
 Share their empyreal spirits — yea. 
 With their enraptured vision, see^ 
 fancy — what a jubilee ! 
 What shifting pictures — clad in gleams 
 Of color bright as feverish dreams ! 
 Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene. 
 Involved and restless all — a scene 
 Pregnant with mutual exaltation. 
 Rich change, and multiplied creation ! 
 This sight to me the Muse imparts; — 
 And then, what kindness in their hearts ! 
 What tears of rapture, what vow-making, 
 Profound entreaties, and hand-shaking ! 
 What solemn, vacant, interlacing, 
 As if they 'd fall asleep embracing ! 
 Then, in the turbulence of glee. 
 And in the excess of amity, 
 Says Benjamin, " That Ass of thine, 
 He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine: 
 If he were tethered to the wagon. 
 He 'd drag as well what he is dragging. 
 And we, as brother should with brother, 
 Might trudge it alongside each other ! " 
 
 Forthwith, obedient to command, 
 The horses made a quiet stand; 
 And to the wagon's skirts was tied 
 The Creature, by the Mastiff's side. 
 The Mastiff wondering, and perplext 
 With dread of what will happen next; 
 And thinking it but sorry cheer. 
 To have such company so near ! 
 
 This new arrangement made, the Wain 
 Through the still night proceeds again; 
 No Moon hath risen her light to lend; 
 > See Note. 
 
 But indistinctly may be kenned 
 
 The Vanguard, following close behind, 
 
 Sails spread, as if to catch the wind ! 
 
 ' ' Thy wife and child are snug and warm, 
 Thy ship will travel without harm; 
 I like," said Benjamin, "her shape and 
 
 stature : 
 And this of mine — this bulky creature 
 Of which I have the steering — this, 
 Seen fairly, is not much amiss! 
 We want your streamers, friend, you 
 
 know; 
 But, altogether as we go, 
 We make a kind of handsome show ! 
 Among these hills, from first to last. 
 We 've weathered many a furious blast; 
 Hard passage forcing on, with head 
 Against the storm, and canvas spread. 
 I hate a boaster; but to thee 
 Will say 't, who know'st both land and 
 
 sea. 
 The unluckiest hulk that stems the brine 
 Is hardly worse beset than mine, 
 When cross-winds on her quarter beat; 
 And, fairly lifted from my feet, 
 I stagger onward — heaven knows how; 
 But not so pleasantly as now : 
 Poor pilot I, by snows confounded. 
 And many a foundrous pit surrounded ! 
 Yet here we are, by night and day 
 Grinding through rough and smooth our 
 
 way; 
 Through foul and fair our task fulfilling : 
 And long shall be so yet — God willing ! " 
 " Ay," said the Tar, "through fair and 
 
 foul — 
 But save us from yon screeching owl ! ' ' 
 That instant was begun a fray 
 Which called their thoughts another way : 
 The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl ! 
 What must he do but growl and snarl. 
 Still more and more dissatisfied 
 With the meek comrade at his side ! 
 Till, not incensed though put to proof. 
 The Ass, uplifting a hind hoof, 
 Salutes the Mastiff on the head; 
 And so were better manners bred. 
 And all was calmed and quieted. 
 
 "Yon screech-owl," says the Sailor, 
 
 turning 
 Back to his former cause of mourning, 
 " Yon owl ! — pray God that all be well! 
 'T is worse than any funeral bell; 
 
264 
 
 THE WAGGONER. 
 
 As sure as I 've the gift of sight, 
 
 We shall be meeting ghosts to-night ! " 
 
 — Said Benjamin, " This whip shall lay 
 A thousand, if they cross our way. 
 
 I know that Wanton's noisy station, 
 I know him and his occupation; 
 The jolly bird hath learned his cheer 
 Upon the banks of Windermere; 
 Where a tribe of them make merry, 
 Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry; 
 Hallooing from an open throat. 
 Like travellers shouting for a boat. 
 
 — The tricks he learned at Windermere 
 This vagrant owl is playing here — 
 That is the worst of his employment : 
 He 's at the top of his enjoyment ! " 
 
 This explanation stilled the alarm, 
 Cured the foreboder like a charm; 
 This, and the manner, and the voice, 
 Summoned the Sailor to rejoice; 
 His heart is up — he fears no evil 
 From life or death, from man or devil; 
 He wheels — and, making many stops, 
 Brandished his crutch against the moun- 
 tain tops; 
 And, while he talked of blows and scars, 
 Benjamin, among the stars. 
 Beheld a dancing — and a glancing; 
 Such retreating and advancing 
 As, I ween, was never seen 
 In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars ! 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 
 Thus they, with freaks of proud delight, 
 Beguile the remnant of the night; 
 And many a snatch of jovial song 
 Regales them as they wind along; 
 While to the music, from on high. 
 The echoes make a glad reply. — 
 But the sage Muse the revel heeds 
 No farther than her story needs; 
 Nor will she servilely attend 
 The loitering journey to its end. 
 
 — Blithe spirits of her own impel 
 
 The Muse, who scents the morning air. 
 To take of this transported pair 
 A brief and unreproved farewell; 
 To quit the slow-paced wagon's side. 
 And wander down yon hawthorn dell. 
 With murmuring Greta for her guide. 
 
 — There doth she ken the awful form 
 Of Raven-crag — black as a storm — 
 
 Glimmering through the twilight pale; 
 And Ghimmer-crag,' his tall twin brother. 
 Each peering forth to meet the other : — 
 And, while she roves through St. John's 
 
 Vale, 
 Along the smooth unpathwayed plain. 
 By sheep-track or through cottage lane. 
 Where no disturbance comes to intrude 
 Upon the pensive solitude. 
 Her unsuspecting eye, perchance. 
 With the rude shepherd's favored glance, 
 Beholds the faeries in array. 
 Whose party-colored garments gay 
 The silent company betray : 
 Red, green, and blue ; a moment's sight ! 
 For Skiddaw-top with rosy light 
 Is touched — and all the band take flight. 
 — Fly also. Muse ! and from the dell 
 Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell; 
 Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and 
 
 lawn 
 Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn; 
 Across yon meadowy bottom look. 
 Where close fogs hide their parent brook; 
 And see, beyond that hamlet small. 
 The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall, 
 Lurking in a double shade, 
 By trees and lingering twilight made ! 
 There, at Blencathara's rugged feet, 
 Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat 
 To noble Clifford; from annoy 
 Concealed the persecuted boy,. 
 Well pleased in rustic garb to feed 
 His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed 
 Among this multitude of hills. 
 Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills; 
 Which soon the morning shall enfold, 
 From east to west, in ample vest 
 Of massy gloom and radiance bold. 
 
 The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed 
 Hung low, begin to rise and spread; 
 Even while I speak, their skirts of gray 
 Are smitten by a silver ray; 
 And lo ! — up Castrigg's naked steep 
 (Where, smoothly urged, the vapors 
 
 sweep 
 Along — and scatter and divide, 
 Like fleecy clouds self -multiplied) 
 The stately wagon is ascending. 
 With faithful Benjamin attending. 
 Apparent now beside his team — 
 Now lost amid a glittering steam: 
 ' The crag of the ewe lamb. 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 265 
 
 And with him goes his Sailor-friend, 
 By this time near their journey's end; 
 And, after their high-minded riot. 
 Sickening into thoughtful quiet; 
 As if the morning's pleasant hour 
 Had for their joys a killing power. 
 And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein 
 Is opened of still deeper pain 
 As if his heart by notes were stung 
 From out the lowly hedge-rows flung; 
 As if the Warbler lost in light 
 Reproved his soarings of the night. 
 In strains of rapture pure and holy 
 Upbraided liis distempered folly. 
 
 Drooping is he, his step is dull; 
 But the horses stretch and pull ; 
 With increasing vigor climb, 
 Eager to repair lost time; 
 Whether, by their own desert. 
 Knowing what cause there is for shame. 
 They are laboring to avert 
 As much as may be of the blame, 
 Which, they foresee, must soon alight 
 Upon his head, whom, in despite 
 01 all his failings, they love best; 
 Whether for him they are distrest, 
 Or, by length of fasting roused. 
 Are impatient to be housed : 
 Up against the hill they strain 
 Tugging at the iron chain. 
 Tugging all with might and main, 
 Last and foremost, every horse 
 To the utmost of his force ! 
 And the smoke and respiration, 
 Rising like an exhalation. 
 Blend with the mist — a moving shroud 
 To form, an undissolving cloud; 
 Which, with slant ray, the merry sun 
 Takes delight to play upon. 
 Never golden-haired Apollo, 
 Pleased some favorite chief to follow 
 Through accidents of peace or war, 
 In a perilous moment threw 
 Around the object of his care 
 Veil of such celestial hue; 
 Interposed so bright a screen — 
 Him and his enemies between ! 
 
 Alas ! what boSts it? — who can hide, 
 When the malicious Fates are bent 
 On working out an ill intent? 
 Can destiny be turned aside? ^ 
 No — sad progress of my story ! 
 lienjamin, this outward glory 
 
 Cannot shield thee from thy Master, 
 
 Who from Keswick has pricked forth. 
 
 Sour and surly as the north ; 
 
 And, in fear of some disaster. 
 
 Comes to give what help he may. 
 
 And to hear what thou canst say; 
 
 If, as needs he must forbode, 
 
 Thou hast been loitering on the road ! 
 
 His fears, his doubts, may now take 
 
 flight — 
 The wished- for object is in sight; 
 Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath 
 Stirred him up to livelier wrath; 
 Which he stifles, moody man ! 
 With all the patience that he can; 
 To the end tliat, at your meeting. 
 He may give thee decent greeting. 
 
 There he is — resolved to stop. 
 Till the wagon gains the top; 
 But stop he cannot — must advance : 
 Him Benjamin, with lucky glance. 
 Espies — and instantly is ready. 
 Self-collected, poised, and steady: 
 And, to be the better seen. 
 Issues from his radiant shroud. 
 From his close-attending cloud. 
 With careless air and open mien. 
 Erect his port, and firm his going; 
 So struts yon cock that now is crowing; 
 And the morning light in grace 
 Strikes upon his lifted face. 
 Hurrying the pallid hue away 
 That might his trespasses betray. 
 But what can all avail to clear him, 
 Or what need of explanation, 
 Parley or interrogation? 
 For the Master sees, alas ! 
 That unhappy Figure near him. 
 Limping o'er the dewy grass. 
 Where the road it fringes, sweet, 
 Soft and cool to way-worn feet; 
 And, O indignity ! an Ass, 
 By his noble Mastiff's side, 
 Tethered to the wagon's tail: 
 And the ship, in all her pride. 
 Following after in full sail ! 
 Not to speak of babe and mother; 
 Who, contented with each other. 
 And snug as birds in leafy arbor. 
 Find, within, a blessed harbor ! 
 
 With eager eyes the Master pries; 
 Looks in and out, and through and 
 through; 
 
266 
 
 THE WAGGONER. 
 
 Says nothing — till at last he spies 
 
 A wound upon the Mastiff's head, 
 
 A wound, where plainly might be read 
 
 What feats an Ass's hoof can do ! 
 
 But drop the rest: — this aggravation, 
 
 This complicated provocation, 
 
 A hoard of grievances unsealed; 
 
 All past forgiveness it repealed; 
 
 And thus, and through distempered blood 
 
 On both sides, Benjamin the good. 
 
 The patient, and the tender-hearted, 
 
 Was from his team and wagon parted; 
 
 When duty of that day was o'er, 
 
 Laid '^own his whip — and served no 
 
 more. — 
 Nor could the wagon long survive. 
 Which Benjamin had ceased to drive : 
 It lingered on; — guide after guide 
 Ambitiously the office tried; 
 But each unmanageable hill 
 Called for his patience and his skill; — 
 And sure it is, that through this night, 
 And what the morning brought to light. 
 Two losses had we to sustain. 
 We lost both Waggoner and wain ! 
 
 Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame. 
 
 The gift of this adventurous song; 
 
 A record which I dared to frame. 
 
 Though timid scruples checked me long; 
 
 They checked me — and I left the theme 
 
 Untouched — in spite of many a gleam 
 
 Of fancy which thereon was shed. 
 
 Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still 
 
 Upon the side of a distant hill: 
 
 But Nature might not be gainsaid; 
 
 For what I have and what I miss 
 
 I sing of these ; — it makes my bliss ! 
 
 Nor is it I who play the part. 
 
 But a shy spirit in my heart. 
 
 That comes and goes — will sometimes 
 
 leap 
 From hiding-places ten years deep; 
 Or haunts me with familiar face, 
 Returning, like a ghost unlaid. 
 Until the debt I owe be paid. 
 Forgive me, then; for I had been 
 On friendly terms with this Machine : 
 In him, while he was wont to trace 
 Our roads, thrQugh many a long year's 
 
 space. 
 
 A living almanac had we; 
 
 We had a speaking diary, 
 
 That in this uneventful place 
 
 Gave to the days a mark and name 
 
 By which we knew them when they came. 
 
 — Yes, I, and all about me here. 
 Through all the changes of the year. 
 Had seen him through the mountains 
 
 go, 
 In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, 
 Majestically huge and slow: 
 Or, with a milder grace adorning 
 The landscape of a summer's morning; 
 While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain 
 The moving image to detain; 
 And mighty Fairfield, with a chime 
 Of echoes, to his march kept time; 
 When little other business stirred. 
 And little other sound was heard; 
 In that delicious hour of balm. 
 Stillness, solitude, and calm, 
 While yet the valley is arrayed. 
 On this side with a sober shade; 
 On that is prodigally bright — 
 Crag, lawn, and wood — with rosy light. 
 
 — But most of all, thou Lordly Wain ! 
 I wish to have thee here again, 
 When windows flap and chimney roars, 
 And all is dismal out of doors; 
 
 And, sitting by my fire, I see 
 
 Eight sorry carts, no less a train; 
 
 Unworthy successors of thee. 
 
 Come straggling through the wind and 
 
 rain ! 
 And oft, as they pass slowly on. 
 Beneath my windows, one by one, 
 See, perched upon the naked height 
 The summit of a cumbrous freight, 
 A single traveller — and there 
 Another ; then perhaps a pair — 
 The lame, the sickly, and the old; 
 Jlen, women, heartless with the cold; 
 And babes in wet and starveling plight : 
 Which once, be weather as it might, 
 Had still a nest within a nest. 
 Thy shelter — and their mother's breast: 
 Then most of all, then far the most. 
 Do I regret what we hc^e lost; 
 Am grieved for that unhappy sin 
 Which robbed us of good Benjamin; 
 And of his stately Charge, which none 
 Could keep alive when He was gone ! 
 1805. 1819. 
 
THE PRELUDE. 
 
 267 
 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION 
 
 AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS 
 COMMENCEMENT.! REPRINTED FROM 
 "THE FRIEND." 2 
 
 An extract from the long poem on my own 
 poetical education. It was first published by 
 Coleridge in his " Friend," which is the reason 
 of its having had a place in every edition of my 
 poems since. 
 
 Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
 For mighty were the auxihars which then 
 
 stood 
 Upon our side, we who were strong in 
 
 love !. 
 I Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
 ' But to be young was very heaven ! — Oh ! 
 
 times, 
 In which the meagre, stale, forbidding 
 I ways 
 
 Of custom, law, and statute, took at once 
 ( The attraction of a country in romance ! 
 I When Reason seemed the most to assert 
 
 her rights. 
 When most intent on making of herself 
 A prime Enchantress — to assist the work, 
 Which then was going forward in her 
 
 name ! 
 Not favored spots alone, but the whole 
 
 earth. 
 The beauty wore of promise, that which 
 
 sets 
 (As at some moment might not be unfelt 
 Among the bowers of paradise itself) 
 The budding rose above the rose full 
 
 blown. 
 What temper at the prospect did not wake 
 To happiness unthought of? The inert 
 Were roused, and lively natures rapt 
 
 away ! 
 They who had fed their childhood upon 
 
 dreams. 
 The playfellows of fancy, who had made 
 All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and 
 
 strength 
 Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had 
 
 stirred 
 ' This and the Extract, p. 136, and the first 
 Piece of this Class, are from the [then] unpub- 
 lished Poem of which some account is given in 
 the Preface to the Excursion. 
 2 Prelude, book xi. p. 357. 
 
 Among the grandest objects of the sense, 
 And dealt with whatsoever they found 
 
 there 
 As if they had within some lurking right 
 To wield it; — they, too, who, of gentle 
 
 mood. 
 Had watched all gentle motions, and to 
 
 these 
 Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers 
 
 more mild. 
 And in the region of their peaceful 
 
 selves; — 
 Now was it that both found, the meek 
 
 and lofty 
 Did both find, helpers to their heart's 
 
 desire. 
 And stuff at hand, plastic as they could 
 
 wish; 
 Were called upon to exercise their skill. 
 Not in Utopia, subterranean fields. 
 Or some secreted island, Heaven knows 
 
 where ! 
 But in the very world, which is the world 
 Of all of us, — the place where in the end 
 We find our happiness, or not at all ! 
 1805. 1810. 
 
 THE PRELUDE 
 
 OR, GROWTH OF A POET'S MIND; 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEM. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following Poem was commenced in the 
 beginning of the year 1799, and completed in 
 the summer of 1805. 
 
 The design and occasion of the work are 
 described by the Author in his Preface to the 
 Excursion, first published in 1814, where he 
 thus speaks ; — 
 
 " Several years ago, when the Author retired 
 to his native mountains with the hope of being 
 enabled to construct a literary work that might 
 live, it was a reasonable thing that he should 
 take a review of his own mind, and examine how 
 far Nature and Education had qualified him for 
 such an employment. 
 
 " As subsidiary to this preparation, he under- 
 took to record, in verse, the origin and progress 
 of his own powers, as far as he was acquainted 
 with them. 
 
 " That work, addressed to a dear friend, most 
 distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and 
 
268 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 to whom the Author's intellect is deeply indebted, 
 has been long finished ; and the result of the 
 investigation which gave rise to it, was a deter- 
 mination to compose a philosophical Poem, con- 
 taining views of Man, Nature, and Society, and 
 to be entitled the * Recluse ' ; as having for its 
 principal subject the sensations and opinions of 
 a poet living in retirement. 
 
 "The preparatory poem is biographical, and 
 conducts the history of the Author's mind to the 
 point when he was emboldened to hope that his 
 faculties were sufficiently matured for entering 
 upon the arduous labor which he had proposed 
 to himself ; and the two works have the same 
 kind of relation to each other, if he may so 
 express himself, as the Ante-chapel has to the 
 body of a Gothic church. Continuing this 
 a,llusion, he may be permitted to add, that his 
 minor pieces, which have been long before the 
 public, when they shall be properly arranged, 
 will be found by the attentive reader to have such 
 connection with the main work as may give them 
 claim to be likened to the little cells, oratories, 
 and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in 
 those edifices." 
 
 Such was the Author's language in the year 
 3 Si 4. 
 
 It will thence be seen, that the present Poem 
 was intended to be introductory to the Recluse, 
 and that the Recluse, if completed, would have 
 consisted of Three Parts. Of these, the Second 
 Part alone, viz. the Excursion, was finished, 
 and given to the world by the Author. 
 
 The First Book of the First Part of the 
 Recluse still remains in manuscript ; * but the 
 Third Part was only planned. The materials of 
 which it would have been formed have, however, 
 been incorporated, for the most part, in the 
 Author's other Publications, written subsequently 
 to the Excursion. 
 
 The Friend, to whom the present Poem is 
 addressed, was the late Samuel Tavlor Cole- 
 ridge, who was resident in Malta, for the restora- 
 tion of his health, when the greater part of it was 
 composed. 
 
 Mr. Coleridge read a considerable portion of 
 the Poem while he was abroad ; and his feelings, 
 on hearing it recited by the Author (after his 
 return to his own country), are recorded in his 
 Verses, addressed to Mr. Wordsworth, which will 
 be found in the Sihylli?ie Leaves, p. 197, ed. 
 181 7, or Poetical Works by S. T. Coleridge, 
 vol. i. p. 206. 
 
 Rydal Mount, 
 
 July iiik, 1850. 
 
 ^ Now printed, see p. 378. 
 
 Book First. 
 
 introduction — childhood and 
 school-time. 
 
 Oh there is a blessing in this gentle breeze, 
 A visitant that while it fans my cheek 
 Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it 
 
 brings 
 From the green fields, and from yon azure 
 
 sky. 
 Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can 
 
 come 
 To none more grateful than to me; es- 
 caped 
 From the vast city, where I long had pined 
 A discontented sojourner: now free, 
 Free as a bird to settle where I will. 
 What dwelHng shall receive me? in what 
 
 vale 
 Shall be my harbor? underneath what 
 
 grove 
 Shall I take up my home? and what clear 
 
 stream 
 Shall with its murmur lull me into rest? 
 The earth is all before me. With a heart 
 Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, 
 I look about; and should the chosen guide 
 Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, 
 I cannot miss my way. I breathe again ! 
 Trances of thought and mountings of the 
 
 mind 
 Come fast upon me : it is shaken off, 
 That burthen of my own unnatural self, 
 The heavy weight of many a weary day 
 Not mine, and such as were not made for 
 
 me. 
 Long months of peace (if such bold word 
 
 accord 
 With any promises of human life), 
 Long months of ease and undisturbed 
 
 delight 
 Are mine in prospect ; whither shall I turn, 
 By road or pathway, or through trackless 
 
 field, 
 Up hill or down, or shall some floating 
 
 thing 
 Upon the river point me out my course? 
 
 ::^Dear Liberty ! Yet what would it ava'i 
 But for a gift that consecrates the joy? 
 For I, methought, while the sweet breals 
 of heaven 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 269 
 
 Was blowing on my body, felt within 
 A correspondent breeze, that gently 
 
 moved 
 With quickening virtue, but is now be- 
 come 
 A tempest, a redundant energy. 
 Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both, 
 And their congenial powers, that, while 
 
 they join 
 In breaking up a long-continued frost, 
 Bring with then vernal promises, the hope 
 Of active days urged on by flying hours, — 
 Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient 
 
 thought 
 Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service 
 
 high, 
 Matins and vespers of harmonious verse ! 
 
 Thus far, O Friend ! did I, r^ot used to 
 make 
 A present joy the matter of a song. 
 Pour forth that day my soul in measured 
 strains 
 ' ^.That^would not be forgotten, and are here 
 Recorded : to the open fields I told 
 A prophecy : poetic numbers came 
 I Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe 
 ^^Arenovated spirit singled oiit, " 
 
 Such hope was mine, for" holy 'services. 
 My own voice cheered me, and, far more, 
 
 the mind's 
 Internal echo of the imperfect sound; 
 To both I listened, drawing from them 
 
 both 
 A cheerful confidence in things to come. 
 
 Content and not unwilling, now to give 
 A respite to this passion, I paced on 
 With brisk and eager steps; and came, 
 
 aTTength, " ' ~"' " ' 
 
 To a green shaSy place, where down I sate 
 Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts 
 
 by choice 
 And settling into gentler happiness. 
 'T was autumn, and a clear and placid day. 
 With warmth, as much as needed, from a 
 
 sun 
 Two hours declined towards the west; a 
 
 day 
 With silver clouds, and sunshine on the 
 
 grass, 
 And in the sheltered and the sheltering 
 ■ grove 
 
 A perfect stillness. { (.Many were the 
 
 thoughts 
 Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was 
 
 made 
 Of a known Vale, whither my feet should 
 
 turn, 
 Nor rest till they had reached the very door 
 Of the one cottage which methought I 
 
 saw. 
 No picture of mere memory ever looked 
 So fair; and while upon the fancied scene 
 I gazed with growing love, a higher power 
 Than Fancy gave assurance of some work 
 Of glory theie forthwith to be begun. 
 Perhaps too there performed. Thus long 
 
 I mused. 
 Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon, 
 Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks. 
 Now here, now there, an acorn, from its 
 
 cup 
 Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or 
 
 at once 
 To the bare earth dropped with a startling 
 
 sound. 
 From that soft couch I rose not, till the 
 
 sun 
 Had almost touched the horizon; casting 
 
 then 
 A backward glance upon the curling cloud 
 Of city smoke, by distance ruralized; 
 Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive, 
 But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took. 
 Even with the chance equipment of that 
 
 hour. 
 The road that pointed toward the chosen 
 
 Vale. 
 It was a splendid evening, and my soul 
 Once more made trial of her strength, nor 
 
 lacked 
 .(Eolian visitations; but the harp 
 Was soon defrauded, and the banded host 
 Of harmony dispersed in straggling 
 
 sounds. 
 And lastly utter silence ! " Be it so; 
 (Why think of anything but present 
 y» good ? ' ' 
 
 po, like a home-bound laborer, I pursued 
 My way beneath the mellowing sun, that 
 
 shed ^> 
 
 Mild influence; nor left in me one wish/ 
 Again to bend the Sabbath of that time 
 To a servile yoke. What need of many 
 
 words? 
 
270 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 A pleasant loitering journey, through three 
 
 days 
 Continued, brought me to my hermitage. 
 I spare to tell of what ensued, the life 
 In common things — the endless store of 
 
 things. 
 Rare, or at least so seeming, every day 
 Found all about me in one neighbor- 
 hood — 
 The self-congratulation, and, from morn 
 To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene. 
 But speedily an earnest longing rose 
 To brace myself to some determined aim, 
 Reading or thinking; either to lay up 
 New stores^ or rescue from decay the old 
 By timely interference : and therewith 
 Came hopes still higher, that with out- 
 ward life 
 I might endue some airy phantasies 
 That had been floating loose about for 
 
 years. 
 And to such beings temperately deal forth 
 The many feelings that oppressed my 
 
 heart. 
 That hope hath been discouraged; wel- 
 come light 
 Dawns from the east, but dawns to dis- 
 appear 
 And mock me with a sky that ripens not 
 Into a steady morning: if my mind, 
 Remembering the bold promise of the 
 
 past, 
 Would gladly grapple with some noble 
 
 theme. 
 Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she 
 
 finds 
 Impediments from day to day renewed. 
 
 And now it would content me to yield 
 
 up 
 Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts 
 Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear 
 
 Friend ! 
 The Poet, gentle creature as he is, 
 Hath/Tike the Lover, his unruly times; 
 His fits when he is neither sick nor well. 
 Though no distress be near him but his 
 
 own 
 Unmanageable thoughts : his mind, best 
 
 ' pleased 
 
 While she as duteous as the mother dove 
 Sits-br-Qodingj lives not always to that 
 
 end. 
 
 But like the innocent bird, hath goadings 
 
 on 
 That drive her as in trouble through the 
 
 groves; 
 With me is now such passion, to be blamed 
 No otherwise than as it lasts too long. 
 
 When, as becomes a man who would 
 
 prepare 
 For such an arduous work, I through my- 
 self 
 Make rigorous inquisition, the report 
 Is often cheering; for I neither seem 
 To lack thalJ^rigreat-g^f^4he)dtalsclU^, 
 Nor general Truths, which aretneraseTves 
 
 a sort 
 Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers, 
 Subordinate helpers of the living mind: 
 Nor am I naked of external things. 
 Forms, images, nor numerous other aids 
 Of less regard, though won perhaps with 
 
 toil 
 And needful to build up a Poet's praise. 
 Time, glace, and manners do I seek, and 
 
 tEese ~~ 
 
 Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere 
 
 such 
 As may be singled out with steady choice; 
 No little band of yet remembered names 
 Whom I, in perfect confidence, might 
 
 hope 
 To summon back from lonesome banish- 
 ment. 
 And make them dwellers in the hearts of 
 
 men 
 Now living, or to live in future years. 
 Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, 
 
 mistaking 
 Proud spring-tide swellings for a regulair 
 
 sea. 
 Will settle on some British theme, some 
 
 old 
 Romantic tale by Milton left unsung; 
 More often turning to some gentle place 
 Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe 
 To shepherd swains, or seated harp in 
 
 hand, 
 Amid reposing knights by a river side 
 Or fountain, listen to the grave reports 
 or dire enchantments faced and ov,er- 
 
 conie" 
 By the strong mind, and tales of warlike 
 
 feats, ' ' 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 271 
 
 Where spear encountered spear, and 
 
 sword with sword 
 Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry 
 That the shield bore, so glorious was the 
 
 strife; 
 Whence inspiration for a song that winds 
 Through ever-changing scenes of votive 
 
 quest 
 Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute 
 
 paid 
 To patient courage and unblemished 
 
 truth, 
 To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable. 
 And Christian meekness hallowing faith- 
 __ .. ful loves. 
 Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would 
 
 relate 
 How vanquished Mithridates northward 
 
 passed, 
 And, hidden in the cloud of years, became 
 Odin, the Father of a race by whom 
 Perished the Roman Empire: how the 
 
 friends 
 And followers of Sertorius, out of Spain 
 Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate 
 
 Isles, 
 And left their usages, their arts and laws. 
 To disappear by a slow gradual death. 
 To dwindle and to perish one by one. 
 Starved in those narrow bounds : but not 
 
 the soul 
 Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years 
 Survived, and, when the European came 
 With skill and power that might not be 
 
 withstood, 
 Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold 
 And wasted down by glorious death that 
 
 race 
 Of natural heroes : or I would record 
 How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled 
 
 man. 
 Unnamed among the chronicles of kings, 
 Suffered in silence for Truth's sake : or 
 
 tell. 
 How that one Frenchman, ^ through con- 
 tinued force 
 Of meditation on the inhuman deeds 
 Of those who conquered first the Indian 
 
 Isles, 
 
 ' Dominique de Gourgues, a French gentleman 
 who went in 1568 to Florida to avenge the mas. 
 sacre of the French by the Spaniards there. 
 
 Went single in his ministry across 
 The Ocean ; not to comfort the oppressed, 
 But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about 
 Withering the Oppressor : how Gustavus 
 
 sought 
 Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines: 
 How Wallace fought for Scotland; left 
 
 the name 
 Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 
 All over his dear Country; left the deeds 
 Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts, 
 To people the steep rocks and river banks. 
 Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 
 Of independence and stern liberty. 
 Sometimes it suits me better to invent 
 A tale from my own heart, more near akin 
 To my own passions and habitual 
 
 thoughts; 
 Some variegated story, in the main 
 Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure 
 
 melts 
 Before the very sun that brightens it. 
 Mist into air dissolving ! Then a wish. 
 My last and favorite aspiration, mounts 
 With yearning toward some philosophic 
 
 song 
 Of Truth that cherishes our daily Ufe; 
 With meditations passionate from deep 
 Recesses in man's heart, immortal verse 
 Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre; 
 But from this awful burthen I full soon 
 Take refuge and beguile myself with trust 
 That mellower years will bring a riper 
 
 mind 
 And clearer insight. Thus my days are 
 
 past 
 In contradiction; with no skill to part 
 Vague longing, haply bred by want of 
 
 power. 
 From paramount impulse not to be with- 
 stood, 
 A timorous capacity, from prudence, 
 From circumspection, infinite delay. 
 Humility and modest awe, themselves 
 Betray me, serving often for a cloak 
 To a more subtle selfishness; that now 
 Locks every function up in blank reserve. 
 Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye 
 That with intrusive restlessness beats off 
 Simplicity and self-presented truth. 
 Ah ! better far than this, to stray about 
 Voluptuously through fields and rural 
 
 walks. 
 
272 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 And ask no record of the hours, resigned 
 To vacant musing, unreproved neglect 
 Of all things, and deliberate holiday. 
 Far better never to have heard the name 
 Of zeal and just ambition, than to live 
 Baffled and plagued by a mind that every 
 
 hour 
 Turns recreant to her task; takes heart 
 
 again, 
 Then feels immediately some hollow 
 
 ■ thought 
 Hang like an interdict upon her hopes. 
 This is my lot; for either still I find 
 Some imperfection in the chosen theme, 
 Or see of absolute accomplishment 
 Much wanting, so much wanting, in my- 
 self. 
 That I recoil and droop, and seek repose 
 In listlessness from vain perplexity, 
 Unprofitably travelling toward the grave. 
 Like a false steward who hath much re- 
 ceived 
 And renders nothing back. 
 
 Was it for this 
 That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved 
 To blend his murmurs with my nurse's 
 
 song. 
 And, from his alder shades and rocky falls, 
 And from his fords and shallows, sent a 
 
 voice 
 That flowed along my dreams? For this, 
 
 didst thou, 
 O Derwent ! winding among grassy holms 
 Where I was looking on, a babe in arms. 
 Make ceaseless music that composed my 
 
 thoughts 
 To more than infant softness, giving me 
 Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind 
 A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm 
 That Nature breathes among the hills and 
 groves. 
 
 When he had left the mountains and 
 
 received 
 On his smooth breast the shadow of those 
 
 towers 
 That yet survive, a shattered monument 
 Of feudal sway, the bright blue river 
 
 passed 
 Along the margin of our terrace walk; 
 A tempting playmate whom we dearly 
 
 loved. 
 
 Oh, many a time have I, a five years' 
 
 child, 
 In n small mill-race severed from his 
 
 stream. 
 Made one long bathing of a summer's day; 
 Basked in the sun, and plunged and 
 
 basked again 
 Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured 
 The sandy fields, leaping through flowery 
 
 groves 
 Of yellow ragwort ; or, when rock and hill, 
 The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty 
 
 height. 
 Were bronzed with deepest radiance, 
 
 stood alone 
 Beneath the sky, as if I had been born 
 On Indian plains, and from my mother's 
 
 hut 
 Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport 
 A naked savage, in the thunder shower. 
 
 Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew 
 
 up 
 Fostered alike by beauty and by fear : 
 Much favored in my birth-place, and no 
 
 less 
 In that beloved Vale to which erelong 
 We we re transplan ted; — there were we 
 
 let loose 
 For sports of wider range. Ere I had told 
 Ten birth^da,ySjwhen among the moun- 
 — ~^ tliin slop5 " 
 Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had 
 
 snapped 
 The last autumnal crocus, 't was my joy 
 With store of springes o'er my shoulder 
 
 hung 
 To range the open heights where wood- 
 cocks run 
 Along the smooth green turf. Through 
 
 half the night. 
 Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied 
 That anxious visitation; — moon and stars 
 Wereshiningo'er my head. I was alone. 
 And seemed to be a trouble to the peace 
 That dwelt among them. Sometimes it 
 
 befell 
 In these night wanderings, that a strong 
 
 desire 
 O'erpowered my better reason, and the 
 
 bird 
 Which was the captive of another's toil 
 
CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 373 
 
 Became my prey; and when the deed was 
 
 done 
 I heard among the solitary hills 
 Low breathings coming after me, and 
 
 sounds 
 Of undistinguishable motion, steps 
 Almost as silent as the turf they trod. 
 
 Nor less, when spring had warmed the 
 
 cultured Vale, 
 Moved we as plunderers where the moth- 
 er-bird 
 Had in high places built her lodge ; though 
 
 mean 
 Our object and inglorious, yet the end 
 Was not ignoble. Oh ! when I have hung 
 Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass 
 And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock 
 Butill sustained, andalmost (so it seemed) 
 Suspended by the blast that blew amain, 
 Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that 
 
 time 
 While on the perilous ridge I hung alone. 
 With what strange utterance did the loud 
 
 dry wind 
 Blow through my ear ! the sky seemed not 
 
 a sky 
 Of earth — and with what motion moved 
 
 the clouds ! 
 
 Dust 
 
 as we are, 
 
 the 
 
 _ __ _ iminortaI_sj)irit 
 
 grows 
 Like harrno'ny in music; there is a dark 
 Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles 
 Discordant elements, makes them cling, 
 
 together ^-l. 
 
 In one society.' How strange, that all 
 The terrors, pains, and early miseries. 
 Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused 
 Within my mind, should e'er have borne 
 
 a part. 
 And that a needful part, in making up 
 The calm existence that is mine when I 
 Am worthy of myself ! I Praise to the end ! 
 Thanks to the means which Nature deigned 
 
 to employ; 
 Whether her fearless visitings, or those 
 That came with soft alarm, like hurtless 
 
 light 
 Opening the peaceful clouds; or she 
 
 would use 
 Severer interventions, ministry 
 More palpable, as best might suit her aim. 
 
 ! j One summer evening (led by her) I 
 
 found 
 A little boat tied to a willow tree 
 Within a rocky cave, its usual home. 
 Straight I unloosed her chain, and step- 
 ping in 
 Pushed from the shore. It was an act of 
 
 stealth ' 
 
 And troubled pleasure, nor without the 
 
 voice 
 Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on; 
 Leaving behind her still, on either side. 
 Small circles glittering idly in the moon, 
 Until they melted all into one track 
 Of sparkling light. But now, like one 
 
 who rows. 
 Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point 
 With an unswerving line, I fixed my view 
 Upon the summit of a craggy ridge. 
 The horizon's utmost boundary ; far above 
 Was nothing but the stars and the gray 
 
 sky. 
 She was an elfin pinnace; lustily 
 I dipped my oars into the silent lake, 
 And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat 
 Went heaving through the water like a 
 
 swan; 
 When, from behind that craggy steep till 
 
 then 
 The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black 
 
 and huge, 
 As if with voluntary power instinct, 
 Upreared its head. I struck and struck 
 
 again, 
 And growing still in stature the grim shape 
 Towered up between me and the stars, 
 
 and still, 
 For so it seemed, with purpose of its own 
 And measured motion like a living thing 
 Strode after me. With trembling oars I 
 
 turned. 
 And through the silent water stole my way 
 Back to the covert of the willow tree; 
 There in her mooring-place I left my 
 
 bark, — , 
 
 And through the meadows homeward 
 
 went, in grave 
 And serious mood; but after I had seen 
 That spectacle, for many days, my brain 
 Worked with a dim and undetermined 
 
 sense 
 Of unknown modes of being; o'er my 
 
 thoughts 
 
274 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 There hung a darkness, call it solitude 
 Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes 
 Remained, no pleasant images of trees, 
 Of sea or sky, no colors of green fields; 
 But huge and mighty forms, that do not 
 
 live 
 Like living men, moved slowly through 
 
 the mind 
 By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. 
 
 1 Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
 Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought 
 That givest to forms and images a breath 
 And everlasting motion, not in vain 
 By day or star-light thus from my first 
 
 dawn 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 The passions that build up our human 
 
 soul; 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of 
 
 man. 
 But with high objects, with enduring 
 
 things — 
 With life and nature — purifying thus 
 The elements of feeling and of thought, 
 And sanctifying, by such discipline, 
 Both pain and fear, until we recognize 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
 With stinted kindness. In November 
 
 days. 
 When vapors rolling down the valley 
 
 made 
 A lonely scene more lonesome, among 
 
 woods, 
 At noon and 'mid the calm of summer 
 
 nights. 
 When, by the margin of the trembling 
 
 lake. 
 Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I 
 
 went 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine; 
 Mine was it in the fields both day and 
 
 night. 
 And by the waters,' all the summer long. 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 Was set, and visible for many a mile 
 The cottage windows blazed through twi- 
 light gloom, 
 
 ^ These lines have been printed before. See 
 P 136. 
 
 I heeded not their summons : happy time 
 It was indeed for all of us — for me 
 It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
 The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled 
 
 about. 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 That cares not for his home. All shod 
 
 with steel, 
 We hissed along the polished ice in games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures, ■ — the resound- 
 ing horn, 
 The pack loud chiming, and the hunted 
 
 hare. 
 So through the darkness and the cold we 
 
 flew. 
 And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the 
 
 stars 
 Eastward were sparkling clear, and in 
 
 the west 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 Into a silent bay, or sportively 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous 
 
 throng. 
 To cut across the reflex of a star 
 That fled, and, flying still before me, 
 
 gleamed 
 Upon the glassy plain-; and oftentimes, 
 When we had given our bodies to the 
 
 wind, 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, 
 
 spinning still 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels. 
 Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had 
 
 rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and 
 
 watched 
 Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 
 
 Ye Presences of Nature in the sky 
 And on the earth ! Ye Visions of the hills ! 
 And Souls of lonely places ! can I think 
 
CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 275 
 
 A vulgar hope was yours when ye em- 
 ployed 
 Such ministry, when ye, through many a 
 
 year 
 Haunting me thus among my boyish 
 
 sports. 
 On caves and trees, upon the woods and 
 
 hills, 
 Impressed, upon all forms, the characters 
 Of danger or desire; and thus did make 
 The surface of the universal earth, 
 With triumph and delight, with hope and 
 
 fear, 
 Work like a sea ? 
 
 Not uselessly employed. 
 Might I pursue this theme through every 
 
 change 
 Of exercise and play, to which the year 
 Did summon us in his delightful round. 
 
 We were a noisy crew ; the sun in heaven 
 Beheld not vales more beautiful than ours; 
 Nor saw a band in happiness and joy 
 Richer, or worthier of the ground they 
 
 trod. 
 I could record with no reluctant voice 
 The woods of autumn, and their hazel 
 
 bowers 
 With milk-white clusters hung; the rod 
 
 and line. 
 True symbol of hope's foolishness, whose 
 
 strong 
 And unreproved enchantment led us on 
 By rocks and pools shut out from every 
 
 star, 
 All the green summer, to forlorn cascades 
 Among the windings hid of mountain 
 
 brooks. 
 — Unfading recollections ! at this hour 
 The heart is almost mine with which I felt. 
 From some hill-top on sunny afternoons. 
 The paper kite high among fleecy clouds 
 Pull at her rein like an impetuous courser; 
 Or, from the meadows sent on gusty days. 
 Beheld her breast the wind, then suddenly 
 Dashed headlong, and rejected by the 
 
 storm. 
 
 Ye Ipwly-Gottages wherein we dwelt, 
 A ministration of your own was yours; 
 Can I forget you, being as you were 
 So beautiful among the pleasant fields 
 
 In which ye stood? or can I here forget 
 The plain and seemly countenance with 
 
 which 
 Ye dealt out your plain comforts? Yet 
 
 had ye 
 Delights and exultations of your own. 
 Eager and never weary we pursued 
 Our home-amusements by the warm peat- 
 fire 
 At evening, when with pencil, and smooth 
 
 slate 
 In square divisions parcelled out and all 
 With crosses and with ciphers scribbled 
 
 o'er. 
 We schemed and puzzled, head opposed 
 
 to head 
 In strife too humble to be named in verse : 
 Or round the naked table, snow-white 
 
 deal, 
 Cherry or maple, sate in close array, 
 And to the combat, Loo or Whist, led on 
 A thick-ribbed army; not, as in the world. 
 Neglected and ungratefully thrown by 
 Even for the very service they had 
 
 wrought. 
 But husbanded through many a long cam- 
 paign. 
 Uncouth assemblage was it, where no few 
 Had changed their functions : some, ple- 
 beian cards 
 Which Fate, beyond the promise of their 
 
 birth, 
 Had dignified, and called to represent 
 The persons of departed potentates. 
 Oh, with what echoes on the board they 
 
 fell ! 
 Ironic diamonds, — clubs, hearts, dia- 
 monds, spades, 
 A congregation piteously akin ! 
 Cheap matter offered they to boyish wit, 
 Those sooty knaves, precipitated down 
 With scoffs and taunts, like Vulcan out of 
 
 heaven : 
 The paramount ace, a moon in her 
 
 eclipse, 
 Queens gleaming through their splendor's 
 
 last decay, 
 And monarchs surly at the wrongs sus- 
 tained 
 By royal visages. Meanwhile abroad 
 Incessant rain was falling, or the frost 
 Raged bitterly, with keen and silent tooth ; 
 And, interrupting oft that eager game, 
 
276 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 From under Esthwaite's splitting fields of 
 
 ice "" 
 The pent-up air, struggling to free itself, 
 Gave out to meadow grounds and hills a 
 
 loud 
 Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves 
 Howling in troops along the Bothnic 
 
 Main. 
 
 Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace 
 How Nature by extrinsic passion first 
 Peopled the mind with forms sublime or 
 
 fair. 
 And made me love them, may I here 
 
 omit 
 How other pleasures have been mine, and 
 
 joys 
 Of subtler origin; how I have felt. 
 Not seldom even in that tempestuous time. 
 Those hallowed and pure motions of the 
 
 sense 
 Which seem, in their simplicity, to own 
 An intellectual charm; that calm delight 
 Which, if I err not, surely must belong 
 To those first-born affinities that fit 
 Our new existence to existing things. 
 And, in our dawn of being, constitute 
 The bond of union between life and joy. 
 
 Yes, I remember when the changeful 
 
 earth. 
 And twice five summers on my mind had 
 
 stamped 
 The faces of the moving year, even then 
 I held unconscious intercourse with beauty 
 Old as creation, drinking in a pure 
 Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths 
 Of curling mist, or from the level plain 
 Of waters colored by impending clouds. 
 
 The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks 
 
 and bays 
 Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell 
 How, when the Sea threw off his evening 
 
 shade. 
 And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills 
 Sent welcome notice of the rising moon, 
 How I have stood, to fancies such as these 
 A stranger, linking with the spectacle 
 No conscious memory of a kindred sight. 
 And bringing with me no peculiar sense 
 Of quietness or peace; yet have I stood, 
 
 Even while mine eye hath moved o'ei 
 
 many a league 
 Of shining water, gathering as it seemed, 
 Through every hair-breadth in that field 
 
 of light, 
 New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. 
 
 Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy 
 Which, through all seasons, on a child's 
 
 pursuits 
 Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy 
 
 bliss 
 Which, like a tempest, works along the 
 
 blood 
 And is forgotten ; even then I felt 
 Gleams like the flashing of " shield; — 
 
 the earth 
 And common face of Nature spake to me 
 Rememberable things; sometimes, 'tis 
 
 true, 
 By chance collisions and quaint accidents 
 (Like those ill-sorted unions, work sup- 
 posed 
 Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain 
 Nor profitless, if haply they impressed 
 Collateral objects and appearances, 
 Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep 
 Until maturer seasons call them forth 
 To impregnate and to elevate the mind. 
 — And if the vulgar joy by its own weight 
 Wearied itself out of the memory. 
 The scenes which were a witness of that 
 
 joy 
 Remained in their substantial lineaments 
 Depicted on the brain, and to the eye 
 Were visible, a daily sight; and thus 
 By the impressive discipline of fear. 
 By pleasure and repeated happiness. 
 So frequently repeated, and by force 
 Of obscure feelings representative 
 Of things forgotten, these same scenes 
 
 so bright. 
 So beautiful, so majestic in themselves. 
 Though yet the day was distant, did be- 
 come 
 Habitually dear, and all their forms 
 And changeful colors by invisible links 
 Were fastened to the affections. 
 
 I began 
 My story early — not misled, I trust, 
 By an infirmity of love for days 
 Disowned by memory — ere the breath 
 of spring 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 277 
 
 Planting my snowdrops among winter 
 
 snows: 
 Nor will it seem to thee, O Friend ! so 
 
 prompt 
 In sympathy, that I have lengthened out 
 With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale. 
 Meanwhile, my hope has been, that I 
 
 might fetch 
 Invigorating thoughts from former years; 
 Might fix the wavering balance of my 
 
 mind. 
 And haply meet reproaches too, whose 
 
 power 
 May spur me on, in manhood now mature 
 To honorable toil. Yet should these 
 
 hopes 
 Prove vain, and thus should neither I be 
 
 taught 
 To understand myself, nor thou to know 
 With better knowledge how the heart 
 
 was framed 
 Of him thou lovest; need I dread from 
 
 thee 
 Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to 
 
 quit 
 Those recollected hours that have the 
 
 charm 
 Of visionary things, those lovely forms 
 And sweet sensations that throw back 
 
 our life. 
 And almost make remotest infancy 
 A visible scene, on which the sun is shin- 
 ing? 
 
 One end at least hath been attained; 
 
 niy-miad 
 liaJJj_begn_revjved, and if this genial 
 
 mood 
 Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought 
 
 down 
 Through later years the story of my life. 
 The road lies plain before me; — 'tis a 
 
 theme 
 Single and of determined bounds; and 
 
 hence 
 I choose it rather at this time, than work 
 Of ampler or more varied argument. 
 Where I might be discomfited and lost : 
 And certain hopes are with me, that to 
 
 thee 
 This labor will be welcome, honored 
 
 Friend ! 
 
 Book Second. 
 
 SCHOOL-TIME {coiifinueJ). 
 
 T hus far. Friend ! have we, though 
 
 leaving much 
 Unvisited, endea^'ored tojetrace 
 Thesijnple ways in which my childhood 
 
 walked; 
 Those chiefly that first led me to the love 
 iDf rivers, woods, and fields. The pas- 
 sion yet 
 Was in its birth, sustained as might befall 
 By nourishment that came unsought; for 
 
 still 
 From week to week, from month to 
 
 month, we lived 
 A round of tumult. Duly were our games 
 Prolonged in summer till the daylight 
 
 failed : 
 No chair remained before the doors; the 
 
 bench 
 And threshold steps were empty; fast 
 
 asleep 
 The laborer, and the old man who had 
 
 sate 
 A later lingerer; yet the revelry 
 Continued and the loud uproar : at last, 
 When all the ground was dark, and 
 
 twinkling stars 
 Edged the black clouds, home and to bed 
 
 we went, 
 Feverish with weary joints and beating 
 
 minds. 
 Ah ! is there one who ever has been 
 
 young. 
 Nor needs a warning voice to tame the 
 
 pride 
 Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem? 
 One is there, though the wisest and the 
 
 best 
 Of all mankind, who covets not at times 
 Union that cannot be; — who would not 
 
 give 
 If so he might, to duty and to truth 
 The eagerness of infantine desire? 
 A tranquillizing spirit presses now 
 On my corporeal frame, so wide appears 
 The vacancy between me and those days 
 Which yet have such self-presence in my 
 
 mind, 
 .That, musing on them, often do I seem 
 Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself 
 And of some other Being. \v\ rude mass 
 
278 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Of native rock, left midway in the square 
 
 Of our small market village, was the goal 
 
 Or centre of these sports; and when, re- 
 turned 
 
 After long absence, thither I repaired, 
 
 Gone was the old gray stone, and in its 
 place 
 
 A smart Assembly-room usurped the 
 ground 
 
 That had been ours. There let the fid- 
 dle scream, 
 
 And be ye happy ! Yet, my Friends ! I 
 know 
 
 That more than one of you will think 
 with me 
 
 Of those soft starry nights, and that old 
 Dame 
 
 From whom the stone was named, who 
 there had sate, 
 
 And watched her table with its huckster's 
 wares 
 
 Assiduous, through the length of sixty 
 years. 
 
 We ran a boisterous course; the year 
 span round 
 With giddy motion. But the time ap- 
 proached 
 That brought with it a regular desire 
 For calmer pleasures, when the winning 
 
 forms 
 Of Nature were collaterally attached 
 To every scheme of holiday delight 
 And every boyish sport, less grateful else 
 And languidly pursued. 
 
 When summer came, 
 Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays, 
 To sweep along the plain of Windermere 
 With rival oars; and the selected bourne 
 Was now an Island musical with birds 
 That sang and ceased not; now a Sister 
 
 Isle 
 Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, 
 
 sown 
 With lilies of the valley like a field; 
 And now a third small Island, where sur- 
 vived 
 In solitude the ruins of a shrine 
 Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served 
 Daily with chaunted rites. In such a 
 
 race 
 So ended, disappointment could be none. 
 Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy : 
 
 We rested in the shade, all pleased alike. 
 
 Conquered and conqueror. Thus the 
 pride of strength. 
 
 And the vain-glory of superior skill. 
 
 Were tempered; thus was gradually pro- 
 duced 
 
 A quiet independence of the heart; 
 
 And to my Friend who knows me I may 
 add. 
 
 Fearless of blame, that hence for future 
 days 
 
 Ensued a diffidence and modesty. 
 
 And I was taught to feel, perhaps too 
 much. 
 
 The self-sufficing power of Solitude. 
 
 Qui_iiailnaeals_wer£ frugal^ Sabine 
 fare ! ~" 
 
 More than we wished we knew the bless- 
 ing then 
 
 Of vigorous hunger — hence corporeal 
 strength 
 
 Unsapped by delicate viands; for, exclude 
 
 A little weekly stipend, and we lived 
 
 Through three divisions of the quartered 
 year 
 
 In penniless poverty. But now to school 
 
 From the half-yearly holidays returned. 
 
 We came with weightier purses, that suf- 
 ficed 
 
 To furnish treats more costly than the 
 Dame 
 
 Of the old gray stone, from her scant 
 board, supplied. 
 
 Hence rustic dinners on the cool green 
 ground. 
 
 Or in the woods, or by a river side 
 
 Or shady fountains, while among the 
 leaves 
 
 Soft airs were stirring, and the mid-day 
 sun 
 
 Unfelt shone brightly round usinourjoy, 
 
 Nor is my aim neglected if I tell 
 
 How sometimes, in the length of those 
 half-years. 
 
 We from our funds drew largely; — proud 
 to curb, 
 
 And eager to spur on, the galloping steed; 
 
 And with the courteous inn-keeper, whose 
 stud 
 
 Supplied our want, we haply might em- 
 ploy 
 
 Sly subterfuge, if the adventure's bound 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 279 
 
 Were distant : some famed temple where 
 of yore 
 
 The Druids worshipped, or the antique 
 walls 
 
 Of that large abbey, where within the 
 Vale 
 
 Of Nightshade, to St. Mary's honor built, 
 
 Stands yet a mouldering pile with frac- 
 tured arch, 
 
 Belfry, and images, and living trees; 
 
 A holy scene ! — Along the smooth green 
 turf 
 
 Our horses grazed. To more than in- 
 land peace. 
 
 Left by the west wind sweeping overhead 
 
 From a tumultuous ocean, trees and 
 towers 
 
 In that sequestered valley may be seen, 
 
 Both silent and both motionless alike; 
 
 Such the deep shelter that is there, and 
 such 
 
 The safeguard for repose and quietness. 
 
 Our steeds remounted and the sum- 
 mons given. 
 With whip and spur we through the 
 
 chauntry flew 
 In uncouth race, and left the cross-legged 
 
 knight, 
 And the stone-abbot, and that single 
 
 wren 
 Which one day sang so sweetly in the 
 
 nave 
 Of the old church, that — though from 
 
 recent showers 
 The earth was comfortless, and, touched 
 
 by faint 
 Internal breezes, sobbings of the place 
 And respirations, from the roofless walls 
 The shuddering ivy dripped large drops 
 
 — yet still 
 So sweetly 'mid the gloom the invisible 
 
 bird 
 Sang to herself, that there I could have 
 
 made 
 My dwelling-place, and lived for ever 
 
 there 
 To hear such music. Through the walls 
 
 we flew 
 And down the valley, and, a circuit made 
 In wantonness of heart, through rough 
 
 and smooth 
 
 We scampered homewards. Oh, ye 
 
 rocks and streams, 
 And that still spirit shed from evening air ! 
 Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt 
 Your presence, when with slackened step 
 
 we breathed 
 Along the sides of the steep hills, or when 
 Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the 
 
 sea 
 We beat with thundering hoofs the level 
 
 sand. 
 
 , \ Midway on long Winander's eastern 
 
 shore. 
 Within the crescent of a pleasant bay, 
 A tavern stood; no homely-featured 
 
 house, 
 Primeval like its neighboring cottages, ' 
 But 't was a splendid place, the door 
 
 beset 
 With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and 
 
 within 
 Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red 
 
 wine. 
 In ancient times, and ere the Hall was 
 
 built 
 On the large island, had this dwelling 
 
 been 
 More worthy of a poet's love, a hut. 
 Proud of its own bright fire and syca- 
 more shade. 
 But — though the rhymes were gone that 
 
 once inscribed 
 The threshold, and large golden charac- 
 ters. 
 Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had 
 
 dislodged 
 The old Lion and usurped his place, in 
 
 slight 
 And mockery of the rustic painter's 
 
 hand — 
 Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear 
 With all its foolish pomp. The garden 
 
 lay 
 Upon a slope surmounted by a plain 
 Of a small bowling-green; beneath us 
 
 stood 
 A grove, with gleams of water through 
 
 the trees 
 And over the tree-tops; nor did we want 
 Refreshment, strawberries and mellow 
 
 cream. 
 
2So 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 There, while through half an afternoon 
 
 we played 
 On the smooth platform, whether skill 
 
 prevailed 
 Or happy blunder triumphed, bursts of 
 
 glee 
 Made all the mountains ring. But, ere 
 
 night-fall. 
 When in our pinnace we returned at 
 
 leisure 
 Over the shadowy lake, and to the beach 
 Of some small island steered our course 
 
 with one. 
 The Minstrel of the troop, and left him 
 
 there. 
 And rowed off gently, while he blew his 
 
 flute 
 Alone upon the rock — oh, then, the 
 
 calm 
 And dead still water lay upon my mind 
 Even with a weight of pleasure, and the 
 
 sky, 
 Never before so beautiful, sank down 
 Into my heart, and held me like a dream ! 
 Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and 
 
 thus 
 Daily the common range of visible things 
 Grew dear to me : already I began 
 To love the sun; a boy I loved the sun. 
 Not as I since have loved him, as a pledge 
 And surety of our earthly life, a light 
 Which we behold and feel we are alive; 
 Nor for his bounty to so many worlds — 
 But for this cause, that I had seen him lay 
 His beauty on the morning hills, had seen 
 The western mountain touch his setting 
 
 orb. 
 In many a thoughtless hour, when, from 
 
 excess 
 Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow 
 For its own pleasure, and I breathed 
 
 with joy. 
 And, from like feelings, humble though 
 
 intense. 
 To patriotic and domestic love 
 Analogous, the moon to me was dear; 
 For I could dream away my purposes, 
 Standing to gaze upon herwhile she hung 
 Midway between the hills, as if she knew 
 No other region, but belonged to thee. 
 Yea, appertained by a peculiar right 
 To thee and thy gray huts, thou one dear 
 
 Vale! 
 
 Those incidental charms which first 
 
 attached 
 My heart to rural objects, day by day 
 Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell 
 H_ow_Nat_ure, intervenient tjU this.Jime 
 And secondary, now at length^ras_soughl 
 For her own sake? BuTwEo shall par. 
 
 " eel out ' 
 His intellect by geometric rules. 
 Split like a province into round and 
 
 square ? 
 Who knows the individual hour in which 
 His habits were first sown, even as a seed ? 
 Who that shall point as with a wand and 
 
 say 
 "This portion of the river of my mind 
 Came from yon fountain?" Thou, my 
 
 Friend ! art one 
 More deeply read in thy own thoughts; 
 
 to thee 
 Science appears but what in truth she 
 
 is. 
 Not as our glory and our absolute boast, 
 But as a succedaneum, and a prop 
 To our infirmity. No officious slave 
 Art thou of that false secondary power 
 By which we multiply distinctions, then 
 Deem that our puny boundaries are things 
 That we perceive, and not that we have 
 
 made. 
 To thee, unblinded by these formal arts, 
 The unity of all hath been revealed. 
 And thou wilt doubt, with me less aptly 
 
 skilled 
 Than many are to range the faculties 
 In scale and order, class the cabinet 
 Of their sensations, and in voluble phrase 
 Run through the history and birth of each 
 As of a single independent thing. 
 Hard task, vain hope, to analyze the mind, 
 If- each most obvious and particular 
 
 thought, 
 Not in a mystical and idle sense, 
 But in the words of Reason deeply 
 
 weighed. 
 Hath no beginning. 
 
 Blest the infant Babe, 
 (For with my best conjecture I would 
 
 trace 
 Our Being's earthly progress,) blest ihe 
 
 Babe, 
 Nursed in his Mother's arms, who sinks 
 < to sleep 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 281 
 
 Rocked on his Mother's breast ; who with 
 
 his soul 
 Drinks in the feelings of his Mother's 
 
 eye ! 
 For him, in one dear Presence, there 
 
 exists 
 A virtue which irradiates and exalts 
 Objects through widest intercourse of 
 
 sense. 
 No outcast he, bewildered and depressed : 
 Along his infant veins are interfused 
 The gravitation and the filial bond 
 Of nature that connect him with the 
 
 world. 
 Is there a flower, to which he points with 
 
 hand 
 Too weak to gather it, already love 
 Drawn from love's purest earthly fount 
 
 for him 
 Hath beautified that flower; already 
 
 shades 
 Of pity cast from inward tenderness 
 Do fall around him upon aught that bears 
 Unsightly marks of violence or harm. 
 Emphatically such a Being lives. 
 Frail creature as he is, helpless as frail, 
 An inmate of this active universe : 
 For, feeling has to him imparted power 
 That through the growing faculties of 
 
 sense 
 Doth like an agent of the one great Mind 
 Create, creator and receiver both. 
 Working but in alliance with the works 
 Which it beholds. Vt Such, verily, is the 
 
 first ' 
 
 Poetic spirit of our human life, 
 By uniform control of after years, 
 In most, abated or suppressed; in some. 
 Through every change of growth and of 
 
 decay. 
 Pre-eminent till death. 
 
 From early days, 
 Beginning not long after that first time 
 In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch 
 I held mute dialogues with my Mother's 
 
 heart, 
 I have endeavored to display the means 
 Whereby this infant sensibility, 
 Great birthright of our being, was in me 
 Augmented and sustained. Yet is a path 
 More difficult before me; and I fear 
 That in its broken windings we shall 
 
 need 
 
 The chamois' sinews, and the eagle's 
 
 wing: 
 For now a trouble came into my mind 
 From unknown causes. I was left alone 
 Seeking the visible world, nor knowing 
 
 why. 
 The props of my affections were removed, 
 And yet the building stood, as if sustained 
 By its own spirit ! All that I beheld 
 Was dear, and hence to finer influxes 
 The mind lay open to a more exact 
 And close communion. Many are our 
 
 joys 
 In youth, but oh ! what happiness to live 
 When every hour brings palpable access 
 Of knowledge, when all knowledge is 
 
 delight. 
 And sorrow is not there ! the seasons 
 
 came. 
 And every season wheresoe'er I moved 
 Unfolded transitory qualities. 
 Which, but for this most watchful power 
 
 of love, 
 Had been neglected; left a register 
 Of permanent relations, else unknown. 
 Hence life, and change, and beauty, soli- 
 tude 
 More active ever than " best society " — 
 Society made sweet as solitude 
 By silent inobtrusive sympathies, 
 And gentle agitations of the mind 
 From manifold distinctions, difference 
 Perceived in things, where, to the un- 
 
 watchful eye. 
 No difference is, and hence, from the 
 
 same source, 
 Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone. 
 Under the quiet stars, and at that time 
 Have felt what e'er there is of power in 
 
 sound 
 To breathe an elevated mood, by form 
 Or image unprofaned ; and I would stand. 
 If the niijht blackened with a coming 
 
 storm, 
 Beneath some rock, listening to notes that 
 
 are 
 The ghostly language of the ancient earth, 
 Or make their dim abode in distant winds. 
 Thence did I drink the visionary power; 
 And deem not profitless those fleeting 
 
 moods 
 Of shadowy exultation : not for this. 
 That they are kindred to our purer mind 
 
282 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 And intellectual life; but that the soul, 
 Remembering how she felt, but what she 
 
 felt 
 Remembering not, retains an obscure 
 
 sense 
 Of possible sublimity, whereto 
 With growing faculties she doth aspire, 
 With faculties still growing, feeling still 
 That whatsoever point they gain, they yet 
 Have something to pursue. 
 
 And not alone, 
 'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid 
 
 fair 
 And tranquil scenes, that universal power 
 And fitness in the latent qualities 
 And essences of things, by which the mind 
 Is moved with feelings of delight, to me 
 Came strengthened with a superadded 
 
 soul, 
 A virtue not its own. My morning walks 
 Were early; — oft before the hours of 
 
 school 
 I travelled round our little lake, five miles 
 Of pleasant wandering. Happy time ! 
 
 more dear 
 FoT this, that one was by my side, a 
 
 Friend,! 
 Then passionately loved ; with heart how 
 
 full 
 Would he puruse these lines ! For many 
 
 years 
 Have since flowed in between us, and, 
 
 our minds 
 Both silent to each other, at this time 
 We live as if those hours had never been. 
 Nor seldom did I lift our cottage latch 
 Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had 
 
 risen 
 F'rom humaji dwelling, or the vernal 
 
 thrush 
 Was audible ; and sate among the woods 
 Alone upon some jutting eminence, 
 At the first gleam of dawn-light, when 
 
 the Vale, 
 Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude. 
 How shall I seek the origin? where 
 
 find 
 Faith in the marvellous things which then 
 
 I felt? 
 Oft in these moments such a holy calm 
 
 *Tlie late Rev. John Fleming, of Rayrigg, 
 Windermere. 
 
 Would overspread my soul, that bodily 
 
 eyes 
 Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw 
 Appeared like something in myself, a 
 
 dream, 
 A prospect in the mind. 
 
 'T were long to tell 
 What spring and autumn, what the winter 
 
 snows. 
 And what the summer shade, what day 
 
 and night. 
 Evening and morning, sleep and waking, 
 
 thought 
 From sources inexhaustible, poured forth 
 To feed the spirit of religious love 
 In which I walked with Nature. But let 
 
 this 
 Be not forgotten, that I still retained 
 My first creative sensibi lity; 
 That by the regular action of the world 
 My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power 
 Abode with me ; a forming hand, at times 
 Rebellious, acting in a devious mood; 
 A local spirit of his own, at war 
 With general tendency, but, for the most. 
 Subservient strictly to external things 
 With which it communed. An auxihar 
 
 light 
 Came from my mind, which on the setting 
 
 sun 
 Bestowed new splendor; the melodious 
 
 birds, 
 The fluttering breezes, fountains that run 
 
 on 
 Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, 
 
 obeyed 
 A like dominion, and the midnight storm 
 Grew darker in the presence of my eye : 
 Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence. 
 And hence my transport. 
 
 Nor should this, perchance. 
 Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved 
 The exercise and produce of a toil. 
 Than analytic industry to me 
 More pleasing, and whose character I 
 
 deem 
 Is more poetic as resembling more 
 Creative agency. The song would speak 
 Of that interminable building reared 
 By observation of affinities 
 In objects where no brotherhood exists 
 To passiveminds. My seventeenth yeai 
 
 was come 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 283 
 
 And, whether from this habit rooted now 
 So deeply in my mind, or from excess 
 In the great social principle of life 
 Coercing all things into sympathy, 
 To unorganic natures were transferred 
 My own enjoyments; or the power of 
 
 truth 
 Coming in revelation, did converse 
 With things that really are; I, at this 
 
 time. 
 Saw blessings spread around me like a sea. 
 Thus while the days flew by, and years 
 
 passed on. 
 From Nature and her overflowing soul, 
 I had received so much, that all my 
 
 thoughts 
 Were steeped in feeling; I was only then 
 Contented, when with bliss ineffable 
 I felt the sentiment of Being spread 
 O'er all that moves and all that seemeth 
 
 still; 
 O'er all that, lost bejond the reach of 
 
 thought 
 And human knowledge, to the human eye 
 Invisible, yet liveth to the heart; 
 O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts 
 
 and sings. 
 Or beats the gladsome air; o'er all that 
 
 glides 
 Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself. 
 And mighty depth of waters. Wonder 
 
 not 
 If high the transport, great the joy I felt. 
 Communing in this sort through earth and 
 
 heaven 
 With every form of creature, as it looked 
 Towards the Uncreated with a counte- 
 nance 
 Of adoration, with an eye of love. 
 One song they sang, and it was audible, 
 Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, 
 O'ercome by humblest prelude of that 
 
 strain. 
 Forgot her functions, and slept undis- 
 turbed. 
 
 If this be error, and another faith 
 Find easier access to the pious mind, 
 Yet were I grossly destitute of all 
 Those human sentiments that make this 
 
 earth 
 So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice 
 
 To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye 
 
 lakes 
 And sounding cataracts, ye mists and 
 
 winds 
 That dwell among the hills where I was 
 
 born. 
 If in my youth I have been pure in heart. 
 If, mingling with the world, I am content 
 With my own modest pleasures, and have 
 
 lived 
 With God and Nature communing, re- 
 moved 
 From little enmities and low desires — 
 The gift is yours; if in these times of 
 
 fear, 
 This melancholy waste of hopes o'er- 
 
 thrown. 
 If, 'mid indifference and apathy. 
 And wicked exultation when good men 
 On every side fall off, we know not how, 
 To selfishness, disguised in gentle names 
 Of peace and quiet and domestic love 
 Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers 
 On visionary minds; if, in this time 
 Of dereliction and dismay, I yet 
 Despair not of our nature, but retain 
 A more than Roman confidence, a faith 
 That fails not, in all sorrow my support, 
 The blessing of my life — the gift is yours, 
 Ye winds and sounding cataracts ! 't is 
 
 yours. 
 Ye mountains ! thine, O Nature ! Thou 
 
 hast fed 
 My lofty speculations; and in thee, 
 For this uneasy heart of ours, I find 
 A never-failing principle of joy 
 And purest passion. 
 
 Thou, my Friend ! wert reared 
 In the great city, 'mid far other scene%; 
 But we, by different roads, at length have 
 
 gained 
 The selfsame bourne. And for this cause 
 
 to thee 
 I speak, unapprehensive of contempt. 
 The insinuated scoff of coward tongues, 
 And all that silent language which so oft 
 In conversation between man and man 
 Blots from the human countenance all 
 
 trace 
 Of beauty and of love. For thou hast 
 
 sought 
 The truth in solitude, and, since the days 
 That gave thee liberty, full long desired, 
 
284 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 To serve in Nature's temple, thou hast 
 
 been 
 The most assiduous of her ministers; 
 In many things my brother, chiefly here 
 In this bur deep devotion. 
 
 Fare thee well ! 
 Health and the quiet of a healthful mind 
 Attend thee ! seeking oft the haunts of 
 
 men, 
 And yet more often living with thyself, 
 And for thyself, so haply shall thy days 
 Be many, and a blessing to mankind. 
 
 Book Third. 
 
 residence at cambridge. 
 
 It was a dreary morning when the wheels 
 Rolled over a wide plain o'erhung with 
 
 clouds, 
 And nothing cheered our way till first we 
 
 saw 
 The long-roofed chapel of King's College 
 
 lift 
 Turrets and pinnacles in answering files. 
 Extended high above a dusky grove. 
 
 Advancing, we espied upon the road 
 A student clothed in gown and tasselled 
 
 cap. 
 Striding along as if o'ertasked by Time, 
 Or covetous of exercise and air; 
 He passed — nor was I master of my eyes 
 Till he was left an arrow's flight behind. 
 As near and nearer to the spot we drew. 
 It seemed to suck us in with an eddy's 
 
 force. 
 Onward we drove beneath the Castle; 
 
 « caught. 
 While crossing Magdalene Bridge, a 
 
 glimpse of Cam; 
 And at the Hoop alighted, famous Inn. 
 
 My spirit was up, my thoughts were 
 full of hope; 
 
 Some friends I had, acquaintances who 
 there 
 
 Seemed friends, poor simple schoolboys, 
 now hung round 
 
 With honor and importance : in a world 
 
 Of welcome faces up and down I roved; 
 
 Questions, directions, warnings and ad- 
 vice, 
 
 Flowed in upon me, from all sides; fresh 
 
 day 
 Of pride and pleasure ! to myself I seemed 
 A man of business and expense, and went 
 From shop to shop about my own affairs, 
 To Tutor or to Tailor, as befell. 
 From street to street with loose and care- 
 less mind. 
 
 I wa s the D r eame rvthey the Dream; I 
 roamed " 
 
 Delighted through the motley spectacle; 
 
 Gowns grave, or gaudy, doctors, students, 
 streets. 
 
 Courts, cloiSers, flocks of churches, gate- 
 ways, towers: 
 
 Migration strange for a stripling of the 
 hills, 
 
 A northern villager. 
 
 As if the change 
 
 Had waited on some Fairy's wand, at 
 once 
 
 Behold me rich in monies, and attired 
 
 In splendid garb, with hose of silk, and 
 hair 
 
 Powdered like rimy trees, when frost is 
 keen. 
 
 My lordly dressing-gown, I pass it by. 
 
 With other signs of manhood that supplied 
 
 The lack of beard. — The weeks went 
 roundly_gflj_ 
 
 With invitaJ.;ons,jsup_p_ers, wine and fruit. 
 
 Smooth housekeeping within, and ^IT" 
 ~ without 
 
 Liberal, and suiting gentleman's array. 
 
 The EsangelistJSt^Jahnjny patrcmffias : 
 
 Three Gothic courts are his, and in the 
 first 
 
 Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure; 
 
 Right underneath, the College kitchens 
 made 
 
 A humming sound, less tuneable than 
 bees. 
 
 But hardly less industrious; with shrill 
 notes 
 
 Of sharp command and scolding inter- 
 mixed. 
 
 Near me hung Trinity's loquacious clock, 
 
 Who never let the quarters, night or day, 
 
 Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the 
 hours 
 
 Twice over with a male and female voice 
 
RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 285 
 
 Her pealing organ was my neighbor too ; 
 And from my pillow, looking forth by 
 
 light 
 Of moon or favoring stars, I could behold 
 The antechapel where the statue stood 
 Of Newton with his prism and silent face. 
 The marble index of a mind forever 
 Voyaging through strange seas of 
 
 Thought, alone. 
 
 Of College labors, of the Lecturer's 
 room 
 All studded round, as thick as chairs 
 
 could stand. 
 With loyal students, faithful to their 
 
 books. 
 Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants. 
 And honest dunces — of important days, 
 Examinations, when the man was weighed 
 As ill a balance ! of excessive hopes, 
 Tremblings withal and commendable 
 
 fears, 
 Small jealousies, and triumphs good or 
 
 bad — 
 Let others that know more speak as they 
 
 know. 
 Such glory was but little sought by me, 
 And little won. Yet from the first crude 
 
 days 
 Of settling time in this untried abode, 
 I was disturbed at times by prudent 
 
 thoughts. 
 Wishing to hope without a hope, some 
 
 fears 
 About my future worldly maintenance. 
 And, more than all, a strangeness in the 
 
 mind, 
 A feeling that I was not for that liour, 
 Nor for that place. But wherefore be 
 
 cast down? 
 For (not to speak of Reason and her pure 
 Reflective acts to fix the moral law 
 Deep in the conscience, nor of Christian 
 
 Hope, 
 Bowing her head before her sister Faith 
 As one far mightier), hither I had come. 
 Bear witness Truth, endowed with holy 
 
 powers 
 And faculties, whether to work or feel. 
 Oft when the dazzling show no longer 
 
 new 
 Had ceased to dazzle, oft-times did I quit 
 
 My comrades, leave the crowd, buildings 
 
 ~' and groves; ~ 
 And as I paced alone the level fields 
 Far from those lovely sights and sounds 
 
 sublime 
 With which I had been conversant, the 
 
 jnixid 
 Drooped not; but there into herself re- 
 turning, 
 With prompt rebound seemed fresh as 
 
 heretofore. 
 At least I more distinctly recognized 
 Hexjiatiyp instincts: let me dare to speak 
 5 higher languageV'say that now I felt 
 What independent solaces were mine. 
 To mitigate the injurious sway of place 
 Or circumstance, how far soever changed 
 In youth, or to be changed in after years. 
 As if awakened, summoned, roused, con- 
 strained, 
 I looked for universal things; perused 
 The common countenance of earth and 
 
 sky: 
 Earth, nowhere unembellished by some 
 
 trace 
 Of that first Paradise whence man was 
 
 driven ; 
 And sky, whose beauty and bounty are 
 
 expressed 
 By the proud name she bears — the name 
 
 of Heaven. 
 I called on both to teach me what they 
 
 might ; 
 Or, turning the mind in upon herself. 
 Pored, watched, expected, listened, 
 
 spread my thoughts 
 And spread them with a wider creeping; 
 
 felt 
 Incumbencies more awful, visitings 
 Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul. 
 That tolerates the indignities of Time, 
 And, from the centre of Eternity 
 All finite motions overruling, lives 
 In glory immutable. But peace ! enough 
 Here to record that I was mounting now 
 To such community with highest truth — . 
 A track pursuing, not untrod before. 
 From strict analogies by thought supplied 
 Or consciousnesses not to be subdued. 
 To every natural form, rock, fruits, 01 
 
 flower. 
 Even the loose stones that cover the high' 
 
 way, 
 
286 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 I gase_a.in2ral,Me: I saw them feel, 
 Or linked them to some feeling: the great 
 
 mass 
 Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all 
 That I beheld respired with inward rneaij- 
 
 i.iJ& 
 Add that whate'er of Terror or of Love 
 Or Beauty, Nature's daily face put on 
 From transitory passion, unto this 
 I was as sensitive as waters are 
 To the sky'sTnHuence in a kindred mood 
 Of passion; was obedient as a lute 
 That waits upon the touches of the wind. 
 Unknown, unthought of, yet I was most 
 
 rich — 
 I had a world about me — 'twas my own; 
 I made it, for it only lived to me. 
 And to the God who sees into the heart. 
 Such sympathies, though rarely, were be- 
 trayed 
 By outward gestures and by visible looks : 
 Some called it madness — so indeed it 
 
 was. 
 If child-like fruitfulness in passing joy. 
 If steady moods of thoughtf ulness matured 
 To inspiration, sort with such a name; 
 If prophecy be madness; if things viewed 
 By poets in old time, and higher up 
 By the first men, earth's first inhabitants. 
 May in these tutored days no more be seen 
 With undisordered sight. But leaving 
 
 this. 
 It was no madness, for the bodily eye 
 Amid my strongest workings evermore 
 Was searching out the lines of difference 
 As they lie hid in all external forms. 
 Near or remote, minute or vast; an eye 
 Which, from a tree, a stone, a withered 
 
 leaf. 
 To the broad ocean and the azure heavens 
 Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars. 
 Could find no surface where its power 
 
 might sleep; 
 Which spake perpetual logic to my soul, 
 And by an unrelenting agency 
 Did bind my feelings even as in a chain. 
 
 And here, O Friend ! have I retraced 
 
 my life 
 Up to an eminence, and told a tale 
 Of matters which not falsely may be 
 
 called 
 
 The glory of my youth. Of genius, power, 
 
 Creation and divinity itself 
 
 I have been speaking, for my theme has 
 
 been 
 What passed within me. Not of outward 
 
 things 
 'Done visibly for other minds, words, signs, 
 Symbols or actions, but of my own heart 
 Have I been speaking, a,nd _my youthful 
 
 Heavens ! how awful is the might of 
 
 souls. 
 And what they do within themselves while 
 
 yet 
 The yoke of earth is new to them, the 
 
 world 
 Nothing but a wild field where they were 
 
 sown. 
 This is, in truth, heroic argument, 
 This genuine prowess, which I wished to 
 
 touch 
 With hand however weak, but in the main 
 It lies far hidden from the reach of words. 
 Points have we all of us within our souls 
 Where all stand single; this I feel, and 
 
 make 
 Breathings for incommunicable powers; 
 But is not each a memory to himself. 
 And, therefore, now that we must quit 
 
 this theme, 
 
 1 am not heartless, for there 's not a man 
 That lives who hath not known his god- 
 like hours. 
 
 And feels not what an empire we inherit 
 As natural beings in the strength of 
 Nature. 
 
 No more : for now into a populous plain 
 We must descend. A Traveller I am, 
 Whose tale is only of himself; even so. 
 So be it, if the pure of heart be prompt 
 To follow, and if thou, my honored 
 
 Friend ! 
 Who in these thoughts art ever at my side, 
 Support, as heretofore, my fainting steps. 
 
 It hath been told, that when the first 
 delight 
 That flashed upon me from this novel show 
 Had failed, the mind returned into her- 
 self; 
 Yet true it is, that I had made a change 
 In climate, and my nature's outward coat 
 
RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 287 
 
 Changed also slowly and insensibly. 
 Full oft the quiet and exalted thoughts 
 Of loneliness gave way to empty noise 
 And superficial pastimes; now and then 
 Forced labor, and more frequently forced 
 
 hopes; 
 And, worst of all, a treasonable growth 
 Of indecisive judgments, that impaired 
 And shook the mind's simplicity. — And 
 
 yet 
 This was a gladsome time. Could I be- 
 hold— 
 Who, less insensible than sodden clay 
 In a sea-river's bed at ebb of tide, 
 Could have beheld, — with undelighted 
 
 heart. 
 So many happy youths, so wide and fair 
 A congregation in its budding-time 
 Of health, and hope, and beauty, all at 
 
 once 
 So many divers samples from the growth 
 Of life's sweet season — could have seen 
 
 unmoved 
 That miscellaneous garland of wild flow- 
 ers 
 Decking the matron temples of a place 
 So famous through the world? To me, 
 
 at least, 
 It was a goodly prospect : for, in sooth. 
 Though I had learnt betimes to stand un- 
 
 propped. 
 And independent musings pleased me so 
 That spells seemed on me when I was 
 
 alone. 
 Yet could I only cleave to solitude 
 In lonely places; if a throng was near 
 That way I leaned by nature; for my 
 
 heart 
 Was social, and loved idleness and joy. 
 
 Not seeking those who might participate 
 My deeper pleasures (nay, I had not once. 
 Though not unused to mutter lonesome 
 
 songs. 
 Even with myself divided such delight, 
 Or looked that way for aught that might 
 
 be clothed 
 In human language), e asily I pa ssed 
 From the remembrances of better things, 
 And-slipped intojKlT)r3in3'y"'<^i3fl<s ~ 
 Of careless youth, unb'ufffieiied,"^ un- 
 
 alarmed. 
 
 Caverns there were within my mind which 
 
 sun 
 Could never penetrate, yet did there not 
 Want store of leafy arbors where the light 
 Might enter in at will. Companionships, 
 Friendships, acquaintances, were wel- 
 come all. 
 We sauntered, played, or rioted; we 
 
 talked 
 Unprofitable talk at morning hours; 
 Drifted about along the streets and walks, 
 Read lazily in trivial books, went forth 
 To gallop through the country in blind 
 
 zeal 
 Of senseless horsemanship, or on the 
 
 breast 
 Of Cam sailed boisterously, and let the 
 
 stars 
 Come forth, perhaps without one quiet 
 
 thought. 
 
 Such was the tenor of the second act^ 
 In till? new life. Imagination slept, 
 Sid yet not utterly. I could not print 
 Ground where the grass had yielded to 
 
 the steps 
 Of generations of illustrious men, 
 Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass 
 Through the same gateways, sleep where 
 
 they had slept, 
 Wake where they waked, range that in- 
 
 closure old, 
 That garden of great intellects, undis- 
 turbed. 
 Place also by the side of this dark sense 
 Of noble feeling, that those spiritual men. 
 Even the great Newton's own ethereal 
 
 self. 
 Seemed humbled in these precincts thence 
 
 to be 
 The more endeared. Their several memo- 
 ries here 
 (Even like their persons in their portraits 
 
 clothed 
 With the accustomed garb of daily life) 
 Put on a lowly and a touching grace 
 Of more distinct humanity, that left 
 All genuine admiration unimpaired. 
 
 Beside the pleasant Mill of Tromp- 
 ington 
 I laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn 
 shade; 
 
288 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Heard him, while birds were warbling, 
 
 tell his tales 
 Of amorous passion. And that gentle 
 
 Bard, 
 Chosen by the Muses for their Page of 
 
 State — 
 Sweet Spenser, moving through his 
 
 clouded~heaven 
 With the moon's beauty and the moon's 
 
 soft pace, 
 I called him Brother, Englishman, and 
 
 Friend ! 
 Yea, QULbJindPoet, who in his later day, 
 Stood almost single ; uttering odious 
 
 truth — 
 Darkness before, and danger's voice 
 
 behind. 
 Soul awful — if the earth has ever lodged 
 An awful soul — I seemed to see him here 
 Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress 
 Bounding before me, yet a stripling 
 
 youth — 
 A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks 
 Angelical, keen eye, courageous look. 
 And conscious step of purity and pride. 
 Among the band of my compeers was one 
 Whom chance had stationed in the very 
 
 room 
 Honored by Milton's name. O temper- 
 ate Bard ! 
 Be it contest that, for the first time, seated 
 Within thy innocent lodge and oratory. 
 One of a festive circle, I poured out 
 Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride 
 And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain 
 Never excited by the fumes of wine 
 Before that hour, or since. Then, forth 
 
 I ran 
 From the assembly; through a length of 
 
 streets, 
 Ran, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel 
 
 door 
 In not a desperate or opprobrious time, 
 Albeit long after the importunate bell 
 Had stopped, with wearisome Cassandra 
 
 voice 
 No longer haunting the dark winter night. 
 Call back, O Friend ! a moment to thy 
 
 mind. 
 The place itself and fashion of the rites. 
 With careless ostentation shouldering up 
 My surplice, through the inferior throng 
 
 I clove 
 
 Of the plain Burghers, who in audience 
 
 stood 
 On the last skirts of their permitted 
 
 ground. 
 Under the pealing organ. Empty 
 
 thoughts ! 
 I am ashamed of them : and that great 
 
 Bard, 
 And thou, O Friend ! who in thy ample 
 
 mind 
 Hast placed me high above my best 
 
 deserts. 
 Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour. 
 In some of its unworthy vanities, 
 Brother to many more. 
 
 In th is m jxed sort 
 The months _passed__onj remissly, not 
 
 given up 
 To wilful alienation from the right, 
 Or walks of open scandal, but in vague 
 And loose indifference, easy liking;;;auns 
 ^tf a low pitch — duty and zeal dismissed, 
 Yet Nature, or a happy course of things 
 Not doing in their stead the needful work. 
 The memory languidly revolved, the heart 
 Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse 
 Of contemplation almost failed to beat. 
 Such life might not inaptly be compared 
 To a floating island, an amphibious spot 
 Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal 
 Not wanting a fair face of water weeds 
 And pleasant flowers. The thirst of 
 
 living praise, 
 Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the 
 
 sight 
 Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs, 
 Where mighty T/iinds lie visibly en- 
 tombed. 
 Have often stirred the heart of youth, 
 
 and bred 
 A fervent love of rigorous discipline. — 
 Alas ! such high emotion touched me not. 
 Look was there none within these walls 
 
 to shame 
 My easy spirits, and discountenance 
 Their light composure, far less to instil 
 A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed 
 To puissant efforts. Nor was this the 
 
 blame 
 Of others but my own; I should, in truth, 
 As far as doth concern my single self. 
 Misdeem most widely, lodging it else- 
 where : 
 
RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 2S9 
 
 For I, bred up 'mid Nature's luxuries, 
 Was a spoiled child, and, rambling like 
 
 the wind. 
 As I had done in daily intercourse 
 With those crystalline rivers, solemn 
 
 heights. 
 And mountains, ranging like a fowl of 
 
 the air, 
 I was ill-tutored for captivity; 
 To quit my pleasure, and, from month 
 
 to month, 
 Take up a station calmly on the perch 
 Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms 
 Had also left less space within my mind. 
 Which, wrought upon instinctively, had 
 
 found 
 A freshness in those objects of her love, 
 A winning power, beyond all other power. 
 Not that I slighted books, — that were 
 
 to lack 
 All sense, — but other passions in me 
 
 ruled, 
 Passions more fervent, making me less 
 
 prompt 
 To in-door study than was wise or well. 
 Or suited to those years. Yet I, though 
 
 used 
 In magisterial liberty to rove. 
 Culling such flowers of learning as might 
 
 tempt 
 A random choice, could shadow forth a 
 
 place 
 (If now I yield not to a flattering dream) 
 Whose studious aspect should have bent 
 
 me down 
 To instantaneous service ; should at once 
 Have made me pay to science and to arts 
 And written lore, acknowledged my liege 
 
 lord, 
 A homage frankly offered up, like that 
 Which I had paid to Nature. Toil and 
 
 pains 
 In this recess, by thoughtful Fancy built. 
 Should spread from heart to heart ; and 
 
 stately groves. 
 Majestic edifices, should not want 
 A corresponding dignity within. 
 The congregating temper that pervades 
 Our uriripe years, not wasted, should be 
 
 taught 
 To minister to works of high attempt — 
 Works which the enthusiast would per- 
 form with love. 
 
 Youth should be awed, religiously pos- 
 sessed 
 With a conviction of the power that waits 
 On knowledge, when sincerely sought 
 
 and prized 
 For its own sake, on glory and on praise 
 If but by labor won, and fit to endure 
 The passing day; should learn to put aside 
 Her trappings here, should strip them off 
 
 abashed 
 Before antiquity and steadfast truth 
 And strong book-mindedness; and over 
 
 all 
 A healthy sound simplicity should reign, 
 A seemly plainness, name it what you will, 
 Republican or pious. 
 
 If these thoughts 
 Are a gratuitous emblazonry 
 That mocks the recreant age we live in, 
 
 then 
 Be Folly and False-seeming free to affect 
 Whatever formal gait of discipline 
 Shall raise them highest in their own 
 
 esteem — 
 Let them parade among the Schools at 
 
 will. 
 But spare the House of God. Was ever 
 
 known 
 The witless shepherd who persists to drive 
 A flock that thirsts not to a pool disliked? 
 A weight must surely hang on days begun 
 And ended with such mockery. Be wise. 
 Ye Presidents and Deans, and, till the 
 
 spirit 
 Of ancient times revive, and youth be 
 
 trained 
 At home in pious service, to your bells 
 Give seasonable rest, for 't is a sound 
 Hollow as ever vexed the tranquil air; 
 And your officious doings bring disgrace 
 On the plain steeples of our English 
 
 Church, 
 Whose worship, 'mid remotest village 
 
 trees, 
 Suffers for this. Even Science, too, at 
 
 hand 
 In daily sight of this irreverence. 
 Is smitten thence with an unnatural taint. 
 Loses her just authority, falls beneath 
 Collateral suspicion, else unknown. 
 This truth escaped me not, and I confess. 
 That having 'mid my native hills given 
 
 loose 
 
ago 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 To a schoolboy's vision, I had raised a 
 
 pile 
 Upon the basis of the coming time, 
 That fell in ruins round me. Oh, what 
 joy 
 . To see a sanctuary for our country's 
 youth 
 Informed with such a spirit as might be 
 Its own protection; a primeval grove. 
 Where, though the shades with cheer- 
 fulness were filled. 
 Nor indigent of songs warbled from 
 
 crowds 
 In under-coverts, yet the countenance 
 Of the whole place should bear a stamp 
 
 of awe; 
 A habitation sober and demure 
 For ruminating creatures; a domain 
 For quiet things to wander in; a haunt 
 In which the heron should delight to feed 
 By the shy rivers, and the pelican 
 Upon the cypress spire in lonely thought 
 Might sit and sun himself. — Alas ! Alas ! 
 In vain toi such solemnity I looked; 
 Mine eyes were crossed by butterflies, ears 
 
 vexed 
 By chattering popinjays; the inner heart 
 Seemed trivial, and the impresses with- 
 out 
 Of a too gaudy region. 
 
 Different sight 
 Those venerable Doctors saw of old. 
 When all who dwelt within these famous 
 
 walls 
 Led in abstemiousness a studious life; 
 When, in forlorn and naked chambers 
 
 cooped 
 And crowded, o'er the ponderous books 
 
 they hung 
 Like caterpillars eating out their way 
 In silence, or with keen devouring noise 
 Not to be tracked ,or fathered. Princes 
 
 then 
 At matins froze, and couched at curfew- 
 time. 
 Trained up through piety and zeal to prize 
 Spare diet, patient labor, and plain weeds. 
 O seat of Arts ! renowned throughout the 
 
 world ! 
 Far different service in those homely days 
 The Muses' modest nurslings underwent 
 From their first childhood : in that glorious 
 time 
 
 When Learning, like a stranger come from 
 
 far, 
 Sounding through Christian lands her 
 
 trumpet, roused 
 Peasant and king; when boys and youths, 
 
 the growth 
 Of ragged villages and crazy huts, 
 Forsook their homes, and, errant in the 
 
 quest 
 Of Patron, famous school or friendly nook. 
 Where, pensioned, they in shelter might 
 
 sit down, 
 From town to town and through wide 
 
 scattered realms 
 Journeyed with ponderous folios in their 
 
 hands; 
 And often, starting from some covert 
 
 place, 
 Saluted the chance comer on the road. 
 Crying, "An obolus, a penny give 
 To a poor scholar ! " — when illustrious 
 
 men, j, 
 
 Lovers of truth, by penury constrained, ' 
 Bucer, Erasmus, or Melanchthon, read 
 Before the doors or windows. of their cells 
 By moonshine through mere lack of taper 
 
 light. 
 
 But peace to vain regrets ! We see but 
 
 darkly 
 Even when we look behind us, and best 
 
 things 
 Are not so pure by nature that they needs 
 Must keep to all, as fondly all believe. 
 Their highest promise. If the mariner. 
 When at reluctant distance he hath passed 
 Some tempting island, could but know the 
 
 ills 
 That must have fallen upon him had he 
 
 brought 
 His bark to land upon the wlshed-foi 
 
 shore. 
 Good cause would oft be his to thank the 
 
 surf 
 Whose white belt scared him thence, or 
 
 wind that blew 
 Inexorably adverse : for myself 
 I grieve not; happy is the gowned youth. 
 Who only misses what I missed, who falls 
 No lower than I fell. 
 
 I did not love, 
 Judging not ill perhaps, the timid course 
 
RESIDENCE "AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 291 
 
 Of our scholastic studies; could have 
 
 wished 
 To see the river flow with ampler range 
 And freer pace; but more, far more, I 
 
 grieved 
 To see displayed among an eager few. 
 Who in the field of contest persevered. 
 Passions unworthy of youth's generous 
 
 heart 
 And mounting spirit, pitiably repaid. 
 When so disturbed, whatever palms are 
 
 won. 
 From these I turned to travel with the 
 
 shoal 
 Of more unthinking natures, easy minds 
 And pillowy; yet not wanting love that 
 
 makes 
 The day pass lightly on, when foresight 
 
 sleeps. 
 And wisdom and the pledges interchanged 
 With our own inner being are forgot. 
 
 Yet was this deep vacation not given up 
 To utter waste. Hitherto I had stood 
 In my own mind remote from social life 
 (At least fronj what we commonly so 
 
 name). 
 Like a lone shepherd on a promontory 
 Who lacking occupation looks far forth 
 Into the boundless sea, and rather makes 
 Than finds what he beholds. And sure it is. 
 That this first transit from the smooth de- 
 lights 
 And wild outlandish walks of simple youth 
 To something that resembles an approach 
 Towards human business, to a privileged 
 
 world 
 Within a world, a midway residence 
 With all its intervenient imagery. 
 Did better suit my visionary mind, 
 Far better, than to have been bolted forth. 
 Thrust out abruptly into Fortune's way 
 Among the conflicts of substantial life ; 
 By a more just gradation did lead on 
 To higher things; more naturally matured, 
 For permanent possession, better fruits. 
 Whether of truth or virtue, to ensue. 
 In serious mood, but oftener, I confess. 
 With playful zest of fancy, did we note 
 (How could we less ?) the manners and 
 
 the ways 
 Of those who lived distinguished by the 
 badge 
 
 Of good or ill report; or those with whom 
 
 By frame of Academic discipline 
 
 We were perforce connected, men whose 
 
 sway 
 And known authority of office served 
 To set our minds on edge, and did no 
 
 more. 
 Nor wanted we rich pastime of this kind. 
 Found everywhere, but chiefly in the ring 
 Of the grave Elders, men unscoured, gro- 
 tesque 
 In character, tricked out like aged trees 
 Which through the lapse of their infirmity 
 Give ready place to any random seed 
 That chooses to be reared upon their 
 trunks. 
 
 Here on my view, confronting vividly 
 Those shepherd swains whom I had lately 
 
 left 
 Appeared a different aspect of old age; 
 How different ! yet both distinctly marked, 
 Objects embossed to catch the general eye. 
 Or portraitures for special use designed. 
 As some might seem, so aptly do they 
 
 serve 
 To illustrate Nature's book of rudiments — 
 That book upheld as with maternal care 
 When she would enter on her tender 
 
 scheme 
 Of teaching comprehension with delight. 
 And mingling playful with pathetic 
 
 thoughts. 
 
 The surfaces of artificial life 
 And manners finely wrought, the delicate 
 
 race 
 Of colors, lurking, gleaming up and down 
 Through that state arras woven with silk 
 
 and gold; 
 This wily interchange of snaky hues. 
 Willingly or unwillingly revealed, 
 I neither knew nor cared for; and as such 
 Were wanting here, I took what might be 
 
 found 
 Of less elaborate fabric. At this day 
 I smile, in many a mountain solitude 
 Conjuring up scenes as obsolete in freaks 
 Of character, in points of wit as broad, 
 As aught by wooden images performed 
 For entertainment of the gaping crowd 
 At wake or fair. And oftentimes do flit 
 Remembrances before me of old men — 
 
292 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Old humorists, who have been long in 
 
 their graves, 
 And having almost in my mind put off 
 Their human names, have into phantoms 
 
 passed 
 Of texture midway between life and books. 
 
 I play the loiterer: 't is enough to note 
 That here in dwarf proportions were ex- 
 pressed 
 The limbs of the great world; its eager 
 
 strifes 
 Collaterally portrayed, as in mock fight, 
 A tournament of blows, some hardly dealt 
 Though short of mortal combat ; and what- 
 
 e'er 
 Might in this pageant be supposed to hit 
 An artless rustic's notice, this way less, 
 More that way, was not wasted upon me — 
 And yet the spectacle may well demand 
 A more substantial name, no mimic show. 
 Itself a living part of a live whole, 
 A creek in the vast sea; for, all degrees 
 And shapes of spurious fame and short- 
 lived praise 
 Here sate in state, and fed with daily 
 
 alms 
 Retainers won away from solid good; 
 And here was Labor, his own bond-slave; 
 
 Hope, 
 That never set the pains against the prize ; 
 Idleness halting with his weary clog, 
 And poor misguided Shame, and witless 
 
 Fear, 
 And simple Pleasure foraging for Death; 
 Honor misplaced, and Dignity astray; 
 Feuds, factions, flatteries, enmity, and 
 
 guile. 
 Murmuring submission, and bald govern- 
 ment 
 (The idol weak as the idolater). 
 And Decency and Custom starving Truth , 
 And blind Authority beating with his staff 
 The child that might have led him; 
 
 Emptiness 
 Followed as of good omen, and meek 
 
 Worth 
 Left to herself unheard of and unknown. 
 
 Of these and other kindred notices 
 I cannot say what portion is in truth 
 The naked recollection of that time, 
 
 And what may rather have been called to 
 
 life 
 By after-meditation. But delight 
 That, in an easy temper lulled asleep. 
 Is still with Innocence its own reward. 
 This was not wanting. Carelessly I 
 
 roamed 
 As through a wide museum from whose 
 
 stores 
 A casual rarity is singled out 
 And has its brief perusal, then gives way 
 To others, all supplanted in their turn;" 
 Till 'mid this crowded neighborhood of 
 
 things 
 That are by nature most unneighborly, 
 The head turns round and cannot right 
 
 itself; 
 And though an aching and a barren sense 
 Of gay confusion still be uppermost. 
 With few wise longings and but little love, 
 Yet to the memory something cleaves at 
 
 last. 
 Whence profit may be drawn in times to 
 
 come. 
 
 Thus in submissive idleness, my Friend ! 
 The laboring time of autumn, winter, 
 
 spring, 
 Eight months ! rolled pleasingly away; 
 
 the ninth 
 Came and returned me to my native hills. 
 
 Book Fourth, 
 summer vacation. 
 
 Bright was the summer's noon when 
 
 quickening steps 
 Followed each other till a dreary moor 
 Was crosse d, a bare ridge clomb, upon 
 
 whose top 
 Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, 
 I nvprlnnl^■q^^ tti(» h ed of ^ Vind erme re, 
 Like a vast river, stretching in the sun. 
 With exultation, at my feet I saw 
 Lake, islands, promontories, gleaming 
 
 bays, 
 A u^nivers^j;if_Nature's fairest forms^ 
 Proudly revealed with in^antaneous 
 
 burst. 
 Magnificent, and beautiful, and gay. 
 I bounded down the hill shouting amain 
 
SUMMER VACATION. 
 
 293 
 
 For the old Ferryman; , to the shout the 
 
 rocks 
 RepUed, and when the Charon of the 
 
 flood 
 Had stayed his oars, and touched the jut- 
 
 tijig pier, 
 I diijxoLstej3^ntoJ;he_well-kno\yn boat^ 
 'Withoujt_a cordial greeting. Thence with 
 
 speed 
 Up the familiar hill I took my way 
 To wards that sweet Valley 1 where I had 
 ' Been reared ; _ 
 
 'T was but a short hour's walk, ere veer- 
 ing round 
 I saw the snow-white church upon her hill 
 Sit like a throned Lady, sending out 
 A gracious look all over her domain. 
 Yon azure smoke betrays the lurking 
 
 town; 
 With eager footsteps I advance and reach 
 The cottage threshold where my journey 
 
 closed. 
 Glad welcome had I, with some tears, 
 
 perhaps, 
 From niy old Dame, so kind and motherly. 
 While she perused me with a parent's 
 
 pride. 
 The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like 
 
 dew 
 Upon thy grave, good creature ! While 
 
 my heart 
 Can beat never will I forget thy name. 
 Heaven's blessing be upon thee where 
 
 thou liest 
 After thy innocent and busy stir 
 In narrow cares, thy little daily growth 
 Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years. 
 And more than eighty, of untroubled life; 
 Childless, yet by the strangers to thy 
 
 blood 
 Honored with little less than filial love. 
 What joy was mine to see thee once again. 
 Thee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of 
 
 things 
 About its narrow precincts all beloved, 
 And many of them seeming yet my own ! 
 Why should I speak of what a thousand 
 
 hearts 
 Have felt, and every man alive can guess? 
 The rooms, the court, the garden were 
 
 not left 
 
 1 Hawkshead, 
 
 Long unsaluted, nor the sunny seat 
 Round the stone table under the dark 
 
 pine. 
 Friendly to studious or to festive hours; 
 Nor that unruly child. of mountain birth. 
 The famous brook, wKoT'sobn as he waT 
 
 boxed 
 Within our garden, found himself at once, 
 As if by trick insidious and unkind, 
 Stripped of his voice and left to dimple 
 
 down 
 (Without an effort and without a will) 
 A channel paved by man's officious care. 
 I looked at him and smiled, and smiled 
 
 again. 
 And in the press of twenty thousand 
 
 thoughts, 
 " Ha," quoth I, "pretty prisoner, are you 
 
 there ! ' ' 
 Well might sarcastic Fancy then have 
 
 whispered, 
 " An emblem here behold of thy own life; 
 In its late course of even days with all 
 Their smooth enthralment ; " but the heart 
 
 was full. 
 Too full for that reproach. My aged 
 
 Dame 
 Walked proudly at my side : she guided 
 
 me; 
 I willing, nay — nay, wishing to be led. 
 — The face of every neighbor whom I 
 - j[)-j[ - 
 
 Was like a volume to me; some were 
 
 hailed 
 Upon the road, some busy at their work. 
 Unceremonious greetings interchanged 
 With half the length of a long field be- 
 tween. 
 Among my schoolfellows I scattered round 
 Like recognitions, but with some con- 
 straint 
 Attended, doubtless, with a little pride. 
 But with more shame, for my habiliments. 
 The transformation wrought by gay attire. 
 Not less delighted did I take my_Elace, 
 _At our domestic table : and, dear Friend ! 
 In this endeavor simply to relate 
 A Poet's history, may I leave untold 
 The thankfulness__with which I laid^ me 
 
 down 
 In my accustomed bed, more welcome 
 
 now 
 Perhaps than if it had been more desired 
 
294 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Or been more often thought of with re- 
 gret; 
 That lowly bed whence I had heard the 
 
 wind 
 Roar, and the rain beat hard; where I so 
 
 oft 
 Had lain awake on summer nights to 
 
 watch 
 The moon in splendor couched among the 
 
 leaves 
 Of a tall ash, that near our cottage stood; 
 Had watched her with fixed eyes while to 
 
 and fro 
 In the dark summit of the waving tree 
 She rocked with every impulse of the 
 
 breeze. 
 
 Among the favorites whom it pleased 
 
 me well" — 
 To see again, was one by ancient right 
 Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills; 
 By birth and calFof nature pre-ordained 
 To hunt the badger and unearth the fox 
 Among the impervious crags, but having 
 
 been 
 From youth our own adopted, he had 
 
 passed 
 Into a gentler service. And when first 
 The boyish spirit flagged, and day by day 
 Along my veins I kindled with the stir. 
 The fermentation, and the vernal heat 
 Of poesy, affecting private shades 
 Like a sick Lover, then this dog was used 
 To watch me, an attendant and a friend. 
 Obsequious to my steps early and late. 
 Though often of such dilatory walk 
 Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made. 
 A hundred times when, roving high and 
 
 'low, 
 I have been harassed with the toil of verse, 
 Much pains and little progress, and at 
 
 once 
 Some lovely Image in the song rose up 
 Full-formed, like Venus rising from the 
 
 sea; 
 Then have I darted forwards to let loose 
 My hand upon his back with stormy joy. 
 Caressing him again and yet again. 
 And when at evening on the public way 
 I sauntered, like a river murmuring 
 And talking to itself when all things else 
 Are still, the creature trotted on before; 
 
 Such was his custom; but whene'er he 
 met 
 
 A passenger approaching, he would turn 
 
 To give me timely notice, and straight- 
 way, 
 
 Grateful for that admonishment, I hushed 
 
 My voice, composed my gait, and, with 
 the air 
 
 And mien of one whose thoughts are free, 
 advanced 
 
 To give and take a greeting that might 
 save 
 
 My name from piteous rumors, such as 
 wait 
 
 On men suspected to be crazed in brain. 
 
 Those walks well worthy to be prized 
 
 and loved — 
 Regretted ! — that word, too, was on my 
 
 tongue. 
 But they were richly laden with all good. 
 And cannot be remembered but with 
 
 thanks 
 And gratitude, and perfect joy of heart — 
 Those walks in all their freshness now 
 
 came back 
 Like a returning Spring. When first I 
 
 made 
 Once more the circuit of our little lake, 
 If ever happiness hath lodged with man, 
 That day consummate happiness was mine, 
 Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contem- 
 plative. 
 The sun was set, or setting, when I left 
 Our cottage door, and evening soon 
 
 brought on 
 A sober hour, not winning or serene. 
 For cold and raw theairwas,and untuned : 
 But as a face we love is sweetest then 
 When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look 
 It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart 
 Have fulness in herself; even so with me 
 It fared that evening. Gently did my soul 
 Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, 
 
 stood 
 Naked, as in the presence of her God. 
 While on I walked, a comfort seemed to 
 
 touch 
 A heart that had not been disconsolate : 
 Strength came where weakness was not 
 
 known to be. 
 At least not felt; and restoration came 
 Like an intruder knocking at the door 
 
SUMMER VACATION. 
 
 295 
 
 Of unacknowledged weariness. I took 
 The balance, and with firm hand weighed 
 
 myself. 
 — Of that external scene which round me 
 
 lay, 
 Little, in this abstraction, did I see; 
 Remembered less ; but I had inward hopes 
 And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and 
 
 soothed. 
 Conversed with promises, had glimmering 
 
 views 
 How life pervades the undecaying mind; 
 How the immortal soul with God-like 
 
 power 
 Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest 
 
 sleep 
 That time can lay upon her ; how on earth , 
 Man, if he do but live within the light 
 Of high endeavors, daily spreads abroad 
 His being armed with strength that cannot 
 
 fail. 
 Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of 
 
 love. 
 Of innocence, and holiday repose; 
 And more than pastoral quiet,' mid the stir 
 Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end 
 At last, or glorious, by endurance won. 
 Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down 
 Alone, continuing there to muse : the 
 
 slopes 
 And heights meanwhile were slowly over- 
 spread 
 With darkness, and before a rippling 
 
 breeze 
 The long lake lengthened out its hoary 
 
 line, 
 And in the sheltered coppice where I sate. 
 Around me from among the hazel leaves. 
 Now here, now there, moved by the strag- 
 gling wind. 
 Came ever and anon a breath-like sound. 
 Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog. 
 The off and on companion of my walk; 
 And such, at times, believing them to be, 
 I turned my head to look if he were there; 
 Then into solemn thought I passed once 
 
 A freshness also found I at this time 
 In numan Life, the daily life of those 
 Whose occupations really I loved; 
 The peaceful scene oft filled me with sur- 
 prise 
 
 Changed like a garden in the heat of spring 
 After an eight-days' absence. For (to 
 
 omit 
 The things which were the same and yet 
 
 appeared 
 Far otherwise) amid this rural solitude, 
 A narrow Vale where each was known to 
 
 all, 
 'T was not indifferent to a youthful mind 
 To mark some sheltering bower or sunny 
 
 nook 
 Where an old man had used to sit alone, 
 Now vacant; pale-faced babes whom I had 
 
 left • 
 
 In arms, now rosy prattlers at the feet 
 Of a pleased grandame tottering up and 
 
 down ; 
 And growing girls whose beauty, filched 
 
 away 
 With all its pleasant promises, was gone 
 To deck some slighted playmate's homely 
 
 cheek. 
 
 Yes, I had something of a subtler sense. 
 And often looking round was moved to 
 
 smiles 
 Such as a delicate work of humor breeds; 
 I read, without design, the opinions, 
 
 thoughts. 
 Of those plain-living people now observed 
 With clearer knowledge; with another eye 
 I saw the quiet woodman in the woods. 
 The shepherd roam the hills. With new 
 
 delight. 
 This chiefly, did I note my gray-haired 
 
 Dame; 
 Saw her go forth to church or other work 
 Of state equipped in monumental trim; 
 Short velvet cloak, (her bonnet of the like), 
 A mantle such as Spanish Cavaliers 
 Wore in old times. Her smooth domestic 
 
 life. 
 Affectionate without disquietude. 
 Her talk, her business, pleased me ; and no 
 
 less 
 Her clear though shallow stream of piety 
 That ran on Sabbath days a fresher course; 
 With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her 
 
 read 
 Her Bible on hot Sunday afternoons, 
 And loved the book, when she had 
 
 dropped asleep 
 And made of it a pillow for her head. 
 
296 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Nor less do I remember to have felt, 
 Distinctly manifested at this time, 
 A human-heartedness about my love 
 For objects hitherto the absolute wealth 
 Of my own private being and no more; 
 Which I had loved, even as a blessed spirit 
 Or Angel, if he were to dwell on earth. 
 Might love in individual happiness. 
 But now there opened on me other 
 
 thoughts 
 Of change, congratulation or regret, 
 A pensive feeling ! It spread far and wide ; 
 The trees, the mountains shared it, and 
 
 the brooks. 
 The stars of Heaven, now seen in their old 
 
 haunts — 
 White Sirius glittering o'er the southern 
 
 crags, 
 Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven, 
 Acquaintances of every little child. 
 And Jupiter, my own beloved star ! 
 Whatever shadings of mortality. 
 Whatever imports from the world of death 
 Had come among these objects heretofore. 
 Were, in the main, of mood less tender : 
 
 strong. 
 Deep, gloomy were they, and severe; the 
 
 scatterings 
 Of awe or tremulous dread, that had given 
 
 way 
 In later youth to yearnings of a love 
 Enthusiastic, to delight and hope. 
 
 As one who hangs down-bending from 
 
 the side 
 Of a slow-moving boat, upon the breast 
 Of a still water, solacing himself 
 With such discoveries as his eye can make 
 Beneath him in the bottom of the deep. 
 Sees many beauteous sights — weeds, 
 
 fishes, flowers. 
 Grots, pebbles, roots of trees, and fancies 
 
 more. 
 Yet often is perplexed, and cannot part 
 The shadow from the substance, rocks and 
 
 sky. 
 Mountains and clouds, reflected in the 
 
 depth 
 Of the clear flood, from things which there 
 
 abide 
 In their true dwelling; now is crossed by 
 
 gleam 
 Of his own image, by a sunbeam now. 
 
 And wavering motions sent he knows not 
 
 whence, 
 Impediments that make his task more 
 
 sweet; 
 Such pleasant office have we long pursued 
 Incumbent o'er the surface of past time 
 With like success, nor often have appeared 
 Shapes fairer or less doubtfully discerned 
 Than these to which the Tale, indulgent 
 
 Friend ! 
 Would now direct thy notice. Yet in spite 
 Of pleasure won, and knowledge not with- 
 held. 
 There was an inner falling off — I loved, 
 Loved deeply all that had been loved 
 
 before. 
 More deeply even than ever : but a swarm 
 Of heady schemes jostling each other, 
 
 gawds, 
 And feast and dance, and public revelry, 
 And sports and games (too grateful in 
 
 themselves. 
 Yet in themselves less grateful, I believe. 
 Than as they were a badge glossy and fresh 
 Of manliness and freedom) all conspired 
 To lure my mind from firm habitual quest 
 Of feeding pleasures, to depress the zeal 
 And damp those yearnings which had once 
 
 been mine — 
 A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given 
 
 up 
 To his own eager thoughts. It would 
 
 demand 
 Some skill, and longer time than may be 
 
 spared 
 To paint these vanities, and how they 
 
 wrought 
 In haunts where they, till now, had been 
 
 unknown. 
 It seemed the very garments that I wore 
 Preyed on my strength, and stopped the 
 
 quiet stream 
 Of self-forgetfulness. 
 
 Yes, that heartless chase 
 Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange 
 For books and nature at that early age. 
 'T is true, some casual knowledge might 
 
 be gained 
 Of character or life; but at that time. 
 Of manners put to school I took small 
 
 note. 
 And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere. 
 Far better had it been to exalt the mind 
 
SUMMER VACATION. 
 
 297 
 
 By solitary study, to uphold 
 
 Intense desire through meditative peace; 
 
 And yet, for chastisement of these regrets, 
 
 The memory of one particular hour 
 
 Doth here rise up against me. 'Mid a 
 throng 
 
 Of maids and youths, old men, and 
 matrons staid, 
 
 A medley of all tempers, I had passed 
 
 The night in dancing, gayety, and mirth. 
 
 With din of instruments and shuffling feet. 
 
 And glancing forms, and tapers glitter- 
 ing. 
 
 Andunaimed prattle flying up and down; 
 
 Spirits upon the stretch, and here and 
 there 
 
 Slight shocks of young love-liking inter- 
 spersed. 
 
 Whose transient pleasure mounted to the 
 head, 
 
 And tingled through the veins. Ere we 
 retired. 
 
 The cock had crowed, and now the east- 
 ern sky 
 
 Was kindling, not unseen, from humble 
 copse 
 
 And open field, through which the path- 
 way wound, 
 
 And homeward led my steps. Magnificent 
 
 The morning rose, in memorable pomp, 
 
 Glorious as e'er I had beheld — in front, 
 
 The sea lay laughing at a distance; near. 
 
 The solid mountains shone, bright as the 
 clouds. 
 
 Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean 
 light; 
 
 And in the meadows and the lower 
 grounds 
 
 Was all the sweetness of a common 
 dawn — 
 
 Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds. 
 
 And laborers going forth to till the fields. 
 
 Ah ! need I say, dear Friend ! that to 
 the brim 
 
 My heart was full; I made no vows, but 
 vows 
 
 Were then made for me; bond unknown 
 to ine 
 
 Was given, that I should be, else sinning 
 greatly, 
 
 A dedicated Spirit. On I walked 
 
 In thankful blessedness, which yet sur- 
 vives. 
 
 Strange rendezvous ! My mind was at 
 
 that time 
 A parti-colored show of grave and gay. 
 Solid and light, short-sighted and pro- 
 found; 
 Of inconsiderate habits and sedate. 
 Consorting in one mansion unreproved. 
 The worth I knew of powers that I pos- 
 sessed. 
 Though slighted and too oft misused. 
 
 Besides, 
 That summer, swarming as it did with 
 
 thoughts 
 Transient and idle, lacked not intervals 
 When Folly from the frown of fleeting 
 
 Time 
 Shrunk, and the mind experienced in 
 
 herself 
 Conformity as just as that of old 
 To the end and written spirit of God's 
 
 works. 
 Whether held forth in Nature or in Man, 
 Through pregnant vision, separate or 
 conjoined. 
 
 When from our better selves we have 
 
 too long 
 Been parted by the hurrying world, and 
 
 droop. 
 Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired. 
 How gracious, how benign, is Solitude; 
 How potent a mere image of her sway; 
 Most potent when impressed upon the 
 
 mind 
 With an appropriate human centre — 
 
 hermit, 
 Deep in the bosom of the wilderness; 
 Votary (in vast cathedral, where no foot 
 Is treading, where no other face is seen) 
 Kneeling at prayers; or watchman on 
 
 the top 
 Of lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves; 
 Or as the soul of that great Power is met 
 Sometimes embodied on a public road. 
 When, for the night deserted, it assumes 
 A character of quiet more profound 
 Than pathless wastes. 
 
 Once, when those summer months 
 Were flown, and autumn brought its an- 
 nual show 
 Of oars with oars contending, sails with 
 sails. 
 
298 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Upon Winander's spacious breast, it 
 
 chanced 
 That — after I had left a flower-decked 
 
 room 
 (Whose in-door pastime, lighted up, sur- 
 vived 
 To a late hour), and spirits overwrought 
 Were making night do penance for a day 
 Spent in a round of strenuous idleness — 
 My homeward course led up a long as- 
 ' cent. 
 
 Where the road's watery surface, to the 
 
 top 
 Of that sharp rising, glittered to the moon 
 And bore the semblance of another stream 
 Stealing with silent lapse to join the brook 
 That murmured in the vale. All else was 
 
 still; 
 No living thing appeared in earth or air. 
 And, save the flowing water's peaceful 
 
 voice, 
 Sound there was none — but, lo! an un- 
 couth shape,, — 
 Shown by a sudden turning of the road. 
 So near that, slipping back into the shade 
 Of a thick hawthorn, I could mark him 
 
 well. 
 Myself unseen. He was of stature tall, 
 A span above man's common measure, 
 
 tall. 
 Stiff, lank, and upright; a more meagre 
 
 man 
 Was never seen before by night or day. 
 Long were his arms, pallid his hands; 
 
 his mouth 
 Looked ghastly in the moonlight : from 
 
 behind, 
 A mile-stone propped him; I could also 
 
 ken 
 That he was clothed in military garb, 
 Though faded, yet entire. Companion- 
 less, 
 No dog attending, by no staff sustained. 
 He stood, and in his very dress appeared 
 A desolation, a simplicity. 
 To which the trappings of a gaudy world 
 Make a strange background. From his 
 
 lips, ere long. 
 Issued low muttered sounds, as if of pain 
 Or some uneasy thought; yet still his 
 
 form 
 Kept the same awful steadiness — at his 
 feet 
 
 His shadow lay, and moved not. From 
 
 self-blame 
 Not wholly free, I watched him thus; at 
 
 length 
 Subduing my heart's specious cowardice, 
 I left the shady nook where I had stood 
 And hailed him. Slowly from his rest- 
 ing-place 
 He rose, and with a lean and wasted arm 
 In measured gesture lifted to his head 
 Returned my salutation; then resumed 
 His station as before; and when I asked 
 His history, the veteran, in reply. 
 Was neither slow nor eager; but, un- 
 moved. 
 And with a quiet uncomplaining voice, 
 A stately air of mild indifference, 
 He told in few plain words a soldier's 
 
 tale — 
 That in the Tropic Islands he had served. 
 Whence he had landed scarcely three 
 
 weeks past; 
 That on his landing he had been dis- 
 missed, 
 And now was travelling towards his na- 
 tive home. 
 This heard, I said, in pity, " Come with 
 
 me." 
 He stooped, and straightway from the 
 
 ground took up 
 An oaken staff by me yet unobserved — 
 A staff which must have dropped from 
 
 his slack hand 
 And lay till now neglected in the grass. 
 Though weak his step and cautious, he 
 
 appeared 
 To travel without pain, and I beheld. 
 With an astonishment but ill suppressed. 
 His ghostly figure moving at my side; 
 Nor could I, while we journeyed thus, 
 
 forbear 
 To turn from present hardships to the past, 
 'And speak of war, battle, and pestilence, 
 Sprinkling this talk with questions, better 
 
 spared. 
 On what he might himself have seen or 
 
 felt. 
 He all the while was in demeanor calm, 
 Concise in answer; solemn and sublime 
 He might have seemed, but that in all he 
 
 said 
 There was a strange half-absence, as of 
 
BOOKS. 
 
 299 
 
 Knowing too well the importance of his 
 
 theme, 
 But feeling it no longer. Our discourse 
 Soon ended, and together on we passed 
 In silence through a wood gloomy and 
 
 still. 
 Up-turning, then, along an open field, 
 We reached a cottage. At the door I 
 
 knocked. 
 And earnestly to charitable care 
 Commended him as a poor friendless man, 
 Belated and by sickness overcome. 
 Assured that now the traveller would 
 
 repose 
 In comfort, I entreated that henceforth 
 He would not linger in the public ways. 
 But ask for timely furtherance and help 
 Such as his state required. At this reproof. 
 With the same ghastly mildness in his look. 
 He said, " My trust is in the God of 
 
 Heaven, 
 And in the eye of him who passes me ! " 
 
 The cottage door was speedily unbarred. 
 And now the solditr touched his hat once 
 
 more 
 With his lean hand, and in a faltering 
 
 voice. 
 Whose tone bespake reviving interests 
 Till then unfelt, he thanked me ; I returned 
 The farewell blessing of the patient man, 
 And so we parted. Back I cast a look. 
 And lingered near the door a little space, 
 then sought with quiet heart my distant 
 
 home. 
 
 Book Fifth. 
 
 When Contemplation, like the night-calm 
 
 felt 
 Through earth and sky, spreads widely, 
 
 and sends deep 
 Into the soul its tranquillizing power. 
 Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, O 
 
 Man, 
 Earth's paramount Creature ! not so much 
 
 for woes 
 That thou endurest; heavy though that 
 
 weight be, 
 Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light 
 
 divine 
 
 Doth melt away; but for those palms 
 
 achieved 
 Through length of time, by patient exercise 
 Of study and hard thought; there, there, 
 
 it is 
 That sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto, 
 In progress through this Verse, my mind 
 
 hath looked 
 Upon the speaking face of earth and 
 
 heaven 
 As her prime teacher, intercourse with man 
 Established by the sovereign Intellect, 
 Who through that bodily image hath dif- 
 fused. 
 As might appear to the eye of fleeting time, 
 A deathless spirit. Thou also, man ! hast 
 
 wrought. 
 For commerce of thy nature with herself. 
 Things that aspire to unconquerable life; 
 And yet we feel — we cannot choose but 
 
 feel — 
 That they must perish. Tremblings of the 
 
 heart 
 It gives, to think that our immortal being 
 No more shall need such garments; and 
 
 yet man. 
 As long as he shall be the child of earth, 
 Might almost "weep to have" what he 
 
 may lose. 
 Nor be himself extinguished, but survive, 
 Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate. 
 A thought is with me sometimes, and I 
 
 say, — 
 Should the whole frame of earth by inward 
 
 throes 
 Be wrenched, or fire come down from far 
 
 to scorch 
 Her pleasant habitations, and dry up 
 Old ocean, in his bed left singed and bare. 
 Yet would the living Presence still subsist 
 Victorious, and composure would ensue. 
 And kindlings like the morning — presage 
 
 sure 
 Of day returning and of life revived. 
 But all the meditations of mankind. 
 Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth 
 By reason built, or passion, which itself 
 Is highest reason in a soul sublime; 
 The consecrated works of Bard and Sage, 
 Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men. 
 Twin laborers and heirs of the same hopes; 
 Where would they be ? Oh I why hath not 
 
 the Mind ~~ 
 
300 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 ,Some^ element iD. stamp her image-on 
 In n^Jure som ewhat nearei^ to_her own? 
 "Why, gifted with such powers to send 
 
 abroad 
 Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail ? 
 
 One day, when from my lips a like 
 
 complaint 
 Had fallen in presence of a studious friend. 
 He with a smile made answer, that in truth 
 'T was going far to seek disquietude; 
 But on the front of his reproof confessed 
 That he himself had oftentimes given way 
 To kindred hauntings. Whereupon I told, 
 That once in the stillness of a summer's 
 
 noon. 
 While I was seated in a rocky cave 
 By the seaside, perusing, so it chanced, 
 The famous history of the errant knight 
 Recorded by Cervantes, these same 
 
 thoughts 
 Beset me, and to height unusual rose. 
 While listlessly I sate, and, having closed 
 The book, had turned my eyes toward the 
 
 wide sea. 
 On poetry and geometric truth. 
 And their high privilege of lasting life, 
 From all internal injury exempt, 
 I mused; upon these chiefly: and at length. 
 My senses yielding to the sultry air, 
 Sleep seized me, and I passed into a dream. 
 I saw before me stretched a boundless 
 
 plain 
 Of sandy wilderness, all black and void. 
 And as I looked around, distress and fear 
 Came creeping over me, when at my side, 
 Close at my side, an uncouth shape ap- 
 peared 
 Upon a dromedary, mounted high. 
 He seemed an Arab of the Bedouin tribes : 
 A lance he bore, and underneath one arm 
 A stone, and in the opposite hand a shell 
 Of a surpassing brightness. At the sight 
 Much I rejoiced, not doubting but a guide 
 Was present, one who with unerring skill 
 Would through the desert lead me; and 
 
 while yet 
 I looked and looked, self-questioned what 
 
 this freight 
 Which the new-comer carried through the 
 
 waste 
 Could mean, the Arab told me that the 
 
 stone 
 
 (To give it in the language of the dream) 
 Was " Euclid's Elements," and "This," 
 
 said he, 
 "Is something of more worth;" and at 
 
 the word 
 Stretched forth the shell, so beautiful in 
 
 shape. 
 In color so resplendent, with command 
 That I should hold it to my ear. I did so. 
 And heard that instant in an unknown 
 
 tongue, 
 Which yet I understood, articulate sounds, 
 A loud prophetic blast of harmony; 
 An Ode, in passion uttered, which foretold 
 Destruction to the children of the earth 
 By deluge, now at hand . No sooner ceased 
 The song, than the Arab with calm look 
 
 declared 
 That all would come to pass of which the 
 
 voice 
 Had given forewarning, and that he him- 
 self 
 Was going then to bury those two books : 
 The one that held acquaintance with the 
 
 stars. 
 And wedded soul to soul in purest bond 
 Of reason, undisturbed by space or time; 
 The other that was a god, yea many gods. 
 Had voices more than all the winds, with 
 
 power 
 To exhilarate the spirit, and to soothe. 
 Through every clime, the heart of human 
 
 kind. 
 While this was uttering, strange as it may 
 
 seem, 
 I wondered not, although I plainly saw 
 The one to be a stone, the other a shell; 
 Nor doubted once but that they both were 
 
 books. 
 Having a perfect faith in all that passed. 
 Far stronger, now, grew the desire I felt 
 To cleave unto this man;butwhen I prayed 
 To share his enterprise, he hurried on 
 Reckless of me : I followed, not unseen, 
 For oftentimes he cast a backward look, 
 Grasping his twofold treasure. — Lance in 
 
 rest. 
 He rode, I keeping pace with him; and 
 
 now 
 He, to my fancy, had become the knight 
 Whose tale Cervantes tells; yet not the 
 
 knight. 
 But was an Arab of the desert too; 
 
BOOKS. 
 
 301 
 
 Of these was neither, and was both at once. 
 His countenance, meanwhile, grew more 
 
 disturbed ; 
 And, looking backwards whenhe looked, 
 
 mine eyes 
 Saw, over half the wilderness diffused, 
 A bed of glittering light : I asked the cause : 
 *' It is," said he, " the waters of the deep 
 Gathering upon us;" quickening then the 
 
 pace 
 Of the unwieldy creature he bestrode, 
 He left me: I called after him aloud; 
 He heeded not; but, with his twofold 
 
 charge 
 Still in his grasp, before me, full in view, 
 Went hurrying o'er the illimitable waste. 
 With the fleet waters of a drowning world 
 In chase of him ; whereat I waked in terror. 
 And saw the sea before me, and the book. 
 In which I had been reading, at my side. 
 
 Full often, taking from the world of 
 sleep 
 This Arab phantom, which I thus beheld. 
 This semi-Quixote, I to him have given 
 A substance, fancied him a living man, 
 A gentle dweller in the desert, crazed 
 By love and feeling, and internal thought 
 Protracted among endless solitudes; 
 Have shaped him wandering upon this 
 
 quest ! 
 Nor have I pitied him ; but rather felt 
 Reverence was due to a being thus em- 
 ployed; 
 And thought that, in the blind and awful 
 
 lair 
 Of such a madness, reason did lie couched. 
 Enow there are on earth to take in charge 
 Their wives, their children, and their vir- 
 gin loves. 
 Or whatsoever else the heart holds dear; 
 Enow to stir for these; yea, will I say. 
 Contemplating in soberness the approach 
 Of an event so dire, by signs in earth 
 Or heaven made manifest, that I could 
 
 share 
 That maniac's fond anxiety, and go 
 Upon like errand. Oftentimes at least 
 Me hath such strong entrancement over- 
 come. 
 When I have held a volume in ray hand. 
 Poor earthly casket of immortal verse, 
 Shakespeare, or Milton, laborers divine ! 
 
 Great and benign, indeed, must be the 
 
 power 
 Of living nature, which could th js so long 
 Detain me from the best of other guides 
 And dearest helpers, left unthanked, un- 
 
 praised. 
 Even in the time of lisping infancy; 
 And later down, in prattling childhood 
 
 even, 
 While I was travelling back among those 
 
 days. 
 How could I ever play an ingrate's part? 
 Once more should I have made those 
 
 bowers resound. 
 By intermingling strains of thankfulness 
 With their own thoughtless melodies; at 
 
 least 
 It might have well beseemed me to repeat 
 Some simply fashioned tale, to tell again. 
 In slender accents of sweet verse, some tale 
 That did bewitch me then, and soothes me 
 
 now. 
 O Friend ! O Poet ! brother of my soul. 
 Think not that I could pass along un- 
 touched 
 By these remembrances. Yet wherefore 
 
 speak? 
 Why call upon a few weak words to say 
 What is already written in the hearts 
 Of all that breathe? — what in the path of 
 
 all 
 Drops daily from the tongue of every child. 
 Wherever man is found? The trickling 
 
 tear 
 Upon the cheek of listening Infancy 
 Proclaims it, and the insuperable look 
 That drinks as if it never could be full. 
 
 That portion of my story I shall leave 
 There registered : whatever else of power 
 Or pleasure sown, or fostered thus, may be 
 Peculiar to myself, let that remain 
 Where still it works, though hidden from 
 
 all search 
 Among the depths of time. Yet is it just 
 That here, in memory of all books which 
 
 lay 
 Their sure foundations in the heart of man. 
 Whether by native prose, or numerous 
 
 verse. 
 That in the name of all inspired souls — 
 From Homer the great Thunderer, from 
 
 the voice 
 
302 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 That roars along the bed of Jewish song, 
 And that more varied and elaborate, 
 Those trumpet-tones of harmony that 
 
 shake 
 Our shores in England, — from those lofti- 
 est notes 
 Down to the low and wren-like warblings, 
 
 made 
 For cottagers and spinners at the wheel, 
 And sun-burnt travellers resting their tired 
 
 limbs. 
 Stretched under wayside hedge-rows, bal- 
 lad tunes. 
 Food for the hungry ears of little ones, 
 And of old men who have survived their 
 
 joys — 
 'T is just that in behalf of these, the works. 
 And of the men that framed them, whether 
 
 known 
 Or sleeping nameless in their scattered 
 
 graves. 
 That I should here assert their rights, attest 
 Their honors, and should, once for all, 
 
 pronounce 
 Their benediction; speak of them as 
 
 Powers 
 Forever to be hallow ed; only less, 
 For what we are and what we may become, 
 Thaii Nature's self, which is the breath of 
 
 God, 
 Or His pure Word by miracle revealed. 
 
 Rarely and with reluctance would I 
 
 stoop 
 To transitory themes; yet I rejoice. 
 And, by these thoughts admonished, will 
 
 pour out 
 Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was 
 
 reared 
 Safe from an evil which these days have 
 
 laid 
 Upon the children of the land, a pest 
 That might have dried me up, body and 
 
 soul. 
 This verse is dedicate to Nature's self. 
 And things that teach as Nature teaches : 
 
 then, 
 Oh ! where had been the Man, the Poet 
 
 where, 
 Where had we been, we two, beloved 
 
 Friend ! 
 If in the season of unperilous choice. 
 
 In lieu of wandering, as we did, through 
 
 vales 
 Rich with indigenous produce, opep 
 
 ground 
 Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will, 
 We had been followed, hourly watched, 
 
 and noosed. 
 Each in his several melancholy walk 
 Stringed like a poor man's heifer at its feed. 
 Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude; 
 Or rather like a stalled ox debarred 
 From touch of growing grass, that may 
 
 not taste 
 A flower till it have yielded up its sweets 
 A prelibation to the mower's scythe. 
 
 Behold the parent hen amid her brood. 
 Though fledged and feathered, and well 
 
 pleased to part 
 And straggle from her presence, still a 
 
 brood. 
 And she herself from the maternal bond 
 Still undischarged ; yet doth she little more 
 Than move with them in tenderness and 
 
 love, 
 A centre to the circle which they make; 
 And now and then, alike from need of 
 
 theirs 
 And call of her own natural appetites, 
 She scratches, ransacks up the earth for 
 
 food. 
 Which they partake at pleasure. Early 
 
 died 
 My honored Mother, she who was the 
 
 heart 
 And hinge of all our learnings and our 
 
 loves : 
 She left us destitute, and, as we might, 
 Trooping together. Little suits it me 
 To break upon the sabbath of her rest 
 With any thought that looks at others' 
 
 blame ; 
 Nor would I praise her but in perfect love. 
 Hence am I checked: but let me boldly 
 
 say. 
 In gratitude, and for the sake of truth. 
 Unheard by her, that she, not falsely 
 
 taught. 
 Fetching her goodness rather from times 
 
 past, 
 Than shaping novelties for times to come, 
 Had no presumption, no such jealousy, 
 Nor did by habit of her thoughts mistrust 
 
BOOKS. 
 
 303 
 
 Our nature, but had virtual faith that He 
 Who fills the mother's breast with inno- 
 cent milk, 
 Doth also for our nobler part provide, 
 Under His great correction and control. 
 As innocent instincts, and as innocent 
 
 food; 
 Or dravifs, for gnndsjhat^are left Jr^ to 
 
 truj t 
 In the ^rnplicities of openiiig life. 
 Sweet honey out of spurned or dreaded 
 
 weeds. 
 This was her creed, and therefore she was 
 
 pure 
 From anxious fear of error or mishap, 
 And evil, overweeningly so called; 
 Was not puffed up by false unnatural 
 
 hopes. 
 Nor selfish with unnecessary cares. 
 Nor with impatience from the season asked 
 More than its timely produce ; rather loved 
 The hours for what they are, than from 
 
 regard 
 Glanced on their promises in restless 
 
 pride. 
 Such was she — not from faculties more 
 
 strong 
 Than others have, but from the times, 
 
 perhaps, 
 And spot in which she lived, and through 
 
 a grace 
 Of modest meekness, simple-mindedness, 
 A heart that found benignity and hope. 
 Being itself benign. 
 
 My drift I fear 
 Is scarcely obvious; but, that common 
 
 sense 
 May try this modern system by its fruits. 
 Leave let me take to place before her sight 
 A specimen portrayed with faithful hand. 
 Full early trained to worship seemliness. 
 This model of a child is never known 
 To mix in quarrels; that were far beneath 
 Its dignity; with gifts he bubbles o'er 
 As generous as a fountain; selfishness 
 May not come near him, nor the little 
 
 throng 
 Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his 
 
 path; 
 The wandering beggars propagate his 
 
 name. 
 Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun, 
 And natural or supernatural fear. 
 
 Unless it leap upon him in a dream. 
 Touches him not. To enhance the 
 
 wonder, see 
 How arch his notices, how nice his sense 
 Of the ridiculous; not blind is he 
 To the broad foUies of the Hcensed world. 
 Yet innocent himself withal, though 
 
 shrewd. 
 And can read lectures upon innocence; 
 A miracle of scientific lore. 
 Ships he can guide across the pathless sea. 
 And tell you all their cunning; he can read 
 The inside of the earth, and spell the stars; 
 He knows the policies of foreign lands; 
 Can string you names of districts, cities, 
 
 towns. 
 The whole world over, tight as beads of 
 
 dew 
 Upon a gossamer thread; he sifts, he 
 
 weighs ; 
 All things are put to question; he must 
 
 live 
 Knowing that he grows wiser every day 
 Or else not live at all, and seeing too 
 Each little drop of wisdom as it falls 
 Into the dimpling cistern of his heart : 
 For this unnatural growth the trainer 
 
 blame. 
 Pity the tree. — Poor human vanity, 
 Wert thou extinguished, little would be 
 
 left 
 Which he could truly love; but how 
 
 escape? 
 For, ever as a thought of purer birth 
 Rises to lead him toward a better clime. 
 Some intermeddler still is on the watch 
 To drive him back, and pound him, like 
 
 a stray. 
 Within the pinfold of his own conceit. 
 Meanwhile old grandame earth is grieved 
 
 to find 
 The playthings, which her love designed 
 
 for him, 
 Unthought of: in their woodland beds 
 
 the flowers 
 Weep, and the river sides are all forlorn. 
 Oh ! give us once again the wishing-cap 
 Of Fortunatus, and the invisible coat 
 Of Jack the Giant-killer, Robin Hood, 
 And Sabra in the forest with St. George ! 
 The child, whose love is here, at least, 
 
 doth reap 
 One precious gain, that he forgets himself, 
 
304 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 These mighty workmen of our later age, 
 Who, with a broad highway, have over- 
 bridged 
 The froward chaos of futurity, 
 Tamed to their bidding; they who have 
 
 the skill 
 To manage books, and things, and make 
 
 them act 
 On infant minds as surely as the sun 
 Deals with a flower; the keepers of our 
 
 time. 
 The guides and wardens of our faculties, 
 Sages who in their prescience would 
 
 control 
 All accidents, and to the very road 
 Which they have fashioned would confine 
 
 us down. 
 Like engines; when will their presump- 
 tion learn, 
 That in the unreasoning progress of the 
 
 world 
 A wiser spirit is at work for us, 
 A better eye than theirs, most prodigal 
 Of blessings, and most studious of our 
 
 good. 
 Even in what seem our most unfruitful 
 hours ? 
 
 1 There was a Boy : ye knew him well, 
 
 ye cliffs 
 And islands of Winander ! — many a time 
 At evening, when the earliest stars began 
 To move along the edges of the hills. 
 Rising or setting, would he stand alone 
 Beneath the trees or by the glimmering 
 
 lake. 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both 
 
 hands 
 Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his 
 
 mouth 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument. 
 Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls. 
 That they might answer him; and they 
 
 would shout 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again. 
 Responsive to his call, with quivering 
 
 peals, 
 And long halloos and screams, and echoes 
 
 loud. 
 Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild 
 Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened 
 
 pause 
 
 1 See p. 137, 
 
 Of silence came and baffled his best skill, 
 Then sometimes, in that silence while he 
 
 hung 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene 
 Would enter unawares into his mind. 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, 
 
 received 
 Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
 
 This Boy was taken from his mates, 
 
 and died 
 In childhood, ere he was full twelve years 
 
 old. 
 Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale 
 Where he was born; the grassy church- 
 yard hangs 
 Upon a slope above the village school, 
 And through that churchyard when my 
 
 way has led 
 On summer evenings, I believe that there 
 A long half hour together I have stood 
 Mute, looking at the grave in which he 
 
 lies ! 
 Even now appears before the mind's 
 
 clear eye 
 That self -same village church; I see her 
 
 sit 
 (The thronM Lady whom erewhile we 
 
 hailed) 
 On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy 
 Who slumbers at her feet, — forgetful, 
 
 too. 
 Of all her silent neighborhood of graves, 
 And listening only to the gladsome sounds 
 That, from the rural school ascending, 
 
 play 
 Beneath her and about her. May she long 
 Behold. a^tace-.oLyo.ung; onesjike tothose 
 With.wJioia.i_herded ! — ^^^^silj, indeed, 
 We^migbt have fed upon a &ter soil 
 Oj, arts-and - letjer£-^ but be~nat- for- 
 given) — 
 A race oL-teaLchildrenj iiatJop wise, 
 Too learned, or too good; but wantbn, 
 
 fresh, ~ ' 
 
 And bandied up and down by love and 
 
 hate; ' ' 
 
 Not unresentful where self-justified; 
 Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, 
 
 modest, shy; 
 
BOOKS. 
 
 305 
 
 Mad at their sporto like withered leaves 
 
 in winds; 
 Though doing wrong and suffering, and 
 
 full oft 
 Bending beneath our life's mysterious 
 
 weight 
 Of pain, and doubt, and fear, yet yielding 
 
 not 
 In happiness to the happiest upon earth. 
 Simplicity in habit, truth in speech, 
 Be these the daily strengtheners of their 
 
 minds; 
 May books an d JJature be their early joy ! 
 ^Xnd knowledge, rightly honorecl with 
 
 that name — 
 Knowledge not purchased by the loss of 
 
 power ! 
 
 Well do I call to mind the very week 
 When I was first intrusted to the care 
 Of that sweet Valley; when its paths, 
 
 its shores. 
 And brooks were like a dream of novelty 
 To my half-infant thoughts; that very 
 
 week. 
 While I was roving up and down alone. 
 Seeking I knew not what, I chanced to 
 
 cross 
 One of those open fields, which, shaped 
 
 like ears. 
 Make green peninsulas on Esthwaite's 
 
 Lake: 
 Twilight was coming on, yet through the 
 
 gloom 
 Appeared distinctly on the opposite shore 
 A heap of garments, as if left by one 
 Who might have there been bathing. 
 
 Long I watched. 
 But no one owned them; meanwhile the 
 
 calm lake 
 Grew dark with all the shadows on its 
 
 breast. 
 And, now and then, a fish up-leaping 
 
 snapped 
 The breathless stillness. The succeed- 
 ing day. 
 Those unclaimed garments telling a plain 
 
 tale 
 Drew to the spot an anxious crowd; 
 
 some looked 
 In passive expectation from the shore. 
 While from a boat others hung o'er the 
 
 deep, 
 
 Sounding with grappling irons and long 
 
 poles. 
 At last, the dead man, 'mid that beaute- 
 ous scene 
 Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright 
 Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre 
 
 shape 
 Of terror; yet no soul-debasing fear. 
 Young as I was, a child not nine years 
 
 old. 
 Possessed me, for my inner eye had seen 
 Such sights before, among the shining 
 
 streams 
 Of faery land, the forest of romance. 
 Their spirit liallowed the sad spectacle 
 With decoration of ideal grace ; 
 A dignity, a smoothness, like the works 
 Of Grecian art, and purest poesy. 
 
 A precious treasure had I long pos- 
 sessed, 
 A little yellow, canvas-covered book, 
 A slen der abstract of _the^Arabian^talg5; 
 And, from companions in a new abode. 
 When first I learnt that this dear prize 
 
 of mine 
 Was but a block hewn from a mighty 
 
 quarry — 
 That there were four large volumes, 
 
 laden all 
 With kindred matter, 't was to me, in 
 
 truth, 
 A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly, 
 With one not richer than myself, I made 
 A covenant that each should lay aside 
 The moneys he possessed, and hoard up 
 
 more, 
 Till our joint savings had amassed enough 
 To make this book our own. Through 
 
 several months. 
 In spite of all temptation, we preserved 
 Religiously that vow; but firmness failed, 
 Nor were we ever masters of our wish. 
 
 And when thereafter to my father's 
 
 house 
 The holidays returned me, there to find 
 That golden store of books which I had 
 
 left, 
 What joy was mine ! How often in the 
 
 course 
 Of those glad respites, though a soft 
 
 west wind 
 
3o6 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Ruffled the waters to the angler's wish, 
 For a whole day together, have I lain 
 Down by thy side, O Derwent ! murmur- 
 ing stream, 
 On the hot stones, and in the glaring sun. 
 And there have read, devouring as I read. 
 Defrauding the day's glory, desperate ! 
 Till with a sudden bound of smart re- 
 proach. 
 Such as an idler deals with in his shame, 
 I to the sport betook myself again. 
 
 A gracious spirit o'er this earth pre- 
 sides, 
 And o'er the heart of man; invisibly 
 It comes, to works of unreproved delight, 
 And tendency benign, directing those 
 Who care not, know not, think not, 
 
 what they do. 
 The tales that charm away the wakeful 
 
 night 
 In Araby, romances; legends penned 
 For solace by dim light of monkish lamps; 
 Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised 
 By youthful squires; adventures endless, 
 
 spun 
 By the dismantled warrior in old age. 
 Out of the bowels of those very schemes 
 In which his youth did first extravagate; 
 These spread like day, and something in 
 
 the shape 
 Of these will live till man shall be no 
 
 more. 
 Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are 
 
 ours. 
 And they must have their food. Our 
 
 childhood sits, 
 Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne 
 That hath more power than all the 
 
 elements. 
 I guess not what this tells of Being past. 
 Nor what it augurs of the life to come; 
 But so it is; and, in that dubious hour — 
 That twilight — when we first begin to 
 
 see 
 This dawning earth, to'recognize, expect, 
 And, in the long probation that ensues, 
 The time of trial, ere we learn to live 
 In reconcilement with our stinted powers; 
 To endure this state of meagre vassalage, 
 Unwilling to forego, confess, submit. 
 Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows 
 
 To custom, mettlesome, and not yet 
 
 tamed 
 And humbled down — oh ! then we feel, 
 
 we feel. 
 We know where we have friends. Ye 
 
 dreamers, then, 
 Forgers of daring tales ! we bless you 
 
 then. 
 Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape 
 Philosophy will call you : then we feel 
 With what and how great might ye are 
 
 in league. 
 Who make our wish, our power, our 
 
 thought a deed. 
 An empire, a possession, — ye whom 
 
 time 
 And seasons serve ; all Faculties to whom 
 Earth crouches, the elements are potter's 
 
 clay. 
 Space like a heaven filled up with north- 
 ern lights. 
 Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere 
 
 at once. 
 
 Relinquishing this lofty eminence 
 For ground, though humbler, not the 
 
 less a tract 
 Of the same isthmus, which our spirits 
 
 cross 
 In progress from their native continent 
 To earth and human life, the Song 
 
 might dwell 
 On that delightful time of growing youth. 
 When craving for the marvellous gives 
 
 way 
 To strengthening love for things that we 
 
 have seen; 
 When sober truth and steady sympathies. 
 Offered to notice by less daring pens. 
 Take firmer hold of us, and words them- 
 selves 
 Move us with conscious pleasure. 
 
 I am sad 
 At thought of rapture now forever flown ; 
 Almost to tears I sometimes could be sad 
 To think of, to read over, many a page, 
 Poems withal of name, which at that time 
 Did never fail to entrance me, and are 
 
 now 
 Dead in my eyes, dead as a theatre 
 Fresh emptied of spectators. Twice five 
 
 years 
 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 307 
 
 Or less I might have seen, when first my 
 
 mind 
 With conscious pleasure opened to the 
 
 charm 
 Of words in tuneful order, found them 
 
 sweet 
 For their own sakes, a passion, and a 
 
 power; 
 And phrases pleased me chosen for 
 
 delight. 
 For pomp, or love. Oft, in the public 
 
 roads 
 Yet unfrequented, while the morning 
 
 light 
 Was yellowing the hill tops, I went 
 
 abroad 
 With a dear friend, and for the better part 
 Of two delightful hours we strolled along 
 By the still borders of the misty lake. 
 Repeating favorite verses with one voice. 
 Or conning more, as happy as the birds 
 That round us chanted. Well might we 
 
 be glad, 
 Lifted above the ground by airy fancies. 
 More bright than madness or the dreams 
 
 of wine; 
 And, though full oft the objects of our 
 
 love 
 Were false, and in their splendor over- 
 wrought, 
 Yet was there surely then no vulgar 
 
 power 
 Working within us, — nothing less, in 
 
 truth. 
 Than that most noble attribute of man. 
 Though yet untutored and inordinate. 
 That wish for something loftier, more 
 
 adorned. 
 Than is the common aspect, daily garb, 
 Of human life. What wonder, then, if 
 
 sounds 
 Of exultation echoed through the groves ! 
 For, images, and sentiments, and words. 
 And everything encountered or pursued 
 In that delicious world of poesy, 
 Kept holiday, a never-ending show, 
 With music, incense, festival, and flowers ! 
 
 Here must we pause: this only let me 
 
 add, 
 From heart-experience, and in humblest 
 
 sense 
 Of modesty, that he, who in his youth 
 
 A daily wanderer among woods and fields 
 With living Nature hath been intimate, 
 Not only in that raw unpractised time 
 Is stirred to ecstasy, as others are, 
 By glittering verse; but further, doth 
 
 receive, 
 In measure only dealt out to himself, 
 Knowledge and increase of enduring joy 
 From the great Nature that exists in works 
 Of mighty Poets. Visionary power 
 Attends the motions of the viewless 
 
 winds. 
 Embodied in the mystery of words : 
 There, darkness makes abode, and all 
 
 the host 
 Of shadowy things work endless changes, 
 
 — there, 
 As in a mansion like their proper home, 
 Even forms and substances are circum- 
 
 fused 
 By that transparent veil with light divine, 
 And, through the turnings intricate of 
 
 verse. 
 Present themselves as objects recognized, 
 In flashes, and with glory not their own. 
 
 Book Sixth, 
 cambridge and the. alps. 
 
 The leaves were fading when to Esth- 
 
 waite's banks 
 And the simplicities of cottage life 
 I bade farewell; and, one among the 
 
 youth 
 Who, summoned by that season, reunite 
 A% scattered birds troop to the fowler's 
 
 lure. 
 Went back to Granta's cloisters, not so 
 
 prompt 
 Or eager, though as gay and undepressed 
 In mind, as when I thence had taken flight 
 A few short months before. I turned my 
 
 face 
 Without repining from the coves and 
 
 heights 
 Clothed in the sunshine of the withering 
 
 fern; 
 Quitted, not loth, the mild magnificence 
 Of calmer lakes and louder streams; and 
 
 you, 
 Frank-hearted maids of rocky Cumber- 
 land, 
 
3o8 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 You and your not unwelcome days of 
 
 mirth, 
 Relinquished, and your nights of revelry, 
 And in my own unlovely cell sate down 
 In lightsome mood — such privilege has 
 
 youth 
 That cannot take long leave of pleasant 
 
 thoughts. 
 
 ' The bonds of indolent society 
 Relaxing in their hold, henceforth I lived 
 iMore to myself. Two winters may be 
 
 passed 
 Without a separate notice ; many books 
 Were skimmed, devoured, or studiously 
 
 perused, 
 But with no settled plan. I was detached 
 Internally from academic cares; 
 Yet independent study seemed a course 
 Of hardy disobedience toward friends 
 And kindred, proud rebellion and unkind. 
 This spurious virtue, rather let it bear 
 A name it now deserves, this cowardice. 
 Gave treacherous sanction to that over- 
 love 
 Of freedom which encouraged me to turn 
 From regulations even of my own 
 As from restraints and bonds.. Yet who 
 
 can tell — 
 Who knows what thus may have been 
 
 gained, both then 
 And at a later season, or preserved; 
 What love of nature, what original 
 
 strength 
 Of contemplation, what intuitive truths 
 The deepest and the best, what keen re- 
 search. 
 Unbiassed, unbewildered, and unawed? 
 
 The Poet's soul was with me at that 
 
 time; 
 Sweet meditations, the still overflow 
 Of present happiness, while future years 
 Lacked not anticipations, tender dreams. 
 No few of which have since been realized; 
 And some remain, hopes for my future 
 
 life. 
 
 Four years and thirty, told this very week, 
 Have I been now a sojourner on earth. 
 By sorrow not unsmitten; yet for me 
 Life's morning radiance hath not left the 
 
 hills, 
 
 Her dew is on the fiowers. Those were 
 
 the days 
 Which also first emboldened me to trust 
 With firmness, hitherto but slightly 
 
 touched 
 By such a daring thought, that I might 
 
 leave 
 Some monument behind me which pure 
 
 hearts 
 Should reverence. The instinctive hum- 
 bleness, 
 Maintained even by the very name and 
 
 thought 
 Of printed books and authorship, began 
 To melt away; and further, the dread awe 
 Of mighty names was softened down and 
 
 seemed 
 Approachable, admitting fellowship 
 Of modest sympathy. Such aspect now. 
 Though not familiarly, my mind put on. 
 Content to observe, to achieve, and to 
 
 enjoy. 
 
 f All winter long, whenever free to 
 i choose, 
 
 JDid I by night frequent the College grove 
 And tributary walks ; the last, and oft 
 The only one, who had been lingering 
 
 there 
 Through hours of silence, till the porter's 
 
 bell, 
 A punctual follower on the stroke of nine. 
 Rang with its blunt unceremonious voice; 
 Inexorable summons ! Lofty elms. 
 Inviting shades of opportune recess. 
 Bestowed composure on a neighborhood 
 Unpeaceful in itself. A single tree 
 With sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitely 
 
 wreathed, 
 Grew there ; an ash which Winter for him- 
 self 
 Decked out with pride, and with outland- 
 ish grace : 
 Up from the ground, and almost to the 
 
 top. 
 The trunk and every master branch were 
 
 green 
 With clustering ivy, and the lightsome 
 
 twigs 
 And outer spray profusely tipped with 
 
 seeds 
 That hung in yellow tassels, while the air 
 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 309 
 
 Stirred them, not voiceless. Often have 
 
 I stood 
 Foot-biiund uplooking at this lovely tree 
 Beneath a frosty moon. The hemisphere 
 Of magic fiction, verse of mine perchance 
 May never tread; but scarcely Spenser's 
 
 self 
 Could have more tranquil visions in his 
 
 youth. 
 Or could more bright appearances create 
 Of human forms with superhuman pow- 
 ers, 
 Than I beheld, loitering on calm clear 
 
 nights 
 Alone, beneath this fairy work of earth. 
 
 On the vague reading of a truant youth 
 'T were idle to descant. My inner judg- 
 ment 
 Not seldom differed from my taste in 
 
 books, 
 As if it appertained to another mind, 
 And yet the books which then I valued 
 
 most 
 Are dearest to me now; for, having 
 
 scanned. 
 Not heedlessly, the laws, and watched 
 
 the forms 
 Of Nature, in that knowledge I possessed 
 A standard, often usefully applied. 
 Even when unconsciously, to things re- 
 moved 
 From a familiar sympathy. — In fine, 
 I was a better judge of thoughts than 
 
 words, 
 Misled in estimating words, not only 
 By common inexperience of youth, 
 But by the trade in classic niceties. 
 The dangerous craft, of culling term and 
 
 phrase 
 From languages that want the living voice 
 To carry meaning to the natural heart; 
 To tell us what is passion, what is truth. 
 What reason, what simplicity and sense. 
 
 / Yet may we not entirely overlook 
 The pleasure gathered from the rudiments 
 Of geometric science. Though advanced 
 In these inquiries, with regret I speak. 
 No farther than the threshold, there I 
 
 found 
 Both elevation and composed delight : 
 
 With Indian awe and wonder, ignorance 
 
 pleased 
 With its own struggles, did I meditate 
 On the relation those abstractions bear 
 To Nature's laws, and by what process 
 
 led, 
 Those immaterial agents bowed their 
 
 heads 
 Duly to serve the mind of earth-born man ; 
 From star to star, from kindred sphere to 
 
 sphere. 
 From system on to system without end. 
 
 More frequently from the same source I 
 drew 
 A pleasure quiet and profound, a sense 
 Of permanent and universal sway. 
 And paramount beUef; there, recognized 
 A type, for finite natures, of the one 
 Supreme Existence, the surpassing life 
 Which — to the boundaries of space and 
 
 time. 
 Of melancholy space and doleful time, 
 Superior and incapable of change, 
 Nor touched by welterings of passion — is. 
 And hath the name of, God. Transcen- 
 dent peace 
 And silence did await upon these thoughts 
 That were a frequent comfort to my youth. 
 
 'T is told by one whom stormy waters 
 threw. 
 With fellow-sufferers by the shipwreck 
 
 spared, 
 Upon a desert coast, that having brought 
 To land a single volume, saved by chance, 
 A treatise of Geometry, he wont. 
 Although of food and clothing destitute, 
 And beyond common wretchedness de- 
 pressed, 
 To part from company and take this book 
 (Then first a self-taught pupil in its truths) 
 To spots remote, and draw his diagrams 
 With a long staff upon the sand, and thus 
 Did oft beguile his sorrow, and almost 
 Forget his feeling: so (if like effect 
 From the same cause produced, 'mid out- 
 ward things 
 So different, may rightly be compared), 
 So was it then with me, and so will be 
 With Poets ever. Mighty is the charm 
 Of those abstractions to a mind beset 
 With images and haunted by herself, 
 
310 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 And specially delightful unto me 
 Was that clear synthesis built up aloft 
 So gracefully; even then when it appeared 
 Not more than a mere plaything, or a toy 
 To sense embodied : not the thing it is 
 In verity, an independent world, 
 Created out of pure intelligence. 
 
 Such dispositions then were mine un- 
 earned 
 By aught, I fear, of genuine desert — 
 Mine, through heaven's grace and inborn 
 
 aptitudes. 
 And not to leave the story of that time 
 Imperfect, with these habits must be 
 
 joined. 
 Moods melancholy, fits of spleen, that 
 
 loved 
 A pensive sky, sad days, and piping winds. 
 The twilight more than dawn, autumn than 
 
 spring; 
 A treasured and luxurious gloom of choice 
 And inclination mainly, and the mere 
 Redundancy of youth's contentedness. 
 — To time thus spent, add multitudes of 
 
 hours 
 Pilfered away, by what the Bard who sang 
 Of the Enchanter Indolence hath called 
 *' Good-natured lounging," and behold a 
 i map 
 
 j Of my collegiate life — far less intense 
 
 I Than duty called for, or, without regard 
 
 ;To duty, might have sprung up of itself 
 
 By change of accidents, or even, to speak 
 
 Without unkindness, in another place. 
 
 Yet why take refuge in that plea? — the 
 
 fault, 
 This I repeat, was mine; mine be the 
 
 blame. 
 
 In _3ummer, making quest for works of 
 
 artT — 
 Or scenes renowned for beauty, I explored 
 That streamlet whose blue current works 
 
 its way 
 Between romantic Dovedale's spiry rocks; 
 Pried into Yorkshire dales, or hidden 
 
 tracts 
 Of my own native region, and was blest 
 Between these sundry wanderings with a 
 
 joy 
 Above all joys, that seemed another morn 
 
 Risen on mid noon; blest with the pres- 
 ence. Friend ! 
 Of that sole Sister, her who hath been 
 
 long 
 Dear to thee also, thy true friend and 
 
 mine, 
 Now, after separation desolate. 
 Restored to me — such absence that she 
 
 seemed 
 A gift then first bestowed. The varied 
 
 banks 
 Of Emont, hitherto unnamed in song, 
 And that monastic castle, 'mid tall trees, 
 Low standing by the margin of the stream, 
 A mansion visited (as fame reports) 
 By Sidney, where, in sight of our Hel- 
 
 vellyn. 
 Or stormy Cross-fell, snatches he might 
 
 pen 
 Of his Arcadia, by fraternal love 
 Inspired; — that river and those moulder- 
 ing towers 
 Have seen us side by side, when, having 
 
 clomb 
 The darksome windings of a broken stair. 
 And crept along a ridge of fractured wall. 
 Not without trembling, we in safety looked 
 Forth, through some Gothic window's 
 
 open space. 
 And gatiiered with one mind a rich reward 
 From the far-stretching landscape, by the 
 
 light 
 Of morning beautified, or purple eve; 
 Or, not less pleased, lay on some turret's 
 
 head. 
 Catching from tufts of grass and hare-bell 
 
 flowers 
 Their faintest whisper to the passing 
 
 breeze, 
 Given out while mid-day heat oppressed 
 
 the plains. 
 
 Another maid there was, who also shed 
 A gladness o'er that season, then to me, 
 ■^By her exulting outside look of youth 
 And placid under-countenance, first en- 
 deared; 
 That other spirit, Coleridge ! who is now 
 So near to us, that meek confiding heart. 
 So reverenced by us both. O'er paths 
 
 and fields 
 In all that neighborhood, through narrow 
 lanes 
 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 3" 
 
 Of eglantine, and through the shady 
 
 woods, 
 And o'er the Border Beacon, and the 
 
 waste 
 Of naked pools, and common crags that 
 
 lay 
 Exposed on the bare fell, were scattered 
 
 love. 
 The spirit of pleasure, and youth's golden 
 
 gleam. 
 Friend ! we had not seen thee at that 
 
 time. 
 And yet a power is on me, and a strong 
 Confusion, and I seem to plant thee there. 
 Far art thou wandered now in search of 
 
 health 
 And milder breezes, — melancholy lot ! 
 But thou art with us, with us in the past. 
 The present, with us in the times to come. 
 There is no grief, no sorrow, no despair, 
 No languor, no dejection, no dismay, 
 No absence scarcely can there be, for 
 
 those 
 Who love as we do. Speed thee well ! 
 
 divide 
 With us thy pleasure; thy returning 
 
 strength. 
 Receive it daily as a joy of ours ; 
 Share with us thy fresh spirits, whether 
 
 gift 
 Of gales Etesian or of tender thoughts. 
 
 / I, too, have been a wajiderer;but, alas ! 
 vHow different the fate of different men. 
 Though mutually unknown, yea nursed 
 
 and reared 
 As if in several elements, we were framed 
 To bend at last to the same discipline, 
 Predestined, if two beings ever were. 
 To seek the same delights, and have one 
 
 health, 
 One happiness.N Throughout this narra- 
 
 'ive, 
 Else sooner ended, I have borne in mind 
 For whom it registers the birth, and 
 
 marks the growth. 
 Of gentleness, simplicity, and truth, 
 And joyous loves, that hallow innocent 
 
 days 
 Of peace and self-command. Of rivers, 
 
 fields. 
 And groves I speak to thee, my Friend ! to 
 
 thee, 
 
 Who, yet a liveried schoolboy, in the 
 
 depths 
 Of the huge city, on the leaded roof 
 Of that wide edifice, thy school and home, 
 Wert used to lie and gaze upon the clouds 
 Moving in heaven; or, of that pleasure 
 
 tired. 
 To shut thine eyes, and by internal light 
 See trees, and meadows, and thy native 
 
 stream. 
 Far distant, thus beheld from year to year 
 Of a long exile. Nor could I forget, 
 In this late portion of my argument, 
 That scarcely, as my term of pupilage 
 Ceased, had I left those academic bowers 
 When thou wert thither guided. From the 
 
 heart 
 Of London, and from cloisters there, thou 
 
 earnest. 
 And didst sit down in temperance and 
 
 peace, 
 A rigorous student . What a stormy course 
 Then followed. Oh ! it is a pang that calls 
 For utterance, to think what easy change 
 Of circumstances might to thee have 
 
 spared 
 A world of pain, ripened a thousand hopes, 
 Forever withered. Through this ret- 
 rospect 
 Of my collegiate life I still have had 
 Thy after-sojourn in the self-same place 
 Present before my eyes, have played with 
 
 times 
 And accidents as children do with cards, 
 Or as a man, who, when his house is built, 
 A frame locked up in wood and stone, doth 
 
 still, 
 As impotent fancy prompts, by his fireside. 
 Rebuild it to his liking. I have thought 
 Of thee, thy learning, gorgeous eloquence, 
 And all the strength and plumage of thy 
 
 youth. 
 Thy subtle speculations, toils abstruse 
 Among the schoolmen, and Platonic forms 
 Of wild ideal pageantry, shaped out 
 From things well-matched or ill, and 
 
 words for things. 
 The self-created sustenance of a mind 
 Debarred from Nature's living images, 
 Compelled to be a life unto herself. 
 And unrelentingly possessed by thirst 
 Of greatness, love, and beauty. Not 
 
 alone, 
 
312 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Ah ! surely not in singleness of heart 
 Should I have seen the light of evening 
 
 fade 
 From smooth Cam's silent waters : had we 
 
 met, 
 Even at that early time, needs must I trust 
 In the belief, that my maturer age, 
 My calmer habits, and more steady voice, 
 Would with an influence benign have 
 
 soothed, 
 Or chased away, the airy wretchedness 
 That battened on thy youth. But thou 
 
 hast trod 
 A march of glory, which doth put to 
 
 shame 
 These vain regrets; health suffers in thee, 
 
 else 
 Such grief for thee would be the weakest 
 
 thought 
 That ever harbored in the breast of man. 
 
 A passing word erewhile did lightly 
 
 touch 
 On wanderings of my own, that now 
 
 embraced 
 With livelier hope a region wider far. 
 
 When the tihird sum mer freed us from 
 
 restraint, "^ ~~ 
 
 A youthful friend, he too a mountaineer, 
 Not slow to share my wishes, took his 
 
 staff, 
 And sallying forth, we journeyed side by 
 
 side, 
 Bound to the distant Alps. A hardy slight. 
 Did this unprecedented course imply. 
 Of college studies and their set rewards; 
 Nor had, in truth, the scheme been 
 
 formed by me 
 Without uneasy forethought of the pain. 
 The censures, and ill-omening, of those 
 To whom my worldly interests were dear. 
 But Nature then was sovereign in my 
 
 mind, 
 And mighty forms, seizing a youthful 
 
 fancy, 
 Had given a charter to irregular hopes. 
 In any age of uneventful calm 
 Among the nations, surely would my heart 
 Have been possessed by similar desire; 
 But Europe at that time was thrilled 
 
 with joy, 
 
 France standing on the top of golden 
 
 hours, 
 And human nature seeming born again. 
 
 Lightly equipped, and but a few brief 
 looks 
 Cast on the white cliffs of our native shore 
 From the receding vessel's deck, we 
 
 chanced 
 To land at Calais on the very eve 
 Of that great federal day; and there we 
 
 saw. 
 In a mean city, and among a few, 
 How bright a face is worn when joy of one 
 Is joy for tens of millions. Southward 
 
 thence 
 We held our way, direct through hamlets, 
 
 towns. 
 Gaudy with reliques of that festival, 
 Flowers left to wither on triumphal arcs, 
 And window-garlands. On the public 
 
 roads. 
 And, once, three days successively, 
 
 through paths 
 By which our toilsome journey was 
 
 abridged. 
 Among sequestered villages we walked 
 And found benevolence and blessedness 
 Spread like a fragrance everywhere, when 
 
 spring 
 Hath left no corner of the land untouched; 
 Where elms for pany and many a league 
 
 in files 
 With their thin umbrage, on the stately 
 
 roads 
 Of that great kingdom, rustled o'er our 
 
 heads. 
 Forever near us as we paced along: 
 How sweet at such a time, with such de- 
 light 
 On every side, in prime of youthful 
 
 strength, 
 To feed a Poet's tender melancholy 
 And fond conceit of sadness, with the 
 
 sound 
 Of undulations varying as might please 
 The v/ind that swayed them; once, and 
 
 more than once, 
 Unhoused beneath the evening star we 
 
 saw 
 Dances of liberty, and, in late hours 
 Of darkness, dances in the open air 
 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 313 
 
 Deftly prolonged, though gray-hau'ed 
 
 lookers on 
 Might waste their breath in chiding. 
 
 Under hills — 
 The vine-clad hills and slopes of Burgundy, 
 Upon the bosom of the gentle Saone 
 We glided forward with the flowing 
 
 stream. 
 Swift Rhone ! thou wert the jiii/z^j on 
 
 which we cut 
 A winding passage with majestic ease 
 Between thy lofty rocks. Enchanting 
 
 show 
 Those woods and farms and orchards did 
 
 present. 
 And single cottages and lurking towns. 
 Reach after reach, succession without end 
 Of deep and stately vales ! A lonely pair 
 Of strangers, till day closed, we sailed 
 
 along 
 Clustered together with a merry crowd 
 Of those emancipated, a blithe host 
 Of travellers, chiefly delegates, returning 
 From the great spousals newly solemnized 
 At their chief city, in the sight of Heaven. 
 Like bees they swarmed, gaudy and gay 
 
 as bees; 
 Some vapored in the unruliness of joy. 
 And with their swords flourished as if to 
 
 fight 
 The saucy air. In this proud company 
 We landed — took with them our evening 
 
 meal. 
 Guests welcome almost as the angels were 
 To Abraham of old. The supper done. 
 With flowing cups elate and happy 
 
 thoughts 
 We rose at signal given, and formed a 
 
 ring 
 And, hand in hand, danced round and 
 
 round the board; 
 All hearts were open, every tongue was 
 
 loud 
 With amity and glee ; we bore a name 
 Honored in France, the name of English- 
 men, 
 And hospitably did they give us hail. 
 As their forerunners in a glorious course ; 
 And round and round the board we danced 
 
 again. 
 Wii>h these blithe friends our voyage we 
 
 renewed 
 At .jarly dawn. The monastery bells 
 
 Made a sweet jingling in our youthful cars ; 
 The rapid river flowing without noise. 
 And each uprising or receding spire 
 Spake with a sense of peace, at intervals 
 Touching the heart amid the boisterous 
 
 crew 
 By whom we were encompassed. Taking 
 
 leave 
 Of this glad throng, foot-travellers side 
 
 by side. 
 Measuring our steps in quiet, we pursued 
 Our journey, and ere twice the sun had set 
 Beheld the Convent of Chartreuse, and 
 
 there 
 Rested within an awful solitude : 
 Yes; for even then no other than a place 
 Of soul-affecting solitude appeared 
 That far-famed region, though our eyes 
 
 had seen, 
 As toward the sacred mansion we ad- 
 vanced, 
 Arms flashing, and a military glare 
 Of riotous men commissioned to expel 
 The blameless inmates, and belike subvert 
 That frame of social being, which so long 
 Had bodied forth the ghostliness of things 
 In silence visible and perpetual calm. 
 — " Stay, stay your sacrilegious hands !" 
 
 — The voice 
 Was Nature's, uttered from her Alpine 
 
 throne; 
 I heard it then and seem to hear it now — 
 " Your impious work forbear, perish what 
 
 may. 
 Let this one temple last, be this one spot 
 J2LeartlLdevoted to eternity ! " 
 She ceased to speak, but while St. Bruno's 
 
 pines 
 Waved their dark tops, not silent as they 
 
 waved. 
 And while below, along their several beds, 
 Murmured the sister streams of Life and 
 
 Death, 
 Thus by conflicting passions pressed, my 
 
 heart 
 Responded; "Honor to the patriot'szeal ! 
 Glory and hope to new-born Liberty ! 
 Hail to the mighty projects of the time ! 
 Discerning sword that Justice wields, do 
 
 thou 
 ViO forth and prosper; and, ye purging 
 
 fires, 
 Up to the loftiest towers of Pride ascend, 
 
314 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Fanned by the breath of angry Providence. 
 But oh ! if Past and Future be the wings 
 On whose support harmoniously conjoined 
 Moves the great spirit of human knowl- 
 edge, spare 
 These courts of mystery, where a step 
 
 advanced 
 Between the portals of the shadowy rocks 
 Leaves far behind life's treacherous 
 
 vanities, 
 For penitential tears and trembling hopes 
 Exchanged — to equalize in God's pure 
 
 sight 
 Monarch and peasant : be the house re- 
 deemed 
 With its unworldly votaries, for the sake 
 Of conquest over sense, hourly achieved 
 Through faith and meditative reason, 
 
 resting 
 Upon the word of heaven-imparted truth, 
 Calmly triumphant; and for humbler claim 
 Of that imaginative impulse sent 
 From these majestic floods, yon shining 
 
 cliffs. 
 The untransmuted shapes of many worlds. 
 Cerulean ether's pure inhabitants, 
 These forests unapproachable by death. 
 That shall endure as long as man endures, 
 To think, to hope, to worship, and to feel, 
 To struggle, to be lost within himself 
 In trepidation, from the blank abyss 
 To look with bodily eyes, and be con- 
 soled." 
 Not seldom since that moment have I 
 
 wished 
 That thou, O Friend! the trouble or the 
 
 calm 
 Hadst shared, when, from profane regards 
 
 apart. 
 In sympathetic reverence we trod 
 The floors of those dim cloisters, till that 
 
 hour, 
 From their foundation, strangers to the 
 
 presence 
 Of unrestricted and unthinking man. 
 Abroad, how cheeringly the sunshine lay 
 Upon the open lawns ! Vallombre's 
 
 groves 
 Entering, we fed the soul with darkness; 
 
 thence 
 Issued, and with uplifted eyes beheld. 
 In different quarters of the bending sky, 
 The cross of Jesus stand erect, as if 
 
 Hands of angelic powers had fixed it there, 
 Memorial reverenced by a thousand 
 
 storms; 
 Yet then, from the undiscriminating sweep 
 And rage of one State-whirlwind, in- 
 secure. 
 
 ' T is not my present purpose to retrace 
 That variegated journey step by step. 
 A march it was of military speed, 
 And Earth did change her images and 
 
 forms 
 Before us, fast as clouds are changed in 
 
 heaven. 
 Day after day, up early and down late. 
 From hill to vale we dropped, from vale 
 
 ~ Jo rai — — 
 
 Mounted^ — from province on .to province 
 
 ' swept, 
 JCefiahuntexsinaxhaseoffQurteen^geks, 
 Eager as birds of prey, or as a ship 
 Upon the stretch, when winds are blow- 
 ing fair; 
 Sweet coverts did we cross of pastoral life, 
 Enticing valleys, greeted them and left 
 Too soon, while yet the very flash and 
 
 gleam 
 Of salutation were not passed away. 
 Oh ! sorrow for the youth who could 
 
 have seen, 
 Unchastened, unsubdued, unawed, un- 
 
 raised 
 To patriarchal dignity of mind, 
 And pure simplicity of wish and will, 
 Those sanctified abodes of peaceful man, 
 Pleased (though to hardship born, and 
 
 compassed round 
 With danger, varying as the seasons 
 
 change), 
 Pleased with his daily task, or, if not 
 
 pleased. 
 Contented, from the moment that the 
 
 dawn 
 (Ah ! surely not without attendant gleams 
 Of soul-illumination) calls him forth 
 To industry, by glistenings flung on rocks, 
 Whose evening shadows lead him to 
 
 repose. 
 
 Well might a stranger look with 
 bounding heart 
 Down on a green. recess, the first I saw 
 Of those deep haunts, "an aboriginal vale, 
 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 515 
 
 Quiet and lorded over and possessed 
 By naked huts, wood-built, and sown like 
 
 tents 
 Or Indian cabins over the fresh lawns 
 And by the river side. 
 
 That very day. 
 From a bare ridge we also first beheld 
 Unveiled the summit of Mont Blanc, and 
 
 grieved '" 
 
 To have a soulless image on the eye 
 That had usurped upon a living thought 
 That never more could be. The won- 
 drous Yale 
 Of C hamoun y stretched far below, and 
 
 soon 
 With its dumb cataracts and streams of ice, 
 A motionless array of mighty waves, 
 Five rivers broad and vast, made rich 
 
 amends, 
 And reconciled us to realities; 
 There small birds warble from the leafy 
 
 trees, 
 The eagle soars high in the element. 
 There doth the reaper bind the yellow 
 
 sheaf. 
 The maiden spread the haycock in the sun. 
 While Winter like a well-tamed lion 
 
 walks, 
 Descending from the mountain to make 
 
 sport 
 Among the cottagers by beds of flowers. 
 
 Whate'er in this wide circuit we beheld. 
 Or heard, was fitted to our unripe state 
 Of intellect and heart. With such a book 
 Before our eyes, we could not choose but 
 
 read 
 Lessons of genuine brotherhood, the plain 
 And universal reason of mankind, 
 The truths of young and old. Nor, side 
 
 by side 
 Pacing, two social pilgrims, or alone 
 Each with his humor, could we fail to 
 
 abound 
 In dreams and fictions, pensively com- 
 posed: 
 Dejection taken up for pleasure's sake. 
 And gilded sympathies, the willow wreath. 
 And sober posies of funereal flowers, 
 Gathered among those solitudes sublime 
 From formal gardens of the lady Sorrow, 
 Did sweeten many a meditative hour. 
 
 Yet still in me with those soft luxuries 
 Mixed something of stern mood, an 
 
 underthirst 
 Of vigor seldom utterly allayed : 
 And from that source how different a 
 
 sadness 
 Would issue, let one incident make 
 
 known. 
 When from the Vallais we had turned, 
 
 and clomb 
 Along the Simplon's steep and rugged 
 
 road. 
 Following a band of muleteers, we reached 
 A halting-place, where all together took 
 Their noon-tide meal. Hastily rose our 
 
 guide, 
 Leaving us at the board; awhile we 
 
 lingered. 
 Then paced the beaten downward way 
 
 that led 
 Right to a rough stream's edge, and 
 
 there broke off; 
 The only track now visible was one 
 That from the torrent's further brink 
 
 held forth 
 Conspicuous invitation to ascend 
 A lofty mountain. After brief delay 
 Crossing the unbridged stream, that road 
 
 we took, 
 And clomb with eagerness, till anxious 
 
 fears 
 Intruded, for we failed to overtake 
 Our comrades gone before. By fortunate 
 
 chance. 
 While every moment added doubt to 
 
 doubt, 
 A peasant met us, from whose mouth we 
 
 learned 
 That to the spot which had perplexed us 
 
 first 
 We must descend, and there should find 
 
 the road. 
 Which in the stony channel of the stream 
 Lay a few steps, and then along its banks; 
 And, that our future course, all plain to 
 
 sight, 
 Was downwards, with the current of that 
 
 stream. 
 Loth to believe what we so grieved to 
 
 hear. 
 For still we had hopes that pointed to 
 
 the clouds, 
 We questioned him again, and yet again; 
 
3i6 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 But every word that from the peasant's lips 
 Came in reply, translated by our feelings, 
 Ended in this, — that we had a-ossed the 
 
 diiJ. " 
 
 Imagination — here the Power so called 
 Through sad incompetence of human 
 
 speech. 
 That awful Power rose from the mind's 
 
 abyss 
 Like an unfathered vapor that enwraps, 
 At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost; 
 Halted without an effort to break through; 
 But to my conscious soul I now can say — 
 " Irecognize thy glory: " in such strength 
 Of usurpation, when the light of sense 
 Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed 
 The invisible world, doth greatness make 
 
 abode. 
 There harbors; whether we be young or 
 y* old. 
 
 Our destiny, our being's heart and hom-e. 
 Is \N^h infinitude, and only there; 
 Witn hope it is, hope that can never die, 
 Effort, and expectation, 'and desire, 
 And something evermore about to be. 
 Under such banners militant, the soul 
 Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no 
 
 spoils 
 That may attest her prowess, blest in 
 
 thoughts 
 That are their own perfection and reward, 
 Strong in herself and in beatitude 
 That hides her, like the mighty flood of 
 
 Nile 
 Poured from his fount of Abyssinian 
 
 clouds 
 To fertilize the whole Egyptian plain. 
 
 The melancholy slackening that ensued 
 Upon those tidings by the peasant given 
 Was soon dislodged. Downwards we 
 
 hurried fast. 
 And, with the half-shaped road which we 
 
 had missed. 
 Entered &_ narrow chasm. ^ The brook 
 
 and road 
 Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy 
 
 strait, 
 And with them did we journey several 
 
 hours 
 At a slow pace. The immeasurable height 
 ' See p. 135. 
 
 Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 
 The_st a.t'oT'ry b j^t;; oX_wat erfalls, 
 And in" the narrow r ent at ever y turn 
 WirRfe-thvvurting n^ds, bewildered and 
 
 forlorn. 
 The torrents shooting fro m the cl ear blue 
 
 The rocKS t hat mut tered close -.upon our 
 
 Black drSzImg crags that spake by the 
 
 wayside 
 As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
 And giddy prospect of the raving stream, 
 Th^ijvnfpHgrgfl cl^^ds and r-'gi^'p of^the 
 
 lHeavens,_^ 
 Tumult and"peace', the darkness an d the 
 
 light ^=^ 
 Were adi like workings^of nne^rpind, the 
 
 Teatures 
 Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree; 
 Characters of the "great Apocalypsej " 
 The types and symbols of Eternity, 
 Of first, and last, and midst, and without 
 
 end. 
 
 / 
 
 / That night our lodging was a house that 
 I stood 
 
 \Alone within the valley, at a point 
 Where, tumbling from aloft, a torrent 
 
 swelled 
 The rapid stream whose margin we had 
 
 trod; 
 A dreary mansion, large beyond all need, 
 With high and spacious rooms, deafened 
 
 and stunned 
 By noise of waters, making innocent sleep 
 Lie melancholy among weary bones. 
 
 Uprisen betimes, our journey we re- 
 newed, 
 Led by the stream, ere noon-day magnified 
 Into a lordly river, broad and deep. 
 Dimpling along in silent majesty, 
 With mountains for its neighbors, and in 
 
 view 
 Of distant mountains and their snowy tops, 
 And thus pjnceedjng to LocarnQ!a_Lake, 
 Fit resting-place for such a visitant. 
 Locarno ! spreading out in width like 
 
 Heaven, 
 How dost thou cleave to the poetic heart, 
 Bask in the sunshine of the memory; 
 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 317 
 
 And 
 
 Z^omo ! thou, a treasure whom the 
 
 earth 
 Keeps to herself, confined as in a depth 
 Of Abyssinian privacy. I spake 
 Of thee, thy chestnut woods, and garden 
 
 plots 
 Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids ; 
 Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed 
 
 with vines. 
 Winding from house to house, from town 
 
 to town, 
 Sole link that binds them to each other; 
 
 walks, 
 League after league, and cloistral avenues, 
 Where silence dwells if music be not there : 
 While yet a youth undisciplined in verse. 
 Through fond ambition of that hour I 
 
 strove 
 To chant your praise; nor can approach 
 
 you now 
 Ungreeted by a more melodious Song, 
 \\'here tones of Nature smoothed by 
 
 learned Art 
 May flow in lasting current. Like a breeze 
 Or sunbeam over your domain I passed 
 In motion without pause; but ye have left 
 Your beauty with me, a serene accord 
 Of forms and colors, passive, yet endowed 
 In their submissiveness with power as 
 
 sweet 
 And gracious, almost, might I dare to say, 
 As virtue is, or goodness; sweet as love, 
 Or the remembrance of a generous deed. 
 Or mildest visitations of pure thought, 
 When God, the giver of all joy, is thanked 
 Religiously, in silent blessedness; 
 Sweet as this last herself, for such it is. 
 
 / With those delightful pathways we ad- 
 vanced, 
 .For two days' space, in presence of the 
 
 Lake, 
 That, stretching far among the Alps, 
 
 assumed 
 A character more stern . The second night , 
 From sleep awakened, and misled by 
 
 sound 
 Of the church clock telling the hours with 
 
 strokes 
 Whose import then we had not learned, we 
 
 rose 
 By moonlight, doubting not that day was 
 
 nigh. 
 
 And that meanwhile, by no uncertain path, 
 Along the winding margin of the lake, 
 Led, as before,we should behold the scene 
 Hushed in profound repose. We left the 
 
 town 
 Of Grayedona_with this hope; but soon 
 Were lost, bewildered among woods im- 
 mense. 
 And on a rock sate down, to wait for day. 
 An open place it was, and overlooked, 
 From high, the sullen water far beneath. 
 On which a dull red image of the moon 
 Lay bedded, changing oftentimes its form 
 Like an uneasy snake. From hour to hour 
 We sate and sate, wondering, as if the 
 
 night 
 Had been ensnared by witchcraft . On the 
 
 rock 
 At last we stretched our weary limbs for 
 
 sleep. 
 But could not sleep, tormented by the 
 
 stiiigs 
 Of insects, which, with noise like that of 
 
 noon. 
 Filled all the woods : the cry of unknown 
 
 birds; 
 The mountains more by blackness visible 
 And their own size, than any outward 
 
 light; 
 The breathless wilderness of clouds; the 
 
 clock 
 That told, with unintelligible voice. 
 The widely parted hours; the noise of 
 
 streams. 
 And sometimes rustling motions nigh at 
 
 hand. 
 That did not leave us free from personal 
 
 fear; 
 And, lastly, the withdrawing moon, that 
 
 set 
 Before us, while she still was high in 
 
 heaven; — 
 These were our food; and such a summer's 
 
 night 
 Followed that pair of golden days that 
 
 shed 
 On Como's Lake, and all that round it lay, 
 Their fairest, softest, happiest influence. 
 
 But here I must break off, and bid fare- 
 well 
 To days, each offering some new sight, or 
 fraught 
 
3i8 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 With some untried adventure, in a course 
 ' Prolonged till sprinklings of autumnal 
 snow 
 Checked our unwearied steps. Let this 
 \ alone 
 
 Be mentioned as a parting word, that not 
 In hollow exultation, dealing out 
 Hyperboles of praise comparative. 
 Not rich one moment to be poor forever; 
 Not prostrate, overborne, as if the mind 
 Herself were nothing, a mere pensioner 
 On outward forms — did we in presence 
 
 stand 
 Of that magnificent region. On the front 
 Of this whole Song is written that my heart 
 Must, in such Temple, needs have offered 
 
 A dfnerent worship. ^Finally, whate'erX 
 I saw, or heard, or felt, was but a stream 
 That flowed into a kindred stream ; a gale/ 
 Confederate with the current of the soulj 
 To speed my voyage ; every sound or sight, 
 In its degree of power, administered 
 To grandeur or to tenderness, — to the one 
 Directly, but to tender thoughts by means 
 Less often instantaneous in effect; 
 Led me to these by paths that, in the main, 
 Were more circuitous, but not less sure 
 Duly to reach the point marked out by 
 Heaven. 
 
 Oh, most beloved Friend ! a glorious 
 time, 
 A happy time that was ; triumphant looks 
 Were then the common language of all 
 
 eyes; 
 As if awaked from sleep, the Nations hailed 
 Their great expectancy; the fife of war 
 Was then a spirit-stirring sound indeed, 
 A blackbird's whistle in a budding grove. 
 We left the Swiss exulting in the fate 
 Of their near neighbors; and, when short- 
 ening fast 
 Our pilgrimage, nor distant far from home, 
 We crossed the Brabant armies on the fret 
 For battle in the cause of Liberty. 
 A stripling, scarcely of the household then 
 Of social lifel I looked upon these things 
 As from a distance; heard, and saw, and 
 
 felt. 
 Was touched, but with no intimate con- 
 cern ; ^ 
 I seemed to move along them, as a bird 
 
 Moves through the air, or as a fish pursues 
 Its sport, or feeds in its proper element; 
 I wanted not that joy, I did not need 
 Such help; the ever-living universe, 
 Turn where I might, was opening out its 
 
 glories. 
 And the independent spirit of pure youth 
 Called forth, at every season, new;delights, 
 Spread round my steps like sunshine o'er 
 
 green fields. N 
 
 Book Seventh, 
 residence in london. 
 
 Six changeful years have vanished since I 
 first 
 
 Poured out (saluted by that quickening 
 breeze 
 
 Which met me issuing from the City's ' 
 walls) 
 
 A glad preamble to this Verse : I sang 
 
 Aloud, with fervor irresistible 
 
 Of short-lived transport, like a torrent 
 bursting. 
 
 From a black thunder-cloud, down Sea- 
 fell's side 
 
 To rush and disappear. But soon broke 
 forth 
 
 (So willed the Muse) a less impetuous 
 stream. 
 
 That' flowed awhile with unabating 
 strength. 
 
 Then stopped for years ; not audible 
 again 
 
 Before last primrose-time. Beloved 
 Friend ! 
 
 The assurance which then cheered some 
 heavy thoughts 
 
 On thy departure to a foreign land 
 
 Has failed; too slowly moves the prom- 
 ised work. 
 
 Through the whole summer have I been 
 at rest. 
 
 Partly from voluntary holiday. 
 
 And part through outward hindrance. 
 But I heard, 
 
 After the hour of sunset yester-even, 
 
 Sitting within doors between light and 
 dark, 
 
 A choir of redbreasts gathered some- 
 where near 
 ^ The City of Goslar, in Lower Saxony. 
 
RESIDENCE IN LONDON. 
 
 319 
 
 My threshold, — minstrels from the dis- 
 tant woods 
 Sent in on Winter's service, to announce, 
 With preparation artful and benign. 
 That the rough lord had left the surly 
 
 North 
 On his accustomed journey. The delight, 
 Due to this timely notice, unawares 
 Smote me, and, listening, I in whispers 
 
 said, 
 " Ye heartsome Choristers, ye and I 
 
 will be 
 Associates, and, unscared by blustering 
 
 winds. 
 Will chant together." Thereafter, as 
 
 the shades 
 Of twilight deepened, going forth, I spied 
 A glow-worm underneath a dusky plume 
 Or canopy of yet unwithered fern, 
 Clear-shining, like a hermit's taper seen 
 Through a thick forest. Silence touched 
 
 me here 
 No less than sound had done before; 
 
 the child 
 Of Summer, lingering, shining, by her- 
 self, 
 The voiceless worm on the unfrequented 
 
 hills. 
 Seemed sent on the same errand with 
 
 the choir 
 Of Winter that had warbled at my door. 
 And the whole year breathed tenderness 
 and love. 
 
 The last night's genial feeling over- 
 flowed 
 Upon this morning, and my favorite 
 
 grove. 
 Tossing in sunshine its dark boughs aloft. 
 As if to make the strong wind visible, 
 Wakes in me agitations like its own, 
 A spirit friendly to the Poet's task, 
 Which we will now resume with lively 
 
 hope, 
 Nor checked by aught of tamer argument 
 That lies before us, needful to be told. 
 
 Returned from that excursion,^ soon I 
 bade 
 Farewell forever to the sheltered seats 
 Of gowned students, quitted hall and 
 bower, 
 
 ^ See p. 312. 
 
 And every comfort of that privileged 
 
 ground. 
 Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent 
 
 among 
 The unfenced regions of society. 
 
 Yet, undetermined to what course of 
 
 life 
 I should adhere, and seeming to possess 
 A little space of intermediate time 
 At full command, to London first I 
 
 turned, 
 In no disturbance of excessive hope. 
 By personal ambition unenslaved, 
 Frugal as there was need, and, though 
 
 self-willed, 
 From dangerous passions free. Three 
 
 years had flown 
 Since I had felt in heart and soul the 
 
 shock 
 Of the huge town's first presence, and 
 
 had paced 
 Her endless streets, a transient visitant: 
 Now, fixed amid that concourse of man- 
 kind 
 Where Pleasure whirls about incessantly, 
 And life and labor seem but one, I filled 
 An idler's place; an idler well content 
 To have a house (what matter for a 
 
 home?) 
 That owned him; living cheerfully abroad 
 With unchecked fancy ever on the stir, 
 And all my young affections out of doors. 
 
 There.. was a time when whatsoe'er is 
 
 fdgned 
 Of airy palaces, and gardens built 
 By Genii of romance ; or hath in grave 
 Authentic history been set forth of Rome, 
 Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis; 
 Or given upon report by pilgrim friars. 
 Of golden cities ten months' journey deep 
 Among Tartarian wilds — ^fell short^far 
 
 short, 
 Of what my fond simplicity believed 
 And thought of London — held me by a 
 
 chain 
 Less strong of wonder and obscure 
 
 delight. 
 Whether the bolt of childhood's Fancy 
 
 shot 
 For me beyond its ordinary mark. 
 
320 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 'T were vain to ask; but in our flock of 
 
 boys 
 Was One, a cripple from his birth, whom 
 
 chance 
 Summoned from school to London; for- 
 tunate 
 And envied traveller ! When the Boy 
 
 returned, 
 After short absence, curiously I scanned 
 His mien and person, nor was free, in 
 
 sooth. 
 From disappointment, not to find some 
 
 change 
 In look and air, from that new region 
 
 brought, 
 As if from Fairy-land. Much I ques- 
 tioned him ; 
 And every word he uttered, on my ears 
 Fell flatter than a caged parrot's note. 
 That answers unexpectedly awry, 
 And mocks the prompter's listening. 
 
 Marvellous things 
 Had vanity (quick Spirit that appears 
 Almost as deeply seated and as strong 
 In a Child's heart as fear itself) con- 
 ceived 
 For my enjoyment. Would that I could 
 
 now 
 Recall what then I pictured to myself. 
 Of mitred Prelates, Lords in ermine clad. 
 The King, and the King's Palace, and, 
 
 not last, 
 Nor least, Heaven bless him ! the re- 
 nowned Lord Mayor. 
 Dreams not unlike to those which once 
 
 begat 
 A change of purpose in young Whit- 
 
 tington. 
 When he, a friendless and a drooping boy. 
 Sate on a stone, and heard the bells 
 
 speak out 
 Articulate music. Above all, one thought 
 Baffled my understanding : how men lived 
 Even next-door neighbors, as we say, 
 
 yet still 
 Strangers, not knowing each the other's 
 name. 
 
 Oh, wondrous power of words, by 
 simple faith 
 Licensed to take the meaning that we 
 love 1 
 
 Vauxhall and Ranelagh ! I then had 
 heard 
 
 Of your green groves, and wilderness of 
 lamps 
 
 Dimming the stars, and fireworks magi- 
 cal. 
 
 And gorgeous ladies, under splendid 
 domes. 
 
 Floating in dance, or warbling high in air 
 
 The songs of spirits ! Nor had Fancy fed 
 
 With less delight upon that other class 
 
 Of marvels, broad-day wonders perma- 
 nent: 
 
 The River proudly bridged; the dizzy top 
 
 And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's; 
 the tombs 
 
 Of Westminster; the Giants of Guildhall; 
 
 Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the 
 gates. 
 
 Perpetually recumbent; Statues — man. 
 
 And the horse under him — in gilded 
 pomp 
 
 Adorning flowery gardens, 'mid vast 
 squares; 
 
 The Monument, and that Chamber of 
 the Tower 
 
 Where England's sovereigns sit in long 
 array. 
 
 Their steeds bestriding, — every mimic 
 shape 
 
 Cased in the gleaming mail the monarch 
 wore. 
 
 Whether for gorgeous tournament ad- 
 dressed. 
 
 Or life or death upon the battle-field. 
 
 Those bold imaginations in due time 
 
 Had vanished, leaving others in their 
 stead : 
 
 And now I looked upon the living scene; 
 
 Familiarly perused it; oftentimes. 
 
 In spite of strongest disappointment, 
 pleased 
 
 Through courteous self-submission, as a 
 tax 
 
 Paid to the object by prescriptive right. 
 
 Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill OB 
 
 the plain 
 Of a too busy world ! Before me flow, 
 Thou endless stream of men and moving 
 
 things ! 
 Thy every-day appearance, as itstrifces— 
 
RESIDENCE IN LONDON. 
 
 321 
 
 With wonder heightened, or sublimed by 
 awe — 
 
 On strangers, of all ages; the quick 
 dance 
 
 Of colors, lights, and forms; the deafen- 
 ing din; 
 
 The comers and the goers face to face. 
 
 Face after face; the string of dazzling 
 wares. 
 
 Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned 
 names. 
 
 And all the tradesman's honors over- 
 head: 
 
 Here, fronts of houses, like a title-page. 
 
 With letters huge inscribed from top to 
 toe. 
 
 Stationed above the door, like guardian 
 saints; 
 
 There, allegoric shapes, female or male. 
 
 Or physiognomies of real men, 
 
 Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the 
 sea, 
 
 Boyle, Shakspeare, Newton, or the 
 attractive head 
 
 Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day. 
 
 Meanwhile the roar continues, till at 
 length. 
 Escaped as from an enemy, we turn 
 Abruptly into some sequestered nook, 
 Still as a sheltered place when winds blow 
 
 loud! 
 At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin 
 
 resort. 
 And sights and sounds that come at inter- 
 vals, 
 We take our way. A raree-show is here. 
 With children gathered round; another 
 
 street 
 Presents a company of dancing dogs, 
 Or dromedary, with an antic pair 
 Of monkeys on his back ; a minstrel band 
 Of Savoyards; or, single and alone. 
 An English ballad-singer. Private courts, 
 Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes 
 Thrilled by some female vendor's scream, 
 
 belike 
 The very shrillest of all London cries. 
 May then entangle our impatient steps; 
 Conducted through those labyrinths, un- 
 awares. 
 To privileged regions and inviolate, 
 
 Where from their airy lodges studious 
 
 lawyers 
 Look out on waters, walks, and gardens 
 
 green. 
 
 Thence back into the throng, until we 
 reach. 
 
 Following the tide that slackens by de- 
 grees, 
 
 Some half-frequented scene, where wider 
 streets 
 
 Bring straggling breezes of suburban air. 
 
 Here files of ballads dangle from dead 
 walls; 
 
 Advertisements, of giant-size, from high 
 
 Press forward, in all colors, on the sight; 
 
 These, bold in conscious merit, lower 
 down; 
 
 That, fronted with a most imposing word. 
 
 Is, peradventure, one in masquerade. 
 
 As on the broadening causeway we ad- 
 vance. 
 
 Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and 
 strong 
 
 In lineaments, and red with over-toil. 
 
 'T is one encountered here and every- 
 where; 
 
 A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut 
 short. 
 
 And stumping on his arms. In sailor's 
 garb 
 
 Another lies at length, beside a range 
 
 Of well-formed characters, with chalk in- 
 scribed 
 
 Upon the smooth flat stones: the Nurse 
 is here. 
 
 The Bachelor, that loves to sun himself, 
 
 The military Idler, and the Dame, 
 That field-ward takes her walk with 
 decent steps. 
 
 Now homeward through the thickening 
 
 hubbub, where 
 See, among less distinguishable shapes. 
 The begging scavenger, with hat in hand ; 
 The Italian, as he thrids his way with care, 
 Steadying, far-seen, a frame of images 
 Upon his head; with basket at his breast 
 The Jew; the stately and slow-moving 
 
 Turk, 
 With freight of slippers piled beneath his 
 
322 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Enough ; — the mighty concourse I sur- 
 veyed 
 With no unthinking mind, well pleased 
 
 to note 
 Among the crowd all specimens of man, 
 Through all the colors which the sun 
 
 bestows. 
 And every character of form and face : 
 The Swede, the Russian; from the genial 
 
 south, 
 The Frenchman and the Spaniard; from 
 
 remote 
 America, the Hunter-Indian; Moors, 
 Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese, 
 And Negro Ladies in white muslin gowns. 
 
 At leisure, then, I viewed, from day to 
 
 day, 
 The spectacles within doors, — birds and 
 
 beasts 
 Of every nature, and strange plants con- 
 vened 
 From every clime; and, next, those sights 
 
 that ape 
 The absolute presence of reality. 
 Expressing, as in mirror, sea and land. 
 And what earth is, and what she has to 
 
 show. 
 I do not here allude to subtlest craft. 
 By means refined attaining purest ends. 
 But imitations, fondly made in plain 
 Confession of man's weakness and his 
 
 loves. 
 Whether the Painter, whose ambitious 
 
 skill 
 Submits to nothing less than taking in 
 A whole horizon's circuit, do with power. 
 Like that of angels or commissioned 
 
 spirits. 
 Fix us upon some lofty pinnacle, 
 Or in a ship on waters, with a world 
 Of life, and life-like mockery beneath. 
 Above, behind, far stretching and before; 
 Or more mechanic artist represent 
 By scale exact, in model, wood or clay, 
 From blended colors also borrowing help. 
 Some miniature of famous spots or 
 
 things, — 
 St. Peter's Church; or, more aspiring aim, 
 In microscopic vision, Rome herself; 
 Or, haply, some choice rural haunt, — 
 
 the Falls 
 Of Tivoli; and, high upon that steep. 
 
 The Sibyl's mouldering Temple ! every 
 
 tree. 
 Villa, or cottage, lurking among rocks 
 Throughout the landscape; tuft, stone 
 
 scratch minute — 
 All that the traveller sees when he is there. 
 
 Add to these exhibitions, mute and still. 
 Others of wider scope, where living men. 
 Music, and shifting pantomimic scenes, 
 Diversified the allurement. Need I fear 
 To mention by its name, as in degree. 
 Lowest of these and humblest in attempt. 
 Yet richly graced with honors of her own, 
 Half -rural Sadler's Wells? Though at 
 
 that time 
 Intolerant, as is the way of youth 
 Unless itself be pleased, here more than 
 
 once 
 Taking my seat, I saw (nor blush to add, 
 With ample recompense) giants and 
 
 dwarfs, 
 Clowns, conjurers, posture-masters, har- 
 lequins. 
 Amid the uproar of the rabblement. 
 Perform their feats. Nor was it mean 
 
 delight 
 To watch crude Nature work in untaught 
 
 minds; 
 To note the laws and progress of belief; 
 Though obstinate on this way, yet on that 
 How willingly we travel, and how far! 
 To have, for instance, brought upon the 
 
 scene 
 The champion. Jack the Giant-killer: 
 
 Lo! 
 He dons his coat of darkness; on the 
 
 stage 
 Walks and achieves his wonders, from the 
 
 eye 
 Of living Mortal covert, " as the moon 
 Hid in her vacant interlunar cave." 
 Delusion bold ! and how can it be 
 
 wrought? 
 The garb he wears is blaek as death, the 
 
 word 
 " Invisible " flames forth upon his chest. 
 
 Here, too, were " forms and pressures 
 of the time," 
 Rough, bold, as Grecian comedy dis- 
 played 
 
RESIDENCE IN LONDON. 
 
 323 
 
 When Art was young; dramas of living 
 
 men, 
 And recent things yet warm with life; a 
 
 sea-fight, 
 Shipwreck, or some domestic incident 
 Divulged by Truth and magnified by 
 
 Fame; 
 Such as the daring brotherhood of late 
 Set forth, too serious theme for that light 
 
 place — 
 I mean, O distant Friend I a story drawn 
 From our own ground, — the Maid of 
 
 Buttermere, — 
 And how, unfaithful to a virtuous wife 
 Deserted and deceived, the Spoiler came 
 And wooed the artless daughter of the 
 
 hills. 
 And wedded her, in cruel mockery 
 Of love and marriage bonds. These 
 
 words to thee 
 Must needs bring back the moment when 
 
 we first, 
 Ere the broad world rang with the 
 
 maiden's name. 
 Beheld her serving at the cottage inn ; 
 Both stricken, as she entered or withdrew, 
 With admiration of her modest mien 
 And carriage, marked by unexampled 
 
 grace. 
 We since that time not unfamiliarly 
 Have seen her, — her discretion have ob- 
 served, 
 Her just opinions, delicate reserve, 
 Her patience, and humility of mind 
 Uuspoiled by commendation and the 
 
 excess 
 Of public notice — an offensive light 
 To a meek spirit suffering inwardly. 
 
 From this memorial tribute to my theme 
 I was returning, when, with sundry forms 
 Commingled — shapes which met me in 
 
 the way 
 That we must tread — thy image rose 
 
 again. 
 Maiden of Buttermere ! She lives in 
 
 peace 
 Upon the spot where she was born and 
 
 reared; 
 Without contamination doth she live 
 In quietness, without anxiety: 
 Beside the mountain chapel, sleeps in 
 
 earth 
 
 Her new-born infant, fearless as a lamb 
 That, thither driven from some un- 
 sheltered place. 
 Rests underneath the little rock-like pile 
 When storms are raging. Happy are they 
 
 both — 
 Mother and child! — These feelings, in 
 
 themselves 
 Trite, do yet scarcely seem so when I 
 
 think 
 On those ingenuous moments of our youth 
 Ere we have learnt by use to slight the 
 
 crimes 
 And sorrows of the world. Those simple 
 
 days 
 Are now my theme; and, foremost of the 
 
 scenes, 
 Which yet survive in memory, appears 
 One, at whose centre sate a lovely Boy, 
 A sportive infant, who, for six months' 
 
 space, 
 Not more, had been of age to deal about 
 Articulate prattle — Child as beautiful 
 As ever clung around a mother's neck, 
 Or father fondly gazed upon with pride. 
 There, too, conspicuous for stature tall 
 And large dark eyes, beside her infant 
 
 stood 
 The mother; but, upon her cheeks dif- 
 fused. 
 False tints too well accorded with the glare 
 From playhouse lustres thrown without 
 
 reserve 
 On every object near. The Boy had been 
 The pride and pleasure of all lookers-on 
 In whatsoever place, but seemed in this 
 A sort of alien scattered from the clouds. 
 Of lusty vigor, more than infantine 
 He was in limb, in cheek a summer rose 
 Just three parts blown — a cottage-child 
 
 — if e'er, 
 By cottage-door on breezy mountain-side, 
 Or in some sheltering vale, was seen a 
 
 babe 
 By Nature's gifts so favored. Upon a 
 
 board 
 Decked with refreshments had this child 
 
 been placed 
 His Uttle stage in the vast theatre. 
 And there he sate, surrounded with a 
 
 throng 
 Of chance spectators, chiefly dissolute 
 
324 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 And shameless women, treated and 
 
 caressed ; 
 Ate, drank, and with the fruit and glasses 
 
 played, 
 While oaths and laughter and indecent 
 
 speech 
 Were rife about him as the songs of birds 
 Contending after showers. The mother 
 
 now 
 Is fading out of memory, but I see 
 The lovely Boy as I beheld him then 
 Among the wretched and the falsely gay. 
 Like one of those who walked with hair 
 
 unsinged 
 Amid the fiery furnace. Charms and 
 
 spells 
 Muttered on black and spiteful instigation 
 Have stopped, as some believe, the kind- 
 liest growths. 
 Ah, with how different spirit might a 
 
 prayer 
 Have been preferred, that this fair crea- 
 ture, checked 
 By special privilege of Nature's love. 
 Should in his childhood be detained for- 
 ever ! 
 But with its universal freight the tide 
 Hath rolled along, and this bright inno- 
 cent, 
 Mary ! may now have lived till he could 
 
 look 
 With envy on thy nameless babe that 
 
 sleeps, 
 Beside the mountain chapel, undisturbed. 
 
 Four rapid years had scarcely then been 
 told 
 Since, travelling southward from our 
 
 pastoral hills, 
 I heard, and for the first time in my life. 
 The voice of woman utter blasphemy — 
 Saw woman as she is, to open shame 
 Abandoned, and the pride of public vice; 
 I shuddered, for a barrier seemed at once 
 Thrown in that from humanity divorced 
 Humanity, splitting the race of man 
 In twain, yet leaving the same outward 
 
 form. 
 Distress of mind ensued upon the sight. 
 And ardent nieditation. Later years 
 Brought to such spectacle a milder sad- 
 ness. 
 Feelings of pure commiseration, grief 
 
 For the individual and the overthrow 
 Of her soul's beauty; farther I was then 
 But seldom led, or wished to go; in truth 
 The sorrow of the passion stopped me 
 there. 
 
 But let me now, less moved, in ordei 
 
 take 
 Our argument. Enough is said to show 
 How casual incidents of real life, 
 Observed where pastime only had been 
 
 sought. 
 Outweighed, or put to flight, the set 
 
 events 
 And measured passions of the stage, 
 
 albeit 
 By Siddons trod in the fulness of her 
 
 power. 
 Yet was the theatre my dear delight; 
 The very gilding, lamps and painted 
 
 scrolls. 
 Ana cH the mean upholstery of the place. 
 Wanted not animation, when the tide 
 Of pleasure ebbed but to return as fast 
 With the ever-shifting figures of the scene. 
 Solemn or gay : whether some beauteous 
 
 dame 
 Advanced in radiance through a deep 
 
 recess 
 Of thick entangled forest, like the moon 
 Opening the clouds; or sovereign king, 
 
 announced 
 With flourishing trumpet, came in full- 
 blown state 
 Of the world's greatness, winding round 
 
 with train 
 Of courtiers, banners, and a length of 
 
 guards ; 
 Or captive led in abject weeds, and jin- 
 gling 
 His slender manacles; or romping girl 
 Bounced, leapt, and pawed the air; or 
 
 mumbling sire, 
 A scare-crow pattern of old age dressed up 
 In all the tatters of infirmity 
 All loosely put together, hobbled in. 
 Stumping upon a cane with which he 
 
 smites. 
 From time to time, the solid boards, and 
 
 makes them 
 Prate somewhat loudly of the whereabout 
 Of one so overloaded with his years. 
 
RESIDENCE IN LONDON. 
 
 325 
 
 But what of this ! the laugh, the grin, 
 
 grimace, 
 The antics striving to outstrip each other, 
 Were all received, the least of them not 
 
 lost. 
 With an unmeasured welcome. Through 
 
 the night. 
 Between the show, and many-headed 
 
 mass 
 Of the spectators, and each several nook 
 Filled with its fray or brawl, how eagerly 
 And with what flashes, as it were, the 
 
 mind 
 Turned this way — that way ! sportive and 
 
 alert 
 And watchful, as a kitten when at play, 
 While winds are eddying round her, 
 
 among straws 
 And rustling leaves. Enchanting age and 
 
 sweet ! 
 Romantic almost, looked at through a 
 
 space. 
 How small, of intervening years! For 
 
 then. 
 Though surely no mean progress had been 
 
 made 
 In meditations holy and sublime. 
 Yet something of a girlish child-like gloss 
 Of novelty survived for scenes like these; 
 Enjoyment haply handed down from times 
 Wfien at a country-playhouse, some rude 
 
 barn 
 Tricked out for that proud use, if I per- 
 chance 
 Caught, on a summer evening through a 
 
 chink 
 In the old wall, an unexpected glimpse 
 Of daylight, the bare thought of where I 
 
 was 
 Gladdened me more than if I had been led 
 Into a dazzling cavern of romance. 
 Crowded with Genii busy among works 
 Not to be looked at by the common sun. 
 
 The matter that detains us now may 
 
 seem. 
 To many, neither dignified enough 
 Nor arduous, yet will not be scorned by 
 
 them, 
 Who, looking inward, have observed the 
 
 ties 
 That bind the perishable hours of life 
 Each to the other, and the curious props 
 
 By which the world of memory and 
 
 thought 
 Exists and is sustained. More lofty 
 
 themes. 
 Such as at least do wear a prouder face, 
 Solicit our regard; but when I think 
 Of these, I feel the imaginative power 
 Languish within me; even then it slept, 
 When, pressed by tragic sufferings, "the 
 
 heart 
 Was more than full; amid my sobs and 
 
 tears 
 It slept, even in the pregnant season of 
 
 youth. 
 For though I was most passionately moved 
 And yielded to all changes of the scene 
 With an obsequious promptness, yet the 
 
 storm 
 Passed not beyond the suburbs of the 
 
 mind; 
 Save when realities of act and mien, 
 The incarnation of the spirits that move 
 In harmony amid the Poet's world. 
 Rose to ideal grandeur, or, called forth 
 By power of contrast, made me recognize. 
 As at a glance, the things which I had 
 
 shaped. 
 And yet not shaped, had seen and scarcely 
 
 seen, 
 When, having closed the mighty Shak- 
 
 speare's page, 
 I mused, and thought, and felt, in solitude. 
 
 Pass we from entertainments, that are 
 such 
 Professedly, to others titled higher. 
 Yet, in the estimate of youth at least. 
 More near akin to those than names im- 
 
 ply. - 
 
 I mean the brawls of lawyers in their 
 courts 
 
 Before the ermined judge, or that great 
 stage 
 
 Where senators, tongue-favored men, per- 
 form. 
 
 Admired and envied. Oh ! the beating 
 heart. 
 
 When one among the prime of these rose 
 up, — 
 
 One, of whose name from childhood we 
 had heard 
 
 Familiarly, a household term, like those, 
 
 The Bedfords, Glosters, Salisburys, of old, 
 
326 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Whom the fifth Harry talks of. Silence ! 
 
 hush! 
 This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit, 
 No stammerer of a minute, painfully 
 Delivered. No ! the Orator hath yoked 
 The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car : 
 Thrice welcome Presence ! how can pa- 
 tience e'er 
 Grow weary of attending on a track 
 That kindles with such glory ! All are 
 
 charmed, 
 Astonished; like a hero in romance. 
 He winds away his never-ending horn; 
 Words follow words, sense seems to follow 
 
 sense : 
 What memory and what logic ! till the 
 
 strain 
 Transcendent, superhuman as it seemed. 
 Grows tedious even in a young man's ear. 
 
 Genius of Burke ! forgive the pen 
 
 seduced 
 By specious wonders, and too slow to tell 
 Of what the ingenuous, what bewildered 
 
 men, 
 Beginning to mistrust their boastful guides. 
 And wise men, willing to grow wiser, 
 
 caught. 
 Rapt auditors ! from thy most eloquent 
 
 tongue — 
 Now mute, forever mute in the cold 
 
 grave. 
 I see him, — old, but vigorous in age, — 
 Stand like an oak whose stag - horn 
 
 branches start 
 Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe 
 The younger brethren of the grove. But 
 
 some — 
 While he forewarns, denounces, launches 
 
 forth. 
 Against all systems built on abstract 
 
 rights. 
 Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims 
 Of Institutes and Laws, hallowed by time ; 
 Declares the vital power of social ties 
 Endeared by Custom; and with high dis- 
 dain. 
 Exploding upstart Theory, insists 
 Upon the allegiance to which men are 
 
 born — 
 Some — say at once a froward multitude — 
 Murmur (for truth is hated, where not 
 
 loved) 
 
 As the winds fret within the ^Eolian cave. 
 
 Galled by their monarch's chain. The 
 times were big 
 
 With ominous change, which, night by 
 night, provoked 
 
 Keen struggles, and black clouds of pas- 
 sion raised; 
 
 But memorable moments intervened. 
 
 When Wisdom, like the Goddess from 
 Jove's brain. 
 
 Broke forth in armor of resplendent 
 words, 
 
 Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and 
 one 
 
 In ancient story versed, whose breast had 
 heaved 
 
 Under the weight of classic eloquence. 
 
 Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, unin- 
 spired? 
 
 Nor did the Pulpit's oratory fail 
 To achieve its higher triumph. Not unfelt 
 Were its admonishments, nor lightly 
 
 heard 
 The awful truths delivered thence by 
 
 tongues 
 Endowed with various power to search the 
 
 soul; 
 Yet ostentation, domineering, oft 
 Poured forth harangues, how sadly out of 
 
 place ! — 
 There have I seen a comely bachelor. 
 Fresh from a toilette of two hours, ascend 
 His rostrum, with seraphic glance look up. 
 And, in a tone elaborately low 
 Beginning, lead his voice through many a 
 
 maze 
 A minuet course; and, winding up his 
 
 mouth, 
 From time to time, into an orifice 
 Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small. 
 And only not invisible, again 
 Open it out, diffusing thence a smile 
 Of rapt irradiation, exquisite. 
 Meanwhile the Evangelists, Isaiah, Job, 
 Moses, and he who penned, the other day, 
 The Death of Abel, Shakspeare, and the 
 
 Bard 
 Whose genius spangled o'er a gloomy 
 
 theme 
 With fancies thick as his inspiring stars, 
 And Ossian ( doubt not — ' t is the naked 
 
 truth) 
 
RESIDENCE IN LONDON. 
 
 327 
 
 Summoned from streamy Morven — each 
 
 and all 
 Would, lin their turns, lend ornaments and 
 
 flowers 
 To entwine the crook of eloquence that 
 
 helped 
 This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the 
 
 plains. 
 To rule and guide his captivated flock. 
 
 I glance but at a few conspicuous 
 marks, 
 Leaving a thousand others, that, in hall. 
 Court, theatre, conventicle, or shop. 
 In public room or private, park or street, 
 Each fondly reared on his own pedestal. 
 Looked out for admiration. Folly, vice, 
 Extravagance in gesture, mien, and dress. 
 And all the strife of singularity, 
 Lies to the ear, and lies to every sense — 
 Of these, and of the living shapes they 
 
 wear, 
 There is no end. Such candidates for re- 
 gard, 
 Although well pleased to be where they 
 
 were found, 
 I did not hunt after, nor greatly prize, 
 Nor made unto myself a secret boast 
 Of reading them with quick and curious 
 
 eye; 
 But, as a common produce, things that are 
 To-day, to-morrow will be, took of them 
 Such willing note, as, on some errand 
 
 bound 
 That asks not speed, a traveller might be- 
 stow 
 On sea-shells that bestrew the sandy 
 
 beach, 
 Or daisies swarming through the fields of 
 June. 
 
 But foolishness and madness in parade, 
 Though most at home in this their dear 
 
 domain. 
 Are scattered everywhere, no rarities, 
 Even to the rudest novice of the Schools. 
 Me, rather, it employed, to note, and 
 
 keep 
 In memory, those individual sights 
 Of courage, or integrity, or truth, 
 Or tenderness, which there, set off by 
 
 foil. 
 
 Appeared more touching. One will I 
 
 select — 
 A Father — ■ for he bore that sacred 
 
 name; — ■ 
 Him saw I, sitting in an open square. 
 Upon a corner-stone of that low wall, 
 Wherein were fixed the iron pales that 
 
 fenced 
 A spacious grass-plot; there, in silence, 
 
 sate 
 This One Man, with a sickly babe out- 
 stretched 
 Upon his knee, whom he had thither 
 
 brought 
 For sunshine, and to breathe the fresher 
 
 air. 
 Of those who passed, and me who looked 
 
 at him. 
 He took no heed; but in his brawny arms 
 (The Artificer was to the elbow bare. 
 And from his work this moment had been 
 
 stolen) 
 He held the child, and, bending over it. 
 As if he were afraid both of the sun 
 And of the air, which he had come to 
 
 seek. 
 Eyed the poor babe with love unutterable. 
 
 As the black storm upon the mountain 
 
 top 
 Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so 
 That huge fermenting mass of human- 
 kind 
 Serves as a solemn background or relief, 
 To single forms and objects, whence they 
 
 draw. 
 For feeling and contemplative regard, 
 More than inherent liveliness and power. 
 How oft, amid those overflowing streets. 
 Have I gone forward with the crowd, and 
 
 said 
 Unto myself, "The face of every one 
 That passes by me is a mystery ! ' ' 
 Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, 
 
 oppressed 
 By thoughts of what and whither, when 
 
 and how. 
 Until the shapes before my eyes became 
 A second-sight procession, such as glides 
 Over still mountains, or appears in 
 
 dreams ; 
 And once, far-travelled in such mood, 
 
 beyond 
 
328 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 The reach of common indication, lost 
 Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten 
 Abruptly, with the view (a sight not rare) 
 Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face, 
 Stood, propped against a wall, upon his 
 
 chest 
 Wearing a written paper, to explain 
 His story, whence he came, and who he 
 
 was. 
 Caught by the spectacle my mind turned 
 
 round 
 As with the might of waters; and apt type 
 This label seemed of the utmost we can 
 
 know. 
 Both of ourselves and of the universe; 
 And, on the shape of that unmoving man, 
 His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I 
 
 gazed. 
 As if admonished from another world. 
 
 Though reared upon the base of out- 
 ward things. 
 Structures like these the excited spirit 
 
 mainly 
 Builds for herself; scenes different there 
 
 are, • 
 
 Full-formed, that take, with small inter- 
 nal help. 
 Possession of the faculties, — the peace 
 That comes with night; the deep solem- 
 nity 
 Of nature's intermediate hours of rest. 
 When the great tide of human life stands 
 
 still: 
 The business of the day to come, unborn, 
 Of that gone by, locked up, as in the grave ; 
 The blended calmness of the heavens and 
 
 earth. 
 Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, 
 
 and sounds 
 Unfrequent as in deserts; at late hours 
 Of winter evenings, when unwholesome 
 
 rains 
 Are falling hard, with people yet astir. 
 The feeble salutation from the voice 
 Of some unhappy woman, now and then 
 Heard as we pass, when no one looks about, 
 Nothing is listened to. But these, I fear. 
 Are falsely catalogued; things that are, 
 
 are not. 
 As the mind answers to them, or the heart 
 Is prompt, or slow, to feel. What say 
 you, then, 
 
 To times, when half the city shall break out 
 Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or 
 
 fear? 
 To executions, to a street on fire. 
 Mobs, riots, or rejoicings? From these 
 
 sights 
 Take one, — that ancient festival, the 
 
 Fair, 
 Holden where martyrs suffered in past 
 
 time, 
 Andnamedof St. Bartholomew; there, see 
 A work completed to our hands, that lays, 
 If any spectacle on earth can do. 
 The whole creative powers of man 
 
 asleep ! — 
 For once, the Muse's help will we im- 
 plore. 
 And she shall lodge us, wafted on her 
 
 wings, 
 Above the press and danger of the crowd. 
 Upon some showman's platform. What 
 
 a shock 
 For eyes and ears ! what anarchy and din, 
 Barbarian and infernal, — a phantasma. 
 Monstrous in color, motion, shape, sight, 
 
 sound ! 
 Below, the open space, through every 
 
 nook 
 Of the wide area, twinkles, is alive 
 With heads; the midway region, and 
 
 above. 
 Is thronged with staring pictures and 
 
 huge scrolls, 
 Dumb proclamations of the Prodigies; 
 With chattering monkeys dangling from 
 
 their poles, 
 And children whirling in their round- 
 abouts ; 
 With those that stretch the neck and 
 
 strain the eyes. 
 And crack the voice in rivalship, the 
 
 crowd 
 Inviting; with buffoons against buffoons 
 Grimacing, writhing, screaming, — him 
 
 who grinds 
 The hurdy-gurdy, at the fiddle weaves, 
 Rattles the salt-box, thumps the kettle- 
 drum. 
 And him who at the trumpet puffs his 
 
 cheeks. 
 The silver-collared Negro with his timbrel. 
 Equestrians, tumblers, women, girls, and 
 
 boys. 
 
RETROSPECT. 
 
 329 
 
 Blue-breeched, pink-vested, with high- 
 towering plumes. — 
 
 All movables of wonder, from all parts, 
 
 Are here — Albinos, painted Indians, 
 Dwarfs, 
 
 The Horse of knowledge, and the learned 
 
 Pig, 
 
 The Stone-eater, the man that swallows 
 fire, 
 
 Giants, Ventriloquists, the Invisible Girl, 
 
 The Bust that speaks and moves its gog- 
 gling eyes. 
 
 The Wax-work, Clock-work, all the mar- 
 vellous craft 
 
 Of modern Merlins, Wild Beasts, Puppet- 
 shows, 
 
 All out-o'-the-way, far-fetched, perverted 
 things, 
 
 All freaks of nature, all Promethean 
 thoughts 
 
 Of man, his dulness, madness, and their 
 feats 
 
 All jumbled up together, to compose 
 
 A Parliament of Monsters. Tents and 
 Booths 
 
 Meanwhile, as if the whole were one vast 
 mill, 
 
 Are vomiting, receiving on all sides, 
 
 Men, Women, three-years' Children, 
 Babes in arms. 
 
 Oh, blank confusion ! true epitome 
 Of what the mighty City is herself. 
 To thousands upon thousands of her sons. 
 Living amid the same perpetual whirl 
 Of trivial objects, melted and reduced 
 To one identity, by differences 
 That have no law, no meaning, and no 
 
 end — 
 Oppression, under which even highest 
 
 minds 
 Must labor, whence the strongest are not 
 
 free. 
 But though the picture weary out the eye. 
 By nature an unmanageable sight, 
 It is not wholly so to him who looks 
 In steadiness, who hath among least things 
 An under-sense of greatest ; sees the parts 
 As parts, but with a feeling of the whole. 
 This, of all acquisitions, first awaits 
 On sundry and most widely different 
 
 modes 
 Of education, nor with least delight 
 
 On that through which I passed. Atten- 
 tion springs. 
 And comprehensiveness and memory 
 
 flow, 
 From early converse with the works of 
 
 God 
 Among all regions; chiefly where appear 
 Most obviously simplicity and power. 
 Think, how the everlasting streams and 
 
 woods. 
 Stretched and still stretching far and 
 
 wide, exalt 
 The roving Indian, on his desert sands : 
 What grandeur not unfelt, what pregnant 
 
 show 
 Of beauty, meets the sun-burnt Arab's 
 
 eye: 
 And, as the sea propels, from zone to zone, 
 Its currents; magnifies its shoals of life 
 Beyond all compass; spreads, and sends 
 
 aloft 
 Armies of clouds, — even so, its powers 
 
 and aspects 
 Shape for mankind, by principles as fixed, 
 The views and aspirations of the soul 
 To majesty. Like virtue have the forms 
 Perennial of the ancient hills; nor less 
 The changeful language of their counte- 
 nances 
 Quickens the slumbering mind, and aids 
 
 the thoughts. 
 However multitudinous, to move 
 With order and relation. This, if still, 
 As hitherto, in freedom I may speak. 
 Not violating any just restraint, 
 As may be hoped, of real modesty, — 
 This did I feel, in London's vast domain. 
 The Spirit of Nature was upon me there; 
 The soul of Beauty and enduring Life 
 Vouchsafed her inspiration, and diffused, 
 Through meagre lines and colors, and 
 
 the press 
 Of self-destroying, transitory things, 
 Composure, and ennobling Harmony. 
 
 Book Eighth. 
 
 retrospect. — love of nature lead- 
 ing to love of man. 
 
 What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that 
 
 are heard 
 Up to thy summit, through the depth 0/ 
 
 air 
 
330 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Ascending, as if distance had the power 
 To make the sounds more audible? 
 
 What crowd 
 Covers, or sprinkles o'er, yon village 
 
 green? 
 Crowd seems it, solitary hill ! to thee, 
 Though but a little family of men. 
 Shepherds and tillers of the ground — 
 
 betimes 
 Assembled with their children and their 
 
 wives, 
 And here and there a stranger inter- 
 spersed. 
 They hold a rustic fair — a festival. 
 Such as, on this side now, and now on 
 
 that. 
 Repeated through his tributary vales, 
 Helvellyn, in the silence of his rest, 
 Sees annually, if clouds towards either 
 
 ocean 
 Blown from their favorite resting-place, 
 
 or mists 
 Dissolved, have left him an unshrouded 
 
 head. 
 Delightful day it is for all who dwell 
 In this 'secluded glen, and eagerly 
 They give it welcome. Long ere heat of 
 
 noon. 
 From byre or field the kine were brought ; 
 
 the sheep 
 Are penned in cotes; the chaffering is 
 
 begun. 
 The heifer lows, uneasy at the voice 
 Of a new master; bleat the flocks aloud. 
 Booths are there none ; a stall or two is 
 
 here; 
 A lame man or a blind, the one to beg. 
 The other to make music; hither, too. 
 From far, with basket, slung upon her 
 
 arm, 
 Of hawker's wares — books, pictures, 
 
 combs, and pins — 
 Some aged woman finds her way again. 
 Year after year, a punctual visitant ! 
 There also stands a speech-maker by rote. 
 Pulling the strings of his boxed raree- 
 show; 
 And in the lapse of many years may come 
 Prouder itinerant, mountebank, or he 
 Whose wonders in a covered wain lie hid. 
 But one there is, the loveliest of them 
 
 all, 
 Some sweet lass of the valley, looking out 
 
 For gains, and who that sees her would 
 
 not buy? 
 Fruits of her father's orchard are her 
 
 wares. 
 And with the ruddy produce she walks 
 
 round 
 Among the crowd, half pleased with, 
 
 half ashamed 
 Of, her new office, blushing restlessly. 
 The children now are rich, for the old 
 
 to-day 
 Are generous as the young; and, if 
 
 content 
 With looking on, some ancient wedded 
 
 pair 
 Sit in the shade together ; while they gaze, 
 " A cheerful smile unbends the wrinkled 
 
 brow, 
 The days departed start again to life. 
 And all the scenes of childhood reappear, 
 Faint, but more tranquil, like the chan- 
 ging sun 
 To him who slept at noon, and wakes at 
 
 eve." 1 
 Thus gayety and cheerfulness prevail, 
 Spreading from young to old, from old 
 
 to young, 
 And no one seems to want his share. — 
 
 Immense 
 Is the recess, the circumambient world 
 Magnificent, by which they are embraced : 
 They move about upon the soft green turf : 
 How little they, they and their doings, 
 
 seem. 
 And all that they can further or obstruct ! 
 Through utter weakness pitiably dear. 
 As tender infants are : and yet how great ! 
 For all things serve them: them the 
 
 morning light 
 Loves, as it glistens on the silent rocks; 
 And them the silent rocks, which now 
 
 from high 
 Look down upon them; the reposing 
 
 clouds; 
 The wild brooks prattling from invisible 
 
 haunts; 
 And old Helvellyn, conscious of the stir 
 Which animates this day their calm abode. 
 
 With deep devotion. Nature, did I feel, 
 In that enormous City's turbulent world 
 
 1 These lines are from a descriptive Poem — 
 " Malveru Hills " — by one of Mr. Wordsworth'lr 
 oldest friends, Mr. .Toseph Cottle. 
 
RETROSPECT. 
 
 331 
 
 Of men and things, what benefit I owed 
 To thee, and those domains of rural peace. 
 Where to the sense of beauty first my 
 
 heart 
 Was opened; tract more exquisitely fair 
 "Tfen that famed paradise of ten thousand 
 
 trees. 
 Or Gehol's matchless gardens, for delight 
 Of the Tartarian dynasty composed 
 (Beyond that mighty wall, not fabulous, 
 China's stupendous mound) by patient toil 
 Of myriads and boon nature's lavish help; 
 There, in a clime from widest empire 
 
 chosen, 
 FulfilUng (could enchantment have done 
 
 more?) 
 A sumptuous dream of flowery lawns, 
 
 with domes 
 Of pleasure sprinkled over, shady dells 
 For eastern monasteries, sunny mounts 
 With temples crested, bridges, gondolas. 
 Rocks, dens, and groves of foliage taught 
 
 to melt 
 Into each other their obsequious hues, 
 Vanished and vanishing in subtle chase. 
 Too fine to be pursued; or standing forth 
 In no discordant opposition, strong 
 And gorgeous as tlie colors side by side 
 Bedded among rich plumes of tropic birds ; 
 And mountains over all, embracing all; 
 And all the landscape, endlessly enriched 
 With waters running, falling, or asleep. 
 
 Butjoyelier far than this, the paradise 
 Where. I was reared; in Nature's primi- 
 tive gifts 
 Favored no less, and more to every sense 
 Delicious, seeing that the sun and sky, 
 The elements, and seasons as they change, 
 Do find a worthy fellow-laborer there — 
 Man free, man working for himself, with 
 
 choice 
 Of time, and place, and object; by his 
 
 wants, 
 His comforts, native occupations, cares. 
 Cheerfully led to individual ends 
 Or social, and still followed by a train 
 Unwooed, unthought - of even — sim- 
 plicity. 
 And beauty, and inevitable grace. 
 
 Yea, when a glimpse of those imperial 
 bowers 
 
 Would to a child be transport over -great, 
 When but a half-hour's roam through 
 
 such a place 
 Would leave behind a dance of images, 
 That shall break in upon his sleep for 
 
 weeks; 
 Even then the common haunts of the 
 
 green earth, 
 And ordinary interests of man. 
 Which they embosom, all without regard 
 As both may seem, are fastening on the 
 
 heart 
 Insensibly, each with the other's help. 
 For me, when my affections first were 
 
 led 
 From kindred, friends, and playmates, 
 
 to partake 
 Love for the human creature's absolute 
 
 self. 
 That noticeable kindliness of heart 
 Sprang out of fountains, there abounding 
 
 most, 
 Where sovereign Nature dictated the 
 
 tasks 
 And occupations which her beauty 
 
 adorned. 
 And Shepherds were the men that pleased 
 
 me first; 
 Not such as Saturn ruled 'mid Latian'1 
 
 wilds, , 
 
 With arts and laws so tempered, that' 
 
 their lives 
 Left, even to us toiling in this late day, 
 A bright tradition of the golden age; ' 
 Not such as, 'mid Arcadian fastnesses " 
 Sequestered, handed down among them- 
 selves 
 Felicity, in Grecian song renowned; 
 Nor such as — when an adverse fate had 
 
 driven. 
 From house and home, the courtly band 
 
 whose fortunes 
 Entered, with Shakspeare's genius, tlje 
 
 wild woods 
 Of Arden — amid sunshine or in shade 
 Culled the best fruits of Time's uncounted 
 
 hours. 
 Ere Phoebe sighed for the false Gany- 
 mede; 
 Or there where Perdita and Florizel 
 Together danced. Queen of the feast, 
 
 and King; 
 Nor such as Spenser fabled. True it is, ■ 
 
332 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 That I had heard (what he perhaps had 
 
 seen) 
 Of maids at sunrise bringing in from far 
 Their May-bush, and along the streets 
 
 in flocks 
 Parading with a song of taunting rhymes, 
 Aimed at the laggards slumbering within 
 
 doors; 
 Had also heard, from those who yet re- 
 membered. 
 Tales of the May-pole dance, and wreaths 
 
 that decked 
 Porch, door- way, or kirk-pillar; and of 
 
 youths. 
 Each with his maid, before the sun was up, 
 By annual custom, issuing forth in troops. 
 To drink the waters of some sainted well. 
 And hang it round with garlands. Love 
 
 survives; 
 But, for such purpose, flowers no longer 
 
 grow: 
 The times, too sage, perhaps too proud, 
 
 have dropped 
 These lighter graces; and the rural ways 
 And manners which my childhood looked 
 
 upon 
 Were the unluxuriant produce of a life 
 Intent on little but substantial needs. 
 Yet rich in beauty, beauty that was felt. 
 But images of danger and distress, 
 Man suffering among awful Powers and 
 
 Forms ; 
 Of this I heard, and saw enough to make 
 Imagination restless; nor was free 
 Myself from frequent perils ; nor were tales 
 Wanting, — the tragedies of former times, 
 Hazards and strange escapes, of which the 
 
 rocks 
 Immutable, and everflowing streams. 
 Where'er I roamed, were speaking monu- 
 ments. 
 
 Smooth life had flock and shepherd in 
 old time, 
 Long springs and tepid winters, on the 
 
 banks 
 Of delicate Galesus; and no less 
 Those scattered along Adria's myrtle 
 
 shores : 
 Smooth life had herdsman, and his snow- 
 white herd 
 To triumphs and to sacrificial rites 
 Devoted, on the inviolable stream 
 
 Of rich Clitumnus; and the goat-herd lived 
 As calmly, underneath the pleasant brows 
 Of cool Lucretilis, where the pipe was 
 
 heard 
 Of Pan, Invisible God, thrilling the rocks 
 With tutelary music, from all harm 
 The fold protecting. I myself, mature 
 In manhood then, have seen a pastoral 
 
 tract 
 Like one of these, where Fancy might run 
 
 wild. 
 Though under skies less generous, less 
 
 serene : 
 There, for her own delight had Nature 
 
 framed 
 A pleasure-ground, diffused a fair expanse 
 Of level pasture, islanded with groves 
 And banked with woody risings; but the 
 
 Plain 
 Endless, here opening widely out, and 
 
 there 
 Shut up in lesser lakes or beds of lawn 
 And intricate recesses, creek or bay 
 Sheltered within a shelter, where at large 
 The shepherd strays, aroUing hut hishome. 
 Thither he comes with spring-time, there 
 
 abides 
 All summer, and at sunrise ye may hear 
 His flageolet to liquid notes of love 
 Attuned, or sprightly fife resounding far. 
 Nook is there none, nor tract of that vast 
 
 space 
 Where passage opens, but the same shall 
 
 have 
 In turn its visitant, telling there his hours 
 In unlaborious pleasure, with no task 
 More toilsome than to carve a beechen 
 
 bowl 
 For spring or fountain, which the traveller 
 
 finds. 
 When through the region he pursues at will 
 His devious course. A glimpse of such 
 
 sweet life 
 I saw when, from the melancholy w^s 
 Of GoskXj^ once imperial, I renewed 
 My daily walk along that wide champaign. 
 That, reaching to her gates, spreads east 
 
 and west. 
 And northwards, from beneath the moun- 
 tainous verge 
 Of the Hercynian forest. Yet, hail to you 
 Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye 
 
 hollow vales, 
 
RETROSPECT. 
 
 333 
 
 Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's 
 
 voice, 
 Powers of my native region ! Ye that seize 
 The heart with firmer grasp ! Your snows 
 
 and streams 
 Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds. 
 That howl so dismally for him who treads 
 Companionless your awful solitudes ! 
 There, 't is the shepherd's task the winter 
 
 long 
 To wait upon the storms : of their approach 
 Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives 
 His flock, and thither from the homestead 
 
 bears 
 A toilsome burden up the craggy ways, 
 And deals it out, their regular nourishment 
 Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the 
 
 spring 
 I^oks out, and all the pastures dance with 
 
 lambs. 
 And when the flock,with warmer weather, 
 
 climbs 
 Higher and higher, him his office leads 
 To watch their goings, whatsoever track 
 The wanderers choose. For this he quits 
 
 his home 
 At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun 
 Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat. 
 Than he lies down upon some shining rock. 
 And breakfasts with his dog. When they 
 
 have stolen. 
 As is their wont , a pittance from strict time, 
 For rest not needed or exchange of love, 
 Then from his couch he starts; and now 
 
 his feet 
 Crush out a livelier fragrance from the 
 
 flowers 
 Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill en- 
 wrought 
 In the wild turf : the lingering dews of morn 
 Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he 
 
 hies, 
 His staff protending like a hunter's spear, 
 Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag. 
 And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged 
 
 streams. 
 Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy's call, 
 Might deign to follow him through what 
 
 he does 
 Or sees in his day ' s march ; himself he feels , 
 In those vast regions where his service lies, 
 A freeman, wedded to his life of hope 
 And hazard, and hard labor interchanged 
 
 With that majestic indolence so dear 
 To native man. A rambling schoolboy, 
 
 thus, 
 I felt his presence in his own domain. 
 As of a lord and master, or a power, 
 Or genius, under Nature, under God, 
 Presiding; and severest solitude 
 Had more commanding looks when he 
 
 was there. 
 When up the lonely brooks on rainy days 
 Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills 
 By mists bewildered, suddenly mine eyes 
 Have glancedupon him distant a fewsteps. 
 In size a giant, stalking through thick fog, 
 His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he 
 
 stepped 
 Beyond the boundary line of some hill- 
 shadow. 
 His form hath flashed upon me, glorified 
 By the deep radiance of the setting sun : 
 Or him have I descried in distant sky, 
 A solitary object and sublime. 
 Above all height ! like an aerial cross 
 Stationed alone upon a spiry rock 
 Of the Chartreuse, for worship. Thus 
 
 _jtas-maa - " " 
 
 Ennobled_ outwardly before my sight. 
 And tTius my heart was early introduced ) 
 To an unconscious love and reverence 
 Of human nature; hence the human form 
 To me became an index of delight. 
 Of grace andhonor, power and worthiness. 
 Meanwhile this creature — spiritual almost 
 As those of books, but more exalted far; 
 Far more of an imaginative form 
 Than the gay Corin of the groves, who lives 
 For his own fancies, or to dance by the 
 
 hour. 
 In coronal, with Phyllis in the midst — • 
 Was, for the purposes of kind, a.naan 
 With the most common-;husband, father; 
 
 learned. 
 Could teach, admonish; suffered with the 
 
 rest 
 From vice and folly, wretchedness and 
 
 fear; 
 Of this I little saw, cared less for it, 
 But something must have felt. 
 
 Call ye these appearances — 
 Which I beheld of shepherds in my youth, 
 This sanctity of Nature given to man — 
 A shadow, a delusion, ye who pore 
 On the deadletter, miss the spiritof things; 
 
334 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Whose truth is not a motion or a shape 
 Instinct with vital functions, but a block 
 Or waxen image which yourselves have 
 
 made, 
 And ye adore ! But blessed be the God 
 Of Nature and of Man that this was so; 
 That men before my inexperienced eyes 
 Did first present themselves thus purified, 
 Removed, and to a distance that was fit; 
 And so we all of us in some degree 
 Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led, 
 And howsoever; were it otherwise, 
 And we found evil fast as we find good 
 In our first years, or think that it is found, 
 How could the innocent heart bear up and 
 
 live ! 
 But doubly fortunate my lot ; not here 
 Alone, that something of a better life 
 Perhaps was round me than it is the privi- 
 lege 
 Of most to move in, but that first I looked 
 At Man through objects that were great or 
 
 fair ; 
 First communed with him by their help. 
 
 And thus 
 Was founded a sure safeguard and defence 
 Against the weight of meanness, selfish 
 
 cares. 
 Coarse manners, vulgar passions, that 
 
 beat in 
 On all sides from the ordinary world 
 In which we traffic. Starting from this 
 
 point 
 I had my face turned toward the truth, 
 
 began 
 With an advantage furnished by that kind 
 Of prepossession, without which the soul 
 Receives no knowledge that can bring 
 
 forth good. 
 No genuine insight ever comes to her. 
 From the restraint of over-watchful eyes 
 Preserved, I moved about, year after year, 
 Happy, and now most thankful that my 
 
 walk 
 Was guarded from too early intercourse 
 With the deformities of crowded life, 
 And those ensuing laughters and con- 
 tempts. 
 Self-pleasing, which, if we would wish 
 
 to think 
 With a due reverence on earth's rightful 
 
 lord. 
 Here placed to be the inheritor of heaven. 
 
 Will not permit us; but pursue the mind. 
 That to devotion willingly would rise. 
 Into the temple and the temple's heart. 
 
 Yet deem not. Friend ! that human! 
 
 kind with me / 
 
 Thus early took a place pre-eminent ;_/ 
 Nature herself was, at this unripe time^ 
 But secondary to my own pursuits ^^^ 
 And animal activities, and all 
 Their trivial pleasures; and when these 
 
 had drooped 
 And gradually expired, and Nature, 
 
 prized n 
 
 For her own sake, became my joy, even 
 
 then — ' 
 
 And upwards through late youth, until 
 
 not less 
 Than two and twenty summers had been i 
 
 told— / 
 
 Was Man in my affections and regardsy 
 Subordinate to her, her ^sible forms 
 And viewless agencies ; a passion, she, 
 A rapture often, and immediate love-'"^ 
 Ever at hand; he, only a delight 
 Occasional, an accidental grace. 
 His hour being not yet come. Far less 
 
 had then 
 The inferior creatures, beast or bird, 
 
 attuned 
 My spirit to that gentleness of love 
 (Though they had long been carefully 
 
 observed). 
 Won from me those minute obeisances 
 Of tenderness, which I may number now 
 With my first blessings. Nevertheless, 
 
 on these 
 The light of beauty did not fall in vain. 
 Or grandeur circumfuse them to no end. 
 
 But when that first poetic faculty 
 Of plain Imagination and severe. 
 No longer a mute influence of the soul, 
 Ventured, at some rash Muse's earnest 
 
 call, 
 To try her strength among harmonious 
 
 words; 
 And to book-notions and the rules of art 
 Did knowingly conform itself; there came 
 Among the simple shapes of human life 
 A wilfulness of fancy and conceit; 
 And Nature and her objects beautified , 
 
RETROSPECT. 
 
 335 
 
 These fictions, as in some sort, in their 
 
 turn. 
 They burnished her. From touch of 
 
 this new power 
 Nothing was safe : the elder-tree that grew 
 Beside the well-known charnel-house had 
 
 then - , 
 
 A dismal look : the yew-tree had its ghost. 
 That took his station there for ornament : 
 The dignities of plain occurrence then 
 Were tasteless, and truth's golden mean, 
 
 a point 
 Where no sufficient pleasure could be 
 
 found. 
 Then, if a widow, staggering with the 
 
 blow 
 Of her distress, was known to have 
 
 turned her steps 
 To the cpld grave in which her husband 
 
 slept. 
 One night, or haply more than one, 
 
 through pain 
 Or half-insensate impotence of mind. 
 The fact was caught at greedily, and there 
 She must be visitant the whole year 
 
 through, 
 Wetting the turf with never-ending tears. 
 
 Through quaint obliquities I might 
 
 pursue 
 These cravings; when the foxglove, one 
 
 by one, 
 Upwards through every stage of the tall 
 
 stem, 
 Had shed beside the public way its bells. 
 And stood of all dismantled, save the last 
 Left at the tapering ladder's top, that 
 
 seemed 
 To bend as doth a slender blade of grass 
 Tipped with a rain-drop. Fancy loved to 
 
 seat. 
 Beneath the plant despoiled, but crested 
 
 still 
 With this last relic, soon itself to fall, 
 Some vagrant mother, whose arch little 
 
 ones. 
 All unconcerned by her dejected plight. 
 Laughed as with rival eagerness their 
 
 hands 
 Gathered the purple cups that round 
 
 them lay, 
 Strewing the turf's green slope. 
 
 A diamond light 
 (Whene'er the summer sun, declining, 
 
 smote 
 A smooth rock wet with constant springs) 
 
 was seen 
 Sparkling from out a copse-clad bank 
 
 that rose 
 Fronting our cottage. Oft beside the 
 
 hearth 
 Seated, with open door, o'ften and long 
 Upon this restless lustre have I gazed. 
 That made my fancy restless as itself. 
 'T was now for me a burnished silver 
 
 shield 
 Suspended over a knight's tomb, who lay 
 Inglorious, buried in the dusky wood : 
 An entrance now into some magic cave 
 Or palace built by fairies of the rock ; 
 Nor could I have been bribed to disen- 
 chant 
 The spectacle, by visiting the spot. 
 Thus wilful Fancy, in no hurtful mood. 
 Engrafted far-fetched shapes on feelings 
 
 bred 
 By pure Imagination : busy Power 
 She was, and with her ready pupil turned 
 Instinctively to human passions, then 
 Least understood. Yet, 'mid the fer- 
 vent swarm 
 Of these vagaries, with an eye so rich 
 As mine was through the bounty of a 
 
 grand 
 And lovely region, I had forms distinct 
 To steady me : each airy thought revolved 
 Round a substantial centre, which at once 
 Incited it to motion, and controlled. 
 I did not pine like one in cities bred. 
 As was thy melancholy lot, dear Friend ! 
 Great Spirit as thou art, in endless dreams 
 Of sickliness, disjoining, joining, things 
 Without the light of knowledge. Where 
 
 the harm. 
 If, when the woodman languished with 
 
 disease 
 Induced by sleeping nightly on the 
 
 ground 
 Within his sod-built cabin, Indian-wise, 
 I called the pangs of disappointed love. 
 And all the sad etcetera of the wrong. 
 To help him to his grave ? Meanwhile 
 
 the man. 
 If not already from the woods retired 
 To die at home, was haply, as I knew, 
 
336 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Withering by slow degrees, 'mid gentle 
 
 airs, 
 Birds, running streams, and hills so beau- 
 tiful 
 On golden evenings, while the charcoal 
 
 pile 
 Breathed up its smoke, an image of his 
 
 ghost 
 Or spirit that full soon must take her 
 
 flight. ' 
 Nor shall we not be tending towards 
 
 that point 
 Of sound humanity to which our Tale 
 Leads, though by sinuous ways, if here 
 
 I show 
 How Fancy, in a season when she wove 
 Those slender cords, to guide the un- 
 conscious Boy 
 For the Man's sake, could feed at Na-. 
 
 ' ture's call 
 Some pensive musings which might well 
 
 beseem 
 Maturer years. 
 
 A grove there is whose boughs 
 Stretch from the western marge of 
 
 Thurslonmere, 
 With length of shade so thick, that 
 
 whoso glides 
 Along the line of low-roofed water, moves 
 As in a cloister. Once — while, in that 
 
 shade 
 Loitering, I watched the golden beams 
 
 of light 
 Flung from the setting sun, as they re- 
 posed 
 In silent beauty on the naked ridge 
 Of a high eastern hill — thus ^owed my 
 
 thoughts 
 In a pure stream of words fresh from 
 
 the heart : 
 ^ Dear native Regions, wheresoe'er shall 
 
 close 
 My mortal course, there will I think on 
 
 you; 
 Dying, will cast on you a backward look; 
 Even as this setting sun (albeit the Vale 
 Is nowhere touched by one memorial 
 
 gleam) 
 Doth with the fond remains of his last 
 
 power 
 
 1 See page ig. 
 
 On the dear mountain-tops where first 
 he rose. 
 
 Enough of humble arguments; recall. 
 My Song ! those high emotions which thy, 
 
 voice 
 E[as heretofore made known ; that burst- 
 ing forth 
 Of sympathy, inspiring and inspired. 
 When everywhere a vital pulse was felt, 
 And all the several frames of things, Uke 
 
 stars. 
 Through every magnitude distinguishable, 
 Shone mutually indebted, or half lost 
 Each in the other's blaze, a galaxy 
 Of life and glory. In the midst stood 
 
 Man, 
 Outwardly, inwardly contemplated, 
 As, of all visible natures, crown, though 
 
 born 
 Of dust, and kindred to the worm; a 
 
 Being, 
 Both in perception and discernment, first 
 In every capability of rapture, 
 Through the divine effect of power and 
 
 love; 
 As, more than anything we know, instinct 
 With godhead, and, by reason and by will. 
 Acknowledging dependency sublime. 
 
 Ere long, the lonely mountains left, I 
 
 moved. 
 Begirt, from day to day, with temporal 
 
 shapes 
 Of vice and folly thrust upon my view, 
 Objects of sport, and ridicule, and scorn, 
 Manners and characters discriminate. 
 And little bustling passions that eclipse. 
 As well they might, the impersonated 
 
 thought, 
 The idea, or abstraction of the kind. 
 
 An idler among academic bowers. 
 Such was my new condition, as at large 
 Has been set forth; yet here the vulgai 
 
 light 
 Of present, actual, superficial life, 
 Gleaming through coloring of other times, 
 Old usages and local privilege. 
 Was welcomed, softened, if not solem- 
 nized. 
 This notwithstanding, being brought more 
 
RETROSPECT. 
 
 337 
 
 To vice and guilt, forerunning wretched- 
 ness, 
 I trembled, — thought, at times, of human 
 
 life 
 With an indefinite terror and dismay, 
 Such as the storms and angry elements 
 Had bred in me; but gloomier far, a dim 
 Analogy to uproar and misrule. 
 Disquiet, danger, and obscurity. 
 
 It might be told (but wherefore speak 
 
 of things 
 Common to all?) that, seeing, I was led 
 Gravely to ponder — judging between 
 
 good 
 And evil, not as for the mind's delight 
 But for her guidance — one who was to 
 
 act, 
 As sometimes to the best of feeble means 
 I did, by human sympathy impelled : 
 And; through dislike and most offensive 
 
 pain. 
 Was to the truth conducted; of this faith 
 Never forsaken, that, by acting well, 
 And understanding, I should learn to love 
 The end of life, and everything we know. 
 
 Grave Teacher, stern Preceptress ! for 
 
 at times 
 Thou canst put on an aspect most severe; 
 London, to thee I willingly return. 
 Erewhile my verse played idly with the 
 
 flowers 
 Enwrought upon thy mantle; satisfied 
 With that amusement, and a simple look 
 Of child-like inquisition now and then 
 Cast upwards on thy countenance, to de- 
 tect 
 Some inner meanings which might harbor 
 
 there. 
 But how could I in mood so light indulge. 
 Keeping such fresh remembrance of the 
 
 day, 
 When, having thridded the long labyrinth 
 Of the suburban villages, I first 
 Entered thy vast dominion? On the roof 
 Of an itinerant vehicle I sate, 
 With vulgar men about me, trivial forms 
 Of houses, pavement, streets, of men 
 
 and things, — 
 Mean shapes on every side : but, at the 
 
 instant. 
 When to myself it fairly might be said. 
 
 The threshold now is overpast (how 
 
 strange 
 That aught external to the living mind 
 Should have such mighty sway ! yet so 
 
 it was), 
 A weight of ages did at once descend 
 Upon my heart; no thought embodied, no 
 Distinct remembrances, but weight and 
 
 power, — 
 Power growing under weight: alas! I 
 
 feel 
 That I am trifling: 't was a moment's 
 
 pause, — 
 All that took place within me came and 
 
 went 
 As in a moment ; yet with Time it dwells. 
 And grateful memory, as a thing divine. 
 
 The curious traveller, who, from open 
 day, 
 Hath passed with torches into some huge 
 
 cave, 
 The Grotto of Antiparos, or the Den 
 In old time haunted by that Danish Witch, 
 Yordas; he looks around and sees the 
 
 vault 
 Widening on all sides; sees, or thinks he 
 
 sees. 
 Erelong, the massy roof above his head. 
 That instantly unsettles and recedes, — 
 Substance and shadow, light and dark- 
 ness, all 
 Commingled, making up a canopy 
 Of shapes and forms and tendencies to 
 
 shape 
 That shift and vanish, change and inter- 
 change 
 Like spectres, — ferment silent and sub- 
 lime ! 
 That after a short space works less and 
 
 less, 
 Till, every effort, every motion gone. 
 The scene before him stands in perfect 
 
 view 
 Exposed, and lifeless as a written book ! — 
 But let him pause awhile, and look again, 
 And a new quickening shall succeed, at 
 
 first 
 Beginning timidly, then creeping fast. 
 Till the whole cave, so late a senseless 
 
 mass, 
 Busies the eye with images and forms 
 
338 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Boldly assembled, — here is shadowed 
 
 forth 
 From the projections, wrinkles, cavities, 
 A variegated landscape, — there the shape 
 Of some gigantic warrior clad in mail, 
 The ghostly semblance of a hooded monk. 
 Veiled nun, or pilgrim resting on his staff : 
 Strange congregation ! yet not slow to 
 
 meet 
 Eyes that perceive through minds that can 
 
 inspire. 
 
 Even in such sort had I at first been 
 
 moved, 
 Nor otherwise continued to be moved, 
 As I explored the vast metropolis. 
 Fount of my country's destiny and the 
 
 world's; 
 That great emporium, chronicle at once 
 And burial-place of passions, and their 
 
 home 
 Imperial, their chief living residence. 
 
 With strong sensations teeming as it 
 did 
 Of past and present, such a place must 
 
 needs 
 Have pleased me, seeking knowledge at 
 
 that time 
 Far less than craving power; yet knowl- 
 edge came, 
 Sought or unsought, and influxes of power 
 Came, of themselves, or at her call de- 
 rived 
 In fits of kindliest apprehensiveness. 
 From all sides, when whate'er was in it- 
 self 
 Capacious found, or seemed to find, in me 
 A correspondent amplitude of mind; 
 Such is the strength and glory of our 
 
 youth ! 
 The human nature unto which I felt 
 That I belonged, and reverenced with 
 
 love. 
 Was not a punctual presence, but a spirit 
 Diffused through time and space, with aid 
 
 derived 
 Of evidence from monuments, erect, 
 Prostrate, or leaning towards their com- 
 mon rest 
 In earth, the widely scattered wreck sub- 
 lime 
 
 Of vanished nations, or more clearly 
 
 drawn 
 From books and what they picture and 
 
 record. 
 
 'T is true, the history of our native 
 land — 
 With those of Greece compared and pop- 
 ular Rome, 
 And in our high-wrought modern narra- 
 tives 
 Stript of their harmonizing soul, the life 
 Of manners and familiar incidents — 
 Had never much delighted me. And less 
 Than other intellects had mine been used 
 To lean upon extrinsic circumstance 
 Of record or tradition; but a sense 
 Of what in the Great City had been done 
 And suffered, and was doing, suffering, 
 
 still. 
 Weighed with me, could support the-test 
 
 of thought; 
 And, in despite of all that had gone by. 
 Or was departing never to return, 
 There I conversed with majesty and power 
 Like independent natures. Hence the 
 
 place 
 Was thronged with impregnations like the 
 
 Wilds 
 In which my early feelings had been 
 
 nursed — 
 Bare hills and valleys, full of caverns, 
 
 rocks, 
 And audible seclusions, dashing lakes, 
 Echoes and waterfalls, and pointed crags 
 That into music touch the passing wind. 
 Here then my young imagination found 
 No uncongenial element; could here 
 Among new objects serve or give com- 
 mand, 
 Even as the heart's occasions might re- 
 quire. 
 To forward reason's else too-scrupulous 
 
 march. 
 The effect was, still more elevated views 
 Of human nature. Neither vice nor 
 
 guilt, 
 Debasement undergone by body or mind. 
 Nor all the misery forced upon my sight. 
 Misery not lightly passed, but sometimes 
 
 scanned 
 Most feelingly, could overthrow my trust 
 In what we may become; induce belief 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 339 
 
 That I was ignorant, had been falsely 
 
 taught, 
 A solitary, who with vain conceits 
 Had been inspired, and walked about in 
 
 dreams. 
 From those sad scenes when meditation 
 
 turned, 
 Lo ! everything that was indeed divine 
 Retained its purity inviolate, 
 Nay brighter shone, by this portentous 
 
 gloom 
 Set off; such opposition as aroused 
 The mind of Adam, yet in Paradise 
 Though fallen from bliss, when in the East 
 
 he saw 
 1 Darkness ere day's mid-course, and 
 
 morning light 
 More orient in the western cloud, that 
 
 drew 
 O'er the blue firmament a radiant white. 
 Descending slow with something heavenly 
 
 fraught. 
 
 Add also, that among the multitudes 
 Of that huge city, oftentimes was seen 
 Affectingly set forth, more than elsewhere 
 Is possible, the unity of man. 
 One spirit over ignorance and vice 
 Predominant, in good and evil hearts; 
 One sense for moral judgments, as one eye 
 For the sun's light. The soul when smit- 
 ten thus 
 By a sublime idea, whencesoe'er 
 Vouchsafed for union or communion, 
 
 feeds 
 On the pure bliss, and takes her rest with 
 God. 
 
 Thus from a very early age, O Friend ! 
 My thoughts by slow gradations had been 
 
 drawn 
 To human-kind, and to the good and ill 
 01 human life: Nature had led me on; 
 And oft amid the " busy hum " I seemed 
 To travel independent of her help. 
 As if I had forgotten her; but no. 
 The world of human-kind outweighed not 
 
 hers 
 In my habitual thoughts ; the scale of love. 
 Though filling daily, still was light, com- 
 pared 
 With that in which hej' mighty objects lay. 
 ^ From Milton, Par. Lost, xi. 204. 
 
 Book Ninth. 
 
 residence in france. 
 
 Even as a river, — partly (it might seem) 
 Yielding to old remembrances, and swayed 
 In part by fear to shape a way direct. 
 That would engulphhim soon in the raven- 
 ous sea — 
 Turns, and will measure back his course, 
 
 far back. 
 Seeking the very regions which he crossed 
 In his first outset; so have we, my Friend ! 
 Turned and returned with intricate delay. 
 Or as a traveller, who has gained the brow 
 Of some aerial Down, while there he halts 
 For breathing-time, is tempted to review 
 The region left behind him; and, if aught 
 Deserving notice have escaped regard. 
 Or been regarded with too careless eye, 
 Strives, from that height, with one and 
 
 yet one more 
 Last look, to make the best amends he 
 
 may: 
 So have we lingered . Now we start afresh 
 With courage, and new hope risen on our 
 
 toil. 
 Fair greetings to this shapeless eagerness, 
 Whene'er it comes ! needful in work so 
 
 long. 
 Thrice needful to the argument which now 
 Awaits us ! Oh, how much unlike the 
 
 past ! 
 
 Free as a colt at pasture on the hill, . 
 I ranged at large, through London's wide 
 
 domain. 
 Month after month. Obscurely did I live, 
 Not seeking frequent intercourse with men. 
 By literature, or elegance, or rank. 
 Distinguished. Scarcely was a year thus 
 
 spent 
 Ere I forsook the crowded solitude. 
 With less regret for its luxurious pomp, 
 And all the nicely-guarded shows of art, 
 Than for the humble book-stalls in the 
 
 streets, 
 Exposed to eye and hand where'er I 
 
 turned. 
 
 France lured me forth; the realm that 
 I had crossed 
 So lately, journeying toward the sno\v 
 clad Alps. 
 
S'tO 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 But now, relinquishing the scrip and staff, 
 And all enjoyment which the summer sun 
 Sheds round the steps of those who meet 
 
 the day 
 With motion constant as his own, I went 
 Prepared to sojourn in a pleasant town, 
 Washed by the current of the stately Loire. 
 
 Through Paris lay my readiest course, 
 
 and there 
 Sojourning a few days, I visited 
 In haste, each spot of old or recent fame. 
 The latter chiefly; from the field of Mars, 
 Down to the suburbs of St. Antony, 
 And from Mont Martre southward to the 
 
 Dome 
 Of Genevieve. In both her clamorous 
 
 Halls, 
 The National Synod and the Jacobins, 
 I saw the Revolutionary Power 
 Toss like a ship at anchor, rocked by 
 
 storms; 
 The Arcades I traversed, in the Palace 
 
 huge 
 Of Orleans; coasted round and round the 
 
 line 
 Of Tavern, Brothel, Gaming-house, and 
 
 Shop, 
 Great rendezvous of worst and best, the 
 
 walk 
 Of all who had a purpose, or had not; 
 I stared and listened, with a stranger's 
 
 ears. 
 To Hawkers and Haranguers, hubbub 
 
 wild! 
 And hissing Factionists with ardent eyes. 
 In knots, or pairs, or single. Not a look 
 Hope takes, or Doubt or Fear is forced to 
 
 wear. 
 But seemed there present; and I scanned 
 
 them all, 
 Watched every gesture uncontrollable. 
 Of anger, and vexation, and despite. 
 All side by side, and struggling face to 
 
 face, 
 With gayety and dissolute idleness. 
 
 Where silent zephyrs sported with the 
 dust 
 Of the Bastille, I sate in the open sun, 
 And from the rubbish gathered up a stone. 
 And pocketed the relic, in the guise 
 Of an enthusiast; yet, in honest truth, 
 
 I looked for something that I could not 
 
 find. 
 Affecting more emotion than I felt; 
 For 't is most certain, that these various 
 
 sights. 
 However potent their first shock, with me 
 Appeared to recompense the traveller's 
 
 pains 
 Less than the painted Magdalene of Le 
 
 Brun, 
 A beauty exquisitely wrought, with hair 
 Dishevelled, gleaming eyes, and rueful 
 
 cheek 
 Pale and bedropped with overflowing 
 
 tears. 
 
 But hence to my more permanent abode 
 I hasten; there, by novelties in speech. 
 Domestic manners, customs, gestures, 
 
 looks, 
 And all the attire of ordinary life. 
 Attention was engrossed; and, thus 
 
 amused, 
 I stood 'mid those concussions, uncon- 
 cerned, 
 Tranqurl almost, and careless as a flower 
 Glassed in a green-house, or a parlor 
 
 shrub 
 That spreads its leaves in unmolested 
 
 peace. 
 While every bush and tree, the country 
 
 through, 
 Is shaking to the roots : indifference this 
 Which may seem strange : but I was un- 
 prepared 
 With needful knowledge, had abruptly 
 
 passed 
 Into a theatre, whose stage was filled 
 And busy with an action far advanced. 
 Like others, I had skimmed, and some- 
 times read 
 With care, the master pamphlets of the 
 
 day; 
 Nor wanted such half-insight as grew wild 
 Upon that meagre soil, helped out by talk 
 And public news ; but having never seen 
 A chronicle that might suffice to show 
 Whence the main organs of the public 
 
 ' power 
 Had sprung, their transmigrations, when 
 
 and how 
 Accomplished, giving thus unto events 
 A form and body; all things were to me 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 341 
 
 Loose an;i.disjointed»_and the affections 
 ': left 
 
 Without a vital interest. At'that time, 
 Moreover, the first storm was overblown, 
 And the strong hand of outward violence 
 Locked up in quiet. For myself, I fear 
 Now, in connection with so great a theme. 
 To speak (as I must be compelled to do) 
 Of one so unimportant; night by night 
 Did I frequent the formal haunts of men. 
 Whom, in the city, privilege of birth 
 Sequestered from the rest, societies 
 Polished in arts, and in punctilio versed; 
 Whence, and from deeper causes, all dis- 
 course 
 Of good and evil of the time was shunned 
 With scrupulous care; but these restric- 
 tions soon 
 Proved tedious, and I gradually withdrew 
 "' Into a noisier world, and thus ere long 
 ! Became a patriot; and my heart was all 
 I Given to the people, and my love was 
 \_ theirs. 
 
 ,' A band of military Officers, 
 Then stationed in the city, were the chief 
 \pf my associates: some of these wore 
 \ swords 
 That had been seasoned in the wars, and 
 
 all 
 Were men well-born; the chivalry of 
 
 France. 
 In age and temper differing, they had yet 
 One spirit ruling in each heart; alike 
 (Save only one, hereafter to be named) 
 Were bent upon undoing what was done : 
 This was their rest and only hope ; there- 
 with 
 No fear had they of bad becoming worse, 
 For worst to them was come ; nor would 
 
 have stirred, 
 Or deemed it worth a moment's thought 
 
 to stir, 
 In anything, save only as the act 
 Looked thitherward. One, reckoning by 
 
 years, 
 Was in the prime of manhood, and ere- 
 
 while 
 He had sate lord in many tender hearts; 
 Though heedless of such honors now, and 
 
 changed : 
 His temper was quite mastered by the 
 
 times, 
 
 And they had blighted him, had eaten 
 
 away 
 The beauty of his person, doing wrong 
 Alike to body and to mind : his port. 
 Which once had been erect and open, now 
 Was stooping and contracted, and a face, 
 Endowed by Nature with her fairest gifts 
 Of symmetry and light and bloom, ex- 
 pressed. 
 As much as any that was ever seen, 
 A ravage out of season, made by thoughts 
 Unhealthy and vexatious. With the hour. 
 That from the press of Paris duly brought 
 Its freight of public news, the fever came, 
 A punctual visitant, to shake this man. 
 Disarmed his voice and fanned his yellow 
 
 cheek 
 Into a thousand colors; while he read, 
 Or mused, his sword was haunted by his 
 
 touch 
 Continually, like an uneasy place 
 In his own body. _ 'T was in truth an hour 
 Of universal ferment; mildest men 
 Were agitated; and commotions, strife 
 Of passion and opinion, filled the walls 
 Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds. 
 The soil of common life was, at that time, 
 Too hot to tread upon. Oft said I then. 
 And not then only, " What a mockery this 
 Of history, the past and that to come ! 
 Now do I feel how all men are deceived, 
 Reading of nations and their works, in 
 
 faith. 
 Faith given to vanity and emptiness; 
 Oh ! laughter for the page that would 
 
 reflect 
 To future times the face of what now is ! " 
 The land all swarmed with^gassion, like a 
 
 plain 
 Devoured by locusts, — Carra, Gorsas, — 
 
 add 
 A hundred other names, forgotten now. 
 Nor to be heard of more; yet, they were 
 
 powers, 
 Like earthquakes, shocks repeated day by 
 
 day, 
 And felt through every nook of town and 
 
 field. 
 
 Such was the state of things. Mean- 
 while the chief 
 Of my associates stood prepared for flight 
 To augment the band of emigrants in arms 
 
342 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Upon the borders of the Rhine, and 
 
 leagued 
 With foreign foes mustered for instant war. 
 This was their undisguised intent, and 
 
 they 
 Were waiting with the whole of their 
 
 desires 
 The moment to depart. 
 
 An Englishman, 
 Born in a land whose very name appeared 
 To license some unruliness of mind; 
 A stranger, with youth's further privilege. 
 And the indulgence that a half-learnt 
 
 speech 
 Wins from the courteous; I, who had 
 
 been else 
 Shunned and not tolerated, freely lived 
 With these defenders of the Crown, and 
 
 talked. 
 And heard their notions; nor did they dis- 
 dain 
 The wish to bring me over to their cause. 
 
 But though untaught by thinking or by 
 
 books 
 To reason well of polity or law, 
 And nice distinctions, then on every 
 
 tongue. 
 Of natural rights and civil; and to acts 
 Of nations and their passing interests 
 (If with unworldly ends and aims com- 
 pared), 
 Almost indifferent, even the historian's 
 
 tale 
 Prizing but little otherwise than I prized 
 Tales of the poets, as it made the heart 
 Beat high, and filled the fancy with fair 
 
 forms. 
 Old heroes and their sufferings and their 
 
 deeds; 
 Yet in the regal sceptre, and the pomp 
 Of orders and degrees, I nothing found 
 Then, or had ever, even in crudest youth. 
 That dazzled me, but rather what I 
 
 mourned 
 And ill could brook, beholding that the 
 
 best 
 Ruled not, and feeling that they ought to 
 
 rule: 
 
 For, born in a poor district, and which 
 yet 
 Retaineth more of ancient homeliness. 
 
 Than any other nook of English ground, 
 It was my fortune scarcely to have seen, 
 Through the whole tenor of my school- 
 day time, 
 The face of one, who, whether boy or 
 
 man, .iH. 
 Was vested with attention or respect 
 Through claims of wealth or blood; nor 
 
 was it least 
 Of many benefits, in later years 
 Derived from academic institutes 
 And rules, that they held something up to 
 
 view 
 Of a Republic, where all stood thus far 
 Upon equal ground; that we were broth- 
 ers all 
 In honor, as in one community, 
 Scholars and gentlemen; where, further- 
 more, 
 Distinction open lay to all that came, 
 And wealth and titles were in less esteem 
 Than talents, worth, and prosperous in- 
 V dustry. 
 
 Add unto this, subservience from the first 
 To presences of God's mysterious power 
 Made manifest in Nature's sovereignty. 
 And fellowship with venerable books. 
 To sanction the proud workings of the 
 
 soul. 
 And mountain liberty. It could not be 
 But that one tutored thus should look with 
 
 awe 
 Upon the faculties of man, receive 
 Gladly the highest promises, and hail. 
 As best, the government of equal rights 
 \ And individual worth. And hence, 
 V Friend ! 
 
 If at the first great outbreak I rejoiced 
 Less than might well befit my youth, the 
 cause '\ 
 
 In part lay here, that unto me the events \ 
 Seemed nothing out of nature's certain , 
 
 course, 
 A gift that was come rather late than soon. 
 No wonder, then, if advocates like these. 
 Inflamed by passion, blind with prejudice, 
 And stung with injury, at this riper day, 
 Were impotent to make my hopes put on 
 The shape of theirs, my understanding 
 
 bend 
 In honor to their honor : zeal, which yet 
 Had slumbered, now in opposition burst 
 Forth like a Polar summer : every word 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 343 
 
 They uttered was a dart, by counter-winds 
 Blown back upon themselves; their rea- 
 son seemed 
 Confusion-stricken by a higher power 
 Than human understanding, their dis- 
 course 
 Maimed, spiritless; and, in their weak- 
 ness strong, 
 I triumphed. 
 
 Meantime, day by day, the roads 
 Were crowded with the bravest youth of 
 
 France, 
 And all the promptest of her spirits, linked 
 In gallant soldiership, and posting on 
 To meet the war upon her frontier bounds. 
 Yet at this very moment do tears start 
 Into mine eyes : I do not say I weep — 
 I wept not then, — but tears have dimmed 
 
 mx_sight, - 
 In memory of the farewells of that time,. 
 Domestic severings, female fortitude 
 At dearest separation, patriot love 
 And self-devotion, and terrestrial hope. 
 Encouraged with a martyr's confidence; 
 Even files of strangers merely seen but 
 
 once, 
 And for a moment, men from far with 
 
 sound 
 Of music, martial tunes, and banners 
 
 spread. 
 Entering the city, here and there a face. 
 Or person, singled out among the rest. 
 Yet still a stranger and beloved as such; 
 Even by these passing spectacles my heart 
 Was oftentimes uplifted, and they seemed 
 Arguments sent from Heaven to prove 
 
 the cause 
 Good, pure, which no one could stand 
 
 up against. 
 Who was not lost, abandoned, selfish, 
 
 proud. 
 Mean, miserable, wilfully depraved. 
 Hater perverse of equity and truth. 
 
 Among that band of Officers was one. 
 Already hinted at, of other mould — ' 
 A patriot, thence rejected by the rest. 
 And with an oriental loathing spurned. 
 As of a different caste. A meeker man 
 Than this Jived never, nor a more benign. 
 Meek though enthusiastic. Injuries 
 Made him more gracious, and his nature 
 then I 
 
 Did breathe its sweetness out most sen- 
 sibly. 
 As aromatic flowers on Alpine turf, 
 When foot hath crushed them. He 
 
 through the events 
 Of that great change wandered in per- 
 fect faith. 
 As through a book, an old romance, or 
 
 tale 
 Of Fairy, or some dream of actions 
 
 wrought 
 Behind the summer clouds. By birth he 
 
 ranked 
 With the most noble, but unto the poor 
 Among mankind he was in service bound, 
 As by some tie invisible, oaths professed 
 To a religious order. Man he loved 
 As man ; and, to the mean and the obscure, 
 And all the homely in their homely works. 
 Transferred a courtesy which had no air 
 Of condescension; but did rather seem 
 A passion and a gallantry, like that 
 Which he, a soldier, in his idler day 
 Had paid to woman : somewhat vain he 
 
 was. 
 Or seemed so, yet it was not vanity. 
 But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy 
 Diffused around him, while he was intent 
 On works of love or freedom, or revolved 
 Complacently the progress of a cause. 
 Whereof he was a part : yet this was meek 
 And placid, and took nothing from the 
 
 man 
 That was delightful. Oft in solitude 
 With him did I discourse about the end 
 Of civil government, and its wisest forms ; 
 Of ancient loyalty, and chartered rights. 
 Custom and habit, novelty and change; 
 Of self-respect, and virtue in the few 
 For patrimonial honor set apart,. 
 And ignorance in the laboring multitude. 
 For he, to all intolerance indisposed. 
 Balanced these contemplations in his 
 
 mind; 
 And I, who at that time was scarcely 
 
 dipped 
 Into the turmoil, bore a sounder judgment 
 Than later days allowed; carried aboutme. 
 With less alloy to its integrity. 
 The experience of past ages, as, through 
 
 help 
 Of books and common life, it makes sure 
 
 way 
 
344 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 To youthful minds, by objects over near 
 Not pressed upon, nor dazzled or misled 
 By struggling with the crowd for present 
 en^s. 
 
 But though not deaf, nor obstinate to 
 
 find 
 Error without excuse upon the side 
 Of them who strove against us, more 
 
 delight 
 We took, and let this freely be confessed, 
 In painting to ourselves the miseries 
 Of royal courts, and that voluptuous life 
 Unfeeling, where the man who is of soul 
 The meanest thrives the most; where 
 
 dignity, 
 True personal dignity, abideth not ; 
 A light, a cruel, and vain world cut off 
 From the natural inlets of just sentiment. 
 From lowly sympathy and chastening 
 
 truth; 
 Where good and evil interchange their 
 
 names. 
 And thirst for bloody spoils abroad is 
 
 paired 
 With vice at home. We added dearest 
 
 themes — 
 Man and his noble nature, as it is 
 The gift which God has placed within 
 
 his power, 
 /His blind desires and steady faculties 
 ' Capable of clear truth, the one to break 
 Bondage, the other to build liberty 
 \On firm foundations, making social life. 
 Through knowledge spreading and im- 
 perishable. 
 As just in regulation, and as pure 
 As individual in the wise and good. 
 
 We summoned up the honorable deeds 
 Of ancient Story, thought of each bright 
 
 spot. 
 That would be found in all recorded time, 
 Of truth preserved and error passed away; 
 Of single spirits that catch the flame 
 
 from Heaven, 
 And how the multitudes of men will feed 
 And fan each other; thought of sects, 
 
 how keen 
 They are to put the appropriate nature on. 
 Triumphant over every obstacle 
 Of custom, language, country, love, or 
 
 hate. 
 
 And what they do and suffer for their 
 
 creed; 
 How far they travel, and how long 
 
 endure; 
 How quickly mighty Nations have been 
 
 formed. 
 From least beginnings; how, together 
 
 locked 
 By new opinions, scattered tribes have 
 
 made 
 One body, spreading wide as clouds in 
 
 heaven. 
 To aspirations then of our own minds i 
 Did we appeal; and, finally, beheld i 
 A living confirmation of the whole 
 Before us, in a people from the depth 
 Of shameful imbecility uprisen. 
 Fresh as the morning star. Elate we 
 
 looked 
 Upon their virtues; saw, in rudest men, ] 
 Self-sacrifice the firmest; generous love, I 
 And continence of mind, and sense of 
 
 right. 
 Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife. 
 
 Oh, sweet it is, in academic groves. 
 Or such retirement. Friend ! as we have 
 
 known 
 In the green dales beside our Rotha's 
 
 stream, 
 Greta, or Derwent, or some nameless rill, 
 To ruminate, with interchange of talk. 
 On rational liberty, and hope in man. 
 Justice and peace. But far more sweet 
 
 such toil — — 
 
 Toil, say I, for it leads to thoughts 
 
 abstruse — 
 If nature then be standing on the brink 
 Of some great trial, and we hear the voice 
 Of one devoted, — one whom circumstance 
 Hath called upon to embody his deep sense 
 In action, give it outwardly a shape. 
 And that of benediction, to the world. 
 Then doubt is not, and truth is more than 
 
 truth, — 
 A hope it is, and a desire ; a creed 
 Of zeal, by an authority Divine 
 Sanctioned, of danger, difldculty, or death. 
 Such conversation, under Attic shades. 
 Did Dion hold with Plato ; ripened thus 
 For a Deliverer's glorious task, — and 
 
 such 
 He, on that ministry already bound, 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 345 
 
 Held with Eudemus and Timonides, 
 Surrounded by adventurers in arms, 
 When those two vessels with their daring 
 
 freight. 
 For the Sicilian Tyrant's overthrow. 
 Sailed from Zacynthus, — philosophic 
 
 war, 
 Led by Philosophers. With harder fate. 
 Though like ambition, such was he, O 
 
 Friend ! 
 Of whom I speak. So Beaupuis (let the 
 
 name 
 Stand near the worthiest of Antiquity) 
 Fashioned his life; and many a long dis- 
 course, 
 With like persuasion honored, we main- 
 tained : 
 He, on his part, accoutred for the worst. 
 He perished fighting, in supreme com- 
 mand. 
 Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire, 
 For liberty, against deluded men. 
 His fellow-countrymen; and yet most 
 
 blessed 
 In this, that he the fate of later times 
 Lived not to see, nor what we now 
 
 behold. 
 Who have as ardent hearts as he had then . 
 
 Along that very Loire, with festal mirth 
 Resounding at all hours, and innocent yet 
 Of civil slaughter, was our frequent walk; 
 Or in wide forests of continuous shade, 
 Lofty and over-arched, with open space 
 Beneath the trees, clear footing many a 
 
 mile — 
 A solemn region. Oft amid those haunts. 
 From earnest dialogues I slipped in 
 
 thought. 
 And let remembrance steal to other times. 
 When, o'er those interwoven roots, moss- 
 clad. 
 And smooth as marble or a waveless sea. 
 Some Hermit, from his cell forth-strayed, 
 
 might pace 
 In sylvan meditation undisturbed; 
 As on the pavement of a Gothic church 
 Walks a lone Monk, when service hath 
 
 expired. 
 In peace and silence. But if e'er was 
 
 heard, — 
 Heard, though unseen, — a devious trav- 
 
 ellerj 
 
 Retiring or approaching from afar 
 
 With speed and echoes loud of trampling 
 
 hoofs 
 From the hard floor reverberated, then 
 It was Angelica thundering through the 
 
 woods 
 Upon her palfrey, or that gentle maid 
 Erminia, fugitive as fair as she. 
 Sometimes methought I saw a pair of 
 
 knights 
 Joust underneath the trees, that as in storm 
 Rocked high above their heads; anon, the 
 
 din 
 Of boisterous meidment, and music's roar. 
 In sudden proclamation, burst from haunt 
 Of Satyrs in some viewless glade, with 
 
 dance 
 Rejoicing o'er a female in the midst, 
 A mortal beauty, their unhappy thrall. 
 The width of those huge forests, unto me 
 A novel scene, did often in this way 
 Master my fancy while I wandered on 
 With that revered companion. And some- 
 times — 
 When to a convent in a meadow green. 
 By a brook-side, we came, a roofless pile, 
 And not by reverential touch of Time 
 Dismantled, but by violence abrupt — 
 In spite of those heart-bracing colloquies, 
 In spite of real fervor, and of that 
 Less genuine and wrought up within 
 
 myself — 
 I could not but bewail a wrong so harsh. 
 And for the Matin-bell to sound no more 
 Grieved, and the twilight taper, and the 
 
 cross 
 High on the topmost pinnacle, a sign 
 (How welcome to the weary traveller's 
 
 eyes ! ) 
 Of hospitality and peaceful rest. 
 And when the partner of those varied 
 
 walks 
 Pointed upon occasion to the site 
 Of Romorentin, home of ancient kings. 
 To the imperial edifice of Blois, 
 Or to that rural castle, name now slipped 
 From my remembrance, where a lady 
 
 lodged, 
 By the first Francis wooed, and bound to 
 
 him 
 In chains of mutual passion, from the 
 
 tower. 
 As a tradition of the country tells, 
 
346 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Practised to commune with her royal 
 
 knight 
 By cressets and love-beacons, intercourse 
 'Twixt her high-seated residence and his 
 Far off at Chambord on the plain beneath ; 
 Even here, though less than with the 
 
 peaceful house 
 Religious, 'mid those frequent monuments 
 Of Kings, their vices and their better deeds, 
 Imagination, potent to inflame 
 At times with virtuous wrath and noble 
 
 scorn, 
 Did also often mitigate the force 
 Of civic prejudice, the bigotry. 
 So call it, of a youthful patriot's mind; 
 And on these spots with many gleams I 
 
 looked 
 Of chivalrous delight. Yet not the less, 
 Hatred of absolute rule, where will of one 
 Is law for all, and of that barren pride 
 In them who, by immunities unjust. 
 Between the sovereign and the people 
 
 stand, 
 His helper and not theirs, laid stronger 
 
 hold 
 Daily upon me, mixed with pity too 
 And love; for where hope is, there love 
 
 will be 
 or the abject multitude. And when we 
 
 chanced 
 One day to meet a hunger-bitten girl. 
 Who crept along fitting her languid gait 
 Unto a heifer's motion, by a cord 
 Tied to her arm, and picking thus from 
 
 the lane 
 Its sustenance, while the girl with pallid 
 
 hands 
 Was busy knitting in a heartless mood 
 Of solitude, and at the sight my friend 
 In agitation said, " 'T is against that 
 That we are fighting, ' ' I with him believed 
 That a benignant spirit was abroad 
 Which might not be withstood, that 
 
 poverty 
 Abject as this would in a little time 
 Be found no more, that we should see the 
 
 earth 
 Unthwarted in her wish to recompense 
 The meek, the lowly, patient child of toil. 
 All institutes forever blotted out 
 That legalized exclusion, empty pomp 
 Abolished, sensual state and cruel power 
 Whether by edict of the one or few; 
 
 And finally, as sum and crown of all, 
 Should see the people having a strong 
 
 hand 
 In framingjtheir own laws; whence better 
 
 days 
 To all mankind. But, these things set 
 
 apart, 
 Was not this single confidence enough 
 To animate the mind that ever turned 
 A thought to human welfare ? That hence- 
 forth 
 Captivity by mandate without law 
 Should cease; and open accusation lead 
 To sentence in the hearing of the world, 
 And open punishment, if not the air ^ 
 Be free to breathe in, and the heart of man 
 Dread nothing. From this height I shall 
 
 not stoop 
 To humbler matter that detained us oft 
 In thought or conversation, public acts, 
 And public persons, and emotions wrought 
 Within the breast, as ever-varying winds 
 Of record or report swept over us; 
 But I might here, instead, repeat a tale,i 
 Told by my Patriot friend, of sad events. 
 That prove to what low depth had struck 
 
 the roots. 
 How widely spread the boughs, of that 
 
 old tree 
 Which, as a deadly mischief, and a foul 
 And black dishonor, France was weary of. 
 
 Oh,happy timeof youthful lovers (thus 
 The story might begin), oh, balmy time. 
 In which a love-knot, on a lady's brow. 
 Is fairer than the fairest star in Heaven ! 
 So might — and with that prelude did\}e.g\rv 
 The record; and, in faithful verse, was 
 
 given 
 The doleful sequel. 
 
 But our little bark 
 On a strong river boldly hath been 
 
 launched; 
 And from the driving current should we 
 
 turn 
 To loiter wilfully within a creek, 
 Howe'er attractive. Fellow voyager! 
 Would'st thou not chide? Yet deem not 
 
 my pains lost : 
 For Vaudracour and Julia (so were named 
 The ill-fated pair) in that plain tale will 
 
 draw 
 ^ See " Vaudracour and Julia," p. 253. 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 347 
 
 Tears from the hearts of others, when 
 
 their own 
 Shall beat no more. Thou, also, there 
 
 may'st read. 
 At leisure, how the enamoured youth was 
 
 driven. 
 By public power abased, to fatal crime. 
 Nature's rebellion against monstrous law ; 
 How, between heart and heart, oppression 
 
 thrust 
 Her mandates, severing whom true love 
 
 had joined, 
 Harassing both; until he sank and pressed 
 The couch his fate had made for him; 
 
 supine. 
 Save when the stings of viperous remorse, 
 Trying their strength, enforced him to 
 
 start up, 
 Aghast and prayerless. Into a deep wood 
 He fled, to shun the haunts of humankind; 
 There dwelt, weakened in spirit more and 
 
 more; 
 Nor could the voice of Freedom, which 
 
 through France 
 Full speedily resounded, public hope. 
 Or personal memory of his own worst 
 
 wrongs. 
 Rouse him; but, hidden in those gloomy 
 
 shades. 
 His days he wasted, — an imbecile mind. 
 
 Book Tenth. 
 
 RESIDENCE IN FRANCE {continU(_d). 
 
 It was a beautiful and silent day 
 That overspread the countenance of earth. 
 Then fading with unusual quietness. — 
 A day as beautiful as e'er was given 
 To soothe regret, though deepening <vhat 
 
 it soothed. 
 When by the gliding Loire I paused, and 
 
 cast '"^~* 
 
 Upon his rich domains, vineyard and tilth, 
 Green meadow-ground, and many-colored 
 
 woods. 
 Again, and yet again, a farewell look; 
 Then from the quiet of that scene passed 
 
 on, 
 Bound to the fierce Metropolis. From his 
 
 throne 
 
 The King had fallen, and that invading 
 " ' host — 
 Presumptuous cloud, on whose black front 
 
 was written 
 The tender mercies of the dismal wind 
 That bore it — on the plains of Liberty 
 Had burst innocuous. Say in bolder 
 
 words, 
 They — who had come elate as eastern 
 
 hunters 
 Banded beneath the GreatMogul, when he 
 Erewhile went forth from Agra or Lahore, 
 Rajahs and Omrahs in his train, intent 
 To drive their prey enclosed within a ring 
 Wide as a province, but, the signal given. 
 Before the point of the life-threatening 
 
 spear 
 Narrowing itself by moments — they, rash 
 
 men. 
 Had seen the anticipated quarry turned 
 Into avengers, from whose wrath they fled 
 In terror. Disappointment and dismay 
 Remained for all whose fancies had run 
 
 wild 
 With evil expectations; confidence 
 And perfect triumph for the better cause. 
 
 The -State — as if to stamp the final 
 
 seal 
 On her security, and to the world 
 Show what she was, a high and fearless 
 
 soul. 
 Exulting in defiance, or heart-stung 
 By sharp resentment, or belike to taunt 
 With spiteful gratitude the baffled League, 
 That had stirred up her slackening facul- 
 ties 
 To a new transition — when the King was 
 
 crushed. 
 Spared not the empty throne, and in 
 
 proud haste 
 Assumed the bod|j!_and..Kej!e_rable_name 
 Of a Republic. Lamentable crimes, 
 ' T is true, "Kad gone before this hour, dire 
 
 work 
 Of massacre, in which the senseless sword 
 Was prayed to as a judge; but these were 
 
 past. 
 Earth free from them forever, as was 
 
 thought, — 
 Ephemeral monsters, to be seen but once ! 
 Things that could only show themselves 
 
 and die. 
 
348 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Cheered with this hope, to Paris I re- 
 lumed, 
 And ranged, with ardor heretofore unfelt, 
 The spacious city, and in progress passed 
 The prison where the unhappy Monarch 
 
 lay. 
 Associate with his children and his wife 
 In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed 
 With roar of cannon by a furious host. 
 I crossed the square (an empty area 
 
 then ! ) 
 Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain 
 The dead, upon the dying heaped, and 
 
 gazed 
 On this and other spots, as doth a man 
 Upon a volume whose contents he knows 
 Are memorable, but from him locked up, 
 Being written in a tongue he cannot read. 
 So that he questions the mute leaves with 
 
 pain, 
 And half upbraids their silence. But that 
 
 night 
 I felt most deeply in what world I was, 
 What ground I trod on, and what air I 
 
 breathed. 
 High was my room and lonely, near the 
 
 roof 
 Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge 
 That would have pleased me in more quiet 
 
 times; 
 Nor was it wholly without pleasure then. 
 With unextinguished taper I kept watch, 
 Reading at intervals; the fear gone by 
 Pressed on me almost like a fear to come. 
 I thought of those September massacres. 
 Divided from me by one little month, 
 Saw them and touched : the rest was con- 
 jured up 
 From tragic fictions or true history. 
 Remembrances and dim admonishments. 
 The horse is taught his manage , and no star 
 Of wildest course but treads back his own 
 
 steps; 
 For the spent hurricane the air provides 
 As fierce a successor; the tide retreats 
 But to return out of its hiding-place 
 In the great deep; all things have second 
 
 birth; • 
 
 The earthquake is not satisfied at once ; 
 And in this way I wrought upon myself. 
 Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried, 
 To the whole city, " Sleep no more." 
 
 The trance 
 
 Fled with the voice to which it had given 
 
 birth; 
 But vainly comments of a calmer mind 
 Promised soft peace and sweet forgetful- 
 
 ness. 
 The place, all hushed and silent as it was, 
 Appeared unfit for the repose of night, 
 Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam. 
 
 With early morning towards the Palace- 
 walk 
 Of Orleans eagerly I turned : as yet 
 The streets were still; not so those long 
 
 Arcades; 
 There, ' mid a peal of ill-matched sounds 
 
 and cries, 
 That greeted me on entering, I could hear 
 Shrill voices from the hawkers in the 
 
 throng. 
 Bawling, " Denunciation of the Crimes 
 Of Maximiliaii Robespierre; " the hand. 
 Prompt as the ^^6lce, held forth a printed 
 
 speech. 
 The same that had been recently pro- 
 nounced. 
 When Robespierre, not ignorant for what 
 
 mark 
 Some words of indirect reproof had been 
 Intended, rose in hardihood, and dared 
 The man who had an ill surmise of him 
 To bring his charge in openness; whereat, 
 When a dead pause ensued, and no one 
 
 stirred, 
 In silence of all present, from his seat 
 Louvet walked single through the avenue. 
 And took his station in the Tribune, say- 
 ing. 
 "I, Robespierre, accuse thee! " Well is 
 
 known 
 The inglorious issue of that charge, and 
 
 how 
 He, who had launched the startling 
 
 thunderbolt, 
 The one bold man, whose voice the attack 
 
 had sounded. 
 Was left without a follower to discharge 
 His perilous duty, and retire lamenting 
 That Heaven's best aid is wasted upon 
 
 men 
 Who to themselves are false. 
 
