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 4 
 
THE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWOH 
 
 THE FIRST COMP-LETE AMERICAN, 
 FROM THE LAST LONDON EDITION. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME 
 
 NEW-HAVEN: 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY PECK & NEWTON. 
 
 1836. 
 
r 
 
 
 K'^ 
 
TO 
 
 SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, 
 
 BART. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR GEORGE, 
 
 Accept my thanks for the permission given 
 nie to dedicate these Volumes to you. — In ad- 
 dition to a lively pleasure derived from general 
 considerations, I feel a particular satisfaction ; 
 for, by inscribing these Poems with your Name, 
 I seem to myself in s<)me degree to repay, by 
 an appropriate honour, the great obligation 
 which T owe to one part of the Collection — 
 as having been the means of first making us 
 personally known to each other. Upon much 
 of the remainder, also, you have a peculiar 
 claim, — for several of the best pieces were 
 composed under the shade of 3'our own groves, 
 iipon the classic ground ofColeorton; where I 
 was animated by the recollection of those il- 
 lustrious Poets of your name and family, who 
 were born in that neighbourhood ; and, we may 
 be assured, did not wander with indifference 
 by the dashing stream of Grace Dieu, and 
 among the rocks that diversify the forest of 
 Charnwood. — Nor is there any one to whom 
 s-uch parts of this Collection as have been in- 
 
 spired or colored by the beautiful Country from 
 which I now address you, could be presented 
 with more propriety than to yourself, who have 
 composed so many admirable Pictures from the 
 suggestions of the same scenery. Early in life, 
 the sublimity and beauty of this Region exci- 
 ted your admiration; and I know that you are 
 bound to it in mind by a still-strengthening at- 
 tachment. 
 
 Wishing and hoping that this Work, with 
 the embellishments it has received from your v 
 Pencil,* may survive as a lasting memorial of 
 a friendship, which I reckon among the bles- 
 sings of my life, 
 
 I have the honor to be, 
 My dear Sir George, 
 
 Yours most affectionately 
 and faithfully, 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, 
 February 1, 1815, 
 
 * The plates referred, to, accompanied only the first ^ 
 English edition. 
 
 PREFACE.* 
 
 The observations prefixed to that portion of 
 these Volumes which was published many 
 years ago, under the title of '' Lyrical Ballads," 
 have so little of a special application to the 
 greater part of the present enlarged and diver- 
 sified collection, that they could not with pro- 
 priety stand as an Introduction to it. Not 
 deeming it, however, expedient to suppress 
 that exposition, slight and imperfect as it is, of 
 the feelings which had determined the choice 
 of the subjects, and the principles whicli bad 
 regulated the composition of those pieces, I 
 have transferred it to the end of the Second 
 Volume,! to be attended to, or not, at the plea- 
 sure of the Reader. 
 
 In the preface to that partof'^ The Recluse," 
 lately published under the title of ''The Ex- 
 cursion," I have alluded to a meditated ar- 
 
 * To the edition published in 1815, in two octavo vol- 
 umes, 
 t In THIS edition placed after the Essay Supplementa- 
 
 / t In THIS editio 
 >J ry to the Preface. 
 
 rangement of my minor Poems, which should 
 assist the attentive Reader in perceiving their 
 connection with each other, and also their sub- 
 ordination to that Work. I shall here say a 
 few words explanatory of this arrangement, 
 as carried into effect in the present Volumes. 
 
 The powers requisite for the production of 
 poetry are, first, those of observation and de- 
 scription, i. e. the ability to observe with accu- 
 racy things as they are in themselves, and witii 
 fidelity to describe them, unmodified by any 
 passion or feeling existing in the mind of the 
 Describer : whetlier the things depicted be ac- 
 tually present to the senses, or have a place 
 only in the memory. This power, though in- 
 dispensable to a Poet, is one which he employs 
 only in submission to necessity, and never for 
 a continuance of time : as its exercise supposes 
 all the higher qualities of the mind to be pas- 
 sive, and in a state of subjection to external 
 objects, much in the same way as the tiansla- 
 tor or engraver ousht to be to his oris^inal, 
 Sdly, Sensibility, — which, the more exquisite 
 
w 
 
 PUEFACE. 
 
 it is, the wider will be the range of a Poet's 
 percrpt.ons; and the more wili^.e be inrTted 
 lo^observe objects, both as they exist in them 
 
 U'Je distinction between poetic and hu 
 
 man 
 
 sens.b.h y has been marked in the character of 
 the Poetdehneated in il,e original preface be 
 ^re-ment.oned.) 3dly, Reflection,- which 
 makes the Poet acquainted with ih^ value of 
 
 a' !m?;i""'^'','-!''""^^''^^' «nd feelings; and 
 ass.,1, ihe sensib.hty ,n perceiving their con- 
 iiection wuheach other. 4lhly, Imagination 
 and fancy -to modify, to create, and ^o asso- 
 ciate, othly Invention,— by which characters 
 arc composed out of materials supplied by ob- 
 servation; whether of the Poet's own lieart 
 and mind or of external life and nature; and 
 such incidents and situations produced as are 
 most impressive to the imagination, and most 
 htted to do justice to the characters, sentiments, 
 and passions, which the Poet undertakes to il- 
 usirate. And, lastly. Judgment,— to decide 
 how and where, and in what degree, each of 
 these faculties ought to be exerted ; so that the 
 less shall not be sacrificed to the greater; nor 
 the greater, slighting the less, arrogate, to its 
 own injury, more than its due. By judgment, 
 also, is determined what are the laws and ap- 
 propriate graces of every species of composi- 
 lion. 
 
 The materials of Poetry, by these powers 
 
 therof the processes and appearances ofexteT' 
 nal nature, as the Seasons of Thomson; or of 
 characters, manners, and sentiments, as are 
 Shenstone's Schoolmistress, The Cotter's Sat- 
 urday Wight, of Burns, The Twa Dogs, of the 
 same Author ; or of these in conjunction with 
 the appearances of Nature, as most of the pie- 
 ces of' Theocritus, the Allegro and Peneeroso, 
 of Milton, Beattie's Minstrel, Goldsmith's De- 
 serted Village. The Epitaph, the Insciiption, 
 the Sonnet, most of the epistles of Poets' wri- 
 ting in their own persona, and all loco-descrip- 
 tive poetry, belong to this class. * 
 
 5th ly. Didactic, — the principal object of 
 which is direct instruction ; as the Poom of 
 Lucretius, the Georgics of Virgil, the Fleece 
 of Dyer, Mason's *' English Garden," &c. 
 
 And, lastly, philosophical satire, like that of 
 VIorace and Juvenal; personal and occasional 
 Satire rarely comprehending sufficient of the 
 general in the individual to be dignified with 
 the name of poetry. 
 
 Out of the three last has been constructed 
 a composite order, of which Young's Night 
 Thoughts, and Cowper's Task, are excellent 
 examples. 
 
 It is deducible from the above, that poems, 
 apparently miscellaneous, may with propriety 
 be arranged either v\nth reference to the pow- 
 ers of m\nd predominant in the production of 
 them ; or to the mould in which they are cast ; 
 
 collecled and produced, are cast, by means of or, lastly, to ihe subierts to which they relate. 
 
 various moulds, into diveis forms. The moulds 
 may be enumerated, and the forms specified, 
 in the following order. 1st, the Narrative, — 
 including the Epopoeia,the Historic Poem, the 
 Tale, the Romance, the Mock-heroic, and, if 
 the spiiit of Homer will tolerate such neigh- 
 bourhood, that dear production of our days, the 
 metrical Novel. Of this Class, the distinguish- 
 ing mark is, that the Narrator, however libe- 
 rally his speaking agents be introduced, is him- 
 self the source from which every thing prima- 
 rily flows. Epic Poets, in order that tlieir 
 mode of composition may accord witli the ele- 
 vation of their subject, represent themselves 
 as singing- fiom the inspiration of the Muse, 
 *' Arma virumque cano ;" but this is a fiction, 
 
 the Iliad or 
 
 in modern times, of slight value 
 the Paradise Lost would gain little in our esti- 
 mation by being chanted. The other Poets 
 who belong to this class are commonly con- 
 tent to tell their tale; — so that of the whole it 
 may be alfirmed that they neither require nor 
 reject the accompaniment of music. 
 
 2ndly, The Dramatic, — consisting of Trage- 
 dy, Historic Drama, Comedy, and Masque, in 
 which the Poet docs not appear at all in his own 
 person, and whcro the wliole action is carried 
 on by speech and dialogue of tlie agents; mu- 
 sic being admitted only incidentally and rarely. 
 The Opera may be placed here, inasmuch as 
 it proceeds by dialogue ; though depending, to 
 the degree that it does, upon music, 
 stronf' claim to be ranked with the 
 The characteristic and impassioned Epistle, of 
 which Ovid and Pope have given examples, 
 considered as a species of monodrarna, may, 
 without impropriety, be placed in this class. 
 
 3diy, Tlie Lyrical, — containing the Hymn, 
 the Ode, the Elegy, the Song, and the Ballad ; 
 in all which, for the production of their full ef- 
 fect, an accompaniment of music is indispen- 
 sable. . . ,■ n ■ 
 
 4thly, The IdyjJium,— descriptive chiefly ei- 
 
 From each of these considerations, the follow- 
 ing Poems have been divided into classes; 
 which, that the work may more obviously cor- 
 respond with the course of human life, and for 
 the sake of exhibiting in it the three requisites 
 of a legitimate whole, a beginning, a middle, 
 and an end, have been also arranged, as far as 
 it was possible, according to an order of time, 
 commencing with Childhood, and terminating 
 with Old Age, Death, and Immortality. My 
 guiding wish was, that the small pieces of 
 which these volumes consist, thus discrimina- 
 ted, might be regarded under a two-fold view ; 
 as composing an entire work within them- 
 selves, and as adjuncts to the philosopliical 
 Poem,*' The Recluse." This arrangement has^ 
 long presented itself iiabitually to my own 
 mind. Nevertheless, 1 should have preferred 
 to scatter the contents «f these volumes at ran- 
 dom, if I had been persuaded that, by the plan 
 adopted, any thing material would be taken 
 from the natural effect of the piec«s, individu- 
 ally, on the mind of the unreflecting Reader. 
 I trust there is a suflicient variety in each class- 
 to prevent this; while, for him who reads with 
 reflection, the arrangement w^ill serve as a 
 commentary unostentatiously directing his at- 
 tention to my purposes, bo'th particular and 
 general. But, as I wish to gu<ird against the 
 possibility of misleading by this classification,. 
 It is proper first to remind the Reader, that 
 it has a I certain poems are placed according to the pow- 
 Lyrical. ers of mind, in the Author's conception, pre- 
 dominant in the production of them; predoin- 
 inant, which implies the exertion of other fac- 
 ulties in less degree. Where ' there is more 
 imagination than fancy in a poem, it is pla- 
 ced under the head of imagination, and vice 
 versa. Both the above classes might witiiout 
 impropriety have been enlarged from that con- 
 sisting of" Poems founded on the Afl^ections -r 
 as might this latter from those, and from tlio 
 class "proceeding, from Sentiment and Reflec- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 tion," The most striking characteristics of 
 each piece, mutual illustration, variety, and 
 proportion, have governed me throughout. 
 
 It may be proper in this place to state, that 
 the extracts in the seeond Class, entitled '* Ju- 
 venile Pieces," are in many places altered 
 from the printed copy, chiefly by omission 
 and compression. The slight alterations of 
 another kind were for the most part made not 
 long after ihe publication of the Poems from 
 which the extracts are taken.* These ex- 
 tracts seem to have a title to be placed here, 
 as they were the productions of youth, and 
 represent implicitly some of tlie features of a 
 youthful mind, at a time when images of na- 
 ture supplied to it the place of thought, sen- 
 timent, and almost of action ; or as it will be 
 found expressed y of a state of mind when 
 
 -'*the sounding cataract 
 
 Haunted me like a ])assion ; the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. 
 Their colours and iheir forms were then tome 
 An appetite, a feeling, and a love, 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 By thought supplied, or any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye." — 
 
 I will own that I was much at a loss what to 
 select of these descriptions; and perhaps it 
 would have been better either to have reprint- 
 ed the whole, or suppressed what 1 have 
 given. 
 
 None of the other Classes, except those of 
 Fancy and Imagination, require any particu- 
 lar notice. But a remark of general applica- 
 tion may be made. All Poets, except the 
 dramatic, have been in the practice of feign- 
 ing that their works were composed to the 
 music of the haip or lyre : with what degree 
 of affectation this has been done in modern 
 limes, I leave to the judicious to determine. 
 For my own part I have not been disposed to 
 violate probability so far, or to make such a 
 large demand upon the Reader's charity. 
 Some of these pieces are essentiall}^ lyrical ; 
 and, therefore, cannot have their due force 
 without a supposed musical accompaniment; 
 but, in much the greatest part, as a substitute 
 for the classic lyre or romantic harp, I require 
 nothing more than an animated or impassion- 
 ed recitation, adapted to the subject. Poems, 
 however humble in their kind, if they be good 
 in that kind, cannot read themselves : the 
 law of long syllable and short must not be so 
 inflexible, — the letter of metre must not be so 
 impassive to the spirit of versification, — as to 
 deprive the Reader of a voluntary power to 
 modulate, in subordination to the sense, the 
 music of the poem ; — in the same manner as 
 his mind is left at liberty, and even summon- 
 ed, to act upon its thoughts and images. But, 
 though the accompaniment of a musical in- 
 strument be frequently dispensed with, the 
 true Poet does not therefore abandon his pri- 
 vilege distinct from that of the mere Prose- 
 man ; 
 
 " He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music sweeter than their own." 
 
 I come now to the consideration of the 
 words Fancy and Imagination, as employed 
 in the classification of the following Poems. 
 
 • These Poems are now printed entire. 
 
 *' A man,*' says an intelligent author, "has 
 imagination in proportion as he can distinct- 
 ly copy in idea the impressions of sense : it is , 
 the faculty which images within the mind ther 
 phenomena of sensation. A man has fancy 
 in proportion as he can call up, connect, or as- 
 sociate, at pleasure, those internal images 
 ((pavra^cLv is to cause to appear) so as to 
 complete ideal representations of absent ob- 
 jects. Imagination is the power of depicting, 
 and fancy of evoking and combining. The 
 imagination is formed by patient observation ; 
 the fancy by a voluntary activity in shifting 
 the scenery of the mind. The more accurate 
 the imagination, the more safely may a paint- 
 er, or a poet, undertake a delineation, or a de- 
 scription, without the presence of the objects 
 to be characterized. The more versatile the 
 fancy, the more original and striking will be 
 the decorations produced." — British SynO' 
 nyms discriminated^ by W. Taylor. 
 
 Is not this as if a man should undertake to 
 supply an account of a building, and be so in- 
 tent upon what he had discovered of the foun- 
 dation, as to conclude his task without once 
 looking up at the superstructure ? Here, as in 
 other instances throughout the volume, the 
 judicious Author's mind is enthralled by Ety- 
 mology ; he takes up the original word as 
 his guide and escort, and too often does not 
 perceive how soon he becomes its prisoner, 
 without liberty to tread in any path but that 
 to which it confines him. It is not easy to find 
 out how imagination, thus explained, differs 
 from distinct remembrance of images; or fan- 
 cy from quick and vivid recollection of them : 
 each is nothing more than a mode of memorv. 
 If the two words bear the above meaning,, 
 and no other, what term is left to designate 
 that Faculty of which the Poet is '* all com- 
 pact ;" he whose eye glances from earth to 
 heaven, whose spiritual attributes body forth 
 what his pen is piompt in turning to shape ; 
 or what is left to characterise Fancy, as insin- 
 uating herself into the heart of objects with 
 creative activity ? — Imagination, in the sense 
 of the word as ofivino; title to a Class of the foU 
 lowing Poems, has no reference to images that 
 are merely a faithful copy, existing in tho 
 mind, of absent external objects ; but is a word 
 of higher import, denoting operations of the 
 mind upon those objects, and processes of cre- 
 ation or of composition, governed by certain 
 fixed laws. I proceed to illustrate my mean- 
 ing by instances. A parrot hangs from the 
 wires of his cage by his beak or by his claws -^ 
 or a monkey from the bough of a tree by his 
 paws or his tail. Each creature does so liter- 
 ally and actually. In the first Eclogue of Vir- 
 gil, the Shepherd, thinking of the time when 
 he is to take leave of his Farm, thus addresses 
 his Goats : — 
 
 *' Non ego vos posthac viridi projectus in antro 
 Dumosa pendei-e procul de rupe videbo." 
 
 " half way down 
 
 Hangs one who gathers samphire," 
 
 is the well-known expression of Shakspeare, 
 delineating an ordinary image upon the Cliffs 
 of Dover. In these two instances is a slight 
 exertion of the faculty which I denominate 
 imagination, in the use of one word : neither 
 
VI 
 
 rREFACB. 
 
 Vhe gDats nor the pnmphire-gatheror do literal- 
 ly han^, as does the parrot or the monkey; 
 but, presenting to the senses something of 
 such an appearance, the mind in its activity, 
 for its own gratification, contemplates them 
 as hanging, 
 
 " As when far off at Sea a Fleet desoiied 
 Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds 
 Close sailing from Bengala or the Isles 
 Of Ternate or Tidore, whence ISlcrcliants bnng 
 Their spiev drue^s ; tjiey on the trading flood 
 1 hrough the wide Ethiopian lo the Cape 
 Ply, stemming nightly toward the Pole: so seemed 
 Far off the flying Fiend." 
 
 Here isthofull strength of the imagination 
 involved in the word hangs^ and exerted upon 
 the whole image; First, the Fleet, an aggre- 
 gate of many Ships, is represented as one 
 mighty Person, whose track, we know and 
 feel, is upon tlic waters; hut, taking advan- 
 tage of its appearance to the senses, the Poet 
 t^ares to represent it as fuinging in /he clouds^ 
 both for the gratification of the mind in con- 
 templating the image itself, and in reference 
 to the motion and appearance of the sublime 
 objects to which it is compared. 
 
 From images of sight we will pass to those 
 of sound : 
 
 *' Over his own sweet voice the Stock- dove broods ;^^ 
 
 of the same bird, 
 
 ■*' His voice was buried among trees, 
 Yet to be come at by tlie breeze ;" 
 
 "O, Cuckoo! shall I call thee £mc?, 
 Or but a wandering Voice ?" 
 
 The Stock-dove is said to coo^ a sound well 
 imitating the note of the bird ; but, by the in- 
 tervention of the metaphoj- broods^ the affec- 
 tions are called in by the imagination to assist 
 in marking the manner in which the Bird re- 
 iterates and prolongs her soft note, as if her- 
 self delighting to listen to it, and participating 
 of a still and quiet satisfaction, like that which 
 may be supposed inseparable from the contin- 
 uous process of incubation, " His voice was 
 buried among trees,'' a metaphor expressing 
 the love of seclusion by which this Bird is 
 marked ; and characterizino- its note as not 
 partaking of the shrill and the piercing, and 
 therefore more easily deadened by the inter- 
 vening shade ; yet a note so peculiar and 
 withal so pleasing, that the breeze, gifted with 
 that love of the sound which the Foet feels, 
 penetrates the shade in which it is entombed, 
 and conveys it to the ear of the listener. 
 
 « Shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice?" 
 
 This concise interrogation characterises the 
 seeming ubiquity of the voice of the Cuckoo, I own mighty and almost divin 
 
 and dispossesses the creature almost of a cor 
 poreal existence ; the Imagination being 
 tempted to this exertion of her power by a 
 consciousness in the memory that the Cuckoo 
 is almost perpetually heard throughout the 
 season of Spring, but seldom becomes an ob- 
 ject of sight. 
 
 Thus far of images independent of each 
 other, and immediately endowed by the mind 
 
 upon an incitement from propenies and qual- 
 ities the existence of which is mherent ana 
 obvious. These processes of imagmation are 
 carried on either by conferring additional pro- 
 perties upon an object, or abstracting trom it 
 some of those which it actually possesses, and 
 thus ennabling it to re-act upon the mind 
 which hath performed the process, like a new 
 
 existence 
 
 I pass from the Imagination acting upon an 
 individual image to a consideration of the 
 same faculty employed upon images in a con- 
 junction by which they modify each other. 
 The Reader has already had a fine instance 
 before him in the passage quoted from Virgil^ 
 where the apparently perilous situation of the 
 Goat, hanging upon the shaggy precipice, is 
 contrasted with that of the Shepherd, contem- 
 plating it from the seclusion of the Cavern in 
 which he lies stretched at ease and in security. 
 Take these images separately, and how unaf- 
 fecting the picture compared with that produ- 
 ced by their being thus connected with, and 
 opposed to, each other I 
 
 " As a huce stone is sometimps seen to lie 
 Couched on the bald top of an eminence, 
 Wonder to all who do the same espy 
 By what means it could thither come, and whencCj 
 So that it seems a thing endu^^d with sense, 
 Like a Sea-be«st crawled forth, which on a shelf 
 Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun himself. 
 
 Such seemed this Man ; not all alive or dead, 
 Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age. 
 ISlotionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call, 
 And moveth altogether if it move at all.'' 
 
 In these images, the conferring, the abstract- 
 ing, and the modifying powers of the Imagi- 
 nation, immediately and mediately acting, are 
 all brought into conjuction. The Stone is en- 
 dowed with something of the power of life to 
 approximate it to the Sea-beast ; and the Sea- 
 beast stripped of some of its vital qualities to 
 assimilate it to the stone ; which intermediate 
 image is thus treated for the purpose of bring- 
 ing the original image, that of the stone, to a 
 nearer resemblance to the figure and condi- 
 tion of the aged Man ; who is divested of so 
 much of the indications of life and motion 
 as to bring him to the point where the two 
 objects unite and coalesce in just compa- 
 rison. After what has been said, the im- 
 age of the Cloud need not be commented 
 upon. 
 
 Thus far of an endowing or modifying 
 power: but tlie Imagination also shapes and 
 creates ; and how? By innumerable process- 
 es ; and in none does it more delight than in 
 that of consolidating numbers into unity, and 
 dissolving and separating unity into number, 
 — alternations proceeding from, and governed 
 by, a sublime consciousness of the soul in her 
 
 e powers. Re- 
 
 cur to the passage already cited from Milton, 
 When the compact Fleet, as one Person, has 
 been introduced "Sailing from Beno-ala," 
 " They," i. e. the " Merchants," representin'o- 
 the Fleet, resolved into a Multitude of Ships'", 
 "ply" their voyage t'owards the extremities 
 of the earth: " So," (referring to the word 
 "As," in the commencement') "seemed the 
 flying Fiend ;" the image of his Person act- 
 
 with properties that do not inhere m them, J ,ng to recorabine the multitude of Ships into 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 VJi 
 
 one bbdy, — the point from which the compa- 
 rison set out. " So seemed," and to whom 
 seemed? To the heavenly Muse who dictates 
 the poem, to the eye of the Poet's mind, and 
 to that of the Reader, present at one moment 
 in the wide Ethiopian, and the next in the so- 
 }itudes, then first broken in upon, of the in- 
 fernal regions ! 
 
 " Modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis.** 
 
 Hear again this mighty Poet, — speaking of 
 the Messiah going forth to expel from Heaven 
 the rebellious Angels, 
 
 " Attended by ten thousand thousand Saints 
 He onward came : far off his coming shone ;" 
 
 the retinue of Saints, and the Person of the 
 Messiah himself, lost almost and merged in 
 the splendour of that indefinite abstraction, 
 " His coming !'' 
 
 As I do not mean here to treat this subject 
 further than to throw some light upon the 
 present Volumes, and especially upon one di- 
 vision of them, I shall spare myself and the 
 Reader the trouble of considering the Imagi- 
 nation as it deals with thoughts and senti- 
 ments, as it regulates the composition of char- 
 acters, and determines the course of actions : 
 I will not consider it (more than I have alrea- 
 dy done by implication) as that power which, 
 in the language of one of my most esteemed 
 Friends, "^ draws all things to one; which 
 makes things animate or inanimate, beings 
 with their attributes, subjects with their ac- 
 cessaries, take one colour and serve to one ef- 
 fect."* The grand store-houses of enthusi- 
 astic and meditative Imagination, of poetical, 
 as contradistinguished from human and dra- 
 matic imagination, are the prophetic and lyri- 
 cal parts of the Holy Scriptures, and the 
 works of Milton, to which I cannot forbear to 
 add those of Spenser. I select these writers 
 in preference to those of ancient Greece and 
 Rome, because the anthropomorphitism of 
 the Pagan religion subjected the minds of the 
 greatest poets in those countries too much to 
 the bondage of definite form ; from which the 
 Hebrews were preserved by their abhorrence 
 of idolatry. This abhorrence was almost as 
 strong in our great epic Poet, both from cir- 
 cumstances of his life, and from the constitu- 
 tion of his mind. However imbued the sur- 
 face might be with classical literature, he was 
 a Hebrew in soul ; and all things tended in him 
 towards the sublime. Spenser, of a gentler na- 
 ture, maintained his freedom by aid of his al- 
 legorical spirit, at one time inciting him to 
 create persons out of abstractions ; and, at 
 another, by a superior eff'ort of genius, to give 
 the universality and permanence of abstrac- 
 tions to his human beings, by means of attri- 
 butes and emblems that belong to the highest 
 moral truths and the purest sensations, — of 
 which his character of Una is a glorious ex- 
 ample. Of the human and dramatic Imagi- 
 nation the works of Shakspeare are an inex- 
 haustible source. 
 
 ** I tax 
 I nev 
 
 : not you, ye Elements, with unkrndness, 
 
 r'er gave you Kingdoms, called you Daughters !" 
 
 * Charles Lamb upon the genius of Hogarth. 
 
 And if, bearing in mind the many Poets dis- 
 tinguished by this prime quality, whose names 
 I omit to mention ; yet justified by a recollec- 
 tion of the insults which the Ignorant, the In- 
 capable and the Presumptuous, have heaped 
 upon these and my other writings, I may be 
 permitted to anticipate the judgment of pos- 
 terity upon myself; I shall declare (censurable, 
 I grant, if the notoriety of the facts above sta- 
 ted does not justify me) that I have given, in 
 these unfavourable times, evidence of exertions 
 of this faculty upon its worthiest objects, the 
 external universe, the moral and religious sen- 
 timents of Man, his natural affections, and his 
 acquired passions; which have the same en- 
 nobling tendency as the productions of men, 
 in this kind, worthy to be holden in undying 
 remembrance. 
 
 This subject may be dismissed with obser- 
 ving — that, in the series of Poems placed un- 
 der the head of Imagination, I have begun with 
 one of the earliest processes of Nature in the 
 developement of this faculty. Guided by one 
 of my own primary consciousnesses, I have 
 represented a commutation and transfer of in- 
 ternal feelings, co-operating with external ac- 
 cidents, to plant, for immortality, images of 
 sound and sight, in the celestial soil of the Im- 
 agination. The Boy, there introduced, is lis- 
 tening, with something of a feverish and rest- 
 less anxiety, for the recurrence of the riotous 
 sounds which he had previously excited ; and, 
 at the moment when the intenseness of his 
 mind is beginning to remit, he is surprised in- 
 to a perception of the solemn and tranquilizing 
 images wliich the poem describes. — The Poems 
 next in succession, exhibit the faculty exerting 
 itself upon various objects of the external uni- 
 verse; then follow others, where it is em- 
 ployed upon feelings, characters, and actions ;* 
 and the Class is concluded with imaginative 
 pictures of moral, political, and religious senti- 
 ments. 
 
 To the mode in which Fancy has already 
 been characterized as the Power of evoking 
 and combining, or, as my friend Mr. Coleridge 
 has styled it, " the aggregative and associative 
 Power," my objection is only that the defini- 
 tion is too general. To aggregate and to asso- 
 ciate, to evoke and to combine, belong as well 
 to the Imagination as to the Fancy : bul either 
 the materials evoked and combined are differ- 
 ent; or they are brought together under a dif- 
 ferent law, and for a different purpose. Fancy 
 does not require that the materials which she 
 makes use of should be susceptible of change 
 in their constitution, from her touch; and, 
 where they admit of modification, it is enough 
 for her purpose if it be slight, limited, and 
 evanescent. Directly the reverse of these, are 
 the desires and demands of the Imagination. 
 She recoils from every thing but the plastic, 
 the pliant, and the indefinite. She leaves it 
 to Fancy to describe Queen Mab as coming, 
 
 *'In shape no bigger than an agate-stone, 
 Or the fore-finger of an Alderman." 
 
 Having to speak of stature, she does not tell 
 you that her gigantic Angel was as tall as Pom- 
 pey's Pillar; much less that he was twelve 
 cubits, or twelve hundred cubits high ; or that 
 his dimensions equaled those of Tcneriffe or 
 
 * In the present edition, such of these as were furnish- 
 ed by Scottish subjects are incorporated with a class el»- 
 titledj Memorials of Tours in S«otland. 
 
Via 
 
 Atlas';— because these, and if they 
 lion times as high, it would be ih 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 were a mil- 
 
 u 1 . r«, c ' "^ "'^ same, are 
 
 bounded : The expression is, " His stature 
 reached the sky !" the illimitable firmament •-- 
 Wlien the Imagination frames a comparison 
 If It does not strike on the first presenlation, a 
 Bense of the truth of the likeness, from the 
 rnoment that it is perceived, grows-and con- 
 tinues to grovy-upon the mind; the resem- 
 blance depending less upon outline of form and 
 feature, than upon expression and eff^ect ; less 
 upon casual and outstanding, than upon in- 
 herent and internal, properties :-moreover, the 
 images invariably modify each other.— The law 
 under which the processes of Fancy are ear- 
 ned on is as capricious as the accidents of 
 things, and the effects are surprising, playful, 
 ludicrous, amusing, tender, or pathetic, as the 
 objects happen to be appositely produced or 
 lortunately combined. Fancy depends upon 
 the rapidity and profusion with which she 
 scatters her thoughts and images ; trusting that 
 their number, and the felicity with which they 
 are linked together, will make amends for the 
 want of individual value : or she prides her- 
 self upon the curious subtility and the success- 
 lul elaboration with which she can detect their 
 lurking affinities. If she can win you over to 
 her purpose, and impart to you her feelings, 
 Bhe cares not how unstable or transitory may 
 be her influence, knowing that it will not bo 
 out of her power to resume it upon an apt oc- 
 casion. But the Imagination is conscious of 
 an indestructible dominion ; — the Soul may 
 fall away from it, not being able to sustain its 
 grandeur ; but, if once felt and acknowledged, 
 by no act of any other faculty of the mind can 
 it be relaxed, impaired, or diminished. — Fancy 
 is given to quicken and to beguile the tempo- 
 ral part of our Nature, Imagination to incite 
 and to support the eternal. — Yet is it not the 
 less true that Fancy, as she is an active, is also, 
 under her own laws and in her own spirit, a 
 creative faculty. In what manner Fancy am- 
 bitiously aims at a rivalship with the Imagina- 
 tion, and Imagination stoops to work with the 
 materials of Fancy, might be illustrated from 
 the compositions of all eloquent writers, wheth- 
 er in prose or verse; and chiefly from those of 
 our own Country. Scarcely a page of the im- 
 passioned parts of Bishop Taylor's Works can 
 be opened that shall notaflbrd examples. — Re- 
 ferring the Reader to those inestimable Vol- 
 umes, I will content myself with placing a 
 con<^eit (ascribed to Lord Chesterfield) in con- 
 trast with a passage from the Paradise Lost: — 
 
 *' The dews of the evening most carefully shun, 
 They are the tears of the sky for the loss of the sun-'* 
 
 After the transgression of Adam, Milton, with 
 other appearances of sympathising Nature, thus 
 marks the immediate consequence, 
 
 *' Sky lowered, and muttering thunder, some sad drops 
 Wept at completion of the mortal sin." 
 
 The associating link is the same in each in- 
 stance ; — dew or rain, not distinguishable from 
 the liquid substance of tears, are employed as 
 indications of sorrow. A flash of surprise is 
 the eflfect in the former case; a flash of sur- 
 prise, and nothing more; for the nature of 
 things does not sustain the combination. In the 
 latte*r the efl?ects of the act, of which there is 
 this immediate consequence and visible sign, 
 are so momentous, that the mind acknow- 
 ledges the justice and reasonableness of the 
 
 sympathy in Nature bo manifested ; and the 
 sky weeps drops of water as if with human eyes, 
 as '' Earth had before, trembled from her en- 
 trails, and Nature given a second groan.*' 
 
 Awe-stricken as I am by contemplating the 
 operations of the mind of this truly divine 
 Poet, I scarcely dare venture to add that '' An 
 Address to an Infant," which the reader will 
 find under the Class of Fancy in the present 
 Volumes, exhibits something of this commu- 
 nion and interchange of instruments and func- 
 tions between the two powers ; and is, accor- 
 dingly, placed last in the class, as a prepara- 
 tion for that of Imagination which follows. 
 
 Finallv, I will refer to Cotton's '' Ode upon 
 Winter,''' an admirable composition, though 
 stained with some peculiarities of the age in 
 which he lived, for a general illustration of the 
 characteristics of Fancy. The middle part of 
 this ode contains a most lively description of 
 the entrance of Winter, with his retinue, as 
 ''A palsied King," and yet a military Mon- 
 arch, — advancing for conquest with his Army ; 
 the several bodies of which, and their arms 
 and equipments, are described with a rapidity 
 of detail, and a profusion of fanciful compari- 
 sons, which indicate on the part of the Poet 
 extreme activity of intellect, and a correspon- 
 dent hurry of delightful feeling. Winter re- 
 tires from the Foe into his fortress, where 
 
 a magazine 
 
 Of sovereign juice is cellared in ; 
 Liquor that will the siege maintain 
 Should Phoebus ne'er return again." 
 
 Though myself a water-drinker, I cannot re- 
 sist the pleasure of transcribing what follows, 
 as an instance still more iiappy of Fancy era- 
 ployed in the treatment of feeling than, in its 
 preceding passages, the Poem supplies of her 
 management of forms. 
 
 " 'Tis that, that g^ves the Poet rage. 
 And thaws the gelly'd blood of Age; 
 Matures the Young, restores the Old, 
 And makes the fainting Coward bold. 
 
 It lays the careful head to rest, 
 Calms palpitations in the breast, 
 Rendei-s our lives' misfortunes sweet ; 
 
 Then let the chill Sirocco blow. 
 And gird us round with hills ol snow. 
 Or else go whistle to the shore. 
 And make the hollow mountains roar. 
 
 Whilst we together jovial sit 
 Careless, and crowned with mirth and wit, 
 Where, though bleak winds confine us home, 
 C^ur fancies round tlie world shall roam. 
 
 We'll think of all the Friends we know, 
 And drink to all worth drinking to ; 
 When having drunk all thine and mine. 
 We rathershall want healths than wine. 
 
 But where Friends fail us, we'll supply 
 Our friendships with our charity ; 
 Men that remote in sorrows live, 
 Shall by our lusty Brimmers thrive. 
 
 We'll drink the wanting into Wealth, 
 And tliose that languish into health, 
 The Afflicted into joy ; th' Opprest 
 Into security and I'est. 
 
 The Worthy in disgrace shall find 
 Favour return again more kind, 
 And in restraint who stifled lie. 
 Shall taste the air of liberty. 
 
 The Brave shall triumph in success, 
 The Lover shall have Mistresses, 
 Poor unregarded Virtue, praise, 
 And the neglected Poet, Bays. 
 
 Thus shall our healths do others good. 
 Whilst we ourselves do all Ave would ; 
 For, freed from envy and from care, 
 What would we be but what we are ? 
 
SUPPLEMENT TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 IX 
 
 It remains ib.it I should express my regret 
 at the necessity of separating my compositions 
 from some beautiful Poems of Mr. Coleridge, 
 with which they have been long associated in 
 publication. The feelings with which that joint 
 publication was made, have been gratified ; its 
 end is answered ; and the time is come when 
 considerations of general propriety dictate the 
 separation. Three short pieces (now first pub- 
 lished) are the work of a Female Friend ; and 
 the Reader, to whom they may be acceptable, 
 is indebted to me for his pleasure ; if any one 
 regard them with dislike, or be disposed to 
 
 condemn them, let tlic censure fall upon him 
 who, trusting in his own sense of their merit 
 and their fitness for the place which they oc- 
 cupy, extorted them from the Authoress. 
 
 When I sate down to write this preface, it 
 was my intention to have made it more com- 
 prehensive ; but as all that I deem necessary 
 is expressed, I will hero detain the reader no 
 longer : — what I have further to remark shall 
 be introduced by way of interlude, in some 
 other partoftliese Volumes.* 
 
 * See Essay Supplcmentaiy. 
 
 ESSAY, 
 SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 With the young of both Sexos, Poetry is, 
 iike love, a passion ; but, for much the greater 
 part of those who have been proud of its pow- 
 er over their minds, a necessity soon arises of 
 breaking the pleasing bondage ; or it relaxes of 
 itself; — the thoughts being occupied in domes- 
 tic cares, or th-e time engrossed by business. 
 Poetry then becomes only an occasional rec- 
 reation ; while to those wiiose existence passes 
 away in a course of fashionable pleasure, it is 
 a species of luxurious amusement. In middle 
 and declining age, a scattered number of seri- 
 ous persons resort to poetry, as to religion, for 
 a protection against the pressure of trivial em- 
 ployments, and as a consolation for the afflic- 
 tions of life. And, lastly, there are many, 
 who, having been enamoured of this art in their 
 youth, have found leisure, after youth was 
 spent, to cultivate general literature; in which 
 poetry has continued to be comprehended as a 
 study. 
 
 Into the above Classes the Readers of poet- 
 ry may be divided ; Critics abound in them 
 all ; but from the last only can opinions be 
 collected of absolute value, and worthy to be 
 depended upon, as prophetic of the destiny of 
 a new work. The young, who in nothing can 
 escape delusion, are especially subject to it in 
 their intercourse with Poetry. The cause, not 
 €o obvious as the fact is unquestionable, is the 
 same as that from which erroneous judgments 
 in this art, in the minds of men of all ages, 
 chiefly proceed ; but upon youth it operates 
 with peculiar force. The appropriate business 
 of poetry, (which, nevertheless, if genuine, is 
 as peimanent as pure science,) her appropri- 
 ate employment, her privilege and her duty, 
 is to treat of things not as they are, but as they 
 appear; not as they exist in themselves, but as 
 they seem to exist to the senses and to the pas- 
 sions. What a world of delusion does this ac- 
 knowledged principle prepare for the inexpe- 
 rienced ! what temptations to go astray are here 
 held forth for them whose thoughts have been 
 little disciplined by the understanding, and 
 whose feelings revolt from the sway of reason ! 
 When a juvenile Pi,eaderisin the height of his 
 rapture with some vicious passage, should ex- 
 perience throw in doubts, or common-sense 
 suggest suspicions, a lurking consciousness that 
 the realities of the Muse are but shows, and 
 that her liveliest excitements are raised by 
 
 ii 
 
 transient shocks of conflicting feeling and suc- 
 cessive assemblages of contradictory thoughts — 
 is ever at hand to justify extravagance, and to 
 sanction absurdity. But, it may be asked, as 
 these illusions are unavoidable, and, no 
 doubt, eminently useful to the mind as a pro- 
 cess, what good can be gained by making ob- 
 servations, the tendency of which is to dimin- 
 ish the confidence of youth in its feelings, and 
 thus to abridge its innocent and even profitable 
 pleasures ? The reproach ini plied in the ques- 
 tion could not be warded off, if youth were 
 incapable of being delighted with what is truly 
 excellent; or, if these errors always termina- 
 ted of themselves in due season. But, with 
 the majority, though their force be abated, they 
 continue through life. Moreover, the fire of 
 youth is too vivacious an element to be extin- 
 guished or damped by a philosophical remark ; 
 and, while there is no danger that what has 
 been said will be injurious or painful to the 
 ardent and the confident, it may prove benefi- 
 cial to those who, being enthusiastic, are, at 
 the same time, modest and ingenuous. The 
 intimation may unite with their own misgiv- 
 ings to regulate their sensibility, and to bring 
 in, sooner than it would otherwise ha^^e ar- 
 rived, a more discreet and sound judgment. 
 
 If it should excite wonder that men of ability, 
 in later life, whose understandings have been 
 rendered acute by practice in affairs, should 
 be so easily and so far imposed upon when 
 they happen to take up a new work in verse, 
 this appears to be the cause ; — that, having dis- 
 continued their attention to poetry, whatever 
 progress may have been made in other depart- 
 ments of knowledge, they have not, as to this 
 art, advanced in true discernment beyond the 
 age of youth. If, then, a new poem falls in 
 their way, whose attractions are of that kind 
 which would have enraptured them during the 
 heat of youth, the judgment not being im- 
 proved to a degree that they shall be disgusted, 
 they are dazzled ; and prize and cherish the 
 faults for having had power to make the pres- 
 ent time vanish before them, and to throw tho 
 mind back, as by enchantment, into the hap- 
 piest season of life. As they read, powers 
 seem to be revived, passions are regenerated, 
 and pleasures restored. The book was prob- 
 ably taken up after an escape from the burthen 
 of business, and with a wish to forget the 
 
. SUl'PLEMENT TO TUB PREFACE. 
 
 vvorld, and all via vexations and anxieties. 
 Having obtained this wish, and so much more 
 it is natural that they should make report as 
 they have felt. 
 
 If Men of mature age, through want of prac- 
 tice, be thus easily beguiled into admiration of 
 absurdities, extravagances, and misplaced or- 
 naments, thinking it proper that their under- 
 standings should enjoy a holiday, while they 
 are unbending their minds with verse, it may 
 be expected that such readers will resemble 
 iheir former selves also in strength of prejudice, 
 and an inaptitude to be moved by the unosten- 
 tatious beauties of a pure style. In the higher 
 poetry, an enlightened critic chiefly looks for 
 a reflection of the wisdom of the heart and tlie 
 grandeur of the imagination. Wherever these 
 app^3a^, simplicity accompanies them; Mag- 
 nilicence herself, when legitimate, depending 
 upon a simplicity of her own, to regvilate her 
 ornaments. But it is a well-known property 
 of human nature, that our estimates are ever 
 governed by com[)arisons, of which we are 
 conscious with various degrees of distinctness. 
 Is it not, then, inevitable (confining these ob- 
 servations to the eflects of sl^-le merely) that an 
 eye, accustomed to ihe glaring hues of diction by 
 which such readers are caught and excited, 
 will, for the most part, be rather repelled than 
 attracted by an original Work, the coloring of 
 which IS disposed according to a pure and re- 
 fined scheme of harmony ? It is in the fine arts 
 as in the aflfairs of life, no man can serz^e (i. e. 
 obey with zeal and fidelity) two Masters. 
 
 As Poetry is most just to its own divine ori- 
 gin when it administers the comforts and 
 breathes the spirit of religion, they who have 
 learned to perceive this truth, and who betake 
 themselves to reading verse for sacred pur- 
 poses, must be preserved from numerous illu- 
 sions to which the two Classes of Readers, 
 whom we have been considering, are liable. 
 But, as the mind grows serious from the weight 
 of life, the range of its passions is contracted 
 accordingly ; and its sympathies become so 
 exclusive, that many species of high excellence 
 wholly escape, or but languidly excite, its no- 
 tice. Besides, men who read from religious or 
 moral inclinations, even when the subject is of 
 that kind which they approve, are beset with 
 misconceptions and mistakes peculiar to them- 
 selves. Attaching so much importance to the 
 truths which interest them, they are prone to 
 over-rate the Authors by whom these truths are 
 expressed and enforced. They come pre{)ared 
 to impart so much passion to the Poet's lan- 
 guage, that they rcjnain unconscious how lit- 
 tle, in fact, they receive from it. And, on the 
 other hand, religious faith is to him who holds 
 it so momentous a thing, and error appears to 
 bo attended with such tremendous conse- 
 quences, that, if opinions touching upon re- 
 ligion occur which the Reader condcnms, he 
 not only cannot sympathize with them, how- 
 ever animated the expression, but there is, for 
 the most part, an end put to all satisfaction 
 and enjoyment. Love, if it before existed, is 
 converted into dislike; and the heart of tlie 
 Reader is set against the Author and his book. 
 To these excesses, they, who from their pro- 
 fessions ought to be the most guarded against 
 them, are perhaps the most liable; I mean 
 those sects whose religion, being from the cal- 
 culating understanding, is cold and formal. 
 For when Christianity, the religion of humility, 
 
 is founded upon the proudest faculty of our na- 
 ture, what can be expected but contradictions. 
 Accordingly, believers of this cast are at one 
 lime contemptuous ; at another, being troubled, 
 as they are and must be, with inward misgiv- 
 ings, they are jealous and suspicious ;— and at 
 all seasons, they are under temptation to sup- 
 ply, by the heat with which they defend tneir 
 tenets, the animation which is wanting to the 
 constitution of the religion itself. 
 
 Faith was given to man that his afiTection?, 
 detached from the treasures of time, might be 
 inclined to settle upon those of eternity :— the 
 elevation of his nature, which this habit pro- 
 duces on earth, being to him a presumptive 
 evidence of a future state of existence ; and 
 giving him a title to partake of its holiriess. 
 The religious man values what he sees chiefly 
 as an " imperfect shadowing forth" of what he 
 is incapable of seeing. The concerns of re- 
 ligion refer to indefinite objects, and are too 
 weighty for the mind to support them without 
 relieving itself by resting a great part of the 
 burthen upon words and symbols. The com- 
 merce between Man and his Maker cannot be 
 carried on but by a process where much is rep- 
 resented in little, and the Infinite Being ac- 
 commodates himself to a finite capacity. In 
 all this may be perceived the aflSnity between 
 religion and poetry ; — between religion — ma- 
 king up the deficiencies of reason by faith ; 
 and poetry — passionate for the instruction of 
 reason ; between religion — whose element is 
 infinitude, and whose ultimate trust is the su- 
 preme of things, submitting herself to circum- 
 scription, and reconciled to substitutions; and 
 poetry — ethereal and transcendant, yet inca- 
 pable to sustain her existence without sensuous 
 incarnation. In this community of nature may 
 be perceived also the lurking incitements of 
 kindred error; — so that we shall find that no 
 poetry has been more subject to distortion, 
 than that species, the argument and scope of 
 which is religious; and no lovers of the art 
 have gone farther astray than the pious and 
 the devout. 
 
 Whither then shall we turn for that union 
 of qualifications which must necessarily exist 
 before the decisions of a critic can be of abso- 
 lute value ? For a mind at once poetical and 
 philosophical ; for a critic whose alFections are 
 as free and kindly as the spirit of society, and 
 whose understanding is severe as that of dis- 
 passionate government? Where are we to 
 look for tliat initiatory composure of mind 
 which no selfishness can disturb ? For a natu- 
 ral sensibility tiiat has been tutored into cor- 
 rectness without losing any tiling of its quick- 
 ness ; and fi)r active faculties capable of an- 
 swering the demands which an Author of ori- 
 ginal imagination shall make upon them,— as- 
 sociated with a judgment that cannot be du- 
 ped into admiration by aught that is unworthy 
 of it .^— Among those and those only, who, 
 never having sufl'ered their youthful love of 
 poetry to remit much of its force, have applied 
 to the consideration of the laws of this art the 
 best power of their understandings. At the 
 same lime it must be observed— that as this 
 Class comprehends the only judgments'which 
 are trust-worthy, so does it include the most 
 erroneous and perverse. For to be mis-tau.rht 
 js worse than to be untaught ; and no pervei^e- 
 ness equals that which is supported by system 
 no errors are so difficult to root out as those 
 
SUPPLEMENT TO THE PREFACE, 
 
 Si 
 
 which the understanding has pledged its credit 
 to uphold. In this Class are coniained Cen- 
 sors, who, if they be pleased with what is 
 good, are pleased with it only by imperfect 
 glimpses, and upon false principles; who, 
 should they generalise rightly to a certain 
 point, are sure to suffer for it in the end ; — 
 who, if they stumble upon a sound rule, are 
 fettered by misapplying it, or by straining it 
 too far ; being incapable of perceiving when 
 it ought to yield to one of higher order. In it 
 are fuund Critics too petulant to be passive to 
 a genuine Poet, and loo feeble to grapple with 
 him ; Men, who take upon them to report of 
 the course which he holds whom they are ut- 
 terly unable to accompany, — confounded if he 
 turn quick upon the wing, dismayed if he soar 
 steadily ^' into the region"; — Men of palsied 
 inriaginations and indurated hearts; in whose 
 minds all healthy action is languid, — who 
 therefore feed as the many direct them, or, 
 with the mau}^, are greedy after vicious provo- 
 catives ; — Judges, whose censure is auspi- 
 cious and whose praise ominous! In this class 
 meet together the two extremes of best and 
 worst. 
 
 The observations presented in the foregoing 
 seiies are of too ungracious a nature to have 
 been made without reluctance; and, were it 
 only on this account,! would invite the reader 
 to try them by the test of comprehensive ex- 
 perience. If the number of Judges who can 
 be confidently relied upon be in reality so 
 small, it ought to tollow that partial notice 
 only, or neglect, perhaps long continued, or 
 attention wholly inadequate to tlieir merits — 
 must have been the fate of most works in the 
 higher departments of poetry; and that, on 
 the other hand, numerous productions have 
 blazed into popularity, and have passed away, 
 leaving scarcely a trace behind them : — it will 
 be further found, that when Authors have, at 
 length, raised themselves into general admira- 
 tion and maintained their ground, errors and 
 prejudices have prevailed concerning their gen- 
 ius and their works, which the few who are 
 conscious of those errors and prejudices would 
 deplore ; if they were not recompensed by 
 perceiving that there are select Spirits for 
 whom it is ordained that their fame shall be 
 in the world an existence like that of Virtue, 
 which owes its being to the struggles it makes, 
 and its vigor to the enemies whom it pro- 
 vokes: — a vivacious quality, ever doomed to 
 meet with opposition, and still triumphing 
 over it; and, from the nature of its dominion', 
 incapable of being brought to the sad conclu- 
 sion of Alexander, when he wept that there 
 were no more worlds for him to conquer. 
 
 Let us take a hasty retrospect of the poetical 
 literature of this Country for the greater part 
 of the last two Centuries, and see if the facts 
 support these inferences. 
 
 Who is there that can now endure to read 
 the *' Creation" of Dubartas ? Yet all Europe 
 once resounded with his praise; he was ca- 
 ressed by Kings ; and, when his Poem was 
 translated into our language, the Faery Q,ueen 
 faded before it. The name of Spenser, whose 
 genius is of a higher order than even that of 
 Ariosto, is at this day scarcely known beyond 
 the limits of the British Isles. And if the 
 value of his works is to be estimated from the 
 attention now paid to them by his Country- 
 men; compared with that which they bestow 
 
 on those of some other writers, it must be pro- 
 nounced small indeed. 
 
 ** The laurel, meed of mig^lity Conquerors 
 And Poets sage^^ — 
 
 are his own words ; but his wisdom has, in 
 this particular, been liis worst enemy ; while 
 its opposite, whether in the shape of folly or 
 madness, has been their best friend. But he 
 was a great power; and bears a high name: 
 the laurel has been awarded to him. 
 
 A Dramatic Author, if he write for the Stage, 
 must adapt himself to the taste of the Audience, 
 or they will not endure him ; accordingly tho 
 mighty genius of Shakspeare was listened to. 
 The people were delighted : but I am not suf- 
 ficiently versed in Stage antiquities to deter- 
 mine whether they did not flock as eagerly to 
 the lepresentation of as many pieces of con- 
 temporary Authors, wholl}^ undeserving to ap- 
 pear upon the same boards. Had there been a 
 formal contest for superiority among dramatic 
 Writers, that Shakspeare, like his predeces- 
 sors, Sophocles and Euripides, would have of- 
 ten been subject to the njortification of seeing 
 the prize adjudged to sorry competitors, be- 
 comes too probable, when we reflect that the 
 Admirers of Settle and Shadwell w^cre, in a 
 later age, as numerous, and reckoned as re- 
 spectable in point of talent, as those of Dry- 
 den. At all events, that Shakspeare stooped 
 to accommodate himself to the People, is suffi- 
 ciently apparent ; and one of the most striking 
 proofs of his almost omnipotent genius, is, that 
 lie could turn to such glorious purpose those 
 materials which the prepossessions of the age 
 compelled him to make use of. Yet even this 
 marvellous skill appears not to have been 
 enough to prevent his rivals from having some 
 advantage over him in public estimation ; else 
 how can we account for passages and scenes 
 that exist in his works, unless upon a supposi- 
 tion that some of the grossest of them, a fact 
 which in my own mind I have no doubt of, 
 were foisted in by the Players, for the gratifi- 
 cation of the many ? 
 
 But tliat his Works, whatever might be their 
 reception upon the stage, made little impres- 
 sion upon the ruling Intellects of the time, 
 may be inferred from tlie fact that Lord Bacon, 
 in his multifarious writings, nowhere cither 
 quotes or alludes to him.* — His dramatic ex- 
 cellence enabled him to resume possession of 
 the stage after the Restoration ; but Dryden 
 tells us that in his time two of the plays of 
 Beaumont and Fletcher were acted for one of 
 Shakspeare. And so faint and limited was the 
 perception of the poetic beauties of his dramas 
 in the time of Pope, that, in his Edition of the 
 Plays, with a view of rendering to the general 
 Reader a necessary service, he printed be- 
 tween inverted commas those passages which 
 he thought most worthy of notice. 
 
 At this day, the French Critics have abated 
 nothing of their avei'sion to this darling of our 
 Nation: " the English, with their Buflbn de 
 Shakspeare," is as familiar an expression 
 amoncr them as in the time of Voltaire. Baron 
 Grimm is the only French writer who seems 
 
 * The learned Hakewill (a 3d edition of whose book 
 bears date 1635), writinfj to refute the error "touching 
 Nature's perpetual and universal decay," cites tnumplj- 
 antly t]i« names of Ariosto, Tasso, Bartas, and Spenser, 
 as instances that poetic jj-enius had not degenerated; but 
 he makes no mention ot Shakspeare. 
 
Ill 
 
 Sm-PLEMEiNf TO THE PSEFACST. 
 
 to have ptTceived his infinile 
 
 fint n-L^P of tl r '"^\"l V»P^^»^nty to the nets, Dr. Johnson, as appears from BaawelF^ 
 till vvhT, W n ^•;^^''^"^^\J.»^^^tre; an ad van- Life of him, was in the l.abit of thinking and 
 l^!!7i i' l»'« 1 ^'^'•'s.an Cr.t.c owed to his Ger- speaking as conlemptuousW as Stevens wrote; 
 
 man blood and German edwcalion. The most 
 enhghtened Italians, though well acquainted 
 with our language, are wholly incompetent to 
 ineasuie ihe proportions of Shakspeare. The 
 Germans only, of foreign nations, are approach- 
 ing towards a knowledge and feeling of what 
 he IS. In some respects they have acquired a 
 superiority over the fellow-Goumrymen of the 
 loot: for among us it is a current, I might 
 say, an estahhshcd opinion, that Shakspeare is 
 justly praised when ho is pronounced to be " a 
 wild irregular genius, in whom great faults are 
 compensated by great beauties." How long 
 may it be before this misconception passes 
 away, and it becomes universally acknow- 
 ledged that the judgment of Shakspeare in the 
 selection of his materials, and in ihe manner 
 in vvliich he has made them, heterogeneous as 
 Ihey often are, constitute a unity of their own, 
 and contribute all to one great end, is not less 
 admirable than his imagination, his invention^ 
 and his intuitive knowledge of human Nature ! 
 There is extant a smalTVolume of rmscella- 
 reous Poems in which Shakspeare expresses 
 liis own feelings in liis own Person. It is not 
 ditficult to conceive that the Editor, George 
 Stevens, should have been insensible to the 
 beauties of one portion of that Volume, the 
 Sonnets ; though there is not a part of the 
 writings of this Poet where is found, in an 
 equal compass, a greater number of exquisite 
 feelings felicitously expressed. But, from re- 
 gard to the Critic's own credit, he would not 
 have ventured to talk of an'* act of parliament 
 not being strong enough to compel the perusal 
 of these, or any production of Shakspeare, if 
 he had not known that the people of England 
 were ignorant of the treasures contained in 
 those little pieces : and if he Jiad not, more- 
 over, shared the too common propensity of 
 Jiuman nature to exult over a supposed fall into 
 the mire of a genius whom he had been com- 
 pelled to regard with admiration, as an inmate 
 of the celestial regions, — *' there sitting where 
 iic durst not soar." 
 
 Nine years before the death of Shakspeare, 
 l^lilton was born ; and early in life he publish- 
 ed several small poems, which, though on their 
 fust appearance they were praised by a few 
 of the judicious, were afterwards neglected to 
 that degree, that Pope in his youth, could bor- 
 row from them wit/»out risk of its being known. 
 Whether tliese poems are at this day justly 
 appreciated I will not undertake to decide : nor 
 would it imply a severe reflection upon tlie 
 mass of lleadors to suppose llie contrary ; see- 
 ing that a Man of tiie acknowledged genius of 
 VosSjthe German Poet, couhl sulTer their spirit 
 to evaporate ; and could change their charac- 
 ter, as is done in the translation made by him 
 of the most popular of those pieces. At all 
 events, it is certain that these Poems of Milton 
 are now much read, and loudly praised ; yet 
 were they little heard of till more than 150 
 years after their publication; and of the Son- 
 
 * Tills flippant insensibility was publicly reprehended 
 by jNIr. Coleridge in a course of Lectures upon Poetry 
 c-iven by hirn at the Royal Institution. For the vanous 
 inerils of thought and langnag-e in Shakspeare's Sonnets 
 st-e Numbers 27. 29. 30. 32. 33. 54. 64. 66. 68. 73. 76. 86. 
 gi. 92. 93. 97. 98. 105. 107. 108. 109. 111. 113. 114, 116. 117. 
 129. and many others. 
 
 peaking as conlemptu( 
 upon- those of Shakspeare. 
 
 About the lime when the Pindaric Odes of 
 Cowley and his imitators, and the productions 
 of that class of curious thinkers whom Dr, 
 Johnson lia» strangely styled Metaphysical 
 Poets, were beginning to lose something of 
 that extravagant admiratiorv which they had 
 excited, the Paradise Lost rrvade its appearance, 
 "Fit audience find thor>gh few," was the pe- 
 tition addressed by the Poet to his inspiring 
 Muse. I have said elsewhere that he gained 
 more than he asked ; this I believe to be true ; 
 but Dr. Johnson has fallen into a gross mistake 
 when he attempts to prove,^ by the sale of the 
 work, that Mihon's Countrymen were ^^ just to 
 it" upon its first appearance. Thirteen hun- 
 dred Copies were sold in two years; an un- 
 common example, he asserts, of the prevalence 
 of genius in opposition to so much recent en- 
 mity as Milton's pwblpc conduct had excited. 
 Bat, be it remembered that, if Milton's political 
 and religious opinions, and the manner in 
 which he announced them, had raised him 
 many enemies, they had procured him n-ume- 
 rous friends ; who, as all personal danger wa» 
 passed away at the time of publication, would 
 be eager to procure the master-work of a Man 
 whom they revered, and wirora they would be 
 proud of praising. The demand did not im- 
 mediately increase; "for," says Dr. Johnson, 
 " many more Readers" (he means Persons in 
 the habit of reading poetry) "than were sup- 
 plied at first the Nation did not afford." How 
 careless must a writer be who can make this 
 assertion in the face of so many existing title- 
 pages to belie it ! Turning to my own shelves^ 
 I find the folio of Cowley, 7th" Edition, 1681. 
 A bfxdv near k is Flatman's Poem's, 4th Edi- 
 tion, 1()S6. Waller, 5lh Edition, same date. 
 The Poems of Norris of Bemerton not long 
 after went, I believe, through nine Editions. 
 What further demand there might be for these 
 woiks I do not know, but I well remember^ 
 that 25 years ago, the Booksellers' stalls in 
 London swarmed with the folios of Cowley. 
 This is not mentioned in disparagement of 
 that able writer and amiable Mnn ; but m'Srelj 
 to show — that, if Milton's work was not more 
 read, it was not because readers did not exist 
 at the time. The early Editions of the Para- 
 dise Lost were printed in a shape which al- 
 lowed thern to be sold at a low price, yet only 
 3000 copies of the VVork were sold in 11 years; 
 and the Nation, says Dr. Johnson, had been 
 satisfied from 1623 to 1644, that is 21 years, 
 with only two Editions of the Works of Shaks- 
 peare ;_ vvhich probably did not together make 
 
 to 
 
 e 
 
 t 
 
 as 
 
 1000 Copies; facts adduced by the critic t 
 prove tlie " paucity of Readers." — There wer 
 Readers in multitudes ; but their money wen 
 for other purposes, as their admiration wa; 
 fixed elsewhere. We are authorized, then, to 
 afl^irm, that the reception of the Paradise Lo^t 
 and the slow progress of its fame, are proofs 
 as striking as can be desired that the positions 
 which I am attempting to establish are not er- 
 roneous*.~How amusing to shape to one^s self 
 
 f.*r,^J-C'^'''^''^\';f',"P''" *^^5 subject; in his dediea- 
 t,on of bpenser's Works to Lord Somers,'he writes thS. 
 It >vas your Lordship's encouiag:ing; a beautiful Edition 
 of Parachse Lost that first brought that incomparable 
 Poem to be genei-al ly known and esteemed." i^^^aoie 
 
SUPPLEWBNT TO TUB PREFACE. 
 
 Xlli 
 
 such a critique as a Wit of Charles' days, or a 
 Lord of the Miscellanies or trading Journalist 
 of King William's lime, would have brought 
 forth, if he had set his faculties industriously 
 to work upon this Poem, every where impreg- 
 nated with original excellence! 
 
 So strange indeed aie the obliquities of ad- 
 miration, that they whose opinions are much 
 influenced by authority will often be tempted 
 to think that there are no fixed principles^ in 
 human nature for this art to rest upon. I have 
 been honoured by being permitted to peruse in 
 MS. a tract composed between the period of 
 the Revolution and the close of that Century. 
 It is the Work of an English Peer of high ac- 
 complishments, its object to form the charac- 
 ter and direct the studies of his Son. Perhaps 
 nowhere does a more beautiful treatise of the 
 kind exist. The good sense and wisdom of 
 the thoughts, the delicacy of the feelings, and 
 the charrn of the style, are, throughout, equal- 
 ly conspicuous. Yet the Author, selecting 
 among the Poets of his own Country those 
 whom he deems most worthy of his son's peru- 
 sal, particularises only Lord Rochester, Sir John 
 Denham, and Cowley. Writing about the 
 same time, Shaftesbury, an Author at present 
 unjustly depreciated, describes the English 
 Muses as only yet lisping in their Cradles. 
 
 The arts by which Pope, soon afterwards, 
 contrived to procure to himself a more general 
 and a higher reputation than perhaps any 
 English Poet ever attained during iiis life-time, 
 are known to the judicious. And as well 
 known is it to them, that the undue exertion 
 of these arts is the cause why Pope has for 
 some time held a rank in literature, to which, 
 if he had not been seduced by an over-love of 
 immediate popularity, and had confided more 
 in his native genius, he never could have de- 
 scended. He bewitched the nation by his 
 melody, and dazzled it by his polished style, 
 and was himself blinded by his own success. 
 Having wandered from humanity in his Ec- 
 logues with boyish inexperience, the praise, 
 wliich these compositions obtained, tempted 
 him into a belief that Nature was not to be 
 trusted, at least in pastoral Poetry. To prove 
 this by example, he put his friend Gay upon 
 writinv; those Eclogues which the Author in- 
 tended lo be burlesque. The Listigator of the 
 work, and his Admirers, could perceive in them 
 nothinn; but what was ridiculous. Neverthe- 
 less, though these Poems contain some detes- 
 table passages, the effect, as Dr. Johnson well 
 observes, " of reality and truth became con- 
 spicuous even when the intention was to show 
 them grovelling and degraded." These Pas- 
 torals, ludicrous to those who prided them- 
 selves upon their refinement, in spite of those 
 disgusting passages, " became popular, and 
 were read with delight, as just representations 
 of rural manners and occupations." 
 
 Something less than 60 years after the publi- 
 cation of the Paradise Lost appeared Thom- 
 son's Winter; which was speedily followed by 
 his other Seasons. It is a work of inspiration ; 
 much of it is written from himself, and nobly 
 from himself How was it received ? '' It was 
 no sooner read," says one of his contemporary 
 biographers, " than universally admired: those 
 
 * This opinion seems actually to have been entertained 
 by Adam Smith, the worst cntic, David Hume not ex- 
 cepted, that Scotlaml, a soil to which this sort of v.'eed 
 seems natural, has produced. 
 
 only excepted who had not been used to fee), 
 or to look for any thing in poetry, beyond a 
 point of satirical or epigrammatic wit, a smart 
 antithesis richly trimmed with rhyme, or the 
 softness of an elegiac, complaint. To such 
 his manly classical spirit could not readily 
 commend itself; till, after a more attentive pe- 
 rusal, they had got the better of their prejudi- 
 ces, and either acquired or affected a truer 
 taste. A few others stood aloof, merely be- 
 cause they had long before fixed the articles of 
 their poetical creed, and resigned themselves 
 to an absolute despair of ever seeing anything 
 new and original. These were somewhat 
 mortified to find their notions disturbed by the 
 appearance of a poet, who seemed to owe noth- 
 ing but to nature and his own genius. But, in 
 a short time, the applause became unanimous; 
 every one wondering how so many pic- 
 tures, and pictures so familiar, should have 
 moved them but fiiintly lo what they felt 
 in his descriptions. His digressions too, the 
 overflowings of a tender benevolent heart, 
 charmed the reader no less; leaving him in 
 doubt, whether he should more admire tho 
 Poet or love the Man." 
 
 This case appears to bear strongly against 
 us : — but we must distinguish between won- 
 der and legitimate admiration. The subject of 
 the work is the changes produced in the ap- 
 pearances of nature by the revolution of the 
 year: and, by undertaking to write in verse, 
 'Thomson pledged himself to treat his subject 
 as became a Poet. Now it is remarkable that, 
 excepting the nocturnal Reverie of Lady Win- 
 chelsea, and a passage or two in the Windsor 
 Forest of Pope, the Poetry of the period inter- 
 vening between the publication of the Paradise 
 Lost and the Seasons does not contain a single 
 new image of external nature ; and scarcely 
 presents a familiar one from which it can be 
 inferred that the eye of the Poet had been 
 steadily fixed upon his object, much less that 
 his feelings had urged him to work upon it in 
 the spirit of genuine imagination. To what a 
 low state knowledge of the most obvious 
 and important phenomena had sunk, is evi- 
 dent from the style in which Dryden has exe- 
 cuted a description of Night in one of his Tra- 
 gedies, and Pope his translation of ihe celebra- 
 ted moonlight scene in the Iliad. A blind man, 
 in the habit of attending accurately to descrip- 
 tions casually dropped from the lips of those 
 around him, might easily depict these appear- 
 ances with more truth. Dryden's lines are 
 vague, bombastic, and senseless ;*" those of 
 Pope, though he had Homer to guide him, are 
 throughout false and contradictory. The verses 
 of Dryden, once highly celebrated, are forgot- 
 ten ; those of Pope still retain their hold upon 
 public estimation,— nay, there is not a passage 
 of descriptive poetry, which at this day finds so 
 many and such ardent admirers. Strange to 
 think of an Enthusiast, as n)ay have been tho 
 case with thousands, reciting those verses un- 
 der the cope of a moonlight sky, without hav- 
 ing his raptures in the least disturbed by a sus- 
 
 * Cortes alone in a nig/U-gown, 
 
 All things are bush'd as Nature's self lay dead : 
 The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head. 
 The little Birds in dreams their Soups repeat, 
 And sleeping flowers beneath the Kight-dew sweat : 
 Even Lust and Envy sleep ; yet Love denies 
 Rest to my soul, and slumber to my eyes. 
 
 DiuD£:s''.s Indian Emperor- 
 
xit 
 
 SUPPLEMENT TO THB PREFACE. 
 
 picion of their absurdit}^ ! — If these two distin- 
 guished Writers could habitually think that the 
 visible universe was of so little consequence to 
 a Poet, that it was scarcely necessary for him 
 to cast his eyes upon it, we may be assured 
 that those passages of tfie elder Poets which 
 faithfully and poetically describe the phenom- 
 ena of nature, were not at that time holden in 
 much estimation, and that there was little ac- 
 cur:ite attention paid to these appearances. 
 
 Wonder is the natural product of Ignorance ; 
 and as the soil was in such good condition at 
 the time of the publication of'the Seasons, the 
 crop was doubtless abundant. Neither indi- 
 viduals nor nations become corrupt all at once, 
 nor are they enlightened in a moment. Thom- 
 son was an inspired Poet, but he could not 
 work miracles; in cases where the art of see- 
 ing had in some degree been learned, the teach- 
 er would further the proficiency of his pupils, 
 but he could do little morc^ though so far does 
 vanity assist men in acts of self-deception, that 
 many would often fancy they recognized a like- 
 ness when they knew nothing of the original. 
 Having shown that much of what his Biogra- 
 pher deemed genuine admiration, must in fact 
 Jiave been blind wonderment, — how is the 
 rest to be accounted for ? — Thomson was for- 
 tunate in the very title of his Poem, which 
 seeined to bring it home to the prepared sym- 
 pathies of every one: in the next place, not- 
 withstanding his high powers, he writes a vi- 
 cious style ; and his false ornaments are exact- 
 ly of that kind which would be most likely to 
 strike the undiscerning. He likewise abounds 
 with sentimental common-places, that, from 
 the manner in which they were brought for- 
 wnrd, bore an imposing air of novelty. In any 
 well-used Copy of the Seasons the Book gene- 
 rally opens of itself with the rhapsody on love, 
 or with one of the stories (perhaps Damon and 
 I\Iusidora) ; these also are prominent in our 
 Collections of t^xtracts ; and are the parts of 
 his Work, which, after all, were probably most 
 efficient in first recommendins: the author to 
 general notice. Pope, repaying praises which 
 Jie had received, and wishing to extol him 
 to the highest, only styles him "an elegant 
 and philosophical Poet;" nor are we able to 
 collect any unquestionable proofs that the true 
 cliaracteristics of Thomson's genius as an im- 
 aginative Poet* were perceived, till the elder 
 Warton, almost 40 years after the publication 
 of the Seasons, pointed them out by a note in 
 his Essay on the Life and Writings of Pope. 
 In the Castle of Indolence (of which Gray 
 speaks so coldly) tliese characteristics were 
 almost as conspicuously displayed, and in 
 verse more harmonious, and diction more pure. 
 Yet that line Poem was neglected on its ap- 
 pearance, and is at this day the delight only of 
 a Few ! 
 
 When Thomson died, Collins breathed forth 
 his regrets in an Eleg-iac Poem, in vv'hich he 
 pronounces a poetical curse upon him who 
 should regard with insensibility the place 
 where the Poet's remains were deposited. 
 The Poems of the mourner himself have now 
 passed through innumerable Editions, and are 
 universally known ; but if, when Collins died, 
 
 * Since these observations upon Thomson were written, 
 I have perused the 2il Edition of his Seasons, and iind 
 that even thitdoes not contain the most staking passag-es 
 which Warton points out for admiration ; these, with 
 other improvements, throughout the whole work, must 
 have been added at a later period. 
 
 the same kind of imprecation had been ptO* 
 nounced by a surviving admirer, email is the 
 number whom it would not have compre- 
 hended. The notice which his poems attam- 
 ed during his life-time was so small, and ot 
 course the sale so insignificant, that not long 
 before his death he deemed it right to repay 
 to the Bookseller the fium which he had ad- 
 vanced for them, and threw the Edition into 
 
 the fire. crru 
 
 Next in importance to the Seasons ot Thorn- 
 son, though at considerable distance from that 
 
 work in order of time, come the Relics ot An- 
 cient English Poetry; collected, new-model- 
 led, and in many instances (if such a contra- 
 diction in terms may be used) composed by 
 the Editor, Dr. Percy. This work did not 
 steal silently into the world, as is evident from 
 the number of legendary tales, which appear- 
 ed not lono- after its publication ; and which 
 were modelled, as the Authors persuaded 
 themselves, after the Old Ballad. The Com- 
 pilation was however ill suited to the then ex- 
 isting taste of City society ; and Or. Johnson, 
 'mid^'the little senate to which he gave laws, 
 was not sparing in his exertions to make it an 
 object of contempt. The Critic triumphed, 
 the legendary imitators were deservedly dis- 
 regarded, and, as undeservedly, their il'-imi- 
 tated models sank, in this Country, into tem- 
 porary neglect ; while Burger, and other able 
 writers of Germany, were translating, or im- 
 itating these Reliques, and composing, with 
 the aid of inspiration thence derived. Poems 
 which are the delight of the German nation. 
 Dr. Percy was so abashed by the ridicule flung 
 upon his labours from the ignorance and in- 
 sensibility of the Persons with whom he li- 
 ved, that, thouofh while he was writing under 
 a mask he had not wanted a resolution to fol- 
 low his genius into the regions of true sim- 
 plicity and genuine pathos (as is evinced by 
 the exquisite ballad of Sir Cauline and by 
 many other pieces), yet when he appeared in 
 his own person and character as a poetical 
 writer, he adopted, as in the tale of the Her- 
 mit of Wark worth, a diction scarcely iu any 
 one of its features distinguishable from the 
 vao-ue, the glossy, and unteeling language 
 of his day. I mention this remarkable fact* 
 with regret, esteeming the genius of.Dr. Pei- 
 cy in this kind of writing superior to that of 
 any other man by whom in modern times it 
 has been cultivated. That even Burger (to 
 whom Klopstork gave, in my hearing, a com- 
 mendation which he denied to Goethe and 
 Schiller, pronouncing him to be a crenuine 
 Poet, and one of the few among the Germans 
 whose works would last,) had not the fine 
 sensibility of Percy, might be shown from 
 many passages, in which he has deserted his 
 original only to go astray. For example, 
 
 Now daye was gone, and night was come, 
 And all were fast asleepe, 
 jMI save the Lady Emeline, 
 Who sate in her bowre to weepe : 
 
 re- 
 
 Li- 
 
 terature) the Poem was accompanied m ith an absurd prose 
 commentary, shownig, as indeed some incongruous ex- 
 pressions m the text nnply, that the whole was intended 
 tor burlesque. In subsequent editions, the commentHn* 
 was dropped, and the People have since continued to read 
 ni seriousness, doing for the Author what he h.id not con 
 lage openly to voiture upon for himself. 
 
SUPPLEMENT TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 XV 
 
 And soone she heard her true Love's voice 
 Low wliispering at the Avalle, 
 Awake, awake, my dear Ladye, 
 'Tis I thy true-love call. 
 
 Which is thus tricked out and dilated : 
 
 Als nun die Nacht Gebivg' und Thai 
 Vermumn)t in Rabenschittten, 
 Und Hochburf^B Lampen uber-all 
 Schon ausj^edinimeit hatt< n, 
 Und alles tief entschlafcn war ; 
 Dochnurdas Fraulein iinmerdar, 
 Voll Fieberanf^st, noch waclitc, 
 Und seinen Hitter dachte : 
 Da horch ! Ein susser Liebeston 
 Kam leis' empor ^tflojjen. 
 *' Ho, Trudchen, ho ! Da bin ich schon ! , 
 Kischauf 1 Dich angezogen 1" 
 
 But from humble ballads we must ascend 
 to heroics. 
 
 All hail, Macpherson 1 hail to thee, Sire of 
 Ossian ! The Phantom was begotten by the 
 snug embrace of an impudent Highlander up- 
 on a cloud of tradition — it travelled south- 
 ward, where it was greeted with acclamation, 
 and the thin Consistence took its course 
 through Europe, upon the breath of popular 
 applause. The Editor of the "" Reliques" had 
 indirectly preferred a claim to the praise of 
 invention, by not concealing that his supple- 
 mentary labours were considerable ! how self- 
 ish his conduct, contrasted with that of the 
 disinterested Gael, who, like Lear, gives his 
 kingdom away, and is content to become a 
 pensioner upon his own issue for a beggarly 
 pittance I — Open this far-famed Book ! — I 
 have done so at random, and the beginning of 
 the *' Epic Poem Temora," in 8 Books, pre- 
 sents itself. ''The blue waves of Ullm roll in 
 light. The green hills are covered with day. 
 Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. 
 Grey torrents pour their noisy streams. Two 
 green hills wiiti aged oaks surround a narrow 
 plain. The blue course of a stream is there. 
 On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His 
 spear supports the king; the red eyes of his 
 fear are sad. Cormac rises on his smuI with 
 all his ghastly wounds." Precious memoran- 
 dums from the pocket-book of the blind Os- 
 sian ! 
 
 ]f itbe unbecoming, as I acknowledge that for 
 the most part it is, to speak disrespectfully of 
 Works that have enjoyed for a length of lime 
 a widely-spread repuation, without at the 
 sanie time producing irrefragable proofs of 
 their unworthiness, let me be forgiven upon 
 this occasion. — Having had the good fortune 
 to be born and reared in a mountainous Coun- 
 try, from my very childhood I have felt the 
 falsehood that pervades the volumes imposed 
 upon the World under the name of Ossian. 
 From what I saw with my own eyes, I knew 
 that the imagery was spurious, in nature 
 every thing is distinct, yet nothing defined 
 into absolute independent sin,£;leness. In 
 Macpherson's work it is exactly the reverse ; 
 every thing (that is not stolen) is in this man- 
 ner defined, insulated, dislocated, deadened, 
 — yet nothing distinct. It v/i!l always be so 
 when words are substituted for things. To 
 say that the characters never could e.^ist, that 
 the manners arc impossible, and that a dream 
 has more substance than the v^hole state of 
 society, as there depicted, is doing nothing 
 more than pronouncing a censuro which Mac- 
 
 pherson defied ; when, with the steeps of 
 Morven before his eyes, he could talk so fa- 
 miliarly of his Carborne heroes ; — of Morven, 
 which, if one may judge from its appear- 
 ance at the distance of a few miles, contains 
 scarcely an acre of ground sufficiently accom- 
 modating for a sledge to be trailed along its 
 surface. — Mr. Malcolm Laing has ably .'-howri 
 that the diction of this pretended translation 
 is a motley assemblage from all quarters ; but 
 he is so fond of nsaking out parallel passages 
 as to call poor Macpherson to account for his 
 very ^^ ands''' and his ^^ buU- 1^' and he ha.s 
 weakened his argument by conducting it as 
 if he thought that every striking resemblance 
 was a conscious plagiarism. It is enough that 
 the coincidences are too remarkable for its be- 
 ing probable or possible that they could arise 
 in different minds without communication be- 
 tween them. Now as the Translators of the 
 Bible, Shakspeare, Milton, and Pope, could 
 not be indebted to Macpherson, it follows that 
 he must have owed his fine feathers to Ihem ; 
 unless we are prepared gravely to assert, with 
 Madame de Stael, that many of the charac- 
 teristic beauties of our most celebrated En- 
 glish Poets are derived from the ancient F'in- 
 gallian ; in which case the modern transla- 
 tor would have been but giving back to Ossian 
 his own. — It is consistent that Lucien Buona- 
 parte, who could censure Milton for having 
 surrounded Satan in the infernal regions with 
 courtly and regal splendour, should pronounce 
 the modern Ossian to be the glory of Scot- 
 land ; — a Country that has produced a Dun- 
 bar, a Buchanan, a Thomson, and a Burns I 
 These opinions are of ill omen for the Epic 
 ambition of him who has given them to tho 
 world. 
 
 Yet, much as these pretended treasures of 
 antiquity have been admired, they have been 
 wholly uninfluential upon the literatm-e of the 
 Country. No succeeding Writer appears to 
 have caught from them a ray of inspiration ;. 
 no Author, in the least distinguished, has ven- 
 tured formally to imitate them — except llie 
 Boy, Chatterton, on their first appearance. Ho 
 had perceived, from the successful trials which 
 he liimself had made in literary f)rgery, Iiow 
 few critics were able to distinguish between a 
 real ancient medal and a counterfeit of modern 
 manufacture; and he set himself to the work 
 of filling a Magazine w'nh Saxon poems, — 
 counterparts of those of Ossian, as like his as 
 one of his misty stars is to another. This in- 
 capability to amalgamate with the literature of 
 j the Island, is, in my estimation, a decisive proof 
 that the book is essentially unnatural; nor 
 should I require any other to demonstrate it to 
 be a forgery, audacious as worthless. — Contrast, 
 in this respect, the effect of Macpherson's pub- 
 lication with the Reliques of Percy, so unas- 
 suming, so modest in their pretensions! — I 
 have already stated how much Germany is in- 
 debted to this latter work ; and for our own 
 Country, its Poetry has been absolutely re- 
 deemed by it. I do not think that there is an 
 able Writer in verse of the present day who 
 would not be proud to acknowledge his obli- 
 gations to the Reliques; I know that it is so 
 with my friends; and, for myself, I am happy 
 in this occasion to make a public avowal of 
 my own. 
 
 Dr. Johnson, more fortunate in his contempt 
 
xvx 
 
 SUPPLEMEKT TO THE PIlEFACf:. 
 
 t^f the labours of Macpherson than those of his 
 modest friend, was solicited not long after to 
 furnish Prefaces biographical and ciitical for 
 the works of some of the most eminent Eng- 
 lish Poets. The Booksellers took upon them- 
 selves to make the collection; they reteried 
 probably to the most popular miscellanies, and, 
 unquestionably, to their Books of accounts ; 
 and decided upon the claim of Authors to be 
 admitted into a body of the most Emineni, 
 from the familiarity of their names with the 
 readers of that day, and by the profits, which, 
 from the sale of his works, each had brought 
 and was bringing to the Trade. The Editor 
 was allowed a limited exercise of discretion, 
 and the Authors whom he recommended arc 
 scarcely to be mentioned without a smile. We 
 open the volume of Pi cfatory Lives, and to our 
 astonishment the fust name we find is that of 
 Cowley! — What is become of the Morning- 
 star of English Poetry? Where is the bright 
 Elizabethan Constellation ? Or, if Names be 
 more acceptable than images, where is the 
 ever-to-be-honoured Chaucer? where is Spen- 
 ser? where Sidney? and, lastly, where he, 
 whose rights as a Poet, contradistinguished 
 from those which he is universally allowed to 
 jjossess as a Dramatist, we have vindicated, — 
 where Shakspeare ? — These, and a multitude 
 of others not unworthy to be placed near them, 
 their conteniporaries and successors, we have 
 not. But in their stead, we have (could better 
 be expected when precedence was to be settled 
 by an abstract of reputation at any given pe- 
 ri(jd made, as in this case before us?) Roscom- 
 mon, and Stepney, and Phillips, and Walsh, 
 and Smith, and Duke, and King, and Spratt 
 — Halifax, Granville, Sheffield, Congreve, 
 Broome, and other reputed Magnates : Wri- 
 ters in metre utterly worthless and useless, ex- 
 cept for occasions like the present, when their 
 productions are referred to as evidence what a 
 small quantity of brain is necessary to procure 
 a considerable stock of admiration, provided 
 the aspirant will accommodate himself to the 
 likings and fashions of his day. 
 
 As I do not mean to bring down this retro- 
 spect to our own times, it may with propriety 
 be closed ai the era of this distinguished event. 
 From the literature of other ages and countries, 
 proofs equally cogent might have been ad- 
 duced, that the opinions announced in the 
 fornicr part of this Essay are founded upon 
 tniili. it was not an agreeable office, nor a 
 prudent undertaking, to declare them ; but 
 iheir importance seemed to render it a duty. 
 It may still be asked, where lies the particular 
 relation of what has been said to tliese Vol- 
 umes ? — The (jU(,'stion will be easily answered 
 by the discerning Reader who is old enough to 
 remember the taste that prevailed when some 
 of these Poems were first published, 17 )'cars 
 age; who has also observed to what degree 
 the Poetry of this Island lias since that period 
 been coh^ured by them ; and who is further 
 aware of the unremitting hostility with which, 
 upon some principle or other, thc}'^ have each 
 and all been opposed. A sketcli of my ovvm 
 notion of the constitution of Fame has been 
 given; and, as far as concerns myself, I have 
 cause to be satisfied. The love, the admira- 
 tion, the indilFerence, the slight, the aversion, 
 and even the contempt, with wJjich these 
 Poems have been received, knowing, as I do, 
 the source within my own mind, from which 
 
 they have proceeded, and the labour and pains, 
 which, when labour and pains appeared neea- 
 ful, have been bestowed upon them, must all, 
 if I think consistently, be received as pledges 
 and tokens, bearing the same general impres- 
 sion, though widely different in value ; — they 
 are all proofs that for the present time I have 
 not laboured in vain ; and afford assurances, 
 more or less authentic, that the products of my 
 industry will endure. 
 
 If there be one conclusion more forcibly 
 pressed upon us than another by the review 
 which has been given of the fortunes and fate 
 of Poetical Works, it is this, — that every Au- 
 thor, as far as he is great and at the same time 
 original, has had the task of creating the taste 
 by which he is to be enjoyed: so has it been, 
 so will it continue to be. This remark was long 
 since made to me by the philosophical Friend 
 for the separation of whose Poems from my 
 own I have previously expressed my regret. 
 7'he predecessors of an original Genius of a 
 [jigh order will have smoothed the way for all 
 that he has in common with them ; — and much 
 he will have in common; but, for what is pe- 
 culiarly his own, he will be called upon to 
 clear and often to shape his own road : — he 
 will be in the condition of Hannibal amonii 
 the Alps. 
 
 And where lies the real difficulty of creat- 
 ing that taste by which a truly original Poet is 
 to be relished ? Is it in bieaking the bonds of 
 custom, in overcoming the prejudices of false 
 refinement, and displacing the aversions of in- 
 experience? Or, if he labour for an object 
 which here and elsewhere I have proposed to 
 myself, does it consist in divesting the Reader 
 of the pride that induces liim to dwell upon 
 those points wherein Men differ from each 
 other, to the exclusion of those in which all 
 Men are alike, or tiie same; and in making 
 him ashamed of the vanity that renders him 
 insensible of the appropriate excellence which 
 civil arrangements, less unjust than might ap- 
 pear, and Nature illimitable in her bounty, 
 have conferred on Men who stand below him 
 in the scale of society ? Finally, does it lie in 
 establishing that dominion over the spirits of 
 Readers by which they are to be humbled and 
 humanised, in order that they may be purified 
 and exalted ? 
 
 If these ends are to be attained by the mere 
 communication of knowledge^ it does not lie 
 here. — Taste, I would remind the Reader, 
 like Imagination, is a word which has been 
 forced to extend its services far beyond the 
 point to which philosophy would have con- 
 fined them. It is a metaphor, taken from a 
 passive sense of the human body, and trans- 
 ferred to things which are in their essence not 
 passive, — to intellectual acts and operations. 
 The word, Imagination, has been overstrain- 
 ed, from impulses honourable to mankind, to 
 meet the demands of the faculty which is per- 
 haps the noblest of our nature. In the instance 
 of Taste, the process has been reversed ; and 
 from the prevalence of dispositions at once in- 
 jurious and discreditable, — being no other than 
 that selfishness which is the child of apathy, — 
 which, as Nations decline in productive and 
 creative power, makes them value themselves 
 upon a presumed refinement of judging. Po- 
 verty of language is the primary cause of the 
 use which we make of the word, Imagination ; 
 but the word, Taste, has been stretched to the 
 
SUPPLEMENT TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 XVft 
 
 SRttSC \vhich It bears in modern Europe by 
 liabits of self-conceit, inducing that inversion 
 in the order of things whereby a passive faculty 
 is made paramount among the faculties con- 
 versant with the fine arts. Proportion and 
 congruity, the requisite knowledge being sup- 
 posed, are subjects upon which taste may be 
 trusted ; it is competent to this office ; — for in 
 its intercourse with these the mind is passive^ 
 and is affected painfully or pleasuiably as by 
 an instinct. But the profound and the exqui- 
 site in feeling, the lofty and universal in thought 
 and imagination ; or, in ordinary language, 
 the pathetic and the sublime ; — are neither of 
 them, accurately speakings objects of a faculty 
 which could ever without a sinking in the 
 spirit of Nations have been designated by the 
 metaphor — Taste. And why? Because with- 
 out the exertion of a co operating poller in the 
 mind of the Reader, there can be no adequate 
 sympathy with either of these emotions : with- 
 out this auxiliary impulse, elevated or profound 
 passion cannot exist. 
 
 Passion, it must be observed, is derived from 
 a word which signifies suffering ; but the con- 
 nection which suffering has with effort, with 
 exertion, and action, is immediate and insepa- 
 rable. How strikingly is this property of hu- 
 man nature exhibited by the fact, that, in pop- 
 ular language, to be in a passion, is to be an- 
 gry i— But, 
 
 *' Anp^er in hasty Tcorf/y oy blows 
 Itself discharges on its foes." 
 
 To be moved, then, by a passion, is to be ex- 
 cited, often to external, and always to internal, 
 effort; whether for the continuance and 
 strengthening of the passion, or for its sup- 
 pression, accordingly as the course which it 
 takes may be painful or pleasurable. If the 
 latter, the soul must contribute to its support, 
 or it never becomes vivid, — and soon lan- 
 guishes and dies. And this brings us to the 
 point. If every great Poet with whose wri- 
 tings men are familiar, in the highest exercise 
 of his genius, before he can be thoroughly en- 
 joyed, has to call forth and to communicate 
 poicer, this service, in a still greater degree, 
 falls upon an original Writer, at his first ap- 
 pearance in the world. — Of genins the only 
 proof is, the act of doing well what is worthy 
 to be done, and what was never done before : 
 Of genius, in the fine arts, the only infallible 
 sign is the widening the sphere of human sen- 
 sibility, for the delight, honor, and benefit of 
 human nature. Genius is the introduction of 
 a new element into the intellectual universe : 
 or, if that be not allowed, it is the application of 
 powers to objects on which they had not be-, 
 fore been exercised, or the employment of them 
 in such a manner as to produce effects hitherto 
 unknown. What is all this but an advance, 
 or a conquest, made by the soul of the Poet.'' 
 Is it to be supposed that the Reader can make 
 progress of this kind, like an Indian Prince or 
 
 General stretched on his Palanquin, and 
 
 borne by his Slaves.'' No, he is invigorated 
 and inspirited by his Leader, in order that he 
 may exert himself; for he cannot proceed in 
 quiescence, he cannot be carried like a dead 
 weight. Therefore to create taste is to call 
 forth and bestow power, of which knowledge 
 is the effect; and there lies the true difficulty. 
 As the pathetic participates of an animal sen- 
 sation, it might seem— that, if the springs of 
 
 iii 
 
 this emotion were gemsine, all men, possessed 
 of competent knowledge of the facts and cir- 
 cumstances, would be instantaneously affected. 
 And doubtless, in the works of every true Poet 
 will be found passages of that species of ex- 
 cellence, which is proved by effects immedi- 
 ate and universal. But there are emotions of 
 the pathetic that are simple and direct, and 
 others — thut are complex and revolutionary; 
 some — to which the heart yields with gentle- 
 ness, others — against which it struggles witli 
 pride : these varieties are infinite as the com- 
 binations of circumstance and the constitutions 
 of character. Remember, also, that the me- 
 dium through which, in poetry, the heart is to 
 be affected — is language ; a thing subject to 
 endless fluctuations and arbitrary associations. 
 The genius of the Poet melts tiiese down for 
 his purpose; but they retain their shape and 
 quality to him who is not capable of exerting, 
 within his own mind, a corresponding energy. 
 There is also a meditative, as well as a hu- 
 man, pathos; an enthusiastic, as well as an 
 ordinary, sorrow ; a sadness that has its seat 
 in the depths of reason, to which the mind 
 cannot sink gently of itself — but to which it 
 must descend by treading the steps of thought. 
 And for the sublime, — if we consider what 
 are the cares that occupy the passing day, and 
 how remote is the practice and the course of 
 life from the sources of sublimity, in the soul 
 of Man, can it be wondered that there is little 
 existing preparation for a Poet charged with 
 a new mission to extend its kingdom, and to 
 augment and spread its enjoyments? 
 
 Away, then, with the senseless iteration of 
 tlje word, popular, applied to new works in 
 Poetry, as if there were no test of excellence 
 in this first of the fine arts but tijat all Men 
 should run after its productions as if urged by 
 an appetite, or constrained by a spell ! — The 
 qualities of writing best fitted for eager recep- 
 tion are either such as startle the world into at- 
 tention by their audacity and extravagance; or 
 they are chiefly of a superficial kind, lying up- 
 on the surfaces of manners; or arising out of 
 a selection and arrangement of incidents, by 
 which the mind is kept upon the stretch of 
 curiosity, and the fancy amused without the 
 trouble of thought. But in every thing which 
 is to send the soul into herself, to be admon- 
 ished of her weakness, or to be made con- 
 scious of her power; wherever life and nature 
 are described as operated upon by the creative 
 or abstracting virtue of the imagination ; where- 
 ever the inslinctive wisdom of antiquity and 
 her heroic passions uniting, in the heart of the 
 Poet, with the meditative wisdom of later ages, 
 have produced that accord of sublimated hu- 
 manity, which is at once a history of the re- 
 mote past and a prophetic annunciation of the 
 remotest future, there, the Poet must reconcile 
 himself for a season to few and scattered hear- 
 ers. — Grand thoughts (and Shakspeare must 
 often have sighed over this truth,) as they are 
 most naturally and most fitly conceived in 
 solitude, so can they not be brought forth in 
 the midst of plaudits, without some violation 
 of their sanctity. Go to a silent exhibition of 
 the productions of the Sister Art, and be con- 
 vinced that the qualities which dazzle at first 
 sight, and kindle the admiration of the multi- 
 tude, are essentially different from those by 
 which permancntinfluence is secured. Let us 
 not shrink from following up these principles 
 
XVIU 
 
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITTOJT 
 
 as fur as they will carry us, and conclude witli 1 
 observing— that there never has been a periodJ 
 and perhaps never will be, in which vicious 
 poetry, of some kind or other, has not excited 
 more zealous admiration, and been far more 
 generally read, than good ; hut this advantage 
 attends the good, that the indlmdval, as well 
 as the species, survives from age lo age ; 
 whereas, of the depraved, though the species 
 be immortal, the individual quickly /^e/i^/ie^ ; 
 the object of preserit admiration vanishes, be- 
 ing supplanted by &ome other as easily produ- 
 ced; which, though no better, brings with it at 
 least the irritation of novelty, — with adapta- 
 tion, more or less skilful, to- the changing^ hu- 
 mors of the majority of those who are most at 
 leisure to regard poetical works when they 
 first solicit their attention. 
 
 Is it the result of the whole, that, in the 
 opinion of the Writer, the judgment of the 
 People is not to be respected? The thought 
 is most injurious ; and, could the charge 1)0 
 brought against him, he would repel it with 
 indignation. The Peoj)le have already been 
 justitied, and, their culogium pronounced by 
 implication, when it was said above — that, of 
 g-ood Poetry, the individual, as well as the 
 species, s^urvives. And how does it survive 
 but through the People? what preserves it but 
 their intellect and their wisdom ? 
 
 ■Past and future^ ai*e the wings 
 
 On who«e suppoi"t, harmoniously conjoined, 
 
 Woves the great Spiiit of human knowledge—." MS. 
 
 The voice that issues from this Spirit, is that 
 
 Vox populi which the Deity inspires. Foohsf* 
 mos^t he be who can mistake for this a local 
 acclamation, or a transitory outer}' — transitory 
 though it be for years, local though from a Na- 
 tion. Still more lamentable is his error who 
 can believe that there is any thing of divine 
 infallibility in the clamour of that small though 
 loud portion of the community, ever governed 
 by factitious influence, which, under the name 
 of the Public, passes itself, upon the unthink- 
 ing, f^r the People. Towards the Public, 
 the Writer hopes that he feels as much de- 
 ference as it is entitled to : but to the People, 
 philosophically characterised, and to the em- 
 bodied spirit of their knowledge, so far as it 
 exists and moves, at the present, faithfully 
 supported by its two wings, the past and the 
 future, his devout respect, his reverence, is 
 due. He offers it willingly and readily; and,, 
 this done, takes leave of his Readers, by assu- 
 ring them — that, if he were not persuaded that 
 the Contents of these Volumes, and the Work 
 to which they are subsidiary, evinced some- 
 thing of the " Vision and the Faculty divine ','* 
 and that, both in words and things, they will 
 operate in their degree, to extend the domain 
 ofsensibi lily for the delight, the honour, and 
 the benefit of human nature, notwithstanding 
 the many happy hours which he lias employ- 
 e<l in their composition, and the manifold com- 
 forts and enjoyments they have procured to 
 him, he would not, if a wish could do it, save 
 them from immediate destruction ; — from be- 
 coming at this moment;. to the world, as a thing 
 that had never been. 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION OF SEVERAL OF THE TOUJywmQ POEMS, PUBLISHED, WITH Ar? 
 
 ADDITIONAL VOLUME, UNDER THE TITLE OF *' LYRICAL BALLADS. 
 
 5> 
 
 The first Volume ofthese Poems has already 
 been submitted to general perusal. It was 
 published, as an experiment, which, I hoped, 
 might be of some use to ascertain, liovv fir, by fit- 
 ling to metrical arrangement a selection of the 
 real language of men in a slate of vivid sensa- 
 tion, that sort of pleasure and that quantity of 
 pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may 
 rationally endeavor to impart. 
 
 I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of 
 the probable efiecls of those Poems : I flat- 
 tered myself that they who should be pleased 
 with them would read them with more than 
 common pleasure: and, on the other hand, I 
 was well aware, that by those who sliould 
 dislike them, tliey would be read with more 
 than common dislike. The result has diflTered 
 fiorn my expectation in this only, that I have 
 pleased a greater number than I ventured to 
 hope I should please. 
 
 * * * -X- * 
 
 Several of my Friends are anxious for the 
 success of these Poems, from a belief, that, if 
 tlie views with whi<;h they were composed 
 were indeed realized, a class of Poetry would 
 
 be produced, well adapted to interest mankind 
 permanently, and not uninimportant in the 
 multiplicity, and in the quality of its moral re- 
 litions : and on this account they have advised 
 me to [)refix a tsystemalic defence of the theo- 
 ry upon which the Poems were written. Cut 
 I was unwilling to undertake the task, because 
 I knew that on this occasion the Reader would 
 look coldly upon my arguments, since I might 
 be suspected of having been principally in- 
 fluenced by the selfish and foolish hope of 
 reasoning him into an approbation of these 
 particular Poems: and I was still more unwil- 
 ling to undertake the task, because, adequately 
 to display my opinions, and fully to enforce my 
 arguments, would require a space wholly dis- 
 proportionate to the nature of a preface. For 
 to treat the subject with the clearness and co- 
 herence of which I believe it susceptible, it 
 would be necessary to give a full account of 
 the present state of the public taste in this 
 country, and to determine Ijow far this taste is 
 healthy or depraved; which, again, could not 
 be determined without pointing out, in vvi)at 
 manner language and the iiuman mind act and 
 
t>^ THE LYRICAL BALLADS. 
 
 IIX 
 
 re-act on each other, and without retracing the 
 revolutions, not of literature alone, but like- 
 wise of society itself I have therefore alto- 
 gether declined to enter regularly upon this 
 defence; yet I am sensible, that there would 
 be some impropriety in abruptly obtruding up- 
 on the Public, without a few words of intro- 
 duction, Poems so materially different from 
 those upon which general approbation is at 
 piesent bestowed. 
 
 It is supposed, that by the act of writing in 
 verse an Author makes a formal engngement 
 that he will gratify certain known habits of as- 
 sociation ; that he not only thus apprises the 
 Reader that certain classes of ideas and ex- 
 pressions will be found in his book, but that 
 others will be carefully excluded. This ex- 
 ponent or symbol, held forth by metrical lan- 
 guage must in different eras of literature have 
 excited very different expectations: for exam- 
 ple, in the age of Catullus, Terence, and Lu- 
 cretius, and that of Statins or Claudian ; and in 
 our own country, in the age of Shakspeare and 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, and that of Donne and 
 Cowley, or Drydtm, or Pope. I will not take 
 upon me to determine the exact import of the 
 promise which by the act of writing in verse 
 an Author, in the present day, makes to his 
 reader : but I am certain it will appear to ma- 
 ny persons that 1 have not fulfilled the terms 
 of an engagement thus voluntarily contracted. 
 They who have been accustomed to the gaudi- 
 ness and inane phraseology of many modern 
 writers, if they persist in reading this book to 
 its conclusion, will, no doubt, frequently have 
 to struggle with feelings of strangeness and 
 awkwardness: they will look round for po- 
 etry, and will be induced to enquire by what 
 species uf courtesy these attempts can be per- 
 mitted to assume that title. I hope thereibre 
 the reader will not censure me, if I attempt to 
 state what I have proposed to m3^self to per- 
 form ; and also, (as far as the limits of a pre- 
 face will permit) to explain some of the chief 
 reasons which have determined me in the 
 choice of my purpose : that at least he may be 
 spared any unpleasant feeling of disappoint- 
 ment, and that I myself may be protected from 
 the most dishonourable accusation which can 
 be brought against an author, namely, that of 
 an indolence which prevents him from en- 
 deavouring to ascertain what is his duty, or, 
 when his duty is ascertained, prevents iiim 
 from performing it. 
 
 The principal object, then, which I proposed 
 to myself in these P(;cms was to chouse inci- 
 -dents and situations from common life, and to 
 relate or describe them, throughout, as i'mc as 
 was possible in a selection of language really 
 used by men, and, at the same time, to throw 
 over them a certain colouring of imagination, 
 whereby ordinary things should be presented 
 to the mind in an unusual way ; and, furliier, 
 and above all, to make these incidents and situ- 
 ations interesting by tracing in them, truly 
 though not ostentatiously, the primar-y laws of 
 our nature : chiefly, as far as regards the man- 
 ner in which we associate ideas in a state of 
 excitement. Humble and rustic life was gene- 
 rally chosen, because, in that condition, the es- 
 sential passions of the heart find a better soil 
 in which they can attain their maturity, are less 
 under restraint, and speak a plainer and more 
 emphatic language ; because in that condition 
 
 of life our elementary feelings co-exist in a 
 state of greater simplicity, and, consequently, 
 may be more accurately contemplated, and 
 more forcibly communicated ; becausethe man- 
 ners of rural life germinate from those elemen- 
 tary feelings ; and, from the necessary charac- 
 ter of rural occupations, are more easily com- 
 prehended, and are more durable; and, lastly, be- 
 cause in that condition the passions of men are 
 incorporated with the beautiful and permanent 
 forms of nature. The language, too, of theso 
 men is adopted (purified indeed from what ap- 
 pear to be its real defects, from all lasting and 
 rational causes of dislike or disgust) because 
 such men hourly communicate with the best 
 objects from which the best part of language is 
 originally derived ; and because, from their 
 rank in society and the sameness and narrow 
 circle of their intercourse, being less under 
 the influence of social vanity, they convey their 
 feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated 
 expressions, Accoi-dingly, such a language, 
 arising out of repeated experience and regular 
 feelings, is a more permanent, and a far moro 
 philosophical language, than that which is fre- 
 quently substituted for it by Poets, who think 
 that they are conferring honour upon them- 
 selves and their art, in proportion as they sepa- 
 rate themselves from the sympathies of men, 
 and indulge in arbitrary and capricious habits 
 of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle 
 tastes, and fickle appetites, of their own cre- 
 ation.* 
 
 I cannot, however, be insensible of the pre- 
 sent outcry against the triviality and meanness, 
 both of thought and language, which some of 
 my contemporaries have occasionally introdu- 
 ced into their metrical compositions ; and lac- 
 knowledge that this defect, where it exists, is 
 mor*e dishonourable to the Writer's own cha- 
 racter than false refinement or arbitrary inno- 
 vation, though I should contend at the same 
 time, that it is far less pernicious in the sum 
 of its consequences. From such verses the 
 Poems in these volumes will be found distin- 
 guished at least by one mark of difference, that 
 each of them has a w 01 ihy purpose. Not that 
 T mean to say, I always began to write with a 
 distinct purpose formally conceived ; but my 
 habits of meditation have so formed my feel- 
 ings, as that my descriptions of such objects as 
 strongly excite those feelings, will be found to 
 carry along with them a purpose. If in this 
 opinion I am mistaken, I can have little right 
 to the name of a Poet. For all good poetry is 
 the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings : 
 and though this be true, Poems to which any 
 value can be attached were never produced on 
 any variety of subjects but by a man who, be- 
 ing possessed of more than usual organic sen- 
 sibility, had also thought long and deeply. For 
 our continued influxes of feeling are modified 
 and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed 
 the representatives of all our pastfeelings ; and, 
 as by contemplating the relation of these gene- 
 ral representatives to each other, we discover 
 what is really important to men, so, by the re- 
 petition and continuance of this act, our feel- 
 ings will be connected with important subjects, 
 till at length, if we be originally possessed of 
 
 * It is worth while here to ohserve, that the afFecting^ 
 parts of Chaucer are almost always expressed in language 
 pure and univenaUy intelligible even to this di;y. 
 
%x 
 
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION 
 
 much sensibility, such habits of mind will be 
 produced, that, by obeying blindly and mecha- 
 nically the impulses of those habits, we shall 
 describe objects, and utter sentiments, of such 
 a nature, and in such connection with each 
 other, that the understanding of the beina to 
 whom we address ourselves, if he be in a 
 healthful state of association, must necessarily 
 be in some degree enlightened, and his affec- 
 tions ameliorated. 
 
 I have said that each of these poems has a 
 purpose. I have also informed my Reader 
 what this purpose will be found principally to 
 be : namely, to illustrate the manner in which 
 our feelings and ideas are associated in a state 
 of excitement. But, speaking- in language 
 somewhat more appropriate, it is to follow the 
 fluxes and refluxes of the mind when agita- 
 ted by the great and simple a/f(?ctions of our 
 nature. ^J'his object I have endeavoured in 
 these short essays to attain by various means ; 
 by tracing the maternal passion through ma- 
 ny ot^ its more subtile windings, as in the po- 
 ems of the Idiot Boy and the Mad Mother ; 
 by accompanying the last struggles of a hu- 
 man being, at the a})proach of death, cleaving 
 in solitude to lite and society, as in the Poem 
 of the Forsaken Indian ; by showing, as in 
 the Stanzas entitled We are Seven, the per- 
 plexity and obscurity which in childhood at- 
 tend our notion of death, or rather our utter 
 inability to admit that notion; or by display- 
 ing the strength of fraternal, or, to speak 
 more philosophically, of moral attachment 
 when early associated with the ereat and 
 beautiful objects of nature, as in The Bro- 
 thers ; or, as in the Incident of Simon Lee, 
 by placing my Reader in the way of receiving 
 from ordinary moral sensations another and 
 more salutary impression than we are accus- 
 tomed to receive from thcrn. It has also been 
 part of my general purpose to attempt to 
 sketch characters under the influence of less 
 impassioned feelings, as in the Two April 
 Mornings, The Fountain, The Old Man 
 travelling. The Two Thieves, &;c., char- 
 acters of which the elements are simple, be- 
 longing rather to nature than to manners, such 
 as exist now, and will probably always exist, 
 and which from their constitution may be dis- 
 tinctly and profitably contemplated. T will 
 not abuse the indulgence of my Reader by 
 dwelling longer upon this subject ; but it is 
 proper that I should mention one other cir- 
 cumstance which distinguishes these Poems 
 from the popular Poetry of the day ; it is this, 
 that the feeling therein developed gives im- 
 portance to the action and situation, and not 
 the action and situation to the feeling. My 
 meaning will be rendered perfectly intelligi- 
 ble by referring my Reader to the Poems en- 
 titled Poor Susan and the Childless Fa- 
 ther, particularly to the last Stanza of the 
 latter Poem. 
 
 1 will not suffer a sense of false modesty to 
 prevent me from asserting, that I point my 
 
 cited without the application ol gross and vi 
 
 olent stimulants; and he must have a very 
 faint perception of its beauty and dignity 
 who does not know this, and who does not 
 further know, that one being is elevated above 
 another, in proportion as he possesses this 
 capability. It has therefore appeared to me, 
 that to endeavor to produce or enlarge this 
 capability is one of the best services in which, 
 at any period, a Writer can be engaged ; but 
 this service, excellent at all times, is especial- 
 ly so at the present day. For a multitude of 
 causes, unknown to former times, are now 
 acting with a combined force to blunt the dis- 
 criminating powers of the mind, and, unfitting 
 it for all voluntary exertion, to reduce it to a 
 state of almost savage torpor. The most ef- 
 fective of these causes are the great national 
 events which are daily taking place, and the 
 increasing accumulation of men in cities, 
 where the uniformity of their occupations 
 produces a craving for extraordinary incident, 
 which the rapid communication of intelli- 
 gence hourly gratifies. To this tendency of 
 life and manners the literature and theatrical 
 exhibitions of the country have conformed 
 themselves. The invaluable works of our el- 
 der writers, I had almost said the works of 
 Shakspeare and Milton, are driven into neg- 
 lect by frantic novels, sickly and stupid Ger- 
 man Tragedies, and deluges of idle and ex- 
 travagant stories in verse. When 1 think upon 
 this degrading thirst after outrageous stimu- 
 lation, I am almost ashamed to have spoken 
 of the feeble effort with which I have endea- 
 voured to counteract it ; and, reflecting upon 
 the magnitude of the general evil, I should 
 be oppressed with no dishonourable melan- 
 choly, had T not a deep impression of certain 
 inherent and indestructible qualities of the 
 human mind, and likewise of certain powers 
 in the great and permanent objects that act 
 upon it, which are equally inherent and inde- 
 structible ; and did I not further add to th s 
 impression a belief, that the time is approach- 
 ing when the evil will he systematically op- 
 posed, by men of greater powers, and with 
 far more distinguished success. 
 
 Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and 
 aim of these Poems, I shall request the Rea- 
 der's permission to apprise him of a few cir- 
 cumstances relating to their sfyle^ in order, 
 among other reasons, that I may not be cen- 
 sured for not having performed what I never 
 attempted. The Reader will find that per- 
 sonifications of abstract ideas rarely occur in 
 these volumes; and, I hope, are utterly re- 
 jected, as an ordinary device to elevate the 
 style, and raise it above prose. I have propo- 
 sed to myself to imitate, and, as far as is pos- 
 sible, to adopt the very language of men; and 
 assuredly such personifications do not make 
 any natural or regular part of that language. 
 They are, indeed, a figure of speech occasion- 
 ally prompted by passion, and I have made 
 use of them as such ; but I have endeavoured 
 utterly to reject them as a mechanical device 
 of style, or as a family language which Wri- 
 ters in metre seem to lay claim to by prescrip- 
 tion. I have wished to keep my Reader in 
 the company of flesh and blood, persuaded 
 that by so doing I shall interest him. I am, 
 however, well aware that others who pursue 
 
Of THE LYRICAL BALLAt)^. 
 
 XXI 
 
 a different track may interest him likewise ; 
 I do not interfere with their claim, I only wish 
 to prefer a claim oT my own. There will al- 
 so be found in these volumes little of what is 
 usually called poetic diction ; I have taken as 
 much pains to avoid it as others ordinarily 
 take to produce it ; thi? I have done for the 
 reason already alleged, to bring my language 
 near to the language of men, and further, be- 
 cause the pleasure which I have proposed to 
 myself to impart, is a kind very different from 
 that which is supposed by many persons to 
 he the proper object of poetry. I do not 
 know how, without being culpably particular, 
 I can give my Reader a more exact notion of 
 the style in which I wished these poems to 
 be written, than by informing him that I have 
 at all times endeavoured to look steadily at 
 my subject, consequently, I hope that there 
 is in these Poems little falsehood of descrip- 
 tion, and that my ideas are expressed in lan- 
 guage fitted to their respective importance. 
 Something I must have gained by this prac- 
 tice, as it is friendly to one property of all 
 good poetry, namely, good sense : but it has 
 necessarily cut me off from a large portion of 
 phrases and figures of speech which from fa- 
 ther to son have long been regarded as the 
 common inheritance of Poets. I have also 
 thought it expedient to restrict myself still 
 further, having abstained from the use of ma- 
 ny expressions, in themselves proper and 
 beautiful, but which have been foolishly re- 
 peated by bad Poets, till such feelings of dis- 
 gust are connected with them as it is scarcely 
 possible by any art of association to over- 
 power. 
 
 If in a poem there should be found a series 
 of lines, or even a single line, in which the 
 language, though naturally arranged, and ac- 
 cording to the strict laws of metre, does not 
 differ from that of prose, there is a numerous 
 class of critics, who, when they stumble upon 
 these prosaims, as they call them, imagine 
 that they have made a notable discovery, and 
 exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant 
 of his own profession. Now these men would 
 establish a canon of criticism which the 
 Reader will conclude he must utterly reject, 
 if he wishes to be pleased with these Volumes. 
 And it would be a most easy task to prove to 
 liim, that not only the language of a large 
 portion of every good poem, even of the most 
 elevated character, must necessarily, except 
 with reference to the metre, in no respect dif- 
 fer from that of good prose, but likewise that 
 some of the most interesting parts of the best 
 poems will be found to be strictly the lan- 
 guage of prose, when prose is well written. 
 The truth of this assertion might be demon- 
 strated by innumerable passages from almost 
 all the poetical writings, even of Milton him- 
 self. I have not space for much quotation: 
 but, to illustrate the subject in a general 
 manner, I will here adduce a short composi- 
 tion of Gray, who was at the head of those 
 who, by their reasonings, have attempted to 
 widen the space of separation betwixt Prose 
 and Metrical composition, and was more than 
 any other man curiously elaborate in the 
 structure of his own poetic diction. 
 
 " In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, 
 And veddtning Phoebus lifts h!s golden jfire: 
 1 lie birds in vain their amorous descant join^ 
 Or clieerful fields resume their green iittire^ 
 These ears, alas ! for other notes repine ; 
 A dijff'erciit object do these cijcs require ; 
 My lonely anguish inetts no heart but mine i 
 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire } 
 Yet morning smiles the busy lace to cheer, 
 And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ;- 
 The fields to all their wonttrd tribute bear ; 
 To warm their little loves the birds complain.- 
 I fruitless viourn to him that cannot hear. 
 And weep the more because I weep in vain^ 
 
 It will easily be perceived, that the onty 
 part of this Sonnet which isof any value is tho 
 lines printed in Italics; it is eqnaDy obvious^ 
 that, except in the rhyme, and in the use of 
 the single word "fruitless" for fruitlessly^, 
 which is so far a defect, the language of these 
 lines does in no respect differ from that of 
 prose. 
 
 By the foregoing quotation I have shown 
 that the language of Prose may yet be well 
 adapted to Poetry ; and I have previously as- 
 serted, that a large portion of the language of 
 every good poem can in no respect differ from 
 that of good Prose. I will go iurther. I do 
 not doubt that it may be safely affirmed, thai 
 there neither is, nor can be, any essential dif^ 
 ference between the language of prose and 
 metrical composition. We are fond of tracing 
 the resemblance between Poetry and Paint- 
 ing, and, accordingly, we call them Sisters: 
 but where shall we find bonds of connection 
 sufficiently strict to typify the affinity betwixt 
 metrical and prose composition ? They both 
 speak by and to the same organs; the bodies 
 in which both of then> are clothed may be said 
 to be of the same substance, their affections 
 are kindred, and almost identical, not neces- 
 sarily differing even in degree; Poetry* sheds 
 no tears " such as Angels weep," but natural 
 and human tears; she can boast of no celestial 
 Ichor that distinguishes her vital juices from 
 those of prose; the same human blood circu- 
 lates through the veins of them both. 
 
 If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical ar- 
 rangement of themselves constitute a distinc- 
 tion which overturns what I have been saying 
 on the strict affinity of metrical language with 
 that of prose, and paves the way for other ar- 
 tificial distinctions which the mind voluntarily 
 admits, I answer that the language of such Poe- 
 try as I am recommending is, as far as is pos- 
 sible, a selection of the language really spoken 
 by men ; that this selection, wherever it is 
 made with true taste and feeling, will of itself 
 form a distinction far greater than would at 
 first be imagined, and will entirely separate the 
 composition from the vulgarity and meanness 
 of ordinary life ; and, if metre be superadded 
 thereto, I believe that a dissimilitude will be 
 produced altogether sufficient for the gratifica- 
 tion of a rational mind. What other distinc- 
 tion would we have? Whence is it to come.'* 
 And where is it to exist .^ Not, surely, where 
 the Poet speaks through the mouths of his 
 
 * I here use the Avord " Poetiy" (though against my 
 own judgment) as opposed to the word I^rose, and sy- 
 nonynujus with metrical composition. But much confu- 
 sion has been introduced into criticism by tliis contra- 
 distinction of Poetry and Prose, instead of the more phi- 
 losophical one of Poetry and Matter of Fact, or Science. 
 The only strict antithesis to Prose is Metre ; nor is this^ 
 in trath, a strict antithesis ; because lines and passages 
 of metre so naturally occur in writing prose, that it 
 would be scarcely possible to ayoid them, even were it 
 desirable. 
 
xxu 
 
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDltlOW 
 
 rharacters : it cannot be nercssary here, either 
 for elevation of style, or any of its supposed 
 t)rnaments: for, if the Poet's subject be judi- 
 ciously cliosen, it will naturally, and upon fit 
 occasion, lead him to passions the language of 
 which, if selected truly und judiciously, must 
 necessarily be dignified and variegated, and 
 alive with metaphors and figures. I forbear to 
 speak of an incongruity which would shock 
 the intelligent Reader, should the Poet inter- 
 weave any foreign splendour of his own with 
 that vyhich the passion naturally suggests : it 
 is sullicient to say that such addition is unne- 
 cessary. And, surely, it is more probable that 
 those passages, which with propriety abound 
 with metaphors and figures, will have their 
 due effect, if, upon other occasions where the 
 passions are of a milder character, the style 
 also be subdued and temperate. 
 
 But, as the pleasure whii-h I hope to give 
 by the Poems I now present to the Reader 
 must depend entirely on just notions upon this 
 subject, and, as it is in itself of the higliest im- 
 portance to our taste and moral feelings, 1 can- 
 not content myself with these detached re- 
 marks. And if, in what I am about to say, it 
 shall appear to some that my labour is unne- 
 cessary, and that I am like a man fighting a 
 battle without enemies, I would remind such 
 persons, that, whatever may be the language 
 outwardly holder) by men, a practical faith in 
 the opinions which I am wishing to establish 
 is almost unknown. If my conclusions are 
 admitted, and carried as far as they must be 
 carried if admitted at all, our judgments con- 
 cerning the works of the greatest Poets both 
 ancient and modern will be far different from 
 what they are at present, both wiien we praise, 
 and when we censure; and our moral feelings 
 influencing and influenced by these judgments 
 will, I believe, be corrected and purified. 
 
 Taking up the subject, then, upon general 
 grounds, I ask, vvi»at is meant by the word Poet.'' 
 What is a Poet ^ To whom does he address him- 
 self .'' And what language is to be expected from 
 him .'' He is a man speaking to men : a man, it is 
 true, endued with more lively sensibility, more 
 entiiusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater 
 knowledge of human nature, and a more com- 
 preheiisive soul, than are supposed to be com- 
 mon among mankind ; a man pleased with his 
 own passions and volitions,, and who rejoices 
 more than other men in the spirit of life tliat 
 is in him; delighting to contemplate similar 
 volitions and passions as manifested in the 
 goings-on of the Universe, and habitually im- 
 pelled to create them where he does not fitjd 
 them. To these qualities he has added a dis- 
 position to be aU'ected more than other men by 
 absent things as if they were present; an abil- 
 ity of conjuring up in himself passious, whicii 
 are indeed far from being the same as those 
 produced by real events, yet (especially in 
 those parts of the general sympathy which are 
 pleasing and delightful) do more nearly resem- 
 ble the passions produced by real events, than 
 any thing which, from the motions of their 
 own minds merely, other men are accustomed 
 to feel in themselves; whence, and from prac- 
 tice, he has acquired a greater readiness and 
 power in expressing what he thinks and feels, 
 and especially those thoughts and feelings 
 which, by his own choice, or from the struc- 
 ture of his own mind, arise in him without im- 
 mediate external excitement. 
 
 But whatever portion of this faculty Wfe ttl^y 
 suppose even the greatest Poet to possess, 
 there cannot be a doubt but that the lunguagt3 
 which it will suggest to him, must, in liveliness 
 and truth, fall far short of that which is uttered 
 by men in real life> under the actual pressure 
 of those passions, certain shadows of which 
 the Poet thus produces, or feels to be produced, 
 
 in himself. 
 
 However exalted a notion we would wish 
 to cherish of the character of a Poet, it is ob- 
 vious, that while he describes and imitates 
 passions, his situation is altogether slavish and 
 mechanical, compared with the freedom and 
 power of real and substantial action and suffer- 
 ing. So that it will be the wish of the Poet to 
 bring liis feelings near to those of the persons 
 whose feelings he describes, nay, for short 
 spaces of time, perhaps, to let himself slip into 
 an entire delusic>n, and even confound and 
 identify his own feelings with theirs; modify- 
 ing only the language which is thus suggested 
 to him by a consideration that he describes for 
 a particular purpose, that of giving pleasure. 
 Here, then, lie will apply the principle on 
 which I have so much insisted, namely, that 
 of selection : on this lie will depend for re- 
 moving what would otherwise be painful or 
 disgusting in the passion ; he will feel that 
 there is no necessity to trick out or to elevate 
 nature : and, the more industriously he applies 
 this principle, the deeper will be his faith that 
 no words, which his fancy or imagination can 
 suggest, will be to be compared with those 
 which are the emanations of reality and truth. 
 But it may be said by those who do not ob- 
 ject to the general spirit of these remarks, that, 
 as it is impossible for the Poet to produce upon 
 all occasions language as exquisitely fitted for 
 the passion as iJiat which the real passion itself 
 suggests, it is proper that iie should consider 
 himself as in the situation of a translator, who 
 deems himself justified when he substitutes 
 excellencies of another kind for those which 
 are unattainable b}' him ; and endeavours oc- 
 casionally to surpass his original, in order to 
 make some amends for the general inferiorty 
 to whicii he feels that he must submit. But 
 this would be to encourage idleness and un- 
 manly despair. Further, it is the language of 
 men who speak of what they do not under- 
 stand ; who talk of Poetry as of a matter of 
 amusement and idle pleasure ; who w'ill con- 
 verse with us as gravel v about a taste for Poe- 
 try, as tliey express it, as if it were a thmg as 
 indifferent as a taste for Rope-dancing, or 
 Frontiniac or Sherry. Aristotle, I have been 
 told, hath said, that Poetry is the most phi- 
 losophic of all writing: it is so: its object is 
 truth, not individual and local, but general, 
 and operative; not standing upon external tes- 
 timony, but carried alive into the heart by pas- 
 sion ; truth which is its own testimony, which 
 gives strength and divinty to the tribunal to 
 which it appeals, and receives them from the 
 same tribunal. Poetry is the image of man 
 and nature. Tlie obstacles which stand in 
 the way of the fidelity of the Biographer and 
 Historian, and of their consequent utility, are 
 incalculably gi-eater than those which are to be 
 encountered by the Poet who has an adequate 
 notion of the dignity of his art. Tho Poet 
 writes under one restriction only, namely, that 
 of the necessity of giving immediate pleasure 
 to a human Being possessed of that informa- 
 
OF ruV. LYRICAL BALLADS. 
 
 XXMI 
 
 lion which may be expected from him, not as 
 a lawyer, a physician, a mariner, an astrono- 
 mer, or a natural philosopher, but as a Man. 
 Except this one restriction, there is no object 
 standing between llie Poet and the image of 
 things ; between this, and the Biographer and 
 Historian, there are a thousand. 
 
 Nor let this necessity of producing imme- 
 diate pleasure be considered as a degradation 
 of the Poet's art. Tt is far otherwise. It is an 
 acknowledgment of the beauty of the universe, 
 an acknowledgment the more sincere, because 
 it is not formal, but indirect; it is a task light 
 and easy to him who looks at the world in the 
 spirit of love: further, it is a homage paid to 
 the native and naked dignity of man, to the 
 grand elementary principle of pleasure, by 
 which he knows, and feels, and lives, and 
 moves. We have no sympathy but what is 
 propagated by pleasure: I would not be mis- 
 understood ; but wherever we sympathise with 
 pain, it will be found that the sympathy is pro- 
 duced and carried on by subtle combinations 
 with pleasure. We have no knowledge, that 
 is, no general principles drawn from the con- 
 templation of particular facts, but what has 
 been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by 
 pleasure alone. The Man of Science, the 
 Chemist and Mathematician, whatever diificul- 
 ties and disgusts they may have had to strug- 
 gle with, know and feel this. However pain- 
 ful may be the objects with which the Anato- 
 mist's knowledge is connected, he feels that 
 his knowledge is pleasure; and where he has 
 no pleasure he has no knowledge. What then 
 does the Poet.^ He considers man and the ob- 
 jects that surround him as acting and re-acting 
 upon each other, so as to produce an infinite 
 complexity of pain and pleasure; he considers 
 man in his own nature and in his ordinary life 
 as contemplating this with a certain quantity 
 of immediate knowledge, with certain convic- 
 tions, intuitions, and deductions, which by 
 habit become of the nature of intuitions ; he 
 considers him as looking upon this complex 
 scene of ideas and sensations, and finding every 
 where objects that immediately excite in him 
 sympathies which, from the necessities of his 
 nature, are accompanied by an overbalance of 
 enjoyment. 
 
 To this knowledge which all men carry 
 about with them, and to these sympathies in 
 which, without any other discipline than that 
 of our daily life, we are fitted to take delight, 
 the Poet principally directs his attention. He 
 considers man and nature as essentially adapt- 
 ed to eacfi other, and the mind of man as natu- 
 rally the mirror of the fairest and most inter- 
 esting qualities of nature. And thus the Poet, 
 prompted by this feeling of pleasure, which ac- 
 companies him through the whole course of 
 his studies, converses with general nature with 
 affections akin to those, which, through la- 
 bour and length of time, the Man of Science 
 has raised up in himself, by conversing with 
 those particular parts of nature which are the 
 objects of his studies. The knowledge both of 
 the Poet and the Man of Science is pleasure; 
 but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as 
 a necessary part of our existence, our natural 
 and unalienable inheritance ; the other is a 
 personal and individual acquisition, slow to 
 come to us, and by no habitual and direct sym- 
 pathy connecting us with our fellow-beings. 
 The Man of Science seeks truth as a remote 
 
 and unknown benefactor ; lie cherishes and 
 loves it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a 
 song in wliicli all human beings join with him, 
 rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible 
 friend and hourly companion. Poetry is the 
 breath and finer spiiit of all knowledge; it is 
 the impassioned expression which is in the 
 countenance of all Science. Emphatically 
 may it be said of the Poet, as Shakspeare hath 
 said of man, ''that he looks before and after." 
 He is the rock of defence of human nature ; 
 an upholder and preserver, carrying every- 
 where with him relationship and love. In 
 spite of difference of soil and climate, of lan- 
 guage and manners, of laws and customs, in 
 spite of things silently gone out of mind, and 
 things violently destroyed, the Poet binds to- 
 gether by passion and knowledge the vast em- 
 pire of human society, as it is spread over the 
 whole earth, and over all time. The objects 
 of the Poet's thoughts are every where ; though 
 the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his 
 favourite guides, yet he will follow whereso- 
 ever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in 
 which to move his wings. Poetry is the first 
 and last of all knowledge — it is as in)mortal as 
 the heart of man. If the labours of Men of 
 Science should ever create any material revo- 
 lution, direct or indirect in our condition, and 
 in the impressions which we habitually re- 
 ceive, the Poet will sleep then no more than 
 at present, but he will be ready to follow the 
 steps of the Man of Science, not only in those 
 general indirect effects, but he will be at his 
 side, carrying sensation into the midst of the 
 objects of the Science itself. The remotest 
 discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or 
 Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the 
 Poet's art as any upon which it can be employ- 
 ed, if the time should ever come when these 
 things shall be familiar to us, and the i-elations 
 under which they are contemplated by the fol- 
 lowers of these respective sciences shall be 
 manifestly and palpably material to us as en- 
 joying and suffering beings. If the time should 
 ever come when what is now called Science, 
 thus familiarized to men, shall be ready to put 
 on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the 
 Poet will lend liis divine spirit to aid the trans- 
 figui:^tion, and will welcome the Being thus 
 produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the 
 household of man. — It is not, then, to be sup- 
 posed, that any one, who holds that sublime 
 notion of Poetry which I have attempted to 
 convey, will break in upon the sanctity and 
 trutli of his pictures by transitory and acciden- 
 tal ornaments, and endeavour to excite admi- 
 ration of himself by arts, the necessity of 
 which must manifestly depend upon the as- 
 sumed meanness of his subject. 
 
 What I have thus far said applies to Poet- 
 ry in general ; but especially to those parts 
 of composition where the Poet speaks thro»^gh 
 the mouths of his characters; and upon this 
 point it appeals to have such weight, that I will 
 conclude, there are few persons of good sense, 
 who would not allow that the dramatic parts 
 of composition are defective, in proportion as 
 they deviate from the real language of na- 
 ture, and are coloured by a diction of the Po- 
 et's own, either peculiar to him as an indivi- 
 dual Poet or belonging simply to Poets in ge- 
 neral, to a body of men who, from the circum- 
 stance of their compositions being in metre, 
 
XXIT 
 
 PREFACE TO TIIK SECOND EDITION 
 
 it is expected will employ a particular lan- 
 guage. 
 
 It is not, then, in the dramHlic parts of 
 composition that we look for this distinction 
 of language ; but still it may be proper and 
 necessary where the Poet speaks to us in his 
 own person and character. To this I answer 
 hy referring my Reader to the description 
 which I have before given of a Poet. Among 
 the qualities which I have enumerated as prin- 
 cipally conducing to form a Poet, is implied 
 nothing differing in kind from other men, but 
 only in degree. The sum of what I have 
 there said is, that the Poet is chiefly distin- 
 guished from other men by a greater prompt- 
 ness to think and feel without immediate ex- 
 ternal excitement, and a greater power in ex- 
 pressing such thoughts and feelings as are 
 produced in him in that manner. But these 
 passions and thouglitsand feelings are the ge- 
 neral passions and tiioughts and feelings of 
 men. And with what are they connected? 
 Undoubtedly with our moral sentiments and 
 animal sensations, and with the causes which 
 excite these ; with the operations of the ele- 
 ments, and the appearance of the visible uni- 
 verse ; with storm and sunshine, with the re- 
 volutions of the seasons, with cold and lieat, 
 with loss of friends and kindred, with inju- 
 ries and resentments, gratitude and hope, with 
 fear and sorrow. These, aiid the like, are the 
 sensations and objects which the Poet de- 
 scribes, as they are the sensations of other 
 men, and the objects which interest them. 
 The Poet thinks and feels in the spirit of the 
 passions of men. How, then, can his lan- 
 guage differ in any material degree from that 
 of all other men who feel vividly and see 
 clearly.'* It might he proved ihni it is impossi- 
 ble. But supposing that this were not the 
 case, the Poet might then be allowed to use 
 a peculiar language when expressing his feel- 
 ings for his own gratification, or that of men 
 like himself. But Poets do not write for Po- 
 ets alone, but for men. Unless therefore we 
 are advocates for that admiration which de- 
 pends upon ignorance, and that pleasure 
 which arises from hearing what we do not un- 
 derstand, the Poet must descend from this 
 supposed height, and, in order to excite ra- 
 tional sympathy, he must express himself as 
 other men express themselves. To this it may 
 be added, that while he is only selecting from 
 the real language of men, or, which amounts 
 to the same thing, composing accurately in 
 the spirit of such selection, he is treading up- 
 on safe ground, and we know what we are to 
 expect from him. Our feelings are the same 
 with respect to metre ; for, as it may be pro- 
 per to remind the Reader, the distinction of 
 metre is regular and uniform, and not, like 
 that which is produced by what is usually 
 called poetic diction, arbitrary, and subject to 
 infinite caprices upon which no calculation 
 whatever can be made. In the one case, the 
 Reader is utterly at the mercy of the Poet re- 
 specting what imagery or diction he may 
 choose to connect with the passion : whereas, 
 in the other, the metre obeys certain laws, to 
 which the Poet and Reader both willingly 
 submit because they are certain, and because 
 no iiiterferenco is made by them with the pas- 
 
 sion but such as the concurring testimony of 
 ages has shown to heighten and implove the 
 pleasure which co-exists with it. ^ 
 
 It will now be proper to answer an obvious 
 question, namely, Why, professing these opin- 
 ions, have I written in verse ? lo this, in ad- 
 dition to such answer as is included in what 
 I have already said, I reply, in the first place, 
 Because, however I may have restricted my- 
 self, there is still left open to me what confes- 
 sedly constitutes the most valuable object of all 
 writing, whether in prose or verse, the great 
 and universal passions of men, the most gene- 
 ral and interesting of their occupations, and 
 the entire world of nature, from which I am 
 at liberty to supply myself with endless com- 
 binations of forms and imagery. IMow, suppo- 
 sing for a moment that whatever is interesting 
 in these objects may be as vividly described in 
 prose, why am I to be condemned, if to such 
 description I have endeavoured to superadd the 
 charm which, by the consent of all nations, is 
 acknowledged to exist in metrical language.'' 
 To this, by such as are unconvinced by what 
 I have already said, it may be answered that a 
 very small part of tlie pleasure given by Poet- 
 ry depends upon the metre, and that it is inju- 
 dicious to write in metre, unless it be accom- 
 panied with the other artificial distinctions of 
 style with which metre is usually accompani- 
 ed, and that, by such deviation, more will be 
 lost from the shock which will thereby be giv- 
 en to the Reader's associations than will be 
 counterbalanced by any pleasure which he can 
 derive from the general power of numbers. In 
 answer to those who still contend for the ne- 
 cessity of accompanying metre with certain ap- 
 propriate coloursof style in order to the accom- 
 plishment of its appropriate end, and who also, 
 in my opinion, greatly under-rate the power of 
 metre in itself, it might, perhaps, as far as re- 
 lates to these Poems, have been almost suffi- 
 cient to observe, that poems are extant, writ- 
 ten upon more humble subjects, and in a more 
 naked and simple style than I have aimed at, 
 which poems have continued to give pleasure 
 from generation to generation. IVow, if na- 
 kedness and simplicity be a defect, the fact 
 here mentioned affords a strong presumption 
 that poems somewhat less naked and simple 
 are capable of affording pleasure at the present 
 day ; and, what I wished chiefly to attempt, at 
 present, was to justify myself for having writ- 
 ten under the impression of this belief. 
 
 But I might point out various causes why, 
 when the style is manly, and the subject of 
 some importance, words metrically arranged 
 will long continue to impart such a pleasure to 
 mankind as he who is sensible of the extent of 
 that pleasure will be desirous to impart. The 
 end of Poetry is to produce excitement in co- 
 existence with an overbalance of pleasure. 
 Now, by the supposition, excitement is an un- 
 usual and irregular state of the mind ; ideas 
 and feelings do not, in that state, succeed each 
 other in accustomed order. But, if the words 
 by which this excitement is produced are in 
 themselves powerful, or the images and feelings 
 have an undue proportion of pain connected with 
 them, there is some danger that the excitement 
 may be carried beyond its proper bounds. Now 
 the co-presence ofsomcthing regular, something 
 to which the mind has been accustomed in va- 
 rious moods and in a less excited state, cannot 
 but have great efficiency in tempering and re- 
 
OF THE LYRICAL fiAttAljS. 
 
 IXf. 
 
 gtfainin^ the passion by an intertexture of or- 
 dinary feeling, and of feeling not strictly and 
 necessarily connected with the passion. This 
 is unquestionably true, and hence, though the 
 opinion will at first appear paradoxical, from 
 the tendency of metre to divest language, in 
 a certain degree, of its reality, and thus to 
 throw a sort of half-consciousness of unsub- 
 stantial existence over the whole composition, 
 there can be little doubt but that more pathetic 
 situations and sentiments, that is, those which 
 have a greater proportion of pain connected 
 with them, may be better endured in metrical 
 composition, especially in rhyme, than in prose. 
 The metre of the old ballads is very artless ; 
 yet they contain many passages which would 
 illustrate this opinion, and, I hope, if the fol- 
 lowing Poems be attentively perused, similar 
 instances will be found in them. This opin^ 
 ion may be further illustrated by appealing to 
 the Reader's own experience of the reluctance 
 with which he cornts to the re-perusal of the 
 distressful parts of Clarissa Harlowe, or the 
 Gamester ; while Shakspeare's writings, in the 
 most pathetic scenes, never act upon us, as pa- 
 thetic, beyond the bounds of pleasure — an ef- 
 fect which, in a much greater degree than might 
 at first be imagined, is to be ascribed to small, 
 but continual and regular impulses of pleasu- 
 rable surprise from the metrical arrangement. 
 — On the other hand, (what it must be allow- 
 ed will much more frequently happen,) if the 
 Poet's words should be incommensurate with 
 the passion, and inadequate to raise the Reader 
 to a height of desirable excitement, then, (un- 
 less the Poet's choice of his metre has been 
 grossly injudicious,) in the feelings of pleasure 
 which the Reader has been accustomed to con- 
 nect with metre in general, and iu the feel- 
 ing, whether cheerful or melancholy, which 
 he has been accustomed to connect with that 
 particular movement of metre, there will be 
 found something which will greatly contri- 
 bute to impart passion to the words, and to 
 effect the complex end whi<-h the Poet pro- 
 poses to himself. 
 
 If I had undertaken a systematic defence of 
 the theory upon which these poems are writ- 
 ten, it would have been my duty to develope 
 the various causes upon which the pleasure re- 
 ceived from metrical language depends. Among 
 the chief of these causes is to be reckoned a 
 principle which must be well known to those 
 who have made any of the Arts the object of 
 accurate reflection ; I mean the pleasure whicJi 
 the mind derives from the perception of simi- 
 litude in dissimilitude. This principle is the 
 great spring of the activity of our minds, and 
 their chief feeder. From this principle the 
 direction of the sexual appetite, and all the 
 passions connected with it, take their origin : 
 it is the life of our ordinary conversation ; and 
 upon the accuracy with which similitude in 
 dissimilitude, and dissimilitude in similitude 
 are perceived, depend our taste and our moral 
 feelings. It would not have been a useless 
 employment to have applied this principle to 
 the consideration of metie, and to have shown 
 that metre is hence enabled to afford much 
 pleasure, and to have pointed out in what man- 
 ner that pleasure is produced. But my limits 
 will not permit me to enter upon this subject, 
 and I must content myself with a general sum- 
 mary. 
 
 I have said that poetry is the spontaneous 
 overflow of powerful feelings •. it takes its ori- 
 
 iv 
 
 gin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: th*? 
 emotion is contemplated till, by a species of 
 re-action, the tranquillity gradually disappears, 
 and an emotion, kindred to that which was be- 
 fore the subject of contemplation, is gradually 
 produced, and does itself actually exist in the 
 n)ind. In this mood successful composition 
 generally begins, and in a mood similar to this 
 it is carried on; but the emotion, of whatever 
 kind, and in whatever dogree, from various 
 causes, is qualified by various pleasures, so that 
 in describing any passions whatsoever, which 
 are voluntarily described, the mind will, upon 
 the whole, be in a state of enjoyment. Now, 
 if Nature be thus cautious in preserving in a 
 state of enjoyment a being thus employed, the 
 Poet ought to profit by the lesson thus lield 
 forth to him, and ought especially to take care, 
 that, whatever passions he communicates 
 to his Reader, those passions, if Jiis Rea- 
 der's mind be sound and vigorous, should 
 always be accompanied with an overb.ilance 
 of pleasure. Now the music of haimoriious 
 metrical language, the sense of difticultv over- 
 come, and tlie blind association of pleasure 
 which has been previously received from works 
 of rhyme or metre of the same or similar con* 
 struction, an indistinct perception perpetually 
 renewed of language closely resembling that 
 of real life, and yet, in the circumstance of 
 metre, differing from it so widely — all these 
 imperceptibly make up a complex feeling of 
 delight, which is of the most important use in 
 tempering the painful feeling which will al- 
 ways he found intermingled with powerful de- 
 scriptions of the deeper passions. Tliis effect 
 is always produced in pathetic and impassion- 
 ed poetry ; while, in lighter cf>mpositions, the 
 ease and gracefulness with which the Poet ma- 
 nages his numbers are themselves confessedly 
 a principal source of the gratification of the 
 Reader. I might, perhaps, include all which 
 it is necessary to say upon tliis subject, by af- 
 firming, what few persons will deny, that^ of 
 two descriptions, either of passions, manners, 
 or characters, each of them equally well exe- 
 cuted, the one in prose and the other in verse, 
 the verse will be read a hundred times where 
 the prose is read once. We see that Pope, by 
 the power of verse alone, has contrived to ren- 
 der the plainest common sense interesting, and 
 even frequently to invest it with the appear- 
 ance of passion. In consequence of these con- 
 victions I related in metre the Tale of Goody 
 Blake and Harry Gill, which is one of the 
 rudest of this collection. I wished to draw at- 
 tention to the truth, that the power of the hu- 
 man imagination is sulficient to produce such 
 changes even in our physical nature as might 
 almost appear miraculous. The truth is an 
 important one ; the fact (for it is a fact) is a 
 valuable illustration of it : and I have the sat- 
 isfaction of knowing that it has been commu- 
 nicated to many hundreds of people who would 
 never have heard of it, had it not been narra- 
 ted as a Ballad, and in a more impressive me- 
 tre than is usual in Ballads. 
 
 Having thus explained a few of tfie reasons 
 why I have written in verse, and why I have 
 cliosen subjects from common life, and endeav- 
 oured to bring my language near to the real 
 language i»f men, if I have been too minute in 
 pleading my own cause, I have at the same 
 time been treating a subject of general inter- 
 est; and it is fi)r this reason that I request the 
 Rcadcrs's permission to add a few words with 
 
>:.\vi 
 
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION OF THE LYRICAL BALLADS. 
 
 rfifcrorifp prAvly to these pnrlicular poems, and 
 lo sonto (icrt'c-is vvliicli will probably be found 
 it» llii-iii. i am soiisibie that iny associations 
 Must iiave eorjielimes been part'iciilar instead 
 <>r general, and ih-at, conseqently, giving to 
 thiii«;s a fjiUe imporianre, sonietinjes Irom^dis- 
 eased int pulses, 1 may have written upon nn- 
 worlliy si.'hjeets ; I)ut I am less af)prel)ensive 
 cm this nccoiint, than that my language may 
 irequeojly liave suflered from those a°bitrarv 
 conneetmns of feelings and ideas with particu- 
 lar words and phrases, from which no njan can 
 ahogetiier pioteit himself iience I have no 
 doubt, tliat, in some instances, feelings, even 
 of the ludicrous, may be given to my Readers 
 by cxpressi(>ns which apj^eared lo me tender 
 nnd pathetic. Such faulty expressions, were I 
 (.•un\iriced tlu^y were faulty at present, and 
 that ihey must nectissarily continue to be so, I 
 would willingly take all reasonable pains to 
 cor.-( ct, Bui it is dangerous to make these al- 
 teralintis on the simple authority of a few in- 
 divi(ioals, or < vt n oi" certain classes of men ; 
 for where the undeislandiiig of an Aulhor is 
 not conxinced, or his feelings alteied, this can- 
 not be done without great injury to hinrself : 
 lor his own icelings are his stay and support; 
 and, if he sets th(Mn aside in one instance, he 
 may be induced to re[)eat this act till bis mind 
 loses all confidence in itself, and become ut- 
 terly debilitated. To this it may be added, 
 that ilu? Reader ought never to forget that he 
 is himself exposed to the same errois as the 
 l\)et. and, perhaps, in a mncii greater degree : 
 for there can be no presumption in saying, that 
 it is not probable he will be so well acquainted 
 with the various stages of meaning through 
 which words have passed, or with the fickle- 
 ness or stability of the relations of particular 
 ideas to ea( h C)tiier ; and, above all. since he is 
 so much less interested in the subject, he may 
 decide lightly and carelessly. 
 
 Long as i have detained my Reader, 1 hope 
 he will permit me to caution iiim against a 
 >node ot" false criticism wliich has been applied 
 to Poetry, in which the language closely re- 
 sensbles that of life and nature. Such verses 
 hove been triumphed over in parodies, of 
 v/iiich Dr. Johnson's stanza is a fair speci- 
 men: — 
 
 " I ])!it i«y hnt upon my head 
 /> ml w;ilk( (1 inlo ihe Sitraiul, 
 Auil till !>■ 1 met iiiKJtIur ninii 
 WJiosfj liiit WAH in liib liand." 
 
 Immediately under these lines I will place 
 one of tlie most justly-admired stanzas of the 
 *' Babes in the Wood.*" 
 
 " These jiiefty Tlabes a\ ith hand in liand 
 Went wniideriug u]) an(! doMii ; 
 ]Uit iievtr more lluy saw the IMan 
 Appro.iching- from tlie Town." 
 
 In both these stanzas the words, and the or- 
 der of the words, in no respect difler from the 
 most unimpassi(;ned convers.ilion. There are 
 words in both, for example, "the Strand," and 
 *' tiie Town," connected with none but the 
 most familiar ideas ; yet the one stanza we ad- 
 mit as admirable, and the other as a fair exam- 
 ple of the superlatively contemptible. Whence 
 arises this difference .^ Not from the metre, 
 not fiom the languai'^e, not fiorn the order of 
 the words; but tire matter expressed in Dr. 
 
 Johnson's stanza is contemptible. The proper 
 method of treating trivial and simple verses, lo 
 which Dr. Johnson's stanza would be a fair 
 parallelism, is not to say, This is a bad kind of 
 poetry, or. This is not poetry ; but, This wants 
 sense;' it is neither interesting in itself, nor 
 can lead to any thing interesting; the images 
 neither originate in that same state of teeling 
 which arises out of thought, nor can excite 
 thought or feeling in the Reader. This is the 
 only sensible manner of dealing with such 
 verses. Why trouble yourself about the spe- 
 cies till you have previously decided upon the 
 genus.? Why take pains to prove that an ape 
 is not a Newton, when it is self-evident that 
 be is not a man .? 
 
 I have one request to make of my reader, 
 which is, that in judging these Poems he would 
 decide by his own ieelings genuinel3^ and not 
 bv reflection upon what will probably be the 
 judgnjent of others. How common is it to 
 hear a person say, " I myself do not object to 
 this style of composition, or this or that ex- 
 [trcssion, but, to such and such classes of peo- 
 ple, it will appear mean or ludicrous I" This 
 mode of criticism, so destructive of all sound 
 unadulterat( d judgment, is almost univeisal : 
 I have theiefore to request, that the Reader 
 would abide, independently, by his own feel- 
 ings, and that, if he fitjds himself affected, he 
 would not suffer such conjectures to interfere 
 with his pleasure. 
 
 If an Aulhor, by any single composition, has 
 impressed us with respect for his talents, it is 
 \ useful to consider this as affording a presurap- 
 ' tion, that on other occasions where we have 
 been displeased, lie, nevertheless, may not 
 I have written ill or absurdly; and, further, to 
 give iiim so much credit for this one composi- 
 tion as may induce us to review what has dis- 
 I pleased us, with more care than we should 
 ' otherwise have bestowed upon it. This is not 
 only an act of justice, but, in our decisions 
 upon poetry especially, may conduce, in a high 
 degree, to the improvement of our own taste : 
 for an accurate taste in poetry, and in all the 
 other arts, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has observ- 
 ed, is an acquired talent, whicJi can only be 
 produced by thought and a long-continued in- 
 tercourse with tlie best models of composition. 
 This is mentioned, not with so ridiculous a 
 purpose as lo prevent the most inexperienced 
 Reader from judging for himself, (1 have al- 
 ready said ihat 1 wish him to judge for him- 
 self;) but merely lo lenrper the rashness of de- 
 cision, nnd to suggest, that, if Poetry be a sub- 
 ject on which much time has not been bestow- 
 ed, the judgment may be erroneous; and that, 
 in many cases, it necessarily will be so. 
 
 1 know that nothing would have so effect- 
 ually contributed lo further the end which I 
 have in view, as to have shown of what kind 
 the pleasure is, and how that pleasure is pro- 
 duced, which is confessedly pioduced by me- 
 trical composition essentially different from 
 that which 1 have here endeavoured to recom- 
 mend : for the Reader will say tiiat he has 
 been pleased by such composition ; and what 
 can I do more for him .' The power of any art 
 is limited ; and he w^ill suspect, that, if 1 pro- 
 pose to furnish him with new friends, it is only 
 upon condition of his abandoning his old 
 friends. Besides, as I iiave said, the Reader 
 is himself conscious of the pleasure which he 
 has received fiom such composition, composi- 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 XXVll 
 
 tion to which ho has peculiarly attached the 
 endearing name of Poetry; and all men feel 
 an habitual gratitude, and something of an 
 honourable bigotry for the objects whi^ch have 
 long continued to please them ; we not only 
 wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that 
 particular way in wliich we liave been accus- 
 tomed to be pleased. There is a host of argu- 
 ments in these feelings; and I should be the 
 less able to con^bat them successfully, as I am 
 willing to allow, that, in order entirely to en- 
 joy the Poetry which I am recommending, it 
 would be necessary to give up much of what 
 is ordinarily enjoyed. But, would my limits 
 have permitted me to point out how this pleas- 
 ure is produced, I might have removed many 
 obstacles, and assisted my Reader in perceiv- 
 ing that the powers of language are not so lim- 
 ited as he may suppose ; and that it is possible 
 for poetry to give other enjoyments, of a purer, 
 more lasting, and more exquisite nature. This 
 
 part of my subject I have not altogether neg- 
 lected ; but it has been less my j)t(.\^e^4t aim 
 to prove, that tlie interest excited by some 
 other kinds of poetry is lets vivid, and less 
 wortliy of the rjobler poweis of ilie mind, than 
 to offer reasons for presuming, that, if the ob- 
 ject which I have proposed to m}s(df were 
 adequately atlained, a species of p(;t:t:y would 
 be produced, , which is genuine poetry ; in ils 
 nature well adapted to interest niHiikind per- 
 manently, and lik(!wise importMUt in the mul- 
 tiplicity and quality of its moral relalions. 
 
 From what has been said, and f'toui a peru- 
 sal of the Poems, the Reader will [)e able 
 clearly to perceive the object wliicii I have 
 proposed to myself: he will detcrniirie how 
 far I have attained tliis object; and, what is a 
 much more important question, wJUMlier it be 
 worth attaining: and up(Mi the dcjision of 
 these two questions will rest my cii;;m to tlie 
 approbation of the Public. 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 As, perhaps, I liave no right to expect from a 
 Reader of an Introduction to a volume of Po- 
 ems that attentive perusal without which it 
 is impossible, imperfectly as I have been com- 
 pelled to express my meaning", that what is 
 said in the Preface should, throughout, be ful- 
 ly understood, I am the more anxious to give 
 an exact notion of the sense in which I use 
 the phrase poetic diction ; and for this pur- 
 pose [ will here add a few woi'ds concerning 
 the origin of (he phraseology vvliich I have 
 
 condemned under that name. The earliest 
 
 poets of all nations o-enerally wrote from pas- j 
 Bion excited b3'' real events ; they wrote natu- 
 rally, and as men : feelino- powerfully as they ! 
 did, their languane v/as daring", and fiijura- 
 tive. In succeeding times, Poets, and Men 
 ambitious of the fame of Poets, perceiving ! 
 the influence of such language, and desirous I 
 of producing the same effect without having ; 
 the same animating passion, set themselves j 
 to a mechanical adoption of trirse figures of j 
 speech, and made use of them, sometimes with 
 propriety, but much more frequently applied 
 them to feelings and ideas with which they 
 had no natural connection whatsoever. A 
 lantruage was thus insensibly produced, dif- 
 fering materially from the real langunge of 
 men in any situation. The Reader or Hearer 
 of this distorted lancruaire found himself in a 
 perturbed and unusual state of mind ; when 
 affected by the genuine language of passion 
 he had been in a perturbed and unusual state 
 mind also: in both cases he was willing that 
 his common judgment and understanding 
 should be laid asleep, and he hnd no ijistinct- 
 ive and infaHible perception of the true to 
 make him reject the false ; the one served as 
 a passport for the other. The agitation and 
 confusion of mind were in both cases delight- 
 ful, and no wonder if he cont^ounded the one 
 with the other, and believed them both to he 
 produced by ^he same, or similar causes. Be- 
 sides the Poet s{)ake to him in the cliaracter 
 of a man to be looked up to, a man of genius 
 
 and authority. Thus, and from u variety of 
 other causes, this distorted languiigo was re- 
 ceived vvith admiration ; and Poets, it is pro- 
 bable, who had before contented tiicn;.se]ves 
 for the most part with misapplying oniy ex- 
 pressions which at first hud been diclaled hy 
 real passion, canied the abuse si ill furtlier, 
 and introduced phrases conspoced apparently 
 in the spirit of the originul figurative lan- 
 guage of passion, yet altogether of their own 
 invention, and distinguished by various de- 
 grees of wanton deviation from good sense 
 and nature. 
 
 It is indeed true, that the language of the 
 earliest Poets was felt to differ m.atcri;;!ly from 
 ordinary language, because it u'as tl.e lan- 
 guage of e.xtraordinarjT^ occcasions ; but it 
 was really spoken jjy men, language which 
 the Poet himself had uttered when he had 
 been affected by the events which he descri- 
 bed, or which he had heard uttered by those 
 around him. To this language it is probable 
 that metre of some sort or othicr v/as early su- 
 peradded. This separated tlie genuine lan- 
 guage of Poetry still further from common 
 life, so that whoever read or heard the Poems 
 of tliese earliest Poels felt himself moved in 
 a way in wliich he had not been accustomed 
 to be moved in real life, and by causes mani- 
 festly diffciont from those which aclcd upon 
 him in real life. This was t.'ie great tenspta- 
 tifO) to all tiic corruptions u hich have follow- 
 ed : under the protection of this feeling suc- 
 ceeding Poets constructed a phraseology 
 which had one th, ng, it is true, in common 
 with the genuine language of poetry, namely, 
 that it was not heard in ordinary conversa- 
 tion ; that it was unusual- But the first Po- 
 ets, as I have said, spake a language which, 
 though unusual, was still tlie language of 
 men. This circumstance, however, was dis- 
 regarded by their successors ; they found that 
 they couid please by easier means : they be- 
 came proud of a languag-- which they them- 
 seiVes had invented, and which was uttered 
 
xxviii 
 
 AFPENDIX. 
 
 only by themselves ; and, with the spirit of a 
 fraternity, they arrogated it to themselves as 
 their own. In process of time metre became 
 a symbol of promise of this unusual language, 
 and whoever took upon him to write in me- 
 tre, according as he possessed more or less of 
 true poetic genius, introduced less or more of 
 this adulterated phraseology into his compo- 
 sitions, and the true and the false became so 
 inseparably interwoven that the taste of men 
 was gradually perverted ; and this language 
 was received as a natural language: and at 
 length, by the influence of books upon men, 
 did to a certain degree really become bO. Abu- 
 fies of this kind were imported from one na- 
 tion to another, and with the progress of re- 
 finement this diction became daily more and 
 more corrupt, thrusting out of sight the plain 
 humanities of nature by a motley masquerade 
 of tricks, quaintnesses, hieroglyphics, and 
 enigmas. 
 
 It would be highly interesting to point out 
 the causes of the pleasure given by this ex- 
 travagant and absurd lanouafre; but this is 
 not the place; it depends upon a great vari- 
 ety of causes, but upon none, perhaps, more 
 than its influence in impressing a notion of 
 the peculiarity and exaltation of the Poet's 
 character, and in flattering the Reader's self- 
 love by bringing him nearer to a sympathy 
 with tiiat character ; an eftect which is ac- 
 complished by unsettling ordinary habits of 
 thinking, and thus assisting the Reader to ap- 
 proach to that perturbed and dizzy state of 
 mind in whicii if he does not find himself, he 
 imagines that he is balked of a peculiar en- 
 joyment which poetry can and ought to be 
 siow , 
 
 TiiG sonnet which I have quoted from Gray, 
 in the Preface, except the lines printed in Ita- 
 lics, consists of little else but this diction, 
 though not of the worst kind ; and indeed, if 
 I might be permitted to say so, it is far too 
 /comnjon in the best writers botli ancient and 
 modern. Perhaps I can in no way by posi- 
 tive example, more easily give my Reader a 
 notion of what I mean by the phrase poetic 
 diction than by referring him to a comparison 
 between the metrical paraphrase w^hich we 
 have of passages in the Old and New Testa- 
 rnent, and those passages as they exist in our 
 common Translation. See Pope's '^ Messiah" 
 throughout ; Prior's *''- Did sweeter sounds 
 fldorn my flowing tongue," &:c. &c. '^Though 
 I speak with the tongues of men and of an- 
 gels," &;c. &c. See 1st Corinthians, chapter 
 jiiiith. By way of immediate example, take 
 tlic following of Df. Johnson; — 
 
 Till want now following, fraudulent and %\ovr^ ^^ 
 Shall spring to seize thee, like an ambushed foe. 
 
 From this hubbub of words pass to the ori- 
 ginal. "- Go to the Ant, thou Sluggard, con- 
 sider her ways, and be wise : which having no 
 guide, overseer, or ruler, provideth her meat in 
 the summer, and gathereth her food in the har- 
 vest. How long wilt thou sleep, O Sluggard ? 
 when wilt thou arise out of the sleep ? Yet a 
 little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of 
 the hands to sleep. So shall thy poverty come 
 as one that travaileth, and thy want as an 
 armed man." Proverbs, chap. vi. 
 
 One more quotation, and I have done. It is 
 from Cowper's Verses supposed to be written 
 by Alexander Selkirk : — 
 
 " Religion ! what treasure untold 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 More precious than silver and gold, 
 Or all that this earth can afford. 
 Rut the sound of tlie church-goijjg bell 
 'lliese valleys and rocks never heard. 
 Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell, 
 Orsniiled when a subbath appeared. 
 
 Ye v ind8,that have made rae your sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 
 Some cordial endtaring report 
 
 Of a land I must visit no more. 
 
 My Friends, do they iiow and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 
 tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 1 hough a friend I am never to see." 
 
 (^ Turn on the pi-udent Ant thy heedless eyes, 
 Observe her labours, Sluggard, and be wise ; 
 No stern command, no monitory voice, 
 Prescribes her duties or directs her choice ; 
 Yet, timely proviilent, she hastes away 
 'J'o snatch the blessiugs of a plenteous day ; 
 When fruitful Sumujer loads the teeming plain, 
 She crops il»e harvest and she stores the grain. 
 How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours, 
 Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy powers ? 
 While artful shades thy downy couch enclose, 
 ^nd soft solicitation co irts repose. 
 Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight, 
 yeaF i;h»?e8 year with unremitted fligbt. 
 
 I have quoted this passage as an instance of 
 three diff*erent styles of composition. The 
 first four lines are poorly expressed ; some 
 Critics would call the language prosaic; the 
 fact is, it would be bad prose, so bad, that it 
 is scarcely worse in metre. The epithet 
 I '' church -going" applied to a bell, and that by 
 ! so chaste a writer as Cowper, is an instance 
 of the strange abuses which Poets have intro- 
 duced into their language, till they and their 
 Readers take them as matters of course, if 
 they do not single them out expressly as ob- 
 jects of admiration. The two lines ''Ne'er 
 sighed at the sound," Sec. are, in my opin- 
 ion, an instance of the languaoje of passion 
 wrested from its proper use, and, from the 
 mere circumstance of the composiiion being 
 in metre, applied upon an occasion that does 
 not justify such violent expressions ; that I 
 should condemn the passage, though perhaps 
 ^e\w Readers will agree w^ith me, as vicious 
 poetic diction. The last stanza is through- 
 out admirably expressed ; it would be equally 
 good whetlier in prose or verse, except that 
 the Reader has an exquisite pleasure in seeing 
 such natural language so naturally connected 
 with metre. The beauty of this stanza tempts 
 me to conclude with a principle which ouffht 
 never to be lost sight of,— namely, that in 
 works of imagination and sentiment, in pro- 
 portmn as ideas and feelinos are valuable 
 whether the composition be in prose or in 
 verse, they require and exact one and the 
 same language. Metre is but adventitious to 
 composition, and the phraseology for which 
 that passport is necessary, even where it is 
 irraceful at all, will be little valued by the ju- 
 dicious. -^ J 
 
I IV » E X, 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILD- 
 HOOD. 
 
 Page 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold - - - 1 
 
 To a butterfly - - - - - ib 
 Foresight, or the Chnr;;e of a child to hisy(>unger 
 
 Coni)»anion - - - - - ib 
 
 Characteristics of a Child three years old - ib 
 Address to a Cliild during a boisterous Winter 
 
 EveiiiMg - . - - - - ib 
 
 The Mother's Return _ . - . 2 
 
 Lucy Gray ; or Solitude - - - ib 
 
 VVe are Seven . .... 3 
 Anecdote for Fathers, showing how the Practice 
 
 of lying may be taught - - - ib 
 
 Rural Architecture - - - - 4 
 
 The Pel-Lamb - - - - - ib 
 
 The Idle Shepherd-Boys ; or, Diingeon-Ghyll Force 5 
 
 To H. C six years old - - - - G 
 
 Influence of Natural Objects - - - ib 
 
 The longest Day - - - - - ib 
 
 JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem - - 7 
 
 An Evening Walk, addressed to a young Lady - ib 
 Descriptive Sketches - - - -10 
 
 The Female Vagrant - - - - 16 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 The Brothers - - - - - 38 
 
 Artegal and Elidure - - - - 21 
 
 The Sparrow's Nest - - - - 23 
 
 To a Butterfly - - - - - ib 
 
 A Farewell - - - - - ib 
 Stanzas written in my Pocket-Copy of Thomson's 
 
 Castle of Indolence - - - - 24 
 
 Louisa - - - - - ib 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known - - 25 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways - - ib 
 
 I travelled among unknown men - - ib 
 
 Ere with cold beads of midnight dew - - ib 
 
 To ib 
 
 'Tis said that some have died for love - - ib 
 
 A Complaint - - - - - 26 
 
 To ib 
 
 How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! - ib 
 
 To - - . - ib 
 
 Lament of Mary Queen of Scots • - 27 
 
 The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman - ib 
 
 The Last of the Flock - - - - 28 
 
 Repentance, a Pastoral Ballad - • - ib 
 
 The Affliction of Margaret - - - 29 
 
 The Cottager to her Infant - - - ib 
 
 The Sailor's Mother - - - - ib 
 
 The Childless Father - - - - 30 
 
 The Emigrant Mother - - - - ib 
 
 Vaudracour and Julia - - - - 31 
 
 i The Idiot Buy - - - - - 33 
 
 ^' Mi«hael, a Pastoral Poem - - - 36 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 The Waggoner, in Four Cantos - - - 40 
 
 A Morning Exercise - - - - 46 
 
 To the Daisy - - - - - ib 
 
 A Whirl-blast from behind the hill - - 47 
 
 The Green Linnet - - - - - ib 
 
 The Contrast • - - - - ib 
 
 To the Small Celandine - - - - 48 
 
 To the same Flower - - - - ib 
 
 The Waterfall and the Eglantine - - - 49 
 
 Pn«?e 
 
 The Oak and the Broom, a Pastoral - - 49 
 
 Song for the Spinning Wheel - - - 50 
 
 The Redbreast and Butterfly - - - ib 
 
 The Kitten and the Falling Leaves - - ib 
 
 A Flower Garden - - - - - 51 
 
 To the Daisy - - - - - 52 
 
 To the Same Flower - - - - ib 
 
 To a Sky-lark ib 
 
 To a Sexton - - - - - 53 
 
 Who fancied what a pretty sight - - - ib 
 
 Song for the Wandering Jew - - - ib 
 
 The Seven Sisters ; or, the Solitude of Binnorie - ib 
 
 A Frnumont - - - - - 5*1 
 
 The Pilgrim's Dream ; or the Star and the Glow- 
 
 Worm .--... jb 
 Hint from the Mountains for certain Political Pre- 
 tenders - - - - - - 55 
 
 Stray Pleasures - - - - ib 
 
 On seein;? a Needlecase in the Form of a Harp - ib 
 
 Address to my Infant Daughter - - - 56 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 It was an April morning ; fresh and clear - 56 
 
 To Joanna - - - - - 57 
 
 There is an eminence ; of these our hills - - ib 
 
 A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags - 58 
 
 To M. H. - - - - - - ib 
 
 When, to the attractions of the busy world - ib 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 In the Grounds of Coleorton, ihe Seat of Sir George 
 
 Beaumont, Bart., Leicestershire . . 59 
 
 In a Garden of the same . . . , ib 
 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 . . . ib 
 
 For a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton . . (jo 
 Written with a Pencil upon a Stone in the Wall of 
 the House i^an Out-house) on the Island atGras- 
 
 mere . . , . . . ib 
 Written with a Slate Pencil on a Stone on the aide 
 
 of the Mountain of Black Comb . . jb 
 Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, the 
 largest of a Heap lying near a deserted Quarry, 
 
 upon one of the Islands at R dal . . jb 
 Inscriptions supposed to be found in and near a 
 
 Hermit's Cell . , . . .61 
 
 Inscribed upon a Rock . . . . ib 
 
 Hast then seen with flash incessant . . jb 
 
 Near the Spring of the Hermitage . . . ib 
 
 Not seldom, clad in radiant vest . . . ib 
 For the Spot where the Hermitage stood on St. 
 
 Herbert's Island, Derwent-water . , 62 
 
 The Prioress's Tale (from Chaucer) . . ib 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye Clifl^s 64 
 
 To , on her first Ascent to the Summit 
 
 ofllelvellyn . . . . . ib 
 
 To the Cuckoo ..... ib 
 
 A Night-Piece ..... 65 
 
 Water-Fowl ..... ib 
 
 Yew-Trees ..... ib 
 
 View from the Top of Black Comb . . ib 
 
 Nutting ...... 66 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight . . ib 
 
 O Nightingale! thou surely art . . ib 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower . ib 
 
 A Isumber did my cpirlt seal . , OT 
 
XXX 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 Tlie Iloin of EfrremoKt Cn.?t!e ' . 67 
 
 Coiuly B!ako otid Harry Gill, a truo Story . 68 
 
 1 v.';u;dcrc'd lonely as a Cloud . . . ib 
 
 TJ)e Reverie of Poor Suaau . . .69 
 
 Power of Muj-ic . . . . ib 
 
 SiHr-Gazers . . . . . ib 
 
 The Haunted Tree . . . .70 
 
 Written in March, while resting on the Bridge 
 
 at tlie Foot of Brother's Water . . ib 
 
 Gipsies . . . . . . il) 
 
 Beggars . . . . . , ib 
 
 Sequel to the foregoing, composed many Years after 71 
 
 Ruth 
 
 I^nodamia ..... 
 
 The Triad 
 
 Her eyes are wild, her head is bare 
 
 RHsolution and Independence 
 
 The Thorn ..... 
 
 Hart-leap Well . . - . . 
 
 Sn!i5 at the Feast of Bro\ipham Casllc, upon the 
 Restoration of Lord Ciitford, the tShepherd, to 
 the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo 
 
 To a Sky-Lark ..... 
 
 It is no Spirit who from Heaven huth flown 
 
 French Revolution, as it appeared to Enthusiasts 
 at its Commencement, reprinted from " the 
 Friend" ..... 
 
 Ode. TJie Pass of Kiikstone 
 
 Evening Ode, composed upon an Evening of ex- 
 traordinary Splendour and Beaut)'^ 
 
 Lines composed a few Miles above Tintern Ab- 
 bey, on revisiting the Banks of the Wye during 
 a Tour ...... 
 
 Peter-Bell, a Tale, in Three Parts 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 To .... 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room 
 
 Written in very early Youth 
 
 Admonition .... 
 
 '> Beloved Vale :" I said, " when I shall con' 
 
 Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side 
 
 There is a little unpretending Rill 
 
 Her only Pilot the soft breeze, the Boat 
 
 The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade 
 
 Upon the Sight of a beautiful Picture 
 
 *' Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings 
 
 Aerial Rock— whose solitary brow 
 
 O gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee 
 
 To Sleep ..... 
 
 To Sleep . , . . » 
 
 The Wild Duck's Nest 
 
 Written upon a blank Leaf in " the Complete 
 
 Angler" .... 
 
 To the Poet, John Dyer 
 On the Detraction which followed the Publicatio 
 
 of a certain Poem 
 To the River Derwent 
 Composed in one of the Valleys of Westmorelan( 
 
 on Easter Sunday 
 Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready Friend 
 
 To a. H 
 
 Decay of Piety .... 
 
 Composed on the Eve of the Marriage of a Frien 
 
 in the Vale of Grasmere 
 From the Italian of Michael Angelo 
 From the Same .... 
 From the Same. To the Supreme Being 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne 
 «' Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind" 
 It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free 
 
 ib 
 73 
 
 74 
 76 
 
 77 
 78 
 79 
 
 81 
 83 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 84 
 
 ib 
 
 85 
 86 
 
 Pn^p 
 
 95 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 96 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 97 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 98 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 99 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 Where lies thf land to which yon Ship must go 
 With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh 
 The world is too njuch with us; late and soon 
 A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found 
 How sweet it is, v/hen mother Fancy rocks 
 Pergonal Talk ..... 
 
 Continued ..... 
 
 Continued ..... 
 
 (Concluded 
 
 [ wateh, and long have watched, with calm regret 
 To R. H. Haydon, Esq. 
 From the dark chanjbers of dejection freed 
 Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild 
 I heard (alas 1 'twas only in a dream) 
 Retirement ..... 
 
 To the Memory of Raisley Calvert 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 Scorn not ihe Sonnet ; Critic, you have fro wned 
 Not Love, nor War, nor the tumultuous swell 
 September, 1815 .... 
 
 November 1. ..... 
 
 Composed during a Storm 
 
 To a Snow-Drop , . . . 
 
 Composed a few Days afier the foregoing 
 
 The Stars are mansions built by Nature's hand 
 
 To the Lady Beaumont 
 
 To the Lady Mary Lowther 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 
 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said 
 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour 1 
 
 With how saH steps, O Moon, thou climbest the sky 
 
 Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress 
 
 Mark the concentred Hazels that enclose 
 
 Captivity ..... 
 
 Brook I whose society the Poet seeks 
 Composed on the Banks of a rocky Stream 
 Pure element of waters 1 whereso'er 
 Malham Cove ..... 
 
 Gordale ...... 
 
 The monument commonly called Long Meg and her 
 
 Daughters, near the River Eden 
 Composed after a Journey across the Hambleton 
 
 H'llls, Yorkshire .... 
 
 These words were uttered as in pensive mood 
 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3. 1803 
 Oxford, May 30. IB^JO .... 
 
 Oxford, May 30. 18-20 .... 
 
 Recollection of the Portrait of King Henry Eighth, 
 
 Trinitv Lodge, Cambridge 
 On the Death of His Majesty, (George the Third) 
 June, 18-20 ..... 
 
 A Parsonage in Oxfordshire 
 Composed among the Ruins of a castle in North 
 
 Wales ••.... 
 
 To the Lady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P. 
 To the Torrent at the Devil's Bridge, North Wales 
 Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and near 
 Strange visitation ! at Jemima's lip 
 When Philoctetes in the Lemnian Isle 
 While they, who once were Anna's Playmates, 
 tiead . . J ) 
 
 To the Cuckoo 
 
 The Infant M M 
 
 To Rotha a 
 
 To , in her seventieth Year 
 
 99 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 100 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 101 
 ib 
 
 A Grave-stone upon the Floor in the cloisters of 
 
 Worcester Cathedral 
 A Tradition of Darley Dale, Derbyshire 
 Filial Piety 
 
 To R. B. Haydon, Esq., on seeing his Picture of Na- 
 poleon Buonaparte on the Island of St. Helena 
 
 Conclusion. To - 
 
 In my mind's eye a Temple, hke a cloud 
 
 101 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 102 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 103 
 ib. 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 104 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 105 
 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 106 
 ib 
 ib 
 lb 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 107 
 ib 
 ib 
 
I?,'DEX. 
 
 XT^Xl 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 
 
 3803. 
 
 Pas:ft 
 Departure from the Vale ofGrasmere. Aug. 1803 107 
 
 To the Sons of Burns, after visiiing tlie Grave of 
 
 their Father 
 Ellen Irwin ; or the Braes of Kirtle 
 To a HiglilandGirl 
 Glen- A I main ; or, the Narrow Glen 
 Stepping Westward 
 The Solitary Reappr 
 
 Address to Kilchnrn-Castleupou Loch Awe 
 Rob Roy's Grave 
 
 Composed at Castle 
 
 Yarrow unvisited 
 
 i • • 
 
 In tl]e Passof Killicranky, an Invasion being e 
 pected, October ir03 . . . . 
 
 The Matron of Jedboiough and her Husband 
 Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere-dale 
 The Blind Highland Boy 
 
 ib 
 JOS 
 
 ib 
 109 
 
 ih 
 
 ib 
 110 
 
 ib 
 111 
 
 ib 
 
 112 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 113 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1SJ4. 
 
 The Browiiie's Cell. - - - _ 515 
 Composed at Cora Linn, in sight of Wallace's 
 
 Tower - - . . - ib 
 Effusion, in the Pleasurr-ground on the Banks 
 
 of the Bran, near Dnnkeld . . 116 
 Yarrow visited, September, 1814 . .117 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 FART FIRST. 
 
 Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, Au- 
 gust, 1802 118 
 
 Talais, August, 1802 . . . . ib 
 
 To a Friend ..... ib 
 
 I grieved for Bonapnrte, &c. . . - ib 
 
 Calais, August, 1.5, 1802 . . . ib 
 
 On the Extinction of the Venitian Republic ib 
 
 The King of Sweden . . . . ib 
 
 To Toussaint I'Ouverture . . . ib 
 
 Driven from the Soil of France, a Female came 119 
 Composed in the Valley, near Dover on the 
 
 Day of Landing . . . . ib 
 
 Inland, within a hollow Vale, I stood . ib 
 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of 
 
 Switzerland ..... ib 
 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must look ib 
 
 Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour ib 
 
 Great Men have been among us, &c. . ib 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood ib 
 
 When I have borne in Memory Avhat has tamed ib 
 
 One might believe that natural miseries . 120 
 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear ib 
 
 These times touch moiiied Worfdings With dismay jb 
 England I the time is come when thou should'st 
 
 wean . . . . . . ib 
 
 Whtin, looking on the present face of things ib 
 
 To the Men of Kent . . . . ib 
 
 Aniicipation , . . . . ib 
 
 Another year! — another deadly blow ! . ib 
 
 Ode 121 
 
 TART SECOND. 
 
 On a celebrated Event in Ancient History . ib 
 Upon the same Event . . . . ib 
 To Thomas Clarkson, on the final passing of 
 the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, 
 March, 1807 ..... ib 
 A Prophecy. February, 1807 . . ib 
 Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 122 
 Go back to antique Ages, if thine eyes . ib 
 Composed while the Author was engaged in 
 ■writin*' a Tract, occasioned by the Conven- 
 tion of Cintra, 1808 . . . . ib 
 Composed at the same Time and on the same 
 Occasion ..... ib 
 
 Hofter . . . . 
 
 Advance— come forth fr<im thy Tyrolean ground 
 
 Feelings of the Tyrolcsje 
 
 Alas! what boots the long laboiious quest 
 
 And is it among rude unlntored Dales 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mouniain and on plain 
 
 On the final Submission of the Tyrolese 
 
 Hail, Zaragoza ! &c. .... 
 
 Say, what is Honour 1 &:c. 
 
 The martial couraje of a dny is vain 
 
 Brave Schill ! by deatli deliver, d, lake thy flight 
 
 Call not the royal Swede unfortunate 
 
 Look now on that Adventurer, &c. 
 
 Is there a Power that can sustain and cheer 
 
 Ah ! where is Palafo.v 1 &c. 
 
 In due observance of an ancient rife 
 
 Feelings of a noble Biscayan at one of these 
 
 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 nnd the Spanish Guerillas 
 Spanish Guerillas, 1-8 1. 
 The power of Armies is a visible t' ing 
 Here pause: the poet claims al least this praise 
 The French Army in Russia 
 On the same O -casion . . . . 
 
 By Moscow self-devf)ted to a blaze 
 The Germans on the Heights of Hockheim 
 Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright 
 On the Disinterment of the Remains of the 
 
 Duke d'Engliien . . . . 
 
 Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo 
 O, for a kindling touch of that pure flame 
 Occasioned by the same Battle 
 Emperors and Kings, how oft have Temples rung 
 Ode composed in January, 1816 
 Thanksgiving Ode .... 
 
 Page 
 
 122 
 
 ib' 
 
 ib 
 
 H) 
 123 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 rb 
 H) 
 ib 
 124 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ih 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 125 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 126 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 127 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 128 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 Dedication ..... 
 
 Fish-Women.— On landing at Calais 
 
 Bruges ------ 
 
 Bruges ------ 
 
 After visiting the Field of Waterloo 
 Scenery between Namur and Liege 
 Aix-la-Chapelle - - . - - 
 
 In the Cathedral at Cologne - - - 
 
 In a Carriage, upon the Banks of the Rhine 
 Hymn, for the Boatmen, as they approach the Ra- 
 pids, under the Castle of H^idelburg 
 The Source of the Danube 
 Memorial, near the Outlet of the Lake of Thun 
 Composed in one of the Catholic Cantons of Swit- 
 zerland - - - - - 
 
 On approaching the Staub-Bach, Lauterbrunnen 
 The Fall of the Aar— Handec 
 Scene on the Lake of Brientz 
 Engelberg, the Hill of Angels 
 Our Lady of the Snow - - - 
 
 Effusion in Presence of the painted Tower of 
 Tell, at Altorf _ . - - 
 
 The Town of Schwytz . . - 
 
 On hearing the " Ranz des Vaches" on the 
 
 Top of the Pass of St. Gothard 
 The Church of San Salvador, seen from the 
 Lake of Lumago - - - . 
 
 Fort Fuentes _ _ - - - 
 
 The Italian Itinerant, and the Swiss Goatherd 
 The Last Supper, Leonardo da Vinci, in the 
 Refectory of the Convent of Maria della 
 Grazia Milan . - - - 
 
 The Eclipse of the Sun, 1820 
 The three Cottage Girls 
 
 131 
 ib 
 
 132 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 133 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 134 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 135 
 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 130 
 
 ib 
 
 137 
 ib 
 
 138 
 
XXXIl 
 
 INDKt. 
 
 Page 
 Tilt; rctluiiiri intended by Bonaparte for a tri- 
 umphal Edifice ill Milan, now lying by the 
 
 Way-si«le in the ^implon Pass - - 138 
 
 Stanzas, (MMnpotied in the Simplon Pass - 139 
 
 Echo, upon the Genjmi - - - ib 
 
 Processions - - - - ib 
 
 Elegiac ^!anzas - - - - 140 
 
 Sky-prospect — from the Plnin of France - ib 
 
 On bein}: stranded near the Harbour of Boulogne 141 
 
 After landing — the Valley of Dover " ib 
 
 Di^sult<iry Stanzas - - - - ib 
 
 To Enterprise - - - - 142 
 
 THE RIVER DUJDON. 
 
 Dkdication - ... - 143 
 
 N(tt (.nvying sha(h;s which haply yet may f hrotV 144 
 
 Child ofthe clomisl remote from every taint - ib 
 
 How shall I paint thee ? — Be this naked stone ib 
 
 Take, cradled iVnrsling of th(^ mountain, take - ib 
 
 Sole listener, Dnd(U)n ! to the breeze thatplayed - ib 
 
 Flowers - - - - - - ib 
 
 "rhan;:e me, some Hod, itito that breathing rose !" 145 
 
 What aspect bore the Man who roved or (led - ib 
 
 The Steppinii-stones - - - - - ib 
 
 'I^he same subj ect - - - - - ib 
 
 The Faery (^liasm - - - - - ib 
 
 Hints for the Fancy - - - - - ib 
 
 Open Prospect - - - - - ib 
 
 O mountain Stream ! The Shepherd and his Cot ib 
 From this deep chasm — where quivering sunbeams 
 
 play - - - ^ . ib 
 
 American Tradition . • . . 146 
 
 Return . . . . . ib 
 
 Seatliwaile Chapel . . . . . ib 
 
 Tributary Strenm . . . . . ib 
 
 The Plain of Donerdale . . . . ib 
 
 Whence that low voice 1 — A whisper from the heart ib 
 
 Tradition . . • . . . ib 
 
 Sheep-washing . . . . . ib 
 
 The Resting-place . . . . . 147 
 
 Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat . ib 
 
 Return, Content I for fondly I pursned . < ib 
 
 Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap . ib 
 
 Journey Renewed . . . . . ib 
 
 No record tells of lance opposed to lance . ib 
 
 Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce ib 
 
 The Kirk of Ulpha to the Pilgrim's eye . ib 
 
 Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep . ib 
 
 Conclusion ..... 148 
 
 After-thought . - . . . ib 
 
 Postscript . . . . ; . ib 
 
 Notes • . . . . . ib 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 Advertisement ..... 155 
 
 In trellised shed with clustering roses gay . ib 
 
 Canto I. ..... ih 
 
 Canto ir. . . . ; . 158 
 
 Canto lU. . . . . » .160 
 
 Canto IV. . . . . . .163 
 
 Canto V. . • . . . , 264 
 
 Canto VI. . . . . , . 1(55 
 
 Canto VII. . . . . . .167 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 Advertisement ..... 171 
 
 Introduction . . . . . ib 
 
 Conjectures . . . . . ib 
 
 Trepidation of the Druids . . . ib 
 
 Druidical Excommunication . . . ib 
 
 Uncertainty . . • - . ib 
 
 Persecution . . . . , 172 
 
 Recovery . ib 
 
 Temptations from Roman Refinements 
 
 Dissensions 
 
 Struggle of the Britons against the Barbarians 
 
 Saxon Conquest 
 
 Monastery of Old Bangor 
 
 Casual liu'.itement . 
 
 Glad Tidings 
 
 Paulinns 
 
 Persuasion 
 
 Conversion . 
 
 Apology 
 
 Primitive Saton Clergy 
 
 Other Influences 
 
 Seclusion 
 
 (contiiutcd) 
 
 Reproof 
 
 Saxon Monasteries, and Lights and Shades of th 
 
 Religion 
 Missions and Trfivefs 
 Alfred 
 
 His Descendants 
 influence abused 
 Danish Conquests . 
 Canute 
 The Norman Conquest 
 
 The Council of Clermont . 
 Crusades . . ^ 
 
 Richard I. 
 
 An Interdict 
 
 Papal Abuses 
 
 Scene in Venice 
 
 Papal Dominion 
 
 PART SECOT^D 
 
 Cistertian Monastery 
 Monks and Schoolmen 
 Other Benefits 
 
 (con tinned) 
 
 Crusaders 
 
 Transubstantiation . 
 
 Waldenses 
 
 Archbishop Chichely to Henry V 
 
 Wars of York and Lancaster 
 
 Wicliffe 
 
 Corruptions of the higher Clergy 
 
 Abuse of Monastic Power 
 
 Monastic Voluptuousness . 
 
 Dissolution of the Monasteries 
 
 The same Subject . 
 
 (continued) 
 
 Saints 
 
 The Virgin . 
 
 Apology 
 
 Imaginative Regrets . 
 
 Reflections . 
 
 Translation of the Bible . 
 
 The Point at Issuw . 
 
 Edward vt. , 
 
 Edward signing the Warrant for 
 
 Joan of Kent 
 Revival of Popery . 
 Latimer and Ridley 
 Cranmer 
 
 General View of the Tronbles of 
 English Reformers in Exile 
 Elizabeth - . . 
 
 Eminent Reformers 
 The same - - ^ 
 
 Distractions ... 
 Gunpowder Plot 
 The Jung-Frau and the Fall of 
 
 Schafl^hausen 
 
 Troubles of Charles the First 
 Laud - - . . 
 
 Afllictions of England 
 
 the Execution of 
 
 the Reformation 
 
 Page 
 172 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ih 
 173 
 lb 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 \h 
 174 
 ib 
 ib 
 ih 
 ih 
 
 ih 
 ib 
 ib 
 175 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 176 
 ih 
 \b 
 ih 
 
 176 
 ib 
 ih 
 ib 
 
 177 
 lb 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 Ib 
 
 178 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ' Sb 
 
 179 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 the Rhine near 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 180 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 181 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
INDEX. 
 
 xxxm 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 "i suw the figure of a lovely Maitl 
 Patriotic Sympathies 
 
 Charles the Second - - _ - 
 
 Latituclinarianism - - - - 
 
 Clerical Integrity - . . - 
 
 Persecution of the Scottish Covenanters 
 Acquittal of the Bishops - - _ 
 
 William the Third 
 
 Obligations of Civil to Religious Liberty 
 Down a swift Stream, thus far a bold design 
 Walton's Book of Lives - - - 
 
 Sacheverell . - - - - 
 
 Places of Worship - - - - 
 
 Pastoral Character _ . . 
 
 The Liturgy - - - - - 
 
 Baptism . - - - - 
 
 Sponsors - . - - - 
 
 Catechising - _ - - - 
 
 Confirmation . - - - 
 
 {continued) 
 
 Sacrament _ - - - - 
 
 Rural Ceremony - - - - 
 
 Regrets . . - - - 
 
 Mutability - . - - 
 
 Old Abbeys . . - - 
 
 Emigrant French Clergy - - - 
 
 Congratulation 
 
 New Churches - - - 
 
 Church to be erected 
 
 (contiuued) 
 
 New Church-yard 
 
 Cathedrals, &:c, , 
 
 Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge 
 
 The Same 
 
 (continued) 
 
 Ejaculation 
 Conclusion 
 
 Page 
 181 
 
 ■ lb 
 . ib 
 
 ■ 182 
 • ib 
 
 ■ ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - 183 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - 184 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 <^ ib 
 
 - ib 
 ib 
 
 - lb 
 185 
 
 ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 
 - ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 186 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 Dion 
 Memory 
 Ode to duty 
 
 Page 
 
 200 
 
 201 
 
 ib 
 
 POEMS 
 REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 Exposturlation and Reply - - - 186 
 
 The taWes turned - - - - ib 
 
 Written in Germany, on one of the coldest Days of 
 
 the Century > - - - 
 
 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, &c. 
 Character of the happy Warrior 
 A Poet's Epitaph . . - - 
 
 To the Spade of a Friend . - - 
 
 To my Sister - - - - - 
 
 To a Young Lady, who had been reproached 
 
 for taking long Walks in. the Country 
 Lines written in early Spring - 
 Simon Lee _ . - - - 
 
 The Wishing-gate . . _ - 
 
 Incident characteristic of a favourite Dog 
 Tribute to the Memory of the same Dog 
 If Nature, for a favourite Child 
 The two April Mornings _ _ . 
 
 The Fountain _ _ - - - 
 
 Lines written while sailing in a Boat at Evening 
 Remembrance of Collins - - - 
 
 If Thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven 
 Written in a blank Leaf of Macpherson's Ossian 
 Vernal Ode . . - - - 
 
 The Old Cumberland Beggar 
 
 The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale 
 
 The Small Celandine 
 
 The Two Thieves .... 
 
 Animal Tranquillity and Decay 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Perhaps some needful service of the state 
 O Thou who movest onward with a mind 
 There never breathed a man who, when his life 
 Destined to war from very infancy 
 Not without heavy grief of heart did He 
 Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi supplicates 
 Lines written on the expected Death of Mr. Fox 
 Lines written upon hearing of the Death of 
 
 the late Vicar of Kendal 
 Elegiac Stanzas .... 
 
 To the Daisy ..... 
 
 On ce I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) 
 Elegiac Stanzas ..... 
 Invocation to the Earth 
 Sonnet on the lato General Fast 
 Ode . . . i . . 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Preface 
 
 Dedication 
 
 The Wanderer 
 
 The Solitary 
 
 Despondency 
 
 Despondency corrected 
 
 The Pastor 
 
 The Church-Yard among the Mountains 
 
 (continued 
 
 The Parsonage . . t 
 
 Ode to Lycoris . - - - 
 
 To the same _ _ - - 
 
 Fidelity - . - - - 
 
 The Gleaner . . - - 
 
 To the Lady • ■ " • 
 
 On the same Occasion 
 
 The Force of Prayer - - - 
 
 A Fact, and an imagination 
 
 A little onward lend thy guiding hand 
 
 September, l^^^^ 
 
 Upon the same Occaeion 
 
 ^Se Pillar of Trajan 
 
 187 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 188 
 ib 
 
 189 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 190 
 
 191 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 192 
 ib 
 
 193 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 194 
 
 195 
 ib 
 
 196 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 197 
 ib 
 
 198 
 ib 
 
 199 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 Discourse of the Wanderer, Sec. 
 Yarrow Revisited 
 
 202 
 
 203 
 
 20 1 
 
 il> 
 
 205 
 
 205 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 206 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 207 
 ib 
 
 208 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 209 
 
 210 
 211 
 212 
 219 
 325 
 232 
 242 
 249 
 257 
 264 
 269 
 274 
 
 SONNETS. 
 On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbots- 
 ford, for Naples - - - - - 275 
 A Place of Burial in the South of Scotland - ib 
 On the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scotland ib 
 Composed in Roslin Chapel, during a Storm - 276 
 TheTrosachs ----- jb 
 The Pibroch's Note, discountenanced or raut« ib 
 Composedin the Glen of Loch Etive - - ib 
 Eagles, composed at Dunollie Castle in the Bay of 
 
 Oban ------ ib 
 
 In the Sound of Mali - - - - ib 
 
 At Tyndrum - - - - - ib 
 
 The Earl of Breadalbane's ruined Mansion, and 
 
 Family Burial-Place, near Killin - - ib 
 
 Rest and be thankful, at the Head of Glencroe 277 
 
 Highland Hut ib 
 
 Tiie Brownie - - - - - ib 
 To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star. Composed 
 
 at Loch Lomond - - - - 278 
 
 Bothwell Castle ----- ib 
 Picture of Daniel in the Lion's Den, at Hamilton 
 
 Palace ------ jb 
 
 The Avon, a Feeder of the Annan - - ib 
 Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Ingle- 
 
 wGod Forest - - - - _ 277 
 
 Harfs-hom Tree, near Penrith - - ib 
 
 Countess's Pillar - . - - ib 
 Roman Antiquities. (From the Roman Station at 
 
 Old Penrith) - - ~ - . - ib 
 
 Apology for the foregoing - - - Ib 
 
 The Highland Broach - - - - 280 
 
xxxiv 
 
 INDEX, 
 
 Page 
 The Egyptian Maid ; or, the Romance of the Water 
 Lily 280 
 
 Ode composed on May Morning - - 283 
 
 ToMny , - - - 284 
 
 Inscription - - . . _ 285 
 
 Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Coleorton Hall, 
 
 the Seat of the late Sir George Beaumont, Bart. 
 Epitaph ----__ ib 
 
 Inscription intended for a Stone in the Grounds of 
 
 Rydal Mount ----- ib 
 Incident at Bruges - - - - ib 
 
 A Jewish Family. (In a small Valley opposite St. 
 
 Goar, upon the Rhine) _ . - 286 
 
 Devotional Incitements • - - ib 
 
 Written in an Album - - - - 287 
 
 The Armenian Lady's Love - . - ib 
 
 The Primrose of the Rock - - - 288 
 
 Presentiments _ _ - - . ib 
 
 The Poet and the caged Turtledove - - 289 
 
 Chatsworth ! thy stately Mansion - - ib 
 
 Desponding Father ! mark this altered Bough ib 
 
 Roman Antiquities discovered, at Bishopstone, 
 
 Herefordshne . - _ - - ib 
 
 St. Catherine of Ledbury - - - 200 
 
 The Russian Fugitive. Part I. - - ib 
 
 Part IL - - ib 
 
 Part III. - - 291 
 
 Part IV. - - 292 
 
 Why art thou silent ! - - - - ib 
 
 Four fiery steeds impatient of the Rein - 293 
 
 To the Author's Portrait - - - ib 
 
 Gold and Silver Fishes, in a Vase - - ib 
 
 Liberty. (Sequel to the above) - - ib 
 
 EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
 
 Calm is the fragrant Air, and loth to lose - 294 
 
 Not in the lucid Intervals of Life - - 295 
 
 By the Side of Rydal Mere - - - ib 
 
 Soft as a Cloud is yon blue Ridge - - ib 
 
 The Leaves that rustled on this Oak-crowned Hill ib 
 
 The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire - 296 
 
 By the Sea-side _ - - . - ib 
 
 The Sun has long been set - - - - ib 
 
 Throned in the Sun's descending Car - - lb 
 
 The Laborer's Noon-day Hymn - - 297 
 
 A Wren's Nest . - - - - ib 
 
 Page 
 300 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 By the Sca-sliore, Isle of Man 
 
 Isle of Man - - - - - 
 
 The Retired Marine Officer, Isle of Man 
 
 By a Retired Mariner (a Friend of the Author) 
 
 At Bala-sala, Isle of Man. (Supposed to be written 
 
 by a Friend of the Author) 
 Tynwald Hill . - - - - 
 
 Despond who will— I heard a Voice exclaim 
 
 In the Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. (July 17, 1833) 
 
 On the Frith of Clyde. (In a Steam-boat) 
 
 On revisiting Dunolly Castle . . - 
 
 The Dunolly Eagle . - - _ 
 
 Cave of StafFa - - - - - 
 
 Cave of Staffa - - ' - 
 
 Cave of Staflfa - . - - - 
 
 Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the Entrance 
 of the Cave ----- 
 
 Ontolonal What can she afford 
 
 lona. (Upon landing) . - _ _ 
 
 The Black Stones of lona 
 
 Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell 
 
 Greenock ...... 
 
 ' There !" said a Stripling, pointing with meet 
 Pride .... . . 
 
 Fancy and Tradition . . . . 
 
 The River Eden, Cumberland 
 
 Monument of Mrs Howard (by Nollekins)in Wethe- - 
 
 ral Church, near Corby, on the Banks of the Eden ib 
 Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou 
 Nunnery . .... 
 
 Steam-boats, Viaducts, and Railways 
 Lowther ! in thy majestic Pile are seen 
 To the Earl of Lonsdale . . 
 
 To Cordelia M Hallsteads, Ullswater 
 
 Conclusion 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 301 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 302 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 303 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 lb 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 304 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 305 
 
 COMPOSED DURING A TOUR. 
 
 - ib 
 
 SONNETS, 1833, 
 
 Adieu I Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown 
 Why should the Enthusiast, Journeying through 
 this Isle - - - - - 
 
 They called thee merry England, in old time 
 To the River Greta, near Keswick 
 To the River Derwent - - - - 
 
 In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth 
 Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle 
 Nun's Well, Brigham - - _ - 
 
 To a Friend (on the Banks of the Derwent) 
 Mary aueen of Scots (landing at the Mouth of the 
 
 Derwent, Workington) 
 la the Channel, between the Coast of Cumberland 
 
 and the Isle of Man - - - - 
 
 At Sea olf the Isle of Man 
 
 Desire we past Illusions to recall 7 - - 
 
 On entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man 
 
 298 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 299 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 ib 
 
 Lines written in the Album of the Countess of 
 
 Nov, 5. 1834 
 
 The Somnambulist 
 
 To , upon the Birth of her first-born Child 
 
 March, 1833 . . . . .306 
 
 The Warning, a Sequel to the foregoing. March, 
 1833 ...... 307 
 
 [f this great World of Joy and Pain . . ib 
 
 Sonnet, composed after reading a Newspaper of 
 the day . . . . . . ib 
 
 Loving and Liking : irregular Verses addressed 
 
 to a Child . . . . . ib 
 
 St. Bees, suggested in a Steam-boat off St. Bees, ib 
 
 Heads ib 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Deplorable his Lot who tills the Ground . 310 
 
 Tlie V'audois . . . . . ib 
 
 Fiaised be the Rivers, from their Mountain-springs ib 
 
 The Redbreast( suggested in a Westworeland Col- ib 
 
 lage) ib 
 
 To • . . . . .311 
 
 Rural Illusions . . , , . ib 
 
 This Lawn, &e . . . . , ib 
 
 Thought on the Seasons , . , . ib 
 
 Humanity. (Written in the Year 1829) . 312 
 
 Lines suggested by a Portrait from Pencil of F . ib 
 
 Stone ib 
 
 The foregoing Subject resumed . . .313 
 
 Stanzas on the Power of Sound . , .314 
 
 Essay on Epitaphs . . . .315 
 
POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 i. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 A Rainbow in the sky ; 
 
 So was it when my life began ; 
 
 So i3 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. 
 
 n. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Stay near me — do not take thy flight! 
 A little longer stay in sight ! 
 Much converse do I find in Thee, 
 Historian of my Infancy ! 
 
 Float near me ; do not yet depart ! 
 
 Dead times revive in thee: 
 
 Thou bringest, 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 ofl" its wings. 
 
 HI, 
 
 FORESIGHT, 
 
 OR THE CHARGE OF A CHILD TO HIS YOUNGER COMPANION. 
 
 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 Cuckow- flower : 
 
 Of the lofty Dafl!bdil 
 
 Make your bed, and 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 flowwete die; 
 1 
 
 Pluck them, and another year 
 
 As many will be blowing here. 
 
 God has given a kindlier power 
 
 To the favoured Strawbery-flower. 
 
 When the months of Spring are fled 
 
 Hithpr let ws bend our walk ; 
 
 Lurking berries, ripe and red. 
 
 Then will hang on every stalk. 
 
 Each within its leafy bower; 
 
 And for that promise spare the flower I 
 
 IV. 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 OP A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD. 
 
 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 faggot sparkles on the hearth, 
 
 Not lesss 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-sufiicient ; 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 j 
 
 Or from before it chasing wantonly 
 
 The many-coloured images impressed 
 
 Upon the bosom of a placid lake. 
 
 > 
 
 V. 
 ADDRESS TO A CHILD, 
 
 DURING A BOISTEROUS V/INTER EVENIN*. 
 
 By a female Friend of the Author. 
 
 What way does the Wind come 1 What way does he gol 
 He rides over the water, and over the snow, 
 Through wood, and through vale; and o'errocky height, 
 Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; 
 He tosses about i:i every bare tree. 
 As, if you look up, you plainly may see; 
 But how he will come, and whither he goes 
 There's never a Scholar in England knows. 
 
 i 
 
 He win suddenly stop in a cunning nook. 
 
 And rings a sbarp 'larum ;— but, if you should loo^, 
 
 There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow 
 
 Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk. 
 
 And softer than if it were cover'd with silk. 
 
 Sometimes he'll 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 1 
 
 Nothing but silence and empty space ; 
 
 Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leayeit, 
 
 That he'i left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves ! 
 
 .« 
 
 W 
 
2 
 
 POEMS REFEimiNa TO THH PEIIIOD OP CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Ab soon as 'tis daylight, to-rnonow, with me 
 You sliall 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 proiid and big 
 All last summer, as well you know. 
 Studded with apples, a beautiful show J 
 
 Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, 
 And growls as if 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 sec the candle shines bright. 
 And burns with a clear and steady light; 
 Books have we to read,— but that half-stifled knell, 
 Alas ! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. 
 —Come now we'll 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'll not let him in; 
 May drive at the windows, — we'll laugh at his din ; 
 Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; 
 Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S RETURN. 
 
 By the same. 
 
 A MONTH, sweet Little-ones, is passed 
 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." 
 
 1 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 1 
 
 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, 
 ^nd " all since Mother went away!'*' 
 
 To her these tales they will repeat, 
 To her our new-born tribes will sho'W, 
 The goslings green, the ass's colt. 
 The lambs that in the meadow go. 
 
 — But, see, the evening Star comes forth I 
 To bed the Children must depart ; 
 A moment's heaviness they feel, 
 A sadness at the heart : 
 
 'Tis 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. 
 
 Five minutes past — and, O the change I 
 Asleep upon their beds they lie; 
 Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 
 And closed the sparkling eye. 
 
 VII. 
 LUCY GRAY ; 
 
 OR, SOLITUDE. 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
 And, when 1 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 I 
 
 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 light 
 Your mother through the snow." 
 
 " That, Father ! will I gladly do : 
 'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
 The Minster-clock has just struck two, 
 And yonder fs the Moon.*^' 
 
 At this the Father raised his hook. 
 And snapped a faggot-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 hke 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. 
 
 Half breathless from the steep hill's edge 
 They tracked the footmarks small ; 
 
>OEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 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 tliere were nonei 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to this day 
 She is a living Child ; 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome Wild. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind ; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in tlie wind. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 A simple Child, 
 
 That lightly draws its breath. 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death 1 
 
 I met a little cottage Girl: 
 SJie 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. 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
 How many may you he ?" 
 *' How many 1 Seven in all," she said. 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 "' And where are they 1 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 g»ne 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 T hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit— 
 I Bit and sing to them, 
 
 ^^ 
 
 9m 
 
 And often after sun-set, Sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer. 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 The first that died was little 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 snoWj 
 
 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 ?" 
 The little Maiden did reply, 
 " O Master ! we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead; those two are dead! 
 Their spirits are in Heaven I" 
 'Twas throwing words away : for still 
 The little Maid would have her will. 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven!" 
 
 IX. 
 
 ANECDOTE FOR FATFIERS, 
 
 SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BB 
 TAUGHT. 
 
 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 r-^grets to entertain ; 
 With so much happinesss 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— every trace 
 Of inward sadness had its charm ; 
 " Kilve," said I, " was a favoured place 
 And so is Liswyn farm," 
 
 My boy was by my side, 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 careloss 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." 
 
#;*- '^ 
 
 '^. 
 
 «3? 
 
 %^ 
 
 * € 
 
 
 ■t* i 
 
 roSMS REfKRRlNO TO THB PHftlOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 And, looking o'er the hedge, before: me I eipfed 
 A enow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at itf 
 
 side. 
 No J other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alonr, 
 And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; 
 With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel, 
 While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening 
 
 meal. 
 The Lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, 
 Seem'd to feast with head and ears; and his tafl 
 
 with pleasure shook. 
 " Drink, pretty Creature, drink," she said in such a tone, 
 Th3t I almost received her heart into my own. 
 
 " Now, little Edward, say why so; 
 My little Edward, tell me why." — 
 " I cannot telJ, I do not know." — > 
 *' Why, this is strange," said 1; 
 
 " For, here are woods, and green-bills 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 five times to the Child I said, 
 •' Why, Edward, ttll me why 7" 
 
 His head he raised — there was in sight, 
 It cauglit his eye, he saw it plain — 
 Upon tlie house-top, glittering bright, 
 A broad and gilded Vane. 
 
 Then did the Boy his tongue unlock; 
 
 And thus to me he made reply: 
 ■^" At Kilve there was no weathercock, 
 *i<ijL 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. 
 
 RURAL ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Re- 
 ginald Shore, 
 
 Three rosy-cheeked School-boys, the highest not morq 
 
 Than the height of a Counsellor's bag ; 
 
 To the top of *Great How did it please them to 
 climb : 
 
 And there they built up, without mortar or lime, 
 
 A Man on the peak of the crag. 
 
 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 Legberlhwaite 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 boisterous works 
 By Christian Disturbers more savage than Turks, 
 Spirits busy to do and undo : 
 
 At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will 
 fla" • 
 
 ■""to » 
 
 Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag; 
 And I'll build up a Giant with you. 
 
 XI. 
 THE PET-LAMB. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink 
 I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty Creature 
 drink !" ' 
 
 * Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which 
 rises towaids the foot of Thirlmere, on the western 
 Bide of tbe beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, alona the 
 fiig;h road between KesTvlcfc and Ambleside. 
 
 
 
 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty 
 
 rare ! 
 T 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. 
 
 Towards the Lamb she looked ; and from that 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 1 what ? Why pull eo 
 
 at thy cord 1 
 Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board t 
 Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; 
 Rest, little Young One, rest; what is't that aileth theel 
 
 " What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is wanting 
 
 to thy heart 1 
 Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art: 
 This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have no 
 
 peers ; 
 And that green com 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 needest 
 
 not fear^ 
 The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come 
 
 here. 
 " Rest, httle Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day 
 When my Father found thee first in places far away; 
 Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by 
 
 none. 
 And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. 
 
 " He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee 
 
 home : 
 A blessed day for thee ! then whither wouldst thou 
 
 roam ? 
 A faithful Nurse thou hast ; the dam that did thee yean 
 Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been. 
 
 " Thou knowest that twice a day I have brought thee 
 
 in this Can 
 Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; 
 And twice In the day, when the ground is wet with 
 
 dew, 
 I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new. 
 
 " Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are 
 
 now. 
 Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony inthe plough ; 
 My Playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is cold 
 Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. 
 "It will not, will not rest !~Poor Creature, can it be 
 That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in 
 
 thee ? ^ 
 
 Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, 
 And dreams of things which thou canst neither Ue 
 nor bear. 
 
 ..%. 
 
POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 W a 
 
 " Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair ! 
 I'tc heard of fearful winds and darkness that come 
 
 there ; 
 The little brooks that seem all pastime and ail play, 
 When they are angry, roar like Lions for their prey. 
 
 ** Here thou needest not dread the raven in the sky ; 
 Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage is hard by. 
 Why bleat so after me 1 Why pull so at thy chain 7 
 Sleep— and at break of day I will come to thee again 1" 
 
 — As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, 
 This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 
 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." 
 
 xn. 
 
 THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS ; 
 
 OR, DUNGKON-GHYLL FORCE.* 
 
 A PA.STORAL. 
 
 X. 
 
 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 
 
 Have left the Mother and the Nest ; 
 
 And the}'^ go rambling east and west 
 
 In search of their own food ; 
 
 Or through the glittering Vapours dart 
 
 Jn very wantonness of heart. 
 
 II. 
 
 Beneath a rock, upon the grass. 
 
 Two Boys are sitting in the sun ; 
 
 Boys that have had no work to do. 
 
 Or work that now is 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. 
 
 III. 
 
 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. 
 
 * Ohyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and West- 
 moreland, is a short, and, for the most part, a steep 
 narrow valley, with a stream running through it. 
 Force is the word universally employed iu these dia- 
 lects for Waterfall. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Said Walter, leaping from the ground, 
 " Down to the stump of yon old yew 
 We'll for our Whistles run a race." 
 
 Away the Shepherds flew 
 
 They leapt— they ran — and when they cam« 
 Right opposite to Dungeon Ghyll, 
 Seeing that he should lose the prize, 
 " Stop !" to his comrade Walter cries^ 
 He stopped with no good will : 
 Said Walter then, " your task is here, 
 'Twill baffle you for half a year. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross — 
 
 Come on, and in my footsteps 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 made a Bridge of rock : 
 
 The gulf is deep below ; 
 
 And in a basin black and small 
 
 Receives a lofty Waterfall. 
 
 VI. 
 
 With staff in hand across the cleft "^ 
 
 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 I — 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, 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 thp lofty rocks above 
 
 Sent forth a cry forlorn, 
 
 The Lamb, still swimming round and round, 
 
 Made answer to that plaintive sound. 
 
 vm. 
 
 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 Lamb he found 
 
 By those huge rocks encompassed round. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He drew it gently from the pool, 
 
 And brought it forth into the light : 
 
 The Shepherds met him with his charge. 
 
 An unexpected sight ! 
 
 Into their arms the Lamb they took. 
 
 Said they, "He's neither maimed nor scarred." 
 
 Then up the steep ascent they hied. 
 
 And placed him at his Mother's side ; 
 
POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 And gently did the Bard 
 
 Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, 
 
 And bade them better mind their trade. 
 
 XIII. 
 To H. C. 
 
 SIX YEARS OLD. 
 
 O THOU ! whose fancies from afar are brought; 
 
 Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 
 
 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 ! 
 That art so exquisitely wild, 
 
 1 think of thee with many fear 
 
 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 the**. 
 O too industrious folly I 
 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 ihe 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. 
 Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks ; 
 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 
 ^lips in a moment out of life. 
 
 XIV. 
 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS 
 
 JN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGI- 
 NATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH. 
 
 From an unpublished Poem. 
 
 (This extract is reprinted from " The friend.") 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe ! 
 
 Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought ! 
 
 And givest to forms and images a breath 
 
 And everlasting motion I 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 recognise 
 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to nie 
 With stinted kindness. In November days. 
 When vapours 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, I homeward went 
 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 
 
 'Twas mine among the fields both day and night 
 
 And by the waters, all the summer long. 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 
 WaeJ 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 uniired 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 resounding horn, 
 
 The Pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare. 
 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew. 
 
 And not a voice was idle : with the din 
 
 Meanwliile the precipices rang aloud; 
 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 
 Tinkled like iron while the 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, 
 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 1, 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. 
 
 XV. 
 THE LONGEST DAY. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO 
 
 Let us quit the leafy Arbour, 
 And the torrent murmuring by : 
 Sol has dropped into his harbour. 
 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 ifs ended, 
 Is the Longest of the Year. 
 
 Laura ! 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 1 
 Who would stop the swallow, wheeling 
 On her pinions swift and strong 1 
 
JUVKNILB PIECES. 
 
 Yet at this impressive season, 
 Words which tenderness can speak 
 From the truths of homely reason, 
 Might exalt the loveliest cheek ; 
 
 And, while shades to shades succeeding 
 Steal the landscape from the sight, 
 1 would urge this moral pleading, 
 Last forerunner of " Good night !" 
 
 Summer ebbs ; — each day that follow* 
 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 towards Eternity ! 
 
 Follow thou the flowing River 
 On whose breast are thither borne 
 All Deceived, and each Deceiver, 
 Through the gales of night and morn ; 
 
 Through the year's successive portals ; 
 Through the bounds 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 thy brow youth's roses 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 honour 
 Which selected spirits wear. 
 Bending low before the Donor, 
 Lord of Heaven's unchanging Year ! 
 
 JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 Of the Poems in this class, " The Evening Walk" 
 and " Descriptive Sketches" were first published 
 in 1793. Theij are reprinted with some xinimportant 
 alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their 
 publication. It would have been easy to amend them, 
 in many passages, both as to sentiment and expression, 
 and I have not been altogether able to resist the tempt- 
 ation : but attempts of this kind are made at the risk 
 of injuring those characteristic features, which, after 
 all, will be regarded as the principal recommendation 
 of juvenile poems. 
 
 I. 
 
 EXTRACT 
 
 FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM COMPOSED UPON 
 LEAVING SCHOOL. 
 
 Dear native Regions, I foretell, 
 From what I feel at this farewell, 
 That, wheresoe'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, from the precincts of the West, 
 
 The Sun, when sinking d-own to rest, 
 
 Though his departing radiance fail 
 
 To illuminate the hollow Vale, 
 
 A lingering lustre fondly throws 
 
 Oh the dear mountain-tops where first he rose. 
 
 fl. 
 AN EVENING WALK, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 General Sketch of the Lakes— Author's Regret of his 
 Youth passed amongst them — Short Description of 
 Jfoon — Cascade Scene — JSToon-tide Retreat — Precipice 
 and sloping Lights — Face of J^ature as the Sun 
 declines — Mountain Farm, and the Cock — Slate QuaT^ 
 ry — Sunset — Superstition of the Country, connect- 
 ed with that Moment — SwaTis — Female Beggar — 
 Twilight Sounds — Western Lights — Spirits — JVight 
 — Moonlight — Hope — JVight Sounds — Conclusion. 
 
 Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove 
 Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove ; 
 Where Derwent stops his course to hear the roar 
 That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore ; 
 Where silver rocks the savage prospect cheer 
 Of giant yews that frown on Rydal's mere ; 
 Where peace lo Grasmere's lon«ly island leadi, 
 To willowy hedgerows, and to emerald meads ; 
 Leads to her bridge, rude church, and eottaged grounds; 
 Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds ; 
 Where, deep embosomed shy* Winander peeps 
 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps ; 
 Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore, 
 And memory of departed pleasures, more. 
 
 Fair scenes ! with other eyes, than once, I gaze 
 Upon the varying charm your round displays. 
 Than when, erewhile, I taught, " a happy child," 
 The echoes of your rocks my carols wild : 
 
 * These lines are only applicable to the middle part 
 I of that lake. 
 
8 
 
 JUVENILE PJKOKS. 
 
 Then did no ebb of cheerfulness demand 
 
 Bad tides of joy from Melancholy's hand ; 
 
 In youth's keen eye the livelong day was bright, 
 
 The sun at morning, and the stars of night, 
 
 Alike, when heard the bittern's hollow bill, 
 
 Or the first woodcocks* roamed the moonlight hill. 
 
 In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, 
 And hope itself was all I knew of pain. 
 For then, even then, the little heart would beat 
 At times, while young Content forsook her seat, 
 And wild Impatience, panting upward, showed [ed. 
 Where, tipped with gold, the mountain summits glow- 
 Alas ! the idle tale of man is found 
 Depicted in the dial's moral round ; 
 With Hope 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 remain, 
 Bay, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, 
 The history of a poet's evening hear 7 
 
 When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still, 
 Breathed a pale steam aiound the glaring hill, 
 And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen, 
 Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between ; 
 When, at the barren wall's unsheltered end. 
 Where long rails far into the lake extend. 
 Crowded the shortened herds , and beat the tides 
 With their quick tails, and lashed their speckled sides ; 
 When school-boys stretched their length upon the green ; 
 And round the humming elm, a glimmering scene ! 
 In the brown park, in herds, the troubled deer 
 Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear ; 
 When horses in the sunburnt intakef stood. 
 And vainly eyed below the templing flood, 
 Or tracked the Passenger, in mute distress 
 With forward neck the closing gate to press- 
 Then, while I wandered up the huddling rill 
 Brightening with water-breaks the sombrous ghyll,t 
 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 ; 
 Save that aloft the subtle sunbeams shine 
 On withered briars that o'er the crags recline, 
 Sole light admitted here, a small cascade. 
 Illumes with sparkling foam the impervious shade; 
 Beyond, along the vista of the brook. 
 Where antique roots its bustling course o'erlook, 
 The eye reposes on a secret bridge^ 
 Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge ; 
 Whence hangs, in the cool shade, the listless swain 
 Lingering behind his disappearing wain. 
 — Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, 
 Bandusia'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 ; 
 
 * In the beginning of winter, these mountains are 
 frequented by woodcocks, which in dark nights retire, 
 into the woods. 
 
 t The word intake is local, and signifies a mountain 
 inclosure. 
 
 :f Ghyll is also, I believe, a term confined to this 
 country ; Glen, ghyll, and dingle, have the same mean- 
 ing. 
 
 ^ The reader who has made the tour of this coun- 
 try : will recognise, in this description, the features 
 which characterise the lower waterfall in the grounds 
 of Rydale. 
 
 A Mind, that, in a calm angelic Kood 
 
 Of happy wisdom, meditating good. 
 
 Beholds, of all from her high powers required, 
 
 Much done, and much designed, and more desired,— 
 
 Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined. 
 
 Entire aflfection for all human kind. 
 
 — Sweet rill, farewell! To-morrow's noon again 
 Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood 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 silvered kite 
 In many a whistling 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 grey, and scanty moss, o'ergrown ; 
 Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle's beard' 
 And desert stone-chat, all day long, is heard. 
 
 How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view 
 The spacious landscape change in form and hue J 
 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 cottage white^ 
 Soften their glare before the mellow light ; 
 The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide 
 Yon che.snuts half the latticed boat-house hide. 
 Shed from iheir sides, that face the sun's slant beam, 
 Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream : 
 Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud 
 Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud; 
 The shrpherd, all involved in wreaths of fire. 
 Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire.' 
 
 Into a gradual calm the zephyrs sink, 
 A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink : 
 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 ligh^ 
 There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away. 
 Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray. 
 And now the universal tides repose. 
 And, brightly blue, the burnished mirror glows, 
 Save where, along the shady western marge, 
 Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge; 
 The sails are dropped, the poplar's foliage sleeps, 
 And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deeps. 
 
 Their panniered train a groupe of potters 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 fledge j 
 Bright beams the lonely mountain horse illume. 
 Feeding 'mid purple heath, •' green rings *," and 
 
 broom ; 
 While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds, 
 Downward the ponderous timber-wain resounds t; 
 In foamy breaks the rill, with merry 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 hammered boat; 
 And blasted quarry thunders, heard remote! 
 
 Even here, amid the sweep of endless woodi, 
 Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling floode, 
 Not undelightful are the simplest charms. 
 Found by the verdant door of mountain farms. 
 
 * " Vivid rings of green."~GRi Elf wood's Poem on 
 Shooting. 
 
 t " Down the rough slope llJ« pondtroiw ifHV^ 
 rings." — Bbattik. 
 
JUVEi^ILK i^IECES. 
 
 'Sweet'fy ferocious *, round bis native walks, 
 iPride of his sisler-w'ives, the monarch stalks; 
 "Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread ; 
 A crest of purple tops his warrior head. 
 Bright sparks his black and haggard eye-ball hurls 
 Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; 
 Whose state, like pine-trees, waving to and fro, 
 Droops, and o'er-canopies his regal brow ; 
 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, resound his wings ! 
 
 Brightening the cliffs between, where sombrous pine 
 And yew-trees o'er the silver rocks recline; 
 I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, 
 Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous 
 
 wains : 
 How busy the enormous hive within. 
 While Echo dallies with the various din ! 
 Some (hardly heard their chisels' clinking sound) 
 Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound; 
 Some, dim between the aerial clitfs descried, 
 O'erwalk the slender plank from side to side ; 
 These, by tlie pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring, 
 -Glad from th^ir airy baskets hang and sing. 
 
 Hong o'er a cloud, above the steep that rears 
 An edge all flame, the broadening sun appears; 
 A long blue bar its a?gis orb divides, 
 And breaks the spreading of its golden tides; 
 And now it touches on tlie purple steep 
 That flings its image on the pictured deep. 
 * Cross the calm lake's blue shades the clifls aspire, 
 With towers and woods a " prospect all on fire;" 
 The coves and secret hollows, through a ray 
 Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray ; 
 The gilded turf invests with richer green 
 Each speck of lawn the hroken rocks between; 
 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 dog the cliffs to scale. 
 That, barking busy, 'mid the glittering rocks, 
 Hunts, where he points, the intercepted flocks. 
 Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots 
 On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots ; 
 The Druid stonrs their lighted fane unfold. 
 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-t 
 
 In these secluded vales, if village fame. 
 Confirmed by silver hairs, belief may claim; 
 When up the hills, as now, retired the light. 
 Strange apparitions mocked the gazer's sight. 
 
 A desperate form appears, that spurs his steed 
 Along the midway cliffs with violent speed; 
 Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while all 
 Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. 
 Anon, in order mounts a gorgeous show 
 Of horsemen shadftws winding 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 ; 
 Lost gradual, o'er the heights in pomp they go, 
 While silent stands the admiring vale below ; 
 Till, save the lonely beacon, all is fled. 
 That tips with eve's last gleam his spiry head-t 
 
 * » Dolcemente feroce."— TASso.~Tn this descrip- 
 tion of the cock, I remembered a spirited one of the 
 same animal in the I'Agriculture, ou Les G6orgiques 
 Fraiipoises, of M. Rossuet. 
 
 t From Thomson. See Scott's Critical Essays. 
 
 + c!pp^ descriotion of an appearance ot this kind 
 in*cfa?k's Surve'; of^he Lakes, accom panied by vouch- 
 £,rs of its veracity, that may amuse the icadcr. 
 
 Now, while the solemn evening shadows Sail, 
 On red slow-waving pinions, down the vale; 
 And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines, 
 Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines, 
 How pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray 
 Where winds the road along a secret bay ; 
 By rills that tumble down the woody steeps, 
 And run in transport to the dimpling deeps; 
 Along the " wild meandering shore" to view 
 Obsequio'us Grace the winding Swan pursue: 
 He swells his lifted chesty and backward flings 
 His bridling neck between his towering wings; 
 In all the majesty of ease, divides 
 And, glorying, looks around the silent tides; 
 On as he floats, tlie silvered waters glow. 
 Proud of the varying arch and moveless form of enovr 
 While tender ca^es and mild domestic Loves, 
 With furtive watch pursue her as she moves; 
 Tiie Female with a meeker charm succeeds. 
 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 
 Forgets, unwearied watching every side; 
 She calls them near, and with affection sweet 
 Alternately relieves their weary feet; 
 Alternately they mount her back, and rest 
 Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest, 
 
 Long may ye float upon these floods serene ; 
 Your.s be tliese holms untrodden, still, and green, 
 Whose leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, 
 Where 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 your home, your cottage bower, 
 Fresh water rushes strew the verdant floor ; 
 Long grass and willows form the woven v/alJ, 
 And swings above the roof the ])opl3r tall. 
 Thence issuing often with unwitldy stalk, 
 With broad black feet ye crush your flowery walk; 
 Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at morn 
 The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow horn ; 
 Involve your serpent necks in changeful rings. 
 Rolled wantonly between your slippery wing3. 
 Or, starting up with noise and rude delight. 
 Force half upon the wave your cumbrous flight. 
 