 But these are things 
 Of \vhich I speak, only as they were storm 
 Or sunshine to my individual mind, 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 349 
 
 No further. Let me then relate that 
 
 now — 
 In some sort seeing with my proper eyes 
 That Liberty, and Life, and Death, would 
 
 soon 
 To the remotest corners of the land 
 Lie in the arbitrement of those who ruled 
 The capital City; what was struggled for, 
 And by what combatants victory must be 
 
 won; 
 The indecision on their part whose aim 
 Seemed best, and the straightforward path 
 
 of those 
 Who in attack or in defence were strong 
 Through their impiety — my inmost soul 
 LWas agitated; yea, I could almost 
 \ Have prayed that throughout earth upon 
 ' all men. 
 
 By patient exercise of reason made 
 Worthy of liberty, all spirits filled 
 With zeal expanding in Truth's holy light, 
 The gift of tongues might fall, and power 
 
 arrive 
 From the four quarters of the winds to do 
 For France, what without help she could 
 
 not do, 
 A work of honor; think not that to this 
 I added, work of safety :., from all doubt 
 Or trepidation for the end of things 
 Far was I, far as angels are from guilt. 
 
 Yet did I grieve, nor only grieved, but 
 thought 
 Of opposition and of remedies : 
 An insignificant stranger and obscure. 
 And one, moreover, little graced with 
 
 power 
 Of eloquence even in my native speech. 
 And all unfit for tumult or intrigue. 
 Yet would I at this time with willing heart 
 Have undertaken for a cause so great 
 Service however dangerous. ^ I revolved. 
 How much the destiny of Man had still 
 Hungupon single persons; that there was, 
 Tfanscendent to all local patrimony. 
 One nature, as there is one sun in heaven; 
 That objects, even as they are great, there- 
 
 by 
 Do come within the reach of humblest 
 
 eyes; 
 That Man is only weak through his mis- 
 trust 
 And want of hope where evidence divine 
 
 Proclaims to him that hope should be most 
 
 sure; 
 Nor did the inexperience of my youth 
 Preclude conviction, that a spirit strong 
 In hope, and trained to noble aspirations, 
 A spirit thoroughly faithful to itself, 
 Is for Society's unreasoning herd 
 A domineering instinct, serves at once 
 For way and guide, a fluent receptacle 
 That gathers up each petty straggling rill 
 And vein of water, glad to be rolled on 
 In safe obedience ; that a mind, whose rest 
 Is where it ought to be, in self-restraint. 
 In circumspection and simplicity, 
 Falls rarely in entire discomfiture 
 Below its aim, or meets with, from with- 
 out, 
 A treachery that foils it or defeats; 
 And, lastly, if the means on human will. 
 Frail human will, dependent should betray 
 Him who too boldly trusted them, I felt 
 That 'mid the loud distractions of the 
 
 world 
 A sovereign voice subsists within the soul, 
 Arbiter undisturbed of right and wrong. 
 Of life and death, in majesty severe 
 Enjoining, as may best promote the aims 
 Of truth and justice, either sacrifice, 
 From whatsoever region of our cares 
 Or our infirm affections Nature pleads. 
 Earnest and blind, against the stern 
 decree. 
 
 On the other side, I called to mind 
 those truths 
 That are the commonplaces of the 
 
 schools — 
 (A theme for boys, too hackneyed for 
 
 their sires,) 
 Yet, with a revelation's liveliness. 
 In all their comprehensive bearings known 
 And visible to philosophers of old. 
 Men who, to business of the world un- 
 trained, 
 Lived in the shade; and to Harmodius 
 
 known 
 And his compeer Aristogiton, known 
 To Brutus — that tyrannic power is weak, 
 Hath neither gratitude, nor faith, nor love, 
 Nor the support of good or evil men 
 To trust in ; that the godhead which is ours 
 Can never utterly be charmed or stilled; 
 That nothing hath a natural right toJ[a_st 
 
35° 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Butjeqaitji-and Reason; thatall else 
 "Meets foes irreconcilable, and atjj.^ 
 Livesl)nly by_variety of disease. 
 
 Well might my wishes be intense, my 
 thoughts 
 Strong and perturbed, not doubting at 
 
 that time 
 But that the virtue of one paramount mind 
 Would haveatehed thoseiinpious^crests 
 
 " — have quelled 
 Outrage an3 Bloody power, and — in 
 
 Of what the People long hadbeen and 
 
 were 
 Through ignorance, and JaLs_e,. teaching, 
 
 sadder 2rpQf__ 
 Of immaturity, and — in the teeth 
 Of desperate opposition from without — 
 Have_cleared,a .passage, £o]L4Ust_^govern- 
 " mentj ~ 
 
 And lefra solid bitthrjght tojhg jtate, 
 Redeenied, according to example given 
 By ancient lawgivers. 
 
 In this frame of mind. 
 Dragged by a chain of harsh necessity. 
 So seemed it, — now I thankfully 
 
 acknowledge, 
 Forced by the gracious providence of 
 
 Heaven, — ■ 
 To England I returned, else (though 
 
 assured 
 That I both was and must be of small 
 
 weight, 
 No better than a landsman on the deck 
 Of a ship struggling with a hideous storm) 
 Doubtless, I should have then made 
 
 common cause 
 With some who perished; haply perished 
 
 too, 
 A poor mistaken and bewildered offer- 
 ing. — 
 Should to the breast of Nature have 
 
 gone back, 
 With all my resolutions, all my hopes, 
 A Poet only to myself, to men 
 , Useless, and even, beloved Friend ! a soul 
 To thee unknown ! 
 
 Twice had the trees let fall 
 Their leaves, as often Winter had put on 
 His hoary crown, since I had seen the 
 
 surge 
 
 Beat against Albion's shore, since ear of 
 
 mine 
 Had caught the accents of my native 
 
 speech 
 Upon our native country's sacred ground, 
 A patriot of the world, how could I glide 
 Into communion with her sylvan shades. 
 Ere while my tuneful haunt? It pleased 
 
 me more 
 To abide in the great City, where I found 
 The general air still busy with the stir 
 Of that first memorable onset made «. 
 By a strong levy of humanity 4«t,Hj 
 
 Upon the traffickers in Negro blood; ^-^ 
 Effort which, though defeated; had re- 
 called 
 To notice old forgotten principles, 
 And through the nation spread a novel 
 
 heat 
 Of virtuous feeling. For myself, I own 
 That this particular strife had wanted 
 
 power 
 To rivet my affections; nor did now 
 Its unsuccessful issue much excite 
 My sorrow; for I brought with me the 
 
 faith, ■ "^ 
 
 That, if France prospered, good men 
 
 would not long 
 
 Pay fruitless worship to humanity. 
 And this most rotten branch of human 
 
 shame, 
 Object, so seemed it, of superfluous pains 
 Would fall together with its piarent tree. 
 What, then, were my emotions, when m 
 
 arms 
 Bri tain p ut forth her free-born strength 
 
 in league. 
 Oh, pity and shame ! with those confed- 
 erate Powers ! 
 Not in my single self alone I found, 
 But in the minds of all ingenuous youth, 
 Change and subversion from that hour. 
 
 No shock 
 Given to my moral nature had I known 
 Down to that very moment ; neither lapse 
 Nor turn of sentiment that might be named 
 A revolution, save at this one time; 
 All else was progress on the self-same path 
 On which, with a diversity of pace, 
 I had been travelling : this a stride at once 
 Into another region. As a light 
 And pliant harebell, swinging in the 
 
 breeze 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 351 
 
 On some gray rock — its birthplace — 
 
 so had I 
 Wantoned, fast rooted on the ancient 
 
 tower 
 Of my beloved country, wishing not 
 A happier fortune than to wither there : 
 Now was I from that pleasant station torn 
 And tossed about in whirlwind. I re- 
 joiced, 
 Yea, afterwards — truth most painful to 
 
 record ! — 
 Exulted, in the triumph of my soul. 
 When Englishmen by thousands were 
 
 o'erthrown, 
 Left without glory on the field, or driven, 
 Brave hearts ! to shameful flight. It was 
 
 a grief, — 
 Grief call it not, 'twas anything but 
 
 that, — 
 A conflict of sensations without name. 
 Of which he only, who may love the 
 
 sight 
 Of a village steeple, as I do, can judge. 
 When, in the congregation bending all 
 To their great Father, prayers were 
 
 offered up, 
 Or praises for our country's victories; 
 And, 'mid the simple worshippers, per- 
 chance 
 I only, like an uninvited guest 
 Whom no one owned, sate silent, shall 
 
 I add. 
 Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come. 
 
 Oh ! much have they to account for, 
 
 who could tear. 
 By violence, at one decisive rent. 
 From the best youth in England their 
 
 dear pride, 
 Their joy, in England; this, too, at a time 
 In which worst losses easily might wean 
 The best of names, when patriotic love 
 Did of itself in modesty give way. 
 Like the Precursor when the Deity 
 Is come Whose harbinger he was; a time 
 In which apostasy from ancient faith 
 Seemed but conversion to a higher creed; 
 Withal a season dangerous and wild, 
 A time when sage Experience would have 
 
 snatched 
 Flowers out of any hedge-row to compose 
 A chaplet in contempt of his gray locks. 
 
 When the proud fleet that bears the 
 
 red-cross flag 
 In that unworthy service was prepared 
 To mingle, I beheld the vessels lie, 
 A brood of gallant creatures, on the deep; 
 I saw them in their rest, a sojourner 
 Through a whole month of calm and 
 
 glassy days 
 In that delightful island which protects 
 Their place of convocation — there I 
 
 heard. 
 Each evening, pacing by the still sea- 
 shore, 
 A monitory sound that never failed, — 
 The sunset cannon. While the orb went 
 
 down 
 In the tranquillity of nature, came 
 That voice, ill requiem ! seldom heard by 
 
 me 
 Without a spirit overcast by dark 
 Imaginations, sense of woes to come. 
 Sorrow for human kind, and pain of 
 
 heart. 
 
 In France, the men, who, for their 
 
 desperate ends. 
 Had plucked up mercy by the roots, were 
 
 glad 
 Of this new enemy. Tyrants, strong be- 
 fore 
 In wicked pleas, were strong as demons 
 
 now; 
 And thus, on every side beset with foes, 
 The goaded land waxed mad; the crimes 
 
 of few 
 Spread into madness of the many; blasts 
 From hell came sanctified like airs from 
 
 heaven. 
 The sternness of the just, the faith of those 
 Who doubted not that Providence had 
 
 times 
 Of vengeful retribution, theirs who 
 
 throned 
 The human Understanding paramount 
 And made of tliat their God, the hopes 
 
 of men 
 Who were content to barter short-lived 
 
 pangs 
 For a paradise of ages, the blind rage 
 Of insolent tempers, the light vanity 
 Of intermeddlers, steady purposes 
 Of the suspicious, slips of the indiscreet, 
 
352 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 And all the accidents of life — were 
 
 pressed 
 Into one service, busy with one work. 
 The Senate stood aghast, her prudence 
 
 quenched, 
 Her wisdom stifled, and her justice scared. 
 Her frenzy only active to extol 
 Past outrages, and shape the way for new, 
 Which no one dared to oppose or mitigate. 
 
 Domestic carnage now filled the whole 
 year 
 With feast-days; old men from the chim- 
 ney-nook, 
 The maiden from the bosom of her love, 
 The mother from the cradle of her babe. 
 The warrior from the field — all perished, 
 
 all — 
 Friends, enemies, of all parties, ages, 
 
 ranks. 
 Head after head, and never heads enough 
 For those that bade them fall. They 
 
 found their joy. 
 They made it proudly, eager as a child, 
 (If like desires of innocent little ones 
 May with such heinous appetites be. com- 
 pared). 
 Pleased in some open field to exercise 
 A toy that mimics with revolving wings 
 The motion of a wind-mill ; though the air 
 Do of itself blow fresh, and make the vanes 
 Spin in his eyesight, that contents him not. 
 But with the plaything at arm's length, 
 
 he sets 
 His front against the blast, and runs 
 
 amain. 
 That it may whirl the faster. 
 
 Amid the depth 
 Of those enormities, even thinking minds 
 Forgot, at seasons, whence they had their 
 
 being 
 Forgot that such a sound was ever heard 
 As Liberty upon earth : yet all beneath 
 Her innocent authority was wrought. 
 Nor could have been, without her blessed 
 
 name. 
 The illustrious wife of Roland, in the hour 
 Of her composure, felt that agony. 
 And gave it vent in her last words. O 
 
 Friend ! 
 It was a lamentable time for man. 
 Whether a hope had e'er been his or not : 
 
 A woful time for them whose hopes sur- 
 vived 
 
 The shock; most woful for those few 
 who still 
 
 Were flattered, and had trust in human 
 kind: 
 
 They had the deepest feeling of the grief. 
 
 Meanwhile the Invaders fared as they 
 deserved : 
 
 The Herculean Commonwealth had put 
 forth her arms, 
 
 And throttled with an infant godhead's 
 might 
 
 The snakes about her cradle; that was 
 well. 
 
 And as it should be; yet no cure for them 
 
 Whose souls were sick with pain of what 
 would be 
 
 Hereafter brought in charge against man- 
 kind. 
 
 Most melancholy at that time, O Friend ! 
 
 Were my day-thoughts, — my nights were 
 miserable; 
 
 Through months, through years, long 
 after the last beat 
 
 Of those atrocities, the hour of sleep 
 
 To me came rarely charged with natural 
 gifts. 
 
 Such ghastly visions had I of despair 
 
 And tyranny, and implements of death; 
 
 And innocent victims sinking under fear, 
 
 And momentary hope, and worn-out 
 prayer. 
 
 Each in his separate cell, or penned in 
 crowds 
 
 For sacrifice, and struggling with fond 
 mirth 
 
 And levity in dungeons, where the dust 
 
 Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the 
 scene 
 
 Changed, and the unbroken dream en- 
 tangled me 
 
 In long orations, which I strove to plead 
 
 Before unjust tribunals, — with a voice 
 
 Laboring, a brain confounded, and a 
 sense. 
 
 Death-like, of treacherous desertion, felt 
 
 In the last place of refuge — my own soul. 
 
 When I began in youth's delightful 
 prime 
 To yield myself to Nature, when that 
 strong 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 353 
 
 And holy passion overcame me first, 
 Nor day nor night, evening or morn, was 
 
 free 
 From its oppression. But, O Power 
 
 Supreme ! 
 Without Whose call this world would 
 
 cease to breathe 
 Who from the fountain of Thy grace dost 
 
 fill 
 The veins that branch through every 
 
 frame of life, 
 Making man what he is, creature divine. 
 In single or in social eminence. 
 Above the rest raised infinite ascents 
 When reason that enables him to be 
 Is not sequestered — what a change is 
 
 here ! 
 How different ritual for this after-worship. 
 What countenance to promote this second 
 
 love ! 
 The first was service paid to things which 
 
 he 
 Guarded within the bosom of Thy will. 
 Therefore to serve was high beatitude ; 
 Tumult was therefore gladness, and the 
 
 fear 
 Ennobling, venerable; sleep secure, 
 And waking thoughts more rich than 
 
 happiest dreams. 
 
 But as the ancient Prophets, borne 
 aloft 
 In vision, yet constrained by natural laws 
 With them to take a troubled human heart, 
 Wanted not consolations, nor a creed 
 Of reconcilement, then when they de- 
 nounced, 
 On towns and cities, wallowing in the 
 
 abyss 
 Of their offences, punishment to come; 
 Or saw, like other men, with bodily eyes. 
 Before them, in some desolated place, 
 The wrath consummate and the threat 
 
 fulfilled ; 
 So, vnth devout humility be it said. 
 So, did a portion of that spirit fall 
 On me uplifted from the vantage-ground 
 Of pity and sorrow to a state of being 
 That through the time's exceeding fierce- 
 ness saw 
 Glimpses of retribution, terrible. 
 And in the order of sublime behests : 
 But, even if that were not, amid the awe 
 
 Of unintelligible chastisement, 
 Not only acquiescences of faith 
 Survived, but daring sympathies with 
 
 power. 
 Motions not treacherous or profane, else 
 
 why 
 Within the folds of no ungentle breast 
 Their dread vibration to this hour pro- 
 longed ? 
 Wild blasts of music thus could find their 
 
 way 
 Into the midst of turbulent events; 
 So that worst tempests might be listened 
 
 to. 
 Then was the truth received into my heart. 
 That, under heaviest sorrow earth can 
 
 bring, 
 If from the affliction somewhere do not 
 
 grow 
 Honor which could not else have been, a 
 
 faith, 
 An elevation, and a sanctity, 
 If new strength be not given nor old 
 
 restored. 
 The blame is ours, not Nature's. When 
 
 a taunt 
 Was taken up by scoffers in their pride, 
 Saying, " Behold the harvest that we reap 
 From popular government and equality," 
 I clearly saw that neither these nor aught 
 Of wild belief engrafted on their names 
 By false philosophy had caused the woe, 
 But a terrific reservoir of guilt 
 And ignorance filled up from age to age, 
 That could no longer hold its loathsome 
 
 charge. 
 But burst and spread in deluge through 
 
 the land. 
 
 And as the desert hath green spots, the 
 sea 
 Small islands scattered amid stormy 
 
 waves. 
 So that disastrous period did not want 
 Bright sprinklings of all human excel- 
 lence, 
 To which the silver wands of saints in 
 
 Heaven 
 Might point with rapturous joy. Yet not 
 
 the less. 
 For those examples, in no age surpassed, 
 Of fortitude and energy and love, 
 And human nature faithful to herself 
 
354 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Under worst trials, was I driven to think 
 Of the glad times when first I traversed 
 
 France 
 A youthful pilgrim; above all reviewed 
 That eventide, when under windows 
 
 bright 
 With happy faces and with garlands 
 
 hung, 
 And through a rainbow-arch that spanned 
 
 the street, 
 Triumphal pomp for liberty confirmed, 
 I paced, a dear companion at my side, 
 The town of Arras, whence with promise 
 
 high 
 Issued, on delegation to sustain 
 Humanity and right, that Robespierre, 
 He who thereafter, and in how short time ! 
 Wielded the sceptre of the Atheist crew. 
 When the calamity spread far and wide — 
 And this same city, that did then appear 
 To outrun the rest in exultation, groaned 
 Under the vengeance of her cruel son, 
 As Lear reproached the winds — I could 
 
 almost 
 Have quarrelled with that blameless spec- 
 tacle 
 For lingering yet an image in my mind 
 To mock me under such a strange reverse. 
 
 O Friend ! few happier moments have 
 been mine 
 Than that which told the downfall of this 
 
 Tribe 
 So dreaded, so abhorred. The day 
 
 deserves 
 A separate record . Over the smooth sands 
 Of Leven's ample estuary lay 
 My journey, and beneath a genial sun, 
 With distant prospect among gleams of sky 
 And clouds and intermingling mountain 
 
 tops, 
 In one inseparable glory clad, 
 Creatures of one ethereal substance met 
 In consistory, like a diadem 
 Or crown of burning seraphs as they sit 
 In the empyrean. Underneath that pomp 
 Celestial, lay unseen the pastoral vales 
 Among whose happy fields I had grown up 
 From childhood. On the fulgent spec- 
 tacle, 
 That neither passed away nor changed, I 
 gazed 
 
 Enrapt; but brightest things are wont to 
 
 draw 
 Sad opposites out of the inner heart. 
 As even their pensive influence drew from 
 
 mine. 
 How could it otherwise ? for not in vain 
 That very morning had I turned aside 
 To seek the ground where, 'mid a throng 
 
 of graves, 
 An honored teacher of my youth was laid, 
 And on the stone were graven by his de- 
 sire 
 Lines from the churchyard elegy of Gray. 
 This faithful guide, speaking from his 
 
 death-bed. 
 Added no farewell to his parting counsel. 
 But said to me, " My head will soon lie 
 
 low ; ' ' 
 And when I saw the turf that covered him, 
 After the lapse of full eight years, those 
 
 words. 
 With -sound of voice and countenance of 
 
 the Man, 
 Came back upon me, so that some few tears 
 Fell from me in my own despite. But 
 
 now 
 I thought, still traversing that widespread 
 
 plain. 
 With tender pleasure of the verses graven 
 Upon his tombstone, whispering to my- 
 self: 
 He loved the Poets, and, if now alive, 
 Would have loved me, as one not destitute 
 Of promise, nor belying the kind hope 
 That he had formed, when I, at his com- 
 mand. 
 Began to spin, with toil, my earliest songs. 
 
 As I advanced, all that I saw or felt 
 Was gentleness and peace . Upon a small 
 And rocky island near, a fragment stood, 
 (Itself like a sea rock) the low remains 
 (With shells encrusted, dark with briny 
 
 weeds) 
 Of a dilapidated structure, once 
 A Romish chapel, where the vested priest 
 Said matins at the hour that suited those 
 Who crossed the sands with ebb of morn- 
 ing tide. 
 Not far from that still ruin all the plain 
 Lay spotted with a variegated crowd 
 Of vehicles and travellers, horse and foot, 
 Wading beneath the conduct of their guide 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 355 
 
 In loose procession through the shallow 
 
 stream 
 Of inland waters; the great sea meanwhile 
 Heaved at safe distance, far retired. I 
 
 paused, 
 Longing for skill to paint a scene so briglit 
 And cheerful, but the foremost of the band 
 As he approached, no salutation given 
 In the familiar language of the day. 
 Cried, " Robespierre is dead ! " nor was 
 
 a doubt, 
 After strict question, left within my mind 
 That he and his supporters all were fallen. 
 
 Great was my transport, deep my grati- 
 tude 
 To everlasting Justice, by this fiat 
 Made manifest. "Come now, ye golden 
 
 times," 
 Said I forth-pouring on those open sands 
 A hymn of triumph: "as the morning 
 
 comes 
 From out the bosom of the night, come ye : 
 Thus far our trust is verified; behold! 
 They who vrith clumsy desperation 
 
 brought 
 A river of Blood, and preached that noth- 
 ing else 
 Could cleanse the Augean stable, by the 
 
 might 
 Of their own helper have been swept 
 
 away; 
 Their madness stands declared and visible ; 
 Elsewhere will safety now be sought, and 
 
 earth 
 March firmly towards righteousness and 
 
 peace." — 
 Then schemes I framed more calmly, 
 
 when and how 
 The madding factions might be tranquil- 
 lized. 
 And how through hardships manifold and 
 
 long 
 The glorious renovation would proceed. ' 
 Thus interrupted by uneasy bursts 
 Of exultation, I pursued my way 
 Along that very shore which I had 
 
 skimmed 
 In former days, when — spurring from 
 
 the Vale 
 Of Nightshade, and St. Mary's moulder- 
 ing fane, 
 And the stone abbot, after circuit made | 
 
 In wantonness of heart, a joyous band 
 Of schoolboys hastening to their distant 
 
 home 
 Along the margin of the moonlight sea — 
 We beat with thundering hoofs the level 
 
 sand. 
 
 Book Eleventh. 
 
 FRANCE (concluded). 
 
 From that time forth, Authority in France 
 Put on a milder face ; Terror had ceased, 
 Yet everything was wanting that might give 
 Courage to them who looked for good by 
 
 light 
 Of rational Experience, for the shoots 
 And hopeful blossoms of a second spring : 
 Yet, in me, confidence was unimpaired; 
 The Senate's language, and the public acts 
 And measures of the Government, though 
 
 both 
 Weak, and of heartless omen, had not 
 
 power 
 To daunt me ; in the People was my trust : 
 And, in the virtues which mine eyes had 
 
 seen, 
 I knew that wound external could not take 
 Life from the young Republic; that new 
 
 foes ^ 
 
 Would only follow, in the path of shame. 
 Their brethren, and her triumphs be in 
 
 the end 
 Great, universal, irresistible. 
 This intuition led me to confound 
 One victory with another, higher far, — 
 Triumphs of unambitious peace at home, 
 And noiseless fortitude. Beholding still 
 Resistance strong as heretofore, I thought 
 That what was in degree the same was 
 
 likewise 
 The same in quality, — that, as the worse 
 Of the two spirits then at strife remained 
 Untired, the better, surely, would preserve 
 The heart that first had roused him. 
 
 Youth maintains, 
 In all conditions of society. 
 Communion more direct and intimate 
 With Nature, — hence, oft-times, with 
 
 reason too — 
 Than age or manhbod, even. To Nature, 
 then. 
 
356 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Power had reverted: habit, custom, law. 
 Had left an interregnum's open space 
 For her to move about in, uncontrolled. 
 Hence could I see how Babel-like their 
 
 task. 
 Who, by the recent deluge stupefied. 
 With their whole souls went culling from 
 
 the day 
 Its petty promises, to build a tower 
 For their own safety; laughed with my 
 
 compeers 
 At gravest heads, by enmity to France 
 Distempered, till they found, in every blast 
 Forced from the street-disturbing news- 
 man's horn. 
 For her great cause record or prophecy 
 Of utter ruin. How might we believe 
 That wisdom could, in any shape, come 
 
 near 
 Men clinging to delusions so insane? 
 And thus, experience proving that no few 
 Of our opinions had been just, we took 
 Like credit to ourselves where less was due. 
 And thought that other notions were as 
 
 sound 
 Yea, could not but be right, because we 
 
 saw 
 That foolish men opposed them. 
 
 To a strain 
 More animated I might here give way. 
 And tell, since juvenile errors are my 
 
 theme. 
 What in those days, through Britain, was 
 
 performed 
 To turn all judgments out of their right 
 
 course; 
 But this is passion over-near ourselves. 
 Reality too close and too intense. 
 And intermixed with something, in my 
 
 mind, 
 Of scorn and condemnation personal. 
 That would profane the sanctity of verse. 
 Our Shepherds, this say merely, at that 
 
 time 
 Acted, or seemed at least to act, hke men 
 Thirsting to make the guardian crook of 
 
 law 
 A tool of murder; they who ruled the 
 
 State — 
 Though with such awful proof before their 
 
 eyes 
 That he, who would sow death, reaps 
 
 death, or worse. 
 
 And can reap nothing better — child-like 
 
 longed . 
 To imitate, not wise enough to avoid; 
 Or left (by mere timidity betrayed) 
 The plain straight road, for one no bettei 
 
 chosen 
 Than if their wish had been to undermine 
 Justice, and make an end of Liberty. 
 
 But from these bitter truths I must re- 
 turn 
 To my own history. It hath been told 
 That I was led to take an eager part 
 In arguments of civil polity. 
 Abruptly, and indeed before my time : 
 I had approached, like other youths, the 
 
 shield 
 Of human nature from the golden side, 
 And would have fought, even to the death, 
 
 to attest 
 The quality of the metal which I saw. 
 What there is best in individual man. 
 Of wise in passion, and sublime in power, 
 Benevolent in small societies. 
 And great in large ones, I had oft re- 
 volved. 
 Felt deeply, but not thoroughly under- 
 stood 
 By reason: nay, far from it; they were 
 
 yet, 
 As cause was given me afterwards to 
 
 learn, 
 Not proof against the injuries of the day; 
 Lodged only at the sanctuary's door, 
 Not safe within its bosom. Thus pre- 
 pared. 
 And with such general insight into evil, 
 And of the bounds which sever it from 
 
 good. 
 As books and common intercourse with 
 
 life 
 Must needs have given — to the inexpe- 
 rienced mind, 
 ■When the world travels in a beaten road, 
 Guide faithful as is needed — I began 
 To meditate with ardor on the rule 
 And management of nations; what it is 
 And ought to be ; and strove to learn how 
 
 far 
 Their power or weakness, wealth ol 
 
 poverty. 
 Their happiness or misery, depends 
 Upon their laws, and fashion of the State. 
 
FRANCE. 
 
 357 
 
 ^ O pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
 For mighty were the auxiliars which then 
 
 stood 
 Upon our side, us who were strong in 
 
 love ! 
 Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
 But to be young was very Heaven ! O 
 
 times. 
 In which the meagre, stale, forbidding 
 
 ways 
 Of custom, law, and statute, took at once 
 The attraction of a country in romance ! 
 When Reason seemed the most to assert 
 
 her rights 
 When most intent on making of herself 
 A prime enchantress — to assist the work, 
 Which then was going forward in her 
 
 name ! 
 Not favored spots alone, but the whole 
 
 Earth, 
 The beauty wore of promise — that which 
 
 sets 
 (As at some moments might not be unfelt 
 Among the bowers of Paradise itself) 
 The budding rose above the rose full 
 
 blown. 
 What temper at the prospect did not wake 
 To happiness unthought of? The inert 
 Were roused, and lively natures rapt 
 
 away ! 
 They who had fed their childhood upon 
 
 dreams. 
 The play-fellows of fancy, who had made 
 All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and 
 
 strength 
 Their ministers, — who in lordly. wise had 
 
 stirred 
 Among the grandest objects of the sense. 
 And dealt with whatsoever they found 
 
 there 
 As if they had within some lurking right 
 To wield it; — they, too, who of gentle 
 
 mood 
 Kad watched all gentle motions, and to 
 
 these 
 Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers 
 
 more mild, 
 And in the region of their peaceful 
 
 selves; — 
 Now was it that both found, the meek and 
 
 lofty 
 
 ' See p. 267. 
 
 Did both find, helpers to their hearts' de- 
 sire. 
 And stuff at hand, plastic as they could 
 
 wish, — 
 Were called upon to exercise their skill. 
 Not in Utopia, — subterranean fields, — 
 Or some secreted island, Heaven knows 
 
 where ! 
 But in the very world, which is the world 
 Of all of us, — the place where, in the 
 
 end, 
 We find our happiness, or not at all ! 
 
 Why should I not confess that Earth 
 
 was then 
 To me, what an inheritance, new-fallen. 
 Seems, when the first time visited, to one 
 Who thither comes to find in it his home? 
 He walks about and looks upon the spot 
 With cordial transport, moulds it and 
 
 remoulds. 
 And is half-pleased with things that are 
 
 amiss, 
 'T will Ipe such joy to see them disappear. 
 
 An active partisan, I thus convoked 
 From every object pleasant circumstance 
 To suit my ends; I moved among man- 
 kind 
 With genial feelings still predominant; 
 When erring, erring on the better part, 
 And in the kinder spirit; placable. 
 Indulgent, as not uninformed that men 
 See as they have been taught — Antiquity 
 Gives rights to error; and aware, no less, 
 That throwing off oppression must be 
 
 work 
 AS well of License as of Liberty; 
 And above all — for this was more than 
 
 all — 
 Not caring if the wind did now and then 
 Blow keen upon an eminence that gave 
 Prospects so large into futurity; 
 In brief, a child of Nature, as at first. 
 Diffusing only those affections wider 
 That from the cradle had grown up with 
 
 me, 
 And losing, in no other way than light 
 Is lost in light, the weak in the more 
 strong. 
 
 In the main outline, such it might be 
 said 
 Was my condition, till with open war 
 
358 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Britain opposed the liberties of France. 
 This threw me first out of the pale of love ; 
 Soured and corrupted, upwards to the 
 
 source, 
 My sentiments; was not, as hitherto, 
 A swallowing up of lesser things in great. 
 But change of them into their contraries; 
 And thus a way was opened for mistakes 
 And false conclusions, in degree as gross. 
 In kind more dangerous. What had been 
 
 a pride. 
 Was now a shame; my likings and my 
 
 loves 
 Ran in new channels, leaving old ones 
 
 dry; 
 And hence a blow that, in maturer age. 
 Would but have touched the judgment, 
 
 struck more deep 
 Into sensations near the heart : meantime. 
 As from the first, wild theories were afloat, 
 To whose pretensions, sedulously urged, 
 I had but lent a careless ear, assured 
 That time was ready to set all things right. 
 And that the multitude, so long oppressed. 
 Would be oppressed no more. 
 
 But when events 
 Brought less encouragement, and unto 
 
 these 
 The immediate proof of principles no 
 
 more 
 Could be entrusted, while the events 
 
 themselves. 
 Worn out in greatness, stripped of 
 
 novelty. 
 Less occupied the mind, and sentiments 
 Could through my understanding's natural 
 
 growth 
 No longer keep their ground, by faith 
 
 maintained 
 Of inward consciousness, and hope that 
 
 laid 
 Her hand upon her object — evidence 
 Safer, of universal application, such 
 As could not be impeached, was sought 
 
 elsewhere. 
 
 But now, become oppressors in their 
 turn. 
 Frenchmen had changed a war of self- 
 defence 
 For one of conquest, losing sight of all 
 Which they had struggled for ; up 
 mounted now. 
 
 Openly in the eye of earth and heaven. 
 The scale of liberty. I read her doom, 
 With anger vexed, with disappointment 
 
 sore. 
 But not dismayed, nor taking to the shame 
 Of a false prophet. While resentment rose 
 Striving to hide, what nought could heal, 
 
 the wounds 
 Of mortified presumption, I adhered 
 More firmly to old tenets, and, to prove 
 Their temper, strained them more; and 
 
 thus, in heat 
 Of contest, did opinions every day 
 Grow into consequence, till round my 
 
 mind 
 They clung, as if they were its life, nay 
 
 more. 
 The very being of the immortal soul. 
 
 This was the time, when, all things 
 tending fast 
 To depravation, speculative schemes — 
 That promised to abstract the hopes of 
 
 Man 
 Out of his feelings, to be fixed thence- 
 forth 
 Forever in a purer element — 
 Found ready welcome. Tempting region 
 
 that 
 For Zeal to enter and refresh herself. 
 Where passions had the privilege to work, 
 And never hear the sound of their own 
 
 names. 
 But, speaking more in charity, the dream 
 Flattered the young, pleased with ex- 
 tremes, nor least 
 With that which makes our Reason's 
 
 naked self 
 The object of its fervor. What delight ! 
 How glorious ! in self-knowledge and 
 
 self-rule, 
 To look through all the frailties of the 
 
 world. 
 And, with a resolute mastery shaking off 
 Infirmities of nature, time, and place. 
 Build social upon personal Liberty, 
 Which, to the blind restraints of general 
 
 laws 
 Superior, magisterially adopts 
 One guide, the light of circumstances, 
 
 flashed 
 Upon an independent intellect. 
 Thus expectation rose again; thus hope, 
 
FRANCE. 
 
 359 
 
 W 
 
 From her first ground expelled, grew 
 
 proud once more. 
 Oft, as my thoughts were turned to human 
 
 kind, 
 I scorned indifference; but, inflamed with 
 
 thirst 
 Of a secure intelligence, and sick 
 Of other longing, I pursued what seemed 
 A more exalted nature; wished that Man 
 Should start out of his earthy, worm-like 
 
 state. 
 And spread abroad the wings of Liberty, 
 Lord of himself, in undisturbed delight — 
 A noble aspiration ! yet I feel 
 (Sustained by worthier as by wiser 
 
 thoughts) 
 The aspiration, nor shall ever cease 
 To feel it; — but return we to our course. 
 
 Enough, 'tis true — could such a plea 
 
 excuse 
 Those aberrations — had the clamorous 
 
 friends 
 Of ancient Institutions said and done 
 To bring disgrace upon their very names; 
 Disgrace, of which, custom and written 
 
 law. 
 And sundry moral sentiments as props 
 Or emanations of those institutes, 
 Too justly bore a part. A veil had been 
 Uplifted ; why deceive ourselves ? in sooth, 
 'Twas even so; and sorrow for the man 
 Who either had not eyes wherewith to see. 
 Or, seeing, had forgotten ! A strong 
 
 shock 
 Was given to old opinions; all men's 
 
 minds 
 Had felt its power, and mine was both let 
 
 loose. 
 Let loose and goaded. After what hath 
 
 been 
 Already said of patriotic love, 
 Suffice it here to add, that, somewhat stern 
 In temperament, withal a happy man, 
 And therefore bold to look on painful 
 
 things. 
 Free likewise of the world, and thence 
 
 more bold, 
 I summoned m)' best skill, and toiled, 
 
 intent 
 To anatomize the frame of social life; 
 Yea, the whole body of society 
 
 Searched to its heart. Share with me. 
 
 Friend ! the wish 
 That some dramatic tale, endued with 
 
 shapes 
 Livelier, and flinging out less guarded 
 
 words 
 Than suit the work we fashion, might set 
 
 forth 
 What then I learned, or think I learned, 
 
 of truth. 
 And the errors into which I fell, betrayed 
 By present objects, and by reasonings false 
 From their beginnings, inasmuch as drawn 
 Out of a heart that had been turned aside 
 From Nature's way by outward accidents. 
 And which was thus confounded, more 
 
 and more 
 Misguided, and misguiding. So I fared, 
 Dragging all precepts, judgments, 
 
 maxims, creeds, 
 Like culprits to the bar; calling the mind. 
 Suspiciously, to establish in plain day 
 Her titles and her honors; now believing. 
 Now disbelieving; endlessly perplexed 
 With impulse, motive, right and wrong, 
 
 the ground 
 Of obligation, what the rule and whence 
 The sanction; till, demanding formal 
 
 proof, 
 And seeking it in everything, I lost 
 All feeling of conviction, and, in fine, 
 Sick, wearied out with contrarieties. 
 Yielded up moral questions in despair. 
 
 This was the crisis of that strong disease. 
 This the soul's last and lowest ebb; I 
 
 drooped. 
 Deeming our blessed reason of least use 
 Where wanted most: " The lordly attri- 
 butes 
 Of will and choice," I bitterly exclaimed, 
 " What are they but a mockery of a Being 
 Who hath in no concerns of his a test 
 Of good and evil; knows not what to fear 
 Or hope for, what to covet or to shun; 
 And who, if those could be discerned, 
 
 would yet 
 Be little profited, would see, and ask 
 Where is the obligation to enforce? 
 And, to acknowledged law rebellious, 
 
 still, 
 As selfish passion urged, would act amiss; 
 The dupe of folly, or the slave of crime." 
 
36<3 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not 
 
 walk 
 With scoffers, seeking light and gay re- 
 venge 
 From indiscriminate laughter, nor sate 
 
 down 
 In reconcilement with an utter waste 
 Of intellect; such sloth I could not brook 
 (Too well I loved, in that my spring of 
 
 life. 
 Pains-taking thoughts, and truth, their 
 
 dear reward). 
 Tint turned to abstract science, and there 
 
 sought 
 Work for the reasoning faculty enthroned 
 Where the disturbances of space and 
 
 time — 
 Whether in matters various, properties 
 Inherent, or from human will and power 
 Derived — find no admission. Then it 
 
 was — 
 Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all 
 
 good ! — 
 That the beloved Sister in whose sight 
 Those days were passed, now speaking in 
 
 a voice 
 Of sudden admonition — likp .a hrnnk ^ 
 Ihaljdid_but crossa lonely road, a nd now 
 Is seenj-heafd, felt, and caught at every 
 
 turti^ 
 Companion never lost through many a 
 
 league — 
 Maintained for me a saving intercourse 
 With my true self; for, though bedimmed 
 
 and changed 
 Much, as it seemed, I was no further 
 
 changed 
 Than as a clouded and a waning moon : 
 She whispered still that brightness would 
 
 return; 
 She, in the midst of all, preserved me still 
 A Poet, made me seek beneath that name. 
 And that alone, my office upon earth; 
 And, lastly, as hereafter will be shown, 
 If willing audience fail not, Nature's self, 
 By all varieties of human love 
 Assisted, led me back through opening day 
 To those sweet counsels between head and 
 
 heart 
 Whence grew that genuine knowledge, 
 
 fraught with peace. 
 Which, through the later sinkings of this 
 
 cause, 
 
 Hath still upheld me, and upholds me nov; 
 In the catastrophe (for so they dream. 
 And nothing less), when, finally to close 
 And seal up all the gains of France, a 
 
 Pope 
 Is summoned in, to crown an Emperor — 
 This last opprobrium, when we see a 
 
 people. 
 That once looked up in faith, as if to 
 
 Heaven 
 For manna, to take a lesson from the dog 
 Returning to his vomit; when the sun 
 That rose in splendor, was alive, and 
 
 moved 
 In exultation with a living pomp 
 Of clouds — his glory's natural retinue — 
 Hath dropped all functions by the gods 
 
 bestowed. 
 And, turned into a gewgaw, a machine. 
 Sets like an Opera phantom. 
 
 Thus, O Friend ! 
 Through times of honor and through 
 
 times of shame 
 Descending, have I faithfully retraced 
 The perturbations of a youthful mind 
 Under a long-lived storm of great events — 
 A story destined for thy ear, who now, 
 Among the fallen of nations, dost abide 
 Where Etna, over hill and valley, casts 
 His shadow stretching towards Syracuse, 
 The city of Timoleon ! Righteous Heaven! 
 How are the mighty prostrated ! They 
 
 first. 
 They first of all that breathe should have 
 
 awaked 
 When the great voice was heard from 
 
 out the tombs 
 Of ancient heroes. If I suffered grief 
 For ill-requited France, by many deemed 
 A trifier only in her proudest day; 
 Have been distressed to think of what 
 
 she once 
 Promised, now is; a far more sober cause 
 Thine eyes must see of sorrow in a land. 
 To the reanimating influence lost 
 Of memory, to virtue lost ana hope. 
 Though with the wreck of loftier years 
 
 bestrewn. 
 
 But indignation works where hope is 
 not. 
 And thou, O Friend! wilt be refreshed. 
 There is 
 
FRANCE. 
 
 361 
 
 One great society alone on earth : 
 The noble Living and the noble Dead. 
 
 Thine be such converse strong and 
 sanative, 
 A ladder for thy spirit to reascend 
 To health and joy and pure contented- 
 
 ness; 
 To me the grief confined, that thou art 
 
 gone 
 From this last spot of earth, where Free- 
 dom now 
 Stands single in her only sanctuary; 
 A lonely wanderer, art gone, by pain 
 Compelled and sickness, at this latter day, 
 This sorrowful reverse for all mankind. 
 I feel for thee, must utter what I feel: 
 The sympathies erewhile in part dis- 
 charged. 
 Gather afresh, and will have vent again: 
 My own delights do scarcely seem to me 
 My own delights; the lordly Alps them- 
 selves. 
 Those rosy peaks, from which the Morn- 
 ing looks 
 Abroad on many nations, are no more 
 For me that image of pure gladsomeness 
 Which they were wont to be. Through 
 
 kindred scenes. 
 For purpose, at a time, how different ! 
 Thou tak'st thy way, carrying the heart 
 
 and soul 
 That Nature gives to Poets, now by 
 
 thought 
 Matured, and in the summer of their 
 
 strength. 
 Oh ! wrap him in your shades, ye giant 
 
 woods, 
 On Etna's side; and thou, O flowery field 
 Of Enna ! is there not some nook of thine. 
 From the first play-time of the infant 
 
 world 
 Kept sacred to restorative delight, 
 When from afar invoked by anxious love ? 
 
 Child of the mountains, among shep- 
 herds reared. 
 Ere yet familiar with the classic page, 
 I learnt to dream of Sicily; and lo. 
 The gloom, that, but a moment past, was 
 
 deepened 
 At thy command, at her command gives 
 way; 
 
 A pleasant promise, wafted from her 
 
 shores. 
 Comes o'er my heart: in fancy I behold 
 Her seas yet smiling, her once happy 
 
 vales; 
 Nor can my tongue give utterance to a 
 
 name 
 Of note belonging to that honored isle. 
 Philosopher or Bard, Empedocles, 
 Or Archimedes, pure abstracted soul ! 
 That doth not yield a solace to my grief : 
 And, O Theocritus,! go far have some 
 Prevailed among the powers of heavea 
 
 and earth. 
 By their endowments, good or great, that 
 
 they 
 Have had, as thou reportest, miracles 
 Wrought for them in old time : yea, 
 
 not unmoved. 
 When thinking on my own beloved friend, 
 I hear thee tell how bees with honey fed 
 Divine Comates, by his impious lord 
 Within a chest imprisoned ; how they came 
 Laden from blooming grove or flowery 
 
 field, 
 And fed him there, alive, month after 
 
 month, 
 Because the goatherd, blessed man ! had 
 
 lips 
 Wet with the Muses' nectar. 
 
 Thus I soothe 
 The pensive moments by this calm fire- 
 side, 
 And find a thousand bounteous images 
 To cheer the thoughts of those I love, 
 
 and mine. 
 Our prayers have been accepted; thou 
 
 wilt stand 
 On Etna's summit, above earth and sea. 
 Triumphant, winning from the invaded 
 
 heavens 
 Thoughts without bound, magnificent 
 
 designs, 
 Worthy of poets who attuned their harps 
 In wood or echoing cave, for discipline 
 Of heroes; or, in reverence to the gods, 
 'Mid temples, served by sapient priests, 
 
 and choirs 
 Of virgins crowned with roses. Not in 
 
 vain 
 Those temples, where they in their ruins 
 
 yet 
 
 1 Theocrit. Idyll, vii. 78. 
 
 \ 
 
 / 
 
362 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Survive for inspiration, shall attract 
 Thy solitary steps : and on the brink 
 Thou wilt recline of pastoral Arethuse; 
 Or, if that fountain be in truth no more, 
 Then, near some other spring — which, 
 
 by the name 
 Thou gratulatest, willingly deceived — 
 I see thee linger a glad votary. 
 And not a captive pining for his home. 
 
 Book Twelfth. 
 
 imagination and taste, how im- 
 paired and restored. 
 
 Long time have human ignorance and 
 
 guilt 
 Detained us, on what spectacles of woe 
 Compelled to look, and inwardly op- 
 pressed 
 With sorrow, disappointment, vexing 
 
 thoughts. 
 Confusion of the judgment, zeal decayed. 
 And, lastly, utter loss of hope itself 
 And things to hope for ! Not with these 
 
 began 
 Our song, and not with these our song 
 
 must end. — 
 Ye motions of delight, that haunt the sides 
 Of the green hills ; ye breezes and soft airs. 
 Whose subtle intercourse with breathing 
 
 flowers, 
 Feelingly watched, might teach Man's 
 
 haughty race 
 How without injury to take, to give 
 Without offence; ye who, as if to show 
 The wondrous influence of power gently 
 
 used. 
 Bend the complying heads of lordly pines. 
 And, with a touch, shift the stupendous 
 
 clouds 
 Through the whole compass of the sky; 
 
 ye brooks. 
 Muttering along the stones, a busy noise 
 By day, a quiet sound in silent night; 
 Ye waves, that out of the great deep steal 
 
 forth 
 In a calm hour to kiss the pebbly shore. 
 Not mute, and then retire, fearing no 
 
 storm; 
 And you, ye groves, whose ministry it is 
 To interpose the covert of your shades. 
 
 Even as a sleep, between the heart of man 
 And outward troubles, between man him- 
 self, 
 Not seldom, and his own uneasy heart: 
 Oh ! that I had a music and a voice 
 Harmonious as your own, that I might tell 
 What ye have done for me. The morn- 
 ing shines, 
 Nor heedeth Man's perverseness; Spring 
 
 returns, — 
 I saw the Spring return, and could rejoice, 
 In common with the children of her love. 
 Piping on boughs, or sporting on fresh 
 
 fields, 
 Or boldlylseeking pleasure nearer heaven 
 On wings that navigate cerulean skies. 
 So neither were complacency, nor peace. 
 Nor tender yearnings, wanting for my 
 
 good 
 Through these distracted times; in Nature 
 
 still 
 Glorying, I found a counterpoise in her. 
 Which, when the spirit of evil reached 
 
 its height, 
 Maintained for me a secret happiness. 
 
 This narrative, my Friend ! hath chiefly 
 
 told 
 Of intellectual power, fostering love. 
 Dispensing truth, and, over men and 
 
 things. 
 Where reason yet might hesitate, diffusing 
 Prophetic sympathies of genial faith : 
 So was I favored — such my happy lot — 
 Until that natural graciousness of mind 
 Gave way to overpressure from the times 
 And their disastrous issues. What availed. 
 When spells forbade the voyager to land, 
 That fragrant notice of a pleasant shore 
 Watted, at intervals, from many a bower 
 Of blissful gratitude and fearless love? 
 Dare I avow that wish was mine to see, 
 And hope that future times would surely 
 
 see. 
 The man to come, parted, as by a gulph. 
 From him who had been; that I could 
 
 no more 
 Trust the elevation which had made me 
 
 one 
 With the great family that still survives 
 To illuminate the abyss of ages past. 
 Sage, warrior, patriot, hero; for it seemed 
 
IMAGINATION AND TASTE. 
 
 363 
 
 That their best virtues were not free 
 
 from taint 
 Of something false and weak, that could 
 
 not stand 
 The open eye of Reason. Then I said, 
 " Go to the Poets, they will speak to thee 
 More perfectly of purer creatures; — yet 
 If reason be nobility in man. 
 Can aught be more ignoble than the man 
 Whom they delight in, blinded as he is 
 By prejudice, the miserable slave 
 Of low ambition or distempered love ? ' ' 
 
 In such strange passion, if I may once 
 more 
 Review the past, I warred against my- 
 self— 
 A bigot to a new idolatry — • 
 Like a cowled monk who hath forsworn 
 
 the world. 
 Zealously labored to cut off my heart 
 From all the sources of her former 
 
 strength; 
 And as, by simple waving of a wand, 
 The wizard instantaneously dissolves 
 Palace or grove, even so could I unsoul 
 As readily by syllogistic words 
 Those mysteries of being which have 
 
 made. 
 And shall continue evermore to make, 
 Of the whole human race one brother- 
 hood. 
 
 What wonder, then, if, to a mind so far 
 Perverted, even the visible Universe 
 Fell under tlie dominion of a taste 
 Less spiritual, with microscopic view 
 Was scanned, as I had scanned the 
 moral world? 
 
 P Soul of Nature ! excellent and fair ! 
 ThaF~diJst rejoice with me, with whom 
 
 I, too. 
 Rejoiced through early youth, before the 
 
 winds 
 And roaring waters, and in lights and 
 
 shades 
 That marched and countermarched about 
 
 the hills 
 In glorious apparition. Powers on whom 
 I daily waited, now all eye and now 
 All ear; bytnfixgriongjmthout the heart 
 Employed, and man's unf olding intellect : 
 
 O^auiof NaturaJ_that, by laws^diyme 
 Sustained and governed, still dost over- 
 
 Row " 
 
 With an impassioned life, what feeble 
 
 ones ' ■ 
 
 Walk on this earth ! how feeble have I 
 
 been 
 When thou wert in thy strength ! Nor 
 
 this through stroke 
 Of human suffering, such as justifies 
 Remissness and inaptitude of mind, 
 But through presumption; even in pleas- 
 ure pleased 
 Unworthily, disliking here, and there 
 Liking; by rules of mimic art transferred 
 To things above all art; but more, — for 
 
 this, 
 A.lthough a strong infection of the age. 
 Was never much my habit — giving way 
 To a comparison of scene with scene. 
 Bent overmuch on superficial things. 
 Pampering myself with meagre novelties 
 Of color and proportion; to the moods 
 Of time and season, to the moral power, 
 The affections and the spirit of the place, 
 Insensible. Nor only did the love 
 Of sitting thus in judgment interrupt 
 My deeper feelings, but another cause, 
 More subtle and less easily explained, 
 That almost seems inherent in the crea- 
 ture, 
 A twofold frame of body and of mind. 
 I speak in recollection of a time 
 When the bodily eye, in every stage of life 
 The most despotic of our senses, gained 
 Such strength in me as often held my mind 
 In^ absolute dominion. Gladly here, 
 Entering upon abstruser argument. 
 Could I endeavor to unfold the means 
 Which Nature studiously employs to 
 
 thwart 
 This tyranny, summons all the senses each 
 To counteract the other, and themselves, 
 rAnd makes them all, and the objects 
 
 with which all 
 Are conversant, subservient in their turn 
 To the great ends of Liberty and Power. 
 But leave we this: enough that my 
 
 delights 
 (Such as they were) were sought in- 
 satiably. 
 Vivid the transport, vivid though not 
 profound; 
 
364 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 I roamed from hill to hill, from rock to 
 
 rock, 
 Still craving combinations of new forms, 
 New pleasure, wider empire for the sight. 
 Proud of her own endowments, and re- 
 joiced 
 To lay the inner faculties asleep. 
 Amid the turns and counterturns, the 
 
 strife 
 And various trials of our complex being, 
 As we grow up, such thraldom of that 
 
 sense 
 Seems hard to shun. And yet I knew a 
 
 maid, 
 A young enthusiast, who escaped these 
 
 bonds; 
 Her eye was not the mistress of her heart; 
 Fair less did rules prescribed by passive 
 
 taste. 
 Or barren intermeddling subtleties. 
 Perplex her mind; but, wise as women are 
 When genial circumstance hath favored 
 
 them, 
 She welcomed what was given, and 
 
 craved no more; 
 ' Whate'er the scene presented to her view 
 That was the best, to that she was attuned 
 By her benign simplicity of life. 
 And through a perfect happiness of soul, 
 Whose variegated feelings were in this 
 Sisters, that they were each some new 
 
 delight. 
 Birds in the bower, and lambs in the 
 
 green field. 
 Could they have known her, would have 
 
 loved; methought 
 Her very presence such a sweetness 
 
 breathed. 
 That flowers, and trees, and even the 
 
 silent hills, 
 And everything she looked on, should 
 
 have had 
 An intimation how she bore herself 
 Towards them and to all creatures. God 
 
 delights 
 In such a being ; for, her common thoughts 
 Are piety, her life is gratitude. 
 
 Even like this maid, before I was 
 called forth 
 From the retirement of my native hills, 
 I loved whate'er I saw : nor lightly loved, 
 But most intensely; never dreamt of alight 
 
 j More grand, more fair, more exquisitely 
 framed 
 Than those few nooks to which my 
 
 happy feet 
 Were limited. I had not at that time 
 Lived long enough, nor in the least sur- 
 vived 
 The first diviner influence of this world, 
 As it appears to unaccustomed eyes. 
 Worshipping them among the depth of 
 
 things, 
 As piety ordained, could I submit 
 To measured admiration, or to aught 
 That should preclude humility and love? 
 I fell, observed, and pondered; did not 
 
 judge. 
 Yea, never thought of judging; with the 
 
 gift 
 Of all this glory filled and satisfied. 
 And afterwards, when through the gor- 
 geous Alps 
 Roaming, I carried with me the same 
 
 heart : 
 In truth, the degradation — howsoe'er 
 Induced, effect, in whatsoe'er degree. 
 Of custom that prepares a partial scale 
 In which the little oft outweighs the great; 
 Or any other cause that hath been named; 
 Or lastly, aggravated by the times 
 And their impassioned sounds, which 
 
 well might make 
 The milder minstrelsies of rural scenes 
 Inaudible — was transient; I had known 
 Too forcibly, too early in my life, 
 Visitings of imaginative power 
 For this to last : I shook the habit off 
 Entirely and forever, and again 
 In Nature's presence stood, as now I 
 
 stand, 
 A sensitive being, a creative soul. 
 
 There are in our existence spots of time. 
 That with distinct pre-eminence retain 
 A renovating virtue, whence — depressed 
 By false opinion and contentious thought, 
 Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight, 
 In trivial occupations, and the round 
 Of ordinary intercourse — our minds 
 Are nourished and invisibly repaired; 
 A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced. 
 That penetrates, enables us to mount, 
 When high, more high, and lifts us uo 
 when fallen. 
 
IMAGINATION AND TASTE. 
 
 365 
 
 This efficacious spirit chiefly lurks 
 Among those passages of life that give 
 Profoundest knowledge to what point, 
 
 and how, 
 The mind is lord and master — outward 
 
 sense 
 The obedient servant of her will. Such 
 
 moments 
 Are scattered everywhere, taking their date 
 From our first childhood. I remember 
 
 well, 
 That once, while yet my inexperienced 
 
 hand 
 Could scarcely hold a bridle, with proud 
 
 hopes 
 I mounted,_and we journeyed towards the 
 
 hills: ^^.,,,_.,^ *•,?-%-•.<• 
 An ancient servant of my father's house 
 Was with me, my encourager and guide : 
 We had not travelled long, ere some mis- 
 chance '"" 
 DisjqineS rne from my comrade; and, 
 
 through fear 
 Dismounting, down the rough and stony 
 
 -moor 
 I led my horse, and, stumbling on, at 
 
 length 
 Came to a bottom, where in former times 
 A murderer had been hung in iron chains. 
 The gibbet-mast had mouldered down, the 
 
 bones 
 And iron case were gone; but on the turf. 
 Hard by, soon after that fell deed was 
 
 wrought. 
 Some unknown hand had carved the 
 
 murderer's name. 
 The monumental letters were inscribed 
 In times long past; but still, from year to 
 
 ■ year 
 By superstition of the neighborhood. 
 The grass is cleared away, and to this hour 
 The characters are fresh and visible : 
 A casual glance had shown them, and I 
 
 fled. 
 Faltering and faint, and ignorant of the 
 
 road: 
 Then,_reascending the bare common, saw 
 A naked pool that lay beneath the hills. 
 The beacon on the summit, and, more 
 
 near, 
 A girl, who bore a pitcher on her head. 
 And seemed with difficult steps to force 
 
 her way 
 
 Against the blowing wind. It was, in 
 
 truth. 
 An ordinary sight; but I should need 
 Colors and words that are unknown to 
 
 man. 
 To paint the visionary dreariness 
 Which, while I looked all round for my 
 
 lost guide. 
 Invested moorland waste and naked pool, 
 The beacon crowning the lone eminence. 
 The female and her garments vexed and 
 
 tossed 
 By the strong wind. When, in the blessed 
 
 hours 
 Of early love, the loved one at my side, 
 I roamed, in daily presence of this scene, 
 Upon the naked pool and dreary crags. 
 And on the melancholy beacon, fell 
 A spirit of pleasure and youth's golden 
 
 gleam; 
 And think ye not with radiance more sub- 
 lime 
 For these remembrances, and for the power 
 They had left behind? So feeling corae^ 
 
 in aid 
 Of feehng, and diversity of strength 
 Attends us, if but once we have been 
 
 strong. 
 Oh ! mystery of man, from what a depth 
 Proceed thy honors. I am lost, but see 
 In simple childhood something of the base 
 On which thy greatness stands; but this I 
 
 feel. 
 That from thyself it comes, that thou must 
 
 give. 
 Else never canst receive. The days gone by 
 Return upon me almost from the dawn 
 Of life: the hiding-places of man's power 
 Open; I wouIcT approach them, but they 
 
 close. 
 I see by glimpses now ; when age comes on, 
 May scarcely see at all; and I would give. 
 While yet we may, as far as words can 
 
 give. 
 Substance and life to what I feel, en- 
 shrining. 
 Such is my hope, the spirit of the Past 
 For future restoration. — Yet another 
 Of these memorials : — 
 
 One Chrjstmas-time, 
 On the glad eve of its dear holidays. 
 Feverish, and tired, and restless, I went 
 
 forth 
 
366 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Into the fields, impatient for the sight 
 Of those led palfreys that should bear us 
 
 home; 
 My brothers and myself. There rose a 
 
 crag, 
 That, from the meeting-point of two high- 
 ways 
 Ascending, overlooked them both, far 
 
 stretched; 
 Thither, uncertain on which road to fix 
 My expectation, thither I repaired. 
 Scout-like, and gained the summit; 't was 
 
 a day 
 Tempestuous, dark, and wild, and on the 
 
 grass 
 I sate half-sheltered by a naked wall; 
 Upon my right hand couched a single 
 
 sheep. 
 Upon my left a blasted hawthorn stood; 
 With those companions at my side, I 
 
 watched, 
 Straining my eyes intensely, as the mist 
 Gave intermitting prospect of the copse 
 And plain beneath. Ere we to school 
 
 returned, — 
 That dreary time, — ere we had been ten 
 
 days 
 Sojourners in my father^s houses he died; 
 And I and my three brothers,orphans then. 
 Followed his body to the grave. ThS 
 
 event. 
 With all the sorrow that it brought, 
 f ^appeared 
 
 A chastisement; and when I called to 
 
 ' injiTd 
 
 That day so lately past, when from the crag 
 I looked in such anxiety of hope; 
 With trite reflections of morality. 
 Yet in the deepest passion, I bowed low 
 To God, Who thus cojrected my desires; 
 And, afterwards, the wind andsleety ram, 
 And all the business of the elements. 
 The single sheep, and the one blasted tree. 
 And the bleak music from that old stone 
 
 wall, 
 The noise of wood and water, and the mist 
 That on the line of each of those two roads 
 Advanced in such indisputable shapes; 
 All these were kindred spectacles, and 
 
 sounds 
 To whiclTI oft repaired, and thence would 
 
 drink,. 
 As at a fountain; and on winter nights, 
 
 Down to this very time, when storm and 
 
 rain 
 Beat on my roof, or, haply, at noon-day, 
 While in a grove I walk, whose lofty trees, 
 Laden with summer's thickest foliage, rock 
 In a strong wind, some working of the 
 
 spirit, 
 Some inward agitations thence are 
 
 brought, 
 ^Whate'er their office, whether to beguile 
 Thoughts over busy in the course they 
 » took, 
 
 iOr animate an hour of vacant ease. 
 
 Book Thirteenth. 
 
 IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED 
 AND RESTORED (^concluded). 
 
 From Nature doth emotion come, and 
 
 moods 
 Of calmness equally are Nature's gift: 
 This is her glory; these two attributes 
 Are sister horns that constitute her 
 
 strength. 
 Hence Genius, born to thrive by inter- 
 change 
 Of peace and excitation, finds in her 
 His best and purest friend; from her 
 
 receives 
 That energy by which he seeks t he truth , 
 From her fhatTiappy stinness~6f"the mind 
 Which fits him to receive it when unsought. 
 
 Such benefit the humblest intellects 
 Partake of, each in their degree; 't is mine 
 To speak, what I myself have known and 
 
 felt; 
 Smooth task ! for words find easy way, 
 
 inspired 
 By gratitude, and confidence in truth. 
 j-^Long time in seach of knowledge did I 
 
 range 
 The field of human hfe, in heart and mind 
 Benighted; but, the dawn beginning now 
 To re-appear, 't was proved that not in vain 
 I had been taught to reverence a Power 
 That is the visible quality and shape 
 And image of jighlltgason; that matures 
 Her processes by steadfast laws ; gives birth 
 To no impatient or fallacious hopes. 
 No heat of passion or excessive zeal. 
 
IMAGINATION AND TASTE. 
 
 367 
 
 No vain conceits; provokes to no quick 
 
 turns 
 Of self-applauding intellect; but trains 
 To meekness, and exalts by humble faith; 
 Holds up before the mind intoxicate 
 With present objects, and the busy dance 
 Of things that pass away, a temperate 
 
 show 
 OJ_ah}.ec^.that endure; and by this course 
 Disposes her, when over-fondly set 
 On throwing off incumbrances, to seek 
 In man, and in the frame of social life, 
 Whate'er there is desirable and good 
 Of kindred permanence, unchanged in 
 
 form 
 And function, or, through strict vicissitude 
 Of life and death, revolving. Above all 
 Were re-established now those watchful 
 
 thoughts 
 Which, seeing little worthy or sublime 
 In what the Historian's pen so much 
 
 delights 
 To blazon — power and energy detached 
 From moral purpose — early_tutored me 
 Jpjook with feelings of fraternal love^ 
 Ugonjhe unassuming things that hold 
 A silenTstaBon irnhis beauteous' world. 
 
 Thus moderated, thus composed, I 
 
 found 
 Once more in Man an object of delight. 
 Of pure imagination, and of love; 
 And, as the horizon of my mind enlarged. 
 Again I took the intellectual eye 
 For my instructor, studious more to see 
 Great truths, than touch and handle little 
 
 ones. 
 Knowledge was given accordingly; my 
 
 trust 
 Became more firm in feelings that had 
 
 stood 
 The test of such a trial ; clearer far 
 My sense of excellence — of right and 
 
 wrong : 
 The promise of the present time retired 
 Into its true proportion; sanguine 
 
 schemes. 
 Ambitious projects, pleased me less; I 
 
 sought 
 For present good in life's familiar face. 
 And built thereon my hopes of good to 
 
 come. 
 
 With settling judgments now of what 
 would last 
 And what would disappear; prepared to 
 
 find 
 Presumption, folly, madness, in the men 
 Who thrust themselves upon the passive 
 
 world 
 As Rulers of the world; to see in these, 
 Even when the public welfare is their aim. 
 Plans without thought, or built on theories 
 Vague and unsound; and having brought 
 
 the books 
 Of modern statists to their proper test. 
 Life, human life, with all its sacred claims 
 Of sex and age, and heaven-descended 
 
 rights, 
 Mortal, or those beyond the reach of 
 
 death; 
 And having thus discerned how dire a 
 
 thing 
 Is worshipped in that idol proudly named 
 "The Wealth of Nations," zohere alone 
 
 that wealth 
 Is lodged, and how increased ; and having 
 
 gained 
 A more judicious knowledge of the worth 
 And dignity of individual man. 
 No composition of the brain, but man 
 Of whom we read, the man whom we 
 
 behold 
 With our own eyes — I could not but in- 
 quire — 
 Not with less interest than heretofore. 
 But greater, though in spirit more sub- 
 dued — 
 Why is this glorious creature to be found 
 One only in ten thousand? What one is, 
 Why may not millions be? What bars 
 
 are thrown 
 By Nature in the way of such a hope ? 
 Our animal appetites and daily wants. 
 Are these obstructions insurmountable ? 
 If not, then others vanish into air. 
 " Inspect the basis of the social pile: 
 Inquire," said I, "how much of mental 
 
 power 
 And genuine virtue they possess who live 
 By bodily toil, labor exceeding far 
 Their due proportion, under all the weight 
 Of that injustice which upon ourselves 
 Ourselves entail . ' ' Such estimate to frame 
 I chiefly looked (what need to look be- 
 yond?) 
 
368 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Among the natural abodes of men, 
 Fields with their rural works; recalled to 
 
 mind 
 My earliest notices; with these compared 
 The observations made in later youth, 
 And to that day continued. — For, the 
 
 time 
 Had never been when throes of mighty 
 
 Nations 
 And the world's tumult unto me could 
 
 yield, 
 How far soe'er transported and possessed. 
 Full measure of content ; but still I craved 
 An intermingling of distinct regards 
 And truths of individual sympathy 
 Nearer ourselves. Such often might be 
 
 gleaned 
 From the great City, else it must have 
 
 proved 
 Tome a heart-depressing wilderness; 
 But much was wanting : therefore did I 
 
 turn 
 To you, ye pathways, and ye lonely roads ; 
 Sought you enriched with everything I 
 
 prized. 
 With human kindnesses and simple joys. 
 
 Oh ! next to one dear state of bliss, 
 
 vouchsafed, 
 Alas ! to few in this untoward world. 
 The bhss of walking daily in life's prime 
 Through field or forest with the maid we 
 
 love. 
 While yet our hearts are young, while yet 
 
 we breathe 
 Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook. 
 Deep vale, or anywhere, the home of both. 
 From which it would be misery to stir : 
 Oh ! next to such enjoyment of our youth. 
 In my esteem, next to such dear delight, 
 Was that of wandering on from day to day 
 Where I could meditate in peace, and cull 
 Knowledge that step by step might lead 
 
 me on 
 To wisdom; or, as lightsome as a bird 
 Wafted upon the wind from distant lands. 
 Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or 
 
 groves. 
 Which lacked not voice to welcome me in 
 
 turn: 
 And, when that pleasant toil had ceased 
 
 to please, 
 
 Converse with men, where if we meet a 
 
 face 
 We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths 
 With long long ways before, by cottage 
 
 bench. 
 Or well-spring where the weary traveller 
 
 rests. 
 
 .... >A-"-^ 
 v' Who doth not love to follow with his 
 
 eye 
 The windings of a public way? the sight, 
 Eamiliar object as it is, hath wrought 
 On my imagination since the morn 
 Of childhood, when a disappearing line, 
 One daily present to my eyes, that crossed 
 The naked summit of a far-off hill 
 Beyond the limits that my feet had trod. 
 Was like an invitation into space 
 Boundless, or guide into eternity. 
 Yes, something of the grandeur which 
 
 invests 
 The mariner, who sails the roaring sea 
 Through storm and darkness, early in 
 
 my mind 
 Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the 
 
 earth ; 
 Grandeur as much, and loveliness far 
 
 more. 
 Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites; 
 From many other uncouth vagrants 
 
 (passed 
 In fear) have walked with quicker step; 
 
 but why 
 Take note of this? When I began to 
 
 enquire. 
 To watch and question those I met, and 
 
 speak 
 Without reserve to them, the lonely roads 
 Were open schools in which I daily read 
 With most delight the passions of man- 
 kind, 
 Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, 
 
 revealed; 
 There saw into the depth of human souls, 
 Souls that appear to have no depth at al) 
 To careless eyes. And — now convincei! 
 
 at heart 
 How little those formalities, to which 
 'With overweening trust al6ne we give 
 The name of Education, have to do 
 With real feeling and just sense; howyain 
 A correspondence with the talking world 
 
IMAGINATION AND TASTE. 
 
 369 
 
 Xroves_to_the_niosti and called to make 
 
 good search 
 If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked 
 With toil, be therefore yoked with igno- 
 rance ; 
 If virtue be indeed so hard to rear, 
 And intellectual strength so rare a boon — 
 I prized such walks still more, for there I 
 
 found 
 Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure 
 
 peace 
 And steadiness, and healing and repose 
 To every angry passion. There I heard, 
 From mouth s of rnen obscure and lowly, 
 ~ ~ ^truths_ 
 
 Replete with h onor; sounds^in unison 
 With loftiest promises of good and fair. 
 
 There are who think that strong affec- 
 tion, Invp 
 Known by whatever name, is falsely 
 
 deemed 
 A gift, to use a term which they would use. 
 Of vulgar nature; that its growth requires 
 Retirement, leisure, language purified 
 By manners studied and elaborate; 
 Tj2M_iiJin°" foo]° ""'^ ptjccirwi in its 
 
 slrength 
 Must live within the very light and air 
 Of cjiurteous usages refined by art. 
 True is it, where oppression worse than 
 
 death 
 Salutes the being at his birth, where grace 
 Of culture hath been utterly unknown, 
 And poverty and labor in excess 
 From day to day pre-occupy the ground 
 Of the affections, and to Nature's self 
 Oppose a deeper nature ; there, indeed, 
 Love cannot be; nor does it. thrive with 
 
 ease 
 Among the close and overcrowded haunts 
 Of cities, where the human heart is sick. 
 And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed. 
 — Yes, in those wanderings deepl y did I 
 
 ieel^ ' 
 How we mislead each othe_r; above all. 
 How books mislead us, seeking their re- 
 ward 
 From judgments of the wealthy Few, who 
 
 see 
 By artificial lights; how they debase 
 The Many for the pleasure of those Few; 
 Effeminately level down the truth 
 
 To certain general notions, for the sake 
 Of being understood at once, or else 
 Through want of better knowledge in the 
 
 heads 
 That framed them; flattering self-conceit 
 
 with words. 
 That, while they most ambitiously set forth 
 Extrinsic differences, the outward marks 
 Whereby society has parted man 
 From man, neglect the universal heart. 
 
 Here, calling up to mind what then I 
 
 saw, 
 A youthful traveller, and see daily now 
 In the familiar circuit of my home. 
 Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 
 ToNature, and the power of huma.nrnlnds, 
 To men~aS they are men within themselves. 
 How oft high service is performed within, 
 (When all the external man is rude in 
 
 show, — 
 ; Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 
 I But a mere mountain chapel, that protects 
 Its simple worshippers from sun and 
 
 s how er. ~ 
 
 i Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these, 
 If future years mature me for the task. 
 Will I record the praises, making verse 
 Deal boldly with substantial things; in 
 
 truth 
 And sanctity of passion, speak of these, 
 That justice may be done, obeisance paid 
 Where it is due : thus haply shall I teach, 
 Inspire; through unadulterated ears 
 Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope, — 
 
 jny_theme ',, 
 
 No other than the very heart of rnan, A 
 As found among the best of those vroo 
 
 live — 
 Not unexalted by religious faith, 
 Nor uninformed by books, good books, 
 
 though few — 
 In Nature's presence : thence may I select 
 Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight; 
 And miserable love, that is not pain 
 To hear of, for the glory that redounds 
 Therefrom to human kind, and what we 
 
 are. 
 Be mine to follow with no timid step 
 Wfhere knowledge leads me : it shall be 
 
 my pride 
 That I have dared to tread this holy ground, 
 Speaking no dream, but things oracular; 
 
370 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Matter not lightly to be heard by those 
 
 Who to the letter of the outward promise 
 
 Do read the invisible soul ; by men adroit 
 
 In speech, and for communion with the 
 world 
 
 Accomplished; minds whose faculties are 
 then 
 
 Most active when they are most eloquent, 
 
 And elevated most when most admired. 
 
 Men may be found of other mould than 
 these. 
 
 Who are their own upholders, to them- 
 selves 
 
 Encouragement, and energy, and will, 
 
 Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively 
 words 
 
 As native passion dictates. Others, too. 
 
 There are among the walks of homely life 
 
 Still higher, men for contemplation 
 framed. 
 
 Shy, and unpractised in the strife of 
 phrase; 
 
 Meek men, whose very souls perhaps 
 would sink 
 
 Beneath them, summoned to such inter- 
 course : 
 
 Theirs is the language of the heavens, the 
 power. 
 
 The thought, the image, and the silent joy : 
 
 Words are but under-agents in their souls; 
 
 When they are grasping with their greatest 
 strength. 
 
 They do not breathe among them : this I 
 speak 
 
 In gratitude to God, Who feeds our hearts 
 1 For His own service; knoweth, loveth us, 
 
 'When we are unregarded by the world. 
 
 \ 
 
 Also, about this time did I receive ^ 
 Convictions still more strong than hereto- 
 fore. 
 Not only that_th.e_inner frame_is^goo_d, ' 
 And_ graciously composed, but that, no 
 less, 
 ■' Nature for all conditions wants not power 
 To consecrate, if we have eyes to see. 
 The outside of her creatures, and to 
 breathe 
 ^, Grandeur upon the very humblest face 
 X)f human life. I felt that the array 
 Of act and circumstance, and visible form. 
 Is mainly to the pleasure of the mind 
 
 What passion makes them; that mean- 
 while the forms 
 Of Nature have a passion in themselves. 
 That intermingles with those works of man 
 To which she summons him ; although the 
 
 works 
 Be mean, have nothing lofty of their own; 
 And that the Genius of the Poet hence 
 May boldly take his way among mankind 
 Wherever Nature leads; that he hath 
 
 stood 
 By Nature's side among the men of old. 
 And so shall stand forever. Dearest 
 
 Friend ! 
 If thou partake the animating faith 
 That Poets, even as Prophets, each with 
 
 each 
 Connected in a mighty scheme of truth. 
 Have each his own peculiar faculty, 
 Heaven's gift, a sense that fits him to 
 
 perceive 
 Objects unseen before, thou wilt not blame 
 The humblest of this band who dares to 
 
 hope 
 That unto him hath also been vouchsafed 
 An insight that in some sort he possesses, 
 A privilege whereby a work of his. 
 Proceeding from a source of untaught 
 
 things. 
 Creative and enduring, may become 
 \ A power like one of Nature's. To a hope 
 Not less ambitious once among the wilds 
 Of Sarum's Plain, my youthful spirit was 
 
 raised; 
 There, as I ranged at will the pastoral 
 
 downs 
 Trackless and smooth, or paced the bare 
 I white roads 
 
 ' Lengthening in solitude their dreary line, 
 Time with his retinue of ages fled 
 backwards, nor checked his flight until I 
 ,;? saw 
 
 ' Our diin aricestj.al_Pastj.n^vision_d£ari 
 Saw multitudes of men, and, here and 
 
 there, 
 A single Briton clothed in wolf -skin vest, 
 With shield and stone-axe, stride across 
 
 the wold; 
 The voice of spears was heard, the rattling 
 
 spear 
 Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in 
 
 strength. 
 Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty. 
 
ij^t^ 
 
 .y. t^" 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 -«-t^ 
 
 371 
 
 I called on Darkness — but before the word 
 Was uttered, midnight darkness seemed 
 
 to take 
 All objects from my sight; and lo ! again 
 The Desert visible by dismal flames; 
 It is the sacrificial altar, fed 
 With living men — how deep the groans ! 
 
 the voice 
 Of those that crowd the giant wicker thrills 
 The monumental hillocks, and the pomp 
 Is for both worlds, the living and the dead. 
 At other moments — (for through that 
 
 wide waste 
 Three summer days I roamed) where'er 
 
 the Plain 
 Was figured o'er with circles, lines, or 
 
 mounds, 
 That yet survive, a work, as some divine. 
 Shaped by the Druids, so to represent 
 Their knowledge of the heavens, and im- 
 age forth 
 The constellations — gently was I charmed 
 Into a waking dream, a reverie 
 That, with believing eyes, where'er I 
 
 turned, 
 Beheld long-bearded teachers, with white 
 
 wands 
 Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky. 
 Alternately, and plain below, while breath 
 Of music swayed their motions, and the 
 
 waste 
 Rejoiced with them and me in those sweet 
 
 sounds. 
 
 This for the past, and things that may 
 be viewed 
 Or fancied in the obscurity of years 
 From monumental hints: and thou, O 
 
 Friend ! 
 Pleased with some unpremeditated strains 
 That served those wanderings to beguile, 
 
 hast said 
 That then and tliere my mind had exercised 
 Upon the vulgar forms of present things. 
 The actual world of our familiar days. 
 Yet higher power; had caught from them 
 
 a tone, 
 An image, and a character, by books 
 Not hitherto reflected. Call wethis 
 A partial judgment — and yet why? for 
 
 then 
 We were as strangers; and I may not 
 
 speak 
 
 Thus wrongfully of verse, however rude. 
 Which on thy young imagination, trained 
 In the great City, broke like light from far. 
 Moreover, eacli-man's Mind is to. herself 
 Witness and judge; and I remember well 
 That in life's every-day appearances 
 I seemed about this time to gain clear 
 
 sight 
 Of a new world — a world, too, that was 
 
 fit 
 To be transmitted, and to other eyes 
 Made visible ; as ruled by those fixed laws 
 Whence spiritual dignity originates, 
 Which do both give it being and maintain 
 A balance, an ennobling interchange 
 Of action from without and from within; 
 The excellence, pure function, and best 
 
 power 
 Both of the objects seen, and eye that sees. 
 
 Book Fourteenth. 
 
 conclusion. ' ' 
 
 In giie of those excursions (may they ne'ei 
 Fade from remembrance ! ) through ths 
 
 Northern tracts 
 Of Cambria "fahglng with a youthful 
 
 friend, 
 I left Bethgelert's huts at couching-time, 
 And westward took my way, to see thd 
 
 sun 
 Rise, from the top of Snowdon. To the 
 
 door "' 
 
 Of a rude cottage at the mountain's bast! 
 We came, and roused the shepherd who 
 
 attends 
 The adventurous stranger's steps, a trusty 
 
 guide ; 
 Then, cheered by short refreshment, sal- 
 
 lied forth. 
 
 It was a close, warm, breezeless sum- 
 mer night. 
 
 Wan, dull, and glaring, with a dripping 
 fog 
 
 Low-hung and thick that covered all the 
 sky; 
 
 But, undiscouraged, we began to climb 
 
 The mountain-side. The mist soon girt 
 us round. 
 
 And, after ordinary travellers' talk 
 
372 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 With our conductor, pensively we sank 
 Each into commerce with his private 
 
 thoughts : 
 Thus did we breast the ascent, and by my- 
 self 
 Was nothing either seen or heard that 
 
 checked 
 Those musings or diverted, save that once 
 The shepherd's lurcher, who, among the 
 
 crags. 
 Had to his joy unearthed a hedgehog, 
 
 teased 
 His coiled-up prey with barkings turbu- 
 lent. 
 This small adventure, for even such it 
 
 seemed 
 In that wild place and at the dead of night. 
 Being over and forgotten, on we wound 
 In silence as before. With forehead bent 
 Earthward, as if in opposition set 
 Against an enemy, I panted up 
 With eager pace, and no less eager 
 
 thoughts. 
 Thus might we wear a midnight hour 
 
 away. 
 Ascending at loose distance each from 
 
 each. 
 And I, as chanced, the foremost of the 
 
 band; 
 When at my feet the ground appeared to 
 
 brighten. 
 And with a step or two seemed brighter 
 
 still; 
 Nor was time given to ask or learn the 
 
 cause. 
 For instantly a light upon the turf 
 Fell like a flash, and lo ! ^as-l-laQ]£ed_up, 
 The -Moon hung naked in a .fbrmament 
 Of azure without cloud, atiti atjny.iaet 
 Rested a silent sea of hoary mist. 
 A hundred hills their dusky backs up- 
 heaved 
 All over this still ocean; and beyond. 
 Far, far beyond, the solid vapors stretched. 
 In headlands, tongues, and promontory 
 
 shapes. 
 Into the main Atlantic, that appeared 
 To dwindle, and give up his majesty. 
 Usurped upon far as the sight could reach. 
 Not so the ethereal vault; encroachment 
 
 none 
 Was there , nor loss ; only the inferior stars 
 Had disappeared, or shed a fainter light 
 
 In the clear presence of the full-orbed 
 Moon, 
 
 Who, from her^oyercign elevation, jgazed 
 
 Upon the billowy ocean, as ft lay~ "~~-~~ 
 
 All ineelr^aiid'sirent, save that through a 
 rift — 
 
 Not distant from the shore whereon we 
 stood, 
 
 A fixed, abysmal, gloomy, breathing- 
 place — 
 
 Mounted the roar of waters, torrents, 
 streams 
 
 Innumerable, roaring with one voice ! 
 
 Heard over earth and sea, and, in that 
 hour. 
 
 For so it seemed, felt by the starry heavens. 
 
 When into air had partially dissolved 
 That vision, given to spirits of the night 
 And three chance human wanderers, in 
 
 calm thought 
 Reflected, it appeared to me the type 
 Of a majestic intellectj its acts 
 And its possessions, what it has and 
 
 craves. 
 What in itself it is, and would become. 
 There I beheld Ijr^- pmblem-ol, a.rrund 
 .Iba-t-feeds-upon-iafioity, that broods 
 Over the dark abyss, intent to hear 
 Its voices issuing forth to silent light 
 In one continuous stream; a mind sus- 
 tained 
 By recognitions of transcendent power, 
 In sense conducting to ideal form, --- 
 In soul of more than mortal pnviTege. 
 One function, above all, of such a mind 
 Had Nature shadowed there, by putting 
 
 forth, 
 'Mid circumstances awful and sublime. 
 That mutual domination which she loves 
 To exert upon the face of outward things, 
 So moulded, joined, abstracted, so en- 
 dowed 
 With interchangeable supremacy, 
 That men, least sensitive, see, hear, per- 
 ceive. 
 And cannot choose but feel. The power, 
 
 which all 
 Acknowledge when thus moved, which 
 
 Nature thus 
 To bodily sense exhibits, is the express 
 Resemblance of that glorious faculty 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 373 
 
 That higher minds bear with them as their 
 
 own. 
 This is the very spirit in which they deal 
 With the whole compass of the universe : 
 They from their native selves can send 
 
 abroad 
 Kindred mutations; for themselves create 
 A like existence; and, whene'er it dawns 
 Created for them, catch it, or are caught 
 By its inevitable mastery, 
 Like angels stopped upon the wing by 
 
 sound 
 Of harmony from Heaven's remotest 
 
 spheres. 
 Them the enduring and the transient both 
 Serve to exalt; they build up greatest 
 
 things 
 From least suggestions; ever on the 
 
 watch, 
 Willing to work and to be wrought upon, 
 They need not extraordinary calls 
 To rouse them ; in a world of life they live. 
 By sensible impressions not enthralled. 
 But by their quickening impulse made 
 
 more prompt 
 To hold fit converse with the spiritual 
 
 world. 
 And with the generations of mankind 
 Spread over time, past, present, and to 
 
 come. 
 Age after age, till Time shall be no more. 
 Such minds are truly from the Deity, 
 For they are Powers ; and hence the high- 
 est bliss 
 That flesh can know is theirs — the con- 
 sciousness 
 Of Whom they are, habitually infused 
 Through every image and through every 
 
 thought. 
 And all affections by communion raised 
 From earth to heaven, from human to 
 
 divine ; 
 Hence endless occupation for the Soul, 
 Whether discursive or intuitive; 
 Hence cheerfulness for acts of daily life, 
 Emotions which best foresight need not 
 
 fear. 
 Most worthy then of trust when most in- 
 tense. 
 Hence, amid ills that vex and wrongs that 
 
 crush 
 Our hearts — if here the words of Holy 
 Writ 
 
 May with fit reverence be applied — that 
 
 peace 
 Which passeth understanding, that repose 
 In moral judgments which from this pure 
 
 source 
 Must come, or will by man be sought in 
 
 vain. 
 
 Oh ! who is he that hath his whole life 
 long 
 Preserved, enlarged, this freedom in him- 
 self? 
 For this alone is genuine liberty : 
 Where is the favored being who hath held 
 That course unchecked, unerring, and un- 
 
 tired. 
 In one perpetual progress smooth and 
 
 bright ? — 
 A humbler destiny have we retraced, 
 And told of lapse and hesitating choice. 
 And backward wanderings along thorny 
 
 ways: 
 Yet — compassed round by mountain soli- 
 tudes. 
 Within whose solemn temple I received 
 My earliest visitations, careless then 
 Of what was given me; and which now I 
 
 range, 
 A meditative, oft a suffering, man — 
 Do I declare — in accents which, from 
 
 truth 
 Deriving cheerful confidence, shall blend 
 Their modulation with these vocal 
 
 streams — 
 That, whatsoever falls my better mind. 
 Revolving with the accidents of life. 
 May have sustained, that, howso'er mis- 
 led. 
 Never did I, in quest of right and wrong. 
 Tamper with conscience from a private 
 
 aim; 
 Nor was in any public hope the dupe 
 Of selfish passions; nor did ever yield 
 Wilfully to mean cares or low pursuits, 
 But shrunk with apprehensive jealousy 
 From every combination which might aid 
 The tendency, too potent in itself, 
 Of use and custom to bow down the soul 
 Under a growing weight of vulgar sense, 
 And substitute a universe of death 
 For that which moves with light and life 
 informed, 
 
374 
 
 THE PRELUDE., 
 
 ^^V" '■' ' 
 
 Actual, divine, and true. To fear and 
 
 love, 
 TojDie_as-jjrime aivichief, for there fear 
 
 ends, 
 Be this ascribed; to early intercourse. 
 In presence of sublime or beautiful forms. 
 With the adverse principles of pain and 
 
 joy — 
 Evil as one is rashly named by men 
 Who know not what they speak. By love 
 
 subsists 
 All lasting grandeitr, by pervading love; 
 That gone, we are as dust. — Behold the 
 
 fields 
 In balmy springtime full of rising flowers 
 And joyous creatures; see that pair, the 
 
 lamb 
 And the lamb's mother, and their tender 
 
 ways 
 Shall touch thee to the heart; thou callest 
 
 this love, 
 And not inaptly so, for love it is, 
 Far as it carries thee. In some green 
 
 bower 
 Rest, and be not alone, but have thou 
 
 there 
 The One who is thy choice of all the 
 
 world : 
 There linger, listening, gazing, with de- 
 light 
 Impassioned, but delight how pitiable ! 
 Unless this love by a still higher love 
 Be hallowed, love that breathes not with- 
 out awe; 
 Love that adores, but on the knees of 
 
 prayer. 
 By heaven inspired; that frees from chains 
 
 the soul. 
 Lifted, in union with the purest, best. 
 Of earth-born passions, on the wings of 
 
 praise 
 Bearing a tribute to the Almighty's 
 
 Throne. 
 
 This spiritual Love acts not nor can 
 
 exist 
 Witnout I magination, which, in truth. 
 
 Is but another name for absolute.j)fl.wei 
 
 And clearest insight, ampfitudeof miijd. 
 And Reason in her most exakedmood. 
 This faculty hath been the feeding source 
 Of our long labor: we have traced the 
 
 stream 
 
 From the blind cavern whence is faintly 
 
 heard 
 Its natal murmur ; followed it to light 
 And open day; accompanied its course 
 Among the ways of Nature, for a time 
 Lost sight of it bewildered and engulphed; 
 Then given it greeting as it rose once more 
 In strength, reflecting from its placid 
 
 breast 
 The works of man and face of human life; 
 And lastly, from its progress have we 
 / drawn 
 
 Faith in life endless, the sustaining 
 
 thought 
 I Of human Being, Eternity, and God. 
 
 ^^ Imagination having been our theme. 
 So also hath that intellectual Love, 
 For they are each in each, and cannot 
 
 stand 
 Dividually. — Here must thou be, O Man ! 
 Power to thyself; no Helper hast thou 
 
 here; 
 Here keepest thou in singleness thy state : 
 No other can divide with thee this work: 
 No secondary hand can intervene 
 To fashion this ability; 't is thine, 
 The prime and vital principle is thine 
 In the recesses of thy nature, far 
 From any reach of outward fellowship. 
 Else is not thine at all. But joy to him, 
 Oh, joy to him who here hath sown, hath 
 
 laid 
 Here, the foundation of his future years! 
 For all that friendship, all that love can 
 
 do, 
 All that a darling countenance can look 
 Or dear voice utter, to complete the man. 
 Perfect him, made imperfect in himself, 
 AH shall be his : and he whose sou! hath 
 
 risen 
 Up to the height of feeling intellect 
 Shall want no humbler tenderness; his 
 
 heart 
 Be tender as a nursing mother's heart; 
 Of female softness shall his life be full. 
 Of humble cares and delicate desires, 
 Mild interests and gentlest sympathies. 
 
 Child of my parents ! Sister. of my soul ! 
 Thanks in sincerest verse have been else- 
 " where 
 
 Poured out for all the early tenderness 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 375 
 
 Which I from thee imbibed : and 't is most 
 
 true 
 That later seasons owed to thee no less; 
 For, spite of thy sweet influence and the 
 
 touch 
 Of kindred hands that opened out the 
 
 springs 
 Of genial thought in childhood, and in 
 
 spite 
 Of all that unassisted I had marked 
 In life or nature of those charms minute 
 That win their way into the heart by 
 
 stealth 
 (Still to the very going-out of youth) 
 I too exclusively esteemed that love, 
 And sought that beauty, which, as Milton 
 
 sings. 
 Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften down 
 This over-sternness; but for thee, dear 
 
 Friend ! 
 My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had 
 
 stood 
 In her original self too confident. 
 Retained too long a countenance severe; 
 A rock with torrents roaring, with the 
 
 clouds 
 Familiar, and a favorite of the stars : 
 But thou didst plant its crevices with 
 
 flowers, 
 Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the 
 
 breeze. 
 And teach the little birds to build their 
 
 nests 
 And warble in its chambers. At a time 
 When Nature, destined to remain so long 
 Foremost in my affections, had fallen back 
 Into a second place, pleased to become 
 A handmaid to a nobler than herself, 
 When every day brought with it some new 
 
 sense 
 Of exquisite regard for common things, 
 And all the earth was budding with these 
 
 gifts 
 Of more refined humanity, thy breath. 
 Dear Sister ! was a kind of gentler spring 
 That went before my steps. Thereafter 
 
 came 
 One whom with thee friendship had early 
 
 paired; 
 She came, no more a phantom to adorn 
 A moment, but an inmate of the heart. 
 And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined 
 To penetrate the lofty and the low; 
 
 Even as one essence of pervading light 
 Shines, in the brightest of ten thousand 
 
 stars 
 And the meek worm that feeds her lonely 
 
 lamp 
 Couched in the dewy grass. 
 
 With such a theme, 
 Coleridge ! with this my argument, of thee-. 
 Shall I be silent? O capacious Soul ! 
 Placed on this earth to love and under- 
 stand, 
 And from thy presence shed the light of 
 
 love. 
 Shall I be mute, ere thou be spoken of ? '' 
 Thy kindred influence to my heart of 
 
 hearts 
 Did also find its way. Thus fear relaxed 
 Her overweening grasp; thus thoughts 
 
 and things 
 In the self-haunting spirit learned to take 
 More rational proportions; mystery. 
 The incumbent mystery of sense and soul. 
 Of life and death, time and eternity. 
 Admitted more habitually a mild 
 Interposition — a serene delight 
 In closelier gathering cares, such as 
 
 become 
 A human creature, howso'er endowed. 
 Poet, or destined for a humbler name; 
 And so the deep enthusiastic joy, 
 The rapture of the hallelujah sent 
 From all that breathes and is, was 
 
 chastened, stemmed 
 And balanced by pathetic truth, by trust 
 In hopeful reason, leaning on the stay 
 Of Providence; and in reverence for duty. 
 Here, if need be, struggling with storms, 
 
 and there 
 Strewing in peace life's humblest ground 
 
 with herbs. 
 At every season green, sweet at all hours. 
 
 And now, O Friend ! this history is 
 
 brought 
 To its appointed close : the discipline 
 And consummation of a Poet's mind. 
 In everything that stood most prominent, 
 Have faithfully been pictured; we have 
 
 reached 
 The time (our guiding object from the 
 
 first) 
 When we may, not presumptuously, I 
 
 hope. 
 
376 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Suppose my powers so far confirmed, 
 
 " ~ and such 
 
 My knowledge, as to make me capable 
 Of^ building up a Work that shall endure. 
 Vet much hath been omitted, as iieed 
 
 was; 
 Of books how much ! and even of the 
 
 other wealth 
 That is collected among woods and fields, 
 Far more: for Nature's secondary grace 
 Hath hitherto been barely touched upon, 
 The charm more superficial that attends. 
 Her works, as they present to Fancy's 
 
 choice 
 Apt illustrations of the moral world. 
 Caught at a glance, or traced with curi- 
 ous pains. 
 
 Finally, and above all, O Friend ! 
 
 (I speak 
 With due regret) how much is overlooked 
 In human nature and her subtle ways, 
 'As studied first in our own hearts, and 
 
 then 
 In life among the passions of mankind, 
 Varying their composition and their hue. 
 Where'er we move, under the diverse 
 
 shapes 
 That individual character presents 
 To an attentive eye. For progress meet. 
 Along this intricate and difficult path, 
 Whate'er was wanting, something had I 
 
 gained. 
 As one of many schoolfellows compelled, 
 In hardy independence, to stand up 
 Amid conflicting interests, and the shock 
 Of various tempers; to endure and note 
 What was not understood, though, kiiown 
 
 to be; 
 Among the mysteries of love and hate, 
 /•Honor and shame, looking to right and 
 
 left, 
 ) Unchecked by innocence too delicate, 
 
 And moral notions too intolerant, 
 ^ Sympathies too contracted. Hence, 
 V when called 
 
 To take a station among men, the step 
 Was easier, the transition more secure, 
 More profitable also; for, the mind 
 Learns from such timely exercise to keep 
 In wholesome separation the two natures, 
 The one that feels, the other that ob- 
 serves. 
 
 Yet one word more of personal con- 
 cern; — 
 Since I withdrew unwillingly from 
 
 France, 
 I led an undomestic wanderer's life, 
 In London chiefly harbored, whence I 
 
 roamed. 
 Tarrying at will in many a pleasant spot 
 Of rural England's cultivated vales 
 Or Cambrian solitudes. A youth — (he 
 
 bore 
 The name of Calvert — it shall live, if 
 
 words 
 Of mine can give it life,) in firm belief 
 That by endowments not from me with- 
 held 
 Good might be furthered — in his last 
 
 decay 
 By a bequest sufficient for my needs 
 Enabled me to pause for choice, and walk 
 At large and unrestrained, nor damped 
 
 too soon 
 By mortal cares. Himself no Poet, yet 
 Far less a common follower of the world, 
 He deemed that my pursuits and labors 
 
 lay 
 Apart from all that leads to wealth, or 
 
 even 
 A necessary maintenance insures, 
 Without some hazard to the finer sense; 
 He cleared a passage for me, and the 
 
 stream 
 Flowed in the bent of Nature. 
 
 Having now 
 Told what best merits mention, further 
 
 pains 
 Our present purpose seems not to re- 
 quire. 
 And I have other tasks. Recall to mind 
 The mood in which this labor was begun, 
 
 Friend ! The termination of my course 
 Is nearer now, much nearer; yet even 
 
 then. 
 In that distraction and intense desire, 
 
 1 said unto the life which I had lived. 
 Where art thou? Hear I not a voice 
 
 from thee 
 Which 't is reproach to hear? Anon I 
 
 rose 
 As if on wings, and saw beneath me 
 
 stretched 
 Vast prospect of the world which I had 
 
 been 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 377 
 
 And was; and hence this Song, which, 
 
 like a lark, 
 I have protracted, in the unwearied 
 
 heavens 
 Singing, and often with more plaintive 
 
 voice 
 To earth attempered and her deep-drawn 
 
 sighs. 
 Yet cenj ring all in love , and in the end 
 All gratulant, if rightly un&stood. 
 
 Whether to me shall be allotted life. 
 And, with life, power to accomplish 
 
 aught of worth. 
 That will be deemed no insufficient plea 
 For having given the story of myself, 
 Is all uncertain : but, beloved Friend ! 
 When, looking back, thou seest, in 
 
 clearer view 
 Than any liveliest sight of yesterday, 
 That summer, under whose indulgent 
 
 skies, 
 Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we 
 
 roved , 
 
 Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan 
 
 combs, 
 Thou in bewitching words, with happy 
 ^ heart. 
 
 Didst chant the vision of that Ancient 
 
 HaH[; 
 The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes 
 Didst^utter of the Lady CKristabel; 
 And I, associate with such labor, steeped 
 In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours, 
 Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was 
 
 found. 
 After the perils of his moonlight ride. 
 Near the loud waterfall ; or her who sate 
 In misery near the miserable Thorn — 
 When thou dost to that summer turn thy 
 
 thoughts. 
 And hast before thee all which then we 
 
 were. 
 To thee, in memory of that happiness, 
 It will l5e known, by thee at least, my 
 
 Friend ! 
 £elt,JJiat- the history of..a Poet's mind 
 Is labor no t unworthy of regar31 ' 
 To thee the work shall justify ifself. 
 
 The last and later portions of this gift 
 Have been prepared, not with the buoy- 
 ant spirits 
 
 That were our daily portion when we first 
 Together wantoned in wild Poesy, 
 But, under pressure of a private grief. 
 Keen and enduring, which the mind and 
 
 heart. 
 That in this meditative history 
 Have been laid open, needs must make 
 
 me feel 
 More deeply, yet enable me to bear 
 More firmly; and a comfort now hath 
 
 risen 
 From hope that thou art near, and wilt 
 
 be soon 
 Restored to us in renovated health; 
 When, after the first mingling of our tears, 
 'Mong other consolations, we may draw 
 Some pleasure from this offering of my 
 
 love. 
 
 Oh ! yet a few short years of useful life. 
 And all will be complete, thy race be run, 
 Thy monument of glory will be raised; 
 Then, though (too weak to tread the 
 
 ways of truth) 
 This age fall back to old idolatry. 
 Though men return to servitude as fast 
 As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame, 
 By nations, sink together, we shall still 
 .Find solace — knowing what we have 
 
 learnt to knpwj , .. 
 Rich in truehappiness if allowed ta b^ 
 Faithful alike in forwarding a day 
 UTfirmer trust,, joint laborers in the work 
 (Should Providence such grace to us 
 
 vouchsafe) 
 Of their deliverance, surely yet to come. 
 Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak 
 A lasting inspiration, sanctified 
 By reason, blest by faith : what we have 
 
 loved. 
 Others will love, and we will teach them 
 
 how; 
 Instruct them how the mind of man be- 
 comes 
 A thousand times more beautiful than the 
 
 earth 
 On which he dwells, above this frame of 
 
 things 
 (Which, 'mid all'revolution in the hopes 
 And fears of men, doth still remain un- 
 changed) 
 In beauty exalted, as it is itself 
 Of quality and fabric more divine. 
 1799-1805. iSco. 
 
378 
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 Part First. 
 
 book first — home at grasmere. 
 
 Once to the verge of yon steep barrier 
 
 came 
 A roving school-boy; what the adven- 
 turer's age 
 Hath now escaped his memory — but 
 
 the hour, 
 One of a golden summer holiday, 
 He well remembers, though the year be 
 
 gone — 
 Alone and devious from afar he came; 
 And, with a sudden influx overpowered 
 At sight of this seclusion, he forgot 
 His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been 
 As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said, 
 ' ' What happy fortune were it here to live ! 
 And, if a thought of dying, if a thought 
 Of mortal separation, could intrude 
 With paradise before him, here to die ! " 
 No Prophet was he, had not even a hope. 
 Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing 
 
 thought, 
 A fancy in the heart of what might be 
 The lot of others, never could be his. 
 The station whence he looked was soft 
 
 and green. 
 Not giddy yet aerial, with a depth 
 Of vale below, a height of hills above. 
 For rest of body perfect was the spot. 
 All that luxurious nature could desire; 
 But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze 
 And not feel motions there ? He thought 
 
 of clouds 
 That sail on winds : of breezes that delight 
 To play on water, or in endless chase 
 Pursue each other through the yielding 
 
 plain 
 Of grass or corn, over and through and 
 
 through. 
 In billow after billow, evermore 
 Disporting — nor unmindful was the boy 
 Of sunbeams, shadows, butterflies and 
 
 birds; 
 Of fluttering sylphs and softly-gliding 
 
 Fays, 
 Genii, and winged angels that are Lords 
 Without restraint of all which they behold. 
 
 The illusion strengthening as he gazed, 
 
 he felt 
 That such unfettered liberty was his, 
 Such power and joy; but only for this end, 
 To flit from field to rock, from rock to 
 
 field, 
 From shore to island, and from isle to 
 
 shore, 
 From open ground to covert, from a bed 
 Of meadow-flowers into a tuft of wood; 
 From high to low, from low to high, yet 
 
 still 
 Within the bound of this huge concave; 
 
 here 
 Must be his home, this valley be his 
 
 world. 
 Since that day forth the Place to him 
 
 — to m.e 
 (For I who live to register the truth 
 Was that same young and happy Being) 
 
 became 
 As beautiful to thought, as it had been 
 When present, to the bodily sense; a 
 
 haunt , 
 
 Of pure affections, shedding upon joy 
 A brighter joy; and through such damp 
 
 and gloom 
 Of the gay mind, as oft-times splenetic 
 
 youth 
 Mistakes for sorrow, darting beams of 
 
 light 
 That no self-cherished sadness could 
 
 withstand ; 
 And now 't is mine, perchance for life, 
 
 dear Vale, 
 Beloved Grasmere (let the wandering 
 
 streams 
 Take up, the cloud-capt hills repeat, the 
 
 Name) 
 One of thy lowly Dwellings is my Home. 
 And was the cost so great? and could 
 
 it seem 
 An act of courage, and the thing itself 
 A conquest? who must bear the blame? 
 
 Sage man 
 Thy prudence, thy experience, thy desires. 
 Thy apprehensions — blush thou for 
 
 them all. 
 Yes the realities of life so cold, 
 So cowardly, so ready to betray. 
 So stinted in the measure of their grace 
 As we pronounce them, doing them much 
 
 wrong. 
 
THE RECLUSE. 
 
 379 
 
 Have been to me more bountiful than 
 
 hope, 
 Less timid than desire — but that is past. 
 
 On Nature's invitation do I come. 
 By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice 
 
 mislead, 
 That made the calmest fairest spot of 
 
 earth 
 With all its unappropriated good 
 My own; and not mine only, for with me 
 Entrenched, say rather peacefully em- 
 bowered, 
 Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, 
 A younger Orphan of a home extinct. 
 The only Daughter of my Parents dwells. 
 Ay, think on that, my heart, and cease 
 
 to stir. 
 Pause upon that and let the breathing 
 
 frame 
 No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. 
 — Oh, if such silence be not thanks to 
 
 God 
 For what hath been bestowed, then 
 
 where, where then 
 Shall gratitude find rest ? Mine eyes did 
 
 ne'er 
 Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind 
 Take pleasure in the midst of happy 
 
 thoughts, 
 But either She whom now I have, who now 
 Divides with me this loved abode, was 
 
 there, 
 Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps 
 
 turned, 
 Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang. 
 The thought of her was like a flash of light, 
 Or an unseen companionship, a breath 
 Of fragrance independent of the Wind. 
 In all my goings, in the new and old 
 Of all my meditations, and in this 
 Favorite of all, in this the most of all. 
 — What being, therefore, since the birth 
 
 of Man 
 Had ever more abundant cause to speak 
 Thanks, and if favors of the Heavenly 
 
 Muse 
 Make him more thankful, then to call on 
 
 Verse 
 To aid him and in song resound his joy? 
 The boon is absolute ; surpassing grace 
 To me hath been vouchsafed; among the 
 
 bowers 
 Of blissful Eden this was neither given 
 
 Nor could be given, possession of the good 
 Which had been sighed for, ancient 
 
 thought fulfilled. 
 And dear Imaginations realized. 
 Up to their highest measure, yea and 
 more. 
 Embrace me then, ye Hills, and close 
 
 me in; 
 Now in the clear and open day I feel 
 Your guardianship ; I take it to my heart; 
 'T is like the solemn shelter of the night. 
 But I would call thee beautiful, for mild. 
 And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou 
 
 art 
 Dear Valley, having in thy face a smile 
 Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou 
 
 art pleased. 
 Pleased with thy crags and woody steeps, 
 
 thy Lake, 
 Its one green island and its winding 
 
 shores; 
 The multitude of little rocky hills, 
 Thy Church and cottages of mountain 
 
 stone 
 Clustered like stars some few, but single 
 
 most. 
 And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, 
 Or glancing at each o^ther cheerful looks 
 Like separated stars with clouds between. 
 What want we? have we not perpetual 
 
 streams. 
 Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh 
 
 green fields. 
 And mountains not less green, and flocks 
 
 and herds. 
 And thickets full of songsters, and the 
 
 voice 
 Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound 
 Heard now and then from morn to latest 
 
 eve, 
 Admonishing the man who walks below 
 Of solitude and silence in the sky? 
 These have we, and a thousand nooks of 
 
 earth 
 Have also these, but nowhere else is 
 
 found. 
 Nowhere (or is it fancy?) can be found 
 The one sensation that is here; 't is here, 
 Here as it found its way into my heart 
 In childhood, here as it abides by day, 
 By night, here only; or in chosen minds 
 That take it with them hence, where'er 
 
 they go. 
 
38o 
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 — 'T is, but I cannot name it, 't is the 
 
 sense 
 Of majesty, and beauty, and repose, 
 A blended holiness of earth and sky, 
 Something that makes this individual spot. 
 This small abiding-place of many men, 
 A termination, and a last retreat, 
 A centre, come from whereso'er you will, 
 A whole without dependence or defect. 
 Made for itself, and happy in itself. 
 Perfect contentment. Unity entire. 
 
 Bleak season was it, turbulent and 
 
 bleak. 
 When hitherward we journeyed side by 
 
 side 
 Through burst of sunshine and through 
 
 flying showers; 
 Paced the long vales — how long they 
 
 were — and yet 
 How fast that length of way was left 
 
 behind, 
 Wensley's rich Vale, and Sedbergh's 
 
 naked heights. 
 The frosty wind, as if to make amends 
 For its keen breath, was aiding to our 
 
 steps. 
 And drove us onward like two ships at s«a. 
 Or like two birds, companions in mid-air. 
 Parted and reunited by the blast. 
 
 Stern was the face of nature ; we rejoiced 
 In that stern countenance, for our souls 
 
 thence drew 
 A feeling of their strength. The naked 
 
 trees. 
 The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared 
 To question us. "Whence come ye, to 
 
 what end? " 
 They seemed to say, "What would ye," 
 
 said the shower, 
 " Wild Wanderers, whither through my 
 
 dark domain? " 
 The sunbeam said, "Be happy." When 
 
 this vale 
 We entered, bright and solemn was the sky 
 That faced us with a passionate welcom- 
 ing. 
 And led us to our threshold. Daylight 
 
 failed 
 Insensibly, and round us gently fell 
 Composing darkness, with a quiet load 
 Of full contentment, in a little shed 
 Disturbed, uneasy in itself as seemed. 
 And wondering at its new inhabitants. 
 
 It loves us now, this Vale so beautiful 
 Begins to love us ! by a sullen storm, 
 Two months unwearied of severest storm. 
 It put the temper of our minds to proof, 
 And found us faithful through the gloom, 
 
 and heard 
 The poet mutter his prelusive songs 
 With cheerful heart, an unknown voiced 
 
 joy 
 Among the silence of the woods and hills; 
 Silent to any gladsomeness of sound 
 With all their shepherds. 
 
 But the gates of Spring 
 Are opened; churlish winter hath given 
 
 leave 
 That she should entertain for this one day. 
 Perhaps for many genial days to come. 
 His guests, and make them jocund. — They 
 
 are pleased. 
 But most of all the birds that haunt the 
 
 flood 
 With the mild summons; inmates though 
 
 they be 
 01 Winter's household, they keep festival 
 This day, who drooped, or seemed to 
 
 droop, so long; 
 They show their pleasure, and shall I do 
 
 less? 
 Happier of happy though I be, like them 
 I cannot take possession of the sky. 
 Mount with a thoughtless impulse, and 
 
 wheel there 
 One of a mighty multitude, whose way 
 Is a perpetual harmony and dance 
 Magnificent. Behold how with a grace 
 Of ceaseless motion, that might scarcely 
 
 seem 
 Inferior to angelical, they prolong 
 Their curious pastime, shaping in mid-air, 
 And sometimes with ambitious wing that 
 
 soars 
 High as the level of the mountain tops, 
 A circuit ampler than the lake beneath, 
 Their own domain ; — but ever, while intent 
 On tracing and retracing that large round. 
 Their jubilant activity evolves 
 Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, 
 Upwards and downwards; progress intri- 
 cate 
 Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed 
 Their indefatigable flight. 'T is done. 
 Ten times and more I fancied it had ceased. 
 But lo ! the vanished company again 
 
THE RECLUSE. 
 
 381 
 
 Ascending, they approach. I hear their 
 
 wings 
 Faint, faint at first; and then an eager 
 
 sound 
 Passed in a moment — and as faint again ! 
 They tempt the sun to sport among their 
 
 plumes; 
 Tempt the smooth water, or the gleaming 
 
 ice, 
 To show them a fair image, — 't is them- 
 selves. 
 Their own fair forms upon the glimmering 
 
 plain 
 Painted more soft and fair as they descend , 
 Almost to touch, — then up again aloft, 
 Up with a sally and a flash of speed. 
 As if they scorned both resting-place and 
 
 rest ! 
 — This day is a thanksgiving, 't is a day 
 Of glad emotion and deep quietness; 
 Not upon me alone hath been bestowed. 
 Me rich in many onward-looking thoughts, 
 The penetrating bliss; oh surely these 
 Have felt it, not the happy choirs of spring. 
 Her own peculiar family of love 
 That sport among green leaves, a blither 
 
 train ! 
 But two are missing, two, a lonely pair 
 Of milk-white Swans; wherefore are they 
 
 not seen 
 Partaking this day's pleasure? From afar 
 They came, to sojourn here in solitude, 
 Choosing this Valley, they v/ho had the 
 
 choice 
 Of the whole world. We saw them day 
 
 by day, 
 Through those two months of unrelenting 
 
 storm. 
 Conspicuous at the centre of the Lake 
 Their safe retreat, we knew them well, I 
 
 guess 
 That the whole valley knew them; but 
 
 to us 
 They were more dear than may be well 
 
 believed, 
 Not only for their beauty, and their still 
 And placid way of life, and constant love 
 Inseparable, not for these alone. 
 But that their state so much resembled 
 
 ours. 
 They having also chosen this abode; 
 They strangers, and we strangers, they a 
 
 pair,. 
 
 And we a solitary pair like them. 
 
 They should not have departed; many days 
 
 Did I look forth in vain, nor on the 
 
 wing 
 Could see them, nor in that small open 
 
 space 
 Of blue unfrozen water,where they lodged 
 And lived so long and quiet, side by side. 
 Shall we behold them consecrated friends. 
 Faithful companions, yet another year 
 Surviving, they for us, and we for them, 
 And neither pair be broken ? nay perchance 
 It is too late already for such hope; 
 The Dalesmen may have aimed the deadly 
 
 tube, 
 And parted them; or haply both are gone 
 One death, and that were mercy given to 
 
 both. 
 Recall, my song, the ungenerous thought; 
 
 forgive, 
 Thrice favored Region, the conjecture 
 
 harsh 
 Of such inhospitable penalty 
 Inflicted upon confidence so pure. 
 Ah ! if I wished to follow where the sight 
 Of all that is before my eyes, the voice 
 Which speaks from a presiding spirit here. 
 Would lead me, I should whisper to my- 
 self: 
 They who are dwellers in this holy place 
 Must needs themselves be hallowed, they 
 
 require 
 No benediction from the stranger's lips, 
 For they are blessed already; none would 
 
 give 
 The greeting " peace be with you " unto 
 
 them. 
 For peace they have; it cannot but be 
 
 theirs, 
 And mercy, and forbearance — nay — not 
 
 these — 
 Their healing offices a pure good-will 
 Precludes, and charity beyond the bounds 
 Of charity — an overflowing love; 
 Not for the creature only, but for all 
 That is around them; love for everything 
 Which in their happy Region they behold ! 
 Thus do vi'e soothe ourselves, and when 
 
 the thought 
 Is passed, we blame it not for having 
 
 come. 
 — What if I floated down a pleasant 
 
 stream, 
 
382 
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 And now am landed, and the motion gone, 
 Shall I reprove myself? Ah no, the stream 
 Is flowing, and will never cease to flow, 
 And I shall float upon that stream again. 
 By such forgetfulness the soul becomes, 
 Words cannot say how beautiful : then 
 
 hail, 
 Hail to the visible Presence, hail to thee. 
 Delightful Valley, habitation fair ! 
 And to whatever else of outward form 
 Can give an inward help, can purify. 
 And elevate, and harmonize, and soothe. 
 And steal away, and for a while deceive 
 And lap in pleasing rest, and bear us on 
 Without desire in full complacency. 
 Contemplating perfection absolute. 
 And entertained as in a placid sleep. 
 
 But not betrayed by tenderness of mind 
 That feared, or wholly overlooked the 
 
 truth. 
 Did we come hither, with romantic hope 
 To find in midst of so much loveliness 
 Love, perfect love : of so much majesty 
 A like majestic frame of mind in those 
 Who here abide, the persons like the place. 
 Not from such hope, or aught of such 
 
 belief. 
 Hath issued any portion of the joy 
 Which I have felt this day. An awful voice 
 'T is true hath in my walks been often 
 
 heard. 
 Sent from the mountains or the sheltered 
 
 fields. 
 Shout after shout — reiterated whoop. 
 In manner of a bird that takes delight 
 In answering to itself: or like a hound 
 Single at chase among the lonely woods. 
 His yell repeating; yet it was in truth 
 A human voice — a spirit of coming night; 
 How solemn when the sky is dark, and 
 
 earth 
 Not dark, nor yet enlightened, but by snow 
 Made visible, amid a noise of winds 
 And bleatings manifold of mountain sheep. 
 Which in that iteration recognize 
 Their summons, and are gathering round 
 
 for food. 
 Devoured with keenness, ere to grove or 
 
 bank 
 Or rocky bield with patience they retire. 
 That very voice, which, in some timid 
 
 mood 
 Of superstitious fancy, might have seemed 
 
 Awful as ever stray demoniac uttered. 
 His steps to govern in the wilderness; 
 Or as the Norman Curfew's regular beat 
 To hearths when first they darkened al 
 
 the knell: 
 That shepherd's voice, it may have 
 
 reached mine ear 
 Debased and under profanation, made 
 The ready organ of articulate sounds 
 From ribaldry, impiety, or wrath, 
 Issuing when shame hath ceased to check 
 
 the brawls 
 Of some abused Festivity — so be it. 
 I came not dreaming of unruffled life, 
 Untainted manners ; born among the hills, 
 Bred also there, I wanted not a scale 
 To regulate my hopes; pleased with the 
 
 good 
 I shrink not from the evil with disgust, 
 Or with immoderate pain . I look for Man, 
 The common creature of the brotherhood. 
 Differing but little from the Man else- 
 where. 
 For selfishness and envy and revenge, 
 111 neighborhood — pity that this should 
 
 be — 
 Flattery and double-dealing, strife and 
 wrong. 
 Yet is it something gained, it is in truth 
 A mighty gain, that Labor here preserves 
 His rosy face, a servant only here 
 Of the fireside or of the open field, 
 A Freeman therefore sound and unim- 
 paired : 
 That extreme penury is here unknown. 
 And cold and hunger's abject wretched- 
 ness 
 Mortal to body and the heaven-born mind : 
 That they who want are not too great a 
 
 weight 
 For those who can relieve ; here may the 
 
 heart 
 Breathe in the air of fellow-suffering 
 Dreadless, as in a kind of fresher breeze 
 Of her own native element, the hand 
 Be ready and unwearied without plea. 
 From tasks too frequent or beyond its 
 
 power. 
 For languor or indifference or despair. 
 And as these lofty barriers break the force 
 Of winds, — this deep Vale, as it doth in 
 
 part 
 Conceal us from the storm, so here abides 
 
THE RECLUSE. 
 
 383 
 
 A power and a protection for the mind, 
 Dispensed indeed to other solitudes 
 Favored by noble privilege like this, 
 Where kindred independence of estate 
 Is prevalent, where he who tills the field. 
 He, happy man ! is master of the field, 
 And treads the mountains which his 
 
 Fathers trod. 
 Not less than halfway up yon moun- 
 tain's side, 
 Behold a dusky spot, a grove of Firs 
 That seems still smaller than it is; this 
 
 grove 
 Is haunted — by what ghost? a gentle 
 
 spirit 
 Of memory faithful to the call of love; 
 For, as reports the Dame, whose Sre 
 
 sends up 
 Yon curling smoke from the gray cot 
 
 below. 
 The trees (her first-born child being then 
 
 a babe) 
 Were planted by her husband and herself, 
 That ranging o'er the high and houseless 
 
 ground 
 Their sheep might neither want from 
 
 perilous storm 
 Of winter, nor from summer's sultry heat, 
 A friendly covert; "and they knew it 
 
 well," 
 Said she, " for thither as the trees grew up 
 We to the patient creatures carried food 
 In times of heavy snow." She then began 
 In fond obedience to her private thoughts 
 To speak of her dead husband; is there 
 
 not 
 An art, a music, and a strain of words 
 That shall be life, the acknowledged 
 
 voice of life, 
 Shall speak of what is done among the 
 
 fields, 
 Done truly there, or felt, of solid good 
 And real evil, yet be sweet withal, 
 More grateful, more harmonious than the 
 
 breath. 
 The idle breath of softest pipe attuned 
 To pastoral fancies ? Is there such a stream 
 Pure and unsullied flowing from the heart 
 With motions of true dignity and grace ? 
 Or must we seek that stream where Man 
 
 is not? 
 Methinks I could repeat in tuneful verse, 
 Delicious as the gentlest breeze that sounds 
 
 Through that aerial fir-grove — could pre- 
 serve 
 Some portion of its human history 
 As gathered from the Matron's lips, and 
 
 tell 
 Of tears that have been shed at sight of 
 
 it. 
 And moving dialogues between this Pair 
 Who in their prime of wedlock, with joint 
 
 hands 
 Did plant the grove, now flourishing, 
 
 while they 
 No longer flourish, he entirely gone. 
 She withering in her loneliness. Be this 
 A task above my skill — the silent mind 
 Has her own treasures, and I think of 
 
 these. 
 Love what I see, and honor humankind. 
 No, we are not alone, we do not stand. 
 My sister here misplaced and desolate. 
 Loving what no one cares for but our- 
 selves. 
 We shall not scatter through the plains 
 
 and rocks 
 Of this fair Vale, and o'er its spacious 
 
 heights, 
 Unprofitable kindliness, bestowed 
 On objects unaccustomed to the gifts 
 Of feeling, which were cheerless and for- 
 lorn 
 But few weeks past, and would be so again 
 Were we not here ; we do not tend a lamp 
 Whose lustre we alone participate. 
 Which shines dependent upon us alone, 
 Mortal though bright, a dying, dying flame. 
 Look where we will, some human hand 
 
 has been 
 Before us with its offering; not a tree 
 Sprinkles these little pastures, but the 
 
 same 
 Hath furnished matter for a thought; per- 
 chance 
 For some one serves as a familiar friend. 
 Joy spreads, and sorrow spreads; and this 
 
 whole Vale, 
 Home of untutored shepherds as it is. 
 Swarms with sensation, as with gleams of 
 
 sunshine. 
 Shadows or breezes, scents or sounds. 
 
 Nor deem 
 These feelings, though subservient more 
 
 than ours 
 To every day's demand for daily bread. 
 
384 
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 And borrowing more their spirit and their 
 
 shape 
 From self-respecting interests; deem them 
 
 not 
 Unworthy therefore, and unhallowed — no, 
 They lift the animal being, do themselves 
 By nature's kind and ever-present aid 
 Refine the selfishness from which they 
 
 spring, 
 Redeem by love the individual sense 
 Of anxiousness, with which they are com- 
 bined. 
 And thus it Is that fitly they become 
 Associates in the joy of purest minds : 
 They blend therewith congenially : mean- 
 while 
 Calmly they breathe their own undying life 
 Through this their mountain sanctuary; 
 
 long 
 Oh long may it remain inviolate. 
 Diffusing health and sober cheerfulness, 
 And giving to the moments as they pass 
 Their little boons of animating thought 
 That sweeten labor, make it seen and felt 
 To be no arbitrary weight imposed, 
 But a glad function natural to man. 
 
 Fair proof of this, newcomer though I be, 
 Already have I gained; the inward frame. 
 Though slowly opening, opens every day 
 With process not unlike to that which 
 
 cheers 
 A pensive stranger journeying at his leisure 
 Through some Helvetian Dell; when low- 
 hung mists 
 Break up and are beginning to recede; 
 How pleased he is where thin and thinner 
 
 grows 
 The veil, or where it parts at once, to spy 
 The dark pines thrusting forth their spiky 
 
 heads; 
 To watch the spreading lawns with cattle 
 
 grazed; 
 Then to be greeted by the scattered huts 
 As they shine out; and see the streams 
 
 whose murmur 
 Had soothed his ear while they were hid- 
 den; how pleased 
 To have about him which way e'er he goes 
 Something on every side concealed from 
 
 view, 
 In every quarter something visible 
 Half seen or ^vholly, lost and found again. 
 Alternate progress and impediment, 
 
 And yet a growing prospect in the main. 
 Such pleasure now is mine, albeit forced, 
 Herein less happy than the Traveller, 
 To cast from time to time a painful look 
 Upon unwelcome things which unawares 
 Reveal themselves, not therefore is my 
 
 heart 
 Depressed, nor does it fear what is to 
 
 come; 
 But confident, enriched at every glance. 
 The more I see the more delight my mind 
 Receives, or by reflection can create : 
 Truth justifies herself, and as she dwells 
 With Hope, who would not follow where 
 
 she leads? 
 Nor let me pass unheeded other loves 
 Where no fear is, and humbler sympathies. 
 Already hath sprung up within my heart 
 A liking for the small gray horse that bears 
 The paralytic man, and for the brute 
 In Scripture sanctified — the patient brute 
 On which the cripple, in the quarry 
 
 maimed. 
 Rides to and fro : I know them andtheii 
 
 ways. 
 The famous sheep-dog, first in all the vale. 
 Though yet to me a stranger, will not be 
 A stranger long; nor will the bhnd man's 
 
 guide. 
 Meek and neglected thing, of no renown ! 
 Soon will peep forth the primrose, ere it 
 
 fades 
 Friends shall I have at dawn, blackbird 
 
 and thrush 
 To rouse me, and a hundred warblers 
 
 more ! 
 And if those Eagles to their ancient hold 
 Return, Helvellyn's Eagles ! with the 
 
 Pair 
 From my own door I shall be free to claim 
 Acquaintance, as they sweep from cloud 
 
 to cloud. 
 The owl that gives the name to Owlet- 
 Crag 
 Have I heard whooping, and he soon 
 
 will be 
 A chosen one of my regards. See there 
 The heifer in yon little croft belongs 
 To one who holds it dear; with duteous 
 
 care 
 She reared it, and in speaking of her 
 
 charge 
 I heard her scatter some endearing words 
 
THE RECLUSE. 
 
 385 
 
 Domestic, and in spirit motherly, 
 She being herself a mother ; happy Beast, 
 If the caresses of a human voice 
 Can make it so, and care of human hands. 
 And ye as happy under Nature's care. 
 Strangers to me and all men, or at least 
 Strangers to all particular amity, 
 All intercourse of knowledge or of love 
 That parts the individual from his kind. 
 Whether in large communities ye keep 
 From year to year, not shunning man's 
 
 abode, 
 A settled residence, or be from far 
 Wild creatures, and of many homes, that 
 
 come 
 The gift of winds, and whom the winds 
 
 again 
 Take from us at your pleasure ; yet shall ye 
 Not want for this your own subordinate 
 
 place 
 In my affections. Witness the delight 
 With which erewhile I saw that multitude 
 Wheel through the sky, and see them now 
 
 at rest, 
 Yet not at rest upon the glassy lake ; 
 They cannot rest — they gambol like 
 
 young whelps; 
 Active as lambs, and overcome with joy 
 They try all frolic motions ; flutter, plunge. 
 And beat the passive water with their 
 
 wings. 
 Too distant are they for plain view, but lo ! 
 Those little fountains, sparkling in the 
 
 sun. 
 Betray their occupation, rising up 
 First one and then another silver spout, 
 As one or other takes the fit of glee, 
 Fountains and spouts, yet somewhat in 
 
 the guise 
 Of plaything fireworks, that on festal 
 
 nights 
 Sparkle about the feet of wanton boys. 
 — How vast the compass of this theatre. 
 Yet nothing to be seen but lovely pomp 
 And silent majesty; the birch-tree woods 
 Are hung with thousand thousand dia- 
 mond drops 
 Of melted hoar-frost, every tiny knot 
 In the bare twigs, each little budding- 
 place 
 Cased with its several beads; what myr- 
 iads these 
 Upon one tree, while all the distant grove, 
 
 That rises to the summit of the steep. 
 Shows like a mountain built of silver 
 
 light : 
 See yonder the same pageant, and again 
 Behold the universal imagery 
 Inverted, all its sun-bright features 
 
 touched 
 As with the varnish and the gloss of 
 
 dreams. 
 Dreamlike the blending also of the whole 
 Harmonious landscape : all along the 
 
 shore 
 The boundary lost — the line invisible 
 That parts the image from reality; 
 And the clear hills, as high as they ascend 
 Heavenward, so deep piercing the lake 
 
 below. 
 Admonished of the days of love to come 
 The raven croaks, and fills the upper air 
 With a strange sound of genial harmony; 
 And in and all about that playful band. 
 Incapable although they be of rest. 
 And in their fashion very rioters. 
 There is a stillness; and they seem to 
 
 make 
 Calm revelry in that their calm abode. 
 Them leaving to their joyous hours I pass. 
 Pass with a thought the life of the whole 
 
 year 
 That is to come : the throng of woodland 
 
 flowers 
 And lilies that will dance upon the waves. 
 
 Say boldly then that solitude is not 
 Where these things are : he truly is alone. 
 He of the multitude whose eyes are 
 
 doomed 
 To hold a vacant commerce day by day 
 With Objects wanting life — repelling 
 
 love; 
 He by the vast metropolis immured, 
 Where pity shrinks from unremitting calls. 
 Where numbers overwhelm humanity. 
 And neighborhood serves rather to divide 
 Than to unite — what sighs more deep 
 
 than his, 
 Whose nobler will hath long been sacri- 
 ficed; 
 Who must inhabit under a black sky 
 A city, where, if indifference to disgust 
 Yield not to scorn or sorrow, living men 
 Are oft-times to their fellow-men no more 
 Than to the forest Hermit are the leaves 
 That hang aloft in myriads; nay, far less. 
 
^86 
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 For they protect his walk from sun and 
 
 shower, 
 Swell his devotion with their voice in 
 
 storms, 
 And whisper while the stars twinkle 
 
 among them 
 His lullaby. From crowded streets re- 
 mote, 
 Far from the living and dead Wilderness 
 Of the thronged world, Society is here 
 A true community — a genuine frame 
 Of many into one incorporate. 
 That must be looked for here : paternal 
 
 sway, 
 One household, under God, for high and 
 
 low. 
 One family and one mansion; to them- 
 selves 
 Appropriate, and divided from the world. 
 As if it were a cave, a multitude 
 Human and brute, possessors undisturbed 
 Of this Recess — their legislative Hall, 
 Their Temple, and their glorious Dwell- 
 ing-place. 
 Dismissing therefore all Arcadian 
 dreams. 
 All golden fancies of the golden age. 
 The bright array of shadowy thoughts 
 
 from times 
 That were before all time, or are to be 
 Ere time expire, the pageantry that stirs 
 Or will be stirring, when our eyes are 
 
 fixed 
 On lovely objects, and we wish to part 
 With all remembrance of a jarring world, 
 
 — Take we at once this one sufficient 
 
 hope. 
 What need of more ? that we shall neither 
 
 droop 
 Nor pine for want of pleasure in the life 
 Scattered about us, nor through want of 
 
 aught 
 That keeps in health the insatiable mind. 
 
 — That we shall have for knowledge and 
 
 for love 
 Abundance, and that feeling as we do 
 How goodly, how exceeding fair, how 
 
 pure 
 From all reproach is yon ethereal vault. 
 And this deep Vale, its earthly counter- 
 part. 
 By which and under which we are en- 
 closed 
 
 To breathe in peace; we shall moreover 
 
 find 
 (If sound, and what we ought to be our- 
 selves, 
 If rightly we observe and justly weigh) 
 The inmates not unworthy of their home, 
 The Dwellers of their Dwelling. 
 
 Arid if this 
 Were otherwise, we have within ourselves 
 Enough to fill the present day with joy, 
 And overspread the future years with 
 
 hope. 
 Our beautiful and quiet home, enriched 
 Already with a stranger whom we love 
 Deeply, a stranger of our Father's house, 
 A never-resting Pilgrim of the Sea, 
 Who finds at last an hour to his content 
 Beneath our roof. And others whom we 
 
 love 
 Will seek us also. Sisters of our hearts. 
 And one, like them, a Brother of our 
 
 hearts, 
 Philosopher and Poet, in whose sight 
 These mountains will rejoice with open 
 
 joy. 
 — Such is our wealth ! O Vale of Peace 
 
 we are 
 And must be, with God's will, a happy 
 Band. 
 Yet 't is not to enjoy that we exist, 
 For that end only; something must be 
 
 done: 
 I must not walk in unreproved delight 
 These narrow bounds, and think of noth- 
 ing more. 
 No duty that looks further, and no care. 
 Each Being has his office, lowly some 
 And common, yet all worthy if fulfilled 
 With zeal, acknowledgment that with the 
 
 gift 
 Keeps pace a harvest answering to the 
 
 seed. 
 Of ill-advised Ambition and of Pride 
 I would stand clear, but yet to me I 
 
 feel 
 That an internal brightness is vouchsafed 
 That must not die, that must not pass 
 
 away. 
 Why does this inward lustre fondly seek 
 And gladly blend with outward fellow- 
 ship? 
 Why do they shine around me whom I 
 love? 
 
THE RECLUSE. 
 
 387 
 
 Why do they teach me, whom I thus 
 
 revere? 
 Strange question, yet it answers not itself. 
 That humble Roof embowered among 
 
 the trees. 
 That calm fireside, it is not even in them. 
 Blest as they are, to furnish a reply 
 That satisfies and ends in perfect rest. 
 Possessions have I that are solely mine. 
 Something within which yet is shared by 
 
 none. 
 Not even the nearest to me and most dear. 
 Something which power and effort may 
 
 impart; 
 I would impart it, I would spread it wide : 
 Immortal in the world which is to come — 
 Forgive me if I add another claim — 
 And would not wholly perish even in this. 
 Lie down and be forgotten in the dust, 
 I and the modest Partners of my days 
 Making a silent company in death; 
 Love, knowledge, all my manifold de- 
 lights. 
 All buried with me without monument 
 Or profit unto any but ourselves ! 
 tt must not be, if I, divinely taught, 
 Be privileged to speak as I have felt 
 Of what in man is human or divine. 
 While yet an innocent little one, with 
 
 a heart 
 That doubtless wanted not its tender 
 
 moods, 
 I breathed (for this I better recollect) 
 Among wild appetites and blind desires. 
 Motions of savage instinct my delight 
 And exaltation. Nothing at 'that time 
 So welcome, no temptation half so dear 
 As that which urged me to a daring feat. 
 Deep pools, tall trees, black chasms, and 
 
 dizzy crags. 
 And tottering towers : I loved to stand 
 
 and read 
 Their looks forbidding, read and disobey. 
 Sometimes in act and evermore in thought. 
 With impulses, that scarcely were by 
 
 these 
 Surpassed in strength, I heard of danger 
 
 met 
 Or sought with courage ; enterprise forlorn 
 By one, sole keeper of his own intent, 
 Or by a resolute few, who for the sake 
 Of glory fronted multitudes in arms. 
 Yea, to this hour I cannot read a Tale 
 
 Of two brave vessels matched in deadly 
 
 fight. 
 And fighting to the death, but I am 
 
 pleased 
 More than a wise man ought to be; I 
 
 wish. 
 Fret, burn, and struggle, and in soul am 
 
 there. 
 But me hath Nature tamed, and bade to 
 
 seek 
 For other agitations, or be calm; 
 Hath dealt with me as with a turbulent 
 
 stream. 
 Some nursling of the mountains which 
 
 she leads 
 Through quiet meadows, after he has 
 
 learnt 
 His strength, and had his triumph and 
 
 his joy, 
 His desperate course of tumult and of 
 
 glee. 
 That which in stealth by Nature was 
 
 performed 
 Hath Reason sanctioned : her deliberate 
 
 Voice 
 Hath said; be mild, and cleave to gentle 
 
 things, 
 Thy glory and thy happiness be there. 
 Nor fear, though thou confide in me, a 
 
 want 
 Of aspirations that have been — of foes 
 To wrestle with, and victorj? to complete, 
 Bounds to be leapt, darkness to be ex- 
 plored; 
 All that inflamed thy infant heart, the 
 
 love. 
 The longing, the contempt, the un- 
 daunted quest. 
 All shall survive, though changed their 
 
 office, all 
 Shall live, it is not in their power to die. 
 Then farewell to the Warrior's 
 
 Schemes, farewell 
 The forwardness of soul which looks 
 
 that way 
 Upon a less incitement than the Cause 
 Of Liberty endangered, and farewell 
 That other hope, long mine, the hope to 
 
 fill 
 The heroic trumpet with the Muse's 
 
 breath ! 
 Yet in this peaceful Vale we will not 
 
 spend 
 
388 
 
 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 Unheard-of days, though loving peaceful 
 
 thought, 
 A voice shall speak, and what will be 
 
 the theme? 
 On Man, on Nature, and on Human 
 
 Life, 
 Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
 Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
 Accompanied by feelings of delight 
 Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness 
 
 mixed; 
 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
 And dear remembrances, whose presence 
 
 soothes 
 Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
 The good and evil of our mortal state. 
 — To these emotions, whencesoe'er they 
 
 come. 
 Whether from breath of outward circum- 
 stance. 
 Or from the Soul — an impulse to her- 
 self— 
 I would give utterance in numerous verse. 
 Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, 
 
 and Hope, 
 And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith; 
 Of blessed consolations in distress; 
 Of moral strength, andintellectualPower; 
 Of joy in widest commonalty spread; 
 Of the individual Mind that keeps her 
 
 own 
 Inviolate retirement, subject there 
 To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
 Of that Intelligence which governs all — 
 I sing: — "fit audience let me find 
 
 though few ! " 
 So prayed, more gaining than he asked, 
 
 the Bard — 
 In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need 
 Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
 Descend to earth or dwell in highest 
 
 heaven ! 
 For I must tread on shadowy ground, 
 
 must sink 
 Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in 
 
 worlds 
 To whi(!h the heaven of heavens is but a 
 
 veil. 
 All strength — all terror, single or in 
 
 bands. 
 That ever was put forth in personal 
 
 form — 
 Jehovah — with his thunder, and the choir 
 
 Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal 
 
 thrones — 
 I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 
 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
 Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out 
 By help of dreams — can breed such fear 
 
 and awe 
 As fall upon us often when we look 
 Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man — 
 My haunt, and the main region of my 
 
 song 
 
 — Beauty — a living Presence of the 
 
 earth, 
 Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
 Which craft of delicate Spirits hath com- 
 posed 
 From earth's materials — waits upon my 
 
 steps; 
 Pitches her tents before me as I move, 
 ,An hourly neighbor. Paradise, and 
 
 groves 
 Elysian, Fortunate Fields — like those 
 
 of old 
 Sought in the Atlantic Main — why should 
 
 they be 
 A history only of departed things, 
 Or a mere fiction of what never was? 
 F"or the discerning intellect of Man, 
 When wedded to this goodly universe 
 In love and holy passion, shall find these 
 A simple produce of the common day. 
 
 — I, long before the blissful hour arrives, 
 Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal 
 
 verse 
 Of this great consummation : — and, by 
 
 words 
 Which speak of nothing more than what 
 
 we are, / 
 
 Would I arouse the sensual from their 
 
 sleep ' 
 Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain • 
 To noble raptures; while my voice pro- 
 claims 
 How exquisitely the individual Mind 
 (And the progressive powers perhaps no 
 
 less 
 Of the whole species) to the external 
 
 World 
 Is fitted: — and how exquisitely, too — 
 Theme this but little heard of among 
 
 men — 
 The external World is fitted to the Mind; 
 And the creation (by no lower name 
 
CHARACTER OF THE HArPY WARRIOR. 
 
 389 
 
 Can it be called) which they with blended 
 
 might 
 Accomplish : — this is our high argument. 
 ■ — Such grateful haunts foregoing, if loft 
 Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the 
 
 tribes 
 And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
 Of madding passions mutually inflamed ; 
 Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 
 Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang 
 Brooding above the fierce confederate 
 
 storm 
 Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 
 Within the walls of cities — may these 
 
 sounds 
 Have their authentic comment; that even 
 
 these 
 Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — 
 Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspir'st ' 
 The human Soul of universal earth, 
 Dreaming on things to come; and dost 
 
 possess 
 A metropolitan temple in the hearts 
 Of mighty Poets; upon me bestow 
 A gift of genuine insight; that my Song 
 With star-like virtue in its place may 
 
 shine. 
 Shedding benignant influence, and secure 
 Itself from all malevolent effect 
 Of those mutations that extend their sway 
 Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if 
 
 with this 
 I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 
 Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 
 Contemplating; and who, and what he 
 
 was — 
 The transitory Being that beheld 
 This Vision ; — when and where, and how 
 
 he lived; 
 Be not this labor useless. If such theme 
 May sort with highest objects, then — 
 
 dread Power ! 
 Whose gracious favor is the primal source 
 Of all illumination — may my Life 
 Express the image of a better time. 
 More wise desires, and simpler man- 
 ners; — nurse 
 My Heart in genuine freedom : — all pure 
 
 thoughts 
 Be with me; — so shall thy unfailing love 
 Guide, and support, and cheer me to the 
 
 end ! 
 1805 ? 1888. 
 
 > See Note- 
 
 CHARACTER OF. THE HAPPY 
 WARRIOR. 
 
 The course of the great war with the French 
 naturally fixed one's attention upon the military 
 character, and, to the honor of our country, there 
 were many illustrious instances of the qualities 
 that constitute its highest excellence. Lord 
 Nelson carried most of the virtues that the trials 
 he was exposed to in his department of the service 
 necessarily call forth and sustain, if they do not 
 produce the contrary vices. But his public life 
 was stained with one great crime, so that, though 
 many passages of these lines were suggested by 
 what was generally known as excellent in his 
 conduct, I have not been able to connect his 
 name with the poem as I could wish, or even to 
 think of him with satisfaction in reference to the 
 idea of what a warrior ought to be. For the sake 
 of such of my friends as may happen to read this 
 note I will add, that many elements of the 
 character here portrayed were found in my 
 brother John, who perished by shipwreck as 
 mentioned elsewhere. His messmates used to 
 call him the Philosopher, from which it must be 
 inferred that the qualities and dispositions 1 allude 
 to had not escaped their notice. He often ex- 
 pressed his regret, after the war had continued 
 some time, that he had not chosen the Naval, 
 instead of the East India Company's service, to 
 which his family connection had led him. He 
 greatly valued moral and religious instruction for 
 youth, as tending to make good sailors. The 
 best, he used to say, came from Scotland ; the 
 next to them, from the North of England, especi- 
 ally from Westmoreland and Cumberland, where, 
 thanks to the piety and local attachments of our 
 ancestors, endowed, or, as they are commonly 
 called, free, schools abound. 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 
 That every man in arms should wish to be ? 
 — It is the generous Spirit, who, when 
 
 brought 
 Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
 Upon the plan that pleased his boyish 
 
 thought : 
 Whose high endeavors are an inward light 
 That makes the path before him always 
 
 bright : 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 What knowledge can perform, is diligent 
 
 to learn; 
 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
 But makes his moral being his prime care; 
 
390 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 
 
 Who, doomed to go in company with 
 Pain, 
 
 And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable 
 train ! 
 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain; 
 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 
 Which is our human nature's highest 
 dower ; 
 
 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, 
 bereaves 
 
 Of their bad influence, and their good re- 
 ceives : 
 
 By objects, which might force the soul to 
 abate 
 
 Her feeling, rendered more compassion- 
 ate; 
 
 Is placable — because occasions rise 
 
 So often that demand such sacrifice; 
 
 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more 
 pure, 
 
 As tempted more; more able to endure, 
 
 As more exposed to suffering and distress; 
 
 Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
 
 — 'T is he whose law is reason; who de- 
 pends 
 
 Upon that law as on the best of friends; 
 
 Whence, in a state where men are tempted 
 still 
 
 To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
 
 And what in quality or act is best 
 
 Doth seldom on a right foundation rest. 
 
 He labors good on good to fix, and owes 
 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows ; 
 
 — Who, if he rise to station of command. 
 
 Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
 
 On honorable terms, or else retire. 
 
 And in himself possess his own desire; 
 
 Who comprehends his trust, and to the 
 same 
 
 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 
 
 And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in 
 wait 
 
 For wealth, or honors, or for worldly 
 state ; 
 
 Whom they must follow; on whose head 
 must fall, 
 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at 
 all: 
 
 Whose powers shed round him in the 
 common strife. 
 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 
 A constant influence, a peculiar grace; 
 
 But who, if he be called upon to face 
 
 Some awful moment to which Heaven has 
 
 joined 
 Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
 Is happy as a Lover; and attired 
 With sudden brightness, like a Man in- 
 spired; 
 And, through the heat of conflict, keeps 
 
 the law 
 In calmness made, and sees what he fore- 
 saw; 
 Or if an unexpected call succeed, 
 Come when it will, is equal to the need: 
 — He who, though thus endued as with a 
 
 sense 
 And faculty for storm and turbulence. 
 Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
 To homefelt pleasures and to gentle 
 
 scenes; 
 Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'erhe be, 
 Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
 It is his darling passion to approve; 
 More brave for this, that he hath much to 
 
 love : — 
 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high. 
 Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
 Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
 Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or 
 
 not — 
 Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
 Where what he most doth value must be 
 
 won: 
 Whom neither shape of danger can dfs- 
 
 may. 
 Nor thought of tender happiness betray; 
 Who, not content that former worth stand 
 
 fast. 
 Looks forward, persevering to the last, 
 From well to better, daily self-surpast : 
 Who, whether praise of him must walk the 
 
 earth 
 Forever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
 Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 
 And leave a dead unprofitable name — 
 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; 
 And, while the mortal mist is gathering 
 
 draws 
 His breath in confidence of Heaven's 
 
 applause : 
 This is the happy Warrior; this is He 
 That every Man in arms should wish to be. 
 
 1806. 
 
 1807. 
 
THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE. 
 
 391 
 
 THE HORN OF EGREMONT 
 CASTLE. 1 
 A tradition transferred from the ancient man- 
 sion of Hutton Joiin, the seat of the Huddlestons, 
 to Egremont Castle. 
 
 Ere the Brothers through the gateway 
 
 Issued forth with old and young, 
 
 To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed 
 
 Which for ages there had hung. 
 
 Horn it was which none could sound, 
 
 No one upon living ground, 
 
 Save He who came as rightful Heir 
 
 To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair. 
 
 Heirs from times of earliest record 
 Had the House of Lucie born, 
 Who of right had held the Lordship 
 Claimed by proof upon the Horn : 
 Each at the appointed hour 
 Tried the Horn, — it owned his power; 
 He was acknowledged : and the blast 
 Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the 
 last. 
 
 With his lance Sir Eustace pointed, 
 
 And to Hubert thus said he, 
 
 " What I speak this Horn shall witness 
 
 For thy better memory. 
 
 Hear, then, and neglect me not ! 
 
 At this time, and on this spot. 
 
 The words are uttered from my heart, 
 
 As my last earnest prayer ere we depart. 
 
 "On good service we are going 
 Life to risk by sea and land, 
 In which course if Christ our Saviour 
 Do my sinful soul demand. 
 Hither come thou back straightway, 
 Hubert, if alive that day; 
 Return, and sound the Horn, that we 
 May have a living House still left in 
 thee!" 
 
 "Fear not," quickly answered Hubert; 
 " As I am thy Father's son. 
 What thou askest, .noble Brother, 
 With God's favor shall be done." 
 So were both' right well content: 
 Forth they from the Castle went. 
 And at the head of their Array 
 To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 
 1 See Note. 
 
 Side by side they fought (the Lucies 
 Were a line for valor famed), 
 And where'er their strokes alighted. 
 There the Saracens were tamed. 
 Whence, then, could it come — the 
 
 thought — 
 By what evil spirit brought? 
 Oh ! can a brave Man wish to take 
 His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's 
 
 sake? 
 
 " Sir ! " the RufEans said to Hubert, 
 " Deep he lies in Jordan flood." 
 Stricken by this ill assurance. 
 Pale and trembling Hubert stood. 
 " Take your earnings." — Oh ! that I 
 Could have seen my Brother die ! 
 It was a pang that vexed him then; 
 And oft returned, again, and yet again. 
 
 Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace ! 
 Nor of him were tidings heard; 
 Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer 
 Back again to England steered. 
 To his Castle Hubert sped; 
 Nothing has he now to dread. 
 But silent and by stealth he came. 
 And at an hour which nobody could name. 
 
 None could tell if it were night-time, 
 Night or day, at even or morn; 
 No one's eye had seen him enter. 
 No one's ear had heard the Horn. 
 But bold Hubert lives in glee : 
 Months and years went smiHngly; 
 With plenty was his table spread; 
 Andbright the Ladyiswho shares his bed 
 
 Likewise he had sons and daughters; 
 And, as good men do, he sate 
 At his board by these surrounded, 
 Flourishing in fair estate. 
 And while thus in open day 
 Once he sate, as old books say, 
 A blast was uttered from the Horn, 
 Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn 
 
 'T is the breath of good Sir Eustace ! 
 He is come to claim his right : 
 Ancient castle, woods, and mountains 
 Hear the challenge with delight. 
 Hubert ! though the blast be blown 
 He is helpless and alone: 
 
392 
 
 A COMPLAINT. 
 
 Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word ! 
 And there he may be lodged, and thou 
 be Lord. 
 
 Speak! — astounded Hubert cannot; 
 And, if power to speak he had, 
 All are daunted, all the household 
 Smitten to the heart, and sad. 
 'T is Sir Eustace ; if it be 
 Living man, it must be he ! 
 Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, 
 And by a postern-gate he slunk away. 
 
 Long, and long was he unheard of : 
 
 To his Brother then he came, 
 
 Made confession, asked forgiveness. 
 
 Asked it by a brother's name. 
 
 And by all the saints in heaven; 
 
 And of Eustace was forgiven : 
 
 Then in a convent went to hide 
 
 His melancholy head, and there he died. 
 
 But Sir Eustace, whom good angels 
 Had preserved from murderers' hands, 
 And from Pagan chains had rescued, 
 Lived with honor on his lands. 
 Sons he had, saw sons of theirs : 
 And through ages, heirs of heirs, 
 A long posterity renowned, 
 Sounded the Horn which they alone 
 could sound. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 A COMPLAINT. 
 
 Written at Town-End, Grasmere. Suggested by 
 a change in the manner of a friend. 
 
 There is a change — and I am poor; 
 Your love hath been, not long ago, 
 A fountain at my fond heart's door, 
 Whose only business was to flow; 
 And flow it did : not taking heed 
 Of its own bounty, or my need. 
 
 What happy moments did I count ! 
 Blest was I then all bliss above ! 
 Now, for that consecrated fount 
 Of murmuring, sparkling, living love. 
 What have I? shall I dare to tell? 
 A comfortless and hidden well. 
 
 A well of love — it may be deep — 
 I trust it is, — and never dry: 
 What matter? if the waters sleep 
 In silence and obscurity. 
 — Such change, and at the very door 
 Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 STRAY PLEASURES. 
 
 " Pleasure is spread through the earth 
 In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shalljind. ' ' 
 
 Suggested on the Thames by the sight of one 
 of those floating mills that used to be seen 
 there. This I noticed on the Surrey side between 
 Somerset House and Blackfriars Bridge. Charles 
 Lamb was with me at the time ; and I thought it 
 remarkable that I should have to point out to 
 hifn, an idolatrous Londoner, a sight so interest- 
 ing as the happy group dancing on the platform. 
 Mills of this kind used to be, and perhaps still 
 are, not uncommon on the Continent. I noticed 
 several upon the river Saone in the year 1799, 
 particularly near the town of Chalons, where my 
 friend Jones and I halted a day when we crossed 
 France ; so far on foot : there we embarked, and 
 floated down to Lyons. 
 
 By their floating mill, 
 
 That lies dead and still. 
 Behold yon Prisoners three. 
 The Miller with two Dames, on the 
 
 breast of the Thames ! 
 The platform is small, but gives room for 
 
 them ail; 
 And they 're dancing merrily. 
 
 From the shore come the notes 
 To their mill where it floats. 
 
 To their house and their mill tethered 
 fast: 
 
 To the small wooden isle where, their 
 work to beguile. 
 
 They from morning to even take what- 
 ever is given; — 
 
 And many a blithe day they have past. 
 
 In sight of the spires. 
 
 Ail alive with the fires 
 Of the sun going down to his rest. 
 In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, 
 They dance, — there are three, as jocund 
 
 as free, 
 While they dance, on the calm river's 
 breast. 
 
POWER OF MUSIC. 
 
 393 
 
 Man and Maidens wheel, 
 
 They themselves make the reel, 
 And their music 's a prey which they seize ; 
 It plays not for them, — what matter? 
 
 't is theirs; 
 And if they had care, it has scattered 
 
 their cares, 
 While they dance, crying, " Long as ye 
 
 please ! " 
 
 They dance not for me. 
 
 Yet mine is their glee ! 
 Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 
 In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever 
 
 shall find; 
 Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly 
 
 kind. 
 Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 
 
 The showers of the spring 
 
 Rouse the birds, and they sing; 
 If the wind do but stir for his proper 
 
 delight, 
 Each leaf, that and this, his neighbor will 
 
 kiss; 
 Each wave, one and t' other, speeds 
 
 after his brother : 
 They are happy, for that is their right ! 
 1806 1807. 
 
 POWER OF MUSIC. 
 Taken from life. 
 
 An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faith 
 may grow bold. 
 
 And take to herself all the wonders of 
 old; — 
 
 Near the stately Pantheon you '11 meet 
 with the same 
 
 In the street that from Oxford hath bor- 
 rowed its name. 
 
 His station is there; and he works on the 
 
 crowd, 
 He sways them with harmony merry and 
 
 loud; 
 He fills with his power all their hearts to 
 
 the brim — 
 Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and 
 
 him? 
 
 What an eager assembly ! what an empire 
 
 is this ! 
 The weary have life, and the hungry have 
 
 bliss; 
 The mourner is cheered, and the anxious 
 
 have rest; 
 And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer 
 
 opprest. 
 
 As the Moon brightens round her the 
 clouds of the night. 
 
 So He, where he stands, is a centre of 
 light; 
 
 It gleams on the face, there, of dusky- 
 browed Jack, 
 
 And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket 
 on back. 
 
 That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing 
 
 in haste — 
 What matter ! he 's caught — and his 
 
 time runs to waste; 
 The Newsman is stopped, though he 
 
 stops on the fret; 
 And the half-breathless Lamplighter — 
 
 he 's in the net ! 
 
 The Porter sits down on the weight which 
 
 he bore; 
 The Lass with her barrow wheels hither 
 
 her store; — 
 If a thief could be here he might pilfer 
 
 at ease; 
 She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she 
 
 sees ! 
 
 He stands, backed by the wall; — he 
 abates not his din. 
 
 His hat gives him vigor, with boons drop- 
 ping in. 
 
 From the old and the young, from the 
 poorest; and there ! 
 
 The one-pennied Boy has his penny to 
 spare. 
 
 blest are the hearers, and proud be the 
 
 hand 
 Of the pleasure it spreads through so 
 thankful a band ; 
 
 1 am glad for him, blind as he is! — all 
 
 the while 
 If they speak 't is to praise, and they 
 praise with a smile. 
 
394 
 
 STAR-GAZERS. 
 
 That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in 
 
 height, 
 Not an inch of his body is free from 
 
 delight; 
 Can he keep himself still, if he would? 
 
 oh, not he ! 
 The music stirs in him like wind through 
 
 a tree. 
 
 Mark that Cripple who leans on his 
 
 crutch; like a tower 
 That long has leaned forward, leans hour 
 
 after hour ! — 
 That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is 
 
 bound. 
 While she dandles the Babe in her arms 
 
 to the sound. 
 
 Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like 
 
 a stream; 
 Here are twenty souls happy as souls in 
 
 a dream: 
 They are deaf to your murmurs — they 
 
 care not for you. 
 Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye 
 
 pursue ! 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 STAR-GAZERS. 
 
 Observed by me in Leicester-square, as here 
 described. 
 
 What crowd is this? what have we here ! 
 
 we must not pass it by; 
 A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed 
 
 to the sky : 
 Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of 
 
 little boat. 
 Some little pleasure-skiff, that doth on 
 
 Thames's waters float. 
 
 The Showman chooses well his place, 't is 
 
 Leicester's busy Square; 
 And is as happy in his night, for the 
 
 heavens are blue and fair; 
 Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; 
 
 each stands ready with the fee. 
 And envies him that's looking; — what 
 
 an insight must it be ! 
 
 Vet, Showman, where can lie the cause? 
 Shall thy Implement have blame. 
 
 A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, 
 
 and is put to shame? 
 Or is it good as others are, and be their 
 
 eyes in fault? 
 Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is yon 
 
 resplendent vault? 
 
 Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good 
 
 as we have here? 
 Or gives a thing but small delight that 
 
 never can be dear ? 
 The silver moon with all her vales, and 
 
 hills of mightiest fame, , 
 Doth she betray us when they 're seen? 
 
 or are they but a name? 
 
 Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is 
 
 and strong, 
 And bounty never yields so much but it 
 
 seems to do her wrong? 
 Or is it, that when human Souls a journey 
 
 long have had 
 And are returned into themselves, they 
 
 cannot but be sad? 
 
 Or must we be constrained to think that 
 
 these Spectators rude. 
 Poor in estate, of manners base, men of 
 
 the multitude. 
 Have souls which never yet have risen, 
 
 and therefore prostrate He? 
 No, no, this cannot be; — men thirst for 
 
 power and majesty ! 
 
 Does, then, a deep and earnest thought 
 the blissful mind employ 
 
 Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave 
 and steady joy, 
 
 That doth reject all show of pride, ad- 
 mits no outward sign, 
 
 Because not of this noisy world, but 
 silent and divine ! 
 
 Whatever be the cause, 't is sure that they 
 who pry and pore 
 
 Seem to meet with little gain, seem less 
 happy than before : 
 
 One after One they take their turn, nor 
 have I one espied 
 
 That doth not slackly go away, as if dis- 
 satisfied. 
 1806. 180J 
 
PERSONAL TALK. 
 
 395 
 
 "YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN 
 ECHO." 
 
 written at Town-end, Grasmere. The echo 
 came fr^m Nab-scar, when I was walking on the 
 opposite side of Rydal Mere. I will here mention, 
 for my dear Sister's saice, that, while she was sitting 
 alone one day high up on this part of Loughrigg 
 Fell, she was so affected by the voice of the Cuckoo 
 heard from the crags at some distance that she 
 could not suppress a wish to have a stone in- 
 scribed with her name among the rocks from 
 which the sound proceeded. On my return 
 from my walk I recited these verses to Mrs. 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
 SoUtary, clear, profound, . 
 
 Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
 Giving to her sound for sound ! 
 
 Unsolicited reply 
 
 To a babbling wanderer sent; 
 
 Like her ordinary cry, 
 
 Like — but oh, how different! 
 
 Hears not also mortal Life? 
 Hear not we, unthinking Creatures ! 
 Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 
 Voices of two different natures? 
 
 Have not we too? — yes, we have 
 Answers, and we know not whence; 
 Echoes from beyond the grave. 
 Recognized intelligence ! 
 
 Such rebounds our inward ear 
 Catches sometimes from afar — 
 Listen, ponder, hold them dear; 
 For of God, — of God they are. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 "NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR 
 CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM." 
 
 In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one after- 
 noon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of 
 Milton. I had long been well acquainted with 
 them, but I was particularly struck on that occa- 
 sion with the dignified simplicity and majestic 
 harmony that runs through most of them, — in 
 character so totally different from the Italian, 
 and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. 
 
 I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and 
 produced three Sonnets the same afternoon, the 
 first I ever wrote except an irregular one at 
 school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly 
 remember is — " I grieved for Buonaparte." One 
 was never written down : the third, which was, 
 I believe, preserved, I cannot particularize. 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 
 
 room; 
 And hermits are contented with their 
 
 cells; 
 And students with their pensive citadels; 
 Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his 
 
 loom. 
 Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for 
 
 bloom. 
 High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
 Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
 In truth the prison, unto which we doom 
 Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me. 
 In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be 
 
 bound 
 Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of 
 
 ground; 
 Pleased if some Souls (for such there 
 
 needs must be) 
 Who have felt the weight of too much 
 
 liberty. 
 Should find brief solace there, as I have 
 
 found. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 PERSONAL TALK. 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The last line 
 but two stood, at first, better and more character- 
 istically thus : — 
 
 *' By my half-kitchen and halE-parlor fire." 
 
 My Sister and I were in the habit of having the 
 tea-kettle in our little sitting-room; and we 
 toasted the bread ourselves, which reminds me of 
 a little circumstance not unworthy of being set 
 down among these minutise. Happening both of 
 us to be engaged a few minutes one morning 
 when we had a young prig of a Scotch lawyer to 
 breakfast with us, my dear Sister, with her usual 
 simplicity, put the toasting-fork with a slice of 
 bread into the hands of this Edinburgh genius. 
 Our little book-case stood on one side of the fire. 
 To prevent loss of time, he took down a book, 
 
396 
 
 PERSONAL TALK. 
 
 and fell to reading, to the neglect of the toast, 
 which was burnt to a cinder. Many a time have 
 we laughed at this circumstance, and other 
 cottage simplicities of that day. By the bye, I 
 have a spite at one of this series of Sonnets (I 
 will leave the reader to discover which) as having 
 been the means of nearly putting off forever our 
 acquaintance with dear Miss Fenwick, who has 
 always stigmatized one line of it as vulgar, and 
 worthy only of having been composed by a 
 country squire. 
 
 I. 
 I AM not One who much or oft delight 
 To season my fireside with personal talk . — 
 Of friends, who live within an easy walk. 
 Or neighbors, daily, weekly, in my sight: 
 And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies 
 
 bright. 
 Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the 
 
 stalk. 
 These all wear out of me, like Forms, 
 
 with chalk 
 Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast- 
 night. 
 Better than such discourse doth silence 
 
 long. 
 Long, barren silence, square with my 
 
 desire; 
 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim. 
 In the loved presence of my cottage-fire. 
 And listen to the flapping of the flame. 
 Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 
 
 "Yet life," you say, "is life; we have 
 
 seen and see. 
 And with a living pleasure we describe; 
 And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
 The languid mind into activity. 
 Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth 
 
 and glee 
 Are fostered by the comment and the 
 
 gibe." 
 Even be it so; yet still among your tribe, 
 Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank 
 
 not me ! 
 Children are blest, and powerful; their 
 
 world lies 
 More justly balanced; partly at their feet. 
 And part far from them : sweetest melo- 
 dies 
 Are those that are by distance made more 
 
 sweet; 
 
 Whose mind is but the mind of his own 
 
 eyes. 
 He is a Slave ; the meanest we can meet ! 
 
 Wings have we, — and as far as we can go, 
 We may find pleasure : wilderness and 
 
 wood. 
 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that 
 
 mood 
 Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
 Dreams, books, are each a world; and 
 
 books, we know, 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and 
 
 good: 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh 
 
 . and blood, 
 Oiir pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 There find I personal themes, aplenteous 
 
 store. 
 Matter wherein right voluble I am, 
 To which I listen with a ready ear; 
 Two shall be named, pre-eminently 
 
 dear, — 
 The gentle Lady married to the Moor; 
 And heavenly Una with her milk-white 
 
 Lamb. 
 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
 Great gains are mine; for thus I live re- 
 mote 
 From evil-speaking; rancour, never 
 
 sought. 
 Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. 
 Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
 Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and 
 
 joyous thought: 
 And thus from day to day my little boat 
 Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. 
 Blessings be with them — and eternal 
 
 praise. 
 Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler 
 
 cares — 
 The Poets, who on earth have made vis 
 
 heirs 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly 
 
 lays ! 
 Oh ! might my name be numbered among 
 
 theirs. 
 Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
'THOSE WORDS WERE UTTERED AS IN PENSIVE MOOD." 397 
 
 ADMONITION. 
 
 Intended more particularly for the perusal of 
 those who may have happened to be enamoured 
 of some beautiftil Place of Retreat, in the Countiy 
 of the Lakes. ^ 
 
 Well may'st thou halt — and gaze with 
 
 brightening eye ! 
 The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
 Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own 
 
 dear brook, 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 
 But covet not the Abode; — forbear to 
 
 sigh, 
 As many do, repining while they look; 
 Intruders — who would tear from Nature's 
 
 book 
 This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. 
 Think what the home inust be if it were 
 
 thine, 
 Even thine, though few thy wants ! — 
 
 Roof, window, door. 
 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
 The roses to the porch which they en- 
 twine : 
 Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from 
 
 the day 
 On which it should be touched, would 
 
 melt away. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 "BELOVED VALE! I SAID, WHEN 
 I SHALL CON." 
 
 "Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I 
 
 shall con 
 Those many records of my childish years. 
 Remembrance of myself and of my peers 
 Will press me down : to think of what is 
 
 gone 
 Will be an awful thought, if life have 
 
 one." 
 But, when into the Vale I came, no fears 
 Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no 
 
 tears; 
 Deep thought, or dread remembrance, 
 
 had I none. 
 By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost 
 I stood, of simple shame the blushing 
 
 Thrall; 
 
 So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields 
 
 so small ! 
 A Juggler's balls old Time about hiin 
 
 tossed; 
 I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; 
 
 and all 
 The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 "HOW SWEET IT IS, WHEN 
 MOTHER FANCY ROCKS." 
 
 How sweet it is, when mother Fancy 
 
 rocks 
 The wayward brain, to saunter through a 
 
 wood ! 
 An old place, full of many a lovely brood, 
 Tall trees, green arbors, and ground- 
 flowers in flocks; 
 And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn 
 
 stocks, 
 Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile 
 
 pranks 
 At Wakes and Fairs with wandering 
 
 Mountebanks, — 
 When she stands cresting the Clown's 
 
 head, and mocks 
 The crowd beneath her. Verily I think. 
 Such place to me is sometimes like a dream 
 Or map of the whole world : thoughts, 
 
 link by link. 
 Enter through ears and eyesight, with such 
 
 gleam 
 Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, 
 And leap at once from the delicious stream. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 " THOSE WORDS WERE UTTERED 
 AS IN PENSIVE MOOD." 
 
 — " they are of the sky, 
 
 And from our earthly memory fade away." 
 
 Those words were uttered as in pensive 
 
 mood 
 We turned, departing from that solemn 
 
 sight : 
 A contrast and reproach to gross delight. 
 And life's unspiritual pleasures daily 
 
 wooed ! 
 But now upon this thought I cannot brood : 
 It is. unstable as a dream of night; 
 
398 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE LAKE. 
 
 Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright, 
 Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. 
 Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built 
 
 dome. 
 Though clad in colors beautiful and pure, 
 Find in the heart of man no natural home : 
 The immortal Mind craves objects that 
 
 endure : 
 These cleave to it; from these it cannot 
 
 roam. 
 Nor they, from it : their fellowship is secure. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF 
 
 GRASMERE LAKE. 
 
 1806. 
 
 Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid 
 
 bars 
 Through the gray west ; and lo ! these 
 
 waters, steeled 
 By breezeless air to smoothest poIish,yield 
 A vivid repetition of the stars; 
 Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 
 Amid his fellows beauteously revealed 
 At Jiappy distance from earth's groaning 
 
 field, 
 Where ruthless mortals wage incessant 
 
 wars. 
 Is it a mirror ? — or the nether Sphere 
 Opening to view the abyss in which she 
 
 feeds 
 Her own calm fires? — But list ! a voice is 
 
 near; 
 Great Pan himself low-whispering through 
 
 the reeds, 
 " Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds 
 Ravage the world, tranquillity is here ! " 
 1806. 1820. 
 
 " WITH HOW SAD STEPS, O MOON, 
 THOU CLIMB'ST THE SKY." 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou 
 climb'st the sky, 
 
 " How silently, and with how wan a face ! ' ' 
 
 Where art thou? Thou so often seen on 
 high 
 
 Running among the clouds a Wood- 
 nymph's race ! 
 
 Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath 's 
 a sigh 
 
 Which they would stifle, move at such a 
 
 pace ! 
 The northern Wind, to call thee to the 
 
 chase. 
 Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I 
 The power of Merlin,Goddess ! this should 
 • be: 
 
 And all the stars, fast as the clouds were 
 
 riven. 
 Should sally forth, to keep thee company. 
 Hurrying and sparkling through the clear 
 
 blue heaven. 
 But, Cynthia ! should to thee the palm be 
 
 given. 
 Queen both for beauty and for majesty. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 "THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH 
 WITH US; LATE AND SOON." 
 
 I 
 
 The world is too much with us; late andi 
 
 soon, 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our 
 
 powers : 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid 
 
 boon ! 
 The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 
 The winds that will be howling at all 
 
 hours, 
 And are up-gathered now like sleeping 
 
 flowers; 
 For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; ' 
 It moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather 
 
 be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less 
 
 forlorn; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreath^t* 
 
 horn. 
 1S06. 1807, 
 
 "WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS 
 SPRINKLED FAR AND NIGH." 
 
 With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and 
 
 nigh. 
 Like stars in heaven, and joyously it 
 
 showed ; 
 Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 
 
TO SLEEP. 
 
 399 
 
 Some veering up and down, one knew 
 
 not why. 
 A goodly Vessel did I then espy 
 Come like a giant from a haven broad; 
 And lustily along the bay she strode, 
 Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. 
 This Ship was naught to me, nor I to her. 
 Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look; 
 This Ship to all the rest did I prefer : 
 When will she turn, and whither? She 
 
 will brook 
 No tarrying; where She comes the winds 
 
 must stir : 
 ■On went she, and due north her journey 
 
 took. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 "WHERE LIES THE LAND TO 
 WHICH YON SHIP MUST GO?" 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship 
 
 must go ? 
 Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day. 
 Festively she puts forth in trim array; 
 Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? 
 What boots the inquiry ? — Neither friend 
 
 nor foe 
 She cares for ; let her travel where she may, 
 She finds familiar names, a beaten way 
 Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 
 Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? 
 And, almost as it was when ships were 
 
 rare, 
 (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here 
 
 and there 
 Crossing the waters) doubt, and something 
 
 dark. 
 Of the old Sea some reverential fear, 
 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark ! 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee. 
 These twinklings of oblivion ? Thou dost 
 
 love 
 To sit in meekness.like the brooding Dove, 
 A captive never wishing to be free. 
 This tiresome night, O Sleep ! thou art to 
 
 me 
 A Fly, that up and down himself doth 
 
 shove 
 
 Upon a fretful rivulet, now above 
 Now on the water vexed with mockery. 
 I have no pain that ca^ for patience, no; 
 Hence am I cross and peevish as a child : 
 Am pleased by fits to have thee for my 
 
 foe, 
 Yet ever willing to be reconciled : 
 
 gentle Creature ! do not use me so. 
 But once and deeply let me be beguiled 
 
 1806. 1807, 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by. 
 One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
 Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and 
 
 seas. 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and 
 
 pure sky; 
 
 1 have thought of allby turns,and yet do lie 
 Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' 
 
 melodies 
 Must hear, first uttered from my orchard 
 
 trees; 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 Even thus last night, and two nights more, 
 
 I lay. 
 And could not win thee. Sleep ! by any 
 
 stealth : 
 So do not let me wear to-night away : 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's 
 
 wealth? 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and 
 
 day. 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous 
 
 health ! 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, 
 
 Sleep ! 
 And thou hast had thy store of tenderest 
 
 names ; 
 The very sweetest. Fancy culls or frames. 
 When thankfulness of heart is strong and 
 
 deep ! 
 Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost 
 
 steep 
 In rich reward all suffering; Balm that 
 
 tames 
 All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and 
 
 aims 
 
400 
 
 TWO TRANSLATIONS FROM MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 
 Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I 
 
 alone, ^ 
 I surely not a man ungently made. 
 Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is 
 
 crost ? 
 Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, 
 Mere slave of them who never for thee 
 
 prayed. 
 Still last to come where thou art wanted 
 
 most! 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 TWO TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 MICHAEL ANGELO, AND A 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE 
 LATIN OF THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound 
 
 fast; 
 More grateful still : while wrong and 
 
 shame shall last, 
 On me can Time no happier state bestow 
 Than to be left unconscious of the woe. 
 Ah then, lest you awaken me, speak low. 
 
 Grateful is Sleep, more grateful still to 
 
 be 
 Of marble; for while shameless wrong 
 
 and woe 
 Prevail, 't is best to neither hear nor see. 
 Then wake me not, I pray you. Hush, 
 
 speak low. 
 
 Come, gentle Sleep, Death's image tho' 
 thou art, 
 
 Come share my couch, nor speedily de- 
 part; 
 
 How sweet thus living without life to lie. 
 
 Thus without death how sweet it is to die. 
 1S06? 1882. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL 
 ANGELO. 
 
 Translations from Michael Angelo, done at the 
 request of Mr. Duppa, whose acquaintance I 
 made through Mr. Southey. Mr. Duppa was en- 
 gaged in writing the life of Michael Angelo, and 
 
 applied to Mr. Southey and myself to furnish 
 some specimens of his poetic genius. 
 
 Yes ! hope may with my strong desire 
 
 keep pace, 
 And I be undeluded, unbetrayed; 
 For if of our affections none finds grace 
 In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath 
 
 God made 
 The world which we inhabit ? Better plea 
 Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 
 Glory to that eternal Peace is paid. 
 Who such divinity to thee imparts 
 As hallows and makes pure all gentle 
 
 hearts. 
 His hope is treacherous only whose love 
 
 dies 
 With beauty, which is varying every hour; 
 But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by tb^ 
 
 power 
 Of outward change, there blooms a death- 
 less flower, 
 That breathes on earth the air of paradise, 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 No mortal object did these eyes behold 
 When first they met the placid light of 
 
 thine. 
 And my Soul felt her destiny divine. 
 And hope of endless peace in me grew 
 
 bold : 
 Heaven-born, the Soul a heavenward 
 
 course must hold; 
 Beyond the visible world she soars to seek 
 ( For what delights the sense is false and 
 
 weak) 
 Ideal Form, the universal mould. 
 The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest 
 In that which perishes : nor will he lend 
 His heart to aught which doth on time 
 
 depend. 
 'T is sense, unbridled will, and not true 
 
 love. 
 That kills the soul : love betters what is 
 
 best. 
 Even here below, but more in heaven 
 
 above. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
LINES. 
 
 401 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY 
 CALVERT. 
 
 This young man, Raisley Calvert, to whom I 
 was so much indebted, died at Penrith, 1795. 
 
 Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them 
 Who may respect my name, that I to thee 
 Owed many years of early liberty. 
 This care was thine when sickness did 
 
 condemn 
 Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and 
 
 stem — 
 That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
 Where'er I liked; and finally array 
 My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
 Hence, if in freedom I have loved the 
 
 truth; 
 If there be aught of pure, or good, or 
 
 great. 
 In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays 
 Of higher mood, which now I meditate ; — 
 It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, 
 
 Youth ! 
 To think how much of this will be thy 
 
 praise. 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 " METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOT- 
 STEPS OF A THRONE." 
 
 The latter part of this Sonnet was a great 
 favorite witli my sister S. H, When I saw her 
 lying in death, 1 could not resist the impulse to 
 compose the Sonnet that follows it. 
 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a 
 
 throne 
 Which mists and vapors from mine eyes 
 
 did shroud — 
 Nor view of who might sit thereon 
 
 allowed; 
 But all the steps and ground about were 
 
 strown 
 With sights the ruefullest that flesh and 
 
 bone 
 Ever put on; a miserable crowd, 
 Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before 
 
 that cloud, 
 " Thou art our king, O Death ! to thee we 
 
 groan." 
 
 Those steps I clomb; the mists before me 
 
 gave 
 Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one 
 Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, 
 With her face up to heaven; that seemed 
 
 to have 
 Pleasing remembrance of a thought fore- 
 gone; 
 A lovely Beauty in a summer grave ! 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one 
 Evening, after a stormy day, the Author having 
 just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of 
 Mr. Fox was hourly expected. 
 
 Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up 
 With which she speaks when storms are 
 
 gone, 
 A mighty unison of streams ! 
 Of all her Voices, One ! 
 
 Loud is the Vale; — this inland Depth 
 In peace is roaring like the Sea 
 Yon star upon the mountain -top 
 Is listening quietly. 
 
 Sad was I, ei^n to pain deprest. 
 Importunate Sid heavy load ! ^ 
 The Comforter hath found me here, 
 Upon this lonely road; 
 
 And many thousands now are sad — 
 Wait the fulfilment of their fear; 
 For he must die who is their stay. 
 Their glory disappear. 
 
 A Power is passing from the earth 
 To breathless Nature's dark abyss; 
 But when the great and good depart 
 What is it more than this — 
 
 That Man, who is from God sent forth, 
 Doth yet again to God return? — 
 Such ebb and flow must ever be. 
 Then wherefore should we mourn? 
 1806. 1807. 
 
 1 Importuna e grave salma. — Michael An- 
 
 GELO. 
 
402 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1806. 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1806. 
 
 Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
 Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
 And We are left, or shall be left, alone; 
 The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 
 'Tis well ! from this day forward we shall 
 
 know 
 That in ourselves our safety must be 
 
 sought; 
 That by our own right hands it must be 
 
 wrought; 
 That we must stand unpropped, or be laid 
 
 low. 
 O dastard whom such foretaste doth not 
 
 cheer ! 
 We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
 Be men who hold its many blessings dear. 
 Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band, 
 Who are to judge of danger which they 
 
 fear, 
 And honor which they do not understand.' 
 i8o5. 1807. 
 
 ADDRESS TO A CHILD 
 
 During a Boisterous Winter 
 Evening. 
 
 by my sister. 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. 
 
 What way does the wind come ? What 
 
 way does he go? 
 He rides over the water, and over the 
 
 snow. 
 Through wood, and through vale; and, 
 
 o'er rocky height 
 Which the goat cannot climb, takes his 
 
 sounding flight; 
 He tosses about in every bare tree. 
 As, if you look up, you plainly may see; 
 But how he will come, and whither he 
 
 goes, 
 There 's neverascholar in England knows. 
 
 He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook 
 And ring a sharp 'larum; — but, if you 
 
 should look. 
 There 's nothing to see but a cushion of 
 
 snow 
 
 ^ See Note. 
 
 Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk, 
 And softer than if it were covered with 
 
 silk. 
 Sometimes he 'II hide in the cave of a rock. 
 Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock ; 
 
 — Yet seek him, — and what shall you 
 
 find in the place ? 
 Nothing but silence and empty space; 
 Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves. 
 That he 's left, for a bed, to beggars or 
 
 thieves ! 
 As soon as 't is daylight to-morrow, with 
 
 me 
 You shall go to the orchard, and then 
 
 you will see 
 That he has been there, and made a 
 
 great rout. 
 And cracked the branches, and strewn 
 
 them about; 
 Heaven grant that he spare but that one 
 
 upright twig 
 That looked up at the sky so proud and big 
 All last summer, as well you know. 
 Studded with apples, a beautiful show ! 
 
 Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, 
 And growls as it he would fix his claws 
 Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 
 Drive them down, like men in a battle: 
 
 — But let him range round; he does us 
 
 no harm. 
 
 We build up the fire, we 're snug and 
 warm; 
 
 Untouched by his breath see the candle 
 shines bright, 
 
 And burns with a clear and steady light; 
 
 Books have we to read, — but that half- 
 stifled knell, 
 
 Alas ! 't is the sound of the eight o'clock 
 bell. 
 
 — Come now we '11 to bed ! and when 
 
 we are there 
 He may work his own will, and what 
 
 shall we care? 
 He may knock at the door, — we '11 not 
 
 let him in; 
 May drive at the windows, ■ — we '11 
 
 laugh at his din; 
 Let him seek his own home wherever it 
 
 be; 
 Here's a cozie warm house for Edward 
 
 and me. 
 1806. 18x5. 
 
ODE. 
 
 403 
 
 ODE. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 
 FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
 This was composed during my residence at 
 Town-end, Grasmere. Two years at least passed 
 between the writing of the four first stanzas and 
 the remaining part. To the attentive and com- 
 petent reader the whole sufficiently explains 
 itself ; but there may be no harm in adverting 
 here to particular feelings or experiences of my 
 own mind on which the structure of the poem 
 partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me 
 in childhood than to admit the notion of death as 
 a state applicable to my own being. I have said 
 elsewhere — ; 
 
 "A simple child. 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death [ " — 
 
 But it was not so much from feelings of animal 
 vivacity that 7ny difficulty came as from a sense 
 of the indomitableness of the Spirit within me. 
 I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and 
 Elijah, and almost to persuade myself that, what- 
 ever might become of others, I should be trans- 
 lated, in something of the same way, to heaven. 
 With a feeling congenial to this, I was often 
 unable to think of external things as having ex- 
 ternal existence, and I communed with all that 
 I saw as something not apart from, but inherent 
 In, my own immaterial nature. Many times 
 while going to school have I grasped at a wall or 
 tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism 
 to the reality. At that time I was afraid of such 
 processes. In later periods of life I have de- 
 plored, as we have all reason to do, a subjuga- 
 tion of an opposite character, and have rejoiced 
 over the remembrances, as is expressed in the 
 Lines — 
 
 "Obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things. 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; " etc. 
 
 To that dream-like vividness and splendor which 
 invest objects of sight in childhood, every one, 
 I believe, if he would look back, could bear 
 testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here ; 
 but having in the poem regarded it as presump- 
 tive evidence of a prior state of existence, I think 
 it right to protest against a conclusion, which has 
 given pain to some good and pious persous, that 
 I meant to inculcate such a belief. It is far too 
 shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith, as 
 more than an element in our instincts of immor- 
 
 tality. But let us bear in mind that, though the 
 idea is not advanced in revelation , there is nothing 
 there to contradict it, and the fall of Man presents 
 an analogy in its favor. Accordingly, a pre- 
 existent state has entered into the popular creeds 
 of many nations ; and, among all persons ac- 
 quainted with classic literature, is known as an 
 ingredient in Platonic philosophy. Archimedes 
 said that he could move the world if he had a 
 point whereon to rest his machine. Who has 
 not felt the same aspirations as regards the world 
 of his own mind? Having to wield some of its 
 elements when I was impelled to write thib poem 
 on the " Immortality of the Soul," I took hold 
 of the notion of pre-existence as having sufficient 
 foundation in humanity for authorizing me to 
 make for my purpose the best use of it I could 
 as a poet. 
 
 " The Child is Father of the Man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety.'' 
 See p. 200. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, 
 
 and stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may. 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen I now can 
 see no more. 
 
 The Rainbow comes and goes, 
 And lovely is the Rose, 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are 
 bare, 
 
 Waters on a starry night 
 
 Are beautiful and fair; 
 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 
 That there hath passed away a glory 
 
 from the earth. 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 
 song. 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 
404 
 
 ODE. 
 
 To me alone there came a thought of 
 
 grief: 
 A timely utterance gave that thought 
 relief, 
 
 And I again am strong: 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from 
 
 the steep; 
 No more shall grief of mine the season 
 
 wrong; 
 I hear the Echoes through the mountains 
 
 throng, 
 The Winds come to me from the fields 
 of sleep. 
 
 And all the earth is gay; 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity. 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every Beast keep holiday; — 
 Thou Child of Joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
 thou happy 
 
 Shepherd-boy ! 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the 
 call 
 Ye to each other make; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your 
 jubilee ; 
 My heart is at your festival. 
 My head hath its coronal. 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel 
 it all. 
 Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 And the Children are culling 
 
 On every side, 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
 Fresh flowers; while the sun shines 
 warm. 
 And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's 
 arm : — 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 — But there 's a Tree, of many, one, 
 A single Field which I have looked upon. 
 Both of them speak of something that is 
 gone: 
 The Pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting. 
 And Cometh from afar : 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness. 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it 
 flows. 
 
 He sees it in his joy; 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the 
 east 
 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended; 
 At length the Man perceives it die away. 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her 
 
 own; , 
 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural 
 
 kind. 
 And, even with something of a Mother's 
 mind. 
 And no unworthy aim. 
 The homely Nurse doth all she can 
 To make her Foster-child, her Inmate 
 Man, 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-born 
 
 blisses, 
 A six years' Darling of a pygmy size ! 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand 
 
 he lies. 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 With light upon him from his father's 
 
 eyes ! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
 Some fragment from his dream of human 
 
 Ufe, 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 A mourning or a funeral; 
 
ODE. 
 
 405 
 
 And this hath now his heart, 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
 But it will not be long 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part; 
 Filling from time to time his "humorous 
 
 stage ' ' 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 As if his whole vocation 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy Soul's immensity; 
 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal 
 
 deep, 
 
 Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest. 
 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the 
 
 grave ; 
 Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a 
 
 Slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by; 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's 
 
 height. 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou 
 
 provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly 
 
 freight. 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 Is something that doth live. 
 That nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth 
 
 breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in 
 his breast : — 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things. 
 Fallings from us, vanishings; 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized. 
 High instincts before which our mortal 
 
 Nature 
 Did tremble lika a guilty Thing surprised: 
 But for those first affections. 
 Those shadowy recollections. 
 Which, be they what they may. 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power 
 to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake. 
 
 To perish never; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- 
 deavor. 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be. 
 Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither. 
 Can in a moment travel thither. 
 And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling ever- 
 more. 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous 
 song ! 
 And let the young Lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We in thought will join your throng. 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was 
 
 once so bright 
 Be now forever taken from my sight, 
 Though nothing can bring back the 
 hour 
 
4o6 
 
 THOUGHTS OF A BRITON. 
 
 Df splendor in the grass, of glory in the 
 flower; 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind; 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 
 Which having been must ever be; 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suffering; 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, 
 
 and Groves, 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your 
 
 might ; 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 I love the Brooks which down their 
 
 channels fret, 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly 
 
 as they; 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born 
 
 Day 
 
 Is lovely yet; 
 The Clouds that gather round the setting 
 
 sun 
 Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mor- 
 tality; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms 
 
 are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we 
 
 live. 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and 
 
 fears, 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can 
 
 give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for 
 
 tears. 
 1803-6. 1807. 
 
 A PROPHECY. February, 1807. 
 
 High deeds, O Germans, are to come 
 
 from you ! 
 Thus in your books the record shall be 
 
 found, 
 "A watchword was pronounced, a potent 
 
 sound — 
 Arminius ! — all the people quaked like 
 
 dew 
 
 Stirred by the breeze ; they rose, a Nation, 
 
 true. 
 True to herself — the mighty Germany, 
 She of the Danube and the Northern Sea, 
 She rose, and off at once the yoke she 
 
 threw. 
 All power was given her in the dreadful 
 
 trance; 
 Those new-born Kings she withered like 
 
 a flame." 
 — Woe to them all ! but heaviest woe and 
 
 shame 
 To that Bavarian who could first advance 
 His banner in accursed league with 
 
 France, 
 First open traitor to the German name ! 
 1807. 1807. 
 
 THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE 
 SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND. 
 
 This was composed while pacing to and fro 
 between the Hall of Coleorton, then rebuilding, 
 and the principal Farm-house of the Estate, in 
 which we lived for nine or ten months. I will 
 here mention that the Song of the Restoration of 
 Lord Clifford, as well as that on the feast of 
 Brougham Castle, were produced on the same 
 ground. 
 
 Two Voices are there; one is of the sea. 
 One of the mountains; each a mighty 
 
 Voice : 
 In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 
 They were thy chosen music. Liberty ! 
 There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 
 Thou fought'st against him; but hast 
 
 vainly striven : 
 Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art 
 
 driven, 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by 
 
 thee. 
 Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been 
 
 bereft : 
 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still 
 
 is left; 
 For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would 
 
 it be 
 That Mountain floods should thunder as 
 
 before. 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
 And neither awful Voice i>e heard by thee ! 
 1807. 1807, 
 
THE MOTHER'S RETURN. 
 
 407 
 
 TO THOMAS CLARKSON. 
 
 ON THE FINAL PASSING OF THE BILL FOR 
 THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE. 
 
 MARCH, 1807. 
 
 Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to 
 climb ; 
 
 How toilsome — nay, how dire — it was, 
 by thee 
 
 Is known ; by none, perhaps, so feelingly : 
 
 But thou, who, starting in thy fervent 
 prime. 
 
 Didst first lead forth that enterprise sub- 
 lime, 
 
 Hast heard the constant Voice its charge 
 repeat. 
 
 Which, out of thy young heart's oracular 
 seat, 
 
 First roused thee. — O true yoke-fellow 
 of Time, 
 
 Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm 
 
 Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn ! 
 
 The blood-stained Writing is forever torn ; 
 
 And thou henceforth wilt have a good 
 man's calm, 
 
 A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall 
 find 
 
 Repose at length, firm friend of human- 
 kind! 
 1807. 1807. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S RETURN.i 
 
 BY MY SISTER. 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. 
 A MONTH, sweet Little-ones, is past 
 Since your dear Mother went away, — 
 And she to-morrow will return; 
 To-morrow is the happy day. 
 
 blessed tidings ! thought of joy ! 
 The eldest heard with steady glee; 
 Silent he stood; then laughed amain, — 
 And shouted, " Mother, come to me." 
 
 Louder and louder did he shout. 
 With witless hope to bring her near; 
 " Nay, patience ! patience, little boy ! 
 your tender mother cannot hear." 
 2 See Note. 
 
 I told of hills, and far-off towns. 
 And long, long vales to travel through; — 
 He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed. 
 But he submits; what can he do? 
 
 No strife disturbs his sister's breast; 
 She wars not with the mystery 
 Of time and distance, night and day; 
 The bonds of our humanity. 
 
 Her joy is like an instinct, joy 
 Of kitten, bird, or summer fly; 
 She dances, runs without an aim, 
 She chatters in her ecstasy. 
 
 Her brother now takes up the note, 
 And echoes back his sister's glee; 
 They hug the infant in my arms, 
 As if to force his sympathy. 
 
 Then, settling into fond discourse, 
 We rested in the garden bower; 
 While sweetly shone the evening sun 
 In his departing hour. 
 
 We told o'er all that we had done, — 
 Our rambles by the swift brook's side 
 Far as the willow-skirted pool. 
 Where two fair swans together glide. 
 
 We talked of change, of winter gone, 
 Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray> 
 Of birds that build their nests and sing, 
 And all " since Mother went away ! " 
 
 To her these tales they will repeat. 
 To her our new-born tribes will show. 
 The goslings green, the ass's colt. 
 The lambs that in the meadow go. 
 
 — But, see, the evening star comes forth ' 
 To bed the children must depart; 
 A moment's heaviness they feel, 
 A sadness at the heart ; 
 
 'T is gone — and in a merry fit 
 They run up-stairs in gamesome race; 
 I, too, infected by their mood, 
 I could have joined the wanton chase. 
 
4o8 
 
 GIPSIES. 
 
 Five minutes past — and, O the change ! 
 Asleep upon their beds they lie; 
 Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 
 And closed the sparkling eye. 
 1807. 1815. 
 
 GIPSIES. 
 
 Composed at Coleorton. I had observed them, 
 as here described, near Castle Donnington, on 
 my way to and from Derby. 
 
 Yet are they here the same unbroken knot 
 
 Of human Beings, in the self-same spot ! 
 Men, women, children, yea the frame 
 Of the whole spectacle the same ! 
 
 Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light , 
 
 Now deep and red, the coloring of night; 
 That on their Gipsy-faces falls. 
 Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. 
 
 — Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours 
 are gone, while I 
 
 Have been a traveller under open sky. 
 Much witnessing of change and cheer. 
 Yet as I left I find them here ! 
 
 The weary Sun betook himself to rest; — 
 
 Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west. 
 Outshining like a visible God 
 The glorious path in which he trod. 
 
 And now, ascending, after one dark hour 
 
 And one night's diminution of her power, 
 Behold the mighty Moon ! this way 
 She looks as if at them — but they 
 
 Regard not her : — oh better wrong and 
 strife 
 
 (By nature transient) than this torpid life; 
 Life which the very stars reprove 
 As on their silent tasks they move ! 
 
 Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or 
 earth ! 
 
 In scorn I speak not ; — they are what 
 their birth 
 And breeding suffer them to be; 
 Wild outcasts of society ! 
 1807. 1807. 
 
 " O NIGHTINGALE ! THOU 
 SURELY ART." 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. (Mrs. JV. says 
 in a note — " At Coleorton.") 
 
 O Nightingale ! thou surely art 
 A creature of a " fiery heart: " — 
 
 These notes of thine — they pierce and 
 
 pierce ; 
 Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
 Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 
 Had helped thee to a Valentine; 
 A song in mockery and despite 
 Of shades, and dews, and silent night; 
 And steady bliss, and all the loves 
 Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 
 I heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
 His homely tale, this very day; 
 His voice was buried among trees, 
 Yet to be come at by the breeze : 
 He did not cease; but cooed — and cooed; 
 And somewhat pensively he wooed : 
 He sang of love, with quiet blending. 
 Slow to begin, and never ending; 
 Of serious faith, and inward glee; 
 That was the song — the song for me ! 
 1807. 1807. 
 
 TO LADY BEAUMONT. 
 
 The winter garden of Coleorton, fashioned out 
 of an old quarry under the superintendence and 
 direction of Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister 
 Dorothy, during the winter and spring we resided 
 there. 
 
 Lady ! the songs of Spring were in the 
 grove 
 
 While I was shaping beds for winter 
 flowers; 
 
 While I was planting green unfading 
 bowers. 
 
 And shrubs — to hang upon the warm al- 
 cove. 
 
 And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy 
 wove 
 
 The dream, to time and nature's blended 
 powers 
 
 I gave this paradise for winter hours, 
 
 A labyrinth. Lady ! which your feet shall 
 rove. 
 
 Yes ! when the sun of life more feebly 
 shines. 
 
 Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn 
 gloom 
 
 Or of high gladness you shall hither bring; 
 
 And these perennial bowers and murmur- 
 ing pines 
 
 Be gracious as the music and the bloom 
 
 And all the mighty ravishment of spring 
 1807. 1807. 
 
SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 409 
 
 "THOUGH NARROW BE THAT 
 OLD MAN'S CARES." 
 
 "gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation and a name.'' 
 
 Written at Coleorton. This old man's name 
 was Mitchell. He was, in all his ways and con- 
 versation, a great curiosity, both individually and 
 as a representative of past times. His chief em- 
 ployment was keeping watch at night by pacing 
 round the house, at that time building, to keep 
 off depredators. He has often told me gravely of 
 having seen the Seven Whistlers and the Hounds 
 as here described. Among the groves of Cole- 
 orton, where I became familiar with the habits 
 and notions of old Mitchell, there was also a 
 laborer of whom, I regret, I had no personal 
 knowledge ; for, more than forty years after, 
 when he was become an old man, I leamt that 
 while I was composing verses, which I usually 
 did aloud, he took much pleasure, unknown to 
 me, in following my steps that he might catch 
 the words I uttered ; and, what is not a little 
 remarkable, several lines caught in this way kept 
 their place in his memory. My volumes have 
 lately been given to him by my informant, and 
 surely he must have been gratified to meet in 
 print his old acquaintances. 
 
 Though narrow be that old Man's cares, 
 
 and near, 
 The poor old Man is greater than he seems : 
 For he hath waking empire, wide as 
 
 dreams; 
 An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. 
 Rich are his walks with supernatural 
 
 cheer; 
 The region of his inner spirit teems 
 With vital sounds and monitory gleams 
 Of high astonishment and pleasing fear. 
 He the seven birds hath seen, that never 
 
 part, 
 Seen the Seven Whistlers in their 
 
 nightly rounds, 
 And counted them : and oftentimes will 
 
 start — 
 For overhead are sweeping Gabriel's 
 
 Hounds 
 Doomed, with their impious Lord, the 
 
 flying Hart 
 To chase forever, on aerial grounds ! 
 
 1807. 
 
 1807. 
 
 SONG AT THE 
 FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIF- 
 FORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES 
 AND HONORS OF HIS ANCESTORS. 
 
 See the note. This poem was composed at 
 Coleorton while I was walking to and fro along 
 the path that led from Sir George Beaumont's 
 Farm-house, where we resided, to the Hall which 
 was building at that time. 
 
 High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel 
 
 sate, 
 And Emont's murmur mingled with the 
 
 Song. — 
 The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
 A festal strain that hath been silent long: 
 " From town to town, from tower to tower, 
 The red rose is a gladsome flower. 
 Her thirty years of winter past, 
 The red rose is revived at last; 
 She lifts her head for endless spring, 
 For everlasting blossoming : 
 Both roses flourish, red and white: 
 In love and sisterly delight 
 The two that were at strife are blended, 
 And all old troubles now are ended. — 
 Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her 
 Who is the flower of Lancaster ! 
 Behold her how She smiles to-day 
 On this great throng, this bright array ! 
 Fair greeting doth she send to all 
 From every corner of the hall; 
 But chiefly from above the board 
 Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 
 A Clifford to his own restored ! 
 
 They came with banner, spear, and 
 
 shield. 
 And it was proved in Bosworth-field. 
 Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
 Earth helped him with the cry of blood : ^ 
 St. George was for us, and the might 
 Of blessed Angels crowned the right. 
 Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, 
 We loudest in the faithful north: 
 Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 
 Our streams proclaim a welcoming; 
 Our strong-abodes and castles see 
 The glory of their loyalty. 
 
 How glad is Skipton at this hour — 
 1 See Note. 
 
4IO 
 
 SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 Though lonely, a deserted Tower; 
 Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and 
 
 groom: 
 We have them at the feast of Brough'm. 
 How glad Pendragon — though the sleep 
 Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 
 A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
 As in a dream her own renewing. 
 Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem 
 Beside her little humble stream; 
 And she that keepeth watch and ward 
 Her statelier Eden's course to guard; 
 They both are happy at this hour. 
 Though each is but a lonely Tower : — 
 But here is perfect joy and pride 
 For one fair House by Emont's side, 
 This day, distinguished without peer 
 To see her Master and to cheer — 
 Him, and his Lady-mother dear ! 
 
 Oh ! it was a time forlorn 
 When the fatherless was born — 
 Give her wings that she may fly. 
 Or she sees her infant die ! 
 Swords that are with slaughter wild 
 Hunt the Mother and the Child. 
 Who will take them from the light? 
 — Yonder is a man in sight — 
 Yonder is a house — but where ? 
 No, they must not enter there. 
 To the caves, and to the brooks. 
 To the clouds of heaven she looks; 
 She is speechless, but her eyes 
 Pray in ghostly agonies. 
 Blissful Mary, Mother mild. 
 Maid and Mother undefiled. 
 Save a Mother and her Child ! 
 
 Now Who is he that bounds with joy 
 On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy? 
 No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass 
 Light as the wind along the grass. 
 Can this be He who hither came 
 In secret, like a smothered flame? 
 O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
 For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! 
 God loves the Child; and God hath willed 
 That those dear words should be fulfilled. 
 The Lady's words, when forced away, 
 The last she to her Babe did say : 
 ' My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest 
 I may not be; but rest thee, rest, 
 For lowly shepherd's life is best ! ' 
 
 Alas ! when evil men are strong 
 No life is good, no pleasure long. 
 
 The Boy must part from Mosedale's 
 
 groves. 
 And leave Blencathara's rugged coves. 
 And quit the flowers that summer brings 
 To Glenderamakin's lofty springs; 
 Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
 Be turned to heaviness and fear. 
 
 — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise I 
 Hear it, good man, old in days ! 
 Thou tree of covert and of rest 
 
 For this young Bird that is distrest; 
 Among thy branches safe he lay. 
 And he was free to sport and play, 
 When falcons were abroad for prey. 
 A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
 And heaviness in Clifford's ear ! 
 I said, when evil men are strong, 
 No life is good, no pleasure long, 
 A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
 Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
 And thankful through a weary time, 
 That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
 
 — Again he wanders forth at will, 
 And tends a flock from hill to hill : 
 His garb is humble; ne'er was seen 
 Such garb with such a noble mien; 
 Among the shepherd grooms no mate 
 Hath he, a Child of strength and state! 
 Yet lacks not friends for simple glee. 
 Nor yet for higher sympathy. 
 
 To his side the fallow-deer 
 Came, and rested without fear; 
 The eagle, lord of land and sea. 
 Stooped down to pay him fealty; 
 And both the undying fish that swim i 
 Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him; 
 The pair were servants of his eye 
 In their immortality; 
 And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, 
 Moved to and fro, for his delight. 
 He knew the rocks which Angels hauri 
 Upon the mountains visitant; 
 He hath kenned them taking wing: 
 And into caves where Faeries sing 
 He hath entered; and been told 
 By Voices how men lived of old. 
 Among the heavens his eye can see 
 The face of thing that is to be; 
 And, if that men report him right, 
 His tongue could whisper words of might. 
 
 — Now another day is come. 
 Fitter hope, and nobler doom; 
 
 > See Note. 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 411 
 
 He h:ith thrown aside his crook, 
 
 And hath buried deep his book; 
 
 Armor rusting in his halls 
 
 On the blood of Clifford calls; ' — 
 
 'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance — 
 
 Bear me to the heart of France, 
 
 Is the longing of the Shield — 
 
 Tell thy name, thou trembling Field; 
 
 Field of death where'er thou be, 
 
 Groan thou with our victory ! 
 
 Happy day, and mighty hour. 
 
 When our Shepherd, in his power. 
 
 Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, 
 
 To his ancestors restored, 
 
 Like a re-appearing Star, 
 
 Like a glory from afar. 
 
 First shall head the flock of war ! " 
 
 Alas ! the impassioned minstrel did not 
 
 know 
 How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's 
 
 heart was framed, 
 How he, long forced in humble walks to 
 
 go. 
 Was softened into feeling, soothed, and 
 tamed. 
 
 Love had he found in huts where poor 
 
 men lie; 
 His daily teachers had been woods and 
 
 rills, 
 The silence that is in the starry sky. 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 
 
 In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were 
 
 dead: 
 Nor did he change; but kept in lofty 
 
 place 
 The wisdom which adversity had bred. 
 
 Glad were the vales, and every cottage 
 
 hearth; 
 The Shepherd-lord was honored more 
 
 and more; 
 \nd, ages after he was laid in earth, 
 " The good Lord Clifford ' ' was the name 
 
 he bore. 
 
 1807. 
 
 1807. 
 1 See 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE; 
 OR, THE FATE OF THE NORTONS.^ 
 
 The earlier half of this Poem was composed at 
 Stockton-upou-Tees, when Mrs. Wordsworth and 
 I were on :i visit to her eldest Brother, Mr. 
 Hutchinson, at the close ot the year 1807. The 
 country is flat, and the weather was rough. 1 
 was accustomed every day to walk to and fro 
 under the shelter of a row of stacks in a field at 
 a small distance from the town, and there poured 
 forth my verses aloud as freely as they would 
 come. Mrs. Wordsworth reminds me that her 
 brother stood upon the punctilio of not sitting 
 down to dinner till I joined the party ; and it 
 frequently happened that I did not make my 
 appearance till too late, so that she was made 
 uncomfortable. I here beg her pardon for this 
 and similar transgressions during the whole course 
 of our wedded life. To my beloved Sister the 
 same apology is due. 
 
 When, from the visit just mentioned, we re- 
 turned to Town-end, Grasraere, I proceeded with 
 the Poem; and it may be worth while to note, 
 as a caution to others who may cast their eye 
 on these memoranda, that the skin having been 
 rubbed off my heel by my wearing too tight a 
 shoe, though I desisted from walking I found 
 that the irritation of the wounded part was kept 
 up, by the act of composition, to a degree that 
 made it necessary to give my constitution a holi- 
 day. A rapid cure was the consequence. Poetic 
 excitement, when accompanied by protracted 
 labor in composition, has throughout my life 
 brought on more or less bodily derangement. 
 Nevertheless, I am, at the close of my seventy- 
 third year, in what may be called excellent 
 health ; so that intellectual labor is not necessa- 
 rily unfavorable to longevity. But perhaps I 
 ought here to add that mine has been generally 
 carried on out of doors. 
 
 Let me here say a few words of this Poem in 
 the way of criticism. The subject being taken 
 from feudal times has led to its being compared 
 to some of Walter Scott's poems that belong to 
 the same age and state of society. The com- 
 parison is inconsiderate. Sir Walter pursued the 
 customary and very natural course of conducting 
 an action, presenting various turns of fortune, to 
 some outstanding point on which the mind might 
 rest as a termination or catastrophe. The course 
 I attempted to pursue is entirely different. 
 Everything that is attempted by the principal 
 personages in " The White Doe" fails, so far as 
 its object is external and substantial. So far as 
 it is moral and spiritual it succeeds. The Heroine 
 of the Poem knows that her duty is not to inter- 
 Note. 
 
412 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 fere with the current of events, either to forward 
 
 or delay them, but 
 
 "To abide 
 The shock, and finally secure 
 O'er pain and grief a triumph pure." 
 
 This she does in obedience to her brother's in- 
 junction, as most suitable to a mind and char- 
 acter that, under previous trials, had been proved 
 to accord with his. She achieves this not with- 
 out aid from the communication with the inferior 
 Creature, which often leads her thoughts to re- 
 volve upon the past with a tender and humanizing 
 influence that exalts rather than depresses her. 
 The anticipated beatification, if I may so say, of 
 her mind, and the apotheosis of the companion of 
 her solitude, are the points at which the Poem 
 aims, and constitute its legitimate catastrophe, 
 far too spiritual a one for instant or widely-spread 
 sympathy, but not therefore the less fitted to 
 make a deep and permanent impression upon 
 that class of minds who think and feel more in- 
 dependently, than the many do, of the surfaces 
 of things and interests transitory because belong- 
 ing more to the outward and social forms of life 
 than to its internal spirit. How insignificant a 
 thing, for example, does personal prowess appear 
 compared with the fortitude of patience and 
 heroic martyrdom ; in other words, with struggles 
 for the sake of principle, in preference to victory 
 gloried in for its own sake. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 During the Summer of 1807 I visited, for the 
 first time, the beautiful country that surrounds 
 Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire ; and the Poem of 
 "The White Doe," founded upon a Tradition 
 connected with that place, was composed at the 
 close of the same year. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 In trellised shed with clustering roses gay. 
 And, Mary ! oft beside our blazing fire. 
 When years of wedded life were as a day 
 Whose current answers to the heart's desire. 
 Did we together read in Spenser's Lay 
 How Una, sad of soul — in sad attire. 
 The gentle Una, of celestial birth, 
 To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth. 
 
 Ah, then, Beloved ! pleasing was the smart. 
 
 And the tear precious in compassion shed 
 
 For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart, 
 
 Did meekly bear the pang unmerited; 
 
 Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart 
 
 The milk-white Lamb wliich in a line she led, — 
 
 And faithful, loyal in her innocence. 
 Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. 
 
 Notes could we hear as of a faery shell 
 Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught; 
 Free Fancy prized each specious miracle. 
 And all its finer inspiration caught ; 
 Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell, 
 We by a lamentable change were taught 
 That " bliss with mortal Man may not abide: " 
 How nearly joy and sorrow are.allied! 
 
 For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, 
 For us the voice of melody was mute. 
 — But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow, 
 And give the timid herbage leave to shoot, 
 Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow 
 A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit. 
 Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content 
 From blossoms wild of fancies innocent. 
 
 It soothed us — it beguiled us — then, to hear 
 Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell; 
 And griefs whose aery motion comes not near 
 The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel : 
 Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer. 
 High over hill and low adown the dell 
 Again we wandered, willing to partake 
 All that she suffered for her dear Lord's nake. 
 
 Then, too, this Song of mine once mom could 
 
 please, 
 Where anguish, strange as dreams of lestless 
 
 sleep. 
 Is tempered and allayed by sympathies 
 Aloft ascending, and descending deep. 
 Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees 
 Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep 
 Of the sharp winds ; — fair Creatures ! — to whom 
 
 Heaven 
 A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given. 
 
 This tragic Story cheered us ; for it speaks 
 Of female patience winning firm repose ; 
 And, of the recompense that conscience seeks, 
 A bright, encouraging, example shows; 
 Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest 
 
 breaks. 
 Needful amid life's ordinary woes; — 
 Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless 
 A happy hour with holier happiness. 
 
 He serves the Muses erringly and ill. 
 
 Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive: 
 
 Oh, that my mind were equal to fulfil 
 
 The comprehensive mandate which they .pve — 
 
 Vain aspiration of an earnest will ! 
 
 Yet in this moral Strain a power may Hve, 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 413 
 
 Belovfed Wife ! such solace to impart 
 As it hath yielded to thy tender heart. 
 Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, 
 April 20, 1S15. 
 
 " Action is transitory — a step, a blow, 
 
 The motion of a muscle — this way or that — 
 
 'Tis done; and in the after-vacancy 
 
 We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed : 
 
 Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, 
 
 And has the nature of infinity.^ 
 
 Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem 
 
 And irremoveable) gracious openings lie. 
 
 By which the soul — with patient steps of thought 
 
 Now toiling, wafted now on wings of prayer — 
 
 May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds 
 
 Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent 
 
 Even to the fountain-head of peace divine." 
 
 " They that deny a God, destroy Man's nobility : 
 for certainly Man is of kinn to the Beast by his 
 Body ; and if he be not of kinn to God by his 
 Spirit, he is a base, ignoble Creature. It destroys 
 likewise Magnanimity, and the raising of humane 
 Nature : for take an example of a Dogg, and 
 mark what a generosity and courage he will put 
 on, when he finds himself maintained by a Man, 
 who to him is instead of a God, or Melior Natura. 
 Which courage is manifestly such, as that Crea- 
 ture without that confidence of a better Natilre 
 than his own could never attain. So Man, when 
 he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine 
 protection and favor, gathereth a force and faith 
 which human Nature in itself could not obtain." 
 Lord Bacon. 
 
 Canto First. 
 
 From Bolton's old monastic tower ^ 
 The bells ringloud with gladsome power; 
 The sun shines bright ; the fields are gay 
 AVith people in their best array 
 Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, 
 Along the banks of crystal Wharf, 
 Through the Vale retired and lowly. 
 Trooping to that summons holy. 
 And, up among the moorlands, see 
 What sprinklings of blithe company ! 
 Of lasses and of shepherd grooms, 
 That down the steep hills force their way, 
 Like cattle through the budded brooms; 
 Path, or no path, what care they? 
 And thus in joyous mood they hie 
 To Bolton's mouldering Priory. 
 
 What would they ^here? — Full fifty 
 years 
 
 ^ See 
 
 That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers. 
 Too harshly hath been doomed to taste 
 The bitterness of wrong and waste : 
 Its courts are ravaged; but the tower 
 Js standing with a voice of power. 
 That ancient voice which wont to call 
 To mass or some high festival; 
 And in the shattered fabric's heart 
 Remaineth one protected part; 
 A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest,' 
 Closely embowered and trimly drest; 
 And thither young and old repair, 
 This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 
 
 Fast the churchyard fills; — anon 
 Look again, and they all are gone; 
 The cluster round the porch, and the folk 
 Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak U 
 And scarcely have they disappeared 
 Ere the prelusive hymn is heard : — 
 With one consent the people rejoice, 
 Filling the church with a lofty voice ! 
 They sing a service which they feel : 
 For 't is the sunrise now of zeal; 
 Of a pure faith the vernal prime — 
 In great Eliza's golden time. 
 
 A moment ends the fervent din. 
 And all is hushed, without and within; 
 For though the priest, more tranquilly. 
 Recites the holy liturgy. 
 The only voice which you can hear 
 Is the river murmuring near. 
 — When soft ! — the dusky trees between, 
 And down the path through the open 
 
 green. 
 Where is no living thing to be seen; 
 And through yon gateway, where is found. 
 Beneath the arch with ivy bound. 
 Free entrance to the churchyard ground — 
 Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 
 Comes gliding in serene and slow. 
 Soft and silent as a dream, 
 A solitary Doe ! 
 White she is as lily of June, 
 And beauteous as the silver moon 
 When out of sight the clouds are driven 
 And she is left alone in heaven ; 
 Or like a ship some gentle day 
 In sunshine sailing far away, 
 A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
 Of ocean for her own domain. 
 
 Lie silent in your graves, ye dead ! 
 Lie quiet in your churchyard bed! 
 \e living, tend your holy cares; 
 Note. 
 
414 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 Ye multitude, pursue your prayers; 
 
 And blame not me if my heart and sight 
 
 Are occupied with one delight ! 
 
 'T is a work for sabbath hours 
 
 If I with this bright Creature go: 
 
 Whether she be of forest bowers, 
 
 From the bowers of earth below; 
 
 Or a Spirit for one day given, 
 
 A pledge of grace from purest heaven. 
 
 What harmonious pensive changes 
 Wait upon her as she ranges 
 Round and through this Pile of state 
 Overthrown and desolate ! 
 Now a step or two her way 
 Leads through space of open day, 
 Where the enamoured sunny light 
 Brightens her that was so bright; 
 Now doth a delicate shadow fall. 
 Falls upon her like a breath. 
 From some lofty arch or wall. 
 As she passes underneath : 
 Now some gloomy nook partakes 
 Of the glory that she makes, — 
 High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell, 
 With perfect cunning framed as well 
 Of stone, and ivy, and the spread 
 Of the elder's bushy head; 
 Some jealous and forbidding cell. 
 That doth the living stars repel. 
 And where no flower hath leave to dwell. 
 
 The presence of this wandering Doe 
 Fills many a damp obscure recess 
 With lustre of a saintly show ; 
 And, reappearing, she no less 
 Sheds on the flowers that round her blow 
 A more than sunny liveliness. 
 But say, among these holy places. 
 Which thus assiduously she paces. 
 Comes she with a votary's task. 
 Rite to perform, or boon to ask? 
 Fair Pilgrim ! harbors she a sense 
 Of sorrow, or of reverence? 
 Can she be grieved for quire or shrine, 
 Crushed as if by wrath divine ? 
 For what survives of house where God 
 Was worshipped, or where Man abode; 
 For old magnificence undone; 
 Or for the gentler work begun 
 By Nature, softening and concealing, 
 And busy with a hand of healing? 
 Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth 
 That to the sapling ash gives birth; 
 For dormitory's length laid bare 
 
 Where the wild rose blossoms fair; 
 Or altar, whence the cross was rent, 
 Now rich with mossy ornament ? 
 
 — She sees a warrior carved in stone. 
 Among the thick weeds, stretched alone; 
 A warrior, with his shield of pride 
 Cleaving humbly to his side. 
 
 And hands in resignation prest, 
 Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast; 
 As little she regards the sight 
 As a common creature might : 
 If she be doomed to inward care. 
 Or service, it must lie elsewhere. 
 
 — But hers are eyes serenely bright. 
 And on she moves — with pace how light ! 
 Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste 
 The dewy turf with flowers bestrown; 
 And thus she fares, until at last 
 Beside the ridge of a grassy grave 
 
 In quietness she lays her down; 
 Gentle as a weary wave 
 Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, 
 Against an anchored vessel's side; 
 Even so, without distress, doth she 
 Lie down in peace, and lovingly. 
 The day is placid in its going. 
 To a lingering motion bound, 
 Like the crystal stream now flowing 
 With its softest summer sound : 
 So the balmy minutes pass. 
 While this radiant Creature lies 
 Couched upon the dewy grass. 
 Pensively with downcast eyes. 
 
 — But now again the people raise 
 With awful cheer a voice of praise ; 
 It is the last, the parting song; 
 
 And from the temple forth they throng. 
 And quickly spread themselves abroad, 
 While each pursues his several road. 
 But some — a variegated band 
 Of middle-aged, and old, and young. 
 And little children by the hand 
 Upon their leading mothers hung — 
 With mute obeisance gladly paid 
 Turn towards the spot, where, full in view. 
 The white Doe, to her service true, 
 Her sabbath couch has made. 
 
 It was a solitary mound; 
 Which two spears' length of level ground 
 Did from all other graves divide : 
 As if in some respect of pride; 
 Or melancholy's sickly mood, 
 Still shy of human neighborhood; 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RVLSTONE. 
 
 415 
 
 Or guilt, that humbly would express 
 A penitential loneliness. 
 
 " Look, there she is, my Child ! draw 
 near; 
 She fears not, wherefore should we fear? 
 She means no harm ; " — but still the Boy, 
 To whom the words were softy said. 
 Hung back, and smiled, and blushed lor 
 
 A shame-faced blush of glowing red ! 
 Again the Mother whispered low, 
 " Now you have seen the famous Doe; 
 From Rylstone she hath found her way 
 Over the hills this sabbath day. 
 Her work, whate'er it be, is done. 
 And she will depart when we are gone; 
 Thus doth she keep, from year to year, 
 Her sabbath morning, foul or fair." 
 
 Bright was the Creature, as in dreams 
 The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright; 
 But is she truly what .she seems? 
 He asks with insecure delight, 
 Asks of himself, and doubts, — and still 
 The doubt returns against his will : 
 Though he, and all the standers-by, 
 Could tell a tragic history 
 Of facts divulged, wherein appear 
 Substantial motive, reason clear. 
 Why thus the milk-white Doe is found 
 Couchant beside that lonely mound; 
 And why she duly loves to pace 
 The circuit of this hallowed place. 
 Nor to the Child's inquiring mind 
 Is such perplexity confined; 
 For, spite of sober Truth that sees 
 A world of fixed remembrances 
 Which to this mystery belong, 
 If, undeceived, my skill can trace 
 The characters of every face, 
 There lack not strange delusion here. 
 Conjecture vague, and idle fear. 
 And superstitious fancies strong. 
 Which do the gentle Creature wrong. 
 
 That bearded, staff-supported Sire — 
 Who in his boyhood often .fed 
 Full cheerily on convent-bread. 
 And heard old tales by the convent-fire. 
 And to his grave will go with scars. 
 Relics of long and distant wars — • 
 That Old Man, studious to expound 
 The spectacle, is mounting high 
 To days of dim antiquity; 
 When Lady Aalira mourned ' 
 
 1 See 
 
 Her Son, and felt in her despair 
 
 The pang of unavailing prayer; 
 
 Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned. 
 
 The noble Boy of Egremound. 
 
 From which afHiction — when the grace 
 
 Of God had in her heart found place — • 
 
 A pious structure, fair to see. 
 
 Rose up, this stately Priory ! 
 
 The Lady's work ! — but now laid low; 
 
 To the grief of her soul that doth come 
 and go, 
 
 In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe : 
 
 Which, though seemingly doomed in its 
 breast to sustain 
 
 A softened remembrance of sorrow and 
 pain. 
 
 Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and 
 bright ; 
 
 And glides o'er the earth like an angel of 
 light. 
 Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door; ' 
 
 And, through the chink in the fractured 
 floor 
 
 Look down, and see a griesly sight; 
 
 A vault where the bodies are buried up- 
 right ! 
 
 There, face by face, and hand by hand. 
 
 The Claphams and Mauleverers stand; 
 
 And, in his place, among son and sire. 
 
 Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire, 
 
 A valiant man, and a name of dread 
 
 In the ruthless wars of the White and Red; 
 
 Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Ban- 
 bury church 
 
 And smote off his head on the stones of 
 the porch ! 
 
 Look down among them, if you dare; 
 
 Oft does the White Doe loiter there, 
 
 Prying into the darksome rent ; 
 
 Nor can it be with good intent ; 
 
 So thinks that Dame of haughty air. 
 
 Who hath a Page her book to hold, 
 
 And wears a frontlet edged with gold. 
 
 Harsh thoughts with her high mood 
 agree — 
 
 Who counts among her ancestry 
 
 Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously ! 
 That slender Youth, a scholar pale. 
 
 From Oxford came to his native vale, 
 
 He also hath his own conceit; 
 
 It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy, 
 
 Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meefl 
 
 In his wanderings solitary: 
 Note. 
 
4i6 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 Wild notes she in his hearing sang, 
 A song of Nature's hidden powers; 
 That whistled like the wind, and rang 
 Among the rocks and holly bowers. 
 'T was said that She all shapes could wear ; 
 And oftentimes before him stood. 
 Amid the trees of some thick wood. 
 In semblance of a lady fair; 
 And taught him signs, and showed him 
 
 sights. 
 In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian heights; 
 When under cloud of fear he lay, 
 A shepherd clad in homely gray; 
 Nor left him at his later day. 
 And hence, when he, with spear and 
 
 shield, 
 Rode full of years to Flodden-field, 
 His eye could see the hidden spring. 
 And how the current was to flow; 
 The fatal end of Scotland's King, 
 And all that hopeless overthrow. 
 But not in wars did he delight, 
 This Clifford wished for worthier might; 
 Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state; 
 Him his own thoughts did elevate, — 
 Most happy in the shy recess 
 Of Barden's lowly quietness. 
 And choice of studious friends had he 
 Of Bolton's dear fraternity; 
 Who, standing on this old church tower. 
 In many a calm propitious hour, 
 Perused, with him, the starry sky; 
 Or, in their cells, with him did pry 
 For other lore, — by keen desire 
 Urged to close toil with chemic fire; 
 In quest belike of transmutations 
 Rich as the mine's most bright creations. 
 But they and their good works are fied. 
 And all is now disquieted — 
 And peace is none, for living or dead ! 
 
 Ah, pensive Scholar, think not so. 
 But look again at the radiant Doe ! 
 What quiet watch she seems to keep, 
 Alone, beside that grassy heap ! 
 Why mention other thoughts unmeet 
 For vision so composed and sweet? 
 While stand the people in a ring. 
 Gazing, doubting, questioning; 
 Yea, many overcome in spite 
 Of recollections clear and bright; 
 Which yet do unto some impart 
 An undisturbed repose of heart. 
 And all the assembly own a law 
 
 Of orderly respect and awe; 
 
 But see — they vanish one by one, 
 
 And last, the Doe herself is gone. 
 
 Harp ! we have been full long beguiled 
 By vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild ; 
 To which, with no reluctant strings. 
 Thou hast attuned thy murmurings; 
 And now before this Pile we stand 
 In solitude, and utter peace : 
 But, Harp ! thy murmurs may not cease — 
 A Spirit, with his angelic wings. 
 In soft and breeze-like visitings. 
 Has touched thee — and a Spirit's hand : 
 A voice is with us — a command 
 To chant, in strains of heavenly glory, 
 A tale of tears, a mortal story ! 
 
 Canto Second. 
 
 The Harp in lowliness obeyed; 
 
 And first we sang of.the greenwood shade 
 
 And a solitary Maid ; 
 
 Beginning, where the song rriust end. 
 
 With her, and with her sylvan Friend; 
 
 The Friend who stood before her sight, 
 
 Her only unextinguished light; 
 
 Her last companion in a dearth 
 
 Of love, upon a hopeless earth. 
 
 For She it was — this Maid, who 
 wrought 
 Meekly, with foreboding thought. 
 In vermeil colors and in gold 
 An unblest work; which, standing by, 
 Her Father did with joy behold, — 
 Exulting in its imagery; 
 A Banner, fashioned to fulfil 
 Too perfectly his headstrong will : 
 For on this Banner had her hand 
 Embroidered (such her Sire's command) 
 The sacred Cross; and figured there 
 The five dear wounds our Lord did bear; 
 Full soon to be uplifted high. 
 And float in rueful company ! 
 
 It was the time when England's Queen 
 Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign 
 
 dread ; 
 Nor yet the restless crown had been 
 Disturbed upon her virgin head; 
 But now the inly-working North 
 Was ripe to send its thousands forth, 
 A potent vassalage, to fight 
 In Percy's and in Neville's right, 
 Two Earls fast leagued in discontent, 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONri. 
 
 417 
 
 Who gave their wishes open vent; 
 
 And boldly urged a general plea, 
 
 The rites of ancient piety 
 
 To be triuxnphantly restored, 
 
 By the stern justice of the sword ! 
 
 And that same Banner, on whose breas. 
 
 The blameless Lady had exprest 
 
 Memorials chosen to give life 
 
 And sunshine to a dangerous strife; 
 
 That Banner, waiting for the Call, 
 
 Stood quietly in Rylstone-hall. 
 
 It came; and Francis Norton said, 
 " O Father ! rise not in this fray — 
 The hairs are white upon your head; 
 Dear Father, hear me when I say 
 It is for you too late a day ! 
 Bethink you of your own good name : 
 A just and gracious Queen have we, 
 A pure religion, and the claim 
 Of peace on our humanity. — 
 'T is meet that I endure your scorn; 
 I am your son, your eldest born; 
 But not for lordship or for land, 
 My Father, do I clasp your knees; 
 The Banner touch not, stay your hand. 
 This multitude of men disband, 
 And live at home in blameless ease; 
 For these my brethren's sake, for me; 
 And, most of all, for Emily!" 
 
 Tumultuous noises filled the hall; 
 And scarcely could the Father hear 
 That name — pronounced with a dying 
 
 fall — 
 The name of his only Daughter dear, 
 As on the banner which stood near 
 He glanced a look of holy pride. 
 And his moist eyes were glorified; 
 Then did he seize the staff, and say : 
 "Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's 
 
 name, 
 Keep thou this ensign till the day 
 When I of thee require the same : 
 Thy place be on my better hand; — 
 And seven as true as thou, I see. 
 Will cleave to this good cause and me." 
 He spake, and eight brave 'ions straight- 
 way 
 All followed him, a gallant band ! 
 
 Thus, with his sons, when forth he 
 came 
 The sight was hailed with loud acclaim 
 And din of arms and minstrelsy, 
 From all his warlike tenantry. 
 
 All horsed and harnessed with him to 
 
 ride, — 
 A voice to which the hills replied ! 
 
 But Francis, in the vacant hall, 
 Stood silent under dreary weight, — ■ 
 A phantasm, in which roof and wall 
 Shook, tottered, swam before his sight; 
 A phantasm like a dream of night ! 
 Thus overwhelmed, and desolate. 
 He found his way to a postern-gate ; 
 And, when he waked, his languid eye 
 Was on the calm and silent sky; 
 With air about him breathing sweet. 
 And earth's green grass beneath his feet; 
 Nor did he fail ere long to hear 
 A sound of military cheer. 
 Faint — but it reached that sheltered spot ; 
 He heard, and it disturbed him not. 
 
 There stood he, leaning on a lance 
 Which he had grasped unknowingly, 
 Had blindly grasped in that strong trance. 
 That dimness of heart-agony; 
 There stood he, cleansed from the despair 
 And sorrow of his fruitless prayer. 
 The past he calmly hath reviewed : 
 But where will be the fortitude 
 Of this brave man, when he shall see 
 That Form beneath the spreading tree, 
 And know that it is Emily? 
 
 He saw her where in open view 
 She sate beneath the spreading yew — 
 Her head upon her lap, concealing 
 In solitude her bitter feeling : 
 " Might ever son coininand a sire, 
 The act were justified to-day." 
 This to himself — and to the Maid, 
 Whom now he had approached, he said — • 
 * ' Gone are they, — they have their desire ; 
 And I with thee one hour will stay, 
 To give thee comfort if I may." 
 
 She heard, but looked not up, nor 
 spake ; 
 And sorrow moved him to partake 
 Her silence; then his thoughts turned 
 
 round, 
 And fervent words a passage found. 
 
 ' ' Gone are they, bravely, though mis- 
 led; 
 With a dear Father at their head ! 
 The Sons obey a natural lord; 
 The Father had given solemn word 
 To noble Percy; and a force 
 Still stronger, bends him to his course. 
 
4i8 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 This said, our tears to-day may fall 
 As at an innocent funeral. 
 In deep and awful channel runs 
 This sympathy of Sire and Sons ; 
 Untried our Brothers have been loved 
 With heart by simple nature moved; 
 And now their faithfulness is proved : 
 For faithful we must call them, bearing 
 That soul of conscientious daring. 
 — There were they all in circle — there 
 Stood Richard, Ambrose, Christopher, 
 John with a sword that will not fail, 
 And Marmaduke in fearless mail. 
 And those bright Twins were side by side ; 
 And there, by fresh hopes beautified. 
 Stood He, whose arm yet lacks the power 
 Of man, our youngest, fairest flower ! 
 I, by the right of eldest born. 
 And in a second father's place. 
 Presumed to grapple with their scorn. 
 And meet their pity face to face; 
 Vea, trusting in God's holy aid, 
 I to my Father knelt and prayed; 
 And one, the pensive Marmaduke, 
 Methought, was yielding inwardly. 
 And would have laid his purpose by, 
 But for a glance of his Father's eye. 
 Which I myself could scarcely brook. 
 
 Then be we, each and all, forgiven ! 
 Thou, chiefly thou, my Sister dear, 
 Whose pangs are registered in heaven — 
 The stifled sigh, the hidden tear. 
 And smiles, that (lared to take their 
 
 place. 
 Meek filial smiles, upon thy face. 
 As that unhallowed Banner grew 
 Beneath a loving old Man's view. 
 Thy part is done — thy painful part; 
 Be thou then satisfied in heart ! 
 A further, though far easier, task 
 Than thine hath been, my duties ask; 
 With theirs my efforts cannot blend, 
 I cannot for such cause contend; 
 Their aims I utterly forswear; 
 But I in body will be there. 
 Unarmed and naked will I go. 
 Be at their side, come weal or woe : 
 On kind occasions I may wait, 
 See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate. 
 Bare breast I take and an empty hand. " ' — 
 Therewith he threw away the lance, 
 
 1 See the Old Ballad, — "The Rising of the 
 North." 
 
 Which he had grasped in that strong 
 
 trance. 
 Spurned it, like something that would 
 
 stand 
 Between him and the pure intent 
 Of love on which his soul was bent. 
 
 " For thee, for thee, is left the sense 
 Of trial past without offence 
 To God or man; such innocence, 
 Such consolation, and the excess 
 Of an unmerited distress; 
 In that thy very strength must lie. 
 — O Sister, I could prophesy! 
 The time is come that rings the knell 
 Of all we loved, and loved so well : 
 Hope nothing, if I thus may speak 
 To thee, a woman, and thence weak : 
 Hope nothing, I repeat; for we 
 Are doomed to perish utterly : 
 'T is meet that thou with me divide 
 The thought while I am by thy side. 
 Acknowledging a grace in this, 
 A comfort in the dark abyss. 
 But look not for me when I am gone. 
 And be no farther wrought upon : 
 Farewell all wishes, all debate. 
 All prayers for this cause, or for that! 
 Weep, if that aid thee; but depend 
 Upon no help of outward friend; 
 Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave 
 To fortitude without reprieve. 
 For we must fall, both we and ours — 
 This Mansion and these pleasant bowers. 
 Walks, pools, and arbors, homestead, 
 
 hall — 
 Our fate is theirs, will reach them all; 
 The young horse must forsake his manger, 
 And learn to glory in a Stranger; 
 The hawk forget his perch; the hound 
 Be parted from his ancient ground : 
 The blast will sweep us all away — 
 One desolation, one decay ! 
 And even this Creature ! ' ' which words 
 
 saying, 
 He pointed to a lovely Doe, 
 A few steps distant, feeding, straying; 
 Fair creature, and more white than snow ! 
 " Even she will to her peaceful woods 
 Return, and to her murmuring floods. 
 And be in heart and soul the same 
 She was before she hither came; 
 Ere she had learned to love us all. 
 Herself beloved in Rylstone-hall. 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 419 
 
 — But thou, my Sister, doomed to be 
 The last leaf on a blasted tree; 
 
 If not in vain we breathed the breath 
 
 Together of a purer faith; 
 
 If hand in hand we have been led, 
 
 And thou, (O happy thought this day:) 
 
 Not seldom foremost in the way; 
 
 If on one thought our minds have fed. 
 
 And we have in one meaning read; 
 
 If, when at home our private weal 
 
 Hath suffered from the shock of zeal, 
 
 Together we have learned to prize 
 
 Forbearance and self-sacrifice; 
 
 If we like combatants have fared, 
 
 And for this issue been prepared; 
 
 If thou art beautiful, and youth 
 
 And thought endue thee with all truth — 
 
 Be strong ; — be worthy of the grace 
 
 Of God, and fill thy destined place : 
 
 A Soul, by force of sorrows high, 
 
 Uplifted to the purest sky 
 
 Of undisturbed humanity! " 
 
 He ended, — or she heard no more; 
 He led her from the yew-tree shade, 
 And at the mansion's silent door, 
 He kissed the consecrated Maid; 
 And down the valley then pursued, 
 Alone, the arm^d Multitude. 
 
 Canto Third. 
 
 Now joy for you who from the towers 
 Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear,i 
 Telling melancholy hours ! 
 Proclaim it, let your Masters hear 
 That Norton with his band is near ! 
 The watchmen from their station high 
 Pronounced the word, — and the Earls 
 
 descry. 
 Well-pleased, the armed Company 
 Marching down the banks of Were. 
 
 Said fearless Norton to the pair 
 Gone forth to greet him' on the plain — 
 ' ' This meeting, noble Lords ! looks fair, ■ 
 I bring with me a goodly train; 
 Their hearts are with you : hill and dale 
 Have helped us: Ure we crossed, and 
 
 Swale, 
 And horse and harness followed — see 
 The best part of their Yeomanry ! 
 
 — Stand forth, my Sons ! — these eight 
 
 are mine, 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 Whom to this service I commend; 
 Which way soe'er our fate incline, 
 These will be faithful to the end; 
 They are my all" — voice failed him 
 
 here — ■ 
 ' ' My all save one, a Daughter dear ! 
 Whom I have left. Love's mildest birth, 
 The meekest Child on this blessed earth. 
 I had — but these are by my side. 
 These Eight, and this is a day of pride ! 
 The time is ripe. With festive din 
 Lo ! hew the people are flocking in, — ■ 
 Like hungry fowl to the feeder's hand 
 When snow lies heavy upon the land." 
 
 He spake bare truth; for far and neal 
 From every side came noisy swarms 
 Of Peasants in their homely gear; 
 And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth 
 
 came 
 Grave Gentry of estate and name, 
 And Captains known for worth in arms 
 And prayed the Earls in self-defence 
 To rise, and prove their innocence. — 
 " Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might 
 For holy Church, and the People'sright !" 
 
 The Norton fixed, at this demand. 
 His eye upon Northumberland, 
 And said: "The Minds of Men will own 
 No loyal rest while England's Crown 
 Remains without an Heir, the bait 
 Of strife and factions desperate; 
 Who, paying deadly hate in kind 
 Through all things else, in this can find 
 A mutual hope, a common mind; 
 And plot, and pant to overwhelm 
 All ancient honor in the realm. 
 — Brave Earls ! to whose heroic veins 
 Our noblest blood is given in trust. 
 To you a suffering State complains. 
 And ye must raise her from the dust. 
 With wishes of still bolder scope 
 On you we look, with dearest hope; 
 Even for our Altars — for the prize, 
 In Heaven, of life that never dies; 
 For the old and holy Church we mourn. 
 And must in joy to her return. 
 Behold ! " — and from his Son whose stand 
 Was on his right, from that guardian hand 
 He took the Banner, and unfurled 
 The precious folds — " behold," said he, 
 " The ransom of a sinful world; 
 Let this your preservation be; 
 The wounds of hands and feet and side, 
 
420 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died. 
 
 — This bring I from an ancient hearth, 
 These Records wrought in pledge of love 
 By hands of no ignoble birth, 
 
 A Maid o'er whom the blessed Dove 
 Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood 
 While she the holy work pursued." 
 " UpHft the Standard! " was the cry 
 From all the listeners that stood round, 
 " Plant it, — by this we live or die." 
 The Norton ceased not for that sound. 
 But said; "The prayer which ye have 
 
 heard. 
 Much-injured Earls ! by these preferred. 
 Is offered to the Saints, the sigh 
 Of tens of thousands, secretly." 
 " Uplift it ! " cried once more the Band, 
 And then a thoughtful pause ensued : 
 " Uplift it ! " said Northumberland — 
 Whereat, from all the multitude 
 Who saw the Banner reared on high 
 In all its dread emblazonry, 
 A voice of uttermost joy brake out: 
 The transport was rolled down the river 
 
 of Were, 
 And Durham, the time-honored Durham, 
 
 did hear, 
 And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were 
 
 stirred by the shout ! 
 Now was the North in arms : — they shine 
 In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne, 
 At Percy's voice: and Neville sees 
 His Followers gathering in from Tees, 
 From Were, and all the little rills 
 Concealed among the forked hills — 
 Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all 
 Of Neville, at their Master's call 
 Had sate together in Raby Hall ! 
 Such strength that Earldom held of yore; 
 Nor wanted at this time rich store 
 Of well-appointed chivalry. 
 
 — Not loth the sleepy lance to wield. 
 And greet the old paternal shield. 
 They heard the summons; — and, further- 
 more. 
 
 Horsemen and Foot of each degree. 
 Unbound by pledge of fealty. 
 Appeared, with free and open hate 
 Of novelties in Church and State; 
 Knight, burgher, yeoman, and esquire; 
 And Romish priest, in priest's attire. 
 And thus, in arms, a zealous Band 
 Proceeding under joint command. 
 
 To Durham first their course they bear; 
 And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat 
 Sang mass, — and tore the book of 
 
 prayer, — 
 And trod the bible beneath their feet. 
 Thence marching southward smooth 
 
 and free 
 "They mustered their host at Wetherby, 
 Full sixteen thousand fair to see,"i 
 The Choicest Warriors of the North ! 
 But none for beauty and for worth 
 Like those eight Sons — who, in a ring, 
 (Ripe men, or blooming in life's spring) 
 Each with a lance, erect and tall, 
 A falchion, and a buckler small. 
 Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor, 
 To guard the Standard which he bore. 
 On foot they girt their Father round; 
 And so will keep the appointed ground 
 Where'er their march: no steed will he 
 Henceforth bestride ; — triumphantly, 
 He stands upon the grassy sod, 
 Trusting himself to the earth, and God. 
 Rare sight to embolden and inspire ! 
 Proud was the field of Sons and Sire; 
 Of him the most; and, sooth to say. 
 No shape of man in all the array 
 So graced the sunshine of that day. 
 The monumental pomp of age 
 Was with this goodly Personage; 
 A stature undepressed in size. 
 Unbent, which rather seemed to rise. 
 In open victory o'er the weight 
 Of seventy years, to loftier height; 
 Magnificent limbs of withered state; 
 A face to fear and venerate; 
 Eyes dark and strong; and on his head 
 Bright locks of silver hair, thick spread. 
 Which a brown morion half-concealed. 
 Light as a hunter's of the field; 
 And thus, with girdle round his waist, 
 Whereon the Banner -staff might rest 
 At need, he stood, advancing high 
 The glittering, floating Ps^eantry. 
 
 Who sees him? — thousands see, and 
 
 One 
 With unparticipated gaze; 
 Who, 'mong those thousands, friend hath 
 
 none. 
 And treads in solitary ways. 
 He, following wheresoe'er he might. 
 Hath watched the Banner from afar,- 
 ' From tlie old ballad. 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 421 
 
 As shepherds watch a lonely star, 
 
 Or mariners the distant light 
 
 That guides them through a stormy night. 
 
 And now, upon a chosen plot 
 
 Of rising ground, yon heathy spot ! 
 
 He takes alone his far-off stand. 
 
 With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand. 
 
 Bold is his aspect; but his eye 
 
 Is pregnant with anxiety. 
 
 While, like a tutelary Power, 
 
 He there stands fixed from hour to hour: 
 
 Vet sometimes in more humble guise. 
 
 Upon the turf-clad height he lies 
 
 Stretched, herdsman-like, as if to bask 
 
 In sunshine were his only task. 
 
 Or by his mantle's help to find 
 
 A shelter from the nipping wind : 
 
 And thus, with short oblivion blest. 
 
 His weary spirits gather rest. 
 
 Again he lifts his eyes; and lo ! 
 
 The pageant glancing to and fro; 
 
 And hope is wakened by the sight, 
 
 He thence may learn, ere fall of night. 
 
 Which way the tide is doomed to flow. 
 
 To London were the Chieftains bent; 
 But what avails the bold intent? 
 A Royal army is gone forth 
 To quell the Rising of the North; 
 They march with Dudley at their head. 
 And, in seven days' space, will to York 
 
 be led ! — 
 Can such a mighty Host be raised 
 Thus suddenly, and brought so near? 
 The Earls upon each other gazed, 
 And Neville's cheek grew pale with fear; 
 For, with a high and valiant name, 
 He bore a heart of timid frame; 
 And bold if both had been, yet they 
 " Against so many may not stay." ^ 
 Back therefore will they hie to seize 
 A strong Hold on the banks of Tees 
 There wait a favorable hour, 
 Until Lord Dacre with his power 
 From Naworth come; and Howard's aid 
 Be with them openly displayed. 
 
 While through the Host, from man to 
 man, 
 A rumor of this purpose ran, 
 The Standard trusting to the care 
 Of him who heretofore did bear 
 That charge, impatient Norton sought 
 The Chieftains to unfold his thought, 
 ' From the old b,-illad. 
 
 And thus abruptly spake; — " We yield 
 (And can it be?) an unfought field ! — 
 How oft has strength, the strength of 
 
 heaven. 
 To few triumphantly been given ! 
 Still do our very children boast 
 Of mitred Thurston — what a Host 
 He conquered ! ^ — Saw we not the Plain 
 (And flying shall behold again) 
 Where faith was proved ? — while to 
 
 battle moved 
 The Standard, on the Sacred Wain 
 That bore it, compassed round by a bold 
 Fraternity of Barons old; 
 And with those gray-haired champions 
 
 stood, 
 Under the saintly ensigns three. 
 The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood — 
 All confident of victory! — 
 Shall Percy blush, then, for his name? 
 Must Westmoreland be asked with shame 
 Whose were the numbers, where the loss. 
 In that other day of Neville's Cross? - 
 When the Prior of Durham with holy hand 
 Raised, as the Vision gave command. 
 Saint Cuthbert's Relic — far and near 
 Kenned on the point of a lofty spear; 
 While the Monks prayed in Maiden's 
 
 Bower 
 To God descending in his power. 
 Less would not at our need be due 
 To us, who war against the Untrue; — 
 The delegates of Heaven we rise. 
 Convoked the impious to chastise : 
 We, we, the sanctities of old 
 Would re-establish and uphold: 
 Be warned " — His zeal the Chiefs con- 
 founded. 
 But word was given, and the trumpet 
 
 sounded: 
 Back through the melancholy Host 
 Went Norton, and resumed his post. 
 Alas ! thought he, and have I borne 
 This Banner raised with joyful pride. 
 This hope of all posterity. 
 By those dread symbols sanctified; 
 Thus to become at once the scorn 
 Of babbling winds as they go by, 
 A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye, 
 To the hght clouds a mockery ! 
 — " Even these poor eight of mine would 
 
 stem — " 
 
 2 See Note. 
 
422 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 Half to himself, and half to them 
 
 He spake — "would stem, or quell, a 
 
 force 
 Ten times their number, man and horse : 
 This by their own unaided might. 
 Without their father in their sight, 
 Without the Cause for which they fight; 
 A Cause, which on a needful day 
 Would breed us thousands brave as they. ' ' 
 — So speaking, he hi« reverend head 
 Raised towards that Imagery once more : 
 But the familiar prospect shed 
 Despondency unfelt before : 
 A shock of intimations vain. 
 Dismay, and superstitious pain. 
 Fell on him, with the sudden thought 
 Of her by whom the work was wrought : — 
 Oh wherefore was her countenance bright 
 With love divine and gentle light? 
 She would not, could not, disobey. 
 But her Faith leaned another way. 
 Ill tears she wept; I saw them fall, 
 I overheard her as she spake 
 Sad words to that mute Animal, 
 The White Doe, in the hawthorn brake; 
 She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake, 
 This Cross in tears : by her, and One 
 Unworthier far we are undone — 
 Her recreant Brother — he prevailed 
 Over that tender Spirit — assailed 
 Too oft, alas ! by her whose head 
 In the cold grave hath long been laid ; 
 She first, in reason's dawn beguiled 
 Her docile, unsuspecting Child ; 
 Far back — far back my mind must go 
 To reach the well-spring of this woe ! 
 
 While thus he brooded, music sweet 
 Of border tunes was played to cheer 
 The footsteps of a quick retreat; 
 But Norton lingered in the rear. 
 Stung with sharp thoughts; and ere the 
 
 last 
 From his distracted brain was cast. 
 Before his father, Francis stood. 
 And spake in firm and earnest mood. 
 
 "Though here I bend a suppliant knee 
 In reverence, and unarmed, I bear 
 In your indignant thoughts my share; 
 Am grieved this backward march to see 
 So careless and disorderly. 
 I scorn your chiefs — men who would lead, 
 And yet want courage at their need ; 
 Then look at them with open eyes ! 
 
 Deserve they further sacrifice? — 
 
 If — when they shrink, nor dare oppose 
 
 In open field their gathering foes, 
 
 (And fast, from this decisive day, 
 
 Yon multitude must melt away; ) 
 
 If now I ask a grace not claimed 
 
 While ground was left for hope ; unblamed 
 
 Be an endeavor that can do 
 
 No injury to them or you. 
 
 My Father ! I would help to find 
 
 A place of shelter, till the rage 
 
 Of cruel men do like the wind 
 
 Exhaust itself and sink to rest; 
 
 Be Brother now to Brother joined ! 
 
 Admit me in the equipage 
 
 Of your misfortunes, that at least. 
 
 Whatever fate remain behind, 
 
 I may bear witness in my breast 
 
 To your nobility of mind ! " 
 
 "Thou Enemy, my bane and blight ! 
 Oh ! bold to fight the Coward's fight 
 Against all good " — but why declare. 
 At length, the issue of a prayer 
 Which love had prompted, yielding scope 
 Too free to one bright moment's hope? 
 Suffice it that the Son, who strove 
 With fruitless effort to allay 
 That passion, prudently gave way; 
 Nor did he turn aside to prove 
 His Brothers' wisdom or their love — 
 But calmly from the spot withdrew; 
 His best endeavors to renew. 
 Should e'er a kindlier time ensue. 
 
 Canto Fourth. 
 
 'T IS night : in silence looking down. 
 The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees 
 A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, 
 And Castle, like a stately crown 
 On the steep rocks of winding Tees; — 
 And southward far, with moor between. 
 Hill-top, and flood, and forest green. 
 The bright Moon sees that valley small 
 Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall 
 A venerable image yields 
 Of quiet to the neighboring fields; 
 While from one pillared chimney breathes 
 The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths. 
 — The courts are hushed; — for timely 
 
 sleep 
 The greyhounds to their kennel creep; 
 The peacock in the broad ash tree 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 423 
 
 Aloft is roosted for the night, 
 He who in proud prosperity 
 Of colors manifold and bright 
 Walked round, affronting the daylight; 
 And higher still, above the bower 
 Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower 
 The hall-clock in the clear moonshine 
 With glittering finger points at nine. 
 
 Ah ! who could think that sadness here 
 Hath any sway? or pain, or fear? 
 A soft and lulling sound is heard 
 Of streams inaudible by day; 
 The garden pool's dark surface, stirred 
 By the night insects in their play. 
 Breaks into dimples small and bright; 
 A thousand, thousand rings of light 
 That shape themselves and disappear 
 Almost as soon as seen : — and lo ! 
 Not distant far, the milk-white Doe — 
 The same who quietly was feeding 
 On the green herb, and nothing heeding. 
 When Francis, uttering to the Maid 
 His last words in the yew-tree shade. 
 Involved whate'er by love was brought 
 Out of his heart, or crossed his thought. 
 Or chance presented to his eye, 
 In one sad sweep of destiny — 
 The same fair Creature, who hath found 
 Her way into forbidden ground; 
 Where now — within this spacious plot 
 For pleasure made, a goodly spot. 
 With lawns and beds of flowers, and 
 
 shades 
 Of trellis-work in long arcades, 
 And cirque and crescent framed by wall 
 Of close-clipt foliage green and tall. 
 Converging walks, and fountains gay, 
 And terraces in trim array — 
 Beneath yon cypress spiring high. 
 With pine and cedar spreading wide 
 Their darksome boughs on either side, 
 in open moonlight doth she lie; 
 Happy as others of her kind, 
 That, far from human neighborhood. 
 Range unrestricted as the wind, 
 Through park, or chase, or savage wood. 
 
 But see the consecrated Maid 
 Emerging from a cedar shade 
 To open moonshine, where the Doe 
 Beneath the cypress-spire is laid; 
 Like a patch of April snow — 
 Upon a bed of herbage green. 
 Lingering in a woody glade 
 
 Or behind a rocky screen — 
 
 Lonely relic ! which, if seen 
 
 By the shepherd, is passed by 
 
 With an inattentive eye. 
 
 Nor more regard doth She bestow 
 
 Upon the uncomplaining Doe 
 
 Now couched at ease, though oft this 
 
 day 
 Not unperplexed nor free from pain, 
 When she had tried, and tried in vain, 
 Approaching in her gentle way. 
 To win some look of love, or gain 
 Encouragement to sport or play 
 Attempts which still the heart-sick Maid 
 Rejected, or with slight repaid. 
 
 Yet Emily is soothed; — the breeze 
 Came fraught with kindly sympathies. 
 As she approached yon rustic Shed 
 Hung with late-flowering woodbine, 
 
 spread 
 Along the walls and overhead, 
 The fragrance of the breathing flowers 
 Revived a memory of those hours 
 When here, in this remote alcove, 
 (While from the pendent woodbine came 
 Like odors, sweet as if the same) 
 A fondly-anxious Mother strove 
 To teach her salutary fears 
 And mysteries above her years. 
 Yes, she is soothed : an Image faint, 
 And yet not faint — a presence bright 
 Returns to her — that blessed Saint 
 Who with mild looks and language mild 
 Instructed here her darling Child, 
 While yet a prattler on the knee, 
 To worship in simplicity 
 The invisible God, and take for guide 
 The faith reformed and purified. 
 
 'T is flown — the Vision, and the sense 
 Of that beguiling influence, 
 " But oh ! thou Angel from above. 
 Mute Spirit of maternal love, 
 That stood 'st before my eyes, more clear 
 Than ghosts are fabled to appear 
 Sent upon embassies of fear; 
 As thou thy presence hast to me 
 \'ouchsafed, in radiant ministry 
 Descend on Francis; nor forbear 
 To greet him with a voice, and say; — 
 ' If hope be a rejected stay. 
 Do thou, my christian Son, beware 
 Of that most lamentable snare. 
 The self-reliance of despair ! ' " 
 
424 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 Then from within the embowered 
 
 retreat 
 Where she had found a grateful seat 
 P'erturbed she issues. She will go ! 
 Herself will follow to the war, 
 And clasp her Father's knees; — ah, no! 
 She meets the insuperable bar, 
 The injunction by her Brother laid; 
 His parting charge — but ill obeyed — 
 That interdicted all debate, 
 All prayer for this cause or for that; 
 iVll efforts that would turn aside 
 The headstrong current of their fate: 
 l{\'.r duty is to. stand and wait : 
 In resignation to abide 
 The shock, and finally secure 
 O'er pain and grief a triumph pure. 
 - -She feels it, and her pangs are checked, 
 liut now, as silently she paced 
 The turf, and thought by thought was 
 
 chased, 
 Ome One who, with sedate respect, 
 Approached, and, greeting her, thus 
 
 spake ; 
 " An old man's privilege I take: 
 Dark is the time — a woful day ! 
 Dear daughter of affliction, say 
 How can I serve you? point the way." 
 " Rights have you, and may well be 
 
 bold; 
 You with my Father have grown old 
 In friendship — strive — for his sake go — 
 Turn from us all the coming woe : 
 This would I beg; but on my mind 
 A passive stillness is enjoined. 
 On you, if room for mortal aid 
 Be left, is no restriction laid; 
 You not forbidden to recline 
 With hope upon the Will divine.'' 
 
 "Hope," said the old Man, "must 
 
 abide 
 With all of us, whate'er betide. 
 In Craven's Wilds is many a den, 
 To shelter persecuted men : 
 Far under ground is many a cave. 
 Where they might lie as in the grave. 
 Until this storm hath ceased to rave : 
 Or let them cross the River Tweed, 
 And be at once from peril freed ! " 
 "Ah tempt me not!" she faintly 
 
 sighed ; 
 " I will not counsel nor exhort, 
 With my condition satisfied; 
 
 But you, at least, may make report 
 Of what befalls; — be this your task — 
 This may be done; — 't is all I ask! " 
 
 She spake — and from the Lady's sight 
 The Sire, unconscious of his age. 
 Departed promptly as a Page 
 Bound on some errand of delight. 
 
 — The noble Francis — wise as brave. 
 Thought he, m'ay want not skill to save. 
 With hopes in tenderness concealed, 
 Unarmed he followed to the field; 
 Him will I seek :. the insurgent Powers 
 Are now besieging Barnard's Towers, — ■ 
 " Grant that the Moon which shines this 
 
 night 
 May guide them in a prudent flight ! " 
 But quick the turns of chance and 
 
 change. 
 And knowledge has a narrow range; 
 Whence idle fears, and needless pain. 
 And wishes blind, and effort vain. — 
 The Moon may shine, but cannot be 
 Their guide in flight — already she 
 Hath witnessed their captivity. 
 She saw the desperate assault 
 Upon that hostile castle made; 
 But dark and dismal is the vault 
 Where Norton and his sons are laid ! 
 Disastrous issue ! — he had said 
 "This night yon faithless Towers must 
 
 yield, 
 Or we forever quit the field. 
 
 Neville is utterly dismayed. 
 For promise fails of Howard's aid; 
 And Dacre to our call rephes 
 That he is unprepared to rise. 
 My heart is sick; — this weary pause 
 Must needs be fatal to our cause. 
 The breach is open — on the wall. 
 This night, the Banner shall be planted ! " 
 
 — 'T was done : his Sons were with him 
 
 — all; 
 They belt him round with hearts un- 
 daunted 
 And others follow; — Sire and Son 
 Leap down into the court; — " 'T is 
 
 won ' ' — 
 They shout aloud — but Heaven decreed 
 That with their joyful shout should close 
 The triumph of a desperate deed 
 Which struck with terror friends and foes ! 
 The friend shrinks back — the foe recoils 
 From Norton and his filial band; 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 425 
 
 But they, now caught within the toils, 
 Against a thousand cannot stand; — 
 The foe from numbers courage drew, 
 And overpowered that gallant few. 
 " A rescue for the Standard ! " cried 
 The Father from within the walls; 
 But, see, the sacred Standard falls ! — 
 Confusion through the Camp spread wide : 
 Some fled; and some their fears detained : 
 But ere the Moon had sunk to rest 
 In her pale chambers of the west, 
 Of that rash levy nought remained. 
 
 Canto Fifth. 
 
 High on a point of rugged ground 
 Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell 
 Above the loftiest ridge or mound 
 Where foresters or shepherds dwell. 
 An edifice of warlike frame 
 Stands single — Norton Tower its 
 
 name ^ — 
 It fronts all quarters, and looks round 
 O'er path and road, and plain and dell. 
 Dark moor, andgleamof pool and stream, 
 Upon a prospect without bound. 
 
 The summit of this bold ascent — 
 Though bleak and bare, and seldom free 
 As Pendle-hill or Pennygent 
 From wind, or frost, or vapors wet — 
 Had often heard the sound of glee 
 When there the youthful Nortons met. 
 To practise games and archery : 
 How proud and happy they ! the crowd 
 Of Lookers-on how pleased and proud ! 
 And from the scorching noon-tide sun, 
 From showers, or when the prize was won , 
 They to the Tower withdrew, and there 
 Would mirth run round, with generous 
 
 fare; 
 And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall 
 Was happiest, proudest, of them all ! 
 
 But now, his Child, with anguish pale, 
 Upon the height walks to and fro; 
 'T is well that she hath heard the tale. 
 Received the bitterness of woe : 
 For she Aad hoped, had hoped and feared. 
 Such rights did feeble nature claim; 
 And oft her steps had hither steered, 
 Though not unconscious of self-blame; 
 For she her brother's charge revered. 
 His farewell words; and by the same, 
 ' See Note. 
 
 Yea by her brother's very name. 
 Had, in her solitude, been cheered. 
 
 Beside the lonely watch-tower stood 
 That gray-haired JVIan of gentle blood. 
 Who with her Father had grown old 
 In friendship; rival hunters they, 
 And fellow warriors in their day; 
 To Rylstone he the tidings brought; 
 Then on this height the Maid had sought. 
 And, gently as he could, had told 
 The end of that dire Tragedy, 
 Which it had been his lot to see. 
 
 To him the Lady turned; " You said 
 That Francis lives, ke is not dead? " 
 " Your noble brother hath been spared; 
 To take his life they have not dared; 
 On him and on his high endeavor 
 The light of praise shall shine forever ! 
 Nor did he (such Heaven's will) in vain 
 His solitary course maintain; 
 Not vainly struggled in the might 
 Of duty, seeing with clear sight; 
 He was their comfort to the last. 
 Their joy till every pang was past. 
 
 I witnessed when to York they came — 
 What, Lady, if their feet were tied; 
 They might deserve a good Man's blame; 
 But marks of infamy and shame — 
 These were their triumph, these their 
 
 pride; 
 Nor wanted 'mid the pressing crowd 
 Deep feeling, that found utterance loud, 
 ' Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried, 
 ' A Prisoner once, but now set free ! 
 'T is well, for he the worst defied 
 Through force of natural piety; 
 He rose not in this quarrel; he. 
 For concord's sake and England's good. 
 Suit to his Brothers often made 
 With tears, and of his Father prayed - 
 And when he had in vain withstood 
 Their purpose — then did he divide. 
 He parted from them; but at their side 
 Now walks in unanimity. 
 Then peace to cruelty and scorn, 
 While to the prison they are borne. 
 Peace, peace to all indignity ! ' 
 
 And so in Prison were they laid — 
 Oh hear me, hear me, gentle Maid, 
 For I am come with power to bless, 
 By scattering gleams, through your distress, 
 Of a redeeming happiness. 
 Me did a reverent pity move 
 
426 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 And privilege of ancient love ; 
 And, in your service, making bold, 
 Entrance I gained to that stronghold. 
 
 Your Father gave me cordial greeting; 
 But to his purposes that burned 
 Within him, instantly returned: 
 He was commanding and entreating. 
 And said — ' We need not stop, my Son ! 
 Thoughts press, and time is hurrying on' — 
 And so to Francis he renewed 
 His words, more calmly thus pursued. 
 
 ' Might this our enterprise have sped, 
 Change wide and deep the Land had seen, 
 A renovation from the dead, 
 A spring-tide of immortal green : 
 The darksome altars would have blazed 
 Like stars when clouds are rolled away; 
 Salvation to all eyes that gazed, 
 Once more the Rood had been upraised 
 To spread its arms, and stand for aye. 
 Then, then — had I survived to see 
 New life in Bolton Priory; 
 The voice restored, the eye of Truth 
 Re-opened that inspired my youth; 
 To see her in her pomp arrayed — 
 This Banner (for such vow I made) 
 Should on the consecrated breast 
 Of that same Temple have found rest : 
 I would myself have hung it high. 
 Fit offering of glad victory ! 
 
 A shadow of such thought remains 
 To cheer this sad and pensive time; 
 A solemn fancy yet sustains 
 One feeble Being — bids me climb 
 Even to the last — one effort more 
 To attest my Faith, if not restore. 
 
 Hear then,' said he, ' while I impart. 
 My Son, the last wish of my heart. 
 The Banner strive thou to regain; 
 And, if the endeavor prove not vain, 
 Bear it — to whom if not to thee 
 Shall I this lonely thought consign? — 
 Bear it to Bolton Priory, 
 And lay it on Saint Mary's shrine; 
 To wither in the sun and breeze 
 ^Mid those decaying sanctities. 
 There let at least the gilt be laid. 
 The testimony there displayed; 
 Bold proof that with no selfish aim, 
 But for lost Faith and Christ's dear name, 
 I helmeted a brow though white. 
 And took a place in all men's sight; 
 Yea offered up this noble Brood, 
 
 This fair unrivalled Brotherhood, 
 And turned away from thee, my Son ! 
 And left — but be the rest unsaid. 
 The name untouched, the tear unshed; — 
 My wish is known, and I have done : 
 Now promise, grant this one request, 
 This dying prayer, and be thou blest!' 
 
 Then Francis answered — ' Trust thy 
 Son, 
 For, with God's will, it shall be done !' 
 
 The pledge obtained, the solemn word 
 Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard, — : 
 And Officers appeared in state 
 To lead the prisoners to their fate. 
 They rose, oh ! wherefore should I fear 
 To tell, or. Lady, you to hear? 
 They rose — embraces none were given — 
 They stood like trees when earth and 
 
 heaven 
 Are calm; they knew each other's worth. 
 And reverently the Band went forth. 
 They niet, when they had reached the door. 
 One with profane and harsh intent 
 Placed there — that he might go before 
 And, with that rueful Banner borne 
 Aloft in sign of taunting scorn. 
 Conduct them to their punishment : 
 So cruel Sussex, unrestrained 
 By human feeling, had ordained. 
 The unhappy Banner Francis saw, 
 And, with a look of calm command 
 Inspiring universal awe, 
 He took it from the soldier's hand; 
 And all the people that stood round 
 Confirmed the deed in peace profound. 
 — High transport did the Father shed 
 Upon his Son — ■ and they were led. 
 Led on, and yielded up their breath; 
 Together died, a happy death ! — 
 But Francis, soon as he had braved 
 That insult, and the Banner saved. 
 Athwart the unresisting tide 
 Of the spectators occupied 
 In admiration or dismay. 
 Bore instantly his Charge away." 
 
 These things, which thus had in the sight 
 And hearing passed of Him who stood 
 With Emily, on the Watch-tower height, 
 In Rylstone's woful neighborhood. 
 He told; and oftentimes with voice 
 Of power to comfort or rejoice; 
 For deepest sorrows that aspire. 
 Go high, no transport ever higher. 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 427 
 
 " Yes — God is rich in mercy," said 
 
 The old Man to the silent Maid, 
 
 "Yet, Lady! shines, through this black 
 
 night, 
 One star of aspect heavenly bright; 
 Your Brother lives — he lives — is come 
 Perhaps already to his home; 
 Then let us leave this dreary place." 
 She yielded, and with gentle pace, 
 Though without one uplifted look. 
 To Rylstone-hall her way she took. 
 
 Canto Sixth. 
 
 Why comes not Francis ? — From the dole- 
 ful City 
 He fled, — and, in his flight, could hear 
 The death-sounds of the Minster-bell: 
 That sullen stroke pronounced farewell 
 To Marmaduke, cut off from pity ! 
 To Ambrose that ! and then a knell 
 For him, the sweet half-opened Flower ! 
 For all — all dying in one hour ! 
 — Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of 
 
 love 
 Should bear him to his Sister dear 
 With the fleet motion of a dove; 
 Yea, like a heavenly messenger 
 Of speediest wing, should he appear. 
 Why comes he not .■' — for westward fast 
 Along the plain of York he past; 
 Reckless of what impels or leads. 
 Unchecked he hurries on; — nor heeds 
 The sorrow, through the Villages, 
 Spread by triumphant cruelties 
 Of vengeful military force, 
 And punishment without remorse. 
 He marked not, heard not, as he fled 
 All but the suffering heart was dead 
 For him abandoned to blank awe, 
 To vacancy, and horror strong : 
 And the first object which he saw, 
 With conscious sight, as he swept along — 
 [t was the Banner in his hand ! 
 He felt — and made a sudden stand. 
 
 He looked about like one betrayed : 
 What hath he done? what promise made? 
 Oh weak, weak moment ! to what end 
 Can such a vain oblation tend. 
 And he the Bearer? — Can he go 
 Carrying this instrument of woe. 
 And find, find anywhere, a right 
 To excuse him in his Country's sight? 
 
 No; will not all men deem the change 
 A downward course, perverse and strange ? 
 Here is it; — but how ! when? must she. 
 The unoflending Emily, 
 Again this piteous object see? 
 
 Such conflict long did he maintain. 
 Nor liberty nor rest could gain : 
 His own life into danger brought 
 By this sad burden — even that thought. 
 Exciting self-suspicion strong 
 Swayed the brave man to his wrong. 
 And how — unless it were the sense 
 Of all-disposing Providence, 
 Its will unquestionably shown — 
 How has the Banner clung so fast 
 To a palsied, and unconscious hand; 
 Clung to the hand to which it passed 
 Without impediment? And why. 
 But that Heaven's purpose might be 
 
 known. 
 Doth now no hindrance meet his eye. 
 No intervention, to withstand 
 Fulfilment of a Father's prayer 
 Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest 
 When all resentments were at rest. 
 And life in death laid the heart bare ? — 
 Then, like a spectre sweeping by. 
 Rushed through his mind the prophecy 
 Of utter desolation made 
 To Emily in the yew-tree shade : 
 He sighed, submitting will and power 
 To the stern embrace of that grasping hour. 
 " No choice is left, the deed is mine — 
 Dead are they, dead ! — and I will go. 
 And, for their sakes, come weal or woe. 
 Will lay the Relic on the shrine." 
 
 So forward with a steady will 
 He went, and traversed plain and hill ; 
 And up the vale of Wharf his way 
 Pursued; — and, at the dawn of day, 
 Attained a summit whence his eyes 
 Could see the Tower of Bolton rise. 
 There Francis for a moment's space 
 Made halt — but hark ! a noise behind 
 Of horsemen at an eager pace ! 
 He heard, and with misgiving mind. 
 — 'T is Sir George Bowes who leads the 
 
 Band: 
 They come, by cruel Sussex sent; 
 Who, when the Nortons from the hand 
 Of death had drunk their punishment. 
 Bethought him, angry and ashamed, 
 How Francis, with the Banner claimed 
 
428 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 As his own charge, had disappeared, 
 
 By all the standers-by revered. 
 
 His whole bold carriage (which had 
 
 quelled 
 Thus far the Opposer, and repelled 
 All censure, enterprise so bright 
 That even bad men had vainly striven 
 Against that overcoming light) 
 Was then reviewed, and prompt word 
 
 given, 
 That to what place soever fled 
 He should be seized, alive or dead. 
 The troop of horse have gained the 
 
 height 
 Where Francis stood in open sight. 
 They hem him round — "Behold the 
 
 proof," 
 They cried, " the Ensign in his hand! 
 He did not arm, he walked aloof ! 
 For why? — to save his Father's land; — 
 Worst Traitor of them all is he, 
 A Traitor dark and cowardly! " 
 
 " I am no Traitor," Francis said, 
 " Though this unhappy freight I bear; 
 And must not part with. But beware : — 
 Err not by hasty zeal misled. 
 Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong. 
 Whose self-reproaches are too strong! " 
 At this he from the beaten road 
 Retreated towards a brake of thorn, 
 That like a place of vantage showed; 
 And there stood bravely, though forlorn. 
 In self-defence with warlike brow 
 He stood, — nor weaponless was now; 
 He from a Soldier's hand had snatched 
 A spear, — and, so protected, watched 
 The Assailants, turning round and round, 
 But from behind with treacherous wound 
 A Spearman brought him to the ground. 
 The guardian lance, as Francis fell. 
 Dropped from him; but his other hand 
 The Banner clenched; till, from out the 
 
 Band, 
 One, the most eager for the prize. 
 Rushed in; and — while, O grief to tell! 
 A glimmering sense still left, with eyes 
 Unclosed the noble Francis lay — 
 Seized it, as hunters seize their prey; 
 But not before the warm life-blood 
 Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed, 
 The wounds the broidered Banner showed. 
 Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as 
 
 good ! 
 
 Proudly the Horsemen bore away 
 The Standard; and where Francis l?y 
 There was he left alone, unwept, 
 And for two days unnoticed slept. 
 For at that time bewildering fear 
 Possessed the country, far and near; 
 But, on the third day, passing by 
 One of the Norton Tenantry 
 Espied the uncovered Corse; the Man 
 Shrunk as he recognized the face, 
 And to the nearest homesteads ran 
 And called the people to the place. 
 — How desolate is Rylstone-hall ! 
 This was the instant thought of all; 
 And if the lonely Lady there 
 Should be; to her they cannot bear 
 This weight of anguish and despair. 
 So, when upon sad thoughts had prest 
 Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best 
 That, if the Priest should yield assent 
 And no one hinder their intent. 
 Then they, for Christian pity's sake, 
 In holy ground a grave would make; 
 And straightway buried he should be 
 In the Churchyard of the Priory. 
 
 Apart, some little space, was made 
 The grave where Francis must be laid. 
 In no confusion or neglect 
 This did they, — but in pure respect 
 That he was born of gentle blood; 
 And that there was no neighborhood 
 Of kindred for him in that ground : 
 So to the Churchyard they are bound, 
 Bearing the body on a bier; 
 And psalms they sing — a holy sound 
 That hill and vale with sadness hear. 
 
 But Emily hath raised her head, 
 And is again disquieted; 
 She must behold ! — so many gone, 
 Where is the sohtary One? 
 And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped 
 
 she, — 
 To seek her Brother forth she went, 
 And tremblingly her course she bent 
 Toward Bolton's ruined Priory. 
 She comes, and in the vale hath heard 
 The funeral dirge ; — she sees the knot 
 Of people, sees them in one spot' — 
 And darting like a wounded bird 
 She reached the grave, and with her breasl 
 Upon the ground received the rest, — 
 The consummation, the whole ruth 
 And sorrow of this final truth 1 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 429 
 
 Canto Seventh. 
 
 " Powers there are 
 That touch each other to the quick — in modes 
 Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, 
 No soul to dream of." 
 
 Thou Spirit, whose angelic hand 
 Was to the harp a strong command, 
 Called the submissive strings to wake 
 In glory for this Maiden's sake, 
 Say, Spirit ! whither hath she fled 
 To hide her poor afflicted head? 
 What mighty forest in its gloom 
 Enfolds her? — is a rifted tomb 
 Within the wilderness her seat? 
 Some island which the wild waves beat — 
 Is that the Sufferer's last retreat? 
 Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds 
 Its perilous front in mists and clouds? 
 High-climbing rock, low sunless dale, 
 Sea, desert, what do these avail? 
 Oh take her anguish and her fears 
 Into a deep recess of years ! 
 
 'Tis done; — despoil and desolation 
 O'er Rylstone'sfair domain have blown !^ 
 Pools, terraces, and walks are sown 
 With weeds; the bowers are overthrown. 
 Or have given way to slow mutation, 
 While, in their ancient habitation 
 The Norton name hath been unknown. 
 The lordly Mansion of its pride 
 Is stripped; the ravage hath spread wide 
 Through park and field, a perishing 
 That mocks the gladness of the Spring ! 
 And, with this silent gloom agreeing, 
 Appears a joyless human Being, 
 Of aspect such as if the waste 
 Were under her dominion placed. 
 Upon a primrose bank, her throne 
 Of quietness, she sits alone; 
 Among the ruins of a wood, 
 Erewhile a covert bright and green, 
 And where full many a brave tree stood, 
 That used to spread its boughs, and ring 
 With the sweet bird's carolling. 
 Behold her, like a virgin Queen, 
 Neglecting in imperial state 
 These outward images of fate, 
 And carrying inward a serene 
 And perfect sway, through many a thought 
 Of chance and change, that hath been 
 brought 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 To the subjection of a holy. 
 
 Though stern and rigorous, melancholy ! 
 
 The like authority, with grace 
 
 Of awfulness, is in her face, — 
 
 There hath she fixed it; yet it seems 
 
 To o'ershadow by no native right 
 
 That face, which cannot lose the gleams, 
 
 Lose utterly the tender gleams. 
 
 Of gentleness and meek delight. 
 
 And loving-kindness ever bright : 
 
 Such is her sovereign mien : — her dress 
 
 (A vest with woollen cincture tied, 
 
 A hood of mountain- wool undyed) 
 
 Is homely, — fashioned to express 
 
 A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness. 
 
 And she /laik wandered, long and far. 
 Beneath the light of sun and star; 
 Hath roamed in trouble and in grief. 
 Driven forward like a withered leaf. 
 Yea like a ship at random blown 
 To distant places and unknown. 
 But now she dares to seek a haven 
 Among her native wilds of Craven; 
 Hath seen again her Father's roof. 
 And put her fortitude to proof; 
 The mighty sorrow hath been borne, 
 And she is thoroughly forlorn : 
 Her soul doth in itself stand fast. 
 Sustained by memory of the past 
 And strength of Reason; held above 
 The infirmities of mortal love; 
 Undaunted, 'lofty, calm, and stable, 
 And awfully impenetrable. 
 
 And so — beneath a mouldered tree, 
 A self-surviving leafless oak 
 By unregarded age from stroke 
 Of ravage saved — sate Emily. 
 There did she rest, with head reclined, 
 Herself most like a stately flower, 
 (Such have I seen) whom chance of birth 
 Hath separated from its kind. 
 To live and die in a shady bower. 
 Single on the gladsome earth. 
 
 When, with a noise like distant thunder, 
 A troop of deer came sweeping by; 
 And, suddenly, behold a wonder ! 
 For One, among those rushing deer, 
 A single One, in mid career 
 Hath stopped, and fixed her large full eye 
 Upon the Lady Emily; 
 A Doe most beautiful, clear-white, 
 A radiant creature, silver-bright ! 
 
 Thus checked, a little while it stayed; 
 
43° 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 A little thoughtful pause it made; 
 
 And then advanced with stealth-like pace, 
 
 Drew softly near her, and more near — 
 
 Looked round — but saw no cause for fear ; 
 
 So to her feet the Creature came, 
 
 And laid its head upon her knee, 
 
 And looked into the Lady's face, 
 
 A look of pure benignity, 
 
 And fond unclouded memory. 
 
 It is, thought Emily, the same. 
 
 The very Doe of other years ! — 
 
 The pleading look the Lady viewed, 
 
 And, by her gushing thoughts subdued, 
 
 She melted into tears — 
 
 A flood of tears, that flowed apace. 
 
 Upon the happy Creature's face. 
 
 Oh, moment ever blest ! O Pair 
 Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen 
 
 care, 
 This was for you a precious greeting; 
 And may it prove a fruitful meeting I 
 Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe 
 Can she depart? can she forego 
 The Lady, once her playful peer, 
 And now her sainted Mistress dear ? 
 And will not Emily receive 
 This lovely chronicler of things 
 Long past, delights and sorrowings? 
 Lone Sufferer ! will not she believe 
 The promise in that speaking face; 
 And welcome, as a gift of grace. 
 The saddest thought the Creature brings? 
 
 That day, the first of a re-union 
 Which was to teem with high communion. 
 That day of balmy April weather, 
 They tarried in the wood together. 
 And when, ere fall of evening dew. 
 She from her sylvan haunt withdrew, 
 The White Doe tracked with faithful pace 
 The Lady to her dwelling-place; 
 That nook where, on paternal ground, 
 A habitation she had found. 
 The Master of whose humble board 
 Once owned her Father for his Lord; 
 A hut, by tufted trees defended, 
 Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is 
 blended. 
 
 When Emily by morning light 
 Went forth, the Doe stood there in sight. 
 She shrunk : — with one frail shock of pain 
 Received and followed by a prayer, 
 She saw the Creature once again; 
 Shun will she not, she feels, will bear; — 
 
 But, wheresoever she looked round. 
 All now was trouble-haunted ground; 
 And therefore now she deems it good 
 Once more this restless neighborhood 
 To leave. — Unwooed, yet unforbidden, 
 The White Doe followed up the vale. 
 Up to another cottage, hidden 
 In the deep fork of Amerdale; ^ 
 And there may Emily restore 
 Herself, in spots unseen before. 
 
 — Why tell of mossy rock, or tree. 
 By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side. 
 Haunts of a strengthening amity 
 
 That calmed her, cheered, and fortified? 
 
 For she hath ventured now to read 
 
 Of time, and place, and thought, and 
 
 deed — 
 Endless history that lies 
 In her silent Follower's eyes; 
 Who with a power like human reason 
 Discerns the favorable season, 
 Skilled to approach or to retire, — 
 From looks conceiving her desire; 
 From look, deportment, voice, or mien. 
 That vary to the heart within. 
 If she too passionately wreathed 
 Her arms, or over-deeply breathed. 
 Walked quick or slowly, every mood 
 In its degree was understood; 
 Then well may their accord be true. 
 And kindliest intercourse ensue. 
 
 — Oh ! surely 't was a gentle rousing 
 When she by sudden glimpse espied 
 The White Doe on the mountain browsing. 
 Or in the meadow wandered wide ! 
 How pleased, when down the Straggler 
 
 sank 
 Beside her, on some sunny bank ! 
 How soothed, when in thick bower 
 
 enclosed. 
 They, like a nested pair, reposed ! 
 Fair vision ! when it crossed the Maid 
 Within some rocky cavern laid. 
 The dark cave's portal gliding by, 
 White as whitest cloud on high 
 Floating through the azure sky. 
 
 — What now is left for pain or fear? 
 That Presence, dearer and more dear. 
 While they, side by side, were straying, 
 And the shepherd's pipe was playing, 
 Did now a very gladness yield 
 
 At morning to the dewy field, 
 ^ See Note. 
 
iJrill, WJHilt JUUE UH KYLblUJNl;:. 
 
 431 
 
 And with a deeper peace endued 
 The hour of moonlight solitude. 
 
 With her Companion, in such frame 
 Of mind, to Rylstone back she came; 
 And, ranging through the wasted groves, 
 Received the memory of old loves, 
 Undisturbed and undistrest. 
 Into a soul which now was blest 
 With a soft spring-day of holy. 
 Mild, and grateful, melancholy : 
 Not sunless gloom or unenlightened. 
 But by tender fancies brightened. 
 
 When the bells of Rylstone played 
 Their sabbath music — " ffioB US agBc ! " 
 That was the sound they seemed to speak; 
 Inscriptive legend which I ween 
 May on those holy bells be seen. 
 That legend and her Grandsire's name; 
 And oftentimes the Lady meek 
 Had in her childhood read the same; 
 Words which she slighted at that day; 
 But now, when such sad change was 
 
 wrought. 
 And of that lonely name she thought — 
 The bells of Rylstone seemed to say. 
 While she sate listening in the shade. 
 With vocal music, " ffiaS tlS agBe; " 
 And all the hills were glad to bear 
 Their part in this effectual prayer. 
 
 Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power; 
 But with the White Doe at her side 
 Up would she climb to Norton Tower, 
 And thence look round her far and wide, 
 Her fate there measuring; — all is 
 
 stilled, — 
 The weak One hath subdued her heart; 
 Behold the prophecy fulfilled. 
 Fulfilled, and she sustains her part ! 
 But here her Brother's words have failed; 
 Here hath a milder doom prevailed; 
 That she, of him and all bereft. 
 Hath yet this faithful Partner left; 
 This one Associate, that disproves 
 His words, remains for her, and loves. 
 If tears are shed, they do not fall 
 For loss of him — for one, or all; 
 Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep 
 Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep; 
 A few tears down her cheek descend 
 For this her last and living Friend. 
 
 Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot, 
 And bless for both this savage spot ; 
 Which Emily doth sacred hold 
 
 For reasons dear and manifold — 
 Here hath she, here before her sight. 
 Close to the summit of this height, 
 The grassy rock-encircled Pound 1 
 In which the Creature first was found. 
 So beautiful the timid Thrall 
 (A spotless Youngling white as foam) 
 Her youngest Brother brought it home; 
 The youngest, then a lusty boy. 
 Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall 
 With heart brimful of pride and joy ! 
 
 But most to Bolton's sacred Pile, 
 On favoring nights, she loved to go; 
 There ranged through cloister, court, and 
 
 aisle. 
 Attended by the soft-paced Doe; 
 Nor feared she in the still moonshine 
 To look upon Saint Mary's shrine; 
 Nor on the lonely turf that showed 
 Where Francis slept in his last abode. 
 For that she came; there oft she sate 
 Forlorn, but not disconsolate: 
 And, when she from the abyss returned 
 Of thought, she neither shrunk nor 
 
 mourned; 
 Was happy that she lived to greet 
 Her mute Companion as it lay 
 In love and pity at her feet; 
 How happy in its turn to meet 
 The recognition ! the mild glance 
 Beamed from that gracious countenance; 
 Communication, like the ray 
 Of a new morning, to the nature 
 And prospects of the inferior Creature ! 
 
 A mortal Song we sing, by dower 
 Encouraged of celestial power; 
 Power which the viewless Spirit shed 
 By whom we were first visited; 
 Whose voice we heard, whose hand and 
 
 wings 
 Swept like a breeze the conscious strings, 
 When, left in solitude, erewhile 
 We stood before this ruined Pile, 
 And, quitting unsubstantial dreams, 
 Sang in this Presence kindred themes; 
 Distress and desolation spread 
 Through human hearts, and pleasure 
 
 dead, — 
 Dead — but to live again on earth, 
 A second and yet nobler birth; 
 Dire overthrow, and yet how high 
 The re-ascent in sanctity ! 
 ' See Note. 
 
432 
 
 THE FORCE OF PRAYER. 
 
 From fair to fairer; day by day 
 
 A more divine and loftier way ! 
 
 Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod, 
 
 By sorrow lifted towards her God; 
 
 Uplifted to the purest sky 
 
 Of undisturbed mortality. 
 
 Her own thoughts loved she; and could 
 
 bend 
 A dear look to her lowly Friend; 
 There stopped; her thirst was satisfied 
 With what this innocent spring supplied : 
 Her sanction inwardly she bore, 
 And stood apart from human cares : 
 But to the world returned no more, 
 Although with no unwilling mind 
 Help did she give at need, and joined 
 The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers. 
 At length, thus faintly, faintly tied 
 To earth, she was set free, and died. 
 Thy soul, exalted Emily, 
 Maid of the blasted family, 
 Rose to the God from whom it came ! 
 — In Rylstone Church her mortal frame 
 Was buried by her Mother's side. 
 
 Most glorious sunset ! and a ray 
 Survives — the twilight of this day — 
 In that fair Creature whom the fields 
 Support, and whom the forest shields; 
 Who, having filled a holy place. 
 Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace; 
 And bears a memory and a mind 
 Raised far above the law of kind; 
 Haunting the spots with lonely cheer 
 Which her dear Mistress once held dear : 
 Loves most what Emily loved most — 
 The enclosure of this churchyard ground; 
 Here wanders like a gliding ghost. 
 And every sabbath here is found; 
 Comes with the people when the bells 
 Are heard among the moorland dells. 
 Finds entrance through yon arch, where 
 
 way 
 Lies open on the sabbath-day; 
 Here walks amid the mournful waste 
 Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced, 
 And floors encumbered with rich show 
 Of fret- work imagery laid low; 
 Paces softly, or makes halt. 
 By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault; 
 By plate of monumental brass 
 Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass. 
 And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave : 
 But chiefly by that single grave. 
 
 That one sequestered hillock green, 
 The pensive visitant is seen. 
 There doth the gentle Creature lie 
 With those adversities unmoved; 
 Calm spectacle, by earth and sky 
 In their benignity approved ! 
 And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile, 
 Subdued by outrage and decay. 
 Looks down upon her with a smile, 
 A gracious smile, that seems to say — 
 " Thou, thou art not a Child of Time, 
 But Daughter of the Eternal Prime ! " 
 1807. 1815. 
 
 THE FORCE OF PRAYER; ^ 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. 
 
 A TRADITION. 
 An Appendage to the "White Doe." My 
 friend, Mr. Rogers, has also written on the sub- 
 ject. The story is preserved in Dr. Whitaker's 
 History of Craven — a topographical writer of 
 first-rate merit in all that concerns the past ; but 
 such was his aversion from the modem spirit, as 
 shown in the spread of manufactories in those 
 districts of which he treats, that his readers are 
 left entirely ignorant both of the progress of these 
 arts and iheir real bearing upon the comfort, vir- 
 tues, and happiness of the inhabitants. While 
 wandering on foot through the fertile valleys and 
 over the moorlands of the Apennine that divides 
 Yorkshire from Lancashire, I used to be delighted 
 with observing the number of substantial cottages 
 that had sprung up on every side, each having its 
 little plot of fertile ground won from the sur- 
 rounding waste. A bright and warm fire, if 
 needed, was always to be found in these dwell- 
 ings. The father was at his loom ; the children 
 looked healthy and happy. Is it not to be feared 
 that the increase of mechanic power has done 
 away with many of these blessings, and substi- 
 tuted many evils ? Alas ! if these evils grow, 
 how are they to be checked, and where is the 
 remedy to be found ? Political economy will not 
 supply it ; that is certain, we must look to some- 
 thing deeper, purer, and higher. 
 
 is goflB tot a bontless 6ntE? " 
 With these dark words begins my Tale; 
 And their meaning is, whence can com 
 
 fort spring 
 When Prayer is of no avail ? 
 
 ^ See the " White Doe of Rylstone." 
 
THE FORCE OF PRAYER. 
 
 433 
 
 "OTtjat IS goati tor a bootlegs iicnc'.'" 
 
 The Falconer to the Lady said; 
 And she made answer "endless sor- 
 row ! " 
 For she knew that her Son was dead. 
 
 She knew it by the Falconer's words, 
 And from the look of the Falconer's eye; 
 And from the love which was in her soul 
 For her youthful Romilly. 
 
 — Young Romilly through Barden woods 
 Is ranging high and low; 
 And holds a greyhound in a leash, 
 To let slip upon buck or doe. 
 
 The pair have reached that fearful chasm, 
 How tempting to bestride ! 
 For lordly Wharf is there pent in 
 With rocks on either side. 
 
 This striding-place is called The Strid, 
 A name which it took of yore: 
 A thousand years hath it borne that name. 
 And shall a thousand more. 
 
 And hither is young Romilly come. 
 And what may now forbid 
 That he, perhaps for the hundredth time. 
 Shall bound across The Strid? 
 
 He sprang in glee, — for what cared he 
 That the river was strong, and the rocks 
 
 were steep ? — 
 But the greyhound in the leash hung back, 
 And checked him in his leap. 
 
 The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
 And strangled by a merciless force; 
 For never more was young Romilly seen 
 Till he rose a lifeless corse. 
 
 Now there is stillness in the vale, 
 And long, unspeaking sorrow : 
 Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 
 
 If for a lover the Lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 
 From death, and from the passion of 
 
 death; — 
 Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 
 
 She weeps not for the wedding-day 
 Which was to be to-morrow : 
 Her hope was a further-looking hope. 
 And hers is a mother's sorrow. 
 
 He was a tree that stood alone, 
 And proudly did its branches wave; 
 And the root of this delightful tree 
 Was in her husband's grave ! 
 
 Long, long in darkness did she sit. 
 And her first words were, " Let there be 
 In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
 A stately Priory ! ' ' 
 
 The stately Priory was reared; 
 And Wharf, as he moved along. 
 To naatins joined a mournful voice. 
 Nor failed at evensong. 
 
 And the Lady prayed in heaviness 
 That looked not for relief ! 
 But slowly did her succor come. 
 And a patience to her grief. 
 
 Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart 
 That shall lack a timely end. 
 If but to God we turn, and ask 
 Of Him to be our friend ! 
 
 September, 1807. 1815. 
 
 COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR 
 WAS ENGAGED IN WRITING A 
 TRACT OCPASIONED BY THE 
 CONVENTION OF CINTRA. 
 
 Not 'mid the world's vain objects that 
 
 enslave 
 The free-born Soul — that World whose 
 
 vaunted skill 
 In selfish interest perverts the will. 
 Whose factions lead astray the wise and 
 
 brave — 
 Not there; but in dark wood and rocky 
 
 cave. 
 And hollow vale which foaming torrents 
 
 fill 
 With omnipresent murmur as they rave 
 Down their steep beds, that never shall 
 
 be still : 
 Here, mighty Nature ! in this school 
 
 sublime 
 
434 
 
 GEORGE AND SARAH GREEN. 
 
 I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering 
 
 Spain; 
 For her consult the auguries of time, 
 And through the human heart explore 
 
 my way; 
 And look and listen — gathering, whence 
 
 I may, 
 Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can 
 
 restrain. 
 
 COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME 
 AND ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 I DROPPED my pen; and listened to the 
 Wind 
 
 That sang of trees uptorn and vessels 
 tost — 
 
 A midnight harmony; and wholly lost 
 
 To the general sense of men by chains 
 confined 
 
 Of business, care, or pleasure; or resigned 
 
 To timely sleep. Thought I, the impas- 
 sioned strain. 
 
 Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain, 
 
 Like acceptation from the World will find. 
 
 Vet some with apprehensive ear shall drink 
 
 A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows 
 past; 
 
 And to the attendant promise will give 
 heed — 
 
 The prophecy, — like that of this wild 
 blast. 
 
 Which, while it makes . the heart with 
 sadness shrink. 
 
 Tells also of bright calms that shall suc- 
 ceed. 
 
 GEORGE AND SARAH GREEN. 
 
 Who weeps for strangers ? Many wept 
 For George and Sarah Green; 
 
 Wept for that pair's unhappy fate, 
 Whose grave may here be seen. 
 
 By night, upon these stormy fells, 
 Did wife and husband roam; 
 
 Six little ones at home had left, 
 And could not find that home. 
 
 For any dwelling-place of man 
 
 As vainly did they seek. 
 He perish'd; and a voice was heard — 
 
 The widow's lonely shriek. 
 
 Not many steps, and she was left 
 
 A body without life — 
 A few short steps were the chain that bound 
 
 The husband to the wife. 
 
 Now do those sternly-featured hills 
 Look gently on this grave; 
 
 And quiet now are the depths of air, 
 As a sea without a wave. 
 
 But deeper lies the heart of peace 
 
 In quiet more profound; 
 The heart of quietness is here 
 
 Within this churchyard bound. 
 
 And from all agony of mind 
 
 It keeps them safe, and far 
 From fear and grief, and from all need 
 
 Of sun or guiding star. 
 
 O darkness of the grave ! how deep, 
 
 After that living night — 
 That last and dreary living one 
 
 Of sorrow and affright? 
 
 O sacred marriage-bed of death, 
 That keeps them side by side 
 
 In bond of peace, in bond of love, 
 That may not be untied ! 
 1808. 1839. 
 
 HOFFER. 
 
 Of mortal parents is the Hero born 
 By whom the undaunted Ty rolese are led ? 
 Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead 
 Returned to animate an age forlorn? 
 He comes like Phoebus through the gates 
 
 of morn 
 When dreary darkness is discomfited. 
 Yet mark his modest state ! upon his 
 
 head. 
 That simple crest, a heron's plume, is 
 
 worn. 
 O Liberty ! they stagger at the shock 
 From van to rear — and with one mind 
 
 would flee, 
 
'AND IS IT AMONG RUDE UNTUTORED DALES?' 
 
 435 
 
 But half their host is buried : • — rock on 
 rock 
 
 Descends: — beneath this godlike War- 
 rior, see ! 
 
 Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to 
 bemock 
 
 The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty. 
 iSog. 1S15. 
 
 "ADVANCE — COME FORTH FROM 
 THY TYROLEAN GROUND." 
 
 Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean 
 ground. 
 
 Dear Liberty ! stern Nymph of soul un- 
 tamed ; 
 
 Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the moun- 
 tains named ! 
 
 Through the long chain of Alps from 
 mound to mound 
 
 And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, 
 bound; 
 
 Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn 
 
 Have roused her from her sleep: and 
 forest, lawn. 
 
 Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless 
 steps resound 
 
 And babble of her pastime ! — On, dread 
 Power ! 
 
 With such invisible motion speed thy 
 flight, 
 
 Through hanging clouds, from craggy 
 height to height. 
 
 Through the green vales and through the 
 herdsman's bower — 
 
 That all the Alps may gladden in thy 
 might. 
 
 Here, there, and in all places at one hour. 
 1809. 181 5. 
 
 FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE. 
 
 The Land we from our fathers had in 
 
 trust. 
 And to our children will transmit, or die: 
 This is our maxim, this our piety; 
 And God and Nature say that it is just. 
 That which we would perform in arms — 
 
 v/e must ! 
 We read the dictate in the infant's eye; 
 In the wife's smile; and in the placid sky; 
 And, at our feet, amid the silent dust 
 
 Of them that were before us. — Sing aloud 
 Old songs, the precious music of the heart ! 
 Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the 
 
 wind ! 
 While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd. 
 With weapons grasped in fearless hands, 
 
 to assert 
 Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind. 
 1S09. 1S15. 
 
 " ALAS ! WHAT BOOTS THE LONG 
 LABORIOUS QUEST." 
 
 Alas ! what boots the long laborious 
 
 quest 
 Of moral prudence, sought through good 
 
 and ill; 
 Or pains abstruse — to elevate the will. 
 And lead us on to that transcendent rest 
 Where every passion shall the sway attest 
 Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill; 
 What is it but a vain and curious skill. 
 If sapient Germany must lie deprest. 
 Beneath the brutal sword ? — Her haughty 
 
 Schools 
 Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow 
 
 say — 
 A few strong instincts and a few plain 
 
 rules, 
 Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have 
 
 wrought 
 More for mankind at this unhappy day 
 Than all the pride of intellect and thought ? 
 1S09. 1815. 
 
 "AND IS IT AMONG RUDE 
 UNTUTORED DALES?" 
 