 Fair Swan! by all a mother's joj's caressed. 
 Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee blessed ; 
 The while upon some sultry summer's day 
 She dragged her babes along this weary way ; 
 Or taught their limbs along the burning road 
 A few short steps to totter with their load. 
 
 I see her now, denied to lay lier head. 
 On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed, 
 Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry, 
 By pointing to a shooting star on high : 
 I hear, while in the forest depth, he sees 
 The Moon's fixed gaze between the opening trees, 
 In broken sounds her elder grief demand, 
 And skyward lift, like one tliat prays, Jiis hand, 
 lt\ in that country, where he dwells afar. 
 His father views that good, that kindly star; 
 — Ah me ! all light is mute amid the gloom, 
 The iuterlunar cavern, of the tomb. 
 — When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide. 
 And fireless are the valleys far and wide. 
 Where tlie brook brawls along the painful road, 
 Dark with bat haunted ashes stretching broad, 
 Oft has she taught them on her lap to play 
 Delighted, with the glow-worm's harmless ray 
 Tossed light from hand to hand; while on the ground 
 j Small circles of green radiance gleam around. 
 
I(f 
 
 DESCRlPTirU SKTETCHES. 
 
 Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail, 
 And roara between the hills the torrent gale, 
 —No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, 
 Their frozen arms her neck no more ca:n fold ; 
 Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield. 
 And faint the fire a dying heart can yield r 
 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 m thine arms. 
 
 Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, 
 Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the foldiiig star. 
 Where the duck dnbblec ''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 uix>n the water still ; 
 And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, 
 Shoots upward, darling his long neck before. 
 
 Now, with religious awe, the farewell light 
 Blends with the solemn colouring of the night ; 
 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow. 
 And round the West's proud lodge Iheirshadows throw, 
 Like Una shining on her gloomy way. 
 The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray; 
 Shedding, through paly loopholes mild and small. 
 Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall. 
 Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale 
 Tracking the fitful motions of the gale. 
 With restless interchange at once the bright 
 Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. 
 No favoured 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 glimmering deeps, 
 Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps. 
 — The lights are vanished from the watery plains 
 No wreck of all the pageantrj' remains. 
 Unheeded night has overcome the vales: 
 On the dark earth the baffled 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 twilt^'^ht slowly steal, 
 And ever, as we fondly muse, we find 
 The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil 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 steaming rivulet's bed, 
 
 From his grey re-appearing tower sh.tll s^ocm 
 Salute with boding note the rising moon, 
 Frosting with hoary light the pearly ground, 
 And pouring deeper blue to Other's bound; 
 ', And pleased her solemn pomp of clouds to fold 
 In robes of azure, fleecy -white, and gold. 
 
 See, o'er the ecfstern hill, where darkness broods 
 O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods; 
 Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace, 
 She lifts in silence up her lovely face: 
 Above the gloomy valley flings her light. 
 Far to the western slopes v/ith hamlets white; 
 And gives, where woods the chequered 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 mom ; 
 'Till higher nrounted, 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 fon^st ray, 
 (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; 
 How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear f 
 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 Deat&, 
 
 But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gain?. 
 And rimy without speck extend the plains; 
 The deepest dell the mountain's front displays 
 Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; 
 From the dark-blue "faint silvery threads" divide 
 The hills, while gleams below the azure tide ; 
 The scene is wakened, yet its peace unbroke, 
 By silvered wreaths of quiet charcoal smoke, 
 That, o'er the ruins of the fallen wood, 
 Steal down the hills, and spread along the flood. 
 
 The song of mountain streams, unheard by day> 
 Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. 
 Air listens, as the sleeping water still, 
 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, 
 ?oon followed by his hollow-parting oar. 
 And echoed hoof approaching the far shore ; 
 Sound of closed gate, across the water borne, 
 Hurrying the feeding hare through rustling com j 
 The tremulous sob of the complaining owl ; 
 And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl ; 
 The distant forge's swinging thump profound ; 
 Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 
 
 TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG THE ALPS. 
 
 TO 
 
 THE REV. ROBERT JONES, 
 j-ellow of st. john's college, cambridge. 
 
 Bear Sir, 
 However desirous I might have been of giving you 
 
 by thus jmblicly addressing j'ou, had not the circum- 
 stance of my having accompanied you amongst the Alps, 
 seemed to give this dedication a propriety sufficient to 
 do away any scruples which your modesty might other- 
 wise have suggested. 
 
 In inscribing this little work to you, I consult my 
 heart. You know well how great is the difference be- 
 
 proofs of the high place you hold in my esteem, I tween two companions lolling in a post-chaise, and two 
 should have been cautious of wounding your delicacy travellers plodding slowly along the road, side by side. 
 
DESCRirTlVE SKETCtiES, 
 
 II 
 
 each with his little knapsack of necessaries upon his 
 shoulders. How much more of heart between the two 
 Kitter I 
 
 I am happy in being conscious 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 
 «f melancholy. You will meet with few images with- 
 <3ut recollecting the spot where we observed them to- 
 gether ; consequently, whatever is feeble in my design, 
 or spiritless in my colouring, Will be amply supplied by 
 your own memory. 
 
 With still greater propriety I might have inscribed 
 to you a description of some of the features 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 splendour to the 
 vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet 
 village of Bethgelert, Menai and her Drufds, the Alpine 
 steeps of the Conway, and the still more interesting 
 windings of the wizanl stream of the Dee, remain yet 
 untouched. Apprehensive that my pencil may never be 
 exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip this oppor- 
 tunity of thus publicly assuring you with liow much 
 aflectioii and esteem 
 
 I am, dear Sir, 
 
 Most sincerely yours, 
 
 VV. WORDSWORTH. 
 L.ondon^ 1793. 
 
 in. 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 Happiness {if she had been to he found on Earth) 
 amongst the Charms of J^ature — Pleasures of the 
 pedestrian Traveller — Author crosses France to the 
 Jilps — Present State of tfie Grande Chartreuse — 
 Lake of Como — Time, Sunset — Same Scene, Tu:i- 
 light — Same Scene, J\Iorning, its voluptuous Cha- 
 racter ; Old Man and Forest Cottage Music — River 
 Tusa — Via Mala and Grison Gipsij — Sckcllenen- 
 thal — Lake of Uri — Stormy Sunset — Chapel of Wil- 
 liam Tell — Force of Local Emotion — Chamois-chaser 
 
 — View of the higher Alps — Manner of IJfe of a 
 Siciss Mountaineer, interspersed with Views of the 
 higher Alps — Golden Age of the Alps — Life and 
 Views continued — Ram dcs Peaches, famous Swiss 
 Ail — Abbey of Einsiedlen audits Pilgrims — Valley 
 of Chamouny — Mont Blanc — Slavery of Savoy — 
 Injluence 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 waters 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 far 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 a 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, hii evening bourn I 
 
 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 1 
 
 Upward he looks—" and calls it luxury ;" 
 
 Kind Nature's chanties his steps attend ; 
 
 In every babbling brook he finds a friend ; 
 
 While chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed 
 
 By Wisdom, morahse 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* j 
 
 Blesses the Moon that comes with kindly ray. 
 
 To light him shaken by his rugged way ; 
 
 With bashful fear no cottage children steal 
 
 From him, 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 enquiring glance, 
 
 Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Card 
 
 Or desperate Love could lead a Wanderer there. 
 
 Me, lured by hope its sorrows to remove, 
 A heart that could not much itself approve 
 O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led. 
 Her road elms rustling high above my head. 
 Or through her truant pathways' native charms, 
 By secret villages and lonely farms. 
 To where the Alps ascending white in air. 
 Toy with the sun, and glitter from afar. 
 
 Even now, emerging from the forest's gloom, 
 I heave a sigh at hoary Chartreuse' doom. 
 Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe 
 Tamed " sober Reason" till she crouched in fear 1 
 The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, 
 And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms ; 
 Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubled 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. 
 That thundering tube the aged angler hears, 
 And swells the groaning torrent with his tears ; 
 From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay, 
 And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. 
 The cross, by angels on the aerial rock 
 Plantedf, a flight of laughing demons mock. 
 The " parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath 
 Along the mystic streams of Life and Death. J 
 Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds 
 Portentous through her old woods' trackless bounds, 
 Vallombre, ^ 'mid her falling fanes, deplores, 
 For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. 
 
 More pleased, my foot the hidden margin rovea 
 Of Como, bosomed deep in chesnut groves. 
 No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps 
 Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. 
 — To towns, whose shades of no rude sound complain^ 
 To ringing team unknown and grating wain, 
 To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bounds 
 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 twinesj 
 And Silence loves its purple roof of vines ; 
 The viewless lingerer hence, at evening, sees 
 From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees ; 
 
 * 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. 
 
 t Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the spiry 
 rocks of Chartreuse, which have every appearance of 
 being inaccessible. 
 
 i Names of Rivers at the Chartreuse. 
 
 $ Name of one of the valleys of the Chartreuse^ 
 
1% 
 
 TESCRIPTIVE SKETCHED. 
 
 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, 
 Tracking the yellow sun from sleep to steep, 
 As up the opposing hills with tortoise foot they creep. 
 Jlere, half a village shines, in gold arrayed, 
 I^right as the moon ; 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 waves 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 blessed, delicious scene ! the eye that greets 
 Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats ; 
 The unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales 
 The never-ending waters of thy vales ; 
 The cots, those dim religious groves embower, 
 Or, under rocks that from the water tower. 
 Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore ; 
 F.ach with his household boat beside the door, 
 AVho?e flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop. 
 Brightening the gloom where thick the forests stoop ; 
 —Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky, 
 Thy towns, that cleave like swallow nesis, 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 enchanted Woods 
 Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods ; 
 —Thy lake, 'mid smoking woods, that blue and grey 
 Gleams, streaked or dappled, hid from morning's ray 
 Slow travelling down the western hills, to fold 
 Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold •, 
 From thickly-glittering spires, the matin bell 
 Calling the woodman from his desert cell, 
 A sunrmons to the sound of oars that pass 
 Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass ; 
 Slow swells the service, o'er the water borne, 
 AVhile fill each pause the ringing woods of morn. 
 Farewell those forms that in thy noon-tide shade 
 Rest near their little plots cf wheaten glade; 
 Those charms that bind 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, 
 AVhile Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell 
 On joys that might digsrace the captive's cell, 
 Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge, 
 And winds, from bay to bay, the vocal barge. 
 
 Yet arts are thine that soothe the unquiet heart. 
 And smiles to Solitude and Want impart. 
 I loved by silent cottanc-docrs to roam, 
 The far-oft' peasatit's day-deserted home ; 
 And once I pierced the mazes of a wood. 
 Where, far from public haunt, a cabin stood ; 
 There by the door a hoary-headed Sire 
 Touched with his withered hand an ancient lyre ; 
 Beneath an old grey oak, as vioFets lie. 
 Stretched at his eet with st< adfast, upward eye, 
 His children's children joined the holy 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 Tusa's stream, 
 Whil ^ 'mid dim towers and woods, her* waters gleam ; 
 From the briglit wave, in solemn gloom, retire 
 The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspire 
 
 * The river along whose banks you descend in. 
 croESii'g the Alps by the Simplon Paee. 
 
 To where afar rich orange lustres gloW 
 
 Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and sno^J- 
 
 Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine 
 
 The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, 
 
 Hang o'er the abyss .—the else impervious gloom 
 
 His burning eyes with fearful light illume. 
 
 The Grison gipsy here her lent hath placed, 
 Sole human tenant of the piny waste ; 
 Her tawny skin, dark eyes, and glossy locks. 
 Bend o'er the smoke that curls beneath the rocks, 
 —The mind condemned, without reprieve, 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 suffering brings. 
 Freshening the waste of sand with shades and spring*, 
 .SVic, solitary, through the desert drear 
 Spontaneous wanders, hand in hand with Fear. 
 
 A giant moan along the forest swells 
 Protracted, and the twilight storm foretells, 
 And, ruining from the cliffs, their deafening load 
 Tumbles,— the wiklering Thunder slips abroad; 
 On the high summits Darkne&'s comes and goes. 
 Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and snows ; 
 The torrent, traversed by the lustre broad. 
 Starts, like a horse beside the fl"ashing road ; 
 fn the roofed bridge*, at that terrific hour, 
 She seeks a shelter from the battering shower. 
 — Fierce comes the river down ; the crashing w-aod 
 Gives way, and half its pines torment the flood ; 
 Fearful, beneath, the Wate.*^- spirits call,t 
 And the bridge vibrates, tottering to its fall. 
 
 — Heavy, and dull, and cloudy i3 the night: 
 No star supplies the comfort of its light, 
 A single taper in the vale profound 
 Shifts, while the Alps dilated glimmer round ; 
 And, opposite, the waning Moon hangs still 
 And red, above her melancholy hill. 
 By the deep quiet gloom appalled, she sighs. 
 Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes. 
 She hears, upon the mountain forest's brow. 
 The death-dog, howling loud and long below ; 
 On viewless fingers counts the valley-clock. 
 Followed by drowsy crow of midnight cock. 
 The dry leaves stir as with a serpent's walk, 
 And, far beneath, Banditti voices talk ; 
 Behind her hill, the Moon, all crimson, rides, 
 And his red eyes the slinking Water hides. 
 — Vexed by the darkness, from the piny gulf 
 Ascending, nearer howls the famished wolf. 
 While through the stillness scatters \AnId dismay 
 Her babe's small cry, that leads him to hits prey. 
 
 Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene. 
 Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green. 
 Plunge with the Russ embrowned by terror's breath, 
 Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death ; 
 By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height, 
 Swell more gigantic on the stedfast sight; 
 Black drizzling crags, that, beaten by the din. 
 Vibrate, as if a voice complained within ; 
 Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks, afraid, 
 Unsfedfast, by a blasted yew upstayed ; 
 By ccllst whose iniajie trembling as he prays. 
 Awe struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys ; 
 
 * INIost of the bridges among the Alps are of wood, 
 and coyered : these bridges have a heavy appearance, 
 and rather injure the eflectof the scenery in some places. 
 
 t " Red came the river down, and loud and oft 
 The angry Spirit of the water shrieked." 
 
 Home'5 Douglas. 
 
 t The Catholic religion prevails here : these cells 
 are, as is well known, very common in the Catholic 
 countries, planted, like the Roman tombs, along the 
 road Bide. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 13 
 
 Loose-bangin? rocks the Day's blessed ej'e that hide, 
 And crosses* reared to Death on every side, 
 Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near. 
 And, bending, watered with the human tear, 
 That faded " silent from her upward eye. 
 Unmoved with each rude form of Danger nigh. 
 Fixed on the anchor left by Ilim who saves 
 Alike in whelming snows and roaring waves. 
 
 On as we move, a softer prospect opes. 
 Calm huts., and lawns between, and sylvan slopes, 
 While mists, suspended on the expiring gale, 
 Moveless o'erhang the deep secluded vale, 
 The beams of evening, slipping soft between. 
 Gently illuminate a sober scene ; 
 Winding its dark-green wood and emerald glade. 
 The still vale lengthens underneath the shade ; 
 While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede. 
 Green dewy lights adorn the freshened mead. 
 On the low brown wood-liutst delighted sleep 
 Along the brightened gloom reposing deep : 
 While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull. 
 And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, 
 In solenm shapes before the admiring eye 
 Dilated hang the misty pines on high. 
 Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers. 
 And antique castles seen through drizzling slio^vers. 
 
 From such romantic dreams, my snnl, awake! 
 Lo I Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake. 
 Where, by the unpathwayed margin, still and dread. 
 Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread. 
 Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach 
 Far o'er the secret water dark with beech ; 
 More high, to where creatifm seems to end. 
 Shade above shade, the aerial pines ascend, 
 Yet with his infants Man undaunted creeps 
 And hangs his small wood-cabin on the steeps. 
 Where'er below amid the savage scene 
 Peeps out a little speck of smiling green, 
 A garden-plot the desert air prefumes, 
 'Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms; 
 A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff, 
 Thridding the painful crag, surmounts the cliff. 
 — Before those hermit doors, that never know 
 The face of traveller passing to and fro. 
 No peasant leans upon Ijis pole, to tell 
 For whom at morning tolled ihe funeral bell ; 
 Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes. 
 Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes; 
 Tlie gras.-y seat beneath their casement shade 
 The pilgrim's wistful eye haih never stayed. 
 — There, did the iron Genius not disdain 
 The gentle Povver that haunts the myrtle plain. 
 There, might the love-sick maiden sit, and chide 
 The insuperable rocks and severing tide ; 
 There, watch at eve her lover's sun-gilt sail 
 Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale : 
 There, list at midnight till is heard no more. 
 Below, the echo of his parting oar. 
 
 'Mid stormy vapours ever driving by. 
 Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry, 
 Hovering o'er rugged wastes too bleak to rear 
 That common growth of earth, the foodful ear; 
 Where the green apple shrivels on the spray. 
 And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray •_ 
 Even here Content has fixed her smiling reign 
 With Independence, child of high Disdain. 
 Exulting 'mid the v/inter of the bkics, 
 Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, 
 And often grasps her sword, a»d often eyes; 
 
 * Crosses commemoraiive of the Deaths of travel- 
 lers by the fall of snow and other accidents are very 
 common along this dreadful road. 
 
 t The Jiouses in the more retired Swiss valleys are 
 all built of wood. 
 
 Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine, 
 Strange " weeds" and Alpine plants her helm entwine ,' 
 And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast. 
 While thrills the "Spartan fife" between the blasts 
 
 'Tis storm ; and, hid in mist 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 overpowering light I 
 Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, 
 Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form ; 
 Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine 
 The wood-crowned clitis that o'er the lake recline; 
 Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold. 
 At once to pillars turned that flame vv-ith gold: 
 Behind his sail the peasant strives to shun 
 The west, that burns like one dilated sun. 
 Where in a mighty crucible expire 
 The mountains, glowing hot like coals of fire. 
 
 But, lo ! the Boatman, overawed, before 
 The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar ; 
 ''"onfused the Marathonian tale appears, 
 While burn in nis full eyes the glorious tears. 
 And who that walks where men of ancient days 
 Flave wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise^ 
 Feels not the spirit of the place control, 
 Exalt, and agitate, his labouring soul 1 
 Say, wlio by tliinking on Canadian hills. 
 Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, 
 On Zuiphen's plain ; or where, witii softened gaze 
 The old grey stones the plaided chief surveys ; 
 Can guess the high resolve, the cherished pain, 
 Of him whom passion rivets lo the plain, [.~igb, 
 Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest 
 And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye j 
 Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired. 
 And glad Dundee in " faint huzzas" expired"? 
 
 But now with other mind I stand alone 
 Upon tlie summit of this naked cone. 
 And watch, from pike to pike,* an)id the sky, 
 Small as a bird the chamois-chasei fly, 
 t Through vacant worlds where Nature never gave' 
 A brook to mumnir or a bough to wave. 
 Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep ; 
 Thro' worlds where Life, and sound, and Motion sleep; 
 Where Silence still her death-like reign extends. 
 Save when the startling cliff unfrequent rends; 
 In the deep snow the niighty ruin drowned. 
 Mocks the dull ear of Time with doaf abotive 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-appearijig night. 
 While the near Moon, that coasts the vast profound, 
 Wheels pale and silent her diminished round, 
 And far and wide the icy summits blaze, 
 Rejoicing in the glory of her rays: 
 To him the day-star glitters small and brighf, 
 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 nrore pursue I 
 — 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. 
 Then with Despair's whole weight his spirits sink, 
 No bread to feed him, and the snow his drink, 
 While, ere his eyes can close upon the day. 
 The eagle of the Alps o'crshades her prey. 
 
 * Pike is a word very commonly used in the north 
 of England, to signify a high mountain of the conic 
 form, as Langdale pike, &c. 
 
 t For most of the images in the next sixteen ver- 
 ses I am indebted to M. Raymond's interesting ob- 
 servations annexed to his translation of Coxe'i Tour 
 ' in Switzerland. 
 
u 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar, 
 Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar 7 
 Or rather stay to taste the mild delights 
 Of pensive Underwalden's* pastoral heights 1 
 — Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has seen 
 The native Genii walk the mountain greeji 1 
 Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, 
 Soft music from the aerial sunimil steal 1 
 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 herds that, pasturing upward, creep, 
 Hung dim-discovered from the dangerous steep, 
 Or summer handct, flat and bare, on high 
 Suspended, 'mid the quiet of the sky. 
 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, 
 Broke only by the melancholy sound 
 Of drowsy bolls, for ever tinkling round ; 
 Faint wail of eagle melting into blue 
 Beneath the dirts, and pine-woods' steady 5M^/i if ; 
 The solitary heifer's deepened low ; 
 Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow ; 
 Save when, a stranger seen below, the boy 
 Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. 
 
 When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas. 
 Comes on, to whisper hope, the vernal breeze, 
 When liums the mountain bee in May's glad ear, 
 And emerald isles to spot the heights appear, 
 When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill. 
 And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill. 
 When fragrant scents beneath the enchanted tread 
 Spring up, his choicest wealth around him spread. 
 The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale, 
 To silence leaving the deserted vale ; 
 Mounts, where the verdure leads, from stage to stage, 
 And pastures on, as in the Patriarchs' age : 
 O'er, lofty heights serene and still they go, 
 And hear the rattling thunder far below; 
 They cross the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed, 
 Rocked on the dizzy larch's narrow tread ; 
 Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterred, 
 That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd. 
 — I see him, up the midvi^ay cliff he creeps 
 To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps. 
 Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws. 
 The fodder of his herds in winter snows. 
 Far different life to what tradition hoar 
 Transmits of days more blest in times of yore ; 
 Then Summer lengthened out his season bland. 
 And with rock-honey flowed the happy land. 
 Continual fountains 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 forced the herds from pastures bare 
 For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare. 
 Then the milk-thistle bade those herds demand 
 Three times a day the pail and welcome hand. 
 But human vices have provoked the rod 
 Of angry Nature to avenge her God. 
 Thus does the father to his sons relate. 
 On the lone mountain-top, their changed estate. 
 Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparls 
 Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. 
 
 * The people of this Canton arc supposed to be of a 
 more melancholy disposition than the other inhabitants 
 of the Alps : this, if true, may proceed from their li- 
 ving more secluded. 
 
 t This picture is from the middle region of the Alps. 
 
 X Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the 
 wind through the treee. 
 
 'Tie 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 vales and mountains round 
 Stand motionless, to awful silence bound : 
 A gulf of gloomy bl«e, that opens wide 
 And bottomless, divides the midway tide ; 
 Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear 
 The pines that near the coast their summits rear} 
 Of cabins, woods, and lawns, a pleasant shore 
 Bounds calm and clear the chaos still and hoar ; 
 Loud through that midway gulf ascending, sound 
 Unnumbered streams with hollow roar profound : 
 Mount through t;.e nearer mist the chant of birds, 
 And talking voices, and the low of herds, 
 The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell, 
 And wild-Wood mountain lutes of saddest swell. 
 Think not, suspended from the cliff on high, 
 He looks below with undelighted eye. 
 — No vulgar joy is his, at even-tide 
 Stretched on the scented 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, that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn, 
 Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return. 
 
 Once Man entirely free, alone and wild 
 Was blessed 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 ?)is glorious Sire displayed. 
 Even so, by vestal Nature guarded, here 
 The traces of primeval Man appear ; 
 The native 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 his sword ; 
 Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared 
 With this " the blessings he enjoys to guard." 
 
 And, as his native hills encircle ground 
 For many a wondrous victory renowned. 
 The work of Freedom daring to oppose, 
 With few in arms*, innumerable foes. 
 When to those glorious 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. 
 Uncertain through his fierce uncultured soul. 
 Like lighted tempests, troubled transports roll} 
 To viewless realms his Spirit tovvers amain, 
 Keyond the senses and their little reign. 
 
 And oft, when passed that solemn vision by, 
 He holds with God himself communion high, 
 Where the dread peal of swelling torrents fills 
 The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills ; 
 Or, when upon the mountain's silent 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 : 
 
 * Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very 
 small numbers have gained over tlieir oppressors, the 
 house of Austiia ; and, in particular, to one fought at 
 Nffiffels near Glarus, where three hundred and tlurty 
 men defeated an army of between fifteen and twenty 
 thousand Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to 
 be found eleven nones, with this inscription, l-^o^'' "J 
 year the battle was fought, marking out, as I was toio 
 upon the spot, the several places where the Austrian* 
 attempting t© make a stand were repulsed anew. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 15 
 
 -^Great joy, by horror tamed, dilates his heart, 
 
 And the near heavens their own delights impart. 
 
 — WJien the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, 
 
 Alps overlooking Alps their state up-swell ; 
 
 Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Storms*, 
 
 Lift, all serene, their still, illumined forms. 
 
 In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, 
 
 Tinged like an angel's smile all rosj red. 
 
 When downw^ard to his winter hut he goes, 
 Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows ; 
 That hut which from the hills his eye employs 
 So oft, the central point of all his joys. 
 And as a Swift, by tender cares opprest, 
 Peeps often ere she dart into her nest. 
 So to the untrodden tioor, where round him looks 
 His father, helpless as the babe he rocks. 
 Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair. 
 Till storm and driving ice blockade him there, 
 There, safely guarded by the woods behind, 
 He hears the chiding of the baffled wind. 
 Hears Winter, calling all his Terrors round, 
 Hush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. 
 Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures gUde, 
 Unstain'd by envy, discontent, and pride ; 
 The bound of all his vanity, to deck. 
 With one bright bell, a favourite 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 consecrate the board. 
 — Alas ! in every clime a flying ray 
 Is all we have to cheer our wintry way. 
 "Here," cried a thoughtful Swam, upon whose head 
 The " blossoms of the grave" were thinly spread, 
 Last night, while by his dying fire, as closed 
 The day, in luxury my limbs reposed, 
 "Here Penury oft from Misery's mount will guide 
 Even to the summer door his icy tide, 
 And here the avalanche of Death destroy 
 The little cottage of domestic joy. 
 But, ah ! the unwilling mind may more than trace 
 The general sorrows of the human race : 
 The churlish gales, that unremitting blow 
 Cold from necessity's continual snow, 
 To us 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 a never-ceasing strife 
 With all the tender charities of life, 
 The father, as his sons of strength become 
 To pay the filial debt, for food to roam. 
 From his bare nest amid the storms of heaven 
 Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven; 
 His last dread pleasure watches to the plain — 
 And never, eagle-like, beholds again !" 
 
 When the poor heart has all its joys resigned, 
 Why does their sad remembrance cleave behind 1 
 Lo ! where through fiat Batavia's willowy groves. 
 Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves; 
 Soft o'er the waters mournful measures swell. 
 Unlocking tender thought's " memorial cell ;" 
 Past pleasures are transform'd to mortal pains, 
 While poison spreads along the listener's veins, 
 Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave, 
 Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave. t 
 
 Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume! 
 Fair smiling lights the pUrpled hills illume ! 
 Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn, 
 
 *As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror; Wetter-Horn, 
 the pike of storms, &c. &c. „,.,:, u t?.,^^ 
 
 t Theefl'ect of the famous air called in French Ranz 
 des Vachcs upon the Swiss troops. 
 
 And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return ! 
 Soon flies the little joy to man allowed. 
 And grief before him travels like a cloud : 
 For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage. 
 Labour, and Care, and Pain, and dismal Age, 
 Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath 
 Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Doalh. 
 —'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine 
 Between interminable tracts of pine, 
 A Temple stands, which holds an awful shrine. 
 By an uncertain light revealed, that falls 
 On the mute Image and the troubled walls : 
 Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine anpoar, 
 Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear ; 
 While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd, 
 Pain's wjld rebelliovs burst proclaims her rights aloud , 
 
 Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain 
 That views undimmed Ensiedlen's* wretched fane, 
 'Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet^ 
 Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet ; 
 While, loud and dull, ascends the weeping cry, 
 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, tiptoe on an Alpine spire, 
 Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire ; 
 Now let us meet the Pilgrims ere the day 
 Close on the remnant of their weary way ; 
 While they are drawing toward the sacred floor 
 Where the charmed worm of pain shall gnaw no more. 
 How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste 
 The fountains! reared for them amid the waste ! 
 There some with tearful kiss each other greet, 
 And some, with reverence, wash their toil-worn feet, 
 Yes, I will see you when ye first behold 
 Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, 
 In that glad moment when the hands are prest 
 In mute devotion on the thankful breast. 
 
 Last let us turn to where Chamounyj shields 
 With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields : 
 Five streams of ice amid her cots descend. 
 And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend ;--a 
 A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns 
 Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; 
 Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned, 
 Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand. 
 — Red stream the cottage-lij;hts ; the landscape fadea 
 Erroneous wavering 'mid the twilight shades. 
 Alone ascends that Hill of matchless height, $ 
 That holds no commerce with the summer Night; 
 From age to age, amid his lonely bounds 
 The crash of ruin fitfully resounds ; 
 Mysterious havoc ! but serene his brow. 
 Where daylight lingers 'mid perpetual snow ; 
 Glitter the stars above, and all is black below; 
 
 At such an hour I heaved a pensive sigh, 
 When roared the sullen Arve in anger by. 
 That not for thy reward, delicious Vale ! 
 Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale ; 
 That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed to pine j 
 Hard lot !— for no Italian arts are thine, 
 To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. 
 
 Beloved Freedom ! were it mine to stray. 
 With shrill winds roaring round my lonely way, ' 
 
 * This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, 
 by multitudes, from every corner of the Catholic world, 
 labouring under mental or bodily afllicrions. 
 
 t Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for 
 the accommodation of the Pilgrims, in their ascent of 
 the mountain. 
 
 X This word i'? pronounced upon the spot ' na- 
 mouny ; 1 have taken the liberty of changing the ac- 
 cent, « 
 
 % rt is only from the higher part of the valley or 
 Ghamouny that Mont Blanc is visible. 
 
16 
 
 DSSCRIPTtVE SKETCHED. 
 
 O'er the Ideak sides of Cumbria's heatli-clad moors, 
 
 Or where the dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores ; 
 
 To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, 
 
 And orange gale that o'er Lugano bUnvs; 
 
 In the wide ran:^e of many a varied round, 
 
 Fleet as my passage was, I still have found 
 
 That where despotic courts their gems display, 
 
 Th« lilies of domestic joy decay, 
 
 While the remotest hamlets blessings share, 
 
 In thy dear presence known, and only tJicre ! 
 
 The casement's shed more luscious vvoodl)ine binds, 
 
 And to the door a neater pathway winds ; 
 
 At early morn, the careful housewife, led 
 
 To cull her dinner from its garden bed, 
 
 Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees. 
 
 While hum with busier joy her happy bees ; 
 
 In brighter rows her table wealth aspires. 
 
 And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires ; 
 
 Uer infants' checks with fresher roses glow. 
 
 And wilder graces sport around their brov/ ; 
 
 By clearer taper lit, a cleanlier board 
 
 Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard ; 
 
 The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread, 
 
 And whiter is the hospitable bed. 
 
 And oh, fair France ! though now along the shade. 
 Where erst at will the grey-clad peasant strayed. 
 Gleam war's discordant vestments through the trees. 
 And the red banner fluctuates in the breeze ; 
 Though martial songs have banished songs of love^ 
 And nightingales forsake the village grove, 
 Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, 
 And the short thunder, and the flash of arms ; 
 While, as Night bids the startling uproar die. 
 Sole sound, the Sourd* renews his mournful cry ! 
 —Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her potver 
 Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage door : 
 AH 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 murmuring streams, 
 Rocked the charmed thought in more delighlfnl dreams ; 
 Chasing those long, long dreams, the falling leaf 
 Awoke a fainter pang of moral grief; 
 The measured echo of the distant flail 
 Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale ; 
 A more majestic tide] the water rolled, 
 And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold. 
 — Though Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise 
 Red on the hills his beacon's comet blaze ; 
 Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound. 
 And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound ; 
 His larum-bell from village-tower to tower 
 Swing on Ihe astounded ear its dull undying roar; 
 Yet, yet rejoice, though Pride's perverted ire 
 Rouse Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills in fire ! 
 Lo ! from the innocuous flames, a lovely birth, 
 With its own Virtues springs another earth : 
 Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign 
 Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train ; 
 While, with a pulseless hand, and steadfast gaze, 
 Unbreathing Justice lier gtill beam surveys. 
 
 Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride 
 Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, 
 To sweep where Pleasure decks her guilty bowers. 
 And dark Oppression builds her thick ribbed towers 
 
 ■^ An insect so called, which emits a short, melan- 
 choly cry, heard at the close of the summer evenings, 
 on the banks of the Loire. 
 
 f The duties upon many parts of the French ri- 
 vers were so exorbitant, that the poorer people, de- 
 prived of the benefit of water carriage, were obliged 
 %o transport their goods by land. 
 
 — Give them, beneath their breast while gladness springs, 
 To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings ; 
 And grant that every sceptred (]"h)ld of clay, 
 Who cries, presumptuous, " Here their tides shall stay," 
 Swept in their anger from the affrighted shore, 
 With all his creatures sink— to rise no more ! 
 
 To-night my friend, within this humble cot 
 Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot 
 In timely s'eep ; and, when at break of day, 
 On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, 
 With lighter heart our course we may renew. 
 The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE FEMALE VAGRANT. 
 
 My Father was a good and pious man. 
 
 An honest man by honest parents bred ; 
 
 And I believe that, soon as I began 
 
 To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, 
 
 Aful in his hearing there mv prayers I said: 
 
 And afterwards, by my good father taught, 
 
 I read, and loved the books in which I read ; 
 
 For books in every neighbouring house I sought, 
 
 And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. 
 
 Can I forget what charms did once adorn 
 My garden stored with peas, and mint, and thime, 
 And rose, and iiJly, for the sabbath morn ? 
 The sabbath bells, and their delig'-itful chime; 
 The gambols and wild 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, when I sought the water-side. 
 From far to meet me came, spreading theirsnowy pridtl 
 
 The staff I j^et remember which upbore 
 The bending body of my active Sire ; 
 His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore 
 Where the bees hummed, and cliair by winter fire; 
 When market-morning came, the neat attire 
 With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked • 
 My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire. 
 When stranger pass, so often I have checked; 
 The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement 
 pecked. 
 
 The suns of twenty summers danced along, — 
 Ah! little marked how last 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 should put on a kinder look ; 
 But vain were wishes — efforts vain as they; 
 He from his old hereditary nook [took. 
 
 Must part, — the summons came, — our final leave we 
 
 [t was indeed a miserable hour 
 When, from the last hill-top, my .sire surveyed, 
 Peering above the trees, the steeple tower 
 That on his marriage day sweet music made I 
 Till then, he hoped his bones might there belaid. 
 Close by my mother in their native bowers : 
 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 thoughtless song 
 
 v\ e 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 nmrriage day ; 
 
 And I in truth did love him like a brother, 
 
 For never could I hope to meet with such another 
 
DESCRJPTIVE SKETCHES. 
 
 It 
 
 Two years were passed since to a distant town 
 He liad repaired to ply the artist's trade, 
 What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown ! 
 What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed! 
 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 ylept. 
 
 We lived in peace and comfort ; and were blest 
 With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. 
 Three lovely infants lay upon my breast ; 
 And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 
 And knew not why. My happy Father died, 
 When sad distress reduced the childi-en's meal : 
 Thrice happy ! that for him the grave did hide 
 The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, 
 And tears that flowed for ills which patience could 
 not heal. 
 
 Twas a hard change, 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 sweep 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. 
 
 There long were we neglected, and we bore 
 Much sorrow, ere the fleet its anchor weighed ; 
 Green fields before us, and our native shore, 
 We breathed a pestilential air, that made 
 Kavage 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 must view : 
 The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew. 
 
 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 alfliction reap. 
 
 That we the mercy of the waves should rue: 
 
 We reached the Vv^estern world, a poor, devoted crew. 
 
 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 thy brain unsettle even to hear. 
 
 All perished— all, in one remorseless year. 
 
 Husband and Children ! one by one, by sword 
 
 And ravenous plague, all perished : every tear 
 
 Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 
 
 A British ship I_waked, as from a trance restored, 
 
 a 
 
 Peaceful as some immeasurable plain 
 
 By the first beams of dawning light imprest. 
 
 In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main. 
 
 The very ocean hath its hour of rest. 
 
 I too forgot the heavings of my breast. 
 
 Oh me , how quiet sky and ocean were ! 
 
 As quiet all within me. I was blest! 
 
 And looked, and looked along the silent air 
 
 Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 
 
 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 andthe pallid 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, 
 r seemed transported to another world :— - 
 A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast 
 The impatient marin<?r the sail unfurled, 
 And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled 
 The silent sea. From the sv/eet thoughts of home 
 And from all hope I was for ever hurled. 
 For me— farthest from earthly port to roam 
 Was best, could T 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 every friend disowned, — 
 
 And end my days upon the ocean flood."— 
 
 To break my dream the vessel reached its bound : 
 
 And homeless near a lliousand homes I stood. 
 
 And neai a thousand tables pined, and wanted food. 
 
 By grief enfeebled, was I turned adrift. 
 Helpless as sailor cast on desert rock ; 
 Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, 
 Nor dared my hand at any door to knock. 
 I lay where, with his drowsy Olates, 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 [ fit my tongue. 
 
 So passed another day, and so the third ; 
 Then did I try in vain the crowd's resort, 
 — In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, 
 Near the sea-side 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, T sank, nor step could crawl ; 
 Unsought for was the help that did my life recall. 
 
 Borne to an hospital, I lay with brain 
 Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory ; 
 I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain 
 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 careless cruelty, 
 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 torpid sense, 
 Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. 
 With strength did memory return : and, thence 
 Dismissed, again on open day / gazed. 
 At houses, men, and common light amazed. 
 The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired. 
 Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed ; 
 The Travellers saw me weep, my fate enquired, 
 And gave me food,— and rest, more welcome, more 
 desired. 
 
 They, with their panniered Asses, semblance made 
 
 Of Potters wandering on from door to door ; 
 
 But life of happier sort to me portrayed, 
 
 And other joys my fancy to allure ; 
 
 The bag-pipe, dinning on the midnight moor, 
 
 In barn uplighted; and companions boon 
 
 Well met from far Avith revelry secure,' 
 
 Among the forest glades, when jocund .June 
 
 Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. 
 
 But ill they suited me— those journeys dark 
 
 O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch 1 
 

 13 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 To charm the surly House-dog's faitliuil bark, > 
 
 Or hang ou tiptoe at the lilted latch. 
 The gloomy lantero, and the dim blue match, 
 The black disguise, the warning whif>tle 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. 
 
 What could I do, unaided and unblest 1 
 
 IVly Father ! gone was every friend of thine: 
 
 And kindred of dead husband are at best 
 
 Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, 
 
 Wiih little kindness would to me incline. 
 
 Ill was I then for toil or service fit: 
 
 With tears whose course no elTort could confine. 
 
 By the road-side forgetful would I sit 
 
 Whole liours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit. 
 
 I led a wandering life among the fields; 
 
 Contoitedly, yet sometimes self-accused, 
 
 I lived upon what casual 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 
 
 Is, tliat I iiave my inner self abused. 
 
 Forgone the home delight of constant truth, 
 
 And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. 
 
 Three years thus wandering, often have I viewed, 
 In tears, the sun towards that country tend 
 Where my poor heart lost all iis fortitude ; 
 And now across this moor my steps I bend — 
 Oh ! tell me whither — for no earthly friend 
 
 Have r.' She ceased, and weeping turned away; — 
 
 As if b'.'cause her tale was at an end 
 
 She wept; — because she had no more to say 
 
 Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 L 
 
 THE BROTHERS.* 
 
 'These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live 
 
 A piofliable life : some glance along, 
 
 Rai>id 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 neighbour's corn. 
 
 But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
 
 Why can he larry yonder? — In our church-yard 
 
 Is neither epitaph nor monument , 
 
 Tombstone nor name — only the turf we tread 
 
 And/a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife. 
 
 Thus spake tlje homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
 
 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 Cbild, 
 
 Who turned her large round wheel in the open air 
 
 With back and forward steps. Towards the field 
 
 In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, 
 
 Girt round wilh 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 fiom his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 
 
 Of carded wool wliich the old man had piled 
 
 He laid his implements with gentle caro. 
 
 Each in the other lorked ; and, down the path 
 
 That from his cottage to the church-yard led. 
 
 He took his way, impatient to accost 
 
 The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 
 
 'Twas one well known to him in former 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 twenfy seasons; but he had been reared 
 ^Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
 
 ♦ This Poem was intended to conclude a series of 
 ) nptorals,thescene of which waslaid am(;ng the moun- 
 tains of Cumberland and Westtiioreland. I mpntion 
 this to apologise for the abruptness with whichtUe poem 
 begins. 
 
 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 wilh thesame 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^ ^vhile the broad green 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— wiih cwellmgs among trees, 
 
 And shepherds clad in the same country gray 
 
 Which he himself had worn.* 
 
 And now, at last, 
 From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
 Acquired by trafiic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
 To his paternal home he is returned. 
 With a determined purpose to resume 
 The lifp 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 blev/ foul or fair, they two 
 Were brother Shepherds on their native hills, 
 — They were the last of all their race: and now, 
 When Leonard Jiad approached his home, his heart 
 Failed in him ; and, not venturing to enquire 
 Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved. 
 Towards the church- ynrd he had turned aside; 
 That, as he knew in what particular spot 
 His family were laid, he thence might learn 
 U still liis 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 hope was his 
 That he had seen this heap of turf before,— 
 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 fieldswhich once had been well known to him ; 
 
 * This description of the Calenture is sketched from 
 an impcifrct recollection of an admirable one in prose, 
 I by Mr. Gilbert, author of The Hurricane. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTION'S. 
 
 And oh what joy the recollection now 
 Sent to his heart ^. He I i fled np his pyes, 
 And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
 Strange alteration wrouglit on every side 
 Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, 
 And everlasting hills themselves were chan<red. 
 
 19 
 
 By this the Priest, who down the field had come. 
 Unseen by Leonard, at the chuich-yard gate 
 Stopped short,— and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 
 Perused him with a gay complacency. 
 Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path 
 Of the world's business to go wild alone: 
 His arsis have a perietuil ho idny ; 
 The happy man will creep about the fields, 
 Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
 Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 
 Into liis face, until the setting sun 
 Write Fool upon his forehead. Pianled thug 
 Beneath a shed that over- arched ihe gale 
 Of this rude church-yard, lill the stars appeared 
 The good Man might have communed with himself, 
 But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, 
 Approached; he recognized the Prio^^t at once, 
 And, after greetings interchargcd, 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, welcome come 
 
 And welcome gone, they are so like each other, 
 
 They cannot be remembered 1 Scarce a funeral 
 
 Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen 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, thai with our threescore years and ten 
 
 We are not all that perish. 1 remember, 
 
 (For many years ago I passed this load) 
 There was a foot-way all along the fields 
 By the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that dark cleft! 
 To me it does not seem to wear the face 
 Which then it had. 
 
 PUIEST. 
 
 Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 
 That chasm is much the same — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 But, surely, yonder — 
 
 TRIEST. 
 
 Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend 
 
 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 
 
 < ompanions for each other: the huge crag 
 
 Was rent with lightning — one hath disappeared; 
 
 The other, left behind, is flowing still.* 
 
 For accidents and changes such as these. 
 
 We want not store ot them ; — a water-spout 
 
 AVill brjng 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 sJi^rp May-storm 
 
 Will come with loads of January sno\v, 
 
 And in one night send twe:ify score of sheep 
 
 To feed the ravens; or a Shepherd dies 
 
 By some untowajd 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, 
 
 * This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at 
 Ihe head of Havreswater. 
 
 The old House clock is decked with a new face • 
 
 And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 
 
 To chronicle the lime, we all have here 
 
 A pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir, 
 
 For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side— 
 
 Yours was a stranger's jndcrnKnt: for Historians, 
 
 Commend me to these valleys! 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 Yet your Church-yard 
 Seems, if such freedom may be used wi'h 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, — tyi)e 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, 'lis true, might bi^g their bread 
 
 If every English Church-yard were like ours; 
 
 Yet your conclusion wanders iTom the truth: 
 
 We have no need of names and epi;aphs; 
 
 We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 
 
 And theti, for our immortal parti zoc want 
 
 No sjnnbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: 
 
 The thought of death sits easy on the man 
 
 Who has been born ar.d dies among the mountains. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thought? 
 Possess a kind of second life: no doubt 
 You, Sir, could help me to the histoiy 
 Of half these Graves'? 
 
 PRl!f;ST. 
 
 For (.'i/iht-score winters past, 
 With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard. 
 Perhaps I might; and on a winfer-everiing. 
 If you were sealed at my cliimney'^ nook, 
 Ey turning o'er these hillocks one by one. 
 We two could travel. Sir, through a strange round ; 
 Yet all in the broad higlnvay 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. 
 
 'Tis a common case. 
 We'll take another: who is he that lies 
 Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves'? 
 It touches on tliat piece of native rock 
 Left in the church-yard wall. 
 
 PRISST. 
 
 Thf^t's Walter Ewbank. 
 He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
 A.S ever were produced by youth and age 
 Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
 Through five long generations had the heart 
 Of Walter's forefatiiers o'erflowcd tlie bounds 
 Of their inh.eritance, 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 hc/orc 
 A little— yet a little— and old Walter, 
 They left to him the family heart, and land 
 With other burl hens than the crop it bore. 
 Year after year the old man still kept up 
 A cheerful mind, — and bufieted 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 \ery last 
 He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
 His pace was never that of an old man : 
 I almost see iiim tripping down the path 
 With his two Grandsons after him :— but You, 
 Unless our Landlord be your host to-night. 
 
20 
 
 rOEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 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 llic infirmity of love, 
 Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, 
 This old Man, in the day of his old ago. 
 Was half a molher to them.— If you weep. Sir, 
 To hear a Stiangcr talking about Strangers, 
 Ilcavcn bless you when you aie among your kindred! 
 ;^y_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. For, 
 Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, 
 The only Kinsman near them, and though he 
 Inclined to them 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 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 perhaps 
 Bemained at home, go staggering through the 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, mid-leg deep, 
 Their two books lying both on a dry stone, 
 Upon the hither side : and once I said. 
 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 — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 It may bn then— 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Never did worthier lads break English bread ; 
 The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw 
 With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 
 Could never keep these 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 
 Where foot could come, to one or both of them 
 Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. 
 Like Roe-bucks they v/ent bounding o^er the hills ; 
 They played like two young Ravens on tlie 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 aw^ay, 
 In my own house I put into his hand 
 A Bible, and I'd wager house and field 
 That, if he is alive, he has it yet. 
 
 LEONARD, 
 
 It seems, these Brothers have not liyed 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 youl 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 'Tis 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 or shroud : 
 For the Boy loved the life which we lead here ; 
 And though of unripe years, a stripling only, 
 His sotil 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 whicli, for aught I know. 
 Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years :— 
 Well — all was gone, and they were destitute. 
 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 vety 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'll never sound for him— 
 Living or dead. — When last we heard of him, 
 He w^as in slavery among the Moors 
 Upon the Barbary Coast. — 'Twas not a little 
 That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt, 
 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, 
 [f e'er he shojld grow rich, he would return, 
 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, though 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 colour that he had was soon 
 Stolen from his cheek ; he drooped, and pined, and 
 pined — 
 
 * The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its re- 
 semblance to the Gable end of a house, is one of the 
 highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the 
 head of the several vales of Ennerdale, 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 a little below Egremont. 
 
P0EM3 FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 21 
 
 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 ware his. 
 
 But, whether blithe or sad, 'lis 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 hig 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 1 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 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 sup, till he, at length, 
 Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge 
 The humour of the moment, lagged behind. 
 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 Comrades, 
 Lay stretched at ease ; but, passing by the place 
 On their return, they found that he was gone. 
 No ill was feared ; but 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 unheard of : 
 The neighbours were alarmed, and to the Brook 
 Some hastened, some towards 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 1 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Ay, that he did— 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 And all went well with him ? — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 And you believe, then that his mind was easy 1 — 
 
 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 I — You recollect I mentioned 
 
 A habit which disquietude and grief 
 
 Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured 
 
 That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
 
 Upon the grass, — and waiting for his comrades, 
 
 He there bad faUen asleep ; that in his sleep 
 
 He to the margin of the precipice 
 
 Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong. 
 
 And BO no doubt, he perished : at the time, 
 
 We guess, that in his hand he must have held 
 His Shepherd's stafi'; for midway in the cliff 
 It had been caught ; and there for many 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 tliey reachedthe church-yard gate, 
 As the Priest lifted up the latch turned round, — 
 And, looking at the grave, he said, " my Brother!" 
 The Vicar did not liear the words : and now, 
 Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated 
 That Leonard would partake his homely fare : 
 The Other thanked him with a fervent 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, reviewed 
 All that the Priest had said : his early years 
 Were with him in his heart : his cherished 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 on to Egremont : and thence, 
 That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
 Reminding him of what had passed between them j 
 And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, 
 That it was from the weakness of his heart 
 He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
 
 This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
 A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. 
 
 II. 
 ARTEC AL AND ELIDURE. 
 
 (see THE CHRONICLE OF GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH, 
 AND MILTON'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND.) 
 
 Where be the Temples which, in Britain's Isle, 
 For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised "? 
 Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile 
 Of clouds that in cerulian ether blazed 1^ — 
 Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore, 
 
 They sank, delivered o'er 
 To fatal dissolution ; and, I ween, 
 No vestige then was left tliat such had ever been. 
 
 Nathless, a British record (long concealed 
 In old Armorica whose secret springs 
 No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed 
 The wondrous 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, 
 Whd beasts, or uncouth savnges impure ! 
 But, intermingled with the generous seed, 
 Grew many a poisonous weed ; 
 
S2 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Thus fares it slill with all that takes its birth 
 From human care, or growa upon the breast of earth. 
 
 Hence, and liow soon ! that war of vengeance waged 
 
 JBy Gueridolen against her faithless lord ; 
 
 Till bhe, in jealous fury unassuaged, 
 
 Had slam 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. 
 
 So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear 
 
 By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift. 
 
 Ye light niiigs, 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 INIilton loved in youthful years; 
 The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes ; 
 Tlie feats of Arthur and his knightly peers; 
 Of Arthur, — who, to upper light restored, 
 
 With that terrific sword 
 Which yet he wields in subterranean war, 
 Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star I 
 
 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 1 
 Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant, 
 
 Wliile 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 Gorbofiian ruled not in his day ; 
 And grateful Britain prospered far above 
 All neighbouring countries through his righteous sway; 
 He poured rewards and honours 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 such sire was he ! 
 
 A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun. 
 
 Was darkened soon by foul iniciuity. 
 
 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 pla- 
 ced. 
 
 From realm to ream the humbled Exile went, 
 
 Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain ; 
 
 Tn 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 slight^ which he no more could brook. 
 Towards his native soil he 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 crownless 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 amount of his desires. 
 
 While he the issue waits, at early morn 
 Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced to hear 
 A startling outcry made by hound and horn. 
 From which the tusky boar hath fled 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 countenance. 
 
 The royal Elidure, who leads the chase, 
 Hath checked his foaming courser — Can it be! 
 Meihinks that I should recognise 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 aflJ'ection 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 Bi other! 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 crowu have borue, 
 
 Thy royal mantle worn : 
 T was their natural guardian ; and 'tis just 
 That now [ 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, destitute. 
 To me a kingdom ! — spare the bitter scorn ! 
 If justice ruled the breast of foreign kings. 
 
 Then, on the Avide-spread wings 
 Of war, had I returned to claim my 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, noi 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 sneak 
 With insincere intent, on me her vengeance wreak! 
 
 " Were this same spear, which in my hand I grasp 
 The British sceptre, heve 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 forlorn. 
 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! 
 
POEMS FOUNDHD ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 23 
 
 Thou art reputed wise, but in my mind 
 
 Art pitiably blind ; 
 Full soon this generous purpose thou mayst 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 — 
 Wonldst change the course of things in all men's sight! 
 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 perform. 
 Or even conceive ; surpassing me in love 
 Far as in power the eagle doth the worm ; 
 I, Brother ! only shou'd 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 that bright unbosoming 
 Clouds of disgrace and envious fortune past I 
 Have we not seen the glories of the spring 
 By veil of noontide darkness overcast 1 
 The frith that glittered like a wajrior's shield, 
 
 The ?ky, the gay green field, 
 Are vanished ; — gladness ceases in the groves. 
 And trepidation strikes the blackened mountain coves. 
 
 " But is that gloom dissolved ? how passing 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 shalt thou furnish that misfortune, pain, 
 And sorrow, have confirmed thy native right to reign. 
 
 " But, not to overlook what thou mayst 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 thought devised ; 
 And which, with caution due, may soon be realised." 
 
 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 intent, 
 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 rightfulKing 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 hiigh desert. 
 Long did he reigti ; and, when he died, the tear 
 Of universal grief bedewed his honoured bier. 
 
 Tl us 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 !•" 
 
 nr. 
 
 THE SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 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 
 My Father's House, in wet or dry. 
 My Sister Emmeline and I 
 
 Together visited. 
 She looked at it as if she feared it; 
 Still wishing, dreading, 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 delicate fears; 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 
 
 And love, and thought, and joy. 
 
 IV. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 I've watched you now a full half-hour|, 
 
 Self-poised upon that yellow flower ; 
 
 And, little Butterfly ! indeed 
 
 I know not if you sleep or feed. 
 
 How motionless I — not frozen seas 
 
 More motionless ! and then 
 
 What joy awaits you, when the breeze 
 
 Hath found you out among the trees, 
 
 And calls you forth again ! 
 
 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 I 
 
 Come often to us, fear no wrong ;• 
 
 Sit near us on the bough I 
 
 We'll talk of sunshine ajid of song ; 
 
 And summer days, when we were young ; 
 
 Sweet childish days, that were as long 
 
 As twenty da3^s are now. 
 
 V. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE YEAR 1802. 
 
 Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground^ 
 
 Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 
 
 Of that magnificent Temple which doth bountf 
 
 One side of our whole Vale with grandeur rare ; 
 
 Sweet Garden-orchard, eminently fair. 
 
 The loveliest spot that Man hath ever found, 
 
 Fareweh ! — 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 safely will she ride when we are gone; 
 The flowering shrubs that decorate our door 
 Will prosper,, though untended and alone : 
 
24 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 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 sliall be sought ; 
 We leave you here in solitude to dwell 
 With these our latest gifts of tender thought ; 
 Thou, hke the morning, in thy saffron coat, 
 Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell ! 
 Whom from the borders of the Lake v/e 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 I 
 —A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, 
 Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, 
 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, 
 That 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 sayest, when we forsake thee, " Let them go !" 
 Thou 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 hy, 
 
 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. 
 
 O happy Garden 1 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. 
 
 VI. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN MY POCKKT-COPY OF THOMSON'S CAS- 
 TLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 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's limits did he roam : 
 FnW many a time, upon a stormy niglit, 
 
 His voice came to us from the neighbouring height: 
 
 Oft did 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 poyver 
 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 ; 
 For 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, 
 Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 
 A noticeable man with large grey 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 business here : 
 
 Sweet heaven forfend ! his was a lawful right ! 
 
 Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy ; 
 
 His limbs would toss about him with delight 
 
 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. 
 
 i 
 Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 
 
 Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay, 
 
 Made — to his ear attentively apphed-^ 
 
 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 did love each other dear, 
 
 As far as love in such a place could be ; 
 
 There did they dwell— from earthly labour 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 
 
 VII. 
 
 LOUISA. 
 
 I MET Louisa in the shade ; 
 
 And, having seen that lovely Maid, 
 
 Why should I fear to say 
 
 That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong ; 
 
 And down the rocks can leap along, 
 
 Like rivulets in May 1 
 
 And she hath smiles to earth unknown ; 
 Smiles, that with motion of their own 
 
POSMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 t)o Spread, and sink^ and rise; 
 *rhat come and go with endless play, 
 And ever, as they pass away, 
 Are hidden in her eyes. 
 
 25 
 
 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. 
 
 Take all that's mine " beneath the moon,' 
 
 Tf T 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. 
 
 Nor, England! did 1 know till then 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known: 
 
 And I will dare to tell, 
 
 But in the Lover's ear alone. 
 
 What once to me befel. 
 
 When she I loved was strong and gay, 
 And like a rose in June, 
 I to her cottage bent my way, 
 Beneath the evening Moon. 
 
 Upon the Moon I fixed my eye, 
 
 All over the wide lea; 
 
 My Horse trudged on — and we drew nigh 
 
 Those paths so dear to me. 
 
 And now we reached the orchard plot; 
 And, as we climbed the hill. 
 Towards the roof of Lucy's cot 
 The Moon descended 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, 
 
 My Horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
 He raised, and never stopped: 
 When 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 !" 
 
 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 I 
 
 X. 
 
 I TRAVELLED among unknown Men^ 
 
 In Lands beyond the Sea; 
 4 
 
 'Tis 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 
 
 1*he joy of my desire ; 
 And she I cherished turned her wheel 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed 
 The bowers where Lucy played; 
 
 And thine is too the last green field 
 That Lucy's eyes surveyed* 
 
 Xt. 
 
 ^RE with cold beads of midnight dew 
 
 Had mingled tears of thine, 
 I grieved, fond Youth! that thou shouldst Bue 
 
 To haughty Geraldine. 
 
 Immoveable by generous sighSj 
 
 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 
 How 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. 
 
 XTI. 
 
 To 
 
 Look at the fate of summer Flowers, 
 Which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song ; 
 And, grieved for their brief date, confess that ours 
 Measured by what we are and ought to be. 
 Measured by all that, trembling, we foresee, 
 Is not so long I 
 
 If human Life do pass away, 
 Perishing yet more swiftly than the FloWef, 
 Whose frail existence is but of a day ; 
 What space hath Virgin's Beauty to disclose 
 Her sweets, and triumph o'er the breathing Rose? 
 Not even an hour I 
 
 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 fadCy 
 So soon be lost. 
 
 Then shall Love teach some virtuous Youth 
 " To draw, out of the Object of his eyes,'* 
 The whilst 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. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 'Tis said, that some have died for loye : 
 
 And here and there a church-yard grave is found 
 
26 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Tn the cold North's unhallowed ground, 
 
 Because the wretched Man himself liad slain, 
 
 His love was such a grievous pain. 
 
 And there is one whom I five years have known ; 
 
 He dwells alone 
 
 Upon Helvcllyn's side : 
 
 He loved — the pretty Barbara died, 
 
 And thus he makes his moan ; 
 
 Three years had Barhara in her grave been laid 
 
 When thus his moan he made : 
 
 " Oh, move, thou Cottnge, from behind that oak ! 
 
 Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, 
 
 Tliat in some otiier wuy yon smoke 
 
 IJay mount into the sky ! 
 
 The clouds pa.=!s on ; they from the heavens depart - 
 
 I look — tho yky is emply space; 
 
 1 know not what I trace ; 
 
 But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart* 
 
 " O ! what a weiglit is in these shades 1 Ye leaves, 
 
 When will that dying murnnir be supprest ! 
 
 Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, 
 
 It robs my heart of rest. 
 
 Thou Thrush, that siiigest loud — and loud and free, 
 
 Into yon row of willows flit, 
 
 Upon that alder sit; 
 
 Or sing another song, or choose another tree. 
 
 " Roll hack, sweet Rill ! back to thy mountain bounds, 
 
 And there for ever 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 dtimb ! — 
 
 Be any thing, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now ! 
 
 " Thou Eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers 
 
 (Even like 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 de.-cend, — 
 
 Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear." 
 
 The Man who makes this feverish complaint 
 Is one of giant stature, wlio could dance 
 Equipperl from head to foot in iron mail. 
 Ah gentle Love I if ever thoiight 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, or know 
 Such happiness as I have known to-day. 
 
 —Such change, and at the very door 
 Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A COMPLAINT. 
 
 Therp is a change — and I am poor; 
 Your Love hath been, nor 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 tlien all bliss above ! 
 Now, for this consecrated Fount 
 Of murmurinp, sparkling, living love. 
 What have I ? shall T 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 1 if the Waters sleep 
 In silence and obscurity. 
 
 XV. 
 
 To 
 
 Let other Bards of Angels sing, 
 
 Brignt Suns without a spot ; 
 But thou art no such perfect Thing: 
 
 Rejoice that thou art not ! 
 
 Such if thou wert in all men's view 
 
 A universal show. 
 What would rny Fancy have to do? 
 
 My Feelings to bestow T 
 
 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 unrrmoved 
 Till heart v/ith heart in concord beats, 
 
 And the Lover is beloved. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 How rich that forehead's calm expanse r 
 
 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 I 
 
 But hand and voice alike are still : 
 
 No sound /ici-c 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 meditat've feeling ; 
 
 Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies, 
 
 Through the pure light of female eyes, 
 
 Their sanctity revealing ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 To 
 
 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. 
 
 If a faint sigh, not meant for human ear. 
 Tell that these words thy humbleness oflend, 
 Cherish me still— else faltering in the rear 
 Of a steep march ; uphold 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. 
 
POEMS FOtJNDKD ON THE AFFECTIOxNS. 
 
 !37 
 
 XVI [L 
 LAMENT 
 
 OF 
 
 MARY aUEEN OF SCOl^, 
 
 ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR. 
 
 " Smile of the Moon ! — for so I name 
 That silent grcetin^j from above ; 
 A gentle flash of light that came 
 From Her whom drooping Captives Jove; 
 Or art thou of still higher birth 1 
 Th(Ki that didst part tlie cloiwls of earth, 
 My torpor to reprove I 
 
 *' Bright boon of pitying Heaven — alas I 
 I may not trust thy placid clieer ! 
 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 perchance 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 sorrovs^s lend 
 Tears due unto their own. 
 
 *' To-night the church-tower bells will ring 
 Tlirough these wide realms a festive peal; 
 To the new j'^ear a welcoming ; 
 A tuneful olforing for tiie 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 
 Tiian the sweet flowerets of the fields I 
 — [t 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 ; 
 And b'^auty, for confiding youth, 
 Those shocks of passion can prepare 
 That kill the bloom hefore its time, 
 And blanch, without t? e Ov/ner's crime, 
 The most resplendent hair. 
 
 " UnbJest distinction ! showered on me 
 To bind a lingering life in chains : — 
 All that conJd 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. 
 
 A Woman rules my prison's key ; 
 A sister Q,neen, against the bent 
 Of law and holiest sympathy, 
 Detains me — doubtful of the event ; 
 Great God, who feelest for my distress, 
 My thoughts are all that I possess, 
 O keep them ianocent ! 
 
 " Farewell desire of human aid. 
 Which abject mortals vainly court ! 
 By friends deceived, by foes betrayed. 
 Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport ; 
 jVought but the world-redeeming Cross 
 Is able to supply my loss, 
 My burthen to support. 
 
 " Hark ! the death-note of the year 
 Sounded by tlie casLle-cIock I" 
 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 ! 
 
 XIX. 
 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. 
 
 [ fVhen a J^orthern Indian^ from sickness^ is uyiahle to 
 continue his journey zcith his companions^ he is left 
 behind^ covered over with Deer-skins^ and is supplied 
 with watcr^ f('od, and fuel^ if the situation of the 
 place nrill afford it. He is informed of the track 
 which his companions intend to pursiLC^ and if he is 
 unable to follow^ or overtake thnn^ he perishes alona 
 in the Desert ; unless he should have the good for- 
 tune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians. 
 The females are equally, or still more., exposed to 
 the same fate. See that very interestin gwork^ Hearne's 
 Journey from Hudson's Cay to the Northern Ocean. 
 In the high JSforthcrn Datitudes, as the same writer 
 informs us, when the JSTorthern lAghts vary their 
 position in the air, they make a rustling and a crack- 
 ling noise, as alluded io in the following poem.^ 
 
 Before I see another day, 
 
 Oh let my body die away! 
 
 In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; 
 
 The stars were mingled with 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 awa}'' I 
 
 My fire is dead: it knevv^ no pain; 
 
 Yet is it dead, and I rtmain. 
 
 All stiff with ice the ashed lie ; 
 
 And they are dead, and I will die. 
 
 When I was well, I wished to live, 
 
 For clothfs, for warmth, for food, and fire ; 
 
 But they to me no joy can give, 
 
 No pleasure now, and no desire. 
 
 Then here contented will 1 h'c 1 
 
 Alone I cannot fear to die. 
 
 Alas ! 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, 
 
 tly Friends, I did not follow you I 
 
 For strong and without pain I Jay, 
 
 My Friends. wJien ye were gone away. 
 
 My Child ! they gave thee to another, 
 A woman who was not thy mother. 
 When from my arms my Babe th.'y took. 
 On me how strangely did he look ! 
 Through his whole body sometliing ran, 
 A most strange working did I see ; 
 — As if he strove to be a man, 
 That he might pull the sledge for me : 
 Arid then lie stretciud his arms, how wild ! 
 Oh mercy ! like a helpless child. 
 
 My little joy ! my little pride ! 
 Jn two days more I must have died. 
 Then do not weep and grieve for me ; 
 I feel I must have died with thee. 
 
2S 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 wind, that o'er my head art flyhig 
 
 The way my Friends their course did bend, 
 
 1 should not 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. 
 
 ['11 follow you across the snow ; 
 
 Ye travel heavily and slow ; 
 
 fn spite of all my weary pain 
 
 I'll look upon your tents again. 
 
 — My fire is dead, and snowy white 
 
 The water which l)eside it stood ; 
 
 The wolf has come to me lo-night, 
 
 And he has stolen away my lood. 
 
 Forever left alone am I, 
 
 Then wherefore should I fear to die 7 
 
 XX. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 
 
 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 Englissh 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 : 
 
 Then with his coat he made essay 
 
 To wipe those briny tears away. 
 
 J 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 I was young, a single Man, 
 And after youthful follies ran. 
 Though little givpn 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 sweet a flock as ever grazed I 
 
 Upon ihe mountain did they feed ; 
 
 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. 
 
 ^ix Children, Sir ! had I to feed ; 
 
 Hard labour in a time of need ! 
 
 My pride was tamed, and in our grief 
 
 J of the Parish asked relief. 
 
 ^hey said, I was a wealthy man; 
 
 My sheej) upon the mountain 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 woeful 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 woeful day. 
 
 Another still ' and still another ! 
 
 A little Iamb, and then its mother ! 
 
 It was a vein that never stopped — 
 
 Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped. 
 
 Till thirty were not left alive 
 
 They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, 
 
 And I may say, that many a time 
 
 [ 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. 
 
 Bent oftentimes to flee from home. 
 
 And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 
 
 Sir ! 'twas 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 da3^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 1 have none ; — 
 
 To-day I fetched it from the rock ; 
 
 It ia the last of all mv flock." 
 
 XXI. 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 A PASTORAL BALLAD. 
 
 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 puise proudly grasped in his 
 
 hand ; 
 But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, — we'll 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 chose with the land, it w^as ours ; 
 And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 29 
 
 But now we are strangers, go early or late ; 
 And often, like one overburthened with sin,' 
 With my liand on the larch of the half-opened gale, 
 I look at the fields— but I cannoi 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 not be sad ; 
 Our comfort was near if we ever were crest ; 
 But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had, 
 We slighted them all —and our birth-right waa losi. 
 
 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 labour v/as done, 
 1'he Sabbath's return— and its leisure's soft chain ! 
 
 And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, 
 How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood. 
 Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep 
 That besprinkled the field— 'twas like youth in my blood ! 
 
 Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail ; 
 And, oftentimes, hear the church-boll with a sigh. 
 That follows the thought— We've no land in the vale, 
 Bave six feet of earth where our forefathers lie ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 THE AFFLICTION 
 
 OF 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
 Where art thou, worse to me than dead 1 
 Oh find me, prosperous or undone I 
 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 1 
 
 Seven years, alas ! to have received 
 No tidings of an only child ; 
 To have despaired, and have believed, 
 And be for evermore beguiled ; 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
 I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
 Was ever daikness 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 I 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 I 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 honour and of gain. 
 Oh ! 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 gifis 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 Ihee groan, 
 IMaimed, mangled by inhuman men; 
 Or thou upon a Desert thiown 
 Inlieritest the Lion's Den ; 
 Or hast been summoned to the Deep, 
 Tiiou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 I look for Ghosts ; but none will force 
 Their way to me: — 'tis falsely said 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 Between the living and tie dead; 
 For, surely, then T should have sight 
 Of Him I wait for day and night. 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 Jly apprehensions come in crowds ; 
 I dread the rustling 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: 
 
 If any chance to heave a sigh. 
 
 They pity me, and not my g'-ief. 
 
 Then come to me, my Son, or send 
 
 Some tidings that my woes may end ; 
 
 I have no other earthly friend I 
 
 XXIH. 
 THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. 
 
 BY A FEMALE FRIEND. 
 
 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 tcce^ hungry, nibb.'ing mouse, 
 Then why so busy thou 1 
 
 Nay ! start not at that sparkling light ; 
 'Tis 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. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 
 
 One morning (raw it was and wet 
 A foggy day in winter time) 
 
30 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 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 aMcient Spirit is not dead ; 
 Old times, thoujiht I, are breathing ihere ; 
 Proud was I that my country bred 
 Such strength, a dignity so fair: 
 She begged an alms, like one in poor estate ; 
 
 I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. 
 When from these lofly thoughts I woke, 
 " What treasure," said I, " do you bear, 
 Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 
 Protected from the cold damp air 7" 
 She answered, soon as she the question heard, 
 
 *' A simple burtlien. Sir, a little Singing-bird." 
 
 And, thus conrinuing, she said, 
 " I had a Son, who many a day 
 Sailed on the seas, but hie 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 tliey both were his : 
 'Twas my Son's Bird ; and neat and trim 
 lie kept it : many voyages 
 This 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 w^as dead; 
 And now, God help me for my little wit! 
 I bear it with me, Sir, he took so much delight in it." 
 
 XXV. 
 THE CHILDLESS FATHER. 
 " Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away! 
 Not a soul in the village this morning will stay ; 
 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 colours 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 box-wood, not six months before, 
 Filled the Funeral basin* at Timothy's door; 
 A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; 
 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 stuff, 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 Iiis cheek. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 
 
 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. 
 
 * In several parts of the North of England when a 
 funeral takes place, a basin full of Sprigs of Box-wood 
 is placed at the door of the house from wiiich thecoflin 
 is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral 
 ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws 
 it into the grave of the deceased. 
 
 This Lady, dwelling upon English ground , 
 Where she was childless, daily would repaii 
 To a poor neighbouring Cottage; as I found, 
 For sake of a young Child whose home was there. 
 
 Once having seen her talce with fond embrace, 
 Tiiis Infant to herself, 1 framed a lay. 
 Endeavouring, in my native tongue, to trace 
 Such things as she unto the Child might say: 
 And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guessed' 
 My song the workings of her heart expressed. 
 
 " Dear Babe, thou Daughter of another, 
 One moment let me be tliy Mother ! 
 An Infant's face and looks are thine; 
 And sure a Mother's heart is mine: 
 TJiy own dear Mother's far away, 
 At labour in the harvest field: 
 Thy little Sister is at play; — 
 What warmth, what comfort would it yield 
 To my poor heart, if Thou would'st 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 seal 
 Come to me — I'm no enemy: 
 I am tne same who at thy side 
 Sate yesterday, and made a nest 
 For thee, sweet Baby ! — thou hast tried, 
 Thou knowest 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'll 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, 
 A))d countenance like a summer's day, 
 They would have hopes of him— and then 
 I should behold his lace again! 
 
 'Tis 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 witn strange alarms; 
 Smiles hast Thou, bright ones of thy own ; 
 I cannot keep thee in my arms. 
 By those bewildering glances crost 
 In which the light of his is lost. 
 
 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 Moiher near me dwell: 
 
 My Darling, she is not to me 
 
 What thou art! though I Ir.ve her well: 
 
 Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here! 
 
 Never was any Child more dear ! 
 
 — I cannot help it — ill intent 
 I've none, my pretty Innocent ! 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 31 
 
 T weep— I know they do thee wronjr, 
 These tears— and my poor id'e tongue. 
 Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek 
 How cold it is! hut tlinu art good ; 
 Thine eyes are on me— they would speak, 
 1 tliink, to help me if they could. 
 Blessinn^s upon that soft, warm face. 
 My heart ajairf is in its place! 
 
 While thou art mine, my lirtle Love, 
 
 This cannot be a sorrowful urove; 
 
 Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee, 
 
 I seem to find them all in thee: 
 
 Here's ^rraps to play with, liere are flowers; 
 
 I'll call thee by my Darling's name; 
 
 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, 
 
 Thy features seem to me the same; 
 
 His little Sifter thou shalt be; 
 
 And, when once more my home I see, 
 
 I'll tell him many tales of Thee." 
 
 XXVI r. 
 
 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 
 
 The foUoioivg tale kos written as an Episode^ in a 
 work from ichicli its length may perhaps exclude it. 
 The facts are true ; no invention as to these has 
 been exercised ., as none was needed. 
 O HAPPY time of youthful lovers (thug 
 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 tlie vine-clad mountains of Auvergne, 
 W^as 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 honours sprung : 
 And hence the father of the enamoured STouth, 
 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 strangers to content if long apart. 
 Or 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 neighbouring 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 tiling he saw. 
 Arabian fiction never filled the world 
 With half the wonders that were wrouglit for him. 
 Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring ; 
 Life turned the meanest of her implements, 
 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 v.-eary 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 
 Viriuons restraint-ah, speak ir— think it not I 
 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 honourable wedlock with his Love, 
 Yvas in his judgment tempted to decline 
 To perilous weakness, and entrust his cause 
 To nature for a hnpfiy end of all ; 
 Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was swayed. 
 And hear with their ^ransgressions, when I add 
 That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife, 
 Carried about her for a secret grief 
 The promise of a mother. 
 
 To conceal 
 The threatened shame, the parents of tiie 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 liis loss, 
 And all uncertain whither he should turn, 
 Chafed like a wild beast in the toils ; but soori 
 Discovering traces of the fugitives. 
 Their steps he followed to the Maid's retreat. 
 The sequel may be easily 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 pendant 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 severing 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 displayed 
 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 I 
 
 They parted ; and the generous Vaudracour 
 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 behold 
 Tlieir happiness, or to disturb their love. 
 But noio of this no whisper ; not the less, 
 If ever an obtrusive M'ord were dropped 
 Touching the matter of his passion, still. 
 In his stern Father's hearing, Vaudracour 
 Persisted openly that death aione 
 Should abrogate his human privilege 
 Divine, of swearing everlasting truth. 
 Upon the altar, to the Mr id he loved. 
 
32 
 
 POilMS FOUNDER ON I'HE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 " You shall be baffled in your mad intent 
 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, did the Youth's ungovernable hand 
 Assault and slay ; — and to a second, gave 
 A perilous wound,— lie shuddered to behold 
 The bieathless corse; then peacefully resigned 
 His person to the law, was lodged in prison, 
 And wore the fetters of a criminal. 
 
 Have you beheld a tuft of winged seed 
 That, tVom the dandelion's naked stalk, 
 Mounted aloft, is sulfered not to use 
 Its natural gifts for purposes of rest. 
 Driven by the autunuial whirlwind to and fro 
 Through the wide element 7 or have you marked 
 The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough, 
 Within the vortex of a foaming flood, 
 Toiuiented ? by such aid you may conceive 
 The perturbation of each mind; — ah, no! 
 Desperate the Maid — the Youth is stained with blood ; 
 But as the troubled seed and tortured bough 
 Is Man, subjected to despotic sv/ay. 
 
 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; — tliou no longer canst be mine, 
 I thine — the Conscience-stricken must not woo 
 The unruffled Innocent, — I see thy face. 
 Behold thee, and my 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, no presumptuous rising 
 Of hasty censure, modelled 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 yet 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 tlioughts 
 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 tlip eve 
 Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born, 
 Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes 
 Of future happiness. " You shnil 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 it-^ root. 
 
 Malice, beholding you, will melt away. 
 
 Go! — 'tis a Town where both of us were bornf 
 
 None will reproach you, for our truth is kno\Vn ;' 
 
 And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate 
 
 Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. 
 
 With ornamentri — the prettiest, nature" yields 
 
 Or art can fashion, shall you deck your 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 Thinw 
 
 Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods 
 
 Bounded before him ;— but the unweeting 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 gleama- 
 
 Appeared but seldom; oftener was he seen 
 
 Propping a pale and melancholy face 
 
 Upon the Mother's bosom ; resting thus 
 
 Ilia 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 pronounced. 
 
 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 dependent on the obdurate heart 
 
 Of One who came to disunite their Uvea 
 
 For ever — 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, departs — 
 Who with him ? — even the senseless Little-one ! 
 With that sole Charge he passed the city-gatcis^ 
 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, 
 Tile Dwellers in that house where he had lodged' 
 Accompanied his steps, b}' anxious love 
 Impelled, — they parted from him there, and stood- 
 Watching belo^V, 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 tlie Nursling which his arms embraced. 
 — This was the maimer in which Vaudracour 
 Departed with his Infant ; and thus reached 
 His Father's house, where to the innocent Child 
 Admittance was denied. The young Man spake 
 No words of indignation or reproof. 
 But of his Father begged, a last request, 
 That a retreat might be assigned to Jiiia 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON TUB AFFECTION^. 
 
 33 
 
 Where In forgotten quiet he might dwell, 
 With such allowance as his wants required ; 
 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 withdrew ; 
 And thither took with him his infant 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. — Behold ! 
 While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached; 
 But, seeing some one near, even as his hand 
 Was stretched towards the garden gate, 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 ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 'Tis 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 Jong halloo I 
 
 — Why bustle thus about your door. 
 What means this bustle, Betty Foy 1 
 Why are you in this mighty fret ? 
 And why on horseback have you set 
 Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy ? 
 
 There's scarce a soul that's 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 1 
 
 But Betty's bent on her intent; 
 For her good neighbour, 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 1 
 
 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 faggots from the wood. 
 
 And he is all in travelling trim,— 
 And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy 
 Has up upon the saddle set 
 (The like was never heard of yet) 
 Him whom she loves, her 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 ijring 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-burly 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 yoii 
 Come home again, nor stop at all^ — 
 Come home again, whate'er befal. 
 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 1 
 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 motionlesss 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 I 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, 
 Sh« 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-be turns right, 
 She watches till he's out of sight. 
 And Betty will not then depart. 
 
34 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS^- 
 
 Burr, burr— now Johnny's lipg they burr, 
 As k)ucl as any mill, or near iL ; 
 Meek as a Jarnb 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 rumour, 
 That, should he lose his eyes and ears, 
 And should he live a thousand years, 
 He never will be out of humour. 
 
 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 cainiot 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 comfort soon 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 
 Her life and soul were buried. 
 
 But Betty, pom- good Woman ! she, 
 You plainly in lier 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, 
 W^hich she to Susan will not tell. 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
 •' As sure as there's a moon in heaven," 
 Cries Betty, " he'll be back again ; 
 They'll both be here — 'tis almost ten — 
 Both will be here before eleven." 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
 The clock gives warning for eleven ; 
 'Tis 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 strine ; 
 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 7 
 
 The Doctor he has made him wait/ 
 Susan! they'll 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 
 Appear along the moonlight road ; 
 There's neither horse nor man abroacF, 
 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 for ever rue. 
 
 She prefaced half a hint of this 
 With, " God forbid it should be true I" 
 At the first word that Susan said 
 Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 
 " Susan, I'd gladly stay with you. 
 
 "I mu t be gone, T 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 V sa3's Betty, going, 
 " What can I do to ease your pain 1 
 Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay ; 
 I fear you'ie 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. 
 
 [n 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, 
 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where. 
 
 The bridge is past — far in the dale"; 
 And now the thought torments her 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 . 
 
 " Oh saints ! what is become of him 1 
 Perhaps he's climbed into an oak. 
 Where he will stay till be is dead ; 
 Or, sadly he has been misled, 
 And joined the wandering gipsy-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 waterftill." 
 
POEM3 FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 85 
 
 At ^oor old Susan then she railed, 
 While to the town she posts away ; 
 " If Susan had not been so ill, 
 Alas! I should have had hira 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. 
 
 And now she's got into the town. 
 And to the Doctor's door she hies ; 
 'Tis 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 e3^es that peep and doze ! 
 And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 
 
 *' Oh Doctor ! Doctor ! where's my Johnny ?" 
 " I'm here, what is't you want with me 1" 
 *' Oh 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 T know of him?" 
 And, grumbling, he went back to bed. 
 
 " O woe is me ! O woe is me ! 
 Here will T 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 dismal kneil ! 
 
 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 : 
 " Oh 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 brinjc she hurries fast, 
 Lest she should clrown herself therein. 
 
 And now she sjts her down and weeps ; 
 Such tears she never shed before; 
 " Oh dear, dear Pony I my sweet joy I 
 
 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 w^ood." 
 
 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, 
 
 Reader ! now that I might toll 
 What Johnny and his Horse are doing ! 
 What they've been doing all this lime. 
 Oh could I put it into rhyme, 
 
 A most delightful tale pursuing I 
 
 Perhaps, and no unlikely thought I 
 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 like a silent Horseman-Ghost, 
 He travels on along 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 I 
 
 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 
 
 1 to the Muses have been bound 
 
 These fourteen years, by strong indenturea i 
 
 O gentle Muses ! let me tell 
 
 But half of what to him befel ; 
 
 He surely met with strange adventures. 
 
 O gentle Muses ! is this kind 1 
 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 1 
 
 Who's yon, that, near the waterfall 
 Which thunders dowr^ 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, 1 thijik, the rein to give ; 
 Of Moon or Stars be takes no heed ; 
 Of such we in romances read : 
 — 'Tis Johnny I Johnny ! as I live. 
 
 And that's the very Pony, too ! 
 Where is she, where is Betty Foy 1 
 She hardly can sustain her feara ; 
 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 1 
 
^6 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 i3 no goblin, His no ghost, 
 'Tia he whom you eo long have lost, 
 He wliom you love, your Idiot Boy. 
 
 She looks again— her arms are up— 
 ghe screams — she cannot move for joy, 
 phe 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 hoar again her idiot Boy. 
 
 And now she's at the Pony's tail, 
 And now is at the Pony'i head, — 
 On llmt sulc now, and now on this; 
 And, almost slitled with her bliss, 
 A few sad tears does Betty shed. 
 
 Pile kisses o'er and o'er again 
 Him wlioni she lt)\ es, her Idiot Boy; 
 ghe's happy here, is Jiappy there, 
 8he is uneasy every where; 
 Her limbs are ail alive with joy. 
 
 8he 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. 
 
 " Oh I Johnny, never mind the Doctor; 
 You've done your best, and that is all." 
 She took the reins, wlien 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 wlio is she, hetimes abroad, 
 That hobbles up the steep rough roadi 
 Who is it, but old Susan Gale "J 
 
 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. 
 
 Bho turned, she tossed herself in bed, 
 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 sa^d, 
 
 Did Susan rise up from her bed, 
 
 As if by magic cured. 
 
 Away she posts up hill and down, 
 
 And to the wood at length is come; 
 
 She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting; 
 
 Oh me I 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 travelhng 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. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 MICHAEL, 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM, 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps 
 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyllj 
 
 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 themseivei, 
 
 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 overliead are sailing in the sky. 
 
 It is in truth an utter solitude; 
 
 Nor should I have made mention of this DeJl 
 
 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 place a story appertains, 
 
 Which, though it be ungarnished with events, 
 
 Is 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 name 
 An old man, stout of heart, and strong of Hmb. 
 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 
 
?OEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 SK 
 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 Of Bagpipers on distant Higliland 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 gieen Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks, 
 Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 
 Fields, where witli cheerful spirits he had breathed 
 The common air; the hills, which he so oft 
 Had climbed with vigorous steps ; 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 honourable gain. 
 Those fields, those hills— v/hat could they less? had laid 
 Strong hold on his affections, were to him 
 I A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 
 ^ The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
 
 His days had not been passed in singleness. 
 His Helpmate was a comely Matron, old — 
 
 J 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, began 
 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 saj-', 
 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 labour did not cease ; unless when all 
 Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk. 
 Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes. 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their 
 
 meal 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
 And his old Father both betook themselves 
 To such convenient work as might employ 
 Their hands by the fire-side ; perhaps to card 
 Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe. 
 Or other implement of house or field. 
 
 Dovvn from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, 
 That in our ancient uncouth country style 
 Did with a huge projection overbrow 
 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 sat. 
 
 Father and Son, while late 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 neighbourhood. 
 
 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 
 Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all — 
 Than that a child, more than all other gifts. 
 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 oftentimes 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
 Had done him female service, not alone 
 For pastime and deliglit, as is the use 
 Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
 To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
 His cradle 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 
 Had work by his own door, or when he sat 
 With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, 
 Beneath that large old Oak, which near their doo^ 
 Stood,— and, from its enormous breadth of shade 
 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
 The Clipping Tree^, 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 
 Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff", 
 And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt 
 He as a 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 hinderance 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 
 
 * Clipping is the word used in the North of England 
 for shearing. 
 
 / 
 
33 
 
 I*OEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Were as comprinions, why should I re\ut2 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved hefore 
 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 liis eighteenth 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 1 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 presl upon him, — and old Miciiael now 
 Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 
 A grievous penalty, but little less 
 Than half Jiis substance. This unlooked-for claim, 
 At the tarst hearing, for a moment took 
 More hope out of his life than he supposed 
 That any old man ever could have lost. 
 As soon as he had gathered so much strength 
 That he could look his trouble in the face, 
 It spemq4 that his sole "refuge was to sell 
 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 
 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
 When 1 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 
 May come again to us. If here he stay. 
 What can be done ? Where every one is poor, 
 What can be gained 7" 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 neighbours 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 wonderous rich. 
 And left estates and monies to the poor. 
 And, at his birth-place, 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 wjis glad 
 And thus resumed :—" Well, Isabel ' this scheme ' 
 These two days, has been meat and drink to me! 
 Far more tlian we have lost is left us yet. 
 —We have enougli— 1 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 daya 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
 Things needful for tlie 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 two last 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 
 Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
 
 With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
 And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
 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 neighbours 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 designed 
 To build a Sheep-fold ; 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 Streamlet'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 wcrt 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 ; 'iwill do thee good 
 When thou art from me, even if I should speak 
 
 Of things thou canst not know of. After thou 
 
 First camest into the world— as oft befalls 
 To new-born intanls — 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 
 
POfiMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 *I'han when I heard thee by our own fireside 
 First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 
 When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thj^ joy 
 Bing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, 
 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 1 mysej^ 
 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. 
 Ij_wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived. 
 But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 
 And see. so little gafti from threescore years. 
 These fields were burthened when they came to me; 
 Tih 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 shouldst 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 w^ere resigned to thee : 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 All works w^hich I was wont to do alone," 
 Before 1 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 couldst 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 
 Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 
 Who, bping innocent, did for that cause 
 Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well- 
 When thou returnest, thou in this place wilt see 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 'Twill be between us But, whatever fate 
 
 89 
 
 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 Sheep-fold. 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 Neighbours, as he passed their doors, 
 rame forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 
 That followed him till lie 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 wonderous news. 
 Which, as the Housewife 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 Sheep-fold. 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 brepk 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 w^ent, and still looked up towards the sun, 
 And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 
 Performed all kinds of labour 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 lieart 
 For the Old Man — and 'tis believed by all 
 That many and many a day he thither went, 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 
 There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen 
 Sitting alone, with that 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 sheep-fold wrought, 
 Ai;d left the work unfinished when he died. 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
 Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 
 Was sold, and went into a Stranger's hand. 
 The Cottage which was named the Evening Star 
 Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the ground 
 On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 
 In all the neighbourhood : — yet the Oak is left 
 That grew beside their Door ; and the remains 
 Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
 Beside the boisterouB brook of Greeu-head Ghyll. 
 
40 
 
 THE WAGGONER. 
 
 TO 
 
 CHARLES LAMB, ESa. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of 
 Peter Bell, you asked "why The 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 little Piece could 
 not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 
 1806, if I am not mistaken, The Waggoner was read 
 to you in manuscript ; and, as you have remembered it 
 for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, 
 that, since the localities on which it partly depends did 
 not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove 
 acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure 
 the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me 
 the gratification of inscribing it to you ; in acknowledg- 
 ment of the pleasure 1 have derived from your Writings, 
 and of the high esteem with which I am 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Hydal Mount, May 20, 1819. 
 
 THE WAGGONER. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 'Tis spent — this burning day of June ! 
 
 Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing ; 
 
 The dor-hawk, solitary bird. 
 
 Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling, 
 
 Buzzes incessantly, a tiresome tune ; 
 
 That constant voice is all that can be heard 
 
 In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon I 
 
 Confiding Glow-worms ! 'tis 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 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 ; 
 The mountains rise to wondrous height, 
 And in the heavens there hangs a weight; 
 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 
 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 lov/er ground. 
 And up the craggy hill ascending 
 Many a stop and stay he makes, 
 Many a brcatldng-fit he takes ;— 
 Steep the way and wearisome, 
 ypt all the while liis whip is dumb ! 
 
 The Horses have worked with right good-will, 
 And now have gained the top of the hill, 
 He was patient— they were strong— 
 And now they smoothly glide along. 
 Gathering 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 1 
 Or for some other danger nigh 1 
 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-BOUGIi 
 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 harbours 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 1 
 
 Here is no danger, — none at all I 
 Beyond his wish i3 he secure ; 
 But pass a mile— and then 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 falf 
 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 full well 
 Is known, and by as strong a spell 
 As used to be that sign of love 
 And hope — the Olivk-bough and Dovk ; 
 He knows it to his cost, good Man ! 
 Who does not know the famous Swan? 
 Uncouth although the object be, 
 An image of perplexity ; 
 Yet not the less it is our boast, 
 For it was painted by the Host ; 
 His own conceit the figure planned, 
 'T was coloured 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 Dunm ail- 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 ; 
 
 * This rude piece of self-taught art (such is the 
 progress of refinement) has been supplanted by a 
 piulessional production. 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 41 
 
 'xheir efforts aiul their time they measure > 
 
 By generous pride wilbiu the breast ; 
 And, while tliey strain, and while ihey rest, 
 He thus pursues liis thoughts at leisure. 
 
 Now am 1 fairly safe to-night — 
 And never was my heart more light, 
 I trespassed lately worse than ever — 
 But Heaven will bless a good endeavour ; 
 And, to my soul's delight, I find 
 The evil One is left behind. 
 Yes, let my "master fume and fret, 
 Here am I — with my Horses yet I 
 My jolly Team, he finds that ye 
 Will work for nobody but mel 
 Good proof of this the. country gained, 
 One day, when ye were vexed and strained- 
 lEntrusted to another's care. 
 And forced unworthy stripes to bear. 
 Here was it — on this rugged spot 
 Which now, contented with our lot, 
 We climb — that, piteously abused, j 
 Ye plunged in anger and confused : 
 As chapxe vv'ould have it, passing by 
 I saw you in your jeopardy : 
 A word from me was like a charm — 
 The ranks were taken with one mind ! 
 And your liuge burthen, safe from harm, 
 Moved like a vessel in the wind ! 
 — Yes, v.'ithout me, up hills so high 
 ""Tis vain to strive for mastery. 
 Then grieve not, jolly Team ! though tough 
 The road we travel, stepp aid rough, 
 Tliough Rydal-hciglits and Dunmaii-raise, 
 And all their fellow Banks and Braes, 
 Full often make you stretch and strain. 
 Anil halt for breath and halt again, 
 Yet to their sturdiness 'tis owing 
 That side by side we still are going I 
 
 Wiiile 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 intern of sou! ; 
 The air was now without a breath — 
 He marked not that 'twas still as death. 
 But soon large drops upon his head 
 Fell with the weight of drops of lead ;-^ 
 He starts — and, at the admonition, 
 Takes a survey of his condition. 
 The rond is black before his eyes, 
 Glimmering faintly where it lies ; 
 Black is the sky — and every hill, 
 Up to the sky, is blacker still — 
 A huge and melancholy room. 
 Hung round and overhung with gloom 1 
 Save that above a single height 
 Is to be seen a lurid light, 
 Above Helm-crag* — 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, 
 Puzzling on high his curious wits ; 
 He whose domain is held in common 
 With no one but the ancient woman, 
 Cowering beside her-^-ifted cell ; 
 As if intent on magic spell ; — 
 
 * A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit of 
 which presents two figures, full as distinctly shaped as 
 that of the famous Cobbler, near Arroquliar iij iScot- 
 land. 
 
 G 
 
 Dread pair, that, epite of wind and weather, 
 
 Still sit upon Helm-crag together ! 
 
 The AsTROLoisER was not unseen 
 By solitary Benjamin : 
 But total darkness came anon, 
 And he and every thing was gone, 
 And suddenly a rufiling breeze, 
 (That would have sounded through the trees 
 Had aught of sylvan growth been there) 
 Was felt throughout the region 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 
 By peals of thunder, clap on clap ! 
 And many a terror-strikmg flash ; — ^ 
 And somewheVe, as it seems, a crash, 
 Among the rocks ; with weight of rain, 
 And sullen motions long and slow. 
 That to a dreary distance go- 
 Till, breaking in upon the dying strain, 
 A rending o'er his head bc^'lns 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 ; 
 He who had once supreme command, 
 Last king of rocky Cumberland ; 
 His bones, and those of all his Power, 
 Slain here in a disastrous hour I 
 
 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: — " Whoe'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. 
 
 The voice, to move commiseration, 
 Prolonged its earnest supplication — 
 " This storm that beats so furiously — 
 This dreadful place ! oh pity me!" 
 
 While this was said, with sobs between, 
 And many tears by one unseen ; 
 There came a flash— a startling glare, 
 And all Seat-Sandal ;^was laid bare I 
 'Tis not a time for nice suggestion. 
 And Benjamin, without further question, 
 Taking her for some way-worn rover. 
 Said, " Mount, and get you under cover I" 
 
 Another voice, in tone as hoarse 
 As a swoln brook with rugged course. 
 Cried out, " Good brother why so fast ? 
 I've had a ghmpse of you— aua^^ / 
 Or, since it suits you to be civil. 
 Take her at once— for good and evil I" 
 
 " 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 lo her breast 
 With thankfulness the Mother pressed 
 
42 
 
 THE WAGGONElt. 
 
 And now the same strong voice more near 
 Said cordially, " My Fiiend, what cheer 1 
 Rough doings these ! as God's my judge. 
 The sky owes somebody a grudge I 
 We've had in half an hour or lens 
 A twelvemonth's terror and distress I" 
 
 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, wliate'er betide, 
 My Ass and fifty things beside, — 
 Go, and I'll follow speedily !" 
 
 The Waggon moves — and with its load 
 Descends along the sloping road ; 
 And to a little tent hard by 
 Turns the Sailor instantly ; 
 For when at closing-in of day, 
 The Family had come that way. 
 Green pasture and the soft warm air 
 Had tempted ihem to settle there. — 
 Green is the grass for beast to graze, 
 Around the stones of Dunm ail-raise I 
 
 The Sailor-gathers up his bed. 
 Takes down the canvass overhead ; 
 And, after farewell to the place, 
 A parting word — though not of grace, 
 Pursues, with Ass and all his store, 
 The way the Waggon went before. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 If Wytheburn's modest House of Prayer, 
 
 As lowly as the lowliest Dwelling, 
 
 Had, with its belfry's humble stock, 
 
 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 an easy mind ; 
 
 While he, who had been left behind, 
 
 Intent to use his utmost haste, 
 
 Gained ground upon the Waggon 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 Cuerry Tree ! 
 
 Thunce 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. 
 He hears a sound and sees the light. 
 And in a moment calls to mind 
 That 'tis the village Merry-niqiit !* 
 
 Although before in no dejection. 
 At this insidious recollection 
 His heart with sudden joy is filled,— 
 His ears are by the music tlirilled, 
 His eyes take pleasure in the road 
 Glittering before him bright and broad • 
 
 * A term well known in the North of England, and 
 applied to rural Festivals where young persons meet 
 in the evening for the purpose of dancing. 
 
 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 cliance 
 That blew us hither ! Let him dance 
 Who can or vAW ; — 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 ia me I 
 Gave the word, — the horses heard 
 And halted though reluctantly. 
 
 " Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have wff, 
 Feasting at the Cherry Tree 1" 
 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 I 
 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! 
 'Tis who can dance with greatest vigour— 
 'Tis 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 I 
 
 A 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 1 
 To seek for thoughts of painful cast, 
 If such be the amends at last. 
 Now should you think 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 ^^^th Benjamin is gone — 
 A Ca-sar 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 
 Deems that she is happier, laid 
 AVithin that warm and peaceful bed ; 
 
 Under cover, 
 
 Terror over, 
 Sleeping by her sleeping Babjr. 
 
 With bowl in hand, 
 (It may not stand) 
 Gladdest of the gladsome band, 
 Amid their own delight and fun. 
 They hear — when every dance is done— 
 They hear — when every fit is o'er — 
 The fiddle's squeak* — that call to bliss, 
 Ever followed by a kiss ; 
 They envy not the happy lot, 
 Bui enjoy their own the more I 
 
 While thus our jocund Travellers fare, 
 Up springs the Sailor from his chair- 
 Limps (for I might have told before 
 That he was lame) across the floor- 
 Is gone— returns— and with a prize ; 
 
 * At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular 
 note from the fiddle summons the Rustic to the agieea 
 ble duty of saluting his Partner. 
 
fj 
 
 tlTE WAGGONER. 
 
 43 
 
 With what?— a Ship of lusty siaie ; 
 A gallant stately Wan of War, 
 Fixed on a smoothly-gliding 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— 
 t?tand back, and you shall see her gratis 1 
 This was the Flag-Ship at the Nile, 
 The Vanguard— you may smirk and smile, 
 But, pretty Maid, if you look near, 
 You'll find you've much in little here ! 
 A nobler Ship did never swim, 
 And you shall see her in full trim: 
 I'll set, my Friends, to do you honour, 
 f3et 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 — " 'Ti« 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, 
 Burnt like a fire among his men ; 
 Let this be Land, and that be Sea, 
 Here lay the French — and thua came we!" 
 
 Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound. 
 The Dancers all were gathered round, 
 And, such the stillness of the house, 
 You mighi 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 wondrous 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 Ber»jamin had seized the bowl. 
 The Mastiff, from beneatli the waggon, 
 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 tlie battered Tar forget, 
 Or flinch frons 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 liours' 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, these 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 tney know (and let it hide. 
 In part, the offences of their Guide) 
 
 That Benjamin, with clouded braing, 
 
 Is worth the best with all their pains; 
 
 And, if they had a prayer to make. 
 
 The prayer would be that they may take 
 
 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 liigher still — a greedy flight ! 
 Can any low-born care pursue her, 
 Can any mortal clog coine 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 — 
 O fancy — what a jubilee ! 
 What shifting pictures — clad in gleams 
 Of colour 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 liearts ! 
 Whdt 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 Waggon, 
 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 Waggon's skirts was tied 
 The Creature, by the Mastiff's side, 
 (The Mastiff not well pleased to be 
 So very near such company.) 
 This new arrangement made, the Wain 
 Through the still night proceeds again ; 
 No Moon hath risen her light to lend ; 
 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 f have the steering — this, 
 Seen fairly, is not muc:i 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 furiows blast; 
 Hard passage forcing on, with head 
 Against the storm, and canvass spread. 
 I Ijate a boaster — but to thee 
 Will say't, who knowest both land and .?ea, 
 The unluckiest Hulk that sails the brine 
 Is hardly worse beset than mine, 
 
u 
 
 THE WAGGONEK. 
 
 When cross windg on lier quarter beat; 
 And, fairly lifted from my feet, 
 1 stagger onward — Fleaven 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 niglit and day 
 Grinding through rough and smootli our way, 
 Througli foul and lair our task fulfilling; 
 And long shall be so yet— Cod willing !" 
 
 " Ay," said f he Tar, " through fair and foul — 
 But save us from yon screeching Owl !" 
 That instant wns begun a fray 
 Which called tbeir thoughts another way : 
 The Mastiff, ill-condi(if)ncd carl! 
 What mu!?t he do but growl and snarl, 
 Still more and more dissatisfied 
 With the meek cunnade 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," fays the Sailor, turning 
 Back to his former cause of mourning, 
 " Yon Owl ! — pray God that all be well ! 
 Tis worse than any funeral bell ; 
 As sure as I've the gift of sight. 
 We shall be meeting Ghosts to-night!" 
 — Said Henjamin, " 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 
 On the banks of Windermere ; 
 Where a tribe of them make meiry. 
 Mocking the Man that keeps the Ferry ; 
 Hallooing from an open tiiroat. 
 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 in the height of his enjoyment I" 
 
 This explanation stilled the alarm, 
 Cured the foreboder Jike a charm ; 
 Tljis, 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 ; 
 Tie wheeled — and, making many stops, 
 Brandished his crutch against the mountain 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 woen, was never seen 
 Jn bloodiest battle since the days of Mars ! 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 
 Thus they, with freaks of proud deliglit. 
 
 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 Waggon's side, 
 And wander down yon hawthorn dell, 
 With murmuring Greta for her guide. 
 — There doth she ken the awful forra 
 Of Raven-crag— black as a storm- 
 Glimmering through the twilight pale ; 
 And Gimmer-crag*, Ins tall twin brother, 
 Each peering forth to meet the other: — 
 And, while slie 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 favoured glance, 
 Beholds the Faeries in array. 
 Whose party-coloured garments gay 
 The silent company betray ; 
 Red, gieen, and blue; a moment's sight I 
 For Skiddaw-top with rosy light 
 Is touched — and all the band take flight. 
 — Fly also. Muse I 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, 
 Lurkiiig in a double shade. 
 By trees and lingering twilight made I 
 There, at Elencathara's ruggied 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, 
 F-t'om east to Avest, in aniple vest 
 Of mass}'' gloom and radiance bold. 
 
 The mists, that o'er the Streamlet's bed 
 Plung low, begin to rise and spread ; 
 Even while I speak, their skirts of grey 
 Are smitten by a silver ray; 
 And lo : — up Castrigg's naked steep 
 (Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweep 
 Along — and scatter and divide, 
 Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied) 
 The stately Waggon is ascending, 
 With faithfifl Benjamin attending. 
 Apparent now beside his team — 
 Now lost amid a glittering steam. 
 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. 
 
 They are drooping, weak, and dull ; 
 But the horses stretch and pull ; 
 With increasing vigour climb. 
 Eager to repair lost time; 
 Whether, by their own desert, 
 Knowing there is cause for shame, 
 They are labouring to avert 
 At least a portion of the blame. 
 Which full surely will alight 
 Upon Ms head, whom, in despite 
 Of all his faults, they love the best; 
 Whether for him they are distrest ; 
 Or, by length of fasting roused, 
 
 * The crag of the ewe lamb. 
 
 i 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 45 
 
 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 I 
 
 And the smoke and respiration 
 
 Rising like an exhalation, 
 
 Blends with the mist — a moving shroud, 
 
 To form — an undissolving cloud ; 
 
 Which, with slant ray, the merry sun 
 
 Takes delight to play upon. 
 
 Never Venus or Apollo, 
 
 Pleased a favourite chief to follow 
 
 Through accidents of peace or war, 
 
 In a time of peril threw. 
 
 Round the object of his care, 
 
 Veil of such celestial hue ; 
 
 Interposed so bright a screen 
 
 Him and his enemies between ! 
 
 Alas ! what boots it 1 — 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 ! 
 Benjamin, this outward glory 
 Cannot shield thee from thy INIaster, 
 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. 
 Or to hear what thou canst say ; 
 If, as needs he must forebode. 
 Thou hast loitered on the road ! 
 His doubts — his fears inny now take flight — 
 The wished-for object is in sight ; 
 Yet, trust the Muse, it raiher iiath 
 Stirred him up to livelier wrath ; 
 Which he stifles, moody mani 
 With all the patience that he can ; 
 To the end that, at your meeting, 
 He may give thee decent greeting. 
 
 There he is — resolved to stop, 
 Till the Waggon 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 hfted 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 7 
 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 Ma8tiff''s side, 
 Tethered to the Waggon'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 arbour, 
 Find, within, a blessed harbour 1 
 
 With eager eyes the Master pries ; 
 Looks in and out— and through and through ; 
 Says nothing — till at last he spies 
 A wound upon the Mastitf's head, 
 A wound — where plainly might be read 
 What feats an Ass's hoof can do I 
 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-heaited. 
 Was from his team and Waggon parted ; 
 When duty of that day was o'er. 
 Laid down his whip— and served no more. — 
 Nor could the Waggon long survive 
 Which Benjamin had ceased to drive : 
 It lingered on ;— Guide after Guide 
 Ambitiously the ofiice 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 I 
 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, through many a long year's space, 
 A living Almanack had wc ; 
 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 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 siirred, 
 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, 
 
m 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 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 window — one by one — 
 
 ?ee, 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 ; 
 Men, 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 have lost ; 
 Am grieved for that unhappy sin 
 Which robbed us of good Benjamin ; — 
 And of his stalely Charge, which none 
 Could keep alive when he was gone ! 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 A MORNING EXERCISE. 
 
 f A.NCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad, 
 Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw; 
 Sending sad shadows after things not «ad. 
 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 favourite strain — 
 Tu-whit— Tu-whoo ! the unsuspecting fowl 
 Forebodes mishap, or seems but to complain ; 
 Fancy, intent to harass and annoy, 
 iCan thus pervert the evidence of joy. 
 
 Through border wilds where naked Indians stray. 
 Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill; 
 A feathered Task-master cries, " Work away!" 
 And, in thy iteration, " Whip poor Will*," 
 Is heard the Spirit of a toil-worn Slave, 
 Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave ! 
 
 What wonder? at her bidding, ancient laj-^s 
 Steeped in dire griefs the voice of Philomel ; 
 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 ! — Supremely 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, 
 Leavest to the wandering Bird of Paradise. 
 
 Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek Dove ; 
 Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee ; 
 ^o constant with thy downward eye of love, 
 Yet, in aerial singleness, so free ; 
 go humble, yet so ready to rejoice 
 In power of wing and never-wearied voice ! 
 
 How would it please old Ocean to partake. 
 With Sailors longing for a breeze in vain. 
 The harmony that thou best lovest to mak© 
 Where earth resembles most his blank domain! 
 Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear 
 These matins mounting towards her native sphere. 
 
 * See Waterton'a Wanderings in South America 
 
 Chanter by Heaven attracted, whom no bars 
 To day-light known deter from that pursuit, 
 Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars 
 Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute; 
 For not an eyehd could to sleep incline 
 Wert thou among them singing as they shine! 
 
 II. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 " Her* divine skill taught me this, 
 That from every thing 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. WiTHKRS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 When Winter decks his few grey liairs, 
 Thee in the scanty wreath he wears; 
 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 greetest the Traveller in the lane ; 
 If welcome once thou countest it gain;' 
 
 Thou art not daunted, 
 Nor carest if thou be set at nought: 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 Be Violets in their secret mews 
 The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose- 
 Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews 
 Her head impearlinff- 
 
 * His muse. 
 
■^SF 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 47 
 
 Thou livest with less ambitious aim, 
 Yet iiast not gone without thy fame ; 
 Tliou 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. 
 
 [f stately passions in me burn. 
 
 And one chance look to Tliee 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. 
 
 When, smitten by the morning ray, 
 
 I see thee rise, 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 >et, 
 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. 
 
 Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
 Thy course, bold lover of the sun, 
 And cheerful when the day's begun 
 
 As morning Leveret, 
 Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain ; 
 Dear shalt thou be to future men 
 As in old time; — thou not in vain 
 
 Art Nature's favourite. 
 
 III. 
 
 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 
 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 — 
 
 * See, in Ciiaucer and the elder Poets, the honours 
 formerly paid to this flower. 
 
 Yet here, and there, and every where 
 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET. 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that slied 
 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 Floweraf,- 
 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, 
 
 Thyaelf thy own enjoyment. 
 
 Upon 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 wing* 
 rjpon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings,^ 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 My dazzled sight the Bird 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. 
 
 V. 
 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 THE PARROT AND THB WREN. 
 I. 
 
 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 vie» 
 Her finely-curved bill. 
 
 Her plumy Mantle's living hues 
 In mass opposed to mass, 
 
•# 
 
 48 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 Outshine the splendour that imbues 
 The robes of pictured glass. 
 
 And, sooth to sa}', an apter Mate 
 Did never tempt the choice 
 Of feathered Thing most delic^tfl 
 In figure and in voice. 
 
 But, exiled from Australian Cowers, 
 And singleness her lot, 
 She trills her song with tutored powers, 
 Or mocks each casual note. 
 
 No more of pily for regrets 
 With which she may have striven ! 
 Now but in wantonness she frets, 
 Or spile, if cause be given ; 
 
 Arch, volatile, a sportive Bird 
 By social glee inspired ; 
 Ambitious to be seen or lieard, 
 And pleased to be admired I 
 
 II. 
 
 This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry, 
 Harbours 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 iier feathery breast. 
 
 To the bleak winds she sometimes gives 
 
 A slender unexpected strain ; 
 
 That tells the IJermitesa 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 favoured 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 messy Shed 1 
 
 VI. 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDfNE.* 
 
 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, 
 'Tis 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'll make a stir, 
 Like a great 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 
 'Twas 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 
 
 * Common Pilewort. 
 
 Has a thought about her tiest, 
 Thou wilt come with half a cill,- 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 Like a careless Prodigal ; 
 Telling tales about the sun, 
 When we've little wa»-mth, or none.. 
 
 Poets, vain men in their mood I 
 Travel with the multitude: 
 Never heed them ; I aver 
 TJjat they all are wanton Wooers,' 
 But the thrifty Cottager, 
 Who stirs little out of doorgf, 
 Joys to spy thee near her home; 
 Spring is coming. Thou art come I 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 Kindly, unassuming Spirit I 
 Careless of thy neighbourhood. 
 Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
 On the moor, and in the wood, 
 In the lane — there's not a placey 
 Howsoever mean it be. 
 But 'tis good enough for thee. 
 
 -'^■^ 
 
 III befall the yellow flowers, 
 Children of the flaring hours f 
 Buttercups, that will be seen, 
 Whether we will see or no ; 
 Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
 They have done as worldings doV 
 Taken praise that should be thine, 
 Little, humble Celandine I 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth. 
 Scorned and slighted upon eart!r; 
 Herald of a mighty band. 
 Of a joyous train ensuing, 
 Singing at my heart's command, 
 In the lanes my thoughts pursuing, 
 I will sing, as doth behove, 
 Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 i 
 All unheard of as thou art, 
 Thou must r>eeds, I think, have had^ 
 Celandine ! and long ago, 
 Praise of which I nothing know. 
 
 1 have not a doubt but ire,- 
 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 risen sun he painted'j 
 Took the fancy from a glance 
 At thy glittering countenance. 
 
 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 I 
 With the proudest thou art there, 
 Mantling in the tiny square. 
 
 Often have I sighed to measure 
 By myself a lonely pleasure, 
 Sighed to think, I read a book 
 Only read, perhaps, by me ; 
 
POEMS. OP THE FANCY. 
 
 Yet I long could overlook 
 'Thy bright coronet and Thee, 
 And thy arch and wily ways, 
 And thy store of other praise. 
 
 Blithe of heart, from week to week 
 Thou dost play at hide-and-seek ; 
 While the patient Primrose sits 
 Like a Beggar in the cold, 
 Thou, a flower of wiser wits, 
 Slippest into thy sheltering hold ; 
 Bright as any of the train 
 When ye all are out again, 
 
 Thou art not beyond the moon, 
 But a thing "beneath our shoon:" 
 Let the bold Adventurer thrid 
 In his bark the polar sea ; 
 Eear who will a pyramid ; 
 Praise it is enough for me, 
 If there be but three or four 
 Who will love my little Flower. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 
 
 " Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,'' 
 
 Exclaimed a thundering Voice, 
 
 *' Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 
 
 Between me and my choice !" 
 
 A small Cascade fresh swoln v/ith 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 1 
 
 Off, off! or, puny Thing! 
 
 I'll 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 t 
 
 We who in this sequestered spot 
 
 Once lived a happy life ! 
 
 You stirred me on my rocky bed — 
 
 What pleasure through my veins you spread! 
 
 The Summer long, from day to day. 
 
 My leaves you freshened and bedewed ; 
 
 Nor was it common gratitude 
 
 That did your cares repay. 
 
 *' 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 ornnrnont'^ to me arf loft-^ 
 
 7 
 
 Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
 With v/hich I, in my humble way, 
 Would deck you many a winter's day, 
 A happy Eglantine !" 
 
 What more he said I cannot tell. 
 The Torrent thundered down the dell 
 With aggravated haste; 
 I listened, nor aught else could hear ; 
 The Briar quaked— and much I fear 
 Those accents were his last. 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
 
 A PASTORAL, 
 
 His simple truths did Andrew glean 
 
 Beside the babbling rills; 
 
 A careful student he had been 
 
 Among the wooda and hills. 
 
 One winter's night, when through the trcea 
 
 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, 
 
 Hrs neighbour thus addressed : — 
 
 ' Eight weary v/eeks, through rock and clay,- 
 
 Along this mountain's edge. 
 
 The Frost hath wrought both night and day 
 
 Wedge driving after wedge. 
 
 Look up ! and think, above your head 
 
 What trouble, surely, will be bred ; 
 
 Last night 1 heard a crash — 'tis true, 
 
 The splinters took another road — 
 
 I see them yonder — what a load 
 
 For such a Thing as you I 
 
 You are preparing, as before, 
 
 To deck your slender'* hape; 
 
 And yet, just three years back — no more— 
 
 You had a strange escape. 
 
 Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; 
 
 It thundered down, with fire and smoke, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 The Thing had better been asleep, 
 
 Whatever thing it were. 
 
 Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep, 
 
 That first did plant you there. 
 
 For you and your green twigs decoy 
 
 The little witless Shepherd boy 
 
 To come and slumber in your bower ; 
 
 And, trust me, on some sultry noon. 
 
 Both you and he. Heaven knows how soon I 
 
 Will perish in one hour. 
 
 From me this friendly warning take'—- 
 
 The Broom began to doze. 
 
 And thus, to keep herself awake, 
 
 Did gently interpose: 
 
 ' My thanks for your discourse are due ; 
 
50 
 
 POEMS OP TKE FANCY. 
 
 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. 
 
 Disastsrs, 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 slmuld I wish to roam 7 
 
 This spot is my paternal home. 
 
 It is my pleasant heritage ; 
 
 My Father many a happy year, 
 
 Here spread his careless blossoms, hero 
 
 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 
 
 In truth a favoured plant ! 
 
 On me such bounty Summer pours, 
 
 Tiiat I am covered o'er with flowers; 
 
 And, when the Frost is in thf skj'^, 
 
 My branches are so fresh and gay 
 
 That you miglit look at me and say, 
 
 This riant can never die. 
 
 The Butterfly, all green and gold, 
 
 To me hath often flown. 
 
 Here in my Jiiossoms to behold 
 
 Wings lovely as his own. 
 
 When grass is chill with rain or dew, 
 
 Beneath my shade, the mother Ewe 
 
 Lies with her infant Lamb ; I see 
 
 The love they to each other make, 
 
 And the sweet joy, which they partake, 
 
 It 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 
 Tljeir 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. 
 
 One night, my Children ! from the North 
 
 There came a furious blast; 
 
 At break of day I ventured forth, 
 
 And near the Clilfl 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 hve for many a day." 
 
 X. 
 SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL. 
 
 FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE 
 PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND. 
 
 Swiftly turn the mrumuring 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 (he stairy sky, 
 Couch the widely-scattered sheep •— 
 
 Ply the pleasant labour, 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. 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE REDBREAST AND BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best. 
 The pious Bird with the scarlet breast, 
 
 Otu- little English Robin ; 
 The Bird that comes about our doors 
 When Autumn winds are sobbing? 
 Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors 1- 
 
 Their Thomas in Finland, 
 
 And Russia far inland ? 
 The Bird, who by some name or other 
 All men who know thee call their Brother, 
 The Darling of Children and men ? 
 Could Father Adam* open his eyes 
 And see this sight beneath the skies, 
 He'd wish to close them again. 
 
 If the Buttei-fly 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 ;j 
 Can this be the Bird, to man so good, 
 That, after their bewildering, 
 Covered with leaves the little children, 
 So painfully in the wood 1 
 
 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 ; 
 'Tis all that he wishea 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: 
 If thou would'st be happy in thy nest, 
 O pious Bird ! whom man loves best, 
 Love him or leave him alone I 
 
 XH. 
 
 THE KITTEN. 
 
 AND 
 
 THE FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 That way look, my Infant, lo ! 
 V\^hat a pretty baby show ! 
 See the Kitten on the Wall, 
 Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
 Withered leaves— one— two— and three— 
 From the lofty Elder-tree ! 
 Through the calm and frosty air 
 Of this morning bright and fair, 
 
 nut f.% P^^f tlis'5 Lost, Book XI. where Adam points 
 VilJ^^/^ ^ ominous sign of the Eagle chasing '' two 
 
 m rsm?. hl^^f^- P'""'^'" ^"^ ^^'^ S^'^^le Hart and Hind 
 puisueu Dy their enemy. 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 M 
 
 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, 
 la his wavering parachute. 
 
 But the Kitten, how she starts, 
 
 Crouches, stretches, paws, 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 inlenseness 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 : 
 
 JNTow she works with three or four, 
 
 liike an Indian Conjuror ; 
 
 Quick as he in fe?ts 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 little Tabby care 
 
 For the plaudits of the Crowd 1 
 
 Ov^er happy to be proud, 
 
 Over wealthy in the treasure 
 
 Of her own exceeding pleasure I 
 
 'Tis a pretty Baby-treat ; 
 Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ; 
 Here, for neither Babe nor me, 
 Other Play-mate 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 murmuringg 
 JNLide 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 neighbourhood ; 
 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 colours bright, 
 Who was blest as bird could be, 
 Feeding in the apple-tree ; 
 Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
 Turning blossoms inside out; 
 Plung with head towards the 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 neighbouring Rill, 
 That from out the rocky ground 
 Strikes a solitary sound. 
 
 Vainly glitters hill and plain, 
 And the air is calm in vain ; 
 Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
 Of a sky serene and pure ; 
 Creature none can she decoy 
 Into open sign of joy : 
 Is it that they have a fear 
 Of the dreary season near 1 
 Or that other pleasures be 
 Sweeter even than gaiety ? 
 
 Yet, whale'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 Laura'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 ecstacy ; 
 I would fare like that or this. 
 Find my wisdom in my blissj 
 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 grief, 
 To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 
 
 Xtll. 
 
 A FLOWER GARDEN, 
 
 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 7 
 
 Say, when the moving Creatures saw 
 All kinds commingled without fear, 
 Prevailed a like indulgent law 
 For the still Growths that prosper here 1 
 Did wanton Fawn and Kid forbear 
 The half-blown Rose, the Lily spare 1 
 
 Or peeped they often from their beds 
 And prematurely disappeared, 
 Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads 
 A bosom to the Sun endeared 1 
 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. 
 
m 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 Yet, where the guardian Fence is wound 
 So subtly is the eye beguiled 
 It sees not nor suspects a Bound, 
 No more than in some forest wild ; 
 Free as the light in semblance — crost 
 Only by art in nature lost. 
 
 And, though the jealous turf refuse 
 By random footsteps to be prest, 
 And feeds on never-sullied dews, 
 Ye, gentle breezes from the West, 
 Witli all the ministers of Hope, 
 Arc templed to this sunny slope I 
 
 And hither throngs of Birds resort ; 
 Some, inmates lodged in shady nests, 
 Some, perched on stems of stately port 
 That nod to welcome transient guesta; 
 While Hare and Leveret, seen at play 
 Appear not more shut out than they. 
 
 Apt emblem (for reproof of 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. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that in the great world be, 
 
 Sweet Daisy ! oft [ 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 case 
 
 I sit, and play with similies. 
 
 Loose types of Things throngh all degrees, 
 
 Tlioughts of thy raising: 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
 As is the humour of the game, 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A Nun demure, of lowly port; 
 
 Or sprighily 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 
 
 ^taring to threaten and defj''. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee ! 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crests 
 Self-poised in air thou seemest to rest ; — 
 May peace come never to his nest, 
 
 Who shall reprove thee 1 
 
 Sweet 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 I 
 
 XV. 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 Bright flower, whose home is every where! 
 
 A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care, 
 
 And oft, 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 ! 
 
 And wherefore? Man is soon deprest; 
 A thoughtless Thing 1 who, once unblest. 
 Does little on his memory rest, 
 
 Or on his reason ; 
 But Thou would'st teach him how to find 
 A shelter under every wind, 
 A hope for times that are unkind 
 
 And every season. 
 
 XVI. 
 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 mto the clouds! 
 
 Singing, singing, 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 
 
 Lift mc, guide me till I find 
 That spot which seems so to thy min^ ! 
 
 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's 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 I. 
 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 I 
 
 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, 
 I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 
 I And hope for higher raptures, when Life's day Is done. 
 
POEMS OP THE FANCY. 
 
 53 
 
 XVII. 
 
 TO A SEXTON. 
 
 liET thy wheel-barrow alone- 
 Wherefore, Sexton, piling still 
 In thy Bone-house bone on bone 1 
 'Tis 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 
 Roses, Lilies, side by side, 
 Violets in families ! 
 By the heart of Man, his tears, 
 By his hopes and by his fears. 
 Thou, old Grey-beard ! art th€ Warden 
 Of a far superior garden. 
 
 Thus then, each to other dear, 
 
 Let them ail in quiet lie, 
 
 Andrew there, and Susan here, 
 
 Neighbours 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 ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 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 humour of a Child 1 
 Or rather of some love-sick Maid, 
 Whose brows, the day that she was styled 
 The Shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed 1 
 Of Man mature, or Matron sage 1 
 Or Old-man toying with his age 1 
 
 I asked — 'twas 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. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 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. 
 
 Clouds that love through air to hasten, 
 Ere the storm its fury stills, 
 Helmel-Iike themselves will fasten 
 0;i the heads of towering liills. 
 
 What, if through the frozen centre 
 Of the Alps the Chamois bound. 
 Yet he has a home to enter 
 In some nook of chosen ground. 
 
 If on windy days the Raven 
 Gambol like a dancing skiff, 
 Not the less she loves her haven 
 In the bosom of the clitF. 
 
 Though the Sea-horse in the Ocean 
 Own no dear domestic cave, 
 Yet he slumbers — by the motion 
 Rocked of many a gentle wave. 
 
 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. 
 
 XX. 
 
 THE SEVEN SISTERS ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. 
 
 Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, 
 All Children of one Mother : 
 I could not say in one short day 
 What love they bore each other, 
 A Garland of Seven Lilies wrought ! 
 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 Cinnorie! 
 
 Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, 
 
 And from the shores of Erin, 
 
 Across the wave, a Rover brave 
 
 To Blnnorie 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 atfright 
 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 1" 
 
54 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! "mournfully, 
 The Sohlude of Binnorie. 
 
 Some close behind, some side by side, 
 
 Like clouds in stormy weather; 
 
 They run, and cry, " Nay, let us die, 
 
 And let us die togetlier." 
 
 A Lake was 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. 
 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 are all buried there, 
 And there together sleep. 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 The Solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill 
 He is the darling and the joy ; 
 And often, when no cause appears, 
 The mountain ponies prick their ears, 
 —They hear tlie Danish Boy, 
 While in the dell he sits alone 
 Beside the tree and corner-stone. 
 
 XXL 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 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 cottage 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; 
 
 He 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 colour like a raven's wing ; 
 
 It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew ; 
 
 But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue 
 
 As budding pines in Spring ; 
 
 His helmet has a vernal grace. 
 
 Fresh as the bloom upon his face. 
 
 A harp is from his shoulder slung ; 
 He rests the harp upon his knee ; 
 And there, in a forgotten tongue. 
 He warbles melody. 
 
 * These Stanzas were designed to introduce'a Ballad 
 upon the Story of a Danish Prince who had fled from 
 Battle, and, for the sake of the valuables about Inm, 
 was murdered by the Inliabitant of a Cottage in wliicli 
 he had taken refuge. The House fell under a curse, 
 and the Spirit of the Youth, it was believed, haunted 
 the Valley where the criiue had been committed. 
 
 There sits he : in his face you spy 
 
 No trace of a ferocious air, 
 
 Nor ever was a cloudless sky 
 
 So steady or so fair. 
 
 The lovely Danish Boy is blest 
 
 And happy in his flowery cove : 
 
 From bloody deeds his thoughts are far ; 
 
 And yet he warbles songs of war. 
 
 That seem like songs of love, 
 
 For calm and gentle is his mien ; 
 
 Like a dead Boy he is serene. 
 
 XXIL 
 
 THE 
 
 PILGRIM'S DREAM ; 
 
 OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM. 
 
 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 spumed ; 
 
 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 neighbouring stream 
 
 Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, 
 
 A pregnant dream, witliin whose shadowy bounds 
 
 He recognised 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 humbler 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 tapei 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 shiink'st as momently thy rays 
 Are mastered by the breathing" haze ; 
 While neither mibt, 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 I 
 
 Yet, thus upbraided, I may show 
 
 What favours do attend me here. 
 
 Till, like thyself, I disappear 
 
 Before the purple dawn." 
 
FOEMS OP THE FANCY. 
 
 55 
 
 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. 
 
 XXlir. 
 HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS. 
 
 •' Who but hails the sight with pleasure 
 When the wings of 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 !" — 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 "Stranger, 'tis 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; 
 
 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 endeavouring !'^ 
 
 XXTV. 
 STRAY PLEASURES. 
 
 •' — Pleasure is spread through the earth 
 
 In stray gifts to he claimed hy whoever shall find. 
 
 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 all; 
 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 whatever is given ; — 
 And many a blithe day they have past. 
 
 In sight of the Spires, 
 
 All 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. 
 
 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? 'tis 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 neighbour will kiss ; 
 
 Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother ; 
 
 They are happy, for that is their right ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 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 'ips are sent. 
 
 That mimickry 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, 
 
 Like station 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 1 
 
 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 word?) 
 
^6 
 
 POEMS ON Tnm NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 XXVL 
 ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, 
 
 {)N BEINa REMINDED, THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD, 
 ON THAT DAY. 
 
 -Hast thou then survived, 
 
 Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, 
 
 Meek Lifant ! among all forlornest things 
 
 'I'he most forlorn, one life of that bright Star, 
 
 The second glory of the heavens 7— 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 proceed, 
 
 A thousand years are but as yesterday ; 
 
 And one day's narrow circuit is to him 
 
 Not less capacious than a thousand 5^ears. 
 
 But what is time 1 What outward glory 1 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 lime 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 ivith thee.-— Mother's lor^y 
 
 Nor less than Mother's love in other breasts. 
 
 Will, among us 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 solemnise thy helpless state, 
 
 And to enliven in the mind's regard 
 
 Thy passive beauty— parallels have risen, 
 
 Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, 
 
 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,j 
 
 Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clondff, 
 
 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 fillest 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 sufiice thee ; and it seems that now 
 
 Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine ; 
 
 Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleepest 
 
 In such a heedless peace. Alas I full soon 
 
 Hath this conception, grateful to behold. 
 
 Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er 
 
 By breathing mist ; and thine appears to be 
 
 A mournful labour, while to her is given 
 
 Hope, and renovation without end. 
 
 —That smile forbids the thought ;— for on thy face 
 
 Smiles are beginning, hke the beams of dawn. 
 
 To shoot and circulate ;— smiles have therebeen seen,— 
 
 Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports 
 
 The fpeble 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 1 
 
 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 godJike Power be proud to own; 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 By persons resident in the country and attached to ru 
 ral objects, many places will be found unnamed or 
 of unknown names, where little Incidents must have 
 occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will 
 have given to such places a private and peculiar in- 
 terest. From a wish to give some sort of record to 
 such Incidents, or renew the gratification of such 
 Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the 
 Author and some of his Friends, and the following 
 iPoems written in consequence. 
 
 POEMS 
 
 ON 
 
 THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 I. 
 
 It was an April morning : fresh and clear 
 The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, 
 
 Ran with a young man's speed; 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 circUng, like a multitude of sounds. 
 
 The budding groves appeared as if in haste 
 
 To spur the steps of June; as if their shades 
 
 Of various green were hinderances that stood 
 
 Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile, 
 
 There was such deep contentment in the air. 
 
 That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
 
 Yet leafles, seemed as though 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 couise before. 
 
tOEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 57 
 
 ■Sent Forth such sallies of glad sound, that all 
 
 Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice 
 
 Of common 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 I 
 
 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." , 
 
 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, perhaps, 
 
 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 TO JOANNA. 
 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
 
 The lime of early youth ; and there you learned. 
 
 From years of quiet industry, to love 
 
 The living Beings by your own fire-side. 
 
 With such a strong devotion, that your heart 
 
 Is slow toward the sympathies of them 
 
 Who look upon the hills with tenderness. 
 
 And make dear frierdsnips with the streams and groves 
 
 Yet 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 thenco are 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 neightiour, 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 V he paused ; 
 And, after short exchange 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 betwixt malice and true love, 
 I was not loth to be so catechised. 
 And this was my reply : — " As it befel, 
 One summer morning we had walked abroad 
 At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
 — 'Tvvas 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 
 Which looks toward the East, I there stopped short, 
 And traced the lofty barrier with my eye 
 From base to summit : such delight I found 
 
 8 
 
 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; 
 
 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 Louglirigg heard 
 
 And Fairfield ansv/ered 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 afl!ections old and true, 
 
 I chiselled out in those rude characters 
 
 Joanna's name upon the living stone. 
 
 And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side, 
 
 Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock." 
 
 Note. — In Cumberland and Westmorland are se- 
 veral Inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from 
 the wasting of Time, and the rudeness of the Work- 
 manship, have been mistaken for Runic. They ara 
 without dcubt Roman. 
 
 The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River 
 which, flowing through the lakes of Grasmere and 
 Rydale, falls into Wynander. 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 Fis- 
 sures or Caverns, which in the language of the coun- 
 try are called Dungeons. Most of the Mountains here 
 mentioned immediately surround the Vale of Gras- 
 mere ; of the others, some are at a considerable dis ■ 
 tance, but they belong to the same cluster. 
 
 IIL 
 
 There is an Eminence, — of these our Iiillg 
 
 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 Cliff", 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 favourite haunt; 
 
 The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
 
 In the mid heavens, is never half so fair 
 
 As when he shines above it. 'Tis 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 
 
0S 
 
 fOEMS ON THH KAMINO OF P'LACE*. 
 
 Can ever be a solitude to me, 
 
 Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, 
 A rude and natural causeway, interposed 
 Between the water and a winding slope 
 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 mornitig, ere the mist 
 Elad 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 sudden ; 
 
 In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, 
 
 Making report of an invisible breeze 
 
 That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, 
 
 Jts 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, perchance 
 
 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 Q,ueen Osmunda named ; 
 
 Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode 
 
 On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side 
 
 Of Grecian brook, or Lady of tlie Mere, 
 
 ^ole-sitting by the shores of old Romance. 
 
 — So fared we that bright morning : from the fields. 
 
 Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth 
 
 Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls. 
 
 Delighted much to listen to those sounds. 
 
 And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced 
 
 Along the indented shore ; when suddenly. 
 
 Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen 
 
 Before us, on a point of jutting land. 
 
 The tall and upright figure of a Man 
 
 Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, 
 
 Angling beside the margin of the lake. 
 
 Improvident and reckless, we exclaimed. 
 
 The Man must be, who thus can lose a day 
 
 Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire 
 
 Js ample, and some little might be stored 
 
 Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time. 
 
 Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached 
 
 Close to the spot where with his rod and line 
 
 He stood alone ; whereat he turned his head 
 
 To greet us— and we saw a Man worn down 
 
 By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks 
 
 And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean 
 
 That for my single self I looked at them, 
 
 Forgetful of the body they sustained.— 
 
 Too weak to labour in the harvest field, 
 
 The Man was using his best skill to gain 
 
 A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake 
 
 That knew not of his wants. I will not say 
 
 What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how 
 
 The happy idleness of that sweet morn. 
 
 With all its lovely images, was changed 
 
 To £ipriou8 musing and to self-reproach. 
 
 Nor did we fail to see within curBelreir 
 
 What need there is to be reserved in speetfr. 
 
 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 p'pr by M;iriner was given to Bay 
 
 Oj Foreland, on a new-discovered coast ; 
 
 And Point Rash-Judgment ia the Name it bears. 
 
 y. 
 
 TO M. H. 
 
 Our walk was far among the ancient trees ; 
 
 There was no road, nor any woodman's path • 
 
 But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growtb 
 
 Of 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 boih flocks and herds might drii^i 
 
 On its firm margin, even as from a Well, 
 
 Or some Stone-basin which the Herdsman'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 'twill remain 
 
 Unknown to them : but it is beautiful ; 
 
 And if a man should plant his cottage near, 
 
 Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, 
 
 And blend its waters with his daily meal. 
 
 He would so love it, that in his death hour 
 
 Its image would sur^'ive among his thoughts: 
 
 And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still Nook, 
 
 With all its beeches, we have named from You. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 stor^i 
 
 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 sympathise with vulgar coppice Birds 
 
 That, for protection from the nipping blast, 
 
 Hither repaired.— A single beech-tree grew 
 
 Within this grove of firs ; 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 mountain-flock, 
 
 Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, 
 
 Irom the remotest outskirts of the grove - 
 
 Some nook where they had made their final stand, 
 
 Huddling together from two fears-the fear 
 
 Heie did I lose. But in this grove the trees 
 
IKBCRIPTI0N2. 
 
 59 
 
 tl'dd been so thickly planted, and had thriven 
 Xn such perplexed and intricate array, 
 That vainly did I seek, between their stems, 
 A length of open space, where to and fro 
 My feet might move without concern or care ; 
 And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed, 
 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 cov€rt, there I found 
 A hoary path-way traced between the trees, 
 And winding on wilh 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. 
 Beneath my cottage roof, had newly 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, 
 A heart more wakeful ; and had worn the track 
 By pacing here, unweared and alone. 
 In that habitual restlessness of foot 
 With which the Sailor measures o'er and o'er 
 His short domain upon the vessel's deck. 
 While she is travelling through the dreary sea. 
 
 When thou hadst quitted Ethwaite'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 I and we two. 
 Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
 Each other's mind's were fashioned ; and at length, 
 When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, 
 
 Between us there waa little other bond 
 
 Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
 
 But thou, a school-boy 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 becomo 
 
 A silc7it Poet ; from the solitude 
 
 Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart 
 
 Still couchant, an inevitable car. 
 
 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 honoured 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 splendour, 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 Thou, 
 
 Muttering the Veises which I muttered first 
 
 Among the mountains, through the midnight 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. 
 
 Note. — This wish was not granted ; the lamented 
 Person not long after perished by shipwreck, in dis- 
 charge of his duty as Commander of the Honourable 
 East India Company's Vessel, the Earl of Abergavenny. 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 I. 
 
 IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR 
 GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART. LEICESTERSHIRE. 
 
 The embowering Rose, the Acacia, and the Pine, 
 
 Will not unwillingly their place resign ; 
 
 If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands, 
 
 Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth'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. 
 
 U. 
 
 IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME. 
 
 Oft is tlie Medal faithful to its trust 
 
 When Templpf., Coiumne, ToworF, arc laid in dust ; 1 
 
 And 'tis 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 labourer 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. 
 
 in. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAU- 
 MONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLA- 
 CED BY HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY- 
 PLANTED AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS. 
 
 Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed 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 darksome Aisle ;— 
 
 That may recal to mind that^awful Pile 
 
 Where Reynolds, 'mid our Country's noblest Dead, 
 
 In the last sanctity of fame is laid. 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 —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 private 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 ; 
 Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride 
 Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died. 
 
 IV. 
 
 FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OP 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 honourable Men of various worth : 
 There, on the mnrgin of a Streamlet wild. 
 Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager Child ; 
 There, under shadow of the neighbouring 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 decaya. 
 
 V. 
 
 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 maintained 
 Proportions more harmonious, and approached 
 To somewhat of a closer fellowship 
 With the ideal grace. Yet, as it is, 
 Do take it in good part : — alas ! the poor 
 Vitruvius of our village had no help 
 From the great City ; never, on the leaves 
 Of red Morocco folio saw displayed 
 The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts 
 Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box, 
 Snug Cot, with Coacli-house, Shed, and 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 withered 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 
 Of his own Household : nor, while from his bed 
 He through that door-place looks 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 : 
 
 VI. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THl' 
 SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COM'fi. 
 
 Stay, bold Adventurer ; rest awhile thy lirabg 
 On this commodious Seat! for much remains 
 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 favourite 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 Labourer pitched his tent. 
 With books supplied and instruments of art, 
 To measure height and distance ; lonely task, 
 Week after week pursued !— To him was giveij 
 Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed 
 On timid man) of Nature's processes 
 Upon the exalted hills. He made report 
 That once, while there he plied his studious wori- 
 Within that canvass Dwelling, suddenly 
 The many-coloured map before his eyes 
 Became invisible: for all around 
 Had darkness fallen— unthreatened, unproclaimed— 
 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 ! 
 See p. G5. 
 
 VH. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A STONE, THB 
 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 of the ancient time. 
 
 Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn 
 
 Of some old British < hief : '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 Knight forthwith 
 
 Desisted, and the quarry and the mound 
 
 Are monuments of his unfinished task. — 
 
 The block on which these lines are traced, perhnpat, 
 
 Was once selected as the corner-stone 
 
 Of the intended Pile, which would have been 
 
 Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill, 
 
 So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, 
 
 And 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 appertained 
 
 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, disturbed 
 
 By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn 
 
 Out of the quiet rock the elements 
 
 Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze 
 
 In snow-white splendour,— 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 himself, 
 
 Aad let the Redbreast hop from etone to itone. 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 61 
 
 VIII. 
 
 iSflCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR 
 
 A hermit's cell. 
 
 1. 
 
 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 1— in the socket 
 See how dying tapers fare 1 
 What is pride 7— 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 ; 
 i)uty 1 — an unwelcome clog ; 
 Joy ■?— a moon by fits reflected 
 In a swamp or watery bog ; 
 
 6right, as if through ether steering, 
 To the Traveller's eye it shone : 
 He hath hailed it re-appearing — 
 And as quickly it is gone ; 
 
 Gone, as if for ever hidden, 
 Or mis-shapen to the sight, 
 And by sullen weeds forbidden 
 To resume its native light. 
 
 What is youth 1 — a dancing billow, 
 (Winds behind, and rocks before !) 
 Age ? — a drooping, tottering willow 
 On a flat 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 I 
 
 IX. 
 
 inscribed upon a rock. 
 
 2. 
 
 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, 
 Honoured 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. 
 
 Bat 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 t gazed, with sudden shock 
 Fell the whole Fabric to the ground ; 
 And naked left this dripping Rock, 
 With shapeless ruin spread around I 
 
 X. 
 
 3. 
 
 Hast thou seen, with flash incessant. 
 Bubbles gliding under ice, 
 Bodied forth and evanescent, 
 No one knows by v^^hat device 1 
 
 Such are thoughts ! — A wind-swept meadoTf^ 
 
 Mimicking a troubled sea. 
 
 Such is life ; and death a shadow 
 
 From the rock eternity ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 N±AR 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 hill a torrentV 
 Neither sully it nor swell. 
 
 Thus, dishonouring net her station,- 
 Would my Life present to Thee, 
 Gracious God, the pure oblation 
 Of divine Tranquillity ! 
 
 XIL 
 5. 
 
 Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,- 
 Deceitfully goes forth the Morn ; 
 Not seldom Evening in the west 
 Sinks smilingly forsworn. 
 
 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 I 
 
es 
 
 THE prioress's tale. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 FOR THE srOT WHERE THE HERMTTAGE STOOD ON 
 ST. HERBERT'S ISLAND, DERWKNT-WATER. 
 
 If thou in the dear love of some one Friend 
 
 Hast been so happy that tljou knowust what thoughts 
 
 Will sometimes in the liappiness of love 
 
 Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence 
 
 This quiet spot ; and, Stranger ! not unmoved 
 
 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 lie had left 
 A Fellow-labourer, 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 fulfilled) 
 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. Culhbert his beloved Friend, 
 Those holy Men both died in the same hour. 
 
 THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 
 
 (from CHAUCER.) 
 
 " Call up him who left half told 
 The story of Cambuscan bold." 
 
 In the following Poem I have allowed myself no fur- 
 ther deviation from the original than was necessary 
 for the fluent reading and instant understanding of 
 the Author : so much, however, is the language 
 altered since Chaucer's time, especially in pronun- 
 ciation, 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 con- 
 junctions, as, also and alway^ from a conviction 
 that such sprinklings of antiquity would be admit- 
 ted, by persons of taste, to have a graceful accor- 
 dance with tlie 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. 
 
 " 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, gracious God ! 
 Thy goodness is set forth, they when they lie 
 Upon the breast thy name do glorify. 
 
 " Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that I may, 
 
 Jesu ! of thee, and the white Lily-fiower 
 
 Which did thee bear, and is a IMaid for aye, 
 
 To tell a story I will use my power; 
 
 Not that T may increase her honour's dower, 
 
 For she herself is honour, 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 I 
 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 hoi sustain ; 
 
 But as a child of twelvemonths old or less, 
 That laboureth his language to expres?. 
 Even so fare I; and therefore, I thee pray, 
 Guide thou my song which I of thee_ shall say. 
 
 " There was in Asia, in a mighty town, 
 
 Mong Christian folk, a street wheie 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. 
 
 " A little school of Christian people stood 
 Down at the farther end, in which there were 
 A nest of children come of Christi-an 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 J\Iarie^ as he goeth by the way. 
 
 "This Widow thus her little Son hath taught 
 Our blissful Lady, Jesu's ]^Tot]ler dear, 
 To worship aye, and he forgat it not. 
 For simple inlant hath a ready ear. 
 Sweet is 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 
 Tlis primer conning with an earnest cheer. 
 The whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat 
 The Alma Redcmptoris 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 ; 
 Hut 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 
 I Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free ; 
 
THB prioress's TALE. 
 
 (53 
 
 Ker 10 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, certfes, 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 whenso'er he went, 
 On Jesu's Mother tixed was his intent. 
 
 " Through all the Jewry (this before said I) 
 This little Child, as he came to and fro, 
 Full merrily then would he sing and cry, 
 O Mma Redemptoris ! high and low : 
 The sweetness of Christ's Mother pierced 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 npswelled — ' 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 forwarU have the Jews conspired 
 
 Out of the world this Iimocent 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. 
 
 " I say tliat him into a pit they threw, 
 
 A loathsome pit, whence noisome 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 honour of high God may spread, 
 
 The blood cries out on your accursed deed. 
 
 " ' O Martyr 'stablished in virginity ! 
 
 Now mayest thou sing for aye before the throne. 
 
 Following the Lamb celestial,' quoth she, 
 
 ' Of v/hich 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 that night 
 After her little child, and he came not; 
 For which, by earliest glimpse of morning light. 
 With face all pale with dread and busy thought, 
 She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought, 
 Until thus far she learned, that he had been 
 In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen. 
 
 " With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed 
 She goeth, as she were half out of her mind, 
 To every place wherein she hath supposed 
 By likelihood her little Son to find ; 
 And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind 
 She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought, 
 And him among the accursed Jews she sought. 
 
 " She asketh, and she pitcously doth pray 
 To every Jew that dwellcth in that place 
 To tell her if her child had passed that 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. 
 
 " O thou great God that dost perform thy laud 
 
 By mouths of Innocents, lo ! here thy might; 
 
 This gem of chastify, this emerald, 
 
 And eke of Martyrdom this ruby bright, 
 
 There, where with mangled throat he lay upright, 
 
 The Jilma Rcdcvijitoris 'gan to sing 
 
 So loud, tiiat with his voice the place did ring. 
 
 " 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, honour of Mankind: 
 
 Which done, he bade that they the Jews should bind. 
 
 " 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 Bier lay : 
 And scarcely could the people that were near 
 Remove this second Pvachel from the Bier. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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 1 
 
 " 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.' 
 
 " ' 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 yp find, 
 Will that his glory last, and be in mind; 
 And, for the worship of his Mother dear. 
 Yet may I sing, O Alvia ! loud and clear. 
 
 " ' This well of mercy Jesu's Mother ,«weet 
 After my knowledge I have loved alway, 
 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. 
 
 " ' Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain, 
 In honour of that blissful Maiden free, 
 1 Till from my tongue ofl-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 forsake I" ' 
 
 ' This holy IMonk, this Abbot— him mean I, 
 Touched then his tongue, and took away the grain ; 
 And he gave up the ghost full peacefully ; 
 
64 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOK. 
 
 And, when the Abbot had thig wonder seen, 
 His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain, 
 And on his face he dropped upon the ground, 
 And atill he laj- as if he had been bound. 
 
 •' Eke the whole Convent on the pavement 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* 
 
 " Young Hew of Lincoln ! in like sort laid low 
 By cursed Jews— thing well and widely known, 
 For not long since was dealt the cruel blow, 
 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 !" 
 
 POPMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 I. 
 
 There whs a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye Cliffs 
 
 And islands of Winander I— many a time. 
 
 At evening, when the earliest stars beggin 
 
 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 moijth 
 
 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 mirth and jocund din ! And, when it chanced 
 
 That pauses of deep silence mocked his 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 tne 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 Church-yard when my way has led 
 At evening, [ believe, that oftentimes 
 A long half-hour together I have stood 
 Mute — looking at the grave in which he lies I 
 
 II. 
 
 TO- 
 
 ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN. 
 
 Inmate of a mountain 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 I ' 
 
 And a record of commotion 
 Which a thousand ridges yield • 
 Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
 Gleaming like a silver shield I 
 
 —Take thy flight ;— possess, inherit 
 Alps or Andes — they are thine ! 
 With the morning's roseate Spirit, 
 Sweep their length of snowy line ; 
 
 Or survey the bright dominions 
 In the gorgeous colours drest 
 Flung from ofl" 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 Niphate's 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 ! 
 
 IH. 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 BLITHE New-comer ! I hare heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice. 
 
 Cuckoo ! snail I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice 1 
 
 While I am lying on the grass 
 
 Thy twofold shout I hear. 
 
 That seems to fill the w^hol© air'a space, 
 
 As loud far off as near. 
 
 Though bubbling only, to the Vale, 
 Of sunshine and of flowers. 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 No Bird: but an invisible Thing, 
 A voice, a mystery ; 
 
 The same whom in my School-boy days 
 
 1 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 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 65 
 
 An unsubstantial, faery place ; 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 A NIGHT-PIECE. 
 
 The sky is over<iast 
 
 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 
 
 Drive 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 wiiite clouds, enormous qlouds, 
 
 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. 
 
 WATER-FOWL. 
 
 " Let me be allowed the aid of verse to describe the 
 » evolutions which these visitants sometimes per- 
 "form, on a fine day towards the close of winter.'' 
 —Extract from the Author's Book on the 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. 
 Their jubilant activity evolves 
 Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, 
 Upward and downward, progress intricate 
 Yet un perplexed, as if one spirit swayed 
 Their indefatigable flight.— 'Tis done- 
 Ten times, or more, T 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 aga;in ! 
 They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes ; 
 They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice, 
 To show them a fair image ;— 'tis themselves. 
 Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain, 
 Painted more soft and fair as they descend 
 Almost lo touch ;— then up again aloft, 
 Up with a sally and a flash of speed. 
 As if they scorned both resting-place and rest! 
 
 VI. 
 
 YEW-TREES. 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
 Which to this day stands single, in the midst 
 
 9 
 
 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 Azincour, 
 
 Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
 
 Of vast circumference and glonm 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 of note 
 
 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 uninformed with Phantasy, and looks 
 
 That threaten the profane ; — a pillared shade, 
 
 Upon wiiose 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 trembling Hopcj 
 
 Silence and Foresight — Death the Skeleton 
 
 And Time the Shadow, — there to celebrate, 
 
 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. 
 
 Vll. 
 
 VIEW FROM THE TOP OF 
 
 BLACK COMB. 
 
 This Height a ministering Angel might select : 
 
 For 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 soulh-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 Mouniains rough with crags ; beneath, 
 
 Right at the imperial Station's western base. 
 
 Main Ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched 
 
 Far into silent regions blue and pale ; — 
 
 And visibly engirding Mona's Isle 
 
 That, as v/e 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 1 
 
 Land sometimes by the roving shepherd-swain 
 
 (Like Ihe bright confines of another world) 
 
 Not doubtfully perceived. — Look homeward now ! 
 
 In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene 
 
 The spectacle, how pure I— 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 ! 
 
 Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cum- 
 berland its base covert; a nuicli greater extent of ground 
 than any other mountain in these parts ; and, from its 
 situation, tliesunimit commands a more extensive view 
 than any other point in Britain. 
 
66 
 
 roKMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 V[II. 
 NUTTING, 
 
 -It seems a day 
 
 (t speak of one from many singled out) 
 One of tliope Iieavenly days wliicli 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, 
 A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps 
 Toward the distant woods, a Figure quaint, 
 Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-olT weeds 
 Which for that service had been husbanded, 
 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 ! Among the woods. 
 And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way 
 Until, at length, I came to one dear nook 
 Unvisitcd, where not a broken bough 
 Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 
 Of devastation, but the hazels rose 
 Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, 
 A virgin scene ! — A little while I stood. 
 Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
 As joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint 
 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 fairj'^ water-breaks do murmur on 
 For ever, — and I saw the sparkling foam. 
 And with my cheek on one of those green stones 
 That, fleeced with moss, beneath 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 vvitii indilferent 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, 
 Even then, when from the bower [ turned away 
 Exiilting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 I felt a sense of pain when T beheld 
 The silent tires and 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 She wag a Phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upbn 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 way-lay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and fre^ 
 
 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 stilly and bright 
 With something of an angel light. 
 
 X. 
 
 NiGnTiNGALE r 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.] 
 
 1 heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
 His liomely 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 ! 
 
 XL 
 
 Three j'ears 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. 
 
 IMyself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse: and wiih 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 her's shall be the breathingbalm. 
 And her's the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 The floating Clouds their state shall lend 
 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
 
 Nor sliall 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 
 
POEMS OF THE mAGINATION. 
 
 67 
 
 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 svi'ell; 
 
 Such thoughts to Lucy 1 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 never more will be. 
 
 XIL 
 
 A SLUMBER did my spirit seal^ 
 
 I had no human fears : 
 Sh-e 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! 
 
 XHL 
 
 THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE. 
 
 When the Brothers reached the gateway, 
 
 E'tistace pointed with his lance 
 
 To the Horn which there was hanging ; 
 
 Horn of the inheritance. 
 
 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 ages without record 
 
 Had the House of Lucie born. 
 
 Who of right had claimed the Lordship 
 
 By the proof upon the Horn : 
 
 Each at the appohited 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 thall 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 favour shall be done." 
 So were both right well content: 
 From the Castle forth they went. 
 
 And at the head of their Array 
 
 To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 
 
 Side by side they fought (the Luciea 
 
 Were a line for valour lamed) 
 
 And where'er their strokes alighted. 
 
 There the" Saracens v/ere tamed. 
 
 Whence, then, could it come — the thought — 
 
 By what evil spirit brousht 1 
 
 Oh ! can a brave Man wish to take 
 
 His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's sake Z 
 
 " Sir!" the Ruffians 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 ray Brother die 1 
 It was a pang that vexed him then ; 
 And oft returned, again, and j^et 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 ; 
 
 He has nothing 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 ; 
 
 For the sound was heard by no one 
 
 Of the proclamation-horn. 
 
 But bold Hubert lives in glee: 
 
 Months and years went smilingly ; 
 
 With plenty was his table spread; 
 
 And bright the Lady is who 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. 
 
 'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace ! 
 
 He is come to claim his right : 
 
 Ancient Castle, Woods, and Mountains 
 
 Hear the challenge with deliglit. 
 
 Hubert! though the blast be blown 
 
 He is helpless and alone: 
 
 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 lieart, and sad. 
 Tis Sir Eustace ; if it be 
 Ijiving 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 bis 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 h^ rescued, 
 Lived with honour on his lands. 
 
es 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION- 
 
 Sons be had, saw Sons of theirs: 
 
 And through age?!, Heirs of Heirs, 
 
 A long posterity renowned, 
 
 Sounded the Horn whicli they alone could sound. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 On ! what's the matter ? what's the matter 1 
 
 What is't that ails young Harry Gill 1 
 
 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, 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 
 The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 At night, at morning, and at noon, 
 'Tis 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 limb as he ? 
 His cheeks were red as ruddy clover ; 
 His voice was like the voice of three. 
 Old Goody BJake 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 ! 'twas hardly worth the telling, 
 It would not pay for candle-light. 
 Remote from sheltering 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 1 have known, 
 Will often live in one small cottage ; 
 But she, poor Woman ! housed alone. 
 'Twas 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, 
 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 
 Her evenings then were dull and dead I 
 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 any thing be more alluring 
 Tl|an an old hedge to Goody Blake 1 
 And, now and then, it must be said. 
 When her old^ones were cold and chill, 
 
 She left her fire, or left her heS^ 
 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 detecle(J, 
 And 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 cri^^p with frost the stubbie land. 
 — He hears a noise — he's all 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 I" 
 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 aH. 
 
 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 I" 
 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 sorrow, 
 Alas ! that day for Harry Gill 1 
 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. 
 
 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, 
 And blankets were about him pinned ; 
 Yet still his jaws and teeth they ctatier, 
 Like a loose casement in the wind. 
 And Harry's flesh it fell away; 
 And all who see him say, 'tis 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-hed 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 I 
 
 XV. 
 
 I WANDERED lonely as a Cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er Vales and Hille, 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 69 
 
 When all at once T 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. 
 
 xvr. 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 
 
 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 
 lu the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 
 
 *Ti9 a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury 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 stream will not floAV, and the hill will not rise. 
 And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 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 vigour, with boons dropping 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 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile. 
 
 That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height, 
 Not an inch of his body is free from delight ; 
 Can he keep him&clf still, if he would ? oh, not he I 
 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 l—= 
 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 ! 
 
 POWER OF MUSIC. 
 
 An Orpheus ! an Orpheus !— yes, Faith may grow bold. 
 And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — 
 Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same 
 In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed 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 himl 
 
 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 hght ; 
 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, 
 A nd the half-breathless Lamplighter— he's in the net: 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 STAR-GAZERS. 
 
 What crowd is this ? what have we here I 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-skift', that doth on Thames'a 
 
 waters float. 
 
 The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis 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. 
 Impatient till his jjioment comes — what an insight 
 must it be ! 
 
 Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause? Shall thy 
 
 Implement have blame, 
 A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to 
 
 shame 1 
 Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault 1 
 Their eyes, or minds 1 or, finally, is yon resplendent 
 
 Vault 1 
 
 Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have 
 here 1 
 
 Or gives a thing but small delight that never'can be 
 dear ? 
 
 The silver moon with all her Vales, and Hills of might- 
 iest fame. 
 
 Doth she betray us when they're seen ? or are they 
 but a name 1 
 
 Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, 
 And bounty never yields so much^but it seems to do 
 
 her wrong 1 
 Or is ii, that when human Souls a journey long have 
 
 had 
 And are returned into themselv^, they cannot but be 
 
 sad"? 
 
 Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators 
 
 rude, 
 Poor in estate, ofmannersbase, men of the multitude, 
 
70 
 
 1*0EMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore 
 prostrate lie ? 
 
 No, no, this cannot be— Blen thirst for power and ma- 
 jesty ! 
 
 Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind 
 
 employ 
 Of him who gazes, or has gazed 1 a grave and steady 
 
 joy, 
 
 That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward 
 
 sign, 
 Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine I 
 
 Whatever be the cause, 'tis s^re 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 es- 
 pied 
 
 That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. 
 
 XIX. 
 THE HAUNTED TREE. 
 
 TO 
 
 Those silver cloucfs collected round the sun 
 
 His mid- day warmth abate not, seeming less 
 
 To overshade than multiply his beams 
 
 By soft retlection— 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, aftbrds 
 
 Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use 
 
 Was fashioned ; whether by the hand of Art, 
 
 That Eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought 
 
 On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs 
 
 In languor ; or, by Nature, for repose 
 
 Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied by 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 footstep-! superstitiously avoid 
 
 This venerable Tree ; for, when the wind 
 
 Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound 
 
 (Above the generaJ roar of woods and crags) 
 
 Distinctly heard from far — a doleful note ! 
 
 As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed) 
 
 The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed 
 
 Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbclieved, 
 
 By ruder fancy, that a troubled Ghost 
 
 Haunts this old Trunk ; lamenting deeds of which 
 
 The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind 
 
 Svveei)s 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 whilst they view 
 
 Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads 
 
 Vividly pictured in some glassy pool. 
 
 That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 WRITTEN IN MARCH, 
 
 while resting on the bridge at the foot of 
 brother's Water. 
 
 The cock is crowing, 
 The stream is flowing, 
 
 The small birds twittef, 
 
 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 I 
 
 XXL 
 GIPSIES. 
 
 Yet are they here the same unbroken knot 
 
 Of human Beings, in the self-same spot I 
 
 Men, Women, Children, yea the frame 
 Of the whole Spectacle the same ! 
 
 Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, 
 
 Now deep and red, the colouring 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 nov/, ascending, after one dark hour 
 
 And one night's din)inution 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 such 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 suffers them to be ; 
 Wild outcasts of society ! 
 
 XXIL 
 BEGGARS. 
 
 Before my eyes a W^anderer stood ; 
 
 Her face from summer's noon-day heat 
 
 Nor bonnet shaded, nor the hood 
 
 Of that blue cloak which to her feet 
 
 Depended with a graceful flow ; 
 
 Only she wore 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 head those ancient Amazonian files ; 
 
 Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian Isles. 
 
 She begged an alms ; no scruple checked 
 The current of her ready plea, 
 Words that could challenge no respect 
 But from a blind credulity ; 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 71 
 
 And yet a boon I gave lier ; for the Creature 
 Was beautiful to see— a weed of glorious feature ! 
 
 I left her, and pursued ray 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 Suppliant's face. 
 
 Yet t/icy, so blithe of heait, seemed fit 
 
 For finest tasks of earth or air : 
 
 Wings let them have, and they might flit 
 
 Precursors of 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 1 
 
 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.'' — 
 
 " Sweet Boys ! Heaven hears that rash reply ; 
 
 It was your Mother, as I say I" 
 
 And, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 
 " Come ! come I" cried one, and without more adoj 
 
 Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! 
 
 XXIfl. 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING, 
 
 COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Where are they now, those wanton Boys ? 
 
 For whose free range the deedal 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 T 
 
 1 ask — but all is dark between ! 
 
 Spirits of beauty and of gnace ! 
 Associates in that eager chase; 
 Ye, by a course to nature true. 
 The sterner judgment can subdue; 
 And waken a relenting smile 
 When she encounters fraud or guile ; 
 And sometimes ye can charm away 
 The inward mischief, or allay. 
 Ye, who within the blameless mind 
 Your favourite seat of empire find ! 
 
 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 1 
 
 Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, 
 
 Sailed through the sky— the brooks ran clear ; 
 
 The lambs from rock to rock were bounding ; 
 
 With songs the budded groves resounding ; 
 
 And to my heart is stiil endeared 
 
 The faith with which it then was cheered j 
 
 The faith which saw that gladsome pair 
 
 Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 
 
 Or, if such thoughts must needs deceive, 
 
 Kind Si)irits ! 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 1 
 
 Destined, whate'er their earthly doom,. 
 
 Fur mercy and immortal bloom! 
 
 XXIV. 
 RUTH. 
 
 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 thoug>htless freedom bold. 
 
 And she had made a Pipe o|^ straw, 
 And from that oaten Pipe could draw 
 All sounds of winds and floods ; 
 Had built a Bower upon the green, 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An [nfant 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': 
 Ah 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 I 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 
 
72 
 
 P0EM3 OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Their pleasant Indian Town, 
 To gather strawberries all day long; 
 Returning witii a choral song 
 When daylight is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants divine and strange 
 That every hour their blossoms change^ 
 Ten thousand lovely hues I 
 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 au endless, endless lake, 
 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 And then he said, " How sweet it were 
 
 A fisher or a hunter there, 
 
 A gardener in the shade. 
 
 Still wandering with an easy mind 
 
 To build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade I 
 
 " What days and what sweet years ! Ah me ! 
 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 
 So passed in quiet bliss. 
 
 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 wakeful 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, 
 
 * Magnolia grandiflora. 
 
 t The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers 
 which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills 
 in the Southern parts of North America, is frequently 
 mentioned by Bartram in his Travels. 
 
 And with his dancing crest 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
 TJie 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. <r^ 
 
 Whatever in those Cfimes 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 lovely flowers ; 
 The breezes their own languor lent; 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those gorgeous 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 I have been worse than dead. 
 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 
 
 Encompassed me on every side 
 
 When first, in confidence and pride,. 
 
 I crossed the Atlantic Main. 
 
 " It was a fresh and glorious world, 
 A banner bright that was unfurled 
 Before me suddenly : 
 I looked upon those hills and plains, 
 And seemed as if kt loose from chains; 
 To live at liberty. 
 
 " But wherefore speak of this 1 For now, 
 Sweet Ruth ! with thee, I know not how^ 
 I feel my spirit burn — 
 Even as the east when day comes forth : 
 And, to the west, and south, and north, 
 The morning doth return." 
 
 Full soon that purer 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. 
 
TOEMg OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 n 
 
 * Heat while, as thus with him it fared, 
 They for the royage were prepared, 
 And went to the sea-shore; 
 But, when they thither came, the Youth 
 * Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
 Oould never find him more. 
 
 *' God help thee, Ruth !" — Such pains she had. 
 
 That she in a half a year was mad, 
 
 And in a prison housed ; 
 
 And there she sang tumultuous aongai 
 
 By recollection of her wrongs 
 
 To fearful passion roused. 
 
 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 wild brook wilh cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
 Vv^hen 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 
 
 Ofiihind, 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 road-side ; 
 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 Gluantock Woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have passed her on the hills 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 By spouts and fountains wild — 
 Such small machinery as she turned 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 
 A young and happy Child! 
 
 * The Tone is a River of Somersetshire, at no great 
 distance from the Quantock HUls. These Hills, which 
 are alluded to a few Stanzas below, are extremely 
 beautiful, and in most places richly covered with cop- 
 pice woods. 
 
 10 
 
 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. 
 
 4 
 
 XXV. 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 u With sacrifice before the rising morn 
 Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; 
 And from the infernal Gnds, mid shades forlora 
 Of night, ray slaughtered Lord have I required: 
 Celestial pity I again implore ; — 
 Restore him to my eight — great Jove, restore I" 
 
 So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
 Wilh faith, the Suppliant 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. 
 
 terror! what hath she perceived? — O joy I 
 What doth she look on ?— whom doth she behold* 
 Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy 1 
 
 His vital presence — his coiporeal mould 1 
 It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis 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 !" 
 
 Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasps 
 
 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. 
 
 " Protesildus, 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, 
 
 1 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 foretold 
 
 That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 
 
 Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold ; 
 
 A generous cause a Victim did dematid ; 
 
 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 to the 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 aa resolute, and good as brave ; 
 And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
 That thou sbould'st cheat the malice of the grave ; 
 
 M 
 
 
74 
 
 POEM$ OF THB iMAQlNATIOJf'r 
 
 <^ 
 
 Redundant Qfe thy locks, thy lips as fair 
 
 As when their breath enriched Thessaiian air. 
 
 " 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 Parcae threw 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 " This visage tells thee that my doom is past ; 
 
 Know, virtue were not virtue if the joys 
 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 
 And surely as they vanish. — Earth destroys 
 
 Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains : 
 
 Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pain?. 
 
 " 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 1 
 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, 
 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
 
 And though his favourite seat be feeble Wom?n^s breast. 
 
 "But if thou ^oest, I follow—" "Peace!" he said- 
 She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered; 
 The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; 
 In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 
 EJysian beauty, melancholy grace, 
 Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 
 
 He Bpake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
 In worlds whose course is equable and pure; 
 No fears to beat awa)' — no strife to heal — 
 The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 
 Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
 Eevived, with finer harmony pursued ; 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 
 
 la happier beauty ; more pellucid streams, 
 
 An ampler ether, a divinei 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 enterprise 
 By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 
 Chieftains and kings in council were detained; 
 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 Troj^sand. 
 
 Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the patig' », 
 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife t 
 
 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 V 
 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 sympathieed ; 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 
 
 Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend" 
 Towards 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." 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re-appears ! 
 Round the dear Shade she would have clung — 'tis 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: 
 
 By no weak pity might the Gods be moved ; 
 She who thus perished, not without the crime 
 Of Lovers that" in Reason's spite have loved, 
 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'erthrown 
 Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
 As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
 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* 
 
 THE TRIAD. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 * 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 (page 48.) see the 1- 
 phigenia in Aulis of Euripides. Virgil places the Shade 
 of Laodamia in a mournful region, among unhappy 
 Lovers, 
 
 His Laodamia 
 
 It Comes. 
 
tOEMS 01? THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 75 
 
 "Mere Mortals bodied forth in vision still, 
 Shall with Mount Ida's triple lustre fill 
 The chaster coverts of a British hill. 
 
 *' Appear! — obey my lyre's command! 
 Come, like the Graces, hand in hand ! 
 For ye, though not by birth allied, 
 Are Sisters in the bond of love ; 
 And not the boldest tongue of envious pride 
 In you those interweavings could reprove 
 Which They, the progeny of Jove, 
 Learnt from the tuneful spheres that glide 
 In endless union earth and sea above."— 
 — I speak in vain, — the pin€s have hushed their wa- 
 ving: 
 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 1 
 Invoke we those bright Beings one by one, 
 And what was boldly promised, truly shall be done. 
 
 *'Fear not this constraining measure ! 
 
 Drawn by a poetic spell, 
 
 Lucida ! from domes of pleasure, 
 
 Or from cottage-sprinkled dell, 
 
 Come to regions solitary, 
 
 Where the eagle builds her aery. 
 
 Above the hermit's long-forsaken cell !'• il 
 
 —She comes I — behold 
 
 That Figure, like a ship with silver 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 splendour, when hie 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 unknown ; 
 
 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 brush from off his cheek 
 
 The too, too happy tear 1 
 
 dueen and handmaid lowly I 
 
 Whose skill can speed the day with lively cares, 
 
 And banish melancholy 
 
 By all that mind invents or hand prepares ; 
 
 O thou, against whose lip, without its smile, 
 
 And in its silence even, no heart is proof; J 
 
 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 content 
 
 His soul with but a glimpse of heavenly day 1 
 
 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 woodbine 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 Phcebus 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 Nymph I call, 
 
 The youngest of the lovely Three. — 
 
 " Come, if the notes thine ear may pierce, 
 
 Submissive to the might of verse, 
 
 By none more deeply felt than thee !" 
 
 — 1 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. 
 
 And 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 romance, 
 
 That cheered the trellised arbour's privacy. 
 
 And soothed war- wearied knights in raftered hall. 
 
 How light lier air ! 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 cire they ungarlandcd ? 
 
 Why bedeck her temples less 
 
 Than the simplest shepherdess 1 
 
 Is it not a brow inviting 
 
 Choicest flowers that ever breathed, 
 
 Which the myrtle would delight in 
 
 With Idalian rose enwreathed 1 
 
 But her humility is well content 
 
 With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn) 
 
 Flower of the winds, beneath her bosom worn ; 
 
 Yet is it 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, as free 
 As bird that rifles blossoms on a tree, 
 Turning them inside out with arch audacity- 
 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 eide; 
 And there (while, with sedater mien, 
 O'er timid waters that have scarcely left 
 Their birth-place in the rocky cleft 
 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 I 
 
 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 rillj 
 
 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 1 
 If from what her hand would do. 
 Her voice would utter, there ensue 
 Aught untoward or unfit. 
 She, in benign affections pure. 
 In self-forgetful nees secure, 
 
76 
 
 FOEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOW. 
 
 Bheds round the transient barm or vague mischance 
 
 A light unknown to tutored elegance : 
 
 Her's is not a cheek shame-stricken, 
 
 But lier blushes are joy-flush€S— 
 
 And the fault (if fault it be) 
 
 Only ministers to quicken 
 
 Laughter-lovmg gaiety, 
 
 And kindle sportive wit — 
 
 Jjeaving tliis 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 handg. 
 
 " Last of the Three, though eldest born, 
 
 Eeveal thyself, like pensive morn, 
 
 Touched by the skylark's earliest note, 
 
 Ere humbler gladness be afloat. 
 
 But whether in the semblance drest 
 
 Gf 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." 
 
 — Her brow hath opened on me — see It there, 
 Brightening the umbrage of her hair ; 
 Bo gleams the crescent moon, that lovea 
 To be descried through shady groves. 
 — Tenderest bloom is on her cheek ; 
 ' Wish not for a richer streak — 
 Nor dread the depth of medrtative 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 glistening. 
 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 froixi turf the mourner weeps on. 
 And without wrong are cropped the marble tomb to strew. 
 The charm is over ; the mute phantoms gone, 
 Nor will return — but droop not, favoured 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 ? 
 
 XXVI; 
 
 Her eyea 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 hay-stack 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 j 
 
 And I am happy when I sing 
 Full many a sad and doleful thin^^ 
 Then, lovely Baby, do not fear ! 
 I pray thee have no fear of me ; 
 But, safe, as in a cradle, here, 
 My lovely Baby! thou shall be: 
 To thee I know too much I owe j, 
 I cannot work thee any woe. 
 
 A fire was once within my biain ; 
 And in my head a dull, dull pain ; 
 And fiendish faces, one, two, three. 
 Hung at my breast, and pulled at 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 bloody 
 Oh joy for me that sight to see ! 
 For he was here, and only he. 
 
 Suck, little Babe, oh suck again ! 
 It cools my blood ; it cools my brain - 
 Thy lips I feel them. Baby ! 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 1 see is in the tree ; 
 It comes to cool my Babe and me. 
 
 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 eaves 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 I for thee 
 
 Bold as a lion will I be ; 
 
 And I will always be thy guide, 
 
 Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 
 
 I'll 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 shall ginj 
 
 As merry as the birds in spring. 
 
 Thy Father cares not for my breast, 
 'Tis thine, sweet Baby, there to rest; 
 'Tis all thine own I — and, if its hue 
 Be changed, that was bo fair to view, 
 'Tis fair enough for tliee, my dove I 
 My beauty, little Child, is flown. 
 But thou wilt live with me in love ; 
 And what if my poor cheek be brown t 
 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see 
 How pale and wan it else would be. 
 
 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 I is wretched made ; 
 And every day we two will pray 
 For him that's gone and far away. 
 
 I'll teach my Boy the sweetest things ; 
 I'll teach him how the owlet sings. 
 My little Babe 1 thy lips are still, 
 
 *¥ 
 
POEx^S OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 77 
 
 And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. 
 
 — Where art thou gone, my own dear Child ? 
 
 What wicked looks are those I see 1 
 
 Alas ! alas ! that look so wild, 
 
 It never, never came from me : 
 
 If thou art mad, my pretty Lad, 
 
 Then I must be for ever 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'll find thy father in the wood. 
 
 Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away ! 
 
 And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 Q^HERE 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 wiih pleasant noise of waters. 
 
 All things that love the sun arc ojit 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 Bey : 
 
 The pleasant season did my heart employ : 
 
 My old remembrances went from me wholly ; 
 
 And all the ways of jnen, so vain and melancholy! 
 
 But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
 Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
 As high as we have mounted in delight 
 In our dejection do we sink as low. 
 To me that morning did it happen so ; 
 And fears and fancies tliick upon me came ; 
 Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor 
 could name. 
 
 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 F 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 unsought 
 
 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 Chalterton, 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 comes in the end despondency and madness. 
 
 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
 
 A leading from above, a something given, 
 
 Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place. 
 
 When I with these untoward thoughts had striven^ 
 
 Beside a Pool bare to the eye of Heaven 
 
 [ saw a Man before me unawares : 
 
 The oldest Man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. 
 
 As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie 
 Couched on the bald top of an eminence; 
 Wonder to all who do the same espy. 
 By wliat means it could thither come, and 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 age : 
 
 His body was bent double, feet and head 
 
 Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; 
 
 As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
 
 Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
 
 A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 
 
 Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face, 
 Upon a long grey Staff of shaven wood: 
 And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
 Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
 Motionless as a Cloud the Old-man stood ; 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call j 
 And moveth all together, if it move at all. 
 
 At length, himself unsettling, he the Pond 
 
 Stirred with his Staff, and fixedly did look 
 
 Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 
 
 As if he had been reading in a book: 
 
 And now a Stranger's privilege I took; 
 
 And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 
 
 " This morning 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 1 thus bespake, 
 " What occupation do you there pursue 1 
 This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
 He answered, while a flash of mild surprise 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. 
 
 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. 
 
 Pie 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 i)ond 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 Dy 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 the Man 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 admonishment. 
 
 My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills ; 
 
 And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 
 
 Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills ; 
 
 And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
 
 — Perplexed, and longing to be comforted. 
 
 My question eagerly did I renew, 
 
 " How is it that you live, and what is it you do 1" 
 
78 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 
 
 And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide 
 
 He travelled; stirring tiius about his feet 
 
 The waters of the Pools where they abide. 
 
 «i Once I could meet with tliem on every side 
 
 But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
 
 Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 
 
 While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 
 
 The Old-man's shape, and speech, all troubled me : 
 
 In my mind's eye 1 seemed to see him pace 
 
 About the weary moors continually, 
 
 Wanderinc about alone and silently. 
 
 While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 
 
 He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 
 
 And soon with this he other matter blended, 
 
 Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour 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'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor !" 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 THE THORN. 
 
 " 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 thorny points; 
 
 It is a mass of knotted joints, 
 
 A wretched thing forlorn. 
 
 It stands erect, and like a stone 
 
 With lichens it is 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 cl isp it round 
 
 So close, you'd say that they were bent 
 
 With plain aud manifest intent 
 
 To drag it to the ground ; 
 
 And all had joined in one endeavour 
 
 To bury this poor Thorn for ever. 
 
 High on a mountain's highest ridge, 
 
 Where oft the stormy winter gale 
 
 Cuts like a scythe, w^hile 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, thjee 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 colours there you see, 
 
 All colours 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 vermillion dye. 
 
 Ah me ! what lovely tints are there 
 Of olive green and scarlet bright, 
 
 In spikes, in branches, and in starg, 
 
 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 any where, 
 
 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 !' 
 
 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 ! 
 
 " ' 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 1 — 
 
 Oh wherefore 1 wherefore 1 tell me why 
 
 Does she repeat ihat doleful cry?" 
 
 " I cannot tell ; 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 g*ray ; 
 Pass by her door — 'tis 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 ?" 
 
 " 'Tis known, that twenty years are past 
 
 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 woeful day 
 
 A pang of pitiless dismay 
 
 Into her soul was sent ; 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 79 
 
 A fire was kindled in her breast, 
 Wjhich 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. 
 
 Alas ! her lamentable slate 
 
 Even to a careless eye was plain ; 
 
 She was with child, and she was mad; 
 
 Yet often she was sober sad 
 
 From her exceeding pain. 
 
 O guilty Father— would that death 
 
 Had saved him from that breach of faith 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, 
 
 And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen 
 
 Held that the unborn [nfant 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. 
 
 Q,j, ;- 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 'twas born alive or dead, 
 
 Far less could this with proof be said ; 
 
 But some remember well. 
 
 That Martha Kay about this time 
 
 Would up the mountain often climb. 
 
 And all that winter, when at night 
 
 The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 
 
 'Twas 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 Eay. 
 
 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 f 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. 
 
 'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain; 
 
 No screen, no fence could I discover ; 
 
 And then the wind ! in faith, it was 
 
 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. 
 
 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 tho 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 heai* her cry, 
 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery !' " 
 
 "But what's the Thorn ? and what the Pond 1 
 
 And what the Hill of moss to her ? 
 
 And what the creeping breeze that comes 
 
 The little Pond to stir V 
 
 "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, 
 
 T 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, 'tis 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 then the beauteous Hill of moss 
 
 Before their eyes began to stir ! 
 
 And, for full fifty yards around. 
 
 The grass — it shook upon the ground 1 
 
 Yet all do still aver 
 
 The little Babe is buried there, 
 
 Beneath that Hill of moss so fair. 
 
 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 I 
 
 Oh woe i3 me ! oh misery !' " 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 HART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 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 Richmond to Askrigg. 
 Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the 
 memory of which is preserved by the monnmenta 
 spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, 
 which monuments do now exist as I have there de- 
 scribed them. 
 
 The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 
 With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ; 
 He turned aside towards a Vassal's door, 
 And " Bring another horse !" lie cried aloud. 
 
 " Another Horse !"— That shout the Vassal heard 
 And saddled his best Steed, a comely gray ; 
 Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
 Which he had mounted on that glojious day. 
 
60 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Joy sparkled in the prancing Coureer's eyes ; 
 The Horse and Horseman are a liappy pair; 
 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, 
 There is a doleful silence in the air. 
 
 A rout this morning left Sir Waller's Hall, 
 That as they galloped made the echoes roar : 
 But Horse and Man are vanished, one and all ; 
 Sach 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 tlieir 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 mountain fern. 
 
 Where is the throng, the tumult of the race 1 
 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 a thorn ; 
 He had no follower. Dog, nor Man, nor Boy : 
 He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn, 
 But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 
 
 Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, 
 Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; 
 Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ; 
 And while with foam as if with cleaving sleet. 
 
 Upon his side the Plart was lying stretched : 
 
 His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill. 
 
 And with the last deep groan his breath hadfetclied 
 
 The waters of the spring were treuibling still. 
 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
 
 (Never had living man such joyful lot !) " 
 
 Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, 
 
 And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 
 
 And chmbing up the hill — (it was at least 
 Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found 
 Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast 
 Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now 
 Such sight was never seen by living eyes: 
 Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, 
 Down to the very fountain where he lies. 
 
 I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, 
 And a small Arbour, made for rural joy ; 
 'Twill be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim'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 ! 
 
 And they who do make mention of the same, 
 
 From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well. 
 
 And, gallant Stag ! 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 Minsirers song 
 We will make merry in that pleasant Bower. 
 
 Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
 My Mansion with its Arbour shall endure; — 
 
 The joy of tliem who till the fields of Swalc, 
 And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!" 
 
 Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead 
 Willi breathless nostrils strelched above the ppring. 
 —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 intertwined,—' 
 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 bis 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 anotlier tale. 
 
 I 4 
 
 ^3 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The moving accident is not my trade : 
 
 To freeze the blood I have no ready arte: 
 
 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade. 
 
 To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. *' 
 
 As I from Hawes to Pvichmond did repair, 
 It chanced that [ saw standing in a dell " 
 Three Aspens at three comers 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 sur^-ey ; 
 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 t accost. 
 And what this place might be I then inquired. 
 
 The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told 
 Which in my former rhj-me I have rehearsed. 
 " A jolly place," said he, " in times of old ! 
 But something ails it now ; the spot is curst. 
 
 You see these hfeless Stumps of aspen wood- 
 Some say that they are beeches, others elms— 
 These were the Bower; ana here a Mansion stood, 
 The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 
 
 The Arbour docs 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, 
 
 4 
 
 M 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 81 
 
 I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, 
 That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 
 
 What thoughts must through the Creature'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 icU 
 
 What cause the Hart might have to love fnis place, 
 
 And come and make his death-bed 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 iiis mother's side. 
 
 In April here beneath the scented thorn 
 lie heard the birds their morning carols sing ; 
 And he, peril aps, 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 ditTerence 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 slov/ 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. 
 
 One lesson. Shepherd, let us two divide. 
 
 Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals, 1 
 
 Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 S0N(5 
 
 AT TUE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE,* 
 
 UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE 
 
 SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF IIIS 
 
 ANCESTORS. 
 
 High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate, 
 And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.— 
 
 * Henry Lord Clifford, &c. &c., 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 known to the Reader of English History, \\/a< 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 Cumber- 
 land and Westmoreland;) "for the Earl's Father hud 
 slain his." A deed which worthily blemished the 
 author (saith Speed ;) but who, as he adds, " dare 
 promise any thing 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 by, was an action sufficiently 'in 
 tke vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not aitoge- 
 
 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 I 
 Behold her how She smiles to-day 
 On this great throng, this bright array ! 
 Fair greeting doth she send to all 
 
 thcr so bad as represented ; " for the Earl was no 
 cliild, as some v/riters would have him, but able to 
 bear arms, being sixteen or seventeen years of age, 
 as is evident from this, (say the Memoirs of the 
 Countess of Pembroke, who was laudably anxious to 
 wipe away, as far as could be, this stigma from the 
 illustrious name to vv^liich 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 Vin- 
 cent, in his Book of Nobiliiy, paire G-22., 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 Man and Comman- 
 der, two or three years together in the army of Lan- 
 caster, before this time; and, therefore, would be less 
 likely to think that the Earl of Rutland iniglit be enti- 
 tled lo mercy from his youth. — But, independent of 
 this act, at best a cruel and savage one, the Family 
 of Clifford had 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 lionnurs 
 during the space of twenty-four years; all which time 
 he lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumber- 
 land, where the estate of his Father-in-law (Sir 
 Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his 
 estate and honours in the first year of Henry the 
 Seventh. It is recorded that, " when called to par- 
 liament, he behaved nobly and wisely ; but otherv^nse 
 came seldom to London or the Court ; and rather de- 
 lighted lo live in the country, where he repaired seve- 
 ral of his Castles, v^^hich had gone to decay, during 
 the I'ate troubles." Thus far is chiefly collected from 
 Nicholson and Burn ; and I can add, from my own 
 knowledge, that there is a tradition current in the 
 village of Threlkeld and its neighbourhood, his prin- 
 cipal retreat, that, in the course of his shepherd-life, 
 he had acquired great astronomical knowledge. I 
 cannot conclude this note without adding a word up- 
 on 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 
 interesting country. The Cliffords had alwaj's been 
 distinguished for an honourable piide in these Cas- 
 tles ; and we have seen that after the wars of York 
 and Lancaster they were rebuilt ; in the ciyil wars of 
 Charles the First they were again laid waste, and 
 again restored almost to their former magniticence by 
 the celebrated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pem- 
 broke, &c. &;c. Not more than twenty-five years 
 after this was done, when the estates of Clifford had 
 passed into the Family of Tufton, three of these Cas- 
 tles, namely, Brough, Brougham, and Pendragon, 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 consulted the 
 text of Isaiah, 58th chap. 12th verse, to widch the in- 
 scription placed over the gate of Pendragon Castle, by 
 the Countess of Pembroke (I believe his Grandmo- 
 ther.) at the time she repaired that structure, refers 
 the reader :—" ./i?/r/ thnj that shall be of thee shalL 
 hvild the old waste places : thou shalt raise up the 
 foundations of many generations ; and thou shalt he 
 called the repairer of the breach^ the restorer of paths 
 to dwell in.'" The Earl of Thanet, the present pos- 
 sessor of the Estates, with a due respect for the me- 
 mory of his ancestors, and a proper sense of the value 
 and beauty of these remains of antiquity, has (I am 
 told) given orders that they shall be preserved from" 
 all depredations. 
 
82 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 From every corner of the Hall ; 
 But, chiefly from above the Board 
 Where sits in state our rightful Lord^ 
 A Ciitford to his own restored I 
 
 " They came with banner, spear, and shield ; 
 And it was proved in Bosworth-fieJd. 
 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 
 Tlie glory of their loyalty. 
 
 " How glad is Skipton at this hour — 
 Though she is but a lonely Tower 1 
 To vacancy and silence left ; 
 Of all her guardian sons bereft — 
 Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page or 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 I 
 
 " 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 
 ]jight as the wind along the grass. 
 Can this be He who hither came 
 In secret, like a smothered flame 1 
 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 slie to her Babe did say, 
 • My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest 
 
 * This line is from " The Battle of Bosworth Field " 
 by Sir John Beaumont (brother to the Dramatist ) 
 whose poems are written with much spirit, elegance 
 and harmony ; and have deservedly been reprinted 
 lately in Chalmer's Collection of English Poets. 
 
 I may not be; but rest thee, resi^,' 
 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 Groveg^ 
 And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves, 
 And quit the flowers that summer brings 
 To Glenderamakin'a lofty springs ; 
 Mu-st vanish, and his careless cheer 
 Be turned to heaviness and fear. 
 — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 
 Hear it, good Man, old in days I 
 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 Clilford's ear ! 
 I said, when evil Men are strong, 
 No life is good, no pleasure long, 
 A weak and cow^ardly untruth! 
 Our Clifl^ord was a happy Youth, 
 And thankful through a weary time. 
 That brought him up to manhood's prime' 
 — Again he wanders forth at vi^ill, 
 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 solemn glee, 
 And a cheerful company. 
 That learned of him submissive waysj 
 And comforted his private days. 
 
 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 
 
 Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him; 
 
 The Pair were servants of his eye 
 
 In their immortality ; 
 
 They moved about in open sight, 
 
 To and fro, for his delight. 
 
 He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt 
 
 On the Mountains visitant ; 
 
 He hath kenned them taking wing: 
 
 And the Caves where Faeries sing 
 
 He bath entered ; and been told 
 
 By Voices how men lived of old. 
 
 Among the Heavens his eye can see 
 
 Face of thing that is to be; 
 
 And, if Men report him right, 
 
 He could whisper words of might. 
 
 — Now another day is come. 
 
 Fitter hope, and nobler doom ; 
 
 He hath thrown aside his Crook, 
 
 And hath buried deep his Book; 
 
 Armour rusting in his Halls 
 
 On the blood of ClitTordt calls ;— 
 
 ' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance- 
 Bear me to the heart of France, 
 
 Is the longing of the Shield— 
 
 * 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.— 
 Blencathara, mentioned before, is the old and proper 
 name of the mountain vulgarlv called Saddle-back. 
 
 t The martial character of the Cliflxtrds is well 
 known to the readers of English history ; but it may 
 not be improper here to say, byway of comment on 
 these lines and what follows, thatbr sides several others 
 who perished in the same manner,t he four immediate 
 Progenitors of the Person in whose hearing this is sup- 
 posed to be spoken, all died in the F ield 
 
P0KM8 OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 83 
 
 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 fervent Harper did not know 
 That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed, 
 Who, long compelled -in humble walks to go. 
 Was softened into fueling, 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 honoured more and more ; 
 And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
 *' The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
 Solitary, 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 1 
 Hear not we, unthinking Creatures I 
 Slaves of Folly, Love or Strife, 
 Voices of two different Natures ? 
 
 Have not We two 1 — yes, we have 
 Answers, and we know not whence ; 
 Echoes from beyond the grave, 
 Recognised intelligence I 
 
 Often as thy inward ear 
 Catches such rebounds, beware, — 
 Listen, ponder, hold them dear ; 
 For of God, — of God they are. 
 
 XXXIf. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 Ethereal Minstrel ! Pilgrim' of the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise tli£ Earth where cares abaund? 
 Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with ihy nest upou the dewy ground 1 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music still 1 
 
 To the last point of vision, and beyond. 
 Mount, daring Warbler ! that love-prompted strain, 
 ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
 Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 
 Yet might'at thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 
 All indepen < ent of the leafy spring. 
 
 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 Homo 
 
 XXXHL 
 
 It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown. 
 
 And is descending on his embassy ; 
 
 Nor Traveller gone from Earth the Heavens to espy I 
 
 'Tis Hesperus — there he stands with glittering crown, 
 
 First admonition that the sun is down. 
 
 For yet it is broad daylight I clouds pass by ; 
 
 A few are near him still — and now the sky, 
 
 He hath it toTiimself— 'tis all his own. 
 
 O most ambitious Star! thy Presence brought 
 
 A startling recollection to my mind 
 
 Of the distinguished few among mankind. 
 
 Who dare to step bej'^ond their natural race, 
 
 As thou seemst now to do : — nor was a thought 
 
 Denied — that even I might one day trace 
 
 Some ground not mine ; and, strong her strength above* 
 
 My Soul, and Apparition in the place. 
 
 Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove I 
 
 XXXTV. 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION, 
 
 AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCE 
 
 MENT. 
 
 . * 
 
 REPRINTED FROM " THE FRIEND. 
 
 Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
 
 For mighty were the Auxiliars, which then stood 
 
 Upon our side, we who were strong in love ! 
 
 Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
 
 But to be young was very heai^en ! — Oh ! 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 w^ork. 
 
 Which then was going forward in her name : 
 
 Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth, 
 
 The beauty wore of promise — that which seta 
 
 (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 wako 
 
 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 l:iad 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 whatsoe'er 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 ! 
 
 * This, and the Extract, page 6, and the first 
 Piece of this Class, are from the unpublis^hed Poem 
 of which some account is given in the Preface to th« 
 Excursion. 
 
m 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 XXXV. 
 ODE. 
 
 THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. 
 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 liint of man, if stone or rock 
 
 Seemed not his handy-work to mock 
 
 By something cognizably sliaped ; 
 
 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 skiea 
 
 Thence offer nightly sacrifice ;) 
 
 Wrinkled Egyptian monument; 
 
 Green moss-grown tower ; or hoary tent ; 
 
 Tents of a camp that never shall be raised ; 
 
 On which four thousand years have gazed ! 
 
 Ye plough shares sparkling on the elopes! 
 
 Ye snow-white lambs that trip 
 
 Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 
 
 Of restless ownership I 
 
 Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 
 
 To feed the insatiate Prodigal ! 
 
 Lawns, liouses, chattels, groves, and fields, 
 
 AH 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 Cenius dwells, that can subdue 
 
 At once all memory of You, — 
 
 Most potent when mists veil the sky, 
 
 Elists that distort and magnify ; 
 
 While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze. 
 
 Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 
 
 List to 'those shriller notes ! — that march 
 
 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 the savage Pass its name. 
 
 Aspiring Tload ! that lov'st to hide 
 
 Thy daring in a vapoury bourn, 
 
 Not seldom may the hour return 
 
 When thou shalt be my Guide: 
 
 And I (as often we find cause, 
 
 When life is at a weary pause, 
 
 And we 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 ! 
 
 4. 
 
 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, 
 
 Tne 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 ; 
 
 V/here Pity sheds sweet tears, and Love,. 
 
 In woodbine bower or birchen grove. 
 
 Inflicts his tender v/ound. 
 
 — Who comes 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! 
 
 Hope, pointing to the cultured Plain, 
 
 Carols like a sliepherd Hoy ; 
 
 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, 
 
 " Whatc'er the weak may dread, thewickM dare 
 
 Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion fair!" 
 
 XXXVL 
 EVENING ODE, 
 
 COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY 
 SPLENDOUR AND BEAUTY. 
 
 Had this effuigence disappeared 
 With flying haste, I might have sent. 
 Among the speechless clouds, a look 
 Of blank astonishment ; 
 But 'tis endued with power to stay. 
 And sanctify one closing day, 
 That frail Mortality may sec — 
 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 
 Thrir vespers in the grove ; 
 
 Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, 
 Warbled, for heaven above and earth below. 
 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 I 
 
 2. 
 
 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 spreaci 
 
 On ground which British shepherds tread ! 
 
 3. 
 
 And, if there be whom broken ties 
 Afflict, or injuries assail, 
 
rOHMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 85 
 
 Yon hazy ridges to their eyes 
 
 Present a glorious scale, 
 
 Climbing suffused with sunny air, 
 
 To stop — no record hath told where ! 
 
 And tempting Fancy to ascend,'" 
 
 And with immortal Spirits blend ! 
 
 — Wings at my shoulder seem to play ;* 
 
 But, rooted here, I stand and gaze 
 
 On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise 
 
 Their practicable way. 
 
 Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad. 
 
 And sec to what fair countries yc are bound ! 
 
 And if some Traveller, weary of his road, 
 
 Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy giound, 
 
 Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ; 
 
 And wake him with such gentle heed 
 
 As may attune his soul to meet the dower 
 
 Bestowed on this transcendant hour ! 
 
 4. 
 Such hues from their celestial Um 
 Were wont to stream ' before my fye, 
 Where'er it wandered in the morn 
 Of blissful infancy. 
 
 This glimpse of glory, why renewed 1 
 Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 
 For, if a vestige of those gleams 
 Survived, 'twas 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 1 
 My soul, though yet confined to earth, 
 Rejoices in a second birth ; 
 — 'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades ; 
 And night approaches with her shades. 
 
 J^ote. — The multiplication of mountain-riuges, de- 
 scribed, at the commencpnient of the third Btanza of 
 this ode, as a kind of Jacob's Ladder, leading to Hea- 
 ven, is produced either by watery vapours, or suuiiy 
 haze ; — in the present instance, by the latter cause. 
 Allusions to the Ode, entitled " intimations of Immor- 
 tality," at the conclusion of the fourth volume, per- 
 vade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 LINES, 
 
 COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON 
 
 REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR. 
 
 JULY 13, 1798. 
 
 Five years have past ; five summers, with the length 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 
 With a sweet inland murmur.f — Once again ^ 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. 
 That on a wild secluded scene impress 
 Thoughts 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 themselves 
 Among the woods and corpses, nor disturb 
 
 * In these lines I am under obligation to the ex- 
 quisite picture of Jacob's Dream, by Mr. Alstone, now 
 in America. It is pleasant to make this public ac- 
 knowledgment to a man of genius, whom I have the 
 honour to rank among my friends. 
 
 t The river is not affected by the tides a few miles 
 above Tintern. 
 
 The wild green landscape. Once again I see 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little linea 
 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 I 
 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 unremernbered ])leasure: such, perhaps, 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unreraembered acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
 To them T 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 on,— 
 Until the breath of this corporeal frame 
 And even the motion of our human blood 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 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 sec 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 tln-o' the woods, 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 
 And now, with gleams of half-extinguished 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 liills ; wlien 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 colours and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love. 
 That had no need of a remoter charm. 
 By thought supplied, or 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, 
 
86 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 
 Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimea 
 
 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 nie 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 ihe 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 behold 
 
 From this green earth; of all the mighty world 
 
 Of eye and ear, both what they half create,* 
 
 And what perceive; well pleased to recognise 
 
 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, 
 Jf I were not thus taught, should I the more 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
 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 1 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 privilege, 
 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 judgements, 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 behold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 
 And let the misty mountain winds be fi-ec 
 To blow aguinst thee: and, in after years, 
 When these wild ecstacies 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 harmonics ; 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 theso my exhortations ! Nor, perchance 
 If [ should be where I po 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 streapi 
 We stood together; and that I, so long 
 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 lofiy cliffs 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 More dear, both for tbemselves and for thy sake! 
 
 * This line has a close resemblance to an admirable 
 line of Young, the exact expression of which I do not 
 recollect. 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 What 'b in a JSTame ? 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Caesar! 
 
 TO 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq. P. L. 
 See. &c. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now Introduce to 
 your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its Ma- 
 nuscript state, nearly survived its minority/ .-—for it 
 first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this 
 long interval, pains have been taken at different times 
 to make the production less unworthy of a favourable 
 reception; or, rather, to fit it for fiU'mg permanenthj 
 a station, however humble, in the Literature of my 
 Country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my 
 endeavours in Poetry, which, you know, have been 
 suthciently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not 
 lightly to be approached ; and that the attainment of 
 excellence in it, may laudably be made the principal 
 object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with 
 reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith la 
 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 im- 
 periously, and for kindred results of pleasure, by inci- 
 dents, within the compass of poetic probabilit}^ in the 
 humblest departments of daily life. Since that Pro- 
 logue was written, you have exhibited most splendid 
 effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual 
 course. Let this acknowledgement make my peace with 
 the lovers of the supernatural ; and T am persuaded it 
 will be admitted, that to you, as a Master in that pro- 
 vince of the art, the following Tale, whether from 
 contrast or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. 
 Accept it, then, as a public testimony of affectionate 
 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, .Ipril 7, 1819. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 There's something in a flying horse. 
 There's something in a huge balloon ; 
 But through the clouds I'll never float 
 Until T have a little Boat, 
 Whose shape is like the crescent-moon. 
 
 And now I have a little Boat, 
 
 In shape a very crotcent-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 ; 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 87 
 
 The noise of danger fills your ears, 
 And ye have all a thousand feara 
 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 1 
 tVe 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 bine field of ether, 
 Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her. 
 Up goes my little Boat so bright ! 
 
 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 1 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, 
 The world for my remarks and me 
 Would not a whit the better be ; 
 I've left my heart at home. 
 
 And there it is, the matchless Earth ! 
 There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean ! 
 Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 
 Through the grey 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 Clueen ; 
 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 for ever ! 
 
 •'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 1 
 
 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 t 
 —Such din shall trouble them no more. 
 
 Tiiese nether precincts do not lack 
 Charms of their own ; — then come with me- 
 1 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'll 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'll 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 feel 
 
 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 pursuing 
 Without impediment or let, 
 My radiant Pinnace, you 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 'tis, 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. 
 
 Long have I loved w^hat I behold. 
 
 The night that calms, the day that cheers ; 
 
 The common growth of mother Earth 
 
 Sutfices 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 1 
 What nobler marvels than the mind 
 May in life's daily prospect find, 
 May find or there create 1 
 
 A potent wand doth Sorrow wield ; 
 What spell so strong as guilty fear ! 
 Picpentance is a tender Sprite ; 
 
88 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 If aught on earth have heavenly might, 
 'Tis lodged within her silent tear. 
 
 But grant my wishes,— let us now 
 Descend from tliis ethereal height ; 
 Then take tliy way, adventurous SicifT, 
 More daring far than Ilippogrilf, 
 And be thy own delight ! 
 
 To the stone-table in my garden, 
 Loved haunt of many a sun\mer hour, 
 The t>quirc» is come ;— his daughter Bess 
 Beside him in the cool recess 
 Sits blooming like a flower. 
 
 AVith these are many more convened ; 
 They know not T have been so far ;— 
 I gee them there, in number nine, 
 Beneath the spreading Weymouth pine— 
 I sec them— there they are ! 
 
 There sits the Vicar and his Dame; 
 
 And there my good friend, Steplien Otter; 
 
 And, ere the light of evening fail, 
 
 To them I must relate the Tale 
 
 Of Peter Bell the Potter." 
 
 Off flew my sparkling Boat in scorn. 
 Spurning her freight with indignation ! 
 And I, as well as I was able. 
 On two poor legs, tow'rd my stone-table 
 Limped on with some 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 river side 
 Groaned the poor Beast — alas! in vain 
 The statr was raised to loftier height, 
 And the blows fell with heavier weight 
 As Peter struck — and struck again. 
 
 Like winds that lash the waves, or smite 
 The woods, autumnal foliage thinning — 
 " Hold !" said the Squire, " I pray you hold ! 
 Who Peter was let that be told, 
 And start from the beginning." 
 
 " A Potter^', Sir, he was by 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. 
 
 * In the dialect of the North, a hawker of earthen- 
 ware is thus designated. 
 
 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 its ponderous knell, 
 Its far-renowned alarum ! 
 
 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 daleg,- 
 Among the rocks and winding scars ; 
 Where deep and low th3 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 ; 
 Wliere'er a knot of houses lay 
 On headland, or in hollow bay; — 
 Sure never man like him did roam ! 
 
 As well might Peter, in the Fleet, 
 
 Have been fast bound, a begging Debtor ;--^ 
 
 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 in 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 I 
 
 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. 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 ^5 
 
 j^ay, start not ! — wedded wives — and twelve ! 
 B'jt 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 ravage 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. 
 
 To all the unshapied half-human thoughta 
 
 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 cnurase j'ou 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 mi?ht 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 ichevs and hows ; 
 And half, by knitiing of his brows 
 Beneath the glaring sun. 
 
 There was a hardnpss 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 ! 
 
 OvE NIGHT, (and now my litt'e Besg ! 
 We've renrhed at last the promised Tale ;) 
 One beautiful November niiht, 
 When the full moon was shining bright 
 Upon the rapid river Swale, 
 
 Alone the river's windinsr banks 
 Prter wa'^ iravclling all alono ;— 
 Whether to buy or sell, or led 
 By pleasure running in his head,- 
 To me was never known. 
 
 He trudsed along through copse and brake, 
 He 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 cheerfully 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 bur/»^ 
 12 
 
 In downright fury and in wrath— 
 There's little sign the treacherous patb 
 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 endg. 
 
 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 grey, and tender gre«n,' 
 Together make as sweet a scenis 
 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 grey 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 I 
 
 And is there no one dwelling here, 
 No hermit with his beads and glass ! 
 And does no little cottage Inok 
 Upon this soft and fertile nook ? 
 Does no one live near this green grass 1 
 
 Across the deep and quiet spot - 
 Is Peter driving through the grass — 
 And now he is among the trees; 
 When, turning round his head, he sew 
 A solitary Ass. 
 
 " A prize," cried Peter, stepping hack 
 To 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 woodi, 
 And rocks that spread a hoary gleam. 
 And this one beast, that from the bed 
 Of the green meadow hangs iiis 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 heel his shagg}'^ side ; 
 But still the Ass his station kept. 
 
 " What's this !" cried Peter, brandishing 
 A new-peeled sapling ; — though I deem 
 This threat was understood full well. 
 Firm, as before, the Sentinel 
 Stood by the silent stream. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Q.uoth Peter, leaping from his seat, 
 " There is some plot against me laid ;*' 
 Once more the little meadow ground 
 And all the hoary clilfs around 
 He cautiously sutveyed 
 
90 
 
 POEMS OF THK IMAQlNATIOPf. 
 
 All, all is silent— rocks and wooda, 
 All slill and silent— far and near ! 
 Only the Ass, with motion dully 
 Upon the pivot of his skull 
 Turns round his long left ear. 
 
 Thought Peter, What can mean all this 1— 
 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. 
 
 Whai followed ?— yielding to the shock, 
 The Ass, as if to take his ease, 
 In quiet uncomplaining mood. 
 Upon the spot where he had stood, 
 Dropped gently down upon his knees. 
 
 And then upon his side he fell. 
 And by the river's brink did lie ; 
 And, as he lay like one that mourned, 
 The Beast on his tormentor turned 
 His shining hazel eye. 
 
 'Twas but one mild, reproachful look, 
 A look more tender than severe ; 
 And straight in sorrow, not in dread. 
 He turned the eye-ball in his head 
 Towards the river deep and clear. 
 
 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. 
 
 And Peter halts to gather breath, 
 And, while he halfs, was clearly shown 
 (What he before in part had seen) 
 How gaunt the Creature was, and lean. 
 Yea, wasted to a skeleton. 
 
 With legs stretched out and stiff he lay: — 
 No word of kind commisseralion 
 Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue ; 
 With hard contempt his heart wag wrung 
 With hatred and vexation. 
 
 The meagre beast lay still as death — 
 And Peter's lips with fury quiver — 
 Cluoth he, " You little mulish dog, 
 I'll fling your carcass like a log 
 Head-foremost down the river I" 
 
 An impious oath confirmed the threat : 
 That instant, while outstretched he lay. 
 To all the echoes, south and north, 
 And east and west, the Ass sent forth 
 A loud and piteous bray ! 
 
 This outcry, on the heart of Peter, 
 Seems like a note of joy to strike, — 
 Joy at the heart of Peter knocks ; 
 But in the echo of the rocks 
 Was soxnething 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 an endless shout, 
 
 Tho long dry see-saw of his horrible bray ? 
 
 What is there now in Peter's heart ! 
 Or whence the might of this atrange sound ? 
 The moon uneasy looked and dimmer, 
 The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer, 
 And the rocks staggered all around. 
 
 From Peter's hand the sapling dropped f 
 Threat has he none to execute — 
 ♦' If any one should come and see 
 That I am here, they'll think," quoth he, 
 »' I'm helping this poor dying brute." 
 
 He scans the Ass from limb to limb ; 
 And Peter now uplifts his eyes ; 
 Steady the moon doth look, and clear. 
 And like themselves the rocks appear, 
 And quiet are the skies. 
 
 Whereat, in resolute mood, once more, 
 He stoops the Ass's necks to seize — 
 Foul purpose, quickly put to flight ! 
 For in the pool a startling sight 
 Meets him, beneath the shadowy trees. 
 
 Is it the moon's distorted face 1 
 The ghost-like image of a cloud ? 
 Is it the gallows there portrayed 1 
 la Peter of himself afraid 1 
 Is it a coffin, — or a shroud ? 
 
 A grisly idol hewn in stone ? 
 Or imp from witch's lap let fall 1 
 Or a gay ring of shining fairies, 
 Such as pursue their brisk vagaries 
 In sylvan bower, or haunted hall 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 Never did pulse so quickly throb, 
 And never heart so loudly panted ; 
 He looks, he cannot choose but look ; 
 Like one intent upon 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 I 
 His hat is up — and every hair 
 Bristles — and whitens in the moon I 
 
 He looks — he ponders — looks again ; 
 He sees a motion — hears a groan ; — 
 His eyes will burst — his heart will break- 
 He gives a loud and frightful shriek. 
 And drops, a senseless weight, as if his life wers 
 flown ! 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 Wb left our Hero in a trance, 
 Beneath the alders, near the river ; 
 The Ass is by the river side, 
 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 sighing— 
 To sink, perhaps, where he is lying, 
 Into a second swoon! 
 
 He lifts his head — he sees his staff; 
 He touches — 'tis to him a treasure ! 
 Faint recollection seems to tell 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 91 
 
 That he is yet where mortals dwell — 
 
 A thought received with languid pleasure! 
 
 Hia head upon hla 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. 
 
 JVow— like a tempest-shattered bark, 
 That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, 
 And in a moment to the verge 
 Is lifted of a foaming surge — 
 Full suddenly the Ass doth risel 
 
 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 r.fe 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 Asa looks on — and to his work 
 Is Peter quietly resigned ; 
 He touches here — he touches there — 
 And now among the dead man's hai/ 
 His sapling Peter has entwined. 
 
 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 all this while — 
 What aim is his 1 what is he doing 1 
 His sudden fit of joy is flown, — 
 He on his knees hath laid him down, 
 As if he were his grief renewing. 
 
 But no — his purpose and his wish 
 
 The Suppliant shows, well as he can ; ^ 
 
 Thought Peter, what?oe'er betide, 
 
 I'll go, and he my way will guide 
 
 To the cottage of the drowned man. 
 
 This hoping, Peter 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 
 Tb reached— but there the trusty guide 
 Into a thicket turned aside, 
 And takes his way towards the south: 
 
 When hark a burst of doleful sound I 
 And Peter honestly might say. 
 The like came never to his ears. 
 Though he has been, full thirty years, 
 A Rover — night and day ! 
 
 'Tis not a plover of the moors, 
 
 'Tis 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 I 
 
 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 ciowd. 
 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 ! 
 
 Holding 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 ; 
 What seeks the boy 1 — the silent dead — 
 
 His father ! — Him doth he require. 
 Whom he hath 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 noise 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 befel. 
 
 Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home. 
 Is striving stoutly as he may ; 
 But, while lie 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 footstep true 
 Descending slowly, till the two 
 The open moonlight reach. 
 
 And there, along a narrow dell, 
 
 A fair smooth pathway you discern, 
 
 A length of green and open road — 
 
9% 
 
 POEMS OF THE iMAGIxNATION. 
 
 As If it from a fountain flowed— 
 Winding away between the fern. 
 
 Tlio rocks that tower on either side 
 
 Build up a wild fantastic scene ; 
 
 Temples like those among the Hindoos, 
 
 And mosques, and spires, and abbey 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 countenance, 
 
 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 wends 
 Where, shining like the smoothest sea, 
 In undisturbed immensity 
 J^ level plain extends. 
 
 But whence that faintly-ruatling sound 
 Which, all too long, the pair hath chased I 
 — A dancing leaf is close behind. 
 Light plaything for the sportive wind 
 Upou that solitary waste. 
 
 When Peter spies the withered leaf, 
 It yields no cure to his distress ; 
 " Where there is not a bubli or tree, 
 The very leaves they follow me — 
 So huge hath been my wickedness I" 
 
 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 bl^dq 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. 
 
 A stain — as of a drop of blood 
 
 By moonlight made more faint and wan — 
 
 Ha! why this comfortless despair? 
 
 He knows not hov;r the blood conjes there, 
 
 And Peter is a wicked man. 
 
 At length he spies a bleeding wound. 
 Where he had struck the Creature'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 darting pains. 
 
 As meteors shoot through heaven's wide plains, 
 
 f*ae3 through his bosom— and repass I 
 
 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 t might bend 
 At night o'er any pious book. 
 When sudden bla(jknes3 overspread 
 
 The snow-white page on which he red<?, 
 And made the good man round him loofc. 
 
 The chamber walls Were dark all round,— 
 
 And to his book he turned again ; 
 
 — The light had left the good man's 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 conl, 
 Appeared, set forth in strange array, 
 A word — which to his dying day 
 Perplexed the good man's gentle soul. 
 
 The ghostly word, full plainly seen, 
 Did never from his lips depart; 
 But he hath said, poor gentle wight ! 
 It brought full many a sin to light 1 
 Out of the bottom of his heart. 
 
 Dread Spirits ! to torment the good 
 Why wander from your course so far. 
 Disordering colour, form, and stature! 
 — Let good men feel the soul of Nature, 
 And see things as they are. 
 
 I know you, potent Spirits I well, 
 How, with the feeling and the sense 
 Playing, ye govern foes or friends. 
 Yoked to your will, for fear;ul ends — : 
 And this [ speak iu reverence 1 
 
 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 
 Ou hearts like that of Peter Bell. 
 
 Your presence I have often fel{ 
 
 In darkness and the stormy night ; 
 
 And well I know, 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 I and try 
 To-night, beneath the moonlight sky, 
 What may be done with Peter Bell J 
 
 — O, would that some more skilful voice 
 My further labour might prevent I 
 Kind Listeners, that around me sit, 
 I feel that I am all unfit 
 For such high argument. 
 
 I've played and danced with my narration — 
 
 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. 
 
 Bythis his heart is lighter far; 
 And, finding that he can account 1 
 So clearly for that crimson stain, 
 His evil spirit up again 
 Does like an empty bucket mount, 
 
 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. 
 
POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 93 
 
 '^' And, say the best you can, 'tis plain, 
 
 " That here hath been some wicked dealing ; 
 
 **No doubt the devil in me wrought 
 
 " I'm not the man who couJd 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 world the cause 
 
 Why, making here a sudden pause. 
 
 The Ass turned round his head — and grinned. 
 
 Appalling process I — I have marked 
 The like on heath — in lonely wood. 
 And, verily, have seldom met 
 A specfucle more hideous — yet 
 It suited Peter's present mood. 
 
 And, grinning in his turn, his teeth 
 Ho in jocose defiance showed — 
 When, to confound his spiteful mirth, 
 A murmur, pent within the earth, 
 In the dead earth beneath the road, 
 
 Rolled audibly! — it swe^pt along — 
 A muffled noise— a rumbling sound ! 
 *Twas by a troop of miners made, 
 Plying W!th gunpowder their trade. 
 Some twenty fathoms under ground. 
 
 Small cause of dire effect I — for, surely, 
 If ever mortal. King or Cotter, 
 Believed that earth wns 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 fropt 
 
 Have stiffened them, maintain their post ; 
 
 So he, beneath the gazing moon ! — 
 
 Meanwhile the pair hnve reached a spot 
 Where, sheltered by a rocky cove, 
 A little chapel stands alone. 
 With greenest ivy overgrown. 
 And tufted with an ivy grove. 
 
 Dying insensibly away 
 
 From human thoughts and purposes. 
 
 The building seems, wall, roof, and tower, 
 
 To bow to some transforming power. 
 
 And blend with the surrounding trees. 
 
 Deep-sighing as he passed along. 
 Quoth Peter, ^'In the shire of Fife, 
 " 'Mid such a ruin, following still 
 " From land to land a lawless 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, 
 And a confusing 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 noiae. 
 
 JSTow, turned adrift into the past, 
 He finds no solace in his course; 
 Like planet-stricken men of yorp. 
 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 ! 
 
 A lonely house her dwelling was, 
 A cottage in a heaihy dell ; 
 And she put on her gown of green, 
 And left her mother at sixteen. 
 And followed Peter Bell. 
 
 But mnny good and pious thoughts 
 
 Had she ; and, in the kirk to prav, 
 
 Two long Scotch miles, through rain or buow, 
 
 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 j)ledged his troth before the altar 
 To love her as his wedded A'ife. 
 
 A mother's hope is hers ; — but soon 
 She drooped and pined like one forlorn ; 
 From fc^cripiure 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 n prevalence 
 More terrible than magic spell. 
 
 Close by a brake of flowering furze 
 (Above it shivering aspens play) 
 He sees an unsubstantial creainre, 
 His very self in form and feature. 
 Not four yards from the broad highway : 
 
 And stretched beneath the furze he seei 
 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 beholds by the furze-brake 
 This miserable vision I 
 
 Calm is the well-deserving brute, 
 His peace, hath no offence betrayed; 
 But now, while down that slope he wendff 
 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. 
 
 Is from that tabernacle— List ! 
 
 Within, a fervent Methodist 
 
 Is preaching to no heedless flock! 
 
94 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 " Repent ! repent !" he cries aloud, 
 " While yet ye may find mercy ; — strive 
 " To love the Lord with a I your might ; 
 *' Turn to him, seek him day and night, 
 " And save your souls alive ! 
 
 " Repent ! repent I though ye have gone, 
 " Through paths of wickedness and woe, 
 "After the Bahylonian 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 l\)ey 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 ! 
 His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt ; 
 Through all his iron frame was felt 
 A gentie, 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. 
 
 'Tis said, that, through prevailing grace. 
 He, not unmoved, did notice now 
 The cross upon thy shoulders scored. 
 Meek Beast ! in memory of the Lord 
 To whoiL all human-kind shall bow : 
 
 In memoiy of that solemn day 
 When Jesus humbly deigned to ride, 
 Entering the proud Jerusalem, 
 By an immeasurable stream 
 Of shouting people deified ! 
 
 Meanwhile the persevering Ass, 
 Towards a gate in open view, 
 Turns up a narrow lane ; his cheat 
 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 
 Bets down his hoofs inaudibly. 
 As if with felt his hoofs were shod. 
 
 Along the lane the trusty Ass 
 Had gone two hundred yards, not more ; 
 When to a lonely house he came ; 
 He turned aside towards the same. 
 And stopped before the door. 
 
 Thought Peter, 'tis 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 hope 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 aftVight : 
 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 w^as confused; 
 Put, 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 — 
 Plis 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 learnrd 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 Sufferer cast 
 Upon the Beast that near her stands ; 
 She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same ; 
 She calls the poor Ass by bis name, 
 And wrings, and wrings her hands. 
 
 " O wretched loss — untimely stroke ! 
 " If he had died upon his bed I 
 " — He knew not one forewarning pain — 
 " He never will come home again — 
 "Is dead — for ever dead I'' 
 
 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, 
 
 Tiie Woman rises from the giound — 
 
 " Oh, mercy ! something must be done,— 
 
 " My little Rachel, you must run, — 
 
 " Some willing neighbour 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, Avhom Heaven requite, 
 
 " Will help to bring the body home." 
 
 Away go.'S Rachel weeping loud ; — 
 An Infant, waked by her distress, 
 Makes in the house a piteous cry ; 
 And Peter hears the Mother sigh, 
 " Seven are they, and all fatherless I" 
 
 And now is Peter taught to feel 
 
 That man's heart is a holy thing ; 
 
 And Nature, through a w^orld 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 past a sudden shock of dread, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 95 
 
 The Mother o'er the threshold flies, 
 
 And up the cottage stairs she hies, 
 
 And to the pillow gives 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 his 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 past 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 1 
 " Oh ! would, poor beast, that I had now 
 "A heart but half as good as thine!" 
 
 —But jfiTc— who deviously hath sought 
 His Father through the lonesome woods. 
 Hath so\]ght, proclaiming to the ear 
 Of night his inward grief and 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 Roy, 
 For lie has no misgiving! 
 
 Towards 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, 
 "Oh ! God, I can endure no more !" 
 
 — Here ends my Tale : — for in a trice 
 Arrived a neighbour 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 luclc to see 
 Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, 
 Help by his labour 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 mau. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 I. 
 
 TO 
 
 Ha-Ppt the feeling from the bo5om thrown 
 
 In perfect shape, wliose beauty Time shall spare 
 
 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. 
 
 Which for the loss of that moist gleam atone 
 
 That tempted first to gather it. O chief 
 
 Of Friends ! such feelings if I here present. 
 
 Such thoughts, with others mixed less fortunate ; 
 
 Then smile into my heart a fond belief 
 
 That thou, if not with partial joy elate, 
 
 Receivest the gift for more than mild content ! 
 
 IE. 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
 And Hetmits 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 liighest 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 to me. 
 In sundry moods, 'twas 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. 
 
 III.— WRITTEN IN VERT 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, 
 
 [s cropping audibly his later meal: 
 
 Dark is the ground ; a slumber seems to steaif 
 
 O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. 
 
 Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, 
 
 Homefelt, and home-created, seems to heal 
 
 That grief for which the senses still supply 
 
 Fresh food ; for only then, when memory 
 
 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. 
 
 IV. — ADMONITION. 
 
 Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who 
 may have happened to be enamoured of some beau- 
 tiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes. 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine 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 must 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 entwine : 
 Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day 
 On which it should be touched, would melt, and melt 
 
 away. 
 
 " Beloved Vale !" I said, '• when I shall con 
 Those many records of my childish years. 
 
96 
 
 Remembrance of mj^self and of my peers 
 Will press me down : to think of wJiat is gone 
 Will be an awful thought, if life have one." 
 But, when into ihe Vale I came, no fears 
 Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no tears ; 
 Deep thought, or awful vision, lied 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 Jwggler's balls old Time about him tossed; 
 I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed ; and all 
 The weight of sadness was in wonder lost, 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNElTff. 
 
 In his still haunt on Bagdad's stimmit high ^ 
 He who stood visible to Mirzah's eye, 
 Never before to human sight beirayed. 
 Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread! 
 The visionary Arches are not there, 
 Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas ; 
 Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head. 
 From which I have been lifted on the breeze 
 Of harmony, above all earthly care. 
 
 VL 
 
 Pklion 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," 
 
 Bhines with poetic radiance as of old ; 
 
 While not an Eng/ish 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 sovereignty 
 
 Our British Hill is fairer far ; he shrouds 
 
 His double front among Atlantic clouds. 
 
 And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly. 
 
 vn. 
 
 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 
 
 Oftener ihan Gances or the Nile; a thought 
 
 Of private recollection sweet and still I 
 
 Months perish with (heir moons ; year treads on year ; 
 
 But, faithful Emma, thou with me canst say 
 
 That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear, 
 
 And flies their memory fast almost as they, 
 
 The immortal Spirit of one happy day 
 
 Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear. 
 
 vni. 
 
 Her only Pilot the »oft breeze, the Boat 
 
 Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied ; 
 
 With keen-eyed" Hope, with Meujory, 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 Heavers 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 Crc vv I 
 
 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 7 
 
 IX. 
 
 The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade ; 
 The sweetest notes must terminate and die ; 
 O Friend: thy flute has breathed a harmony 
 Softly resounded through this rocky glade ; 
 Such strains of rapture as* the Genius played 
 
 * See the Vision of Mirza in the Spectator. 
 
 X. — UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,' 
 PAINTED BY SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART. 
 
 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 
 For ever anchored in her sheltering Day. 
 Soul-soothing Art! which Morning, Noon-tide, Even, 
 Do serve with all their changeful pageantry ; 
 Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, 
 Here, for the sight of mortal man, liast given 
 To one brief moment caught from fleeting time" 
 The appropriate cairn of blest eternity. 
 
 XL 
 
 '' Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murraurings — 
 Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?" 
 " Think, gent'.e Lady, of a Harp so far 
 From its own Country, and forgive the strings." 
 A simple Answer ! but even so forth springs. 
 From the astalian /buntain of the heart, 
 The Poetry of Life, and all that Art 
 Divine of words quickening insensate Things. * 
 From the submissive necks of guiliiess Mtri 
 Streiched on the block, the glittering axe recoils 
 Sun, Moon, and Siars, all siruggie in the toils 
 Of mortal sympathy ; what wonder then 
 If the poor Harp distempered music yields 
 To its sad Lord, far from his native Fields 1 
 
 xn. 
 
 Aerial Rock— whose solitary brow 
 From this low tljreshold daily meets my eight; 
 When I step forth to hail the morning light ; 
 Or quit the stars with lingering farewell — how 
 Shall Fancy paint to thee a grateful vow 1 
 How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest 1 
 By planting on tliy naked head the cresi 
 Of an imperial Castle, wliich the plough 
 Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme I 
 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 suiiset, ere it fade and die ! 
 
 XTII, — TO sleep. 
 