 And is it among rude untutored Dales, 
 There, and there only, that the heart is 
 
 true? 
 And, rising to repel or to subdue. 
 Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails ? 
 Ah no! though Nature's dread protection 
 
 fails, 
 There is abulwark in the soul. This knew 
 Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew 
 In Zaragoza, naked to the gales 
 Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was 
 
 felt 
 By Palafox, and many a brave compeer, 
 
436 
 
 ■ O'ER THE WIDE EARTH.' 
 
 Like him of noble birth and noble mind ; 
 By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear; 
 And wanderers of the street, to whom is 
 
 dealt 
 The bread which without industry they find. 
 1809. 1815. 
 
 "O'ER THE WIDE EARTH, ON 
 MOUNTAIN AND ON PLAIN." 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on 
 
 plain, 
 Dwells in the affections and the soul of man 
 A Godhead, like the universal Pan; 
 But more exalted, with a brighter train : 
 And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain. 
 Showered equally on city and on field. 
 And neither hope nor steadfast promise 
 
 yield 
 In these usurping times of fear and pain? 
 Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it 
 
 Heaven ! 
 We know the arduous strife, the eternal 
 
 laws 
 To which the triumph of all good is given, 
 High sacrifice, and labor without pause, 
 Evento the death: — else wherefore should 
 
 the eye 
 Of man converse with immortality? 
 
 ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF 
 THE TYROLESE. 
 
 It was a moral end for which they fought; 
 
 Else how, when mighty Thrones were 
 put to shame, 
 
 Could they, poor Shepherds, have pre- 
 served an aim, 
 
 A resolution, or enlivening thought? 
 
 Nor hath that moral good been vainly 
 sought ; 
 
 For in their magnanimity and fame 
 
 Powers have they left, an impulse, and a 
 claim 
 
 Which neither can be overturned nor 
 bought. 
 
 Sleep, Warriors, sleep ! among your hills 
 repose ! 
 
 We know that ye, beneath thestern control 
 
 Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished 
 
 soul: 
 And when, impatient of her guilt and woes, 
 Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! 
 
 shall ye rise 
 For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies. 
 1809. 1815. 
 
 "HAIL, ZARAGOZA! IF WITH 
 UNWET EYE."i 
 
 Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye 
 We can approach, thy sorrow to behold. 
 Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold; 
 Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh. 
 These desolate remains are trophies high 
 Of more than martial courage in the breast 
 Of peaceful civic virtue : they attest 
 Thy matchless worth to all posterity. 
 Blood flowed before thy sight without 
 
 remorse; 
 Disease consumed thy vitals; War up- 
 heaved 
 The ground beneath thee with volcanic 
 
 force : 
 Dread trials ! yet encountered and sus- 
 tained 
 Till not a wreck of help or hope remained. 
 And law was from necessity received. 
 1809. 1815. 
 
 'SAY, WHAT IS HONOR? - 
 THE FINEST SENSE.' 
 
 'TIS 
 
 Say, what is Honor? — 'T is the finest 
 
 sense 
 Of justice which the human mind can 
 
 frame, 
 Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, 
 And guard the way of life from all offence 
 Suffered or done. When lawless violence 
 Invades a Realm, so pressed that in the 
 
 scale 
 Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail, 
 Honor is hopeful elevation, — whence 
 Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skill 
 Endangered States may yield to terms 
 
 unjust; 
 Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the 
 
 dust — 
 
 ' See Note. 
 
'LOOK NOW ON THAT ADVENTURER.' 
 
 437 
 
 A Foe's most favorite purpose to fulfil: 
 Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust 
 Are forfeited; but infamy doth kill. 
 1809. 1815. 
 
 " THE MARTIAL COURAGE OF A 
 DAY IS VAIN." 
 
 The martial courage of a day is vain. 
 An empty noise of death the battle's roar, 
 If vital hope be wanting to restore, 
 Or fortitude be wanting to sustain, 
 Armies o-r kingdoms. We have heard a 
 
 strain 
 Of triumph, how the laboring Danube 
 
 bore 
 A weight of hostile corses; drenched with 
 
 gore 
 Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped 
 
 with slain. 
 Yet see (the mighty tumult overpast) 
 Austria a daughter of her Throne hath 
 
 sold! 
 And her Tyrolean Champion we behold 
 Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck 
 
 cast, 
 Murdered without relief. Oh ! blind as 
 
 bold. 
 To think that such assurance can stand 
 
 fast! 
 iSog. 1815. 
 
 "BRAVE SCHILL! BY DEATH 
 DELIVERED." 
 
 Brave Schill ! by death delivered, take 
 
 thy flight 
 From Prussia'stimid region. Go, and rest 
 With heroes, 'mid the islands of the Blest, 
 Or in the fields of empyrean light. 
 A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night : 
 Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and 
 
 sublime. 
 Stand in the spacious firmament of time, 
 Fixed as a star: such glory is thy right. 
 Alas ! it may not be : for earthly fame 
 Is Fortune's frail dependant; yet there 
 
 lives 
 A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, 
 
 gives; 
 To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim. 
 Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed; 
 In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed. 
 iSog. 1815. 
 
 " CALL NOT THE ROYAL SWEDE 
 UNFORTUNATE." 
 
 Call not the royal Swede unfortunate, 
 Who never did to Fortune bend the knee; 
 Who slighted fear; rejected steadfastly 
 
 ' Temptation; and whose kingly name and 
 
 I state 
 
 Have " perished by his choice, and not 
 
 , his fate ! ' ' 
 
 j Hence lives He, to his inner self endeared ; 
 And hence, wherever virtue is revered, 
 He sits a more exalted Potentate, 
 
 j Throned in the hearts of men. Should 
 Heaven ordain 
 That thisgreat Servant of arighteouscause 
 Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to 
 
 j endure. 
 
 Yet may a sympathizing spirit pause, 
 Admonished by these truths, and quench 
 
 all pain 
 In thankful joy and gratulation pure.i 
 
 "LOOK NOW ON THAT ADVEN- 
 TURER WHO HATH PAID." 
 
 Look now on that Adventurer who hath 
 paid 
 
 His vows to Fortune; who, in cruel slight 
 
 Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right, 
 
 Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was 
 made 
 
 By the blind Goddess, — ruthless, undis- 
 mayed ; 
 
 And so hath gained at length a prosperous 
 height. 
 
 Round which the elements of worldly 
 might 
 
 Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are 
 laid. 
 
 O joyless power that stands by lawless 
 force ! 
 
 Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and hate, 
 
 Internal darkness and unquiet breath; 
 
 And, if old judgments keep their sacred 
 course. 
 
 Him from that height shall Heaven pre- 
 cipitate 
 
 By violent and ignominious death. 
 1809. 1815. 
 
 1 See Note to " The King of Sweden," p. 2o<). 
 
438 
 
 'IS THERE A POWER THAT CAN SUSTAIN?" 
 
 " IS THERE A POWER THAT CAN 
 SUSTAIN AND CHEER?" 
 
 Is there a power that can sustain and cheer 
 The captive chieftain, by a tyrant's doom, 
 Forced to descend into his destined tomb — 
 A dungeon dark ! where he must waste 
 
 the year, 
 And lie cut off from all his heart holds 
 
 dear; 
 What time his injured country is a stage 
 Whereon deliberate Valor and the rage 
 Of righteous Vengeance side by side 
 
 appear, 
 Filling from morn to night the heroic scene 
 With deeds of hope and everlasting 
 
 praise: — 
 Say can he think of this with mind serene 
 And silent fetters? Yes, if visions bright 
 Shine on his soul, reflected from the days 
 When he himself was tried in open light. 
 1809. 1815. 
 
 " AH ! WHERE IS PALAFOX? NOR 
 TONGUE NOR PEN." 
 
 Ah ! where is Palaf ox ? Nor tongue nor pen 
 Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave ! 
 Does yet the unheard-of vessel ride the 
 
 wave? 
 Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken 
 Of pitying human nature ? Once again 
 Methinks that we shall hail thee. Cham- 
 pion brave. 
 Redeemed to baffle that imperial Slave, 
 And through all Europe cheer desponding 
 
 men 
 With new-born hope. Unbounded is the 
 
 might 
 Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right. 
 Hark, how thy Country triumphs ! — 
 
 Smilingly 
 The Eternal looks upon her sword that 
 
 gleams. 
 Like his own lightning, over mountains 
 
 high, 
 On rampart, and the banks of all her 
 
 streams. 
 1810. 1815. 
 
 "IN DUE OBSERVANCE OF AN 
 ANCIENT RITE." 
 
 In due observance of an ancient rite. 
 The rude Biscayans,when their children lie 
 Dead in the sinless time of infancy. 
 Attire the peaceful corse in vestments 
 
 white; 
 And, in like sign of cloudless triumph 
 
 bright, 
 They bind the unoffending creature's 
 
 brows 
 With happy garlands of the pure white 
 
 rose: 
 Then do a festal company unite 
 In choral song; and, while the uplifted 
 
 cross 
 Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne 
 Uncovered to his grave : ' t is closed, — her 
 
 loss 
 The Mother then mourns, as she needs 
 
 must mourn; 
 But soon, through Christian faith, is grief 
 
 subdued; 
 And joy returns, to brighten fortitude. 
 1810. 1815. 
 
 FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BISCAYAN 
 AT ONE OF THOSE FUNERALS. 
 
 Yet, yet, Biscayans ! we must meet our 
 
 Foes 
 With firmer soul, yet labor to regain 
 Our ancient freedom; else 't were worse 
 
 than vain 
 To gather round the bier these festal 
 
 shows. 
 A garland fashioned of the pure white rose 
 Becomes not one whose father is a slave: 
 Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave ! 
 These venerable mountains now enclose 
 A people sunk in apathy and fear. 
 If this endure, farewell, for us, all good! 
 The awful light of heavenly innocence 
 Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier; 
 And guilt and shame, from which is no 
 
 defence. 
 Descend on all that issues from our bloodi. 
 
 1810. 1815. ' 
 
INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIARD. 
 
 439 
 
 ON A CELEBRATED EVENT IN 
 ANCIENT HISTORY. 
 
 A Roman Master stands on Grecian 
 
 ground, 
 And to the people at the Isthmian Games 
 Assembled, He, by a herald's voice, pro- 
 claims 
 The Liberty of Greece: — the words 
 
 rebound 
 Until all voices in one voice are drowned; 
 Glad acclamation by which the air was 
 
 rent ! 
 And birds, high-flying in the element. 
 Dropped to the earth, astonished at the 
 
 sound ! 
 Yet were the thoughtful grieved; and still 
 
 that voice 
 Haunts, with sad echoes, musing Fancy's 
 
 ear : 
 Ah ! that a Cont^tieror' swordsshouldbe so 
 
 dear: 
 Ah ! that a doon could shed such rapturous 
 
 joys ! 
 A gift of that which is not to be given 
 By all the blended powers of Earth and 
 
 Heaven. 
 tSio. 1815. 
 
 UPON THE SAME EVENT. 
 
 When, far and wide, swift as the beams 
 
 of morn 
 The tidings past of servitude repealed. 
 And of that joy which shook the Isthmian 
 
 Field, 
 The rough yEtolians smiled with bitter 
 
 scorn. 
 " 'T is known, "cried they, "thathe, who 
 
 would adorn 
 His envied temples with the Isthmian 
 
 crown, 
 Must either win, through effort of his own. 
 The prize, or be content to see it worn 
 By more deserving brows. — Yet so ye prop. 
 Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon, 
 Your feeble spirits ! Greece her head hath 
 
 bowed, 
 As if the wreath of liberty thereon 
 Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud, 
 Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's 
 
 top." 
 1810. 1815. 
 
 THE OAK OF GUERNICA. 
 
 The ancient oak of Giieruica, says Laborde in 
 his account of Biscay, is a most venerable natural 
 monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, in the year 
 1476, after hearing mass in the church of Santa 
 Maria de la Antigua, repaired to this tree, under 
 which they swore to the Biscayans to maintain 
 their fTteros (privileges). What other interest 
 belongs to it in the minds of this people will 
 appear from the following. 
 
 SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO THE SAME. 
 
 Oak of Guernica ! Tree of holier power 
 Than that which in Dodona did enshrine 
 ( So faith too fondly deemed )a voice divine 
 Heard from the depths of its aerial bower — 
 How canst thou flourish at this blighting 
 
 hour ? 
 What hope, what joy can sunshine bring 
 
 to thee, 
 Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea. 
 The dews of morn, or April's tender 
 
 shower? 
 Stroke merciful and welcome would thatbe 
 Which should extend thy branches on the 
 
 ground, 
 If never more within their shady round 
 Those lofty-minded Lawgivers shall meet, 
 Peasant and lord, in their appointed seat, 
 Guardians of Biscay's ancient liberty". 
 1810. 1815. 
 
 INDIGNATION OF A HIGH- 
 MINDED SPANIARD. 
 
 We can endure that He should waste our 
 lands, 
 
 Despoil our temples, and by sword and 
 flame 
 
 Return us to the dust from which we cam e ; 
 
 Such food a Tyrant's ippetite demands : 
 
 And we can brook the thought that by his 
 hands 
 
 Spain may be overpowered, and he pos- 
 sess. 
 
 For his delight, a solemn wilderness 
 
 Where all the brave lie dead. But, when 
 of bands 
 
 Which he will break for us he dares to 
 speak. 
 
 Of benefits, and of a future day 
 
440 
 
 ■AVAUNT ALL SPECIOUS PLIANCY OF MIND!' 
 
 When our enlightened minds shall bless 
 
 his sway; 
 Then, the strained heart of fortitude 
 
 proves weak; 
 Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks 
 
 declare 
 That he has power to inflict what we 
 
 lack strength to bear. 
 1810. 1815. 
 
 "AVAUNT ALL SPECIOUS 
 PLIANCY OF MIND." 
 
 AvAUNT all specious pliancy of mind 
 In men of low degree, all smooth pre- 
 tence ! 
 I better like a blunt indifference. 
 And self-respecting slowness, disinclined 
 To win me at first sight : and be there 
 
 joined 
 Patience and temperance with this high 
 
 reserve, 
 Honor that knows the path and will not 
 
 swerve ; 
 Affections, which, if put to proof, are 
 
 kind; 
 And piety towards God. Such men of old 
 Were England's native growth; and, 
 
 throughout Spain 
 (Thanks to high God) forests of such 
 
 remain : 
 Then for that Country let our hopes be 
 
 bold; 
 For matched with these shall policy 
 
 prove vain, 
 Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her 
 
 gold. 
 1810. 1815. 
 
 "O'ERWEENING STATESMEN 
 HAVE FULL LONG RELIED." 
 
 O'ERWEENING Statesmen have full long 
 
 relied 
 On fleets and armies, and external wealth : 
 But from within proceeds a Nation's 
 
 health; 
 Which shall not fail, though poor men 
 
 cleave with pride 
 
 To the paternal floor; or turn aside, 
 
 In the thronged city, from the walks of 
 gain. 
 
 As being all unworthy to detain 
 
 A Soul by contemplation sanctified. 
 
 There are who cannot languish in this 
 strife, 
 
 Spaniards of every rank, by whom the 
 good 
 
 Of such high course was felt and under- 
 stood; 
 
 Who to their Country's cause have bound 
 a life 
 
 Erewhile, by solemn consecration, given 
 
 To labor and to prayer, to nature, and to 
 heaven.^ 
 1810. 1815. 
 
 THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH 
 GUERILLAS. 
 
 Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping 
 
 blast 
 From bleak hill-top, and length of march 
 
 by night 
 Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad 
 
 height — 
 These hardships ill-sustained, these dan- 
 gers past. 
 The roving Spanish Bands are reached 
 
 at last, 
 Charged, and dispersed like foam: but 
 
 as a flight 
 Of scattered quails by signs do reunite. 
 So these, — and, heard of once again, 
 
 are chased 
 With combinations of long-practised art 
 And newly-kindled hope; but they are 
 
 fled — 
 Gone are they, viewless as the buried 
 
 dead: 
 Where now? — Their sword is at the 
 
 Foeman's heart; 
 And thus from year to year his walk they 
 
 thwart, 
 And hang like dreams around his guilty 
 
 bed. 
 1810. 1815. 
 
 ^ See Laborde's character of the Spanish peo- 
 ple ; from him the sentiment of these last two 
 lines is taken. 
 
EPITAPHS. 
 
 441 
 
 EPITAPHS. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA. 
 
 Those from Chiabrera were chiefly translated 
 when Mr. Coleridge was writing his " Friend" 
 in which periodical my " Essay on Epitaphs," 
 written about that time, was first published. For 
 further notice of Chiabrera, in connection with 
 his Epitaphs, see " Musings at Aquapendente." 
 
 Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let the 
 
 air 
 For me with sighs be troubled. Not 
 
 from life 
 Have I been taken; this is genuine life 
 And this alone — the life which now I live 
 In peace eternal; where desire and joy 
 Together move in fellowship without 
 
 end. — 
 Francesco Ceni willed that, after death, 
 His tombstone thus should speak for him. 
 
 And surely 
 Small cause there is for that fond wish 
 
 of ours 
 Long to continue in this world; a worW 
 That keeps not faith, nor yet can point 
 
 a hope 
 To good, whereof itself is destitute. 
 1810. 1S37. 
 
 Perhaps some needful service of the 
 
 State 
 Drew Titus from the depth of studious 
 
 bowers, 
 And doomed him to contend in faithless 
 
 courts, 
 Where gold determines between right 
 
 and wrong. 
 Yet did at length his loyalty of heart, 
 And his pure native genius, lead him back 
 To wait upon the bright and gracious 
 
 Muses, 
 Whom he had early loved. And not in 
 
 vain 
 Such course he held ! Bologna's learned 
 
 schools 
 Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and 
 
 hung 
 
 With fondness on those sweet Nestorian 
 
 strains. 
 There pleasure crowned his days; and all 
 
 his thoughts 
 A roseate fragrance breathed.^ — O 
 
 human life. 
 That never art secure from dolorous 
 
 change ! 
 Behold a high injunction suddenly 
 To Arno's side hath brought him, and he 
 
 charmed 
 A Tuscan audience : but full soon was 
 
 called 
 To the perpetual silence of the grave. 
 Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood 
 A Champion steadfast and invincible. 
 To quell the rage of literary War ! 
 
 O Thoq who movest onward with a mind 
 
 Intent upon thy way, pause, though in 
 haste ! 
 
 'T will be no fruitless moment. I was 
 born 
 
 Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood. 
 
 On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate 
 
 To sacred studies; and the Roman Shep- 
 herd 
 
 Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous 
 flock. 
 
 Well did I watch, much labored, nor had 
 power 
 
 To escape from many and strange indig- 
 nities; J 
 
 Was smitten by the great ones of the 
 world, • 
 
 But did not fall; for Virtue braves all 
 shocks. 
 
 Upon herself resting immovably. 
 
 Me did a kindlier fortune then invite 
 
 To serve the glorious Henry, King of 
 France, 
 
 And in his hands I saw a high reward 
 
 Stretched out for my acceptance, — but 
 Death came. 
 
 Now, Reader, learn from this my fate, 
 how false, 
 
 ^ Ivi vivea giocondo e i stioi pensieri 
 Erano tutti rose. 
 The Translator had not skill to come nearer to 
 his original. 
 
442 
 
 EPITAPHS. 
 
 How treacherous to her promise, is the 
 
 world; 
 And trust in God — to whose eternal 
 
 doom 
 Must bend the sceptred Potentates of 
 
 earth. 
 
 j8io. 
 
 1810. 
 
 There never breathed a man who, when 
 
 his life 
 Was closing, might not of that life relate 
 Toils long and hard. — The warrior will 
 
 report 
 Of wounds, and bright swords flashing 
 
 in the field. 
 And blast of trumpets. He who hath 
 
 been doomed 
 To bow his forehead in the courts of 
 
 kings, 
 Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate. 
 Envy and heart-inquietude, derived 
 From intricate cabals of treacherous 
 
 friends. 
 I, who on shipboard lived from earliest 
 
 youth. 
 Could represent the countenance horrible 
 Of the vexed waters, and the indignant 
 
 rage 
 Of Auster and Bootes. Fifty years 
 Over the well-steered galleys did I 
 
 rule : — 
 From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars. 
 Rises no mounfain to mine eyes unknown; 
 And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and 
 
 oft: 
 Of every cloud which in the heavens 
 
 might stir 
 I knew the force; and hence the rough 
 
 sea's pride 
 Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. 
 What noble pomp and frequent have 
 
 not I 
 On regal decks beheld ! yet in the end 
 I learned that one poor moment can suffice 
 To equalize the lofty and the low. 
 We sail the sea of life — a Calm One finds, 
 And One a Tempest — and, the voyage 
 
 o'er. 
 Death is the quiet haven of us all. 
 If more of my condition ye would know, 
 Savona vjras my birthplace, and I sprang 
 
 Of noble parents; seventy years and three 
 
 Lived I — then yielded to a slow disease. 
 
 1810. 1815. 
 
 True is it that Ambrosio Salinero 
 With an untoward fate was long involved 
 In odious litigation; and full long, 
 Fate harder still ! had he to endure assaults 
 Of racking malady. And true it is 
 That not the less a frank courageous heart 
 And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain; 
 And he was strong to follow in the steps 
 Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path 
 Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's 
 
 shade. 
 That might from him be hidden; not a 
 
 track 
 Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he 
 Had traced its windings. — This Savona 
 
 knows. 
 Yet no sepulchral honors to her Son 
 She paid, for in our age the heart is ruled 
 Only by gold. And now a simple stone 
 Inscribed with this memorial here is raised 
 By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera. 
 Think not, O Passenger! who read'stthe 
 
 lines. 
 That an exceeding love hath dazzled me; 
 No — he was One vi'hose memory ought to 
 
 spread 
 Where'er Permessus bears an honored 
 
 name. 
 And live as long as its pure stream shall 
 
 flow. 
 18 10. 1837. 
 
 Destined to war from very infancy 
 Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took 
 In Malta the white symbol of the Cross: 
 Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun 
 Hazard or toil; among the sands was 
 
 seen 
 Of Libya; and not seldom, on the banks 
 Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot 
 To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded 
 So lived I, and repined not at such fate: 
 This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, 
 That stripped of arms I to my end am 
 
 brought 
 On the soft down of my paternal home. 
 Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause 
 
EPITAPHS. 
 
 443 
 
 To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor 
 
 halt 
 In thy appointed way, and bear in mind 
 How fleeting and how frail is human life ! 
 
 FLOWER of all that springs from gentle 
 
 blood, 
 And all that generous nurture breeds to 
 
 make 
 Youth amiable; O friend so true of soul 
 To fair Aglaia; by what envy moved, 
 Lelius ! has death cut short thy brilliant 
 
 day 
 In its sweet opening? and what dire mis- 
 hap 
 Has from Savona torn her best delight? 
 For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to 
 
 mourn; 
 And, should the out-pourings of her eyes 
 
 suffice not 
 For her heart's grief, she will entreat 
 
 Sebeto 
 Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto 
 Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to 
 
 death, 
 In the chaste arms of thy belovfed Love ! 
 What profit riches ? what does youth avail ? 
 Dust are our hopes ; — I , weeping bitterly , 
 Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to 
 
 pray 
 That every gentle Spirit hither led 
 May read them, not without some bitter 
 
 tears. 
 1810. 1837. 
 
 Not without heavy grief of heart did He 
 On whom the duty fell (for at that time 
 The father sojourned in a distant land) 
 Deposit in the hollow of this tomb 
 A brother's Child, most tenderly beloved ! 
 Francesco was the name the Youth had 
 
 borne, 
 PozzOEONNELLi his illustrious house; 
 And, when beneath this stone the Corse 
 
 was laid. 
 The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears. 
 Alas ! the twentieth April of his life 
 Had scarcely flowered : and at this early 
 
 time. 
 By genuine virtue he inspired a hope 
 
 That greatly cheered his country : to his 
 kin 
 
 He promised comfort; and the flattering 
 thoughts 
 
 His friends had in their fondness enter- 
 tained, ^ 
 
 He suffered not to languish or decay. 
 
 Now is there not good reason to break 
 forth 
 
 Into a passionate lament? — O Soul ! 
 
 Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world. 
 
 Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air; 
 
 And round this earthly tomb let roses rise, 
 
 An everlasting spring ! in memory 
 
 Of that delightful fragrance which was 
 once 
 
 From thy mild manners quietly exhaled. 
 1810 1815. 
 
 Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi suppli- 
 cates 
 That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him 
 Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst pre- 
 fer 
 A prayer to the Redeemer of the world. 
 This to the dead by sacred right belongs; 
 All else is nothing. — Did occasion suit 
 To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb 
 Would ill suffice : for Plato's lore sublime. 
 And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite, 
 Enriched and beautified his studious mind : 
 With Archimedes also he conversed 
 As with a chosen friend; nor did he leave 
 Those laureat wreaths ungathered which 
 
 the Nymphs 
 Twine near their beloved Permessus. — 
 
 Finally, 
 Himself above each lower thought uplift- 
 ing. 
 His ears he closed to listen to the songs 
 Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of 
 
 old; 
 And his Permessus found on Lebanon. 
 A blessed Man ! who of protracted days 
 Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep ; 
 But truly did He Hve his life. Urbino, 
 Take pride in him ! — O Passenger, fare- 
 well ! 
 
 1810. 
 
 1815. 
 
 In justice to the Author, I subjoin the original :— 
 e degli amid 
 Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri. 
 
444 
 
 MATERNAL GRIEF. 
 
 MATERNAL GRIEF. 
 
 This was in part an overflow from the Solitary's 
 description of his own and his wife's feelings upon 
 the decease of their children. (See " Excursion," 
 book III.) 
 
 Departed Child ! I could forget thee once 
 Though at my bosom nursed; this woful 
 
 gain 
 Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul 
 Is present and perpetually abides 
 A shadow, never, never to be displaced 
 By the returning substance, seen or 
 
 touched, 
 Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my em- 
 brace. 
 Absence and death how differ they ! and 
 
 how 
 Shall I admit that nothing can restore 
 What one short sigh so easily removed ? — 
 Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought. 
 Assist me, God, their boundaries to know, 
 O teach me calm submission to thy Will ! 
 The Child she mourned had over- 
 stepped the pale 
 Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air 
 That sanctifies its confines, and partook 
 Reflected beams of that celestial light 
 To all the Little-ones on sinful earth 
 Not unvouchsafed — a light that warmed 
 
 and cheered 
 Those several qualities of heart and mind 
 Which, in her own blest nature, rooted 
 
 deep, 
 Daily 'oefore the Mother's watchful eye, 
 And not hers only, their peculiar charms 
 Unfolded, — beauty, for its present self. 
 And for its promises to future years. 
 With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed. 
 
 Have you espied upon a dewy lawn 
 A pair of Leverets each provoking each 
 To a continuance of their fearless sport. 
 Two separate Creatures in their several 
 
 Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all 
 That Nature prompts them to display, 
 
 their looks. 
 Their starts of motion and their fits of 
 
 rest. 
 An undistinguishable style appears 
 And character of gladness, as if Spring 
 
 Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the 
 
 spirit 
 Of the rejoicing morning were their own? 
 Such union, in the lovely Girl main- 
 tained 
 And her twin Brother, had the parent 
 
 seen, 
 Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of 
 
 prey, 
 Death in a moment parted them, and left 
 The Mother, in her turns of anguish, 
 
 worse 
 Than desolate; for oft-times from the 
 
 sound 
 Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear 
 
 child. 
 He knew it not) and from his happiest 
 
 looks. 
 Did she extract the food of self-reproach, 
 As one that lived ungrateful for the stay 
 By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed 
 And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy, 
 Now first acquainted with distress and 
 
 grief. 
 Shrunk from his Mother's presence, 
 
 shunned with fear 
 Her sad approach, and stole away to find. 
 In his known haunts of joy where'er he 
 
 might, 
 A more congenial object. But, as time 
 Softened her pangs and reconciled the 
 
 child 
 To what he saw, he gradually returned, 
 Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew 
 A broken intercourse; and, while his eyes 
 Were yet with pensive fear and gentle 
 
 awe 
 Turned upon her who bore him, she would 
 
 stoop 
 To imprint a kiss that lacked not power 
 
 to spread 
 Faint color over both their pallid cheeks, 
 And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they 
 
 were calmed 
 And cheered ; and now together breathe 
 
 fresh air 
 In open fields; and when the glare of day 
 Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish 
 Befriends the observance, readily they join 
 In walks whose boundary is the lost One's 
 
 grave. 
 Which he with flowers hath planted, find- 
 ing there 
 
'THE POWER OF ARMIES IS A VISIBLE THING.' 
 
 445 
 
 Amusement, where the Mother does not 
 
 miss 
 Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf 
 In prayer, yet blending with that solemn 
 
 rite 
 Of pious faith the vanities of grief; 
 For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits 
 Transferred to regions upon which the 
 
 clouds 
 Of our weak nature rest not, must be 
 
 deemed 
 Those willing tears, and unforbidden 
 
 sighs, 
 And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow, 
 Which, soothed and sweetened by the 
 
 grace of Heaven 
 As now it is, seems to her own fond heart. 
 Immortal as the love that gave it being. 
 1810. 1842. 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD 
 THREE YEARS OLD. 
 
 Written at AUaabank, Grasmere. Picture of 
 my Daughter Cathariae, who died the year after. 
 
 Loving she is, and tractable, though wild; 
 And Innocence hath privilege in her 
 To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes; 
 And feats of cunning; and the pretty round 
 Of trespasses, affected to provoke 
 Mock-chastisement and partnership in 
 
 play. 
 And, as a fagot sparkles on the hearth. 
 Not less if unattended and alone 
 Than when both young and old sit gathered 
 
 round 
 And take delight in its activity; 
 Even so this happy Creature of herself 
 Is all-sufficient, solitude to her 
 Is blithe society, who fills the air 
 With gladness and involuntary songs. 
 Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's 
 Forth-startled from the fern where she 
 
 lay couched; 
 Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir 
 Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow- 
 flowers. 
 Or from before it chasing wantonly 
 The many-colored images imprest 
 Upon the bosom of a placid lake. 
 
 SPANISH GUERILLAS. 
 
 They seek, are sought; to daily battle led. 
 Shrink not, though far outnumbered by 
 
 their Foes, 
 For they have learnt to open and to close 
 The ridges of grim war; and at their head 
 Are captains such as erst their country bred 
 Or fostered, self-supported chiefs, — like 
 
 those 
 Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose ; 
 Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian 
 
 fled. 
 In One who lived unknown a shepherd's 
 
 life 
 Redoubted Viriatus breathes again; 
 And Mina, nourished in the studious shade. 
 With that great Leader ' vies, who, sick 
 
 of strife 
 And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid 
 In some green island of the western main. 
 1811. 1815. 
 
 "THE POWER OF ARMIES IS A 
 VISIBLE THING." 
 
 The power of Armies is a visible thing. 
 Formal, and circumscribed in time and 
 
 space; 
 But who the limits of that power shall 
 
 trace 
 Which a brave People into light can bring 
 Or hide, at will, — for freedom combating 
 By just revenge inflamed? No foot may 
 
 chase. 
 No eye can follow, to a fatal place 
 That power, that spirit, whether on the 
 
 wing 
 Like the strong wind, or sleeping hke 
 
 the wind 
 Within its awful caves. — From year to 
 
 year 
 Springs this indigenous produce far and 
 
 near; 
 No craft this subtle element can bind, 
 Rising like water from the soil, to find 
 In every nook a lip that it may cheer. 
 
446 
 
 'HERE PAUSE: THE POET CLAIMS THIS PRAISE. 
 
 ''HERE PAUSE: THE POET CLAIMS 
 AT LEAST THIS PRAISE." 
 
 Here pause : the poet claims at least 
 
 this praise, 
 That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 
 Of his pure song, which did not shrink 
 
 from hope 
 in the worst moment of these evil days; 
 From hope, the paramount dtity that 
 
 Heaven lays, 
 For its own honor, on man's suffering 
 
 heart. 
 Never may from our souls one truth de- 
 part — 
 That an accursed thing it is to gaze 
 On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye; 
 Nor — touched with due abhorrence of 
 
 tkeir guilt 
 For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood 
 
 is spilt, 
 And justice labors in extremity — 
 Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, 
 O wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 
 
 EPISTLE. 
 
 TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, 
 BART. 
 
 FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OF CUMBERLAND, 
 iSlI. 
 
 This poem opened, when first written, with a 
 paragraph that has been transferred as an intro- 
 duction to the first series of my Scotch Memorials 
 The journey, of which the first part is here de- 
 scribed, was from Grasmere to Bootle on the 
 south-west coast of Cumberland, the whole among 
 mountain roads through a beautiful country ; and 
 we had fine weather. The verses end with our 
 breakfast at the head of Yewdale in a yeoman's 
 house, which, like all the other property in that 
 sequestered vale, has passed or is passing into the 
 hands of Mr. James Marshall of Monk Coniston, 
 — in Mr. Knott's, the late owner's, time called 
 Waterhead. Our hostess married a Mr. Oldfield, 
 a lieutenant in the Navy : they lived together for 
 some time at Hacket, where she still resides as 
 his widow. It was in front of that house, on the 
 mountain side, near which stood the peasant who, 
 while we were passing at a distance, saluted us, 
 waving a kerchief in her hand as described in the 
 
 poem. (This matron and her husband were then 
 residing at the Hacket. The house and its in- 
 mates are referred to in the fifth book of the 
 " Excursion," in the passage beginning — 
 
 " You behold. 
 High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark 
 With stony barrenness, a shining speck." — J. C.) 
 
 The dog which we met with soon after our start- 
 ing belonged to Mr. Rowlandson, who for forty 
 years was curate of Grasmere in place of the 
 rector, who lived to extreme old age in a state of 
 insanity. Of this Mr. R. much might be said 
 both with reference to his character, and the way 
 in which he was regarded by his parishioners. 
 He was a man of a robust frame, had a firm 
 voice and authoritative manner, of strong natural 
 talents, of which he was himself conscious, for he 
 has been heard to say (it grieves me to add) with 
 an oath — " If I had been brought up at college I 
 should have been a bishop." Two vices used to 
 struggle in him for mastery, avarice and the love 
 of strong drink : but avarice, as is common in like 
 cases, always got the better of its opponent; for, 
 though he was often intoxicated, it was never, I 
 believe, at his own expense. As has been said of 
 one in a more exalted station, he would take any 
 given quantity. I have heard a story of him 
 which is worth the telling. One summer's morn- 
 ing, our Grasmere curate, after a night's carouse 
 in the vale of Langdale, on his return home, hav- 
 ing reached a point near which the whole of the 
 vale of Grasmere might be seen with the lake 
 immediately below him, stepped aside and sat 
 down on the turf. After looking for some lime 
 at the landscape, then in the perfection of its 
 morning beauty, he exclaimed — "Good God, 
 that I should have led so long such a life in such 
 a place ! " — This no doubt was deeply felt by him 
 at the time, but I am not authorized to say that 
 any noticeable amendment followed. Penurious- 
 ness strengthened upon him as his body gre-w 
 feebler with age. He had purchased property 
 and kept some land in his own hands, but he 
 could not find in his heart to lay out the neces- 
 sary hire for laborers at the proper season, and 
 consequently he has often beeu seen in half- 
 dotage working his hay in the month of Novem- 
 ber by moonlight, a. melancholy sight which I 
 myself have witnessed. Notwithstanding all that 
 has been said, this man, on account of his talents 
 and superior education, was looked up to by his 
 parishioners, who, without a single exception, 
 lived at that time (and most of them upon their 
 own small inheritances) in a state of republican 
 equality, a condition favorable to the growth of 
 kindly feelings among them, and in a striking 
 degree exclusive to temptations to gross vice and 
 
EPISTLE. 
 
 447 
 
 scandalous behavior. As a pastor their curate 
 did little or nothing for them ; but what could 
 more strikingly set forth the efficacy of the 
 Church of England through its Ordinances and 
 Liturgy than that, in spite of the unworthiness of 
 the minister, his church was regularly attended ; 
 and, though tliere was not much appearance in 
 his flock of what might be called animated piety, 
 intoxication was rare, and dissolute morals un- 
 known ? With the Bible they were for the most 
 part well acquainted ; and, as was strikingly 
 shown when they were under affliction, must 
 have been supported and comforted by habitual 
 belief in those truths which it is the aim of the 
 Church to inculcate. — Loughrigg Tar^i. This 
 beautiful pool and the surrounding scene are 
 minutely described in my little Book on the 
 Lakes. Sir G. H. Beaumont, in the earlier part 
 of his life, was induced, by his love of nature and 
 the art of painting, to take up his abode at Old 
 Brathay, about three miles from this spot, so that 
 he must have seen it under many aspects ; and 
 he was so much pleased with it that he purchased 
 the Tarn with a view to build, near it, such a 
 residence as is alluded to in this Epistle. Baronets 
 and knights were not so common in that day as 
 now, and Sir Michael le Fleming, not liking to 
 have a rival in that kind of distinction so near 
 him, claimed a sort of lordship over the territory, 
 and showed dispositions little in unison with those 
 of Sir G. Beaumont, who was eminently a lover 
 of peace. The project of building was in conse- 
 quence given up, Sir George retaining possession 
 of the Tarn. Many years afterwards a Kendal 
 tradesman born upon its banks applied to me for 
 the purchase of it, and accordingly it was sold for 
 the sum that had been given for it, and the money 
 was laid out under my direction upon a substan- 
 tial oak fence for a certain number of yew trees 
 to be planted in Grasmere churchyard ; two 
 were planted in each enclosure, \vith a view to 
 remove, after a certain time, the one which throve 
 the least. After several years, the stouter plant 
 being left, the others were taken up and placed 
 in other parts of the same churchyard, and were 
 adequately fenced at the expense and under the 
 care of the late Mr. Barber, Mr. Greenwood, and 
 myself : the whole eight are now thriving, and 
 are already an ornament to a place which, during 
 late years, has lost much of its rustic simplicity 
 by the introduction of iron palisades to fence off 
 family burying-grounds, and by numerous monu- 
 ments, some of them in very bad taste; from 
 which this place of burial was in my memory 
 quite free. See the lines in the sixth book of the 
 " Excursion " beginning — '* Green is the church- 
 yard, beautiful and green." The " Epistle" to 
 which, these notes refer, though written so far 
 
 back as 1S04, was carefully revised so late as 
 1842, previous to its publication. I am loth to 
 add, that it was never seen by the person to whom 
 it is addressed. So sensible am I oi^the defici- 
 encies in all that I write, and so far does 'every- 
 thing that I attempt fall short of what I wish it 
 to be, that even private publication, if such a 
 term may be allowed, requires more resolution 
 than I can command. I have written to give 
 vent to my own mind, and not without hope that, 
 some time or other, kindred minds might benefit 
 by my labors : but I am inclined to believe I 
 should never have ventured to send forth any 
 verses of mine to the world if it had not been 
 done on the pressure of personal occasions. 
 Had I been a rich man, my productions, like 
 this " Epistle," the tragedy of the " Borderers," 
 etc., would most likely have been confined to 
 manuscript. 
 
 Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet 
 
 Lake, 
 From the Vale's peace which all her fields 
 
 partake, 
 Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's 
 
 shore 
 We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless 
 
 roar; 
 While, day by day, grim neighbor ! huge 
 
 Black Comb 
 Frowns deepening visibly his native 
 
 gloom, ' 
 Unless, perchance rejecting in despite 
 What on the Plain we have of warmth 
 
 and light, 
 In his own storms he hides himself from 
 
 sight. 
 Rough is the time; and thoughts, that 
 
 would be free 
 From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to 
 
 thee; 
 Turn from a spot where neither sheltered 
 
 road 
 Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps 
 
 abroad ;. 
 Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it 
 
 might 
 Attained a stature twice a tall man's 
 
 height. 
 Hopeless of further growth, and brown 
 
 and sere 
 Through half the summer, stands with 
 
 top cut sheer. 
 Like an unshifting weathercock which 
 
 proves 
 
448 
 
 EPISTLE. 
 
 How cold the quarter that the wind best 
 
 loves, 
 Or like a Centinel that, evermore 
 Darkening the window, ill defends the 
 
 door 
 Of this unfinished house — a Fortress 
 
 bare, 
 Where strength has been the Builder's 
 
 only care; 
 Whose rugged walls may still for years 
 
 demand 
 The final polish of the Plasterer's hand. 
 — This Dwelling's Inmate more than 
 
 three weeks space 
 And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place, 
 I — of whose touch the fiddle would com- 
 plain, 
 Whose breath would labor at the flute in 
 
 vain, 
 In music all unversed, nor blessed with 
 
 skill 
 A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill. 
 Tired of my books, a scanty company ! 
 And tired of listening to the boisterous 
 
 sea — 
 Pace between door and window mutter- 
 ing rhyme. 
 An old resource to cheat a froward time ! 
 Though these dull hours (mine is it, or 
 
 their shame?) 
 Would tempt me to renounce that humble 
 
 aim. 
 — But if there be a Muse who, free to take 
 Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake 
 Those heights (like Phoebus when his gol- 
 den locks 
 He veiled, attendant onThessalian flocks) 
 And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail 
 Trips down the pathways of some wind- 
 ing dale : 
 Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores 
 To fishers mending nets beside their doors ; 
 Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined, 
 Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless 
 
 wind. 
 Or listens to its play among the boughs 
 Above her head and so forgets her vows — 
 If such a Visitant of Earth there be 
 And she would deign this day to smile on 
 
 me 
 And aid my verse, content with local 
 
 bounds 
 Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds. 
 
 Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, 
 which we tell 
 
 Without reserve to those whom we love 
 well — 
 
 Then haply, Beaumont ! words in current 
 clear 
 
 Will flow, and on a welcome page appear 
 
 Duly before thy sight, unless they perish 
 here. 
 What shall I treat of? News from 
 Mona's Isle? 
 
 Such have we, but unvaried in its style; 
 
 No tales of Runagates fresh landed, 
 whence 
 
 And wherefore fugitive or on what pre- 
 tence ; 
 
 Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the 
 wind 
 
 Most restlessly alive when most confined. 
 
 Ask not of me, whose tongue can best 
 appease 
 
 The mighty tumults of the House of 
 Keys; 
 
 The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer 
 gained, 
 
 What slopes are planted, or what mosses 
 drained : 
 
 An eye of fancy only can I cast 
 
 On that proud pageant now at hand or 
 past. 
 
 When full five hundred boats in trim array, 
 
 With nets and sails outspread and stream- 
 ers gay. 
 
 And chanted hymns and stiller voice of 
 prayer. 
 
 For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep re- 
 pair. 
 
 Soon as the herring-shoals at distance 
 shine 
 
 Like beds of moonlight shifting on the 
 brine. 
 Mona from our Abode is daily seen. 
 
 But with a wilderness of waves between; 
 
 And by conjecture only can we speak 
 
 Of aught transacted there in bay or creek; 
 
 No tidings reach us thence from town or 
 field. 
 
 Only faint news her mountain sunbeams 
 yield. 
 
 And some we gather from the misty air, 
 
 And some the hovering clouds, our tele- 
 graph, declare. 
 
 But these poetic mysteries I withhold; 
 
EPISTLE. 
 
 449 
 
 For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold, 
 
 And should the colder fit with You be on 
 
 When You might read, my credit would 
 be gone. 
 Let more substantial themes the pen 
 engage, 
 
 And nearer interests culled from the open- 
 ing stage 
 
 Of our migration. — Ere the welcome 
 dawn 
 
 Had from the east her silver star with- 
 drawn. 
 
 The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage- 
 door, 
 
 Thoughtfully freighted with a various 
 store; 
 
 And long or ere the uprising of the Sun 
 
 O'er dew-damped dust our journey was 
 begun, 
 
 A needful journey, under favoring skies. 
 
 Through peopled Vales; yet something 
 in the guise 
 
 Of those old Patriarchs when from well 
 to well 
 
 They roamed through Wastes where now 
 the tented Arabs dwell. 
 Say first, to whom did we the charge 
 confide. 
 
 Who promptly undertook the Wain to 
 guide 
 
 Up many a sharply-twining road and 
 down. 
 
 And over many a wide hill's craggy crown. 
 
 Through the quick turns of many a hol- 
 low nook, 
 
 And the rough bed of many an un- 
 bridged brook ? 
 
 A blooming Lass — who in her better 
 hand 
 
 Bore a light switch, her sceptre of com- 
 mand 
 
 When, yet a slender Girl, she often led. 
 
 Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened 
 
 From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's 
 head. 
 
 What could go wrong with such a Chari- 
 oteer 
 
 For goods and chattels, or those Infants 
 dear, 
 
 A Pair who smilingly sate side by side. 
 
 Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide 
 ^ A local word for sledge. 
 
 Whose free embraces we were bound to 
 
 seek. 
 Would their lost strength restore and 
 
 freshen the pale cheek? 
 Such hope did either Parent entertain 
 Pacing behind along the silent lane. 
 Blithe hopes and happy musings soon 
 
 took flight. 
 For lo ! an uncouth melancholy sight — 
 On a green bank a creature stood forlorn 
 Just half protruded to the light of morn, 
 Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row 
 
 thorn. 
 The Figure called to mind a beast of prey 
 Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay. 
 And, though no longer upon rapine bent, 
 Dim memory keeping of its old intent. 
 We started, looked again with anxious 
 
 eyes. 
 And in that griesly object recognize 
 The Curate's Dog — his long-tried friend, 
 
 for they. 
 As well we knew, together had grown 
 
 gray. 
 The Master died, his drooping servant's 
 
 grief 
 Found at the Widow 's f eet some sad relief ; 
 Yet still he lived in pining discontent. 
 Sadness which no indulgence could pre- 
 vent; 
 Hence whole day wanderings, broken 
 
 nightly sleeps 
 And lonesome watch that out of doors he 
 
 keeps; 
 Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute ! 
 Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, 
 
 mute, 
 And of all visible motion destitute. 
 So that the very heaving of his breath 
 Seemed stopt, though by some other 
 
 power than death. 
 Long as we gazed upon the form and face, 
 A mild domestic pity kept its place, 
 Unscared by thronging fancies of strange 
 
 hue 
 That haunted us in spite of what we knew. 
 Even now I sometimes think of him as lost 
 In second-sight appearances, or crost 
 By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the 
 
 ground. 
 On which he stood, by spells unnatural 
 
 bound, 
 Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait 
 
4SO 
 
 EPISTLE. 
 
 In days of old romance at Archimago's 
 
 gate. 
 Advancing Summer, Nature's law ful- 
 filled, 
 The choristers in every grove had stilled; 
 But we, we lacked not music of our own, 
 For lightsome Fanny had thus early 
 
 thrown. 
 Mid the gay prattle of those infant 
 
 tongues, 
 Some notes prelusive, from the round of 
 
 songs 
 With which, more zealous than the live- 
 liest bird 
 That in wild Arden's brakes was ever 
 
 heard, 
 Her work and her work's partners she 
 
 can cheer. 
 The whole day long, and all days of the 
 
 year. 
 Thus gladdened from our own dear 
 
 Vale we pass 
 And soon approach Diana's Looking- 
 glass ! 
 To Loughrigg-tarn, round clear and 
 
 bright as heaven. 
 Such name Italian fancy would have 
 
 given. 
 Ere on its banks the few gray cabins rose 
 That yet disturb not its concealed repose 
 More than the feeblest wind that idly 
 
 blows. 
 Ah, Beaumont ! when an opening in 
 
 the road 
 Stopped me at once by charm of what it 
 
 showed. 
 The encircling region vividly exprest 
 Within the mirror's depth, a world at 
 
 rest — 
 Sky streaked with purple, grove and 
 
 craggy bield^ 
 And the smooth green of many a pendent 
 
 field, 
 And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small, 
 A little daring would-be waterfall. 
 One chimney smoking and its azure 
 
 wreath, 
 Associate all in the calm Pool beneath. 
 With here and there a faint imperfect 
 
 gleam 
 Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam — 
 
 ^ A word common in the country, signifying 
 shelter, as in Scotland. 
 
 What wonder at this hour of stillness deep, 
 A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and 
 
 sleep, 
 When Nature's self, amid such blending, 
 
 seems 
 To render visible her own soft dreams, 
 If, mixed with what appeared of rock, 
 
 lawn, wood. 
 Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood, 
 A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by 
 
 Thee 
 Designed to rise in humble privacy, 
 A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread; 
 Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful 
 
 head 
 Half hid in native trees. Alas 't is not. 
 Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot 
 Unconscious of its own untoward lot. 
 And thought in silence, with regret too 
 
 keen. 
 Of unexperienced joys that might have 
 
 been; 
 Of neighborhood and intermingling arts. 
 And golden summer days uniting cheerful 
 
 hearts. 
 But time, irrevocable time, is flown. 
 And let us utter thanks for blessings sown 
 And reaped — what hath been, and what 
 is, our own. 
 Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee. 
 Startling us all, dispersed my reverie ; 
 Such shout as many a sportive echo 
 
 meeting 
 Oft-times from Alpine chalets sends a 
 
 greeting. 
 Whence the blithe hail? behold a Peas- 
 ant stand 
 On high, a kerchief waving in her hand ! 
 Not unexpectant that by early day 
 Our little Band would thrid this moun- 
 tain way. 
 Before her cottage on the bright hill-side 
 She hath advanced with hope to be de- 
 scried. 
 Right gladly answering signals we dis- 
 played. 
 Moving along a tract of morning shade. 
 And vocal wishes sent of like good will 
 To our kind Friend high on the sunny 
 
 hill — 
 Luminous region^ fair as if the prime 
 Were tempting all astir to look aloft OC 
 climb;- 
 
EPIS'lLE. 
 
 451 
 
 Only the centre of the shining cot 
 
 With door left open makes a gloomy spot, 
 
 Emblem of those dark corners sometimes 
 found 
 
 Within the happiest breast on earthly 
 ground. 
 Rich prospect left behind of stream 
 and vale, 
 
 And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we 
 scale; 
 
 Descend, and reach, in Yewdale's depths, 
 a plain 
 
 With haycocks studded, striped with yel- 
 lowing grain — 
 
 An area level as a Lake and spread 
 
 Under ^ rock too steep for man to tread. 
 
 Where sheltered from the north and bleak 
 north-west 
 
 Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, 
 
 Fearless of all assaults that would her 
 brood molest. 
 
 Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale ; but 
 hark, 
 
 At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's 
 bark. 
 
 Noise that brings forth no liveried Page 
 of state. 
 
 But the whole household, that our com- 
 ing wait. 
 
 With Young and Old warm greetings we 
 exchange. 
 
 And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly 
 Grange 
 
 Press forward by the teasing dogs un- 
 seated. 
 
 Entering, we find the morning meal pre- 
 pared: 
 
 So down we sit, though not till each had 
 cast 
 
 Pleased looks around the delicate repast — 
 
 Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh 
 from the nest. 
 
 With amber honey from the mountain's 
 breast; 
 
 Strawberries from lane or woodland, 
 offering wild 
 
 Of children's industry, in hillocks piled; 
 
 Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie 
 
 Upon 2. lordly dish; frank hospitality 
 
 Where simple art with bounteous nature 
 vied, 
 
 And cottage comfort shunned not seemly 
 pride. 
 
 Kind Hostess ! Handmaid also of the 
 feast. 
 If thou be lovelier than the kindling East, 
 Words by thy presence unrestrained may 
 
 speak 
 Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek 
 Instinct with light whose sweetest prom- 
 ise lies. 
 Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes. 
 Dark but to every gentle feeling true. 
 As if their lustre flowed from ether's 
 purest blue. 
 Let me not ask what tears may have 
 been wept 
 By those bright eyes, what weary vigils 
 
 kept. 
 Beside that hearth what sighs may have 
 
 been heaved 
 For wounds inflicted, nor what toil re- 
 lieved 
 By fortitude and patience, and the grace 
 Of heaven in pity visiting the place. 
 Not unadvisedly those secret springs 
 I leave unsearched : enough that memory 
 
 clings. 
 Here as elsewhere, to notices that make 
 Their own significance for hearts awake. 
 To rural incidents, whose genial powers 
 Filled with delight three summer morn- 
 ing hours. 
 More could my pen report of grave or 
 
 gay 
 That through our gypsy travel cheered 
 
 the way; 
 But, bursting forth above the waves, the 
 
 Sun 
 Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, 
 
 " Be done." 
 Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, 
 
 reprove 
 This humble offering made by Truth to 
 
 Love, 
 Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break 
 
 a spell 
 Which might have else been on me yet : — 
 Farewell. 
 
 UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE 
 THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION. 
 
 Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest 
 Take those dear young Ones to a fearless 
 nest; 
 
452 
 
 UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE. 
 
 And in Death's arms has long reposed 
 
 the Friend 
 For whom this simple Register was 
 
 penned. 
 Thanks to the moth that spared it for 
 
 our eyes; 
 And Strangers even the slighted Scroll 
 
 may prize, 
 Moved by the touch of kindred sympa- 
 thies. 
 For — save the calm, repentance sheds 
 
 o'er strife 
 Raised by remembrances of misused life, 
 The light from past endeavors purely 
 
 willed 
 And by Heaven's favor happily fulfilled; 
 Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, 
 
 may share 
 The joys of the Departed — what so fair 
 As blameless pleasure, not without some 
 
 tears. 
 Reviewed through Love's transparent 
 
 veil of years? 
 1841? 1842. 
 
 Note. — Loughrigg Tarn alluded to in the 
 foregoing Epistle, resembles, . though much 
 smaller in compass, the Lake 'Nemi, or Speculum 
 Diana as it is often called, not only in its clear 
 waters and circular form, and the beauty immedi- 
 ately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked 
 by the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake 
 Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this 
 Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn has lost 
 much of its beauty by the felling of many natural 
 clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particu- 
 larly upon the farm called " The Oaks," so called 
 from the abundance of that tree which grew 
 there. 
 
 It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that 
 Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect 
 his intention of constructing here a Summer 
 Retreat in the style I have described ; as his 
 taste would have set an example how buildings, 
 with all the accommodations modem society re- 
 quires, might be introduced even into the most 
 secluded parts of this country without injuring 
 their native character. 
 
 UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTI- 
 FUL PICTURE. 
 
 PAINTED BY SiR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART. 
 
 This was written when we dwelt in the Par- 
 sonage at Grasmere. The principal features ot 
 
 the picture are Bredon Hill and Cloud Hill near 
 Coleorton. I shall never forget the happy feeling 
 with which my heart was filled when I was 
 impelled to compose this Sonnet. We resided 
 only two years in this house ; and during the last 
 half of the time, which was after this poem had 
 been written, we lost our two children, Thomas 
 and Catharine. Our sorrow upon these events 
 often brought it to my mind, and cast me upon 
 the support to which the last line of it gives 
 expression — 
 
 "The appropriate calm of blest eternity." 
 It is scarcely necessary to add that we still pos- 
 sess the Picture. 
 
 Praised be the Art whose subtle power 
 could stay 
 
 Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious 
 shape ; 
 
 Nor would permit the thin smoke to 
 escape, 
 
 Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake 
 the day; 
 
 Which stopped that band of travellers on 
 their way. 
 
 Ere they were lost within the shady wood; 
 
 And showed the Bark upon the glassy 
 flood 
 
 Forever anchored in her sheltering bay. 
 
 Soul-soothing Art ! whom Morning, 
 Noontide, Even, 
 
 Do serve with all their changeful pa- 
 geantry; 
 
 Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, 
 
 Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast 
 given 
 
 To one brief moment caught from fleet- 
 ing time 
 
 The appropriate calm of blest eternity. 
 
 INSCRIPITONS. 
 
 IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE 
 SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, 
 BART., LEICESTERSHIRE. 
 
 In the grounds of Coleorton these verses are 
 engraved on a stone placed near the Tree, which 
 was thriving and spreading when I saw it in the 
 summer of 1841. 
 
 The embowering rose, the acacia, and 
 
 the pine. 
 Will not unwillingly their place resign; 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 453 
 
 If but the Cedar thrive that near them 
 stands, 
 
 Planted by Beaumont's and by Words- 
 worth's hands. 
 
 One wooed the silent Art with studious 
 pains : 
 
 These groves have heard the Other's 
 pensive strains; 
 
 Devoted thus, their spirits did unite 
 
 By interchange of knowledge and delight. 
 
 May Nature's kindliest powers sustain 
 the Tree, 
 
 And Love protect it from all injury ! 
 
 And when its potent branches, wide out- 
 thrown, 
 
 Darken the brow of this memorial Stone, 
 
 Here may some Painter sit in future days, 
 
 Some future Poet meditate his lays; 
 
 Not mindless of that distant age renowned 
 
 When Inspiration hovered o'er this 
 ground. 
 
 The haunt of him who sang how spear 
 and shield 
 
 In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field; 
 
 And of that famous Youth, full soon 
 removed 
 
 From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's 
 self approved, 
 
 Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend 
 beloved. 
 1808. 1815. 
 
 IN A GARDEN OF SIR GEORGE 
 BEAUMONT, BART. 
 
 This Niche is in the sandstone-rock in the 
 winter-garden at Coleorton, which garden, as has 
 been elsewhere said, was made under our direction 
 out of an old unsightly quarry. While the 
 laborers were at work, Mrs. Wordsworth, my 
 Sister, and I used to amuse ourselves occasion- 
 ally in scooping this seat out of the soft stone. 
 It is of the size, with something of the appearance, 
 of a Stall in a Cathedral. This inscription is not 
 engraven, as the former and the two following 
 are, in the grounds. 
 
 Oft is the medal faithful to its trust 
 When temples, columns, towers, are laid 
 
 in dust; 
 And 't is a common ordinance of fate 
 That things obscure and small outlive the 
 
 great : 
 
 Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery 
 
 trim 
 Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim. 
 And all its stately trees, are passed away. 
 This little Niche, unconscious of decay, 
 Perchance may still survive. And be it 
 
 known 
 That it was scooped within the living 
 
 stone, — 
 Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains 
 Of laborer plodding for his daily gains. 
 But by an industry that wrought in love ; 
 With help from female hands, that proudly 
 
 strove 
 To aid the work, what time these walks 
 
 and bowers 
 Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely 
 
 hours. 
 1811. 1815. 
 
 written at the request of sir 
 george beaumont, bart., and in 
 his name, for an urn, placed by 
 him at the termination of a 
 newly-planted avenue, in the 
 same grounds. 
 
 Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hal- 
 lowed Urn, 
 
 Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's 
 return; 
 
 And be not slow a stately growth to rear 
 
 Of pillars, branching off from year to 
 year. 
 
 Till they have learned to frame a dark- 
 some aisle; — 
 
 That may recall to mind that awful Pile 
 
 Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's 
 noblest dead. 
 
 In the last sanctity of fame is laid. 
 
 — There, though by right the excelling 
 Painter sleep 
 
 Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath 
 keep, 
 
 Yet not the less his Spirit would hold 
 dear 
 
 Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's pri- 
 vate tear: 
 
 Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I 
 
 Raised this frail tribute to his memory; 
 
 From youth a zealous follower of the Art 
 
 That he professed; attached to him in 
 heart; 
 
454 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 Admiring, loving, and with grief and 
 
 pride 
 Feeling what England lost when Reynolds 
 
 died. 
 1808. 1815. 
 
 FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF 
 COLEORTON. 
 
 Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy 
 
 bound. 
 Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest 
 
 ground 
 Stand yet, but. Stranger ! hidden from 
 
 thy view, 
 The ivied Ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu; 
 Erst a religious House, which day and 
 
 night 
 With hymns resounded, and the chanted 
 
 rite: 
 And when those rites had ceased, the Spot 
 
 gave birth 
 To honorable Men of various worth: 
 There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, 
 Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager 
 
 child: 
 There, under shadow of the neighboring 
 
 rocks. 
 Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their 
 
 flocks ; 
 Unconscious prelude to heroic themes. 
 Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy 
 
 dreams 
 Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous 
 
 rage. 
 With which his genius shook the buskined 
 
 stage. 
 Communities are lost, and Empires die. 
 And things of holy use unhallowed lie; 
 They perish ; — but the Intellect can raise, 
 From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er 
 
 decays. 
 1811. 1815. 
 
 SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL. 
 
 FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT 
 AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF 
 WESTMORELAND. 
 
 The belief on which this is founded I have 
 often heard expressed by an old neighbor of 
 Grasmere. 
 
 Swiftly turn tlte murmuring wheel ! 
 Night has brought the welcome hour, 
 When the weary fingers feel 
 Help, as if from faery power; 
 Dewy night o'ershades the ground; 
 Turn the swift wheel round and round ! 
 
 Now, beneath the starry sky. 
 
 Couch the widely-scattered sheep; — 
 
 Ply the pleasant labor, ply ! 
 
 For the spindle, while they sleep, 
 
 Runs with speed more smooth and fine, 
 
 Gathering up a trustier line. 
 
 Short-lived likings may be bred 
 By a glance from fickle eyes; 
 But true love is like the thread 
 Which the kindly wool supplies. 
 When the flocks are all at rest 
 Sleeping on the mountain's breast. 
 1812. 1820. 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE 
 MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND IN 
 THE VALE OF GRASMERE. 
 
 What need of clamorous bells, or ribands 
 
 gay. 
 
 These humble nuptials to proclaim or 
 
 grace ? 
 Angels of love, look down upon the place ; 
 Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day ! 
 Yet no proud gladness would the Bride 
 
 display 
 Even for such promise : — serious is her 
 
 face. 
 Modest her mien; and she, whose 
 
 thoughts keep pace 
 With gentleness, in that becoming way 
 Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid 
 
 appear; 
 No disproportion in her soul, no strife : 
 But, when the closer view of wedded life 
 Hath shown that nothing human can be 
 
 clear 
 From frailty, for that insight may the 
 
 Wife 
 To her indulgent Lord become more des*. 
 1812. 181S. 
 
VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB. 
 
 455 
 
 WATER-FOWL. 
 
 OBSERVED FREQUENTLY OVER THE LAKES 
 OF RYDAL AND GRASMERE. 
 
 " Let me be allowed the aid of verse to describe 
 the evolutions which these visitants sometimes 
 perform, on a fine day towards the close of 
 winter." — Extract from tJie Author's Book on 
 \he Lakes. 
 
 Mark how the feathered tenants of the 
 
 flood, 
 With grace of motion that might scarcely 
 
 seem 
 inferior to angelical, prolong 
 Their curious pastime ! shaping in mid air 
 (And sometimes with ambitious wing that 
 
 soars 
 High as the level of the mountain-tops) 
 A circuit ampler than the lake beneath — 
 Their own domain ; but ever, while intent 
 On tracing and retracing that large round, 
 fheir jubilant activity evolves 
 Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and 
 
 fro. 
 Upward and downward, progress intricate 
 Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed 
 Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done — 
 Ten times, or more, I fancied it had 
 
 ceased; 
 But lo ! the vanished company again 
 Ascending; they approach — I hear their 
 
 wings. 
 Faint, faint at first; and then an eager 
 
 sound, 
 Past in a. moment — and as faint again ! 
 They tempt the sun to sport amid their 
 
 plumes ; 
 They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice. 
 To show them a fair image; 't is them- 
 selves, 
 Their own fair forms, upon the glimmer- 
 ing plain, 
 Painted more soft and fair as they descend 
 Almost to touch; —then up again aloft, 
 Qp with a sally and a flash of speed. 
 As if they scorned both resting-place and 
 rest ! 
 
 1812. '827. 
 
 VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACiC 
 COMB.i 
 
 Mrs. Wordsworth and I, as mentioned in the 
 " Epistle to Sir G. Beaumont," lived some time 
 under its shadow. 
 
 This Height a ministering Angel might 
 
 select : 
 Far from the summit of Black Comb 
 
 (dread name 
 Derived from clouds and storms!) the 
 
 amplest range 
 Of unobstructed prospect may be seen 
 That British ground commands : — low 
 
 dusky tracts, 
 Where Trent is nursed, far southward ! 
 
 Cambrian hills 
 To the south-west, a multitudinous show; 
 And, in a line of eye-sight linked with 
 
 these. 
 The hoary peaks of Scotland that give 
 
 birth 
 To Tiviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and 
 
 Clyde:— 
 Crowding the quarter whence the sun 
 
 comes forth 
 Gigantic mountains rough with crags; 
 
 beneath. 
 Right at the imperial station's western base 
 Mainoceanbreakingaudibly,and stretched 
 Far into silent regions blue and pale; — 
 And visibly engirding Mona's Isle 
 That, as we left the plain, before our sight 
 Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly 
 (Above the convex of the watery globe) 
 Into clear view the cultured fields that 
 
 streak 
 Her habitable shores, but now appears 
 A dwindled object, and submits to lie 
 At the spectator's feet. — Yon azure ridge, 
 Is it a perishable cloud? Or there 
 Do we behold the line of Erin's coast? 
 Land sometimes by the roving shepherd- 
 swain 
 (Like the bright confines of another world) 
 
 1 Black Comb stands at the southern extremity 
 of Cumberland : its base covers a much greater 
 extent of ground than any other mountain in 
 those parts; and, from its situation, the summit 
 commands a more extensive view \lian any other 
 point in Britain. 
 
456 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE. 
 
 Not doubtfully perceived. — Look home- 
 ward now ! 
 
 In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene 
 
 The spectacle, how pure ! — Of Nature's 
 works, 
 
 In earth, and air, and earth embracing sea, 
 
 A revelation infinite it seems; 
 
 Display august of man's inheritance. 
 
 Of Britain's calm felicity and power ! 
 
 1813. 
 
 1815. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL 
 ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE 
 OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK 
 COMB. 
 
 The circumstance alluded to at the conclusion 
 of these verses was told me by Dr. Satterthwaite, 
 who was Incumbent of Bootle, a small town at 
 the foot of Black Comb. He had the particulars 
 from one of the engineers who was employed in 
 making trigonometrical surveys of that region. 
 
 Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy 
 
 limbs 
 On this commodious Seat ! for much re- 
 mains 
 Of hard ascent before thou reach the top 
 Of this huge Eminence, — from blackness 
 
 named. 
 And, to far-travelled storms of sea and 
 
 land, 
 A favorite spot of tournament and war I 
 But thee may no such boisterous visitants 
 Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow; 
 And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air 
 Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle. 
 From centre to circumference, unveiled ! 
 Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy 
 
 rest. 
 That on the summit whither thou art 
 
 bound, 
 A geographic Laborer pitched his tent. 
 With books supplied and instruments of 
 
 art, 
 
 To measure height and distance; lonely 
 
 task, 
 Week after week pursued ! — To him was 
 
 given 
 Full many a glimpse (but sparingly be- 
 stowed 
 On timid man) of Nature's processes 
 Upon the exalted hills. He made report 
 That once, while there he plied his studi- 
 ous work 
 Within that canvas Dwelling, colors, lines. 
 And the whole surface of the outspread 
 
 map, 
 Became invisible : for all around 
 Had darkness fallen — unthreatened, un- 
 
 proclaimed — 
 As if the golden day itself had been 
 Extinguished in a moment; total gloom. 
 In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes. 
 Upon the blinded mountain's silent top ! 
 1813- 1835. 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1813. 
 
 Now that all hearts are glad, all faces 
 
 bright. 
 Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and 
 
 flow 
 Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe, 
 Insensible. He sits deprived of sight, 
 And lamentably wrapt in twofold night, 
 Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose 
 
 mind ensued, 
 Through perilous war, with regal fortitude. 
 Peace that should claim respect from law- 
 less Might. 
 Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray 
 
 divine 
 To his forlorn condition ! let thy grace 
 Upon his inner soul in mercy shine; 
 Permit his heart to kindle, and to embrace 
 (Though it were only for a moment's 
 
 space) 
 The triumphs of this hour; for they are 
 
 Thine ! 
 1813. 1815. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 457 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Something must now be said of this poem, but 
 chieflyj as has been done through the whole of 
 these notes, with reference to my personal friends, 
 and especially to her who has perseveringly taken 
 them down from my dictation. Towards the 
 close of the first book stands the lines that were 
 first written, beginning, "Nine tedious years," 
 and ending, " Last human tenant of these ruined 
 walls." These were composed in '95 at Race- 
 down ; and for several passages describing the 
 employment and demeanor of Margaret during 
 her affliction, I was indebted to observations 
 made in Dorsetshire, and afterwards at Alfoxden 
 in Somersetshire, where I resided in '97 and '98. 
 The lines towards the conclusion of the fourth 
 book — beginning, "For, the man, who, in this 
 spirit," to the words " intellectual soul " — were in 
 order of time composed the next, either at Race- 
 down or Alfoxden, I do not remember which. 
 The rest of the poem was written in the jifale_of 
 Grasm ere, chiefly during our j;esidence at Allan 
 Bank- The long poem on my own education 
 wasTtogether with many minor poems, composed 
 while we lived at the cottage at Town-end. Per- 
 haps my purpose of giving an additional interest 
 to these my poems in the eyes of my nearest 
 and dearest friends may be promoted by saying 
 a few words upon the character of the Wanderer, 
 the Solitary, and the Pastor, and some other 
 of the persons introduced. And first, of the 
 principal one, the Wanderer. My lamented 
 friend Southey (for this is written a month 
 after his decease) used to say that had he been 
 born a papist, the course of life which would 
 in all probability have been his was the one for 
 which he was most fitted and most to his mind, 
 — that of a Benedictine monk in a convent, fur- 
 nished, as many once were and some still are, 
 with an inexhaustible library. Books, as appears 
 from many passages in his writings, and as was 
 evident to those who had opportunities of observ- 
 ing his daily life, were in fact his passion ; and 
 •wandermg, I can with truth affirm, was iniTie i 
 but tKis propensity in me was happily counter- 
 acted by inability from want of fortune to fulfil 
 mv wishes. But, had I been born in a class 
 which would have deprived me of what is called 
 a liberal education, it is not unlikely that, being 
 strong in body, I should have taken to a way of 
 life such as that in which my Pedjer passed the 
 greater part of his days. At all events, I am here 
 called upon freely to acknowledge that the char- 
 acter 1 have represented in his person is chiefly 
 an idea of what I fancied my own character might 
 have become in his circumstances. Nevertheless, 
 much of what he says and does had an external 
 existence that fell under my own youthful and 
 
 subsequent observation. An individual named 
 Patrick, by birth and education a Scotchman, 
 followed this humble occupation for many years, 
 and afterwards settled in the town of Kendal. 
 He married a kinswoman of my wife's, and her 
 sister Sarah was brought up from her ninth year 
 under this good man's roof. My own imagina- 
 tions I was happy to find clothed in reality, and 
 fresh ones suggested, by what she reported of 
 this man's tenderness of heart, his strong and 
 pure imagination, and his solid attainments in 
 literature, chiefly religious whether in prose or 
 verse. At Hawkshead also, while I was a school- 
 boy, there occasionally resided a Packman (the 
 name then generally given to persons of this calling, 
 with whom I had frequent conversations upon 
 what had befallen him, and what he had observed, 
 during his wandering life ; and, as was natural, 
 we took much to each other: and, upon the 
 subject of Pedleristii in general, as then followed, 
 and its favorableness to an intimate knowledge of 
 human concerns, not merely among the humbler 
 classes of society, I need say nothing here in addi- 
 tion to what is to be found in the " Excursion," 
 and a note attached to it. Now for the ^litary. 
 Of him I have much less to say. Not long after 
 we took up our abode at .Grasmgrej came to reside 
 there, from what motive I either never knew or 
 have forgotten, a Scotchman a little past the middle 
 of life, who had for many years been chaplain to 
 ^ H ighl and regiment. He was in no respect as 
 far as I know, an interesting character, though 
 in his appearance there was a good deal that 
 attracted attention, as if he had been shattered in 
 fortune and not happy in mind. Of his quondam 
 position I availed myself, to connect with the 
 Wa.n derer, also a Scotchman, a character suitable 
 to my purpose, the elements of which I drew from 
 several persons with whom I had been connected, 
 and who fell under pny observation during fre- 
 quent residences in London at the beginning of 
 the French Revolution. The chief of these was, 
 one may now say, a^MirfJE^^J^^^i' ^ preacher at 
 a dissenting meeting-house.^ at the old Jewry. 
 It happened to me several times to be one of his 
 congregation through my connection with Mr. 
 Nicholson of Cateaton Street, who at that time, 
 when I had not many acquaintances in London, 
 used often to invite me to dine with him on Sun- 
 day ; and I took that opportunity (Mr. N. being 
 a. dissenter) of going to hear Fawcett, who was 
 an able and eloquent man. He published a poem 
 on war, which had a good deal of merit, and made 
 me think more about him than I should other- 
 wise have done. But his Christianity was prob- 
 ably never very deeply rooted ; and, like many 
 others in those times of like showy talents, he had 
 not strength of character to withstand the effects 
 of the French Revolution, and of the wild and 
 
4S8 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 lax opinions which had done so much towards 
 producing it, and far more in carrying it forward 
 in its extremes. Poor Fawcett, I have been told, 
 became pretty much such a person as I have 
 described; and early disappeared from the stage, 
 having fallen into habits of intemperance, which 
 I have heard (though I will not answer for the 
 fact) hastened his death. Of him I need say no 
 more ; there were many like him at that time, 
 which the world will never be without, but which 
 were more numerous then for reasons too obvious 
 to be dwelt upon. 
 
 To what is said of the Pastor in the poem I 
 have little to add, but what may be deemed 
 superfluous. It has ever appeared to me highly 
 favorable to the J^enefisaL^iniluence of the 
 Church of England upon all gradations and 
 classes of society, that the patronage of its bene- 
 fices is in numerous instances attached to the 
 estates of noble families of ancient gentry; and 
 accordingly I am gratified by the opportunity 
 afforded me in the " Excursion," to portra y the 
 character of a country clergyman of more than 
 
 /ordmaixf^^^its, Som and bred in the upper rar^ 
 of society so as to partake of their refinements, 
 and at the same time brought by his pastoral 
 office and his love of rural life into intimate con- 
 nection with the peasantry of his native district. 
 To illustrate the relation which in my mind this 
 ^Pastor bore to the W^idgjer^ and the resemblance 
 between them, or rather the points of community 
 in their nature, I likened one to an oak an^^the 
 othertoa sycamore; and.^aving here referred to 
 this comparison, Fheed only add, I jiad^o one 
 
 individual in my mind, wishing rather to embo3y 
 this idea than to break in upon tHe simplicity of 
 it, by traits of individual character or of any 
 peculiarity of opinion. 
 
 And now for a few words upon the scene where 
 these interviews and conversations are supposed 
 to occur. The jcene,of the fir§tJx>ok of the poem 
 is, I must own, laid in a tract of country not 
 sufficiently near to that which soon comes into 
 view in the second book, to agree with the fact. 
 All that relates to Margaret and the ruined cot- 
 tage, etc., was taken from observations made in 
 the south-west of England, and certainly it would 
 require more than seven-league boots to stretch 
 in one morning from a common in Somersetshire 
 or Dorsetshire to the heights of Furness Fells 
 and the deep valleys they embosom. For thus 
 dealing with space I need make, I trust, no 
 apology, but my friends may be amused by the 
 truth. In the poem, I suppose that the Pedler 
 and I ascended from a plain country up the vale 
 of Langdale, and struck off a good way above 
 the chapel to the western side of the vale. We 
 ascended the hill and thence looked down upon 
 the circular recess in which lies Blea-Tarn, 
 
 chosen by the Solitary for his retreat. After we 
 quit his cottage, passing over a low ridge we 
 descend into another vale, that of Little Lang- 
 dale, towards the head of which stands, em- 
 bowered or partly shaded by yews and other 
 trees, something between a cottage and a man- 
 sion or gentleman's house such as they once 
 were in this country. This I convert into the 
 Parsonage, and at the same time, and as by the 
 waving of a magic wand, I turn the comparatively 
 confined vale of Langdale, its Tarn, and the 
 rude chapel which once adorned the valley, into 
 the stately and comparatively spacious vale of 
 Grasmere, its Lake, and its ancient Parish 
 Church ; and upon the side of Loughrigg Fell, 
 at the foot of the Lake, and looking down upon 
 it and the whole vale and its encompassing moun- 
 tains, the Pastor is supposed by me to stand, 
 when at sunset he addresses his companions in 
 words which I hope my readers will remember, 
 or I should not have taken the trouble of giving 
 so much in detail the materials on which my 
 mind actually worked. Nowforafew particulars 
 oifact respecting the persons whose stories are 
 told or characters are described by the different 
 speakers. To Margaret I have already alluded. 
 I will add here, that the lines beginning, " She 
 was a woman of a steady mind," faithfully de- 
 lineate, as far as they go, the character possessed 
 in common by many women wiiom it has been 
 my happiness to know in humble life ; and that 
 several of the most touching things which she is 
 represented as saying and doing are taken from 
 actual observation of the distresses and trials 
 under which different persons were suffering, 
 some of them strangers to me, and others daily 
 under my notice. I was bom too late to have a 
 distinct remembrance of the origin of the American 
 war, but the state in which I represent Robert's 
 mind to be I had frequent opportunities of ob- 
 serving at the commencement of our rupture with 
 France in '93, opportunities of which I availed 
 myself in the story of the Female Vagrant as 
 told in the poem on " Guilt and Sorrow." The 
 account given by the Solitary towards the close 
 of the second book, in all that belongs to the 
 character of the Old Man, \^'as taken from a 
 Grasmere pauper, who was boarded in the last 
 house quitting the vale on the road to Ambleside : 
 the character of his hostess, and all that befell 
 the poor man upon the mountain, belong to 
 Paterdale : the woman I knew well ; her name 
 
 was J , and she was exactly sucli a 
 
 person as I describe. The ruins of the old chapel 
 among which the man was found lying, may yet 
 be traced, and stood upon the ridge that divides 
 Paterdale from Boardale and Martindale, having 
 been placed there for the convenience of both 
 districts. The glorious appearance disclosed 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 459 
 
 jbove and among the mountains was described 
 partly from what my friend Mr. LufE, who then 
 lived in Paterdale, witnessed upon tliat raelan- 
 clioly occasion, and partly from what Mrs. 
 Wordsworth and I had seen in company with Sir 
 George and Lady Beaumont above Hartshope 
 Hall on our way from Paterdale to Ambleside. 
 
 And now for a few words upon the Church, its 
 Monuments, and the Deceased who- are spoken of 
 as lying in the surrounding churchyard. But, 
 first for the one picture, given by the Pastor and 
 the Wanderer, of the Living. In this nothing is 
 introduced but what was taken from nature and 
 real life. The cottage is called Hacket, and 
 stands as described on the soutliern extremity of 
 the ridge which separates the two Langdales : 
 the pair who inhabited it were called Jonathan 
 and Betty Yewdale. Once when our children 
 were ill, ofi whooping-cough I think, we took 
 them for change of air to this cottage, and were 
 in the habit of going there to drink tea upon fine 
 summer afternoons, so that we became intimately 
 acquainted with the characters, habits, and lives 
 of these good, and, let me say, in the main, wise 
 people. The matron had, in her early youth, 
 been a servant in a house at Hawkshead, where 
 several boys boarded, while I was a schoolboy 
 there. 1 did not remember her as having served 
 in that capacity ; but we had many little anec-^ 
 dotes to tell to each other of remarkable boys, 
 incidents and adventures which had made a noise 
 in their day in that small town. These two per- 
 sons afterwards settled at Rydal, where they both 
 died. 
 
 The church, as already noticed, is that of 
 Grasmere. The interior of it has been improved 
 lately — made warmer by under-drawing the roof 
 and raising the floor — but the rude and antique 
 majesty of its former appearance has been im- 
 paired by painting the rafters; and the oak 
 benches, with a simple rail at the back dividing 
 them from each other, have given way to seats 
 that have more the appearance of pews. It is 
 remarkable that, excepting only the pew belong- 
 ing to Rydal Hall, that to Rydal Mount, the one 
 to the Parsonage, and I believe another, the men 
 and women still continue, as used to be the cus- 
 tom in Wales, to sit separate from eaca other. 
 Is this practice as old as the Reformation? and 
 when and how did it originate? In the Jewish 
 synagogues and in Lady Huntingdon's chapels 
 the sexes are divided in the same way. In the 
 adjoining churchyard greater changes have taken 
 place. It is now not a little crowded with tomb- 
 stones ; and near the schoolhouse which stands 
 in the churchyard is an ugly structure, built to 
 receive the hearse, which is recently come into 
 use. It would not be worth while to allude to 
 this building or the hearse-vehicle it contains, 
 
 but that the latter has been the means of intro- 
 ducing a change much to be lamented in the 
 mode of conducting funerals among the moun- 
 tains. Now, the coffin is lodged in the hearse at 
 tlie door of tlie house of the deceased, and the 
 corpse is so conveyed to the churchyard gate : all 
 the solemnity which formerly attended its pro- 
 gress, as described in the poem, is put an end to. 
 So mucli do I regret tliis, that I beg to be excused 
 for giving utterance here to a wish diat, should 
 it befall me to die at Rydal Mount, my own body 
 may be carried to Grasmere church after the 
 mauuerin which, till lately, that of every one was 
 borne to that place of sepulture, namely, on tlie 
 shoulders of neighbors, no house being passed 
 without some words of a funeral psalm being 
 sung at tlie time by the attendants. When I put 
 into the mouth of the Wanderer, ' ' Many precious 
 rites and customs of our rural ancestry are gone 
 or stealing from us ; this I hope will last for- 
 ever," and what follows, little did I foresee diat 
 die observance and mode of proceeding, which 
 had often affected me so much, would so soon be 
 superseded. Having said much of the injury 
 done to this churchyard, let me add that one is 
 at liberty to look forward to a time when, by the 
 growth of the yew-trees, thriving there, a solem- 
 nity will be spread over the place that will in 
 some degree make amends for the old simple 
 character which has already been so much en- 
 croached upon, and will be still more every year. 
 I will here set down, more at length, what has 
 been mentioned in a previous note, that my 
 friend Sir George Beaumont, liaviug long ago 
 purchased the beautiful piece of water called 
 Loughrigg Tarn, on the Banks of which he in- 
 tended to build, I told him tliat a person in 
 Kendal who was attached to the place wished to 
 purchase it. Sir George, finding the possession 
 of no use to him, consented to part with it, and 
 placed the purchase-money — twenty pounds — at 
 my disposal for any local use which I thought 
 proper. Accordingly I resolved to plant yew- 
 trees in the churchyard, and had four pretty 
 strong large oak enclosures made, in each of 
 which was planted, under my own eye, and prin- 
 cipally if not entirely by my own hand, two 
 young trees with the intention of leaving the one 
 that throve best to stand. Many years after, Mr. 
 Barber, who will long be remembered in Gras- 
 mere ; Mr. Greenwood, the chief landed pro- 
 prietor ; and myself, had four other enclosures 
 made in the churchyard at our own expense, in 
 each of which was planted a tree taken from its 
 neighbor, and they all stand thriving admirably, 
 the fences having been removed as no longer 
 necessary. May the trees be taken care of here- 
 after when we are all gone, and some of them 
 will perhaps at some far distant time rival in 
 
460 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 majesty the yew of Lorton and those which I 
 have described as growing in Borrowdale, where 
 they are still to be seen in grand assemblage. 
 
 And now for the persons that are selected as 
 lying in the churchyard. But first for the in- 
 dividual whose grave is prepared to receive him. 
 His story is here truly related: he was a school- 
 fellow of mine for some years. He came to us 
 when he was at least seventeen years of age, 
 very tall, robust, and full-grown. This prevented 
 him from falling into the amusements and games 
 of the school : consequently he gave more time 
 to books. He was not remarkably bright or 
 quick, but by industry he made a progress more 
 than respectable. His parents not being wealthy 
 enough to send him to college, when he left 
 Hawkshead he became a schoolmaster, with a 
 view to prepare himself for holy orders. About 
 this time he fell in love as related in the poem, 
 and everything followed as there described, ex- 
 cept that I do not know when and where he died. 
 The number of youths that came to Hawkshead 
 school, from the families of the humble yeomanry, 
 to be educated to a certain degree of scholarship 
 as a preparation for the church, was considerable, 
 and the fortunes of these persons in after life 
 various of course, and of some not a little re- 
 markable. I have now one of this class in my 
 eye who became an usher in a preparatory school 
 and ended in making a large fortune. His 
 manners when he came to Hawkshead were as 
 uncouth as well could be; but he had good 
 abilities, with skill to turn them to account; and 
 when the master of the school, to which he was 
 usher, died, he stept into Jiis place and became 
 proprietor of the establishment. He contrived 
 to manage it with such address, and so much to 
 the taste of what is called high society and the 
 fashionable world, that no school of the kind, 
 even till he retired, was in such high request. 
 Ministers of state, the wealthiest gentry, and 
 nobility of the first rank, vied with each other 
 in bespeaking a place for their sons in the 
 seminary of this fortunate teacher. In the soli- 
 tude of Grasmere, while living as a married man 
 in a cottage of eight pounds per annum rent, I 
 often used to smile at the tales which reached me 
 of his brilliant career. Not two hundred yards 
 from the cottage in Grasmere, just mentioned, to 
 which I retired, this gentleman, who many years 
 afterwards purchased a small estate in the neigh- 
 borhood, is now erecting a boat-house, with an 
 upper story, to be resorted to as an entertaining- 
 room when he and his associates may feel inclined 
 to take their pastime on the lake. Every 
 passenger will be disgusted with the sight of this 
 edifice, not merely as a tasteless thing in itself, 
 but as utterly out of place, and peculiarly fitted, 
 as far as it is observed (and it obtrudes itself on 
 
 notice at every point of view), to mar the beauty 
 and destroy the pastoral simplicity of the vale. 
 For my own part and that of my household it is 
 our utter detestation, standing by a shore to 
 which, before the highroad was made to pass 
 that way, we used daily and hourly to repair for 
 seclusion and for the shelter of a grove under 
 which I composed many of my poems, the 
 "Brothers" especially, and for this reason we 
 gave the grove that name. 
 
 " That which each man loved 
 And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 
 Dies with him, oris changed." 
 
 So much for my old school-fellow and his 
 exploits. I will only add that the foundation 
 has twice failed, from the lake no doubt being 
 intolerant uf the intrusion. 
 
 The Mintir, next described as having found his 
 treasure after twice ten years of labor, lived in 
 Paterdale, and ihe story is true to the letter. It 
 seems to me, however, rather remarkable that 
 the strength of mind which had supported him 
 through this long unrewarded labor did not 
 enable him to bear its successful issue. Several 
 times in the course of my life I have heard of 
 sudden influxes of great wealth being followed by 
 derangement, and in one instance the shock of 
 ^ood fortune was so great as to produce jibsolute 
 idiocy : but these all happened where there had 
 been little or no previous effort to acquire the 
 riches, and therefore such a consequence might 
 the more naturally be expected than in the case 
 of the solitary Miner. In reviewing his story, 
 one cannot but regret that such perseverance was 
 not sustained by a worthier object. Archimedes 
 leapt out of his bath and ran about the streets 
 proclaiming his discovery in a transport of joy, 
 but we are not told that he lost either his life or 
 his senses in consequence. The next character, 
 to whom the Priest is led by contrast with the 
 resoluteness displayed by the foregoing, is taken 
 from a person bom and bred in Grasmere, by 
 name Dawson ; and whose talents, disposition, 
 and way of life were such as are here delineated. 
 I did not know him, but all was fresh in memory 
 when we settled at Grasmere in the beginning of 
 the century. From this point, the conversation 
 leads to the mention of two individuals who, by 
 their several fortunes, were, at different times, 
 driven to take refuge at tlie small and obscure 
 town of Hawkshead on jhe skirt of these moun- 
 tains. Their stories I bad from the dear old 
 dame with whom, as a schoolboy and afterwards, 
 I lodged for nearly the space of ten years. The 
 elder, the Ja<:obite, was named Drummond, and 
 was of a high family in Scotland : the Hanoverian 
 Whig bore the name of Vandeput, and might 
 perhaps be a descendant of some Dutchman who 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 461 
 
 had come over in tlie train of King William. At 
 all events his zeal was such that he ruined himself 
 by a contest for the representation of London or 
 Westminster, undertaken to support his party; 
 and retired to tliis corner of the world, selected, 
 as it had been by Drummond, for that obscurity 
 which, since visiting the Lakes became fashion- 
 able, it has no longer retained. So much was 
 this region considered out of the way till a late 
 period, that persons who had fled from justice 
 used often to resort hither for concealment; and 
 some were so bold as to, not unfrequently, make 
 excursions from the place of their retreat, for the 
 purpose of committing fresh offences. Such was 
 particularly the case with two brothers of the 
 name of Weston who took up their abode at Old 
 Brathay, I think about seventy years ago. They 
 were highwaymen, and lived there some time 
 without being discovered, though it was known 
 that they often disappeared in a way and upon 
 errands which could not be accounted for. Their 
 horses were noticed as being of a choice breed, and 
 I have heard from the Relph family, one of whom 
 was a saddler in the town of Kendal, that they 
 were curious in their saddles and housings and 
 accoutrements of their horses. They, as I have 
 heard, and as was universally believed, were in 
 the end both taken and hanged. 
 
 " Tall was her stature ; her complexion dark 
 And saturnine." 
 
 This person lived at Town-end, and was almost 
 our next neighbor. I have little tp notice con- 
 cerning her beyond what is said in the poem. 
 She was a most striking instance how far a 
 woman may surpass in talent, in knowledge, and 
 culture of mind, those with and among whom she 
 lives, and yet fall below them in Christian virtues 
 of the heart and spirit. It seemed almost, and I 
 say it with grief, that in proportion as she ex- 
 celled in the one, she failed in the other. How 
 frequently has one to observe in both sexes the 
 same thing, and how mortifying is the reflection! 
 
 " As, on a sunny bank, a tender lamb 
 Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March.'' 
 
 The story that follows was told to Mrs. Words- 
 worth and my sister by the sister of this unhappy 
 young woman ; and every particular was exactly as 
 I have related. The party was not known to me, 
 though she lived at Hawkshead, but it was after 
 I left school. The clergyman, who administered 
 comfort to her in her distress, I knew well. Her 
 sister who told the story was the wife of a leading 
 yeoman in the vale of Grasmere, and they were 
 an affectionate pair and greatly respected by 
 every one who knew them. Neither lived to be 
 old; and their estate — which was perhaps the 
 
 most considerable then in the vale, and was en- 
 deared to them by many remembrances of a 
 salutary character not easily understood, or 
 sympathized with, by those who are born to 
 great affluence — passed to their eldest son, ac- 
 cording to the practice of these vales, who died 
 soon after he came into possession. He was an 
 amiable and promising youth, but was succeeded 
 by an only brother, a good-natured man, who 
 fell into habits of drinking, by which he gradually 
 reduced his property ; and the other day the last 
 acre of it was sold, and his wife and children and 
 he himself, still surviving, have very little left to 
 live upon, which it would not perhaps have been 
 worth while to record here but that, through all 
 trials, this woman has proved a model of patience, 
 meekness, affectionate forbearance, and forgive- 
 ness. Their eldest son, who, through the vices 
 of his father, has thus been robbed of an ancient 
 family inheritance, was never heard to murmur 
 or complain against the cause of their distress, 
 and is now (1843) deservedly the chief prop of his 
 mother's hopes. 
 
 The clergyman and his family described at the 
 beginning of the seventh book were, during many 
 years, our principal associates in the vale of 
 Grasmere, unless I were to except our very 
 nearest neighbors. I have entered so partic- 
 ularly into the main points of their history, that 
 I will barely testify in prose that — with the single 
 exception of the particulars of their journey to 
 Grasmere, which, however, was exactly copied 
 from in another instance — the whole that I have 
 said of them is as faithful to the truth as words 
 can make it. There was much talent in the 
 family: the eldest son was distinguished for 
 poetical talent, of which a specimen is given in 
 my notes to the sonnets to the Duddon. Once, 
 when in our cottage at Town-end I was talking 
 with him about poetry, in the course of conversa- 
 tion I presumed to find fault with the versification 
 of Pope, of whom he was an enthusiastic admirer : 
 he defended him with a warmth that indicated 
 much irritation : nevertheless I would not abandon 
 my point, and said, " In compass and variety of 
 sound your own versification surpasses his." 
 Never shall I foiget the change in his counte- 
 nance and tone of voice : the storm was laid in a 
 moment ; he no longer disputed my judgment, 
 and I passed immediately in his mind, no doubt, 
 for as great a critic as ever lived. I ought to 
 add, he was a clergyman and a well-educated 
 man, and his verbal memory was the most 
 remarkable of any individual I have -known, 
 except a Mr. Archer, an Irishman, who lived 
 several years in this neighborhood, and who, in 
 this faculty, was a prodigy ; he afterwards 
 became deranged, and I fear continues so, if 
 alive. Then follows the character of Robert 
 
462 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Walker, for which see notes to the Daddon. 
 Then that of the deaf man, whose epitaph may 
 be seen in the churchyard at the head of Hawes- 
 water, and whose qualities of mind and heart, 
 and their benign influence in conjunction with 
 his privation, I had from his relatives on the 
 spot. The blind man, next commemorated, was 
 John Gough, of Kendal, a man known, far 
 beyond his neighborhood, for his talents and 
 attainments in natural history and science. Of 
 the Infant's grave, next noticed, I will only say, it 
 is an exact picture of what fell under my own 
 observation ; and all persons who are intimately 
 acquainted with cottage life must often have 
 observed like instances of the working of the 
 domestic affections. 
 
 "A volley thrice repeated o'er the corse 
 Let down into the hollow of that grave." 
 
 This young volunteer bore the name of Dawson, 
 and was younger brother, if I am not mistaken, 
 to the prodigal of whose character and fortunes 
 an account is given towards the beginning of the 
 preceding book. The father of the family I 
 knew well ; he was a man of literary education 
 and of experience in society much beyond what 
 was common among the inhabitants of the vale. 
 He had lived a good while in the Highlands of 
 Scotland, as a manager of iron-works at Bunaw, 
 and had acted as clerk to one of my predecessors 
 in the office of Distributor of Stamps, when he 
 used to travel round the country collecting and 
 bringing home the money due to Government, in 
 gold, which, it may be worth while to mention 
 for the sake of my friends, was deposited in the 
 cell or iron closet under the west window of the 
 long room at Rydal Mount, which still exists 
 with the iron doors that guarded the property. 
 This of course was before the time of Bills and 
 Notes. The two sons of this person had no 
 doubt been led by the knowledge of their father 
 to take more delight in scholarship, and had been 
 accustomed in their own minds to lake a wider 
 view of social interests than was usual among 
 their associates. The premature death of this 
 gallant young man was much lamented, and, as 
 an attendant at the funeral, I myself witnessed 
 the ceremony and the effect of it as described in 
 the poem. 
 
 " Tradition tells 
 
 That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
 
 Came on a war-horse." 
 
 *' The house is gone." 
 
 The pillars of the gateway in front of the mansion 
 remained when we first took up our abode at 
 Grasmere. Two or three cott^es still remain, 
 which are called Knott-houses from the name o£ 
 tlie gentleman (I have called him a. knight) 
 
 concerning whom these traditions survive. He 
 was the ancestor of the Knott family, formerly 
 considerable proprietors in the district. What 
 follows in the discourse of the Wanderer upon 
 the changes he had witnessed in rural life, by 
 the introduction of machinery, is truly described 
 from what I myself saw during my boyhood and 
 early youth, and from what was often told me by 
 persons of this humble calling. Happily, most 
 happily, for these mountains, the mischief was 
 diverted from the banks of their beautiful streams, 
 and transferred to open and flat countries abound- 
 ing in coal, where the agency of steam was found 
 much more effectual for carrying on those de- 
 moralizing works. Had it not been for this 
 invention, long before the present time every 
 torrent and river in this district would have had 
 its factory, large and populous in proportion to 
 the power of the water that could there have 
 been commanded. Parliament has interfered to 
 prevent the night-work which was once carried on 
 in these mills as actively as during the daytime, 
 and by necessity still more perniciously — a sad dis- 
 grace to the proprietors, and to the nation which 
 could so long tolerate sucli unnatural proceedings. 
 Reviewijig at this late period^ 1843, what I put 
 into the mouths of my interlocutors a few years 
 after the commencement of the century, I grieve 
 that so little progress has been made in diminish- 
 ing the evils deplored, or promoting the benefits 
 of education which the Wanderer anticipates. 
 The results of Lord Ashley's labors to defer the 
 time when children might legally be allowed to 
 work in factories, and his endeavors to limit still 
 farther the hours of permitted labor, have fallen 
 far short of his own humane wishes, and those of 
 every benevolent and right-minded man who has 
 carefully attended to this subject; and in the 
 present session of Parliament (1S43) Sir James 
 Graham's attempt to establish a course of religious 
 education among the children employed in 
 factories has been abandoned, in consequence of 
 what might easily have been foreseen, the 
 vehement and turbulent opposition of the Dis- 
 senters : so that, for many years to come, it may 
 be thought expedient to leave the religious 
 instruction of children entirely in the hands of 
 the several denominations of Christians in the 
 island, each body to work according to its own 
 means and in its own way. Such is my own 
 confidence, a confidence I share with many others 
 of my most valued friends, in the superior advant- 
 tages, both religious and social, which attend 
 a course of instruction presided over and guided 
 by the clergy of the Church of England, that 
 I have no doubt tliat, if but once its members, 
 lay and clerical, were duly sensible of those 
 benefits, their church would daily gain gj:ound, 
 and rapidly, upon every shape and fashion of 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 463 
 
 Dissent : and m that case, a great majority in 
 Parliament being sensible of these benefits, the 
 Ministers of the countr>' might be emboldened, 
 were it necessary, to apply funds of the State to 
 the support of education on Church principles. 
 Before I conclude, I cannot forbear noticing the 
 strenuous efEorts made at this time in Parliament, 
 by so many persons, to extend manufacturing 
 and commercial industry at the expense of 
 agricultural, though we have recently had abun- 
 dant proofs that the apprehensions expressed by 
 the Wanderer were not groundless. 
 " I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
 With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads 
 The healthier, the securer, we become — 
 Delusion which a moment may destroy ! " 
 The Chartists are well aware of tliis possibility, 
 and cling to it with an ardor and perseverance 
 which nothing but wiser and more brotherly 
 dealing towards the many, on the part of the 
 wealthy few, can moderate or remove. 
 " While, from the grassy mountain's open side, 
 
 We gazed, in silence hushed." 
 The point here fixed upon in my imagination is 
 half-way up the northern side of Loughrigg Fell, 
 from which the Pastor and his companions were 
 supposed to look upwards to the sky and moun- 
 tain-tops, and round the vale, with the lake lying 
 immediately beneath them. 
 
 " But turned not without welcome promise made, 
 That he would share the pleasures and pursuits 
 Of yet another summer's day, consumed 
 In wandering with us." 
 
 When I reported this promise of the Solitary, and 
 long after, it was my wish, and I might say in- 
 tention, that we should resume our wanderings, 
 and pass the Borders into his native country, 
 where, as I hoped, he might witness, in the 
 society of the Wanderer, some religious ceremony 
 — a sacrament, say, in the open fields, or a preach- 
 ing among the mountains — which, by recalling to 
 his mind the days of his early childhood, when 
 he had been present on such occasions in com- 
 pany with his parents and nearest kindred, might 
 have dissolved his heart into tenderness, and so 
 have done more towards restoring the Christian 
 faith in which he had been educated, and, with 
 that, contentedness and even cheerfulness of 
 mind, than all that the Wanderer and Pastor, by 
 their several effusions and addresses, had been 
 able to effect. An issue like this was in my in- 
 tentions. But, alas ! 
 
 " 'Mid the wreck of is and was. 
 Things incomplete and purposes betrayed 
 Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic glass 
 Than noblest objects utterly decayed ! " 
 
 To THE Right Hon. 
 WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K.G. 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer! 
 In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures bent; 
 And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, 
 Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear 
 — Now, by thy care befriended, I appear 
 Before thee, Lonsdale, and this Work present, 
 A token (may it prove a monument !) 
 Of high respect and gratitude sincere. 
 Gladly would I have waited till my task 
 Had reached its close ; but Life is insecure, 
 And Hope full oft fallacious as a dream : 
 Therefore, for what is here produced, 1 ask. 
 Thy favor; trusting that thou wilt not deem 
 The offering, though imperfect, premature. 
 
 William Wordsworth 
 Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, 
 July 29, 1814. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 
 
 1814. 
 
 The Title-page announces that this Js only a 
 portiojA. of .a EQeffl ; and the Reader must be here 
 apprised that it belongs to the second part of a 
 long and laborious Work, which is to consist of 
 three parts. — The Author will candidly acknowf- 
 edge that, if the first of these had been com- 
 pleted, and in such a manner as to satisfy his 
 own mind,, he should have preferred the natural 
 order of publication, and have given that to the 
 world first ; but, as the second division of the 
 Work was designed to refer more to passing 
 events, and to an existing state of things, than 
 the others were meant to do, more continuous 
 exertion was naturally bestowed upon it, and 
 greater progress made here than in the rest of 
 the poem ; and as this part does not depend upon 
 the preceding to a degree which will materially 
 injure its own peculiar interest, the Author, com- 
 plying with the earnest entreaties of some valued 
 Friends, presents the following pages to the 
 Public. 
 
 It may be proper to state whence the poem, 
 of which "X,b?-jSSS^''^^*'° " i^ ^ P^''tj derives its 
 Title of The Recluse. — Several years ago, when 
 the Author retired to his native mountains, with 
 the hope of being enabled to construct a literary 
 Work that might live, it was a reasonable thing 
 that he should take a review of his own mind, 
 and examine how far Nature and Education had 
 
464 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 qualified him for such employment. As sub- 
 sidiary to this preparation, he undertook to 
 record, in verse, the origin and progress of his 
 own powers, as far as he was acquainted with 
 them. That Work,^ addressed to a dear Friend, 
 most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, 
 and to whom the Author's Intellect is deeply 
 indebted, has been long finished; and the resu lt 
 of the investigation which gave_rise..iQ, it was a 
 determinaHbn"to compose a phil osophical p oein, 
 containing views of Man^ Nature, and. Society ; 
 and tobe entitled, " The Recluse ; " as havjng^f^ 
 jts principal's ubject the sensations and opinions 
 gf a poet living in retirement. — The preparatory 
 poem i is TDiographical, and conducts the history 
 of the Author's mind to the point when he was 
 emboldened to hope that his faculties were suf- 
 ficiently matured for entering upon the arduous 
 labor which he had proposed to himself; and 
 the two Works have the same kind of relation to 
 each other, if he may so express himself, as the 
 ante-chapel has to the body of a Gothic church. 
 Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted 
 to add, that his minor Pieces, which have been 
 long before the Public, when they shall be 
 properly arranged, will be found by the attentive 
 Reader to have such connection with the main 
 Work as may give them claim to be likened to 
 the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, 
 ordinarily included in those edifices. 
 
 The Author would not have deemed himself 
 justified in saying, upon this occasion, so much 
 of performances either unfinished or unpublished, 
 if he had not thought that the labor bestowed 
 by him upon what he has heretofore and now 
 laid before the Public entitled him to candid 
 attention for such a statement as .he thinks 
 necessary to throw light upon his endeavors to 
 please and, he would hope, to benefit his country- 
 men. — Nothing further need be added, than that 
 the_jir5t.^nd_,t^hird parts of " The Recluse " will 
 consist chiefly of meditations in the Author's own 
 person; and^that in the intermediate part (""The 
 Excursion ") the intervention of characters speak- 
 ing is employed, and something of a dramatic 
 lorm adopted. "" ~ " 
 
 ' It is not the Author's intention formally to 
 announce a system ; it was more animating to 
 him to proceed in a different course ; and if he 
 shall succeed in conveying to the mind clear 
 thoughts, lively images, and strong feelings, the 
 Reader will have no difficulty in extracting the 
 system for himself. And in the mean time the fol- 
 lowing passage, taken from the conclusion of the 
 first book of "The Recluse," may be acceptable 
 as a kind of Prospectus of the design and scope 
 of the whole Poem. 
 
 1 The Prelude. 
 
 [The passage referred to begins with the line, 
 " On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life," see 
 page 388 of the present edition, and ends with, 
 " Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end ! " 
 page 389.] 
 
 Book First. 
 
 the wanderer. 
 
 argument. 
 
 A summer forenoon — The Author reaches a 
 ruined Cottage upon a Common, and there meets 
 with a revered Friend, the Wanderer, of whcse 
 education and course of life he gives an account 
 — The Wanderer, while resting under the shade 
 of the Trees that surround the Cottage, relates 
 the History of its last Inhabitant. 
 
 'T WAS summer, and the sun had mounted 
 
 high: 
 Southward the landscape indistinctly 
 
 glared 
 Through a pale steam; but all the north- 
 ern downs, 
 In clearest air ascending, showed far off 
 A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 
 From brooding clouds; shadows that lay 
 
 in spots 
 Determined and unmoved, with steady 
 
 beams 
 Of bright and pleasant sunshine inter- 
 posed; 
 To him most pleasant who on soft cool 
 
 moss 
 Extends his careless limbs along the front 
 Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling 
 
 casts 
 A twilight of its own, an ample shade, 
 Where the wren warbles, while the 
 
 dreaming man, 
 Half conscious of the soothing melody, 
 With side-long eye looks out upon the 
 
 scene, 
 By power of that impending covert, 
 
 thrown 
 To finer distance. Mine was at that hour 
 Far other lot, yet with good hope that 
 
 soon 
 Under a shade as grateful I should find 
 Rest, and be welcomed there to liveliel 
 
 joy. 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 465 
 
 Across a bare wide Common I was toiling 
 With languid steps that by the slippery 
 
 turf 
 Were baffled; nor could my weak arm 
 
 disperse 
 The host of insects gathering round my 
 
 face, 
 And ever with me as I paced along. 
 
 Upon that open moorland stood a 
 
 grove, 
 The wished-for port to which my course 
 
 was bound. 
 Thither I came, and there, amid the 
 
 gloom 
 Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms. 
 Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked 
 
 walls 
 That stared upon each other ! — I looked 
 
 round. 
 And to my wish and to my hope espied 
 The Friend I sought; a Man of reverend 
 
 age. 
 
 But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 
 
 There was he seen upon the cottage- 
 bench. 
 
 Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep; 
 
 An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 
 
 Him |had I marked the day before — 
 alone 
 And stationed in the public way, with face 
 Turned toward the sun then setting, while 
 
 that staff 
 Afforded, to the figure of the man 
 Detained for contemplation or repose. 
 Graceful support; his countenance as he 
 
 stood 
 Was hidden from my view, and he re- 
 mained 
 Unrecognized; but, strickerl by the sight. 
 With slackened footsteps I advanced, 
 
 and soon 
 A glad congratulation we exchanged 
 At such unthought-of meeting. — For the 
 
 night 
 We parted, nothing willingly; and now 
 He by appointment waited for me here, 
 Under the covert of these clustering elms. 
 
 We were tried Friends : amid n pleas- 
 ant vale, 
 
 In the antique market-village where was 
 
 passed 
 My school-time, an apartment he had 
 
 owned. 
 To which at intervals the Wanderer drew. 
 And found a kind of home or harbor 
 
 there. 
 He loved me; from a swarm of rosy boys 
 Singled out me, as he in sport would say. 
 For my grave looks, too thoughtful for 
 
 my years. 
 As I grew up, it was my best delight 
 To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, 
 On holidays, we rambled through the 
 
 woods: 
 We sate — we walked; he pleased mc 
 
 with report 
 Of things which he had seen; and often 
 
 touched 
 Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 
 Turned inward; or at my request would 
 
 sing 
 Old songs, the product of his native hills; 
 A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, 
 Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 
 As cool refreshing water, by the care 
 Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 
 Through a parched meadow-ground, in 
 
 time of drought. 
 Still deeper welcome found his pure dis- 
 course ; 
 How precious, when in riper days I 
 
 learned 
 To weigh with care his words, and to 
 
 rejoice 
 In the plain presence of his dignity ! 
 
 Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown 
 By Nature; men endowed with highest 
 
 gifts. 
 The vision and the faculty divine; 
 Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 
 (Which, in the docile season cf their 
 
 youth. 
 It was denied them to acquire, through 
 
 lack 
 Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, 
 Or haply by a temper too severe. 
 Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) 
 Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been 
 
 led 
 By circumstance to take unto the height 
 
466 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 The measure of themselves, these favored 
 
 Beings, 
 All but a scattered fevr, live out their time. 
 Husbanding that which they possess 
 
 within. 
 And go to the grave, unthought of. 
 
 Strongest minds 
 Are often those of whom the noisy world 
 Hears least; else surely this Man had not 
 
 left 
 His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 
 But, as the mind was filled with inward 
 
 light. 
 So not without distinction had he lived, 
 Beloved and honored — far as he was 
 
 known. 
 And some small portion of his eloquent 
 
 speech, 
 And something that may serve to set in 
 
 view 
 The feeling pleasures of his loneliness. 
 His observations, and the thoughts his 
 
 mind 
 Had dealt with — I will here record in 
 
 verse; 
 Which, if with truth it correspond, and 
 
 sink 
 Or rise as venerable Nature leads. 
 The high and tender Muses shall accept 
 With gracious smile, deliberately pleased. 
 And listening Time reward with sacred 
 
 praise. 
 
 Among the hills of Athol he was born; 
 Where, on a small hereditary farm. 
 An unproductive slip of rugged ground, 
 His Parents, with their numerous off- 
 spring, dwelt; 
 A virtuous household, though exceeding 
 
 poor ! 
 Pure livers were they all, austere and 
 
 grave, 
 And fearing God ; the very children taught 
 Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's 
 
 word, 
 And an habitual piety, maintained 
 With strictness scarcely known on English 
 ground. 
 
 From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I 
 
 speak. 
 In summer, tended cattle on the hills; 
 
 But, through the inclement and the peril- 
 ous days 
 Of long-continuing winter, he repaired. 
 Equipped with satchel, to a school, that 
 
 stood 
 Sole building on a mountain's dreary 
 
 edge. 
 Remote from view of city spire, or sound 
 Of minster clock ! From that bleak tene- 
 ment 
 He, many an evening, to his distant home 
 In solitude returning, saw the hills 
 Grow larger in the darkness; all alone 
 Beheld the stars come out above his head, 
 And travelled through the wood, with no 
 
 one near 
 To whom he might confess the things he 
 
 So the foundations of his mind were 
 
 laid. 
 
 In such communion, not from terror free, 
 
 While yet a child, and long before his time, 
 
 Had he perceived the presence and the 
 
 power 
 Of greatness; and deep feelings had im- 
 pressed 
 So vividly great objects that they lay 
 Upon his mind like substances, whose 
 
 presence , 
 
 Perplexed the bodily sense. \He had re- 
 ceived '' 
 A precious gift; for, as he grew in years. 
 With these impressions would he still 
 
 compare 
 All his remembrances, thovights, shapes, 
 
 and forms; 
 And, being still unsatisfied with aught 
 Of dimmer character, he thence attained 
 An active power to fasten images 
 Upon his brain; and on their pictured lines 
 Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 
 The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail. 
 While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 
 Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 
 On all things which the moving seasons 
 
 brought 
 To feed such appetite — nor this alone 
 Appeased his yearning: — in the after-day 
 Of boyhood, many an hour in caves for- 
 lorn, 
 And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crs^s 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 467 
 
 He sate, and even in their fixed linea- 
 ments, 
 Or from the power of a pecuHar eye, 
 Or by creative feeling overborne, 
 Or by predominance of thought oppressed, 
 Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 
 He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind. 
 Expression ever varying !, 
 
 vThus informed, 
 He had small need of books; [for many a 
 
 tale / 
 
 Traditionary, round the mountains hung. 
 And many a legend, peopling the dark 
 
 woods. 
 Nourished Imagination in her growth, 
 And gave the ^ Mind that ap£rehensive 
 
 po-wer 
 By which she is made quick to recognize 
 The moral properties and scope of things. 
 But eagerly he read, and read again, 
 Whate'er the minister's old shelf sup- 
 plied; 
 The life and death of martyrs, who sus- 
 tained, 
 With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
 Triumphantly displayed in records left 
 Of persecution and the Covenant — times 
 Whose echo rings through Scotland to 
 
 this hour ! 
 And there, by lucky hap, had been pre- 
 served 
 A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, 
 That left half-told the preternatural tale, 
 Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends, 
 Profuse in garniture-of wooden cuts 
 Strange and uncouth; dire faces, figures 
 
 dire. 
 Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean- 
 
 ankled too. 
 With long and ghostly shanks — forms 
 
 which once seen 
 Could never be forgotten ! 
 
 In his heart. 
 Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, 
 Was wiwrti«g~yet the pure delight_qf Jove 
 By sound diffused, or byThS Breathing air. 
 Or by the silent looks of happy things, 
 Or flowing from the universal face 
 Of earth and sky. But he_h5.d_f^slt--the 
 
 power 
 0.f_[fol«ferand already was prepared. 
 By his intense conceptions, to receive 
 Deeply the lesson deep of love which he, 
 
 Whom Nature, by whatever means, has 
 
 taught 
 To feel intensely, cannot but receive. 
 
 Such was the Boy — but for the grow- 
 ing Youth 
 What soul was his, when, from the naked 
 
 top 
 Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
 Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! 
 
 He looked — 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
 Beneath him : — Far and wide the clouds 
 
 were touched, 
 And in their silent faces could he read 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
 Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank 
 The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form. 
 All melted into him; they swallowed up 
 His animal being; in them did he live, 
 And by them did he live; they were his 
 
 life. 
 In such access of mind, in such high hour 
 Of visitation from the living God, 
 Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
 No thanks he breathed, he proffered no 
 
 request; 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the power ^1 
 That made him; it was blessedness an^ 
 love ! " 
 
 A Herdsman on the lonely mountain 
 tops. 
 Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
 Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
 O then how beautiful, how bright, ap- 
 peared 
 The written promise ! Early had he 
 
 learned 
 To reverence the volume that displays 
 The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
 But in the mountains did he /«'£'/ his faith. 
 All things, responsive to the writing, there 
 Breathed immortality, revolving life. 
 And greatness still revolving; infinite: 
 There littleness was not; the least of 
 
 things 
 Seemed infinite; and. there his spirit 
 shaped 
 
468 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he 
 
 saiv. 
 What wonder if his being thus became 
 Sublime and comprehensive ! Low de- 
 sires, 
 Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was 
 
 his heart 
 Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude, 
 Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind. 
 And whence they flowed; and from them 
 
 he acquired 
 Wisdom, which works through patience; 
 
 thence he learned 
 In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 
 To look on Nature with a humble heart. 
 Self-questioned where it did not under- 
 stand. 
 And with a superstitious eye of love. 
 
 So passed the time; yet to the nearest 
 town 
 He duly went with what small overplus 
 His earnings might supply, and brought 
 
 away 
 The book that most had tempted his de- 
 sires 
 While at the stall he read. Among the 
 
 hills 
 He gazed upon that mighty orb of song. 
 The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 
 The annual savings of a toilsome life, 
 His Schoolmaster supplied; books that 
 
 explain 
 The purer elements of truth involved 
 In lines and numbers, and, by charm 
 
 severe, 
 (Especially perceived where nature 
 droops 
 -And feeling is suppressed) preserve the 
 mind 
 Busy in solitude and poverty. 
 These occupations oftentimes deceived 
 The listless hours, while in the hollow 
 
 vale, 
 Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
 In pensive idleness. What could he do, 
 Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life, 
 With blind endeavors? Yet, still upper- 
 most. 
 Nature was at his heart as if he felt. 
 Though yet he knew not how, a wasting 
 
 power 
 In all things that from her sweet influence 
 
 Might tend to wean him. Therefore 
 
 with her hues, 
 Her forms, and with the spirit of her 
 
 forms, 
 He clothed the nakedness of austere truth . 
 While yet he lingered in the rudiments 
 Of science, and among her simplest laws. 
 His triangles — they were the stars of 
 
 heaven. 
 The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
 To measure the altitude of some tall crag 
 That is the eagle's birthplace, or some 
 
 peak 
 Familiar with forgotten years, that shows. 
 Inscribed upon its visionary sides, 
 The history of many a winter storm. 
 Or obscure records of the path of fire. 
 
 And thus before his eighteenth year 
 
 was told, 
 Accumulated feelings pressed his heart 
 With still increasing weight; he was 
 
 o'erpowered 
 By Nature; by the turbulence subdued 
 Of his own mind; by mystery and hope. 
 And the first virgin passion of a soul 
 Communing with the glorious universe. 
 Full often wished he that the winds might 
 
 rage 
 When they were silent : far more fondly 
 
 now 
 Than in his earlier season did he love 
 Tempestuous nights — the conflict and 
 
 the sounds 
 That live in darkness. From his intellect 
 And from the stillness of abstracted 
 
 thought 
 He asked repose; and, failing oft to win 
 The peace required, he scanned the laws 
 
 of light 
 Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 
 From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 
 A cloud of mist that, smitten by the sun. 
 Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus. 
 And vainly by all other means, he strove 
 To mitigate the fever of his heart. 
 
 In dreams, in study, and in ardent 
 
 thought, 
 Thus was he reared; much wanting to 
 
 assist 
 The growth of intellect, yet gaining more, 
 And every moral feeling of his soul . 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 469 
 
 Strengthened and braced, by breathing 
 
 in content 
 The keen, the wholesome, air of poverty, 
 And drinking from the well of homely life. 
 
 — But, from past liberty, and tried re- 
 
 straints. 
 He now was summoned to select the 
 
 course 
 Of humble industry that promised best 
 To yield him no unworthy maintenance. 
 Urged by his Mother, he essayed to teach 
 A village-school — but wandering thoughts 
 
 were then 
 A misery to him ; and the Youth resigned 
 A task he was unable to perform. 
 
 That stern yet kindly Spirit, who con- 
 strains 
 The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks. 
 The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow 
 
 vales, 
 (Spirit attached to regions mountainous 
 Like their own steadfast clouds) did now 
 
 impel 
 His restless mind to look abroad with 
 hope. 
 
 — An irksome drudgery seems it to plod 
 
 on, 
 Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting 
 
 storm, 
 A vagrant Merchant under a heavy load. 
 Bent as he moves, and needing frequent 
 
 rest; 
 Yet do such travellers find their own de- 
 light; 
 And their hard service, deemed debasing 
 
 now, 
 Gained merited respect in simpler times; 
 When squire, and priest, and they who 
 
 round them dwelt 
 In rustic sequestration — all dependent 
 Upon the Pedler's toil — supplied their 
 
 wants. 
 Or pleased their fancies, with the wares 
 
 he brought. 
 Not ignorant was the Youth that still no 
 
 few 
 Of his adventurous countrymen were led 
 By perseverance in this track of life 
 To competence and ease: — to him it 
 
 offered 
 Attractions manifold; — and this he chose. 
 ■ — His Parents on the enterprise bestowed 
 
 Their farewell benediction, but with 
 
 hearts 
 Foreboding evil. From his native hills 
 He wandered far; much did he see of 
 
 men,t 
 Their manners, their enjoyments, and 
 
 pursuits. 
 Their passions and their feelings; chiefly 
 
 those 
 Essential and eternal in the heart. 
 That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life. 
 Exist more simple in their elements. 
 And speak a plainer language. In the 
 
 woods, 
 A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields. 
 Itinerant in this labor, he had passed 
 The better portion of his time; and there 
 Spontaneously had his affections thriven 
 Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 
 And liberty of nature; there he kept 
 In solitude and solitary thought 
 His mind in a just equipoise of love. 
 Serene it was, unclouded by the cares 
 Of ordinary life; unvexed, unwarped 
 By partial bondage. In his steady course, 
 No piteous revolutions had he felt, 
 No wild varieties of joy and grief. 
 Unoccupied by sorrow of its own. 
 His heart lay open; and, by nature tuned 
 And constant disposition of his thoughts 
 To sympathy with man, he was alive 
 To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, 
 And all that was endured; for, in himself 
 Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness, 
 He had no painful pressure from without 
 That made him turn aside from wretch- 
 edness 
 With coward fears. He could afford to 
 
 suffer 
 With those whom he saw suffer. Hence 
 
 it came 
 That in our best experience he was rich, 
 And in the wisdom of our daily life. 
 For hence, minutely, in his various rounds. 
 He had observed the progress and decay 
 Of many minds, of minds and bodies too; 
 The history of many families; 
 How they had prospered; how they were 
 
 o'erthrown 
 By passion or mischance, or such misrule 
 Among the unthinking masters of the earth 
 As makes the nations groan. 
 1 See Note. 
 
470 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 This active course 
 He followed till provision for his wants 
 Had been obtained; —f the Wanderer then 
 
 resolved ''» 
 
 To pass the remnant of his days, untasked 
 With needless services, from hardship 
 free. . 
 
 His calling laid aside, he lived at ease : \ 
 But still he loved to pace the public roads 
 And the wild paths; and, by the sum- 
 mer's warmth 
 Invited, often would he leave his home 
 And journey far, revisiting the scenes 
 That to his memory were most endeared. 
 — Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, 
 
 undamped 
 By worldly- mindedness or anxious care; 
 Observant, studious, thoughtful, and re- 
 freshed 
 By knowledge gathered up from day to 
 
 day; 
 Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. 
 
 The Scottish Church, both" on himself 
 
 and those 
 With whom from childhood he grew up, 
 
 had held 
 The strong hand of her purity; and still 
 Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. 
 This he remembered in his riper age 
 With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. 
 But by the native vigor of his mind. 
 By his habitual wanderings out of doors. 
 By loneliness, and goodness, and kind 
 
 works, 
 Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth. 
 He had imbibed of fear or darker thought 
 Was melted all away; so true was this. 
 That sometimes his religion seemed to me 
 Self-taught, asof a dreamer in the woods; 
 Who to the model of his own pure heart 
 Shaped his belief, as grace divine inspired. 
 And human reason dictated with awe. 
 ■ — And surely never did there live on earth 
 A man of kindlier nature. The rough 
 
 sports 
 And teasing ways of children vexed not 
 
 him; 
 Indulgent listener was he to the tongue 
 Of garrulous age; nor did the sick man's 
 
 tale. 
 To his fraternal sympathy addressed. 
 Obtain reluctant hearing. 
 
 , Plain his garb; 
 
 Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared 
 
 For sabbath duties; yet he was a man 
 
 Whom no one could have passed with- 
 out remark. 
 
 Active and nervous was his gait; his 
 limbs 
 
 And his whole figure breathed intelli- 
 gence. 
 
 Time had compressed the freshness of 
 his cheek 
 
 Into a narrower circle of deep red, 
 
 But had not tamed his eye; that, under 
 brows 
 
 Shaggy and gray, had meanings which it 
 brought 
 
 From years of youth ; which, like a 
 B.eing made " 
 
 Of ma ny Beings, be had wondrous skill 
 
 T<rblerH~with fenowledge of the years to 
 come. 
 
 Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. 
 
 So was He framed ; and such his 
 
 course of life 
 Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 
 The prized memorial of relinquished 
 
 toils. 
 Upon that cottage-bench reposed his 
 
 limbs. 
 Screened from the sun. Supine the 
 
 Wanderer lay. 
 His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut. 
 The shadows of the breezy elms above 
 Dappling his face. He had not heard 
 
 the sound 
 Of my approaching steps, and in the shade 
 Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' 
 
 space. 
 At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat 
 Was moist with water-drops, as if the 
 
 brim 
 Had newly-scooped a running stream. 
 
 He rose. 
 And ere our lively greeting into peace 
 Had settled, '"Tis," said I, "a burn- 
 ing day: 
 My lips are parched with thirst, but you, 
 
 it seems 
 Have somewhere found relief." He, at 
 
 the word, 
 Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me 
 
 climb 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 471 
 
 The fence where that aspiring shrub 
 
 looked out 
 Upon the public way. It was a plot 
 Of garden ground run wild, its matted 
 
 weeds 
 Marked with the steps of those, whom, 
 
 as they passed, 
 The gooseberry trees that shot in long 
 
 lank slips, 
 Or currants, hanging from their leafless 
 
 stems, 
 In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 
 The broken wall. I looked around, and 
 
 there, 
 Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder 
 
 boughs 
 Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well 
 Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy 
 
 fern. 
 My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheer- 
 less spot 
 Withdrawing, straightway to the shade 
 
 returned 
 Where sate the old Man on the cottage- 
 bench; 
 And, while, beside him, with uncovered 
 
 head, 
 I yet was standing, freely to respire. 
 And cool my temples in the fanning air. 
 Thus did he speak. " I see around me 
 
 here 
 Things which you cannot see : we die, 
 
 my Friend, 
 Nor we alone, but that which each man 
 ~ loved 
 And pri^ecl in his peculiar nook of earth 
 Dies with__him, or is changed; and very 
 
 soon 
 Even of the good is no memorial left. 
 — The Poets, in their elegies and songs 
 Lamenting the departed, call the groves. 
 They call upon the hills and streams, to 
 
 mourn. 
 And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they 
 
 speak. 
 In these their invocations, with a voice 
 Obedient to the strong creative power 
 Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
 More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred 
 
 birth, 
 That steal upon the meditative mind, 
 And grow with thought. Beside yon 
 spring I stood. 
 
 And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 
 One sadness, they and I. For them a 
 
 bond 
 Of brotherhood is broken : time has been 
 When, every day, the touch of human hand 
 Dislodged the natural sleep that binds 
 
 them up 
 In mortal stillness; and they ministered 
 To human comfort. Stooping down to 
 
 ^_drink,__ ~~~ 
 
 Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
 The useless fragment of a wooden bowl. 
 Green with the moss of years, and suB- 
 
 ject only 
 To the soft handling of the elements : 
 There let it lie — how foolish are such 
 
 thoughts ! 
 Forgive, them; — never — never did my 
 
 steps 
 Approach this door but she who dwelt 
 
 within 
 A daughter's welcome gave me, and I 
 
 loved her 
 As my own child. Oh, Sir ! the good die 
 
 first, 
 And they whose hearts are dry as sum- 
 mer dust 
 Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 
 Hath blessed poor Margaret for her 
 
 gentle looks. 
 When she upheld the cool refreshment 
 
 drawn 
 From that forsaken spring; and no one 
 
 came 
 But he was welcome; no one went away 
 But that it seemed she loved him. She 
 
 is dead, 
 The light extinguished of her lonely hut, 
 The hut itself abandoned to decay. 
 And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 
 
 I speak," continued he, "of One 
 
 whose stock 
 Of virtues bloomed beneath this lonely 
 
 roof. 
 She was a Woman of a steady mind. 
 Tender and deep in her excess of love; 
 Not speaking much, pleased rather with 
 
 the joy 
 Of her own thoughts : by some especial 
 
 care 
 Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
 A Being, who by adding love to peace 
 
472 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Might live on eartli a life of happiness. 
 Her wedded Partner lacked not on his 
 
 side 
 The humble worth that satisfied her heart ; 
 Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 
 Keenly industrious. She with pride 
 
 would tell 
 That he was often seated at his loom, 
 In summer, ere the mower was abroad 
 Among the dewy grass, — in early spring. 
 Ere the last star had vanished. — They 
 
 who passed 
 At evening, from behind the garden fence 
 Might hear his busy spade, which he 
 
 would ply. 
 After his daily work, until the light 
 Had failed, and every leaf and flower 
 
 were lost 
 In the dark hedges. So their days were 
 
 spent 
 In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy 
 Was their best hope, next to the God in 
 
 heaven. 
 
 Not twenty years ago, but you I think 
 Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there 
 
 came 
 Two blighting seasons, when the fields 
 
 were left 
 With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven 
 
 to add " 
 A worse affliction in the plague of war: 
 This happy Land was stricken to the 
 
 heart ! 
 A Wanderer then among the cottages, 
 I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 
 The hardships of that season : many rich 
 Sank down, as in a dream, among the 
 
 poor; 
 And of the poor did many cease to be. 
 And their place knew them not. Mean- 
 while, abridged 
 Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 
 To numerous self-denials, Margaret 
 Went struggling on through those calami- 
 tous years 
 With cheerful hope, until the second 
 
 autumn, 
 When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed 
 
 lay. 
 Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 
 Hehngered long; and, when his strength 
 returned, 
 
 He found the little he had stored, to meet 
 The hour of accident or crippling age. 
 Was all consumed. A second infant now 
 Was added to the troubles of a time 
 Laden, for *hem and all of their degree, 
 With care and sorrow; shoals of artisans 
 From ill-requited labor turned adrift 
 Sought daily bread from public charity. 
 They, and their wives and children — 
 
 happier far 
 Could they have lived as do the Httle birds 
 That peck along the hedge-rows, or the 
 
 kite 
 That makes her dwelling on the mountain 
 
 rocks ! 
 
 A sad reverse it was for him who long 
 Had filled with plenty, and possessed in 
 
 peace. 
 This lonely Cottage. At the door he 
 
 stood. 
 And whistled many a snatch of merry 
 
 tunes 
 That had no mirth in them; or vrith his 
 
 knife 
 Carved uncouth figures on the heads of 
 
 sticks — 
 Then, not less idly, sought, through every 
 
 nook 
 In house or garden, any casual work 
 Of use or ornament; and with a strange, 
 Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty. 
 He mingled, where he might, the various 
 
 tasks 
 Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
 But this endured not; his good humor 
 
 soon 
 Became a weight in which no pleasure 
 
 was: 
 And poverty brought on a petted mood 
 And a sore temper : day by day he drooped, 
 And he would leave his work — and to 
 
 the town 
 Would turn without an errand his slack 
 
 steps; 
 Or wander here and there among the 
 
 fields. 
 One while he would speak lightly of his 
 
 babes, 
 And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
 He tossed them with a false unnatural joy : 
 And 't was a rueful thing to see the looks 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 473 
 
 Of the poor innocent children. ' Every 
 
 smile,' 
 Said Margaret to me, here beneath these 
 
 trees, 
 ' Made my heart bleed.' " 
 
 At this the Wanderer paused; 
 And, looking up to those enormous elms. 
 He said, " 't is now the hour of deepest 
 
 noon. 
 At this still season of repose and peace. 
 This hour when all things which are not 
 
 at rest 
 Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies 
 With tuneful hum is filling all the air; 
 Why should a tear be on an old Man's 
 
 cheek? 
 Why should we thus, with an untoward 
 
 mind. 
 And in the weakness of humanity, 
 From natural wisdom turn our hearts 
 
 away; 
 To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears; 
 And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
 The calm of nature with our restless 
 
 thoughts? " 
 
 He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone : 
 But, when he ended, there was in his face 
 Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild, 
 That for a little time it stole away 
 All recollection; and that simple tale 
 Passed from my mind like a forgotten 
 
 sound. 
 A while on trivial things we held discourse. 
 To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, 
 I thought of that poor Woman as of one 
 Whom I had known and loved. He had 
 
 rehearsed 
 Her homely tale with such familiar power, 
 With such an active countenance, an eye 
 So busy, that the things of which he spake 
 Seemed present; and, attention now re- 
 laxed, 
 A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins. 
 I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade. 
 Stood drinking comfort from the warmer 
 
 sun. 
 That had not cheered me long — ere, 
 
 looking round 
 Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned. 
 And begged of the old Man that, for my 
 
 sake. 
 He would resume his story. 
 
 He replied, 
 " It were a wantonness, and would 
 
 demand 
 Severe reproof, if we were men whose 
 
 hearts 
 Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 
 Even of the dead; contented thence to 
 
 draw 
 A momentary pleasure, never marked 
 By reason, barren of all future good. 
 But we have known that there is often 
 
 found 
 In mournful thoughts, and always might 
 
 be found, 
 A power to virtue friendly; were 't not so, 
 I am a dreamer among men, indeed 
 An idle dreamer ! 'T is a common tale, 
 An ordinary sorrow of man's life, 
 A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
 In bodily form. — But without further 
 
 bidding 
 I will proceed. 
 
 While thus it fared with them, 
 To whom this cottage, till those hapless 
 
 years. 
 Had been a blessed home, it was my 
 
 chance 
 To travel in a country far remote; 
 And when these lofty elms once more 
 
 appeared 
 What pleasant expectations lured me on 
 O'er the flat Common ! — With quick 
 
 step I reached 
 The threshold, lifted with light hand the 
 
 latch; 
 But, when I entered, Margaret looked at 
 
 me 
 A Httle while; then turned her head away 
 Speechless, — and, sitting down upon a 
 
 chair, 
 Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do. 
 Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch ! 
 
 at last 
 She rose from off her seat, and then, — 
 
 O Sir ! 
 I cannot tell how she pronounced my 
 
 name : — 
 With fervent love, and with a face of grief 
 Unutterably helpless, and a look 
 That seemed to cling upon me, she in- 
 quired 
 If I had seen her husband. As she 
 spake 
 
474 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 A strange surprise and fear came to my 
 
 heart, 
 Nor had I power to answer ere she told 
 That he had disappeared — not two 
 
 months gone. 
 He left his house: two wretched days 
 
 had past, 
 And on the third, as wistfully she raised 
 Her head from off her pillow, to look forth, 
 Like one in trouble, for returning light. 
 Within her chamber-casement she espied 
 A folded paper, lying as if placed 
 To meet her waking eyes. This trem- 
 blingly 
 She opened — found no writing, but 
 
 beheld 
 Pieces of money carefully enclosed. 
 Silver and gold. ' I shuddered at the 
 
 sight,' 
 Said Margaret, ' for I knew it was his 
 
 hand 
 That must have placed it there; and ere 
 
 that day 
 Was ended, that long anxious day, I 
 
 learned. 
 From one who by my husband had been 
 
 sent 
 With the sad news, that he had joined a 
 
 troop 
 Of soldiers, going to a distant land. 
 — He left me thus — he could not gather 
 
 heart 
 To take a farewell of me; for he feared 
 That I should follow with my babes, and 
 
 sink 
 Beneath the misery of that wandering 
 
 Ufe.' 
 
 This tale did Margaret tell with many 
 
 tears : 
 And, when she ended, I had little power 
 To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
 Such words of hope from her own mouth 
 
 as served 
 To cheer us both. But long we had not 
 
 talked 
 Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
 And with a brighter eye she looked around 
 As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
 We parted. — 'T was the time of early 
 
 spring; 
 I left her busy with her garden tools; 
 
 And well remember, o'er that fence she 
 
 looked. 
 And, while I paced along the foot-way 
 
 path. 
 Called out, and sent a blessing after me. 
 With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 
 That seemed the very sound of happy 
 
 thoughts. 
 
 I roved o'er many a hill and many a 
 
 dale. 
 With my accustomed load; in heat and 
 
 cold. 
 Through many a wood and many an open 
 
 ground. 
 In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 
 Drooping or blithe of heart, as might 
 
 befall; 
 My best companions now the driving 
 
 winds. 
 And now the ' trotting brooks ' and whis- 
 pering trees. 
 And now the music of my own sad steps. 
 With many a short-lived thought that 
 
 passed between, 
 And disappeared. 
 
 I journeyed back this way. 
 When, in the warmth of midsummer, the 
 
 wheat 
 Was yellow; and the soft and bladed 
 
 grass. 
 Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field 
 
 spread 
 Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 
 I found that she was absent. In the shade, 
 Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
 Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore 
 Its customary look, — only, it seemed, 
 The honeysuckle, crowding round the 
 
 porch, 
 Hung down in heavier tufts; and that 
 
 bright weed. 
 The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take 
 
 root 
 Along the window's edge, profusely grew, 
 Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 
 And strolled into her garden . It appeared 
 To lag behind the season, and had lost 
 Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and 
 
 thrift 
 Had broken their trim border-lines, and 
 
 straggled 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 475 
 
 O'er p'iths they used to deck: carnations, 
 
 once 
 Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 
 For the peculiar pains they had required, 
 Declined their languid heads, wanting 
 
 support. 
 The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths 
 
 and bells, 
 Had twined about her two small rows of 
 
 peas, 
 And dragged them to the earth. 
 
 Ere this an hour 
 Was wasted. — Back I turned my restless 
 
 steps; 
 A stranger passed; and, guessing whom I 
 
 sought, 
 He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
 The sun was sinking in the west ; and now 
 I sate with sad impatience. From within 
 Her solitary infant cried aloud; 
 Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled. 
 The voice was silent. From the bench I 
 
 rose; 
 But neither could divert nor soothe my 
 
 thoughts. 
 The spot, though fair, was very desolate — 
 The longer I remained, more desolate : 
 And, looking round me, now I first ob- 
 served 
 The corner stones, on either side the porch, 
 With dull red stains discolored, and stuck 
 
 o'er 
 With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the 
 
 sheep. 
 That fed upon the Common, thither came 
 Familiarly, and found a couching-place 
 Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows 
 
 fell 
 From these tall elms; the cottage-clock 
 
 struck eight; — 
 I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 
 Her face was pale and thin — her figure, 
 
 too. 
 Was changed. As she unlocked the door, 
 
 she said, 
 ' It grieves me you have waited here so 
 
 long, 
 But, in good truth, I 've wandered much 
 
 of late; 
 And sometimes — to my shame I speak — 
 
 have need 
 Of my best prayers to bring me back 
 
 again. 
 
 While on the board she spread our evening 
 
 meal , 
 She told me — interrupting not the work 
 Which gave employment to her listless 
 
 hands — 
 That she had parted with her elder child; 
 To a kind master on a distant farm 
 Now happily apprenticed. — 'I perceive 
 You look at me, and you have cause; to- 
 day 
 I have been travelling far; and many days 
 About the fields I wander, knowing this 
 Only, that what I seek I cannot find; 
 And so I waste my time : for I am changed ; 
 And to myself, ' said she, ' have done much 
 
 wrong 
 And to this helpless infant. I have slept 
 Weeping, and weeping have I waked; 
 
 my tears 
 Have flowed as if my body were not such 
 As others are; and I could never die. 
 But I am now in mind and in my heart 
 More easy; and I hope,' said she, 'that ■ 
 
 God 
 Will give me patience to endure the things 
 Which I behold at home.' 
 
 It would have grieved 
 Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel 
 The story linger in my heart; I fear 
 'T is long and tedious; but my spirit clings 
 To that poor Woman: — so familiarly 
 Do I perceive her manner, and her look, 
 And presence ; and so deeply do I feel 
 Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my 
 
 walks 
 A momentary trance comes over me; 
 And to myself I seem to muse on One 
 By sorrow laid asleep ; or borne away, 
 A human being destined to awake 
 To human life, or something very near 
 To human life, when he shall come again 
 For whom she suffered. Yes, it would 
 
 have grieved 
 Your very soul to see her : evermore 
 Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward 
 
 were cast; 
 And, when she at her table gave me food. 
 She did not look at me. Her voice was 
 
 low. 
 Her body was subdued. In every act 
 Pertaining to her house-affairs, appeared 
 The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
 Self-occupied ; to which all outward things 
 
476 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 
 But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 
 No heaving of the heart. While by the 
 
 fire 
 We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 
 I knew not how, and hardly whence they' 
 
 came. 
 
 Ere my departure, to her care I gave, 
 For her son's use, some tokens of regard. 
 Which with a look of welcome she re- 
 ceived; 
 And I exhorted her to place her trust 
 In God's good love, and seek his help by 
 
 prayer. 
 I took my staff, and, when I kissed her 
 
 babe, 
 The tears stood in her eyes. I left her 
 
 then 
 With the best hope and comfort I could 
 
 give: 
 She thanked me for my wish; — but for 
 
 my hope 
 It seemed she did not thank me. 
 
 I returned. 
 And took my rounds along this road again 
 When on its sunny bank the primrose 
 
 flower 
 Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the 
 
 Spring. 
 I found her sad and drooping : she had 
 
 learned 
 No tidings of her husband; if he lived. 
 She knew not that he lived; if he were 
 
 dead. 
 She knew not he was dead. She seemed 
 
 the same 
 In person and appearance ; but her house 
 Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence; 
 The floor was neither dry nor neat, the 
 
 hearth 
 Was comfortless, and her small lot of 
 
 books, 
 Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore 
 Had been piled up against the corner panes 
 In seemly order, now, with straggling 
 
 leaves 
 Lay scattered here and there, open or 
 
 shut. 
 As they had chanced to fall. Her infant 
 
 Babe 
 Had from his Mother caught the trick of 
 
 grief, 
 
 And sighed among its playthings. I with- 
 drew. 
 And once again entering the garden saw. 
 More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
 Were now come nearer to her: weeds de- 
 faced 
 The hardened soil, and knots of withered 
 
 grass : 
 No ridges there appeared of clear black 
 
 mould. 
 No winter greenness; of her herbs and 
 
 flowers. 
 It seemed the better part was gnawed away 
 Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw, 
 Which had been twined about the slender 
 
 stem 
 Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root; 
 The bark was nibbled round by truant 
 
 sheep. 
 — Margaret stood near, her infant in her 
 
 arms, 
 And, noting that my eye was on the tree. 
 She said, ' I fear it will be dead and gone 
 Ere Robert come again.' When to the 
 
 House 
 We had returned together, she inquired 
 If I had any hope: — but for her babe 
 And for her little orphan boy, she said, 
 She had no wish to live, that she must die 
 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 
 Still in its place ; his Sunday garments hung 
 Upon the self-same nail; his very staff 
 Stood undisturbed behind the door. 
 
 And when. 
 In bleak December, I retraced this way, 
 She told me that her little babe was dead, 
 And she was left alone. She now, released 
 From her maternal cares, had taken up 
 The employment common through these 
 
 wilds, and gained, 
 By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 
 And for this end had hired a neighbor's 
 
 boy 
 To give her needful help. That very time 
 Most willingly she put her work aside. 
 And walked with me along the miry road, 
 Heedless how far; and, in such piteous 
 
 sort 
 That any heart had ached to hear her, 
 
 begged 
 That, whereso'er I went, I still would ask 
 For him whom she had lost. We parted 
 
 then — 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 477 
 
 Our final parting; for from that time forth 
 Did many seasons pass ere I returned 
 Into this tract again. 
 
 Nine tedious years; 
 From their first separation, nine long years, 
 She lingered in unquiet widowhood; 
 A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have 
 
 been 
 A sore heart-wasting ! I have heard, my 
 
 Friend, 
 That in yon arbor oftentimes she sate 
 Alone, through half the vacant sabbath 
 
 day; 
 And, if a dog passed by, she still would 
 
 quit 
 The shade, and look abroad. On this old 
 
 bench 
 For hours she sate; and evermore her eye 
 Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
 That made her heart beat quick. You see 
 
 that path. 
 Now faint, — the grass has crept o'er its 
 
 gray line; 
 There, to and fro, she paced through many 
 
 a day 
 Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 
 That girt her waist, spinning the long- 
 drawn thread 
 With backward steps. Yet ever as there 
 
 passed 
 A man whose garments showed the sol- 
 dier's red. 
 Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, 
 The little child who sate to turn the wheel 
 Ceased from his task; and she with 
 
 faltering voice 
 Made many a fond inquiry; and when they, 
 Whose presence gave no comfort, were 
 
 gone by. 
 Her heart was still more sad . And by yon 
 
 gate. 
 That bars the traveller's road, she often 
 
 stood, 
 And when a stranger horseman came, the 
 
 latch 
 Would lift, and in his face look wistfully; 
 Most happy, if, fromaught discovered there 
 Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
 The same sad question. Meanwhile her 
 
 poor Hut 
 Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose 
 
 hand. 
 At the first nipping of October frost, 
 
 Closed up each chink, and with fresh 
 
 bands of straw 
 Checkered the green-grown thatch. And 
 
 so she lived 
 Through the long winter, reckless and 
 
 alone; 
 Until her house by frost, and thaw, and 
 
 rain, 
 Was sapped; and while she slept, the 
 
 nightly damps 
 Did chill her breast; and in the stormy 
 
 day 
 Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the 
 
 wind. 
 Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 
 She loved this wretched spot, nor would 
 
 for worlds 
 Have parted hence; and still that length 
 
 of road. 
 And this rude bench, one torturing hope 
 
 endeared. 
 Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my 
 
 Friend, — 
 In sickness she remained; and here she 
 
 died; 
 Last human tenant of these ruined walls !" 
 
 The old Man ceased : he saw that I was 
 
 moved; 
 From that low bench, rising instinctively 
 I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
 To thank him for the tale which he had 
 
 told. 
 I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall 
 Reviewed that Woman's sufferings; and 
 
 it seemed 
 To comfort me while with a brother's love 
 I blessed her in the impotence of grief. 
 Then towards the cottage I returned; and 
 
 traced 
 Fondly, though with an interest more mild, 
 That secret spirit of humanity 
 Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies 
 Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and 
 
 flowers, 
 And silent overgrowings, still survived. 
 The old Man, noting this, resumed, and 
 
 said, 
 " My friend ! enough to sorrow you have 
 
 given. 
 The purposes of wisdom ask no more : 
 Nor more would she have craved as due 
 
 to One 
 
478 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes 
 
 felt 
 The unbounded might of prayer; and 
 
 learned, with soul 
 Fixed on the Cross, that consolation 
 
 springs. 
 From sources deeper far than deepest 
 
 pain, 
 For the meek Sufferer. Why then should 
 
 we read 
 The forms of things with an unworthy eye ? 
 She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is 
 
 here. 
 I well remember that those very plumes. 
 Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on 
 
 that wall, 
 By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, 
 As once I passed, into my heart conveyed 
 So still an image of tranquillity. 
 So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
 Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my 
 
 mind, 
 That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
 From ruin and from change, and all the 
 
 grief 
 That passing shows of Being leave behind, 
 Appeared an idle dream, that could main- 
 tain. 
 Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened 
 
 spirit 
 Whose meditative sympathies repose 
 Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away. 
 And walked along my road in happiness. ' ' 
 
 He ceased. Ere long the sun declining 
 
 shot 
 A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
 To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees. 
 We sate on that low bench : and now we 
 
 felt, 
 Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming 
 
 on. 
 A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
 A thrush sang loud, and other melodies. 
 At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
 The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly 
 
 mien 
 Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff; 
 Together casting then a farewell look 
 Upon those silent walls, we left the shade; 
 And, ere the stars were visible, had reached 
 A village-inn, — our evening vesting-place. 
 
 Book Second. 
 
 the solitary. 
 
 argument. 
 
 The Author describes his travels with the Wan- 
 derer, whose character is further illustrated^ 
 Morning scene, and View of a Village Wake — 
 Wanderer's account of a Friend whom he pur- 
 poses to visit — View, from an eminence, of the 
 Valley which his Friend had chosen for his retreat 
 — Sound of singing from below — A funeral proces- 
 sion — Descent into the Valley — Observations 
 drawn from the Wanderer at sight of a book acci' 
 dentally discovered in a recess in the Valley — 
 Meeting with the Wanderer's friend, the Solitary 
 — Wanderer's description of the mode of burial in 
 this mountainous district — Solitary contrasts with 
 this, that of the individual carried a few minutes 
 before from the cottage — The cottage entered— 
 Description of the Solitarj''s apartment — Repast 
 there — View, from the window, of two mountaiu 
 summits ; and the Solitary's description of the 
 companionship they afford him — Account of the 
 departed inmate of the cottage — Description of a 
 grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its 
 effect upon the Solitary's mind — Leave the house. 
 
 tj) days of yorg.how fortunately fared 
 TSe Minstrel ! wandering on fromTiall to 
 ■^- Eall,'- 
 
 Baronial court or royal ; cheered with gifts 
 Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise; 
 Now meeting on his road an armed knight. 
 Now resting with a pilgrim by the side 
 Of a clear brook; — beneath an abbey's 
 
 roof 
 One evening sumptuously lodged; the 
 
 next. 
 Humbly in a religious hospital; 
 Or with some merry outlaws of the wood; 
 Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. 
 Him,sleepingorawake,the robber spared; 
 He walked — protected from the sword 
 
 of war 
 By virtue of that sacred instrument 
 His harp, suspended at the traveller's side; 
 His dear companion wheresoe'er he went 
 Opening from land to land an easy way 
 By melody, and by the charm of verse. 
 Yet not the noblest of that honored Race 
 Drew happierjlqftier, m3Se"effijasSioiled, 
 
 thoughts ~ 
 
THE SOLITARY. 
 
 479 
 
 From_his long journeyings and eventful 
 
 life, ^ 
 Th an tRis obs cure Itinerant had skill 
 To gather, longing through^THe' tamer 
 
 ground 
 Of these our unimaginative days; 
 Both while he trod the earth in humblest 
 
 guise 
 Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; 
 And now, when free to move with lighter 
 
 pace. 
 
 What wonder, then, if I, whose favorite 
 "^-school"" 
 Hath be^iilhe fields, the roads, and rural 
 •" lanes. 
 
 Looked on this guide with reverential 
 
 love? 
 Each with the_pther pleased, we now pur- 
 
 sued 
 Our_jflurney, under favorable skies. 
 Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a 
 
 light 
 Unfailing: not a hamlet could we pass, 
 Rarely a house, that did not yield to him 
 Remembrances; or from his tongue call 
 
 forth 
 Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less re- 
 gard 
 Accompanied those strains of apt dis- 
 course, 
 Which nature's various objects might in- 
 spire; 
 And in the silence of his face I read 
 His overflowing spirit. Birds and beas'ts, 
 And the mute fish that glances in the 
 
 stream. 
 And harmless reptile coiling in the sun, 
 And gorgeous insect hovering in the air. 
 The fowl domestic, and the household 
 
 dog — 
 In his capacious mind, he loved them all : 
 Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. 
 Oft was occasion given me to perceive 
 How the calm pleasures of the pasturing 
 
 herd 
 To happy contemplation soothed his walk ; 
 How the poor brute's condition, forced to 
 
 run 
 Its course of suffering in the public road. 
 Sad contrast ! all too often smote his heart 
 With unavailing pity. Rich in love 
 And sweet humanity, he was, himself, 
 
 To the degree that he desired, beloved. 
 Smiles of good-will from faces that he 
 
 knew 
 Greeted us all daylong; we took our seats 
 By many a cottage-hearth, where he re- 
 ceived 
 The welcome of an Inmate from afar. 
 And I at once forgot, I was a Stranger. 
 — Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts. 
 Huts where his charity was blest ; his voice 
 Heard as the voice of an experienced 
 
 friend. 
 And, sometimes — where the poor man 
 
 held dispute 
 With his own mind, unable to subdue 
 Impatience through inaptness to perceive 
 General distress in his particular lot; 
 Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
 Struggling against it; with a soul per- 
 plexed. 
 And finding in herself no steady power 
 To draw the line of comfort that divides 
 Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 
 From the injustice of our brother men — 
 To him appeal was made as to a judge; 
 Who, with an understanding heart, al- 
 layed 
 The perturbation; listened to the plea; 
 Resolved the dubious point; and sentence 
 
 gave 
 So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 
 With softened spirit, even when it con- 
 demned. 
 
 Such intercourse I witnessed, while we 
 
 roved. 
 Now as his choice directed, now as mine; 
 Or both, with equal readiness of will. 
 Our course submitting to the changeful 
 
 breeze 
 Of accident. But when the rising sun 
 Had three times called us to renew' bur 
 
 walk. 
 My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice. 
 As iTTETe thought were but a moment old. 
 Claimed absolute dominion for the day. 
 We started — and he led me toward the 
 
 hills. 
 Up through an ample vale, with higher 
 
 hills 
 Before us, mountains stern and desolate; 
 But, in the majesty of distance, now 
 Set off, and to our ken appearing fair 
 
4^0 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Of aspect, with aerial softness clad, 
 And beautified with morning's purple 
 beams. 
 
 The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress 
 Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their 
 
 time. 
 May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs 
 Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 
 From earth the dust of morning, slow to 
 
 rise; 
 And they, if blest with health and hearts at 
 
 ease, 
 Shall lack not their enjoyment : — but how 
 
 faint 
 Compared with ours ! who, pacing side by 
 
 side. 
 Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 
 That we beheld; and lend the listening 
 
 sense 
 To every grateful sound of earth and air; 
 Pausing at will — our spirits braced, our 
 
 thoughts 
 Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown. 
 And pure as dew bathing their crimson 
 
 leaves. 
 
 Mount slowly, sun ! that we may jour- 
 ney long, 
 By this dark hill protected from thy 
 
 beams ! 
 Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent 
 
 wish; 
 But quickly from among our morning 
 
 thoughts 
 'T was chased away : for, toward the west- 
 ern side 
 Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance, 
 We saw a throng of people; wherefore 
 met? 
 J Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
 On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, 
 
 yield 
 Prompt answer; they proclaim the annual 
 
 Wake, 
 Which the bright season favors. — Tabor 
 
 and pipe 
 In purpose join to hasten or reprove 
 The laggard Rustic; and repay with boons 
 Of merriment a party-colored knot. 
 Already formed upon the village-green. 
 — Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
 By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight 
 
 That gay assemblage. Round them and 
 
 above. 
 Glitter, with dark recesses interposed. 
 Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of 
 
 trees 
 Half- veiled in vapory cloud, the silver 
 
 steam 
 Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
 By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a 
 
 mast 
 Of gold, the Maypole shines; as if the rays 
 Of morning, aided by exhaling dew. 
 With gladsome influence could re-animate 
 The faded garlands dangling from its 
 
 sides. , . I *, 
 
 Said I, "The music and the sprightly 
 scene 
 Invite us; shall we quit our road, and join 
 These festive matins?" — He replied, 
 
 "Not loth 
 To linger I would here with you partake. 
 Not one hour merely, but till evening's 
 
 close, 
 The simple pastimes of the day and place. 
 By the fleet Racers, ere the sun be set, 
 The turf of yon large pasture will be 
 
 skimmed: 
 There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall con- 
 tend: 
 But know we not that he, who intermits 
 The appointed task and duties of the day. 
 Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day; 
 Checking the finer spirits that refuse 
 To flow when purposes are lightly 
 
 changed? 
 A length of journey yet remains untraced: 
 tet us" proceed." Then, pointing with 
 
 ""his St aff ~ 
 
 Raised toward those craggy summits, hie 
 
 intent 
 He thus imparted : — 
 
 " In a spot that lies 
 Among yon mountain fastnesses con- 
 cealed. 
 You will receive, before the hour of noon, 
 Good recompense, I hope, for this daj;_'s 
 
 toil. 
 From sight of One who lives secluded 
 
 there. 
 Lonesome and lost : of whom, and whose 
 past life, 
 
THE SOLITARY. 
 
 481 
 
 (Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
 More faithfully collected from himself) 
 This brief communication shall suffice. 
 
 ' Though now sojourning there, he, like 
 ' ' myself, 
 
 Sprang from a stock of lowly_£arenta£e 
 Among the wttds of_Scotran'd, in a tract 
 •"Where many a sTieltered ari3 well-tended 
 plant. 
 Bears, on the humblest ground of social 
 
 life. 
 Blossoms of piety and innocence. 
 Such grateful promises his youth dis- 
 played: 
 And, having shown in study forward zeal. 
 H e tn the Ministry was duly call ed: 
 And straight, incited by a curious mind 
 Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the 
 
 Of_ChaplainJo_.a_j33Uitary troop 
 Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they 
 
 marched 
 In plaided vest, — his fellow-countrymen. 
 This office filling, yet by native power 
 And force of native inclination made 
 An intellectual ruler in the haunts 
 Of social vanity, he walked the world. 
 Gay, and affecting graceful gayety; 
 Lax, buoyant — less a pastor with his flock 
 Than asoldieramong soldiers — livecland 
 
 roamed 
 
 Where Fortijn.e_led : — and Fortune, who 
 
 oft proves 
 The careless wanderer's friend, to him 
 
 made known 
 _A_blcioming Lady — a conspicuous flower, 
 Admired for beauty, for her sweetness 
 
 praised; 
 Whom he had sensibility to love, 
 AmTSition to attempt, and skill to win. 
 
 For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of 
 
 mind, 
 Nor sparingly endowed with worldly 
 
 wealth. 
 His office he relinquished; and retired 
 From the world's notice to a rural home. 
 Youth's season yet with him was scarcely 
 
 past, 
 And she was in youth's prime. How free 
 
 their love, 
 How full their joy ! 'Till, pitiable doom ! 
 
 In the short course of one undreaded yeajr 
 Death blasted a.lL__ Death suddenly o'er- 
 
 threw 
 Two lovely Children — all that they pos- 
 
 sessed ! 
 The Mother jpjlpwed: — miserably bare 
 TKe one Survivor stood; he wept, he 
 
 prayed 
 For his dismissal, day and night, com- 
 pelled 
 To hold communion with the grave, and 
 
 face 
 With pain the regions of eternity. 
 An uncomplaining apathy displaced 
 This anguish: and, indifferent to delight, 
 To aim and purpose, he consumed his 
 
 days. 
 To private interest dead, and public care. 
 So lived he; so he might have died. 
 
 But now, 
 To the wide world's astonishment, ap- 
 peared 
 A glorious opening, the unlooked-for 
 
 dawn,_ 
 That promised everlasting joy to France ! 
 Her voice of social transport reached even 
 
 him ! 
 He broke from his contracted bounds, re- 
 paired 
 To the great City, an emporium then 
 Of golden expectations, and receiving 
 Freights every day from a new world of 
 
 hope. 
 Thither his popular talents he transferred ; 
 And, from the pulpit, zealously main- 
 tained 
 The cause of Christ and civil liberty, 
 As one, and moving to one glorious end. 
 Intoxicating service ! I might say 
 A happy service; for he was sincere 
 As vanity and fondness for applause, 
 And new and shapeless wishes, would 
 allow. 
 
 That righteous cause (such power hath 
 
 freedom) bound. 
 For one hostility, in friendly league. 
 Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves; 
 Was served by ri val advo cates that came 
 From regions opposite as heaven and hell. 
 One courage seemed to animate them all: 
 And, from the dazzling conquests daily 
 
 gained 
 
482 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 By their united efforts, there arose 
 A proud and most presumptuous confi- 
 dence 
 In the transcendent wisdom of the age, 
 And her discernment; not alone in rights. 
 And in the origin and bounds of power 
 Social and temporal; but in laws divine, 
 Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed. 
 An overweening trust was raised ; and fear 
 Cast out, alike of person and of thing. 
 Plague from this union spread, whose 
 
 subtle bane 
 The strongest did not easily escape; 
 And He, what wonder! took a mortal 
 
 taint. 
 How shall I trace the change, how bear 
 
 to tell 
 That he broke faith with them whom he 
 
 had laid 
 In earth's dark chambers, with a Chris- 
 tian's hope ! 
 An infidel contempt of holy writ 
 Stole by degrees upon his mind; and 
 
 hence 
 Life, like that Roman Janus, double- 
 faced; 
 Vilest hypocrisy — the laughing, gay 
 Hypocrisy, not le^ued with fear, but 
 
 pride. 
 Smooth vvo'rds he had to wheedle simple 
 
 souls; 
 But, for disciples of the inner school. 
 Old freedom was old servitude, and they 
 »The wisest whose opinions stooped the 
 least 
 To known restraints; and who most 
 
 boldly drew 
 Hopeful prognostications from a creed, 
 That, in the light of false philosophy. 
 Spread like a halo round a misty moon. 
 Widening its circle as the storms advance. 
 
 His^ s acre d functiqn_was at^ length re- 
 nounced; 
 And every day and every place enjoyed 
 The unshackled layman's natural liberty; 
 Speech, manners, morals, all without dis- 
 guise. 
 I do not wish to wrong him; though the 
 
 course 
 Of private life licentiously displayed 
 Unhallowed actions — planted like a 
 
 Upon the insolent aspiring brow 
 Of spurious notions — worn as open signs 
 Of prejudice subdued — still he retained, 
 'Mid much abasement, what he had re- 
 ceived 
 From nature, an intense and glowing 
 
 mind. 
 Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew 
 
 weak. 
 And mortal sickness on her face appeared. 
 He colored objects to his own desire 
 As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods 
 Of pain were keen as those of better men, 
 Nay keener, as his fortitude was less : 
 And he continued, when worse days were 
 
 come. 
 To deal about his sparkling eloquence. 
 Struggling against the strange reverse 
 
 with zeal 
 That showed like happiness. But, in 
 
 despite "■" ' 
 
 QlaJI.tllia.jaiitside, bravery, witjiin, 
 He neither felt encouragement norhopg: 
 For moral dignity, and strength ot-miud. 
 Were wanting; and simplicity of life; 
 And revefencefor himself; and, last and 
 
 best. 
 Confiding thoughts, through love and fear 
 
 of Him 
 Before whose sight the troubles of this 
 
 world 
 Are vain, as billows on a tossing sea. 
 ■■^ --,-,.'-- - -*j. w-'.W 
 The glgrj oj_the times fadingaway — 
 The splendor, whicFhadgiven a festal air 
 
 air 
 To self-importance, hallowed it, and 
 
 veiled 
 From his own sight — this_gone, he for- 
 feited " 
 All joy in human nature; was consumed. 
 And vexed, and chafed, by levity and 
 
 scorn, 
 And fruitless indignation ; galled by pride ; 
 Made desperate by contempt of men who 
 
 throve 
 Before his sight in power or fame, and 
 
 won. 
 Without desert, what he desired; weak 
 
 men, 
 Too weak even for -his-envy or his hate ! 
 Tormented, thus, s-tter a wandering course 
 Of discontent, and inwardly opprest 
 
THE SOLITARY. 
 
 483 
 
 With malady — in part, I fear, .provoked 
 By weariness of life — he fixed his home, 
 OrTratEer say, sate down by very chance, 
 Aniong th£se-r-«ggi3^Tuirs ; where now he 
 
 dwells, ~ - 
 
 Andjvastes the sadremainder of his hours. 
 Steeped in a _self-indulging spleen", that 
 
 wants not 
 Its own voluptuousness; — on this re- 
 solved. 
 With this content, that he will live and 
 
 die 
 Forgotten, — at safe distance from ' a 
 —• ~~ — world 
 Not moving to his mind.' " 
 
 These serious words 
 Closed the preparatory notices 
 That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile 
 The way, while we advanced up that wide 
 
 vale. 
 Diverging now (as if his quest had been 
 Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall 
 Of water, or some lofty eminence. 
 Renowned for splendid prospect far and 
 
 wide) 
 We scaled, without a track to ease our 
 
 "" steps, 
 A steep ascent; and reached a dreary 
 
 With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops 
 Before us; savage region ! which I paced 
 Dispirited: when, all at once, behold ! 
 Beneath aur .iget, a little lowly vale, 
 A lowly vale, and yet uplif^sd high 
 Among thfitnountains; even as if the spot 
 Had been from eldest time by wish of 
 
 theirs 
 So placed, to be shut .put from all the 
 
 world 1- 
 Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn; 
 With rocks encompassed, save that to the 
 
 south 
 Was one small opening, where a heath- 
 clad ridge 
 Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close ; 
 A quiet treeless nook, with two green 
 
 fields, 
 A liquid_paol_that glittered in the sun, 
 And one.-bafe dwelling; one abode, no 
 
 more ! ""^ ' 
 
 It seemed the home of poverty and toil, 
 Though not of want 1 the httle fields, 
 
 made green 
 
 By husbandry of many thrifty years. 
 
 Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland 
 house. 
 
 — There crows the cock, single in his 
 domain : 
 
 The small birds find in spring no thicket 
 there 
 
 To shroud them; only from the neigh- 
 boring vales 
 
 The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, 
 
 Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder 
 place. 
 
 Ah ! wli at a sw eet Recess, thought I, 
 is here ! 
 Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
 Upori'a bed of heath; — full many a spot 
 Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy > ^ 
 Among the mountains ; never one like this ; ■' 
 So lonesome, and so perfectly secure; 
 Not melancholy — no, for it is green, 
 And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself 
 With the few needful things that life re- 
 quires. 
 — In rugged arms how softly does it lie. 
 How tenderly protected ! Far and near 
 We have an image of the pristine earth. 
 The planet in its nakedness : were this 
 Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat. 
 First, last, and single, in the breathing 
 
 world. 
 It could not be more quiet; peace is here. 
 Or nowhere; days unrufHed by the gale 
 Of public news or private; years that pass 
 Forgetfully; uncalled upon to pay 
 The common penalties of mortal life, 
 Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 
 
 On these and kindred thoughts intent 
 
 Hay 
 In silence musing by my Comrade's side, 
 He also silent; when from out the' heart 
 Of that profound ab3'ss a solemn voice. 
 Or several voices in one solemn sound. 
 Was heard ascending; mournful, deep, 
 
 and slow 
 The cadence, as of psalms — a funeral 
 
 dirge ! 
 We listened, looking down upon the hut. 
 But seeing no one : meanwhile from below 
 The strain continued, spiritual as before; 
 And now distinctly could I recognize 
 
484 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 These words : — " Shall in the grave thy 
 
 love be know}?, 
 In death thy faithfulness z' " — " God rest 
 
 his soul ! ' ' 
 Said the old man, abruptly breaking 
 
 silence, — 
 " He is departed, and finds peace at 
 
 last! " 
 
 This scarcely spoken, and those holy 
 
 strains 
 Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band 
 ^Of rustic persons, from behind the hut 
 Bearing a coflin in the midst, with which 
 They shaped their course along the slop- 
 ing side 
 Of that small valley, singing as they 
 
 moved; 
 A sober company and few, the men 
 Bare-headed, and all decently attired! 
 Some steps when they had thus advanced, 
 
 the dirge 
 Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued 
 Recovering, to my Friend I said, " You 
 
 spake, 
 Methought, with apprehension that these 
 
 rites 
 Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat 
 This day we purposed to intrude." — "I 
 
 did so. 
 But let us hence, that we may learn the 
 
 truth : 
 Perhaps it is not he but some one else 
 For whom this pious service is performed; 
 Some other tenant of the solitude." 
 
 So, to a steep and difficult descent 
 Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag 
 " ^ to crag, 
 
 Where passage could be won; and, as 
 
 the last 
 Of the mute train, behind the heathy top 
 Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared, 
 I , more impatient in my downward course. 
 Had landed upon easy ground; and there 
 Stood waiting for my Comrade. When 
 
 behold 
 An object that enticed my steps aside ! 
 A narrow, winding, entry opened out 
 Into a platform — that lay, sheepfold-wise, 
 Enclosed between an upright mass of rock 
 And one old moss-grown wall; — a cool 
 
 recess. 
 
 And fanciful ! For where the rock and 
 
 wall 
 Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed 
 By thrusting two rude staves into the wall 
 And overlaying them with mountain sods; 
 To weather-fend a little turf-built seat 
 Whereon a full-grown man might rest, 
 
 nor dread 
 The burning sunshine, or a transient 
 
 shower; 
 But the whole plainly wrought by chil- 
 
 disals. hands ! 
 Whose skill had thronged the floor with 
 
 ~ a proud show- 
 Of _baby-hous^s, curiously arranged; 
 Nor wariliii'g ornament of walks between, 
 With mimic trees inserted in the turf. 
 And gardens interposed. Pleased with 
 
 the sight, 
 I could not choose but beckon to my 
 
 Guide, 
 Who, entering, round him threw a care- 
 less glance. 
 Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed, 
 " Lo ! what is here?" and, stooping 
 
 down, drew forth "^ ~^' — 
 
 A_book,Ji)at, in the midst of stones and 
 
 moss 
 And wreck of party-colored earthen-ware, 
 Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
 One of those petty structures. " His it 
 
 must be ! " 
 Exclaimed the Wanderer, "cannot but 
 
 be his. 
 And he is gone ! " The book, which in 
 
 my hand 
 Had opened of itself (for it was swoln 
 With searching damp, and seemingly had 
 
 lain 
 To the injurious elements exposed 
 From week to week, ) I found to be a work 
 In the Er,ench tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 
 His famous Optimist. " Unhappy"HST" 
 Exclaimed my Friend: '^Heremen nas 
 
 been to him 
 Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place ^ 
 Within how deep a shelter ! He hadJitS;'/ 
 Ever) to the last, of genuine tenderness, 
 And loved the haunts of children:' here, 
 
 no doubt. 
 Pleasing and pleased, he shared their 
 
 simple sports. 
 Or sate companionless; and here the book, 
 
THE SOLITARY. 
 
 48s 
 
 Left and forgotten in his careless way, 
 
 Must by tile cottage-children have been 
 found: 
 
 Heaven bless them, and their inconsider- 
 ate work ! 
 
 To what odd purpose have the darlings 
 turned 
 
 This sad memorial of their hapless 
 friend ! ' ' 
 
 " Me," said I, " most doth it surprise, 
 
 to find 
 Such book in such a place ! " — * ' A book 
 
 it is," 
 He answered, " to the Person suited well, 
 Though little suited to surrounding things : 
 jr'T is strange, I grant; and stranger still 
 
 had been 
 To see the Man who owned it, dwelling 
 
 here, 
 With one poor shepherd, far from all the 
 
 world ! — 
 Now, H our errand hath been thrown 
 
 away, 
 As from these intimations I forebode. 
 Grieved" shall f be — less for my sake 
 
 than yours. 
 And least of all for him who is no more." 
 
 ^' 
 
 By this, the book was in the old Man's 
 
 s,,-" hand; 
 
 "And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
 
 i-'An eye of scorn: — "The lover," said 
 
 ; he, "doomed 
 
 To love when hope hath failed him — 
 
 whom no depth 
 Of privacy is deep enough to hide. 
 Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair. 
 And that is joy to him. When change 
 
 of times 
 Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do 
 
 but give 
 The faithful servant, who must hide his 
 
 head 
 Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 
 A kerchief sprinkled with his master's 
 
 blood. 
 And he too hath his comforter. How 
 
 poor, -"" 
 
 Beyond aTlpoverty how destitute, 
 Must -that Man have been left, who, 
 
 hither driven. 
 
 Flying or seeking, could yet l!ring_with 
 
 -him- 
 Nojiearer relique, and no better stay. 
 Than this dialTpfoduclrcrf-a scoffer's pen. 
 Impure conceits dischargihgfrom a heart 
 Hardened by impious pride ! — I did not 
 
 fear 
 To tax you with this journey; " — mildly 
 
 said 
 My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped 
 Into the presence of the cheerful hght — 
 " For I have knowledge that you do not 
 
 shrink 
 From moving-spectacles ; — but let us on. " 
 
 So speaking, on he went, and at the 
 
 word 
 I followed, till he made a sudden stand: 
 For full in view, approaching through a 
 
 gate 
 That opened from the enclosure of green 
 
 fields 
 Into the rough uncultivated ground, 
 Behold the Man whom he had fancied 
 
 dead ! 
 I knew from his deportment, mien, and 
 
 dress. 
 That it could be no other; a pale face, 
 A meagre person, tall, and in a garb 
 Not rustic — dull and faded like himself! 
 He saw us not, though distant but few 
 
 steps; 
 For he was busy, dealing, from a store 
 Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings 
 Of red ripe currants; gift by which he 
 
 strove. 
 With intermixture of endearing words. 
 To soothe a Child, who walked beside 
 
 him, weeping 
 As if disconsolate. — "They to the grave 
 Are bearing him , my Little-one, ' ' he said, 
 ' ' To the dark pit ; but he will feel no pain ; 
 His body is at rest, his soul in heaven." 
 
 More might have followed — but my 
 
 honored Friend 
 Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 
 And cordial greeting. — Vivid was the light 
 That flashed and sparkled from the other's 
 
 eyes; 
 He was all fire : no shadow on his brow 
 Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face. 
 
486 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Hands joined he with his Visitant, — a 
 
 grasp, 
 An eager grasp; and many moments' 
 
 space — 
 When the first glow of pleasure was no 
 
 more. 
 And, of the sad appearance which at once 
 Had vanished, much was come and 
 
 coming back — 
 An amicable smile retained the life 
 Which it had unexpectedly received. 
 Upon his hollow cheek. " How kind," 
 
 he said, 
 " Nor could your coming have been better 
 
 timed; 
 For this, you see, is in our narrow world 
 A day of sorrow. I have here a charge ' ' — 
 And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly 
 The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping 
 
 child— ' 
 " A little mourner, whom it is my task 
 To comfort; — but how came ye? — if yon 
 
 track 
 (Which doth at once befriend us and be- 
 tray) 
 Conducted hither your most welcome feet, 
 Ye could not miss the funeral train — they 
 
 yet 
 Have scarcely disappeared." 
 
 *' This blooming Child," 
 Said the old Man, "is of an age to weep 
 At any grave or solemn spectacle. 
 Inly distjressed or overpowered with awe, 
 He knows not wherefore; — but the boy 
 ; to-day. 
 
 Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears; you 
 
 also 
 Must have sustained a loss. ' ' 
 
 "The hand of Death," 
 He answered, " has been here; but could 
 
 not well 
 Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 
 Upon myself." — The other left these 
 
 words 
 Unnoticed, thus continuing — 
 
 " From yon crag, 
 Down whose steep sides we dropped into 
 
 the vale, 
 We heard the hymn they sang — a solemn 
 
 sound 
 Heard anywhere; but in a place like this 
 'T is more than human ! Many precious 
 
 rites 
 
 And customs of our rural ancestry 
 
 Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope, 
 
 Will last forever. Oft on my way have I 
 
 Stood still, though but a casual passenger. 
 
 So much I felt the awfulness of life. 
 
 In that one moment when the corse is 
 
 lifted 
 In silence, with a hush of decency; 
 Then from the threshold moves with song 
 
 of peace. 
 And confidential yearnings, towards its 
 
 home. 
 Its final home on earth. What traveller — 
 
 who — 
 (How far soe'er a stranger) does not own 
 The bond of brotherhood, when he sees 
 
 them go, 
 A mute procession on the houseless road; 
 Or passing by some single tenement 
 Or clustered dwellings, where again they 
 
 raise 
 The monitory voice ? But most of all 
 It touches, it confirms, and elevates^ 
 Then, when the body, soon to be consigned 
 Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust. 
 Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward 
 
 borne 
 Upon the shoulders of the next in love. 
 The nearest in affection or in blood; 
 Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt 
 Beside the coffin, resting on its lid 
 In silent grief their unuplifted heads, 
 And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's 
 
 mournful plaint. 
 And that most awful scripture which de- 
 clares 
 We shall not sleep, but we shall all be 
 
 changed ! 
 — Have I not seen — ye likewise may have 
 
 seen — 
 Son, husband, brothers — brothers side bj 
 
 side. 
 And son and father also side by side, 
 Rise from that posture : — and in concert 
 
 move, 
 On the green turf following the vested 
 
 Priest, 
 Four dear supporters of one senseless 
 
 weight. 
 From which they do not shrink, and under 
 
 which 
 They faint not, but advance towards the 
 
 open grave 
 
THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Step after step — together, with their firm 
 Unhidden faces : he that suffers most, 
 He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps. 
 The most serene, with most undaunted 
 
 eye ! — 
 Oh ! blest are they who live and die like 
 
 these, 
 Loved with such love, and with such 
 
 sorrow mourned ! " 
 
 \: " That poor Man taken hence to-day,'' 
 " replied 
 
 The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
 Which did not please me, "must be 
 J^ deemed, I fear. 
 Of the unblest; for he will surely sink 
 Into his mother earth without such pomp 
 ,Of_griet^-depart without occasion given" 
 By him, for _siLch array of fortitude. 
 Full seventy winters hath he lived, and 
 
 mark ! 
 This simple Child will mourn his one short 
 
 hour, 
 And I shall miss him: scanty tribute ! yet, 
 TETs^wanting, he would leave the sight of 
 
 men. 
 If love were his sole claim upon their care, 
 Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 
 "Without a hand to gather it." 
 
 At this 
 I interposed, though loth to speak, and 
 
 said, 
 " Can it be thus among so small a band 
 As ye must needs be here ? in such a place 
 I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 
 Of a departing cloud." — " 'Twas not for 
 
 love " — 
 Answered the sick Man with a careless 
 
 voice — 
 " That I came hither; neither have I found 
 Among associates who have power of 
 
 speech, 
 Nor in such other converse as is here. 
 Temptation so prevailing as to change 
 That mood, or under mine my first resolve." 
 Then, speaking in like careless sort, he 
 
 said 
 To my benign Companion, — "Pity 't is 
 That fortune did not guide you to this 
 
 house 
 A few days earlier; then would you have 
 
 seen 
 What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude. 
 
 That seems by Nature hollowed out to be 
 The seat and bosom of pure innocence, 
 Are made of; an ungracious matter this! 
 Which, for truth's sake, yet in remem- 
 brance too 
 Of past discussions with this zealous friend 
 And advocate of humble life, I now 
 Will force upon his notice; undeterred 
 By the example of his own pure course. 
 And that respect and deference which a 
 
 soul 
 May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched 
 In what she most doth value, love of God 
 And his frail creature Man; — but ye shall 
 
 hear. 
 I ialk — and ye are standing in the sun 
 Without refreshment ! " 
 
 Quickly had he spoken, 
 And, with light steps still quicker than his 
 
 words, 
 Led toward the Cottage. Homely was 
 
 the spot; 
 And, to my feeling, ere we reached the 
 
 door. 
 Had almost a forbidding nakedness; 
 Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair. 
 Than it appeared when from the beetling 
 
 rock 
 We had looked down upon it. All within, 
 As left by the departed company, 
 Was silent; save the SQ litary cl ock 
 That on mine ear tickecTwith a mourn- 
 ful sound. — 
 Following our Guide we clomb the cottage- 
 stairs 
 And reached a small apartment dark and 
 
 low, 
 Which was no sooner entered than our 
 
 Host 
 Said gayly, " This is my domain, my cell, 
 My hermitage, my cabin, what you will — 
 I love it better than a snail his house. 
 But now ye shall be feasted with our 
 best." 
 
 So, with more ardor than an unripe girl 
 Left one day mistress of her mother's 
 
 stores. 
 He went about his hospitable task. 
 My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no 
 
 less. 
 And pleased I looked upon my gray- 
 . haired Friend, 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 As if to thank him ; he returned that look, 
 Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What 
 
 a wreck 
 Had we about us ! scattered was the floor, 
 And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and 
 
 shelf, 
 With books, maps, fossils, withered 
 
 plants and flowers. 
 And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic 
 
 tools 
 Lay intermixed with scraps,otpaper,some 
 Scribbled with verse : a broken angling- 
 rod _, 
 And shattered telescopCj together linked 
 By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook; 
 And Xnstruroent^ of music, some half- 
 made. 
 Some in disgrace, hung dangling frj)m 
 
 ,the_waU*.- 
 But speedily the promise was fulfilled; 
 A feast before us, and a courteous Host 
 Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 
 A napkin, white as foam of that rough 
 
 brook 
 By which it had been bleached, o'erspread 
 
 the board; 
 And was itself half-covered with a store 
 Of dainties, — oaten bread, curd, cheese, 
 
 and crealfrr ~~~~ 
 
 And cakes oF butter curiously embossed, 
 Butter thaf had imbibed from meadow- 
 flowers 
 A golden hue, delicate as their own 
 Faintly reflected in a lingering stream. 
 Nor lacked, for more delight on that 
 
 warm day. 
 Our table, small parade of .gardenLiruits, 
 And whortle-berries from the mountain 
 
 side. 
 The Qhild, who long ere this had stilled 
 
 his sobs. 
 Was now a help to his late comforter, 
 And m_oved,^willing£agej_as he was bid. 
 Ministering to our need. 
 
 , In genial mood, 
 
 While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
 Fronting the window of that little cell, 
 I could npt,„ever and anon, forbear 
 To glancj a n upw ard look on two huge 
 
 , Peaks. 
 That from some other vale peered into this. 
 "Those lusty twins," exclaimed our 
 host, " if here 
 
 It were your lot to dwell, would soon 
 
 become 
 Your prized companions. — Many are the 
 
 ~ notes 
 
 Which, in his tuneful course, the wind 
 
 draws forth 
 From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and 
 
 dashing shores; 
 And well those lofty brethren bear their 
 
 part 
 In the wild concert — chiefly when the 
 
 storm 
 Rides high; then all the upper air they fill 
 With roaring sound, that ceases not to 
 
 flow, 
 Like smoke, along the level of the blast. 
 In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song 
 Of stream and headlong flood that seldom 
 
 fails; 
 And, in the grim and breathless hour of 
 
 noon, 
 Methinks that I have heard them echo 
 
 back 
 The thunder's greeting. Nor have 
 
 nature's laws 
 Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
 Music of finer tone; a harmony. 
 So do I call it, though it be the hand 
 Of silence, though there be no voice; — 
 
 the clouds. 
 The mist, the shadows, light of golden 
 
 suns, • 
 
 Motions of moonlight, all come thither 
 
 — touch. 
 And have an answer — thither come, and 
 
 shape 
 A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 
 And idle spirits: — there the sun himself. 
 At the calm close of summer's longest 
 
 day. 
 Rests his substantial orb; — between those 
 
 heights 
 And on the top of either pinnacle. 
 More keenly than elsewhere in night's 
 
 blue vault. 
 Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. 
 Thoughts are not busier in the mind of 
 
 man 
 Than the mute agents stirring there : — 
 
 alone 
 Here do I sit and watch — " 
 
 A fall of voice, 
 Regretted like the nightingale's last note. 
 
THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Had scarcely closed this high-wrought 
 
 strain of rapture 
 Ere ,with inviting smile the Wanderer 
 
 said: ^ i^<^\^^^■ 
 
 " Now for the tale" with which you 
 
 threatened us! " 
 "In truth the threat escaped me unawares : 
 Should the tale tire you, let this challenge 
 
 stand 
 ■For my excuse. Dissevered from man- 
 kind, 
 As to your eyes and thoughts we must 
 
 have seemed 
 When ye looked down upon us from the 
 
 crag, 
 Islanders 'mid a stormy mountain sea, 
 We are not so; — perpetually we touch 
 Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world; 
 And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day 
 Relinquished, lived dependent for his 
 
 bread 
 Upon the laws of public charity. 
 The Housewife, tempted by such slender 
 
 gains 
 As might from that occasion be distilled. 
 Opened, as she before had done for me, 
 Her doors to admit this homeless Pen- 
 sioner; 
 The portion gave of coarse but whole- 
 some fare 
 Which appetite required — a blind dull 
 
 nook. 
 Such as she had, the kennel of his rest ! 
 This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 
 111 borne in earlier life; but his was now 
 The still contentedness of seventy years^. 
 CnmTJidhesit under"tHe"wide^sprea'd"tree 
 Of his old age: and yet less calm and 
 
 meek, 
 Winningly meek or venerably calm. 
 Than slow and torpid; paying in this wise 
 A penalty, if penalty it were. 
 For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. 
 I loved the old Man, for I pitied him ! 
 A task it was, I own, to hold discourse 
 With one so slow in gathering up his 
 
 thoughts. 
 But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes; 
 Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way. 
 And helpful to his utmost power: and 
 
 there 
 Our housewife knew full well what she 
 possessed ! 
 
 He was her vassal ai.alUaior,- tilled. 
 Her garden, from the pastflre fetched her 
 
 kinc; 
 And, one among the orderly array 
 01 hay-.makers, beneath the burning sun 
 Maintained his place ; or heedfully pursued 
 His course, on errands bound, to other 
 
 vales. 
 Leading sometimes an inexperienced 
 
 child 
 Too young for any profitable task. 
 So moved he hke a shadow that performed 
 Substantial service. Mark me now, and 
 
 learn 
 For what reward ! — The moon her 
 
 monthly round 
 Hath not completed since our dame, the 
 
 queen 
 Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, 
 Into my little sanctuary rushed — 
 Voice to a rueful treble humanized. 
 And features in deplorable dismay. 
 I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! 
 It is most serious : per5ev.ering^r_ai_n 
 Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain 
 
 tops 
 Were hidden, and black vapors coursed 
 
 their sides; 
 This had I seen, and saw; but, till she 
 
 spake. 
 Was wholly ignorant that my ancient 
 
 Friend — 
 Who at her bidding, early and alone, 
 Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland 
 
 turf 
 For winter fuel — to his noontide meal 
 Returned not, and now, haply, on the 
 
 heights 
 Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 
 ' Inhuman ! ' — said I, ' was an old Man's 
 
 life 
 Not worth the trouble of a thought? — 
 
 alas ! 
 This notice comes too late.' With joy I 
 
 saw 
 Her hi^hand_enter — from a distant vale. 
 We sallied forth together: found the tools 
 Which the neglected veteran had 
 
 dropped, 
 But through ali quarters looked for him 
 
 in vain. 
 We shouted — but no answer ! Darkness 
 ■ fell 
 
490 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Without remission of the blast or shower, 
 And fears f or»our own safety drove us 
 home. 
 
 I, who weep little, did, I will confess. 
 The moment I was seated here alone, 
 Honor my little cell with some few tears 
 Which anger and resentment could not 
 
 dry. 
 All riight the storm endured; and, soon 
 
 as" help ~" 
 
 Had been collected from the neighboring 
 
 vale, 
 With morning we renewed our quest : the 
 
 wind 
 "Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 
 Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist; 
 And long and hopelessly we sought in vain : 
 Till, chancing on that IssUxjiSge^to pass 
 A heap of ruin — almost without walls 
 And wholly without roof (the bleached 
 
 remains 
 Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time. 
 The peasants of these lonely valleys used 
 To meet ' for worship on that central 
 
 height) — 
 We there espied the object of our search. 
 Lying full three parts buried among tjifts 
 Of heath-plant, under and above him 
 
 strewn, 
 To bafHe, as he might, the watery storm : 
 And there we found him breathing peace- 
 ably, 
 Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 
 *Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 
 We spake — he made reply, but would not 
 
 stir 
 
 At our entreaty; less from want of power 
 
 Than apprehension and bewildering 
 
 t-^- thoughts. 
 
 ■ _5. ^ 
 
 ^' So was he lifted gently from the ground. 
 And with their freight homeward the 
 
 shephetds moy^jd 
 ' Through the dull mist, I following — when 
 
 a step, 
 A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
 Of the blind vapor, opened to my view 
 Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
 : By waking sense or by the dreaming soul ! 
 The appearance, instantaneously dis- 
 closed. 
 Was of a mighty city — boldly say 
 A wilderness of building, sinking far 
 
 And self-withdrawn into a boundless 
 
 depth. 
 Far sinking into splendor — without end! 
 Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold. 
 With alabaster domes, and silver spires. 
 And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 
 Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright, 
 In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt 
 With battlements that on their restless 
 
 fronts 
 Bore stars — illumination of all gems ! 
 By earthly nature had the effect been 
 
 wrought 
 Upon the dark materials of the storm 
 Now pacified; on them, and on the coves 
 And mountain steeps and summits, where- 
 
 unto 
 The vapors had receded, taking there 
 Their station under a cerulean sky. 
 Oh, 't was an unimaginable sight ! 
 Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and 
 
 emerald turf. 
 Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire 
 
 sky. 
 Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed. 
 Molten together, and composing thus. 
 Each lost in each, that marvellous array 
 Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
 Fantastic pomp of structure without name. 
 In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. 
 Right in the midst, where interspace ap- 
 peared 
 Of open court, an object like a throne 
 Under a shining canopy of state 
 Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were 
 
 seen 
 To implements of ordinary use. 
 But vast in size, in substance glorified; 
 Shs!?-^'* '^y .Hebrew_gio-phets, wpre.beheld 
 In visign_-— forms uncouth of mightiest 
 
 power 
 For admiration and mysterious awe. 
 This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man, 
 Lay low beneath my feet; 't wasvisible — 
 I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 
 That which Ixawv/as the revealed abode 
 or Spirits in beatitudes my heart "-^ 
 Swelled in my breast — ' I have been dead,' 
 
 I cried, 
 ' And now I live ! Oh ! wherefore do 1 
 
 live?' 
 And with that pang I prayed to be no 
 
 more ! — 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 491 
 
 — But I forget our Charge, as utterly 
 I then forgot him: — there I stood and 
 
 gazed : 
 The 5ipparitipn faded not away, 
 And I descended. 
 
 Having reached the house, 
 I found its rescued inmate safely lodged. 
 And in serene possession of himself, 
 Beside a fire whose genial warmth seemed 
 
 met 
 By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam. 
 Of comfort, spread over his pallid face. 
 Great show of joy the housewife made, 
 
 and truly 
 Was glad to find her conscience set at 
 
 ease; 
 And not less glad, for sake of her good 
 
 name. 
 That the poor Sufferer had escaped with 
 
 Ufe. 
 But, though he seemed at first to have re- 
 ceived 
 No^harrn, and uncomplaining as before 
 Went through his usual tasks, a silent 
 
 change 
 Soon showed itself: he lingered three 
 
 short weeks; 
 And from file cottage hath been borne 
 
 to-day. 
 
 So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am 
 That it is ended." At these words he 
 
 _tujned — ~ ■ '"" 
 
 And, with blithe air of open fellowship, 
 Brought from the cupboard wine and 
 
 stouter cheer. 
 Like on'fe'who would be merry. Seeing 
 
 this. 
 My gray-haired Friend said courteously — 
 
 "Nay, nay. 
 You have regaled us as a hermit ought; 
 Now let us forth into the sun ! " — Our Host 
 Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we 
 
 went. 
 
 Book Third. 
 
 despondency. 
 
 argument. 
 
 Images in the Valley — Another Recess in it 
 entered and described — Wanderer's sensations — 
 
 Solitary's excited by the same objects — Contrast 
 between these — Despondency of the Solitary 
 gently reproved — Conversation exhibiting the 
 Solitary's past and present opinions and feelings, 
 till he enters upon his own History at length — 
 His domestic felicity — Afflictions — Dejection 
 Roused by the French Revolution — Disappoint- 
 ment and disgust — Voyage to America — Dis- 
 appointment and disgust pursue him — His return 
 — His languor and depression of mind, from want 
 of faith in the great truths of Religion, and want 
 of confidence in the virtue of Maultind. 
 
 A HUMMJNGEEE — a little tinkling rill — 
 A pair of falcons wheeling on the wmg. 
 In clamorous agitation, round the crest 
 Of a tall rock, their airy citadel — 
 By eacH'and all of these the pensive ear 
 Was greeted, in the silence that ensued. 
 When through the cottage-threshold we 
 
 had passed. 
 And, deep within that lonesome valley, 
 
 stood 
 Once more beneath the concave of a blue 
 And cloudless sky. — Anon exclaimed our 
 
 Host — 
 Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt 
 The shade of discontent which on his brow 
 Had gathered, — "Ye have left my cell, — 
 
 but see 
 How Nature hems you in with friendly 
 
 arms ! 
 And by her help ye are my prisoners still. 
 But which way shall I lead you? — how 
 
 contrive. 
 In spot so parsimoniously endowed, 
 That the brief hours, which yet remain, 
 
 may reap 
 Some recompense of knowledge or de- 
 light?" 
 Sosaying, round he looked, as if perplexed ; 
 And, to remove those doubts, my gray- 
 haired Friend 
 Said — " Shall we take this pathway for 
 
 our guide ?:^ — 
 Upward it winds, as if, in summer heats. 
 Its line had first been fashioned by the flock 
 Seeking a place of refuge at the root 
 Of yon black Yew-tree, whose protruded 
 
 boughs 
 Darken the silver bosom of the crag, 
 From which she draws her meagre sus- 
 tenance. 
 There in commodious shelter may we rest. 
 
492 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Or let us trace this streamlet to its source; 
 Feebly it tinkles with an earthly sound, 
 And a few steps may bring us to the spot 
 Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and 
 
 green herbs. 
 The mountain infant to the sun comes 
 
 forth. 
 Like humanlif e from darkness. ' ' — A quick 
 
 turn 
 Through a strait passage of encumbered 
 
 ground, 
 Proved that such hope was vain: — for 
 
 now we stood 
 Shut out from prospect of the open vale, 
 And sawTlTe'water, that composed this rill. 
 Descending, disembodied, and diffused 
 O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag. 
 Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower. 
 All further progress here was barred; — 
 
 And who, 
 Thought I, if master of a vacant hour, 
 Here would not linger, willingly detained ? 
 Whether to such wild objects he were led 
 When copious rains have magnified the 
 
 stream 
 Into a loud and white-robed waterfall. 
 Or introduced at this more quiet time. 
 
 Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 
 ^.. The h i dden nook discovered to our view 
 
 A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay 
 '^ Right at the foot of that moist precipice, 
 ,'A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that 
 ■'' rests 
 
 Fearless of winds and waves. Three 
 
 several stones 
 Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
 To monumental pillars: and, from these 
 Some little space disjoined a pair were 
 
 seen. 
 That with united shoulders bore aloft 
 A fragment, like an altar, flat and smooth : 
 Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared 
 A tall and shining holly, that had found 
 A hospitable chink, and stood upright, 
 As if inserted by some human hand 
 In mockery, to wither in the sun, 
 Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze. 
 The first that entered. But no breeze did 
 
 now 
 Find entrance; — high or low appeared 
 
 no trace 
 Of motion, save the water that descended. 
 
 Diffused adown that barrier of steep rock, 
 And softly creeping, like a breath of air, 
 Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly 
 
 seen. 
 To brush the still breast of a crystal lake. 
 
 " Behold a cabinet for sages built, ''] 
 Which kings might envy! " — Praise to 
 
 this effect '> 
 
 Broke from the happy old Man's reverend 
 
 lip; 
 
 Who to the Solitary turned, and said, 
 " In sooth, with love's familiar privilege, 
 You have decried the wealth which is your 
 
 own. 
 Among these rocks and stones, methinks, 
 
 I see 
 More than the heedless impress that be- 
 longs 
 To lonely nature's casual work : they bear 
 A semblance strange of power intelligent, 
 And of design not wholly worn away. 
 Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind, 
 How gracefully that slender shrub looks 
 
 forth 
 From its fantastic birthplace ! And I own, 
 Some shadowy intimations haunt me 
 
 ifixe. 
 That in these shows^a chronicle survives 
 Of purposes akin tojhose of Man, 
 Bvit wrought with mightier arm than now 
 prevails. 
 
 — Voiceless the stream descends into the 
 
 gulf 
 With timid lapse; — and lo ! while in this 
 
 strait 
 I stand — the chasm of sky above my head 
 Is heaven's profoundest azure ; no domain 
 For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy. 
 Or to pass through ; but rather an abyss 
 In which the everlasting stars abide; 
 And whose soft gloom, and boundless 
 
 depth, might tempt 
 The curious eye to look for them by day. 
 
 — Hail_Contemplation ! from the stately 
 
 towers^ ^ 
 
 Reared by the industrious hand of human 
 
 art 
 To lift thee high above the misty air 
 And turbulence of murmuring cities vast; 
 From academic groves, that have for thee 
 Been planted, hither come and find a 
 
 lodge ■ ' 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 493 
 
 To which thou mayst resort for holier 
 
 peasSj.— - 
 
 From whose calm centre thou, through 
 
 height or depth, 
 Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall 
 
 lead; 
 Measuring through all degrees, until the 
 
 scale 
 Of time and conscious nature disappear. 
 Lost in unsearchable eternity ! " ^ 
 
 * A pause ensued; and with minuter care 
 We scanned the various features of the 
 ^_-.4 scene : 
 
 And soon the Tenant of that lonely vale 
 With courteous voice thus spake — 
 
 " I should have grieved 
 Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach, 
 If from my poor retirement ye had gone 
 Leaving this nook unvisited: but, in 
 
 sooth, 
 Your unexpected presence had so roused 
 My spirits, that they were bent on enter- 
 prise; 
 And, like an ardent hunter, I forgot, 
 Or, shall I say? — disdained, the game 
 
 that lurks 
 At my own door. The shapes before our 
 
 eyes 
 And their arrangement, doubtless must 
 
 be deemed 
 The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance 
 Rudely to mock the works of toiling Man. 
 And hence, this upright shaft of unhewn 
 
 stone. 
 From Fancy, willing to set off her stores 
 By sounding titles, hath acquired the name 
 Of Pompey's pillar; that I gravely style 
 My Theban obelisk; and, there, behold 
 A Druid cromlech ! — thus I entertain 
 The antiquarian liumor,_and am pleased 
 To skim along the surfaces of things, 
 •Beguiling harmlessly the hstless hours. 
 But if the spirit be. oppressed by sense_ 
 ..pf instabiUty, revolt, decay. 
 And change, and emptiness, these freaks 
 
 of Nature 
 And her blind helper Chance, do then 
 
 suffice 
 To quicken, and to aggravate — to feed 
 Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride, 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 Not less than that huge Pile (from some 
 
 abyss 
 Of mortal power unquestionably sprung) 
 Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks 
 Confines the shrilled-voiced whirlwind, 
 
 round and round 
 Eddying within its vast circumference, 
 On Sarum's naked plain — than pyramid 
 Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved — 
 Or Syria's marble ruins towering high 
 Above the sandy desert, in the light 
 Of sun or moon. — Forgive me, if I say 
 That an appearance which hath raised 
 
 your minds 
 To an exalted pitch (the self-same cause 
 Different effect producing) is for me 
 Fraught rather with depression thari de- 
 light. 
 Though shame it were, could I not look 
 
 around, 
 By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 
 Yet happier in my judgment, even than 
 
 you 
 With your bright transports fairly maybe 
 
 deemed, 
 The wandering Herbalist, — who, clear 
 
 alike 
 From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing 
 
 thoughts, 
 Casts, if he ever chance to enter here. 
 Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard 
 Of transitory interest, and peeps round 
 For some rare floweret of the h.lls, or 
 
 plant 
 Of craggy fountain; what he hopis for 
 
 wins, 
 Or learns, at least, that 't is not to be won : 
 Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed 
 
 hound. 
 By soul-engrossing instinct driven along 
 Through wood or open field, the harmless 
 
 Man 
 Departs, intent upon hi.s^opward quest ! — 
 Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I, 
 Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft 
 By scars which his activity has left 
 Beside our roads and pathways, though, 
 
 thank Heaven ! 
 This covert nook reports not of his hand) 
 He who with pocket-hammer smites the 
 
 edge 
 Of luckless rock of prominent stone, dis- 
 guised 
 
494 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 In weather-stains or crusted o'er by 
 Nature 
 
 With her first growths, detaching by the 
 stroke 
 
 A chip or splinter — to resolve his doubts; 
 
 And, with that ready answer satisfied, 
 
 The substance classes by some barbarous 
 name. 
 
 And hurries on; or from the fragments 
 picks 
 
 His specimen, if but haply interveined 
 
 With sparkling mineral, or should crystal 
 cube 
 
 Lurk in its cells — and thinks himself en- 
 riched, 
 
 Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than be- 
 fore ! 
 
 Intrusted safely each to his pursuit, 
 
 Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill 
 
 Range; if it please them, speed from clime 
 to clime; 
 
 The mind is full — and free from pain their 
 pastime." 
 
 " Then," said I, interposing, " One is 
 near, 
 Who cannot but possess in your esteem 
 PlasSJS'xirthieritilLpteiiyj. MayTname, 
 Without offence, that fair-faced cottage- 
 boy? 
 Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form, 
 Youngest appretiticejn the_sch.Qol of art ! 
 Him, as we entered from the open glen,' 
 You might have noticed, busily engaged, 
 Heart, soul, and hands, — in men ding the 
 
 defects ' '" 
 
 Left in, the fabric of a leafy dam 
 Raised for enabling this penurious stream 
 To turn a slender mill (that new-made 
 
 plaything) 
 For his delight — the happiest he, oLaik' " 
 
 "Far happiest," answered the de- 
 '■, sponding Man, 
 
 "II, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
 Ah ! what avails imagination high 
 Or question deep? what profits all that 
 
 earth, 
 Or heaven's blue vault, is suffered to put 
 
 forth 
 Of impulse or aljurement, forjhe Soul 
 To quit the beaten track of life, and soar 
 Far as she finds a yielding element 
 
 In past or future ; far as she can go 
 THrcTtrgh 'tiirie~or space — if neither in 
 
 the one. 
 Nor in the other region, nor in aught 
 That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of 
 
 things. 
 Hath placed beyond these penetrable 
 
 bounds. 
 Words of assurance can be heard; if no- 
 where 
 A habitation, for consummate good, 
 Or for progressive vJtUig, by the search 
 Can be attained, — a better sanctuary 
 From doubt and s6rrow,.tHan the sense- 
 less grave? " 
 
 "Is this," the gray-haired Wanderer 
 mildly said, ~ 
 
 " The voice, which we so lately over- 
 heard, 
 To that same child, addressing tenderly 
 Theeonaolatinus^oi a iopeful mind ? ~^ 
 ' I?isJiaify.-ii.Mt_re^^> Ml soul in heaven.' 
 These were your words; and, verify^ infe- 
 
 thinks 
 WisdfliDJajjft^timesjifi^ier when we stoop 
 Than when we_ soatill — ~ 
 
 The Other, not displeased, 
 Promptly replied — "My notion is the 
 
 same. 
 And L-withojiLceluctance, couldjiecline 
 ^H^L-oUnquisition wdience_we rise,~ 
 And what,, when breath hathjcea^^, we 
 
 may become. .- 
 Here are we, in a bright. and breathing 
 
 world^ 
 XhiLOrigin, what.roattfiisjt? In lack 
 Of worthier explanation, say at once 
 With the American (a thought which suits 
 The place where now we stand) that cer- 
 tain men 
 Leapt out together_frqm a rocky cave; 
 Xnd these were the first parents of man- 
 kind: 
 Or, if a different image be recalled 
 By the warm sunshine, and the jocund 
 
 voice 
 Of insects chirping out their careless lives 
 On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled 
 
 turf. 
 Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
 As sound — blithe race ! whose mantles 
 were bedecked 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 495 
 
 With golden grasshoppers,- in sign that 
 
 they ' 
 
 Had ipxuijgj like those bright creatures, 
 
 from^he soil_ 
 Whereon their endless generations dwelt. 
 But stop ! — these theoretic fancies jar 
 On serious minds : then, as the Hindoos 
 
 draw_ 
 rheir holy Ganges from a skiey fount. 
 Even so deduce the stream of human life 
 From seats of power divine; and hope, 
 
 or trust. 
 That our existence winds her stately course 
 Beneath the sun, like Ganges, to make 
 
 part 
 Of a living ocean; or, to sink engulfed. 
 Like Niger, in impenetrable sands 
 And utter darkness : thought which may 
 
 be faced, 
 Though comfortless ! — 
 
 Not of myself I speak; 
 Such acquiescence neither doth imply, 
 In me, a meekly-bending spirit soothed 
 By natural piety; nor a lofty mind, 
 By philosophic discipline prepared 
 For calm subj ection to acknowledged law ; 
 Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
 Such palms I boast not; — no! to me, 
 
 who find 
 Reviewing my past waj, much to con- 
 demn. 
 Little to praise, and nothing to regretj_ 
 (Save some remernbrances of dream-like 
 
 joys 
 That scarcely seem to have belonged to 
 
 me) 
 If I must take my, choice between the 
 
 pair 
 That rule alternately the weary hours. 
 Night is than day more acceptable; jleep^ 
 Doth, in my estimate of good, appear 
 A. better state than waking; .deaibjhan 
 
 sleep: 
 Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm. 
 Though under covert of the wormy 
 
 ground ! 
 
 Yet be it said, in justice to myself. 
 That in more genial times, when I was free 
 To explore the destiny of human kind 
 (Not as an intellectual game pursued 
 With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat 
 Irksome sensations; but by love of truth 
 
 Urged on, or haply by intense delight 
 In feeding thought, wherever thought 
 
 could feed) 
 I did not rank with those (too dull or nice, 
 For to my judgment such they then ap- 
 peared. 
 Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) 
 Who, in this frame of human life, perceive 
 An object whereunto their souls are tied 
 In discontented wedlock; nor did e'er, 
 From me, those dark impervious shades, 
 
 that hang 
 Upon the region whither we are bound, 
 Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 
 Of present sunshine. — Deities that float 
 On wings, angelic Spirits ! I could muse 
 O'er what from eldest time we have been 
 
 told 
 Of your bright forms and glorious faculties, 
 And with the imagination rest content, 
 Not wishing more; repining not to tread 
 The little sinuous path of earthly care, 
 By flowers embellished, and by springs 
 refreshed. 
 
 — ' Blow winds of autumn ! — let your 
 
 chilling breath 
 ' Take the live herbage from the mead, 
 
 and strip 
 'The shady forest of its green attire, — 
 ' And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 
 ' The gentle brooks ! — Your desolating 
 
 sway, 
 'Sheds,' I exclaimed, 'no sadness upon 
 
 me, 
 ' And no disorder in your rage I find. 
 ' What dignity, what beauty, in this 
 
 change 
 ' From mild to angry, and from sad to gay, 
 ' Alternate and revolving ! How benign, 
 ' How rich in animation and delight, 
 ' How bountiful these elements — com- 
 pared 
 ' With aught, as more desirable and fair, 
 ' Devised by fancy for the golden age; 
 ' Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 
 ' In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies, 
 ' Through the long year in constant quiet 
 
 bound, 
 ' Night hushed as night, and day serene 
 
 as day ! ' 
 
 — But why this tedious record? — Age, 
 
 we know 
 Is garrulous; and sohtude is apt 
 
496 
 
 THE EXCURSION. y" y ^.' 
 
 To anticipate the privilege of Age, 
 From far ye come; and surely with a hope 
 Of better entertainment : — let us hence ! ' ' 
 
 Loth to forsake the spot, and still more 
 loth 
 To be diverted from our present theme, 
 I said, " My thoughts, agreeing. Sir, with 
 
 yours, 
 Would push this censure farther; — for, 
 
 if smiles 
 Of scornful pity be the just reward 
 Of Poesy thus courteously employed 
 In framing models to improve the scheme 
 Of Man's existence, and recast the world. 
 Why should not grave Philosophy be 
 
 styled, 
 'Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock, 
 A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull? 
 Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts 
 Establish sounder titles of esteem 
 For her, who (all too timid and reserved 
 For onset, for resistance too inert, 
 Too weak for suffering, and for hope too 
 
 tame) 
 Placed, among fiowery gardens curtained 
 
 round 
 With world-excluding groves, the brother- 
 hood 
 Of soft Epicureans, taught — if they 
 The ends of being would secure, and win 
 The crown of wisdom — to yield up their 
 
 souls 
 To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 
 Tranquillity to all things. Or is she," 
 I cried, " more worthy of regard, the 
 
 Power, 
 Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 
 The Stoic's heart against the vain ap- 
 proach 
 Of admiration, and all sense of joy? " 
 
 His countenance gave notice that my 
 zeal 
 
 Accorded little with his present mind; 
 
 I ceased, and he resumed. — " Ah ! gen- 
 tle Sir, 
 
 Slight, if you will, the means ; but spare 
 to slight 
 
 The end of those, who did, by system, 
 rank. 
 
 As the prime object of a wise man's aim. 
 
 Security from shock of accident, 
 
 Release from fear^ and cherished peaceful 
 
 days 
 For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief 
 
 good, 
 And only reasonable felicity. 
 What motive drew, what impulse, I would 
 
 ask, ' 
 
 Through a long course of later ages, drove, 
 The hermit to his cell in forest wide; 
 Or what detained him, till his closing eyes 
 Took their last farewell of the sun and 
 
 stars. 
 Fast anchored in the desert? — Not alone 
 Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse. 
 Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged 
 And unavengeable, defeated pride. 
 Prosperity subverted, maddening want, 
 F'riendship betrayed, affection unre- 
 
 turned, 
 Love with despair, or grief in agony; — 
 Not always from intolerable pangs 
 He fled; but, compassed round by pleas- 
 ure, sighed---- 
 For .. independent _haj)piness ; craving 
 
 The central feeling of all happiness. 
 Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 
 A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce. 
 But for its absolute self; a life of peace. 
 Stability without regret or fear; 
 fiiatKath been, is, and shall be ever- 
 more ! — 
 Such the reward he sought; and wore 
 
 out life. 
 There, where on few external things his 
 
 heart 
 Was set, and those his own; or, if not his, 
 Subsisting under nature'sAteadfast law. 
 
 What other yearning was the master tie 
 Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rockjj 
 Aerial, or in green secluded vale, ^'^ 
 One after one, collected from afar, '~^'" 
 
 An undissolving fellowship? — What but 
 
 this. 
 The universaHnstinct of repose, "N^-**^ 
 
 The longing f or "confirmedjranquiUi^, \ 
 Inward and outward; humble, yet sub- { 
 
 lime : j 
 
 The life where hope and mernpjy are as 
 
 one; , 
 
 Where e,artb_js quiet and her face un- / 
 
 changed ' ' ^ 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 497 
 
 Save by the simplest toil of human hands 
 Or seasons' difference; the immortal Soul 
 Consistent in self-rule; and heaven re- 
 vealed 
 To meditation in that quietness ! — 
 Such was their scheme : and though the 
 
 wished-for end 
 By multitudes was missed, perhaps at- 
 tained 
 By none, they for the attempt, and pains 
 
 employed, 
 Do, in my present censure, stand re- 
 deemed 
 From the unqualified disdain, that once 
 Would have been cast upon them by my 
 
 voice 
 Delivering her decisions from the seat 
 Of forward youth — that scruples not to 
 
 solve 
 Doubts, and determine questions, by the 
 
 rules 
 Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 
 To overweening faith; and is inflamed, 
 By courage, to demand from, real life 
 The test of act and suffering, to provoke 
 Hostility — how dreadful when it comes, 
 Whether aiifiiction be the foe, or guilt ! 
 
 A child of earth, I restejj jn thaLslage 
 Of my past course to which these thoughts 
 
 advert. 
 Upon earth's native energies; forgetting 
 That mjne was a condition which required 
 Nor energy, nor fortitude — axalm 
 Without vicissitude; which, if the like 
 Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 
 I might have even been tempted to despise. 
 But no — for the serene was also bright ; 
 Enlivened happiness with joy o'erfiowing. 
 With joy, and — oh ! that memory should 
 
 survive 
 To speak the word — with rapture ! Na- 
 ture's boon, 
 Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
 Above what rules can teach, or fancy 
 
 feign; 
 Abused, as all possessions arc abused 
 That are not prized according to their 
 
 worth. 
 And yet, what worth? what good is given 
 
 _tamen. 
 More solid than the gilded clouds of 
 
 heaven? 
 
 What joy more lasting than a vernal 
 
 flower? 
 
 None ! 't is the general plaint of human 
 
 kind 
 In solitude : and mutually addressed 
 From each to all, for wisdom's sake: — 
 
 This truth 
 The priest announces from his holy seaT:' 
 And, crowned with garlands in the sum- 
 mer grove, 
 The poet fits it to his pensive l)Te. 
 Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained. 
 Sharp contradictions may arise, by doom 
 Of this same life, compelling us to grieve 
 That the prosperities of love and joy 
 Should be peimitted, oft-times, to endure 
 So long, and be at once cast down forever. 
 Oh ! tremble, ye, to whom hath been as- 
 signed 
 A course of days composing happy months. 
 And they as happy years; the present still 
 So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 
 Of a congenial future, that the wheels 
 Of pleasure move without the aid of hope : 
 For Mutability is Nature's bane; 
 And slighted Hope ii';// be avenged; and, 
 
 when 
 Ye need her favors, ye shall find her not; 
 But in her stead — fear — doubt — and 
 agony ! ' ' 
 
 This was the bitter language of the 
 
 heart : 
 But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone 
 
 of voice. 
 Though discomposed and vehement, were 
 
 such 
 As skill and graceful nature might suggest 
 To a proficient of the tragic scene 
 Standing before the multitude, beset 
 With dark events. Desirous to divert 
 Or stem the current of the speaker's 
 
 thoughts. 
 We signified a wish to leave that place 
 Of stillness and close privacy, a nook 
 That seemed for self-examination made; 
 Or, for confession, in the sinner's need. 
 Hidden from all men's view. To our 
 
 attempt 
 He yielded not; but, pointing to a slope 
 Of mossy turf defended from the sun. 
 And on that couch Inviting us to rest, 
 
41^3 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Full on that tender-hearted Man he turned 
 A serious eye, and his speech thus re- 
 newed. 
 
 "You never saw, your eyes did never 
 
 look 
 On the bright form of Her whom once I 
 
 loved: — 
 ' Her silver voice was heard upon the earth, 
 A sound unknown to you; else, honored 
 
 Friend ! 
 Your heart had borne a pitiable share 
 Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss, 
 And suffer now, not seldom, from the 
 
 thought 
 That I remember, and can weep no 
 
 more. — 
 Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit 
 Of self-esteem; and by the cutting blasts 
 Of self-reproach familiarly assailed; 
 Yet would I not be of such wintry bare- 
 ness 
 But that some leaf of your regard should 
 
 hang 
 Upon my naked branches: — lively 
 
 thoughts 
 Give birth, full often, to unguarded words; 
 I grieve that, in your presence, from my 
 
 tongue 
 Too much of frailty hath already dropped; 
 But that too much demands still more. 
 
 You know. 
 Revered Compatriot — and to you, kind 
 
 Sir, 
 (Not to be deemed a stranger, as you 
 
 come 
 Following the guidance of these welcome 
 
 feet 
 To our secluded vale) it may be told — 
 That my demerits did not sue in vain 
 To One on whose mild radiance many 
 
 gazed 
 With hope, and all with pleasure. This 
 
 fair Bride — 
 In the devotedness of youthful love, 
 Preferring me to parents, and the choir 
 Of gay companions, to the natal roof. 
 And all known places and familiar sights 
 (Resigned with sadness gently weighing 
 
 down 
 Her trembling expectations, but no more 
 Than did to her due honor, and to me 
 
 Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
 In what I had to build upon) — thisJBride, 
 Young, modest, meek, and beautHuI^rieH 
 To a low cottage in a sunny bay, 
 Where the salt seaTinhocuously 1)reaks, 
 And the sea breeze as innocently breathes. 
 On Devon's leafy shores; — a sheltered 
 
 hold. 
 In a soft clime encouraging the soil 
 To a luxuriant bounty ! — As our steps 
 Approach the embowered abode — our 
 
 chosen seat — 
 See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed, 
 The unendangered myrtle, decked with 
 
 flowers, 
 Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 
 While, in the flowering myrtle's neigh- 
 borhood. 
 Not overlooked but courting no regard. 
 Those native plants, the holly and the 
 
 yew, 
 Gave modest intimation to the mind 
 How willingly their aid they would unite 
 With the green myrtle, to endear the hours 
 Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. 
 — Wild were the walks upon those lonely 
 
 Downs, 
 Track leading into track; how marked, 
 
 how worn 
 Into bright verdure, between fern and 
 
 gorse 
 Winding away its never-ending line 
 On their smooth surface, evidence was 
 
 none; 
 But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 
 A range of unappropriated earth. 
 Where youth's ambitious feet might move 
 
 at large; 
 Whence, unmolested wanderers, we be- 
 held 
 The shining giver of the day diffuse 
 His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land 
 Gay as our spirits, free as our desires; 
 As our enjoyments, boundless. — From 
 
 those heights 
 We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan 
 
 combs; 
 Where arbors of impenetrable shade, 
 And mossy seats, detained us side by side, 
 With hearts at ease, and knowledge in oui 
 
 hearts 
 ' That all the grove and all the day was 
 
 ours.' 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 499 
 
 O happy time ! still happier was at hand ; 
 For Nature called my Partner to resign 
 Her share in the pure freedom of that life, 
 Enjoyed by us in common. — To my hope, 
 To my heart's wish, my tender Mate 
 
 became 
 The thankful captive of maternal bonds; 
 And those wildlpaths were left to me alone. 
 There could I meditate on follies past; 
 And, like a weary voyager escaped 
 From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 
 A course of vain delights and thoughtless 
 
 guilt, 
 And self-indulgence — without shame 
 
 pursued. 
 There, undisturbed, could think of and 
 
 could thank 
 Her whose submissive spirit was to me 
 Rule and restraint — my guardian — shall 
 
 I say 
 That earthly Providence, whose guiding 
 
 love 
 Within a port of rest had lodged me safe; 
 Safe from temptation, and from danger 
 
 far? 
 Strains followed of acknowledgment ad- 
 dressed 
 To an authority entjironed above 
 The reach of sight; from whom, as from 
 
 their source 
 Proceed all visible ministers of good 
 That walk the earth — Father of heaven 
 
 and earth. 
 Father, and king, and judge, adored and 
 
 feared ! 
 These acts of mind, and memory, and 
 
 heart, 
 And spirit — interrupted and relieved 
 By observations transient as the glance 
 Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward 
 
 form 
 Cleaving with power inherent and intense. 
 As the mute insect fixed upon the plant 
 On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from 
 
 whose cup 
 It draws its nourishment imperceptibly — 
 Endeared my wanderings; and_ the 
 
 mother's kiss 
 And infant's smile awaited my return. 
 
 In privacy wejiwelt, a wedded^air. 
 Companions daily, often all day long; 
 Not placed by fortune within easy reach 
 
 Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught 
 Beyond the allowance of our own fire- 
 side. 
 The twain within our happy cottage born, 
 Inmates, and heirs of our united love; ■ 
 Graced mutually by difference of sex, -' 
 And with no wider interval of time 
 Between their several births than served 
 
 for one 
 To establish something of a leader's 
 
 sway; 
 Yet left them joined by sympathy in age; 
 Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. 
 On these two pillars rested as in air 
 
 Our solitude. ^ """ 
 
 It soothes me to perceive, 
 Your courtesy withholds not from my 
 
 words 
 Attentive audience. But, oh ! gentle 
 
 Friends, 
 As times of quiet and unbroken peace. 
 Though, for a nation, times of blessed- 
 ness. 
 Give back faint echoes from the historian's 
 
 page; 
 So, in the imperfect sounds of this dis- 
 course. 
 Depressed I hear, how faithless is the 
 
 voice 
 Which those most blissful days reverber- 
 ate. 
 What special record can, or need, be given 
 To rules and habits, whereby much was 
 
 done. 
 But all within the sphere of little things; 
 Of humble, though, to us, important cares, 
 And precious interests? Smoothly did 
 
 our life 
 Advance, swerving not from the path pre- 
 scribed ; 
 Her annual, her diurnal, round alike 
 Maintained with faithful care. And you 
 
 divine 
 The worst effects that our condition saw 
 If you imagine changes slowly wrought, 
 And in their progress unperceivable; 
 Not wished for; sometimes noticed with 
 
 a sigh, 
 (Whate'er of good or lovely they might 
 
 bring) 
 Sighs of regret, for the familiar good 
 And loveliness endeared which they re- 
 moved. 
 
500 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Seven years of occupation undisturbed 
 Established seemingly a right to ho|d 
 "TTiafTiappiness ; and use and habit gave, 
 To what an alien spirit had acquired, 
 A patrimonial sanctity. And thus, 
 With thoughts and wishes bounded to this 
 
 world, 
 I lived and breathed; most grateful — if 
 
 to enjoy 
 Without repining or desire for more. 
 For different lot, or change to higher 
 
 sphere, 
 (Only except some impulses of pride 
 With no determined object, though up- 
 held 
 By theories with suitable support) — 
 Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy 
 Be proof of gratitude for what we have; 
 Else, I allow, most thankless. — But, at 
 
 once. 
 From some dark seat of fatal power was 
 
 urged 
 A claim that shattered all. — Our bloom- 
 ing girl, 
 Caught_in_tli£-,gripe_af _ dejUhj_with such 
 
 brief time 
 To struggle in as scarcely would allow 
 Her cheek to change its color, was con- 
 veyed 
 From us to inaccessible worlds, to regions 
 Where height, or depth, admits not the 
 
 approach 
 Of living man, though longing to pursue. 
 — With even as brief a warning — and 
 
 how soon, 
 With what short interval of time between, 
 I tremble yet to think of — our last prop. 
 Our happy life's only remaining stay — 
 The brother followed; and was seen no 
 more ! 
 
 Calm as a frozen lake when ruthless 
 winds 
 Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky, 
 The Mother now remained; as if in her. 
 Who, to the lowest region of the soul. 
 Had been erewhile unsettled and dis- 
 turbed. 
 This second visitation had no power 
 To shake; but only to bind up and seal; 
 And to establish thankfulness of heart 
 In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 
 The eminence whereon her spirit stood, 
 
 Mine was unable to attain. Immense 
 The space that severed us ! But, as the 
 
 sight 
 Communicates with heaven's ethereal 
 
 orbs 
 Incalculably distant ; so, I felt 
 That consolation may descend from far 
 (And that is intercourse, and union, too, ) 
 While, overcome with speechless grati- 
 tude, ■> 
 And, with a holier love inspired, I looked 
 On her — aj^once superior tO- my woes 
 
 And partner^X— H)^' l oss. — O heavy 
 
 change. 
 Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept 
 Insensibly; — the immortal and divine 
 Yielded to mortal reflux; her pure glory, 
 As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
 Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell 
 Into a gulf obscure of silent grief. 
 And keen heart - anguish — of itself 
 
 ashamed. 
 Yet obstinately cherishing itself : 
 And, so consumed, she melted from my 
 
 arms4- ' 
 
 And left me, on this earth, disconsolate ! 
 
 What followed cannot be reviewed in 
 
 thought; 
 Much less, retraced in words. If she, of 
 
 Hfe 
 Blameless, so intimate with love and joy 
 And all the tender motions of the soul, 
 Had been supplanted, could I hope to 
 
 stand — 
 Infirm, dependent, and now destitute? 
 I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 
 That which is veiled from waking thought ; 
 
 conjured 
 Etfernity, as men constrain a ghost 
 To appear and answer; to the grave I 
 
 spake 
 Imploringly; — looked up, and asked the 
 
 Heavens 
 If Angels traversed their cerulean floors. 
 If fixed or wandering star could tidings 
 
 yield 
 Of the departed spirit — what abode 
 It occupies — what consciousness retains 
 Of former loves and interests. Then my 
 
 soul 
 Turned inward, — to exfimine of what 
 
 stuff 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 SOI 
 
 Time's fetters are composed; and life was 
 
 put 
 To inquisition, long and profitless ! 
 By pain of heart — now checked — and 
 
 now impelled — 
 The intellectual power, through words 
 
 and things, 
 Went sounding on, a dim and perilous 
 
 way ! 
 And from those transports, and these toils 
 
 abstruse. 
 Some trace am I enabled to retain 
 Of time, else lost; — existing unto me 
 Only by records in myself not found. 
 
 From that abstraction I was roused, — 
 - aiKLhQjt?." 
 Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash 
 Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave 
 • Of these wild hills. For, lo ! the dread 
 
 Bastile, 
 With all the chambers in its horrid towers. 
 Fell to the ground; — by violence over- 
 thrown 
 Of indignation; and with shouts that 
 
 drowned 
 The crash it made in falling ! From the 
 \^ wreck 
 
 ' A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise, 
 , The appointed seat of equitable law 
 ^And mild paternal sway. The potent 
 
 shock 
 ■\l felt: the transformation I perceived, 
 /As marvellously seized as in that moment 
 When, from the blind mist issuing, I be- 
 held 
 'Glory — beyond all glory ever seen. 
 Confusion infinite of heaven and earth. 
 Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, pro- 
 phetic harps 
 In every grove were ringing, ' War shall 
 
 cease; 
 ' Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured ? 
 ' Bring garlands, bring forth choicest 
 
 flowers, to deck 
 'The tree of Liberty.' — My heart re- 
 bounded; 
 ]My melancholy voice the chorus joined; 
 — ' Be joyful all ye nations; in all lands, 
 ' Ye that are capable of joy be glad I 
 ' Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to 
 yourselves 
 
 ' In others ye shall promptly find; — and 
 
 all, 
 ' Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth, 
 ' Shall with one heart honor their com- 
 mon kind.' 
 
 Thus was I reconvertedjo the_world; 
 Sflcietytecame my glittering bride. 
 And airy hopes my children. — From the 
 
 depths 
 Of natural passion, seemingly escaped, 
 ]VIy soul diffused herself in wide embrace 
 Of institutions, and the forms of things; 
 As they exist, in mutable array. 
 Upon life's surface. What, though in 
 
 my veins 
 There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I 
 
 breathed 
 The air of France, not less than Gallic 
 
 zeal 
 Kindled and burnt among the sapless 
 
 twigs 
 Of my exhausted heart. If busy men 
 In sober conclave met, to weave a web 
 Of amity, whose living threads should 
 
 stretch 
 Beyond the seas, and to the farthest 
 
 pole. 
 There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 
 And acclamation, crowds in open air 
 Expressed the tumult of their minds, my 
 
 voice 
 There mingled, heard or not. The powers 
 
 of song 
 I left notuninvoked; and, in still groves. 
 Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive 
 
 lay 
 Of thanks and expectation, in accord 
 With their belief, I sang Saturnian rule 
 Returned, — a progeny of golden years 
 Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 
 — With promises the Hebrew Scriptures 
 
 teem: 
 I felt their invitation; and resumed 
 A long-suspended office in the House 
 Of public worship, where, the glowing 
 
 phrase 
 Of ancient inspiration serving me, 
 I promised also, — with undaunted trust 
 Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy; 
 The admiration winning of the crowd; 
 The help desiring of the pure devout. 
 
S02 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Scorn andxjjntempt forbid me to pro- 
 ceed ! "" 
 But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell 
 How rapidly the zealots of thecause 
 Disbanded — or in hostile ranks appeare_dj 
 Some, tired of honest service; these, out- 
 done, 
 Disgusted therefore, or appalled, by aims 
 Of fiercer zealots — so confusion reigned. 
 And the more faithful were compelled to 
 
 exclaim. 
 As Brutus did to Virtue, ' Liberty, 
 ' I worshipped thee, and find thee but a 
 Shadej' ^ "' 
 
 Such recantation had for me no charm, 
 Nor would I bend to it; who should have 
 
 grieved 
 At aught, however fair, that bore the mien 
 Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. 
 Why then conceal, that, when the simply 
 
 good 
 In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 
 Other support, not scrupulous whence it 
 
 came; 
 And, by what compromise it stood, not 
 
 nice? 
 Enough if notions seemed to be high- 
 pitched. 
 And qualities determined. — Among men 
 So charactered did I maintain a strife 
 Hopeless, aTid still more hopeless every 
 
 hour; 
 But, in the process, I beganjo feel 
 That, if the emancipation of the \vorld _ 
 Were missed, I should at least secure my 
 own, ' - 
 
 And be in part compensated. For rights. 
 Widely — inveterately iJiiirped upon, 
 I spake with vehemence; and promptly 
 
 seized 
 All that Abstraction furnished for my 
 
 needs 
 Or purposes; nor scrupled to proclaim. 
 And propagate, by liberty of life, 
 Those new persuasions. Not that I re- 
 joiced. 
 Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant 
 
 For its own sake; but farthest from the 
 
 walk 
 Which I had trod in happiness and peace, 
 Was most inviting to a troubled mind; 
 
 That, in a struggling and distempered 
 
 world. 
 Saw a seductive image of herself. 
 Yet, mark the contradictions of which 
 
 Man 
 Is still the sport ! Here Nature was my 
 
 guide, 
 The Nature of the dissolute; but thee, 
 
 fostering Nature! I rejected — smiled 
 At others' tears in pity; and in scorn 
 At those, which thy soft influence some- 
 times drew 
 
 From my unguarded heart. — The tran- 
 quil shores 
 Of Britain circumscribed me ; else, perhaps 
 
 1 might have been entangled among 
 
 deeds. 
 Which, now, as infamous, I should 
 
 abhor — 
 Despise, as senseless : for my spirit relished 
 Strangely the exasperation of that Land, 
 Which turned an angry beak against the 
 
 down 
 Of her own breast; confounded into hope 
 Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings. 
 
 But all was quieted by iron bonds 
 Of military sway. The shifting aims. 
 The moral interests, the creative might, 
 The varied functions and high attributes 
 Of civil action, yielded to a power 
 Formal, and odious, and contemptible. 
 — In Britain, ruled a panic dread of 
 
 change ; 
 The weak were praised, rewarded, and 
 
 advanced; 
 And, from the impulse of a just disdain, 
 Once more did I retire into myself. 
 There feeling no contentment, I resolved 
 To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign 
 
 shore. 
 Remote from Europe; from her blasted 
 
 hopes; 
 Her fields of carnage, and polluted air. 
 
 Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the 
 
 Atlantic Main 
 The ship went gliding with her thought- / 
 
 less crew; • 
 
 And who among them but an Exile, freed 
 From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit ' 
 Among the busily-employed, not more 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 503 
 
 With obligation charged, with service 
 
 taxed, 
 Than the loose pendant — to the idle wind 
 Upon the tall mast streaming. But, ye 
 
 Powers 
 I Of soul and sense mysteriously allied, 
 Oh, nexer_lfit,ihg_Wretche;dj if a choice 
 Be left him, trust the freight of his dis- 
 
 tress^l"; "^ ■ 
 
 To^a long_vo^g£_on_the silent deep ! 
 For, likeaplague, will memory break out; 
 And, in the blank and solitude of things. 
 Upon his spirit, with a fever's strength. 
 Will conscience prey. — Feebly must 
 
 they have felt 
 Who, in old time, attired with snakes 
 
 and whips 
 The vengeful Furies. BeatUiful regards 
 Were turned on me — the face of her I 
 
 loved ; 
 The Wife and Mother pitifully fixing 
 Tender reproaches, insupportable ! 
 Where now that boasted liberty? No 
 
 welcome 
 From unknown objects I received; and 
 
 those. 
 Known and familiar, which the vaulted 
 
 sky 
 Did, in the placid clearness of the night. 
 Disclose, had accusations to prefer 
 Against my peace. Within the cabin stood 
 That volume — as a compass for the soul — 
 Revered among the nations. I implored 
 Its guidance; but the infallible support 
 ...Qf^^ith was wanting. Tell me, why re- 
 fused 
 To One by storms annoyed and adverse 
 
 winds; 
 Perplexed with currents; of his weakness 
 
 sick; 
 Of vain endeavors tired; and by his own, 
 And by his nature's, ignorance, dismayed ! 
 
 Long-wibhed-for sight, the Western 
 
 World appeared; 
 And, when the ship was moored, I leaped 
 
 ashore 
 Indignantly — resolved to be a man, 
 Who, having o'er the past no power, 
 
 would live 
 No longer in subjection to the past. 
 With abject mind — from a tyrannic lord 
 Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured: 
 
 So, like a fugitive, whose feet have cleared 
 Some boundary, which his followers may 
 
 not cross 
 In prosecution of their deadly chase. 
 Respiring I looked round. — How bright 
 
 the sun. 
 The breeze how soft ! Can anything pro- 
 duced 
 In the old World compare, thought I, for 
 
 power 
 And majesty with this gigantic stream, 
 Sprung from the desert? And behold a 
 
 city 
 Fresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are 
 
 these 
 To me, or I to them ? As much at least 
 As he desires that they should be, whom 
 
 winds 
 And waves have wafted to this distant 
 
 shore. 
 In the condition of a damaged seed. 
 Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take 
 
 root. 
 Here may I roam at large ; — my business 
 
 is. 
 Roaming at large, to observe, and not to 
 
 feel, 
 And, therefore, not to act — convinced 
 
 that all 
 Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er 
 Beginning, ends in servitude — still painful. 
 And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say, 
 On nearer view, a motley spectacle 
 Appeared, of high pretensions, — unre- 
 
 proved 
 But by the obstreperous voice of higher 
 
 still; 
 Big passions strutting on a petty stage; 
 Whicli a detached spectator may regard 
 Not unamused. — But ridicule demands 
 Quick change of objects; and, to laugh 
 
 alone. 
 At a composing distance from the haunts 
 Of strife and folly, though it be a treat 
 As choice as musing Leisure can bestow; 
 Yet, in the very centre of the crowd. 
 To keep the secret of a poignant scorn, 
 Howe'er to airy Demons suitable. 
 Of all unsocial courses, is least fit 
 For the gross spirit of mankind, — the one 
 That soonest fails to please, and quickliest 
 
 turns 
 Into vexation. 
 
5-04 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Let us, then, I said, 
 Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge 
 Other own" passions; and to regions haste, 
 Whose shades have never felt the en- 
 croaching axe. 
 Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 
 Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides. 
 Primeval Nature's child. A creature weak 
 In combination, (wherefore else driven 
 
 back 
 So far, and of his old inheritance 
 So easily deprived?) but, for that cause, 
 More dignified, and stronger in himself; 
 Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy. 
 True, the intelligence of social art 
 Hath overpowered his forefathers, and 
 
 soon 
 . Will sweep the remnant of his line away; 
 But contemplations, worthier, nobler far 
 Than her destructive energies, attend 
 His independence, when along the side 
 Of Mississippi, or that northern stream' 
 That spreads into successive seas, he 
 
 walks; 
 Pleased to perceive his own unshackled 
 
 life, 
 And his innate capacities of soul, 
 There imaged: or when, having gained 
 
 the top 
 Of some commanding eminence, which yet 
 Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys 
 Regions of wood and wide savannah, vast 
 Expanse of unappropriated earth, 
 ■ With mind that sheds a light on what he 
 
 sees; 
 Free as the sun, and lonely as the sun. 
 Pouring above his head its radiance down 
 Upon a living and rejoicing world ! 
 
 So, westward, tow'rd the unviolated 
 woods 
 I bent my way; and, roaming far and wide. 
 Failed not to greet the merry Mocking- 
 bird; 
 And, while the melancholy Muccawiss 
 (The sportive bird's companion in the 
 
 grove) 
 Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry, 
 I sympathized at leisure with the sound; 
 But that pure archetype of human great- 
 ness, 
 
 ' See Note. 
 
 I found him not. There, in his stead, 
 
 appeared 
 A creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure; 
 Remorseless, and submissive to no law 
 But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 
 
 Enough is told ! Here am I — ye have 
 
 heard 
 What evidence I seek, and vainly seek; 
 What from my fellow-beings I require, 
 And either they have not to give, or I 
 Lack virtue to receive; what I myself. 
 Too oft by wilful forfeiture, have lost 
 Nor can regain. How languidly I look 
 Upon this visible fabric of the world. 
 May be divined — perhaps it hath been 
 
 said : — 
 But spare your pity, if there be in me 
 Aught that deserves respect : for I exist. 
 Within myself, not comfortless. — The 
 
 tenor 
 Which my life holds, he readily may con- 
 ceive 
 Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain 
 
 brook 
 In some still passage of its course, and seen. 
 Within the depths of its capacious breast. 
 Inverted trees, rocks, clouds, and azure 
 
 sky; 
 And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam. 
 And conglobated bubbles undissolved. 
 Numerous as stars; that, by their onward 
 
 lapse, 
 Betray to sight the motion of the stream. 
 Else imperceptible. Meanwhile, is heard 
 A softened roar, or murmur ; and the sound 
 Though soothing, and the little floating 
 
 isles 
 Though beautiful, are both by Nature 
 
 charged 
 With the same pensive office; and make 
 
 known 
 Through what perplexing labyrinths, 
 
 abrupt 
 Precipitations, and untoward straits. 
 The earth-born wanderer hath passed; and 
 
 quickly. 
 That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 
 Must he again encounter. — Such a stream 
 Is human Life; and so the Spirit fares 
 In the best quiet to her course allowedj 
 And such is mine, — save only for a hops 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 505 
 
 That my particular current soon will reach 
 The unfathomable gulf,where all is still !" 
 
 Book Fourth. 
 
 despondency corrbcted. 
 
 argument. 
 
 State of feeling produced by the foregoing 
 Narrative — A belief in a superintending Pro- 
 vidence tlie only adequate support under affliction 
 
 — Wanderer's ejaculation — Acknowledges the 
 difficulty of a lively faith — Hence immoderate 
 sorrow — Exhortations — How received — Wan- 
 derer applies his discourse to that other cause cf 
 dejection iu the Solitar\''smind — Disappointment 
 from the French Revolution — States grounds of 
 hope, and insists on the necessity of patience and 
 fortitude with respect to the course of great 
 revolutions — Knowledge the source of tranquillity 
 
 — Rural Solitude favorable to knowledge of the 
 inferior Creatures ; Study of their habits and 
 ways recommended ; exhortation to bodily exer- 
 tion and communion with nature — Morbid 
 Solitude pitiable — Superstition better than apathy 
 — Apathy and destitution unknown in the infancy 
 of society — The various modes of Religion pre- 
 vented it — Illustrated in the Jewish, Persian, 
 Babylonian, Chaldean, and Grecian modes of 
 belief — Solitary interposes — Wanderer points out 
 the influence of religious and imaginative feeling 
 in the humble ranks of society, illustrated from 
 present and past times — These principles tend to 
 recall exploded superstitions and popery — Wan- 
 derer rebuts this charge, and contrasts the 
 dignities of the Imagination with the presumptuous 
 littleness of certain modern Philosophers — Rec- 
 ommends other lights and guides — Asserts the 
 power of the soul to regenerate herself ; Solitary 
 asks how — Reply — Personal appeal — Exhortation 
 to activity of body renewed — How to commune 
 with Nature — Wanderer concludes with a legiti- 
 mate Union of the imagination, affections, under- 
 standing, and reason — Effect of his discourse — 
 Evening ; Return to the Cottage. 
 
 Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale 
 His mournful narrative — commenced in 
 
 pain, 
 In pain commenced, and ended without 
 
 peace : 
 Yet tempered, not unfrequently, with 
 
 strains 
 Of native feeling, grateful to our minds; 
 And yielding surely some relief to his, 
 
 While we sate listening with compassion 
 
 due. 
 A pause of silence followed; then, with 
 
 voice 
 That did not falter though the heart was 
 
 moved. 
 The Wanderer said ; — 
 
 """"" " One adequate support 
 For the calamities of mortal life 
 Exist^s^ — one only; an assured belief 
 TEat^jie procession of our fate, howe'er ' 
 ^Sad_or._disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
 Of infinit.e_benevolence and power; ■" 
 
 Whose. everlasting purposes embrace 6 
 All accidents, converting them to good. 
 ■ — The darts of anguish yfj not where the 
 
 seat 
 Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
 By acquiescence in the Will supreme 
 For time and for eternity; by faith, 
 Faith absolute in God, including hope. 
 And the" defence that lies in boundless 
 
 _lo_ve """ ■"" 
 
 Of his perfections; with habitual dread 
 Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
 Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone. 
 To the dishonor of his holy name. 
 Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the 
 
 world ! 
 Sustain, thou only canst, the sick of heart; 
 Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
 Their lost affections unto thee and thine !" 
 
 Then, as we issued from that covert 
 
 nook, 
 He thus continued, lifting up his eyes 
 To heaven : — " How beautiful this dome 
 
 of sky; 
 And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 
 At thy command, how awful ! Shall the 
 
 Soul, 
 Human and rational, report of thee 
 Even less than these? — Be mute who 
 
 will, who can. 
 Yet I will praise thee with impassioned 
 
 voice : 
 My lips, that may forget thee in the 
 
 crowd. 
 Cannot forget thee here; where thou 
 
 hast built. 
 For thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 
 Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine, 
 In such a temple as we now behold 
 
So6 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Reared for thy presence : therefore, am I 
 
 bound 
 To worship, here, and everywhere — as 
 
 one 
 Not doomed to ignorance, though forced 
 
 to tread. 
 From childhood up, the ways of poverty; 
 From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 
 And from debasement rescued. — By thy 
 
 grace 
 The particle divine remained un- 
 
 quenched; 
 And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil. 
 Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless 
 
 flowers. 
 From paradise transplanted ; wintry age 
 Impends; the frost will gather round my 
 
 heart ; 
 If the flowers wither, I am worse than 
 
 dead ! 
 — Come, labor, when the worn-out 
 
 frame requires 
 Perpetual sabbath; come, disease and 
 
 want; 
 , And sad exclusion through decay of 
 
 sense; 
 ^ But leave me unabated trust in thee — 
 And let thy fa'TOrTtoThe end oTlife, 
 _Insjnre jne with ability to seek _ 
 _Re£pse and hope among eternal things — 
 Father of heaven and earth ! and I'am 
 
 rich, , 
 
 And will possess my portion in content ! 
 
 And_wha±.ar£_thing^ eternal ? — powers 
 depart," ~* 
 
 The gray-haired Wanderer steadfastly re- 
 plied, 
 Answering the question which himself 
 
 had asked, 
 "Egssessions vanish, and opinions change, 
 And passions hold a fluctuating seat": "- 
 But, by the storms of circumstance un- 
 shaken. 
 And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 
 .nil^y ''yists; — immutably survive. 
 For our support, the measures j.nd the 
 
 JormSt. ~ 
 
 VVhich^naJjjtract intelligence supplies; 
 Whose kingdom is, where time and space 
 
 are not. 
 Of other converse which mind, soul, and 
 heart, 
 
 Do, with united urgency, require, 
 What more that may not perish? ■ — Thou, 
 
 dread source. 
 Prime, self-existing cause and end of all 
 That in th-e scale of being fill their place ; 
 Above our human region, or below, 
 Set and sustained; — thou, who didst 
 
 wrap the cloud 
 Of infancy around us, that thyself, 
 Therein, with our simplicity awhile 
 Might'st hold, on earth, communion un- 
 disturbed; 
 Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep. 
 Or from its death-like void, with punctual 
 
 care. 
 And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
 Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense 
 And reason's steadfast rule — thou, thou 
 alone ~ 
 
 A rt eve rlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 
 Which' thou mcludest, as the sea her 
 
 waves : 
 For adoration thou endur'st; endure 
 For consciousness the SiotioEs^of^thjwill; 
 For apprehension those transcen^eS 
 
 Of the purejntellectj_that stand as laws 
 (Submission' constituting strength and 
 
 power) 
 Even t£ thy JBfijng^sJnfinite majesty ! 
 "THis universe shall pass away — a work 
 Glorious ! because ffie "sTia'dow of thy 
 
 might, 
 A step, or link, for intercourse with thee. 
 Ah ! if the time must come, in which my 
 
 feet 
 No more shall stray where meditation 
 
 leads. 
 By flowing stream, through wood, or 
 
 craggy wild. 
 Loved haunts like these; the unim- 
 
 prisoned Mind 
 May yet have scope to range among her 
 
 own. 
 Her thoughts, her images, her high 
 
 de^res. 
 If the dear faculty of sight should fail. 
 Still, it may be allowed me to remem- 
 ber 
 What visionary powers of eye and soul 
 In youth were mine; when, stationed on 
 
 the top 
 Of some huge hill — expectant, I beheld 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 S07 
 
 The sun rise up, from distant climes re- 
 turned 
 
 Darkness to chase, and sleep; and bring 
 the day 
 
 His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward 
 the deep " — . 
 
 Sink, witlTa retinue of flaming clouds 
 
 Attended; then, niy spirit was entranced 
 
 With joy exalted to beatitude; 
 
 The measure of my soul was filled with 
 bliss. 
 
 And holiest love; as earth, sea, air, with 
 light. 
 
 With pomp, with glory, with magnifi- 
 cence ! 
 
 .TrThose fervent raptures are forever 
 j' flown ; 
 
 And, since their date, my soul hath 
 
 ^ undergone 
 Change manifold, for better or for worse : 
 Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
 Heavenward; and chide the part of me 
 ' that flags. 
 
 Through sinful choice ; or dread necessity 
 On human nature from above imposed. 
 'T is, by comparison, an easy task ^ 
 Earth to despise; but, to conv erse with 
 
 heaven — 
 This is not easy : — a to relinquish all 
 We have, or hope, of happiness and joy, 
 And stand in freedom looseijed from this 
 
 world, 
 I deem not arduous; but must needs 
 
 confess 
 That 't is a thing impossible to frame 
 Conceptions equal to the soul's desires; 
 And the most difficult of tasks to keep 
 Heights which the soul is competent 'to 
 
 gain. 
 — Man is of dust: etherealhopes are hi^ 
 Which, when they should sustain them- 
 selves aloft, 
 Want due consistence ; like a pillar of 
 
 smoke, 
 That with majestic energy from earth 
 Rises; but, having reached the thinner air. 
 Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer 
 
 seen. 
 ^xoxa. this infirmity of mortal kind 
 iorrow proceeds, which else were not; 
 
 at least, 
 
 ^ See Note. 
 
 If grief be something hallowed and 
 
 ordained. 
 If, in proportion, it be just and meet, 
 Yet, through this weakness of the general 
 
 heart. 
 Is it enabled to maintain its hold 
 In that excess which conscience disap-' 
 
 proves. •• 
 
 For who could sink and settle to that point 
 Of selfishness; so senseless who could be 
 As long and perseveringly to mourn ^ 
 For any object of his love, removed 
 From this unstable world, if. he could fix 
 A satisfying view upon that state 
 , Of pure, irnperishable, blessedness. 
 Which reason promises, and holy writ 
 Ens ures to all believers? — Yet jnistrust 
 Is of such incapacity, methinks. 
 No natural branch ; despondency far less; 
 And, least of all, is absolute despair. 
 — And, if there be whose tender frames 
 
 have drooped 
 Even to the dust; apparently, through 
 
 weight 
 Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 
 An agonizing sorrow to transmute; 
 Deem not that proof is here of hope with- 
 held 
 When wanted most ; a confidence impaired 
 So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 
 With bodily eyes, they are borne down 
 
 by love 
 Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 
 Oh ! no, the iniiocenl Sufferer often sees 
 Too clearly; feels too vividly; and longs 
 To realize the vision, with intense 
 And over-constant yearning; — there — ■ 
 
 there lies 
 The excess, by which the balance is de- 
 stroyed. 
 Too, too contracted are these walls of 
 
 flesh. 
 This vital warmth too cold, these visual 
 
 orbs, 
 Though inconceivably endowed, too dim 
 For any passion of the soul that leads 
 To ecstasy; and, all the crooked paths 
 Of time and change disdaining, takes its 
 
 course 
 Along the line of limitless desires. 
 I, speaking now from such disorder free, 
 Nor rapt, nor craving, but in settled 
 
 peace. 
 
So8 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 I cannot doubt that they whom you de- 
 plore 
 Are glorified; or, if they sleep, shall wake 
 From sleep, and dwell with God in endless 
 
 love. 
 Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
 In mercy, carried infinite degrees 
 Beyond the tenderness of human hearts : 
 Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
 In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest 
 
 power. 
 That finds no limits but her own pure will. 
 
 Here then we rest; not fearing for our 
 
 creed 
 The worst that human reasoning can 
 
 achieve, 
 To unsettle or perplex it : yet with pain 
 Acknowledging, and grievous self-re- 
 proach. 
 That, though immovably convinced, we 
 
 want * 
 
 Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
 As soldiers live Uy courage ; as, by strength 
 Oi heart, the sailor fights with roaring 
 
 seas. 
 Alas ! the endowment of immortal power ^ 
 Is matched unequally with custom, time, 
 And domineering faculties of sense 
 In «/// in most, with superadded foes, 
 Idle temptations; open vanities. 
 Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing 
 
 world; 
 And, in the private regions of the mind, 
 Ill-governed passions, ranklings of 
 
 despite, 
 Immoderate wishes, pining discontent, 
 Distress and care. What then remains? 
 
 — To seek ~ "' 
 
 Those helps for his occasions ever^near 
 Who lacks not will to use them; vows, 
 
 renewed 
 On the first motion of a holy thought; 
 Vigils of c ontemp lation; praise; and 
 
 prayer — 
 A stream, which, from the fountain of 
 
 the heart 
 Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 
 Without access of unexpected strength. 
 But, above all, the victory is most sure 
 For Jiim,^ who, seeking faith by virtue, 
 
 strives - - » 
 
 " ' ' 1 See Note. 
 
 To yield entire submission to the law 
 Of conscience — conscience reyeixni^fid 
 
 and obeyed, 
 J^a God'AHifiat. intimate„pxesenc£_ia_the 
 
 soul,-- - ' 
 
 And his most perfs.qi.image io.Jrhgj£oM, 
 — Endeavor thus to live ; these ruies"rP~ 
 
 gard; j^ 
 
 These helps solicit; and a steadfast seat ^ 
 Shall then be yours among the happy few 
 Who dwell on earth, yet breathe em- \ 
 
 pyreal air, j 
 
 Sons of the morning. For your nobler 
 
 part, 
 Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains. 
 Doubt shall be quelled and tro-.uble chased 
 
 away; ' 
 
 With only such degree of sadness left 
 As may support longings of pure desire; 
 And strengthen love, rejoicing secretlj* 
 In the sublime attractions of the grave." 
 
 While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
 
 Poured forth his aspirations, and an- 
 nounced 
 
 His judgments, near that lonely house we 
 paced 
 
 A plot 6i greensward, seemingly pre- 
 served 
 
 By nature's care from wreck of scattered (, 
 stones. 
 
 And from encroachment of encircling ^ 
 heath : 
 
 Small space ! but, for reiterated steps. 
 
 Smooth and commodious; as a stately 
 deck 
 
 Which to and fro the mariner is used 
 
 To tread for pastime, talking with his 
 mates. 
 
 Or haply thinking of far-distant friends. 
 
 While the ship glides before a steady 
 breeze. 
 
 Stillness prevailed around us : and the 
 voice 
 
 That spake was capable to lift the soul 
 
 Toward regions yet more tranquil. But, 
 methought. 
 
 That he, whose fixed despondency had 
 given 
 
 Impulse and motive to that strong dis- 
 course. 
 
 Was less upraised in spirit than abashed; 
 
 Shrinking from admonition, like a man 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 509 
 
 Who feels that to exhort is to reproach. 
 Yet not to be diverted from his aim, 
 The Sage qgnfinued : — 
 
 " For that other loss, 
 The__loss of confidence in socj?il man,.. 
 By the unexpected transports of our age 
 Carried so high, that every thought, which 
 !^ looked 
 
 Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind, 
 To many seemed superfluous — as, no 
 
 cause 
 Could e'er for such exalted confidence 
 Exist; so, none is now for fixed despair: 
 The two extremes are equally disowned 
 By reason : if, with sharp recoil, from one 
 You have been driven far as its opposite, 
 Between them seek the point whereon to 
 
 build 
 Sound expectations. So doth he advise 
 Who shared at first the illusion; but was 
 
 soon 
 Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 
 Which Nature gently gave, in woods and 
 
 fields; 
 Nor unreproved by Providence, thus 
 
 speaking 
 To the inattentive children of the world : 
 ' Vainglorious Generation ! what new 
 powers 
 On you have been conferred? what gifts, 
 
 withheld 
 From your progenitors, have ye received, 
 Fit recompense of new desert? what 
 
 claim 
 Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 
 For you should undergo a sudden 
 
 change; 
 And the weak functions of one busy day. 
 Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 
 What all the slowly-moving years of time, 
 With their united force, have left 
 
 undone? 
 By nature's gradual processes be taugjit; 
 By story be confounded ! Ye aspire 
 Rashly, to fall once more; and that false 
 
 fruit, 
 Which, to your overweening spirits, 
 
 yields 
 Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 
 Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her 
 
 sons 
 Shall not the less, though late, be justi- 
 fied.' 
 
 Such timely warning," said the Wan- 
 derer, " gave 
 That visionary voice; and, at this day, 
 When a Tartarean darkness overspreads 
 The groaning nations; when the impious 
 
 rule, 
 By will or by established ordinance, 
 Their own dire agents, and constrain the 
 
 good 
 To acts which they abhor : though I bewail 
 This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
 Prevents me not from owning, that the 
 
 law. 
 By which mankind now suffers, is most 
 
 just. "Tr 
 
 For by superior energies; more strict 
 'SilTance in each other; faith more firrn 
 In their unhallowed principles; the bad 
 Have' fairly earnetJ a victory o'er the 
 
 weak. 
 The vacillating, inconsistent good. 
 Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait — in 
 
 hope ~ 
 
 To see the moment, when the righteous 
 
 cause 
 Shall gain defenders zealous and devout 
 As they who have opposed her; in which 
 
 Virtue 
 Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds 
 That are not lofty as her rights; aspiring 
 By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. 
 That sphit only can redeem mankind ; 
 And when thai sacred spirit shall appear. 
 Then shall o ur t riumph be complete as 
 
 theirs. 
 Yet, should this confidence prove vain, 
 
 the wise 
 Have still the keeping of their proper 
 
 peace; 
 Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 
 They act, or they recede, observe, and 
 
 feel; 
 ' Knowing the heart of man is set to be ' 
 The centre of this world, about the which 
 Those revolutions of disturbances 
 Still roll; where all the aspects of misery 
 Predominate; whose strong effects are 
 
 such 
 As he must bear, being powerless to 
 
 redress; 
 And that unless above himself he can 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
510 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 B'.rect himself, hovj poor a thing is 
 
 — ' Man / " 
 
 Happy is he who Hves to understand, 
 Not. human nature only, but explores 
 All natures, — to the end that he may find 
 The law that governs each;, and where 
 "~" begins 
 The union, the partition where, that 
 
 makes 
 Kind and degree, among all visible 
 
 Beings ; 
 The constitutions, powers, and faculties, 
 Which they inherit, — cannot step be- 
 yond, — 
 And cannot fall beneath; that do assign 
 To every class its station and its office. 
 Through all the mighty commonwealth of 
 
 things 
 Up from the creeping plant to sovereign 
 
 Man. 
 Such converse, if directed by a meek, 
 sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love: 
 For knowledge is delight; and such de- 
 \ light ' " 
 
 Breeds love : yet, suited as it rather is 
 To thought and to the climbing intellect, 
 It teaches less to love, than to adore ; 
 If that be not indeed the highest love ! " 
 ^> 
 '< ' "Yet," said I, tempted here to inter- 
 pose, 
 " The dignity of life is not impaired 
 By aught that innocently satisges^ 
 THi£h.unibler cravings of the heart"; and he 
 Is a still happier man, who, for those 
 
 heights 
 Of speculation not unfit, descends; 
 And such benign affections cultivates 
 Among the inferior kinds; not merely 
 
 those 
 ; That he may call his own, and which de- 
 pend, 
 As individual objects of regard. 
 Upon his care, from whom he also looks 
 For signs and tokens of a mutual bond; 
 But others, far beyond this narrow sphere. 
 Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. 
 Nor is it a mean praise of ruialjife_ 
 And solitude, that they do favor most, 
 Mostfreqiierrtly call forth, and best sus- 
 tain, 
 
 ^ Daniel. 
 
 These gmg seiisaticins; that can penetrate 
 The obstreperous city; on the barren seas 
 Are not unfelt; and much might recom- 
 mend. 
 How much they might^nspirit and endear. 
 The loneliness of this sublKe retfeatT ' '/, 
 
 "Yes," said the Sage, resuming the' 
 discourse * ; 
 
 Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
 
 " If, with the frowardwill and grovelling 
 soul w 
 
 Of man, offended, liberty Js here, y^fv^ 
 
 And invitation every hour renev?ed, 
 
 To mark thei?- placid state, who never), 
 heard ^ 
 
 Of a command which they have power to 
 break. 
 
 Or rule which they are tempted to trans- 
 gress: ^ ' 
 
 These, witH a soothed or elevated heart. 
 
 May we behold; their knowledge regis- 
 ter; 
 
 Observe their ways; and, free from envy, 
 find " - 
 
 Complacence there : — but wherefore this 
 to you? 
 
 I guess that, welcome to your lonely 
 hearth, 
 
 'I^e_redbreast^ruffled up by winter's cold 
 
 Into a * feathery bunch,' feeds at your 
 hand: 
 
 A box, perchance, is from your casement 
 hung 
 
 For the small_wren to build in ; — not in 
 vain. 
 
 The barriers disregarding that surround 
 
 This deep abiding place, before your sight 
 
 Mounts on the breeze the butterfly; and 
 soars, "^ 
 
 Small creature as she is, from earth's 
 bright flowers, 
 
 Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
 
 In the waste wilderness: the. Soul as- 
 cends- , 
 
 Drawn towards her native firmament of 
 heaven, 
 
 When the fresh eagle, in the month of 
 May, ' 
 
 Upborne, at evening, on replenished 
 wing. 
 
 This shaded valley leaves ; and leaves the 
 dark "^ ' 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 5" 
 
 Empurpled hills, conspicuously renewing 
 
 A proud communication with the sun 
 
 Low sunk beneath the horizon ! — List ! — 
 I heard, 
 
 From yon huge breast of rock, a voice 
 sent forth 
 
 As if the visible mountain made the cry. 
 
 Again ! " — The effect upon the soul was 
 such " ~ " "" 
 
 As he expressed: from out the moun- 
 tain's heart 
 
 The solemn voice appeared to issue, start- 
 ling 
 
 The blank air — for the region all around 
 
 Stood empty of all shape of life, and si- 
 lent 
 
 Save for that single cry, the unanswered 
 bleat " 
 
 Of ji.poorJ.amb — • left somewhere to itself. 
 
 The plaintive^ipirit of the solitude ! 
 
 He paused, as if unwilling to proceed, 
 
 Through consciousness that silence in such 
 place 
 
 Was best, the most affecting eloquence. 
 
 But soon his thoughts returned upon them- 
 selves. 
 
 And, in soft tone of speech, thus he re- 
 sumed. 
 
 "Ah! if the heart, too confidently 
 
 raised. 
 Perchance too lightly occupied, or lulled 
 Too easily, despise or overlook 
 The vassalage that binds her to the earth, 
 Her sad dependence upon time, and all 
 The trepidations of mortality, 
 What place so destitute and void — but 
 
 there 
 The little flower her vanity shall check; 
 The trailing worm reprove her thoughtless 
 
 pride ? 
 
 A These craggy regions, these chaotic 
 
 wilds, 
 Does that benignity pervade, that warms 
 The mole contented with her darksome 
 
 walk 
 In the cold ground; and to the emmet 
 
 gives 
 Her foresight, and intelligence that makes 
 The tiny creatures sjfong by social league; 
 Supports the generations, multiplies 
 Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
 
 Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills — ■ 
 Their labor, covered, as a lake with£ 
 
 waves ; 
 Thousands of cities, in the desert place 
 Built uf> of life, and food, and means of 
 
 life! 
 Nor wanting here, to entertain the 
 
 thought, 
 Creatures that in communities exist. 
 Less, as might seem, for general guardian- 
 ship 
 Or through depejidence, u^on mutual aid. 
 Than by participation of delight "~ 
 
 And a.stnct love of fellowship, combined. 
 What other spirit can it be That prompts 
 The gilded, sum.mer flies to mix and weave 
 Their sports together in the solar beam, 
 Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy? 
 More obviously the self-same influence 
 
 rules 
 The feathered kinds; the fieldfare's pen- 
 sive flock, 
 The cawing rooks, and sea-mews from 
 
 afar. 
 Hovering above these inland solitudes. 
 By the rough wind unscattered, at whose 
 
 call 
 Up through the trenches of the long- 
 drawn vales 
 Their voyage was begun : nor is its power 
 Unfelt among the sedentary fowl 
 That seek yon pool, and there prolong 
 
 their stay 
 In silent congress; or together roused 
 Take flight; while with their clang the 
 
 air resounds : 
 And, over all, in that ethereal vault. 
 Is the mute company of changeful clouds; 
 Bright apparition, suddenly put forth. 
 The rainbow smiling on the faded storm; 
 The mild assemblage of the starry heav- 
 ens; 
 And the great sun, earth's universal lord ! 
 
 ^SM-hSWiiivl is JSTatilie ! he shall find , 
 Who seeks not; and to him, who hath 
 
 not asked, 
 Large measure shall be dealt. Three sab- 
 bath-days 
 Are scarcely told, since, on aservicebent 
 Of mere humanity, you clomb those 
 
 heights; 
 And what a marvellous and heavenly show 
 
512 
 
 THE Excursion. 
 
 Was suddenly revealed! — the swains 
 moved on, 
 
 And heeded not : you lingered, you per- 
 ceived 
 
 And felt, deeply as living man could feel. 
 
 There is a luxury in self-dispraise; 
 
 And inward self-disparagement affords 
 
 To 'meditative spleen c- grateful feast. 
 
 Trust me, pronouncing on your own 
 desert. 
 
 You judge unthankfuUy : d jstemp ered 
 nerves 
 
 Infect the thoughts : the languor of the 
 frame 
 
 Depresses the soul's vigor. Quitjaur 
 couch — 
 
 Cleave not so fondly to your moody cell; 
 
 Nor let the hallowed powers, that shed 
 from heaven 
 
 Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye 
 
 Look down upon your taper, through a 
 watch 
 
 Of midnight hours, unseasonably twink- 
 ling 
 
 In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 
 
 Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 
 
 Take^courage, and withdraw: yourself from 
 
 That run aot parallel to nature's course. 
 -Rise with Jlig_ lark-L your matins shall 
 obtain 
 
 Grace, be their composition what it may, 
 " If but with hers performed; climb once 
 again , 
 
 Climb every day, those ramparts; meet 
 the breeze' 
 
 Upon their tops, adventurous as a bee 
 
 That from your garden thither soars, to 
 feed 
 
 On new-blown heath; let yon command- 
 ing rock 
 
 Be your frequented watch-tower; igW the 
 stone., ^~~i 
 
 In thunder down the mountains; with all 
 your might 
 
 Chase the wild goat; and if the bold red 
 deer 
 
 Fly to those harbors, driven by hound 
 and horn 
 
 Loud echoing, add your speed to the pur- 
 suit; 
 
 So, wearied to your hut shall you returUj^ 
 
 And sink at evening into sound repose." 
 
 The Solitary lifted toward the hills 
 A kindling eye : — accordant feelings 
 
 rushed 
 Into my bosom, whence these words 
 
 broke forth: 
 "Oh! what a joy it were, in vigorous 
 
 health, y>j<i 
 
 To have a body (this our vital frame ^^^ 
 With shrinking sensibility endued. 
 And all the nice regards of flesh and 
 
 blood) ijj 
 
 And to the elements surrender it 
 Asji-it were a^spirit ! — lTow~3ivine, Cvt 
 The liberty, for fraiT, for mortal, man , 
 To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
 And mountainous retirements, only trod 
 By devious footsteps; regions consecrate 
 To oldest time ! and, reckless of the storm 
 That keeps the raven quiet in her nest. 
 Be as a presence or a motion — one 
 Among the many there; and while the 
 
 mists 
 Flying, and rainy vapors, call out shapes 
 And phantoms from the crags and solid 
 
 earth 
 As fast as a musician scatters sounds 
 Out of an instrument; and while the 
 
 streams 
 (As at a first creation and in haste 
 To exercise their untried faculties) 
 Descending from the region of the clouds. 
 And starting from the hollows of the earth 
 More multitudinous every moment, rend 
 Their way before them — what a joy to 
 
 foam 
 An equal among mightiest energies; 
 AnBnaply' sometimes with articulate 
 
 voice, 
 Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely 
 
 heard 
 By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 
 '_Rage on ye elements ! let moon and stars 
 Their aspects lend, and mingle in their 
 
 turn 
 With this commotion (ruinous though it 
 
 be) 
 From day to night, from night to day, 
 
 prolonged! ' " 
 
 "Yes," said the Wanderer, taking 
 from my lips 
 The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in 
 youth ~' 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 S13 
 
 Has, through ambition of his soul, given 
 
 way 
 To such desires, and grasped at such 
 
 delight, 
 Shall feel congenial stirrings late and 
 
 long, ^ 
 
 In spite of all the weakness that life 
 
 brings, 
 Its. cares and sorrows; he, though taught 
 
 to own 
 The tranquillizing power of time, shall 
 
 wake, 
 Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness — 
 Loving the sports which once he gloried 
 
 Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's 
 
 hills. 
 The streams far distant of your native 
 
 glen; 
 Yet is their form and image here ex- 
 >- pressed 
 
 •-'With brotherly resemblance. Turn your 
 
 steps 
 Wherever fancy leads; by day, by night, 
 Are various engines working, not the same" 
 As those with which your soul in youth 
 
 was moved, 
 But by the great Artificer endowed 
 With no inferior power. You dwell 
 
 alone ; 
 You walk, you live, you speculate alone; 
 Yet doth reniembrance, like a sovereign 
 '. prince, "" 
 
 .'*For you a stately gallery maintain 
 Of gay or tragic pictures. You have 
 
 seen. 
 Have acted, suffered, travelled far, ob- 
 served 
 With no incurious eye; and books are 
 
 yours. 
 Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
 Preserved from age to age; more precious 
 
 far 
 Than that accumulated store of gold 
 And orient gems, which, for a day of 
 
 need. 
 The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. 
 These hoards of truth you can unlock at 
 
 will: 
 And music- waLts.upon your skilful touch, 
 Sounds which the wandering shepherd 
 
 from these heights 
 
 Hears, and forgets his purpose; — fur- 
 nished thus, 
 
 iJ,aw, tan you droop, if willing to be up- 
 raised? _ ^ 
 
 . A piteous lot it were to flee from Man — 
 Yet not rejoice in Nature. He, whose 
 
 hours 
 Are by domestic pleasures uncaressed 
 And unenlivened; who exists whole years " 
 Apart from benefits received or done 
 'Mid the transactions of the bustling 
 
 crowd; 
 Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to 
 
 hear. 
 Of the world's interests — such a one 
 
 hath. need 
 Of a quick fancy, and an active heart. 
 That, for the day's consumption, books 
 
 may yield 
 Food not unwholesome; e_arth.^and.. air 
 
 correct 
 His morbid iumor, with delight supplied 
 Or solace, varying as the seasons change. 
 — Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her 
 
 haunts of ease 
 And easy contemplation; gay parterres. 
 And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 
 And shady, groves in studied contrast — 
 
 each. 
 For recreati(mj_ leading into each: 
 These may he range, if willing to partake 
 Their soft indulgences, and in due time 
 May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 
 And course of service Truth requires from 
 
 those 
 Who tend her altars, wait upon her 
 
 throne. 
 And guard her fortresses. Who thinks, 
 
 and feels. 
 And recognizes ever and anon 
 The breeze of nature stirring in his soul. 
 Why need such man go desperately as- 
 tray. 
 And nurse ' the dreadful appetite of 
 
 death ' ? 
 If tired with systems, each in its degree 
 Substantial, and all crumbling in their 
 
 turn. 
 Let him build systems of his own, and 
 
 smile 
 At the fond work, demolished with a 
 
 touch ; 
 
SH 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 If unreligious, let him.be at once, 
 Among ten thousand innocents, enrolled 
 A pupil in the many-chambered school^ 
 Where superstition weaves her airy 
 dreams. 
 
 Life's autumn past, I stand on winter's 
 verge; 
 And daily lose what I desire to keep : 
 Yet rather would I instantly decline 
 To the traditionary sympathies 
 Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
 A fearful apprehension from the owl 
 Or death-watch : and as readily rejoice, 
 If two auspicious magpies crossed my 
 
 way; — 
 To this would rather bend than see and 
 
 hear 
 The repetitions wearisome of sense, 
 Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no 
 
 place; 
 Where knowledge, ill begun in cold re- 
 mark 
 On outward things, with formal inference 
 
 ends; 
 Or, if the mind turn inward, she recoils 
 At once — or, not recoiling, is per- 
 plexed — 
 Lost in a gloom of uninspired research; 
 Meanwhile, the heart within the heart, 
 
 the seat 
 Where peace and happy consciousness 
 
 should dwell, 
 On its own axis restlessly revolving, 
 Seeks, yet can nowhere find, the light of 
 truth. 
 
 Upon the breast of new-created earjh 
 
 MasfValked ; and when and whereso'er 
 he moved, 
 
 Alone or mated, solitude wasnot. 
 
 He heard, borne on the wind, the articu- 
 late voice 
 ' Of God ; and Angels to his sight appeared 
 
 Crowning the glorious hills of paradise; 
 
 Or through the groves gliding like morn- 
 ing mist 
 
 Enkindled by the sun. He sate — and 
 talked 
 
 With winged Messengers; who daily 
 brought 
 
 To his small island in the ethereal deep 
 
 Tidings of joy and love. — From those 
 
 pure heights 
 (Whether of actual vision, sensible 
 To sight and feeling, or that in this sort 
 Have condescendingly been shadowed 
 
 forth 
 jCommunications spiritually maiiitained, 
 And intuitions moral and divine) 
 Fell Human-kind — to banishment con- 
 demned 
 That flowing years repealed not: and 
 
 distress 
 And grief spread wide ; but' Man escaped 
 
 the doom 
 Of destitution; — solitude was not. 
 — Jehovah — shapeless Power above all 
 
 Powers, 
 Single and one, the omnipresent God, 
 By vocal utterance, or blaze of light, (■ 
 Or cloud of darkness, localized in heaven; 
 On earth, enshrined within the wandering j^ 
 
 ark; 
 Or, out of Sion, thundering from his^ 
 
 throne 
 Between the Cherubim — on the chosen ' 
 
 Race 
 Showered miracles, and ceased not to dis- 
 pense 
 Judgments, that filled the land from age 
 
 - to.ag-e- 
 With hope, and love, and gratitude, and 
 
 fear; 
 And with amazement smote ; — thereby 
 
 to assert 
 His scorned, or unacknowledged, sover- 
 eignty. 
 And when the One, ineffable of name. 
 Of nature indivisible, withdrew 
 From mortal adoration or regard. 
 Not then was Deity engulphed ; nor Man, 
 The rational creature, left, to feel the 
 
 weight 
 Of his own reason, without sense or 
 
 thought 
 Of higher reason and a purer will, 
 To benefit and bless, through mightier 
 
 power:— (^ 
 
 Whether tjie Persian — zealous to r.sj££t^ 
 Altar and image, and the inclusive walls 
 And roofs of temples built by human 
 
 hands — 
 To loftiest heights ascending, from their 
 tops, \, ■. , , 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 51S 
 
 With myrtle-wreathed tiara on his brow, 
 Presented sacrifice to moon and stars, 
 And to the winds and mother elements. 
 And the whole circle of the heavens, for 
 
 him 
 A sensitive existence, and a God, 
 With lifted hands invoked, and songs of 
 
 praise : 
 Or, less reluctantly to bonds of sense 
 Yielding his soul, tlje Babylonian framed 
 For influence undefined a persoiiaTsliape ; 
 And, from the plain, with toil immense, 
 
 upreared 
 Tower eight times planted on the top of 
 
 tower, 
 That Belus, nightly to his splendid couch 
 Descending, there might rest; upon that 
 
 height 
 Pure and serene, diffused — to overlook 
 Winding Euphrates, and the city vast 
 Of his devoted worshippers, far-stretched. 
 With grove and field and garden inter- 
 spersed; 
 Their town, and foodful region for support 
 Against the pressure of beleaguering war. 
 
 Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless 
 "ITelds," 
 Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 
 Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude. 
 Looked on the polar star, as on a guide 
 And guardian of their course, that never 
 
 closed 
 His steadfast eye. The planetary Five 
 With a submissive reverence they beheld; 
 Watched, from the centre of their sleep- 
 ing flocks, 
 Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to 
 
 move 
 Carrying through ether, in perpetual 
 
 round, 
 Decrees and resolutions of the Gods; 
 And, by their aspects, signifying works 
 Of dim futurity, to Man revealed. 
 — The imaginative faculty was lord 
 Of observations natural; and, thus 
 Led on, those shepherds made report of 
 
 stars 
 In set rotation passing to and fro. 
 Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 
 And its invisible counterpart, adorned 
 With answering constellations, under 
 earth. 
 
 Removed from all approach of living 
 
 sight 
 But present to the dead; who, so they 
 
 deemed. 
 Like those celestial messengers beheld 
 All accidents, and judges were of all. 
 
 The lively Grecian, in a land of hills, 
 Rivers and fefFJe pTains, and sounding 
 
 shores, — 
 Under a cope of sky more variable. 
 Could find commodious place for every 
 
 God, 
 Promptly received, as prodigally brought, 
 From the surrounding countries, at the 
 
 choice 
 Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill. 
 As nicest observation furnished hints 
 For studious fancy, his quick hand be- 
 stowed 
 On fluent operations a fixed shape; 
 Metal or stone, idolatrously served. 
 And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous 
 
 show 
 Of art, this palpable array of sense, 
 On every side encountered; in despite 
 Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 
 By wandering Rhapsodists; and in con- 
 tempt 
 Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 
 Amid the wrangling schools — a spirit 
 
 hung. 
 Beautiful region ! o'er thy towns and 
 
 farms. 
 Statues and temples, and memorial tombs; 
 And emanations were perceived; and acts 
 Of immortality, in Nature's course. 
 Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 
 As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed 
 And armed warrior; and in every grove 
 A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed. 
 When piety more awful had relaxed. 
 — ' Take, running river, take these locks 
 
 of mine ' — 
 Thus would the Votary say — ' this sev- 
 ered hair, 
 ' My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 
 ' Thankful for ray beloved child's return. 
 ' Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod, 
 'Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the 
 
 crystal lymph 
 ' With which thou dost refresh the thirsty 
 lip. 
 
5i6 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 ' And, all day long, moisten these flowery 
 fields ! ' 
 
 And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair 
 was shed 
 
 Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 
 
 Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired ; 
 
 That hath been, is, and where it was 
 and is 
 
 There shall endure, — existence unex- 
 posed 
 
 To the blind walk of mortal accident; 
 
 From diminution safe and weakening age; 
 
 While man grows old, and dwindles, and 
 decays; 
 
 And countless generations of mankind 
 
 Depart; and leave no vestige where they 
 trod. 
 
 yVe live by Admiration, Hope and Love; 
 
 And, even as these are well and wisely 
 fixed. 
 
 In dignity of being we ascend. 
 
 But what is error? " — "Answer he who 
 can ! " 
 
 The Sceptic somewhat haughtily ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Love, Hope, and Admiration, — are 
 ~' tTiey not 
 
 Mad Fancy's favorite vassals? Does not 
 
 Usethem, full oft, as pioneers to ruin, 
 Guides to destruction? Is it well to trust 
 Imagmation's light when reeSoii's fails, 
 TheTinguarded taper where the guarded 
 
 faints? 
 — Stoop from those heights, and soberly 
 
 declare 
 What error is; and, of our errors, which 
 Doth most debase the mind; the genuine 
 
 seats 
 Of power, where are they? Who shall 
 
 regulate. 
 With truth, the scale of intellectual rank ?" 
 
 •O k ■ 
 " Methinks," persuasively the Sage re- 
 1 plied, 
 
 . " That for this arduous office you possess 
 Some rare advantages. Your early days 
 A grateful recollection must supply 
 Of much exalted good by Heaven vouch- 
 .^T safed 
 
 To dignify the humblest state. — Your 
 voice 
 
 Hath, in my hearing, often testified 
 That £oor men's children, they, and they 
 
 alone. 
 By their condition taught,^canuriderstand 
 The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
 For daily bread. A consciousness is yours 
 How feelingly religion may be learned 
 In smoky cabins, from a mother's 
 
 tongue — 
 Heard where the dwelling vibrates to the 
 
 din 
 Of the contiguous torrent, gathering 
 
 strength 
 At every moment — and, with strength, 
 
 in'crease 
 Of fury; or, while snow is at the door. 
 Assaulting and defending, and the wind, 
 A sightless laborer, whistles at his work — 
 Fearful; but resignation tempers fear. 
 And piety is sweet to infant minds, ^.0 
 — The_Shepherd-lad, that in the sun- i 
 
 shine carves, ^ "' . "1 
 
 On the green turf, a dial — to divide ^'•'•^ 
 The silent hours; and who to that report , 
 Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt,'' 
 Throughout a long and lonely summer's 
 
 day 
 His round of pastoral duties, is not left 
 With less intelligence for moral things 
 Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 
 Within himself, a measure and a rule, 
 Which to the sun of truth he can apply, 
 That shines for him, and shines for all 
 
 mankind. 
 Experience daily fixing his regards 
 On nature's wants, he knows how few 
 
 they are. 
 And where they lie, how answered and 
 
 appeased. 
 This knowledge ample recompense affords 
 For manifold privations; he refers 
 His notions to this standard; on this rock 
 Rest his desires; and hence, in after 
 
 life. 
 Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime 
 
 content. 
 .Imagination — not permitted here 
 To waste her powers, as in the worldling's 
 
 mind, 
 Onjickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 
 And trivial ostentation — isjeft^free 
 And puissant to range the solemn^valks 
 Of time and nature, girded by a zone 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 517 
 
 That, while it binds, invigorates and 
 
 supports. 
 Acknowledge, then, that whether by the 
 
 side 
 Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top, 
 Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred 
 (Take from him what you will upon tTie 
 
 score 
 Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 
 For noble purposes of mind: liis heart* 
 l^eatsjft, the heroic song of ancient days; 
 His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 
 And those illusions, which excite the scorn 
 Or move the pity of unthinking minds. 
 Are they not mainly outward ministers 
 Of inward conscience ? with whose service 
 
 charged 
 They came and go, appeared and disap- 
 pear, 
 Diverting evil purposes, remorse 
 Awakening, chastening an intemperate 
 
 grief, 
 Or pride of heart abating; and, whene'er 
 For less important ends those phantoms 
 
 move. 
 Who would forbid them, if their presence 
 
 serve — 
 On thinly-peopled mountains and wild 
 
 heaths. 
 Filling a space, else vacant — to exalt 
 The forms of Nature, and enlarge her 
 
 powers ? 
 
 ..^^ 
 
 * Qnce_more to distant ages of the,wprld 
 
 Let us revert, and place before our thoughts 
 
 The face which rural solitude might wear 
 
 To~the unenlightened swains of pagan 
 
 Greece. 
 — In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, 
 
 stretched 
 On the soft grass through half a summer's 
 
 day. 
 With music lulled his indolent repose : 
 And, in some fit of weariness, if he. 
 When his own breath \yas silent, chanced 
 
 To "hear 
 A distant strain , far sweeter than the sounds , 
 Which his poor skill could make, lysjancy 
 
 fetched, 
 Even from the blazing chariot of the sun, 
 A beardless Youth, who touched a golden 
 ^ lute, ■ 
 
 And filled the illumined groves with ravish- 
 ment. 
 T he nigh tly hunter, lifting a bright eye 
 Op towarHslTie crescent moon, with grate- 
 ful heart 
 Called on the lovely wanderer who be- 
 stowed 
 That timely light, to share his joyous sport : 
 And hence, a beaming Goddess with her 
 
 Nymphs, """■ 
 
 Across the lawn and through the dark- 
 some grove, 
 Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 
 By echo multiplied from rock or cave, 
 Swept in the storm of chase; as moon and 
 
 stars 
 Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven. 
 When winds are blowing strong. The 
 
 traveller slaked 
 His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and 
 
 thanked 
 The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills • 
 Gliding apace, with shadows in their train, ■ 
 Might, with small help from fancy, be 
 
 transformed 
 Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 
 The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, theii 
 
 wings, 
 Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom 
 
 they wooed 
 With gentle whisper. Withered boughs 
 
 grotesque. 
 Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary 
 
 age, 
 From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
 In the low vale, or on steep mountain side ; 
 And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring 
 
 horns 
 Of the live deer, or goat's depending 
 
 beard, — 
 These were the lurking Satyrs , a wild brood 
 Of gamesome Deities; or Pan himself, 
 The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring 
 God!" .,,..■ 
 
 The strain was aptly chosen; and I 
 could mark 
 
 Its kindly influence, o'er the yielding brow 
 
 Of our Companion, gradually diffused; 
 
 While, listening, he had paced the noise- 
 less turf, 
 
 Like one whose untired ear a murmuring 
 stream 
 
5i8 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Detains; but tempted now to interpose, 
 He with a smile exclaimed: — 
 
 " 'T is well you speak 
 At a safe distance from our native land, 
 , And from the mansions where our youth 
 
 was taught. 
 The true descendants of those godly men 
 Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of 
 
 zeal, 
 Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles 
 That harbored them, — the souls retain- 
 ing yet 
 The churlish features of that after-race 
 Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting 
 
 rocks. 
 In deadly scorn of superstitious rites. 
 Or what their scruples construed to be 
 ^ such — 
 
 How, think you, would they tolerate this 
 
 scheme 
 Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 
 Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh 
 The weeds of Romish phantasy, in vain 
 Uprooted; would re-consecrate our wells 
 To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint 
 
 Anne; 
 And from long banishment recall Saint 
 
 Giles, 
 To watch again with tutelary love 
 O'er stately Edinborough throned on 
 
 crags ? 
 A blessed restoration, to behold 
 The patron, on the shoulders of his priests. 
 Once more paxading through her crowded 
 
 s_treets, 
 Now simply guarded by the sober powers 
 Of science, and philosophy, and sense !" 
 
 This answer followed. — "You have 
 turned my thoughts 
 '^ Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 
 ' Against idolatry with warlike mind. 
 And ^Krunk frbm vain observances, to lurk 
 In woods, and dwellunder impendingrocks 
 Ill-sheltered, and oft wanting fire and 
 
 food; 
 Why ? — for this very reason'that they felt, 
 And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they 
 
 moved, 
 A spiritual presence, oft-times miscon- 
 ceived, 
 But still a high dependence, a divine 
 
 Bounty and government, that filled their 
 
 hearts 
 With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and 
 
 love; 
 And jrom their.,ierYfiilJ;_Jip5.drew hymns 
 
 of prais£,_ 
 That through the desert rang. Though 
 
 favored less. 
 Far less, than these, yet such, in their 
 
 degree, 
 Were those bewildered Pagans of old time. 
 Beyond their own poor natures and above 
 They looked; were humbly thankful for 
 
 the gopoL- 
 Which the warm sun solicited, and earth 
 Bestowed; were gladsome, — and their 
 
 moral sense 
 They fortified wkh reverence for the Gods; 
 And tFey had hopes that overstepped the 
 
 Grave. " ~"J,»-*^' 
 
 '-^ :',, .if*. 
 
 Now, shall our great Discoverers," he, 
 
 exclaimed, - ~" i^ 
 
 Raising his voice triumphantly, "obtain "^' 
 From sense and reason, less than these . 
 
 obtained, ti^ 
 
 Though far misled ? Shall men for whom-W 
 
 our age k 
 
 Unbafifled powers of vision hath prepared, ^ 
 To explore the world without and world 
 
 within, *" 
 
 Bejoylessastheblind? Ambitious spirits — 
 Whom earth, at this late season, hath 
 
 produced 
 To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
 The planets in the hollow of their hand; ^ 
 And they who rather dive than soar, whose 
 
 pains tV 
 
 Have solved the elements, or analyzed 
 The thinking principle — shah _th_ey.in fact •- 
 Prove a degraded Race? and what avails 
 Renown, if their~presumption make them 
 
 such? 
 Oh ! there is laughter at their work in 
 
 neaveii! 
 Inquire of ancient Wisdom; go, demand 
 Of mighty Nature, if 't was ever meant 
 That we should pry far off yet be unraised; 
 That we should pore, and dwindle as we 
 
 pore, 
 Viewing all objects unremittingly 
 In disconnection dead and spiritless; 
 And still dividing, and dividing still, 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 S19 
 
 Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
 With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
 May yet become more little; waging thus 
 An impious warfare with the very life 
 Of our own souls ! 
 
 And if indeed there be 
 An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom 
 Our dark foundations rest, could he design 
 That this magnificent effect of power. 
 The earth we tread, the sky that we behold 
 By day, and all the pomp which night 
 
 reveals; 
 That these — and that superior mystery 
 Our vital frame, so fearfully devised. 
 And the dread soul within it — should 
 
 exist 
 Only to be examined, pondered, searched, 
 Probed, vexed, arid criticised? Accuse 
 
 me not 
 Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am. 
 If, having walked with Nature threescore 
 
 years. 
 And offered, far as frailty would allow, 
 My heart a daily sacrifice to Txiithj_ 
 I now affirm of Natjire and of Trjl.lb> 
 Whom I have served, that their_J)ivjNiTY 
 Revolts, offended at the ways of men ™ 
 Swayed by such motives, to such ends 
 
 employed; 
 philosophers, who, though the human soul 
 ■Be of a thousand faculties composed. 
 And twice ten thousand interests, do yet 
 
 prize 
 This soiil, and the transcendent universe, 
 No irTore than as a mirror that reflects 
 To proud Self-love her own intelligence; 
 That one, poor, finite object, in the abyss 
 Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly ! 
 
 . "' ■ Nor higher place can be assigned to him 
 And his compeers — the laughing Sage of 
 ^ France. — 
 
 Crowned was he, if my memory do not err, 
 With laurel planted upon hoary hairs. 
 In sign of conquest by his wit achieved 
 And benefits his wisdom had conferred; 
 His stooping body tottered with wreaths 
 
 of flowers 
 Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 
 Than Spring oft twines about a moulder- 
 ing tree; 
 Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain, old Man, 
 And a most frivolous people. Him I mean 
 
 Who penned, to ridicule confiding faith. 
 This sorry Legend; which by chance we 
 
 found 
 Piled in a nook, through malice, as might 
 
 seem. 
 Among more innocent rubbish." — Speak- -' 
 
 ing thus, 
 With a brief notice when, and how, and 
 
 where. 
 We had espied the book, he drew it forth; 
 And courteously, as if the act removed, 
 At once, all traces from the good Man's 
 
 heart 
 Of unbenign aversion or contempt. 
 Restored it to its owner. " Gentle 
 
 Friend," »l 
 
 Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand, ' 
 " You have known lightsand guides better^; ,, 
 
 than these. ., 
 
 Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose ** 
 A noble mind to practise on herself, 
 And tempt opinion to support the wrongs 
 Of passion : whatsoe'er be felt or feared, 
 From higher judgment-seats make no 
 
 appeal 
 To lower : can you question that the soul 
 Inherits, an allegiance, not by choice 
 To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 
 "By each new upstart notion ? In the ports 
 Of levity no refuge can be found, 
 No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 
 He, who by wilful disesteem of life " ^ 
 
 And proud insensibility to hope. 
 Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn 
 That her mild nature can be terrible; 
 That neither she nor Silence lack the power 
 To avenge their own insulted majesty. 
 
 O blest seclusion ! when the mind admits 
 The law of duty; and can therefore move - 
 ThrougF^"cH vicissitude of loss and gain. 
 Linked in entire complacence with her 
 
 choice ; 
 When youth's presumptuousness is mel- 
 lowed down. 
 And manhood's vain anxiety dismissed; 
 When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit. 
 Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung 
 In sober plenty; when the spirit stoops 
 To drink with gratitude the crystal stream 
 Of unreproved enjoyment; and is pleased 
 To muse, and be saluted by the air 
 
520 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Of meek repentance, wafting wall-fiower 
 scents 
 
 From out the crumbling ruins of fallen 
 pride 
 
 And chambers of transgression, now for- 
 lorn. 
 
 O, calm contented days, and peaceful 
 nights ! 
 
 Who, when such good can be obtained, 
 would strive 
 
 To reconcile his manhood to a couch 
 
 Soft, asmay seem, but, under that disguise. 
 
 Stuffed with the thorny substance of the 
 past 
 
 For fixed annoyance; and full oft beset 
 
 With floating dreams, black and discon- 
 solate, 
 
 The vapory phantoms of futurity? 
 
 Within the soul a faculty abides, 
 , That with interpositions, which would hide 
 And darken, so can deal that they become 
 'Contingencies of pomp ; and serve to exalt 
 Her native brightness. As the ample moon. 
 In the deep stillness of a summer even 
 Rising behind a thick and lofty grove. 
 Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light, 
 In the green trees; and, kindling on all 
 
 sides 
 Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
 Into a substance glorious as her own. 
 Yea, with her own incorporated, by power 
 Capacious and serene. Like power^abides 
 Injnan's celestial spirit; Virtue thus 
 Sets forth andTnagnifies herself; thus feeds 
 A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, 
 From the encumbrances of mortal life. 
 From error, disappointment — nay, from 
 
 guilt; 
 And sometimes, so relenting justice wills. 
 From palpable oppressions of despair." 
 
 The Solitary by these words was 
 
 touched 
 With manifest emotion, and exclaimed; 
 '■' But how begin? and whence? — ' The 
 
 Mind is jree — 
 Resolve,' the haughty Moralist would say, 
 ' This single act is all that we demand.' 
 Alas ! such wisdom bids a creature fly 
 Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn 
 His natural wings ! — To friendship let 
 
 him turn : 
 
 For succor; but perhaps he sits alone 
 On stormy waters, tossed in a little boat 
 That holds but him, and can contain no 
 
 more ! 
 Religion tells of amity sublime 
 Which no condition can preclude; of One 
 Who sees all suffering, comprehends all 
 
 wants, 
 All weakness fathoms, can supply all 
 
 needs : 
 But is that bounty absolute? — His gifts. 
 Are they not, still, in some degree, re- 
 wards ' ~ 
 For acts of service ? Can his love extend 
 "To hearts that own not him? Will 
 
 showers of grace. 
 When in the sky no promise may be seen, 
 Fall to refresh a parched and withered 
 
 land? 
 Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 
 At the Redeemer's feet? " 
 
 In rueful tone. 
 With some impatience in his mien, he 
 
 spake : 
 Back to my mind rushed all that had been 
 
 urged 
 To calm the Sufferer when his story closed; 
 I looked for counsel as unbending now; 
 But a discriminating sympathy 
 Stooped to this apt reply : — 
 
 ' ' As men from men 
 Do, in the constitution of their souls. 
 Differ, by mystery not to be explained; 
 ~And~as we fall by various ways, and sink 
 One deeper than another, self-con- 
 demned, 
 Through manifold degrees of guilt and 
 
 shame ; 
 So manifo ld, and various are the ways 
 Of re storation, fashioned Fo the steps 
 Of all infirmity, and tending all 
 To the same point, attainable by all — 
 Peace in ourselves, and union with our 
 
 ■ GodT 
 
 For_you,_asjur£dly^.a. hopeful road 
 Lies open : we have heard from you a voice 
 At every mbment softened in .itsj;ourse 
 By^teijdgxness.Qf heart; have seen your 
 
 _eye. 
 Even like an altar lit by fire from heaven. 
 Kindle before us. — Your discourse fhis 
 
 day,. • ' 
 
 That, like the fabled Lethe, wishedtS-flo»' 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 521 
 
 In creeping sadness, through oblivious 
 
 shades 
 Of death and night, has caught at every 
 
 turn 
 The colors of the sun. .A£££55jEgr.joU 
 ^^_ySL£ISfi£txed_to,.principies _cif_truthj__ 
 Which the imaginative Will upholds 
 In seats of wisdom, not to be approached 
 By the~nfe_rior Faculty that moulds, 
 With her minute and speculative pains. 
 Opinion, ever changing ! 
 
 I have seen 
 A curious child, who dwelt upon a trflct 
 Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
 The convolutions of a smooth-lipped 
 
 shell; 
 To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
 Listened intensely; and his countenance 
 
 soon 
 Brightened with joy; for from within 
 
 were heard 
 Murmurings, whereby the monitor ex- 
 pressed 
 Mysterious union with its native sea. 
 Even such a shell the universe itself 
 Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
 I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things; 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; 
 And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
 Of endless agitation. Here you stand, 
 Adore, and worship, when you know it 
 
 not; 
 Pious beyond the intention of your 
 
 thought; 
 Devout above the meaning of your will. 
 — Yes, you have felt, and may not cease 
 
 to feel. 
 The estate of man would be indeed forlorn 
 If false conclusions of the reasoning power 
 Made the eye blind, and closed the 
 
 passages 
 Through which the ear converses with 
 
 the heart. 
 Has not the soul, the being of your Hfe, 
 Received a shock of awful consciousness. 
 In some calm season, when these lofty 
 
 rocks 
 At night's approach bring down the un- 
 clouded sky. 
 To rest upon their circumambient walls; 
 A temple framing of dimensions vast. 
 And yet not too enormous for the sound 
 
 Of human anthems, — choral song, oi 
 
 burst 
 Sublime of instrumental harmony, 
 To glorify the Eternal ! What if these 
 Did never break the stillness that prevails 
 Here, — if the solemn nightingale be mute, 
 And the soft woodlark here did never 
 
 chant 
 Her vespers, — Nature fails not to provide 
 Impulse and utterance. The whispering 
 
 air 
 Sends inspiration from the shadowy 
 
 heights. 
 And blind recesses of thecaverned rocks; 
 The little rills, and waters numberless. 
 Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 
 With the loud streams : and often, at the 
 
 hour 
 When issue forth the first pale stars, is 
 
 heard, 
 Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 
 One voice — the solitary raven, flying 
 Athwart the concave of the dark blue 
 
 dome. 
 Unseen, perchance above all power of 
 
 sight — 
 An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 
 Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, 
 
 with which 
 The wanderer accompanies her flight 
 Through the calm region, fades upon the 
 
 ear, 
 Diminishing by distance till it seemed 
 To expire ; yet from the abyss is caught 
 
 again, 
 And yet again recovered ! 
 
 But descending 
 From these imaginative heights, that yield 
 Far-stretching views into eternity. 
 Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler 
 
 power 
 Your cherished suUenness is forced to 
 
 bend 
 Even here, where her amenities are sown 
 With sparing hand. Then trust yourself 
 
 ab road " 
 
 To range her blooming bowers, and spa- 
 cious fields, 
 Where on the labors of the happy throng 
 She smiles, including in her wide em- 
 brace 
 City, and town, and tower, — and sea 
 
 with ships 
 
522 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Sprinkled; — be our Companion while we 
 
 track 
 Her rivers populous with gliding life; 
 While, free as air, o'er printless sands 
 
 we march. 
 Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 
 Roaming, or resting under grateful shade 
 In peace and meditative cheerfulness; 
 Where living things, and things inanimate. 
 Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye 
 
 and ear, 
 And speak to social reason's inner sense, 
 With inarticulate language. 
 
 For, the Man — 
 Who, in this spirit, communes, w.ith the 
 
 Forms 
 Of nature, who with understanding heart 
 BotK"knoVs and loves such objects as 
 
 " excite 
 No. morbid passions, no disquietude. 
 No "Vengeance, and no hatred — needs 
 
 must feel 
 The joy of that pure. principle of love 
 So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aijgEF 
 'Less pure and exquisite, he cannot Choose 
 But seek for objects of a kindred love 
 - In fellow-natures and a kindred joyl " 
 Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
 His feelings of aversion softened down ; 
 A holy tenderness pervade his frame. 
 His sanity of reason not impaired. 
 Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing 
 
 clear. 
 From a clear fountain flowing, he looks 
 
 round 
 And seeks for good; and finds the good 
 
 he seeks : 
 Until abhorrence and contempt are things 
 He only knows bypame; and, if he hear. 
 From other mouths, the language which 
 
 they speak, 
 He is compassionate; and has no thought. 
 No feeling, which can overcome his love. 
 
 And further; by contemplating_these_ 
 Forms 
 
 Iln the relations which they bear to man, 
 le shall discern, how, through the vari- 
 ous means 
 i^hich silently they yield, are multiplied 
 iThe spiritual presences of absent things. 
 Trust me, that for the instructed, time 
 will come 
 
 When they shall meet no object but may 
 
 teach 
 Some acceptable -lesson to their minds 
 Of human sufferings, or of human joy. 
 So shall they learn, while all things speak 
 
 of man. 
 Their duties- from all forms; and general 
 
 laws, ~ ■ "" " 
 
 And locar accidents, shall tend alike 
 To roiise, to urge"; and, with the will, 
 
 confer 
 The ability to spread the blessings wide 
 Of true philanthropy. The light of love 
 Not failing, perseverance from their steps • 
 Departing not, for them shall be con- 
 firmed 
 The glorious habit by which sense is made 
 Subservient still to moral purposes, 
 Auxiliar to divine. That change shall 
 
 clothe 
 The naked spirit, ceasing to deplore 
 The burthen of existence. Science then 
 Shall be a precious visitant; and then,~ 
 And only then, be worthy of her name: 
 For then her heart shall kindle; her dull 
 
 eye. 
 Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 
 Chained to its object in brute slavery; 
 But taught with patient interest to watch 
 The processes of things, and serve the 
 
 cause 
 Of order and distinctness, not for this 
 Shall it forget that its most noble use. 
 Its most illustrious province, must he 
 
 found 
 In furnishing clear guidance, a support 
 Not treacherous, to the mind's excursive 
 
 power. 
 — So build we up the Being that we are ; 
 Thus deeply drinking-i'n the soul of things 
 We shall be wis6 perforce; and, while 
 
 inspired 
 By choice, and conscious that the Will is 
 
 free. 
 Shall move unswerving, even as if im- 
 pelled 
 By strict necessity, along the path 
 Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
 Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine; 
 Shall fix, in calmer seats of moral strength, 
 Earthly desires ; and raise, to loftier . 
 
 heights 
 Of divine love, our intellectual soul." 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 523 
 
 Here closed the Sage that eloquent 
 
 harangue, 
 Poured forth with fervor in continuous 
 
 stream, 
 Such as, remote, 'mid savage wilderness, 
 An Indian Chief discharges from his breast 
 Into the hearing of assembled tribes. 
 In open circle seated round, and hushed 
 As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf 
 Stirs in the mighty woods. — So did he 
 
 speak : 
 The words he uttered shall not pass away 
 Dispersed, like music that the wind takes 
 
 up 
 By snatches, and lets fall, to be forgotten; 
 No — they sank into me, the bounteous 
 
 gift 
 Of one whom time and nature had made 
 
 wise, 
 Gracing his doctrine with authority 
 Which hostile spirits silently allow; 
 Of one accustomed to desires that feed 
 On fruitage gathered from the tree of life; 
 To hopes on knowledge and experience 
 
 - built; 
 Of one in whom persuasion and belief 
 Had ripened into faith, and faith become 
 -A passionate intuition; whence the Soul, 
 Though bound to earth by ties of pity and 
 
 love. 
 From all injurious servitude was free. 
 
 The Sun, before his place of rest were 
 reached, 
 Had yet to travel far, but unto us. 
 To us who stood low in that hollow dell. 
 He had become invisible, — a pomp 
 Leaving behind, of yellow radiance spread 
 Over the mountain sides, in contrast bold 
 With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 
 Than those resplendent lights, his rich be- 
 quest; 
 A dispensation of his evening power. 
 — Adown the path that from the glen had 
 
 led 
 The funeral train, the Shepherd and his 
 
 Mate . 
 Were seen descending: — forth to greet 
 
 them ran 
 Our little Page: the rustic pair approach; 
 And in the Matron's countenance may be 
 
 read 
 Plain indication that the words, which told 
 
 How that neglected Pensioner was sent 
 Before his time into a quiet grave, 
 Had done to her humanity no wrong: 
 But we are kindly welcomed — promptly 
 
 served 
 With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 
 Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell 
 Agratef ul couch was spread for our repose ; ' 
 Where, in the guise of mountaineer_s, we 
 
 lay, 
 Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled 
 
 by sound 
 Of far-off torrents charming the still night, 
 And , to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts. 
 Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 
 
 Book Fifth. 
 
 the pastor. 
 
 argument. 
 
 Farewell to the Valley — Reflections — A large 
 and populous Vale described — The Pastor's 
 Dwelling, and some account of him — Church 
 and Monuments — The Solitary musing, and 
 where — Roused —In the Churchyard the Solitary 
 communicates the thoughts wllich had recently 
 passed through his mind — Lofty tone of the 
 Wanderer's discourse of yesterday adverted to — 
 Rite of Baptism, and the professions accompany- 
 ing it, contrasted with the real state of human 
 life — Apology for the Rite — Inconsistency of the 
 best men — Acknowledgment that practice falls 
 far below the injunctions of duty as existing in 
 the mind — General complaint of a falling-off in 
 the value of life after the time of youth — Outward 
 appearances of content and happiness in degree 
 illusive — Pastor approaches — Appeal made to 
 him — His answer — Wanderer in sympathy with 
 him — Suggestion that the least ambitious en- 
 quirers may be most free from error — The Pastor 
 is desired to give some portraits of the living or 
 dead from his own observation of life among these 
 Mountains — And forwhat purpose — Pastor con- 
 sents — Mountain cottage — Excellent qualities of 
 its Inhabitants — Solitary expresses his pleasure; 
 bitt denies the praise of virtue to worth of thig 
 kind — Feelings of the Priest before he enters 
 upon his account of persons interred in the 
 Churchyard — Graves of unbaptized infants -- 
 Funeral and sepulchral observances, whence — - 
 Ecclesiastical Establishments, whence derived-^ 
 Profession of unbelief in the doctrine of Immor 
 tality. 
 
524 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 " Farewell, ^eep Valley, with thy one 
 ~" rutle Flouse, ' 
 
 And its small lot of life-supporting fields. 
 And guardian rocks! — Farewell, attrac- 
 tive seat ! 
 To the still influx of the morning light 
 Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but 
 
 veiled 
 From human observation, as if yet 
 Primeval forests wrapped thee round with 
 
 dark 
 Impenetrable shade; once more farewell. 
 Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss, 
 By Nature destined from the birth of things 
 For quietness profound ! " 
 
 Upon the side 
 Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the vale 
 Which foot of boldest stranger would 
 
 attempt, 
 Lingering behind my comrades, thus I 
 
 breatlisd_. 
 \ parting tribute to a spot that seemed 
 Cike tlie fixed centre of a trouHeTworld. 
 Agairrl halfed"with reverted eyes; 
 The chain that would not slacken, was at 
 
 length 
 Snapt, — and, pursuing leisurely my way, 
 How vain, thought I, is it by change of 
 
 place 
 To seek that comfort which the mind 
 
 denies; 
 Yet trial arid temptation oft are shunned 
 Wisely; and by such tenure do we hold 
 Frail life's possessions, that even they 
 
 whose fate 
 Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 
 Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
 To steal from active duties, and embrace 
 Obscurity, and undisturbed repose. 
 — Knowledge, methinks, in these dis- 
 
 . ordered times, 
 Should be allowed a privilege to have 
 Her anchorites, like piety of old; 
 Men, who, from faction sacred, and un- 
 stained 
 By war, might, if so minded,^ turji_ aside 
 Uncensured, and- subsist, ^a scattered f^w 
 Living to God and nature, and content 
 With' that comiuuniQn: . Consecrated be 
 The spots where such abide. But happier 
 
 still ■ ■ 
 
 The Man, whom, furthermore, a^ hope 
 attends 
 
 That meditation and research may guide 
 I lis privacy to principles and powers 
 Discovered or invented; or set forth. 
 Through his acquaintance with the^ ways 
 
 of truth, ^ 
 In lucid order; so that, when his course 
 Is run, some faithful eulogist may say, 
 He sought not praise, and praise did over- 
 look 
 His unobtrusive merit; but his life, 
 Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 
 That shall survive his name and memory.. 
 
 Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 
 Accompanied these musings; fervent 
 
 thanks 
 For my ojS!ja-p.eacef ul lot and happy choice ; 
 A choice that from the passions of the 
 
 wacld - 
 Withdrev/, and fixed me in a still retreat; 
 Sheltered, „but not to social duties lo^. 
 Secluded, but not buried; and with song- 
 CjeerS^^^SyJiays, and with industrious 
 
 thought ; ' ' - - 
 
 With the ever-welcome company of books; 
 With^jiiJi«uisJriendshi£'s soul-sustainiftg 
 
 aid, "" 
 
 And with the blessings of. doniestic love. 
 
 Thus occupied in mind I paced along, 
 Following the rugged road, by sledge or 
 
 wheel 
 Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
 My tw.Q Associates, in the morning sun- 
 shine 
 Halting together on a rocky knoll, 
 Whence the bare road descended rapidly 
 To the greenjaeadows of another vale. 
 
 Here did our pensive Host put forth 
 
 his hand 
 In sign of farewell. " Nay, ' ' the old Man 
 
 said, 
 " The fragrant air its coolness still retains; 
 The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop 
 The dewy grass; you cannot leave us now. 
 We must not part at this inviting hour." 
 He yielded, though reluctant ; for his mind 
 Instinctively disposed him to retire 
 To his own covert; as a billow, heaved 
 Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea. 
 — So we descend : and winding round a 
 
 rock 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 525 
 
 Attain a point that showed the valley — 
 
 stretched 
 In length before us; andj not distant far. 
 Upon a rising ground a gray churcli-tovver, 
 Whose battlements were screened by 
 
 tufted trees. 
 And towards a crystal Mere, that lay 
 
 beyond 
 Among steep hills and woods embosomed, 
 
 flowed 
 A copious stream with boldly-winding 
 
 course ; 
 Here traceable, there hidden — there again 
 To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. 
 On the stream's bank, and everywhere, 
 
 appeared 
 Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots; 
 Some scattered o'er the level, others 
 
 perched 
 On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene. 
 Now in its morning purity arrayed. 
 
 "As 'mid some happy valley of the 
 Alps," 
 Said I, " once happy, ere tyrannic power. 
 Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 
 Destroyed their unoffending common- 
 wealth, 
 A pogular equality reigns here. 
 Save for yon stately House beneath whose 
 
 A ruratTord might dwell." — "No feudal 
 ^ ;pomp, • 
 
 Or power" replied the Wanderer, "to 
 that House " " " - 
 
 Belongs, but there in his allotted Home 
 
 Abides, from year to year, a genuine 
 Priest, -■ " . 
 
 The sh?Jiherd of his flock; or, as a king 
 
 Is styled, when most affectionately 
 praised, 
 
 The father of his people. Such is he; 
 
 And rich and poor, and young and old, 
 rejoice 
 
 Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouch- 
 safed 
 
 To me some portion of a kind regard; 
 
 And something also of his inner mind 
 
 Hath he imparted — but I speak of him 
 
 As he is known to all. 
 
 The calm delights 
 
 Of unambitious piety he chose. 
 
 And learning's solid dignity ; though born 
 
 Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful 
 
 friends. 
 Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 
 From academic bowers. He loved the 
 
 spot — 
 Who does not love his native soil? — he 
 
 prized 
 The ancient rural character, composed 
 Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest 
 And undisguised, and strong and serious 
 
 thought 
 A character reflected in himself. 
 With such embellishment as well beseems 
 His rank and sacred function. This deep 
 
 vale 
 Winds far in reaches hidden from our 
 
 sight. 
 And one a turreted manorial hall 
 Adorns, in which the good Man's ances- 
 tors 
 Have dwelt through ages, Patrons of this 
 
 Cure. 
 To them, and to his own judicious pains. 
 The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole 
 
 domain, 
 Owes that presiding aspect which might 
 
 well 
 Attract your notice; statelier than could 
 
 else 
 Have been bestowed, through course of 
 
 common chance. 
 On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 
 
 This said, oft pausing, we pursued our 
 
 way; 
 Nor reached the village-churchjard till 
 
 the sun — ~' 
 
 Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had 
 
 risen 
 Above the summits of the highest hills. 
 And round our path darted oppressive 
 
 beams. 
 
 As chanced, the portals of the sacred 
 
 Pile 
 Stood open; and we entered. On my 
 
 frame. 
 At such transition from the fervid air, 
 A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to 
 
 strike 
 The heart, in concert with that temperate 
 
 awe 
 
526 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 And natural reverence which the place in- 
 spired. 
 Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, 
 But large and massy; for duration built; 
 With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
 By naked rafters intricately crossed, - 
 Like leafless underboughs, in some thick 
 
 wood, 
 All withered by the depth of shade above. 
 Admonitory texts inscribed the walls, 
 Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed; 
 Each also crowned with winged heads — 
 
 a pair 
 Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor 
 Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise. 
 Was occupied by oaken benches ranged 
 In seemly rows ; the chancel only showed 
 Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly 
 
 state 
 By immemorial privilege allowed; 
 Though with the Encincture's special 
 
 sanctity 
 But ill according. An heraldic shield, 
 Varying its tincture with the changeful 
 
 light. 
 Imbued the altar-window; fixed aloft 
 A faded hatchment hung, and one by time 
 Yet undiscolored. A capacious pew 
 Of sculptured oak stoo3 here, with "drap- 
 ery lined; 
 And marble monuments were here dis- 
 played 
 Thronging the walls; and on the floor 
 
 beneath 
 Sepulchral stones appeared, with em- 
 blems graven 
 And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with 
 
 small , 
 
 And shining effigies of brass inlaid. 
 
 The tribute by these various records 
 claimed, 
 Duly we paid, each after each, and read 
 The ordinary chronicle of birth. 
 Office, alliance, and promotion — all 
 Ending in dust; of upright magistrates, 
 Grave doctors strenuous for the mother- 
 church. 
 And uncorrupted senators, alike 
 To king and people true. A brazen plate. 
 Not easily deciphered, told of one 
 Whose course of earthly honor was begun 
 
 In q uality of page among the train 
 Orurf~eighth Henry, when he crossed 
 
 the seas 
 His royal state to show, and prove his 
 
 strength 
 In tournament, upon-the fields of France. 
 Another _tablet registered the death, 
 'And praised the gallant bearing, of a 
 
 Knight 
 Tried in the sea-fights of the second 
 
 Charles. .. ■ 
 Near this brave Knight his Father lay en- 
 tombed; ~'" ' "~ — ' 
 And, to the silent language giving voice, 
 I read, — how in his manhood's earlier 
 
 day ' 
 
 He, 'mid the afflictions of intestine war 
 And rightful government subverted, found 
 One only solace — that he had espoused 
 A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved 
 For her benign perfections; and yet more 
 Endeared to him, for this, that, in her 
 
 state 
 Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's 
 
 regard, 
 She with a numerousissue filled his house. 
 Who throve, like plants, uninjured By the— 
 
 storm 
 That laid their country waste. No need 
 
 to speak 
 Of less particular notices assigned 
 To Youth or Maiden gone before their 
 
 time. 
 And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old; 
 Whose charity and goodness were re- 
 hearsed 
 In modest panegyric. 
 
 "These dim lines, 
 What would they tell?" said I, — but, 
 
 from the task 
 Of puzzling out that faded narrative. 
 With whisper soft my venerable Friend 
 Called me; and, looking down the dark- 
 some aisle, 
 I saw the Tenaatjjf .the Jonely_ vale 
 Standing apart ;_with curved arm reclined 
 On the baptismal font; his pallid face 
 Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost 
 In some abstraction; — gracefully he 
 
 stood, 
 The semblance bearing of a sculptured 
 
 form 
 That leans upon a monumental urn 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 527 
 
 In peace, from morn to night, from year 
 to year. 
 
 Him from that posture did the Sexton 
 rouse ; 
 Who e'nferecl, humming carelessly a tune. 
 Continuation haply of the notes 
 That had beguiled the work from which 
 
 he came, 
 With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder 
 
 hung; 
 To be deposited, for future need, 
 In their appointed place. The pale Re- 
 cluse 
 Withdrew; and straight we followed, — 
 
 to a spot 
 Where sun and shade were intermixed; 
 
 for there 
 A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms 
 From an adjoining pasture, overhung 
 Small space of that green churchyard with 
 
 a light 
 And pleasant awning. On the moss- 
 grown wall 
 My ancient Friend and I together took 
 Our seats; and thus the Solitary spake, 
 Standing before us : — 
 
 *' Did you note the mien 
 Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl. 
 Death's hireling, who scoops out. his 
 
 neighbor's grave. 
 Or wraps an old acquaintance up in clay. 
 All unconcerned as he would bind a sheaf, 
 Or plant a tree. And did you hear his 
 
 voice ? 
 I was abruptly summoned by the sound 
 From some affecting images and thoughts. 
 Which then were silent; but crave utter- 
 ance now. 
 
 Much," he continued, with dejected 
 
 look, 
 " Much, yesterday, was said in glowing 
 
 phrase. 
 Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 
 For future states of being; and the wings 
 Of speculation, joyfully outspread. 
 Hovered above our destiny on earth : 
 But stoop, and place the prospect of the 
 
 soul 
 In sober contrast with rp.ality. 
 And man's substantial life. If this mute 
 
 earth 
 
 Of what it holds could speak, and every 
 
 grave 
 Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 
 Of yielding its contents to eye and ear. 
 We should recoil, stricken with sorrow 
 
 and shame. 
 To see disclosed, by such dread proof, 
 
 how ill 
 That which is done accords with what is 
 
 known 
 To reason," and by conscience is enjoined; 
 How idly, how perversely, life's whole 
 
 course, 
 To this conclusion, deviates from the line. 
 Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 
 At her aspiring outset. 
 
 Mark the babe 
 Not long accustomed to this breathing 
 
 world; 
 One that hath barely learned to shape a 
 
 smile. 
 Though yet irrational of soul, to grasp 
 With tiny finger — to let fall a tear; 
 And, as the heavy cloud of fear dissolves. 
 To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might 
 
 seem. 
 The outward functions of intelligent man; 
 ^ grave proficient in amusive feats 
 Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 
 His expectations, and announce his claims 
 To that inheritance which mllhons rue 
 That they were ever born to ! In due time 
 A day of solemn ceremonial comes; 
 When they, who for this Minor hold in 
 
 trust 
 Rights that transcend the loftiest heritage 
 Of mere humanity, present their Charge, 
 For this occasion daintily adorned. 
 At the baptismal font. And when the 
 
 pure 
 And consecrating element hath cleansed 
 The original stain, the child is there re- 
 ceived 
 Into the second ark, Christ's church, with 
 
 trust 
 That he, from wrath redeemed, therein 
 
 shall float 
 Over the billows of this troublesome world 
 To the fair land of everlasting life. 
 Corrupt affections, covetous desires. 
 Are. all renounced; high as the thought 
 
 of man 
 Can carry virtue, virtue is professed; 
 
528 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 A dedication made, a promise given 
 For due provision to control and guide, 
 And unremitting progress to ensure 
 In holiness and truth." 
 N " You cannot blame," 
 
 Here interposing fervently I said, 
 " Rites which attest that Man by nature 
 
 lies 
 Bedded for good and evil in a gulf 
 Fearfully low; nor will your judgment 
 
 scorn 
 Those services, whereby attempt is made 
 To lift the creature toward that eminence 
 On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 
 He stood; or if not so, whose top serene 
 At least he feels 't is given him to descry; 
 Not without aspirations, evermore 
 Returning, and injunctions from within 
 Doubt to cast off and weariness; in trust 
 That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost. 
 May be, through pains and 'persevering" 
 
 hope, 
 Recovered; or, if hitherto unknown. 
 Lies within reach, and one day shall be 
 
 gained." 
 
 "I blame them not," he calmly 
 
 answered — "no; 
 The outward ritual and established forms 
 With which communities of men invest 
 These inward feelings, and the aspiring 
 
 vows 
 To which the lips give public utterance 
 Are both a natural process; and by me 
 Shall pass uncensured; though the issue 
 
 prove. 
 Bringing from age to age its own reproach. 
 Incongruous, impotent, and blank. — But, 
 
 oh! 
 If to be weak is to be wretched — miser- 
 able. 
 As the lost Angel by a human voice 
 Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in 
 
 my mind. 
 Far better not to move at all than move 
 By impulse sent . from such illusive 
 
 .power, — ^i-. 
 That finds and cannot fasten dojvn; that 
 
 grasps 
 And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps ; 
 That tempts, emboldens — for a time 
 
 sustains. 
 And then betrays; accuses and inflicts 
 
 Remorseless punishment; and so retreads 
 The inevitable circle: better far 
 Than this, to grare the herb in thought- 
 less peace, 
 By foresight or remembrance, undis- 
 turbed ! 
 
 Philosophy ! and thou more vaunted 
 'frame 
 Religion ! with thy statelier retinue, 
 Paitli;* Ho£e, and Charity — from the 
 
 visible world 
 Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er ye 
 
 find 
 Of safest guidance or of firmest trust — 
 The torch, the star, the anchor; nor 
 
 except 
 The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
 The generations of mankind have knelt 
 Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, 
 And through that conflict seeking rest — 
 
 of you. 
 High-titled Powers, am I constrained to 
 
 ask, 
 Here standing, with the unvoy^eable sky 
 In faint reflection of infinitude 
 Stretched overhead, and at my pensive 
 
 feet 
 A subterraneous magazine of bones, 
 In whose dark vaults my own shall soon 
 
 be laid, 
 Where are jpur triumphs? your dominion 
 
 " where? 
 And in^;hat age admitted and confirmed? 
 ^="Not for aTiappy land do I inquife. 
 Island or grove, that hides a blessed few 
 Who, with obedience willing and sincere, 
 To your serene authorities conform; 
 But whom,-! ask, of individual SqulSi 
 Haye, ye- Hdth.dra»[n__from_j)assion's 
 
 crookeiwaiSj 
 Inspired, and thoroughly fortified? — If 
 
 the heart ~"- . 
 
 Could be inspected to its inmost folds 
 By sight undazzled with the glare of 
 
 praise, 
 Whfl,shalUieLnamed - — in the resplendent 
 
 line 
 Of sages, martyrs, confessors — the man 
 Whom the best might of faith, wherever 
 
 fixed. 
 For one day's little compass, has preserved 
 From painful and discreditable shocks 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 529 
 
 Of contradiction, from some vague desire 
 Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse 
 To some unsanctioned fear? " 
 
 " If .this be so, 
 And Man," said I, "be in "his noblest 
 
 shape 
 Thus pitiably infirmi then, he who made, 
 And„who- shall judge the creature, will 
 
 forgive. 
 — Yet, in its general tenor, your com- 
 plaint 
 Is all too true; and surely not misplaced : 
 For, from this pregnant spot of ground, 
 
 such thoughts 
 Rise to the notice of a serious mind 
 By natural exhalation. With the dead 
 In their repose, the living in their mirth. 
 Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the 
 
 round 
 Of smooth and solemnized complacencies. 
 By which, on Christian lands, from age to 
 
 age 
 Profession mocks performance. Earth is 
 
 sick. 
 And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 
 Which States and Kingdoms utter when 
 
 they talk 
 Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 
 And, social neighborhood; look we to 
 
 ourselves; 
 A light of duty shines on every day 
 For all; and yet how few are warmed 
 
 or cheered ! 
 How few who mingle with their fellow- 
 men 
 And still remain self-governed, and 
 
 apart, 
 Like this our honored Friend; and thence 
 
 acquire 
 Right to expect his vigorous decline, 
 That promises to the end a blest old age ! ' ' 
 
 "Yet," with a smile of triumph thus 
 
 exclaimed 
 The Solitary, " in the life of man, 
 If to the poetry of common speech 
 Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 
 A true reflection of the circling year, 
 With all its seasons. Grant that Spring 
 
 is there, 
 In spite of many a rough untoward blast. 
 Hopeful and promising with buds and 
 
 flowers; 
 
 Yet where is glowing Summer's long 
 rich day. 
 
 That ought to follow faithfully expressed ? 
 
 And mellow Autumn, charged with 
 bounteous fruit. 
 
 Where is she imaged? in what favored 
 clime 
 
 Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence? 
 
 — Yet, while the better part is missed, 
 the worse 
 
 In man's autumnal season is set forth 
 
 With a resemblance not to be denied, 
 
 And that contents him; bowers that hear 
 no more 
 
 The voice of gladness, less and less supply 
 
 Of outward sunshine and internal warmth ; 
 
 And, with this change, sharp air and fall- 
 ing leaves. 
 
 Foretelling aged Winter's desolate sway. 
 
 How gay the habitations that bedeck 
 This fertile valley ! Not a house but 
 
 seems 
 To give assurance of content within; 
 Embosomed happiness, and placid love; 
 As if the sunshine of the day were met 
 With answering brightness in the hearts 
 
 of all 
 Who walk this favored ground. But 
 
 chance-regards. 
 And notice forced upon incurious ears; 
 These, if these only, acting in despite 
 Of the encomiums by my Friend pro- 
 nounced 
 On humble life, forbid the judging mind 
 To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 
 And noiseless commonwealth. The sim- 
 ple race 
 Of mountaineers (by nature's self re- 
 moved 
 From foul temptations, and by constant 
 
 care 
 Of a good shepherd tended as themselves 
 Do tend their flocks) partake man's 
 
 general lot 
 With little mitigation. They escape, 
 Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt; 
 
 feel not 
 The tedium of fantastic idleness : 
 Yet life, as with the multitude, with them 
 Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale; 
 That on the outset wastes its gay desires, 
 Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes, 
 
530 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 And pleasant interests — for the sequel 
 
 leaving 
 Old things repeated with diminished 
 
 grace ; 
 And all' the labored novelties at best 
 Imperfect substitutes, whose use and 
 
 power 
 Evince the want and weakness whence 
 
 they spring." 
 
 While in this serious mood we held 
 discourse, 
 The reverend. Pastor toward the. church- 
 yard gate 
 Approached ; and, with a mild respectful 
 -^~ aiF 
 Of native cordiality, our Friend 
 Advanced to greet him. With a gracious 
 
 mien 
 Was he received, and mutual joy pre- 
 vailed. 
 Awhile they stood in conference, and I 
 
 guess 
 That he, who now upon the mossy wall 
 Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish 
 Could have transferred him to the flying 
 
 clouds, 
 Or the least penetrable hiding-place 
 In his own valley's rocky guardianship. 
 — For me, I looked upon the pair, well 
 
 pleased : 
 Nature had framed them both, and both 
 
 were marked 
 By circumstance, with intermixture fine 
 Of contrast and resemblance. To an_oak. 
 Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak. 
 Fresh in the strengtb and majesty of age, 
 One might be likened; flourishing ap- 
 peared, 
 Though somewhat past the fulness of his 
 
 prime, 
 The other — like a stately sycamore, 
 That spreads, in gentle pomp, its honied 
 shade. 
 
 A general greeting was exchanged ; and 
 
 soon 
 The Pastor learned that his approach had 
 
 given 
 A welcome interruption to discourse 
 Grave, and in truth too often sad. — "Is 
 
 Man 
 A child of hope? Do generations press 
 
 On generations, without progress made? 
 Halts the individual, ere his hairs be 
 
 gray, 
 Perforce? Are we a creature m whom 
 
 good 
 Preponderates, or evil? Doth_the will 
 Acknowledge reason's law? A living 
 
 power 
 Is virtue, or no better than a name, 
 Fleeting as health or beauty, and un- 
 sound? 
 So that the only substance which remains, 
 (For thus the tenor of complaint hath 
 
 run) 
 Among so many shadows, are the pains 
 And penalties of miserable life. 
 Doomed to decay, and then expire in 
 
 dust! 
 — Our cogitations, this way have been 
 
 drawn. 
 These are the points," the Wanderer said, 
 
 " on which 
 Our inquest turns. — Accord, good Sir ! 
 
 the light 
 Of your experience to dispel this gloom: 
 By your persuasive wisdom shall the 
 
 heart 
 That frets, or languishes, be stilled and 
 
 cheered." 
 
 " Our nature," said the Priest, in mild 
 ""Teply, ~ 
 ' ' Angels may weigh and fathom : they 
 
 perceive. 
 With undistempered and unclouded spirit, 
 The object as it is; but, for ourselves, 
 Xhatjpeculati ve height loe may ricrtreach. 
 The good and eyiJ^re our^own; and we. 
 Are"t]iat which we would contemplate 
 
 from far. .. 
 Knfiiadedg£,.ior_uSj is difficult to^^ain — 
 Is difficult to gain, and fia!;cLtft.kge^ — 
 As virtue's self; like virtue isbeset 
 With snaresj tried, tempfed, subje.ct.to. 
 
 decay. 
 Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate, 
 Blind were we without these : through' 
 
 these alone ^ 
 Are^capable to^notice or discern 
 Or to recor J; wejudge, but cannot be 
 Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest 
 
 boast. 
 Reason, best reason, is to imperfect man 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 531 
 
 An effort only, and a noble aim; 
 
 A crown, an attribute oV sovereign power, 
 
 Still to be courted — never to be won. 
 
 — Look forth, or each man dive into him- 
 self; 
 
 What sees he but a creature "too per- 
 turbed; 
 
 That is transported to excess; that yearns, 
 
 Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too 
 much; 
 
 Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils; 
 
 Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair ? 
 
 Thus comprehension fails, and truth is 
 missed; 
 
 'Thus darkness and delusion round our 
 path 
 
 Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury 
 lurks 
 
 Within the very faculty of sight. 
 
 Yet for the general purposes of faith 
 In Providence, for solace and support. 
 We may not doubt that who can best sub- 
 ject 
 The will to reason's law, can strictliest 
 
 live ' '■ — 
 
 And act in that obedience, he shall gain 
 The clearest apprehension of those truths. 
 Which unassisted reason's utmost power 
 Is too infirm toreach. But, waiving this. 
 And our regards confining within bounds 
 Of less exalted consciousness, through 
 
 which 
 The very multitude are free to range. 
 We safely may affirm that human iff e 
 Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
 Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul^ 
 Or,^ forbidden tract of cheerless view; 
 Even as the same is looked at, or ap- 
 
 \ proached. 
 Thus, when in changeful April fields are 
 
 white 
 With new-fallen snow, if from the sullen 
 
 north 
 Your walk conduct you hither, ere the sun 
 Hath gained his noontide height, this 
 
 churchyard, filled 
 With mounds transversely lying side by 
 
 side 
 From east to west, before you will appear 
 An unillumined, blank, and dreary plain. 
 With more than wintry cheerlessness and 
 
 gloom 
 
 Saddening the heart. Go forward, and 
 look back; 
 
 Look, from the quarter whence the lord of 
 light. 
 
 Of life, of love, and gladness doth dis- 
 pense 
 
 His beams; which, unexcluded in their 
 fall, 
 
 Upon the southern, side of every grave 
 
 Have gently exercised a melting power; 
 
 77i^» will a vernal prospect greet your eye. 
 
 All fresh and beautiful, and green and 
 bright. 
 
 Hopeful and cheerful : — vanished is the 
 pall 
 
 That overspread and chilled the sacred 
 turf, 
 
 Vanished or hidden; and the whole do- 
 main. 
 
 To some, too lightly minded, might ap- 
 pear 
 
 A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. 
 
 — This contrast, not unsuitable to life, 
 
 Is to that other state more apposite. 
 
 Death and its twofold aspect ! wintry — 
 one. 
 
 Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy 
 shut out; 
 
 The other, which the ray divine hath 
 touched. 
 
 Replete with vivid promise, bright as 
 spring." 
 
 "We see, then, as we feel," the Wan- 
 derer thus 
 With a complacent animation spake, 
 " And in your judgment, Sir! the mind's 
 
 repose 
 On evidence is not to be ensured 
 By act of naked reason. Moral truth 
 Is no mechanic structure, built by rule; 
 And which, once built, retains a steadfast 
 
 shape 
 And undisturbed proportions; but a thing 
 Subject, you deem, to vital accidents; 
 And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives. 
 Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose 
 
 head 
 Floats on the tossing waves. With joy 
 
 sincere 
 I re-salute these sentiments confirmed 
 By your authority. But how acquire 
 The inward principle that gives effect 
 
532 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 I'o outward argument; the passive will 
 Meek to admit; the active energy, 
 Strong and unbounded to embrace, and 
 
 firm 
 To keep and cherish? how shall man unite 
 With self-forgetting tenderness of heart 
 An earth-despising dignity of soul? 
 Wise in that union, and without it blind !" 
 
 " The way," said I, " to court, if not 
 
 obtain 
 The ingenious mind, apt to be set aright; 
 This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you 
 Declared at large; and by what exercise 
 From visible nature, or the inner self 
 Power may be trained, and renovation 
 
 brought 
 To those who need the gift. But, after all, 
 Is aught so certain as that man is doomed 
 To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance ? 
 The natural roof of that dark house in 
 
 which 
 His soul is pent ! How little can be 
 
 known — 
 This is the wise inan's sigh; how far we 
 
 err — 
 This is the good man's not unfrequent 
 
 pang! 
 And they perhaps err least, the lowly class 
 Whom a benign necessity compels 
 To follow reason's least ambitious course; 
 Such do I mean who, unperplexed by 
 
 doubt. 
 And unincited by a wish to look 
 Into high objects farther than they may, 
 Pace to and fro, from morn till eventide. 
 The narrow avenue of daily toil 
 For daily bread." 
 
 " Yes," buoyantly exclaimed 
 The pale Recluse — " praise to the sturdy 
 
 plough. 
 And patient spade; praise to the simple 
 
 crook. 
 And ponderous loom — resounding while 
 
 it holds 
 Body and mind in one captivity; 
 And let the light mechanic tool be hailed 
 With honor; which, encasing by the 
 
 power 
 Of long companionship, the artist's hand, 
 Cuts off that hand, with all its world of 
 
 nerves, 
 
 From a too busy commerce with the heart ! 
 
 — Inglorious implfements of craft and toil, 
 Both ye that shape and build, and ye that 
 
 force, 
 By slow solicitation, earth to yield 
 Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
 With wise reluctance; you would I extol. 
 Not for gross good alone which ye produce. 
 But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife" 
 Of proofs and reasons ye preclude — in 
 
 those 
 Who to your dull society are born. 
 And with their humble birthright rest 
 
 content. 
 
 — Would I had^ae'er renounced it!" t 
 
 A slight flush 
 Of moral anger previously had tinged 
 The old Man's cheek; but, at this closing 
 
 turn y 
 
 Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, 
 '"■"ThaFwhich we feel we utter ; as we think 
 So have we argued; reaping for our pains 
 No visible recompense. For our relief 
 You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
 " Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
 Yourfurther Jjelp ? The mine of real life 
 Dig toFus; and present us, in the shape 
 Of virgifi ore, that gold which we, by pains 
 Fruitless as those of aery alchemists. 
 Seek from the torturing crucible. There 
 
 lies 
 Around us a domain where you have long 
 Watched both the outward course and 
 
 inner heart: 
 Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts; 
 For our disputes, plain pictures. Say 
 
 what man 
 He is who cultivates yon hanging field; 
 What qualities of mind she bears, who 
 
 comes. 
 For morn and evening. service, with her 
 
 pail. 
 To that green pasture; place before our 
 
 sight 
 The family who dwell within yon house 
 Fenced round with glittering laurel; or in 
 
 that 
 Below, from which the curling smoke 
 
 ascends. 
 Or rather, as we stand on holy eartli,' 
 And have the dead around us, take from 
 
 them 
 
 ' See Note- 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 533 
 
 Your instances; (or they are both best 
 
 known, 
 And by frail man most equitably judged. 
 Epitomize the life; pronounce, you can, 
 Authentic epitaphs on some of these 
 Who, from their lowly mansions hither 
 
 brought, 
 Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our 
 
 feet: 
 So, by your records, may our doubts be 
 
 solved; 
 And so, not searching higher we may learn 
 To prize the breath we share with human 
 
 kind; 
 And look upon the dust of man with awe.'* 
 
 The Priest replied — "An office you 
 
 impose 
 For which peculiar requisites are mine; 
 Yet much, I feel, is wanting — else the task 
 Would be most grateful. True indeed it is 
 That they whom death has hidden from our 
 
 sight 
 Are worthiest of the mind's regard; with 
 
 these 
 The future cannot contradict the past : 
 Mortality's last exercise and proof 
 Is undergone; the transit made that shows 
 The very Soul, revealed as she departs. 
 Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give. 
 Ere we descend into these silent vaults. 
 One picture from the living. 
 
 You behold. 
 High on the breast of yon dark mountain, 
 
 dark 
 With stony barrenness, a shining speck 
 Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower 
 Brush it away, or cloud pass over it; 
 And such it might be deemed — a sleep- 
 ing sunbeam; 
 But 't is a plot of cultivated ground, 
 Cut off, an island in the dusky waste; 
 And that attractive brightness is its own. 
 The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt 
 Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 
 The tiller's hand, a hermit might have 
 
 chosen. 
 For opportunity presented, thence 
 Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er 
 
 land 
 And ocean, and look down upon the 
 
 works, 
 
 The habitations, and the ways of men. 
 Himself unseen ! But no tradition tells 
 That ever hermit dipped his maple dish 
 In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon 
 
 green fields; 
 And no such visionary views belong 
 To those who occupy and till the ground, 
 High on that mouniain where they long 
 
 have dwelt ~ -.. 
 
 A wedded pair in childless solitude., 
 A house of stones collected on the spot, 
 By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in 
 
 front. 
 Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 
 Of birch-trees waves over the chimney top ; 
 A rough abode — in color, shape, and 
 
 size. 
 Such as in unsafe times of border-war 
 Might have been wished for and contrived, 
 
 to elude 
 The eye of roving plunderer — for their 
 
 need 
 Suffices; and unshaken bears the assault 
 Of their most dreaded foe, the strong 
 
 South-west 
 In anger blowing from the distant sea. 
 
 — Alone within her solitary hut; 
 There, orwilliin tfteoSrnpSss'of her fields, 
 At any moment may the Dame be found, 
 True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest 
 And to the grove that holds it. She be- 
 guiles 
 
 By intermingled work of house and field 
 The summer's day, and winter's; with 
 
 success 
 Not equal, but sufficient to maintain. 
 Even at the worst, a smooth stream of 
 
 content. 
 Until the expected hour at which fier Mate 
 From the far-distant quarry's vaiiTf re- 
 turns ; 
 And by his converse crowns a silent day, 
 With evening cheerfulness. In powers of 
 
 mind. 
 In scale of culture, few among my flock 
 Hold lower rank than this sequestered 
 
 pair: 
 But true hunjility. descends from heaven; 
 And that best gift of heaven hath fallen 
 
 on them; 
 Abundant recompense for every want. 
 
 — Stoop from your height, ye proud, and 
 
 copy these ! 
 
534 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, 
 
 can hear 
 The voice of wisdom whispering scripture 
 
 texts 
 For the mind's government, or temper's 
 
 peace; 
 And recommending for their mutual need, 
 Forgiveness, patience, hope, andcharity ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' Much was I pleased, ' ' the gray -haired 
 
 Wanderer said, 
 '* When to those shining fields our notice 
 
 first 
 You turned; and yet more pleased have 
 
 from your lips 
 Gathered this fair report of them who 
 
 dwell 
 In that retirement; whither, by such 
 
 course 
 Of evil hap and good as oft awaits 
 A tired way-faring man, once I was 
 
 brought 
 While traversing aloneyon mountain pass. 
 Dark on my road the autumnal evening 
 
 fell. 
 And night succeeded with unusual gloom. 
 So hazardous that feet and hands became 
 Guides better than mine eyes — until a 
 
 light 
 High in the gloom appeared, too high, 
 
 methought. 
 For human habitation; but I longed 
 To reach it, destitute of other hope. 
 I looked with steadiness as sailors look 
 Oh the north star, or watch-tower's dis- 
 tant lamp. 
 And saw the light — now fixed — and 
 
 shifting now — 
 Not like a dancing meteor, but in line 
 Of never-varying motion, to and fro. 
 It is no night-fire of the naked hills, 
 Thought I — some friendly covert must 
 
 be near. 
 With this persuasion thitherward my steps 
 I turn, and reach at last the guiding light; 
 Joy to myself ! but to the heart of her 
 Who there was standing on the open hill, 
 (The same kind Matron whom your 
 
 tongue hath praised) 
 Alarm and disappointment ! The alarm 
 Ceased, when she learned through what 
 
 mishap I came, 
 
 And by what help had gained those dis- 
 tant fields. 
 Drawn from her cottage, on that aery 
 
 height, 
 Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood. 
 Or paced the ground — to guide her Hus- 
 band home, 
 By that unwearied signal, kenned afar; 
 An anxious duty ! which the lofty site. 
 Traversed but by a few irregular paths. 
 Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 
 Detains him after his accustomed hour 
 Till night lies black upon the ground. 
 
 ' But come, 
 Come,' said the Matron, 'to our poor 
 
 abode ; 
 Those dark rocks hide it ! ' Entering, I 
 
 beheld 
 A blazing fire — beside a cleanly hearth 
 Sate down; and to her office, with leave 
 
 asked, 
 The Dame returned. 
 
 Or ere that glowing pile 
 Of mountain turf required the builder's 
 
 hand 
 Its wasted splendor to repair, the door 
 Opened, and she re-entered with glad 
 
 looks. 
 Her Helpmate following. Hospitable 
 
 fare, 
 Frank conversation, made the evening's 
 
 treat : 
 Need a bewildered traveller wish for more ? 
 But more was given; I studied as we sate 
 By the bright fire, the good Man's form, 
 
 and face 
 Not less than beautiful ; an open brow 
 Of undisturbed humanity; a cheek 
 Suffused with something of a feminine 
 
 hue; 
 Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard; 
 But, in the quicker turns of the discourse. 
 Expression slowly varying, that evinced 
 A tardy apprehension. From a fount 
 Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time. 
 But honored once, those features and that 
 
 mien 
 May have descended, though I see them 
 
 here. 
 In such a man, so gentle and subdued, 
 Withal so graceful in his gentleness, 
 A race illustrious for heroic deeds. 
 Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 535 
 
 This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld 
 By sundry recollections of such fall 
 From high to low, ascent from low to high, 
 As books record, and even the careless 
 
 mind 
 Cannot but notice among men and things) 
 Went with me to the place of my repose. 
 
 Roused by the crowing cock at dawn 
 of day, 
 
 1 yet had risen too late to interchange 
 
 A morning salutation with my Host, 
 
 Gone forth already to the far-off seat 
 
 Of his day's work. ' Three dark mid- 
 winter months 
 
 ' Pass,' said the Matron ' and I never see, 
 
 ' Save when the sabbath brings its kind 
 release, 
 
 ' My Helpmate's face by light of day. 
 He quits 
 
 ' His door in darkness, nor till dusk re- 
 turns. 
 
 ' And, through Heaven's blessing, thus 
 we gain the bread 
 
 ' For which we pray; and for the wants 
 provide 
 
 ' Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 
 
 ' Companions have I many; many friends, 
 
 ' Dependants, comforters — m y wheel, 
 m y fire, ' " 
 
 ' All day lhe house-clock- li ckin gjxi mine 
 ear, ' 
 
 ' The cackling hen, the tender chicken 
 *"" brood, 
 
 ' And the wild birds that gather round 
 my "porch. 
 
 ' This honest sheep-dog's countenance I 
 
 ' With him can talk; nor blush to waste 
 a word , 
 
 ■ On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 
 
 ■ And if the blustering wind that drives 
 
 the clouds 
 ' Care not for me, he lingers round my 
 door, 
 
 And makes me pastime when our tem- 
 pers suit ; — 
 
 But, above all, my thoughts are my sup- 
 port, 
 
 My comfort : — would that they were 
 oftener fixed 
 
 On what, for guidance in the way that 
 leads 
 
 ' To heaven, I know, by my Redeemer 
 
 taught.' 
 The Matron ended — nor could I forbear 
 To exclaim — ' O happy ! yielding to the 
 
 law 
 Of these privations, richer in the main ! — 
 While _Lhankless^-thQU5an_ds _ are_ppprest 
 
 and clogged, 
 j3y eas_e_arid leisure; by the very wealth 
 And pride of opportunity made poor; 
 While tens of thousands falter in their 
 
 path, 
 And sink, through utter want of cheering 
 
 light; 
 For you the hours of labor do not flag; 
 For you each evening hath its shining star, 
 And every sabbath-day its golden sun.' " 
 
 " Yes ! " said the Solitary with a smile 
 That seemed to break from an expand- 
 ing heart, 
 "The untutored bird may found, and so 
 
 construct, 
 And with such soft materials line, her nest 
 Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake. 
 That the thorns wound her not; they only 
 
 guard. 
 Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts 
 Of happy instinct which the woodland bird 
 Shares with her species, nature's grace 
 
 sometimes 
 Upon the individual doth confer. 
 Among her higher creatures born and 
 
 trained 
 To use of reason. And, I own that, tired 
 Of the ostentatious world — a swelling 
 
 stage 
 With empty actions and vain passions 
 
 stuffed. 
 And from the private struggles of mankind 
 Hoping far less than I could wish to hope, 
 Far less than once I trusted and believed — 
 I love to hear of those, who, not contend- 
 ing 
 Nor summoned to contend for virtue's 
 
 prize. 
 Miss not the humbler good at which they 
 
 aim. 
 Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 
 The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 
 Into their contraries the petty plagues 
 And hindrances with which they stand 
 beset. 
 
536 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 In early^ youth, among my native hills, 
 1 knew a^cottish Peasant who possessed 
 A few small crofts of stbrie-encumbered' 
 
 ground; 
 Masses of every shape and size, that lay 
 Scattered about under the mouldering 
 
 walls 
 Of a rough precipice; and some, apart, 
 In quarters unobnoxious to such chance, 
 As if the moon had showered them down 
 
 in spite. 
 But he repined not. Though the plough 
 
 was scared 
 By these obstructions, ' round the shady 
 
 stones 
 'A fertilizing moisture,' said the Swain, 
 ' Gathers, and is preserved; and feeding 
 
 dews 
 ' And damps, through all the droughty 
 
 summer day 
 ' From out their substance isfuing, main- 
 tain 
 ' Herbage that never fails; no grass 
 
 springs up 
 ' So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine ! ' 
 But thinly sown these natures; rare, at 
 
 least. 
 The mutual aptitude or seed and soil 
 That yields such kindly product. He, 
 
 whose bed 
 Perhaps yon loose sods cover, tt£_£02£ 
 
 Brought yesterday from our sequestered 
 
 __,^1 ' ' 
 
 Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he, 
 If living now, could otherwise report 
 Of rustic loneliness : that gray-haired 
 
 Orphan — 
 So call him, for humanity to him 
 No parent was — feelingly could have 
 
 told, 
 In life, in death, what solitude can breed 
 Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice; 
 Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. 
 — But your compliance. Sir ! with our 
 
 request 
 My words too long have hindered." 
 
 Undeterred, 
 Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks. 
 In no ungracious opposition, given 
 To the confiding spirit of his own 
 Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor 
 
 said, 
 
 Around him looking; "Where shall I 
 
 begin ? 
 Who shall be first selected from my flock 
 Gathered together in their peaceful fold?" 
 He paused — and having lifted up his eyes 
 To the pure heaven, he cast them down 
 
 again 
 Upon the earth beneath his feet; and 
 
 spake : — 
 
 *'To a mysteriously-united pair 
 This place is consecrate; to Death and 
 
 And to" the besLaffections that proceed 
 From theirconjunction ; consecrate^to faith 
 In him who bled for man upon the cross; 
 Hallowed to revelation; and no less 
 To reason's man date s: and the hopes 
 
 divine 
 Di-. pure imagination; — above all, 
 To charity, and love, that have provided, 
 Within these precincts, a capacious bed 
 And receptacle, open to the good 
 And evil, to thejust^and the unjust; 
 In which theyjind.an_equalj:esting-'place : 
 Even as the multitude of kindred "brooks 
 And streams, whose murmur fills this 
 
 hollow vale. 
 Whether their course be turbulent or 
 
 smooth, 
 Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 
 Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 
 And end their journey in the same repose ! 
 
 And blest are they who sleep; and we 
 
 that know, 
 While in a spot like this we breathe and 
 
 walk, 
 That all beneath us by the wings are 
 
 covered 
 Of motherly humanity, outspread 
 And gathering all within their tender 
 
 shade, 
 Though loth and slow to come ! A 
 
 battle-field. 
 In stillness left when slaughter is no more, 
 With this compared, makes a. strange 
 
 spectacle ! 
 A dismal prospect yields the wild shore 
 
 strewn 
 With wrecks, and trod by feet of ycung 
 
 and old 
 Wandering about in miserable search 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 537 
 
 Of friends or kindred, whom the angry sea 
 Restores not to their prayer ! Ah ! who 
 
 would think 
 That all the scattered subjects which 
 
 compose 
 Earth's melancholy vision through the 
 
 space 
 Of all her climes — these wretched, these 
 
 depraved, 
 To virtue lost, insensible of peace. 
 From the delights of charity cut off, 
 To pity dead, the oppressor and the 
 
 opprest ; 
 Tyrants who utter the destroying word, 
 And slaves who will consent to be de- 
 stroyed — 
 Were of one species with the sheltered 
 
 few. 
 Who, with a dutiful and tender hand, 
 Lodged, in a dear appropriated spot, 
 This Jile of infants ; some that never 
 
 breathed 
 The vital air ; others, which, though 
 
 allowed 
 That privilege, did yet expire too soon. 
 Or with too brief a warning, to admit 
 Administration of the holy rite 
 That lovingly 'consigns tlie babe to the 
 
 arms 
 Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. 
 These that in trembling hope are laid 
 
 apart ; 
 And the besprinkled nursling, unrequired 
 Till he begins to smile upon the breast 
 That feeds him ; and the tottering little-one 
 Taken from air and sunshine when the rose 
 Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek; 
 The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy; 
 
 the bold youth 
 Of soul impetuous, and the bas hful ,raaid 
 Smitten while all the- promises of life 
 Are opening round her; those of middle 
 
 age, 
 Cast down while confident in strength 
 
 they stand, 
 Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might 
 
 seem. 
 And more secure, by very weight of all 
 That, for support, rests on them; the de- 
 cayed 
 And burthensome; and lastly, thaL-poor 
 
 few 
 Whose light of reason is with age extinct; 
 
 The hopeful and the hopeless, first and 
 
 last. 
 The earliest summoned and the longest 
 
 spared — 
 Are here deposited, with tribute paid 
 Various, but unto each some tribute paid; 
 As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves. 
 Society were touched with kind concern. 
 And gentle ' Nature grieved, that one 
 
 should die; ' ^ 
 Or, if the change demanded no regret. 
 Observed the liberating stroke — and 
 
 blessed. 
 
 And whence that tribute? wherefore 
 
 these regards? ^ 
 Not from the naked Hearl alone of Man 
 (Though claiming high distinction upon 
 
 earth 
 As the sole spring and fountain-head of 
 
 tears, 
 His own peculiar utterance for distress 
 Or gladness) — No," the philosophic 
 
 Priest 
 Continued, " 't is not in the vital seat 
 Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
 From the pure soul, the soul suEtime and 
 
 pure"; — 
 With her two faculties of eye and ear. 
 The one by which a creature, whom his 
 
 sins 
 Have rendered prone, can upward look 
 
 to heaven ; 
 The other that empowers him to perceive 
 The voice of Deity, on height and plain. 
 Whispering those truths in stillness, which 
 
 the Word, 
 To the four quarters of the winds, pro- 
 claims. 
 Not without such assistance could the use 
 Of these benign observances prevail; 
 Thus are they born, thus fostered, thus 
 
 maintained; 
 And by the care prospective of our wise 
 Forefathers, who, to guard against the 
 
 shocks 
 The fluctuation and decay of things, 
 Embodied and established these high 
 
 truths 
 In solemn institutions: — men convinced 
 That life is love and immortality. 
 The being one, and one the element. 
 ' See Note. 
 
538 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 There lies the channel, and original bed, 
 From the beginning, hollowed out and 
 
 scooped 
 For Man's affections — else betrayed and 
 
 lost, 
 And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite ! 
 This is the genuine course, the aim, and 
 
 end 
 Of prescient reason; all conclusions else 
 Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and per- 
 verse. 
 The faith partaking of those holy times. 
 Life, I repeat, is energy of love 
 Cmne or "human; exercised in pain. 
 In strife, and tribulation; and ordained, 
 If so approved and sanctified, to pass, 
 Through shades and silent rest, to end- 
 less joy." 
 
 Book Sixth. 
 
 the churchyard- among the 
 mountains. 
 
 argument. 
 
 Poet's Address to the State and Church of 
 England — The Pastor not inferior to the ancient 
 Worthies of the Church — He begins his Narra- 
 tives with an instance of unrequited Love — 
 Anguish of mind subdued, and how — The lonely 
 Miner — An instance of perseverance — Which 
 leads by contrast to an example of abused talents, 
 irresolution, and weakness — Solitary, applying 
 this covertly to his own case, asks for an instance 
 of some Stranger, whose dispositions may have 
 led him to end his days here — Pastor, in answer, 
 gives an account of the harmonizing influence of 
 Solitude upon two men of opposite principles, 
 who had encountered agitations in public life — 
 The rule by which Peace may be obtained ex- 
 pressed, and where — Solitary hints at an -over- 
 powering Fatality — Answer of the Pastor — 
 What subjects he will exclude from his Narra- 
 tives — Conversation upon this — Instance of an 
 unamiable character, a Female, and why given 
 — Contrasted with this, a meek sufferer, from un- 
 guarded and betrayed love — Instance of heavier 
 guilt, and its consequences to the Offender — 
 With this instance of a Marriage Contract broken 
 is contrasted one of a Widower, evidencing his 
 faithful affection towards his deceased wife by 
 his care of their female Children. 
 
 Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped 
 — to gird 
 
 An English Sovereign's brow ! and to 
 the throne 
 
 Whereon he sits ! Whose deep founda- 
 tions lie 
 
 In veneration and the people's love; 
 
 Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 
 
 — Hail to th e State of Englan d ! And 
 
 conjoin 
 With this a salutation as devout. 
 Made to_the spiritu al fabric of her Church ; 
 Founded in truth; by blood oFHartyrdOm 
 Cemented ; by the hands of Wisdom reared 
 In beauty of holiness, with ordered pomp. 
 Decent and unreproved. The voice, that 
 
 greets 
 The majesty of both, shall pray for both; 
 That, mutuall.Y. protected and su stained, 
 T'hey may endure^ long as the sea^sur- 
 
 ixjuhoE 
 This favored Land, or sunshine warms 
 
 her soil. 
 
 And O, ye swelling hills, and spacious 
 plains 
 Besprent from shore to shore with steeple- 
 towers. 
 And spires whose ' silent finger points to 
 
 heaven;' ^ 
 Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
 Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud 
 Of the dense air, which town or city breeds 
 To intercept the sun's glad beams — may 
 
 ne'er 
 That true succession fail of English hearts. 
 Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive 
 What in those holy structures ye possess 
 Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
 Of pious sentiment diffused afar, 
 And human charity, and social love. 
 
 — Thus never shall the indignities of time 
 Approach their reverend graces, unop- 
 posed; 
 
 Nor shall the elements be free to hurt 
 Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
 Of bigot zeal madly to overturn; 
 And, if the desolating hand of war 
 Spare them, they shall continue to bestow 
 Upon tlie thronged abodes of busy men 
 (Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind 
 Exclusively with transitory things) 
 ^ See Note. 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 539 
 
 An air and mien of dignified pursuit 
 Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds. 
 
 The Poet, fostering for his native land 
 Such hope, entreats that servants may 
 
 abound 
 Of those pure altars worthy; ministers 
 Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain 
 Superior, insusceptible of pride. 
 And by ambitious longings undisturbed; 
 Men, whose delight is where their duty 
 
 leads 
 Or fixes them; whose least distinguished 
 
 day 
 Shines with some portion of that heavenly 
 
 lustre 
 Which makes the sabbath lovely in the 
 
 sight 
 Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. 
 — And, as on earth it is the doom of truth 
 To be perpetually attacked by foes 
 Open or covert, be that priesthood still. 
 For her defence, replenished with a band 
 Of strenu^us_charngions, in scholastic arts 
 Thorougbly discipline"d; nor (if iiTconTse 
 Of the revolving world's disturbances 
 Cause should recur, which righteous 
 
 Heaven avert ! 
 To meet such trial) from their spiritual 
 
 sires 
 Degenerate; who, constrained to wield 
 
 the sword 
 Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed 
 With hostile din, and combating in sight 
 Of angry umpires, partial and unjust; 
 And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in 
 
 fire. 
 So to declare the conscience satisfied : 
 Xor for their bodies would accept release; 
 But, blessing God and praising him, be- 
 queathed 
 With their last breath, from out the smoul- 
 dering flame, 
 The faith which they by diligence had 
 
 earned. 
 Or, through illuminating grace, received. 
 For their dear countrymen, and all man- 
 kind. 
 O high example, constancy divine ! 
 
 Even suriia Man (inheriting the zeal 
 And from the sanctity of elder times 
 Not deviating, — apriest, the likeof whom 
 
 If multipled, and in their stations set, 
 Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land 
 Spread truereligion and her genuine fruits) 
 Before me 5jpo3_ that dayj on holy ground 
 Fraught with the relics of mortality. 
 Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
 To lofty raised; and to the highest, last; 
 The head and mighty paramount of 
 
 truths, — 
 Immortal life, in never-fading worlds. 
 For mortal creatures, conquered and 
 
 secured. 
 
 That basis laid, those principles of faith 
 Announced, as a preparatory act 
 Of reverence done to the spirit of the place, 
 The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground ; 
 Not7 as Tj^fore, like one oppressed with 
 
 awe. 
 But with a mild and social cheerfulness; 
 Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. 
 
 eve, mypur^ 
 
 retired 
 
 ' ' At rrigrn or 
 
 domain, 
 Perchance _you not unfrequently have 
 
 marked 
 4_YisitDi, — in quest of herbs and flo wers ; 
 Too delicate employ, aj would appear. 
 For one, who, though of drooping mien, 
 
 had yet 
 From nature's kindliness received a frame 
 _Robtist as ever rural labor bred." 
 
 The Solitary answered : ' ' Such a Form 
 Full well I recollect. We often crossed 
 Each other's patE; but, as the Intruder 
 
 seemed 
 Fondly to priiK the silence which he kept, 
 And I as willingly did cherish mine. 
 We met, and passed, like shadows. I 
 
 have heard, 
 From my good Host, that being crazed in 
 
 brain. 
 By, unrequited love, he scaledjihejpsks. 
 Dived into caves, and pierced the matted 
 
 woods. 
 In hope to find some virtuous herb of 
 
 power 
 To cure his malady ! " 
 
 The Vicar smiled, — ■ 
 " Alas ! before to-morrow's sun goes down 
 His habitation will be here: for him 
 That open grave is destined." 
 
54° 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 " piedhe_then_ 
 Of_pain and_ grief ? " the SolUary asked, 
 ' ' Do notbeljeye it ; never could that be ! " 
 
 "He loved," the Vicar answered, 
 
 "deeply loved. 
 Loved fondly, truly, fervently; and dared 
 At length to tell his love, but sued in vain; 
 Rejected, yea repelled; and, if with scorn 
 Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 't is but 
 A high-prized plume which female Beauty 
 
 wears 
 In wantonness of conquest, or puts on 
 To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 
 Humiliation, when no longer free. 
 That he could brook, and glory in; — but 
 
 when 
 The tidings came that she whom he had 
 
 wooed 
 Was wedded to another, and his heart 
 Was forced to rend away its only hope; 
 Then, Pity could have scarcely found on 
 
 earth 
 An object worthier of regard than he. 
 In the transition of that bitter hour ! 
 Lost was she, lost; nor could the Sufferer 
 
 say 
 That in the act of preference he had been 
 Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was 
 
 gone ! 
 Had vanished from his prospects and 
 
 desires; 
 Not by translation to the heavenly choir 
 Who have put off their mortal spoils — ah 
 
 no ! 
 She lives another's wishes to complete, — 
 ' Joy be their lot, and happiness, ' he cried, 
 ' His lot and hers, as misery must be mine ! ' 
 
 Such was that strong concussion; but 
 
 the Man, 
 Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some 
 
 huge oak 
 By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 
 The steadfast quiet natural to a mind 
 Of composition gentle and sedate. 
 And, in its movements, circumspect and 
 
 slow. 
 Tg_b.ookSj andjto_the-Jong- forsaken desk. 
 O'er which enchained by science he had 
 
 loved 
 To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself, 
 
 Resolved to quell his pain, and s garch for 
 
 .tiuth - 
 
 WitiLJieener-appelite__(if that might be) : 
 4nd_clpsetJiiilustrj.. Of what ensued 
 Within the heart no outward sign appeared . 
 Till a betraying sickliness_was^ seen 
 To tinge his cheek; and tErough Eis frame 
 
 it crept 
 With slow mutation unconcealable; 
 Such universal change as autumn makes 
 In the fair body of a leafy grove. 
 Discolored, then divested. 
 
 'TJs affirmed 
 By poets skilled in nature's secret ways' 
 That L£)ve-will not_submit to_be controlled 
 By mastery_: — and the good Man lacked 
 
 not friends 
 Who strove to instil this truth into his 
 
 mind, 
 A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed. 
 ' Go.ta-th£ hills, ^ said one , ' remit a while 
 ' This baneful diligence : — at early morn 
 ' Court the fresh air, explore the heaths 
 
 and woods; 
 ' And, leaving it to others to foretell, 
 ' By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 
 ' Of tides, and when the moon will be 
 
 eclipsed, 
 'Do you, for your own benefit, Qonstruct 
 ',A_caleadar.Qf^ flowers, plucked aTTliey 
 
 blow 
 ' Where health abides, and cheerfulness, 
 
 and peace.' 
 The jJjgniBt was made ; — 't is needless 
 
 tq jegort ' 
 
 How hopelessly; but innocence is strong. 
 And an entire simplicity of mind 
 A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven; 
 That opens, for such sufferers, relief^ 
 Withinthe soul, fountainsof grace divin.e; 
 And ^oTh commend their weakness and 
 
 disease 
 To Nature's care, assisted in her ofSce 
 By all the elements that round her wait 
 To generate, to preserve, and to restore; 
 And by her beautiful array of forms 
 Shedding sweet influence from above; 
 
 or pure 
 Delight exhaling from the ground they 
 
 tread." 
 
 "Impute it not to impatience, if," 
 exclaimed 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 541 
 
 4[he ^^^adei;e^, "I infer _tliat he ^w,as 
 
 tiealef, 
 gy perseverance in the course .pre- 
 scribed. ' ' 
 
 " You do not err: the powers, that had 
 "Been lost 
 By slow degrees, were gradually regained ; 
 The fluttering nerves composed; the 
 
 beating heart 
 In rest established; and the jarring 
 
 thoughts 
 To harmony restored. — But yon dark 
 
 mould 
 Will cover him, in the fulness of his 
 
 strength, 
 -Hastily smitten by a fever'sjorcej^ 
 Yet not with stroke so sud3en as refused 
 Time to look back with tenderness on her 
 Whom he had loved in passion; and to 
 
 send 
 Some farewell words — with one, but 
 
 one, request; 
 That, from his dying hand, she would 
 
 accept 
 Of his possessions that which most he 
 
 prized; 
 A book, upon whose leaves some chosen 
 
 plants. 
 By his own hand disposed with nicest care. 
 In undecaying beauty were preserved; 
 Mute register, to him, of time and place, 
 And various fluctuations in the breast; 
 To her, a monument of faithful love 
 Conquered, and in tranquillity retained ! 
 
 Close to hisjd estined habitatio n. Jies, 
 One whg_achieve(I_a humbler victory, 
 Though^marvellous in fts kihcT. A place 
 
 there is' ' 
 
 liigh, in .these mouiitains, that allured a 
 
 band 
 Of keen adventurers to unite their paips 
 In search of precious ore: ttie ^ tried , 
 
 were, foiled — 
 And all desisted, all, save himjilone. 
 He, taking counsel of his own clear 
 
 thoughts, 
 And trusting only to his own weak hands. 
 Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 
 Unseconded, uncountenanced; then, as 
 
 time 
 
 Passed on, while still his lonely efforts 
 
 found 
 No recompense, derided; and at length. 
 By many pitied, as insane of mind; 
 By others dreaded as the luckless thrall 
 Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope 
 By various mockery of sight and sound; 
 Hope after hope, encouraged and de- 
 stroyed. 
 — But when the lord of seasons had 
 
 matured 
 The fruits of earth through space of twice 
 
 ten years. 
 The mountain's entrails offered to his 
 
 view 
 And trembling grasp the long-deferred 
 
 reward. 
 Not with more transport did Columbus 
 
 greet 
 A world , his rich discovery ! Euj^ our 
 
 Swain, 
 A very ljera,tiU his point was gained, 
 £roved all unable to support the weight 
 Of_prosE.erous fortune. On the fields he 
 
 looked 
 With an unsettled liberty of thought. 
 Wishes and endless schemes; by daylight 
 
 walked 
 Giddy and restless; ever and anon 
 Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups; 
 And truly might be said to die of joy ! 
 He vanisjied; but conspicuous to this day 
 The path remains that linked his cottage- 
 door 
 To the mine's mouth; a long and slant- 
 ing track. 
 Upon the rugged mountain's stony side. 
 Worn by his daily visits to and from 
 The darksome centre of a constant hope. 
 This vestige, neither force of beating rain. 
 Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw 
 Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away; 
 And it is named, in memory of the event, 
 The_EATH OF PERSEVEBAJiCE/' 
 
 "Thou from whom 
 Man has his strength," exclaimed the 
 
 Wanderer, " oh ! 
 Do thou direct it ! To the virtuous grant 
 The penetrative eye which can perceive 
 In this blind world the guiding vein of 
 
 hope; 
 That, like this Laborer, such may dig 
 their way, 
 
542 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 ' Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified; ' 
 Grant to the wise his firmness of resolve ! ' ' 
 
 " That prayer were not superfluous," 
 
 said the Priest, 
 " Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust, 
 That Westminster, for Britain's glory, 
 
 holds 
 Within the bosom of her awful pile. 
 Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh. 
 Which wafts that prayer to heaven, is due 
 
 to all. 
 Wherever laid, who living fell below 
 Their virtue's humbler mark ; a sigh oipain 
 If to the opposite extreme they sank. 
 How would you pity her who yonder 
 
 rests ; 
 Him, farther off; the pair, who here are 
 
 laid; 
 But, above all, that mixture of earth's 
 
 mould 
 Whom sight of this green hillock to my 
 
 mind 
 Recalls ! 
 
 He lived not till his locks were nipped 
 By seasonable frost of age; nor died 
 Before his temples, prematurely forced 
 To mix the manly brown with silver gray. 
 Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 
 Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath 
 
 usurped 
 The natural crown that sage Experience 
 
 wears. 
 Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, 
 And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 
 Or could perform; a zealous actor, hired 
 Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn 
 Into the lists of giddy enterprise — 
 Such was he; yet, as if within his frame 
 Two several souls alternately had lodged. 
 Two sets of manners could the Youth 
 
 put on; 
 And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 
 That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage. 
 Was graceful, when it pleased him, 
 
 smooth and still 
 As the mute swan that floats adown the 
 
 stream, 
 Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake, 
 Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf. 
 That flutters on the bough, lighter than he ; 
 And not a flower, that droops in the green 
 
 shade. 
 
 More winningly reserved ! If ye inquire 
 How such consummate elegance was bred 
 Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice; 
 'T was Nature's will; who sometimes 
 
 undertakes, 
 For the reproof of human vanity. 
 Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. 
 Hencejfor this Favorite — l avishly en- 
 
 do^£3I^^-, 
 With personal gifts, and bright instinctive 
 
 wit, 
 While both, embellishing each other, 
 
 stood 
 Yet farther recommended by the charm 
 Of fine demeanor, and by dance and song, 
 And skill in letters — every fancy shaped 
 Fair expectations; nor, when to the 
 
 world's 
 Capacious field forth weri t the Adven- 
 
 turer . t here 
 Wereie and-his-attainroants overlooke d, 
 Qrscantil,y_csH^ ded ; but all hopes, 
 CEeirished for him, he suffered to depart, 
 Like blighted buds; or clouds that 
 
 mimicked land 
 Before the sailor's eye; or diamond drops 
 That sparkling decked the morning grass; 
 
 or aught 
 That was attractive, and hath ceased to 
 
 be! 
 
 Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the 
 
 rites 
 OJJoyful greeting were on him bestowed, 
 Who, by humiliation undeterred, 
 Sought for his weariness a place of rest 
 Within his Father's gates. — Whence 
 
 came he ? — clothed 
 In tattered garb, from hovels where abides 
 Necessity, the stationary host 
 Of vagrant poverty; from rifted barns 
 Where no one dwells but the wide-staring 
 
 owl 
 And the owl's prey; from these bare 
 
 haunts, to which 
 He had descended from the proud saloon, 
 He came, the ghost of b eauty an d of 
 
 health.^ ~ " 
 
 The wreck of gayety ! But soon revived 
 In strength, in power refitted, he renewed 
 His suit to Fortune ; and she smiled agaiD' 
 Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose, 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 543 
 
 Thrice jank as wjllingly. For he — whose 
 
 nerves 
 Were used to thrill with pleasure, while 
 
 his voice 
 Softly accompanied the tuneful harp, 
 By the nice finger of fair ladies touched 
 In glittering halls — was able to derive 
 No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
 Who happier for the moment — who more 
 
 blithe 
 Than this fallen Spirit? in those dreary 
 
 holds 
 His talents lending to exalt the freaks 
 Of merry-making beggars, — nor pro- 
 voked 
 To laughter multiplied in louder peals 
 By his malicious wit; then, all enchained 
 With mute astonishment, themselves to 
 
 see 
 In their own arts outdone, their fame 
 
 eclipsed, 
 As by the very presence of the Fiend 
 Who dictates and inspires illusive feats. 
 For knavish purposes ! The city, too, 
 (With shame I speak it) to her guilty 
 
 bowers 
 Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 
 As there to linger, thereto eat his bread. 
 Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandish- 
 ment; 
 Charming the air with skill of hand or 
 
 voice. 
 Listen who would, be wrought upon who 
 
 might, 
 Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay. 
 — Such the too frequent tenor of his boast 
 In ears that relished the report; — biit_all 
 Was from his Parents happily concealed; 
 Who saw enough for blame and pitying 
 
 love. 
 They also were permitted to receive 
 His last, repentant breath; and closed 
 
 his eyes. 
 No more to open on that irksome world 
 Where he had long existed in the state 
 Of a young fowl beneath one mother 
 
 hatched. 
 Though from another sprung, different in 
 
 kind: 
 Where he had lived, and could not cease 
 
 to live. 
 Distracted in propensity; .cgntent 
 With neither element of good or ill; 
 
 And yet in both rejoicing; man unblest; 
 
 Of contradictions infinite the slave. 
 
 Till his deliverance, when Mercy made 
 
 him 
 One with himself, and one with them that 
 
 sleep." 
 
 " 'T_isstrange,",obseiyed the Solitary, 
 
 "strange 
 It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 
 That in a land where charity provides 
 For all that can no longer feed themselves, 
 A man like this should choose to bring his 
 
 shame 
 To the parental door; and with his sighs 
 Infect the air which he had freely breathed 
 In happy infancy. He could not pine, 
 Through lack of converse; no — he must 
 
 have found 
 Abundant exercise forthought and speech, 
 In his dividual being, self-reviewed. 
 Self-catechised, self-punished. — Some 
 
 there are 
 Who, drawing near their final home, and 
 
 much 
 And daily longing that the same were 
 
 reached, 
 Would rather shun than seek the fellow- 
 ship 
 Of kindred mould. — Such haply here are 
 
 laid?" 
 
 " Yes." , said -the Priest, " the Genius 
 
 of Qul-hiUs^r- 
 Who seems, by these stupendous barriers 
 
 cast 
 Round his domain, desirous not alone 
 To keep his own, but also to exclude 
 All other progeny — doth sometime s lur e. 
 Even by his studied depth of privacy, 
 Xil _e unhappy alien hopiiig to _ahtain., 
 fVinr-pnlmpnt, or seduced by wish to find, 
 Xn place, from outward molestation free. 
 Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
 Could I discourse; but as their stay was 
 
 brief. 
 So their departure only left behind 
 Fancies, and loose conjectures. Other 
 
 trace 
 Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair 
 Who, from the pressure of their several 
 
 fates. 
 Meeting as strangers, in a petty town 
 
S44 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
 Of this far-winding vale, remained as 
 
 friends 
 True to their choice; and gave their 
 
 -J2fiQes_i.n-trust "" •• 
 
 Jo this loved, cemetery, Jj^reJ^Jfldge 
 With unescutcheoned privacy interred 
 Far iiam-tbe-family- vault. — A Chieftain 
 
 one 
 By right of birth ; within whose spotless 
 
 breast 
 The fire of ancient Caledonia burned : 
 He, with the foremost whose impatience 
 
 hailed 
 The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 
 Of arms, the crown which bigotry had 
 
 lost, 
 Aroused his clan; and, fighting at their 
 
 head. 
 With his brave sword endeavored to pre- 
 vent 
 CuUoden's fatal overthrow. Escaped 
 From that disastrous rout, to foreign 
 
 shores 
 He fled; and when the lenient hand of time 
 Those troubles had appeased, he sought 
 
 and gained. 
 For his obscured condition, an obscure 
 Retreat, within this nook of English 
 
 grapji3. 
 
 The_othCTj born_in B,ritain.'s_southern 
 
 traaU 
 Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed 
 His gentler sentiments of love and hate. 
 There, where ^/ley placed them who in 
 
 conscience prized 
 The new succession, as a line of kings 
 Whose oath had virtue to protect the land 
 Against the dire assaults of papacy 
 And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark 
 On the distempered flood of public life, 
 And cause for most rare triumph will be 
 
 thine 
 If,- spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand, 
 The stream, that bears thee forward, 
 
 prove not, soon 
 Or late, a perilous master. He — who 
 
 ■ oft. 
 Beneath the battlements and stately trees 
 That round his mansion cast a sober gloom. 
 Had moralized on this, and other truths 
 Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied — 
 
 Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh 
 
 Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitter- 
 ness. 
 
 When he had crushed a plentiful estate 
 
 By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat 
 
 In Britain's senate. Fruitless was the 
 attempt : 
 
 And while the uproar of that desperate 
 strife 
 
 Continued yet to vibrate on his ear. 
 
 The vanquished Whig, under a borrowed 
 name, 
 
 (For the mere sound and echo of his 6v/n 
 
 Haunted him with sensations of disgust 
 
 That he was glad to lose) slunk from the 
 world 
 
 To the deep shade of those untravelled 
 Wilds; 
 
 In which the Scottish La.ij:d hadJongjjos- 
 "sessed 
 
 An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they 
 met, ""■" 
 
 Two doughty champions; flaming Jacob- 
 ite ' 
 
 And sullen Hanoverian ! You might 
 think 
 
 That losses and vexations, less severe 
 
 Than those which they had severally sus- 
 tained, 
 
 Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 
 
 For his ungrateful cause; no, — I have 
 heard 
 
 My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the 
 calm 
 
 Of that small town encountering thus, 
 they filled. 
 
 Daily, its bowling-green with harmless 
 strife; 
 
 Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the 
 church; 
 
 And vexed the market-place. But in the 
 breasts 
 
 Of these opponents gradually was 
 wrought. 
 
 With little change of general sentiment. 
 
 Such leaning towards each other, that 
 their days 
 
 By choice were spent in constant fellow- 
 ship; 
 
 And if, at times, they fretted with the 
 yoke. 
 
 Those very bickerings made them love it 
 more. 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 545 
 
 A favorite boundary to their lengthened 
 walks 
 This Churchyard was. And, whether 
 
 they had come 
 Treading their path in sympathy and 
 
 linked 
 In social converse, or by some short space 
 Discreetly parted to preserve the peace. 
 One spirit seldom failed to extend its 
 
 sway 
 Over both minds, when they awhile had 
 
 marked 
 The visible quiet of this holy ground. 
 And breathed its soothing air : — the spirit 
 
 of hope 
 And saintly magnanimity; that — spurn- 
 ing 
 The field of selfish difference and dispute. 
 And every care which transitory things. 
 Earth and the kingdoms of the earth, 
 
 create — 
 Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness. 
 Preclude forgiveness, from the praise de- 
 barred, 
 Which else the Christian virtue might 
 have claimed. 
 
 There live who yet remember here to 
 
 have seen 
 Their courtly figures, seated on the stump 
 Of an old yew, their favorite resting-place. 
 But as the remnant of the long-lived tree 
 Was disappearing by a swift decay, 
 They, with joint care, determined to erect. 
 Upon its site, a dial, that might stand 
 For public use preserved, and thus survive 
 As their own private monument : for this 
 Was the particular spot, in which they 
 
 wished 
 (And Heaven was pleased to accomplish 
 
 the desire) 
 That, undivided, their remains should lie. 
 So, where the mouldered tree had stood, 
 
 was raised 
 Yon structure, framing, with the ascent 
 
 of steps 
 That to the decorated pillar lead, 
 A work of art more sumptuous than might 
 
 seem 
 To suit this place; yet built in no proud 
 
 scorn 
 Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed 
 To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 
 
 Around the margin of the plate, whereon 
 The shadow falls to note the stealthy 
 
 hours, 
 Winds an inscriptive legend." — At these 
 
 words 
 Thither we turned; and gathered, as we 
 
 read. 
 The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers 
 
 couched : 
 " Time flies ; it is his melancholy task. 
 To bring, and bear away, dehtsive hopes, 
 And re-produce the troubles he destroys. 
 Btct, lohile his blindness thus is occupied. 
 Discerning Mortal f do thou- serve the will 
 Of Timers eternal Jif aster, and that peace. 
 Which the world wants, shall be for thee 
 
 confirmed ! " 
 
 " Smooth verse, inspired by no unlet- 
 tered Muse," 
 Exclaimed the Sceptic, " and the strain of 
 
 thought 
 Accords with nature's language; — the 
 
 soft voice 
 Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks 
 Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
 If, then, their blended influence be not lost 
 Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant, 
 Even upon mine, the more are we required 
 To feel for those among our fellow-men, 
 Who, offering no obeisance to the world, 
 Are yet made desperate by ' too quick a 
 
 sense 
 Of constant infelicity,' cut off 
 From peace like exiles on some barren 
 
 rock. 
 Their life's appointed prison; not more 
 
 free 
 Than sentinels, between two armies, set, 
 With nothing better, in the chill night air. 
 Than their own thoughts to comfort them. 
 
 Say why 
 That ancient story of Prometheus chained 
 To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus; 
 The vulture, the inexhaustible repast 
 Drawn from his vitals? Say what meant 
 
 the woes 
 By Tantalus entailed upon his race. 
 And the dark sorrows of the line of 
 
 Thebes? 
 Fictions in form, but in their substance 
 
 truths. 
 Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men 
 
546 
 
 THF EXCURSION. 
 
 Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. 
 Exchange the shepherd's frock of native 
 
 gray 
 For robes with regal purple tinged; con- 
 vert 
 The crook into a sceptre; give the pomp 
 Of circumstance; and here the tragic 
 
 Muse 
 Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
 Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills. 
 The generations are prepared; the pangs. 
 The internal pangs, are ready; the dread 
 
 strife 
 Of poor humanity's affiicted will 
 Struggling in vain with_ruthl^s_destinx^' 
 
 "Though," said the Priest in answer, 
 
 " these be terms 
 Which a divine philosophy rejects. 
 We, whose established and unfailing trust 
 Is in controlling Providence, admit 
 That, through all stations, human li fe 
 
 abounds 
 With mysteries; — for, if Faith were left 
 
 How could the might, that lurks within 
 
 her, then 
 Be shown? her glorious excellence — ■ 
 
 that ranks 
 Among the first of Powers and Virtues — 
 
 proved ? 
 Our system is not fashioned to preclude 
 That sympathy which you for others ask ; 
 And I could tell, not travelling for my 
 
 theme 
 Beyond these humble graves, of grievous 
 
 crimes 
 And strange disasters; but I pass them by. 
 Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed 
 
 in peace. 
 : — Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat 
 Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight 
 By the deformities of brutish vice : 
 For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face 
 And a coarse outside of repulsive life 
 And unaffecting manners might at once 
 Pe recognized by all " — " Ah ! do not 
 
 think," 
 The Wanderer somewhat eagerly ex- 
 claimed, 
 "Wish could be ours that you, for such 
 
 poor gain, 
 
 (Gain shall I call it? — gain of what? — 
 
 for whom?) 
 Should breathe a word tending to violate 
 Your own pure spirit. Not a step we 
 
 look for 
 In slight of that forbearance and reserve 
 Which common human-heartedness in- 
 spires. 
 And mortal ignorance and frailty claim. 
 Upon this sacred ground, if nowhereelse." 
 
 " Tiue," said the Solitary, " be it far 
 From us to infringe the laws of charity. 
 Let judgment here in mercy be pro- 
 nounced; 
 This, self-respecting Nature prompts, 
 
 and this 
 Wisdom enjoins; but if the thing we seek 
 Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in 
 
 mind 
 How, from his lofty throne, the sun can 
 
 fling 
 Colors as bright on exhalations bred 
 By weedy pool or pestilential swamp, 
 As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, 
 Or the pellucid lake." 
 
 "Small risk," said I, 
 " Of such illusion do we here incur; 
 Temptation here is none to exceed the 
 
 truth ; 
 No evidence appears that they who rest 
 Within this ground, were covetous of 
 
 praise. 
 Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. 
 Green is the Churchyard, beautiful and 
 
 green. 
 Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge, 
 A heaving surface, almost wholly free 
 From interruption of sepulchral stones. 
 And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf 
 And everlasting flowers. These Dales- 
 men trust 
 The lingering gleam of their departed lives 
 To oral record, and the silent heart; 
 Depositories faithful and more kind 
 Than fondest epitaph : for, if those fail, 
 What boots the sculptured tomb? And 
 
 who can blame. 
 Who rather would not envy, men that feel 
 This mutual confidence; if, from such 
 
 source. 
 The practice flow, — if thence, or from a 
 
 deep 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 547 
 
 And general humility in death? 
 
 Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 
 
 From disregard of time's destructive 
 
 power, 
 As only capable to prey on things 
 Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. 
 
 Yet — in less simple districts, where 
 
 we see 
 Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone 
 In courting notice; and the ground all 
 
 paved 
 With commendations of departed worth; 
 Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent 
 
 lives, 
 Of each domestic charity fulfilled. 
 And sufferings meekly borne — I, for my 
 
 part. 
 Though with the silence pleased that here 
 
 prevails. 
 Among those fair recitals also range. 
 Soothed by the natural spirit which they 
 
 breathe. 
 And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
 Is rank with all unkindness, compassed 
 
 round 
 With such memorials, I have sometimes 
 
 felt, 
 It was no momentary happiness 
 To have one Enclosure where the voice 
 
 that speaks 
 In envy or detraction is not heard; 
 Which malice may not enter : where the 
 
 traces 
 Of evil inclinations are unknown; 
 Where love and pity tenderly unite 
 With resignation; and no jarring tone 
 Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 
 Of amity and gratitude." 
 
 "Thus sanctioned," 
 Tlie_Eastc)r said, " L^'iHingly, confine^ 
 My narratives to subjects thgt .excite 
 Feelings with these accordant; love, es- 
 teem, 
 And admiraHon; lifting up a veil, 
 A suriBeamTntroducing among hearts 
 Retired and covert; so that ye shall have 
 Clear images before your gladdened eyes 
 Of nature's unambitious underwood, 
 And flowers that prosper in the shade. 
 
 And_when 
 I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
 Or fell, those_only_sEaU be singled out 
 
 Upon whose lapse, or error, something 
 
 more 
 Than brotherly forgiveness may atteijd; 
 To such will w"e restrict our notice, else 
 Better my tongue were mute. 
 
 And yet there are, 
 I feel, good reasons why we should not 
 
 leave 
 Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
 For,^stren^th to persevere and to support, 
 And energy to conquer and repel — "' 
 These e lements of virtue,' that "de'clare 
 
 The native grandeur of the human soul — 
 Are pft-.times not unprofitably shown 
 In the perverseness of a selfish course : 
 Truth every day exemplified, no less 
 In the gray cottage by the murmuring 
 
 stream 
 Than in fantastic conqueror's roving 
 
 camp. 
 Or 'mid the factious senate, unappalled 
 Whoe'er may sink, or rise — to sink 
 
 again, 
 As merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 
 
 There," said the Vicar, pointing as he 
 spake, 
 
 " A woman rests in peace; surpassed by 
 few 
 
 In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. 
 
 Tall was her stature ; her complexion dark 
 
 And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
 
 Converse with heaven, nor yet deprest to- 
 wards earth, 
 
 But in projection carried, as she walked 
 
 Forever musing. Sunken were her eyes; 
 
 Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual 
 thought 
 
 Was her broad forehead; like the brow of 
 one 
 
 Whose visual nerve shrinks from a pain- 
 ful glare 
 
 Of overpowering light. — While yet a 
 child, 
 
 She, 'mid the humble flowerets of the 
 vale, 
 
 Towered like the imperial thistle, not 
 unfurnished 
 
 With its appropriate grace, yet rather 
 .seeking 
 
 To be. admired, .tl3an_coyeted_ and loved. 
 
 Even atthat age,, she_ruled, a soyereign 
 queen. 
 
548 
 
 THE EXCURSION.- 
 
 Over her comrades; else their simple 
 
 sports, 
 Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind, 
 Had crossed her only to be shunned with 
 
 scorn. 
 — Oh ! pang of sorrowful regret for those 
 Whom, in their youth, sweet study has 
 
 enthralled, 
 That they have lived for harsher servi- 
 tude. 
 Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
 Such doom was hers; yet nothing could 
 
 subdue 
 Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface 
 Those brighter images by books imprest 
 Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
 That occupy their places, and, though oft 
 Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by 
 
 haze. 
 Are not to be extinguishe-d, nor impaired. 
 
 Two passions, both degenerate, for they 
 
 both 
 Began in honor, gradually obtained 
 Rule over her, and vexed her daily life; 
 An unremitting, avaricious thrift; 
 And a strange thraldom of maternal love. 
 That held her spirit, in its own despite. 
 Bound — by vexation, and regret, and 
 
 scorn. 
 Constrained forgiveness, and relenting 
 
 vows, 
 And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame 
 
 concealed — 
 To a poor dissolute Son, her only child. 
 — Her wedded days had opened with 
 
 mishap. 
 Whence dire dependence. What could 
 
 she perform 
 To shake the burthen off ? Ah ! there was 
 
 felt. 
 Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 
 She mused, resolved, adhered to her 
 
 resolve; 
 The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the 
 
 heart 
 Closed by degrees to charity; heaven's 
 
 blessing 
 Not seeking from that source, she placed 
 
 her trust 
 In ceaseless pains — and strictest parsi- 
 mony 
 
 Which sternly hoarded all that could be 
 
 spared. 
 From each day's need, out of each day's 
 
 least gain. 
 
 Thus all was re-established, and a pile 
 Constructed, that sufficed for every end. 
 Save the contentment of the builder's 
 
 mind; 
 A mind by nature indisposed to aught 
 So placid, so inactive, as content; 
 A mind intolerant of lasting peace, 
 And cherishing the pang her heart de- 
 plored. 
 Dread life of conflict ! which I oft com- 
 pared 
 To the agitation of a brook that runs 
 Down a rocky mountain, buried now and 
 
 lost 
 In silent pools, now in strong eddies 
 
 chained; 
 But never to be charmed to gentleness: 
 Its best attainment fits of such repose 
 As timid eyes might shrink from fathom- 
 ing. 
 
 A sudden illness seized her in the 
 
 strength 
 Of life's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
 How on her bed of death the Matron lay. 
 To Providence submissive, so she thought. 
 But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon, 
 
 almost 
 To anger, by the malady that griped 
 Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing 
 
 power. 
 As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb? 
 She prayed, she moaned ; — her husband's 
 
 sister watched 
 Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs; 
 And yet the very sound of that kind foot 
 Was anguish to her ears ! ' And must she 
 
 rule,' 
 This was the death-doomed Woman heard 
 
 to say 
 In bitterness, ' and must she rule and 
 
 reign, 
 ' Sole Mistress of this house, when I am 
 
 gone? 
 ' Tend what I tended, calling it her own ! ' 
 Enough; — I fear, too much. — One ver 
 
 nal evening. 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 549 
 
 While she was yet in prime of health and 
 
 strength, 
 I well remember, while I passed her door 
 Alone, with loitering step, and upward 
 
 eye 
 Turned towards the planet Jupiter that 
 
 hung 
 Above the centre of the Vale, a voice 
 Roused me, her voice; it said, 'That 
 
 glorious star 
 ' In its untroubled element will shine 
 ' As now it shines, when we are laid in 
 
 earth 
 ' And safe from all our sorrows.' With a 
 
 sigh 
 She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustained 
 B3 faith in glory that shall far transcend 
 Aught by these perishable heavens dis- 
 closed 
 To sight or mind. Nor less than care 
 
 divine 
 Is divine mercy. She, who had rebelled, 
 Was into meekness softened and_subdu£.d; 
 Did, after trials not in vain prolonged, 
 With resignation sink into the grave; 
 And her uncharitable acts, I trust, 
 And harsh unkindnesses are all forgiven, 
 Tho', in this Vale, remembered with deep 
 
 awe." 
 
 The Vicar paused; and toward a seat 
 
 advanced, 
 A long stone-seat, fixed in the Church- 
 yard wall; 
 Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
 Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
 Who seek the House of worship, while 
 
 the bells 
 Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
 The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
 Beneath the shade we all sate down; and 
 
 there, 
 His office, uninvited, he resumed. 
 
 " As on a sunny bank, a tender lamb 
 Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of 
 
 March, 
 Screened by its parent, so that little 
 
 mound 
 Lies guarded by its neighbor; the small 
 
 heap 
 
 Speaks for itself; an_Infant there doth 
 
 rest; 
 The sheltering hillock is the Mother's 
 
 grave,. 
 If mild discourse, and manners that con- 
 ferred 
 A natural dignity on humblest rank; 
 If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 
 That for a face not beautiful did more 
 Than beauty for the fairest face can do; 
 And if religious tenderness of heart. 
 Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
 Shed when the clouds had gathered and 
 
 distained 
 The spotless ether of a maiden life; 
 If these may make a hallowed spot of earth 
 More holy in the sight of God or Man; 
 Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall 
 
 brood 
 Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 
 
 Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless 
 
 man, 
 Could field or grove, could any spot of 
 
 earth. 
 Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
 Which it hath witnessed; render back an 
 
 echo 
 Of the sad steps by which it hath been 
 
 trod! 
 There, by her innocent Baby's precious 
 
 grave. 
 And on the very turf that roofs her own, 
 The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel 
 In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
 Now she is not; the swelling turf reports 
 Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's 
 
 ■ tears 
 Is silent; nor is any vestige left 
 Of the path worn by mournful tread of her 
 Who, at her heart's light bidding, once 
 
 had moved 
 In viigin fearlessness, with step that 
 
 seemed 
 Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 
 Upon the mountains gemmed with morn- 
 ing dew, 
 In the prime hour of sweetest scents and 
 
 airs. 
 — Serious and thoughtful was her mind; 
 
 and yet. 
 By reconcilement exquisite and rare, 
 
550 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 The form, port, motions, of this Cottage- 
 girl 
 Were such as might have quickened and 
 
 inspired 
 A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth 
 Oread or Dryad glancing through the 
 
 shade 
 What time the hunter's earliest horn is 
 
 heard 
 Startling the golden hills. 
 
 A wide-spread elm 
 Stands in our valley, named The Joyful 
 
 Tree; 
 From dateless usage which our peasants 
 
 hold 
 Of giving welcome to the first of May 
 By dances round its trunk. — And if the 
 
 sky 
 Permit, like honors, dance and song, are 
 
 paid 
 To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty 
 
 stars 
 Or the clear moon. The queen of these 
 
 gay sports, 
 If not in beauty yet in sprightly air, 
 Was hapless Ellen. — No one touched the 
 
 ground 
 So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks 
 Less gracefully were braided; — but this 
 
 praise, 
 Methinks, would better suit another place. 
 
 She loved, and fondly deemed herself 
 
 beloved. 
 — The road is dim, the current unper- 
 
 ceived, 
 The weakness painful and most pitiful, 
 By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth. 
 May be delivered to distress and shame. 
 Such fate was hers. — The last time Ellen 
 
 danced. 
 Among her equals, round THE JoYFUL 
 
 Tree, 
 She bore a secret burthen; and full soon 
 Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, — 
 Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow. 
 Alone, within her widowed Mother's 
 
 house. 
 It was the season of unfolding leaves, 
 Of days advancing toward their utmost 
 
 length, 
 And small birds singing happily to mates 
 
 Happy as they. With spirit-saddening 
 
 power 
 Winds pipe through fading woods; but 
 
 those blithe notes 
 Strike the deserted to the heatt; I speak 
 Of what I know, and what we feel within. 
 — Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
 Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost 
 
 twig 
 A thrush resorts, and annually chants. 
 At morn and evening from that naked 
 
 perch. 
 While all the undergrove is thick with 
 
 leaves, 
 A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 
 Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 
 — ' Ah why, ' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 
 ' Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn 
 
 pledge; 
 ' And nature that is kind in woman's 
 
 breast, 
 ' And reason that in man is wise and good, 
 ' And fear of him who is a righteous judge; 
 ' Why do not these prevail for human life, 
 ' To keep two hearts together, that began 
 ' Their spring-time with one love, and that 
 
 have need 
 ' Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
 ' To grant, or be received; while that poor 
 
 bird — 
 ' O come and hear him ! Thou who hast 
 
 to me 
 ' Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly 
 
 creature, 
 ' One of God's simple children that yet 
 
 know not 
 ' The universal Parent, how he sings 
 ' As if he wished the firmament of heaven 
 ' Should listen, and give back to him the 
 
 voice 
 ' Of his triumphant constancy and love; 
 ' The proclamation that he makes, how fai 
 ' His darkness doth transcend our ficklt 
 
 light ! ' 
 
 Such was the tender passage, not by me 
 Repeated without loss of simple phrase, 
 which I perused, even as the words had 
 
 been 
 Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
 To the blank margin of a Valentine, 
 Bedropped with tears. 'T will please you 
 
 to be told 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 551 
 
 That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
 Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet 
 In lonely reading found a meek resource ; 
 How thankful for the warmth of summer 
 
 days. 
 When she could slip into the cottage-barn, 
 And find a secret oratory there; 
 Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 
 Of their long twilight, pore upon her book 
 By the last lingering help of the open sky 
 Until dark night dismissed her to her bed ! 
 Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose 
 The unconquerable pang of despised love. 
 
 A kindlier passion opened on her soul 
 When that poor Child was born. Upon 
 
 its face 
 She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift 
 01 unexpected promise, where a grief 
 Or dread was all that had been thought 
 
 of, — joy 
 Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels. 
 Amid a perilous waste that all night long 
 Hath harassed him toiling through fearful 
 
 storm. 
 When he beholds the first pale speck 
 
 serene 
 Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, re- 
 vealed. 
 And greets it with thanksgiving. ' Till 
 
 this hour,' 
 Thus, in her Mother' s hearing Ellen spake, 
 'There was a stony region in my heart; 
 ' But He, at whose command the parched 
 
 rock 
 ' Was smitten, and poured forth a quench- 
 ing stream, 
 ' Hath softened that obduracy, and made 
 ' Unlooked-for gladness in the desert 
 
 place, 
 ' To save the perishing; and, henceforth, 
 
 I breathe 
 ' The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake 
 ' My infant ! and for that good Mother 
 
 dear, 
 ' Who bore me; and hath prayed for me 
 
 in vain; — 
 'Yet not in vain; it shall not be in vain.' 
 She spake, nor was the assurance unful- 
 filled; 
 And if heart-rending thoughts would oft 
 return, 
 
 They stayed not long. — The blameless 
 Infant grew. 
 
 The Child whom Ellen and her Mother 
 loved 
 
 They soon were proud of; tended it and 
 nursed; 
 
 A soothing comforter, although forlorn; 
 
 Like a poor singing-bird from distant 
 lands; 
 
 Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by 
 
 With vacant mind, not seldom may ob- 
 serve 
 
 Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house. 
 
 Whose window, somewhat sadly, it 
 adorns. 
 
 Through four months' space the Infant 
 
 drew its food 
 From the maternal breast; then scruples 
 
 rose; 
 Thoughts, which the rich are free from, 
 
 came and crossed 
 The fond affection. She no more could 
 
 bear 
 By her offence to lay a twofold weight 
 On a kind parent willing to forget 
 Their slender means: so, to that parent's 
 
 care 
 Trusting her child, she left their common 
 
 home, 
 And undertook with dutiful content 
 A Foster-mother's office. 
 
 'T is, perchance, 
 Unknown to you that in these simple vales 
 The natural feeling of equality 
 Is by domestic service unimpaired; 
 Yet, though such service be, with us, 
 
 removed 
 From sense of degradation, not the less 
 The ungentle mind can easily find means 
 To impose severe restraints and laws 
 
 unjust. 
 Which hapless Ellen now was doomed 
 
 to feel : 
 For (blinded by an over-anxious dread 
 Of such excitement and divided thought 
 As with her office would but ill accord) 
 The pair, whose infant she was bound to 
 
 nurse. 
 Forbade her all communion with her own : 
 Week after week, the mandate they en- 
 forced. 
 
552 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 — So near! yet not allowed, upon that 
 
 sight 
 To fix her eyes — alas ! 't was hard to bear ! 
 But worse affliction must be borne — far 
 
 worse; 
 For 't is Heaven's will — that, after " 
 
 disease 
 Begun and ended within three days'space, 
 Her child should die; as Ellen now ck- 
 
 claimed. 
 Her own — deserted child ! — Once, only 
 
 once, 
 She saw it in that mortal malady; 
 And, on the burial-day, could scarcely 
 
 gain 
 Permission to attend its obsequies. 
 She reached the house, last of the funeral 
 
 train ; 
 And some one, as she entered, having 
 
 chanced 
 To urge unthinkingly their prompt de- 
 parture, 
 'Nay,' said she, with commanding look, 
 
 a spirit 
 Of anger never seen in her before, 
 ' Nay, ye must wait my time ! ' and down 
 
 she sate. 
 And by thp unclosed coffin kept her seat 
 Weeping and looking, looking on and 
 
 weeping. 
 Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 
 Until at length her soul was satisfied. 
 
 You see the Infant's Grave; and to 
 this spot. 
 The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad. 
 On whatsoever errand, urged her steps: 
 Hither she came; here stood, and some- 
 times knelt 
 In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene ! 
 So call her; for not only she bewailed 
 Ajnother.'s lossj but mourned in bitterness 
 lier_pwn transgression; pentterit sincere 
 As ever raised to heaven" a streaming eye ? 
 — At length the parents of the foster-child, 
 Noting that in despite of their commands 
 She still renewed and could not but renew 
 Those visitations, ceased to send her forth ; 
 Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, con- 
 fined. 
 I failednot to remind them that they erred; 
 For holy Nature might not thus be crossed. 
 
 Thus wronged in woman's breast: in vain 
 
 I pleaded — 
 But the green stalk of Ellen's life was 
 
 snapped. 
 And the flower drooped; as every eye 
 
 could see. 
 It hung its head in mortal languishmcnt. 
 
 — Aided by this appearance, I at length 
 Prevailed; and, from those bonds released, 
 
 she„-went- 
 Home_to her mother's house. 
 
 The Yniith Jvas^fled;^ 
 The rash betrayer could not face the shame 
 Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had 
 
 caused ; 
 And little would his presence, or proof 
 
 given 
 Of a relenting soul, have now availed; 
 For, like a shadow, he was passed away 
 From Ellen's thoughts; had perished to 
 
 her mind 
 For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love. 
 Save only those which to their common 
 
 shame. 
 And to his moral being appertained: 
 Hope from that quarter would, I know, 
 
 have brought 
 A heavenly comfort ; there she recognized 
 An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need; 
 There, and, as seemed, there only. 
 
 She had built. 
 Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest 
 In blindness all too near the river's edge; 
 That work a summer flood with hasty swell 
 Had swept away; and now her Spirit 
 
 longed 
 For its last flight to heaven's security. 
 
 — The bodily frame wasted from day to 
 
 day; 
 Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares. 
 Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace 
 And pleasure in endurance. Much she 
 
 thought. 
 And much she read ; and brooded feelingly 
 Upon her own unworthiness. To me, 
 As to a spiritual comforter and friend. 
 Her heart she opened ; and no pains 
 
 were spared 
 To mitigate, as gently as I could. 
 The sting of self-reproach, with healing 
 
 words. 
 Meek Saint ! through patience glorified 
 
 on earth ! 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 553 
 
 In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 
 The ghastly face of cold decay put on 
 A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine ! 
 May I not mention — that, within those 
 
 walls. 
 In due observance of her pious wish, 
 The congregation joined with me in prayer 
 For her soul's good? Nor was that office 
 
 vain. 
 
 — Much did she suffer : but, if any friend, 
 Beholding her condition, at the sight 
 Gave way to words of pity or complaint, 
 She stilled them with a prompt reproof, 
 
 and said, 
 ' He who afflicts me knows what I can 
 
 bear; 
 ' And, when I fail, and can endure no 
 
 more, 
 ' Will mercifully take me to himself.' 
 So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit 
 
 passed 
 Into that pure and unknown world of love 
 Where injury cannot come : — and here 
 
 is laid 
 The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 
 
 The Vicar ceased; and downcast looks 
 
 made known 
 That each had listened with his inmost 
 
 heart. 
 For me, the emotion scarcely was less 
 
 strong 
 Or less benign than that which I had felt 
 When seated near my venerable Friend, 
 Under those shady elms, from him I heard 
 The story that retraced the slow decline 
 Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath 
 With the neglected house to which she 
 
 clung. 
 
 — I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
 Confessed the power of nature. — Pleased 
 
 though sad. 
 More pleased than sad, the gray-haired 
 
 Wanderer sate; 
 Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
 Capacious and serene; his blameless life. 
 His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, 
 
 and love 
 Of human kind ! He was it who first 
 
 broke 
 -The pensive silence, saying: — 
 
 Whose sorrow rather .is to suffer wrong' 
 
 Than to do wrong, albeit'themselves have 
 
 erred. 
 This tale gives proof that Heaven most 
 
 gently deals 
 With such, in their affliction. — Ellen's 
 
 fate. 
 Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, 
 Call to my mind dark hints which I have 
 
 heard 
 Of one who died within this vale, by doom 
 Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. 
 Where, &c, I. pray you, where are laid 
 
 the bones 
 Of Wilfrid Armathwaite?" 
 
 The Vicar answered, 
 " In that green nook, close by the 
 
 Churchyard wall. 
 Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
 In memory and for warning, and in sign 
 Of sweetness where dire anguish had 
 
 been known, 
 Of reconcilement after deep offence — 
 There doth he rest. No theme his fate 
 
 supplies 
 For the smooth glozings of the indulgent 
 
 world ; 
 Nor need the windings of his devious 
 
 course 
 Be here retraced; — enough that, by 
 
 mishap 
 And venial error, robbed of competence, 
 And her obsequious shadow, peace of 
 
 mind. 
 He craved a substitute in troubled joy; 
 Against his conscience rose in arms, and, 
 
 braving 
 Divine displeasure, broke the marriage- 
 vow. 
 That which he had been weak enough 
 
 to do 
 Was misery in remembrance; he was 
 
 stung. 
 Stung by his inward thoughts, and by 
 
 the smiles 
 Of wife and children stung to agony. 
 Wretched at home, he gained no peace 
 
 abroad; 
 Ranged through the mountains, slept upon 
 
 the earth, 
 Asked comfort of the open air, and found 
 No quiet in the darkness of the night. 
 No pleasure in the beauty of the day. 
 His flock he slighted: his paternal fields 
 
554 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished 
 To fly — but whither ! And this gracious 
 
 Church, 
 That wears a look so full of peace and hope 
 And love, benignant mother of the vale. 
 How fair amid her brood of cottages ! 
 She was to him a sickness and reproach. 
 Much to the last remained unknown : but 
 
 this 
 Is sure, that through remorse and grief 
 
 he died; 
 Though pitied among men, absolved by 
 
 God, 
 He could not find forgiveness in himself; 
 Nor could endure the weight of his own 
 
 shame. 
 
 Here rests a Mother. But from her I 
 
 turn 
 And from her grave. — Behold — upon 
 
 that ridge. 
 That, stretching boldly from the mountain 
 
 side. 
 Carries into the centre of the vale 
 Its rocks and woods — the Cottage where 
 
 she dwelt 
 And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, 
 
 left 
 (Full eight years past) the solitary prop 
 Of many helpless Children. I begin 
 With words that might be prelude to a tale 
 Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel 
 No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 
 See daily in that happy family. 
 — Bright garland form they for the pensive 
 
 brow 
 Of their undrooping Father's widowhood, 
 Those_sijt_iaii_Daughters, budding yet — 
 
 not one, 
 Not one of all the band, a full-blown 
 
 flower. 
 Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once 
 That Father was, and filled with anxious 
 
 fear. 
 Now, by experience taught, he stands as- 
 sured. 
 That God, who takes away, yet takes not 
 
 half 
 Of what he seems to take; or gives it back. 
 Not to our prayer, .but far beyond our 
 
 prayer; 
 He gives it — the boon produce of a soil 
 Which our endeavors have refused to till. 
 
 And hope hath never watered. The Abode, 
 Whose grateful owner can attest these 
 
 truths, 
 Even were the object nearer to our sight, 
 Would seem in no distinction to surpass 
 The rudest habitations. Ye might think 
 That it had sprung self-raised from earth, 
 
 or grown 
 Out of the living rock, to be adorned 
 By nature only; but, if thither led; 
 Ye would discover, then, a studious work 
 Of many fancies, prompting many hands. 
 
 Brought from the woods the honeysuckle 
 
 twines 
 Around the porch, and seems, in that trim 
 
 place, 
 A plant no longer wild; the cultured rose 
 There blossoms, strong in health, and will 
 
 be soon 
 Roof -high; the wild pink crowns the 
 
 garden-wall. 
 And with the flowers are intermingled 
 
 stones 
 Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of 
 
 the hills. 
 These ornaments, that fade not with the 
 
 year, 
 A hardy Girl continues to provide; 
 Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky 
 
 heights, 
 Her Father's prompt attendant, does for 
 
 him 
 All that a boy could do, but with delight 
 More keen and prouder daring; yet hath 
 
 she. 
 Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 
 For her own flowers and favorite herbs, 
 
 a space. 
 By sacred charter, holden for her use, 
 — These, and whatever else the garden 
 
 bears 
 Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, 
 I freely gather; and my leisure draws 
 A not unfrequent pastime from the hum 
 Of bees around their range of sheltered 
 
 hives 
 Busy in that enclosure; while the rill. 
 That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes 
 
 his voice 
 To the pure course of human life which 
 
 there 
 Flowson insolitude. But, when the gloom 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 555 
 
 Of night is falling round my steps, then 
 
 most 
 This Dwelling charms me; often I stop 
 
 short, 
 (Who could refrain?) and feed by stealth 
 
 my sight 
 With prospect of the company within. 
 Laid open through the blazing window : — 
 
 there 
 I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel 
 Spinning amain, as if to overtake 
 The never-halting time; or, in her turn. 
 Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood 
 That skill in this or other household work, 
 Which, from her Father's honored hand, 
 
 herself. 
 While she was yet a little-one, had learned. 
 Mild Man ! he is not gay, but they are 
 
 gay; 
 
 And the whole house seems filled with 
 gayety. 
 
 — Thrice happy, then, the Mother may 
 
 be deemed. 
 The Wife, from whose consolatory grave 
 I turned, that ye in mind might witness 
 
 where, 
 And how, her Spirit yet survives on 
 
 earth ! ' ' 
 
 Book Seventh. 
 
 the chttrchyard among the 
 MOUNTAINS — {^continued'). 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Impression of these Narratives upon theAuthor's 
 mind — Pastor invited to give account of certain 
 Graves that lie apart — Clergyman and his Family 
 
 — Fortunate influence of change of situation — 
 Activity in extreme old age — Another Clergyman, 
 a character of resolute Virtue — Lamentations over 
 misdirected applause — Instance of less exalted 
 excellence in a deaf man — Elevated character of 
 a blind man — Reflection upon Blindness — Inter- 
 rupted by a Peasant who passes — His animal 
 cheerfulness and careless vivacity — He occasions 
 a digression on the fall of beautiful and interesting 
 Trees — A female Infant's Grave — Joy at her 
 Birth — Sorrow at her Departure — A youthful 
 Peasant — His patriotic enthusiasm and distin- 
 guished qualities — His untimely death — Exulta- 
 tion of the Wanderer, as a patriot, in this Picture 
 — Solitary how affected — Monument of a Knight 
 
 — Traditions concerning him — Peroration of the 
 
 Wanderer on the transitoriness of things and the 
 revolutions of society — Hints at his own past 
 Calling — Thanks the Pastor. 
 
 While thus from theme to theme the 
 
 Historian passed, 
 The words he uttered, and the scene that 
 
 lay 
 Before our eyes, awakened in my mind 
 Vivid remembrance of those long-past 
 
 hours; 
 When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale, 
 (What time the splendor of the setting sun 
 Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereign 
 
 brow, 
 On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur) 
 A wandering Youth, I listened with delight 
 To pastoral melody or warlike air. 
 Drawn from the chords of the ancient 
 
 British harp 
 By some accomplished Master, while he 
 
 sate 
 Amid the quiet of the green recess. 
 And there did inexhaustibly dispense 
 An interchange of soft or solemn tunes, 
 Tender or blithe; now, as the varying 
 
 mood 
 Of his own spirit urged, — now, as a voice 
 From youth or maiden, or some honored 
 
 chief 
 Of his compatriot villagers (that hung 
 Around him, drinking in the impassioned 
 
 notes 
 Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required 
 For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains 
 
 of power 
 Were they, to seize and occupy the sense; 
 But to a higher mark than song can reach 
 Rose this pure eloquence. And, when 
 
 the stream 
 Which overflowed the soul was passed 
 
 away, 
 A consciousness remained that it had left, 
 Deposited upon the silent shore 
 Of memory, images and precious thoughts. 
 That shall not die, and cannot be de- 
 stroyed. 
 
 "These grassy heaps lie amicably 
 
 closed," 
 Said I, " like surges heaving in the wind 
 Along the surface of a mountain pool : 
 Whence comes it, then, that yonder we 
 
 behold 
 
556 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Five j Traves. and only five, that rise to- 
 gether 
 Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching 
 On the smooth playground of the village- 
 school? " 
 
 The Vicar answered, — " No disdainful 
 
 pride 
 In them who rest beneath, nor any course 
 Of strange or tragic accident, hath helped 
 To place those hillocks in that lonely guise. 
 — Once more look. forth, and follow with 
 
 your sight 
 The length of road that from yon moun- 
 tain's base 
 Through bare enclosures stretches, till its 
 
 line 
 Is lost within a little tuft of trees; 
 Then, reappearing in a moment, quits 
 The cultured fields; and up the heathy 
 
 waste. 
 Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine, 
 Led towards an easy outlet of the vale. 
 That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft. 
 By which the road is hidden, also hides 
 A cottage from our view ; though I discern 
 (Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees 
 The smokeless chimney-top. — 
 
 All unembowered 
 And naked stood that lowly Parsonage 
 (For such in truth it is, and appertains 
 To a small Chapel in the vale beyond) 
 When hither came its last Inhabitant. 
 Rough and forbidding were the choicest 
 
 roads 
 By which our northern wilds could then 
 
 be crossed; 
 And into most of these secluded vales 
 Was no access for wain, heavy or light. 
 So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived 
 With store of household goods, in panniers 
 
 slung 
 On sturdyhorses graced with jingling bells. 
 And on the back of more ignoble beast; 
 That, with like burthen of effects most 
 
 prized 
 Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 
 Young was I then, a schoolboy of eight 
 
 years ; 
 But still, methinks, I see them as they 
 
 passed 
 In order, drawing toward their wished-for 
 
 home. 
 
 — Rocked by the motion of a trusty ass 
 Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised 
 
 freight. 
 Each in his basket nodding drowsily ; 
 Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed 
 
 with flowers. 
 Which told it was the pleasant month of 
 
 June; 
 And, close behind, the comely Matron 
 
 rode, 
 A woman of soft speech and gracious smile. 
 And with a lady's mien. — From far they 
 
 came, 
 Even from Northumbrian hills; yet theirs 
 
 had been 
 A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheered 
 By music, prank, and laughter-stirring 
 
 jest; * 
 
 And freak put on, and arch word dropped 
 
 — to swell 
 The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 
 That gathered round the slowly-moving 
 
 train. 
 — ' Whence do they come ? and with what 
 
 errand charged? 
 Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe 
 ' Who pitch their tents under the green- 
 wood tree? 
 ' Or Strollers are they, furnished to enact 
 ' Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the 
 
 Wood, 
 ' And, by that whiskered tabby's aid, set 
 
 forth 
 'The lucky venture of sage Whittington, 
 ' When the next village hears the show 
 
 announced 
 'By blast of trumpet ? ' Plenteous was 
 
 the growth 
 Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen 
 On many a staring countenance portrayed 
 Of boor or burgher, as they marched along. 
 And more than once their steadiness of 
 
 face 
 Was put to proof, and exercise supplied 
 To their inventive humor, by stern looks. 
 And questions in authoritative tone, 
 From some staid guardian of the public 
 
 peace. 
 Checking the sober steed on which he rode, 
 In his suspicious wisdom; oftener still. 
 By notice indirect, or blunt demand 
 From traveller halting in his own despite, 
 A simple curiosity to ease : 
 
rilE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 557 
 
 Of which adventures, that beguiled and 
 
 cheered 
 Their grave migration, the good pair would 
 
 tell, 
 With undiminished glee, in hoary age. 
 
 A Priest he was by function ; but his 
 
 course 
 From his youth up, and high as manhood's 
 
 noon, 
 (The hour of life to which he then was 
 
 brought) 
 Had beeji irregular, I might-say^ JwUd; 
 By books unsteadied,'by his pastoral care 
 Too little checked. An active, ardent 
 
 mind; 
 A fancy pregnantwith resource and scheme 
 To cheat the sadness of a rainy day; 
 Hands apt for all ingenious arts and 
 
 games; 
 A generous spirit, and a body strong 
 To cope with stoutest champions of the 
 
 bowl — 
 Had earned for him sure welcome, and 
 
 the rights 
 Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall 
 Of country 'squire; or at the statelier 
 
 board 
 Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly 
 
 pomp 
 Withdrawn, — to while away the summer 
 
 hours 
 In condescension among rural guests. 
 
 With these high comrades he had rev- 
 elled long. 
 Frolicked industriously, a simple Clerk 
 By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 
 Till the heart sickened. So, each loftier 
 
 aim 
 Abandoning and all his showy friends. 
 For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) 
 He turned to this secluded chapelry; 
 That had been offered to his doubtful 
 
 choice 
 By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and 
 
 bare 
 They found the cottage, their allotted 
 
 home; 
 Naked without, and rude within; a spot 
 With which the Cure not long had been 
 
 endowed : 
 And far remote the chapel stood, — remote. 
 
 And, from his DweUing, unapproachable, 
 Save through a gap high in the hills, an 
 
 opening 
 Shadeless and shelterless, by driving 
 
 showers 
 Frequented, and beset with howling 
 
 winds. 
 Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might 
 
 hang 
 On his own mind, to quarrel with the 
 
 choice 
 Or the necessity that fixed him here; 
 Apart from old temptations, and con- 
 strained 
 To punctual labor in his sacred charge. 
 See him a constant preacher to the poor ! 
 And visiting, though not with saintly zeal, 
 Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will. 
 The sick in body, or distrest in mind; 
 And, by a salutary change, compelled 
 To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 
 With no engagement, in his thoughts, 
 
 more proud 
 Or splendid than his garden could afford, 
 His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock 
 
 ranged 
 Or the wild brooks; from which he now 
 
 returned 
 Contented to partake the quiet meal 
 Of his own board, where sat his gentle 
 
 Male 
 j\nd three fair Children, plentifully fed 
 Though simply, from their little house- 
 hold farm; 
 Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl 
 By nature yielded to his practised hand ; — ■ 
 To help the small but certain comings-in 
 Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less 
 Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs 
 A charitable door. 
 
 So days and years 
 Passed on; — the inside of that rugged 
 
 house 
 Was trimmed and brightened by the 
 
 Matron's care, 
 And gradually enrichetl with things of 
 
 price, 
 Which might be lacked for use or ornament. 
 What, though no soft and costly sofa there 
 Insidiously stretched out its lazy length. 
 And no vainmirrorglitteredupon the walls. 
 Yet were the windows of the low abode 
 By shutters weather-fended, which at once 
 
sss 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Repelled the storm and deadened its loud 
 
 roar. 
 There snow-white curtains hung in decent 
 
 folds; 
 Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain 
 
 plants, 
 That creep along the ground with sinuous 
 
 trail, 
 Were nicely braided ; and composed a work 
 Like Indian mats, that with appropriate 
 
 grace 
 Lay at the threshold and the inner doors; 
 And a fair carpet, woven of homespun 
 
 wool 
 But tinctured daintily with florid hues. 
 For seemliness and warmth, on festal 
 
 days, 
 Covered the smooth blue slabs of moun- 
 tain-stone 
 With which the parlor-iioor, in simplest 
 
 guise 
 Of pastoral homesteads, had been long 
 
 inlaid. 
 
 Those pleasing works the Housewife's 
 
 skill produced : 
 Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's 
 
 hand 
 Was busier with his task — to rid, to plant, 
 To rear for food, for shelter, and delight; 
 A thriving covert ! And when wishes,. 
 
 formed 
 In youth, and sanctioned by the riper 
 
 mind. 
 Restored me to my native valley, here 
 To end my days; well pleased was I to see 
 The once-bare cottage, on the mountain- 
 side, 
 Screened from assault of every bitter 
 
 blast; 
 While the dark shadows of the summer 
 
 leaves 
 Danced in the breeze, checkering its mossy 
 
 roof. 
 Time, which had thus afforded willing help 
 To beautify with nature's fairest growths 
 This rustic tenement, had gently shed, 
 Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace; 
 Tile comeliness of unenf cabled age. 
 
 But how could I say, gently? for he still 
 Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm. 
 
 A stirring foot, a head which beat at 
 
 nights 
 Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. 
 Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures 
 
 'lost; 
 Generous and charitable, prompt to serve; 
 And still his harsher passions kept their 
 
 hold — 
 Anger and indignation. Still he loved 
 The sound of titled names, and talked iu 
 
 glee 
 Of long-past banquetings with high-born 
 
 friends: 
 Then, from those lulling fits of vain de- 
 light 
 Uproused by recollected injury, railed 
 At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 
 In bitterness, and with a threatening eye 
 Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. 
 — Those transports, with staid looks of 
 
 pure good-will, 
 And with soft smile, his consort would 
 
 reprove. 
 She, far behind him in the race of years, 
 Yet keeping her first mildness, was ad- 
 vanced 
 Far nearer, in the habit of her soul. 
 To that still region whither all are bound. 
 Him might we liken to the setting sun 
 As seen not seldom on some gusty day, 
 Struggling and bold, and shining from the 
 
 west 
 With an inconstant and unmellowed light; 
 She was a soft attendant cloud, that hung 
 As if with wish to veil the restless orb; 
 From which it did itself imbibe a ray 
 Of pleasing lustre. — But no more of this; 
 I better love to sprinkle on the sod 
 That now divides the pair, or rather say, 
 That still unites them, praises, like heav- 
 en's dew. 
 Without reserve descending upon both. 
 
 Our very first in eminence of years 
 This old Man stood, the patriarch of the 
 
 Vale! 
 And, to his unmolested mansion, death 
 Had never come, through space of forty 
 
 years; 
 Sparing both old and young in that abode, 
 Suddenly then they disappeared: not 
 
 twice 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 559 
 
 Had summer scorched the fields; not twice 
 had fallen, 
 
 On those high peaks, the first autumnal 
 snow, 
 
 Before the greedy visiting was closed, 
 
 And the long - privileged house left 
 empty — swept 
 
 As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague 
 
 Had been among them; all was gentle 
 death. 
 
 One after one, with intervals of peace. 
 
 A happy consummation ! an accord 
 
 Sweet, perfect, to be wished for! save 
 that here 
 
 Was something which to mortal sense 
 might sound 
 
 Like harshness, — that the old gray- 
 headed Sire, 
 
 The oldest, he was taken last; survived 
 
 When the meek Partner of his age, his 
 Son, 
 
 His Daughter, and that late and high- 
 prized gift. 
 
 His little smiling Grandchild, were no 
 
 'All gone, all vanished! he deprived 
 
 and bare, 
 ' How will he face the remnant of his life ? 
 ' What will become of him ? ' we said, and 
 
 mused 
 In sad conjectures — ' Shall we meet him 
 
 now 
 ' Haunting with rod and line the craggy 
 
 brooks ? 
 * Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 
 ' Striving to entertain the lonely hours 
 ' With music? ' (for he had not ceased to 
 
 touch 
 The harp or viol which himself had 
 
 framed. 
 For their sweet purposes, with perfect 
 
 skill.) 
 ' What titles will he keep? will he remain 
 ' Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist, 
 'A planter, and a rearer from the seed? 
 ' A man of hope and forward-looking mind 
 ' Even to the last I ' — Such was he, un- 
 subdued. 
 But Heaven was gracious; yet a little 
 
 while, 
 And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng 
 Of open projects, and his inward hoard 
 
 Of unsunned griefs, too many and too 
 
 keen. 
 Was overcome by unexpected sleep. 
 In one blest moment. Like a shadow 
 
 thrown 
 Softly and lightly from a passing cloud. 
 Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay 
 For noontide solace pn the summer grass, 
 The warm lap of his mother earth : and so. 
 Their lenient term of separation past, 
 That family (whose graves you there be- 
 hold) 
 By yet a higher privilege once more 
 Were gathered to each other." 
 
 Calm of mind 
 And silence waited on these closing words ; 
 Until the Wanderer (whether moved by 
 
 fear 
 Lest in those passages of life were some 
 That might have touched the sick heart 
 
 of his Friend 
 Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
 His own firm spirit in degree deprest 
 By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
 Thus silence broke: — " Behold a 
 
 thoughtless Man 
 From vice and premature decay preserved 
 By useful habits, to a fitter soil 
 Transplanted ere too late. — The hermit, 
 
 lodged 
 Amid the untrodden desert, tells his 
 
 beads. 
 With each repeating its allotted prayer. 
 And thus divides and thus relieves the 
 
 time; • 
 Smooth task, with his compared, whose 
 
 mind could string. 
 Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 
 Of keen domestic anguish; and beguile 
 A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed; 
 Till gentlest death released him. 
 
 Far from us 
 Be the desire — too curiously to ask 
 How much of this is but the blind result 
 Of cordial spirits and vital temperament, 
 And what to higher powers is justly due. 
 But you, Sir, know that in a neighboring 
 
 vale 
 A Priest abides before whose life such 
 
 doubts 
 Fall to the ground; whose gifts of nature 
 
 lie 
 Retired from notice, lost in attributes 
 
S6o 
 
 THE EXqjRSION. 
 
 Of reason, honorably effaced by debts 
 Which her poor treasure-house is content 
 
 to owe, 
 And conquest over her dominion gained, 
 To which her frowardness must needs sub- 
 mit. 
 In this one Man is shown a temperance — 
 
 proof 
 Against all trials; industry severe 
 And constant as the motion of the day; 
 Stern self-denial round him spread, with 
 
 shade 
 That might be deemed forbidding, did 
 
 not there 
 All generous feelings flourish and rejoice; 
 Forbearance, charity in deed and thought. 
 And resolution competent to take 
 Out of the bosom of simplicity 
 All that her holy customs recommend, 
 And the best ages of the world prescribe. 
 — Preaching, administering, in every 
 
 work 
 Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 
 Of worldly intercourse between man and 
 
 man. 
 And in his humble dwelling, he appears 
 A laborer, with moral virtue girt, 
 With spiritual graces, like a glory, 
 
 crowned." 
 
 "Doubt can be none," the Pastor 
 
 said, " for whom 
 This portraiture is sketched. The great, 
 
 the good. 
 The well-beloved, the fortunate, the 
 
 wise, — 
 These titles emperors and chiefs have 
 
 borne. 
 Honor assumed or given : and him, the 
 
 Wonderful, 
 Our simple shepherds, speaking from the 
 
 heart. 
 Deservedly have styled. — From his abode 
 In a dependent chapelry that lies 
 Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild. 
 Which in his soul he lovingly embraced. 
 And, having once espoused, would never 
 
 quit; 
 Into its graveyard will ere long be borne 
 That lowly, great, good Man. A simple 
 
 stone 
 May cover him; and by its help, per- 
 chance. 
 
 A century shall hear his name pronounced, 
 With images attendant on the sound; 
 Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight 
 
 close 
 In utter night; and of his course remain 
 No cognizable vestiges, no more 
 Than of this breath, which shapes itself 
 
 in words 
 To speak of him, and instantly dissolves." 
 
 The Pastor, pressed by thoughts which 
 round his theme 
 Still lingered, after a brief pause, re- 
 sumed; 
 " Noise is there not enough in doleful war. 
 But that the heaven-born poet must 
 
 stand forth, 
 And lend the echoes of his sacred shell. 
 To multiply and aggravate the din ? 
 Pangs are there not enough in hopeless 
 
 love — 
 And, in requited passion, all too much 
 Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear — 
 But that the minstrel of the rural shade 
 Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse 
 The perturbation in the suffering breast, 
 And propagate its kind, far as he may? 
 
 — Ah who (and with such rapture as befits 
 The hallowed theme) will rise and cele- 
 brate 
 
 The good man's purposes and deeds; 
 retrace 
 
 His struggles, his discomfitures deplore. 
 
 His triumphs hail, and glorify his end; 
 
 That virtue, like the fumes and vapory 
 clouds 
 
 Through fancy's heat redounding in the 
 brain, 
 
 And like the soft infections of the heart. 
 
 By charm of measured words may spread 
 o'er field, 
 
 Hamlet, and town; and piety survive 
 
 Upon the lips of men in hall or bower; 
 
 Not for reproof, but high and warm de- 
 light, 
 
 And grave encouragement, by song in- 
 spired? 
 
 — Vain thought ! but wherefore murmur 
 
 or repine? 
 The memory of the just survives in heaven : 
 And, without sorrow, will the ground 
 
 receive 
 That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 561 
 
 Of what lies here confines lis to degrees 
 In excellence less difficult to reach, 
 And milder worth : nor need we travel far 
 From those to whom our last regards 
 
 were paid, 
 For such example. 
 
 Almost at the root 
 Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
 And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, 
 Oft stretches towards me, like a long 
 
 straight path 
 Traced faintly in the greensward; there, 
 
 beneath 
 A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies. 
 From whom, in early childhood, was 
 
 withdrawn 
 The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
 From year to year in loneliness of soul; 
 And this deep mountain-valley was to 
 
 him 
 Soundless, with all its streams. The bird 
 
 of dawn 
 Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
 With startling summons; not for his 
 
 delight 
 The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him 
 Murmured the laboring bee. When 
 
 stormy winds 
 Were working the broad bosom of the lake 
 Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves. 
 Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on 
 
 cloud 
 Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags. 
 The agitated scene before his eye 
 Was silent as a picture : evermore 
 Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he 
 
 moved. 
 Yet, by the solace of his own pure 
 
 thoughts 
 Upheld, he duteously pursued the round 
 Of rural labors; the steep mountain-side 
 Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog; 
 The plough he guided, and the scythe 
 
 he swayed; 
 And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 
 Among the jocund reapers. For himself. 
 All watchful and industrious as he was. 
 He wrought not ; neither field nor flock 
 
 he owned: 
 No wish for wealth had place within his 
 
 mind; 
 Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or 
 
 care. 
 
 Though born a younger brother, need 
 
 was none 
 That from the floor of his paternal home 
 He should depart, to plant himself anew. 
 And when, mature in manhood, he beheld 
 His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 
 Of rights to him; but he remained well 
 
 pleased. 
 By the pure bond of independent love, 
 An inmate of a second family; 
 The fellow-laborer and friend of him 
 To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
 
 — Nor deem that his mild presence was 
 
 a weight 
 That pressed upon his brother's house; 
 
 for books 
 Were ready comrades whom he could not 
 
 tire; 
 Of whose society the blameless Man 
 Was never satiate. Their familiar voice. 
 Even to old age, with unabated charm 
 Beguiled his leisure hours; refreshed his 
 
 thoughts; 
 Beyond its natural elevation raised 
 His introverted spirit; and bestowed 
 Upon his life an outward dignity 
 Which all acknowledged. The dark 
 
 winter night. 
 The stormy day, each had its own re- 
 source ; 
 Song of the muses, sage historic tale. 
 Science severe, or word of holy Writ 
 Announcing immortality and joy 
 To the assembled spirits of just men 
 Made perfect, and from injury secure. 
 
 — Thus soothed at home, thus busy in 
 
 the field. 
 
 To no perverse suspicion he gave way. 
 
 Nor languor, peevishness, nor vain com- 
 plaint : 
 
 And they, who were about him, did not 
 fail 
 
 In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized 
 
 His gentle manners: and his peaceful 
 smiles. 
 
 The gleams of his slow-varying counte- 
 nance. 
 
 Were met with answering sympathy and 
 love. 
 
 At length, when sixty years and five 
 were told, 
 A slow disease insensibly consumed 
 
562 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 The powers of nature : and a few short 
 
 steps 
 Of friends and kindred bore him from 
 
 his home 
 (Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags) 
 To the profounder stillness of the grave. 
 — Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
 Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful 
 
 grief; 
 Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by grati- 
 tude. 
 And now that monumental stone preserves 
 His name, and unambitiously relates 
 How long, and by what kindly outward 
 
 aids, 
 \nd in what pure contentedness of mind, 
 The sad privation was by him endured. 
 — And yon tall pine-tree, whose com- 
 posing sound 
 Was wasted on the good Man's living ear, 
 Hath now its own peculiar sanctity; 
 And, at the touch of every wandering 
 
 breeze, 
 Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful 
 grave. 
 
 Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of 
 things ! 
 
 Guide of our way, mysterious comforter ! 
 
 Whose sacred influence, spread through 
 earth and heaven. 
 
 We all too thanklessly participate, 
 
 Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him 
 
 Whose place of rest is near yon ivied 
 porch. 
 
 Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he com- 
 plained; 
 
 Ask of the channelled rivers if they held 
 
 A safer, easier, more determined, course. 
 
 What terror doth it strike into the mind 
 
 To think of one, blind and alone, advan- 
 cing 
 
 Straight toward some precipice's airy 
 brink ! 
 
 But, timely warned. He would have 
 stayed his steps. 
 
 Protected, say enlightened, by his ear; 
 
 And on the very edge of vacancy 
 
 N'ot more endangered than a man whose 
 eye 
 
 Beholds the gulf beneath. — No floweret 
 blooms 
 
 Throughout the lofty range of these 
 
 rough hills, 
 Nor in the woods, that could from him 
 
 conceal 
 Its birthplace; none whose figure did 
 
 not live 
 Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
 Enriched with knowledge his industrious 
 
 mind; 
 The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
 Lodged in her bosom; and, by science led. 
 His genius mounted to the plains of 
 
 heaven. 
 — Methinks I see him ■ — how his eye- 
 balls rolled. 
 Beneath his ample brow, in darkness 
 
 paired, — 
 But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
 Of the whole countenance alive with 
 
 thought. 
 Fancy, and understanding; while the 
 
 voice 
 Discoursed of natural or moral truth 
 With eloquence, and such authentic 
 
 power, 
 That, in his presence, humbler knowledge 
 
 stood 
 Abashed, and tender pity overawed." 
 
 " A noble — and, to unreflecting minds, 
 A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer 
 
 said, 
 " Beings like these present! But proof 
 
 abounds 
 Upon the earth that faculties, which seem 
 Extinguished, do not, therefore, cease to 
 
 be. 
 And to the mind among her powers of 
 
 sense 
 This transfer is permitted, — not alone 
 That the bereft their recompense may win; 
 But for remoter purposes of love 
 And charity; nor last nor least for this. 
 That to the imagination may be given 
 A type and shadow of an awful truth; 
 How, likewise, under sufferance divine, 
 Darkness is banished from the realms of 
 
 death, 
 By man's imperishable spirit, quelled. 
 Unto the men who see not as we see 
 Futurity was thought, in ancient times, 
 To be laid open, and they prophesied. 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 563 
 
 And know we not that from the blind 
 
 have flowed 
 The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre; 
 And wisdom married to immortal verse ? ' ' 
 
 Among the humbler Worthies, at our 
 
 feet 
 Lying insensible to human praise. 
 Love, or regret, — whose lineaments 
 
 would next 
 Have been portrayed, I guess not; but it 
 
 chanced 
 That, near the quiet churchyard where we 
 
 sate, 
 A team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
 Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope, 
 Whose sharp descent confounded their 
 
 array. 
 Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 
 
 "Here," said the Pastor, "do we 
 
 muse, and mourn 
 The waste of death; and lo ! the giant oak 
 Stretched on his bier — that massy timber 
 
 wain; 
 Nor fail to note the Man who guides the 
 
 team.'* 
 
 He was a peasant of the lowest class : 
 Gray locks profusely round his temples 
 
 hung 
 In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite 
 Of winter cannot thin; the fresh air lodged 
 Withinhis cheek, as light within a cloud; 
 And he returned our greeting with a smile. 
 When he had passed, the Solitary spake; 
 " A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 
 And confident to-morrows; with a face 
 Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much 
 Of Nature's impress, — gayety and 
 
 health. 
 Freedom and hope; but keen, withal, and 
 
 shrewd. 
 His gestures note, — and hark ! his tones 
 
 of voice 
 Are all vivacious as his mien and looks." 
 
 The Pastor answered : "You have read 
 
 him well. 
 Year after year is added to his store 
 With silent increase : summers, winters — 
 
 past. 
 Past or to come; yea, boldly might I say. 
 
 Ten summers and ten winters of a space 
 That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, 
 Upon his sprightly vigor cannot fix 
 The obligation of an anxious mind, 
 A pride in having, or a fear to lose; 
 Possessed like outskirts of some large 
 
 domain. 
 By any one more thought of than by him 
 Who holds the land in fee, its careless 
 
 lord! 
 Yet is the creature rational, endowed 
 With foresight; hears, too, every sabbath 
 
 day. 
 The Christian promise with attentive ear; 
 Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven 
 Reject the incense offered up by him, 
 Though of the kind which beasts and birds 
 
 present 
 In grove or pasture; cheerfulness of soul, 
 From trepidation and repining free. 
 How many scrupulous worshippers fall 
 
 down 
 Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 
 Less worthy, less religious even, than his ! 
 
 This quahfied respect, the old Man's 
 
 due, 
 Is paid without reluctance; but in truth," 
 (Said the good Vicar with a fond half- 
 
 smile) 
 " I feel at times a motion of despite 
 Towards one, whose bold contrivances 
 
 and skill, 
 As you have seen, bear such conspicuous 
 
 part 
 In works of havoc; taking from these 
 
 vales. 
 One after one, their proudest ornaments. 
 Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 
 Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapors 
 
 nursed. 
 In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks; 
 Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's 
 
 edge, 
 A veil of glory for the ascending moon; 
 And oak whose roots by noontide dew 
 
 were damped. 
 And on whose forehead inaccessible 
 The raven lodged in safety. — Many a 
 
 ship 
 Launched into Morecamb-bayto/zzOT hath 
 
 owed 
 
564 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast 
 
 that bears 
 The loftiest of her pendants; He, from 
 
 park 
 Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree 
 That whirls (how slow itself!) ten 
 
 thousand spindles: 
 And the vast engine laboring in the mine. 
 Content with meaner prowess, must have 
 
 lacked 
 The trunk and body of its marvellous 
 
 strength. 
 If his undaunted enterprise had failed 
 Among the mountain coves. 
 
 Yon household fir, 
 A guardian planted to fence off the blast. 
 But towering high the roof above, as if 
 Its humble destination were forgot — 
 That sycamore, which annually holds ^ 
 Within its shade, as in a stately tent 
 On all sides open to the fanning breeze, 
 A grave assemblage, seated while they 
 
 shear 
 The fleece-encumbered flock — the Joy- 
 ful ELM, 
 Around whose trunk the maidens dance 
 
 in May — 
 And the Lord's Oak — would plead their 
 
 several rights 
 In vain, if he were master of their fate; 
 His sentence to the axe would doom them 
 
 all. 
 But, green in age and lusty as he is. 
 And promising to keep his hold on earth 
 Less, as might seem, in rivalship with 
 
 men 
 Than with the forest's more enduring 
 
 growth, 
 His own appointed hour will come at last; 
 And, like the haughty Spoilers of the 
 
 world, 
 This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must 
 
 fall. 
 
 Now from the living pass we once 
 
 again : 
 From Age," the Priest continued, " turn 
 
 your thoughts; 
 From Age, that often unlamented drops, 
 And mark that daisied hillock, three spans 
 
 long ! 
 
 » See Note. 
 
 — Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the 
 
 board 
 Of Gold-rill side; and, when the hope had 
 
 ceased • 
 
 Of other progeny, a Daughter then 
 Was given, the crowning bounty of the 
 
 whole; 
 And so acknowledged with a tremulous 
 
 joy 
 Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm 
 With which by nature every mother's 
 
 soul 
 Is stricken in the moment when her throes 
 Are ended, and her ears have heard the 
 
 cry 
 Which tells her that a living child is born ; 
 And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest. 
 That the dread storm is weathered by 
 
 them both. 
 
 The Father — him at this unlooked-for 
 
 gift 
 A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
 Of his bright hearth, and from his open 
 
 door, 
 Day after day the gladness is diffused 
 To all that come, almost to all that pass; 
 Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
 Spread on the never-empty board, and 
 
 drink 
 Health and good wishes to his new-born 
 
 girl. 
 From cups replenished by his joyous hand. 
 
 — Those seven fair brothers variously 
 
 were moved 
 Each by the thoughts best suited to his 
 
 years : 
 But most of all and with most thankful 
 
 mind 
 The hoary grandsire felt himself enriched; 
 A happiness that ebbed not, but remained 
 To fill the total measure of his soul ! 
 
 — From the low tenement, his own abode. 
 Whither, as to a little private cell, 
 
 He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and 
 
 noise. 
 To spend the sabbath of old age in peace, 
 Once every day he duteously repaired 
 To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe : 
 For in that female infant's name he heard 
 The silent name of his departed wife; 
 Heart-stirring music ! hourly heard that 
 
 name ; 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 565 
 
 Full blest he was, ' Another Margaret 
 
 Green,' 
 Oft did he say, ' was come to Gold-rill 
 
 side.' 
 
 Oh ! pang unthought of, as the pre- 
 cious boon 
 
 Itself had been unlooked-for; oh ! dire 
 stroke 
 
 Of desolating anguish for them all ! 
 
 — Just as the Child could totter on the 
 
 floor, 
 And, by some friendly finger's help up- 
 stayed, 
 Range round the garden walk, while she 
 
 perchance 
 Was catching at some novelty of spring, 
 Ground-fiower, or glossy insect from its 
 
 cell 
 Drawn by the sunshine — at that hopeful 
 
 season 
 The winds of March, smiting insidiously, 
 Raised in the tender passage of the throat 
 Vie-wless obstruction; whence, all un- 
 
 forewarned, 
 The household lost their pride and soul's 
 
 delight. 
 
 — But time hath power to soften all 
 
 regrets. 
 And prayer and thought can bring to 
 
 worst distress 
 Due resignation. Therefore, though 
 
 some tears 
 Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye 
 Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own. 
 Yet this departed Little-one, too long 
 The innocent troubler of their quiet, 
 
 sleeps 
 In what may now be called a peaceful bed. 
 
 On a bright day — so calm and bright, 
 it seemed 
 
 To us, with our sad spirits, heavenly- 
 fair — 
 
 These mountains echoed to an unknown 
 sound ; 
 
 A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
 
 Let down into the hollow of that grave, 
 
 Whose shelving sides are red with naked 
 mould. 
 
 Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
 
 Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these 
 sods. 
 
 That they may knit together, and there- 
 with 
 Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness ! 
 Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss. 
 Dear Youth, by young and old alike be- 
 loved. 
 To me as precious as my own ! — Green 
 
 herbs 
 May creep (I wish that they would softly 
 
 creep) 
 Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
 Reminded less imperiously of thee; — 
 The ridge itself may sink into the breast 
 Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more; 
 Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our 
 
 hearts, 
 Thy image disappear ! 
 
 The Mountain-ash 
 No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
 Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 
 Decked with autumnal berries, that out- 
 shine 
 Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may 
 
 have marked. 
 By a brook-side or solitary tarn. 
 How she her station doth adorn : the pool 
 Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
 Are brightened round her. In his native 
 
 vale 
 Such and so glorious did this Youth ap- 
 pear; 
 A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
 By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam 
 Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow. 
 By all the graces with which nature's hand 
 Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards 
 Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, 
 Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form: 
 Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the 
 
 shade 
 Discovered in their own despite to sense 
 Of mortals (if such fables without blame 
 May find chance-mention on this sacred 
 
 ground) 
 So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, 
 And through the impediment of rural 
 
 cares, 
 In him revealed a scholar's genius shone; 
 And so, not wholly hidden from men's 
 
 sight, 
 In him the spirit of a hero walked 
 Our unpretending valley. — How the 
 quoit 
 
566 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Whizzed from the Stripling's arm ! If 
 
 touched by him, 
 The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the 
 
 pitch 
 Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rain- 
 bow curve, 
 Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 
 The indefatigable fox had learned 
 To dread his perseverance in the chase. 
 With admiration would he lift his eyes 
 To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 
 Was loth to assault the majesty he loved : 
 Else had the strongest fastnesses proved 
 
 weak 
 To guard the royal brood. The sailing 
 
 glead. 
 The wheeling swallow, and the darting 
 
 snipe ; 
 The sportive sea-gull dancing with the 
 
 waves. 
 And cautious water-fowl, from distant 
 
 climes. 
 Fixed at their seat, the centre of the 
 
 Mere; 
 Were subject to young Oswald's steady 
 
 aim, 
 And lived by his forbearance. 
 
 From the coast 
 Of France a boastful Tyrant hurled his 
 
 threats; 
 Our Country marked the preparation vast 
 Of hostile forces; and she called — with 
 
 voice 
 That filled her plains, that reached her 
 
 utmost shores, 
 And in remotest vales was heard — to 
 
 arms ! 
 — ^Then, for the first time, here you 
 
 might have seen 
 The shepherd's gray to martial scarlet 
 
 changed, 
 That flashed uncouthly through the woods 
 
 and fields. 
 Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire. 
 And graced with shining weapons, weekly 
 
 marched. 
 From this lone valley, to a central spot 
 Where, in assemblage with the flower 
 
 and choice 
 Of the surrounding district, they might 
 
 learn 
 The rudiments of war ; ten — hardy, 
 
 strong. 
 
 And valiant; but young Oswald, like a 
 
 chief 
 And yet a modest comrade, led them forth 
 From their shy solitude, to face the world, 
 With a gay confidence and seemly pride; 
 Measuring the soil beneath their happy 
 
 feet 
 Like Youths released from labor, and yet 
 
 bound 
 To most laborious service, though to 
 
 them 
 A festival of unencumbered ease; 
 The inner spirit keeping holiday. 
 Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine 
 
 left. 
 
 Oft have I marked him, at some lei- 
 sure hour. 
 Stretched on the grass, or seated in the 
 
 shade. 
 Among his fellows, while an ample map 
 Before their eyes lay carefully outspread. 
 From which the gallant teacher would 
 
 discourse. 
 Now pointing this way, and now that. — 
 
 'Here flows,' 
 Thus would he say, 'the Rhine, that 
 
 famous stream ! 
 ' Eastward, the Danube toward this in- 
 land sea, 
 ' A mightier river, winds from realm to 
 
 realm; 
 ' And, like a serpent, shows his glittering 
 
 back 
 ' Bespotted — with innumerable isles: 
 ' Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk; 
 
 observe 
 ' His capital city ! ' Thence, along a trac' 
 Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears, 
 His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 
 Where widespread conflict then most 
 
 fiercely raged; 
 Nor left unstigmatized those fatal fields 
 On which the sons of mighty Germany 
 Were taught a base submission. — ' Here 
 
 behold 
 ' A nobler race, the Switzers, and their 
 
 land, 
 ' Vales deeper far than these of ours, 
 
 huge woods, 
 'And mountains white with everlasting 
 
 snow ! ' 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 567 
 
 — And, surely, he, that spake with kind- 
 ling brow. 
 Was a true patriot, hopeful as the best 
 Of that young peasantry, who, in our days, 
 Have fought and perished for Helvetia's 
 
 rights — 
 Ah, not in vain ! — or those who, in old 
 
 time. 
 For work of happier issue, to the side 
 Of Tell came trooping from " thousand 
 
 huts. 
 When he had risen alone ! No braver 
 
 Youth 
 Descended from Judean heights, to march 
 With righteous Joshua; nor appeared in 
 
 arms 
 When grove was felled, and altar was 
 
 cast down, 
 And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-in- 
 
 fiamed, 
 And strong in hatred of idolatry." 
 
 The Pastor, even as if by these last 
 
 words 
 Raised from his seat within the chosen 
 
 shade. 
 Moved toward the grave; — ^ instinctively 
 
 his steps 
 We followed; and my voice with joy ex- 
 claimed : 
 "Power to the Oppressors of the world 
 
 is given, 
 A might of which they dream not. Oh ! 
 
 the curse, 
 To be the awakener of divinest thoughts. 
 Father and founder of exalted deeds; 
 And, to whole nations bound in servile 
 
 straits. 
 The liberal donor of capacities 
 More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet 
 Have sense of one connatural wish, nor 
 
 yet 
 Deserve the least return of human thanks; 
 Winning no recompense but deadly hate 
 With pity mixed, astonishment with 
 
 scorn ! " 
 
 When this involuntary strain had 
 
 ceased, 
 The Pastor said: "So Providence is 
 
 served; 
 The forked weapon of the skies can send 
 Illumination into deep, dark holds. 
 
 Which the mild sunbeam hath not power 
 
 to pierce. 
 Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and 
 
 cast 
 Pity away, soon shall ye quake with /ear/ 
 For, not unconscious of the mighty debt 
 Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer 
 
 owes, 
 Europe, through all her habitable bounds, 
 Is thirsting for their overthrow, who yet 
 Survive, as pagan temples stood of yore. 
 By horror of their impious rites, preserved ; 
 Are still permitted to extend their pride, 
 Like cedars on the top of Lebanon 
 Darkening the sun. 
 
 But less impatient thoughts, 
 And love ' all hoping and expecting all,' 
 This hallowed grave demands, where rests 
 
 in peace 
 A humble champion of the better cause, 
 A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked 
 No higher name; in whom our country 
 
 showed, 
 As in a favorite son, most beautiful. 
 In spite of vice, and misery, and disease, 
 Spread with the spreading of her wealthy 
 
 arts, 
 England, the ancient and the free, ap- 
 peared 
 In him to stand before my swimming eyes. 
 Unconquerably virtuous and secure. 
 — No more of this, lest I offend his dust : 
 Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 
 
 One day — a summer's day of annual 
 
 pomp 
 And solemn chase — from morn to sultry 
 
 noon 
 His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet. 
 The red-deer driven along its native 
 
 heights 
 With cry of hound and horn; and, from 
 
 that toil 
 Returned with sinews weakened and re- 
 laxed. 
 This generous Youth, too negligent of self. 
 Plunged — 'mid a gay and busy throng 
 
 convened 
 To wash the fleeces of his Father 's flock — 
 Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire 
 Seized him, that self-same night; and 
 
 through the space 
 
568 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Of twelve ensuing days his frame was 
 wrenched, 
 
 Till nature rested from her work in death. 
 
 To him, thus snatched away, his com- 
 rades paid 
 
 A soldier's honors. At his funeral hour 
 
 Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless 
 blue — 
 
 A golden lustre slept upon the hills; 
 
 And if by chance a stranger, wandering 
 there. 
 
 From some commanding eminence had 
 looked 
 
 Down on this spot, well pleased would 
 he have seen 
 
 A glittering spectacle; but every face 
 
 Was pallid : seldom hath that eye been 
 moist 
 
 With tears, that wept not then; nor were 
 the few. 
 
 Who from their dwellings came not forth 
 to join 
 
 In this sad service, less disturbed than we. 
 
 They started at the tributary peal 
 
 Of instantaneous thunder, which an- 
 nounced. 
 
 Through the still air, the closing of the 
 Grave ; 
 
 And distant mountains echoed with a 
 sound 
 
 Of lamentation, never heard before ! " 
 
 The Pastor ceased. — My venerable 
 Friend 
 Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye ; 
 And, when that eulogy was ended, stood 
 Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived 
 The prolongation of some still response. 
 Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land. 
 The Spirit of its mountains and its seas. 
 Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, 
 Its rights and virtues — by that Deity 
 Descending, and supporting his pure heart 
 With patriotic confidence and joy. 
 And, at the last of those memorial words. 
 The pining Solitary turned aside; 
 Whether through manly instinct to con- 
 ceal 
 Tender emotions spreading from the heart 
 To his worn cheeks ; or with uneasy shame 
 For those cold humors of habitual spleen 
 That, fondly seeking in dispraise of man 
 
 Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes 
 
 urged 
 To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue. 
 — Right toward the sacred Edifice his 
 
 steps 
 Had been directed ; and we saw him now 
 Intent upon a monumental stone. 
 Whose uncouth form was grafted on the 
 
 wall. 
 Or rather seemed to have grown into the 
 
 side 
 Of the rude pile; as oft-times trunks of 
 
 trees, 
 Where nature works in wild and craggy 
 
 spots, 
 Are seen incorporate with the living 
 
 rock — 
 To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
 Of his employment, with a courteous smile 
 Exclaimed — 
 
 "The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
 That task would foil; " then, letting fall 
 
 his voice 
 While he advanced, thus spake ; " Tradi- 
 tion tells 
 That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
 Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired, 
 And fixed his home in this sequestered 
 
 vale. 
 'T is left untold if here he first drew breath. 
 Or as a stranger reached this deep recess, 
 Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing 
 
 thought 
 I sometimes entertain, that haply bound 
 To Scotland's court in service of his 
 
 Queen, 
 Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
 Of England's realm, this vale he might 
 
 have seen 
 With transient observation; and thence 
 
 caught 
 An image fair, which, brightening in his 
 
 soul 
 When joy of war and pride of chivalry 
 Languished beneath accumulated years, 
 Had power to draw him from the world, 
 
 resolved 
 To make that paradise his chosen home 
 To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned. 
 
 Vague thoughts are these ; but, if belief 
 may rest 
 Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
 
THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 569 
 
 From sire to son, in this obscure retreat 
 The Knight arrived, with spear and 
 
 shield, and borne 
 Upon a Charger gorgeously bedecked 
 With broidered housings. And the lofty 
 
 Steed — 
 His sole companion, and his faithful 
 
 friend, 
 Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range 
 In fertile pastures — was beheld with eyes 
 Of admiration and delightful awe. 
 By those untravelled Dalesmen. With 
 
 less pride, 
 Yet free from touch of envious discontent, 
 They saw a mansion at his bidding rise. 
 Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 
 Of their rude homesteads. Here the 
 
 Warrior dwelt; 
 And, in that mansion, children of his own. 
 Or kindred, gathered round him. As a 
 
 tree 
 That falls and disappears, the house is 
 
 gone; 
 And, through improvidence or want of 
 
 love 
 For ancient worth and honorable things. 
 The spear and shield are vanished, which 
 
 the Knight 
 Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch 
 Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains 
 Of that foundation in domestic care 
 Raised by his hands. And now no trace 
 
 is left 
 Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this 
 
 stone, 
 Faithless memorial ! and his family name 
 Borne by yon clustering cottages, that 
 
 sprang 
 From out the ruins of his stately lodge : 
 These, and the name and title at full 
 
 length, — 
 Sir aifreS 'ilrtfjing, with appropriate 
 
 words 
 Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath 
 Or posy, girding round the several fronts 
 Of three clear-sounding and harmonious 
 
 bells. 
 That in the steeple hang, his pious gift." 
 
 " So fails, so languishes, grows dim, 
 and dies," 
 The gray-haired Wanderer pensively ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 " All that this world is proud of. From 
 
 their spheres 
 The stars of human glory are cast down; 
 Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,' 
 Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and 
 
 palms 
 Of all the mighty, withered and consumed ! 
 Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
 Long to protect her own. The man him- 
 self 
 Departs ; and soon is spent the line of those 
 Who, in the bodily image, in the mind. 
 In heart or soul, in station or pursuit. 
 Did most resemble him. Degrees and 
 
 ranks. 
 Fraternities and orders — heaping high 
 New wealth upon the burthen of the old. 
 And placing trust in privilege confirmed 
 And re-confirmed — are scoffed at with a 
 
 smile 
 Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 
 Of Desolation, aimed; to slow decline 
 These yield, and these to sudden over- 
 throw : 
 Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 
 Expire; and nature's pleasant robe of 
 
 green, 
 Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 
 Their monuments and their memory. The 
 
 vast Frame 
 Of social nature changes evermore 
 Her organs and her members, with decay 
 Restless, and restless generation, powers 
 And functions dying and produced at 
 
 need, — 
 And by this law the mighty whole sub- 
 sists: 
 With an ascent and progress in the main; 
 Yet, oh ! how disproportioned to the hopes 
 And expectations of self-flattering minds ! 
 
 The courteous Knight, whose bones are 
 
 here interred, 
 Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 
 For strife and ferment in the minds of 
 
 men; 
 Whence alteration in the forms of things, 
 Various and vast. A memorable age ! 
 Which did to him assign a pensive lot — 
 To linger 'mid the last of those bright 
 
 clouds 
 That, on the steady breeze of honor, sailed 
 1 See Note. 
 
570 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 In long procession calm and beautiful. 
 He who had seen his own bright order 
 
 fade, 
 And its devotion gradually decline, 
 (While war, relinquishing the lance and 
 
 shield, 
 Her temper changed, and bowed to other 
 
 laws) 
 Had also witnessed, in his morn of life, 
 That violent commotion, which o'erthrew. 
 In town and city and sequestered glen, 
 Altar, and cross, and church of solemn 
 
 roof. 
 And old religious house — pile after pile; 
 And shook their tenants out into the fields. 
 Like wild beasts without home ! Their 
 
 hour was come; 
 But why no softening thought of grati- 
 tude. 
 No just remembrance, scruple, or wise 
 
 doubt? 
 Benevolence is mild; nor borrows help, 
 Save at worst need, from bold impetuous 
 
 force, 
 Filliest allied to anger and revenge. 
 But Human-kind rejoices in the might 
 Of mutability; and airy hopes. 
 Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 
 Those meditations of the soul that feed 
 The retrospective virtues. Festive songs 
 Break from the maddened nations at the 
 
 sight 
 Of sudden overthrow; and cold neglect 
 Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 
 
 Even," said the Wanderer, "as that 
 
 courteous Knight, 
 Bound by his vow to labor for redress 
 Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact 
 By sword and lance the law of gentleness, 
 (If I may venture of myself to speak. 
 Trusting that not incongruously I blend 
 Low things with lofty) I too shall be 
 
 doomed 
 To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 
 Of the poor calling which my youth 
 
 embraced 
 With no unworthy prospect . But enough ; 
 — Thoughts crowd upon me — and 't were 
 
 seemlier now 
 To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher 
 
 thanks 
 For the pathetic records which his voice 
 
 Hath here delivered; words of heartfelt 
 
 truth. 
 Tending to patience when afHiction 
 
 strikes; 
 To hope and love; to confident repose 
 In God; and reverence for the dust of 
 
 Man." 
 
 Book Eighth. 
 
 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Pastor's apology and apprehensions that he 
 might have detained his Auditors t;oo long, with 
 the Pastor's invitation to his house — Solitary 
 disinclined to comply — Rallies the Wanderer — 
 And playfully draws a comparison between his 
 itinerant profession and that of the Knight-errant 
 — Which leads to Wanderer's giving an account 
 of changes in the Country from the manufacturing 
 spirit — Favorable effects — The other side of the 
 picture, and chiefly as it has afifected the humbler 
 classes — Wanderer asserts the hollowness of all 
 national grandeur if unsupported by moral worth 
 
 — Physical science unable to support itself ^ 
 Lamentations over an excess of manufacturing 
 industry among the humbler Classes of Society — 
 Picture of a Child employed in a Cotton-mill — j 
 Ignorance and degradation of Children among the i 
 agricultural Population reviewed — Conversation 
 broken off by a renewed Invitation from the Pas- 
 tor — Path leading to his House — Its appearance 
 described — His Daughter — His Wife — His Son 
 (a boy) enters with his Companion — Their 
 happy appearance — The Wanderer how affected 
 by the sight of them. 
 
 The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale 
 To those acknowledgments subscribed his 
 
 own, 
 With a sedate compliance, which the 
 
 Priest 
 Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and 
 
 said : -^ 
 " If ye, by whom invited I began 
 These narratives of calm and humble life, 
 Be satisfied t' is well, — the end is gained; 
 And, in return for sympathy bestowed 
 And patient listening, thanks accept from 
 
 me. 
 
 — Life, death, eternity ! momentous 
 
 themes 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 571 
 
 Are they — and might demand a seraph's 
 
 tongue, 
 Were they not equal to their own support; 
 And therefore no incompetence of mine 
 Could do them wrong. The universal 
 
 forms 
 Of human nature, in a spot like this. 
 Present themselves at once to all men's 
 
 view: 
 Ye wished for act and circumstance, that 
 
 make 
 The individual known and understood; 
 And such as my best judgment could 
 
 select 
 From what the place afforded, have been 
 
 given ; 
 Though apprehensions crossed me that 
 
 my zeal 
 To his rnight well be likened, who unlocks 
 A caBinefstored with gems a,nd pictures — 
 
 ^draws 
 His trSasures^ fprthj^ soliciting regard 
 To thjs, and this, asl worthier than the 
 
 lasL^_ 
 Till the s^ectatojr, who awhile was pleased 
 More^than the exhibitor himself, becomes 
 Weary^ndTaint, and longs to be released. 
 
 — But let us hence ! my dwelling is in 
 
 sight. 
 And there — " 
 
 At this the Solitary shrunk 
 With backwarS'will^ but,"'wari1;i'ng riot 
 
 address 
 That inward motion to disguise, he said 
 To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake; 
 
 — "The peaceable remains of this good 
 
 Knight 
 Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful 
 
 scorn, 
 If consciousness could reach him where he 
 
 lies 
 That one, albeit of these degenerate times. 
 Deploring changes past, or dreading 
 
 change 
 Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in 
 
 thought, 
 The fine vocation of the sword and lance 
 With the gross aims and body-bending 
 
 toil 
 Of a poor brotherhood who walk the 
 
 earth 
 Pitied, and, where they are not known, 
 
 despised. 
 
 Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the 
 two estates 
 
 Are graced with some resemblance. Er- 
 rant those. 
 
 Exiles and wanderers — and the like are 
 these; 
 
 Who, with their burthen, traverse hill 
 and dale, 
 
 Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. 
 
 — What though no higher recompense be 
 
 sought 
 Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 
 Full oft procured, yet may they claim 
 
 respect, ' 
 
 Among the intelligent, fpr what this 
 
 course 
 Enables them to be and to perform. 
 Their tardy steps give leisure to observe. 
 While solitude permits the mind to feel; 
 Instructs, and prompts her to supply de- 
 fects 
 By the division of her inward self 
 For grateful converse : and to these poor 
 
 men 
 Nature (I but repeat your favorite boast) 
 Is bountiful — go wheresoe'er they may; 
 Kind nature's various wealth is all their 
 
 own. 
 Versed in the characters of men; and 
 
 bound, 
 By ties of daily interest, to maintain 
 Conciliatory manners and smooth speech; 
 Such have been, and still are in their de- 
 gree. 
 Examples efficacious to refine 
 Rude intercourse; apt agents to expel, 
 By importation of unlooked-for arts. 
 Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice; 
 Raising, through just gradation, savage 
 
 life 
 To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 
 
 — Within their moving magazines is 
 
 lodged 
 Power that comes forth to quicken and 
 
 exalt 
 Affections seated in the mother's breast. 
 And in the lover's fancy; and to feed 
 The sober sympathies of long-tried 
 
 friends. "■ 
 
 — By _these Itinerants, as experienced 
 
 men, 
 Counsel is given ; conjention they appease 
 With gentle language ; in remotest wilds; 
 
572 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings 
 
 bring; 
 Could the proud quest of chivalry do 
 
 more ? ' ' 
 
 "Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, 
 
 "they who gain 
 A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
 But, if Jo these Wayfarers once pertained 
 Aught of romantic interest, it is gone. ~" 
 Their purer service, in this realm at least, 
 Is past forever. — ^ An inventive Age ~ 
 Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, 
 
 yet 
 To most strange issues. I have lived to 
 
 mark 
 A new and unforeseen creation rise 
 From out the labors of a peaceful Land 
 Wielding her potent enginery to frame 
 And to produce, with appetite as keen 
 As that of war, which rests not night or 
 
 day, 
 Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless 
 
 pains 
 Might one like me nim) visit many a tract 
 Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod 
 
 again, 
 A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight, 
 Wished-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he 
 
 came — 
 Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill; 
 Or straggling burgh, of ancient charter 
 
 proud, 
 And dignified by battlements and towers 
 Of some stern castle, mouldering on the 
 
 brow 
 Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream. 
 The foot-path faintly marked, the horse- 
 track wild. 
 And formidable length of plashy lane, 
 (Prized avenues ere others had been 
 
 shaped 
 Or easier; links connecting place with 
 
 place) 
 Have vanished — swallowed up by stately 
 
 roads 
 Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom 
 Of Britain's farthest glens. The Earth 
 
 has lent '■ 
 
 Her waters, Air her breezes; and the sail 
 
 Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse, 
 
 Glistening along the low and woody dale; 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 Or, in its progress, on the lofty side, 
 Of some bare hill, with wonder kenned 
 from far. 
 
 Meanwhile, at social Industry's com- 
 mand. 
 How quick, how vast an increase ! From 
 
 the germ 
 Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced 
 Here a huge town, continuous and com- 
 pact. 
 Hiding the face of earth for leagues — 
 
 and there, 
 Where not a habitation stood before, 
 Abodes of men irregularly massed 
 Like trees in forests, — spread through 
 
 spacious tracts. 
 O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires' 
 Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths 
 Of vapor glittering in the morning sun. 
 And, wheresoe'er the traveller turns his 
 
 steps. 
 He sees the barren wilderness erased. 
 Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims 
 How much the mild Directress of the . 
 
 plough 
 Owes to alliance with these new-born arts ! 
 — Hence is the wide sea peopLe^, — 
 
 hence the shores 
 Of Britain are resorted to by ships 
 Freighted from every climate of the world 
 With the world's choicest produce. Hence 
 
 that sum 
 Of keels that rest within her crowded 
 
 ports. 
 Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays; 
 That animating spectacle of sails ' 
 That, through her inland regions, to and 
 
 fro 
 Pass, with the respirations of the tide, 
 Perpetual, multitudinous! Finally, 
 Hence a dread arm of floating power, a 
 
 voice I 
 
 Of thunder daunting those who would ap- 
 proach 
 With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 
 Truth's consecrated residence, the seat 
 Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. 
 
 And yet, O happy Pastor of a flock 
 Faithfully watched, and, by that loving 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 573 
 
 And Heaven's good-providence, preserved 
 
 from taint ! 
 With you I grieve, when on the darker 
 
 side '" — " 
 
 Of this great change I look; and there 
 
 beliold """" ' -- 
 Such outrage done to nature as compels 
 The indignant power to justify herself; 
 Yea, to avenge her violated rights, 
 For England's bane. — When soothing 
 
 darkness spreads 
 O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus 
 
 expressed 
 His recollections, "and the punctual stars. 
 While all things else are gathering to their 
 
 homes. 
 Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 
 Glitter — but undisturbing, undisturbed; 
 As if their silent company were charged 
 With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
 Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful 
 
 lord; 
 Then, in lull many a region, once like this 
 The assured domain of calm simplicity 
 And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 
 Prepared for never-resting Labor's eyeS 
 T5reaks from a inany-windowed fabric 
 
 huge; 
 And at the appointed hour a bell is heard — ■ 
 Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll 
 That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern 
 
 behest — 
 A local summons to unceasing toil ! 
 ^Disgorged are now the ministers of day; 
 )?Lnd, as they issue from the illumined pile, 
 A fresh band meets them, at the crowded 
 
 door — 
 And in the courts — and where the rum- 
 bling stream. 
 That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, 
 Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed 
 Among the rocks below, Men, maidens, 
 
 youths , ' ,, 
 
 Mother-and-^liUl e chi ldren, boysand girls, 
 Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
 Within this temple, where is offered up 
 To Gain, the master idol of the realm, 
 Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus_of old 
 Our ancestors, within the still domain 
 Of vast cathedral or conventual church. 
 Their vigils kept; where tapers day and 
 
 night 
 On the dim altar burned continually, 
 
 In token that the House was evermore 
 Watching to God. Religious men were 
 
 they; ■" "" 
 
 Nor would their reason, tutored to aspire 
 Above this transitory world, allow 
 That there should pass a moment of the 
 
 year. 
 When in their land the Almighty's service 
 
 ceased. 
 
 Triumph who will in these profaner rites 
 Which we, a generation self-extolled. 
 As zealously perform ! I cannot share 
 His proud complacency: — yet do I exult. 
 Casting reserve away, exult to see 
 An intellectual mastery^lcercised' 
 O'erThe'blind.elemenfST'TpurgQSS^iven, 
 A"perseverance fed; almost a soul 
 Imparted — t_Q_iariitejBa|ter. I rejoice, 
 Measuring the force of those gigantic 
 
 powers 
 That, by the thinking mind, have been 
 
 compelled 
 To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. 
 For with the sense of admiration blends 
 The animating hope that time may come 
 When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by 
 
 the might 
 Of this dominion over nature gained. 
 Men of all lands shall exercise the same 
 In due proportion to their country's need ; 
 Learning, though late, that all true glory 
 
 rests. 
 All praise, all safety, and all happiness, 
 UponJ;h£_nioral_JaH:^ Egyptian Thebes, 
 Tyre, by the margin of the sounding 
 
 waves. 
 Palmyra, central in the desert, fell; 
 And the Arts died by which they had been 
 
 raised. 
 — Call Archimedes from his buried tomb 
 Upon the grave of vanished Syracuse, 
 And feelingly the Sage shall make report 
 How insecure, how baseless.jinjtself, 
 Is_„the Philoso.plijiJxhose_sway depeflds. 
 On mere material instTuments; — hovf 
 - - weak " ' " ' 
 
 Those arts, and high inventions, if_un- 
 
 propped 
 By virtueT — He, sighing with pensive 
 
 7' 'grief. 
 Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 
 
574 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 That not the slender privilege is theirs 
 To save themselves from blank forgetful- 
 ness ! ' ' 
 
 When from the Wanderer's lips these 
 words had fallen, 
 I said, ' ' And, did in truth those vaunted 
 
 Arts 
 Possess such privilege, how could we es- 
 cape 
 Sadness and keen rggret, ivejidigjievere. 
 And would preserveasmings above alT" 
 
 gricfi. ■•,_—— 
 
 The old domestic morals of the landj_ 
 fler jimpie manners, and the sJaHfSwprth 
 That dignified and cheered a low estate-? 
 Oh ! where is now th e character of pe ace, 
 Sobriety^ andjjrd^, and Ehastejove, 
 An^Ji&nest^dealing, aiiH^ntainted speech , 
 And "pure good-will, and~_ hoipitJUe 
 
 "cheer; """ 
 
 That made the very thought of country- 
 -^~"" life •— ' ^ - 
 
 A thought of refuge, for a mJad, d^etained 
 Reluctantly arhid tlie bustling crowdT" 
 Where now the beauty of the sabbathTcept 
 With cdnscifentious reverence, as a 3ay" 
 By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced 
 Holy and blest? and where the winning 
 
 grace ' "^ 
 
 Of all the lighter ornaments attached 
 To time and season, as the year "Rilled 
 round? " """^ 
 
 " Fled ! " was-thsJWanderer's passion- 
 ate response, 
 " Fled utterly ! or only to be traced 
 In a few fortunate retreats like this; 
 Which I behold with trembling, when I 
 
 think 
 What lamentable change, a year — a 
 
 month — 
 May bring; that brook converting as it 
 
 runs 
 Into an instrument of deadly bane 
 For those, who, yet untempted to forsake 
 The simple occupations of their sires, 
 Drink the pure water of its innocent 
 
 stream 
 With lip almost as pure. — Domestic bliss 
 (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 
 How art thou blighted for the poor Man's 
 heart ! 
 
 Lo ! in such neighborhood, from morn to 
 
 eve, 
 The habitations empty ! or perchance 
 The Mother left alone, — no helping hand ■ 
 To rock the cradle of her peevish babe; 
 No daughters round her, busy at the 
 
 wheel. 
 Or in dispatch of each day's little growth 
 Of household occupation; no nice arts 
 Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire, 
 Where once the dinner was prepared with 
 
 pride; 
 Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the 
 
 mind; 
 Nothing to praise to teach, or to com- 
 
 mancf ! 
 
 TheJIather, jf perchance_be_still rotain 
 His old employments, gpesjo field oi 
 
 Myodj 
 NoJ.ongef led or followed by the Sons; 
 Idlers^gerchance they were, — but in his 
 '"" sigEFi 
 Breathing fresh air, and treading the green 
 
 earth : 
 'Till their short holiday of childhood 
 
 ceased, 
 Ne'er to return ! That birthright now is 
 
 lost. 
 Economists will tell you that the State 
 Thrives by the forfeiture — unfeeling 
 
 thought, 
 And false as monstrous ! Can the mother 
 
 thrive 
 By the destruction of her innocent sons 
 In whom a premature necessity 
 Blocks out the forms of nature, precon- 
 
 sumes 
 The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 
 The infant Being in itself, and makes 
 Its very spring a season of decay ! 
 The lot is wretched, Jji e condition sad . 
 Whether a pining discontent survive, 
 And thirst for change; or habit hath sub' 
 
 dued 
 The soul deprest, 'dejected — even to love 
 Of her close tasks, and long captivity. 
 
 Oh, banish far such wisdom as con^ 
 demns 
 A native Briton to these inward chains. 
 Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep; . 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 575 
 
 Without his own consent, or knowledge, 
 
 fixed ! 
 He is a slave to whom release comes 
 
 not. 
 And cannot come. The boy, where'er 
 
 he turns. 
 Is still a prisoner; when the wind is up 
 Among the clouds, and roars through the 
 
 ancient woods; 
 Or when the sun is shining in the east, 
 Quiet and calm. Behold him — in the 
 
 school 
 Of his attainments? no; but with the air 
 Fanning his temples under heaven's blue 
 i arch. 
 
 His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton- 
 
 flalces 
 Or locks' of vi^'ool, announces whence he 
 
 comes. 
 Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip 
 
 pale. 
 His respiration quick and audible; 
 And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 
 Could break from out those languid eyes, 
 
 or a blush 
 Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form, 
 Is that the countenance, and such the 
 
 port, 
 Of no mean Being? One who should be 
 
 clothed 
 With dignity befitting his proud hope ; 
 Who, in his very childhood, should ap- 
 pear 
 Sublime from present purity and joy ! 
 The limbs increase; but liberty of mind 
 Is gone forever; and this organic frame, 
 So joyful in its motions, is become 
 Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead; 
 And even the touch, so exquisitely poured 
 Through the whole body, with a languid 
 
 will 
 Performs its functions; rarely competent 
 To impress a vivid feeling on the mind 
 Of what there is delightful in the breeze. 
 The gentle visitations of the sun, 
 Or lapse of liquid element — by hand. 
 Or fool, or lip, in summer's warmth — 
 
 perceived. 
 — Can hope- look forward to a manhood 
 
 raised 
 ' On suchJouiidatioAg? " 
 , •"' " Hope is. none for him ! " 
 
 Thepale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, 
 
 " And tens of thousands suffer wrong as 
 
 deep. 
 Yet be it asked, in justice to our age. 
 If there were not, before those arts 
 
 appeared. 
 These structures rose, commingling old 
 
 and young. 
 And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint; 
 If there were not, then, in our far-famed 
 
 Isle, 
 Multitudes, who from infancy had 
 
 breathed 
 Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large; 
 Yet walked beneath the sun, in human 
 
 shape. 
 As abject, as degraded? At this day. 
 Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
 Arid tottering hovels, whence do issue 
 
 forth 
 A ragged Offspring, with their upright 
 
 hair 
 Crowned like the image of Fantastic Fear ; 
 Or wearing, (shall we say?) in that white 
 
 growth 
 An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
 Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun- 
 burnt brows, 
 By savage Nature ? Shrivelled are their 
 
 lips, 
 Naked, and colored like the soil, the feet 
 On which they stand; as if thereby they 
 
 drew 
 Some nourishment, as trees do by their 
 
 roots, 
 From earth, the common mother of us all. 
 Figure and mien, complexion and attire. 
 Are leagued to strike dismay; but out- 
 stretched hand 
 And whining voice denote them suppli- 
 cants 
 For the least boon that pity can bestow. 
 Such on the breast of darksome heaths are 
 
 found; 
 And with their parents occupy the skirts 
 Of furze-clad commons; such are born 
 
 and reared 
 At the mine's mouth under impending 
 
 rocks; 
 Or dwell in chambers of some natural 
 
 cav^; 
 Or where their ancestors erected huts, 
 For the convenience of unlawful gain, 
 In forest purlieus; and the like are bred, 
 
576 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 All England through, where nooks and 
 
 slips of ground 
 Purloined, in times less jealous than our 
 
 own. 
 From the green margin of the public way, 
 A residence afford them, 'mid the bloom 
 And gayety of cultivated fields. 
 Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 
 Do I remember oft-times to have seen 
 'Mid'Buxton's dreary heights. In earnest 
 
 watch. 
 Till the swift vehicle approach, they 
 
 stand; 
 Then, following closely with the cloud of 
 
 dust, 
 An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 
 Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage. 
 
 — Up from the ground they snatch the 
 
 copper coin. 
 And, on the freight of merry passengers 
 Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed; 
 And spin — and pant — and overhead 
 
 again. 
 Wild pursuivants ! until their breath is 
 
 lost. 
 Or bounty tires — and every face, that 
 
 smiled 
 Encouragement, hath ceased to look that 
 
 way. 
 
 — But, like the vagrants of the gypsy tribe, 
 These, bred to little pleasure in them- 
 selves, 
 
 Are profitless to others. 
 
 Turn we then 
 To Britons born and bred within the pale 
 Of civil polity, and early trained 
 To earn, by wholesome labor in the field, 
 The bread they eat. A sample should I 
 
 give 
 Of what this stock hath long produced 
 
 to enrich 
 The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 
 ' Is this the whistling plough-boy whose 
 
 shrill notes 
 Impart new gladness to the morning air ! ' 
 Forgive me if I venture to suspect 
 That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse. 
 Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints; 
 Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the 
 
 knees 
 Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear. 
 Fellows to those that lustily upheld 
 The wooden stools for everlasting use. 
 
 Whereon our fathers sate. And mark 
 
 his brow 
 Under whose shaggy canopy are set 
 Two eyes — not dim, but of a healthy 
 
 stare — 
 Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and 
 
 strange — 
 Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
 A look or motion of intelligence 
 From infant-conning of the Christ-cross- 
 row, t 
 Or puzzling through a primer, line by 
 
 line. 
 Till perfect mastery crown the pains at 
 
 last. 
 — What kindly warmth from touch :of 
 
 fostering hand, 
 What penetrating power of sun or breeze, 
 Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his',' 
 
 soul I 
 
 Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice? 
 This torpor is no pitiable work 
 Of modern ingenuity; no town 
 Nor crowded city can be taxed with aught 
 Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law. 
 To which (and who can tell where or 
 
 how soon?) 
 He may be roused. ^ This Boy the fields 
 
 _groduce: " . - -"---~ 
 
 His spa3e"aija hoe, mattock and glitter- 
 ing scythe. 
 The carter's whip that on his shoulder rests 
 In air high-towering with a boorish pomp. 
 The sceptre of his sway; his country's . 
 
 name. 
 Her equal__rjghts, hff church es and her 
 
 scKools — 
 What have they done_ for him? And, 
 
 let me ask, — ~~, 
 
 For tens^ of tho!isands.m}iliioxnia£l_as_he? 
 In brief, what Uberty of iiiindi?, here?" 
 
 This ardent sally pleased the mild good 
 Man, 
 
 To whom the appeal couched in its clos- 
 ing words 
 
 Was pointedly addressed: and to the 
 thoughts 
 
 That, in assent or opposition, rose 
 
 Within his mind, he seemed prepared to 
 give 
 
 Prompt utterance; but the Vicar inter- 
 Posed -^^ 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 577 
 
 Withjnvitation urgently renewed. 
 
 — We followed, taking as he led; a path 
 Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall, 
 Whose flexile boughs low bending with 
 
 a weight 
 Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and 
 
 roots 
 That gave them nourishment. When 
 
 frosty winds 
 Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, 
 
 methought. 
 Is here — how grateful this impervious 
 
 screen ! 
 
 — Not shaped by simple wearing of the 
 
 foot 
 On rural business passing to and fro 
 Was the commodious walk : a careful hand 
 Had marked the line, and strewn its sur- 
 face o'er 
 With pure cerulean gravel, from the 
 heights 
 . Fetched by a neighboring brook. — 
 Across the vale 
 The stately fence accompanied our steps; 
 And thus the pathway, by perennial green 
 Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned 
 
 to unite. 
 As by a beautiful yet solemn chain, 
 The Pastor's mansion with the house of 
 prayer. 
 
 Like image of solemnity, conjoined 
 
 With feminine allurement soft and fair, 
 
 The mansion's self displayed; — a rev- 
 
 , • erend pile 
 
 With bold projections and recesses deep; 
 
 Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood 
 
 Fronting the noontide sun. We paused 
 to admire 
 
 The pillared porch, elaborately embossed; 
 
 The low wide windows with their mul- 
 lions old; 
 
 The cornice, richly fretted, of gray stone; 
 
 And that smooth slope from which the 
 dwelling rose. 
 
 By beds and banks Arcadian of gay 
 flowers 
 
 And flowering shrubs, protected and 
 adorned : 
 
 Profusion bright ! and every flower as- 
 suming 
 
 A more than natural vividness of hue. 
 
 From unaffected contrast with the gloom 
 
 Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 
 Of yew, in which survived some traces, 
 
 here 
 Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 
 And uncouth fancy. From behind the 
 
 roof 
 Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore. 
 Blending their diverse foliage with the 
 
 green 
 Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped 
 The huge round chimneys, harbor of 
 
 delight 
 For wren and redbreast, — where they 
 
 sit and sing 
 Their slender ditties when the trees are 
 
 bare. 
 Nor must I leave untouched (the picture 
 
 else 
 Were incomplete) a relique of old times 
 Happily spared, a little Gothic niche 
 Of nicest workmanship; that once had 
 
 held 
 The sculptured image of some patron- 
 saint. 
 Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down 
 On all who entered those religious doors. 
 
 But lo ! where from the rocky garden- 
 mount 
 Crowned by its antique summer-house — 
 
 descends, 
 Light as the silver fawn, a radiant^ GirJ,; 
 For she hath recognized her honored 
 
 friend, 
 The Wanderer ever welcome ! A prompt 
 
 kiss 
 The g'.adsome Child bestows at his re- 
 quest; 
 And, up the flowery lawn as we advance. 
 Hangs on the old Man with a happy look, 
 And with a pretty restless hand of love. 
 — We enter — by the Lady of the place 
 CordiallygiceetedT" Graceful washer port : 
 A'lofty stature undepressed by time. 
 Whose visitation had not wholly spared 
 The finer lineaments of form and face; 
 To that complexion brought which pru- 
 dence trusts in 
 And wisdom loves. — But when a stately 
 
 ship 
 Sails in smooth weather by the placid 
 coast 
 
578 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 On homeward voyage, what — if wind 
 
 and wave, 
 And hardship undergone in various cHmes, 
 Have caused her to abate the virgin pride. 
 And that full trim of inexperienced hope 
 With which she left her haven — not for 
 
 this, 
 Should the sun strike her, and the impar- 
 tial breeze 
 Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 
 Brightness and touching beauty of her 
 
 own. 
 That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, 
 
 appeared 
 This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 
 Of unexpected pleasure. — -_^on_theJ)oard, 
 Was spread, and we partook a plain 
 ■ ' repast. " """' 
 
 Here, resting in cool shelter, we be- 
 guiled 
 The mid-day hours with desultory talk; 
 From trivial themes to general argument 
 Passing, as accident or fancy led. 
 Or courtesy prescribed. While question 
 
 rose 
 And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 
 Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 
 Resumed the manners of his happier days; 
 And in the various conversation bore 
 A willing, nay, at times, a forward part; 
 Yet with the grace of one who in the world 
 Had learned the art of pleasing, and had 
 
 now 
 Occasion given him to display his skill. 
 Upon the steadfast 'vantage-ground of 
 
 truth. 
 He gazed, with admiration unsuppressed, 
 Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale. 
 Seen, from theshadyroominwhich we sate. 
 In softened perspective; and more than 
 
 once 
 Praised the consummate harmony serene 
 Of gravity and elegance, diffused 
 Around the mansion and its whole do- 
 main; 
 Not, doubtless, withouthelp of femaletaste 
 And female care. — "A blessed lot is 
 
 yours ! " 
 The words escaped his lip, with a tender 
 
 sigh 
 Breathed over them : but suddenly the door 
 Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
 
 Appeared, confusion checking their de- 
 light. 
 ■ — Not brothers they in feature or attire. 
 But fond comf)anions, so I guessed, in 
 
 field, 
 And by the river's margin — whence they 
 
 coir)e. 
 Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated. 
 One bears a willow-pannier on his back, 
 The boy of plainer garb, whose blush 
 
 survives 
 More deeply tinged. Twin might the 
 
 other be 
 To that fair girl who from the garden- 
 mount 
 Bounded : — triumphant entry this for him ! 
 Between his hands he holds a smooth blue 
 
 stone. 
 On whose capacious surface see outspread 
 Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted 
 
 trouts; 
 Ranged side by side, and lessening by 
 
 degrees • r, 
 
 Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 
 Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone )> _ 
 With its rich freight; their number her 
 
 proclaims ; -ttv^ 
 
 Tells from what pool the noblest had been 
 
 dragged ; 
 And where the very monarch of the brook. 
 After long struggle, had escaped at last — 
 Stealing alternately at them and us 
 (As doth his comrade too) a look of pride : 
 And, verily, the silent creatures made 
 A splendid sight, together thus exposed; 
 Dead — but not sullied or deformed by 
 
 death. 
 That seemed to pity what he could not 
 
 spare. 
 
 But oh, the animation in the mien 
 Of those two boys ! yea in the very words 
 With which the young narrator was in- 
 spired. 
 When, as our questions led, he told al 
 
 large 
 Of that day's prowess ! Him might I 
 
 compare. 
 His looks, tones, gestures, eager elo- 
 quence, 
 To a bold brook that splits for better speed. 
 And at the self-same moment, works its 
 way 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, ETC. 
 
 579 
 
 Through many channels, ever and anon 
 Parted and re-united : his compeer 
 To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight 
 As beautiful — as grateful to the mind. 
 — But to what object shall the lovely Girl 
 Be likened ? She whose countenance and 
 
 air 
 Unite the graceful qualities of both, 
 Even as she shares the pride and joy of 
 
 both. 
 
 My gray-haired Friend was moved; his 
 vivid eye 
 
 Glistened with tenderness; his mind, I 
 knew. 
 
 Was full; and had, I doubted not, re- 
 turned, 
 
 Upon this impulse, to the theme — ere- 
 while 
 
 Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys 
 
 Withdrew, on summons to their well- 
 earned meal; 
 
 And He — to whom all tongues resigned 
 their rights 
 
 With willingness, to whom the general ear 
 
 Listened with readier patience than to 
 strain 
 
 Of music, lute or harp, a long delight 
 
 That ceased not when his voice had ceased 
 — as One 
 
 Who from truth's central point serenely 
 views 
 
 The compass of his argument — began 
 
 Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone. 
 
 Book Ninth. 
 
 discourse of the wanderer, and 
 an evening visit to the lake. 
 
 argument. 
 
 Wanderer asserts that an active principle per- 
 vades the Universe, its noblest seat the human 
 soul — How lively this principle is in Childhood — 
 Hence the delight in old Age of looking back 
 upon Childhood — The dignity, powers, and privi- 
 leges of Age asserted — These not to be looked for 
 generally but under a just government — Right of 
 a human Creature to be exempt from being con- 
 sidered as a mere Instrument — The condition of 
 multitudes deplored — Former conversation re- 
 curred to, and the Wanderer's opinions set in a 
 
 clearer light — Truth placed within reach of the 
 humblest — Equality — Happy state of the two 
 Boys again adverted to — Earnest wish expressed 
 for a System of National Education established 
 universally by Government — Glorious effects of 
 thisforetold— Walk to the Lake— Grand spectacle 
 from the side of a hill — Address of Priest to the 
 Supreme Being — In the course of which he con- 
 trasts with ancient Barbarism the present appear- 
 ance of the scene before him — The change as- 
 cribed to Christianity — Apostrophe to his flock, 
 living and dead— Gratitude to the Almighty- 
 Return over the Lake — Parting with tlie Solitary 
 — Under what circumstances. 
 
 " To every Form of being is assigned," 
 Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
 "An active Principle : — howe'er removed 
 From sense and observation, it subsists ■ 
 In all things, in all natures ; in the sta?s 
 OFazure heaven, the unenduring clouds. 
 In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 
 That paves the brooks, the stationary 
 
 rocks. 
 The moving waters, and the invisible air. 
 Wh_ate'er exists hath propertiesihal spread 
 Beyond itself, Qommunicating good, 
 .4_simple blessing, or_with evil mixed; 
 Spirit that knows no insulated spot. 
 No chasm, no solitude; from link to link 
 It circulates, thfi.Soul pf_all the worlds. 
 This is the freedom of the universe ; 
 Unfolded still the more, more visible. 
 The more we know; and yet is reverenced 
 
 least. 
 And least respected in tljgJiuraaiLMin^, 
 Its most apjjEireiit^oiiie. The food of 
 
 hope 
 Is meditated action; robbed of this 
 Her sole support, she languishes and dies, 
 We perish also; for we live by hope 
 AoiJJxJiSaiS; we see by the glaJTight 
 And breathe the sweet air of futurity; 
 And so we live, or else we have no life. 
 To-morrow — nay perchance this very hour 
 (For every moment hath its own to-mor- 
 row !) 
 Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are 
 
 almost sick 
 With present triumph, will be sure to find 
 A field before them freshened with the dew 
 Of other expectations; — in which course 
 Their happy year spins round. The 
 youth obeyf 
 
58o 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 A like glad impulse ; and sqjrioves__the 
 
 man 
 'Mid__all his apprehensions, caresj_and 
 
 fears,^ — 
 Or so he ought to move.' Ah ! whxin_age 
 Do we revert so fondly to the wallfs 
 Of childhood — but that there the Soul 
 
 discerns 
 The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired 
 Of her own native vigor; thence can hear 
 Reverberations; and a choral song, 
 Commingling with the incense that as- 
 cends. 
 Undaunted, toward the imperishable 
 
 heavens. 
 From her own lonely altar ? 
 
 Do not think 
 That good and wise ever will be allowed, 
 ThouglTstrengfK^decay, to breathe in such 
 
 estate 
 As shall divide them wholly from the stir 
 Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
 That Man descends into the Vale of years ; 
 Yet have I thought that we might also 
 
 speak. 
 And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, 
 As of a final Eminence^ though bare 
 In aspect and forbidding, yet a point 
 On which 't is not impossible to sit 
 In awful sovereignty; a place of power, 
 A throne, that may be likened unto his. 
 Who, in some placid day of summer, looks 
 Down from a mountain-top, — say one of 
 
 those 
 High peaks, that bound the vale where 
 
 now we are. 
 Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye. 
 Forest and field, and hill and dale appear. 
 With all the shapes over their surface 
 
 spread : 
 But, while the gross and visible frame of 
 
 things 
 Relinquishes its hold upon the sense. 
 Yea almost on the Mind herself, and 
 
 seems 
 All unsubstantialized, — how loud the 
 
 voice 
 Of waters, with invigorated peal 
 From the full river in the vale below, 
 Ascending ! For on that superior height 
 Who sits, is disencumbered from the press 
 Of near obstructions, and is privileged 
 To breathe in solitude, above the host 
 
 Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air 
 That suits not them. The murmur of 
 
 the leaves 
 Many and idle, visits not his ear: 
 This he is freed from, and from thousand 
 
 notes 
 (Not less unceasing, not less vain than 
 
 these,) 
 By which the finer passages of sense 
 Are occupied; and the Soul, that would 
 
 incline 
 To listen, is prevented or deterred. 
 
 And may it not be hoped, that, placed 
 
 by age 
 In like removal, tranquil though severe. 
 We are not so removed for utter loss; 
 But for some favor, suited to our need? 
 What more than that the severing should 
 
 confer . y 
 
 Fresh power to commune with the ijl- 
 
 visibleworld. 
 And hear the mighty stream of tendency 
 Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 
 A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 
 To the vast multitude; whose doom it is 
 To run the giddy round of vain delight. 
 Or fret and labor on the Plain below. 
 
 But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
 Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
 And termination of his mortal course; 
 Them only can such hope inspire whose 
 
 niinds. 
 Have not been starved by absolute ne- 
 " gleet; ■«--»._. 
 
 Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil; 
 To whom liind Nature, therefore^"Tiiay 
 
 afford . 
 Proof of the sacred love she bears for all ; 
 Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may 
 
 ensure. 
 For me, consulting what I feel within 
 In times when most existence with herself 
 Is satisfied, I cannot but believe, 
 That, far as kindly Nature hath freejcope 
 And Reason's TwajTpredomiriafes; even 
 so far, ■ ~ "~^ 
 
 Country,"society, and time itself. 
 That saps the individiial's bodily frame, 
 And lays the generations low in dust. 
 Do, by the almighty Ruler's-grao^ par- 
 take -^ 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, ETC. 
 
 581 
 
 Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth 
 And cherisKihg with ever-constant love. 
 That tires not, nor betrays. Our life is 
 
 turned 
 Out of her course, wherever man is made 
 A"n offering, or a sacrifice, a tool 
 Or implement, a passive thing employed 
 As a brute mean, without acknowledg- 
 ment 
 Of common right or interest in the end; 
 Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt. 
 Say, what can follow for a rational soul 
 Perverted thus, but weakness in all good. 
 And strength in evil? Hence an after- 
 call 
 For chastisement, and custody, and bonds. 
 And oft-times Death, avenger of the past. 
 And the sole guardian in whose hands we 
 
 dare 
 Entrust the future. — Not for these sad 
 
 issues 
 Was Man created; but to_o beY th e law 
 Of life, and hope, and action,.,. And 'tis 
 
 known 
 That when we stand upon our native soil, 
 Unelbowed by such objects as oppress 
 Our active powers, those powers them- 
 selves become 
 Strong to subvert our noxious qualities : 
 They sweep distemper from the busy day. 
 And make the chalice of the big round 
 
 year 
 Run o'er with gladness; whence the Being 
 
 moves 
 In beauty through the world; and all who 
 
 see 
 Bless hit7i, rejoicing in his neighborhood. ' ' 
 
 " Then," said the Solitary, " by what 
 force 
 Of language shall a feeling heart express 
 Her sorrow for that_multitudff in . whom 
 Welook forJie^h_from seeds that have 
 
 been sown 
 In sickness, and fo,r increase in a power 
 That wo_rks but by extinction^ OnTHem- 
 
 selves 
 They cannot lean, nor turn to their own 
 
 hearts 
 To know what they must do; their wis- 
 dom is 
 To look into the eyes of others, thence 
 To be instructed what they must avoid : 
 
 Or rather, let us say, how least observed. 
 How with most quiet and most silent 
 
 death. 
 With the least taint and injury to the ait 
 The oppressor breathes, their human form 
 
 divine. 
 And their immortal soul, may waste 
 
 away." 
 
 The Sage rejoined, "I thank you — 
 you have spared 
 My voice the utterance of a keen regret, 
 A wide compassion which with you I 
 
 share. 
 When, heretofore, I placed before your 
 
 sight 
 A Little-one, subjected to the arts 
 Of modern ingenuity, and made 
 The senseless member of a vast machine. 
 Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel; 
 Think not, that, pitying him, I could for- 
 get 
 The rustic Boy, who walks the fields, un- 
 taught ; 
 The slave of ignorance, and oft of want. 
 And miserable hunger. Much, too much, 
 Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
 We both have witnessed, lot which I my- 
 self 
 Shared, though in mild and merciful 
 
 degree : 
 Yet was the mind to hindrances exposed, 
 Through which I struggled, not without 
 
 distress 
 And sometimes injury, like a lamb en- 
 thralled 
 'Mid thorns and brambles; or a bird that 
 
 breaks 
 Through a strong net, and mounts upon 
 
 the wind, 
 Though with her plumes impaired. If 
 
 they, whose souls 
 Should open while they range the richer 
 
 fields 
 Of merry England, are obstructed less 
 By indigence, their ignorance is not less. 
 Nor less to be deplored. For who can 
 
 doubt 
 That tens of thousands at this day exist 
 Such as the boy you painted, lineal heirs 
 Of those who once were vassals of her soil. 
 Following its fortunes like the beasts 01 ■ 
 trees 
 
-,82 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Which it sustained. But no one takes 
 
 delight 
 [n this oppression; none are proud of it; 
 It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore; 
 A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 
 Of every country under heaven. My 
 
 thoughts 
 Were turned to evils that are new and 
 
 chosen, 
 A. bondage lurking under shape of 
 
 good, — 
 !^rts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 
 But all too fondly followed and too far ; — 
 To victims, which the merciful can see 
 Nor think that they are victims — turned 
 
 to wrongs, 
 By women, who have children of their 
 
 own. 
 Beheld without compassion, yea with 
 
 praise ! 
 I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
 With gladness, thinking that the more it 
 
 spreads 
 The healthier, the securer, we become : 
 Delusion which a moment may destroy ! 
 Lastly, I mourned for those whom I had 
 
 seen 
 Corrupted and cast down, on favored 
 
 ground. 
 Where circumstance and nature had com- 
 bined 
 To shelter innocence, and cherish love; 
 Who, but for this intrusion, would have 
 
 lived, 
 Possessed of health, and strength, and 
 
 peace of mind; 
 Thus would have lived, or never have 
 
 been born. 
 
 Alas ! what differs more than man from 
 
 man ! 
 And whence that difference? whence but 
 
 from himself? 
 For see the universal Race endowed 
 With the same upright form ! — The sun 
 
 is fixed. 
 And the infinite magnificence of heaven 
 Fixed, within reach of every human eye; 
 The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears ; 
 The vernal field infuses fresh delight 
 Into all hearts. Throughout the world of 
 
 sense, 
 
 Even as an object is sublime or fair, 
 That object is laid open to the view 
 Without reserve or veil; and as a power 
 Is salutary, or an influence sweet. 
 Are each and all enabled to perceive 
 That power, that influence, by impartial 
 
 law. 
 Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all; 
 Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and 
 
 tears; 
 Imagination, freedomjn the will; 
 Conscience to giiiHeand cKeck"; "and death ■ 
 
 to be """■ 
 
 Foretasted, immortality conceived 
 By all, — a_blissful immortality. 
 To them whose holiness on earth shall 
 
 make 
 The Spirit capable of heaven, assured. 
 Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, 
 
 might be deemed 
 The failure, if the Almighty, to this point 
 Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide 
 The excellence of moral qualities ^ -. 
 From common understanding; ' leaving 
 
 truth 
 And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark; 
 Hard to be won; and only by a few; 
 Strange, should He deal herein with nice 
 
 respects. 
 And frustrate all the rest ! Believe it not : 
 The primaLdutifts shine_aloft — like stars; 
 The charities that soothe, and heal, and 
 
 bless. 
 Are scattered at the feet of Man — like 
 
 flowers. 
 The generous inclination, the just rule, -,- 
 Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure 
 
 thoughts — "" " 
 
 No mysteryisTiere ! Here is no boon 
 For high — yet not for low; for proudly 
 
 graced — 
 Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke 
 
 ascends 
 To heaven as lightly from the cottage 
 
 hearth 
 As from the haughtiest palace. He, 
 
 whose soul 
 Ponders this true equality, may. walk 
 The fields of earth with gratitude and 
 
 hope; 
 Yet, in that meditation, will he find 
 Motive to sadder grief, as we have found; 
 Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown, 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, ETC. 
 
 583 
 
 And fer the. itjiustice jgrieving, that hath 
 
 made 
 So wide a difference between man and 
 
 man._ 
 
 Then let us rather fix our gladdened 
 thoughts 
 Upon t he brighter scene . How blest that 
 
 pair 
 Of blooming Boys (whom we beheld even 
 
 now) 
 Blest in their several and their common 
 
 lot! 
 A few short hours of each returning day 
 The thriving prisoners of their village 
 
 school : 
 And thence let loose, to seek their pleas- 
 ant homes 
 Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy : 
 To breathe and to be happy, run and shout 
 Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss: 
 For every genial power of . heaven and 
 
 earth. 
 Through all the seasons of the changeful 
 
 year. 
 Obsequiously doth take upon herself 
 To labor for them; bringing each in turn 
 The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, 
 
 health. 
 Beauty, or strength ! Such privilege is 
 
 theirs. 
 Granted alike in the outset of their course 
 To both; and, if that partnership must 
 
 cease, 
 I grieve not, ' ' to the Pastor here he turned, 
 " Much as I glory in that child of yours. 
 Repine not for hisj:_ottage-comrade, whom 
 Belike no higher destiny awaitT ' 
 Than the old hereditary wishfiilfilled; 
 TEe^wish for libert y to live — conten t 
 WitTi what' "Heaven grants^ and die" — in 
 
 ~ peace of mirid^ 
 Within the bosom of his native vale. 
 At leastj_ whjiiever_fate the noon of life 
 Reserves for either, sure it is that* bbfh 
 Havejbgfin permitted.. to enjoy the" dawn; 
 Whether regarded as a jocund time, 
 That in itself may terminate, or lead 
 In course of nature to a sober eve. 
 Both have beerL,faj.rly dealt with; look- 
 ing back 
 They willallow that justice has in them 
 Been shown, alike to body and tornind."^' 
 
 He paused, as if revolving in his soul 
 Some weighty matter; then, with fervent 
 
 voice 
 And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed — 
 
 " O for the coming of that glorious time 
 When, prizing knowledge as her noblest 
 
 wealth 
 And best protection, this imperial Realrri 
 While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
 An obligation, on her part, to teach, 
 Them who are born to serve her and obey; 
 Binding herself by statute ^ to secure 
 For all the children whom her soil main- 
 tains 
 The rudiments of letters, and inform 
 The mind with moral and religious truth, 
 Both understood and practised, — so that 
 
 none, 
 Ilow.eve.r_des.tittitej_be left to droop 
 Bytimely culture unsustained; oFrian 
 Into a.wild_disorderj or be forced 
 To_drudge. through a weary life without 
 
 the help 
 Of iutelkct vial implements and tools; 
 A savage horde among the civilized, 
 A"servTre13an'3"amo'hg the lordly free ! 
 This sacred right, the lisping babe pro- 
 claims 
 To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will, 
 For the "protection of his innocence; 
 And the rude boy — who, having overpast 
 The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled, 
 Yet mutinously knits his angry brow. 
 And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent, 
 Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 
 To impious use — by process indirect 
 Declares his due, while he makes known 
 
 his need. 
 — This sacred right is fruitlessly an- 
 nounced. 
 This universal plea in vain addressed. 
 To eyes and ears of parents who them- 
 selves 
 Did, in the time of their necessity. 
 Urge it in vain; and, therefore, hke a 
 
 prayer 
 That from the humblest floor ascends to 
 
 heaven, 
 It mounts to meet the State's parental ear; 
 Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart, 
 And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
 I See Note. 
 
584 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 
 The unquestionable good — which, Eng- 
 land, safe 
 From interference of external force, 
 May grant at leisure ; without risk incurred 
 That what in wisdom for herself she doth, 
 Others shall e'er be able to undo. 
 
 Look ! and behold, from Calpe's sun- 
 burnt cliffs 
 To the flat margin of the Baltic sea, 
 Long-reverenced titles cast away as 
 
 weeds; 
 Laws overturned; and territory split, 
 Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind, 
 And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes 
 Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
 Of the same breath are shattered and de- 
 stroyed. 
 Meantime the sovereignty of these fair 
 
 Isles 
 Remains entire and indivisible : 
 And, if that ignorance were removed, 
 
 which breeds 
 Within the compass of their several shores 
 Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each 
 Might still preserve the beautiful repose 
 Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres. 
 
 — The discipline of slavery is unknown 
 Among us, — hence the more do we require 
 The discipline of virtue; order else 
 Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
 Thus, duties rising out of good possest. 
 And prudent caution needful to avert 
 Impending evil, equally require 
 
 That the whole people _should_be taught 
 
 .ancftrainedT 
 
 So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
 
 Be rooted oiit, and virtuous habits take 
 
 "Their place; an"d genuine piety descend. 
 
 Like an inheritance, from age to age. " 
 
 With such foundations laid, avaunt the 
 
 fear 
 Of numbers crowded on their native soil. 
 To the prevention of all healthful growth 
 Through mutual injury ! Rather in the law 
 Of increase and the mandate from above 
 Rejoice ! — and ye have special cause for 
 
 joy. 
 
 — For, as the element of air affords 
 ^n easy passage to the industrious bees 
 
 Fraught with their burthens; and a way 
 
 as smooth 
 For those ordained to take their sounding 
 
 flight 
 From the thronged hive, and settle where 
 
 they list 
 In fresh abodes — their labor to renew; 
 So the wide waters, open to the power. 
 The will, the instincts, and appointed 
 
 needs 
 Of Britain,'" dp invite.h£r_to,xast.off 
 Her swarms, and in succession send them 
 
 forth; 
 Bound tg establish new, communities 
 On every shore whose aspect favors hope 
 Or bold adventure; promising to skill 
 And perseverance their deserved reward. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, kindling as he 
 
 spake, 
 "Change widei_and_ deep, and silently 
 
 "performed. 
 This LaTid shall witness; and as days 
 
 roil on, 
 Earth's universal frame shall feel the ' 
 
 effect; 
 Even till the smallest habitable rock. 
 Beaten by lonely billows,, hear the songs 
 Of humanized_society ; and bloom f 
 With civil arts, that shall breathe forth 
 
 their fragrance, 
 A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 
 From culture, unexclusively bestowed 
 On Albion's noble Race in freedom born, 
 Expect these mighty issues : from the pains 
 And faithful care of unambitious schools 
 Instructing simple childhood's ready ear: 
 Thence look for these magnificent results ! 
 — Vast the circumference of hope — 
 
 and ye 
 Are at its centre, .BdiJsb-iiB^SY^^.^ 
 Ah ! sleep not there in shame ! Shall 
 
 Wisdom's voice 
 From out the bosom of these troubled 
 
 times 
 Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind, 
 And shall the venerable halls ye fill 
 Refuse to echo the sublime decree? 
 Trust not to partial care a general good; - 
 Transfer not to futurity a work 
 Of urgent need. — Your_Countj-y musi 
 
 c.ompleta. 
 H^jr^lorious destiny. Begineyen_now, 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, ETC. 
 
 585 
 
 Now, when oppression, like the Egyptian 
 
 plague 
 Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe, 
 
 makes 
 The brightness more conspicuous that 
 
 invests 
 The happy Island where ye think and act; 
 Now, when destruction is a prirne pursuit. 
 Show to the \vretched nations for what end 
 The powers of civil polity were given," 
 
 Abruptly here, but with a graceful air, 
 The Sage broke off. No sooner had he 
 
 ceased 
 Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
 " Behold the shades of afternoon have 
 
 fallen 
 Upon this flowery slope; and see — be- 
 yond — 
 The silvery lake is streaked with placid 
 
 blue; 
 As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
 How temptingly the landscape shines ! 
 
 The air 
 Breathes invitation; easy is the walk 
 To the lake's margin, where a boat lies 
 
 moored 
 Under a sheltering tree." — -Upon this 
 
 hint 
 We rose together; all were pleased; but 
 
 most 
 The beauteous girl, whose cheek was 
 
 flushed with joy. 
 Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 
 She vanished — eager to impart the 
 
 scheme 
 To her loved brother and his shy compeer. 
 — Now was there bustle in the Vicar's 
 
 house 
 And earnest preparation. — Forth we 
 
 went, 
 And down the vale along the streamlet's 
 
 edge 
 Pursued our way, a broken company. 
 Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
 Thus having reached a bridge, that over- 
 arched 
 The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed 
 In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
 A twofold image; on a grassy bank 
 A snow-white ram, and in the crystal 
 
 flood 
 A.nother and the same ! Most beautiful, 
 
 On the green turf, with his imperial froni 
 
 Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns 
 superb. 
 
 The breathing creature stood; as beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 Beneath him, showed his shadowy coun^ 
 ter-part. 
 
 Each had his glowing mountains, each 
 his sky, 
 
 And each seemed centre of his own fail 
 world : 
 
 Antipodes unconscious of each other. 
 
 Yet, in partition, with their several 
 spheres. 
 
 Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 
 
 " Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse, 
 Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle, 
 And yet a breath can do it !" 
 
 These few words 
 The Lady whispered, while we stood and 
 
 gazed 
 Gathered together, all in still delight. 
 Not without awe. Thence passing on, 
 
 she said 
 In like low voice to my particular ear, 
 " I love to hear that eloquent old Man 
 Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
 On human life from infancy to age. 
 How pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
 His mind gives back the various forms of 
 
 things, 
 Caught in their fairest, happiest, attitude ! 
 While he is speaking, I have power to see 
 Even as he sees; but when his voice hath 
 
 ceased, 
 Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel, as 
 
 now. 
 That combinations so serene and bright 
 CaShot be lasting in a world like ours, 
 Whose highest beauty, beautiful as it is. 
 Like that reflected in yon quiet pool. 
 Seems but a fleeting sunbeam's gift, 
 
 whose peace, 
 The sufferance only of a breath of air ! " 
 
 More had she said — but sportive 
 
 shouts were heard 
 Sent from the jocund hearts of those two 
 
 Boys, 
 Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
 Down the green field came tripping after 
 
 us. 
 
S86 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 With caution we embarlced; and now the 
 pair 
 
 For prouder service were addrest; but 
 each, 
 
 Wishful to leave an opening for my choice, 
 
 Dropped the light oar his eager hand had 
 seized. 
 
 Thanks given for that becoming courtesy, 
 
 Their place I took — and for a grateful 
 office 
 
 Pregnant with recollections of the time 
 
 When, on thy bosom, spacious Winder- 
 mere ! ■ """ 
 
 A Youth, I~practised this delightful art; 
 
 Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew 
 
 Of joyous comrades. Soon as the reedy 
 marge 
 
 Was cleared, I dipped, with arms accord- 
 ant, oars 
 
 Free from obstruction; and the boat ad- 
 vanced 
 
 Through crystal water, smoothly as a 
 hawk. 
 
 That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
 
 Of some thick wood, her place of covert, 
 cleaves 
 
 With correspondent wings the abyss of air. 
 
 — " Observe," the Vicarsaid, " yon rocky 
 isle 
 
 With birch-trees fringed; my hand shall 
 guide the helm, 
 
 While thitherward we shape our course; 
 or while 
 
 We seek that other, on the western shore; 
 
 Where the bare columns of those lofty firs. 
 
 Supporting gracefully a massy dome 
 
 Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 
 
 A Grecian temple rising from the Deep." 
 
 "Turn where we may," said I, "we 
 cannot err 
 
 In this delicious region." — Cultured 
 slopes, 
 
 Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered 
 groves. 
 
 And mountains bare, or clothed with 
 ancient woods. 
 
 Surrounded us; and, as we held our way 
 
 Along the level of the glassy flood, 
 
 They ceased not to surround us; change 
 of place 
 
 From kindred features diversely com- 
 bined. 
 
 Producing change of beauty ever new. 
 — Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the 
 
 hght ' "' 
 
 Of living nature, cannot be portrayed 
 B5'~WorHs7 nor by the pencil's silent 
 
 skill; 
 But is the property of him alone 
 Who hath beheld it, noted it^vvlfh care, 
 And in bis mind recorded it with Jove [ 
 Sufiice'it, therefore, if flie rural Muse 
 Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her 
 
 Poet speaks 
 Of trivial occupations well devised, 
 And unsought pleasures springing up by 
 
 chance; 
 As if some friendly Genius had ordained 
 That, as the day thus far had been en- 
 riched 
 By acquisition of sincere delight. 
 The same should be continued to its close. 
 
 One spirit animating old and young, 
 A gypsy-fire we kindled on the shore 
 Of the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed 
 
 — and there, 
 Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
 A choice repast — served by our young 
 
 companions 
 With rival earnestness and kindred glee. 
 Launched from our hands the smooth 
 
 stone skimmed the lake; 
 With shouts we raised the echoes: — 
 
 stiller sounds 
 The lovely Girl supplied — a simple song. 
 Whose low tones reached not to the dis- 
 tant rocks 
 To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
 Into our hearts; and charmed the peace- 
 ful flood. 
 Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils 
 From land and water; lilies of each 
 
 hue — ^ 
 
 Golden and white, that float upon the 
 
 waves. 
 And court the wind; and leaves of that 
 
 shy plant, 
 (Her flowers were shed) the lily of the 
 
 vale. 
 That loves the ground, and from the sun 
 
 withholds 
 Her pensive beauty; from the breeze hel 
 sweets. 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, ETC. 
 
 5S7 
 
 Such product, and such pastime, did 
 the place 
 And setBon yield; but, as we re-embarked, 
 Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 
 Of that wild spot, the Solitary said 
 In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 
 " The tire, that burned so brightly to our 
 
 wish, 
 Where is it now ? — Deserted on the 
 
 beach — 
 Dying, or dead ! Nor shall the fanning 
 
 breeze 
 Revive its ashes. What care we for this. 
 Whose ends are gained? Behold an em- 
 blem here 
 Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys ! 
 And, in this unpremeditated slight 
 Of that which is no longer needed, see 
 The common course of human gratitude ! ' ' 
 
 This plaintive note disturbed not the 
 
 repose 
 Of the still evening. Right across the lake 
 Our pinnace moves; then, coasting creek 
 
 and bay, 
 Glades we behold, and into thickets peep. 
 Where couch the spotted deer; or raised 
 
 our eyes 
 To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat 
 Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls ; 
 And thus the bark, meandering with the 
 
 shore. 
 Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier 
 Of jutting rock invited us to land. 
 
 Alert to follow as the Pastor led, 
 We clomb a green hill's side; and, as we 
 
 clomb, 
 The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
 Fair prospect, intercepted less and less. 
 O'er the flat meadows and indented coast 
 Of the smooth lake, in compass seen: — 
 
 far off. 
 And yet conspicuous, stood the old 
 
 Church-tower, 
 In majesty presiding over fields 
 And habitations seemingly preserved 
 From all intrusion of the restless world 
 By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 
 
 Soft heath this elevated spot supplied. 
 And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon 
 we couched 
 
 Or sate reclined; admiring quietly 
 The general aspect of the scene; but each 
 Not seldom over anxious to make known 
 His own discoveries; or to favorite pojnts 
 Directing notice, merely from a wish 
 To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
 That rapturous moment never shall I forget 
 When these particular interests were 
 
 effaced 
 From every mind ! — Already had the sun. 
 Sinking with less than ordinary state, 
 Attained his western bound; but rays of 
 
 light — 
 Now suddenly diverging from the orb 
 Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled 
 By the dense air — shot upwards to the 
 
 crown 
 Of the blue firmament — aloft, and wide: 
 And multitudes of little floating clouds, 
 Through their ethereal texture pierced — 
 
 ere we. 
 Who saw, of change were conscious — 
 
 had become 
 Vivid as fire; clouds separately poised, — 
 Innumerable multitude of forms 
 Scattered through half the circle of the 
 
 sky; 
 And giving back, and shedding each on 
 
 each. 
 With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
 Which from the unapparent fount of glory 
 They had imbibed, and ceased not to 
 
 receive. 
 That which the heavens displayed, the 
 
 liquid deep 
 Repeated; but with unity sublime ! 
 
 While from the grassy mountain's open 
 side 
 We gazed, in silence hushed, with eyes 
 
 intent 
 On the refulgent spectacle, diffused 
 Through earth, sky, water, and all visible 
 
 space, 
 The Priest in holy transport thus ex- 
 claimed: 
 " Eternal Spirit! universal God! 
 Power inaccessible to human thought. 
 Save by degrees and steps which thou hast 
 
 deigned 
 To furnish; for this effluence of thyself. 
 To the infirmity of mortal sense 
 Vouchsafed; this local transitory type 
 
S88 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Of thy paternal splendors, and the pomp 
 Of those who fill thy courts in highest 
 
 heaven, 
 The radiant Cherubim; — accept the 
 
 thanks 
 Which we, thy humble Creatures, here 
 
 convened. 
 Presume to offer; we, who — from the 
 
 breast 
 Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 
 The faint reflections only of thy face — 
 Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 
 Such as they are who in thy presence stand 
 Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
 Imperishable majesty streamed forth 
 From thy empyreal throne, the elect of 
 
 earth 
 Shall be — divested at the appointed hour 
 Of all dishonor, cleansed from mortal stain. 
 
 — Accomplish, then, their number; and 
 
 conclude 
 Time's weary course ! Or if, by the decree. 
 The consummation that will come by 
 
 stealth 
 Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail. 
 Oh ! let thy Word prevail, to take away 
 The sting of human nature. Spread the 
 
 law, 
 As it is written in thy holy book, _ 
 Throughout all lands; let every nation.hear 
 The high behest, "ahd every heart obeyj 
 Both for the love of purity, and hope 
 Which it affords, to such as do thy will 
 And persevere in good, that they shall rise, 
 To have a nearer view of thee, in heaven. 
 
 — Father of good ! this prayer in bounty 
 
 grant, 
 ■ In piercy grant it, to thy wretched sons. 
 Then, not till then, siiail_B.eis.e£ntiaac.efise, 
 Ajidcruel wars expire. The way is marked. 
 The gui3e appointed, and the ransom paid. 
 Alas ! the nations, who of yore received 
 These tidings, and in Christian temples 
 
 meet 
 The sacred truth to knowledge, linger 
 
 still; 
 Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
 Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
 Proffered to all, while yet on earth de- 
 tained. 
 
 So fare the many: and the thoughtful 
 few, 
 
 Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
 This dire perverseness, cannot choose but 
 
 ask, » 
 
 Shall it endure ? — Shall enmity and strife. 
 Falsehood aad-gnile, bejeft to sow fh^ir 
 
 seed; 
 And the kind never pensh ? Is the hope 
 Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
 A peaceable dominion, wide as eartli, '~ 
 And ne'er to fail? Shall that blest day 
 
 arrive 
 When they, whose choice or lot it is to 
 
 dwell 
 In crowded cities, without fear shall live 
 Studious of mutual benefit; and he. 
 Whom Morn awakens, among dews and 
 
 flowers 
 Of every clime, to till the lonely field,, - 
 Be happy in himself? — The law of faith' 
 Working through love, such conquest 
 
 '""s^'aTnt" gain, 
 SuchVtrfuinph over .sin_ and guilt achieve? ' 
 Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart ! 
 And with that help the wonder shall be 
 
 seen 
 Fulfilled, the hope accomplished; and thy 
 
 praise 
 Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. 
 
 Once," and with mild demeanor, as he 
 
 spake, ' 
 
 On us the venerable Pastor turned 
 His beaming eye that had been raised to 
 
 Heaven, 
 " Once, while the Name, Jehovah, was a 
 
 sound 
 Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle 
 Unheard, the savage nations bowed the 
 
 head 
 To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds; 
 Gods which themselves had fashioned, to 
 
 promote 
 111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. 
 Then, in the bosom of yon mountain-cove, 
 To those inventions of corrupted man 
 Mysterious rites were solemnized; and 
 
 there — 
 Amid impending rocks and gloomy 
 
 woods — 
 Of those terrific Idols some received 
 Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 
 Of the swoln cataracts (which now are 
 
 heard 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, ETC. 
 
 589 
 
 Soft murmuring) was too weak to over- 
 come, 
 Though aided by wild winds, the groans 
 
 and shrieks 
 Of human victims, offered up to appease 
 Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 
 Had visionary faculties to see 
 The thing that hath been as the thing 
 
 that is, 
 Aghast we might behold this crystal Mere 
 Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths volu- 
 minous, 
 Flung from the body of devouring fires. 
 To Taranis erected on the heights 
 By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 
 Exultingly, in view of open day 
 And full assemblage of a barbarous host; 
 Or to Andates, female Power ! who gave 
 '^For so they fancied) glorious victory. 
 — A few rude monuments of mountain- 
 ) stone 
 
 Survive; all else is swept away. — How 
 
 bright 
 The appearances of things ! From such, 
 
 how changed 
 The existing worship; and with those 
 compared, 
 . The worshippers how innocent and blest ! 
 So wide the difference, a willing mind' 
 Might almost think, at this affecting hour, 
 That paradise, the lost abode of man. 
 Was raised again : and to a happy few. 
 In its original beauty, here restored. 
 
 Whence but from thee, the true and 
 
 only God, 
 And from the faith derived through Him 
 
 who bled 
 Upon the cross, this marvellous advance 
 Of good from evil; as if one extreme 
 Were left, the other gained. — O ye, 
 
 who come 
 To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 
 Called to such office by the peaceful sound 
 •Of sabbath bells; and ye, who sleep in 
 
 earth. 
 All cares forgotten, round its hallowed 
 
 walls ! 
 For you, in presence of this little band 
 Gathered together on the green hill-side, 
 Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer 
 Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal King; 
 
 Whose love, whose counsel, whose com- 
 mands, have made 
 Your very~pd6rest rich in peace of thought 
 And "in good works; and him, who is 
 
 endowed 
 With scantiest knowledge, master of all 
 
 truth 
 Which the salvation of his soul requires. 
 Conscious of that abundant favor showered 
 On you, the children of my humble care, 
 And this dear land, our country, while 
 
 on earth 
 We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, 
 Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude. 
 These barren rocks, your stern inherit- 
 ance; 
 These fertile fields, that recompense your 
 
 pains; 
 The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain- 
 top; 
 Woods waving in the wind their lofty 
 
 heads. 
 Or hushed; the roaring waters and the 
 
 still — 
 They see the offering of my lifted hands, 
 They hear my lips present their sacrifice. 
 They know, if I be silent, morn or even: 
 For, though in whispers speaking, the 
 
 full heart 
 Will find a vent; and thought is praise 
 
 to him. 
 Audible praise, to thee, omniscient Mind, 
 From whom all gifts descend, all bless- 
 ingsflow! " 
 
 This vesper-service closed, without 
 
 delay. 
 From that exalted station to the plain 
 Descending, we pursued our homeward 
 
 course. 
 In mute composure, o'er the shadowy 
 
 lake. 
 Under a faded sky. No trace remained 
 Of those celestial splendors; gray the 
 
 vault — 
 Pure, cloudless, ether; and the star of eve. 
 Was wanting; but inferior lights appeared 
 Faintly, too faint almost for sight; and 
 
 some 
 Above the darkened hills stood boldly 
 
 forth 
 In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attained 
 
590 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 Her mooring-place; where, to the shel- 
 tering tree, 
 Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her 
 
 prow. 
 With prompt yet careful hands. This 
 
 done, we paced 
 The dewy fields; but ere the Vicar's 
 
 door 
 Was reached, the Solitary checked his 
 A steps; 
 
 Then, intermingling thanks, on each be- 
 stowed 
 A farewell salutation; and, the like 
 Receiving, took the slender path that 
 
 leads 
 To the one cottage in the lonely dell : 
 But turned not without welcome promise 
 o,-- made 
 
 That he would share the pleasures and 
 
 pursuits 
 ^ Of yet another summer's day, not loth 
 To wander with us through the fertile 
 
 vales, 
 And o'er the mountain- wastes. ' 'Another 
 
 sun," 
 Said he, " shall shine upon us, ere we 
 
 part; 
 Another sun, and peradventure more; 
 If time, with free consent, be yours to give, 
 And season favors." 
 
 To enfeebled Power, 
 ,From this communion with uninjured 
 
 Minds, 
 ■^hat renovation had been brought; and 
 
 what 
 \X)egree of healing to a wounded spirit. 
 Dejected, and habitually disposed 
 To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
 Excuse and solace for her own defects; 
 How far those erring notions were re- 
 \ formed; 
 
 And whether aught, of tendency as good 
 And pure, from further intercourse 
 
 ensued; 
 This — if delightful hopes, as heretofore. 
 Inspire the serious song, and gentle 
 
 Hearts 
 Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the 
 
 past — 
 My future labors may not leave untold. 
 
 1795-1814. 
 
 1814. 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. The incident of the 
 trees growing and withering put the subject into 
 my thoughts, and I wrote with the hope of giving 
 it a loftier tone than, so far as I know, has been 
 given to it by any of the Ancients who have 
 treated of it. It cost me more trouble than 
 almost anything of equal length I have ever 
 
 "With sacrifice before the rising morn 
 Vows have I made by fruitless hope in- 
 spired; 
 And from the infernal God's 'mid shades 
 
 forlorn 
 Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I 
 
 required : 
 Celestial pity I again implore; — 
 Restore him to my sight — great Jove, 
 restore ! ' ' 
 
 So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
 With faith, the Stippliant heavenward 
 
 lifts her hands; 
 While, like the sun emerging from a 
 
 cloud. 
 Her countenance brightens — and her eye 
 
 expands; 
 Her bosom heaves and spreads, her 
 
 stature grows; 
 And she expects the issue in repose. 
 
 O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — • 
 
 O joy ! 
 What doth she look on? — whom doth 
 
 she behold? 
 Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? 
 His vital presence? his corporeal mould? 
 It is — if sense deceive her not ■ — 't is He ! 
 And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 
 
 Mild Hermes spake — and touched her 
 
 with his wand 
 That calms all fear; "such grace hath 
 
 crowned thy prayer, 
 Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 
 Thy Husband walks the paths of upper 
 
 air: 
 He comes to tarry with thee three hours' 
 
 space ; 
 Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 
 
LAODAMIA. 
 
 591 
 
 Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her 
 
 Lord to clasp; 
 Again that consummation she essayed; 
 But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 
 As often as that eager grasp was made. 
 The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 
 And re-assume his place before her sight. 
 
 " Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
 Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : 
 This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne ; 
 Speak, and the floor thou tread' st on 
 
 will rejoice. 
 Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
 This precious boon ; and blest a sad 
 
 abode." 
 
 " Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave 
 His gifts imperfect: — Spectre though I 
 
 be, 
 I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; 
 But in reward of thy fidelity. 
 And something also did my worth obtain; 
 For fearless virtue bringeth boundless 
 
 gain. 
 
 " Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle fore- 
 told 
 
 That the first Greek who touched the 
 Trojan stand 
 
 Should die; but me the threat could not 
 withhold : 
 
 A generous cause a victim did demand; 
 
 And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; 
 
 A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain. ' ' 
 
 " Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, 
 
 best! 
 Thy matchless courage I bewail no more. 
 Which then, when tens of thousands 
 
 were deprest 
 By doubt, propelled thee tothe fatal shore; 
 Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — 
 
 here thou art — 
 A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 
 
 " But thou, though capable of sternest 
 
 deed, 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; 
 And he, whose power restores thee, hath 
 
 decreed 
 Thou should'st elude the malice of the 
 
 grave : 
 
 Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
 As when their breath enriched Thessalian 
 
 ' ' No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow 
 
 this; 
 Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my 
 
 side ! 
 Give, on this well-known couch, one 
 
 nuptial kiss 
 To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! ' ' 
 Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious 
 
 ParcEe threw 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 " This visage tells thee that my doom is 
 
 past: 
 Nor should the change be mourned, even 
 
 if the joys 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 And surely as they vanish. Earth de- 
 stroys 
 Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains: 
 Calm pleasures there abide — majestic 
 pains. 
 
 " Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 
 Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
 The depth, and not the tumult, of the 
 
 soul; 
 A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
 Thy transports moderate; and meekly 
 
 mourn 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — ' ' 
 
 "Ah, wherefore? — Did not Hercules by 
 
 force 
 Wrest from the guardian Monster of the 
 
 tomb 
 Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 
 Given back to dwell on earth in vernal 
 
 bloom? 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of 
 
 years, 
 And ^son stood a youth 'mid youthful 
 
 peers. 
 
 "The Gods to us are merciful — and they 
 Yet further may relent : for mightier far 
 Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the 
 
 sway 
 Of magic potent over sun and star, 
 
592 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
 And though his favorite seat be feeble 
 woman's breast. 
 
 "But if thou goest, I follow — " 
 
 " Peace ! " he said, — 
 She looked upon him and was calmed 
 
 and cheered; 
 The ghastly color from his lips had fled; 
 In his deportment, shape, and mien, 
 
 appeared 
 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 
 Brought from a pensive though a happy 
 
 place. 
 
 He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
 In worlds whose course is equable and 
 
 pure; 
 No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
 The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 
 Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
 Revived, with finer harmony pursued; 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous — imaged 
 
 there 
 In happier beauty; more pellucid 
 
 streams. 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air. 
 And fields invested with purpureal 
 
 gleams; 
 Climes which the sun, who sheds the 
 
 brightest day 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
 
 Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath 
 
 earned 
 That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, 
 " The end of man's existence I discerned, 
 Who from ignoble games and revelry 
 Could draw, when we had parted, vain 
 
 delight. 
 While tears were thy best pastime, day 
 
 and night; 
 
 " And while my youthful peers before 
 my eyes 
 
 (Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
 
 Prepared themselves for glorious enter- 
 prise 
 
 By martial sports, — or, seated in the 
 tent. 
 
 Chieftains and kings in council were de- 
 tained; 
 What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 
 
 "The wished-for wind was given: — I 
 
 then revolved 
 The oracle, upon the silent sea; 
 And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
 That , of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
 The foremost prow in pressing to the 
 
 strand, — 
 Mine the first blood that tinged the 
 
 Trojan sand. 
 
 " Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved 
 
 Wife ! 
 On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 
 And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 
 The paths which we had trod — these 
 
 fountains, flowers. 
 My new-planned cities, and unfinished 
 
 towers. 
 
 " But should suspense permit the Foe to 
 
 cry, 
 ' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their 
 
 array. 
 Yet of their number no one dares to die? ' 
 In soul I swept the indignity away : 
 Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty 
 
 thought. 
 In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 
 
 " And Thou, though strong in love, art 
 all too weak 
 
 In reason, in self-government too slow; 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 The invisible world with thee hath sym- 
 pathized; 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 
 
 " Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 
 Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 
 Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that 
 
 end; 
 For this the passion to excess was driven — 
 That self might be annulled : her bondage 
 
 prove 
 The fetters of a dream, opposed to 
 
 love." — 
 
DION. 
 
 593 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re- 
 appears ! 
 
 Round the dear Shade she would have 
 clung — 't is vain : 
 
 The hours are past — too brief had they 
 been years; 
 
 And him no mortal effort can detain : 
 
 Swift, toward the realms that know not 
 earthly day, 
 
 He through the portal takes his silent way. 
 
 And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse 
 She lay. 
 
 Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, 
 She perished; and, as for a wilful crime, 
 By the just Gods whom no weak pity 
 
 moved. 
 Was doomed to wear out her appointed 
 
 time. 
 Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather 
 
 flowers 
 Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 
 
 — Yet tears to human suffering are due; 
 And mortal hopes defeated and o'er- 
 
 thrown 
 Are mourned by man, and not by man 
 
 alone. 
 As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was enter- 
 tained) 
 A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
 From out the tomb of him for whom she 
 
 died; 
 And ever, when such stature they had 
 
 gained 
 That Ilium's walls were subject to their 
 
 view. 
 The trees' tall summits withered at the 
 
 sight; 
 A constant interchange of growth and 
 
 blight ! 1 
 
 ^ For the account of these long-lived trees, 
 see Pliny's Natural History, lib. xvi cap. 44; 
 and for the features in the character of Protesilaus 
 see the [pkigenia in Au/is of Euripides. Virgil 
 places the Shade of Laodamia in a mournful 
 region, among unhappy Lovers, 
 
 " — His Laodamia, 
 It comes. — " 
 
 18 14. 
 
 1S15. 
 
 DION. 
 
 (see PLUTARCH.) 
 
 This poem was first introduced by a stanza 
 that I have since transferred to the Notes, for 
 reasons there given, and I cannot comply with 
 the request expressed by some of my friends that 
 the rejected stanza should be restored. I hope 
 they will be content if it be, hereafter, immediately 
 attached to the poem, instead of its being degraded 
 to a place in the Notes. 2 
 
 I. 
 Serene, and fitted to embrace. 
 Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace 
 Of haughtiness without pretence. 
 And to unfold a still magnificence, 
 Was princely Dion, in the power 
 And beauty of his happier hour. 
 And what pure homage t/ie/i did wait 
 On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam 
 Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, 
 Fell round him in the grove of Academe, 
 Softening their inbred dignity austere — 
 
 That he, not too elate 
 
 With self-sufficing solitude, 
 But with majestic lowliness endued. 
 
 Might in the universal bosom reign. 
 And from affectionate observance gain 
 Help, under every change of adverse fate. 
 
 Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous 
 
 day ! 
 Each crowned with flowers, and armed 
 
 with spear and shield. 
 Or ruder weapon which their course might 
 
 yield. 
 To Syracuse advance in bright array. 
 Who leads them on? — The anxious 
 
 people see 
 Long-exiled Dion marching at their head, 
 He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, 
 And in a white, far-beaming, corselet 
 
 clad! 
 Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or 
 
 fear 
 The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain, 
 Salute those strangers as a holy train 
 Or blest procession (to the Immortals 
 
 dear) 
 
 2 See Note. 
 
594 
 
 DION. 
 
 That brought their precious liberty again. 
 Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each 
 
 hand, 
 Down the long street, rich goblets filled 
 
 with wine 
 
 In seemly order stand, 
 On tables set, as if for rites divine; — 
 And, as the great Deliverer marches by, 
 He looks on festal ground with fruits 
 
 bestrown; 
 And flowers are on his person thrown 
 
 In boundless prodigality; 
 Nor doth the general voice abstain from 
 
 prayer, 
 Invoking Dion's tutelary care. 
 As if a very Deity he were ! 
 
 Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and 
 mourn 
 
 Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
 
 Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit 
 dreads 
 
 Your once sweet memory, studious walks 
 and shades ! 
 
 For him who to divinity aspired, 
 
 Not on the breath of popular applause. 
 
 But through dependence on the sacred 
 laws 
 
 Framed in the schools where Wisdom 
 dwelt retired, 
 
 Intent to trace the ideal path of right 
 
 (More fair than heaven's broad causeway 
 paved with stars) 
 
 "Which Dion learned to measure with sub- 
 lime delight; — 
 
 But He hath overleaped the eternal bars; 
 
 And, following guides whose craft holds 
 no consent 
 
 With aught that breathes the ethereal 
 element, 
 
 Hath stained the robes of civil power with 
 blood. 
 
 Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 
 
 Whence doubts that came too late, and 
 wishes vain, 
 
 Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain; 
 
 And oft his cogitations sink as low 
 
 As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 
 
 The heaviest plummet of despair can go — 
 
 But whence that sudden check? that fear- 
 ful start ! 
 
 He hears an uncouth sound — 
 Anon his lifted eyes 
 Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky 
 
 bound, 
 A Shape of more than mortal size 
 And hideous aspect, stalking round and 
 round ! 
 A woman's garb the Phantom wore. 
 And fiercely swept the marble 
 
 floor, — 
 Like Auster whirling to and fro. 
 His force on Caspian foam to try; 
 Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
 That skins the plains of Thessaly, 
 Or when aloft on Maenalus he stops 
 His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops! 
 
 So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, 
 The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed, 
 Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — 
 No pause admitted, no design avowed ! 
 " Avaunt, inexplicable Guest ! — 
 
 avaunt," 
 Exclaimed the Chieftain — " let me 
 
 rather see 
 The coronal that coiling vipers make; 
 The torch that flames with many a lurid 
 
 flake. 
 And the long train of doleful pageantry 
 Which they behold, whom vengeful 
 
 Furies haunt; 
 Who, while they struggle from the 
 
 scourge to flee. 
 Move where the blasted soil is not unworn. 
 And, in their anguish, bear what other 
 
 minds have borne ! " 
 
 But Shapes that come not at an earthly 
 call, 
 
 Will not depart when mortal voices bid; 
 
 Lords of the visionary eye whose lid, 
 
 Once raised, remains aghast, and will not 
 fall! 
 
 Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Imple- 
 ment 
 
 Obeys a mystical intent ! 
 
 Your Minister would brush away 
 
 The spots that to my soul adhere; 
 
 But should she labor night and day. 
 
 They will not, cannot disappear; 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 595 
 
 Whence angry perturbations, — and that 
 
 look 
 Which no Philosophy can brook ! 
 
 Ill-fated Chief ! there are whose hopes 
 are built 
 
 Upon the ruins of thy glorious name; 
 
 Who, through the portal of one moment's 
 guilt. 
 
 Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! 
 
 O matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 
 
 Of monstrous crime ! — that horror- 
 striking blade, 
 
 Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid 
 
 The noble Syracusan low in dust 1 
 
 Shuddered the walls — the marble city 
 wept — 
 
 And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh; 
 
 But in calm peace the appointed Victim 
 slept, 
 
 As he had fallen in magnanimity; 
 
 Of spirit too capacious to require 
 
 That Destiny her course should change; 
 too just 
 
 To his own native greatness to desire 
 
 That wretched boon, days lengthened by 
 mistrust. 
 
 So were the hopeless troubles, that in- 
 volved 
 
 The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 
 
 Released from life and cares of princely 
 state. 
 
 He left this moral grafted on his Fate; 
 
 "Him only pleasure leads, and peace 
 attends, 
 
 Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends. 
 
 Whose means are fair and spotless as his 
 ends." 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 1814. 
 
 In this tour, my wife and her sister Sara were 
 ray companions. The account of the " Brownie's 
 Cell " and the Brownies was given me by a man 
 we met with on the banks of Loch Lomond, a 
 little above Tarbert, and in front of a huge mass 
 of rock, by the side of which, we were told, 
 preachings were often held in the open air. The 
 place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding 
 
 scenery very striking. How much is it to be 
 regretted that, instead of writing such Poems as 
 the " Holy Fair" and others, in which the reli- 
 gious observances of his country are treated with 
 so much levity and too often with indecency. 
 Burns had not employed his genius in describing 
 religion under the serious and affecting aspects it 
 must so frequently take. 
 
 I. 
 
 suggested by a beautiful ruin upon 
 one of the islands of loch lo- 
 mond, a place chosen for the 
 retreat of a solitary individ- 
 ual, from whom this habitation 
 acquired the name of 
 
 The Brownie's Cell. 
 
 To barren heath, bleak moor, and quak- 
 ing fen. 
 
 Or depth of labyrinthine glen; 
 
 Or into trackless forest set 
 
 With trees, whose lofty umbrage met; 
 
 World-wearied Men withdrew of yore; 
 
 (Penance their trust, and prayer their 
 store ; ) 
 
 And in the wilderness were bound 
 
 To such apartments as they found. 
 
 Or with a new ambition raised; 
 
 That God might suitably be praised. 
 
 High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of 
 
 prey; 
 Or where broad waters round him lay: 
 But this wild ruin is no ghost 
 Of his devices — buried, lost ! 
 Within this little lonely isle 
 There stood a consecrated Pile; 
 Where tapers burned, and mass was sung, 
 For them whose timid Spirits clung 
 To mortal succor, though the tomb 
 Had fixed, forever fixed, their doom ! 
 
 Upon those servants of another world 
 WhenmaddingPower her bolts hadhurled, 
 Their habitation shook; — it fell. 
 And perished, save one narrow cell; 
 Whither, at length, a Wretch retired 
 Who neither grovelled nor aspired; 
 He, struggling in the net of pride, 
 
596 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 The future scorned, the past defied; 
 Still tempering, from the unguilty forge 
 Of vain conceit, an iron scourge ! 
 
 Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, 
 Who stood and flourished face to face 
 With their perennial hills; — but Crime, 
 Hastening the stern decrees of Time, 
 Brought low a Power, which from its home 
 Burst, when repose grew wearisome; 
 And, taking impulse from the sword. 
 And, mocking its own plighted word. 
 Had found, in ravage widely dealt. 
 Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt ! 
 
 All, all were dispossessed, save him whose 
 
 smile 
 Shot lightning through this lonely Isle ! 
 No right had he but what he made 
 To this small spot, his leafy shade; 
 But the ground lay within that ring 
 To which he only dared to cling; 
 Renouncing here, as worse than dead, 
 The craven few who bowed the head 
 Beneath the change; who heard a claim 
 How loud ! yet lived in peace with shame. 
 
 From year to year this shaggy Mortal went 
 (So seemed it) down a strange descent: 
 Tin they, who saw his outward frame, 
 Fixed on him an unhallowed name; 
 Him, free from all malicious taint. 
 And guiding,, like the Patmos Saint, 
 A pen unwearied — to indite. 
 In his lone Isle, the dreams of night; 
 Impassioned dreams, that strove to span 
 The faded glories of his Clan ! 
 
 Suns that through blood their western 
 
 harbor sought, 
 And stars that in their courses fought; 
 Towers rent, winds combating with woods. 
 Lands deluged by unbridled floods; 
 And beast and bird that from the spell 
 Of sleep took import terrible; — 
 These types mysterious (if the show 
 Of battle and the routed foe 
 Had failed) would furnish an array 
 Of matter for the dawning day ! 
 
 How disappeared He? — ask the newt 
 
 and toad, 
 Inheritors of his abode; 
 The otter crouching undisturbed, 
 In her dank cleft; — but be thou curbed, 
 O froward Fancy ! 'mid a scene 
 Of aspect winning and serene; 
 For those offensive creatures shun 
 The inquisition of the sun ! 
 And in this region flowers delight. 
 And all is lovely to the sight. 
 
 Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, 
 When she applies her annual test 
 To dead and living; when her breath 
 Quickens, as now, the withered heath; — 
 Nor flaunting Summer — when he throws 
 His soul into the briar-rose ; 
 Or calls the lily from her sleep 
 Prolonged beneath the bordering deep; 
 Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren 
 Is warbling near the Brownie's Den. 
 
 Wild Relique ! beauteous as the chosen 
 
 spot 
 In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot; 
 Whither, by care of Libyan Jove, 
 (High Servant of paternal Love) 
 Young Bacchus was conveyed — to lie 
 Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye; 
 Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, 
 
 glowed. 
 Close-crowding round the infant-god; 
 All colors, — and the liveliest streak 
 A foil to his celestial cheek I 
 
 Composed at Cora Linn, 
 in sight of wallace's tower. 
 
 I had seen this celebrated Waterfall twice be- 
 fore; but the feelings, to which it had given 
 birth, were not expressed till they recurred in 
 presence of the object on this occasion. 
 " — How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name 
 Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 
 All over his dear Country ; left the deeds 
 Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts. 
 To people the steep rocks and river banks, 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 597 
 
 Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 
 
 Of independence and stern liberty." — See p. 271. 
 
 Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood; 
 The dullest leaf in this thick wood 
 Quakes — conscious of thy power; 
 The caves reply with hollow moan; 
 And vibrates, to its central stone, 
 Yon time-cemented Tower ! 
 
 And yet how fair the rural scene ! 
 For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been 
 Beneficent as strong; 
 Pleased in refreshing dews to steep 
 The little trembling flowers that peep 
 Thy shelving rocks among. 
 
 Hence all who love their country, love 
 To look on thee — delight to rove 
 "Where they thy voice can hear; 
 And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, 
 Lord of the vale ! to Heroes laid 
 In dust, that voice is dear ! 
 
 Along thy banks, at dead of night 
 Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight; 
 Or stands, in warlike vest. 
 Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, 
 A Champion worthy of the stream, 
 Yon gray tower's living crest ! 
 
 But clouds and envious darkness hide 
 A Form not doubtfully descried: — 
 Their transient mission o'er; 
 O say to what blind region flee 
 These Shapes of awful phantasy? 
 To what untrodden shore? 
 
 Less than divine command they spurn; 
 But this we from the mountains learn, 
 And this the valleys show; 
 That never will they deign to hold 
 Communion where the heart is cold 
 To human weal and woe. 
 
 The man of abject soul in vain 
 Shall walk the Marathonian plain; 
 Or thrid the shadowy gloom. 
 That still invests the guardian Pass, 
 Where stood, sublime, Leonidas 
 Devoted to the tomb. 
 
 And let no Slave his head incline. 
 Or kneel, before the votive shrine 
 By Uri's lake, where Tell 
 Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land, 
 Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand 
 That day the Tyrant fell. 
 1S14. 1820. 
 
 III. 
 
 Effusion 
 
 in the pleasure-ground on the banks 
 of the bran, near dunkeld. 
 
 I am not aware that this condemnatory effusion 
 was ever seen by the owner of the place. He 
 might be disposed to pay little attention to it ; 
 but were it to prove otherwise I should be glad, 
 for the whole exhibition is distressingly puerile. 
 
 "The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us 
 when we must expect it. We were first, however, 
 conducted into a small apartment, where the 
 Gardener desired us to look at a picture of Ossian, 
 which, while he was telling. the history of the 
 young Artist who executed the work, disappeared 
 parting in the middle — flying asunder as by the 
 touch of magic — and lo ! we were at the entrance 
 of a splendid apartment, which was almost dizzy 
 and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all 
 directions ; the great cascade, opposite the win- 
 dow, which faced us, being reflected in innumer- 
 able mirrors upon the ceiling and against the 
 walls." — Extract fi-ont ike Jourtuilof my Fel 
 low- Traveller. 
 
 What He — who, 'mid the kindred 
 
 throng 
 Of Heroes that inspired his song. 
 Doth yet frequent the hill of storms. 
 The stars dim-twinkling through their 
 
 forms ! 
 What ! Ossian here — a painted Thrall, 
 Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall; 
 To serve — an unsuspected screen 
 For show that must not yet be seen; 
 And, when the moment comes, to part 
 And vanish by mysterious art ; 
 Head, harp, and body, split asunder, 
 For ingress to a world of wonder; 
 A gay saloon, with waters dancing 
 Upon the sight wherever glancing; 
 One loud cascade in front, and lo ! 
 A thousand like it, white as snow — 
 Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam 
 
598 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 As active round the hollow dome, 
 Illusive cataracts ! of their terrors 
 Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors, 
 That catch the pageant from the flood 
 Thundering adovi^n a rocky wood. 
 What pains to dazzle and confound ! 
 What strife of color, shape and sound 
 In this quaint medley, that might seem 
 Devised out of a sick man's dream ! 
 Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy 
 As ever made a maniac dizzy, 
 When disenchanted from the mood 
 That loves on sullen thoughts to brood ! 
 
 Nature — in thy changeful visions. 
 Through all thy most abrupt transitions 
 Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime — 
 Ever averse to pantomime, 
 
 Thee neither do they know nor us 
 Thy servants, who can trifle thus; 
 Else verily the sober powers 
 Of rock that frowns, and stream that 
 
 roars. 
 Exalted by congenial sway 
 Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, 
 And Names that moulder not away. 
 Had wakened some redeeming thought 
 More worthy of this favored Spot; 
 Recalled some feeling — to set free 
 The Bard from such indignity ! 
 
 1 The Effigies of a valiant Wight 
 I once beheld, a Templar Knight; 
 Not prostrate, not like those that rest 
 On tombs, with palms together prest, 
 But sculptured out of living stone, 
 And standing upright and alone, 
 Both hands with rival energy 
 Employed in setting his sword free 
 From its dull sheath — stern sentinel 
 Intent to guard St. Robert's cell; 
 
 As if with memory of the affray 
 
 Far distant, when, as legends say. 
 
 The Monks of Fountain's thronged to 
 
 force 
 From its dear home the Hermit's corse. 
 That in their keeping it might lie. 
 To crown their abbey's sanctity. 
 So had they rushed into the grot 
 Of sense despised, a world forgot, 
 And torn him from his loved retreat. 
 Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat 
 Still hint that quiet best is found, 
 
 ^ On the banks of the River Nid, near Knares- 
 borough. 
 
 Even by the Living, under ground; 
 But a bold Knight, the selfish aim 
 Defeating, put the monks to shame. 
 There where you see his Image stand 
 Bare to the sky, with threatening brand 
 Which lingering Nid is proud to show 
 Reflected in the pool below. 
 
 Thus, like the men of earliest days. 
 Our sires set forth their grateful praise: 
 Uncouth the workmanship, and rude ! 
 But, nursed in mountain solitude. 
 Might some aspiring artist dare 
 To seize whate'er, through misty air, 
 A ghost, by glimpses, may present 
 Of imitable lineament. 
 And give the phantom an array 
 That less should scorn the abandoned 
 
 clay; 
 Then let him hew with patient stroke 
 An Ossian out of mural rock, 
 And leave the figurative Man — 
 Upon thy margin, roaring Bran ! — 
 Fixed, like the Templar of the steep. 
 An everlasting watch to keep; 
 With local sanctities in trust, 
 More precious than a hermit's dust; 
 And virtues through the mass infused, 
 Which old idolatry abused. 
 
 What though the Granite would deny 
 All fervor to the sightless eye; 
 And touch from rising suns in vain 
 Solicit a Memnonian strain; 
 Yet, in some fit of anger sharp. 
 The wind might force the deep-grooved 
 
 harp 
 To utter melancholy moans 
 Not unconnected with the tones 
 Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones; 
 While grove and river notes would lend, 
 Less deeply sad, with these to blend ! 
 
 Vain pleasures of luxurious life. 
 Forever with yourselves at strife; 
 Through town and country both deranged 
 By affectations interchanged. 
 And all the perishable gauds 
 That heaven-deserted man applauds; 
 When will your hapless patrons learn 
 To watch and ponder — to discern 
 The freshness, the everlasting youth. 
 Of admiration sprung from truth; 
 From beauty infinitely growing 
 Upon a mind with love o'erflowinp — 
 To sound the depths of every Art 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 599 
 
 That seeks its wisdom through the heart? 
 
 Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill- 
 graced 
 With baubles of theatric taste, 
 O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers 
 On motley bands of alien flowers 
 In stiff confusion set or sown, 
 Till Nature cannot find her own. 
 Or keep a remnant of the sod 
 Which Caledonian Heroes trod) 
 I mused; and, thirsting for redress, 
 Recoiled into the wilderness. 
 
 1S14. 1827. 
 
 IV. 
 Yarrow Visited, 
 september, 1814. 
 
 (See page 226.) 
 
 As mentioned in my verses on the death of the 
 Ettrick Shepherd, my first visit to Yarrow was in 
 his company. We had lodged the night before at 
 Traquhair, where Hogg had joined us and also 
 Dr. Anderson, the Editor of the British Poets, 
 who was on a visit at the Manse. Dr. A. walked 
 with us till we came in view of the Vale of Yarrow, 
 and, being advanced in life, he then turned back. 
 The old Man was passionately fond of poetry, 
 though with not much of a discriminating judg- 
 i^ent, as the Volumes he edited sufificjently show. 
 But I was much pleased to meet with him, and 
 to acknowledge my obligation to his collection, 
 which had been my brother John's companion in 
 more tlian one voyage to India, and which he 
 gave me before his departure from Grasmere, 
 never to return. Through these volumes I 
 became first familiar with Chaucer, and so little 
 money had I then to spare for books, that, in all 
 probability, but for this same work, I should have 
 known little of Drayton, Daniel, and other dis- 
 tinguished poets of the Elizabethan age, and 
 their immediate successors, till a much later period 
 of my life. I am glad to record this, not from any 
 importance of its own, but as a tribute of 
 gratitude to this simple-hearted old man, whom 
 I never again had the pleasure of meeting. I 
 seldom read or think of this poem without 
 regretting that my dear Sister was not of the 
 party, as she would have had so much delight in 
 recalling the time when, travelling together in 
 Scotland, we declined going in search of this 
 celebrated stream, not altogether, I will frankly 
 confess, for the reasons assigned in the poem on 
 the occasion. 
 
 And is this — Yarrow ? — This the Stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherished, 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream ? 
 
 An image that hath perished ! 
 
 O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 
 
 To utter notes of gladness. 
 
 And chase this silence from the air, 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness ! 
 
 Yet why? — a silvery current flows 
 With uncontrolled meanderings; 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 And, through her depths. Saint Mary's 
 
 Lake 
 Is visibly delighted; 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Where was it that the famous Flower 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On which the herd is feeding: 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool. 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning, 
 
 The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the Lay that sings 
 
 The haunts of happy Lovers, 
 
 The path that leads them to the grove, 
 
 The leafy grove that covers : 
 
 And Pity sanctifies the Verse 
 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
 
 The unconquerable strength of love; 
 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 
 
 But thou, that didst appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination. 
 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy; 
 
6oo 
 
 ■ FROM THE DARK CHAMBERS OF DEJECTION FREED." 
 
 The grace of forest charms decayed, 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 That region left, the vale unfolds 
 
 Rich groves of lofty stature. 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
 
 Of cultivated nature; 
 
 And, rising from those lofty groves. 
 
 Behold a Ruin hoary ! 
 
 The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 
 
 Renowned in Border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening 
 
 bloom, 
 For sportive youth to stray in; 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength; 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
 A covert for protection 
 Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 
 The brood of chaste affection. 
 
 How sweet, on this autumnal day. 
 
 The wild-wood fruits to gather. 
 
 And on my True-love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of blooming heather ! 
 
 And what if I enwreathed my own ! 
 
 'T were no offence to reason; 
 
 The sober Hills thus deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see — but not by sight alone. 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 
 
 A ray of fancy still survives — 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 
 
 Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure; 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe. 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 
 
 The vapors linger round the Heights, 
 They melt, and soon must vanish; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
 Sad thought, which I would banish. 
 But that I know, where 'er I go. 
 Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
 Will dwell with me — to heighten joy, 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. 
 
 1814. '820. 
 
 " FROM THE DARK CHAMBERS 
 OF DEJECTION FREED." 
 
 Composed in Edinburgh, during my Scotch 
 tour with Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister Miss 
 Hutchinson, in the year 1814. Poor Gillies never 
 rose above that course of extravagance in which 
 he was at that time living, and which soon reduced 
 him to poverty in all its degrading shifts, men- 
 dicity being far from the worst. I grieve when- 
 ever I think of him, for he was far from being 
 without genius, and had a generous heart, not 
 always to be found in men given up to profusion. 
 He was nephew of Lord Gillies the Scotch judge, 
 and also of the historian of Greece. He was 
 cousin to Miss Margaret Gillies, who painted so 
 many portraits with success in our house. 
 
 From the dark chambers of dejection 
 
 freed. 
 Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care. 
 Rise, Gillies, rise; the gales of youth 
 
 shall bear 
 Thy genius forward like a winged steed. 
 Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove de- 
 creed 
 In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of 
 
 air. 
 Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that 
 
 dare. 
 If aught be in them of immortal seed. 
 And reason govern that audacious flight 
 Which heavenward they direct. — Then 
 
 droop not thou. 
 Erroneously renewing a sad vow 
 In the low dell 'mid Roslin's faded grove ; 
 A cheerful life is what the Muses love, 
 A soaring spirit is their prime delight. 
 1814. 1815- 
 
 LINES. 
 
 WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN A COPY OF 
 THE AUTHOR'S POEM "THE EXCUR- 
 SION," UPON HEARING OF THE DEATH 
 OF THE LATE VICAR OF KENDAL. 
 
 To public notice, with reluctance strong, 
 Did I deliver this unfinished Song; 
 Yet for one happy issue; — and I look 
 With self-congratulation on the Book 
 Which pious, learnfed, MuRFiTT saw and' 
 read; — 
 
ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 
 
 60 1 
 
 Upon my thoughts his saintly Spirit fed; 
 
 He conned the new-born Lay with grate- 
 ful heart — 
 
 Foreboding not how soon he must depart ; 
 
 Unweeting that to him the joy was given 
 
 Which good men take with them from 
 earth to heaven. 
 Nov. 13, 1814. 1815. 
 
 TO B. R. HAYDON. 
 
 High is our calling, Friend ! — Creative 
 
 Art 
 ( Whether the instrument of words she use , 
 Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) 
 Demands the service of a mind and heart, 
 Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest 
 
 part. 
 Heroically fashioned — to infuse 
 Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, 
 While the whole world seems adverse to 
 
 desert. 
 And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she 
 
 may, 
 Through long-Hved pressure of obscure 
 
 distress. 
 Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, 
 And in the soul admit of no decay, 
 Brook no continuance of weak-minded- 
 ness — 
 Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! 
 March, 1815. 1816. 
 
 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 
 
 (SEE THE CHRONICLE OF GEOFFREY OF 
 MONMOUTH AND MILTON'S HISTORY 
 OF ENGLAND.) 
 
 This was written at Rydal Mount, as a token 
 of affectionate respect for the memory of Milton. 
 " I have determined," says he, in his preface to 
 his History of England, "to bestow the telling 
 over even of these reputed tales, be it for nothing 
 else but in favor of our English Poets and Rheto- 
 ricians, who by their wit will know how to use 
 them judiciously." 
 
 Where be the temples which, in Brit- 
 ain's Isle, 
 For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised? 
 Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile 
 Of clouds that in cerulean ether blazed ! 
 
 Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed 
 
 shore, 
 They sank, delivered o'er 
 To fatal dissolution; and, I ween. 
 No vestige then was left that such had ever 
 
 been. 
 
 Nathless, a British record (long concealed 
 In old Armorica, whose secret springs 
 No Gothic conqueror ever drank ) revealed 
 The marvellous current of forgotten 
 
 things; 
 How Brutus came, by oracles impelled, 
 
 And Albion's giants quelled, 
 A brood whom no civility could melt, 
 " Who never tasted grace, and goodness 
 
 ne'er had felt." 
 
 By brave Corineus aided, he subdued, 
 And rooted out the intolerable kind; 
 And this too-long-polluted land imbued 
 With goodly arts and usages refined; 
 Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike 
 
 towers, 
 And pleasure's sumptuous bowers; 
 Whence all the fixed delights of house 
 
 and home. 
 Friendships that will not break, and love 
 
 that cannot roam. 
 
 O, happy Britain ! region all too fair 
 For self-delighting fancy to endure 
 That silence only should inhabit there. 
 Wild beasts, or uncouth savages impure ! 
 But, intermingled with the generous seed, 
 
 Grew many a poisonous weed; 
 Thus fares it still with all that takes its 
 
 birth 
 From human care, or grows upon the 
 
 breast of earth. 
 
 Hence, and how soon ! that war of ven- 
 geance waged 
 
 By Guendolen against her faithless lord; 
 
 Till she, in jealous fury unassuaged 
 
 Had slain his paramour with ruthless 
 sword : 
 
 Then, into Severn hideously defiled, 
 -She flung her blameless child, 
 
 Sabrina, — vowing that the stream should 
 bear 
 
 That name through every age, her hatred 
 to declare. 
 
602 
 
 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 
 
 So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear 
 By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift. 
 Ye lightnings, hear his voice ! — they 
 
 cannot hear, 
 Nor can the winds restore his simple gift. 
 But One there is, a Child of nature meek. 
 
 Who comes her Sire to seek; 
 And he, recovering sense, upon her breast 
 Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect 
 
 rest. 
 
 There too we read of Spenser's fairy 
 
 themes, 
 And those that Milton loved in youthful 
 
 years; 
 The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle 
 
 schemes; 
 The feats of Arthur and his knightly 
 
 peers; 
 Of Arthur, — who, to upper light restored, 
 
 With that terrific sword 
 Which yet he brandishes for future war, 
 Shall lift his country's fame above the 
 
 polar star ! 
 
 What wonder, then, if in such ample field 
 Of old tradition, one particular flower 
 Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield, 
 And bloom unnoticed even to this late 
 
 hour? 
 Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant, 
 
 While I this flower transplant 
 Into a garden stored with Poesy; 
 Where flowers and herbs unite, and haply 
 
 some weeds be, 
 That, wanting not wild grace, are from 
 
 all mischief free ! 
 
 A King more worthy of respect and 
 
 love 
 Than wise Gorbonian ruled not in his day; 
 And grateful Britain prospered far above 
 All neighboring countries through his 
 
 righteous sway; 
 He poured rewards and honors on the 
 
 good; 
 The oppressor he withstood; 
 And while he served the Gods with 
 
 reverence due 
 Fields smiled, and temples rose, and 
 
 towns and cities grew. 
 
 He died, whom Artegal succeeds — his 
 
 son; 
 But how unworthy of that sire was he ! 
 A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun, 
 Was darkened soon by foul iniquity. 
 From crime to crime he mounted, till at 
 
 length 
 The nobles leagued their strength 
 With a vexed people, and the tyrant 
 
 chased; 
 And, on the vacant throne, his worthier 
 
 Brother placed. 
 
 From realm to realm the humbled Exile 
 
 went, 
 Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain; 
 In many a court, and many a warrior's tent, 
 He urged his persevering suit in vain. 
 Him, in whose wretched heart ambition 
 
 failed. 
 Dire poverty assailed; 
 And, tired with slig\its his pride no more 
 
 could brook. 
 He towards his native country cast a 
 
 longing look. 
 
 Fair blew the wished-for wind — the 
 
 voyage sped; 
 He landed; and, by many dangers scared, 
 " Poorly provided, poorly followed," 
 To Calaterium's forest he repaired. 
 How changed from him who, born to 
 
 highest place, 
 Had swayed the royal mace, 
 Flattered and feared, despised yet deified. 
 In Troynovant, his seat by silver Thames's 
 
 side ! 
 
 From that wild region where the crown- 
 less King 
 Lay in concealment with his scanty train, 
 Supporting life by water from the spring, 
 And such chance food as outlaws can 
 
 obtain. 
 Unto the few whom he esteems his friends 
 
 A messenger he sends; 
 And from their secret loyalty requires 
 Shelter and daily bread, — the sum of 
 
 his desires. 
 
 While he the issue waits, at early morn 
 Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced 
 to hear 
 
ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 
 
 603 
 
 A startling outcry made by hound and 
 horn, 
 
 From which the tusl<y wild boar flies in 
 fear; 
 
 And, scouring toward him o'er the grassy 
 plain, 
 Behold the hunter train ! 
 
 He bids his little company advance 
 
 With seeming unconcern and steady coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 The royal Elidure, who leads the chase, 
 Hath checked his foaming courser : — 
 
 can it be ! 
 Methinks that I should recognize that face, 
 Though much disguised by long adversity ! 
 He gazed rejoicing, and again he gazed. 
 
 Confounded and amazed — 
 "It is the king, my brother! " and, by 
 
 sound 
 Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps 
 
 upon the ground. 
 
 Long, strict, and tender was the embrace 
 
 he gave, 
 Feebly returned by daunted Artegal; 
 Whose natural affection doubts enslave. 
 And apprehensions dark and criminal. 
 Loth to restrain the moving interview. 
 
 The attendant lords withdrew; 
 And, while they stood upon the plain 
 
 apart. 
 Thus Elidure, by words, relieved his 
 
 struggling heart. 
 
 ' ' By heavenly Powers conducted, we have 
 
 met; 
 — O Brother ! to my knowledge lost so 
 
 long. 
 But neither lost to love, nor to regret. 
 Nor to my wishes lost; — forgive the 
 
 wrong, 
 (Such it may seem) if I thy crown have 
 
 borne. 
 Thy royal mantle worn : 
 I was their natural guardian; and 't is just 
 That now I should restore what hath been 
 
 held in trust." 
 
 A while the astonished Artegal stood mute. 
 Then thus exclaimed: "To me, of titles 
 shorn. 
 
 And stripped of power ! me, feeble, desti- 
 tute, 
 
 T« me a kingdom ! spare the bitter scorn : 
 
 If justice ruled the breast of foreign kings, 
 Then, on the wide-spread wings 
 
 Of war, had I returned to claim ray right; 
 
 This will I here avow, not dreading thy 
 despite." 
 
 " I do not blame thee," Elidure replied; 
 
 "But, if my looks did with my words 
 agree, 
 
 I should at once be trusted, not defied, 
 
 And thou from all disquietude be free. 
 
 May the unsullied Goddess of the chase. 
 Who to this blessed place 
 
 At this blest moment led me, if I speak 
 
 With insincere intent, on me her ven- 
 geance wreak ! 
 
 " Weje this same spear, which in my hand 
 I grasp, 
 
 The British sceptre, here would I to thee 
 
 The symbol yield; and would undo this 
 clasp, 
 
 If it confined the robe of sovereignty. 
 
 Odious to me the pomp of regal court. 
 And joyless sylvan sport. 
 
 While thou art roving, wretched and for- 
 lorn, 
 
 Thy couch the dewy earth, thy roof the 
 forest thorn ! " 
 
 Then Artegal thus spake: " I only 
 
 sought, 
 Within this realm a place of safe retreat; 
 Beware of rousing an ambitious thought; 
 Beware of kindling hopes, for me unmeet ! 
 Thou art reputed wise, but in my mind 
 
 Art pitiably blind : ■ 
 Full soon this generous purpose thou 
 
 may' St rue. 
 When that which has been done no 
 
 wishes can undo. 
 
 " Who, when a crown is fixed upon his 
 
 head. 
 Would balance claim with claim, and 
 
 right with right? 
 But thou — I know not how inspired, 
 
 how led — 
 Wouldst change the course of things in 
 
 all men's sight ! 
 
6o4 
 
 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 
 
 And this for one who cannot imitate 
 
 Thy virtue, who may hate: 
 For, if, by such strange sacrifice restored, 
 He reign, thou still must be his king, 
 and sovereign lord; 
 
 " Lifted in magnanimity above 
 Aught that my feeble nature could per- 
 form. 
 Or even conceive; surpassing me in love 
 Far as in power the eagle doth the worm. 
 I, Brother ! only should be king in name, 
 
 And govern to my shame; 
 A shadow in a hated land, while all 
 Of glad or willing service to thy share 
 would fall." 
 
 ' ' Believe it not, ' ' said Elidure ; ' ' respect 
 Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most 
 Attends on goodness with dominion 
 
 decked, 
 Which stands the universal empire's 
 
 boast ; 
 This can thy own experience testify : 
 
 Nor shall thy foes deny 
 That, in the gracious opening of thy reign. 
 Our father's spirit seemed in thee to 
 
 breathe again. 
 
 " And what if o'er thy bright unbosoming 
 Clouds of disgrace and envious fortune 
 
 past ! 
 Have we not seen the glories of the spring 
 By veil of noontide darkness overcast? 
 The frith that glittered like a warrior's 
 
 shield. 
 The sky, the gay green field, 
 Are vanished; gladness ceases in the 
 
 groves. 
 And trepidation strikes the blackened 
 
 mountain-coves. 
 
 "But is that gloom dissolved? how pass- 
 ing clear 
 
 Seems the wide world, far brighter than 
 before ! 
 
 Even so thy latent worth will re-appear. 
 
 Gladdening the people's heart from shore 
 to shore; 
 
 For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone ; 
 Re-seated on thy throne. 
 
 Proof shaft thou furnish that misfortune, 
 pain. 
 
 And sorrow, have confirmed thy native 
 right to reign. 
 
 " But, not to overlook what thou may'st 
 
 know. 
 Thy enemies are neither weak nor few; 
 And circumspect must be our course, and 
 
 slow, 
 Or from my purpose ruin may ensue. 
 Dismiss thy followers; — let them calmly 
 
 wait 
 Such change in thy estate 
 As I already have in thougnt devised; 
 And which, with caution due, may soon 
 
 be realized." 
 
 The Story tells what courses were pursued, 
 Until king Elidure, with full consent 
 Of all his peers, before the multitude. 
 Rose, — and, to consummate this just in- 
 tent, 
 Did place upon his brother's head the 
 crown. 
 Relinquished by his own; 
 Then to his people cried, " Receive your 
 
 lord, 
 Gorbonian's first-born son, your rightful 
 king restored ! " 
 
 The people answered with a loud acclaim : 
 Yet more; — heart-smitten by the heroic 
 
 deed. 
 The reinstated Artegal became 
 Earth's noblest penitent; from bondage 
 
 freed 
 Of vice — thenceforth unable to subvert 
 
 Or shake his high desert. 
 Long did he reign; and, when he died, 
 
 the tear 
 Of universal grief bedewed his honored 
 
 bier. 
 
 Thus was a Brother by a Brother saved; 
 With whom a crown (temptation that hath 
 
 set 
 Discord in hearts of men till they have 
 
 braved 
 Their nearest kin with deadly purpose met) 
 'Gainst duty weighed, and faithful love, 
 
 did seem 
 A thing of no esteem; 
 And, from this triumph of affection pure. 
 He bore the lasting name of " pious 
 
 Elidure." 
 
"THE FAIREST, BRIGHTEST, HUES OF ETHER FADE." 605 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1815. 
 
 " For me who under kindlier laws." This con- 
 clusion has more than once, to my great regret, 
 excited painfully sad feelings in the hearts of 
 young persons fond of poetry and poetic com- 
 position, by contrast of their feeble and declining 
 health with that state of robust constitution which 
 prompted me to rejoice in a season of frost and 
 snow as more favorable to the Muses than sum- 
 mer itself. 
 
 While not a leaf seems faded; while the 
 
 fields. 
 With ripening harvest prodigally fair, 
 In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping 
 
 air, 
 Sent from some distant clime where Win- 
 ter wields 
 His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields 
 Of bitter change, and bids the flowers 
 
 beware; 
 And whispers to the silent birds, " Prepare 
 Against the threatening foe your trustiest 
 
 shields." 
 For me, who under kindlier laws belong 
 To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry 
 Through leaves yet green, and yon crystal- 
 line sky. 
 Announce a season potent to renew, 
 'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys 
 
 of song, 
 And nobler cares than listless summer 
 knew. 
 
 NOVEMBER, i. 
 
 Suggested on the banks of the Brathay by the 
 sight of Langdale Pikes. It is delightful to re- 
 member these moments of far-distant days, which 
 probably would have been forgotten if the im- 
 pression had not been transferred to verse. The 
 same observation applies to the next. 
 
 How clear, how keen, how marvellously 
 
 bright 
 The effluence from yon distant mountain's 
 
 head, 
 Which, strewn with snow smooth as the 
 
 sky can shed. 
 Shines like another sun — on mortal sight 
 Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, 
 And all her twinkling stais. Who now 
 
 would tread. 
 
 If so he might, yon mountain's glittering 
 
 head — 
 Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 
 Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, 
 Unswept, unstained ? Nor shall the aerial 
 
 Powers 
 Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, 
 White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure. 
 Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring 
 Has filled the laughing vales with wel- 
 come flowers. 
 1815. 1816. 
 
 "THE FAIREST, BRIGHTEST, HUES 
 OF ETHER FADE." 1 
 
 Suggested at Hacket, which is on the craggy 
 ridge that rises between the two Langdales and 
 looks towards Windermere. The Cottage of 
 Hacket was often visited by us, and at the time 
 when this Sonnet was written, and long after, 
 was occupied by the husband and wife described 
 in the " Excursion," where it is mentioned that 
 she was in the habit of walking in the front of the 
 dwelling with a light to guide her husband home 
 at night. The same cottage is alluded to in the 
 " Epistle to Sir George Beaumont" as that from 
 which the female peasant hailed us on our morn- 
 ing journey. The musician mentioned in the 
 Sonnet was the Rev. Samuel Tillbrook of Peter- 
 house, Cambridge, who remodelled the Ivy Cot- 
 tage at Rydal after he had purchased it. 
 
 The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade; 
 
 The sweetest notes must terminate and 
 die; 
 
 O Friend-! thy flute has breathed a har- 
 mony 
 
 Softly resounded through this rocky glade ; 
 
 Such strains of rapture as ^ the Genius 
 played 
 
 In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit 
 high; 
 
 He who stood visible to Mirza's eye. 
 
 Never before to human sight betrayed. 
 
 Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening 
 spread ! 
 
 The visionary Arches are not there. 
 
 Nor the green Islands, nor the shining 
 Seas: 
 
 1 This and the following eight sonnets were 
 composed between the years 1810-15. 
 ^ See the Vision of Mirza in the Spectator. 
 
6o6 
 
 ■ WEAK IS THE WILL OF MAN." 
 
 Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, 
 Whence I have risen, uplifted, on the 
 
 breeze 
 Of harmony, above all earthly care. 
 
 1815. 
 
 "WEAK IS THE WILL OF MAN, 
 HIS JUDGMENT BLIND." 
 
 " Weak is the will of Man, his judgment 
 blind; 
 
 Remembrance persecutes, and Hope be- 
 trays; 
 
 Heavy is woe; — and joy, for human- 
 kind, 
 
 A mournful thing, so transient is the 
 blaze!" 
 
 Thus might Ae paint our lot of mortal days 
 
 Who wants the glorious faculty assigned 
 
 To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, 
 
 And color life's dark cloud with orient 
 rays. 
 
 Imagination is that sacred power. 
 
 Imagination lofty and refined; 
 
 'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower 
 
 Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples 
 bind 
 
 Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest 
 shower. 
 
 And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest 
 wind. 
 
 "HAIL, TWILIGHT, SOVEREIGN 
 OF ONE PEACEFUL HOUR." 
 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful 
 
 hour ! 
 Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night; 
 But studious only to remove from sight 
 Day's mutable distinctions. — Ancient 
 
 Power ! 
 Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains 
 
 lower. 
 To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin 
 
 vest 
 Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest 
 On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower 
 Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him 
 
 was seen 
 The self-same Vision which we now be- 
 . hold, 
 
 At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! 
 brought forth 
 
 These mighty barriers, and the gulf be- 
 tween; 
 
 The flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old 
 
 As the beginning of the heavens and earth ! 
 
 "THE SHEPHERD, LOOKING 
 EASTWARD, SOFTLY SAID. " 
 
 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly 
 
 said, 
 " Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art 
 
 bright!" 
 Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether 
 
 spread 
 And penetrated all with tender light, 
 She cast away, and showed her fulgent 
 
 head 
 Uncovered; dazzling the Beholder's sight 
 As if to vindicate her beauty's right 
 Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. 
 Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown 
 
 aside, 
 Went floating from her, darkening as it 
 
 went; 
 And a huge mass, to bury or to hide, 
 Approached this glory of the firmament; 
 Who meekly yields, and is obscured — 
 
 content 
 With one calm triumph of a modest pride. 
 
 1815. 
 
 " EVEN AS A DRAGON'S EYE THAT 
 FEELS THE STRESS." 
 
 Even as a dragon's eye that feels the 
 
 stress 
 Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp 
 Suddenly glaring through sepulchral 
 
 damp. 
 So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess 
 Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless: 
 The lake below reflects it not; the sky. 
 Muffled in clouds, affords no company 
 To mitigate and cheer its lonehness. 
 Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing 
 Which sends so far its melancholy light. 
 Perhaps are seated in domestic ring 
 A gay society with faces bright. 
 
"BROOK! WHOSli SOCIETY THE POET SEEKS.' 
 
 607 
 
 Conversing, reading, laughing; — or they 
 
 sing. 
 While hearts and voices in the song unite. 
 
 "MARK THE CONCENTRED 
 HAZELS THAT ENCLOSE." 
 
 Suggested in the wild hazel wood at the foot of 
 Helm-crag, where the stone still lies, with others 
 of like form and character, though much of the 
 wood that veiled it from the glare of day has been 
 felled. This beautiful ground was lately purchased 
 by our friend Mrs. Fletcher, the ancient owners, 
 most respected persons, being obliged to part with 
 it in consequence of the imprudence of a son. It 
 is gratifying to mention that, instead of murmur- 
 ing and repining at this change of fortune, they 
 offered their services to Mrs. Fletcher, the hus- 
 band as an out-door laborer, and the wife as a 
 domestic servant. I have witnessed the pride and 
 pleasure with which the man worked at improve- 
 ments of the ground round the house. Indeed, he 
 expressed those feelings to me himself, and the 
 countenance and manner of his wife always de- 
 noted feelings of the same character. I believe a 
 similar disposition to contentment under change 
 of fortune is common among the class to which 
 these good people belong. Yet, in proof that to 
 part with their patrimony is most painful to them, 
 I may refer to those stanzas entitled "Repent- 
 ance," no inconsiderable part of which was taken 
 verbatim from the language of the speaker herself. 
 
 Mark the concentred hazels that enclose 
 Yon old gray Stone, protected from the ray 
 Of noontide suns : — and even the beams 
 
 that play 
 And glance, while wantonly the rough 
 
 wind blows. 
 Are seldom free to touch the moss that 
 
 grows 
 Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom. 
 The very image framing of a Tomb, 
 In which some ancient Chieftain finds re- 
 pose 
 Among the lonely mountains. — Live, ye 
 
 trees ! 
 And thou , gray Stone, the pensive likeness 
 
 keep 
 Of a dark chamber where the Mighty 
 
 sleep: 
 For more than Fancy to the influence 
 
 bends 
 
 When solitary Nature condescends 
 To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. 
 
 1815. 
 
 TO THE POET, JOHN DYER. 
 
 Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius 
 
 made 
 That work a living landscape fair and 
 
 bright; 
 Nor hallowed less with musical delight 
 Than those soft scenes through which thy 
 
 childhood strayed. 
 Those southern tracts of Cambria, " deep 
 
 embayed, 
 With green hills fenced, with ocean's 
 
 murmur lulled; " 
 Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet 
 
 culled 
 For worthless brows, while in the pensive 
 
 shade 
 Of cold neglect she leaves thy head un- 
 
 graced. 
 Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts 
 
 meek and still, 
 A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay, 
 Long as the shepherd's bleating flock 
 
 shall stray 
 O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste : 
 Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar 
 
 Hill! 
 
 "BROOK! WHOSE SOCIETY THE 
 POET SEEKS." 
 
 Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks, 
 
 Intent his wasted spirits to renew; 
 
 And whom the curious Painter doth pur- 
 sue 
 
 Through rocky passes, among flowery 
 creeks. 
 
 And tracks thee dancing down thy water- 
 breaks; 
 
 If wish were mine some type of thee to 
 view, 
 
 Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not 
 do 
 
 Like Grecian Artists, give thee human 
 cheeks, 
 
 Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st 
 thou be, — 
 
6o8 
 
 "SURPRISED BY JOY — IMPATIENT AS THE WIND.' 
 
 Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints 
 
 nor hairs : 
 It seems the Eternal. Soul is clothed in 
 
 thee 
 With purer robes than those of flesh and 
 
 blood, 
 And hath bestowed on thee a safer good; 
 Unwearied joy, and life without its cares. 
 
 1815. 
 
 " SURPRISED BY JOY— IMPATIENT 
 AS THE WIND." 
 
 This was in fact suggested by my daughter 
 Catharine long after her death. ' 
 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the 
 
 Wind . 
 I turned to share the transport — Oh! 
 
 with whom 
 But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb. 
 That spot which no vicissitude can find? 
 Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my 
 
 mind — 
 But how could I forget thee? Through 
 
 what power, 
 Even for the least division of an hour. 
 Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
 To my most grievous loss? — That 
 
 thought's return 
 Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore. 
 Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 
 Knowing my heart's best treasure was no 
 
 more; 
 That neither present time, nor years un- 
 born 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face 
 
 restore. 
 
 1815. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 THE MORNING OF THE DAY APPOINTED 
 FOR A GENERAL THANKSGIVING. 
 JANUARY 18, 1816.'' 
 
 The first stanza of this Ode was composed 
 almost extempore, in front of Rydal Mount, 
 before church-time, and on such a morning and 
 precisely with such objects before my eyes as are 
 here described. The view fallen of Napoleon's 
 character and proceedings is little in accordance 
 with that taken by some historians and critical 
 philosophers. I am gladand proud of thediffer- 
 ence, and trust that this series of poems, infinitely 
 1 See Note. 
 
 below the subject as they are, will survive lo 
 counteract, in unsophisticated minds, the perni- 
 cious and degrading tendency of those views and 
 doctrines that lead to the idolatry of power, as 
 power, and, in that false splendor to lose sjght 
 of its real nature and constitution as it often acts 
 for the gratification of its possessor without 
 reference to a beneficial end — an infirmity that 
 has characterized men of all ages, classes, and 
 employments, since Nimrod became a mighty 
 hunter before the Lord. 
 
 I. 
 Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night ! 
 Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude 
 On hearts howe'er insensible or rude; 
 Whether thy punctual visitations smite 
 The haughty towers where monarchs 
 
 dwell; 
 Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence 
 
 bright 
 Cheer'st the low threshold of the peas- 
 ant's cell ! 
 Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky 
 In naked splendor, clear from mist or 
 
 haze. 
 Or cloud approaching to divert the rays. 
 Which even in deepest winter testify 
 
 Thy power and majesty, 
 Dazzlingthe vision that presumes to gaze. 
 — Well does thine aspect usher in this Day ; 
 As aptly suits therewith that modest pace 
 
 Submitted to the chains 
 That bind thee to the path which God 
 
 ordains 
 That thou shalt trace. 
 Till, with the heavens and earth, thou 
 
 pass away ! 
 Nor less, the stillness of these frosty 
 
 plains. 
 Their utter stillness, and the silent grace 
 Of yon ethereal summits white with snow, 
 (Whose tranquil pomp and spotless purity 
 Report of storms gone by 
 To us who tread below) 
 Do with the service of this Day accord. 
 — Divinest Object which the uplifted eye 
 Of mortal man is suffered to behold; 
 Thou, who upon those snow-clad Heights 
 
 has poured 
 Meek lustre, nor forget'st the humble 
 
 Vale; 
 Thou who dost warm Earth's universal 
 
 mould, 
 
ODE. 
 
 609 
 
 And for thy bounty wert not unadored 
 
 By pious men of old; 
 Once more, heart-cheermg Sun, I bid 
 
 thee hail ! 
 Bright be thy course to-day, let not this 
 
 promise fail ! 
 
 'Mid the deep quiet of this morning 
 
 hour, 
 All nature seems to hear me while I speak, 
 By feelings urged that do not vainly seek 
 Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes 
 That stream in blithe succession from the 
 
 throats 
 Of birds, in leafy bower, 
 Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower. 
 — There is a radiant though a short-lived 
 
 flame. 
 That burns for Poets in the dawning east; 
 And oft my soul hath kindled at the same. 
 When the captivity of sleep had ceased; 
 But He who fixed immovably the frame 
 Of the. round world, and built, by laws 
 
 as strong, 
 A solid refuge for distress — 
 The towers of righteousness; 
 He knows that from a holier altar came 
 The quickening spark of this day's sacri- 
 fice; 
 Knows that the source is nobler whence 
 
 doth rise 
 The current of this matin song; 
 
 That deeper far it lies 
 Than aught dependent on the fickle skies. 
 
 Have we not conquered? — by the 
 vengeful sword? 
 
 Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity; 
 
 That curbed the baser passions, and left 
 free 
 
 A loyal band to follow their liege Lord 
 
 Clear-sighted Honor, and his staid Com- 
 peers, 
 
 Along a track of most unnatural years; 
 
 In execution of heroic deeds 
 
 Whose memory, spotless as the crystal 
 beads 
 
 Of morning dew upon the untrodden 
 meads. 
 
 Shall live enrolled above the starry 
 spheres. 
 
 He, who in concert with an earthly string 
 Of Britain's acts would sing, 
 He with enraptured voice will tell 
 
 Of One whose spirit no reverse could 
 quell ; 
 
 Of One that 'mid the failing never failed — 
 
 Who paints how Britain struggled and 
 prevailed 
 
 Shall represent her laboring with an eye 
 Of circumspect humanity; 
 
 Shall show her clothed with strength and 
 skill, 
 All martial duties to fulfil; 
 
 Firm as a rock in stationary fight; 
 
 In motion rapid as the lightning's gleam; 
 
 Fierce as a flood-gate bursting at midnight 
 
 To rouse the wicked from their giddy 
 dream — 
 
 Woe, woe to all that face her in the field ! 
 
 Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield. 
 
 And thus is missed the sole true glory 
 That can belong to human story ! 
 At which they only shall arrive 
 Who through the abyss of weakness 
 dive. 
 The very humblest are too proud of heart; 
 And one brief day is rightly set apart 
 For Him who lifteth up and layeth low; 
 For that Almighty God to whom we owe, 
 Say not that we have vanquished — but 
 that we survive. 
 
 V. 
 How dreadful the dominion of the 
 
 impure ! 
 Why should the Song be tardy to proclaim 
 That less than power unbounded could 
 
 not tame • 
 
 That soul of Evil — which, from hell let 
 
 loose. 
 Had filled the astonishedworld with such 
 
 abuse 
 As boundless patience only could endure? 
 — Wide-wasted regions — cities wrapt in 
 
 flame — 
 Who sees, may lift a streaming eye 
 To Heaven; — who never saw, may heave 
 
 a sigh; 
 But the foundation of our nature shakes, 
 And with an infinite pain the spirit aches, 
 
6io 
 
 ODE. 
 
 When desolated countries, towns on fire, 
 
 Are but the avowed attire 
 Of warfare waged with desperate mind 
 Against the life of virtue in mankind; 
 
 Assaulting without ruth 
 
 The citadels of truth; 
 While the fair gardens of civility, 
 
 By ignorance defaced, 
 
 By violence laid waste, 
 Perish without reprieve for flower or tree ! 
 
 A crouching purpose — a distracted 
 
 will — 
 Opposed to hopes that battened upon 
 
 scorn. 
 And to desires whose ever-waxing horn 
 Not all the light of earthly power could 
 
 fill; 
 Opposed to dark, deep plots of patient 
 
 skill, 
 And to celerities of lawless force; 
 Which, spurning God, had flung away 
 
 remorse — 
 What could they gain but shadows of 
 
 redress? 
 
 — So bad proceeded propagating worse; 
 And discipline was passion's dire excess.' 
 Widens the fatal web, its lines extend. 
 And deadlier poisons in the chalice blend. 
 When will your trials teach you to be wise ? 
 
 — O prostrate Lands, consult your 
 
 agonies ! 
 
 No more — the guilt is banished, 
 And, with the guilt, the shame is fled; 
 And, with the guilt and shame, the Woe 
 
 hath vanished, 
 Shalfing the dust and ashes from her head ! 
 — No more — these lingerings of distress 
 Sully the limpid stream of thankfulness. 
 What robe can Gratitude employ 
 So seemly as the radiant vest of Joy? 
 What steps so suitable as those that move 
 In prompt obedience to spontaneous 
 
 measures 
 Of glory, and felicity, and love. 
 Surrendering the whole heart to sacred 
 
 pleasures? 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 O Britain ! dearer far than life is dear. 
 If one there be 
 Of all thy progeny 
 Who can forget thy prowess, never more 
 Be that ungrateful Son allowed to hear 
 Thy green leaves rustle or thy torrents 
 
 roar. 
 As springs the lion from his den. 
 As from a forest-brake 
 Upstarts a glistering snake. 
 The bold Arch-despot re-appeared; — 
 
 again 
 Wide Europe heaves, impatient to be cast. 
 With all her arm^d Powers, 
 On that offensive soil, like waves 
 upon a thousand shores. 
 The trumpet blew a universal blast ! 
 But Thou art foremost in the field : — 
 
 there stand: 
 Receive the triumph destined to thy hand ! 
 All States have glorified themselves; — 
 
 their claims 
 Are weighed by Providence, in balance 
 
 even; 
 And now, in preference to the mightiest 
 
 names. 
 To Thee the exterminating sword is given. 
 Dread mark of approbation, justly gained ! 
 Exalted office, worthily sustained ! 
 
 IX. 
 Preserve, O Lord ! within our hearts 
 The memory of thy favor. 
 That else insensibly departs. 
 And loses its sweet savor ! 
 Lodge it within us ! — as the power of 
 
 light 
 Lives inexhaustibly in precious gems, 
 Fixed on the front of Eastern diadems. 
 So shine our thankfulness forever bright ! 
 What offering, what transcendent monu- 
 ment. 
 Shall our sincerity to Thee present? 
 — Not work of hands; but trophies that 
 
 may reach 
 To highest heaven — the labor of the Soul ; 
 That builds, as thy unerring precepts 
 
 teach. 
 Upon the internal conquests made by each. 
 Her hope of lasting glory for the whole. 
 Yet will not heaven disown nor earth 
 gainsay 
 
ODE. 
 
 6ii 
 
 The outward service of this day; 
 
 Whether the worshippers entreat 
 
 Forgiveness from God's mercy-seat; 
 
 Or thanks and praises to His throne as- 
 cend 
 
 That He has brought our warfare to an 
 end, 
 
 And that we need no second victory ! — 
 
 Ha ! what a ghastly sight for man to see; 
 
 And to the heavenly saints in peace who 
 dwell, 
 For a brief moment, terrible; 
 
 But, to thy sovereign penetration, fair. 
 
 Before whom all things are, that were. 
 
 All judgments that have been, or e'er 
 shall be; 
 
 Links in the chain of thy tranquillity ! 
 
 Along the bosom of this favored Nation, 
 
 Breathe Thou, this day, a vital undula- 
 tion ! 
 Let all who do this land inherit 
 Be conscious of thy moving spirit ! 
 
 Oh, 't is a goodly Ordinance, — the sight. 
 
 Though sprung from bleeding war, is one 
 of pure delight; 
 
 Bless Thou the hour, or ere the hour 
 arrive. 
 
 When a whole people shall kneel down 
 in prayer, 
 
 And, at one moment, in one rapture, 
 strive 
 
 With lip and heart to tell their gratitude 
 For thy protecting care. 
 
 Their solemn joy — praising the Eternal 
 Lord 
 For tyranny subdued. 
 
 And for the sway of equity renewed, 
 
 For liberty confirmed, and peace restored ! 
 
 But hark — the summons ! — down the 
 placid lake 
 
 Floats the soft cadence of the church- 
 tower bells; 
 
 Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams 
 would wake 
 
 The tender insects sleeping in their cells; 
 
 Bright shines the Sun — and not a breeze 
 to shake 
 
 The drops that tip the melting icicles. 
 C, enter now his temple gate ! 
 
 Inviting words — perchance already flung 
 
 (As the crowd press devoutly down the 
 
 aisle 
 Of some old Minster's venerable pile) 
 From voices into zealous passion stung, 
 While the tubed engine feels the inspir- 
 ing blast. 
 And has begun — its clouds of sound to 
 cast 
 Forth towards empyreal Heaven, 
 As if the fretted roof were riven. 
 Us, humbler ceremonies now await; 
 But in the bosom, with devout respect 
 The banner of our joy we will erect. 
 And strength of love our souls shall ele- 
 vate: 
 For to a few collected in his name, 
 Their heavenly Father will incline an ear 
 Gracious to service hallowed by its aim ; — 
 Awake ! the majesty of God revere ! 
 
 Go — and with foreheads meekly 
 bowed 
 Present your prayers — go — and rejoice 
 aloud — 
 • The Holy One will hear ! 
 
 And what, 'mid silence deep, with faith 
 
 sincere, 
 Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate, 
 Shall simply feel and purely meditate — • 
 Of warnings — from the unprecedented 
 
 might. 
 Which, in our time, the impious have dis- 
 closed; 
 And of more arduous duties thence im- 
 posed 
 Upon the future advocates of right: 
 Of mysteries revealed. 
 And judgments unrepealed. 
 Of earthly revolution, 
 And final retribution, — 
 To his omniscience will appear 
 An offering not unworthy to find place. 
 On this high Day of Thanks, before the 
 Throne of Grace ! 
 1816. 1816. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Imagination — ne'er before content, 
 But aye ascending, restless in her pride 
 From all that martial feats could yield 
 To her desires, or to her hopes present — 
 
6l2 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Stooped to the Victory, on that Belgic 
 
 field, 
 Achieved, this closing deed magnificent. 
 And with the embrace was satisfied. 
 — Fly, ministers of Fame, 
 With every help that ye from earth and 
 
 heaven may claim ! 
 Bear through the world these tidings of 
 delight ! 
 