 O 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 I 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. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS- 
 
 97 
 
 i have no pain that calls for patience, no ; 
 Hence am I cross and peevish as a child : 
 Am pleased hy fits to have thee for my foe, 
 Yet ever willing to be reconciled : 
 O gentle Creature ! do not use me so, 
 But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 
 
 XIV. — 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 ; 
 By turns have all been thought of, yet I 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, b!ess6d barrier between day and day, 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 
 
 XY. — TO SLEEP. 
 
 Fond words have oft been spoken t® thee. Sleep ! 
 And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names ; 
 The very sweetest words that fancy frames, 
 When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep ! 
 Dear bosom Child we call thee, that dost steep 
 Tn rich reward all sufiering ; Balm that tames 
 All anguish : Saint that evil thought-^ and aims 
 Takest away, and into souls dost creep. 
 Like to a breeze from Leaven, Shall I alone, 
 T surely not a mnn 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! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 XVIIf. — TO THE POET, JOHN DTER. 
 
 Bard of the Fleece, whose slnlful genius mado 
 That work a hving 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 ungraced, 
 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 ! 
 
 XVI. — THE WILD duck's NEST. 
 
 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 bri<:k wav:s, yet here consents to dwell ; 
 And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing. 
 Words cannot paint the o'ershadowingyew-treebough. 
 And dimly-gleaming Nest, — a hollow crown 
 Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, 
 Fine as the Mother's softest plumes allow : 
 I gaze — and almost wish to lay aside 
 Humanity, weak slave of cumbrous pride ! 
 
 XVIL 
 
 WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN " 
 ANGLER." 
 
 THE COMPLETE 
 
 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 watching of each still report 
 That Nature utters from her rural shrine. — 
 Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline, 
 He found the longest summ.er day too short. 
 To his loved pastime given by sedgy ^Lce, 
 Of down the tempting maze of Shawford brook ! 
 
 13 
 
 XIX. — 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 Scottish dell: 
 
 But some (who brook these hacknied themes full well, 
 
 Nor heat, at Tarn O'Shanter'a name, their blood) 
 
 Waxed v/roth, and with foul clavv^s, a harpy brood. 
 
 On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. 
 
 Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen, 
 
 Who madest 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 grey-haired forehead, and rejoice 
 
 In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen ! 
 
 XX. — 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 
 
 Nema;an 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 splendours of a finished war_ 
 
 Upon the proud enslavers of mankind I 
 
 XXI. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORELAND, 
 ON EASTEPc SUNDAY. 
 
 With each recurrence of this glorious morn 
 That saw the Saviour in his human frame 
 P».ise from the dead, erewhilc the Cottage-dame 
 Put on fresh raiment — till that hour unworn : 
 Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn, 
 And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece, 
 In thoughtful reverence lo the Prince of Peace, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETffv 
 
 Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn. 
 A blest estate when piety Bublime 
 These humble props disdained not! O green dales! 
 Bad may / be who heard your sabbath chime 
 When Art's abused inventions were unknown ; 
 Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own ; 
 And benefits were weighed iu Reason's scales ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready Friend 
 Now that the cottage spinning-wheel is mute ; 
 And Care — a Comforter that best could suit 
 Her froward mood, and poftliest reprehend ; 
 And Love — a Charmer's voice, that used to lend, 
 More efficaciously than aught that flows 
 From harp or lute, kind influence to compose 
 The throbbing pulse, — else troubled witliout end : 
 Fven 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 relief— abate 
 The mantling triumphs of a day too blest. 
 
 XXlIL— TO s. H. 
 
 ExcueE is needless when with love sincere 
 
 Of occupation, not by fashion led, 
 
 Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread ; 
 
 Jl/y nerves from no such murmur shrink, — tho' near. 
 
 Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, 
 
 When twilight shades bedim the mountain's head. 
 
 Sbe who was feigned to spin our vital thread 
 
 Might smile. O Lady ! on a task once dear 
 
 To household virtues. Venerable Art, 
 
 Torn from the Poor! yet will kind Heaven protect 
 
 Its own, not left without a guiding chart, 
 
 If Rulers, trusting with undue respect 
 
 To proud discoveries of the Intellect, 
 
 Sanction the pillage of man's ancient heart. 
 
 XXIV. — DECAY or PIETY. 
 
 Oft have f «een, ere Time had ploughed my cheek, 
 
 IMatrons and Sires — who, punctual to the call 
 
 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 fervour of devotion meek. 
 
 I see the places where they once were known, 
 
 And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds, 
 
 Is ancient Piety for ever flown ?, 
 
 Alas ! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds 
 
 That, struggling through the western sky, have won 
 
 Their pensive light from a departed sun ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 COMPOSBD ON THE EVE OF TfTE MARRIAGE OF A 
 FRIEND, IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE. 
 
 What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay, 
 These humble Nuptials to proclaim or grace 1 
 Angels of Love, look down upon the place, 
 Shed on the chosen Vale a sun-briglu 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 strtCe:' 
 But, when the closer view of wedded life 
 Hath shown that nothing human can be cleKT 
 From frailty, for that insight may the Wife 
 To her indulgent Lord become more dear. 
 
 XXVI.— FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGBLO. 
 
 Yes ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace 
 
 And I be undehided, unbetrayed ; 
 
 For if of our aflections none find grace 
 
 In sight of Heaven, then, v/herefore hath God made 
 
 The world which we inhabit 1 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 the power 
 
 Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, 
 
 That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 
 
 XXVI[. — FROM THE SAME. 
 
 No mortal object did these eyes behold 
 
 When first they met the placid light of thin^, 
 
 And my Soul felt her destiny divine. 
 
 And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: 
 
 Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must bold; 
 
 Beyond the visible world She soars to seek 
 
 (For what delights the sense is false and weak) 
 
 Ideal Form, the universal mould. , 
 
 Tlie wise man, I aflirra, can find no rest 
 
 In that which perishes : nor will he lend 
 
 His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 
 
 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, 
 
 That kills the soul : love betters what is best, 
 
 Even here below, but more in heaven above. 
 
 XXVIII. — FROM THE SAMK. 
 TO THE SUPREME BEING. 
 
 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 saycst it may: 
 Unless thou shew 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. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Surprised by joy— impatient as ihe Wind 
 I turned to share the transport, — Oh I 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 1 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 ray heart's best treasure was no more; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 99 
 
 That neii^er present time, nor years unborn 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne 
 Which mists and vapours 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," 
 I seemed to mount those steps ; the vapours gave 
 Smooth way ; and I beheld the face of ono 
 Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, 
 With her face up to heaven ; that seemed to have 
 Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone ; 
 A lovely Beauty in a summer grave I 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 ^' Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind ; 
 
 *' Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays ; 
 
 *' Heavy is woe ; — and joy, for human-kind, 
 
 " A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze !" 
 
 Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days 
 
 Who wants the glorious faculty assigned 
 
 To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, 
 
 And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. 
 
 Imagination is that sacred power, 
 
 Imagination lofty and refined : 
 
 'Tis 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. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free ; 
 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad eun 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea : 
 
 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, 
 
 \( thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought 
 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year • 
 
 And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 
 €od being with thee when wq know it not. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigli, 
 
 Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed ; 
 
 Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 
 
 Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 
 
 A goodly Vessel did [ 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 nought 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^ 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The world is too much with us; late and 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 ! 
 
 This 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 every thing, we aie out of tune ; 
 
 It moves us not.— Great God ! I'd rathei* 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 oW Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found, 
 
 Who, while the fiaftering Zephyrs round then'i play, 
 
 On " coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay; 
 
 How quickly from that aery hold unbound, 
 
 Dust for oblivion I 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 Vurple eye 
 
 Is gently closing with the flowers , of sprin^ • 
 
 Where even the motion of an Angel's winV 
 
 Would interrupt the intense tranquillity 
 
 Of silent hilla, and more than silent sky. 
 
 XXXIIL 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go '^ 
 
 Festively she puts forth in trim array ; 
 
 As vigorous as a Lark at break of day: 
 
 Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow ? 
 
 What boots the inquiry 7~-Neither friend nor foe 
 
 She cares for ; let her travel where she may, 
 
 bhe finds familiar names, a beaten way 
 
 Ever before her, and a wind to blow ; 
 
 Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark 1 
 
 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, 
 
 ^f the old Sea boine reverential fear, 
 
 l8 With me at thy farewell, joyous Bark \ 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocka 
 
 The wayward brain, to saunt.er through a wood' 
 
 An old place, full of many a lovely brood 
 
 Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers 'in flockB • 
 
 And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn siock«= 
 
 Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks 
 
 A Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,- 
 
 When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks 
 
 Iho crowd beneath Jier. 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 aH things, that at last in fear I shrink 
 
 And leap at once from the delicious stream 
 
 XXXVIII.— PERSONAL TALK. 
 
 f AM not One who much or oft deliWn 
 To season my fireside with personal tu!k,- 
 Of Friends, who live within an easy walk 
 Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight \ 
 
100 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright, 
 Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on tlie 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 under song. 
 
 XXXIX. — CONTINUED. 
 
 •' Yet life," you say, "is life ; wc have seen and sec. 
 
 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 gleQ 
 
 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 1 
 
 Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies 
 
 More justly balanced ; partly at their feet, 
 
 And part far from them : — sweetest melodies 
 
 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 I 
 
 XL. — CONTINUED. 
 
 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 : 
 
 Pvound these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood. 
 
 Our pastime and our happiness will groAv. 
 
 There find I personal themes, a plenteous 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. 
 
 XLI. — CONCLUDED. 
 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
 Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
 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 
 Kocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 
 Blessings be with them— and eternal praise, 
 Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler Cares — 
 The Poets, who on earth have made us 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. 
 
 XLH. 
 
 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 
 
 Xs reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire, 
 
 He burns — transmuted to a sullen fire, 
 
 That droops and dwindles,— and, the appointed debt 
 
 To the flying moments paid, is seen no more. 
 
 Angels and gods ! we struggle with our fate, 
 While health, power, glory, pitiably decline, 
 Depressed and then extinguished ; and our staff, 
 In this, how different, lost star, from thine, 
 That no to-morrow shall our beams restore I 
 
 XLIII. — TO R. B. HAYDON, ESQ. 
 
 High is our calling. Friend I — 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 whis,.ers of the lonely!^Muse, 
 While the whole world seems adverse to deserJ, 
 And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may, 
 Tlirough long-lived 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-mindedness — 
 Great is the glory, for the strife is hard I 
 
 XLtV. 
 
 From the dark chambers of dejection freed, 
 
 Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care, 
 
 Ptise, Gillies, rise : the gales of youth shall bear 
 
 Thy genius forward like a winged steed. 
 
 Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed 
 
 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 heaven-ward they direct. — Then droop not thou, 
 
 Erroneously renewing a sad vow 
 
 In the low dell 'mid Eoslin's faded grove : 
 
 A cheerful life is what the Muses love, 
 
 A soaring spirit is their prime delight. 
 
 XLV 
 
 Fair Prime of life I were it enough to gild 
 
 With ready sunbeams every straggling shower; 
 
 And, if ah 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 I show that worthier honours 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. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 I heard (alas ! 'twas only in a dream) 
 Strains — which, as sage Antiquity believed. 
 By waking ears have sometimes been received 
 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 heavecihf 
 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* 
 Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires 1 
 
 * See the Phedo of Plato, by which this Sonnet was 
 suggested. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 101 
 
 Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires ! 
 She soared— and I awoke, struggling in vain to follow. 
 
 XLVII. — RETIREMENT. 
 
 If the whole weight of what we think and feel, 
 
 3ave only far as thought and feeling blend 
 
 With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend ! 
 
 From thy remonstrance would be no appeal ; 
 
 But to promote and fortify the weal 
 
 Of our own Being is her paramount end ; 
 
 A truth which they alone shall comprehend 
 
 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 unincumbered mind, 
 
 By some weak aims at services assigned 
 
 To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss. 
 
 xLvm. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT. 
 
 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 hopc'ess wasting, root and stem : 
 
 That 1, 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. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you liave frowned, 
 
 Mindless of its just honours ; with this Key 
 
 Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 
 
 Of this small Lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 
 A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso sound ; 
 
 Camoens soothed with it 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 Faery-land 
 
 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 ! 
 
 IT. 
 
 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 peace and concord dwell, 
 There also is the Muse not loth to range, 
 Watching the blue smoke of the cimy grange, 
 Skyward ascending from the twilight dell. 
 Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, 
 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 gmell is shy and lowly. 
 
 III.— SEPTEMBER, 1815. 
 
 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 Winter wielda 
 
 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 crystalline sky. 
 
 Announce a season potent to renew, 
 
 Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, 
 
 And nobler cares than listless summer knew. 
 
 IV. — NOVEMBER 1. 
 
 How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright 
 The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, 
 Which, strewn with snow smooth as the heaven can 
 
 shed. 
 Shines like another Sun — on mortal sight 
 Uprisen, as if to check approaching night. 
 And all her twinkling stars. 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, 
 Unswfpt, un'^tained 1 Nor shall the aerial Powers 
 Dissolve that beauty — destined to endure, 
 White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, 
 Through all vicissitudes — till genial spring 
 Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers- 
 
 V. — COMPOSED DURING A STORM. 
 
 One who was suffering tumult in his soul 
 
 Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, 
 
 Went forth— his course surrendering to the care 
 
 Of the fierce wind, while mid-duy lightnings prowl 
 
 Insidiously, untimely thunders growl ; 
 
 While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, fear 
 
 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 orb — shield of "tranquillity. 
 
 Invisible unlooked-for minister 
 
 Of providential goodness ever nigh ! 
 
 VI. — TO A SNOW-DROP. 
 
 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, way-lay 
 
 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 odours lavishing 
 
 On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers • 
 
 Nor will I then thy modest grace forget. 
 
 Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Sprin'' 
 
 And pensive monitor of fleeting years I 
 
 VII.— COMPOSED A FEW DAYS AFTER THE FOREGOING. 
 
 When haughty expectations prostrate lie, 
 And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing, 
 
im 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring 
 
 Mature release, in fair society 
 
 Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try ; 
 
 Like these frail snow-drops 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 tho 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 command, 
 
 Might overwhelm, but could not separate ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Stars are mansions built by Nature's hand ; 
 
 The Sun is peopled ; and with Spirits blest : 
 
 Say, can the gentle Moon be unpossest 1 
 
 Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand, 
 
 A Habitation marvellously planned, 
 
 For life to occupy in love and rest ; 
 
 AH that we see — is dome, or vault, or nest, 
 
 Or fort, erected at her sage command. 
 
 Glad thought for every season ! but the Spring 
 
 Gave it while cares were weighing on ray heart, 
 
 'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring; 
 
 And while the youthful year's prolific art — 
 
 Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was fashioning 
 
 Abo,des where self-disturbance hath no part. 
 
 IX. — TO THE LADY BEAUMONT. 
 
 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 alcove, 
 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 murmuring pinea 
 Be gracious as the music and the bloom 
 And all the mighty ravishment of spring. 
 
 X. — TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER, 
 
 WITH A SELECTION FROM THE POEMS OF ANNE, COUN- 
 TESS OF WINTHELSEA ; AND EXTRACTS OF SliMILAR 
 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, pnre as those that pave 
 
 The azure brooks where Dian joys to lave 
 
 Her spotless limbs ; and ventured to explore 
 
 Dim shades — for reliques, upon Lethe's shore, 
 
 Cast up at random by the sullen wave. 
 
 To female hands the treasures were resigned ; 
 
 And lo this Work ! — a grotto bright and clear 
 
 From stain or taint ; in which thy blameless mind 
 
 May feed on thoughts though pensive not austere ; 
 
 Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined 
 
 To holy musing, it may eater here. 
 
 XL 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 
 Which only Poetn know ;— 'Twas rightly said ; 
 
 Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
 
 Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains % 
 
 When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains, 
 
 I-Iow 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 hinderance and obscurity, - 
 
 Fresh as the Star that crowns the brow of Mom ; 
 
 Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear 
 
 The moment it has left the Virgin's eye, 
 
 Of rain-drop lingering on the pointed Thorn. 
 
 XII. 
 
 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 disjiaraged. 
 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. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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 behold. 
 At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power ! brought forth; 
 These mighty barriers, and the gulf between ; 
 The floods, — the stars, — a spectacle as old 
 As the beginning of the heavens and earth I 
 
 XIV. 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbest the sky, 
 How silently, and with how wan a face !* 
 Where art thou ? Thou whom I have seen on high 
 Running among the clouds a wood-aij^mph's race I 
 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-nij;ht his bugle horn. Had I 
 The power of Merlin, Goddess I this should be: 
 And the keen Stars, fast as the clouds were riven, 
 Should sally forth, an emulous Company, 
 All hurrying with thee through the clear blue heaven 
 But, < ynthia ! should to thee the palm be given, 
 Q,uecn both for beauty and for majesty. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Even qs 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: 
 
 * From a Sonnet of Sir Philip Sidney 
 
Miscellaneous sonnets. 
 
 103 
 
 ^he Lake below reflecta It not ; the sky, 
 
 Muffled in clouds, affords no company 
 
 To mitigate and cheer its loneliness 
 
 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, 
 
 Conversing, reading, laughing; — or they sing. 
 
 While hearts and voices in the song unite. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Mare the concentred Hazels that enclose 
 
 Yon old grey 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 tnat grows 
 
 Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom, 
 
 The very image framing of a Tomb, 
 
 In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose 
 
 Among tlie loneJy mountains. — Live, ye Trees! 
 
 And Thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep 
 
 Of a dark chamber Avhere the Mighty sleep: 
 
 For more than Fancy to the influence bends 
 
 When solitary Nature condescends 
 
 To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. 
 
 XVII.— CAPTIVITY. 
 
 *' 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 sorrow, blind !" 
 
 xvni. 
 
 Brook ! whose society the Poet eeekg, 
 Intent his wasted spirits to renew ; 
 And whom the curious Painter doth pursue 
 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 vvould not do 
 Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, 
 Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be,— 
 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 better good • 
 Unwearied joy, and life witliout its cares. 
 
 XIX.—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, 
 ^necked in your course by many a teasing burr ; 
 These natural council-seats your acrid blood 
 flight 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 themen ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 THIS, AND THE TWO FOLLOWING, WERE SUGGESTED 
 BY MR. Vl^. WESTALL's VIEWS OF THE CAVES, ETC. 
 IN YORKSHIRE. 
 
 Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er 
 
 Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts, 
 
 Green herbs, bright flow^ers, 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 pursuivants : 
 
 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.* 
 
 XXI. — malham cove. 
 
 Was the aim frustrated by force or guile, 
 
 When giants scooped from out the rocky ground 
 
 —Tier under tier — this semicirque profound '? 
 
 (Giants — the same who built in Erin's isle 
 
 That Causeway with incomparable toil !) 
 
 O, 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 !— Foundations must be laid 
 
 In Heaven ; for, 'mid the wreck of is and was 
 
 Things incomplete and purposes betrayed 
 
 Make sadder transits o'er truth's mystic glass 
 
 Than noblest objects utterly decayed. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 -GORi)ALE. 
 
 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 perceive 
 
 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 !' 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 THE MONUMENT COMMONLY CALLED tONG MEG AND 
 HER DAUGHTERS, NEAR THI RIVER EDEN. 
 
 A WEIGHT of awe not easy to be bornef 
 Fell suddenly upon my Spirit— cast 
 
 * Waters (as Mr. Westall informs us in the letter- 
 press prefixed to his admirable views) are invariably 
 louncl to flow through these caverns. 
 
 . t The Daughters of Long Meg, placed in a perfect 
 circle eighty yards in diameter, are seventy-two in 
 
104 
 
 MrSCELLANEOUS SONJJTETS. 
 
 From the dread bo&om of the unknown past, 
 When first I saw that Sisterhood forlorn ; 
 And Her, 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 
 Thy Progeny ; in hieroglyphic round 
 Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite, 
 The inviolable God, that tames the proud! 
 
 XXIV. — COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE 
 IIAMBLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE. 
 
 Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell ; 
 
 The wish«^d-for point was reached, but late the hour ; 
 
 And little could l»e gained from all that dov/er 
 
 Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell. 
 
 Yet did the glowing west in all its power 
 
 Salute us ; — there stood Indian Citadel, 
 
 Temple of Greece, and Minister 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 stedfast ! objects all for the eye 
 
 Of silent rapture ; but we felt the while 
 
 We should forget tiiem ; they are of the sky, 
 
 And from our earthly memory fade away. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " thej'^ are of the sky, 
 
 And from our earthly memory fade away." 
 
 These 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 dnily wooed ! 
 But now upon this thought I cannot brood ; 
 It is unstable as a dream of night ; 
 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 colours 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. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3. 1803. 
 
 Earth has not any thing to show more fair : 
 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 
 A sigbt so touching in its majesty : 
 
 This City now doth like a garment wear 
 
 The beauty of the morning ; sihnit, bare, 
 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples 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 splendour valley, rock, or hill; 
 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep I 
 
 number, and their height is from three feet to so many 
 yards above ground : a little wav out of the circle 
 stands J.ovo- J\[cff hevsoAf, a single Stone, eighteen feel 
 high. When the Author first saw this Monument 
 as he came upon it by surprise, he might over-rate its 
 importance as an object; but, though it will not 
 bear a comparison with Stonehenge, he must say, he 
 has not seen any other Relique of those dark ages, 
 which can pretend to rival it in singularity and dignity 
 of appearance. 
 
 The river glideth at his own sweet wili r 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
 XXVII.— 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 gnawing tooth, 
 
 Yet, O ye Spires of Oxford ! Domes and Towers ! 
 
 Gardens and Groves ! your presence overpowers 
 
 The soberness of Reason ; till, in sooth, 
 
 Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 XXVIII.— OXFORD, MAY 30. 1820. 
 
 Shame on this faithless heart ! that could allow 
 Such transport— though but for a moment's space; 
 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 plain daylight: — She, too, at my side, 
 Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, 
 Maintains inviolate its slightest vov»M 
 Sweet Fancj' I other gifts must I receive; 
 Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim ; 
 Take from her brow the withering flowerg of eve, 
 And to that brow Life's morning wreath restore; 
 L^t Iter be comprehended in the frame 
 Of these illusions, or they please no more. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 RECOLLECTION OF THE PORTRAIT OF KING HENR7 
 EIGHTH, TRINITY LODGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Tii ' imperial Stature, the colossal stride. 
 Are yet before me ; yet do I beho'd 
 The broad full visage, chest of amplest mould. 
 The vestments 'broidered with barbaric pride: 
 And lo I a poniard, at the Monarch's side, 
 Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy 
 With the keen threatenings of that fulgent eye, 
 Below the white-rimmed bonnet, far descried. 
 Who trembles now at thy capricious mood? 
 'IMid those surrounding worthies, haughty ^ ing. 
 We rather think, with grateful mind sedate, 
 How Providence educeth, from the spring 
 Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of good. 
 Which neither force shall check, nor time abate ! 
 
 XXX. — ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY, (gEORGB 
 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 ?— Fresii-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 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 103 
 
 In this deep knell— silent for threescore years, 
 An unexampled voice of awful memory ! 
 
 XXXI.— JUNE, 1820. 
 
 Fame tells of Groves — from England fb.r away— 
 ♦Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill 
 And modulate, vi^ith subtle reach of skill 
 Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varyhig lay ; 
 Such bold report I venture to gainsay : 
 For I have heard the choir 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. 
 
 XXXri. — A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE. 
 
 Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, 
 
 Is marked by no distinguishable line ; 
 
 The turf unites, the pathways intertwine ; 
 
 And, wheresne'er the stealing fooistep tends, 
 
 Garden, and that Domain where Kindred, Friends, 
 
 And Neighbours rest together, here confound 
 
 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. 
 
 xxxni. 
 
 COMPOSED AMONO THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN 
 NORTH WALES. 
 
 Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, 
 
 Wandering with timid footstep oft betrayed, 
 
 The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid 
 
 Old Time, though Pie, 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 ; 
 
 And, though past pomp no changes can restore 
 
 A soothing recompense, his gift, is Thine] 
 
 In ours the Vale of Friendship, let this spot 
 Be named ; where, faithful to a low-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 ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL's BRIDGE, NORTH 
 WALES. 
 
 How art thou named % In search of what strange land 
 
 From what huge height, descending ? Can sucn fore© 
 
 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 incessant shocks 
 
 From that young Stream, that smites the throbbing rocka 
 
 Of Viamala 1 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 j 
 
 Such power possess the Family of floods 
 
 Over the minds of Poets, young or old ! 
 
 XXXV r. 
 
 XXXIV.~TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P. 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE GROUNDS OF PLASS NEWIDD 
 
 NEAR LLANOOLLIN, 1824. 
 
 A Stream, to mingle with your favourite 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. 
 
 Gu'N Cafaillgaroch, in the Cambrian tongue, 
 
 * Wallachia is the country alluded to. 
 t Glyn Myrvr. 
 
 14 
 
 " gives to airy nothing 
 
 A local habitation and a name." 
 
 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 for ever, on aerial grounds I 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Strange visitation ! at Jcmimct's lip 
 
 Thus hadst thou pecked, wild Redbreast ! Love might 
 
 pay, 
 A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip 
 Its glistening dews ; but hallowed is the clay 
 Which the Muse warms ; and T, whose head is grey 
 Am not unworthy of thy fellowship ; 
 Nor could r let one thought — one motion — slip 
 That might thy sylvan confidence betray. 
 For are we not all His without whose care 
 Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the ground 1 
 Who gives his Angels wings to speed through air, 
 And rolls the planets through the blue profound ; 
 Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer ! nor forbeai 
 To trust a Poet in still vision bound. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 When Philoctetes in the Lemnian Isle 
 Lay couched ;— upon that breathless Monument, 
 On him, or on his fearful bow unbent. 
 Some wild liird oft might settle and beguile 
 The rigid features of a transient smile. 
 Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent. 
 Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment 
 From home affections, and heroic toil. 
 
106 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 Nor doubt that spiritual Creatures round us move, 
 Griefs to allay that Reason cannot heal ; 
 And very Reptiles liave sufficed to prove 
 To fettered Wretchedness, that no Bastile 
 Is deep enough to exclude the light of love, 
 Though Man for Brother Man has ceased to feel. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 WniLE they, who once were Anna's Playmates, tread 
 
 The mountain turf and river's fiovv^ery 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 gtiardian Angel, to some Charge 
 
 More urgent called, Vvill stretch his wings at large, 
 
 And Friends too rarely prop the languid head. 
 
 Yet Genius is no feeble comforter : 
 
 The presence even of a stutfed Owl for her 
 
 Can cheat the time: sending her fancy out 
 
 To ivied castles and to moonlight skies, 
 
 Though he can neither stir a plume, nor shout ; 
 
 Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes. 
 
 XL. — TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Not the whol<> 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 declared. 
 
 The lorldly 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 croA^ from household perch 
 
 To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing. 
 
 And thy erratic voice be faithful to the Spring ! 
 
 XLI. — THE INFANT II- 
 
 M- 
 
 Unqttiet 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 ; a trace 
 Of fretful temper sullies not her cheek; 
 Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek 
 That one enrapt Vv'ith 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. 
 
 XLIT. — to rotha q , 
 
 Rotha, my Spiritual Child ! this head was grey 
 
 When at the sacred Font for Thee I stood ; 
 
 Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, 
 
 And Shalt become thy own sufiicient stay : 
 
 Too late, T feel, sweet Orphan ! was the day 
 
 For stedfast 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 mountain stream* 
 
 Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's car 
 
 ♦ The River Rotha, that flows into Windermere from 
 he Lakes of Grasmere and Rydal. 
 
 After her throes, this Stream of name more dea?- 
 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. 
 
 XLIII.— to 
 
 IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR, 
 
 Such age how beautiful ! O Lady bright, 
 
 Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 
 
 By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind 
 
 To something purer and more exquisite 
 
 Than flesh and blood ; whene'er thou meet'st my sight, 
 
 When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, 
 
 Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, 
 
 And head that droops because the soul is meek. 
 
 Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare; 
 
 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. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 A GRAVE-STONE UPON THE FLOOR IN THE CLOISTER* 
 OF V/ORCESTER CATHEDRAL. 
 
 " MisERRiMUS !" and neither name nor date, 
 Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone • 
 Nought but that word assigned lo the unknown, 
 That solitary word — to separate 
 From all, and cast a cloud around the fate 
 Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched one, 
 Jllio chose 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. 
 
 XLV. — A TRADITION OF DARLEY DALE, DERBYSHIRE^ 
 
 'Tis 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, eag6r 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 gi'ew, 
 
 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. 
 
 XLVI. — FILIAL PrETY. 
 
 Untouched through all severity of cold, 
 
 Inviolate, v.iiate'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 suddenly the dart of death went forth 
 
 'Gainst him who raised it, — his last work on earth ; 
 
 Thence by his Son more prized than auglit which gold 
 
 Could purchase — watched, preserved by his own hands, 
 
 That, faithful to the Structure, still repair 
 
 Its waste. — Thougli crunjbling with each breath of aif, 
 
 In annual renovation thus it stands — 
 
 Rude Mausoleum I but wrens nestle there, 
 
 And red-breasts warble when sweet sounda are rare. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 
 
 107 
 
 XLvir. 
 
 TO R- B. IIAYDON, ESQ. ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE ON THE ISI.AND OT ST. HE- 
 LENA. 
 
 Hatdon ! let worthier judges praise the skill 
 
 Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines 
 
 And charm of colours ; / 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 laboured to enslave 
 
 The World, sole-standing high on the bare hill — 
 
 Back 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. 
 
 XLVIIL — CONCLUSION. 
 
 To . 
 
 Ip these brief Records, by the Muses' art 
 Produced as lonely Nature or the strife 
 That animates the scenes of public life 
 Inspired, may in thy leisures 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 honour rest upon the senseless clay. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 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 dilTused, 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 tov/ers of dread foundation 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 wc build. 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803, 
 
 I. 
 
 DEPARTURE 
 
 TROM 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 liea 
 
 Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise, 
 
 Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap 
 
 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, incursion 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 bo 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 Biili 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 enfold, 
 
 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 return. 
 
 If. 
 
 TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 
 
 AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER, 
 
 "The Poet's grave is in a corner of the churchyard- 
 " We looked at it with melancholy and painful re- 
 " flections, repeating to each other his own verses— 
 
 " ' Is there a man whose judgment clear,' &c." 
 Extract from 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 mourna 
 
 With sorrow- true ; 
 And more would grieve, but that it turns 
 
 Trembling to you ! 
 
 Through twilight shades of good »nd ill 
 
 Ye now are panting up life's hill, 
 
 And more than common strength and Bkill 
 
 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 I 
 But if the Poet's wit ye share, 
 
 Like him can speed 
 The social hour— for tenfold care 
 
 There will be need. 
 
 Even 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. 
 
108 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 
 
 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 w^hcre, mid " lonely heights and hows," 
 He paid to Nature tuneful vows ; 
 Or wiped his honourable 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 ; 
 But ne'er to a seductive lay 
 
 Let faith be given ; 
 Nor deem that " liglit 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 I 
 
 HI. 
 ELLEN IRWIN; 
 
 OR, 
 
 TPIE BRAES OF KIRTLE.* 
 
 Fair Ellen [rwin, when she sate 
 Upon the Braes of Kirtle, 
 Was lovely as a Grecian Maid 
 Adorned with wreaths of myrtle ; 
 Young Adam Bruce beside lier 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 is Gordon's beauteous face, 
 And what are Gordon's crosses. 
 To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes 
 Upon the verdant mosses 1 
 Alas that ever he was born ! 
 The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, 
 Sees them and their caressing; 
 Beholds them blest and blessing. 
 
 Prond Gordon cannot bear the thoughts 
 That through his brain are travelling, — 
 And, starting up, to Brucc's heart 
 Ho launched a deadly javelin I 
 Fair Ellen savi^ it when it came. 
 And, stepping forth to meet the same. 
 Did with her body cover 
 The Youth, her chosen lover. 
 
 And, falling into Brucc's arms, 
 . Thus died the beauteous Ellen, 
 Thus, from the heart of her True-love, 
 The mortal spear repelling. 
 
 * The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scot- 
 land, on whose banks the events here related took 
 place. 
 
 And Bruce, as soon ae he had slaio 
 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 seefc 
 
 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 liis sorrow ended. 
 
 Now ye, who willingly have heard 
 The tale I have been telling. 
 May in Kirkonnel 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 Hic jacet ! 
 
 IV. 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 
 
 (at INVERSNEYDE upon loch LOMOND.) 
 
 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 grey Rocks; this household Lawnj 
 
 These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
 
 This fall of water, that doth make 
 
 A 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 1 
 
 Yet, dream and vision as thou art, 
 
 I bless thee with a human heart: 
 
 God shield thee to thy laiest years! 
 
 I neither know thee nor thy peers ; 
 
 And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 AVith earnest feeling I shall pray 
 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 njaidenly shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer: 
 A face with gladness overspread I 
 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 ! 
 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 ihee who art so beautiful ? 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUA IN SCOTLAND, 1303. 
 
 109 
 
 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 neighbourhood. 
 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
 
 Thy elder Brother I would be, 
 
 Thy Father, any thing to thee i 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Haih led me to this lonely place. 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 T bear away my recompense. 
 Jn spots like these it is we prize 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
 Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 
 
 1 feel this place was made for her ; 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 
 Nor am T loth, though pleased at heart, 
 Sweet Plighland Girl! from Thee to part; 
 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 ! 
 
 V. 
 GLEN-ALMAIN ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE NARROW GLEN. 
 
 In this still place, remote from men. 
 
 Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow Glkn ; 
 
 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 every thing 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? — 1 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 I 
 Lies buried in this lonely place. 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 the course 
 of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained 
 some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest 
 parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed Wo- 
 men, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, 
 " What, you are stepping westward ?" 
 
 " What, you are stepping- locstward ?'* — " Yea. 
 
 — 'Twould be a wiidish destiny, 
 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 
 In a strange Land, and far from home, 
 
 Were in this place the giiests 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 heavcnhj destiny : 
 
 I liked the greeting ; 'twas 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER. 
 
 Behold her, single in the field 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass! 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 Stop he<e, or gently pass ! 
 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 chant 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of Travellers in some shady haunt, 
 Among Arabian Sands : 
 Such thrilling voice was never 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 1 
 
 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 7 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
 
 That has been, and may be again I 
 
 Whate'cr the theme, the Maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending ; 
 I saw her singing at her work. 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
 
110 
 
 MEMOIIIA1L0 OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 
 
 I listened— motionless and still ; 
 And when I mounted up the hill, 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 Long after it was lieard no more. 
 
 VIII. 
 ADDRESS 
 
 TO 
 
 KILCHURN-CASTLE UPON LOCII AWE. 
 
 *' From the top of the hill a most impressive scene 
 " opened upon our view,— a ruined Castle on an 
 " Island at some distance from the shore, backed by 
 "a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which 
 " came a foaming stream. The Cusllc 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 mouniains, and the Castle 
 " was wild, yet stately— not dismantled of Turrets— 
 •' nor the walls broken down, though obviously a 
 
 " ruin." 
 
 Extract from the Journal of my Companion. 
 
 Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain Stream 
 Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest 
 Is come, and thou art silent in thy age ; 
 -Bave when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught 
 Ambi'^uous, 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 suffered harm;) 
 Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims 
 To reverence, suspends his own; submitting 
 All that the God of Nature halh conferred, 
 All that he has in common with tho Stars, 
 To the memorial majesty of Time 
 Impersonated in thy calm decay ! 
 
 Take, then, thy seat. Vicegerent unreproved ! 
 
 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 
 
 The toils and struggles of thy infancy ! 
 
 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 subdued 
 
 And quieted in character ; the strife, 
 
 The pride, the fury uJicontrollable, 
 
 Lost oa the aerial heights of the Crusades I* 
 
 * The Tradition is, that the Castle was built by a 
 Lady during the absence of her Lord in Palestine. ' 
 
 IX. 
 
 ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 
 
 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 neg- 
 lected and desolate appearance, which the Travel- 
 ler meets with in 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 ofFhia Grave, 
 And let us chant a passing Stave, 
 In honour 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. 
 
 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 1 
 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 I 
 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 : 
 77iat tells me what to do. 
 
 The Creatures see of flood and field. 
 And those that travel on the wind I 
 With them no strife can last ; they live 
 In peace, and peace of mind. 
 
 For why 1 — because the good old Rule 
 Sufliceth 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 cruelly. 
 
 All freakishnessof 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 : 
 'Tis 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, 
 ril lake the shortest way." 
 
 And thus among these rocks he lived, 
 Through summer heat and winter snow 
 The Eagle, he was Lord above, 
 And Rob was Lord below. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 
 
 Ill 
 
 So was it — would^ at least, have been 
 But through untowardness of fate ; 
 For Polity was then too strong ; 
 He came an age too late, 
 
 Or shall wc say an age too soon 1 
 For, were the bold Man living now^ 
 How might he flourish in his pride, 
 With buds on every bough ! 
 
 Then rents and Factors, rights of chase, 
 Sheritis, 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 Jaw 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'll shew that we can help to frame 
 A world of other stufi". 
 
 T, 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 might have 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 He'ghts, 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 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 p/aces, bosoms, nooks, and bays, 
 And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, 
 And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 
 
 X. 
 
 COMrOSKD AT 
 
 CASTLE. 
 
 Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord ! 
 ^liora mere despite of heart could so far please, 
 
 XL 
 
 YARROW UNVrSITED. 
 
 (See the various Poems the Scene of which Is laid 
 upon the Banks of the Yarrow ; in particular, th© 
 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 Cloven ford. 
 Then said my ^^ winsome Marroio^^'' 
 " Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
 " And see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
 " Let Yarrow Folk, frac Selkirk Town, 
 
 " Who have been buying, selling, 
 
 " Go back to Yarrow, 'lis their own ; 
 
 " Each Maiden to her dwelling ! 
 
 " On Yarrow's banks let herons ^^^di^ 
 
 "Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! 
 
 " But we will downward with the Tweedj 
 
 " 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 1 
 
 '' 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*, 
 
 " But we will leave it growing. 
 
 " O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
 
 " We'll 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 Bum-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 ; 
 
 * See Hamilton's Ballad as above. 
 
112 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 
 
 " 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 vijiou of our own ; 
 
 " Ah ! why should we undo it 1 
 
 "The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 
 " We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
 
 " For when we're there, although 'Lis fair, 
 
 •' 'Twill be another Yarrow ! 
 
 " If Care with freezing j^ears should come, 
 
 " And wandering seem but folly, — 
 
 " Should we be loth to stir from home, 
 
 " And yet he melancholy ; 
 
 *' Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 
 " 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 
 
 " That earth has something yet to show, 
 
 " The bonny Holms of Yarrow I" 
 
 XII. 
 IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY, 
 
 AN INVASION BEING EXPICCTED, 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 whirlwind came 
 The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame ; 
 And Garry, thundering down his mountain road, 
 Was stopped and could not breathe beneath the load 
 Of the dead bodies. — 'Twas 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 iier Foes find a like inglorious Grave. 
 
 xriL 
 
 THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH 
 
 AND HER HUSBAND. 
 
 At Jedborough, my companion and I went into private 
 Lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses 
 were called forth by the character and domestic situa- 
 tion of our Hostess. 
 
 Age I 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 .Trt' borough Tower, 
 A Matron dwells,' whq though she bcarg 
 Our mortal complement of years, 
 Lives in the light of youthful glee. 
 And she will dance and sing with thee. 
 ■ Nay ! start not at that Figure— there I 
 Him who is rooted to his chair ! 
 Look at him — look again ! for Pie 
 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 raerry-making enter here 1 
 
 l^he joyous Woma.i is the Matfl' 
 Of bim 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 timea 
 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 I 
 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 1 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 I enclosed^ 
 Within himself as 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 eyea 
 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 I 
 'Tis all that now remains for him ! 
 
 The more I looked, T wondered more — 
 And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, 
 A moment gave me to espy 
 A trouble in her st«-ong black eye ; 
 A remnant of uneasy light, 
 A flash of something over-biight! 
 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 lliat sore distress 
 By no untimely joyousness ; 
 Which ma!;tb of thine a blissful state; 
 And cheers thy melancholy Mate ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere-dale, 
 
 Say that we come, and come by this day's light ; 
 
 Glad tidings! — spread them over field and height; 
 
 But cliicfly let one Cottage hear the tale; 
 
 There let a mystery of joy prevail. 
 
 The happy Kitten bound with frolic might, 
 
 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, 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 
 
 113 
 
 That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled 
 With intimations manifold and dear, 
 While we havR wandered over wood and wild, 
 Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 
 
 k TALE TOLD BY THE FIRE-SIDE, AFTER RETURNING 
 TO THE VALE OF GRASMSRE. 
 
 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 ovvn. 
 
 There ! take your seat, and let me see 
 That you can listen quietly ; 
 And, as I promised, I will tell 
 That strange adventure which befel 
 A poor blind Highland Boy. 
 
 A Highland Boy I— why call him so ? 
 Because, my Darlings, ye must know, 
 In land where many a mountain 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 tde 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 crin>son 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 baepipes he could blow ; 
 And thus from house to house would ^o. 
 And all were pleased to hear and see I 
 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, 
 ^ot small like ours, a peaceful flood; 
 ^ut one of mighty size, and strange; 
 ■I'lat, rough or smooth, is full of change, 
 
 And stirring in its bed. 
 
 Tor to this Lake, by night and day, 
 The great Sea-water finds its way 
 15 
 
 Through long, long windings of the hilla 
 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. 
 
 And, with the coming of the Tide 
 Come Boats and Ships that safely 'ride, 
 Between the woods and lofty rocks ; 
 And to the Shepherds with their flocks 
 Bring t^les 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 heard ' 
 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 nev-r handle sail • 
 Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float 
 In Sailor's ship, or Fisher's boat. 
 Upon the rocking waves. 
 
 His Mother often thought, and said, 
 WHiat sin would be upon her head 
 If she should suffer this : " My Son 
 Whate'er you do, leave tins 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 befei) 
 He in a vessel of his own, 
 On the swift flood is hun'ying down 
 Towards the mighty Sea. 
 
 In puch 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 li^ht 
 
 As the pearly Car of Amphitrlte, . 
 
 That sportive Dolphins drew. 
 And, as a Coracle that braves 
 On Viga^s breast the fretful waves. 
 This Shell upon the deep would .wim, 
 And gHiiy lift itg fearless brim 
 
 Above the iovMvg surge. 
 
114 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 
 
 And tliis the little blind Boy knew : 
 And he a story stianjjre yet true 
 Had heard, how in a Shell like this 
 An English Boy, O thought of bliss ! 
 
 Had stoutly launched from shore; 
 
 Launched from the margin of a bay 
 Among the Ijidian Isles, where lay 
 His Father's ship, and had sailed far, 
 To join that gallant ship of war, 
 In his delightful Sijell. 
 
 Our Highland boy oft visited 
 The house which 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 safe, alone and blind, 
 That Slo y 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 ; 
 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 ! 
 For 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. 
 
 Bat P'lon 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. 
 
 " Ijcl-gha — Lci-gha'' — then did he cry 
 " Lci-gha — Lei-gha'^ — most eagerly ; 
 Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, 
 And what he meant was, " Keep away, 
 And leave me to myself I" 
 
 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 ; — 'twas a heartfelt cross 
 To him, a heaAw, bitter loss. 
 As he had ever known. 
 
 But hark ! a gratulating voice. 
 With which the very hills rejoice: 
 'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly 
 Had 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 took 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 t spies 
 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 ; 
 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 
 Stih do they keep the Turtle Shell ; 
 And long the Story will repeat 
 Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat. 
 And how he was preserved. 
 
 J\^otc. — It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages, that a 
 boy, the Son of a 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 deference to the opinion 
 of a Friend, I have substituted such a shell for the 
 less elegant Vessel in which my Blind Voyager did 
 actually entrust himself to the "dangerous cur»-ent of 
 Loch Leven, as was related to me by an eye-witneM. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1814. 
 
 115 
 
 MEMORIALS. 
 
 OF 
 
 A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1814. 
 I. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON ONE OF THE 
 ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMOND, A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE 
 REXaEAT OF A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL, FROM WHOM 
 THIS HABITATION ACQUIRED THE NAME OF 
 
 THE BROWN IP'S CELL. 
 
 To barren heath, and quaking 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 whore broad waters round him lay : 
 
 But tbis 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 succour, though the tomb 
 
 Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom I 
 
 Upon those servants of another world 
 When madding Power her bolts had hurled, 
 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. 
 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 flourii=hed 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 plightfd 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 Blortal went 
 (So seemed it) down a strange descent : 
 Till they, who saw his outward frame. 
 Fixed on him an unhallowed name ; 
 Him— free from all malicious taint. 
 And guided, like the Patmos Saint, 
 A pen unwearied— to indite. 
 In his lone [sle, the dreams of night ; 
 Impassioned dreams, that strove to span 
 The faded glories of his Clan I 
 
 Suns that through blood their western harbor sought, 
 And stars that in their courses fought,— 
 Towers rent, winds combating with woods- 
 Lands delugpd by unbridled floods. 
 And beast and bird that from the spell 
 Of sleep took import terrible, — 
 These tj^pes 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 cui^hcd, 
 O froward Fancy ! 'mid a scene 
 Of aspect winning and serene ; 
 For those offensive creatuies 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 
 Q-uickens, as now, the withered heath ; — 
 Nor flaunting summer — when he throws 
 His Houl 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 em.bellished 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 colours, and the liveliest streak 
 A foil to his celestial cheek ! 
 
 II. 
 
 COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, 
 
 in SIGHT OF Wallace's tower. 
 
 " —How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name 
 
 Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 
 
 All over his dear Country ; left the deeda 
 
 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." MS. 
 
 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 I 
 For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been 
 Beneficent as strong ; 
 Pleased in refreshing dews to steep 
 The little trembling flowerg 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 ia dear : 
 
116 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, I8l4. 
 
 Along thy banks, at dend 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 grey 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 1 
 To what untrodden shore 1 
 
 Le?s than divine command they spurn ; 
 But this we from the mountains learn, 
 And this the valleys sliow, 
 That never will they deign to hold 
 Communion where the lieart is cold 
 To human weal and woe. 
 
 The man of abject soul in vain 
 Shall walk the Maraihonian Plain ; 
 Or thrid the shadowy gloom, 
 Tliat still invests the guardian Pass, 
 
 Where stood, sublime, Leonidaa 
 Devoted to the tomb. 
 
 Nor deem that it can aught avail 
 For such to glide with oar or sail 
 Beneath the piny r/ood. 
 Where Tell once drew, by [Tri's lake, 
 His vengeful shafts — prepared to slake 
 '!^heir thirst in Tyrant's blood. 
 
 III. 
 
 EFFUSION, 
 
 f:N THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE 
 BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD. 
 
 ^' The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when 
 " we must expect it. We were first, however, con- 
 " ducted 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 are at the entrance of a splendid apart- 
 " ment, which was nlmost dizzy and alive with wa- 
 " terfalls, that tumbled in all directions ; the great 
 " cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, 
 " being icJiectcd in innumerable mirrors upon the 
 •" ceiling and against the walls." — Extract from the 
 Journal of mij Fellow- Traveller. 
 
 What He — who, mid the kindred throng 
 
 Of Heroes that inspired his song, 
 
 Ddth yet freq\ient the hill of slorms, 
 
 The Stars dim-twinkling through their forms 1 
 
 W^hat! 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 monjent 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; 
 
 iOne loud Cnscade m front, and lo ! 
 
 A thousand like it, white as snow — 
 
 Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam 
 
 As active round the hollow dome, 
 
 Illusive cataracts! of their terrors 
 
 Not stripped, nor voiceless jn the Mirrors, 
 
 That catch the pageant from the Flood 
 Thundering adown a rocky wood ! 
 Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy 
 As ever made a Maniac dizzy, 
 When disenchanted from the mood 
 That loves on sullen thoughts to brood I 
 
 O 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 favoured Spot ; 
 Recalled some feeling — to fet free 
 The Bard from such indignity ! 
 
 *The Effigies of a valiant Wight 
 T once beheld, a Templar Kniv.ht ; 
 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 f-^rsot, 
 And torn him from his loved Retreat, 
 Where Altar-stone and rock-hewn seat 
 Still hint that quiet best is found. 
 Even by the Livings under ground ; 
 But a bold Knisht, 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 Nin 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 such array 
 As 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 I 
 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 fervour to the sightless eye ; 
 
 * On the banks of the River Nid, near Knares- 
 borough. 
 
Memorials of a tour in Scotland, 1814. 
 
 117 
 
 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 unconfiected 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. 
 For ever with yourselves at strife ; 
 Through town and country both deranged 
 By affectations interchanged, 
 And all the pertshable gauds 
 That heaven-deserted Man applauds; 
 When will your hapless patrons learn 
 To watch and ponder — to discern 
 The freshness, the eternal youth. 
 Of admiration sprung from truth ; 
 From beauty infinitely growing 
 Upon a mind with love o'erflovving— 
 To sound the depths of every Art 
 That seeks its wisdom through the heart? 
 
 Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced 
 With baubles of theatric taste, 
 Overlooks 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, 
 Jtecojled into the wilderness. 
 
 IV. 
 
 YARROW VISITED, 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1814. 
 
 And is this — Ynn-ow ? — 77^/5 the Stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherished, 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream 1 
 
 An image that hath perished ! 
 
 O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 
 
 To utter notes of gladness, 
 
 And chnse 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 wanderinirs. 
 
 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 thai pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising &un diff"used, 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 ; 
 
 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 I 
 
 The shattered front of Newark's Tower*, 
 
 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 I 
 
 'Twere 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 vapours 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. 
 
118 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 PART FlUST. 
 I. 
 
 COMPOSED BY TH iC SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AU- 
 GUST, 1802. 
 
 Fair Star of Evening, Splendour 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 banners, drest 
 In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot 
 Beneath thee, it is England ; there it 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. 
 
 IT. — CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. 
 
 Is it a Reed that's shaken by the wind, 
 
 Or what is it that ye go forth to see 1 
 
 Lords, Lawyers, Statesmen, Squires of low degree. 
 
 Men known, and men unknown, Sick, Lame, and Blind, 
 
 Post forward all, like Creatujes of one kind, 
 
 With first-fruit otferings crowd to bend the knee 
 
 In France, before the new-born Majesty. 
 
 *Tis 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 1 
 
 Bhame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone ! 
 
 III. — TO A FRIEND. 
 
 COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON THE ROAD LEADING TO 
 ARDRES, AUGUST 7. 1802. 
 
 Jones ! while from Calais southward you and I 
 
 Urged our accordant steps, this public Way 
 
 Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day*, 
 
 When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty: 
 
 A homeless sound of joy was in the Sky; 
 
 The antiquated Earth, as one might say, 
 
 Beat like the heart of Man : songs, garlands, play, 
 
 Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh I 
 
 And now, sole register that these things were, 
 
 Two solitary greetings have I heard, 
 
 " Good morrow, Citnen /" 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 barp. 
 
 IV.— 1801. 
 
 I GRIEVED for Buonapart6, with a vain 
 And an unthinking grief! for, who aspires 
 To genuine greatness but from just desires, 
 And knowledge such as he could never gain ? 
 'Tis 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 womanhood. 
 Wisdom doth live with children round her knees 
 Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
 
 * 14th July, 1790. 
 
 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. 
 
 V. — CALAIS, AUGUST 15. 1802. 
 
 Festivals have E 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 I 
 Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope, 
 Consul, or King, can sound himself to knov/ 
 The destiny of Man, and live in hope. 
 
 VI. — 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 Mate, 
 
 She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
 
 And what if she had seen those glories fade 
 
 Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; 1 
 
 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. 
 
 VII. — 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 7 
 
 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: He stands above 
 
 All consequences : work he hath begun 
 
 Of fortitude, and piety, and love, 
 
 Which all his glorious Ancestors approve : 
 
 The heroes bless him, him their rightful Son. 
 
 VIII. — TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURK. 
 
 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 friends are exultations, agonies. 
 And love, and Man's unconquerable mind. 
 
SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 119 
 
 IX.— SEPTEMBER 1. 1803. 
 
 Among the capricious acts of Tyranny that disgraced 
 these times, was the chasing of all Negroes from 
 France by decree of the Government : we had aFel" 
 low-passenger who was one of the expelled. 
 
 Driven from the soil of France, a Female came 
 
 From Calais with us, brilliant in array, — 
 
 A Negro Woman, 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 at the same 
 
 Wag silent, motionless in rj^es and face. 
 
 Meanwhile those eyes retained their tropic fire, 
 
 Whicli, burning independent of the mind, 
 
 Joined with the lustre of lier rich attire 
 
 To mock the Outcast — O ye Heavens, be kind! 
 
 And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted Race ! 
 
 X. — COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY, NEAR DOVER, ON THE 
 DAY OF LANDING. 
 
 Hire, 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 
 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. Thoii art free, 
 My Country ! and 'tis 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. 
 
 XI. — 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 neighbourhood. 
 
 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. W^inds blow, and Waters roll, 
 
 Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity, 
 
 Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree 
 
 Spake laws to them, and said that by the Soul 
 
 Only the Nations shall be great and free. 
 
 XII. 
 
 THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF 
 SWITZERLAND. 
 
 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 
 ■J hou from the 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-soulcd Maid, what sorrow would it be 
 That mountain Floods should thunder as before, 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
 And neither awful Voice be heard by thee I 
 
 Xni.— WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802. 
 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest. 
 
 To think that now our Life is only drest 
 
 For show ; mean handy-work of craftsman, 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 
 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
 
 This is idolatrv ; 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. 
 
 XIV-— LONDON, 1802. 
 
 MiLTON ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : 
 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fftn 
 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 
 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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Great Men have been among us ; hands that penned 
 
 And tongues that uttered wisdom, belter none : 
 
 The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 
 
 Young Vane, and others who called Milton Friend". 
 
 These Moralists could act and comprehend: 
 
 They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 
 
 Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
 
 In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend 
 
 But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange 
 
 Had 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 ! 
 
 XVT. 
 
 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, unwithstood,^^ 
 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 for ever. In our Halls is hung 
 Armoury 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.-Tn every thing we are sprung 
 Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
 
IJJO 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 But when I think of Thee, and what Thou art, 
 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 
 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 
 But dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
 
 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men j 
 
 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 ! 
 
 JCVIII— ocTOBBR, 180a. 
 
 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 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze 
 Shed gentle favours ; rural works are there ; 
 And ordinary business without care ! 
 Spot rrch in all things that can smooth 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 r 
 
 XIX. 
 
 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 : 
 'Tis 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 which he must share 
 With Human nature 1 Never be it outs 
 To see the sun how brightly it will shine. 
 And know that noble Feelings, manly Powers, 
 Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine. 
 And earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers 
 Jfade, and participate in Man's decline. 
 
 XX.— OCTOBER, 1805. 
 
 THfisE times touch 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 w'hom 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 evfry 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 1 
 
 XXI. 
 
 England ! the time is come when thou should'st wean 
 Thy heart from its emasculating food ; 
 The truth should now be better understood ; 
 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! 
 
 XXII.— 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 almost a doubt within me springs 
 Of Providence, such emptiness at length 
 Seems at the heart of ail 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. 
 
 XXIir.r-TO THE MEN OF KENT. OCTOBER, 180?. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Tney from their Field.s can see the countenance 
 
 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 I In Britian is one breath; 
 
 We all are with you now from Shore to Shore :- 
 
 Ye Men of Kent, 'tis Victory or Death ! 
 
 XXIV. — ANTICIPATION, OCTOBER, 1803! 
 
 SnorT, 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 Gratidame's ears with pleasure of your noise I 
 Clap, Infants, clap your hands ! Divine must be 
 That triumph, when the very worpi, the pain, 
 And even the prospect of our Brethren slain, 
 Hath something in it which the heart enjoys:^- 
 lu glory will they sleep and endless sanctity. 
 
 XXV. — NOVEMBER, 1806. 
 
 Another year : — another deadly blow ! 
 Another mighty Empire overthrown I 
 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 1 
 We shall exuU, if They who rule the land 
 
FbNNKTS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 ISl 
 
 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 honour which they do not understand. 
 
 ODE. 
 1. 
 
 Who rises on the banks of Seine, 
 And bir.ds her temples wiih the civic wreath 1 
 What joy to read the promise of her mien I 
 How sweet to rest her wide-spread wings beneath ! 
 But they are ever playing, 
 And twinkling in the light, 
 And, if a breeze be r«traying, 
 That breeze she will invite ; 
 And stands on tijitoe, con?cinus she is fair^ 
 And caIJ3 a look of love into her face, 
 And spreads her arms — as if the general air 
 Aione could satisfy her wide embrace. 
 — Melt, Principalities, before her tncit I 
 Her love ye hai.'ed — her wrath have felt ! 
 But Slie through many a cJiange 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 wrought ils way from birth to birth^ 
 Stalks round — abhorred by Heaven, a terror to the 
 Earth ! 
 
 I marked the breathings of her dragoii crest; 
 My soul, a sorrowful Interpreter, 
 In many a midnight vision bowed 
 B'^fore the ominous aspect of her spear ; 
 Whether the mighty Beam, in scorn upheld, 
 Threatened her foes, — or, pompously at rest, 
 Seemed to bisect her orbed shield, 
 As stretches a hlue l)ar of solid cloud 
 Across the setting Sun, and through the fiery West. 
 
 3. 
 
 So did she daunt the Earth, and God defy ! 
 And, wlieresoe'er she spread lier sovereignty, 
 Pollution tainted all that was most pure. 
 —Have we not known — and livp we not to tell — 
 Thnt Justice spemed to bear ner final knell ? 
 Faith buried deeper in her own depp breast 
 Her stores, and sijihfd to find them insecure ! 
 And Hope was maddened by the drops that fell 
 From shades, her chosen place of short-Iivpd rest : 
 Shame followed shame — and woe supplnntpd woe — 
 Is this the only change that time can show ? 
 How Innsr shall vengeance sleep 7 Ye patient Heavens, 
 
 how Ions ? 
 —Infirm pjacnlation ! from the tongue 
 Of nations wanting virtue to he strong 
 Up to the measure of accorded might, 
 And daring not to feel the majesty of right I 
 
 4. 
 Weak Spirits are there— who would ask 
 Upon the pressure of a painful thins, 
 The Lion's sinews, or the Eagle's wing ; 
 Or let iheir wishes loose, in forest glade, 
 
 Among the lurking powers 
 
 Of herbs and lowly flowers. 
 Or seek, from Saints above, miraculous aid ; 
 That man may he acromplitbod for a ta^k 
 Which his own Nature hath enjoined— and why? 
 If, when that interference hath relieved him, 
 
 lie must sink down to languish 
 In worse than former helplessness— and lie 
 
 Till the cavv^s roar, — and, imbecility 
 
 Again engendering anguish. 
 
 The same weak vrlsb retains, tiiat had before deceived 
 hira. 
 
 16 
 
 But Thou, Supreme Disposer ! may'st not speed 
 The course of things, and change the creed, 
 Which hath been held aloft before IMeu'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 ! 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 I. — ON A CELEBRATED EVENT IN ANCIENT HISTORr, 
 
 A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground, 
 And to the Concourse of the Isthmian games 
 He, by his Herald's voice, aloud proclaims 
 The Liberty of Greece : — the words rebound 
 Until all voices in one voice are drowned ; 
 Glad acclamation by which air was rent I 
 And birds, high flying in the element. 
 Dropped to the earth, astonished at the sound ! 
 — A melancholy Echo of that noise 
 Doth semetimes hang on musing Fancy's ear : 
 Ah I that a Conqueror's word should be so dear : 
 Ah I that a boon could shed such rapturous joys! 
 A gift of that which is not to be given 
 By all the blended powers of Earth and Heaven, 
 
 II. — UPON THE SAME EVENT, 
 
 When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn 
 
 The tidings passed of servitude repealed, 
 
 And of that joy which shook the Isthmian Field, 
 
 The rough ^[olians smiled with bitter scorn. 
 
 " 'Tis known," cried they, " that he, who would adorn 
 
 His envied temples with the Isthmian Crown, 
 
 Must either win, through eftort of his own, 
 
 The prize, or be content to see it won 
 
 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 sriinotli!y as a cloud, 
 
 Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top." 
 
 IIL 
 
 TO THOMAS CLARKSON, ON THE FINAL PASSING OF THE 
 BILL FOR THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE 
 MRACH, 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 this pi.grimage sublime, 
 
 Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat, 
 
 Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat, 
 
 First roused thee.— O true yok»^-fellow of Time 
 
 With unabating effort, see, the palm 
 
 Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn ! 
 
 The bloody Writing is forever torn. 
 
 And Thou henceforth shait have a good Bfan's calm, 
 
 A great Man's happiness ; thy zea? shall find 
 
 Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind I 
 
 IV.— A PROrnsCY. TEBEtJAI^r, 1807. 
 
 High deeds, O Germans, are to come from yoii .' 
 Thus In yonr Books the record shall be found, 
 " A Watchword was proncnmced, a potent sound, 
 
122 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 Armikius ! — 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 piven her in the dreadful trance ; 
 Those new-born Kings she wii!)ered like a flame." 
 —Woe to them all ! but heaviest woe and shame 
 To that Bavarian who did first advance 
 His banner in accursed league with France, 
 First open Traitor to a sacred name ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 
 
 Through the grey west ; and lo ! these waters, Bteeled 
 
 By hreezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 
 
 A vivid repetition of the stars ; 
 
 Jove — Venus— and the ruddy crest of Mara, 
 
 Amid his fellows beauteously revealed 
 
 At happy 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 it feeds 
 
 Its own calm fires? — But list I a voice is near; 
 
 Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds, 
 
 " Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds 
 
 Ravage th« world, tranquillity is here !" 
 
 YI. 
 
 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 ! 
 See, at her call, 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 colouring to aim and act. 
 See the first mighty Hunter leave the brute — 
 To chase mankind, with men in armies packed 
 For his field-])astime, high and absolute. 
 While, to dislodge his game, cities are sacked ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR WAS ENGAGED IN 
 WRITING A TRACT, OCCASIONED BY THE CONVEN- 
 TION OF CINTRA, 1808. 
 
 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 lea*! astray the wise and brave ; 
 
 Not there 1 but in dark wood and rocky cave. 
 
 And 1k)11ow vale wiiich 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 
 
 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. 
 
 VIIL 
 
 A midnight harmony, and wholly lost 
 
 To the general sense of men by chains confined 
 
 Of business, care, or pleasure,— or ref^igned 
 
 Tj timely sleep. Thought 1, the impasslo< ed strain, 
 
 Which, without aid of ni:mbcrs, 1 sustain. 
 
 Like acceptation from the Woild will find. 
 
 Yet 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 W'ld blast, 
 
 Which, while it makes the heart with sadness Bhrink, 
 
 Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed. 
 
 [X. — HOFFER. 
 
 Of mortal Parents is the Hero born 
 
 By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led ? 
 
 Or is it Tell's great kSpirit, from the dead 
 
 Returned to animate an age forlorn ? 
 
 He comes like Phoebus through the gates of mora 
 
 When dreary darkness is discomfited : 
 
 Yet mark his modest state ! upon his head, 
 
 That simple crest, a heron's plume, is worn. 
 
 O Liberty I they stagger at the shock ; 
 
 The Murderers are aghast ; they strive to flee, 
 
 And half their Host is buried —rock on rock 
 
 Descends :— beneath this godlike Warrior, see 1 
 
 Hills, Torrents, Woods, embodied to bemock 
 
 The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty. 
 
 X. 
 
 Advance— come forth from thy Tyrolean ground, 
 Dear Liberty ! stern Nymph of soul untamed, 
 Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named I 
 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. 
 
 COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME AND ON THE SAME 
 OCCASION. 
 
 I DROPPED my pen ;— and listened to the wind 
 That sang of trees vp-torn and voseels tost ; 
 
 XI.^FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE. 
 
 The Land we from our Fathers had in trust. 
 
 And to our Children wnll 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 — we must ! 
 
 We read the dictate in the Infant's eye : 
 
 In the Wife's smile ; and in the placid sky ; 
 
 Ana, at our feet, amid the silent dust 
 
 Of them tliat 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 in the fearless hatid, to assert 
 
 Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind. 
 
 XII. 
 
 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 resl 
 Wheie every paseion shall the sway attest 
 
SaNNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 123 
 
 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 1 
 
 xiir. 
 
 And is it among rude untutored Dales, 
 There, and there only, that the heart is true 1 
 And, rising to repel or to subdue, 
 Is it by rocks and woods that Man prevails 1 
 Ah, no ! though Nature's dread protection faila, 
 There is a bulwark in the soul. This knew 
 Iberirin Burghers when the sword they drew 
 In Zaragoza naked to the gales 
 Of fiercely-breatJjing war. The truth was felt 
 By Palafox, and many a brave Compeer, 
 Likp 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. 
 
 X[V. 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, 
 
 Dwells in the afleciions and the soul of man 
 
 A Godhead, like the universal Pan, 
 
 But more exalted, with a brighter train : 
 
 And shall his bcnmty be dispensed in vain, 
 
 Showered equally on city and on field, 
 
 And neither hope nor steadfast promise yie'd 
 
 In these usurping times of fear and pain 1 
 
 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 labour without pause. 
 
 Even to the death : — else wherefore should the eye 
 
 Of man converse with immortality 1 
 
 XV. — ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE. 
 
 It was a moral end for which they fought ; 
 
 Else hfw, when mighty Thrones were put to shame, 
 
 Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim, 
 
 A resolution, or enlivening thought 1 
 
 Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought ; 
 
 For in their niagnaniniity and fame 
 
 Powers have they left, an iit)pul.-e, and a claim 
 
 Which neither can be overturned nor bought. 
 
 Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose ! 
 
 We know that ye, beneath the stern control 
 
 Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul. 
 
 And, when iiiipaii(;nt of her guilt and woes 
 
 Europe breaks forth, then, Shepherds I shall ye rise 
 
 For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Hail, Zarngoza I If Vs'iih unwet eye 
 
 We can approach, thy sorrow lo 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 c<>urago in the breast 
 
 Of peaceful civic virtue! they attest 
 
 Thy matchless worth to all posterity. 
 
 Blond flowed before thy sight without remorse; 
 
 Disease coiiEumed thy vitals ; War upheaved 
 
 The ground beneath thee v/ith volcanic force ; 
 Dread trials ! yit encountered and sustained 
 Till not a wreck of help oV hope remained, 
 And Liaw was from necessity received. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Say, what is Plonour ?— 'Tis 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 
 A Kingdom doth assault, and in the scale 
 Of perilous war her weightiest Armies fail. 
 Honour is hopeful elevation— whence 
 Glory, and Triumph. Yet with politic skill 
 Endangered States may yield to trvma unjust. 
 Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the dust,— 
 A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil ; 
 Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust 
 Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill. 
 
 XVIIL 
 
 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 or Kingdoms. We have heard a strain 
 
 Of triumph, how the labouring 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 beliold 
 
 Murdered like one ashore by shipwreck cast, 
 
 Murdered without relief. Oh ! blind as bold, 
 
 To think that such assurance can stand fast ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Brave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy flight 
 
 From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest 
 
 With heroes, 'mid the Islands of the Blest, 
 
 Or in the Fields of empyrean light. 
 
 A meteor w^ert thou in a darksome night ; 
 
 l^'et shall tliy name, conspicuous and sublime, 
 
 Stand in the spacious iirmament 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. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Call not the royal Swede un.HDrtunate, 
 
 Who never did to Fortune bend the knee; 
 
 Who slighted fear, rejected steadfastly 
 
 Temptation; and whose kingly name and state 
 
 Have " perished by his choice, and not his fate I" 
 
 Hence lives He, to his inner self-endeared ; 
 
 And hence, wherever virtue is revered, 
 
 He ^-its a more exalted Potentate, 
 
 Throned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain 
 
 That this great Servant of a righteous cause 
 
 Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure, 
 
 Yet may a sympathising spirit pause, 
 
124 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain 
 In thankful joy and gratulation pure.* 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Look now on tliat Adventurer who hath paid 
 Uis vows to Fortune; who, in cruel slight 
 Of virtuous ho[)e, of Iil)erty, and rijiht, 
 Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made 
 By the blind Goddess ;— ruthless, undismayed ; 
 And so hath gained at length a prosperous Height, 
 Round which the Elements of worldly might 
 Beneath Ids haughty feet, like clouds, are laid. 
 O joyless power thnt stands by lawless force I 
 Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and hate, 
 Internal darkness and unquiet breath ; 
 And, if old judguii^nts keep their sacred course, 
 Him from that Height shall Heaven precipitate 
 By violent and ignunjinious death. 
 
 xxrr. 
 
 Is there a Power that can sustain and cheer 
 The captive Chieftain, by a Tyrant's doom, 
 Forced to descend alive into his tomb, 
 A dungeon dark ! where he must waste the year. 
 And lie cut otf from all his heart holds dear • 
 What tinje his injured Country is a stage 
 Whereon deliberate Valour and the Rage 
 Of righteous vengeance side by side appear. 
 Filling f'om morn to night the heroic scene 
 With deeds of hope and everlasting praise : 
 ^ay can lie think of this with mind serene 
 And silent fetters 1 Yes, if visions bright 
 Shine on his soul, reflected from the days 
 yVhen he himself was tried in open light. 
 
 XXIIL— 1810. 
 
 Ah ! where is Palafox 1 Nor tongue nor pen 
 Jleports of him. his dwelling or his grave! 
 Does yet the unheard-of Vessel ride the wave 1 
 Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken 
 Of pitying human-nature ? Once again 
 Methinks that we shall hail thee, Champion brave. 
 Redeemed to balHe that iniperial 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 I — Smilingly 
 The Eternal I'niks upon her sword that gleams, 
 Like his own lightning, over mountains high, 
 Pa rampart, and the banks of all her streams. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Jn 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, 
 
 * In this and a forinor Sonnet, in honour of the 
 same Sovereijin, let me be understood as a Poet avail- 
 ing himself of the situation wiiich the King of Sweden 
 occupied, and of the principles avowed in his manifes- 
 tos ; a^i laying hold of these advrinrages for the |>urpose 
 of embodying mora! truths. Tiiis remark might, per- 
 liaps, as well have been suppressed: for to those' who 
 piav be in sympathy wirh the course of these Poems, it 
 wi'l be supertiuoiis ; and will, I fear, be thrown away 
 upon that other class, vvhose besotted admiration of the 
 intoxicated despot h :re placed in contrast with him, is 
 jhe most melancholy evidence of degradation in British 
 ^«el/ng and intellect which the times have furnished. 
 
 They bind the unoffending Creature's brows 
 With happy garlands of the pure white rose: 
 This done, a festal Company unite 
 In choral song; and. while the uplif.ed Cross 
 Of Jesus goes before, the Chi:d is borne 
 Uncovered to his grave. Her piieous loss 
 The lonesome Mother cannot choose but mourn; 
 Yet soon by Christian faith is grief subdued, 
 And joy attends upon her fortitude. 
 
 XXV. — FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BISCATAN AT ONE OF 
 THESE FUNliRALS. 1810. 
 
 Vkt, yet.. Biscayans ! we must meet our Foes 
 
 With firmer soul, yet labour to regain 
 
 Our ancient freedom; else 'twere 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 Gravel 
 
 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 Alii to illuminate the Infant's bier; 
 
 And guilt and shame, from which is no defence, 
 
 Descend on all that issues fiom our blood. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE OAK OF GUERNICA. 
 
 The ancient oak of Guernica, says Lal>orde in his ac« 
 count of Biscay, is a most venerable natural monu- 
 ment. Ferdinand and Isabella, in the year 1476, after 
 h'-aring mass in the Church of Santa Maria de la 
 Antigua, repaired to this tree, under which they 
 swore to the Biscayans to maintain their fueros (pri- 
 vileges.) What other interest belongs to it in the 
 minds of this People will appear from the following 
 
 SUPPOSED ADDRESS OF THE SAME. 1810, 
 
 Oak of Guernica ' Tree of holjer ptiwer 
 Than that which in Dodona did enshrine 
 (So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine, 
 Heard from the depths of iis aerial bower, 
 How canst thou flourish at this blighting hour 1 
 What hope, what joy can sunshine bring to thee, 
 Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea, 
 The (hnvs of morn, or April's tender shower 1 
 Stroke merciful and welcome would that be 
 Which sliould 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. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MISDED SPANIARD. 1810. 
 
 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 came ; 
 Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands : 
 And we can brook the thought that by his handa 
 Spain may be overpowered, and he possess, 
 For his delight, a so/emn 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 
 When our enlightened minds shall bless his sway, 
 7'A«?n, the strained heart of fortitude proves weak ; 
 Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare 
 That he has povyer to inflict what we lack strength to 
 b^ar. 
 
BONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 12» 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 AvAUNT a!] ?ppcious pliancy of mind 
 
 In men of lew desiee, all buifotli pretence! 
 
 I belier like a l)hint iiuIiiTeience 
 
 And feir-re.-peciing s!(.wness, disinclinrd 
 
 To will me ai first si^hi : aiul be tlicMe joined 
 
 Patience and ttrnpLMancc vviili this; I ijiti les-eive, 
 
 Honour tliat kt!(;Wi^tl;e paili and will r.or. twerve ; 
 
 Affections, wliicli, if put to picof, are kind ; 
 
 And piety towasds G<;d. Siuii Men of old 
 
 Weve En^'ruid's native {irowth : and, ilironghoiit Spain, 
 
 Forests of s'icli do at this ri:;y remain : 
 
 Tlien for that Country let our hopes he bold ; 
 
 For matched wi h the?e shall policy prine vain, 
 
 Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold. 
 
 XXIX.— 3810. 
 
 O'erweenivg Statesmen Iiave full lonjr leli^d 
 
 On fleets and armies, and external wraith : 
 
 Bui from within proceeds a Nation's liealtii ; 
 
 Wliich shall not. fail, thoiipl) poor men cleave with pride 
 
 To the paternal floor ; or turn aside, 
 
 In the tiironped City, from the walks of gain, 
 
 As bein<i all nuworihy to detain 
 
 A Soul by contemplation snnc ified. 
 
 There are who cannot lanfiui^h in this Ftiife, 
 
 Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good 
 
 Of such hiuh course was felt and understood ; 
 
 Who to tlnir Country's cause have bound a life, 
 
 Erewhile by solemn consecralion g"iven 
 
 To labour, and to prayer, to nature, and to heaven.* 
 
 xxxii.-isii. 
 
 The power of Artnies is a visible thing, 
 
 Formal, and circuinsciibed in time and space ; 
 
 But who tlie iitnirs of that power shall trace 
 
 VVliich a brave Tfr^pU' into ii-iht can bring 
 
 Or hide, at will,— for Freedom Cf^tnbating 
 
 Gy just revenge inflamerl ? No foot may chase, 
 
 No eye can toll(Vv, to a fatil place 
 
 Tliat power, that s[;irir, wliether on the wing 
 
 Li!;e the stronj; Aind, or sleeping !i|.;e the wind 
 
 Within its awt'nl caves. — Fh ru year to year 
 
 prnin^'s this indiL^enous pioiiuce tar and near; 
 
 i\-o craft this subtle element can 1 ind, 
 
 Ri~.ing like waer from th.e soil, to find 
 
 In every nook a lip that it may cheer. 
 
 XXX. — THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH GTTERILLAS. 
 
 Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast 
 From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night 
 Through heavy sw:imp, or over sn(-w-clad height. 
 These hardships ill sustained, these dangers past. 
 The roving Sjianish Bands are reached at last, 
 Charged, and dispersed like foam: bur as a flight 
 Of scattered quails by signs do reunite,- 
 So these, — and, heard of once again, are chased 
 With combinations of long-pracii-ed art 
 And newly-kindled liope; hut they are fled, 
 Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead ; 
 Where now ? — Their sword is at the Foenian's heart! 
 And thus from year to year his walk they thwart. 
 And hang like dreams around his guilty bed. 
 
 XXXI. — SPANISH GUERILLAS, 1811. 
 
 Thet 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 rid:!es 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 unkLOwn a Shepherd's life 
 Redoubted Viriatus breathes again ; 
 And Mina, nourished in the studious shade, 
 With tliat great Leade-f vies, who, sick of strife 
 And bloodi.hed, longed in quiet to be laid 
 In some green Island of the western main. 
 
 ♦ See Labnrde's Character of the Spanish People: 
 from him the sentiment of these last two lines is 
 taken . 
 
 t Bertorius 
 
 XXXHT.— 1811. 
 
 Here pause : the lioer, claims at least this praise, 
 
 Tliar virtuous Liberty l:a;h been the scope 
 
 Of his pure soi.g, wliich did not shiink from hope 
 
 In the worst momejii of these evil days ; 
 
 F;om hope, the paiauiount duty tliat Heaven lays, 
 
 For its own iionour, on man's suffciing heart. 
 
 Never may from our souls one truth depart, 
 
 That an accursed thing it is to gnze 
 
 On i)rosfierouri Tyiants vviLh a dazzled eye; 
 
 Nor, touched ui.Ii due nliliorrenct' of their guilt 
 
 For whose diie ends tears fli.w, and blood is spilt, 
 
 Aiid jus'.ice labours in exiruniiy, 
 
 F(ii|:eL i!iy weakness, upon which is built, 
 
 O vvrelched Wan, the throne of Tyranny ! 
 
 XXXIV.— THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 1812-13. 
 
 IIuMAMTY, delighting to behold 
 
 A fond reflection of her own decay, 
 
 Kaih painted Winter like a Traveller — old. 
 
 Propped on a staiT— and, through the sullen day 
 
 In hooded mantle, limping o'er the Plain, 
 
 As th.ough his weakness were disturbed by pain: 
 
 Or, if a juster fancy should allow 
 
 An undisputed symbol of command, 
 
 TJie chosen sceptre is a wiiliered bough, 
 
 Infirmly gtasped within a palsied hand. 
 
 These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn 
 
 Cut niighiy Winier the device shall scorn. 
 
 For he it was— dread Winter! who beset, 
 Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net, 
 Thai host, — when from the regions of the Pole 
 They shrunk, insane ambition's barren gaol. 
 That Host, as huge 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's firmest hold ; 
 Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs ; 
 For why, unless for libeity enrolled 
 And sacred home, ah ! why should hoary Age be boldl 
 
 Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed. 
 But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, 
 Which from Siberian cavfrs the Monarch freed. 
 And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind, 
 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, spirilless, benumbed, and blind, 
 Whole legions sink — and, in one instant, find 
 Burial and death : look for them — and descry. 
 
126 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 When mom returns, beneath the clear blue sky, 
 A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy ! 
 
 XXXV. — ON TUB SAME OCCASION. 
 
 'Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King! 
 And ye mild Seasons — in a sunny c'inie, 
 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 blos;soms crowned, and fruits and flowers, 
 Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleeiy 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 decrc[)it Winter— //e hath slain 
 That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain! 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 
 
 Of dreadful sacrifice ; by Russian blood 
 
 Lavished in fight with desperate hardihood ; 
 
 The unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise 
 
 To rob our human-Tiature of just praise 
 
 For what she did and suffered. Pledges 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 Piiaraoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Frost, 
 
 Finish the strife by deadliest Victory ! 
 
 XXXVIL 
 
 THE GERMANS ON THE HEIGHTS OF IIOCKHEIM.* 
 
 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 of harvest home 
 
 Uttered to Hf^aven 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 delivered from the yoke) 
 
 The unconquerable Stream his course pursue. 
 
 XXXVUI.— NOVEMBER, 1813. 
 
 Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, 
 
 Our aged sovereign sits ; to the ebb and flow 
 
 Of states and kingdcmis, to tlieir joy or woe, 
 
 Insensible ; he sits deprived of sight. 
 
 And lamentably wrapt in twofold night, 
 
 Whom no weak hopes deceived ; whose mind ensued, 
 
 * The evont is thus recorded in the journals of the 
 day: — " When the Austrians took Hnckheini, in one 
 part of the engagHtnfMit they got to ihe brow of the 
 hill, whence they had their first view of the Rhine. 
 They inslantly iiairefl — not a gun was fiied — not a voice 
 heard : they stood gazing on the river with those 
 feelings whicli the events of the last fifteen years at 
 once called up Prince S<liwniTzer.beig n.fle up to 
 know the cause of this sudden stop ; ihey tlien gave 
 three cheers, rushed after the enemy, and drove them 
 into the water." 
 
 Through perilous war, with regal fortitude, 
 Peace that should claim respect from lawless 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 embrace 
 (Though it were only for a moment's space) 
 The triumphs of this hour ; for they are Thine ! 
 
 XXXIX. — 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 ; 
 
 And to inflict shame's salutary stings 
 
 On the remorseless hearts of men grown old 
 
 In a blind worship; men perversely bold 
 
 Even to this hour; yet at this hour they quake; 
 
 And some their monstrous Idol shall forsake, 
 
 If, to the living, truth was ever told 
 
 By aught surrendered from the hollow grave: 
 
 O murdered Prince ! meek, loyal, pious, brave! 
 
 The power of retribution once was given : 
 
 But 'lis a rueful thought that willow-bands 
 
 So often tie the thunder-wielding hands 
 
 Of Justice sent to earth from highest Heaven I 
 
 XL. — 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 Mfe — to God and nature true ; 
 
 But death, becoming, death, is dearer far. 
 
 When duty bids yon bleed in open war: 
 
 Hence hath your prowess quelled that impious crew. 
 
 Heroes ! for instant sacrifice prepared, 
 
 Yet filled with ardour 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 ! 
 
 XLL* -FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 O, FOR a kindling touch of that pure flame 
 Which taught the offering of song to rise 
 From thy lone bower, beneath Italian skies. 
 Great Filicaia I With celestial aim 
 It rose— thy saintly rapture- to proclaim. 
 Then, when the imperial City stood released 
 From bondage threatened by the embattled East, 
 And Christendom res[»ired ; from guilt and shame 
 Redeemed, from miserable fear set free 
 By one day's feat, one nnghty victory. 
 —Chant the Deliverer's praise in every tongue! 
 The cross shall spread, the crescent hath waxed dim, 
 He conquering, as in Earth and Heaven was sung, 
 
 Hk CONQUERING THROUGH GOD, AND GoD BY HIM. 
 
 * Ond e ch' To grido e grideib : giugnesti, 
 Gnenegiasii, e vincesti : 
 Si, si, vincesti, o Campion forte e pio. 
 Per Dio vincesti, e per te vinse Iddio. 
 
 See Filicaia's Canzone, addressed to John Sohieski, 
 king of Poland, upon his raising the siege of Vienna. 
 This, and his other poems on the same occasion, ore 
 superior perhaps to any lyrir;al pieces that contempora- 
 ry events have ever given birth to, those ot the He- 
 brew Scriptures only excepted. 
 
SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 127 
 
 XLIl. 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE SAME BATTLE. FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 The Bard, whose soul is meek as dawning day, 
 
 Yet trained to judgments righteously sev.:re ; 
 
 Fervid, yet conversaiil wiih holy fear. 
 
 As reco^inising one Almighty sway : 
 
 He whose experienced eye can pierce the array 
 
 Of past events, — to whonj, in visvion clear, 
 
 The aspiiing heads of fuiure things a[pear. 
 
 Like mountain-tops whose mists have rolled away-. 
 
 Assoiled from all encumbrance of our time,* 
 
 He only, if such breathe, in strains dtvout 
 
 Shall comprehend this victory sublime ; 
 
 And worthily rehearse the hideous rout, 
 
 Whifh the blest Angels, from their peaceful clime 
 
 Beholding, welcomed with a choral shout. 
 
 XL III. 
 
 Emperors and Kings, how oft hav^e Temples rung 
 
 With impious tliariksiriviiifr, the Almighty's scorn I 
 
 How oft above their altars have been hur»g 
 
 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 0[)p'-essor's creed 
 
 Reviving, heavier chastisement deserve 
 
 Than ever forced unpitied hearts to bleed. 
 
 XLIV. 
 ODE 
 
 COMPOSED IN JANUARY, 1816. 
 
 Carmina pr-ssumus 
 
 Donaie, et pretium dicere muneri. 
 Non incisa notis marmora publicis, 
 Per qua? spiritus et vita redit bonis 
 Post mortem ducibus 
 
 clarius indicant 
 
 Laudes, quam Pierides ; neque. 
 
 Si chartae sileant quod bene feceris, 
 Mercedem luleris. Hor. Car. 8. Lib. 
 
 When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch 
 
 On the tired household of corporeal sense, 
 
 And Fancy, keeping unreluciant watch, 
 
 Was free her choicest favours to dispense ; 
 
 I saw, in wondrous perspective displayed, 
 
 A landscape more august than happiest skill 
 
 Of pencil ever clothed with light and shade ; 
 
 An internringled pomp of vale and hill. 
 
 City, and naval stream, suburban grove. 
 
 And stately forest where the wild deer rove ; 
 
 Nor wanted lurking liamlet, dusky towns. 
 
 And scattered rural farms of aspect bright ; 
 
 And, here and there, between the pastoral downs, 
 
 The azure sea upswelled upon the sight. 
 
 Fair prospect, such as Britian 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 Geoige himself this Visitant may be; 
 And, ere a thought could a.>k on what intent 
 H(! sou^iht the regions of humaniiy, 
 A thrilling voice was heard, that vivified 
 City and field and liood ;— 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 tins Land, 
 *' Speak not nuw of toilsome duty — 
 " Well obeyed was that command, 
 " Il'-nce bright dnys of festive beauty ; 
 " Haste, Virgins, haste !— the flowers whicli summer 
 gave 
 " Have perished in the field ; 
 " But the green thickeLs plenteously shall yield 
 
 " Fit garlands for the Brave, 
 " That will be welcome, if by you entwined ; 
 »' Haste. Viigins, haste; — an^ you, ye Matrons grave, 
 " Go forth with rival youthfulness of mind, 
 
 " And gather wliat ye find 
 " Of hardy laurel and wild holly boughs, 
 " To deck your stern defenders' modest brows ! 
 
 " Such simple gifts prepare, 
 " Though they have gained a worthier meed ; 
 
 " y nd in due time shall share 
 " Those palms and amaranthine wreaths 
 " Unto their martyred Countrymen decreed, 
 '' In realms where everlasting freshness breathes I'* 
 
 II. 
 And lo! with crimson banners proudly streaming, 
 And upright weapons innocently gleaming, 
 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 tr^'in. 
 
 Maids and Matrons — dight 
 
 In robes of dazzling white. — 
 While from the crowd burst forth a rapturous noise 
 By the cloud-capt hills retorted — 
 
 And a throng of rosy boys 
 
 In loose fashion tell their joys, — 
 And grey-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 ! 
 
 III. 
 Anon before my sight a palace rose 
 Built of all precious substances, — so pure 
 And exquisite, that sleep alone bestows 
 Ability like spleiulour 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 luctre ; and had power to throw 
 Solemn effulgence, clear as solar light, 
 Upon a princely Con pany below. 
 While the Vault rang with choral harmony, 
 Like someNymph-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 instrument 
 
 That kindled recollections 
 
 Of agonised affections ; 
 And, though some tears the strain attended. 
 
 The mournful passion ended 
 In peace of spirit, and sublime content I 
 
 IV, 
 
 * " From all this world's ©ncumbrance did himself 
 assoil." — Spenser, 
 
 —But garlands wither,— festal phows depart, 
 Like dreams themselves ; and sweetest sound, 
 
128 
 
 Bonnets dedicated to liberty. 
 
 Albeit of pfTect profound, 
 It was— and it is gone ! 
 Victoiious En{i;land ! bid the silent Art 
 Reflect in glowing hvies that shall not fade, 
 These high achievements, even as she arrayed 
 With second life the deed of Maialhon, 
 
 Upon Athenian walls : 
 So may she labour for rhy civic halls ; 
 And be the guardian sjiaces 
 Of consecrated places. 
 As nobly graced by Sculpture's patient toil 
 And let imperishable strncinres prcnv 
 Fixed in the depths of this c jurageons soil ; 
 Expressive signals of a glorious strife, 
 Atid competent to shed a sjiarU divine 
 Into the torpid breast of dnily life; 
 Records on which the morning sun may shine. 
 
 As changeful agfs Ibiw, 
 With gratuUiliou thoroughly benign ! 
 
 V. 
 
 And ye, Pierian Sisters, sprung from Jove 
 And sage Mnemosyne, — full long debarred 
 Friun yo\ir first man;i()ns, — exiled all too long 
 From many a hallowed stream and grove, 
 Dear native regions where ye wont lo rove, 
 Chanting for patiioi jieroes 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. 
 And exercise unhlnmed a generous 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 my souPs desires ! 
 That I, or some more favoured 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 ' ritish tongue 1 
 So shall the charrrcters of that proud page 
 Support iheir 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 lo every clime ; 
 And tlie whole world, not envious but admiring. 
 
 And to the like aspiring, 
 Own that the progeny of this fair Isle 
 Had power as btfly actions to achieve 
 As were performed in Man's heroic prime ; 
 Nor warned, when their fortitude had Iteld 
 Tts even tenoiir, and the foe was quelled, 
 A corresponding virtue to beguile 
 The hostile purpose of wid^-wasrinir Time ; 
 That not in vain r/iey laboured fo secure, 
 For their great deeds, perpi-fual memory. 
 And fame as largely spr'^ad as laud and sea, 
 By works of spirit high and passion pure! 
 
 THANKSGIVING ODE. 
 
 JANUARY 18. ISIG. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Whotxy unworthy of touching upon the momentous 
 subject here treated would that Poet be, before whose 
 eyes the present distresses under which tJiis kingdom 
 labours could ifiterpose a veil sufficiently thick to hide, 
 or even to obscure, the splendour of this great moral 
 triumph. If the author has given way to e.vnltation, 
 uncheclud by these distresse.-, it might be sufficient to 
 nrotect him from a charge of insensibility, should he 
 Itate his own belief that the sufferings will be transJ- 
 t ry' On Uie wisdom of a very large majority of the 
 
 British nation rested that generosity which poured out 
 the treasures of this country for the deliverance of 
 Europe : and in the same national wisdom, presiding 
 in lirne of peace over an energy not inferior to tliat 
 which has been displayed in war, they confide, who en-' 
 courage a firm hope, that the cup of our wealth will 
 be gradually replenished. There will, doubtless, be no 
 fevv ready to indulge in regrets and repinings; and to 
 feed a morbid satisfaction, by aggravating these bur- 
 thens in imagination, in order that calamily so con- 
 fidently prophesied, as it has not taken the shape which 
 their sagaci.y allotted to it, may appear as grievous as 
 possible under another. But tlie body of the nation 
 will not quarrel wish the gain, because it might have 
 been purchased at a less price • and, acknowledging in 
 these sulTeriniis, which they feel to have been in a great 
 degree unavoidable, a consecration of their noble eflbrts, 
 they will vigorously apply themselves to remedy the 
 evil. 
 
 Nor is it at the expense of rational patriotism, or in 
 disregard of sound philosophy, that ihe author hath 
 given vent to feelings tending to encourage a martial 
 sjiirit in the bosoms of his countrymen, at a time when' 
 there is a general outcry against the prevalence of these 
 dispositions. Tlie BVitish army, both by its skill and 
 valour in the field, and by the discipline which hag 
 rendered it much less formidable than the arn)ies of 
 other powers to the inhabitants of the several countries 
 where iis operations were carried on, has performed 
 services that will not iillow the language of gratitude 
 and admiration to be suppressed or resiraincd (whatever 
 be the temper of the public mind) through a scrupulous 
 dread lest the tribute due to the past should prove ah 
 injurious incentive for the future. Every man deserv- 
 ing the name of Briton adds his voice to the chords 
 which extols t''e exploits of bis countrymen, with a 
 conscion.<ness, at times overpowering the elfort, that 
 they transcend all praise.— But this particular senti- 
 ment, thus irresistib'y excited, is not sufficient. The 
 nation would err grievously, if she suffered the abuse 
 which ether 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 anplicaiion of the word, without 
 martiai propensities and an assiduous cuhivalion of 
 military virtues. Nor let it be overlooked, that the 
 benefits d^-rivable from these sources are ^.laced within 
 the reach of Great Britain, under conditions peculiarly 
 favourable. The same insular posiiion which, by ren- 
 dering territorial incorporation impossible, utterly pre- 
 cludes the desire of conquest under the most seductive 
 shape it can a>sume, enables her to rely, for her defence 
 against foreign foes, chiefly upon a species of armed 
 fnycf from which her own liberties ' ave nothing to 
 fear. Such are the privileges of her situation ; and, 
 by permirtiuff, ti-ey invile her to give way to the 
 courageous instincrs of Imman nature, and toslrengthe.Q 
 and to refine f/)em by culture. But sonie have more 
 than insinuated that a design exists to subvert the civil 
 character of the English people I)y unconstitutional ap- 
 plications and unneces.^aiy increase of nrili;aiy power. 
 The advisers and abetters of such a design, were \i 
 possible that it should exist, would be guilty of the 
 mf)st heinous crime, which, upon this planet, can be 
 commitied. The authf)r, trusiing that tf)is apprehen- 
 sion arises from the delusive infiuences of an honour- 
 able jealousy, hopes that the martial qualities he ve- 
 nerates will be fostered by adhering lo those good old 
 usages \vhich cxiierience has sanctioned ; and by avail- 
 ing ourselves of new means of indisputable promise: 
 particularly by npp!yinar, in its utmost possible extent, 
 that system of tuition whose masier-spring is a habit of 
 gradual!}' enlightened subordination ; — bj' imparting 
 knowledge, ( ivil, moral, and religious, in such measure 
 that the mind, among all classes of the conjmnnity, 
 may love, admire, and be prepared and aoccmplisl^ed 
 
SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 129 
 
 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 
 that, no members of it being trampled upon, courage may 
 every where continue to rest immoveably upon its 
 ancient English foundation, personal selt- respect ; — 
 by adequate rewards, and permanent honours, confer- 
 red upon the deserving ; — by encouraging athletic ex- 
 ercises and manly sports among the peasantry of the 
 country ; — and by especial care to provide and support 
 Institutions, in which, during a time of peace, a reason- 
 able proportion of the youth of the country may be 
 instructed in military science. 
 
 The author has only to add, that he should feel 
 little satisfaction in giving to the world these limited 
 attempts* to celebrate the virtues of his country, if he 
 did not encouraj^e a hope that a subject, which it has 
 fallen within his province to treat only in the mass, will 
 by other poets be illustrated in that detail which its 
 importance calls for, and which will allow opportunities 
 to give the merited applause to persons as well as to 
 
 THINGS. 
 
 W. WORDSWORTH. 
 Rydal Mount, March, 18. 1816. 
 
 XLV. 
 ODE. 
 
 THE MORNING OF THE DAY APPOINTED FOR A GENERAL 
 THANKSGIVING. JANUARY 18. 1816. 
 
 I. 
 
 Hail, universal Source of pure delight ! 
 Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude 
 On hearts howe'er insensible or rude ; 
 Whether thy orient visitations smite 
 The haughty towers where monarchs dwell ; 
 Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence bright 
 Cheer'st the low threshold of the peasant's cell I 
 —Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky 
 In naked splendour, clear from mist or haze, 
 Or cloud approaching to divert the rays, 
 Which even in deepest winter testify 
 
 Thy power and majesty, 
 Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze. 
 —Well does thine aspect usher in this Day ; 
 As aptly suits therewith that timid 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 plaint, 
 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 
 
 T(» us who tread below) 
 Do with the service of this Day accord, 
 — Divinest Object which the uplifted eye 
 Of mortal man is suifered to behold ; 
 Thou, who upon yon snow-clad Heights hast poured 
 Meek splendour, nor forget'st the humble Vale ; 
 Thou who dost warm Earth's universal mould, 
 And for thy bounty wert not unadored 
 
 By pious men of old ; 
 Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee hail ; 
 Bright be thy course to-day, let not this promise faiJ : 
 
 II. 
 'Mid the deep quiet of this morning hour, 
 All nature seems to hear me while I fpeak. 
 By feelings urged that do not vainly seek 
 Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes 
 That stream in blith succession from the ihroati 
 
 * The Ode was published along with other pieces, 
 now interspersed through these Volumes. 
 
 17 
 
 Of birds in leafy bower, 
 Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower. 
 —There is a radiant but 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 immoveably the frame 
 Of the round world, and built, by laws as strong, 
 A solid refuge for distress. 
 The towers of righteousness ; 
 He know? that from a holier altar came 
 The quickening spark of this day's sacrifice ; 
 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. 
 
 in. 
 Have we not conquered 1 — By the vengeful sword 1 
 Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity ; 
 That curbed the baser passions, and left free 
 A loyal band to follow their liege Lord, 
 riear-sighted Honour — and his staid Compeers, 
 Along a track of most unnatural years. 
 In execution of heroic deeds ; 
 Whose memory, spotless as the crystal beada 
 Of morning dew upon the untrodden meads. 
 Shall live enrolled above the starry spheres. 
 — Who to the murmurs of an earthly string 
 Of Britain's ads 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 labouring 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 in the night 
 To rouse the wicked from their giddy dream- 
 Woe, woe to all that face her in the field 1 
 Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 
 To hira 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 astonished world with such abuse 
 As boundless patience only could endure 1 
 -Wide-wasted regions-cities wrapped in flame— 
 Who sees, and feels, 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, 
 When desolated countries, towns on fire. 
 
 Are but the avowed attire 
 Of warfare waged with' despei ate mind 
 Against the life of virtue in mankind • 
 Assaulting without ruth 
 The citadels of truth ; 
 While the whole forest of civility 
 Is doomed to perish, to the last fair tree 1 
 
 VI, 
 
 A crouching purpose— a distracted wiJI— 
 Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn, 
 
18a 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 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 renrjorse — 
 What could they fiain but shadows of redress ? 
 — So bad proceeded prcpagating 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 yon to be wisel 
 — O prostrate Lands, consult your agonies I 
 
 VII. 
 
 No mov^— the gnilt is banished, 
 And, Willi the Guilt the Shame is fled; 
 And, with the Guilt and shame, the Woe hath vanished, 
 Shaking the dust and ashes from her head ! 
 — No more — Ihope lingeririp;s of distress 
 Sully the limpid si ream 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 lieart to sacred pleasures 1 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Land of our fathers I precious unto me 
 Since the first joys of thinkmg infancy: 
 When of thy gallant chivalry I read, 
 And hugged the volume on my sleepless bed I 
 O England ! — dearer far than life is dear, 
 If I forget thy prowess, never more 
 Be thy ungrateful Son allowed to hear 
 Thy green leaves rustle, or thy torrents roar! 
 But how can He be faithless to the past, 
 Whose soul, intolerant of base decline, 
 Saw ill thy virtue a celestial sign, 
 Tliat bade him hope, and to his hope cleave fasti 
 The iiaticns strove with puissance ;— at length 
 Wide Europe heaved, ini patient to be cast, 
 With all her living strength. 
 With all her armed Powers, 
 Upon the offensive shores. 
 The trumpet blew a universal blast 1 
 But Thou art fonmost in the field: — there stand: 
 Receive the triumph destined to thy Hand ! 
 All Slates have glorified themsflves ; — their claims 
 Are weighed by Providence, in balance even ; 
 And now, in preference to ihe mightiest names, 
 To Thee the extermiriaiing sword is given. 
 Dread mark of approbation justly gained! 
 Exalted office, worthily sustained! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Imagination, ne'er before content, 
 
 Ilut aye ascending, restless in her pride, 
 
 From all that man's performance could present, 
 
 Stoops to that closing deed magnificent. 
 
 And with the emL»race is satisfied. 
 — Fly, ministers of Fame, 
 Whate'er your means, wbate'er help ye claim, 
 Bear through the woild tliese lidii.-gs of delight! 
 — Hours, Days, and monihs, have borne them, in ihe sight 
 Of mortals, travelling faster than the t;hower. 
 
 That land-ward strcjtclies from the sea, 
 The morning's splendours to devour ; 
 But this appearance scattered ecstasy, 
 And heart-sick Europe blessed the healing power; 
 
 — T/ir. shock is given — the .^doer^arics bleed 
 
 J^o^ Justice triianphs ! Earth is freed ! 
 Such glad assurance suddenly went forth — 
 It pierced the caverns of rhe plu^?;gish North — 
 
 It found no barrier on the ridge 
 Of Andes — frozen gulfs became its bridge — 
 
 * " A discipline the rule whereof is Passion. "—Lord 
 Brook. 
 
 The vast Pacifie 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 unvver iied arrow hath pursued its flight i 
 The eyes of good men thankfully give heed, 
 And in its sparkling progress read 
 How virtue triumphs, from her bondage freed ! 
 Tyrants exult to hear of kingdoms won. 
 And slaves are pleased to learn that mighty feats are 
 
 done ; 
 Even tJie proud Realm, from whose distracted borders 
 This messenger of good was launched in air, 
 France, conquered France amid her wild disorders, 
 Feels, and hereafter shall the truth declare, 
 That she too lacks not reason to rejoice. 
 And utter England's name with sadly-plausive voice. 
 
 X. 
 
 Preserve, O Lord I within our hearts 
 
 The memory of thy favour. 
 
 That else insensibly departs. 
 
 And loses its sweet savour ! 
 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 for ever bright! 
 What ofl^ering, what transcendant monument 
 Shall our sincerity to Thee present? 
 —Not work of hands; but trophies that may reach 
 To highest Heaven — the labour of the soul ; 
 That builds, as thy unerring precepts teach, 
 Upon the inward victories of each, 
 Ker hope of lasting glory for the whole. 
 — Yet might it well become that City now, 
 Into whose breast the tides of grandeur flow. 
 To whom all persecuted men retreat ; 
 If a new Temple lift her votive brow 
 Upon the shore of silver Thames — to greet 
 The peaceful guest advancing from afar. 
 Bright be the distant Fabric, as a star 
 Fresh risen — and beautiful wiihin !— there meet 
 Dependence infinite, proportion just ; 
 —A Pile that Grace approves, that Time can trust 
 With his most sacred wealth, heroic dust! 
 
 XI. 
 
 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; 
 l>e 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 tempest coming. 
 And escaping from that saduess 
 Into elevated gladness : 
 While the whire-robed choir attendan*, 
 Under mouldering banners pendant, 
 Provoke all potent symphonies to raise 
 
 Songs of victory and piaise, 
 For them who bravely stood unhurt, or bled 
 
MEMORIALS ( P A ToUR ON THE CONTINENT, 
 
 1S20. 
 
 131 
 
 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 posteritj'. 
 Unheard by them, their deeds shall celebrate ! 
 
 xn. 
 
 Nor will the God of peace and love 
 Such martial service disapprove. 
 He guides tlie Pestilence— the cloud 
 Of locusts travels on his breath ; 
 The region that in hope was ploughed 
 His drought consumen, his mildew taints with death; 
 
 He springs the huthed Volcano's mine ; 
 He puts the Earthquuke on her still design. 
 Darkens the sun, haih bade the forest sink, 
 And, drinking towns and cities, still can drink 
 Cities and towns — 'tis Thou — the work is Tliine ! 
 — The fierce Tornado sleeps within thy courts — 
 He hea-s the word — he flies — 
 And navies pel•j^;h in thtnr ports ; 
 For Thou art angry wi;h thine enemies I 
 For these, and for our errors 
 And sins, that point tfioir terrors. 
 We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud 
 And magnify thy name, Almighty God I 
 But thy most dreaded instrument 
 In working out a p^ire intent. 
 Is Man — arrayed for mutual slaughter, — 
 Yea, Carnage is thy daughter! 
 Thou cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling mail, 
 And by thy just permission they prevail ; 
 
 Thine arm from peril guards the coasts 
 Of them who in thy laws delight ; 
 Thy presence turns the scale of doubtful fight. 
 Tremendous God of battle. Lord of Hosts ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 To Thee — to Thee — 
 On this appointed day shall thanks ascend, 
 That Thou hast brought our warfare to an end, 
 And that we need no second victory I 
 Ha I 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 sovpreign 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 favoured Nation, 
 Breathe Thou, this day, a vital undulation! 
 
 Let all who do this land inherit 
 
 Be conscious of Thy moving spirit I 
 
 Oh, 'tis a goodly Ordinance,— the sight, 
 
 Tiiough sprung from bleeding war, is one of pure 
 
 delight ; 
 Ble*s 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 lieart to tell their gratitude 
 
 For Thy protecting care, 
 Their solemn joy — prais^ing the Eternal Lord 
 
 P\ir tyranny tubilued, 
 And for the sway of equity renewed, 
 For liberty confirmed, and peace restored ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But hark— the summons ! — down the placid Lake 
 Floats the soft cadence of the Church-towrr bells ; 
 Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams might wake 
 The tender insects fle< (Uiig in their cells; 
 Bright shines the Sun— and not a breeze to shake 
 The drops that tip the ujelting icicles. 
 0, enter now his temple gate ! 
 Inviting words— perchance already fiung, 
 (As the crow<l pres devoutly down the aisle 
 Of some old Minster's venerable pile) 
 From voices into zealous passion stung, 
 While the tubed engine feels the inspiring blast, 
 And has begun — iss clouds of sound to cast 
 Towards the empyreal Heaven, 
 As if the fretted roof vvere riven. 
 Us, humbler ceremonies now await ; 
 But in the bosom, with devout respect 
 The baimer of our joy we will erect. 
 And strength of love our souls shall elevate: 
 For to a few collected in his name. 
 Their heavenly Father will incline an ear 
 Gracious to service hallowed by its aim ; — 
 Awake ! ihe m.ajesty of God revere ! 
 
 Go— and with foreheads meekly bowed 
 Present your prayers— go— and rejoice aloud-- 
 
 The Holy One will hear! 
 And wliat, 'mid silence deep, with faith sincere, 
 Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate, 
 Shall s]nj{)Iy feel and purely meditate 
 Of warnings— from the unprecedented might 
 Which, in our time, the impious have disclosed; 
 And of more arduous duties thence imposed 
 Upon the future advocates of right; 
 
 Of mysteries revealed, 
 
 And judgments unrepealed, — 
 
 Of earthly revolution, 
 
 And final retribution,— 
 
 To his omniscience will appear 
 
 An ofi^ering not unworthy to find place 
 
 On this high Day of Thanks, before the Throne of 
 Grace .' 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 Bear Fellow-travellers ! think not that the Muse 
 Presents to notice these memorial Laijs, 
 Hoping- the general eye thereon will gaze, 
 >ds on a mirror that gives lack the hues 
 Of living J^ature ; 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 awd vivid memory : 
 Thus far contented, that for You her verse 
 Shall lack not power the " meeting soul to pierce .'" 
 
 PV. WORDSWORTH, 
 Rydal Mount, January, 1823. 
 
 I. 
 
 FISH-W0MEN.~0N LANDING AT CALAIS. 
 
 'Tis said, fantastic Ocean doth tnfold 
 
 ''J'he 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 liere behold 
 
 How terrible beneath the opening waves 
 
 '' o sink, and meet them in their fretted caves, 
 
 Withered, grotesque—immeasurably old. 
 
 And shrill and fierce in accent!— Fear it not • 
 
 For they Earih's fairest Daughters do excel;' 
 
 Pure undecaying beauty is their lot; 
 
 Their voices into liquid music swell. 
 
 Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot — 
 
 The undisturbed Abodes where Sea-nymphs dwell j 
 
133 
 
 MEMORIALS Oi' A TOtjR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 ir. — BUUGES. 
 
 Brughs 1 Raw attired with golden light 
 
 (Streamed from the west) as with a robe of power: 
 
 'Tis past; and now the grave and sunless hour, 
 
 That, sh)wly making way for peaceful night, 
 
 Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight 
 
 Otfers the beauty, the magnificence, 
 
 And all the 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 I 
 
 III. — Beuges.* 
 
 The Spirit of Antiquity — enshrined 
 
 In sumptuous Buildings, vocal in sweet Song, 
 
 In Picture, speaking with heroic tongue. 
 
 And with devout solemnities entwined — 
 
 Strikes 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, 
 
 * This is not the first poetical tribute which in 
 our times has been paid to this beautiful City. Mr. 
 Pontliy, 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. 
 
 " But for the scars in that unhappy raire 
 Inflicted, firm she stands and iindecayed ; 
 
 Like our first Sires, a beautiful old age 
 Is hers in venerable years arrayed ; 
 
 And yet, to her, benignant stars may bring, 
 
 What fate denies to man, — a second spring. 
 
 " When T may read of tilts in days of old. 
 And tourneys graced by Chieftains of renown. 
 
 Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriors bold, 
 If fancy would portray gome stately town, 
 
 Which for such pomp fit theatre should be, 
 
 I'air Bruges, I shall then remember thee." 
 
 In this City arc many vestiges of the splendour of 
 the Burgvnidian Dukedom, and the long black mantle 
 universally worn by the females is probably a rem- 
 nant of the old Spanish connection, which, if I do 
 not much deceive myself, is traceable in the grave 
 drportiHcnt of irg inhabitants. Bruges is comparative- 
 ly little disturbed by that curious contest, or rather 
 contlict, of Fleuiish with French propensities in mat- 
 ters of taste, so conspicuous through other parts of 
 Flanders. The hotel to which we drove at Ghent 
 furnished an odd instance. In the passnges were 
 paintings and stntiics, after the antique, of Hebe and 
 Ai)ollo; and in the garden, a little pond, about a yard 
 and a half in diann-ter, wnh a weeping willow bend- 
 Jng over it. and und(M- the shade of that tree, in the 
 centre of the pond, a wooden painted etatue of a 
 Dutch or Flemish boor, looking ineffably tender up- 
 on his mistress, and embracing her. A living duck, 
 tethered at the feet of the sculptured lovers, alternate- 
 ly tormented a miserable eel and itself with endea- 
 vours to escape Irom its bonds and prison. Had we 
 chanced to espy the hostess of the hotel in this 
 quaint rural retreat, the exhibition would have been 
 complete. She was a true Flemish figure, in the 
 dress of the days of Holbein, her svnibol of office, a 
 weighty bunch ot' keys, pendent from her portly waist. 
 In Brussels, the modern taste in costume, architec 
 ture, (fee. has got the mastery ; in Ghent there is a 
 struggle; but in Bruges old images are still paramount 
 and an air of monastic life among the quiet goint's- 
 on of a thinly-peopled City is inexpressibly soothin^'^; 
 a pensive grace e(;ems to be cast over all, even the 
 wcry children. — Extract from Journal. 
 
 The City one vast Temple— dedicate 
 
 To mutual respect in thought and deed J 
 
 To leisure, to forbearances sedate; 
 
 To social cares from jarring passions freed; 
 
 A nobler peace than that in deserts found! 
 
 IV. — AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 A WINGED Goddess, clothed in vesture wrought 
 Of rainbow colours ; 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 disappear: 
 Yet a dread local recompense we found ; 
 While glory peemed 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 ! 
 