 — Hours, Days, and Months, have borne 
 
 them in the sight 
 Of mortals, hurrying like a sudden shower 
 That landward stretches from the sea, 
 The morning's splendors to devour; 
 But this swift travel scorns the company 
 Of irksome change, or threats from sad- 
 dening power. 
 — The shock is given — the Adversa- 
 ries bleed — 
 Lo, jfustice triumphs ! Earth is 
 freed ! 
 Joyful annunciation ! — it went forth — 
 It pierced the caverns of the sluggish 
 North — 
 
 It found no barrier on the ridge 
 Of Andes — frozen gulphs became its 
 
 bridge — 
 The vast Pacific gladdens with the 
 
 freight — 
 Upon the Lakes of Asia 'tis bestowed — 
 The Arabian desert shapes a willing road 
 
 Across her burning breast. 
 For this refreshing incense from the 
 West ! — 
 
 — Where snakes and lions breed. 
 Where towns and cities thick as stars 
 
 appear, 
 Wherever fruits are gathered, and 
 
 where'er 
 The upturned soil receives the hopeful 
 
 seed — 
 While the Sun rules, and cross the shades 
 
 of night — 
 The unwearied arrow hath pursued its 
 
 flight ! 
 The eyes of good men thankfully give 
 
 heed. 
 And in its sparkling progress read 
 Of virtue crowned with glory's deathless 
 
 meed: 
 Tyrants exult to hear of kingdoms won, 
 And slaves are pleased to learn that 
 
 mighty feats are done; 
 
 Even the proud Realm, from whose dis- 
 tracted borders 
 
 This messenger of good was launched in 
 air, 
 
 France, humbled France, amid her wild 
 disorders. 
 
 Feels, and hereafter shall the truth de- 
 clare. 
 
 That she too lacks not reason to rejoice. 
 
 And utter England's name with sadly- 
 plausive voice. 
 
 O genuine glory, pure renown ! 
 
 And well might it beseem that mighty 
 
 Town 
 Into whose bosom earth's best treasures 
 
 flow, 
 To whom all persecuted men retreat; 
 If a new Temple lift her votive brow 
 High on the shore of silver Thames — to 
 
 greet 
 The peaceful guest advancing from afar 
 Bright be the Fabric, as a star 
 Fresh risen, and beautiful within ! — there 
 
 meet 
 Dependence infinite, proportion just; 
 A Pile that Grace approves, and Time 
 
 can trust 
 With his most sacred wealth, heroic dust. 
 
 But if the valiant of this land 
 In reverential modesty demand. 
 That all observance, due to them, be paid 
 Where their serene progenitors are laid; 
 Kings, warriors, high-souled poets, saint- 
 like sages, 
 England's illustrious sons of long, long 
 
 ages; 
 Be it not unordained that solemn rites, 
 Within the circuit of those Gothic walls. 
 Shall be performed at pregnant intervals; 
 Commemoration holy that unites 
 The living generations with the dead; 
 By the deep soul-moving sense 
 Of religious eloquence, — 
 By visual pomp, and by the tie 
 Of sweet and threatening harmony; 
 Soft notes, awful as the omen 
 Of destructive tempests coming. 
 And escaping from that sadness 
 Into elevated gladness; 
 
INVOCATION TO THE EARTH. 
 
 While the white-robed choir attend- 
 ant. 
 Under mouldering banners pendant, 
 Provoke all potent symphonies to raise 
 
 Songs of victory and praise. 
 For them who bravely stood unhurt, or 
 
 bled 
 With medicable wounds, or found their 
 
 graves 
 Upon the battle field,' or under ocean's 
 
 waves; 
 Or were conducted home in single state. 
 And long procession — there to lie, 
 Where their sons' sons, and all posterity. 
 Unheard by them, their deeds shall cele- 
 brate ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Nor will the God of peace and love 
 Such martial service disapprove. 
 He guides the Pestilence — the 
 
 cloud 
 Of locusts travels on his breath; 
 The region that in hope was ploughed 
 His drought consumes, his mildew taints 
 with death; 
 He springs the hushed Volcano's 
 mine. 
 He puts the Earthquakeonherstill design, 
 Darkens the sun, hath bade the forest sink. 
 And, drinking towns and cities, still can 
 
 drink 
 Cities and towns — 't is Thou — the work 
 
 is Thine ! — 
 The fierce Tornado sleeps within thy 
 courts — 
 He hears the word — he flies — 
 And navies perish in their ports; 
 For Thou art angry with thine enemies ! 
 For these, and mourning for our 
 
 errors, 
 And sins, that point their terrors. 
 We bow our heads before Thee, and we 
 
 laud 
 And magnify thy name, Almighty God ! 
 But Man is thy most awful instrument. 
 In working out a pure intent; 
 Thou cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling 
 
 mail, 
 And for thy righteous purpose they pre- 
 vail; 
 Thine arm from peril guards the 
 coasts 
 
 Of them who in thy laws delight : 
 Thy presence turns the scale of doubtf> 
 
 fight, 
 Tremendous God of battles, Lord ol 
 
 Hosts ! 
 
 Forbear ; — to Thee — 
 Father and Judge of all, with fervent 
 
 tongue 
 But in a gentler strain 
 Of contemplation, by no sense of wrong, 
 (Too quick and keen) incited to disdain 
 Of pity pleading from the heart in vain — ■ 
 
 To Thee —To Thee — 
 Just God of christianized Humanity 
 Shall praises be poured forth, and thanks 
 
 ascend. 
 That thou hast brought our warfare to an 
 
 end. 
 And that we need no second victory ! 
 Blest, above measure blest. 
 If on thy love our Land her hopes shall 
 
 rest. 
 And all the Nations labor to fulfil 
 Thy law, and live henceforth in peace, in 
 
 pure good will. 
 iSi6. 1816. 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE EARTH. 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 Composed immediately after the " Thanksgiv- 
 ing Ode," to which it may be considered as a 
 second part. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Rest, rest, perturbed Earth ! 
 O rest, thou doleful Mother of Man- 
 kind ! " 
 A Spirit sang in tones more plaintive than 
 
 the wind: 
 " From regions where no evil thii^ has 
 
 birth 
 I come — thy stains to wash away. 
 Thy cherished fetters to unbind, 
 And open thy sad eyes upon a milder 
 
 day. 
 The Heavens are thronged with martyrs 
 that have risen 
 
 From out thy noisome prison; 
 The penal caverns groan 
 
6i4 
 
 ODE. 
 
 With tens of thousands rent from off the 
 tree 
 
 Of hopeful life, — by battle's whirlwind 
 blown 
 
 Into the deserts of Eternity. 
 
 Unpitied havoc ! Victims unlamented ! 
 
 But not on high, where madness is re- 
 sented. 
 
 And murder causes some sad tears to 
 flow. 
 
 Though, from the widely sweeping blow, 
 
 The choirs of Angels spread, triumphantly 
 augmented. 
 
 " False Parent of Mankind ! 
 Obdurate, proud, and blind, 
 I sprinkle thee with soft celestial dews. 
 Thy lost, maternal heart to re-infuse ! 
 Scattering this far-fetched moisture from 
 
 my wings. 
 Upon the act a blessing I implore. 
 Of which the rivers in their secret springs. 
 The rivers stained so oft with human gore, 
 Are conscious; — may the hke return no 
 
 more ! 
 May Discord — for a Seraph's care 
 Shall be attended with a bolder prayer — 
 May she, who once disturbed the seats of 
 bliss 
 
 These mortal spheres above. 
 Be chained forever to the black abyss. 
 And thou, O rescued Earth, by peace and 
 
 love, 
 And merciful desires, thy sanctity ap- 
 prove ! ' ' 
 The Spirit ended his mysterious rite. 
 And the pure vision closed in darkness 
 infinite. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 - Carmina possumus 
 
 Donare, et pretium dicere muneri. 
 Non incisa notis marmora publicis, 
 Per quK spiritus et vita redit bonis 
 Post mortem ducibus 
 
 clarius indicant 
 
 Laudes, quam Pierides ; neque, 
 
 Si chartas sileant quod bene feceris, 
 Mercedem tuleris. — HoR. Car. 8. Lib. 4. 
 
 When the soft hand of sleep had closed 
 
 the latch 
 On the tired household of corporeal sense, 
 And Fancy, keeping unreluctant watch, 
 Was free her choicest favors to dispense; 
 I saw, in wondrous perspective displayed, 
 A landscape more august than happiest 
 
 skill 
 Of pencil ever dothed with light and 
 
 shade; 
 An intermingled pomp of vale and hill. 
 City, and naval stream, suburban grove. 
 And stately forest where the wild deer 
 
 rove; 
 Nor wanted lurking hamlet, dusky towns, 
 And scattered rural farms of aspect bright; 
 And, here and there, between the pas- 
 toral downs. 
 The azure sea upswelled upon the sight. 
 Fair prospect, such as Britain only shows ! 
 But not a living creature could be seen 
 Through its wide circuit, that, in deep 
 
 repose. 
 And, even to sadness, lonely and serene, 
 Lay hushed; till — through a portal in 
 
 the sky 
 Brighter than brightest loop-hole, in a 
 
 storm, 
 Opening before the sun's triumphant 
 
 eye — 
 Issued, to sudden view, a glorious Form ! 
 Earthward it glided with a swift descent : 
 Saint George himself this Visitant must 
 
 be; 
 And, ere a thought could ask on what 
 
 intent 
 He sought the regions of Humanity, 
 A thrilling voice was heard, that vivified 
 City and field and flood ; — aloud it cried — 
 
 " Though from my celestial home, 
 " Like a Champion, armed I come; 
 " On my helm the dragon crest, 
 " And the red cross on my breast; 
 " I, the Guardian of this Land, 
 " Speak not now of toilsome duty; 
 " Well obeyed- was that command — 
 " Whence bright days of festive 
 beauty; 
 "Haste, Virgins, haste! — the flowers 
 which summer gave 
 " Have perished in the field; 
 
ODE. 
 
 6is 
 
 ' But the green thickets plenteonsly shall 
 yield 
 " Fit garlands for the brave, 
 
 ' That will be welcome, if by you en- 
 twined; 
 
 'Haste, Virgins, haste; and you, ye 
 Matrons grave, 
 
 ' Go forth with rival youthfulness of 
 mind, 
 " And gather what ye find 
 
 ' Of hardy laurel and wild holly boughs — 
 
 ' To deck your stern Defenders' modest 
 brovvs ! 
 " Such simple gifts prepare, 
 
 ' Though they have gained a worthier 
 meed; 
 " And in due time shall share 
 
 ' Those palms and amaranthine wreaths 
 
 ' Unto their martyred Countrymen de- 
 creed, 
 
 ' In realms where everlasting freshness 
 breathes ! " 
 
 And lo ! with crimson banners proudly 
 streaming. 
 And upright weapons innocently gleam- 
 ing- 
 Along the surface of a spacious plain 
 Advance in order the redoubted Bands, 
 And there receive green chaplets from 
 the hands 
 Of a fair female train — 
 Maids and Matrons, dight 
 In robes of dazzling white; 
 While from the crowd bursts forth a rap- 
 turous noise 
 By the cloud-capt hills retorted; 
 And a throng of rosy boys 
 In loose fashion tell their joys; 
 And gray-haired sires, on staffs supported. 
 Look round, and by their smiling seem to 
 
 say, 
 Thus strives a grateful Country to display 
 The mighty debt which nothing can repay ! 
 
 Anon before my sight a palace rose 
 Built of all precious substances, — so pure 
 And exquisite, that sleep alone bestows 
 Ability like splendor to endure: 
 Entered, with streaming thousands, 
 through the gate. 
 
 I saw the banquet spread beneath a 
 
 Dome of state, 
 A lofty Dome, that dared to emulate 
 The heaven of sable night 
 With starry lustre ; yet had power to throw 
 Solemn effulgence, clear as solar light. 
 Upon a princely company below. 
 While the vault rang with choral harmony, 
 Like some Nymph-haunted grot beneath 
 
 the roaring sea. 
 — No sooner ceased that peal, than on 
 
 the verge 
 Of exultation hung a dirge 
 Breathed from a soft and lonely instru- 
 ment. 
 That kindled recollections 
 Of agonized affections; 
 And, though some tears the strain at- 
 tended. 
 The mournful passion ended 
 In peace of spirit, and sublime content ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But garlands wither ; festal shows 
 depart. 
 Like dreams themselves; and sweetest 
 sound — 
 
 (Albeit of effect profound) 
 
 It was — and it is gone ! 
 Victorious England ! bid the silent Art 
 Reflect, in glowing hues that shall not fade. 
 Those high achievements; even as she 
 
 arrayed 
 With second life the deed of Marathon 
 
 Upon Athenian walls; 
 So may she labor for thy civic halls: 
 
 And be the guardian spaces 
 
 Of consecrated places. 
 As nobly graced by Sculpture's patient 
 
 toil; 
 And let imperishable Columns rise 
 Fixed in the depths of this courageous soil; 
 Expressive signals of a glorious strife, 
 And competent to shed a spark divine 
 Into the torpid breast of daily life; — 
 Records on which, for pleasure of all eyes. 
 
 The morning sun may shine 
 With gratulation thoroughly benign ! 
 
 V. 
 And ye, Pierian Sisters, sprung from 
 Jove 
 And sage Mnemosyne, — full long de- 
 barred 
 
6i6 
 
 ODE. 
 
 From your first mansions, exiled all too 
 
 long 
 From many a hallowed stream and grove, 
 Dear native regions where ye wont to rove, 
 Chanting for patriot heroes the reward 
 
 Of never-dying song ! 
 Now (for, though Truth descending from 
 
 above 
 The Olympian summit hath destroyed 
 
 for aye 
 Your kindred Deities, Ye live and move, 
 Spared for obeisance from perpetual love 
 For privilege redeemed of godlike sway) 
 Now, on the margin of some spotless 
 
 fountain, 
 Or top serene of unmolested mountain, 
 Strike audibly the noblest of your lyres. 
 And for a moment meet the soul's de- 
 sires ! 
 That I, or some more favored Bard, may 
 
 hear 
 What ye, celestial Maids ! have often sung 
 Of Britain's acts, — may catch it with 
 
 rapt ear, 
 And give the treasure to our British 
 
 tongue ! 
 So shall the characters of that proud page 
 Support their mighty theme from age to 
 
 age; 
 And, in the desert places of the earth, 
 When they to future empires have given 
 
 birth. 
 So shall the people gather and believe 
 The bold report, transferred to every 
 
 clime; 
 And the whole world, not envious but 
 
 admiring. 
 And to the like aspiring, 
 Own — that the progeny of this fair Isle 
 Had power as lofty actions to achieve 
 As were performed in man's heroic prime ; 
 Nor wanted, when their fortitude had held 
 Its even tenor, and the foe was quelled, 
 A corresponding virtue to beguile 
 The hostile purpose of wide-wasting 
 
 Time — 
 That not in vain they labored to secure. 
 For their great deeds, perpetual memory, 
 And fame as largely spread as land and 
 
 sea. 
 By Works of spirit high and passion pure ! 
 January, i8i6. i8i6. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 I. 
 Who rises on the banks of Seine, 
 And binds her temples with the civic 
 
 wreath? 
 What joy to read the promise of her mien ! 
 How sweet to rest her wide-spread wings 
 beneath 
 
 But they are ever playing. 
 And twinkling in the light, 
 And, if a breeze be straying. 
 That breeze she will invite; 
 And stands on tiptoe, conscious she is fair, 
 And calls a look of love into her face, 
 And spreads her arms, as if the general air 
 Alone could satisfy her wide embrace. 
 — Melt, Principalities, before her melt! 
 Her love ye hailed — her wrath have felt ! 
 But She through many a change of form 
 
 hath gone. 
 And stands amidst you now an armed 
 
 creature. 
 Whose panoply is not a thing put on. 
 But the live scales of a portentous nature; 
 That, having forced its way from birth 
 
 to birth. 
 Stalks round — abhorred by Heaven, a 
 terror to the Earth ! 
 
 I marked the breathings of her dragon 
 crest ; 
 My Soul, a. sorrowful interpreter. 
 In many a midnight vision bowed 
 Before the ominous aspect of her spear; 
 Whether the mighty beam, in scorn up- 
 held. 
 Threatened her foes, — or, pompously 
 
 at rest. 
 Seemed to bisect her orbed shield, 
 As stretches a blue bar of solid cloud 
 Across the setting sun and all the fiery 
 west. 
 
 III. 
 So did she daunt the Earth, and God 
 defy! 
 And, wheresoe'er she spread her sove- 
 reignty. 
 Pollution tainted all that was most pure. 
 — Have we not known — and live we 
 not to tell — 
 
THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 
 
 617 
 
 That Justice seemed to hear her final 
 
 knell? 
 Faith buried deeper in her own deep breast 
 Her stores, and sighed to find them in- 
 secure ! 
 And Hope was maddened by the drops 
 
 that fell 
 From shades, her chosen place of short- 
 lived rest. 
 Shame followed shame, and woe sup- 
 planted woe — 
 Is this the only change that time can show ? 
 How long shall vengeance sleep? Ye 
 
 patient Heavens, how long? 
 — Infirm ejaculation ! from the tongue 
 Of Nations wanting virtue to be strong 
 Up to the measure of accorded might, 
 And daring not to feel the majesty of 
 right ! 
 
 Weak Spirits are there — who would 
 ask. 
 Upon the pressure of a painful thing. 
 The lion's sinews, or the eagle's wing; 
 Or let their wishes loose, in forest-glade, 
 Among the lurking powers 
 Of herbs and lowly flowers. 
 Or seek, from saints above, miraculous 
 
 aid — 
 That Man maybe accomplished for a task 
 Which his own nature hath enjoined; — 
 
 and why? 
 If, when that interference hath relieved 
 him, 
 
 He must sink down to languish 
 In worse than former helplessness — and 
 lie 
 
 Till the caves roar, — and, im- 
 becility 
 Again engendering anguish. 
 The same weak wish returns, that had 
 before deceived him. 
 
 But Thou, supreme Disposer ! may'st 
 
 not speed 
 The course of things, and change the creed 
 Which hath been held aloft before men's 
 
 sight 
 Since the first framing of societies, 
 Whether, as bards have told in ancient 
 
 song. 
 
 Built up by soft seducing harmonies; 
 Or prest together by the appetite. 
 
 And by the power, of wrong. 
 1816. 1816. 
 
 THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 
 
 1812-13. 
 
 Humanity, delighting to behold 
 A fond reflection of her own decay, 
 Ilath painted Winter like a traveller old, 
 Propped on a staff, and, through the sullen 
 
 day. 
 In hooded mantle, limping o'er the plain, 
 As though his weakness were disturbed 
 
 by pain : 
 Or, if a juster fancy should allow 
 An undisputed symbol of command. 
 The chosen sceptre is a withered bough. 
 Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand. 
 These emblems suit the helpless and for- 
 lorn; 
 But mighty Winter the device shall scorn. 
 
 For he it was — dread Winter ! who beset, 
 Flinging round van and rear his ghastly 
 
 net. 
 That host, when from the regions of the 
 
 Pole 
 They shrunk, insane ambition's barren 
 
 goal — 
 That host, ashuge and strong as e'er defied 
 Their God, and placed their trust in human 
 
 pride ! 
 As fathers persecute rebellious sons. 
 He smote the blossoms of their warrior 
 
 youth; 
 He called on Frost's inexorable tooth 
 Life to consume in Manhood'sfirmest hold; 
 Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly 
 
 runs; 
 For why — unless for liberty enrolled 
 And sacred home — ah ! why should hoary 
 
 Age be bold? 
 
 Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed, 
 But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, 
 Which from Siberian caves the Monarch 
 
 freed. 
 And sent him forth, with squadrons of 
 
 his kind. 
 
6l8 
 
 ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 And bade the Snow their ample backs 
 
 bestride, 
 
 And to the battle ride. 
 No pitying voice commands a halt, 
 No courage can repel the dire assault; 
 Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind, 
 Whole legions sink — and, in one instant, 
 
 find 
 Burial and death: look for them — and 
 
 descry. 
 When morn returns, beneath the clear 
 
 blue sky, 
 A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy ! 
 February, i8i6. i8i6. 
 
 ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 Ye Storms, resound the praises of your 
 
 King ! 
 And ye mild Seasons — in a sunny clime, 
 Midway on some high hill, while father 
 
 Time 
 Looks on delighted — meet in festal ring. 
 And loud and long of Winter's triumph 
 
 sing! 
 Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and 
 
 fruits, and flowers. 
 Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety 
 
 showers. 
 And the dire flapping of his hoary wing ! 
 Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green 
 
 grass ; 
 With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report 
 
 your gain; 
 Whisper it to the billows of the main. 
 And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass. 
 That old decrepit Winter — //i? hath slain 
 That Host, which rendered all your boun- 
 ties vain ! 
 February, i8i6. iSr6. 
 
 "BY MOSCOW SELF-DEVOTED 
 TO A BLAZE." 
 
 By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 
 Of dreadful sacrifice; by Russian blood 
 Lavished in fight with desperate hardi- 
 hood; 
 The unfeeling Elements no claim shall 
 
 raise 
 To rob our Human-nature of just praise 
 
 For what she did and suffered. Pledger 
 
 sure 
 Of a deliverance absolute and pure 
 She gave, if Faith might tread the beaten 
 
 ways 
 Of Providence. But now did the Most 
 
 High 
 Exalt his still small voice; — to quell that 
 
 Host 
 Gathered his power, a manifest ally; 
 He, whose heaped waves confounded the 
 
 proud boast 
 Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and 
 
 Frost, 
 " Finish the strife by deadliest victory ! " 
 1816. 1832 
 
 THE GERMANS ON THE HEIGHTS 
 OF HOCHHEIM. 
 
 Abruptly paused the strife; — the field 
 
 throughout 
 Resting upon his arms each warrior stood. 
 Checked in the very act and deed of blood, 
 With breath suspended, like a listening 
 
 scout. 
 O Silence ! thou wert mother of a shout 
 That through the texture of yon azure dome 
 Cleaves its glad way, a cry of harvest home 
 Uttered to Heaven in ecstasy devout ! 
 The barrier Rhine hath flashed, through 
 
 battle-smoke, 
 On men who gaze heart-smitten by the 
 
 view. 
 As if all Germany had felt the shock ! 
 — Fly, wretched Gauls ! ere they the 
 
 charge renew 
 Who have seen — themselves now casting 
 
 off the yoke — 
 The unconquerable Stream his course pur- 
 sue.' 
 1816. 1827. 
 
 SIEGE OF VIENNA RAISED BY 
 JOHN SOBIESKI. 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 Oh, for a kindling touch from that pure 
 
 flame 
 Which ministered, erewhile, to a sacrifice 
 Of gratitude, beneath Italian skies, 
 ' See Note. 
 
FEELINGS OF A FRENCH ROYALIST. 
 
 619 
 
 In words like these : "Up, Voice of song ! 
 
 proclaim 
 "Thy saintly rapture with celestial aim: 
 " For lo ! the Imperial City stands released 
 "From bondage threatened by the em- 
 battled East, 
 "And Christendom respires; from guilt 
 
 and shame 
 "Redeemed, from miserable fear set free 
 "By one day's feat, one mighty victory. 
 " — Chant the Deliverer's praise in every 
 
 tongue ! 
 ' ' The cross shall spread, the crescent hath 
 
 waxed dim; 
 " He conquering, as in joyful Heaven is 
 
 sung, 
 "He conquering through God, and 
 
 God by him." 1 
 1816. 1816. 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE 
 OF WATERLOO. 
 
 (The last six lines intended for an Inscription.) 
 FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 Intrepid sons of Albion ! not by you 
 Is life despised; ah no, the spacious earth 
 Ne'er saw a race who held, by right of 
 
 birth. 
 So many objects to which love is due : 
 Ye slight not life — to God and Nature 
 
 true; 
 But death, becoming death, is dearer far. 
 When duty bids you bleed in open war : 
 Hence hath your prowess quelled that im- 
 pious crew. 
 Heroes! — for instant sacrifice prepared; 
 Yet tilled with ardor and on triumph bent 
 'Mid direst shocks of mortal accident — 
 To you who fell, and you whom slaughter 
 
 spared 
 To guard the fallen, and consummate the 
 
 event. 
 Your Country rears this sacred Monument ! 
 
 j8i6. '816. 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE 
 OF WATERLOO. 
 
 FEBRUARY 1816. 
 The Bard — whose soul is meek as dawn- 
 ing day, 
 Yet trained to judgments righteously 
 severe, 
 
 ' See Filicaia's ode. 
 
 Fervid, yet conversant with holy fear, 
 As recognizing one Almighty sway : 
 He — whose experienced eye can pierce 
 
 the array 
 Of past events; to whom, in vision clear. 
 The aspiring heads of future things appear. 
 Like mountain-tops whose mists have 
 
 rolled away — 
 Assoiled from all encumbrance of our 
 
 time,' 
 He only, if such breathe, in strains devout 
 Shall comprehend this victory sublime; 
 Shall worthily rehearse the hideous rout, 
 The triumph hail, which from their peace- 
 ful clime 
 Angels might welcome with a choral 
 shout ! 
 1816. 1816. 
 
 "EMPERORS AND KINGS, HOW 
 OFT HAVE TEMPLES RUNG." 
 
 Emperors and Kings, how oft have 
 
 temples rung 
 With impious thanksgiving, the Almigh- 
 ty's scorn ! 
 How oft above their altars have been hung 
 Trophies that led the good and wise to 
 
 mourn 
 Triumphant wrong, battle of battle born, 
 And sorrow that to fruitless sorrow clung ! 
 Now, from Heaven-sanctioned victory, 
 
 Peace is sprung; 
 In this firm hour Salvation lifts her horn. 
 Glory to arms ! But, conscious that the 
 
 nerve 
 Of popular reason, long mistrusted, freed 
 Your thrones, ye Powers, from duty fear 
 
 to swerve ! 
 Be just, be grateful; nor, the oppressor's 
 
 creed 
 Reviving, heavier chastisement deserve 
 Than ever forced unpitied hearts to bleed. 
 1816. 1827- 
 
 FEELINGS OF A FRENCH ROYAL- 
 IST, ON THE DISINTERMENT 
 OF THE REMAINS OF THE 
 DUKE D'ENGHIEN. 
 
 Dear Reliques ! from a pit of vilest mould 
 Uprisen — to lodge among ancestral kings; 
 
 ' " From all this world's encumbrance did 
 himself assoil." — 3penser> 
 
620 TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE FIRST BOOK OF ^NEID. 
 
 And to inflict shame's salutary stings 
 On the remorseless hearts of men grown 
 
 old 
 In a blind worship; men pervefsely bold 
 Even to this hour, — yet, some shall now 
 
 forsake 
 Their monstrous Idol if the dead e'er 
 
 spake. 
 To warn the living; if truth were ever told 
 By aught redeemed out of the hollow 
 
 grave : 
 
 murdered Prince ! meek, loyal, pious, 
 
 brave ! 
 The power of retribution once was given : 
 But 't is a rueful thought that willow bands 
 So often tie the thunder-wielding hands 
 Of Justice sent to earth from highest 
 
 Heaven !■ 
 1816. 1816. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE 
 FIRST BOOK OF THE yENEID. 
 
 TO THE EDITORS OF THE PHILOLOGICAL 
 MUSEUM. 
 
 Your letter, reminding me of an expectation I 
 some time since held out to you of allowing some 
 specimens of my translation from the ^neid to be 
 printed in the Philological Museum, was not very 
 acceptable ; for 1 had abandoned the thought of 
 ever sending into the world any part" of that ex- 
 periment — for it was nothing more — an experi- 
 ment begun for amusement, and I now think a 
 less fortunate one than when f first named it to 
 you. Having been displeased in modern trans- 
 lations with the additions of incongruous matter, 
 
 1 began to translate with a resolve to keep clear 
 of that fault, by adding nothing ; but 1 became 
 convinced tliat a spirited translation can scarcely 
 be accomplished in the English language with- 
 out admitting a principle of compensation. On 
 this point, however, I do not wish to insist, and 
 merely send the following passage, taken at ran- 
 dom, from a wish to comply with your request. 
 
 W. W. 
 
 But Cytherea, studious to invent 
 Arts yet untried, upon new counsels bent, 
 Resolves that Cupid, changed in form and 
 
 face 
 To young Ascanius, should assume his 
 
 place; 
 Present the maddening gifts, and kindle 
 
 heat 
 
 Of passion at the bosom's inmost seat. 
 She dreads the treacherous house, the 
 
 double tongue; 
 She burns, she frets — by Juno's rancour 
 
 stung; 
 The calm of night is powerless to remov: 
 These cares, and thus she speaks to 
 
 winged Love: 
 
 " O son, my strength, my power ! who 
 dost despise 
 (What, save thyself, none dares through 
 
 earth and skies) 
 The giant-quelling bolts of Jove, I flee, 
 O son, a suppliant to thy deity ! 
 What perils meet iEneas in his course. 
 How Juno's hate with unrelenting force 
 Pursues thy brother — this to thee is 
 
 known; 
 And oft-times hast thou made my griefs 
 
 thine own. 
 Him now the generous Dido by soft chains 
 Of bland entreaty at her court detains; 
 Junonian hospitalities prepare 
 Such apt occasion that I dread a snare. 
 Hence, ere some hostile God can inter- 
 vene. 
 Would I, by previous wiles, inflame the 
 
 queen 
 With passion for Mneas, such strong love 
 That at my beck, mine only, she shall 
 
 move. 
 Hear, and assist; — the father's mandate 
 
 calls 
 His young Ascanius to the Tyrian walls; 
 He comes, my dear delight, — and costli- 
 est things 
 Preserved from fire and flood for presents 
 
 brings. 
 Him will I take, and in close covert keep, 
 'Mid groves Idalian, lulled to gentle sleep, 
 Or on Cythera's far-sequestered steep, 
 That he may neither know what hope is 
 
 mine. 
 Nor by his presence traverse the design. 
 Do thou, but for a single night's brief 
 
 space. 
 Dissemble; be that boy in form and face! 
 And when enraptured Dido shall receive 
 Thee to her arms, and kisses interweave 
 With many a fond embrace, while jov 
 
 runs high, 
 .And goblets crown the proud festivity- 
 
TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE FIRST BOOK OF ^NEID. 621 
 
 Instil thy subtle poison, and inspire, 
 At every touch, an unsuspected fire.' 
 
 Love, at the word, before his mother's 
 
 sight 
 Puts off his wings, and walks, with proud 
 
 delight. 
 Like young lulus; but the gentlest dews 
 Of slumber Venus sheds, to circumfuse 
 The true Ascanius steeped in placid rest; 
 Then wafts him, cherished on her careful 
 
 breast, 
 Through upper air to an Idalian glade, 
 Where he on soft aDiaracus is laid. 
 With breathing flowers embraced, and 
 
 fragrant shade. 
 But Cupid, following cheerily his guide 
 Achates, with the gifts to Carthage hied; 
 And, as the hall he entered, there, between 
 The sharers of her golden couch, was 
 
 seen 
 Reclined in festal pomp the Tyrian queen. 
 The Trojans, too (yEneas at their head), 
 On couches lie, with purple overspread. 
 Meantime in canisters is heaped the bread. 
 Pellucid water for the hands is borne, 
 And napkins of smooth texture, finely 
 
 shorn. 
 Within are fifty handmaids, who prepare. 
 As they in order stand, the dainty fare; 
 And fume the household deities with store 
 Of odorous incense ; while a hundred more 
 Matched with an equal number of like 
 
 age, 
 But each of manly sex, a docile page, 
 Marshal the banquet, giving with due 
 
 grace 
 To cup or viand its appointed place. 
 The Tyrians rushing in, an eager band. 
 Their painted couches seek, obedient to 
 
 command. 
 They look with wonder on the gifts — 
 
 they gaze 
 Upon lulus, dazzled with the rays 
 That from his ardent countenance are 
 
 flung. 
 And charmed to hear his simulating 
 
 tongue; 
 Nor pass unpraised the robe and veil 
 
 divine. 
 Round which the yellow flowers and 
 
 wandering foliage twine. 
 
 But chiefly Dido, to the coming ill 
 Devoted, strives in vain her vast desires 
 
 to fill; 
 She views the gifts; upon the child then 
 
 turns 
 Insatiable looks, and gazing burns. 
 To ease a father's cheated love he hung 
 Upon ^neas, and around him clung; 
 Then seeks the queen; with her his arts 
 
 he tries; 
 She fastens on the boy enamoured eyes. 
 Clasps in her arms, nor weens (O lot un- 
 
 blest!) 
 How great a God, incumbent o'er her 
 
 breast, 
 Would fill it with his spirit. He, to please 
 His Acidalian mother, by degrees, 
 Blots out Sichaeus, studious to remove 
 The dead, by influx of a living love. 
 By stealthy entrance of a perilous guest. 
 Troubling a heart that had been long at 
 
 rest. 
 
 Now when the viands were withdrawn, 
 
 and ceased 
 The first division of the splendid feast. 
 While round a vacant board the chiefs 
 
 recline. 
 Huge goblets are brought forth; they 
 
 crown the wine; 
 Voices of gladness roll the walls around; 
 Those gladsome voices from the courts 
 
 rebound; 
 From gilded rafters many a blazing light 
 Depends, and torches overcome the night. 
 The minutes fly — till, at the queen's 
 
 command, 
 A bowl of state is offered to her hand: 
 Then she, as Belus wont, and all the line 
 From Belus, filled it to the brim with wine ; 
 Silence ensued. " O Jupiter, whose care 
 Is hospitable dealing, grant my prayer ! 
 Productive day be this of lasting joy 
 To Tyrians, and these exiles driven from 
 
 Troy; 
 A day to future generations dear ! 
 Let Bacchus, donor of soul-quick'ning 
 
 cheer. 
 Be present; kindly Juno, be thou near ! 
 And, Tyrians, may your choicest favors 
 j wait 
 
 1 Upon this hour, the bond to celebrate ! " 
 
622 
 
 A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION. 
 
 She spake and shed an offering on the 
 
 board; 
 Then sipped the bowl whence she the 
 
 wine had poured 
 And gave to Bitias, urging the prompt 
 
 lord; 
 He raised the bowl, and took a long deep 
 
 draught; 
 Then every chief in turn the beverage 
 
 quaffed. 
 
 Graced with redundant hair, lopas sings 
 The lore of Atlas, to resounding strings. 
 The labors of the Sun, the lunar wander- 
 ings; 
 When human kind, and brute; what 
 
 natural powers 
 Engender lightning, whence are falling 
 
 showers. 
 He haunts Arcturus, — that fraternal twain 
 The glittering Bears, — the Pleiads fraught 
 with rain; 
 
 — Why suns in winter, shunning heaven's 
 
 steep heights 
 Post seaward, — what impedes the tardy 
 
 nights. 
 The learned song from Tyrian hearers 
 
 draws 
 Loud shouts, — the Trojans echo the 
 
 applause. 
 
 — But, lengthening out the night with 
 
 converse new. 
 Large draughts of love unhappy Dido 
 
 drew; 
 Of Priam asked, of Hector — o'er and 
 
 o'er — 
 What arms the son of bright Aurora 
 
 wore; — 
 What steeds the car of Diomed could 
 
 boast ; 
 Among the leaders of the Grecian host. 
 How looked Achilles, their dread para- 
 mount — 
 "But nay — the fatal wiles, O guest, 
 
 recount. 
 Retrace the Grecian cunning from its 
 
 source, 
 Your own grief and your friends ? — your 
 
 wandering course; 
 For now, till this seventh summer have 
 
 ye ranged 
 The sea, or trod the earth, to peace 
 
 estranged." 
 i8i6. 1S32. 
 
 A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION; 
 
 OR, 
 CANUTE AND ALFRED, ON THE SEASHORE. 
 
 The first and last fourteen lines of this poem 
 each make a sonnet, and were composed as such ; 
 but I thought that by intermediate lines they 
 might be connected so as to make a whole. One 
 or two expressions are taken from Milton's Hh- 
 tory of England. 
 
 The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair. 
 Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty. 
 To aid a covert purpose, cried — " ye 
 Approaching Waters of the deep, that 
 
 share 
 With this green isle my fortunes, come 
 
 not where 
 Your Master's throne is set." — Deaf 
 
 was the Sea; 
 Her waves rolled on, respecting his decree 
 Less than they heed a breath of wanton 
 
 air. 
 — Then Canute, rising from the invaded 
 
 throne, 
 Said to his servile Courtiers, — "Poor 
 
 the reach, 
 The undisguised extent, of mortal sway ! 
 He only is a King, and he alone 
 Deserves the name (this truth the billows 
 
 preach) 
 Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and 
 
 heaven, obey." 
 This just reproof the prosperous Dane 
 Drew, from the influx of the main. 
 For some whose rugged northern mouths 
 
 would strain 
 At oriental flattery; 
 And Canute (fact more worthy to be 
 
 known) 
 From that time forth did tor his brows 
 
 disown 
 The ostentatious symbol of a crown; 
 Esteeming earthly royalty 
 Contemptible as vain. 
 
 Now hear what one of elder days, 
 Rich theme of England's fondest praise. 
 Her darling Alfred, might have spoken; 
 To cheer the remnant of his host 
 When he was driven from coast to coast. 
 Distressed and harassed, but with mind 
 
 unbroken : 
 
TO DORA. 
 
 623 
 
 " My faithful followers, lo ! the tide is 
 
 spent 
 That rose, and steadily advanced to fill 
 The shores and channels, working 
 
 Nature's will 
 Among the mazy streams that backward 
 
 went, 
 And in the sluggish pools where ships 
 
 are pent: 
 And now, his task performed, the flood 
 
 stands still. 
 At the green base of many an inland hill. 
 In placid beauty and sublime content ! 
 Such the repose that sage and hero find; 
 Such measured rest the sedulous and good 
 Of humbler name; whose souls do, like 
 
 the flood 
 Of Ocean, press right on; or gently wind, 
 Neither to be diverted nor withstood, 
 Until they reach the bounds by Heaven 
 
 assigned." 
 i8i5. 1820, 
 
 TO DORA. 
 
 The complaint in ray eyes which gave occasion 
 to this address to. my daughter first showed itself 
 as a consequence of inflammation, caught at the 
 top of Kirkstone, when I was over-heated by 
 having carried up the ascent my eldest son, a 
 lusty infant. Frequently has the disease recurred 
 since, leaving my eyes in a state which has often 
 prevented my reading for months, and makes me 
 at this day incapable of bearing without injury 
 any strong light by day or night. My acquaint- 
 ance with books has therefore been far short of 
 my wishes; and on this account, to acknowledge 
 the services daily and hourly done me by my 
 family and friends, this note is written. 
 
 ' ' A little onward lend thy guiding hand 
 To these dark steps, a little further on/'* 
 
 — What trick of memory to my voice 
 
 hath brought 
 This mournful iteration? For though 
 
 Time, 
 The Conqueror, crowns the Conquered, 
 
 on this brow 
 Planting his favorite silver diadem, 
 Nor he, nor minister of his — intent 
 To run before him — hath enrolled me yet. 
 Though not unmenaced, among those who 
 
 lean 
 Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight. 
 
 — ^O my own Dora, my beloved child ! 
 Should that day come — but hark ! the 
 
 birds salute 
 The cheerful dawn, brightening for me 
 
 the east; 
 For me, thy natural leader, once again 
 Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst 
 A tottering infant, with compliant stoop 
 From flower to flower supported ; but to 
 
 curb 
 Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er 
 
 the lawn. 
 Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge 
 Of foaming torrents. — From thy orisons 
 Come forth ; and, while the morning air 
 
 is yet 
 Transparent as the soul of innocent youth. 
 Let me, thy happy guide, now point thy 
 
 way. 
 And now precede thee, winding to and 
 
 fro. 
 Till we by perseverance gain the top 
 Of some smooth ridge, whose brink pre- 
 cipitous 
 Kindles intense desire for powers withheld 
 From this corporeal frame; whereon who 
 
 stands. 
 Is seized with strong incitement to push 
 
 forth 
 His arms, as swimmers use, and plunge 
 
 — dread thought. 
 For pastime plunge — into the "abrupt 
 
 abyss," — 
 Where ravens spread their plumy vans, at 
 
 ease ! 
 And yet more gladly thee would I con- 
 duct 
 Through woods and spacious forests, — to 
 
 behold 
 There, how the Original of human art, 
 Heaven-prompted Nature, measures and 
 
 erects 
 Her temples, fearless for the stately work. 
 Though waves, to every breeze, its high- 
 arched roof, 
 And storms the pillars rock. But we such 
 
 schools 
 Of reverential awe will chiefly seek 
 In the still summer noon, while beams of 
 
 light. 
 Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond 
 Traceably gliding through the dusk, recall 
 To mind the living presences of nuns; 
 
624 
 
 TO 
 
 Agentle, pensive, white-robed sisterhood, 
 Whose saintly radiance mitigates the 
 
 gloom 
 Of those terrestrial fabrics, where they 
 
 serve, 
 To Christ, the Sun of righteousness, es- 
 poused.' 
 Now also shall the page of classic lore. 
 To these, glad eyes from bondage freed, 
 
 again 
 Lie open; and the book of Holy Writ, 
 Again unfolded, passage clear shall yield 
 To heights more glorious still, and into 
 
 shades 
 More awful, where, advancing hand in 
 
 hand, 
 
 We may be taught, O Darling of my care ! 
 
 To calm the affections, elevate the soul, 
 
 And consecrate our lives to truth and love. 
 
 1816. 1820. 
 
 TO . 
 
 ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT 
 OF HELVELLYN. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. The lady was Miss 
 Blackett, then residing with Mr. Montagu Bur- 
 goyne at Fox-Ghyll. We were tempted to remain 
 too long upon the mountain ; and I, imprudently, 
 with the hope of shortening the way, led her 
 among the crags and down a steep slope which 
 entangled us in difficulties that were met by her 
 with much spirit and courage. 
 
 Inmate of a moun'iin-dwelling. 
 Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed 
 From the watch-towers of Helvellyn; 
 Awed, delighted, and amazed ! 
 
 Potent was the spell that bound thee 
 Not unwilling to obey; 
 For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee, 
 Stilled the pantings of dismay. 
 
 Lo! the dwindled woods and meadows; 
 What a vast abyss is there ! 
 Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadows, 
 And the glistenings — heavenly fair ! 
 
 And a record of commotion 
 W^hich a thousand ridges yield; 
 Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
 Gleaming like a silver shield ! 
 
 Maiden! now take flight; — inherit 
 Alps or Andes — they are thine! 
 With the morning's roseate Spirit, 
 Sweep their length of snowy Une; 
 
 Or survey their bright dominions 
 In the gorgeous colors drest 
 Flung from off the purple pinions, 
 Evening spreads throughout the west i 
 
 Thine are all the coral fountains 
 Warbling in each sparry vault 
 Of the untrodden lunar mountains; 
 Listen to their songs ! — or halt. 
 
 To Niphates' top invited. 
 Whither spiteful Satan steered; 
 Or descend where the ark alighted. 
 When the green earth re-appeared; 
 
 For the power of hills is on thee. 
 As was witnessed through thine eye 
 Then, when old Helvellyn won thee 
 To confess their majesty ! 
 
 i8i6. 1820. 
 
 VERNAL ODE. 
 
 Composed at Rydal Mount, to place in view 
 the immortality of succession where immortality 
 is denied, as far as we know, to the individual 
 creature. 
 Rerum Natura tota est nusquam magis quam in 
 
 minimis. — Plin. Nat. Hist. 
 
 Beneath the concave of an April sky. 
 When all the fields with freshest green 
 
 were dight, 
 ^Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eye 
 That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, 
 •The form and rich habiliments of One 
 Whose countenance bore resemblance to 
 
 the sun. 
 When it reveals, in evening majesty. 
 Features half lost amid their own pure 
 
 light. 
 Poised like a weary cloud, in middle air 
 He hung, — then floated with angelic ease 
 (Softening that bright effulgence by de- 
 grees) 
 Till he had reached a summit sharp and 
 bare. 
 
TO 
 
 Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the 
 
 noontide breeze. 
 Upon tlie apex of that lofty cone 
 Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone ; 
 Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the east 
 Suddenly raised by some enchanter's 
 
 power, 
 Where nothing was; and firm as some old 
 
 Tower 
 Of Britain's realm, whose leafy crest 
 Waves high, embellished by a gleaming 
 
 shower ! 
 
 Beneath the shadow of his purple wings 
 Rested a golden harp; — he touched the 
 
 strings; 
 ^nd, after prelude of unearthly sound 
 Poured through the echoing hills around. 
 He sang — 
 
 "No wintry desolations, 
 Scorching blight or noxious dew, 
 Affect my native habitations; 
 Buried in glory, far beyond the scope 
 Of man's inquiring gaze, but to his hope 
 Imaged, though faintly, in the hue 
 Profound of night's ethereal blue; 
 And in the aspect of each radiant orb; — 
 Some fixed, some wandering with no timid 
 
 curb: 
 But wandering star and fixed, to mortal 
 
 eye. 
 Blended in absolute serenity. 
 And free from semblance of decline; — 
 Fresh as if Evening brought their natal 
 
 hour. 
 Her darkness splendor gave, her silence 
 
 power 
 To testify of Love and Grace divine. 
 
 " What if those bright fires 
 
 Shine subject to decay, 
 
 Sons haply of extinguished sires. 
 
 Themselves to lose their light, or pass away 
 
 Like clouds before the wind. 
 
 Be thanks poured out to Him whose hand 
 
 bestows. 
 Nightly, on human kind 
 That vision of endurance and repose. 
 — And though to every draught of vital 
 
 breath 
 
 625 
 
 Renewed throughout the bounds of earth 
 
 or ocean. 
 The melancholy gates of Death 
 Respond with sympathetic motion; 
 Though all that feeds on nether air, 
 Howe'er magnificent or fair, 
 Grows but to perish, and entrust 
 Its ruins to their kindred dust ; 
 Yet, by the Almighty's ever-during care. 
 Her procreant vigils Nature keeps 
 Amid the unfathomable deeps; 
 And saves the peopled fields of earth 
 From dread of emptiness or dearth. 
 Thus, in their stations, lifting tow'rd the 
 
 sky 
 The foliaged head in cloud-like majesty. 
 The shadow-casting race of trees survive : 
 Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive 
 Sweet flowers; — what living eye hath 
 
 viewed 
 Their myriads? — endlessly renewed. 
 Wherever strikes the sun's glad ray; 
 Where'er the subtle waters stray; 
 Wherever sportive breezes bend 
 Their course, or genial showers descend ! 
 Mortals, rejoice ! the very Angels quit 
 Their mansions unsusceptible of change. 
 Amid your pleasant bowers to sit. 
 And through your sweet vicissitudes to 
 
 range ! " 
 
 Oh, nursed at happy distance from the 
 
 cares 
 Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral 
 
 Muse! 
 That, to the sparkling crown Urania 
 
 wears, 
 And to her sister Clio's laurel wreath, 
 Prefer'st a garland culled from purple 
 
 heath. 
 Or blooming thicket moist with morning 
 
 dews; 
 Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to 
 
 me? 
 And was it granted to the simpler ear 
 Of thy contented Votary 
 Such melody to hear ! 
 Him rather suits it, side by side with thee, 
 Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, 
 While thy tired lute hangs on the haw- 
 thorn-tree. 
 To lie and listen — till o'er-drows^d sense 
 
626 
 
 ODE TO LYCORIS. 
 
 Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence — 
 To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee. 
 — A slender sound ! yet hoary Time 
 Doth to the Soul exalt it with the chime 
 Of all his years; — a company 
 Of ages coming, ages gone; 
 (Nations from before them sweeping. 
 Regions in destruction steeping,) 
 But every awful note in unison 
 With that faint utterance, which tells 
 Of treasure sucked from buds and bells, 
 For the pure keeping of those waxen cells; 
 Where She — a statist prudent to confer 
 Upon the common weal; a warrior bold, 
 Radiant all over with unburnished gold. 
 And armed with living spear for mortal 
 fight; 
 
 A cunning forager 
 That spreads no waste; a social builder; 
 
 one 
 In whom all busy offices unite 
 With all fine functions that afford de- 
 light- 
 Safe through the winter storm in quiet 
 dwells ! 
 
 And is She brought within the power 
 
 Of vision? — o'er this tempting flower 
 
 Hovering until the petals stay 
 
 Her flight, and take its voice away ! — 
 
 Observe each wing ! — a tiny van ! 
 
 The structure of her laden thigh, 
 
 How fragile ! yet of ancestry 
 
 Mysteriously remote and high; 
 
 High as the imperial front of man; 
 
 The roseate bloom on woman's cheek; 
 
 The soaring 'eagle's curved beak; 
 
 The white plumes of the floating swan; 
 
 Old as the tiger's paw, the lion's mane 
 
 Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain 
 
 At which the desert trembles. — Hum- 
 ming Bee ! 
 
 Thy sting was needless then, perchance 
 unknown, 
 
 The seeds of malice were not sown; 
 
 All creatures met in peace, from fierce- 
 ness free, 
 
 And no pride blended with their dignity. 
 
 — Tears had not broken from their source ; 
 
 Nor Anguish strayed from her Tartarean 
 den; 
 
 The*golden years maintained a course 
 
 Not undiversified though smooth and 
 
 even; 
 We were not mocked with glimpse and 
 
 shadow then, 
 Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men ; 
 And earth and stars composed a universal 
 
 heaven ! 
 1817. 1820. 
 
 ODE TO LYCORIS. May, 181 7. 
 
 The discerning reader, who is aware that in the 
 poem of Ellen Irwin I was desirous of throwing 
 the reader at once out of the old ballad, so as, if 
 possible, to preclude a comparison between that 
 mode of dealing with the subject and the mode I 
 meant to adopt — may here perhaps perceive that 
 this poem originated in the four last lines of the 
 first stanza. Those specks of snow, reflected iq, 
 the lake and so transferred, as it were, to the 
 subaqueous sky, reminded me of the swans which 
 the fancy of the ancient classic poets yoked to the 
 car of Venus. Hence the tenor of the whole first 
 stanza, and the name of Lycoris, which — with 
 some readers who think my theology and classical 
 allusion too far-fetched and therefore more or less 
 unnatural and affected — will tend to unrealize the 
 sentiment that pervades these verses. But surely 
 one who has written so much in verse as I have 
 done may be allowed to retrace his steps in the 
 regions of fancy which delighted him in his boy- 
 hood, when he first became acquainted with the 
 Greek and Roman Poets. Before I read Virgil 
 I was so strongly attached to Ovid, whose Meta- 
 morphoses I read at school, that I was quite in a 
 passion whenever I found him, in books of criti- 
 cism, placed below Virgil. As to Homer, I was 
 never weary of travelling over the scenes through 
 which he led me. Classical litei-ature affected me 
 by its own beauty. But the truths of scripture 
 having been entrusted to the dead languages, and 
 these fountains having been recently laid open at 
 the Reformation, an importance and a sanctity 
 were at that period attached to classical literature 
 that extended, as is obvious in Milton's Lycidas, 
 for example, both to its spirit and form in a 
 degree that can never be revived. No doubt the 
 hackneyed and lifeless use into which mythology 
 fell towards the close of the 17th century, and 
 which continued through the i8th, disgusted the 
 general reader with all allusion to it in modern 
 verse; and though, in deference to this disgust, 
 and also in a measure participating in it, I ab- 
 stained in my earlier writings from all introduction 
 of pagan fable, surely, even in its humble form, 
 it may ally itself with real sentiment, as I can 
 truly affirm it did in the present case. 
 
TO THE SAME. 
 
 627 
 
 An age hath been when Earth was proud 
 
 Of lustre too intense 
 
 To be sustained; and Mortals bowed 
 
 The front in self-defence. 
 
 Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, 
 
 Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed 
 
 While on the wing the Urchin played, 
 
 Could fearlessly approach the shade? 
 
 — Enough for one soft vernal day, 
 
 If I, a bard of ebbing time, 
 
 And nurtured in a fickle clime. 
 
 May haunt this horned bay; 
 
 Whose amorous water multiplies 
 
 The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes; 
 
 And smooths her liquid breast — to show 
 
 These swan-like specks of mountain snow. 
 
 White as the pair that slid along the plains 
 
 Of heaven, when Venus held the reins ! 
 
 In youth we love the darksome lawn 
 
 Brushed by the owlet's wing; 
 
 Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, 
 
 And Autumn to the Spring. 
 
 Sad fancies do we then affect. 
 
 In luxury of disrespect 
 
 To our own prodigal excess 
 
 Of too familiar happiness. 
 
 Lycoris (if such name befit 
 
 Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!) 
 
 When Nature marks the year's decline. 
 
 Be ours to welcome it; 
 
 Pleased with the harvest hope that runs 
 
 Before the path of milder suns; 
 
 Pleased while the sylvan world displays 
 
 Its ripeness to the feeding gaze; 
 
 Pleased when the sullen winds resound 
 
 the knell 
 Of the resplendent miracle. 
 
 But something whispers to my heart 
 That, as we downward tend, 
 Lycoris ! life requires an art 
 To which our souls must bend; 
 A skill — to balance and supply; 
 And, ere the flowing fount be dry. 
 As soon it must, a sense to sip. 
 Or drink, with no fastidious lip. 
 Then welcome, above all, the Guest 
 Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, 
 Seem to recall the Deity 
 
 Of youth into the breast : 
 May pensive Autumn ne'er present 
 A claim to her disparagement ! 
 While blossoms and the budding spray 
 Inspire us in our own decay; 
 Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, 
 Be hopeful Spring the favorite of the Soul ! 
 1817. 1820. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 This as well as the preceding and the two that 
 follow were composed in front of Rydal Mount 
 and during my walks in the neighborhood. 
 Nine-tenths of my verses have been murmured 
 out in the open air : and here let me repeat what 
 I believe has already appeared in print. One 
 day a stranger having walked round the garden 
 and grounds of Rydal Mount asked one of the 
 female servants, who happened to be at the door, 
 permission to see her master's study. "This," 
 said she, leading him forward, " is my master's 
 library where he keeps his books, but his study is 
 out of doors." After a long absence from home 
 it has more than once happened that some one of 
 my cottage neighbors has said — " Well, there he 
 is ; we are glad to hear him booing about again." 
 Once more, in excuse for so much egotism, let me 
 say, these notes are written for my familiar friends, 
 and at their earnest request. Another time a 
 gentleman whom James had conducted through 
 the grounds asked him what kind of plants throve 
 best there : after a little consideratioD he answered 
 — " Laurels." " That is," said the stranger, " as 
 it should be ; don't you know that the laurel is 
 the emblem of poetry, and that poets used on 
 public occasions to be crowned with it ? " James 
 stared when the question was first put, but was 
 doubtless much pleased with the information. 
 
 Enough of climbing toil ! — Ambition 
 
 treads 
 Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep 
 
 and rough. 
 Or slippery even to peril ! and each step. 
 As we for most uncertain recompense 
 Mount toward the empire of the fickle 
 
 clouds. 
 Each weary step, dwarfing the world 
 
 below, 
 Induces, for its old familiar sights. 
 Unacceptable feelings of contempt, 
 With wonder mixed — that Man could 
 
 e'er be tied. 
 In anxious bondage, to such nice array 
 And formal fellowship of petty things ! 
 
628 
 
 THE LONGEST DAY. 
 
 — Oh ! 't is the heart that magnifies this 
 
 life, 
 Making a truth and beauty of her own; 
 And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing 
 
 shades, 
 And gurgling rills, assist her in the work 
 More efficaciously than realms outspread. 
 As in a map, before the adventurer's 
 
 gaze — 
 Ocean and Earth contending for regard. 
 The umbrageous woods are left — how 
 
 far beneath ! 
 But lo ! where darkness seems to guard 
 
 the mouth 
 Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows 
 
 are fringed 
 With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still 
 And sultry air, depending motionless. 
 Yet cool the space within, and not un- 
 
 cheered 
 (As whoso enters shall ere long perceive) 
 By stealthy influx of the timid day 
 Mingling with night, such twilight to 
 
 compose 
 As Numa loved; when, in the Egerian 
 
 grot, 
 From the sage Nymph appearing at his 
 
 wish. 
 He gained whate'er a regal raind might 
 
 ask. 
 Or need, of counsel breathed through 
 
 lips divine. 
 Long as the heat shall rage, let that 
 
 dim cave 
 Protect us, there deciphering as we 
 
 may 
 Diluvian records; or the sighs of Earth 
 Interpreting; or counting for old Time 
 His minutes, by reiterated drops. 
 Audible tears, from some invisible source 
 That deepens upon fancy — more and 
 
 more 
 Drawn toward the centre whence those 
 
 sighs creep forth 
 To awe the lightness of humanity : 
 Or, shutting up thyself within thyself. 
 There let me see thee sink into a mood 
 Of gentler thought, protracted till thine 
 
 eye 
 Be calm as water when the winds are 
 
 gone. 
 And no one can tell whither. Dearest 
 
 Friend ! 
 
 We two have known such happy hours 
 
 together 
 That, were power granted to replace 
 
 them (fetched 
 From out the pensive shadows where 
 
 they lie) 
 In the first warmth of their original 
 
 sunshine, 
 Loth should I be to use it : passing sweet 
 Are the domains of tender memory ! 
 1817. 1820. 
 
 THE LONGEST DAY. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Suggested by the sight of my daughter (Dora) 
 playing in front of Rydal Mount ; and composed 
 in a great measure the same afternoon. I have 
 often wished to pair this poem upon the longest 
 with one upon the shortest, day, and regret even 
 now that it has not been done. 
 
 Let us quit the leafy arbor. 
 And the torrent murmuring by; 
 For the sun is in his harbor, 
 Weary of the open sky. 
 
 Evening now unbinds the fetters 
 Fashioned by the glowing light; 
 All that breathe are thankful debtors 
 To the harbinger of night. 
 
 Yet by some grave thoughts attended 
 Eve renews her calm career: 
 For the day that now is ended. 
 Is the longest of the year. 
 
 Dora ! sport, as now thou sportest, 
 On this platform, light and free; 
 Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest. 
 Are indifferent to thee ! 
 
 Who would check the happy feeling 
 That inspires the linnet's song? 
 Who would stop the swallow, wheeling 
 On her pinions swift and strong? 
 
 Yet at this impressive season. 
 Words which tenderness can speak 
 From the truths of homely reason, 
 Might exalt the loveliest cheek; 
 
HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 629 
 
 And, while shades to shades succeeding 
 Steal the landscape from the sight, 
 I would urge this moral pleading, 
 Last forerunner of " Good night ! " 
 
 Summer ebbs ; — each day that follows 
 Is a reflux from on high, 
 Tending to the darksome hollows 
 Where the frosts of winter lie. 
 
 He who governs the creation. 
 In his providence, assigned 
 Such a gradual declination 
 To the life of human kind. 
 
 Yet we mark it not; — fruits redden, 
 Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have 
 
 blown, 
 And the heart is loth to deaden 
 Hopes that she so long hath known. 
 
 Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden ! 
 And when thy decline shall come, 
 Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden. 
 Hide the knowledge of thy doom. 
 
 Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber, 
 Fix thine eyes upon the sea 
 That absorbs time, space, and number; 
 Look thou to Eternity ! 
 
 Follow thou the flowing river 
 On whose breast are thither borne 
 All deceived, and each deceiver, 
 Through the gates of night and morn; 
 
 Through the year's successive portals; 
 Through the Ijounds which many a star 
 Marks, not mindless of frail mortals 
 When his light returns from far. 
 
 Thus when thou with Time hast travelled 
 Toward the mighty gulf of things, 
 And the mazy stream unravelled 
 With thy best imaginings; 
 
 Think, if thou on beauty leanest, 
 Think how pitiful that stay. 
 Did not virtue give the meanest 
 Charms superior to decay. 
 
 Duty, like a strict preceptor. 
 Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown; 
 
 Choose her thistle for thy sceptre. 
 While youth's roses are thy crown. 
 
 Grasp it, — if thou shrink and tremble. 
 Fairest damsel of the green, 
 Thou wilt lack the only symbol 
 That proclaims a genuine queen; 
 
 And ensures those palms of honor 
 Which selected spirits wear. 
 Bending low before the Donor, 
 Lord of heaven's unchanging year ! 
 1817. 1820. 
 
 HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS. 
 
 Bundles of fern may often be seen wheeling 
 about in the wind as here described. The par- 
 ticular bunch that suggested these verses was 
 noticed in the Pass of Dunmail Raise. The 
 verses were composed in 1817, but the applica- 
 tion is for all times and places. 
 
 "Who but hails the sight with pleasure 
 When the wings o'f genius rise, 
 Their ability to measure 
 
 With great enterprise; 
 But in man was ne'er such daring 
 As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing 
 His brave spirit with the war in 
 
 The stormy skies ! 
 
 " Mark him, how his power he uses, 
 Lays it by, at will resumes ! 
 Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses 
 
 Clouds and utter glooms ! 
 There, he wheels in downward mazes; 
 Sunward now his flight he raises, 
 Catches fire, as seems, and blazes 
 
 With uninjured plumes ! " — 
 
 " Stranger, 't is no act of courage 
 Which aloft thou dost discern; 
 No bold bird gone forth to forage 
 
 'Mid the tempest stern; 
 But such mockery as the nations 
 See, when public perturbations 
 Lift men from their native stations 
 
 Like yon Tuft of fern; 
 
630 
 
 THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. 
 
 " Such it is; the aspiring creature 
 Soaring on undaunted wing, 
 (So you fancied) is by nature 
 
 A dull helpless thing, 
 Dry and withered, light and yellow; — 
 That to be the tempest's fellow ! 
 Wait — and you shall see how hollow 
 Its endeavoring! " 
 1817. 1820. 
 
 THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. Thoughts and 
 feelings of many walks in all weathers, by day 
 and night, over this Pass, alone and with beloved 
 friends. 
 
 I. 
 Within the mind strong fancies work. 
 A deep delight the bosom thrills 
 Oft as I pass along the fork 
 Of these fraternal hills : 
 Where, save the rugged road, we find 
 No appanage of human kind, 
 Nor hint of man; if stone or rock 
 Seem not his handiwork to mock 
 By something cognizably shaped; 
 Mockery — or model roughly hewn. 
 And left as if by earthquake strewn, 
 Or from the Flood escaped: 
 Altars for Druid service fit; 
 (But where no fire was ever lit, 
 Unless the glow-worm to the skies 
 Thence offer nightly sacrifice) 
 Wrinkled Egyptian monument; 
 Green moss-grown tower; or hoary tent; 
 Tents of a camp that never shall be 
 
 razed — 
 On which four thousand years have gazed ! 
 
 Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes ! 
 
 Ye snow-white lambs that trip 
 
 Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 
 
 Of restless ownership ! 
 
 Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 
 
 To feed the insatiate Prodigal ! 
 
 Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and 
 
 fields. 
 All that the fertile valley shields; 
 Wages of folly — baits of crime, 
 Of life's uneasy game the stake. 
 Playthings that keep the eyes awake 
 Of drowsy, dotard Time; — ■ 
 
 O care ! O guilt ! — O vales and plains. 
 
 Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains, 
 
 A Genius dwells, that can subdue 
 
 At once all memory of You, — 
 
 Most potent when mists veil the sky. 
 
 Mists that distort and magnify; 
 
 While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping 
 
 breeze, 
 Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 
 
 List to those shriller notes ! — thatTasaok 
 
 Perchance was on the blast, 
 
 When, through this Height's inverted 
 
 arch, 
 Rome's earliest legion passed ! 
 — They saw, adventurously impelled. 
 And older eyes than_ theirs beheld. 
 This block — and yon, whose church-like 
 
 frame 
 Gives to this savage Pass its name. 
 Aspiring Road ! that lov'st to hide 
 Thy daring in a vapory bourn. 
 Not seldom may the hour return 
 When thou shalt be my guide : 
 And I (as all men may find cause. 
 When life is at a weary pause. 
 And they have panted up the hill 
 Of duty with reluctant will) 
 Be thankful, even though tired and faint, 
 For the rich bounties of constraint; 
 Whence oft invigorating transports flow 
 That choice lacked courage to bestow ! 
 
 My Soul was grateful for delight 
 
 That wore a threatening brow; 
 
 A veil is lifted' — can she slight 
 
 The scene that opens now? 
 
 Though habitation none appear, 
 
 The greenness tells, man must be there; 
 
 The shelter — that the perspective 
 
 Is of the clime in which we live; 
 
 Where Toil pursues his daily round ; 
 
 Where Pity sheds sweet tears — and Love, 
 
 In woodbine bower or birchen grove, 
 
 Inflicts his tender wound. 
 
 — Who coines not hither ne'er shall 
 
 know 
 How beautiful the world below; 
 Nor can he guess how lightly leaps 
 The brook adown the rocky steeps. 
 Farewell, thou desolate Domain ! 
 
LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 63' 
 
 Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, 
 Carols like a shepherd-boy; 
 And who is she ? — Can that be Joy ! 
 Who, with a sunbeam for her guide. 
 Smoothly skims the meadows wide; 
 While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, 
 To'hill and vale proclaims aloud, 
 "Whate'er the weak may dread, the 
 
 wicked dare, 
 Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion, 
 
 fair! " 
 1817. 1820. 
 
 LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF 
 SCOTS. 
 
 ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR. 
 
 This arose out of a flash of moonlight that 
 struck the ground when I was approaching the 
 steps that lead from the garden at Rydal Mount 
 to the front of the house. " From her sunk eye a 
 stagnant tear stole forth " is taken, with some loss, 
 from a discarded poem, "Tlie Convict," in wllich 
 occurred, when he was discovered lying in the 
 cell, these lines: — 
 
 *' But now he upraises the deep-sunken eye, 
 The motion unsettles a tear; 
 The silence of sorrow it seems to supply 
 And asks of me — why I am here." 
 
 Smtle of the Moon ! — for so I name 
 
 That silent greeting from above; 
 
 A gentle flash of light that came 
 
 From her whom drooping captives love; 
 
 Or art thou of still higher birth? 
 
 Thou that didst part the clouds of earth. 
 
 My torpor to reprove ! 
 
 Bright boon of pitying Heaven ! — alas, 
 I may not trust thy placid cheer ! 
 Pondering that Time to-night will pass 
 The threshold of another year; 
 For years to me are sad and dull; 
 My very moments are too full 
 Of hopelessness and fear. 
 
 And yet, the soul-awakening gleam. 
 That struck p ?rchance the farthest cone 
 Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem 
 To visit me, and me alone; 
 
 Me, unapproached by any friend, 
 Save those who to my sorrows lend 
 Tears due unto their own. 
 
 To-night the church-tower bells will ring 
 Through these wild realms a festive peal; 
 To the new year a welcoming; 
 A tuneful offering for the weal 
 Of happy millions lulled in sleep; 
 While I am forced to watch and weep. 
 By wounds that may not heal. 
 
 Born all too high, by wedlock raised 
 Still higher — to be cast thus low ! 
 Would that mine eyes had never gazed 
 On aught of more ambitious show 
 Than the sweet flowerets of the fields 
 — It is my royal state that yields 
 This bitterness of woe. 
 
 Yet how? — for I, if there be truth 
 In the world's voice, was passing fair; 
 A.nd beauty, for confiding youth. 
 Those shocks of passion can prepare 
 That kill the bloom before its time; 
 And blanch, without the owner's crime, 
 The most resplendent hair. 
 
 Unblest distinction ! showered on me 
 To bind a lingering life in chains : 
 All that could quit my grasp, or flee. 
 Is gone; — :but not the subtle stains 
 Fixed in the spirit; for even here 
 Can I be proud that jealous fear 
 Of what I was remains. 
 
 VIII. 
 A Woman rules my prison's key; 
 A sister Queen, against the bent 
 Of law and holiest sympathy. 
 Detains me, doubtful of the event; 
 Great God, who feel'st for my distress, 
 My thoughts are all that I possess, 
 O keep them innocent ! 
 
 Farewell desire of human aid. 
 Which abject mortals vainly court ! 
 
632 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE "BEGGARS," 1802. 
 
 By friends deceived, by foes betrayed, 
 Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport; 
 Nought but the world-redeeming Cross 
 Is able to supply my loss, 
 My burthen to support. 
 
 Hark ! the death-note of the year 
 Sounded by the castle-clock ! 
 From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear 
 Stole forth, unsettled by the shock; 
 But oft the woods renewed their green. 
 Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen 
 Reposed upon the block ! 
 
 iSr/. 1827. 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE "BEGGARS," 
 1802. 
 
 COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Where are they now, those wanton Boys ? 
 For whose free range the daedal earth 
 Was filled with animated toys, 
 And implements of frolic mirth; 
 With tools for ready wit to guide; 
 And ornaments of seemlier pride. 
 More fresh, more bright, than princes 
 
 wear; 
 For what one moment flung aside, 
 Another could repair; 
 What good or evil have they seen 
 Since I their pastime witnessed here, 
 Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer? 
 I ask — but all is dark between ! 
 They met me in a genial hour, 
 When universal nature breathed 
 As with the breath of one sweet flower, — 
 A time to overrule the power 
 Of discontent, and check the birth 
 Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife. 
 The most familiar bane of life 
 Since parting Innocence bequeathed 
 Mortality to Earth ! 
 Soft clouds, the whitest of the year. 
 Sailed through the sky — the brooks ran 
 
 clear ; 
 The lambs from rock to rock were bound- 
 ing; 
 With songs the budded groves resounding ; 
 And to my heart are still endeared 
 The thoughts with which it then was 
 cheered; 
 
 The faith which saw that gladsome pair 
 Walk through the fire with unsinged hair, 
 Or, if such faith must needs deceive — 
 Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace. 
 Associates in that eager chase; 
 Ye, who within the blameless mind 
 Your favorite seat of empire find — 
 Kind Spirits ! may we not believe 
 That they, so happy and so fair 
 Through your sweet influence, and the care 
 Of pitying Heaven, at least were free 
 From touch of deadly injury? 
 Destined whate'er their earthly doom, 
 For mercy and immortal bloom ! 
 1817. 1827. 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S DREAM; 
 
 OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM. 
 
 I distinctly recollect the evening when these 
 verses were suggested in r8t8. It was on the 
 road between Rydal and Grasmere, where Glow- 
 worms abound. A Star was shining above the 
 ridge of Loughrigg Fell, just opposite. I re- 
 member a critic, in some review or other, crying 
 out against this piece. "What so monstrous," 
 said he, "as to makeastartalktoaglow-worm!" 
 Poor fellow ! we know from this sage observation 
 what the "primrose on the river's brim was to 
 him." 
 
 A Pilgrim, when the summer day 
 
 Had closed upon his weary way, 
 
 A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof; 
 
 But him the haughty Warder spurned; 
 
 And from the gate the Pilgrim turned. 
 
 To seek such covert as the field 
 
 Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield. 
 
 Or lofty wood, shower-proof. 
 
 He paced along; and, pensively, 
 
 Halting beneath a shady tree, 
 
 Whose moss-grown root might serve for 
 
 couch or seat, 
 Fixed on a Star his upward eye; 
 Then, from the tenant of the sky 
 He turned, and watched with kindred 
 
 look, 
 A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook. 
 Apparent at his feet. 
 
 The murmur of a neighboring stream 
 Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 633 
 
 A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy 
 
 bounds 
 He recognized the earth-born Star, 
 And That which glittered from afar; 
 And (strange to witness !) from the frame 
 Of the ethereal Orb, there came 
 Intelligible sounds. 
 
 Much did it taunt the humble Light 
 That now, when day was fled, and night 
 Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary 
 
 eyes, 
 A very reptile could presume 
 To show her taper in the gloom. 
 As if in rivalship with One 
 Who sate a ruler on his throne 
 Erected in the skies. 
 
 " Exalted Star ! " the Worm replied, 
 "Abate this unbecoming pride. 
 Or with a less uneasy lustre shine; 
 Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays 
 Are mastered by the breathing haze; 
 While neither mist, nor thickest cloud 
 That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, 
 Hath power to injure mine. 
 
 But not for this do I aspire 
 
 To match the spark of local fire. 
 
 That at my will burns on the dewy lawn, 
 
 With thy acknowledged glories; — No ! 
 
 Vet, thus upbraided, I may show 
 
 What favors do attend me here. 
 
 Till, like thyself, I disappear 
 
 Before the purple dawn." 
 
 When this in modest guise was said. 
 Across the welkin seemed to spread 
 A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit ! 
 Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran; 
 That Star, so proud of late, looked wan; 
 And reeled with visionary stir 
 In the blue depth, like Lucifer 
 Cast headlong to the pit ! 
 
 Fire raged : and, when the spangled floor 
 
 Of ancient ether was no more. 
 
 New heavens succeeded, by the dream 
 
 brought forth: 
 And all the happy Souls that rode 
 Transfigured through that fresh abode, 
 Had heretofore, in humble trust. 
 Shone meekly 'mid their native dust. 
 The Glow-worms of the earth ! 
 
 This knowledge, from an Angel's voice 
 Proceeding, made the heart rejoice 
 Of Him who slept upon the open lea: 
 Waking at morn he murmured not; 
 And, till life's journey closed, the spot 
 Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared, 
 Where by that dream he had been cheered 
 Beneath the shady tree. 
 
 1818. 1820. 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A 
 HERMIT'S CELL. 
 
 Hopes what are they ? — Beads of morning 
 
 Strung on slender blades of grass; 
 
 Or a spider's web adorning 
 
 In a strait and treacherous pass. 
 
 What are fears but voices airy ? 
 Whispering harm where harm is not; 
 And deluding the unwary 
 Till the fatal bolt is shot ! 
 
 What is glory? — in the socket 
 See how dying tapers fare ! 
 What is pride ? — a whizzing rocket 
 That would emulate a star. 
 
 What is friendship? — do not trust her, 
 Nor the vows which she has made; 
 Diamonds dart their brightest lustre 
 From a palsy-shaken head. 
 
 What is truth? — a staff rejected; 
 Duty? — an unwelcome clog; 
 Joy? — a moon by fits reflected 
 In a swamp or watery bog; 
 
 Bright, as if through ether steering, 
 To th4 Traveller's eye it shone : 
 He hath hailed it re-appearing — 
 And as quickly it is gone; 
 
 Such is Joy — as quickly hidden, 
 Or mis-shapen to the sight. 
 And by sullen weeds forbidden 
 To resume its native light. 
 
634 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 What is youth? — a dancing billow, 
 (Winds behind, and rocks before !) 
 Age? — a drooping, tottering willow 
 On a fiat and lazy shore. 
 
 What is peace? — when pain is over. 
 And love ceases to rebel, 
 Let the last faint sigh discover 
 That precedes the passing knell ! 
 1818. 1820. 
 
 INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK. 
 
 The monument of ice here spoken of I observed 
 while ascending the middle road of the three 
 ways that lead from Rydal to Grasmere. It was 
 on my right hand, and my eyes were upon it when 
 it fell, as told in these lines. 
 
 Pause, Traveller ! whosoe'er thou be 
 Whom chance may lead to this retreat, 
 Where silence yields reluctantly 
 Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat; 
 
 Give voice to what my hand shall trace. 
 And fear not lest an idle sound 
 Of words unsuited to the place 
 Disturb its solitude profound. 
 
 I saw this Rock, while vernal air 
 Blew softly o'er the russet heath. 
 Uphold a Monument as fair 
 As church or abbey furnisheth. 
 
 Unsullied did it meet the day. 
 Like marble, white, like ether, pure; 
 As if, beneath, some hero lay. 
 Honored with costliest sepulture. 
 
 My fancy kindled as I gazed; 
 And, ever as the sun shone forth. 
 The flattered structure glistened, blazed. 
 And seemed the proudest thing on earth. 
 
 • 
 But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile 
 Unsound as those which Fortune builds — 
 To undermine with secret guile, 
 Sapped by the very beam that gilds. 
 
 And, while I gazed, with sudden shock 
 Fell the whole Fabric to the ground; 
 
 And naked left this dripping Rock, 
 With shapeless ruin spread around ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Where the second quarry now is, as you pass 
 from Rydal to Grasmere, there was formerly a 
 length of sm(5oth rock that sloped towards the 
 road, on the right hand. I used to call it Tadpole 
 Slope, from having frequently observed there the 
 water-bubbles gliding under the ice, exactly in 
 the shape of that creature. 
 
 Hast thou seen, with flash incessant. 
 Bubbles gliding under ice. 
 Bodied forth and evanescent, 
 No one knows by what device? 
 
 Such are thoughts ! — A wind-swept 
 
 meadow 
 Mimicking a troubled sea, 
 Such is life; and death a shadow 
 From the rock eternity ! 
 
 IV. 
 NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE. 
 
 Troubled long with warring notions 
 Long impatient of thy rod, 
 I resign my soul's emotions 
 Unto Thee, mysterious God ! 
 
 What avails the kindly shelter 
 Yielded by this craggy rent. 
 If my spirit toss and welter 
 On the waves, of discontent? 
 
 Parching Summer hath no warrant 
 To consume this crystal Well; 
 Rains, that make each rill a torrent. 
 Neither sully it nor swell. 
 
 Thus, dishonoring not her station. 
 Would my Life present to Thee, 
 Gracious God, the pure oblation 
 Of divine tranquillity ! 
 181S. 1820. 
 
 Not seldom, clad in radiant vest. 
 Deceitfully goes forth the Morn; 
 Not seldom Evening in the west 
 Sinks smilingly forsworn. 
 
COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF SPLENDOR. 
 
 635 
 
 The smoothest seas will sometimes prove, 
 To the confiding Bark, untrue; 
 And, if she trust the stars above. 
 They can be, treacherous too. 
 
 The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread 
 Full oft, when storms the welkin rend, 
 Draws lightning down upon the head 
 It promised to defend. 
 
 But Thou art true, incarnate Lord, 
 Who didst vouchsafe for man to die; 
 Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word 
 No change can falsify ! 
 
 I bent before thy gracious throne, 
 And asked for peace on suppliant knee; 
 And peace was given, — nor peace alone, 
 But faith sublimed to ecstasy ! 
 1818. 1820. 
 
 COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING 
 OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLEN- 
 DOR AND BEAUTY. 
 
 Felt and in a great measure composed upon the 
 little mount in front of our abode at Rydal. In 
 concluding my notices of this class of poems it 
 may be as well to observe that among the " Mis- 
 cellaneous Sonnets "are a few alluding to morning 
 impressions which might be read with mutual 
 benefitin connection with these " Evening Volun- 
 taries." See, for example, that one on West- 
 minster Bridge, that composed on a May morning, 
 the one on the song of the Thrush, and that 
 beginning — " While beams of orient light shoot 
 wide and high." 
 
 Had this effulgence disappeared 
 With flying haste, I might have sent. 
 Among the speechless clouds, a look 
 Of blank astonishment; 
 But 't is endued with power to stay. 
 And sanctify one closing day, 
 That frail Mortality may see — 
 What is? — ah no, but what can be ! 
 Time was when field and watery cove 
 With modulated echoes rang. 
 While choirs of fervent Angels sang 
 Their vespers in the grove; 
 Or, crowning, star-like, each some sov- 
 ereign height. 
 
 Warbled, for heaven above and earth be- 
 low. 
 Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rite, 
 Methinks, if audibly repeated now 
 From hill or valley, could not move 
 Sublimer transport^ purer love. 
 Than doth this silent spectacle — the 
 
 gleam — 
 The shadow — and the peace supreme ! 
 
 No sound is uttered, — but a deep 
 
 And solemn harmony pervades 
 
 The hollow vale from steep to steep. 
 
 And penetrates the glades. 
 
 Far-distant images draw nigh, 
 
 Called forth by wondrous potency 
 
 Of beamy radiance, that imbues, 
 
 Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues ! 
 
 In vision exquisitely clear, 
 
 Herds range along the mountain side; 
 
 And glistening antlers are descried; 
 
 And gilded flocks appear. 
 
 Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal 
 
 Eve! 
 But long as god-like wish, or hope divine. 
 Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 
 That this magnificence is wholly thine ! 
 — From worlds not quickened by the sun 
 A portion of the gift is won; 
 An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is 
 
 spread 
 On ground which British shepherds tread ! 
 
 And, if there be whom broken ties 
 
 Afflict, or injuries assail, 
 
 Yon hazy ridges to their eyes 
 
 Present a glorious scale. 
 
 Climbing suffused with sunny air. 
 
 To stop — no record hath told where I 
 
 And tempting Fancy to ascend. 
 
 And with immortal Spirits blend ! ^ 
 
 — Wings at my shoulders seem to play; 
 
 But, rooted here, I stand and gaze 
 
 On those bright steps that heavenward 
 
 raise 
 Their practicable way. 
 Come forth, ye drooping old men, look 
 
 abroad, 
 And see to what fair countries ye are 
 
 bound ! 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
636 
 
 COMPOSED DURING A STORM. 
 
 And if some traveller, weary of his road, 
 Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy 
 
 ground. 
 Ye Genii ! to his covert speed; 
 And wake him with such gentle heed 
 As may attune his soui to meet the dower 
 Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! 
 
 Such hues from their celestial Urn 
 Were wont to stream before mine eye, 
 Where'er it wandered in the morn 
 Of blissful infancy. 
 This glimpse of glory, why renewed? 
 Nay, rather speak with gratitude; 
 For, if a vestige of those gleams 
 Survived, 't was only in my dreams. 
 Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness 
 
 serve 
 No less than Nature's threatening voice, 
 If aught unworthy be my choice, 
 From Thee if I would swerve; 
 Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light 
 Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored; 
 Which, at this moment, on my waking 
 
 sight 
 Appears to shine, by miracle restored; 
 My soul, though yet confined to earth. 
 Rejoices in a second birth ! 
 — 'T is past, the visionary splendor fades ; 
 And night approaches with her shades. 
 1818. 1820. 
 
 Note. — The multiplication of mountain- 
 ridges, described at the commencement of the 
 third Stanza of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's 
 Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced either by 
 watery vapors, or sunny haze ; — in the present 
 instance by the latter cause. Allusions to the Ode, 
 entitled " Intimations of Immortality," pervade 
 the last stanza of the foregoing Poem. 
 
 COMPOSED DURING A STORM. 
 
 Written in Rydal Woods, by the side of a 
 torrent. 
 
 One who was suffering tumult in his soul. 
 Vet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer. 
 Went forth — his course surrendering to 
 
 the care 
 Of the fierce wind, while mid-day light- 
 nings prowl 
 
 Insidiously, untimely thunders growl; 
 
 While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied num- 
 bers, tear 
 
 The lingering remnant of their yellow 
 hair. 
 
 And shivering wolves, surprised with 
 darkness, howl 
 
 As if the sun were not. He raised his eye 
 
 Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear 
 
 Large space ('mid dreadful clouds) of 
 purest sky. 
 
 An azure disc — shield of Tranquillity; 
 
 Invisible, unlooked-for, minister 
 
 Of providential goodness ever nigh ! 
 February, 1819. 1819. 
 
 THIS, AND THE TWO FOLLOW- 
 ING, WERE SUGGESTED BY 
 MR. W. WESTALL'S VIEWS 
 OF THE CAVES, ETC., IN 
 YORKSHIRE.. 
 
 Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er 
 
 Thou dost forsake thy subterranean 
 haunts, 
 
 Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry- 
 bearing plants, 
 
 Rise into life and in thy train appear: 
 
 And, through the sunny portion of the 
 year. 
 
 Swift insects shine, thy hovering pursui- 
 vants : 
 
 And, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants; 
 
 And hart and hind and hunter with his 
 spear. 
 
 Languish and droop together. Nor unfelt 
 
 In man's perturbed soul thy sway benign; 
 
 And, haply, far within the marble belt 
 
 Of central earth, where tortured Spirits 
 pine 
 
 For grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs 
 melt 
 
 Their anguish, — and they blend sweet 
 songs with thine. ^ 
 1819. i8ig. 
 
 MALHAM COVE. 
 
 Was the aim frustrated by force or guile. 
 When giants scooped from out the rocky 
 ground, 
 
 ' Waters (as Mr. Westall informs us in the 
 letterpress prefixed to his admirable views) are 
 invariably found to tiow through these caverns. 
 
THE WILD DUCK'S NEST. 
 
 637 
 
 Tier under tier, this semicirque profound? 
 (Giants — the same who built in Erin's 
 
 isle 
 That Causeway with incomparable 
 
 toil ! )— 
 Oh, had this vast theatric structure wound 
 With finished sweep into a perfect round. 
 No mightier work had gained the plausive 
 
 smile 
 Of all-beholding Phoebus ! But, alas, 
 Vain earth ! false world ! FoundatioAs 
 
 must be laid 
 In Heaven; for, 'mid the wreck of IS and 
 
 WAS, 
 Things incomplete and purposes betrayed 
 Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic 
 
 glass 
 Than noblest objects utterly decayed. 
 1S19. i8ig. 
 
 GORDALE. 
 
 At early dawn, or rather when the air 
 Glimmers with fading light, and shadowy 
 
 Eve 
 Is busiest to confer and to bereave; 
 Then, pensive Votary ! let thy feet repair 
 To Gordale-chasm, terrific as the lair 
 Where the young lions couch; for so, by 
 
 leave 
 Of the propitious hour, thou may'st per- 
 ceive 
 The local Deity, with oozy hair 
 And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn. 
 Recumbent: Him thou may'st behold, 
 
 who hides 
 His lineaments by day, yet there presides. 
 Teaching the docile waters how to turn, 
 Or (if need be) impediment to spurn. 
 And force their passage to the salt-sea 
 tides ! 
 
 1819. 
 
 1819. 
 
 "AERIAL ROCK — WHOSE 
 SOLITARY BROW." 
 
 A projecting point of Loughrigg, nearly in 
 front of Rydal Mount. Thence looking at it, 
 you are struck with the boldness of its aspect; 
 but walking under it, you admire the beauty of 
 its details. It is vulgarly called Holme-scar, 
 probably from the insulated pasture by the 
 waterside belnw it. 
 
 AiLRiAL Rock — whose solitary brow 
 
 From this low threshold daily meets my 
 sight; 
 
 When I step forth to hail the morning 
 light; 
 
 Or quit the stars with a lingering fare- 
 well — how 
 
 Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow ? 
 
 How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest ? 
 
 — By planting on thy naked head the crest 
 
 Of an imperial Castle, which the plough 
 
 Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent 
 scheme ! 
 
 That doth presume no more than to supply 
 
 A grace the sinuous vale and roaring 
 stream 
 
 Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity. 
 
 Rise, then, ye votive Towers ! and catch a 
 gleam 
 
 Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die. 
 1819. 1819. 
 
 THE WILD DUCK'S NEST. 
 
 I observed this beautiful nest on the largest 
 island of Rydal Water. 
 
 The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king 
 Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous 
 
 cell 
 With emerald floored, and with purpureal 
 
 shell 
 Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a 
 
 thing 
 As this low structure, for the tasks of 
 
 Spring, 
 Prepared by one who loves the buoyant 
 
 swell 
 Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to 
 
 dwell; 
 And spreads in steadfast peace her brood- 
 ing wing. 
 Words cannot paint the p'ershadowing 
 
 yew-tree bough, 
 And dimly-gleaming Nest, — a hollow 
 
 crown 
 Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down. 
 Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow : 
 I gazed — and, self-accused while gazing, 
 
 sighed 
 For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous 
 
 pride ! 
 1819. 1819. 
 
638 
 
 WRITTEN IN "THE COMPLETE AKGLER.' 
 
 WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF 
 IN "THE COMPLETE ANGLER." 
 
 While flowing rivers yield a blameless 
 
 sport, 
 Shall live the name of Walton: Sage 
 
 benign ! 
 Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and 
 
 line 
 Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort 
 To reverend vifatching of each still report 
 That Nature utters from her rural shrine. 
 Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline. 
 He found the longest summer day too 
 
 short, 
 To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee, 
 Or down the tempting maze of Shawford 
 
 brook — 
 Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, 
 The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree; 
 And the fresh meads — where flowed, 
 
 from every nook 
 Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety ! 
 i8ig. 1819. 
 
 CAPTIVITY— MARY QUEEN OF 
 SCOTS. 
 
 " As the cold aspect of a sunless way 
 Strikes through the Traveller's frame with 
 
 deadlier chill. 
 Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill, 
 Glistening with unparticipated ray. 
 Or shining slope where he must never 
 
 stray ; 
 So joys, remembered without wish or will. 
 Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill, — 
 On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay. 
 Just Heaven, contract the compass of my 
 
 mind 
 To fit proportion with my altered state ! 
 Quench those felicities whose light I find 
 Reflected in my bosom all too late ! — 
 be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait; 
 And, like mine eyes that stream with sor- 
 row, blind ! " 
 1819. 1819. 
 
 TO A SNOWDROP. 
 
 Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and 
 
 white as they 
 But hardier far, once more I see thee bend 
 
 Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend. 
 Like an unbidden guest. Though day by 
 
 day, 
 Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, 
 
 waylay 
 The rising sun, and on the plains descend; 
 Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend 
 Whose zeal outruns his promise ! Blue- 
 eyed May 
 Shall soon behold this border thickly set 
 With bright jonquils, their odors lavishing 
 On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers; 
 Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, 
 Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of 
 
 Spring, 
 And pensive monitor of fleeting years. 
 1819. 1819. 
 
 ON SEEING A TUFT OF SNOW- 
 DROPS IN A STORM. 
 
 When haughty expectations prostrate lie. 
 And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing. 
 Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring 
 Mature release, in fair society 
 Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try; 
 Like these frail snowdrops that together 
 
 cling. 
 And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing 
 Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. 
 Observe the faithful flowers ! if small to 
 
 great 
 May lead the thoughts, thus struggling 
 
 used to stand 
 The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate; 
 And so the bright immortal Theban band. 
 Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's com- 
 mand. 
 Might overwhelm, but could not separate ! 
 1819. 1820. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VAL- 
 LEYS OF WESTMORELAND, ON 
 EASTER SUNDAY. 
 
 With each recurrence of this glorious 
 morn 
 
 That saw the Saviour in his human frame 
 
 Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage- 
 dame 
 
 Put on fresh raiment • — till that hour un- 
 worn: 
 
"I WATCH, AND LONG HAVE WATCHED." 
 
 639 
 
 Domestic hands the home-bred wool had 
 
 shorn, 
 And she who span it culled the daintiest 
 
 fleece. 
 In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of 
 
 Peace, 
 Whose temples bled beneath the platted 
 
 thorn. 
 A blest estate when piety sublime 
 These humble props disdained not ! O 
 
 green dales ! 
 Sad may / be who heard your sabbath 
 
 chime 
 When Art's abused inventions were un- 
 known ; 
 Kind Nature's various wealth was all your 
 
 own; 
 And benefits were weighed in Reason's 
 
 scales ! 
 1819. i8ig. 
 
 "GRIEF, THOU HAST LOST AN 
 EVER-READY FRIEND." 
 
 I could write a treatise of lamentation upon the 
 changes brought about among the cottages of 
 Westmoreland by the silence of the spinning- 
 wheel. During long winter nights and wet days, 
 the wheel upon which wool was spun gave em- 
 ployment to a great part of a family. The old 
 man, however infirm, was able to card the wool, 
 as he sate in the comer by the fireside ; and 
 often, when a boy, have I admired the cylinders 
 of carded wool which were softly laid upon each 
 other by his side. Two wheels were often at 
 work on the same fioor ; and others of the family, 
 chiefly little children, were occupied in teasing 
 and cleaning the wool to fit it for the hand of the 
 carder. So that all, except the smallest infants, 
 were contributing to mutual support. Such was 
 the employment that prevailed in the pastoral 
 vales. Where wool w'as not at hand, in the small 
 rural towns, the wheel for spinning flax was 
 almost in as constant use, if knitting was not 
 preferred; which latter occupation has the ad- 
 vantage (in some cases disadvantage) that, not 
 being of necessity stationary, it allowed of gos- 
 siping about from house to house, which good 
 housewives reckoned an idle thing. 
 
 Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend 
 Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is 
 
 mute; 
 And Care — a com forter that best could suit 
 
 Her froward mood, and softliest repre- 
 hend; 
 And Love — a charmer's voice, that used 
 
 to lend. 
 More efficaciously than aught that flows 
 From harp or lute, kind influence to com- 
 pose 
 The, throbbing pulse — else troubled with- 
 out end: 
 Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce 
 
 and rest 
 From her own overflow, what power sedate 
 On those revolving motions did await 
 Assiduously — to soothe her aching breast ; 
 And, to a point of just reUef, abate 
 The mantling triumphs of a day too blest. 
 
 " I WATCH, AND LONG HAVE 
 WATCHED, WITH CALM REGRET." 
 
 Suggested in front of Rydal Mount, the rocky 
 parapet being the summit of Loughrigg Fell 
 opposite. Not once only, but a hundred times, 
 have the feelings of this Sonnet been awakened 
 by the same objects seen from the same place. 
 
 I WATCH, and long have watched, with 
 
 calm regret 
 Yon slowly-sinking star — immortal Sire 
 (So might he seem) of all the glittering 
 
 quire ! 
 Blue ether still surrounds him — yet — and 
 
 yet; 
 But now the horizon's rocky parapet 
 Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright 
 
 attire. 
 He burns — transmuted to a dusky fire — 
 Then pays submissively the appointed debt 
 To the flying moments, and is seen no 
 
 more. 
 Angels and gods ! We struggle with our 
 
 fate, 
 While health, power, glory, from their 
 
 height decline, 
 Depressed; and then extinguished; and 
 
 our state. 
 In this,how different, lost Star,from thine, 
 That no to-morrow shall our beams re- 
 store ! 
 1819. 1819. 
 
640 
 
 ^I HEARD (ALAS! 'T WAS ONLY IN A DREAM).' 
 
 " I HEARD (ALAS ! 'T WAS ONLY 
 IN A DREAM)." 
 
 I HEARD (alas ! 't was only in a dream) 
 Strains — which, as sage Antiquity be- 
 lieved, 
 By waking ears have sometimes been re- 
 ceived 
 Wafted adown the wind from lake or 
 
 stream; 
 A most melodious requiem, a supreme 
 And perfect harmony of notes, achieved 
 By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved, 
 O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam. 
 For is she not the votary of Apollo? 
 And knows she not, singing as he inspires. 
 That bliss awaits her which the ungenial 
 
 Hollow 1 
 Of the dull earth partakes not , nor desires ? 
 Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the im- 
 mortal quires ! 
 She soared — and I awoke, struggling in 
 vain to follow. 
 i8rg. 1819. 
 
 THE HAUNTED TREE. 
 
 This tree grew in the parit of Rydal, and I 
 have often listened to its creaking as described. 
 
 Those silver clouds collected round the 
 
 sun 
 His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming 
 
 less 
 To overshade than multiply his beams 
 By soft reflection — grateful to the sky. 
 To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our 
 
 human sense 
 Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy 
 More ample than the time-dismantled Oak 
 Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, 
 
 attired 
 In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords 
 Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use 
 Was fashioned; whether, by the hand of 
 
 Art, 
 That eastern Sultan, amid flowers en- 
 wrought 
 
 ^ See the Phsedon of Plato, by which this 
 Sonnet was suggested. 
 
 On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs 
 In languor; or, by Nature, for repose 
 Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied with 
 
 the chase. 
 O Lady ! fairer in thy Poet's sight 
 Than fairest spiritual creature of the 
 
 groves, 
 Approach; — and, thus invited, crown 
 
 with rest 
 The noon-tide hour : though truly some 
 
 there are 
 Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid 
 This venerable Tree; for, when the wind 
 Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking 
 
 sound 
 (Above the general roar of woods and 
 
 crags) 
 Distinctly heard from afar — a doleful 
 
 note ! 
 As if (so Grecian shepherds would have 
 
 deemed) 
 The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed 
 Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved. 
 By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost 
 Haunts the old trunk; lamenting deeds 
 
 of which 
 The flowery ground is conscious. But no 
 
 wind 
 Sweeps now along this elevated ridge; 
 Not even a zephyr stirs ; — the obnoxious 
 
 Tree 
 Is mute; and, in his silence, would look 
 
 down, 
 O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills. 
 On thy reclining form with more delight 
 Than his coevals in the sheltered vale 
 Seem to participate, the while they view 
 Their own far-stretching arms and leafy 
 
 heads 
 Vividly pictured in some glassy pool. 
 That, for a brief space, checks the hurry- 
 ing stream ! 
 1819. 1820. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1819. 
 
 The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 
 Are hung, as if with golden shields, 
 Bright trophies of the sun ! 
 Like a fair sister of the sky. 
 Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, 
 The mountains looking on. 
 
UPON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 641 
 
 And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, 
 Albeit uninspired by love, 
 By love untaught to ring, 
 May well afford to mortal ear 
 An impulse more profoundly dear 
 Than music of the Spring. 
 
 For that from turbulence and heat 
 Proceeds, fi'om some uneasy seat 
 In nature's struggling frame. 
 Some region of impatient life : 
 And jealousy, and quivering strife, 
 Therein a portion claim. 
 
 This, this is holy; — while I hear 
 These vespers of another year. 
 This hymn of thanks and praise. 
 My spirit seems to mount above 
 The anxieties of human love, 
 And earth's precarious days. 
 
 But list ! — though winter storms be nigh, 
 Unchecked is that soft harmony : 
 There lives Who can provide 
 For all his creatures; and in Him, 
 Even like the radiant Seraphim, 
 These choristers confide. 
 1819. 1820. 
 
 UPON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 Departing summer hath assumed 
 An aspect tenderly' illumed. 
 The gentlest look of spring; 
 That calls from yonder leafy shade 
 Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
 A timely carolling. 
 
 No faint and hesitating trill, 
 Such tribute as to winter chill 
 The lonely redbreast pays ! 
 Clear, loud, and lively is the din, 
 From social warblers gathering in 
 Their harvest of sweet lays. 
 
 Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
 Me, conscious that my leaf is sere. 
 And yellow on the bough : — 
 Fall, rosy garlands, from my head! 
 Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
 Around a younger brow ! 
 
 Yet will I temperately rejoice; 
 
 Wide is the range, and free the choice 
 
 Of undiscordant themes; 
 
 Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 
 
 Not less than vernal ecstasies. 
 
 And passion's feverish dreams. 
 
 For deathless powers to verse belong. 
 And they like Demi-gods are strong 
 On whom the Muses smile; 
 But some their function have disclaimed. 
 Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 
 To enervate and defile. 
 
 Not such the initiatory strains 
 
 Committed to the silent plains 
 
 In Britain's earliest dawn: 
 
 Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 
 
 While all-too-daringly the veil 
 
 Of nature was withdrawn ! 
 
 Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
 When the live chords Alcseus smote, 
 Inflamed by sense of wrong; 
 Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 
 Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 
 Of fierce vindictive song. 
 
 And not unhallowed was the page 
 By winged Love inscribed, to assuage 
 The pangs of vain pursuit; 
 Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
 With finest touch of passion swayed 
 Her own .i^lian lute. 
 
 O ye, who patiently explore 
 The wreck of Herculanean lore. 
 What rapture ! could ye seize 
 Some Theban fragment, or unroll 
 One precious, tender-hearted, scroll 
 Of pure Simonides. 
 
 That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
 Of poesy; a bursting forth 
 Of genius from the dust : 
 What Horace gloried to behold. 
 What Maro loved, shall we enfold? 
 Can haughty Time be just ! 
 1819. 1820. 
 
642 
 
 'THERE IS A LITTLE UNPRETENDING RILL.' 
 
 "THERE IS A LITTLE UNPRE-, 
 TENDING RILL." 
 
 This Rill triclcles down the hill-side into 
 Windermere, near Lowwood. My sister and I, 
 on our first visit together to this part of the 
 country, walked from Kendal, and we rested to 
 refresh ourselves by the side of the lake where the 
 streamlet falls into it. This sonnet was written 
 some years after in recollection of that happy 
 ramble, that most happy day'and hour. 
 
 There is a little unpretending Rill 
 Of limpid water, humbler far than aught 
 That ever among Men or Naiads sought 
 Notice or name ! — It quivers down the 
 
 hill, 
 Furrowing its shallow way with dubious 
 
 will; 
 Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is 
 
 brought 
 Of tener than Ganges or the Nile ; a thought 
 Of private recollection sweet and still ! 
 Months perish with their moons; year 
 
 treads on year ! 
 But, faithful Emma ! thou with me canst 
 
 say 
 That, while ten thousand pleasures dis- 
 appear, 
 And flies their memory fast almost as they; 
 The immortal Spirit of one happy day 
 Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear. 
 1S30. 1820. 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF A 
 ROCKY STREAM. 
 
 Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white 
 • fur! 
 
 Ye wrangling Schoolmen, of the scarlet 
 
 hood ! 
 Who, with a keenness not to be withstood,. 
 Press the point home, or falter and demur. 
 Checked in your course by many a teasing 
 
 burr; 
 These natural council-seats your acrid 
 
 blood 
 Might cool; — and, as the Genius of the 
 
 flood 
 Stoops willingly to animate and spur 
 Each lighter function slumbering in the 
 
 brain. 
 
 Yon eddying balls of foam, these arrowy 
 
 gleams 
 That o'er the pavement of the surging 
 
 streams 
 Welter and flash, a synod might detain 
 With subtle speculations, haply vain. 
 But surely less so than your far-fetched 
 
 themes ! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY 
 (GEORGE THE THIRD). 
 
 Ward of the Law ! — dread Shadow of 
 
 a King ! 
 Whose realm had dwindled to one stately 
 
 room; 
 Whose universe was gloom immersed in 
 
 gloom. 
 Darkness as thick as life o'er life could 
 
 fling, 
 Save haply for some feeble glimmering 
 Of Faith and Hope — if thou, by nature's 
 
 doom, 
 Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb. 
 Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow 
 
 cling. 
 When thankfulness were best? — Fresh- 
 flowing tears. 
 Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding 
 
 sigh. 
 Yield to such after-thought the sole reply 
 Which justly it can claim. The Nation 
 
 hears 
 In this deep knell, silent for threescore 
 
 years. 
 An unexampled voice of awful memory ! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 "THE STARS ARE MANSIONS 
 BUILT BY NATURE'S HAND." 
 
 The stars are mansions built by Nature's 
 hand, 
 
 And, haply, there the spirits of the blest 
 
 Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immor- 
 tal vest; 
 
 Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow 
 strand, 
 
 A habitation marvellously planned. 
 
 For life to occupy in love and rest; 
 
 All that we see — is dome, or vault, or nest, 
 
OXFORD. 
 
 643 
 
 Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage com- 
 mand. 
 
 Glad thought for every season ! but the 
 
 Spring 
 . Gave it while cares were weighing on my 
 heart, 
 
 'Mid song of birds, and insects murmur- 
 ing; 
 
 And while the youthful year's prolific art — 
 
 Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was 
 fashioning 
 
 Abodes where self-disturbance hath no 
 part. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER. 
 
 With a selection from the Foems of Anne, 
 Countess of Winchilsea ; and extracts of similar 
 character from other Writers ; transcribed by a 
 female friend. 
 
 Lady ! I rifled a Parnassian Cave 
 
 (But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore ; 
 
 And culled, from sundry beds, a lucid store 
 
 Of genuine crystals, pure as those that 
 pave 
 
 The azure brooks, where Dian joys to lave 
 
 Her spotless limbs; and ventured to ex- 
 plore 
 
 Dim shades — for reliques, upon Lethe's 
 shore, 
 
 Cast up at random by the sullen wave. 
 
 To female hands the treasures were re- 
 signed; 
 
 And lo this Work ! — a grotto bright and 
 clear 
 
 From stain or taint; in which thy blame- 
 less mind 
 
 May feed on thoughts though pensive 
 not austere; 
 
 Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined 
 
 To holy musing, it may enter here. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 ON THE DETRACTION WHICH 
 FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION 
 OF A CERTAIN POEM. 
 
 See Milton's Sonnet, beginning, " A Book was 
 writ of late called ' Tetrachordon.' " 
 
 A Book came forth of late, called Peter 
 
 Bell; 
 Not negligent the style; — the matter? — 
 
 good 
 
 As aught that song records of Robin 
 
 Hood; 
 Or Roy, renowned through many a Scot- 
 tish dell; 
 But some (who brook those hackneyed 
 
 themes full well, 
 Nor heat, at Tam o'Shanter's name, their 
 
 blood) 
 Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a 
 
 harpy brood. 
 On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. 
 Heed not, wild Rover once through 
 
 heath and glen, 
 Who mad'st at length the better life thy 
 
 choice. 
 Heed not such onset ! nay, if praise of 
 
 men 
 To thee appear not an unmeaning voice. 
 Lift up that gray-haired forehead, and 
 
 rejoice 
 In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen ! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 OXFORD, May 30, 1820. 
 
 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! 
 
 In whose collegiate shelter England's 
 Flowers 
 
 Expand, enjoying through their vernal 
 hours 
 
 The air of liberty, the light of truth; 
 
 Much have ye suffered from Time's gnaw- 
 ing tooth : 
 
 Yet, O ye spires of Oxford ! domes and 
 towers ! 
 
 Gardens and groves ! your presence over- 
 powers 
 
 The soberness of reason; till, in sooth, 
 
 Transformed, and rushing on a bold ex- 
 change, 
 
 I slight my own beloved Cam, to range 
 
 Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet; 
 
 Pace the long avenue, or glide adown 
 
 The stream-like windings of that glorious 
 street — 
 
 An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown ! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 OXFORD, May 30, 1820. 
 
 Shame on this faithless heart ! that could 
 
 allow 
 Such transport, though but for a moment's 
 
 space ; 
 
644 
 
 JUNE, 1820. 
 
 Not while — to aid the spirit of the place — 
 The crescent moon clove with its glittering 
 
 prow 
 The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady 
 
 bough ; 
 But in plairi daylight : — She, too, at my 
 
 side, 
 Who, with her heart's experience satisfied. 
 Maintains inviolate its sHghtest vow ! 
 Sweet Fancy! other gifts must I receive; 
 Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim; 
 Take from her brow the withering flowers 
 
 of eve, 
 And to that brow life's morning wreath 
 
 restore; 
 Let her be comprehended in the frame 
 Of these illusions, or they please no more. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 JUNE, 1820. 
 
 Fame tells of groves — from England far 
 
 away — • 
 1 Groves that inspire the Nightingale to 
 
 trill 
 And modulate, with subtle reach of skill 
 Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying 
 
 lay; 
 Such bold report I venture to gainsay : 
 For I have heard the quire of Richmond 
 
 hill 
 Chanting, with indefatigable bill, 
 Strains that recalled to mind a distant day; 
 When, haply under shade of that same 
 
 wood, 
 And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars 
 Plied steadily between those willowy 
 
 shores. 
 The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons 
 
 stood — 
 Listening, and listening long, in rapturous 
 
 mood, 
 Ye heavenly Birds ! to your Progenitors. 
 1S20. jSzo. 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE 
 CONTINENT. 
 
 1820. 
 
 I set out in company with my Wife and Sister, 
 
 and Mr. and Mrs, Monkhouse, then just married, 
 
 and Miss Horroclcs. These two ladies, sisters, 
 
 we left at Berne, while Mr. Monkhouse took the 
 
 ' Wallachia is the country alluded to. 
 
 opportunity of making an excursion with us 
 among the Alps as far as Milan. Mr. H. C. 
 Robinson joined us at Lucerne, and when this 
 ramble was completed we rejoined at Geneva the 
 two ladies we had left at Berne and proceeded to 
 Paris, where Mr. Monkhouse and H. C. R. left * 
 us, and where we spent hve weeks, of which 
 there is not a record in these poems. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 (sent with these poems, in MS., 
 TO ) 
 
 Dear Fellow-travellers ! think not that the Muse, 
 To You presenting these memorial Lays, 
 Can hope the general eye thereon would gaze, 
 As on a mirror that gives back the hues 
 Of living Nature ; no — though free to choose 
 The greenest bowers, the most inviting ways, 
 The fairest landscapes and the brightest days — 
 Her skill she tried with less ambitious views. 
 For You she wrought : Ye only can supply 
 The life, the truth, the beauty: she confides 
 In that enjoyment which with You abides, 
 Trusts to your love and vivid memory ; 
 Thus far contented, that for You her verse 
 Shall lack not power the "meeting soul to 
 pierce ! " 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 RvDAL Mount, Nov. 1821. 
 
 FISH-WOMEN — ON LANDING AT 
 CALAIS. 
 
 'T IS said, fantastic ocean doth enfold 
 
 The likeness of whate'er on land is seen; 
 
 But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen, 
 
 Above whose heads the tide so long hath 
 rolled, 
 
 The Dames resemble whom we here 
 behold. 
 
 How fearful were it down through open- 
 ing waves 
 
 To sink, and meet them in their fretted 
 caves. 
 
 Withered, grotesque, immeasurably old, 
 
 And shrill and fierce in accent! — Fear 
 it not : 
 
 For they Earth's fairest daughters do 
 excel; 
 
 Pure undecaying beauty is their lot; 
 
 Their voices into liquid music swell. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 645 
 
 Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry 
 grot, 
 
 The undisturbed abodes where Sea- 
 nymphs dwell ! ' 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 II. 
 
 BRUGES.' 
 
 Bruges I saw attired with golden light 
 (Streamed from the west) as with a robe 
 
 of power: 
 The splendor fled; and now the sunless 
 
 hour. 
 That, slowly making way for peaceful 
 
 night, 
 Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my 
 
 sight 
 Offers the beauty, the magnificence, 
 And sober graces, left her for defence 
 Against the injuries of time, the spite 
 Of fortune, and the desolating storms 
 Of future war. Advance not — spare to 
 
 hide, 
 O gentle Power of darkness ! these mild 
 
 hues; 
 Obscure not yet these silent avenues 
 Of stateliest architecture, where the 
 
 Forms 
 Of nun-like females, with soft motion, 
 
 glide ! 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 BRUGfes. 
 
 The Spirit of Antiquity — enshrined 
 
 In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet 
 
 song, 
 In picture, speaking with heroic tongue. 
 And with devout solemnities entwined — 
 Mounts to the seat of grace within the 
 
 mind: 
 Hence Forms that glide with swan-like 
 
 ease along. 
 Hence motions, even amid the vulgar 
 
 throng. 
 To an harmonious decency confined: 
 As if the streets were consecrated ground, 
 The city one vast temple, dedicate 
 
 > See Note. 
 
 To mutual respect in thought and deed ; 
 
 To leisure, to forbearances sedate; 
 
 To social cares from jarring passions 
 
 freed; 
 A deeper peace than that in deserts found ! 
 
 AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF 
 WATERLOO. 
 
 A WINGED Goddess — clothed in vesture 
 
 wrought 
 Of rainbow colors; One whose port was 
 
 bold, 
 Whose overburthened hand could scarcely 
 
 hold 
 The glittering crowns and garlands which 
 
 it brought — 
 Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot. 
 She vanished; leaving prospect blank 
 
 and cold 
 Of wind-swept corn that wide around us 
 
 rolled 
 In dreary billows; wood, and meagre cot. 
 And monuments that soon must dis- 
 appear; 
 Yet a dread local recompense we found; 
 While glory seemed betrayed, while 
 
 patriot-zeal 
 Sank in our hearts, we felt as men should 
 
 feel 
 With such vast hoards of hidden carnage 
 
 near. 
 And horror breathing from the silent 
 
 ground ! 
 
 1820. 
 
 1822. 
 
 BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE. 
 
 The scenery on the Meuse pleases me more, 
 upon the whole, than that of the Rhine, though 
 the river itself is much inferior in grandeur. The 
 rocks both in form and color, especially between 
 Namur and Lifege, surpass any upon the Rhine, 
 though they are in several places disfigured by 
 quarries, whence stones were taken for the new 
 fortifications. This is much to be regretted, for 
 they are useless, and the scars will remain per- 
 haps for thousands of years. A like injury to a 
 still greater degree has been inflicted, in my 
 memory, upon the beautiful rocks of Clifton on 
 
646 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 the banks of the Avon. There is probably in 
 existence a very long letter of mine to Sir Uve- 
 dale Price, in which was given a description of 
 the landscapes on the Meuse as compared with 
 those on the Rhine. 
 
 Details in the spirit of these sonnets are given 
 both in Mrs. Wordsworth's Journals and my Sis- 
 ter's, and the re-perusal of them has strengthened 
 a wish long entertained that somebody would put 
 together, as in one work, the notices contained in 
 them, omitting particulars that were written down 
 merely to aid our memory, and bringing the 
 whole into as small a compass as is consistent 
 with the general interests belonging to the 
 scenes, circumstances, and objects touched on 
 by each writer. 
 
 What lovelier home could gentle Fancy 
 
 choose? 
 Is this the stream, vifhose cities, heights, 
 
 and plains, 
 War's favorite playground, are with 
 
 crimson stains 
 Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews? 
 The Morn, that now, along the silver 
 
 Meuse, 
 Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the 
 
 swains 
 To tend their silent boats and ringing 
 
 wains. 
 Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit 
 
 bestrews 
 The ripening corn beneath it. As mine 
 
 eyes 
 Turn from the fortified and threatening 
 
 hill. 
 How sweet the prospect of yon watery 
 
 glade. 
 With its gray rocks clustering in pensive 
 
 shade — 
 That, shaped like old monastic turrets, 
 
 rise 
 From the smooth meadow-ground, serene 
 
 and still ! 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 AIX-LA-CHAPELLE. 
 
 Was it to disenchant, and to undo. 
 That we approached the Seat of Charle- 
 
 maine? 
 To sweep from many an old romantic 
 
 strain 
 
 That faith which no devotion may renew ! 
 Why does this puny Church present to 
 
 view 
 Her feeble columns? and that scanty 
 
 chair ! 
 This sword that one of our weak times 
 
 might wear ! 
 Objects of false pretence, or meanly true ! 
 If from a traveller's fortune I might claim 
 A palpable memorial of that day. 
 Then would I seek the Pyrenean Breach 
 That Roland clove with huge two- 
 handed sway. 
 And to the enormous labor left his name, 
 Where unremitting frosts the rocky cres- 
 cent bleach. 1 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. 
 
 O FOR the help of Angels to complete 
 This Temple — Angels governed by a plan 
 Thus far pursued (how gloriously !)by 
 
 Man, 
 Studious that He might not disdain the 
 
 seat 
 Who dwells in heaven ! But that aspir- 
 ing heat 
 Hath failed; and now, ye Powers! whose 
 
 gorgeous wings 
 And splendid aspect yon emblazonings 
 But faintly picture, 't were an office meet 
 For )'ou, on these unfinished shafts to try 
 The midnight virtues of your harmony; — 
 This vast design might tempt you to repeat 
 Strains that call forth upon empyreal 
 
 ground 
 Immortal Fabrics, rising to the sound 
 Of penetrating harps and voices sweet ! 
 
 1820. 
 
 1822. 
 
 IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE BANKS 
 OF THE RHINE. 
 
 Amid this dance of objects sadness steals 
 O'er the defrauded heart ^- while sweep- 
 ing by. 
 As in a fit of Thespian jollity. 
 Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green 
 Earth reels: 
 
 ' See Note. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 647 
 
 Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels 
 The venerable pageantry of Time, 
 Each beetling rampart, and each tower 
 
 sublime, 
 And what the Dell unwillingly reveals 
 Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees 
 
 espied 
 Near the bright River's edge. Yet why 
 
 repine? 
 To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to 
 
 gaze — 
 Such sweet wayfaring — of life's spring 
 
 the pride, 
 Her summer's faithful joy — that still is 
 
 mine. 
 And in fit measure cheers autumnal days. 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 FOR THE BOATMEN, AS THEY APPROACH 
 THE RAPIDS UNDER THE CASTLE OF 
 HEIDELBERG. 
 
 Jesu ! bless our slender Boat, 
 
 By the current swept along; 
 Loud its threatenings — let them not 
 
 Drown the music of a song 
 Breathed thy mercy to implore, 
 Where these troubled waters roar ! 
 
 Saviour, for our warning, seen 
 Bleeding on that precious Rood; 
 
 If, while through the meadows green 
 Gently wound the peaceful flood, 
 
 We forgot Thee, do not Thou 
 
 Disregard thy Suppliants now ! 
 
 Hither, hke yon ancient Tower 
 Watching o'er the River's bed. 
 
 Fling the shadow of thy power, 
 Else we sleep among the dead; 
 
 Thou who trod'st the billowy sea. 
 
 Shield us in our jeopardy ! 
 
 Guide our Bark among the waves; 
 
 Through the rocks our passage smooth ; 
 Where the whirlpool frets and raves 
 
 Let thy love its anger soothe : 
 All our hope is placed in Thee; 
 Afiserere Domine!'^ 
 
 1S20. 1822. 
 
 > See 
 
 THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE. 
 
 Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly 
 
 Doth Danube spring to life ! ' The wan- 
 dering Stream 
 
 (Who loves the Cross, yet to the Cres- 
 cent's gleam 
 
 Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee 
 
 Slips from his prison walls : and Fancy, 
 free 
 
 To follow in his track of silver light. 
 
 Mounts on rapt wing, and with a mo- 
 ment's flight 
 
 Hath reached the encincture of that 
 gloomy sea 
 
 Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbade to 
 meet 
 
 In conflict; whose rough winds forgot 
 their jars 
 
 To waft the heroic progeny of Greece; 
 
 When the first Ship sailed for the Golden 
 Fleece — 
 
 Argo — exalted for that daring feat 
 
 To fix in heaven her shape distinct with 
 stars. 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 ON APPROACHING THE STAUB- 
 BACH, LAUTERBRUNNEN. 
 
 Uttered by whom, or how inspired — • 
 designed 
 
 For what strange service, does this concert 
 reach 
 
 Our ears, and near the dwellings of man- 
 kind ! 
 
 'Mid fields familiarized to human 
 speech? — 
 
 No Mermaid's warble — to allay the wind 
 
 Driving some vessel toward a dangerous 
 beach — 
 
 More thrilling melodies; Witch answering 
 Witch, 
 
 To chant a love-spell, never intertwined 
 
 Notes shrill and wild with art more musi- 
 cal: 
 
 Alas ! that from the lips of abject Want 
 
 Or Idleness in tatters mendicant 
 Note 
 
648 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 The strain should flow — free Fancy to 
 
 enthral, 
 And with regret and useless pity haunt 
 This bold, this bright, this sky-born, 
 
 Waterfall ! 1 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 XII. 
 THE FALL OF THE AAR— HANDEC. 
 
 From the fierce aspect of this River, 
 throwing 
 
 His giant body o'er the steep rock's 
 brink, 
 
 Back in astonishment and fear we shrink : 
 
 But, gradually a calmer look bestowing. 
 
 Flowers we espy beside the torrent grow- 
 ing". 
 
 Flowers that peep forth from many a 
 cleft and chink. 
 
 And, from the whirlwind of his anger, 
 drink 
 
 Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blow- 
 ing: 
 
 They suck — from breath that, threaten- 
 ing to destroy, 
 
 Is more benignant than the dewy eve — 
 
 Beauty, and life, and motions as of joy: 
 
 Nor doubt but He to whom yon Pine- 
 trees nod 
 
 Their heads in sign of worship. Nature's 
 God, 
 
 These humbler adorations will receive. 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 MEMORIAL. 
 
 NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF 
 THUX. 
 
 "DEM 
 
 ANDENKEN 
 
 MEINES FREUNDES 
 
 ALOYS REDING 
 
 MDCCCXl^III." 
 
 Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was 
 Captain-General of tlie Swiss forces, wliicll, witli 
 a courage and perseverance worthy of the cause, 
 opposed the flagitious and too successful attempt 
 of Buonaparte to subjugate their country. 
 1 See Note. 
 
 Around a wild and woody hill 
 A gravelled pathway treading. 
 We reached a votive Stone that bears 
 The name of Aloys Reding. 
 
 Well judged the Friend who placed it 
 
 there 
 For silence and protection; 
 And haply with a finer care 
 Of dutiful affection. 
 
 The Sun regards it from the West; 
 And, while in summer glory 
 He sets, his sinking yields a type 
 Of that pathetic story : 
 
 And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss 
 Amid the grove to linger; 
 Till all is dim, save this bright Stone 
 Touched by his golden finger. 
 
 1820. l82i. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHO- 
 LIC CANTONS. 
 
 Doomed as we are our native dust 
 To wet with many a bitter shower, 
 It ill befits us to disdain 
 The altar, to deride the fane. 
 Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust 
 To win a happier hour. 
 
 I love, where spreads the village lawn, 
 Upon some knee-worn cell to gaze: 
 Hail to the firm unmoving cross. 
 Aloft, where pines their branches toss! 
 And to the chapel far withdrawn, 
 That lurks by lonely ways ! 
 
 Where'er we roam — along the brink 
 Of Rhine — or by the sweeping Po, 
 Through Alpine vale, or champain wide, 
 Whate'er we look on, at our side 
 Be Charity ! — to bid us think, 
 And feel, if we would know. 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 XV. 
 
 AFTER-THOUGHT. 
 
 O LIFE ! without thy checkered scene 
 Of right and wrong, of weal and woe. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 649 
 
 Success and failure, could a ground 
 For magnanimity be found; 
 For faith, 'mid ruined hopes, serene? 
 Or whence could virtue flow? 
 
 Pain entered through a ghastly breach - 
 Nor while sin lasts must effort cease; 
 Heaven upon earth 's an empty boast; 
 But, for the bowers of Eden lost, 
 Mercy has placed within our reach 
 A portion of God's peace. 
 1S20. 1822. 
 
 SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ. 
 
 " What know we of the Blest above 
 But that they sing and that they love? " 
 Yet, if they ever did inspire 
 A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir, 
 Now, where those harvest Damsels float 
 Homeward in their rugged Boat, 
 (While all the ruffling winds are fled — 
 Each slumbering on some mountain's 
 
 head) 
 Now, surely, hath that gracious aid 
 Been felt, that influence is displayed. 
 Pupils of Heaven, in order stand 
 The rustic Maidens, every hand 
 Upon a Sister's shoulder laid, — 
 To chant, as glides the boat along, 
 A simple, but a touching, song; 
 To chant, as Angels do above. 
 The melodies of Peace in love ! 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS.i 
 
 For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes 
 The work of Fancy from her willing hands; 
 And such a beautiful creation makes 
 As renders needless spells and magic 
 
 wands. 
 And for the boldest tale belief commands. 
 When first mine eyes beheld that famous 
 
 Hill, 
 The sacred Engelberg, celestial Bands, 
 With intermingling motions soft and still. 
 Hung round its top, on wings that changed 
 
 their hues at will. 
 I See Note. 
 
 Clouds do not name those Visitants; they 
 
 were 
 The very Angels whose authentic lays. 
 Sung from that heavenly ground in middle 
 
 air, 
 Made known the spot where piety should 
 
 raise 
 A holy Structure to the Almighty's praise. 
 Resplendent Apparition ! if in vain 
 My ears did listen, 'twas enough to gaze; 
 And watch the slow departure of the train, 
 Whose skirts the glowing Mountain 
 
 thirsted to detain. 
 1820. 1S22. 
 
 OUR LADY OF THE SNOW. 
 
 Meek Virgin Mother, more benign 
 Than fairest Star, upon the height 
 Of thy own mountain,^ set to keep 
 Lone vigils through the hours of sleep. 
 What eye can look upon thy shrine 
 Untroubled at the sight ? 
 
 These crowded offerings as they hang 
 
 In sign of misery relieved. 
 
 Even these, without intent of theirs. 
 
 Report of comfortless despairs, 
 
 Of many a deep and cureless pang 
 
 And confidence deceived. 
 
 To Thee, in this aerial cleft. 
 As to a common centre, tend 
 All sufferers that no more rely 
 On mortal succor — all who sigh 
 And pine, of human hope bereft, 
 Nor wish for earthly friend. 
 
 And hence, O Virgin Mother mild ! 
 Though plenteous flowers around thee 
 
 blow 
 Not only from the dreary strife 
 Of Winter, but the storms of life. 
 Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled, 
 Our Lady of the Snow. 
 
 Even for the Man who stops not here. 
 But down the irriguous valley hies. 
 Thy very name, O Lady ! flings. 
 O'er blooming fields and gushing springs, 
 2 Mount Righi. 
 
650 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 A tender sense of shadowy fear, 
 And chastening sympathies ! 
 
 Nor falls that intermingling shade 
 To summer-gladsomeness unkind : 
 It chastens only to requite 
 With gleams of fresher, purer, light; 
 While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade, 
 More sweetly breathes the wind. 
 
 But on ! — a tempting downward way, 
 A verdant path before us lies; 
 Clear shines the glorious sun above; 
 Then give free course to joy and love. 
 Deeming the evil of the day 
 SufBcient for the wise. 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 EFFUSION. 
 
 IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWER 
 OF TELL,- AT ALTORF. 
 
 This Tower stands upon the spot where grew 
 the Linden Tree against which his Son is said to 
 have been placed, when the Father's archery was 
 put to proof under circumstances so famous in 
 Swiss Story. 
 
 What though the Italian pencil wrought 
 
 not here. 
 Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow 
 On Marathonian valor, yet the tear 
 Springs forth in presence of this gaudy 
 
 show. 
 While narrow cares their limits overflow. 
 Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors 
 
 old, 
 Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go 
 Homeward or schoolward, ape what ye 
 
 behold ! 
 Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy 
 
 bold! 
 
 And when that calm Spectatress from on 
 
 high 
 Looks down — the bright and solitary 
 
 Moon, 
 Who never gazes but to beautify; 
 And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze 
 
 of noon 
 Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune 
 That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls; 
 
 Then might the passing Monk receive a 
 boon 
 
 Of saintly pleasure from these pictured 
 walls. 
 
 While, on the warlike groups, the mellow- 
 ing lustre falls. 
 
 How blest the souls who when their trials 
 
 come 
 Yield not to terror or despondency. 
 But face like that sweet Boy their mortal 
 
 doom. 
 Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he 
 Expectant stands beneath the linden tree : 
 He quakes not like the timid forest game. 
 But smiles — the hesitating shaft to free; 
 Assured that Heaven its justice will pro- 
 claim. 
 And to his Father give its own unerring 
 aim. 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ. 
 
 By antique Fancy trimmed — though 
 
 lowly, bred 
 To dignity — in thee, O ScHWYTz! are 
 
 seen 
 The genuine features of the golden mean; 
 Equality by Prudence governed. 
 Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead; 
 And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, 
 
 serene 
 As that of the sweet fields and meadows 
 
 green 
 In unambitious compass round thee spread. 
 Majestic Berne, high on her guardian 
 
 steep. 
 Holding a central station of command, 
 Might well be styled this noble body's 
 
 Head; 
 Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrench- 
 ments deep. 
 Its Heart; and ever may the heroic Land 
 Thy name, O Schwytz, in happy freedom 
 
 keep ! ^ 
 
 ^ Nearly 500 years (says Ebel, speaking of the 
 French Invasion) had elapsed, when, for the first 
 time, foreign soldiers were seen upon the frontiers 
 of tliis small Canton, to impose upon it the laws 
 of tlieir governors. 
 
 1820. 1822. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 65: 
 
 KKi. 
 
 ON HEARING THE "RANZ DES 
 VACHES" ON THE TOP OF THE 
 PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. 
 
 I LISTEN — but no (acuity of mine 
 Avails those modulations to detect, 
 Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss 
 
 affect 
 With tenderest passion; leaving him to 
 
 pine 
 (So fame reports) and die, — his sweet- 
 breathed kine 
 Remembering, and green Alpine pastures 
 
 decked 
 With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject 
 The tale as fabulous. — Here while I re- 
 cline, 
 Mindful how others by this simple Strain 
 Are moved, for me — upon this Mountain 
 
 named 
 Of God himself from dread pre-emi- 
 nence — 
 Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed. 
 Yield to the Music's touching influence; 
 And joys of distant home my heart enchain. 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 FORT FUENTES. 
 
 The Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of a 
 rocky eminence that rises from the plain at the 
 head of the Lake of Como, commanding views up 
 the Valteline, and toward the town of Chiavenna, 
 The prospect in the latter direction is character- 
 ized by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced at 
 being favored with a distinct view of those 
 Alpine heights ; not, as we had expected from 
 the breaking up of the storm, steeped in celestial 
 glory, yet in communion with clouds floating or 
 stationary — scatterings from heaven. The Ruin 
 is interesting both in mass and in detail. An In- 
 scription, upon elaborately sculptured marble 
 lying on the ground, records that the Fort had 
 been erected by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, 
 during the reign of Philip the Third; and the 
 Chapel, about twenty years after, by one of his 
 Descendants. Marble pillars of gateways are 
 yet standing, and a considerable part of the 
 Chapel walls ; a smooth green turf has taken 
 place of the pavement, and we could see no trace 
 of altar or image ; but everywhere something to 
 
 remind one of former splendor, and of devas- 
 tation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed 
 abundance of wild vines intermingled with 
 bushes : near the ruins were some ill tended, but 
 growing willingly ; and rock, turf, and fragments 
 of the pile, are alike covered or adorned with a 
 variety of flowers, among which the rose-colored 
 pink was growing in great beauty. While de- 
 scending, we discovered on the ground, apart 
 from the path, and at a considerable distance 
 from the ruined Chapel, a statue of a Child in 
 pure white marble, uninjured by the explosion 
 that had driven it so far down the hill. " How 
 little," we exclaimed, "are these things valued 
 here ! Could we but transport this pretty Image 
 to our own garden! " — Vet it seemed it would 
 have been a pity any one should remove it from 
 its couch in the wilderness, which may belts own 
 for hundreds of years. — Extract from Journal. 
 
 Dread hour ! when, upheaved by war's 
 sulphurous blast, 
 This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian 
 stone 
 So far from the holy enclosure was cast, 
 To couch in this thicket of brambles 
 alone, 
 
 To rest where the lizard may bask in the 
 palm 
 Of his half-open hand pure from 
 blemish or speck; 
 And the green, gilded snake, without 
 troubhng the'calm 
 Of the beautiful countenance, twine 
 round his neck; 
 
 Where haply fkind service to Piety due !) 
 When winter the grove of its mantle 
 bereaves. 
 Some bird (like our own honored red- 
 breast) may strew 
 The desolate Slumberer with moss and 
 with leaves. 
 
 Fuentes once harbored the good and the 
 brave. 
 Nor to her was the dance of soft pleas- 
 ure unknown; 
 Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave 
 While the thrill of her fifes thro' the 
 mountains was blown : 
 
552 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless 
 ascent; — 
 O silence of Nature, how deep is thy 
 sway. 
 When the whirlwind of human destruction 
 is spent, 
 Our tumults appeased, and our strifes 
 passed away ! 
 
 1820. 
 
 1822. 
 
 THE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR. 
 SEEN FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO. 
 
 This Church was almost destroyed by lightning 
 a few years ago, but the altar and the image of the 
 Patron Saint were untouched. The Mount, upon 
 the summit of which the Church is built, stands 
 amid the intricacies of the Lake of Lugano ; and 
 is, from a hundred points of view, its principal 
 ornament, rising to the height of 2000 feet, and 
 on one side nearly perpendicular. The ascent is 
 toilsome ; but the traveller who performs it will 
 be amply rewarded. Splendid fertility, rich 
 woods and dazzling waters, seclusion and con- 
 finement of view contrasted with sealike extent 
 of plain fading into the sky; and this again, in 
 an opposite quarter, with an horizon of the loftiest 
 and boldest Alps — unite in composing a prospect 
 more diversified by magnificence, beauty, and 
 sublimity, than perhaps any other point in 
 Europe, of so inconsiderable an elevation, com- 
 mands. 
 
 Thou sacred Pile ! whose turrets rise 
 From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage, 
 Guarded by lone San Salvador; 
 Sink (if thou must) as heretofore, 
 To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice, 
 But ne'er to human rage ! 
 
 On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned 
 To rest the universal Lord : 
 Why leap the fountains from their cells 
 Where everlasting Bounty dwells? — 
 That, while the Creature is sustained, 
 His God may be adored. 
 
 Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times — 
 Let all remind the soul of heaven; 
 Our slack devotion needs them all; 
 And Faith — so oft of sense the thrall, 
 While she, by aid of Nature, climbs — 
 May hope to be forgiven. 
 
 Glory, and patriotic Love, 
 
 And all the Pomps of this frail " spot 
 
 Which men call Earth," have yearned to 
 
 seek, 
 Associate with the simply meek, 
 Religion in the sainted grove, 
 And in the hallowed grot. 
 
 Thither, in time of adverse shocks, 
 Of fainting hopes and backward wills, 
 Did mighty Tell repair of old — 
 .A Hero cast in Nature's mould, 
 Deliverer of the steadfast rocks 
 And of the ancient hills ! 
 
 IIc^ too, of battle-martyrs chief! 
 Who, io recall his daunted peers, 
 For victory shaped an open space, 
 By gathering with a wide embrace, 
 Into his single breast, a sheaf 
 Of fatal Austrian spears.' 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 THE ITALIAN ITINERANT AND THE 
 SWISS GOATHERD. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 Now that the farewell tear is dried. 
 Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide ! 
 Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy; 
 The wages of thy travel, joy ! 
 Whether for London bound — to trill 
 Thy mountain notes with simple skill; 
 Or on thy head to poise a show 
 Of Images in seemly row; 
 The graceful form of milk-white Steed, 
 Or Bird that soaredwith Ganymede; 
 Or through our hamlets thoii wilt bear 
 The sightless Milton, with his hair 
 Around his placid temples curled; 
 And Shakspeare at his side — a freight. 
 If clay could think and mind were weight. 
 For him who bore the world ! 
 
 ^ Arnold Winkelried, at the battle of Sempach, 
 broke an Austrian phalanx in this manner. The 
 event is one of the most famous in the annals of 
 Swiss heroism ; and pictures and prints of it are 
 frequent throughout the country. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 653 
 
 Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy; 
 The wages of thy travel, joy ! 
 
 But thou, perhaps, (alert as free 
 
 Though serving sage philosophy) 
 
 Wilt ramble over hill and dale, 
 
 A Vender of the well-wrought Scale, 
 
 Whose sentient tube instructs to time 
 
 A purpose to a fickle clime : 
 
 Whether thou choose this useful part. 
 
 Or minister to finer art. 
 
 Though robbed of many a cherished 
 
 dream, 
 And crossed by many a shattered scheme. 
 What stirring wonders wilt thou see 
 In the proud Isle of liberty ! 
 Yet will the Wanderer sometimes pine 
 With thoughts which no delights can 
 
 chase, 
 Recall a Sister's last embrace. 
 His Mother's neck entwine; 
 Nor shall forget the Maiden coy 
 That ivoidd have loved the bright-haired 
 
 Boy! 
 
 My Song, encouraged by the grace 
 
 That beams from his ingenuous face, 
 
 For this Adventurer scruples not 
 
 To prophesy a golden lot; 
 
 Due recompense, and safe return 
 
 To CoMO's steeps — his happy bourn'! 
 
 Where he, aloft in garden glade. 
 
 Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid, 
 
 The towering maize, and prop the twig 
 
 That ill supports the luscious fig; 
 
 Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof 
 
 With purple of the trellis-roof. 
 
 That through the jealous leaves escapes 
 
 From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes. 
 
 — Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child 
 
 To share his wanderings ! him whose look 
 
 Even yet my heart can scarcely brook, 
 
 So touchingly he smiled — 
 
 As with a rapture caught from heaven — 
 
 For unasked alms in pity given. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 I. 
 
 With nodding plumes, and lightly drest 
 
 Like fore.sters in leaf-green vest, 
 
 The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground 
 
 For Tell's dread archery renowned. 
 Before the target stood — to claim 
 The guerdon of the steadiest aim. 
 Loud was the rifie-gun's report — ■ 
 A startling thunder quick and short ! 
 But, flying through the heights around, 
 Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound 
 Of hearts and hands alike " prepared 
 The treasures they enjoy to guard ! " 
 And, if there be a favored hour 
 When Heroes are allowed to quit 
 The tomb, and on the clouds to sit 
 With tutelary power. 
 On their Descendants shedding grace — 
 This was the hour, and that the place. 
 
 But Truth inspired the Bards of old 
 When of an iron age they told. 
 Which to unequal Taws gave birth. 
 And drove Astrsea from the earth. 
 — A gentle Boy (perchance with blood 
 As noble as the best endued. 
 But seemingly a Thing despised; 
 Even by the sun and air unprized; 
 For not a tinge or flowery streak 
 Appeared upon his tender cheek) 
 Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes. 
 Apart, besides his silent goats. 
 Sate watching in a forest shed, 
 Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head; 
 Mute as the snow upon the hill. 
 And, as the saint he prays to, still. 
 Ah, what avails heroic deed? 
 What liberty? if no defence 
 Be won for feeble Innocence. 
 Father of all ! though wilful Manhood read 
 His punishment in soul-distress. 
 Grant to the morn of life its natural 
 blessedness ! 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 THE LAST SUPPER. 
 
 BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, IN THE REFEO= 
 TORY OF THE CONVENT OF MARIA 
 DELLA GRAZIA — MILAN. ' 
 
 Tho' searching damps and many an en- 
 vious flaw 
 
 Have marred this Work ; the calm ethereal 
 grace, 
 
 ' See Note. 
 
654 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face, 
 The mercy, goodness, have not failed to 
 
 av^'e 
 The Elements; as they do melt and thaw 
 The heart of the Beholder — and erase 
 (At least for one rapt moment) every 
 
 trace 
 Oi disobedience to the primal law. 
 The annunciation of the dreadful truth 
 Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, fore- 
 head, cheek. 
 And hand reposing on the board in ruth 
 Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek 
 Unquestionable meanings — still bespeak 
 A labor worthy of eternal youth ! 
 
 1820. 
 
 1822. 
 
 THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1820. 
 
 High on her speculative tower 
 Stood Science waiting for the hour 
 When Sol was destined to endure 
 I'hat darkening of his radiant face 
 Which Superstition strove to chase, 
 Erewhile, with rites impure. 
 
 Afloat beneath Italian skies. 
 
 Through regions fair 'as Paradise 
 
 We gayly passed, — till Nature wrought 
 
 A silent and unlooked-for change, 
 
 That checked the desultory range 
 
 Of joy and sprightly thought. 
 
 Where'er was dipped the toiling oar, 
 The waves danced round us as before. 
 As lightly, though of altered hue, 
 'Mid recent coolness, such as falls 
 At noontide from umbrageous walls 
 That screen the morning dew. 
 
 No vapor stretched its wings; no cloud 
 Cast far or near a murky shroud; 
 The sky an azure field displayed; 
 'T was sunlight sheathed and gently 
 
 charmed. 
 Of all its sparkling rays disarmed, 
 And as in slumber laid, — 
 
 Or something night and day between. 
 Like moonshine — but the hue was green ; 
 
 Still moonshine, without shadow, spread 
 On jutting rock, and curved shore. 
 Where gazed the peasant from his door 
 And on the mountain's head. 
 
 It tinged the Julian steeps — it lay, 
 Lugano ! on thy ample bay; 
 The solemnizing veil was drawn 
 O'er villas, terraces, and towers; 
 To Albogasio's olive bowers, 
 Porlezza's verdant lawn. 
 
 But Fancy with the speed of fire 
 Hath passed to Milan's loftiest spire. 
 And there alights 'mid that aerial host 
 Of Figures human and divine, ^ 
 White as the snows of Apennine 
 Indurated by frost. 
 
 Awe-stricken she beholds the array 
 That guards the Temple night and day; 
 Angels she sees — that might from heaven 
 
 have flown. 
 And Virgin-saints, who not in vain 
 Have striven by purity to gain 
 The beatific crown — 
 
 Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings 
 Each narrowing above each ; — the wings. 
 The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips 
 The starry zone of sovereign height 2 — 
 All steeped in this portentous light ! 
 Alksuffering dim eclipse ! 
 
 Thus after Man had fallen (if aught 
 These perishable spheres have wrought 
 May with that issue be compared) 
 Throngs of celestial visages, 
 Darkening like water in the breeze, 
 A holy sadness shared. 
 
 Lo ! while I speak, the laboring Sun 
 His glad deliverance has begun: 
 The cypress waves her sombre plume 
 More cheerily; and town and tower. 
 The vineyard and the olive-bower, 
 Their lustre re-assume ! 
 
 O Ye, who guard and grace my home 
 While in far-distant lands we roam, 
 
 " See Note. 
 
 2 Above the highest circle of figures is a zone 
 of metallic stars. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 655 
 
 What countenance hath this Day put on 
 
 for you ? 
 While we looked round with favored eyes, 
 Did sullen mists hide lake and skies 
 And mountains from your view? 
 
 Or was it given you to behold 
 
 Like vision, pensive though nol cold, 
 
 From the smooth breast of gay Winander- 
 
 mere? 
 Saw ye the soft yet awful veil 
 Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale, 
 Helvellyn's brow severe? 
 
 I ask in vain — and know far less 
 If sickness, sorrow, or distress 
 Have spared my Dwelling to this hour; 
 Sad blindness ! but ordained to prove 
 Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love 
 And all-controlling power. 
 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS. 
 
 I. 
 Hovi' blest the Maid whose heart — yet free 
 From Love's uneasy sovereignty — 
 Beats with a fancy running high. 
 Her simple cares to magnify; 
 Whom Labor, never urged to toil, 
 Hath cherished on a healthful soil; 
 Who knows not pomp, who heeds not 
 
 pelf; 
 Whose heaviest sin it is to look 
 Askance upon her pretty Self 
 Reflected in some crystal brook; 
 Whom grief hath spared — who sheds no 
 
 tear 
 But in sweet pity; and can hear 
 Another's praise from envy clear. 
 
 Such (but O lavish Nature ! why 
 That dark unfathomable eye. 
 Where lurks a Spirit that replies 
 To stillest mood of softest skies. 
 Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown, 
 Another's first, and then her own?) 
 Such, haply, yon Italian Maid, 
 
 Our Lady's laggard Votaress, 
 Halting beneath the chestnut shade 
 To accomplish there her loveliness: 
 Nice aid maternal fingers lend; 
 A Sister serves with slacker hand; 
 Then, glittering like a star, she joins the 
 festal band. 
 
 How blest (if truth may entertain 
 Coy fancy with a bolder strain) 
 The Helvetian Girl — who daily braves. 
 In her light skiff, the tossing waves, 
 And quits the bosom of the deep 
 Only to climb the rugged steep ! 
 — Say whence that modulated shout ! 
 From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng? 
 Or does the greeting to a rout 
 Of giddy Bacchanals belong? 
 Jubilant outcry ! rock and glade 
 Resounded — but the voice obeyed 
 The breath of an Helvetian Maid. 
 
 Her beauty dazzles the thick wood; 
 Her courage animates the flood; 
 Her steps the elastic greensward meets 
 Returning unreluctant sweets; 
 The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice 
 Aloud, saluted by her voice ! 
 Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace, 
 Be as thou art — for through thy veins 
 The blood of Heroes runs its race ! 
 And nobly wilt thou brook the chains 
 That, for the virtuous. Life prepares; 
 The fetters which the Matron wears; 
 The patriot Mother's weight of anxious 
 cares ! 
 
 1 "Sweet Highland Girl ! a very shower 
 Of beauty was thy earthly dower," 
 When thou didst flit before mine eyes. 
 Gay Vision under sullen skies. 
 While Hope and Love around thee played. 
 Near the rough falls of Inversneyd ! 
 Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen 
 No breach of promise in the fruit? 
 Was joy, in following joy, as keen 
 
 1 See address to a Highland Girl, p. 22i' 
 
656 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 As grief can be in grief's pursuit? 
 When youth had flown did hope still bless 
 Thy goings — or the cheerfulness 
 Of innocence survive to mitigate distress? 
 
 But from our course why turn — to tread 
 A v/s.y with shadows overspread; 
 Where what we gladliest would believe 
 Is feared as what may most deceive? 
 Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned 
 But heath-bells from thy native ground, 
 Time cannot thin thy flowing hair, 
 Nor take one ray of light from Thee; 
 For in my Fancy thou dost share 
 The gift of immortality; 
 And there shall bloom, with Thee allied. 
 The Votaress by Lugano's side; 
 And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep 
 descried ! 
 1820, 1822. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 THE COLUMN INTENDED BY BUO- 
 NAPARTE FOR A TRIUMPHAL EDI- 
 FICE IN MILAN, NOW LYING BY 
 THE WAYSIDE IN THE SIMPLON 
 PASS. 
 
 Ambition — following down this far- 
 famed slope 
 
 Her Pioneer, the snow-dissolving Sun, 
 
 While clarions prate of kingdoms to be 
 won — 
 
 Perchance, in future ages, here may stop; 
 
 Taught to mistrust her flattering horoscope 
 
 By admonition from this prostrate Stone ! 
 
 Memento uninscribed of Pride o'er- 
 thrown; 
 
 Vanity's hieroglyphic; a choice trope 
 
 In Fortune's rhetoric. Daughter of the 
 Rock, 
 
 Rest where thy course was stayed by 
 Power divine ! 
 
 The Soul transported sees, from hint of 
 thine, 
 
 Crimes which the great Avenger's hand 
 provoke. 
 
 Hears combats whistling o'er the ensan- 
 guined heath : 
 
 What groans ! what shrieks ! what quiet- 
 ness in death. 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 COMPOSED IN THE SIMPLON PASS. 
 
 Vallombrosa ! I longed in thy shadiest 
 wood , 
 
 To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered 
 floor. 
 
 To listen to Anio's precipitous flood. 
 
 When the stillness of evening hath deep- 
 ened its roar; 
 
 To range through the Temples of P/Estum, 
 to muse 
 
 In Pompeii preserved by her burial in 
 earth; 
 
 On pictures to gaze where they drank in 
 their hues; 
 
 And murmur sweet songs on the ground 
 of their birth. 
 
 The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of 
 
 Rome, 
 Could I leave them unseen, and not yield 
 
 to regret? 
 With a hope (and no more) for a season 
 
 to come. 
 Which ne'er may discharge the magnifi- 
 cent debt? 
 Thou fortunate Region ! whose Greatness 
 
 inurned 
 Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust; 
 Twice-glorified fields ! if in sadness I 
 
 turned 
 From your infinite marvels, the sadness 
 
 was just. 
 
 Now, risen e'er the light-footed Chamois 
 
 retires 
 From dew-sprinkled grass to heights 
 
 guarded with snow. 
 Toward the mists that hang over the land 
 
 of my Sires, 
 From the climate of myrtles contented I 
 
 go- 
 
 My thoughts become bright like yon 
 edging of Pines 
 
 On the steep's lofty verge: how it black- 
 ened the air ! 
 
 But, touched from behind by the Sun, it 
 now shines 
 
 With threads that seem part of his own 
 silver hair. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 657 
 
 Though the toil of the way with dear 
 
 Friends we divide, 
 Though by the same zephyr our temples 
 
 be fanned 
 As we rest in the cool orange-bower side 
 
 by side, 
 A yearning survives which few hearts 
 
 shall withstand : 
 Each step hath its value while homeward 
 
 we move; — 
 O joy when the girdle of England appears ! 
 What moment in life is so conscious of 
 
 love, 
 Of love in the heart made more happy by 
 
 tears ? 
 1S20. 1822. 
 
 ECHO, UPON THE GEMMI. 
 
 What beast of chase hath broken from 
 the cover? 
 
 Stern Gemmi listens to as full a cry, 
 
 As multitudinous a harmony 
 
 Of sounds as rang the heights of Latmos 
 over, 
 
 When, from the soft couch of her sleep- 
 ing Lover, 
 
 Up-starting, Cynthia skimmed the moun- 
 tain dew 
 
 In keen pursuit — and gave, where'er she 
 flew, 
 
 Impetuous motion to the Stars above her. 
 
 A solitary Wolf-dog, ranging on 
 
 Through the bleak concave, wakes this 
 wondrous chime '; 
 
 Of aery voices locked in unison, — 
 
 Faint — far-off — near — deep — solemn 
 and sublime ! — 
 
 So, from the body of one guilty deed, 
 
 A thousand ghostly fears, and haunting 
 thoughts, proceed ! 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 PROCESSIONS. 
 
 SUGGESTED ON A SABBATH MORNING IN 
 THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY. 
 
 To appease the Gods; or public thanks 
 
 to yield; 
 Or to solicit knowledge of events, 
 
 Which in her breast Futurity concealed; 
 And that the past might have its true in- 
 tents 
 Feelingly told by living monuments — 
 Mankind of yore were prompted to devise 
 Rites such as yet Persepolis presents 
 Graven on her cankered walls, solemnities 
 That moved in long array before admiring 
 eyes. 
 
 The Hebrews thus, carrying in joyful state 
 
 Thick boughs of palm, and willows from 
 the brook. 
 
 Marched round the altar — to commemo- 
 rate 
 
 How, when their course they through the 
 desert took. 
 
 Guided by signs which ne'er the sky for- 
 sook. 
 
 They lodged in leafy tents and cabins low ; 
 
 Green boughs were borne, while, for the 
 blast that shook 
 
 Down to the earth the walls of Jericho, 
 
 Shouts rise, and storms of sound from 
 lifted trumpets blow ! 
 
 And thus, in order, 'mid the sacred grove 
 Fed in the Libyan waste by gushing wells, 
 The priests and damsels of Ammonian Jove 
 Provoked responses with shrill canticles; 
 While, in a ship begirt with silver bells. 
 They round his altar bore the horned God, 
 Old Cham, the solar Deity, who dwells 
 Aloft, yet in a tilting vessel rode, 
 When universal sea the mountains over- 
 flowed. 
 
 Why speak of Roman Pomps ? the haughty 
 
 claims 
 Of Chiefs triumphant after ruthless wars; 
 The feast of Neptune — and the Cereal 
 
 Games, 
 With images, and crowns, and empty cars ; 
 The dancing Salii — on the shields of Mars 
 Smiting with fury; and a deeper dread 
 Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars 
 Of Corybantian cymbals, while the head 
 Of Cybele was seen, sublimely turreted ! 
 
 At length a Spirit more subdued and soft 
 Appeared — to govern Christian pageant- 
 ries; 
 The Cross, in calm procession, borne aloft 
 
658 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE COINiINENT. 
 
 Moved to the chant of sober litanies. 
 Even such, this day, came wafted on the 
 
 breeze 
 From a long train — in hooded vestments 
 
 fair 
 Enwrapt — and winding, between Alpine 
 
 trees 
 Spiry and dark, around their House of 
 
 prayer, 
 Below the icy bed of bright Argenti^re. 
 
 Still in the vivid freshness of a dream. 
 The pageant haunts me as it met our eyes ! 
 Still, with those white-robed Shapes — a 
 
 living Stream, 
 The glacier Pillars join in solemn guise ^ 
 For the same service, by mysterious ties; 
 Numbers exceeding credible account 
 Of number, pure and silent Votaries 
 Issuing or issued from a wintry fount; 
 The impenetrable heart of that exalted 
 
 Mount ! 
 
 They, too, who send so far a holy gleam 
 While they the Church engird with motion 
 
 slow, 
 A product of that awful Mountain seem, 
 Poured from his vaults of everlasting 
 
 snow; 
 Not virgin lilies marshalled in bright row, 
 Not swans descending with the stealthy 
 
 tide, 
 A livelier sisterly resemblance show 
 Than the fair FoAis, that in long order 
 
 glide, 
 Bear to the glacier band — those Shapes 
 
 aloft descried. 
 
 Trembling, I look upon the secret springs 
 Of that licentious craving in the mind 
 To act the God among external things, 
 To bind, on apt suggestion, or unbind; 
 And marvel not that antique Faith inclined 
 To crowd the world with metamorphosis, 
 Vouchsafed in pity or in wrath assigned; 
 Such insolent temptations wouldst thou 
 
 miss. 
 Avoid these sights; nor brood o'er Fable's 
 
 dark abyss ! 
 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 J See Note. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 The lamented Youth whose untimely death 
 gave occasion to these elegiac verses, was Fred- 
 erick William Goddard, from Boston in North 
 America. He was in his twentieth year, and had 
 resided for some time with a clergj'man in the 
 neighborhood of Geneva for the completion of 
 his education. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, 
 a native of Scotland, he had just set out on a 
 Swiss tour when it was his misfortune to fall in 
 with a Friend of mine who was hastening to join 
 our party. The travellers, after spending a day 
 together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, 
 took leave of each other at night, the young men 
 having intended to proceed directly to Zurich. 
 But early in the morning my friend found his 
 new acquaintances, who were informed of the 
 object of his journey, and the friends he was in 
 pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. We met 
 at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. 
 and his fellow-student became in consequence our 
 travelling companions for a couple of days. We 
 ascended the Righi together; and, after contem- 
 plating the sunrise from that noble mountain, we 
 separated at an hour and on a spot well suited to 
 the parting of those who were to meet no more. 
 Our party descended through the valley of our 
 Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to 
 Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at 
 Geneva ; but on the third succeeding day (on the 
 2ist of August) Mr. Goddard perished, being 
 overset in a boat while crossing the lake of Zurich. 
 His companion saved himself by swimming, and 
 was hospitably received in the mansion of a Swiss 
 gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the eastern 
 coa3t of the lake. The corpse of poor Goddard 
 was cast ashoreon the estate of the same gentie- 
 man, who generously perfonned all the rites of 
 hospitality which could be rendered to the dead 
 as well as to the living. He caused a handsome 
 mural monument to be erected in the Church of 
 Kiisnacht, which records the premature fate of 
 the young American, and on the shores too of the 
 lake the traveller may read an inscription pointing 
 out the spot where the body was deposited by the 
 
 Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, 
 Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, 
 From the dread summit of the Queen ^ 
 Of mountains, through a deep ravine, 
 Where, in her holy chapel, dwells 
 *'Our Lady of the Snow." 
 
 2 Mount Righi— Regina Montium. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 659 
 
 The sky was blue, the air was mild; 
 Free were the streams and green the 
 
 bowers; 
 As if, to rough assaults unknown, 
 The genial spot had ever shown 
 A countenance that as sweetly smiled — 
 The face of summer-hours. 
 
 And we were gay, our hearts at ease; 
 With pleasure dancing through the frame 
 We journeyed; all we knew of care — 
 Our path that straggled here and there; 
 Of trouble — but the fluttering breeze; 
 Of Winter — but a name, j 
 
 If foresight could have rent the veil 
 Of three short days — but hush — no more ! 
 Calm is the grave, and calmer none 
 Than that to which thy cares are gone, 
 Thou Victim of the stormy gale; 
 Asleep on Zurich's shore ! 
 
 OGoddard! what art thou? — a name — 
 A sunbeam followed by a shade ! 
 Nor more, for aught that time supplies, 
 The great, the experienced, and the wise : 
 Too much from this frail earth we claim, 
 And therefore are betrayed. 
 
 We met, while festive mirth ran wild, 
 Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, 
 Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, 
 A sea-green river, proud to lave. 
 With current swift and undefiled. 
 The towers of old Lucerne. 
 
 We parted upon solemn ground 
 Far-hfted towards the unfading sky; 
 But all our thoughts were then of Earth, 
 That gives to common pleasures birth; 
 And nothing in our hearts we found 
 That prompted even a sigh. 
 
 Fetch, sympathizing Powers of air. 
 Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, 
 Herbs, moistened by Virginian dew, 
 A most untimely grave to strew. 
 Whose turf may never know the care 
 Of kindred human hands ! 
 
 Beloved by every gentle Muse 
 He left his Transatlantic home : 
 
 Europe, a realized romance. 
 Had opened on his eager glance; 
 What present bliss ! — what golden views \ 
 ^\'hat stores for years to come ! 
 
 Though lodged within no vigorous frame. 
 His soul her daily tasks renewed, 
 Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings 
 High poised — or as the wren that sings 
 In shady places, to proclaim 
 Her modest gratitude. 
 
 Not vain is sadly-uttered praise; 
 The words of truth's memorial vow 
 Are sweet as morning fragrance shed 
 From flowers 'mid GoLDAU's ruins bred; 
 As evening's fondly-lingering rays. 
 On RiGHi's silent brow. 
 
 Lamented Youth ! to thy cold clay 
 Fit obsequies the Stranger paid; 
 And piety shall guard the Stone 
 Which hath not left the spot unknown 
 Where the wild waves resigned their 
 
 prey — 
 And that which marks thy bed. 
 
 And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, 
 Lost Youth ! a solitary Mother; 
 This tribute from a casual Friend 
 A not unwelcome aid may lend. 
 To feed the tender luxury. 
 The rising pang to smother.^ 
 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 SKY-PROSPECT— FROM THE PLAIN 
 OF FRANCE. 
 
 Lo ! in the burning west, the craggy nape 
 Of a proud Ararat ! and, thereupon, 
 The Ark, her melancholy voyage done ! 
 Yon rampant cloud mimics a lion's shape; 
 There, combats a huge crocodile — agape 
 
 ^ The persuasion here expressed was not 
 groundless. The first human consolation that the 
 afflicted Mother felt, was derived from this tribute 
 to her son's memory, a fact which the author 
 learned, at his own residence, from her Daughter, 
 who visited Europe some years afterwards. — 
 Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall 
 of part of the Mountain Rossberg. 
 
66o 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 A golden spear to swallow ! and that 
 
 brown 
 And massy grove, so near yon blazing 
 
 town, 
 Stirs and recedes — destruction to escape ! 
 Yet all is harmless — as the Elysian shades 
 Where Spirits dwell in undisturbed 
 
 repose — 
 Silently disappears, or quickly fades : 
 Meek Nature's evening comment on the 
 
 shows 
 "That for oblivion take their daily birth 
 From all the fuming vanities of Earth ! 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE 
 HARBOR OF BOULOGNE.! 
 
 Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore, 
 
 Ve furious waves ! a patriotic Son 
 
 Of England — who in hope her coast had 
 
 won, 
 His project crowned, his pleasant travel 
 
 o'er? 
 Well — let him pace this noted beach 
 
 once more, 
 That gave the Roman his triumphal shells; 
 That saw the Corsican his cap and bells 
 Haughtily shake, a dreaming Con- 
 queror ! — 
 Enough : my Country's cliffs I can behold. 
 And proudly think, beside the chafing sea. 
 Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled, 
 And folly cursed with endless memory : 
 These local recollections ne'er can cloy; 
 Such ground I from my very heart enjoy ! 
 
 1820. 
 
 1822. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 AFTER LANDING — THE VALLEY OF 
 
 DOVER. 
 
 Nov. 1820. 
 
 Where be the noisy followers of the game 
 
 Which faction breeds ; the turmoil where ? 
 that passed 
 
 Through Europe, echoing from the news- 
 man's blast. 
 
 And filled our hearts with grief for Eng- 
 land's shame. 
 
 ' See 
 
 Peace greets us; — rambling on without 
 an aim 
 
 We mark majestic herds of cattle, free 
 
 To ruminate,' couched on the grassy lea; 
 
 And hear far-off the mellow horn pro- 
 claim 
 
 The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder 
 sound 
 
 Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange de- 
 light. 
 
 While consciousnesses, not to be dis- 
 owned. 
 
 Here only serve a feeling to invite 
 
 That lifts tha spirit to a calmer height, 
 
 And makes tnis rural stillness more pro- 
 found. 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 AT DOVER. 
 
 For the impressions on which this sonnet turns, 
 I am indebted to the experience of my daughter, 
 during her residence at Dover with our dear 
 friend. Miss Fenwick. 
 
 From the Pier's head, musing, and with 
 
 increase 
 Of wonder, I have watched this sea-side 
 
 Town, 
 Under the white cliff's battlemenled 
 
 crown. 
 Hushed to a depth of more than Sabbath 
 
 peace : 
 The streets and quays are thronged, but 
 
 why disown 
 Their natural utterance: whence this 
 
 strange release 
 From social noise — silence elsewhere 
 
 unknown? — 
 A Spirit whispered, " Let all wonder 
 
 cease; 
 Ocean's o'erpowering murmurs have set 
 
 free 
 Thy sense from pressure of life's common 
 
 din; 
 As the dread Voice that speaks from out 
 
 the sea 
 Of God's eternal Word, the Voice of 
 
 Time 
 Doth deaden, shocks of tumult, shrieks 
 
 of crime. 
 The shouts of folly, and the groans of sin." 
 1820. 1822. 
 
 Note. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 
 
 66 1 
 
 XXX VI I. 
 DESULTORY STANZAS. 
 
 UPON RECEIVING THE PRECEDING SHEETS 
 FROM THE PRESS. 
 
 Is then the final page before me spread, 
 Nor further outlet left to mind or heart? 
 Presumptuous Book ! too forward to be 
 
 read, 
 How can I give thee license to depart? 
 One tribute more : unbidden feelings start 
 Forth from their coverts; slighted ob- 
 jects rise; 
 My spirit is the scene of such wild art 
 As on Parnassus rules, when lightning 
 
 flies, 
 Visibly leading on the thunder's harmo- 
 
 AU that I saw returns upon my view, 
 All that I heard comes back upon my ear, 
 All that I felt this moment doth renew; 
 And where the foot with no unmanly fear 
 Recoiled — and wings alone could travel 
 
 — there 
 I move at ease; and meet contending 
 
 themes 
 That press upon me, crossing the career 
 Of recollections vivid as the dreams 
 Of midnight, — cities, plains, forests, and 
 
 mighty streams. 
 
 Where Mortal never breathed I dare to sit 
 Among the interior Alps, gigantic crew, 
 Who triumphed o'er diluvian power ! — 
 
 and yet 
 What are they but a wreck and residue. 
 Whose only business is to perish? — true 
 To which sad course, these wrinkled Sons 
 
 of Time 
 Labor their proper greatness to subdue; 
 Speaking of death alone, beneath a clime 
 Where life and rapture flow in plentitude 
 
 sublime. 
 
 Fancy hath flung for me an airy bridge 
 Across thy long deep Valley, furious 
 
 Rhone ! 
 Arch that here rests upon the granite 
 
 ridge 
 Of Monte Rosa ^ there on frailer stone 
 
 Of secondary birth, the Jung-frau's cone; 
 And, from that arch, down-looking on 
 
 the Vale 
 The aspect I behold of every zone; 
 A sea of foliage, tossing with the gale, 
 Blithe Autumn's purple crown, and 
 
 Winter's icy mail ! 
 
 Far as St. Maurice, from yon eastern 
 
 Forks, 1 
 Down the main avenue my sight can 
 
 range : 
 And all its branchy vales, and all that 
 
 lurks 
 Within them, church, and town, and 
 
 hut, and grange. 
 For my enjoyment meet in vision strange; 
 Snows, torrents; — to the region's utmost 
 
 bound. 
 Life, Death, in amicable interchange; — 
 But list ! the avalanche — the hush pro- 
 found 
 That follows — yet more awful than that 
 
 awful sound ! 
 
 Is not the chamois suited to his place? 
 
 The eagle worthy of her ancestry? 
 
 — Let Empires fall; but ne'er shall Ye 
 
 disgrace 
 Your noble birthright, ye that occupy 
 Your council -seats beneath the open sky. 
 On Sarnen's Mou,.t there judge of fit 
 
 and right. 
 In simple democratic majesty; 
 Soft breezes fanning your rough brows — 
 
 the might 
 And purity of nature spread before your 
 
 sight ! 
 
 From this appropriate Court, renowned 
 
 Lucerne 
 Calls me to pace her honored Bridge ^ — 
 
 that cheers 
 The Patriot's heart with pictures rude 
 
 and stern. 
 An uncouth Chronicle of glorious years. 
 Like portraiture, from loftier source, 
 
 endears 
 That work of kindred frame, which 
 
 spans the lake 
 
 ' At the head of the Vallais. See Note. 
 2 See Note. 
 
662 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 Just at the point of issue, where it fears 
 The form and motion of a stream to take; 
 Where it begins to stir, yet voiceless as 
 a snake. 
 
 Volumes of sound, from the Cathedral 
 
 rolled, 
 This long-roofed Vista penetrate — but 
 
 see, 
 One after one, its tablets, that unfold 
 The whole design of Scripture history; 
 From the first tasting of the fatal Tree, 
 Till the bright Star appeared in eastern 
 
 skies. 
 Announcing, One was born mankind to 
 
 free; 
 His acts, his wrongs, his final sacrifice; 
 Lessons for every heart, a Bible for all 
 
 eyes. 
 
 Our pride misleads, our timid likings kill. 
 — Long may these homely Works devised 
 
 of old. 
 These simple efforts of Helvetian skill. 
 Aid, with congenial influence, to uphold 
 The State, — the Country's destiny to 
 
 mould ; 
 Turning, for them who pass, the_ common 
 
 dust 
 Of servile opportunity to gold; 
 Filling the soul with sentiments august — 
 The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and 
 
 the just ! 
 
 No more ; Time halts not in his noiseless 
 
 march — 
 Nor turns, nor winds, as doth the liquid 
 
 flood; 
 Life slips from underneath us, like that 
 
 arch 
 Of airy workmanship whereon we stood, 
 Earth stretched below, heaven in our 
 
 neighborhood. 
 Go forth, my little Book ! pursue thy way; 
 Go forth, and please the gentle and the 
 
 good; 
 Nor be a whisper stifled, if it say 
 That treasures, yet untouched, may grace 
 
 •some future Lay. 
 1822? 1822. 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON.i 
 
 A SERIES OF SONNETS. 
 
 1820. 
 
 It is with the little river Duddon as it is with 
 most other rivers, Ganges and Nile not excepted, 
 — many springs might claim the honor of being 
 its head. In my own fancy I have fixed its rise 
 near the noted Shire-stones placed at the meet- 
 ing-point of the counties, Westmoreland, Cum 
 berland, and Lancashire. They stand by the 
 wayside on the top of the Wiynose Pass, and it 
 used to be reckoned a proud thing to say that, by 
 touching them at the same time with feet and 
 hands, one had been in the three counties at once. 
 At what point of its course the stream taltes the 
 name of Duddon I do not know. I first became 
 acquainted with the Duddon, as I have good 
 reason to remember, in early boyhood. Upon 
 the banks of the Derwent I had learnt to be very 
 fond of angling. Fish abound in that large river; 
 not so in the small streams in the neighborhood 
 of Hawkshead ; and I fell into the common delu- 
 sion that the farther from home the better sport 
 would be had. Accordingly, one day I attached 
 myself to a person living in the neighborhood of 
 Hawkshead, who was going to try his fortune 
 as an angler near the source of the Duddon. We 
 fished a great part of the day with very sorry 
 success, the rain pouring torrents, and long before 
 we got home I was worn out with fatigue ; and, 
 if the good man had not carried me on his back, 
 I must have lain down under the best shelter I 
 could find. Little did I think then it would be 
 my lot to celebrate, in a strain of love and ad- 
 miration, the stream which for many years I 
 never thought of without recollections of disap- 
 pointment and distress. 
 
 During my college vacation, and two or three 
 years afterwards, before taking my Bachelor's 
 degree, I was several times resident in the house 
 of a near relative who lived in the small town of 
 Eroughton. I passed many delightful hours upon 
 the banks of this river, which becomes an estuary 
 about a mile from that place. The remembrances 
 of that period are the subject of the 21st Sonnet. 
 The subject of the 27th is in fact taken from a 
 tradition belonging to Rydal Hall, which once 
 stood, as is believed, upon a rocky and woody 
 hill on the right hand as you go from Rydal to 
 Ambleside, and was deserted from the supersti- 
 tious fear here described, and the present sit" 
 fortunately chosen instead. The present Ha'l 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 663 
 
 was erected by Sir Michael le Fleming, and it 
 maybe hoped that at some future time there will 
 be an edifice more worthy of so beautiful a posi- 
 tion. With regard to the 30th Sonnet it is odd 
 enough that this imagination was realized in the 
 year 1840, when I made a tour through that dis- 
 trict with my wife and daughter, Miss Fenwick 
 and her niece, and Mr. and Miss QuiUinan. Be- 
 fore our return from Seathwaite chapel tlie party 
 separated. Mrs. Wordsworth, while most of us 
 went further up the stream, chose an opposite 
 direction, having told us that we should overtake 
 her on our way to Ulpha. But she was tempted 
 out of the main road to ascend a rocky eminence 
 near it, thinking it impossible we should pass 
 without seeing her. This, however, unfortunately 
 happened, and then ensued vexation and distress, 
 especially to me, which I should be ashamed to 
 have recorded, for I lost my temper entirely. 
 Neither I nor those that were with me saw her 
 again till we reached the Inn at Broughton, seven 
 miles. This may perhaps in some degree excuse 
 my irritability on the occasion, for I could not 
 but tliink she had been much to blame. It ap- 
 peared, however, on explanation, that she had 
 remained on the rock, calling out and waving her 
 handkerchief as we were passing, in order that 
 we also might ascend and enjoy a prospect which 
 had much charmed her. " But on we went, her 
 signals proving vain." How then could she 
 reach Broughton before us ? When \\ e found 
 she had not gone on before to Ulpha Kirk, Mr. 
 Quillinan went back in one of the carriages in 
 search of her. He met her on the road, took 
 her up, and by a shorter way conveyed her to 
 Broughton, where we were all reunited and spent 
 a happy evening. 
 
 I have many affecting remembrances connected 
 with this stream. Those I forbear to mention ; 
 especially things that occurred on its banks during 
 the later part of that visit to the seaside of which 
 the former part is detailed in my " Epistle to Sir 
 George Beaumont." 
 
 The River Duddon rises upon Wrynose Fell, 
 on the confines of Westmorelaud, Cumberland, 
 and Lancashire ; and, having served as a bound- 
 ary to the two last counties for the space of about 
 twenty-five miles, enters the Irish Sea, between 
 the Isle of Walney and the Lordship of Milium. 
 
 To. 
 THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 (with the sonnets to the river duddon, 
 
 and other poems in this collection, 182o.) 
 
 The Minstrels played their Christmas tune 
 To-night beneath my cottage-eaves ; 
 
 While, smitten by a lofty moon, , 
 The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
 Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, 
 That overpowered their natural green. 
 
 Through hill and valley every breeze 
 
 Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 
 
 Keen was the air, but could not freeze. 
 
 Nor check, the music of the strings ; 
 
 So stout a.nd hardy were the band 
 
 That scraped the chords with strenuous liand; 
 
 And who but listened ? — till was paid 
 Respect to every Inmate's claim: 
 The greeting given, the music played, 
 In honor of each household name, 
 Duly pronounced with lusty call, 
 And " merry Christmas" wished to all! 
 
 O Brother ! I revere the choice 
 That took thee from thy native hills ; 
 And it is given thee to rejoice : 
 Though public care full often tills 
 (Heaven only witness of the toil) 
 A barren and ungrateful soil. 
 
 Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, 
 
 Hadst heard this never-faiUng rite ; 
 
 And seen on other faces shine 
 
 A true revival of the light 
 
 Which Nature and these rustic Powers, 
 
 In simple childhood, spread through ours. 
 
 For pleasure hath not ceased to wait 
 On these expected annual rounds ; 
 Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate 
 Call forth the unelaborate sounds. 
 Or they are offered at the door 
 That guards the lowliest of the poor. 
 
 How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 
 Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, 
 To hear — and sink again to sleep! 
 Or, at an earlier call, to mark. 
 By blazing fire, the still suspense 
 Of self-complacent innocence ; 
 
 The mutual nod, — the grave disguise 
 
 Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ; 
 
 And some unbidden tears that rise 
 
 For names once heard, and heard no more; 
 
 Tears brightened by the serenade 
 
 For infant in the cradle laid. 
 
 Ah ! not for emerald fields alone, 
 
 With ambient streams more pure and bright 
 
 Than fabled Cytherea's zone 
 
 Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, 
 
 Is to my heart of hearts endeared 
 
 The ground where we were born and reared 
 
664 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 Hail, ancient Manners! sure defence, 
 Wiiere they survive, of wholesome laws; 
 Remnants of love whose modest sense 
 Thus into narrow room withdraws ; 
 Hail, Usages of pristine mould, 
 And ye that guard them, Mountains old ! 
 
 Bear with me, Brother ! quench the thought 
 
 That slights this passion, or condemns; 
 
 If thee fond Fancy ever brought 
 
 From the proud margin of the Thames, 
 
 And Lambeth's venerable towers. 
 
 To humbler streams, and greener bowers. 
 
 Yes, they can make, who fail to find. 
 
 Short leisure even in busiest days ; 
 
 Moments, to cast a look behind. 
 
 And profit by those kindly rays 
 
 That through the clouds do sometimes steal. 
 
 And all the far-off past reveal. 
 
 Hence, while the imperial City's din 
 
 Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, 
 
 A pleased attention I may win 
 
 To agitations less severe, 
 
 That neither overwhelm nor cloy, 
 
 But fill the hollow vale with joy ! 
 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 I. 
 
 Not envying Latian shades — if yet they 
 throw 
 
 A grateful coolness round that crystal 
 Spring, 
 
 Blandusia, prattling as when long ago 
 
 The Sabine Bard was moved her praise 
 to sing; 
 
 Careless of flowers that in perennial blow 
 
 Round the moist marge of Persian foun- 
 tains cling; 
 
 Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering 
 
 Through ice-built arches radiant as 
 heaven's bow; 
 
 T seek the birthplace of a native Stream. — 
 
 All hail, ye mountains ! hail, thou morn- 
 ing light ! 
 
 Better to breathe at large on this clear 
 height 
 
 Than toil in needless sleep from dream 
 to dream : 
 
 Pure flow the verse, pure, vigorous, free, 
 and bright. 
 
 For Duddon, long-loved Duddon, is my 
 theme ! 
 1820 182Q. 
 
 Child of the clouds ! remote from every 
 
 taint 
 Of sordid industry thy lot is cast; 
 Thine are the honors of the lofty waste 
 Not seldom, when with heat the valleys 
 
 faint. 
 Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue 
 
 quaint 
 Thy cradle decks; — to chant thy birtli, 
 
 thou hast 
 No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, 
 And Desolation is thy Patron-saint ! 
 She guards thee, ruthless Power! who 
 
 would not spare 
 Those mighty forests, once the bison's 
 
 screen, 
 Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy 
 
 lairi 
 Through paths and alleys roofed with 
 
 darkest green; 
 Thousands of years before the silent air 
 Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter 
 
 keen! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 How shall I paint thee ? — Be this naked 
 
 stone 
 My seat, while I give way to such intent; 
 Pleased could my verse, a speaking mon- 
 ument, 
 Make to the eyes of men thy features 
 
 known. 
 But as of all those tripping lambs not one 
 Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent 
 To thy beginning nought that doth present 
 Peculiar ground for hope to build upon. 
 To dignify the spot that gives thee birth, 
 No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem 
 Appears, and none of modern Fortune's 
 
 care; 
 Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a 
 
 gleam 
 Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness 
 
 rare; 
 Prompt offering to thy Foster-mother, 
 
 Earth ! 
 
 ' The deer alluded to is the Leigh, a gigantic 
 species long since extinct. 
 
THE RIVER DUDDOX. 
 
 66s 
 
 Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, 
 
 take 
 This parting glance, no negligent adieu ! 
 A Protean change seems wrought while I 
 
 pursue 
 The curves, a loosely-scattered chain 
 
 doth make; 
 Or rather thou appear'st a glistering 
 
 snake. 
 Silent, and to the gazer's eye untrue, 
 Tridding with sinuous lapse the rushes, 
 
 through 
 Dwarf willows gliding, and by ferny brake. 
 Starts from a dizzy steep the undaunted 
 
 Rill 
 Robed instantly in garb of snow-white 
 
 foam; 
 And laughing dares the Adventurer, who 
 
 hath clomb 
 So high, a rival purpose to fulfil; 
 Else let the dastard backward wend, and 
 
 roam. 
 Seeking less bold achievement, where he 
 
 will! 
 1S20. 1820. 
 
 V. 
 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze 
 
 that played 
 With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful 
 
 sound 
 Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy 
 
 mound — 
 Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to 
 
 upbraid 
 The sun in heaven ! — but now, to form 
 
 a shade 
 For Thee, green alders have together 
 
 wound 
 Their foliage; ashes flung their arms 
 
 around; 
 And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade. 
 And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 
 'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude 
 
 and gray; 
 Whose ruddy children, by the mother's 
 
 eyes 
 Carelessly watched, sport through the 
 
 summer day. 
 Thy pleased associates : — light as end- 
 less May 
 On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Ere yet our course was graced with social 
 trees 
 
 It lacked not old remains of hawthorn 
 bowers. 
 
 Where small birds warble to their para- 
 mours; 
 
 And, earlier still, was heard the hum of 
 bees; 
 
 I saw them ply their harmless robberies. 
 
 And caught the fragrance which the sun- 
 dry flowers, 
 
 Fed by the stream with soft perpetual 
 showers, 
 
 Plenteously yielded to the vagrant breeze. 
 
 There bloomed the strawberry of the 
 wilderness; 
 
 The trembling eysbright showed hjr 
 sapphire blue,' 
 
 The thyme her purple, like the blush of 
 Even; 
 
 And if the breath of some to no caress 
 
 Invited, forth they peeped so fair to view, 
 
 All kinds alike seemed favorites of 
 Heaven. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 VII. 
 "Change me, some God, into that 
 
 breathing rose ! " 
 The love-sick Stripling fancifully sighs. 
 The envied flower beholding, as it lies 
 On Laura's breast, in exquisite repose; 
 Or he would pass into her bird, that throws 
 The darts of song from out its wiry cage ; 
 Enraptured, — could he for himself en- 
 gage 
 The thousandth part of what the Nymph 
 
 bestows; 
 And what the little careless innocent 
 Ungraciously receives. Too daring 
 
 choice ! • 
 There are whose calmer mind it would 
 
 content 
 To be an unculled floweret of the glen. 
 Fearless of plough and scythe; or dark- 
 ling wren 
 That tunes on Duddon's banks her slen- 
 der voice. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 ^ See Note. 
 
666 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 What aspect bore the Man who roved 
 
 or fled, 
 First of his tribe, to this dark dell — who 
 
 first 
 In this pellucid Current slaked his thirst? 
 What hopes came with him ? what designs 
 
 were spread 
 Along his path? His unprotected bed 
 What dreams encompassed? Was the 
 
 intruder nursed 
 In hideous usages, and rites accursed, 
 That thinned the living and disturbed the 
 
 dead? 
 No voice replies; ■ — both air and earth 
 
 are mute; 
 And Thou, blue Streamlet, murmuring 
 
 yield'st no more 
 Than a soft record, that, whatever fruit 
 Of ignorance thou might'st witness here- 
 tofore, 
 Thy function was to heal and to restore, 
 To soothe and cleanse, not madden and 
 
 pollute ! 
 
 THE STEPPING-STONES. 
 
 The struggling Rill insensibly is grown 
 Into a Brook of loud and stately march, 
 Crossed ever and anon by plank or arch; 
 And, for like use, lo ! what might seem a 
 
 zone 
 Chosen for ornament — stone matched 
 
 with stone 
 In studied symmetry, with interspace 
 For the clear waters to pursue their race 
 Without restraint. How swiftly have 
 
 they flown. 
 Succeeding — still succeeding ! Here the 
 
 Child 
 Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs 
 
 fierce and wild. 
 His budding courage to the proof; and 
 
 here 
 Declining Manhood learns to note the sly 
 And sure encroachments of infirmity, 
 Thinking how fast time runs, life's end 
 
 how near ! 
 1820, 1820. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits 
 dance 
 
 With prompt emotion, urging them to 
 pass; 
 
 A sweet confusion checks the Shepherd- 
 lass ; 
 
 Blushing she eyes the dizzy flood askance; 
 
 To stop ashamed — too timid to advance : 
 
 She ventures once again — another pause ! 
 
 His outstretched hand He tauntingly with- 
 draws — 
 
 She sues for help with piteous utterance ! 
 
 Chidden she chides again; the thrilling 
 touch 
 
 Both feel, when he renews the wished-foi 
 aid: 
 
 Ah ! if their fluttering hearts should stir 
 too much, 
 
 Should beat too strongly, both may be 
 betrayed. 
 
 The frolic Loves, who, from yon high 
 rock, see 
 
 The struggle, clap their wings for victory ! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 THE FAERY CHASM. 
 
 No fiction was it of the antique age : 
 A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft. 
 Is of the very footmarks unbereft 
 Which tiny Elves impressed; — on that 
 
 smooth stage 
 Dancing with all their brilliant equipage 
 In secret revels — haply after theft 
 Of some sweet Babe — Flower stolen, and 
 
 coarse Weed left 
 For the distracted Mother to assuage 
 Her grief with, as she might ! — But, 
 
 where, oh ! where 
 Is traceable a vestige of the notes 
 That ruled those dances wild in charac- 
 ter? — 
 Deep underground? Or in the upper air. 
 On the shrill wind of midnight? or where 
 
 floats 
 O'er tv.ilight fields the autumnal gossa- 
 mer? 
 1S20. 1820- 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 667 
 
 HINTS FOR THE FANCY. 
 
 On, loitering Muse — the swift Stream 
 
 chides us — on ! 
 Albeit his deep- worn channel doth immure 
 Objects immense portrayed in miniature, 
 Wild shapes for many a strange compari- 
 son ! 
 Niagaras, Alpine passes, and anon 
 Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure, 
 Bright liquid mansions, fashioned to en- 
 dure 
 When the broad oak drops, a leafless 
 
 skeleton, 
 And the solidities of mortal pride. 
 Palace and tower, are crumbled into 
 
 dust ! — 
 The Bard who walks with Duddon for 
 
 his guide, 
 Shall find such toys of fancy thickly set : 
 Turn from the sight, enamoured Muse — 
 
 we must; 
 And, if thou canst, leave them without 
 regret ! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 OPEN PROSPECT. 
 
 Hail to the fields — with DweUings 
 
 sprinkled o'er, 
 And one small hamlet, under a green hill 
 Clustering, with barn and byre, and spout- 
 ing mill ! 
 A glance suffices ; — should we wish for 
 
 more. 
 Gay June would scorn us. But when 
 
 bleak winds roar 
 Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pol- 
 lard ash. 
 Dread swell of sound ! loud as the gusts 
 
 that lash 
 The matted forests of Ontario's shore 
 By wasteful steel unsmitten — then would I 
 Turn into port; and, reckless of the gale. 
 Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by. 
 While the warm hearth exalts the man- 
 tling ale, 
 
 Laugh with the generous household heart- 
 
 ily 
 At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale ! 
 1S20. 1820. 
 
 O MOUNTAIN' Stream ! the Shepherd and 
 
 his Cot 
 Are privileged Inmates of deep soUtude; 
 Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude 
 A field or two of brighter green, or plot 
 Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot 
 Of stationary sunshine: — thou hast 
 
 viewed 
 These only, Duddon ! with their paths re- 
 newed 
 By fits and starts, yet this contents thee 
 
 not. 
 Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to 
 
 leave. 
 Utterly to desert, the haunts of men. 
 Though simple thy companions were and 
 
 few; 
 And through this wilderness a passage 
 
 cleave 
 Attended but by thy own voice, save when 
 The clouds and fowls of the air thy way 
 
 pursue ■ 
 1S06. 1S07. 
 
 From this deep chasm, where quivering 
 
 sunbeams play 
 Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold 
 A gloomy niche, capacious, blank, and 
 
 cold; 
 A concave free from shrubs and mosses 
 
 gray; 
 In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray, 
 Some Statue, placed amid these regions 
 
 old 
 For tutelary service, thence had rolled. 
 Startling the flight of timid Yesterday ! 
 Was it by mortals sculptured? — weary 
 
 slaves 
 Of slow endeavor ! or abruptly cast 
 Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast 
 Tempestuously let loose from central 
 
 caves? 
 Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves. 
 Then, when o'er highest hills the Deluge 
 
 passed ? 
 1820. 1820, 
 
668 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 AMERrCAN TRADITION. 
 
 Such fruitless questions may not long be- 
 guile 
 Or plague the fancy mid the sculptured 
 
 shows 
 Conspicuous yet where Oroonoko flows; 
 There would the Indian answer with a 
 
 smile 
 Aimed at the White Man's ignorance, the 
 
 while, 
 Of the Great Waters telling how they 
 
 rose, 
 Covered the plains, and, wandering where 
 
 they chose, 
 Mounted through every intricate defile, 
 Triumphant — Inundation wide and deep, 
 O' er which his Fathers urged, to ridge and 
 
 steep 
 Else unapproachable, their buoyant way; 
 And carved, on mural cliff's undreaded 
 
 side, 
 Sun, moon, and stars, and beast of chase 
 
 or prey; 
 Whate'er they sought, shunned, loved, or 
 
 deified ! ^ 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 A DARK plume fetch me from yon blasted 
 
 yew. 
 Perched on whose top the Danish Raven 
 
 croaks ; 
 Aloft, the imperial Bird of Rome invokes 
 Departed ages, shedding where he flew 
 Loose fragments of wildwailing, that be- 
 strew 
 The clouds and thrill the chambers of the 
 
 rocks; 
 And into silence hush the timorous flocks. 
 That, calmly couching while the nightly 
 
 dew 
 Moistened each fleece, beneath the 
 
 twinkling stars 
 Slept amid that lone Camp on Hardknot's 
 
 height, ^ 
 
 ^ See Humboldt's Persojial Narrniive. 
 2 See Note. 
 
 Whose Guardians bent the knee to Jove 
 
 and Mars : 
 Or, near that mystic Round of Druid 
 
 frame 
 Tardily sinking by its proper weight 
 Deep into patient Earth, from whose 
 
 smooth breast it came ! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 SEATHWAITE CHAPEL. 
 
 Sacred Religion ! "mother of form and 
 fear," 
 
 Dread arbitress of mutable respect. 
 
 New rites ordaining when the old are 
 wrecked, 
 
 Or cease to please the fickle worshipper; 
 
 Mother of Love ! (that name best suits 
 thee here) 
 
 Mother of Love ! for this deep vale, pro- 
 tect 
 
 Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright 
 effect, 
 
 Gifted to purge the vapory atmosphere 
 
 That seeks to stifle it; — as in those days 
 
 When this low Pile ^ a Gospel Teacher 
 knew. 
 
 Whose good works formed an endless 
 retinue : 
 
 A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse por- 
 trays ; 
 
 Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert 
 drew; 
 
 And tender Goldsmith crowned with 
 deathless praise ! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 TRIBUTARY STREAM. 
 
 My frame hath often trembled with de- 
 light 
 
 When hope presented some far-distant 
 good. 
 
 That seemed from heaven descending, 
 like the flood 
 
 Of yon pure waters, from their aery heighl 
 
 Hurrying, with lordly Duddon to unite; 
 
 Who, 'mid a world of images imprest 
 2 See Note. 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 669 
 
 On the calm depth of his transparent 
 
 breast, 
 Appears to cherish most that Torrent 
 
 white, 
 The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all ! 
 And seldom hath ear listened to a tune 
 More lulling than the busy hum of Noon, 
 Swoln by that voice — whose murmur 
 
 musical 
 Announces to the thirsty fields a boon 
 Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall 
 
 fall. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE. 
 
 The old inventive Poets, had they seen. 
 Or rather felt, the entrancement that de- 
 tains 
 Thy waters, Duddon ! 'mid these flowery 
 
 plains — 
 The still repose, the liquid lapse serene, 
 Transferred to bowers imperishably green. 
 Had beautified Elysium ! But these 
 
 chains 
 Will soon be broken; — a rough course 
 
 remains, 
 Rough as the past; where Thou, of 
 
 placid mien. 
 Innocuous as a firstling of the flock, 
 And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, 
 Shalt change thy temper; and, with many 
 
 a shock 
 Given and received in mutual jeopardy. 
 Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to 
 
 rock, 
 Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high ! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Whence that low voice? — A whisper 
 
 from the heart. 
 That told of days long past, when here I 
 
 roved 
 With friends and kindred tenderly be- 
 loved; 
 Some who had early mandates to depart, 
 Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart 
 ByDuddon's side; once more do we unite, 
 Once more, beneath the kind Earth's 
 tranquil light; 
 
 And smothered joys into new being start. 
 From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall 
 Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Mem- 
 ory; 
 Her glistening tresses bound, yet light 
 
 and free 
 As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall 
 On gales that breathe too gently to recall 
 Aught of the fading year's inclemency ! 
 
 TRADITION. 
 
 A LOVE-LORN Maid, at some far-distant 
 
 time, 
 Came to this hidden pool, whose depths 
 
 surpass 
 In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass; 
 And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from 
 
 the prime 
 Derives its name, reflected, as the chime 
 Of echo doth reverberate some sweet 
 
 sound : 
 The starry treasure from the blue pro- 
 found 
 She longed to ravish; — shall she plunge, 
 
 or climb 
 The humid precipice, and seize the guest 
 Of April, smiling high in upper air? 
 Desperate alternative ! what fiend could 
 
 dare 
 To prompt the thought ? — Upon the' steep 
 
 rock's breast 
 The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, 
 Untouched memento of her hapless doom ! 
 1S20. 1820. 
 
 SHEEP-WASHING. 
 
 Sad thoughts, avaunt ! — partake we their 
 
 blithe cheer 
 Who gathered in betimes the unshorn 
 
 flock 
 To wash the fleece, where haply bands of 
 
 rock. 
 Checking the stream, make a pool smooth 
 
 and clear 
 As this we look on. Distant Mountains 
 
 hear, 
 
670 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites 
 Clamor of boys and innocent despites 
 Of barking dogs, and bleatings from 
 
 strange fear. 
 And what if Duddon's spotless flood re- 
 ceive 
 Unwelcome mixtures as the uncouth 
 
 noise 
 Thickens, the pastoral River will forgive 
 Such wrong; nor need ive blame the 
 
 licensed joys, 
 Though false to Nature's quiet equipoise : 
 Frank are the sports, the stains are 
 fugitive. 
 
 THE RESTING-PLACE. 
 
 Mid-noon is past; — upon the sultry 
 
 mead 
 No zephyr breathes, no cloud its shadow 
 
 throws : 
 If we advance unstrengthenedby repose. 
 Farewell the solace of the vagrant reed ! 
 This Nook — with woodbine hung and 
 
 straggling weed 
 Tempting recess as ever pilgrim chose, 
 Half grot, half arbor — proffers to enclose 
 Body and mind, from molestation freed. 
 In narrow compass — narrow as itself : 
 Or if the Fancy, too industrious Elf, 
 Be loth that we should breathe awhile 
 
 exempt 
 From new incitements friendly to our task. 
 Here wants not stealthy prospect, that 
 
 may tempt 
 Loose Idless to forego her wily mask. 
 1820. 1S20. 
 
 Methinks 't were no unprecedented feat 
 Should some benignant Minister of air 
 Lift, and encircle with a cloudy chair. 
 The One for whom my heart shall ever 
 
 beat 
 With tenderest love; — or, if a safer seat 
 Atween his downy wings be furnished, 
 
 there 
 Would lodge her, and the cherished bur- 
 den bear 
 O'er hill and valley to this dim retreat ! 
 
 Rough ways my steps have trod; — too 
 
 rough and long 
 For her companionship; here dwells soft 
 
 ease: 
 With sweets that she partakes not some 
 
 distaste 
 Mingles, and lurking consciousness of 
 
 wrong; 
 Languish the flowers ; the waters seem to 
 
 waste 
 Their vocal charm : their sparklings cease 
 
 to please. 
 
 Return, Content? for fondly I pursued, 
 Even when a child, the Streams — un- 
 heard, unseen; 
 Through tangled woods, impending rocks 
 
 between; 
 Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed 
 The sullen reservoirs whence their bold 
 
 brood — 
 Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, 
 
 keen. 
 Green as the salt-sea billows, white and 
 
 green — 
 Poured down the hills, a choral multitude ! 
 Nor have I tracked their course for scanty 
 
 gains; 
 They taught me random cares and truant 
 
 joys. 
 That shield from mischief and preserve 
 
 from stains 
 Vague minds, while men are growing out 
 
 of boys; 
 Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise 
 Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile 
 
 reins. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 Fallen, and -diffused into a shapeless 
 
 heap, 
 Or quietly self-buried in earth's mould, 
 Is that embattled House, whose massy 
 
 Keep, 
 Flung from yon cliff a shadow large and 
 
 cold. 
 There dwelt the gay, the bountiful, the 
 
 bold: 
 Till nightly lamentations, like the sweep 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 671 
 
 Of winds — though winds were silent — 
 struck a deep 
 
 And lasting terror through that ancient 
 Hold. 
 
 Its line of Warriors fied; — they shrunk 
 when tried 
 
 By ghostly power : — butTime's unsparing 
 hand 
 
 Hath plucked such foes, like weeds, from 
 out the land; 
 
 And now, if men with men in peace abide, 
 
 All other strength the weakest may with- 
 stand, 
 
 AD worse assaults may safely be defied. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 JOURNEY RENEWED. 
 
 I ROSE while yet the cattle, heat-opprest. 
 Crowded together under rustling trees 
 Brushed by the current of the water- 
 breeze ; 
 And for their sakes, and love of all that 
 
 rest. 
 On Duddon's margin, in the sheltering 
 
 nest; 
 For all the startled scaly tribes that slink 
 Into his coverts, and each fearless link 
 Of dancing insects forged upon his breast ; 
 For these, and hopes and recollections 
 
 worn 
 Close to the vital seat of human clay; 
 Glad meetings, tender partings, that up- 
 
 stay 
 The drooping mind of absence, by vows 
 
 sworn , 
 
 In his pure presence near the trysting 
 
 thorn — 
 I thanked the Leader of my onward way. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 No record tells of lance opposed to lance. 
 Horse charging horse, 'mid these retired 
 
 domains; 
 Tells that their turf drank purple from the 
 
 veins 
 Of heroes, fallen, or struggling to advance, 
 Till doubtful combat issued in a trance 
 Of victory, that struck through heart and 
 
 reins 
 
 Even to the inmost seat of mortal pains, 
 And lightened o'er the pallid countenance. 
 Yet, to the loyal and the brave, who lie 
 In the blank earth, neglected and forlorn. 
 The passing Winds memorial tribute pay; 
 The Torrents chant their praise, inspiring 
 
 scorn 
 Of power usurped ; with proclamation high, 
 And glad acknowledgment, of lawful 
 
 sway. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 Who swerves from innocence, who makes 
 
 divorce 
 Of that serene companion — a good name. 
 Recovers not his loss; but walks with 
 
 shame, 
 With doubt, with fear, and haply with 
 
 remorse : 
 And oft-times he — who, yielding to the 
 
 force 
 Of chance-temptation, ere his journey end, 
 From chosen comrade turns, or faithful 
 
 friend — 
 In vain shall rue the broken intercourse. 
 Not so with such as loosely wear the chain 
 That binds them, pleasant River ! to thy 
 
 side : — 
 Through the rough copse wheel thou 
 
 with hasty stride; 
 I choose to saunter o'er the grassy plain. 
 Sure, when the separation has been tried. 
 That we, who part in love, shall meet 
 
 again. 
 
 1820. 
 
 1820. 
 
 The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye 
 Is welcome as a star, that doth present 
 Its shining forehead through the peaceful 
 
 rent 
 Of a black cloud diffused o'er half the 
 
 sky : 
 Or as a fruitful palm-tree towering high 
 O'er the parched waste beside an Arab's 
 
 tent; 
 Or the Indian tree whose branches, 
 
 downward bent, 
 Take root again, a boundless canopy. 
 How sweet were leisure ! could it yield no 
 
 more 
 
672 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 Than 'mid that wave-washed Churchyard 
 
 to rechne, 
 From pastoral graves extracting thoughts 
 
 divine; 
 Or there to pace, and mark the summits 
 
 hoar 
 Of distant moonlit mountains faintly shine, 
 Soothed by the unseen River's gentle roar. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 Not hurled precipitous from steep to 
 
 steep; 
 Lingering no more 'mid flower-enamelled 
 
 lands 
 And blooming thickets; nor by rocky 
 
 bands 
 Held; but in radiant progress toward the 
 
 Deep 
 Where mightiest rivers into powerless 
 
 sleep 
 Sink, and forget their nature — now ex- 
 pands 
 Majestic Duddon, over smooth flat sands 
 Gliding in silence with unfettered sweep ! 
 Beneath an ampler sky a region wide 
 Is opened round him: — hamlets, towers, 
 
 and towns. 
 And blue-topped hills, behold him from 
 
 afar; 
 In stately mien to sovereign Thames allied 
 Spreading his bosom under Kentish 
 
 downs. 
 With commerce freighted, or triumphant 
 
 war. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 But here no cannon thunders to the gale; 
 Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast 
 A crimson splendor : lowly is the mast 
 That rises here, and humbly spread, the 
 
 sail ; 
 While, less disturbed than in the narrow 
 
 Vale 
 Through which with strange vicissitudes 
 
 he passed. 
 The Wanderer seeks that receptacle vast 
 Where all his unambitious functions fail. 
 
 And may thy Poet, cloud-born Stream ! 
 
 be free — 
 The sweets of earth contentedly resigned. 
 And each tumultuous working left behind 
 At seemly distance — to advance like Thee ; 
 Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm of 
 
 mind 
 And soul, to mingle with Eternity! 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 AFTER-THOUGHT. 
 
 / thought of 7'hee, my partner and my 
 
 guide. 
 As being past away, — Vain sympathies .^ 
 For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes, 
 I see what was, and is, and will abide ; 
 Still glides the Stream, a'ad shall forever 
 
 glide ; 
 The Forjn rejnains, the Function never 
 
 dies ; 
 While we, the brave, the mighty, ajid the 
 
 wise, 
 We Men, who in our morn of youth defied 
 The elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 
 Enough, ifsomeihingfrom our hands have 
 
 power 
 To live, and act, and serve the future 
 
 hour ; 
 And if, as toward the silent tomb we go. 
 Through love, through hope, and faith^s 
 
 transcendent dower. 
 We feel that 7ve are greater than we know^- 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE. 
 
 This Parsonage was the residence of my friend 
 Jones, and is particularly described in another 
 note. 
 
 Where holy ground begins, unhallowed 
 
 ends, 
 Is marked by no distinguishable line; 
 The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; 
 And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep 
 
 tends. 
 Garden, and that domain where kindred, 
 
 friends, 
 
 ^ See Note. 
 
TO ENTERPRISE. 
 
 673 
 
 And neighbors rest together, here con- 
 found 
 
 Their several features, mingled like the 
 sound 
 
 Of many waters, or as evening blends 
 
 With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub 
 and flower. 
 
 Waft fragrant greetings to each silent 
 grave ; 
 
 And while those lofty poplars gently wave 
 
 Their tops, between them comes and goes 
 a sky 
 
 Bright as the glimpses of eternity. 
 
 To saints accorded in their mortal hour. 
 1820. 1S22. 
 
 TO ENTERPRISE. 
 
 Keep for the Young the impassioned smile 
 Shed from thy countenance, as I see thee 
 
 stand 
 High on that chalky cliff of Britain's Isle, 
 A slender volume grasping in thy hand — 
 (Perchance the pages that relate 
 The various turns of Crusoe's fate) — 
 Ah, spare the exulting smile. 
 And drop thy pointing finger bright 
 As the first flash of beacon light; 
 But neither veil thy head in shadows dim, 
 Nor turn thy face away 
 From One who, in the evening of his day. 
 To thee would offer no presumptuous 
 
 hymn ! 
 
 Bold Spirit ! who art free to rove 
 Among the starry courts of Jove, 
 And oft in splendor dost appear 
 Embodied to poetic eyes. 
 While traversing this nether sphere. 
 Where Mortals call thee Enterprise. 
 Daughter of Hope ! her favorite Child, 
 Whom she to young Ambition bore, 
 When hunter's arrow first defiled 
 The grove, and stained the turf with gore; 
 Thee winged Fancy took, and nursed 
 On broad Euphrates' palmy shore. 
 And where the mightier Waters burst 
 From caves of Indian mountains hoar ! 
 She wrapped thee in a panther's skin; 
 And Thou, thy favorite food to win. 
 The flame-eyed eagle oft wouldst scare 
 
 From her rock-fortress in mid air, 
 With infant shout; and often sweep. 
 Paired with the ostrich, o'er the plain; 
 Or, tired with sport, wouldst sink asleep 
 Upon the couchant lion's mane ! 
 With rolling years thy strength increased 
 And, far beyond thy native East, 
 To thee, by varying titles known 
 As variously thy power was shown. 
 Did incense-bearing altars rise. 
 Which caught the blaze of sacrifice, 
 From suppliants panting for the skies ! 
 
 What though this ancient Earth be trod 
 No more by step of Demi-god 
 Mounting from glorious deed to deed 
 As thou from clime to clime didst lead; 
 Yet still, the bosom beating high. 
 And the hushed farewell of an eye 
 Where no procrastinating gaze 
 A last infirmity betrays. 
 Prove that thy heaven-descended sway 
 Shall ne'er submit to cold decay. 
 By thy divinity impelled. 
 The Stripling seeks the tented field; 
 The aspiring Virgin kneels; and, pale 
 With awe, receives the hallowed veil, 
 A soft and tender Heroine 
 Vowed to severer discipline; 
 Inflamed by thee, the blooming Boy 
 Makes of the whisthng shrouds a toy, 
 And of the ocean's dismal breast 
 A play-ground, — or a couch of rest; 
 'Mid the blank world of snow and ice, 
 Thou to his dangers dost enchain 
 The Chamois-chaser awed in vain 
 By chasm or dizzy precipice; 
 And hast Thou not with triumph seen 
 How soaring Mortals glide between 
 Or through the clouds, and brave the light 
 With bolder than Icarian flight? 
 How they, in bells of crystal, dive — • 
 Where winds and waters cease to strive — 
 For no unholy visitings, 
 Among the monsters of the Deep; 
 And all the sad and precious things 
 Which there in ghastly silence sleep? 
 Or, adverse tides and currents headed, 
 And breathless calms no longer dreaded, 
 In never-slackening voyage go 
 Straight as an arrow from the bow; 
 And, slighting sails and scorning oars. 
 
674 
 
 TO ENTERPRISE. 
 
 Keep faith with Time on distant shores? 
 ' — Within our fearless reach are placed 
 The secrets of the burning Waste; 
 Egyptian tombs unlock their dead, 
 Nile trembles at his fountain head; 
 Thou speak'st — and lo ! the polar Seas 
 Unbosom their last mysteries. 
 — But oh ! what transports, what sublime 
 
 reward, 
 Won from the world of mind, dost thou 
 
 prepare 
 For philosophic Sage ; or high-souled Bard 
 Who, for thy service trained in lonely 
 
 woods. 
 Hath fed on pageants floating through the 
 
 air, 
 Or calentured in depth of limpid floods; 
 Nor grieves — tho' doomed thro' silent 
 
 night to bear 
 The domination of his glorious themes. 
 Or struggle in the net- work of thy dreams ! 
 
 If there be movements in the Patriot's soul. 
 From source still deeper, and of higher 
 
 worth, 
 'T is thine the quickening impulse to con- 
 
 'trol. 
 And in due season send the mandate forth; 
 Thy call a prostrate Nation can restore, 
 When but a single Mind resolves to crouch 
 
 no more. 
 
 IV. 
 Dread Minister of wrath ! 
 Who to their destined punishment dost 
 
 urge 
 The Pharaohs of [the earth, the men of 
 
 hardened heart ! 
 Not unassisted by the flattering stars. 
 Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path 
 When they in pomp depart 
 With trampling horses and refulgent 
 
 cars — 
 Soon to be swallowed by the briny surge ; 
 Or cast, for lingering death, on unknown 
 
 strands ; 
 Or caught amid a whirl of desert sands — 
 An Army now, and now a living hill ^ 
 That a brief while heaves with convulsive 
 
 throes — 
 
 ' See Note. 
 
 Then all is still; 
 
 Or, to forget their madness and their woes. 
 Wrapt in a winding-sheet of spotless 
 snows ! 
 
 Back flows the willing current of my Song : 
 If to provoke such doom the Impious dare, 
 Why should it daunt a blameless prayer? 
 — Bold Goddess ! range our Youth among; 
 Nor let thy genuine impulse fail to beat 
 In hearts no longer young; 
 Still may a veteran Few have pride 
 In thoughts whose sternness makes them 
 
 sweet; 
 In fixed resolves by Reason justified; 
 That to their object cleave like sleet 
 Whitening a pine tree's northern side, 
 When fields are naked far and wide. 
 And withered leaves, from earth's cold 
 
 breast 
 Up-caught in whirlwinds, nowhere can 
 
 find rest. 
 
 But, if such homage thou disdain 
 
 As doth with mellowing years agree, 
 
 One rarely absent from thy train 
 
 More humble favors may obtain 
 
 For thy contented Votary. 
 
 She, who incites the frolic lambs 
 
 In presence of their heedless dams. 
 
 And to the solitary fawn 
 
 Vouchsafes her lessons, bounteous Nymph 
 
 That wakes the breeze, the sparkling 
 
 lymph 
 Doth hurry to the lawn; 
 She, who inspires that strain of joyance 
 
 holy 
 Which the sweet Bird, misnamed the 
 
 melancholy. 
 Pours forth in shady groves, shall plead 
 
 for me; 
 And vernal mornings opening bright 
 With views of undefined delight. 
 And cheerful songs, and suns that shine 
 On busy days, with thankful nights, be 
 
 mine. 
 
 But thou, O Goddess ! in thy favorite Isle 
 (Freedom's impregnable redoubt, 
 The wide earth's storehouse fenced about 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 67s 
 
 With breakers roaring to the gales 
 That stretch a thousand thousand sails) 
 Quicken the slothful, and exalt the vile ! — 
 Thy impulse is the life of Fame; 
 Glad Hope would almost cease to be 
 If torn from thy society; 
 And Love, when worthiest of his name, 
 Is proud to walk the earth with Thee ! 
 1S20. 1S22. 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS.^ 
 
 IN SERIES. 
 1821-22. 
 
 My purpose in writing this Series was, as much 
 as possible, to confine my view to the introduction, 
 progress, and operation of the Church in England, 
 both previous and subsequent to the Reformation. 
 The Sonnets were written long before ecclesiasti- 
 cal history and points of doctrine had excited the 
 interest with which they have been recently en- 
 quired into and discussed. The former particular 
 is mentioned as an excuse for my having fallen 
 into error in respect to an incident which had been 
 selected as setting forth the height to which the 
 power of the Popedom over temporal sovereignty 
 had attained, and the arrogance with which it 
 was displayed. I allude to the last Sonnet but 
 one in the first series, where Pope Alexander the 
 Third at Venice is described as setting his foot on 
 the neck of the Emperor Barbarossa. Though 
 this is related as a fact in histoiy, I am told it is 
 a mere legend of no authority. Substitute for it 
 an undeniable truth not less fitted for my purpose, 
 namely, the penance inflicted by Gregory the 
 Seventh upon the Emperor Henry the Fourth. 
 
 Before I conclude my notice of these Sonnets, 
 let me observe that the opinion I pronounced in 
 favor of Laud (long before the Oxford Tract 
 movement) and which had brought censure upon 
 me from several quarters, is not in the least 
 changed. Omitting here to examine into his 
 conduct in respect to the persecuting spirit with 
 which he has been charged, I am persuaded that 
 most of his aims to restore ritual practices which 
 had been abandoned were good and wise, what- 
 ever errors he might commit in the manner he 
 sometimes attempted to enforce them. I further 
 believe that, had not he, and others who shared 
 his opinions and felt as he did, stood up in oppo- 
 sition to the reformers of that period, it is ques- 
 tionable whether the Church would ever have 
 recovered its lost ground and become the blessing 
 
 ^See Note. 
 
 it now is, and will, I trust, become in a still 
 greater degree, both to those of its communion 
 and to those who unfortunately are separated 
 from it. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 FROM THE INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTIAN- 
 ITY INTO BRITAIN, TO THE CONSUMMA- 
 TION OF THE PAPAL DOMINION. 
 
 "A verse may catch a wandering Soul, that flies 
 Profounder Tracts, and by a blest surprise 
 Convert delight into a Sacrifice." 
 
 INTitODUCTION. 
 
 I, WHO accompanied with faithful pace 
 Cerulean Duddon from his cloud- fed 
 
 spring, 
 And loved with spirit ruled by his to sing 
 Of mountain quiet and boon nature's 
 
 grace; 
 I, who essayed the nobler Stream to trace 
 Of Liberty, and smote the plausive string 
 Till the checked torrent, proudly tri- 
 umphing, 
 Won for herself a lasting resting-place; 
 Now seek upon the heights of Time the 
 
 source 
 Of a Holy River, on whose banks are 
 
 found 
 Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that 
 
 have crowned 
 Fullofttheunworthybrowof lawless force; 
 And, for delight of him who tracks its 
 
 course, 
 Immortal amaranth and palms abound. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 CONJECTURES. 
 
 If there be prophets on whose spirits rest 
 Past things, revealed like future, they 
 
 can tell 
 What Powers, presiding o'er the sacred 
 
 well 
 Of Christian Faith, this savage Island 
 
 blessed 
 With its first bounty. Wandering througli 
 
 the west, 
 
676 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 Did holy Paul ' a while in Britain dwell, 
 And call the Fountain forth by miracle, 
 And with dread signs the nascent Stream 
 
 invest ? 
 Or He, whose bonds dropped off, whose 
 
 prison doors 
 Flew open, by anAngel's voice unbarred? 
 Or some of humbler name, to these wild 
 
 shores 
 Storm-driven; who, having seen the cup 
 
 of woe 
 Pass from their Master, sojourned here to 
 
 guard 
 The precious Current they had taught to 
 
 flow? 
 
 TREPIDATION OF THE DRUIDS. 
 
 Screams round the Arch-druid's brow the 
 seamew '^ — white 
 
 As Menai's foam; and toward the mystic 
 ring 
 
 Where Augurs stand, the Future ques- 
 tioning. 
 
 Slowly the cormorant aims her heavy 
 flight, 
 
 Portending ruin to each baleful rite. 
 
 That, in the lapse of ages, hate crept o'er 
 
 Diluvian truths, and patriarchal lore. 
 
 Haughty the Bard: can these meek doc- 
 trines blight 
 
 His transports ? whither his heroic strains ? 
 
 But all shall be fulfilled ; — the Julian spear 
 
 A way first opened; and, with Roman 
 chains, 
 
 The tidings come of Jesus crucified; 
 
 They come — they spread — the weak, the 
 suffering, hear; 
 
 Receive the faith, and in the hope abide. 
 
 1821. 
 
 1822. 
 
 1 See Note, 
 
 2 This water-fowl was, among the Druids, an 
 emblem of those traditions connected with the 
 Deluge that made an important part of their 
 mysteries. The Cormorant was a bird of bad 
 omen. 
 
 DRUIDICAL EXCOMMUNICATION. 
 
 Mercy and Love have met thee on thy 
 
 road. 
 Thou wretched Outcast, from the gift of 
 
 fire 
 And food cut off by sacerdotal ire, 
 From every sympathy that Man bestowed ! 
 Yet shall it claim our reverence, that to 
 
 God, 
 Ancient of days ! that to the eternal Sire, 
 These jealous Ministers of law aspire, 
 As to the one sole fount whence wisdom 
 
 flowed, 
 Justice, and order. Tremblingly escaped. 
 As if with prescience of the coming storm, 
 That intimation when the stars were 
 
 shaped; 
 And still, 'mid yon thick woods, the 
 
 primal truth 
 Glimmers through many a superstitious 
 
 form 
 That fills the Soul with unavailing ruth. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 UNCERTAINTY. 
 
 Darkness surrounds us; seeking, we are 
 
 lost 
 On Snowdon's wilds, amid Brigantian 
 
 coves. 
 Or where the solitary shepherd roves 
 Along the plain of Sarum, by the ghost 
 Of Time and shadows of Tradition, crest; 
 And where the boatman of the W6.,tern 
 
 Isles 
 Slackens his course — to mark those hoiy 
 
 piles 
 Which yet survive on bleak lona's coast. 
 Nor these, nor monuments of eldest name, 
 Nor Taliesin's unforgotten lays. 
 Nor characters of Greek or Roman fame. 
 To an unquestionable Source have led; 
 Enough — if eyes, that sought the foun- 
 tain-head 
 In vain, upon the growing Rill may gaze. 
 1821, 1S22, 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 677 
 
 PERSECUTION. 
 
 Lament ' for Diocletian's fiery sword 
 Works busy as the lightning; but instinct 
 With malice ne'er to deadliest weapon 
 
 linked 
 Which God's- ethereal storehouses afford : 
 Against the Followers of the incarnate 
 
 Lord 
 It rages; some are smitten in the field — 
 Some pierced to the heart through the 
 
 ineffectual shield 
 Of sacred home; — with pomp are others 
 
 gored 
 And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban 
 
 tried, 
 England's first Martyr, whom no threats 
 
 could shake; 
 Self-offered victim, for his friend he died. 
 And for the faith; nor shall his name 
 
 forsake 
 That Hill, whose fiowery platform seems 
 
 to rise 
 By Nature decked for holiest sacrifice. ' 
 1821, 1822. 
 
 As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds 
 
 regain 
 Their cheerfulness, and busily retrim 
 Their nests, or chant a gratulating hymn 
 To the blue ether and bespangled plain; 
 Even so, in many a re-constructed fane. 
 Have the survivors of this Storm renewed 
 Their holy rites with vocal gratitude : 
 And solemn ceremonials they ordain 
 To celebrate their great deliverance; 
 Most feelingly instructed 'mid their fear — 
 That persecution, blind with rage extreme, 
 May not the less, through Heaven's mild 
 
 countenance, 
 Even in her own despite, both feed and 
 
 cheer; 
 For all things are less dreadful than they 
 
 seem. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 ^ See Note. 
 
 TEMPTATIONS FROM ROMAN REFINE- 
 MENTS. 
 
 Watch, and be firm ! for, soul-subduing 
 
 vice, 
 Heart-kiUing luxury, on your steps await. 
 Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate, 
 And temples flashing, bright as polar ice, 
 Their radiance through the woods — may 
 
 yet suffice 
 To sap your hardy virtue, and abate 
 Your love of Him upon whose forehead 
 
 sate 
 The crown of thorns; whose life-blood 
 
 flowed, the price 
 Of your redemption. Shun the insidious 
 
 arts 
 That Rome provides, less dreading from 
 
 her frown 
 Than from her wily praise, her peaceful 
 
 gown. 
 Language, and letters; — these, though 
 
 fondly viewed 
 As humanizing graces, are but parts 
 And instruments of deadliest servitude ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 DISSENSIONS. 
 
 That heresies should strike (if truth be 
 scanned 
 
 Presumptuously) their roots both wide 
 and deep. 
 
 Is natural as dreams to feverish sleep. 
 
 Lo ! Discord at the altar dares to stand 
 
 Uplifting toward high Heaven her fiery 
 brand, 
 
 A cherished Priestess of the new-bap- 
 tized ! 
 
 But chastisement shall follow peace de- 
 spised. 
 
 The Pictish cloud darkens the enervate 
 land 
 
 By Rome abandoned; vain are suppliant 
 cries, 
 
 And prayers that would undo her forced 
 farewell; 
 
 For she returns not. — Awed by her own 
 knell. 
 
678 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 She casts the Britons upon strange Allies 
 
 Soon to become more dreaded enemies 
 
 Than heartless misery called them to 
 
 repel. 
 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 STR17GGLE OF THE BRITONS AGAINST 
 THE BARBARIANS. 
 
 Rise ! — they have risen : of brave An- 
 
 eurin ask 
 How they have scourged old foes, per- 
 fidious friends: 
 The Spirit of Caractacus descends 
 Upon the Patriots, animates their task ; — 
 Amazement runs before the towering 
 
 casque 
 Of Arthur, bearing through the stormy 
 
 field 
 The virgin sculptured on his Christian 
 
 shield : — 
 Stretched in the sunny light of victory 
 
 bask 
 The Host that followed Urien as he strode 
 O'er heaps of slain; — from Cambrian 
 
 wood and moss 
 Druids descend, auxiliars of the Cross; 
 Bards, nursed on blue Plinlimmon's still 
 
 abode, 
 Rush on the fight, to harps preferring 
 
 swords, 
 And everlasting deeds to burning words ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 SAXON CONQUEST. 
 
 Nor wants the cause the panic-striking 
 
 aid 
 Of hallelujahs! tost from hill to hill — 
 For instant victory. But Heaven's high 
 
 will 
 Permits a second and a darker shade 
 Of Pagan night. Afflicted and dismayed. 
 The Relics of the sword flee to the 
 
 mountains: 
 O wretched Land ! whose tears have 
 
 flowed like fountains; 
 Whose arts and honors in the dust are laid 
 
 1 See 
 
 By men yet scarcely conscious of a care 
 For other monuments than those of 
 
 Earth;! 
 Who, as the fields and woods have given 
 
 them birth. 
 Will build their savage fortunes only 
 
 there; 
 Content, if foss, and barrow, and the girth 
 Of long-drawn rampart, witness what they 
 
 were. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 MONASTERY OF OLD BANGOR.! 
 
 The oppression of the tumult — wrath 
 
 and scorn — 
 The tribulation — and the gleaming 
 
 blades — 
 Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades 
 The song of Taliesin ; — Ours shall mourn 
 The unarmed Host who by their prayers 
 
 would turn 
 The sword from Bangor's walls, and guard 
 
 the store 
 Of Aboriginal and Roman lore. 
 And Christian monuments, that now must 
 
 burn 
 To senseless ashes. Mark ! how all things 
 
 swerve 
 From their known course, or vanish like a 
 
 dream; 
 Another language spreads from coast to 
 
 coast; 
 Only perchance some melancholy Stream 
 And some indignant Hills old names 
 
 preserve. 
 When laws, and creeds, and people all 
 
 are lost ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 CASUAL INCITEMENT. 
 
 A BRIGHT-HAIRED company of youthful 
 
 slaves. 
 Beautiful strangers, stand within the pale 
 Of a sad market, ranged for public sale, 
 Where Tiber's stream the immortal City 
 
 laves : 
 Note. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 679 
 
 Angli by name; and not an Angel waves 
 
 His wing who could seem lovelier to 
 man's eye 
 
 Than they appear to holy Gregory; 
 
 Who, having learnt that name, salvation 
 craves 
 
 For Them, and for their Land. The 
 earnest Sire, 
 
 His questions urging, feels, in slender ties 
 
 Of chiming sound, commanding sym- 
 pathies; 
 
 De-irians — he would save them from 
 God's Ire; 
 
 Subjects of Saxon /Ella — they shall sing 
 
 Glad HALLE-lujahs to the eternal King ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 GLAD TIDINGS. 
 
 Forever hallowed be this morning lair. 
 
 Blest be the unconscious shore on which 
 ye tread. 
 
 And blest the silver Cross, which ye, in- 
 stead 
 
 Of martial banner, in procession bear; 
 
 The Cross preceding Him who floats in air. 
 
 The pictured Saviour ! — By Augustin led, 
 
 They come — and onward travel without 
 dread, 
 
 Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful 
 prayer — 
 
 Sung for themselves, and those whom they 
 would free ! 
 
 Rich conquest waits them: — the tem- 
 pestuous sea 
 
 Of Ignorance, that ran so rough and high 
 
 And heeded not the voice of clashing 
 swords, 
 
 These good men humble by a few bare 
 words, 
 
 And calm with fear of God's divinity. 
 
 1821. 
 
 1822. 
 
 XV. 
 
 PAULINUS.l 
 
 But, to remote Northumbria's royal Hall, 
 Where thoughtful Edwin, tutored in the 
 
 school 
 Of sorrow, still maintains a heathen rule. 
 Who comes with functions apostolical? 
 Mark him, of shoulders curved, and 
 
 stature tall, 
 
 "See 
 
 Black hair, and vivid eye, and meagre 
 
 cheek, 
 His prominent feature like an eagle's 
 
 beak; 
 A Man whose aspect doth at once appall 
 And strike with reverence . The Monarch 
 
 leans 
 Toward the pure truths this Delegate pro- 
 pounds. 
 Repeatedly his own deep mind he sounds 
 With careful hesitation, — then convenes 
 A synod of his Councillors: — give ear, 
 And what a pensive Sage doth utter, hear ! 
 182J. 1822. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 PERSUASION. 
 
 "Man's life is like a Sparrow, mighty 
 King! 
 
 "That — while at banquet with your 
 Chiefs you sit 
 
 " Housed near a blazing fire — is seen to 
 flit 
 
 ' ' Safe from the wintry tempest. Flutter- 
 ing. 
 
 " Here did it enter; there, on hasty wing, 
 
 " Flies out; and passes on from cold to 
 cold; 
 
 " But whence it came we know not, nor 
 behold 
 
 "Whither it goes. Even such, that 
 transient Thing, 
 
 "The human Soul; not utterly unknown 
 
 "While in the Body lodged, her warm 
 abode; 
 
 "But from what world She came, what 
 woe or weal 
 
 " On her departure waits, no tongue hath 
 shown ; 
 
 " This mystery if the Stranger can reveal, 
 
 "His be a welcome cordially be- 
 stowed ! "2 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XVII. 
 CONVERSION. 
 
 Prompt transformation works the novel 
 Lore; 
 
 The Council closed, the Priest in full ca- 
 reer 
 
 Rides forth, an armed man, and hurls a 
 spear 
 Note. 
 
68o 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 To desecrate the Fi»ri^ which heretofore 
 He served in folly. Woden falls, and 
 
 Thor 
 Is overturned; the mace, in battle heaved 
 (So might they dreamy till victory was 
 
 achieved, 
 Drops, and the God' himself is seen no 
 
 more. 
 Temple and Altar sink, to hide their shame 
 Amid oblivious weeds. " O come to me, 
 1 'e heavy laden ! ' ' such the inviting voice 
 Heard near fresh streams; ' and thousands, 
 
 who rejoice 
 In the new Rite, the pledge of sanctity. 
 Shall, by regenerate life, the promise 
 
 claim. 
 1821, 1822. 
 
 xvni. 
 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth 
 
 lend 
 The Soul's eternal interests to promote: 
 Death, darkness, danger, are our natural 
 
 lot; 
 And evil Spirits may our walk attend 
 For aught the wisest know or compre- 
 hend; 
 Then be o-wo' Spirits free to breathe a note 
 Of elevation; let their odors float 
 Around these Converts; and their glories 
 
 blend. 
 The midnight stars outshining, or the 
 
 blaze 
 Of the noon-day. Nor doubt that golden 
 
 cords 
 Of good works, mingling with the visions, 
 
 raise 
 The Soul to purer worlds: and w/io the 
 
 line 
 Shall draw, the limits of the power define. 
 That even imperfect faith to man affords ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY. ^ 
 
 How beautiful your presence, how be- 
 nign, 
 
 Servants of God ! who not a thought will 
 share 
 
 ^ See Note. 
 
 With the vain world; who, outwardly as 
 
 bare 
 As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign 
 That the firm soul is clothed with fruit 
 
 divine ! 
 Such Priest, when service worthy of his 
 
 care 
 Has called him forth to breathe the 
 
 common air, 
 Might seem a saintly Image from its 
 
 shrine 
 Descended : — happy are the eyes that 
 
 meet 
 The Apparition; evil thoughts are stayed 
 At his approach, and low-bowed necks 
 
 entreat 
 A benediction from his voice or hand; 
 Whence grace, through which the heart 
 
 can understand. 
 And vows, that bind the will, in silence 
 
 made. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XX. 
 
 OTHER INFLUENCES. 
 
 Ah, when the Body, round which in love 
 
 we clung, 
 Is chilled by death, does mutual service 
 
 fail? 
 Is tender pity then of no avail? 
 Are intercessions of the fervent tongue 
 A waste of hope? — From this sad source 
 
 have sprung 
 Rites that console the Spirit, under grief 
 Which ill can brook more rational relief: 
 Hence, prayers are shaped amiss, and 
 
 dirges sung 
 For Souls whose doom is fixed ! The way 
 
 is smooth 
 For Power that travels with the human 
 
 heart : 
 Confession ministers the pang to soothe 
 In him who at the ghost of guilt doth start. 
 Ye holy Men, so earnest in your care, 
 Of your own mighty instruments beware ! 
 1B21. 1822. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 SECLUSION. 
 
 Lance, shield, and sword relinquished, 
 
 at his side 
 A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book, 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 68! 
 
 Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's 
 
 crook, 
 The war-worn Chieftain quits the world — 
 
 to hide 
 His thin autumnal locks where Monks 
 
 abide 
 In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell 
 In soft repose he comes : within his cell, 
 Round the decaying trunk of human pride, 
 At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent 
 
 hour, 
 Do penitential cogitations cling; 
 Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they 
 
 twine 
 In grisly folds and strictures serpentine; 
 Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth 
 
 they bring 
 For recompense — their own perennial 
 
 bower. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Methinks that to some vacant hermitage 
 My feet would rather turn — to some dry 
 
 nook 
 Scooped out of living rock, and near a 
 
 brook 
 Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage 
 
 to stage, 
 Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling 
 
 rage 
 In the soft heaven of a translucent pool; 
 Thence creeping under sylvan arches cool, 
 Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equi- 
 page 
 Would elevate my dreams. A beechen 
 
 bowl, 
 A maple dish, my furniture should be; 
 Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the lioot- 
 
 ing owl 
 My night-watch : nor should e'er the 
 
 crested fov/1 
 From thorp or vill his matins sound for me. 
 Tired of the world and all its industry. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 REPROOF. 
 
 But what if One, through grove or flow- 
 ery mead. 
 Indulging thus at will the creeping feet 
 
 Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet 
 Thy hovering Shade, O venerable Bede ! 
 The saint, the scholar, from a circle freed 
 Of toil stupendous, in a hallowed seat 
 Of learning, where thou heard'st the bil- 
 lows beat 
 On a wild coast, rough monitors to feed 
 Perpetual industry. Sublime Recluse ! 
 The recreant soul, that dares to shun the 
 
 debt 
 Imposed on human kind, must first forget 
 Thy diligence, thy unrelaxing use 
 Of a long life; and, in the hour of death. 
 The last dear service of thy passing 
 breath ! 1 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 SAXON MONASTERIES, AND LIGHTS AND 
 SHADES OF THE RELIGION. 
 
 By such examples moved to unbought 
 
 pains. 
 The people work like congregated bees; ''■ 
 Eager to build the quiet Fortresses 
 Where Piety, as they believe, obtains 
 From Heaven a ^(?/?i?r«/ blessing; timely 
 
 rains 
 Or needful sunshine; prosperous enter- 
 prise, 
 Justice and peace : — bold faith ! yet also 
 
 rise 
 The sacred Structures for less doubtful 
 
 gains. 
 The Sensual think with reverence of the 
 
 palms 
 Which the chaste Votaries seek, beyond 
 
 the grave 
 If penance be redeemable, thence alms 
 Flow to the poor, and freedom to the 
 
 slave; 
 And if full oft the Sanctuary save 
 Lives black with guilt, ferocity it calm? , 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 MISSIONS AND TRAVELS. 
 
 Not sedentary all : there are who roam 
 To scatter seeds of life on barbarous 
 shores; 
 
 ^ He expired dictating the last words of a trans- 
 lation of St. John's Gospel. ^ gee Note. 
 
682 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 Or quit with zealous step their knee-worn 
 
 floors 
 To seek the general mart of Christendom; 
 Whence they, like richly-laden merchants, 
 
 come 
 To their beloved cells : — or shall we say 
 That, like the Red-cross Knight, they 
 
 urge their way. 
 To lead in memorable triumph home 
 Truth, their immortal Una? Babylon, 
 Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, 
 Nor leaves her Speech one word to aid 
 
 the sigh 
 That would lament her;- — Memphis, 
 
 Tyre, are gone 
 With all their Arts, — but classic lore 
 
 glides on 
 By these Religious saved for all posterity. 
 1S21. 1822. 
 
 Behold a pupil of the monkish gown. 
 The pious Alfred, King to Justice dear ! 
 Lord of the harp and liberating spear; 
 Mirror of Princes ! Indigent Renown 
 Might range the starry ether for a crown 
 Equal to his deserts, who, like the year. 
 Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth 
 
 cheer, 
 And awes like night with mercy-tempered 
 
 frown. 
 Ease from this noble miser of his time 
 No moment steals; pain narrows not his 
 
 cares. ^ 
 Though small his kingdom as a spark or 
 
 gem. 
 Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, 
 And Christian India, through her wide- 
 spread clime. 
 In sacred converse gifts with Alfred 
 shares. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 HIS DESCENDANTS. 
 
 When thy great soul was freed from mor- 
 tal chains. 
 Darling of England ! many abitter shower 
 Fell on thy tomb; but emulative power 
 
 Flowed in thy line through undegener- 
 
 ate veins. 
 The Race of Alfred covet glorious pains 
 When dangers threaten , dangers ever new ! 
 Black tempests bursting, blacker still in 
 
 view ! 
 But manly sovereignty its hold retains; 
 The root sincere, the branches bold to 
 
 strive 
 With the fierce tempest, while, within the 
 
 round 
 Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive; 
 As oft, 'mid some green plot of open 
 
 ground. 
 Wide as the oak extends its devvy gloom. 
 The fostered hyacinths spread their purple 
 
 bloom. 
 182 1. 1822, 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 INFLUENCE ABUSED. 
 
 Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest 
 
 skill 
 Changes her means, the Enthusiast as a 
 
 dupe 
 Shall soar, and as a hypocrite can stoop. 
 And turn the instruments of good to ill. 
 Moulding the credulous people to his will. 
 Such DuNSTAN : — from its Benedictine 
 
 coop 
 Issues the master Mind, at whose fell 
 
 swoop 
 The chaste affections tremble to fulfil 
 Their purposes. Behold, pre-signified. 
 The Might of spiritual sway ! his thoughts, 
 
 his dreams. 
 Do in the supernatural world abide : 
 So vaunt a throng of Followers, filled with 
 
 pride 
 In what they see of virtues pushed to 
 
 extremes. 
 And sorceries of talent misapplied. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 DANISH CONQUESTS. 
 
 Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl 
 obey ! ' 
 
 Dissension, checking arms that would re- 
 strain 
 
 See Note. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 683 
 
 The incessant Rovers of the northern 
 
 main, 
 Helps to restore and spread a Pagan sway : 
 But Gospel-truth is potent to allay 
 Fierceness and rage; and soon the cruel 
 
 Dane 
 Feels, through the influence of her gentle 
 
 reign, 
 His native superstitions melt away. 
 Thus, often, when thick gloom the east 
 
 o'ershrouds. 
 The full-orbed Moon, slow-climbing, doth 
 
 appear 
 Silently to consume the heavy clouds; 
 H<m) no one can resolve; but every eye 
 Around her sees, while air is hushed, a 
 
 clear 
 And widening circuit of ethereal sky. 
 1821. 1822, 
 
 A PLEASANT music floats along the Mere, 
 From Monks in Ely chanting service high, 
 While-as Canute the King is rowing by : 
 " My Oarsmen," quoth the mighty King, 
 
 " draw near, 
 "That we the sweet song of the Monks 
 
 may hear ! ' ' 
 He listens (all past conquests, and all 
 
 schemes 
 Of future, vanishing like empty dreams) 
 Heart-touched, and haply not without a 
 
 tear. 
 The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still. 
 While his free Barge skims the smooth 
 
 flood along, 
 Gives to that rapture an accordant 
 
 Rhyme. ^ 
 O suffering Earth ! be thankful : sternest 
 
 clime 
 And rudest age are subject to the thrill 
 Of heaven-descended Piety and Song. 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST. 
 
 The woman-hearted Confessor prepares 
 The evanescence of the Saxon line. 
 ^ Which is still extant. 
 
 Hark ! 't is the tolling Curfew ! — the stars 
 
 shine; 
 But of the lights that cherish household 
 
 cares 
 And festive gladness, burns not one that 
 
 dares 
 To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine. 
 Emblem and instrument, from Thames to 
 
 Tyne, 
 Of force that daunts, and cunning that 
 
 ensnares ! 
 Yet as the terrors, of the lordly bell. 
 That quench, from hut to palace, lamps 
 
 and fires. 
 Touch not the tapers of the sacred quires; 
 Even so a thraldom, studious to expel 
 Old laws, and ancient customs to derange. 
 To Creed or Ritual brings no fatal change. 
 
 1821. 
 
 1822. 
 
 Coldly we spake. The Saxons, over- 
 powered 
 By wrong triumphant through its own 
 
 excess, 
 From fields laid waste, from house and 
 
 home devoured 
 By flames, look up to heaven and crave 
 
 redress 
 From God's eternal justice. Pitiless 
 Though men be, there are angels that can 
 
 feel 
 For wounds that death alone has power 
 
 to heal, 
 For penitent guilt, and innocent distress. 
 And has a Champion risen in arms to try 
 His Country's virtue, fought, and breathes 
 
 no more; 
 Ilim in their hearts the people canonize; 
 And far above the mine's most precious 
 
 ore 
 The least small pittance of bare mould they 
 
 prize 
 Scooped from the sacred earth where his 
 
 dear relics lie. 
 1821. 1836. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 THE COUNCIL OF CLERMONT. 
 
 "And shall," the Pontiff asks, "pro- 
 
 faneness flow 
 ' ' From Nazareth — source of Christian 
 
 piety. 
 
684 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 "From Bethlehem, from the Mounts of 
 
 Agony 
 " And glorified Ascension ? Warriors, go, 
 "With prayers and blessings we your 
 
 path will sow; 
 " Lilie Moses hold our hands erect, till ye 
 " Have chased far off by righteous victory 
 "These sons of Amalek, or laid them 
 
 low ! " — 
 " God willeth it," the whole assembly 
 
 cry; 
 Shout which the enraptured multitude 
 
 astounds ! 
 The Council-roof and Clermont's towers 
 
 reply; — 
 "God willeth it," from hill to hill re- 
 bounds. 
 And, in awe-stricken Countries far and 
 
 nigh. 
 Through "Nature's hollow arch" that 
 
 voice resounds.^ 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 CRUSADES. 
 
 The turbaned Race are poured in thick- 
 ening swarms 
 
 Along the west ; though driven from Aqui- 
 taine, 
 
 The Crescent glitters on the towers of 
 Spain ; 
 
 And soft Italia feels renewed alarms; 
 
 The scimitar, that yields not to the charms 
 
 Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will dis- 
 dain; 
 
 Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian 
 hills detain 
 
 Their tents, and check the current of their 
 arms. 
 
 Then blame not those who, by the might- 
 iest lever 
 
 Known to the moral world. Imagination, 
 
 Upheave, so seems it, from her natural 
 station 
 
 All Christendom : — they sweep along 
 (was never 
 
 So huge a host !) — to tear from the Un- 
 believer 
 
 The precious Tomb, their haven of salva- 
 tion. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 ^ The decision of this council was believed to 
 
 be instantly known in remote parts of Europe. 
 
 RICHARD I. 
 
 Redoubted King, of courage leonine, 
 I mark thee, Richard ! urgent to equip 
 Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip ; 
 I watch thee sailingo'er the midland brine; 
 In conquered Cyprus see thy Bride decline 
 Her blushing cheek, love-vows upon her 
 
 lip, 
 And see love-emblems streaming from thy 
 
 ship, 
 As thence she holds her way to Palestine. 
 My Song, a fearless homager, would attend 
 Thy thunderi-g battle-axe as it cleaves 
 
 the press 
 Of war, but duty summons her away 
 To tell — how, finding in the rash distress 
 Of those Enthusiasts a subservient friend. 
 To giddier heights hath clomb the Papal 
 
 sway. 
 
 AN INTERDICT. 
 
 Realms quake by turns : proud Arbitress 
 
 of grace, 
 The Church, by mandate shadowing forth 
 
 the power 
 She arrogates o'er heaven's eternal door, 
 Closes the gates of every sacred place. 
 Straight from the sun and tainted air's 
 
 embrace 
 All sacred things are covered : cheerful 
 
 morn 
 Grows sad as night — no seemly garb is 
 
 worn. 
 Nor is a face allowed to meet a face 
 With natural smiles of greeting. Bells are 
 
 dumb; 
 Ditches are graves — funereal rites denied; 
 And in the churchyard he must take his 
 
 bride 
 Who dares be wedded ! Fancies thickly 
 
 come 
 Into the pensive heart ill fortified. 
 And comfortless despairs the soul benumb, 
 1821. 1822. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 68i 
 
 PAPAL ABUSES. 
 
 As with the Stream our voyage we pursue, 
 The gross materials of this world present 
 A marvellous study of wild accident; 
 Uncouth proximities of old and new; 
 And bold transfigurations, more untrue 
 (As might beldeemed) to disciplined intent 
 Than aught the sky's fantastic element. 
 When most fantastic, offers to the view. 
 .Saw we not Henry scourged at Becket's 
 
 shrine ? 
 Lo ! John self-stripped of his insignia : — 
 
 crown, 
 Sceptre and mantle, sword and ring, laid 
 
 down 
 At a proud Legate's feet ! The spears that 
 
 line 
 Baronial halls, the opprobrious insult feel; 
 And .angry Ocean roars a vain appeal. 
 
 SCENE IN VENICE. 
 
 Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred 
 
 head, 
 To Caesar's Successor the Pontiff spake; 
 "Ere I absolve thee, stoop! that on thy 
 
 neck 
 " Levelled with earth this foot of mine 
 
 may tread." 
 Then he, who to the altar had been led. 
 He, whose strong arm the Orient could 
 
 not check. 
 He, who had held the Soldan at his beck, 
 Stooped, of all glory disinherited. 
 And even the common dignity of man ! — • 
 Amazement strikes the crowd : while many 
 
 turn 
 Their eyes away in sorrow, others burn 
 With scorn, invoking a vindictive ban 
 From outraged Nature; but the sense of 
 
 most 
 In abject sympathy with power is lost. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 papal DOMINION. 
 
 Unless to Peter's Chair the viewless wind 
 Must come and ask permission when to 
 blow. 
 
 What further empire would it have? for 
 
 now 
 A ghostly Domination, unconfined 
 As that by dreaming Bards to Love as- 
 signed. 
 Sits there in sober truth — to raise the 
 
 low. 
 Perplex the wise, the strong to overthrow; 
 Through earth and heaven to bind and 
 
 to unbind ! — 
 Resist — the thunder quails thee 1 — 
 
 crouch — rebuff 
 Shall be thy recompense ! from land to 
 
 land 
 The ancient thrones of Christendom are 
 
 stuff 
 For occupation of a magic wand. 
 And 't is the Pope that wields it : — 
 
 whether rough 
 Or smooth his front, our world is in his 
 
 hand! 
 1821. 1S22. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 TO THE CLOSE OF THE TROUBLES IN THE 
 REIGN OF CHARLES I. 
 
 How soon — alas ! did Man, created 
 
 pure — 
 By Angels guarded, deviate from the line 
 Prescribed to duty : — woful forfeiture 
 He made by wilful breach of law divine. 
 With like perverseness did the Church 
 
 abjure 
 Obedience to her Lord, and haste to 
 
 twine, 
 'Mid Heaven-born flowers that shall for 
 
 aye endure. 
 Weeds on whose front the world had fixed 
 
 her sign. 
 O Man, — if with thy trials thus it fares. 
 If good can smooth the way to evil 
 
 choice. 
 From all rash censure be the mind kept 
 
 free; 
 He only judges right who weighs, com- 
 pares. 
 And in the sternest sentence which his 
 
 voice 
 Pronounces, ne'er abandons Charity. 
 1821. 1845. 
 
686 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 From false assumption rose, and, fondly 
 
 hailed 
 By superstition, spread the Papal power; 
 Yet do not deem the Autocracy prevailed 
 Thus only, even in error's darkest hour. 
 She daunts, forth-thundering from her 
 
 spiritual tower, 
 Brute rapine, or with gentle lure she 
 
 tames. 
 Justice and Peace through Her uphold 
 
 their claims; 
 And Chastity finds many a sheltering 
 
 bower. 
 Realm there is none that if controlled or 
 
 swayed 
 By her commands partakes not, in degree, 
 Of good, o'er manners, arts and arms, 
 
 diffused : 
 Yes, to thy domination, Roman See, 
 The' miserably, oft monstrously, abused 
 By blind ambition, be this tribute paid. 
 182 1. 1845. 
 
 CISTERTIAN MONASTERY. 
 
 " Here Man more purely lives, less oft 
 
 doth fall, 
 ^' More promptly rises, walks with stricter 
 
 heed, 
 ' ' More safely rests, dies happier, is freed 
 " Earlier froTn cleansing fires , and gains 
 
 withal 
 " A brighter crown." ^ — On yon Cister- 
 
 tian wall 
 That confident assurance may be read; 
 And, to like shelter, from the world have 
 
 fled 
 Increasing multitudes. The potent call 
 Doubtless shall cheat full oft the heart's 
 
 desires; 
 Yet, while the rugged Age on pliant knee 
 Vows to rapt Fancy humble fealty, 
 A gentler life spreads round the holy 
 
 spires; 
 Where'er they rise, the sylvan waste re- 
 tires, 
 And aery harvests crown the fertile lea. 
 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 Deplorable his lot who tills the ground, 
 His whole life long tills it, with heartless 
 
 toil 
 Of villain-service, passing with the soil 
 To each new Master, like a steer or hound, 
 Or like a rooted tree, or stone earth- 
 bound; 
 But mark how gladly, through their own 
 
 domains, 
 The Monks relax or break these iron 
 
 chains ; 
 While Mercy, uttering, through their 
 
 voice, a sound 
 Echoed in Heaven, cries out, "Ye Chiefs, 
 
 abate 
 These legalized oppressions ! Man — 
 
 whose name 
 And nature God disdained not; Man — 
 
 whose soul 
 Christ died for — cannot forfeit his high 
 
 claim 
 To live and move exempt from all control 
 Which fellow-feeling doth not mitigate ! " 
 1821. 1835. 
 
 MONKS AND SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 Record we too, with just and faithful pen. 
 That many hooded Cenobites there are, 
 Who in their private cells have yet a care 
 Of public quiet; unambitious Men, 
 Counsellors for the world, of piercing 
 
 ken; 
 Whose fervent exhortations from afar 
 Move Princes to their duty, peace or war; 
 And oft-times in the most forbidding den 
 Of solitude, with love of science strong. 
 How patiently the yoke of thought they 
 
 bear 
 How subtly glide its finest threads along ! 
 Spirits that crowd the intellectual sphere 
 With mazy boundaries, as the astronomer 
 With orb and cycle girds the starry throng. 
 
 OTHER BENEFITS. 
 
 And, not in vain embodied to the sight, 
 Religion finds even in the stern retreat 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 687 
 
 Of feudal sway her own appropriate seat ; 
 From the collegiate pomps on Windsor's 
 
 height 
 Down to the humbler altar, which the 
 
 Knight 
 And his retainers of the embattled hall 
 Seek in domestic oratory small, 
 For prayer in stillness, or the chanted 
 
 rite; 
 Then chiefly dear, when foes are planted 
 
 round, 
 Who teach the intrepid guardians of the 
 
 place — 
 Hourly exposed to death, with famine 
 
 worn. 
 And suffering under many a perilous 
 
 wound — 
 How sad would be their durance, if for- 
 lorn 
 Of offices dispensing heavenly grace ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 And what melodious sounds at times pre- 
 vail ! 
 
 And, ever and anon, how bright a gleam 
 
 Pours on the surface of the turbid Stream ! 
 
 What heartfelt fragrance mingles with 
 the gale 
 
 That swells the bosom of our passing sail ! 
 
 For where, but on this River's margin, 
 blow 
 
 Those flowers of chivalry, to bind the brow 
 
 Of hardihood with wreaths that shall not 
 fail ? — 
 
 Fair Court of Edward ! wonder of the 
 world ! 
 
 I see a matchless blazonry unfurled 
 
 Of wisdom, magnanimity, and love; 
 
 Andmeekness tempering honorable pride; 
 
 The lamb is couching by the lion's side, 
 
 And near the flame-eyed eagle sits the 
 dove. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 CRUSADERS. 
 
 Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars 
 Through these bright regions, casting 
 many a glance 
 
 Upon the dream-like issues — the romance 
 Of many-colored life that Fortune pours 
 Round the Crusaders, till on distant shores 
 Their labors end; or they return to lie. 
 The vow performed, in cross-legged efifigy , 
 Devoutly stretched upon their chancel 
 
 floors. 
 Am I deceived? Or is their requiem 
 
 chanted 
 By voices never mute when Heaven unties 
 Her inmost, softest, tenderest harmonies; 
 Requiem which Earth takes up with voice 
 
 undaunted. 
 When she would tell how Brave, and 
 
 Good, and Wise, 
 For their high guerdon not in vain have 
 
 panted ! 
 
 As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest 
 While from the Papal Unity there came, 
 What feebler means had failed to give, 
 
 one aim 
 Diffused thro' all the regions of the West ; 
 So does her Unity its power attest 
 By works of Art, that shed, on the out- 
 ward frame 
 Of worship, glory and grace, which who 
 
 shall blame 
 That ever looked to heaven for final rest? 
 Hail countless Temples ! that so well befit 
 Your ministry; that, as ye rise and take 
 Form, spirit and character from holy writ, 
 Give to devotion, wheresoe'er awake, 
 Pinions of high and higher sweep, and 
 
 make 
 The unconverted soul with awe submit. 
 1821. 1845. 
 
 Where long and deeply hath been fixed 
 
 the root 
 In the blest soil of gospel truth, the Tree, 
 (Blighted or scathed tho' many branches 
 
 be. 
 Put forth to wither, many a hopeful shoot) 
 Can never cease to bear celestial fruit. 
 Witness the Church that oft-times, with 
 
 effect 
 Dear to the saints, strives earnestly to 
 
 eject 
 
688 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 Her bane, her vital energies recruit. 
 Lamenting, do not hopelessly repine, 
 When such good work is doomed to be 
 
 undone, 
 The conquests lost that were so hardly 
 
 won: — 
 All promises vouchsafed by Heaven will 
 
 shine 
 In light confirmed while years their course 
 
 shall run, 
 Confirmed alike in progress and decline. 
 1821. 1845. 
 
 TRANSUBSTANTI ATION . 
 
 Enough ! for see, with dim association 
 
 The tapers burn; the odorous incense 
 feeds 
 
 A greedy flame; the pompous mass pro- 
 ceeds; 
 
 The Priest bestows the appointed conse- 
 cration; 
 
 And, while the Host is raised, its eleva- 
 tion 
 
 An awe and supernatural horror breeds; 
 
 And all the people bow their heads, like 
 reeds 
 
 To, a soft breeze, in lowly adoration. 
 
 This Valdo brooks not. On the banks 
 of Rhone 
 
 He taught, till persecution chased him 
 thence. 
 
 To adore the Invisible, and Him alone. 
 
 Nor are his Followers loth to seek defence, 
 
 'Mid woods and wilds, on Nature's craggy 
 throne. 
 
 From rites that trample upon soul and 
 sense. 
 1820, 1822. 
 
 XII. 
 
 THE VAUDOIS. 
 
 But whence came they who for the Sav- 
 iour Lord 
 Have long borne witness as the Scriptures 
 
 teach? — 
 Ages ere Valdo raised his voice to preach 
 In Gallic ears the unadulterate Word, 
 Their fugitive Progenitors explored 
 Subalpine vales, in quest of safe retreats 
 
 Where that pure Church survives, though 
 summer heats 
 
 Open a passage to the Romish sword. 
 
 Far as it dares to follow. Herbs self- 
 sown. 
 
 And fruitage gathered from the chestnut 
 wood. 
 
 Nourish the sufferers then; and mists, 
 that brood 
 
 O'er chasms with new-fallen obstacles be- 
 strewn. 
 
 Protect them; and the eternal snow that 
 daunts 
 
 Aliens, is God's good winter for their 
 haunts. 
 1821. 1835. 
 
 XIII. 
 Praised be the Rivers, from their moun- 
 tain springs 
 Shouting to Freedom, "Plant thy ban- 
 
 ners here ! " 
 To harassed Piety, " Dismiss thy fear, 
 And in our caverns smooth thy ruffled 
 
 wings ! " 
 Nor be unthanked their final lingerings — 
 Silent, but not to high-souled Passion's 
 
 ear — 
 'Mid reedy fens wide-spread and marshes 
 
 drear. 
 Their own creation. Such glad welcom- 
 
 ings 
 As Po was heard to give where Venice 
 
 rose 
 Hailed from aloft those Heirs of truth 
 
 divine 
 Who near his fountains sought obscure 
 
 repose. 
 Yet came prepared as glorious lights to 
 
 shine, 
 Should that be needed for their sacred 
 
 Charge; 
 Blest Prisoners They, whose spirits were 
 
 at large ! 
 1821. 1835. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 WALDENSES. 
 
 Those had given earliest notice, as the 
 
 lark 
 Springs from the ground the morn to 
 
 gratulate; 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 Or rather rose the day to antedate, 
 
 By striking out a solitary spark, 
 
 When all the world with midnight gloom 
 
 was dark. — 
 Then followed the Waldensian bands, 
 
 whom Hate 
 In vain endeavors to exterminate, 
 Whom Obloquy pursues with hideous 
 
 bark : i 
 But they desist not ; — and the sacred fire, 
 Rekindled thus, from dens and savage 
 
 woods 
 Moves, handed on with never-ceasing 
 
 care, 
 Through courts, through camps, o'er 
 
 limitary floods; 
 Nor lacks this sea-girt Isle a timely share 
 Of the new Flame, not suffered to expire. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 ARCHBISHOP CHICHELY TO HENRY V. 
 
 "What beast in wilderness or cultured 
 field 
 
 " The lively beauty of the leopard shows? 
 
 " What flower in meadow-ground or gar- 
 den grows 
 
 " That to the towering lily doth not yield? 
 
 ' ' Let both meet only on thy royal shield ! 
 
 "Go forth, great King! claim what thy 
 birth bestows; 
 
 "Conquer the Gallic lily which thy foes 
 
 " Dare to usurp; — thou hast a sword to 
 wield, 
 
 "And Heaven will crown the right." — 
 The mitred Sire 
 
 Thus spake — and lo ! a Fleet, for Gaul 
 addrest. 
 
 Ploughs her bold course across the won- 
 dering seas; 
 
 For, sooth to say, ambition, in the breast 
 
 Of youthful heroes, is no sullen fire, 
 
 But one that leaps to meet the fanning 
 breeze. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 WARS OP YORK AND LANCASTER. 
 
 Thus is the form abated by the craft 
 Of a shrewt Counsellor, eager to protect 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 The Church, whose power hath recently 
 
 been checked, 
 Whose monstrous riches threatened. So 
 
 the shaft 
 Of victory mounts high, and blood is 
 
 quaffed 
 In fields that rival Cressy and Poictiers — 
 Pride to be washed away by bitter tears ! 
 For deep as hell itself, the avenging 
 
 draught 
 Of civil slaughter. Yet, while temporal 
 
 power 
 Is by these shocks exhausted, spiritual 
 
 truth 
 Maintains the else endangered gift of life; 
 Proceeds from infancy to lusty youth; 
 And, under cover of this woful strife. 
 Gathers unblighted strength from hour to 
 
 hour. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 WICLIFFE. 
 
 Once more the Church is seized with 
 
 sudden fear. 
 And at her call is Wicliffe disinhumed : 
 Yea, his dry bones to ashes are consumed 
 And flung into the brook that travels near ; 
 Forthwith, that ancient Voice which 
 
 Streams can hear 
 Thus speaks (that Voice which walks 
 
 upon the wind. 
 Though seldom heard by busy human 
 
 kind) — 
 " As thou these ashes, little Brook ! wilt 
 
 bear 
 " Into the Avon, Avon to the tide 
 "Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, 
 " Into main Ocean they, this deed accurst 
 " An emblem yields to friends and ene- 
 mies 
 ' ' How the bold Teacher's Doctrine, sanc- 
 tified 
 " By truth, shall spread, throughout the 
 world dispersed." 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 xvin. 
 
 CORRUPTIONS OF THE HIGHER CLERGY. 
 
 "Woe to you. Prelates! rioting in ease 
 "And cumbrous wealth — the shame of 
 your estate; 
 
690 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 " You, on whose progress dazzling trains 
 
 await 
 "Of pompous liorses; whom vain titles 
 
 please; 
 " Who will be served by others on their 
 
 knees, 
 "Yet will yourselves to God no service 
 
 pay; 
 " Pastors who neither take nor point the 
 
 way 
 " To Heaven; for, either lost in vanities 
 "Ye have no skill to teach, or if ye know 
 " And speak the word — " Alas ! of fear- 
 ful things 
 'T is the most fearful when the people's 
 
 eye 
 
 Abuse hath cleared from vain imaginings; 
 
 And taught the general voice to prophesy 
 
 Of Justice armed, and Pride to be laid low. 
 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 ABUSE OF MONASTIC POWER. 
 
 And what is Penance with her knotted 
 
 thong; 
 Mortification with the shirt of hair. 
 Wan cheek, and knees indurated with 
 
 prayer, 
 Vigils, and fastings rigorous as long; 
 If cloistered Avarice scruple not to wrong 
 The pious, humble, useful Secular, 
 And rob the people of his daily care. 
 Scorning that world whose blindness 
 
 makes her strong? 
 Inversion strange ! that, unto One who 
 
 lives 
 For self, and struggles with himself alone. 
 The amplest share of heavenly favor 
 
 gives; 
 
 That to a Monk allots, both in the esteem 
 
 Of God and man, place higher than to him 
 
 Who on the good of others builds his own ! 
 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 MONASTIC VOLUPTUOUSNESS. 
 
 Yet more, — round many a Convent's 
 
 blazing fire 
 Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun; 
 
 There Venus sits disguised like a Nun, — 
 While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of 
 
 a Friar, 
 Pours out his choicest beverage high and 
 
 higher 
 Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run 
 Over the bowl, whose silver lip hath won 
 An instant kiss of masterful desire — 
 To stay the precious waste. Through 
 
 every brain 
 The domination of the sprightly juice 
 Spreads high conceits to madding Fancy 
 
 dear. 
 Till the arched roof, with resolute abuse 
 Of its grave echoes, swells a choral strain, 
 Whose votive burthen is — " Our king- 
 dom's here! " 
 1821. 1S22. 
 
 dissolution of the monasteries. 
 
 Threats come which no submission may 
 
 assuage. 
 No sacrifice avert, no power dispute; 
 The tapers shall be quenched, the belfries 
 
 mute, 
 And, 'mid their choirs unroofed by selfish 
 
 rage. 
 The warbling wren shall find a leafy cage; 
 The gadding bramble hung her purple 
 
 fruit; 
 And the green lizard and the gilded nevrt 
 Lead unmolested lives, and die of age.i 
 The owl of evening and the woodland fox 
 For their abode the shrines of Waltham 
 
 choose : 
 Proud Glastonbury can no more refuse 
 To stoop her head before these desperate 
 
 shocks — 
 She whose high pomp displaced, as story 
 
 tells, 
 Arimathean Joseph's wattled cells. 
 
 the same subject. 
 
 The lovely Nun (submissive, but more 
 
 meek 
 Through saintly habit than from effort due 
 ^ See Note. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 691 
 
 To unrelenting mandates that pursue 
 With equal wrath the steps of strong and 
 
 weak) 
 Goes forth — unveiling timidly a cheek 
 Suffused with blushes of celestial hue, 
 While through the Convent's gate to open 
 
 view 
 Softly she glides, another home to seek. 
 Not Iris, issuing from her cloudy shrine. 
 An Apparition more divinely bright ! 
 Not more attractive to the dazzled sight 
 Those watery glories, on the stormy brine 
 Poured forth, while summer suns at dis- 
 tance shine, 
 And the green vales lie hushed in sober 
 light. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Yet many a Novice of the cloistral shade, 
 And many chained by vows, with eager 
 
 glee 
 The warrant hail, exulting to be free; 
 Like ships before whose keels, full long 
 
 embayed 
 In polar ice, propitious winds have made 
 Unlooked-for outlet to an open sea. 
 Their liquid world, for bold discovery. 
 In all her quarters temptingly displayed ! 
 Hope guides the young ; but when the old 
 
 must pass 
 The threshold, whither shall they turn to 
 
 find 
 The hospitality — the alms (alas! 
 Alms may be needed) which that House 
 
 bestowed? 
 Can they, in faith and worship, train the 
 
 mind 
 To keep this new and questionable road? 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand. 
 Angels and Saints, in every hamlet 
 
 mourned ! 
 Ah ! if the old idolatry be spurned, 
 Let not your radiant Shapes desert the 
 
 Land: 
 
 Her adoration was not your demand, 
 The fond heart proffered it — the servile 
 
 heart; 
 And therefore are ye summoned to depart, 
 Michael, and thou, St. George, whose 
 
 flaming brand 
 The Dragon quelled ; and valiant Margaret 
 Whose rival sword a like Opponent slew : 
 And rapt Cecilia seraph-haunted Queen 
 Of harmony; and weeping Magdalene, 
 Who in the penitential desert met 
 Gales sweet as those that over Eden blew ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Mother ! whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
 With the least shade of thought to sin 
 
 allied; 
 Woman 1 above all women glorified, 
 Our tainted nature's solitary boast; 
 Purer than foam on central ocean tost; 
 Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak 
 
 strewn 
 With fancied roses, than the unblemished 
 
 moon 
 Before her wane begins on heaven's blue 
 
 coast ; 
 Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I 
 
 ween. 
 Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might 
 
 bend. 
 As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
 All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee 
 Of mother's love with maiden purity, 
 Of high with low, celestial with terrene ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 Not utterly unworthy to endure 
 Was the supremacy of crafty Rome; 
 Age after age to the arch of Christendom 
 Aerial keystone haughtily secure ; 
 Supremacy from Heaven transmitted pure. 
 As many hold; and, therefore, to the tomb 
 Pass, some through fire — and by the Scaf- 
 fold some — 
 Like saintly Fisher, and unbending More. 
 " Lightly for both the bosom's lord did sit 
 
692 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 " Upon his throne;" unscftened, undis- 
 mayed 
 By aught that mingled with the tragic scene 
 Of pity or fear: and More's gay genius 
 
 played 
 With the inoffensive sword of native wit, 
 Than the bare axe more luminous and 
 keen. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 IMAGINATIVE REGRETS. 
 
 Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone 
 From Sages justly honored by mankind; 
 But from the ghostly tenants of the wind, 
 Demons and Spirits, many a dolorous 
 
 groan 
 Issues for that dominion overthrown : 
 Proud Tiber grieves, and far-off Ganges, 
 
 blind 
 As his own worshippers: and Nile, re- 
 clined 
 Upon his monstrous urn, the farewell 
 
 moan 
 Renews. Through every forest, cave, 
 
 and den. 
 Where frauds were hatched of old, hath 
 
 sorrow past — 
 Hangs o'er the Arabian Prophet's native 
 
 Waste, 
 Where once his airy helpers schemed 
 
 and planned 
 'Mid spectral lakes bemocking thirsty 
 
 men. 
 And stalking pillars built of fiery sand. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane 
 Green leaves with yellow mixed are torn 
 
 away. 
 And goodly fruitage with the mother 
 
 spray; 
 'T were madness — wished we, therefore, 
 
 to detain. 
 With hands stretched forth in mollified 
 
 disdain. 
 The " trumpery " that ascends in bare 
 
 display — • 
 
 Bulls, pardons, relics, cowls black, white, 
 
 and gray — 
 Upwhirled, and flying o'er the ethereal 
 
 plain 
 Fast bound for Limbo Lake. And yet 
 
 not choice 
 But habit rules the unreflecting herd, 
 And airy bonds are hardest to disown; 
 Hence, with the spiritual sovereignty 
 
 transferred 
 Unto itself, the Crown assumes a voice 
 Of reckless mastery, hitherto unknown. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 translation of the bible. 
 
 But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred 
 
 Book, 
 In dusty sequestration wrapt too long. 
 Assumes the accents of our native tongue; 
 And he who guides the plough, or wields 
 
 the crook. 
 With understanding spirit now may look 
 Upon her records, listen to her song, 
 And sift her laws — much wondering 
 
 that the wrong, 
 Which Faith has suffered. Heaven could 
 
 calmly brook. 
 Transcendent boon ! noblest that earthly 
 
 King 
 Ever bestowed to equalize and bless 
 Under the weight of mortal wretchedness ! 
 But passions spread like plagues, and 
 
 thousands wild 
 With bigotry shall tread the Offering 
 Beneath their feet, detested and defiled. 
 
 THE POINT at ISSUE. 
 
 For what contend the wise? — for noth- 
 ing less 
 
 Than that the Soul, freed from the bonds 
 of Sense, 
 
 And to her God restored by evidence 
 
 Of things not seen, drawn forth from 
 their recess. 
 
 Root there, and not in forms, her holi- 
 ness ; — 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 693 
 
 For Faith, which to the Patriarchs did 
 
 dispense 
 Sure guidance, ere a ceremonial fence 
 Was needful round men thirsting to 
 
 transgress; — 
 For Faith, more perfect still, with which 
 
 the Lord 
 Of all, himself a Spirit, in the youth 
 Of Christian aspiration, deigned to fill 
 The temples of their hearts who, with 
 
 his word 
 Informed, were resolute to do his will. 
 And worship him in spirit and in truth. 
 1821. 1827. 
 
 EDWARD VI. 
 
 "Sweet is the holiness of Youth" — 
 
 so felt 
 Time-honored Chaucer speaking through 
 
 that Lay 
 By which the Prioress beguiled the way. 
 And many a Pilgrim's rugged heart did 
 
 melt. 
 Hadst thou, loved Bard ! whose spirit 
 
 often dwelt 
 In the clear land of vision, but foreseen 
 King, child, and seraph, blended in the 
 
 mien 
 Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt 
 In meek and simple infancy, what joy 
 For universal Christendom had thrilled 
 Thy heart ! what hopes inspired thy 
 
 genius, skilled 
 (O great Precursor, genuine morning 
 
 Star) 
 The lucid shafts of reason to employ. 
 Piercing the Papal darkness from afar ! 
 :82i. 1822. 
 
 EDWARD SIGNING THE WARRANT FOR 
 THE EXECUTION OF JOAN OF KENT. 
 
 The tears of man in various measure gush 
 From various sources; gently overflow 
 From blissful transport some — from 
 
 clefts of woe 
 Some with ungovernable impulse rush; 
 And some, coeval with the earliest blush 
 
 Of infant passion, scarcely dare to show 
 Their pearly lustre — coming but to go; 
 And some break forth when others' sor- 
 rows crush 
 The sympathizing heart. Nor these, nor 
 
 yet 
 The noblest drops to admiration known, 
 To gratitude, to injuries forgiven — 
 Claim Heaven's regard like waters that 
 
 have wet 
 The innocent eyes of youthful Monarchs 
 
 driven 
 To pen the mandates, nature doth disown. 
 1S21. 1822. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 REVIVAL OF POPERY. 
 
 The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, 
 
 discrowned 
 By unrelenting Death. O People keen 
 For change, to whom the new looks 
 
 always green ! 
 Rejoicing did they cast upon the ground 
 Their Gods of wood and stone; and, at 
 
 the sound 
 Of counter-proclamation, now are seen, 
 (Proud triumph is it for a sullen Queen !) 
 Lifting them up, the worship to confound 
 Of the Most High. Again do they invoke 
 The Creature, to the Creature glory give; 
 Again with frankincense the altars smoke 
 Like those the Heathen served; and mass 
 
 is sung; 
 And prayer, man's rational prerogative, 
 Runs through blind channels of an un- 
 known tongue. 
 1821. 1827. 
 
 LATIMER AND RIDLEY. 
 
 How fast the Marian death-list is un- 
 rolled ! 
 
 See Latimer and Ridley in the might 
 
 Of Faith stand coupled for a common 
 flight ! 
 
 One (like those prophets whom God 
 sent of old) 
 
 Transfigured,! from this kindling hath 
 foretold 
 
 ^ See Note. 
 
694 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 A torch of inextinguishable light; 
 The Other gains a confidence as bold; 
 And thus they foil their enemy's despite. 
 The penal instruments, the showsof crime, 
 Are glorified while this once-mitred pair 
 Of saintly Friends the " murtherer's 
 
 chain partake, 
 Corded, and burning at the social stake : ' ' 
 Earth never witnessed object more sub- 
 lime 
 In constancy, in fellowship more fair ! 
 1821. 1827. 
 
 CRANMER. 
 
 OnxsTRETCHiNG fiameward his upbraided 
 
 hand 
 (O God of mercy, may no earthly Seat 
 Of judgment such presumptuous doom 
 
 repeat !) 
 Amid the shuddering throng doth Cran- 
 
 mer stand; 
 Firm as the stake to which with iron band 
 His frame is tied; firm from the naked 
 
 feet 
 To the bare head. The victory is com- 
 plete; 
 The shrouded Body to the Soul's com- 
 mand 
 Answers with more than Indian fortitude. 
 Through all her nerves with finer sense 
 
 endued, 
 Till breath departs in blissful aspiration : 
 Then, 'mid the ghastly ruins of the fire. 
 Behold the unalterable heart entire. 
 Emblem of faith .untouched, miraculous 
 attestation ! 1 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 GENERAL VIEW OF THE TROUBLES OF 
 THE REFORMATION. 
 
 Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields 
 
 of light, 
 Our mortal ken ! Inspire a perfect trust 
 (While we look round) that Heaven's 
 
 decrees are just: 
 
 ^ For the belief in this fact, see the contem- 
 porary Historians. 
 
 Which few can hold committed to a fight 
 That shows, ev'n on its better side, the 
 
 might 
 Of proud Self-will, Rapacity, and Lust, 
 'IVIid clouds enveloped of polemic dust, 
 Which showers of blood seem rather to 
 
 incite 
 Than to allay. Anathemas are hurled 
 From both sides; veteran thunders (the 
 
 brute test 
 Of truth) are met by fulminations new^ 
 Tartarean flags are caught at, and un- 
 furled — 
 Friends strike at friends — the flying shall 
 
 pursue — 
 And Victory sickens, ignorant where to 
 rest ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 ENGLISH REFORMERS IN EXILE. 
 
 Scattering, like birds escaped the 
 
 fowler's net. 
 Some seek with timely flight a foreign 
 
 strand; 
 Most happy, re-assembled in a land 
 By dauntless Luther freed, could they for. 
 
 get 
 Their Country's woes. But scarcely have 
 
 they met, 
 Partners in faith, and brothers in distress, 
 Free to pour forth their common thank- 
 fulness. 
 Ere hope declines: — their union is beset 
 With speculative notions rashly sown. 
 Whence thickly-sprouting growth of 
 
 poisonous weeds; 
 Their forms are broken staves; their pas- 
 sions, steeds 
 That master them. How enviably blest 
 Is he who can, by help of grace, enthrone 
 The peace of God within his single breast ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Hail, Virgin Queen ! o'er many an en- 
 vious bar 
 
 Triumphant, snatched from many a 
 treacherous wile ! 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 69s 
 
 All hail, sdge Lady, whom a grateful Isle 
 Hath blest, respiring from that dismal war 
 Stilled by thy voice ! But quickly from 
 
 afar 
 Defiance breathes with more malignant 
 
 aim; 
 And alien storms with home-bred ferments 
 
 claim 
 Portentous fellowship. Her silver car, 
 By sleepless prudence ruled, glides slowly 
 
 on; 
 Unhurt by violence, from menaced taint 
 Emerging pure, and seemingly more 
 
 bright : 
 Ah ! wherefore yields it to a foul con- 
 straint 
 Black as the clouds its beams dispersed, 
 
 while shone. 
 By men and angels blest, the glorious light ? 
 1S21. 1822, 
 
 EMINENT REFORMERS. 
 
 Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest 
 
 soil, 
 Light as a buoyant bark from wave to 
 
 wave. 
 Were mine the trusty staff that Jewel 
 
 gave 
 To youthful Hooker, in familiar style 
 The gift exalting, and with playful smile: ' 
 For thus equipped , and bearing on his head 
 TheDonor'sfarewellblessing,canhedread 
 Tempest, or length of way, or weight of 
 
 toil? — 
 More sweet than odors caught by him 
 
 who sails 
 Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, 
 A thousand times more exquisitely sweet. 
 The freight of holy feeling which we meet, 
 In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales 
 From fields where good men walk, or 
 
 bowers wherein they rest. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are, 
 Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise. 
 With what entire affection do they prize 
 
 > See 
 
 Their Church reformed ! laboring with 
 
 earnest care 
 To baffle all that may her strength impair; 
 That Church, the unperverted Gospel's 
 
 seat; 
 In their afflictions ? divine retreat; 
 Source of their liveliest hope, and tender- 
 
 est prayer ! — 
 The truth exploring with an equal mind. 
 In doctrine and communion they have 
 
 sought 
 Firmly between the two extremes to steer; 
 But theirs the wise man's ordinary lot — ■ 
 To trace right courses for the stubborn 
 
 blind, 
 And prophesy to ears that will not hear. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 DISTRACTIONS. 
 
 Men, who have ceased to reverence, 
 
 soon defy. 
 Their forefathers; lo ! sects are formed, 
 
 and split 
 With morbid restlessness ; — the ecstatic fit 
 Spreads wide; though special mysteries 
 
 multiply, 
 The Saints must govern, is their common 
 
 cry; 
 And so they labor, deeming Holy Writ 
 Disgraced by aught that seems content to 
 
 sit 
 Beneath the roof of settled Modesty. 
 The Romanist exults; fresh hope he draws 
 From the confusion, craftily incites 
 The overweening, personates the mad — ^ 
 To heap disgust upon the worthier Cause: 
 Totters the Throne; the new-born Church 
 
 is sad. 
 For every wave against her peace unites. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 GUNPOWDER PLOT. 
 
 Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree 
 To plague her beating heart; and there is 
 
 one 
 (Nor idlest that ! ) which holds communion 
 With things that were not, yet were meant 
 
 I to be. 
 
 Note. 
 
696 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 Aghast within its gloomy cavity 
 
 That eye ( whichsees asif fulfilled and done 
 
 Crimes that might stop the motion of the 
 
 sun) 
 Beholds the horrible catastrophe 
 Of an assembled Senate unredeemed 
 From subterraneous Treason's darkling 
 
 power : 
 Merciless act of sorrow infinite ! 
 Worse than the product of that dismal 
 
 night, 
 When gushing, copious as a thunder- 
 shower. 
 The blood of Huguenots through Paris 
 streamed. 
 1S21, 1822. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 ILLUSTRATION. 
 
 THE JUNG-FRAU AND THE FALL OF THE 
 RHINE NEAR SCHAFFHAUSEN. 
 
 The Virgin Mountain, ^ wearing like a 
 
 Queen 
 A brilliant crown of everlasting snow, 
 Sheds ruin from her sides; and men below 
 Wonder that aught of aspect so serene 
 Can link with desolation. Smooth and 
 
 green, 
 And seeming, at a little distance, slow. 
 The waters of the Rhine; but on they go 
 Fretting and whitening, keener and more 
 
 keen; 
 Till madness seizes on the whole wide 
 
 Flood, 
 Turned to a fearful Thing whose nostrils 
 
 breathe 
 Blasts of tempestuous smoke — wherewith 
 
 he tries 
 To hide himself, but only magnifies; 
 And doth in more conspicuous torment 
 
 writhe, 
 Deafening the region in his ireful mood. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XLIV. 
 TROUBLES OF CHARLES THE FIRST. 
 
 Even such the contrast that, where'er we 
 move. 
 
 To the mind's eye Religion doth present; 
 
 Now with her own deep quietness con- 
 tent; 
 
 * The Jung-fi-au. 
 
 Then, like the mountain, thundering- from 
 above 
 
 Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove 
 
 And the Land's humblest comforts. Now 
 her mood 
 
 Recalls the transformation of the flood, 
 
 Whose rage the gentle skies in vain re- 
 prove ; 
 
 Earth cannot check. O terrible excess 
 
 Of headstrong will ! Can this be Piety? 
 
 No — some fierce Maniac hath usurped 
 her name; 
 
 And scourges England struggling to be 
 free: 
 
 Her peace destroyed! her hopes a wilder- 
 ness ! 
 
 Her blessings cursed — her glory turned 
 to shame ! 
 182 I. 1822. 
 
 Prejudged by foes determined not to 
 spare. 
 
 An old weak Man for vengeance thrown 
 aside. 
 
 Laud, " in the painful art of dying " tried, 
 
 (Like a poor bird entangled in a snare 
 
 Whose heart still flutters, though his 
 
 wings forbear ^ 
 
 To stir in useless struggle) hath relied 
 
 On hope that conscious innocence sup- 
 plied, 
 
 And in his prison breathes celestial air. 
 
 Why tarries then thy chariot ? Wherefore 
 stay, 
 
 O Death ! the ensanguined yet triumphant 
 wheels. 
 
 Which thou prepar'st, full often, to con- 
 vey 
 
 (What time a State with madding faction j- 
 reels) 
 
 The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals " 
 
 All wounds, all perturbations doth allay? 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XLVI. .V 
 
 AFFLICTIONS OF ENGLAND. ' 
 
 St 
 Harp ! could'st thou venture, on thy 
 
 boldest string, .. 
 
 The faintest note to echo which the blast j 
 
 2 See Note. i)„ 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 697 
 
 Caught from the hand of Moses as it 
 
 passed 
 O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd- 
 king, 
 Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing 
 Of dread Jehovah; then, should wood and 
 
 waste 
 Hear also of that name, and mercy cast 
 Off to the mountains, like a covering 
 Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, 
 
 oh ! weep, 
 Weep with the good, beholding King and 
 
 Priest 
 Despised by that stern God to whom they 
 
 raise 
 Their suppliant hands; but holy is the 
 
 feast 
 He keepeth ; like the firmament his ways : 
 His statutes like the chambers of the deep. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE 
 PRESENT TIMES. 
 
 When I came to this part of the series I liad 
 the dream described in this Sonnet. The figure 
 was that of my daughter, and the whole passed 
 exactly as here represented. The Sonnet was 
 composed on the middle road leading from Gras- 
 mere to Ambleside: it was begun as I left the 
 last house of the vale, andfinished, word for word 
 as it now stands, before I came in view of Rydal. 
 I wish I could say the same of the five or six 
 hundred I have written ; most of them were fre- 
 quently retouched in the course of composition, 
 and, not a few, laboriously. 
 
 I have only further to observe that the intended 
 Church which prompted these Sonnets was 
 erected on Coleorton Moor towards the centre 
 of a very populous parish between three and four 
 miles from Ashby-de-la-Zouch, on the road to 
 Loughborough, and has proved, I believe, a 
 great benefit to the neigborhood. 
 
 I SAW the figure of a lovely Maid 
 Seated alone beneath a darksome tree. 
 Whose fondly-overhanging canopy 
 Set off her brightness with a pleasing 
 
 shade. 
 No Spirit was she; thai my heart betrayed, 
 For she was one I loved exceedingly; 
 But while I gazed in tender reverie 
 
 (Or was it sleep that with my Fancy 
 
 played?) 
 The bright corporeal presence — form and 
 
 face — 
 Remaining still distinct grew thin and 
 
 rare. 
 Like sunny mist; — at length the golden 
 
 hair. 
 Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, 
 
 keeping pace 
 Each with the other in a lingering race 
 Of dissolution, melted into air. 
 1821, 1822. 
 
 PATRIOTIC SYMPATHIES. 
 
 Last night, without a voice, that Vision 
 
 spake 
 Fear to my Soul, and sadness which 
 
 might seem 
 Wholly dissevered from our present 
 
 theme; 
 Yet, my beloved Country ! I partake 
 Of kindred agitations for thy sake; 
 Thou, too, dost visit oft my midnight 
 
 dream; 
 Thy glory meets me with the earliest beam 
 Of light, which tells that Morning is 
 
 awake. 
 If aught impair thy beauty or destroy, 
 Or but forebode destruction, I deplore 
 With filial love the sad vicisisitude; 
 If thou hast fallen, and righteous Heaven 
 
 restore 
 The prostrate, then my spring-time is 
 
 renewed. 
 And sorrow bartered for exceeding joy. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND. 
 
 Who comes — with rapture greeted, and 
 
 caressed 
 With frantic love — his kingdom to re- 
 gain? 
 Him Virtue's Nurse, Adversity, in vain 
 Received, and fostered in her iron breast : 
 For all she taught of hardiest and of best, 
 Or would have taught, by discipline of 
 pain 
 
698 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 And long privation, now dissolves amain, 
 Or is remembered only to give zest 
 To wantonness. — Away, Circean revels ! 
 But for what gain? if England soon must 
 
 sinlc 
 Into a gulf which all distinction levels — 
 That bigotry may swallow the good name, 
 And, with that draught, the life-blood: 
 
 misery, shame, 
 By Poets loatlied ; from which Historians 
 
 shrink ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 IV. 
 LATITUDINARIANISM. 
 
 Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the 
 wind 
 
 Charged with rich words poured out in 
 thought's defence; 
 
 Whether the Church inspire that elo- 
 quence. 
 
 Or a Platonic Piety confined 
 
 To the sole temple of the inward mind; 
 
 And One there is who builds immortal 
 lays. 
 
 Though doomed to tread in solitary ways, 
 
 Darkness before and danger's voice be- 
 hind; 
 
 Yet not alone, nor helpless to repel 
 
 Sad thoughts; for from above the starry 
 sphere 
 
 Come secrets, whispered nightly to his 
 ear; 
 
 And the pure spirit of celestial light 
 
 Shines through his soul — " that he may 
 see and tell 
 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight." 
 
 WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVES. 
 
 There are no colors in the fairest sky 
 So fair as these. The feather, whence 
 
 the pen 
 Was, shaped that traced the lives of these 
 
 good men. 
 Dropped from an Angel's wing. With 
 
 moistened eye 
 We read of faith and purest charity 
 In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen : 
 
 Oh could we copy their mild virtues, then 
 What joy to live, what blessedness to 
 
 die! 
 Methinks their very names shine still and 
 
 bright; 
 Apart — like glow-worms on a summer 
 
 night ; 
 Or lonely tapers when from far they fling 
 A guiding ray ; or seen — like stars on 
 
 high, 
 Satellites burning in a lucid ring 
 Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 CLERICAL INTEGRITY. 
 
 Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject 
 Those Unconforming; whom one rigorous 
 
 day 
 Drives from their Cures, a voluntary prey 
 To poverty, and grief, and disrespect. 
 And some to want — as if by tempests 
 
 wrecked 
 On a wild coast how destitute ! did They 
 Feel not that Conscience never can betray. 
 That peace of mind is Virtue's sure effect. 
 Their altars they forego, their homes they 
 
 quit. 
 Fields which they love, and paths they 
 
 daily trod. 
 And cast the future upon Providence; 
 As men the dictate of whose inward sense 
 Outweighs the world; whom self-deceiv- 
 ing wit 
 Lures not from what they deem the cause 
 of God. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 PERSECUTION OF THE SCOTTISH 
 COVENANTERS. 
 
 When Alpine Vales threw forth a sup- 
 pliant cry, 
 The Majesty of England interposed 
 And the sword stopped; the bleeding 
 
 wounds were closed; 
 And Faith preserved her ancient purity. 
 How little boots that precedent of good, 
 Scorned or forgotten, Thou canst testify, 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 699 
 
 For England's shame, O Sister Realm ! 
 
 from wood, 
 Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, 
 
 where lie 
 The headless martyrs of the Covenant, 
 Slain by Compatriot-protestants that draw 
 From councils senseless as intolerant 
 Their warrant . Bodies fall by wild sword- 
 law; 
 But who would force the Soul, tilts with a 
 
 straw 
 Against a Champion cased in adamant. 
 1821. 1827. 
 
 ACQUITTAL OF THE BISHOPS. 
 
 A VOICE, from long-expecting thousands 
 
 sent, 
 Shatters the air, and troubles tower and 
 
 spire ; 
 For Justice hath absolved the innocent, 
 And Tyranny is balked of her desire : 
 Up, down, the busy Thames — rapid as 
 
 fire 
 Coursing a train of gunpowder — it went, 
 And transport finds in every street a vent. 
 Till the whole City rings like one vast 
 
 quire. 
 The Fathers urge the People to be still, 
 With outstretched hands and earnest 
 
 speech — in vain ! 
 Yea, many, haply wont to entertain 
 Small reverence for the mitre's offices. 
 And to Religion's self no friendly will, 
 A Prelate's blessing ask on bended knees. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 WILLIAM THE THIRD. 
 
 Calm as an under-current, strong to draw 
 Millions of waves into itself, and run, 
 From sea to sea, impervious to the sun 
 And ploughing storm, the spirit of Nassau 
 Swerves not, (howblestif by religious awe 
 Swayed, and thereby enabled to contend 
 With the wide world's commotions) from 
 
 its end 
 Swerves not — diverted by a casual law. 
 Had mortal action e'er a nobler scope? 
 
 The Hero comes to liberate, not defy; 
 And, while he marches on with steadfast 
 
 hope, 
 Conqueror beloved ! expected anxiously ! 
 The vacillating Bondman of the Pope 
 Shrinks from the verdict of his steadfast 
 
 eye. 
 
 1822. 
 
 OBLIGATIONS OF CIVIL TO RELIGIOUS 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget 
 The sons who for thy civil rights have 
 
 bled! 
 How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his 
 
 head, 
 And Russel's milder blood the scaffold 
 
 wet; 
 But these had fallen for profitless regret 
 Had not thy holy Church her champions 
 
 bred. 
 And claims from other worlds inspirited 
 The star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet 
 (Grave this within thy heart !) if spiritual 
 
 things 
 Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear, 
 Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support, 
 However hardly won or justly dear : 
 What came from heaven to heaven by 
 
 nature clings, 
 A.nd, if dissevered thence, its course ii 
 
 short. 
 1821. 1S22. 
 
 sacheverel. 
 
 A SUDDEN conflict rises from the swell 
 Of a proud slavery met by tenets strained 
 In Liberty's behalf. Fears, true or feigned, 
 Spread through all ranks; and lo ! the 
 
 Sentinel 
 Who loudest rang his pulpit 'larum bell. 
 Stands at the Bar, absolved by female 
 
 eyes 
 Mingling their glances with grave flatteries 
 Lavished on Him — that England may re 
 
 bel 
 Against her ancient virtue. High and 
 
 Low, 
 Watchwords of Party, on all tongues are 
 
 rife; 
 
700 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 As if a Church, though sprung from hea- 
 ven, must owe 
 To oppositesand fierce extremes her life, — 
 Not to the golden mean, and quiet flow 
 Of truths that sofien hatred, temper strife. 
 1821. 1827. 
 
 Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold 
 
 design 
 Have we pursued, with livelier stir of heart 
 Than his who sees, borne forward by the 
 
 Rhine, 
 The living landscapes greet him, and 
 
 depart; 
 Sees spires fast sinking — up again to start ! 
 And strives the towers to number, that 
 
 recline 
 O'er the dark steeps, or on the horizon 
 
 line 
 Striding with shattered crests his eye 
 
 athwart. 
 So have we hurried on with troubled pleas- 
 ure: 
 Henceforth, as on the bosom of a stream 
 That slackens, and spreads wide a watery 
 
 gleam. 
 We, nothing loth a lingering course to 
 
 measure. 
 May gather up our thoughts, and mark at 
 
 leisure 
 How widely spread the interests of our 
 
 theme. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ASPECTS OF CHRISTIANITY IN 
 AMERICA. 
 
 I. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. ^ 
 Well worthy to be magnified are they 
 Who, with sad hearts, of friends and 
 
 country took 
 A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook. 
 And hallowed ground in which their 
 
 fathers lay; 
 Then to the new-found World explored 
 
 their way. 
 That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to 
 
 brook 
 Ritual restraints, within some sheltering 
 
 nook 
 
 1 This and the two following were added in 
 1842. See Note. 
 
 Her Lord might worship and his word obey 
 In freedom. Men they were who could 
 
 not bend; 
 Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for 
 
 guide 
 A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified; 
 Blest while their Spirits from the woods 
 
 ascend 
 Along a Galaxy that knows no end, 
 But in His glory who for Sinners died. 
 1821. 1845. 
 
 II. CONTINDED. 
 
 From Rite and Ordinance abused they fied 
 To Wilds where both were utterly un- 
 known; 
 But not to them had Providence foreshown 
 What benefits are missed, what evils bred, 
 In worship neither raised nor limited 
 Save by Self-will. Lo ! from that distant 
 
 shore, 
 For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led 
 Back to the Land whose Pilgrims left of 
 
 yore, 
 Led by her own free choice. So Truth 
 
 and Love 
 By Conscience governed do their steps 
 
 retrace. — 
 Fathers ! your Virtues, such the power of 
 
 grace, 
 Their spirit, in your Children, thus ap- 
 prove. 
 Transcendent overtime, unboundbyplace. 
 Concord and Charity in circles move. 
 1821. 1845. 
 
 III. CONCLUDED. — AMERICAN 
 EPISCOPACY. 
 
 Patriots informed with Apostohc light 
 Were they, who, when their Country had 
 
 been freed, 
 Bowing with reverence to the ancient ^ 
 
 creed, |, 
 
 Fixed on the frame of England's Church j 
 
 their sight, 
 And strove in filial love to reunite j. 
 
 What force had severed. Thence they 
 
 fetched the seed { 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 701 
 
 Of Christian unity, and won a meed 
 
 Of praise from Heaven. To Thee, O 
 
 saintly White, 
 Patriarch of a wide-spreading family, 
 Remotest lands and unborn times shall 
 
 turn. 
 Whether they would restore or build — to 
 
 Thee, 
 As one wharightly taught how zeal should 
 
 burn. 
 As one who drew from out Faith's hohest 
 
 urn 
 The purest stream of patient Energy. 
 1821. " iSiq. 
 
 Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if 
 
 deep 
 (As yours above all offices is high) 
 Deep in your hearts the sense of duty lie; 
 Charged as ye are by Christ to feed and 
 
 keep 
 From wolves your portion of his chosen 
 
 sheep : 
 Laboring as ever in your Master's sight. 
 Making your hardest task your best de- 
 light. 
 What perfect glory ye in Heaven shall 
 
 reap ! — 
 But, in the solemn Office which ye sought 
 And undertook premonished, if unsound 
 Your practice prove, faithless though but 
 
 in thought, 
 Bishops and Priests, think what a gulf 
 
 profound 
 Awaits you then, if they were rightly 
 
 taught 
 Who framed the Ordinance by your lives 
 
 disowned ! 
 1821. 1845. 
 
 PLACES OF WORSHIP. 
 
 As Star that shines dependent upon star 
 Is to the sky while we look up and love; 
 As to the deep fair ships which though 
 
 they move 
 Seem fixed, to eyes that watch them from 
 
 afar; 
 As to the sandy desert fountains are. 
 
 With palm-groves shaded at wide inter- 
 vals, 
 
 Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native 
 falls 
 
 Of roving tired or desultory war — 
 
 Such to this British Isle her christian 
 Fanes, 
 
 Each linked to each for kindred services; 
 
 Her Spires, her Steeple-towers with glit- 
 tering vanes 
 
 Far-kenned, her Chapels lurking among 
 trees. 
 
 Where a few villagers on bended knees 
 
 Find solace which a busy world disdains. 
 1S21. 1822. 
 
 PASTORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board, 
 
 And a refined rusticity, belong 
 
 To the neat mansion, ^ where, his flock 
 
 among, 
 The learned Pastor' dwells, their watch- 
 ful Lord. 
 Though meek and patient as a sheathed 
 
 sword; 
 Though pride's least lurking thought ap- 
 pear a wrong 
 To human kind; though peace be on his 
 
 tongue, 
 Gentleness in his heart — can earth afford 
 Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free. 
 As when, arrayed in Christ's authority. 
 He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand; 
 Conjures, implores, and labors all he can 
 For re-subjecting to divine command 
 The stubborn spirit of rebellious man? 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 THE LITURGY. 
 
 Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear 
 Attract us still, and passionate exercise 
 Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies 
 Distinct with signs, through which in set 
 
 career. 
 As through a zodiac, moves the ritual year 
 Of England's Church; stupendous mys- 
 teries ! 
 
702 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 Which whoso travels in her bosom eyes, 
 As he approaches them, with solemn 
 
 cheer. 
 Upon that circle traced from sacrec story 
 We only dare to cast a transient glance. 
 Trusting in hope that Others may advance 
 With mind intent upon the King of Glory, 
 From his mild advent till his countenance 
 Shall dissipate the seas and mountains 
 
 hoary. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 Dear be the Church, that, watching o'er 
 
 the needs 
 Of Infancy, provides a timely shower 
 Whose virtue changes to a christian Flower 
 A Growth from sinful Nature's bed of 
 
 weeds ! — 
 Fitliest beneath the sacred roof proceeds 
 The ministration; while parental Love 
 Looks on, and Grace descendeth from 
 
 above 
 As the high service pledges now, now 
 
 pleads. 
 There, should vain thoughts outspread 
 
 their wings and fly 
 To meet the coming hours of festal mirth. 
 The tombs — which hear and answer that 
 
 brief cry. 
 The Infant's notice of his second birth — 
 Recall the wandering Soul to sympathy 
 With what man hopes from Heaven, yet 
 
 fears from Earth. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 Father ! — to God himself we cannot 
 
 give 
 A holier name ! then lightly do not bear 
 Both names conjoined, but of thy spiritual 
 
 care 
 Be duly mindful : still more sensitive 
 Do Thou, in truth a second Mother, strive 
 Against disheartening custom, that by 
 
 Thee 
 Watched, and with love and pious industry 
 
 Tended at need, the adopted Plant mav 
 
 thrive 
 For everlasting bloom. Benign and pure 
 This Ordinance, whether loss it would 
 
 supply. 
 Prevent omission, help deficiency. 
 Or seek to make assurance doubly sure. 
 Shame, if the consecrated Vow be found 
 An idle form, the Word an empty sound 1 
 
 CATECHISING. 
 
 From Little down to Least, in due degree. 
 Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought 
 
 vest. 
 Each with a vernal posy at his breast, 
 We stood, a trembling, earnest Company ! 
 With low soft murmur, like a distant bee. 
 Some spake, by thought-perplexing fears 
 
 betrayed; 
 And some a bold unerring answer made: 
 How fluttered then thy anxious heart for 
 
 me, 
 Beloved Mother ! Thou whose happy hand 
 Had bound the flowers I wore, with faith- 
 ful tie : 
 Sweet flowers ! at whose inaudible com- 
 mand 
 Her countenance, phantom-like, doth re- 
 appear : 
 O lost too early for the frequent tear. 
 And ill requited by this heartfelt sigh ! 
 
 1821. 
 
 1822. 
 
 CONFIRMATION. 
 
 The Young-ones gathered in from hill and 
 
 dale, 
 With holiday delight on every brow : 
 'T is passed away; far other thoughts 
 
 prevail; 
 For they are taking the baptismal Vow 
 Upon their conscious selves; their own 
 
 lips speak 
 The solemn promise. Strongest sinews 
 
 fail, 
 And many a blooming, many a lovely, 
 
 cheek 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 703 
 
 Under the holy fear of God turns pale; 
 
 While on each head his lawn-robed Ser- 
 vant lays 
 
 An apostolic hand, and with prayer seals 
 
 The Covenant. The Omnipotent will raise 
 
 Their feeble Souls; and bear with his 
 regrets, 
 
 Who, looking round the fair assemblage, 
 feels 
 
 That ere the Sun goes down their child- 
 hood sets. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 CONFIRMATION CONTINUED. 
 
 I SAW a Mother's eye intensely bent 
 Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt; 
 In and for whom the pious Mother felt 
 Things that we judge of by a light too 
 
 faint : 
 Tell, if we may, some star-crowned Muse, 
 
 or Saint ! 
 Tell what rushed in, from what she was 
 
 relieved — 
 Then, when her Child the hallowing touch 
 
 received, 
 And such vibration through the Mother 
 
 went 
 That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams 
 
 appear? 
 Opened a vision of that blissful place 
 Where dwells a Sister-child? And was 
 
 power given 
 Part of her lost One's glory back to trace 
 Even to this Rite? For thus She knelt, 
 
 and, ere 
 The summer-leaf had faded, passed to 
 
 Heaven. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 SACRAMENT. 
 
 By chain yet stronger must the Soul be 
 tied: 
 
 One duty more, last stage of this ascent. 
 
 Brings to thy food, mysterious Sacra- 
 ment ! 
 
 The Offspring, haply, at the Parent's side ; 
 
 But not till They, with all that do abide 
 
 In Heaven, have lifted up their hearts to 
 
 laud 
 And magnify the glorious name of God, 
 Fountain of grace, whose Son for sinners 
 
 died. 
 Ye, who have duly weighed the sum- 
 mons, pause 
 No longer; ye, whom to the saving rite 
 The Altar calls, come early under laws 
 That can secure for you a path of light 
 Through gloomiest shade; put on (nor 
 
 dread its weight) 
 Armor divine, and conquer in your cause ! 
 1821. 1827. 
 
 THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY. 
 
 The Vested Priest before the Altar 
 
 stands; 
 Approach, come gladly, ye prepared, in 
 
 sight 
 Of God and chosen friends, your troth 
 
 to plight 
 With the symbolic ring, and willing hands 
 Solemnly joined. Now sanctify the bands 
 O Father ! — to the Espoused thy blessing 
 
 give. 
 That mutually assisted they may live 
 Obedient, as here taught, to thy com- 
 mands. 
 So prays the Church, to consecrate a Vow 
 "The which would endless matrimony 
 
 make ; ' ' 
 Union that shadows forth and doth par- 
 take 
 A mystery potent human love to endow 
 With heavenly, each more prized for the 
 
 other's sake; 
 Weep not, meek Bride ! uplift thy timid 
 brow. 
 1821. 1S45. 
 
 THANKSGIVING AFTER CHILDBIRTH. 
 
 Woman ! the Power who left his throne 
 
 on high. 
 And deigned to wear the robe of flesh 
 
 we wear, 
 The Power that thro' the straits of Infancy 
 Did pass dependent on maternal care. 
 
704 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 His own humanity with Thee will share, 
 Pleased with the thanks that in his Peo- 
 ple's eye 
 Thou offerest up for safe Delivery 
 From Childbirth's perilous throes. And 
 
 should the Heir 
 Of thy fond hopes hereafter walk inclined 
 To courses fit to make a mother rue 
 That ever he was born, a glance of mind 
 Cast upon this observance may renew 
 A better will; and, in the imagined view 
 Of thee thus kneeling, safety he may find. 
 1S21. 1S45. 
 
 VISrXATION OF THE SICK. 
 
 The Sabbath bells renew the inviting 
 
 peal; 
 Glad music ! yet there be that, worn 
 
 with pain 
 And sickness, listen where they long 
 
 have lain. 
 In sadness listen. With maternal zeal 
 Inspired, the Church sends ministers to 
 
 kneel 
 Beside the afflicted ; to sustain with prayer, 
 And soothe the heart confession hath laid 
 
 bare — 
 That pardon, from God's throne, may 
 
 set its seal 
 On a true Penitent. When breath departs 
 From one disburthened so, so comforted. 
 His Spirit Angels greet; and ours be hope 
 That, if the Sufferer rise from his sick-bed, 
 Hence he will gain a firmer mind, to cope 
 With a bad world, and foil the Tempter's 
 
 arts. 
 1S21. 1845. 
 
 THE COMMINATION SERVICE. 
 
 Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea ab- 
 horred. 
 
 By some of unreflecting mind, as calling 
 
 Man to curse man, (thought monstrous 
 and appalling. ) 
 
 Go thou and hear the threatenings of the 
 Lord; 
 
 Listening within his Temple see his sword 
 
 Unsheathed in wrath to strike the 
 
 offender's head, 
 Thy own, if sorrow for thy sin be dead, 
 Guilt unrepented, pardon unimplored. 
 Two aspects bears Truth needful for 
 
 salvation; 
 Who knows not that? — yet would this 
 
 delicate age 
 Look only on the Gospel 5 brighter page : 
 Let light and dark duly our thoughts 
 
 employ; 
 So shall the fearful words of Commina- 
 
 tion 
 Yield timely fruit of peace and love and 
 
 joy. 
 1S21. 1845. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 FORMS OF PRAYER AT SEA. 
 
 To kneeling Worshippers no earthly floor 
 Gives holier invitation than the deck 
 Of a storm-shattered Vessel saved from 
 
 Wreck 
 (When all that Man could do availed no 
 
 more) 
 By him who raised the Tempest and 
 
 restrains : 
 Happy the crew who this have felt, and 
 
 pour 
 Forth for his mercy, as the Church 
 
 ordains, 
 Solemn thanksgiving. Nor will they im- 
 plore 
 In vain who, for a rightful cause, give 
 
 breath 
 To words the Church prescribes aiding 
 
 the lip 
 For the heart's sake, ere ship with hostile 
 
 ship 
 Encounters, armed for work of pain and 
 
 death. 
 Suppliants ! the God to whom your cause 
 
 ye trust 
 Will listen, and ye know that He is just. 
 1821. 1845. 
 
 XXXI. 
 FUNERAL SERVICE. 
 
 From the Baptismal hour, thro' weal and 
 
 woe. 
 The Church extends her care to thought 
 
 and deed; 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 705 
 
 Nor quits the Body when the Soul is freed, 
 The mortal weight cast off to be laid low. 
 Blest Rite for him who hears in faith, 
 
 " I know 
 That my Redeemer liveth," — hears each 
 
 word 
 That follows — striking on some kindred 
 
 chord 
 Deep in the thankful heart; — yet tears 
 
 will flow. 
 Man is as grass that springeth up at morn, 
 Grows green, and is cut down and 
 
 withereth 
 Ere nightfall — truth that well may claim 
 
 a sigh. 
 Its natural echo; but hope comes reborn 
 At Jesu's bidding. We rejoice, " O 
 
 Death, 
 Where is thy Sting? — O Grave, where 
 
 is thy Victory ? ' ' 
 1821. 1845. 
 
 XXXIl. 
 RURAL CEREMONY. 1 
 
 Closing the sacred Book which long has 
 
 fed 
 Our meditations, give we to a day 
 Of annual joy one tributary lay; 
 This day, when, forth by rustic music led. 
 The village Children, while the sky is red 
 With evening lights, advance in long 
 
 array 
 Through the still churchyard, each with 
 
 garland gay. 
 That, carried sceptre-like, o'ertops the 
 
 head 
 Of the proud Bearer. To the wide church- 
 door, 
 Charged with these offerings which their 
 
 fathers bore 
 For decoration in the Papal time, 
 The innocent procession softly moves: — 
 The spirit of Laud is pleased in heaven's 
 
 pure clime, 
 And Hooker's voice the spectacle ap- 
 
 1821. 
 
 proves ! 
 
 1822. 
 
 xxxm. 
 
 REGRETS. 
 Would that our scrupulous Sires had 
 
 dared to leave 
 Less scanty measure of those graceful rites 
 1 See Note. 
 
 And usages, whose due return invites 
 A stir of mind too natural to deceive; 
 Giving to Memory help when she would 
 
 weave 
 A crown for Hope ! — I dread the boasted 
 
 lights 
 That all too often are but fiery blights. 
 Killing the bud o'er which in vain we 
 
 grieve. 
 Go, seek, when Christmas snows discom- 
 fort bring. 
 The counter Spirit found in some gay 
 
 church 
 Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch 
 In which the linnet or the thrush might 
 
 sing. 
 Merry and loud and safe from prying 
 
 search, 
 Strains offered only to the genial Spring. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 mutability. 
 
 From low to high doth dissolution climb, 
 And sink from high to low, along a scale 
 Of awful notes, whose concord shall not 
 
 fail; 
 A musical but melancholy chime. 
 Which they can hear who meddle not with 
 
 crime, 
 Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 
 Truth fails not; but her outward forms 
 
 that bear 
 The longest date do melt like frosty rime, 
 That in the morning whitened hillandplain 
 And is no more; drop like the tower 
 
 sublime 
 Of yesterday, which royally did wear 
 His crown of weeds, but could not even 
 
 sustain 
 Some casual shout that broke the silent air, 
 Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 
 1S21. 1822. 
 
 OLD ABBEYS. 
 
 Monastic Domes ! following my down- 
 ward way. 
 
 Untouched by due regret I marked youi 
 fall! 
 
7o6 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all 
 Dispose to judgments tfemperate as we lay 
 On our past selves in life's declining day : 
 For as, by discipline of Time made wise. 
 We learn to tolerate the infirmities 
 And faults of others — gently as he may. 
 So with our own the mild Instructor deals. 
 Teaching us to forget them or forgive. ^ 
 Perversely curious, then, for hidden ill 
 Why should we break Time's charitable 
 
 seals? 
 Once ye were holy, ye are holy still; 
 Your spirit freely let me drink, and live ! 
 
 EMIGRANT FRENCH CLERGY. 
 
 Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of 
 
 France 
 Are shattered into dust; and self-exiled 
 From altars threatened, levelled, or defiled, 
 Wander the Ministers of God, as chance 
 Opens a way for life, or consonance 
 Of faith invites. More welcome to no land 
 The fugitives than to the British strand. 
 Where priest and layman with the vigi- 
 lance 
 Of true compassion greet them. Creed 
 
 and test 
 Vanish before the unreserved embrace 
 Of catholic humanity : — distrest 
 They came, — and, while the moral tem- 
 pest roars 
 Throughout the Country they have left, 
 
 our shores 
 Give to their Faith a fearless resting-place. 
 1821. 1827. 
 
 CONGRATULATION. 
 
 Thus all things lead to Charity secured 
 
 By THEM who blessed the soft and happy 
 gale 
 
 That landward urged the great Deliverer's 
 sail. 
 
 Till in the sunny bay his fleet was moored ! 
 
 Propitious hour ! — had we, like them, en- 
 dured 
 
 Sore stress of apprehension,' with a mind 
 1 See Note. 
 
 Sickened by injuries, dreading worse de- 
 signed, 
 
 Frcm month to month trembling and un- 
 assured, 
 
 How had we then rejoiced ! But we have 
 felt. 
 
 As a loved substance, their futurity: 
 
 Good, which they dared not hope for, we 
 have seen; 
 
 A State whose generous will through earth 
 is dealt; v 
 
 A State — which, balancing herself be- 
 tween 
 
 License and slavish order, dares be free, 
 182 1. 1S22. 
 
 NEW CHURCHES. 
 
 But liberty, and triumphs on the Main, 
 And laurelled armies, not] to be with- 
 stood — 
 What serve they? if, on transitory good 
 Intent, and sedulous of abject gain, 
 The State (ah, surely not preserved in 
 
 vain ! ) 
 Forbear to shape due channels which the 
 
 Flood 
 Of sacred truth may enter' — till it brood 
 O'er the wide realm, as o'er the Egyptian 
 
 plain 
 The all-sustaining Nile. No more — the 
 
 time 
 Is conscious of her want; through Eng- 
 land's bounds. 
 In rival haste, the wished-for Temples rise I 
 I hear their sabbath-bells' harmonious 
 
 chime 
 Float on the breeze — the heavenliest of 
 
 all sounds 
 That vale or hill prolongs or multiplies ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 CHURCH TO BE ERECTED. 
 
 Be this the chosen site; the virgin sod. 
 Moistened from age to age by dewy eve. 
 Shall disappear, and grateful earth receive 
 The corner-stone from hands that build 
 to God. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 707 
 
 Yon reverend hawthorns, hardened to the 
 
 rod 
 Of winter storms, yet budding cheerfully; 
 Those forest oaks of Druid memory. 
 Shall long survive, to shelter the Abode 
 Of genuine Faith. Where, haply, 'mid 
 
 this band 
 Of daisies, shepherds sate of yore and wove 
 May-garlands, there let the holy altar stand 
 For kneeling adoration; — while — above. 
 Broods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove, 
 That shall protect from blasphemy the 
 
 Land. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk sub- 
 dued, 
 Sharipg the strong emotion of the crowd. 
 When each pale brow to dread hosannas 
 
 bowed 
 While clouds of incense mounting veiled 
 
 the rood. 
 That glimmered like a pine-tree dimly 
 
 viewed 
 Through Alpine vapors. Such appalling 
 
 rite 
 Our Church prepares not, trusting to the 
 
 might 
 Of simple truth with grace divine imbued; 
 Yet will we not conceal the precious Cross, 
 Like men ashamed : ^ the Sun with his first 
 
 smile 
 Shall greet that symbol crowning the low 
 
 Pile: 
 And the fresh air of incense-breathing 
 
 morn 
 Shall wooingly embrace it ; and green moss 
 Creep round its arms through centuries 
 
 unborn. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 NEW CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The encircling ground, in native turf ar- 
 rayed, 
 Is now by solemn consecration given 
 To social interests, and to favoring Hea- 
 ven; 
 
 ' See Note. 
 
 And where the rugged colts their gambols 
 
 played, 
 And wild deer bounded through the forest 
 
 glade. 
 Unchecked as when by merry Outlaw 
 
 driven, 
 Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and 
 
 even; 
 And soon, full soon, the lonely Sexton's 
 
 spade 
 Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture 
 
 small. 
 But infinite its grasp of weal and woe ! 
 Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and 
 
 flow ; — 
 The spousal trembling, and the " dust to 
 
 dust," 
 The prayers, the contrite struggle, and 
 
 the trust 
 That to the Almighty Father looks through 
 
 all. 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 CATHEDRALS, ETC. 
 
 Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles ! 
 
 Types of the spiritual Church which God 
 hath reared; 
 
 Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward 
 
 And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous 
 aisles 
 
 To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles. 
 
 Or down the nave to pace in motion slow; 
 
 Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower 
 grow 
 
 And mount, at every step, with living wiles 
 
 Instinct — to rouse the heart and lead the 
 will 
 
 By a bright ladder to thi. world above. 
 
 Open your gates, ye Monuments of love 
 
 Divine ! thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign 
 hill! 
 
 Thou, stately York ! and Ye, whose splen- 
 dors cheer 
 
 Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense. 
 With ill-matched aims the Architect who 
 planned — 
 
7o8 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 Albeit laboring for a scanty band 
 Of white robed Scholars only — this im- 
 mense 
 And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 
 Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects 
 
 the lore 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more; 
 So deemed the man who fashioned for the 
 
 sense 
 These lofty pillars, spread that branching 
 
 roof 
 Self -poised, and scooped into ten thousand 
 
 cells. 
 Where light and shade repose, where 
 
 music dwells 
 Lingering — and wandering on as loth to 
 
 die; 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness 
 
 yieldeth proof 
 That they were born for immortality. 
 
 1821. 
 
 1822. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 What awful perspective ! while from our 
 sight 
 
 "With gradual stealth the lateral windows 
 hide 
 
 Their Portraitures, their stone-work glim- 
 mers, dyed 
 
 In the soft checkerings of a. sleepy light. 
 
 Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, 
 
 Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves un- 
 seen, 
 
 Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen. 
 
 Shine on, until ye fade with coming 
 Night ! — 
 
 But, from the arms of silence — list ! O list ! 
 
 The music bursteth into second life; 
 
 The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed 
 
 By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ; 
 
 Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before 
 the eye 
 
 Of the devout, a vail of ecstasy ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 They dreamt not of a perishable home 
 Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours 
 of fear 
 
 Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge 
 
 here; 
 Or through the aisles of Westminster to 
 
 roam; 
 Where bubbles burst, and folly's dan- 
 cing foam 
 Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the 
 
 wreath 
 Of awe-struck wisdom droops : or let my 
 
 path 
 Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like 
 
 dome 
 Hath typified by reach of daring art 
 Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest, 
 The silent Cross, among the stars shall 
 
 spread 
 As now, when She hath also seen her 
 
 breast 
 Filled with mementos, satiate with its part 
 Of grateful England's overflowing Dead. 
 
 EJACULATION. 
 
 Glory to God ! and to the Power who 
 
 came 
 In filial duty, clothed with love divine, 
 That made his human tabernacle shine 
 Like Ocean burning with purpureal flame; 
 Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its 
 
 name 
 From roseate hues, far kenned at morn 
 
 and even 
 In hours of peace, or when the storm is 
 
 driven 
 Along the nether region's rugged frame ! ^ 
 Earth prompts — Heaven urges; let us 
 
 seek the light. 
 Studious of that pure intercourse begun 
 When first our infant brows their lustre 
 
 won; 
 So, like the Mountain, may we grow 
 
 more bright 
 From unimpeded commerce with the Sun, 
 At the approach of all-involving night. 
 
 1S21. 
 
 1822. 
 
 XLVII. 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, 
 Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the 
 Word 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
MEMORY. 
 
 709 
 
 Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith ex- 
 plored. 
 Power at whose touch the sluggard shall 
 
 unfold 
 His drowsy rings. Look forth ! — that 
 
 Stream behold, 
 That Stream upon whose bosom we have 
 
 passed 
 Floating at ease while nations have effaced 
 Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold 
 Long lines of mighty Kings — look forth, 
 
 my Soul ! 
 . (Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust) 
 The living Waters, less and less by guilt 
 Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll. 
 Till they have reached the eternal City — 
 
 built 
 For the perfected Spirit of the just ! 
 1821. 1822. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 A PEN' — to register : a key — 
 That winds through secret wards 
 Are well assigned to Memory 
 By allegoric Bards. 
 
 As aptly, also, might be given 
 
 A Pencil to her hand; 
 
 That, softening objects, sometimes even 
 
 Outstrips the heart's demand; 
 
 That smooths foregone distress, the lines 
 Of lingering care subdues, 
 Long-vanished happiness refines. 
 And clothes in brighter hues; 
 
 Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
 Those Spectres to dilate 
 That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
 Within her lonely seat. 
 
 Oh ! that our lives, which flee so fast. 
 In purity were such, 
 That not an image of the past 
 Should fear that pencil's touch ! 
 
 Retirement then might hourly look 
 Upon a soothing scene. 
 Age steal to his allotted nook 
 Contented and serene; 
 
 With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 
 In frosty moonlight glistening ; 
 Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
 Along a channel smooth and deep, 
 To their own far-off murmurs listening. 
 1823. 1827. 
 
 TO THE LADY FLEMING 
 
 ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING 
 FOR THE ERECTION OF RYDAL CHAPEL, 
 WESTMORELAND. 
 
 After thanking Lady Fleming in prose for the 
 service she had done to lier neighborhood by 
 erecting this Chapel, I havenotliingto say beyond 
 the expression of regret that the architect did not 
 furnish an elevation better suited to the site in a 
 narrow mountain-pass, and, what is of more con- 
 sequence, better constructed in the interior for 
 tlie purposes of worship. It has no chancel ; the 
 altar is unbecomingly confined ; the pews are so 
 narrow as to preclude the possibility of kneeling 
 with comfort ; there is no vestry ; and what ought 
 to have been first mentioned, the font, instead of 
 standing at its proper place at the entrance, is 
 thrust into the farther end of a pew. When these 
 defects shall be pointed out to the munificent 
 Patroness, they will, it is hoped, be corrected. 
 
 Blest is this Isle — our native Land; 
 Where battlement and moated gate 
 Are objects only for the hand 
 Of hoary Time to decorate; 
 Where shady hamlet, town that breathes 
 Its busy smoke in social wreaths, 
 No rampart's stern defence require. 
 Naught but the heaven-directed spire. 
 And steeple tower (with pealing bells 
 Far-heard) — our only citadels. 
 
 O Lady ! from a noble line 
 Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore 
 The spear, yet gave to works divine 
 A bounteous help in days of yore, 
 (As records mouldering in the Dell 
 Of Nightshade ' haply yet may tell; ) 
 Thee Icindred aspirations moved 
 To build, within a vale beloved, 
 
 1 Bekangs Ghyll — or the dell of Nightshade — 
 in which stands St. Mary's Abbey in Low 
 Fumess. 
 
710 
 
 ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 For Him upon whose high behests 
 All peace depends, all safety rests. 
 
 How fondly will the woods embrace 
 This daughter of thy pious care, 
 Lifting her front with modest grace 
 To make a fair recess more fair; 
 And to exalt the passing hour; 
 Or soothe it with a healing power 
 Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled, 
 Before this rugged soil was tilled, 
 Or human habitation rose 
 To interrupt the deep repose ! 
 p 
 
 IV. 
 
 Well may the villagers rejoice ! 
 Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways. 
 Will be a hindrance to the voice 
 That would unite in prayer and praise; 
 More duly shall wild wandering Youth 
 Receive the curb of sacred truth, 
 Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear 
 The Promise, with uplifted ear; 
 And all shall welcome the new ray 
 Imparted to their sabbath-day. 
 
 V. 
 Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced. 
 His fancy cheated — that can see 
 A shade upon the future cast, 
 Of time's pathetic sanctity; 
 Can hear the monitory clock 
 Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock 
 At evening, when the ground beneath 
 Is ruffled o'er with cells of death; 
 Where happy generations lie, 
 Here tutored for eternity. 
 
 VI. 
 Lives there a man whose sole delights 
 Are trivial pomp and city noise. 
 Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 
 What every natural heart enjoys? 
 Who never caught a noon-tide dream 
 From murmur of a running stream; 
 Could strip, for aught the prospect yields 
 To him, their verdure from the fields; 
 And take the radiance from the clouds 
 In which the sun his setting shrouds. 
 
 A soul so pitiably forlorn. 
 
 If such do on this earth abide. 
 
 May season apathy with scorn, 
 May turn indifference to pride; 
 And still be not unblest — ^ compared 
 With him who grovels, self-debarred 
 From all that lies within the scope 
 Of holy faith and christian hope; 
 Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast 
 False fires, that others may be lost. 
 
 VIII. 
 Alas ! that such perverted zeal 
 Should spread on Britain's favored 
 
 ground ! 
 That public order, private weal, 
 Should e'er have felt or feared a wound 
 From champions of the desperate law 
 Which from their own blind hearts they 
 
 draw ; 
 Who tempt their reason to deny 
 God, whom their passions dare defy, 
 And boast that they alone are free 
 Who reach this dire extremity ! 
 
 But turn we from these " bold bad ' ' men; 
 The way, mild Lady ! that hath led 
 Down to their " dark opprobrious den," 
 Is all too rough for Thee to tread. 
 Softly as morning vapors glide 
 Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, 
 Should move the tenor of Ais song 
 Who means to charity no wrong; 
 Whose offering gladly would accord 
 With this day's work, in thought and word. 
 
 Heaven prosper it ! may peace, and love. 
 And hope, and consolation, fall. 
 Through its meek influence, from above, 
 And penetrate the hearts of all; 
 All who, around the hallowed Fane, 
 Shall sojourn in this fair domain; 
 Grateful to Thee, while service pure. 
 And ancient ordinance, shall endure. 
 For opportunity bestowed 
 To kneel together, and adore their God ! 
 1823, 1827. 
 
 ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 Oh ! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may 
 The help which slackening Piety requires; 
 Nor deem that he perforce must go astray 
 Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires. 
 
^NOT LOVE, NOT WAR, NOR THE TUMULTUOUS SWELL." 711 
 
 Our churches, invariably perhaps, stand east 
 and west, but why is by few persons exactly 
 known ; nor, that the degree of deviation from 
 due east often noticeable in the ancient ones was 
 determined, in each particular case, by the point 
 in the horizon, at which the sun rose upon the 
 day of the saint to whom the church was dedi- 
 cated. These observances of our ancestors, and 
 the causes of them, are the subject of the follow- 
 ing stanzas. 
 
 When iit the antique age of bow and 
 
 spear 
 And feudal rapine clotlied with iron mail 
 Came ministers of peace, intent to rear, 
 The Mother Church in yon sequestered 
 
 vale; 
 
 Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite 
 Resounded with deep swell and solemn 
 
 close, 
 Through unremitting vigils of the night, 
 Till from his couch the wished-for Sun 
 
 uprose. 
 
 He rose, and straight — as by divine com- 
 mand. 
 
 They, who had waited for that sign to trace 
 
 Their work's foundation, gave with care- 
 ful hand 
 
 To the high altar its determined place; 
 
 Mindful of Him who in the Orient born 
 
 There lived, and on the cross his hfe re- 
 signed, 
 
 And who, from out the regions of the 
 morn, 
 
 Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge 
 mankind. 
 
 So taught their creed; — nor failed the 
 eastern sky, 
 
 'Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse 
 
 The sweet and natural hopes that shall 
 not die, 
 
 Long as the sun his gladsome course re- 
 news. 
 
 For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased; 
 Yet still we plant, like men of elder days, 
 Our christian altar faithful to the east, 
 Whence the tall window drinks the 
 morning rays; 
 
 That obvious emblem giving to the eye 
 Of ineek devotion, which erewhile it gave, 
 That symbol of the dayspring from on 
 
 high, 
 Triumphant o'er the darkness of the 
 
 grave. 
 1823. 1827. 
 
 "A VOLANT TRIBE OF BARDS 
 ON EARTH ARE FOUND." 
 
 A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are 
 
 found, 
 Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round 
 
 them play. 
 On " coignes of vantage" hang their 
 
 nests of clay; 
 How quickly from that aery hold un- 
 bound. 
 Dust for oblivion ! To the solid ground 
 Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for 
 
 aye; 
 Convinced that there, there only, she 
 
 can lay 
 Secure foundations. As the year runs 
 
 round. 
 Apart she toils within the chosen ring; 
 While the stars shine, or while day's 
 
 purple eye 
 Is gently closing with the flowers of 
 
 spring; 
 Where even the motion of an Angel's 
 
 wing 
 Would interrupt the intense tranquillity 
 Of silent hills, and more than silent sky. 
 1823. 1827. 
 
 " NOT LOVE, NOT WAR, NOR 
 THE TUMULTUOUS SWELL." 
 
 Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous 
 
 swell. 
 Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change. 
 Nor Duty struggling with afflictions 
 
 strange — 
 Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell; 
 But where untroubled peac; and concord 
 
 dwell. 
 There also is the Muse not loth to range, 
 Watching the twilight smoke of cot or 
 
 grange. 
 Skyward ascending from a woody dell. 
 
712 
 
 TO 
 
 Meek aspirations please her, lone en- 
 deavor, 
 
 And sage content, and placid melancholy; 
 
 She loves to gaze upon a crystal river — 
 
 Diaphanous because it travels slowly; 
 
 Soft is the music that would charm for- 
 ever; 
 
 The flower of sweetest smell is shy and 
 lowly. 
 1823. 1827. 
 
 TO- 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount, 
 worth. 
 
 On Mrs. Words- 
 
 Let other bards of angels sing, 
 
 Bright suns without a spot; 
 But thou art no such perfect thing: 
 
 Rejoice that thou art not ! 
 
 Heed not tho' none should call thee fair; 
 
 So, Mary, let it be 
 If nought in loveliness compare 
 
 With what thou art to me. 
 
 True beauty dwells in deep retreats. 
 
 Whose veil is unremoved 
 Till heart with heart in concord beats, 
 
 And the lover is beloved. 
 
 1824. 1827. 
 
 TO 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. To Mrs. W. 
 
 O DEARER far than light and life are dear. 
 Full oft our human foresight I deplore; 
 Trembling, through my unworthiness, 
 
 with fear 
 That friends, by death disjoined, may 
 
 meet no more ! 
 
 Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control, 
 Mix with the day, and cross the hour of 
 
 rest; 
 While all the future, for thy purer soul, 
 With " sober certainties " of love is blest. 
 
 That sigh of thine, not meant for human 
 
 ear, 
 Tells that these words thy humbleness 
 
 offend; 
 
 Yet bear me up — else faltering in the rear 
 Of a steep march : support me to the end. 
 
 Peace settles where the intellect is meek. 
 And Love is dutiful in thought and deed; 
 Through Thee communion with that Love 
 
 I seek : 
 The faith Heaven strengthens where he 
 
 moulds the Creed. 
 1S24. 1827. 
 
 " HOW RICH THAT FOREHEAD'S 
 CALM EXPANSE." 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. Mrs. Wordsworth's 
 impression is that the Poem was written at Cole- 
 orton : it was certainly suggested by a Print at 
 Coleorton Hall. 
 
 How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! 
 
 How bright that heaven-directed glance ! 
 
 — Waft her to glory, winged Powers, 
 
 Ere sorrow be renewed, 
 
 And intercourse with mortal hours 
 
 Bring back a humbler mood ! 
 
 So looked Cecilia when she drew 
 
 An Angel from his station; 
 
 So looked; not ceasing to pursue 
 
 Her tuneful adoration ! 
 
 But hand and voice alike are still; 
 
 No sound here sweeps away the will 
 
 That gave it birth : in service meek 
 
 One upright arm sustains the cheek, 
 
 And one across the bosom lies — 
 
 That rose, and now forgets to rise, 
 
 Subdued by breathless harmonies 
 
 Of meditative feeling; 
 
 Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies. 
 
 Through the pure light of female eyes. 
 
 Their sanctity revealing ! 
 
 1824. 1827. 
 
 TO- 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. Prompted by the 
 undue importance attached to personal beauty by 
 some dear friends of mine. 
 
 Looii at the fate of summer flowers. 
 Which blow at daybreak, droop e'er even- 
 song; 
 And, grieved for their brief date, confess 
 that ours. 
 
A FLOWER GARDEN. 
 
 713 
 
 Measured by what we are and ought to be, 
 Measured by all that, trembling, we fore- 
 see. 
 
 Is not so long ! 
 
 If human Life do pass away. 
 
 Perishing yet more swiftly than the flower, 
 
 If we are creatures of a "oinlci-'s day; 
 
 What space hath Virgin's beauty to dis- 
 close 
 
 Her sweets, and triumph o'er the 
 breathing rose? 
 Not even an hour ! 
 
 The deepest grove whose foliage hid 
 The happiest lovers Arcady might boast. 
 Could not the entrance of this thought 
 
 forbid : 
 O be thou wise as they, soul-gifted Maid ! 
 Nor rate too high what must so quickly 
 
 fade. 
 
 So soon be lost. 
 
 Then shall love teach some virtuous Youth 
 " To draw, out of the object of his eyes," 
 The while on thee they gaze in simple 
 
 truth. 
 Hues more exalted, "a refined Form," 
 That dreads not age, nor suffers from the 
 worm. 
 
 And never dies. 
 1S24. 1827. 
 
 A FLOWER GARDEN. 
 
 AT COLEORTON HALL, LEICESTERSHIRE. 
 
 Planned by my friend, Lady Beaumont, in 
 connection with the garden at Coleorton. 
 
 Tell me, ye Zephyrs ! that unfold. 
 
 While fluttering o'er this gay Recess, 
 
 Pinions that fanned the teeming mould 
 
 Of Eden's blissful wilderness. 
 
 Did only softly-stealing hours 
 
 There close the peaceful lives of flowers? 
 
 Say, when the moving creatures saw 
 All kinds commingled without fear, 
 Prevailed a like indulgent law 
 For the still growths that prosper here? 
 Did wanton fawn and kid forbear 
 The half-blown rose, the lily spare? 
 
 Or peeped they often from their beds 
 And prematurely disappeared, 
 Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads 
 A bosom to the sun endeared? 
 If such their harsh untimely doom. 
 It falls not here on bud or bloom. 
 
 All summer long the happy Eve 
 Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind, 
 Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve. 
 From the next glance she casts, to find 
 That love for little things by Fate 
 Is rendered vain as love for great. 
 
 Yet, where the guardian fence is wound. 
 So subtly are our eyes beguiled, 
 We see not nor suspect a bound. 
 No more than in some forest wild; 
 The sight is free as air — or crost 
 Only by art in nature lost. 
 
 And, though the jealous turf refuse 
 By random footsteps to be prest. 
 And feed on never-sullied dews, 
 Ye, gentle breezes from the west, 
 With all the ministers of hope 
 Are tempted to this sunny slope ! 
 
 And hither throngs of birds resort; 
 Some, inmates lodged in shady nests. 
 Some, perched on stems of stately port 
 That nod to welcome transient guests; 
 While hare and leveret, seen at play, 
 Appear not more shut out than they. 
 
 Apt emblem (for reproof or pride) 
 This delicate Enclosure shows 
 Of modest kindness, that would hide 
 The firm protection she bestows; 
 Of manners, like its viewless fence. 
 Ensuring peace to innocence. 
 
 Thus spake the moral Muse — her wing 
 Abruptly spreading to depart. 
 She left that farewell offering. 
 Memento for some docile heart; 
 That may respect the good old age 
 When Fancy was Truth's willing Page; 
 And Truth would skim the flowery glade. 
 Though entering but as Fancy's Shade. 
 1S24 1827. 
 
714 
 
 TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P. 
 
 TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE 
 HON. MISS P. 
 
 Composed in the Grounds of Plass Newidd, 
 near Llangollen, 1824. 
 
 In this Vale of Meditation my friend Jones 
 resided, having been allowed by his diocesan to 
 fix himself there without resigning his Living in 
 Oxfordshire. He was with my wife and daughter 
 and me when we visited these celebrated ladies 
 who had retired, as one may say, into notice in 
 this vale. Their cottage lay directly in the road 
 between London and Dublin, and they were of 
 course visited by their Irish friends as well as 
 innumerable strangers. They took much delight 
 in passing jokes on our friend Jones's plumpne.ss, 
 ruddy cheeks, and smiling countenance, as little 
 suited to a hermit living in the Vale of Meditation. 
 We all thought there was ample room for retort 
 on his part, so curious was the appearance of 
 these ladies, so elaborately sentimental about 
 themselves and their Caro A Ibergo^ as they named 
 it i.a ^n inscriptioa on a tree that stood opposite, 
 the endearing epithet being preceded by the word 
 Ecco ! calling upon the saunterer to look about 
 him. So oddly was one of these ladies attired 
 that we took her, at a little distance, for a Roman 
 Catholic priest, with a crucifix and relics hung at 
 his neck. They were without caps, their hair 
 bushy and white as snow, which contributed to 
 the mistake. 
 
 A Stream, to mingle with your favorite 
 
 Dee, 
 Along the Vale of Meditation ' flows; 
 So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased 
 
 to see 
 In Nature's face the expression of repose; 
 Or haply there some pious hermit chose 
 To live and die, the peace of heaven his 
 
 aim; 
 To whom the wild sequestered region owes 
 At this late day, its sanctifying name. 
 Glyn Cafaillgaroch, in the Cambrian 
 
 tongue, 
 In ours, the Vale of Friendship, let 
 
 this spot 
 Be named; where, faithful to alow-roofed 
 
 Cot, 
 On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long; 
 Sisters in love, a love allowed to climb, 
 Even on this earth, above the reach of 
 
 Time ! 
 September 1824. 1827. 
 
 1 Glyn Myrvr. 
 
 TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEV- 
 IL'S BRIDGE, NORTH WALES, 1824. 
 
 How art thou named ? In search of what 
 
 strange land 
 From what huge height, descending? 
 
 Can such force 
 Of waters issue from a British source, 
 Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the 
 
 band 
 Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with 
 
 hand 
 Desperate as thine ? Or come the inces- 
 sant shocks 
 From that young Stream, that smites the 
 
 throbbing rocks 
 Of Via mala? There I seem to stand, 
 As in life's morn; permitted to behold. 
 From the dread chasm, woods climbing 
 
 above woods. 
 In pomp that fades not; everlasting 
 
 snows; 
 And skies that ne'er relinquish their 
 
 repose ; 
 Such power possess the family of floods 
 Over the minds of Poets, young or old ! 
 1824. 1827. 
 
 COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS 
 OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES. 
 
 Through shattered galleries, 'mid roof- 
 less halls, 
 Wandering with timid footsteps oft be- 
 trayed, 
 The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to up- 
 braid 
 Old Time, though he, gentlest among the 
 
 Thralls 
 Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid 
 His lenient touches, soft as light that falls. 
 From the wan Moon, upon the towers 
 
 and walls, 
 Light deepening the profoundest sleep of 
 
 shade. 
 Relic of Kings \ Wreck of forgotten wars. 
 To winds abandoned and the prying stars. 
 Time loves Thee ! at his call the Seasons 
 
 twine 
 Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead 
 hoar; 
 
CENOTAPH. 
 
 715 
 
 And, though past pomp no changes can 
 
 restore, 
 Asoothing recompense, his gift, is thine ! 
 1S24. 1827. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO SIR G. H. B. UPON THE 
 DEATH OF HIS SISTER-IN-LAW. 
 
 On Mrs. Fermor. This lady had been a widow 
 long before I knew her. Herhnsbandwas of the 
 family of the lady celebrated in the " Rape of the 
 Lock," and was, I believe, a Roman Catholic. 
 The sorrow which his death caused her was fear- 
 ful in its character as described in this poem, but 
 was subdued in course of time by the strength of 
 her religious faith. I have been, for many weeks 
 at a time, an inmate with her at Coleorton Hall, 
 as were also Mrs. Wordsworth and my Sister. 
 The truth in the sketch of her character here 
 given was acknowledged with gratitude by her 
 nearest relatives. She was eloquent in conversa- 
 tion, energetic upon public matters, open in 
 respect to those, but slow to communicate her 
 personal feelings ; upon these she never touched 
 in her intercourse with me, so that I could not 
 regard myself as her confidential friend, and was 
 accordingly surprised when I learnt she had left 
 me a legacy of ;^ioo, as a token of her esteem. 
 See, in further illustration, the second stanza 
 inscribed upon her Cenotaph in Coleorton church. 
 
 O FOR a dirge ! But why complain? 
 
 Ask rather a triumphal strain 
 
 When Fermor's race is run; 
 
 A garland of immortal boughs 
 
 To twine around the Christian's brows. 
 
 Whose glorious work is done. 
 
 We pay a high and holy debt; 
 No tears of passionate regret 
 Shall stain this votive lay; 
 Ill-worthy, Beaumont ! were the grief 
 That flings itself on wild relief 
 When Saints have passed away. 
 
 Sad doom at Sorrow's shrine to kneel. 
 
 Forever covetous to feel, 
 
 And impotent to bear ! 
 
 Such once was hers — to think and think 
 
 On severed love, and only sink 
 
 From anguish to despair ! 
 
 But nature to its inmost part 
 Faith had refined; and to her heart 
 A peaceful cradle given . 
 Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest 
 Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast 
 Till it exhales to Heaven. 
 
 Was ever Spirit that could bend 
 
 So graciously? — that could descend, 
 
 Another's need to suit, 
 
 So promptly from her lofty throne? — ■ 
 
 In works of love, in these alone, 
 
 How restless, how minute ! 
 
 Pale was her hue; yet mortal cheek 
 Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak 
 When aught had suffered wrong, — 
 Whenaught that breathes hadfelt a wound; 
 Such look the Oppressor might confound. 
 However proud and strong. 
 
 But hushed be every thought that springs 
 From out the bitterness of things; 
 Her quiet is secure; 
 No thorns can pierce her tender feet, 
 Whose life was, like the violet, sweet, 
 As climbing jasmine, pure — 
 
 As snowdrop on an intant's grave, 
 
 Or lily heaving with the wave 
 
 That feeds it and defends; 
 
 As Vesper, ere the star hath kissed 
 
 The mountain top, or breathed the mist 
 
 That from the vale ascends. 
 
 Thou takest not away, O Death ! 
 Thou strikest — absence perisheth. 
 Indifference is no more; 
 The future brightens on our sight; 
 For on the past hath fallen a light 
 That tempts us to adore. 
 1824. 1827. 
 
 CENOTAPH. 
 
 See " Elegiac Stanzas. Addressed to Sir G. 
 H. B. upon tile death of his Sister-in-Law." 
 
 In affectionate remembranceof Fiances Fermor, 
 whose remains are deposited in the church of 
 Claines, near Worcester, this stone is erected by 
 her sister, Dame Margaret, wife of Sir George 
 Beaumont, Bart., who, feeling not less than the 
 love of a brother for the deceased, commends this 
 
7i6 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 memorial to the care of his heirs and successors 
 in the possession of this place. 
 
 By vain affections unenthralled, 
 Though resolute when duty called 
 To meet the world's broad eye, 
 Pure as the holiest cloistered nun 
 That ever feared the tempting sun, 
 Did Fermor live and die. 
 This Tablet, hallowed by her name, 
 One heart-relieving tear may claim; 
 But if the pensive gloom 
 Of fond regret be still thy choice, 
 Exalt thy spirit, hear the voice 
 Of Jesus from her tomb ! 
 " I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE 
 LIFE." 
 1824. 1842. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 IN THE CHAPEL-YARD OF LANGDALE, 
 WESTMORELAND. 
 
 Owen Lloyd, the subject of this epitaph, was 
 bom at Old Brathay, near Ambleside, and was 
 the son of Charles Lloyd and his wife Sophia 
 (nSe Pemberton), both of Birmingham, who came 
 to reside in this part of the country soon after 
 their marriage. They had many children, both 
 sons and daughters, of whom the most remarkable 
 was the subject of this epitaph. He was educated 
 under Mr. Dawes, at Ambleside, Dr. Butler, of 
 Shrewsbury, and lastly at Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge, where he would have been greatly distin- 
 guished asascholar but for inherited infirmities of 
 bodily constitution, which, from early childhood, 
 affected his mind. His love for the neighbor- 
 hood in which he was bom, and his sympathy 
 with the habits and characters of the mountain 
 yeomanry, in conjunction with irregular spirits, 
 that unfitted him for facing duties in situations 
 to which he was unaccustomed, induced him to 
 accept the retired curacy of Langdale. How 
 much he was beloved and honored there, and 
 with what feelings he discharged his duty under 
 the oppression of severe malady, is set forth, 
 though imperfectly, in the epitaph. 
 
 By playful smiles, (alas! too oft 
 
 A sad heart's sunshine), by a soft 
 
 And gentle nature, and a free 
 
 Yet modest hand of charity, 
 
 Through life was Owen Lloyd endeared 
 
 To young and old; and how revered 
 
 Had been that pious spirit, a tide 
 Of humble mourners testified, 
 When, after pains dispensed to prove 
 The measure of God's chastening love, 
 Here, brought from far, his corse found 
 
 rest, — 
 Fulfilment of his own request; — 
 Urged less for this Yew's shade, though he 
 Planted with such fond hope the tree; 
 Less for the love of stream and rock, 
 Dear as they were, than that his Flock, 
 When they no more their Pastor's voice 
 Could hear to guide them in their choice 
 Through good and evil, help might have, 
 Admonished, from his silent grave, 
 Of righteousness, of sins forgiven. 
 For peace on earth and bliss in heaven. 
 1824. 1842. 
 
 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 THE PARROT AND THE WREN. 
 
 The Parrot belonged to Mrs. Luff while living 
 at Fox-Ghyll. The Wren was one that haunted 
 for many years the summer-house between the 
 two terraces at Rydal Mount. 
 
 Within her gilded cage confined, 
 I saw a dazzling Belle, 
 A Parrot of that famous kind 
 Whose name is Non-pareil. 
 
 Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; 
 And, smoothed by Nature's skill. 
 With pearl or gleaming agate vies 
 Her finely-curved bill. 
 
 Her plumy mantle's living hues 
 In mass opposed to mass. 
 Outshine the splendor that imbues 
 The robes of pictured glass. 
 
 And, sooth to say, an apter Mate 
 Did never tempt the choice 
 Of feathered Thing most delicate 
 In figure and in voice. 
 
 But, exiled from Australian bowers, 
 And singleness her lot, 
 She trills her song with tutored powers, 
 Or mocks each casual note. 
 
ODE. 
 
 717 
 
 No more of pity for regrets 
 With which she may have striven ! 
 Now but in wantonness she frets, 
 Or spite, if cause be given; 
 
 Arch, volatile, a sportive bird 
 By social glee inspired; 
 Ambitious to be seen or heard. 
 And pleased to be admired ! 
 
 This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and 
 
 dry, 
 Harbors a self-contented Wren, 
 Not shunning man's abode, though shy. 
 Almost as thought itself, of human ken. 
 
 Strange places, coverts unendeared, 
 She never tried; the very nest 
 In which this Child of Spring was reared. 
 Is warmed, thro' winter, by her feathery 
 breast. 
 
 To the bleak winds she sometimes gives 
 A slender unexpected strain; 
 Proof that the hermitess still lives. 
 Though she appear not, and be sought in 
 vain. 
 
 Say, Dora ! tell me, by yon placid moon. 
 If called to choose between the favored 
 
 pair, 
 Which would you be, — the bird of the 
 
 saloon 
 By lady-fingers tended with nice care, 
 Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed. 
 Or Nature's Darkling of this mossy shed ? 
 1825. 1827. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise the earth where cares 
 
 abound? 
 Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and 
 
 eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that 
 
 music still ! 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine; 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world a 
 
 flood 
 Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 
 Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and 
 
 Home ! 
 1825. 1827, 
 
 'ERE WITH COLD BEADS OF 
 MIDNIGHT DEW." 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount, 
 condition of a friend. 
 
 Suggested by the 
 
 Ere with cold beads of midnight dew 
 Had mingled tears of thine, 
 
 I grieved, fond Youth ! that thou shouldst 
 sue 
 To haughty Geraldine. 
 
 Immovable by generous sighs, 
 
 She glories in a train 
 Who drag, beneath our native skies, 
 
 An oriental chain. 
 
 Pine not like them with arms across. 
 
 Forgetting in thy care 
 Plow the fast-rooted trees can toss 
 
 Their branches in mid air. 
 
 The humblest rivulet will take 
 
 Its own wild liberties; 
 And, every day, the imprisoned lake 
 
 Is flowing in the breeze. 
 
 Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee. 
 But scorn with scorn outbrave; 
 
 A Briton, even in love, should be 
 A subject, not a slave ! 
 1826. 1827. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING. 
 
 This and the following poem originated in the 
 lines " How delicate the leafy veil," etc. — My 
 daugliter and I left Rydal Mount upon a tour 
 through our mountains with Mr. and Mrs. Carr 
 in the month of May :S26, and as we were going 
 up the vale of Newlands I was struck with the 
 appearance of the little chapel gleaming through 
 
7i8 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 the veil of half-opened leaves ; and the feeling 
 which was then conveyed to my mind was ex- 
 pressed in the stanza referred to above. As in 
 the case of " Liberty " and " Humanity," my first 
 intention was to write only one poem, but subse- 
 quently I broke it into two, making additions to 
 each part so as to produce a consistent and 
 appropriate whole. 
 While from the purpling east departs 
 
 The star that led the dawn, 
 Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, 
 
 For May is on the lawn. 
 A quickening hope, a freshening glee. 
 
 Foreran the expected Power, 
 Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and 
 tree. 
 
 Shakes off that pearly shower. 
 
 All Nature welcomes Her whose sway 
 
 Tempers the year's extremes; 
 Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day. 
 
 Like morning's dewy gleams; 
 While mellow warble, sprightly trill, 
 
 The tremulous heart excite; 
 And hums the balmy air to still 
 
 The balance of delight. 
 
 Time was, blest Power ! when youths 
 and maids 
 
 At peep of dawn would rise. 
 And wander forth, in forest glades 
 
 Thy birth to solemnize. 
 Though mute the song — to grace the rite 
 
 Untouched the hawthorn bough, 
 Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight; 
 
 Man changes, but not Thou ! 
 
 Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings 
 
 In love's disport employ; • 
 
 Warmed by thy influence, creeping things 
 
 Awake to silent joy: 
 Queen art thou still for each gay plant 
 
 Where the slim wild deer roves; 
 And served in depths where fishes haunt 
 
 Their own mysterious groves. 
 
 Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath. 
 
 Instinctive homage pay; 
 Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath 
 
 To honor thee, sweet May ! 
 Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs 
 
 Behold a smokeless sky. 
 Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares 
 
 To open a bright eye. 
 
 And if, on this thy natal morn. 
 
 The pole, from which thy name 
 Hath not departed, stands forlorn 
 
 Of song and dance and game; 
 Still from the village-green a vow 
 
 Aspires to thee addrest, 
 Wherever peace is on the brow, 
 
 Or love within the breast. 
 
 Yes ! where Love nestles thou canst teach 
 
 The soul to love the more; 
 Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 
 
 That never loved before. 
 Stript is the haughty one of pride. 
 
 The bashful freed from fear, 
 While rising, hke the ocean-tide. 
 
 In flows the joyous year. 
 
 Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words refuse 
 
 The service to prolong ! 
 To yon exulting thrush the Muse 
 
 Entrusts the imperfect song; 
 His voice shall chant, in accents clear. 
 
 Throughout the live-long day. 
 Till the first silver star appear. 
 
 The sovereignty of May. 
 1826. 1835. 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 Though many suns have risen and set 
 
 Since thou, blithe May, wert born. 
 And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget 
 
 Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
 There are who to a birthday strain 
 
 Confine not harp and voice. 
 But evermore throughout thy reign 
 
 Are grateful and rejoice ! 
 
 Delicious odors ! music sweet, 
 
 Too sweet to pass away ! 
 Oh for a deathless song to meet 
 
 The soul's desire — a lay 
 That, when a thousand years are told. 
 
 Should praise thee, genial Power ! / 
 Through summer heat, autumnal cold. 
 
 And winter's dreariest hour. 
 
 Earth, sea, thy presence feel — nor less, 
 
 If yon ethereal blue 
 With its soft smile the truth express, 
 
 The heavens have felt it too. 
 
"ONCE I COULD HAIL (HOWE'ER SERENE THE SKY)." 719 
 
 The inmost heart of man if glad 
 
 Partakes a livelier cheer; 
 And eyes that cannot but be sad 
 
 Let fall a brightened tear. 
 
 Since thy return, through days and weeks 
 
 Of hope that grew by stealth, 
 How many wan and faded cheeks 
 
 Have kindled into health ! 
 The Old, by thee revived, have said, 
 
 " Another year is ours;" 
 And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed 
 
 Have smiled upon thy flowers. 
 
 Who tripping lisps a merry song 
 
 Amid his playful peers? 
 The tender Infant who was long 
 
 A prisoner of fond fears; 
 But now, when every sharp-edged blast 
 
 Is quiet in its sheath. 
 His Mother leaves him free to taste 
 
 Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 
 
 Thy help is with the weed that creeps 
 
 Along the humblest ground; 
 No cliff so bare but on its steeps 
 
 Thy favors may be found; 
 But most on some peculiar nook 
 
 That our own hands have drest. 
 Thou and thy train are proud to look, 
 
 And seem to love it best. 
 
 And yet how pleased we wander forth 
 When May is whispering, " Come ! 
 " Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 
 
 " The happiest for your home; 
 "Heaven's bounteous love through me 
 is spread 
 ' ' From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 
 " Drops on the mouldering turret's head, 
 "And on your turf-clad graves'. " 
 
 Such greeting heard, away with sighs 
 
 For lilies that must fade. 
 Or " the rathe primrose as it dies 
 
 Forsaken " in the shade ! 
 Vernal fruitions and desires 
 
 Are linked in endless chase; 
 While, as one Ijindly growth retires. 
 
 Another takes its place. 
 
 And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 
 Mishap by worm and blight; 
 
 If expectations newly blown 
 
 Have perished in thy sight; 
 If loves and joys, while up they sprung, 
 
 Were caught as in a snare; 
 Such is the lot of all the young. 
 
 However bright and fair. 
 
 Lo ! Streams that April could not check 
 
 Are patient of thy rule; 
 Gurgling in foamy water-break. 
 
 Loitering in glassy pool : 
 By thee, thee only, could be sent 
 
 Such gentle mists as glide. 
 Curling with unconfirmed intent. 
 
 On that green mountain's side. 
 
 How delicate the leafy veil 
 
 Through which yon house of God 
 Gleams, 'mid the peace of this deep dale 
 
 By few but shepherds trod ! 
 And lowly huts, near beaten ways. 
 
 No sooner stand attired 
 In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise 
 
 Peep forth, and are admired. 
 
 Season of fancy and of hope. 
 
 Permit not for one hour, 
 A blossom from thy crown to drop, 
 
 Nor add to it a flower ! 
 Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 
 
 Of self-restraining art. 
 This modest charm of not too much. 
 
 Part seen, imagined part ! 
 
 1826-1834. 1835. 
 
 "ONCE I COULD HAIL (HOWE'ER 
 SERENE THE SKY)." 
 
 " No faculty yet given me to espy 
 
 The dusky Shape within her arms imbound. '' 
 Afterwards, when I could not avoid seeing it, I 
 wondered at this, and the more so because, like 
 most children, I hadbeenin the habit of watching 
 the moon through all her changes, and had often 
 continued to gaze at it when at the full, till half 
 blinded. 
 " Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone 
 Wi' the auld moone in hir arme. 
 
 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
 Percy^s Reliques. 
 
 Once I couldhail (howe'er serenethe sky) 
 The Moon re-entering her monthly round, 
 
720 "THE MASSY WAYS, CARRIED ACROSS THESE HEIGHTS. 
 
 No faculty yet given me to espy 
 The dusky Shape within her armsimbound, 
 That thin memento of effulgence lost 
 Which some have named her Prede- 
 cessor's ghost. 
 
 Young, like the Crescent that above me 
 
 shone, 
 Nought I perceived within it dull or dim; 
 All that appeared was suitable to One 
 Whose fancy had a thousand fields to 
 
 skim; 
 To expectations spreading with wild 
 
 growth, 
 And hope that kept with me her plighted 
 
 troth. 
 
 I saw (ambition quickening at. the view) 
 A silver boat launched on a boundless 
 
 flood; 
 A pearly crest, like Dian's when it threw 
 Its brightest splendor round a leafy wood; 
 But not a hint from underground, no sign 
 Fit for the glimmering brow of Proserpine. 
 
 Or was it Dian's self that seemed to move 
 Before me? — nothing blemished the fair 
 
 sight; 
 On her I looked whom jocund Fairies love, 
 Cynthia, who puts the /i/f/e stars to flight. 
 And by that thinning magnifies the great. 
 For exultation of her sovereign state. 
 
 And when I learned to mark the spectral 
 
 Shape 
 As each new Moon obeyed the call of Time, 
 If gloom fell on me, swift was my escape ; 
 Such happy privilege hath life's gay Prime, 
 To see or not to see, as best may please 
 A buoyant Spirit, and a heart at ease. 
 
 Now, dazzling Stranger ! when thou 
 
 meet'st my glance. 
 Thy dark Associate ever I discern; 
 Emblem of thoughts too eager to advance 
 While I salute my joys, thoughts sad or 
 
 stern; 
 Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that, 
 
 to gain 
 Their fill of promised lustre, wait in vain. 
 
 So changes mortal Life with fleeting years ; 
 A mournful change, should Reason fail 
 
 to bring 
 The timely insight that can temper fears, 
 And from vicissitude remove its sting; 
 While Faith aspires to seats in that domain 
 Where joys are perfect — neither wax nor 
 wane. 
 1826. 1827. 
 
 "THE MASSY WAYS, CARRIED 
 ACROSS THESE HEIGHTS." 
 
 The walk is what we call the Far-terrace, 
 beyond the summer-house at Rydal Mount. The 
 lines were written when we were afraid of being 
 obliged to quit the place to which we were so 
 much attached. 
 
 The massy Ways, carried across these 
 
 heights 
 By Roman perseverance, are destroyed, 
 Or hidden under ground, like sleeping 
 
 worms. 
 How venture then to hope that Time will 
 
 spare 
 This humble Walk ? Yet on the mountain's 
 
 side 
 A Poet's hand first shaped it; and the 
 
 steps 
 Of that same Bard — repeated to and fro 
 At morn, at noon, and under moonlight 
 
 skies 
 Through the vicissitudes of many a year — 
 Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its gray 
 
 line. 
 No longer, scattering to the heedless winds 
 The vocal raptures of fresh poesy. 
 Shall he frequent these precincts; locked 
 
 no more 
 In earnest converse with beloved Friends, 
 Here will he gather stores of ready bliss. 
 As from the beds and borders of a garden 
 Choice flowers are gathered ! But, if 
 
 Power may spring 
 Out of a farewell yearning — favored more 
 Than kindred wishes mated suitably 
 With vain regrets — the Exile would con- 
 sign 
 This Walk, his loved possession, to the 
 
 care 
 Of those pure Minds that reverence the 
 
 Muse. 
 1826. 1835. 
 
THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. 
 
 721 
 
 THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. 
 
 These verses perhaps had better be transferred 
 to the class of " Italian Poems." I had observed 
 in the Newspaper, that the Pillar of Trajan was 
 given as a subject for a prize-poem in English 
 verse. I had a wish perhaps that my son, who 
 was then an undergraduate at Oxford, should try 
 his fortune, and I told him so; but he, not 
 having been accustomed to write verse, wisely 
 declined to enter on the task ; whereupon I 
 showed him these lines as a proof of what might, 
 " without difficulty, be done on such a subject. 
 
 Where towers are crushed, and unfor- 
 bidden weeds 
 
 O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds; 
 
 And temples, doomed to milder change, 
 unfold 
 
 A new magnificence that vies with old; 
 
 Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood 
 
 A votive Column, spared by fire and 
 flood: — 
 
 And, though the passions of man's fret- 
 ful race 
 
 Have never ceased to eddy round its base, 
 
 Not injured more by touch of meddling 
 hands 
 
 Than a lone obelisk, 'mid Nubian sands, 
 
 Or aught in Syrian deserts left to save 
 
 From death the memory of the good and 
 brave. 
 
 Historic figures round the shaft embost 
 
 Ascend, with lineaments in air not lost : 
 
 Still as he turns, the charmed spectator 
 sees 
 
 Group winding after group with dream- 
 like ease; 
 
 Triumphsinsunbright gratitude displayed, 
 
 Or softly stealing into modest shade. 
 
 — So, pleased with purple clusters to 
 entwine 
 
 Some lofty elm-tree, mounts the daring 
 vine; 
 
 The woodbine so, with spiral grace, and 
 breathes 
 
 Wide-spreading odors from her flowery 
 wreaths. 
 Borne by the Muse from rills in shep- 
 herds' ears 
 
 Murmuring but one smooth story for all 
 years, 
 
 I gladly commune with the mind and 
 
 heart 
 Of him who thus survives by classic art. 
 His actions witness, venerate his mien. 
 And study Trajan as by Pliny seen; 
 Behold how fought the Chief whose 
 
 conquering sworcjl 
 Stretched far as earth might own a single 
 
 lord; 
 In the delight of moral prudence schooled. 
 How feelingly at home the Sovereign 
 
 ruled; 
 Best of the good — in pagan faith allied 
 To more than Man, by virtue deified. 
 Memorial Pillar ! 'mid the wrecks of 
 
 Time 
 Preserve thy charge with confidence sub- 
 lime — 
 The exultations, pomps, and cares of 
 
 Rome, 
 Whence half the breathing world received 
 
 its doom; 
 Things that recoil from language ; that, if 
 
 shown 
 By apter pencil, from the light had flown. 
 A Pontiff, Trajan here the Gods implores. 
 There greets an Embassy from Indian 
 
 shores; 
 Lo ! he harangues his cohorts — there the 
 
 storm 
 Of battle meets him in authentic form ! 
 Unharnessed, naked, troops of Moorish 
 
 horse 
 Sweep to the charge; more high, the 
 
 Dacian force. 
 To hoof and finger mailed ;i — yet, high 
 
 or low. 
 None bleed, and none lie prostrate but 
 
 the foe; 
 In every Roman, through all turns of fate. 
 Is Roman dignity inviolate; 
 Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides, 
 Supports, adorns, and over all presides; 
 Distinguished only by inherent state 
 From honored Instruments that round him 
 
 wait; 
 Rise as he may, his grandeur scorns the 
 
 test 
 Of outward symbol, nor will deign to rest 
 On aught by which another is deprest. 
 — Alas ! that One thus disciplined could 
 
 toil 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
722 ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP. 
 
 To enslave whole nations on their native 
 
 soil ; 
 So emulous of Macedonian fame, 
 That, when his age was measured with 
 
 his aim. 
 He drooped, 'mid else unclouded victories, 
 And turned his eagles back with deep- 
 drawn sighs ; 
 O weakness of the Great ! O folly of the 
 Wise! 
 Where now the haughty Empire that 
 was spread 
 With such fond hope? her very speech is 
 
 dead; 
 Yet glorious Art the power of Time defies. 
 And Trajan still, through various enter- 
 prise, 
 Mounts, in this fine illusion, toward the 
 
 skies : 
 Still are we present with the imperial 
 
 Chief, 
 
 Nor cease to gaze upon the bold Relief 
 
 Till Rome, to silent marble unconfined. 
 
 Becomes with all her years a vision of the 
 
 Mind. 
 
 1826. 1827. 
 
 ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN 
 THE FORM OF A HARP. 
 
 THE WORK OF E. M. S. 
 
 Frowns are on every Muse's face, 
 Reproaches from their lips are sent, 
 
 That mimicry should thus disgrace 
 The noble Instrument. 
 
 A very Harp in all but size ! 
 
 Needles for strings in apt gradation ! 
 Minerva's self would stigmatize 
 
 The unclassic profanation. 
 
 Even her own needle that subdued 
 
 Arachne's rival spirit, 
 Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest 
 mood, 
 
 Such honor could not merit. 
 
 And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, 
 
 A living lord of melody ! 
 How will her Sire be reconciled 
 
 To the refined indignity ? 
 
 I spake, when whispered a low voice, 
 
 " Bard ! moderate your ire; 
 Spirits of all degrees rejoice 
 
 In presence of the lyre. 
 
 The Minstrels of Pygmean bands. 
 Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, 
 
 Have shells to fit their tiny hands 
 And suit their slender lays. 
 
 Some, still more delicate of ear. 
 Have lutes (believe my words) 
 
 Whose framework is of gossamer. 
 While sunbeams are the chords. 
 
 Gay Sylphs this miniature will court. 
 Made vocal by their brushing wings, 
 
 And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport 
 Around its polished strings; 
 
 Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear. 
 While in her lonely bower she tries 
 
 To cheat the thought she cannot cheer. 
 By fanciful embroideries. 
 
 Trust, angry Bard ! a knowing Sprite, 
 Nor think the Harp her lot deplores ! 
 
 Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine 
 bright. 
 Love stoops as fondly as he soars." 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 TO- 
 
 In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one after- 
 noon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of 
 Milton. I had long been well acquainted with 
 them, but I was particularly struck on that 
 occasion by the dignified simplicity and majestic 
 harmony that nins through most of them, — in 
 character so totally different from the Italian, 
 and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. 
 I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and 
 produced three Sonnets the same afternoon, the 
 first I ever wrote except an irregular one at 
 school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly 
 remember is " I grieved for Buonaparte." One 
 was never written down : the third, which was, I 
 believe, preserved, I cannot particularize. 
 
 Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown 
 In perfect shape (whose beauty Time shall 
 spare 
 
DECAY OF PIETY. 
 
 723 
 
 Though a breath made it) like a bubble 
 
 blown 
 For summer pastime into wanton air ; 
 Happy the thought best likened to a stone 
 Of the sea-beach, when, polished with nice 
 
 care. 
 Veins it discovers exquisite and rare, 
 Whichf or the loss of that moist gleam atone 
 That tempted first to gather it. That here 
 O chief of Friends ! such feelings I present. 
 To thy regard, with thoughts so fortunate. 
 Were a vain notion; but the hope is dear. 
 That thou, if not with partial joy elate, 
 Wilt smile upon this gift with more than 
 
 mild content ! 1 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 " HER ONLY PILOT THE SOFT 
 BREEZE." 
 
 Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 
 Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied; 
 With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at 
 
 her side. 
 And the glad Muse at liberty to note 
 All that to each is precious, as we float 
 Gently along; regardless who shall chide 
 If the heavens smile, and leave us free to 
 
 glide, 
 Happy Associates breathing air remote 
 From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the 
 
 Muse, 
 Why have I crowded this small bark with 
 
 you 
 And others of your kind, ideal crew ! 
 While here sits One whose brightness 
 
 owes its hues 
 To flesh and blood; no Goddess from 
 
 above, 
 No fleeting Spirit, but my own true love? 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 "WHY, MINSTREL, THESE UN- 
 TUNEFUL MURMURINGS." 
 
 " Why, Minstrel, these untuneful mur- 
 
 murings — 
 Dull, flagging notes that with each other 
 
 jar ? " 
 "Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far 
 From its own country, and forgive the 
 
 strings." 
 
 See Note. 
 
 A simple answer ! but even so forth- 
 
 springs, 
 From the Castalian fountain of the heart. 
 The Poetry of Life, and all that Art 
 Divine of words quickening insensate 
 
 things. 
 From the submissive necks of guiltless men 
 Stretched on the block, the glittering axe 
 
 recoils; 
 Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the 
 
 toils 
 Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then 
 That the poor Harp distempered music 
 
 yields 
 To its sad Lord, far from his native fields ? 
 1827. '1827. 
 
 TO S. H. 
 
 Excuse is needless when with love sincere 
 Of occupation, not by fashion led. 
 Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with 
 
 dust o'erspread; 
 My nerves from no such murmur shrink, — 
 
 tho' near, 
 Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, 
 When twilight shades darken the moun- 
 tain's head. 
 Even She who toils to spin our vital thread 
 Might smile on work, O Lady,once so dear 
 To household virtues. Venerable Art, 
 Torn from the Poor ! yet shall kind Hea- 
 ven protect 
 Its own; though Rulers, with undue re- 
 spect, 
 Trusting to crowded factory and mart 
 And proud discoveries of the intellect, 
 Heed not the pillage of man's ancient 
 heart. 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 DECAY OF PIETY. 
 
 Attendance at church on prayer-days, Wednes- 
 days and Fridays and Holidays, received a shock 
 at the Revolution, It is now, however, happily 
 reviving. The ancient people described in this 
 Sonnet were among the last of that pious class. 
 May we hope that the practice, now in some 
 degree renewed, will continue to spread. 
 
 Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed 
 
 my cheek, 
 Matrons and Sires — who, punctual to the 
 
 call 
 
724 
 
 ^ SCORN NOT THE SONNET J 
 
 Of their loved Church, on fast or festival 
 Through the long year the house of 
 
 Prayer would seek : 
 By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak 
 Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or 
 
 hall 
 They came to lowly bench or sculptured 
 
 stall. 
 But with one fervor of devotion meek. 
 I see the places where they once were 
 
 known. 
 And ask, surrounded even by kneeling. 
 
 crowds, 
 Is ancient Piety forever flown? 
 Alas ! even then they seemed like fleecy 
 
 clouds 
 That, struggling through the western sky, 
 
 have won 
 Their pensive light from a departed sun ! 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 "SCORN NOT THE SONNET." 
 
 Composed, almost extempore, in a short walk 
 on the western side of Rydal Lake. 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have 
 
 frowned, 
 Mindless of its just honors; with this key 
 Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the mel- 
 ody 
 Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's 
 
 wound ; 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso 
 
 sound; 
 With it Cambens soothed an exile's grief; 
 The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante 
 
 crowned 
 His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp. 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from 
 
 Faeryland 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when 
 
 a damp 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he 
 
 blew 
 Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 "FAIR PRIME OF LIFE! WERE 
 IT ENOUGH TO GILD." 
 
 Suggested by observation of the way in which 
 a young friend, whom I do not choose to name, 
 
 misspent his time and misapplied his talents. He 
 took afterwards a better course, and became a 
 useful member of society, respected, I believe, 
 wherever he has been known. 
 Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to 
 
 gild 
 With ready sunbeams every straggling 
 
 shower; 
 And, if an unexpected cloud should lower, 
 Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build 
 For Fancy's errands, — then, from fields 
 
 half-tilled 
 Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy 
 
 flower. 
 Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant 
 
 thy power, 
 Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled. 
 Ah ! show that worthier honors are thy 
 
 due; 
 Fair Prime of life ! arouse the deeper 
 
 heart; 
 Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue 
 Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim; 
 And, if there be a joy that slights the 
 
 claim 
 Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart. 
 1827. J827. 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 If the whole weight of what we think and 
 feel, 
 
 Save only far as thought and feeling blend 
 
 With action, were as nothing, patriot 
 Friend ! 
 
 From thy remonstrance would be no ap- 
 peal; 
 
 But to promote and fortify the weal 
 
 Of our own Being is her paramount end; 
 
 A truth which they alone shall compre- 
 hend 
 
 Who shun the mischief which they cannot 
 heal. 
 
 Peace in these feverish times is sovereign 
 bliss : 
 
 Here, with no thirst but what the stream 
 can slake, 
 
 And startled only by the rustling brake. 
 
 Cool air I breathe; while the unincum- 
 bered Mind 
 
 By some weak aims at services assigned 
 
 To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven 
 amiss. 
 1827. ,827. 
 
■WHILE ANNA'S PEERS AND EARLY PLAYMATES TREAD." ^2% 
 
 "THERE IS A PLEASURE IN 
 POETIC PAINS." 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 Which only Poets know ; — 't was rightly 
 
 said; 
 Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
 Their smoothest paths, to wear their light- 
 est chains? 
 When happiest Fancy has inspired the 
 
 strains, 
 How oft the malice of one luckless word 
 Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board. 
 Haunts him belated on the silent plains ! 
 Yet he repines not, if his thought stand 
 
 clear, 
 At last, of hindrance and obscurity, 
 Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of 
 
 morn; 
 
 Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear 
 
 The moment it has left the virgin's eye. 
 
 Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed 
 
 thorn. 
 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 RECOLLECTION OF THE POR- 
 TRAIT OF KING HENRY 
 EIGHTH, TRINITY LODGE, 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 The imperial Stature, the colossal stride. 
 Are yet before me; yet do I behold 
 The broad full visage, chest of amplest 
 
 mould. 
 The vestments 'broidered with barbaric 
 
 pride : 
 And lo ! a poniard, at the Monarch's side, 
 Liangs ready to be grasped in sympathy 
 With the keen threatenings of that fulgent 
 
 eye, 
 Below the white-rimmed bonnet, far-de- 
 scried. 
 Who trembles no w at thy capricious mood ? 
 'Mid those surrounding Worthies, haughity 
 
 King, 
 We rather think, with grateful mind se- 
 date. 
 How Providence educeth, from the spring 
 Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of 
 
 good. 
 Which neither force shall check nor time 
 abate ! 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 "WHEN PHILOCTETES IN THE 
 LEMNIAN ISLE." 
 
 When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle 
 Like a form sculptured on a monument 
 Lay couched; on him or his dread bow 
 
 unbent 
 Some wild Bird oft might settle and be- 
 guile 
 The rigid features of a transient smile. 
 Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent. 
 Slackening the pains of ruthless banish- 
 ment 
 From his loved home, andfrom heroic toil. 
 And trust that spiritual Creatures roimd 
 
 us move, 
 Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal ; 
 Yea, veriest reptiles have sufficed to prove 
 To fettered wretchedness, that no Bascile 
 Is deep enough to exclude the light of 
 
 love. 
 Though man for brother man has ceased 
 to feel. 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 "WHILE ANNA'S PEERS AND 
 EARLY PLAYMATES TREAD." 
 
 This is taken from the account given by Miss 
 Jewsbury of the pleasure she derived, when long 
 confined to her bed by sickness, from the inani- 
 mate object on which this Sonnet turns. 
 
 While Anna's peers and early playmates 
 
 tread. 
 In freedom, mountain-turt and river's 
 
 marge; 
 Or float with music in the festal barge; 
 Rein the proud steed, or through the 
 
 dance are led; 
 Her doom it is to press a weary bed — 
 Till oft her guardian Angel, to some charge 
 More urgent called, will stretch his wings 
 
 at large. 
 And friends too rarely prop the languid 
 
 head. 
 Yet, helped by Genius — untired com- 
 forter. 
 The presence even of astuffedOwl forher 
 Can cheat the time ; sending her fancy out 
 To ivied castles and to moonlight skies, 
 
726 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Though he can neither stir a plume, nor 
 
 shout; 
 Nor veil, with restless film, his staring 
 eyes. 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Not the whole warbling grove in concert 
 heard 
 
 When sunshine follows shower, the 
 breast can thrill 
 
 Like the first summons. Cuckoo ! of thy 
 bill. 
 
 With its twin notes inseparably paired. 
 
 The captive 'mid damp vaults unsunned, 
 unaired. 
 
 Measuring the periods of his lonely doom. 
 
 That cry can reach; and to the sick man's 
 room 
 
 Sends gladness, by no languid smile de- 
 clared. 
 
 The lordly eagle-race through hostile 
 search 
 
 May perish; time may come when never 
 more 
 
 The wilderness shall hear the lion roar; 
 
 But, long as cock shall crow from house- 
 hold perch 
 
 To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed 
 thy wing, 
 
 And thy erratic voice be faithful to the 
 Spring ! 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 THE INFANT M- 
 
 M- 
 
 The infant was Mary Monkhouse, the only 
 daughter of my friend and cousin Thomas Monk- 
 house. 
 
 Unquiet Childhood here by special grace 
 Forgets her nature, opening like a flower 
 That neither feeds nor wastes its vital 
 
 power 
 In painful struggles. Months each other 
 
 chase, 
 And nought untunes that Infant's voice; 
 
 no trace 
 Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek; 
 Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek 
 That one enrapt with gazing on her face 
 
 (Which even the placid innocence of 
 
 death 
 Could scarcely make more placid, heaven 
 
 more bright) 
 Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith. 
 The Virgin, as she shone with kindred 
 
 light; 
 A nursling couched upon her mother's 
 
 knee. 
 Beneath some shady palm of Galilee. 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 TO ROTHA Q . 
 
 Rotha, the daughter of my son-in-law, Mr. 
 Quillinan. 
 
 RoTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head 
 
 was gray 
 When at the sacred font for thee I stood; 
 Pledged till thou reach the verge of 
 
 womanhood. 
 And shalt become thy own sufficient stay : 
 Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan ! was the 
 
 day 
 For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil; 
 Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still. 
 Embodied in the music of this Lay, 
 Breathed forth beside the peaceful moun- 
 tain Stream 1 
 Whose murmur soothed thy languid 
 
 Mother's ear 
 After her throes, this Stream of name 
 
 more dear 
 Since thou dost bear it, — a memorial 
 
 theme 
 For others; for thy future self, a spell 
 To summon fancies out of Time's dark 
 
 cell. 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 TO 
 
 -, IN HER SEVENTIETH 
 YEAR. 
 
 Lady Fitzgerald, as described to me by Lady 
 Beaumont. 
 
 Such age how beautrful ! O Lady bright, 
 Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 
 By favoring Nature and a saintly Mind 
 To something purer and more exquisite 
 
 ^ The river Rotha, that fiows into Windermere 
 from the lakes of Grasmere and Rydal. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 727 
 
 Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou 
 meet'st my sight, 
 
 When I behold thy blanched unwithered 
 cheek, 
 
 Thy temples fringed with locks of gleam- 
 ing white, 
 
 And head that droops because the soul is 
 meek, 
 
 Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I com- 
 pare; 
 
 That child of winter, prompting thoughts 
 that climb 
 
 From desolation toward the genial prime ; 
 
 Or with the Moon conquering earth's 
 misty air. 
 
 And filling more and more with crystal 
 light 
 
 As pensive Evening deepens into night. 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 "IN MY MIND'S EYE A TEMPLE, 
 LIKE A CLOUD." 
 
 In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud 
 Slowly surmounting some invidious hill. 
 Rose out of darkness : the bright Work 
 
 stood still : 
 And might of its own beauty have been 
 
 proud, 
 But it was fashioned and to God was 
 
 vowed 
 By Virtues that diffused, in every part, 
 Spirit divine through forms of human art : 
 Faith had her arch — her arch, when 
 
 winds blow loud. 
 Into the consciousness of safety thrilled; 
 And Love her towers of dread founda- 
 tion laid 
 Under the grave of things; Hope had 
 
 her spire 
 Star-high, and pointing still to something 
 
 higher 
 Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice — 
 
 it said, 
 " Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms 
 
 when we build." 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 "GO BACK TO ANTIQUE AGES, 
 IF THINE EYES." 
 
 Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes 
 The genuine mien and character would 
 trace 
 
 Of the rash Spirit that still holds her 
 
 place. 
 Prompting the world's audacious vanities ! 
 Go back, and see the Tower of Babel rise ; 
 The pyramid extend its monstrous base, 
 For some Aspirant of our short-lived race, 
 Anxious an aery name to immortalize. 
 There, too, ere wiles and politic dispute 
 Gave specious coloring to aim and act. 
 See the first mighty Hunter leave the 
 
 brute — 
 To chase mankind, with men in armies 
 
 packed 
 For his field-pastime high and absolute. 
 While, to dislodge his game, cities are 
 
 sacked ! 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 IN THE WOODS OF RYDAL. 
 
 Wild Redbreast ! hadst thou at Jemima's 
 
 lip 
 Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love 
 
 might say, 
 A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip 
 Its glistening dews; but hallowed is the 
 
 clay 
 Which the Muse warms; and I, whose 
 
 head is gray. 
 Am not unworthy of thy fellowship; 
 Nor could I let one thought — one notion 
 
 — slip 
 That might thy sylvan confidence betray. 
 For are we not all His without whose care 
 Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the 
 
 ground? 
 Who gives his Angels wings to speed 
 
 through air. 
 And rolls the planets through the blue 
 
 profound; 
 Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer ! nor 
 
 forbear 
 To trust a Poet in still musings bound.! 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 If these brief Records, by the Muses' art 
 Produced as lonely Nature or the strife 
 That animates the scenes of public hfe ^ 
 
 I .See Note. 
 
 2 This line alludes tr Sonnets which will be 
 found in another Class. 
 
728 
 
 A MORNING EXERCISE. 
 
 Inspired, may in thy leisure claim a part; 
 And if these Transcripts of the private 
 
 heart 
 Have gained a sanction from thy falling 
 
 tears; 
 Then I repent not. But my soul hath fears 
 Breathed from eternity; for, as a dart 
 Cleaves the blank air. Life flies: now 
 
 every day 
 Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift 
 
 wheel 
 Of the revolving week. Away, away, 
 All fitful cares, all transitory zeal ! 
 So timely Grace the immortal wing may 
 
 heal. 
 And honor rest upon the senseless clay. 
 1827. 1827. 
 
 A MORNING EXERCISE. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. I could wish the 
 last five stanzas of this to be read with the poem 
 addressed to the skylark. 
 
 Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the 
 
 glad. 
 Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to 
 
 throw ; 
 Sending sad shadows after things not sad. 
 Peopling the harmless fields with signs of 
 
 woe : 
 Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry 
 Becomes an echo of man's misery. 
 
 • Blithe ravens croak of death ; and when 
 the owl 
 Tries his two voices for a favorite strain — 
 Tu-whit — Tii-whoo ! the unsuspecting 
 
 fowl 
 Forebodes mishap or seems but to com- 
 plain; 
 Fancy, intent to harass and annoy, 
 Can thus pervert the evidence of joy. 
 
 Through border wilds where naked In- 
 dians stray. 
 
 Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill; 
 
 A feathered task-master cries, "Work 
 AWAY ! ' ' 
 
 And, in thy iteration, "Whip poor 
 Will!" ■ 
 
 ^ See Waterton's WancUrings in South America, 
 
 Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave. 
 Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave. 
 
 What wonder? at her bidding, ancient 
 lays 
 
 Steeped in dire grief the voice of Philo- 
 mel; 
 
 And that fleet messenger of summer days. 
 
 The Swallow, twittered subject to like 
 spell; 
 
 But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant 
 Lark 
 
 To melancholy service — hark ! O hark ! 
 
 The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn, 
 Not lifting yet the head that evening 
 
 bowed; 
 But He is risen, a later star of dawn. 
 Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy 
 
 cloud; 
 Bright gem instinct with music, vocal 
 
 spark; 
 The happiest bird that sprang out of the 
 
 Ark! 
 
 Hail, blest above all kinds!- — Su- 
 premely skilled 
 
 Restless with fixed to balance, high with 
 low. 
 
 Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes 
 to build 
 
 On such forbearance as the deep may 
 show; 
 
 Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties, 
 
 Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise. 
 
 Faithful, though swift as lightning, the 
 
 meek dove; 
 Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee; 
 So constant with thy downward eye of 
 
 love. 
 Yet, in aerial singleness, so free; 
 So humble, yet so ready to rejoice 
 In power of wing and never- wearied voice. 
 
 To the last point of vision, and beyond, 
 Mount, darling warbler! — that love- 
 prompted strain, 
 ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing 
 
 bond) 
 Thrills not the less the bosom of the 
 plain : 
 
THE TRIAD. 
 
 729 
 
 Yet niight'st thou seem, proud privilege ! 
 
 to sing 
 All independent of the leafy spring. 
 
 How would it please old Ocean to par- 
 take, 
 With sailors longing for a breeze in vain. 
 The harmony thy notes most gladly make 
 Where earth resembles most his own 
 
 domain ! 
 Urania's self might welcome with pleased 
 
 ear 
 These matins mounting towards her native 
 sphere. 
 
 Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no 
 bars 
 
 To daylight known deter from that pur- 
 suit, 
 
 'Tis well that some sage instinct, when 
 the stars 
 
 Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still 
 and mute ; 
 
 For not an eyelid could to sleep incline 
 
 Wert thou among them, singing as they 
 shine ! 
 1828. 1832. 
 
 THE TRIAD. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. The Girls, Edith 
 Southey, my daughter Dora, and Sara Coleridge. 
 
 Show me the noblest Youth of present 
 
 time. 
 Whose trembling fancy would to love give 
 
 birth; 
 Some God or Hero, from the Olympian 
 
 clime 
 Returned, to seek a Consort upon earth; 
 Or, in no doubtful prospect, let me see 
 The brightest star of ages yet to be, 
 And I will mate and match him blissfully. 
 I will not fetch a Naiad from a flood 
 Pure as herself — (song lacks not mightier 
 
 power) 
 Nor leaf-crowned Dryad from a pathless 
 
 wood, 
 Nor Sea-nymph glistening from her coral 
 
 bower; 
 Mere Mortals bodied forth in vision still. 
 Shall with Mount Ida's triple lustre fill 
 The chaster coverts of a British hill. 
 
 " Appear ! — obeymy lyre'scommand ! 
 Come, like the Graces, hand in hand ! 
 For ye, though not by birth allied. 
 Are Sisters in the bond of love; 
 Nor shall the tongue of envious pride 
 Presume those interweavings to reprove 
 In you, which that fair progeny of Jove, 
 Learned from the tuneful spheres that 
 
 glide 
 In endless union, earth and sea above." 
 
 — I sing in vain ; — the pines have hushed 
 
 their waving : 
 A peerless Youth expectant at my side. 
 Breathless as they, with unabated craving 
 Looks to the earth, and to the vacant air; 
 And, with a wandering eye that seems to 
 
 chide. 
 Asks of the clouds what occupants they 
 
 hide : — 
 But why solicit more than sight could 
 
 bear, 
 By casting on a moment all we dare ? 
 Invoke we those bright Beings one by one ; 
 And what was boldly promised, truly shall 
 
 be done. 
 " Fear not a constraining measure ! 
 
 — Yielding to this gentle spell, 
 Lucida ! from domes of pleasure, 
 Or from cottage-sprinkled dell, 
 Come to regions solitary. 
 Where the eagle builds her aerie, 
 Above the hermit's long-forsaken cell ! " 
 
 — She comes ! — behold 
 
 That Figure, like a ship with snow-white 
 
 sail ! 
 Nearer she draws; a breeze uplifts her 
 
 veil; 
 Upon her coming wait 
 As pure a sunshine and as soft a gale 
 As e'er, on herbage covering earthly 
 
 mould. 
 Tempted the bird of Juno to unfold 
 His richest splendor — when his veering 
 
 gait 
 And every motion of his starry train 
 Seem governed by a strain 
 Of music, audible to him alone. 
 
 "O Lady, worthy of earth's proudest 
 throne ! 
 Nor less, by excellence of nature, fit 
 Beside an unambitious hearth to sit 
 Domestic queen, where grandeur is un- 
 known; 
 
73° 
 
 THE TRIAD. 
 
 What living man could fear 
 
 The worst of Fortune's malice, wert Thou 
 
 near*, 
 Humbling that lily-stem, thy sceptre 
 
 meek. 
 That its fair flowers may from his cheek 
 Brush the too happy tear? 
 
 — Queen, and handmaid lowly ! 
 Whose skill can speed the day with lively 
 
 cares. 
 
 And banish melancholy 
 
 By all that mind invents or hand pre- 
 pares ; 
 
 O Thou, against whose lip, without its 
 smile 
 
 And in its silence even, no heart is proof; 
 
 Whose goodness, sinking deep, would 
 reconcile 
 
 The softest Nursling of a gorgeous palace 
 
 To the bare life beneath the hawthorn-roof 
 
 Of Sherwood's Archer, or in caves of 
 Wallace — 
 
 Who that hath seen thy beauty could con- 
 tent 
 
 His soul with but a glimpse of heavenly 
 day? 
 
 Who that hath loved thee, but would lay 
 
 His strong hand on the wind, if it were 
 bent 
 
 To take thee in thy majesty away? 
 
 Pass onward (even the glancing deer 
 
 Till we depart intrude not here ; ) 
 
 That mossy slope, o'er which the wood- 
 bine throws 
 
 A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose ! " 
 
 — Glad moment is it when the throng 
 Of warblers in full concert strong 
 Strive, and not vainly strive, to rout 
 The lagging shower, and force coy Phosbus 
 
 out, 
 Met by the rainbow's form divine. 
 Issuing from her cloudy shrine; — 
 So may the thrillings of the lyre 
 Prevail to further our desire. 
 While to these shades a sister Nymph I 
 
 call. 
 *'Come, if the notes thine ear may 
 
 pierce. 
 Come, youngest of the lovely Three, 
 Submissive to the might of verse 
 And the dear voice of h?rmony. 
 By none more deeply felt than Thee ! " 
 
 — I sang; and lo ! from pastimes virginal 
 
 She hastens to the tents 
 
 Of nature, and the lonely elements. 
 
 Air sparkles round her with a dazzling 
 sheen; 
 
 But mark her glowing cheek, her vesture 
 green ! 
 
 And, as if wishful to disarm 
 
 Or to repay the potent Charm, 
 
 She bears the stringed lute of old ro- 
 mance, 
 
 That cheered the trellised arbor's privacy, 
 
 And soothed war-wearied knights in raf- 
 tered hall. 
 
 How vivid, yet how delicate, her glee ! 
 
 So tripped the Muse, inventress of the 
 dance; 
 
 So, truant in waste woods, the blithe 
 Euphrosyne ! 
 
 But the ringlets of that head 
 
 Why are they ungarlanded? 
 
 Why bedeck her temples less 
 
 Than the simplest shepherdess? 
 
 Is it not a brow inviting 
 
 Choicest flowers that ever breathed, 
 
 Which the myrtle would delight in 
 
 With Idalian rose enwreathed? 
 
 But her humility is well content 
 
 With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn) 
 
 Flower of the winds, beneath her 
 bosom worn — 
 
 Yet more for love than ornament. 
 
 Open, ye thickets ! let her fly. 
 
 Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and 
 height ! 
 
 For She, to all but those who love her, 
 shy. 
 
 Would gladly vanish from a Stranger's 
 sight; 
 
 Though where she is beloved and loves. 
 
 Light as the wheeling butterfly she moves; 
 
 Her happy spirit as a bird is free. 
 
 That rifles blossoms on a tree. 
 
 Turning them inside out with arch au- 
 dacity. 
 
 Alas ! how little can a moment show 
 
 Of an eye where feeling plays 
 
 In ten thousand dewy rays; 
 
 A face o'er which a thousand shadows go ! 
 
 — She stops — is fastened to that rivulet's 
 side; 
 
 And there (while, with sedater mien. 
 
 O'er timid waters that have scarcely left 
 
 Their birthplace in the rocky cleft 
 
THE TRIAD. 
 
 731 
 
 She bends) at leisure may be seen 
 Features to old ideal grace allied, 
 Amid their smiles and dimples dignified — 
 Fit countenance for the soul of primal 
 
 truth ; 
 The bland composure of eternal youth ! 
 What more changeful than the sea? 
 But over his great tides 
 Fidelity presides; 
 And this light-hearted Maiden constant is 
 
 as he. 
 High is her aim as heaven above, 
 And wide as ether her good-will; 
 And, like the lowly reed, her love 
 Can drink its nurture from the scantiest 
 
 rill: 
 Insight as keen as frosty star 
 Is to her charity no bar. 
 Nor interrupts her frolic graces 
 When she is, far from these wild places. 
 Encircled by familiar faces. 
 O the charm that manners draw, 
 Nature, from thy genuine law ! 
 If from what her hand would do, 
 Her voice would utter, aught ensue 
 Untoward or unfit; 
 She, in benign affections pure, 
 In self-forgetfulness secure. 
 Sheds round the transient harm or vague 
 
 mischance 
 A light unknown to tutored elegance : 
 Hers is not a cheek shame-stricken, 
 But her blushes are joy-flushes; 
 And the fault (if fault it be) 
 Only ministers to quicken 
 Laughter-loving gayety. 
 And kindle sportive wit — 
 Leaving this Daughter of the mountains 
 
 free 
 As if she knew that Oberon king of Faery 
 Had crossed her purpose with some quaint 
 
 vagary. 
 And heard his viewless bands 
 Over their mirthful triumph clapping 
 
 hands. 
 ' ' Last of the Three, though eldest born, 
 Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn 
 Touched by the skylark's earliest note. 
 Ere humbler gladness be afloat. 
 But whether in the semblance drest 
 Of Dawn — or Eve, fair vision of the west. 
 Come with each anxious hope subdued 
 By woman's gentle fortitude. 
 
 Each grief, through meekness, settling into 
 
 rest. 
 — Or I would hail thee when some high- 
 wrought page 
 ! Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand 
 Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand 
 Among the glories of a happier age." 
 I Her brow hath openedon me — see it there, 
 I Brightening the umbrage of her hair; 
 So gleams the crescent moon, that loves 
 To be descried through shady groves. 
 Tenderest bloom is on her cheek; 
 Wish not for a richer streak; 
 Nor dread the depth of meditative eye; 
 But let thy love, upon that azure field 
 Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield 
 Its homage offered up in purity. 
 What would'st thou more? In sunny 
 
 glade. 
 Or under leaves of thickest shade, 
 Was such a stillness e'er diffused 
 Since earth grew calm while angels mused ? 
 Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth 
 To crush the mountain dew-drops — soon 
 
 to melt 
 On the flower's breast; as if she felt 
 That flowers themselves, whate'er their 
 
 hue. 
 With all their fragrance, all their glis- 
 tening. 
 Call to the heart for inward listening — 
 And though for bridal wreaths and tokens 
 
 true 
 Welcomed wisely; though a growth 
 Which the careless shepherd sleeps on. 
 As fitly spring from turf the mourner 
 
 weeps on — 
 And without wrong are cropped the mar- 
 ble tomb to strew. 
 The Charm is over ! the mute Phantoms 
 
 gone. 
 Nor will return — but droop not, favored 
 
 Youth; 
 The apparition that before thee shone 
 Obeyed a summons covetous of truth. 
 From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will 
 
 guide 
 To bowers in which thy fortune may be 
 
 tried. 
 And one of the bright Three become thy 
 happy Bride. 
 
 1828. 
 
 1829. 
 
732 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. See also "Wishing- 
 gate Destroyed." 
 
 In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old 
 high-way leading to Ambleside, is a gale, which, 
 time out of mind, has been called the Wishing- 
 gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged 
 there have a favorable issue. 
 
 Hope rules a land forever green : 
 All powers that serve the bright-eyed 
 Queen 
 
 Are confident and gay; 
 Clouds at her bidding disappear; 
 Points she to aught ? — the bliss draws near, 
 
 And Fancy smooths the way. 
 
 Not such the land of Wishes — there 
 Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer, 
 
 And thoughts with things at strife; 
 Yet how forlorn, should ye depart 
 Ye superstitions of the heart. 
 
 How poor, were human life ! 
 
 When magic lore abjured its might, 
 Ye did not forfeit one dear right. 
 
 One tender claim abate; 
 Witness this symbol of your sway. 
 Surviving near the public way, 
 
 The rustic Wishing-gate ! 
 
 Inquire not if the faery race 
 
 Shed kindly influence on the place, 
 
 Ere northward they retired; 
 If here a warrior left a spell, 
 Panting for glory as he fell; 
 
 Or here a saint expired. 
 
 Enough that all around is fair. 
 Composed with Nature's finest care. 
 
 And in her fondest love — 
 Peace to embosom and content — 
 To overawe the turbulent. 
 
 The selfish to reprove. 
 
 Yea ! even the Stranger from afar. 
 Reclining on this moss-grown bar. 
 
 Unknowing, and unknown, 
 The infection of the ground partakes. 
 Longing for his Beloved — who makes 
 
 All happiness her own. 
 
 Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
 The mystic stirrings that are here, 
 
 The ancient faith disclaim? 
 The local Genius ne'er befriends 
 Desires whose course in folly ends, 
 
 Whose just reward is shame. 
 
 Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn. 
 If some, by ceaseless pains outworn. 
 
 Here crave an easier lot; 
 If some have thirsted to renew 
 A broken vow, or bind a true. 
 
 With firmer, hoUer knot. 
 
 And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
 Upon the irrevocable past, 
 
 Some Penitent sincere 
 May for a worthier future sigh. 
 While trickles from his downcast eye 
 
 No unavailing tear. 
 
 The Worldling, pining to be freed 
 From turmoil, who would turn or speed 
 
 The current of his fate. 
 Might stop before this favored scene. 
 At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 
 
 Upon the Wishing-gate. 
 
 The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
 Is man, though loth such help to seek, 
 
 Yet, passing, here might pause, 
 And thirst for insight to allay 
 Misgiving, while the crimson day 
 
 In quietness withdraws; 
 
 Or when the church-clock's knell pro- 
 found 
 To Time's first step across the bound 
 
 Of midnight makes reply; 
 Time pressing on with starry crest. 
 To filial sleep upon the breast 
 Of dread eternity. 
 1828. 1829. 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED. 
 
 'T IS gone — with old belief and dream 
 That round it clung, and tempting scheme 
 
 Released from fear and doubt; 
 And the bright landscape too must lie, 
 By this blank wall, from every eye, 
 
 Relentlessly shut out. 
 
A JEWISH FAMILY. 
 
 733 
 
 Bear witness ye who seldom passed 
 That opening — but a look ye cast 
 
 Upon the lake below, 
 What spirit-stirring power it gained 
 From faith which here was entertained, 
 
 Though reason might say no. 
 
 Blest is that ground, where, o'er the 
 
 springs 
 Of history. Glory claps her wings. 
 
 Fame sheds the exulting tear; 
 Vet earth is wide, and many a nook 
 Unheard of is, like this, a book 
 
 For modest meanings dear. 
 
 It was in sooth a happy thought 
 That grafted, on so fair a spot. 
 
 So confident a token 
 Of coming good; — the charm is fled, 
 Indulgent centuries spun a thread. 
 
 Which one harsh day has broken. 
 
 Alas ! for him who gave the word; 
 Could he no sympathy afford, 
 
 Derived from earth or heaven, 
 To hearts so oft by hope betrayed; 
 Their very wishes wanted aid 
 
 Which here was freely given? 
 
 Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound. 
 Will now so readily be found 
 
 A balm of expectation? 
 Anxious for far-off children, where 
 Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air 
 
 Of home-felt consolation? 
 
 And not unfelt will prove the loss 
 'Mid trivial care and petty cross 
 
 And each day's shallow, grief; 
 Though the most easily beguiled 
 Were oft among the first that smiled 
 
 At their own fond belief. 
 
 If still the reckless change we mourn, 
 A reconciling thought may turn 
 
 To harm that might lurk here. 
 Ere judgment prompted from within 
 Fit aims, with courage to begin, 
 
 And strength to persevere. 
 
 Not Fortune's slave is Man: our state 
 Enjoins, while firm resolves await 
 On wishes just and wise. 
 
 That strenuous action follow both. 
 And life be one perpetual growth 
 Of heaven-ward enterprise. 
 
 So taught, so trained, we boldly face 
 All accidents of time and place; 
 
 Whatever props may fail. 
 Trust in that sovereign law can spread 
 New glory o'er the mountain's head. 
 
 Fresh beauty through the vale. 
 
 That truth informing mind and heart, 
 The simplest cottager may part, 
 
 Ungrieved, with charm and spell; 
 And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee 
 The voice of grateful memory 
 
 Shall bid a kind farewell ! ' 
 1828. 1842. 
 
 A JEWISH FAMILY. 
 
 IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR,, 
 UPON THE RHINE. 
 
 Coleridge, my daughter, and I, in 1828, passed 
 a fortnight upon the banks of the Rhine, princi- 
 pally under the hospitable roof of Mr. Aders of 
 Gotesburg, but two days of the time we spent at 
 St. Gear in rambles among the neighboring val- 
 leys. It was at St. Goar that I saw the Jewish 
 family here described. Though exceedingly 
 poor, and in rags, they were not less beautiful 
 than I have endeavored to make tliem appear. 
 We had taken a little dinner with us in a basket, 
 and invited them to partake of it, which the 
 motlier refused to do, both for herself and chil- 
 dren, saying it was with them a fast-day ; adding 
 diffidently, that whether such observances were 
 right or wrong, she felt it her duty to keep them 
 strictly. The Jews, who are numerous on this 
 part of the Rhine, greatly surpass the German 
 peasantry in the beauty of their features and in 
 the intelligence of their countenances. But the 
 lower classes of the German peasantry have, here 
 at least, the air of people grievously opprest. 
 Nursing mothers, at the age of seven or eight and 
 twenty often look haggard and far more decayed 
 and withered than women of Cumberland and 
 Westmoreland twice their age. This comes from 
 being underfed and overworked in their vine- 
 yards in a hot and glaring sun. 
 
 Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings 
 Might bear thee to this glen, 
 1 See Note. 
 
?34 
 
 THE GLEANER. 
 
 With faithful memory left of things 
 
 To pencil dear and pen, 
 Thou would'st forego the neighboring 
 Rhine, 
 
 And all his majesty — 
 A. studious forehead to incline 
 
 O'er this poor family. 
 
 The Mother — her thou must have seen, 
 
 In spirit, ere she came 
 To dwell these rifted rocks between, 
 
 Or found on earth a name; 
 An image, too, of that sweet Boy, 
 
 Thy inspirations give — 
 Of playfulness, and love, and joy, 
 
 Predestined here to live. 
 
 Downcast, or shooting glances far, 
 
 How beautiful his eyes, 
 That blend the nature of the star 
 
 With that of summer skies ! 
 I speak as if of sense beguiled; 
 
 Uncounted months are gone. 
 Yet am I with the Jewish Child, 
 
 That exquisite Saint John. 
 
 I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, 
 
 The smooth transparent skin. 
 Refined, as with intent to show 
 
 The holiness within; 
 The grace of parting Infancy 
 
 By blushes yet untamed; 
 Age faithful to the mother's knee, 
 
 Nor of her arms ashamed. 
 
 Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet 
 
 As flowers, stand side by side; 
 Their soul-subduing looks might cheat 
 
 The Christian of his pride : 
 Such beauty hath the Eternal poured 
 
 Upon them not forlorn. 
 Though of a lineage once abhorred. 
 
 Nor yet redeemed from scorn. 
 
 Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite 
 
 Of poverty and wrong, 
 Doth here preserve a living light, 
 
 From Hebrew fountains sprung; 
 That gives this ragged group to cast 
 
 Around the dell a gleam 
 Of Palestine, of glory past. 
 
 And proud Jerusalem ! 
 
 1828. 1835. 
 
 THE GLEANER., 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE. 
 
 This poem was first printed in the Annual 
 called the Keepsake. The painter's name I am 
 not sure of, but I tliink it was Holmes. 
 
 That happy gleam of vernal eyes. 
 Those locks from summer's golden skies, 
 
 That o'er thy brow are shed; 
 That cheek — a kindling of the morn. 
 That lip — a rosebud from the thorn, 
 
 I saw; and Fancy sped 
 To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through 
 
 soft air, 
 Of bliss that grows without a care. 
 And happiness that never flies — 
 (How can it where love never dies?) 
 Whispering of promise, where no blight 
 Can reach the innocent delight; 
 Where pity, to the mind conveyed 
 In pleasure, is the darkest shade 
 That Time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings 
 From his smoothly gliding wings. 
 
 What mortal form, what earthly face 
 Inspired the pencil, lines to trace. 
 And mingle colors, that should breed 
 Such rapture, nor want power to feed; 
 For had thy charge been idle flowers, 
 Fair Damsel ! o'er my captive mind. 
 To truth and sober reason blind, 
 'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers, 
 The sweet illusion might have hung, for 
 hours. 
 
 Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn. 
 That touchingly bespeaks thee born 
 Life's daily tasks with them to share 
 Who, whether from their lowly bed 
 They rise, or rest the weary head. 
 Ponder the blessing they entreat 
 From Heaven, and y^^/ what they repeat. 
 While they give utterance to the prayer 
 That asks for daily bread. 
 
 iS'28. 1829. 
 
 ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. I have often re- 
 gretted that my tour in Ireland, chiefly performed 
 in the short days of October in a Carriage-aud- 
 four (I was with Mr. Marshall), supplied my 
 memory with so few images that were new, and 
 
ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 735 
 
 with so little motive to write. Tlie lines however 
 in this poem, " Thou too be heard, lone eagle 1 " 
 were suggested near the Giant's Causeway, or 
 rather at the promontory of Fairliead, where a 
 pair of eagles wheeled above our heads and darted 
 off as if to hide themselves in a blaze of sky made 
 by the setting sun. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Ear addressed, as occupied by a spiritual 
 functionary, in communion with sounds, indi- 
 vidual, or combined in studied harmony — Sources 
 and effects of those sounds (to the close of 6th 
 Stanza) — The power of music, whence proceed- 
 ing, exemplified in the idiot — Origin of music, 
 and its effect in early ages — How produced (to the 
 middle of tenth Stanza) — The mind recalled to 
 sounds acting casually and severally — Wish 
 uttered (nth Stanza) that these could be united 
 into a scheme or system for moral interests and 
 intellectual contemplation — (Stanza I2th) The 
 Pythagorean theory of numbers and music, with 
 their supposed power over the motions of the 
 universe — Imaginations consonant with such a 
 theory — Wish expressed (in nth Stanza) realized, 
 in some degree, by the representation of all sounds 
 under the form of thanksgiving to the Creator — 
 (Last Stanza) the destruction of earth and the 
 planetary system — The survival of audible har- 
 mony, and its support in the Divine Nature, as 
 revealed in Holy Writ. 
 
 Thy functions are ethereal, 
 As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, 
 Organ of vision ! And a Spirit aerial 
 Informs the cell of Hearing, dark and 
 
 blind; 
 Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 
 To enter than oracular cave; 
 Strict passage, through which sighs are 
 
 brought, 
 And whispers for the heart, their slave; 
 And shrieks, that revel in abuse 
 Of shivering flesh; and warbled air. 
 Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
 The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 
 Into the ambush of despair; 
 Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn 
 
 aisle, 
 And requiems answered by the pulse that 
 
 beats 
 Devoutly, in life's last retreats ! 
 
 The headlong streams and fountains 
 Serve Thee, invisible Spirit, with untired 
 
 powers; 
 Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian 
 
 mountains, 
 They lull perchance ten thousand thousand 
 
 flowers. 
 Thatxo&x, the prowling lion's Here I am. 
 How fearful to the desert wide ! 
 That bleat, how tender ! of the dam 
 Calling a straggler to her side. 
 Shout, cuckoo ! — let the vernal soul 
 Go with thee to the frozen zone; 
 Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell- 
 bird, toll! 
 At the still hour to Mercy dear, 
 Mercy from her twilight throne 
 Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear, 
 To sailor's prayer breathed from a darken- 
 ing sea. 
 Or widow's cottage-lullaby. 
 
 Ye Voices, and ye Shadows 
 
 And Images of voice — to hound and horn 
 
 From rocky steep and rock-bestudded 
 
 meadows 
 Flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves, 
 
 reborn — 
 On with your pastime ! till the church- 
 tower bells 
 A greeting give of measured glee; 
 And milder echoes from their cells 
 Repeat the bridal symphony. 
 Then, or far earlier, let us rove 
 Where mists are breaking up or gone, 
 And from aloft look down into a cove 
 Besprinkled with a careless quire, 
 Happy milk-maids, one by one 
 Scattering a ditty each to her desire, 
 A liquid concert matchless by nice Art, 
 A stream as if from one full heart. 
 
 Blest be the song that brightens 
 
 The blind man's gloom, exalts the vet- 
 eran's mirth; 
 
 Unscorned the peasant's whistling breath, 
 that lightens 
 
 His duteous toil of furrowing the green 
 earth. 
 
736 
 
 ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 For the tired slave, Song lifts the languid 
 
 oar, 
 And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
 That beautifies the fairest shore. 
 And mitigates the harshest clime. 
 Von pilgrims see — in lagging file 
 They move; but soon the appointed way 
 A choral Ave Marie shall beguile. 
 And to their hope the distant shrine 
 Glisten with a livelier ray: 
 Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine. 
 Who from the well-spring of his own clear 
 
 breast 
 Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 
 
 When civic renovation 
 Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
 Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration 
 Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 
 Piping through cave and battlemented 
 
 tower; 
 Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 
 That voice of Freedom, in its power 
 Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet ! 
 Who, from a martial pageant, spreads 
 Incitements of a battle-day. 
 Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with 
 
 plumeless heads? — 
 Even She whose Lydian airs inspire 
 Peaceful striving, gentle play 
 Of timid hope and innocent desire 
 Shot from the dancing Graces, as they 
 
 move 
 Fanned by the plausive wings of Love. 
 
 How oft along thy mazes. 
 
 Regent of sound, have dangerous Passions 
 
 trod! 
 O Thou, through whom the temple rings 
 
 with praises. 
 And blackening clouds in thunder speak 
 
 of God, 
 Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
 Thy votaries, wooingly resigned 
 To a voluptuous influence 
 That taints the purer, better, mind; 
 But lead sick Fancy to a harp 
 That hath in noble tasks been tried; 
 And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp. 
 Soothe it into patience, — stay 
 The uplifted arm of Suicide; 
 
 And let some mood of thine in firm array 
 Knit every thought the impending issue 
 
 needs, 
 Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds ! 
 
 As Conscience, to the centre 
 Of being, smites with irresistible pain 
 So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 
 The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain. 
 Transmute him to a wretch from quiet 
 
 hurled — 
 Convulsed as by a jarring din; 
 And then aghast, as at the world 
 Of reason partially let in 
 By concords winding with a sway 
 Terrible for sense and soul ! 
 Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell 
 
 dismay. 
 Point not these mysteries to an Art 
 Lodged above the starry pole; 
 Pure modulations flowing from the heart 
 Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, 
 
 Truth 
 With Order dwell, in endless youth? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oblivion may not cover 
 All treasures hoarded by the miser. Time. 
 Orphean Insight ! truth's undaunted lover, 
 To the first leagues of tutored passion 
 
 climb. 
 When Music deigned within this grosser 
 
 sphere 
 Her subtle essence to enfold. 
 And voice and shell drew forth a tear 
 Softer than Nature's self could mould. 
 Yet strenuous was the infant Age : 
 Art, daring because souls could feel. 
 Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage 
 Of rapt imagination sped her march 
 Through the realms of woe and weal : 
 Hell to the lyre bowed low; the upper arch 
 Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic 
 
 verse 
 Her wan disasters could disperse. 
 
 The Gift to king Amphion 
 
 That walled a city with its melody 
 
 Was for belief no dream : — thy skill, 
 
 Arion ! 
 Could humanize the creatures of the sea, 
 
ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 737 
 
 Where men were monsters. A last grace 
 
 he craves, 
 Leave for one chant ; — the dulcet sound 
 Steals from the deck o'er willing waves, 
 And listening dolphins gather round. 
 Self-cast, as with a desperate course, 
 'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 
 A proud One docile as a managed horse; 
 And singing, while the accordant hand 
 Sweeps his harp, the Master rides; 
 So shall he touch at length a friendly 
 
 strand. 
 And he, with his preserver, shine star- 
 bright 
 In memory, through silent night. 
 
 The pipe of Pan, to shepherds 
 Couchedin the shadow of IVtsenalian pines. 
 Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the 
 
 leopards. 
 That in high triumph drew the Lord of 
 
 vines. 
 How did they sparkle to the cymbal's 
 
 clang ! 
 While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground 
 In cadence, — and Silenus swang 
 This way and that, with wild-flowers 
 
 crowned. 
 To life, to life give back thine ear : 
 Ye who are longing to be rid 
 Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear 
 The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 
 Echoed from the coffin-lid; 
 The convict's summons in the steeple's 
 
 knell; 
 "The vain distress-gun," from a leeward 
 
 shore. 
 Repeated — heard, and heard no more ! 
 
 For terror, joy, or pity. 
 
 Vast is the compass and the swell of notes : 
 
 From the babe's first cry to voice of regal 
 
 city. 
 Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 
 Far as the woodlands — with the trill to 
 
 blend 
 Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale 
 Might tempt an angel to descend, 
 While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. 
 Ve wandering Utterances, has earth no 
 
 scheme, 
 
 No scale of moral music — to unite 
 Powers that survive but in the faintest 
 
 dream 
 Of memory ? — O that ye might stoop to 
 
 bear 
 Chains, such precious chains of sight 
 As labored minstrelsies through ages wear ! 
 O for a balance fit the truth to tell 
 Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 By one pervading spirit 
 
 Of tones and numbers all things are con- 
 trolled. 
 
 As sages taught, where faith was found to 
 merit 
 
 Initiation in that mystery old. 
 
 The heavens, whose aspect makes our 
 minds as still 
 
 As they themselves appear to be. 
 
 Innumerable voices fill 
 
 With everlasting harmony; 
 
 The towering headlands, crowned with 
 mist. 
 
 Their feet among the billows, know 
 
 That Ocean is a mighty harmonist; 
 
 Thy pinions, universal Air, 
 
 Ever waving to and fro, 
 
 Are delegates of harmony, and bear 
 
 Strains that support the Seasons in their 
 round; 
 
 Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. 
 
 XIII. 
 Break forth into thanksgiving. 
 Ye banded instruments of wind and chords 
 Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 
 Your inarticulate notes with the voice of 
 
 words ! 
 Nor hushed be service from the lowing 
 
 mead, 
 Nor mute the forest hum of noon; 
 Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 
 From snowy peak and cloud, attune 
 Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 
 Of joy, that from her utmost walls 
 The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim 
 Transmits to Heaven ! As deep to Deep 
 Shouting through one valley calls, 
 All worlds, all natures, mood and meas- 
 ure keep 
 
738 
 
 INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 
 
 For praise and ceaseless gratulation, 
 
 poured 
 Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A Voice to Light gave Being; 
 
 To Time, and Man, his earth-born 
 chronicler; 
 
 A Voice shall finish doubt and dim fore- 
 seeing. 
 
 And sweep away life's visionary stir; 
 
 The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride, 
 
 Arm at its blast for deadly wars) 
 
 To archangelic lips applied, 
 
 The grave shall open, quench the stars. 
 
 O Silence ! are Man's noisy years 
 
 No more than moments of thy life? 
 
 Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and 
 tears. 
 
 With her smooth tones and discords just. 
 
 Tempered into rapturous strife, 
 
 Thy destined bond-slave ? No ! though 
 earth be dust 
 
 And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, 
 her stay 
 
 Is in the Word, that shall not pass away. 
 December, 1828. 1835. 
 
 INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 
 
 This occurred at Brugfe in 1828. Mr. Cole- 
 ridge, my Daughter, and I made a tour together 
 in Flanders, upon the Rhine, and returned by 
 Holland. Dora and I, while taking a walk along 
 a retired part of the town, heard the voice as here 
 described, and were afterwards informed it was a 
 Convent in which were many English. We were 
 both much touched, I might say affected, and 
 Dora moved as appears in the verses. 
 
 In Brugis town is many a street 
 
 Whence busy life hath fled; 
 Where, without hurry, noiseless feet 
 
 The grass-grown pavement tread. 
 There heard we, halting in the shade 
 
 Flung from a Convent-tower, 
 A harp that tuneful prelude made 
 
 To a voice of thrilling power. 
 
 The measure, simple truth to tell. 
 Was fit for some gay throng; 
 
 Though from the same grim turret fell 
 The shadow and the song. 
 
 When silent were both voice and chords. 
 The strain seemed doubly dear. 
 
 Yet sad as sweet, — for English words 
 Had fallen upon the ear. 
 
 It was a breezy hour of eve ; 
 
 And pinnacle and spire 
 Quivered and seemed almost to heave. 
 
 Clothed with innocuous fire; 
 But, where we stood, the setting sun 
 
 Showed little of his state; 
 And, if the glory reached the Nun, 
 
 'T was through an iron grate. 
 
 Not always is the heart unwise. 
 
 Nor pity idly born. 
 If even a passing Stranger sighs 
 
 For them who do not mourn. 
 Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 
 
 Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 
 Oh ! what is beauty, what is love, 
 
 And opening life to thee? 
 
 Such feeling pressed upon my soul, 
 
 A feeling sanctified 
 By one soft trickling tear that stole 
 
 From the Maiden at my side; 
 Less tribute could she pay than this, 
 
 Borne gayly o'er the sea. 
 Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 
 
 Of English liberty? 
 
 1828. 1835. 
 
 GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN 
 A VASE. 
 
 They were a present from Miss Jewsbury, of 
 whom mention is made in the note at the end of 
 the next poem. The fish were healthy to all ap- 
 pearance in their confinement for a long time, but 
 at last, for some cause we could not make out, 
 they languished, and, one of them being all but 
 dead, they were taken to the pool under the old 
 Pollard-oak. The apparently dying, one lay on 
 its side unable to move. I used to watch it, and 
 about the tenth day it began to right itself, and 
 in a few days more was able to swim about with 
 its companions. For many months they con- 
 tinued to prosper in their new place of abode, 
 but one night by an unusually great flood they 
 were swept out of the pool, and perished to our 
 great regret. 
 
 The soaring lark is blest as proud 
 When at heaven's gate she sings; 
 
LIBERTY. 
 
 739 
 
 The roving bee proclaims aloud 
 
 Her flight by vocal wings; 
 While Ye, in lasting durance pent, 
 
 Your silent lives employ 
 For something more than dull content. 
 
 Though haply less than joy. 
 
 Yet might your glassy prison seem 
 
 A place where joy is known. 
 Where golden flash and silver gleam 
 
 Have meanings of their own; 
 While, high and low, and all about. 
 
 Your motions, glittering Elves ! 
 Ye weave — no danger from without. 
 
 And peace among yourselves. 
 
 Type of a sunny human breast 
 
 Is your transparent cell; 
 Where Fear is but a transient guest, 
 
 No sullen Humors dwell; 
 Where, sensitive of every ray 
 
 That smites this tiny sea. 
 Your scaly panoplies repay 
 
 The loan with usury. 
 
 How beautiful ! — Yet none knows why 
 
 This ever-graceful change. 
 Renewed — renewed incessantly — 
 
 Within your quiet range. 
 Is it that ye with conscious skill 
 
 For mutual pleasure glid^; 
 And sometimes, not without your will, 
 
 Are dwarfed, or magnified? 
 
 Fays, Genii of gigantic size ! 
 
 And now, in twilight dim. 
 Clustering like constellated eyes, 
 
 In wings of Cherubim, 
 When the fierce orbs abate their glare; — 
 
 Whate'er your forms express, 
 Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are — 
 
 All leads to gentleness. 
 
 Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure; 
 
 Your birthright is a fence 
 From all that haughtier kinds endure 
 
 Through tyranny of sense. 
 Ah ! not alone by colors bright 
 
 Are Ye to heaven allied, 
 When, like essential Forms of light, 
 
 Ye mingle, or divide. 
 
 For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled 
 
 Day-thoughts while limbs repose; 
 For moonlight fascinations mild. 
 
 Your gift, ere shutters close — 
 Accept, mute Captives ! thanks and 
 praise; 
 
 And may this tribute prove 
 That gentle admirations raise, 
 
 Delight resembling love. 
 
 1829. 1835. 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 (sequel to the above.) 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ; THE GOLD AND SILVER 
 FISHES HAVING BEEN REMOVED TO A POOL IN 
 THE PLEASURE-GROUND OF RYDAL MOUNT. 
 
 " The liberty of a people consists in being 
 governed by laws which they have made for 
 themselves, under whatever form it be of govern- 
 ment. The liberty of a private man, in being 
 master of his own time and actions, as far as may 
 consist with the laws of God and of his country. 
 Of this latter we are here to discourse." — 
 
 COWLEV. 
 
 Those breathing Tokens of your kind 
 
 regard, 
 (Suspect not, Anna, that their fate is 
 
 hard; 
 Not soon does aught to which mild 
 
 fancies cling 
 In lonely spots, become a slighted thing; ) 
 Those silent Inmates now no longer share, 
 Nor do they need, our hospitable care, 
 Removed in kindness from their glassy 
 
 Cell 
 To the fresh waters of a living Well — 
 An elfin pool so sheltered that its rest 
 No winds disturb; the mirror of whose 
 
 breast 
 Is smooth as clear, save where with 
 
 dimples small 
 A fly may settle, or a blossom fall. 
 — There swims, of blazing sun and beat- 
 ing shower 
 Fearless (but how obscured !) the golden 
 
 Power, 
 That from his bauble prison used to cast 
 Gleams by the richest jewel unsurpast; 
 And near him, darkling like a sullen 
 
 Gnome, 
 The silver Tenant of the crystal dome; 
 
740 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 Dissevered both from all the mysteries 
 Of hue and altering shape that charmed 
 
 all eyes. 
 Alas ! they pined, they languished while 
 
 they shone; 
 And, if not so, what matters beauty 
 
 gone 
 And admiration lost, by change of place 
 That brings to the inward creature no 
 
 disgrace ? 
 But if the change restore his birthright, 
 
 then, 
 Whate'er the difference, boundless is the 
 
 gain. 
 Who can divine what impulses from God 
 Reach the caged lark, within a town- 
 abode, 
 From his poor inch or two of daisied sod? 
 
 yield him back his privilege ! — No sea 
 Swells like the bosom of a man set free; 
 A wilderness is rich with liberty. 
 
 Roll on, ye spouting whales, who die or 
 keep 
 
 Your independence in the fathomless 
 Deep ! 
 
 Spread, tiny nautilus, the living sail; 
 
 Dive, at thy choice, or brave the freshen- 
 ing gale ! 
 
 If unreproved the ambitious eagle mount 
 
 Sunward to seek the daylight in its fount, 
 
 Bays, gulfs, and ocean's Indian width, 
 shall be, 
 
 Till the world perishes, a field for thee ! 
 While musing here I sit in shadow cool. 
 
 And watch these mute Companions, in 
 the pool, 
 
 (Among reflected boughs of leafy trees) 
 
 By glimpses caught — disporting at their 
 ease. 
 
 Enlivened, braced, by hardy luxuries, 
 
 1 ask what warrant fixed them (like a 
 
 spell 
 
 Of witchcraft fixed them) in the crystal 
 cell; 
 
 To wheel with languid motion round and 
 round, 
 
 Beautiful, yet in mournful durance bound. 
 
 Their peace, perhaps, our lightest foot- 
 fall marred; 
 
 On their quick sense our sweetest music 
 jarred; 
 
 And whither could they dart, if seized 
 with fear? 
 
 No sheltering stone, no tangled root was 
 
 near. 
 When fire or taper ceased to cheer the 
 
 room. 
 They wore away the night in starless 
 
 gloom ; 
 And, when the sun first dawned upon 
 
 the streams, 
 How faint their portion of his vital 
 
 beams ! 
 Thus, and unable to complain, they fared, 
 While not one joy of ours by them was 
 
 shared. 
 Is there a cherished bird (I venture now 
 To snatch a sprig from Chaucer's rev- 
 erend brow) — 
 Is there a brilliant fondling of the cage. 
 Though sure of plaudits on his costly 
 
 stage. 
 Though fed with dainties from the snow- 
 white hand 
 Of a kind mistress, fairest of the land. 
 But gladly would escape; and, if need 
 
 were. 
 Scatter the colors from the plumes that 
 
 bear 
 The emancipated captive through blithe 
 
 air 
 Into strange woods, where he at large 
 
 may live 
 On best or worst which they and Nature 
 
 give? 
 The beetle loves his unpretending track, 
 The snail the house he carries on his back ; 
 The far-fetched worm with pleasure would 
 
 disown 
 The bed we give him, though of softest 
 
 down; 
 A noble instinct ; in all kinds the same. 
 All ranks ! What Sovereign, worthy of 
 
 the name. 
 If doomed to breathe against his lawful 
 
 will 
 An element that flatters him — to kill. 
 But would rejoice to barter outward show 
 For the least boon that freedom can be- 
 stow? 
 But most the Bard is true to inborn right, 
 Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night. 
 Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch 
 For the dear blessings of a lowly couch, 
 A natural meal — days, months, from 
 
 Nature's hand; 
 
LIBERTY. 
 
 741 
 
 Time, place, and business, all at his com- 
 mand ! — 
 Who bends to happier duties, who more 
 
 wise 
 Than the industrious Poet, taught to prize. 
 Above all grandeur, a pure life uncrossed 
 By cares in which simplicity is lost? 
 That life — the flowery path that winds 
 
 by stealth — 
 Which Horace needed for his spirit's 
 
 health; 
 jighed for, in heart and genius, overcome 
 5y noise and strife, and questions weari- 
 some, 
 A.nd the vain splendors of Imperial 
 
 Rome ? — 
 Let easy mirth his social hours inspire. 
 And fiction animate his sportive lyre, 
 Attuned to verse that, crowning light Dis- 
 tress 
 With garlands, cheats her into happiness; 
 Give im the humblest note of those sad 
 
 strains 
 Drawn forth by pressure of his gilded 
 
 chains. 
 As a chance-sunbeam from his memory 
 
 fell 
 Upon the Sabine farm he loved so well; 
 Or when the prattle of Blandusia's spring 
 Haunted his ear — he only listening — 
 He, proud to please, above all rivals, fit 
 To win the palm of gayety and wit; 
 He, doubt not, with involuntary dread. 
 Shrinking from each new favor to be shed, 
 By the world's Ruler, on his honored 
 head ! 
 In a deep vision's intellectual scene. 
 Such earnest longings and regrets as keen 
 Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid 
 Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless 
 
 shade ; 
 A doleful bower for penitential song. 
 Where Man and Muse complained of 
 
 mutual wrong; 
 While Cam's ideal current glided by. 
 And antique towers nodded their fore- 
 heads high, 
 Citadels dear to studious privacy. 
 But Fortune, who had long been used to 
 
 sport 
 With this tried Servant of a thankless 
 
 Court, 
 Relenting met his wishes; and to you 
 
 The remnant of his days at least was true; 
 You, whom, though long deserted, he 
 
 loved best; 
 You, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and 
 
 rest ! 
 Far happier they who, fixing hope and 
 
 aim 
 On the humanities of peaceful fame, 
 Enter betimes with more than martial fire 
 The generous course, aspire, and still 
 
 aspire ; 
 Upheld by warnings heeded not too late 
 Stifle the contradictions of their fate, 
 And to one purpose cleave, their Being's 
 
 godlike mate ! 
 Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid 
 
 brow 
 That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy 
 
 vow; 
 With modest scorn reject whate'er would 
 
 blind 
 The ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged 
 
 mind ! 
 Then, with a blessing granted from above 
 To every act, word, thought, and look of 
 
 love. 
 Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, 
 
 till age 
 Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest 
 
 page.- 
 
 1825. 
 
 1835- 
 
 1 There is now, alas! no possibility of the 
 anticipation, with which the above Epistle con- 
 cludes, being realized : nor were the verses ever 
 seen by the Individual for whom they were in- 
 tended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. 
 Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at 
 the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her 
 way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented 
 by all who knew her. 
 
 Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety stead- 
 fast ; and her great talents would have enabled 
 her to be eminently useful in the difficult path of 
 life to which she had been called. The opinion 
 she entertained of her own performances, given 
 to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, 
 was modest and humble, and, indeed, far below 
 their merits ; as is often the case with those who 
 are making trial of their powers, with a hope to 
 discover what they are best fitted for. In one 
 quality, viz. quickness in the motions of her mind, 
 she had, within the range of the Author's acquaint- 
 ance, no equal. 
 
742 
 
 HUMANITY. 
 
 HUMANITY. 
 
 These verses and those entitled "Liberty" 
 were composed as one piece, which Mrs. Words- 
 worth complained of as unwieldly arid ill-propor- 
 tioned; and accordingly it was divided into two 
 on her judicious recommendation. 
 
 The Rocking-stones, alluded to in the beginning 
 of the following verses, are supposed to have been 
 used, by our British ancestors, both for judicial 
 and religious purposes. Such stones are not 
 uncommonly found, at this day, both in Great 
 Britain and in Ireland. 
 
 What though the Accused, upon his own 
 
 appeal 
 To righteous Gods when man has ceased 
 
 to feel, 
 Or at a doubting Judge's stern command, 
 Before the Stone of Power no longer 
 
 stand — 
 To take his sentence from the balanced 
 
 Block, 
 As, at his touch, it rocks, or seems to 
 
 rock; 
 Though, in the depths of sunless groves, 
 
 no more 
 The Druid-priest the hallowed Oak adore; 
 Yet, for the Initiate, rocks and whisper- 
 ing trees 
 Do still perform mysterious offices ! 
 And functions dwell in beast and bird that 
 
 sway 
 The reasoning mind, or with the fancy 
 
 play, 
 Inviting, at all seasons, ears and eyes 
 To watch for undelusive auguries : — 
 Not uninspired appear their simplest 
 
 ways; 
 Their voices mount symbolical of praise — 
 To mix with hymns that Spirits make and 
 
 hear; 
 And to fallen man their innocence is dear. 
 Enraptured Art draws from those sacred 
 
 springs 
 Streams that reflect the poetry of things ! 
 Where christian Martyrs stand in hues 
 
 portrayed, 
 That, might a wish avail, would never 
 
 fade; 
 Borne in their hands the lily and the palm 
 Shed round the altar a celestial calm; 
 
 There, too, behold the lamb and guileless 
 
 dove 
 Prest in the tenderness of virgin love 
 To saintly bosoms ! — Glorious is the 
 
 blending 
 Of right affections climbing or descending 
 Along a scale of light and life, with cares 
 Alternate; carrying holy thoughts and 
 
 prayers 
 Up to the sovereign seat of the Most 
 
 High; 
 Descending to the worm in charity; ' 
 Like those good Angels whom a dream of 
 
 night 
 Gave, in the field of Luz, to Jacob's sight 
 All, while he slept, treading the pendent 
 
 stairs 
 Earthward or heavenward, radiant mes- 
 sengers. 
 That, with a perfect will in one accord 
 Of strict obedience, serve the Almighty 
 
 Lord; 
 And with untired humifity forbore 
 To speed their errand by the wings they 
 
 wore. 
 What a fair world were ours for verse 
 
 to paint. 
 If Power could live at ease with self-re- 
 straint ! 
 Opinion bow before the naked sense 
 Of the great Vision , — faith in Providence; 
 Merciful over all his creatures, just 
 To the least particle of sentient dust ; 
 But, fixing by immutable decrees, 
 Seedtime and harvest for his purposes ! 
 Then would be closed the restless oblique 
 
 eye 
 That looks for evil like a treacherous spy; 
 Disputes would then relax, like stormy 
 
 winds 
 That into breezes sink; impetuous minds 
 By discipline endeavor to grow meek 
 As Truth herself, whom they profess to 
 
 seek. 
 Then Genius, shunning fellowship with 
 
 Pride, 
 Would braid his golden locks at Wisdom's 
 
 side ; 
 Love ebb and flow untroubled by caprice; 
 And not alone /inrj/z tyranny would cease, 
 But unoffending creatures find release 
 From qualified oppression, whose defence 
 1 See Note. 
 
"THIS LAWN, A CARPET ALL ALIVE." 
 
 743 
 
 Rests on a hollow plea of recompense; 
 Thought-tempered wrongs, for each hu- 
 mane respect 
 Oft worse to bear, or deadlier in effect. 
 Witness those glances of indignant scorn 
 From some high-minded Slave, impelled 
 
 to spurn 
 The kindness that would make him less 
 
 forlorn; 
 Or, if the soul to bondage be subdued. 
 His look of pitiable gratitude ! 
 
 Alas for thee, bright Galaxy of Isles, 
 Whose day departs in pomp, returns with 
 
 smiles — 
 To greet the flowers and fruitage of a land, 
 As the sua mounts, by sea-born breezes 
 
 fanned; 
 A land whose azure mountain-tops are 
 
 seats 
 For Gods in council, whose green vales, 
 
 retreats 
 Fit for the shades of heroes, mingling there 
 To breathe Elysian peace in upper air. 
 Though cold as winter, gloomy as the 
 
 grave, 
 Stone-walls a prisoner make, but not a 
 
 slave. 
 Shall man assume a property in man? 
 Lay on the moral will a withering ban ? 
 Shame that our laws at distance still pro- 
 tect 
 Enormities, which they at home reject ! 
 "Slaves cannot breathe in England" — 
 
 yet that boast 
 Is but a mockery ! when from coast to 
 
 coast. 
 Though yJ^/^re^/ slave be none, her floors 
 
 and soil 
 Groan underneath a weight of slavish toil, 
 For the poor Many, measured out by rules 
 Fetched with cupidity from heartless 
 
 schools, 
 That to an Idol, falsely called "the 
 
 Wealth 
 Of Nations," sacrifice a People's health, 
 Body and mind and soul; a thirst so keen 
 Is ever urging on the vast machine 
 Of sleepless Labor, 'mid whose dizzy 
 
 wheels 
 The Power least prized "is that which 
 
 thinks and feels. 
 Then, for the pastimes of this delicate 
 
 age, 
 
 And all the heavy or light vassalage 
 Which for their sakes we fasten, as "nay 
 
 suit 
 Our varying moods, on human kind or 
 
 brute, 
 'T were well in little, as in great, to pause, 
 Lest Fancy trifle with eternal laws. 
 Not from his fellows only man may learn 
 Rights to compare and duties to discern ! 
 All creatures and all objects, in degree. 
 Are friends and patrons of humanity. 
 There are to whom the garden, grove, 
 
 and field. 
 Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield; 
 Who would not lightly violate the grace 
 The lowliest flower possesses in its place; 
 Nor shorten the sweet life, too fugitive. 
 Which nothing less than Infinite Power 
 
 could give. 
 
 1829. 
 
 1835. 
 
 "THIS LAWN, A CARPET ALL 
 ALIVE." 
 
 This Lawn is the sloping one approaching the 
 kitchen-garden, and was made out of it. Hun- 
 dreds of times have I watched the dancing of 
 shadows amid a press of sunshine, and other 
 beautiful appearances of light and shade, flowers 
 and shrubs. What a contrast between this and 
 the cabbages and onions and carrots that used to 
 grow there on a piece of ugly-shaped unsightly 
 ground 1 No reflection, however, either upon 
 cabbages or onions; the latter we know were 
 worshipped by the Egyptians, and he must have 
 a poor eye for beauty who has not observed how 
 much of it there is in the form and color which 
 cabbages and plants of that genius exhibit through 
 the various stages of their growth and decay. A 
 richer display of color in vegetable nature can 
 scarcely be conceived than Coleridge, my Sister, 
 and I saw in a bed of potato-plants in blossom 
 near a hut upon the moor between Inversneyd 
 and Loch Katrine. Theseblossoms were of such 
 extraordinary beauty and richness that no one 
 could have passed them without notice. But the 
 sense must be cultivated through the mind before 
 we can perceive these inexhaustible treasures of 
 Nature, for such they really are, without the 
 least necessary reference to the utility of her 
 productions, or even to the laws whereupon, as 
 we learn by research, they are dependent. Some 
 are of opinion that the habit of analyzing, de- 
 composing, and anatomizing is inevitably un- 
 favorable to the perception of beauty. People 
 
744 
 
 THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. 
 
 are led into this mistake by overlooking the fact 
 that such processes being to a certain extent 
 within the reach of a limited intellect, we are apt 
 to ascribe to them that insensibility of which 
 they are in truth the effect and not the cause. 
 Admiration and love, to which all knowledge 
 truly vital must tend, are felt by men of real 
 genius in proportion as their discoveries in natural 
 Philosophy are enlarged ; and the beauty in form 
 of a plant or an animal is not made less but 
 more apparent as a whole by more accurate 
 insight into its constituent properties and powers. 
 A Savant who is not also a poet in soul and 
 a. religionist in heart is a feeble and unhappy 
 creature. 
 
 This Lawn, a carpet all alive 
 With shadows flung from leaves — -to 
 strive 
 
 In dance, amid a press 
 Of sunshine, an apt emblem yields 
 Of Worldlings revelling in the fields 
 
 Of strenuous idleness; 
 
 Less quick the stir when tide and breeze 
 Encounter, and to narrow seas 
 
 Forbid a moment's rest; 
 The medley less when boreal Lights 
 Glance to and fro, like aery Sprites 
 
 To feats of arms addrest ! 
 
 Yet, spite of all this eager strife, 
 This ceaseless play, the genuine life 
 
 That serves the steadfast hours. 
 Is in the grass beneath, that grows 
 Unheeded, and the mute repose 
 
 Of sweetly-breathing flowers. 
 
 1829. 1835. 
 
 THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. 
 Written at Rydal Mount. 
 
 Flattered with promise of escape 
 
 From every hurtful blast. 
 Spring takes, O sprightly May ! thy shape. 
 
 Her loveliest and her last. 
 
 Less fair is summer riding high 
 
 In fierce solstitial power, 
 Less fair than when a lenient sky 
 
 Brings on her parting hour. 
 
 When earth repays with golden sheaves 
 
 The labors of the plough, 
 And ripening fruits and forest leaves 
 
 All brighten on the bough; 
 
 What pensive beauty autumn shows, 
 
 Before she hears the sound 
 Of winter rushing in, to close 
 
 The emblematic round ! 
 
 Such be our Spring, our Summer such; 
 
 So may our Autumn blend 
 With hoary Winter, and Life touch, 
 
 Through heaven-born hope, her end ! 
 
 1829. 1835. 
 
 A GRAVESTONE UPON THE 
 FLOOR IN THE CLOISTERS OF 
 WORCESTER CATHEDRAL. 
 
 " Miserrimus." Many conjectures have been 
 formed as to the person who lies under this stone. 
 Nothing appears to be known for a certainty. 
 Query — The Rev. Mr. Morris, a nonconformist, 
 a sufferer for conscience-sake ; a worthy man 
 who, having been deprived of his benefice after 
 the accession of William III., lived to an old age 
 in extreme destitution, on the alms of charitable 
 Jacobites. 
 
 ^^ Miserriinus,^^ and neither name nor 
 
 date, 
 Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the 
 
 stone; 
 Nought but that word assigned to the 
 
 unknown, 
 That solitary word — to separate 
 From all, and cast a cloud around the fate 
 Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched 
 
 one, 
 Whot^ost his epitaph? — Himself alone 
 Could thus have dared the grave to agitate. 
 And claim, among the dead, this awful 
 
 crown; 
 Nor doubt that He marked also for his 
 
 own 
 Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place. 
 That every foot might fall with heavier 
 
 tread. 
 Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, 
 
 pass 
 Softly ! — To save the contrite, Jesus bled. 
 1829. 1829. 
 
THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 
 
 745 
 
 A TRADITION OF OKER HILL IN 
 
 DARLEY DALE, DERBYSHIRE. 
 
 This pleasing tradition was told me by the 
 coachman at whose side I sate while he drove 
 down the dale, he pointing to the trees on the 
 hill as he related the story. 
 
 'T IS said that to the brow of yon fair hill 
 Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face 
 
 from face, 
 Nor one look more exchanging, grief to 
 
 still 
 Or feed, each planted on that lofty place 
 A chosen Tree; then, eager to fulfil 
 Their courses, like two new-born rivers, 
 
 they 
 In opposite directions urged their way 
 Down from the far-seen mount. No 
 
 blast might kill 
 Or blight that fond memorial; — the trees 
 
 grew. 
 And now entwine their arms; but ne'er 
 
 again 
 Embraced those Brothers upon earth's 
 
 wide plain; 
 Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew 
 Until their spirits mingled in the sea 
 That to itself takes all, Eternity. 
 
 iSag. 1829. 
 
 THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. 
 
 The subject of the following poem is from the 
 Orlandus of the author's friend, Kenelm Henry 
 Digby : and the liberty is taken of inscribing it 
 to him as an acknowledgment, however unworthy, 
 of pleasure and instruction derived from his 
 numerous and valuable writings, illustrative of 
 the piety and chivalry of the olden time. 
 
 I. 
 You have heard "a Spanish Lady 
 
 How she wooed an English man; " ^ 
 Hear now of a fair Armenian, 
 Daughter of the proud Soldan; 
 How she loved a Christian slave, and 
 
 told her pain 
 By word, look, deed, with hope that he 
 might love again. 
 
 ' See, in Percy's Reliques, that fine old ballad, 
 ■' The Spanish Lady's Love ; " from which Poem 
 the form of stanza, as suitable to dialogue, is 
 adopted. 
 
 "Pluck that rose, it moves my liking, ' ' 
 
 Said she, lifting up her veil; 
 " Pluck it for me, gentle gardener, 
 Ere it wither and grow pale." 
 " Princess fair, I till the ground, but may 
 
 not take 
 From twig or bed an humbler flower, even 
 for your sake ! " 
 
 III. 
 "Grieved ami, submissive Christian ! 
 
 To behold thy captive state; 
 Women, in your land, may pity 
 (May they not ?) the unfortunate . ' 
 "Yes, kind Lady! otherwise man could 
 
 not bear 
 Life, which to every one that breathes is 
 full of care." 
 
 " Worse than idle is compassion 
 
 If it ends in tears and sighs; 
 Thee from bondage would I rescue 
 And from vile indignities; 
 Nurtured, as thy mien bespeaks, in high 
 
 degree. 
 Look up — and help a hand that longs to 
 set thee free." 
 
 " Lady ! dread the wish, nor venture 
 
 In such peril to engage; 
 Think how it would stir against you 
 Your most loving father's rage : 
 Sad deliverance would it be, and yoked 
 
 with shame. 
 Should troubles overflow on her from 
 whom it came." 
 
 " Generous Frank ! the just in effort 
 
 Are of inward peace secure : 
 Hardships for the brave encountered, 
 Even the feeblest may endure : 
 If almighty grace through me thy chains 
 
 unbind 
 My father for slave's work may seek a 
 slave in mind." 
 
 " Princess, at this burst of goodness, 
 My long -frozen heart grows 
 warm ! ' ' 
 
746 
 
 THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 
 
 ' ' Yet you make all courage fruitless, 
 
 Me to save from chance of harm: 
 
 Leading such companion I that gilded 
 
 dome, 
 Yon minarets, would gladly leave for his 
 viforst home." 
 
 " Feeling tunes your voice, fair Prin- 
 cess, 
 And your brow is free from scorn. 
 Else these words would come like 
 mockery. 
 Sharper than the pointed thorn." 
 "Whence the undeserved mistrust? Too 
 
 wide apart 
 Our faith hath been, — O would that eyes 
 could see the heart ! " 
 
 "Tempt me not, I pray; my doom is 
 
 These base implements to wield; 
 
 Rusty lance, I ne'er shall grasp thee, 
 
 Ne'er assoil my cobwebbed shield ! 
 
 Never seemy native land, nor castle towers, 
 
 Nor Her who thinking of me there counts 
 
 widowed hours." 
 
 " Prisoner ! pardon youthful fancies; 
 
 Wedded? If you can, say no ! 
 Blessed is and be your consort; 
 Hopes I cherished — let them go ! 
 Handmaid's privilege would leave my pur- 
 pose free. 
 Without another link to my felicity." 
 
 XI. 
 "Wedded love with loyal Christians, 
 
 Lady, is a mystery rare ; 
 Body, heart, and soul in union. 
 Make one being of a pair." 
 " Humble love in me would look for no 
 
 return, 
 Soft as a guiding star that cheers, but 
 cannot burn." 
 
 ' ' Gracious Allah ! by such title 
 Do I dare to thank the God, 
 
 Him who thus exalts thy spirit, 
 Flower of an unchristian sod ! 
 
 Or hast thou put off wings which thou in 
 
 heaven dost wear? 
 What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt? 
 
 where am I ? where ? ' ' 
 
 xm. 
 Here broke off the dangerous con- 
 verse : 
 Less impasssioned words might tell 
 How the pair escaped together, 
 Tears not wanting, nor a knell 
 Of sorrow in her heart while through her 
 
 father's door. 
 And from her narrow world, she passed 
 for evermore. 
 
 XIV. 
 But affections higher, holier. 
 
 Urged her steps; she shrunk from 
 trust 
 In a sensual creed that trampled 
 Woman's birthright into dust. 
 Little be the wonder then, the blame be 
 
 none, 
 If she, a timid Maid, hath put such bold- 
 ness on. 
 
 Judge bothFugitiveswithknowledge; 
 
 In those old romantic days 
 Mighty were the soul's command- 
 ments 
 To support, restrain, or raise. 
 Foes might hang upon their path, snakes 
 
 rustle near. 
 But nothing from their inward selves had 
 they to fear. 
 
 Thought infirm ne'er came between 
 
 them, 
 
 Whether printing desert sands 
 
 vVith accordant steps, or gathering 
 
 Forest-fruit with social hands; 
 
 Or whispering like two reeds that in the 
 
 cold moonbeam 
 Bend with the breeze their heads, beside 
 a crystal stream. 
 
 XVII. 
 On a friendly deck reposing 
 
 They at length for Venice steer; 
 
THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 
 
 747 
 
 There, when they had closed their 
 voyage 
 One, who daily on the pier 
 Watched for tidings from the East, beheld 
 
 his Lord, 
 Fell down and clasped his knees for joy, 
 not uttering word. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Mutual was the sudden transport; 
 
 Breathless questions followed fast. 
 Years contracting to a moment. 
 Each word greedier than the last : 
 " Hie thee to the Countess, friend ! return 
 
 with speed. 
 And of this Stranger speak by whom her 
 lord was freed. 
 
 SaythatI,whomighthavelanguished, 
 Drooped and pined till life was 
 spent. 
 Now before the gates of Stolberg 
 My Deliverer would present 
 For a crowning recompense, the precious 
 
 grace 
 Of her who in my heart still holds her 
 ancient place. 
 
 Make it known that my Companion 
 
 Is of royal eastern blood. 
 Thirsting after all perfection. 
 Innocent, and meek, and good, 
 Though with misbelievers bred; but that 
 
 dark night 
 Will holy Church disperse by means of 
 gospel-light." 
 
 Swiftly wentthatgray-haired Servant, 
 
 Soon returned a trusty Page 
 Charged with greetings,benedictions, 
 Thanks and praises, each a gage 
 For a sunny thought to cheer the Stran- 
 ger's way. 
 Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears 
 allay. 
 
 xxil. 
 And how blest the Reunited, 
 
 While beneath their castle-walls, 
 Runs a deafening noise of wel- 
 come: — 
 Blest, though every tear that falls 
 Doth in its silence of past sorrow tell. 
 And makes a meeting seem most like a 
 dear farewell. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Through a haze of human nature. 
 
 Glorified by heavenly light, 
 Looked the beautiful Deliverer 
 On that overpowering sight, 
 While across her virgin cheek pure blushes 
 
 strayed, 
 For every tender sacrifice her heart had 
 made. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 On the ground the weeping Countess 
 Knelt, and kissed the Stranger's 
 hand; 
 Act of soul-devoted homage, 
 Pledge of an eternal band : 
 Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie. 
 Which; with a generous shout, the crowd 
 did ratify. 
 
 XXV. 
 Constant to the fair Armenian, 
 
 Gentle pleasures round her moved. 
 Like a tutelary spirit 
 
 Reverenced, like a sister, loved. 
 Christian meekness smoothed for all the 
 
 path of life, 
 Who, loving most, should wiseliest love, 
 their only strife. 
 
 XXVI. 
 Mute memento of that union 
 
 In a Saxon church survives, 
 Where a cross-legged Knight lies 
 sculptured 
 As between two wedded wives — 
 Figures with armorial signs of race and 
 
 birth, 
 And the vain rank the pilgrims bore while 
 yet on earth. 
 1830. 1835, 
 
748 
 
 THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 
 THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE.i 
 
 Early in life this story had interested me, and 
 I often thought it would make a pleasing subject 
 for an opera or musical drama. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 Enough of rosebud lips, and eyes 
 
 Like harebells bathed in dew, 
 Ot cheek that with carnation vies, 
 
 And veins of violet hue; 
 Earth wants not beauty that may scorn 
 
 A likening to frail flowers; 
 Yea, to the stars, if they were born 
 
 For seasons and for hours. 
 
 Through Moscow's gates, with gold un- 
 barred. 
 
 Stepped One at dead of night, 
 Whom such high beauty could not guard 
 
 From meditated blight; 
 By stealth she passed, and fled as fast 
 
 As doth the hunted fawn, 
 Nor stopped, till in the dappling east 
 
 Appeared unwelcome dawn. 
 
 Seven days she lurked in brake and field, 
 
 Seven nights her course renewed. 
 Sustained by what her scrip might yield, 
 
 Or berries of the wood; 
 At length, in darkness travelling on. 
 
 When lowly doors were shut, 
 The haven of her hope she won, 
 
 Her Foster-mother's hut. 
 
 " To put your love to dangerous proof 
 
 I come," said she, " from far; 
 For I have left my Father's roof. 
 
 In terror of the Tsar." 
 No answer did the Matron give. 
 
 No second look she cast. 
 But hung upon the Fugitive, 
 
 Embracing and embraced. 
 
 She led the Lady to a seat 
 
 Beside the glimmering fire. 
 Bathed duteously her wayworn feet, 
 
 Prevented each desire : — 
 The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed. 
 
 And on that simple bed. 
 Where she in childhood had reposed, 
 
 Now rests her weary head. 
 » See Note. 
 
 When she, whose couch had been the sod. 
 
 Whose curtain, pine or thorn. 
 Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God, 
 
 Who comforts the forlorn; 
 While over her the Matron bent 
 
 Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole 
 Feeling from limbs with travel spent, 
 
 And trouble from the soul. 
 
 Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn, 
 
 And soon again was dight 
 In those unworthy vestments worn 
 
 Through long and perilous flight; 
 And " O beloved Nurse," she said, 
 
 " My thanks with silent tears 
 Have unto Heaven and You been paid: 
 
 Now hsten to my fears ! 
 
 "Have you forgot" — and here she 
 smiled — 
 
 "The babbling flatteries 
 You lavished on me when a child 
 
 Disporting round your knees? 
 I was your lambkin, and your bird, 
 
 Your star, your gem, your flower; 
 Light words, that were more lightly heard 
 
 In many a cloudless hour ! 
 
 The blossom you so fondly praised 
 
 Is come to bitter fruit; 
 A mighty One upon me gazed; 
 
 I spurned his lawless suit. 
 And must be hidden from his wrath : 
 
 You, Foster-father dear. 
 Will guide me in my forward path; 
 
 I may not tarry here ! 
 
 I cannot bring to utter woe 
 
 Your proved fidelity." — 
 " Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so ! 
 
 For you we both would die." 
 "Nay, nay, I come with semblance feigned 
 
 And cheek embrowned by art; 
 Yet, being inwardly unstained, 
 
 With courage will depart." 
 
 " But whither would you, could you, flee .' 
 A poor Man's counsel take; 
 
 The Holy Virgin gives to me 
 A thought for your dear sake; 
 
 Rest, shielded by our Lady's grace, 
 And soon shall you be led 
 
THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 
 749 
 
 Forth to a safe abiding-place, 
 Where never foot doth tread." 
 
 Part II. 
 
 The dwelling of this faithful pair 
 
 In a straggling village stood, 
 For One who breathed unquiet air 
 
 A dangerous neighborhood; 
 But wide around lay forest ground 
 
 With thickets rough and blind; 
 And pine-trees made a heavy shade 
 
 Impervious to the wind. 
 
 And there, sequestered from the sight. 
 
 Was spread a treacherous swamp. 
 On which the noonday sun shed light 
 
 As from a lonely lamp; 
 And midway in the unsafe morass, 
 
 A single Island rose 
 Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass 
 
 Adorned, and shady boughs. 
 
 The Woodman knew, for such the craft 
 
 Tj'his Russian vassal plied. 
 That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 
 
 Of archer, there was tried; 
 A sanctuary seemed the spot 
 
 From all intrusion free; 
 And there he planned an artful Cot 
 
 For perfect secrecy. 
 
 With earnest pains unchecked by dread 
 
 Of Power's far-stretching hand. 
 The bold good Man his labor sped 
 
 At nature's pure command; 
 Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren. 
 
 While, in a hoUov/ nook. 
 She moulds her sight-eluding den 
 
 Above a murmuring brook. 
 
 His task accomplished to his mind. 
 
 The twain ere break of day 
 Creep forth, and through the forest wind 
 
 Their solitary way; 
 Few words they speak, nor dare to slack 
 
 Their pace from mile to mile. 
 Till they have crossed the quaking marsh 
 
 And reached the lonely Isle. 
 
 The sun above the pine-trees showed 
 A bright and cheerful face; 
 
 And Ina looked for her abode, 
 
 The promised hiding-place; 
 She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled; 
 
 No threshold could be seen. 
 Nor roof, nor window; — all seemed wild 
 
 As it had ever been. 
 
 Advancing, you might guess an hour. 
 
 The front with such nice care 
 Is masked, " if house it be or bower," 
 
 But in they entered are; 
 As shaggy as were wall and roof 
 
 With branches intertwined, 
 So smooth was all within, air-proof. 
 
 And delicately lined : 
 
 And hearth was there, and maple dish. 
 
 And cups in seemly rows, 
 And couch — all ready to a wish 
 
 For nurture or repose; 
 And Heaven doth to her virtue grant 
 
 That here she may abide 
 In solitude, with every want 
 
 By cautious love supplied. 
 
 No queen, before a shouting crowd. 
 
 Led on in bridal state, 
 E'er struggled with a heart so proud. 
 
 Entering her palace gate : 
 Rejoiced to bid the world farewell. 
 
 No saintly anchoress 
 E'er took possession of her cell 
 
 With deeper thankfulness. 
 
 "Father of all, upon thy care 
 
 And mercy am I thrown; 
 Be thou my safeguard!" — such her 
 prayer 
 
 When she was left alone. 
 Kneeling amid the wilderness 
 
 When joy had passed away, 
 And smiles, fond efforts of distress 
 
 To hide what they betray ! 
 
 The prayer is heard, the Saints hare seen. 
 
 Diffused through form and face 
 Resolves devotedly serene; 
 
 That monumental grace 
 Of Faith, which doth all passions tame 
 
 That Reason skouid control; 
 And shows in the untrembling frame 
 
 A statue of the soul. 
 
7SO 
 
 IHE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 
 Part III. 
 
 'T is sung in ancient minstrelsy 
 
 Tliat Phcebus wont to wear 
 The leaves of any pleasant tree 
 
 Around his golden hair; 
 Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 
 
 Of his imperious love, 
 At her own prayer transformed, took root, 
 
 A laurel in the grove. 
 
 Then did the Penitent adorn 
 
 His brow with laurel green; 
 And 'mid his bright locks never shorn 
 
 No meaner leaf was seen; 
 And poets sage, through every age. 
 
 About their temples wound 
 The bay; and conquerors thanked the 
 Gods, 
 
 With laurel chaplets crowned. 
 
 Into the mists of fabling Time 
 
 So far runs back the praise 
 Of Beauty, that disdains to climb 
 
 Along forbidden ways; 
 That scorns temptation; power defies 
 
 Where mutual love is not; 
 And to the tomb for rescue flies 
 
 When life would be a blot. 
 
 To this fair Votaress, a fate 
 
 More mild doth Heaven ordain 
 Upon her Island desolate; 
 
 And words, not breathed in vain, 
 Might tell what intercourse she found, 
 
 Her silence to endear; 
 What birds she tamed, what flowers the 
 ground 
 
 Sent forth her peace to cheer. 
 
 To one mute Presence, above all, 
 Her soothed affections clung, 
 
 A picture on the cabin wall 
 By Russian usage hung — 
 
 The Mother-maid, whose countenance 
 bright 
 
 With love abridged the day; 
 
 And, communed with by taper light. 
 Chased spectral fears away. 
 
 And oft, as either Guardian came. 
 The joy in that retreat 
 
 Might any common friendship shame, 
 So high their hearts would beat; 
 
 And to the lone Recluse, whate'er 
 They brought, each visiting 
 
 Was like the crowding of the year 
 With a new burst of spring. 
 
 But, when she of her Parents thought. 
 
 The pang was hard to bear; 
 And, if with all things not enwrought. 
 
 That trouble still is near. 
 Before her flight she had not dared 
 
 Their constancy to prove, 
 Too much the heroic Daughter feared 
 
 The weakness of their love. 
 
 Dark is the past to them, and dark 
 
 The future still must be, 
 Till pitying Saints conduct her bark 
 
 Into a safer sea — 
 Or gentle Nature close her eyes. 
 
 And set her Spirit free 
 From the altar of this sacrifice, 
 
 In vestal purity. 
 
 Yet, when above the forest-glooms > 
 
 The white swans southward passed. 
 High as the pitch of their swift plumes 
 
 Her fancy rode the blast; 
 And bore her toward the fields of France 
 
 Her Father's native land. 
 To mingle in the rustic dance, 
 
 The happiest of the band ! 
 
 Of those beloved fields she oft 
 
 Had heard her Father tell 
 In phrase that now with echoes soft 
 
 Haunted her lonely cell; 
 She saw the hereditary bowers. 
 
 She heard the ancestral stream; 
 The Kremlin and its haughty towers 
 
 Forgotten like a dream ! 
 
 Part IV. 
 
 The ever-changing Moon had traced 
 
 Twelve times her monthly round. 
 When through the unfrequented Waste 
 
 Was heard a startling sound; 
 A shout thrice sent from one who chased 
 
 At speed a wounded deer. 
 Bounding through branches interlaced, 
 
 And where the wood was clear. 
 
THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 
 75' 
 
 The fainting creature took the marsh, 
 
 And toward the Island fled, 
 A^iile plovers screamed with tumult harsh 
 
 Above his antlered head; 
 This, Ina saw; and, pale with fear, 
 
 Shrunk to her citadel; 
 rhe desperate deer rushed on, and near 
 
 The tangled covert fell. 
 
 Across the marsh, the game in view, 
 
 The Hunter followed fast, 
 Nor paused, till o'er the stag he blew 
 
 A death-proclaiming blast; 
 Then, resting on her upright mind, 
 
 Came forth the Maid — " In me 
 Behold," she said, "a stricken Hind 
 
 Pursued by destiny ! 
 
 From your deportment. Sir ! I deem 
 
 That you have worn a sword. 
 And will not hold in light esteem 
 
 A suffering woman's word; 
 There is my covert, there perchance 
 
 I might have lain concealed. 
 My fortunes hid, my countenance 
 
 Not even to you revealed. 
 
 Tears might be shed, and I might pray, 
 
 Crouching and terrified, 
 That what has been unveiled to-day, 
 
 You would in mystery hide; 
 But I will not defile with dust 
 
 The knee that bends to adore 
 The God in heaven; — attend, be just; 
 
 This ask I, and no more ! 
 
 I speak not of the winter's cold, 
 
 For summer's heat exchanged, 
 While I have lodged in this rough hold, 
 
 From social life estranged; 
 Nor yet of trouble and alarms : 
 
 High Heaven is my defence; 
 And every season has soft arms 
 
 For injured Innocence. 
 
 From Moscow to the Wilderness 
 
 It was my choice to come. 
 Lest virtue should be harborless, 
 
 And honor want a home; 
 And happy were I, if the Tsar 
 
 Retain his lawless will. 
 To end life here like this poor deer, 
 
 Or a lamb on a green hill.'" 
 
 " Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried, 
 
 " From Gallic parents sprung, 
 Whose vanishing was rumored wide, 
 
 Sad theme for every tongue; 
 Who foiled an Emperor's eager quest? 
 
 You, Lady, forced to wear 
 These rude habiliments, and rest 
 
 Your head in this dark lair ! " 
 
 But wonder, pity, soon were quelled; 
 
 And in her face and mien 
 The soul's pure brightness he beheld 
 
 Without a veil between : 
 He loved, he hoped, — a holy flame 
 
 Kindled 'mid rapturous tears; 
 The passion of a moment came 
 
 As on the wings of years. 
 
 " Such bounty is no gift of chance,'* 
 
 Exclaimed he; " righteous Heaven, 
 Preparing your deliverance. 
 
 To me the charge hath given. 
 The Tsar full oft in words and deeds 
 
 Is stormy and self-willed; 
 But, when the Lady Catherine pleads, 
 
 His violence is stilled. 
 
 Leave open to my wish the source, 
 
 And I to her will go; 
 From that humane and heavenly course, 
 
 Good, only good, can flow." 
 Faint sanction given, the Cavalier 
 
 Was eager to depart, 
 Though question followed question, dear. 
 
 To the Maiden's filial heart. 
 
 Light was his step, — his hopes, more light, 
 
 Kept pace with his desires; 
 And the fifth morning gave him sight 
 
 Of Moscow's glittering spires. 
 He sued: — heart-smitten by the wrong, 
 
 To the lorn Fugitive 
 The Emperor sent a pledge as strong 
 
 As sovereign power could give. 
 
 O more than mighty change ! If e'er 
 
 Amazement rose to pain. 
 And joy's excess produced a fear 
 
 Of something void and vain; 
 'T was when the Parents, who had 
 mourned 
 
 So long the lost as dead. 
 Beheld their only Child returned, 
 
 The household floor to tread. 
 
752 
 
 THE EGYPTIAN MAID.. 
 
 Soon gratitude gave way to love 
 
 Within the Maiden's breast; 
 Delivered and Deliverer move 
 
 In bridal garments drest; 
 Meek Catherine had her own reward; 
 
 The Tsar bestowed a dower; 
 And universal Moscow shared 
 
 The triumph of that hour. 
 
 Flowers strewed the ground; the nuptial 
 f£ast 
 
 Was held with costly state; 
 And there, 'mid many a noble guest, 
 
 The Foster-parents sate; 
 Encouraged by the imperial eye, 
 
 They shrank not into shade; 
 Great was their bliss, the honor high 
 
 To them and nature paid ! 
 
 1830. * 1835- 
 
 THE EGYPTIAN MAID; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILY. 
 
 For the names and persons in the following 
 poem, see the " History of the renowned Prince 
 Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table ; " 
 for the rest the Author is answerable ; only it 
 may be proper to add, that the Lotus, with the 
 bust of the Goddess appearing to rise out of the 
 full-blown flower, was suggested by the beauti- 
 ful work of ancient art, once included among 
 the Townley Marbles, and now in the British 
 Museum. 
 
 In addition to the short notice prefixed to this 
 poem it may be worth while here to say that it 
 rose out of a few words casually used in conver- 
 sation by my nephew Henry Hutchinson. He 
 was describing with great spirit the appearance 
 and movement of a vessel which he seemed to 
 admire more than any other he had ever seen, 
 and said her name was the Water Lily- This 
 plant has been my delight from my boyhood, as 
 I have seen it floating on the lake ; and that con- 
 versation put me upon constructing and compos- 
 ing the poem. Had I not heard those words it 
 would never have been written. The form of the 
 stanza is new, and is nothing but a repetition of 
 the first five lines as they were thrown off, and is 
 not perhaps well suited to narrative, and certainly 
 would not have be^n trusted to had I thought at 
 the beginning that the poem would have gone to 
 such a length. 
 
 While Merlin paced the Cornish sands, 
 Forth-looking toward the rocks of 
 
 Scilly, 
 The pleased Enchanter was aware 
 Of a bright Ship that seemed to hang 
 
 in air. 
 Yet was she work of mortal hands. 
 And took from men her name — The 
 
 Water Lily. 
 
 Soft was the wind, that landward blew; 
 And, as the Moon, o'er some dark hill 
 
 ascendant. 
 Grows from a little edge of light 
 To a full orb, this Pinnace bright 
 Became, as nearer to the coast she drew. 
 More glorious, with spread sail and 
 
 streaming pendant. 
 
 Upon this winged Shape so fair 
 Sage Merlin gazed with admiration : 
 Her lineaments, thought he, surpass 
 Aught that was ever shown in magic 
 
 glass; 
 Was ever built with patient care; 
 Or, at a touch, produced by happiest 
 
 transformation. 
 
 Now, though a Mechanist, whose skill 
 Shames the degenerate grasp of modern 
 
 science, 
 Grave Merlin (and belike the more 
 For practising occult and perilous lore) 
 Was subject to a freakish will 
 That sapped good thoughts, or scared 
 
 them with defiance. 
 
 Provoked to envious spleen, he cast 
 An altered look upon the advancing 
 
 Stranger 
 Whomhe had hailed with joy, and cried, 
 "My Art shall help to tame her pride — " 
 Anon the breeze became a blast. 
 And the waves rose, and sky portended 
 
 danger. 
 
 With thrilling word, and potent sign 
 Traced on the beach, his work the Sor' 
 
 cerer urges: 
 The clouds in blacker clouds are lost, 
 Like spiteful Fiends that vanish, ciost 
 
THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 
 
 753 
 
 By Fiends of aspect more malign; 
 And the winds roused the Deep with 
 fiercer scourges. 
 
 But worthy of the name she bore 
 Was this Sea-flower, this buoyant 
 
 Galley; 
 Supreme in loveliness and grace 
 Of motion, whether in the embrace 
 Of trusty anchorage, or scudding o'er 
 The main flood roughened into hill and 
 
 valley. 
 
 Behold, how wantonly she laves 
 Her sides, the Wizard's craft confound- 
 ing; 
 Like something out of Ocean sprung 
 To be forever fresh and young, 
 Breasts the sea-flashes, and huge waves 
 Top-gallant high, rebounding and re- 
 bounding ! 
 
 But Ocean under magic heaves. 
 And cannot spare the Thing he cher- 
 ished : 
 Ah ! what avails that she was fair, 
 Luminous, blithe, and debonair? 
 The storm has stripped her of her 
 leaves; 
 The Lily floats no longer ! — She hath 
 perished. 
 
 Grieve for her, — she deserves no less ; 
 So like, yet so unlike, a living Creature ! 
 No heart had she, no busy brain; 
 Though loved, she could not love again ; 
 Though pitied, y^^/ her own distress; 
 Nor aught that troubles us, the fools of 
 Nature. 
 
 Yet is there cause for gushing tears; 
 So richly was this Galley laden, 
 A fairer than herself she bore. 
 And, in her struggles, cast ashore; 
 A lovely One, who nothing hears 
 Of wind or wave — a meek and guileless 
 Maiden. 
 
 Into a cave had Merlin fled 
 From mischief, caused by spells him- 
 self had muttered; 
 And while, repentant all too late, 
 In moody posture there he sate, 
 
 He heard a voice, and saw, with half- 
 raised head, 
 A Visitant by whom these words were 
 uttered; 
 
 " On Christian service this frail Bark 
 Sailed" (hear me, Merlin !)" under 
 
 high protection, 
 Though on her prow a sign of heathen 
 power 
 Was carved — a Goddess with a Lily 
 flower. 
 The old Egyptian's emblematic mark 
 Of joy immortal and of pure affection. 
 
 Her course was for the British strand: 
 Her freight, it was a Damsel peerless; 
 God reigns above, and Spirits strong 
 May gather to avenge this wrong 
 Done to the Princess, and her Land 
 Which she in duty left, sad but not cheer- 
 less. 
 
 And to Caerleon's loftiest tower 
 Soon will the Knights of Arthur's Table 
 A cry of lamentation send; 
 And all will weep who there attend. 
 To grace that Stranger's bridal hour. 
 For whom the sea was made unnavigable. 
 
 Shame ! should a Child of royal line 
 Die through the blindness of thy 
 
 malice? " 
 Thus to the Necromancer spake 
 Nina, the Lady of the Lake, 
 A gentle Sorceress, and benign. 
 Who ne'er embittered any good man's 
 
 chalice. 
 
 "What boots," continued she, "to 
 
 mourn? 
 To expiate thy sin endeavor; 
 From the bleak isle where she is laid. 
 Fetched by our art, the Egyptian Maid 
 May yet to Arthur's court be borne 
 Cold as she is, ere life be fled forever. 
 
 My pearly Boat, a shining Light, 
 That brought me down that sunless 
 
 river, 
 Will bear me on from wave to wave, 
 And back with her to this sea-cave; — ■ 
 
754 
 
 THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 
 
 Then Merlin ! for a rapid flight 
 Through air, to thee my Charge will I 
 deliver. 
 
 The very swiftest of thy cars 
 Must, when my part is done, be ready; 
 Meanwhile, for further guidance, look 
 Into thy own prophetic book ; 
 And, if that fail, consult the Stars 
 To learn thy course; farewell! be prompt 
 and steady." 
 
 This scarcely spoken, she again 
 Was seated in her gleaming shallop. 
 That, o'er the yet-distempered Deep, 
 Pursued its way with bird-like sweep, 
 Or like a steed, without a rein. 
 Urged o'er the wilderness in sportive 
 gallop. 
 
 Soon did the gentle Nina reach 
 That Isle without a house or haven; 
 Landing, she found not what she sought. 
 Nor saw of wreck or ruin aught 
 But a carved Lotus cast upon the beach 
 By the fierce waves, a flower in marble 
 graven. 
 
 Sad relique, but how fair the while ! 
 For gently each from each retreating 
 With backward curve, the leaves re- 
 vealed 
 The bosom half, and half concealed. 
 Of a Divinity, that seemed to smile 
 On Nina, as she passed, with hopeful 
 greeting. 
 
 No quest was hers of vague desire, 
 Of tortured hope and purpose shaken; 
 Following the margin of a bay. 
 She spied the lonely Castaway, 
 Unmarred, unstripped of her attire, 
 But with closed eyes, — of breath and 
 bloom forsaken. 
 
 Then Nina, stooping down, embraced, 
 With tenderness and mild emotion, 
 The Damsel, in that trance embound; 
 And, while she raised her from the 
 
 ground, 
 And in the pearly shallop placed. 
 Sleep fell upon the air, and stilled the 
 
 ocean. 
 
 The turmoil hushed, celestial springs 
 Of music opened, and there came a 
 
 blending 
 Of fragrance, underived from earth, 
 With gleams that owed not to the sun 
 
 their birth. 
 And that soft rustling of invisible wings 
 Which Angels make, on works of love 
 
 descending. 
 
 And Nina heard a sweeter voice 
 Than if the Goddess of the flower had 
 
 spoken : 
 " Thou hast achieved, fair Dame ! what 
 
 none 
 Less pure in spirit could have done; 
 Go, in thy enterprise rejoice ! 
 Air, earth, sea, sky, and heaven, success 
 
 betoken." 
 
 So cheered, she left that Island bleak, 
 A bare rock of the Scilly cluster; 
 And, as they traversed the smooth brine, 
 The self-illumined Brigantine 
 Shed, on the Slumberer's cold wan 
 cheek 
 And pallid brow, a melancholy lustre. 
 
 Fleet was their course, and when they 
 
 came 
 To the dim cavern, whence the river 
 Issued into the salt-sea flood, 
 Merlin, as fixed in thought he stood. 
 Was thus accosted by the Dame; 
 ' ' Behold to thee my Charge I now deliver ! 
 
 But where attends thy chariot — 
 
 where?" — 
 Quoth Merlin, " Even as I was bidden, 
 So have I done ; as trusty as thy barge 
 My vehicle shall prove — O precious 
 
 Charge ! 
 If this be sleep, how soft ! if death, 
 
 how fair ! 
 Much have my books disclosed, but the 
 
 end is hidden." 
 
 He spake; and gliding into view 
 Forth from the grotto's dimmest 
 
 chamber 
 Came two mute Swans, whose plumes 
 
 of dusky white 
 
THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 
 
 755 
 
 Changed, as the pair approached the 
 
 light, 
 Drawing an ebon car, their hue 
 (Like clouds of sunset) into lucid amber. 
 
 Once more did gentle Nina lift 
 
 The Princess, passive to all changes : 
 
 The car received her: — then up-went 
 
 Into the ethereal element 
 
 The Birds with progress smooth and 
 
 swift 
 As though';, when through bright regions 
 
 memory ranges. 
 
 Sage Merlin, at the Slumberer's side. 
 Instructs the Swans their way to 
 
 measure; 
 And soon Caerleon's towers appeared. 
 And notes of minstrelsy were heard 
 From rich pavilions spreading wide, 
 For some high day of long-expected 
 
 pleasure. 
 
 Awe-stricken stood both Knights and 
 
 Dames 
 Ere on firm ground the car alighted; 
 Eftsoons astonishment was past. 
 For in that face they saw the last 
 Last lingering look of clay, that tames 
 All pride; by which all happiness is 
 blighted. 
 
 Said Merlin, " Mighty King, fair Lords, 
 Away with feast and tilt and tourney ! 
 Ye saw, throughout this royal House, 
 Ye heard, a rocking marvellous 
 Of turrets, and a clash of swords 
 Self-shaken, as I closed my airy journey. 
 
 Lo ! by a destiny well known 
 To mortals, joy is turned to sorrow; 
 This is the wished-for Bride, the Maid 
 Of Egypt, from a rock conveyed 
 Where she by shipwreck had been 
 
 thrown, 
 111 sight ! but grief may vanish ere the 
 
 morrow." 
 
 "Though vast thy power, thy words 
 are weak," 
 
 Exclaimed the King, " a mockery hate- 
 ful; 
 
 Dutiful Child, her lot how hard 1 
 
 Is this her piety's reward? 
 
 Those watery locks, that bloodless 
 cheek ! 
 O winds without remorse ! O shore un- 
 grateful ! 
 
 Rich robes are fretted by the moth; 
 Towers, temples, fall by stroke of 
 
 thunder; 
 Will that, or deeper thoughts, abate 
 A Father's sorrow for her fate? 
 He will repent him of his troth; 
 His brain will burn, his stout heart split 
 asunder. 
 
 Alas ! and I have caused this woe; 
 For, when my prowess from invading 
 
 Neighbors 
 Had freed his Realm, he plighted word 
 That he would turn to Christ our Lord, 
 And his dear Daughter on a Knight 
 bestow 
 Whom I should choose for love and match- 
 less labors. 
 
 Her birth was heathen; but a fence 
 Of holy Angels round her hovered : 
 A Lady added to my court 
 So fair, of such divine report 
 And worship, seemed a recompense 
 For fi f ty kingdoms by my sword recovered. 
 
 Ask not for whom, O Champions true ! 
 She was reserved by me her life's be- 
 trayer; 
 She who was meant to be a bride 
 Is now a corse : then put aside 
 Vain thoughts, and speed ye, with ob- 
 servance due 
 Of Christian rites, in Christian ground to 
 lay her." 
 
 "The tomb," said Merlin, "may not 
 
 close 
 Upon her yet, earth hide her beauty; 
 Not froward to thy sovereign will 
 Esteem me, Liege ! if I, whose skill 
 Wafted her hither, interpose 
 To check this pious haste of erring duty. 
 
 My books command me to lay bare 
 The secret thou art bent on keeping: 
 Here must a high attest be given, 
 
756 
 
 THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 
 
 What Bridegroom was for her ordained 
 
 by Heaven. 
 And in my glass significants there are 
 Of things that may to gladness turn this 
 weeping. 
 
 For this, approaching, One by One, 
 Thy Knights must touch the cold hand 
 
 of the Virgin; 
 So, for the favored One, the Flower 
 
 may bloom 
 Once more : but, if unchangeable her 
 
 doom. 
 If life departed be forever gone. 
 Some blest assurance, from this cloud 
 
 emerging. 
 
 May teach him to bewail his loss; 
 Not with a grief that, like a vapor, rises 
 And melts; but grief devout that shall 
 
 endure, 
 And a perpetual growth secure 
 Of purposes which no false thought 
 shall cross, 
 A harvest of high hopes and noble enter- 
 prises." 
 
 "So be it," said the King; — "anon, 
 Here, where the Princess lies, begin 
 
 the trial; 
 Knights each in order as ye stand 
 Step forth . " — To touch the pallid hand 
 Sir Agravaine advanced; no sign he won 
 From Heaven or earth; — Sir Kaye had 
 
 like denial. 
 
 Abashed, Sir Dinas turned away; 
 Even for Sir Percival was no disclosure; 
 Though he, devoutest of all Champions, 
 
 ere 
 He reached that ebon car, the bier 
 Whereon diffused like snow the Damsel 
 
 lay. 
 Full thrice had crossed himself in meek 
 
 composure. 
 
 Imagine (but ye Saints ! who can?) 
 How in still air the balance trembled — 
 The wishes, peradventure the despites 
 That overcame some not ungenerous 
 Knights; 
 
 And all the thoughts that lengthened 
 out a span 
 Of time to Lords and Ladies thus as- 
 sembled. 
 
 What patient confidence was here ! 
 And there how many bosoms panted ! 
 While drawing toward the car Sir 
 
 Gawaine, mailed 
 For tournament, his beaver vailed. 
 And softly touched; but, to his princely 
 
 cheer 
 And high expectancy, no sign was granted. 
 
 Next, disencumbered of his harp. 
 Sir Tristram, dear to thousands as a 
 
 brother. 
 Came to the proof, nor grieved that 
 
 there ensued 
 No change ; — the fair Izonda he had 
 
 wooed 
 With love too true, a love with pangs 
 
 too sharp, 
 From hope too distant, not to dread 
 
 another. 
 
 Not so Sir Launcelot ; — from Heaven's 
 
 grace 
 A sign he craved, tired slave of vain 
 
 contrition; 
 The royal Guinever looked passing glad 
 When his touch failed. — Next came 
 
 Sir Galahad; 
 He paused, and stood entranced by 
 
 that still face 
 Whose features he had seen in noontide 
 
 vision. 
 
 For late, as near a murmuring stream 
 He rested 'mid an arbor green and 
 
 shady, 
 Nina, the good Enchantress, shed 
 A light around his mossy bed; 
 And, at her call, a waking dream 
 Prefigured to his sense the Egyptian Lady. 
 
 Now, while his bright-haired front he 
 
 bowed. 
 And stood, far-kenned by mantle furred 
 
 with ermine, 
 As o'er the insensate Body hung 
 The enrapt, the beautiful, the young, 
 
THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 
 
 757 
 
 Belief sank deep into the crowd 
 That he the solemn issue would determine. 
 
 Nor deem it strange; the Youth had 
 
 worn 
 That very mantle on a day of glory, 
 The day when he achieved that match- 
 less feat, 
 The marvel of the Perilous Seat, 
 Which whosoe'er approached of 
 strength was shorn. 
 Though King or Knight the most re- 
 nowned in story. 
 
 He touched with hesitating hand — 
 And lo ! those Birds, far-famed through 
 
 Love's dominions, 
 The Swans, in triumph clap their wings; 
 And their necks play, involved in rings, 
 Likg: sinless snakes in Eden's happy 
 
 land ; — 
 "Mine is she," cried the Knight; — 
 
 again they clapped their pinions. 
 
 " Mine was she — mine she is, though 
 dead, 
 
 And to her name my soul shall cleave 
 in sorrow; " 
 
 Whereat, a tender twilight streak 
 
 Of color dawned upon the Damsel's 
 cheek; 
 
 And her lips, quickening with uncer- 
 tain red. 
 Seemed from each other a faint warmth 
 to borrow. 
 
 Deep was the awe, the rapture high. 
 Of love emboldened, hope with dread 
 
 entwining. 
 When, to the mouth, relenting Death 
 Allowed a soft and flower-like breath. 
 Precursor to a timid sigh. 
 To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining. 
 
 In silence did King Arthur gaze 
 Upon the signs that pass away or tarry; 
 In silence watched the gentle strife 
 Of Nature leading back to life; 
 Then eased his soul at length by praise 
 Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen — 
 the blissful Mary. 
 
 Then, said he, "Take her to thy heart. 
 Sir Galahad ! a treasure, that God 
 
 giveth. 
 Bound by indissoluble ties to thee 
 Through mortal change and immor- 
 tality; 
 Be happy and unenvied, thou who art 
 A goodly Knight that hath no peer that 
 liveth!" 
 
 Not long the Nuptials were delayed; 
 And sage tradition still rehearses 
 The pomp, the glory of that hour 
 When toward the altar from her bower 
 King Arthur led the Egyptian Maid, 
 And Angels carolled these far-echoed 
 verses; — 
 
 Who shrinks not from alliance 
 Of evil with good Powers, 
 To God proclaims defiance. 
 And mocks whom he adores. 
 
 A Ship to Christ devoted 
 From the Land of Nile did go; 
 Alas ! the bright Ship floated, 
 An Idol at her prow. 
 
 By magic domination. 
 The Heaven-permitted vent 
 Of purblind mortal passion, 
 Was wrought her punishment. 
 
 The Flower the Form within it, 
 What served they in her need? 
 Her port she could not win it, 
 Nor from mishap be freed. 
 
 The tempest overcame her. 
 And she was seen no more ; 
 But gently, gently blame her — 
 She cast a Pearl ashore. 
 
 The Maid to Jesu hearkened, 
 And kept to him her faith. 
 Till sense in death was darkened, 
 Or sleep akin to death. 
 
 But Angels round her pillow 
 Kept watch, a viewless band; 
 And, billow favoring billow. 
 She reached the destined strand. 
 
758 
 
 THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE. 
 
 Blest Pair ! whate'er befall you, 
 Your faith in Him approve 
 Who from frail earth can call you 
 To bowers of endless love ! 
 1830. 1835. 
 
 THE POET AND THE CAGED 
 TURTLEDOVE. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. This dove was 
 one of a pair that had been given to my daughter 
 by our excellent friend, Miss Jewsbury, who 
 went to India with her husband, Mr. Fletcher, 
 where she died of cholera. The dove survived 
 its mate many years, and was killed, to our great 
 sorrow, by a neighbor's cat that got in at the 
 window and dragged it partly out of the cage. 
 These verses were composed extempore, to the 
 letter, in the Terrace Summer-house before spoken 
 of. It was the habit of the bird to begin cooing 
 and murmuring whenever it heard me making 
 my verses. 
 
 As often as I murmur here 
 
 My half-formed melodies, 
 Straight from her osier mansion near. 
 
 The Turtledove replies : 
 Though silent as a leaf before. 
 
 The captive promptly coos; 
 Is it to teach her own soft lore, 
 
 Or second my weak Muse? 
 
 I rather think, the gentle Dove 
 
 Is murmuring a reproof. 
 Displeased that I from lays of love 
 
 Have dared to keep aloof; 
 That I, a Bard of hill and dale, 
 
 Have carolled, fancy free. 
 As if nor dove nor nightingale, 
 
 Had heart or voice for me. 
 
 If such thy meaning, O forbear. 
 
 Sweet Bird ! to do me wrong ; 
 Love, blessed Love, is everywhere 
 
 The spirit of my song : 
 'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, 
 
 Love animates my lyre — 
 That coo again ! — 't is not to chide, 
 
 I feel, but to inspire. 
 1830. 1835. 
 
 PRESENTIMENTS. 
 Written at Rydal Mount. 
 
 Presentiments ! they judge not right 
 Who deem that ye from open light 
 
 Retire in fear of shame; 
 All heaven-born Instincts shun the touch 
 Of vulgar sense, — and, being such. 
 
 Such privilege ye claim. 
 
 The tear whose source I could not guess, 
 The deep sigh that seemed fatherless. 
 
 Were mine in early days; 
 And now, unforced by time to part 
 With fancy, I obey my heart. 
 
 And venture on your praise. 
 
 What though some busy foes to good, 
 Too potent over nerve and blood, 
 
 Lurk near you — and combine 
 To taint the health which ye infuse; 
 This hides not from the moral Muse 
 
 Your origin divine. 
 
 How oft from you, derided Powers ! 
 Comes Faith that in auspicious hours 
 
 Builds castles, not of air: 
 Bodings unsanctioned by the will 
 Flow from your visionary skill, 
 
 And teach us to beware. 
 
 The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, 
 That no philosophy can lift, 
 
 Shall vanish, if ye please. 
 Like morning mist : and, where it lay, 
 The spirits at your bidding play 
 
 In gayety and ease. 
 
 Star-guided contemplations move 
 Through space, though calm, not raised 
 above 
 
 Prognostics that ye rule ; 
 The naked Indian of the wild, 
 And haply, too, the cradled Child, 
 
 Are pupils of your school. 
 
 But who can fathom your intents, 
 Number their signs or instruments? 
 
 A rainbow, a sunbeam, 
 A subtle smell that Spring unbinds. 
 Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds. 
 
 An echo, or a dream. 
 
ELEGIAC MUSINGS. 
 
 759 
 
 The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
 With sighs of self-exhausted mirth 
 
 Ye feelingly reprove; 
 And daily, in the conscious breast, 
 Your visitations are a test 
 
 And exercise of love. 
 
 When some great change gives boundless 
 
 scope 
 To an exulting Nation's hope, 
 
 Oft, startled and made wise 
 By your low-breathed interpretings. 
 The simply-meek foretaste the springs 
 
 Of bitter contraries. 
 
 Ye daunt the proud array of war, 
 Pervade the lonely ocean far 
 
 As sail hath been unfurled; 
 For dancers in the festive hall 
 What ghastly partners hath your call 
 
 Fetched from the shadowy world. 
 
 'T is said, that warnings ye dispense. 
 Emboldened by a keener sense; 
 
 That men have lived for whom, 
 With dread precision, ye made clear 
 The hour that in a distant year 
 
 Should knell them to the tomb. 
 
 Unwelcome insight ! Yet there are 
 Blest times when mystery is laid bare. 
 
 Truth shows a glorious face. 
 While on that isthmus which commands 
 The councils of both worlds, she stands. 
 
 Sage Spirits ! by your grace. 
 
 God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
 All changes of the element. 
 
 Whose wisdom fixed the scale 
 Of natures, for our wants provides 
 By higher, sometimes humbler, guides. 
 
 When lights of reason fail. 
 
 1830. 1835. 
 
 •' IN THESE FAIR VALES HATH 
 MANY A TREE." 
 
 Engraven, during my absence in Italy, upon a 
 brass plate inserted in the Stone. 
 
 In these fair vales hath many a Tree 
 At Wordsworth's suit been spared; 
 
 And from the builder's hand this 
 
 Stone, 
 For some rude beauty of its own. 
 
 Was rescued by the Bard : 
 So let it rest; and time will come 
 When here the tender-hearted 
 ■ May heave a gentle sigh for him, 
 
 As one of the departed. 
 1830. 1S35. 
 
 ELEGIAC MUSINGS. 
 
 IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON HALL, 
 THE SEAT OF THE LATE SIR G. H. 
 BEAUMONT; BART. 
 
 Tliese verses were in part composed on horse- 
 back during a storm, while I was on my way from 
 Coleorton to Cambridge : they are alluded to 
 elsewhere. 
 
 In these grounds stands the Parish Church, 
 wherein is a mural monument bearing an Inscrip, 
 tion which, in deference to the earnest request of 
 the deceased, is confined to name, dates, and 
 these words: — "Enter not into judgment with 
 thy servant, O Lord! " 
 
 With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme 
 Graven on the tomb we struggle against 
 
 Time, 
 Alas, how feebly ! but our feelings rise 
 And still we struggle when a good man 
 
 dies: 
 Such offering Beaumont dreaded and 
 
 forbade, 
 A spirit meek in self-abasement clad. 
 Yet here at least — though few have num- 
 bered days 
 That shunned so modestly the light of 
 
 praise — 
 His graceful manners, and the temperate 
 
 ray 
 Of that arch fancy which would round 
 
 him play. 
 Brightening a converse never known to 
 
 swerve 
 From courtesy and delicate reserve; 
 That sense, the bland philosophy of life, 
 Which checked discussion ere it warmed 
 
 to strife — 
 Those rare accomplishments, and varied 
 
 powers, 
 Might have their record among sylvan 
 
 bowers. 
 
76o 
 
 'CHATSWORTH! THY STATELY MANSION/ 
 
 Oh, fled forever ! vanished like a blast 
 That shook the leaves in myriads as it 
 
 passed; — 
 Gone from this vi'orld of earth, air, sea, 
 
 and sky. 
 From all its spirit-moving imagery. 
 Intensely studied with a painter's eye, 
 A poet's heart; and, for congenial view, 
 Portrayed with happiest pencil, not untrue 
 To common recognitions while the line 
 Flowed in a course of sympathy divine ; — 
 Oh ! severed, too abruptly, from delights 
 That all the seasons shared with equal 
 
 rights; — 
 Rapt in the grace of undismantled age, 
 From soul-felt music, and the treasured 
 
 page 
 Lit by that evening lamp which loved to 
 
 shed 
 Its mellow lustre round thy honored head; 
 While Friends beheld thee give with eye, 
 
 voice, mien. 
 More than theatric force to Shakspeare's 
 
 scene; — 
 If thou hast heard me — if thy Spirit know 
 Aught of these bowers and whence their 
 
 pleasures fiow; 
 If things in our remembrance held so 
 
 dear. 
 And thoughts and projects fondly cher- 
 ished here. 
 To thy exalted nature only seem 
 Time's vanities, light fragments of earth's 
 
 dream — 
 Rebuke us not ! — The mandate is obeyed 
 That said, " Let praise be mute where I 
 
 am laid;" 
 The holier deprecation, given in trust 
 To the cold marble, waits upon thy dust; 
 Yet have we found how slowly genuine 
 
 grief 
 From silent admiration wins relief. 
 Too long abashed thy Name is like a rose 
 That doth "within itself its sweetness 
 
 close ; ' ' 
 A drooping daisy changed into a cup 
 In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut 
 
 up. 
 Within these groves, where still are flit- 
 ting by 
 Shades of the Past, oft noticed with a 
 
 sigh. 
 Shall stand a votive Tablet, haply free, 
 
 When towers and temples fall, to speak 
 
 of Thee ! 
 If sculptured emblems of our mortal doom 
 Reca'I not there the wisdom of the Tomb, 
 Green ivy risen from out the cheerful earth, 
 Will fringe the lettered stone; and herbs 
 
 spring forth. 
 Whose fragrance, by soft dews and rain 
 
 unbound. 
 Shall penetrate the heart withoutawound; 
 While truth and love their purposes fulfil. 
 Commemorating genius, talent, skill. 
 That could not lie concealed where Thou 
 
 wert known; 
 Thy virtues He must judge, and He alone. 
 The God upon whose mercy they are 
 
 thrown. 
 Nov. 6, 1830. 1835. 
 
 "CHATSWORTH! THY STATELY 
 MANSION, AND THE PRIDE." 
 
 I have reason to remember the day that gave 
 rise to this Sonnet, the 6th of November, 1830, 
 Having undertaken, a great feat for me, to ride 
 my daughter's pony from Westmoreland to Cam- 
 bridge, that she might have the use of it while or. 
 a visit to her uncle at Trinity Lodge, on my way 
 from Bakewell to Matlock I turned aside to 
 Chatsworth, and had scarcely gratified my 
 curiosity by the sight of that celebrated place 
 before there came on a severe storm of wind and 
 rain which continued till I reached Derby, both 
 man and pony in a pitiable plight. For myself, 
 I went to bed at noon-day. In the course of that 
 journey I had to encounter a storm, worse if 
 possible, in which the pony could (or would) only 
 make his way slantwise. I mention this merely 
 to add that notwithstanding this battering I com- 
 posed, on horseback, the lines to the memory of 
 Sir George Beaumont, suggested during my 
 recent visit to Coleorton. 
 
 Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and 
 
 the pride 
 Of thy domain, strange contrast do present 
 To house and home in many a craggy rent 
 Of the wild Peak ; where new-born waters 
 
 glide 
 Through fields whose thrifty occupants 
 
 abide 
 As in a dear and chosen banishment, 
 With every semblance of entire content; 
 So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried! 
 
THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 
 
 761 
 
 Yet He whose heart in childhood gave 
 
 her troth 
 To pastoral dales, thin-set with modest 
 
 farms, 
 May learn, if judgment strengthen with 
 
 his growth. 
 That, not for Fancy only, pomp hath 
 
 charms ; 
 And, strenuous to protect from lawless 
 
 harms 
 The extremes of favored life, may honor 
 
 both. 
 
 Nov. 6, 1830. 
 
 1835- 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, 
 Esq., for St. John's College, Cambridge. 
 
 The last six lines of this sonnet are not written 
 for poetical effect, but as a matter of fact, which, 
 in more than one instance, could not escape my 
 notice in the servants of the house. 
 
 Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath 
 knelt 
 
 Margaret, the Saintly Foundress, take thy 
 place; 
 
 And, if Time spare the colors for the grace 
 
 Which to the work surpassing skill hath 
 dealt. 
 
 Thou, on thy rock reclined, though king- 
 doms melt 
 
 And states be torn up by the roots, wilt 
 seem 
 
 To breathe in ru/al peace, to hear the 
 stream, 
 
 And think and feel as once the Poet felt. 
 
 Whate'erthy fate, those features have not 
 grown 
 
 Unrecognized through many a household 
 tear 
 
 More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops 
 of dew 
 
 By morning shed around a flower half- 
 blown; 
 
 Tears of delight, that testified how true 
 
 To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how 
 dear ! 
 
 1830. 
 
 1835- 
 
 THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. The Rock stands 
 on the right hand a little way leading up the 
 middle road from Rydal to Grasmere. We have 
 been in the habit of calling it the glow-worm rock 
 from the number of glow-worms we have often 
 seen hanging on it as described. The tuft of 
 primrose has, I fear, been -yashed away by the 
 heavy rains. 
 
 A Rock there is whose homely front 
 The passing traveller slights; 
 
 Yet there the glow-worms hang their 
 lamps. 
 Like stars, at various heights; 
 
 And one coy Primrose to that Rock 
 The vernal breeze invites. 
 
 What hideous warfare hath been waged, 
 What kingdoms overthrown. 
 
 Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft 
 And marked it for my own; 
 
 A lasting link in Nature's chain 
 From highest heaven let down ! 
 
 The flowers, still faithful to the stems, 
 
 Their fellowship renew; 
 The stems are faithful to the root, 
 
 That worketh out of view; 
 And to the rock the root adheres 
 
 In every fibre true. 
 
 Close clings to earth the living rock, 
 Though threatening still to fall; 
 
 The earth is constant to her sphere; 
 And God upholds them all : 
 
 So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads 
 Her annual funeral. 
 
 Here closed the meditative strain; 
 
 But air breathed soft that day. 
 The hoary mountain-heights werecheered, 
 
 The sunny vale looked gay; 
 And to the Primrose of the Rock 
 
 I gave this after-lay. 
 
 I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers, 
 Like Thee, in field and grove 
 
 Revive unenvied; — mightier far, 
 Than tremblings that reprove 
 
 Our vernal tendencies to hope, 
 Is God's redeeming love; 
 
762 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 That love which changed — for wan disease, 
 
 For sorrow that had bent 
 O'er hopeless dust, for withered age — 
 
 Their moral element, 
 And turned the thistles of a curse 
 
 To types beneficent. 
 
 Sin-blighted though we are, we too, 
 The reasoning Sons of Men, 
 
 From one oblivious winter called 
 Shall rise, and breathe again; 
 
 And in eternal summer lose 
 Our threescore years and ten. 
 
 To humbleness of heart descends 
 
 This prescience from on high, 
 The faith that elevates the just. 
 
 Before and when they die; 
 And makes each soul a separate heaven, 
 
 A court for Deity. 
 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 COMPOSED (two excepted) DURING A 
 TOUR IN SCOTLAND AND ON THE 
 ENGLISH BORDER, IN THE AUTUMN OF 
 183I. 
 
 In the autumn of 1831, my daughter and I set 
 off from Rydal to visit Sir Walter Scott before 
 his departure for Italy. This journey had been 
 delayed by an inflammation in my eyes till we 
 found that the time appointed for his leaving 
 home would be too near for him to receive us 
 without considerable inconvenience. Neverthe- 
 less we proceeded and reached Abbotsford on 
 Monday. I was then scarcely able to lift up my 
 eyes to the light. How sadly changed did I find 
 him from the man I had seen so healthy, gay, 
 and hopeful, a few years before, when he said 
 at the inn at Paterdale, in my presence, his 
 daughter Anne also being there, with Mr. Lock- 
 hart, my own wife and daughter, and Mr. Quilli- 
 nan, — "I mean to live till I am eighty, and shall 
 write as long as I live.'* But to return to Abbots- 
 ford, the inmates and guests we found there 
 were Sir Walter, Major Scott, Anne Scott, and 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart, Mr. Liddell, his Lady 
 and Brother, and Mr. Allan the painter, and Mr. 
 Laidlow, a very old friend of Sir Walter's. One 
 of Burns's sons, an officer in the Indian service, 
 had left the house a day or two before, and had 
 
 kindly expressed his regret that he could not 
 await my arrival, a regret that I may truly say 
 was mutual. In the evening, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Liddell sang, and Mrs, Lockhart chanted old 
 ballads to her harp; and Mr. Allan, hanging 
 over the back of a chair, told and acted odd 
 stories in a humorous way. With this exhibition 
 and his daughter's singing, Sir Walter was much 
 amused, as indeed were we all as far as circum- 
 stances would allow. But what is most worthy 
 of mention is the admirable demeanor of Major 
 Scott during the following evening, when the 
 Liddells were gone and only ourselves and Mr. 
 Allan were present. He had much to suffer 
 from the sight of his father's infirmities and from 
 the great change that was about to take place at 
 the residence he had built, and where he had 
 long lived in so much prosperity and happiness. 
 But what struck me most was the patient kind- 
 ness with which he supported himself ^nder the 
 many fretful expressions that his sister Anne ad- 
 dressed to him or uttered in his hearing. She, 
 poor thing, as mistress of that house, had been 
 subject, after her mother's death, to a heavier 
 load of care and responsibility and greater sacri- 
 fices of time than one of such a constitution of 
 body and mind was able to bear. Of this, Dora 
 and I were made so sensible, that, as soon as we 
 had crossed the Tweed on our departure, we 
 gave vent at the same moment to our apprehen- 
 sions that her brain would fail and she would go 
 out of her mind, or that she would sink under 
 the trials she had passed and those which awaited 
 her. On Tuesday morning Sir Walter Scott 
 accompanied us and most of the party to Newark 
 Castle on the Yarrow. When we alighted from 
 the carriages he walked pretty stoutly, and had 
 great pleasure in revisiting those his favorite 
 haunts. Of that excursion the verses "Yarrow 
 revisited " are a memorial. Notwithstanding the 
 romance that pervades Sir Walter's works and 
 attaches to many of his habits, there is too much 
 pressure of fact for these verses to harmonize as 
 much as I could wish with other poems. On our 
 return in the afternoon we had to cross the 
 Tweeddirectly opposite Abbotsford. The wheels 
 of our carriage grated upon the pebbles in the 
 bed of the stream, that there flows somewhat 
 rapidly; a rich but sad light of rather a purple 
 than a golden hue was spread over the Eildon 
 hills at that moment ; and, thinking it probable 
 that it might be the last time Sir Walter would 
 cross the stream, I was not a little moved, and 
 expressed some of my feelings in the sonnet 
 beginning — " A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping 
 rain." At noon on Thursday we left Abbotsford, 
 and in the morning of that day Sir Walter and I 
 had a serious conversation tHe-h-tete, when he 
 
YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 763 
 
 spoke with gratitude of the happy life which 
 upon the whole he had led. He had written in 
 my daughter's Album, before he came into the 
 breakfast-room that morning, a few stanzas ad- 
 dressed to her, and, while putting the book into 
 her hand, in his own study, standing by his desk, 
 he said to her in my presence — " I should not 
 have done anything of this kind but for your 
 father's sake : they are probably the last verses I 
 shall ever write." They show how much his 
 mind was impaired, not by the strain of thought 
 but by the execution, some of the lines being 
 imperfect, and one stanza wanting corresponding 
 rhymes : one letter, the initial S, had been 
 omitted in the spelling of his own name. In this 
 interview also it was that, upon my expressing a 
 hope of his healtli being benefited by the climate 
 of the country to which he was going, and by 
 the interest he would take in the classic remem- 
 brances of Italy, he made use of the quotation 
 from " Yarrow unvisited " as recorded by me in 
 the ** Musings at Aquapendente " six years after- 
 wards. Mr. Lockhart has mentioned in his Life 
 of him what I heard from several quarters while 
 abroad, both at Rome and elsewhere, that little 
 seemed to interest him but what he could collect 
 or heard of the fugitive Stuarts and their adher- 
 ents who had followed them into exile. Both 
 the " Yarrow revisited " and the " Sonnet " were 
 sent him before his departure from England. 
 Some further particulars of the conversations 
 which occurred during this visit I should have 
 set down had they not been already accurately 
 recorded by Mr. Lockhart. I first became ac- 
 quainted with this great and amiable man — Sir 
 Walter Scott — in the year 1803, when my sister 
 and I, making a tour in Scotland, were hospitably 
 received by him in Lasswade upon the banks of 
 the Esk, where he was then living. We saw a 
 good deal of him in the course of the following 
 week : the particulars are given in my sister's 
 Joumal of that tour. 
 
 TO 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS, Esq., 
 
 AS A TESTIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, AND 
 
 ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 OF INTELLECTUAL OBLIGATIONS, 
 
 THESE MEMORIALS ARE AFFECTIONATELY 
 
 INSCRIBED. 
 
 Rydal Mount, Dec. 11, 1834. 
 
 I. 
 
 The following Stanzas are a memorial of a 
 day passed with Sir Walter Scott and other 
 Friends ^/isiting the Banks of the Yarrow under 
 his guidance, immediately before his departure 
 from Abbotsford, for Naples. 
 
 The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no 
 need of explanation for Readers acquainted with 
 the Author's previous poems suggested by that 
 
 celebrated Stream. 
 
 The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 
 
 Or seeks, a "winsome Marrow," 
 Was but an Infant in the lap 
 
 When first I looked on Yarrow; 
 Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 
 
 Long left without a warder, 
 I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 
 
 Great Minstrel of the Border ! 
 
 Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet 
 day, 
 
 Their dignity installing 
 In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 
 
 Were on the bough, or falling; 
 But breezes played, and sunshine 
 gleamed — 
 
 The forest to embolden; 
 Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 
 
 Transparence through the golden. 
 
 For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on 
 
 In foamy agitation; 
 And slept in many a crystal pool 
 
 For quiet contemplation : 
 No pubHc and no private care 
 
 The free-born mind enthralling, 
 We made a day of happy hours. 
 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
 Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, 
 
 With freaks of graceful folly, — 
 Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 
 
 Her Night not melancholy; 
 Past, present, future, all appeared 
 
 In harmony united. 
 Like guests that meet, and some from far, 
 
 By cordial love invited. 
 
 And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 
 
 And down the meadow ranging, 
 Did meet us with unaltered face, 
 
 Though we were changed and chan- 
 ging; 
 If, then^ some natural shadows spread 
 
 Our inward prospect over, 
 The soul's deep valley was not slow 
 
 Its brightness to recover. 
 
764 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Eternal blessings on the Muse, 
 
 And her divine employment ! 
 The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 
 
 For hope and calm enjoyment; 
 Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 
 
 Has o'er their pillow brooded; 
 And Care waylays their steps — a Sprite 
 
 Not easily eluded. 
 
 For thee, O ScoTT ! compelled to change 
 
 Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 
 For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes; 
 
 And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot 
 For mild Sorento's breezy waves; 
 
 May classic Fancy, linking 
 With native Fancy her fresh aid. 
 
 Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 
 
 Oh ! while they minister to thee. 
 
 Each vying with the other, 
 May Health return to mellow Age 
 
 With Strength, her venturous brother; 
 And Tiber, and each brook and rill 
 
 Renowned in song and story. 
 With uniraagined beauty shine. 
 
 Nor lose one ray of glory ! 
 
 For Thou, upon a hundred streams, 
 
 By tales of love and sorrow. 
 Of faithful love, undaunted truth. 
 
 Hast shed the power of Yarrow; 
 And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 
 
 Wherever they invite Thee, 
 At parent Nature's grateful call. 
 
 With gladness must requite Thee. 
 
 A gracious welcome shall be thine. 
 
 Such looks of love and honor 
 As thy own Yarrow gave to me 
 
 When first I gazed upon her; 
 Beheld what I had feared to see. 
 
 Unwilling to surrender 
 Dreams treasured up from early days. 
 
 The holy and the tender. 
 
 And what, for this frail world, were all 
 
 That mortals do or suffer. 
 Did no responsive harp, no pen. 
 
 Memorial tribute offer? 
 Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? 
 
 Her features, could they win us, 
 Unhelped by the poetic voice 
 
 That hourly speaks within us? 
 
 Nor deem that localized Romance 
 
 Plays false with our affections; 
 Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 
 
 For fanciful dejections: 
 Ah, no ! the visions of the past 
 
 Sustain the heart in feeling 
 Life as she is — our changeful Life, 
 
 With friends and kindred dealing. 
 
 Bear witness. Ye, whose thoughts that day 
 
 In Yarrow's groves were centred; 
 Who through the silent portal arch 
 
 Of mouldering Newark entered; 
 And clomb the winding stair that once 
 
 Too timidly was mounted 
 By the "last Minstrel," (not the last!) 
 
 Ere he his Tale recounted. 
 
 Flow on forever. Yarrow Stream ! 
 
 Fulfil thy pensive duty. 
 Well pleased that future Bards should 
 chant 
 
 For simple hearts thy beauty; 
 To dream-light dear while yet unseen. 
 
 Dear to the common sunshine. 
 And dearer still, as now I feel. 
 
 To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 
 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR V^ALTER 
 SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. 
 Atrouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain. 
 Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
 Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple 
 
 height : 
 Spirits of Power, assembled there, com- 
 plain 
 For kindred Power departing from their 
 
 sight : 
 While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a 
 
 blithe strain. 
 Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
 Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the 
 
 might 
 Of the whole world's good wishes with 
 
 him goes; 
 Blessing and prayers, in nobler retinue 
 Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror 
 
 knows 
 
 Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
 
 Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea. 
 
 Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 
 
 1831. 1835. ■ 
 
YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 765 
 
 A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 Similar places for burial are not unfrequent in 
 Scotland. The one that suggested this Sonnet 
 lies on the banks of a small stream called the 
 Wauchope that flows into the Esk near Lang- 
 holme. Mickle, who, as it appears from his poem 
 on Sir Martin, was not without genuine poetic 
 feelings, was born and passed his boyhood in 
 this neighborhood, under his father, who was a 
 minister of the Scotch Kirk. The Esk, both 
 above and below Langholm, flows through a 
 beautiful country, and the two streams of the 
 Wauchope and the Ewes, which join it near that 
 place, are such as a pastoral poet would delight 
 in. 
 
 Part fenced by man, part by a rugged 
 steep 
 
 That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave- 
 yard lies; 
 
 The hare's best couching-place for fear- 
 less sleep; 
 
 Which moonlit elves, far seen by credu- 
 lous eyes, 
 
 Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties. 
 
 No vestige now remains; yet thither creep 
 
 Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep 
 
 Their prayers out to the wind and naked 
 skies. 
 
 Proud tomb is none ; but rudely-sculptured 
 knights. 
 
 By humble choice of plain old times, are 
 seen 
 
 Level with earth, among the hillocks 
 green : 
 
 Union not sad, when sunny daybreak 
 smites 
 
 The spangled turf, and neighboring 
 thickets ring 
 
 Vs\\.h.jubilaie from the choirs of spring ! 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH 
 OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 The manses in Scotland and the gardens and 
 grounds about them have seldom that attractive 
 appearance which is common about our English 
 parsonages, even when the clergyman's income 
 falls below the average of the Scotch minister's. 
 This is not merely owing to the one country being 
 
 poor in comparison with the other, but arises 
 rather out of the equality of their benefices, so 
 that no one has enough to spare for decorations 
 that might serve as an example for others ; 
 whereas, with us, the taste of the richer in- 
 cumbent extends its influence more or less to the 
 poorest. After all, in these observations the 
 surface only of the matter is touched. I once 
 heard a conversation in which the Roman Catholic 
 Religion was decried on account of its abuses. 
 *' You cannot deny, however," said a lady of the 
 party, repeating an expression used by Charles 
 II., " that it is the religion of a gentleman." It 
 maybe left to the Scotch themselves to determine 
 how far this observation applies to their Kirk, 
 while it cannot be denied, if it is wanting in that 
 characteristic quality, the aspect of common life, 
 so far as concerns its beauty, must suffer. Sincere 
 christian piety may be thought not to stand in 
 need of refinement or studied ornament; but 
 assuredly it is ever ready toi adopt them, when 
 they fall within its notice, as means allow ;*and 
 this observation applies not only to manners, but 
 to everything a christian (truly so in spirit) culti- 
 vates and gathers round him, however humble 
 his social condition. 
 
 Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing 
 
 hills — 
 Among the happiest-looking homes of men 
 Scattered all Britain over, through deep 
 
 glen. 
 On airy upland, and by forest rills. 
 And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark 
 
 that trills 
 His sky-born warblings — does aught 
 
 meet your ken 
 More fit to animate the Poet's pen, 
 Aught that more surely by its aspect fills 
 Pure minds with sinless envy, than the 
 
 Abode 
 Of the good Priest : who, faithful through 
 
 all hours 
 To his high charge, and truly serving God, 
 Has yet a heart and hand for trees and 
 
 flowers, 
 Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod. 
 Nor covets lineal rights in lands and 
 
 towers. 
 1S31. 1835. 
 
 V. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL DURING A 
 STORM. 
 
 We were detained by incessant rain and storm 
 at the small inn near Roslin Chapel, and I passed 
 
766 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 ? great pact of the day pacing to and fro in this 
 beautiful structure, which, though not used for 
 public service, is not allowed to go to ruin. 
 Here this Sonnet was composed. If it has at all 
 done justice to the feeling which the place and 
 the storm raging without inspired, I was as a 
 prisoner. A painter delineating the interior of 
 the chapel and its minute features under such 
 circumstances would have, no doubt, found his 
 time agreeably shortened. But the movements 
 of the mind must be more free while dealing with 
 words than with lines and colors ; such at least 
 was then and has been on many other occasions 
 my belief, and, as it is allotted to few to follow 
 both arts with success, I am grateful to my own 
 calling for this and a thousand other recommen- 
 dations which are denied to that of the painter. 
 
 The wind is now thy organist; — a clank 
 (We know not whence) ministers for a 
 
 • bell 
 To mark some change of service. As 
 
 the swell 
 Of music reached its height, and even 
 
 when sank 
 The notes, in prelude, ROSLIN ! to a blank 
 Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous 
 
 roof, 
 Pillars, and arches, — not in vain time- 
 proof, 
 Though Christian rites be wanting ! From 
 
 what bank 
 Came those live herbs? by what hand were 
 
 they sown 
 Where dew falls not, where raindrops 
 
 seem unknown? 
 Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche 
 Share with their sculptured fellows, that. 
 
 green-grown. 
 Copy their beauty more and more, and 
 
 preach. 
 Though mute, of all things blending into 
 
 one. 
 183 1. 1835. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE TROSACHS. 
 
 As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first 
 seen the Trosachs in her and Coleridge's com- 
 pany. The sentiment that runs through this 
 Sonnet was natural to the season in which I 
 again saw this beautiful spot ; but this and some 
 other sonnets that follow were colored by the 
 
 remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter 
 Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he 
 was going. 
 
 There's not a nook within this solemn 
 
 Pass, 
 But were an apt confessional for One 
 Taught by his summer spent, his autumn 
 
 gone. 
 That Life is but a tale of morning grass 
 Withered at eve. From scenes of art 
 
 which chase 
 That thought away, turn, and with watch- 
 ful eyes 
 Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, 
 Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear 
 
 than glass 
 Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice 
 
 happy quest, 
 If from a golden perch of aspen spray 
 (October's workmanship to rival May) 
 The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
 That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught 
 
 lay, 
 Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest ! 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 The pibroch's note, discountenanced or 
 
 mute; 
 The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy 
 Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy; 
 The target mouldering like ungathered 
 
 fruit; 
 The smoking steamboat eager in pursuit, 
 As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread 
 To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's 
 
 head — 
 All speak of manners withering to the root, 
 And of old honors, too, and passions high ; 
 Then may we ask, though pleased that 
 
 thought should range 
 Among the conquests of civility, 
 Survives imagination — to the change 
 Superior? Help to virtue does she give? 
 If not, O Mortals, better cease to live ! 
 1S31. 1835. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE. 
 
 " That makes the Patriot-spirit." It was mor- 
 tifying to have frequent occasions to observe the 
 bitter hatred of the lower orders of the High- 
 
YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 767 
 
 landers to their superiors ; love of country seemed 
 to have passed into its opposite. Emigration was 
 the only relief looked to with hope. 
 
 " This Land of Rainbows spanning glens 
 
 whose walls, 
 Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-col- 
 ored mists — 
 Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood 
 
 never rests — 
 Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls — 
 Of Mountains varying momently their 
 
 crests — 
 Proud be this Land ! whose poorest huts 
 
 are halls 
 Where Fancy entertains becoming guests ; 
 While native song the heroic Past recalls . " 
 Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught, 
 The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must 
 
 hide 
 Her trophies, Fancy crouch; the course 
 
 of pride 
 Has been diverted, other lessons taught, 
 That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head 
 Where the all-conquering Roman feared 
 
 to tread. 
 
 183 1. 
 
 1835- 
 
 IX. 
 
 EAGLES. 
 
 COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE BAY 
 OF OBAN. 
 
 " The last I saw was on the wing/' off the prom- 
 ontory of Fairhead, county of Antrim. I men- 
 tion this because, though my tour in Ireland with 
 Mr. Marshall and his son was made many years 
 ago, this allusion to the eagle is the only image 
 supplied by it to the poetry I have since written. 
 We travelled through that country in October, 
 and to the shortness of the days and the speed 
 with which we travelled (in a carriage and four) 
 may be ascribed this want of notices, in my verse, 
 of a country so interesting. The deficiency I am 
 somewhat ashamed of, and it is the more remark- 
 able as contrasted with my Scotch and Conti- 
 nental tours, of which are to be found in this 
 volume so many memorials. 
 
 Dishonored Rock and Ruin ! that, by 
 
 law 
 Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred 
 Like a lone criminal whose life is spared. 
 
 Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last 
 I saw 
 
 Was on the wing ; stooping, he struck with 
 awe 
 
 Man, bird, and beast; then, with a con- 
 sort paired. 
 
 From a bold headland,\heir loved eyrie's 
 guard, 
 
 Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw 
 
 Light from the fountain of the setting sun. 
 
 Such was this Prisoner once; and, when 
 his plumes 
 
 The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on, 
 
 Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes 
 
 His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that 
 live free, 
 
 His power, his beauty, and his majesty. 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 IN THE SOUND OF MULL. 
 
 Touring late in the season in Scotland is an 
 uncertain speculation. We were detained a week 
 by rain at Bunaw on Loch Etive in a vain hope 
 that the weather would clear up and allow me to 
 show my daughter the beauties of Glencoe. Two 
 days we were at the isle of Mull, on a visit to 
 Major Campbell ; but it rained incessantly, and 
 we were obliged to give up our intention of going 
 to Staffa. The rain pursued us to Tyndrum, 
 where the Eleventh Sonnet was composed in a 
 storm. 
 
 Tradition, be thou mute ! Oblivion, 
 
 throw 
 Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung 
 Round strath and mountain, stamped by 
 
 the ancient tongue 
 On rock and ruin darkening as we go, — 
 Spots where a word, ghostlike, survives 
 
 to show 
 What crimes from hate, or desperate love, 
 
 have sprung; 
 From honor misconceived, or fancied 
 
 wrong. 
 What feuds, not quenched but fed by 
 
 mutual woe. 
 Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, un- 
 tamed 
 By civil arts and labors of the pen, 
 Could gentleness be scorned by those 
 
 fierce Men, 
 Who, to spread wide the reverence they 
 
 claimed 
 
768 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 For patriarchal occupations, named 
 Yon towering Peaks, ' ' Shepherds of Etive 
 Glen"?i 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM. 
 
 Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian 
 
 crook, 
 And all that Greece and Italy have sung 
 Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among ! 
 Ours couch on naked rocks, — will cross 
 
 a brook 
 Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 
 This way or that, or give it even a thought 
 More than by smoothest pathway may be 
 
 brought 
 Into a vacant mind. Can written book 
 Teach what they learn ? Up, hardy Moun- 
 taineer ! 
 And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One 
 Of Nature's privy council, as thou art. 
 On cloud-sequestered heights, that see 
 
 and hear 
 To what dread Powers He delegates his 
 
 part 
 On earth, who works in the heaven of 
 
 heavens, alone. 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 XII. 
 
 THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED 
 MANSION AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, 
 NEAR KILLIN. , 
 
 Well sang the Bard who called the grave, 
 
 in strains 
 Thoughtful and sad, the "narrow house." 
 
 No style 
 Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile 
 Grief of her sting; nor cheat, where he 
 
 detains 
 The sleeping dust, stern Death. How 
 
 reconcile 
 With truth, or with each other, decked 
 
 remains 
 Of a once warm Abode, and that new 
 
 Pile, 
 For the departed, built with curious pains 
 And mausolean pomp? Yet here they 
 
 stand 
 1 In Gaelic, B-uachaill EUe. 
 
 Together, — 'mid trim walks and artful 
 
 bowers, 
 To be looked down upon by ancient hills, 
 That, for the living and the dead, demand 
 And prompt a harmony of genuine powers; 
 Concord that elevates the mind, and stills. 
 183 1. 183s. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 "REST AND BE THANKFUL!" 
 
 AT THE HEAD OF GLENCOE. 
 
 Doubling and doubling with laborious 
 
 walk, 
 Who, that has gained at length the wished- 
 
 for Height, 
 This brief this simple wayside Call can 
 
 slight, 
 And rests not thankful ? Whether cheered 
 
 by talk 
 With some loved friend, or by the unseen 
 
 hawk 
 Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams 
 
 that shine, 
 At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine, 
 Ere they descend to nourish root and 
 
 stalk 
 Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs 
 
 repose, 
 Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep 
 Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air, 
 And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's 
 
 sweep, — 
 So may the Soul, through powers that 
 
 Faith bestows. 
 Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss 
 
 that Angels share. 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 highland hut. 
 
 See what gay wild flowers deck this earth- 
 built Cot, 
 
 Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and 
 how it may. 
 
 Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray 
 
 Like wreaths of vapor without stain or 
 blot. 
 
 The limpid mountain rill avoids it not; 
 
 And why shouldst thou ? — If rightly 
 trained and bred, 
 
YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 769 
 
 Humanity is humble, finds no spot 
 Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to 
 
 tread. 
 The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery 
 
 roof, 
 Undressed the pathway leading to the 
 
 door; 
 But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor ; 
 Search, for their worth, some gentle heart 
 
 wrong-proof. 
 Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials 
 
 fewer. 
 Belike less happy. — Stand no more 
 
 aloof ! 1 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE BROWNIE. 
 
 Upon a small island, not far from the head of 
 Loch Lomond, are some remains of an ancient 
 building, which was for several years the abode 
 of a solitary Individual, one of the last survivors 
 of the clan of Macfarlane, once powerful in that 
 neighborhood. Passing along the shore opposite 
 this island in the year 1814, the Author learned 
 these particulars, and that this person then living 
 there had acquired the appellation of " The 
 Brownie." See "The Brownie's Cell," p. 595, 
 to which the following is a sequel. 
 
 " How disappeared he? " Ask the newt 
 
 and toad; 
 Ask of his fellow-men, and they will tell 
 How he was found, cold as an icicle, 
 Under an arch of that forlorn abode; 
 Where he, unpropped, and by the gath- 
 ering flood 
 Of years hemmed round, had dwelt, pre- 
 pared to try 
 Privation's worst extremities, and die 
 With no one near save the omnipresent 
 
 God. 
 Verily so to live was an awful choice — 
 A choice that wears the aspect of a doom; 
 But in the mould of mercy all is cast 
 For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice; 
 And this forgotten Taper to the last 
 Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful 
 gloom. 
 i83'- '835. 
 
 1 See 
 
 TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING 
 STAR. 
 
 COMPOSED AT LOCH LOMOND. 
 
 Though joy attend Thee orient at the 
 
 birth 
 Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most 
 To watch thy course when Daylight, fled 
 
 from earth. 
 In the gray sky hath left his lingering 
 
 Ghost, 
 Perplexed as if between a splendor lost 
 And splendor slowly mustering. Since 
 
 the Sun, 
 The absolute, the world-absorbing One, 
 Relinquished half his empire to the host 
 Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star, 
 Holy as princely — who that looks on thee, 
 Touching, as now, in thy humility 
 The mountain borders of this seat of care. 
 Can question that thy countenance is 
 
 bright, 
 Celestial Power, as much with love as 
 
 light? 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 BOTHWELL CASTLE. 
 
 PASSED UNSEEN, ON ACCOUNT OF STORMY 
 WEATHER. 
 
 In my Sister's Journal is an account of Both- 
 well Castle as it appeared to us at that time. 
 
 Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times 
 
 the Brave 
 (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn 
 The liberty they lost at Bannockburn. 
 Once on those steeps / roamed 1 at large, 
 
 and have 
 In mind the landscape, as if still in sight; 
 The river glides, the woods before me 
 
 wave; 
 Then why repine that now in vain I crave 
 Needless renewal of an old delight? 
 Better to thank a dear and long-past day 
 For joy its sunny hours were free to give 
 Note. 
 
110 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Than blame the present, that our wish 
 hath crost. 
 
 Memory, hke sleep, hath powers which 
 dreams obey, 
 
 Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugi- 
 tive: 
 
 How little that she cherishes is lost ! 
 183 1. 1835. 
 
 PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LIONS' 
 DEN, AT HAMILTON PALACE. 
 
 Amid a fertile region green with wood 
 And fresh with rivers, well did it become 
 The ducal Owner, in his palace-home 
 To naturalize this tawny Lion brood; 
 Children of Art, that claim strange brother- 
 hood 
 (Couched in their den) with those that 
 
 roam at large 
 Over the burning wilderness, and charge 
 The wind with terror while they roar for 
 
 food. 
 Satiate are these ; and stilled to eye and 
 
 ear; 
 Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring 
 
 fear! 
 Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the 
 
 cave 
 Daunt him — if his Companions, nowbe- 
 
 drowsed 
 Outstretched and listless, were by hunger 
 
 roused : 
 Man placed him here, and God, he knows, 
 
 can save. 
 183 1. 183s. 
 
 THE AVON 
 A FEEDER OF THE ANNAN. 
 
 " Yet is it one that other rivulets bear.'' There 
 is the Shakspeare Avon, the Bristol Avon ; the 
 one that flows by Salisbury, and a small river in 
 Wales, I believe, bear the name; Avon being in 
 the ancient tongue the general name for riv er. 
 
 Avon — a precious, an immortal name ! 
 Yet is it one that other rivulets bear 
 
 Like this unheard-of, and their channels 
 
 wear 
 Like this contented, though unknown to 
 
 Fame: 
 For great and sacred is the modest claim 
 Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er 
 
 they flow; 
 And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they 
 
 go. 
 Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding 
 
 without blame. 
 But Praise can waste her voice on work 
 
 of tears. 
 Anguish, and death : full oft where inno- 
 cent blood 
 Has mixt its current with the limpid 
 
 flood. 
 Her heaven-offending trophies Glory 
 
 rears : 
 Never for like distinction may the good 
 Shrink from ihy name, pure Rill, with 
 
 unpleased ears. 
 183 1. 1835. 
 
 StJGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMI- 
 NENCE IN INGLEWOOD FOREST. 
 
 The extensive forest of Inglewood has been 
 enclosed within my memory. I was well ac- 
 quainted with it in its ancient state. The Hart's- 
 horn tree mentioned in tlie next Sonnet was one 
 of its remarkable objects, as well as another tree 
 that grew upon an eminence not far from Penrith : 
 it was single and conspicuous ; and being of a 
 round shape, though it was universally known 
 to be a Sycamore, it was always called the 
 " Round Thorn," so difficult is it to chain fancy 
 down to fact. 
 
 The forest huge of ancient Caledon 
 Is but a name, no more is Inglewood, 
 That swept from hill to hill, from flood 
 
 to flood : 
 On her last thorn the nightly moon has 
 
 shone ; 
 Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be 
 
 none. 
 Fair parks spread wide where Adam 
 
 Bell might deign 
 With Clym o' the Clough, were they 
 
 alive again. 
 To kill for merry feast their venison. 
 
YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 771 
 
 Nor wants the holy Abbot 's gliding Shade 
 His church with monumental wreck be- 
 strewn; 
 The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid, 
 Hath still his castle, though a skeleton, 
 That he may watch by night, and lessons 
 
 con 
 Of power that perishes, and rights that 
 fade. 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 HART'S-HORN tree, near PENRITH. 
 
 Here stood an Oak, that long had borne 
 
 afBxt 
 To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle 
 
 art, 
 Among its withering topmost branches 
 
 mixt. 
 The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart, 
 Whom the Dog Hercules pursued — his 
 
 part 
 Each desperately sustaining, till at last 
 Both sank and died, the life-veins of the 
 
 chased 
 And chaser bursting here with one dire 
 
 smart. 
 Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat ! 
 High was the trophy hung with pitiless 
 
 pride; 
 Say, rather, with that generous sympathy 
 That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a 
 
 seat; 
 And, for this feeling's sake, let no one 
 
 chide 
 Verse that would guard thy memory, 
 
 Hart's-horn Tree ! ' 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 fancy and tradition. 
 
 The Lovers took within their ancient 
 
 grove 
 Their last embrace; beside those crystal 
 
 springs 
 The Hermit saw the Angel spread his 
 
 wings 
 For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove 
 ' See Note. 
 
 Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would 
 
 rove, 
 Not mute, where now the linnet only 
 
 sings: 
 Thus everywhere to truth Tradition clings, 
 Or Fancy localizes Powers we love. 
 Were only History licensed to take note 
 Of things gone by, her meagre monu- 
 ments 
 Would ill suffice for persons and events: 
 There is an ampler page for man to quote, 
 A readier book of manifold contents. 
 Studied alike in palace and in cot. 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 countess's pillar. 
 
 Suggested by the recollection of Julian's 
 Bower and other traditions connected with this 
 ancient forest. 
 
 On the roadside between Penrith and Apple- 
 by, there stands a pillar with the following in- 
 scription : — 
 
 "This Pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by 
 Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, etc., for 
 a memorial of her last parting with her pious 
 mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumber- 
 land, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory where- 
 of she hath left an annuity of 4/. to be distributed 
 to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d 
 day of April forever, upon the stone table placed 
 hard by. Laus Deo ! " 
 
 While the Poor gather round, till the 
 
 end of time 
 May this bright flower of Charity display 
 Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed 
 
 day; 
 Flower than the loveliest of the vernal 
 
 prime 
 Lovelier — transplanted from heaven's 
 
 purest clime ! 
 "Charity never faileth: " on that creed, 
 More than on written testament or deed, 
 The pious Lady built with hope sublime. 
 Alms on this stone to be dealt out, fo?-- 
 
 ever ! 
 " Laus Deo." Many a Stranger passing 
 
 by 
 Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh, 
 Blest its humane Memorial's fond en- 
 deavor; 
 
772 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 And, fastening on those lines an eye 
 
 tear-glazed, 
 Has ended, though no Clerk, with " God 
 
 be praised ! " 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 ROMAN ANTIQUITIES. 
 
 FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD 
 PENRITH. 
 
 How profitless the relics that we cull. 
 Troubling the last holds of ambitious 
 
 Rome, 
 Unless they chasten fancies that presume 
 Too high, or idle agitations lull ! 
 Of the world's flatteries if the brain be 
 
 full. 
 To have no seat for thought were better 
 
 doom. 
 Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull 
 Of him who gloried in its nodding plume. 
 Heaven out of view, our wishes what 
 
 are they? 
 Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp ? 
 The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay? 
 Mere Fibulse without a robe to clasp; 
 Obsolete lamps, whose light no time 
 
 recalls; 
 Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals ! 
 183 1. 1835. 
 
 APOLOGY FOR THE FOREGOING POEMS. 
 
 No more : the end is sudden and abrupt. 
 Abrupt — as without preconceived de- 
 sign 
 Was the beginning; yet the several Lays 
 Have moved in order, to each other bound 
 By a continuous and acknowledged tie 
 Though unapparent — like those Shapes 
 
 distinct 
 That yet survive ensculptured on the walls 
 Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck 
 Of famed Persepolis ; each following each. 
 As might beseem a stately embassy. 
 Inset array; these bearing in their hands 
 Ensign of civil power, weapon of war, 
 Or gift to be presented at the throne 
 
 Of the Great King; and others, as they go 
 In priestly vest, with holy offerings 
 
 charged. 
 Or leading victims drest for sacrifice. 
 Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred 
 
 Power, 
 The Spirit of humanity, disdain 
 A ministration humble but sincere. 
 That from a threshold loved by every 
 
 Muse 
 Its impulse took — that sorrow-stricken 
 
 door, 
 Whence, as a current from its fountain- 
 head. 
 Our thoughts have issued, and our feel- 
 ings flowed, 
 Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength 
 From kindred sources; while around us 
 
 sighed 
 (Life's three first seasons having passed 
 
 away) 
 Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost 
 
 sprinklings fell 
 (Foretaste of winter) on the moorland 
 
 heights; 
 And every day brought with it tidings new 
 Of rash change, ominous for the public 
 
 weal. 
 Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached 
 Upon that sweet and tender melancholy 
 Which may itself be cherished and ca- 
 ressed 
 More than enough; a fault so natural 
 (Even with the young, the hopeful, or 
 
 the gay) 
 For prompt forgiveness will not sue in 
 vain. 
 1831. 1835. 
 
 THE HIGHLAND BROACH. 
 
 On ascending a hill that leads from Loch Awe 
 towards Inverary, I fell into conversation with a 
 woman of the humbler class who wore one of 
 those Highland Broaches. I talked with her 
 about it ; and upon parting with her, when I said 
 with a kindness I truly felt — ' ' May that Broach 
 continue in your family through many genera- 
 tions to come, as you have already possessed it " 
 — she thanked me most becomingly, and seemed 
 not a little moved. 
 
YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 773 
 
 The exact resemblance which the old Broach 
 (still in use, though rarely met with, among the 
 Highlanders) bears to the Roman Fibula must 
 strike every one, and concurs, with tlie plaid and 
 kilt, to recall to mind the communication which 
 the ancient Romans had with this remote country. 
 
 If to Tradition faith be due, 
 
 And echoes from old verse speak true, 
 
 Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore 
 
 Glad tidings to lona's shore. 
 
 No common light of nature blest 
 
 The mountain region of the west, 
 
 A land where gentle manners ruled 
 
 O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled. 
 
 That raised, for centuries, a bar 
 
 Impervious to the tide of war : 
 
 Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain 
 
 Where haughty Force had striven in vain; 
 
 And 'mid the works of skilful hands. 
 
 By wanderers brought from foreign lands 
 
 And various climes, was not unknown 
 
 The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown; 
 
 The Fibula, whose shape, I ween. 
 
 Still in the Highland Broach is seen. 
 
 The silver Broach of massy frame. 
 
 Worn at the breast of some grave Dame 
 
 On road or path, or at the door 
 
 Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor : 
 
 But delicate of yore its mould. 
 
 And the material finest gold; 
 
 As might beseem the fairest Fair, 
 
 Whether she graced a royal chair, 
 
 Or shed, within a vaulted hall. 
 
 No fancied lustre on the wall 
 
 Where shields of mighty heroes hung, 
 
 While Fingal heard what Ossian sung. 
 
 The heroic Age expired — it slept 
 Deep in its tomb: — the bramble crept 
 O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod 
 Grew on the floors his sons had trod : 
 Malvina ! where art thou? Their state 
 The noblest-born must abdicate; 
 The fairest, while with fire and sword 
 Come Spoilers — horde impelling horde, 
 Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest 
 By ruder hands in homelier vest. 
 Yet still the female bosom lent, 
 And loved to borrow, ornament; 
 Still was its inner world a place 
 Reached by the dews of heavenly grace; 
 Still pity to this last retreat 
 Clove fondly; to his favorite seat 
 
 Love wound his way by soft approach. 
 Beneath a massier Highland Broach. 
 
 When alternations came of rage 
 Yet fiercer, in a darker age; 
 And feuds, where, clan encountering clan, 
 The weaker perished to a man; 
 For maid and mother, when despair 
 Might else have triumphed, baffling 
 
 prayer. 
 One small possession lacked not power. 
 Provided in a calmer hour. 
 To meet such need as might befall — 
 Roof, raiment, bread, or burial : 
 For woman, even of tears bereft. 
 The hidden silver Broach was left. 
 
 As generations come and go. 
 Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; 
 Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away. 
 And feeble, of themselves, decay; 
 What poor abodes the heir-loom hide. 
 In which the castle once took pride ! 
 Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth. 
 If saved at all, are saved by stealth. 
 Lo ! ships, from seas by nature barred. 
 Mount along ways by man prepared; 
 And in far-stretching vales, whose streams 
 Seek other seas, their canvas gleams. 
 Lo ! busy towns spring up, on coasts 
 Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts; 
 Soon, like a lingering star forlorn 
 Among the novelties of morn. 
 While young delights on old encroach, 
 Will vanish the last Highland Broach. 
 
 But when, from out their viewless bed. 
 Like vapors, years have rolled and spread ; 
 And this poor verse, and worthier lays. 
 Shall yield no light of love or praise; 
 Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough. 
 Or torrent from the mountain's brow, 
 Or whirlwind, reckless what his might 
 Entombs, or forces into light; 
 Blind Chance, a volunteer ally. 
 That oft befriends Antiquity, 
 And clears Oblivion from reproach, 
 May render back the Highland Broach." 
 
 1S31. 1835. 
 
 ^ How much the Broach is sometimes prized 
 by persons in humble stations may be gathered 
 from an occurrence mentioned to me by a female 
 friend. She had had an opportunity of benefiting 
 a poor old woman in her own hut, who, wishing 
 to make a return, said to her daughter, in Erse, 
 in a tone of plaintive earnestness, *' I would give 
 
774 
 
 DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 
 
 DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 
 Written at Rydal Mount. 
 
 " Not to the earth confined, 
 Ascend to heaven." 
 
 Where will they stop, those breathing 
 
 Powers, 
 The Spirits of the new-born flowers? 
 They wander with the breeze, they wind 
 Where'er the streams a passage find; 
 Up from their native ground they rise 
 In mute aerial harmonies; 
 From humble violet — modest thyme — 
 Exhaled, the essential odors climb. 
 As if no space below the sky 
 Their subtle flight could satisfy : 
 Heaven will not tax our thoughts with 
 
 pride 
 If like ambition be their guide. 
 
 Roused by this kindliest of May- 
 showers, 
 The spirit-quickener of the flowers, 
 That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
 The buds, and freshens the young leaves, 
 The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
 Of rapture from a thousand throats — 
 Here checked by too impetuous haste. 
 While there the music runs to waste. 
 With bounty more and more enlarged. 
 Till the whole air is overcharged; 
 Give ear, O Man ! to their appeal 
 And thirst for no inferior zeal, 
 Thou, who canst think, as well as feel. 
 
 Mount from the earth; aspire ! aspire ! 
 So pleads the town's cathedral quire. 
 In strains that from their solemn height 
 Sink, to attain a loftier flight; 
 While incense from the altar breathes 
 Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths; 
 Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds 
 The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
 Around angelic forms, the still 
 Creation of the painter's skill, 
 That on the service wait concealed 
 One moment, and the next revealed 
 
 anything I have, but I hope she does not wish for 
 my Broach ! " and, uttering these words, she put 
 her hand upon the Broach which fastened her 
 kerchief, and which, she imagined, had attracted 
 the eye of her benefactress. 
 
 — Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, 
 And for no transient ecstasies ! 
 What else can mean the visual, plea 
 Of still or moving imagery — 
 The iterated summons loud. 
 Not wasted on the attendant crowd. 
 Nor wholly lost upon the throng 
 Hurrying the busy streets along? 
 
 Alas ! the sanctities combined 
 By art to unsensualize the mind, 
 Decay and languish; or, as creeds 
 And humors change, are spurned like 
 
 weeds: 
 The priests are from their altars thrust; 
 Temples are levelled with the dust; 
 And solemn rites and awful forms 
 Founder amid fanatic storms. 
 Yet evermore, through years renewed 
 In undisturbed vicissitude 
 Of seasons balancing their flight 
 On the swift wings of day and night, 
 Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
 Wide open for the scattered Poor. 
 Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 
 Is wafted in mute harmonies; 
 And ground fresh-cloven by the plough 
 Is fragrant with a humbler vow; 
 Where birds and brooks from leafy dells 
 Chime forth unwearied canticles, 
 And vapors magnify and spread 
 The glory of the sun's bright head — 
 Still constant in her worship, still 
 Conforming to the eternal Will, 
 Whether men sow or reap the fields. 
 Divine monition Nature yields. 
 That not by bread alone we live. 
 Or what a hand of flesh can give; 
 That every day should leave some part 
 Free for a sabbath of the heart : 
 So shall the seventh be truly blest. 
 From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. 
 
 1832. 1835. 
 
 " CALM IS THE FRAGRANT AIR." 
 
 Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose 
 Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with 
 
 falling dews. 
 Look for the stars, you'll say that there 
 
 are none; 
 Look up a second time, and, one by one 
 You mark them twinkling out with silvery 
 
 light, 
 
LOVING AND LIKING. 
 
 ns 
 
 And wonder how they could elude the 
 
 sight ! 
 The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, 
 Warbled a while with faint and fainter 
 
 powers, 
 But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers : 
 Nor does the village Church-clock's iron 
 
 tone 
 Tlae time's and season's influence disown ; 
 Nine beats distinctly to each other bound 
 In drowsy sequence — how unlike the 
 
 sound 
 That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear 
 On fireside listeners, doubting what they 
 
 hear ! 
 The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun, 
 Had closed his door before the day was 
 
 done. 
 And now with thankful heart to bed doth 
 
 creep, 
 And joins his little children in their sleep. 
 The bat, lured forth where trees the lane 
 
 o'ershade, 
 Flits and reflits along the close arcade; 
 The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth 
 With burring note, which Industry and 
 
 Sloth 
 Might both be pleased with, for it suits 
 
 them both. 
 A stream is heard — I see it not, but know 
 By its soft music whence the waters flow : 
 Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard 
 
 no more; 
 One boat there was, but it will touch the 
 
 shore 
 With the next dipping of its slackened oar ; 
 Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay. 
 Might give to serious thought a moment's 
 
 sway. 
 As a last token of man's toilsome day 1 
 1832. 1835. 
 
 RURAL ILLUSIONS. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. Observed a hundred 
 times in the grounds there. 
 
 Sylph was it ? or a Bird more bright 
 Than those of fabulous stock? 
 
 A second darted by; — and lo ! 
 Another of the flock. 
 
 Through sunshine flitting from the bough 
 To nestle in the rock. 
 
 Transient deception ! a gay freak 
 
 Of April's mimicries ! 
 Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy 
 
 Among the budding trees. 
 Proved last year's leaves, pushed from tha 
 spray 
 
 To frolic on the breeze. 
 
 Maternal Flora ! show thy face, 
 
 And let thy hand be seen. 
 Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers. 
 
 That, as they touch the green, 
 Take root (so seems it) and look up 
 
 In honor of their Queen. 
 Yet, sooth, those little starry specks, 
 
 That not in vain aspired 
 To be confounded with live growths, 
 
 Most dainty, most admired. 
 Were only blossoms dropt from twigs 
 
 Of their own offspring tired. 
 
 Not such the World's illusive shows; 
 
 Her wingless flutterings, 
 Her blossoms which, though shed, out- 
 brave 
 
 The floweret as it springs, 
 For the undeceived, smile as they may. 
 
 Are melancholy things : 
 But gentle Nature plays her part 
 
 With ever -varying wiles, 
 And transient feignings with plain truth 
 
 So well she reconciles. 
 That those fond Idlers most are pleased 
 
 Whom oftenest she beguiles. 
 
 1832. 1833. 
 
 LOVING AND LIKING. 
 
 IRREGULAR VERSES. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A CHILD. 
 
 (by my sister.) 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. It arose, I believe, 
 out of a casual expression of one of Mr. Swin. 
 burne's children. 
 
 There's more in words than I can teach ; 
 Yet listen. Child ! — I would not preach; 
 But only give some plain directions 
 To guide your speech and your affections. 
 Say not you love a roasted fowl. 
 But you may love a screaming owl. 
 
776 
 
 UPON THE LATE GENERAL FAST. 
 
 And, if you can, the unwieldy toad 
 Tliat crawls from his secure abode 
 Within the mossy garden wall 
 When evening dews begin to fall. 
 Oh mark the beauty of his eye : 
 What wonders in that circle lie ! 
 So clear, so bright, our fathers said 
 He wears a jewel in his head ! 
 And when, upon some showery day, 
 Into a path or public way 
 A frog leaps out from bordering grass, 
 Startling the timid as they pass. 
 Do you observe him, and endeavor 
 To take the intruder into favor; 
 Learning from him to find a reason 
 For a light heart in a dull season. 
 And you may love him in the pool, 
 That is for him a happy school. 
 In which he swims as taught by nature. 
 Fit pattern for a human creature. 
 Glancing amid the water bright, 
 And sending upward sparkling hght. 
 
 Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing 
 A love for things that have no feeling : 
 The spring's first rose by you espied. 
 May fill your breast with joyful pride; 
 And you may love the strawberry-flower. 
 And love the strawberry in its bower; 
 But when the fruit, so often praised 
 For beauty, to your lip is raised, 
 Say not you love the delicate treat. 
 But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat. 
 Long may you love your pensioner 
 mouse, 
 Though one of a tribe that torment the 
 
 house : 
 Nor dislike for her' cruel sport the cat. 
 Deadly foe both of mouse and rat; 
 Remember she follows the law of her kind, 
 And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind. 
 Then think of her beautiful gliding form. 
 Her tread that would scarcely crush a 
 
 worm, 
 And her soothing song by the winter fire. 
 Soft as the dying throb of the lyre. 
 
 I would not circumscribe your love : 
 It may soar with the eagle and brood with 
 
 the dove, 
 May pierce the earth with the patient mole. 
 Or track the hedgehog to his hole. 
 Loving and liking are the solace of life. 
 Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death- 
 bed of strife. 
 
 You love your father and your mother. 
 Your grown-up and your baby brother; 
 You love your sister, and your friends. 
 And countless blessings which God sends : 
 And while these right affections play, 
 You live each moment of your day ; 
 They lead you on to full content, 
 And likings fresh and innocent, 
 That store the mind, the memory feed, 
 And prompt to many a gentle deed : 
 But likings come, and pass away; 
 'T is loTJe that remains till our latest day : 
 Our heavenward guide is holy love. 
 And will be our bliss with saints above. 
 1832. 1835. 
 
 UPON THE LATE GENERAL FAST. 
 
 MARCH, 183Z. 
 
 Reluctant call it was; the rite delayed; 
 And in the Senate some there were who 
 
 doffed 
 The last of their humanity, and scoffed 
 At providential judgments, undismayed 
 By their own daring. But the People 
 
 prayed 
 As with one voice ; their flinty heart grew 
 
 soft 
 With penitential sorrow, and aloft 
 Their spirit mounted, crying, "God us 
 
 aid!" 
 Oh that with aspirations more intense, 
 Chastised by self-abasement more pro- 
 found. 
 This People, once so happy, so renowned 
 For liberty, would seek from God defence 
 Against far heavier ill, the pestilence 
 Of revolution, impiously unbound ! 
 1832. 1832. 
 
 FILIAL PIETY. 
 
 ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON 
 AND LIVERPOOL. 
 
 This was communicated to me by a coachman 
 at whose side I sat while he was driving. In 
 the course of my many coach rambles and 
 journeys, which, during the daytime always and 
 often in the night, were taken on the outside o* 
 the coach, I had good and frequent opportunities 
 of learning the characteristics of this class of 
 
'IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT FROM HEAVEN." 777 
 
 men. One remark I made that is worth record- 
 ing; that whenever I had occasion especially to 
 notice their well-ordered, respectful, and kind be- 
 havior to women, of whatever age, I found them, 
 I may say almost always, to be married men. 
 
 Untouched through all severity of cold; 
 Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth 
 Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth; 
 That Pile of Turf is half a century old : 
 Yes, Traveller ! fifty winters have been 
 
 told 
 Since suddenlythe dart of death went forth 
 'Gainst him who raised it, — his last work 
 
 on earth: 
 Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a 
 
 hold 
 Upon his Father's memory, that his hands. 
 Through reverence, touch it only to repair 
 Its waste. — Though crumbling with each 
 
 breath of air, 
 In annual renovation thus it stands — 
 Rude Mausoleum ! but wrens nestle there. 
 And red-breasts warble when sweet 
 
 sounds are rare. 
 1832. 1832. 
 
 TO B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS 
 PICTURE OF NAPOLEON BUONA- 
 PARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST. 
 HELENA. 
 
 This Sonnet, though said to be written on see- 
 ing the Portrait of Napoleon, was, in fact, com- 
 posed some time after, extempore, in the wood at 
 Rydal Mount. 
 
 Haydon ! let worthier judges praise the 
 
 skill 
 Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines 
 And charm of colors; I applaud those 
 
 signs 
 Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill ; 
 That unencumbered whole of blank and 
 
 still 
 Sky without cloud — ocean without a 
 
 wave; 
 And the one Man that labored to enslave 
 The World, sole-standing high on the bare 
 
 hill — 
 Bgck turned, arms folded, the unapparent 
 
 face 
 
 Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary 
 
 place, 
 With light reflected from the invisible sun 
 Set, like his fortunes; but not set for aye 
 Like them. The unguilty Power pursues 
 
 his way. 
 And before him doth dawn perpetual run. 
 1832. 1832. 
 
 " IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY 
 LIGHT FROM HEAVEN." 
 
 These verses were written some time after we 
 had become residents at Rydal Mount, and I 
 will take occasion from them to observe upon the 
 beauty of that situation, as being backed and 
 flanked by lofty fells, which bring the heavenly 
 bodies to touch, as it were, the earth upon the 
 mountain-tops, while the prospect in front lies 
 open to a length of level valley, the extended 
 lake, and a terminating ridge of low hills ; so that 
 it gives an opportunity to the inhabitants of the 
 place of noticing the stars in both the positions 
 here alluded to, namely, on the tops of the moun- 
 tains, and as winter-lamps at a distance among 
 the leafless trees. 
 
 If thou indeed derive thy light from 
 Heaven, 
 
 Then, to the measure of that heaven-born 
 light. 
 
 Shine, Poet ! in thy place, and be con- 
 tent : — 
 
 The stars pre-eminent in magnitude. 
 
 And they that from the zenith dart their 
 beams, 
 
 (Visible though they be to half the earth. 
 
 Though half a sphere be conscious of their 
 brightness) 
 
 Are yet of no diviner origin, 
 
 No purer essence, than the one that burns. 
 
 Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge 
 
 Of some dark mountain; or than those 
 which seem 
 
 Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter 
 lamps. 
 
 Among the branches of the leafless trees. 
 
 All are the undying offspring of one Sire : 
 
 Then, to the measure of the light vouch- 
 safed. 
 
 Shine, Poet ! in thy place, and be content 
 
 1832. 
 
 1836. 
 
778 
 
 A WREN'S NEST. 
 
 A WREN'S NEST. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. This nest was 
 built, as described, in a tree that grows near the 
 pool in Dora's field next the Rydal Mount 
 garden. 
 
 Among the dwellings framed by birds 
 In field or forest with nice care, 
 
 Is none that with the little Wren's 
 In snugness may compare. 
 
 No door the tenement requires, 
 And seldom needs a labored roof; 
 
 Yet is it to the fiercest sun 
 Impervious, and storm-proof. 
 
 So warm, so beautiful withal. 
 
 In perfect fitness for its aim. 
 That to the Kind by special grace 
 
 Their instinct surely came. 
 
 And when for their abodes they seek 
 
 An opportune recess. 
 The hermit has no finer eye 
 
 For shadowy quietness. 
 
 These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, 
 A canopy in some still nook ; 
 
 Others are pent -housed by a brae 
 That overhangs a brook. 
 
 There to the brooding bird her mate 
 Warbles by fits his low clear song; 
 
 And by the busy streamlet both 
 Are sung to all day long. 
 
 Or in sequestered lanes they build. 
 Where, till the flitting bird's return, 
 
 Her eggs within the nest repose. 
 Like relics in an urn. 
 
 But still, where general choice is good. 
 
 There is a better and a best; 
 And, among fairest objects, some 
 
 Are fairer than the rest; 
 
 This, one of those small builders proved 
 In a green covert, where, from out 
 
 The forehead of a pollard oak. 
 The leafy antlers sprout; 
 
 For She who planned the mossy lodge, 
 Mistrusting her evasive skill. 
 
 Had to a Primrose looked for aid 
 Her wishes to fulfil. 
 
 High on the trunk's projecting brow. 
 And fixed an infant's span above 
 
 The budding flowers, peeped forth the 
 nest 
 The prettiest of the grove ! 
 
 The treasure proudly did I show 
 
 To some whose minds without disdain 
 
 Can turn to little things; but once 
 Looked up for it in vain : 
 
 'T is gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey, 
 Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 
 
 'T is gone ! (so seemed it) and we grieved 
 Indignant at the vnrong. 
 
 Just three days after, passing by 
 In clearer light the moss-built cell 
 
 I saw, espied its shaded mouth; 
 And felt that all was well. 
 
 The Primrose for a veil had spread 
 The largest of her upright leaves; 
 
 And thus, for purposes benign, 
 A simple flower deceives. 
 
 Concealed from friends who might disturb 
 Thy quiet with no ill intent. 
 
 Secure from evil eyes and hands 
 On barbarous plunder bent. 
 
 Rest, Mother-bird ! and when thy young 
 Take flight, and thou art free to roam, 
 
 When withered is the guardian Flower, 
 And empty thy late home, 
 
 Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, 
 
 Amid the unviolated grove 
 Housed near the grovdng Primrose-tuft 
 
 In foresight, or in love. 
 
 1833- i835' 
 
 TO 
 
 UPON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST-BORN 
 CHILD, MARCH, 1833. 
 Written at Moresby near Whitehaven, when I 
 was on a visit to my son, then Incumbent of that 
 
THE WARNING. 
 
 779 
 
 small living. While I am dictating these notes 
 to myfriend, Miss Fenwick, January 24, 1843, the 
 child upon whose birth these verses were written 
 is under my roof, and is of a disposition so prom- 
 ising that tile wishes and prayers and prophecies 
 which I then breathed forth in verse are, through 
 God's mercy, likely to be realized. 
 
 " Turn porro puer, ut ssevis projectus ab undis 
 Navita, nudus humi jacet, etc." — Lucretius. 
 
 Like a shipwrecked Sailor tost 
 By rough waves on a perilous coast, 
 Lies the Babe, in helplessness 
 And in tenderest nakedness, 
 Flung by laboring nature forth 
 Upon the mercies of the earth. 
 Can its eyes beseech ? — no more 
 Than the hands are free to implore : 
 Voice but serves for one brief cry; 
 Plaint was it ? or prophecy 
 Of sorrow that will surely come? 
 Omen of man's grievous doom ! 
 But, O Mother ! by the close 
 Duly granted to thy throes ; 
 By the silent thanks, now tending 
 Incense-like to Heaven, descending 
 Now to mingle and to move 
 With the gush of earthly love. 
 As a debt to that frail Creature, 
 Instrument of struggling Nature 
 For the blissful calm, the peace 
 Known but to this one release — 
 Can the pitying spirit doubt 
 
 That for human-kind springs out 
 From the penalty a sense 
 
 Of more than moral recompense? 
 As a floating summer cloud. 
 
 Though of gorgeous drapery proud, 
 
 To the sun-burnt traveller. 
 
 Or the stooping laborer. 
 
 Oft-times makes its bounty known 
 
 By its shadow round him thrown ; 
 
 So, by checkerings of sad cheer, 
 
 Heavenly Guardians, brooding near, 
 
 Of their presence tell ^ too bright 
 
 Haply for corporeal sight ! 
 
 Ministers of grace divine 
 
 Feelingly their brows incline 
 
 O'er this seeming Castaway 
 
 Breathing, in the light of day, 
 
 Something like the faintest breath 
 
 That has power to baffle death — 
 
 Beautiful, while very weakness 
 
 Captivates like passive meekness. 
 
 And, sweet Mother ! under warrant 
 Of the universal Parent, 
 Who repays in season due 
 Them who have, like thee, been true 
 To the filial chain let down 
 From his everlasting throne. 
 Angels hovering round thy couch. 
 With their softest whispers vouch, 
 That — whatever griefs may fret, 
 Cares entangle, sins beset. 
 This thy First-born, and with tears 
 Stain her cheek in future years — 
 Heavenly succor, not denied 
 To the babe, whate'er betide. 
 Will to the woman be supplied ! 
 
 Mother ! blest be thy calm ease; 
 Blest the starry promises, — 
 And the firmament benign 
 Hallowed be it, where they shine ! 
 Yes, for them whose souls have scope 
 Ample for a winged hope. 
 And can earthward bend an ear 
 For needful listening, pledge is here. 
 That, if thy new-born Charge shall tread 
 In thy footsteps, and be led 
 By that other Guide, whose light 
 Of manly virtues, mildly bright. 
 Gave him first the wished-for part 
 In thy gentle virgin heart; 
 Then, amid the storms of life 
 Presignified by that dread strife 
 Whence ye have escaped together, 
 She may look for serene weather; 
 In all trials sure to find 
 Comfort for a faithful mind; 
 Kindlier issues, holier rest. 
 Than even now await her prest. 
 Conscious Nursling, to thy breast ! 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 These lines were composed during the fever 
 spread through the Nation by the Reform Bill. 
 As the motives which led to this measure, and the 
 good or evil which has attended or has risen from 
 it, will be duly appreciated by future historians, 
 there is no call for dwelling on the subject in this 
 place. I will content myself with saying that 
 
78o 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 the then condition of the people's mind is not, 
 in these verses, exaggerated. 
 
 List, the winds of March are blowing; 
 Her ground-flowers shrink, afraid of 
 
 showing 
 Their meek heads to the nipping air, 
 Which ye feel not, happy pair ! 
 Sunk into a kindly sleep. 
 We, meanwhile, our hope will keep; 
 And if Time leagued with adverse Change 
 (Too busy fear !) shall cross its range. 
 Whatsoever check they bring. 
 Anxious duty hindering. 
 To like hope our prayers will cling. 
 
 Thus, while the ruminating spirit feeds 
 Upon the events of home as life proceeds. 
 Affections pure and holy in their source 
 Gain a fresh impulse, run a livelier course ; 
 Hopes that within the Father's heart 
 
 prevail. 
 Are in the experienced Grandsire's slow 
 
 to fail; 
 And if the harp pleased his gay youth, 
 
 it rings 
 To his grave touch with no unready 
 
 strings. 
 While thoughts press on, and feelings 
 
 overflow, 
 And quick words round him fall like 
 
 flakes of snow. 
 Thanks to the Powers that yet main- 
 tain their sway. 
 And have renewed the tributary Lay. 
 Truths of the heart flock in with eager 
 
 pace. 
 And Fancy greets them with a fond 
 
 embrace ; 
 Swift as the rising sun his beams extends 
 She shoots the tidings forth to distant 
 
 friends; 
 Their gifts she hails (deemed precious, 
 
 as they prove 
 For the unconscious Babe so prompt a 
 
 love!) — , 
 But from this peaceful centre of delight 
 Vague sympathies have urged her to take 
 
 flight : 
 Rapt into upper regions, like the bee 
 That sucks from mountain heath her 
 
 honey fee; 
 Or, like the warbling lark intent to shroud 
 His head in sunbeams or a bowery cloud, 
 
 She soars — and here and there her pin- 
 ions rest 
 On proud towers, like this humble cot- 
 tage, blest 
 With a new visitant, an infant guest — 
 Towers where red streamers flout the 
 
 breezy sky 
 In pomp foreseen by her creative eye. 
 When feasts shall crowd the hall, and 
 
 steeple bells 
 Glad proclamation make, and heights 
 
 and dells 
 Catch the blithe music as it sinks and 
 
 swells, 
 And harbored ships, whose pride is on 
 
 the sea, 
 Shall hoist their topmost flags in sign of 
 
 glee. 
 Honoring the hope of noble ancestry. 
 But who (though neither reckoning 
 ills assigned 
 By Nature, nor reviewing in the mind 
 The track that was, and is, and must be, 
 
 worn 
 With weary feet by all of woman born ) — 
 Shall now by such a gift with joy be 
 
 moved, 
 Nor feel the fulness of that joy reproved? 
 Not He, whose last faint memory will 
 
 command 
 The truth that Britain was his native land; 
 Whose infant soul was tutored to confide 
 In the cleansed faith for which her 
 
 martyrs died; 
 Whose boyish ear the voice of her renown ■ 
 With rapture thrilled; whose Youth re- 
 vered the crown 
 Of Saxon liberty that Alfred wore, 
 Alfred, dear Babe, thy great Progenitor 1 
 — Not He, who from her mellowed 
 
 practice drew 
 His social sense of just, and fair, and true; 
 And saw thereafter, on the soil of France 
 Rash Polity begin her maniac dance. 
 Foundations broken up, the deeps run 
 
 wild. 
 Nor grieved to see (himself not unbe- 
 
 guiled) — 
 Woke from the dream, the dreamer to 
 
 upbraid, 
 And learn how sanguine expectations fade 
 When novel trusts by folly arebetrayed, — 
 To see Presumption, turning pale, refrain 
 
vv r\.i\i'^ li^vj. 
 
 701 
 
 From further havoc, but repent in vain, — 
 
 Good aims lie down, and perish in the 
 road 
 
 Where guilt had urged them on with 
 ceaseless goad. 
 
 Proofs thickening round her that on 
 public ends 
 
 Domestic virtue vitally depends, 
 
 That civic strife can turn the happiest 
 hearth 
 
 Into a grievous sore of self-tormenting 
 earth. 
 Can such a One, dear Babe ! though 
 glad and proud 
 
 To welcome thee, repel the fears that 
 crowd 
 
 Into his English breast, and spare to quake 
 
 Less for his own than for thy innocent 
 sake? 
 
 Too late — or, should the providence of 
 God 
 
 Lead, through dark ways by sin and 
 sorrow trod. 
 
 Justice and peace to a secure abode, 
 
 Too soon — thou com'st into this breath- 
 ing world; 
 
 Ensigns of mimic outrage are unfurled. 
 
 Who shall preserve or prop the tottering 
 Realm? 
 
 What hand suffice to govern the state- 
 helm? 
 
 If, in the aims of men, the surest test 
 
 Of good or bad (whate'er be sought for 
 or protest) 
 
 Lie in the means required, or ways or- 
 dained. 
 
 For . compassing the end, else never 
 gained ; 
 
 Yet governors and governed both are blind 
 
 To this plain truth, or fling it to the wind; 
 
 If to expedience principle must bow ; 
 
 Past, future, shrinking up beneath the 
 incumbent Now; 
 
 If cowardly concession still must feed 
 
 The thirst for power in men who ne'er 
 concede; 
 
 Nor turn aside, unless to shape a way 
 
 For domination at some riper day; 
 
 If generous Loyalty must stand in awe 
 
 Of subtle Treason, in his mask of law. 
 
 Or with bravado insolent and hard, 
 
 Provoking punishment, to win reward; 
 
 If office help the factious to conspire, 
 
 And they who should extinguish, fan the 
 
 fire — 
 Then, will the sceptre be a straw, the 
 
 crown 
 Sit loosely, like the thistle's crest of down; 
 To be blown off at will, by Power that 
 
 spares it 
 In cunning patience, from the head that 
 
 wears it. 
 Lost people, trained to theoretic feud ! 
 Lost above all, ye laboring multitude ! 
 Bewildered whether ye, by slanderous 
 
 tongues 
 Deceived, mistake calamities for wrongs; 
 And over fancied usurpations brood. 
 Oft snapping at revenge in sullen mood; 
 Or, from long stress of real injuries, fly 
 To desperation for a remedy; 
 In bursts of outrage spread your judg- 
 ments wide, 
 And to your wrath cry out, " Be thou our 
 
 guide; " 
 Or, bound by oaths, come forth to tread 
 
 earth's floor 
 In marshalled thousands, darkening street 
 
 and moor 
 With the worst shape mock-patience ever 
 
 wore; 
 Or, to the giddy top of self-esteem 
 By Flatterers carried, mount into a dream 
 Of boundless suffrage, at whose sage be- 
 hest 
 Justice shall rule, disorder be supprest, 
 And every man sit down as Plenty's Guest ! 
 — Oh for a bridle bitted with remorse 
 To stop your Leaders in their headstrong 
 
 course ! 
 Oh may the Almighty scatter with his grace 
 These mists, and lead you to a safer place. 
 By paths no human wisdom can foretrace ! 
 May He pour round you, from worlds far 
 
 above 
 Man's feverish passions, his pure light of 
 
 loVCj 
 
 That quietly restores the natural mien 
 To hope, and makes truth willing to be 
 
 seen ! 
 Else shall your blood-stained hands in 
 
 frenzy reap 
 Fields gayly sown when promises were 
 
 cheap. — 
 Why is the Past belied with wicked art, 
 The Future made to play so false a part, 
 
782 
 
 •IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY AND PAIN." 
 
 Among a people famed for strength of 
 
 mind, 
 Foremost in freedom, noblest of mankind ? 
 We act as if we joyed in the sad tune 
 Storms make in rising, valued in the moon 
 Nought but her changes. Thus, ungrate- 
 ful Nation ! 
 If thou persist, and scorning moderation, 
 Spread for thyself the snares of tribulation, 
 Whom,then,shall meekness guard? What 
 
 saving skill 
 Lie in forbearance, strength in standing 
 
 still? 
 — Soon shall the widow (for the speed 
 
 of Time 
 Nought equals when the hours are winged 
 
 with crime) 
 Widow, or wife, implore on tremulous 
 
 knee, 
 From him who judged her lord, a like 
 
 decree ; 
 The skies will weep o'er old men desolate : 
 Ye little-ones ! Earth shudders at your fate. 
 Outcasts and homeless orphans — 
 
 But turn, my Soul, and from the sleep- 
 ing pair 
 Learn thou the beauty of omniscient care ! 
 Be strong in faith, bid anxious thoughts 
 
 lie still; 
 Seek for the good and cherish it — the ill 
 Oppose, or bear with a submissive will. 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 " IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY 
 AND PAIN." 
 
 If this great world of joy and pain 
 
 Revolve in one sure track; 
 If freedom, set, will rise again. 
 
 And virtue, flown, come back; 
 Woe to the purblind crew who fill 
 
 The heart with each day's care; 
 Nor gain, from past or future, skill 
 
 To bear, and to forbear ! 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST 
 OF CUMBERLAND. 
 Easter Sunday, April 7. 
 THE author's sixty-third BIRTHDAY. 
 
 The lines were composed on the road between 
 Moresby and Whitehaven while I was on a visit 
 
 to ray son, then rector of the former place. This 
 and some other Voluntaries originated in the con- 
 cluding lines of the last paragraph of this poem. 
 With this coast I have been familiar from ray 
 earliest childhood, and remember being struck for 
 the first time by the town and port of Whitehaven, 
 and the white waves breaking against its quays 
 and piers, as the whole came into view from the 
 top of the high ground down which the road (it 
 has since been altered) then descended abruptly. 
 My sister, when she first heard the voice of the 
 sea from this point, and beheld the scene spread 
 before her, burst into tears. Our family then 
 lived at Cockermouth, and this fact was often 
 mentioned among us as indicating the sensibility 
 for which she was so remarkable. 
 
 The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, 
 
 Flung back from distant climes a stream- 
 ing fire. 
 
 Whose blaze is now subdued to tender 
 gleams. 
 
 Prelude of night's approach with sooth- 
 ing dreams. 
 
 Look round; —of all the clouds not one 
 is moving; 
 
 'T is the still hour of thinking, feeling, 
 loving. 
 
 Silent, and steadfast as the vaulted sky, 
 
 The boundless plain of waters seems to 
 lie: — 
 
 Comes that low sound from breezes rust- 
 ling o'er 
 
 The grass-crowned headland that conceals 
 the shore? 
 
 No ; 't is the earth-voice of the mighty sea, 
 
 Whispering how meek and gentle he can 
 be! 
 Thou Power supreme ! who, arming to 
 rebuke 
 
 Offenders, dost put off the gracious look, 
 
 And clothe thyself with terrors like the 
 flood 
 
 Of ocean roused into its fiercest mood. 
 
 Whatever discipline thy Will ordain 
 
 For the brief course that must for me 
 remain; 
 
 Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice 
 
 In admonitions of thy softest voice ! 
 
 Whate'er the path these mortal feet may 
 trace. 
 
 Breathe through my soul the blessing of 
 thy grace. 
 
 Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere 
 
POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 783 
 
 Drawn from the wisdom that begins with 
 
 fear, 
 Glad to expand; and, for a season, free 
 From finite cares,to rest absorbed in Thee ! 
 "833- 1835. 
 
 (BY THE SEASIDE.) 
 
 The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to 
 
 rest. 
 And the wild storm hath somewhere found 
 
 a nest; 
 Air slumbers — ■ wave with wave no longer 
 
 strives. 
 Only a heaving of the deep survives, 
 A tell-tale motion ! soon will it be laid. 
 And by the tide alone the water swayed. 
 Stealthy withdrawingSjinterminglings mild 
 Of light with shade in beauty reconciled — 
 Such is the prospect far as sight can range, 
 The soothing recompense, the welcome 
 
 change. 
 Where, now, the ships that drove before 
 
 the blast, 
 Threatened by angry breakers as they 
 
 passed; 
 And by a train of flying clouds bemocked ; 
 Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked 
 As on a bed of death? Some lodge in 
 
 peace, 
 Saved by His care who bade the tempest 
 
 cease ; 
 And some, too heedless of past danger, 
 
 court 
 Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port 
 But near, or hanging sea and sky between. 
 Not one of all those winged powers is seen. 
 Seen in her course,, nor 'mid this quiet 
 
 heard; 
 Yet oh ! how gladlywould the airbe stirred 
 By some acknowledgment of thanks and 
 
 praise. 
 Soft in its temper as those vesper lays 
 Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars 
 Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores ; 
 A sea-born service through the mountains 
 
 felt 
 Till into one loved vision all things melt : 
 Or like those hymns that soothe with 
 
 graver sound 
 The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound; 
 And, from the wide and oppn Baltic, rise 
 
 With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies. 
 Hush, not a voice is here ! but why repine, 
 Now when the star of eve comes forth to 
 
 shine 
 On British waters with that look benign ? 
 Ye mariners, that plough your onward 
 
 way. 
 Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay, 
 May silent thanks at least to God be given 
 With a full heart; "our thoughts are 
 
 heard in heaven." 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 POEMS 
 
 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING 
 A TOUR IN THE SUMMER OF 1833. 
 
 My companions were H. C. Robinson and my 
 son John. 
 
 Having been prevented by the lateness of the 
 season, in 1831, from visiting Staffa and lona, the 
 author made these the principal objects of a short 
 tour in the summer of 1833, of wliich the follow- 
 ing series of poems is a Memorial. The course 
 pursued was down the Cumberland river Derwent, 
 and to Whitehaven ; thence (by the Isle of Man, 
 where a few days were passed) up the Frith of 
 Clyde to Greenock, then to Oban, Staffa, lona ; 
 and back towards England, by Loch Awe, Inver- 
 ary. Loch Goil-head, Greenoclt, and through 
 parts of Renfrewsliire, Ayrshire, and Dumfries- 
 shire to Carlisle, and thence up the river Eden, 
 and homewards by Ullswater. 
 
 I. 
 
 Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have 
 grown 
 
 And spread as if ye knew that days might 
 come 
 
 When ye would shelter in a happy home. 
 
 On this fair Mount, a Poet of your own. 
 
 One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic 
 crown 
 
 To sue the God; but, haunting your green 
 shade 
 
 All seasons through, is humbly pleased 
 to braid 
 
 Ground-flowers, beneath your guardian- 
 ship, self-sown. 
 
 Farewell ! no Minstrels now with harp 
 new-strung 
 
 For summer wandering quit their house- 
 hold bowers; 
 
784 POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 
 
 Yet not for this wants iPoesy a tongue 
 To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours 
 Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors, 
 Or musing sits forsaken halls among. 
 1833- 1835- 
 
 Why should the Enthusiast, journeying 
 
 through this Isle 
 Repine as if his hour were come too late? 
 Not unprotected in her mouldering state, 
 Antiquity salutes him with a smile, 
 'Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund 
 
 toil, 
 And pleasure-grounds where Taste, re- 
 fined Co-mate 
 Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate, 
 Far as she may, primeval Nature's style. 
 Fair land ! by Time's parental love made 
 
 free. 
 By Social Order's watchful arms em- 
 braced; 
 With unexampled union meet in thee, 
 For eye and mind, the present and the 
 
 past; 
 With golden prospect for futurity. 
 If that be reverenced which ought to last. 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 They called Thee Merry England, in 
 
 old time; 
 A happy people won for thee that name 
 With envy heard in many a distant clime; 
 And, spite of change, for methoukeep'st 
 
 the same 
 Endearing title, a responsive chime 
 To the heart's fond belief; though some 
 
 there are 
 Whose sterner judgments deem that word 
 
 a snare 
 For inattentive Fancy, like the lime 
 Which foolish birds are caught with. 
 
 Can, I ask, 
 This face of rural beauty be a mask 
 For discontent, and poverty, and crime; 
 These spreading towns a cloak for lawless 
 
 will? 
 Forbid it, Heaven ! — and Merry Eng- 
 land still 
 Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and 
 
 rhyme ! 
 1833- 1835- 
 
 TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK. 
 
 Greta, what fearful listening I when 
 
 huge stones 
 Rumble along thy bed, block after block; 
 Or, whirling with reiterated shock. 
 Combat, while darkness aggravates the 
 
 groans : 
 But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans 
 Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert 
 
 named 
 The Mourner, thy true nature was de- 
 famed, 
 And the habitual murmur that atones 
 For thy worst rage, forgotten. ^ Oft as 
 
 Spring 
 Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thou- 
 sand thrones 
 Seats of glad instinct and love's carolling. 
 The concert, for the happy, then may vie 
 With liveliest peals of birthday harmony : 
 To a grieved heart, the notes are benisons. 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 TO THE RIVER DERWENT. 
 
 Among the mountains were we nursed, 
 
 loved Stream. 
 Thou near the eagle's nest — within brief 
 
 sail, 
 I, of his bold wing floating on the gale, 
 Where thy deep voice could lull me! 
 
 Faint the beam 
 Of human life when first allowed to gleam 
 On mortal notice. — Glory of the vale. 
 Such thy meek outset, with a crown, 
 
 though frail. 
 Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 
 Of thy soft breath ! — Less vivid wreath 
 
 entwined 
 Nemsean victor's brow; less bright was 
 
 worn. 
 Meed of some Roman chief — in triumph 
 
 borne 
 With captives chained ; and shedding from 
 
 his car 
 The sunset splendors of a finished war 
 Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 
 1819? 1835- 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 785 
 
 IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH. 
 Where the Author was bom, and his Father's 
 remains are laid. 
 
 A POINT of life between my Parent's dust, 
 And yours,, my buried Little-ones ! am I ; 
 And to those graves looking habitually 
 In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 
 Death to the innocent is more than just, 
 And, to the sinner, mercifully bent; 
 So may I hope, if truly I repent 
 And meekly bear the ills which bear I 
 
 must: 
 And You, my Offspring ! that do still 
 
 remain, 
 Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race. 
 If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual 
 
 pain 
 We breathed together for a moment's 
 
 space. 
 The wrong, by love provoked, let love 
 
 arraign. 
 And only love keep in your hearts a place. 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKER- 
 MOUTH CASTLE. 
 
 " Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly 
 
 think, 
 Poet! that, stricken as both are by years. 
 We, differing once so much, are now 
 
 Compeers, 
 Prepared, when each has stood his time, 
 
 to sink 
 Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link 
 United us; when thou, in boyish play, 
 Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey 
 To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink 
 Of light was there ; — and thus did I, thy 
 
 Tutor, 
 Make thy young thoughts acquainted with 
 
 the grave ; 
 While thou wert chasing the winged 
 
 butterfly 
 Through my green courts; or climbing, a 
 
 bold suitor, 
 Up to the flowers whose golden progeny 
 Still round my shattered brow in beauty 
 
 wave." 
 1833. 1835- 
 
 nun's well, brigham. 
 
 So named from the religious House which 
 stood close by. I have rather an odd anecdote 
 to relate of the Nun's Well. One day the land- 
 lady of a public-house, a field's length from the 
 well, on the road side, said to rae — " You have 
 been to seethe Nun's Well, Sir?" — ** The Nun's 
 Well ! what is that ? " said the Postman, who in 
 his royal livery stopt his mail-car at the door. 
 The landlady and I explained to him what the 
 name meant, and what sort of people the nuns 
 were. A countryman who was standing by, 
 rather tipsy, stammered out — "Aye, those nuns 
 were good people ; they are gone ; but we shall 
 soon have them back again." The Reform mania 
 was just then at its height. 
 
 The cattle crowding round this beverage 
 clear 
 
 To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs 
 have trod 
 
 The encircling turf into a barren clod; 
 
 Through which the waters creep, then dis- 
 appear. 
 
 Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near; 
 
 Yet, o'er the brink, and round the lime- 
 stone cell 
 
 Of the pure spring (they call it the "Nun's 
 well," 
 
 Name that first struck by chance my 
 startled ear) 
 
 A tender Spirit broods — the pensive 
 Shade 
 
 Of ritual honors to this Fountain paid 
 
 By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer; 
 
 Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild 
 
 L.ooked down with pity upon eyes beguiled 
 
 Into the shedding of " too soft a tear." ' 
 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 ON THE BANKS OF THE DERWENT. 
 
 My son John, who was then building a parson- 
 age on his small living at Brigham. 
 
 Pastor and Patriot ! — at whose bidding 
 
 rise 
 These modest walls, amid a flock that 
 
 need, 
 
 ' See Note. 
 
786 POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 
 
 For one who comes to watch them and to 
 
 feed, 
 A fixed Abode — keep down piesageful 
 
 sighs. 
 Threats, which the unthinking only can 
 
 despise, 
 Perplex the Church ; but be thou firm, — 
 
 be true 
 To thy first hope, and this good work pur- 
 sue. 
 Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice 
 Dost Thou prepare, whose sign will be the 
 
 smoke 
 Of thy new hearth; and sooner shall its 
 
 wreaths, 
 Mounting while earth her morning incense 
 
 breathes. 
 From wandering fiends of air receive a 
 
 yoke. 
 And straightway cease to aspire, than God 
 
 disdain 
 This humble tribute as ill-timed or vain. 
 1833- 1835- 
 
 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 LANDING AT THE MOUTH OF THE DERWENT, 
 WORKINGTON. 
 
 I will mention for the sake of the friend who is 
 writing down these notes, that it was among the 
 fine Scotch firs near Ambleside, and particularly 
 those near Green Bank, that I have over and over 
 again paused at the sight of this image. Long 
 may they stand to afford a like gratification to 
 others ! — This wish is not uncalled for, several of 
 their brethren having already disappeared. 
 
 Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces 
 
 vowed. 
 The Queen drew back the wimple that she 
 
 wore; 
 And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian 
 
 shore 
 Her landing hailed, how touchingly she 
 
 bowed ! 
 And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud 
 Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth 
 
 darts, 
 When a soft summer gale at evening parts 
 The gloom that did its lovelinessenshroud) 
 She smiled ; but Time, the old Saturnian 
 
 Sighed on the wing as her foot prest the 
 
 strand. 
 With step prelusive to a long array 
 Of woes and degradations hand in hand — 
 Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
 Stilled by the ensanguined block of 
 
 Fotheringay ! 1 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 XI. 
 
 STANZAS SUGGESTED IN A STEAMBOAT 
 OFF SAINT BEES' HEADS, ON THE 
 COAST OF CUMBERLAND. ^ 
 
 If Life were slumber on a bed of down. 
 Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown, 
 Sad were our lot : no hunter of the hare 
 Exults like him whose javelin from the lair 
 Has roused the lion; no one plucks the 
 
 rose. 
 Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter 
 
 blows 
 'Mid a trim garden's summer luxuries. 
 With joy like his who climbs, on hands 
 
 and knees, 
 For some rare plant, yon Headland of St. 
 
 Bees. 
 
 This independence upon oar and sail. 
 This new indifference to breeze or gale. 
 This straight-lined progress, furrowing a 
 
 flat lea, 
 And regular as if locked in certainty — 
 Depress the hours. Up, Spirit of the 
 
 storm ! 
 That Courage may find something to per- 
 form; 
 That Fortitude, whose blood disdains to 
 
 freeze 
 At Danger's bidding, may confront the 
 
 seas. 
 Firm as the towering Headlands of St. 
 Bees. 
 
 Dread cliff of Baruth ! that^nWd. wish may 
 
 sleep. 
 Bold as if men and creatures of the Deep 
 Breathed the same element; too many 
 
 wrecks 
 Have struck thy sides, too many ghastly 
 
 decks 
 
 '- See Note. 
 
POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 787 
 
 Hast thou looked down upon, that such a 
 thought 
 
 Should here be welcome, and in verse en- 
 wrought : 
 
 With thy stern aspect better far agrees 
 
 Utterance of thanks that we have past 
 with ease, 
 
 As millions thus shall do, the Headlands 
 of St. Bees. 
 
 Yet, while each useful Art augments her 
 
 store. 
 What boots the gain if Nature should lose 
 
 more? 
 And Wisdom, as she holds a Christian 
 
 place 
 In man's intelligence sublimed by grace? 
 When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian 
 
 coast. 
 Tempestuous winds her holy errand 
 
 crossed : 
 She knelt in prayer — the waves their 
 
 wrath appease; , 
 And, from her vow well weighed in 
 
 Heaven's decrees. 
 Rose, where she touched the strand, the 
 
 Chantry of St. Bees. 
 
 "Cruel of heart were they, bloody of 
 hand," 
 
 Who in these Wilds then Struggled for 
 command; 
 
 The strong were merciless, without hope 
 the weak; 
 
 Till this bright Stranger came, fair as day- 
 break. 
 
 And as a cresset true that darts its length 
 
 Of beamy lustre from a tower of strength ; 
 
 Guiding the mariner through troubled 
 seas. 
 
 And cheering oft his peaceful reveries, 
 
 Like the fixed Light that crowns yon 
 Headland of St. Bees. 
 
 To aid the Votaress, miracles believed 
 Wrought in men's minds, like miracles 
 
 achieved; 
 So piety took root; and Song might tell 
 What humanizing virtues near her cell 
 Sprangup, andspreadtheir fragrance wide 
 
 around; 
 How savage bosoms melted at the sound 
 Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonies 
 
 Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through 
 
 close trees. 
 From her religious Mansion of St. Bees. 
 
 When her sweet Voice, that instrument 
 
 of love, 
 Was glorified, and took its place, above 
 The silent stars, among the angelic quire, 
 Her chantry blazed with sacrilegious fire, 
 And perished utterly; but her good deeds 
 Had sown the spot, that witnessed them, 
 
 with seeds 
 Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze 
 With quickening impulse answered their 
 
 mute pleas, 
 And lo ! a statelier pile, the Abbey of St. 
 
 Bees. 
 
 There are the naked clothed, the hungry 
 
 fed; 
 And Charity extendeth to the dead 
 Her intercessions made for the soul's rest 
 Of tardy penitents; or for the best 
 Among the good (when love might else 
 
 have slept. 
 Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept. 
 Thanks to the austere and simple Devotees, 
 Who, to that service bound by venial fees. 
 Keep watch before the altars of St. Bees. 
 
 Are not, in sooth, their Requiem's sacred 
 
 ties 1 
 Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies, 
 Subdued, composed, and formalized by 
 
 art. 
 To fix a wiser sorrow in the heart ? 
 The prayer for them whose hour is past 
 
 away 
 Says to the Living, profit while ye may ! 
 A little part, and that the worst, he sees 
 Who thinks that priestly cunning holds 
 
 the keys 
 That best unlock the secrets of St. Bees. 
 
 Conscience, the timid being's inmost light, 
 Hope of the dawn and solace of the night, 
 Cheers these Recluses with a steady ray 
 In many an hour when judgment goes 
 
 astray. 
 Ah ! scorn not hastily their rule who try 
 Earth to desgise, and flesh to mortify; 
 Consume with zeal, in wingid ecstasies 
 1 See Note. 
 
788 POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUk IN 1833. 
 
 Of prayer and praise forget their rosaries, 
 Nor hear the loudest surges of St. Bees. 
 
 Yet none so prompt to succor and protect 
 The forlorn traveller, or sailor wrecked 
 On the bare coast ; nor do they grudge the 
 
 boon 
 Which staff and cockle hat and sandal 
 
 shoon 
 Claim for the pilgrim : and, though chid- 
 
 ings sharp 
 May sometimes greet the strolling min- 
 strel's harp. 
 It is not then when, swept with sportive 
 
 ease, 
 It charms a feast-day throng of all degrees. 
 Brightening the archway of revered St. 
 Bees. 
 
 How did the cliffs and echoing hills re- 
 joice 
 
 What time the Benedictine Brethren's 
 voice. 
 
 Imploring, or commanding with meet 
 pride, 
 
 Summoned the Chiefs to lay their feuds 
 aside. 
 
 And under one blest ensign serve the Lord 
 
 In Palestine. Advance, indignant Sword ! 
 
 Flaming till thou from Panym hands re- 
 lease 
 
 That Tomb, dread centre of all sanctities 
 
 Nursed in the quiet Abbey of St. Bees. 
 
 But look we now to them whose minds 
 from far 
 
 Follow the fortunes which they may not 
 share. 
 
 While in Judea Fancy loves to roam. 
 
 She helps to make a Holy-land at home : 
 
 The Star of Bethlehem from its sphere 
 invites 
 
 To sound the crystal depth of maiden 
 rights ; 
 
 And wedded Life, through scriptural mys- 
 teries. 
 
 Heavenward ascends with all her chari- 
 ties, 
 
 Taught by the hooded Celibates of St. 
 Bees. 
 
 Nor be it e'er forgotten how, by skill 
 Of cloistered Architects, free their souls 
 to fill 
 
 With love of God, throughout the Land 
 
 were raised 
 Churches, on whose symbolic beauty gazed 
 Peasant and mail-clad Chief with pious 
 
 awe; 
 As at this day men seeing what they saw, 
 Or the bare wreck of faith's" solemnities. 
 Aspire to more than earthly destinies; 
 Witness yon Pile that greets us from St. 
 
 Bees. 
 
 Yet more; around those Churches, gath- 
 ered Towns 
 Safe from the feudal Castle's haughty 
 
 frowns; 
 Peaceful abodes, where Justice might up- 
 hold 
 Her scales with even hand, and culture 
 
 mould 
 The heart to pity, train the mind in care 
 For rules of life, sound as the Time could 
 
 bear. 
 Nor dost thou fail, thro' abject love of ease. 
 Or hindrance raised by sordid purposes. 
 To bear thy part in this good work, St. 
 Bees. 
 
 Who with the ploughshare clove the 
 barren moors. 
 
 And to green meadows changed the 
 swampy shores? 
 
 Thinned the rank woods; and for the 
 cheerful grange 
 
 Made room, where wolf and boar were 
 used to range? 
 
 Who taught, and showed by deeds, that 
 gentler chains 
 
 Should bind the vassal to his lord's do- 
 mains? — 
 
 The thoughtful Monks, intent their God 
 to please, 
 
 For Christ's dear sake, by human sym- 
 pathies 
 
 Poured from the bosom of thy Church, St. 
 Bees ! 
 
 But all availed not; by a mandate given 
 Through lawless will the Brotherhood 
 
 was driven 
 Forth from their cells; their ancient 
 
 House laid low 
 In Reformation's sweeping overthrow. 
 But now once more the local Heart revives, 
 
POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 789 
 
 The inextinguishable Spirit strives. 
 
 Oh may that Power who liushed the 
 
 stormy seas, 
 And cleared a way for the first Votaries, 
 Prosper the new-born College of St. Bees ! 
 
 Alas ! the Genius of our age, from Schools 
 Less humble, draws her lessons, aims, 
 
 and rules. 
 To Prowess guided by her insight keen 
 Matter and Spirit are as one Machine; 
 Boastful Idolatress of formal skill 
 She in her own would merge the eternal 
 
 will: 
 Better, if Reason's triumphs match with 
 
 these. 
 Her flight before the bold credulities 
 That furthered the first teaching of St. 
 
 Bees.i 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 XII. 
 
 IN THE CHANNEL, BETWEEN THE COAST 
 OF CUMBERLAND AND THE ISLE OF 
 MAN. 
 
 Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Black- 
 comb, 
 In his lone course the Shepherd oft will 
 
 pause, 
 And strive to fathom the mysterious laws 
 By which the clouds, arrayed in light or 
 
 gloom. 
 On Mona settle, and the shapes assume 
 Of all her peaks and ridges. What he 
 
 draws 
 From sense, faith, reason, fancy, of the 
 
 cause, 
 He will take with him to the silent tomb. 
 Or, by his fire, a child upon his knee. 
 Haply the untaught Philosopher may 
 
 speak 
 Of the strange sight, nor hide his theory 
 That satisfies the simple and the meek. 
 Blest in their pious ignorance, though 
 
 weak 
 To cope with Sages undevoutly free. 
 1833. 1835- 
 
 ^ See "Excursion,'' seventh part; and "Ec- 
 clesiastical Sonnets," second part, near the be- 
 ginning. 
 
 AT SEA OFF THE ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Bold words affirmed, in days when faith 
 was strong 
 
 And doubts and scruples seldom teased 
 the brain. 
 
 That no adventurer's bark had power to 
 gain 
 
 These shores if he approached them bent 
 on wrong; 
 
 For, suddenly up-conjured from the Main, 
 
 Mists rose to hide the Land — that search, 
 though long 
 
 And eager, might be still pursued in vain. 
 
 O Fancy, what an age was that for song ! 
 
 That age, when not by laws inanimate, 
 
 As men believed, the waters were im- 
 pelled, 
 
 The air controlled, the stars their courses 
 held; 
 
 But element and orb on acts did wait 
 
 Of Powers endued with visible form, in- 
 stinct 
 
 With will, and to their work by passion 
 linked. 
 1833. 1835- 
 
 Desire we past illusions to recall? 
 
 To reinstate wild Fancy, would we hide 
 
 Truths whose thick veil Science has drawn 
 
 aside ? 
 No, — let this Age, high as she may, instal 
 In her esteem the thirst that wrought 
 
 man's fall. 
 The universe is infinitely wide; 
 And conquering Reason, if self-glorified, 
 Can nowhere move uncrossed by some 
 
 new wall 
 Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone. 
 Imaginative Faith ! canst overleap. 
 In progress toward the fount of Love, — 
 
 the throne 
 Of Power whose ministers the records 
 
 keep 
 Of periods fixed, and laws established, 
 
 less 
 Flesh to exalt than prove its nothingness 
 1833- 1835. 
 
790 POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 
 
 ON ENTERING DODGLAS BAY, ISLE OF 
 
 MAN. 
 
 " Dignum laude vinim Musa vetat mori." 
 
 The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, 
 Even when they rose to check or to repel 
 Tides of aggressive war, oft served as well 
 Greedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn 
 Just limits; but yon Tower, whose smiles 
 
 adorn 
 This perilous bay, stands clear of all of- 
 fence; 
 Blest work it is of love and innocence, 
 A Tower of refuge built for the else forlorn. 
 Spare it, ye waves, and lift the mariner. 
 Struggling for life, into its saving arms ! 
 Spare, too, the human helpers ! Do they 
 
 stir 
 'Mid your fierce shock like men afraid to 
 
 die? 
 No; their dread service nerves the heart 
 
 it warms. 
 And they are led by noble HiLLARY.i 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 BY THE SEASHORE, ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Why stand we gazing on the sparkling 
 
 Brine, 
 With wonder smit by its transparency, 
 And all-enraptured with its purity? — 
 Because the unstained, the clear, the 
 
 crystalline. 
 Have ever in them something of benign; 
 Whether in gem, in water, or in sky, 
 A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye 
 Of a young maiden, only not divine. 
 Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm 
 For beverage drawn as from a mountain- 
 well; 
 Temptation centres in the liquid Calm; 
 Our daily raiment seems no obstacle 
 To instantaneous plunging in, deep Sea ! 
 And revelling in long embrace with thee. 2 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 2 The sea- water on the coast of the Isle of Man 
 is singularly pure andbeautUEul. 
 
 ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 My son William is here the person alluded to 
 as saving the life of the youth, and the circum- 
 stances were as mentioned in the Sonnet. 
 
 A YOUTH too certain of his power to wade 
 On the smooth bottom of this clear bright 
 
 sea. 
 To sight so shallow, with a bather's glee 
 Leapt from this rock, and but for timely aid 
 He, by the alluring element betrayed, 
 Had perished. Then might Sea-nymphs 
 
 (and with sighs 
 Of self-reproach) have chanted elegies 
 Bewailing his sad fate, when he was laid 
 In peaceful earth : for, doubtless, he was 
 
 frank, 
 Utterly in himself devoid of guile; 
 Knew not the double-dealing of a smile; 
 Nor aught that makes men's promises a 
 
 blank. 
 Or deadly snare : and He survives to bless 
 The Power that saved him in his strange 
 
 distress. 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Did pangs of grief for lenient time too 
 keen. 
 
 Grief that devouring waves had caused, 
 or guilt 
 
 Which they had witnessed — sway the man 
 who built 
 
 This Homestead, placed where nothing 
 could be seen, 
 
 Nought heard, of ocean troubled or serene ? 
 
 A tired Ship-soldier on paternal land. 
 
 That o'er the channel holds august com- 
 mand, 
 
 The dwelling raised, — a veteran Marine. 
 
 He, in disgust, turned from the neighbor- 
 ing sea 
 
 To shun the memory of a listless life 
 
 That hung between two callings. May 
 no strife 
 
 More hurtful here beset him, doomed 
 though free, 
 
POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 791 
 
 Self-doomed, to worse inaction, till his eye 
 Shrink from the daily sight of earth and 
 sky ! 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 BY A RETIRED MARINER, H. H. 
 Mrs. Wordsworth's Brother Henry. 
 
 From early youth I ploughed the restless 
 Main, 
 
 My mind as restless and as apt to change; 
 
 Through every clime and ocean did I 
 range, 
 
 In hope at length a competence to gain; 
 
 For poor to Sea I went, and poor I still 
 remain. 
 , Year after year I strove, but strove in vain. 
 
 And hardships manifold did I endure, 
 
 For Fortune on me never deigned to smile ; 
 
 Yet I at last a resting-place have found. 
 
 With just enough life's comforts to pro- 
 cure, 
 
 In a snug Cove on this our favored Isle, 
 
 A peaceful spot where Nature's gifts 
 abound; 
 
 Then sure I have no reason to complain, 
 
 Though poor to sea I went, and poor I 
 still remain. 1 
 1833- '835. 
 
 AT BALA-SALA, ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Supposed to be written by a friend (Mr. 
 Cookson) who died there a few years after. 
 
 Broken in fortune, but in mind entire 
 And sound in principle, I seek repose 
 Where ancient trees this convent-pile en- 
 close,^ 
 In ruin beautiful. When vain desire 
 Intrudes on peace, I pray the eternal Sire 
 To cast a soul-subduing shade on me, 
 Agray-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee; 
 A shade — but with some sparks of 
 heavenly fire 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 2 Rushen Abbey. 
 
 Once 
 
 And 
 
 to these cells vouchsafed. 
 
 when I note 
 The old Tower's brow yellowed as with 
 
 the beams 
 Of sunset ever there, albeit streams 
 Of stormy weather-stains that semblance 
 
 wrought, 
 I thank the silent Monitor, and say 
 " Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of 
 
 the day ! " 
 1833. 1835- 
 
 TYNWALD HILL. 
 
 Mr. Robinson and I walked the greater part of 
 the way from Castle-town to Piel, and stopped 
 some time at Tynwald Hill. One of my com- 
 panions was an elderly man, who in a muddy way 
 (for he was tipsy) explained and answered, as far 
 as he could, my enquiries about this place and the 
 ceremonies held here. I found more agreeable 
 company in some little children ; one of whom, 
 upon my request, recited the Lord's Prayer to 
 me, and I helped her to a clearer understanding 
 of it as well as I could; but I was not at all satis- 
 fied with my own part ; hers was much better 
 done, and I am persuaded that, like other children, 
 she knew more about it than she was able to ex- 
 press, especially to a stranger. 
 
 Once on the top of Tynwald's formal 
 
 mound 
 (Still marked with green turf circles nar- 
 rowing 
 Stage above stage) would sit this Island's 
 
 King, 
 The laws to promulgate, enrobed and 
 
 crowned : 
 While, compassing the little mount 
 
 around, 
 Degrees and Orders stood, each under 
 
 each: 
 Now, like to things within fate's easiest 
 
 reach 
 The power is merged, the pomp a grave 
 
 has found. 
 Off with yon cloud, old Snafell ! ^ that 
 
 thine eye 
 Over three Realms may take its widest 
 
 range; 
 
 s See Note. 
 
792 POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 
 
 And let, for them, thy fountains .utter 
 
 strange 
 Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy, 
 If the whole State must suffer mortal 
 
 change 
 Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty. 
 1833- "Sss- 
 
 Despond who will — / heard a voice ex- 
 claim, 
 "Though fierce the assault, and shattered 
 
 the defence. 
 It cannot be that Britain's social frame. 
 The glorious work of time and providence. 
 Before a flying season's rash pretence, 
 Should fall; that She, whose virtue put 
 
 to shame, 
 When Europe prostrate lay, the Con- 
 queror's aim, 
 Should perish self-subverted. Black and 
 
 dense 
 The cloud is; but brings that a day of 
 
 doom 
 To Liberty? Her sun is up the while. 
 That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred 
 
 shone : 
 Then laugh, ye innocent Vales! ye 
 
 Streams, sweep on. 
 Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest Isle 
 Toss in the fanning wind a humbler 
 plume." 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 IN THE FRITH OF CLYDE, AILSA CRAG. 
 
 DURING AN ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, JULY I7. 
 