 V, — SCENERY BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE. 
 
 What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose 1 
 Is this the Stream, whose cities, heights, and plains, 
 War's favourite playground, are with crimson stains 
 Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews ? 
 The Morn, that now, along the silver Meusb, 
 Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the Swaina 
 To tend their silent boats and ringing wnins, 
 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 grey rocks clustering in pensive shade, 
 That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise 
 From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still ! 
 
 VI. — AIX-LA-CHAPELLK. 
 
 Was it to disenchant, and to undo, 
 
 That we approached the Seat of Charlemaine 1 
 
 To sweep from many an old romantic strain 
 
 That faith which no devotion may renew ! 
 
 Why does this puny Church present to view 
 
 Its 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 1 seek the Pyrenean Breach 
 
 Which Roland clove with huge two-handed sway, 
 
 And to the enormous labour left his name, 
 
 Where unremitting frosts the rocky Crescent bleach.* 
 
 VII. — IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. 
 
 O FOR the help of Angels to complete 
 This Temple— Angels governed by a plan 
 How gloriously pursued by daring Man, 
 Studious that He might not disdain the seat 
 Who dwells in Heaven I But that inspiring heat 
 
 * " 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 king- 
 doms—let us fancy this wall curved like a crescent, 
 with its convexity towards France. Lastly, let us sup- 
 pose, thai in the very n)iddle 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 ' Brbche db holanp.' '* 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 133 
 
 Halh failed ; and now, ye Powers ! whose gorgeous 
 
 win^s 
 And splendid aspect yon emblazonings 
 But faintly picture, twere an office meet 
 For you, 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 tlie sound 
 Of penetrating harps and voices sweet ! 
 
 YIII—IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE BANKS OF THE RHINE. 
 
 Amid this dance of objects sadness steals 
 
 O'er the defrauded heart— while sweeping by. 
 
 As in a fit of Th-^spian jollity, 
 
 Beneath lier vine-leaf crown the green Earth reels : 
 
 Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels 
 
 The venerable pageantry of Time, 
 
 Each beetling rampart, and each lower sublime, 
 
 And what the Dell unwillingly reveals 
 
 Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees pspied 
 
 Near the bright River's edge. Yet why repine 1 
 
 Pedestrian liberty shall yet be mine 
 
 To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze : 
 
 Freedom which youth with copious hand supplied. 
 
 May in fit measure bless my later days. 
 
 IX. 
 HYMN, 
 
 rOR THE BOATMEN, AS THEY APPROACH THE RAPIDS, 
 UNDER THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 
 
 Jesu! bless our slender Boa% 
 
 By the current swept along ; 
 Loud its threalenings— let them not 
 
 Drown the music of a Song 
 Breathed thy merry to imploie, 
 Where these troubled waters roar ! 
 
 Saviour, in thy image, 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, like yon ancient Tower 
 Watching o'er the River's bed, 
 
 Fling the shadow of thy power. 
 Else wp sleep among the Dead ; 
 
 Thou who trodd'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 ; 
 Miserere Domine !* 
 
 (Who loves the Cross, yet to the Crescent'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. 
 Reaches, with one brief moment's rapid flight, 
 The vast Encincture of that gloomy sea 
 Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbad 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 bear in heaven her shape distinct with stars. 
 
 xr. 
 
 MEMORIAL, 
 
 NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF THUM. 
 " DEM 
 
 ^jYDEJVKEJ\r 
 
 ME TJ^ES FR E UJSTD ES 
 
 J3LOY8 RED/J^G 
 
 MDCCCXVHi:'' 
 
 Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was ('aptain 
 General of the Swiss forces, which, with a courage 
 and perseverance worthy of the cause, opposed the 
 flagitious and too successful attempt of Buonaparte 
 to subjugate their country. 
 
 Around a wild and woody hill 
 
 A gravelled pathway treading. 
 
 We reached a votive Stone that bears 
 
 The name of Alovs 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, 
 Sinking in summer glory ; 
 And, while he sinks, affords 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. 
 
 XII. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE. 
 
 Not, like his great compeers, indignantly 
 
 Doth Danube spring to life !t The wandering Stream 
 
 * See the beautiful Snng in Mr. Coleridge's Tragedy 
 "The Remorse." Why is the Harp of auantock 
 fiilent. 
 
 t Before this quarter of the Hlack Forest was in- 
 hahited, the source of the Danube might have suggest- 
 ed some of those sublime images which Armstrong lias 
 so finely described ; at present, the contrast is most 
 striking. The Spring appears in a capacious stone 
 
 COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS OF 
 SWITZERLAND. 
 
 O LIFE ! without thy chequered scene 
 Of right and wrong, of weal and woe, 
 Success and failure, could a ground 
 For magnanimity be found ? 
 For faith, 'mid ruined hopes, serene? 
 Or whence could virtue flow % 
 
 Yet are we doomed our native dust 
 To wet with many a fruitless shower, 
 And ill it suits us to disdain 
 The Altar, to deride the Fane, 
 Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust 
 To win a happier hour. 
 
 Basin upon the front of a Ducal palace, with a pleasure- 
 ground opposite ; then, passing iinder the pavement, 
 takes the form of a little, clear, bright, black, vigo- 
 rous rill, barely wide enough to t^mpt the iagility of 
 a child five years old to leap over it, — and entering 
 the Garden, it joins, after a course of a few hundred 
 yards, a Stream much more considerable than itself. 
 The copiousness of the Spring at Doncschivgen must 
 have procured for it the honour of being named the 
 Source of the Danube. 
 
134 
 
 MEMOniALS or A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 I lovp, where spreads the village lawn, 
 Upon some knee-worn Cell to gaze ; 
 Hail U) the fiini unnioving Cross, 
 Aloft, where pines their branches toss ! 
 And to the Clia|)el 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 clianipain wide, 
 Whate'er we look on, ot our side 
 Be Charity 1 — to bid us tliink, 
 And feel, if we would know. 
 
 xiir. 
 
 ON APPROACHING THE STAUC-BACH, L AUTERDllUNNEN. 
 
 Tracks let me follow far from humankind 
 
 Whii'h these illusive greetings may not reach, 
 
 Wlici-e only Nature tunes her voice to teacli 
 
 Careless pursuits, and raptures unconfined. 
 
 No Mermaid warbles (to allay the wind 
 
 That drives some vessel tow'rd a dangerous beach) 
 
 More thrilling melodies ! no caverned Wiich, 
 
 Chanting a love spell, ever intertwined 
 
 Notes shrill and wild with art more musicall 
 
 Alas ! that from the lips of abject Want 
 
 And idleness in tatters mendicant 
 
 The strain should flow — free fancy to enthral. 
 
 And with regret and useless pity haunt 
 
 This bold, this pure, this sky-burn Waterfall !* 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE FALL OF THE AAR — HANDEC. 
 
 From the fierce aspect of this River throwing 
 
 Bis 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 growing ; 
 
 Flov/ers that peep forth from many a cleft and chink, 
 
 And, from the whirlwind of his anger, drink 
 
 Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing: 
 
 They suck, from breath that threatening 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. 
 
 XV. 
 
 SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ. 
 
 " WHA.T know we of the Blest above 
 But that they sing and that they love 1" 
 
 * " The Staub-bach" is a narrow Stream, which, 
 after a lon^ 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 
 a<^ain a rivulet. The vocal powers of tln^se musi- 
 cal Beggars may seem to be exaggerated; but this 
 wild and savage air was utterly unlike any sounds J 
 had ever heard ; the notes reached me from a distance, 
 and on what occasion they were sung Icould not guess, 
 only they seemed lo belong, in some way or other, to 
 the' Waterfa'l— and reminded nn^ of religious services 
 chanted to Streams and fouirtains in Pagan limes. Mr. 
 Southey has thus accurately ciiaracterised the peculi- 
 arity of this music : " While we v\''ere at the Waterfall, 
 some hall-score peasants, chiefly women and git Is, as- 
 sembled jnst out of reach of the Spring, and set up, — 
 surely, the wildest chorus that ever was heard by hu- 
 man 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, pow- 
 erful, and thrilling beyond description." See Notes 
 to ' A Tale of Paraguay.' 
 
 Yet, if they overdid inspire 
 
 A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir, 
 
 Now, where those harvests Damsels float 
 
 Honjeward 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 ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS.* 
 
 For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes 
 
 The work of fancy from her willitig hands 
 
 And such a beautiful creation makes 
 
 As renders needless spells and magic wands, 
 
 And for the boldest tale belief commands. 
 
 Wh n first mine eyes h(^he!d liiat 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. 
 Clouds do not nrm:^ 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 he 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 : 
 
 XVII. 
 
 our lady of THE SNOW. 
 
 Meek Virgin Mother, more benign 
 Than fairest Star, upon the lieight 
 Of thy own mouniainf, set to keep 
 Lone vigils through the hours of sleep, 
 What eye can look upon thy shrme 
 Untroubled at the sight 1 
 
 These crowded Ofterings as they hang 
 
 In sign of misery relieved, 
 
 Even these, without intent of theirs, 
 
 Report of comfortless despairs, 
 
 Of man)'^ a deep and cureless pang 
 
 And confidence deceived. 
 
 To Thee, in this aerial cleft. 
 As to a common centre, tend 
 All sufferings that no longer rest 
 On mortal succour, all distrest 
 That pine of human hope bereft, 
 Nor wish for earthly friend. 
 
 And hence, O Virgin Mother mild I 
 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. 
 
 * The Convent whoscslte was pointed out, according 
 to tradition, in this manner, is seated at its base. The 
 Architecture of the Building is unimpressive, but the 
 situation is worthy of the honour which the imagina' 
 tion of the mountaineers has conferred upon it. 
 
 t Mount Righi ! 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 135 
 
 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, 
 A tender sense of shadowy fear, 
 And chastening sympathies \ 
 
 Nor falls that intermingling shade 
 To Summer gladsomeness unkind I 
 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 
 Sufficient for the wise. 
 
 xvirr. 
 
 EFFUSrON, 
 
 IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWER OF TELL, AT 
 ALTORF. 
 
 This Tower is said to stand upon the spot where grew 
 the Linden Tree against which his Son was placed, 
 when the Father's archery was put to proof under 
 circumstances so famous in Swiss History. 
 
 What though the Italian pencil wrought not here. 
 Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow 
 On Marathonian valour, yet the fear 
 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 
 Home-ward or School-ward, ap-^ what ye behold ; 
 Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold ! 
 
 But 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 tlie blaze of noon 
 
 Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune 
 
 That fosters peace, and gentleness recals ; 
 
 Then might the passinn Monk receive a boon 
 
 Of saintly pleasure from these pictured walls. 
 
 While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing 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 limid forest game, 
 But smiles — ihe hesitating shaft to free ; 
 Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim, 
 And to his Father give its own unerring aim. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 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 spr(;ad. 
 
 Majestic Berne, high on her guardian steep, 
 
 Holding a central Btation of eonimand, 
 
 Might well be styled this noble Body's Head ; 
 Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrenchments deep, 
 rts Heart ; and ever may the heroic Land 
 Thy name, O Schwytz, in happy freedom keep !' 
 
 I* 
 
 XX. 
 
 ON HEARING THE " RANZ DES VACHES" ON THE TOP 
 OF THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. 
 
 I LISTEN — but no faculty 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-brc^athed kine 
 
 Remembering, and green Alpine pastures decked 
 
 With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject 
 
 The tale as fabulous.— Here while I recline 
 
 Mindful how others love this simple Strain, 
 
 Even here, upon this glorious Mountain (named 
 
 Of God himself from dread pre-eminence) 
 
 Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed. 
 
 Yield to the Music's touching influence, 
 
 And joys of distant home my heart enchain. 
 
 XX r. 
 
 ' THE CHURCH OF SA.N SALVADOR, KEEN FROM THE 
 LAKE OF LUNAGO. 
 
 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 sum- 
 mit of which the Church is built, stands amid the 
 intricacies of the Lnke 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 tra- 
 veller who performs it will be amply rewarded. — 
 Splendid fertility, rich woods and dazzling waters, 
 seclusion and confinement of view contrasted with 
 sea-like 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 pros- 
 pect more diversified by magnificence, beauty, and 
 sublimity, than perhaps any other point in Europe, of 
 so inconsiderable an elevation, commands. 
 
 Tiiou sacred Pile ! whose turrets rise 
 From yon steep Mountain's loftiest stage, 
 Guarded by lone San Salvador ; 
 Sink (if thou must) as heretofore, 
 To sulpiiurous 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, 
 
 * 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 this Muall Can- 
 * ion, 10 impose upon h the laws of their governors* 
 
136 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 Religion in the sainted grove, 
 And in the hallowed giot. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 He, too, of battle-martyrs chief! 
 Who, to recal Ijis daunted peers, 
 For victory shaped an open space, 
 Uy gathering with a wide embrace. 
 Into his single heart, a sheaf 
 Of fatal Austrian spears.* 
 
 XXII. 
 
 FORT FUENTES. 
 
 The Ruins of Fort Fuentcs form the crest of a 
 rocky eminence that rises from the plain at the head 
 of the I^ake of Como, commanding views up the 
 Valteliiie, and toward the town of Chiavenna. The 
 prospect in the latter direction is characterised by 
 melancholy sublimiiy. We rejoiced at being favoiired 
 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 Inscription, upon elaborately-sculp- 
 tured marble lying on the ground, records that the 
 Foit 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 De- 
 scendants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet stand- 
 ing, and a considerable part of the Chapel walls : 
 a smooth gree:j turf has taken place of the pave- 
 ment, and we could see no trace of altar or image; 
 but every where something to remind one of for- 
 mer splendour, and of devastation 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- 
 coloured pink was growing in great beauty. While 
 descending, we discovered on the ground, apart from 
 the path, and at a considerable distance from the 
 ruined ChappI, 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 hnre ! Could we but trans- 
 port this pretty Image to our own garden !"^Yet 
 it seemed it would have been a f;ity any one should 
 remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which 
 may be its 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 J 
 
 And the green, gilded snake, without troubling the calm 
 Of the beauiiful countenance, twine round his neck. 
 
 ■" Arnold Winkelreid, at the battle of Sempach, broke 
 an Austrian phalanx in this maimer. The event is one 
 of the most famou.s in the annals of Swiss heroism ■ 
 and pictures and prints of it are frequent throughout 
 the country. 
 
 Where haply (kind service to Piety duel) 
 When winter the grove of its mantle bereaves, 
 
 Some Bird (like our own honoured Redbreast) may 
 strew 
 The desolate Slumberer with moss and with leaves. 
 
 Fuentes once harboured the good and the brave. 
 Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure unknown ; 
 
 Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave 
 While the thrill of her fifes thro' the mountains 
 was blown ; 
 
 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!— 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 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 — lo trill 
 
 Thy mountain notes with simple skill ; 
 
 Or on thy head to poise a show 
 
 Cf Images in seemly row ; 
 
 The graceful form of milk white steed, 
 
 Or Bird that soared with Ganymede; 
 
 Or through our hamlets thou 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 ! 
 
 Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy ; 
 
 The wages of thy travel, joy I 
 
 But thou, perhaps, (alert and 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 lo a tickle clime : 
 
 Whether thou choose this useful part, 
 
 Or minister to finer art, 
 
 Though robbed of many a cherished dream, 
 
 A-nd crossed by many a shattered scheme, 
 
 What stirring wonders wilt thou see 
 
 In the proud Isle of liberty ! 
 
 Yet will the V\ anderer sometimes pine 
 
 With thoughts which no delights can chase, 
 
 Recal a Sister's last embrace 
 
 His Mother's neck entwine ; 
 
 Nor shall forget the Maiden coy 
 
 That would hfive loved the bright-haired Boy ! 
 
 3. 
 
 My Song, encouraged by the grace 
 
 That beams from his ingenuous face, 
 
 For this Adventurer scruples not 
 
 To prophecy a golden lot; 
 
 Due recompense, and safe return 
 
 To CoMo's steeps— his happy bourne ! 
 
 Where he, afoft in garden glade, 
 
 Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid, 
 
 The towering maize, and prop ihe 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. 
 
MEMORIALS OP A TOUR O^ THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 137 
 
 —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. 
 
 1. 
 WiTii nodding plumes, and lightly dreat 
 Like Foresters 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 riflo gun's report, 
 A startling thunder quick and short i 
 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 favoured 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. 
 
 2. ' 
 
 But Truth inspired the Bards (if old 
 
 When of an iron age they told, 
 
 Which to unequal laws gave birth, 
 
 That drove Astraea 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. 
 
 Sate watching by his silent Goats, 
 
 Apart within 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 1 
 
 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 ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE LAST SUPPER, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, IN THE 
 REFECTORY OF THE CONVENT OF MARIA DELLA 
 GRAZIA— MIT AN. 
 
 Tho' searching damps and many an envious flaw 
 
 Have marred this Work*, the calm ethereal grace, 
 
 The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face. 
 
 The mercy, goodness have not failed to awe 
 
 The Elements ; as they do m*>lt and thaw 
 
 The heart of the Beholder— and erase 
 
 (At least for one rapt moment) every trace 
 
 Of disobedience to the primal law. 
 
 The annunciation of the dreadful truth 
 
 * This picture of the Last Supppr has not o->ly been 
 grievously injured by time, but parts are said to have 
 oeen.pamted over again. These niceties may be left 
 JO connoisseurs,— J speak of it as I felt. The copy ex- 
 mtiifed in London. some years ago, and the engraving 
 ^y Morghetr, are Both admirable ; but in the original is 
 a power which neither of those works has attained, or 
 t-vcn ai)proache(t. 
 
 18 
 
 Made to the Twelve, survives : lip, forehead, cheek 
 And hand reposing on the board in ruth 
 Of what it utters,* while the unguilty seek 
 Unquestionable meanings — still bespeak 
 A labour worthy of eternal youth I • 
 
 XXV. 
 
 THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1820; 
 
 High on her speculative Tower 
 Stood Science waiting for the Hour 
 When Sol was destined to endure 
 That darkening of his radiant face 
 Which Superstition strove to chasey 
 Erewhile, with rites impure. 
 
 Afloat beneath Italian skies, 
 Through regions fair as Paradise 
 We gaily 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 vapour stretched its wings; no cloud 
 
 Cast far or near a murky shroud ; 
 
 The sky an a^ure field displayed ; 
 
 'Twas 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 carv6d 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 fled to Milan's loftiest spire, 
 And there alights 'mid that aerial host 
 Of figures human and divine, f 
 While as the snows of Apennine 
 Indurated by frost. 
 
 ■" The hand 
 
 5'aw^withthe voice, and this the a.ffuujent." Milton. 
 1 TheStatuPs 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 f=ame expense and 
 labour, judiciously directed to purposes more strictly 
 architectu al, might have much heightened the general 
 eflfect of the building; for, seen from the ground, the 
 Statues appear diminutive. But thp coup-d'coil, from 
 the best point of view, which is halfway up the Spire 
 must strike an unprejudiced Person with admiration' 
 and surely the selection and arrangement oftheFizures 
 is exquisitely fitted to support the religion of the Coun- 
 try in the imaginaiions and feelings of the Spectator 
 It was with great pleasure that I saw, during the two' 
 ascents which we made, several Children, of ditferent 
 ages, tripping up and down the slender spire, and 
 pausing t J look around them, with feelinirs much more 
 animated than could have been derived from these, or 
 U)e finest works of art, if placed within easy reach.— 
 Remember also that you have the Alps on one side, 
 and on the other the Apennines, with the Plain of 
 Lombardy between ! 
 
138 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON TllE CONtlNENT, 1820. 
 
 A\ve-stnckeT\ she beholds the array 
 That guards the Temple night and day ; 
 Angels she sees that might from Heaven have flown, 
 And Virgin-saints — v^ho 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 lipSj. 
 The starry zone of sovereign height,* 
 All steeped in this portentous light ! 
 All suffering dim eclipse ! 
 
 Thus after Man had fallen (if aught 
 These pcvishable spheres have wrought 
 Way with that issue be compared) 
 Throngs of celestial visages, 
 Darkening like water in the breeze, 
 A holy sadness shared. 
 
 Lo ! while I speak, the labouring 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! 
 
 ye, who guard and grace my home 
 While in far-distant Lands we roam. 
 
 What countenance hath this day put on for you ? 
 Do clouds surcharged with irksome rain, 
 Blackening the Eclipse take hill and plain 
 From your benighted view? 
 
 Or was it given you lo behold 
 Like vision, pensive though not cold, 
 Of gay Winandermere ? 
 Saw ye the soft yet awful veil 
 Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale^ 
 Helveilyn's brow severe ? 
 
 1 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. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THB THREE COTTAGE OIRL8. 
 1. 
 
 How blest the Maid whose heart — yet free 
 
 From Love's uneasy Bovereignty, 
 
 Beats with a fancy running high, 
 
 Her simple cares to magnify : 
 
 Whom Labour, never urged to toil, 
 
 Hath cherished on a healthful Roil; 
 
 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 shedii no tear 
 
 Bui in sweet pity ; and can hear 
 
 Another's praise from envy clear. 
 
 2. 
 
 Such, (but O lavish Nature ! vrhy 
 That dark unfathomable eye. 
 Where lurks a Spirit that replies 
 To stillest mood of softest skies, 
 let hints al peace to be o'erthiown, 
 Another's first, and then her own 1) 
 Such, haply, yon Itahan Maid, 
 
 * Above the highest eir«le of Sgurea is a zone of mo- 
 tailk stars. ,-..-.- ... . , . ,. 
 
 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. 
 
 3. 
 
 How blest (if truth may entertain 
 Coy fancy with a bolder strain) 
 The HELVKTiAN Girl — who daily bravcs,^ 
 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 T 
 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 Maitf. 
 
 4. 
 
 Her beauty dazzles the thicl^ w.oo<J ; 
 
 Her courage animates the flood; 
 
 Her steps the elastic green-sward meets 
 
 Returning unreluciant sweets; 
 
 The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice 
 
 Aloud, saluted by her voice I 
 
 Blrthe 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 I 
 
 5. 
 *" Sweet Highland Girl I a very shower 
 Of beauty was thy eanhly dower," 
 When thou didst flit before my eyes, 
 Gay Vision under sullen skies, 
 While Hope and Love around thee played, 
 Near the rough Falls of Inversneyd ! 
 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 Lungano's side: 
 And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep, descried ! 
 
 XXVtt. 
 
 THE COLUMN INTENDED BY BUONAPARTB FOR A TRI- 
 ITMPHAL KDIFICE IN MILAN, NOW LYING BY THE WAT- 
 BIDE IN THE SIMPLON PASS. 
 
 Ambition, following down this far-famed slopt 
 Her Pioneer, the snow-dis.solving 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'erthrown, 
 Vanity*s hieroglyphic ; a choice trope 
 In Fortune's rhetoric. Daughter ol 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 ensanguined heath: 
 What £roaM ! wJiat shrieks ! what quietneasin deaili! 
 
 ^ See Address to a Hisbland Cflrl, p. 108. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 139 
 
 :StANZAS, 
 
 tO«lPOSfcD IN THt SllAPLON PASS, 
 
 Va-LLombrosa ! 1 longed in thy shadiest wood 
 To slumber, reclined on the nao88-covered floor, 
 To listen to Anions precipitous flood, 
 When ih« stillness of evening hath deepened its roar^ 
 To range through the Temples of P-«stum, to muse 
 In PoMPKii preserved by her burial in earth ; 
 On pictures to gaze wherig they drar»k in their hues ; 
 And murmur sweet Songs on the ground of their birth : 
 
 The beauty of Fli'jrence, the prandeur of Rome, 
 Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret 1 
 With a fiope (and no more) for a season to come, 
 Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt 1 
 Thou fortunate Region \ Whose Greatness innrfted 
 Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust; 
 Twice-glorifind fields ! if in sadness I turned 
 From your infinite marveFs, the sadness \i^as just- 
 Now, risen ere the li^ht-footed Chamois retires 
 From dew-sprinklfid grass to heights guarded with snow, 
 Tow'rd the misls that hang crver the land of my Sires, 
 From the climate of myrtl<?s contented I go. 
 My thoughts become bright like yon edging of Pines, 
 Hdw l)lack was iis hue in the recion of air! 
 But, touched from behind by the Sun, it now shines 
 With threads that seenn part of his own silvei: hair. 
 
 Though the burthen of toil with dear friends we divide, 
 Though by the same zephyr our temples are fanned 
 Ai we rest in the cool orange-bower side by side, 
 A yeartiing survives which ffeW hearts shall withstand : 
 Each step hath its value while hotaeward We move; — 
 joy when the girdle of iQngland i(^pears ! 
 What moment in life is so conscious 6f love, 
 So rich in the leuderetit sweetnedi^ of tektB 1 
 
 XX rx. 
 
 «CHO, UPON THE GEMMI. 
 
 What Beast of Chase hath broken from the cover? 
 Stern Gemmi listens to as full a cry, 
 Ab multitudinous a harmony, 
 As e'er did ring the heights of Latmos over. 
 When, from the soft couch of her sleeping Lover, 
 Up-starting, Cynthia skimmed the moutttain-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 vblcefl 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 ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 PROCESSIONS. 
 
 SUGGESTED ON A SABBATH MORNING IN THE VALE OP 
 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 intents 
 
 Feelingly told by living monuments ; 
 
 Mankind of yore were prompted to devise 
 
 Rite* such as yet Persepolis presents 
 
 *»raven on her cankered walls, — solemnities 
 
 That moved in long array before admiring eyes. 
 
 Th« Hebrews thus, carrying in joyful state 
 
 Thick bou(jhs of palm, and willows from the brook, 
 
 Marched round the Altar— to commemorate 
 How, when their course they through the desert took, 
 Guided by signs which ne'er the sky forsook. 
 They lodged in leafy tents and cabins low; 
 Green boughs were borne, while for the blast that shook 
 Down to tli€ earth the walls of Jericho, 
 These shout hosannas— those the startling trumpets 
 blow ! 
 
 And thus, in order, 'mid the sacred Grovo 
 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 iho horned God, 
 Old Cham, the solar Deity, who dwells 
 Aloft, yet in a tilting Vessel rode, 
 When universal sea the mountains overflowed. 
 
 Why speak of Roman Pomps 1 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 dancin^r Salii — on the shields of Mara 
 Smiting with fury ; and the deeper dread 
 Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars 
 Of Corybantian cymbals, while the head 
 Of Cybele was seen, sublimely turreted I 
 
 At length a Spirit more subdued and soft 
 Appealed, to govern Christian paireantries : 
 The Cross, in calm procession, borne aloft 
 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 Argentierk. 
 
 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 brignt row, 
 
 Not swans descending with the stealthy tide, 
 
 A livelier sisterly resemblance show 
 
 Than the fair Forms, 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 misar, 
 
 Avoid these sights ; nor brood o'er Fable's dark abyss ! 
 
 * This Procession is a part of the sacramental 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 upwards of 1000 Persons, assem- 
 bled from all the branches of the sequestered Valley, 
 was much less striking (notwithstanding the sublimity 
 of the surrounding scenery :) it wanted both the simpli- 
 city of the other and the accompaniment of the Glacier- 
 columns, whose sisterly resemblance to the moving- 
 Figures gave it a most beautiful and solemn pecu- 
 liarity. 
 
-». 
 
 fmg^ 
 
 140 MEMORIALS OP A TOUR ON 
 
 -> xxxr. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 The lamented Youth whose untimely death gave 
 occasion to these elegiac verses, was Frederick 
 William Goddard, from Boston in North America. 
 He was in his twentieth year, and had resided 
 for some time with a clergyman in the neighbour- 
 hood of Geneva for the completion of his educa- 
 tion. Accpmpinied hy a fellow-pupil, a native of 
 Scotland, he |iad just set oui on a Swiss tour 
 when it was his misfortune to fall in wilh a 
 friend of mine who was hastening to join our 
 party. The travellers, after spending a day to- 
 gether 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 ff)und his new 
 ac(juaintances, who were informed of the object 
 of his journey, and the friends he ^A as in pursuit 
 of, equipped to accompany him. We met at Lu- 
 cerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. and his 
 fellow-student became in consequence our travelling 
 companions for a couple of days. We ascended thp 
 Righi together; and, after contemplating 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 21st of August) Mr. God- 
 dard perished, being overset in a boat while cros- 
 sing ths 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 coast of the lake. The 
 corpre of poor (?, was cast ashore on the estate 
 of the same gentleman, who generously performed 
 .all the rites of hospitality which could be rendered 
 to the dead as well a* to the living. He caused 
 a handsome mural monument to be erected in the 
 church of KUsnacht, which records the premature 
 fate of the young American, and on the shores 
 too of the lake the traveller may read an inscrip- 
 tion pointing out the spot where the body was 
 deposited by the waves. 
 
 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 
 V Our Lady of the Snow." 
 
 The sky was blue, the air was mild ; 
 
 Free were the gtreams and green the bowers; 
 
 As if, to rough assaults unknown, 
 
 The genial spot had ever shown 
 
 A countenance that sweetly smiled, 
 
 Thp face of summ.er-Iiours. 
 
 And we were gay, our hearts at ease; 
 With pleasure dancing through the frame 
 We journeyed ; all we knew of care- 
 bur path that straggled here and there, 
 Of trouble— but the fluttering breeze, 
 Of Winter — but a name. 
 
 — If foresight could have rent the veil 
 Of three short days — but hush — no more I 
 Calm is the grave, and calmer none 
 Than that to which thy cares are gone, 
 iThou Victim of the stormy gale ; 
 Asleep on Zurich's shore ! 
 
 * Mount Righi— Regina Montium. 
 
 THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 Oh Goddard! what art thou 1— 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 towpr9 pf old Lucerne. 
 
 We parted upon solemn ground 
 Far-lifted towards the unfading sky ; 
 But all our thought.^ were then of Earth, 
 That gives to common p'easures birth ; 
 And nothing in our hearts we found 
 That prompted even a sigh. 
 
 Fetch, sympathising Powers of air, 
 Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, 
 Herbs moistened by Virginian dew, 
 A most unlimel}' 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 realised ropiance, 
 
 Had opened on his eager glance; 
 
 What present bliss ! — what golden views ! 
 
 What stores for years to come ! 
 
 Though lodged within no vigorous frame, 
 ^lis soul her daily tasks renewed. 
 Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings 
 H^gh 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 j 
 As evening's fondly-lingering rays, 
 On RiGHi's silent brow. 
 
 Lamented Youth ! to thy cold clay 
 Fit obsequies the Stranger paid ; 
 And piety fhall guard the stone 
 Which haih not left the spot unknown 
 Where the wild waves resigned their prey, 
 And that which marks thy bed. 
 
 And, when thy Mother weeps fo|: ^bee, 
 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.f 
 
 XXXIL 
 
 SKY-PROSPKCT — 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 
 
 * One of the villages desolated by the fall of part 
 of the Mountain Rossberg. 
 
 tThe 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. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUtt ON THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 141 
 
 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, 
 Silcnlly disappears, or quickly 1-ades ; — 
 Me^'k Nature's evening comment on the shows 
 That for oblivion take their daily birth 
 From all the fuming vanities of Earth ! 
 
 XXXIIL 
 
 ON BEING STRA.NDED NEAR THE HARBOUR OP BOU- 
 LOGNE.* 
 
 Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore, 
 Ye furious waves ! a patriotic Son 
 Of England— who in hope her coast had won, 
 His project crowned, his pleasant travel o'er 1 
 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 dreamin? Conqueror! 
 Enough ; ray Country's Cliffs I can behold, 
 And proudly think, beside the murmuring 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! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 AFTER LANDING — THE VALLEY OF DOVER. — NOV. 1820. 
 
 Where be the noisy followers of the game 
 
 Which Faction breeds ; the turmoil where ? that past 
 
 Through Europe, echoing from the Newsman's blast. 
 
 And filled our hearts with grief for England's shame. 
 
 Peace greets us ;— rambling on without an aim 
 
 We mark njajestic herds of Cattle free 
 
 To ruminate (-—couched on the grassy lea, 
 
 And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim 
 
 The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound 
 
 Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange delight, 
 
 While consciousnesses, not to be disowned, • 
 
 Here only serve a feeling to invite 
 
 That lifts the Spirit to a calmer height. 
 
 And makes the rural stillness more profound. 
 
 XXXV. 
 DESULTORY STANZAS. 
 
 WON RECEIVIN& THE PRECEDING SHEETS FROM THE 
 PRESS. 
 
 1. 
 
 Is then the final page before me spread, 
 Nor further outlet left to mind or heart 1 
 Presumptuous Book ! too forward to be read— 
 
 Be*1H^L!^^I Town of Boulogne, and overhangingthe 
 n«mo' r7. V?^ remams of a Tower which bears the 
 fZwv ^^";^"'^' ^^^° ^'^'^ terminated his western 
 spo s^ aV^J'"'^^ these sea-shells were the CZd 
 spo is And at no great distance from these Ruins ' 
 
 nnh r^^ ""^ England," reminding them of the ex 
 S '^hfcr^h'.'"' ^r ^i"^ ^^^'-^''^^ the^white c iffs, 
 SeTl a n « f^''^"^'^'.'^^ ^^^^ 'o float. He recom^ 
 5iP vf^ subscription JO be raised among the 
 Fou idTtil 7'k Z /^'"^ ^•""""^' i" memory of the 
 w.i'hT. ''^'''^ "Legion of Honour," a Column- 
 + m. .^.^s "01 completed at ihe time we were there 
 
 turnina^n'v"''''^?'^'^^"'/^^^^ ^°'" ^" Englishman re- 
 urnineiohis native land Every where one misses 
 
 oothlrJ''"'^'"'^ ^"""""^^ ^^'■«^^' '^^ animated and 
 
 How can I give thee licence to depart 1 
 One tribute more ;— unbidden feelings start 
 Forth from their coverts— slighted objects rise— 
 My Spirit is the scene of such wild art 
 As on Parnassus rules, when lightning flies, 
 Visibly leading on the thunder's harmonies.. 
 
 2. 
 
 All 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 
 1 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. 
 
 3. 
 
 Where Mortal never breathed I dare to sit 
 
 Amqiig 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 vi'hich sad course, these wrinkled S(ms of Time 
 
 Labour their proper greatness to s-uodue ; 
 
 Speaking of deatii alone, beneath a clime 
 
 Where lile and rapture How in plenitude sublime. 
 
 4. 
 
 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— ^Aere on frailer stone 
 
 Of secondary birth— the Jung-frau's cone ; 
 
 And, frofli- that arch, down-looking on the Vale 
 
 The aspect 1 behold of every zone • 
 
 A sea of foliage tossing with the gale 
 
 Blithe Autumn's purple crown, and Win'ter's icy mail ! 
 
 5. 
 
 Far as St. Maurice, from yon eastern Forks* 
 Down the main avenue my «igj,t can range • ' 
 And all its branchy vales, and all that lurks 
 Wuh.n 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 profound 
 That follows, yet more awful than that awful sound J 
 
 6. 
 
 Js not the Chamois suited to his place '« 
 
 The Eagle worthy of her ancestry i 
 
 -Let Empires fail; but ne'er shall Ye disgrace 
 
 Your noble birthright. Ye that occupy 
 
 Your Council-seats beneath the open sky, 
 
 On Sarnen's Mountf, 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 fV 
 
 of*r^t^[;;^r;im^So^^ 
 
 ininates at St MluRiiE ^^^''' '^^'''^ ^^'- 
 
 ^'r.^^efZ'',erS!e%^^^^ 
 
 the town, and is calkd the T anr nK V^ """^^ to 
 
 rant of that name, wose Chateau ^on"'*^] ^'""' '^^ 'y 
 On the 1st of January ^3(S?hp I "''';.'^ '^""^ ^'^ere. 
 confederated HeroesTad chosen f!''/!' ^/^ ""^'^^ '^'^ 
 their Country, all the C^u 3 ^^ hi r ^''"^''^"^^ «f 
 taken by force or stratagem and Lt^'""^''' Z^^''^ 
 selvesconducted, with their rrpot Tyrants them- 
 
 after having witnessed the rlpcf^"'^'' ^" ^^'"^ frontiers, 
 holds. From that rimPthr'^''"i^^'^"o^th«''- Strong- 
 place Where the L^slators rr^^T^'^^S- ^^^ ^^^" ^'e 
 Canton assemble. The sUp wh-^^"- ^'^^'^"" «^ *^^« 
 by EbeLifi one of thp r«? fk^^'^^ '^ ^'^«" describedl 
 )^ one 01 the most beautiful in Switzerland 
 
142 
 
 MEMORIALS OP A TOUR ON tME CONTINENT*, 1820. 
 
 From this appropriate Court, renowned Lucerne 
 Calls me to pace her honoured Bridge* — that cheers 
 The Patriot's heart with piciun-fs rude and stern, 
 An uncouth Chro^Jcie of glorious years. 
 Like portraiture, from loftier source, endears 
 That work of kindred frame, which spans the Lake 
 Just at the point of issue, where it fears 
 The form and motion of a Stream to lake ; 
 Wliere it begins to stir, yet voiceless as a snake. 
 
 8. 
 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\ 
 Til! the bright Star appeared in eartern skies. 
 Announcing, One was born Mankind to free ; 
 His acts, his wrongs, liis final sacrifice ; 
 Lessons for every heart, a BiMe for all eyes. 
 
 9. 
 Our pride misleads, our limid likings kill. 
 — Long may the^e homely Works devised of old , 
 These Simple Efforts of Helvetian skill, 
 Ai<i, with congenial influence, to upho!(f 
 The S.ate, — the Country's desiiny to mould; 
 Turning, for them who pass, the conimon dust 
 Of servile opportunity to gold ; 
 Filling the soul with sentiments august — 
 The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and the just! 
 
 10. 
 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 neighbourhood. 
 Go forth, my little Book ! pursue thy way ; 
 Go forth, and plense the gentle and the good; 
 Nor be a whisper stifled, if it say 
 That treasures, yet untouched, may grace some future 
 Lay. 
 
 XXX VL 
 
 TO ENTERPRISE.! 
 
 Keep for the Young the impassioned smile 
 
 Shed from thy countenance, as I see thee stand 
 
 High on a chalky clift' 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 tliee would offer no presumptuous hymn ! 
 
 - * The Bridges of Lucerne are roofed, and open at 
 the sides, so that the Passenger 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, accorditig to my notes, to 240. Subjects from 
 the Old Testament face the Pessenger as he goes to- 
 wards the Cathedral, and thos:e from the New as he 
 returns. The Pictures 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 
 designf-d. 
 
 t This poem having risen out of the " Italian Itine- 
 rant" &c. it is here annexed. 
 
 1. 
 
 Bold Spirit ! who art free to ror^ 
 
 Among the starry cOui-ts of Jove, 
 
 And oft in splehdour dost appear 
 
 Embodied to poetic eyes, 
 
 While traversing this nether 8phei-*>, 
 
 Where Mortals call thee ENTERpRisfi. 
 
 Daughter of Hope ! her favourite Child, 
 
 Whom she to young Antbition bore, 
 
 When Flunter's arrow first defiled 
 
 The Grove, and stained the turf with gore; 
 
 Thee winged Fancy took, and nursed 
 
 On broad Euphrates' palmy shore, 
 
 Or where the mightier Waters burst 
 
 From caves of Indian mountains hoar ! 
 
 She wrapped thee in a panther's skin ; 
 
 And thnu, whose earliest thoughts held dear 
 
 Alluienients that were edged with fear, 
 
 (The food that pleased thee best, to win) 
 
 With infant shout wouldst often scare 
 
 Fron) her rock- fortress in mid air 
 
 The fliime-eyed Eagle — often sweep. 
 
 Paired wiih the Ostrich, o'er the plain; 
 
 And, tired with sport, would-t sink asleep 
 
 Up«n the couchant Lion's mane ! 
 
 With rolling years ihy strength increased; 
 
 And, far be>ond thy na:ive East, 
 
 To thee, by vaiying titles known, 
 
 As variously thy powrr was shown, 
 
 Did incense bearing Altars rise. 
 
 Which caught the blaze of sacrifice, 
 
 From Suppliants panting for the skies ! 
 
 What though this ancient Eanh be trod 
 No more by step «l Demi-god 
 Mounting from glorious deed to deed 
 As thou from clime to clime didsl lead, 
 Yet still, the bosom beating high. 
 And the hushed farewell of an eye 
 Where no procrastinating gaze 
 A last infirmity letrays. 
 Prove that thy heaven-descended sway 
 Shall ne'er submit to cold decay. 
 By thy divini y 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 whistling shrouds a toy, 
 And of the Ocean's dismal breast 
 A play-ground and a couch of rest ; 
 'Mid the blank world of snow and ice, 
 Thou to his dangers dost enchain 
 The Chamois chaser awed in vain 
 My chasm or dizzy precipice ; 
 And hast Thou not with triumph seen 
 How soaring Mortals glide serene 
 From cloud to cloud, and brave the light 
 With bolder than Icarian flight 1 
 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 T 
 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. 
 Keep faith with Time on distant shores . 
 — Within our fearless reach are placed 
 The secrets of the burning Waste,— 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 143 
 
 Egyptian Tombs unlock their Dead, 
 
 Nile trembles at his foflntain 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 — tbo' doomed thro' silent night to bear 
 
 The domination of his glorious themes, 
 
 Or struggle in the net-work of thy dreams ! 
 
 3. 
 If there be movements in the Patriot's soul, 
 From source still deeper, and of higher worth, 
 'Tis thine the quickening impulse to control, 
 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. 
 
 4. 
 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 stifled under weight of desert sands — 
 An Army now, and now a living hill* 
 Heaving with convulsive throes, — 
 It quivers — and is still; 
 Or to forget their madness and their woes, 
 Wrapt in a winding-sheet of spotless snows ! 
 
 5. 
 Back flows the willing current of my Song: 
 If to provoke such doom the Impious dare, 
 Why should it daunt a hlameleps prayer I 
 —Bold Goddess I 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 j 
 
 In fixed resolves by Reason justified; 
 
 That to their object cleave like sleet 
 
 Whitening a tall pine's northern side, 
 
 While fields are naked far and wide. 
 
 And withered leaves, from Earth's cold breast 
 
 Upcaught in whirlwinds, no where can find rest. 
 
 6. 
 
 But, if such homage thou disdain 
 
 As doth with mellowing years agree, 
 
 One rarely absent from thy train 
 
 More humble favours 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. 
 
 7. 
 But thou, O Goddess ! in thy favourite Itle 
 (Freedom's impregnable redoubt, 
 The wide Earth's store-house fence about 
 With breakers roaring to the gales 
 That stretch a thousand thousand sails) 
 Quicken the Slothful, and exalt the Vile J 
 Thy impulse is the life of Fame ; 
 Glad Hope would almost cease to be 
 If torn f" m thy society ; 
 And L- ve, whrn worthiest of the name^ 
 Is proud lo walk the Earth with thee ^ 
 
 THE RJVER DUDDON. A SERIES OF SONNETS. 
 
 The, River Dudpon rises upop Wrynose Fell, on 
 the ronfines of Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lan- 
 cashire ; and, serving as a boundary to the tw^o last 
 counties, for the space of about twenty five miles, 
 enters the Irith Sea, between the Isle of Walney and 
 th« Lorclsbip of Milium. 
 
 TO THJE KEV. DR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 (with the sonnets to the river DUDDON, AND 
 OTHER POEMS IN THIS COLLECTION.) 
 
 THE Minstrels played their Christmas tune 
 To-night beneath my cottage eaves ; 
 While, smitten by a lofty moon, 
 The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
 Oave 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 
 
 J^or check the music of the strings ; 
 
 So stout and hardy were the band 
 
 That scraped the chords with strenuous hand. 
 
 " awhile the living hill 
 
 ' avviJiic luc living iiiii 
 
 "H«ftv«>d With uonvulsive ibroe«, and all was still!" 
 
 Dr. Darwin. 
 
 jlnd who but listened 7 — till was paid 
 Respect to every Inmate^s claim ; 
 The greftijig given, the music playedj 
 Jn honour of each household name. 
 Duly pronounced with lusty call. 
 And "-merry Christmas'' wished to all I 
 
 O Brother ! I revere the choice 
 That took thee from thy native hills ; 
 Jind it is given thee to rrjoice : 
 Though public care full often tills 
 {Heaven only icitness of the toil) 
 A barren and ungrateful soil. 
 
 Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, 
 Hadst heard this never-failing rite ; 
 And seen on other faces shine 
 A true revival of the light 
 Which JVature and these riistic Powers, 
 In simple childhood., spread throxigh ours t 
 
 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 lowiiet^t of the poor. 
 
 How toiTching, when, at midnight, sweep 
 Snow muffled winds, and all is dark, 
 To,.h^fir~-a'n,A'Siv.k again to sleep ! 
 
144 
 
 THE RIVER DUI)D6n. 
 
 Or^ at an earlier call^ to viarjc^ 
 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. 
 
 jQh! not for emerald Jidds 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 tec were born and reared ! 
 
 Mail , ancient Manners ! sure defence. 
 Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; 
 Remnants of love whose modest sense 
 Thus into narrow room withdraws ; 
 Hail, Usages of pristine mould, 
 Jlnd yc that guard them, Mountains old.! 
 
 Bear tcith me, Brother ! quench the thought 
 
 That slights this vassion, or condemns ; 
 
 Jf 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 ! 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 1. 
 
 Not envying phades wlii^h haply yet may throw 
 
 A grateful coolness round that rocky spring, 
 
 Bandusia, unce responsive to the string 
 
 Of the Hora'ian lyre with babbling flow ; 
 
 Careless of flowers that in perennial blow 
 
 Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling; 
 
 Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering 
 
 Through icy portals radiant as heaven's bow ; 
 
 I seek the birth-place of a native Stream. — 
 
 AM hail, 5'e mountains I hail, thou morning light ! 
 
 Better r,o breathe upon this aery height 
 
 Than pass in needless sleep from dream to dream : 
 
 Pure flow the verse, pur*^, vigorous, free, and bright. 
 
 For Duddon, long-loved Duddon, is my theme 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint 
 
 Of sordid industry thy lot is cast; 
 
 Thine are the honcMirs 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 birth, thou hast 
 
 No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, 
 
 And Desolation is thy Patron-aaint I 
 
 8he guards thee, ruthless Powisr ! who would not spare 
 
 Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen, 
 
 Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair^ 
 Through paths and alleys roofed with sombre green, 
 Thousands of years before the silent air 
 Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen ! 
 
 III. 
 
 How shall I paint thee 1 — Be this naked stone 
 My seat while I give way to such intent ; 
 Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument, 
 M^ke to the eyes of men thy features known. 
 But as of all those tripping Iambs not one 
 Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent 
 To thy beginning nought that doth present 
 Peculiar grounds 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 .' 
 
 IV. 
 
 Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take 
 This parting glance, no negligent ar'ieu ! 
 A Protean change seems wrought while I pursue 
 The curves, a loosely-scattered chain doth makep 
 Or rather thou appear'st a glistering snake, 
 Silent, and to the gazer's eye untrue, 
 Thridding with sinuous lapse the rushes, through 
 Dwarf willows gliding, and by ferney brake". 
 Starts from a dizzy steep the undaunted Rill 
 Robed instantly in garb of snow-white foam; 
 And laughing dares the Adventurer, who hath clontb 
 So high, a rival purpose to fulfil ; 
 Else let the Dastard backward wend, and roam, 
 Seeking less bold achievement, where he will I 
 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 
 With tliy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound 
 Wafted o^er sullen moss and craggy mound, 
 Unfruitful solitudes, that seeirted to upbraid 
 The sun in heaven I — 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 shelterind pmes, this Cottage rude and grey; 
 Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes 
 Careles.«ly watched, sport through the summer day, 
 Thy pleased associates: — light as endless May 
 On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies. 
 
 VI. — FLOWERS. 
 
 Ere yet our course was graced with sorial trees 
 It lacked not old remains of hawthorn bowers. 
 Where small birds warbled to their paramours; 
 And, earlier still, was heard the hum of b6es ; 
 I saw them ply their harmless robberies. 
 And caught the fragrance which the sundry flowers, 
 Fed by the stream with soft perpetual showers, 
 Plenteously yielded to the vagrant brerze- 
 There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness ; 
 The trembling eyebrigbt showed her sapphire blue^l 
 
 * The deer alluded to is the licigb, a gigantic species 
 long since extinct. 
 
IKE RIVER DUpDON. 
 
 145 
 
 The thyme her purple, like the hlush of even ; 
 And, if the breath of some to no caress 
 Invited, forth they peeped so fair to view, 
 AH kinds alike seemed favourites of Heaven* 
 
 VII. 
 
 «' Change me, some God, into that breathing rose I" 
 
 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 throw* 
 
 The darts of song from out its wiry cage ; 
 
 Enraptured, — could he for himself engage 
 
 The thousandth part of what the Nymph besloWs, 
 
 And what the little careless Innocent 
 
 Ungraciously receives. Too dating choice! 
 
 There are whose calmer mind it would content 
 
 To be an unculled floweret of the glen. 
 
 Fearless of plough and scythe ; or darkening wren, 
 
 That tunes on Duddon's banks her slender voice. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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 1 what designs were spread 
 
 Along his path 1- His unprotected bed 
 
 What dreams encompassed 1 Was the intruder nursed 
 
 In hideous usages, and rites accursed, 
 
 That thinned the living and disturbed the dead 1 
 
 No voice replies ; — the earth, the air is mute ; 
 
 AndThou, blue Streamlet, murmuring yield'st not more 
 
 Than a soft record that, whatever fruit 
 
 Of ignorance thou might'st witness heretofore, 
 
 Thy function was to heal and to restore. 
 
 To soothe and cleanse, not madden and pollute ! 
 
 IX. — THE STEPPING-STONES. 
 
 The struggling Rill insensibly is grown 
 
 Into a Brook of loud and stately march, 
 
 Crossed ever and anon by plank and 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 Oiild 
 
 Puts, when the high-swoJn 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, 
 
 Thinkmg how fast time runs, life's end how near ! 
 
 X.— 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 withdraws — 
 She sues for help with piteous utterance ! 
 Chidden she chides again ; the thrilling touch 
 Both feel when he" renews the wished-for 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 vietory ! 
 19 
 
 XI.~THB FAERT CHASM. 
 
 No fiction was it of the antique age : 
 
 A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft, 
 
 Is of the very foot-marks unbereft 
 
 Which tiny Elves impressed ;— on that smooth stag© 
 
 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, wheie, oh ! where 
 
 Is traceable a vestige of the notes 
 
 That ruled those dances wild in character? 
 
 — Deep underground 1 — Or in the upper air, 
 
 On the shrill wind of midnight 1 or where floats 
 
 O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer? 
 
 XII.— HINTS FOR THE FANCY. 
 
 On, loitering Muse— The swift Stream chides us— OB i 
 
 Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure 
 
 Objects immense portrayed in miniature. 
 
 Wild shapes for many a strange comparison ! 
 
 Niagaras, Alpine passes, and anon 
 
 Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure. 
 
 Bright liquid mansions, fashioned to endure 
 
 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 ! 
 
 XIIl. — OPEN PROSPECT. 
 
 Hail to the fields with Dwellings sprinkled o'er,—' 
 
 And one small hamlet, under a green hill, 
 
 Clustered with barn and byre, and spouting mill ! 
 
 A glance sufficea ; — should we wish for more. 
 
 Gay June would scorn us ; but when bleak winds roar 
 
 Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard 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 mantling ale. 
 
 Laugh with the generous household heartily. 
 
 At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale I 
 
 XIV. 
 
 O MOUNTAIN Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot 
 
 Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude ; 
 
 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 renewed 
 
 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!' 
 
 XV. 
 
 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 grey;, 
 
U6 
 
 THE RIVEB BUDDOJr. 
 
 In aomblance fresh, aa if, ^vith diro 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 f— weary iilavei 
 
 Of slovr endeavour ! or abruptly cast 
 
 Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast 
 
 Tempestuously let loose from central cares 1 
 
 Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves, 
 
 Then, when o'«r higheat hills the Deluge paw'd 1 
 
 XVI.— AMERICAN TRADITION. 
 
 Such fruitless questions may not long beguile 
 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 hia Fathers urged, to ridge and steep 
 Else unapproachable, their buoyant way ; 
 And carved, on mural cliflT'e mndreaded side, 
 Sun, moon, and stars, and beast of chase or prey ; 
 Whatever they sought, shunned, loved, or deified I'** 
 
 XVII.— RETURN. 
 
 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 wild wailing, that bestrew. 
 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,2 
 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 
 earns ! 
 
 Appears to cherish most that Torrent whit*^ 
 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 J^nd fresh, till showers again shall fall. 
 
 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 ; 
 If one strong wish may be embosomed here, 
 PJother of Love ! for this deep vale, protect 
 Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright eflect, 
 Gifted to purge the vapouiy atmosphere 
 That seeks to stifle it ; — as in those days 
 When this low Pilef a Gospel Teacher knew, 
 Whose good works formed an endless retinue : 
 Such Priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays ; 
 Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew; 
 And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise ! 
 
 XIX.— TRIBUTARY STREAM. 
 
 My frame hath often trembled with delight 
 
 When hope presented some far-distant good. 
 
 That seemed from heaven descending, lik*>, the flood 
 
 Of yon pure waters, from their aery height 
 
 Hurrying, with lordly Duddon to unite; 
 
 Who, 'mid a world of images imprest 
 
 On the calm depth of his transpnrent breast, 
 
 * See Humboldt's Personal Narrative, 
 t Suu p. 150. 
 
 XX, — THH PLAIN OP DONNKRDALl. 
 
 Thb old inventive Poets, had they seen, 
 Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains 
 Thy waters, Duddon ! 'mid these flowery plainij, 
 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 remaini, 
 Rough as tJie past ; where Thou, of placid roisn, 
 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 ! 
 
 xxr. 
 
 Whence that low voice ? — A whisper from the heart 
 That told of days long past, when here I roved 
 With friends and kindred tenderly beloved ; 
 Some who had early mandates to depart, 
 Yet are allowed To steal my t-ath athwart 
 By Duddon'a 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 Memory ; 
 Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and fre» 
 As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall 
 On gales that breathe too gently to recal 
 Aught of the fading year's inclemency ! 
 
 XXII. — TRADITIOH. 
 
 A LovH-LORN Maid, at some far-distant time, 
 
 Came to this hidden pool, whose depths surpasa- 
 
 In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass; 
 
 And, gaxing, saw that Rose, which from the prim*- 
 
 Derives its name, reflected as the chime 
 
 Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound: 
 
 The Btarrr treasure from the blue profound 
 
 She longed to ravish ; — shall she plunge, or climb 
 
 The humid precipice, and seize the guest 
 
 Of April, smiling high in upper air 1 
 
 Desperate alternative ! what fiend could dare 
 
 To prompt the thought 1 — Upon the steep rock's breast 
 
 The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, 
 
 Untouched memento of her hapless doom ! 
 
 XXIII. — SHEEP WASHING. 
 
 Sad thoughts, avaunt ! — the fervour of the year, 
 
 Poured on the fleece-encumbered flock, invites 
 
 To laving currents for prelusive rites 
 
 Duly performed before the Dales-men shear 
 
 Their panting charge. The distant Mountains hear, 
 
 Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites 
 
 Clamour of boys with innocent despites 
 
 Of barking dogs, and bleatings from strange fear. 
 
 Meanwhile, if Duddon's spotless breast receive 
 
 Unwelcome mixtures as the uncouth noise 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 147 
 
 Thiekeni, the pastoral River will forgive 
 fiuch XTTong] nor need we blame the licensed joyi 
 Tbouffh false to Nature'i quiet equipoise : 
 Frank are the sports, the etains are fugitive. 
 
 XXIV.— THK RESTING-PLACB. 
 
 MiD-NOON is past ;— upon the sultry noead 
 
 No zephyr breathea, no cloud its shadow throws : 
 
 If we advance unetrengthened by repose, 
 
 Farewell the solace of the vagrant reed ! 
 
 This Nook, with woodbine hung and itragglinf weed, 
 
 Tempting recess as ever pilgrim chose, 
 
 Half grot, half arbour, proffers to enclose 
 
 Body and mind from molestation freed, 
 
 In narrow compasa — 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, 
 
 There wants not stealthy prospect, that may tempt 
 
 jLi00»9 Idleness to forego her wily mask. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Mkthinks 'twere 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 burden 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 which 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. 
 
 XXV L 
 
 Return, Content! for fondly I pursued, 
 Even when a child, the Stream*— unheard, 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 
 Impetuoui thoughts that brook not servile reins. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Falleh, and diff'uaed into a 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 
 
 Of winds— though winds were silent, struck a deep 
 
 And lasting terror through that ancient Hold. 
 
 Its line of warriors fled ; — they shrunk when tried 
 
 By ghostly power : — but Time's unsparing hand 
 
 Hath plucked such foes, like weeds, from out the land ; 
 
 And now, if m^n with men in peace abide, 
 
 All other strength the weakest may withstand, 
 
 All worse assaults may safely be defied. 
 
 XXVIIL— JOURNUy RHNKWED. 
 
 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 upstay 
 The drooping mind of absence, by vows sworn 
 In his pure presence near the trysting thorn ; 
 I thanked the Leader of my onward way. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 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 scora 
 
 Of power usurped with proclamation high, 
 
 And glad acknowledgment of lawful sway. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The Kirk of Ulph.*. 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 
 
 Than 'mid that wave-washed Church-yard to recline> 
 
 From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine ; 
 
 Or there to pace, and mark the summits hoar 
 
 Of distant moon lit mountains faintly shine, 
 
 Soothed by the unseeo River'g gentle roar. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 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 tow'rd the Deep 
 
148 
 
 tfli: tuvuit t)tJi>f»o*. 
 
 Where mightiest rlTcrs into powerless sleep 
 Sink, and forget their nature ; — now expands 
 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 tonng, 
 And blue-topped hills, behold him from afar ; 
 In stately mien to sorereign Thames allied 
 Spreading his bosom under Kentish Downs, 
 With Commerce freighted, or triumphant War, 
 
 XXXIII. — CONCLUSION. 
 
 But here no cannon thunders to the gale; 
 
 Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast ' 
 
 A crimson splendour; 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 aeeks that receptacle rtst 
 
 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 ?idvance like Thee, 
 
 Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm of mind 
 
 And soul, to mingle with Eternity I 
 
 XXXIV. — AFTER-THOUGHT. 
 
 I Thought of Thee, my partner and my guides 
 
 jis being cast away. — Vain sympathies ! 
 
 For, backward, Duddon! as least my eyes, 
 
 I see what was, and is, and will abide; 
 
 Still glides the Stream, and shall not cease to glide ; 
 
 The Form remains, the Function never dies; 
 
 While we, the brave the mighty, and the wise^ 
 
 We Men, who in our morn of youth defied 
 
 The elements, must vanish ; — be it so .' 
 
 Enough, if something from our hands have power 
 
 To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; 
 
 Jind if, as tow'rd the silent tomb we go. 
 
 Through love, through hope, and faith^s transcendent 
 
 dower, 
 We feel that we are greater than we know.* 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 A Poet, whose* works are not yet known as they 
 Reserve to be, thus enters upon his description of 
 tJie " Ruins of Rom« :" 
 
 " 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 cliffs." 
 
 Mr. Crowe, in his excellent loco-descriptive Poem, 
 " Lewesdon Hill," is still more expeditious, finish- 
 ing the whole on a May-morning, before breakfast. 
 " Tomorrow for severer thought, but now 
 To breakfast, and keep festival to-day." 
 
 No one believes, or is desired to believe, that 
 these Poems were actually composed within such 
 limits of time ; nor was there any reason why a 
 prose statement should acquaint the Reaider with the 
 plain fact, to the disturbance of poetic credibility. 
 But, in the present case, I am compelled to men- 
 tion, that the above series of Sonnets was the growth 
 
 ^ " And feel that I am happier than I know." — 
 Milton. 
 
 ; The allusion to the Greek Poet will be obvious to the 
 plassical reader. 
 
 of many years ;— the one which stands the 14th wnrf 
 the first produced ; and others were added upon oc- 
 casional visits to the Stream, or as recollections of 
 the scenes upon its banks awakened a wish to d«- 
 scrib* them. In this manner I had proceeded in- 
 sensibly, without perceiving that I was trespassing 
 upon ground preoccupied, at least as far as inten- 
 tion went, by Mr. Coleridge; who, more than twen- 
 ty years ago, used to speak of writing a rural Poera, 
 to he 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 gene- 
 ral one ; and I have been further kept from en-- 
 croaching upon any right Mr. C. may still wish to 
 exercise, by the restriction which the frame of tha 
 Sonnet imposed upon me, narrowing unavoidably 
 the range of thought, and precluding, 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 hinderance, by anticipation of any part 
 of the subject, these Sonnets may remind Mr. Coleridge 
 of his own more comprehensive design, and induce 
 
 him to fulfil it 7 There is a sympathy in streams,— 
 
 '' one calleth to tnother ;" and, I would gladly be- 
 lieve, that " The Brook" will, ere long, murmur in 
 concert with " The Duddon." But, asking pardon for 
 this fancy, I need not scruple to say, that those ver- 
 ses must indeed be ill-fated which can enter upon such 
 pleasant walks of nature, without receiving and gi- 
 ving inspiration. The power of waters over the minds 
 of Poets has been acknowledged from the earliest 
 ages ;— through the " Flumina amem sylvasque in- 
 glorius" 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 recol- 
 lect right, by Mr, Coleridge, as a motto for his eni- 
 bryo " 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." 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Sonnet vi. — Note 1. 
 " There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness, 
 The trembling eyebright showed her sapphire blue.'''' 
 Thebk two liies are in a great measure taken from 
 " The Beauties of Spring, a Juvenilt Poem," by the 
 Rev. Joseph Sympson, author of " The Vision of Al- 
 fred," &c. He was a native of Cumberland, and was 
 educated in the vale of Grasmere, and at Hawkshead 
 school: his poems are little known, but they contain 
 passages of splendid description ; and the versificatioa 
 of his " Vision of Alfred" is harmonious and anima- 
 ted. In describing the motions of the Sylphs, that con" 
 slitute the strange machinery of his Poem, he useil 
 the following illustrative 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 morn 
 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 splendour glow. 
 Sphered in the centre of the world he seems ; 
 For all around with soft effulgence gleams ; 
 Stars, moons, and meteors, ray oppose to ray, 
 And solemn midnight povi^-s the blaze of day." 
 
l-HE RIVEU DUBDON. 
 
 140 
 
 He was * man of ardent fetling, and his faculties 
 of mind, particularly his memory, were extraordina- 
 ry. Brief notices of his life ought to find a place in 
 the History of Westmoreland. 
 
 Sonnet xvii. — Note 2. 
 
 The IEagle requires a large domain for its support-, 
 but several pairs, not many years ago, weie constant- 
 ly resident in this country, building their nests in the 
 steeps of Borrovvdale, Wastdale, Ennerdale, and on 
 the eastern side of Helvellyn. Often have I heard 
 anglers speak of the grandeur of their appearance, 
 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 Ry- 
 ^al Lake, and remaining some hours near its banks • 
 tiie .consternation v^hich it occasioned among the dif- 
 ferent species of fowl, particularly the herons, v^'as 
 expressed by loud screams. The horse also is natu- 
 rally afraid of the eagle.— There were several Roman 
 itations among these mountains; the most conside- 
 rable seems to have been in a meadow at the head 
 of Windermere, established, undoubtedly, as a check 
 over the passes of Kirkstone, Dunmail-ralse, 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 cou?i- 
 try 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 antiquarians, and is 
 but slightly mentioned by Lysons. — '? he Druidical 
 Circle is about half a mile to the left of the road 
 ascending Stone-side from the vale of Duddon: the 
 country people call it " Sunken Church.'''' 
 
 The reader who may have been interested in the 
 foregoing Sonnets, (which together may be consider- 
 ed as a Poem,) will not be displeased to find in this 
 place a prose account of the Duddon, extracted from 
 Green's comprehensive Guide to the Lakes, ]a.te]ypuh- 
 lished. " The road leading from Coniston to Brough' 
 ton is over high ground, and commands a view of 
 the River Duddon, which, at Jiigh water, is a grand 
 eight, having the beautiful and fertile lands of Lan- 
 cashire and Cumberland stretcliing each way from 
 its margin. In this extensive view, the face of na- 
 ture is displayed in a wonderful variety of hill and 
 dale ; wooded grounds and buildings ; amongst the 
 latter, Broughton Tower, seated on the crown of a 
 hill, risin:? elegantly from the valley, is an object of 
 extraordinary interest. Fertility on each side is grad- 
 ually diminished, and lost in thp superior heishts of 
 Blackcomb, in Cumberland, and the highlands be- 
 tween Kirkby and Ulverstone. 
 
 " The road from Broughton to Seathwaite is on 
 the banks of the Duddon, and on its Lancashire side 
 it is of various elevations. The river is an amusing 
 companion, one while brawling and tumbling over 
 rocky precipices, until the agitated water becomes 
 again calm by arriving at a smoother and less pre- 
 cipitous bed, but its course is soon again ruffled, and 
 the current thrown into every variety of foam which 
 the rocky channel of a river can give to water." — 
 Fide Green's Guide to the Lakes, vol. 1. pp. 98 — 100. 
 After all, the traveller would be most gratified who 
 should approach this beautiful Stream, neither at its 
 source, as is done in the Sonnets, nor from its ter- 
 mination ; but from Conifton 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 uftcr-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 en. 
 chanting. Ai a point elevated enough to show the 
 various objecta in the valley, and not so high as to 
 
 diminish their importance, the stranger will instinc- 
 lively halt. On the foreground, a little below the 
 most favourable station, a rude fool-bridge is thrown 
 over the bed of the noisy brook foaming by the way- 
 side. Russet and craggy hills, of bold and varied 
 outline, surround the level valley, which is besprink- 
 led with gray rocks plumed with birch trees. A few 
 homesteads 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, and byre, compose together a cruciform struc- 
 ture, which, with its embowering trees, and the ivy 
 clothing part of the walls and roof like a fleece, call 
 to mind the remains of an ancient abbey. Time, in 
 most cases, and nature every where, have given a 
 sanctity to the humble works of man, that are scat- 
 tered over this peaceful retirement. Hence a har- 
 mony of tone and colour, a perfection and consum- 
 mation of beauty, which would have been marred 
 had aim of purpose interfered with the course of con- 
 venience, 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 morn- 
 ing sunshine, it would fill the spectator's heart with 
 gladsomeness. Looking from our chosen station, he 
 would feel an impatience to rove among its path- 
 ways, to be greeted by the milkmaid, to wander from 
 house to house, exchanging " good-monows" 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 ap- 
 proach, the quietness beneath him. Issuing from the 
 plain of this valley, the Brook descends in a rapid tor- 
 rent, p.a.ssing by the churchyard of Seathwaite. The 
 traveller is thus conducted at once into the midst 
 of the wild and beautiful scenery which gave occa- 
 sion to the Sonnets from the Mth 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 perpendicular 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 several places to designate 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 jvay he 
 had been wandering ?" replied, " As far as it is fin- 
 ished r 
 
 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 water breaks, for none 
 of them are high,) " displayed in the short space of 
 half a mile." That there is some hazard in frequen- 
 ting 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, speak- 
 ing of the event, (for he also, in the practice of his 
 art, on that day sat exposed for a still longer time 
 to the same peril,) "was heard, not without alarm, 
 by the neighbouring shepherds." But to return to 
 Seathwaite Church-yard: it contains the following 
 inscription. 
 
 " In memoryof the Reverend Robert Walker, who 
 
150 
 
 THE EIVER DUDDON. 
 
 died the 25th of June, 1802 in the 93d year of his age, 
 and 67ih of his curacy at Sealhwaite. 
 
 " Also of Anne his wife, who died the 28th of 
 January, in the 93d year of her age." 
 
 In he parish-register of Seathwaite Chapel, is this 
 notice : 
 
 " Buried, June 28, the Rev. Robert Waliter. He 
 
 was curate of Seathwaite sixty-six years. He was a 
 man singular for his temperance, industry, and in- 
 tegrity." 
 
 This individual is the Pastor alluded to, in the 
 eighteenth Sonnet, as a worthy compeer of the Coun- 
 try Parson of Chaucer, &c. 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 be- 
 ing recorded, will not be out of place here. 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER. 
 
 In The year 1709, Robert Walker was born at fJn- 
 der-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 tlie 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, accord- 
 ing 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 labour. At that period few of 
 these Dales were furnished with school houses ; the 
 children being taught to read and write in the cha- 
 pel ; and in the same consecrated building, where he 
 officiated for so many yeais both as preacher and 
 schoolmaster, he himself received the rudiments of 
 his education. In his youth he became schoolmas- 
 ter at Lowes-water ; not being called upon, proba- 
 bly, in that situation, to teach more than reading, 
 writing, and arithmetic. But, by the assistance of a 
 *' Gentleman" in the neighbourhood, 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 poundsper 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 
 Ills affections were fixed, though in the condition of 
 a domestic servant, had given promise, by her seri- 
 ous and modest deportnient, and by her virtuous dis- 
 positions, that she was worthy to become the help- 
 mate of a man entering upon a plan of life such as 
 he had njarked out for himself By her frugality she 
 Jiad stored up a small sum of money, with which 
 they began housekeeping. In 1735 or 1736, he enter- 
 ed upon his curacy ; and nineteen years afterwards, 
 his situation js thus described, in some letters to be 
 found in the Annual Register for 1760, from which 
 the following is extracted : — 
 
 To Mi-.- 
 
 " Sir, Coniston, July 26, 1754. 
 
 " 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 c!eigyman"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 people, 
 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 pre- 
 serve them, (what we call clogs in these parts,) with 
 a child upon his knee, eating his breakfast: bis 
 wife, and the remainder of his children, were some 
 of them employed in waiting upon each other, tho 
 rest in teazing and spinning wool, at which trade 
 he is a great proficient ; and moreover, when it ii 
 made ready for sale, will lay it, by sixteen or 
 thirty-two pounds weight, upon his back, and oa 
 foot, seven or eight miles will carry it to the mar- 
 ket, even in the depth of winter I was not much 
 surprised at all this, as you may possibly be, hav- 
 ing heard a great deal of it related before. But I 
 must confess myself astonished with the alacrity and 
 the good humour that appeared both in the clergy- 
 man and his wife, and more so, at the sense and 
 ingenuity of the clergyman himself." 
 
 Then follows a letter, from another person, dated 
 1755, from which an extract shall be given. 
 
 " By his frugality and good management, he keeps 
 the wolf from the door, as we say ; and if he ad- 
 vances a little in the world, it is owing more to hi« 
 own care, than to any thing else he hae to rely 
 upon. I don't find his inclination is running after 
 further preferment. He is settled among the people, 
 that are happy among themselves ; and lives in the 
 greatest unanimitj^ and friendship with them ; and, 
 1 believe, the minister and people are exceedingly 
 satisfied with each other ; and indeed how should 
 they be dissatisfied, when they have a person of no 
 much worth and probity for their pastor ? A man, 
 who, for his candour and meekness, his sober, chaste, 
 and virtuous conversation, his soundness in princi- 
 ple and practice, is an ornament to his profession, 
 and an honour to the country he is in ; and bear 
 with me if 1 say, the plainness of his dress, the 
 sanctity of his manners, the simplicity of his doc- 
 trine, and the vehemence of his expression, have a 
 sort of rasemblance to the pure practice of primitiye 
 Christianity." 
 
 We will now give his own account of himself, tq 
 be found in iiie 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 
 lying heavy upon an amiable pledge of conjugal en- 
 dearment, hath since taken from me a promising girl, 
 which the disconsolate 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, fif- 
 teen ; 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, who died the 23d inst., January, aged six 
 years and ten months. Zaccheuef, the eldest child, 
 is now learning the trade of tanner, and has two 
 years and a half of his apprenticeship to serve. 
 The annual income of my chapel at present, as near 
 as 1 can compute it, may amount to about 17/. IO5., 
 of which is paid in cash viz. 51. from the bounty 
 
 of aueen 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 1 value at 4Z. yearly, and not worth more ; 
 and I believe the surplice fees and voluntary con- 
 tributions, one year with another, may be worth 3^.; 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 151 
 
 but, as the inhabitants are few in number, and the 
 fees very low, thig last-mentioned sum consistB mere- 
 ly in free-will offerings. 
 
 " I am situated greatly to my satisfaction with re- 
 gard to the conduct and behaviour of my auditory, 
 who not only live in the happy ignorance of the 
 follies and vices of the age, but in mutual peacf> 
 and good-will with one another, and are seemingly 
 (I hope really too) t^incere 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 fa- 
 mily large, yet by a providential blessing upon my 
 own diligent endeavours, the kindness of friends, and 
 a cheap country to live in, we have always had 
 the necessarieg of life. By what I have written 
 (which is a true and exact account, to the best of 
 my knowledge) I hope you will not think your fa- 
 vour to me, out of the late worthy Dr. Stratford's 
 effects, quite misbeatowed, for which [ must ever 
 gratefully own myself. Sir, 
 
 " Your mueh 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 recommended the scheme of 
 joining the curacy of Ulplia to the contiguous one 
 of Seathwaite, and the nomination was offered to 
 Mr. Walker; but an unexpected difficulty arising, 
 Mr. W. in a letter to the Bishop, (a copy of wliichi 
 in his own beautiful handwriting, now lies before 
 me,) thus expresses himself. " If he," meaning the 
 person in whom the difficulty originated, " had sug- 
 gested any such objection before, I should utterly 
 have declined any attempt to the curacy of Ulpha : 
 indeed, I was always apprehensive it might be dis- 
 agreeable 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 favour 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 oc- 
 casions of murmuring 1 would willingly avoid." And, 
 in concluding his former letter, he expresses a simi- 
 lar 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 
 nnich better benefices could not tempt Mr. W. to 
 quit a situation where he had been so long happy, 
 with a consciousness of being useful. Among his 
 papers I find the following copy of a hitter, dated 
 1775, twenty years after his refusal of the curacy of 
 Ulpha, which will show what exertions had been 
 niadc for one of his sons. 
 
 " MAY IT PLEASE YOUR GSACF, 
 
 " Our remote situation here makes it difficult to 
 get the necessary information for transacting busi- 
 ness regularly ; such is the reason of my giving your 
 Grace the present trouble. 
 
 " The bearer (my eon) is desu-ous of offering him- 
 self candidate for deacon's orders at your Grace B 
 ensuing ordin.nion ; 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 satisfaction (if your Grace would take 
 him, and find him qualified) to have him ordained. 
 His constitution has been tender for some years t 
 he entered th« college of Dublin, but his health 
 would not permit him to continue there, or I would 
 have supported him much longer. Ue 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 benefactors, has blest 
 my endeavour.s, from a small income, to rear a nu- 
 merous family ; and as my time of life renders me 
 now unfit for much future expectancy from thi« 
 world, I should be glad to see my son settled in a 
 promising way to acquiro an honest livelihood for 
 himself. His behaviour, so far in life, has been ir- 
 reproachable ; and t hope he will not degenerate, in 
 principles or practice, from the precepts and paiterri 
 of an indulgent parent. Your Grace's favourable 
 reception of this, from a distant corner of the diocese, 
 and an obscure hand, will excite filial gratitude, and 
 a due use shall be made of the obligation vouch- 
 safed thereby to 
 
 " Your Grace's very dutiful and most obedient 
 " Son and Servant, 
 
 "KoBEUT Walker. "" 
 
 The same man, who was thus liberal in thp educa- 
 tion of his immerous family, was even munificent ia 
 hospitality as a parish priest. Every Siinday, were 
 served, upon the long table, at which he has been 
 described sitting with a child upon his knee, messes- 
 of broth, for the refreshment of those of his congre- 
 gation who came from a distance, and Hsuaily took, 
 their seats as parts of his own housi lioid. It seema 
 scarcely possible that this custom could have com- 
 menced before the augmentation of his cure ; and 
 what would to many fiave been a high price of self- 
 denial, was paid, by the pastor and his family, for 
 this gratification ; as the treat could only be provi- 
 ded by dressing at one time the whole, perhaps, or 
 their weekly allowance of fre.sh animal food ; conse- 
 quently, for a succession of days, the table was co- 
 vered with cold victuals only. His generosity in old 
 age may be still further illustrated by a little circum- 
 stance relating to an orphan grandson, then ten years 
 of age, which 1 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 il 
 away foolishly," and promising to send hini an equal 
 allowance annually for the same purpose. The con- 
 clusion of the same letter is so characteristic, that I 
 cannot forbear to transcribe 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 threateningly telling us, we 
 are not only 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 an- 
 swer yours : let U5 hear sooner from you, to augment 
 the mirth of the Christmas holidays. Wishing you 
 all the pleasures of the approaching season, 1 am) 
 dear Son, with lasting sincerity, yours affectionately; 
 
 "Robert Walker.' 
 
isa 
 
 THE EIYSR DUDDON. 
 
 He loved old customs and usages, and in Bome in- 
 stances stuck to llicm to his own loss ; for having, 
 had a sum of money lodged in the hands of a neigh- 
 bouring 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, declined, as we have seen, to add the 
 profits of another small benefice to his own, lest be 
 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 expenses. Jiowever trifling, the large amount' 
 at the end of the year, surprised him ; and from that 
 time the rule of hi« life was to be economical, not 
 avaricious. At his 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 wondkrful is to this day attached to his 
 name. 
 
 TJiere is in the above sketch something so extra- 
 ordinary as to require further explanatory det3ii]s. — And 
 to begin v/ith his industry ; eight hours in each day, 
 during five days in the week, and half of Saturday, 
 except when the labours of liusbandry were urgent, 
 be was occupied in teaching. His seat was within 
 the rails of the altar ; the communion-table was his 
 <lesk ; and, like Shenstone's schoolmistress, the mns- 
 ter employed himself at the spinning-wheel, while the 
 children were repealing their lessons by his side. 
 Every evening, after school hours, if not more pro- 
 fitably engaged, he continued the same kind of labour, 
 exchanging, for the benefit or exercise, the small 
 wheel, at which he had sate, for the large one on 
 which wool is spun, the spinner stepping to and fro. 
 Thus, was the wheel constantly in readiness to pre- 
 vent 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 afiairs, he acted, in his rustic neigh- 
 bourhood, as scrivener, writing out petitions, deeds of 
 conveyance, wills, covenants, &:c. with pecuniary 
 gain to himself, and to the great benefit of his em- 
 ployers. These labours (at all times considerable) at 
 one period of the year, viz. between Christmas and 
 Candlemas, when money transactions, are seitled in 
 this country, were often so intense, that he passed 
 great part of the night, and sometimes whole nights, 
 at his desk. His garden also was tilled by his own 
 hand ; he had a right of pasturage upon the moun- 
 tains for a few sheep and a couple of cows, which 
 required liis attendance : with this pastoral occupa- 
 tion, he joined the labours of husbandry upon a small 
 scale, renting two or three acres in addition to his 
 own less than one acre of glebe ; and the humblest 
 drudgery which the cultivation of these fields requi- 
 red was preformed by himself. 
 
 He also assisted his neighbours in haymaking 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 recompense 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 Scrip 
 ture and family prayer. The princi[)al festivals ap- 
 pointed 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 es- 
 tablished in his house, were as admirable as the in- 
 dustry, Nothing to which the name of luxury could 
 
 be given was there known ; in the latter part of id 
 life, indeed, when tea had been brought into almoit 
 general use, it was provided for visiters, and for such 
 of his own family as returned occasionally to lijg 
 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 comelr 
 and decent, but as simple as their diet; the home- 
 spun materials were made up into apparel by their 
 own hands. At the time of the decease of this thrif- 
 ty pair, their cottage contained a large store of webs 
 of woollen and linen cloth, woven from thread of their 
 own spinning. And it is remarkable that the pew in 
 the chapel in which the family used to sit, remained 
 a few years ago 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 in- 
 stance of his conformity to the delicate accommoda- 
 tions of modern times. The fuel of the house, like 
 that of their neighbours, consisted of peat, procured 
 from the mosses by their own labour. The lights by 
 which, in the winter evenings, their work was perform- 
 ed, were of their own manufacture, such as still con- 
 tinue to be used in these cottages ; they are made of 
 the pith of rushes dipped in any unctuous substance 
 that the house afl'ords. J^Az^c candles, as tallow can- 
 dles are here called, were reserved to honour the Christ- 
 mas festivals, and were perhaps produced upon no 
 other occasions. Once a month, during the proper 
 season, a sheep was drawn from their small moun- 
 tain 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 necessaries of life ;" but afforded them an 
 unstinted education, and the means of raising them- 
 selves in society. 
 
 It might have been concluded that no one could thus, 
 as it were, have converted his body into a machine 
 of industry for the humblest uses, and kept his thoughts 
 so frequently bent upon secular concerns, without 
 grievous injury to the more precious parts of his na- 
 ture. How could the powers of intellect thrive, or its 
 graces be displayed, in the midst of circumstances ap- 
 parently so unfavourable, and where to the direct cul- 
 tivation of the mind, so small a portion of time was 
 allotted 1 But, in this extraordinary man, things in 
 their nature atl verse were reconciled ; his conversation 
 was remarkable, not only for being chaste and pure, 
 but for the degree in which it w^as fervent and elo- 
 quent ; his written style was correct, simple, and ani- 
 mated. Nor did his affections suffer more than hia 
 intellect ; he was tenderly alive to all the duties of 
 his pastoral ofiice : the poor and needy " he never 
 sent empty away," — the stranger was fed and refreshed 
 in passing that unfrequented vale — the sick were visit- 
 ed ; and the feelings of humanity found further exer- 
 cise among the distresses and embarrassments in the 
 worldly estate of his neighbours, with which his ta- 
 lents for business made him acquainted ; and the disin- 
 terestedness, impartiality, and uprightness which he 
 maintained in the management of all afRiirs confided 
 to him, were virtues seldom separated in his own con- 
 science from religious obligations. Nor could such 
 conduct fail to remind those who witnessed it of a spi- 
 rit nobler than law or custom : they felt convictions 
 which, but for such intercourse, could not have been 
 afl^orded, that, as in the practice of their pastor, there 
 was no guile, so in his faith there was nothing hol- 
 low ; and we are warranted in believing, that upon 
 these occasions, selfishness, obstinacy, and discord 
 would often give way before the breathings of his 
 good-will and saintly integrity. It may be presumed 
 also, while his humble congregation were listening, to 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 m 
 
 tiie moral precepts which he delivered from the pulpit, 
 and to the Christian exhortations that they sliould love 
 their neigiibour as themselves, and do as they would be 
 done unto, that peculiar efiicacy was given to the 
 preacher's labours by recollections in the minds of his 
 congregation, that they were called ui3on to do no more 
 than his own actions were daily setting before their 
 eyes. 
 
 The afternoon service in the chapel was less nu- 
 merously attended than that of the morning, but by a 
 more serious auditory ; the lesson from the New Tes- 
 tament, on those occasions, was accompanied by 
 Birkett's Commentaries. These lessons he read with 
 impassioned emphasi?, frequently drawing tears from 
 his hearers, and leaving a lasting impression upoil 
 their minds. His devotional feelings and the powers 
 t)f his own mind were further exercised, along with 
 those of his family, in perusing the Scriptures; no^ 
 only on the Sunday evenings, but on every other even- 
 ing, while the rest of the household were at work: 
 Borhe one of the children, and in her turn the servant, 
 for the sake of practice in leading, or for instruction, 
 read the Bible aloud ; and in this manner the whole 
 Was repeatedly gone through. That no common im- 
 portance 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, whnre a certain clergy- 
 man has regularly officiated above sixty years, and a 
 few months ago administered the sacrament of the 
 Lord's Supper in the same, to a decent number of de- 
 vout communicants. After the clergyman ha'd received 
 himself, the first companj- out of the assembly who 
 approached the altar, and kneeled down to be partakers 
 of the sacred elements, consisted of the parson's wife^ 
 to whom he had been married 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 several 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 
 fiurprising, 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 vene- 
 rable duty," 
 
 He was indeed most zealously attached to the doc- 
 trine and franfje of the Established Church. We have 
 seen him congratulating himself that he had no dis- 
 senters in his cure of any denomination. Some allow- 
 ance must be made for the state of opinion When his 
 first religious impressions were received, before the 
 reader will acquit him of bigotry, when I mention, 
 that at the time of »he augmentation of the cure, he 
 refused to invest part of the money in the purchase of 
 an estate offered to him upon advantageous terms, he- 
 cause the proprietor Was a Quaker ;— whether from 
 scrupulous apprehension that a blessing would not at- 
 tend a contract framed for the benefit of the Church 
 Ijetween- persons not in religit)us sympathy with each 
 other ; or, as a seeker of peace, he was afraid of the 
 nncnmplying dispos>tion which at one time was too 
 frequently conspicuous in that sect. Of this an in- 
 Btaucc had fallen under his own notice ; for, while he 
 taught scliool at Loweswat<^r, certain persons of that 
 aenoniinaiion had refused to pay annual interest due 
 wnder the title of Church-stock;* a great hardshrp 
 upon the incumbent, for the curacy of Loweswater 
 ^as then scarcely less poor than that of Seathwaite. 
 To what degree this prejudice of his was blameabie 
 
 ^^*Mr. Walker's charity being of that kind which 
 eeeketh not her own," he would rather forego liis 
 '^Khtg than distrain for dues which the parties JiabJe 
 rtfused to pay as a point of conscience, 
 
 30 
 
 need not be determined ;— certain it is, that he was not 
 only dfisirous, as he himself says, to live in peace, but 
 in love, with all men. He was placable, and charitable 
 in his judgments : and, hov/ever correct in conduct and 
 rigorous to himself, he was ever ready to forgive the 
 trespasses of others, and to soften the cen-ure that wa^ 
 cast upon their frailtias. — Tt would be unpardonable td 
 omit that, in the maintenance of his virtues, he re- 
 ceived due support from the Partner of his long lifci 
 She was equally strict in attending to her share (5f their' 
 joint cares, nor less diligent in her appropriate occupa- 
 tions. A person who had been some time their servant 
 in the latter part of their lives, concluded the panegy- 
 ric of her mistress by saying to me, " she was no lesS 
 excellent than her husband; she Was good to the poor^ 
 she was good to every thing !" He survived for fi 
 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 grand-daughter ; 
 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 cotfin ; and, as a bearer of the body, entered th6 
 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 Church 
 man, present to that of a Cardinal Woisey 5 
 
 " O 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis 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 vene- 
 rable pair lie interred. I'he sounding brook, that rolls 
 close by the church-yard without disturbing feeling oi 
 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 spectator from this spot is looking rosind 
 upon the girdle of stony mountains that encompasset? 
 the vale,— masses of rock, out of which monuments 
 for all men that ever existed might have been hewn, U 
 would surprise him to be told, as with truth he might 
 be, that the plain blue slab dedicated to the memory 
 of this aged pair, is a production of a quarry in 
 North Wales. 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 Seathwsite 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 
 to mind the momentous changes v/rought by such 
 inventions in the fran^e of society— changes whicK 
 have proved especially unfavourable to these moun-' 
 tain solitudes. So much had been effected by those 
 new powers, before the subject of the preceding 
 biographical sketch closed his life, that their opera- 
 tion could not escape his notice, and doubtless exci- 
 ted touching reflections upon the comparatively in- 
 significant results of his own manual industry. Buf 
 Robert Walker was not a man of times and circum- 
 stances: had he lived at a later period, the princi- 
 ple of duty would have produced application as un- 
 remitting: the same energy of character would have 
 been displayed, though in many instances With vvide- 
 iy-different effects. 
 
 Having mentioned in this narrative the vale of 
 Loweswater as a place v/here Mr. Walkel- tau^htf 
 school, I will add a few memoranda from its pav^sli 
 register, respecting a person apparently of desires ae 
 moderate, with Whom he must have been intimate^ 
 during his' residence there. 
 
 " Let him that Would, ascend the tottering seS^ 
 Of ec-iirtly grandeur, and- beco;ae ss greal 
 
THE RIVElt DUDDOlt. 
 
 As arc his mounting wishes ; but for me, 
 Let sweet repose and rest my portion be. 
 
 Henry Forest, Curate. 
 Honour, the idol which the most adore, 
 Ileceives no homage from my knee ; 
 Content in privacy I valuC more 
 Tlian 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 payment, with great diffi- 
 culty was paid to Mr. John Curwen of London, on 
 the 9th of May, 1724, deposited by me, Henry Forest, 
 Curate of Loweswater. Ye said 9.h of May, ye 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. 
 
 Hu?c testor H. Forest." 
 
 In another place he records, that the sycamore- 
 irees were planted in the church-yard in 1710 
 
 He died in 1741, having been curare thirty-four 
 years. It is not inifirobable that H. Forest whs the 
 gentleman who assisted Robert Walker in his classi- 
 cal 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 
 Diffngiunt, nulioque sono convertitur annus ; 
 Utenduui est a;tate, cito pede preterit aBtas." 
 
 With pleasure I annex, as illustrative and confirma- 
 tory of the above account. Extracts from a Paper in 
 the Christian Remembrancer, October, 1819 : it bears 
 an assumed signature, but is krM)wn to be the work 
 of the Rev. Robert Bamford, vicar of Bishopton, in 
 the county of Durham ; a great-grandson of Mr. Walk- 
 er, whose worth it commemorates, by a record not 
 the less valuable for being vmttea in very early 
 youth. 
 
 " His house was a nursery of virtue. All the in- 
 mates were industrious, and cleanly, and' happy. So 
 briety, neatness, quietness, characterised the whole 
 family. No railings, no idleness, no indulgence of 
 passion, were permitted. Every child, however young, 
 had its appointed engagements ; every hand was busy. 
 Knitting, spinning, reading, writing, mending clothes, 
 making shoes, were by the ditfi^rent children con- 
 stantly 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 
 liad 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 chil- 
 dren in the chapel, for there was no school-house. 
 Yet in that cold, damp place he never had a fire. 
 He used to send the children in parties either to his 
 own fire af home, or make thein run up the moun- I 
 tain's side. ***** 
 
 " It may be further mentioned, that he V/ia a pt&. 
 sionate 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 slidt-d he- 
 hind the hills, he blessed its departure. He wag 
 skilled in fo.ssils and plants ; a constant observer of 
 the srars and winds: the atmosphere was his delight. 
 He made many experiments on its nature and pro- 
 perties. In summer Ire' used to gath(-r a multirude 
 of flies and insects, and, by his enterraiuing descrip- 
 tion, amuse and instruct his children. Tliey shared 
 all his daily employments, and derived many senti- 
 ments of love and benevolence from his obsei vaiioria 
 on the works and productions of nature. Whether 
 they were following him iti the field, or surrounding 
 him in school, he took every opportunity of storinii 
 their minds with useful information. — Nor was the 
 circle of his influence confined to Seathwaite. Many 
 a distant mother has told her child of Wr. Walker, 
 and begged him to be as gi^od a man. 
 
 • * « * * 
 
 " Once, when I was very young, I had the plea* 
 sure of seeing and hearing that venerable old man in 
 his 90th year, and even then, the ca'mness, the force, 
 the perspicuity of liis sermon, sanctified and adorned 
 by the wisdom of prey hair.«?, and the authority of 
 virtue, had such an eflTect upon my mind, that I 
 never see a hoary-headed clergyman, without think- 
 ing of Mr. Walker * * * *. He allowed no dis- 
 senter or metliodist to interfere in the instruction of 
 the souls committed to his cure : and so successful 
 were his exertions, that he had not one dissenter of 
 any denomination whatever in the whole parish.— 
 Though he avoided all religious controvfrsie.", yet 
 when age had silvered his head, and virtuous piety 
 had secured to his appearance reverence and silent 
 honour, no one, however determined in his hatred 
 of apostolic descent, could have listened to bis dis- 
 course 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 
 
 decavcd. 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 sfat she had used. He could not pass her 
 
 tomb wiihout tears. He became, when alone, sad 
 
 and melancholy, though still among his friends kind 
 
 and good-humoured. He went to bed about 12 o'clock 
 
 the night before his death, /.s his custom was, he 
 
 went, tottering and leaning upon his daughter's arm, 
 
 to examine the heavens, and meditate a few moments 
 
 in the open air. ' How clear the moon shines to 
 
 night I' He said those 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." 
 
155 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OP RYLSTONE ; OR, THE FATE OF THE NORTONS. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 During the Summer of 1807, the Author visiterl, 
 for the first time, the benulifjil scenery that surrounds 
 Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire; and the Poem of the 
 White Doe, founded upon a Tradition connected 
 (With the place, was coreiposed at -the close of the 
 same year. 
 
 IJST trelliscd shed with clustering roses gay^ 
 ^nd, Mary ! oft hr.side our blazivg fire, 
 JVhrn years of wedded life were as a day 
 Whose current answers to the hearVs desire^ 
 Did we together read in Spenser'' s Lay 
 How Una, sad of soul — in sad attire, 
 The gentle Una, born of heavenly birth, 
 'To seek her Knight loent wandering o^er the earth. 
 
 ^flh, then, Beloved 1 -pleasing was the smart, 
 
 And the tear precious in compassion shed 
 
 Jbr Her, loho, pierced by sor'>'ow\s thrilling dart, 
 
 Did mech/y bear the pang ■unmerited ; 
 
 Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart 
 
 The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led, — 
 
 And faithful, loyal in her innocence, 
 
 Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. 
 
 J^otes 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 cJuinge were taught 
 That " bliss mith 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, 
 Jind 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 ichose 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 sake. 
 
 Then, too, this Song of mine once more could please, 
 
 Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep, 
 
 Is tempered and allayed by sympathies 
 
 Aloft ascending, and descending deep, 
 
 Focn to the inferior Kinds ; whom forest trees 
 
 Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep 
 
 Of the sharp winds :~fair Creatures !—to whom Heaven 
 
 •^ calm and sinless life, loith love, hath given. 
 
 This tragic Story cheered us ; for it speaks 
 ^f female patience winning firm rrpose ; 
 And of the recompense which conscience seeks 
 ^ bright, encouraging example shows i 
 J^'edful whni o'er wide realms the tempest breaks^ 
 'heedful amid life's ordinary woes ;— 
 Hnicr, not for them unfitted who loould bless 
 Ji happy hour with holier happiness. 
 
 Reserves the Muses erringly mi ill, 
 ^ose aim it> pleasure light and fugitive : 
 
 O, that my mind icerc equal to fulfil 
 The comprehensive mandate lohich they give — 
 Vain aspiration of an earnest will ! 
 Yet in this moral Strain a power may live, 
 Beloved JVife ! such solace to impart 
 As it hath yielded to thy tender heart. 
 
 Rydal Mount, Wkstmoreland, 
 April 20. 1815. 
 
 "They tliat deny a God, destroy Man's nobility: 
 for certainly Man is of kinn to the Beasts by his 
 Body; and if he be not of kinn to God by ]jis Spi- 
 rit, he is a base ignoble Creature. It destroys like- 
 wise Magnanimity, and the raising of humane Na- 
 ture : for lake 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 IMeJior Natura. Which courage 
 is nianift'stly such, as that Creature without that con- 
 fidence of a better Nature than his own could never 
 attain. So Man, when he resleth and assurelh Jiim- 
 self upon Divine protection rand favour, gathereth a 
 force and faith which huiiiau Nature in itself could 
 not obtain.'* 
 
 Lord Bacon. 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE, 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 From Bolton's old monastic tower* 
 
 The bolls ring loud with gladsome power; 
 
 The sun is bright ; the fields are gay 
 
 With 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 ajuong the moorlands, see 
 
 What sprinklings of bli'.he company I 
 
 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 there ?— Full fifty years 
 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 
 Is standing with a voice of power, 
 That ancient voice which wont to call 
 To mass or some high festival ; 
 And in iJie shattered fabric's heart 
 Remainetti one protected part ; 
 A rural Chapel, neatly drestf, 
 In covert like a little nest ; 
 And thither young and old repair, 
 This Saobath day, for praise and prayer- 
 
 * It is to bo regreftcd that at the present day Bol- 
 ton Abbey wants this ornament : but the Pofr'n ac- 
 cord) Mg to ihe imagination of the Poet, is comnopf^d 
 in Queen Elizabeth's Time. " Formerly," s'lys D- 
 Whitaker, " over the Transept was a tower. Tliia 
 IS proved not only from the mention of belh at the 
 Dissolution, when thev could have had no other n'are 
 but from the pointrd roof of the cliojr, which rmist 
 have tfMn.iMated westward, in some building of supe- 
 rior heijiht !o the ridge." 
 
 t *' Th'' Nave of the Church having been reserved 
 at the Dissolution, for the use of the Saxon Cure, 
 IS Ptill a parochial Chapel; and, at this dav, U aa 
 well kept as the neatest English Cathedral." 
 
156 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OP ItTLSTONE. 
 
 Fast the chiirch-ynrd fills ; — anon 
 Look ajrain, and tliey all are gone ; 
 TJie cluster round the porch, and the folk 
 Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak I* 
 ♦ And scarcely Iiave they disappeared 
 Ere the prelusive hymn is heard :— 
 With one consent tlje people rejoice, 
 Filling the chnrr.h with a lofty voice! 
 They sing a service which they feei: 
 For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal, 
 And faith and hope are in their 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. 
 r-When soft! — the dusky trees between, 
 And down the path through the open green, 
 Where is no livijig thing to bf. seen ; 
 And through yon garevi'ay, where is found. 
 Beneath the arch with ivy bound, 
 Free entrance to the churchyard ground; 
 And right across the verdant sod 
 Towards the very house of God ; 
 —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 ; 
 . Pr 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 church-yard bed ! 
 Ye Jiving, tend your holy cares; 
 Ye multitude, pursue your prayers ; 
 And blame not me if my heart and sight 
 Are occupied with one delight ! 
 fTia 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 gift of grace from purest heaven. 
 
 What harmonious pensive changes 
 Wait upon her as she ranges 
 Xlound and through this Pile of state, 
 Overthrown and desolate! 
 Now a step or two her way 
 la through space of open day, 
 Where the enamoured sunny light 
 Brightens her that was so bright ; 
 Now doth a delicate shadow Ij+I|, 
 Fall upon her like a breath, 
 From some lofty arch or wall. 
 As she passes underneath : 
 Now some gloomy nook partakes 
 O 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, 
 
 * " At a small distance from the great gateway stood 
 the Prior's Oak, which was felled about the year 1720, 
 ,nnd sold for 70^. According to the price of wood at 
 that lime, it could scarcely have contained less thaji 
 MOO feet of timber." 
 
 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, re-appearing, she no less 
 To the open day gives bless< dness. 
 But say, among these holy places. 
 Which thus assiduously she paces, 
 Comes she with a votary's task, 
 Pcite to perform, or boon to ask ? 
 Fair Pilgrim I harbours she a sense 
 Of sorrow, or of reverence 1 
 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, — 
 For altar, whence the cross was rent. 
 Now rich with mossy ornament, — 
 Or dormitory's length laid bare, 
 Where the wild rose blossoms fair; 
 And sapling ash, whose place of birth 
 Is that lordly chamber's hearth 1 1 
 — 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 ; 
 Methinks she passeth by 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 I 
 Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste 
 The dewy turf with flowers bestrewn ; 
 And thus she fares, until at last 
 Beside the ridge of a grassy grave 
 In quietness she lays her down; 
 Gently 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 river in its flowing — 
 Can there be a softer sound "? 
 So the balmy minutes pass, 
 While this radiant Creature lies 
 Couched upon the dewy grass, 
 Pensively with downcast eyes. 
 —When now again the people rear 
 A voice of praise, witli awful cheer! 
 It is the last, the parting song ; 
 And from the temple forth they throng — 
 And quickly spread themselves altroad — 
 While each pursues his several road. 
 But some, a variegated band, 
 Of middle-aged, and old, and young, 
 And little childreq by the hand 
 Upon their leading mothers hung, 
 Turn, with obeisance gladly paid. 
 Towards the spot, where, full in view, 
 The lovely Doe of whitest, hue, 
 Her sabbath couch has made. 
 
 It was a solitary mound ; 
 Which two spears' length of level ground 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 157 
 
 Did from all other graves divide 
 As if in some resp'^ct of pride ; 
 Or melancholy's sickly mood, 
 Siill shy of liuman neighbourhood ; 
 Or guilt, that humbly would express 
 A peni;eniial loneliness. 
 
 " Look, there she is, my Child ! draw near 
 She fears not, wherefore should we fear 1 
 She means no haini;"— but still the Boy, 
 To whom the words were softly said. 
 Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy, 
 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." 
 
 This whisper soft repeats what he 
 Had known from early infancj'. 
 Bright is the Creature — as in dreams 
 The Boy had seen her — yea, more brigiit ; 
 But is she truly what she seems ? 
 He asks with insecure dehght. 
 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 divulgfd, 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, statf-supported Sire, 
 
 (Who in his youth hath often fed 
 
 Full cheerily on convent bread. 
 
 And heard old tales by the convent-fire, 
 
 And lately hath brought home the scars 
 
 Gathered in long and distant wars) 
 
 That Old Man — studious to expound 
 
 The spectacle — hath m( unted high 
 
 To days of dim antiquity ; 
 When Lady Aiiiiza mourned* 
 
 Her Son, and felt in her despair, 
 
 The pang of unavailing prayer ; 
 
 Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned. 
 
 The noble Boy of Egremourid. 
 
 From which affliction, wlien God's grace 
 
 At length had in her lieart found place, 
 
 A pious structure, fair to see. 
 
 Rose up — this stately Priory 1 
 
 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 
 
 sustaia 
 A softened remembrance of sorrow and pain, 
 
 *The detail of this tradition may be found in Dr. 
 Whitaker's book, and in a Poem in the Third Volume 
 of ihisColleciion, " The Force of Prayer,'' &c. 
 
 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 grifsly sight ; 
 A vault where the bodies are buried upright! 
 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 Banbury church, 
 And smote ofi'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 daiksome 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. 
 Well may her thoughts be harsh ; for she 
 Num'ers among her ancestry 
 Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously ! 
 
 That slender youth, a scholar pale, 
 Fronj 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 meeLt 
 In his wanderings solitary : 
 
 * " At the East end of the North aisle of Bolton Pri- 
 ory Church, is a chantry belonging to Bethniesly Hall, 
 iind a vault, where, according to tradition, the Clap 
 hams" (who inherited this estate, by the female line 
 from the Mauleverers) " were interred upright." John 
 de Clapham, of whotn this ferocious act is recorded, 
 was a man of great note in this time , " he was a ve- 
 hement partisan of the house of Lancaster, in whom 
 the spirit of his chieftains, the Clilfords, seemed to 
 survive." 
 
 1 In the preceding pages of these Poems, will be 
 found one, entitled, •' Song at the Feast of Brougham 
 Castle, upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford the Shep- 
 herd to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors." 
 To that Poem is annexed an account of this personage, 
 chiefly extracted from Burn's and Nicholson's History 
 of Cumberland and Westmorehmd. It gives me plea- 
 sure to add these further particulars concerning him, 
 from Dr, Whiiaker, 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 favourable to taste, to in- 
 struction, and to devotif)n. The narrow limits of his 
 residence show that he had learned to despise the pomp 
 of greatness, and that a small train of servants could 
 suffice him, who had lived to the age of thirty a servant 
 himself. 1 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 purchased such an ap- 
 paratus as could then be procured, he amused and in- 
 fornied himself by those pursuits, with the aid of the 
 C'anons of Bolton, some of whom are said to have been 
 well versed in what was then known of ihe science. 
 
 '■ I suspect this nobleman to have been sometimes 
 occupied in a more visionary pursuit, and [)robably in 
 the same company. 
 
 " For, Irom the family evidences, T have met with 
 two M!?S. on the subject of Alchemy, which from the 
 character, spelling, &c., may almnpt certainly be re- 
 ferred to the reign of Menry the Seventh. If these 
 were originahy deposited with the MSS. of the Cliff- 
 ords, it might have been for th(! 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 employtnents Lord Clifford spent 
 the whole r&ign of Henry the Seventh, and ihe first 
 years of his son. But in the year 1513, when almost 
 sixty years old, he was appointed to a principal com- 
 mand over the army which fought at Floddrn, and 
 showed that the military genius of the family had nei- 
 
158 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RTLSTONE. 
 
 Wild notfls she in hig bearing sang, 
 
 A song of Nature's liidden powers ; 
 
 TJiat whistled like tlie wind, and rang 
 
 Among the rocks and holly bowers. 
 
 'Twas said that she a I! shapes could wear; 
 
 And oftentimes before him stood, 
 
 Amid the trees of some tliick 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 bay, 
 
 A Shepherd clad in homely grey, 
 
 Nor left Jjim at his later day. 
 
 And hence, when he, with spear and shield, 
 
 Rode full of years to Fb)dden field, 
 
 His eye could see the hidden spring, 
 
 And how the current was to flow ; 
 
 The fatal end of Scotland's King, 
 
 And all ihat hopeless overthrow. 
 
 But not in wars did he delight, 
 
 This CliflTord 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 humble 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 Jiour, 
 
 Perused, with him, the starry sky ; 
 
 Or, in their cells, with him did pry 
 
 For other lore, — through strong dpsire 
 
 Searrhing the earth with chemic fire: 
 
 But they and their good works are fled — 
 
 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 peo[de in a rijig. 
 Gazing, «loubnng, questioning ;. 
 Yea, many overcouie 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 busy dreams, and fancies wild ; 
 To which, with no reluctant strings, 
 Thou hast at uiel thy mnmiiriniis ; 
 And now before this Pile we stand 
 In solitude, and utrer peace : 
 But, harp I thy murmurs may not cease — 
 Thou hast breeze-like visiiings; 
 For a Spirit with angel vviiigs 
 
 ther been chilled in him by age, nor extinguished by 
 liabiis ot peaci-'. 
 
 •' He [survived the battle of FIndden ten years, and 
 died April 23d, 15-2:?. ag<'ij about 70 1 sliall cndeavoMr 
 to approp; iaiL' to iiiru a (ornb, vault, and chantry, in ihi^ 
 choir <»r ilie cbuicb of Bolt.*4i, as 1 sliou'd be sorry to 
 believe ihat lie was d(Mlo^;ilrd, when dead, at a tlistance 
 from the place vvliii b in bis iilV'time be loved so 
 
 well. 
 
 " Bv his last will he appointed his body to b(^ interred 
 at Snap, iC J.e died in Wesiiuoieland ; or at Bolton, if 
 he di(d in Yo:ks!liire." 
 
 Wiih respect to the Canons of Bolton, Dr. Whi;akor 
 ebows from MSS. that not only alchemy but astronomy 
 wai^ a favourite piusuii vrlth them. 
 
 Hath touched thee and a Spirit's hand: 
 A voice is with us — a command 
 To chant, in strains of heavenly glory, 
 A ta'e of tears, a mortal story 1 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 The Harp in lowliness obeyed ; 
 
 And first we sang of the green- wood shade 
 
 And a solitary Maid ; 
 
 Beginning, where the song must end, 
 
 With her, and with her sylvan Friend ; 
 
 The Friend who stood before her sight. 
 
 Her only tinexiimruished light ; 
 
 Hf!r 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 colours and in gold 
 An unblest work ; which, standing by, 
 Her Father did with joy behold, — 
 Exulting in the imagery ; 
 A Banner, one that did fulfil 
 Too perfectly his headstrong will: 
 For on this Banner had her hand 
 Embroidered (such was the command) 
 The Sacred Cross ; and figured there 
 The five dear wounds our Lord did bear ; 
 Full soon to he uplifted high. 
 And float in rueful company ! 
 
 It was the time when England's Queen 
 Twelve years bad 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. 
 Who gave their wishes open vent; 
 And boldly urged a general plea, 
 The rites of ancient piety 
 To be triurnphanily restored. 
 By the dread justice of the sword ! 
 And that same Banner, on whose breast 
 The b'aineless Lady had exprest 
 ]Memoria!s chosen to give life 
 And sunshine to a dangerous strife ; 
 That Banner, waiting for the call. 
 Stood quietly in Rylstone Hall. 
 
 Tt came, — and Frances Norton said, 
 " O Father ! rise not in this fray — 
 The hairs are white upon your head; 
 Dear Father, hear me wlmn I say 
 It is for you too late a day ! 
 Bethink you of your own good name: 
 A just and gracious Q,ueen have we, 
 A pure religion, and the- claim 
 Ot'peaoe on our humaniiy. 
 'Tis meet that [ endure your scorn, — 
 I am your son, your eldest born ; 
 But not for lo dship or for land, 
 My Father, do I clasp your knees — 
 The Barm<M- touch not, !«tay your hand, — 
 This inuililude of men disband, 
 And live at home in blameless ease"; 
 For these my brethren's sakp, for me; 
 And, most of all, for Emily !'» 
 
 Loud noise was in the crowded hall, 
 And scarcely could the Father hear 
 That name— which had n dying fall, 
 The name of his only Daughter dear, — 
 And on the banner which stood near 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSToNE. 
 
 159 
 
 He glanced a look of holy pride, 
 
 And his moist eyes wore plOiified ; 
 
 "Then seizrd ihe staff, .nnd thus did say: 
 
 «» Tlioii, Kichaid, heai'st thy laiiiei's name, 
 
 Keep ihou lliis ensign till the day 
 
 When I of thee require the same : 
 
 Thy place be on my better hand ; — 
 
 And seven as true as thou, f see, 
 
 Will cleave to this ^nod cause and me." 
 
 He spake, and eiirht brave sons straii»htway 
 
 All folldwrd hMM, a pallaut band ! 
 
 Forth when Sire and Sons ?tppear^d 
 A {rraMi!atiiin[ shout was roared, 
 Wiih din of arms and niinistrelsy, 
 From alt his warlike tenantry, 
 All horsed and harnessed wi(h him to ride; 
 — A shout to which the hills replied! 
 
 But Frances, in the vacant hall. 
 Stood silent under dreary weijilit, — 
 A phantasm, in which roof and wall 
 Shook — tottered — s^vam before [lis sifiht; 
 A phantasm like a dream of ni«.'ht ! 
 Thus overwhelmed, and desolate, 
 He found his way to a postern cate ; 
 And, when he waked at lenpt/i, his eye 
 Was on the cain« and silent sky ; 
 With air about him breathingr sweet. 
 And earth's jrreen prass 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 Iiim not. 
 
 There stood 1>€, leanings on a lance 
 Which he had giasped unknowingly, — 
 Had blindly graspe<l in that strong trance, 
 That dinmess of lieart 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 T 
 Oh ! hide them from each other, hide. 
 Kind Heaven, this pair severely tried I 
 
 He saw her where in Open- view 
 She sate beneaih the spreading yew,— 
 Her head upon her lap, concealing 
 In solitude her bitter feeling ; 
 How could he choose but shrink or sigh ? 
 He shrunk, and muttered inwardly, 
 " Might ever son commavd 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." 
 
 He paused her silence to partake, 
 And long it was before he spake: 
 Then, all at once, liis thoughts turned round, 
 And fervent words a passage fouid. 
 
 "Gone are they, bravely, though misled-; 
 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. 
 This said, our tears to-day may fall 
 As at an innocent funeral. 
 Iq deep and awful channel rung I 
 
 Thia sympathy of Sire and Sons ; 
 
 Untried our Brothers were beloved, 
 
 And now their faith fulne.<;s is ])roved : 
 
 For faiihful we must call th«m btaiing 
 
 That sen I of conscientious daring 
 
 —There were they all in circle— there 
 
 Siood Richard, Ambrose, Chiistopher, 
 
 John wiih a sword that will not fail, 
 
 And Marmadiike in fearless mail. 
 
 And those bright Twins were side by side; 
 
 And there, Ity fresh hopes beautified, 
 
 Sfood He, whos" arm yet hjcks the power 
 
 Of man, our youngest, fairest flower I 
 
 ], by tie lipht of eUUsi br^in, 
 
 And in a second father's .Jace, 
 
 Presumed to grapple with their scorn, 
 
 And meet their pi'y face to face; 
 
 Yea, trusting in God's holy aid, 
 
 f to my Father knelt and payed. 
 
 And one, the pensive Marmaduke, 
 
 Me! bought, was yielding inwardly, 
 
 And would have laid his puipose by, 
 
 But for a glance of his father's eye, 
 
 Which I myself could scarcely brook. 
 
 Then hewn, each, and all, forgiven I 
 Thee, cliiefly thee, my Sister dear, 
 Wtiose fiangs ■ re registered in heaven, 
 The stifled sigh, the hidden tear, 
 And smiles, that dared to take their place, 
 Meek filial smiles, upon thy fa' e, 
 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 efl!orts cannot blend, 
 I cannot for such cause contend ; 
 Their aims F 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. 
 Which he had grasped in that strong trance,^ 
 Spurned ir — 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 I 
 The time is come that rings the knelf 
 Of all we loved, and loved so well ; — 
 Hope nothing, if I tluis may speak 
 To thee a woman, and thence weak ; 
 Hope nothing, [ repeat ; for we 
 Are doomed to perish utterly : 
 'Tis meet that thou vVith 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. 
 * See the Old Ballad,—" The Rising of the",North.*' 
 
ICO 
 
 tHE WHITE DOE OF RYLSfONE. 
 
 For we must fall, both we and oiirs, — 
 
 This Mansion and these pleasant bowers, 
 
 Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall, 
 
 Our fate is theirs, will reach th(-m all ; 
 
 The young Horse, must forsake his manger, 
 
 And learn to plory in a Stranper ; 
 
 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 while than snovlr I 
 
 " 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, 
 
 Hf-rself beloved in Rylrjtone Hall. 
 
 — But thou, my Sister, doomed to be 
 
 The last leaf which by Heaven's decree 
 
 Must hang upon a blasted tree ; 
 
 If not in vain we breathed the breath 
 
 Togetlier of a purer faith — 
 
 If hand in hand we have been led. 
 
 And thou, (() liappy 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 
 
 liath 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 beau'iful, 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 he pursued, 
 Alone, the armed Multitude. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 Now joy for you and sudden cheer. 
 Ye Watchmen upon Brancepeth Towers ;* 
 Looking forth in doubt atid fear. 
 Telling melancholy hours ! 
 Proclaim it, let your masters hear 
 That Norton with his Band is near ! 
 The Watchmen from their station high 
 Prononnced the word, — and the Earls descry 
 Forthwith the armed Company 
 Marching down the banks of Were. 
 
 Said fearless Norton to the Pair 
 Gone forth to hail him on the Plain — 
 "This meeting, noble Lords! looks fair, 
 I bring with n^e a goodly train ; 
 Their hearts are with you : — hill and dale 
 Have helptd us: — Ure we crossed, and Swale, 
 And Horse and Harness followed—see 
 The best part of their Yeomanry 1 
 
 ♦ Brancepeth Castle stands near the river Were, a 
 few miles from the city of Durham. It formerly be- 
 longed to the Nevilles, Earls of Westmoreland. See 
 Dr. Percy's account. 
 
 — Stand forth, my Sons I — these eight are mine, 
 Whom to this service I commend ; 
 Which way soe'er our fate incline, 
 ThesL' will be faithful to the end ; 
 They are my afl" — voice failed him here^' 
 " My ail save one, a Daughter dear ! 
 Whom I have left, the 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 ! how 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 near 
 From every side can)e 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's right !'* 
 
 The Norton fi.^ed, 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 honour in the realm. 
 — Brave Earls! to whose heroic veins- 
 Our noblest blood is given in trust. 
 To you a suffering Si ate 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 Altar?, — 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 1" — 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, 
 And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died f 
 This bring I from an ancient hearth. 
 These Records wrought in pledge of love 
 By hands of no ignoDle birth, 
 A Maid o'er whom the blessed Dove 
 Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood 
 While she the holy work pursued." 
 " Uplift the Standard !" was the cry 
 From all the Listeners that stood round, 
 " Piarit 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 ofiered 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, 
 Wlio saw the Banner reared on high- 
 In all its dread emblazonry, 
 With tumult and indignant rout 
 A voice of uttermost joy brake out r 
 
THE White doe of rylstonk. 
 
 Ui 
 
 'l^hc transport was rolled down the river of Were, 
 And Durham, the time-honoured Durham, did hear, 
 And the Towers of Saint Cuthbert were stirred 
 by the shout ! 
 
 Now was the North in arms :— they shine 
 In warlike tritn 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 a» 
 Of Neville, at their Muster's call 
 Had sate togetlier in Raby Hall 1 
 Such strength that Earldom held of yore { 
 Nor wanted at this time rich store 
 Of well-appointed Chivalry. 
 —Not loth the sleepy lance to wieldj 
 And greet the old paternal shield. 
 They heard the summons ;— and, furthermore, 
 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 EsquirC ; 
 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 Cufhbert'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 ;"* 
 The choicest Warriors of the North! 
 iBut none for beauty and for worth 
 Like those eight Sons — embosoming 
 Determined thoughts — who, in a ring 
 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. 
 --With feet that firmly pressed the ground 
 ^hey stood, and girt their Father round ; 
 Such was his choice, — no Steed will he 
 Henceforth bestride ;— triumphantly 
 He stood 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 higher height ; 
 Magiiific 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 thu3, with girdle round his waist, 
 Whereon the Banner-staff might rest 
 At need, he stood, advancing high 
 The glittering, floating Pageantry. 
 
 Who sees him 1 — many see, and One 
 With unparticipated gaze ; 
 Who 'mong thesp thousands Friend hath none, 
 And treads in solitary ways. 
 
 * From the old Ballad. 
 
 He, following wheresoe'er he might, 
 
 Hath watched the Banner from afar, 
 
 As Shepherds watch a lonely star. 
 
 Or Mariners the distant light 
 
 That guides them on a stormy night. 
 
 And now, upon a chosen plot 
 
 Of rising ground, yon heathy spot ! 
 
 He takes this day his far-off stand, 
 
 VVith breast unmailed, unweaponed bandi 
 
 — Bold is his aspect ; but his eye 
 
 Is pregnant with anxiety, 
 
 While, like a tutelary Power, 
 
 He there stands fixed, from hour to hour : 
 
 Yet sometimes, in more humble guise. 
 
 Stretched out upon the ground he lies ; 
 
 As if it were his only task 
 
 Like Herdsman in the sun to bask, 
 
 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 floWi 
 
 To London were the Chieftains bent ; 
 But what avails the bold intent 1 
 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 I 
 Can such a mighty Host be rakised 
 Thus suddenly, and brought so near 1 
 The Earls upon each other gazed; 
 And Neville was opprest with fear ; 
 For, though he bore a valiant name. 
 His heart was of a timid frame. 
 And bold if both had been, yet they 
 '' Against so many may not stay."* 
 And therefore will retreat to seize 
 A strong Hold on the banks of Tees ; 
 There wait a favourable hour, 
 Until Lord Dacro with his power 
 From Naworth comes ; and Howard's aid 
 Be with them ; openly displayed. 
 
 While through the Host, from man to mari^ 
 A rumour of this purpose ran. 
 The Standard giving to the care 
 Of him who heretofore did bear 
 That charge, impatient Norton sought 
 The Chieftains to unfold his thought. 
 And thus abruptly spake,—" We yield 
 (And can it be ?) an unfonght field ! 
 —How often hath the strength of heaven 
 To few triumphantly been given ! 
 Still do our very children boast 
 Of mitred Thurston, what a Host 
 He concfuered !t— Saw we not the Plain, 
 (And flying shall behold again) 
 Where faith was provi-^d ?— while to battle moveii 
 The Standard on the Sacred Wain 
 On which the grey-haired Barons stood, 
 And the infant Heir of Mowbray's blood 
 Beneath the saintly ensigns three, 
 Stood confident of victory ! 
 Shall Percy blush, then, for his Name 1 
 Must Westmoreland be asked with shame' 
 
 * From the old Ballad. 
 
 I" See the Historians for the account of this memo- 
 rable battle, usually denominated the Battle of ^iW 
 Standard. 
 
162 
 
 THE WHITE HOE OF RYLSTONB. 
 
 Whose were the numbers, where the loss, 
 
 In that other day of Neville's Cross 1* 
 
 When, as the Vision gave command, 
 
 The Pi ior of Durham with holy hand 
 
 Saint Cuthbert's Relic did uprear 
 
 Upon the point of a lofty spear, 
 
 And God descended in his power, 
 
 While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower. 
 
 Less would not at our need be due 
 
 To us, who war against the Untrue ; — 
 
 The delejsjates of Heaven we rise, 
 
 Convoked the impious to chastise j 
 
 We, we, the sanctities of old 
 
 Would re-establish and uphold/' — 
 
 — The Chiefs were by hi* zeal confounded, 
 
 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 so joyfully, 
 
 This hope of all posterity, 
 
 * " In the night before the battle of Durham was 
 »trucken and begun, the 17th day of October, anno 
 1346, there did appear to John Fosser, then Prior of the 
 abbey of Durham, a Vision, commanding him to take 
 the holy Corporax-cloili, wheiewiih St. Cnrhbert did 
 cover the chalice when he used to say mass, and to put 
 the same holy reliqne like to a banner-cloth upon the 
 point of a spear, and the next morning to go and repair 
 to a place on the westt^ide of the city of Durham, called 
 tlie Red Hills, vi'here the Maid's Bovver wont to be, and 
 there to remain and abide till the end of the battle. To 
 which vir^ion, the Prior obeying, and taking the same 
 for a revelation of God's grace and mercy, by the me- 
 diation of holy St. Cuthhert, did accordingly 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 pressing by them, with intention to have spoiled 
 them, yet had no power to con>mit any vio ence under 
 such holy persons, so occupied in prayer, being protec- 
 ted and defended by the mighiy Providence of Almigh- 
 ty 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 be- 
 tween the Englishmen and the Kins of Scots and his 
 company, the said battle ended, and the victory was 
 obtained, to the great overthrow and confusion of the 
 Scots, their enemies : And then the said Prior and 
 nmnks accompanied with Ralph Lord Nevil, and John 
 Nevil his son, and the Lord Percy, and many other no- 
 bles 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 day." 
 
 This battle v\'as afterwards called the Battle of Ne- 
 ville's Cross from the following circumstance : — 
 
 " On the west side of the city of Durham, where two 
 roads pass each oiher, a most notable, famous, and 
 goodly cross of stone-work was erected and set up to 
 the honour of God for the victory there obtained in the 
 field of liattle, 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 persons in the said bat- 
 tle." The Relique of St. Cuthbert afterwards became 
 of great importance in military events. For soon atler 
 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, &c. &:c. and so sumptuous- 
 ly finished, and absoluf^ly perfected, this banner was 
 dedi( ated to holy St. Cuthbert, of intent and pur- 
 pose that for the future it should be carried to any bat- 
 lie as occasion should serve ; and was never carried 
 and Khewed 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, l\'ll into the possession of 
 Dean Whittingham, whose wife, called Katharine, 
 being a Frencl) woman, (as is most credibly reported 
 Ijy eye-witnesses,) did most injuriously burn the same 
 in her fire, to the open contempt and disgrace of all 
 ancient and goodly reliques." — Extracted from a book 
 entitled, " Durham Cathedral, as it stood before the 
 Dissolution of the Monastery " It appears, from the 
 old metrical Historv, that the above-mentioned banner 
 was carried by the Earl of Surrey to Flodden Field. 
 
 Thus to become at oncff th5 sccmf 
 
 Of babbling winds as they go by, 
 
 A spat of shame to the snn's bright cfe, 
 
 To the frail clouds a mockery ! 
 
 — " Even these poor eight of mine would item;' 
 
 Half to himself, and half to them 
 
 He spake, " wotild stern, or qtrell 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 his reverend head 
 
 Raised towards that Imagery once more : 
 
 But the familiar prospect shed 
 
 Despondency unfelt before : 
 
 A shock of intimations vaiir, 
 
 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 1 
 
 She did in passfveness obev, 
 
 But her Faith leaned another way, 
 
 111 tears she wept, — 1 saw them fall, 
 
 I overheard her as she spake 
 
 Sad words to that mute Animal, 
 
 The White Doe, in th" hawthorn brake ; 
 
 She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake, 
 
 This Cross in tears : — by her, and One 
 
 Unworthier far, we are undone — 
 
 Her Brother was it who assailed 
 
 Her tender spirit and prevailed. 
 
 Her other Parent, too, whose head 
 
 In the cold grave hath long been laid, 
 
 From reason^s earliest dawn beguiled 
 
 The 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 
 
 Was played to cheer them in retreat; 
 
 But Norton lingered in the rear : 
 
 Thought followed thought— and ere the la«t 
 
 Of that unhappy train was past, 
 
 Before him Francis did appear. 
 
 " Now when 'tis not your aim to oppose," 
 Said he, '' in open field your Foes ; 
 Now that from this decisive day 
 Your multitude must melt away, 
 An unarmed Man may come unblamed :— 
 To ask a grace, that was not claimed 
 Long as your hopes were high, he now 
 May hither bring a fearless brow : 
 When his discountenance can do 
 No injury — may eome to you. 
 Though in your cause no part I bear, 
 Your indignation I can share; 
 Am grieved this backward march to see. 
 How careless and disorderly ! 
 I scorn your Chieftains, men who lead, 
 And yet want courage at their need ; 
 Then look at them with open eyes! 
 Deserve they further sacrifice 1 
 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 remains behind, 
 I may bear witness in my breast 
 To your nobility of mind I" 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONK. 
 
 163 
 
 ^<"Thou Enemy, my bane and blight! 
 Oh 1 bold to fight the Coward's fight 
 Against all good"— but why declare, 
 At length, the issue of this prayer 1 
 Or how, from his depression laised, 
 The Father on his Son had gazed • 
 Suflice it thcit the Son gave way, 
 Nor strove that passion to allay, 
 Nor did he turn aside to prove 
 His Brothers' wisdom or their love — 
 But calmly from the spot withdrew; 
 The like endeavours to renew. 
 Should e'er a kindlier time ensue. 
 
 CA.NTO FOURTH. 
 
 From cloudless ether looking down. 
 
 The Moon, this tranquil evening, sees 
 
 A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, 
 
 And Castle like a stately crown 
 
 On the steep rocks of winding Tees: — 
 
 And southward far, with moors between. 
 
 Hill-tops, and floods, and forests green. 
 
 The bright Moon sees that valley small 
 
 Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall 
 
 A venerable image yields 
 
 Of quiet to the neighbouring fields; 
 
 While from one pillared chimney breathes 
 
 The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths. 
 
 —The courts are hushed ;— for timely sleep 
 
 The Grey-hounds to their kennel creep; 
 
 The Peacock in the broad ash-tree 
 
 Aloft is roosted for the night. 
 
 He who in proud prosperity 
 
 Of colours manifold and bright 
 
 Walked round, affionting the daylight ; 
 
 And higher still above the bower. 
 
 Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower 
 
 The Ball clock in the clear moonshine 
 
 With glittering finger points at nine. 
 
 —Ah ! who could think that sadness here 
 
 Hath any sway? — or pain, or fearl 
 
 A soft and lulling sound is heard 
 
 Of streams inaudible by day ; 
 
 The garden poofs 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 I 
 
 Not distant far, the milk-white Doe : 
 
 The same fair Creature who was nigh 
 
 Feeding in tranquillity. 
 
 When Francis uttered to the Maid 
 
 His last words in the yew-tree shade ; — 
 
 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-dipt 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 neighbourhood, 
 
 Range unrestricted as the wind, 
 
 Through park, or chase, or savage wood. 
 
 But where at this still hour is she, 
 The consecrated Emily 1 
 
 Even while I speak, behold the Maid 
 Emerging from the 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 I 
 
 Yet the meek Creature was not free, 
 Erewhile from some perplexity: 
 For thrice hath she approached, this day, 
 The thought-bewildered Emily; 
 Endeavouring, in her gentle way, ^ 
 Some smile or look of love to gain,— 
 Encouragement to sport or play ; 
 Attempts which by the unhappy Maid 
 Have all been slighted or gainsaid. 
 Yet is she soothed : the viewless breeze 
 Comes fraught with kindlier sympathies: 
 Ere she had reached yon rustic Shed 
 Hung with late-flowering woedbine, spread 
 Along the walls and overhead ; 
 The fragrance of the brerathing flowers 
 Revives a memory of those hours 
 When here, in this remote Alcove, 
 (While frotn the pendent woodbine came 
 Like odours, 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 ; — 'tis that blest Saint 
 Who with mild looks and language mild 
 Instructed here Jier 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. 
 
 'Tis flown — the vision, and the sense 
 Of that beguiling influence ! 
 " But oh ! thou Angel from above. 
 Thou 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 
 Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry 
 Descend on Francis : — through the air 
 Of this sad earth lo him repair, 
 Speak to him with a voice, and say, 
 • That he must cast despair away !' ^ 
 
 Then from within the embowered retreat 
 Where she had found a grateful seat 
 Perturbed she issues. — She will go ; 
 Herself will follow to the war, 
 Ard clasp her father's knees ; — ah, no ! 
 She meets the insuperable bar. 
 The injunction by her Brother laid; 
 His parting charge — but ill obeyed 1 
 That interdicted all debate, 
 AH prayer for this cause or for that; 
 All etforts that would turn aside 
 The headstrong current of their fate : 
 Her duty is to stand and wait ; 
 In resignation to abide 
 The shock, and finally secure 
 O'er pain and grikf a triumph puri. 
 
J64 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF ItYL^TONE. 
 
 — She knowf5, she feels it, and is cheered ; 
 
 At least her present pangs are checked. 
 
 — But now an ancient Man appeared, 
 
 Approaching her with grave respect. 
 
 Down the smooth walk whicli then she trod 
 
 He paced along the silent sod, 
 
 And greeting her thus gently spake, 
 
 •' An old Man's privilege I take ; 
 
 Dark is the time — a woeful day t 
 
 Dear daughter of affliction, say 
 
 JIow can I serre you 1 point the way. 
 
 " Rights have you, and may well be bold : 
 You with my Father have grown old 
 Tn friendship ; — go — from him — from me — 
 Strive to avert this misery. 
 This would I beg ; but on my mind 
 A passive stillness is enjoined. 
 — If prudence offer lielp or aid. 
 On T/oji is no restriction laid ; 
 You not forbidden to recline 
 With hope upon the Will divino.'* 
 
 " Hope," said the Sufferer's zealous Friend, 
 •' Must not forsake us till the end. — 
 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 tenmpt 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 ; — 'tis 9,11 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, may have the 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 efforts vain. — 
 Their flight the fair Moon may not see ; 
 For, from mid-heaven, 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 haughty Towers must yield, 
 Or we for ever quit the field. 
 — Neville is utterly dismayed, 
 For promise fails of Howard's aid ; 
 And Dacre to our call replies 
 That he is unprepared to rise. 
 My heart is sick ; — this weary pause 
 Must needs be fatal to the cause. 
 The breach is open — on the Wall, 
 This night, the Banner shall be planted !" 
 .—'rpvvas done — his Sons were with him — all ;— 
 Ti»ey be't him round with hearts undaunted 
 
 And others follow ;— Sire and Son 
 
 Leap down into the court — " 'Tis won"-^ 
 
 They shout aloud — but Heaven decreed 
 
 Another close 
 
 To that brave deed 
 Which struck with terror friends and foes J 
 The friend shrinks back — the foe recoils 
 From Norton and his filial band ; 
 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 I" 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 j 
 But ere the Moon bad 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 
 Siands single (Norton Tower its name) ;* 
 It fronts all quarters, and looks round 
 O'er path and road, and plain and dell, 
 Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream. 
 Upon a prospect without bound. 
 
 The summit of this bold ascent, "^ 
 Though blenk and bare, and seldom free 
 As Pendle-hill or Pennyg^-nt 
 From wind, or frost, or vapours 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 bow pleased and proud ! 
 And fron^ the scorching noon-tide sun. 
 From showers, or when the prize was won 
 They to the Watch- tower did repair. 
 Commodious Pleasure-house ! and there 
 Would mirth run round, with generous fare ■ 
 And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall, 
 He was the proudest of them all ! 
 
 But now, his Child, with anguish pale, 
 Upon the height walks to and fro ; 
 'Tis well that she hath heard the tale, 
 Received the bitterness of w^oe : 
 For she had hoped, had hoped and fearedj 
 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 farew^ell words; and by the same. 
 Yea by her brother's very name. 
 Had, in her solitude, been cheered. 
 
 * It is so called to this day, and is thus described by 
 Dr. Whitaker :— Rylstone Fell yet exhibits a monu- 
 ment of the old warfare between the Nortons and 
 t;iiffords. On a point of very high ground, command- 
 ing an imnjense prospect, and protected by two deep 
 ravines, are the remains of a square tower, expressly 
 said bv Dodsworth to have been built by Richard Nor- 
 ton. 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. 
 
 " But Norton Tower was probably a sort of plea- 
 sure-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 companies of archers. 
 
 "The place is savagely wild, and admirably adapt-, 
 ed to the uses of a watch-tower," 
 
THE WHITE DOE OP RYLSTONE. 
 
 165 
 
 She turned to him, who with his eye 
 Was watcliirig her while on the height 
 She sate, or wandered restlessly, 
 O'erburtliened by her sorrow's weight ; 
 To him who this dire news had told, 
 And now beside the Mourner stood; 
 (That grey-haired Man of gentle blood, 
 Who with her Father had grown old 
 In friendship, rival Hunters they, 
 And fellow Warriors in their day) 
 To Rylsione lie the tidings brought ; 
 Then on this place the Maid had sought: 
 And told, as gently as could be, 
 The end of that sad Tragedy, 
 Which it had been his lot to see. 
 
 To him the Lady turned ; " You said 
 That Francis lives, he is not dead "?" 
 
 " Your noble Brother hatli been spared, 
 To take his life they have not dared ; 
 On him and on hia high endeavour 
 The light of praise shall shine for ever ! 
 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 tlie 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, Frances comes,' there were who cried, 
 * A Prisoner once, but now set free I 
 'Tis well, for he the worst defied 
 For sake of natural Piety ; 
 He rose not in this quarrel, he 
 His Father and his Brothers wooed, 
 Both for their own and Country's good, 
 To rest in peace — he did divide. 
 He parted from them ; but at their side 
 Now walks in unanimity — 
 Then peace to cruelty and scorn, 
 While to ihe 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. 
 Mo did a reverent pity move 
 And privilege of ancient love ; 
 And, in your service, 1 made bold — 
 And entrance gained to that strong-hold. 
 
 "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 ! 
 But I will end what is begun ; 
 'Tis matter which 1 do not fear 
 To entrust to any living ear.' 
 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 s.pring-iide of immortal green: 
 The darksome Altars would have blazed 
 Like stars when clouds are rolled away; 
 Salvation to all eves that gazed, 
 
 Once more the Rood bad been upraificd 
 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 
 Reopened 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 : 
 [ would myself have hung it high, 
 Glad ofl^ering 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 elTort 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 endeavour be 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 gift 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 beauteous Brood 
 This fair unrivalled Broiberhood, 
 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 fervently, 
 ' If God so will, the same shall be.' 
 
 " Immediately, this 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 ; tney knew each other's worth, 
 And reverently the Band went forth: 
 They met, when they had reached the door, 
 The Banner, which a Soldier bore, 
 One marshalled thus with base intent 
 That he in scorn might go before, 
 And, holding up this monument. 
 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 
 Inspi'ing universal awe. 
 He took it from the Soldier's hand ; 
 And all the people that were 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 
 This insult, and the Banner saved. 
 
166 
 
 THS WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 That moment, from among the tide 
 
 Of the spectators occupied 
 
 In admiration or dismay, 
 
 Bore unobserved 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 woeful neighbourhood, 
 He told ; and ofteniimee with voice 
 Of power to comfort or rejoice ; 
 For deepest sorrows that aspire, 
 Go high, no transport ever higher. 
 " Yet, yet in this affliction," said 
 The old Man to the silent Maid, 
 "Yet, Lady! heaven is good— the night 
 Shews yet a Star which is most 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, 
 Thmigh without one uplifted look. 
 To Rylstonehall her way she took.— 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 Why comes not Francis ?— Joyful cheer 
 
 In that parental gratulaiion, 
 
 And glow of righteous indignation, 
 
 Went with him from the doleful City: 
 
 He fled — yet in his flight could hear 
 
 The death-sound of the Minster-bell ; 
 
 That sullen stroke pronounced farewell 
 
 To Marmaduke, cut off" from pity ! 
 
 To Ambrose that! and then a knell 
 
 For liim, the sweet half-opened Flower ! 
 
 For all-r-all dying in one hour! 
 
 — Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love 
 
 Should bear him to his Sister dear 
 
 With motion fleet as a winged Dove ; 
 
 Yea, like a heavenly Messenger, 
 
 An Angel-guest, should he appear. 
 
 Why comes he not 1 — for westward fast 
 
 Along the plain of York he past ; 
 
 The Banner-staff was in his hand, 
 
 The Imagery concealed from sight, 
 
 And cross the expanse, in open flight, 
 
 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 deac^ 
 
 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, — 
 
 It 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 any where, a right 
 To excuse him in his Country's eight? 
 No, will not all Men deem the change 
 A downward course, perverse and strange ? 
 Here is it, — but bow, when ? must she, 
 The unofl'ending Emily, 
 Again this piteous object see ? 
 
 Such conflict long did he maintain 
 Within himself, and found no rest ; 
 Calm liberty he could not gain ; 
 And yet the service was unblest. 
 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 intelligibly shown, 
 Finds he the banner in his hand, 
 Without a thought to such intent, 
 Or conscious etfort of his own ; 
 And no obstruction to prevent. 
 His father's wish, and last command ! 
 And, thus beset, he heaved a sigh ; 
 Remembering his own prophecy 
 Of utter desolation, made 
 To Enjily in the yew-tree shade : 
 He sighed, submitting to the power, 
 The might of that prophetic 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, on the second day. 
 He reached 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. 
 — 'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band 
 They come, by cruel Sussex sent : 
 Who, when the Nortons from the hand 
 Of Death bad drunk their punishment, 
 Bethought him, angry and ashamed. 
 How Francis had the Banner claimed, 
 And with that charge had disappeared; 
 By all the standers-by revered. 
 His whole bold carriage (which had quelled 
 TJms far ihe Opposer, and repelled 
 All censure, enterprise so bright 
 That even bad men had vainly striven 
 Against thai overcomming 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, 
 Behold the Ensign in his hand I 
 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 iso Traitor," Francis said, 
 •' Though this unhappy freight I bear; 
 It weakens me, my heart hath bled 
 Till it is weak— but you, beware. 
 Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong, 
 Whose self-reproaches are too strong !" 
 At this he fn«ra the beaten road 
 Retreated tow'rds a brake of thorn, 
 Which 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 with his eyes he watched 
 Their motions, turning round and round :— 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE, 
 
 167 
 
 His weaker hand the Banner held ; 
 
 And straight, by savage zeal impelled, 
 
 Forth rushed a Pikeman, as if he, 
 
 Not without harsh indif^nify, 
 
 Would seize the same : — instinctively— 
 
 To smite the Offender — with his lauce 
 
 Did Francis from the brake advance ; 
 
 But, from behind, a treacherous wound 
 
 Unfeeling, brought him to the ground, 
 
 A mortal stroke : — oh grief to tell ! 
 
 Thus, thus, the noble Francis fell : 
 
 There did he lie of breath forsaken ; 
 
 The Banner from his grasp was taken, 
 
 And borne exulting'y away ; 
 
 And the body was left on the ground where it lay. 
 
 Two days, as many nights, he slept 
 Alone, unnoticed, and unwept ; 
 For at that time distress and fear 
 Possessed Jhe Country far and near; 
 The third day, One, who chanced to pass, 
 Beheld him sBtretched upon the grass. 
 A gentle Forppter was he. 
 And of the Norton Tenantry; 
 And he had heard that by a Train 
 Of Horsemen Frnncis had been slain. 
 Much was he troubled — for the Man 
 Hath recognised his pallid face ; 
 And to the nearest Huts he ran. 
 And called the People to the place. 
 — How desolate is Rylstone-hall T 
 Such was the instant thought of all ; 
 And if the lonely Lady there 
 Should be, this sight she cannot bear ! 
 Such thought the Forester expressed ; 
 And all were swayed, and deemed it best 
 That, if the Priest should yield assent 
 And join himself to their intent. 
 Then, they, for Christian pity's sake, 
 In holy ground a grave would make 
 That straightway buried he should be 
 In the Church-yard 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 neighbourhood 
 Of kindred for him in that ground : 
 So to the ChuTch-yard they are bound, 
 Bearing the Body on a bier 
 In decency and humble cheer ; 
 And psalms are sung with holy sound. 
 
 But Emily hath raised her head. 
 And is again disquieted ; 
 She must behold!— so many gone, 
 Where is the solitary One 1 
 And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped Bhe,— 
 To seek her Brother forth she went, 
 And tremblingly her course she bent 
 Tow'rd 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 breast 
 Upon the ground received the rest, — 
 The consummation, the whole ruth 
 And sorrow of this final truth ! 
 
 CANTO SEVENTH. 
 
 Thou Spirit, whose angelic hand 
 Was to the Harp a strong command, 
 
 Called the submiesive strings to wake 
 
 In glory for this Maiden's sake, 
 
 Say, S|»irit ! vi'hither hath she fled 
 
 To hide l:er poor afflicted head 1 
 
 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 1 
 
 Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds 
 
 Its perilous front in mists and clouds 1 
 
 High-climbing rork— low sunless dale — 
 
 Sea — desert — what do these avail 1 
 
 Oh take her anguish and her fears 
 
 Into a deep recess of years! 
 
 'Tis done ; — despoil and desolation 
 O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown ;*" 
 The walks and pools neglect hath sown 
 With weeds ; the bowers are overthrown, 
 Or have given way to slow mutation. 
 While, in their ancient habitation 
 The Norton nnme hath been unknown. 
 The lordly Mansion of its pride 
 Is stripped ; the ravage hath spread wide 
 Through park and field, a perishing 
 That niocks the gladness of the Spring t 
 And with this silent gloom agreeing 
 There is 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 ; 
 There seated, may this Maid be seen,- 
 Anung the ruins of a wood, 
 Erewhile a covert bright and green, 
 And where full many a brave Tree stood: 
 That used to spread its boiighs, 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 
 To the subjection of a holy. 
 Though stern and rigorous, melancholy I 
 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 
 
 * " After the attainder of Richard Norton, his es- 
 tates 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 sur- 
 vey made at that time, several particulars have been 
 extracted by Dr. W. It appears that the mansion- 
 house was then in decay. Immediately adjoining is a 
 close, called tne Vivery, so called, undoubtedly, from 
 the French Vivier, or modern Latin Vivarium ; for 
 there are near the house large remains of a pleasure- 
 ground, such as wore introduced in the earlier part of 
 Elizabeth's time, with tojiiary works, fish-ponds, an 
 island, &c. 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 Tem- 
 pest. The wood, it seems, had been abandoned to de- 
 predations, before which time it appears that the neigh- 
 bourhood must have exhibited a forest-like and sylvan 
 scene, fn this survey, among the old tenants, is men- 
 tioned one Richard Kitchen, butler to Mr. Norton, who 
 rose in rebellion with his master, and was executed at 
 RipoQ. 
 
168 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONEi. 
 
 (A vest with woollen cincture tied, 
 A hood of mountain-wool undyed) 
 Is homely, — fashioned to express 
 A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness. 
 
 And she hath wandered, long and far, 
 Beneath the lijjht of sun and star ; 
 Hath roamed in trouble and in prief^ 
 Driven forward like a withered leafy 
 Yea like a Ship at random blown 
 To distant places and unknown. 
 But now she dares to seek a haven 
 Ajnonp 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 shti is thoroughly forlorn ; 
 tier soul doth in itself .ctand fast, 
 Sustained by memory of the past 
 And strenglh of Reason ; held above 
 The infirmities of mortal love; 
 Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable, 
 And awfully impenetrable. 
 
 And so— heneath 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 biith 
 Haih 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 I 
 For, of that band of rushing Deer, 
 A single One in mid career 
 Hath stopped, and fixed his 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 ; 
 A little thoughtful pause it made; 
 And then advanced with stealth-like pace, 
 Drew softly near her — and more near 
 Stopped once again ; — but, as no trace 
 Was found of any thing to fear, 
 Even 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 ; 
 II is, thought Emily, the same, 
 The very Doe of other years ! 
 The pleading look the Lady viewed, 
 And, by hor gushitig 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 choicest care, 
 This was for you a precious greeting, 
 For both a bounteous, fruitful meeting. 
 Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe 
 Can she depart 1 can she forego. 
 The Lady, once her playful Peer, 
 And now her sainted Mistress dear T 
 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 take this gift of Heaven with grace r 
 
 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 the 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 was there in sight. 
 She shrunk:— with one frail shock of pain^ 
 Received and followed by a prayer 
 Did she behold— saw once again; 
 Shun will she not, she feels, will bear ;-- 
 But, wheresoever she looked round. 
 All now was trouble-haunted ground. 
 So doth the sufferer deetn it good 
 Even once again this neighbourhood 
 To leave.— Unwoo'd, 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 tha:t lies 
 In her silent Follower's eyes ! 
 Who with a power like human Reason 
 Discerns the favourable 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 kindly intercourse ensue. 
 — Oh ! surely 'twas 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 an azure sky. 
 — What now is left for pain or fear % 
 That Presence, dearer and more dear, 
 Did now a very gladness yield 
 At morning to the dewy field, 
 While they, side by side, were straying, 
 And the Shepherd's pipe was playing ; 
 
 * " At thp extremity of the parish of Bnrnsal, 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, hut 
 more anciently and properly, Amerdale. Dern-broolJ, 
 which runs alonjr an obscure valley from the N. W.,- 
 is derived from a Teutonic word, signifying conceal- 
 ment." — T>r. Whitaker, 
 
THfi WHITE BOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 163 
 
 And with a deeper peace endued 
 The hour of moonlight solitude. 
 
 With her Companion, in such frame 
 Df mind, to Rylstone hack she came ; 
 And, wandering through the wasted groves, 
 Received the memory of old Loves, 
 Undisturbed and undistrest, 
 into a s(Mil which nor^ was bleat 
 With a soft spring-day of holy, 
 Mild, delici'^us, melancholy : 
 Not sunless gloom or unenlightened, 
 But by tender fancies brightened. 
 
 When the ''ells of Rylstone played 
 Their Salibath music — " God us ayds !"♦ 
 That was the sound they seemed to speak ! 
 Inscriptive legend which [ ween 
 May on those holy Bells be seen. 
 That legend and her Grandsire's name ; 
 And oftentimes the Lady meek 
 Had in lier Childhood read the same, 
 Words which she slis:hred at that day; 
 But now, when such sad change was wrought. 
 And of that lonely name she thought. 
 The Bells of Rylstone seemtd to say 
 While she sate listening in the shadej 
 With vocal music, *' God cs aydk ;"' 
 And all tlie Hills were glad to bear 
 Their part in this effectual prayer. 
 
 Nor lacked She Reason's firmest povv'er ; 
 But with the White Doe at her si-le 
 Up doth she climb to Norton Tower, 
 And thence looks round her far and wide; 
 Her fate there measures, — all is stilled, — 
 The Feeble hath subdued her heart; 
 Behiild the prophecy fulfilled, 
 Fulfilied, ".nd .sho sustains her part ! 
 But here her Brother's words have failed ; 
 Here haih a milder doom prevailed; 
 That she, of him and all bereft, 
 Haih yet this faiihful Partner left; 
 This single Creature tliBt 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 
 Fur this her last and living Friend. 
 
 Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot, 
 And bless for both this savage spot I 
 Which Emily doth sarred hold 
 For reasons dear and manifold — 
 Here hath she, here before her sight, 
 Close to thfi summit of this height, 
 The grassy rock-encircled Poundf 
 In which the Creature first was found. 
 
 * On one of the bells of Rylstone church, which seems 
 coeval with the bui:ding of the tower, is this cypher, 
 J. N. for John Norton, and the motto, '' God us ayde." 
 
 1 Which is thus described by Dr Whitaker .— " On 
 the plain summit of the hill ar(> the foundati'.ns of a 
 strong wall stretching from the S. W. to the N. E. 
 corner of the tower, and to the edse of a very deep 
 glen. From this glen, a ditch, several hundred yards 
 long, runs sou'li ro another deep and rushed ravine. 
 Oil the X. ami W. where th*; banks are very steep, no 
 wall or mnimd is discoverable, paling being the only 
 fenre that cmi'd stand on such wroutjd. 
 
 '"From the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, it ap- 
 pears that such pounds for deer, sheep. &:c. were far 
 from being uncommon in the south ftf Scotland. The 
 principle of them was somefhino: like that of a wire 
 nrnuse-trno. f)\\ the declivity ol" a steep hill, ihe boi- 
 lom and sides of which were ("ence<l so as to l)e impass 
 altle, a wail was constructed ne.irly level wiih the snr 
 face on the outside, yet so high within, that witho\it 
 ^'ingsit was impossible to escape J n the opposite di- 
 5» 
 
 So beautiful the spotless Thiall 
 
 (A lovely Youngling white as foam) 
 
 That it was brought to Rylstone-hall : 
 
 Her youngest Brother led it home, 
 
 The youngest, tlien a lusty Boy, 
 
 Brought home the prize— and with w'hat joy ! 
 
 But most to Bolton's sacred Pile, 
 On favouring nights, she loved to go: 
 There ranged through cloicter, court, and aisle, 
 Attended by the soft-paced Doe; 
 Nor feared stie in the still moonshine 
 To look upon Saint xMary's shrine ; 
 Nor on the lonely turf thai showed 
 Where Francis slept in his Ir.st abode. 
 For that she came;. there oft and long 
 Siie sate in mcditaiion strong : 
 And, when slie from the abyss returned 
 Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned; 
 Was hapf y that she lived to greet 
 Her mute Companion as it lay 
 In love and piiy at her feet ; 
 How happy in its turn to meet 
 That 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 I 
 
 A mortal Song we frams, 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 wing 
 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 ! 
 From fair to fairer ; day by day 
 A more divine and loftier way ! 
 Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod,- 
 By sorrow lifted tow'rds 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 inwa.-dly she bore, 
 And stood apart from hjman cares r- 
 But to the world returned no more', 
 Althou^ih with no unwilling mind 
 Help did she give at need-, and joined 
 The VV'harfdale Peasants in their prayerd, 
 At length, thus fainrly, faintly lied 
 To earth, she was set free, and died. 
 
 rection. Care was probably taken that these enclosures' 
 shonid contain better feed than the neinhbonring parka 
 or forests; and whoever i^i acqnninfed with the habits 
 f)f these sequacious animais, wi.i ensiU c()nceive, that 
 if ih^ Is:ider was one templed to descend into the 
 snare, an herd would follow." 
 
 I cannot conclude without recommending to the no- 
 tice of all lovers of beaniii'nl scenery — Bolton Abbey 
 I and its neisrhbourhooJ. This enrliannng sp.it belongs 
 j to the Duke of Devonshire; and tlie snperintendrT.ee 
 I of it has tor souje years been entrusted to the Rev. 
 ' William Carr, who has nio^-t skilinlly opened out its 
 j 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. 
 
170 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 Thy soul, exalted Emily, 
 
 Maid of the blasted family, 
 
 Rose to the God frosii whom it came ! 
 
 — In Ilylstone Cliurch her mortal frame 
 
 Was buried by her Mother's side. 
 
 Most glorious sunset! and a ray 
 Survives — the twilight of this day — 
 In tiiat fair Creature whom the fields 
 Support, and whom the forest shields ; 
 Who, having filled a holy |)Iace, 
 Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace ; 
 And bears a memory and a mind 
 Raised far above the law of kind ; 
 Ilnunfing the spots wiih lonely cheer 
 Which her dear Mistress once held dear : 
 Tioves most what Emily loved most — 
 The enclosure ot this Church-yard ground; 
 Hero wanders like a gliding Ghost, 
 And every Sabbath here is found ; 
 Comes with the People when the Bells 
 Are iicnrd among the moorland dells. 
 Finds entrance through yon arch, where way 
 liies open on the Sabbnth 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 foft'y, or makes halt, 
 By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault, 
 By plate of monumental brass 
 Diuj-gleaniing among weeds and grass, 
 And sculptured Forms of Warriors bravt ; 
 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 tlieir benignity approved! 
 And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile; 
 Subdued by outrage and decay. 
 Looks down upon her with a smile, 
 A gracious smile, that seeu)s to say, 
 "Thou, thou art not a Child of Time^, 
 But Daughter of the Eternal Prime !" 
 
 The Poem of the White Doe of Rylstone is found- 
 ed on a local tradition, and on the Ballad in Percy's 
 Collection, entitled, "The Rising of the North.' The 
 tradition is as follows : — " About this time," not long 
 after the Dissolution, '' a White Doe, say the aged 
 people of the neighbourhood, long continued to make 
 a weekly pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells o: 
 Bolton, and was constantly found in the Abbey Church 
 yard during divine service ; after the close of which 
 she returned home as regularly as the rest of the con 
 gregation." — Dr. Wiiitakhr's History of the Dean- 
 ery of Craven. — Ryletone was the property and re- 
 sidence of the Nortons, distinguished in that ill-ad 
 vised and unfortuuate luHurrection , which led me to 
 
 connect with this tradition the principal cfrcumsfan- 
 ces of their fate as recorded in the Ballad. 
 
 " Bolton Priory," says Dr. Whitaker in Jiis excel- 
 lent book. The History and Antiquities of the Dean- 
 ery of Craven, " stands upon a beautiful curvature 
 of the Wharf, on a level sufficiently elevated to pro- 
 tect it from inundations, and low enough for every 
 purpose of picturesque eflTect. 
 
 "Opposite to the East window of the Priory Church 
 the river washes the foot of a rock neftrly perpendi- 
 cular, and of the richest purple, where several of the 
 mineral beds, which break out, instead of maintain- 
 ing their usual inclination to the horizon, are twist- 
 •^d by some inconceivable process into undulating and 
 spiral lines. To the South all is soft and delfrious. 
 'he eye reposes upon a few rich pastures, a mode- 
 rate reach of the river, sufficient'y tranquil to form a 
 mirror to the sun, and the bounding hills bevond, nei- 
 ther too near nor too lofty to exclude, even in win- 
 ter, any portion of his rays. 
 
 " But after all, the glories of Bolton ore on the 
 Nortfi. Whatever the most fastidious taste could re. 
 quire to constitute a perfect landscape is not only 
 found here, but in its proper place. In front, and 
 immndiaiely under the eye, is a smooth expanse of 
 park-like enclosure, spotted with native elm, ash, &C' 
 of the finest growth : on the rijht a skirting oak 
 wood, with jutting points of grey rock ; on the Ifft 
 a rising cop?e. 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 clo- 
 ses, and either side of the Wharf is overhung hy so- 
 lemn wood=<, from which huge perpendicular masses 
 of grey rock jut out at intervals. 
 " " This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible 
 till of late, that ridincs have been cut on both sides 
 of the River, and the most interesJi)>g points laid 
 open by judicious thinnings in the words. Here a 
 tribntarj' stream rushes from a waterfall, and hursts 
 through a woody glen to mingle its waters with the 
 Wharf : there the Wharf itself is nearly lost in t 
 deep cleft in the rock, and next becomes a horned 
 flood enclosing a woody island — sometimes it repo- 
 ses for a moment, and then resumes its native cha- 
 racter, lively, irregular, and impetuous. 
 
 " The cleft mentioned above is the tremendous 
 Strid. This chasm, being incapable of receiving the 
 winter floods, has formed on either side, a broad 
 strand of naked grit-stone full of rock-basins, or 'pots 
 of the Linu,' which bear witness to the restless im- 
 petuosity of so many Northern torrents. But, if here 
 Wharf is lost to the eye, it amply repays another 
 sense by its de<p 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 landscape is the 
 remains of Barden ower, interesting from their form 
 and situation, and stiil more 80 from the recoUectiona 
 which they ©xciie." 
 
171 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES, IN A SERIES OF SONNETS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 FROM THB INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTIANITY INTO 
 BRITAIN, TO THE CONSUMMATION Of THE PAPAL 
 DOMINION. 
 
 *' A verse may catch a wandering Soul, that flias 
 Profounder Tracts, and by a blest surprise 
 Convert delight into a Sacrifice," 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 During the month of December, 1820, T accompanied 
 a much-loved and honoured Friend in a walk throuph 
 different parts of his Estate, with a view to fix upon 
 the Site of a New Church which he intended to erect. 
 It was one of the most beautiful mornings of a mild 
 season, — our feelings were in harmony with the che- 
 rishing influences of the scene ; and, such being our 
 purpose, we were naturally led to look bade 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 agitated in Par- 
 liament 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 advan- 
 tageously be presented to view in Verse. Accordingly 
 I took up the subject, and what I now offer to the 
 Reader was the result. 
 
 Wh"n this work was far advanced, I was agreeably 
 surprised to find that my '^'riend, Mr. Southey, was 
 engaged, wit'i similar views, in writing a concise 
 History of the Church in England. If our Produc- 
 tions, thus unintentionally coinciding, shall be found 
 to illustrate each other, it will prove a high gratifica- 
 tion to me, which 1 am sure my Friend will parti- 
 cipate. 
 
 W. WORDSWORTH, 
 
 Rydal Mount, 
 January 24. 1822. 
 
 For the convenience of passing from one point of the 
 suJjct to another without shocks of abriiptvess, this 
 work has taken the shape of a series of Sonnets : but the 
 ReadF.r^ it is hoped, will find that the pictures are often 
 so closphj connected as to have jointly the effect of pas- 
 sages of a poem in a form of stanza to which there is 
 no objection but one that bears upon the Poet only — its 
 difficulty. 
 
 ECCLESCASTrCAL SKETCHES. 
 
 PART T. 
 T. — introduction. 
 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 bo(»n nature's grace; 
 I, who essayed the nobler Stream to trace 
 Of Liberty, and smote the plausive string 
 Till the checked Torrent, proudly triumphing, 
 Won for herself a lasiing resting-place: 
 Now seek upon the heights of Time the source 
 Of a Holy Ri.er, on whose banks are found 
 Swept pastoral flowers, and laurels that have crowned 
 Full ofi the unworthy brow of lawless lorce ; 
 Where, for delight of him who tracks its course 
 Immortal amaranth and palina abound. 
 
 I[. — 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 through the West, 
 
 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 an Angel's voice unbarred? 
 
 (^r some of humbler name, to these wild shores 
 
 Storm-driven, who having seen the cuo of woe 
 
 Pass from their Master, sojourned i(3re to guard 
 
 The precious Current they had taught to flow 1 
 
 III. — TREPIDATION OF THE DRUIDS. 
 
 Screams round the Arch-druid's brow the Seamewt— 
 
 white 
 As Menai's foam : and tow'rd the mys'ic ring 
 Where Augurs stand the future questioning. 
 Slowly the Cormorant a'ms her heavy flight, 
 Portending ruin to each baleful rite, 
 That, in the lapse of ages, hath crept o'er 
 Diluvian truths, and patriarchal lore. 
 Haughty the Bard ; — can these meek doctrines blight 
 His transports? wither 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. 
 
 IV. — 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 V/isdom flowed, 
 Justice, and Order. Tremblingly escaped, 
 As if with prescience of the coming storm. 
 That iniimation when the stars were shaped ; 
 And still, 'inid yon thick woods, the primal truth 
 Glimmers through many a superstitious form 
 That fills the Soul with unavailing ruth. 
 
 V. — UNCERTAINTY. 
 
 Darkness surrounds us; seeking we are lost 
 On Snowdon's wilds, amid Brigantian coves, 
 Or where the solitary Shepherd roves 
 Along the Plain ofSarum, by the Ghost 
 Of Time and Shadows of Tradition, crost ; 
 And where the boatman of the Western Isles 
 Slackens his cou'se — to mark those holy piles 
 
 *Srii.LiNOFLKKT adducGS many arguments i support 
 of this opinion, but they are unconvincing. The latter 
 part of this Sonnet refers to a favourite notion of Ca- 
 tholic Writers, that Joseph of Arimathea ano his com- 
 panions brought Christianity into Britain, and bnilt a 
 rude Church at Glastonbury ; alluded to hereafter, in a 
 passaze upon the dissoluiion of Monasteri.'r^s. 
 
 tThis wa*er-fowl was, among the Druids, an em- 
 blem of those traditions connected with the deluge that 
 made an impoitant part of their mysteries. Tiie Cor- 
 morant was a bird of bad oraen. 
 
in 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHliS. 
 
 Which yet survive on bleak tona's coast. 
 Nor tliese, nor monuments of eldest fame, 
 Nor Taliesiin's unforgotten lays, 
 Nor characlers of Greek or Roman fame, 
 To an unquestionable Source have ted ; 
 Enough— if eyes that sought the fountain-head, 
 lu vain, upou the growing Rill may gaze. 
 
 VI. — PERSECUTION. 
 
 LA.MENT ! for Dioclesian's fiery sword 
 Works busy as the lightning : but instinct 
 With malice ne'er to deadliest weapon linked, 
 Which God's ethereal store-housea afford : 
 Against the Followers of the incarnate Lord 
 It races ; — t?ome ar(^ sniiMen in the field — 
 Some pierced beneath the Ineffectual shield 
 Of sacred home; — with pomp are others gored 
 And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban tried, 
 England's first Martyr, whon* no threats coukl shake 
 Self-ofiered Victim, for his friend he died. 
 And for the faith — nor shall his name forsake 
 That Ilil!*, whose flowery platform seems to rise 
 By Nature decked for holiest sacrifice. 
 
 VII. — RECOVERY. 
 
 As, when a storm hath ceaft.d, 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-coni-tructed fane, 
 
 Have the Survivors of this Storm renewed 
 
 Their holy rites with vocal gratitude : 
 
 And sohmn ceremonials they ordain 
 
 To celebrate their great deliverance; 
 
 ?.Inst feelingly instructed 'mid their fear. 
 
 That persecution, blijid with rage extreme, 
 
 IMay not the less, through Heaven's mild countenance 
 
 Even in her own despite, both f(jed and cheer : 
 
 For all things are less dreadful than they seem. 
 
 VIII. — TEMPTATIONS FROM ROMAN REFINEMENTS. 
 
 Watch, and be firm ! for soul-subdning vice, 
 
 Heart-killing luxuiy, on your steps awnit. 
 
 Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate, 
 
 And temples flashing, bright as polar ice, 
 
 Their radiance through the woods, may yet sufiice 
 
 To sap your hardy virtue, and ahate 
 
 Your love of Kim upon whose forehead sate 
 
 The crown of thorns; wliose life-blood flowed, the price. 
 
 Of your redemption. Shun the insiduous arts 
 
 That Rome provide?, Ite? dreading from her frown 
 
 Than fiom her wi.'y praise, her peaceful gown, 
 
 Language, and letler.s ; — the.-e, though loudly viewed 
 
 As humanizing graces, are but parts 
 
 And instruments of deadliest servitude I 
 
 IX. — 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 
 
 * This hill at St. A Ihati's must have been an object of 
 great inter' st lo the imajrinanon of the venerable 
 Bede, who thus de.-crihes ir, with a delicate feeling, 
 delightful to meet with in that ntdo. ace, traces of which 
 are frequent in hi^; works : — " Variis herbarum flori- 
 bus depictus inib iipqurqnaque vestifus, in quo nihil 
 repente arduuiu, nihil p;a,'ceps, nihil abruptuni quern 
 lateribus longe lateque deductum in niodum a-quoris 
 Ziatura complanat, dignum videlicet eum pro insi.asibi 
 Fpecic venusiatis jam olim reddens, qui beafi marlyris 
 pjore dicarctur." 
 
 Uplifting tow'rd high Heaven her fiery brand, 
 A cherished Priestess of the new-baptized ? 
 But chastisement shall follow peace despised. 
 The Pictish cloud darkens the enervate land 
 By Rome abandoned; vain are suppliant cries. 
 And prayers that would undo her forced farewellj 
 For she returns not.— Awed by her own knell, 
 She casts the Britons upon strange Allien, 
 Soon to become more dreaded enemies 
 Than heartless misery called them to repel. 
 
 X. 
 
 STRUGGLE OF THE BRITONS AGAINST THE BARBARIANS, 
 
 Rise ! — they have risen : of brave Aneurin ask 
 
 How they have scourged old foes, perfidious friends: 
 
 The spirit of Caractacus defends 
 
 The Patriots, animates their glorious task ;— 
 
 Amazernent 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 ba.^k 
 
 The Host that followed Urien as he str )de 
 
 O'er heaps of slain ;— from Cambrian wood and moss 
 
 Druids descend, auxiliars of the Cro.^s ; 
 
 Bards, nursed on blue Plinlimmon's still abode. 
 
 Rush on the fight, to harps preferring swords^ 
 
 And everlasting deeds to burning words ! 
 
 XI. — 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 I whose tears have flowed like foun- 
 tains : 
 Whose arts and honours in the dust are laid, 
 By men j'et scarcely conscious fif a care 
 For other monuments than those of Earth :t 
 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. 
 
 XII. — MONASTERY OF OLD BANGOR-t 
 
 The oppression of the tuvndt — jcrath and scorn — 
 The tribuIcLiion — and the gleamivg blades — 
 Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades 
 
 * Alluding to the victory gained under Gerraanus.— 
 See Bede. 
 
 t 'J'he last six- lines of this Sonnet are chiefly from 
 the prose of Daniel : and here I will state (though 
 lo the Readers whom this Poem will chiefly interest 
 if is unnecessaryj that my obligations to oiher Prose 
 Writers are freqiient,— obligations which, even ill had 
 not a pleasure in courting, it would have been pre- 
 sum.-iuous to shun, in treating an historical subject. I 
 must, however particularise Fuller, to wliom 1 am in- 
 debted iti the Sonnet upon Wic litre and in other in- 
 fiiances. And iipon the acquittal of the Si.-veu Bish- 
 ops I have done little more than versity a lively de- 
 sci iption of that event in the Memoirs of the first Lord 
 Lonsdale. 
 
 f "Ethelforih reached the convent of Eanjror, he 
 perceived the Monks, twelve hundied in number, of- 
 fering prayers for the success (»f' their countrymen: 
 ' if they are praying agaipsl us,' he exclaimed, ' they 
 are fighting against us ;' and he ordered them to be 
 first atiacked : they were destroyed ; and, -appalled by 
 their fate, the couiafje of Brocmail wavered, and he 
 fled from the field in dismay. Thus abandoned by 
 their leadei, his army soon gave way, and EihelfortQ 
 obtained a decisive conquest. Ancient Bangor itself 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 173 
 
 l^he song of Taliesin* ; — Oura shall mourn 
 
 The unarmed Host who by their prnyers would turn 
 
 The sword from Bangor's wails, and guard the store 
 
 Of Aborigi'ial and Roman lore, 
 
 And Christian monuments, that now must burn 
 
 To senseless ashes. Mark I how all things swerve 
 
 From their known course, or vanish like a dream 
 
 Another language spread* 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 ! 
 
 XIU. — CASUAL INCITEMENT. 
 
 A BRIGHT-HAIRED compauv of youthful Slaves, 
 
 Benutiful Strangers, stand within the Pale 
 
 Of a sad market, ranged for public pale, 
 
 Where Tiber's stream the immortal City laves : 
 
 A>GLi by name ; and not an Angel wnvrs 
 
 His wing who seemeth lovelier in Heaven's eye 
 
 Than they appear to holy Greirory; 
 
 Wlio, havinsr learnt that nnm^, salvation craves 
 
 For Them, and for their L:ind. The earnest Sire, 
 
 His questions urging, feels in slender ties 
 
 Of chiming sound commanding sympathies ; 
 
 De ipians — ' e would save them from (rod's Ire •; 
 
 Siibjerts of Saxon ^Ella — thev shall sing 
 
 Glad HALLElujahs to the eternal King ! 
 
 XIV. — GLAD TIDING3. 
 
 For ever hallowed be this mornins: fair, 
 
 Blest bp the uncoji-cious shore on which ve tread 
 
 And blest the si'vnr C^ross, which ye, instead 
 
 Of mnrfinl banner, in procpppioti bear; 
 
 The Cross preceding Him ^vho floats in air, 
 
 The ])icfured Snviour ! — By Augnstin led. 
 
 They come — and onward travel without dread, 
 
 Chantin? in bmbarous pars a tuneful prayer, 
 
 Sunn for themselvps, and those whom thfv would free! 
 
 Rich conquest waits them : — the temppstu us sea 
 
 Qf Ignorance, that ran so rotjglj and hiffh. 
 
 And heeded not the voice of ' lasbinir swords, 
 
 TliPPP irood men humb'e bv a few bare words, 
 
 And calm with fear of God's divinity. 
 
 XV. — P.\ULIMUS.t 
 
 But, to remote Northumbria's royal Hall, 
 
 Where thoughtful Edwin, tutored in the school 
 
 or Sorrow, still m linrnins a heathen rule, 
 
 Who comes witli funcMons apostolical 1 
 
 Mark him, of shoulders curved, and stature tall, 
 
 Black hair, and vivid eye, and meagre cheek, 
 
 His pi-nminent feature like an eagle's beak: 
 
 A Man whose aspect doth at fince nppal 
 
 And strike with reverence. The Monarch leans 
 
 Tnw'id the ptjre truths this Dele<iate propounds, 
 
 Repeatedly his own deep mind he soundg 
 
 flnnn fell into hi.s hands, and was demoli»,hed ; the 
 nnhle nionasiery was levelled to the ground ; its li- 
 braiy, vvhifh is mentirmed a.s a larje one, the collec- 
 tion oC ages, the repositMrv of the most precious m^in- 
 uniPiits of the ancient R-itons. was cousumed : half- 
 riiiriefl walls, gates, ajid rubbish, were all Miat re- 
 mninerl of (his magnificent edifire." — See Turner's 
 va'nnble History oT the Anglo Saxons. 
 
 The acrDiirit Rede gives of thi^; remarkabtp event, 
 sii?L'f's*s a most stdking warning against National and 
 Reli'^i'ins prejudices. 
 
 *Tiliesiu was present at the battle which precpded 
 
 With careful hesitation,— then convenes 
 A synod of his Counsellors :— give ear, 
 And what a pensive Sage doth utter, hear ! 
 
 XVI. — PERSUASION. 
 
 " Man's life is like a Sparrow*, mighty King ! 
 
 " That, stealing in while by the fire you sit 
 
 " Housed with rejoicing Friends, is seen to flit 
 
 " Safe from the storm, in comfort tarrying. 
 
 " 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 fronj 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 coidiaily bestowed !" 
 
 XVII. — CONVERSION. 
 
 Prompt transformation works the novel Lore ; 
 
 The Council closed, the Priest in full career 
 
 Riiles forth, an armed man, and hurls a spear 
 
 To desecrate the Fane which heretofore 
 
 He served in folly. — Woden falls — and Thor 
 
 fs overturned ; the mace, in battle heaved 
 
 (So might they dream) till victory was achieved, 
 
 Diops, and thv? God liimself is seen no more. 
 
 Temple and Altar sink, to hide their shame 
 
 Amid oblivious weeds. " O come to me, 
 
 " Ye heavy ladsn .'" such the inviting voice 
 
 Heard near fresh streams!, — and thousaiuls, who rejoice. 
 
 In the new Rite — the [)!edge of sanctity, 
 
 Sliall, by regenerate life, the promise claim. 
 
 XVIII — APOLOGY. 
 
 NoR scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend 
 The Souls eternal interest to promote : 
 Death, darkness, danger, are our natural lot; 
 And evil Spirits may our walk attend 
 F^)r aught the wi.-est know or comprehend; 
 Then be good Spirits free to breathe a note 
 Of elevation : let their odours float 
 
 * See the original of this speech in Bede. — The Con- 
 version of Edwin, as related by him, is highly inter- 
 esting — and the breaking up of this Council accom- 
 panied with an event so striking and characteiisric, 
 tliat 1 am teuipted to give it at length in a trans'a- 
 tion. " Who, exclaimed the King, wlieri tiie ('ouncil 
 was ended, shall first desecrate the Altars and the 
 Temples? I, auj-wered the ('hief Priest; fr)r who 
 more til than myself, through the wisdom which the 
 true God hath given me, to destroy, for the good ex- 
 ample of others, what in foolishness I Wf)rshipped 1 
 Immediately, casting away vain superstiiion, he be- 
 sought the King to grant him, wnat the laws did 
 not allow to a Priest, arms and a courser (eqnnru 
 emissarium) ; which mounting, and furnished uiih a 
 sword and lance, he proceeded to desiroy the Idols. 
 The crowd, seeing this, thought him mad — he ]i(>vv- 
 ever halted not, but, appionchin}.', he p/ofaned the 
 1'entple, casting ai'ain.«^^t it the lance whidi he had 
 held in his hand, and, cxu'finj: in ackiiowled ment 
 of the worsliii) of the true Gorl, he ordered his com- 
 panions to pull down the Temple, wirh all its en- 
 closures. The place is sh'-wn where those idols form- 
 erly stood, not far from York, at the source of the 
 river Derweut, and is at this day called Gr)rniiind Ga- 
 ham, ubi poutifex ille, inspirantP Deo vero, polluit ac 
 destru.xit ea=, quas ip^e saciaverat aras." The last 
 expression is a pleasing [iroe.f that the venerable 
 Monk of Wearmouth was familiar with the poetry of 
 Vifi-il. 
 
 tThe early propanators of Cliri.«tinriity were accus- 
 tomed to preach near rivers, for the convenience of 
 baptism. 
 
174 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Around tlio=;o Convnrts ; a'rl Va?Ar "loriss blend, 
 OutshininG; ni2;htly tapprs, or the blaze 
 Of the nonn-flay. Nor doubt that golden cordg 
 Of good works, miuirlinj; with the visions, raise 
 The S )ul to purer worlds: and who the line 
 Shall draw, the limits of the p'^)wer define, 
 That even imperfect faith to Man affords 1 
 
 XTX — PRIMITIVE SA.XON CLSROY.* 
 
 How bea\jtiful your presence, how benijin. 
 
 Servants of God ! who not a thought will share 
 
 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 Prip«t, when service worthy of his care 
 
 Has called hitn forth to breathe the ronunon air, 
 
 Minht seem a snintly Image from its shrine 
 
 Descended : — happv :ire the eyes that meet 
 
 The Apparition; evil thoughts are stayed 
 
 At his approach, and low-bowed necks entreat 
 
 A hpr.ediotion from his voice or hnnd ; 
 
 Whence <irace,throuirh which the heartcan tinderstand; 
 
 And' vows, that bind the will, in silence made. 
 
 Thence creeping under forest arches cool, 
 Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage 
 Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl, 
 A maple dish, my furniture should be ; 
 Crisp, yellow leaves my bed ; the hooting Owl 
 My night-watch : nor should e'er the crested Fowl 
 From thorp or vill his matins sound for me, 
 Tired of the world and all its industry. 
 
 XX. — OTHER INFLUENCES. 
 
 Ah, when the Frame, round which in love we clung 
 Is chilled by death, does mutual service fail 1 
 Is tender pity tlien of no avail 1 
 Are intercessions of the fervent tongue 
 A wa=;te of hope ?— Frnnj 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 who?e doom is lived ! The way is smooth 
 For P(.wer that travels with the human heart: 
 ronfes?i<m niinistors, the pang to sdotlte 
 In him who at the ghost of guilt dwtli start. 
 Ye holy Men, so earnest in your care. 
 Of your own mighty instruments beware ! 
 
 XXI. — SECLUSION. 
 
 Lance, shield, and sword re'inquis'iod— at his side 
 
 A Bead-roll, in his hand a damped Book, 
 
 Or staff more ha-nVess than a S!)epherd's crook, 
 
 The war-worn Chieftain quits the world— to hide 
 
 His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide 
 
 In cloistered p ivacy. But not to dwell 
 
 In soft rppose he comes. WiMiin his cell, 
 
 Roun I the decaying trunk of human p;ide. 
 
 At morn, and eve, and niid-iight's silent hour, 
 
 lio penitenlial ccigirations c'ing: 
 
 Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine 
 
 In grisly folds and strictures serpentine ; 
 
 Yet, while they strangle without mercy, bring 
 
 For recompen:re their own perennial bower. 
 
 XXIII.— REPROOF. 
 
 But what if One, through grove or flowery 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 billows beat 
 
 On a wi d 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 !* 
 
 XXII. — CONTINUED. 
 
 Mkthinks that to some vacant Hermitage 
 My feft would rather turn— to some dry nook 
 Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook 
 Hurled down a mountaiii-cove from stage to stage. 
 Yet tempninfr, for mv siijht, its bustling rage 
 In the soft heaven of a translucent pool ; 
 
 * Having spoken of th(> zefil, di -interestedness, and 
 trtnpe ance of the cleriiy of those times, F?ede thus 
 proceeds : — " Ufide et in inaiT'ia cat ve'io -atione t«'ni- 
 pore iilo relivionis habi-ns, i»a nt ubif^u'iqne rU-rictis 
 a'iquis, aut rnotinchus adveni'et, gaudcittcr a") omni- 
 biK^ tanqnarn Mei famnliis exciporetur. E i:im si in 
 iiinere pe>gens inveni:etur, afcurreliant, et flexa cer- 
 vice, vel maim signari, vel ore illius se benedi'M, gau- 
 dehunt. Verbis quoque horum exhortaforiis diligenter 
 auditum preebebant."— Lib. iii. cap. 2C. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 SAXON monasteries, AND LIGHTS AND SHADES OF 
 the RELIGION. 
 
 By such examples moved to unbought pains. 
 The people work like congregated bees ;t 
 Eager to build the quiet Fortresses 
 Where Piety, as they believe, obtains 
 From Heaven a general blessing ; timely rains 
 Or needlul sunshine ; prosperous enterprise, 
 Justice and peace :— bold faiih ! yet also rif-e 
 The sacred Structures for less doubtful gains. 
 The Sensual think with reverence of the palms 
 Which the chaste Votaries seek, oeyond the grave; 
 If penance be redeemablef- thence alms 
 Flow to the Poor, and freedom to the Slave; 
 And if full oft the sanctuary save 
 Lives black with guilt, ferocity it calms. 
 
 XXV. — MISSIONS AND TRAVELS, 
 
 Not sedentary all: there are who roam 
 
 To scalier seeds of Life on batharous shores ; 
 
 Or quit with zealous step their knee-worn floors 
 
 To seek ihe 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 
 
 TiD^I, —their iumiortal Una? Babylon, 
 
 Learned ami wise, hath perished utterly, 
 
 Nor leaves her Speech one word to aid the sigh 
 
 That would lament her;— Memphis, Tyre, are gone 
 
 VViih all their Arts,— but classic Lore glides on 
 
 By these Religious saved for all posterity. 
 
 XXVI.— ALFRED. 
 
 Bkhold a Pupil of the Monkish gown, 
 The pious Alfred, King to Justice dear I 
 Lord of the harp and libera ing spear; 
 , Mirror of Primes ! Indigent Renown 
 
 * He expired dictating the last words of a translation 
 of S^- JohiiV Gospel. ,. thPac- 
 
 t See, in Turner's History, vol in. p. S^^-^V.^Mre* 
 count of the erection of Ran.sey Monastery. Penat ce» 
 were removeable by the performance of acts ol cuaruj 
 and benevolence. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCJIHS. 
 
 175 
 
 Might range the starry ether for a crown 
 Equal to liis deserts, who, like the year, 
 Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth cheer, 
 Aiid awes like iiiiiht with meicy-teinpered frown. 
 Ease from this noble Mitier of his liuie 
 No moment steals ; pain narrows not his cares.* 
 Though small his kingdom as a spark or gcin, 
 Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, 
 And Christain India, throuph her wide-spread clime, 
 In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares. 
 
 "That we the sweet song of the Monks may hear!'* 
 He listens (all past conquests and all schemes 
 Of future vanishinjr likt- empty dreams) 
 Heart-toucIiHd, and hnply no! wiihoul a tear. 
 The Royal Mins^irel, ere the choir is siiil, 
 While his free Darge skims the smooth flood along, 
 Gives to thai rapture an acc(»rdajit Rliyme.* 
 O suffering Earth ! be thankful ; sternest clime 
 And rudest age are subject to th(^ tin ill 
 Of heaven descended Piety and Song. 
 
 XXVIT. — HIS DESCENDANTS. 
 
 Can aught survive to linger in the veins 
 
 Of kindred bodis^s — an essential p^wer 
 
 That may not v;ini?h in one fatal hour, 
 
 And whpjly cast away terrestrial chains 1 
 
 The rnce of Alfred covet glorious pains 
 
 When dangers threaten, dangers ever new ! 
 
 Black TenipesTs bursting, blacker still in view ! 
 
 But maniy sovoreigny its hold retains; 
 
 The root sincere, the branches bo d to strive 
 
 Wiih the fierre tfnii)est, while, within the round 
 
 Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive ; 
 
 As oft, 'mid some gre'Mi plot of open ground. 
 
 Wide as the oak extends its dewy gloom. 
 
 The fostered hyacinths spread their purple bloom. 
 
 XXVIir. — INFLUENCE ABUSED. 
 
 [Jrged by Atnbition. who with subtlest -kill 
 
 Changes her means, the Enthusiast as a dupe 
 
 Shall soar, and as a hypocrite tan stoop, 
 
 And turn the ins'runients of good to ill, 
 
 Moulding the credulous Piop!e to his will. 
 
 Such DuNSTAN : — from its Benedictine coop 
 
 Issues the mas'er Mind, at whose fell swoop 
 
 The chaste affections tremble to fulfil 
 
 Their purposes. I'ehol.l, pre-siirnified. 
 
 The Might of s.iiritual sway ! his thoughts, his dreams 
 
 Do in the supernatural world abide : 
 
 So vaunt a throng of F(»llowers, filled with pride 
 
 In shows of virtue pushed to its extremes, 
 
 And sorceries of talent misapplied. 
 
 XXIX. — DANISH CONQUESTS. 
 
 Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey If 
 
 Dissension checks the arms that would restrain 
 
 The incessant Rovers of the Northern Main ; 
 
 And widely snreads once more 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 awa>. 
 
 Thus, often, when thick gloom the east o'ershrouds, 
 
 The full-orbed Moon, slow-climbing, doth appear 
 
 Silently to consume the heavy clouds; 
 
 How no one can resolve ; but every eye 
 
 Around her sees, wnile air is husJied, a clear 
 
 And widening circuit of ethereal sky. 
 
 XXXI. — THE NORMAN CONQUEST. 
 
 The woman-hearted Confessor prepares 
 
 The evaneircence of the Saxon line. 
 
 Flark ! 'tis the tolling Curiew I the stars shine, 
 
 li\i\ of the lights that cherish household cares 
 
 And festive gladnes?, burns not o)ie that dares 
 
 To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine. 
 
 Emblem and instrument, frouj Thames to Tyne, 
 
 of force that daunts, and cunning that ensnares! 
 
 Yet as the terrors of the loidly bell. 
 
 That quench, from hut to pa.'ace, lamps and tires. 
 
 Touch not the tapers of the sacred quires, 
 
 Even so a thraldnin studious to expel 
 
 0:d laws and ancient customs to derange, 
 
 Brings to Religion no injurious change^ 
 
 XXXir. — THE COUNCIL OF CLERMONT. 
 
 "And shall," the PontiflT asks, " pn.faneness flow 
 " Froni Nazareth — source of Christian Piety, 
 " From Bellilehenj, from the Mounts of Agony 
 " And glorified Ascension ? Warriors, go, 
 " With prayers and blessings we your path will sow ^ 
 " Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye 
 " Have chased tar off by righteous victory 
 "These sons of Amalec, or laid them low I"' 
 " Ggd willeth it," the whole assembly cry; 
 Shout which the enraptured multitude astounds r* 
 The Council-roof and Clermont's towers reply ; — 
 "God willeth it," from hill to hill rebounds, 
 And, in awe-stricken Countries far and nigh, 
 Through " Nature's hollow arch" the voice resounds. f 
 
 XXX.— CANUTE. 
 
 A PLEASANT music floats along the Mere, 
 
 Prom Monks in Ely chanting service high, 
 
 While as Cantite the King is rowing by : 
 
 " My Oarsmen," quoth the mighty King, " draw near, 
 
 * Through the whole of his life, Alfred was subject 
 to grievous maladies. 
 
 t The violent measures carried on under the influ- 
 ence of Dunstan, for strengthening the Benedictine 
 Order, were a leading cause of the second series of Da- 
 nish Invasions.— -See Turner. 
 
 XXXIir-^^CRUSADES. 
 
 The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms- 
 Along the VVest ; though driven from Aquitaine, 
 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 disdain ; 
 Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain 
 Their tents, and check the current of their arms. 
 Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever 
 Known to the moral v/orld, Imagination, 
 Upheave (so seems it) from her natural station 
 All Christendom : — they sweep along (was never 
 So huge a host!) — to trar from the Unbeliever 
 The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation. 
 
 XXXIV. — RICHARD 1. 
 
 Redoubted King, of courage leonine, 
 I mark thee, Richard ! urgent to equip 
 Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip ; 
 I watch thee sailing o'er the midland brine ; 
 In conquered Cyprus see thy Bride decline 
 Her blushing cheek, love-vows upon her lip, 
 
 * Which is still extant. 
 
 t The decision of this council whs believed to \t^ In- 
 stantly known in remote parts of Europe. 
 
176 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 And see Inve-emblems streaming from thy ship, 
 
 As thence she hold^ her way to Palestine. 
 
 My Song (a fearlesa floma^'er) would attend 
 
 'Thy thimderin,? h'aitle-axe as it cleaves the press 
 
 Of war, but duty summons her away 
 
 To tell— hf)W, finding!: in the rash distress 
 
 Of those enthusiast powers a constant Friend, 
 
 Througli giddier heigiiis haih clomb the Papal sway. 
 
 XXXV. — AN INTERDICT. 
 
 Realms qnakc hy turns: proud Arbitress of grace, 
 
 The Church, by mandate sha(h)wi!ig forth the power 
 
 Slie arrogates o'er heaven's eternal door. 
 
 Closes the gales 6f every sacred place. 
 
 Straiglit from the PiJn and tainied air's embrace 
 
 All sacred iliings are covered: clieerful morn 
 
 Grows sari as nijzht — no seemly garl) is worn. 
 
 Nor is a i'ncc allowed to meet a face 
 
 With natural smile of greoliiig. Bcdls are dumb; 
 
 Dilches are gravi-s — funereal rires denied ; 
 
 And ir\ ifit' Cinirchyard lie must take his Bride 
 
 Who dares hn wedded ! Fancies thickly come 
 
 Into_ the pen-ive heart ill foriilled, 
 
 And comfortless despairs the soul benumb. 
 
 XXXVI. — PAPAL ABUSES. 
 
 As with the Stream our voyage we pursuej 
 The gross materials of this world present 
 A marvellous study of wild accident; 
 Uncouth proximities of old and new ; 
 And hold transfiLniraiiijus, more untrue 
 (As might be deemed) to disciplined intent 
 Thnn aught the sky's fantastic element. 
 When most fantastic, offers to the view. 
 Saw we not Henry scourged at Becket's shrine ? 
 Lo I Jolin self-stripped of his insig lia : — crown, 
 Sceptre and mantle, sword and ring, laid dovvn 
 At a proud Legate's I'eet ! The spears that line 
 Baronial Halls, the opprobrious insult feel ; 
 And angry Ocean roars a vain appeal. 
 
 XXXVir. — SCENE IN VENICE. 
 
 Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head. 
 
 To Caisar's Successor the Pontiff spake ; 
 
 »' Ere r ai)solve thee, stoop I t'lat 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 ev^en the common dignity of man ! 
 
 Amazement strikes the crowd ; — while many turn 
 
 Their eyes away in sorrow, others burn 
 
 With scorn, invoking a viiuliclive ban 
 
 From outraged Nature ; but the sense of most 
 
 In abject syujpathy with power is lost. 
 
 XXXVHL— PAPAL DOMINION. 
 
 Unless to Peter's CI. air the viewless wind 
 Must come and ask permission when to blow. 
 What further empire would it have ? for now 
 A ghosti}' Domination, unconfined 
 As that by dreaming Bards to Love assigned, 
 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 !— crouch — rebuff 
 Shall be thy recompense ! froni land to land 
 The ancient thrones of Christendom are stuff 
 
 For occupation of a magic wand. 
 
 And 'tis the Pope that wields it : — whether rough 
 
 Or smooth his front, our world ia in his hand .' 
 
 PART n. 
 
 TO THE CLOSK OF THE TROUBLES IN THE REIGN Of 
 OH All L E S I . 
 
 i. — CISTERTIAN MONASTERY. 
 
 " Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall,*' 
 
 " jMure promptly rises, walks with nicer heed, 
 
 " More safely rests, dies happier, is freed 
 
 ^'' Earlier from cleansing- fires, and gains withal 
 
 '' JH brighter croion.''^ — Oil yon Cisterti:in wall 
 
 jyiat confident assurance may be read ; 
 
 And, to like shelter, from trie world have filed 
 
 Increasing multitudes. The potent call 
 
 Doubtle.ss shall ciieat full oft the heart's desires ;' 
 
 Yet, while the rugged Age on pliant knee 
 
 Vowii to rapt Fancy humble fealty, 
 
 A (rentier life spreads round the holy spires; 
 
 Where'er they rise, the sylvan waste retires^ 
 
 And aery harvests crown the fertile lea. 
 
 n. — 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 IMen, 
 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 tnost forbidding den 
 Of solitude, with love of science strong. 
 How pa!iently the yoke of thought they bear I 
 How subtly glide it^ finest threads along ! 
 Spirits that crowd the ihtellectuil sphere 
 With mazy boundaries, as the Astronomer 
 With orb and cycle girds the starry throng.' 
 
 III. — OTHEil BENEFITS. 
 
 And, not in vain embodied to the sight, 
 Religion tinds even in the stern retreat 
 Of feudal Sway her own appropriate seat ; 
 From the Collegiate pomps on Windsor's height,' 
 Down to the humble altar, which the Knight 
 And his Retainers of the embattled hall 
 Seek in domestic oratory small. 
 For prayc'r in stillness, or the chanted rite ; 
 Then chiefly dear, when foes are planted round, 
 Who teach the intrepid guardians of the place, 
 Elourly e:ii:p6sed to death, with famine worn, 
 And suffering under many a perilous wound, 
 How sad W(Mild bt, their durance, if forlorn 
 Of offices dispensing heavenly grace I 
 
 IV. — CONTINUED. 
 
 And what melodious sounds at limes prevail r 
 And, ever and anon, how bright a g'eam 
 Pours on the surface of the turbid Stream ! 
 What heartfelt fragrance mingles with the gale 
 That swells the bosom of our passing sail 1 
 For where, but on this River's margin, blow 
 Those flowers of Chivalry, to bind the bntw 
 Of hardihood with wreaths' that shall not|fain 
 
 *"Bonum est noshic esse, quia homo yivit puriusj 
 cadit rarius, surgit v(;locius, incedit caiilius, quiescit 
 securius, moritur feiicious, pnrgatur ciiius, prEinia- 
 tur copiosius." Bernard. " This sentence," says Ur,- 
 VVbitaker, " is usually inscribed on some conspicu- 
 ous part of the Cistcrtian houses." 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SEETCHE3. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Fair Court of Edward ! wondfir of the world ! 
 
 i see a matchless blaznnVy unfurled 
 
 Of wis^dnm, niauTianimity, and l< ve ; 
 
 And UK-'ckness tempering honourable pride ; 
 
 Tlie Lamb i, couching by tlie Lion's side, 
 
 And near the flame-eyed Eagle sits the Dove. 
 
 V. — CRUSADKR9. 
 
 Nor can Imagination quit the shorea 
 
 or tlicse biight scenes without a farewell glance 
 
 Given to those drt-am-like L<sues— that Romance 
 
 Of many-coloured lile which Fortune pours 
 
 Round the Crusade-.s, till on distant shores 
 
 Their labours end ; or tliey return to lie, 
 
 The vow performed, in cross-legged effigy, 
 
 Devouily stretched upon their chancel floors. 
 
 Am r deceived ? Or is their requiem chanted 
 
 By voices never mute when Heaven unties 
 
 Her inmost, softest, tenderest harmonies ; 
 
 Rf'qniem wliich Earth rakes up with voice undaunted, 
 
 When she would tell ho\V Good, and Brave, and Wise, 
 
 For their high guerdon not in varu have panted ! 
 
 VL — TRANSUBSTANTIATION. 
 
 Enough ! for see, with dim association 
 
 The tnpers burn ; the odorous incense feeds 
 
 A greedy flame ; the pompous mass proceeds ; 
 
 The Priest bestows the appointed consecration ; 
 
 And, while the Host is raised, its elevation 
 
 An awe a d supernatural horror breeds. 
 
 And all the P; opie bow their heads, like reeds 
 
 To a soft breeze, in low!y adoration-. 
 
 This Valdo brooked not. On the banks of Rhone 
 
 He tauirhr, till persecution chased him thence, 
 
 To adore the Invisilile, and Him alone. 
 
 Nor were his Followers loih to seek defence. 
 
 Mid woods and wilds, on Nature's craggy throne, 
 
 From rites that trample upon soul and sense. 
 
 VIL— Vv^ALDENffES. 
 
 ^HESE who gave earliest notice, as the Lark 
 
 Springs from the ground the morn to gratulate ; 
 
 Who rather rose the day to antedate. 
 
 By striking out a solitary spalk, 
 
 When all the World with midnight gloom was dark — 
 
 These Harbingers of good, whom bitter hate 
 
 In vain endeavoured to exterminate, 
 
 Fell Oblocjny pursues with hideous bark ;* 
 
 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 ]doodfa ; 
 
 Nor lacks this sea-girt Isle a timely share 
 
 Of the new Flame, not suffered to expire. 
 
 * The list of foul names bestowed upon those poor 
 creatures is long and curious ; — ^and, as is, alas 1 too 
 iiatiual, most of the opprobi ious appellations are drawn 
 from circumstances into which they were forced by 
 their persecutors, who even consolidated their miseries 
 into one reproachful term, calling tiiem Falarenians 6r 
 Paturin^, frdmj!)af«, to suffer. 
 
 Dwellers with wolves, she names them, for the Fine 
 And green 0;ik are their covert; as the glooin 
 Of night oft foil« their Enemy's design, 
 She calls them Riders on the flying broom ; 
 Sorcerers, whose frame and aspect have become 
 Oa« and- liie same throu'^h practices malign. 
 
 Vlir.— ARCHBISHOP CHICHELY TO HENR5f V. 
 
 " What Beast in wilderness or cultured field 
 
 ''The lively beauty of the Leopard shows? 
 
 "What Flower in meadow-ground or garden 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 sworrf to wield, 
 
 " And Heaven will crown the right." — The mitred Sire 
 
 Thus spake— an«i lo ! a Fleet, for Gaul addrest. 
 
 Ploughs her bold course across the wondering seas V 
 
 For, sooth to say, ambition, in the breast 
 
 Of youthful Heroes, is no sullen fire. 
 
 But one that leaps to meet the fanning breeze. 
 
 IX. — WARS OF YORK AND LANCASTER. 
 
 Thus is the storm abated by tlie craft 
 
 Of a shrewd Counsellor, eager to protect 
 
 The Church, whose power haih recently been chocked ,' 
 
 Whose monstrous liches threatened. So the shaft 
 
 Of victory mounts Iiigh, and blood is quafled 
 
 In fields that rival Cressy arid Poictiers— 
 
 Pride to be washed away by bitter tears f 
 
 For deep as hell itself, tlie 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 oi' this woeful sttiie. 
 
 Gather's unbiighied strength from hour to hourl 
 
 X,' — WICLIFFE. 
 
 Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear,' 
 
 And at her call is Wiclilfe disinhuuicd : 
 
 Yea, his dry bones to ashes are consumed 
 
 And flung into the b»nok that travels near; 
 
 Forthwith, that ancieuL Voice which Streauis can hear • 
 
 Thus speaks (that Voice wliich walks upon fhe wind, 
 
 Though seldfun heaid by busy hiinjan kind,) 
 
 " As thou' these ashes, little Brook I wilt hear 
 
 " 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 enemies 
 
 t' How the bold Teacher's Doctrine, sanctified 
 
 " By Truth, ehallspreadihrougliout the world dispersed'/ 
 
 XT. — CORRUPTIONS OF THi; HIGHER CLERGY.' 
 
 i' Woe to you, Prelates I rioting in ease 
 
 "And cumbrous wealth — the shame of your estate ;^ 
 
 "You, on whose progress dazzling trains await 
 
 "Of pompous horses ; who.m 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 
 
 " Yfi have no skill to tesch, or if ye knov\^ 
 
 " And speak the word '' Alas I of fearful thing?" 
 
 'Tis the most fearful when the People's eye 
 Abuse halh cleared from vain Imaginings ; 
 And taught the general voice to prophesy 
 Of Ju&tice armed, and Pride to be laid low. 
 
 XII. — ABtJSE OF MONASTIC POWER. 
 
 An3' what is Penance with her knotted thong',- 
 Mortification with the shirt of hair, 
 Wan cheek, and knees indurated with praye/,-- 
 Vigils, and fastings rigorous as lor.g, 
 
178 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES 
 
 If cloistered Avarice scruple not to wrong 
 
 The pious, humble, useful Secular, 
 
 And rob the People of his dnily care, 
 
 Sconiinfr tliat world whose blindness makes her strong 
 
 Inversion strange I that unto One who lives 
 
 For self, and struggles with himself aione. 
 
 The amplest share of heavenly favour gives; 
 
 That to a Monk allots, in the esteem 
 
 Of God and Man, place higher than to him 
 
 Who on the good of others builds his own ! 
 
 XIII. — MONASTIC VOLrPTUOUSNESS. 
 
 Yf.t more, — round many a Convent's blazing fire 
 Unhallowed throads of revelry are spun ; 
 There Venus sits disiruiped like a Nun, — 
 While Cacrhus, clothed in semblance of a Friar, 
 Pours flit his ehoicesi beverage hiph and higher 
 Sparkling, until it cannot choose but lun 
 Over the b«wl, whose silver lip hath won 
 An instant kiss of masterfnl desiie — 
 To stay the precious waste. Through every brain 
 The domination of the sprightly juice 
 Spreads iiigh conceits 10 madding Fancy dear, 
 Till the arched roof, with resohite abuse 
 Of its grave echoes, swells a choral strain, 
 Whose votive burthen is — " Our kingdom's hebe 1'' 
 
 XIV. — DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES. 
 
 Threats come, which no submission may assuage ; 
 
 No sacrifice avert, no power dispute ; 
 
 The tapp'-s sba'l be quenched, the belfries mute, 
 
 And, 'mid Their choirs unioofel by selfish rage, 
 
 The waiblinp wren shall find a leafy cace ; 
 
 The gaddini! bvamble hanji her purple fruit ; 
 
 And the green lizard and the gi!ded newt 
 
 Lead unmnlesred lives, and die of age* 
 
 The owl of evening and the wor^dland fox 
 
 For their abode the shrines of Waliham choose: 
 
 Proud Glastonbury can no more refuse 
 
 To stoop her head before these desperate shocks — 
 
 She whose high pomp disp'aced., as story tells, 
 
 Arimathean Joseph's wattled cells. 
 
 fXV. — the SAME subject. 
 
 The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek 
 
 Through saintly habil than from eJi^ort due 
 
 To unrelenting maiidates that pursue 
 
 With equal wrath the steps of strong and weak) 
 
 Goes forth — unveiling timidly her cheek 
 
 Suffused with blushes of celestial hue. 
 
 While through the Convent gate to open view 
 
 Sottly she glides, anothcM- hon)e to seek. 
 
 Not Iris, issuing from her cloudy shrine, 
 
 An Apparition n»ore divinely bright ! 
 
 Not more attractive to the dazzled sipht 
 
 Those watery gloii(^s, on the stormy brine 
 
 Poured forth, while ssumuier suns at distance shine, 
 
 And the green vales lie hushed in sober light ! 
 
 XVI. — CONTINUED. 
 
 Ykt some, Novicates of the cloistral shade, 
 Or chained by vows, with undissemhied glee 
 The warrant hail — exulting to be free ; 
 Like ships before whose keels, full long embayed 
 
 * These two lines are adopted from a IMS., written 
 about the year 1770, which accidentally loll into my 
 
 In polar ice, propitious winds have made 
 
 Unlooked-for outlet to an open sea, 
 
 Their liquid world, for bold discovery, 
 
 In all her quarters temptinply displayed! 
 
 Hope guides the young ; but when the old must pasB 
 
 The tbreshnld, whither shall they turn to find 
 
 The hospitality — the alms (alas ! 
 
 Alms n)ay be needed) which that House bestowed? 
 
 Can they, in faith and worship, train the mind 
 
 To keep this new and questionable road? 
 
 XVII, — SAINTS. 
 
 Yic, too, must fly before a chasing hand. 
 
 Angels and Saints, in every hamlet mourned I 
 
 Ah I if the old idolatrv be spurned. 
 
 Let not your radiant Shapes desert the Land: 
 
 Her adoration was not your demand, 
 
 The fond heart profTered it— the servile heart; 
 
 And Therefore are ye summoned to depart, 
 
 IN^icha'^l, and Ihnu, St. Georpe, whose flaming brand 
 
 The DraTon quelled ; and valiant Marraret 
 
 Whose rival sword a like Opponent slew: 
 
 And rapt Ceri'ia. seraph-liauT'ted Qu'^en 
 
 Of harmony ; and weeping: Mapdalene, 
 
 Who in the peniTential dfsert met 
 
 Gales bweet as those that over Eden blew! 
 
 possession. 
 
 The close of The preceding Sonnet on mo- 
 
 inaVtir voluoiuousness is taken from the same source 
 as is the verse, "Where Venus sits," &c. 
 
 XVIII — THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Mother I whose virein bosom w p uncroKt 
 With the least shade of thousht to sin allied; 
 Wcman I above all women g'onfied, 
 Our tainted nature's so'i'ary bf»ast ; 
 Purer than foam on central Ocean tost ; 
 Piiphter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn 
 Wi'h fancied roses, Than ihe un' lemished nmon 
 Pefore her wane beg^ins on heaven's blue coast ; 
 Tliy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, 
 Not unforgiven the siippliant knee mijjh* bend, 
 As to a visible Power, in whirl) riid blend 
 All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee 
 Of mother's love with maiden purity, 
 Of high with low, celestial wiih terrene ! 
 
 XIX. — APOLOGY. 
 
 Not utterly unworth.y to endure 
 Was the supremacy of crafty Rome ; 
 As:e after aee to tlie arch of Christendom 
 Aerial keystone harghtily secure; 
 Supremacy from Heaven transmitted pure, 
 As many hold ; and, therefore, to the tomb 
 Pass, some throuirh fire — and by the scaffold some- 
 Like saintly Fisher, and unbending More, 
 " Lightly for hotli the bosom's lord did sit 
 " Tpon his throne:" unsoftened, undismayed 
 By aught that minjiled with the Tra«.'ic scene 
 Of pity or fear ; and More's pay genius played 
 With the inoffensive sword of native wit, 
 Than the bare axe more luminous and keen. 
 
 XX. — IMAGINATIVE REGRETS. 
 
 Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone 
 From Sages justly honoured 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, reclined 
 Upon his monstrous urn, the farewell moau 
 Renews. — Through every forest, cave, and den, 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES* 
 
 179 
 
 Where frauds were hatched of old, hath sorrow past- 
 Hangs o'er the Arabian Prophet's native Waste, 
 Where once his airj' helpers schemed and planned, 
 'Mid phantom lakes bemocking thirsty men, 
 And stalking pillars built of fiery sand. 
 
 XXI. — REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Grant, that by this unfparing Hurricane 
 
 Green leaves with yellow mixed are torn away, 
 
 And goodly fruitage with the mother spray, 
 
 'Twere madness— wished we, therefore, to detain, 
 
 With hatids stretched forth in mollified disdain, 
 
 The " trumpery" that ascends i.j bare display, — 
 
 Bulls, pardons, relics, cowls black, white, and grey, 
 
 Upwhirled— and flying o'er the etherial plain 
 
 Fast bound lor Limbo Lake. — And yet not choice 
 
 But habit rules the unreflecting herd. 
 
 And airy bonds are hardest to disown ; 
 
 Hence, with the spiritual sovereignly transferred 
 
 Unto itself, tiie Crown assumes a voice 
 
 Of reckless mastery, hitherto unknown. 
 
 XXII. — TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, 
 
 In dusty sequestration wrapt too h^ig. 
 
 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 siCt her laws — much wondering that the wrong. 
 
 Which Faith has suffered, fleaven could calmly brook. 
 
 Transcendent Boon ! noblest that earthly King 
 
 Ev«r bestowed to equalize and bless 
 
 Under the weight of mortal wielchednoss ! 
 
 But passions spread like plagues, and thousands wild 
 
 With bigotry shall tread the OlTeiirg 
 
 Beneath their feet— detested and defiled. 
 
 XX in. — THE POINT AT ISSUE. 
 
 For what contend the wise? for nothing less 
 
 Than that the Soul, freed from the bonds of Sense, 
 
 And to her Go I restored hy evidence 
 
 Of things not seen — drawn forth from their recess, 
 
 Root there, and not in forms, her hf)Iiness; 
 
 For Faith which to the Patriarchs did dispense 
 
 Sure guidance, ere a ceremonial fence 
 
 Was nee'dful 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. 
 
 XXIV. — EDWARD VI. 
 
 " Sweet is the holiness of Youth"— so felt 
 
 Tinie-honoured Chaucer when lie framed the lay 
 
 By which the Prioress beguiled the way, 
 
 And many a Pilgrim's rugged heart did melt. 
 
 Iladst 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 
 
 (0 great Precursor, genuine morning Star) 
 
 The lucid shafts of reason to employ, 
 
 Piercing the Papal darkness from afar I 
 
 XXV.— EDWARD SIGNING THE WARRANT FOR TIL 
 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 hut to go ; 
 
 And sonje break forth when others' sorrows crush 
 
 The sympathising 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 youtliful Monarchs driven 
 
 To pen the mandates, nature doth disown. 
 
 XXVL— REVIVAL OF POPERY. 
 
 The saintly Youth lias ceased to rule, discrowned 
 
 By unrelenting Death. O People keen 
 
 Fijr 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 Q,ueen I) 
 
 Lifting them up, the worsliip 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 chaunelsof an unknown tongue. 
 
 XXVII. — LATIMER AND RIDLEY. 
 
 How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled I 
 
 See Latimer and Ridley in tlie might 
 
 Of Faiih stand coupled for a common flighi I 
 
 One (like those Propliels whom God sent of old) 
 
 Transfigured*, from this kindling hath foretold 
 
 A torch of inextinguishable light; 
 
 The Other gains a confidence as hold ; 
 
 And thus they foil their enemy's despite. 
 
 The penal instruments, the shows of crime. 
 
 Are glorified while tliis once-mitred pair 
 
 Of saintly Friends "the Murtherer's chain partake, 
 
 "orded, and burning at the social stake:" 
 
 Earth never witnessed object more sublime 
 
 In constancy, in fellowship more fair ! 
 
 XXVIII.— CRANMER. 
 
 Outstretching flame-ward his upbraided hand 
 (O God of mercy, may no earthly Seat 
 Of judgment such presumptuous doom repeat!) 
 Amid the shuddering throng doth Crannier stand; 
 
 * " M. Latimer very quietly suff'ercd his keeper to 
 pull ofl^ his ho.-e, and his other array, wlich to looke 
 unto was veiy simple : and being siripr.fd into his 
 shrovvd, he seemed as comely a person lo them that 
 were present, as one should lightly see : and where- 
 as in his clothes liee appeared a withered and crook- 
 ed sinie (weak) olde man, he now stood bolt upright as 
 come y i fatlier as one migiit lightly behold. *• +" * * 
 Then Lhey brought a faiiotte, kindled with fire and 
 laid the same dowue at doctor Ridley's feete. ' To 
 whonie M. Latimer spake in this manner, ' Bee of 
 good comfort, nia>ter Ridley, and plav the man • wee 
 shall this day ight such a candle bv God's grace in 
 England, as 1 trust shall never bee put out.' ''—Fox's 
 
 Similar alterations in the outward figure and de- 
 porimeut of persons brought to like trial were not 
 uncommon. See note to the above passage in Dr. 
 Wordsworth's Ecclesiastical Biography, for an exam- 
 ple in a humble Welsh fisherman. 
 
180 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Firm as the stake to which with iron hand 
 
 Ilia frame is tied; firm from the naked feet 
 
 To the bare hc^ad, tlie victory complete ; 
 
 TJie fihroudod Body, to the Soul's command, 
 
 An&vycMing \yitJi more than Indian fortitude, 
 
 Through all Jiei nerves with finer sense endued, 
 
 Till breath departs in blii^sful aspiration : 
 
 Tlien, 'mid the ghastly ruins of the fire. 
 
 Behold the unalterable heart entire, 
 
 Pmfjlem of faith untouched, miraculous attestatioij !* 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 GENERAL VIEW OF THE TROUBLES OF THE 
 RLFORMATION. 
 
 Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light 
 
 Our mortal ken! Ini-pire a perfect trust 
 
 (While we look round) that Heaven's decrees are just 
 
 Which few can h(»ld committed to a fi^rht 
 
 That shows, ev'n on its better side, the might 
 
 Of proud Solf-will, Rapacity, and Lust, 
 
 'Mid clciuds enveloped of polemic dust, 
 
 Wliich showers of blood seem rather to incite 
 
 Than to alhiy.— Anathemas are hurled 
 
 From both sides; veteran thunders (the brute test 
 
 Of Truth) are met by fulmiiialions new' — 
 
 Tartarian flags are caught at, aiid unfurled — 
 
 l^riends strike at Friends— the flying shall pursue— 
 
 jAnd Victory sickens, ignorant where to rest ! 
 
 XXX. — ENGLISH REFORMERS IN EXILE. 
 
 Scattering, like Tirds escaped the Fowler's net. 
 
 Some seek wiih timely flight a foreign strand ; 
 
 Most happy, re apsenjbled in a laud 
 
 By dauntless liUther freed, could they forget 
 
 Their Country's woes. But scarc;'Iy have they piet, 
 
 Partners in faiih, and Brothers in distress. 
 
 Free to jiour forth their common thankfulness. 
 
 Ere hope rlecliues ; their union is beset 
 
 With speculative norionr^ ras!)!y sown, 
 
 Wlience thickly-sprouring growth of poisonous weeds : 
 
 Their forms are broken slaves ; their passions steeds 
 
 That master them. How enviably l)!est 
 
 Js he who can, by help of grace, enthrone 
 
 'The peace of God within his single breast I 
 
 XXXI. — ELIZABETH. 
 
 Hail Virgin dueen ! o'er many an envious bar 
 Triumphant — snatched from many a treacherous wile I 
 All hail, Sage Lady, wliom a grateful Isle 
 Hath b:esT, respiring from that diurnal war 
 Stilled l)y thy voice ! But quickly from afir 
 Defiance breathes with more malignant aim ; 
 And alien stornis with home-b!<-d 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 b ight ; 
 For, wlieresoe'er fho m.oves, the cloud* anoi> 
 Dis[ierse ; or, under a divine constraint. 
 Reflect some portion of her glorious light- 
 
 XXXII. — EMINENT REFORMERS. 
 
 ]METniNK8 tliai I could trip o'er heaviest soil, 
 Jjight as a buoyant Bark from wave to wave, 
 Were mine tlie trusty Staff that Jewel gave 
 To youthful ilcoKER, in familiar style 
 
 * For the belief in this fact, see the contemporary 
 ^listorians. 
 
 The gift exalting, and with playful smile :* 
 For thus equipped, and bearing on his head 
 The Donor's farewell blessing, can he dread 
 Tempest, or length of way, or weight of toil ? 
 More sweet than odours caught by him who sail^ 
 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. 
 
 XXXIII. — THE SAME. 
 
 Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are, 
 
 Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise. 
 
 With what entire atfection do they prize 
 
 Tl)eir new-born Church! labrmring with earnest care 
 
 To baflle all that may her strength impair ; 
 
 That Church— the unperverted Gospel's teat; 
 
 In tiieir afliictions a divine retreat ; 
 
 Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest 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 tnat will not hear. 
 
 XXXIV. — distractions. 
 
 Men, Avho have ceased to reverence, soon defy 
 Their Forefathers ; lo I Sects are formed — and split 
 With morbid restlessness, — the ecstatic fit 
 Spreads wide ; though special mysteries m!iltin!y. 
 The Saints must govern^ is their common cry; 
 And so tijey labour, deeming Holy Wiit 
 Disgraced by aught that seems content to sit 
 Beneath the roof of settled Modesty. 
 Th(> Romanist exults ; fresh hope he draws 
 From the confusion — craftily incites 
 The overweening — personates the mad -j 
 To heap disunst upon the worthier Cause : 
 Toiters the Tiirone : the newbDrn Church is sad, 
 For every wave against her peace unites. 
 
 XXXV. — GUNPOWDER PLOT. 
 
 Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree 
 To plague her beating heart : and there is one 
 (Xor idlest that I) which holds communion 
 With things that were not, yet were meant to be. 
 
 * " On foot they went, and took Sa'i-bury in their 
 wa\', pnrpose'y to se^ the good Ri<h'>p, who in.ule Mr, 
 llook*^r sit at liisown tab'e ; wliich Mr. Hooker boasted 
 of with much ji)y and grarirude vy'ien he saw liismotlieF 
 and friends ; and at the Bishop's pariiiiL' wi'h bini, 
 ihe Bishop gave liim Jiood C(v^l^'el, aad his benef1i''ti'>'it 
 but forgot to give him money ; whicii when the Bi.-^hnp 
 had considered, he sent h S'rvant in all haste to call 
 Richard hack to him. and at RirliaMls return, the 
 Bishop t-aid to him, ' Rit;hard. I sent for yon bark to 
 lend you a horse which hath carried me many a nii'e, 
 and f thank God with ninch ease,' anfl presently deliv- 
 ered intf) his hand a walkiMir-stafF, with which he pro- 
 fessed he had trave'led through many parts of Gcrma- 
 nv ; and he said, ' Richardj I do not give, hut lend you 
 tny horse ; be sure you be honest, and Ininsi my horse 
 hack to me at your return this way to Oxford. And I 
 do now give you ten groats to bear vour chariresto Exe- 
 ter; and here is ten groats more, which I chartre yon to 
 deliver to your mother, and tell her, I send her a Bish- 
 op's benediction with it, and beg the continuance of her 
 prayers for me. And if you bring my horse back to 
 n>e, I will give you ton groats more to carry ynu on 
 foot to the college ; and so God bless you, good Ri-r 
 chard."— See fValtov''s J.ife of Richard Honkr.r. 
 
 t A common device in religious and political con- 
 flicts. — See StriQic in svpport of this instance 
 
ECCLESIAST 
 
 Ajghast within its glnomy cavity 
 
 Ihat ej'e (which sees as if fulfillpd and done 
 
 Crimes that niight stop the mrtion of the sun) 
 
 Beholds tlie horrible cataFtro[ht^ 
 
 Of an assembled Senate unredeemed 
 
 From subterraneous Treason's dark ing power : 
 
 JNIercilHss acts of sorrow infinite ! 
 
 Worse than the product of that dismal nisht, 
 
 When gushing, copious as a thunder-ihuwer, 
 
 The blood of Hugenots through Paris streamed. 
 
 181 
 
 ICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Whose heart Blill flutte.g, though his wings forbear 
 
 To stir in useless struggle) hath relied 
 
 On hope tljat conscious Innocence supplied, 
 
 And in his prison breathes celestial air. 
 
 Why tarries then thy Chariot 1 Wlieefore stay, 
 
 O Death ! the ensanguined yet triumphant wheels, 
 
 Which thou prepar'st, ful) often to convey 
 
 (What time a Si ate with madding faction reels) 
 
 The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals 
 
 All wounds, all perturbations doth allay ? 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 THE JUNG-mAU AND THE FALL OF THE RHINE NEAR 
 SCHAFFHAUSEN. 
 
 Tpie 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 
 XDau link with desolaiion. Smooth and green. 
 And seeming, ai a linle disiance, slow, 
 The waters of the Khine ; but on they go 
 Fretting and whirening, keener and more keen. 
 Till mndneps seizes on the whole wide Flood, 
 Turned to a fearlul Tliiiig ^^'hnse nojsiiils breathe 
 Blasts of trmpcsLiions smoke— wherewith he tiies 
 To hide himself, but only magnifies ; 
 And dnih in more cons[ii( udus torn.ent writhe, 
 Deafening the region in hi$ ireful mood. 
 
 XXXVir.— TROUBLES OF CHARLES THE FIRST. 
 
 EvKN Furh the contrast that, where'er we move, 
 
 T(» ihe mind's eye Relifjion dolh [)rcserit ; 
 
 New wi:h her own deep quietness conient ; 
 
 Tlicn, like the mountain, thundering from above 
 
 Apair.st the ancient Pine-trees of the grove 
 
 And the Land's Iinmblest comforts. Now her mood 
 
 E'rall? the transfoiniation of the flood, 
 
 WhOhC mcp the gent'e skirs in vain reprove, 
 
 Farlh ramiot cl erk. O ten ib'e excess 
 
 Of liettdstren? will ! Cnx) this be piety 1 
 
 Ne— Feme fierce Maniac hath u5-urped lier name ; 
 
 At!/] scourges Eng'and strupi^Iing to be free : 
 
 Her peace destroyed! her hopes a wilderness! 
 
 Her blessings cursed — her glory turned to shame ! 
 
 XXXIX.— AFFLICTIONS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Harp ! eould'et thou venture, on thy boldest string, 
 
 The faintest note to echo which the blast 
 
 Caught from the hand of Moses as it past 
 
 O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd King, 
 
 Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing 
 
 Of dread Jehovah; tlien, should wood and waste 
 
 Hear also of that name, a"d mercy cast 
 
 Off to the mountains, like a covering 
 
 Of which the Lord wn? 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. 
 
 PART IIL 
 
 FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE PRESENT TIMES, 
 
 T. 
 
 T SAW the figure of a lovely Maid 
 
 Seated alone beneath a darksome Tree, 
 
 Whosp fondly overhanging canopy 
 
 Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade. 
 
 Substance she seemed (and that my heart betrayed^ 
 
 For she was one. I loved exceedingly ;) 
 
 IJut while r gazed in render reverie 
 
 (Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played ?) 
 
 The bright corporeal presence, foim, and face, 
 
 Remaining still distinct, gr( vv thin and rare. 
 
 Like surmy mist; at lengtli the golden hair, 
 
 Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keeping pace 
 
 Each with the other, in a lingering race 
 
 Of dissolution, melled into air. 
 
 XXXVIII.— LAro.t 
 
 Prejupged by foes determined not to fpare, 
 An r)Id wrak Man for vetigeatice thrc wn asfide, 
 Land " in the painful art of dying" tried 
 (Like a poor Bird entangled in a Snare 
 
 *The .Tnnir-frau. 
 
 ■j In this age a word cannot he said in praise of 
 Laud, or even in compap^ion for hi,? fate, without in- 
 ctniiiig a charL^e of biirony : but, feailessof sueh im- 
 piuaiion. I rotieur with Hume, " rh."it it is sufficient 
 for his vn!(lica;ii>n to observe, tiiat his erro>s \A'ere the 
 niost exciis;ib!e of aM those which prevailed diirinir that 
 zealous period." A key to the ri'.'ht undei>tandi! g of 
 tji ise p:iris of his conduct lliat brou'fht the most odium 
 upon him in his owii -ime, may be found in the follcw- 
 ini' passage of his speech before the Par of the House 
 of Peers :— " Ever since I came in place, I have labour- 
 ed iimhiug more, than that t'le externnl publick wiuship 
 of God, so much slighted in divers parts of this king- 
 dom, niijiht be preserved, and that wrh as much de- 
 cency and utiiiormiiv as mipht he. For i evideur'y 
 eaw. that the pnblick neglect of God's service in the 
 outward face of ir, and the nasty lyiue of matiy places 
 dedicated to that service, had almost cn.ft a damp vpnn 
 the true and inward worship of God. which, while we 
 live in the body, needs (jtcrval hclps^ and all little 
 though to keep it in any vigour.''^ 
 
 11. — PATRIOTIC SYiMPATHIEg. 
 
 Last night, without a voice, this Vision spake 
 
 Fear to my Spirit — passion that might seem 
 
 Wholly dissevered from our present theme; 
 
 Yet, my beloved country, I partake 
 
 Of kindred agitations for thy sake ; 
 
 Thou, too, dost vi.'^il oft my midnight dream ; 
 
 Thy glory meets me with the earliest beam 
 
 Of liirht, which tells that mornitig is awake. 
 
 If auiiht impair thy beauty or destroy, 
 
 Or but forebode destruction, I deplore 
 
 With filial love the sad vicissitufle ; 
 
 If thou hast fallen, and righteous Heaven restore 
 
 The prostrate, then my spring-time is renewed, 
 
 And sorrow bartered for exc<_eding joy. 
 