 The morning of the eclipse was exquisitely 
 beautiful while we passed the Crag as described 
 in the Sonnet. On the deck of the steamboat 
 were several persons of the poor and laboring 
 class, and I could not but be struck by their 
 cheerful talk with each other, while not one of 
 them seemed to notice the magnificent objects 
 with which we were surrounded ; and even the 
 phenomenon of the eclipse attracted but little of 
 their attention. Was it right not to regret this ? 
 They appeared to me, however, so much alive in 
 their own minds to their own concerns that I 
 could not look upon it as a misfortune that they 
 had little perception for such pleasure as cannot 
 
 be cultivated without ease and leisure. Yet if 
 one surveys life in all its duties and relations, 
 such ease and leisure will not be found so enviable 
 a privilege as it may at first appear. Natural 
 Philosophy, Painting, and Poetry, and refined 
 taste, are no doubt great acquisitions to society ; 
 but among those who dedicate themselves te 
 such pursuits it is to be feared that few are as 
 happy, and as consistent in the management of 
 their lives, as the class of persons who at that 
 time led me into this course of reflection. I do 
 not mean by this to be understood to derogate 
 from intellectual pursuits, for that would be 
 monstrous : I say it in deep gratitude for this 
 compensation to those whose cares are limited to 
 the necessities of daily life. Among them, self- 
 tormentors so numerous in the higher classes of 
 society, are rare. 
 
 Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy. 
 Appeared the crag of Ailsa, ne'er did morn 
 With gleaming lights more gracefully 
 
 adorn * 
 
 His sides, or wreathe with mist his fore- 
 head high : 
 Now, faintly darkening with the sun's 
 
 eclipse. 
 Still is he seen, in lone sublimity, 
 Towering above the sea and little ships; 
 For dwarfsthe tallest seem while sailing by. 
 Each for her haven; with her freight of 
 
 Care, 
 Pleasure, or Grief, and Toil that seldom 
 
 looks 
 Into the secret of to-morrow's fare; 
 Though poor, yet rich, without the wealth 
 
 of books. 
 Or aught that watchful Love to Natifte 
 
 owes 
 For her mute Powers, fixed Forms, or 
 
 transient Shows. 
 1833. '^SS- 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ON THE FRITH OF CLYDE. 
 
 IN A STEAMBOAT. 
 
 The mountain outline on the north of this 
 island, as seen from the Frith of Clyde, is much 
 the finest I have ever noticed in Scotland or 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Arran ! a single-crested Teneriffe, 
 A St. Helena next — in shape and hue. 
 
POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 793 
 
 Varying her crowded peaks and ridges 
 blue; 
 
 Who but must covet a cloud-seat, or skiff 
 
 Built for the aii', or winged Hippogriff ? 
 
 That he might fly, where no one could 
 pursue, 
 
 From this dull Monster and her sooty crew ; 
 
 And, as a God, light on thy topmost cliff. 
 
 Impotent wish ! which reason would de- 
 spise 
 
 If the mind knew no union of extremes, 
 
 No natural bond between the boldest 
 schemes. 
 
 Ambition frames, and heart-humilities. 
 
 Beneath stern mountains many a soft vale 
 Hes, 
 
 And lofty springs give birth to lowly 
 streams. 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 XXV. 
 ON REVISITING DUNOLLIE CASTLE. ' 
 See former series, "Yarrow Revisited," etc., 
 p. 762. 
 The captive Bird was gone; — to cliff or 
 
 moor 
 Perchance had flown, delivered by the 
 
 storm; 
 Or he had pined, and sunk to feed the 
 
 worm: 
 Him found we not : but, climbing, a tall 
 
 tower, 
 There saw, impaved with rude fidelity 
 Of art mosaic, in a roofless floor. 
 An Eagle with stretched wings, but beam- 
 less eye — 
 An Esgle that could neither wail nor soar. 
 Effigy of the Vanished — (shall I dare 
 To call thee so?) or symbol of fierce deeds 
 And of the towering courage which past 
 
 times 
 Rejoiced in — take, whate'er thou be, a 
 
 share. 
 Not undeserved, of the memorial rhymes 
 That animate my way where'er it leads ! 
 ■833- 1835. 
 
 THE DUNOLLIE EAGLE. 
 Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew ; 
 But when a storm , on sea or mountain bred, 
 ' See Note. 
 
 Came and delivered him, alone he sped 
 Into the castle-dungeon's darkest mew. 
 Now, near his master's house in open view 
 He dwells, and hears indignant tempests 
 
 howl. 
 Kennelled and chained. Ye tame domes- 
 tic fowl. 
 Beware of him ! Thou, saucy cockatoo, 
 Look to thy plumage and thy lif e ! — The 
 
 roe. 
 Fleet as the west wind, is for him no 
 
 quarry; 
 Balanced in ether he will never tarry. 
 Eying the sea's blue depths. Poor Bird ! 
 
 even so 
 Doth man of brother man a creature make 
 That clings to slavery for its own sad sake. 
 >833. 1835. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 written in a blank leaf of mac- 
 
 PHERSON'S OSSIAN. 
 
 The verses — 
 
 " Or strayed 
 From hope and promise, self-betrayed," 
 were, I am sorry to say, suggested from apprehen- 
 sions of the fate of my friend, H. C, the subject 
 of the verses addressed to " H. C. when six years 
 old." The piece to " Memory " arose out of 
 similar feelings. 
 
 Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze. 
 
 Fragments of far-off melodies. 
 
 With ear not coveting the whole, 
 
 A part so charmed the pensive soul. 
 
 While a dark storm before my sight 
 
 Was yielding, on a mountain height 
 
 Loose vapors have I watched, that won 
 
 Prismatic colors from the sun; 
 
 Nor felt a wish that heaven would show 
 
 The image of its perfect bow. 
 
 What need, then, of these finished Strains ? 
 
 Away with counterfeit Remains ! 
 
 An abbey in its lone recess, 
 
 A temple of the wilderness. 
 
 Wrecks though they be, announce with 
 
 feeling 
 The majesty of honest dealing. 
 Spirit of Ossian ! if imbound 
 In language thou may'st yet be found, 
 If aught (intrusted to the pen 
 Or floating on the tongues of men. 
 Albeit shattered and impaired) 
 
794 POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 
 
 Subsist thy dignity to guard, 
 In concert with memorial claim 
 Of old gray stone, and high-born name 
 That cleaves to rock or pillared cave 
 Where moans the blast, or beats the wave, 
 Let Truth, stern arbitress of all. 
 Interpret that Original, 
 And for presumptuous wrongs atone ; — 
 Authentic words be given, or none ! 
 Time is not blind; — yet He, who spares 
 Pyramid pointing to the stars. 
 Hath preyed with ruthless appetite 
 On all that marked the primal flight 
 Of the poetic ecstasy 
 Into the land of mystery. 
 No tongue is able to rehearse 
 One measure, Orpheus ! of thy verse; 
 Musaeus, stationed with his lyre 
 Supreme among the Elysian quire. 
 Is, for the dwellers upon earth, 
 Mute as a lark ere morning's birth. 
 Why grieve for these, though past away 
 The music, and extinct the lay? 
 When thousands, by severer doom. 
 Full early to the silent tomb 
 Have sunk, at Nature's call; or strayed 
 From hope and promise, self -betrayed; 
 The garland withering on their brows; 
 Stung with remorse for broken vows; 
 Frantic — else how might they rejoice ? 
 And friendless, by their own sad choice ! 
 Hail, Bards of mightier grasp ! on you 
 I chiefly call, the chosen Few, 
 Who cast not off the acknowledged guide, 
 Who faltered not, nor turned aside; 
 Whose lofty genius could survive 
 Privation, under sorrow thrive; 
 In whom the fiery Muse revered 
 The symbol of a snow-white beard, 
 Bedewed with meditative tears 
 Dropped from the lenient cloud of years. 
 Brothers in soul ! though distant times 
 Produced you nursed in various climes. 
 Ye, when the orb of life had waned, 
 A plentitude of love retained: 
 Hence, while in you each sad regret 
 By corresponding hope was met. 
 Ye lingered among human kind. 
 Sweet voices for the passing wind. 
 Departing sunbeams, loth to stop. 
 Though smiling on the last hill top ! 
 Such to the tender-hearted maid 
 Even ere her joys begin to fade ; 
 
 Such, haply, to the rugged chief 
 By fortune crushed, or tamed by grief; 
 Appears, on Morven's lonely shore. 
 Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore, 
 The Son of Fingal; such was blind 
 Maeonides of ampler mind; 
 Such Milton, to the fountain head 
 Of glory by Urania led 1 
 1827? 1835, 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA.l 
 
 We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd, 
 Not One of us has felt the far-famed 
 
 sight ; 
 How could we feel it? each the other's 
 
 blight. 
 Hurried and hurrying, volatile and loud. 
 O for those motions only that invite 
 The Ghost of Fingal to his tuneful Cave 
 By the breeze entered, and wave after 
 
 wave 
 Softly embosoming the timid light ! 
 And by one Votary who at will might 
 
 stand 
 Gazing and take into his mind and heart, 
 With undistracted reverence, the effect 
 Of those proportions where the almighty 
 
 hand 
 That made the worlds, the sovereign 
 
 Architect, 
 Has deigned to work as if with human 
 
 Art! 
 
 1833- 
 
 1835- 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA. 
 
 AFTER THE CROWD HAD DEPARTED, 
 
 Thanks for the lessons of this Spot— 
 
 fit school 
 For the presumptuous thoughts that would 
 
 assign 
 Mechanic laws to agency divine; 
 And, measuring heaven by earth, would 
 
 overrule 
 Infinite Power. The pillared vestibule. 
 Expanding yet precise, the roof embowed, 
 1 See Note. 
 
POEMS COMi'DSEU OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 795 
 
 Might seem designed to humble man, 
 
 when proud 
 Of his best workmanship by plan and 
 
 tool. 
 Down-bearing with his whole Atlantic 
 
 weight 
 Of tide and tempest on the Structure's 
 
 base, 
 And flashing to that Structure's topmost 
 
 height, 
 Ocean has proved its strength, and of its 
 
 grace 
 In calms is conscious, finding for his 
 
 freight 
 Of softest music some responsive place. 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA. 
 
 Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and 
 
 claims 
 In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot, 
 Where are ye? Driven or venturing to 
 
 the spot. 
 Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin 
 
 Frames, 
 And, by your mien and bearing knew 
 
 your names; 
 And they could hear his ghostly song 
 
 who trod 
 Earth, till the fieshlay on him like a load. 
 While he struck his desolate harp with- 
 out hopes or aims. 
 Vanished ye are, but subject to recall; 
 Why keep we else the instincts whose 
 
 dread law 
 Ruled here of yore, till what men felt 
 
 they saw. 
 Not by black arts but magic natural ! 
 If eyes be still sworn vassals of belief. 
 Yon light shapes forth a Bard, that sliade 
 
 a Chief. 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 FLOWERS ON THE TOP OF THE PILLARS 
 AT THE ENTRANCE OF THE CAVE. 
 
 Hope smiled when your nativity was cast. 
 Children of Summer ! Ye fresh Flowers 
 that brave 
 
 What Summer here escapes not, the 
 fierce wave, 
 
 And whole artillery of the western blast, 
 
 Battering the Temple's front, its long- 
 drawn nave 
 
 Smiting, as if each moment were their 
 last. 
 
 But ye, bright Flowers on frieze and 
 architrave 
 
 Survive, and once again the Pile stands 
 fast: 
 
 Calm as the universe, from specular 
 towers 
 
 Of heaven contemplated by Spirits pure 
 
 With mute astonishment, it stands sus- 
 tained 
 
 Through every part in symmetry, to 
 endure. 
 
 Unhurt, the assault of Time with all his 
 hours. 
 
 As the supreme Artificer ordained. ^ 
 
 1833- 
 
 1835. 
 
 On to lona ! — What can she afford 
 To us save matter for a thoughtful sigh. 
 Heaved over ruin with stability 
 In urgent contrast ? To diffuse the Word 
 (Thy Paramount, mighty Nature ! and 
 
 Time's Lord) 
 Her Temples rose, 'mid pagan gloom; 
 
 but why, 
 Even for a moment, has our verse de- 
 plored 
 Their wrongs, since they fulfilled their 
 
 destiny? 
 And when, subjected to a common doom 
 Of mutability, those far-famed Piles 
 Shall disappear from both the sister Isles, 
 lona's Saints, forgetting not past days, 
 Garlands shall wear of amaranthine 
 
 bloom. 
 While heaven's vast sea of voices chants 
 their praise.^ 
 1833- 1*35- 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
796 POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 
 
 UPON LANDING. 
 
 How sad a welcome ! To each voyager 
 Some ragged child holds up for sale a 
 
 store 
 Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the 
 
 shore 
 Where once came monk and nun with 
 
 gentle stir, 
 Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer. 
 Yet is yon neat trim church a grateful 
 
 speck 
 Of novelty amid the sacred wreck 
 Strewn far and wide. Think, proud 
 
 Philosopher ! 
 Fallen though she be, this Glory of the 
 
 west. 
 Still on her sons, the beams of mercy 
 
 shine ; 
 And "hopes, perhaps more heavenly 
 
 bright than thine, 
 
 A grace by thee unsought and unpossest, 
 
 A faith more fixed, a rapture more divine, 
 
 Shall gild their passage to eternal rest." 
 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 THE BLACK STONES OF lONA. 
 See Martin's Voyage among the Western Isles. 
 
 Here on their knees men swore : the 
 
 stones were black. 
 Black in the people's minds and words, 
 
 yet they 
 Were at that time, as now, in color gray. 
 But what is color, if upon the rack 
 Of conscience souls are placed by deeds 
 
 that lack 
 Concord with oaths ? What differ night 
 
 and day 
 Then, when before the Perjured on his 
 
 way 
 Hell opens, and the heavens in ven- 
 geance crack 
 Above his head uplifted in vain prayer 
 To Saint, or Fiend, or to the Godhead 
 
 whom 
 
 He had insulted — Peasant, King, or 
 
 Thane ? 
 Fly where the culprit may, guilt meets a 
 
 doom; 
 And, from invisible worlds at need laid 
 
 bare, 
 Come links for social order's awful chain. 
 1833- 1835, 
 
 Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's 
 
 Cell, 
 Where Christian piety's soul-cheeririg 
 
 spark 
 (Kindled from Heaven between the light 
 
 and dark 
 Of time) shone like the morning-star, fare- 
 well ! — 
 And fare thee well, to Fancy visible. 
 Remote St. Kilda, lone and loved sea- 
 mark 
 For many a voyage made in her swift bark. 
 When with more hues than in the rainbow 
 
 dwell 
 Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold. 
 Extracting from clear skies and air serene. 
 And out of sun-bright waves, a lucidveil. 
 That thickens, spreads, and, minghng fold 
 
 with fold, 
 Makes known, when thou no longer canst 
 
 be seen. 
 Thy whereabout, to warn the approaching 
 sail. 
 ■833- 1835. 
 
 GREENOCK. 
 Per me si va nella Cittk dolente. 
 
 We have not passed into a doleful City, 
 We who are led to-day down a grim dell. 
 By some too boldly named " the Jaws of 
 
 Hell: " 
 Where be the wretched ones, the sights 
 
 for pity? 
 These crowded streets resound no plaintive 
 
 ditty : — 
 As from the hive where bees in summer 
 
 dwell, 
 
POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1S33. 797 
 
 Sorrow seems here excluded; and that 
 
 knell, 
 It neither damps the gay, nor checks the 
 
 witty. 
 Alas ! too busy Rival of old Tyre, 
 Whose merchants Princes were, whose 
 
 decks were thrones; 
 Soon may the punctual sea in vain respire 
 To serve thy need, in union with that Clyde 
 Whose nursling current brawls o'er mossy 
 
 stones. 
 The poor, the lonely, herdsman's joy and 
 
 pride. 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 Mosgiel was thus pointed out to me by a young 
 man on the top of the coach on my way from 
 Glasgow to Kilmarnock. It is remarkable that, 
 though Bums lived some time here, and during 
 much the most productive period of his poetical 
 life, he nowhere adverts to the splendid prospects 
 stretching towards the sea and bounded by the 
 peaks of Arran on one part, which in clear 
 weather he must have had daily before his eyes. 
 In one of his poetical effusions he speaks of de- 
 scribing "fair Nature's face" as a privilege on 
 which he sets a high value ; nevertheless, natural 
 appearances rarely take a lead in his poetry. It 
 is as a human being, eminently sensitive and in- 
 telligent, and not as a poet, clad in his priestly 
 robes and carrying the ensigns of sacerdotal office, 
 that he interests and affects us. Whether he 
 speaks of rivers, hills, and woods, it is not so much 
 on account of the properties with which they are 
 absolutely endowed, as relatively to local patriotic 
 remembrances and associations, or as they minis- 
 tered to personal feelings, especially those of 
 love, whether happy or otherwise ; — yet it is not 
 always so. Soon after we had passed Mosgiel 
 Farm we crossed the Ayr, murmuring and wind- 
 ing through a narrow woody hollow. His line — 
 " Auld hermit Ayr strays through his woods " — 
 came at once to my mind with Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, 
 and Doon, — Ayrshire streams over which he 
 breathes a sigh as being unnamed in song; and 
 surely his own attempts to make them known 
 were as successful as his heart could desire. 
 
 "There! " saida Stripling, pointing with 
 
 meet pride 
 Towards a low roof with green trees half 
 
 concealed, 
 "Is Mosgiel Farm; and that 's the very 
 
 field 
 
 Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." 
 
 Far and wide 
 A plain below stretched seaward, while, 
 
 descried 
 Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran 
 
 rose; 
 And, by that simple notice, the repose 
 Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
 Beneath "the random bield of clod or 
 
 stone " 
 Myriads of daisies have shone forth in 
 
 flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural 
 
 hour 
 Have passed away; less happy than the 
 
 One 
 That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died 
 
 to prove 
 The tender charm of poetry and love. 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 THE RIVER EDEN, CUMBERLAND. 
 
 " Nature gives thee flowers That have no rivals 
 among British bowers." This can scarcely be 
 true to the letter; but, without stretching the 
 pointatall,I can say that the soil and air appear 
 more congenial with many upon the banks of this 
 river than I have observed in any other parts of 
 Great Britain. 
 
 Eden ! till now thy beauty had I viewed 
 By glimpses only, and confess with shame 
 That verse of mine, whate'er its varying 
 
 mood. 
 Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet 
 
 name : 
 Yet fetched from Paradise 1 that honor 
 
 came. 
 Rightfully borne; for Nature gives thee 
 
 flowers 
 That have no rivals among British bowers; 
 And thy bold rocks are worthy of their 
 
 fame. 
 Measuring thy course, fair Stream ! at 
 
 length I pay 
 To my life's neighbor dues of neighbor- 
 hood; 
 But I have traced thee on thy winding way 
 With pleasure sometimes by this thought 
 
 restrained — 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
798 POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 
 
 For things far off we toil, while many a 
 
 good 
 Not sought, because too near, is never 
 
 gained. 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 MONUMENT OF MRS. HOWARD 
 by Nollekens 
 
 IN WETHERAL CHUKCH, NEAR CORBY, ON THE 
 BANKS OF THE EDEN. 
 
 Before this monument was put up in the Church 
 at Wetheral, I saw it in the sculptor's studio. 
 Nollekens, who, by the bye, was a strange and 
 grotesque figure that interfered much with one's 
 admiration of his works, showed me at the same 
 time the various models in clay which he had 
 made, one after another, of the Mother and her 
 Infant : the improvement on each was surprising ; 
 and how so much grace, beauty, and tenderness 
 had come out of such a head I was sadly puzzled 
 to conceive. Upon a window-seat in his parlor 
 lay two casts of faces, one of the Duchess of 
 Devonshire, so noted in her day ; and the other 
 of Mr. Pitt, taken after his death, a ghastly re- 
 semblance, as these things always are, even when 
 taken from the living subject, and more ghastly 
 in this instance from the peculiarity of the fea- 
 tures. The heedless and apparently neglectful 
 manner in which the faces of these two persons 
 were left — the one so distinguished in London 
 Society, and the other upon whose counsels and 
 public conduct, during a most momentous period, 
 depended the fate of this great Empire and per- 
 haps of all Europe — afforded a lesson to which 
 the dullest of casual visitors could scarcely be in- 
 sensible. It touched me the more because I had 
 so often seen Mr. Pitt upon his own ground at 
 Cambridge and upon the floor of the House of 
 Commons. 
 
 Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, 
 lies dead 
 
 Her new-born Babe ; dire ending of bright 
 hope ! 
 
 But Sculpture here, with the divinestscope 
 
 Of luminous faith, heavenward hath raised 
 that head 
 
 So patiently; and through one hand has 
 spread 
 
 A touch so tender forthe insensateChild — 
 
 (Eu-'th's lingering love to parting recon- 
 ciled, 
 
 Brief parting, for the spirit is all but 
 fled) — 
 
 That we, who contemplate the turns of life 
 
 Through this still medium, are consoled 
 and cheered; 
 
 Feel with the Mother, think the severed 
 Wife 
 
 Is less to be lamented than revered; 
 
 And own that Art, triumphant over strife 
 
 And pain, hath powers to Eternity en- 
 deared. 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE FOREGOING. 
 
 Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert 
 
 thou 
 In heathen schools of philosophic lore; 
 Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore 
 The Tragic Muse thee served with 
 
 thoughtful vow; 
 And what of hope Elysium could allow 
 Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore 
 Peace to the Mourner. But when He who 
 
 wore 
 The crown of thorns around his bleeding 
 
 brow 
 Warmed our sad being with celestial light. 
 Then Arts which still had drawn a soften- 
 ing grace 
 From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, 
 Communed with that Idea face to face: 
 And move around it now as planets run, 
 Each in its orbit round the central Sun. 
 1S33. 1835. 
 
 NUNNERY. 
 
 I became acquainted with the walks of Nun- 
 nery when a boy : they are within easy reach of 
 a day's pleasant excursion from tlie town of Pen- 
 lith, where I used to pass my summer holidays 
 under the roof of my maternal Grandfather. The 
 place is well worth visidng ; though, within these 
 few years, its privacy, and therefore the pleasure 
 which the scene is so well fitted to give, has been 
 injuriously affected by walks cut in the rocks on 
 that side the stream which had been left in its 
 natural state. 
 
POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 799 
 
 The floods are roused, and will not soon 
 
 be weary; 
 Down from the Pennine Alps 1 ho w fiercely 
 
 sweeps 
 Croglin, the stately Eden's tributary ! 
 He raves, or through some moody passage 
 
 creeps 
 Plotting new mischief — out again he leaps 
 Into broad light, and sends, through 
 
 regions airy, 
 That voice which soothed the Nuns while 
 
 on the steeps 
 They knelt in prayer, or sang to blissful 
 
 Mary. 
 That union ceased: then, cleaving easy 
 
 walks 
 Through crags, and smoothing paths beset 
 
 with danger, 
 Came studious Taste ; and many a pensive 
 
 stranger 
 Dreams on the banks, and to the river 
 
 talks. 
 What change shall happen next to Nun- 
 nery Dell ? 
 Canal, and Viaduct, and Railway, tell ! ^ 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 STEAMBOATS, VIADUCTS, AND RAILWAYS. 
 
 Motions and Means, on land and sea at 
 
 war 
 With old poetic feeling, not for this. 
 Shall ye, by Poets even, be judged amiss ! 
 Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar 
 The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar 
 To the Mind's gaining that prophetic sense 
 Of future change, that point of vision, 
 
 whence 
 May be discovered what in soul ye are. 
 In spite of all that beauty may disown 
 In your harsh features. Nature doth em- 
 brace 
 Her lawful offspring in Man's art; and 
 
 Time, 
 Pleased with your triumphs o'er his 
 
 brother Space, 
 Accepts from your bold hands the prof- 
 fered crown 
 Of hope, and smiles on you with cheer 
 sublime. 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 * The chain of Crossfell. ^ See Note. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 THE MONUMENT COMMONLY CALLED 
 LONG MEG AND HER DAUGHTERS, NEAR 
 THE RIVER EDEN. 
 
 A WEIGHT of awe, not easy to be borne, 
 Fell suddenly upon my Spirit — cast 
 From the dread bosom of the unknown 
 
 past. 
 When first I saw that family forlorn. 
 Speak Thou, whose massy strength and 
 
 stature scorn 
 The power of years — pre-eminent, and 
 
 placed 
 Apart, to overlook the circle vast — • 
 Speak, Giant-mother ! tell it to the Morn 
 While she dispels the cumbrous shades of 
 
 Night; 
 Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud ; 
 At whose behest uprose on British ground 
 That Sisterhood, in hieroglyphic round 
 Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the 
 
 infinite 
 The inviolable God, that tames the 
 
 proud ! 8 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 LOWTHER. 
 
 "Cathedral pomp." It may be questioned 
 whether this union was in the contemplation of 
 the artist when he planned the edifice. However 
 this might be, a poet may be excused for taking 
 the view of the subject presented in this Sonnet. 
 
 LoWTHER ! in thy majestic Pile are seen 
 Cathedral pomp and grace, in apt accord 
 With the baronial castle's sterner mien; 
 Union significant of God adored. 
 And charters won and guarded by the 
 
 sword 
 Of ancient honor; whence that goodly 
 
 state 
 Of polity which wise men venerate, 
 And will maintain, if God his help afford. 
 Hourly the democratic torrent swells; 
 For airy promises and hopes suborned 
 The strength of backward - looking 
 
 thoughts is scorned, 
 a See Note. 
 
8oo POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833. 
 
 Fall if ye must, ye Towers and Pinnacles, 
 
 With what ye symbolize ; authentic Story 
 
 Will say. Ye disappeared with England's 
 
 Glory ! 
 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF LONSDALE. 
 
 "Magistratus indicat virum.'' 
 
 Lonsdale ! it were unworthy of a Guest, 
 Whose heart with gratitude to thee in- 
 
 chnes. 
 If he should speak, by fancy touched, of 
 
 signs 
 On thy Abode harmoniously imprest, 
 Yet be unmoved with wishes to attest 
 How in thy mind and moral frame agree 
 Fortitude, and that Christian Charity 
 Which, filling, consecrates the human 
 
 breast. 
 And if the Motto on thy 'scutcheon teach 
 With truth, "The Magistracy shows 
 
 THE Man;" 
 That searching test thy public course has 
 
 stood; 
 As will be owned alike by bad and good. 
 Soon as the measuring of life's little span 
 Shall place thy virtues out of Envy's 
 
 reach. ^ 
 1833- 1835. 
 
 THE somnambulist. 
 
 This poem might be dedicated to my friends, 
 Sir G. Beaumont and Mr. Rogers, jointly. Wliile 
 we were making an excursion together in this part 
 of the Lake District we lieard that Mr. Glover, 
 the artist, while lodging at Lyulph's Tower, had 
 been disturbed by a loud shriek, and upon rising 
 he had learnt that it had come from a young 
 woman in the house who was in the habit of 
 walking in her sleep. In that state she had gone 
 down-stairs, and, while attempting to open the 
 outer door, either from some difficulty or the 
 effect of the cold stone upon her feet, had uttered 
 the cry which alarmed him. It seemed to us all 
 that this might serve as a hint for a poem, and the 
 story here told was constructed and soon after 
 put into verse by me as it now stands. 
 1 See Note. 
 
 List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower * 
 
 At eve; how softly then 
 Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse, 
 
 Speak from the woody glen ! 
 Fit music for a solemn vale ! 
 
 And holier seems the ground 
 To him who catches on the gale 
 The spirit of a mournful tale, 
 
 Embodied in the sound. 
 
 Not far from that fair site whereon 
 
 The Pleasure-house is reared, 
 As story says, in antique days 
 
 A stern-browed house appeared; 
 Foil to a Jewel rich in light 
 
 There set, and guarded well; 
 Cage for a Bird of plumage bright. 
 Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight 
 
 Beyond her native dell. 
 
 To win this bright Bird from her cage, 
 
 To make this Gem their own, 
 Came Barons bold, with store of gold. 
 
 And Knights of high renown; 
 But one She prized, and only one; 
 
 Sir Eglamore was he; 
 Full happy season, when was known, 
 Ye Dales and Hills ! to you alone 
 
 Their mutual loyalty — 
 
 Known chiefly, Aira ! to thy glen. 
 
 Thy brook, and bowers of holly; 
 Where Passion caught what Nature taught, 
 
 That all but love is folly; 
 Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play; 
 
 Doubt came not, nor regret — 
 To trouble hours that winged their way, 
 As if through an immortal day 
 
 Whose sun could never set. 
 
 But in old times Love dwelt not long 
 
 Sequestered with repose; 
 Best throve the fire of chaste desire. 
 
 Fanned by the breath of foes. 
 "A conquering lance is beauty's test, 
 
 **And proves the Lover true;" 
 So spake Sir Eglamore, and prest 
 The drooping Emma to his breast. 
 
 And looked a blind adieu. 
 
 = A pleasure-house built by the late Duke o! 
 Norfolk upon the banks of Ullswater. Force is 
 the word used in the Lake District for Waterfall. 
 
POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1S33. Soi 
 
 They parted. — Well with him it fared 
 
 Through widespread regions errant; 
 A knight of proof in love's behoof, 
 
 The thirst of fame his warrant : 
 And She her happiness can build 
 
 On woman's quiet hours; 
 Though faint, compared with spear and 
 
 shield. 
 The solace beads and masses yield, 
 
 And needlework and flowers. 
 
 Yet blest was Emina when she heard 
 
 Her Champion's praise recounted; 
 Though brain would swim, and eyes grow 
 dim, 
 
 And high her blushes mounted ; 
 Or when a bold heroic lay 
 
 She warbled from full heart; 
 Delightful blossoms for the J/«i' 
 Of absence ! but they will not stay. 
 
 Born only to depart. 
 
 Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills 
 
 Whatever path he chooses ; 
 As if his orb, that owns no curb, 
 
 Received the light hers loses. 
 He comes not back; an ampler space 
 
 Requires for nobler deeds; 
 He ranges on from place to place, 
 Till of his doings is no trace. 
 
 But what her fancy breeds. 
 
 His fame may spread, but in the past 
 
 Her spirit finds its centre; 
 Clear sight She has of what he was. 
 And that would now content her. 
 "Still is he my devoted Knight?" 
 
 The tear in answer flows; 
 Month falls on month with heavier weight ; 
 J Day sickens round her, and the night 
 ! Is empty of repose. 
 
 In sleep She sometimes walked abroad. 
 
 Deep sighs with quick words blending, 
 Like that pale Queen whose hands are 
 seen 
 
 With fancied spots contending; 
 But she is innocent of blood, — 
 
 The moon is not more pure 
 That shines aloft, while through the wood 
 She thrids her way, the sounding Flood 
 
 Her melancholy lure ! 
 
 While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, 
 
 And owls alone are waking. 
 In white arrayed, glides on the Maid 
 
 The downward pathway taking. 
 That leads her to the torrent's side 
 
 And to a holly bower; 
 By whom on this still night descried? 
 By whom in that lone place espied? 
 
 By thee. Sir Eglamore ! 
 
 A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, 
 
 His coming step has thwarted. 
 Beneath the boughs that heard their vows. 
 
 Within whose shade they parted. 
 Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see ! 
 
 Perplexed her fingers seem. 
 As if they from the holly tree 
 Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly 
 
 Flung from her to the stream. 
 
 What means the Spectre? Why intent 
 
 To violate the Tree, 
 Thought Eglamore, by which I swore. 
 
 Unfading constancy? 
 Here am I, and to-morrow's sun. 
 
 To her I left, shall prove 
 That bliss is ne'er so surely won 
 As when a circuit has been run 
 
 Of valor, truth, and love. 
 
 So from the spot whereon he stood. 
 
 He moved with stealthy pace; 
 And, drawing nigh, with his living eye. 
 
 He recognized the face; 
 And whispers caught, and speeches small. 
 
 Some to the green-leaved tree, 
 Some muttered to the torrent-fall; — 
 " Roar on, and bring him with thy call; 
 
 " I heard, and so may He ! " 
 
 Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew 
 
 If Emma's Ghost it were. 
 Or boding Shade, or if the Maid 
 
 Her very self stood there. 
 He touched ; what followed who shall tell ? 
 
 The soft touch snapped the thread 
 Of slumber — shrieking back she fell. 
 And the Stream whirled her down the dell 
 
 Along its foaming bed. 
 
 In plunged the Knight ! — when on firm 
 ground 
 The rescued Maiden lay, 
 
So2 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SEASHORE. 
 
 Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, 
 
 Confusion passed away; 
 She, heard, ere to the throne of grace 
 
 Her faithful Spirit flew, 
 His voice — beheld his speaking face; 
 And, dying, from his own embrace, 
 
 She felt that he was true. 
 
 So was he reconciled to life : 
 
 Brief words may speak the rest; 
 Within the dell he built a cell. 
 
 And there was Sorrow's guest; 
 In hermits' weeds repose he found, 
 
 From vain temptations free; 
 Beside the torrent dwelling — bound 
 By one deep heart-controlling sound. 
 
 And awed to piety. 
 
 Wild stream of Aira,' hold thy course, 
 
 Nor fear memorial lays. 
 Where clouds that spread in solemn shade. 
 
 Are edged with golden rays I 
 Dear art thou to the light of heaven. 
 
 Though minister of sorrow; 
 Sweet is thy voice at pensive even; 
 And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, 
 
 Shalt take thy place with Yarrow ! 
 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 TO CORDELIA M- 
 
 HALLSTEADS, ULLSWATER. 
 
 Not in theminesbeyond the western main. 
 You say, Cordelia, was the metal sought. 
 Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has 
 
 wrought 
 Into this flexible yet faithful Chain; 
 Nor is it silver of romantic Spain, 
 But from our loved Helvellyn's depths was 
 
 brought. 
 Our own domestic mountain. Thing and 
 
 thought 
 Mix strangely ; trifles light, and partly vain. 
 Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler 
 
 being : 
 Yes, Lady, while about your neck is 
 
 wound 
 (Your casual glance oft meeting) this 
 
 bright cord. 
 
 What witchery, for pure gifts of inward 
 
 seeing, 
 Lurks in it. Memory's Helper, Fancy's 
 
 Lord, 
 For precious tremblings in your bosom 
 
 found ! 
 
 1833- 
 
 1835. 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 To pace the ground, if path be there or 
 
 none. 
 While a fair region round the traveller lies 
 Which he forbears again to look upon; 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene. 
 The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
 If Thought and Love desert us, from that 
 
 day 
 Let us break off all commerce with the 
 
 Muse: 
 With Thought and Love companions of 
 
 our way, 
 Whate'er the senses take or may refuse. 
 The Mind's internal heaven shall shed 
 
 her dews 
 Of inspirations on the humblest lay. 
 
 1833- 
 
 >835. 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SEASHORE. 
 
 These lines were suggested during my resi- 
 dence under my Son's roof at Moresby, on tlie 
 coast near Wliiteliaven, at tlie time when I was 
 composing those verses among the " Evening 
 Voluntaries " that have reference to the sea. It 
 was in that neighborhood I first became ac- 
 quainted with the ocean and its appearances and 
 movements. My infancy and early childhood 
 were passed at Cockermonth, about eight miles 
 from the coast, and I well remember that mysteri- 
 ous awe with which I used to listen to anything 
 said about storms and shipwrecks. Sea-shells of 
 many descriptions were common in the town; 
 and I was not a little surprised when I heard that 
 Mr. Landor had denounced me as a plagiarist 
 from himself for having described aboy applying 
 a sea-shell to his ear and listening to it for inti- 
 mations of what was going on in its native ele- 
 ment. This I had done myself scores of times, 
 
'NOT IN THE LUCID INTERVALS OF LIFE.' 
 
 803 
 
 and it was a belief among us that we could know 
 from the sound whether the tide was ebbing or 
 flowing. 
 
 What mischief cleaves to unsubdued 
 
 regret, 
 How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset ; 
 How baffled projects on the spirit prey, 
 And fruitless wishes eat the heart away. 
 The Sailor knows; he best, whose lot is 
 
 cast 
 On the relentless sea that holds him fast 
 On chance dependent, and the fickle star 
 Of power, through long and melancholy 
 
 war. 
 sad it is, in sight of foreign shores. 
 Daily to think on old familiar doors, 
 Hearths loved in childhood, and ancestral 
 
 floors; 
 Or, tossed about along a waste of foam, 
 To ruminate on that delightful home 
 Which with the dear Betrothed was to 
 
 come; 
 Or came and was and is, yet meets the 
 
 eye 
 Never but in the world of memory ; 
 Or in a dream recalled, whose smoothest 
 
 range 
 Is crossed by knowledge, or by dread, of 
 
 change. 
 And if not so, whose perfect joy makes 
 
 sleep 
 A thing too bright for breathing man to 
 
 keep. 
 Hail to the virtues which that perilous life 
 Extracts from Nature's elemental strife; 
 And welcome glory won in battles fought 
 As bravely as the foe was keenly sought. 
 But to each gallant Captain and his crew 
 A less imperious sympathy is due, 
 Such as my verse now yields, while moon- 
 beams play 
 On the mute sea in this unruffled bay; 
 Such as will promptly flow from every 
 
 breast. 
 Where good men, disappointed in the 
 
 quest 
 Of wealth and power and honors, long 
 
 for rest; 
 Or, having known the splendors of suc- 
 cess. 
 Sigh for the obscurities of happiness. 
 1833. 1845. 
 
 "NOT IN THE LUCID INTERVALS 
 OF LIFE." 
 
 The lines following "nor do words" were 
 written with Lord Byron's character, as a poet, 
 before me, and that of others, his contemporaries, 
 who wrote under like influences. 
 
 Not in the lucid intervals of life 
 
 That come but as a curse to party-strife; 
 
 Not in some hour when Pleasure with a 
 sigh 
 
 Of languor puts his rosy garland by; 
 
 Not in the breathing-times of that poor 
 slave 
 
 Who daily piles up wealth in IWammon's 
 cave — 
 
 Is Nature felt, or can be; nor do words. 
 
 Which practised talent readily affords. 
 
 Prove that her hand has touched respon- 
 sive chords; 
 
 Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 
 
 With genuine rapture and with fervent 
 love 
 
 The soul of Genius, if he dare to take 
 
 Life's rule from passion craved for pas- 
 sion's sake; 
 
 Untaught that meekness is the cherished 
 bent 
 
 Of all the truly great and all the innocent. 
 But who is innocent? By grace divine. 
 
 Not otherwise, O Naiure ! we are thine, 
 
 Through good and evil thine, in just de- 
 gree 
 
 Of rational and manly sympathy. 
 
 To all that Earth from pensive hearts is 
 stealing. 
 
 And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes 
 revealing. 
 
 Add every charm the Universe can show 
 
 Through every change its aspects under- 
 go— 
 
 Care may be respited, but not repealed; 
 
 No perfect cure grows on that bounded 
 field. 
 
 Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the 
 peace. 
 
 If He, through whom alone our conflicts 
 cease. 
 
 Our virtuous hopes without relapse ad- 
 vance, 
 
 Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance; 
 
8o4 
 
 BY THE SIDE OF RYDAL MERE. 
 
 To the distempered Intellect refuse 
 His gracious help, or give what we abuse. 
 1834. 1835. 
 
 BY THE SIDE OF RYDAL MERE. 
 
 The linnet's warble, sinking towards a 
 
 close, 
 Hints to the thrush 't is time for their 
 
 repose ; 
 The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and 
 
 again 
 The monitor revives his own sweet strain; 
 But both will soon be mastered, and the 
 
 copse 
 Be left as silent as the mountain-tops. 
 Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest 
 The throng of rooks, that now, from twig 
 
 or nest, 
 (After a steady flight on home-bound 
 
 wings. 
 And a last game of mazy hoverings 
 Around their ancient grove) with cawing 
 
 noise 
 Disturb the liquid music's equipoise. 
 O Nightingale ! Who ever heard thy 
 
 song 
 Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so 
 
 strong 
 That listening sense is pardonably cheated 
 Where wood or stream by thee was never 
 
 greeted. 
 Surely, from fairest spots of favored 
 
 lands, 
 Were not some gifts withheld by jealous 
 
 hands. 
 This hour of deepening darkness here 
 
 would be 
 As a fresh morning for new harmony; 
 And lays as prompt would hail the dawn 
 
 of Night: 
 A dawn she has both beautiful and bright. 
 When the East kindles with the full 
 
 moon's light; 
 Not like the rising sun's impatient glow 
 Dazzling the mountains, but an overflow 
 Of solemn splendor, in mutation slow. 
 Wanderer by spring with gradual pro- 
 gress led. 
 For sway profoundly felt as widely spread; 
 To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear. 
 And to the soldier's trumpet-wearied ear; 
 
 How welcome wouldst thou be to this 
 
 green Vale 
 Fairer than Tempe ! Yet, sweet Nightin- 
 gale ! 
 From the warm breeze that bears thee on, 
 
 alight 
 At will, and stay thy migratory flight; 
 Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or 
 
 fount. 
 Who shall complain, or call thee to 
 
 account ? 
 The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they 
 That ever walk content with Nature's 
 
 way, 
 God's goodness — measuring bounty as it 
 
 may; 
 For whom the gravest thought of what 
 
 they miss. 
 Chastening the fulness of a present bliss, 
 Is with that wholesome office satisfied. 
 While unrepining sadness is allied 
 In thankful bosoms to a modest pride. 
 1834- 1835. 
 
 "SOFT AS A CLOUD IS YON 
 BLUE RIDGE." 
 
 Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the 
 
 Mere 
 Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, 
 
 clear, 
 And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye, 
 Deeper than ocean, in the immensity 
 Of its vague mountains and unreal sky ! 
 But, from the process in that still retreat. 
 Turn to minuter changes at our feet; 
 Observe how dewy Twilight has with- 
 drawn 
 The crowd of daisies from the shaven 
 
 lawn. 
 And has restored to view its tender green, 
 That, while the sun rode high, was lost 
 
 beneath their dazzling sheen. 
 — An emblem this of what the sober Hour 
 Can do for minds disposed to feel its 
 
 power 
 
 Thus oft, when we in vain have wished 
 
 away 
 The petty pleasures of the garish day, 
 Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping 
 
 host 
 
THE LABORER'S NOON-DAY HYMN. 
 
 805 
 
 (Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his 
 
 post) 
 And leaves the disencumbered spirit free 
 To reassume a staid simplicity. 
 
 'T is well — but what are helps of time 
 
 and place, 
 When wisdom stands in need of nature's 
 
 grace; 
 Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, 
 
 descend, 
 Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues 
 
 to befriend; 
 If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say, 
 " I come to open out, for fresh display. 
 The elastic vanities of yesterday? " 
 1834. 1835. 
 
 "THE LEAVES THAT RUSTLED ON 
 THIS OAK-CROWNED HILL." 
 
 Composed by the side of Grasmere lake. The 
 mountains that enclose the vale, especially towards 
 Easdale, are most favorable to the reverberation 
 of sound. There is a passage in the '* Excur- 
 sion," towards the close of the fourth book, where 
 the voice of the raven in flight is traced through 
 the modifications it undergoes, as I have often 
 heard it in that vale and others of this district. 
 
 " Often, at the hour 
 When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard, 
 Within the circuit of this fabric huge. 
 One voice — the solitary raven." 
 
 The leaves that rustled on this oak- 
 crowned hill, 
 
 And sky that danced among those leaves, 
 are still; 
 
 Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field 
 and bower 
 
 Soft shades and dews have shed their 
 blended power 
 
 On drooping eyelid and the closing flower ; 
 
 Sound is there none at which the faintest 
 heart 
 
 Might leap, the weakest nerve of super- 
 stition start; 
 
 Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream 
 
 Pierces the ethereal vault; and ('mid the 
 gleam 
 
 Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream. 
 
 From the hushed vale's realities trans- 
 ferred 
 
 To the still lake) the imaginative Bird 
 Seems, 'mid inverted mountains, not un- 
 heard. 
 Grave Creature ! — whether, while the 
 
 moon shines bright 
 On thy wings opened wide for smoothest 
 
 flight, 
 Thou art discovered in a roofless tower, 
 Rising from what may once have been a 
 
 lady's bower; 
 Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy 
 
 mew 
 At the dim centre of a churchyard yew; 
 Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod 
 Deep in a forest, thy secure abode. 
 Thou giv'st, for pastime's sake, by shriek 
 
 or shout, 
 A puzzhng notice of thy whereabout — 
 May the night never come, nor day be seen, 
 When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy 
 
 mien ! 
 In classic ages men perceived a soul 
 Of sapience in thy aspect, headless Owl ! 
 Thee Athens reverenced in the studious 
 
 grove ; 
 And, near the golden sceptre grasped by 
 
 Jove, 
 His Eagle's favorite perch, while round 
 
 him sate 
 The Gods revolving the decrees of Fate, 
 Thou, too, wert present at Minerva's 
 
 side : — 
 Hark to that second larum ! — far and wide 
 The elements have heard, and rock and 
 
 cave replied. 
 1834. 1835. 
 
 THE LABORER'S NOON-DAY 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Bishop Ken's Morning and Evening Hymns 
 are, as they deserve to be, familiarly known. 
 Many other hymns have also been written on the 
 same subject ; but, not being aware of any being 
 designed for noon-day, I was induced to compose 
 these verses. Often one has occasion to observe 
 cottage children carrying, in their baskets, dinner 
 to their Fathers engaged with their daily labors 
 in the fields an4 woods. How gratifying would 
 it be to me could I be assured that any portion of 
 these stanzas had been sung by such a domestic 
 concert under such circumstances ! A friend of 
 mine has told me that she introduced this Hymn 
 
8o6 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 into a village-school which she superintended, 
 and the stanzas in succession furnished her with 
 texts to comment upon in a way which without 
 difficulty was made intelligible to the children, 
 and in which they obviously took delight, and 
 they were taught to sing it to the tune of the old 
 looth Psalm. 
 
 Up to the throne of God is borne 
 The voice of praise at early morn, 
 And he accepts the punctual hymn 
 Sung as the light of day grows dim : 
 
 Nor will he turn his ear aside 
 From holy offerings at noontide : 
 Then here reposing let us raise 
 A song of gratitude and praise. 
 
 What though our burthen be not light, 
 We need not toil from morn to night; 
 The respite of the mid-day hour 
 Is in the thankful Creature's power. 
 
 Blest are the moments, doubly blest. 
 That, drawn from this one hour of rest. 
 Are with a ready heart bestowed 
 Upon the service of our God ! 
 
 Each field is then a hallowed spot. 
 An altar is in each man's cot, 
 A church in every grove that spreads 
 Its living roof above our heads. 
 
 Look up to Heaven ! the industrious Sun 
 Already half his race hath run; 
 He cannot halt nor go astray. 
 But our immortal Spirits may. 
 
 Lord ! since his rising in the East, 
 If we have faltered or transgressed. 
 Guide, from thy love's abundant source, 
 What yet remains of this day's course : 
 
 Help with thy grace, through life's short 
 
 day. 
 Our upward and our downward way; 
 And glorify for us the west, 
 When we shall sink to final rest. 
 1834. 1835. 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 SUGGESTED IN A WESTMORELAND 
 COTTAGE. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount, All our cats having 
 been banished the house, it was soon frequented 
 by redbreasts. Two or three of them, when the 
 window was open, would come in, particularly 
 when Mrs. Wordswortn was breakfasting alone, 
 and hop about the table picking up the crumbs, 
 My sister being then confined to her room by 
 sickness, as, dear creature, she still is, had one 
 that, without being caged, took up its abode with 
 her, and at night used to perch upon a nail from 
 which a picture had hung. It used to sing and 
 fan her face with its wings in a manner that was 
 very touching. 
 
 Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air 
 From half-stript woods and pastures bare, 
 Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home : 
 Not like a beggar is he come, 
 But enters as a looked-for guest. 
 Confiding in his ruddy breast. 
 As if it were a natural shield 
 Charged with a blazon on the field. 
 Due to that good and pious deed 
 Of which we in the Ballad read. 
 But pensive fancies putting by. 
 And wild-wood sorrows, speedily 
 He plays the expert ventriloquist; 
 And, caught by glimpses now — now 
 
 missed. 
 Puzzles the listener with a doubt 
 If the soft voice he throws about 
 Comes from within doors or without ! 
 Was ever such a sweet confusion, 
 Sustained by delicate illusion? 
 He 's at your elbow — to your feeling 
 The notes are from the floor or ceiling; 
 And there 's a riddle to be guessed, 
 'Till you have marked his heaving chest, 
 And busy throat whose sink and swell 
 Betray the Elf that loves to dwell 
 In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. 
 
 Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird 
 If seen, and with like pleasure stirred 
 Commend him, when he 's only heard. 
 But small and fugitive our gain 
 Compared with hers who long hath lain, 
 With languid limbs and patient head. 
 
LINES. 
 
 807 
 
 Reposing on a lone sick-bed; 
 Where now she daily hears a strain 
 That cheats her of too busy cares, 
 Eases her pain, and helps her prayers. 
 And who but this dear Bird beguiled 
 The fever of that pale-faced Child; 
 Now cooling, with his passing wing, 
 Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring : 
 Recalling now, with descant soft 
 Shed round her pillow from aloft. 
 Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh. 
 And the invisible sympathy 
 Of " Matthew,Mark,and Luke, and John, 
 Blessing the bed she lies upon " ? ^ 
 And sometimes, just as listening ends 
 In slumber, with the cadence blends 
 A dream of that low-warbled hymn 
 Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim 
 Lamps of faith, now burning dim. 
 Say that the Cherubs carved in stone, 
 When clouds gave way at dead of night 
 And the ancient church was filled with 
 
 light. 
 Used to sing in heavenly tone, 
 Above and' round the sacred places 
 They guard, with winged baby-faces. 
 Thrice happy Creature ! in all lands 
 Nurtured by hospitable hands: 
 Free entrance to this cot has he. 
 Entrance and exit bothrf/ free; 
 And, when the keen unruflfled weather 
 That thus brings man and bird together. 
 Shall with its pleasantness be past. 
 And casement closed and door made fast, 
 To keep at bay the howling blast. 
 He needs not fear the season's rage, 
 For the whole house is Robin's cage. 
 Whether the bird flit here or there. 
 O'er table lilt, or perch on chair. 
 Though some may frown and make a stir. 
 To scare him as a trespasser, 
 And he belike will flinch or start. 
 Good friends he has to take his part; 
 One chiefly, who with voice and look 
 Pleads for him from the chimney-nook. 
 Where sits the Dame, and wears away 
 Her long and vacant holiday; 
 
 ^ The words — 
 "Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
 Bless the bed that I lie on," 
 are part of a child's prayer, still in general use 
 through the northern counties. 
 
 With images about her heart. 
 Reflected from the years gone by. 
 On human nature's second infancy. 
 1834. 1835. 
 
 LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A POFtTRAIT FROM THE 
 PENCIL OF F. STONE. 
 
 This Portrait was hung for many years in our 
 principal sitting-room, and represents J. Q. as 
 she was when a girl. The picture, though it is 
 somewhat thinly painted, has much merit in tone 
 and general effect : it is chiefly valuable, however, 
 from the sentiment that pervades it. The Anec- 
 dote of the saying of the Monk in sight of Titian's 
 picture was told in this house by Mr. Wilkie, and 
 was, I believe, first communicated to the public 
 in this poem, the former portion of which I was 
 composing^at the time. Southey heard the story 
 from Miss Hutchinson, and transferred it to the 
 " Doctor " ; but it is not easy to explain how my 
 friend Mr. Rogers, in a note subsequently added 
 to his " Italy," was led to speak of the same re- 
 markable words having many years before been 
 spoken in his hearing by a monk or priest in front 
 of a picture of the Last Supper, placed over a 
 Refectory-table in a convent at Padua. 
 
 Beguiled into forgetfulness of care 
 Due to the day's unfinished task; of pen 
 Or book regardless, and of that fair scene 
 In Nature's prodigality displayed 
 Before my window, oftentimes and long 
 I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam 
 Of beauty never ceases to enrich 
 The common light ; whose stillness 
 
 charms the air. 
 Or seems to charm it, into like repose; 
 Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear, 
 Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits 
 With emblematic purity attired 
 In a white vest, white as her marble neck 
 Is, and the pillar of the throat would be 
 But for the shadow by the drooping chin 
 Cast into that recess — the tender shade. 
 The shade and light, both there and 
 
 everywhere. 
 And through the very atmosphere she 
 
 breathes, 
 Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, 
 
 with skill 
 That might from nature have been learnt 
 
 in the hour 
 
8o8 
 
 LINES. 
 
 When the lone shepherd sees the morn- 
 ing spread 
 Upon the mountains. Look at her, who- 
 e'er 
 Thou be that, kindUng with a poet's soul. 
 Hast loved the painter's true Promethean 
 
 craft 
 Intensely — from Imagination take 
 The treasure, — what mine eyes behold, 
 
 see thou. 
 Even though the Atlantic ocean roll be- 
 tween. 
 A silver line, that runs from brow to 
 crown 
 And in the middle parts the braided hair. 
 Just serves to show how delicate a soil 
 The golden harvest grows in; and those 
 
 eyes. 
 Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky 
 Whose azure depth their color emulates. 
 Must needs be conversant with upward 
 
 looks. 
 Prayer's voiceless service; but now, seek- 
 ing nought 
 And shunning nought, their own peculiar 
 
 life 
 Of motion they renounce, and with the 
 
 head 
 Partake its inclination towards earth 
 In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness 
 Caught at the point where it stops short 
 of sadness. 
 Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make 
 me 
 Thy confidant ! say, whence derived that 
 
 air 
 Of calm abstraction? Can the ruling 
 
 thought 
 Be with some lover far away, or one 
 Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted 
 
 faith? 
 Inapt conjecture ! Childhood here, a 
 
 moon 
 Crescent in simple loveliness serene. 
 Has but approached the gates of woman- 
 hood, 
 Not entered them; her heart is yet un- 
 
 pierced 
 By the blind Archer-god; her fancy free : 
 The fount of feeling if unsought else- 
 where, 
 Will not be found. 
 
 Her right hand, as it lies 
 
 Across the slender wrist of the left arm 
 Upon her lap reposing, holds — but mark 
 How slackly, for the absent mind permits 
 No firmer grasp — a httle wild-flower, 
 
 joined 
 As in a posy, with a few pale ears 
 Of yellowing corn, the same that over- 
 topped 
 And in their common birthplace sheltered 
 
 it 
 Till they were plucked together; a blue 
 
 flower 
 Called by the thrifty husbandman aweed; 
 But Ceres, in her garland, might have 
 
 worn 
 That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, 
 
 held 
 In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she 
 
 knows, 
 (Her Father told her so) in youth's gay 
 
 dawn 
 Her mother's favorite; and the orphan 
 
 Girl, 
 In her own dawn — a dawn less gay and 
 
 bright. 
 Loves it, while there in solitary peace 
 She sits, for that departed Mother's sake. 
 — Not from a source less sacred is derived 
 (Surely I do not err) that pensive air 
 Of calm abstraction through the face 
 
 diffused 
 And the whole person. 
 
 Words have something told 
 More than the pencil can, and verily 
 More than is needed, but the precious 
 
 Art 
 Forgives their interference — Art divine, 
 That both creates and fixes, in despite 
 Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath 
 
 wrought. 
 Strange contrasts have we in this world 
 
 of ours ! 
 That posture, and the look of filial love 
 Thinking of past and gone, with what is 
 
 left 
 Dearly united, might be swept away 
 From this fair Portrait's fleshly Arche- 
 type, 
 Even by aninnocent fancy's slightest freak 
 Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored 
 •To their lost place, or meet in harmony 
 So exquisite; but here do they abide. 
 Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art 
 
LINES. 
 
 Sog 
 
 Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, 
 In visible quest of immortality. 
 Stretched forth with trembling hope? — 
 
 In every realm, 
 From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains, 
 Thousands, in each variety of tongue 
 That Europe knows, would echo this 
 
 appeal ; 
 One above all, a Monk who waits on God 
 In the magnific Convent built of yore 
 To sanctify the Escurial palace. He — 
 Guiding, from cell to cell and room to 
 
 room, 
 A British Painter (eminent for truth 
 In character, and depth of feeling, shown 
 By labors that have touched the hearts 
 
 of kings. 
 And are endeared to simple cottagers) — 
 Came, in that service, to a glorious work, 
 Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as 
 
 when first 
 The appropriate Picture, fresh from 
 
 Titian's hand. 
 Graced the Refectory : and there, while 
 
 both 
 Stood with eyes fixed upon that master- 
 piece. 
 The hoary Father in the Stranger's ear 
 Breathed out these words: — "Here 
 
 daily do we sit. 
 Thanks given to God for daily bread, 
 
 and here 
 Pondering the mischiefs of these restless 
 
 times. 
 And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dis- 
 persed. 
 Or changed and changing I not seldom, 
 
 gaze 
 Upon this solemn Company unmoved 
 By shock of circumstance, or lapse of 
 
 "years. 
 Until I cannot but believe that they — 
 They are in truth the Substance, we the 
 Shadows." 
 So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs 
 Melting away within him like a dream 
 Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to 
 
 speak : 
 And I, grown old, but in a happier land. 
 Domestic Portrait ! have to verse con- 
 signed 
 In thy calm presence those heart-moving 
 words : 
 
 Words that can soothe, more than they 
 
 agitate; 
 Whose spirit, like the angel that went 
 
 down 
 Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue 
 Informs the fountain in the human breast 
 Which by the visitation was disturbed. 
 — Butlwhy this stealing tear ? Companion 
 
 mute. 
 On thee I look, not sorrowing; fare thee 
 
 well. 
 My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell ! ^ 
 1S34. 1835. 
 
 THE FOREGOING SUBJECT 
 RESUMED. 
 
 Among a grave fraternity of Monks, 
 For One, but surely not for One alone. 
 Triumphs, inthat great work, the Painter's 
 
 skill, 
 Humbling the body, to exalt the soul; 
 Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong 
 And dissolution and decay, the warm 
 And breathing life of flesh, as if already 
 Clothed with impassive majesty, and 
 
 graced 
 With no mean earnest of a heritage 
 Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, 
 
 too. 
 With thy memorial flower, meek Por- 
 traiture ! 
 From whose serene companionship I 
 
 passed 
 Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still ; 
 
 thou also — 
 Though but a simple object, into light 
 Called forth by those affections that en- 
 dear 
 The private hearth; though keeping thy 
 
 sole seat 
 In singleness, and little tried by time. 
 Creation, as it were, of yesterday — 
 With a congenial function art endued 
 For each and all of us, together joined 
 
 ^ The pile of buildings, composing the palace 
 and convent of San Lorenzo, has, in common 
 usage, lost its proper name in that of the Kscurial, 
 a village at the foot of the hill upon which the 
 splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, 
 stands. It need scarcely be added that Wilkie 
 is the painter alluded to. 
 
8io 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 In course of nature under a low roof 
 
 By charities and duties that proceed 
 
 Out of the bosom of a wiser vow. 
 
 To a like salutary sense of awe 
 
 Or sacred wonder, growing with the 
 
 power 
 Of meditation that attempts to weigh, 
 In faithful scales, things and their oppo- 
 
 sites. 
 Can thy enduring quiet gently raise 
 A household small and sensitive, — whose 
 
 love, 
 Dependent as in part its blessings are 
 Upon frail ties dissolving or dissolved 
 On earth, will be revived, we trust, in 
 
 heaven. 1 
 1834. 1835. 
 
 ' In the class entitled " Musings " in Mr. 
 Southey's Minor Poems, is one upon his own 
 miniature Picture, taken in childhood, and another 
 upon a landscape painted by Gaspar Poussin. 
 It is possible that every word of the above verses, 
 though similar in subject, might have been written 
 had the author been unacquainted with those 
 beautiful effusions of poetic sentiment. But, for 
 his own satisfaction, he must be allowed thus 
 publicly to acknowledge the pleasure those two 
 Poems of his Friend have given him, and the 
 grateful influence they have upon his mind as 
 often as he reads them, or thinks of them. 
 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. 
 
 This quatrain was extempore on observing this 
 image, as I had often done, on the lawn of Rydal 
 Mount. It was first written down in the Album 
 of my God-daughter, Rotha Quillinan. 
 
 Small service is true service while it 
 
 lasts : 
 Of humblest Friends, bright Creature 1 
 
 scorn not one : 
 The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts. 
 Protects the lingering dew-drop from the 
 
 Sun. 
 1834. 1835. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE 
 COUNTESS OF LONSDALE. NOV. 5, 1834. 
 
 This is a faithful picture of that amiable Lady, 
 as she then was. The youthfulness of figure and 
 
 demeanor and habits, which she retained in 
 almost unprecedented degree, departed a very 
 few years after, and she died without violent 
 disease by gradual decay before she reached the 
 period of old age. 
 
 Lady ! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard. 
 Among the Favored, favored not the 
 
 least) 
 Left, 'mid the Records of this Book in- 
 scribed. 
 Deliberate traces, registers of thought 
 And feeling, suited to the place and time 
 That gave them birth : — months passed, 
 
 and still this hand. 
 That had not been too timid to imprint 
 Words which the virtues of thy Lord in- 
 spired. 
 Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee, 
 And why that scrupulous reserve? In 
 
 sooth 
 The blameless cause lay in the Theme 
 
 itself. 
 Flowers are there many that delight to 
 
 strive 
 With the sharp wind, and seem to courl 
 
 the shower, 
 Yet are by nature careless of the sun 
 Whether he shine on them or not ; and 
 
 some. 
 Where'er he moves along the unclouded 
 
 sky, 
 Turn a broad front full on his flattering 
 
 beams : 
 Others do rather from their notice shrink, 
 Loving the dewy shade, ■ — a humble band. 
 Modest and sweet, a progeny of earth. 
 Congenial with thy mind and character. 
 High-born Augusta ! 
 
 Witness, Towers and Groves ! 
 And Thou, wild Stream, that giv'st the 
 
 honored name 
 Of Lowther to this ancient Line, bear 
 
 witness 
 From thy most secret haunts; and ye 
 
 Parterres, 
 Which She is pleased and proud to call 
 
 her own. 
 Witness how oft upon my noble Friend 
 Mute offerings, tribute from an inward 
 
 sense 
 Of admiration and respectful love. 
 Have waited — till the affections could no 
 
TO THE MOON. 
 
 8ii 
 
 Endure that silence, and broke out in song, 
 Snatches of music taken up and dropt 
 Like those self-solacing, those under, 
 
 notes 
 Trilled by the redbreast, when autumnal 
 
 leaves 
 Are thin upon the bough. IMine, only 
 
 mine. 
 The pleasure was, and no one heard the 
 
 praise. 
 Checked, in the moment of its issue, 
 
 checked 
 And reprehended, by a fancied blush 
 From the pure qualities that calledit forth. 
 Thus Virtue lives debarred from Virtue's 
 
 meed; 
 Thus, Lady, is retiredness a veil 
 That, while it only spreads a. softening 
 
 charm 
 O'er features looked at by discerning eyes, 
 Hides half their beauty from the common 
 
 gaze; 
 And thus, even on the exposed and breezy 
 
 hill 
 Of lofty station, female goodness walks. 
 When side by side with lunar gentle- 
 ness, 
 As in a cloister. Yet the grateful Poor 
 (Such the immunities of low estate. 
 Plain Nature's enviable privilege. 
 Her sacred recompense for many wants) 
 Open their hearts before Thee, pouring 
 
 out 
 All that they think and feel, with tears of 
 
 joy; 
 
 And benedictions not unheard in heaven : 
 And friend in the ear of friend, where 
 
 speech is free 
 To follow truth, is eloquent as they. 
 Then let the Book receive in these 
 
 prompt lines 
 A just memorial; and thine eyes consent 
 To read that they, who mark thy course, 
 
 behold 
 A life declining with the golden light 
 Of summer, in the season of sere leaves; 
 See cheerfulness undamped by stealing 
 
 Time; 
 See studied kindness flow with easy 
 
 stream. 
 Illustrated with inborn courtesy; 
 And an habitual disregard of self 
 Balanced by vigilance for others' weal. 
 
 And shall the Verse not tell of lighter 
 
 gifts 
 With these ennobling attributes conjoined 
 And blended, in peculiar harmony. 
 By Youth's surviving spirit? What agile 
 
 grace ! 
 A nymph-hke liberty, in nymph-like form, 
 Beheld with wonder; whether floor or path 
 Thou tread; or sweep — borne on the 
 
 managed steed — 
 Fleet as the shadows, over down or field, 
 Driven by strong winds at play among the 
 
 clouds. 
 Yet one word more — one farewell word 
 
 — a wish 
 Which came, but it has passed into a 
 
 prayer — 
 That, as thy sun in brightness is declining, 
 So — at an hour yet distant ior iAeir sakes 
 Whose tender love, here faltering on the 
 
 way 
 Of a diviner love, will be forgiven — 
 So may it set in peace, to rise again 
 For everlasting glory won by faith. 
 1834. 1833. 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SEASIDE, — ON THE 
 COAST OF CUMBERLAND. 
 
 Wanderer ! that stoop'st so low, and 
 
 com'st so near 
 To human life's unsettled atmosphere; 
 Who lov'st with Night and Silence to 
 
 partake. 
 So might it seem, the cares of them that 
 
 wake; 
 And, through the cottage-lattice softly 
 
 peeping. 
 Dost shield from harm the humblest of 
 
 the sleeping; 
 What pleasure once encompassed those 
 
 sweet names 
 Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims, 
 An idolizing dreamer as of yore ! ■ — 
 I slight them all ; and, on this sea-beat shore 
 Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend 
 That bid me hail thee as the Sailor's 
 
 Friend; 
 So call thee for heaven's grace through 
 
 thee made known 
 
8l2 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 By confidence supplied and mercy shown, 
 When not a twinkling star or beacon's 
 
 light 
 Abates the perils of a stormy night ; 
 And for less obvious benefits, that find 
 Their way, with thy pure help, to heart 
 
 and mind; 
 Both tor the adventurer starting in life's 
 
 prime ; 
 And veteran ranging round from clime to 
 
 clime, 
 Long-baffled hope'sslow fever in his veins, 
 And wounds and weakness oft his labor's 
 
 sole remains. 
 The aspiring Mountains and the wind- 
 ing Streams, 
 Empress of Night ! are gladdened by thy 
 
 beams ; 
 A look of thine the wilderness pervades, 
 And penetrates the forest's inmost shades; 
 Thou, checkering peaceably the minster's 
 
 gloom, 
 Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's 
 
 tomb; 
 Canst reach the Prisoner — to his grated 
 
 cell 
 Welcome, though silent and intangible ! — 
 And lives there one, of all that come and 
 
 go 
 On the great waters toiling to and fro. 
 One, who has watched thee at some quiet 
 
 hour 
 Enthroned aloft in undisputed power. 
 Or crossed by vapory streaks and clouds 
 
 that move 
 Catching the lustre they in part reprove — 
 Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway 
 To call up thoughts that shun the glare 
 
 of day, 
 Andmake the serioushappier than the gay? 
 Yes, lovely Moon ! if thou so mildly 
 
 bright 
 Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, 
 To fiercer mood the phrenzy-stricken 
 
 brain. 
 Let me a compensating faith maintain; 
 That there 's a sensitive, a tender, part 
 Which thou canst touch in every human 
 
 heart, 
 For healing and composure.' — But, as 
 
 least 
 And mightiest billows ever have confessed 
 Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea 
 
 Feels through her lowest depths tl: 
 
 sovereignty; 
 So shines that countenance with especii 
 
 grace 
 On them who urge the keel her plains t 
 
 trace 
 Furrowing its way right onward. Th 
 
 most rude. 
 Cut off from home and country, ma 
 
 have stood — 
 Even till long gazing hath bedimmed h: 
 
 eye. 
 Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh — 
 Touched by accordance of thy placi 
 
 cheer, 
 With some internal lights to memory deal 
 Or fancies ;stealing forth to soothe th 
 
 breast 
 Tired with its daily share of earth's un 
 
 rest, — 
 Gentle awakenings, visitations meek; 
 A kindly influence whereof few will speak 
 Though it can wet with tears the hardies 
 
 cheek. 
 And when thy beauty in the shadow; 
 
 cave 
 Is hidden, burieJ in its monthly grave; 
 Then, while the Sailor, 'mid an opense: 
 Swept by a favoring wind that leave 
 
 thought free. 
 Paces the deck ■ — no star perhaps in sight 
 And nothing save the moving ship's owi 
 
 light 
 To cheer the long dark hours of vacan 
 
 night ■ — 
 Oft with his musings does thy image blend 
 In his mind's eye thy crescent horns as 
 
 cend. 
 And thou art still, O Moon, that Sailor'; 
 
 Friend ! 
 1835. 1836. 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 RYDAL. 
 
 Queen of the stars ! — so gentle, so benign 
 That ancient Fable did to thee assign. 
 When darkness creeping o'er thy silvei 
 
 brow 
 Warnedthee these upper regions to forego 
 Alternate empire in the shades below — 
 
WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 S13 
 
 A Bard, who, lately near the wide-spread 
 
 sea 
 Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up 
 
 to thee 
 With 'grateful thoughts, doth now thy 
 
 rising hail 
 From the close confines of a shadowy vale. 
 Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene, 
 Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen 
 Through cloudy umbrage, well might that 
 
 fair face. 
 And all those attributes of modest grace, 
 In days when Fancy wrought unchecked 
 
 by fear, 
 Down to the green earth fetch thee from 
 
 thy sphere. 
 To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear ! 
 still beloved (for thine, meek Power, 
 
 are charms 
 That fascinate the very Babe in arms. 
 While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs 
 
 outright. 
 Spreading his little palms in his glad 
 
 Mother's sight) 
 still beloved, once worshipped ! Time, 
 
 that frowns 
 In his destructive flight on earthly crowns. 
 Spares thy mild splendor; still those far- 
 shot beams 
 Tremble on dancing waves and rippling 
 
 streams 
 With stainless touch, as chaste as when 
 
 thy praise 
 Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays; 
 And through dark trials still dost thou 
 
 explore 
 Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, 
 When teeming Matrons — ^yielding to rude 
 
 faith 
 In mysteries of birth and life and death 
 And painful struggle and deliverance — 
 
 prayed 
 Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. 
 What though the rites be swept away, 
 
 the fanes 
 Extinct that echoed to the votive strains; 
 Yet thy.mild aspect does not, cannot, cease 
 Love to promote and purity and peace ; 
 And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may 
 
 trace 
 Faint types of suffering in thy beamless 
 
 face. 
 Then, silent Monitress ! let us — not blind 
 
 To worlds unthought of till the searching 
 
 mind 
 Of Science laid them open to mankind — 
 Told, also, how the voiceless heavens 
 
 declare 
 God's glory ; and acknowledging thy share 
 In that blest charge; let us — without 
 
 offence 
 To aught of highest, holiest, influence — 
 Receive whatever good 't is given thee to 
 
 dispense. 
 May sage and simple, catching with one 
 
 eye 
 The moral intimations of the sky, 
 Learn from thy course, where'er their 
 
 own be taken, 
 "To look on tempests, and be never 
 
 shaken ; ' ' 
 To keep with faithful step the appointed 
 
 way 
 Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day. 
 And from example of thy monthly range 
 Gently to brook decline and fatal change; 
 Meek, patient, steadfast, and with loftier 
 
 scope, 
 Than thy revival yields, for gladsome 
 
 hope ! 
 1835. 1836. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Light will be thrown upon the tragic circum- 
 stance alluded to in this poem when, after the 
 death of Charles Lamb's Sister, his biographer, 
 Mr. Sergeant Talfourd, shall be at liberty to 
 relate particulars which could not, at the time his 
 Memoir was written, be given to the public. 
 Mary Lamb was ten years older than her brother, 
 and has survived him as long a time. Were I to 
 give way to my own feelings, I should dwell not 
 only on her genius and intellectual powers, but 
 upon the delicacyand refinement of mannerwhich 
 she maintained inviolable under most trying 
 circumstances. She was loved and honored by 
 all her brother's friends; and others, some of 
 them strange characters, whom his philanthropic 
 peculiarities induced him to countenance. The 
 death of C. Lamb himself was doubtless hastened 
 by his sorrow for that of Coleridge, to whom he 
 had been attached from the time of their being 
 school-fellows at Christ's Hospital. Lamb was a 
 good Latin scholar, and probably would have 
 gone to college upon one of the school foundations 
 
Si4 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 but for the impediment in his speech. Had such 
 been his lot, lie would most likely have been 
 preserved from the indulgences of social humors 
 and fancies which were often injurious to himself, 
 and causes of severe regret to his friends, without 
 really benefiting the object of his misapplied 
 kindness. 
 
 To a good Man of most dear memory 
 This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart 
 From the great city where he first drew 
 
 breath, 
 Was reared and taught; and humbly 
 
 earned his bread. 
 To the strict labors of the merchant's desk 
 By duty chained. Not seldom did those 
 
 tasks 
 Tease, and the thought of time so spent 
 
 depress, 
 His spirit, but the recompense was high; 
 Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful 
 
 sire; 
 Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air; 
 And when the precious hours of leisure 
 
 came. 
 Knowledge and wisdom, gained from con- 
 verse sweet 
 With books, or while he ranged the 
 
 crowded streets 
 With a keen eye, and overflowing heart : 
 So genius triumphed over seeming wrong, 
 And poured out truth in works by thought- 
 ful love 
 Inspired — works potent over smiles and 
 
 tears. 
 And as round mountain-tops the lightning 
 
 plays, 
 Thus innocently sported, breaking forth 
 As from a cloud of some grave sympathy. 
 Humor and wild instinctive wit, and all 
 The vivid flashes of his spoken words. 
 From the most gentle creature nursed in 
 
 fields 1 
 Had been derived the name he bore — a 
 
 name, 
 Wherever Christian altars have been 
 
 raised. 
 Hallowed to meekness and to innocence; 
 And if in him meekness at times gave way, 
 Provoked out of herself by troubles 
 
 strange, 
 Many and strange, that hung about his 
 
 life; 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 
 A soul by resignation sanctified : 
 And if too often, self-reproached, he f( 
 That innocence belongs not to our kin 
 A power that never ceased to abide in hii 
 Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins 
 That she can cover, left not his expose 
 To an unforgiving judgment from ju 
 
 Heaven. 
 Oh, he was good, if e'er a good Man Iive< 
 
 From a reflecting mind and sorrowir 
 
 heart 
 Those simple lines flowed with an earne 
 
 wish, 
 Though but a doubting hope, that thf 
 
 might serve 
 Fitly to guard the precious dust of him 
 Whose virtues called them forth. Thi 
 
 aim is missed; 
 For much that truth most urgently require 
 Had from a faltering pen been asked i 
 
 vain: 
 Yet, haply, on the printed page receivec 
 The imperfect record, there, may stan 
 
 unblamed 
 As long as verse of mine shall breathe th 
 
 air 
 Of memory, or see the light of love. 
 Thou wert a scorner of the fields, m 
 
 Friend, 
 But more in show than truth; and froi 
 
 the fields. 
 And from the mountains, to thy rural grav 
 Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'e 
 Its green untrodden turf, and blowin 
 
 flowers; 
 And taking up a voice shall speak (the 
 
 still 
 Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity 
 Which words less free presumed not eve- 
 
 to touch) 
 Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-li 
 
 lamp 
 From infancy, through manhood, to' th 
 
 last 
 Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour 
 Burnt on with ever-strengthening light 
 
 enshrined 
 Within thy bosom. 
 
 " Wonderful " hath beei 
 The love established between man am 
 
EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF HOGG. 
 
 Sis 
 
 "Passing the love of wotnen;" and be- 
 tween 
 Man and his help-mate in fast wedlock 
 
 joined 
 Through God, is raised a spirit and soul 
 
 of love 
 Without whose blissful influence Paradise 
 Had been no Paradise; and earth were 
 
 now 
 A waste where creatures bearing human 
 
 form, 
 Direst of savage beasts, would roam in 
 
 fear, 
 Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide 
 
 on; 
 And let him grieve who cannot choose but 
 
 grieve 
 That he hath been an Elm without his 
 
 Vine, 
 And her bright dower of clustering chari- 
 ties. 
 That, round his trunk and branches, might 
 
 have clung 
 Enriching and adorning. Unto thee, 
 Not so enriched, not so adorned, to thee 
 Was given (say rather, thou of later birth 
 Wert given to her) a Sister — 't is a word 
 Timidly uttered, for she lives, the meek. 
 The self-restraining, and the ever-kind; 
 In whom thy reason and intelligent heart 
 Found — for all interests, hopes, and 
 
 tender cares. 
 All softening, humanizing, hallowing 
 
 powers, 
 Whether withheld, or for her sake un- 
 sought — 
 More than sufficient recompense ! 
 
 Her love 
 (What weakness prompts the voice to tell 
 
 it here?) 
 Was as the love of mothers; and when 
 
 years. 
 Lifting the boy to man's estate, had called 
 The long-protected to assume the part 
 Of a protector, the first filial tie 
 Was undissolved; and, in or out of sight. 
 Remained imperishably interwoven 
 With life itself. Thus, 'mid a shifting 
 
 world. 
 Did they together testify of time 
 And season's difference — a double tree 
 With two collateral stems sprung from 
 one root; 
 
 Such were they — such thro' life they 
 
 might have been 
 In union, in partition only such; 
 Otherwise wrought the will of the Most 
 
 High; 
 Yet, thro' all visitations and all trials. 
 Still they were faithful; like two vessels 
 
 launched 
 From the same beach one ocean to explore 
 With mutual help, and sailing — to their 
 
 league 
 True, as inexorable winds, or bars 
 Floating or fixed of polar ice, allow. 
 
 But turn we rather, let my spirit turn 
 With thine, O silent and invisible Friend ! 
 To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief. 
 When reunited, and by choice withdrawn 
 From miscellaneous converse, ye were 
 
 taught 
 That the remembrance of foregone dis- 
 tress, 
 And the worse fear of future ill (which oft 
 Doth hang around it, as a sickly child 
 Upon its mother) may be both alike 
 Disarmed of power to unsettle present 
 
 good 
 So prized, and things inward and out- 
 ward held 
 In such an even balance, that the heart 
 Acknowledges God's grace, his mercy 
 
 feels, 
 And in its depth of gratitude is still. 
 
 O gift divine of quiet sequestration ! 
 The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, 
 And feeding daily on the hope of heaven. 
 Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves 
 To life-long singleness; but happier far 
 Was to-your souls, and, to the thoughts of 
 
 others, 
 A thousand times more beautiful appeared. 
 Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie 
 Is broken; yet why grieve? for Time but 
 
 holds 
 His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 
 To the blest world where parting is un- 
 known. 
 1835. 1836. 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON 
 
 THE DEATH OF JAMES jIOGG. 
 
 These verses were written extempore, immedi. 
 ately after reading a notice of the Ettrick Shep- 
 herd's death in the Newcastle paper, to the Editor 
 
8i6 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF HOGG. 
 
 ofwhich Isenta copy for publication. Thepersons 
 lamented in these verses were all either of my 
 friends or acquaintance. InLockhart'sZ.{>^o/'^zV 
 Walter Scott an account is given of my fi rst meet- 
 ing with him in 1803. How the Ettrick Shepherd 
 and I became known to each other has already 
 been mentioned in these notes. He was un- 
 doubtedly a man of original genius, but of coarse 
 manners and low and offensive opinions. Of 
 Coleridge and Lamb I need not speak here. 
 Crabbe I have met in London at Mr. Rogers's, 
 but more frequently and favorably at Mr. Hoare's 
 Upon Hampstead Heath. Every spring he used 
 to pay that family a visit of some length, and was 
 upon terms of intimate friendship with Mrs. 
 Hoare, and still more with her daughter-in-law, 
 who has a large collection of his letters addressed 
 to herself. After the Poet's decease, application 
 was made to her to give up these letters- to his 
 biographer, that they, or at least part of them, 
 might be given to the public. She hesitated to 
 comply, and asked ray opinion on the subject. 
 "By no means," was my answer, grounded not 
 upon any objection there might be to publishing 
 a selection from these letters, but from an aversion 
 I have always felt to meet idle curiosity by calling 
 back the recently departed to become the object 
 of trivial and familiar gossip. Crabbe obviously 
 for the most part preferred the company of 
 women to that of men, for this among other 
 reasons, that he did not like to be put upon the 
 stretch in general conversation : accordingly in 
 miscellaneous society his taik was so much below 
 what might have been expected from a man so 
 deservedly celebrated, that to me it seemed 
 trifling. It must upon other occasions have been 
 of a different character, as I found in our rambles 
 together on Hampstead Heath, and not so much 
 from a readiness to communicate his knowledge 
 of life and manners as of natural history in all its 
 branches. His mind was inquisitive, -and he 
 seems to have taken refuge from the remembrance 
 of the distresses he had gone through, in these 
 studies and the employments to which they led. 
 Moreover, such contemplations might tend profit- 
 ably to counterbalance the painful truths which he 
 had collected from his intercourse with mankind. 
 Had Ibeen more intimate withhim, I should have 
 ventured to touch upon his office as a minister of 
 the Gospel, and how far his heart and soul were 
 in it so as to make him a zealous and diligent 
 laborer: in poetry, though he wrote much, as we 
 all know, he assuredly was not so. I happened 
 once to speak of pains as necessary to produce 
 merit of aitertain kind which I highly valued : 
 his observation was — "It is not worth while." 
 You are quite right, thought I, if the labor 
 encroaches upon the time due to teach truth as a 
 
 steward of the mysteries of God : if there be cau 
 to fear t^at, write less: but, if poetry is to 1 
 produced at all, make what you do produce , 
 good as you can. Mr. Rogers once told me th 
 he expressed his regret to Crabbe that he wro 
 in his later works so much less correctly than i 
 his earlier. " Yes," replied he, " but then I ha 
 a reputation to make ; now I can afford to relax. 
 Whether it was from a modest estimate of h 
 own qualifications, or from causes less creditabli 
 his motives for writing verse and his hopes an 
 aims were not so high as is to be desired. Afte 
 being silent for more than twenty years, he agai 
 applied himself to poetry, upon the spur c 
 applause he received from the periodical publica 
 tions of the day, as he himself tells us in one 
 his prefaces. Is it not to be lamented that a mai 
 who was so conversant with permanent truth, am 
 whose writings are so valuable an acquisition t( 
 our country's literature, should have required z\ 
 impulse from such a quarter? — Mrs. Hemans wa; 
 unfortunate as a poetess in being obliged bj 
 circumstances to write for money, and that sc 
 frequently and so much, that she was compelled 
 to look out for subjects wherever she could find 
 them, and to write as expeditiously as possible. 
 As a woman, she was to a considerable degree a 
 spoilt child of the world. She had been early in 
 life distinguished for talent, and poems of hers 
 were published while she was a girl. She had 
 also been handsome in her youth, but her educa- 
 tion had been most unfortunate. She was totally 
 ignorant of housewifery, and could as easily have 
 managed the spear of Minerva as her needle. It 
 was from observing these deficiencies, that, one 
 day while she was under my roof, I purposely 
 directed her attention to household economy, and 
 told her I had purchased Scales, which I intended 
 to present to a young lady as a wedding present; 
 pointed out their utility (for her especial benefit), 
 and said that no minage ought to be without them. 
 Mrs. Hemans, not in the least suspecting my 
 drift, reported this saying, in a letter to a friend 
 at the time, as a proof of my simplicity. Being 
 disposed to make large allowances for the faults 
 of her education and the circumstances in which 
 she was placed, I felt most kindly disposed towards 
 her, and took her part upon all occasions, and I 
 was not a little affected by learning that after she 
 withdrew to Ireland, a long and severe sickness 
 raised her spirit as it depressed her body. This 
 I heard from her most intimate friends, and there 
 is striking evidence of it in a 'poem written and 
 published not long before her death. These 
 notices of Mrs. Hemans would be very unsatis- 
 factory to her intimate friends, as indeed they are 
 to myself, not so much for what is said, but what 
 for brevity's sake is left unsaid. Let it suffice te 
 
UPON SEEING A COLORED DRAWING. 
 
 8.7 
 
 idd, there was much sympathy between us, and, 
 f opportunity had been allowed me to see more 
 )f her, I should have loved and valued her 
 iccordingly ; as it is, I remember her with true 
 iffection for her amiable qualities, and, above all, 
 or her delicate and irreproachable conduct during 
 ler long separation from an unfeeling husband, 
 ftrhom she had been led to marry from the 
 •omautic notions of inexperienced youth. Upon 
 ;his husband I never heard her cast the least 
 reproach, nor did I ever hear her even name him, 
 :hough she did not wholly forbear to touch upon 
 ler domestic position ; but never so as that any 
 iaultcould be found with her manner of adverting 
 :oit. 
 
 When first, descending from the moor- 
 lands, 
 [ saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 
 Mong a bare and open valley, 
 The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 
 
 When last along its banks I wandered, 
 rhroiigh groves that had begun to shed 
 Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
 My steps the Border-minstrel led. 
 
 The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
 Mid mouldering ruins low he lies; 
 ind death upon the braes of Yarrow, 
 Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes: 
 
 !^or has the rolling year twice measured, 
 from sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
 Jince every mortal power of Coleridge 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 
 
 rhe rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
 The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 
 \nd Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
 3as vanished from his lonely hearth. 
 
 jke clouds that rake the mountain- 
 summits, 
 )r waves that own no curbing hand, 
 low fast has brother followed brother 
 Trom sunshine to the sunless land ! 
 
 fet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
 Nere earlier raised, remain to hear 
 i timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 'Who next will drop and disappear?" 
 
 )ur haughty Ufe is crowned with darkness, 
 Jke London with its own black wreath. 
 
 On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forth- 
 looking, 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 
 
 As if but yesterday departed, 
 Thou too art gone before; but why, 
 O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 
 Should frail survivors heave a sigh? 
 
 Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
 Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep; 
 For Her who, ere her summer faded, 
 Had sunk into a breathless sleep. 
 
 No more of old romantic sorrows. 
 For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid ! 
 With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten. 
 And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet 
 dead.^ 
 November, 1S35. 1836. 
 
 UPON SEEING A COLORED 
 DRAWING OF THE BIRD OF 
 PARADISE IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 I cannot forbear to record that the last seven 
 lines of this Poem were composed in bed during 
 the night of the day on which my sister Sara 
 Hutchinson died about 6 p.m., and it was the 
 thought of her innocent and beautiful life that, 
 through faith, prompted the words — 
 
 " On wings that fear no glance of God's pure sight, 
 No tempest from his breath." 
 
 The reader will find two poems on pictures of 
 this bird among my Poems. I will here observe 
 that in a far greater number of instances than 
 have been mentioned in these notes one poem has, 
 as in this case, grown out of another, either 
 because I felt the subject had been inadequately 
 treated, or that the thoughts and images suggested 
 in course of composition have been such as I 
 found interfered with the unity indispensable to 
 every work of art, however humble in character. 
 
 Who rashly strove thy Image to portray? 
 Thou buoyant minion of the tropic air; 
 How could he think of the Hve creature 
 
 — gay 
 With a divinity of colors, drest 
 In all her brightness, from the dancing 
 
 crest 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
8i8 COMPOSED AFTER READING A NEWSPAPER OF THE DAY. 
 
 Far as the last gleam of the filmy train 
 Extended and extending to sustain 
 The motions that it graces — and forbear 
 To drop his pencil ! Flowers of every 
 
 clime 
 Depicted on these pages smile at time; 
 And gorgeous insects copied with nice 
 
 care 
 Are here, and likenesses of many a shell 
 Tossed ashore by restless waves, 
 Or in the diver's grasp fetched up from 
 
 caves 
 Where sea-nymphs might be proud to 
 
 dwell : 
 But whose rash hand (again I ask) could 
 
 dare, 
 'Mid casual tokens and promiscuous 
 
 shows, 
 To circumscribe this Shape in fixed re- 
 pose; 
 Could imitate for indolent survey, 
 Perhaps for touch profane. 
 Plumes that might catch, but cannot 
 
 keep, a stain; 
 And, with cloud-streaks lightest and 
 
 loftiest, share 
 The sun's first greeting, his last farewell 
 
 ray ! 
 Resplendent Wanderer ! followed with 
 
 glad eyes 
 Where'er her course; mysterious Bird! 
 To whom, by wondering Fancy stirred, 
 Eastern Islanders have given 
 A holy name — the Bird of Heaven! 
 And even a title higher still, 
 The Bird of God ! whose blessed will 
 She seems performing as she flies 
 Over the earth and through the skies 
 In never -wearied search of Paradise — 
 Region that crowns her beauty with the 
 
 name 
 She bears for us — for us how blest. 
 How happy at all seasons, could like aim 
 Uphold our Spirits urged to kindred flight 
 On wings that fear no glance of God's 
 
 pure sight. 
 No tempest from his breath, their prom- 
 ised rest 
 Seeking with indefatigable quest 
 Above a world that deems itself most vrise 
 When most enslaved by gross realities ! 
 June 23, 1835. 1836. 
 
 COMPOSED AFTER READING k 
 NEWSPAPER OF THE DAY. 
 
 " People! your chains are severing linl 
 
 by link ; 
 Soon shall the Rich be levelled down- 
 
 the Poor 
 Meet them half way." Vain boast! fo 
 
 These, the more 
 They thus would rise, must low an( 
 
 lower sink 
 Till, by repentance stung, they fear tc 
 
 think; 
 While all lie prostrate, save the tyrant fen 
 Bent in quick turns each other to undo, 
 And mix the poison, they themselves 
 
 must drink. 
 Mistrust thyself, vain Country ! cease to 
 
 cry, 
 "Knowledge will save me from the 
 
 threatened woe." 
 For, if than other rash ones more thou 
 
 know, 
 Yet on presumptuous wing as far would fly 
 Above thy knowledge as they dared to go, 
 Thou wilt provoke a heavier penalty. 
 1835- 1835- 
 
 "BY A BLEST HUSBAND GUIDED, 
 MARY CAME." 
 
 This lady was named Carleton; she, along 
 with a sister, was brought up in the neighbor- 
 hood of Ambleside. The epitaph, a part of it at 
 least, is in the church at Bromsgrove, where she 
 resided after her marriage. 
 
 By a blest Husband guided, Mary came 
 From nearest kindred, Vernon her new 
 
 name; 
 She came, though meek of soul, in 
 
 seemly pride 
 Of happiness and hope, a youthful Bride. 
 O dread reverse ! if aught be so, which 
 
 proves 
 That God will chasten whom he dearly 
 
 loves. 
 Faith bore her up through pains in mercy 
 
 given. 
 And troubles that were each a step to 
 
 ITeaven : 
 Two Babes were laid in earth before she 
 
 died; 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 8z9 
 
 A third now slumbers at the Mother's 
 
 side; 
 Its Sister-twin survives, whose smiles 
 
 afford 
 Atrembling solace to her widowed Lord. 
 Reader ! if to thy bosom chng the pain 
 Of recent sorrow combated in vain; 
 Or if thy cherished grief have failed to 
 
 thwart 
 Time still intent on his insidious part, 
 Lulling the mourner's best good thoughts 
 
 asleep. 
 Pilfering regrets we would, but cannot, 
 
 keep; 
 Bear with Him — judge Him gently who 
 
 makes known 
 His bitter loss by this memorial Stone ; 
 And pray that in his faithful breast the 
 
 grace 
 Of resignation find a hallowed place. 
 1835- 1835. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Desponding Father ! mark this altered 
 
 bough. 
 So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, 
 Or moist with dews; what more un- 
 sightly now. 
 Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if 
 
 formed, 
 Invisible? yet Spring her genial brow 
 Knits not o'er that discoloring and decay 
 As false to expectation. Nor fret thou 
 At like unlovely process in the May 
 Of human life: a Stripling's graces blow, 
 Fade and are shed, that from their timely 
 
 fall 
 (Misdeem it not a cankerous change) 
 
 may grow 
 Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks 
 
 shall call : 
 tn all men, sinful is it to be slow 
 To hope — in Parents, sinful above all . 
 1835- iSjS- 
 
 ROMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED AT 
 BISHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE. 
 
 My attention to these antiquities was directed 
 iy Mr. Walker, son to the itinerant Eidouranian 
 
 Philosopher. The beautiful pavement was dis- 
 covered within a few yards of the front door of 
 his parsonage, and appeared from the site (in full 
 view of several hills upon which there had for- 
 merly been Roman encampments) as if it might 
 have been the villa of the commander of the 
 forces, at least such was Mr. Walker's con- 
 jecture. 
 
 While poring Antiquarians search the 
 ground 
 
 Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, 
 a Seer, 
 
 Takes fire : — The men that have been 
 reappear; 
 
 Romans for travel girt, for business 
 gowned; 
 
 And some recline on couches, myrtle- 
 crowned. 
 
 In festal glee: why not? For fresh and 
 clear, 
 
 As if its hues were of the passing year, 
 
 Dawns this time-buried pavement. From 
 that mound 
 
 Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maxi- 
 mins. 
 
 Shrunk into coins with all their warlike 
 toil: 
 
 Or a fierce impress issues with its foil 
 
 Of tenderness — the Wolf, whose suck- 
 ling Twins 
 
 The unlettered ploughboy pities when he 
 wins 
 
 The casual treasure from the furrowed 
 soil. 
 1835? '833- 
 
 ST. CATHERINE OF LEDBURY. 
 
 Written on a journey from Brinsop Court, 
 Herefordshire. 
 
 When human touch (as monkish books 
 
 attest) 
 Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury 
 
 bells 
 Broke forth in concert flung adown the 
 
 dells, 
 And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy 
 
 crest ; 
 Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady 
 
 blest 
 To rapture ! Mabel listened at the side 
 
820 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Of her loved mistress: soon the music 
 
 died, 
 And Catherine said, |§ete i Stt Up lltg 
 
 rest. 
 Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long 
 
 had sought 
 A home that by such miracle of sound 
 Must be revealed : — she heard it now, or 
 
 felt 
 The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought ; 
 And there, a saintly Anchoress, she dwelt 
 Till she exchanged for heaven that happy 
 
 ground. 
 1835? 1835. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the month of January, when Dora and I 
 were walking from Town-end, Grasmere, across 
 the vale, snow being on the ground, she espied, 
 in the thick though leafless hedge, a bird's nest 
 half filled with snow. Out of this comfortless 
 appearance arose this Sonnet, which was, in fact, 
 written without the least reference to any indi- 
 vidual object, but merely to prove to myself that 
 1 could, if I thought fit, write in a strain that 
 Poets have been fond of. On the 14th of February 
 in the same year, my daughter, in a sportive 
 mood, sent it as a Valentine, under a fictitious 
 name, to her cousin C. W. 
 
 Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 
 Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
 Of absence withers what was once so fair ? 
 Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? 
 Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigi- 
 lant — 
 IBound to thy service with unceasing care, 
 The mind's least generous wish a mendi- 
 cant 
 For nought but what thy happiness could 
 
 spare. 
 Speak — though this soft warm heart, once 
 
 free to hold 
 A thousand tender pleasures, thine and 
 
 mine, 
 Be left more desolate, morg dreary cold 
 Thanaforsakenbird's-nest filled withsnow 
 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — 
 Speak, that my torturing doubts their end 
 may know ! 
 
 1835? 1835. 
 
 Suggested on the road between Preston and 
 Lancaster where it first gives a view of the Lake 
 country, and composed on the same day, on the 
 roof of the coach. 
 
 FoLTR fiery steeds impatient of the rein 
 Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath 
 
 a sky 
 As void of sunshine, when, from that wide 
 
 plain, 
 Clear tops of far-off mountains we descry, 
 Like a Sierra of cerulean Spain, 
 All light and lustre. Did no heart reply? 
 Yes, there was One; — for One, asunder fly 
 The thousand links of that ethereal chain; 
 And green vales open out, with grove and 
 
 field, 
 And the fair front of many a happy Home; 
 Such tempting spots as into vision come 
 While Soldiers, weary of the arms they 
 
 wield 
 And sick at heart of strifeful Christendom, 
 Gaze on the moon by parting clouds re- 
 vealed. 
 1835 ? 1835. 
 
 The fate of this poor Dove, as described, was 
 told to me at Brinsop Court, by the young lady 
 to whom I have given the name of Lesbia. 
 
 " Miss not the occasion : by the forelock take 
 That subtile Power, the never-halting Time, 
 Lest a mere moment's putting-off should make 
 Mischance almost as heavy as a crime." 
 
 "Wait, prithee, wait!" this answer 
 Lesbia threw 
 
 Forth to her Dove, and took no further 
 heed; 
 
 Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew 
 
 Across the harp, with soul-engrossing 
 speed; 
 
 But from that bondage when her thoughts 
 were freed 
 
 She rose, and toward the close-shut case- 
 ment drew, 
 
 Whence the poor unregarded Favorite, 
 true 
 
 To old affections, had been heard to plead 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR. IN ITALY. 
 
 821 
 
 With flapping wing for entrance. What 
 
 a shriek ! 
 Forced from that voice so lately tuned to 
 
 a strain 
 Of harmony ! — a shriek of terror, pain, 
 And self-reproach ! for, from aloft, a Kite 
 Pounced, — and the Dove, which from its 
 
 ruthless beak 
 She could not rescue, perished inher sight ! 
 1835? 1835. 
 
 Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud, 
 Falsehood and Treachery , in close council 
 
 met. 
 Deep under ground, in Pluto's cabinet, 
 " The frost of England's pride will soon 
 
 be thawed; ^ 
 " Hooded the open brow that overawed 
 ' ' Our schemes ; the faith and honor, never 
 
 yet 
 "Byus with hopeencountered,be upset ; — 
 "For once I burst my bands, and cry, 
 
 applaud ! " 
 Then whispered she, " The Bill is carry- 
 ing out ! " 
 They heard, and, starting up, the Brood 
 
 of Night 
 Clapped hands, and shook with glee their 
 
 matted locks; 
 All Powers and Places that abhor the light 
 Joined in the transport, echoed back their 
 
 shout. 
 
 Hurrah for , hugging his Ballot-box ! 
 
 1835? 1835. 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1836. 
 
 Even so for me a Vision sanctified 
 
 The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes 
 
 had seen 
 Thy countenance — the still rapture of 
 
 thy mien — 
 When thou, dear Sister ! wert become 
 
 Death's Bride : 
 No trace of pain or languor could abide 
 That change : — age on thy brow was 
 
 smoothed — thy cold 
 Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold 
 A loveliness to living youth denied. 
 Oh ! if within me hope should e'er decline. 
 
 The lamp of faith, lost Friend ! too faintly 
 
 burn ; 
 Then may that heaven-revealing smile of 
 
 thine. 
 The bright assurance, visibly return : 
 And let my spirit in that power divine 
 Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased 
 
 to mourn. 
 1836. 1837. 
 
 "SIX MONTHS TO SIX YEARS 
 ADDED HE REMAINED." 
 
 Six months to six years added he remained 
 Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained : 
 O blessed Lord ! whose mercy then re- 
 moved 
 A Child whom every eye that looked on 
 
 loved; 
 Support us, teach us calmly to resign 
 What we possessed, and now is wholly 
 thine ! 
 1836. 1837. 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN 
 ITALY. 
 
 1837- 
 
 During my whole life I had felt a strong desire 
 to visit Rome and the other celebrated cities and 
 regions of Italy, but did not think myself justified 
 In incurring the necessary expense till I received 
 from Mr. Moxon, the publisher of a large edition 
 of my poems, a sum sufficient to enable me to 
 gratify my wish without encroaching upon what 
 I considered due to my family. My excellent 
 friend H. C. Robinson readily consented to ac- 
 company me, and in March 1837, we set off from 
 London, to which we returned in August, earlier 
 than my companion wished or I should myself 
 have desired had I been, like him, a bachelor. 
 These Memorials of that tour touch upon but a 
 very few of the places and objects that interested 
 me, and, in what they do advert to, are for the 
 most part much slighter than I could wish. More 
 particularly do I regret that there is no notice in 
 them of the South of France, nor of the Roman 
 antiquities abounding in that district, especially 
 of the Pont de Degard, which, together with its 
 situation, impressed me full as much as any re- 
 mains of Roman architecture to be found in Italy. 
 Then there was Vaucluse, with its Fountain, its 
 
^22 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 Petrarch, its rocks of all seasons, its small plots 
 Df lawn in* their first vernal freshness, and the 
 blossoms of the peach and other trees embellish- 
 ing the scene on every side. The beauty of the 
 stream also called forcibly for the expression of 
 sympathy from one who from his childhood had 
 Studied the brooks and torrents of his native 
 fountains. Between two and three hours did I 
 |-un about climbing the steep and nigged crags 
 from whose base the water of Vaucluse breaks 
 forth. " Has Laura's Lover," often said I to my- 
 self, " ever sat down upon this stone ? or has his 
 foot ever pressed that turf?" Some, especially 
 of the female sex, would have felt sure of it : my 
 answer was (impute it to my years), " I fear not." 
 Is it not in fact obvious that many of his love 
 verses must have flowed I do not say from a wish 
 to display his own talent, but from a habit of 
 exercising his intellect in that way rather than 
 from an impulse of his heart ? It is otherwise 
 with his Lyrical poems, and particularly with the 
 one upon the degradation of his coimtry : there 
 he pours out his reproaches, lamentations, and 
 aspirations like an ardent and sincere patriot. 
 But enough : it is time to turn to my own effu- 
 sions, such as they are. 
 
 HENRY CRABB ROBINSON. 
 
 Companion! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered. 
 In whose experience trusting, day by day 
 Treasures I gained with zeal that neither feared 
 The toils nor felt the crosses of the way, 
 These records take, and happy should I be 
 Were but the Gift a meet Return to thee 
 For kindnesses that never ceased to flow, 
 And prompt self-sacrifice to which I owe 
 Far more than any heart but mine can know. 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 Rydal Mount, Feb. \^th, 1842. 
 
 The Tour of which the following Poems are 
 very inadequate remembrances was shortened by 
 report, too well founded, of the prevalence of 
 Cholera at Naples. To make some amends for 
 what w^s reluctantly left unseen in the South of 
 Italy, we visited the Tuscan Sanctuaries among 
 the Apennines, and the principal Italian Lakes 
 among the Alps. Neither of those lakes, nor of 
 Venice, is there any notice in these Poems, chiefly 
 because I have touched upon them elsewhere. 
 See, in particular, " Descriptive Sketches," 
 " Memorials of a Tour on the Continent in 1820," 
 and a Sonnet upon the extinction of the Venetian 
 Republic. 
 
 MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. 
 April, 1837. 
 
 *' Not the less 
 Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear words 
 That spake of bards and minstrels." 
 
 His, Sir Walter Scott's eye, didm. fact kindle 
 at them, for the lines, " Places forsaken now," 
 and the two that follow were adopted from a poem 
 of mine which nearly forty years ago was in part 
 read to him, and he never forgot them. 
 
 " Old Helvellyn's brow, 
 Where once together, in his day of strength, 
 We stood rejoicing." 
 
 Sir Humphrey Davy was with us at the time. 
 We had ascended from Paterdale, and I could 
 not but admire the vigor with which Scott 
 scrambled along that horn of the mountain called 
 " Striding Edge." Our progress was necessarily 
 slow, and was beguiled by Scott's telling many 
 stories and amusing anecdotes, as was his custom. 
 Sir H. Davy would have probably been better 
 pleased if other topics had occasionally been 
 interspersed, and some discussion entered upon: 
 at all events he did not remain with us long at 
 the top of the mountain, but left us to find our 
 way down its steep side together into the vale of 
 Grasmere, where, at my cottage, Mrs. Scott was 
 to meet us at dinner. 
 
 " With faint smile 
 He said, — ' When I am there, although 'tis fair, 
 'T will be another Yarrow.' " 
 
 See among these notes the one on " Yarrow 
 Revisited." 
 
 "A few short steps (painful they were)." 
 
 This, though introduced here, I did not know 
 till it was told me at Rome by Miss Mackenzie of 
 Seaforth, a lady whose friendly attentions during 
 my residence at Rome I have gratefully acknowl- 
 edged, with expressions of sincere regret that she 
 is no more. Miss M. told me that she accom- 
 panied Sir Walter to the Janicular Mount, and, 
 after showing him the grave of Tasso in the 
 church upon the top, and a mural monument 
 there erected to his memory, they left the church 
 and stood together on the brow of the hill over- 
 looking the city of Rome: his daughter Anne 
 was with them, and she, naturally desirous, for 
 the sake of Miss Mackenzie especially, to have 
 some expression of pleasure from her father, half 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 823 
 
 'proached him for showing aotliing of that kind 
 ther by his looks or voice: " How can I," re- 
 lied he, "having only one leg to stand upon, 
 id that in extreme pain! " so that the prophecy 
 as more than fulfilled. 
 
 " Over waves rough and deep." 
 
 We took boat near the lighthouse at the point 
 [ the right horn of the bay which makes a sort 
 [ natural port for Genoa ; but the wind was high, 
 ad the waves long and rough, so tliat I did not 
 ;el quite recompensed by the view of the city, 
 alendid as it was, for the danger apparently in- 
 jrred. The boatman (I had only one) encouraged 
 le, saying we were quite safe, but I was not a 
 ttle glad when we gained the shore, though 
 helley and Byron — one of them at least, who 
 ;emed to have courted agitation from any quarter 
 -would have probably rejoiced in such a situa- 
 on: more than once I believe were they both in 
 irtreme danger even on the Lake of Geneva. 
 Ivery man however has his fears of some kind or 
 ther ; and no doubt they had theirs : of all men 
 ■hom I have ever known, Coleridge had the most 
 [ passive courage in bodily peril, but no one was 
 )easily cowed when moral firmness was required 
 I miscellaneous conversation or in the daily in- 
 Tcourse of social life. 
 
 How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade, 
 ach ministering to each, didst thou appear, 
 avona." 
 
 There is not a single bay along this beautiful 
 last that might not raise in a traveller a wish to 
 ke up his abode there, each as it succeeds seems 
 ore inviting than the other; but the desolated 
 invent on the cliff in the bay of Savona struck 
 y fancy most; and had I, for the sake of my 
 vn health or that of a dear friend, or any other 
 use, been desirous of a residence abroad, I 
 lould have let my thoughts loose upon a scheme 
 turning some part of this building into a habi- 
 lion provided as far as might be with English 
 mforts. There is close by it a row or avenue, 
 forget which, of tall cypresses. I could not for- 
 ar saying to myself — " What a sweet family 
 Uk, or one for lonely musings, would be found 
 ider the shade ! " but there, probably, the trees 
 mained little noticed and seldom enjoyed. 
 
 This flowering broom's dear neighborhood." 
 
 The broom is a great ornament through the 
 )nths of March and April to the vales and hills 
 the Apennines, in the wild parts of which it 
 )ws in the utmost profusion, and of course suc- 
 
 cessively at different elevations as the season ad- 
 vances. It surpasses ours in beauty and fragrance, 
 but, speaking from my own limited observation 
 only, I cannot affirm the same of several of their 
 wild spring flowers, the primroses in particular, 
 which I saw not unfrequently but thinly scattered 
 and languishing compared to ours. 
 
 The note at the close of this poem, upon the 
 Oxford movement, was intrusted to my friend 
 Mr. Frederick Faber. I told him what I wished 
 to be said, and begged that, as he was intimately 
 acquainted with several of the Leaders of it, he 
 would express my thought in the way least likely 
 to be taken amiss by them. Much of the work 
 they are undertaking was grievously wanted, and 
 God grant their endeavors may continue to 
 prosper as they have done. 
 
 Ye Apennines ! with all your fertile vales 
 Deeply embosomed, and your winding 
 
 shores 
 Of either sea — an Islander by birth, 
 A Mountaineer by habit, would resound 
 Your praise, in meet accordance with your 
 
 claims 
 Bestowed by Nature, or from man's great 
 
 deeds 
 Inherited : — presumptuous thought ! — 
 
 it fled 
 Like vapor, like a towering cloud, dis- 
 solved. 
 Not, therefore, shall my mind give way to 
 
 sadness; — 
 Yon snow-white torrent-fall, plumb down 
 
 it drops, 
 Yet ever hangs or seems to hang in air. 
 Lulling the leisure of that high perched 
 
 town, 
 Aquapendente, in her lofty site 
 Its neighbor and its namesake — town, 
 
 and flood 
 Forth flashing out of its own gloomy chasm 
 Bright sunbeams — the fresh verdure of 
 
 this lawn 
 Strewn with gray rocks, and on the hori- 
 zon's verge, 
 O'er intervenient waste, through glimmer- 
 ing haze, 
 Unquestionably kenned, that cone-shaped 
 
 hill 
 With fractured summit, no indifferent sight 
 To travellers, from such comforts as are 
 
 thine. 
 Bleak Radicofani! escaped with joy — 
 These are before me ; and the varied, scene. 
 
824 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 May well suffice, till noon-tide's sultry 
 
 heat 
 Relax, to fix and satisfy the mind 
 Passive yet pleased. What ! with this 
 
 Broom in flower 
 Close at my side ! She bids me fly to greet 
 Her sisters, soon like her to be attired 
 With golden blossoms opening at the feet 
 Of my own P'airfield. The glad greet- 
 ing given, 
 Given with a voice and by a look re- 
 turned 
 Of old companionship. Time counts not 
 
 minutes 
 Ere, from accustomed paths, familiar 
 
 fields. 
 The local Genius hurries me aloft, 
 Transported over that cloud-wooing hill. 
 Seat Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds. 
 With dream-like smoothness, to Hel- 
 
 vellyn's top, 
 There to alight upon crisp moss and range. 
 Obtaining ampler boon, at every step. 
 Of visual sovereignty — hills multitudi- 
 nous, 
 (Not Apennine can boast of fairer) hills 
 Pride of two nations, wood and lake and 
 
 plains, 
 And prospect right below of deep coves 
 
 shaped 
 By skeleton arms, that, from the moun- 
 tain's trunk 
 Extended, clasp the winds, with mutual 
 
 moan 
 Struggling for liberty, while undismayed 
 The shepherd struggles with them. On- 
 ward thence 
 And downward by the skirt of Greenside 
 
 fell. 
 And by Glenridding- screes, and low 
 
 Glencoign, 
 Places forsaken now, though loving still 
 The muses, as they loved them in the days 
 Of the old minstrels and the border 
 
 bards. — 
 But here am I fast bound; and let it pass, 
 The simple rapture ; — who that travels far 
 To feed his mind with watchful eyes could 
 
 share 
 Or wish to share it? — One there surely 
 
 was, 
 " The Wizard of the North, ' ' with anxious 
 hope 
 
 Brought to this genial climate, whe 
 
 disease 
 Preyed upon body and mind — yet nc 
 
 the less 
 Had his sunk eye kindled at those dea 
 
 words 
 That spake of bards and minstrels; am 
 
 his spirit 
 Had flown with mine to old Helvellyn' 
 
 brow. 
 Where once together, in his day o 
 
 strength. 
 We stood rejoicing, as if earth were frei 
 From sorrow, like the sky above our heads 
 Years followed years, and when, upoi 
 
 the eve 
 Of his last going from Tweed-side, though 
 
 turned. 
 Or by another's sympathy was led. 
 To this bright land, Hope was for him nc 
 
 friend, , - 
 
 Knowledge no help; Imagination shapec 
 No promise. Still, in more than ear^ 
 
 deep seats. 
 Survives for me, and cannot but survivej 
 The tone of voice which wedded borrowed 
 
 words 
 To sadness not their own, when, witl 
 
 faint smile 
 Forced by intent to take from speech its 
 
 edge, 
 He said, " When I am there, althougli 
 
 't is fair, 
 'T will be another Yarrow." ^ Prophecy 
 More than fulfilled, as gay Campania's 
 
 shores 
 Soon witnessed, and the city of seven hills. 
 Her sparkling fountains and her moulder- 
 ing tombs; 
 And more than all, that Eminence whicli 
 
 showed 
 Her splendors, seen, not felt, the while 
 
 he stood 
 A few short steps (painful they were) aparl 
 From Tasso's Convent-haven, and retired 
 
 grave. 
 Peace to their Spirits ! why should Poesj 
 Yield to the lure of vain regret, and hovei 
 In gloom on wings with confidence out- 
 spread 
 To move in sunshine ? — Utter thanks, m) 
 
 Soul! 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 825 
 
 Tempered with awe, and sweetened by 
 
 compassion 
 For them who in the shades of sorrow 
 
 dwell, 
 That I — so near the term to human life 
 Appointed by man's common heritage, 
 Frail as the frailest, one withal (if that 
 Deserve a thought) but little known to 
 
 fame — 
 Am free to rove where Nature's loveliest 
 
 looks. 
 Art's noblest relics, history's rich be- 
 quests. 
 Failed to reanimate and but feebly cheered 
 The whole world's Darling — free to rove 
 
 at will 
 O'er high and low, and if requiring rest, 
 Rest from enjoyment only. 
 
 Thanks poured forth 
 For what thus far hath blessed my wander- 
 ings, thanks 
 Fervent but humble as the lips can breathe 
 Where gladness seems a duty — let me 
 
 guard 
 Those seeds of expectation which the fruit 
 Already gathered in this favored Land 
 Enfolds within its core. The faith be 
 
 mine. 
 That He who guides and governs all, 
 
 approves 
 When gratitude, though disciplined to 
 
 look 
 Beyond these transient spheres, doth 
 
 wear a crown 
 Of earthly hope put on with trembling 
 
 hand; 
 Nor is least pleased, we trust, when 
 
 golden beams, 
 Reflected through the mists of age, from 
 
 hours 
 Of innocent delight, remote or recent. 
 Shoot but a little way — 't is all they can — 
 Into the doubtful future. Who would keep 
 Power must resolve to cleave to it through 
 
 life, 
 Else it deserts him, surely as he lives. 
 Saints would not grieve nor guardian 
 
 angels frown 
 If one — while tossed, as was my lot to 
 
 be, 
 In a frail bark urged by two slender oars 
 Ovei waves rough and deep, that, when 
 they broke. 
 
 Dashed their white foam against the 
 
 palace walls 
 Of Genoa the superb — should there be led 
 To meditate upon his own appointed tasks, 
 However humble in themselves, with 
 
 thoughts 
 Raised and sustained by memory of Him 
 Who oftentimes within those narrow 
 
 bounds 
 Rocked on the surge, there tried his 
 
 spirit's strength 
 And grasp of purpose, long ere sailed his 
 
 ship 
 To lay a new world open. 
 
 Nor less prized 
 Be those impressions which incline the 
 
 heart 
 To mild, to lowly, and to seeming weak, 
 Bend that way her desires. The dew, 
 
 the storm — 
 The dew whose moisture fell in gentle 
 
 drops 
 On the small hyssop destined to become, 
 By Hebrew ordinance devoutly kept, 
 A purifying instrument — the storm 
 That shook on Lebanon the cedar's top. 
 And as it shook, enabling the blind roots 
 Further to force their way, endowed its 
 
 trunk 
 With magnitude and strength fit to uphold 
 The glorious temple — did alike proceed 
 From the same gracious will, were both 
 
 an offspring 
 Of bounty infinite. 
 
 Between Powers that aim 
 Higher to lift their lofty heads, impelled 
 By no profane ambition, Powers!that thrive 
 By conflict, and their opposites, that trust 
 In lowliness — a midway tract there lies 
 Of thoughtful sentiment for every mind 
 Pregnant with good. Young, Middle- 
 aged, and Old, 
 From century on to century, must have 
 
 known 
 The emotion — nay, more fitly were it 
 
 said — 
 The blest tranquillity that sunk so deep 
 Into my spirit, when I paced, enclosed 
 In Pisa's Campo Santo, the smooth floor 
 Of its Arcadespaved with sepulchral slabs, 
 And through each window's open fret- 
 work looked 
 O'er the blank Area of sacred earth 
 
826 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 Fetched from Mount Calvary, or haply 
 
 delved 
 In precincts nearer to the Saviour's tomb, 
 By hands of men, humble as brave, who 
 
 fought 
 For its deliverance — a capacious field 
 That to descendants of the dead it holds 
 And to all living mute memento breathes, 
 More touching far than aught which on 
 
 the walls 
 Is pictured, or their epitaphs can speak, 
 Of the changed City's long-departed 
 
 power, 
 Glory, and wealth, which, perilous as 
 
 they are, 
 Here did not kill, but nourished. Piety. 
 And, high above that length of cloistral 
 
 roof. 
 Peering in air and backed by azure sky, 
 To kindred contemplations ministers 
 The Baptistery's dome, and that which 
 
 swells 
 From the Cathedral pile; and with the 
 
 twain 
 Conjoined in prospect mutable or fixed 
 (As hurry on in eagerness the feet, 
 Or pause) the summit of the Leaning- 
 tower. 
 Nor less remuneration waits on him 
 Who having left the Cemetery stands 
 In the Tower's shadow, of decline and fall 
 Admonished not without some sense of 
 
 fear. 
 Fear that soon vanishes before the sight 
 Of splendor unextinguished, pomp un- 
 scathed, 
 And beauty unimpaired. Grand in itself. 
 And for itself, the assemblage, grand and 
 
 fair 
 To view, and for the mind's consenting eye 
 A type of age in man, upon its front 
 Bearing the world-acknowledged evidence 
 Of past exploits, nor fondly after more 
 Struggling against the stream of destiny, 
 But with its peaceful majesty content. 
 — Oh what a spectacle at every turn 
 The Place unfolds, from pavement skinned 
 
 with moss 
 Or grass-grown spaces, where the heav- 
 iest foot 
 Provokes no echoes, but must softly tread; 
 Where Solitude with Silence paired stops 
 short 
 
 Of Desolation, and to Ruin's scythe 
 Decay submits not. 
 
 But where'er my steps 
 Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care 
 Those images of genial beauty, oft 
 Too lovely to be pensive in themselves 
 But by reflection made so, which do best 
 And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant 
 
 wreaths 
 Life's cup when almost filled with years, 
 
 like mine 
 — How lovely robed in forenoon light 
 
 and shade. 
 Each ministering to each, didst thou ap- 
 pear, 
 Savona, Queen of territory fair 
 As aught that marvellous coast thro' all its 
 
 length 
 Yields to the Stranger's eye. Remem- 
 brance holds 
 As a selected treasure thy one cliff, 
 That, while it wore for melancholy crest 
 A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to 
 
 have 
 Clinging to its steep sides a thousand 
 
 herbs 
 And shrubs, whose pleasant looks gave 
 
 proof how kind 
 The breath of air can be where earth had 
 
 else 
 Seemed churlish. And behold, both far 
 
 and near. 
 Garden and field all decked with orange 
 
 bloom. 
 And peach and citron, in Spring's mildest 
 
 breeze 
 Expanding; and, along the smooth shors 
 
 curved 
 Into a natural port, a tideless sea. 
 To that mild breeze with motion and with 
 
 voice 
 Softly responsive; and, attuned to all 
 Those vernal charms of sight and sound, 
 
 appeared 
 Smooth space of turf which from the 
 
 guardian fort 
 Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April 
 
 green. 
 In coolest climes too fugitive, might even 
 
 here 
 Plead with the sovereign Sun for longer 
 
 stay 
 Than his unmitigated beams allow, 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 827 
 
 Nor plead in vain, if beauty could pre- 
 serve, 
 From mortal change, aught that is born 
 
 on earth 
 Or doth on time depend. 
 
 While on the brink 
 Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood. 
 Modest Savona ! over all did brood 
 A pure poetic Spirit — as the breeze, 
 Mild — as the verdure, fresh — the sun- 
 shine, bright — 
 Thy gentle Chiabrera ! — not a stone. 
 Mural or level with the trodden floor, 
 In Church or Chapel, if my curious quest 
 Missed not the trutlt, retains a single name 
 Ofyoungor old, warrior, or saint, or sag^. 
 To whose dear memories his sepulchral 
 
 verse ' 
 Paid simple tribute, such as might have 
 
 flowed 
 From the clear spring of a plain English 
 
 heart. 
 Say rather, one in native fellowship 
 With all who want not skill to couple grief 
 With praise, as genuine admiration 
 
 prompts. 
 The grief, the praise, are severed from 
 
 their dust, 
 Yet in his page the records of that worth 
 Survive, uninjured; — glory then to 
 
 words, 
 Honor to word-preserving Arts, and hail 
 Ve kindred local influences that still, 
 If Hope's familiar whispers merit faith, 
 Await my steps when they the breezy 
 
 height 
 Shall range of philosophic Tusculum; 
 Or Sabine vales explored inspire a wish 
 To meet the shade of Horace by the side 
 31 his Bandusian fount; or I invoke 
 Bis presence to point out the spot where 
 
 once 
 He sate, and eulogized with earnest pen 
 Peace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires; 
 'Vnd all the immunities of rural life 
 Extolled, behind Vacuna's crumbling 
 
 fane. 
 3r let me loiter, soothed with what is given 
 &r asking more, on that delicious Bay, 
 Parthenope's Domain — Virgilian haunt, 
 llustrated with never-dying verse, 
 bd, by the Poet's laurel-shaded tomb, 
 1 See Note. 
 
 Age after age to Pilgrims from all lands 
 Endeared. 
 
 And who — if not a man as cold 
 In heart as dull in brain — while pacing 
 
 ground 
 Chosen by Rome's legendary Bards, high 
 
 minds 
 Out of her early struggles well inspired 
 To localize heroic acts — could look 
 Upon the spots with undelighted eye, 
 Though even to their last syllable the Lays 
 And very names of those who gave them 
 
 birth 
 Have perished ? — Verily, to her utmost 
 
 depth, 
 Imagination feels what Reason fears not 
 To recognize, the lasting virtue lodged 
 In those bold fictions that, by deeds as- 
 signed 
 To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race, 
 And others like in fame, created Powers 
 With attributes from History derived. 
 By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced. 
 Through marvellous felicity of skill. 
 With something more propitious to high 
 
 aims 
 Than either, pent within her separate 
 
 sphere, 
 Can oft with justice claim. 
 
 And not disdaining 
 Union with those primeval energies 
 To virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your 
 
 height 
 Christian Traditions ! at my Spirit's call 
 Descend, and, on the brow of ancient 
 
 Rome 
 As she survives in ruin, manifest 
 Your glories mingled with the brightest 
 
 hues 
 Of her memorial halo, fading, fading, 
 But never to be extinct while Earth en- 
 dures. 
 O come, if undishonored by the prayer. 
 From all her Sanctuaries ! — Open for my 
 
 feet 
 Ye Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse 
 Of the Devout, as, 'mid your glooms con- 
 vened 
 For safety, they of yore enclasped the 
 
 Cross 
 On knees that ceased from trembling, or 
 
 intoned 
 Their orisons with voices half-suppressed, 
 
828 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 But sometimes heard, or fancied to be 
 
 heard, 
 Even at this hour. 
 
 And thou Mamertine prison, 
 Into that vault receive me from whose 
 
 depth 
 Issues, revealed in no presumptuous vis- 
 ion. 
 Albeit lifting human to divine, 
 A Saint, the Church's Rock, the mystic 
 
 Keys 
 Grasped in his hand; and lo ! with upright 
 
 sword 
 Prefiguring his own impendent doom. 
 The Apostle of the Gentiles; both pre- 
 pared 
 To suffer pains with heathen scorn and 
 
 hate 
 Inflicted; — blessed Men, for so to 
 
 Heaven 
 They follow their dear Lord ! 
 
 Time flows — nor winds. 
 Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course. 
 But many a benefit borne upon his breast 
 Forhuman-kindsinksout of sight, is gone. 
 No one knows how; nor seldom is put 
 
 forth 
 An angry arm that snatches good away. 
 Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream 
 Has to our generation brought and brings 
 Innumerable gains; yet we, who now 
 Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely 
 To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out 
 From that which is and!actuates, by forms, 
 Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact 
 Minutely linkedwith diligence uninspired, 
 Unrectified, unguided, unsustained. 
 By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed 
 Science, wide-spread and spreading still 
 
 as be 
 Her conquests, in the world of sense made 
 
 known. 
 So with the internal mind it fares; and so 
 With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear 
 Of vital principle's controlling law. 
 To her purblind guide Expediency ; and so 
 Suffers religious faith. Elate with view 
 Of what is won, we overlook or scorn 
 The best that should keep pace with it, and 
 
 must. 
 Else more and more the general mind will 
 
 droop. 
 Even as if bent on perishing. There lives 
 
 No faculty within us which the Soul 
 Can spare, and humblest earthly Weal 
 
 demands. 
 For dignity not placed beyond her reach. 
 Zealous co-operation of all means 
 Given or acquired, to raise us from the 
 
 mire. 
 And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. 
 By gross Utilities enslaved, we need 
 More of ennobling impulse from the past. 
 If to the future aught of good must come 
 Sounder and therefore holier than the 
 
 ends 
 Which, in the giddiness of self-applause. 
 We covet as supreme. O grant the crown 
 TJjat Wisdom wears, or take his treacher- 
 ous staff 
 From Knowledge ! — If the Muse, whom 
 
 I have served 
 This day, be mistress of a single pearl 
 Fit to be placed in that pure diadem; 
 Then, not in vain, under these chestnut 
 
 boughs 
 Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul 
 To transports from the secondary founts 
 Flowing of time and place, and paid to 
 
 both 
 Due homage ; nor shall fruitlessly have 
 
 striven. 
 By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in 
 
 verse 
 Accordant meditations, which in times 
 Vexed and disordered, as our own, may 
 
 shed 
 Influence, at least among a scattered few. 
 To soberness of mind and peace of heart 
 Friendly; as here to my repose hath been 
 This flowering broom's dear neighbor- 
 hood, the light 
 And murmur issuing from yon pendent 
 
 flood. 
 And all the varied landscape. Let us 
 
 now 
 Rise, and to-morrow greet magnificent 
 
 Rome.i 
 April, 1837. 1842- 
 
 II. 
 
 THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT ROME. 
 
 Sir George Beaumont told me that, when he 
 first visited Italy, pine-trees of this species 
 1 See Note. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 829 
 
 ibounded, but that on his return thither, which 
 ^as more than thirty years after, they had dis- 
 ippeared from many places where he liad been 
 iccustomedto admire them, and had become rare 
 ill over the country, especially in and about 
 Rome. Several Roman villas have within these 
 ■ew years passed into the hands of foreigners, 
 who, I observed with pleasure, have taken care to 
 Dlant this tree, which in course of years will 
 3CCome a great ornament to the city and to the 
 general landscape. May I venture to add here, 
 ;!iat liaving ascended the Monte Mario, I could 
 lot resist embracing the trunk of this interesting 
 nonuraent of ray departed friend's feelings for 
 :he beauties of nature, and the power of that art 
 which he loved so much, and in the practice of 
 which he was so distinguished. 
 
 [ SAW far off the dark top of a Pine 
 Look like a cloud — a slender stem the 
 
 tie 
 That bound it to its native earth — 
 
 poised high 
 Mid evening hues, along the horizon 
 
 hne, 
 striving in peace each other to outshine. 
 But when I learned the Tree was living 
 
 there, 
 saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's 
 
 care, 
 )h, what a gush of tenderness was mine ! 
 The rescued Pine-Tree, with its sky so 
 
 bright 
 Vnd cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts 
 
 of home, 
 )eath-parted friends, and days too swift 
 
 in flight, 
 lupplanted the whole majesty of Rome 
 Then first apparent from the Pincian 
 
 Height) 
 downed with St. Peter's everlasting 
 
 Dome.i 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sight is at first a sad enemy to imagination and 
 ' those pleasures belonging to old times with 
 hich some exertions of that power will always 
 ingle : nothing perhaps brings this truth home 
 ' the feelings more than the city of Rome ; not 
 » much in respect to the impression made at the 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 moment when it is first seen and looked at as a 
 whole, for then the imagination may be invigorated 
 and the mind's eye quickened ; but when particular 
 spots orobjectsare sought out, disappointment is 
 I believe invariably felt. Ability to recover from 
 this disappointment will exist in proportion to 
 knowledge, and the power of the mind to recon- 
 struct out of fragments and parts, and to make 
 details in the present subservient to more adequate 
 comprehension of the past. 
 
 Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill? 
 Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock, 
 Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still 
 That name, a local Phantom proud to 
 
 mock 
 The Traveller's expectation? — Could 
 
 our Will 
 Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere 
 
 done 
 Thro' what men see and touch, — slaves 
 
 wandering on, 
 Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven- 
 taught skill. 
 Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we 
 
 sigh; 
 Yet not unrecompensed are they who 
 
 learn. 
 From that depression raised, to mount on 
 
 high 
 With stronger wing, inore clearly to 
 
 discern 
 Eternal things; and, if need be, defy 
 Change, with a brow not insolent, though 
 
 stern. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 IV. 
 
 AT ROME — REGRETS — IN ALLUSION TO 
 NIEBUHR AND OTHER MODERN HIS- 
 TORIANS 
 
 Those old credulities, to nature dear, 
 Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock 
 Of History, stript naked as a rock 
 'Mid a dry desert? What is it we hear? 
 The glory of Infant Rome must disappear. 
 Her morning splendors vanish, and their 
 
 place 
 Know them no more. If Truth, who 
 
 veiled her face 
 With those bright beams yet hid it not, 
 
 must steer 
 
S30 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 Henceforth a humbler course perplexed 
 
 and slow; 
 One solace yet remains for us who came 
 Into this world in days when story lacked 
 I Severe research, that in our hearts we 
 [ know 
 
 How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, 
 Assent is power, belief the soul of fact. 
 1837. "842. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Complacent Fictions were they, yet the 
 
 same 
 Involved a history of no doubtful sense, 
 History that proves by inward evidence 
 From what a precious source of truth it 
 
 came. 
 Ne'er could the boldest Eulogist have 
 
 dared 
 Such deeds to paint, such characters to 
 
 frame, 
 But for coeval sympathy prepared 
 To greet with instant faith their loftiest 
 
 claim. 
 None but a noble people could have loved 
 Flattery in Ancient Rome's pure-minded 
 
 style : 
 Not in like sort the Runic Scald was 
 
 moved ; 
 He, nursed 'mid savage passions that 
 
 defile 
 Humanity, sang feats that well might call 
 For the blood-thirsty mead of Odin's 
 
 riotous Hall. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 PLEA FOR THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 P'ORBEAR to deem the Chronicler unwise. 
 Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth, 
 Who, gatheringup all that Time's envious 
 
 tooth 
 Has spared of sound and grave realities. 
 Firmly rejects those dazzling flatteries. 
 Dear as they are to unsuspecting Youth, 
 That might have drawn down Clio from 
 
 the skies 
 To vindicate the majesty of truth. 
 
 Such was her office while she walked with 
 
 men, 
 A Muse, who, not unmindful of her Sire 
 All-ruling Jove, whate'er the theme might 
 
 be 
 Revered her Mother, sage Mnemosyne, 
 And taught her faithful servant how the 
 
 lyre 
 Should animate, but not mislead, the 
 
 pen.' 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 AT ROME. 
 
 I have a private interest in this Sonnet, for I 
 doubt whether it would ever have been written 
 but for the lively picture given me by Anna 
 Ricketts of what they had witnessed of the indig- 
 nation and sorrow expressed by some Italian 
 noblemen of their acquaintance upon the sur- 
 render, which circumstances had obliged them to 
 make, of the best portion of their family mansions 
 to strangers. 
 
 They ■ — who have seen the noble 
 
 Roman's scorn 
 Break forth at thought of laying down 
 
 his head. 
 When the blank day is over, garreted 
 In his ancestral palace, where, from morn 
 To night, the desecrated floors are worn 
 By feet of purse-proud strangers; they— - 
 
 who have read 
 In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's 
 
 shed, 
 How patiently the weight of wrong is 
 
 borne; 
 They- — who have heard some learned 
 
 Patriot treat 
 Of freedom, with mind grasping, the 
 
 whole theme 
 From ancient Rome, downwards through 
 
 that bright dream 
 Of Commonwealths, each city a starlike 
 
 seat 
 Of rival glory; they — fallen Italy — 
 Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of 
 
 Thee ! . 
 
 1837. 
 
 1842. 
 
 1 Quern virum lyra 
 
 — — sumes celebrare Clio? 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 831 
 
 EAR ROME, IN SIGHT OF ST. PETER'S. 
 
 ONG has the dew been dried on tree 
 
 and lawn : 
 I'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon 
 i shed, the languor of approaching noon; 
 '0 shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn 
 lute are all creatures, as this couchant 
 
 fawn, 
 ave insect-swarms that hum in air afloat, 
 ave that the Cock is crowing, a shrill 
 
 note, 
 tarthng and shrill as that which roused 
 
 the dawn. 
 - Heard in that hour, or when, as now, 
 
 the nerve 
 brinks from the note as from a mistimed 
 
 thing, 
 )ft for a holy warning may it serve, 
 Iharged with remembrance of his sudden 
 
 sting, 
 lis bitter tears, whose name the Papal 
 
 Chair 
 ind yon resplendent Church are proud 
 
 to bear. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 IX. 
 
 AT ALBANO. 
 
 This Sonnet is founded on simple fact, and was 
 ritten to enlarge, if possible, the views of those 
 ho can see nothing but evil in the Intercessions 
 mntenanced by the Church of Rome. That 
 ley are in many respects lamentably pernicious 
 lust be acknowledged ; but, on the other hand, 
 ley who reflect, while they see and observe, 
 innot but be struck with instances which will 
 rove that it is a great error to condemn in all 
 ises such mediation as purely idolatrous. This 
 imark bears with especial force upon addresses 
 1 the Virgin. 
 
 )ays passed — and Monte Calvo would 
 
 not clear 
 iis head from mist; and, as the wind 
 
 sobbed through 
 ilbano's dripping Ilex avenue, 
 ly dull forebodings in a Peasant's ear 
 'ound casual vent. She said, " Be of 
 
 good cheer; 
 
 Our yesterday's procession did not sue 
 In vain; the sky will change to sunny blue. 
 Thanks to our Lady's grace." I smiled 
 
 to hear. 
 But not in scorn : — the Matron's Faith 
 
 may lack 
 The heavenly sanction needed to ensure 
 Fulfilment; but, we trust, her upward 
 
 track 
 Stops not at this low point, nor wants 
 
 the lure 
 Of flowers the Virgin without fear may 
 
 own. 
 For by her Son's blest hand the seed 
 
 was sown. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle 
 
 Dove 
 Perched on an olive branch, and heard 
 
 her cooing 
 'Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs 
 
 were wooing. 
 While all things present told of joy and 
 
 love. 
 But restless Fancy left that olive grove 
 To hail the exploratory Bird renewing 
 Hope for the few, who, at the world's 
 
 undoing. 
 On the great flood were spared to live 
 
 and move. 
 O bounteous Heaven ! signs true as dove 
 
 and bough 
 Brought to the ark are coming evermore. 
 Given though we seek them not, but, 
 
 while we plough 
 This sea of life without a visible shore. 
 Do neither promise ask nor grace implore 
 In what alone is ours, the living Now. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 FROM THE ALBAN HILLS, LOOKING 
 TOWARDS ROME. 
 
 Forgive, illustrious Country ! these deep 
 
 sighs. 
 Heaved less for thy bright plains and 
 
 hills bestrewn 
 With monuments decayed or overthrown, 
 
832 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 For all that tottering stands or prostrate 
 
 lies, 
 Than for like scenes in moral vision 
 
 shown, 
 Ruin perceived for keener sympathies; 
 Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her 
 
 gaudy crown; 
 Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies. 
 Yet why prolong this mournful strain ? — 
 
 Fallen Power, 
 Thy fortunes, twice exalted, might pro- 
 voke 
 Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour 
 When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy 
 
 double yoke. 
 And enter, with prompt aid from the 
 
 Most High, 
 On the third stage of thy great destiny. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 NEAR THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE. 
 
 When here with Carthage Rome to con- 
 flict came. 
 An earthquake, mingling with the battle's 
 
 shock, 
 Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground 
 
 did rock. 
 Sword dropped not, javelin kept - its 
 
 deadly aim. — 
 Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that 
 
 day's shame, 
 Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure. 
 Save in this Rill that took from blood 
 
 the name! 
 Which yet it bears, sweet Stream ! as 
 
 crystal pure. 
 So may all trace and sign of deeds aloof 
 From the true guidance of humanity, 
 Thro' Time and Nature's influence, purify 
 Their spirit; or, unless they for reproof 
 Or warning serve, thus let them all, on 
 
 ground 
 That gave them being, vanish to a sound. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 NEAR THE SAME LAKE. 
 
 For action born, existing to be tried. 
 Powers manifold we have that intervene 
 * Sanguinetto. 
 
 To stir the heart that would too close]} 
 
 screen 
 Her peace from images to pain allied. 
 What wonder if at midnight, by the side 
 Of Sanguinetto, or broad Thrasymene, 
 The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms 
 
 glide, 
 Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight 
 
 seen; 
 And singly thine, O vanquished Chief! 
 
 whose corse, 
 Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain: 
 But who is He ? — the Conqueror. 
 
 Would he force 
 His way to Rome ? Ah, no, — round 
 
 hill and plain 
 Wandering, he haunts, at fancy's strong 
 
 command, 
 This spot — his shadowy death-cup in 
 
 his hand. 
 1837. 184a. 
 
 THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA. 
 
 MAY 25, 1837. 
 
 Among a thousand delightful feelings con- 
 nected in my mind with the voice of the cuckoo, 
 there is a personal one which is rather melan- 
 choly. I was first convinced that age had rather 
 dulled my hearing, by not being able to catch the 
 sound at the same distance as the younger com- 
 panions of my walks ; and of this failure I had a 
 proof upon the occasion that suggested these 
 verses. I did not hear the sound till Mr. Robin- 
 son had twice or thrice directed my attention 
 to it. 
 
 List — 't was the Cuckoo. — O with what 
 
 delight 
 Heard I that voice ! and catch it now, 
 
 though faint. 
 Far off and faint, and melting into air, 
 Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again ! 
 Those louder cries give notice that the 
 
 Bird, 
 Although invisible as Echo's self. 
 Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy 
 
 Creature, 
 For this unthought-of greeting ! 
 
 While allured 
 From vale to hill, from hill to vale led on, 
 We have pursued, through various lands, 
 
 along 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 833 
 
 jid pleasant course; flower after flower 
 
 has blown, 
 Imbellishing the ground that gave them 
 
 birth 
 fith aspects novel to my sight ; but still 
 lost fair, most welcome, when they drank 
 
 the dew 
 Q a sweet fellowship with kinds beloved, 
 or old remembrance sake. And oft — 
 
 where Spring 
 •isplayed her richest blossoms among files 
 If orange-trees bedecked with glowing 
 
 fruit 
 .ipe for the hand, or under a thick shade 
 If Ilex, or, if better suited to the hour, 
 he lightsome Olive's twinkling canopy — 
 Ift have I heard the Nightingale and 
 
 Thrush 
 lending as in a common English grove 
 'heir love-songs; but, where'er my feet 
 
 might roam, 
 ifhate'er assemblages of new and old, 
 trange and familiar, might beguile the 
 
 way, 
 . gratulation from that vagrant Voice 
 fas wanting, — and most happily till now. 
 For see, Laverna ! mark the far-famed 
 
 Pile, 
 [igh on the brink of that precipitous rock, 
 uplanted like a Fortress, as in truth 
 : is, a Christian Fortress, garrisoned 
 1 faith and hope, and dutiful obedience, 
 y a few Monks, a stern society, 
 lead to the world and scorning earth- 
 born joys, 
 ay — though the hopes that drew, the 
 
 fears that drove, 
 t. Francis, far from Man's resort, to abide 
 mong these sterile heights of Apennine, 
 ound him, nor, since he raised yon 
 
 House, have ceased 
 hind his spiritual Progeny, with rules 
 'ringent as flesh can tolerate and live; 
 !is milder Genius (thanks to the good God 
 hat made us) over those severe restraints 
 f mind, that dread heart-freezing disci- 
 pline, 
 oth sometimes here predominate, and 
 
 works 
 f unsought means for gracious purposes ; 
 3r earth through heaven, for heaven, by 
 
 changeful earth, 
 lustrated, and mutually endeared. 
 
 Jlapt though He were above the power 
 
 of sense, 
 Familiarly, yet out of the cleansed heart 
 Of that once sinful Being overflowed 
 On sun, moon, stars, and nether elements. 
 And every shape of creature they sustain. 
 Divine affections; and with beast and 
 
 bird 
 (Stilled from afar — such marvel story 
 
 tells — 
 By casual outbreak of his passionate 
 
 words. 
 And from their own pursuits in field or 
 
 grove 
 Drawn to his side by look or act of love 
 Humane, and virtue of his innocent life) 
 He wont to hold companionship so free, 
 So pure, so fraught with knowledge and 
 
 delight. 
 As to be likened in his Followers' minds 
 To that which our first Parents, ere the 
 
 fall 
 From their high state darkened the Earth 
 
 with fear, 
 Held with all kinds in Eden's blissful 
 
 bowers. 
 Then question not that, 'mid the austere 
 
 Band, 
 Who breathe the air he breathed, tread 
 
 where he trod. 
 Some true Partakers of his loving spirit 
 Do still survive, and, with those gentle 
 
 hearts 
 Consorted, Others, in the power, the faith, 
 Of a baptized imagination, prompt 
 To catch from Nature's humblest monitors 
 Whate'er they bring of impulses sublime. 
 Thus sensitive must be the Monk, 
 
 though pale 
 With fasts, with vigils worn, depressed by 
 
 years. 
 Whom in a sunny glade I chanced to see. 
 Upon a pine-tree's storm-uprooted trunk. 
 Seated alone, with forehead sky-ward 
 
 raised. 
 Hands clasped above the crucifix he wore 
 Appended to his bosom, and lips closed 
 By the joint pressure of his musing mood 
 And habit of his vow. That ancient Man — 
 Nor haply less the Brother whom I 
 
 marked, 
 As we approached the Convent gate, aloft 
 Looking far forth from his aerial cell. 
 
834 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 A young Ascetic — Poet, Hero, Sageji 
 He might have been, Lover belike he 
 
 was — 
 If- they received into a conscious ear 
 The notes whose first faint greeting 
 
 startled me, 
 Whose sedulous iteration thrilled with joy 
 My heart — may have been moved like 
 
 me to think. 
 Ah ! not like me who walk in the world's 
 
 ways. 
 On the great Prophet, styled the Voice of 
 
 One 
 Crying amid the wilderness^ and given. 
 Now that their snows must melt, their 
 
 herbs and flowers 
 Revive, their obstinate winter pass away. 
 That awful name to Thee, thee, simple 
 
 Cuckoo, 
 Wandering in solitude, and evermore 
 Foretellingand proclaiming, ere thouleave 
 This thy last haunt beneath Italian skies 
 To carry thy glad tidings over heights 
 Still loftier, and to climes more near the 
 
 Pole. 
 Voice of the Desert, fare-thee-well; 
 
 sweet Bird ! 
 If that substantial title please thee more. 
 Farewell! — but go thy way, no need 
 
 hast thou 
 Of a good wish sent after thee ; from bower 
 To bower as green, from sky to sky as 
 
 clear. 
 Thee gentle breezes waft — or airs, that 
 
 meet 
 Thy course and sport around thee, softly 
 
 fan — 
 Till Night, descending upon hill and vale. 
 Grants to thy mission a brief term of 
 
 silence. 
 And folds thy pinions up in blest repose. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 AT THE CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI. 
 
 Grieve for the Man who hither came be- 
 reft, 
 
 And seeking consolation from above; 
 
 Nor grieve the less that skill to him was 
 left 
 
 To paint this picture of his lady-love : 
 
 Can she, a blessed saint, the work ap 
 
 prove ? 
 And oh, good Brethren of the cowl, athinj 
 So fair, to which with peril he must cling 
 Destroy in pity, or with care remove. 
 That bloom — those eyes — can they assisi 
 
 to bind 
 Thoughts that would stray from Heaven i 
 
 The dream must cease 
 To be; by Faith, not sight, his soul must 
 
 live; 
 Else will the enamoured Monk too surely 
 
 find 
 How wide a space can part from inward 
 
 peace 
 The most profound repose his cell can 
 
 give. 
 1837. '842. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 The world forsaken, all its busy, cares 
 And stirring interests shunned with des- 
 perate flight. 
 All trust abandoned in the healing might 
 Of virtuous action; all that courage dares, 
 Labor accomplishes, or patience bears ^^ 
 Those helps rejected, they, whose minds 
 
 perceive 
 How subtly works man's weakness, sighs 
 
 may heave 
 For such a One beset with cloistral snares. 
 Father of Mercy ! rectify his view, 
 If with his vows this object ill agree; 
 Shed over it thy grace, and thus subdue 
 Imperious passion in a heart set free : — 
 That earthly love may to herself be true. 
 Give him a soul that cleaveth unto thee.' 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 AT THE EREMITE OR UPPER CONVENT OF 
 CAMALDOLI. 
 
 What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, 
 
 in size 
 Enormous, dragged, while side by side 
 
 they sate, 
 By panting steers up to this convent gate? 
 1 See Note. ;' ' 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 83s 
 
 How, with empurpled cheeks and pam- 
 pered eyes, 
 pare they confront the lean austerities 
 Of Brethren who, here fixed, on Jesu wait 
 In sackcloth, and God's anger deprecate 
 Through all that humbles flesh and mor- 
 tifies? 
 Strange contrast ! — ■ verily the world of 
 
 dreams, 
 Where mingle, as for mockery combined, 
 Things in their very essence at strife, 
 Shows not a sight incongruous as the 
 
 extremes 
 That everywhere, before the thoughtful 
 
 mind, 
 Meet on the solid ground of waking life.i 
 1837. 1843. 
 
 AT VALLOMBROSA.l 
 
 "Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks 
 In Vallombrosa, where Etrurian shades 
 High over-arch'd embower." 2 
 
 I must confess, though of course I did not 
 acknowledge it in the few lines I wrote in the 
 Strangers' book kept at the convent, that I was 
 somewhat disappointed at Vallombrosa. I had 
 expected, as the name implies, a deep and narrow 
 valley overshadowed by enclosing hills ; but the 
 spot where the convent stands is, in fact, not a 
 valley at all, but a cove or crescent open to an 
 extensive prospect. In the book before mentioned, 
 I read the notice in the English language that if 
 iny one would ascend the steep ground above 
 the convent, and wander over it, he would be 
 ibundantly rewarded by magnificent views. I 
 iiad not time to act upon this recommendation, 
 md only went with my young guide to a point, 
 learly on a level with the site of the convent, 
 :hat overlooks the vale of Amo for some leagues. 
 To praise great and good men has ever been 
 leemed one of the worthiest employments of 
 loetry, but the objects of admiration vary so 
 nuch with time and circumstances, and the 
 loblest of mankind have been found, when in- 
 imately known, to be of characters so imperfect, 
 hat no eulogist can find a subject which he will 
 
 ^ See Note. 
 
 ^ See for the two first lines, ** Stanzas com- 
 )05ed in the Simplon Pass." 
 
 Paradise Lost. 
 
 venture upon with the animation necessary to 
 create sympathy, unless he confines himself to a 
 particular art or he takes something of a one- 
 sided view of the person he is disposed to cele- 
 brate. This is a melancholy truth, and affords a 
 strong reason for the poetic mind being chiefly 
 exercised in works of fiction : the poet can then 
 follow wherever the spirit of admiration leads 
 him, unchecked by such suggestions as will be too 
 apt to cross his way if all that he is prompted to 
 utter is to be tested by fact. Something in this 
 spirit I have written in the note attached to the 
 sonnet on the king of Sweden ; and many will 
 think that in this poem and elsewhere I have 
 spoken of the author of Paradise Lost in a 
 strain of panegyric scarcely justifiable by the 
 tenor of some of his opinions, whether theological 
 or political, and by the temper he carried into 
 public affairs in which, unfortunately for his 
 genius, he was so much concerned. 
 
 * * Vallombrosa — I longed in thy shadiest 
 
 wood 
 To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered 
 
 floor!" 
 Fond wish that was granted at last, and 
 
 the Flood, 
 That lulled me asleep bids me listen once 
 
 more. 
 Its murmur how soft ! as it falls down the 
 
 steep, 
 Near that Cell — yon sequestered Retreat 
 
 high in air — 
 Where our Milton was wont lonely vigils 
 
 to keep 
 For converse with God, sought through 
 
 study and prayer. 
 
 The Monks still repeat the tradition with 
 
 pride, 
 And its truth who shall doubt? for his 
 
 Spirit is here; 
 In the cloud-piercing rocks doth her 
 
 grandeur abide, 
 In the pines pointing heavenward her 
 
 beauty austere; 
 In the flower-besprent meadows his genius 
 
 we trace 
 Turned to humbler delights, in which 
 
 youth might confide, 
 That would yield him fit help while pre- 
 figuring that Place 
 Where, if Sin had not entered, Love 
 
 never had died. 
 
836 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 When with life lengthened out came a 
 
 desolate time, 
 And darltness and danger had compassed 
 
 him round, 
 With a thought he would flee to these 
 
 haunts of his prime 
 And here once again a kind shelter be 
 
 found. 
 And let me believe that when nightly the 
 
 Muse 
 Did waft him to Sion, the glorified hill, 
 Here also, on some favored height; he 
 
 would choose 
 To wander, and drink inspiration at will. 
 
 Vallombrosa ! of thee I first heard in the 
 
 page 
 Of that holiest of Bards, and the name 
 
 for my mind 
 Had a musical charm, which the winter 
 
 of age 
 And the changes it brings had no power 
 
 to unbind. 
 And now, ye Miltonian shades ! under you 
 I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy 
 
 to part. 
 While your leaves I behold and the brooks 
 
 they will strew. 
 And the realized vision is clasped to my 
 
 heart. 
 
 Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as we 
 may 
 
 In Forms that must perish, frail objects 
 of sense; 
 
 Unblamed — if the Soul be intent on the 
 day 
 
 When the Being of Beings shall summon 
 her hence. 
 
 For he and he only with wisdom is blest 
 
 Who, gathering true pleasures wherever 
 they grow. 
 
 Looks up in all places, for joy or for rest. 
 
 To the Fountain whence Time and Eter- 
 nity flow. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 AT FLORENCE. 
 
 Upon what evidence the belief rests that this 
 stone was a favorite seat of Dante, I do not 
 know ; but a man would little consult his own in- 
 
 terest as a traveller, if he should busy himself witl 
 doubts as to the fact. The readiness with whici 
 traditions of this character are received, and thf 
 fidelity with which they are preserved fron 
 generation to generation, are an evidence 0: 
 feelings honorable to our nature. I remembej 
 how, during one of my rambles in the course of i 
 college vacation, I was pleased on being shown 
 a seat near a kind of rocky cell at the source ol 
 the river, on which it was said that Congreve 
 wrote his "Old Bachelor." One can scarcely 
 hit on any performance less in harmony with the 
 scene ; but it was a local tribute paid to intelled 
 by those who had not troubled themselves to 
 estimate the moral worth of that author's come- 
 dies ; and why should they ? He was a man 
 distinguished in his day; and the sequestered 
 neighborhood in which he often resided was 
 perhaps as proud of him as Florence of her 
 Dante : it is the same feeling, though proceeding 
 from persons one cannot bring together in this 
 way without offering some apology to the Shade 
 of the great Visionary. 
 
 Under the shadow of a stately Pile, 
 The dome of Florence, pensive and alone, 
 Nor giving heed to aught that passed the 
 
 while, 
 I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone, 
 The laurelled Dante's favorite seat. A 
 
 throne. 
 In just esteem, it rivals; though no style 
 Be there of decoration to beguile 
 The mind, depressed by thought of great- 
 ness flown. 
 As a true man, who long had served the 
 
 lyre, 
 I gazed with earnestness, and dared no 
 
 more. 
 But in his breast the mighty Poet bore 
 A Patriot's heart, warm with undying fire. 
 Bold with the thought, in reverence I sate 
 
 down. 
 And, for a moment, filled that empty 
 
 Throne. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 XX. 
 
 BEFORE THE PICTURE OF THE BAPTIST, 
 BY RAPHAEL, IN THE GALLERY AT 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 It was very hot weather during the week we 
 stayed at Florence ; and, never having been there 
 before, I went through much hard service, and 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 837 
 
 am not tlierefore asfianted to confess I fell asleep 
 before this picture and sitting with my back to- 
 wards the Venus de Medicis. Buonaparte — in 
 answer to one who had spoken of his being in a 
 sound sleep up to tire moment when one of his 
 great battles was to be fought, as a proof of the 
 calmness of his mind and command over anxious 
 thoughts — said frankly, that he slept because from 
 bodily exhaustion he could not help it. In like 
 manner it is noticed that criminals on the night 
 previous to their execution seldom awake before 
 tliey are called, a proof that the body is the 
 master of us far more than we need be willing to 
 allow. Should this note by any possible chance 
 be seen by any of my countrymen who might 
 have been in the gallery at the time (and several 
 persons were there) and witnessed such an inde- 
 corum, I hope he will give up the opinion which 
 be might naturally have formed to my prejudice. 
 
 The Baptist might have been ordained to 
 
 cry 
 Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, 
 
 wherein 
 His Father served Jehovah; but how win 
 Due audience, how for aught but scorn 
 
 defy 
 The obstinate pride and wanton revelry 
 Of the Jerusalem below, her sin 
 And folly, if they with united din 
 Drown not at once mandate and prophecy ? 
 Therefore the Voicespakefromthe Desert, 
 
 thence 
 To Her as to her opposite in peace, 
 Silence, and holiness, and innocence, 
 To Her, and to all Lands its warning sent, 
 Crying with earnestness that might not 
 
 cease, 
 " Make straight a highway for the Lord 
 
 — repent ! ' ' 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 AT FLORENCE — FROM MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 However at first these two sonnets from 
 Michael Angelo may seem in their spirit some- 
 what inconsistent with each other, I have not 
 scrupled to place them side by side as character- 
 istic of their great author, and others with whom 
 he lived. I feel nevertheless a wish to know at 
 what periods of his life they were respectively 
 composed. The latter, as it expresses, was written 
 in his advanced years when it was natural that 
 
 the Platonism that pervades the one should give 
 way to the Christian feeling that inspired the 
 other : between both there is more than poetic 
 affinity. 
 
 Rapt above earth by power of one fair 
 face. 
 
 Hers in whose sway alone my heart de- 
 lights, 
 
 I mingle with the blest on those pure 
 heights 
 
 Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a 
 place. 
 
 With Him who made the Work that Work 
 accords 
 
 So well, that by its help and through his 
 grace 
 
 I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and 
 words, 
 
 Clasping her beauty in my soul's em- 
 brace. 
 
 Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot 
 turn, 
 
 I feel how in their presence doth abide 
 
 Light which to God is both the way and 
 guide; 
 
 And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn. 
 
 My noble fire emits the joyful ray 
 
 That through the realms of glory shines 
 for aye. 
 r837. 1842. 
 
 AT FLORENCE — FROM M. ANGELO. 
 
 Eternal Lord ! eased of a cumbrous 
 
 load, 
 And loosened from the world, I turn to 
 
 Thee; 
 Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, 
 
 and flee 
 To thy protection for a safe abode. 
 The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon 
 
 the tree, 
 The meek, benign, and lacerated face. 
 To a sincere repentance promise grace, 
 To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. 
 With justice mark not Thou, O Light 
 
 divine. 
 My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear; 
 Neither put forth that way thy arm severe; 
 
838 
 
 MaMUKiALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto in- 
 cline 
 More readily the more my years require 
 Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN 
 THE APENNINES. 
 
 The political revolutions of our time have mul- 
 tiplied, on the Continent, objects that unavoida- 
 bly call forth reflections such as are expressed in 
 these verses, but the Ruins in those countries are 
 too recent to exhibit, in anything like an equal 
 degree, the beauty with which time and nature 
 have invested the remains of our Convents and 
 Abbeys. These verses it will be observed take 
 up the beauty long before it is matured, as one 
 cannot but wish it may be among some of the 
 desolations of Italy, France, and Germany. 
 
 Ye Trees ! whose slender roots entwine 
 
 Altars that piety neglects; 
 Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine 
 
 Which no devotion now respects; 
 If not a straggler from the herd 
 Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, 
 Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride 
 In aught that ye would grace or hide — ■ 
 How sadly is your love misplaced, 
 Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste ! 
 
 Ye, too, wild Flowers ! that no one heeds, 
 And ye — full often spurned as weeds — 
 In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness 
 From fractured arch and mouldering 
 
 wall — 
 Do but more touchingly recall 
 Man's headstrong violence and Time's 
 
 fleetness, 
 Making the precincts ye adorn 
 Appear to sight still more forlorn. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 IN LOMBARDY. 
 
 See, where his difficult way that Old Man 
 
 wins 
 Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves ! — 
 
 most hard 
 
 Appears his lot, to the small Worm's com. 
 
 pared, 
 For whom his toil with early day beginS; 
 Acknowledging no task-master, at will ,' 
 (As if her labor and her ease were twins) 
 She seems to work, at pleasure to lie 
 
 still; — 
 And softly sleeps within the thread she 
 
 spins. 
 So fare they — the Man serving asher Slave. 
 Ere long their fates do each to each con- 
 form: 
 Both pass into new being, — but the Worm, 
 Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave; 
 His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend 
 To bliss unbounded, glory without end. 
 1837. '842. 
 
 AFTER LEAVING ITALY. 
 
 I had proof in several instances that the 
 Carbonari, if I may still call them so, and their 
 favorers, are opening their eyes to the necessity 
 of patience, and are intent upon spreading knowl- 
 edge actively but quietly as they can. May 
 they have resolution to continue in this course ! 
 for it is the only one by which they can truly 
 benefit their country. We left Italy by the way 
 which is called the " Nuova Strada de Allmagna," 
 to the east of the high passes of the Alps, which 
 take you at once from Italy into Switzerland. 
 This road leads across several smaller heights, 
 and winds down different vales in succession, so 
 that it was only by the accidental sound of a few 
 German words that I was aware we had quitted 
 Italy, and hence the unwelcome shock ailuded to 
 in the two or three last lines of the latter sonnet. 
 
 Fair Land ! Thee all men greet with joy; 
 how few, 
 
 Whose souls take pride in freedom, vir- 
 tue, fame. 
 
 Part from thee without pity dyed in shame : 
 
 I could not — while from Venice we with- 
 drew. 
 
 Led on till an Alpine strait confined our 
 view 
 
 Within its depths, and to the shore we 
 came 
 
 Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name, 
 
 Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder color- 
 ing threw, 
 
AT BOLOGNA. 
 
 8,^9 
 
 [talia! on the surface of thy spirit, 
 'Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake) 
 Shall a few partial breezes only creep ? — 
 Be its depths quickened; what thou dost 
 
 inherit 
 Of the world's hopes, dare to fulfil; awake, 
 Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like 
 sleep ! 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 ' CONTINUED. 
 
 As indignation mastered grief, my tongue 
 Spake bitter words; words that did ill 
 
 agree 
 With those richstoresof Nature's imagery. 
 And divine Ait, that fast to memory 
 
 clung — 
 Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young 
 In the sun's eye, and in his sister's sight 
 How beautiful ! how worthy to be sung 
 In strains of rapture, or subdued delight ! 
 Ifeign not ; witness that unwelcome shock 
 That followed the first sound of German 
 
 speech. 
 Caught the far-winding barrier Alps 
 
 among. 
 In that announcement, greeting seemed 
 
 to mock 
 Parting; the casual word had power to 
 
 reach 
 My heart, and filled that heart vrith con- 
 flict strong. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 AT BOLOGNA, IN REMEMBRANCE 
 OF THE LATE INSURRECTIONS, 
 1837- 
 
 Ah why deceive ourselves ! by no mere fit 
 Of sudden passion roused shall men attain 
 True freedom where for ages they have lain 
 Bound in a dark abominable pit, 
 With life's best sinews more and more un- 
 
 knit. 
 Here, there, a banded few who loathe 
 
 the chain 
 May rise to break it; effort worse than vain 
 
 For thee, O great Italian nation, split 
 
 Into those jarring fractions. — Let tliy 
 scope 
 
 Be one fixed mind for all; thy rights 
 approve 
 
 To thy own conscience gradually renewed ; 
 
 Learn to make Time the father of wise 
 Hope; 
 
 Then trust thy cause to the arm of Forti- 
 tude, 
 
 The light of Knowledge, and the warmth 
 of Love. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 ir. 
 
 Hard task ! exclaim the undisciplined, to 
 
 lean 
 On Patience coupled with such slow en- 
 deavor, 
 That long-lived servitude mustlast forever. 
 Perish the grovelling few, who, prest 
 
 between 
 Wrongs and the terror of redress, would 
 
 wean 
 Millions from glorious aims. Our chains 
 
 to sever 
 Let us break forth in tempest now 01: 
 
 never ! — 
 What, is there then no space for golden 
 
 mean 
 And gradual progress ? — Twilight leads 
 
 to day, 
 And, even within the burning zones of 
 
 earth. 
 The hastiest sunrise yields a temperate ray ; 
 The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives 
 
 birth : 
 Think not that Prudence dwells in dark 
 
 abodes. 
 She scans the future with the eye of gods. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 CONCLUDED. 
 
 As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow 
 And wither, every human generation 
 Is, to the Being of a mighty nation, 
 Locked in our world's embrace through 
 weal and woe; 
 
840 
 
 'WHAT IF OUR NUMBERS BARELY COULD DEFY. 
 
 Thought that should teach the zealot to 
 forego 
 
 Rash schemes, to abjure all selfish agita- 
 tion, 
 
 And seek through noiseless pains and 
 moderation 
 
 The unblemished good they only can 
 bestow. 
 
 Alas ! with most, who weigh futurity 
 
 Against Time present, passion holds the 
 scales : 
 
 Hence equal ignorance of both prevails, 
 
 And nations sink; or, struggling to be free, 
 
 Are doomed to flounder on, like wounded 
 whales 
 
 Tossed on the bosom of a stormy sea. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 "WHAT IF OUR NUMBERS BARELY 
 COULD DEFY." 
 
 What if our numbers barely could defy 
 The arithmetic of babes, must foreign 
 
 hordes. 
 Slaves, vile as ever were befooled by 
 
 words. 
 Striking through English breasts the 
 
 anarchy 
 Of Terror, bear us to the ground, and tie 
 Our hands behind our backs with felon 
 
 cords? 
 Yields everything to discipline of swords? 
 Is man as good as man, none low, none 
 
 high? — 
 Nor discipline nor valor can withstand 
 The shock, nor quell the inevitable rout, 
 When in some great extremity breaks out 
 A people, on their own beloved Land 
 Risen, like one man, to combat in the sight 
 Of a just God for liberty and right. 
 1837. 1837. 
 
 A NIGHT THOUGHT. 
 
 These verses were thrown off extempore upon 
 leaving Mrs. Luff's house at Fox-Ghyll, one 
 evening. The good woman is not disposed to 
 look at the bright side of things, and there hap- 
 pened to be present certain ladies who had reached 
 the point of life where youth is ended, and who 
 seemed to contend with each other in expressing 
 their dislike of the country and climate. One of 
 vhem had been heard to say she could not endure 
 
 a country where there was " neither sunshine q( 
 cavaliers." 
 
 Lo ! where the Moon along the sky 
 Sails with her happy destiny; 
 Oft is she hid from mortal eye 
 
 Or dimly seen, 
 But when the clouds asunder fly 
 
 How bright her mien ! 
 
 Far different we — a froward race, 
 Thousands though rich in Fortune's graci 
 With cherished suUenness of pace 
 
 Their way pursue, 
 Ingrates who wear a smileless face 
 
 The whole year through. 
 
 If kindred humors e'er would make 
 My spirit droop for drooping's sake, 
 From Fancy following in thy wake, 
 
 Bright ship of heaven ! 
 A counter impulse let me take 
 And be forgiven. 
 1837. 1842. 
 
 TO THE PLANET VENUS. 
 
 Upon its approximation (as an Evening Star, 
 to the Earth, Jan. 1838. 
 
 What strong allurement draws, what 
 
 spirit guides, 
 Thee, Vesper ! brightening still, as if the 
 
 nearer 
 Thou com'st to man's abode the spot grew 
 
 dearer 
 Night after night ? True is it Nature hides 
 Her treasures less and less. — Man now 
 
 presides 
 In power, where once he trembled in his 
 
 weakness; 
 Science advances with gigantic strides; 
 But are we aught enriched in love and 
 
 meekness? 
 Aught dost thou see, bright Star ! of pure 
 
 and wise 
 More than in humbler times graced human 
 
 story; 
 That makes our hearts more apt to sym- 
 pathize 
 With heaven, our souls more fit for future 
 
 glory, 
 
■'TIS HE WHOSE YESTER-EVENING'S HIGH DISDAIN." 841 
 
 When earth shall vanish from our closing 
 
 eyes, 
 Ere we lie down in our last dormitory ? 
 
 COMPOSED AT RYDAL ON MAY 
 MORNING, 1838. 
 
 This and the sonnet entitled " The Pillar of 
 Trajan," p. 721, were composed on what we call 
 the " Far Terrace " at Rydal Mount, where I 
 have murmured out many thousands of verses. 
 
 iFwithoIdloveof you, dear Hills ! I share 
 New love of many a rival image brought 
 From far, forgive the wanderings of my 
 
 thought : 
 Nor art thou wronged, sweet May ! when 
 
 I compare 
 Thy present birth-morn with thy last, so 
 
 fair. 
 So rich to me in favors. For my lot 
 Then was, within the famed Egerian Grot 
 To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air 
 Mingling with thy soft breath ! That 
 
 morning too, 
 Warblers I heard their joy unbosoming 
 Amid the sunny, shadowy. Coliseum; 
 Heard them, unchecked by aught of sad- 
 dening hue. 
 For victories there won by flower-crowned 
 
 Spring, 
 Chant in full choir their innocent Te Deum . 
 
 COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 
 1838. 
 
 Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just 
 
 begun. 
 Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly 
 
 guide. 
 Does joy approach ? they meet the coming 
 
 tide; 
 And sullenness avoid, as now they shun 
 Pale twilight's lingering glooms, — and in 
 
 the sun 
 Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied ; 
 Or gambol — each with his shadow at his 
 
 side. 
 Varying its shape wherever he may run. 
 
 As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew 
 All turn, and court the shining and the 
 
 green, . 
 Where herbs look up, and opening flowers 
 
 are seen; 
 Why to God'sgoodness cannot We be true, 
 And so, His gifts and promises between. 
 Feed to the last on pleasures ever new? 
 
 "HARK! 'TIS THE THRUSH, 
 UNDAUNTED, UNDEPREST." 
 
 Hark ! 't is the Thrush, undaunted, unde- 
 
 prest, 
 By twilight premature of cloud and rain; 
 Nor does that roaring wind deaden his 
 
 strain 
 Who carols thinking of his Love and nest. 
 And seems, as more incited, still more 
 
 blest. 
 Thanks; thou hast snapped a fireside 
 
 Prisoner's chain, 
 Exulting Warbler ! eased a fretted brain. 
 And in a moment charmed my cares to 
 
 rest. 
 Yes, I will forth, bold Bird ! and front the 
 
 blast. 
 That we may sing together, if thou wilt. 
 So loud, so clear, my Partner through 
 
 life's day, 
 Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love- 
 built 
 Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons 
 
 past. 
 Thrilled by loose snatches of the social 
 
 Lay. 
 RvDAL Mount, 1838. 1838. 
 
 "'TIS HE WHOSE YESTER- 
 EVENING'S HIGH DISDAIN." 
 
 'T IS He whose yester-evening's high dis- 
 dain 
 
 Beat back the roaring storm — but how 
 subdued 
 
 His day-break note, a sad vicissitude ! 
 
 Does the hour's drowsy weight his glee 
 restrain? 
 
 Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein 
 
842 
 
 'OH WHAT A WRECK 1" 
 
 Pleased to renounce, does this dear Thrush 
 attune 
 
 His voice to suit the temper of yon Moon 
 
 Doubly deprest, setting, and in her wane ? 
 
 Rise, tardy sun ! and let the Songster 
 prove 
 
 (The balance trembling between night 
 and morn 
 
 No longer) with what ecstasy upborne 
 
 He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven 
 above, 
 
 And earth below, they best can serve true 
 gladness 
 
 Who meet most feelingly the calls of sad- 
 ness. 
 1838. 1838. 
 
 "OH WHAT A WRECK! HOW 
 CHANGED IN MIEN AND 
 SPEECH!" 
 
 The sad condition of poor Mrs. Southey put 
 me upon writing this. It has afforded comfort to 
 many persons whose friends have been similarly 
 %£fected. 
 
 Oh what a Wreck I how changed in mien 
 
 and speech ! 
 Yet — though dread Powers, that work in 
 
 mystery, spin 
 Entanglings of the brain ; though shadows 
 
 stretch • 
 
 O'er the chilled heart — reflect; far, far 
 
 within 
 Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. 
 She is not what she seems, a forlorn 
 
 wretch; 
 But delegated Spirits comfort fetch 
 To Her from heights that Reason may not 
 
 win. 
 Like Children, She is privileged to hold 
 Divine communion; both do live and 
 
 move, 
 Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways un- 
 fold, 
 Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love; 
 Love pitying innocence not long to last. 
 In them — in Her our sins and sorrows 
 
 past. 
 1838. 183S. 
 
 A PLEA FOR AUTHORS, MAY, 1838 
 
 Failing impartial measure to dispense 
 To every suitor, Equity is lame; 
 And social Justice , stript of reverence 
 For natural rights, a mockery and i 
 
 shame ; 
 Law but a servile dupe of false pretence. 
 If, guarding grossest things from commor 
 
 claim 
 Now and forever. She, to works that came 
 From mind and spirit, grudge a short-lived 
 
 fence. 
 ' ' What ! lengthened privilege, a lineal tie, 
 For Books ! ' ' Yes, heartless Ones, or be 
 
 it proved 
 That 't is a fault in Us to have lived and 
 
 loved 
 Like others, with like temporal hopes to 
 
 die; 
 No public harm that Genius from her 
 
 course 
 Be turned ; and streams of truth dried up, 
 
 even at their source ! 
 1838. 1838. 
 
 A POET TO HIS GRANDCHILD. 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 " Son of my buried Son, while thus thy 
 
 hand 
 " Is clasping mine, it saddens me to think 
 " How Want may press thee down, and 
 
 with thee sink 
 "Thy children left unfit, through vain 
 
 demand 
 " Of culture, even to feel or understand 
 ' ' My simplest Lay that to their memory 
 " May cling; — hard fate ! which haply 
 
 need not be 
 "Did Justice mould the statutes of the 
 
 Land. 
 "A Book time-cherished and an honored 
 
 name 
 "Are high rewards; but bound they 
 
 Nature's claim 
 "Or Reason's? No — hopes spun in 
 
 timid line 
 " From out the bosom of a modest home 
 
SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 
 
 843 
 
 "Extend through unambitious years to 
 
 come, 
 "My careless Little-one, for thee and 
 
 thine!" 
 May 23, 1838. 1838. 
 
 " BLEST STATESMAN HE, WHOSE 
 MIND'S UNSELFISH WILL." 
 
 Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's un- 
 selfish will 
 leaves him at ease amonggrand thoughts; 
 
 whose eye 
 Sees that, apart from magnanimity. 
 Wisdom exists not; nor the humbler skill 
 Of Prudence, disentangling good and ill 
 With patient care. What tho' assaults run 
 
 high. 
 They dauntnot him who holds his ministry. 
 Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil 
 Its duties; — prompt to move, but firm to 
 
 wait, — 
 Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely 
 
 found; 
 That, for the functions of an ancient 
 
 State -—- 
 Strong by her charters, free because im- 
 
 bound. 
 Servant of Providence, not slave of Fate — 
 Perilous is sweeping change, all chance 
 
 unsound.^ 
 1838. 1838. 
 
 VALEDICTORY SONNET. 
 
 Closing the Volume of Sonnets published in 1838. 
 
 Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have 
 here 
 
 Disposed some cultured Flowerets (drawn 
 from spots 
 
 Where they bloomed singly, or in scat- 
 tered knots), 
 
 Each kind in several beds of one parterre; 
 
 Both to allure the casual Loiterer, 
 
 And that, so pl-aced, my Nurslings may 
 requite 
 
 Studious regard with opportune delight, 
 
 Nor be unthanked, unless I fondly err. 
 
 But metaphor dismissed, and thanks apart. 
 
 Reader, farewell ! My last words let them 
 
 be — 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
 If in this book Fancy and Truth agree; 
 If simple Nature trained by careful Art 
 Through It have won a passage to thy 
 
 heart; 
 Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee ! 
 1838. . 1838. 
 
 PROTEST AGAINST THE BALLOT. 
 
 Forth rushed from Envy sprung and Self- 
 conceit, 
 A Power misnamed the Spirit of Reform, 
 And through the astonished Island swept 
 
 in storm. 
 Threatening to lay all orders at her feet 
 That crost her way. Now stoops she to 
 
 entreat 
 License to hide at intervals her head 
 Where she may work, safe, undisquieted. 
 In a close Box, covert for Justice meet. 
 St. George of England! keep a watchful 
 
 eye 
 Fixed on the Suitor; frustrate her re- | 
 
 quest — 
 Stifle her hope; for, if the State comply, i 
 From such Pandorian gift may come a Pest I 
 Worse than the Dragon that bowed low his j 
 crest, I 
 
 Pierced by thy spear in glorious victory. ' 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 IN SERIES." 
 
 1839. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE VIEW OF LANCASTER 
 CASTLE (on the ROAD FROM THE 
 SOUTH.) 
 
 This Spot — at once unfolding sight so fair 
 Of sea and land, with yon gray towers that 
 
 still 
 Rise up as if to lord it over air — ■ 
 Might soothe in human breasts the sense 
 
 of ill, 
 2 First published in the Quarterly Review. 
 
844 
 
 SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 
 
 Or charm it out of memory; yea, might 
 
 fill 
 The heart with joy and gratitude to God 
 For all his bounties upon man bestowed : 
 Why bears it then the name of " Weeping 
 
 Hill"? 
 Thousands, as toward yon old Lancastrian 
 
 Towers, 
 A prison's crown, along this way they past 
 For lingering durance or quick death with 
 
 shame, 
 From this bare eminence thereon;have cast 
 Their first look — blinded as tears fell in 
 
 showers 
 Shed on their chains; and hence that 
 
 doleful name. 
 1839. 1841. 
 
 Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law 
 For worst offenders: though the heart 
 
 will heave 
 With indignation, deeply moved we 
 
 grieve, 
 In after thought, for Him who stood in awe 
 Neither of God nor man, and only saw. 
 Lost wretch, a horrible device enthroned 
 On proud temptations, till the victim 
 
 groaned 
 Under the steel his hand had dared to 
 
 draw. 
 But oh, restrain compassion, if its course. 
 As oft befalls, prevent or turn aside 
 Judgments and aims and acts whose 
 
 higher source 
 Is sympathy with the unforewarned, who 
 
 died 
 Blameless — with them that shuddered 
 
 o'er his grave, 
 And all who from the law firm safety crave. 
 1839. 1841. 
 
 The Roman Consul doomed his sons to 
 die 
 
 Who had betrayed their country. The 
 stern word 
 
 Afforded (may it through all time afford) 
 
 A theme for praise and admiration high. 
 
 Upon the surface of humanity 
 
 He rested not; its depths his mind ex- 
 plored; 
 
 He felt; but his parental bosom's lord 
 Was Duty, — Duty calmed his agony. 
 And some, we know, when they by wil- 
 ful act 
 A single human life have wrongly taken. 
 Pass sentence on themselves, confess the 
 
 fact, 
 
 And, to atone for it, with soul unshaken. 
 
 Kneel at the feet of Justice, and, for faith 
 
 Broken with all mankind, solicit death. 
 
 1839. 1841. 
 
 Is Death, when evil against good has 
 
 fought 
 With such fell mastery that a man may 
 
 dare 
 By deeds the blackest purpose to lay bare? 
 Is Death, for one to that condition 
 
 brought, 
 For him, or any one, the thing that ought 
 Tobe»«OT^dreaded? Lawgivers, beware. 
 Lest, capital pains remitting till ye spare 
 The murderer, ye, by sanction to that 
 
 thought 
 Seemingly given, debase the general 
 
 mind; 
 Tempt the vague will tried standards to 
 
 disown. 
 Nor only palpable restraints unbind, 
 But upon Honor's head disturb the crown. 
 Whose absolute rule permits not to with- 
 stand 
 In the weak love of life his least command. 
 1839. 1841. 
 
 Not to the object specially designed, 
 Howe'er momentous in itself it be. 
 Good to promote or curb depravity. 
 Is the wise Legislator's view confined. 
 His Spirit, when most severe, is oft most 
 
 kind; 
 As all Authority in earth depends 
 On Love and Fear, their several powers 
 
 he blends, 
 Copying with awe the one Paternal mind. 
 Uncaught by processes in show humane. 
 He feels how far the act would derogate 
 From even the humblest functions of the 
 
 State; 
 If she, self-shorn of Majesty, ordain 
 
SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 
 
 ^45 
 
 That never more shall hang upon her 
 
 breath 
 The last alternative of Life or Death. 
 1839. 1841. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yb brood of conscience — Spectres ! that 
 
 frequent 
 The bad Man's restless walk, and haunt 
 
 his bed — 
 Fiends in your aspect, yet beneficent 
 In act, as hovering Angels when they 
 
 spread 
 Their wings to guard the unconscious 
 
 Innocent — 
 Slow be the Statutes of the land to share 
 A laxity that could not but impair 
 Your power to punish crime, and so pre- 
 vent. 
 And ye. Beliefs ! coiled serpent-like about 
 The adage on all tongues, ' ' Murder will 
 
 out," 
 How shall your ancient warnings work 
 
 for good 
 In the full might they hitherto have shown, 
 If for deliberate shedder of man's blood 
 Survive not Judgment that requires his 
 
 own? 
 1839. 1841. 
 
 Before the world had past her time of 
 
 youth 
 While polity and discipline were weak. 
 The precept eye for eye, and tooth for 
 
 tooth, 
 Came forth — a light, though but as of 
 
 daybreak. 
 Strong as could then be borne. A Master 
 
 meek 
 Proscribed the spirit fostered by that rule, 
 Patience /5m law, long-suffering /2i> school. 
 And love the end, which all through 
 
 peace must seek. 
 But lamentably do they err who strain 
 His mandates, given rash impulse to con- 
 trol 
 And keep vindictive thirstings from the 
 
 soul. 
 So far that, if consistent in their scheme, 
 
 They must forbid the State to inflict a pain, 
 Making of social order a mere dream. 
 1839. 1841. 
 
 Fit retribution, by the moral code 
 Determined, lies beyond the State's em- 
 brace, 
 Yet, as she may, for each peculiar case 
 She plants well-measured terrors in the 
 
 road 
 Of wrongful acts. Downward it is and 
 
 broad. 
 And, the main fear once doomed to 
 
 banishment. 
 Far oftener then, bad ushering worse 
 
 event. 
 Blood would be spilt that in his dark abode 
 Crime might lie better hid. And, should 
 
 the change 
 Take from the horror due to a foul deed, 
 Pursuit and evidence so far must fail. 
 And, guilt escaping, passion then might 
 
 plead 
 In angry spirits for her old free range. 
 And the " wild justice of revenge" pre- 
 vail. 
 1839. 1841. 
 
 Though to give timely warning and deter 
 Is one great aim of penalty, extend 
 Thy mental vision further and ascend 
 Far higher, else full surely shalt thou err. 
 What is a State ? The wise behold in her 
 A creature born of time, that keeps one 
 
 eye 
 Fixed on the statutes of Eternity, 
 To which her judgmbnts reverently defer. 
 Speaking through Law's dispassionate 
 
 voice the State 
 Endues her conscience with external life 
 And being, to preclude or quell the strife 
 Of individual will, to elevate 
 The grovelling mind, the erring to recall, 
 And fortify the moral sense of all. 
 
 Our bodily life, some plead, that life the 
 
 shrine 
 Of an immortal spirit, is a gift 
 
846 
 
 SONNETS ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 
 
 So sacred, so informed with light divine, 
 That no tribunal, though most wise to sift 
 Deed and intent, should turn the Being 
 
 adrift 
 Into that world where penitential tear 
 May not avail, nor prayer have for God's 
 
 ear 
 A voice — that world whose veil no hand 
 
 can lift 
 For earthly sight. " Eternity and Time, " 
 They urge, " have interwoven claims and 
 
 rights 
 Not to be jeopardized through foulest 
 
 crime : 
 The sentence rule by mercy's heaven- 
 born lights." 
 Even so ; but measuring not by finite sense 
 Infinite Power, perfect Intelligence. 
 1839. '841. 
 
 ,.\h, think how one compelled for life to 
 
 abide 
 ^Locked in a dungeon needs must eat the 
 
 heart 
 Out of his own humanity, and part 
 With every hope that mutual cares provide ; 
 And, should a less unnatural doom confide 
 In life-long exile on a savage coast. 
 Soon the relapsing penitent may boast 
 Of yet more heinous guilt, with fiercer 
 
 pride. 
 Hence thoughtful Mercy, Mercy sage 
 
 and pure. 
 Sanctions the forfeiture that Law demands. 
 Leaving the final issue in His hands 
 Whose goodness knows no change, whose 
 
 love is sure. 
 Who sees, foresees; who cannot judge 
 
 amiss. 
 And wafts at will the contrite soul to bliss. 
 
 1839- 
 
 1841. 
 
 See the Condemned alone within his cell 
 
 And prostrate at some moment when re- 
 morse 
 
 Stings to the quick, and, with resistless 
 force. 
 
 Assaults the pride she strove in vain to 
 quell. 
 
 Then mark him, him who could so lonj 
 
 rebel. 
 The crime confessed, a kneeling PenitenI 
 Before the Altar, where the Sacrament 
 Softens his heart, till from his eyes outwell 
 Tears of salvation. Welcome death! 
 
 while Heaven 
 Does in this change exceedingly rejoice; 
 While yet the solemn heed the State hath 
 
 given 
 
 Helps him to meet the last Tribunal's voice 
 
 In faith, which fresh offences, were he cast 
 
 On old temptations, might forever blast. 
 
 1839. '841. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Yes, though He well may tremble at the 
 
 sound 
 Of his own voice, who from the judg- 
 ment-seat 
 Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat 
 In death; though Listeners shudder all 
 
 around. 
 They know the dread requital's source 
 
 profound; 
 Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete — 
 (Would that it were !) the sacrifice unmeet 
 For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs 
 
 abound; 
 The social rights of man breathe purer air, 
 Religion deepens her preventive care; 
 Then, moved by needless fear of past 
 
 abuse. 
 Strike not from Law's firm hand that 
 
 awful rod, 
 But leave it thence to drop for lack of use : 
 Oh, speed the blessed hour. Almighty 
 
 God! 
 
 1839. 
 
 1841. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 The formal World relaxes her cold chain 
 For One who speaks in numbers; ample? 
 
 scope 
 His utterance finds; and, conscious of the 
 
 gain, 
 Imagination works with bolder hope 
 
POOR ROBIN. 
 
 847 
 
 The cause of grateful reason to sustain; 
 And, serving Truth, the heart more 
 
 strongly beats 
 gainst all barriers which his labor meets 
 In lofty place, or humble Life's domain. 
 Enough; — before us lay a painful road, 
 And guidance have I sought in duteous 
 
 love 
 From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence 
 
 hath flowed 
 Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the 
 
 way 
 Each takes in this high matter, all may 
 
 move 
 Cheered with the prospect of a brighter 
 
 day. 
 1839. 1841. 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT OF I. F., PAINTED 
 BY MARGARET GILLIES. 
 
 We gaze — nor grieve to think that we 
 
 must die. 
 But that the precious love this friend 
 
 hath sown . 
 Within our hearts, the love whose flower 
 
 hath blown 
 Bright as if heaven were ever in its eye. 
 Will pass so soon from human memory; 
 And not by strangers to our blood alone. 
 But by our best descendants be unknown, 
 Unthought of — this may surely claim a 
 
 sigh. 
 Yet, blessed Art, we yield not to dejection ; 
 Thou against Time so feelingly dost strive. 
 Where'er, preserved in this most true re- 
 ' flection. 
 
 An image of her soul is kept alive. 
 Some Hngering fragrance of the pure 
 
 affection, 
 Whose flower with us will vanish, must 
 
 survive. 
 Rydal Mount, 1850. 
 
 J^ew Year's Day, 1840. 
 
 TO I. F. 
 
 The star which comes at close of day to 
 
 shine 
 More heavenly bright than when it leads 
 
 the morn. 
 
 Is friendship's emblem, whether the for- 
 . lorn 
 
 She visiteth, or, shedding light benign 
 
 Through shades that solemnize Life's 
 calm decline, 
 
 Doth make the happy happier. This 
 have we 
 
 Learnt, Isabel, from thy society. 
 
 Which now we too unwillingly resign 
 
 Though for brief absence. But farewell I 
 the page 
 
 Glimmers before my sight through thank- 
 ful tears. 
 
 Such as start forth, not seldom, to ap- 
 prove 
 
 Our truth, when we, old yet unchilled 
 by age, 
 
 Call thee, though known but for a few 
 fleet years. 
 
 The heart-affianced sister of our love ! 
 RvDAL Mount, Feb. i, 1840. 1850. 
 
 POOR ROBIN.i 
 
 I often ask myself what will become of Rydal 
 Mount after our day. Will the o!d walls and 
 steps remain in front of the house and about the 
 grounds, or will they be swept away with all the 
 beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums 
 and other flowers which their rude construction 
 suffered and encouraged to grow among them? — 
 This little wild flower — " Poor Robin " — is here 
 constantly courting my attention, and exciting 
 what may be called a domestic interest with the 
 varying aspects of its stalks and leaves and 
 flowers. Strangely do the tastes of men differ 
 according to their employment and habits of life. 
 " What a nice well would that be," said a labor- 
 ing man to me one day, "if all that rubbish was 
 cleared off." The " rubbish" was some of the 
 most beautiful mosses and lichens and ferns and 
 other wild growths tl^t could possibly be seen. 
 Defend us from the tyranny of trimness and 
 neatness showing itself in this way ! Chatterton 
 says of freedom — " Upon her head wild weeds 
 were spread ; " and depend upon it if " the mar- 
 vellous boy " had undertaken to give Flora a gar- 
 land, he would have preferred what we are apt to 
 call weeds to garden-flowers. True taste has an 
 eye for both. Weeds have been called flowers out 
 of place. I fear the place most people would 
 
 1 The small wild Geranium known by that 
 name. 
 
ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 
 
 absign to them is too limited. Let them come 
 near to our abodes, as surely they may without 
 impropriety or disorder. 
 
 Now when the primrose makes a splendid 
 show, 
 
 And lilies face the March-winds in full 
 blow, 
 
 And humbler growths as moved with one 
 desire 
 
 Put on, to welcome spring, their best 
 attire. 
 
 Poor Robin is yet flowerless ; but how gay 
 
 With his red stalks upon this sunny day ! 
 
 And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, 
 content 
 
 With a hard bed and scanty nourishment, 
 
 Mixed with the green, some shine not 
 lacking power 
 
 To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower; 
 
 And flowers they well might seem to 
 passers-by 
 
 If looked at only with a careless eye; 
 
 Flowers — or a richer produce (did it suit 
 
 The season) sprinklings of ripe straw- 
 berry fruit. 
 
 But while a thousand pleasures come un- 
 sought. 
 
 Why fix upon his wealth or want a 
 thought? 
 
 Is the string touched in prelude to a lay 
 
 Of pretty fancies that would round him 
 play 
 
 When all the world acknowledged elfin 
 sway? 
 
 Or does it suit our humor to commend 
 
 Poor Robin as a. sure and crafty friend, 
 
 Whose practice teaches, spite of names 
 to show 
 
 Bright colors whether they deceive or 
 no? — 
 
 Nay, we would simply praise the free 
 good-will 
 
 With which, though slighted, he, on 
 naked hill 
 
 Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill; 
 
 Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now. 
 
 Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow : 
 
 Vet more, we wish that men by men de- 
 spised, 
 
 And such as lift their foreheads overprized. 
 
 Should sometimes think, where'er they 
 chance to spy 
 
 This child of Nature's own humility, 
 What recompense is kept in store or lei 
 For all that seem neglected or bereft; 
 With what nice care equivalents are giver 
 How just, how bountiful, the hand o 
 Heaven. 
 
 March, 1840. 
 
 1842. 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE 01 
 WELLINGTON UPON THE FIELI 
 OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON. 
 
 This was composed while I was ascendin| 
 Helvellyn in company with my daughter and hei 
 husband. She was on horseback and rode to the 
 top of the hill without once dismounting, a feal 
 which it was scarcely possible to perform excepl 
 during a season of dry weather; and a guide, 
 with whom we fell in on the mountain, told us he 
 believed it had never been accomplished before 
 by any one. 
 
 By Art's bold privilege Warrior and 
 
 War-horse stand 
 On ground yet strewn with their last 
 
 battle's wreck; 
 Let the Steed glory while his Master's 
 
 hand 
 Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck; 
 But by the Chieftain's look, though at his 
 
 side 
 Hangs that day's treasured sword, how 
 
 firm a check 
 Is given to triumph and all human pride ! 
 Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy 
 
 speck 
 In his calm presence ! Him the mighty 
 
 deed 
 Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's 
 
 rest. 
 As shows that time-worn face, for he such 
 
 seed 
 Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of 
 
 fame 
 In Heaven ; hence no one blushes for thy 
 
 name. 
 Conqueror, 'mid some sad thoughts, 
 
 divinely blest ! 
 Aug. 31, 1840. 1842. 
 
"INTENT ON GATHERING WOOL FROM HEDGE AND BRAKE." 849 
 
 TO A PAINTER. 
 
 The picture which gave occasion to this and 
 he following Sonnet was from the pencil of Miss 
 \I. Gillies, who resided for several weeks under 
 )ur roof at Rydal Mount. 
 
 KtL praise the Likeness by thy skill por- 
 trayed ; 
 But 't is a fruitless task to paint for me, 
 Who, yielding not to changes Time has 
 
 made. 
 By the habitual light of memory see 
 Eyesunbedimmed, see bloom that cannot 
 
 fade. 
 And smiles that from their birthplace 
 
 ne'er shall flee 
 Into the land where ghosts and phantoms 
 
 be; 
 And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. 
 Couldst thou go back into far-distant years. 
 Or share with me, fond thought ! that 
 
 inward eye, 
 Then, and then only. Painter ! could thy 
 
 Art 
 The visual powers of Nature satisfy, 
 Which hold, whate'er to common sight 
 
 appears. 
 Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart. 
 
 ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Though I beheld at first with blank sur- 
 prise 
 This Work, I now have gazed on it so long 
 I see its truth with unreluctant eyes; 
 0, my Beloved ! I have done thee wrong, 
 Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it 
 
 sprung. 
 Ever too heedless, as I now perceive : 
 Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, 
 And the old day was welcome as the young, 
 As welcome, and as beautiful — in sooth 
 More beautiful, as being a thing more holy : 
 Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth 
 Of all thy goodness, never melancholy; 
 To thy large heart and humble mind, that 
 
 cast 
 Into one vision, future, present, past. 
 1841. 1842. 
 
 " WHEN SEVERN'S SWEEPING 
 FLOOD HAD OVERTHROWN." 
 
 When Severn's sweeping flood had over- 
 thrown 
 St. Mary's Church, the preacher thef 
 
 would cry: — 
 "Thus, Christian people, God his might 
 
 hath shown 
 That ye to him your love may testify; 
 Haste, and rebuild the pile." — But not 
 
 a stone 
 Resumed its place. Age after age went by. 
 And Heaven still lacked its due, though 
 
 piety 
 In secret did, we trust, her loss bemoan. 
 But now her Spirit hath put forth its claim 
 In Power, and Poesy would lend her voice ; 
 Let the new Church be worthy of its aim. 
 That in its beauty Cardiff may rejoice ! 
 Oh ! in the past if cause there was for 
 
 shame, 
 Let not our times halt in their better 
 
 choice. 
 Rydal MovKT,/an. 23, 1842. 1842. 
 
 "INTENT ON GATHERING WOOL 
 FROM HEDGE AND BRAKE." 
 
 Suggested by a conversation with Miss Fen- 
 wick, who along with her sister had, during their 
 childhood, found much delight in such gatherings 
 for the purposes here alluded to. 
 
 Intent on gathering wool from hedge 
 
 and brakel 
 Yon busy Little-ones rejoice that soon 
 A poor old Dame will bless them for the 
 
 boon: 
 Great is their glee while flake they add to 
 
 flake 
 With rival earnestness; far other strife 
 Than will hereafter move them, if they 
 
 make 
 Pastime their idol, give their day of life 
 To pleasure snatched for reckless pleas- 
 ure's sake. 
 Can pomp and show allay one heart-born 
 
 grief? 
 Pains which the World inflicts can she 
 
 requite? 
 
8so 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 Not for an interval however brief; 
 The silent thoughts that search for stead- 
 fast light, 
 Love from her depths, and Duty in her 
 
 might, 
 And Faith — • these only yield secure relief. 
 March 8, 1842. 1842. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 PREFIXED TO THE VOLUME ENTITLED 
 " POEMS CHIEFLY OF EARLY AND LATE 
 YEARS." 
 
 These verses were begun while I was on a 
 visit to my son John at Brigham, and were fin- 
 ished at Rydal. As the contents of the volume, 
 to which they are now prefixed, will be assigned 
 to their respective classes when my poems shall 
 be collected in one volume, I should be at a loss- 
 where with propriety to place this prelude, being 
 too restricted in its bearing to serve for a preface 
 for the whole. The lines towards the conclusion 
 allude to the discontents then fomented through 
 the country by the agitators of the Anti-Corn- 
 Law League : the particular causes of such 
 troubles are transitory, but disposition to excite 
 and liability to be excited are nevertheless per- 
 manent, and therefore proper objects for the 
 poet's regard. 
 
 In desultory walk through orchard 
 
 grounds, 
 Or some deep chestnut grove, oft have I 
 
 paused 
 The while a Thrush, urged rather than 
 
 restrained 
 By gusts of vernal storm, attuned his song 
 To his own genial instincts; and was heard 
 (Though not without some plaintive tones 
 
 between) 
 To utter, above showers of blossom swept 
 From tossing boughs, the promise of a 
 
 calm, 
 Which the unsheltered traveller might 
 
 receive 
 With thankful spirit. The descant, and 
 
 the wind 
 That seemed to play with it in love or 
 
 scorn, 
 Encouraged and endeared the strain of 
 
 words 
 That haply flowed from me, by fits of 
 
 silence 
 
 Impelled to livelier pace. But now, 1 
 
 Book! 
 Charged with those lays, and others 
 
 like mood, 
 Or loftier pitch if higher rose the them 
 Go, single — yet aspiring to be joined 
 With thy Forerunners that through mai 
 
 a year 
 Have faithfully prepared each other 
 
 way — 
 Go forth upon a mission best fulfilled 
 When and wherever, in this changef 
 
 world, 
 Power hath been given to please fi 
 
 higher ends 
 Than pleasure only; gladdening to pri 
 
 pare 
 For wholesome sadness, troubling ( 
 
 refine, 
 Calming to raise; and, by a sapient Art 
 Diffused through all the mysteries of ot 
 
 Being, 
 Softening the toils and pains that hav 
 
 not ceased 
 To cast their shadows on our mother Earf 
 Since the primeval rioom. Such is th 
 
 grace 
 Which, though unsued for, fails not ti 
 
 descend 
 With heavenly inspiration; such the ain 
 That Reason dictates; and, as even tb 
 
 wish 
 Has virtue in it, why should hope to mi 
 Be wanting that sometimes, where fanciei 
 
 ills 
 Harass the mind and strip from off thi 
 
 bowers 
 Of private life their natural pleasantness 
 A Voice — devoted to the love whose seed! 
 Are sown in every human breast, to beaut] 
 Lodged within compass of the humbles 
 
 sight. 
 To cheerful intercourse with wood ant 
 
 field, 
 And sympathy with man's substantia 
 
 griefs — 
 Will not be heard in vain? Andinthos! 
 
 days 
 When unforeseen distress spreads far auc 
 
 wide 
 Among a People mournfully cast down, 
 Or into anger roused by venal words 
 In recklessness flung out to overturn 
 
TO A REDBREAST — (IN SICKNESS). 
 
 851 
 
 be judgment, and divert the general 
 
 heart 
 ram mutual good — some strain of thine , 
 
 my Book ! 
 lught at propitious intervals, may win 
 isteners who not unwillingly admit 
 indly emotion tending to console 
 nd reconcile; and both with young and 
 
 old 
 xalt the sense of thoughtful gratitude 
 or benefits that still survive, by faith 
 1 progress, under laws divine, main- 
 tained. 
 Rydal Mount, 
 
 March 26, 1S42. 1842. 
 
 FLOATING ISLAND. 
 
 My poor sister takes a pleasure in repeating 
 ese verses, which she composed not long before 
 le beginning of her sad illness. 
 
 These lines are by the Author of the *' Address 
 the Wind," etc., published heretofore along 
 ith ray Poems. 
 
 [armonious Powers with Nature work 
 n sky, earth, river, lake and sea; 
 anshine and cloud, whirlwind and 
 
 breeze, 
 11 in one duteous task agree. 
 
 nee did I see a slip of earth 
 By throbbing waves long undermined) 
 oosed from its hold; how, no one knew, 
 ut all might see it float, obedient to the 
 wind; 
 
 [ight see it, from the mossy shore 
 issevered, float upon the Lake, 
 loat with its crest of trees adorned 
 n 'which the warbling birds their pastime 
 take. 
 
 ood, shelter, safety, there they find; 
 here berries ripen, flowerets bloom; 
 here insects live their lives, and die; 
 peopled world it is; in size a tiny room. 
 
 ndthus through many seasons' space 
 bis little Island may survive; 
 »t Nature, though we mark her not, 
 'ill take away, may cease to give. 
 
 Perchance when you are wandering forth 
 Upon some vacant sunny day, 
 Without an object, hope, or fear. 
 Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is 
 passed away; 
 
 Buried beneath the glittering Lake, 
 Its place no longer to be found; 
 Yet the lost fragments shall remain 
 To fertilize some other ground. 
 
 X842. 1842. 
 
 "THE CRESCENT-MOON, THE 
 STAR OF LOVE." 
 
 The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, 
 Glories of evening, as ye there are seen 
 With but a span of sky between — 
 Speak one of you, my doubts remove, 
 
 Which is the attendant Page and which 
 the Queen? 
 1842, X842. 
 
 TO A REDBREAST — (IN SICK- 
 NESS). 
 
 Almost the only verses by our lamented Sister 
 Sara Hutchinson. 
 
 Stay, little cheerful Robin ! stay, 
 
 And at my casement sing. 
 Though it should prove a farewell lay 
 
 And this our parting spring. 
 
 Though I, alas ! may ne'er enjoy 
 
 The promise in thy song; 
 A charm, that thought cannot destroy, 
 
 Doth to thy strain belong. 
 
 Methinks that in my dying hour 
 Thy song would still be dear, 
 
 And with a more than earthly power 
 My passing Spirit cheer. 
 
 Then, little Bird, this boon confer, 
 Come, and my requiem sing, 
 
 Nor fail to be the harbinger 
 Of everlasting Spring. 
 1842. 1842. '' 
 
852 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 1842. 
 
 I. 
 
 I was impelled to write this Sonnet by the dis- 
 gusting frequency with which the word ariistkal^ 
 imported with other impertinences from the 
 Germans, is employed by writers of the present 
 day : for artistical let them substitute artificial, 
 and the poetry written on this system, both at 
 home and abroad, will be for the most part much 
 better characterized. 
 
 A Poet! — He hath put his heart to 
 
 school, 
 Nor dares to move unpropped upon the 
 
 staff 
 Which Art hath lodged within his hand 
 
 — must laugh 
 By precept only, and shed tears by rule. 
 Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, 
 And let the groveller sip his stagnant 
 
 pool. 
 In fear that else, when Critics grave and 
 
 cool 
 Have killed him. Scorn should write his 
 
 epitaph. 
 How does the Meadow-flower its bloom 
 
 unfold? 
 Because the lovely little flower is free 
 Down to its root, and, in that freedom, 
 
 bold; 
 And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 
 Comes not by casting in a formal mould. 
 But from its own divine vitality. 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hundreds of times have I seen, hanging about 
 and above the vale of Rydal, clouds that might 
 have given birth to this Sonnet, which was thrown 
 off on the impulse of the moment one evening 
 when I was returning home from the favorite 
 walk of ours, along the Rotha, under Loughrigg. 
 
 The most alluring clouds that mount the 
 
 sky 
 Owe to a troubled element their forms. 
 Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye 
 We watch their splendor, shall we covet 
 ■ storms. 
 
 And wish the Lord of day his slow decli: 
 Would hasten, that such pomp may fio 
 
 on high? 
 Behold, already they forget to shine. 
 Dissolve — and leave, to him who gaze 
 
 a sigh. 
 Not loth to thank each moment for its hoc 
 Of pure delight, come whencesoe'er 
 
 may, 
 Peace let us seek, — • to steadfast thin( 
 
 attune 
 
 Calm expectations — leaving to the gay 
 
 And volatile their love of transient bower 
 
 The house that cannot pass away be our 
 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 III. 
 
 This Sonnet is recommended to the perusal 1 
 all those who consider that the evils under whic 
 we groan are to be removed or palliated h 
 measures ungovemed by moral and religioi 
 principles. 
 
 Feel for the wrongs to universal ken 
 Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies 
 And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den 
 Whether conducted to the spot by sighs 
 And moanings, or he dwells( as if the wrei 
 Taught him concealment) hidden fron 
 
 all eyes 
 In silence and the awful modesties 
 Of sorrow ; — feel for all, as brother Men 
 Rest not in hope want's icy chain to thav 
 By casual boons and formal charities; 
 Learn to be just, just through impartia 
 
 law; 
 Far as ye may, erect and equalize; 
 And, what ye cannot reach by statute 
 
 draw 
 Each from his fountain of self-sacrifice ! 
 
 1S42. 
 
 1842. 
 
 IV. 
 
 IN ALLUSION TO VARIOUS RECENT HIS 
 TORIES AND NOTICES OF THE FRENCI 
 REVOLUTION. 
 
 Portentous change when History car 
 
 appear 
 As the cool Advocate of foul device; 
 Reckless audacity extol, and jeer 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 853 
 
 At consciences perplexed with scruples 
 
 nice! 
 They who bewail not, must abhor, the 
 
 sneer 
 Bom of Conceit, Power's blind Idolater; 
 Or haply sprung from vaunting Cowardice 
 Betrayed by mockery of holy fear. 
 Hath it not long been said the wrath of 
 
 Man 
 Works not the righteousness of God ? Oh 
 
 bend. 
 Bend, ye Perverse ! to judgments from 
 
 on High, 
 Laws that lay under Heaven's perpetual 
 
 ban 
 All principles of action that transcend 
 The sacred limits of humanity. 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Who ponders National events shall find 
 An awful balancing of loss and gain, 
 Joy based on sorrow, good with ill com- 
 bined. 
 And proud deliverance issuing out of pain 
 And direful throes; as if the All-ruling 
 
 Mind, 
 With whoseperfection it consists to ordain 
 Volcanic burst, earthquake, and hurri- 
 cane. 
 Dealt in like sort with feeble human kind 
 By laws immutable. But woe for him 
 Who thus deceived shall lend an eager 
 
 hand 
 To social havoc. Is not Conscience ours, 
 AndTruth, whose eye guilt only can make 
 
 dim; 
 And Will, whose office, by divine com- 
 mand, 
 Is to control and check disordered Powers ? 
 
 1842. 
 
 1842. 
 
 CONCLUDED. 
 
 Long-favored England ! be not thou 
 
 misled 
 By monstrous theories of alien growth. 
 Lest alien frenzy seize thee, waxing wroth, 
 
 Self-smitten till thy garments reek dyed 
 
 red 
 With thy own blood, which tears in 
 
 torrents shed 
 Fail to wash out , tears flowing ere thy troth 
 Be plighted, not to ease but sullen sloth, 
 Or wan despair — the ghost of false hope 
 
 fled 
 Into a shameful grave. Among thy youth, 
 MyCountry ! if such warning be held dear, 
 Then shall a Veteran's heart be thrilled 
 
 with joy. 
 One who would gather from eternal truth, 
 For time and season, rules that work to 
 
 cheer — 
 Not scourge, to save the People — not 
 
 destroy. 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 Men of the Western World ! in Fate's 
 
 dark book 
 Whence these opprobrious leaves of dire 
 
 portent ? 
 Think ye your British Ancestors forsook 
 Their native Land, for outrage provident ; 
 From unsubmissive necks the bridle shook 
 To give, in their Descendants, freer vent 
 And wider range to passions turbulent. 
 To mutual tyranny a deadlier look? 
 Nay, said a voice, soft as the south wind's 
 
 breath. 
 Dive through the stormy surface of the 
 
 flood 
 To the great current flowing underneath; 
 Explore the countless springs of silent 
 
 good; 
 So shall the truth be better understood. 
 And thy grieved spirit brighten strong in 
 
 faith.i 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like 
 
 trance. 
 One upward hand, as if she needed rest 
 From rapture, lying softly on her breast ! 
 Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance; 
 But not the less — nay more — that 
 
 countenance, 
 
 I See Notes. 
 
854 
 
 THE NORMAN BOY. 
 
 While thus illumined, tells of painful strife 
 
 For a sick heart made weary of this life 
 
 By love, long crossed with adverse circum- 
 stance. 
 
 — Would She were now as when she 
 hoped to pass 
 
 At God's appointed hour to them who 
 tread 
 
 Heaven ' s sapphire pavement, yet breathed 
 well content, 
 
 Well pleased, her foot should print earth's 
 common grass. 
 
 Lived thankful for day's light, for daily 
 bread. 
 
 For health, and time in obvious duty spent. 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 THE NORMAN BOY. 
 
 The subject of this poem was sent me by 
 Mrs. Ogle, to whom I was personally unknown, 
 with a hope on her part that I might be induced 
 to relate the incident in verse ; and I do not 
 regret that I took the trouble ; for not improb- 
 ably the fact is illustrative of the boy's early 
 piety, and may concur with my other little 
 pieces on children to produce profitable reflec- 
 tion among my youthful readers. This is said 
 however with an absolute conviction that chil- 
 dren will derive most benefit from books which 
 are not unworthy the perusal of persons of any 
 age. I protest with my whole heart against 
 those productions, so abundant in the present 
 day, in which the doings of children are dwelt 
 upon as if they were incapable of being inter- 
 ested in anything else. On this subject I have 
 dwelt at length in the poem on the growth of my 
 own mind. 
 
 High on a broad unfertile tract of forest- 
 skirted Down, 
 
 Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made 
 by man his own. 
 
 From home and company remote and 
 every playful joy. 
 
 Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a 
 ragged Norman Boy. 
 
 Him never saw I, nor the spot; but from 
 
 an English Dame, 
 Stranger to me and yet my friend, a 
 
 simple notice came, 
 With suit that I would speak in verse of 
 
 that sequestered child 
 
 Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met 
 upon the dreary Wild. 
 
 His flock, along the woodland's edge with 
 
 relics sprinkled o'er 
 Of last night's snow, beneath a sky 
 
 threatening the fall of more. 
 Where tufts of herbage tempted each, 
 
 were busy at their feed. 
 And the poor Boy was busier still, with 
 
 work of anxious heed. 
 
 There was he, where of branches rent and 
 
 withered and decayed. 
 For covert from the keen north wind, his 
 
 hands a hut had made. 
 A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as 
 
 needs must be 
 A thing of such materials framed, by a 
 
 builder such as he. 
 
 The hut stood finished by his pains, nor 
 seemingly lacked aught 
 
 That skill or means of his could add, but 
 the architect had wrought 
 
 Some limber twigs into a Cross, well- 
 shaped with fingers nice. 
 
 To be engrafted on the top of his small 
 edifice. 
 
 That Cross he now was fastening there, 
 
 as the surest power and best 
 For supplying all deficiencies, all wants 
 
 of the rude nest 
 In which, from burning heat, or tempest 
 
 driving far and wide. 
 The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his 
 
 lonely head must hide. 
 
 That Cross belike he also raised as a 
 
 standard for the true 
 And faithful service of his heart in the 
 
 worst that might ensue 
 Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the 
 
 houseless waste 
 Where he, in his poor self so weak, by 
 
 Providence was placed. 
 
 Here, Lady ! might I cease; but nay, 
 
 let tts before we part 
 With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe 
 
 a prayer of earnest heart, 
 
THE POET'S DREAM. 
 
 855 
 
 That unto him, where'er shall lie his 
 
 life's appointed way, 
 The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove 
 
 an all-sufficing stay. 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 THE POET'S DREAM. 
 
 t 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY. 
 
 Just as those final words were penned, 
 
 the sun broke out in power, 
 Andgladdenedall things; but, as chanced, 
 
 within that very hour. 
 Air blackened, thunder growled, fire 
 
 flashedfromclouds thathidthe sky, 
 And, for the Subject of my Verse, I heaved 
 
 a pensive sigh. 
 
 Nor could my heart by second thoughts 
 from heaviness be cleared. 
 
 For bodied forth before my eyes the cross- 
 crowned hut appeared ; 
 
 And, while around it storm as fierce 
 seemed troubling earth and air, 
 
 I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling 
 alone in prayer. 
 
 The Child, as if the thunder's voice spake 
 with articulate call. 
 
 Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before 
 the Lord of All; 
 
 His lips were moving; and his eyes, up- 
 raised to sue for grace. 
 
 With soft illumination cheered the dimness 
 of that place. 
 
 How beautiful is holiness ! — what wonder 
 
 if the sight. 
 Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a 
 
 dream at night? 
 It came with sleep and showed the Boy, 
 
 no cherub, not transformed, 
 But the poor ragged Thing whose ways 
 
 my human heart had warmed. 
 
 Me had the dream equipped with wings, 
 so I took him in my arms, 
 
 And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling 
 his faint alarms. 
 
 And bore him high through yielding air 
 
 my debt of love to pay. 
 By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour 
 
 of holiday. 
 
 I whispered, "Yet a little while, dear 
 
 Child ! thou art my own, 
 To show thee some delightful thing, in 
 
 country or in town. 
 What shall it be ? a mirthful throng? or 
 
 that holy place and calm 
 St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the 
 
 Church of Notre Dame? 
 
 St. Ouen's golden Shrine? Or choose 
 
 what else would please thee most 
 Of any wonder Normandy, or all proud 
 
 France, can boast ! " 
 " My Mother," said the Boy, " was born 
 
 near to a blessed Tree, 
 The Chapel Oak of Allonville; good 
 
 Angel, show it me ! " 
 
 On wings, from broad and steadfast poiso 
 
 let loose by this reply, 
 For Allonville, o'er down and dale, away 
 
 then did we fly; 
 O'er town and tower we flew, and fields 
 
 in May's fresh verdure drest; 
 The wings they did not flag; the Child, 
 
 though grave, was not deprest. 
 
 But who shall show, to waking sense, the 
 
 gleam of light that broke 
 Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy 
 
 looked down on that huge oak. 
 For length of days so much revered, so 
 
 famous where it stands 
 For twofold hallowing — Nature's care, 
 
 and work of human hands ? 
 
 Strong as an Eagle with my charge I glided 
 
 round and round 
 The wide-spread boughs, for view of door, 
 
 window, and stair that wound 
 Gracefully up the gnarled trunk; nor left 
 
 we unsurveyed 
 The pointed steeple peering forth from 
 
 the centre of the shade. 
 
 I lighted — opened with soft touch the 
 
 chapel's iron door. 
 Past softly, leading in the Boy; and, while 
 
 from roof to floor 
 
856 
 
 THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE SIDE. 
 
 From floor to roof all round his eyes the 
 Child with wonder cast. 
 
 Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each 
 livelier than the last. 
 
 For, deftly framed within the trunk, the 
 
 sanctuary showed. 
 By light of lamp and precious stones, that 
 
 glimmered here, there glowed, 
 Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in 
 
 sign of gratitude; 
 Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; 
 
 and speech I thus renewed : 
 
 " Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast 
 
 heard thy Mother say. 
 And, kneeling, supplication make to our 
 
 Lady de la Paix; 
 What mournful sighs have here been 
 
 heard, and, when thevoicewasstopt 
 By sudden pangs; what bitter tears have 
 
 on this pavement dropt ! 
 
 Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a 
 
 favored lot is thine. 
 Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings 
 
 full many to this shrine; 
 From body pains and pains of soul thou 
 
 needest no release, 
 Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if 
 
 not in joy, in peace. 
 
 Then offer up thy heart to God in thank- 
 fulness and praise, 
 
 Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, 
 in thy most busy days; 
 
 And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy 
 small hut, will be 
 
 Holy as that which long hath crowned the 
 Chapel of this Tree; 
 
 Holy as that far seen which crowns the 
 
 sumptuous Church in Rome 
 Where thousands meet to worship God 
 
 under a mighty Dome ; 
 He sees the bending multitude, he hears 
 
 the choral rites. 
 Yet not the less, in children's hymns and 
 
 lonely prayer, delights. 
 
 God for His service needeth not proud 
 
 work of human skill; 
 They please Him best who labor most to 
 
 do in peace His will : 
 
 So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits 
 
 will be given 
 Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, 
 
 shall bear us up to heaven." 
 
 The Boy no answer made by words, but, 
 
 so earnest was his look, 
 Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream — 
 
 recorded in this book, 
 Lest all that passed should melt away in 
 
 silence from my mind, 
 As visions still more bright have done, 
 
 and left no trace behind. 
 
 But oh ! that Country-man of thine, whose 
 
 eye, loved Child, can see 
 A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early 
 
 piety. 
 In verse, which to thy ear might come, 
 
 would treat this simple theme, 
 Nor leave untold our happy flight in that 
 
 adventurous dream. 
 
 Alas the dream, to thee, poor Boy ! to thee 
 from whom it flowed. 
 
 Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 
 't was bounteously bestowed. 
 
 If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle 
 eyes will read 
 
 Not loth, and listening Little-ones, heart- 
 touched, their fancies feed.i 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE 
 SIDE. 
 
 The facts recorded in this Poem were given 
 me, and the character of the person described, 
 by my friend the Rev. R. P. Graves, who has 
 long officiated as curate at Bowness, to the great 
 benefit of the parish and neighborhood. The 
 individnal was well known to him. She died be- 
 fore these verses were composed. It is scarcely 
 worth while to notice that the stanzas are written 
 in the sonnet form, which was adopted when I 
 thought the matter might be included in twenty- 
 eight lines. 
 
 I. 
 How beautiful when up a lofty height 
 Honor ascends among the humblest poorj 
 And feeling sinks as deep ! See there 
 the door 
 
 1 See Note. 
 
FAREWELL LINES. 
 
 857 
 
 Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight 
 
 Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune's 
 spite 
 
 She wasted no complaint, but strove to 
 make 
 
 A just repayment, both for conscience- 
 sake 
 
 And that herself and hers should stand 
 upright 
 
 In the world's eye. Her work when day- 
 light failed 
 
 Paused not, and through the depth of 
 night she kept 
 
 Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed 
 
 With some, the noble Creature never 
 slept ; 
 
 But, one by one, the hand of death 
 assailed 
 
 Her children from her inmost heart be- 
 wept. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Mother mourned, nor ceased her 
 
 tears to flow. 
 Till a winter's noonday placed her buried 
 
 Son 
 Before her eyes, last child of many gone — 
 His raiment of angelic white, and lo ! 
 His very feet bright as the dazzling snow 
 Which they are touching; yea far bright- 
 er, even 
 As that which comes, or seems to come, 
 
 from heaven. 
 Surpasses aught these elements can show. 
 Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that 
 
 hour 
 Whate'er befell she could not grieve or 
 
 pine; 
 But the Transfigured, in and out of season. 
 Appeared, and spiritual presence gained 
 
 a power 
 Over material forms that mastered reason. 
 Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make her 
 
 thine ! 
 
 But why that prayer ? as if to her could 
 
 come 
 No good but by the way that leads to bliss 
 Through Death, — so judging we should 
 
 judge amiss. 
 
 Since reason failed want is her threatened 
 
 doom, 
 Vet frequent transports mitigate the 
 
 gloom : 
 Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss 
 The air or laugh upon a precipice; 
 No, passing through strange sufferings 
 
 toward the tomb 
 She smiles as if a martyr's crown were 
 
 won: 
 Oft, when light breaks through clouds or 
 
 waving trees. 
 With outspread arms and fallen upon her 
 
 knees 
 The Mother hails in her descending Son 
 An Angel, and in earthly ecstasies 
 Her own angelic glory seems begun. 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 FAREWELL LINES. 
 
 These lines were designed as a farewell to 
 Charles Lamb and his sister, who had retired 
 from the throngs of London to comparative soli- 
 tude in the village of Enfield. 
 
 "High bliss is only for a higher state," 
 But, surely, if severe afflictions borne 
 With patience merit the reward of peace. 
 Peace ye deserve ; and may the solid good. 
 Sought by a wise though late exchange, 
 
 and here 
 With bounteous hand beneath a cottage- 
 roof 
 To you accorded, never be withdrawn. 
 Nor for the world's best promises re- 
 nounced. 
 Most soothing was it for a welcome Friend, 
 Fresh from the crowded city, to behold 
 That lonely union, privacy so deep. 
 Such calm employments, such entire con- 
 tent. 
 So when the rain is over, the storm laid, 
 A pair of herons oft-times have I seen. 
 Upon a rocky islet, side by side. 
 Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease; 
 And so, when night with grateful gloom 
 
 had fallen, 
 Two glow-worms in such nearness that 
 
 they shared, 
 As seemed, their soft self -satisfying light, 
 Each with the other, on the dewy ground, 
 
858 
 
 AIREY-FORCE . yALLEY. 
 
 Where He that made them blesses their 
 
 repose. — 
 When wandering among lakes and hills 
 
 I note, 
 Once more, those creatures thus by nature 
 
 paired, 
 And guarded in their tranquil state of life, 
 Even, as your {lappy presence to my mind 
 Their union brought, will they repay the 
 
 debt, 
 And send a thankful spirit back to you, 
 With hope that we, dear Friends ! shall 
 
 meet again. 
 
 1842. 
 
 AIREY-FORCE VALLEY. 
 
 Not a breath of air 
 
 RufRes the bosom of this leafy glen. 
 From the brook's margin, wide around, 
 
 the trees 
 Are steadfast as the rocks; the brock it- 
 self. 
 Old as the hills that feed it from afar, 
 Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm 
 Where all things else are still and motion- 
 less. 
 And yet, even now, a little breeze, per- 
 chance 
 Escaped from boisterous winds that rage 
 
 without. 
 Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt. 
 But to its gentle touch how sensitive 
 Is the light ash ! that, pendent from the 
 
 brow 
 Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes 
 A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs, 
 Powerful almost as vocal harmony 
 To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe 
 his thoughts. 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 "LYRE! THOUGH SUCH POWER 
 DO IN THY MAGIC LIVE." 
 
 Lyre ! though such power do in thy 
 magic live 
 As might from India's farthest plain 
 Recall the not unwilling Maid, 
 
 Assist me to detain . > - 
 
 The lovely Fugitive : 
 
 Check with thy notes the impulse which, 
 
 betrayed 
 By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to 
 
 aid. 
 Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye, 
 The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort 
 Of contemplation, the calm port 
 By reason fenced from winds that sigh 
 Among the restless sails of vanity. 
 But if no wish be hers that we should 
 
 part, 
 A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart. 
 
 Where all things are so fair. 
 Enough by her dear side to breathe the air 
 
 Of this Elysian weather; 
 And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy 
 Shade upon the sunshine lying 
 
 Faint and somewhat pensively; 
 And downward Image gayly vying 
 With its upright living tree 
 'Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue 
 
 sky 
 As soft almost and deep as her cerulean 
 eye. 
 
 Nor less the joy with many a glance 
 Cast up the Stream or down at her be- 
 seeching, 
 To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily 
 
 distrest 
 By ever-changing shape and want of rest; 
 Or watch, with mutual teaching. 
 The current as it plays 
 In flashing leaps and stealthy 
 
 creeps 
 Adown a rocky maze ; 
 Or note (translucent summer's happiest 
 
 chance ! ) 
 In the slope-channel floored with pebbles 
 
 bright. 
 
 Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gein. 
 
 So vivid that they take from keenest sight 
 
 The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them. 
 
 1842. 1842. 
 
 TO THE CLOUDS. 
 
 These verses were suggested while I was walk- 
 ing on the foot-road between Rydal Mount and 
 Grasthere. The clouds were driving over the top 
 of Nab-Scar across the vale : they set my thoughts 
 agoing, and the rest followed almost immediately. 
 
TO THE CLOUDS. 
 
 8S9 
 
 Army of Clouds ! ye winged Hosts in 
 
 troops 
 Ascending from behind the motionless 
 
 brow 
 Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world, 
 Oh whither with such eagerness of speed? 
 What seek ye, or what shun ye? of the 
 
 gale 
 Companions, fear ye to be left behind. 
 Or racing o'er your blue ethereal field 
 Contend ye with each other ? of the sea 
 Children, thus post ye over vale and height 
 To sink upon your mother's lap — and 
 
 rest? 
 Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first 
 
 mine eyes 
 Beheld in your impetuous march the like- 
 ness 
 Of a wide army pressing on to meet 
 Or overtake some unknown enemy ? — 
 But your smooth motions suit a peaceful 
 
 aim ; 
 And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, com- 
 pares 
 Your squadrons to an endless flight of 
 
 birds 
 Aerial, upon due migration bound 
 To milder climes ; or rather do ye urge 
 In caravan your hasty pilgrimage 
 To pause at last on more aspiring heights 
 Than these, and utter your devotion there 
 With thunderous voice? Or are ye jubi- 
 lant. 
 And would ye, tracking your proud lord 
 
 the Sun, 
 Be present at his setting ; or the pomp 
 Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and 
 
 stand 
 Poising your splendors high above the 
 
 heads 
 Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen 
 
 God? 
 Whence, whence, ye Clouds ! this eager- 
 ness of speed? 
 Speak, silent creatures. — They are gone, 
 
 are fled, 
 Buried together in yon gloomy mass 
 That loads the middle heaven ; and clear 
 
 and bright 
 And vacant doth the region which fhey 
 
 thronged 
 Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting 
 Down to the unapproachable abyss, 
 
 Down to that hidden gulf from which 
 
 they rose 
 To vanish — fleet as days and months and 
 
 years, 
 Fleet as the generations of mankind, 
 Power, glory, empire, as the world itself, 
 The lingering world, when time hath 
 
 ceased to be. 
 But the winds roar, shaking the rooted 
 
 trees. 
 And see ? a bright precursor to a train 
 Perchance as numerous, overpeers the 
 
 rock 
 That sullenly refuses to partake 
 Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life 
 Invisible, the long procession moves 
 Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale 
 Which they are entering, welcome to mine 
 
 eye 
 That sees them, to my soul that own in 
 
 them, 
 And in the bosom of the firmament 
 O'er which they move, wherein they are 
 
 contained, 
 A type of her capacious self and all 
 Her restless progeny. 
 
 A humble walk 
 Here is my body doomed to tread, this 
 
 path, 
 A little hoary line and faintly traced. 
 Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd's 
 
 foot 
 Or of his flock? — joint vestige of them 
 
 both. 
 I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts 
 Admit no bondage and my words have 
 
 wings. 
 Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp. 
 To accompany the verse? The mountain 
 
 blast 
 Shall be our /^a«(/of music; he shall sweep 
 The rocks, and quivering trees, and bil- 
 lowy lake. 
 And search the fibres of the caves, and they 
 Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds 
 And the wind loves them; and the gentle 
 
 gales — 
 Which by their aid re-clothe the naked 
 
 lawn 
 With annual verdure, and revive the 
 
 woods. 
 And moisten the parched lips of thirsty 
 
 flowers — 
 
«6o 
 
 'WANSFELL! THIS HOUSEHOLD HAS A FAVORED LOT." 
 
 Love them; and every idle breeze of air 
 Bends to the favorite burthen. Moon 
 
 and stars 
 Keep their most solemn vigils when the 
 
 Clouds 
 Watch also, shifting peaceably their place 
 Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when 
 
 they lie, 
 As if some Protean art the change had 
 
 wrought, 
 In listless quiet o'er the ethereal deep 
 Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes 
 And all degrees of beauty. O ye Light- 
 nings ! 
 Ye are their perilous offspring; and the 
 
 Sun — 
 Source inexhaustible of life and joy, 
 And type of man's far-darting reason, 
 
 therefore 
 In old time worshipped as the god of verse, 
 A blazing intellectual deity — 
 Loves his own glory in their looks, and 
 
 showers 
 Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood 
 Visions with all but beatific light 
 Enriched — too transient were they not 
 
 renewed 
 From age to age, and did not, while we 
 
 gaze 
 In silent rapture, credulous desire 
 Nourish the hope that memory lacks not 
 
 power 
 To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain 
 
 thought ! 
 Yet why repine, created as we are 
 For joy and rest, albeit to find them only 
 Lodged in the bosom of eternal things? 
 
 " WANSFELL ! i THIS HOUSEHOLD 
 HAS A FAVORED LOT." 
 
 Wansfell! this Household has a fa- 
 vored lot. 
 Living with liberty on thee to gaze, 
 To watch while Morn first crowns thee 
 
 with her rays. 
 Or when along thy breast serenely float 
 Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a 
 note 
 
 ^ The hill that rises to the south-east, above 
 Ambleside. 
 
 Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) 
 
 thy praise 
 For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast 
 
 brought 
 Of glory lavished on our quiet days. 
 Bountiful Son of Earth ! when we are gone 
 From every object dear to mortal sight, 
 As soon we shall be, may these words attest 
 How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone 
 Thy visionary majesties of light, ' 
 
 How in thy pensive glooms our hearts 
 
 found rest. 
 
 Dec. 24, 1842. 
 
 1845. 
 
 THE EAGLE AND THE DOVE.2 
 
 Shade of Caractacus, if spirits love 
 The cause they fought for in their earthly 
 
 home 
 To see the Eagle ruffled by the Dove 
 May soothe thy memory of the chains of 
 
 Rome. 
 
 These children claim thee for their sire; 
 the breath 
 
 Of thy renown, from Cambrian moun- 
 tains, fans 
 
 A flame within them that despises death 
 
 And glorifies the truant youth of Vannes. 
 
 With thy own scorn of tyrants they ad- 
 vance. 
 
 But truth divine has sanctified their rage, 
 
 A silver cross enchased with flowers of 
 France 
 
 Their badge, attests the holy fight they 
 wage. 
 
 The shrill defiance of the young crusade 
 Their veteran foes mock as an idle noise; 
 But unto Faith and Loyalty comes aid 
 From Heaven, gigantic force to beardless 
 boys. 
 1842. 1842. SK 
 
 GRACE DARLING. 
 
 Among the dwellers in the silent fields 
 The natural heart is touched, and public 
 
 way 
 And crowded street resound with ballad 
 
 strains, ^ 
 
 2 Published in La Petite Climiannerie* 
 
GRACE DARLING. 
 
 86 1 
 
 nspired byONE whose veryname bespeaks 
 Tavor divine, exalting human love; 
 /Vhom, since her birth on bleak Northum- 
 
 bria's coast, 
 Known unto few but prized as far as 
 
 known, 
 A single Act endears to high and low 
 Through the whole land — to Manhood, 
 
 moved in spite 
 Of the world's freezing cares — to gener- 
 ous Youth — 
 To Infancy, that lisps her praise — to Age 
 Whose eye reflects it, glistening through 
 
 a tear 
 Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame 
 Awaits her now ; but, verily, good deeds 
 Do not imperishable record find 
 Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers 
 
 may live 
 A theme for angels, when they celebrate 
 The high-souled virtues which forgetful 
 
 earth 
 Has witnessed. Oh ! that winds and 
 
 waves could speak 
 Of things which their united power called 
 
 forth 
 From the pure depths of her humanity ! 
 A Maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call, 
 Firm and unflinching, as the Lighthouse 
 
 reared 
 On the Island-rock, her lonely dwelling- 
 place ; 
 Or like the invincible Rock itself that 
 
 braves. 
 Age after age, the hostile elements, 
 As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell. 
 All night the storm had raged, nor 
 
 ceased, nor paused. 
 When, as day broke, the Maid, through 
 
 misty air. 
 Espies far off a Wreck, amid the surf. 
 Beating on one of those disastrous isles — 
 Half of aVessel, half — no more; the rest 
 Had vanished, swallowed up with all that 
 
 there 
 Had for the common safety striven in vain. 
 Or thither thronged for refuge. With 
 
 quick glance 
 Daughter and Sire through optic-glass 
 
 discern. 
 Clinging about the remnant of this Ship, 
 Creatures — how precious in the Maiden's 
 sight! 
 
 For whom, belike, the old Man grieves 
 
 still more 
 Than for their fellow-sufferers engulfed 
 Where every parting agony is hushed. 
 And hope and fear mix not in further strife. 
 "But courage. Father ! let us out to sea — 
 A few may yet be saved. ' ' The Daughter's 
 
 words. 
 Her earnest tone, and look beaming with 
 
 faith. 
 Dispel the Father's doubts: nor do they 
 
 lack 
 The noble-minded Mother's helping hand 
 To launch the boat; and with her blessing 
 
 cheered, 
 And inwardly sustained by silent prayer. 
 Together they put forth. Father and 
 
 Child ! 
 Each grasps an oar, and struggling on 
 
 they go — 
 Rivals in effort; and, alike intent 
 Here to elude and there surmount, they 
 
 watch 
 The billows lengthening, mutually crossed 
 And shattered, and re-gathering their 
 
 might ; 
 As if the tumult, by the Almighty's will 
 Were, in the conscious sea, roused and 
 
 prolonged 
 That woman's fortitude — so tried, so 
 
 proved — 
 May brighten more and more ! 
 
 True to the mark. 
 They stem the current of that perilous 
 
 gorge. . 
 Their arms still strengthening with the 
 
 strengthening heart. 
 Though danger, as the Wreck is neared, 
 
 becomes 
 More imminent. Not unseen do they 
 
 approach; 
 And rapture, with varieties of fear 
 Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames 
 Of those who, in that dauntless energy. 
 Foretaste deliverance; but the least per- 
 turbed 
 Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he per- 
 ceives 
 That of the pair — tossed on the waves to 
 
 bring 
 Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life — 
 One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister, 
 Or, be the Visitant other than she seems. 
 
862 "BEAMS OF ORIENT LIGHT SHOOT WIDE AND HIGH." 
 
 A guardian Spirit sent from pitying 
 
 Heaven, 
 In woman's shape. But why prolong the 
 
 tale, 
 Casting weak words amid a host of 
 
 thoughts 
 Armed to repel them? Every hazard 
 
 faced 
 And difficulty mastered, with resolve 
 That no one breathing should be left to 
 
 perish, 
 This last remainder of the crew are all 
 Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep 
 Are safely borne, landed upon the beach, 
 And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged 
 Within the sheltering Lighthouse. — 
 
 Shout, ye Waves 
 Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and 
 
 Winds, 
 Exult in this deliverance wrought through 
 
 faith 
 .'In Him whose Providence your rage hath 
 
 served ! 
 Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert 
 
 join ! 
 And would that some immortal Voice — a 
 
 Voice 
 IPitly attuned to all that gratitude 
 Breathes out from floor or couch, through 
 
 pallid lips 
 Of the survivors — to the clouds might 
 
 bear — 
 Blended with praise of that parental love. 
 Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden 
 
 grew 
 Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave. 
 Though young so wise, though meek so 
 
 resolute — 
 Might carry to the clouds and to the stars. 
 Yea, to celestial Choirs, Ghace Dar- 
 ling's name ! 
 1843. 1845. 
 
 "WHILE BEAMS OF ORIENT 
 LIGHT SHOOT WIDE AND 
 HIGH." 
 
 While beams of orient light shoot wide 
 
 and high. 
 Deep in the vale a little rural Town ^ 
 1 Ambleside. 
 
 Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its 
 
 own. 
 That mounts not toward the radiant 
 
 morning sky. 
 But, with a less ambitious sympathy, 
 Hangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares 
 Troubles and toils that every day prepares. 
 So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, 
 Endears that Lingerer. And how blest 
 
 her sway 
 (Like influence never may my soul re- 
 ject) 
 If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith 
 
 decked 
 With glorious forms in numberless array, 
 To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose 
 Gleams from a world in which the saints 
 repose. ^ 
 
 Jan. i, 1843. 1845. 
 
 TO THE REV. CHRISTOPHER 
 WORDSWORTH, D.D., MASTER 
 OF HARROW SCHOOL. 
 
 After the perusal of his TheopkUus A nglicanus, 
 recently published. 
 
 Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy 
 
 hand 
 Have I received this proof of pains be- 
 stowed 
 By Thee to guide thy Pupils on the road 
 That, in our native isle, and every land. 
 The Church, when trusting in divine com- 
 mand 
 And in her Catholic attributes, hath trod: 
 O may these lessons be with profit scanned 
 To thy heart's wish, thy labor blest by 
 
 God! 
 So the bright faces of the young and gay 
 Shall look more bright — the happy, 
 
 happier still; 
 Catch, in the pauses of their keenest play, 
 Motions of thought which elevate the will 
 And, like the Spire that from your classic 
 
 Hill 
 Points heavenward, indicate the end and 
 way. 
 
 Rydal Mount, Dec. 11, 1843. 1845. 
 
'PROUD WERE YE, MOUNTAINS, WHEN, IN TIMES OF OLD." 863 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 OR A MONUMENT IN CROSTHWAITE 
 CHURCH, IN THE VALE OF KESWICK. 
 
 (E vales and hills whose beauty hither 
 
 drew 
 le poet's steps, and fixed him here, on 
 
 you 
 iis eyes have closed ! And ye, loved 
 
 books, no more 
 ihall Southey feed upon your precious 
 
 lore, 
 To works that ne'er shall forfeit their re- 
 nown, 
 Mding immortal labors of his own — 
 Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal 
 For the State's guidance, or the Church's 
 
 weal. 
 Or Fancy, disciplined by studious art. 
 Informed his pen, or wisdom of the heart. 
 Or judgments sanctioned in the Patriot's 
 
 mind 
 By reverence for the rights of all mankind. 
 Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast 
 Could private feelings meet for holier rest. 
 His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a 
 
 cloiid 
 From Skiddaw's top; but he to heaven 
 » was vowed 
 Through his industrious life, and Christian 
 
 faith 
 Calmed in his soul the fear of change and 
 
 death. 
 December, 1843. 1845. 
 
 ON THE PROJECTED KENDAL 
 AND WINDERMERE RAILWAY. 
 
 Is then no nook of English ground secure 
 From rash assault? 1 Schemes of retire- 
 ment sown 
 In youth, and 'mid the busy world kept 
 pure 
 
 ' The degree and kind of attachment which 
 many of the yeomanry feel to their small inher- 
 itances can scarcely be over-rated. Near the 
 house of one of them stands a magnificent tree, 
 which a neighbor of the owner advised him to 
 Ml for profit's sake. " Fell it ! " exclaimed the 
 
 As when their earliest flowers of hope 
 
 were blown. 
 Must perish; — how can they this blight 
 
 endure? 
 And must he too the ruthless change 
 
 bemoan 
 Who scorns a false utilitarian lure 
 ' Mid his paternal fields at random thrown ? 
 Baffle the threat, bright Scene, from 
 
 Orresthead 
 Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous 
 
 glance : 
 Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful ro- 
 mance 
 Of nature; and, if human hearts be dead. 
 Speak, passing winds; ye torrents, with 
 
 your strong 
 And constaat voice, protest against the 
 
 wrong. 
 Oct. 12, 1844. 1845. 
 
 " PROUD WERE YE, MOUNTAINS, 
 WHEN, IN TIMES OF OLD." 
 
 Proud were ye. Mountains, when, in 
 
 times of old, 
 Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war, 
 Intrenched your brows; ye gloried in 
 
 each scar : 
 Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thirst 
 
 of Gold, 
 That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star. 
 Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall 
 
 be sold, 
 And clearway made for her triumphal car 
 Through the beloved retreats your arms 
 
 enfold ! 
 Heard YE that Whistle? As her long- 
 linked Train 
 Swept onwards, did the vision cross your 
 
 view? 
 Yes, ye were startled; — and, in balance 
 
 true. 
 Weighing the mischief with the promised 
 
 gain, 
 
 yeoman, " I had rather fall on my knees and 
 worship it." It happens, I believe, that the 
 intended railway would pass through this little 
 property, and I hope that an apology for the 
 answer will not be thought necessary by one who 
 enters into the strength of the feeling. 
 
864 
 
 AT FURNESS ABBE^. 
 
 Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call 
 
 on you 
 To share the passion of a just disdain. 
 1844. 1845. 
 
 AT FURNESS ABBEY. 
 
 Here, where, of havoc tired and rash 
 undoing, 
 
 Man left this Structure to become Time's 
 prey 
 
 A soothing spirit follows in the way 
 
 That Nature takes, her counter-work pur- 
 suing. 
 
 See how her Ivy clasps the sacred Ruin 
 
 Fall to prevent or beautify decay; 
 
 And, on the mouldered walls, how bright, 
 how gay. 
 
 The flowers in pearly dews their bloom 
 renewing ! 
 
 Thanks to the place, blessings upon the 
 hour; 
 
 Even as I speak the rising Sun's first 
 smile 
 
 Gleams on the grass-crowned top of yon 
 tall Tower 
 
 Whose cawing occupants with joy pro- 
 claim 
 
 Prescriptive title to the shattered pile 
 
 Where, Cavendish, thine seems nothing 
 but a name ! 
 1844. 1845. 
 
 " FORTH FROM A JUTTING RIDGE, 
 AROUND WHOSE BASE." 
 
 Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose 
 
 base 
 Winds our deep Vale, two heath-clad 
 
 Rocks ascend 
 In fellowship, the loftiest of the pair 
 Rising to no ambitious height ; yet both. 
 O'er lake and stream, mountain and 
 
 flowery mead. 
 Unfolding prospects fair as human eyes 
 Ever beheld. Up-led with mutual help. 
 To one or other brow of those twin Peaks 
 Were two adventurous Sisters wont to 
 
 climb, 
 And took no note of the hour while 
 
 thence they gazed, 
 
 The blooming heath their couch, gazed, 
 
 side by side. 
 In speechless admiration. I, a witness 
 And frequent sharer of their calm delight 
 With thankful heart, to either Eminence 
 Gave the baptismal name each Sister bore. 
 Now are they parted, far as Death's cold 
 
 hand 
 Hath power to part the Spirits of those 
 
 who love 
 As they did love. Ye kindred Pinnacles— 
 That, while the generations of mankind 
 Follow each other to their hiding-place 
 In time's abyss, are privileged to endure 
 Beautiful in yourselves, and richly graced 
 With like command of beauty — grant 
 
 your aid 
 For Mary's humble, Sarah's silent claim, 
 That their pure joy in nature may survive 
 From age to age in blended memory. 
 1845. 1845. 
 
 THE WESTMORELAND GIRL. 
 
 TO MY GRANDCHILDREN. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 Seek who will delight in fable 
 I shall tell you truth. A Lamb 
 Leapt from this steep bank to follow 
 'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam. 
 
 Far and wide on hill and valley 
 Rain had fallen, unceasing rain. 
 And the bleating mother's Young-one 
 Struggled with the flood in vain : 
 
 But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden 
 (Ten years scarcely had she told) 
 Seeing, plunged into the torrent, , 
 
 Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold. , 
 
 Whirled adown the rocky channel, 
 Sinking, rising, on they go. 
 Peace and rest, as seems, before them .' 
 Only in the lake below. ^ 
 
 Oh ! it was a frightful current 
 Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved; 
 Clap your hands with joy, my Hearers, 
 Shout in triumph, both are saved; 
 
AT FURNESS ABBEY. 
 
 86s 
 
 Saved by courage that with danger 
 Grew, by strength the gift of love, 
 And behke a guardian angel 
 Came with succor from above. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 Novjr, to a maturer Audience, 
 Let me speak of this brave Child 
 Left among her native mountains 
 With wild Nature to run wild. 
 
 So, unwatched by love maternal. 
 Mother's care no more her guide, 
 Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan 
 Even while at her father's side. 
 
 Spare your blame, — remembrance makes 
 
 him 
 Loth to rule by strict command; 
 Still upon his cheek are living 
 Touches of her infant hand. 
 
 Dear caresses given in pity. 
 Sympathy that soothed his grief, 
 As the dying mother witnessed 
 To her thankful mind's relief. 
 
 Time passed on; the Child was happy. 
 Like a Spirit of air she moved, 
 Wayward, yet by all who knew her 
 For her tender heart beloved. 
 
 Scarcely less than sacred passions, 
 Bred in house, in grove, and field. 
 Link her with the inferior creatures, 
 Urge her powers their rights to shield. 
 
 Anglers, bent on reckless pastime. 
 
 Learn how she can feel alike 
 
 Both for tiny harmless minnow 
 
 And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike. 
 
 Merciful protectress, kindling 
 Into anger or disdain ; 
 •Many a captive hath she rescued. 
 Others saved from lingering pain. 
 
 Listen yet awhile ; — with patience 
 Hear the homely truths I tell. 
 She in Grasmere's old church-steeple 
 Tolled this day the passing-bell. 
 
 Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains 
 To their echoes gave the sound. 
 Notice punctual as the minute. 
 Warning solemn and profound. 
 
 She, fulfilling her sire's office. 
 Rang alone the far-heard knell, 
 Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow. 
 Paid to One who loved her well. 
 
 When his spirit was departed 
 On that service she went forth; 
 Nor will fail the like to render 
 When his corse is laid in earth. 
 
 What then wants the Child to temper, 
 In her breast, unruly fire. 
 To control the froward impulse 
 And restrain the vague desire ? 
 
 Easily a pious training 
 And a steadfast outward power 
 Would supplant the weeds and cherish. 
 In their stead, each opening flower. 
 
 Thus the fearless Lamb-deliv'rer, 
 Woman-grown, meek-hearted, sage. 
 May become a blest example 
 For her sex, of every age. 
 
 Watchful as a wheeling eagle. 
 Constant as a soaring lark. 
 Should the country need a heroine, 
 She might prove our Maid of Arc. 
 
 Leave that thought; and here be uttered 
 Prayer that Grace divine may raise 
 Her humane courageous spirit 
 Up to heaven, thro' peaceful ways. 
 June 6, 1845. 1845. 
 
 AT FURNESS ABBEY. 
 
 Well have yon Railway Laborers to this 
 
 ground 
 Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, 
 
 they walk 
 Among the Ruins, but no idle talk 
 Is heard; to grave demeanor all are 
 
 bound; 
 And from one voioe a Hymn with tuneful 
 
 sound 
 
866 
 
 'YES! THOU ART FAIR, YET BE NOT MOVED." 
 
 Hallows once more the long- deserted 
 
 Quire 
 And thrills the old sepulchral earth, 
 
 around. 
 Others look up, andwith fixed eyes admire 
 That wide-spanned arch, wondering how 
 
 it was raised, 
 To keep, so high in air, its strength and 
 
 grace : 
 All seem to feel the spirit of the place. 
 And by the general reverence God is 
 
 praised : 
 Profane Despoilers, standyenot reproved, 
 While thus these simple-hearted men are 
 
 moved ? 
 
 June 21, 1845. 
 
 1845. 
 
 "YES! THOU ART FAIR, YET BE 
 NOT MOVED." 
 
 Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved 
 
 To scorn the declaration, 
 That sometimes I in thee have loved 
 
 My fancy's own creation. 
 
 Imagination needs must stir; 
 Dear Maid, this truth believe, 
 
 (Minds that have nothing to confer 
 Find little to perceive. 
 
 Be pleased that nature made thee fit 
 To feed my heart's devotion, 
 
 By laws to which all Forms submit 
 In sky, air, earth, and ocean. 
 
 1845. 1845. 
 
 "WHAT HEAVENLY SMILES! O 
 LADY MINE." 
 
 What heavenly smiles ! O Lady mine 
 Through my very heart they shine; 
 And, if my brow gives back their light, 
 Do thou look gladly on the sight; 
 As the -clear Moon with modest pride 
 
 Beholds her own bright beams 
 Reflected from the mountain's side 
 
 And from the headlong streams. 
 
 1845. 1845. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD 
 WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAW- 
 INGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS 
 IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA. 
 
 Fair Lady ! can I sing of flowers 
 
 That in Madeira bloom and fade, 
 I who ne'er sate within their bowers, 
 
 Nor through their sunny lawns have 
 strayed? 
 How they in sprightly dance are worn 
 
 By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, 
 Or holy festal pomps adorn. 
 
 These eyes have never seen. 
 
 Yet tho' to me the pencil's art 
 
 No like remembrances can give, 
 Your portraits still may reach the heart 
 
 And there for gentle pleasure live; 
 While Fancy ranging with free scope 
 
 Shall on some lovely Alien set 
 A name with us endeared to hope, 
 
 To peace, or fond regret. 
 
 Still as we look with nicer care. 
 
 Some new resemblance we may trace J 
 A Heart' s-ease will perhaps be there, 
 
 A Speedwell may not want its place. 
 And so may we, with charmed mind 
 
 Beholding what your skill has wrought, 
 Another Star-of-Bethlehem find, 
 
 A new Forget-7ne-not. 
 
 From earth to heaven with motion fleet, 
 
 From heaven to earth our thoughts 
 
 will pass, i 
 
 A Holy-thistle here we meet * 
 
 And there a Shepherd's weather-glass; 
 And haply some familiar name 
 
 Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant 
 
 Whose presence cheers the drooping 
 
 frame aJ 
 
 Of Enghsh Emigrant. , !' 
 
 Gazing she feels its powers beguile 
 Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier 
 breath ; ■ 
 
 Alas ! that meek, that tender smile 
 Is but a harbinger of death: 1 
 
LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 
 
 867 
 
 And pointing with a feeble hand 
 She says, in faint words by sighs broken, 
 
 Bear for me to my native land 
 This precious Flower, true love's last 
 
 token. 
 1843. 1845. 
 
 "GLAD SIGHT WHEREVER NEW 
 WITH OLD." 
 
 Glad sight wherever new with old 
 
 Is joined through some dear homeborn 
 
 tie; 
 The life of all that we behold 
 Depends upon that mystery. 
 Vain is the glory of the sky. 
 The beauty vain of field and grove, 
 Unless, while with admiring eye 
 We gaze, we also learn to love. 
 
 1845. 1845- 
 
 LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 
 
 Ithas been said that the English, though their 
 country has produced so many great poets, is now 
 t^e most unpoetical nation in Europe. It is prob- 
 ably true ; for they have more temptations to 
 become so than any other European people. 
 Trade, commerce, and manufactures, physical 
 science, and mechanic arts, out of which so much 
 wealth has arisen, have made our countrymen 
 infinitely less sensible to movements of imagina- 
 tion and fancy than were our forefathers in their 
 simple state of society. How touching and 
 beautiful were, in most instances, the names they 
 gave to our indigenous flowers, or any other they 
 were familiarly acquainted with ! — Every month 
 (or many years have we been importing plants and 
 flowers from all quarters of the globe, many of 
 which are spread through our gardens, and some 
 perliaps likely to be met with on the few Commons 
 which we have left. Will their botanical names 
 ever be displaced by plain English appellations, 
 which will bring them home to our hearts by con- 
 nection with our joys and sorrows ? It can never 
 be, unless society treads back her steps towards 
 those simplicities which have been banished by 
 the undue influence of towns spreading and 
 spreading in every direction, so that city -life with 
 every generation takes more and more the lead of 
 
 rural. ..\mong the ancients, villages were reckoned 
 the seats of barbarism. Refinement, for the most 
 part false, increases the desire to accumulate 
 wealth ; and while theories of political economy 
 are boastfully pleading for the practice, inhu. 
 manity pervades all our dealings in buying and 
 selling. This selfishness wars against disin- 
 terested imagination in ail directions, and, evils 
 coming round in a circle, barbarism spreads in 
 every quarter of our island. Oh for the reign of 
 justice, and then tlie humblest man among us 
 would have more power and dignity in and about 
 him than the highest have now ! 
 
 You call it, " Love lies bleeding," — so 
 
 you may, 
 Though the red Flower, not prostrate, 
 
 only droops. 
 As we have seen it here from day to day, 
 From month to month, life passing not 
 
 away : 
 A flower how rich in sadness I Even thus 
 
 stoops, 
 (Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvel- 
 lous power) 
 Thus leans, with hanging brow and body 
 
 bent 
 Earthward in uncomplaining languish- 
 
 ment 
 The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower ! 
 ('T is Fancy guides me willing to be led. 
 Though by a slender thread,) 
 So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine 
 
 dew 
 Of his death-wound, when he from inno- 
 cent air 
 The gentlest breath of resignation drew; 
 While Venus in a passion of despair 
 Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair 
 Spangled with drops of that celestial 
 
 shower. 
 She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do; 
 But pangs more lasting far, that Lover 
 
 knew 
 Who first, weighed down by scorn, in 
 
 some lone bower 
 Did press this semblance of unpitied smart 
 Into the service of his constant heart. 
 His own dejection, downcast Flower ! 
 
 could share 
 With thine, and gave the mournful name 
 
 which thou wilt ever bear. 
 
 1845. 
 
 1845. 
 
868 
 
 COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 Never enlivened with the liveliest ray 
 That fosters growth or checks or cheers 
 
 decay, 
 Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more 
 
 deprest, 
 This Flower, that first appeared as sum- 
 mer's guest. 
 Preserves her beauty 'mid autumnal leaves 
 And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. 
 When files of stateliest plants have ceased 
 
 to bloom, 
 One after one submitting to their doom. 
 When her coevals each and all are fled. 
 What keeps her thus reclined upon her 
 lonesome bed? 
 The old mythologists, more imprest 
 than we 
 Of this late day by character in tree 
 Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy. 
 Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear. 
 Or with the language of the viewless air 
 By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause 
 To solve the mystery, not in Nature ' s laws 
 But in Man's fortunes. Hence -^ thou- 
 sand tales 
 Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. 
 Nor doubt that something of their spirit 
 
 swayed 
 The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick 
 
 Maid, 
 Who, while each stood companionless 
 
 and eyed 
 This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed. 
 Thought of a wound which death is slow 
 
 to cure, 
 A fate that has endured and will endure. 
 And, patience coveting yet passion feed- 
 ing. 
 Called the dejected Lingerer, Loves lies 
 bleeding. 
 1845. 1845. 
 
 THE CUCKOO-CLOCK. 
 
 Of this clock I have nothing further to say than 
 what the poem expresses, except that it must be 
 here recorded that it was a present from the dear 
 friend for whose sake these notes were chiefly 
 undertaken, and who has written them from my 
 dictation. 
 
 WouLDST thou be taught, when sleep has 
 
 taken flight, 
 By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell. 
 How far off yet a glimpse of morning light, 
 And if to lure the truant back be well, 
 Forbear to covet a Repeater's stroke. 
 That, answering to thy touch, will sound 
 
 the hour; 
 Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock 
 For service hung behind thy chamber- 
 door; 
 And in due time the soft spontaneous 
 
 shock. 
 The double note, as if with living power, 
 Will to composure lead — or make *iee 
 blithe as bird in bowei. 
 
 List, Cuckoo — Cuckoo! — oft ttio' tem- 
 pests howl. 
 Or nipping frost remind thee trees are 
 
 bare. 
 How cattle pine, and droop the shiveringj 
 
 fowl, ' 
 
 Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air : 
 I speak with knowledge, — by that Voice 
 
 beguiled, 
 Thou wilt salute old memories as they 
 
 throng 
 Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild 
 Through fresh green fields, and budding 
 
 groves among. 
 Will make thee happy, happy as a child: 
 Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, 
 
 and song. 
 And breathe as in a world where nothing 
 
 can go wrong. 
 
 And know — that, even for him who 
 
 shuns the day 
 And nightly tosses on a bed of pain; 
 Whose joys, from all but memory swept 
 
 away. 
 Must come unhoped for, if they come 
 
 again ; 
 Know — that, for him whose waking 
 
 thoughts, severe 
 As his distress is sharp, would scorn my 
 
 theme, 
 The mimic notes, striking upon his ear ' 
 Insleep, and intermingling v'ith his dream, 
 Could from sad regions send him to a dear 
 
" VUUJNU JiNULAJNU— WHAT IS THEN ISKCUME Uf OLD." 
 
 Delightful land of verdure, shower and 
 
 gleam, 
 To mock the wanderingN o\ct beside some 
 
 haunted stream. 
 
 bounty without measure ! while the 
 grace 
 
 Of Heaven doth in such wise, from hum- 
 blest springs, 
 
 Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace 
 
 A mazy course along familiar things. 
 
 Well may our hearts have faith that 
 blessings come, 
 
 Streaming from founts above the starry 
 sky, 
 
 With angels when their own untroubled 
 home 
 
 They leave, and speed on nightly embassy 
 
 To visit earthly chambers, — and for 
 whom? 
 
 Yea, both for souls who God's forbear- 
 ance try, 
 
 And those that seek his help, and for his 
 mercy sigh. 
 1845. '845. 
 
 "SO FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL 
 SO SENSITIVE." 
 
 So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive. 
 Would that the little Flowers were born 
 
 to live. 
 Conscious of half the pleasure which they 
 
 That to this mountain-daisy's self were 
 
 known 
 The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, 
 
 thrown 
 On the smooth surface of this naked stone ! 
 
 And what if hence a bold desire should 
 
 mount 
 High as the Sun, that he could take account 
 Of all that issues from his glorious fount ! 
 
 So might he ken how by his sovereign aid 
 These delicate companionships are made; 
 And how he rules the pomp of light and 
 shade ; 
 
 And were the Sister-power that shines by 
 night 
 
 So privileged, what a countenance of de- 
 light 
 
 Would through the clouds break forth on 
 human sight ! 
 
 Fond fancies ! wheresoe'er shall turn 
 
 thine eye 
 On earth, air, ocean, or the starry sky. 
 Converse with Nature in pure sympathy; 
 
 All vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled, 
 Be Thou to love and praise alike impelled. 
 Whatever boon is granted or withheld. 
 1845- 1845. 
 
 TO THE PENNSYLVANIANS. 
 
 Days undefiled by luxury or sloth. 
 Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid. 
 Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness 
 
 obeyed, 
 Words that require no sanction from an 
 
 oath. 
 And simple honesty a common growth — 
 This high repute, with bounteous Nature's 
 
 aid, 
 Won confidence, now ruthlessly betrayed 
 At will, your power the measure of your 
 
 troth ! — 
 All who revere the memory of Penn 
 Grieve for the land on whose wild woods 
 
 his name 
 Was fondly grafted with a virtuous aim. 
 Renounced, abandoned by degenerate 
 
 Men 
 For state-dishonor black as ever came 
 To upper air from Mammon's loathsome 
 
 den. 
 1845. 1845. 
 
 "YOUNG ENGLAND — WHAT IS 
 THEN BECOME OF OLD." 
 
 Young England — what is then become 
 
 of Old, 
 Of dear Old England? Think they she 
 
 is dead. 
 Dead to the very name ? Presumption fed 
 On empty air ! That name will keep its 
 
 hold 
 
Syo 
 
 "THOUGH THE BOLD WINGS OF POESY AFFECT." 
 
 In the true filial bosom's inmost fold 
 
 Forever. — Tlie Spirit of Alfred, at the 
 head 
 
 Of all who for her rights watched, toiled 
 and bled. 
 
 Knows that this prophecy is not too bold. 
 
 What — how ! shall she submit in will 
 and deed 
 
 To Beardless Boys — an imitative race, 
 
 The servum perns of a Gallic breed ? 
 
 Dear Mother ! if thou must thy steps re- 
 trace, 
 
 Go where at least meek Innocency dwells; 
 
 Let Babes and Sucklings be thy oracles. 
 1845. 1845- 
 
 "THOUGH THE BOLD WINGS OF 
 POESY AFFECT." 
 
 Though the bold wings of Poesy affect 
 The clouds, and wheel around the moun- 
 tain tops 
 Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she 
 
 drops 
 Well pleased to skim the plain with wild 
 
 flowers deckt 
 Or muse in solemn grove whose shades 
 
 protect 
 The lingering dew — there steals along, 
 
 or stops 
 Watching the least small bird that round 
 
 her hops. 
 Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. 
 Her functions are they therefore less 
 
 divine. 
 Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave 
 
 intent 
 Her simplest fancies? Should that fear 
 
 be thine. 
 Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present 
 One offering, kneel before her modest 
 
 shrine. 
 With brow in penitential sorrow bent ! 
 1845, 1845. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF 
 THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 
 
 This subject has been treated of in another 
 note. I will here only by way of comment direct 
 attention to the fact that pictures of animals and 
 
 other productions of nature as seen in conserva* 
 toriesj menageries, museums, etc., would do little 
 for the national mind, nay they would be rather 
 injurious to it, if the imagination were excluded 
 by the presence of the object, more or less out of 
 a state of nature. If it were not that we learn to 
 talk and think of the lion and the eagle, the palm- 
 tree and even the cedar, from the impassioned 
 introduction of them so frequently into Holy 
 Scripture and by great poets, and divines who 
 write as poets, the spiritual part of our nature, 
 and therefore the higher part of it, would derive 
 no benefit from such intercourse with such objects. 
 
 The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts 
 
 endowed. 
 And a true master of the glowing strain. 
 Might scan the narrow province with 
 
 disdain 
 That to the Painter's skill is here allowed. ' 
 This, this the Bird of Paradise ! disclaim 
 The daring thought, forget the name; 
 This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers 
 
 might own 
 As no unworthy Partner in their flight % 
 Through seas of ether, where the rutfling 
 
 sway 
 Of nether air's rude billows is unknown; 
 Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime 
 
 they ; 
 
 Through India's spicy regions wing their 
 
 way, 
 Might bow to as their Lord. What 
 
 character, 
 O sovereign Nature ! I appeal to thee, 
 Of all thy feathered progeny 
 Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair? 
 So richly decked in variegated down, 
 Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy 
 
 brown. 
 Tints softly with each other blended, 
 Hues doubtfully begun and ended; 
 Or intershooting, and to sight 
 Lost and recovered, as the rays of light 
 Glance on the conscious plumes touched 
 
 here and there? 
 Full surely, when with such proud gifts 
 
 of life 
 Began the pencil's strife, 
 O'erweening Art was caught as in a snare. 
 A sense of seemingly presumptuous 
 
 wrong 
 Gave the first impulse to the Poet's song; , 
 But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew 
 
'I KNOW AN AGED MAN CONSTRAINED TO DWELL.^ 
 
 871 
 
 A juster judgment from a calmer view; 
 
 And, with a spirit freed from discontent, 
 
 ' SEhankfully took an effort tfiat was meant 
 
 fNot witfi God's bounty, Nature's love to 
 
 I vie, 
 
 Or made with hope to please that inward 
 
 eye 
 Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy, 
 But to recall the truth by some faint trace 
 Of power ethereal and celestial grace, 
 That in the living Creature find on earth 
 a place. 
 
 1845. 1845. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic 
 
 boy, 
 For such thou wert ere from our sight 
 
 removed, 
 Holy, and ever dutiful — beloved 
 From day to day with never-ceasing joy. 
 And hopes as dear as could the heart 
 
 employ 
 In aught to earth pertaining? Death has 
 
 proved 
 His might, nor less his mercy, as be- 
 hoved — 
 Death conscious that he only could destroy 
 The bodily frame. That beauty is laid low 
 To moulder in a far-off field of Rome; 
 But Heaven is now, blest Child, thy 
 
 Spirit's home: 
 When such divine communion, which we 
 
 know. 
 Is felt, thy Roman burial-place will be 
 Surely a sweet remembrancer of Thee. 
 
 1846. 1850. 
 
 "WHERE LIES THE TRUTH? HAS 
 MAN, IN WISDOM'S CREED." 
 
 Where lies the truth? has Man, in wis- 
 dom's creed, 
 A pitiable doom ; for respite brief 
 A care more anxious, or a heavier grief? 
 Is he ungrateful, and doth little heed 
 God's bounty, soon forgotten; or indeed, 
 Must Man, with labor born, awake to 
 
 sorrow 
 When Flowers rejoice and Larks with 
 rival speed 
 
 Spring from their nests to bid the Sun 
 
 good morrow? 
 They mount for rapture as their songs 
 
 proclaim 
 Warbled in hearing both of earth and sky; 
 But o'er the contrast wherefore heave a 
 
 sigh ? 
 Like those aspirants let us soar — our aim. 
 Through life's worst trials, whether shocks 
 
 or snares, 
 A happier, brighter, purer Heaven than 
 
 theirs. 
 1846. 1850. 
 
 "I KNOW AN AGED MAN CON- 
 STRAINED TO DWELL." 
 
 I KNOW an aged Man constrained to dwell 
 In a large house of public charity. 
 Where he abides, as in a Prisoner'^ cell. 
 With numbers near, alas ! no company. 
 
 When he could creep about, at will, though 
 
 poor 
 And forced to live on alms, this old Man 
 
 fed 
 A Redbreast, one that to his cottage door 
 Came not, but in a lane partook his bread. 
 
 There, at the root of one particular tree. 
 An easy seat this worn-out Laborer found 
 While Robin pecked the crumbs upon his 
 
 knee 
 Laid one by one, or scattered on the 
 ground. 
 
 Dear intercourse was theirs, day after day; 
 What signs of mutual gladness when they 
 
 met ! 
 Think of their common peace, their simple 
 
 play. 
 The parting moment and its fond regret. 
 
 Months passed in love that failed not to 
 fulfil. 
 
 In spite of season's change, its own de- 
 mand. 
 
 By fluttering pinions here and busy bill; 
 
 There by caresses from a tremulous hand. 
 
 Thus in the chosen spot a tie so strong 
 Was formed between the solitary pair. 
 
872 
 
 HOW BEAUTIFUL THE QUEEN OF NIGHT." 
 
 That when his fate had housed him 'mid 
 a throng 
 
 The Captive shunned all converse prof- 
 fered there. 
 
 Wife, children, kindred, they were dead 
 
 and gone; 
 But, if no evil hap his wishes crossed, 
 One living Stay was left, and on that one 
 Some recompense for all that he had lost. 
 
 Oh that the good old Man had power to 
 
 prove. 
 By message sent through air or visible 
 
 token. 
 That still he loves the Bird, and still 
 
 must love; 
 That friendship lasts though fellowship 
 
 is broken ! 
 1846. 1850. 
 
 " HOW BEAUTIFUL THE QUEEN 
 OF NIGHT." 
 
 How beautiful the Queen of Night, on 
 
 high 
 Her way pursuing among scattered 
 
 clouds, 
 Where, ever and anon, her head she 
 
 shrouds 
 Hidden from view in dense obscurity. 
 But look, and to the watchful eye 
 A brightening edge will indicate that soon 
 We shall behold the struggling Moon 
 Break forth, — again to walk the clear 
 
 blue sky. 
 1846. 1850. 
 
 EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
 
 TO LUCCA GIORDANO. 
 
 Giordano, verily thy Pencil's skill 
 Hath here portrayed with Nature's hap- 
 piest grace 
 The fair Endymion couched on Latmos- 
 
 hill; 
 And Dian gazing on the Shepherd's face 
 In rapture, — yet suspending her embrace, 
 As not unconscious with what power the 
 thrill 
 
 Of her most timid touch his sleep would 
 
 chase. 
 And, with his sleep, that beauty calm 
 
 and still. 
 Oh may this work have found its last 
 
 retreat 
 Here in a Mountain-bard's secure abode, 
 One to whom, yet a School-boy, Cynthia 
 
 showed 
 A face of love which he in love would 
 
 greet. 
 Fixed, by her smile, upon some rocky 
 
 seat; 
 Or lured along where greenwood paths 
 
 he trod. 
 Rydal Mount, 1846. 1850. 
 
 " WHO BUT IS PLEASED TO WATCH THE 
 MOON ON HIGH." 
 
 Who but is pleased to watch the moon 
 
 on high 
 Travelling where she from time to time 
 
 enshrouds 
 Her head, and nothing loth her Majesty 
 Renounces, till among the scattered 
 
 clouds 
 One with its kindling edge declares that 
 
 soon 
 Will reappear before the uplifted eye 
 A Form as bright, as beautiful a moon, 
 To glide in open prospect through clear 
 
 sky. 
 Pity that such a promise e'er should prove 
 False in the issue, that yon seeming space 
 Of sky should be in truth the steadfast face 
 Of a cloud flat and dense, through which 
 
 must move 
 (By transit not unlike man's frequent 
 
 doom) 
 The Wanderer lost in more determined 
 
 gloom. 
 1846. 1850. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BOOKS AND 
 NEWSPAPERS. 
 
 Discourse was deemed Man's noblest 
 
 attribute. 
 And written words the glory of his hand; 
 Then followed Printing with enlarged 
 
 command 
 For thought — dominion vast and absolute 
 
ODE. 
 
 873 
 
 For spreading truth, and making love 
 
 expand. 
 Now prose and verse sunk into disrepute 
 Must lackey a dumb Art that best can 
 
 suit 
 The taste of this once-intellectual Land. 
 A backward movement surely have we 
 
 here, 
 From manhood, — back to childhood; 
 
 for the age — 
 Back towards caverned life's first rude 
 
 career. 
 Avaunt this vile abusi of pictured page ! 
 Must eyes be all in all, the tongue and 
 
 ear 
 Nothing? Heaven keep us from a lower 
 
 stage ! 
 1846. 1850. 
 
 "THE UNREMITTING VOICE OF 
 NIGHTLY STREAMS." 
 
 The unremitting voice of nightly streams 
 That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful 
 
 powers, 
 If neither soothing to the worm that 
 
 gleams 
 Through dewy grass, nor small birds 
 
 hushed in bowers. 
 Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy 
 
 flowers, — 
 That voice of unpretending harmony 
 (For who what is shall measure by what 
 
 seems 
 To be, or not to be. 
 Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?) 
 Wants not a healing influence that can 
 
 creep 
 Into the human breast, and mix with sleep 
 To regulate the motion of our dreams 
 For kindly issues — as through every clime 
 Was felt near murmuring brooks in 
 
 earliest time; 
 As at this day, the rudest swains who 
 
 dwell 
 Where torrents roar, or hear the tinkling 
 
 knell 
 Of water-breaks, with grateful heart 
 
 could tell. 
 
 1846. 
 
 1850. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO AN OCTOGENARIAN. 
 
 Affections lose their object; Time 
 
 brings forth 
 No successors; and, lodged in memory. 
 If love exist no longer, it must die, — 
 Wanting accustomed food, must pass 
 
 from earth. 
 Or never hope to reach a second birth. 
 This sad belief, the happiest that is left 
 To thousands, share not Thou; howe'er 
 
 bereft. 
 Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a 
 
 dearth. 
 Though poor and destitute of friends thou 
 
 art. 
 Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race, 
 One to whom Heaven assigns that mourn- 
 ful part 
 The utmost solitude of age to face, 
 Still shall be left some corner of the heart 
 Where Love for living Thing can find a 
 
 place. 
 1846. 1850. 
 
 ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY 
 STREAM. 
 
 Behold an emblem of our human mind 
 Crowded with thoughts that need a 
 
 settled home, 
 Yet, like to eddying balls of foam 
 Within this whirlpool, they each other 
 
 chase 
 Round and round, and neither find 
 An outlet nor a resting-place ! 
 Stranger, if such disquietude be thine. 
 Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine. 
 1846. 1849- 
 
 ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF 
 HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE 
 ALBERT AS CHANCELLOR OF 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CAM- 
 BRIDGE, JULY, 1847. 
 
 introduction and chorus. 
 
 For thirst of power that Heaves^ 
 
 disowns, 
 For temples, towers, and thrones, 
 
874 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Too long insulted by the Spoiler's shock, 
 
 Indignant Europe cast 
 
 Her stormy foe at last 
 To reap the whirlwind on a Libyan rock. 
 
 SOLO — (tenor). 
 War is passion's basest game 
 Madly played to win a name; 
 Up starts some tyrant, Earth and Heaven 
 to dare. 
 The servile million bow; 
 But will the lightning glance aside to spare 
 The Despot's laurelled brow? 
 
 CHORUS. 
 War is mercy, glory, fame. 
 Waged in Freedom's holy cause; 
 Freedom, such as Man may claim 
 Under God's restraining laws. 
 Such is Albion's fame and glory: 
 Let rescued Europe tell the story. 
 
 RKcn .(^accompanied) — (contralto). 
 
 But lo, what sudden cloud has darkened 
 all 
 The land as with a funeral pall? 
 The Rose of England suffers blight, 
 The flower has drooped, the Isle's delight. 
 
 Flower and bud together fall — ■ 
 A Nation's hopes lie crushed in Clare- 
 mont's desolate hall. 
 
 AIR — (soprano). 
 Time a checkered mantle wears; — 
 
 Earth awakes from wintry sleep; 
 Again the Tree a blossom bears — 
 
 Cease, Britannia, cease to weep ! 
 Hark to the peals on this bright May 
 
 morn ! 
 They tell that your future Queen is born. 
 
 SOPRANO solo and CHORUS. 
 A Guardian Angel fluttered 
 Above the Babe, unseen; 
 One word he softly uttered — 
 It named the future Queen : 
 And a joyful cry through the Island rang. 
 As clear and bold as the trumpet's clang, 
 As bland as the reed of peace — 
 "VICTORIA be her name ! " 
 For righteous triumphs are the base 
 Whereon Britannia rests her peaceful 
 fame. 
 
 QUARTET. 
 Time, in his mantle's sunniest foldt 
 Uplifted in his arms the child; 
 And, while the fearless Infant smiled, 
 Her happier destiny foretold: — 
 " Infancy, by Wisdom mild. 
 Trained to health and artless beauty; 
 Youth, by pleasure unbeguiled 
 From the lore of lofty duty; 
 Womanhood is pure renown, 
 Seated on her lineal throne : ■' 
 
 Leaves of myrtle in her Crown, 
 Fresh with lustre all their own. 
 Love, the treasure worth possessing, 
 More than all the world beside. 
 This shall be her choicest blessing, 
 Oft to royal hearts denied." 
 
 RECIT. {accompanied) — (bass). 
 
 That eve, the Star of Brunswick shone 
 
 With steadfast ray benign 
 On Gotha's ducal roof, and on 
 
 The softly flowing Leine; 
 Nor failed to gild the spires of Bonn, 
 
 And glittered on the Rhine — 
 Old Camus, too, on that prophetic night 
 
 Was conscious of the ray; 
 And his willows whispered in its light. 
 
 Not to the Zephyr's sway. 
 But with a Delphic life, in sight 
 
 Of this auspicious day : 
 
 This day, when Granta hails her chosen 
 Lord, 
 And proud of her award, 
 Confiding in the Star serene. 
 
 Welcomes the Consort of a happy Queen. 
 
 AIR — (contralto). 
 
 Prince, in these Collegiate bowers. 
 Where Science, leagued with holier 
 
 truth. 
 Guards the sacred heart of youth, 
 Solemn monitors are ours. 
 These reverend aisles, these hallowed 
 
 towers, 
 Raised by many a hand august, 
 Are haunted by majestic Powers, 
 The meniories of the Wise and Just, 
 Who, faithful to a pious trust. 
 
ODE. 
 
 875 
 
 Here, in the Founder's spirit sought 
 To mould and stamp the ore of thought 
 In that bold form and impress high 
 That best betoken patriot loyalty. 
 Not in vain those Sages taught, — 
 i True disciples, good as great. 
 
 Have pondered here their country'-s 
 
 weal, 
 Weighed the Future by the Past, 
 Learned how social frames may last, 
 And how a Land may rule its fate 
 By constancy inviolate. 
 Though worlds to their foundations reel 
 The sport of factious Hate or godless Zeal. 
 
 AIR — (bass). 
 
 Albert, in thy race we cherish 
 ANation's strength that will not perish 
 While England's sceptred Line 
 i True to the King of Kings is found; 
 Like that Wise ancestor of thine 
 
 Who threw the Saxon shield o'er Luther's 
 
 life, 
 When first above the yells of bigot strife 
 
 The trumpet of the Living Word 
 Assumed a voice of deep portentous sound. 
 From gladdened Elbe to startled Tiber 
 heard. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 What shield more sublime 
 E'er was blazoned or sung? 
 And the PRINCE whom we greet 
 From its Hero is sprung. 
 
 Resound, resound the strain. 
 
 That hails him for our own ! 
 Again, again, and yet again, 
 For the Church, the State, the Throne ! 
 And that Presence fair and bright, 
 Ever blest wherever seen, 
 Who deigns to grace our festal rite. 
 The pride of the Islands, VICTORIA 
 THE QUEEN. 
 
 1847. "847. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Page 41. 
 
 ^' And, hovering, round it often did a 
 raven Jiy. ' ' 
 
 From a short MS. poem read to me 
 when an undergraduate, by my schoolfel- 
 low and friend, Charles Farish, long since 
 deceased. The verses were by a brother 
 of his, a man of promising genius, who 
 died young. 
 
 Page S3. 
 *' The Borderers. ^^ 
 
 This Dramatic Piece, as noticed in its 
 title-page, was composed in 1795-96. It 
 lay nearly from that time till within the 
 last two or three months unregarded 
 among my papers, without being men- 
 tioned even to my most intimate friends. 
 Having, however, impressions upon my 
 mind which made me unwilling to destroy • 
 the MS., I determined to undertake the 
 responsibility of publishing it during my 
 own life, rather than impose upon my 
 successors the task of deciding its fate. 
 Accordingly it has been revised with some 
 care; but, as it was at first written, and 
 is now published, without any view to its 
 exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest 
 alteration has been made in the conduct 
 of the story, or the composition of the 
 characters; above all, in respect to the 
 two leading Persons of the Drama, I felt 
 no inducement to make any change. The 
 study of human nature suggests this awful 
 truth, that as in the trials to which life 
 subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start 
 from their very opposite qualities, so are 
 there no limits to the hardening of the heart 
 and the perversion of the understanding 
 to which they may carry their slaves . Dur- 
 ing my long residence in France, while 
 the Revolution was rapidly advancing to 
 its extreme of wickedness, I had frequent 
 
 opportunities of being an eye-witness o 
 this process, and it was while that knowl 
 edge was fresh upon my memory that tht 
 Tragedy of "The Borderers" was com- 
 posed. 
 
 Page 208. 
 
 ^^ Jones ! as from Calais southward.^' 
 
 (See Dedication to Descriptive Sketches. ) 
 
 This excellent Person, one of my earliest 
 and dearest friends, died in the year 1835. 
 We were undergraduates together of the 
 same year, at the same college; and com- 
 panions in many a delightful ramble 
 throughhisownromanticCountryof North 
 Wales. Much of the latter part of his 
 life he passed in comparative solitude, 
 which I know was often cheered by re- 
 membrance of our youthful adventures, 
 and of the beautiful regions which, at 
 home and abroad, we had visited together. 
 Our long friendship was never subject to 
 a moment's interruption, — and, while 
 revising these volumes for the last time, 
 I have been so often reminded of my 
 loss, with a not unpleasing sadness, that 
 I trust the Reader will excuse this passing 
 mention of a Man who well deserves 
 from me something more than so brief a 
 notice. Let me only add, that during 
 the middle part of his life he resided 
 many years (as Incumbent of the Living) 
 at a Parsonage in Oxfordshire, which is 
 the subject of the sonnet entitled "A 
 Parsonage in Oxfordshire," p. 672. 
 
 Page 209. 
 
 In this and a succeeding Sonnet on the 
 same subject, let me be understood as a 
 Poet availing himself of the situation 
 which the King of Sweden occupied, and 
 of the principles avowed in his mani- 
 festos; as laying hold of these advan- 
 
 {i77 
 
878 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 tages for the purpose of embodying moral 
 truths. This remark might, perhaps, as 
 well have been suppressed; for those who 
 may be in sympathy with the courje of 
 these Poems, it will be superfluous, and 
 will, I fear, be thrown away upon that 
 other class, whose besotted admiration of 
 the intoxicated despot hereafter placed in 
 contrast with him, is the most melan- 
 choly evidence of degradation in British 
 feeling and intellect which the times have 
 furnished. 
 
 Page 214. 
 " To the Daisy." 
 
 This Poem, and the two others to the 
 same Flower, were written in the year 
 1802; which is mentioned, because in 
 some of the ideas, though not in the man- 
 ner in which those ideas are connected, 
 and likewise even in some of the expres- 
 sions, there is a resemblance to passages 
 in a Poem (lately published) of Mr. 
 Montgomery's, entitled, a Field Flower. 
 This being said, Mr. Montgomery will 
 not think any apology due to him; I can- 
 not, however, help addressing him in the 
 words of the Father of English Poets. 
 
 '' Though it happe me to rehersin — 
 That ye han in your freshe songis saied, 
 Forberith me, and beth not ill apaied, 
 Sith that ye se I doe it in the honour 
 Of Love, and eke in service of the Flour." 
 
 1807. 
 
 Page 220. 
 
 The following is extracted from the 
 journal of my fellow-traveller, to which, 
 as persons acquainted with my poems 
 will know, I have been obliged on other 
 occasions:— 
 
 "Dumfries, August, 1803. 
 "On our way to the churchyard where 
 Burns is buried, we were accompanied 
 by a bookseller, who showed lis the out- 
 side of Burns's house, where he had lived 
 the last three years of his life, and where 
 he died. It has a mean appearance, and 
 is in a bye situation; the front white- 
 
 washed; dirty about the doors, as most 
 Scotch houses are; flowering plants in the 
 window. Went to visit his grave; he lies 
 in a corner of the churchyard, and his 
 second son, Francis Wallace, beside him. 
 There is no stone to mark the spot; but 
 a hundred guineas have been collected to 
 be expended upon some sort of mon- 
 ument. 'There,' said the bookseller, 
 pointing to a pompous monument, ' lies 
 Mr.' — (I have forgotten the name) — 'a 
 remarkably clever man; he was an attor- 
 ney, and scarcely ever lost a cause he un- 
 dertook. Burns made many a lampoon 
 upon him, and there they rest as you see.' 
 We looked at Burns's grave with melanr 
 choly and painful reflections, repeating to 
 to each other his own poet's epitaph: — 
 
 ' Is there a man,' etc. 
 
 " The churchyard is full of grave-stones 
 and expensive monuments, in all sorts of 
 fantastic shapes, obelisk-wise, pillar-wise, 
 etc. When our guide had left us we 
 turned again to Burns's grave, and after- 
 wards went to his house, wishing to in- 
 quire after Mrs. Burns, who was gone to 
 spend some time by the seashore with her 
 children. We spoke to the maid-servant 
 •at the door, who invited us forward, and 
 we sate down in the parlor. The walls 
 were colored with a Nue wash; on one 
 side of the fire was a mahogany desk; 
 opposite the window a clock, which Burns 
 mentions, in one of his letters, having re- 
 ceived as a present. The house was 
 cleanly and neat in the inside, the stairs 
 of stone scoured white, the kitchen on 
 the right side of the passage, the parlor 
 on the left. In the room above the par- j: 
 lor the poet died, and his son, very lately, ' 
 in the same room. The servant told us 
 she had lived four years with Mrs. Burns, 
 who was now in great sorrow 'or the death 
 of Wallace. She said that Mrs. E.'s ,, 
 youngest son was now at Christ's Hospi- 
 tal. We were glad to leave Dumfries, 
 where we could think of little but poor 
 Burns, and his moving about on that un- 
 poetic ground. In our road to Brownhill, , 
 the next stage, we passed EUisland, at a | 
 little distance on our right — his farm- , 
 house. Our pleasure in lookiog round 
 
NOTES. 
 
 879 
 
 would have been still greater, if the road 
 had led us nearer the spot. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " "I cannot take leave of this country 
 which we passed through to-day, without 
 mentioning that we saw the Cumberland 
 mountains within half-a-mile of Ellisland, 
 Burns's house, the last view we had of 
 them. Drayton has prettily described the 
 connection which this neighborhood has 
 with ours, when he makes Skiddaw say, — 
 
 f ' Scruffel, from the sky 
 
 That Annandale doth crown, with a most amor- 
 ous eye 
 Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim, 
 Oft threatening me with clouds, as I oft threaten 
 i him.' 
 
 "These lines came to my brother's 
 memory, as well as the Cumberland 
 saying, — 
 
 ' If Skiddaw hath a cap 
 Sci-uffel wots well of that.' 
 
 " We talked of Burns, and of the pros- 
 j pect he must have had, perhaps from his 
 own door, of Skiddaw and his compan- 
 ions; indulging ourselves in the fancy 
 I that we might have been personally known 
 I to each other, and he have looked upon 
 [ those objects with more pleasure for our 
 " sakes." 
 
 Page 233. 
 
 '' T/ie Farmer of Tilsbury Vale." 
 
 With this picture, which was taken 
 from real life, compare the imaginative 
 
 \ one of "The Reverie of Poor Susan," p. 
 
 ' 94; and see (to make up the deficiencies 
 ofthis class) "The Excursion," /ai«>«. 
 
 Page 239. 
 " The Seven Sisters." 
 rhe Story of this Poem is from the 
 German of Frederica Brun. 
 
 k 
 
 Page 252. 
 
 "Moss Campion {Silene acaulis')." 
 This most beautiful plant is scarce in 
 England, though it is found in great 
 abundance upon the mountains of Scot- 
 land. The first specimen I ever saw of 
 
 it, in its native bed, was singularly fine, 
 the tuft or cushion being at least eight 
 inches in diameter, and the root propor- 
 tionably thick. I have only met with it 
 in two places among our mountaiiis, in 
 both of which I have since sought for it 
 in vain. 
 
 Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, 
 if I caution them against carrying off, in- 
 considerately, rare and beautiful plants. 
 This has often been done, particularly 
 from Ingleborough and other mountains 
 in Yorkshire, till the species have totally 
 disappeared, to the great regret of lovers 
 of nature living near the places where 
 they grew. 
 
 Page 257. 
 " The Waggoner." 
 
 Several years after the event that forms 
 the subject of the Poem, in company with 
 my friend, the late Mr. Coleridge, I hap- 
 pened to fall in with the person to whom 
 the name of Benjamin is given. Upon 
 our expressing regret that we had not, 
 for a long time, seen upon the road 
 either him or his waggon, he said, "They 
 could not do without me; and as to the 
 man who was put in my place, no good 
 could come out of him; he was a man of 
 no ideas." 
 
 The fact of my discarded hero's getting 
 the horses out of a great difficulty with a 
 word, as related in the poem, was told 
 me by an eye-witness. 
 
 Page 258. 
 
 " The buzzing dor-hawk, round and 
 rotmd, is wheeling, — ' ' 
 
 Wlien the Poem was first written the 
 note of the bird was thus described: — 
 " The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune, 
 Twirling his watchman's rattle about — " 
 
 but from unwillingness to startle the read- 
 er at the outset by so bold a mode of ex- 
 pression, the passage was altered as it 
 now stands. 
 
 Page 263. 
 
 After the line, " Can any mortal clog 
 come to her," followed in the MS. an in- 
 
88o 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 cident which has been kept back. Part 
 of the suppressed verses shall here be 
 given as a gratification of private feeling, 
 which the well-disposed reader will find 
 no difficulty in excusing. They are now 
 printed for the first time. 
 
 " Can any mortal clog come to her? 
 
 It can : * * * * 
 
 But Benjamin, in his vexation, 
 
 Possesses inward consolation; 
 
 He knows his ground, and hopes to find 
 
 A spot with all things to his mind, 
 
 An upright mural block of stone, 
 
 Moist with pure water trickling down. 
 
 A slender spring; but kind to man 
 
 It is, a true Samaritan ; 
 
 Close to the highway, pouring out 
 
 Its offering from a chink or spout; 
 
 Whence all, howe'er athirst, or drooping 
 
 With toil, may drink, and without stooping. 
 
 Cries Benjamin, ' Where is it, where ? 
 Voice it hath none, but must be near,' 
 — A star, declining towards the west. 
 Upon the watery surface threw 
 Its image tremulously imprest, 
 That just marked out the object and withdrew : 
 Right welcome service t * * # 
 
 , Rock of Names! 
 
 Light is the strain, but not unjust 
 To Thee, and thy memorial-trust 
 That once seemed only to express 
 Love that was love in idleness ; 
 Tokens, as year hath followed year 
 How changed, alas, in character ! 
 For they were graven on thy smooth breast 
 By hands of those my soul loved best ; 
 Meek women, men as true and brave 
 As ever went to a hopeful grave : 
 Their hands and mine, when side by side ' 
 With kindred zeal and mutual pride, 
 We worked until the Initials took 
 Shapes that defied a scornful look. — 
 Long as for us a genial feeling 
 Survives, or one in need of healing. 
 The power, dear Rock, around thee cast, 
 Thy monumental power, shall last 
 For me and mine ! O thought of pain, 
 That would impair it or profane ! 
 Take all in kindness then, as said 
 With a staid heart but playful head ; 
 And fail not Thou, loved Rock ! to keep 
 Thy charge when we are laid asleep." 
 
 Page 389. 
 ' ' Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspir^si 
 
 llie human Sotd,"" etc. 
 " Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul 
 Of the wide world dreaming on things to come," 
 Shakspeare^ 5 Sonnets. 
 
 Page 391. 
 " The Horn of Egremont Castle." 
 
 This story is a Cumberland tradition. 
 I have heard it also related of the Hallo; 
 Hutton John, an ancient residence of the 
 Hudlestons, in a sequestered valley upon 
 the river Dacor. 
 
 Page 402. 
 ** Danger which they fear, and honor 
 which they understand not.'''' 
 Words in Lord Brooke's Life of Sir P. 
 Sidney. 
 
 Page 407. 
 Mrs. Wordsviforth has a strong impres- 
 sion that "The Mother's Return " was 
 written at Coleorton, where Miss Words- 
 worth was then staying with the children, 
 during the absence of the former. | 
 
 Page 409. 
 " Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle.''' 
 
 Henry Lord Clifford, etc., who is the ^ 
 subject of this Poem, was the son of John • 
 Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton 
 Field, which John Lord Clifford, as is j 
 known to the reader of English History, ' 
 was the person who after the battle of 
 Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, the young 
 Earl of Rutland, son of the Duke of York, 
 who had fallen in the battle, " in part of 
 revenge " (say the Authors of the History 
 of Cumberland and Westmoreland); 
 "for the Earl's Father had slain his." 
 A deed which worthily blemished the au- 
 thor (saith Speed); but who, as he adds, 
 " dare promise anything temperate of 
 himself in the heat Of martial fury? 
 chiefly, when it was resolved not to leave 
 any branch of the York line standing; 
 for so one maketh this Lord to speak." 
 This, no doubt, I would observe by the 
 
NOTES. 
 
 88 1 
 
 bye, was an action sufficiently in the vin- 
 dictive spirit of the times, and yet not 
 altogether so bad as ruprrscnled; "for 
 the Earl was no child, as some writers 
 would have him, but able to bear arms, 
 being sixteen or seventeen years of age, 
 as is evident from this (say the IVIemoirs 
 of the Countess of Pembroke, who was 
 laudably anxious to wipe away, as far as 
 could be, this stigma from the illustrious 
 name to which she was born), that he was 
 the next Child to King Edward the 
 Fourth, which his mother had by Richard 
 Duke of York, and that King was then 
 eighteen years of age : and for the small 
 distance betwixt her children, see Austin 
 Vincent, in his Book of Nobility, p. 622, 
 where he writes of them all." It may 
 further be observed, that Lord Clifford, 
 who was then himself only twenty-five 
 years of age, had been a leading tman and 
 commander two or three years together 
 in the army of Lancaster, before this 
 lime; and, therefore, would be less likely 
 to think that the Earl of Rutland might 
 be entitled to mercy from his youth. — 
 But, independent of this act, at best a 
 trueland savage one, the Family of Clif- 
 (ordhad done enough to draw upon them 
 the vehement hatred of the House of 
 York: so that after the Battle of Towton 
 there was no hope for them but in flight 
 and concealment. Henry, the subject of 
 the Poem, was deprived of his estate and 
 honors during the space of twenty-four 
 years; all which time he lived as a shep- 
 herd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, 
 where the estate of his Father-in-law 
 (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was 
 restored to his estate and honors in the 
 first year of Henry the Seventh. It is 
 recorded that, "when called to Parha- 
 ment, he behaved nobly and wisely; but 
 otherwise came seldom to London or the 
 Court; and rather dehghted to live in the 
 country, where he repaired several of his 
 Castles, which had gone to decay during 
 (he late troubles." Thus far is chiefly 
 collected from Nicholson and Burn ; and 
 lean add, from my own knowledge, that 
 there is a tradition current in the village 
 of Threlkeld and its neighborhood, his 
 principal retreat, that in the course of his 
 
 shepherd-life he had acquired great as- 
 tronomical knowledge. I cannot con- 
 clude this note without adding a word 
 upon the subject of those numerous and 
 noble feudal Edifices, spoken of in the 
 Poem, the ruins of some of which are, at 
 this day, so great an ornament to that in- 
 teresting country. The Cliffords had al- 
 ways been distinguished for an honorable 
 pride in these Castles; and we have seen 
 that, after the wars of York and Lancas- 
 ter, they were rebuilt; in the civil wars 
 of Charles the First they were again laid 
 waste, and again restored almost to their 
 former magnificence by the celebrated 
 Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pem- 
 broke, etc. Not more than twenty-five 
 years after this was done, when the es- 
 tates of Clifford had passed into the 
 Family of Tufton, three of these Castles, 
 namely, Brough, Brougham, and Pen- 
 dragon, were demolished, and the timber 
 and other materials sold by Thomas Earl 
 of Thanet. We will hope that, when this 
 order was issued, the Earl had not con- 
 sulted the text of Isaiah, 58th chap. 12th 
 verse, to which the inscription placed over 
 the gate of I'endragon Castle by the 
 Countess of Pembroke (I believe his 
 Grandmother), at the time she repaired 
 that structure, refers the reader: — " And 
 they that shall be of thee shall build the old 
 waste places : thou shall raise up the foun- 
 dations of many generations ; and thou 
 shalt be called. The repairer of the breach. 
 The restorer of paths to dwell in." The 
 Earl of Thanet, the present possessor of 
 the Estates, with a due respect for the 
 memory of his ancestors, and a proper 
 sense of the value and beauty of these re- 
 mains of antiquity, has (I am told) given 
 orders that they shall be preserved from 
 all depredations. 
 
 Page 409. 
 ' ' Earth helped him with the cry of blood. ' ' 
 This line is from "The Battle of Bos- 
 worth Field," by Sir John Beaumont 
 (brother to the Dramatist), whose poems 
 are written with much spirit, elegance, and 
 harmony, and have deservedly been re- 
 printed lately in Chalmers's Collection of 
 English Poets. 
 
882 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 410. 
 ^^ And both the undying fish that swim 
 Through Bowscale-tarn,^^ etc. 
 
 It is imagined by the people of the 
 country that there are two immortal Fish, 
 inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the 
 mountains not far from Threlkeld. — Blen- 
 cathara, mentioned before, is the old and 
 proper name of the mountain vulgarly 
 called Saddleback. 
 
 Page 411. 
 
 " Armor rusting in his halls 
 On the blood of Clifford calls, ^^ 
 
 The martial character of the Cliffords is 
 well known to the readers of English his- 
 tory; but it may not be improper here to 
 say, by way of comment on these lines and 
 what follows, that besides several others 
 who perished in the same manner, the four 
 immediate Progenitors of the Person in 
 whose hearing this is supposed to be 
 spoken all died in the Field. 
 
 Page 411. 
 " The White Doe of Rylstone.^^ 
 
 The Poem of the White Doe of Rylstone 
 is founded on a local tradition, and on the 
 Ballad in Percy's Collection, entitled 
 "The Rising of the North." The tradi- 
 tion is as follows: — "About this time," 
 not long after the Dissolution, " a White 
 Doe," say the aged people of the neigh- 
 borhood, " long continued to make a 
 weekly pilgrimage from Rylstone over the 
 fells of Bolton, and was constantly found 
 in the Abbey Churchyard during divine 
 service ; after the close of which she re- 
 turned home as regularly as the rest of 
 the congregation." — Dr. Whitaker's 
 History of the Deanery of Craven. — 
 Rylstone was the property and residence 
 of the Nortons, distinguished in that ill- 
 advised and unfortunate Insurrection; 
 which led me to connect with this tradi- 
 tion the principal circumstances of their 
 fate., as recorded in the Ballad. 
 
 *° Bolton Priory," says Dr. Whitaker 
 
 in his excellent book. The History and 
 Antiquities of the Deanery of Craven, 
 "stands upon a beautiful curvature of the 
 Wharf, on a level sufficiently elevated to 
 protect it from inundations, and low 
 enough for every purpose of picturesque 
 effect. 
 
 "Opposite to the East window of the 
 Priory Church, the river washes the foot 
 of a rock nearly perpendicular, and of 
 the richest purple, where several of the " 
 mineral beds, which break out instead of 
 maintaining their usual inclination to the 
 horizon, are twisted by some inconceiv- 
 able process into undulating and spiral 
 lines. To the South all is soft and deli- 
 cious; the eye reposes upon a few rich 
 pastures, a moderate reach of the river, 
 sufficiently tranquil to form a mirror to 
 the sun, and the bounding hills beyond, 
 neither too near nor too lofty to exclude, 
 even in winter, any portion of his rays. 
 
 "But after all, the glories of Bolton 
 are on the North. Whatever the most 
 fastidious taste could require to constitute 
 a perfect landscape, is not only found 
 here, but in its proper place. In front, 
 and immediately under the eye, is a 
 smooth expanse of park-like enclosure, 
 spotted with native elm, ash, etc. of the 
 finest growth : on the right a skirting oak 
 wood, with jutting points of gray rock; 
 on the left a rising copse. Still forward 
 are seen the aged groves of Bolton Park, 
 the growth of centuries; and farther yet, 
 the barren and rocky distances of Simon- 
 seat and Barden Fell contrasted with the 
 warmth, fertility, and luxuriant foliage of 
 the valley below. 
 
 "About half a mile above Bolton the 
 valley closes, and either side of the Wharf 
 is overhungby solemn woods, from which 
 huge perpendicular masses of gray rock 
 jut out at intervals. 
 
 "This sequestered scene was almost 
 inaccessible till of late, that ridings have 
 been cut on both sides of the river, and 
 the most interesting points laid open by 
 judicious thinnings in the woods. Here 
 a tributary stream rushes from a water- 
 fall, and bursts through a woody glen to 
 mingle its waters with the Wharf : there 
 the Wharf itself is nearly lost in a deep 
 
NOTES. 
 
 883 
 
 cleit in the rock, and next becomes a 
 horned flood enclosing a woody island — ■ 
 sftinetimes it reposes for a moment, and 
 then resumes its native character, lively, 
 irregular, and impetuous. 
 
 "The cleft mentioned above is the 
 ttemendous Strid. This chasm, being 
 incapable of receiving the winter floods, 
 has formed on either side a broad strand 
 of naked gritstone full of rock-basins, or 
 'pots of the Linn,' which bear witness to 
 the restless impetuosity of so many 
 Northern torrents. But, if here Wharf 
 is lost to the eye, it amply repays another 
 sense by its deep and solemn roar, like 
 'the Voice of the angry Spirit of the 
 Waters,' heard far above and beneath, 
 amidst the silence of the surrounding 
 woods. 
 
 " The terminating object of the land- 
 scape is the remains of Barden Tower, 
 interesting from their form and situation, 
 and still more so from the recollections 
 which they excite." 
 
 ■ Page 413. 
 
 '^ Action is transitory — •" 
 i 
 
 This and the five lines that follow were 
 either read or recited by me, more than 
 thirty years since, to the late Mr. Hazlitt, 
 who quoted some expressions in them 
 (imperfectly remembered) in a work of 
 his published several years ago. 
 
 Page 413. 
 'From Bolton's old monastic tower." 
 
 It is to be regretted that at the present 
 day Bolton Abbey wants this ornament : 
 but the Poem, according to the imagina- 
 tion of the Poet, is composed in Queen 
 Elizabeth's time. "Formerly," says Dr. 
 Whitaker, "over the Transept was a 
 tower. This is proved not only from the 
 mention of bells at the Dissolution, when 
 they could have had no other place, but 
 from the pointed roof of the choir, which 
 must have terminated westward, in some 
 building of superior height to the ridge." 
 
 Page 413. 
 
 "^ Chapel, like a wild-bird' s nest.'" 
 
 " The Nave of the Church having been 
 reserved at the Dissolution for the use of 
 the Saxon Cure, is still a parochial Chapel ; 
 and, at this day, is as well kept as the 
 neatest English Cathedral." 
 
 Page 413. 
 
 " Who sate in the shade of the Prior's 
 Oak!" 
 
 "At a small distance from the great 
 gateway stood the Prior's Oak, which was 
 felled about the year 1720, and sold for 
 70/. According to the price of wood at 
 that time, it could scarcely have con- 
 tained less than 1400 feet of timber." 
 
 Page 415. 
 " When Lady Adliza mouriied." 
 
 The detail of this tradition may be 
 found in Dr. Whitaker's book, and in a 
 Poem of this Collection, " The Force of 
 Prayer." 
 
 Page 415. 
 " Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door." 
 
 " At the East end of the North aisle of 
 Bolton Priory Church, is a chantry belong- 
 ing to Bethmesly Hall, and a vault where, 
 according to tradition, the Claphams " 
 (who inherited this estate, by the female 
 line, from the Mauleverers) "were in- 
 terred upright." John de Clapham, of 
 whom this ferocious act is recorded, was 
 a man of great note in his time: "he 
 was a vehement partisan of the house of 
 Lancaster, in whom the spirit of his 
 chieftains, the Cliffords, seemed to sur- 
 
 Page 415. 
 
 " Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meet.'''' 
 
 Among these Poems will be found one 
 entitled, "Song at the Feast of Brougham 
 Castle, upon the Restoration of Lord 
 Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates 
 and Honors of his Ancestors." To that 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Poem is annexed an account of this per- 
 sonage, chiefly extracted from Burn and 
 Nicholson's History of Cumberland and 
 Westmoreland. It gives me pleasure to 
 add these further particulars concerning 
 him, from Dr. Whitaker, who says he 
 " retired to the solitude of Barden, where 
 he seems to have enlarged the tower out 
 of a common keeper's lodge, and where 
 he found a retreat equally favorable to 
 taste, to instruction, and to devotion. The 
 narrow limits of his residence show that 
 he had learned to despise the pomp of 
 greatness, and that a small train of ser- 
 vants could suffice him, who had lived to 
 the age of thirty a servant himself. I 
 think this nobleman resided here almost 
 entirely when in Yorkshire, for all his 
 charters .which I have seen are dated at 
 Barden. 
 
 "His early habits, and the want of 
 those artificial measures of time which 
 even shepherds now possess, had given 
 him a turn for observing the motions of 
 the heavenly bodies; and, having pur- 
 chased such an apparatus as could then 
 be procured, he amused and informed 
 himself by those pursuits, with the aid of 
 the Canons of Bolton, some of whom are 
 said to have been well versed in what 
 was then known of the science. 
 
 " I suspect this nobleman to have been 
 sometimes occupied in a more visionary 
 pursuit, and probably in the same com- 
 pany. 
 
 " For, from the family evidences, I 
 have met with two MSS. on the subject 
 of Alchemy, which, from the character, 
 spelling, etc., may almost certainly be 
 referred to the reign of Henry the 
 Seventh. If these were originally de- 
 posited with the MSS. of the Cliffords, 
 it might have been for the use of this 
 nobleman. If they were brought from 
 Bolton at the Dissolution, they must 
 have been the work of those Canons 
 whom he almost exclusively conversed 
 with. 
 
 " In these peaceful employments Lord 
 Clifford spent the whole reign of Henry 
 the Seventh, and the first years of his 
 son. But in the year iJiSj when almost 
 sixty years old, he was appointed to a 
 
 principal command over the army which 
 fought at Flodden, and showed that the 
 military genius of the family had neither 
 been chilled in him by age, nor extin- 
 guished by habits of peace. 
 
 "He survived the battle of Flodden 
 ten years, and died April 23d, 1523, aged 
 about 70. I shall endeavor to appro- 
 priate to him a tomb, vault, "and chantry, 
 in the choir of the church of Bolton, as 
 I should be sorry to believe that he was 
 deposited, when dead, at a distance from 
 the place which in his lifetime he loved 
 so well. 
 
 "By his last will he appointed his 
 body to be interred at Shap, if he died 
 in Westmoreland; or at Bolton, if he 
 died in Yorkshire." 
 
 With respect to the Canons of Bolton, 
 Dr. Whitaker shows from MSS. that not 
 only alchemy but astronomy was a 
 favorite pursuit with them. 
 
 Page 419. 
 
 ^^ A^ow joy for you who from the towers 
 OfBrancepeth look in doubt and fear ." 
 
 Brancepeth Castle stands near the river 
 Were, a few miles from the city of Dur- 
 ham. It formerly belonged to the Nevilles, 
 Earls of Westmoreland. See Dr. Percy's 
 account. 
 
 Page 421. I 
 
 " Of mitred Thurston — what a Host 
 He conqtiered / " ^' 
 
 See the Historians for the account of 
 this memorable battle, usually denomi- 
 nated the Battle of the Standard. 
 
 Page 421. 
 
 " In that other day of Neville' s Cross." ' 
 
 "In the night before the battle of 
 Durham was strucken and begun, the 
 17th day of October, anno 1346, there 
 did appear to John Fosser, then Prior of ^ 
 the abbey of Durham, a Vision, com- -. 
 manding him to take the holy Corporax- j 
 cloth, wherewith St. Cuthbert did cover j 
 the chalice when he used to say mass,,) 
 
NOTES. 
 
 88s 
 
 and to put the same holy rclique like to 
 a banner-cloth upon the point of a spear, 
 and the next morning to go and repair to 
 a place on the west side of the city of 
 Durham, called the Red Hills, where 
 the Maid's Bower wont to be, and there 
 to remain and abide till the end of the 
 battle. To which vision the Prior obey- 
 ing, and taking the same for a revelation 
 of God's grace and mercy by the media- 
 tion of Holy St. Cuthbert, did accord- 
 ingly the next morning, with the monks 
 of the said abbey, repair to the said Red 
 Hills, and there most devoutly humbling 
 and prostrating themselves in prayer for 
 the victory in the said battle : (a great 
 multitude of the Scots running and press- 
 ing by them, with intention to have 
 spoiled them, yet had no power to com- 
 mit any violence under such holy per- 
 sons, so occupied in prayer, being pro- 
 tected and defended by the mighty Provi- 
 dence of Almighty God, and by the 
 mediation of Holy St. Cuthbert, and the 
 presence of the holy relique). And, 
 after many conflicts and warlike exploits 
 there had and done between the English 
 men and the King of Scots and his com- 
 pany, the said battle ended, and the 
 victory was obtained, to the great over- 
 throw and confusion of the Scots, their 
 ' enera'es: And then the said Prior and 
 monls accompanied with Ralph Lord 
 Nevil, and John Nevil his son, and the 
 Lord Percy, and many other nobles of 
 England, returned home and went to the 
 abbey church, there joining in hearty 
 prayer and thanksgiving to God and Holy 
 St. Cuthbert for the victory achieved 
 that rlay." 
 
 This battle was afterwards called the 
 Battle of Neville's Cross from the follow- 
 ing circumstance : — 
 
 "On the west side of the city of Dur- 
 ham, where two roads pass each other, a 
 most notable, famous, and goodly cross 
 of stonework was erected and set up to 
 the honor of God for the victory there 
 obtained in the field of battle, and known 
 by the name of Nevil's Cross, and built 
 at the sole cost of the Lord Ralph Nevil, 
 one of the most excellent and chief per- 
 sons in the said battle." The Relique 
 
 of St. Cuthbert afterwards became of 
 great importance in military events. For 
 soon after this battle, says the same 
 author, "The Prior caused a goodly and 
 sumptuous banner to be made," (which 
 is then described at great length) "and 
 in the midst of the same banner-cloth 
 was the said holy relique and corporax- 
 cloth enclosed, etc., and so sumptuously 
 finished, and absolutely perfected, this 
 banner was dedicated to Holy St. Cuth- 
 bert, of intent and purpose that for the 
 future it should be carried to any battle, 
 as occasion should serve; and was never 
 carried and showed at any battle but by 
 the especial grace of God Almighty, and 
 the mediation of Holy St. Cuthbert, it 
 brought home victory; which banner- 
 cloth, after the dissolution of the abbey, 
 fell into the possession of Dean Whit- 
 TiNGHAM, whose wife, called Katha- 
 rine, being a French woman (as is most 
 credibly reported by eye-witnesses), did 
 most injuriously burn the same in her fire, 
 to the open contempt and disgrace of all 
 ancient and goodly reliques." — Ex- 
 tracted from a book entitled "Durham 
 Cathedral, as it stood before the Dissolu- 
 tion of the Monastery." It appears, 
 from the old metrical History, that the 
 above-mentioned banner was carried by 
 the Earl of Surrey to FloJden Field. 
 
 Page 425. 
 
 " An edifice of warlike frame 
 
 Stands single — Norton Tower its 
 name — " 
 
 It is so called to this day, and is thus 
 described by Dr. Whitaker : — " Rylstone 
 Fell yet exhibits a monument of the old 
 warfare between the Nortons and Clif- 
 fords. On a point of very high ground, 
 commanding an immense prospect, and 
 protected by two deep ravines, are the 
 remains of a square tower, expressly said 
 by Dodsworth to have been built by 
 Richard Norton. The walls are of strong 
 grout-work, about four feet thick. It 
 seems to have been three stories high. 
 Breaches have been industriously made 
 in all the sides, almost to the ground, to 
 render it untenable. 
 
886 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 "But Norton Tower was probably a 
 sort of pleasure-house in summer, as 
 there are, adjoining to it, several large 
 mounds (two of them are pretty entire), 
 of which no other account can be given 
 than that they were butts for large com- 
 panies of archers. 
 
 "The place is savagely wild, and ad- 
 mirably adapted to the uses of a watch 
 tower." 
 
 Page 429. 
 
 ' ' Despoil and desolation 
 
 O'er Rylstone'' s fair domain have blown." 
 
 " After the attainder of Richard Nor- 
 ton, his estates were forfeited to the 
 crown, where they remained till the 2d 
 or 3d of James; they were then granted 
 to Francis Earl of Cumberland." From 
 an accurate survey made at that time, 
 several particulars have been extracted 
 by Dr. W. It appears that " the man- 
 sion-house was then in decay. Imme- 
 diately adjoining is a close, called the 
 Vivery, so called, undoubtedly, from the 
 French Vivier, or modern Latin Viva- 
 rium; for there are near the house large 
 remains of a pleasure-ground, such' as 
 were introduced in the earlier part of 
 Elizabeth's time, with topiary works, 
 fish-ponds, an island, etc. The whole 
 township was ranged by an hundred and 
 thirty red deer, the property of the Lord, 
 which, together with the wood, had, 
 after the attainder of Mr. Norton, been 
 committed to Sir Stephen Tempest. The 
 wood, it seems, had been abandoned to 
 depredations, before which time it ap- 
 pears that the neighborhood must have 
 exhibited a forest-like and sylvan scene. 
 In this survey, among the old tenants is 
 mentioned one Richard Kitchen, butler 
 to Mr. Norton, who rose in rebellion 
 with his master, and was executed at 
 Ripon. 
 
 Page 430. 
 
 " III the deep fork of Anierdale," 
 
 "At the extremity of the parish of 
 Burnsal, the valley of Wharf forks off 
 into two great branches, one of which 
 
 retains the name of Wharfdale, to the 
 source of the river; the other is usually 
 called Littondale, but more anciently 
 and properly, Amerdale. Dernbrook, 
 which runs along an obscure valley from 
 the N.W., is derived from a Teutonic 
 word, signifying concealment." — Dli- 
 Whitaker. 
 
 Page 431. 
 
 " When the bells of Rylstone played 
 Their Sabbath music — ' ffioll us agS£!"' 
 
 On one of the bells of Rylstone church, 
 which seems coeval with the building of 
 the tower, is this cypher, " I.W." for 
 John Norton, and the motto, " ffioB us 
 saBe." 
 
 Page 431. 
 
 " The grassy rock-encircled Pound." 
 
 Which is thus described by Dr. Whit- 
 aker : — " On the plain summit of the hill 
 are the foundations of a strong wall 
 stretching from the S.W. to the N.E. 
 corner of the tower, and to the edge of 
 a very deep glen. From this glen, a 
 ditch, several hundred yards long, runs 
 south to another deep and rugged ravine. 
 On the N. and W., where the banks are 
 very steep, no wall or mound is discover- 
 able, paling being the only fence that , 
 could stand on such ground. ^ 
 
 " From the Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
 Border, it appears that such pounds for 
 deer, sheep, etc., were far from being 
 uncommon in the south of Scotland. 
 The principle of them was something 
 like that of a wire m'ouse-trap. On the 
 declivity of a steep hill, the bottom and 
 sides of which were fenced so as to he 
 impassable, a wall was constructed nearly 
 level with the surface on the outside, yet 
 so high within, that without wings it was 
 impossible to escape in the opposite 
 direction. Care was probably taken that 
 these enclosures should contain better 
 feed than the neighboring parks or 
 forests; and whoever is acquainted with 
 the habits of these sequacious animals, 
 will easily conceive, that if the leader 
 
NOTES. 
 
 was once tempted to descend into the 
 snare, a herd would follow." 
 
 I cannot conclude without recommend- 
 ing to the notice of all lovers of beauti- 
 ful scenery Bolton Abbey and its neigh- 
 borhood. This enchanting spot belongs 
 to the Duke of Devonshire; and the 
 superintendence of it has for some years 
 been entrusted to the Rev. William Carr, 
 who has most skilfully opened out its 
 features; and, in whatever he has added, 
 has done justice to the place, by working 
 with an invisible hand of art in the very 
 spirit of nature. 
 
 Page 436. 
 
 *' Zaragoza.''^ 
 
 In this Sonnet I am under some obli- 
 gations to one of an Italian author, to 
 which I cannot refer. 
 
 Page 469. 
 
 " much did he see of men." 
 
 'At the risk of giving a shock to the 
 prejudices of artificial society, I have 
 ever been ready to pay homage to the 
 aristocracy of nature; under a conviction 
 that vigorous human-heartedness is the 
 (Constituent principle of true taste. It 
 may still, however, be satisfactory to 
 have prose testimony how far a Character, 
 employed for purposes of imagination, is 
 founded upon general fact. I, there- 
 fore, subjoin an extract from an author 
 who had opportunities of being well 
 acquainted with a class of men, from 
 whom my own personal knowledge em- 
 boldened me to draw this portrait. 
 
 "We learn from Caesar and other 
 Roman Writers, that the travelling mer- 
 chants who frequented Gaul and other 
 barbarous countries, either newly con- 
 quered by the Roman arms, or bordering 
 on the Roman conquests, were ever the 
 first to make the inhabitants of those 
 countries familiarly acquainted with the 
 Roman modes of life, and to inspire 
 them with an inclination to follow the 
 Roman fashions, and to enjoy Roman 
 conveniences. In North America, travel- 
 ling merchants from the Settlements have 
 
 done and continue to do much more to- 
 wards civilizing the Indian natives, than 
 all the missionaries, papist or protestant, 
 who have ever been sent among them. 
 
 "It is farther to be observed, for the 
 credit of this most useful class of men, that 
 they commonly contribute, by their per- 
 sonal manners, no less than by the sale of 
 their wares, to the refinement of the people 
 among whom they travel. Their dealings 
 form them to great quickness of wit and 
 acuteness of judgment. Having constant 
 occasion to recommend themselves .and 
 their goods, they acquire habits of the most 
 obliging attention, and the most insinuating 
 address. As in their peregrinations they 
 have opportunity of contemplating the 
 manners of various men and various cities, 
 theybecomeeminentlyskilledintheknowl- 
 edge of the world. As they wa?ider, each 
 alone^ throztgh thinly-inhabited districts, 
 they form habits of reflection and of sublime 
 contemplation. With all these qualifica- 
 tions, no wonder that they should often be, 
 in remote parts of the country, the best 
 mirrors of fashion, and censors of man- 
 ners ; and should contribute much to polish 
 the roughness and soften the rusticity of 
 our peasantry. It is not more than twenty 
 or thirty years since a young man going 
 from any part of Scotland to England, of 
 purpose to carry the pack, was considered 
 as going to lead the life and acquire the 
 fortune of a gentleman. When, after 
 twenty years' absence in that honorable 
 line of employment, he returned with his 
 acquisitions to his native country, he was 
 regarded as a gentleman to all intents and 
 purposes." 
 
 Heron's Journey in Scotland, vol. i. 
 
 P- 89- 
 Page 493. 
 '■'Lost in unsearchable eternity !" 
 
 Since this paragraph was composed, I 
 have read with so much pleasure, in 
 Burnet's Theory of the Earth, a passage 
 expressing corresponding sentiments, ex- 
 cited by objects of a similar nature, that 
 I cannot forbear to transcribe it. 
 
 " Siquod ver6 Natura nobis deditspec- 
 taculum, in hac tellure, vere gratwm, et 
 
NOTES. 
 
 philosopho dignum, id semel mihi conti- 
 gisse arbitror ; ciim ex celsissimarupespe- 
 culabundus ad oram maris iVIediterranei, 
 hincaequor C3eruleum,illinc tractus Alpinos 
 prospexi; nihil quidem magis dispar aut 
 dissimile, nee in suo genere, magis egre- 
 gium et singulare. Hoc theatrum ego 
 facile prsEtulerim Romanis cunctis, Graa- 
 cisve ; atque id quod natura hic spectan- 
 dum exhibet, scenicis ludis omnibus, aut 
 amphitheatri certaminibus. Nihil hic 
 elegans aut venustum, sed ingens et mag- 
 nificum, et quod placet magnitudine sua 
 et quadam specie immensitatis. Hinc 
 intuebar maris sequabilem superficiem, 
 usque et usque diffusam, quantum maxi- 
 mum oculorum acies ferri potuit; illinc 
 disruptissimam terrse faciem, et vastas 
 moles vari^elevatas aut depressas,erectas, 
 propendentes, reclinatas, coacervatas, 
 omni situ insequali et turbido. Placuit, 
 ex hac parte, Naturae unitas et simplicitas, 
 et inexhausta qusedam planities; ex altera, 
 multiformis confusio magnorum corporum 
 et insanae rerum strages : quas cum intue- 
 bar, non urbis alicujus aut oppidi, sed 
 confracti mundirudera, ante oculos habere 
 mihi visus sum. 
 
 In singulis fere montibus erat aliquid 
 insolens et mirabile, sed pr^ cseteris mihi 
 placebat ilia, qui sedebam, rupes; erat 
 maxima et altissima, et qua terram respici- 
 ebat, moUiori ascensu altitudinem suam 
 dissimulabat : qui ver6 mare, horrendum 
 prseceps, et quasi ad perpendiculum facta, 
 instar parietis. Pr^terea facies ilia marina 
 adeo erat Isevis ac uniformis (quod in 
 rupibus aliquando observare licet) ac si 
 scissa fuisset k summo ad imum, in illo 
 piano; vel terraa motu aliquo, autfulmine, 
 divulsa. 
 
 Ima pars rupis erat cava, recessusque 
 habuit, etsaxeosspecus, euntes in vacuum 
 montem; sive natura pridem factos, sive 
 exesos mari, et undarum crebris ictibus : In 
 hos enim cum impetu ruebant et fragore, 
 Eestuantis maris fluctus; quos iterum 
 spumantes reddidit antrum, et quasi ab 
 imo ventre evomuit. 
 
 Dextrum latus montis erat prteruptum, 
 aspero saxo et nudS caute : sinistrum non 
 ade6 neglexerat Natura, arboribus utpote 
 ornatum: et prope pedem montis rivus 
 
 limpidse aquK prorupit; qui ciim vicinam 
 vallem irrigaverat, lento motu serpens, et 
 per varios mseandros, quasi ad protrahen- 
 dam vitam, in magno mari absorptus 
 subito periit. Denique in summo vertice 
 promontorii, commode eminebat saxum, 
 cui insidebam contemplabundus. Vale 
 augusta sedes. Rege digna: Augusta 
 rupes, semper mihi memoranda!" P. 
 89. Telluris Theoria sacra, etc.,Editu 
 secunda. 
 
 Page 504. 
 
 " Of Mississippi, or that northern 
 stream.^^ 
 
 "A man is supposed to improve by 
 going out into the World, by visiting 
 London. Artificial man does; he extends 
 with his sphere; but, alas ! that sphere is 
 microscopic; it is formed of minutiae, and 
 he surrenders his genuine vision to the 
 artist, in order to embrace it in his ken. 
 His bodily senses grow acute, even to 
 barren and inhuman pruriency; while his 
 mental become proportionally obtuse. 
 The reverse is the Man of Mind : he who 
 is placed in the sphere of Nature and of 
 God, might be a mock at Tattersall's and 
 Brooks's, and a sneer at St. James's: he 
 would certainly be swallowed alive by 
 the first Pizarro that crossed him: — But 
 when he walks along the river of Amazons; 
 when he rests his eye on the unrivalled 
 Andes; when he measures the long and 
 watered savannah; or contemplates, from 
 a sudden promontory, the distant, vast 
 Pacific — and feels himself a freeman in 
 this vast theatre, and commanding each 
 ready produced fruit of this wilderness, 
 and each progeny of this stream — his 
 exultation is not less than imperial. He 
 is as gentle, too, as he is great: his 
 emotions of tenderness keep pace with his 
 elevation of sentiment ; for he says, ' These 
 were made by a good Being, who, un- 
 sought by me, placed me here to enjoy 
 them.' He becomes at once a child and 
 a king. His mind is in himself; from 
 hence he argues, and from hence he acts, 
 and he argues unerringly, and acts magis- 
 terially ; his mind in himself is also in his 
 God; and therefore he loves, and there- 
 
NOTES. 
 
 fore he soars." — From the notes upon 
 The Hurricane, a Poem, by William 
 
 \ Gilbert 
 
 I The Reader, I am sure, will thank me 
 for the above quotation, which, though 
 from a strange book, is one of the finest 
 passages of modern English prose. 
 
 Page 507. 
 
 " ' T isj by comparison, an easy task 
 Earth to despise,^' etc. 
 
 See, upon this subject, Baxter's most 
 interesting review of his own opinions and 
 sentiments in the decline of life. It may- 
 be found (lately reprinted) in Dr. Words- 
 worth's Ecclesiastical Biog7'aphy, 
 
 Page 50S. 
 
 ""Alas I the endowment of immortal Power 
 Is matched tmeqnally with custom, 
 titne,^'' etc. 
 
 This subject is treated at length in the 
 Ode — Intimations of Immortality, page 
 403- 
 
 Page 509. 
 
 " Knowing the heart of man is set to be. ' ' 
 
 etc. 
 
 The passage quoted from Daniel is 
 taken from a poem addressed to the Lady 
 Margaret, Countess of Cumberland, and 
 the two last lines, printed in Italics, are by 
 him translated from Seneca. The whole 
 Poem is very beautiful. I will transcribe 
 four stanzas from it, as they contain an 
 admirable picture of the state of a wise 
 Man's mind in a time of public commotion . 
 
 Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks 
 Of tyrant's threats, orwith the surly brow 
 Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes ; 
 Charged with more crying sins than those he 
 
 checks. 
 The storms of sad confusion that may grow 
 Up in the present for the coming times, 
 Appal not him ; that hath no side at all, 
 But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 
 
 Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
 Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
 Of troublous and distressed mortality, 
 That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
 
 Of their owu sorrows, and do still beget 
 Affliction upon Imbecility : 
 Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
 He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. 
 
 And whilst distraught ambition compasses. 
 And is encompassed, while as craft deceives, 
 And is deceived : whilst man doth ransack man, 
 And builds on blood, and rises by distress; 
 And th' Inheritance of desolation leaves 
 To great-expecting hopes : He looks thereon, 
 As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye. 
 And bears no venture in Impiety. 
 
 Thus, Lady, fares that man that hath prepared 
 A rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
 Beneath him ; and hath learned this book of man, 
 Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared 
 
 The best of glory with her sufferings : 
 By whom, I see, you labor all you can 
 To plant your heart ! and set your thoughts as 
 
 near 
 His glorious mansion as your powers can bear. 
 
 Page 532. 
 
 " Or rather, as we stand on holy earth. 
 
 And have the dead around us. '^^ 
 
 Leo. You, Sir, could help me to the history 
 Of half these graves ? 
 
 Priest. For eight-score winters past. 
 
 With what I've witnessed, and with what I've 
 
 heard, 
 Perhaps I might; . . . 
 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 
 We two could travel. Sir, through a strange round; 
 Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
 
 See the Brothers, 
 
 Page 537. 
 
 " And suffering N'ature grieved that one 
 shoztld die. ' ' 
 
 Sotithey's Retrospect. 
 
 Page 537. 
 
 ^^ Andwhence that tribute ? wherefore these 
 regards ? ' ' 
 
 The sentiments and opinions here 
 uttered are in unison with those ex- 
 pressed in the following Essay upon 
 Epitaphs, which was furnished by me 
 for Mr. Coleridge's periodical work, The 
 Friend : and as they are dictated by a 
 spirit congenial to that which pervades 
 
Sgo 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 this and the two succeeding books, the 
 sympathizing reader will not be displeased 
 to see the Essay here annexed. 
 
 ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS. 
 
 It needs scarcely be said, that an Epi- 
 taph presupposes a Monument, upon 
 which it is to be engraven. Almost all 
 Nations have wished that certain external 
 signs should point out the places where 
 their dead are interred. Among savage 
 tribes unacquainted with letters this has 
 mostly been done either by rude stones 
 placed near the graves, or by mounds of 
 earth raised over them.. This custom pro- 
 ceeded obviously from a twofold desire : 
 first to guard the remains of the deceased 
 from irreverent approach or from savage 
 violation : and secondly to preserve their 
 memory. '* Never any," says Camden, 
 "neglected burial but some savage na- 
 tions; as the Bactrians, which cast their 
 dead to the dogs; some varlet philoso- 
 phers, as Diogenes, who desired to be 
 devoured of fishes; some dissolute cour- 
 tiers, as Msecenas, who was wont to say, 
 Non tumulum euro; sepelit natura re- 
 lictos. 
 
 ' I'm careless of a grave : 
 save.' " 
 
 - Nature her dead will 
 
 As soon as nations had learned the use 
 of letters, epitaphs were inscribed upon 
 these monuments; in order that their 
 intention might be more surely and ade- 
 quately fulfilled. I have derived monu- 
 ments and epitaphs from two sources of 
 feeling, but these do in fact resolve 
 themselves into one. The invention of 
 epitaphs, Weaver, in his Discourse of 
 Funeral Monuments, says rightly, " pro- 
 ceeded from the presage or fore-feeling 
 of immortality, implanted in all men 
 naturally, and is referred to the scholars 
 of Linus the Theban poet, who flourished 
 about the year of the world two thousand 
 seven hundred; who first bewailed this 
 Linus their Master, when he was slain, 
 in doleful verses, then called of him CElina, 
 afterwards Epitaphia, for that they were 
 
 first sung at burials, after engraved upon 
 the sepulchres." 
 
 And, verily, without the consciousness 
 of a principle of immortality in the human 
 soul, Man could never have had awakened 
 in him the desire to live in the remem- 
 brance of his fellows : mere love, or the 
 yearning of kind towards kind, could 
 not have produced it. The dog or horse 
 perishes in the field, or in the stall, by 
 the side of his companions, and is in- 
 capable of anticipating the sorrow with 
 which his surrounding associates shall 
 bemoan his death, or pine for his loss; 
 he cannot pre-conceive this regret, he can 
 form no thought of it ; and therefore can- 
 not possibly have a desire to leave such 
 regret or remembrance behind him. Add 
 to the principle of love which exists in 
 the inferior animals, the faculty of reason 
 which exists in Man alone; will the con- 
 junction of these account for the desire? 
 Doubtless it is a necessary consequence of 
 this conjunction; yet not, I think, as a 
 direct result, but only to be come at 
 through an intermediate thought, viz. , that 
 of an intimation or assurance within us, 
 that some part of our nature is imperisha- 
 ble. At least the precedence, in order of 
 birth, of one feeling to the other, is un- 
 questionable. If we look back upon the 
 days of childhood, we shall find that the 
 time is not in remembrance when, with 
 respect to our own individual Being, the 
 mind was without this assurance ; whereas, 
 the wish to be remembered by our friends 
 or kindred after death, or even in absence, 
 is, as we shall discover, a sensation that 
 does not form itself till the social feel- 
 ings have been developed, and the Reason 
 has connected itself with a wide range of 
 objects. Forlorn, and cut off from com- 
 munication with the best part of his nature, 
 must that man be, who should derive the 
 sense of immortality, as it exists in the 
 mind of a child, from the same unthink- 
 ing gayety or liveliness of animal spirits 
 with which the lamb in the meadow or 
 any other irrational creature is endowed; 
 who should ascribe it, in short, to blank 
 ignorance in the child; to an inability 
 arising from the imperfect state of his 
 faculties to come, in any point of his 
 
NOTES. 
 
 being, into contact with a notion of death ; 
 or to an unreflecting acquiescence in what 
 lias been instilled into him ! Has such an 
 unfolder of the mysteries of nature, though 
 he may have forgotten his former self, 
 ever noticed the early, obstinate, and 
 unappeasable inquisitiveness of children 
 upon the subject of origination? This 
 single fact proves outwardly the mon- 
 strousness of those suppositions : for, if 
 we had no direct external testimony that 
 the minds of very young children meditate 
 feelingly upon death and immortality, 
 these inquiries, which we all know they 
 are perpetually making concerning the 
 whence, do necessarily include corre- 
 spondent habits of interrogation concern- 
 ing the whither. Origin and tendency are 
 notions inseparably co-relative. Never 
 did a child stand by the side of a running 
 stream, pondering within himself what 
 power was the feeder of the perpetual 
 current, from what never-wearied sources 
 the bodjr of water was supplied, but he 
 must have been inevitably propelled to fol- 
 low this question by another : " Towards 
 what abyss is it in progress? what recep- 
 tacle can contain the mighty influx?" 
 And the spirit of the answer must have 
 been, though the word might be sea or 
 ocean, accompanied perhaps with an 
 image gathered from a map, or from the 
 real object in nature — these might have 
 been the letter, but the spirit of the 
 answer must have been as inevitably, — 
 a receptacle without bounds or dimen- 
 sions; — nothing less than infinity. We 
 may, then, be justified in asserting, that 
 the sense of immortality, if not a co- 
 existent and twin birth with Reason, is 
 among the earliest of her offspring : and 
 we may further assert, that from these 
 conjoined, and under their countenance, 
 the human affections are gradually formed 
 and opened out. This is not the place 
 to enter into the recesses of these inves- 
 tigations; but the subject requires me here 
 to make a plain avowal, that, for my own 
 part, it is to me inconceivable, that the 
 sympathies of love towards each other, 
 which grow with our growth, could ever 
 attain any new strength, or even preserve 
 the old, after we had received from the 
 
 outward senses the impression of death, 
 and were in the habit of having that 
 impression daily renewed and its accom-, 
 panying feeling brought home to our- 
 selves, and to those we love; if the same 
 were not counteracted by those commu- 
 nications with our internal Being, which 
 are anterior to all these experiences, and 
 with which revelation coincides, and has 
 through that coincidence alone (for other- 
 wise it could not possess it) a power to 
 affect us. I confess, with me the con- 
 viction is absolute that, if the impression 
 and sense of death were not thus counter- 
 balanced, such a hoUowness would per- 
 vade the whole system of things, such a 
 want of correspondence and consistency, 
 a disproportion so astounding betwixt 
 means and ends, that there could be no 
 repose, no joy. Were we to grow up 
 unfostered by this genial warmth, a frost 
 would chill the spirit, so penetrating and 
 powerful that there could be no motions 
 of the life of love ; and infinitely less could 
 we have any wish to be remembered after 
 we had passed away from a world in which 
 each man had moved about like a shadow. 
 — If, then, in a creature endowed with 
 the faculties of foresight and reason, the 
 social affections could not have unfolded 
 themselves uncountenanced by the faith 
 that Man is an immortal being, and if, 
 consequently, neither could the individual 
 dying have had a desire to survive in the 
 remembrance of his fellows, nor on their 
 side could they have felt a wish to pre- 
 serve for future times vestiges of the 
 departed; it follows, as a final inference, 
 that without the belief in immortality, 
 wherein these several desires originate, 
 neither monuments nor epitaphs, in affec- 
 tionate or laudatory commemoration of 
 the deceased, could have existed in the 
 world. 
 
 Simonides, it is related, upon landing in 
 a strange country, found the corse of an 
 unknown person lying by the seaside; he 
 buried it, and was honored throughout 
 Greece for the piety of that act. Another 
 ancient Philosopher, chancing to fix his 
 eyes upon a dead body, regarded the same 
 with slight, if not with contempt, saying, 
 " See the shell of the flown bird I " But it 
 
892 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 is not to be supposed that the moral and 
 tender-hearted Simonides was incapable 
 of the lofty movements of thought to which 
 that other Sage gave way at the moment 
 while his soul was intent only upon the 
 indestructible being; nor, on the other 
 hand, that he, in whose sight a lifeless 
 human body was of no more value than the 
 worthless shell from which the living fowl 
 had departed, would not, in a different 
 mood of mind, have been affected by those 
 earthly considerations which had incited 
 the philosophic Poet to the performance of 
 that pious duty. And with regard to this 
 latter we may be assured that, if he had 
 been destitute of the capability of commun- 
 ing with the more exalted thoughts that 
 appertain to human nature, he would have 
 cared no more for the corse of the stranger 
 than for the dead body of a seal or porpoise 
 which might have been cast up by the 
 waves. We respect the corporeal frame of 
 Man, not merely because it is the habita- 
 tion of a rational, but of an immortal Soul. 
 Each of these Sages was in sympathy with 
 the best feelings of our nature; feelings 
 which, though they seem opposite to each 
 other, have another and a finer connection 
 than that of contrast. — It is a connection 
 formed through the subtle progress by 
 which, both in the natural and the moral 
 world, qualities pass insensibly into their 
 contraries, and things revolve upon each 
 other. As, in sailing upon the orb of 
 this planet, a voyage towards the regions 
 where the sun sets conducts gradually to 
 the quarter where we have been accus- 
 tomed to behold it come forth at its rising; 
 and, in like manner, a voyage towards 
 the east, the birthplace in our imagina- 
 tion of the morning, leads finally to the 
 quarter where the sun is last seen when 
 he departs from our eyes; so the contem- 
 plative Soul, travelling in the direction 
 of mortality, advances to the country of 
 everlasting life; and, in like manner, 
 may she continue to explore those cheer- 
 ful tracts till she is brought back, for 
 her advantage and benefit, to the land of 
 transitory things — of sorrow and of tears. 
 On a midway point, therefore, which 
 commands the thoughts and feelings of the 
 two Sages whom we have represented in 
 
 contrast, does the Author of that species of 
 composition, the laws of which it is our 
 present purpose to explain, take his stand. 
 Accordingly, recurring to the twofold 
 desire of guarding the remains of the 
 deceased and preserving their memory, 
 it may be said that a sepulchral monument 
 is a tribute to a man as a human being; 
 and that an epitaph (in the ordinary 
 meaning attached to the word) includes 
 this general feeling and something more; 
 and is a record to preserve the memory 
 of the dead, as a tribute due to his indi- 
 vidual worth, for a satisfaction to the 
 sorrowing hearts of the survivors, and for 
 the common benefit of the living : which 
 record is to be accomplished, not in n. 
 general manner, but, where it can, in close 
 connection with the bodily reni-ains of the 
 deceased: and these, it may be added, 
 among the modern nations of Europe, 
 are deposited within, or contiguous to, 
 their places of worship. In ancient 
 times, as is well known, it was the custom 
 to bury the dead beyond the walls of 
 towns and cities; and among the Greeks 
 and Romans they were frequently interred 
 by the waysides. 
 
 I could here pause with pleasure, and 
 invite the Reader to indulge with me in 
 contemplation of the advantages which 
 must have attended such practice. We 
 might ruminate upon the beauty which 
 the monuments, thus placed, must have 
 borrowed from the surrounding images of 
 nature — from the trees, the wild flowers, 
 from a stream running perhaps within sight 
 or hearing, from the beaten road stretch- 
 ing its weary length hard by. Many 
 tender similitudes must these objects have 
 presented to the mind of the traveller 
 leaning upon one of the tombs, or repos- 
 ing in the coolness of its shade, whether 
 he had halted from weariness or in com- 
 pliance with the invitation, "Pause, 
 Traveller!" so often found upon the 
 monuments. And to its epitaph also 
 must have been supplied strong appeals to 
 visible appearances or immediate impres- 
 sions, lively and affecting analogies of 
 life as a journey — death as a sleep over- 
 coming the tired wayfarer — of misfortune 
 as a storm that falls suddenly upon him — 
 
NOTES. 
 
 893 
 
 of beauty as a flower (hat passeth away, 
 or of innocent pleasure as one that may 
 be gathered — of virtue that standeth firm 
 as a rock against the beating waves — of 
 hope "undermined insensibly like the 
 poplar by the side of the river that Tias 
 fed it," or blasted in a moment like a 
 pine-tree by the stroke of lightning upon 
 the mountain-top — of admonitions and 
 heart-stirring remembrances, like a re- 
 freshing breeze that comes without warn- 
 ing, or the taste of the waters of an un- 
 expected fountain. These and similar 
 suggestions must have given, formerly, 
 to the language of the senseless stone 
 a voice enforced and endeared by the be- 
 nignity of that nature with which it was 
 in unison. — We, in modern times, have 
 lost much of these advantages; and they 
 are but in a smalldegree counterbalanced 
 to the inhabitants of large towns and cities 
 by the custom of depositing the dead 
 within, or contiguous to, their places of 
 worship; however splendid or imposing 
 may be the appearance of those edifices, 
 or however interesting or salutary the 
 recollections associated with them. Even 
 were it not true that tombs lose their 
 monitory virtue when thus obtruded upon 
 the notice of men occupied with the cares 
 of the world, and too often sullied and 
 defiled by those cares, yet still, when 
 death is in our thoughts, nothing can 
 make amends for the want of the sooth- 
 ing influences of nature, and for the 
 absence of those types of renovation and 
 decay which the fields and woods offer 
 to the notice of the serious and contem- 
 plative mind. To feel the force of this 
 sentiment, let a man only compare in im- 
 agination the unsightly manner in which 
 our monuments are crowded together in 
 the busy, noisy, unclean, and alnSost 
 grassless churchyard of a large town, 
 with the still seclusion of a Turkish ceme- 
 tery, in some remote place, and yet fur- 
 ther sanctified by the grove of cypress in 
 which it is embosomed. Thoughts in the 
 same temper as these have already been 
 expressed with true sensibility by an in- 
 genuous Poet of the present day. The 
 subject of his poem is "All Saints 
 Church, Derby: " he has been deploring 
 
 the forbidding and unseemly appearance 
 of its burial-ground, and uttering a wish 
 that in past times the practice had been 
 adopted of interring the inhabitants of 
 large towns in the country; — 
 
 Then in some rural, calm, sequestered spot 
 Where healing Nature her benignant look 
 Ne'er changes, save at that lorn season, when. 
 With tresses drooping o'er her sable stole. 
 She yearly mourns the mortal doom of man, 
 Her noblest work, (so Israel's virgins erst. 
 With annual moan upon the mountains wept 
 Their fairest gone,) there in that rural scene, 
 So placid, so congenial to the wish 
 The Christian feels, of peaceful rest within 
 The silent grave, I would have stayed : 
 
 — wandered forth, where the cold dew of heaven 
 Lay on the humbler graVes around, what time 
 The pale moon gazed upon the lu]'fy mounds, 
 Pensive, as thougli like me, in lonely muse, 
 'T were brooding on the dead inhumed beneath. 
 There while with him, the holy man of Uz, 
 O'er human destiny I sympathized, 
 Counting the long, long periods prophecy 
 Decrees to roll, ere the great day arrives 
 Of resurrection, oft the blue-eyed Spring 
 Had met me with her blossoms, as the Dove, 
 Of old, returned with olive leaf, to cheer 
 The Patriarch mourning o'er a world destroyed 
 And I would bless her visit ; for to me 
 'T is sweet to trace the consonance that links 
 As one, the works of Nature and the word 
 Of God. — John Edwards. 
 
 A village churchyard, lying as it does 
 in the lap of nature, may indeed be most 
 favorably contrasted with that of a town 
 of crowded population; and sepulture 
 therein combines many of the best ten- 
 dencies which belong to the mode prac- 
 tised by the Ancients with others peculiar 
 to itself. The sensations of pious cheer- 
 fulness, which attend the celebration of 
 the sabbath-day in rural places, are prof- 
 itably chastised by the sight of the graves 
 of kindred and friends, gathered together 
 in that general home towards which the 
 thoughtful yet happy spectators them- 
 selves are journeying. Hence n parish 
 church, in the stillness of the country, is 
 a visible centre of a community of the 
 living and the dead; a point to which 
 
894 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 are habitually referred the nearest con- 
 cerns of both. 
 
 As, then, both in cities and in villages, 
 the dead are deposited in close connection 
 with our places of worship, with us the 
 composition of an epitaph naturally turns, 
 still more than among the nations of 
 antiquity, upon the most serious and 
 solemn affections of th* human mind; 
 upon departed worth — upon personal or 
 social sorrow and admiration — upon reli- 
 gion, individual and social — upon time, 
 and upon eternity. Accordingly, it suf- 
 fices, in ordinary cases, to secure a com- 
 position of this kind from censure, that it 
 contain nothing that shall shock or be 
 inconsistent with this spirit. But, to 
 entitle an epitaph to praise, more than 
 this is necessary. It ought to contain 
 some thought or feeling belonging to the 
 mortal or immortal part of our nature 
 touchingly expressed; and if that be done, 
 however general or even trite the senti- 
 ment maybe, every man of pure mind will 
 read the words with pleasure and grati- 
 tude. A husband bewails a wife; a parent 
 breathes a sigh of disappointed hop'^, over 
 a lost child; a son utters a sentiment of 
 filial reverence for a departed father or 
 mother; a friend perhaps inscribes an 
 encomium recording the companionable 
 qualities, or the solid virtues, of the 
 tenant of the grave, whose departure has 
 left a sadness upon his memory. This 
 and a pious admonition to the living, and 
 a humble expression of Christian confi- 
 dence in immortality, is the language of a 
 thousand churchyards; and it does not 
 often happen that anything, in a greater 
 degree discriminate or appropriate to the 
 dead or to the living, is to be found in 
 them. This want of discrimination has 
 been ascribed by Dr. Johnson, in his Essay 
 upon the epitaphs of Pope, to two causes : 
 first, the scantiness of the objects of human 
 praise; and, secondly, the want of variety 
 in the characters of men; or, to use his 
 own words, " to the fact, that the greater 
 part of mankind have no character at all." 
 Such language may be holden without 
 blame among the generalities of common 
 conversation ; but does not become a critic 
 and a moralist speaking seriously upon a 
 
 serious subject. The objects of admiration 
 in human nature are not scanty, but abun- 
 dant : and every man has a character of 
 his own to the eye that has skill to perceive 
 it. The real cause of the acknowledged 
 want of discrimination in sepulchralmemo- 
 rials is this : That to analyze the charac- 
 ters of others, especially of those whom 
 we love, is not a common or natural em- 
 ployment of men at any time. We are 
 not anxious unerringly to understand the 
 constitution of the minds of those who 
 have soothed, who have cheered, who 
 have supported us; with whom we have 
 been long and daily pleased or delighted. 
 The affections are their own justification. 
 The light of love in our hearts is a satis- 
 factory evidence that there is a body of 
 worth in the minds of our friends or kin- 
 dred, whence that light has proceeded. 
 We shrink from the thought of placing 
 their merits and defects to be weighed 
 against each other in the nice balance of 
 pure intellect; nor do we find much 
 temptation to detect the shades by which 
 a good quality or virtue is discriminated 
 in them from an excellence known by the 
 same general name as it exists in the mind 
 of another ; and least of all do we incline 
 to these refinements when under the pres- 
 sure of sorrow, admiration, or regret, or 
 when actuated by any of those feelings 
 which incite men to prolong the memory 
 of their friends and kindred by records 
 placed in the bosom of the all-uniting and 
 equalizing receptacle of the dead. 
 
 The first requisite, then, in an Epitaph 
 is, that it should speak, in a tone which 
 shall sink into the heart, the general lan- 
 guage of humanity as connected with the 
 subject of death — the source from which 
 an epitaph proceeds — of death, and of 
 life. To be born and to die are the two 
 points in which all men feel themselves 
 to be in absolute coincidence. This gen- 
 eral language may be uttered so strikingly 
 as to entitle an epitaph to high praise; 
 yet it cannot lay claim to the highest unless 
 other excellences be superadded. Passing 
 through all intermediate steps, we will 
 attempt to determine at once what these 
 excellences are, and wherein consists the 
 perfection of this species of composition. — ' 
 
NOTES. 
 
 895 
 
 It will be found to lie in a due proportion 
 of the common or universal feeling of 
 humanity to sensations excited by a dis- 
 tinct and clear conception, conveyed to 
 the reader's mind, of the individual whose 
 death is deplored and whose memory is 
 to be preserved; at least of his character 
 as, after death, it appeared to those who 
 loved him and lament his loss. The 
 general sympathy ought to be quickened, 
 provoked, and diversified, by particular 
 thoughts, actions, images, — circum- 
 stances of age, occupation, manner of 
 life, prosperity which the deceased had 
 known, or adversity to which he had been 
 subject; and these pught to be bound to- 
 gether and solemnized into one harmony 
 by the general sympathy. The two powers 
 should temper, restrain, and exalt each 
 other. The reader ought to know who 
 and what the man was whom he is called 
 upon to think of vrith interest. A distinct 
 conception should be given , (implicitly 
 where it can, rather than explicitly) of 
 the individual lamented. — But the writer 
 of an epitaph is not an anatomist, who 
 dissects the internal frame of the mind; 
 he is not even a painter, who executes a 
 portrait at leisure and inentiretranquillity : 
 his delineation, we must remember, is 
 performed by the side of the grave; and, 
 what is more, the grave of one whom he 
 loves and admires. What purity and 
 brightness is that virtue clothed in, the 
 itttage of which must no longer bless our 
 living eyes ! The character of a deceased 
 friend or beloved kinsman is not seen — 
 no, nor ought to be seen — otherwise 
 than as a tree through a tender haze or 
 a luminous mist, that spiritualizes and 
 beautifies it; that takes away, indeed, but 
 only to the end that the parts which are 
 not abstracted may appear more dignified 
 and lovely; may impress and affect the 
 more. Shall we say, then, that this is not 
 truth, not a faithful image; and that, ac- 
 cordingly, the purposes of commemoration 
 cannot be answered? — It is truth, and of 
 the highest order; for, though doubtless 
 things are not apparent which did exist; 
 yet, the object being looked at through 
 this medium, parts and proportions are 
 brought into distinct view which before 
 
 had been only imperfectly or uncon- 
 sciously seen : it is truth hallowed by love 
 — the joint offspring of the worth of the 
 dead and the affections of the living I 
 This may easily be brought to the test. 
 Let one, whose eyes have been sharpened 
 by personal hostility to discover what was 
 amiss in the character of a good man, 
 hear the tidings of his death, and what 
 a change is wrought in a moment ! Enmity 
 melts away; and, as it disappears, un- 
 sightliness, disproportion, and deformity, 
 vanish; and, through the influence of 
 commiseration, a harmony of love and 
 beauty succeeds. Bring such a man to 
 the tombstone on which shall be inscribed 
 an epitaph on his adversary, composed 
 in the spirit which we have recommended. 
 Would he turn from it as from an idle 
 tale? No; — the thoughtful look, the 
 sigh, and perhaps the involuntary tear, 
 would testify that it had a sane, a gener- 
 ous, and good meaning; and that on 
 the writer's mind had remained an im- 
 pression which was a true abstract of the 
 character of the deceased; that his gifts 
 and graces were remembered in the sim- 
 plicity in which they ought to be remem- 
 bered. The composition and quality of 
 the mind of a virtuous man, contemplated 
 by the side of the grave where his body 
 is mouldering, ought to appear, and be 
 felt as something midway between what 
 he was on earth walking about with his 
 living frailties, and what he may be pre- 
 sumed to be as a Spirit in heaven. 
 
 It suffices, therefore, that the trunk and 
 the main branches of the worth of the 
 deceased be boldly and unaffectedly repre- 
 sented. Any further detail, minutely and 
 scrupulously pursued, especially if this be 
 done with laborious and antithetic dis- 
 criminations, must inevitably frustrate its 
 own purpose ; forcing thepassing Spectator 
 to this conclusion, — either that the dead 
 did not possess the merits ascribed to him, 
 or that they who have raised a monument 
 to his memory, and must therefore be 
 supposed to have been closely connected 
 with him, were incapable of perceiving 
 those merits; or at least during the act of 
 composition had lost sight of them; for, 
 the understanding having been so busy in 
 
896 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 its petty occupation, how could the heart 
 of the mourner be other than cold? and 
 in either of these cases, whether the_|fault 
 be on the part of the buried person or the 
 survivors, the memorial is unaffecting and 
 profitless. 
 
 Much better is it to fall short in dis- 
 crimination than to pursue it too far, or to 
 labor it unfeelingly. For in no place are 
 we so much disposed to dwell upon those 
 points of nature and condition wherein 
 all men resemble each other, as in the 
 temple where the universal Father is wor- 
 shipped, or by the side of the grave which 
 gathers all human Beings to itself, and 
 " equalizes the lofty and the low." We 
 suffer and we weep with the same heart; 
 we love and are anxious for one another in 
 one spirit; our hopes look to the same 
 quarter; and the virtues by which we are 
 all to be furthered and supported, as 
 patience, meekness, good-will, justice, 
 temperance, and temperate desires, are in 
 an equal degree the concern of us all. 
 Let an Epitaph, then, contain at least 
 these acknowledgments to our common 
 nature; nor let the sense of their impor- 
 tance be sacrificed to a balance of opposite 
 qualities or minute distinctions in individ- 
 ual character; which if they do not (as will 
 for the most part be the case), when exam- 
 ined, resolve themselves into a trick of 
 words, will, even when they are true and 
 just, for the most part be grievously out 
 of place; for, as it is probable that 
 few only have explored these intricacies 
 of human nature, so can the tracing of 
 them be interesting only to a few. But 
 an epitaph is not a proud writing shut up 
 for the studious: it is exposed to all — 
 to the wise and the most ignorant; it is 
 condescending, perspicuous, and lovingly 
 solicits regard; its story and admonitions 
 are brief, that the thoughtless, the busy, 
 and indolent, may not be deterred, nor 
 the impatient tired: the stooping old 
 man cons the engraven record like a 
 second horn-book; — the child is proud 
 that he can read it; — and the stranger 
 is introduced through its mediation to 
 the company of a friend : it is concerning 
 all, and for all : — in the churchyard it is 
 open to the day; the sun looks down 
 
 upon the stone, and the rains of heavei 
 beat against it. 
 
 Yet, though the writer who would excite 
 sympathy is bound in this case, more than 
 in any other, to give proof that he himseh 
 has been moved, it is to be remembered 
 that to raise a monument is a sober and a 
 reflective act; that the inscription which it 
 bears is intended to be permanent, and for 
 universal perusal; and that,forthis reason, 
 the thoughts and feelings expressed should 
 be permanent also — liberated from that 
 weakness and anguish of sorrow which is in 
 nature transitory, and which with instinct- 
 ive decency retires from notice. The 
 passions should be sub.dued, the emotions 
 controlled ; strong, indeed, butnothingun- 
 governable or wholly involuntary. Seem- 
 liness requires this, and truth requires it 
 also : for how can the narrator otherwise 
 be trusted? Moreover, a grave is a 
 tranquillizing object : resignation in course 
 of time springs up from it as naturally as 
 the wild flowers, besprinkling the turf with 
 which it may be covered, or gathering 
 round the monument by which it is de- 
 fended. The very form and substance of 
 the monument which has received the in- 
 scription, and the appearance of the 
 letters, testifying with what a slow and 
 laborious hand they must have been en- 
 graven, might seem to reproach the author 
 who had given way upon this occasion 
 to transports of mind, or to quick turns of 
 conflicting passion; though thesame might 
 constitute the life and beauty of a funeral 
 oration or elegiac poem. 
 
 These sensations and judgments, acted 
 upon perhaps unconsciously, have been 
 one of the main causes why epitaphs so 
 often personate the deceased, and repre- 
 sent him as speaking from his own tomb- 
 stone. The departed Mortal is introduced 
 telling you himself that his pains are gone ; 
 that a state of rest is come ; and he con- 
 jures you to weep for him no longer. He 
 admonishes with the voice of one ex- 
 perienced in the vanity of those affections 
 which are confined to earthly objects, and 
 gives a verdict like a superior Being, per- 
 forming the office of a judge, who has no 
 temptations to mislead him, and whose 
 decision cannot but be dispassionate. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 897 
 
 Thus is death disarmed of its sting, and 
 affliction unsubstantialized. By this ten- 
 der fiction, the survivors bind themselves 
 to a sedater sorrow, and employ the in- 
 tervention of the imagination in order 
 that the reason may speak her own lan- 
 guage earlier than she would otherwise 
 have been enabled to do. This shadowy 
 interposition also harmoniously unites the 
 two worlds of the living and the dead by 
 their appropriate affections. And it may 
 be observed that here we have an addi- 
 tional proof of the propriety with which 
 sepulchral inscriptions were referred to 
 the consciousness of immortality as their 
 primal source. 
 
 I do not speak with a wish to recom- 
 mend that an epitaph should be cast in 
 this mould preferably to the still more 
 common one, in which what is said comes 
 from the survivors directly; but rather to 
 point how natural those feelings are 
 which have induced men, in all states and 
 ranks of society, so frequently to adopt 
 this mode. And this I have done chiefly 
 in order that the laws which ought to 
 govern the composition of the other may 
 Be better understood. This latter mode, 
 namely, that in which the survivors speak 
 in their own persons, seems to me upon 
 the whole greatly preferable, as it admits 
 a wider range of notices; and, above all, 
 because, excluding the fiction which is 
 the groundwork of the other, it rests 
 upon a more solid basis. 
 
 Enough has been said to convey our 
 notion of a perfect epitaph; but it must 
 be borne in mind that one is meant which 
 will best answer the general ends of that 
 species of composition. According to 
 the course pointed out, the worth of 
 private life, through all varieties of situa- 
 tion and character, will be most honor- 
 ably and profitably preserved in memory. 
 Nor would the model recommended less 
 suit public men in all instances, save of 
 those persons who by the greatness 
 of their services in the employments of 
 peace or war, or by the surpassing ex- 
 cellence of their works in art, literature, 
 or science, have made themselves not 
 only universally known, but have filled 
 the heart of their country with everlast- 
 
 ing gratitude. Yet I must here pause to 
 correct myself. In describing the general 
 tenor of thought which epitaphs ought to 
 hold, I have omitted to say, that if it be 
 the actions of a man, or even some one 
 conspicuous or beneficial act of local or 
 general utility, which have distinguished 
 him, and excited a desire that he should 
 be remembered, then, of course, ought 
 the attention to be directed chiefly to 
 those actions or that act : and such sen- 
 timents dwelt upon as naturally arise out 
 of them or it. Having made this neces- 
 sary distinction, I proceed. — The mighty 
 benefactors of mankind, as they are not 
 only known by the immediate survivors, 
 but will continue to be known familiarly 
 to latest posterity, do not stand in need 
 of biographic sketches in such a place; 
 nor of delineations of character to in- 
 dividualize them. This is already done 
 by their Works, in the memories of men. 
 Their naked names, and a grand com- 
 prehensive sentiment of civic gratitude, 
 patriotic love, or human admiration — or 
 the utterance of some elementary princi- 
 ple most essential in the constitution of 
 true virtue — or a declaration touching 
 that pious humility and self-abasement, 
 which are ever most profound as minds 
 are most susceptible of genuine exaltation 
 — or an intuition, communicated in 
 adequate words, of the sublimity of in- 
 tellectual power; — these are the only 
 tribute which can here be paid — the 
 only offering that upon such an altar 
 would not be unworthy. 
 
 " What needs my Shakspeare for his honored 
 
 bones 
 The labor of an age in piled stones, 
 Or that his hollowed reliques should be hid 
 Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? 
 Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame, 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy 
 
 name? 
 Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
 Hast built thyself a lifelong monument, 
 And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost He, 
 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die." 
 
 Page 538. 
 " And spires whose ' silent finger points 
 to heaven.' " 
 An instinctive taste teaches men to 
 build their churches in flat countries with 
 
NOTES. 
 
 spire-steeples, which, as they cannot be 
 referred to any other object, point as 
 with silent finger to the sky and stars, 
 and sometimes, when they reflect the 
 brazen light of a rich though rainy sun- 
 set, appear like a pyramid of flame burn- 
 ing heavenward. See "The Friend," 
 by S. T. Coleridge, No. 14, p. 223. 
 
 Page 564. 
 
 " That sycamore, which annually holds 
 Within its shade, as in a stately tent.^^ 
 
 "This Sycamore oft musical witli Bees; 
 Suck Tents the Patriarchs loved." 
 
 S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 Page 569. 
 " Perish the roses and the Jl&ioers of kings ." 
 
 The "Transit gloria mundi " is finely 
 expressed in the Introduction to the Foun- 
 dation-charters of some of the ancient 
 Abbeys. Some expressions here used are 
 taken from that of the Abbey of St. Mary's, 
 Furness, the translation of which is as 
 follows: — 
 
 " Considering every day the uncertainty 
 of life, that the roses and flowers of ICings, 
 Emperors, and Dukes, and the crowns and 
 palms of all the great, wither and decay; 
 and that all things, with an uninterrupted 
 course, tend to dissolution and death: I 
 therefore," etc. 
 
 Page 572. 
 ' ' Earth has lent 
 
 Her ivaters. Air her breezes.^* 
 
 In treating this subject, it was impos- 
 sible not to recollect with gratitude the 
 pleasing picture which, in his Poem of 
 the Fleece, the excellent atid amiable 
 Dyer has given of the influences of man- 
 ufacturing industry upon the face of this 
 Island. He wrote at a time when ma- 
 chinery Was first beginning to be intro- 
 duced, and his benevolent heart prompted 
 him to augur from it nothing but good. 
 Truth has compelled me to dwell upon 
 the baneful effects arising out of an ill- 
 regulated and excessive application of 
 powers so admirable in themselves. 
 
 Page 583. 
 
 ' ' Binding herself by statute. ' ' 
 
 The discovery of Dr. Bell affords mar 
 vellous facilities for carrying this intoef 
 feet; and it is impossible to overrate thf 
 benefit which might accrue to humanity 
 from the universal application of this 
 simple engine under an enlightened and 
 conscientious government. 
 
 A 
 Page 593. 
 
 "Dion." 
 
 This poem began with the following 
 stanza, which has been displaced on ac- 
 count of its detaining the reader too long 
 from the subject, and as rather preclud- 
 ing, than preparing for, the due effect of 
 the allusion to the genius of Plato: — 
 
 Fair is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing 
 
 O'er breezeless water, on Locardo's lake, 
 
 Bears him on while proudly sailing 
 
 He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake : 
 
 Behold ! the mantling spirit of reserve 
 
 Fashions his neck into a goodly curve ; 
 
 An arch thrown back between luxuriant wihgs 
 
 Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs 
 
 To which, on some unruffled morning, clings 
 
 A flaky weight of winter's purest snows ! 
 
 — Behold! — as with a gushing impulse heaves 
 
 That downy prow, and softly cleaves 
 
 The mirror of the crystal flood, 
 
 Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood, 
 
 And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state, 
 
 Winds the mute Creature without visible Mate 
 
 Or Rival, save the Queen of night 
 
 Showering down a silver light, \ 
 
 From heaven, upon her chosen Favorite ! ' 
 
 Page 608. "; 
 
 " Thanksgiving Ode." 
 
 Wholly unworthy of touching upon the 
 momentous subject here treated would 
 that Poet be, before whose eyes the pres- 
 ent distresses under which this kingdom 
 labors could interpose a veil sufficiently 
 thick to hide, or even to obscure, the splen- 
 dor of .this great moral triumph. Ifl^have 
 givenway to exultation, uncheckedbythese 
 distresses, it might be sufficient to protect 
 me from a charge of insensibility, should 
 
NOTES. 
 
 I state my own belief that the sufferings 
 will be transitory. Upon the wisdom of 
 a very large majority of the British nation 
 rested that generosity which poured out 
 the treasures of this country for the de- 
 liverance of Europe : and in the same 
 national wisdom, presiding in time of 
 peace over an energy not inferior to that 
 which has been displayed in war, Ihey 
 confide, who encourage a firm hope that 
 the cup of our wealth will be gradually 
 replenished. There will, doubtless, be 
 no few ready to indulge in regrets and 
 repinings; and to feed a morbid satisfac- 
 tion, by aggravating these burthens in 
 imagination ; in order that calamity so con- 
 fidently prophesied, as it has not taken 
 the shape which their sagacity allotted to 
 it, may appear as grievous as possible 
 under another. But the body of the 
 nation will not quarrel with the gain, be- 
 cause it might have been purchased at a 
 less price; and, acknowledging in these 
 sufferings, which they feel to have been 
 in a great degree unavoidable, a conse- 
 cration of their noble efforts, they will 
 vigorously apply themselves to remedy 
 the evil. 
 
 Nor is it at the expense of rational 
 patriotism, or in disregard of sound phi- 
 losophy, that I have given vent to feelings 
 tending to encourage a martial spirit in 
 the bosoms of my countrymen, at a time 
 when there is a general outcry against the 
 prevalence of these dispositions. The 
 British army, both by its skill and valor 
 in the field, and by the discipline which 
 rendered it, to the inhabitants of the sev- 
 eral countries where its operations were 
 carried on, a protection from the violence 
 of their own troops, has performed ser- 
 vices that will not allow the language of 
 gratitude and admiration to be suppressed 
 or restrained (whatever be the temper of 
 the public mind) through a scrupulous 
 dread lest the tribute due to the past should 
 prove an injurious incentive for the future. 
 Every man deserving the name of Briton 
 adds his voice to the chorus which extols 
 the exploits of his countrymen, with a 
 consciousness, at times overpowering the 
 effort, that they transcend all praise. — 
 But this particular sentiment, thus irre- 
 
 sistibly excited, is not sufficient. The 
 nation would err grievously if she suffered 
 the abuse which other states have made 
 of military power to prevent her from 
 perceiving that no people ever was or can 
 be independent, free, or secure, much less 
 great, in any sane application of the word, 
 without a cultivation of military virtues. 
 Nor let it be overlooked that the benefits 
 derivable from these sources are placed 
 within the reach of Great Britain, under 
 conditions peculiarly favorable. The same 
 insular position which, by rendering terri- 
 torial incorporation impossible, utterly 
 precludes the desire of conquest under the 
 most seductive shape it can assume, en- 
 ables her to rely, for her defence against 
 foreign foes, chiefly upon a species of 
 armed force from which her own liberties 
 have nothing to fear. Such are the priv- 
 ileges of her situation; and, by permit- 
 ting, they invite her to give way to the 
 courageous instincts of human nature, 
 and to strengthen and refine them by 
 culture. 
 
 But some have more than insinuated 
 that a design exists to subvert the civil 
 character of the English people by un- 
 constitutional applications and unneces- 
 sary increase of military power. The 
 advisers and abettors of such a design, 
 were it possible that it should exist, would 
 be guilty of the most heinous crime, which, 
 upon this planet, can be committed. Trust- 
 ing that this apprehension arises from the 
 delusive influences of an honorable jeal- 
 ousy, let me hope that the martial quali- 
 ties which I venerate will be fostered by 
 adhering to those good old usages which 
 experience has sanctioned, and by avail- 
 ing ourselves of new means of indisputable 
 promise : particularly by applying, in its 
 utmost possible extent, that system of 
 tuition whose master-spring is a habit of 
 gradually enlightened subordination; — 
 by imparting knowledge, civil, moral, and 
 religious, in such measure that the mind, 
 among all classes of the community, may 
 love, admire, and be prepared and accom- 
 plished to defend, that country under 
 whose protection its faculties have been 
 unfolded and its riches acquired ; — by just 
 dealing towards all orders of the state, so 
 
900 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 that, no members of it being trampled 
 upon, courage may everywhere continue 
 to rest immovably upon its ancient Eng- 
 lish foundation, personal self-respect; — 
 by adequate rewards and permanent 
 honors conferred upon the deserving; — 
 by encouraging athletic exercises and 
 manly sports among the peasantry of the 
 country; — and by especial care to pro- 
 vide and support institutions in which, 
 during a time of peace, a reasonable pro- 
 portion of the youth of the country may 
 be instructed in military science. 
 
 I have only to add that I should feel 
 little satisfaction in giving to the world 
 these limited attempts to celebrate the 
 virtues of my country, if I did not en- 
 courage a hope that a subject, which it 
 has fallen within my province to treat 
 only in the mass, will by other poets be 
 illustrated in that detail which its impor- 
 tance calls for, and which will allow op- 
 portunities to give the merited applause 
 to PERSONS as well as to THINGS. 
 
 The ode was published along with 
 other pieces, now interspersed through 
 this volume. 
 
 Page 6io. 
 
 "Discipline the rule whereof is passion." 
 
 Lord Brooke. 
 
 The event is thus recorded in the jour- 
 nals of the day : — " When the Austrians 
 took Hockheim, in one part of the en- 
 gagement they got to the brow of the 
 hill, whence they had their first view of 
 the Rhine. They instantly halted — not 
 a gun was fired — not a voice heard : they 
 stood gazing on the river with those feel- 
 ings which the events of the last fifteen 
 years at once called up. Prince Schwart- 
 zenberg rode up to know the cause of this 
 sudden stop; they then gave three cheers, 
 rushed after the enemy, and drove them 
 into the water." 
 
 Page 635. 
 
 *' IVings at my shoulders seem to play.'*'' 
 
 In these lines I am under obligation to 
 the exquisite picture of "Jacob's Dream," 
 
 by Mr. Alstone, now in America. It is 
 pleasant to make this public acknowledge 
 ment to a man of genius, whom I have 
 the honor to rank among my friends. 
 
 Page 645. 
 If in this Sonnet I should seem to have 
 borne a little too hard upon the personal 
 appearance of the worthy Poissards of 
 Calais, let me take shelter under the 
 authority of my lamented friend, the late 
 Sir George Beaumont. He, a most ac- 
 curate observer, used to say of them, that 
 their features and countenances seemed to 
 have conformed to those of the creatures 
 they dealt in; at all events the resem- 
 blance was striking. 
 
 Page 645. 
 
 " Br ugh." 
 
 This is not the first poetical tribute 
 which in our times has been paid to this 
 beautiful city. Mr. Southey, in the 
 " Poet's Pilgrimage," speaks of it in 
 lines which I cannot deny myself the 
 pleasure of connecting with my own. 
 
 "Time hath not wronged her, nor hath ruin 
 sought 
 Rudely her splendid structures to destroy, 
 Save in those recent days, with evil fraught, 
 
 When mutability, in drunken joy 
 Triumphant, and from all restraint released, 
 Let loose her fierce and many-headed beast. 
 
 Eut for the scars in that unhappy rage 
 Inflicted, firm she stands and undecayed ; 
 
 Like our first Sires, a beautiful old age 
 Is hers in venerable years arrayed ; 
 
 Atid yet, to her, benignant stars may bring, 
 
 What fate denies to man, — a second spring. 
 
 When I may read of tilts in days of old, 
 And tourneys graced by Chieftains of re- 
 nown, 
 
 Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriore bold, 
 If fancy would portray some stately town, 
 
 Which for such pomp fit theatre should be, 
 
 Fair Bruges, I shall then remember thee." 
 
 In this city are many vestiges of the 
 splendor of the Burgundian Dukedom, 
 and the long black mantle universally 
 worn by the females is probably a remnant 
 
NOTES. 
 
 901 
 
 of the old Spanish connection, which, if I 
 do not much deceive myself, is traceable 
 in the grave deportment of its inhabitants. 
 Bruges is comparatively little disturbed 
 by that curious contest, or rather conflict, 
 of Flemish with French propensities in 
 matters of taste, so conspicuous through 
 other parts of Flanders. The hotel to 
 which we drove at Ghent furnished an 
 odd|instance. In the passages were paint- 
 ings and statues, after the antique, of 
 Hebe and Apollo ; and in the garden a 
 Uttle pond, about a yard and a half in 
 diameter, with a weeping willow bend- 
 ing over it, and under the shade of that 
 tree, in the centre of the pond, a wooden 
 painted statue of a Dutch or Flemish 
 boor, looking ineffably tender upon his 
 mistress, and embracing her. A living 
 duck, tethered at the feet of the sculptured 
 lovers, alternately tormented a miserable 
 eel and itself with endeavors to escape 
 from its bonds and prison. Had we 
 chanced to espy the hostess of the hotel 
 in this quaint rural retreat, the exhibi- 
 tion would have been complete. She 
 was a true Flemish figure, in the dress 
 of the days of Holbein; her symbol of 
 office, a weighty bunch of keys, pendent 
 from her portly waist. In Brussels the 
 modern taste in costume, architecture, 
 etc., has got the mastery; in Ghent there 
 is a struggle : but in Bruges old images 
 are still paramount, and an air of monas- 
 tic life among the quiet goings-on of a 
 thinly-peopled city is inexpressibly sooth- 
 ing; a pensive grace seems to be cast over 
 all, even the very children. — Extract 
 from yournal. 
 
 Page 646. 
 " Where unremitting frosts the rocky 
 crescent bleach.^ ^ 
 
 " Let a wall of rocks be imagined from 
 three to six hundred feet in height, and 
 rising between France and Spain, so as 
 physically to separate the two kingdoms 
 —let us fancy this wall curved like a cres- 
 cent, with its convexity towards France. 
 Lastly, let us suppose, that in the very 
 middle of the wall, a breach of 300 feet 
 wide has been beaten down by the famous 
 
 Roland, and we may have a good idea of 
 what the mountaineers call the ' Breche 
 DE Roland.' " — Raymond'' s Pyrenees, 
 
 Page 647. 
 " Miserere Domine." 
 See the beautiful Song in Mr. Cole- 
 ridge ' b Tragedy, "The Remorse. ' ' Why 
 is the harp of Quantock silent? 
 
 Page 647. 
 
 " A^ot, like his great Compeers, indig- 
 nantly 
 Doth Danube spring to life ! " 
 
 Before this quarter of the Black Forest 
 was inhabited, the source of the Danube 
 might have suggested some of those sub- 
 lime images which Armstrong has so finely 
 described; at present, the contrast is most 
 striking. The Spring appears in a capa- 
 cious stone Basin in front of a Ducal 
 palace, with a pleasure-ground opposite; 
 then, passing under the pavement, takes 
 the form of a little, clear, bright, black, 
 vigorous rill, barely wide enough to 
 tempt the agility of a child five years old 
 to leap over it, — and entering the gar- 
 den, it joins, after a course of a few 
 hundred yards, a stream much more con- 
 siderable than itself. The copiousness 
 of the spring at DoneschingenrtiMst have 
 procured for it the honor of being named 
 the Source of the Danube. 
 
 Page 648. 
 
 " The Staub-bach " is a narrow Stream, 
 which, after a long course on the heights, 
 comes to the sharp edge of a somewhat 
 overhanging precipice, overleaps it with 
 a bound, and, after a fall of 930 feet, 
 forms again a rivulet. The vocal powers 
 of these musical Beggars may seem to be 
 exaggerated; but this wild and savage 
 air was utterly unlike any sounds I had 
 ever heard; the notes reached me from a 
 distance, and on what occasion they were 
 sung I could not guess, only they seemed 
 to belong, in some way or other, to the 
 Waterfall — and reminded me of reli- 
 gious services chanted to Streams and 
 
902 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Fountains in Pagan times. Mr. Southey 
 has thus accurately characterized the 
 peculiarity of this music: "While we 
 were at the Waterfall, some half-score 
 peasants, chiefly women and girls, assem- 
 bled just out of reach of the Spring, and 
 set up — surely, the wildest chorus that 
 ever was heard by human ears, — a song 
 not of articulate sounds, but in which the 
 voice was used as a mere instrument of 
 music, more flexible than any which art 
 could produce, — sweet, powerful, and 
 thrilling beyond description." — See 
 Notes to " A Tale of Paraguay." 
 
 Page 649. 
 
 "■ Engelberg." 
 
 The Convent whose site was pointed 
 out, according to tradition, in this man- 
 ner, is seated at its base. The architec- 
 ture of the building is unimpressive, but 
 the situation is worthy of the honor which 
 the imagination of the mountaineers has 
 conferred upon it. 
 
 Page 653. 
 ' ' Though searching damps and many an 
 envious Jlaw 
 Have marred this Work." 
 
 This picture of the Last Supper has not 
 only been grievously injured by time, but 
 the greatest part of it, if not the whole, 
 is said to have been retouched, or painted 
 over again. These niceties may be left to 
 connoisseurs. — I speak of it as 1 felt. 
 The copy exhibited in London some 
 years ago, and the engraving by Merghen, 
 are both admirable; but in the original 
 is a power which neither of those works 
 has attained, or even approached. 
 
 Page 654. 
 
 " Of Figures human and divine.^' 
 
 The statues ranged round the spire and 
 along the roof of the Cathedral of Milan 
 have been found fault with by persons 
 whose exclusive taste is unfortunate for 
 themselves. It is true that the same ex- 
 pense and labor, judiciously directed to 
 purposes more strictly architectural, might 
 
 have much heightened the general effect 
 of the building; for, seen from the ground, 
 the Statues appear diminutive. But the 
 couf-d' ceil, from the best point of view, 
 which is half way up the spire, must strike 
 an unprejudiced person with admiration; 
 and surely the selection and arrangement 
 of the Figures is exquisitely fitted to sup- 
 port the religion of the country in the 
 imaginations and feelings of the spectator. 
 It was with great pleasure that I saw, 
 during the two ascents which we made, 
 several children, of different ages, tripping 
 up and down the slender spire, and paus- 
 ing to look around them, with feelings 
 much more animated than could have 
 been derived from these or the finest 
 works of art, if placed within easy reach. 
 — Remember also that you have the Alps 
 on one side, and on the other the Apen- 
 nines, with the plain of Lombardy be- 
 tween ! 
 
 Page 658. 
 
 "Still, with those white-robed Shapes — 
 a living Stream, 
 The glacier Pillars join in solemn 
 guise. ^^ 
 
 This Procession is a part of the sacra- 
 mental service performed once a month. 
 In the valley of Engelberg we had the 
 good fortune to be present at the Grand 
 Festival of the Virgin — but the Procession 
 on that day, though consisting of up' 
 wards of 1000 persons, assembled from 
 all the branches of the sequestered valley, 
 was much less striking (notwithstanding 
 the subUmity of the surrounding scenery) : 
 it wanted both the simplicity of the other 
 and the accompaniment of the Glacier- 
 columns, whose sisterly resemblance to 
 the moving Figures gave it a most beauti- 
 ful and solemn peculiarity. 
 
 Page 660. 
 
 Near the town of Boulogne, and over- 
 hanging the beach, are the remains of a 
 tower which bears the name of Caligula, 
 who here terminated his western expedi- 
 
NOTES. 
 
 903 
 
 tion, of which these sea-shells were the 
 boasted spoils. And at no great distance 
 from these ruins, Buonaparte, standing 
 upon a mound of earth, harangued his 
 "Army of England," reminding them of 
 the exploits of Csesar, and pointing to- 
 wards the white cliffs, upon which their 
 standards were to float. He recommended 
 aJso a subscription to be raised among 
 the Soldiery to erect on that ground, in 
 memory of the foundation of the " Legion 
 of Honor," a Column — which was not 
 completed at the time we were there. 
 
 ^ Page 660. 
 
 " We mark majestic herds of cattle, free 
 To ruminate." 
 
 This is a most grateful sight for an 
 Englishman returning to his native land. 
 Everywhere one misses in the cultivated 
 grounds abroad, the animated and sooth- 
 bg accompaniment of animals ranging 
 and selecting their own food at will. 
 
 \ Page 661. 
 
 "Far as St. Maurice, from yon eastern 
 Forks." 
 
 Les FO0RCHBS, the point at which the 
 two chains of mountains part, that inclose 
 the Valais, which terminates at St. 
 Maurice. 
 I 
 
 Page 661. 
 
 • "ye that occupy 
 
 Your council-seats beneath the open sky, 
 On Somen's Mount." 
 
 Sarnen, one of the two capitals of the 
 Canton of Underwalden; the spot here 
 alluded to is close to the town, and is 
 called the Landenberg, from the tyrant of 
 that name, whose chateau formerly stood 
 there. On the 1st of January, 1308, the 
 great day which the confederated Heroes 
 had chosen for the deliverance of their 
 country, all the castles of the Governors 
 were taken by force or stratagem; and 
 the Tyrants themselves conducted, with 
 their creatures, to the frontiers, after 
 having witnessed the destruction of their 
 
 strongholds. From that time the Lan- 
 denberg has been the place where the 
 Legislators of this division of the Canton 
 assemble. The site, which is well de- 
 scribed by Ebel, is one of the most 
 beautiful in Switzerland. 
 
 Page 661. 
 
 " Calls me to pace her honored Bridge — " 
 
 The bridges of Lucerne are roofed, 
 and open at the sides, so that the passen- 
 ger has, at the same time, the benefit of 
 shade, and a view of the magnificent 
 country. The pictures are attached to 
 the rafters; those from Scripture History, 
 on the Cathedral-bridge, amount, accord- 
 ing to my notes, to 240. Subjects from 
 the Old Testament face the passenger as 
 he goes towards the Cathedral, and those 
 from the New as he returns. The pic- 
 tures on these bridges, as well as those 
 in most other parts of Switzerland, are 
 not to be spoken of as works of art; but 
 they are instruments admirably answering 
 the purpose for which they were designed. 
 
 Page 662. 
 
 " The River Duddon." 
 
 A Poet, whose works are not yet known 
 as they deserve to be, thus enters upon 
 his description of the " Ruins of Rome : " 
 
 "The rising Sun 
 Flames on the ruins in the purer air 
 Towering aloft ; " 
 
 and ends thus — 
 
 "The setting Sun displays 
 His visible great round, between yon towers, 
 As through two shady dif£s." 
 
 Mr. Crowe, in his excellent loco-de- 
 scriptive Poem, "Lewesdon Hill," is 
 still more expeditious, finishing the whole 
 on a May-morning, before breakfast. 
 
 "To-morrow for severer thought, but now 
 To breakfast, and keep festival to-day." 
 
 No one believes, or is desired to be- 
 lieve, that those Poems were actually 
 composed within such limits of time; noi: 
 was there any reason why a prose state 
 
904 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 ment should acquaint the reader with the 
 plain fact, to the disturbance of poetic 
 credibility. But, in the present case, I 
 am compelled to mention, that the above 
 series of Sonnets was the growth of many 
 years; — the one which stands the 14th 
 was the first produced; and others were 
 added upon occasional visits to the 
 Stream, or as recollections of the scenes 
 upon its banks awakened a wish to de- 
 scribe them. In this manner I have pro- 
 ceeded insensibly, without perceiving that 
 I was trespassing upon ground pre-occu- 
 pied, at least as far as intention went, by 
 Mr. Coleridge; who, more than twenty 
 years ago, used to speak of writing a rural 
 Poem, to be entitled "The Brook," of 
 which he has given a sketch in a recent 
 publication. But a particular subject 
 cannot, I think, much interfere with a 
 general one; and I have been further 
 kept from encioaching upon any right 
 Mr. C. may still wish to exercise, by the 
 restriction which the frame of the Sonnet 
 imposed upon me, narrowing unavoid- 
 ably the range of thought, and preclud- 
 ing, though not without its advantages, 
 many graces to which a freer movement 
 of verse would naturally have led. 
 
 May I not venture, then, to hope, that, 
 instead of being a hindrance by anticipa- 
 tion of any part of the subject, these 
 Sonnets may remind Mr. Coleridge of 
 his own more comprehensive design, and 
 induce him to fulfil it? — There is a 
 sympathy in streams, — "one calleth to 
 another;" and I would gladly believe, 
 that "The Brook" will, ere long, mur- 
 mur in concert with "The Duddon." 
 But, asking pardon for this fancy, I need 
 not scruple to say that those verses must 
 indeed be ill-fated which can enter upon 
 such pleasant walks of nature without 
 receiving and giving inspiration. The 
 power of waters over the minds of Poets 
 has been acknowledged from the earliest 
 ages; — through the " Flumina amem 
 sylvasque inglorius " of Virgil, down to 
 the sublime apostrophe to the great rivers 
 of the earth by Armstrong, and the 
 simple ejaculation of Burns (chosen, if I 
 recollect right, by Mr. Coleridge,, as a 
 motto for his embryo " Brook "), 
 
 " The Muse nae Poet ever fand her. 
 Till by himsel' he learned to wander, 
 Adown some trotting burn's meander, 
 And na' think lang." 
 
 Page 665. 
 
 " There bloomed the strawberry of the 
 wilderness, 
 
 The trembling eyebright showed her sapph- 
 ire blue." 
 
 These two lines are in a great measure 
 taken from ' ' The Beauties of Spring, a 
 Juvenile Poem," by the Rev. Joseph 
 Sympson. He was a native of Cumber- 
 land, and was educated in the vale of 
 Grasmere, and at Hawkshead school: 
 his poems are little known, but they con- 
 tain passages of splendid description; 
 and the versification of his "Vision of 
 Alfred" is harmonious and animated. 
 In describing the motions of the Sylphs 
 that constitute the strange machinery of 
 his Poem, he uses the following illustra- 
 tive simile : — 
 
 " Glancing from their plumes 
 
 A changeful light the azure vault illumes. 
 Less varying hues beneath the Pole adorn 
 The streamy glories of the Boreal mom, 
 That wavering to and fro their radiance shed 
 On Bothnia's gulf with glassy ice o'erspread. 
 Where the lone native, as he homeward glides. 
 On polished sandals o'er the imprisoned tides, 
 And still the balance of his frame preserves, 
 Wheeled on alternate foot in lengthening curves, 
 Sees at a glance, above him and below, 
 Two rival heavens with equal splendor glow. 
 Sphered in the centre of the world he seems ; 
 For all around with soft effulgence gleams; 
 Stars, moons, and meteors, ray opposed to ray. 
 And solemn midnight pours the blaze of day." 
 
 He was a man of ardent feeling, and 
 his faculties of mind, particularly his mem- 
 ory, were extraordinary. Brief notices 
 of his life ought to find a place in the 
 History of Westmoreland. 
 
 Page 668. Sonnets xvil. and XVIII. 
 
 The Eagle requires a large domain 
 for its support: but several pairs, not 
 many years ago, were constantly resident 
 in this country, building their nests in 
 
NOTES. 
 
 905 
 
 the steeps of Borrowdale, Wastdale, En- 
 nerdale, and on the eastern side of Hel- 
 vellyn. Often have I heard anglers 
 speak of the grandeur of their appear- 
 ance, as they hovered over Red Tarn, in 
 one of the coves of this mountain. The 
 bird frequently returns, but is always 
 destroyed. Not long since, one visited 
 Rydal lake, and remained some hours 
 near its banks : the consternation which 
 it occasioned among the different species 
 of fowl, particularly the herons, was 
 expressed by loud screams. The horse 
 also is naturally afraid of the eagle. — 
 There were several Roman stations 
 among these mountains; the most con- 
 siderable seems to have been in a meadow 
 at the head of Windermere, established, 
 undoubtedly, as a check over the passes 
 of Kirkstone, Dunmail-raise, and of 
 Hardknot and Wrynose. On the margin 
 of Rydal lake, a coin of Trajan was 
 discovered very lately. — The Roman 
 Fort here alluded to, called by the 
 country people " Hardknot Castle, ' ' is 
 most impressively situated half-way down 
 the hill on the right of the road that 
 descends from Hardknot into Eskdale. 
 It has escaped the notice of most anti- 
 quarians, and is but slightly mentioned 
 by Lysons. — The Druidical Circle 
 is about half a mile to the left of the 
 road ascending Stoneside from the vale 
 of Duddon: the country people call it 
 ^^ Sunken Church.^^ 
 
 The reader who may have been inter- 
 ested in the foregoing Sonnets (which 
 together may be considered as a Poem) 
 will not be displeased to find in this place 
 1 prose account of the Duddon, extracted 
 from Green's comprehensive Guide to 
 il4f Za/5«, lately published. "The road 
 leading from Coniston to Broughton is 
 over high ground, and commands a view 
 of the River Duddon; which, at high 
 water, is a grand sight, having the beau- 
 tiful and fertile lands of Lancashire and 
 Cumberland stretching each way from 
 its margin. In this extensive view, the 
 face of nature is displayed in a wonder- 
 ful variety of hill and dale, wooded 
 grounds and buildings; amongst the latter 
 Broughton Tower, seated on the crown 
 
 of a hill, rising elegantly from the val- 
 ley, is an object of extraordinary interest. 
 Fertility on each side is gradually dimin- 
 ished, and lost in the superior heights of 
 Blackcomb, in Cumberland, and the 
 high lands between Kirkby and Ulver- 
 stone. 
 
 " The road from Broughton to Sea- 
 thwaite is on the banks of the Duddon, 
 and on its Lancashire side it is of various 
 elevations. The river is an amusing com- 
 panion, one while brawling and tumbling 
 over rocky precipices, until the agitated 
 water becomes again calm by arriving at 
 a smoother and less precipitous bed, but 
 its course is soon again ruffled, and the 
 current thrown into every variety of form 
 which the rocky channel of a river can give 
 to water." — Vide Green'' s Guide to the 
 Lakes, vol. i. pp. 98-100. 
 
 After all, the traveller would be most 
 gratified who should approach this beau- 
 tiful Stream, neither at its source, as is 
 done in the Sonnets, nor from its termi- 
 nation; but from Coniston over Walna 
 Scar; first descending into a little circular 
 valley, a collateral compartment of the 
 long winding vale through which flows 
 the Duddon. This recess, towards the 
 close of September, when the after-grass 
 of the meadows is still of a fresh green, 
 with the leaves of many of the trees 
 faded, but perhaps none fallen, is truly 
 enchanting. At a point elevated enough 
 to show the various objects in the valley, 
 and not so high as to diminish their im- 
 portance, the stranger will instinctively 
 halt. On the foreground, a little below 
 the most favorable station, a rude foot- 
 bridge is thrown over the bed of the 
 noisy brook foaming by the wayside. 
 Russet and craggy hills, of bold and 
 varied outline, surround the level valley, 
 which is besprinkled with gray rocks 
 plumed with birch trees. A few home- 
 steads are interspersed, in some places 
 peeping out from among the rocks like 
 hermitages, whose site has been chosen for 
 the benefit of sunshine as well as shelter; 
 in other instances, the dwelling-house, 
 barn, andbyre, compose together a cruci- 
 form structure, which, with its embower- 
 ing trees, and the ivy clothing part of the 
 
9o6 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 walls and roof like a fleece, call to mind 
 the remains of an ancient abbey. Time, 
 in most cases, and nature everywhere, 
 have given a sanctity to the humble 
 works of man that are scattered over this 
 peaceful retirement. Hence a harmony 
 of tone and color, a consummation and 
 perfection of beauty, which would have 
 been marred had aim or purpose inter- 
 fered with the course of convenience, 
 utility, or necessity. This unvitiated 
 region stands in no need of the veil of 
 twilight to soften or disguise its features. 
 As it glistens in the morning sunshine, it 
 would fill the spectator's heart with glad- 
 someness. Looking from our chosen 
 station, he would feel an impatience to 
 rove among its pathways, to be greeted 
 by the milkmaid, to wander from house 
 to house exchanging ** good-morrows " 
 as he passed the open doors; but, at 
 evening, when the sun is set, and a 
 pearly light gleams from the western 
 quarter of the sky, with an answering 
 light from the smooth surface of the 
 meadows; when the trees are dusky, but 
 each kind still distinguishable; when the 
 cool air has condensed the blue smoke 
 rising from the cottage chimneys; when 
 the dark mossy stones seem to sleep in 
 the bed of the foaming brook; then he 
 would be unwilling to move forward, not 
 less from a reluctance to relinquish what 
 he beholds, than from an apprehension 
 of disturbing, by his approach, the quiet- 
 ness beneath him. Issuing from the 
 plain of this valley, the brook descends 
 in a rapid torrent passing by the church- 
 yard of Seathwaite. The traveller is 
 thus conducted at once into the midst of 
 the wild and beautiful scenery which 
 gave occasion to the Sonnets from the 14th 
 to the 20th inclusive. From the point 
 where the Seathwaite brook joins the 
 Duddon is a view upwards into the pass 
 through which the river makes its way 
 into the plain of Donnerdale. The per- 
 pendicular rock on the right bears the 
 ancient British name of The Pen ; the one 
 opposite is called Walla-barrow Crag, 
 a name that occurs in other places to desig- 
 nate rocks of the same character. The 
 chaotic aspect of the scene is well marked 
 
 by the expression of a stranger, who 
 strolled out while dinner was preparing, 
 and at his return, being asked by his 
 host, "What way he had been wander- 
 ing?" replie'd, "As far zsit-vs, finished!" 
 
 The bed of the Duddon is here strewn 
 with large fragments of rocks fallen from 
 aloft; which, as Mr. Green truly says,, 
 " are happily adapted to the many-shaped 
 waterfalls" (or rather waterbreaks, for 
 none of them are high) " displayed in 
 the short space of half a mile." That 
 there is some hazard in frequenting these 
 desolate places, I myself have had proof; 
 for one night an immense mass of rock 
 fell upon the very spot where, with a 
 friend, I had lingered the day before. 
 "The concussion," says Mr. Green, 
 speaking of the event (for he also, in the 
 practice of his art, on that day sat ex- 
 posed for a still longer time to the same 
 peril), was heard, not without alarm, by 
 the neighboring shepherds." But to 
 return to Seathwaite Churchyard : it con- 
 tains the following inscription : — 
 
 " In memory of the Reverend Robert 
 Walker, who died the 25th of June, 1802, 
 in the 93d year of his age, and 67th of 
 his curacy at Seathwaite. 
 
 "Also, of Anne his wife, who died 
 the 28th of January, in the 93d year of 
 her age." 
 
 In the parish-register of Seathwaite 
 Chapel is this notice : — 
 
 "Buried, June 28th, the Rev. Robert 
 Walker. He was curate of Seathwaite 
 sixty-six years. He was a man singular 
 for his temperance, industry, and iO' 
 tegrity." 
 
 This individual is the Pastor alluded 
 to, in the i8th Sonnet, as a worthy 
 compeer of the country parson of Chau- 
 cer, etc. In the seventh book of the 
 Excursion, an abstract of his character 
 is given, beginning, — 
 
 "A 'Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
 Fall to the ground ; — " 
 
 and some account of his .life, for it is 
 worthy of being recorded, will not be oat 
 of place here. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 907 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT 
 WALKER. 
 
 In the year 1709, Robert Walker was 
 born at Under-crag, in Seathwaite; he 
 was the youngest of twelve children. 
 His eldest brother, who inherited the 
 small family estate, died at Under-crag, 
 aged ninety-four, being twenty-four years 
 older than the subject of this memoir, 
 who was born of the same mother. 
 Robert was a sickly infant; and, through 
 his boyhood and youth, continuing to be 
 of delicate frame and tender health, it was 
 deemed best, according to the country 
 phrase, to breed him a scholar ; for it 
 was not likely that he would be able to 
 earn a livelihood by bodily labor. At 
 that period few of these dales were fur- 
 nished with schoolhouses; the children 
 being taught to read and write in the 
 chapel; and in the same consecrated 
 building, where he officiated for so many 
 years both as preacher and schoolmaster, 
 he himself received the rudiments of his 
 education. In his youth he became 
 schoolmaster at Loweswater; not being 
 called upon, probably, in that situation 
 to teach more than reading, writing, and 
 arithmetic. But, by the assistance of a 
 "Gentleman " in the neighborhood, he 
 acquired, at leisure hours, a knowledge 
 of the classics, and became qualified for 
 taking holy orders. Upon his ordination, 
 he had the offer of two curacies : the one, 
 Torver, in the vale of Coniston, — the 
 other, Seathwaite, in his native vale. 
 The value of each was the same, viz. 
 five pounds per annum; but the cure 
 of Seathwaite having a cottage attached 
 to it, as he wished to marry, he chose it 
 in preference. The young person on 
 whom his affections were fixed, though 
 in tbe condition of a domestic servant, 
 had given promise, by her serious and 
 modest deportment, and by her virtuous 
 dispo-itions, that she was worthy to be- 
 come the helpmate of a man entering 
 upon a plan of life such as he had marked 
 out for himself. By her frugality she had 
 stored up a small sum of money, with 
 which they began housekeeping. In 
 
 1 735 or 1 736, he entered upon his curacy ; 
 and, nineteen years afterwards, his situ 
 ation is thus described, in some letters 
 to be found in the Annual Register for 
 1760, from which the following is ex- 
 tracted : — 
 
 "To Mr. 
 
 " Coniston, July 26, 1754. 
 
 "Sir — I was the other day upon a 
 party of pleasure, about five or six miles 
 from this place, where I met with a very 
 striking object, and of a nature not very 
 common. Going into a clergyman's 
 house (of whom I had frequently heard), 
 I found him sitting at the head of a long 
 square table, such as is commonly used 
 in this country by the lower class of peo- 
 ple, dressed in a coarse blue frock, 
 trimmed with black horn buttons; a 
 checked shirt, a leathern strap about his 
 neck for a stock, a coarse apron, and a 
 pair of great wooden-soled shoes plated 
 with iron to preserve them (what We call 
 clogs in these parts), with a child upon 
 his knee, eating his breakfast; his wife, 
 and the remainder of his children, were 
 some of them employed in waiting upon 
 each other, the rest in teasing and spin- 
 ning wool, at which trade he is a great 
 proficient; and moreover, when it is made 
 ready for sale, will lay it, by sixteen or 
 thirty-two pounds' weight, upon his back, 
 and on foot, seven or eight miles, will 
 carry it to the market, even iii the depth 
 of winter. I was not much surprised at 
 all this, as you may possibly be, having 
 heard a great deal of it related before. 
 But I must confess myself astonished with 
 the alacrity and the good humor that 
 appeared both in the clergyman and his 
 wife, and more so at the sense and in- 
 genuity of the clergyman himself." * * 
 
 Then follows a letter from another 
 person, dated 1755, from which an ex- 
 tract shall be given : — 
 
 " By his frugality and good manage- 
 ment he keeps the wolf from the door, 
 as we say; and if he advances a little in 
 the world, it is owing more to his own 
 care than to anything else he has to rely 
 upon. I don't find his inclination is 
 
908 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 running after further preferment. He is 
 settled among the people, that are happy 
 among themselves ; and lives in the great- 
 est unanimity and friendship with them; 
 and, I believe, the minister and people 
 are exceedingly satisfied with each other; 
 and indeed how should they be dis- 
 satisfied when they have a person of 
 so much worth and probity for their 
 pastor? A man who, for his candor and 
 meekness, his sober, chaste, and virtuous 
 conversation, his soundness in principle 
 and practice, is an ornament to his pro- 
 fession, and an honor to the country he 
 is in; and bear with me if I say, the 
 plainness of his dress, the sanctity of his 
 manners, the simplicity of his doctrine, 
 sind the vehemence of his expression, 
 have a sort of resemblance to the pure 
 practice of primitive Christianity." 
 
 We will now give his own account of 
 himself, to be found in the same place. 
 
 From the Rev. Robert Walker. 
 
 " Sir — Yours of the 26th instant was 
 
 communicated to me by Mr. C , and 
 
 I should have returned an immediate 
 answer, but the hand of Providence, then 
 laying heavy upon an amiable pledge of 
 conjugal endearment, hath since taken 
 from me a promising girl, which the dis- 
 consolate mother too pensively laments 
 the loss of; though we have yet eight 
 living, all healthful, hopeful children, 
 whose names and ages are as follows : — 
 Zaccheus, aged almost eighteen years; 
 Elizabeth, sixteen years and ten months; 
 Mary, fifteen; Moses, thirteen years and 
 three months; Sarah, ten years and three 
 months; Mabel, eight years and three 
 months; William Tyson, three years and 
 eight months; and Anne Esther, one 
 year and three months; besides Anne, 
 who died two years and six months ago, 
 and was then aged between nine and 
 ten; and Eleanor, wJio died the 23d inst., 
 January, aged six years and ten months. 
 Zaccheus, the eldest child, is now learn- 
 ing the trade of a tanner, and has two 
 years and a half of his apprenticeship to 
 serve. The annual income of my chapel 
 at present, as near as I can compute it, 
 
 may amount to about 17/., of which is 
 paid in cash, viz. 5/. from the bounty of 
 Queen Anne, and 5/. from W. P., Esq., 
 
 of P , out of the annual rents, he 
 
 being lord of the manor, and 3/. from 
 
 the several inhabitants of L , settled 
 
 upon the tenements as a rent-charge; 
 the house and gardens I value at 4/. 
 yearly, and not worth more; and I be- 
 lieve the surplice fees and voluntary 
 contributions, one year with another, 
 may be worth 3/. ; but as the inhabitants 
 are few in number, and the fees very 
 low, this last-mentioned sum consists 
 merely in free-will offerings. 
 
 " I am situated greatly to my satisfac- 
 tion with regard to the conduct and be- 
 havior of my auditory, who not only live 
 in the happy ignorance of the follies and 
 vices of the age, but in mutual peace and 
 good-will with one another, and are 
 seemingly (I hope really too) sincere 
 Christians, and sound members of the 
 established church, not one dissenter of 
 any denomination being amongst them 
 all. I got to the value of 40.'. for my 
 wife's fortune, but had no real estate of 
 my own, being the youngest son of 
 twelve children, born of obscure parents; 
 and, though my income has been but 
 small, and my family large, yet, by a 
 providential blessing upon my own dili- 
 gent endeavors, the kindness of friends, 
 and a cheap country to live in, we have 
 always had the necessaries of life. By 
 what I have written (which is a true and 
 exact account, to the best of my knowl- 
 edge) I hope you will not think your 
 favor to me out of the late worthy Dr. 
 Stratford's effects quite misbestowed, for 
 which I must ever gratefully own my- 
 self. Sir, your much obliged and most 
 obedient humble servant, 
 
 R. W., Curate of S 
 
 "To Mr. C, of Lancaster." 
 
 About the time when this letter was 
 written, the Bishop of Chester recom- 
 mended the scheme of joining the curacy 
 of Ulpha to the contiguous one of Sea- 
 thwaite, and the nomination was offered 
 Mr. Walker; but an unexpected difiSculty 
 arising, Mr. W.. in a letter to the Bishop 
 
NOTES. 
 
 909 
 
 (a copy of which, in his own beautiful 
 handwriting, now lies before me), thus 
 expresses himself. ' * If he, " meaning the 
 person in whom the difficulty originated, 
 " had suggested any such objection before, 
 I should utterly have declined any attempt 
 to the curacy of Ulpha: indeed, I was 
 always apprehensive it might be disagree- 
 able to my auditory at Seathwaite, as they 
 have been always accustomed to double 
 duty, and the inhabitants of Ulpha despair 
 of being able to support a schoolmaster 
 who is not curate there also; which 
 suppressed all thoughts in me of serving 
 them both." And in a second letter to 
 the Bishop he writes : — 
 
 " My Lord — I have the favor of yours 
 of the 1st instant, and am exceedingly 
 obliged on account of the Ulpha affair : if 
 that curacy should lapse into your Lord- 
 ship's hands, I would beg leave rather to 
 decline than embrace it; for the chapels of 
 Seathwaite and Ulpha, annexed together, 
 would be apt to cause a general discontent 
 among the inhabitants of both places; by 
 either thinking themselves slighted, being 
 only served alternately, or neglected in 
 the duty, or attributing it to covetousness 
 in me; all which occasions of murmuring 
 I would willingly avoid." And in con- 
 cluding his former letter, he expresses a 
 similar sentiment upon the same occasion, 
 "desiring, if it be possible, however, as 
 much as in me lieth, to live peaceably 
 with all men." 
 
 The year following, the curacy of 
 Seathwaite was again augmented; and, to 
 effect this augmentation, fifty pounds had 
 been advanced by himself; and, in 1760, 
 lands were purchased with eight hundred 
 pounds. Scanty as was his income, the 
 frequent offer of much better benefices 
 could not tempt Mr. W. to quit a situa- 
 tion where he had been so long happy, 
 with a consciousness of being useful. 
 Among his papers I find the following 
 copy of a letter, dated 1775, twenty years 
 after his refusal of the curacy of Ulpha, 
 which will show what exertions had been 
 made for one of his sons. 
 
 "May it please your Grace — Our 
 remote situation here makes it difficult to 
 get the necessary information for transact- 
 ing business regularly; such is the reason 
 of my giving your Grace the present 
 trouble. 
 
 "The bearer (my son) is desirous of 
 offering himself candidate for deacon's 
 orders at your Grace's ensuing ordination; 
 the first, on the 25th instant, so that his 
 papers could not be transmitted in due 
 time. As he is now fully at age, and I 
 have afforded him education to the utmost 
 of my ability, it would give me great sat- 
 isfaction (if your Grace would take him, 
 and find him qualified) to have him or- 
 dained. His constitution has been ten- 
 der for some years; he entered the college 
 of Dublin, but his health would not per- 
 mit him to continue there, or I would 
 have supported him much longer. He 
 has been with me at home above a year, 
 in which time he has gained great strength 
 of body, sufficient, I hope, to enable him 
 for performing the function. Divine 
 Providence, assisted by liberal benefac- 
 tors, has blest my endeavors, from a 
 small income, to rear a numerous family; 
 and as my time of life renders me now 
 unfit for much future expectancy from 
 this world, I should be glad to see my son 
 settled in a promising way to acquire an 
 honest livelihood for himself. His be- 
 havior, so far in life, has been irreproach- 
 able; and I hope he will not degenerate, 
 in principles or practice, from the pre- 
 cepts and pattern of an indulgent parent. 
 Your Grace's favorable reception of this, 
 from a distant corner of the diocese, and 
 an obscure hand, will excite filial grati- 
 tude, and a due use shall be made of the 
 obligation vouchsafed thereby to your 
 Grace's very dutiful and most obedient 
 Son and Servant, 
 
 Robert Walker." 
 
 The same man, who was thus liberal in 
 the education of his numerous family, was 
 even munificent in hospitality as a parish 
 priest. Every Sunday were served upon 
 the long table, at which he has been de- 
 scribed sitting with a child upon his knee, 
 messes of broth for the refreshment of 
 
910 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 those of his congregation who came from 
 a distance, and usually took their seats as 
 parts of his own household. It seems 
 scarcely possible that this custom could 
 have commenced before the augmentation 
 of his cure; and what would to many 
 have been a high price of self-denial was 
 paid, by the pastor and his family, for 
 this gratification ; as the trCat could only 
 be provided by dressing at one time the 
 whole, perhaps, of their weekly allow- 
 ance of fresh animal food; Consequently, 
 for a succession of days, the table was 
 covered with cold victuals only. His 
 generosity in old age may be still further 
 illustrated by a little circumstance relating 
 to an orphan grandson, then ten years of 
 age, which I find in a copy of a letter to 
 one of his sons; he requests that half a 
 guinea may be left for "little Robert's 
 pocket-money," who was then at school: 
 intrusting it to the care of a lady, who, 
 as he says, " may sometimes frustrate his 
 squandering it away foolishly," and 
 promising to send him an equal allow- 
 ance annually for the same purpose. The 
 conclusion of the same letter is so char- 
 acteristic, that I cannot forbear to trans- 
 cribe it. "We," meaning his wife and 
 himself, " are in our wonted state of 
 health, allowing for the hasty strides of old 
 age knocking daily at our door, and threat- 
 eningly telling us we are notonly mortal, 
 but must expect ere long to take our 
 leave of our ancient cottage, and lie 
 down in our last dormitory. Pray pardon 
 my neglect to answer yours: let us hear 
 sooner from you, to augment the mirth of 
 the Christmas holidays. Wishing you all 
 the pleasures of the approaching season, 
 I am, dear Son, with lasting sincerity, 
 yours affectionately, 
 
 "Robert Walker." 
 
 He loved old customs and old usages, 
 and in some instances stuck to them to 
 his own loss; for, having had a sum of 
 money lodged in the hands of a neigh- 
 boring tradesman, when long course of 
 time had raised the rate of interest, and 
 more was offered, he refused to accept it; 
 an act not difficult to one, who, while he 
 was drawing seventeen pounds a year from 
 
 his curacy, declitied, as we have seen, to 
 add the profits of another small benefice 
 to his own, lest he should be suspected of 
 cupidity. From this vice he was utterly 
 free; he made no charge for teaching 
 school ; such as could afford to pay gave 
 him what they pleased. When Very 
 young, having kept a diary of his ex- 
 penses, however trifling, the large amount, 
 at the end of the year, surprised him; 
 and from that time the rule of his life was 
 to be economical, not avaricious. At hi^ 
 decease he left behind him no less a sum 
 than 2000/.; and such a sense of his 
 various excellences was prevalent in the 
 country, that the epithet of wonderful 
 is to this day attached to his name. 
 
 There is in the above sketch something 
 so extraordinary as to require further 
 explanatory details. — And to begin with 
 his industry; eight hours in each day, 
 during five days in the week, and half of 
 Saturday, except when the labors of hus- 
 bandry were urgent, he was occupied in 
 teaching. His seat was within the rails 
 of the altar; the communion table was 
 his desk; and, like Shenstone's school- 
 mistress, the master employed himself at 
 the spinning-wheel, while the children 
 were repeating their lessons by his side. 
 Every evening, after school hours, if not 
 more profitably engaged, he continued 
 the same kind of labor, exchanging, for 
 the benefit of exercise, the same wheel, 
 at which he had sate, for the large one 
 on which wool is spun, the spinner step- 
 ping to and fro. Thus was the wheel 
 constantly in readiness to prevent the 
 waste of a moment's time. Nor was his 
 industry with the pen, when occasion 
 called for it, less eager. Intrusted with 
 extensive management of public and 
 private affairs, he acted, in his rustic 
 neighborhood, as scrivener, writing out 
 petitions, deeds of conveyance, wills, 
 covenants, etc., with pecuniary gain to 
 himself, and to the great benefit of his 
 employers. These labors (at all tintes 
 considerable) at one period of the year, 
 viz. between Christmas and CatidlemaS, 
 when money transactions are settled in 
 this country, were often so intense, that 
 he passed great part of the night, and 
 
NOTES. 
 
 911 
 
 sometimes whole nights, at his desk. 
 His garden also was tilled by his own 
 hand; he had a right of pasturage upon 
 the mountains for a few sheep and a 
 couple of cows, which required his attend- 
 ance; with this pastoral occupation he 
 joined the labors of husbandry upon a 
 small scale, renting two or three acres in 
 addition to his own less than one acre of 
 giebe; and the humblest drudgery which 
 the cultivation of these fields required 
 was performed by himself. 
 
 He also assisted his neighbors in hay- 
 making and shearing their flocks, and in 
 the performance of this latter service he 
 was eminently dexterous. They, in their 
 turn, complimented him with the present 
 of a haycock, or a fleece; less as a recom- 
 pense for this particular service than as a 
 general acknowledgment. The Sabbath 
 was in a strict sense kept holy; the Sunday 
 evenings being devoted to reading the 
 Scripture and family prayer. The principal 
 festivals appointed by the Church were 
 also duly observed; but through every 
 other day in the week, through every week 
 in the year, he was incessantly occupied in 
 work of hand or mind; not allowing a 
 moment for recreation, except upon a 
 Saturday afternoon, when he indulged 
 himself with a Newspaper, or sometimes 
 with a Magazine. The frugality and 
 temperance established in his house were 
 as admirable as the industry. Nothing to 
 which the name of luxury could be given 
 was there known; in the latter part of his 
 life, indeed, when tea had been brought 
 into almost general use, it was provided 
 for visitors, and for such of his own family 
 as returned occasionally to his roof, and 
 had been accustomed to this refreshment 
 elsewhere ; but neither he nor his wife ever 
 partook of it. The raiment worn by his 
 family was comely and decent, but as 
 simple as their diet; the home-spun ma- 
 terials were made up into apparel by their 
 own hands. At the time of the decease 
 of this thrifty pair, their cottage con- 
 tained a large store of webs of woollen 
 and linen cloth, woven from thread of 
 their own spinning. And it is remark- 
 able that the pew in the chapel in which 
 the family used to sit, remains neatly 
 
 lined with woollen cloth spun by the 
 pastor's own hands. It is the only pew 
 in the chapel so distinguished; and I 
 know of no other instance of his con- 
 formity to the delicate accommodations 
 of modern times. The fuel of the house, 
 like that of their neighbors, consisted of 
 peat, procured from the mosses by their 
 own labor. The lights by which, in the 
 winter evenings, their work was per- 
 formed, were of their own manufacture, 
 such as still continue to be used in these 
 cottages; they are made of the pith of 
 rushes dipped in any unctuous substance 
 that the house affords. White candles, 
 as tallow candles are here called, were 
 reserved to honor the Christmas festivals, 
 and were perhaps produced upon no 
 other occasions. Once a month, during 
 the proper season, a sheep was drawn 
 from their small mountain flock, and 
 killed for the use of the family; and a 
 cow, towards the close of the year was 
 salted and dried for winter provision; 
 the hide was tanned to furnish them with 
 shoes. — By these various resources, this 
 venerable clergyman reared a numerous 
 family, not only preserving them, as he 
 affectingly says, "from wanting the ne- 
 cessaries of life;" but affording them an 
 unstinted education, and the means of 
 raising themselves in society. In this 
 they were eminently assisted by the 
 effects of their father's example, his pre- 
 cepts, and injunctions : he was aware 
 that truth-speaking, as a moral virtue, is 
 best secured by inculcating attention to 
 accuracy of report even on trivial occa- 
 sions; and so rigid were the rules of 
 honesty by which he endeavored to bring 
 up his family, that if one of them had 
 chanced to find in the lanes or fields any- 
 thing of the least use or value without 
 being able to ascertain to whom it be- 
 longed, he always insisted upon the 
 child's carrying it back to the place 
 from which it had been brought. 
 
 No one, it might be thought, could, as 
 has been described, convert his body 
 into a machine, as it were, of industry 
 for the humblest uses, and keep his 
 thoughts so frequently bent upon secu- 
 lar concerns, without grievous injury to 
 
912 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 the more precious parts of his nature. 
 How could the powers of intellect thrive, 
 or its graces be displayed, in the midst of 
 circumstances apparently so unfavorable, 
 and where, to the direct cultivation of the 
 mind, so small a portion of time was 
 allotted? But, in this extraordinary 
 man, things in their nature adverse 
 were reconciled. His conversation was 
 remarkable, not only for being chaste and 
 pure, but for the degree in which it was 
 fervent and eloquent; his written style 
 was correct, simple, and animated. Nor 
 did his affections suffer more than his 
 intellect; he was tenderly alive to all the 
 duties of his pastoral office: the poor 
 and needy "he never sent empty away," 
 — the stranger was fed and refreshed in 
 passing that unfrequented vale — the sick 
 were visited; and the feelings of humanity 
 found further exercise among the dis- 
 tresses and embarrassments in the worldly 
 estate of his neighbors, with which his 
 talents for business made him acquainted; 
 and the disinterestedness, impartiality, 
 and uprightness which he maintained in 
 the management of all affairs confided 
 to him were virtues seldom separated in 
 his own conscience from religious obliga- 
 tion. Nor could such conduct fail to 
 remind those who witnessed it of a spirit 
 nobler than law or custom: they felt 
 convictions which, but for such inter- 
 course, could not have been afforded, 
 that as in the practice of their pastor 
 there was no guile, so in his faith there 
 was nothing hollow; and we are war- 
 ranted in beheving that upon these occa- 
 sions selfishness, obstinacy, and discord 
 would often give way before the breath- 
 ings of his good-will and saintly integrity. 
 It may be presumed also — while his 
 humble congregation were listening to 
 the moral precepts which he delivered 
 from the pulpit, and to the Christian ex- 
 hortations that they should love their 
 neighbors as themselves, and do as they 
 would be done unto — that peculiar effi- 
 cacy was given to the preacher's labors 
 by recollections in the minds of his con- 
 gregation that they were called upon to 
 do no more than his own actions were 
 daily setting before their eyes. 
 
 The afternoon service in the chapel 
 was less numerously attended than that 
 of the morning, but by a more serious 
 auditory; the lesson from the New Tes- 
 tament, on those occasions, was accom- 
 panied by Burkitt's Commentaries. These 
 lessons he read with impassioned em- 
 phasis, frequently drawing tears from his 
 hearers, and leaving a lasting impression 
 upon their minds. His devotional feel- 
 ings and the powers of his own mind 
 were further exercised, along with those 
 of his family, in perusing the Scriptures: 
 not only on the Sunday evenings, but on 
 every other evening, while the rest of the 
 household were at work, some one of the 
 children, and in her turn the servant, for 
 the sake of practice in reading, or for 
 instruction, read the Bible aloud; and in 
 this manner the whole was repeatedly 
 gone through. That no common impor- 
 tance was attached to the observance of 
 religious ordinances by his family, appears 
 from the following memorandum by one 
 of his descendants, which I am tempted 
 to insert at length, as it is characteristic 
 and somewhat curious. " There is a 
 small chapel in the county palatine of 
 Lancaster, where a certain clergyman has 
 regularly officiated above sixty years, and 
 a few months ago administered the sacra- 
 ment of the Lord's Supper in the same, 
 to a decent number of devout communi- 
 cants. After the clergyman had received 
 himself, the first company out of the 
 assembly who approached the altar, and 
 kneeled down to be partakers of the 
 sacred elements, consisted of the par- 
 son's wife, to whom he had been mar- 
 ried upwards of sixty years; one son and 
 his wife; four daughters, each with her 
 husband ; whose ages, all added together, 
 amount to above 714 years. The sev- 
 eral and respective distances from the 
 place of each of their abodes to the 
 chapel where they all communicated, 
 will measure more than 1000 English 
 miles. Though the narration will appear 
 surprising, it is without doubt a fact that 
 the same persons, exactly four years 
 before, met at the same place, and all 
 joined in performance of the same ven- 
 erable duty." 
 
NOTES. 
 
 913 
 
 He was indeed most zealously attached 
 to the doctrine and frame of the Estab- 
 lished Church. We have seen him 
 congratulating himself that he had no 
 dissenters in his cure of any denomina- 
 tion. Some allowance must be made for 
 the state of opinion when his first reli- 
 gious impressions were received, before 
 the reader will acquit him of bigotry, 
 when I mention that at the time of the 
 augmentation of the cure, he refused to 
 invest part of the money in the purchase 
 of an estate offered to him upon advan- 
 tageous terms, because the proprietor was 
 a quaker; — whether from scrupulous 
 apprehension that a blessing would not 
 attend a contract framed for the benefit 
 of the church between persons not in 
 religious sympathy with each other; or, 
 as a seeker of peace, he was afraid of the 
 uncomplying disposition which at one 
 time was too frequently conspicuous in 
 that sect. Of this an instance had fallen 
 under his own notice ; for, while he taught 
 school at Loweswater, certain persons 
 of that denomination had refused to pay 
 annual interest due under the title of 
 Church-stock; 1 a great hardship upon 
 the incumbent, ^or the curacy of Lowes- 
 water was then scarcely less poor than 
 that of Seathwaite. To what degree this 
 prejudice of his was blamable need not 
 be determined; — certain it is, that he 
 was not only desirous, as he himself says, 
 to live in peace, but in love, with all men. 
 He was placable, and charitable in his 
 judgments; and, however correct in con- 
 duct and rigorous to himself, he was ever 
 ready to forgive the trespasses of others, 
 and to soften the censure that was cast 
 upon their frailties. — It would be unpar- 
 donable to omit that, in the maintenance 
 of his virtues, he received due support 
 from the partner of his long life. She 
 was equally strict, in attending to her 
 share of their joint cares, nor less dili- 
 gent in her appropriate occupations. A 
 
 ' Mr. Walker's charity being of that kind 
 which " seeketh not her own," he would rather 
 forego his rights than distrain for dues which the 
 parties liable refused, as a point of conscience, 
 to pay. 
 
 person who had been some lime their 
 servant in the latter part of their lives, 
 concluded the panegyric of her mistress 
 by saying to me, "She was no less excel- 
 lent than her husband; she was good to 
 the poor; she was good to everything ! " 
 He survived for a short time this virtuous 
 companion. When she died, he ordered 
 that her body should be borne to the 
 grave by three of her daughters and one 
 granddaughter; and, when the corpse 
 was lifted from the threshold, he insisted 
 upon lending his aid, and feeling about, 
 for he was then almost blind, took hold of 
 a napkin fixed to the coffin; and, as a 
 bearer of the body, entered the chapel, a 
 few steps from the lowly parsonage. 
 
 What a contrast does the life of this 
 obscurely-seated, and, in point of worldly 
 wealth, poorly-repaid Churchman, pre- 
 sent to that of a Cardinal Wolsey ! 
 
 " O 't is a burthen, Cromwell, 't is a burthen 
 Too heavy for a man who hopes for heaven ! " 
 
 We have been dwelling upon images 
 of peace in the moral world, that have 
 brought us again to the quiet enclosure 
 of consecrated ground in which this ven- 
 erable pair lie interred. The sounding 
 brook, that rolls close by the churchyard, 
 without disturbing feeling or meditation, 
 is now unfortunately laid bare; but not 
 long ago it participated, with the chapel, 
 the shade of some stately ash-trees, which 
 will not spring again. While the spec- 
 tator from this spot is looking round upon 
 the girdle of stony mountains that encom- 
 passes the vale, — masses of rock, out of 
 which monuments for all men that ever 
 existed might have been hewn — it would 
 surprise him to be told, as with truth he 
 might be, that the plain blue slab dedi- 
 cated to the memory of this aged pair is 
 a production of a quarry in North ^^'ales. 
 It was sent as a mark of respect by one 
 of their descendants from the vale of 
 Festiniog, a region almost as beautiful as 
 that in which it now lies ! 
 
 Upon the Seathwaite Brook, at a small 
 distance from the parsonage, has been 
 erected a mill for spinning yarn; it is a 
 mean and disagreeable object, though not 
 unimportant to the spectator, as calling 
 
914 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 to mind the momentous changes wrought 
 by such inventions in the frame of society 
 — changes which have proved especially 
 unfavorable to these mountain solitudes. 
 So much had been effected by those new 
 powers, before the subject of the preced- 
 ing biographical sketch closed his life, 
 that their operation could not escape his 
 notice, and doubtless excited touching 
 reflections upon the comparatively insig- 
 nificant results of his own manual indus- 
 try. But Robert Walker was not a man 
 of times and circumstances; had he lived 
 at a later period, the principle of duty 
 would have produced application as un- 
 remitting; the same energy of character 
 would have been displayed, though in 
 many instances with widely-different 
 effects. 
 
 With pleasure I annex, as illustrative 
 and confirmatory of the above account, 
 extracts from a paper in the Christian 
 Remembrancer, October, 1819: it bears 
 an assumed signature, but is known to be 
 the work of the Rev. Robert Bamford, 
 vicar of Bishopton, in the county of Dur- 
 ham; a great-grandson of Mr. Walker, 
 whose worth it commemorates, by a 
 record not the less valuable for being 
 written in very early youth. 
 
 "His house was a nursery of virtue. 
 All the inmates were industrious, and 
 cleanly, and happy. Sobriety, neatness, 
 quietness, characterized the whole family. 
 No railings, no idleness, no indulgence 
 of passion were permitted. Every child, 
 however young, had its appointed en- 
 gagements ; every hand was busy. Knit- 
 ting, spinning, reading, writing, mending 
 clothes, making shoes, were by the dif- 
 ferent children constantly performing. 
 The father himself sitting amongst them, 
 and guiding their thoughts, was engaged 
 in the same occupations. * * 
 
 "He sate up late, and rose early; 
 when the family were at rest, he retired 
 to a little room which he had built on the 
 roof of his house. He had slated it, and 
 fitted it up with shelves for his books, his 
 stock of cloth, wearing apparel, and his 
 utensils. There many a cold winter's 
 night, without fire, while the roof was 
 glazed with ice, did he remain reading or 
 
 writing till the day dawned. He taught 
 the children in the chapel, for there was 
 no schoolhouse. Yet in that cold, damp 
 place he never had a fire. He used to 
 send the children in parties either to his 
 own fire at home or make them run up 
 the mountain side. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " It may be further mentioned, that he 
 was a passionate admirer of Nature; she 
 was his mother, and he was a dutiful 
 child. While engaged on the mountains, 
 it was his greatest pleasure to view the 
 rising sun ; and in tranquil evenings, as 
 it slided behind the hills, he blessed its 
 departure. He was skilled in fossils and 
 plants; a constant observer of the stars 
 and winds : the atmosphere was his de- 
 light. He made many experiments on 
 its nature and properties. In summer he 
 used to gather a multitude of flies and in- 
 sects, and, by his entertaining description, 
 amuse and instruct his children. They 
 shared all his daily employments, and 
 derived many sentiments of love and 
 benevolence from his observations on 
 the works and productions of nature. 
 Whether they were following him in the 
 field, or surrounding hi|n in school, he 
 took every opportunity of storing their 
 minds with useful information. — Nor 
 was the circle of his influence confined to 
 Seathwaite. Many a distant mother has 
 told her child of Mr. Walker, and begged 
 him to be as good a man. 
 
 * * » * 
 
 " Once, when I was very young, I had 
 the pleasure of seeing and hearing that 
 venerable old man in his 90th year, and 
 even then, the calmness, the force, the 
 perspicuity of his sermon, sanctified and 
 adorned by the wisdom of gray hairs, and 
 the authority of virtue, had such an effect 
 upon my mind, that I never see a hoary- 
 headed clergyman, without thinking of 
 Mr. Walker * *. He allowed no dis- 
 senter or methodist to interfere in the in- 
 struction of the souls committed to his 
 cure : and so successful were his exertions, 
 that he had not one dissenter of any de- 
 nomination whatever in the whole parish. 
 — Though he avoided all religious contro- 
 versies, yet when age had silvered his 
 
NOTES. 
 
 915 
 
 head, and virtuous piety had secured to 
 his appearance reverence and silent honor, 
 no one, however determined in his hatred 
 of apostolic descent, could have listened 
 to his discourse on ecclesiastical history 
 and ancient times, without thinking that 
 one of the beloved apostles had returned 
 to mortality, and in that vale of peace had 
 come to exemplify the beauty of holiness 
 in the life and character of Mr. Walker. 
 * * * * 
 
 "Until the sickness of his wife, a few 
 months previous to her death, his health 
 and spirits and faculties were unimpaired. 
 But this misfortune gave him such a shock 
 that his constitution gradually decayed. 
 His senses, except sight, still preserved 
 their powers. He never preached with 
 steadiness after his wife's death. His 
 voice faltered : he always looked at the 
 seat she had used. He could not pass 
 her tomb without tears. He became, 
 when alone, sad and melancholy, though 
 still among his friends kind and good-hu- 
 mored. He went to bed about twelve 
 o'clock the night before his death. As 
 his custom was, he went, tottering and 
 leaning upon his daughter's arm, to ex- 
 amine the heavens, and meditate a few 
 moments in the open air. ' How clear 
 the moon shines to-night ! ' He said 
 these words, sighed, and laid down. At 
 six next morning he was found a corpse. 
 Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, 
 and many a grateful blessing followed 
 him to the grave." 
 
 Having mentioned in this narrative the 
 vale of Lowes water as a place where Mr. 
 Walker taught school, I will add a few 
 memoranda from its parish register, re- 
 specting a person apparently of desires as 
 moderate, with whom he must have been 
 intimate during his residence there. 
 
 " Let him that would, ascend the tottering seat 
 Of courtly grandeur, and become as great 
 As are his mounting wishes ; but for me, 
 Let sweet repose and rest my portion be. 
 
 Henry Forest, Curate.'' 
 
 " Honor, the idol which the most adore, 
 Receives no homage from my knee ; 
 Content in privacy I value more 
 Than all uneasy dignity." 
 
 " Henry Forest came to Loweswater, 
 1708, being 25 years of age." 
 
 " This curacy was twice augmented by 
 Queen Anne's Bounty. The first pay- 
 ment, with great difficulty, was paid to 
 Mr. John Curwen of London, on the 9th 
 of May, 1724, deposited by me, Henry 
 Forest, Curate of Loweswater. Y° said 
 9th of May, y" said Mr. Curwen went 
 to the office, and saw my name registered 
 there, &c. This, by the Providence of 
 God, came by lot to this poor place. 
 " Hsec tester H. Forest." 
 
 In another place he records that the 
 sycamore-trees were planted in the church- 
 yard in 1 7 10. 
 
 He died in 1741, having been curate 
 thirty-four years. It is not improbable 
 that H. Forest was the gentleman who 
 assisted Robert Walker in his classical 
 studies at Loweswater. 
 
 To this parish register is prefixed a 
 motto, of which the following verses are 
 a part : 
 
 *' Invigilate viri, tacito nam tempora gressu 
 Diff ugiunt, nulloque sono convertitur annus ; 
 Utendum est aetate, cito pede praeterit Eetas." 
 
 Page 672. 
 
 " We feel thai we are greater than we 
 know.^'' 
 
 "And feel that I am happier than I know." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 The allusion to the Greek Poet will be 
 obvious to the classical reader. 
 
 Page 674. 
 *' Living hill.^^ 
 
 - " while the living hill 
 
 Heaved with convulsive throes, and all was still. '' 
 Dr. Darwin. 
 
 Page 675. 
 "Ecclesiastical Sonnets." 
 
 During the month of December, 1820, 1 
 accompanied a much-beloved and honored 
 Friend in a walk through different parts 
 of his estate, with a view to fix upon the 
 site of a new Church which he intended 
 
9i6 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 to erect. It wasoijeof the most beautiful 
 mornings of a mild season, — our feelings 
 were in harmony with the cherishing in- 
 fluences of the scene; and such being our 
 purpose, we were naturally led to look 
 back upon past events with wonder and 
 gratitude, and on the future with hope. 
 Not long afterwards, some of the Sonnets 
 which will be found towards the close of 
 this series were produced as a private 
 memorial of that morning's occupation. 
 
 The Catholic Question, which was agi- 
 tated in Parliament about that time, kept 
 my thoughts in the same course; and it 
 struck me that certain points in the 
 Ecclesiastical History of our Country 
 might advantageously be presented to 
 view in verse. Accordingly, I took up 
 the subject, and what I now offer to the 
 reader was the result. 
 
 When this work was far advanced, I 
 was agreeably surprised to find that my 
 friend, Mr. Southey, had been engaged 
 with similar views in writing a concise 
 History of the Church in England. If 
 our Productions, thus unintentionally co- 
 inciding, shall be found to illustrate each 
 other, it will prove a high gratification to 
 me, which I am sure my friend will partici- 
 pate. 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
 Rydal MouNT,ya«. 24, 1822. 
 
 For the convenience of passing from 
 one point of the subject to another with- 
 out shocks of abruptness, this work has 
 taken the shape of a series of Sonnets : 
 but the Reader, it is to be hoped, will 
 find that the pictures are often so closely 
 connected as to have jointly the effect of 
 passages of a poem in a form of stanza to 
 which there is no objection but one that 
 bears upon the Poet only — its difficulty. 
 
 Page 676. 
 
 " Did Boly Paul," etc. 
 
 Stillingfleet adduces many arguments in 
 support of this opinion, but they are un- 
 convincing. The latter part of this Son- 
 net refers to a favorite notion of Roman 
 Catholic writers, that Joseph of Arimathea 
 and his companions brought Christianity 
 
 into Britain, and built a rude church at 
 Glastonbury; alluded to hereafter, in a 
 passage upon the dissolution of monaster- 
 ies. 
 
 Page 677. 
 
 " That Hill, whose flowery platform," etc. 
 
 This hill at St Alban's must have been 
 an object of great interest to the imagi- 
 nation of the venerable Bede, who thus 
 describes it, with a delicate feeling, de- 
 lightful to meet with in that rude age, 
 traces of which are frequent in his works ; 
 — " Variis herbarum floribus depictus imo 
 usquequaque vestitus, in quo nihil repente 
 arduum, nihil prseceps, nihil abruptum, 
 quern lateribus longe lat^que deductum in 
 modum sequoris natura complanat, dignum 
 videlicet eum pro insita sibi specie ven- 
 ustatis jam olim reddens, qui beati mar- 
 tyris cruore dicaretur." 
 
 Page 678. 
 
 ^^Nor wants the cause the panic-striking 
 aid 
 Of hallelujahs. 
 
 Alluding to the victory gained under 
 Germanus. — See Bede. 
 
 P^e 678. 
 
 *' By vien yet scarcely conscious of a care 
 For other monuments than those of 
 Earth." 
 
 The last six lines of this Sonnet are 
 chiefly from the prose of Daniel ; and here 
 I will state (though to the Readers whom 
 this Poem will chiefly interest it is unneces- 
 sary) that my obligations to other prose 
 writers are frequent, — obligations which, 
 even if I had not a pleasure in courting, 
 it would have been presumptuous to shun, 
 in treating an historical subject. I must, 
 however, particularize Fuller, to whom I 
 am indebted in the Sonnet upon Wicliffe 
 and in other instances. And upon the 
 acquittal of the Seven Bishops I have 
 done little more than versify a lively de- 
 scription of that event in the MS. Memoirs 
 of the first Lord Lonsdale. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 91J 
 
 Page 678. Sonnet xii. 
 
 " Ethelforth reached the convent of 
 Bangor, he perceived the Monks, twelve 
 hundred in number, offering prayers for 
 the success of their countrymen : ' If they 
 are praying against us,' he exclaimed, 
 'they are fighting against us;' and he 
 ordered them to be first attacked : they 
 were destroyed; and, appalled by their 
 fate, the courage of Brocmail wavered, 
 and he fled from the field in dismay. 
 Thus abandoned by their leader, his army 
 soon gave way, and Ethelforth obtained 
 a decisive conquest. Ancient Bangor 
 itself soon fell into his hands, and was 
 demolished; the noble monastery was 
 levelled to the ground; its library, which 
 is mentioned as a large one, the collection 
 of ages, the repository of the most pre- 
 cious monuments of the ancient Britons, 
 was consumed; half- ruined walls, gates, 
 and rubbish were all that remained of the 
 magnificent edifice." — See Turner's 
 valuable history of the Anglo-Saxons. 
 
 Taliesin was present at the battle which 
 preceded this desolation. 
 
 The account Bede gives of this remark- 
 able event suggests a most striking warn- 
 ing against National and Religious preju- 
 dices. 
 
 Page 679. Sonnet XV. 
 
 The person of Paulinus is thus de- 
 scribed by Bede, from the memory of an 
 eye-witness: — " Longse staturte, paulu- 
 lum incurvus, nigro capillo, facie maci- 
 lenta, naso adunco, pertenui, venerabilis 
 simul et terribilis aspectu." 
 
 Page 679. 
 
 " Man's life is like a Sparrow." 
 See the original of this speech in Bede. 
 —The Conversion of Edwin, as related 
 by him, is highly interesting — and the 
 breaking up of this Council accompanied 
 with an event so striking and character- 
 istic, that I am tempted to give it at 
 length in a translation. "Who, ex- 
 claimed the King, when the Council was 
 ended, shall first desecrate the altars and 
 the temples? I, answered the Chief 
 
 Priest; for who more fit than myself, 
 through the wisdom which the true God 
 hath given me, to destroy, for the good 
 example of others, what in foolishness I 
 worshipped? Immediately, casting away 
 vain superstition, he besought the King 
 to grant him what the laws did not allow 
 to a priest, arms and a courser (equum 
 emissarium); which mounting, and fur- 
 nished with a sword and lance, he pro- 
 ceeded to destroy the Idols. The crowd, 
 seeing this, thought him mad — he, how- 
 ever, halted not, but, approaching, he 
 profaned the temple, casting against it 
 the lance which he had held in his hand, 
 and, exulting in acknowledgment of the 
 worship of the true God, he ordered his 
 companions to pull down the temple, 
 with all its enclosures. The place is 
 shown where those idols formerly stood, 
 not far from York, at the source of the 
 river Derwent, and is at this day called 
 Gormund Gaham, ubi pontifex ille, inspir- 
 ante Deo vero, polluit ac destruxit eas, 
 qztas ipse sacraverat aras.'' The last 
 expression is a pleasing proof that the 
 venerable monk of Wearmouth was 
 familiar with the poetry of Virgil. 
 
 Page 680. 
 
 ' ' such the inviting voice 
 
 Heard near fresh streams.'' 
 
 The early propagators of Christianity 
 were accustomed to preach near rivers, 
 for the convenience of baptism. 
 
 Page 680. Sonnet XIX. 
 
 Having spoken of the zeal, disin- 
 terestedness, and temperance of the 
 clergy of those times, Bede thus pro- 
 ceeds: — " Unde et in magna erat ven- 
 eratione tempore illo religionis habitus, 
 ita ut ubicunque clericus aliquis, aut 
 monachus advenyret, gaudenter ab omni- 
 bus tanquam Dei famulus exciperetur. 
 Etiam si in itinere pergens inveniretur, 
 accurrebant, et flexa cervice, vel manu 
 signari, vel ore illius se benedici, gaude-/ 
 bant. Verbis quoque horum exhorta- 
 toriis diligenter auditum prsbebant." 
 Lib. iii. cap. 26. 
 
9i8 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 68 1. 
 
 ^^ The people work like congregated bees."*^ 
 
 See, in Turner's History, vol. iii. p. 
 528, the account of the erection of Ram- 
 sey Monastery. Penances were remov- 
 able by the performance of acts of charity 
 and benevolence. 
 
 Page 682. 
 
 ''^ pain narrows not his cares.""^ 
 
 Through the whole of his life, Alfred 
 was subject to grievous maladies. 
 
 Page 682. 
 " Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl 
 obey ! ' * 
 
 The violent measures carried on under 
 the influence of Dunstan, for strengthen- 
 ing the Benedictine Order, were a lead- 
 ing cause of the second series of Danish 
 invasions. — See Turner. 
 
 Page 686. 
 
 " Here Man more purely lives,^^ etc. 
 
 " Bonum est nos hie esse, quia homo 
 vivit purius, cadit rarius, surgit velocius, 
 incedit cautius, quiescit securius, moritur 
 felicius, purgatur citius, praemiatur copio- 
 sius. " — Bernard . ' ' This sentence, ' ' says 
 Dr. Whitaker, "is usually inscribed in 
 some conspicuous part of the Cistertian 
 houses." 
 
 Page 689. 
 " Whom Obloquy pursues with hideous 
 bark." 
 
 The list of foul names bestowed upon 
 those poor creatures is long and curious; 
 
 — and, as is, alas! too natural, most of 
 the opprobrious appellations are drawn 
 from circumstances into which they were 
 forced by their persecutors, who even 
 consolidated their miseries into one re- 
 proachful term, calling them Patarenians, 
 or Paturins, from pati^ to suffer. 
 
 " Dwellers with wolves, she names them, for the 
 
 pine 
 And green oak are their covert ; as the gloom 
 
 Of night oft foils their enemy's design; 
 She calls them Riders on the flying broom ; 
 Sorcerers, whose frame and aspect have become 
 One and the same through practices malign." 
 
 Page 690. 
 
 " And the green lizard and the gilded newt 
 Lead unmolested lives^ and die of age," 
 
 These two lines are adopted from a 
 MS., written about the year 1770, which 
 accidentally fell into my possession. The 
 close of the preceding Sonnet on monas- 
 tic voluptuousness is taken from the same 
 source, as is the verse, "Where Venus 
 sits," etc., and the line, "Once ye were 
 holy, ye are holy still," in a subsequent 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Page 693. 
 
 " One (like those prophets whom God sent 
 of old) 
 Transfigured," etc. 
 
 "M. Latimer suffered his keeper very 
 quietly to pull off his hose, and his other 
 array, which to looke unto was very 
 simple : and being stripped into his 
 shrowd, he seemed as comely a person 
 to them that were present, as one should 
 lightly see : and whereas in his clothes 
 hee appeared a withered and crooked sillie 
 (weak) olde man, he now stood bolt up- 
 right, as comely a father as one might 
 lightly behold. * * * ♦ Then they 
 brought a faggotte, kindled with fire, and 
 laid the same downe at doctor Ridley's 
 feete. To whome M. Latimer spake in 
 this manner, ' Bee of good comfort, 
 master Ridley, and play the man : wee 
 shall this day light such a candle by God's 
 grace in England, as I trust shall never 
 be put out.' " — Fox^s Acts, etc. 
 
 Similiar alterations in the outward 
 figure and deportment of persons brought 
 to like trial were not uncommon. See 
 note to the above passage in Dr. Words- 
 worth's Ecclesiastical Biography, for an 
 example in an humble Welsh fisherman, 
 
NOTES. 
 
 919 
 
 Page 695. 
 
 " The gift exalting, and with playful 
 smile." 
 
 "On foot they went, and took Salis- 
 bury in their way, purposely to see the 
 good Bishop, who made Mr. Hooker 
 sit at his own table; which Mr. Hooker 
 boasted of with much joy and gratitude 
 when he saw his mother and friends; and 
 at the Bishop's parting with him, the 
 Bishop gave him good counsel and his 
 benediction, but forgot to give him 
 money; which when the Bishop had con- 
 sidered, he sent a servant in all haste to 
 call Richard back to him, and at Richard's 
 return, the Bishop said to him, ' Richard, 
 I sent for you back to lend you a horse 
 which hath carried me many a mile, and 
 I thank God with much ease,' and 
 presently delivered into his hand a walk- 
 ing-staff, with which he professed he had 
 travelled through many parts of Ger- 
 many; and he said, 'Richard, I do not 
 give, but lend you my horse ; be sure you 
 be honest and bring my horse back to me, 
 at your return this way to Oxford. And 
 I do now give you ten groats to bearyour 
 charges to Exeter ; and here is ten groats 
 more, which I charge you to deliver to 
 your mother, and tell her I send her a 
 Bishop's benediction with it, and beg the 
 continuance of her prayers for me. And 
 if you bring my horse back to me, I will 
 give you ten groats more to carry you on 
 foot to the college; and so God bless you, 
 goodRichard.' " — See Walton's Life of 
 Richard Hooker. 
 
 Page 695. 
 - " craftily incites 
 
 The overweening, personates the mad." 
 
 A common device in religious and po- 
 litical conflicts. —See Strype in support 
 of this instance 
 
 Page 696. 
 
 '^ Laud." 
 
 In this age a word cannot be said in 
 praise of Laud, or even in compassion for 
 his fate, without incurring a charge of 
 bigotry; but fearless of such imputation, 
 I concur with Hume, " that it is sufficient 
 for his vindication to observe that his 
 errors were the most excusable of all 
 those which prevailed during that zealous 
 period. ' ' Akey to the right understanding 
 of those parts of his conduct that brought 
 the most odium upon him in his own time, 
 may be found in the following passage of 
 his speech before the bar of the House 
 of Peers : — " Ever since I came in place, 
 I have labored nothing more than that 
 the external publick worship of God, so 
 much slighted in divers parts of this king- 
 dom, might be preserved, and that with 
 as much decency and uniformity as might 
 be. For I evidently saw that the pubhck 
 neglect of God's service in the outward 
 face of it, and the nasty lying of many 
 places dedicated to that service, had al- 
 most cast a damp upon the true and in- 
 ward worship of God, which while we 
 live in the body, needs external helps, and 
 all little enough to keep it in any vigor." 
 
 Page 700. 
 
 " The Pilgrim Fathers." 
 
 American episcopacy, in union with 
 the church in England, strictly belongs 
 to the general subject; and I here make 
 my acknowledgments to my American 
 friends Bishop Doane, and Mr. Henry 
 Reed of Philadelphia, for having sug- 
 gested to me the propriety of adverting 
 to it, and pointed out the virtues and in- 
 tellectual qualities of Bishop White, which 
 so eminently fitted him for the great work 
 he undertook. Bishop White was con- 
 secrated at Lambeth, Feb. 4, 1787, by 
 Archbishop Moore; and before his long 
 life was closed, twenty-six bishops had 
 been consecrated in America by himself. 
 For his character and opinions, see his 
 own numerous works, and a " Sermon in 
 commemoration of him, by George Wash- 
 ington Doane, Bishop of New Jersey." 
 
920 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 701. 
 
 " A genial hearth ■ 
 
 And a refined rusticity, belong 
 
 To the neat mansion.' 
 
 Among the benefits arising, as Mr. 
 Coleridge has well observed, from a 
 Church established of endowments cor- 
 responding with the wealth of the coun- 
 try to which it belongs, may be reckoned 
 as eminently important the examples of 
 civility and refinement which the clergy 
 stationed at intervals afford to the whole 
 people. The established clergy in many 
 parts of England have long been, as they 
 continue to be, the principal bulwark 
 against barbarism, and the link which 
 unites the sequestered peasantry with the 
 intellectual advancement of the age. 
 Nor is it below the dignity of the subject 
 to observe that their taste, as acting upon 
 rural residences and scenery, often fur- 
 nishes models which country gentlemen, 
 who are more at liberty to follow the 
 caprices of fashion, might profit by. 
 The precincts of an old residence must 
 be treated by ecclesiastics with respect, 
 both from prudence and necessity. I re- 
 member being much pleased, some years 
 ago, at Rose Castle, the rural seat of the 
 See of Carlisle, with a style of garden 
 and architecture which, if the place had 
 belonged to a wealthy layman, would no 
 doubt have been swept away. A par- 
 sonage house generally stands not far 
 from the church; this proximity imposes 
 favorable restraints, and sometimes sug- 
 gests an affecting union of the accommo- 
 dations and elegancies of life with the 
 outward signs of piety and mortality. 
 With pleasure I recall to mind a happy 
 instance of this in the residence of an 
 old and much-valued Friend in Oxford- 
 shire. The house and church stand par- 
 allel to each other, at a small distance; a 
 circular lawn, or rather grass-plot, spreads 
 between them; shrubs and trees curve 
 from each side of the dwelling, veiling, 
 but not hiding, the church. From the 
 front of this dwelling no part of the 
 burial-ground is seen; but as you wind 
 by Ae side of the shrubs towards the 
 
 steeple-end of the church, the eye catches 
 a single, small, low, monumental head- 
 stone, moss-grown, sinking into and gently 
 inclining towards the earth. Advance,and 
 the churchyard, populous and gay with 
 glittering tombstones, open upon the 
 view. This humble and beautiful par- 
 sonage called forth a tribute, for which 
 see the sonnet entitled "A Parsonage in 
 Oxfordshire," p. 672. 
 
 Page 705. Sonnet xxxil. 
 
 This is still continued in r.iany churches 
 in Westmoreland. It takes place in the 
 month of July, when the floor of the 
 stalls is strewn with fresh rushes; and 
 hence it is called the " Rush-bearing." 
 
 Page 706. 
 
 " Teaching 2is to forget them or forgive.'" 
 
 This is borrowed from an affecting 
 passage in Mr. George Dyer's history of 
 Cambridge. 
 
 Page 706. 
 
 ^^ had we, like them, endured 
 
 Sore stress of apprehension.'' 
 
 See Burnet, who is usually animated 
 on this subject; the east wind, so anx- 
 iously expected and prayed for, was 
 called the "Protestant wind." 
 
 Page 707. 
 
 " Yetwillwe 7iot conceal the precious Cross, 
 Like men ashamed." 
 
 The Lutherans have retained the Cross 
 within their churches : it is to be regretted 
 that we have not done the same. 
 
 Page 708. 
 " Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its 
 
 name 
 From roseate hues,' 
 
 etc. 
 
 Some say that Monte Rosa takes its 
 name from a belt of rock at its summit 
 — a very unpoetical and scarcely a prob- 
 able supposition. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 921 
 
 Page 721. 
 
 * " more high the Dacian force^ 
 
 To hoof and ji^iger 7nailedy 
 Here and infra, see Forsyth. 
 
 Page 723. 
 
 " Something less than joy but more than 
 dull content. ' ' 
 
 Countess of Winchilsba. 
 
 Page 727. 
 
 ** Wild Reddreastf^^ etc. 
 
 This Sonnet, as Poetry, explains itself, 
 yet the scene of the incident having been 
 a wild wood, it may be doubted, as a 
 point of natural history, whether the bird 
 was aware that his attentions were be- 
 stowed upon a human, or even a living 
 creature. But a Redbreast will perch 
 upon the foot of a gardener at work, and 
 alight on the handle of the spade when 
 his hand is half upon it — this I have 
 seen. And under my own roof I have 
 witnessed affecting instances of the crea- 
 ture's friendly visits to the chambers of 
 sick persons, as described in the verses 
 to the Redbreast, page 851. One of 
 these welcome intruders used frequently 
 to roost upon a nail in the wall, from 
 which a picture had hung, and was ready, 
 as morning came, to pipe his song in the 
 hearing of the Invalid, who had been 
 long confined to her room. These at- 
 tachments to a particular person, when 
 marked and continued, used to be reck- 
 oned ominous; but the superstition is 
 passing away. 
 
 Page 723. 
 " The IVishing-gate." 
 
 " In the Vale of Grasmere, by the side 
 of the old high-way leading to Anibleside, 
 is a gate which, time out of mind, has 
 been called the Wishing-gate." 
 
 Having been told, upon what I thought 
 good authority, that this gate had been 
 destroyed, and the opening, where it 
 hung, walled up, I gave vent immediately 
 
 to my feelings in these stanzas. But 
 going to the place some time after, I 
 found, with much delight, my old favorite 
 unmolested. 
 
 Page 742. 
 
 ''^Descending to the wor/n in charity.'''' 
 
 I am indebted, here, to a passage in 
 one of Mr. Digby's valuable works. 
 
 Page 748. 
 " The R^issian Fugitive.'' 
 
 Peter Henry Bruce, having given in his 
 entertaining Memoirs the substance of this 
 Tale, affirms that, besides the concurring 
 reports of others, he had the story from the 
 lady's own mouth. 
 
 The Lady Catherine, mentioned towards 
 the close, is the famous Catherine, then 
 bearing that name as the acknowledged 
 Wife of Peter the Great. 
 
 Page 769. 
 " Highland HtU." 
 
 This sonnet describes the exterior of a 
 Highland hut, as often seen under a 
 morning or evening sunshine. To the 
 authoress of the "Address to the Wind," 
 and other poems, in this volume, who 
 was my fellow-traveller in this tour, I am 
 indebted for the following extract from her 
 journal, which accurately describes, under 
 particular circumstances, the beautiful 
 appearance of the interior of one of 
 these rude habitations. 
 
 " On our return from the Trosachs the 
 evening began to darken, and it rained so 
 heavily that we were completely wet be- 
 fore we had come two miles, and it was 
 dark when we landed with our boatman, 
 at his hut upon the banks of Loch Katrine. 
 I was faint from cold : the good woman 
 had provided, according to her promise, 
 a better fire than we had found in the 
 morning; and, indeed, when I sat down 
 in the chimney-corner of her smoky biggin, 
 I thought I had never felt more comfort- 
 able in my life : a pan of coffee was boil- 
 ing for us, and having put our clothes in 
 
922 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 the way of drying, we all sat down thank- 
 ful for a shelter. We could not prevail 
 upon our boatman, the master of the 
 house, to draw near the fire, though he 
 was cold and wet, or to suffer his wife to 
 get him dry clothes till she had served us, 
 which she did most willingly, though not 
 very expeditiously. 
 
 ' ' A Cumberland man of the same rank 
 would not have had such a notion of what 
 was fit and right in his own house, or, if 
 he had, one would have accused him of 
 servility; but in the Highlander it only 
 seemed like politeness (however erro- 
 neous and painful to us), naturally grow- 
 ing out of the dependence of the inferiors 
 of the clan upon their laird; he did not, 
 however, refuse to let his wife bring out 
 the whiskey bottle for his refreshment, at 
 our request. 'She keeps a dram,' as 
 the phrase is : indeed, I believe there is 
 scarcely a lonely house by the wayside, 
 in Scotland, where travellers may not be 
 accommodated with a dram. We asked 
 for sugar, butter, barley-bread, and milk : 
 and, with a smile and a stare more of 
 kindness than wonder, she replied, 
 'Ye '11 get that,' bringing each article 
 separately. Wa caroused our cups of 
 coffee, laughing like children at the 
 strange atmosphere in which we were: 
 the smoke came in gusts, and spread 
 along the walls; and above our heads in 
 the chimney (where the hens were roost- 
 ing) it appeared like clouds in the sky. 
 We laughed and laughed again, in spite 
 of the smarting of our eyes, yet had a 
 quieter pleasure in observing the beauty 
 of the beams and rafters gleaming be- 
 tween the clouds of smoke: they had 
 been crusted over and varnished by many 
 winters, till, where the firelight fell upon 
 them, they had become as glossy as black 
 rocks, on a sunny day, cased in ice. 
 When we had eaten our supper we sat 
 about half an hour, and I think I never 
 felt so deeply the blessing of a hospita- 
 ble welcome and a warm fire. The man 
 of the house repeated from time to time 
 that we should often tell of this night 
 when we got to our homes, and inter- 
 posed praises of his own lake, which he 
 had more than once, when we were re- 
 
 turning i.n the boat, ventured to say was 
 'bonnier than Lech Lomond. Our 
 companion from the Trosachs, who, it 
 appeared, was an Edinburgh drawing- 
 master going, during the vacation, on a 
 pedestrian tour to John O'Groat's House, 
 was to sleep in the barn with my fellow- 
 travellers, where the man said he had 
 plenty of dry hay. I do not believe that 
 the hay of the Highlands is ever very 
 dry, but this year it had a better chance 
 than usual: wet or dry, however, the 
 next morning they said they had slept 
 comfortably. When I went to bed, the 
 mistress, desiring me to 'go ben,' at- 
 tended me with a candle, and assured me 
 that the bed was dry, though not ' sic as 
 I had been used to.' It was of chaff; 
 there were two others in the room, a 
 cupboard and two chests, upon one of 
 which stood milk in wooden vessels cov- 
 ered over. The walls of the housfe were 
 of stone unplastered; it consisted of three 
 apartments, the cow-house at one end, 
 the kitchen or house in the middle, and 
 the spence at the other end; the rooms 
 were divided, not up to the rigging, but 
 only to the beginning of the roof, so that 
 there was a free passage for ligh'v and 
 smoke from one end of the house t-o the 
 other. I went to bed some time before 
 the rest of the family; the door wa«shut 
 between us, and they had a bright fire, 
 which I could not see, but the light it 
 sent up amongst the varnished rafters and 
 beams, which crossed each other in almost 
 as intricate and fantastic a manner as I 
 have seen the underboughs of a large 
 beech-tree withered by the depth of 
 shade above, produced the most beautiful 
 effect that can be conceived. It was like 
 what I should suppose an underground 
 cave or temple to be with a dripping or 
 moist roof, and the moonlight entering in 
 upon it by some means or other; and yet 
 the colors were more like those of melted 
 gems. I lay looking up till the light of 
 the fire faded away, and the man and his 
 wife and child had crept into their bed 
 at the other end of the room; I did not 
 sleep much, but passed a comfortable 
 night; for my bed, though hard, was 
 warm and clean : the unusualness of my 
 
NOTES. 
 
 923 
 
 Eituation prevented me from sleeping. I 
 could hear the waves beat against the 
 shore of the lake; a little rill close to the 
 door made a much louder noise, and, 
 when I sat up in my bed, I could see the 
 lake through an open window-place at 
 the bed's head. Add to this, it rained 
 all night. I was less occupied by remem- 
 brance of the Trosachs, beautiful as they 
 were, than the vision of the Highland 
 hut, which I could not get out of my 
 head; I thought of the Faeryland of 
 Spenser, and what I had read in romance 
 at other times; and then what a feast it 
 would be for a London Pantomime-maker 
 could he but transplant it to Drury-lane, 
 with all its beautiful colors ! ' ' — MS. 
 
 Page 769. 
 " Once on those steeps I roamed. " 
 
 Tls following is from the same MS., 
 and |_ives an account of the visit to Both- 
 well Castle here alluded to: 
 
 "Ut was exceedingly delightful to enter 
 thus mexpectedly upon such a beautiful 
 regitvi. The castle stands nobly, over- 
 looking the Clyde. When we came up 
 to it, I was hurt to see that flower-borders 
 had taken place of the natural overgrow- 
 ings of the ruin, the scattered^ stones, 
 and vild plants. It is a large and grand 
 pile 3f red freestone, harmonizing per- 
 fectly with the rocks of the river, from 
 which, no doubt, it has been hewn. 
 When I was a little accustomed to the 
 unnaturalness of a modern garden, I 
 could not help admiring the excessive 
 beauty and luxuriance of some of the 
 plants, particularly the purple-flowered 
 clematis, and a broad-leafed creeping 
 plant without flowers, which scrambled 
 up the castle wall, along with the ivy, 
 and spread its vine-like branches so lav- 
 ishly that it seemed to be in its natural 
 situation, and one could not help think- 
 ing that, though not self-planted among 
 the ruins of this country, it must some- 
 where have its native abode in such 
 places. If Bothwell Castle had not been 
 close to the Douglas mansion, we should 
 have been disgusted with the possessor's 
 miserable conception of adorning such a 
 
 venerable ruin; but it is so very near to 
 the house, that of necessity the pleasure- 
 grounds must have extended beyond it, 
 and perhaps the neatness of a shaven 
 lawn, and the complete desolation natural 
 to a ruin, might have made an unpleas- 
 ing contrast; and, besides being within 
 the precincts of the pleasure-grounds, 
 and so very near to the dweUing of a 
 noble family, it has forfeited, in some 
 degree, its independent majesty, and be- 
 comes a tributary to the mansion : its 
 solitude being interrupted, it has no 
 longer the command over the mind in 
 sending it back into past times, or ex- 
 cluding the ordinary feelings which we 
 bear about us in daily life. We had then 
 only to regret that the castle and the 
 house were so near to each other; and it 
 was impossible not to regret it; for the 
 ruin presides in state over the river, far 
 from city or town, as if it might have a 
 peculiar privilege to preserve its memo- 
 rials of past ages, and maintain its own 
 character for centuries to come. We sat 
 upon a bench under the high trees, and 
 had beautiful views of the different 
 reaches of the river, above and below. 
 On the opposite bank, which is finely 
 wooded with elms and other trees, are 
 the remains of a priory built upon a rock; 
 and rock and ruin are so blended, that it 
 is impossible to separate the one from the 
 other. Nothing can be more beautiful 
 than the little remnant of this holy place; 
 elm-trees (for we were near enough to 
 distinguish them by their branches) grow 
 out of the walls, and overshadow a small, 
 but very elegant window. It can scarcely 
 be conceived what a grace the castle and 
 priory impart to each other ; and the river 
 Clyde flows on, smooth and unruffled, 
 below, seeming to my thoughts more in 
 harmony with the sober and stately images 
 of former times, than if it had roared over 
 a rocky channel, forcing its sound upon 
 the ear. It blended gently with the 
 warbling of the smaller birds, and the 
 chattering of the larger ones that had 
 made their nests in the ruins. In this 
 fortress the chief of the English nobility 
 were confined after the battle of Ban- 
 nockburn. If a man is to be a prisoner, 
 
924 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 he scarcely could have a more pleasant 
 place to solace his captivity ; but I thought 
 that, for close confinement, I should pre- 
 fer the banks of a lake, or the seaside. 
 The greatest charm of a brook or river is 
 in the liberty to pursue it through its 
 windings; you can then take it in what- 
 ever mood you like; silent or noisy, 
 sportive or quiet. The beauties of a 
 brook or river must be sought, and the 
 pleasure is in going in search of them; 
 those of a lake or of the sea come to you 
 of themselves. These rude warriors 
 cared little, perhaps, about either; and 
 yet, if one may judge from the writings 
 of Chaucer and from the old romances, 
 more interesting passions were connected 
 with natural objects in the days of chivalry 
 than now; though going in search of 
 scenery, as it is called, had not then been 
 thought of. I had previously heard noth- 
 ing of Bothwell Castle, at least nothing 
 that I remembered; therefore, perhaps, 
 my pleasure was greater, compared with 
 what I received elsewhere, than others 
 might feel." — MS. Jvurnal. 
 
 Page 771. 
 " Harf s-horn Tree.'' 
 
 " In the time of the first Robert de 
 CHfford, in the yeari333 or 1334, Edward 
 Baliol, king of Scotland, came into West- 
 moreland, and stayed some time with 
 the said Robert at his castles of Appleby, 
 Brougham, and Pendragon. And during 
 that time they ran a stag by a single grey- 
 hound out of Whinfell Park to Redkirk, 
 in Scotland, and back again to this place; 
 where, being both spent, the stag leaped 
 over the pales, but died on the other side; 
 and the greyhound, attempting to leap, 
 fell, and died on the contrary side. In 
 memory of this fact the stag's horns were 
 nailed upon a tree just by, and (the dog 
 being named Hercules) this rhythm was 
 made upon them : 
 
 ' Hercules killed Hart a greese, 
 
 And Hart a greese killed Hercules.' 
 
 The tree to this day bears the name of 
 Hart 's-horn Tree. The horns in process 
 
 of time were almost grown over by the 
 growth of the tree, and another pair was 
 put up in their place." — Nicholson and 
 Burns' s History of Westmoreland and 
 Cttmberland. 
 
 The tree has now disappeared, but I 
 well remember its imposing appearance 
 as it stood, in a decayed state, by the side 
 of the highroad leading from Penrith 
 to Appleby. This whole neighborhood 
 abounds in interesting traditions and ves- 
 tiges of antiquity, v'yl. Julian's Bower; 
 Brougham and Penrith Castles; Penrith 
 Beacon, and the curious remains in Pen- 
 rith Churchyard; Arthur's Round Table, 
 and, close by, Maybrough; the excava- 
 tion, called the Giant's Cave, on the 
 banks of the Emont; Long Meg and her 
 Daughters, near Eden, etc. 
 
 Page 784. 
 " But if thou {like Cocytus," etc.') 
 
 Many years ago, when I was at Greta 
 Bridge, in Yorkshire, the hostess of the 
 inn, proud of her skill in etymology, said, 
 that "the name of the river was taken 
 from the bridge, the form of which, as 
 every one must notice, exactly resembled 
 a great A." Dr. Whitaker has derived 
 it from the word of common occurrence 
 in the north of England, ^^ to greet;" 
 signifying to lament aloud, mostly with 
 weeping: o. conjecture rendered more 
 probable from the stony and rocky chan- 
 nel of both the Cumberland and York- 
 shire rivers. The Cumberland Greta, 
 though it does not, among the country 
 people, take up that name till within 
 three miles of its disappearance in the 
 river Derwent, may be considered as 
 having its source in the mountain cove 
 of Wythburn, and thence flowing through 
 Thirlmere. The beautiful features of 
 that lake are known only to those who, 
 travelling between Grasmere and Kes- 
 wick, have quitted the main road in the 
 vale of Wythburn, and, crossing over to 
 the opposite side of the lake, have pro- 
 ceeded with it on the right hand. 
 
 The channel of the Greta, immediately 
 above Keswick, has, for the purposes of 
 
NOTES. 
 
 925 
 
 building, been in a great measure cleared 
 of the immense stones which, by their 
 concussion in high floods, produced the 
 loud and awful noises described in the 
 sonnet. 
 
 "The scenery upon this river," says 
 Mr. Southey in his Colloquies, "where 
 it passes under the woody side of Latrigg, 
 is of the finest and most rememberable 
 kind : — 
 
 ' ambiguo lapsu refiuitque fluitque, 
 
 Occurrensque sibl Venturas aspicit undas. ' " 
 
 Page 785. 
 ' ' By hooded Votaresses, " etc. 
 
 Attached to the church of Brigham was 
 formerly a chantry, which held a moiety 
 of the manor; and in the decayed par- 
 sonage some vestiges of monastic archi- 
 tecture are still to be seen. 
 
 Page 786. 
 
 "Mary Queen of Scots landing at 
 
 Workington." 
 
 "The fears and impatience of Mary 
 were so great," says Robertson, "that 
 she got into a fisher-boat, and with about 
 twenty attendants landed at Workington, 
 in Cumberland; and thence she was con- 
 ducted with many marks of respect to 
 Carlisle." The apartment in which the 
 Queen had slept at Workington Hall 
 (where she was received by Sir Henry 
 Curwen as became her rank and misfor- 
 tunes) was long preserved, out of respect 
 ;o her memory, as she had left it; and 
 5ne cannot but regret that some neces- 
 iary alterations in the mansion could not 
 3e effected without its destruction. 
 
 Page 786. 
 St. Bees' Heads, anciently called the 
 i:iiff of Baruth, are a conspicuous sea- 
 nark for all vessels sailing in the N.E. 
 larts of the Irish Sea. In a bay, one 
 ;ide of which is formed by the southern 
 leadland, stands the village of St. Bees; 
 I place distinguished, from very early 
 
 times, for its rehgious and scholastic foun- 
 dations. 
 
 "St. Bees," say Nicholson and Burns, 
 "had its name from Bega, an holy woman 
 from Ireland, who is said to have founded 
 here, about the year of our Lord 650, 
 a small monastery, where afterwards a 
 church was built in memory of her. 
 
 "The aforesaid religious house, being 
 destroyed by the Danes, was restored by 
 William de Meschiens, son of Ranulph, 
 and brother of Ranulph de Meschiens, 
 first Earl of Cumberland after the Con- 
 quest; and made a cell of a prior and 
 six Benedictine monks to the Abbey of 
 St. Mary at York." 
 
 Several traditions of miracles, con- 
 nected with the foundation of the first 
 of these religious houses, survive among 
 the people of the neighborhood; one of 
 which is alluded to in these Stanzas; and 
 another, of a somewhat bolder and more 
 peculiar character, has furnished the sub- 
 ject of a spirited poem by the Rev R. 
 Parkinson, M.A., late Divinity Lecturer 
 of St. Bees' College, and now Fellow of 
 the Collegiate Church of Manchester. 
 
 After the dissolution of the monas- 
 teries. Archbishop Grindal founded a 
 free school at St. Bees, from which the 
 counties of Cumberland and Westmore- 
 land have derived great benefit; and re- 
 cently, under the patronage of the Earl 
 of Lonsdale, a college has been estab- 
 lished there for the education of ministers 
 for the English Church. The old Conven- 
 tual Church has been repaired under the 
 superintendence of the Rev. Dr. Ainger, 
 the Head of the College, and is well 
 worthy of being visited by any strangers 
 who might be led to the neighborhood of 
 this celebrated spot. 
 
 The form of stanza in this Poem, and 
 something in the style of versification, 
 are adopted from the " St. Monica," a 
 poem of much beauty upon a monastic 
 subject, by Charlotte Smith : a lady to 
 whom English verse is under greater 
 obligations than are likely to be either 
 acknowledged or remembered. She wrote 
 little, and that little unambitiously, but 
 with true feeling for rural nature, at a 
 time when nature was not much regarded 
 
926 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 by English Poets; for in point of time 
 her earlier writings preceded, I believe, 
 those of Cowper and Burns. 
 
 Page 787. 
 *' Are not, in sooth, their Requiems sacred 
 ties." 
 I am aware that I am here treading 
 upon tender ground; but to the intelligent 
 reader I feel that no aoology is due. 
 The prayers of survivors, during passion- 
 ate grief for the recent loss of relatives 
 and friends, as the object of those pray- 
 ers could no longer be the suffering body 
 of the dying, would naturally be ejacu- 
 lated for the souls of the departed; the 
 barriers between the two worlds dissolving 
 before the power of love and faith. The 
 ministers of religion, from their habitual 
 attendance upon sick-beds, would be daily 
 witnesses of these benign results; and 
 hence would be strongly tempted to aim 
 at giving to them permanence, by em- 
 bodying them in rites and ceremonies, 
 recurring at stated periods. All this, as 
 it was in course of nature, so was it 
 blameless and even praiseworthy; some 
 of its effects, in that rude state of society, 
 could not but be salutary. No reflecting 
 person, however, can view without sor- 
 row the abuses which rose out of thus 
 formalizing sublime instincts, and dis- 
 interested movements of passion, and 
 perverting them into means of gratifying 
 the ambition and rapacity of the priest- 
 hood. But, while we deplore and are 
 indignant at these abuses, it would be a 
 great mistake if we imputed the origin 
 of the offices to prospective selfishness 
 on the part of the monks and clergy: 
 they were at first sincere in their sympa- 
 thy, and in their degree dupes rather of 
 their own creed, than artful and design- 
 ing men. Charity is, upon the whole, 
 the safest guide that we can take in 
 judging our fellow-men, whether of past 
 ages or of the present time. 
 
 Page 790. 
 " And they are led by noble Hillary." 
 The Tower of Refuge, an ornament 
 (o Douglas Bay, was erected chiefly 
 
 through the humanity and zeal of Sir 
 William Hillary; and he also was the 
 founder of the lifeboat establishment at 
 that place; by which, under his superin- 
 tendence, and often by his exertions at 
 the imminent hazard of his own life, 
 many seamen and passengers have been 
 saved. 
 
 Page 791. '■' 
 
 " By a retired Mariner." 
 
 This unpretending sonnet is by a 
 gentleman nearly connected with me, and 
 I hope, as it falls so easily into its place, 
 that both the writer and the reader will 
 excuse its appearance here. 
 
 Page 791. 
 
 " Off with yon cloud, old Sjiafell! " 
 
 The summit of this mountain is well 
 chosen by Cowley as the scene of the 
 "Vision," in which the spectral angel 
 discourses with him concerning the gov- 
 ernment of Oliver Cromwell. " I found 
 myself," says he, "on the top of that 
 famous hill in the Island Mona, which has 
 the prospect of three great, and not long 
 since most happy, kingdoms. As soon 
 as ever I looked upon them, they called 
 forth the sad representation of all the 
 sins and all the miseries that had over- 
 whelmed them these twenty years." It 
 is not to be denied that the changes now 
 in progress, and the passions, and the 
 way in which they work, strikingly re- 
 semble those which led to the disasters 
 the philosophic writer so feelingly bewails. 
 God grant that the resemblance may not 
 become still more striking as months and 
 years advance ! 
 
 Page 793. 
 
 " On revisiting Dunolly Castle." 
 
 This ingenious piece of workmanship, 
 as I afterwards learned, had been exe- 
 cuted for their own amusement by some 
 laborers employed about the place. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 927 
 
 Page 795. 
 
 " Cave of Siaffa." 
 
 The reader may be tempted to exclaim, 
 ' How came this and the two following 
 onnets to be written, after the dissatis- 
 action expressed in the preceding one ? " 
 n fact, at the risk of incurring the 
 easonable displeasure of the master of 
 he steamboat, I returned to the cave, 
 ind explored it under circumstances more 
 avorable to those imaginative impres- 
 ions which it is so wonderfully fitted to 
 nake upon the mind. 
 
 Page 795. 
 
 'Hope smiledwhen your nativity was cast, 
 Children of Summer ! ' ' 
 
 Upon the head of the columns which 
 orm the front of the cave rests a body of 
 lecomposed basaltic matter, which was 
 ichly decorated with that large bright 
 lower, the ox-eyed daisy. I had noticed 
 he same flower grovring with profusion 
 imong the bold rocks on the western 
 ;oast of the Isle of Man; making a bril- 
 iant contrast with their black and gloomy 
 urfaces. 
 
 Page 795. 
 
 "Zona." 
 
 The four last lines of this sonnet are 
 dopted from a well-known sonnet of 
 lussel, as conveying my feeling better 
 dan any words of my own could do. 
 
 Page 797. 
 " Yet fetched from Paradise." 
 
 It is to be feared that there is more of 
 tie poet than the sound etymologist in 
 his derivation of the name Eden. On 
 le western coast of Cumberland is a 
 ivulet which enters the sea at Moresby, 
 nown also in the neighborhood by the 
 ame of Eden. May not the latter 
 pliable come from the word Dean, 
 
 valley? Langdale, near Ambleside, 
 1 by the inhabitants called Langden. 
 
 The former syllable occurs in the name 
 Emont, a principal feeder of the Eden; 
 and the stream which flows, when the 
 tide is out, over Cartmel Sands is called 
 the Ea — eau, French — a^ua, Latin. 
 
 Page 799. 
 
 " Canal, and Viaduct, and Railway, 
 tell I" 
 
 At Corby, a few miles below Nunnery, 
 the Eden is crossed by a magnificent via- 
 duct; and another of these works is 
 thrown over a deep glen or ravine at a 
 very short distance from the main stream. 
 
 Page 799. 
 
 " A weight of awe, not easy to be borne." 
 
 The daughters of long Meg, placed in 
 a perfect circle eighty yards in diameter, 
 are seventy -two in number above ground; 
 a little way out of the circle stands Long 
 Meg herself, a single stone, eighteen feet 
 high. When I first saw this monument, 
 as I came on it by surprise, I might over- 
 rate its importance as an object; but, 
 though it will not bear a comparsion 
 with Stonehenge, I must say, I have not 
 seen any other relique of those dark 
 ages which can pretend to rival it in 
 singularity and dignity of appearance. 
 
 Page 800. 
 
 " To the Earl of Lonsdale.^' 
 
 This sonnet was written immediately 
 after certain trials which took place at 
 the Cumberland Assizes, when the Earl 
 of Lonsdale, in consequence of repeated 
 and long-continued attacks upon his 
 character through the local press, had 
 thought it right to prosecute the conduc- 
 tors and proprietors of three several 
 journals. A verdict of libel was given 
 in one case; and, in the others, the 
 prosecutions were withdrawn, upon the 
 individuals retracting and disavowing the 
 charges, expressing regret that they had 
 been made, and promising to abstain 
 from the like in future. 
 
928 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 814. 
 
 " From the most gentle creature nursed in 
 fields." 
 
 This way of indicating the name of my 
 lamented friend has been found fault 
 with ; perhaps rightly so ; but I may say 
 in justification of the double sense of the 
 word, that similar allusions are not un- 
 common in epitaphs. One of the best in 
 our language in verse I ever read, was 
 upon a person who bore the name of 
 Palmer; and the course of the thought, 
 throughout, turned upon the Life of the 
 Departed, considered as a pilgrimage. 
 Nor can I think that the objection in the 
 present case will have much force with 
 any one who remembers Charles Lamb's 
 beautiful sonnet addressed to his own 
 name, and ending — 
 
 " No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle 
 name ! " 
 
 Page 817. 
 
 Walter Scott . 
 S. T. Coleridge 
 Charles Lamb 
 Geo. Crabbe 
 Felicia Hemans 
 
 died Sept. 21, 1832 
 << July 25, 1834 
 „ Dec. 27, 1834 
 „ Feb. 3, 1832 
 ,, May 16, 183s 
 
 Page 824. 
 
 "Although 't is fair, 
 ' T will be another Yarrow " 
 
 These words were quoted to me from 
 ' ' Yarrow Unvisited ' ' by Sir Walter Scott 
 when I visited him at Abbotsford, a day 
 or two before his departure for Italy; 
 and the affecting condition in which he 
 was when he looked upon Rome from 
 the Janicular Mount, was reported to me 
 by a lady who had the honor of conduct- 
 ing him thither. 
 
 Page 827. 
 
 " His sepulchral verse." 
 
 If any English reader should be desir- 
 ous of knowing how far I am justified in 
 
 thus describing the epitaphs of Chiabrera,3 
 he will find translated specimens of them 
 on pages 441-443. 
 
 Page 82S. 
 
 " Aquapendente," 
 
 It would be ungenerous not to advert 
 to the religious movement that, since the 
 composition of these verses in 1837, has 
 made itself felt, more or less strongly, 
 throughout the English Church;— a 
 movement that takes, for its first princi-'' 
 pie, a devout deference to the voice of 
 Christian antiquity. It is not my ofEce 
 to pass judgment on questions of theo-1 
 logical detail ; but my own repugnance to 
 the spirit and system of Romanism has! 
 been so repeatedly and, I trust, feelingly I 
 expressed, that I shall not be suspected '■ 
 of a leaning that way, if I do not join in ' 
 the grave charge, thrown out, perhaps in | 
 the heat of controversy, against .thej 
 learned and pious men to whose labors I 
 allude. I speak apart from controversy; 
 but, with strong faith in the moral temper 
 which would elevate the present by doing 
 reverence to the past, I would draw 
 cheerful auguries for the English Church 
 from this movement, as likely to restore 
 among us a tone of piety more earnest, 
 and real than that produced by the mere 
 formalities of the understanding, refusing, ■ 
 in a degree which I cannot but lament, 1 
 that its own temper and judgment shall i 
 be controlled by those of antiquity. .5 
 
 Page 829. ^ 
 
 Within a couple of hours of ray arrival 
 at Rome, I saw from Monte Pincio the; 
 Pine tree as described in the Sonnet;i 
 and, while expressing admiration at the. 
 beauty of its appearance, I was told by 
 an acquaintance of my fellow-traveller, 
 who happened to join us at the moment,^ 
 that a price had been paid for it by thfij 
 late Sir G. Beaumont, upon condition 
 that the proprietor should not act upon 
 his known intention of cutting it down. 1, 
 
NOTES. 
 
 929 
 
 jl Page 834. 
 
 ** Cafnaidoli.*' 
 
 This famous sanctuary was the original 
 istablishment of Saint Romualdo, (or 
 iumwald, as our ancestors Saxonized the 
 lame) in the nth century, the ground 
 ^campo) being given by Count Maldo. 
 The Camaldolensi, however, have spread 
 vide as a branch of Benedictines, and 
 nay therefore be classed among the 
 rmllemen of the monastic orders. The 
 iociety comprehends two orders, monks 
 md hermits; symbolized by their arms, 
 wo doves drinking out of the same cup. 
 The monastery in which the monks here 
 reside is beautifully situated, but a large 
 inattractive edifice, not unlike a factory. 
 The hermitage is placed in a loftier and 
 ifider region of the forest. It compre- 
 lends between twenty and thirty distinct 
 residences, each including for its single 
 lermit an inclosed piece of ground and 
 :hree very small apartments. There are 
 lays of indulgence when the hermit may 
 juit his cell, and when old age arrives 
 le descends from the mountain and takes 
 lis abode among the monks. 
 
 My companion had in the year 183 1 
 alien in with the monk, the subject of 
 nese two sonnets, who showed him his 
 ibode among the hermits. It is from 
 lim that I received the following partic- 
 ilars. He was then about forty years of 
 ige, but his appearance was that of an 
 )lder man. He had been a painter by 
 Hofession, but on taking orders changed 
 lis name from Santi to Raffaello, perhaps 
 rith an unconscious reference as well to 
 he great Sanzio d'Urbino as to the arch- 
 ingel. He assured my friend that he 
 lad been thirteen years in the hermitage 
 nd had never known melancholy or 
 innui. In the little recess for study and 
 irayer, there was a small collection of 
 ooks. "I readonly," said he, "books 
 if asceticism and mystical theology." 
 )n being asked the names of the most 
 mous mystics, he enumerated Scara- 
 telli, San Giovanni della Croce, St. 
 'iionysius the Areopagile (supposing the 
 rork which bears his name to be really 
 
 his), and with peculiar emphasis A'zVrtj-i/i? 
 di San Vitlori. The works of Saint 
 Theresa are also in high repute among 
 ascetics. These names may interest 
 some of my readers. 
 
 We heard that Raffaello was then living 
 in the convent; my friend sought in vain 
 to renew his acquaintance with him. It 
 was probably a day of seclusion. The 
 reader will perceive that these sonnets 
 were supposed to be written when he was 
 a young man. 
 
 Page 835. 
 
 * * What aim had they ^ the Pair of Monks. ' * 
 
 In justice to the Benedictines of Camal- 
 doli, by whom strangers are so hospitably 
 entertained, I feel obliged to notice that 
 I saw among them no other figures at all 
 resembling, in size and complexion, the 
 two monks described in this Sonnet. 
 What was their office, or the motive 
 which brought them to this place of mor- 
 tification, which they would not have ap- 
 proached without being carried in this or 
 some other way, a feeling of delicacy 
 prevented me from inquiring. An ac- 
 count has before been given of the her- 
 mitage they were about to enter. It was 
 visited by us towards the end of the 
 month of May; yet snow was lying thick 
 under the pine-trees, within a few yards 
 of the gate. 
 
 Page 835. 
 
 "At Vattomdrosa." 
 
 The name of Milton is pleasingly con- 
 nected with Vallombrosa in many ways. 
 The pride with which the monk, without 
 any previous question from me, pointed 
 out his residence, I shall not readily for- 
 get. It may be proper here to defend 
 the Poet from a charge which has been 
 brought against him, in respect to the 
 passage in "Paradise Lost," where this 
 place is mentioned. It is said, that he 
 has erred in speaking of the trees there 
 being deciduous, whereas they are, in 
 fact, pines. The fault-finders are them- 
 
93° 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 selves mistaken; the natural woods of 
 the region of Vallombrosa are deciduous, 
 and spread to a great extent; those near 
 the convent are, indeed, mostly pines; 
 but they are avenues of trees planted 
 within a few steps of each other, and 
 thus composing large tracts of wood; 
 plots of which are periodically cut down. 
 The appearance of those narrow avenues, 
 upon steep slopes open to the sky, on 
 account of the height which the trees 
 attain by being forced to grow upwards, 
 is often very impressive. My guide, a 
 boy of about fourteen years old, pointed 
 this out to me in several places. 
 
 Page 843. 
 
 ** All change is perilous, and all chance 
 unsound," 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Page 853. 
 
 "Men of the Western World." 
 
 These lines were written several years 
 ago, when reports prevailed of cruelties 
 committed in many parts of America, by 
 men making a law of their own passions. 
 A far more formidable, as being a more 
 deliberate mischief, has appeared among 
 those States, which have lately broken 
 faith with the public creditor in a manner 
 so infamous. I cannot, however, but look 
 at both evils under a similar relation to 
 inherent good, and hope that the time is 
 not distant when our brethren of the West 
 will wipe off this stain from their name 
 and nation. 
 
 ADDITIONAL NOTE. 
 I am happy to add that this anticipation 
 is already partly realized; and that the re- 
 proach addressed to the Pennsylvanians 
 in the sonnet on page 869 is no longer 
 applicable to them. I trust that those 
 ooier States to which it may yet apply 
 
 will soon follow the example now set 
 them by Philadelphia, and redeem their 
 credit with the world. — 1850. 
 
 Page 856. 
 " The Norman boy." 
 
 ' ' Among ancient Trees there are few, 
 I believe, at least in France, so worthy of 
 attention as an Oak which may be seen 
 in the ' Pays de Caux,' about a league 
 from Yvetot, close to the church, and in 
 the burial-ground of Allonville. 
 
 ' ' The height of this Tree does not an- 
 swer to its girth; the trunk, from the roots 
 to the summit, forms a complete cone; 
 and the inside of this cone is hollow 
 throughout the whole of its height. 
 
 "Such is the Oak of Allonville in its 
 state of nature. The hand of Man, how- 
 ever, has endeavored to impress upon it 
 a character still more interesting, by add- 
 ing a religious feeling to the respect which 
 its age naturally inspires. 
 
 "The lower part of its hollow trunk 
 has been transformed into a Chapel of six 
 or seven feet in diameter, carefully wain- 
 scoted and paved, and an open iron gate 
 guards the humble Sanctuary. i 
 
 " Leading to it there is a staircase, ; 
 which twists round the body of the Tree. - 
 At certain seasons of the year divine ser- 
 vice is performed in this Chapel. 
 
 ' ' The summit has been broken off many 
 years, biit there is a surface at the top of 
 the trunk, of the diameter of a very large 
 tree, and from it rises a pointed roof, cov- 
 ered with slates, in the form of a steeple, 
 which is surmounted with an iron Cross, 
 that rises in a picturesque manner from 
 the middle of the leaves, like an ancient 
 Hermitage above the surrounding Wood. 
 
 ' ' Over the entrance to the Chapel an 
 Inscription appears, which informs us itj 
 was erected by the Abbe du Detroit, 
 Curate of Allonville in the year 1696; 
 and over a door is another, dedicating it 
 'To Our Lady of Peace.' " 
 
 Vide 14 No. Saturday Magazine. 
 
SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Wordsworth wished the Sonnets on Liberty to be held as one Poem. The list 
 of these Sonnets is therefore given below in the order in which Wordsworth 
 printed them, so that they may be read together. 
 
 Composed by the Seaside, near Calais, August, 1802 . 
 Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind 
 
 To a Friend 
 
 I grieved for Buonaparte . .... 
 
 Festivals have I seen that were not names 
 
 Oa the Extinction of the Venetian Republic 
 
 The King of Sweden ...... 
 
 To Toussaint L'Ouverture 
 
 We had a female Passenger who came 
 
 Composed in the Valley near Dover, on the day of landing 
 
 Inland, within a hollow vale I stood 
 
 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland 
 
 Written in London, September, 1802 
 
 Slilton ! thou should'st be living at this hour 
 
 Great men have been among us ... . 
 
 R is not to be thought of that the Flood . 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 
 One might believe that natural miseries 
 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 
 
 These times strike monied wordlings with dismay 
 
 England ! the time is come ..... 
 
 When, looking on the present face of things 
 
 To the Men of Kent. October, 1803 
 
 What if our numbers barely could defy 
 
 Anticipation. October, 1803 . ... 
 
 Another year! — another deadly blow 
 
 Ode ... 
 
 PAGH 
 207 
 208 
 208 
 205 
 208 
 209 
 209 
 209 
 210 
 209 
 210 
 406 
 210 
 
 211 
 211 
 211 
 211 
 231 
 231 
 231 
 232 
 232 
 232 
 840 
 
 402 
 616 
 
 PART II. 
 
 On a celebrated Event in Ancient History . . ... 439 
 
 Upon the same Event ... . . ... 439 
 
 To Thomas Clarkson, on the Final Passing of the Bill for the Abolition of 
 
 the Slave Trade. March, 1807 407 
 
 A Prophecy. February, 1807 ... .... 406 
 
 931 
 
932 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 Composed by the side of Grasmere Lake, 1806 
 
 Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes 
 
 Composed while the Author was engaged in writing 
 
 the Convention of Cintra, 1808 
 Composed at the same Time and on the same Occasi 
 
 Hoffer 
 
 Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground 
 Feelings of the Tyrolese ..... 
 
 Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 
 
 And is it among rude untutored Dales 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain . 
 
 On the Final Submission of the Tyrolese . 
 
 Hail, Zarogoza ! If with unwet eye 
 
 Say, what is Honor? ..... 
 
 The martial courage of a day is vain 
 
 Brave Schill ! by death delivered 
 
 Call not the royal Swede unfortunate 
 
 Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid 
 
 Is there a power that can sustain and cheer 
 
 Ah! where is Palafox? ..... 
 
 In due observance of an ancient rite 
 
 Feelings of a noble Biscayan at one of those Funerals 
 
 The Oak of Guernica ..... 
 
 Indignation of a high-minded Spaniard 
 Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind . 
 O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied 
 The French and the Spanish Guerillas 
 Spanish Guerillas ...... 
 
 The power of Armies is a visible thing 
 
 Here pause : the poet claims at least this praise 
 
 The French Army in Russia .... 
 
 On the same occasion ..... 
 
 By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze . 
 
 The Germans on the Heights of Hochheim 
 
 Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright 
 
 Feelings of a French Royalist, on the Disinterment of the 
 
 Duke d'Enghien ..... 
 Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo 
 Siege of Vienna raised by John Sobieski . 
 Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo 
 Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung 
 
 a tract occasioned by 
 
 Ode, 1816 
 
 Ode, 1816 
 
 Ode. — The Morning of the Day appointed for a Gener 
 January 18, 1816 ..... 
 
 Remains 
 
 of th 
 
 al Thanksgiving, 
 
 608 
 
INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 Aar, The Fall of the, 648 
 
 Abbeys, Old, 705 
 
 Abolition of Slave trade, 407 
 
 Abuse of Monastic Power, 6go 
 
 Abuses, Papal, 6S5 
 
 Acquittal of the Bishops, 699 
 
 Address from the Spirit of 
 Cockermouth Castle, 785 
 
 Address to a Child, 402 
 
 Address to Kilchurn Castle, 223 
 
 Address to my Infant Daughter, 
 240 
 
 Address to the Scholars of the 
 
 Village School of , 140 
 
 :,_Admonition, 397 
 
 "Advance — Come forth from 
 thy Tyrolean Ground," 435 
 
 iEneid, Translation of Part of 
 the First Book of the, 620- 
 622 
 
 Aerial Rock, 637 
 
 Affliction of Margaret , 
 
 The, 237 
 
 Afflictions of England, 696 
 
 After Landing, 660 
 
 After-thought (Duddon), 672 
 (Tour on the Continent), 
 648 
 
 "Ah! where is Palafox?" 438 
 
 Ailsa Crag, Frith of Clyde, 792 
 in Airey-Force Valley, 858 
 
 Aix-la-Chapelle, 646 
 
 " Alas what boots the long labo- 
 rious guest," 435 
 
 Alban Hills, From the, 831 
 
 Albano, At, 831 
 
 Alfred, 682 
 
 Alfred, Canute and, 622 
 
 Alfred, his Descendants, 682 
 '"Alice Fell, or Poverty, 196 
 
 Aloys Reding, 648 
 
 Ambleside, 862 
 
 America, Aspects of Christian- 
 ity in (Three Sonnets), 700 
 
 American Episcopacy, 700 
 
 American Tradition, 668 
 
 "Among all lovely Things my 
 Love had been," 200 
 
 "A narrow Girdle of rough 
 Stones and Crags," 169 
 
 Ancient History, On a cele- 
 brated Event in (Two Son- 
 nets), 439 
 
 "And is it among rude untu- 
 tored Dales," 435 
 
 Andrew Jones, 180 
 -Anecdote for Fathers, 97 
 
 Angelo, Michael, From the 
 r Italian of, 244, 400, S37 
 
 Animal Tranquillity and Decay, 
 
 121 
 Anio, 831 
 Anna, 725 
 
 Anticipation (October, 1803), 233 
 Anticipation of leaving School, 
 
 Composed in, ig 
 Antique Ages, 727 
 Apennines, Among the Ruins 
 
 of a Convent in the, 838 
 Apology (Eccl. Son., ist Part), 
 
 680 
 Apology (Eccl. Son., 2d Part), 
 
 691 
 Apology (Sonnets upon the 
 
 Punishment of Death), 846 
 Apology (Yarrow Revisited), 772 
 Applethwa.ite, 244 
 April, The Two Mornings, 142 
 Aqu^ipendente, Musings near, 
 
 822-828 
 Archbishop Chichely to Henry 
 
 v., 689 
 Armenian Lady's Love, The, 
 
 745-747 
 Armies, Power of, 445 
 Artegal and Elidure, 601-604 
 " A Slumber did my Spirit 
 
 seal," 140 
 At the Grave of Bums, 218 
 Authors, A Plea for, 842 
 Author's Portrait, To the, 761 
 Autumn (September), 605 
 Autumn (Two Poems), 640, 691 
 Avarice, The last Stage of, 180 
 "Avaunt all specious Pliancy 
 
 of Mind," 440 
 " A volant Tribe of Bards on 
 
 Earth are found," 711 
 Avon, The (Annan), 770 
 
 Bala-Sala, At, 791 
 
 Balbi, 443 
 
 Ballot, Protest against the, 843 
 
 Bangor, Monastery of Old, 678 
 
 Baptism, 702 
 
 Barbara, 165 
 
 Beaumont, Sir George, Epistle 
 
 to, 446-451 
 Beaumont, Sir George, Upon 
 
 perusing the foregoing Epistle 
 
 to, 451 
 Beaumont, Sir George, Picture 
 
 of Peele Castle painted by, 
 
 249 
 Beaumont, Sir George, Beauti- 
 ful Picture painted by, 452 
 Beaumont, Sir George, Elegiac 
 
 Stanzas addressed to, 715 
 
 933 
 
 Beaumont, To Lady, 408 
 
 Beggar, Old Cumberland, 118- *-, 
 
 121 
 Beggars, 197 Sequel to the, 632 x 
 " Beloved Vale, 1 said, when I 
 
 shall con,' " 397 
 Benefits, Other (Two Sonnets), 
 
 686, 6S7 
 Bible, Translation of the, 692 
 Binnorie, The Solitude of, 239 
 Bird of Paradise, Colored Draw- 
 ing of the, 817 
 Bird of Paradise, suggested by 
 
 a Picture of, 870 
 Bird's Nest half filled with 
 
 Snow (Sonnet), 820 
 Biscayan Rite (Two Sonnets), 
 
 43S 
 Bishops, Acquittal of the, 699 
 Bishops and Priests, 701 
 Black Comb, Inscription on a 
 
 stone on the side of, 456 
 Black Comb, View from the top 
 
 of, 455 
 " Blest Statesman He, whose 
 
 Mind's unselfish Will," S43 
 Bologna, At (Three Sonnets), 
 
 839 
 Bolton Priory, The founding of, 
 
 432 
 Books (Prelude), 299-307 
 Books and Newspapers, Illus- 
 trated, 872 
 Borderers, The, 53-94 
 Bothwell Castle, 769 
 Boulogne, On being stranded 
 
 near the Harbor of, 660 
 Bran, Effusion on the Banks 
 
 of, 597 
 Brathay, on the Banks of the, 605 
 " Brave Schill ! by Death deliv- 
 ered," 437 
 Breadalbane, Ruined Mansion 
 
 of the Earl of, 768 
 Brientz, Scene on the Lake of, 
 
 649 
 Brigham,-Nun's Well, 785 
 Britons, Struggle of the, 678 
 Broach, The Highland, 772 
 " Brook whose Society the Poet 
 
 seeks," 607 
 Brothers, The, 149-156 ' — 
 
 Brother's Water, Bridge at the 
 
 foot of, 200 
 Brougham Castle, Song at the 
 
 Feast of, 409 
 Brownie's Cell, 595 
 Brownie, The, 769 
 Brug&s (Two Poems), 645 
 
934 
 
 INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 Bruges, Incident at, 738 
 - ■'Buonaparte, 205, 208, 437 
 
 Burial Place in the South of 
 
 Scotland, 765 
 Bums, At the Grave of, 218 
 Burns, Thoughts suggested near 
 
 the residence of, 2ig 
 Bums, To the Sons of, 220 
 ..Butterfly, To a, 198, 201 
 " By a blest Husband guided 
 
 Mary came," 818 
 Byron, Lord, 803 
 
 Calais (Four Sonnets), 208 
 
 Calais, Composed by the Sea- 
 side near (1802), 207 
 
 Calais, Fish-vromen at, 644 
 
 " Call not the royal Swede un- 
 fortunate," 437 
 
 Calm and Tempest, 442 
 
 " Calm is the fragrant air," 774 
 _^Calvert, Raisley, 401 
 
 Camaldoli, At the Convent of 
 (Three Sonnets), 834 
 
 Cambridge and the Alps (Pre- 
 lude), 307-318 
 
 Cambridge, Residence at (Pre- 
 lude), 284-292 
 
 Canute, 683 
 
 Canute and Alfred, 622 
 
 Captive Chieftain, 438 
 
 Captivity — Mary Queen of 
 t- ' Scots, 638 
 
 Carleton, Mary, 818 
 
 Carriage, In a, upon the Banks 
 of the Rhine, 646 
 
 Castle, Composed at , 225 
 
 "Castle of Indolence," Written 
 in my Pocket-Copy of, 212 
 
 Casual Incitement, 678 
 
 Catechising, 702 
 
 Catharine Wordsworth, 445 
 
 Cathedrals, etc., 707 
 
 Catherine St., of Ledbury, 819 
 
 Catholic Cantons, Composed in 
 one of the, 648 
 ^.Celandine, The Small, 243 
 
 Celandine, To the Small (Two 
 Poems), 202 
 
 Ceni, Francesco, 441 
 
 Cenotaph (Mrs. Fermor), 715 
 
 Ceremony, Marriage, 703 
 
 Chamouny, Processions in the 
 Vale of, 657 
 
 Channel, In the, 789 
 
 Character, A, 181 
 
 Characteristics of a child, 445 
 
 Character, Pastoral, 701 
 
 Charles the First, Troubles of, 
 696 
 • Charles the Second, 697 
 
 Chatsworth, 760 
 
 Chaucer, Selections from (Three 
 Poems), 184-196 
 
 Chiabrera, Epitaphs translated 
 from, 441-443 
 
 Chichely, Archbishop, to Henry 
 the Fifth, 689 
 
 Child, Address to a, 402 
 
 Child, T'hree years old, Char- 
 
 "^ acteristics of a, 445 
 
 Childless Father, The, 177 
 
 Child, To a (written in her 
 Album), 810 
 
 Childbirth, Thanksgiving after, 
 703 
 
 Childhood and School-time 
 (Prelude), 268-284 
 
 Christianity in America. As- 
 pects of (Three Sonnets), 700 
 
 Church as a Tree, 687 
 
 Church to be erected (Two Son- 
 nets), 706-707 
 
 Churches, New, 706 
 
 Churchyard among the Moun- 
 tains (Excursion), 538-555-570 
 
 Churchyard, New, 707 
 
 Cintra, Convention of (Two 
 t- Sonnets), 433, 434 
 
 Cistertian Monastery, 686 
 
 Clarkson, Thomas, To, 407 
 
 Clergy, Cormptions of the 
 Higher, 689 
 
 Clergy, Emi^nt French, 706 
 
 Clergy, Primitive Saxon, 680 
 
 Clerical Integrity, 698 
 
 Clermont, The Council of, 683 
 
 Clifford, Lord, 409 
 
 Clouds, To the, 858 
 
 Clyde, In the Frith of (Ailsa 
 Crag), 792 
 
 Clyde, On the Frith of, 792 
 
 Cocke rmouth Castle, Address 
 from the Spirit of, 785 
 
 Cockermouth, In sight of, 785 
 
 Coleorton, A Flower Garden 
 at, 713 
 
 Coleorton, Elegiac Musings in 
 the grounds of, 759 
 
 Coleorton, Inscription for an 
 Urn in the grounds of, 453 
 
 Coleorton, Inscription for a 
 Seat in the groves of, 454 
 
 Coleorton, Inscription in a gar- 
 den of, 453 
 
 Coleorton, Inscription in the 
 
 grounds of, 452 
 LCollins, Remembrance of, 27 
 
 Cologne, In the Cathedral of, 
 646 
 
 Column intended by Buonaparte 
 for a Triumphal Edifice, 656 
 
 Commination Service, 704 
 
 Complaint, A, 392 
 
 Complaint, The, of a Forsaken 
 
 '^'Tndian woman, 108 
 
 " Complete Angler," Written 
 on a blank leaf in the, 638 
 
 Composed after Reading a 
 newspaper of the Day, 818 
 
 Composed by the sea-shore, 
 802 
 
 Composed during a storm, 636 
 
 Composed in one of the Catho- 
 lic Cantons, 648 
 
 Composed in one of the Valleys 
 of Westmoreland, on Easter 
 Sunday, 638 
 
 Composed on a May morning, ^ 
 
 84 r 
 Composed on the Banks of a 
 
 Rocky Stream, 642 
 Composed upon an Evening of. 
 
 Extraordinary Splendor and 
 
 Beauty, 635 
 Conclusion (Duddon), 672 
 Conclusion fEccl. Son.), 708 
 Conclusion (Miscell. Son.), 727 
 Conclusion (Prelude), 371-377 
 Conclusion (Sonnets upon the 
 
 Punishment of Death), S46 
 Confirmation (Two Sonnets), 
 
 702, 703 
 Congratulation, 706 
 Conjectures, 675 
 Conquest, Norman, 683, Saxon, 
 
 678 
 Conquests, Danish, 682 
 Contrast, The. The Parrot and 
 
 the Wren, 716 
 Convent in the Apennines, 838 
 Convention of Cintra, Composed 
 
 while writing a Tract occa- 
 sioned by the (Two Sonnets), 
 
 433, 434 
 Conversion, 679 
 Cora Linn, Composed at, 596 
 
 Cordelia M , To, 802 
 
 Corruptions of Higher Clergy, 
 
 6S9 
 Cottage Girls, The Three, 655 
 Cottager, The, to her Infant, 257 
 Council of Clermont, The, 683 
 Countess's Pillar, 771 
 Covenanters, Persecution of 
 
 Scottish, 698 '"' 
 
 Cranmer, 694 
 Crosthwaite Church, 863 
 Crusaders, 687 
 Crusades, 684 
 Cuckoo and the Nightingale, ., 
 
 The, 188-193 "' 
 
 Cuckoo at Lavema,The, 832-834 
 Cuckoo Clock, The, 868 
 Cuckoo, To the, 235 ^ 
 
 Cuckoo, To the, 726 
 Cumberland Beggar, The Old, •»- 
 
 11S-121 
 Cumberland, Coast of (In the 
 
 Channel), 789 
 Cumberland, On a high part of 
 
 the coast of, 7S2 
 
 Daffodils. 236 '-- 
 
 Daisy, To the (Four Poems), 
 
 214, 215, 248 
 Daniel, Picture of (Hamilton 
 
 Palace), 770 
 Danish Boy, The, 144 
 Danish Conquests, 682 
 Danube, Source of the, 647 
 Darling, Grace, 860-862 
 Dati, Roberto, 442 
 Day, the longest, 628 
 Death, Punishment of, Sonnets 
 
 on, 843-847 
 Decay of Piety ^3 
 
INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 935 
 
 Dedication (Miscell. Son.), 722 
 Dedication (Tour on the Conti- 
 nent), 644 
 Dedication (White Doe of Ryl- 
 
 stone), 412 
 Departure from the Vale of 
 
 Grasmere, 218 
 "Deplorable his lot who tills 
 
 the Ground," 686 
 •iDerwent, To the River, 784 
 Derwentwater, 182. 
 Descendants of Alfred, 682 
 Descriptive Sketches, 27-39 
 -Despondency (Excursion), 491- 
 
 505 
 Despondency Corrected (Ex- 
 cursion), 505-523 
 J' Despond who will, I heard a 
 
 Voice exclaim," 792 
 Desultory Stanzas, 661 
 Detraction which followed the 
 
 Publication of a certain Poem, 
 
 On the, 643 
 Devil's Bridge, To the Torrent 
 
 at, 714 
 'Devotional Incitements, 774 
 Dion, 593-595 
 Dirge, 141 
 Dissensions, 677 
 Dissolution of the Monasteries, 
 
 6go, 691 
 Distractions, 695 
 Discourse of the Wanderer 
 
 (Excursion) 579-590 
 ^og. Incident Characteristic of 
 
 a, 247 
 ^og, Tribute to the Memory 
 
 of the same, 247 
 Dominion, Papal, 685 
 Donnerdale, The Plain of, 669 
 J^ora, Address to my Infant 
 
 Daughter, 240 
 Dora, To (A little onward), 623 
 Douglas Bay, Isle of Man, On 
 
 entering, 790 
 Dover, Composed in the Valley 
 
 near, 209 
 Dover, Near, 210 
 Dover, The Valley of (Two 
 
 Sonnets), 660 
 "Down a swift Stream,'' 700 
 Dragon's Eve, 606 
 Dream, The Pilgrim's, 632 
 Druidical Excommunication, 
 
 676 
 Druids, Trepidation of the, 
 
 676 
 Duck's Nest, The Wild, 637 
 Duddon, The River (34 Son- 
 nets), 662-672 
 Dungeon-Ghyll Force, 164 
 Dunollie Castle (Eagles), 767 
 DunolUe Castle, On revisiting, 
 
 793 
 Dunollie Eagle, The, 793 
 Duty, Ode to, 244 
 Dyer, To the Poet John, 607 
 
 Eagle and the Dove, The, 860 
 Eagles (Dunollie Castle), 767 
 
 Eagle, The Dunollie, 793 
 Easter Sunday, Composed on, 
 
 63S 
 Ecclesiastical Sonnets, 675-709 
 Echo, The Mountain, 395 
 Echo upon the Gemmi, 657 
 Eclipse of the Sun, 1820, The, 
 
 654 
 Eden, The River (Cumberland), 
 
 797 
 Edward signing the Warrant, 
 
 693 
 Edward the Sixth, 693 
 Effusion at Altorf, 650 
 Effusion, on the Banks of the 
 
 Bran, 597 
 Egremont Castle, The Horn of, 
 
 391 
 Egyptian Maid, The, 752-758 
 Ejaculation, 708 
 Elegiac Musings (Coleorton 
 
 Hall), 759 
 Elegiac Stanzas (Goddard), 658 
 Elegiac Stanzas (Mrs. Fermor), 
 
 715 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas address to Sir 
 G. H. B. (Sonnet), 715 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas (Peek Castle), 
 249 
 
 Elegiac Verses (John Words- 
 worth), 251 
 
 Elizabeth, 694 
 
 Ellen Irwin, or the Braes of 
 Kirtle, 179 
 
 Emigrant French Clergy, 706 
 
 Emigrant Mother, The, ig8 (,- 
 
 Eminent Reformers (Two Son- 
 nets), 695 
 
 Emma's Dell, 167 
 
 " Emperors and Kings," 619 
 
 Engelberg, 649 
 
 Enghien, Duke d', 619 
 
 England, 232 ; Afflictions of, 6g6 
 
 Enterprise, To, 67^-675 
 
 Episcopacy, American, 700 
 
 Epistle to Sir George Beau- 
 mont, 446-451 
 
 Epistle to Sir George Beaumont, 
 Upon perusing the foregoing, 
 
 451 
 
 Epitaph, A Poet s, 140 u-^ 
 
 Epitaph in the Chapel-yard of 
 Langdale, 716 
 
 Epitaphs translated from Chia- 
 brera, 441-443 
 
 " Ere with cold Beads of mid- 
 night Dew," 717 
 
 Etive, Composed in the Glen of 
 Loch, 766 
 
 " Even as a dragon's Eye," 606 
 
 Evening of extraordinary splen- 
 dor, Composed upon nn, 635 
 
 Evening Walk, An, 19-26 
 
 Evening Voluntaries; (2J 782 ; 
 (3)783; (4) 803; (5) 804; (6) 
 (904); (7) 805; (8) 207; (9) 
 635; (10) 802; (11) 851; (12) 872 
 
 Event in Ancient History, On 
 a Celebrated (Two Sonnets), 
 439 
 
 Excommunication, Druidical 
 
 676 
 Excursion, The, 457-590 
 Exercise, a morning, 728 
 Exercise, School, 17 
 Exile, English Reformers in , 
 
 694 
 Expostulation and Reply, 107 ,__ 
 
 Fact, A, and an Imagination, 
 
 622 
 Faery Chasm, 666 
 " Fair prime of Life,'' 724 
 Fancy, 397 i_— 
 Fancy and Tradition, 771 
 Fancy, Hints for the, 667 
 Farewell, A, 206 
 Farewell Lines, 857 
 Farewell (Tour, 1833), 783 
 Farmer of Tilsbury Vale, The, 
 
 233-235 
 Far-Terrace, The, 720 
 Father, The Childless, 177 
 Fathers, Anecdote for, 97 
 Feelings of a noble Biscayan, 
 
 438 
 Feelings of a French Royalist, 
 
 619 
 Female Vagrant, The, see 
 
 " Guilt and Sorrow," 39-52 
 Fermor, Mrs. (Cenotaph), 715 
 Fermor, Mrs. (Elegiac Stanzas), 
 
 715 
 Fidelity, 246 
 Filial Piety, 776 
 Fir Grove (John Wordsworth), 
 
 250 
 Fish-Women, 644 
 Fleming, To the Lady ^Rydal 
 
 Chapel), (Two Poems), 709, 
 
 710 
 Floating Island, 851 
 Florence (Four Sonnets), 836, 
 
 837 
 
 Flower Garden, A (Coleorton), 
 713 
 
 Flowers, 665 
 
 Flowers (Cave of Staffa), 795 
 
 Flowers in the Island of Ma- 
 deira, 866 
 
 " Fly, some kind Harbinger, to 
 Grasmere Vale," 227 
 
 Force of Prayer, The, 432 
 
 Foresight, 201 
 
 Forms of Prayer at Sea, 704 
 
 Forsaken Indian Woman, Com- 
 plaint of, 108 
 
 Forsaken, The, 238 
 
 Fort Fuentes, 651 
 
 "Forth from a jutting ridge," 
 864 
 
 Fountain, The, 143 
 
 Fox, Mr., Lines composed on 
 the unexpected death of, 401 
 
 France, 231 
 
 France, Residence in (Prelude), 
 3 3 9~3 47~3 5 5~3 ^^ 
 
 France, Sky-prospect from the 
 Plain of, 659 
 
936 
 
 INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 Francesco Pozzobonelli, 443 
 French and Spanish Guerillas, 
 
 The, 440 
 French Army in Russia (Two 
 
 Poems), 617, 618 
 French Clergy, Emigrant, 706 
 French Revolution, 267 
 ""French Revolution, In allusion 
 
 to Histories of the (Three 
 
 Sonnets), 852, S53 
 French Royalist, Feelings of a, 
 
 619 
 Friend. To a (Banks of the Der- 
 
 went), 785 
 " Fromfalse Assumption rose," 
 
 686 
 *' From the dark chambers of 
 
 Dejection freed," 600 
 Fuentes, Fort, 651 
 Fugitive, The Russian, 748-752 
 Funeral Service, 704 
 Furness Abbey, At, 864, 865 
 
 Gemmi, Echo upon the, 657 
 General Fast, Upon the late 
 
 (1832), 776 
 General View of the Troubles 
 
 of the Reformation, 694 
 George the Third (November, 
 
 1813), 456 
 George the Third, On the death 
 
 of, 642 
 Geraldine, 717 
 Gei mans on the Heights of 
 
 Hochheim, 618 
 Germany, 435 
 
 Germany, Written in, 137-149 
 Gill, Harry, loi 
 Gillies, Margaret (Two Poems), 
 
 847 
 Gillies, Margaret, 849 
 Gillies, Robert Pearce, 600 
 Gipsies, 40S 
 " Glad Sight," 867 
 Glad Tidings, 679, 
 Gleaner, The, 734 
 Glen-Almain, or the Narrow 
 
 Glen, 222 
 Glencoe, At the Head of, 768 
 Glow-worm, The Star and the, 
 
 632 
 " Go back to antique Ages," 727 
 Goddard, Elegiac Stanzas, 658 
 Gold and Silver Fishes in a Vase 
 
 (Two Poems), 738, 739-74i 
 Goody Blake and Harry Gill, 
 
 101 
 Gordale, 637 
 Grace Darling, 860-862 
 Grasmere, Departure from the 
 
 Vale of (August, 1803), 218 
 Grasmere, Home at (Recluse), 
 
 378-389 
 Grasmere, Inscription on the 
 
 Island at, 182 
 Grasmere Lake, Composed by 
 
 the side of, 398 
 Grasmere, Return to, 227 
 Gravestone, A (Worcester Ca- 
 thedral), 744 
 
 Great Men (Sidney, Marvel, 
 etc.), 211. 
 
 Greece, 439 
 
 Green, George and Sarah, 434 
 
 Green Linnet, The, 216 
 
 Greenock, 796 
 
 Greta, To the River, 784 
 
 " Grief, thou hast lost an ever- 
 ready friend," 639 
 
 Guernica, Oak of, 439 
 
 Guilt and Sorrow, 39-52 a- 
 
 Gunpowder Plot, 695 
 
 Gustavus IV., 437 
 
 H. C, Six years old, To, 213 
 
 " Hail, Twilight, sovereign of 
 one peaceful hour," 606 
 
 " Hail Zaragoza, if with unwet 
 Eye," 436 
 
 Hambleton Hills, After a Jour- 
 ney across the, 212 
 
 Handec, 648 
 
 jHappy Warrior, Character of 
 i^the, 389 
 
 "Hark! 't is the Thrush ! 841" 
 
 Harp, The (" Why, Minstrel "), 
 J- 723 
 Jtlart-leap Well, 173-177 
 
 Hart's-horn Tree, 771 
 
 Haunted Tree, The, 64a 
 
 Hawkshead, Written as a School 
 Exercise at, 1 7 
 
 Hawkshead School, In Antici- 
 pation of leaving, 19 
 
 Haydon (Picture of the Duke of 
 Wellington), 848 
 
 Haydon, To B. R., 601 i-"^ 
 
 Haydon, To B. R. (Picture of 
 Napoleon Buonaparte), 777 
 
 Hazels, 607 
 
 Heidelberg, Castle of (Hymn 
 for Boatmen), 647 
 
 Helvellyn, To , on her 
 
 first ascent of, 624 
 
 Henry the Eighth, Portrait of, 
 725 
 
 " Here pause : the Poet claims, 
 at least, this praise," 446 ^ 
 
 Her eyes are wild, 103 £__- 
 
 Hermitage (St. Herbert^s Is- 
 land), 182 
 
 Hermitage, Near the Spring of 
 the, 634 
 
 Hermit's Cell, Inscriptions in 
 and near, 633-635 
 
 " Her only Pilot the soft 
 Breeze," 723 
 
 Hespems, 217 
 
 Highland Boy, The Blind, 228- 
 231 
 
 Highland Broach, The, 772 
 
 Highland Girl, To a, 221, 236 
 
 Highland Hut, 768 
 . Hint from the Mountains, 629, 
 
 Hints for the Fancy, 667 
 
 Historian, Plea for the, 830 
 
 Hochheim, Germans on, 618 
 
 Hoffer, 434 
 
 Hogg, James, Extempore Effu- 
 sion upon the death of, 815 
 
 Honor, 436 
 
 Horn of Egremont Castle, The, 
 
 391 
 
 Howard, Mrs., Monument of 
 (Wetheral) (Two Sonnets), 
 798 
 
 "How beautiful the Queen of 
 Night," 872 
 
 " How rich that Forehead's 
 calm expanse," 712 
 
 " How sweet it is when Mother 
 Fancy rocks," 397 
 
 Humanity, 742, 743 « . 
 
 Huntsman, The Old, 104 XX 
 
 Hymn for Boatmen (Heidel- 
 berg), 647 
 
 Hymn, the Laborer's Noon- 
 day, 805 
 
 I. F., Portrait of, S47 
 
 I. F., To, 847 
 
 Idiot Boy, The, 110-115 -^ 
 
 Idle Shepherd Boys, The, 164 
 
 " If this great World of Joy and 
 
 Pain, 782 
 " If thou indeed derive thy Light 
 
 from Heaven," 777 
 I grieved for Buonaparte, 205 
 " 1 heard, alas, 'twas only in a 
 
 dream," 640 
 " I know an aged Man," 871 
 Illustrated Books and News- 
 papers, 872 
 Illustration. (The Jung-Frau), 
 
 696 
 Imagination, 611 
 I magination and Taste (Pre- 
 lude), 362-366-371 
 Imaginative Regrets, 692 
 Immortality, Intimations of,403- 
 
 406 ^ 
 
 Impromptu, 207 
 Incident, 247 
 Incident at Bruges, 738 
 Indian Woman, Complaint of 
 
 a Forsaken, 108 
 Indignation of a High-minded 
 
 Spaniard, 439 
 " In due Observance of an 
 
 ancient Rite," 438 
 Infant Daughter, Address to 
 
 my, 240 
 Infant M M, To 
 
 the, 726 
 Infant, The Cottager to her, 257 
 Influence abused, 682 
 Influence of Natural Objects,i36 
 Influences, Other, 680 
 Inglewood Forest, Suggested by 
 
 a View in, 770 
 " In my mind's Eye a Temple 
 
 like a Cloud," 727 
 Inscription for a Monument in 
 
 Crosthwaite Church (South- 
 
 ey"), 863 
 Inscriptions 182, 183; (Coleor- 
 
 ton), 452-454 
 Inscriptions (Hermit's Cell), 
 
 633, 634 
 Installation Ode, 873-875 
 
INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 937 
 
 lategrity, Clerical, 698 
 "Intent ou gathering Wool," 
 
 849 
 Interdict, An, 684 
 " In these fair Vales hath many 
 
 a Tree," 759 
 Intimations of Immortality, 
 
 Ode, 403-406 
 Introduction (Eccles. Sonnets), 
 
 675 
 Introduction (Prelude), 268-277 
 Invasion, Lines on the expected, 
 
 233 
 Inversneyde, 221 
 Invocation to the Earth (i8i6), 
 
 613 
 lona (Four Sonnets), 795, 796 
 lona, Black Stones of, 796 
 ' Irwin, Ellen, 179 
 Isle of Man (Two Sonnets), 790 
 Isle of Man, at Bala-Sala, 791 
 Isle of Man, At Sea, off, 7S9 
 Isle of Man, By the Seashore, 
 
 790 
 Isle of Man (Douglas Bay), 790 
 " Is there a Power that can sus- 
 tain and cheer," 438 
 Italian Itinerant, The, 652 
 Italy, After leaving (Two Son- 
 nets), 83S, 839 
 " It is a beauteous Evening, 
 
 calm and free," 20S 
 " It is no Spirit who from 
 
 Heaven hath flown," 217 
 "It is not to be thought of," 211 
 ,,>T^travelled among unknown 
 Men," 139 
 " I wandered lonely as a Cloud," 
 
 236 
 " I watch and long have 
 watched, with calm Regret," 
 639 
 
 Jedborough, The Matron of, 
 227 
 
 Jewish Family, A, 733 
 
 Joanna, i63 
 
 Joan of Kent, Warrant for Ex- 
 ecution of, 693 
 
 Jones, Andrew, 180 
 
 Jones, Rev. Robert, 27, 181, 182 
 
 Journey renewed, 671 
 
 June, 1820, 644 
 
 Jung-Frau, The, and the Fall 
 of the Rhine, 6g6 
 
 Kendal, Upon hearing of the 
 
 death of the Vicar of, 600 
 Kendal and Windermere Rail- 
 way, On the projected, S63 
 Kent, to the Men of, 232 
 Kilchurn Castle, Address to, 222 
 Killicranky, In the Pass of, 232 
 King's College Chapel, Cam- 
 bridge, Inside of (Three son- 
 nets), 707, 708 
 Kirkstone, The Pass of, 630 
 Kirtle, The Braes of, 179 ^„ 
 Kitten and Falling Leaves, 1 he, 
 241 
 
 Laborer's Noon-day Hymn, S05 
 Lady, To a, upon Drawings she 
 
 had made of Flowers in 
 
 Madeira, 866 
 Lady E. B. and the Hon. Miss 
 
 P., To the, 714 
 Lady of the Snow, Our, 649 
 Lamb, Charles, Written after 
 
 the death of, 813-815 
 Lamb, The Pet, 165 
 Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, 
 
 631 
 Lancaster Castle, Suggested by 
 
 the View of, 843 
 Langdale, Epitaph in the 
 
 Chapel-yard of, 716 
 Langdale Pikes, 605 
 Laodamia, 590-593 
 Last of the Flock, The, 109 w^ 
 Last Supper, by Leonardo da 
 
 Vinci, The, 653 
 Latimer and Ridley, 693 
 Latitudinarianism, 698 
 Laud, 6g6 
 
 Lauterbrunnen, 647 
 Laverna, The Cuckoo at, 832 
 Lawn, The, 743 
 Leech-Gatherer, The, 203 v._ . 
 Lelius, 443 
 Leonardo da Vinci, The Last 
 
 Supper, 653 
 Lesibia, 820 
 Liberty (Gold and Silver 
 
 Fishes), 739-741 
 Liberty, Obligations of Civil to 
 
 Religious, 699 
 Liberty of Greece, 439 
 Liberty, Sung by the Poet, 446 
 Liberty (Tyrolese Sonnets), 435 
 Lifege, Between Namur and, 645 
 Light from Heaven, 777 
 Lights and Shades of the Re- 
 ligion, 681 
 ^Lines composed a few miles 
 . above Tintern Abbey, 115-118 
 Lines composed on the expected 
 
 Death of Mr. Fox, 401 
 Lines, Farewell, 857 
 .Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew- 
 '-^ree, 52 
 
 Lines on the expected Invasion, 
 1—1803, 233 
 
 Lines on hearing of the ap- 
 proaching dissolution of Mr. 
 
 Fox, 401 
 Lines suggested by a Portrait 
 
 from the Pencil of F. Stone 
 
 (Two Poems), 807-810. 
 Lines written as a School Exer- 
 cise at Hawkshead, 17 
 (Lines written in Early Spring, 
 ^ 105 
 Lines written in the Album of 
 
 the Countess of Lonsdale, 810 
 Lines written upon a Stone, 
 
 upon one of the Islands at 
 
 Rydal, 183 
 Lines written upon hearing of 
 
 the Death of the late Vicar of 
 
 Kendal, 600 
 
 Lines written while sailing in a 
 
 Boat at Evening, 26 
 Linnet The Green, 216 
 Liturgy, The, 701 
 Loch Etive, Composed in the 
 
 Glen of, 766 
 Loch Lomond, a beautiful Ruin, 
 
 known as the Brownie's Cell, 
 
 595 
 Lombardy, In, 838 
 London, Residence in (Pre- 
 lude), 318-329 
 London, Written in (1S02), (Two 
 
 Sonnets), 210, 211 
 Longest Day, The, 628 
 Long Meg and her Daughters, 
 
 799 
 Lonsdale, The Countess of 
 
 (Album), 810 
 Lonsdale, To the Earl of, 463 
 Lonsdale, To the Earl of, 800 
 " Look now on that Adventurer 
 
 who hath paid," 437 
 Louisa, 252 
 
 Love, The Birth of, 94 
 Love lies bleeding (Two 
 
 Poems), 867, 868 
 Love of Nature (Pielude), 329- 
 
 339 
 Loving and Liking, 775 
 Lowther, 799 
 
 Lowthcr, To the Lady Mary ,643 
 Lucca Giordano, 872 
 Lucy Gray, or Solitude, 145 ^^_^ 
 Lucy (Three Poems), 138, 139 (.-- 
 Lucy (Three years she grew), 
 
 139 
 Lycoris, Ode to (Two Poems), 
 
 626, 627 
 ''Lyre! through such power do 
 
 in thy magic lie," 858 
 
 M. H.,To, 171 
 
 Madeira, Flowers in the Island 
 of, 866 
 
 Malham Cove, 636 
 
 Man, 873 
 
 Manse, On the sight of a (Scot- 
 land), 765 
 
 March, Written in, 203 
 
 Margaret , the Affliction 
 
 of, 237 
 
 Mariner, By a retired, 791 
 
 " Mark the Concentred Hazels 
 that enclose," 607 
 
 Marriage Ceremony, The, 703 
 
 Marriage of a Friend, On the 
 Eve of, 454 
 
 Marshall, To Cordelia, 802 
 
 Martial Courage, 437 
 
 Mary Queen of Scots, Cap- 
 tivity, 638; Lament of, 631; 
 (Workington), 786 
 
 Maternal Grief, 444 
 
 Matron of Jedborough, The, 227 
 
 Matthew, 141 
 
 May Morning, Composed on 
 (1838), 8^1 
 
 May Morning, Ode composed 
 
938 
 
 INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 May, To, 718 
 
 Meditation, 802 
 
 Memorial near Lake Thun, 648 
 
 Memorials of a Tour in Italy, 
 
 821-839 
 Memorials of a Tour in Scot- 
 land, 1803,217-231; 1814, 595- 
 
 600 
 Memorials of a Tour on the 
 
 Continent, 1820, 644-662 
 Memory, 709; (The Duddon), 669 
 Men of the Western World, 853 
 Mental Affliction, 842 
 Merry England, 784 
 " Methought I saw the Foot- 
 steps of a Throne," 401 
 Michael, 156-164 
 Michael Angelo, From the 
 
 Italian of, 244 ; (Stanzas and 
 
 Two Sonnets), 400; (Two Son- 
 nets), 837 
 Milton, 211 
 Miscellaneous Sonnets, 722- 
 
 727, 852, 853 
 Missions and Travels, 681 
 Monasteries, Dissolution of the 
 
 (Three Sonnets), 690, 691 
 Monasteries, Saxon, 681 
 Monastery, Cistertian, 686 
 Monastery of Old Bangor, 678 
 Monastic Power, Abuse of, 690 
 Monastic Voluptuousness, 690 
 Monks, 683 
 
 Monks and Schoolmen, 686 
 Monte Mario, Pine of, 828 
 Monument of Mrs. Howard 
 
 (Two Sonnets), 798 
 Monument (Long Meg and Her 
 
 Daughters), 799 
 Moon, The (The Shepherd 
 
 looking eastward), 606 
 Moon, The (With how sad 
 
 steps), 398 
 Moon, The (The crescent-Moon, 
 
 the Star of Love), 851 
 Moon , The (Who but is pleased), 
 
 872 
 Moon, The (How beautiful the 
 
 Queen of Night), 872 
 Moon, The (Once I could hail), 
 
 719 
 Moon, To the (Seaside), 811 
 Moon, To the (Rydal), 812 
 Morning Exercise, A, 728 
 Mornings, Two April, 142 
 Moscow, self-devoted to a Blaze, 
 
 By, 618 
 Mossgiel Farm (Bums), 797 
 " Most sweet it is with unup- 
 
 lifted Eyes," 802 
 Mother's Return, The, 407 
 Mountain (November i), 605 
 Mountain Echo, 39s; Stream, 667 
 Mountains, Hint from the, 629 
 Mull, In the Sound of, 767 
 Muse, The (" Not Love not 
 
 War,") 711 
 iMusic, Power of, 393 
 Musings near Aquapendente, 
 
 S22-828 
 
 Mutability, 705 L^ 
 " My heart leaps up when I 
 behold," 200 1,.^ 
 
 Naming of Places, Poems on 
 
 the, 167-171 
 Namur and Lifege, Between, 
 
 645 
 Natural Objects, Influence of, 
 
 136 
 Nature felt, 803 
 Nature, Living (Prelude), 329- 
 
 339 
 Needle-case in the Form of a 
 
 Harp, On seeing a, 722 
 Negroes, Expulsion of, from 
 
 France, 210 
 Negro Woman, 210 
 Nelson, 389 
 Nest. The Sparrow's, 183 ; The 
 
 Wild Duck's, 637 
 New Churches, 706 
 New Churchyard, 707 
 Newspaper, After reading a, 818 
 Nightmgale and Stock-dove, 408 
 \Njghtingale, The Cuckoo and 
 ^' the, 188-193 
 Night-piece, A, 95 "^ 
 Night-thought, A, 840 
 Nith, On the Banks of, 219 
 " Not in the lucid Intervals of 
 
 Life," 803 
 *' Not Love, not War, nor the 
 
 tumultuous Swell," 712 
 Norman Boy, The, 854 
 Norman Conquest, The, (Two 
 
 Sonnets), 683 
 North Wales, Composed among 
 
 the Ruins of a Castle in, 714 
 Nortons, The Fate of the, 411- 
 
 432 
 November, 1806, 402 ; 1S13, 456 ; 
 
 1S36, 821 
 November j, 605 
 Nunnery, 798 
 
 ("Nuns fret not at their Con- 
 vent's narrow Room," 395 
 Nun's Well, Brigham, 785 
 Nutting, 137 1,^-^ 
 
 Oak and the Broom, The, 172 
 Oak of Guernica, The, 439 
 Obligations of Civil to Religious 
 
 Liberty, 699 
 October, 1803 (Four Sonnets), 
 
 231, 232 
 Octogenarian, To an, 873 
 Ode, Installation, 873-875 
 Ode, Vernal, 624-626 
 Ode (Who rises on the Banks of 
 
 Seine), 616 
 Ode (1814. When the soft 
 
 hand), 614-616 
 Ode (1815. Imagination — n'er 
 
 before content), 611-613 
 Ode (The Morning of tlie Day 
 
 of Thanksgiving), 608-611 
 i^de to Duty, 244 
 Ode to Lycoris (Two Poems), 
 
 626, 627 
 
 Ode composed on May Morn- 
 ing, 717 
 Ode, Intimations or Immortai- 
 
 ityj 403-406 
 
 " O'er the wide Earth, on Moun- 
 tain and on Plain," 436 
 
 ** O'erweening Statesmen have 
 full long relied," 440 
 
 " Oh, what a Wreck," 842 
 
 Oker Hill in Darley Dale, A 
 Tradition of, 745 
 
 Old Abbeys, 705 
 
 "Once I could hail (however 
 serene thy Sky)," 719 
 
 " O nightingale thou surely art," , 
 408 ^ 
 
 Open Prospect, 667 
 
 Oppression, 686 
 
 Ossian, Written in a blank leaf 
 of Macpherson's, 793 
 
 Other Benefits, 686, 687 
 
 Other Influences, 680 
 
 Our Lady of the Snow, 649 
 
 Owl, The, 805 
 
 Oxford, May 30, 1820 (Two 
 Sonnets), 643 
 
 Painter, To a (Two Sonnets), , 
 
 849 
 Palafox, 438 
 Papal Abuses, 685 ; Dominion, 
 
 685 ; Power, 686 ; Unity, 687 
 Paradise, Bird of. On seeing a 
 
 colored drawing, 817 
 Paradise, Bird of, Picture of 
 
 the, 870 
 Parrot and the Wren, The, 716 
 Parsonage in Oxfordshire, A, 
 
 672 
 Parsonage, The (Excursion), 
 
 570-579 . 
 Pass of Kirkstone, Thej 630 
 Pastor, The (Excursion), 523- 
 
 538 
 
 Pastoral Character, 701 
 Patriotic Sympathies, 697 
 Paulinus, 679 
 Peele Castle, Suggested by a 
 
 Picture of, 249 
 Pelion and Ossa, 184 l— -^ 
 
 Pennsylvanians, To the, 86g 
 Persecution, 677 
 Persecution of the Scottish 
 
 Covenanters, 698 
 Personal Talk, 395 %^^ 
 Persuasion, 679 
 Peter Bell, 121-135 ^ 
 Peter Bell, On the Detraction 
 
 which followed, etc., 643 
 Pet Lamb, The, 165 
 Phantom of Delight, 236 v^' 
 Philoctetes, 725 
 Picture, Upon the Sight of a 
 
 Beautiful, 452 
 Piety, Decay of, 723 
 Piety, Filial, 776. 
 Pilgrim Fathers (Two Sonnets), 
 
 700 
 Pilgrim's Dream, 632 
 Pillar of Trajan, 721 
 
INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 939 
 
 '^Pine of Monte Mario, 828 
 Places, Naming of, 167-171 
 Places of Worship, 701 
 Plea for Authors, A, 842 
 Plea for the Historian, 830 
 Pleasures, Stray, 392 
 Pluto's Cabinet, 821 
 Poet and the caged Turtle-dove, 
 
 The, 758 
 Poetic Pains, 725 
 Poet's Dream, The, 855 
 Poet's Epitaph, 140 
 Poet to his Grandchild, A, 842 
 Point at Issue, The, 692 
 Point Rash Judgment, 169-171 
 Poor Robin, 847 
 i-^Poor Susan, The Reverie of, 94 
 Popery, Revival of, 693 
 Portrait, Lines suggested by a 
 
 (Two Poems), 807-810 
 Portrait of I. F., On a, 847 
 Portrait of the Duke of Wel- 
 lington, On a, 848 
 Portrait of Henry VIII., 725 
 Portrait, To the Author's, 761 
 Poverty, 196 
 Power of Annies, 445 
 ^^* Power of Music, 393 
 Power of Sound, 734-738 
 Pozzobonnelli, Francesco, 443 
 Prayer at Sea, Forms of, 704 
 Prayer, The Force of, 432 
 Prelude, Poems of Early and 
 
 Late Years, S50 
 ■^ Prelude, The, 268-377 " " 
 Presentiments, 758 
 Primrose of the Rock, The, 
 
 761 
 ^.. Prioress' Tale, The, 184-188 
 Processions (Chamouny), 657 
 Prophecy, A (February, 1807), 
 
 406. 
 Protest against the Ballot, 843 
 " Proud were ye, Mountains," 
 
 863 
 Punishment of Death, Sonnets 
 
 upon the, 843-847 
 
 Railway, On the projected 
 Kendal and Windermere, 863 
 
 Railways, etc., 799 
 
 Rainbow, 200 ■ 
 
 Ranz des Vaches, On hearing 
 the, 651 
 
 Reaper, The SoHtary, 222 
 
 Recluse, The, 378-389 
 
 Recollection of the Portrait of 
 Henry VIII. ,725 
 
 Recovery, 677 
 
 Reding, Aloys, Memorial, 648 
 
 Redbreast chasing the Butter- 
 fly, The, 200 
 
 Redbreast, The, 806 
 
 Redbreast, To a, 851 
 
 Redbreast, 870 
 
 Reflections, 692 
 
 Reformation, General View of 
 the Troubles of the, 694 
 
 Reformers, Eminent (Two 
 Sonnets), 695 
 
 !#' 
 
 Reformersin Exile (English), 694 
 
 Regrets, 705; 829 
 
 Regrets, Imaginative, 692 
 
 Remembrance of Collins, 27 
 
 Repentance, 238 
 
 Reproof, 681 
 
 ".esolution and Independence, 
 
 203-205 
 Rest and be thankful, 768 
 Resting-place, The, 670 
 Retirement, 724 
 Retrospect (Prelude), 329-339 
 Return, 668 
 
 Return, The Mother's, 407 
 Return to Grasmere, 227 
 Reverie of Poor Susan, 94 
 Revival of Popery, 693 
 Revolution, French, 267, 852 
 Rhine, Upon the Banks of the. 
 
 Richard the First, 684 
 
 Richmond Hill (Thomson), 644 
 
 Ridley, Latimer and, 693 
 
 Rill, The, 642 
 
 Robin, Poor, 847 
 
 Robinson, to Henry Crabb 
 (Tour in Italy, 1837), 821 
 
 Rob Roy's Grave, 224 
 
 Rock, Inscribed upon a (Her- 
 mit's Cell), 634 
 
 Rocks, Two Heath-clad, 864 
 
 Rocky Stream, Composed on 
 the Banks of a, 642 
 
 Rocky Stream, On the Banks of 
 a, 873 
 
 Rogers, Samuel, To, 763 
 
 Roman Antiquities, (Bishop- 
 stone), 819 
 
 Roman Antiquities (Old Pen- 
 rith), 772 
 
 Roman Refinements, Tempta- 
 tions from, 677 
 
 Romance of the Water Lily, 
 752-758 
 
 Rome, At (Five Sonnets), 829- 
 831 
 
 Rome, The Pine of Monte 
 Mario at, 828 
 
 Roslin Chapel, Composed in, 765 
 
 Rotha Q , To, 726 
 
 Ruins of a Castle in North 
 Wales, 714 
 
 Rural Architecture, 178 
 
 Rural Ceremony, 705 
 
 Rural Illusions, 775 
 
 Russian Fugitive, The, 748-752 
 
 Ruth, 146-14S 
 
 Rydal, At, on May Morning 
 (1838), 841 
 
 Rydal Chapel, 709 
 
 Rydal, Inscription upon a Stone 
 upon one of the Islands at, 183 
 
 Rydal, In the Woods of; 727 
 
 Rydal Mere, By the Side of, 804 
 
 RydaHau Laurels, 783 
 
 Rylstone, White Doe of, 41 1-432 
 
 S. H., To, 723 
 Sacheverei, 699 
 Sacrament, 703 
 
 Sailor's Mother, The, 196 ^-'^ 
 
 Saint Bees' Head, In a Steam- 
 boat o£E, 786-789 
 
 Saint Catherine of Ledbury, 819 
 
 Saint Gothard (Ranz des Vaches 
 on the Pass of), 651 
 
 Saint Herbert's Island, Der- 
 wentwater (Hermitage), 182 
 
 Saint Kilda, 796 
 
 Saints, 691 
 
 Salinero, Ambrosio, 442 
 
 Salisbury Plain, Incidents 
 upon, 39-52 
 
 San Salvador, The Church 01,652 
 
 Savona, 441 
 
 Saxon Clergy, Primitive, 680 
 
 Saxon Conquest, 678 
 
 Saxon Monasteries, 681 
 
 Saxons, 682 
 
 " Say, what is Honor ? " 436 
 
 Scene in Venice, 685 
 
 Schill, 437 
 
 Scholars of the Village School 
 of , Address to the, 140 
 
 School, C^omposed in Anticipa- 
 tion of leaving, 19 
 
 School Exercise at Hawkshead, 
 Written as a, 17 
 
 School-time (Prelude), 277-284 
 
 School-time, Childhood and 
 (Prelude), 268-284 
 
 " Scorn not the Sonnet," 724 
 
 Schwytz, 650 
 
 Scotland, Memorials of a Tour 
 in (1803), 217-231 (1S14), 595 
 
 Scottish Covenanters, Persecu- 
 tion of the, 698 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, Departure of, 
 764 
 
 Sea, Forms of Prayer at, 704 
 
 Seashore, Composed by the, 
 802 
 
 Seaside, Composed by the, 783 
 
 Seasons, Thought on the, 744 
 
 Seathwaite Chapel, 663 
 
 Seclusion (Two Sonnets), 680, 
 681 
 
 Secrecy to Cowardice, Fraud, 
 Falsehood, and Treachery, Szi 
 
 September r, 1802, 210; 1815, 
 605 ; 1819 (Two Poems), 640, 
 641 
 
 Sequel to "The Beggars," 632 
 
 Seven Sisters, The ; or, The 
 Solitude of Binnorie, 239 
 
 Sexton, To a, 144 
 
 " She dwelt among the untrod- ^ 
 den WaySj" 139 
 
 Sheep-washing, 669 
 
 Shepherd Boys — Dungeon^ 
 Ghyll Force, 164 
 
 *' She was a Phantom of De- 
 light," 236 
 
 Ships (Two Sonnets), 398, 399 
 
 Sick, Visitation of, 704 
 
 Simon Lee, 104 V 
 
 Simplon Pass, Column lying in 
 the, 656 
 
 Simplon Pass, Stanzas composed 
 in the, 656 v 
 
940 
 
 INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 Simplon Pass, The, 135, 316 
 
 Sister, To My, 106 
 
 Sisters, The Seven, 239 
 
 ' ' Six months to six years added 
 he remained," 821 
 
 Skiddaw, 184 
 
 Sky-lark, To a, 245, 717 
 
 Sky-prospect from the Plain of 
 France, 659 
 
 Sleep, To (Three Sonnets), 399 
 
 Snow, Our Lady of the, 619 
 
 Snowdrop Rock, 217 
 
 Snowdrop, To a, 638 
 
 Snowdrops, 638 
 
 "So Fair, so Sweet, withal so 
 Sensitive," 86g 
 
 Sobieski, John, 618 
 
 " Soft as a Cloud is yon blue 
 Ridge," 804 
 
 Solitary Reaper, The, 222 
 
 Solitary, The (Excursion) 478- 
 491 
 
 Solitude me Duddon), 664 
 
 Solitude (Lucy Gray), 145 
 
 Somnambulist, The, 800 
 
 Song at the Feast of Brougham 
 Castle, 409 
 
 Song for the Spinning Wheel, 
 454 
 
 Song for the Wandering Jew, 
 178 
 
 Sonnet, Composed at Castle 
 
 (Nidpath), 225 
 
 Sonnet, The, 395, 724 
 
 Sonnet, June, 1820 (Fame tells 
 of Groves), 644 
 
 Sonnet, September r, 1802 (We 
 had a female Passenger), 210 
 
 Sonnet, September, 1802 (In- 
 land, within a hollow Vale), 
 210 
 
 Sonnet, September, 1815 (While 
 not a Leaf seems faded), 605 
 
 Sonnet, October, 1803 (One 
 might believe), 231 
 
 Sonnet, October, 1803 (These 
 times strike monied World- 
 lings), 231 
 
 Sonnet, October, 1803 (When 
 looking on the present Face of 
 Things), 232 
 
 Sonnet, November, 1806 (An- 
 other Year), 402 
 
 Sonnet, November, 1813 (Now 
 that aH Hearts are glad), 456 
 
 Sonnet, November r, 1815 (How 
 clear, how keen), 605 
 
 Sonnet, November, 1836 (Even 
 so for me), 821 
 
 Sonnet (Why should we 
 mourn?), 871 
 
 Sonnets (Fourteen) on the Pun- 
 ishment of Death, 843-847 
 
 Sonnets, Seven, 819-821 
 
 Sound of Mull, In the, 767 
 
 Sound, The Power of, 734—738 
 
 Southey, Edith May, 722 
 
 Southey (Inscription for Monu- 
 ment), S63 
 
 Southey, Mrs., 842 
 
 <_gpade of a Friend, To the, 242 
 Spaniards (Three Sonnets), 
 
 439^ 440 
 Spanish Guerillas, 445 
 Spanish Guerillas, The French 
 
 and the, 440 
 Sparrow's Nest, The, 183 
 Spinning Wheel, 639 
 Spinning Wheel, Song for the, 
 
 454 
 Sponsors, 702 
 Spring, Lines written in early 
 
 Stafta, Cave of (Four Sonnets), 
 
 _ 794, 795 
 
 Stanzas on Thomson's Castle 
 of Indolence, 212 
 
 Stanzas composed in the Sim- 
 plon Pass, 656 
 
 Stanzas suggested off Saint 
 Bees' Head, 786-789 
 
 Star and the Glow-woim, The, 
 
 ' -Star-gazers, 394 
 Star, Slowly-sinking, 639 
 Stars are Mansions, The, 642 
 Statesman, The, 843 
 Staub-bach, On approaching 
 
 the, 647 
 Steamboats, Viaducts, and Rail- 
 ways, 799 
 Stepping-stones, The (Two 
 
 Sonnets), 666 
 Stepping Westward, 222 
 Stone, F., Lines suggested by a 
 
 Portrait from the Pencil of 
 
 (Two Poems), S07-810 
 Storm, Composed during a, 636 
 Stranded near the Harbor of 
 
 Boulogne, On being, 660 ^l 
 _^ Strange fits of Passion have I 
 
 known," 138 
 ^tray Pleasures, 392 
 Stream, Composed on the Banks 
 
 of a Rocky, 642 
 Stream, On the Banks of a 
 
 Rocky, 873 
 Stream, Tributary, 668 
 Streams (The Duddon), 670 
 Streams, The Unremitting Voice 
 
 of nightly, 873 
 Struggles of the Britons, 678 
 Summer Vacation (Prelude), 
 
 292-299 
 Sunset (France), 207 
 " Surprised by Joy, impatient as 
 
 the Wind, 608 
 Supreme Being, To the, 244 
 Susan, The Reverie of Poor, 94 
 Swan, The, 640, 898 
 Sweden, The King of, 209, 437 
 Swiss Goatherd and Italian 
 
 Itinerant, 652 
 Switzerland, Subjugation of, 406 
 Sympathies, Patriotic, 697 
 
 Tables turned^ The, 107 ^■-'^ 
 Tell, Effusion in the Presence 
 of Tower of, 650 
 
 Temptations from Roman Re- 
 finements, 677 
 Thanksgiving after Childbirth, 
 
 703 
 " The Crescent Moon, 851 
 " The fairest, brightest, hues 
 
 of Ether fade," 605 
 " The Leaves that rustled on the 
 
 oak-crowned Hill," 805 
 "The martial Courage of a Day 
 
 is vain," 437 
 The massy Ways carried across 
 
 these Heights," 720 
 "The Power of Armies is a 
 
 visible Thing," 445 
 " The Shepherd looking East- 
 ward, softly said," 606 
 " The Stars are Mansions built 
 
 by Nature's hand," 642 
 "The Sun has long been set," 
 
 207 
 " The unremitting Voice of 
 
 nightly Streams," 873 
 " The World is too much with , 
 
 us," 398 
 " There is an Eminence," i6g 
 " There is a Bondage worse, far 
 
 worse, lo bear," 231 
 " There is a little, unpretending 
 
 Rill," 642 
 " There is a pleasure in poetic 
 
 pains," 725 
 There was a Boy, 137, 304 -w-^ 
 Thieves, The Two, 180 
 " This Lawn a carpet all 
 
 alive," 743 
 Thomson s " Castle of Indo- 
 lence," Written in my Pocket 
 
 Copy of, 212 
 Thorn, Thcj 9S-101 u— -* 
 
 Those Words were uttered as in 
 
 pensive Mood," 397 
 ' ' Though the bold wings of 
 
 Poesy affect," 870 
 "Though narrow be that old 
 
 Man's Cares," 409 
 Thought of a Briton, 406 
 Thoughts on the Seasons, 744 
 Thoughts suggested near the 
 
 residence of Bums, 219 
 Thrasymene, Near the Lake of 
 
 (Two Sonnets), 832 
 " Three Years she grew in Sun ^ 
 
 and Shower," 139 
 Thrush, The (Two Sonnets), 841 
 Thun, Memorial near the Lake 
 
 of, 648 
 Tillbrook, 605 
 
 Tilsbury Vale, Farmer of, 233 
 Tintern Abbey, Lines composed ,^ 
 
 a few miles above, 115-118 
 "'Tis He whose yester-even. 
 
 ing's high Disdain," 841 
 " 'T is said that some have died ^ 
 
 for Love," 177 
 Titus, 441 
 To , in her seventieth ^^ 
 
 Year, 726 
 To , on her first Asceut 
 
 of Helvellyn, 624 
 
INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 941 
 
 To- 
 
 -, Upon the birth of 
 her Firstborn Child, 77S 
 
 To (Happy the feeling), 
 
 722 
 
 To (Look at the fate of 
 
 Summer Flowers), 712 
 
 To (Miscellaneous Son- 
 nets — Conclusion), 727 
 
 To (Mrs. Wordsworth, 
 
 Two Poems), 712 
 
 To (The Haunted Tree), 
 
 640 
 
 To- 
 
 -(Wait, prithee, wait !), 
 820 
 To M. H., 171 
 To S. H., 723 
 To the Rev. John Wordsworth, 
 
 ^ 785 
 
 Torrent at Devil s Bridge, 714 
 Tour among the Alps (1791-2), 
 (Descriptive Sketches), 27-39 
 Tour in Italy (1837), Memorials 
 
 of a, 821-839 
 Tour in Scotland (1803), Me- 
 morials of a, 217-231 
 Tour in Scotland (1814), Me- 
 morials of a, 595-600 
 Tour in Scotland (1831), 762-773 
 Tour in the Summer of 1833, 
 
 783-802 
 Tour on the Continent (1S20), 
 Memorials of a, 644-662 
 L^ Toussaint L'Ouverture, To, 209 
 Tradition, 669 
 Tradition, American, 658 
 Tradition, Fancy and, 771 
 Tradition of Oker Hill, 745 
 Trajan, The Pillar of, 721 
 Translation of the Bible, 692 
 Transubstantiation, 688 
 Tree, The Haunted, 640 
 Trepidation of the Druids, 676 
 Triad, The, 729-731 
 Tribute, 247 
 Tributary Stream, 668 
 Troilus and Cresida, 193-196 
 Trosachs, The (Two Sonnets), 
 
 766 
 Truth, 871 
 Turtle-dove, The Poet and the 
 
 Caged, 758 
 Twilight, 606 
 
 Twilight (Evening "Voluntaries), 
 804 
 —-'Two April Mornings, The, 142 
 Two Thieves, The, or the Last 
 
 Stage of Avarice, 180 
 Tyndrum, Suggested at, 768 
 Tynwald Hill, 791 
 Tyrolese, Feelings of the, 435 
 Tyrolese, On the final submis- 
 sion of the, 436 
 Tyrolese Sonnets, 435, 436, 437. 
 
 Ulpha, Kirk of, 671 
 Uncertainty, 676 
 
 Vale, Beloved, 397 
 Valedictory Sonnet (Misc. Son.), 
 
 843 
 
 Vallombrosa, At, 835 v-— 
 
 Vaudois, The (Two Sonnets), 
 68S 
 
 Vaudracour and Julia, 253-257 
 
 Venetian Republic, On the Ex- 
 tinction of, 209 
 
 Venice, Scene in, 685 
 
 Venus, To the Planet (January 
 1838), 840 ; (Loch Lomond), 
 769 
 
 Vernal Ode, 624-626 
 
 Vienna, Siege of, raised by John 
 Sobieski, 618 
 
 Vii'gin, The, 691 
 
 Vision, A, 697 
 
 Visitation of the Sick, 704 
 
 Voluntaries, Evening, 872 
 
 Waggoner, The, 257-266 
 Waldenses, 688 
 Wallace, 596 
 Wallachian Groves, 644 
 Walton's Book of " Lives," 
 
 6g3 
 Wanderer, Discourse of the (Ex- 
 cursion), 579-590 
 Wanderer, The (Excursion), 
 
 464-478 , „ , , 
 
 Wandering Jew, Song for the, 
 
 178 
 Wansfell, 860 
 Warning, The, 779-782 
 Warrior, Character of the 
 
 Happy, 389 
 Wars of York and Lancaster, 689 
 Waterfall and the Eglantine, 
 
 The, 171 
 Water-fowl, 455 
 Waterloo, After visiting the 
 
 Field of, 645 
 Waterloo, Occasioned by the 
 
 Battle of (Two Sonnets), 619 
 "Weak is the Will of Man," 606 
 We are Seven, 95 c- 
 WelHngton, On a Portrait of the 
 
 Duke of, 848 
 Westall, Mr. W., Views of the 
 
 Caves, etc., in Yorkshire by 
 
 (Three Poems), 636, 637 
 Westminster Bridge, Composed 
 
 upon, 207 
 Westmoreland Girl, The, 864 
 " What Heavenly Smiles ! O 
 
 Lady Mine," 866 
 " What if our Numbers barely 
 
 could defy," 840 
 " When I have borne in Mem- 
 ory," 211 
 " When Philocteles in the 
 
 Lemnian Isle," 725 
 " When Severn's Sweeping 
 
 Flood had overthrown," 849 
 
 " When to the Attractions of the 
 
 busy World," 250 
 " Where lies the Land to whichil, 
 
 yon Ship must go? " 309 
 "Where lies the Truth?" 871 
 " While Anna's Peers and early 
 
 playmates tread," 725 
 " While beams of orient Light," 
 
 862 
 Whirl-blast, 106 - 
 Whistlers, The Seven, 409 
 White Doe of Rylstone, 411- 
 
 432 
 " Who fancied what a pretty 
 
 Sight," 217 
 "Why, Minstrel, these untune- 
 
 ful Murmurings," 723 
 Wicliffe, 6S9 
 Widow on Windermere Side, 
 
 The, 856 
 Wild Duck's Nest, The, 637 
 William the Third, 699 
 Winter (French Army), (Two 
 
 Poems), 617, 618 
 Wishing-gate, The, 732 ; De- 
 stroyed, 732 
 " With how Sad Steps, O 
 
 Moon," 398 
 " With Ships the Sea was 
 
 sprinkled far and nigh," 398 
 Worcester Cathedral, A Grave- 
 stone in, 744 
 Wordsworth, John, Elegiac 
 
 Verses in Memory of, 251 ■■ 
 Wordsworth, John (Fir Grov?), 
 
 250-785 
 Wordsworth, To Mrs., 712 
 Wordsworth, To the Rev. Chris- 
 topher, 862 
 Wordsworth, To the Rev. Dr. , 
 
 (Duddon), 663 
 Worship, Places of, 701 
 Wren's Nest, A, 778 
 Written in Germany, 137, 138, 
 
 140, 144, 149 
 Written in March, 200 
 Written on a Blank Leaf in the 
 
 " Complete Angler," 638 
 
 Yarrow Unvisited, 226 
 Yarrow Visited, 599 
 Yarrow Revisited, 762-773 
 " Yes, it was the mountain 
 
 Echo," 395 
 " Yes, thou art fair," 866 
 Yew-Trees, 216 
 Yew-tree Seat, 52 
 York and Lancaster, Wars of, 
 
 6S9 
 Young England, 86g 
 Young Lady, To a, 253 v - 
 Youth, Written in very early, ig 
 
 Zaragoza, 436 
 
INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 A BARKING sound the Shepherd hears, 246 
 A Book came forth of late, called Peter Bell, 643 
 A bright-haired company of youthful slaves, 678 
 Abruptly paused the strife; — the field through- 
 out, 618 
 A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted yew, 668 
 Adieu, Rydaliau Laurels ! that have grown, 7S3 
 Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground, 
 
 435 
 Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow, 637 
 A famous man is Robin Hood, 224 
 Affections lose their object ; Time brings forth, 
 
 873 
 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, 399 
 A genial hearth, a hospitable board, 701 
 Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers, 
 
 227 
 Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide, 
 
 846 
 A humming bee — a little tinkling rill, 491 
 Ah, when the Body, round which in love we 
 
 clung, 680 
 Ah ! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen, 438 
 Ah why deceive ourselves ! by no mere fit, 839 
 Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light, 
 
 694 
 Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest, 435 
 A little onward lend thy guiding hand, 623 
 All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed, 849 
 A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time, 669 
 Ambition — following down this far-famed slope, 
 
 656 
 Amid a fertile region green with wood, 770 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass, 168 
 Amid this dance of objects sadness steals, 646 
 Among a grave fraternity of Monks, 809 
 Among all lovely things my Love had been, 200 
 Among the dwellers in the silent fields, 860 
 Among the dwellings framed by birds, 778 
 Among the mountains were we nursed, loved 
 
 Stream, 7S4 
 A month, sweet Little-ones, is past, 407 
 An age hath been when Earth was proud, 627 
 A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, 169 
 And has the Sun his flaming chariot driven, 17 
 And is it among rude untutored Dales, 435 
 And is this — Yarrow ? — This the Stream, 599 
 And, not in vain embodied to the sight, 686 
 "And shall," the Pontiff asks, '^profaneness 
 
 flow," 683 
 And -what is Penance with her knotted thong, 
 
 690 
 And what melodious sounds at times prevail, 6S7 
 An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faith may grow 
 
 bold, 393 
 Another year! — another deadly blow, 402 
 
 A pen — to register; a key, 709 
 
 A Pilgrim, when the summer day, 632 
 
 A plague on your languages, German and Norse, 
 
 149 
 A pleasant music floats along the Mere, 683 
 A Poet I — He hath put his heart to school, 852 
 A point of life between my Parents' dust, 785 
 Army of Clouds ! ye winged Host in troops, 856 
 A Rock there is whose homely front, 761 
 A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground, 439 
 Around a wild and woody hill, 648 
 Arran ! a single- crested Teneriffe, 792 
 Art thou a Statist in the van, 140 
 Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, 200 
 As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest, 687 
 
 A simple Child, 96 
 
 As indignation mastered grief, my tongue, 839 
 
 As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow, 839 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal, 140 
 
 As often as I murmur here, 758 
 
 As star that shines dependent upon star, 701 
 
 As the cold aspect of a sunless way, 638 
 
 A Stream, to mingle with j'our favorite Dee, 714 
 
 A sudden conflict rises from the swell, 699 
 
 As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain, 
 
 677 
 As with the Stream our voyage we pursue, 685 
 At early dawn, or rather when the air, 637 
 A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain, 40 
 A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 764 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight 
 
 appears, 94 
 Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind, 440 
 A voice, from long-expecting thousands sent, 699 
 A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found, 711 
 Avon — a precious, an immortal name, 770 
 A weight of awe not easy to be borne, 799 
 A whirl-blast from behind the hill, 106 
 A wing&d Goddess — clothed in vesture wrought, 
 
 645 
 A youth too certain of his power to wade, 790 
 
 Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made, 
 
 607 
 Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should rear, 
 
 244 
 Before I see another day, 108 
 Before the world had past her time of youth, 845 
 Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf, 171 
 Beguiled into forgetfulness of care, 807 
 Behold an emblem of our human mind, 873 
 Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 682 
 Behold her, single in the field, 222 
 Behold, within the leafy shade, 183 
 Beloved Vale ! I said, when I shall con, 397 
 Beneath the concave of an April sky, 624 
 
944 
 
 INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed, 216 
 Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, 454 
 Be this the chosen site, the virgin sod, 706 
 Between two sister moorland rills, 144 
 Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep, 701 
 Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head, 
 ■ 685 
 
 Blest is this Isle — our native Land, 709 
 Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will, 
 
 843 
 Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was 
 
 strong, 789 
 Brave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy flight, 
 
 437 
 Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere, 215 
 Bright was the summer's noon when quickening 
 
 steps, 292 
 Broken in fortune, but in mind entire, 791 
 
 Brook and road, 135 
 
 Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks, 607 
 Bruges I saw attired with golden light, 645 
 But Cytherea, studious to invent, 620 
 But here no cannon thunders to the gale, 672 
 But liberty, and triumphs on the Main, 706 
 But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, 692 
 But, to remote Northumbria's royal Hall, 679 
 But what if Oue, through grove or flowery mead, 
 
 681 
 But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord, 
 
 688 
 By ablest Husband guided, Mary came, 818 
 By antique Fancy trimmed — though lowly, bred, 
 
 650 
 By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse 
 
 stand, 84S 
 By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied, 703 
 By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze, 618 
 By playful smiles, (alas, too oft, 716 
 By such examples moved to unbought pains, 681 
 By their floating mill, 392 
 By vain affections unenthralled, 716 
 
 Call not the royal Swede unfortunate, 437 
 Calm as an undercurrent, strong to draw, 699 
 Calm is all nature as a resting wheel, 19 
 Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose, 774 
 Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them, 401 
 Change me, some God, into that breathing rose, 
 
 66s 
 Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and the pride, 
 
 760 
 Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain 
 
 Stream, 223 
 Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint, 
 
 664 
 Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to climb, 407 
 Closing the sacred Book, which long has fed, 705 
 Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars, 398 
 Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered, 683 
 Come ye — who, if (which Heaven avert!) the 
 
 Land, 233 
 Companion! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered, 
 
 822 
 Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same, 830 
 
 Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell, 
 
 212 
 Darkness surrounds us ; seeking, we are lost, 676 
 Days passed — and Monte Calvo would not clear, 
 
 831 
 
 Days undefiled by luxury or sloth, 869 
 
 Dear be the Church, that, watching o'er the 
 
 needs, 702 
 Dear Child of Nature, let them rail, 253 
 Dear fellow-travellers ! think not that the Muse, 
 
 644 
 Dear native regions, I foretell, rg 
 Dear Reliques ! from a pit of vilest mould, 6ig 
 Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, 786 
 Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone, 692 
 Degenerate Douglas ! oh, the unworthy Lord, 
 
 225 
 Departed Child ! I could forget thee once, 444 
 Departing summer hath assumed, 641 
 Deplorable his lot who tills the ground, 686 
 Desire we past illusions to recall, 789 
 Desponding Father! mark this altered bough, 
 
 819 
 Despond who will — / heard a voice exclaim, 792 
 Destined to war from very infancy, 442 
 Did pangs of grief for lenient time too keen, 790 
 Discourse was deemed Man's noblest attribute, 
 
 872 
 Dishonored Rock and Ruin ! that, by law, 767 
 Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur, 642 
 Doomed as we are our native dust, 648 
 Doubling and doubling with laborious walk, 768 
 Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design, 700 
 Dread hour ! when, upheaved by war's sulphur- 
 ous blast, 651 
 Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air, 806 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair, 207 
 Eden ! till now thy beauty had I viewed, 797 
 Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung, 
 
 619 
 England ! the time is come when thou should'st 
 
 wean, 232 
 Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy hand, 862 
 Enough ! for see, with dim association, 688 
 Enough of climbing toil ! — Ambition treads, 628 
 Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, 768 
 Enough of rosebud lips, and eyes, 748 
 Ere the Brothers through the gateway, 391 
 Ere with cold beads of midnight dew, 717 
 Ere yet our course was graced with social trees, 
 
 66s 
 Etem^ Lord ! eased of a cumbrous load, 837 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky, 717 
 Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress, 606 
 Even as a river, — partly (it might seem), 339 
 Even so for me a Vision sanctified, 821 
 Even such the contrast that, where'er we move, 
 
 6g6 
 Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France, 
 
 706 
 Excuse is needless when with love sincere, 723 
 
 Failing impartial measure to dispense, 842 
 
 Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate, 179 
 
 Fair is the Swan whose majesty, prevailing, 898 
 
 Fair Lady ! can I sing of flowers, 866 
 
 Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how 
 
 few, 838 
 Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild, 724 
 Fair Star of evening, Splendor of the west, 207 
 Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap, 670 
 Fame tells of groves— from England faraway, 
 
 644 
 
INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 945 
 
 Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad, 72S 
 Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House, 
 
 524 
 Farewell, thou little nook of mountain-ground, 
 
 2g6 
 Far from my dearest friend, 'tis mine to rove, 20 
 Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake, 447 
 Father! to God himself we cannot give, 702 
 Fear hath a hundred eyes, that all agree, 695 
 Feelfor the wrongs to universal ken, 852 
 Festivals have I seen that were not names, 20S 
 Fit retribution, by the moral code, 845 
 Five years have past; five summers, with the 
 
 length, 115 
 Flattered with promise of escape, 744 
 Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale, 227 
 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep, 
 
 399 
 For action bom, existing to be tried, 832 
 Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise, 830 
 For ever hallowed be this morning fair, 679 
 For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes, 649 
 Forgive, illustrious Country ! these deep sighs, 
 
 831 
 Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base, 
 
 864 
 For thirst of power that Heaven disowns, 873 
 Forth rushed from Envy sprung and Self-conceit, 
 
 843 
 For what contend the wise ? — for nothing less, 692 
 Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein, 820 
 From Bolton's old monastic tower, 413 
 From early youth I ploughed the restless Main, 
 
 791 
 From false assumption rose, and, fondly hailed, 
 
 636 
 From Little down to Least, in due degree, 702 
 From low to high doth dissolution climb, 705 
 From Nature doth emotion come, and moods, 366 
 From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled, 700 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen, 226 
 From that time forth, Authority in France, 355 
 From the Baptismal hour, thro' weal and woe, 
 
 704 
 From the dark chambers of dejection freed, 600 
 From the fierce aspect of this River, throwing, 648 
 From the Pier's head, musing, and with increase, 
 
 660 
 From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams 
 
 play, 667 
 Frowns are on every Muse's face, 722 
 Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars, 687 
 
 Genius of Raphael! if thy wings, 733 
 
 Giordano, verily thy Pencil's^ skill, 872 
 
 Glad sight! wherever new with old, 867 
 
 Glide gently, thus forever glide, 27 
 
 Glory to God ! and to the Power who came, 708 
 
 Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes, 727 
 
 Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt, 
 
 761 
 Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane, 692 
 Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast, 400 
 Great men have been among us; hands that 
 
 penned, 211 
 Greta, what fearful listening ! when huge stones, 
 
 784 
 Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend, 639 
 Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft, 834 
 
 Had tliis effulgence disappeared, 635 
 
 Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night, 608 
 
 Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped — to gird, 
 
 538 
 Hail to the fields — with Dwellings sprinkled 
 
 o'er, 667 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour, 
 
 606 
 Hail, Virgin Queen! o'er many an envious bar, 
 
 694 
 Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye, 436 
 Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown, 722 
 Hard task ! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean, 
 
 839 
 Hark ! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, 841 
 Harmonious Powers with Nature work, 851 
 Harp ! couldst thou venture, on thy boldest 
 
 string, 696 
 Hast thou seen, with flash incessant, 634 
 
 Hast thou then survived, 240 
 
 Haydon ! let worthier judges praise the skill, 777 
 Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale, 505 
 Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall, 
 
 686 
 Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more, 
 
 209 
 Here on their knees men swore ; the stones were 
 
 black, 796 
 Here pause ; the poet claims at least this praise, 
 
 446 
 Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixt, 
 
 771 
 Here, wh^re, of havoc tired and rash undoing, S64 
 Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, 103 
 Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat, 723 
 " High bliss is only for a higher state," 857 
 High deeds, Germans, are to come from you, 
 
 406 
 High in the breathless hall the Minstrel sate, 409 
 High is our calling. Friend ! — Creative Art, 601 
 High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted 
 
 Down, 854 
 High on her speculative tower, 654 
 His simple truths did Andrew glean, 172 
 Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are, 695 
 Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell, 796 
 Hope rules a land forever green, 732 
 Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, 795 
 Hopes, what are they ? — Beads of morning, 633 
 How art thou named ? In search of what strange 
 
 land, 714 
 How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high, 872 
 How beautiful, when up a lofty height, 856 
 How beautiful your presence, how benign, 680 
 How blest the Maid whose heart — yet free, 655 
 How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright, 
 
 605 
 How disappeared he? Ask the newt and toad. 
 
 How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled, 693 
 How profitless the relics that we cull, 772 
 How richly glows the water's breast, 27 
 How rich that forehead's calm expanse, 712 
 How sad a welcome ! To each voyager, 796 
 How shall I paint thee? — Be this naked stone, 
 
 664 
 How soon — alas ! did Man, created pure, 685 
 How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks, 397 
 Humanity, delighting to behold, 617 
 Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast, 440 
 
946 
 
 INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 AM not One who much or oft delight, 396 
 come, ye little noisy Crew, 140 
 dropped my pen ; and listened to the Wind, 434 
 i from the public way you turn your steps, 156 
 i Life were slumber on a bed of down, 786 
 f Nature, for a favorite child, 142 
 f there be prophets on whose spirits rest, 675 
 f these brief Records, by the Muses' art, 727 
 f the whole weight of what we think and feel, 724 
 f this great world of joy and pain, 782 
 i thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, 777 
 f thou in the dear love of some one Friend, 182 
 i to Tradition faith be due, 773 
 f with old love of you, dear Hills ! I share, 841 
 grieved for Buonaparre, with a vain, 205 
 hate that Andrew Jones ; he'll breed, 180 
 have a boy of five years old, 98 
 heard (alas ! 't was only in a dream), 640 
 heard a thousand blended notes, 105 
 know an aged Man constrained to dwell, 872 
 listen — but no faculty of mine, 651 
 magination — ne'er before content, 611 
 marvel how Nature could ever find space, 181 
 met Louisa in the shade, 252 
 mmured in Bothwell's towers, at times the 
 
 Brave, 769 
 n Brugfes town is many a street, 738 
 n days of yore how fortunately fared, 478 
 n desultory walk through orchard grounds, 850 
 n distant countries have I been, 109 
 n due observance of an ancient rite, 438 
 nland, within a hollow vale, I stood, 210 
 inmate of a mountain-dwelling, 624 
 n my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud, 727 
 n one of those excursions (may they ne'er), 371 
 ntent on gathering wool from hedge and brake, 
 
 849 
 n these fair vales hath many a Tree, 759 
 n the sweet shire of Cardigan, 104 
 n this still place, remote from men, 222 
 n trellised shed with clustering roses gay, 412 
 ntrepid sons of Albion ! not by you, 6ig 
 n youth from rock to rock I went, 214 
 rose while yet the cattle, heat-opprest, 671 
 saw a Mother's eye intensely bent, 703 
 saw an aged Beggar in my walk, 118 
 saw far off the dark top of a Pine, 829 
 saw the figure of a lovely Maid, 697 
 s Death, when evil against good has fought, 844 
 shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, 218 
 s it a reed that *s shaken by the wind, 208 
 s then no nook of English ground secure, 863 
 s then the final page before me spread, 661 
 s there a power that can sustain and cheer, 438 
 s this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill, 829 
 thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, 672 
 t is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 208 
 t is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown, 217 
 t is not to be thought of that the Flood, 211 
 t is the first mild day of March, 106 
 travelled among unknown men, 139 
 
 It seems a day, 137 
 
 t was a beautiful and silent day, 347 
 t was a dreary morning when the wheels, 284 
 t was a tnoral end for which they fought, 436 
 t was an April morning : fresh and clear, 167 
 've watched you now a full half-hour, 201 
 wandered lonely as a cloud, 236 
 was thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile, 249 
 
 I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret. 
 
 639 
 I, who accompanied with faithful pace, 675 
 
 Jesu ! bless our slender Boat, 647 
 Jones ! as from Calais southward you and I, 208 
 Just as those final words were penned, the sun 
 broke out in power, 855 
 
 Keep for the young the impassioned smile, 673 
 
 Lady I a Pen (Perhaps with thy regard, 810 
 Lady ! I rifled a Parnassian Cave, 643 
 Lady ! the songs of Spring were in the grove, 408 
 Lament ! for Diocletian's fiery sword, 677 
 Lance, shield, and sword relinquished — at his 
 
 side, 680 
 Last night, without a voice, that Vision spake, 697 
 Let other bards of angels sing, 712 
 Let thy wheel-barrow alone, 144 
 Let us quit the leafy arbor, 628 
 Lie here, without a record of thy worth, 247 
 Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, 84* 
 Like a shipwrecked Sailor tost, 779 
 List, the winds of March are blowing, 780 
 List — 't was the Cuckoo. — O with what delight, 
 
 832 
 List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower, 800 
 Lo! in the burning west, the craggy nape, 659 
 Lone Flower hemmed in with snows, and white 
 
 as they, 638 
 Long-favored England ! be not thou misled, 853 
 Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn, 
 
 831 
 Long time have human ignorance and guilt, 362 
 Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat, 141 
 Lonsdale ! it were unworthy of a Guest, 800 
 Look at the fate of summer flowers, 712 
 Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid, 437 
 Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood, 597 
 Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up, 401 
 Loving she is, and tractable, though wild, 445 
 Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance, 
 
 853 
 Lo ! where the Moon along the sky, 840 
 Lowther ! in thy majestic Pile are seen, 799 
 Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, 658 
 Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live. 
 
 Man's life is like a Sparrow, mighty King, 679 
 Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood, 455 
 Mark the concentred hazels that enclose, 607 
 Meek Virgin Mother, more benign, 649 
 Men of the Western World ! in Fate's dark book, 
 
 853 ' 
 Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy, 
 
 695 
 Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road, 676 
 Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, 695 
 Methinks that to some vacant hermitage, 681 
 Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat, 670 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne, 401 
 'Mid crowded obelisks and urns, 220 
 Mid-noon is past; — upon the sultry mead, 670 
 Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour, 211 
 Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued, 707 
 Miserrimzts I and neither name nor date, 744 
 
INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 947 
 
 Monastic Domes ! following my downward way, 
 
 705 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes, 802 
 Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost, 6gi 
 Motions and Means, on land and sea at war, 799 
 Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old gray stone, 141 
 My frame hath often trembled with delight, 668 
 My heart leaps up when I behold, 200 
 
 Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree 
 
 stands, 52 
 Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove, 831 
 Never enlivened with the liveliest ray, 868 
 Next morning Troilus began to clear, 193 
 No fiction was it of the antique age, 666 
 No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, 772 
 No mortal object did these eyes behold, 400 
 No record tells of lance opposed to lance, 671 
 Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend, 6S0 
 Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject, 6g8 
 Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid, 67S 
 
 Not a breath of air, 858 
 
 Not envying Latian shades — if yet they throw, 
 
 664 
 Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep, 672 
 Not in the lucid intervals of life, S03 
 Not in the mines beyond the western main, 802 
 Not, like his gpreat Compeers, indignantly, 647 
 Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell, 711 
 Not 'mid the world's vain objects that enslave, 
 
 433 
 Not sedentary all : there are who roam, 681 
 Not seldom, clad in radiant vest, 634 
 Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance, 666 
 Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard, 
 
 726 
 Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew, 793 
 Not to the object specially designed, 844 
 Not utterly unworthy to endure, 6gi 
 Not without heavy grief of heart did He, 443 
 Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, 456 
 Now that the farewell tear is dried, 652 
 Now we are tired of boisterous joy, 228 
 Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, 
 
 848 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room, 395 
 
 Oak of Guernica ! Tree of holier power, 439 
 blithe New-comer ! I have heard, 235 
 dearer far than light and life are dear, 712 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, 
 
 436 
 O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied, 440 
 Flower oif all that springs from gentle blood, 
 
 443 
 Of mortal parents is the Hero bom, 434 
 for a t^rge ! But why complain, 715 
 for the help of Angels to complete, 646 
 Friend! I know not which way I must look, 
 
 210 
 Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, 793 
 Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my 
 
 cheek, 723 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, 145 
 Oft is the medal faithful to its trust, 453 
 Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer,463 
 gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee, 399 
 happy time of youthful lovers (thus, 253 
 Oh for a, kindling touch from that pure flame, 618 
 
 Oh 1 pleasant exercise of hope and joy, 267 
 Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze, 268 
 Oh what a Wreck! how changed in mien and 
 
 speech, 842 
 Oh ! what s the matter? what 's the matter, loi 
 O Life ! without thy checkered scene. 648 
 O Lord, our Lord I how woudrously (quoth she), 
 
 184 
 O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot, 
 
 667 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee, 209 
 Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky), 719 
 Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned, igS 
 Once more the Church is seized with sudden 
 
 fear, 6S9 
 Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound, 791 
 Once to the verge of yon steep barrier came, 378 
 One might believe that natural miseries, 231 
 One morning (raw it was and wet, 196 
 One who was suffering tumult in his soul, 636 
 On his morning rounds the Master, 247 
 O Nightingale ! thou surely art, 408 
 On, loitering Muse — the swift Stream chides us 
 
 — on, 667 
 O now that the genius of Bewick were mine, i8q 
 On to lona! — what can she afford, 795 
 Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles, 707 
 O thou who movest onward with a mind, 441 
 O thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought, 213 
 Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine, 
 
 845 
 Our walk was far among the ancient trees, 171 
 Outstretching flameward his upbraided hand, 694 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 202 
 Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep, 765 
 Pastor and Patriot ! — at whose bidding rise, 785 
 Patriots informed with Apostolic light, 700 
 Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi supplicates, 443 
 Pause, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be, 634 
 Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, 184 
 People ! your chains are severing link by link, 818 
 Perhaps some needful service of the State, 441 
 Pleasures newly found are svveet, 202 
 Portentious change when History can appear, 852 
 Praised be the Art whose subtle power could 
 
 stay, 452 
 Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain 
 
 springs, 688 
 Prejudged by foes determined not to spare, 696 
 Presentiments ! they judge not right, 758 
 Prompt transformation works the novel Lore, 679 
 Proud were ye. Mountains, when, in times of 
 
 old, 863 
 Pure element of waters! wheresoe'er, 636 
 
 Queen of the stars! — so gentle, so benign, 812 
 
 Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Black-comb 
 
 789 
 Rapt above earth by power of one fair face, 837 
 Realms quake by turns : proud Arbitress of grace, 
 
 6S4 
 Record we too, with just and faithful pen, 686 
 Redoubted King, of courage leonine, 684 
 Reluctant call it was ; the rite delayed, 776 
 Rest, rest, perturbed Earth, 613 
 Return, Content! for fondly I pursued, 670 
 Rise ! —they >\ave risen : of brave Aneurin ask, 678 
 
948 
 
 INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 Rotha, my Spiritual Child ! this head was gray, 
 
 726 
 Rude is this Edifice, and thou hast seen, 182 
 
 Sacred Religion! " mother of form and fear," 668 
 Sad thoughts, avaunt! — partake we their blithe 
 
 cheer, 669 
 Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud, 821 
 Say, what is Honor? — 'T is the finest sense, 436 
 Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills, 765 
 Scattering, like birds escaped the fowler's net, 
 
 694 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, 
 
 724 
 Screams round the Arch-dniid's brow the sea- 
 mew — white, 676 
 Seek who will delight in fable, 864 
 See the Condemned alone within his cell, 846 
 See what gay wildflowers deck this earth-built 
 
 Cot, 768 
 See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins, 
 
 838 
 Serene, and fitted to embrace, 593 
 Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here, 
 
 843 
 Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, 239 
 Shade of Caractacus, if spirits love, 860 
 Shame on tliis faithless heart! that could allow, 
 
 643 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 139 
 She had a tall man's height or more, 197 
 She was a Phantom of delight, 236 
 Shout, for a mighty Victory is won, 233 
 Show me the noblest Youth of present time, 729 
 Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred, 704 
 Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy, 792 
 Six changeful years have vanished since I first, 
 
 31S 
 Six months to six years added he remained, 821 
 Six thousand veterans practised in war's game, 232 
 Small service is true service while it lasts, 810 
 Smile of the Moon ! — for so I name, 631 
 So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, 869 
 Soft as a cloud is yon blue ridge — the Mere, 804 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played, 
 
 665 
 Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand, 842 
 Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest, 451 
 Spade ! with wliich Wilkinson hath tilled his 
 
 lands, 243 
 Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awliile thy limbs, 450 
 Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, 851 
 Stay near me — do not take thy flight, 198 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God, 244 
 Strange fits of passion have I known, 138 
 Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones, 183 
 Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead, 798 
 Such age how beautiful ! O Lady bright, 726 
 Such fruitless questions may not long beguile, 668 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind, 608 
 Sweet Flower! belike one day to have, 248 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower, 221 
 Sweet is the holiness of Youth — so felt, 693 
 Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel, 454 
 Sylph was it? or a Bird more bright, 775 
 
 Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take, 665 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 707 
 Tell me, ye Zephyrs ! that unfold, 713 
 Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law, 844 
 
 Thanks for the lessons of this Spot — fit school, 
 
 That happy gleam of vernal eyes, 734 
 
 That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned, 
 
 677 
 That is work of waste and ruin, 201 
 That way look, my Infant, lo, 241 
 The Baptist might have been ordained to cry, 837 
 The Bard — whose soul is meek as dawning day, 
 
 619 
 The captive Bird was gone ; — to cliff or moor, 793 
 The cattle crowding round this beverage clear, 785 
 The cock is crowing, 200 
 The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, 851 
 The Danish Conqueror, on his roy^ chair, 622 
 The days are cold, the nights are long, 257 
 The dew was falling fast, the stars began to 
 
 blink, 165 
 The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine, 452 
 The encircling ground in native turf arrayed, 707 
 The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade, 605 
 The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, 790 
 The fields which with covetous spirit we sold, 238 
 The floods are roused, and will not soon be 
 
 weary, 799 
 The forest huge of ancient Caledon, 770 
 The formal World relaxes her cold chain, 846 
 The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 763 
 The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed, 
 
 870 
 The gehtlest Shade that walked Elysian plains, 
 
 218 
 The God of Love — ah, benedicte 1 188 
 The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king, 637 
 The imperial Stature, the colossal stride, 725 
 The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye, 671 
 The Knight had ridden down from Wensley 
 
 Moor, 174 
 The Land we from our fathers had in trust, 435 
 The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned UU, 
 
 805 
 The leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's 
 
 banks, 307 
 The linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, 804 
 
 The little hedge-row birds, 121 
 
 The lovely Nun submissive, (but more meek, 690 
 The Lovers took within this ancient grove, 771 
 The martial courage of a day is vain, 437 
 The massy Ways, carried across these heights, 
 
 720 
 The Minstrels played their Christmas tune, 663 
 The most alluring clouds that mount the sky, 852 
 The old inventive Poets, had they seen, 669 
 The oppression of the tumult — wrath and scorn, 
 
 678 
 The peace which others seek they find, 238 
 The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale, 570 
 The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute, 
 
 766 
 The post-boy drove with fierce career, 197 
 The power of Armies is a visible thing, 445 
 The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed, 
 
 244 
 There are no colors in the fairest sky, 698 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear, 231 
 There is a cha,nge — and I am poor, 392 
 There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 243 
 There is a little unpretending Rill, 642 
 I There is an Eminence, — of these our hills, 169 
 I There is a pleasure in poetic pains, 725 
 
INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 949 
 
 There is a Thorn — it looks so old, 99 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 216 
 
 There never breathed a man who, when his life, 
 
 ' There ! " said a Stripling, pointing with meet 
 
 pride, 797 
 There 's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and 
 
 Reginald Snore, 17S 
 There 's more in words than I can teach, 775 
 There 's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 766 
 There 's something in a flying horse, 122 
 There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs, 
 
 137, 304 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night, 203 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and 
 
 stream, 403 
 The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die, 844 
 The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal, 704 
 The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, discrowned, 
 
 693 
 These timet, strike monied worldings with dis- 
 may, 231 
 These Tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must 
 
 live, 149 
 The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo! 251 
 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, 606 
 
 The sky is overcast, 95 
 
 The soaring lark is blest as proud, 73S 
 
 The Spirit of Antiquity- — enshrined, 645 
 
 The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand, 
 
 642 
 The starwhich comes at close of day to shine, 847 
 The struggling Rill insensibly is grown, 666 
 The sun has long been set, 207 
 The sun is couched, the sea-fow! gone to rest, 783 
 The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, 782 
 The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields, 640 
 The tears of man in various measure gush, 693 
 The troop will be impatient ; let us hie, 54 
 The turbaned Race are poured in thickening 
 
 swarms, 684 
 The unremitting voice of nightly streams, 873 
 The valley rings with mirth and joy, 164 
 The Vested Priest before the Altar stands, 703 
 The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen, 696 
 The Voice of Song from distant lands shall call, 
 
 2og 
 The wind is now thy organist ; — a clank, 766 
 The woman-hearted Confessor prepares, 683 
 The world forsaken, all its busy cares, 834 
 The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 398 
 They called Thee Merry England, in old time, 784 
 They dreamt not of a perishable home, 70S 
 The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale, 
 
 702 
 They seek, are sought ; to daily battle led, 445 
 They — who have seen the noble Roman's scorn, 
 
 830 
 This Height a ministering Angel might select, 455 
 " This Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose 
 
 walls, 767 
 This Lawn, a carpet all alive, 744 
 This Spot — at once unfolding sight so fair, 843 
 Those breathing Tokens of your kind regard, 739 
 Those had given earliest notice, as the lark, 688 
 Those old credulities, to nature dear, 829 
 Those silver clouds colIected_ round the sun, 640 
 Those words were uttered as in pensive mood, 397 
 Though I beheld at first with blank surprise, 849 
 Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth, 769 
 
 Though many suns have risen and set, 718 
 Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and 
 
 near, 409 
 Tho' searching damps and many an envious flaw, 
 
 653 
 Though the bold wings of Poesy affect, 870 
 Though the torrents from their fountains, 178 
 Though to give timely warning and deter, 845 
 Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, 785 
 Thou sacred Pile ! whose turrets rise, 652 
 Threats come which no submission may assuage, 
 
 6go 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 139 
 Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, 
 
 714 
 Thus all things lead to Charity, secured, 706 
 Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving 
 
 much, 277 
 Thus is the storm abated by the craft, 689 
 Thy functions are ethereal, 735 
 'T is eight o'clock, — a clear March night, no 
 'T is gone — with old belief and dream, 732 
 'T is He whose yester-evening's high disdain, 841 
 'T is not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, 233 
 'T is said, fantastic ocean doth unfold, 644 
 'T is said, that some have died for love, 177 
 'T is said that to the brow of yon fair hill, 745 
 'T is spent — this burning day of June, 258 
 To a good Man of most dear memory, 814 
 To appease the Gods ; or public thanks to yield, 
 
 657 
 To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen, 595 
 To every Form of being is assigned, 579 
 To kneeling Worshippers, no earthly floor, 704 
 Too frail to keep the lofty vow, 219 
 To public notice, with reluctance strong, 600 
 Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men, 209 
 Tradition, be thou mute ! Oblivion, throw, 767 
 Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou, 798 
 Troubled long with warring notions, 634 
 True is it that Ambrosio Salinero, 442 
 'T was Summer, and the sun had mounted liigh, 464 
 Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 406 
 
 Under the shadow of a stately Pile, 836 
 Ungrateful Countiy, if thou e'er forget, 699 
 Unless to Peter's Chair the viewless wind, 685 
 Unquiet childhood here by special grace, 726 
 Untouched through all severity of cold, 777 
 Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away, 177 
 Up to the throne of God is borne, 806 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books, 107 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds, 245 
 Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill, 682 
 Uttered by whom, or how inspired — designed, 647 
 
 Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood, 
 
 656, 835 
 Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 232 
 
 Wait, prithee, wait I this answer Lesbia threw, 
 
 820 
 Wanderer ! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so 
 
 near, 811 
 Wansfell ! tliis Household has a favored lot, 860 
 Ward of the Law ! dread Shadow of a King, 643 
 Was it to disenchant, and to undo, 646 
 Was the aim frustrated by force or guile, 636 
 Watch, and be firm ! for, soul-subduing vice, 673 
 
950 
 
 INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind, 606 
 We can endure that He should waste our lands, 439 
 Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air, 441 
 We had a female Passenger who came, 210 
 We have not passed into a doleful City, 796 
 We gaze — nor grieve to think that we must 
 
 me, 847 
 Well have yon Railway Laborers to this 
 
 ground, 865 
 Well may'st thou halt — and gaze with brighten- 
 
 ening eye, 397 
 Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in 
 
 strains, 768 
 Well worthy to be magnified are they, 700 
 Were there, below, a spot of holy ground, 28 
 We saw, but surely in the motley crowd, 794 
 We talked with open heart and tongue, 143 
 We walked along, while bright and red^ 143 
 What aim had they,the Pairof Monks, m size, 834 
 What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled, 666 
 What awful perspective ! while from our sight, 708 
 What beast in wilderness or cultured field, 689 
 What beast of chase hath broken from the cover, 
 
 657 
 What crowd is this ? what have we here ! we must 
 
 not pass it by, 394 
 What heavenly smiles ! O Lady mine, 866 
 What He — who, 'mid the kindred throng, 597 
 What if our numbers barely could defy, 840 
 What is good for a bootless bene, 432 
 What know we of the Blest above, 649 
 What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose, 
 
 646 
 What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret, 803 
 What need of clamorous bells or ribands gay, 454 
 What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are heard, 
 
 329 
 What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides, 
 
 840 
 What though the Accused, upon his own appeal, 
 
 742 
 What though the Italian pencil wrought not here, 
 
 650 
 What way does the Wind come ? What way does 
 
 he go, 402 
 What, you are stepping westward ? — Yea, 222 
 When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry, 
 
 698 
 Whence tliat low voice? — A whisper from the 
 
 heart, 669 
 When Contemplation, like the night-calm felt, 299 
 When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn, 
 
 439 
 When first descending from the moorlands, 817 
 When haughty expectations prostrate lie^ 63S 
 When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came, 
 
 832 
 When human touch (as monkish books attest) , 819 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed, 211 
 When in the antique age of bow and spear, 711 
 When, looking on the present face of things, 232 
 When Love was bom of heavenly line, 95 
 When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle, 725 
 When Ruth was left half desolate, 146 
 When Severn's sweeping flood had overthrown, 
 
 849 
 When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch, 
 
 614 
 When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains, 
 
 682 
 
 When, to the attractions of the busy world, 250 
 Where are they now, those wanton Boys, 632 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 237 
 Where be the noisy followers of the §ame, 660 
 Where be the temples which, in Britain's Isle, 
 
 601 
 Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, 672 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go, 
 
 399 
 Where lies the truth? has Man, in wisdom's 
 
 creed, 871 
 Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root, 
 
 687 
 Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden 
 
 weeds, 721 
 Where will they stop, those breathing powers, 774 
 While Anna's peers and early playmates tread, 725 
 While beams of orient light shoot wide and high, 
 
 862 
 While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, 638 
 While from the purpling east departs, 718 
 While Merlin paced the Cornish sands, 752 
 While not a leai seems faded ; while the fields, 605 
 While poring Antiquarians search the ground, 819 
 While the Poor gather round, till the end of time, 
 
 771 
 While thus from theme to theme the Historian 
 
 passed, 555 
 Who but hails the sight with pleasure, 629 
 Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high, 872 
 Who comes — with rapture greeted, and caressed, 
 
 697 
 Who fancied what a pretty sight, 217 
 Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he, 389 
 Who ponders National events shall find, 853 
 Who rashly strove thy Image to portray, 8^7 
 Who rises on the banks of Seine, 616 
 Who swerves from innocence, who makes diYorce, 
 
 671 
 Who weeps for strangers ? Many wept, 434 
 Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant, 820 
 Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore, 660 
 Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings, 723 
 Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through 
 
 this Isle, 784 
 Why should we weep or mourn. Angelic boy, 871 
 Why sleeps the futur-e, as a snake enrolled, 708 
 Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine, 790 
 Why, William, on that old gray stone, 107 
 Wild Redbreast ! hadst thou at Jemima's lip, 727 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the universe, 136 
 With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme, 759 
 With each recurrence of this glorious mom, 638 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the 
 
 sky, 398 
 Within her gilded cage confined, 716 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt One, 212 
 Within the mind strong fancies work, 630 
 With little here to do or see, 215 
 With sacrifice before the rising mom, 590 
 With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 398 
 Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey, 682 
 Woe to you, Prelates ! rioting in ease, 689 
 Woman I the Power who left his throne on high. 
 
 703 
 Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken 
 
 flight, 868 
 Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to 
 
 leave, 705 
 
INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 951 
 
 Ye brood of couscience,— Spectres ! thatfrequent, 
 
 Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Ura, 
 
 453 
 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth, 643 
 Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims, 
 
 795 
 Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 
 
 400 
 Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear, 701 
 Yes, It was the mountain Echo, 395 
 Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved, 866 
 Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound, 846 
 Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King, 618 
 
 Yet are they here the same unbroken knot, 408 
 Yet many a Novice of the cloistral shade, 6gi 
 Yet more — round many a Convent's blazing fire, 
 
 6go 
 Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand, 691 
 Ye trees ! whose slender roots entwine, 838 
 Yet Truth is keenly sought for ; and the wind, 698 
 Yet, yet, Biscayans ! we must meet our Foes, 438 
 Yc vales and hills whose beauty hither drew, 863 
 You call it, " Love lies bleeding," — so you may, 
 
 867 
 You have heard " a Spanish Lady, 745 
 Young England — what is then become of Old.