 III. — CHARLES THE SECOND. 
 
 Who comes with ra^iture greeted, and caressed 
 With frantic love — his kingdom to regain 1 
 Him Virtue's Nurse, Adversity, in vain 
 deceived, and fostered in her iron breast: 
 For all she taught of hardie.st and of best, 
 Or "VN'ould have taught, by discipline of pain 
 
182 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 And long privation, now dissolves amain, 
 
 Or is remembered only to give zest 
 
 To wantonness. — Away, Circean revels! 
 
 Already stnnds our (^'ountry on the brink 
 
 Of bigot rage, that all distinction levels 
 
 Of tru'h and falsehood, swallowing the good name, 
 
 And, with that draught, the life-blood : mii-ery, shame, 
 
 By Poets loathed; from which Historians shrink! 
 
 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 eloquence. 
 Or a Platonic Pioly confined 
 To the sole temple of the inward mind ; 
 And One there is who bnildfj immortal lays, 
 Though doomed to trend in solitary wavf. 
 Darkness before, and dnnirer's voice behind ! 
 Yet not nlone, nor helpless to repel 
 Snd thoughts : for f'om above the starry sphere 
 Come secrets, whimpered nijihtly to his ear ; 
 And the pure spirit of ce'r^fia! lifrht 
 Sliines throuch his soul — " that he may see and tell 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight.'* 
 
 V. — CLERICAL INTEGRITY. 
 
 Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject 
 Those TTnconforminrr : whom one ri?orons day 
 D'ives from iheir Ciires, a voluntary prey 
 To poverty, and grief, and disrespect. 
 And some to want — as if by tempest werked 
 On a wild c- ast : how destitute ! did They 
 Feel not that Consrifnce 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 dicfale of whose inwnrd sense. 
 Outweighs the world ; whom self-deceiving wit 
 Lures not from what they deem the cause of God. 
 
 Vr. — PERSECUTION OF THE SCOTTISH COVENANTERS. 
 
 When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry. 
 
 The majesty of Enirland interposed 
 
 And the sword stopped ; the bleeding wounds were 
 
 closed : 
 And Faith preserved her ancient purity. 
 How little boots that p'-ecedent of good, 
 Scorned or forgotten, Thou canst testify, 
 For England's shame, O Sister Realm ! from wood. 
 Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, where lie 
 The beadles* martyrs of the Covenant, 
 Slain by Crmpatriot-protestants that draw 
 From councils sctiseless as intolerant 
 Their warrant. Bodies fall by wi'd sword-law ; 
 But who would force the Snnl, lilts with a straw 
 Against a Champion cased in adamant. 
 
 Vir. — ACQUITTAL OF THE BISHOPS. 
 
 A VOICE, from long-expecting thousands sent. 
 Shatters the air, and troubles tewer and spire — 
 For Justice hath absolved the Tnnocejit, 
 And Tyranny is balked of her desire : 
 Up. down, t'e 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. 
 
 Thft 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 hlessing ask on bended knees. 
 
 VIII. — 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 
 
 (By constant in)pulse of religious awe 
 
 Swayed, and thereby enab ed 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 w.th righteous hope. 
 
 Conqueror beloved I expected anxiously! 
 
 The vacillating Conduian of the Pope 
 
 Shrinks from the verdict of his steadfast eye. 
 
 IX. — OBLIGATIONS OF CIVIL TO RELIGIOUS LIBERTY. 
 
 Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget 
 
 The sons who for thy civil rights have bled I 
 
 How, like a Roman, Sidne\' bowed his head, 
 
 And Russel's milder blood the scaffold wet ; 
 
 But These had fallen for profitless regret 
 
 Had not thy holy Church her Cliampions bred, 
 
 And claims from other worlds inj^piii.ed 
 
 The Srar of Libeiiy to rise. Nor yet 
 
 (Grave this wiihin thy heart !) if spiiitual things 
 
 Be lost, throtigh apathy, or scorn, or fear, 
 
 Shalt thou ih)- humbler franchises support, 
 
 However hardly won or justly dear : 
 
 What came from Heaven to Heaven by nature clings. 
 
 And, if dissevered thence, its course is short. 
 
 Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design 
 Have we pursued, wiih livelier stir of heart 
 Than his who sees, borne forward by the Rhine, 
 The living landscapes greet hitn, and depart; 
 Sees spire.- fast sinking — up again to start! 
 And strives the towers to number, that recline 
 O'er the dark steeps, ov on the horizon line 
 Striding with shattered crests tlie eye athwart ; — 
 So have we hurrii-d on with troubled pleasure: 
 Henceforth, as on the bosoui of a stream 
 Tliat slackens, and spreads wide a watery gleam. 
 We, nothing loih a lingering course to measure. 
 May gather up our thoughts, and mark at leisure 
 Features that else had vanithed like a dream. 
 
 XI. — watton's book of lives. 
 There are no colours in the fairest sky 
 So fiiir as these. The feather whence the pen 
 Was shaped that traced the lives of the.=:e good men. 
 Dropped from an Angel's wing. With moistened eye 
 We read of Faith and purest Charity 
 In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen : 
 O could we copy their mild virtues, then 
 What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! 
 Methinks their very names shine still and bright; 
 y^part, 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 burnirig in a lucid ring 
 Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 183 
 
 Xri.— SACHEVERELL. 
 
 A SUDDEN conflict rises finm the swell 
 Of a proud slavery met by tenets strained 
 In Liberty's behalf. Fears, true or feigned, 
 Spread tbroiigli all ranks ; and lo ! the Sentinel 
 Who loudest ranp; his pulpit 'larum bell, 
 Stands at the Bar — absolved by female eyes, 
 WinpHng their glances with grave flatteries 
 Lavished on ^?m— that England may rebel 
 7\srainst her ancient virtue. High and Low, 
 Watch-words of Party, on all tongues are rife ; 
 As if a Church, though sprung from heaven, must owe 
 To oppnf:ires and fierce extren)cs her life, — 
 Not to the golden mean, and quiet flow 
 Of truths that soften hatred, temper strife. 
 
 XTIT. — PLACES OF WORSHIP. 
 
 As star that shines dependent upon star 
 
 Is to the sky while we look up in love ; 
 
 As to the deep fair .«hips which though they move 
 
 Seem fixed, to eyes that watch thmi from afar; 
 
 As to the sandy desert fountains are. 
 
 With palm groves shaded at wide intervals, 
 
 Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native falls 
 
 Of roving tired or desultory war ; 
 
 Sdch to this British [sle her Christian Fanes, 
 
 Each linked to each for kindred services; 
 
 Her Spires, her Sreeple-to'wers with glittering vanes 
 
 Far-kenned, her Chapels lurking among trees, 
 
 Where a fttw villagers on bended knees 
 
 Fiud solace which a busy world disdains. 
 
 XIV. — PASTORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board. 
 
 And a refined ru-^ticity, belong 
 
 To the neai Mansion*, where, his Flock among, 
 
 The learned Pastor dwells, their watchful Lord. 
 
 * Among the benefits arising, as Mr. Coleridi'e has 
 Well observed, tVom a Church Establishnient of en- 
 dowments corresponding with the vveaiih of the Coun- 
 try to which it belongs, may be reckoned, as eniiiient- 
 ly iniporiant, the eAaniplesof civility and rt.'finement 
 Which the Clergy, stationed at intervals, afford to the 
 whole people. The estalilished C'iergy in many parts 
 of England have long been, as they continue to be, 
 the princifial bulwark against ba;hari>in, and the link 
 which unites the sequestered Peasantry wi h the in- 
 tellectual advancement of the age. Nor is it below the 
 dignity of the subject to observe, tliat their Taste, as 
 acting upon rural Residenres and scenerj', often fur- 
 nishes models which Country Genrlemen, who are 
 more at liherty to follow the caprices of Fashion, 
 might profit by. The precincts of an old residence 
 must be treated by Ecclesiastics with respect, hotli 
 from prudence and necessity. I remember being much 
 pleased, some years ago, at Rose Castle, the rurtil 
 Scat 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 Parsonage-house geiieral'y stands not 
 far from the (.'hurch ; this proximity imposes fa- 
 vourable restraints, and sometimes suggests an af- 
 feciiiig union of the acconn)dations and elegances of 
 life with the outward signs of piety and mortality. 
 With pleasure I recall to mind a hapfiy instance of 
 lliis in the Residence of an o!d and much-valued 
 Fiiend in Oxfordshire. The House and Church stand 
 parallel to each other, at a small distance; a cir- 
 cular lawn, or ratlier grass-plot, spreads between them; 
 shrubs and trees curve from each side of the Dwel- 
 ling, 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 the side of the Shrubs 
 towards the Steenle-end of the Church, theeyecatch- 
 
 ?ny with glittering Tombstones, opens upon the view. 
 This humble, and beautiful Parsonage called forth a 
 tribute, for which see Vu!. II. page 19L 
 
 Though meek and patient as a sheathed sword, 
 Though pride's least lurking thought appear a wrong 
 To human kind ; though peace be on his tongue, 
 Gentleness in his heart; can earth afford 
 Such genuine state, pre eminence so tree, 
 As when, arrayed, in Christ's authority, 
 He from the Pulpit lifts his awful hand; 
 Conjures, implores, and labours all he can 
 For re-subjecting to divine command 
 The stubborn spirit of rebellious Man ? 
 
 XV. — THE LITURGY. 
 
 YeSj if the intensities of hope and fear 
 
 Attract us still, and passionate exercise 
 
 Of lofty thoughts, the vv.'.y before us lies 
 
 D;s inct vviih signs — throu;.h wliich, in fixed career. 
 
 As through a zodiac, moves the ritual year 
 
 Of England's Church — stupendous mysteries ! 
 
 Which whoso travels in her bosom, eyes 
 
 As he approaches ihem, with solemn cheer. 
 
 Enough for us to cast a transient glance 
 
 The circle tlirough ; relinquishing its story 
 
 For those whom Heaven hath fitted to advance. 
 
 And, harp in hand, rehea se the King of Glory — - 
 
 From his mild advent till his countenance 
 
 Shall dissipate the seas and mountains hoary. 
 
 XVI. — BAPTISM. 
 
 Blest be the Chtrch, that, waf^hing 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 I 
 Fitliest ben<'ath the sacred roof proceeds 
 The ministration ; while parental Love 
 Looks on, and Grace descendeth from above 
 A< the high service pledges now, now pleads. 
 There, shou.'d vain thoughts outspread their wingsand fly' 
 To meet the coming hours of festal mirth. 
 The tombs which hear and answ^er that brief cry,, 
 The Milant's notice of his second birth, 
 Recal the wandering soul to sympathy 
 With what Man hopes from Heaven, yet fears frons 
 Earth. 
 
 XVII.— sponsors, 
 
 Fathfr ! to God himself v^e cannot give 
 
 A holier name I Then lightly do not bear 
 
 Both names conjoined — but of thy spiritual care 
 
 Be duly njindful ; siill more sensitive 
 
 Do Thou, in truth a second Mother^ strive 
 
 Against disheartening custtun, tliat by Thee 
 
 Watched, and with love and pious industry 
 
 Tended at need, tlie adopted Plant may thrive 
 
 For everlasting bloom. Benign and j)ure 
 
 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 U^ord an empty sound ! 
 
 XVIII. — CATECHISINa. 
 
 From Tiittle down to Least — in due degree, 
 Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought vest, 
 Eiich with a vernal posy at his breast. 
 We stood, a trembling, earnest Company ! 
 Witli low soft murmur, like a distant bee, 
 Some spake, by th<'ught-perplexing fears betrayed ; 
 And some a bold unerring answer made : 
 How fluttered then thy anxious heart for me, 
 
!8'4 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Beloved Mother ! Thou whose happy hand 
 Had bound the flowers T wnif, with faithful tie 
 Sweet flowers! at whose iiinudilile command 
 Her countenance, plianlomlike, doth re-appear: 
 O lost too early for the frequent tear, 
 And ill requited by this heartfelt sigh !■ 
 
 XIX. — CONFIRMATIOf^. 
 
 •jThk Young-ones ga liered in from hill and dale, 
 
 With holiday delight on every brow : 
 
 'Tis passed away ; far other thouphts prevail 
 
 For they are taking the baptismal Vow, 
 
 Upon their conscious selves ; their own lips speak 
 
 The solemn prnmise. Strongest sinews fail, 
 
 And many a i)loomirig, many a lovely check 
 
 Under the holy fear of God turns pa!o, 
 
 While on each head his lawn-iohed Servant lays 
 
 An apostolic hand, and with prayer seals 
 
 The Covenant. The Omnipitteiit will raise 
 
 Their feeble Souls ; and bear with his rejrrets, 
 
 Who, looking round the fair assemblage, feels 
 
 That ere tlie Sua goes dtnvn their childhood sets. 
 
 XX. — COKFIRMATION 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 judue of by a light too faint: 
 
 Tell, if ye may, some star-crowned INluse, or Saint! 
 
 Tell what rushed in, from what she was relieved — 
 
 Then, wiien her Child the hallowing touch received. 
 
 And such vibration to the Mother went 
 
 Tiiat tears burst forth auiain. Did gleams appear ? 
 
 Opened a vision of that blissful place 
 
 Where dwells a Sister-cl)ild ? And was power given 
 
 Part of her lost One's glory back to tr.lce 
 
 Even to this Rite 1 For thus She knelt, and, ere 
 
 The Summer-lttaf had faded, passed to Heaven. 
 
 Of the proud Bearer. To the wide Churchdoof, 
 
 Charged with these offerings which their Fathers born' 
 
 For deroration in the P;i]tal time, 
 
 The innocent prcc(>sbion softly moves: — 
 
 The spirit of Laud is pleased in Heaven's pure clime 
 
 And Hooker's voice the spectacle approves ! 
 
 XXUI. — REGRETS. 
 
 Would that our Scrupulous Sires had dared to leave 
 
 Less scanty meastire of thoj^e graceful rites 
 
 .And usages, whose due return invites 
 
 A stir of mind too natural to deceive; 
 
 Giving the" Memory he'p when she would wrave' 
 
 A crown for Hope ! I dread the bof<sted lij^Lie 
 
 Tiiat all too often are but fieiy blights, 
 
 Killing the bud o'er wliich in vain we grieve. 
 
 Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring ■ 
 
 The counter S|iiit found in some gay Church 
 
 Green with fre>h Fiolly, every pew a peich 
 
 In which the linnet or the thrush might sing, 
 
 Merry and loud, and saf^ from pying search, 
 
 Strains ollered only to the genial Spring. 
 
 XX IV." -MUTABILITY. 
 
 From low to hig . doih dissolution climb, 
 
 And sinks from high to low, along a scale 
 
 Of awful notes, u'hose concord shall not fail;. 
 
 A musical but melanrboiy chime. 
 
 Which they can hear who meddle not with crime;-! 
 
 Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care: 
 
 Truth fails not; but her outward forms fliat bear 
 
 The longest dale do melt like frosty rime. 
 
 That in the morning whitened hill and plain 
 
 And is no more ; drop like the tower sub.'ime 
 
 Of yesterday, which 'oyally did wear 
 
 Its crown of weetls, but coukl not even sustain 
 
 Slime casual shout tb.at broke the silent air, 
 
 Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 
 
 XXI. — SACRAMENT. 
 
 By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied : 
 
 One duty more, last stage of this ascent, 
 
 Brings to thy food, memorial Sacrament ! 
 
 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. 
 
 Here must my Song in timid reverence pause: 
 
 But shrink not, ye, whom to the saving rite 
 
 The Altar calls ; come early under laws 
 
 That can secure for you a path of liuht 
 
 Through gloomiest shade ; put on (nor dread its weight^ 
 
 Armour divine, and conquer in your cause ! 
 
 XXII. — 'RURAL CEREMONY.*" 
 
 Content with calmer scenes around us spread 
 And humbler objects, give we to a day 
 Of annual joy one tributary lay ; 
 This day, when, forth by rustic music led, 
 The Village Children, while the sk}' is red 
 With evening lights, advance in long array 
 Through the still Church-yard, each with garland gay, 
 That, carried sceptre-like, o'ertops the head' 
 
 * This is still continued in many Churches in West- 
 moreland. It takes place in the month of July, when 
 
 XXV. — OLD ABBEYS. 
 
 Monastic Domes! following rny downward way,- 
 Untouched by due regret 1 marked your fall! 
 Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all 
 Dispose to judgment tempeiate 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 
 Towards Our oWn the mild Instructor deals. 
 Teaching us to forget them or forgive.* 
 P(^rversely curious, then, for hidden ill 
 Why should we break Time's chaiitable seals 1 
 Once ye Were holy, ye are lioly still ; 
 Your spirit freely let me drink, and live ! 
 
 moreianu. n i<i:\k» ^jiavc m iiic iiiiitiiii ui Juiy, wuen 
 
 the floor of tlie Sialis is strewn with fresh rushes ; and * This is borrowed from an affecting passage in M/. 
 
 Jjence it is called the " Kush-bearing." George Dyer's History of Cambridge. 
 
 XXVI. — EMIGRANT FREJVCH CLERGfY. 
 
 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 vi'ith the vigilance' 
 Of true compassion greet them. Creed and test 
 Vanish before the unreserved embrace 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 185 
 
 Of Catholic humanity :— distrest 
 They came, — and, while the moral tempest roars 
 Throughout the Country they have left, our shores 
 Give 10 their Faith a dreadless resting-place. 
 
 XXVII. — CONGRATULATION. 
 
 Thus all things lead to Charity---secured 
 By THEM who blessfd ilie soft and happy gale 
 That landward urced the preat Deliverer's sail, 
 Till in the sunny hay his fleet was moored ! 
 Propitious hour! hnd we, like them, endured 
 Sore stress of apprehension,* wiih a mind 
 Sickened hy injuries, dreading worse designed, 
 From month to month trembling and unassured. 
 How had we then rejoiced I But we have felt, 
 As a loved substance, their futurity : 
 Good, which they dared not hope for, we have seen : 
 A State wliose generous will through earth is dealt; 
 A State— which, balancing herself betweea 
 Licence and slavish order, dares be free. 
 
 XXViri. — NEW CHURCHES. 
 
 But libertv, and triumphs on the Main, 
 
 And laurelled Armies — not to be withstood, 
 
 What serve they 7 if, on transitory good 
 
 Intent and s-eduloiis of abject gain, 
 
 The Sate (ah, surely not preserved in vain I) 
 
 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 h^r want ; throush Entrland's bounds, 
 
 In rival haste, the wished-for Temples rire ! 
 
 I hear their Sabbath bells' harmonious chime 
 
 Float on the breeze — the heavenliest of all sounda 
 
 That hill or vale prolongs or multiplies ! 
 
 XXIX. — CHURCH TO BE ERECTED. 
 
 Be this the chosen site; — the virgin sod 
 Moistened from ajre to age by dewy eve, 
 Shall disappear — and grateful earth receive 
 The corner stone from hands that build to God. 
 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 Pennine Faith. Where, haply, 'mid this band 
 Of daisies, Shepherds sate of yore and wove 
 May-ffarlands, let the holy Altar stand 
 For kneeling adoration; while — above, 
 Broods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove, 
 That shall protect from Blasphemy the Land, 
 
 Shall greetihat symbol crowning the low Pile : 
 And the fresh air of " incense breathing morn" 
 Shall wooingly embrace it ; ami green moss 
 Creep round its arms through centuries unborn. 
 
 XXX. — CONTINUED. 
 
 Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued, 
 
 Sharing 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 vapours. Such appalling rite 
 
 ^iir 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 :t the Sun with his first emile 
 
 * See Burnet, who is unusually animated on this 
 6'jhject : the east wind, so an.xiously expected and 
 prayed for, was called the " Protestant wind." 
 
 t The Lutherans have retained the Cross within their 
 Churches: it is to be regretted that we have not done 
 the same. 
 
 34 
 
 XXXI. — NEW CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 The encircling ground, in native turf arrayed, 
 Is now by solemn consecration given 
 To social interests, and to favouring Heaven ; 
 And where the rugged Coirs 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, fiill soon, the lonely Sexton's spade 
 Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture small. 
 But infinite in grasp of weal and woe I 
 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. 
 
 XXXII. — 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 njouut, at every step, with living wiles 
 Instinct — to rouse the heart and lead the will 
 By a bright ladder to the world above. 
 Open your Gates, ye Monuments of love 
 Divine I thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill ! 
 Thou, stately York ! and Ye, whose splendours cheer" 
 Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear I 
 
 XXXIir. — INSIDE OF king's COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
 
 With ill matched aims the Architect who planned, 
 
 Albeit labouring for a scanty band 
 
 Of white robed Scholars only, this immense 
 
 And glorious VV(uk 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 sweetne.=s yieldeth proof 
 
 That they were born for imiDortality. 
 
 XXXIV. — THE SAME. 
 
 What awful perspective ! while from our sight 
 With gradual stealth the lateral v/indows hide 
 Their Portraitures, their stone vi^ork glimmers, dyed 
 In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. 
 Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, 
 Whoe'er ye be, that thus — yourselves unseen — 
 Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen. 
 Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night 1 
 But, from the arms of silence— list ! O list! 
 The music burstftth into second life ;— 
 The notes luxuriate— every stone is kissed 
 By sound, or ghost of scinid, in mazy strife; 
 Heart-thrilling strains, that cast before the ey«r 
 Of the devout a veil of ecs:a»\'. 
 
186 
 
 POEMS Oi? SENTIMENT AND KKFLECTION. 
 
 XXXV. — CONTINUED, 
 
 TiTEY dreamt not of a perislinbie home 
 
 Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear 
 
 Or provf'lling thought, to seek a refuge here; 
 
 Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam ; 
 
 Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing 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 havh also seen her breast 
 
 Filled with mementos, sntiate with its part 
 
 Of grateful England's overflowing Dead. 
 
 XXXVl. -EJACULATION. 
 
 Glory to God ! and to the Pow»^r who came 
 In filial duly, clothed with love diviue ; 
 That made his human tabernacle shine 
 Like Ocean burning with puvpureal flame; 
 Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its name 
 From roseate hues,* far kenned at morn and even, 
 In hours ol' peace, or when the storm is driven 
 
 Along the nether region's rugged frame ! 
 
 Earth prompts—Heaven urges; let us seek the lighf^ 
 
 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. 
 
 XXXVII. — CONCLUSION. 
 
 Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, 
 Toil within coil^ at noon-tide? For the VVord 
 Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored, 
 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 ' as 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 
 Stainc^d and polluted, brighten as they roll, 
 Till they h ve reached the Eternal City— built 
 For the perfected Spirits of the just! 
 
 * Some say that Monte Rosa takes its name from a belt of rock at its summit— a very unpoetical and 
 scarcely a probable supposition. 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 T. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 
 
 " Why, William, on that old grey stone, 
 Thus for the length of half a day, 
 Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
 And dream your time away ? 
 
 Where are your books ?— that light bequeathed 
 To beings else forlorn and blind I 
 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 Done 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 : 
 
 " Tne eye— it cannot choose but see ; 
 We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
 Our bodies feel, were'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 for ever 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 grey stone, 
 
 And dream my time away." 
 
 n. 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED ; 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Up! up ! my Friend, and quit your books; 
 Or surely you'll grow double : 
 Up! up! nvy Friend, and clear your looks: 
 Why all this toil and trouble? 
 
 The sun, above the mountainous head, 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow 
 
 Through all the long green fields has spread, 
 
 His first sweet evening yellow. 
 
 Books ! 'tis 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 these barren leaves; 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 That watches and receives. 
 
tOKMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION, 
 
 187 
 
 III. 
 WRITTEN IN GERMANY, 
 
 (©N ONB OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THK CENTURY. 
 
 The Reader must be apprised, that the Stoves in 
 North-Germany generally have the impression of a 
 galloping Horse upon thena, 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 his dreary dull plate of black metal. 
 
 See that Fly,— a disconsolate creature I 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 funibles about the domains 
 Which this comfortlesss oven environ ! 
 He cannot find out in what track lie must crawl, 
 Now back to the tiles, and now back to 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 Guid£. 
 
 How 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! 
 Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love; 
 As Idest 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 helpless Thing! 
 Thy life I would gladly sustain 
 Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds 
 Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through 
 
 the clouds, 
 ADd back to the forests again ! 
 
 IV. 
 LINES 
 
 Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands n'^ar 
 the Lake of Esrhwaite, on a desolate Part of the 
 Shore, commanding a beautiful Prospect. 
 
 Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands 
 Far from all human dwelling : what if here 
 No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb 1 
 What if the bee love not these barren boughs 1 
 Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 
 That break agaitist the shore, shall lull thy mind 
 By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 
 
 — Wlio he was 
 
 That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod 
 
 First covered o'er and 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 naturt- into a wild scene 
 
 Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
 
 A favoured Being, knovving no desire 
 
 Which Genius did not hallow,— 'gainst the taint 
 
 •Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, 
 
 And scorn,— against all enemies prepared, 
 
 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 fool of pride sustained his soul 
 
 In solitude.— Stranger I 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 'tis 
 
 Thou seesi, — and he would gaze till it became 
 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
 
 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 labours of benevolence, 
 
 The world, and human life, appeared a scene 
 
 Of kindred loveliness : then lie would sigh 
 
 With mournful joy, 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 I 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 
 I'he wise man to that scorn wiiich wisdom holda 
 Unlawful, ever. O be wi<er, Tiiou I 
 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 hearj. 
 
 V. 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior 1 Who is he 
 That every Man in arms should wish to be 1 
 
 It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
 
 Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
 
 Upon the plan that pleased his cliildit^h thought : 
 
 Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
 
 That makes the path before him always bright: 
 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 
 What knowledge can perforu), is diligent to learn; 
 
 Abides by tins resolve, and slops not thr^re. 
 
 But makes his moral being his prime care ; 
 
 Who, doonied to go in company with Pain, 
 
 And Fear, and Blood.-hed, miserable train ! 
 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
 
 !n face of these doth exercise a power 
 
 Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
 
 Controls th-em and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
 
 Of their bad influence, and their good receives: 
 
 By objects, which miyht force the soul to abate 
 
 Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; 
 
 Is placable — because occasions rise 
 
 So often that detnand such sacrifice ; 
 
 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
 
 As tempted more ; more able to endure, 
 
188 
 
 POEMg or SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 As more exposed to suffering and distress; 
 
 Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
 
 — 'Tis be whose law is reason ; who depends 
 
 Upon that law as on the best of fiiends; 
 
 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 fixes good on pood alone, and owes 
 
 To virtue every triumph thai he knows : 
 
 — Who, if he rise to station of comnmnd, 
 
 Rises by open means; and there will stand 
 
 On honourable terms, or else retire. 
 
 And in himself possess his own desire ; 
 
 Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
 
 Keeps faitliful with a singleness of aim; 
 
 And tlierefme does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
 
 For wealth, or honours, or for wordly state; 
 
 Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, 
 
 Like showers of mnniia, 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 ; 
 
 Bui wlio, 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 attiied 
 
 With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; 
 
 And, through the heal of conflict, keeps the law 
 
 In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 
 
 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 atul turbulence, 
 
 Is yet a Soul whose master-bi<is leans 
 
 To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 
 
 Sweet images ! which, wheres^oeVr he be, 
 
 Are at his heart; and such fidelity 
 
 It is his darling passion to rtpprove ; 
 
 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, 
 
 Pla\s, in the many gnnies of life, that one 
 
 Where what he njosi doih value must be won: 
 
 Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 
 
 Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
 
 Who, not content that foiiner worth stand fast, 
 
 Looks forward, persevering to the last. 
 
 From well to better, daily selfsurpapt: 
 
 Who, whether praise of him nmst walk the earth 
 
 For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, 
 
 Or He must go to dust without his fame. 
 
 And leave a dead unprofitable name. 
 
 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
 
 And. w! ile the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
 
 His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: 
 
 7 his iw the happy Warrior ; this is He 
 
 Whom every Man in arms should wish to be. 
 
 VL 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Art thou a Statesman, in the van 
 Of public business trained and bred? 
 —First learn to love one living man ; 
 Then mays't thou think upon the dead. 
 
 A lawyer art thou? — draw not nigh: 
 jGo, carry to some fitter place 
 TJie 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 1 
 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 1 One, all eyes, 
 Philosopher! a fingering slave, 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 Upon his mother's grave 1 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
 O turn aside, — and take, I pray, 
 Thai he below mny rest in peace, 
 That abject thing, thy 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-ruhbed soul can cling 
 Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small ; 
 A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
 An intellectual All in All ! 
 
 Shut close the door; press down the latch; 
 Sleep in thy intellectual crust ; 
 Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
 Near this unprofitable dust. 
 
 But who is He, with modest looks. 
 And clad in homely russet brown ? 
 He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music 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 thnt 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 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. 
 
 VH. 
 
 TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, 
 
 (an agriculturist,) 
 
 composed while we were labouring together 
 
 in his pleasure-ground. 
 
 Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his Lands, 
 And shaped these p'easant walks by Emont's side, 
 Thou art a tool of honour 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, 
 The toiling many and the resting few ; 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 189 
 
 Health, meekness, ardour, 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 
 In concord with his River raurmnrin«j by ; 
 Or in some silent field, while timid Spring 
 Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy. 
 
 Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid 
 Low in the darks-^me Cell thine own dear Lord ? 
 That Man will have a trophy, humble Spade ! 
 A trophy nobler than a Conqueror's sword. 
 
 If he be One that feels, with skill to part 
 False praise from true, or greater from the loss, 
 Tliee will he welcome to his hand and heart, 
 Thou monument of peaceful happiness ! 
 
 With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day, 
 His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate! 
 And, when thou art past service, worn away, 
 Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate. 
 
 His thrift thy usefulness will never scorn ; 
 An Hrir-loom in his cottage wilt thon be : — 
 High will he hang thpe up, and will adorn 
 His rustic chimney with the last of Thee ! 
 
 viir. 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, 
 AND SENT BY MY UTTLE BOY. 
 
 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 blepsing 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 Siiter! ('tis 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'll give to idleness. 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 
 Our livifig C^alcndar : 
 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 Love, now an 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 fifty years of reason : 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 The spirit of the season. 
 
 Some silent laws our hearts will make, 
 Whi h they shall long obey : 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to day. 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 About, below, above, 
 We'll frame the measure of our souls: 
 They ghall be turned 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'll give to idleness. 
 
 IX. 
 
 TO A \rOUNG LADY, 
 
 WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! 
 
 — There is a nest in a green dale, 
 
 A harbour and a hold, 
 
 Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shall see 
 
 Thy own delightful days and be 
 
 A light to young and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy, 
 
 And treading among flowers of joy, 
 
 Tijat at no season fade, 
 
 Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling, 
 
 Shalt shew us how divine a thing 
 
 A Woman may be made. 
 
 Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, 
 
 Nor leave thee when grey 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. 
 
 X. 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 
 
 I HEARD a thousand blended notes. 
 While in a grove f sate reclined. 
 In that sweei 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 tufis, in that sweet bower 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
 And 'lis my faiih that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 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. 
 
 From Heaven if ihis dclief be sent, 
 If such be Nature's holy plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What man has made of man % 
 
 XL 
 
 SIMON LEE, 
 
 the old HUNTSMAN, 
 WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED, 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
 An Old Man dwells, a little man, 
 'Tis said he once was tall. 
 
190 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 Full five-and-tliirty years he lived 
 A runniiij; Huntsman merry ; 
 And still the centre of iiis cheek 
 Is blooming as a 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 somflhing in the world 
 
 At which his heart rejoices ; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 
 He dearly loves their voices I 
 
 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 and he is sick; 
 His body, dwindled and awry. 
 Rests upon ancles 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. 
 
 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 frt-m the heath 
 Enclosed when he was stronger; 
 But vi^liat avails it now, the land 
 Which he can till no longer 1 
 
 Oft. working by her Husband's side, 
 
 Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; 
 
 For she, with sccnty cause for pride, 
 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 
 And, though you with your utmost skill 
 
 From labour could not wean them, 
 
 Alas! 'lis very little— all 
 
 Which 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 we;ik ancles swell. 
 
 My gentle Reader, I perceive 
 
 How patiently you've waited, 
 
 And now I fear that you expect 
 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O Reader ! had you in your mind 
 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 O gentle Reader ! you would find 
 
 A tale in every thing. 
 
 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'll 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 handj 
 So vain was his endeavour. 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have worked for ever. 
 
 " You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 
 
 Give me your too'," to him I said ; 
 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 
 Received my proffered aid. 
 
 I struck, and with a single blow 
 
 The tangled root I severed, 
 
 At which the poor Old Man so long 
 
 And vainly had endeavoured. 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought, 
 And thanks and praises seemed to run 
 So fast out of his heart, 1 thought 
 They never would have done. 
 —I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeda 
 With coldness still returning ; 
 Alas ! the gratitude of men 
 Hath oftener left me mourning. 
 
 XH. 
 
 THE WrSHING-GATE. 
 
 In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the high-way 
 leading to Ambleside, is a pate, which, lime out of 
 mind, has been called the wishing-gate, from a belief 
 that wishes formed or indulged there have a favour- 
 able issue. 
 
 Hope rules a land for ever green : 
 
 All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen 
 
 Are confident and gay ; 
 
 Clouds at her bidding disappear ; 
 
 Points she to aught 1 — 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 ^]^e heart, 
 How poor were human life I 
 
 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 turbu'ent. 
 
 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 Belov'd— who makes 
 
 All happiness her own. 
 
 Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
 The mystic stirrings that are here. 
 The ancient faith disclaim 1 
 The local Genius ne'er befriends 
 IDesires whose course in foil}' ends, 
 Whose just reward is shame. 
 
POEMS OP SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 191 
 
 Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
 If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, 
 Here crave an easier loi ; 
 If some iiave thirsted lo renew 
 A broken vow, or bind a true, 
 With firmer, holier 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 tliis favoured scene, 
 
 At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 
 
 Upon the Wishing-gate. 
 
 The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
 Ts man, thoiigh loth such help to seek, 
 Yet, passing, here might pause. 
 And yearn for insight to allay 
 Misgiving, while the crimson day 
 fn quietness withdraws ; 
 
 Or when the church-clock's knell profound 
 
 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 I 
 
 For herself she hath no fears,— 
 
 Him alone she sees and hears, — 
 
 Makes efforts and complainings, nor gives o'er 
 
 Until her Fellow sank, and re-appeared no more. 
 
 Xltl. 
 INCIDENT 
 
 CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURtTE DOG. 
 
 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, 
 
 Hath an 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 haih 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 over head! 
 
 Better fate have Prince and Swallow — 
 
 See them cleaving lo the sport I 
 
 Music 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 lo save. 
 
 From the brink her paws she stretches, 
 Very hands as you would say ! 
 And afflicting moans she fetches, 
 As he breaks the ice dway. 
 
 TRIBUTE 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOGi 
 
 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 ran. 
 
 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. 
 
 I grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past ; 
 And willingly have laid thee here at last: 
 For thou hadst lived till every thing that cheers 
 fn thee Jiad 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, 
 Found scarcely any where in like degree ! 
 For love, that comes to all — the holy sen.<?e. 
 Best gift of God — in thee was most intense; 
 A chain of heart, a feeling of the niiiid, 
 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 
 The 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, shalt thou be an honoured name ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 In the School of 
 
 is a tablet, on which are 
 
 inscribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the several 
 Persons who have been Schoolmasters there since 
 the Foundation of the school, with the Tim at which 
 they entered upon and quitted their Office. Oppo- 
 site to one of those Names the Author wrote the 
 following Lines. 
 
 If Nature, for a favourite Child, 
 In thee hath tempered so her clay, 
 That every hour thy hea:t 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 
 PJas 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 r 
 For Matthew a request I make 
 Which for himself he had not made. 
 
192 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
 Is silent as a standing pool ; 
 Far from the chimney's merry roar, 
 And murmar of the villajie 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 siiil and serious thought Vvent round, 
 It seemed as if he drank it up — 
 He felt with spirit so profound. 
 
 — Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! 
 Tijou happy Soul ! and can it be 
 ^'hat these two words of glittering gold 
 Are all that must remain of thee 7 
 
 XVI. 
 
 tHE TWO APRIL MORNiNGS. 
 
 Wb walked along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun ; 
 And Matthew stopped, I e looked, and said, 
 " The will of God be done I" 
 
 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 unnd 
 A day like tliis which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 " And just above yon slope of corn 
 Such colours, 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, coming to the church, 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 [ 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 churchyard Yew, 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 " 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 seejned 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, 
 Methiiiks, I see him stand, 
 As at ihat moment, with a bough 
 Of wilding in his hand. 
 
 xvir. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 We talked with open heart, and tongue 
 Atfectionate 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 matclr 
 This waier's pleasant tune 
 With some old Border-song, or Catch, 
 That suits a summer's noon ; 
 
 Or of the Church clocks and the chimes 
 Sing here oeneatii the shade. 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made 1" 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree ; 
 And thus the dear old man replied, 
 The gray-haired man of glee : 
 
 " Down to the vale this water steers^ 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 " And here, on this delightful day, 
 I cannot choose but think 
 How oft, 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 
 Thau what it leaves behind. 
 
 " The Blackbird in the summer trees. 
 The Lark upon 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 
 li beautiful and free : 
 
rOEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 193 
 
 *^ But we are pressed by heavy laws : 
 And often, glad no more, 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 VVe have been glad of yore. 
 
 *' If there be one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth, 
 Tile 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 Fove 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 ihee J" 
 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 ive glide ; 
 
 And through the wood we went ; 
 
 And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 
 He sang those witty rhymes 
 About the crazy old church clock, 
 And the bewildered chimes. 
 
 XVIII. 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. 
 
 How richly glows the water's breast 
 Before us, tinged with evening hues, 
 While, facing thus the crimson west, 
 The Boat her silent course [)ursues I 
 And see how dark the backward stream I 
 /, 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 colours shall endur6 
 Till peac€ 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-morrow ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS, 
 
 Composed upon the Thames near Richmond. 
 
 Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 
 O 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, 
 "Jrhai in thy waters may be seen 
 The image of a poet's heart, 
 Uo-w bright, how solemn, how serene! 
 
 25 
 
 Such as did once the Poet bless, 
 Who murmuring here a later* ditty, 
 Could find no refuge from distress 
 But in the milder grief of pity. 
 
 Now let us, as we float alon?, 
 For him suspend the dashing oar ; 
 And pray that never child of Song 
 May know that Poet's sorrows more. 
 How calm I how still! the only sound. 
 The dripping of the oar suspended ! 
 — The evening darkness gathers round 
 By virtue's holiest Powers attended. 
 
 XX. 
 
 If Thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, 
 
 Shine, Poet in thy place, and be content ! 
 
 The Star that from the zenith darts its beams, 
 
 Visible though it be to half the Earth, 
 
 Though half a sphere be conscious of its brightness; 
 
 Is 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 hnng, like twinkling winter lamps, 
 
 Among the branches ol the leafless trees. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 written in a blank leaf of macpherson's OSSIAN^' 
 
 Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, 
 
 Fragmeirts 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 vapours have I watched, that won 
 
 Prismatic colours from the sun ; 
 
 Nor felt a wish that Heaven would show 
 
 The image of its perfect bow. 
 
 What need, then, of these finished Strains 1 
 
 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) 
 
 Subsist thy digni!y to guard, 
 
 In concert with memorial claim 
 
 Of old gi-ey stone, and high-born name. 
 
 That cleaves to rock or pillared cave, 
 
 Where moans ihe blast, or beats the wave. 
 
 Let Truth, stern Arbitiess of all, 
 
 Interpret that Original, 
 
 And for presumptuous wrong- 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 
 
 * Collins's Ode on the Death of Thomson, the laW 
 written, I believe, of the poems which were published" 
 during his life-time. This Ode is also alluded to i« th^ 
 J3ext stanza. 
 
194 
 
 POEMS OF eKNTIMENT AND RKFLECTIOI?. 
 
 MusJEU?, stationed with his lyre 
 Supreme among the Elysian quire, 
 Is, for the dwellers upon earth, 
 IMute as a Lark ere morninp's birth. 
 Why grieve for tliese, though past awaj 
 The Music, and extinct the iiay 1 
 When thousands, by severer doom, 
 FnH 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 — (;lse Iiow might they rejoice ? 
 And friendless, by their own sad choice. 
 
 ITail, Uards of mightier grasp ! on you 
 r chiefly call, the chopen Few, 
 Who cast not off the acknowledged guide. 
 Who faltered not, nor turned aside ; 
 Whose lofty Genius could siirvive 
 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 limes 
 Produced you, nursed in various climes^ 
 Ve, when the orb of life had waned, 
 A plenitude 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 I 
 
 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-glenming through imperfect lore, 
 The Son of Fingal ; such was blind 
 Mseonides of ampler mind; 
 Such Milton, to the fountain head 
 Of Glory by Urania led! 
 
 XX[I. 
 VERNAL ODE. 
 
 «« Rerum Nalura tota est nasquam magis quam in 
 
 minimis." 
 
 Plin. JSTat. Hist. 
 
 1. 
 
 Beneath the concave of an April sky. 
 
 When all the fields with freshest green were digjit, 
 
 Appeared, in presence of that spiritual eye 
 
 That aids or sunersedes 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 w^eary cloud, in middle air 
 
 Ke hung,— then floated with angelic ease 
 
 (Softening that bright efl^ulgence by degrees) 
 
 Till he had reached a summit sharp and bare. 
 
 Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the noon-tide 
 
 breeze. 
 Upon tlie apex of that loftly 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 striftfs*^ 
 And, after prelude of unearthly soured 
 Poured through the echoing hiUs around, 
 He sang — 
 
 " No wintry desolations, 
 " Scorching blight or noxious dew, 
 " AflTect my native habitations ; 
 " Buried in glory, far beyound the iicop« 
 " Of man's inquiring gaze, but image to his h<ype 
 " (Alys ! how 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, 
 " Blendid in absolute perenity, 
 " And free from semblance of decline ; — 
 "Fresh as if Evening brought their natal hour : 
 " Her darknsps fplenriour pave, her silence power, 
 "To testify of Love and Grace divine, — 
 " And though to every draught of vital breath 
 "Renewed ihrouirhont the bonnds of earth or oceaa 
 " The melancholy gates of Death 
 " Respond with gympathetie motion ; 
 " Though all that feeds on ntther air^ 
 " Howe'er njagnificeni or fair, 
 " Grows but to perish, and intrust 
 " Its ruins to their kmdred dust ; 
 " Y^t, by the Almighty^s ever-during cffre, 
 "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 fnliaged head in cloud-like majesty, 
 " The shadow-casting race of Trees survive ; 
 "Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive 
 " Sweet Flowers ; — v/hat living eye hath viewe d 
 " Their myriads ? — endlessly renewed, 
 " Wherever strikes the sun's glad ray ; 
 " Wher'er the subtle waters stray ; 
 " Wherever sportive zephyrs bend 
 " Their course, or genial showers descend ! 
 " Mortals, rejoice I the very Angels quit 
 " Their mansions unsusceptible of ehan^, 
 " Amid your pleasant bowers to sit, 
 " And through your sweet vicissitudes to range I" 
 
 3. 
 
 O, 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 1 
 
 And was it granted to the simple ear 
 
 Of thy contented Votary 
 
 Such melody to hear ! 
 
 Him rather suits it, side by side with thee, 
 
 Wrapi)ed in a fit of pleasing indolence. 
 
 While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn tree. 
 
 To lie and listen, till o'er-drowsed sense 
 
 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 ; 
 
^OEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION, 
 
 195 
 
 "Where She, a statist prudent to confer 
 Upon tne public 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 whona all busy offices unite 
 With all tine functions that afford delight, 
 ^afe through the winter storm in quiet dwells ! 
 
 4. 
 And is She brought within the power 
 Of vision 1 — o'er this tempting flower 
 Hovering until the petals stay 
 Her flight, and take its voice away ! — 
 Observe each wing !— a tiny van I — 
 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 ; 
 ThR 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 drsert trembles. — Humming Bee! 
 Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown; 
 The seeds of malice were not sown ; 
 All creatures met in peace, from fierceness free, 
 And no pride blended with t' eir dignity. 
 —Tears had not broken from their source ; 
 Nor anizuish strayed from her Tartarian den; 
 The goldf'n years maintained a course 
 Not undiversified, though stnooth 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 ! 
 
 xxiir. 
 
 ODE TO LYCORIS. 
 May, 1817. 
 1, 
 
 An age hath been when Earth waa proud 
 
 Of lustre too intense 
 
 To be sustained ; and Mortals bowed 
 
 The front in self-defence. 
 
 Who tk"?), if Diau's crescent gleamed, 
 
 Or Cupid's sparkling arrow stre nied 
 
 While on the wing the Urchin played, 
 
 Could fearlessly approach the shade 1 
 
 — Enough for one soft vernal day. 
 
 If I, a Bard of erring time, 
 
 And nurtured in a tinkle clime, 
 
 May haunt this horned bav ; 
 
 Whose amorous wafer multiplies 
 
 The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes ; 
 
 And smoothes 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 I 
 
 2. 
 
 In youth we love the darksome lawn 
 
 Brushed by the owlet's wing .• 
 
 Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, 
 
 And Autunm to the Spring. 
 
 Sad fancies do we then affect, 
 
 In luxury of disrespect 
 
 To our own prodigal excess 
 
 Of too familiar happiness. 
 
 Lycoria (if such name befit 
 
 Thee, thee my life's colePtial 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. 
 
 3. 
 
 But something whispers to my heart 
 
 That, as we downward tend, 
 
 Lycoris ! life requires an art 
 
 To which our souls must bend : 
 
 A skil' — to balance and supply ; 
 
 And. ere tiie flowing fount be dry, 
 
 As soon it must, a sense to sip, 
 
 Or drink, with no fastidious lip. 
 
 Frank greeting^ then, to that blithe Guest 
 
 Diffusing smiles o'er land and sea 
 
 To aid the vernal Deity 
 
 Whose home is in 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 ; 
 
 Si ill, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, 
 
 Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul I 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Enough of climbing toil ! — Ambition treads 
 
 Here, as mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough, 
 
 Or slippery even to peril I and each step, 
 
 As we for most uncertain recompense 
 
 Mount tow'rd the empire of the fickle clouds. 
 
 Each weary step, dwarfing the world below, 
 
 Induces, for its old familiar sights, 
 
 Unacceptable feelings of conteujpt, 
 
 With wonder mixed— tiiat Man could e'er be tied,^ 
 
 In anxious bondage, to such nice array 
 
 And formal fellowship of petty things! 
 
 — Oh I 'tis 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 darknes= seems to guard the mouth 
 Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are fringed 
 With flaccid threads of ivy, in the slilh 
 And sultry air. depending motionless. 
 Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered 
 (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, 
 rie gained whate'er a regal mind mi.ht ask, 
 Or need, of council breathed through lips divine. 
 
 Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave 
 Protect us, there decinhering 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 tow'rd 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, 
 
1% 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RKFLEOTION. 
 
 And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend ! 
 We t;«ro 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 ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 FIDELITY, 
 
 A BARKING sound the Sliepherd hear«, 
 
 A cry an of a Dog or Fox ; 
 
 He halts— and searches with his eyes 
 
 Among the scattered rocks: 
 
 An<l now at distance can discern 
 
 A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
 
 And instantly a dog is seen, 
 
 Qlancing through that covert green. 
 
 The Dog is net 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 1 
 
 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, 
 
 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 cioak. 
 In symphony austere ; 
 Thither the rainbow comes— the rloud — 
 And mists that spread the flying shroud; 
 And sunbeaujs : and the sounding blast, 
 Tha*, if it could, would hurry past ; 
 But that enormous barrier binds it fast. 
 
 Not free from boding thoughts, a while 
 The Shepherd stood : then makes his way 
 Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones, 
 As quick'y as he may ; 
 Nor far had 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 ha(^ fallen, that place of fear I 
 
 At length upon the Sl<epherd'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 whoso sake 
 
 This lamentable Tale t 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. 
 
 * Tarn is a small Mere or Lake, mostly high up in 
 ^^Q mountains. 
 
 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. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE GLEANER. 
 (suggested by a picture.) 
 
 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 rose-bud from the thorn, 
 
 I saw ; — and Fancy sped 
 To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air. 
 Of bliss that grows without a care. 
 Of happiness that ne.ver flies — 
 How can it where love never dies 7 
 Of promise whispering, 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 colours, that should breed 
 Such rapture, nor want power to feed ; 
 For had thy charge been idle flowers, 
 Fair Damsel, o'er my capii%'e mind. 
 To truth and sober reason blind, 
 'Mid that soft air, those long-lo^t bowers, 
 The sweet illusion might have hung, for hours. 
 
 — Thanks to this telltal*^ sheaf of corn. 
 That touchingly bespeaks thne born 
 Life's daily tasks with them to share 
 Who, whether from their lowly bed 
 They rise, or rest the weary head, 
 P(nider the blessing they entreat 
 From Heaven, and feel what they repeat, 
 While they give utterance to the prayer 
 That asks for dailv bread. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 TO THE LADY 
 
 ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THB 
 ERECTION OF CHAPRL, WESTMORELAND. 
 
 Blest is ihis 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 wreathes, 
 No rampart's stern defence require. 
 Nought 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 D^-ll 
 Of Nightshade* haply yet may tell) 
 
 * Bekangs Ghyll— or the Vale of Nightshade— ia 
 which stands St. Mary's Abbey, in Low Furness., 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTtON. 
 
 197 
 
 ♦Thee kindred aspirations moved 
 To build, within a Vale beloved, 
 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 ! 
 
 Well may the Villagers rejoice ! 
 
 Nor heat, nor cold, nor weaiy ways, 
 
 Will be a hinderance 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 Sabbaih-day. 
 
 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 'ake with gentle shock 
 
 At evening, when the ground beneath 
 
 Is ruffled o'er with cells of Death; 
 
 Where hnppy Generations lie, 
 
 Here tutored for Eternity. 
 
 Lives there a Mnn whose sole delights 
 Are trivini pomp and city noise, 
 Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 
 What every natural heart enjoys? 
 Wlio never caught a noon-tide drearn 
 From murmur of a running stream ; 
 Could strip, for aught the prospect yields 
 To him, their verdure from the fields ; 
 And tnke 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 indiflTerence to pride, 
 And still be not unblest — comp'ared 
 With him who grovels, self-debarred 
 From all that lies within the scope 
 Of holy faith and Christian hope; 
 Yea, strives for others to bedim 
 The glorious Light loo pure for him, 
 
 Alas I that such perverted zeal 
 
 Should spread on Britain's favoured ground I 
 
 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 haih led 
 Down to their " dark opprobrious den," 
 Is all too rough for Thee to tread. 
 Softly as morning vapours glide 
 Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, 
 Should move the tenor of his song 
 Wlio ra«ans to Charity no wrong ; 
 
 Whose otrering 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 ! 
 
 O 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 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 Sirea. 
 
 ur 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 notice- 
 able in the ancient ones was determined, in earh par- 
 ticular case, by the point in tlie horizon, at which 
 the sun rose upon the day of the saint to whom the 
 church was dedicated. The?* observances of our 
 Ancestors, and the causes of them, are the subject 
 of the following stanzas. 
 
 When in the antique age of bow and spear 
 And feudal rapine clothed wiih iron mail, 
 Came Ministe's 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 coucli the wished-for Sun uprose. 
 
 He rose, and straight — as ly divine command, 
 They who had waited for that sign to trace 
 Their work's foundation, gave with careful hand 
 To the high Altar its determined place; 
 
 Mindful of Him who in the Orient born 
 There lived, and on the cross his life resigned, 
 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, 
 'JMid these more awful feelings, to infuse 
 The sweet and natural hopes that shall not die, 
 Long as the Sun his gladsome course renews. 
 
 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 meek devotion, which erewhile it gave, 
 That symbol of the dayspring from on high. 
 Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave. 
 
 XXIX. 
 THE FORCE OF PRAYER ;* 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. 
 
 A TRADITION. 
 
 " W^hat is g-ood for a bootless bene ?" 
 
 Wiih these dark words begins my Tale; 
 
 And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring 
 
 When Prayer is of no avail 1 
 
 * See the White Doe of Rylstone, ante. 
 
198 
 
 •** What is g'ood for a bootless bene ?" 
 
 The Falconer to the Lady said ; 
 
 And she made answer " endless sorrow !" 
 
 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 I 
 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 1 
 
 Me 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 deep, unspeaking, sorrow: 
 Wharf shall be to piiyin? hearts 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 
 
 If for a Lover the Lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 
 From death, and from the pa.'^sion 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 ; 
 Antl the Root of this delightful Tree 
 Was in her Husband's grave ! 
 
 Long, long in drrkness did she sit, 
 And i.er tirst words were, " Let there be 
 In Bolton, on the Field of Wharf, 
 A stately Priory 1" 
 
 The stately Priory was reared ; 
 And Wharf, as he moved along. 
 To Matins joined a mournful voice. 
 Nor failed at Even song. 
 
 And the Lndy prayed in heaviness 
 That looked not tor relief! 
 But slowly did her succour come, 
 And a patience to her grief. 
 
 Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart 
 7'hat shall lack a timely end, 
 If but to God we turn, and ask 
 Of Him to be our Friend ! 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT i.JfD REFLECTION. 
 
 XXX. 
 A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATEON^ 
 
 OR, 
 
 CANUTE AND ALFRED, 
 
 ON THE SKA-SHORE. 
 
 The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair, 
 
 Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty. 
 
 To aid a covert purpose, cried — " O ye 
 
 Approaching waters of the deep, that share 
 
 With this green isle my fortunes?, come not where 
 
 Your Master's throne is set!"— Absurd decree! 
 
 A mandate uttered to the foaming sea, 
 
 Is to its motion less than 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 (truth more worthy to be known) 
 
 From that time forth did for his brows disown 
 
 The ostentatious symbol of a Crown ; 
 
 Esteeming earthly royalty 
 
 Contemptible and 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 \^ it mind unbroken : 
 " My faithful Follrwers, 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 slugsish pools where ships are pent: 
 And now, its task performed, the Flood stands still 
 At the green base of many an inland hill. 
 In placid beauty and sublime contf^ntl 
 Such the repose that Sage and Hero fi'id ; 
 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." 
 
 XXXL 
 
 " ^ LITTLE onward lend thy guiding hand. 
 
 To these dark strps, a litt'e further onP'' 
 
 — What trick of memory to my voice hath brought 
 
 This mournful itera,ion ? For though Time, 
 
 Tile Cotiqueror, crov^^ns the Conquered, on this broW 
 
 Planting his favourite silver diadem. 
 
 Nor he, nor minister of his — intent 
 
 To run before him, hath enrolled me yet, 
 
 Though not unnnnaced, nmong those who lean 
 
 Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight. 
 
 — O my Antigone, 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 fl(jwer to flower supported ; but to curb 
 
 Thy nympih-like step swift-bounding o'er the lawn, 
 
 Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge 
 
 Of foaming torrent. — From thy orisons 
 
 Come forth; and, while the morning air is yet 
 
POEMS OP SENTIMENT AND REFLECTIOI*. 
 
 199 
 
 Transparent as the soul of innocent youth, 
 
 Let rae, thy happy Guide, now point thy way, 
 
 And now precnde thee, winding to and fro, 
 
 Till we by perserveance gain the top 
 
 Of some smooth ridge, whose hrink precipitous 
 
 Kindles intense de.-ire for powers withheld 
 
 From this corporeal frame; whereon who stands. 
 
 Is seiz«>d wiih strong incitement to pnsh forth 
 
 His arms, as swimmers nse, and plunge — dread thought 
 
 For pastime plungp — into the " abrnpt ahyss," 
 
 Where Ravens spread their phimy Vans, at ease ! 
 
 And >Pt more gladly thee would I conduct 
 Through woods and spacious forests, — to behold 
 There, how the original of human art, 
 Hnaven-prompt' d Nature, measures and^ erects 
 H«r temples, fearless for the stately work. 
 Though waves in every breeze its high-arched roof, 
 And storms the pillars rock. But we such schools 
 Of reverpntiMJ awe will chiefly seek 
 In th(j still summer noon, wlrie beams of light, 
 Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond 
 Traceably gliding through the dtist recall 
 To mind the living presences of Nuns ; 
 A centle, pen-Mvo, white- robed sisterhood, 
 Whose saintly radiance mitigates the gloom 
 Of those terrestrial fabrics, where they serve. 
 To Christ, the Sun of Rishteousness, espoused. 
 
 Now also shall the page of classic lore. 
 To these glad eyes from bond aire freed, again 
 Lie open ; and the book of Holy Writ, 
 Affain unfolded, passage clear shall yield 
 To heights more g!orioi]s still, and into shades 
 More awful, where, advancing hand in hand. 
 We may be taucht, O Darling of my care ! 
 To calm the affections, elevate the soul, 
 And consecrate our lives to truth and love. 
 
 XXXIl. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1819. 
 
 The sylvan slopes with corn-cTad 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. 
 
 And, sooth to say, yon voeai 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, from some uneasy seat 
 In N;iture'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. 
 
 xxxiir. 
 
 UPON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 Departing Summer hath assumed 
 An aspect tenderly illumed, 
 The gentlest look of S()ring ; 
 That calls from yonder leafy sliade 
 Un faded, yet prepared to fade, 
 A liu)ely carolling. 
 
 No faint :uid he.^irating trill, 
 Such tribute as to winter chill 
 The lonely Redbreast pays ! 
 Clear, loud, and lively is the din, 
 From social warblers gathering ia 
 Their harvest of sweet lays. 
 
 Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
 
 Me, conscious that my leaf is sere. 
 
 And yellow on the boush : — 
 
 Fall, rosy garlands, from niy 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 nndiscordatit themes ; 
 
 Which, haply, kindred souis may prize 
 
 Not less than vernal ecstasies, 
 
 And passion's feverish dreams. 
 
 For deathless powers to verse belong, 
 
 And they like Deuji-gods are strong 
 
 ( n whom the Muses smile ; 
 
 But some their function have disclaimed^ 
 
 Best pleased wiih 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 palc^-. 
 
 While all-too-daringly the veil 
 
 Of Nature was withdrawn ! 
 
 Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
 When the live chords Alcaeus smote. 
 Inflamed by sense of wrong ; 
 Woe I 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 ^Eolian 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 ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. 
 
 Where Towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds- 
 O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds; 
 
soo 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION* 
 
 And temples, doomed to milder change, unfold 
 A new magnificence that vies with old ; 
 Firm in its piisiirie majesty hath stood 
 A votive r-olumn, spared by fire and flood : — 
 And, though the passions of Man's fretful race 
 Have never ceased to e«idy 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. 
 H'sloric figures round the shaft embost 
 Ascend, with lineaments in air not lost: 
 Still as he turns, the charmed Spectator pees 
 Group winding after group With dream-like ease; 
 Triumphs in sunbright gratitude displayed, 
 Or softly stealing into modest shade. 
 ' — So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine 
 Some lofiy pIrn tree, mounts the dniiiig vine ; 
 The woddbine so, with spiral grace, and breathes 
 Wide-spreading odours from her flowery wreaths. 
 
 Borne by the Muse from rills in Bhf-pherds' earg 
 Murmuring but one smooth story for all years, 
 I gladly connnune 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 rhief whose conquering sword 
 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 sublime — 
 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 Pontitr, Trajan here the Gods implores. 
 There greets an Embassy from Indian shores ; 
 Lo! he haranguts 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* ; — yet, high or low, 
 None bleed, and none lie prostrate but the foe ; 
 In every Roman, through all turns of fate, 
 Is Roman digniiy inviolate; 
 Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides, 
 Supports, adorns, and over all presides ; 
 Distingnished only by inherent State 
 From honoured Instruments tliat round him wait; 
 Rise as be 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 
 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 I O folly of the Wise I 
 
 Where now the haughty Empire that was spread 
 With such fond hope 7 her very speech is dead; 
 Yet glorious Art the sweep of Time defies, 
 And Trajan still, through various enterprise, 
 Mounts, in this fine illusion, tow'rd 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. 
 
 ♦ Here and infra, see Forsyth. 
 
 XXXV. 
 DION. 
 
 (SE^ PLUTARCH.)' 
 1. 
 
 Fair is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing' 
 
 O'er hreezeless water, on Locarno'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 wingg' 
 
 Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs 
 
 To which, on some unruflied morning, clingg 
 
 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 Q,ueen of night 
 
 Showering down a silver light. 
 
 From heaven, upon her chosen favourite ! 
 
 2. 
 So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace, 
 Where'er he turned, a natural grace 
 Of haughtiness without pretence. 
 And to unfold a siill magnificence. 
 Was princely Dion, in the power 
 And beauty of his happier hour. 
 Nor less the homage that was seen to wait 
 On Dion's virtues, when 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. 
 
 3- 
 Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous day! 
 Each croviMied 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, corslet clad ! 
 Pure transport undisturbed by doi.bt or fear 
 The Gazers feel ; and, rushing to the plain, 
 Salute those Strang^erS as a holy train 
 Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) 
 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 ! 
 
 4. 
 Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and mourn 
 Illyssus, bending o'er thy classic urn ' 
 Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
 Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades* 
 
POEMS OP SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 For hint who to divinity a5pired, 
 Not on tlie breath of popular applause, 
 But ihronjrh 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) 
 Wliich Dion learned to measure with delight ; 
 But lie 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. 
 Whfnce doubts that came too late, and wishw 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 1 that fearful 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 swppt the rharble floor, — 
 Like Anster whirling to and fro, 
 His force on Caspian foam to try; 
 Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
 That skins the plains of Th' ssaly, 
 Or when aloft on Mtenalus he stops 
 His fliglit, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops I 
 
 201 
 
 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 involved 
 
 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 enda."' 
 
 5. 
 
 So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, 
 The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed, 
 Sweepingr — vehemently sweeping — 
 No pause admitted, no design avowed 
 " Avannt, inexplicable Guest ! — avannt," 
 Hxclaimed the Chieftain — " Let me rather see 
 The cnrnnal that coiling vipers make ; 
 The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, 
 And the Ions tr'in of doleful pageantry 
 Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt ; 
 Who, while they strugjile from the scourge to flee, 
 Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, 
 And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have 
 borne 1" 
 
 6. 
 
 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 Implement 
 
 Obeys a mystical intent ! 
 
 Tour Minister would brush away 
 
 The spots that to my soul adhere ; 
 
 But should she labour night and day, 
 
 They will not, cannot disappear ; 
 
 Whence angry perturbations,— and that look 
 
 Which no Philosophy can brook ! 
 
 7. 
 in-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built 
 Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 
 VVho, through the portal of one moment's guilt. 
 Pursue thee with their deadly aim! 
 matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 
 Of monstrous crime ! — that horror-striking blade, 
 I>rawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid 
 The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 
 Simdder'd the walls— the marble city wept— 
 And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ; 
 ^ut in calm peace the appointed Victim slept, 
 
 -A* he had fallen in magnanimity: 
 
 96 
 
 XXXVI. 
 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. 
 
 O ! 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-olf murmurs listening. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 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 ; 
 From vain temptations dost set free ; 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity I 
 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 I without reproach or blot; 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 Long may the kindly impulse last! 
 But Thou, if they should totter, teach them to Btan(f 
 fast ! 
 
 Serene vvnil 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 ^rced : 
 
 Yetfmd that other strength, according to their nee^/ 
 
202 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried ; 
 
 No pport of every random gust, 
 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust: 
 
 And oft, vvlien in my heart was heard 
 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
 
 But thee I now would s«rve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul, 
 
 Or strong comi)unclion in me wrought, 
 
 J supplicate for thy control ; 
 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 
 1 feel the weight of chancnp-desires : 
 
 My hopes no more must cliange 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 any thing so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds ; 
 And Fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Tliou dost preserve the Stars from wrong • 
 And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are 
 fresh and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power I 
 
 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-sacriilce ; 
 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 
 And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live! 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE, 
 
 I. 
 
 THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 
 
 The class of Beggars, to which the Old Man here de 
 scribed belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It 
 consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm per- 
 sons, who confined themselves to a stated round in 
 their neighbourhood, and had certain 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 at ease. The aged Man 
 
 Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone 
 
 That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 
 
 All white with fiour, 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 tlie ground : and the small mountain birds. 
 
 Not venturing yet to peck their dt'stined meal, 
 
 Approached withiii 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, tliat for him 
 The sauntering Horseman traveller does not throw 
 With 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 
 Tlie 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 hitn that he may pass. 
 The Post-boj'', when his rattling wheels overtake 
 The aged Beggar in the woody lane. 
 Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus warned 
 The old Man does not change his courso, the Boy 
 Turns with less noisy wheels to tJje roadside. 
 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 turutd, and, as he moves along, 
 
 Thfi/ move along the ground ; and, evermore, 
 
 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 al ihis^prospect. Thus, from day to day. 
 
 Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, 
 
 [le 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 have 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 Waggon leaves behind.. 
 
 But deem not this Man useless. — Statesmen ! ye 
 Wh(» 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-.«!Woln, while in your pride ye contemplate 
 Vour talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not 
 A burthen of the earth ! 'Tis Nature's law 
 That none, the meanest of created things, 
 Of forms created the most rile and brute, 
 The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
 Divorced from good — a .«?pirit and pulse of good, 
 A life and soul, io every mode of being 
 Inseparably linked. While thus he creeps 
 From door to door, the Villagers in him 
 Behold a record which togetber binds 
 Past deeds and offices of charity, 
 Else unremembeied, and so keeps ah've 
 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, 
 Hnmlets 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 
 
PDEMS REFEIRRING TO THE PERIOO OF OLD AGE. 
 
 203 
 
 To virtue and true goodness. Some there are, 
 By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
 And meditative, authors of delight 
 And happiness, which lo the end of time 
 Will live, and sprend, and kindle: even such minds 
 In childhood, from this solitary Being, 
 Or from like Wanderer, haply have received 
 (A thing more precious far than all that books 
 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 al 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 v/bo live 
 Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
 Of their own kindred ; — all behold in him 
 A silent mo'^itor, which on their minds 
 Must needs impress a trnnsitory thought 
 Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
 Of each recalling his peculiar boons. 
 His charters and exemptions ; and, perchance, 
 Though he to no one cive the fortitude 
 And circumspection needfnl to preserve 
 His present blessings, and to husband up 
 The respite of th° season, he, at least, 
 And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt. 
 
 Yet further ^Tany, I believe, there are 
 
 Who live a life of virtuons decency. 
 Men who can hear The Decalogue and feel 
 Nn splf-reproich : who of the moral law 
 Established in the land where they abide 
 Are strict ob=ervers : and not neglicent. 
 In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, 
 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 
 Prnise be to such, and to their slumbers peace ! 
 — But of the poor man ask, the abject poor; 
 Go, and demnnd of him, if there be here 
 In this cold nb-tinence from evil deeds, 
 And t' ese inevitable charities, 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human soul ? 
 No— Man is dear to Mnn ; the poorest poor 
 Lnff for some moments in a weary life 
 When they can know and feel that they have been, 
 ^ ThPinselves, the fathers and the dea'ers-ont 
 
 Of some small blessings* have been T^ind to such 
 
 As needed ^kindness, for this single cause, 
 
 That we have all of us one human heart. 
 
 —Such i>1eas\]re is to oup kind Being known, 
 
 Mv Neighhonr, when with punctual care, each week 
 
 Duly as Friday conies, though pressed herself 
 
 By her own wants, sh-e from her store of meal 
 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
 
 Of this old Men-dicant, and, from her door 
 
 Returning with exhilarated heart, 
 
 Sita 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 
 ^he -tide of things has borne him, he appears 
 To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 Unbhimed, uninjured 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 Villagers 
 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 anxiousness 
 Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
 
 May never House, misnamed oflNDUSTRY, 
 Make him a captive ! for that pent-up din, 
 Those life-consun\ing sounds that clog the air, 
 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 on the 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 when he will, sit down 
 Beneath the trees, or by the 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 I 
 
 IE. 
 
 THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 
 
 'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined. 
 The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, 
 And the small critic wielding his delicate pen. 
 That I sing of old Adara, the pride of old men. 
 
 He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town ; 
 His staff is a sceptre — his gray hairs a crown ; 
 Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak 
 Of the unfaded rose still enlivens his cheek. 
 
 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, — 'mid che jo/ 
 Of the fields, he collected that bh om, when a Bo ; 
 There fashioned that countenance, which, in 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 indolent Wight, 
 The quiet of nature was Adam's deiight. 
 
 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 sea=on of sorrow, 
 His means are run out,^- he must beg, or must borrow . 
 
 To the neighbours 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 
 
 roil! ds. 
 Knocked here— and knocked there, pounds still adding 
 
 to pounds. 
 
 He paid what he could with this 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 framo 
 A judgement too harsh of the sin and the shame ; 
 
204 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 
 
 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— 
 
 Wiih his gray hairs he went from the brook and the 
 
 green ; 
 And there, with small wealth but his legs and his 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 ; 
 You would say that each hair of his bcatd was alivei 
 And hie fingers are biigy 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 Strang«r is he. 
 Like one whose own Country's far over the sea; 
 And Nature, while through the great City ho 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 parchmg 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 fruit and her 
 
 flowers, 
 Did Adam will smile at the pains that have made 
 Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 
 
 'Mid coaches and chariots, a Waggon of straw, 
 Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw; 
 With a thousand soft pidtures 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 the Waggon, 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 repair, — 
 If you pasf by at morning, you'll 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 1 hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be. 
 Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 There is » Flower, the Lesser Celandine, 
 That phrinka, like many more, from cold and rain ; 
 And, the first moment that the sun may shine, 
 Bright as ihe sun itself, 'tis out again! 
 
 When hailstones have been falling, swnrm on swarm, 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees distressed 
 Dft have I seen it muffled up from harm, 
 |n close BBlf-shelter, like a Thing at rest. 
 
 But lately, one rough day, this Flower t rssted 
 And recognised it, though an altered Form, 
 Now standing forth an offering to the Blast, 
 And buffeted at will by Rain and Storm. 
 
 I slopped, and said with inly-muttered voice, 
 " It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold 5 
 This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
 But its necessity in being old. 
 
 The suhshine 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. 
 
 To be a Prodigal'e Favourite— then, worse truth, 
 A Miser's Pensioner — behold our lot ! 
 O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth 
 Age might but take the things Youth needed not I 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE TWO THIEVES ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE. 
 
 O NOW that the genius of J?ewick 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 magical hand ! 
 Book-learning and books should be banished the land : 
 And, for hunger and thirst, and such troublesome calls. 
 Every Ale-house should then hare a feapt 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 .«easons of fair and foul weather 
 Between tJiem, and both go a-stealing together. 
 
 AVith 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 cunning and sly, 
 'Tis a look which at thi.s 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 wirea 
 Of manifold pleasures and many desires: 
 And what if he cherished his purse ? 'Twas no more 
 Than treading a path trod by thousands before. 
 
 'Twas 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 hag brought his gray hairs. 
 
 The pair sally forth band m hand : ere the sun 
 Has peered o'er the beeches, tlieir 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 deliberate tread, 
 And each, in his turn, is both leader and led ; 
 And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles, 
 Every face in the village is dimpled with smile*. 
 
 Neither checked by the rich nor the needy they roam ; 
 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 rendered for one. 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 205 
 
 Old Man ! whom so oft I with pity have eyed 
 I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side : 
 Long yet mays't thou live ! for a teacher we see 
 That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. 
 
 V. 
 ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 The little hedgerow birds, 
 That peck along the road, regard him not. 
 
 He travels on, and in his face, hia 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 though!.— He ii insensibly subdued 
 
 To settled quiet: he is one by whom 
 
 All elfort seems forgotten ; one to whom 
 
 Long patience hath such mild composure 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 behold 
 
 With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 I. 
 
 EPITAPHS. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA. 
 1. 
 
 Perhaps some needful service of the Stare 
 
 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 fragran-e breathed.*— O human life, 
 
 That never art secure from dolorous change ! 
 
 Behold a high injunction suddenly 
 
 To Arno's side conducts him, and he charmed 
 
 A Tuscan audience : but full soon was called 
 
 To the perpetual silence of the grave. 
 
 ftfourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood 
 
 A Champion steadfast and invincible, 
 
 To quell the rage of literary War 1 
 
 n. 
 
 Thou who movest onward with a mind 
 Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste ! 
 'Twill 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 Shepherd 
 Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous Flock. 
 Much did I watch, much laboured, nor had power 
 To escape from many and strange indignities; 
 Was smitten by the great ones of the World, 
 But did not fall ; for Virtue braves all shocks, 
 Upon herself resting immoveably. 
 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, Re.ider, learn from this my fate— how false, 
 How treacherous to her promise, is the World, 
 And trust in God— to whose eternal doom 
 Must bend the sceptred Potentates of Earth. 
 
 * Ivi vivea ciocondo e i suoi pension 
 Erano tutti rose. 
 
 The Translator had not skill to come nearer to his 
 original. 
 
 IIL 
 
 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 fi^shing 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. 
 
 1, who on Shipboard lived from earlipst youth, 
 
 fould represent the countenance horrible 
 
 Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage 
 
 Of Auster and Bootes. Forty years 
 
 Over the well-steered Galleys did [ rule : — 
 
 From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars, 
 
 Rises no mountain 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 prido 
 
 Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. 
 
 What noble pomp and frequent have not I 
 
 On regal decks beheld! yet in ihe end 
 
 ! learnt 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 Tf.mpest — and, the voyage o'er, 
 
 Death is the quiet haven of us all. 
 
 ^f more of my condition ye would know, 
 
 Savona was my birrh-place, and I sprang 
 
 Of noble parents : sixty years and three 
 
 Lived I then yielded to a slow disease. 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 
 To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt 
 In thy appointed way, and bear in mind 
 How fleeting and how frail la human life I 
 
«06 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 V. 
 
 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, 
 
 PozzoBONNELLi 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 inppired a hope 
 
 That greatly cheered his Country : to his Kin 
 
 He promised comfort ; and the flattering thoughts 
 
 His Friends had in their fondness entertained,* 
 
 He £utft;red not to languish or decay. 
 
 Now is there not good reason to break forth 
 
 Into a passionate lament ? — O Soul I 
 
 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 memovy 
 
 Of that delightful fragrance which was once 
 
 From thy mild manners, quietly exhaled. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi supplicates 
 
 That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him 
 
 Here laid in n.ortal darkness, wouidst prefer 
 
 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 sutfice : 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 on the top of Pindus. — Finally, 
 
 Himself above each lower thought uplifting, 
 
 His ears he closed to listen to the Song 
 
 Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old ; 
 
 And fixed his Pindus upon Lebanon. 
 
 A blessed Man ! who of protracted days 
 
 Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep ; 
 
 But truly did He live his life.— Urbino, 
 
 Take pride in him ! — O Passenger, farewell ! 
 
 V^iL 
 
 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 I 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. 
 
 * In justice to the Author, I subjoin the original: — 
 
 , . e degli amici 
 
 JNon lasciava languire i bei pensioi. 
 
 Sad was I, even to pain deprest, 
 Importunante and 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 tnust die who is their stay, 
 Their glory disappear. 
 
 A Power is passing from the earth 
 To breathless Nature's dark abyss ; 
 But when the Mighty pass away 
 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 1 
 
 VIII. 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN, NOVEMBER 13. 1814, ON A BLANK LEAF IN A 
 COPY OF THE author's POEM " THE EXCURSION," 
 UPON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF THE LATK VICAR 
 OF KENDAL. 
 
 To public notice, with reluctance strong, 
 
 Did I deliver this unfinished song; 
 
 Vet for one happy issue ; — and I look 
 
 With self-congratulation on the Book 
 
 Which pious, learned Murfitt saw and read ; — 
 
 Upon my Thoughts his saintly Spirit fed ; 
 
 He conned the new-born Lay with grateful 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, 
 
 IX. 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OFPF.ELE CASTLE, IN A STORH, 
 PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. 
 
 I WAS thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile ! 
 Four summer wteks 1 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 : 
 1 could iiave 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 tu smile ; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 
 
 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. 
 
 * Importuna e grave sal ma. 
 
 Michael Angelo 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 207 
 
 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 faiih, a trust, that could not be betrayed. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more; 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 
 A deep distress hath humanised 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 ; 
 Thi?, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the 
 
 Friend, 
 If he had lived, of Ilim whom I deplore. 
 This Work of thine I blame not, but commend; 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 'tis a passionate Work I— yet wise and well ; 
 Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
 
 That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell, 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
 And this huge castle, standing here sublime, 
 
 1 love to Pf^e the look with which it braves, 
 Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time, 
 
 The lightning, the tierce wind, and trampling waves. 
 
 Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, 
 Housed irj a dream, at disiance from the Kind ! 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
 Is to be pitied; for 'lis surely blind. 
 
 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. 
 
 X. 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 SwKET Flower f belike one day to have 
 
 A place upon thy Poet's ffrave, 
 
 I welcome thee once more : 
 
 But He, who was on land, at sea, 
 
 My Brother, too, in loving thee, 
 
 Althoueh 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 brVng 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 ;— 
 From her long course returns :— 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 CJrew. 
 
 Ill-fated Vessel !— ghastly shock ! 
 
 — At length delivered from the rock, 
 
 The deep she hath regained ; 
 
 And through the stormy night they steer ; 
 
 Labouring for life, in hope and fear, 
 
 Towards a safer shore — how near, 
 
 Yet not to be attained ! 
 
 " Si'ence !" the brave Commander cried; 
 To that calm word a shriek replied, 
 It was the last death-shriek. 
 — A few appear by morning light, 
 Preserved upon the tall mast's height; 
 Oft in my Soul I see that sight ; 
 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 clainjs 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 neighbourhood of grove and field 
 
 To Hitn 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.* 
 
 XL 
 
 " Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone 
 Wi' the auld moone in hir arme." 
 
 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, Perci/s Reliques . 
 
 Once I could hail (howe'er serene the oky) 
 
 The Moon re-entering her monthly round, 
 
 No faculty yet given me to espy 
 
 The dusky Shape within her arms imbound, 
 
 That thin memento of efi'ulgence lost 
 
 Which some have named her Predecessor'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 kepi 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 splendour round a leafy wood ; 
 But not a hint from under-ground, 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 [ looked whom jocund Fairies love, 
 Cynthia, who puts the little stars to flight,. 
 
 * See p. 58. 
 
3C8 
 
 EPITAFfiS AMD ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 And by that thinning magnifies the great, 
 For exaltation of her sovereign state. 
 
 And when I learned to mark the Spectral-sliape 
 As each new Moon obeyed the call of Time, 
 If gloom fell on me, swifi was my escape ; 
 Such happv 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'stmy 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 ^eats in that Domain 
 Where joys are perfect, neither wax nor wane. 
 
 XIL 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS; 
 
 1824. 
 
 6 FOR a dirge! But why complain t 
 
 A^k rither a triumphal strain 
 
 When Termor's race is run ; 
 
 A garland of immortal boughs 
 
 To hind around the Christian's brows. 
 
 Whose glorious work is done. 
 
 tVe pay a high and holy debt ; 
 No tears of passionate regret 
 Shall stain this votive lay ; 
 tll-worihy, Bea^jmont ! were the grief 
 That flings itself on wild relief 
 When Saints have passed away. 
 
 Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel, 
 
 i^or ever covetous to feel, 
 
 And impotent to bear : 
 
 Such once was hers— lo think and think 
 
 On severed love, and only sink 
 
 From anguish to despair ! 
 
 But nature to its inmost part 
 
 Had faith 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 7 — 
 In works of love, in these alone, 
 How restless, how n)inute! 
 
 Pale was her hue ; yet mortal cheek 
 Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak 
 When aught had sufllered wrong, — 
 When aught that breathes had felt 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 asminc, pure ;— 
 
 As snowdrop on an infant'* grav^'f 
 
 Or lily heaving wifh the wave 
 
 That feeds it and defends ; 
 
 As Vesper, ere the star hath kissed 
 
 The mountain top, or breathed the mjet 
 
 That from the vale ascends. 
 
 Thou takes . not away, O Death ! 
 Thou strik'st — and 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. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE EARTH. 
 
 FEBRUARY, 3816. 
 I. 
 
 " Rest, rest, perturbed Earth ! 
 *' O rest, thou doleful Mother of Mankind!"' 
 A Spirit sang in tones more plaintive than tl e wind: 
 " From regions where no evil thing has birth 
 "I come — thy stains to wash avvny, 
 "Thy rherished fetters to unbind, 
 " To 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 
 '' With tens of thousands rent from off" tho trpc' 
 " Of hopeful life, — by Battle's whirlwind blown 
 " Into the deserts of Eternity. 
 "Unpitied havoc ! Victims unlamented ! 
 " But not on high, where madness is resented, 
 " And murder causes some sad tears to flow, 
 " Though, from the widely -sweeping blow, 
 " The choirs of Angels spread, triumphantly augmented. 
 
 2. 
 
 " False Parent of Mankind ! 
 
 " Obdurate, proud, and blind, 
 •^' I sprinkle thee with soft celestial dews, 
 " Tliy 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 iu their secret springs, 
 " The rivers stained so oft with human gore, 
 " Are conscious; — may the like return no morel 
 " May Discord — for a Seraph's care 
 "Shall be attended with a bolder Prayer— 
 " May she, who once disturbed the s^ais of bliss 
 
 " These mortal spheres above, 
 " Be chained for ever to the black abyss ! 
 " And thou, O rescued Earth, by peace and love, 
 " And merciful desires, thy sanctity approve !" 
 
 The Spirit ended his mj^sterious rite. 
 And the pure vision closed in darkness infinite. 
 
 XIV. 
 SONNET 
 
 ON THE LA.TE GENERAL FAST, 
 MARCH 2L 1832. 
 
 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 judgment,— 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 U8 aid ! 
 
EPITAPHS Ax\D ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 2W 
 
 5h tliat with soul-aspirings more intense 
 And heart-humili:itions more profound 
 *rhis People, long so happy, so renowned 
 For liberty, would seek from God defence 
 Against far lieavner ill — the Pcstilr.ncs 
 Of Revolution, impiously unbound ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OP IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS 
 OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 'The Child is Father of the Man 
 A I'd I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 See page 1. 
 
 1. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, prove, and stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparalled in celestial li«rht, 
 ^he 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, 
 ^he things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 The Rainbow comes and goes, 
 
 And lovely is the Rose, 
 
 The ^loon doth wirh 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, vvheie'er I go, 
 That there hath past 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, 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
 A timely utterance gave thai thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong : 
 Tlie Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
 I .hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
 Tlie 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 ! 
 
 4. 
 
 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 b.iss, I feel— 1 feel it all. 
 Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While the Earth herself is adorning, 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 And the Children are pulling 
 
 On every side. 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
 Fresh flowers; while the sunshines warm, 
 Aod the Babe leaps up oji his mother's arm :— 
 I hear, I hear, with joy 1 hear ! 
 27 
 
 —But there's a Tree, of many one, 
 A single Field which I have looked upon, 
 Both of them sppak of something that is gone : 
 The Pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam 7 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream 1 
 
 5. 
 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 forget fulness, 
 
 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-houde 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. 
 
 6. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasure of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 And, even wiih 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 pigmy size I 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,* 
 Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses. 
 With light upon him from hrs Father's eyes I 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life," 
 Shaped by himself with newly-leanicd art; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral ; 
 
 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 tfirown aside, 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part ; 
 Filling from time to lime 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 ihi^ blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,' 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet 1 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 Immnrtality 
 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
 
210 
 
 THE EXCUKSIO?r. 
 
 A Prescnca which ia not to be put by ; 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the mipiht 
 Of heavf n born freedom on t!iy Being's heijiht, 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The Years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thu9 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 I 
 
 9. 
 
 O joy! that \n our embera 
 Is something that doth live, 
 That nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perppuial benediction: not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Cliildhond, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-liedged hope still fluttering in his breast: — 
 Not for thev^e 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 realised, 
 High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised: 
 But for those first alTections, 
 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, atid have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Sileiice : truths that wake, 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlcssness, nor mad endeavour. 
 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with jo)', 
 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 thithefj, 
 And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore- 
 
 10. 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a Joyous songr 
 And let the young Lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound I 
 
 We in thought will join your thfong, 
 
 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 
 
 B*^ now for ever taken from my sight. 
 
 Though noihing can bring back the hour 
 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 Strength in what remains behind, 
 In the primal sympathy 
 Which havfng been must ever be, 
 In the soothing thoughts thn.t spring 
 Out of human suffering. 
 In the faiih that looks through deaths 
 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 II. 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
 
 Think not of 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. 
 
 t love the Bruoks 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 colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
 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. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. BEING A PORTION OF THE RECLUSE. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Tub Title announces that this is only a Portion of a 
 Poem ; 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 acknowledge that, if the first of these had 
 been completed, and in such a manner as to satisfy 
 his own mind, he should have preferred the natural 
 order of publication, and 'ave given th:it to the world 
 first; but, as the second division of the Work was de- 
 signed to refer more to passing events, and to an existing 
 stale of things, than the others were meant to do, more 
 continuous exertion was naturally bestowed upon it, and 
 greater progress niade here than in the rest of the 
 Poem ; and as this part does not depend upon the pre- 
 ceding, to a degree which will materially injure its own 
 peculiar interest, the Author, complying v^'ith theearnest 
 entreaties of some valued Friends, presents the following 
 pages to the Public. 
 
 It may be proper to state whence the Poem, of which 
 
 The Excursion is a part, derives its Title of The 
 
 Kecluse.— Several years ago, when the Author retired 
 
 to his native Mountains, with the hope of being enabled 
 
 Reconstruct a literary Work that might live, it was a 
 
 re" sonable thing that he should take a review of his own 
 Mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had 
 qualified him for such employment. As subsidiary 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. TJiat Work, addressed lo a dear 
 Friend, most distinguished forhisknowledge and genius, 
 and to whom the Author^s Intellect is deeply indebted, 
 has been long finished ; and the result of the investi- 
 gation which gave rise to it was a determination to 
 compose a philosophical Poem, containing views of 
 Man, Nature, and Society ; and to be entitled, The Re- 
 cluse ; as having for its principal subject the sensations 
 and 0|)inions of a Poet living in retirement. — The pre- 
 paratory Poem is biographical, and conducts the history 
 of the Author's mind to the point when he was em- 
 boldened to hope that his faculties were suthciently ma- 
 tured for entering upon the arduous labour which he 
 had proposed to himself; and the two Works have the 
 same kind of relation to each other, if he may so ex- 
 press himself, as the Anti-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 proper- 
 ly arrang.ed, will be found by the attentive Reader to 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 211 
 
 liave such connection with the main Work as m.iy 
 give them claim to he likened to the little Cells, Ora- 
 torie?, and sepulchral Recesses, ordinarily included in 
 ihose Eriilices, 
 
 The Author would not have deemed himself justified 
 in sayiiiff, upon this occasion, so much of performances 
 either unfinshed, or unpublished, if he had not thought 
 that the labour bestowed by him upon what he has 
 heretofore and now laid before the Public, entitled hiui 
 to caiulid attention for such a statement as he thinks 
 necessary to throw light upon his endeavours to please, 
 and he would hope, to benetit his countrymen.— No- 
 thing further ne'^d be added, than that the first and 
 third parts of The Recluse will consist chiefly of medita- 
 tions in the Autiior's own Person , and that in the in- 
 termediate part (Phe Excursion) the intervention of 
 Characters speaking is employed, and something of a 
 dramatic form adopted. 
 
 It is not the Author's intention formally to announce 
 a systertj : it wa^ more animating to him to prciceed in 
 a different course ; and if no 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 
 following 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. 
 
 " On Man^ on JSTature^ and on Human Life^ 
 Musing in Solitudr.^ I oft perceive 
 Fair trains of imagpry before me rise, 
 Accompanied by feelings of delight 
 Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
 Jind 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 viortal state. 
 — To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 
 Whether from breath of outward circumstance. 
 Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself, 
 I would give utterance in numerous Verse. 
 Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope — 
 And melancholy P'car subdued by Faith ; 
 Of blessed consolations in distress : 
 Of moral strength, and intellectual Power ; 
 Of joy ill 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, 
 Holiest of Men. — 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 
 Depp — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
 To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
 Jill 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 — 
 / pass them unalarmed. JSi'ot Chaos, not 
 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
 JVrtr aught of blinder vacancy — scooped out 
 By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe 
 Jis fall upon us often tchen loc 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 composed 
 From, earth's materials—waits upon my steps ; 
 Bitches her tents before me as I move, 
 •An hourly neighbour. Para Use, and groves 
 Ely^ian, 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 ? 
 
 For 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. 
 
 — /, lo7ig before the blissful hour arrives, 
 
 Tfould 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 proclaims 
 
 How exquisitely the individual Mind 
 
 {And the progressive powers perhaps no less 
 
 Of the whole species) to the external IVorld 
 
 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 
 
 Can it be called) which they with blended might 
 
 Accomplish : — this is our high argument. 
 
 — SucJi grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 
 
 Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the tribes 
 
 And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
 
 Of madding passions mutually infiamcd ; 
 
 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 coynment, — that even these 
 
 Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ? 
 
 —Defcend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspirest 
 
 The human Soul* of universal earth, 
 
 Breaming on things to come ; and dost possess 
 
 A metropolitan Temple in the hearts 
 
 Of mighty Poets ; upon me bestow 
 
 •^ 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 
 
 Contanplated, describe the Mind and Man 
 
 Contemplating, and who, and what he was, 
 
 The transitory Being that beheld 
 
 This Vision,— when and whore, and how he lived ;^ 
 
 Be not this labour useless. If such theme 
 
 May sort with highest objects, then, dread Power, 
 
 Whose gracious favour is the primal source 
 
 Of all illumination, may my Ufe 
 
 Express the image of a better time. 
 
 More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — 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 .'* 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K. G. &:c. &:c. 
 
 Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer I 
 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. 
 
 * Net mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul 
 Of the wide world dreaming on things to como. 
 
 Shakspeare's Sonnets. 
 
di2 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Gladly would t 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 I ask 
 Thy favour; trusting that thou wilt not deem 
 The Offering, though imperfect, premature. 
 
 willtam worpswqrth. 
 Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, 
 July 29. 1814. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 A summer forenoon — The Author readies a ruined 
 Cottage upon a Common, and there meets with a 
 revered Friend, the Wanderer, of whom he gives 
 an account — The Wanderer while resting under the 
 shade of the Trees that surround the Cottage re- 
 lates the History of its last Inhabitant. 
 
 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 "'TWAS summer, and the sun had mounted high : 
 
 Bouthward the landscape indistinctly glared 
 
 Through a pale steam ; but ail the northern 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 briiiht and pleasant sunshine interposed ; 
 
 Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss 
 
 Extends his careless limbs along the front 
 
 Of some huge cave, wlioire 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, 
 
 Ey power of that impending covert thrown 
 
 To finer di.^tanre. Other lot was mine ; 
 
 Yet with good hope that soon I shonld obtain 
 
 As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. 
 
 Across a bare wide Common 1 was toiling 
 
 With languid steps that by the slippery ground 
 
 Were bafRed ; nor could my weak arm disperse 
 
 The host of insects gar!jering round my face, 
 
 And ever with me as I paced along. 
 
 Upon that o])en level stood a Grove, 
 The wished-for port to which my course was bovind. 
 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 
 Him whom 1 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 as!eep ; 
 An iron-pointed stafi" lay at his side. 
 
 Him had I marked the day before — alone 
 AmA stationed in the public way, with face 
 Turned toward the sun then setting, while that Bt?iff 
 Afforded to the Figure of the Man 
 Detained for contemplation or repose. 
 Graceful support ; his countenance meanwhile 
 Was hidden from my view, and he remained 
 Unrecognised ; but, stiicken by tlie 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, 
 Beneath the shelter of these clustering elms, 
 
 We were tried Friends : amid a pleasant vale, 
 In the antique market village where were passed 
 My school-days, an apartment he had owned. 
 To which at intervals the Wanderer drew. 
 And found a kind of home or harbour 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 year», 
 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 me with reporl 
 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 husbandjnan, diffused 
 Throtigh a parched meadow-ground, in time of drought. 
 Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse: 
 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 of 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) 
 Not having e'er as life advanced, been led 
 By circumstance to take unto the heigiit 
 The measure of themselves, these favoured Beings, 
 All but a scattered few, live out their time, 
 Husbanding that wliich they p'^ssess within, 
 And go to the grave unthnught of. Strongest minds 
 Are often those of whom the noi^y world 
 Hears least ; else surely this Man had not left 
 His graces t|nreveal(-'d and unproclaimed. 
 But, as the mind was filled wi.h inward light. 
 So not without distinction had he lived, 
 Beloved and honoured — 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 ti.e thoughts his mind 
 Had dealt with — 1 will here record in verse* 
 Wliich, 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 Otfspring, dwelt j 
 A virtuous Household, though exceeding poor ! 
 Pure Livers were they all, austere and grave. 
 And fearing God ; the very Children taught 
 Siern 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 [ speak, 
 In summer, tended cattle on the Hills ; 
 But, through the inclement and the perilous 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 I Frera that bleak Tenement 
 
TUB WANDERER. 
 
 213 
 
 He, many an evening, to his distant home 
 
 In solitude returninff, saw the Hills 
 
 Grow larjier in the darkness, all alone 
 
 Beheld the stars come out above Jiis iiead, 
 
 And travelled through the vi^ood, with no one near 
 
 To whom he might confess the things he saw. 
 
 So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
 
 In such communion, not from terror free, 
 
 While yet a Child, and long before his time, 
 
 He had perceived the presence and the power 
 
 Of greatneps ; and deep feelings had impressed 
 
 Great objects on his mind, with portraiture 
 
 And colour so distinct, that on his mind 
 
 They Iny like substances, and almost seemed 
 
 To nawnt the bodily sense. He had received 
 
 A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years. 
 
 With these impressions would he still compare 
 
 All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms; 
 
 And, being siiil 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, 
 
 Wiiile 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 ap[)etite : nor this alone 
 
 Appeased his yearning: — in the after day 
 
 Of Boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 
 
 And 'mid lUe hollow depths of naked crags 
 
 He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments, 
 
 Or from the power of a peculiar eye. 
 
 Or by rrea'ive feeling overborne. 
 
 Or by predominance of thought oppressed, 
 
 Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 
 
 }]e traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, 
 
 I)xpres^iion ever varying ! 
 
 Thus informed. 
 He had f^^mall need of hooks; for many a Tale 
 Trnilitioiiary, round the mountains hung, 
 And many a Legend, pef)pling the dark woods, 
 Nourished Imagination in her growth, 
 And gave the luind that a[)preheiisive power 
 By which she is made q'lick to reco,eni.se 
 The moral properties and scope of things. 
 But eagerly he read, and read ajjain, 
 Whatever the Minister's old Shelf su|)plied ; 
 The life and death of Martyrs, who sustained, 
 With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
 Triumphantly displayed in records left 
 Of Persecution, and the Covenant— Times 
 Whose echo rings ihroug!! Scotland to this hour ! 
 And there, by lucky hap, had i.een preserved 
 ^ straggling volume, torn and incomplete, 
 That left half-told the prerernntural tale, 
 Romance of Giants, chronicle of Fiends, 
 Pinfuse in garniture of wooden cuts 
 Srranjre and uncouth ; dire faces, figures dire, 
 Sharp- knee'd, sharp-ell-owed, and lean-ankled too, 
 WHli long and gh.)stly shanks- forms which once seen 
 ^-'ould never be forgotten ! 
 
 In his heart. 
 Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, 
 
 Was 
 
 wanims: yet the pure ds^light of love 
 
 By sound diffused, or by the brearhinji air, 
 ^••hy the silent looks of happy things, 
 J^r flowing from the universal face 
 Of earth and sky. But he had felt the power 
 ^f Mature, and already was prepared, 
 y his intense conceptions, to receive 
 ^eply the lesson deep of love which he, 
 ^nom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 
 ^0 feel intensely, cannot but receive. 
 
 Such was the Boy— but for the growing Youth 
 "hat soul was his, when, from the naked top 
 
 Of some bold headland, he beheld the Kun 
 
 Rise up, and bathe the world in light! He looked — 
 
 Ocean and earth, ihe solid frame of earth 
 
 And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him Iny 
 
 In Gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched, 
 
 And in their silent faces did he read 
 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none. 
 
 Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
 
 The spectacle: sensation, sou', and form 
 
 All melted into him; they swallowed up 
 
 His animal being; in thehi 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 G;jd, 
 
 Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
 
 No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request; 
 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 
 The inipertect olfices of prayer and praise, 
 
 His njind was a thanksgiving to the power 
 
 That made him , it was blessedness and love ! 
 
 A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
 Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
 Was his existence oaeminies possessed. 
 O then how beautiful, how bright appeared 
 The written Promise 1 Early had he learned 
 To reverence the Volume that displays 
 The mystery, the lite which cannot die ; 
 But in the mountains dij he feel 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 
 Her prospects, nor did he believe,— he saw. 
 What wonder if his being thus l>ecame 
 SubJime and comi)reljcnsive ! Low desires 
 Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was' his heart 
 Lowly ; lor he was meek in gratitude. 
 Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind, 
 And whence they flowed ; and from them he acquired 
 
 Wi.dom,which works thro' patience; thence helearned 
 In ott-recuniiig hours of sober thought 
 
 To look on Nature vvitn a humble Jjeart, 
 
 Self-questioned where it did not understand, 
 
 And with a superstitious eye of love. 
 
 So passed the time ; yet to the nearest Town 
 Pie duly went with what small overplus 
 His earnings might supply, and brought away 
 Tlie Hook that most had tempted his desiies 
 While at the Stall he read. Among the hills 
 He gazed upon that mighty Orb of Song, 
 The divine Milton. Lore of diflVrent kiiu], 
 The annual savings of a toilsome lite, 
 His School-master supplied ; books that explain 
 The purer elements of truth involved 
 In lines and numijers, and, by charm severe 
 (Especially perceived where Nature droops 
 And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind 
 Busy in solitude and poverty. 
 These occupations oftetJtimes deceived 
 The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, 
 Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
 [n pensive idleness. Wiiat could he dr), 
 Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life, 
 With blind endeavours ? Yet, still uppermost 
 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 siniplest laws. 
 His triangles— they were the stars of heaven, 
 The silent stars I Oft did he take delight 
 
214 
 
 THE WANDEREa. 
 
 To iiiensure the altitude of some tall crag ^ 
 That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 
 Familiar with forgotten )'ears, that shows 
 Inscribed, as with the silence of the thought, 
 Upon its bleak and visionary sides, 
 The history of many a winter storm, 
 Or obscure records ol tJie 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 rag© 
 When they were silent ; far more fondly now 
 Than in his earlier season did he love 
 Tempesruous 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 torrent?, where they send 
 From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 
 A cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun 
 •yaries 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 reare(i ; much wanting to assist 
 The growth of intellect, yet gaining more, 
 And every moial feeling of his soul 
 ^Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 
 The keen, the wholesome air of poverty. 
 And diinking from the well of homely life. 
 — But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, 
 He now was summoned to select the course 
 Of humble industry that promised best 
 To yield him no unwcnthy maintenance. 
 Urgi^d by his IMother, he essayed to teach 
 A Village-school — but wandering thcnights Were then 
 A misery to him ; and the Youth resigned 
 A task lie was unable to perform. 
 
 , That stern yet kindly Spirit, who constrains 
 The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks. 
 The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, 
 (Spirit attached to regions inoinitainotis 
 Like their own steadlast clouds) did now impel 
 His restless mind to look abroad with hope. 
 — An iiksome drudgery seems it to plod on. 
 Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, 
 A vagrant Merchant bent beneath liis load! 
 Yet do such Travellers find their own delight ; 
 And their Jiard service, deemed debasing now, 
 Gained merited respect in simpler limes ; 
 When Squire, and Priest, and they who round them 
 
 dwelt 
 In rustic sequestration — all dependent 
 Upon the Pedlar's toil — supplied their wants. 
 Or pleased their fancies with the wares he brought. 
 Not ignorant was the Youth that still no tew 
 Of his adventurous Countrymen were led 
 By perseverance in this track of life 
 To conjpetence and ease; — for him it bore 
 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,* 
 
 *At the risk of giving a shock to the prejudices 
 of artificial society, [ have ever been ready to pay 
 homage to the Aristocracy of Nciture ; under a con- 
 viction that vigorous hnman-heartcdness is the con- 
 stituent principle of true taste. It may stilJ, how- 
 
 Their manner?, 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 labour, he had passed 
 
 The better portion of his time ; and there 
 
 Spontaneously had his aflfections 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 pit«'ous 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 iiis 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 wretchedness 
 
 With coward fears. He could afford to suffer 
 
 With those whonj 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 
 
 ever, be satisfactory to have prose-testimony how far 
 a Character, eujployed for purposes of imagination, 
 is founded upon general fact. I, tliere/bre, subjcjin an 
 extract from an author who had opportuuiiies of be- 
 ing well acquamied with a cla.<s ot men, from whom 
 my own personal knowledge emboldened me to draw 
 this Pornait. 
 
 " We learn from Csesar and other Roman Writers, 
 that the travelling merchants who Irequeiiied Gaul 
 and other barbarous countries, (Either newly conquer 
 ed by the lloman arms, or bordering (jii the Roman 
 conquests, weie ever the first to make the inhabi- 
 tants of those countries familiarly acquainted with 
 the Roniari modes f)f lite, and to in.-pire them wiih an 
 inciinaiion to lollow the Rotnan faslnons, and to en- 
 joy Roman conveniencies. in North America, travel- 
 ling merciiaiJis from the Settleujents hitve done and 
 continue to do much more towards civilizing ilie [n- 
 dian natives, than all the Missionaries, Papist or 
 Protestant, who have ever been seni among them. 
 
 " It is farther to be observed, for the credit of this 
 most useful class of men, that they commonly con- 
 tribute, by tlieir personal manners, no less than by 
 ihe sale of their wares, to the refinement (jf tht peo- 
 ple among whom they travel. Their dealings form 
 them to great quickness of wit a.id acuieness of 
 judgment. Having constant occasion to recomnienJ 
 themselves and their goods, they acquire habits 
 of the most obliging atteri;ion and the most in- 
 sinuatm • address As in their peregrinati(Mis they 
 have opportunity of contemplating the manners of 
 various Men and various i.ities, they become emi- 
 nently skilled in the knowledge of the world. Js 
 they wander, each alone, through thinly-inhabited dis- 
 tricts, they form habits of rejiection and of sublime 
 contemplation. With all these qualifications, no won- 
 der, that they should often be, in remote parts of 
 the C(mntry, the best mirrors of fashion, and censors 
 of maimers ; and should contribuie much to polish 
 the roughness, and soften the rusticity of our peas- 
 antry. It is not more than twenty or thirty years, 
 since a young man going from any part of Scotland 
 to EnglantI, of purpose to carry the pack, was con- 
 sidered, as going to lead the life, and acquire the 
 Fortune, of a Gentleman. When, after twenty years' 
 absence, in that honourable line of emplr)yment, he 
 returiieti 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. 
 
THE WANDERKR. 
 
 215 
 
 The History of many Familieg, 
 
 How tliey had prospered ; how they were o'erthrown 
 
 By passion or mischance ; or such misrule 
 
 Among the unihinkins: masters of the earth 
 
 As makes the nations jrroan.— This active course 
 
 He followed till provision for his wants 
 
 Had been obtained ;— tlie Wanderer then resolved 
 
 To pass the remnant of his days — untasked 
 
 With needless services — from hardship free. 
 
 His callinc; laid aside, he lived at ease . 
 
 But still he loved to pace the public roads 
 
 And the wild paths ; and, by the summer's warmth 
 
 Invited, often would he leave his home 
 
 And journey far, revisitinor the scenes 
 
 That to his rnernory were most endeared. 
 
 — Vifforous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped 
 
 By world ly-mit-dedness or a- xinus care ; 
 
 Observant, sttidious, thouchtful, and refreshed 
 
 By knowIed?e irnthered up from day to day ; — 
 
 Thus had he lived a lonj? and innocent life. 
 
 The Scottish Church, both on himself and those 
 With whom from childhood he ?rew up, had held 
 The Ptronff hand of her purity ; and still 
 Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. 
 This he remembered in his riper afje 
 With platitude, and reverf-nt'al thoufrhts. 
 But by the native vijjour of his mind. 
 By his habitual wanderinss out of doors, 
 Bv loneliness, and poodness, and kind works, 
 Whatp'er, in docile childhood or in youth, 
 Hft had imbibed of fear or darker thoiijiht 
 Was melted all away : so true was this. 
 That sometimes his religion seemed to me 
 Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods ; 
 Who to the model of his own pure heart 
 Shaped his belief as prace divine inspired, 
 Or 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 lougue 
 f'f garrulous ape ; 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 without remark, 
 
 Active and nervous was liis gait ; his limbs 
 
 And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 
 
 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 grey, had meanings which it brought 
 
 From years of youth ; which, like a Being made 
 
 or many Beings, he had wondrous skill 
 
 To blend with knowledge of the years to come, 
 
 Human, or such as he beyond the grave. 
 
 So was He framed ; and such his course of life 
 
 Who now, with no appendage but a Statf, 
 
 Tlie prized memorial of relinquished toils, 
 
 •-pon that Cottage bench reposed his limbs. 
 
 Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay, 
 
 His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 
 
 ■i^he shadows of the breezy elms above 
 
 Dappling his face. Fie 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 
 
 "'as moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
 
 Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose, 
 
 And ere our lively greeting into peace 
 
 Wad settled, " 'Tis," said I, " a burning day : 
 
 % lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems, 
 
 Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, 
 
 Pointing towards a sweet-briar, hade me climb 
 
 The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out 
 
 Up.»n 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 leaflesss 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 plnmv fern. 
 
 My thirst 1 slaked, and from ihe cheerless spot 
 
 Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 
 
 Where sate the Old Man on the Cottage bi^nch ; 
 
 And, while, beside him, witii uncovered head, 
 
 1 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 msn loved 
 
 And piized in his peculiar nook of earth 
 
 Dies wirh him, or is chanced : and very soon 
 
 Even of the good is no memorial left. 
 
 — The Poets, in their elegies and songs 
 
 Lamentine: the dep irtcd, 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 piwer 
 
 Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
 
 More tranquil, yt't perhaps of kindred birth, 
 
 That steal upon the meditative mind, 
 
 And crow with thought. Reside yon Spring I 6tood,> 
 
 A fid eyed its waters till we seemed to f«!el 
 
 One sadness, they and I. For them a bond 
 
 Of brotherhood is broken : time has bef^n 
 
 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. Sfon|Bing down to drink. 
 
 Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
 
 The useless fragment of a wooden bowl. 
 
 Green with the moss of years, and subject only 
 
 To the soft handling of the Elements : 
 
 There let the relic lie — ff)nd thought — vain words !■ 
 
 Forgive them ; — never — nevc' 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 summer dust 
 
 Burn to the socket. Many a Passenger 
 
 Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle look?, 
 
 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 lowly 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 
 Might live on earth 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 
 
216 
 
 TilE WANDERER. 
 
 Among the dftWy grass,— in early spring:, 
 
 Ere the last Star had vanished.— They who passed 
 
 At evening, from behind the garden fence 
 
 Might hear his bnsy 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 ihfir days were spent 
 
 In ppace and comfort; and a pretty Boy 
 
 Was their best hope,— next to the God in Heaven. 
 
 " Not twenty years ago, but yon T think 
 Can pcarcely bear it now in mind, there came 
 Two bli£rhring seasons, when the fields were left 
 With half a harvest. Tt pleased Heaven to add 
 A worse afflirtion in the pi £rne of war ; 
 This happv Land was stricken to the heart I 
 A Wanderer then among the Cottagep 
 I, with mv freight of winter raiment, saw 
 The ha>d>i)ips of that season : many rif'h 
 Sank down, as in a dream, anions the poor J 
 And of the poor did many cease to be, 
 And thoirp'arf knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged 
 Of dailv comforts, plad'v rornnci'ed 
 To nnn>orons self-denials, Ma'siaret 
 Went, strn^pHne on through those caiamitons years 
 With cheerful hopp, until the second antimin, 
 When h r life's TIe1[imate on a sick-bed lay, 
 Smitten with perilous fever, fn disease 
 He liJieereH Ion? ; and when his <!trenelh returned, 
 He found the little he had sto'ed, to meet 
 The hour of accident '^r crippling age. 
 Was a'l consumed. A second Infant now 
 Was added to the troubles of a time 
 Laden, for them and a'l of their deg*'ee, 
 With care and sorrow ; shoals of Artisans 
 From ill requited labour tu''ned adrift 
 Soiieht dnily bread from pultMr charity, 
 Thev, and their wives and cbi'dren — happier far 
 Could thev hfive lived as do the little birds 
 That peck alonsr the hedire-rows, or the Kite 
 That makes her dA'elling on the mountain Rocks! 
 
 " A sad reverse it was for Him who long 
 Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, 
 This lonc^ly Cottaire. At his door he stood, 
 And whistled many a snateh of n)er»y tunes 
 That had no mirth in them ; or with his knife 
 Carved uncouth figu-es on the heads of sticks — 
 Then, not less id'y, sought, through every nook 
 In house or garden, a-y casual work 
 Of use or ornament ; and with a strange, 
 Amusin?, yet une.isy novelty. 
 He blended, where he might, the various tasks 
 Of summer, autumn, winter, and of Spring. 
 But this endured not; his good humour soon 
 Became a weicht in which no p'easure 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, 
 Without an errand, would direct his steps, 
 Or wander here and there auiong 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 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks 
 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, " 'Tis 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; vt^hile this multitude of flies 
 Is filling all the air with melody ; 
 Why should a tear be in an Old Man's eye ? 
 
 Why should w«5 thus', with an untoward min<i, 
 
 And in the weakness of humanity, 
 
 Fioni natural wi>dom turn our hearts away,' 
 
 To natural comfort shut out 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, 
 r thought of that poor Woman as oC one 
 Whoni I had known and loved. He had rehearsed 
 Her hoiiiely Tale with sucn familiar power, 
 Wiih such an active counlenaiice, an eye 
 So bu^y, that the things of which he spake' 
 Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed, 
 A heart-felt chiiluess crept along my veins.- 
 I rose ; and, havini left the breezy shade. 
 Stood drinking cfsmfort from the warmer sun, 
 That had not cheered mc 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 mtuirnful thoughts, and always might be found,- 
 A power to virtue friendly ; wer't not so, 
 I am a dreamer amor^.s njen, indeed 
 An idle Dreamer ! 'Tis a conimon Tale, 
 An ordinary sorrow of Man's life, 
 A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
 fn bodily form-— But without further bidding 
 I will proceed. 
 
 " Whfle thus it fared with them, 
 To whom th's Cottage, till thf>se hapless years. 
 Had been a blessed heme, it was my chance 
 To travel in a Country far remote ; 
 And when these lofty Elms once more appeared, 
 What pleasant expectatfons 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 little 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 enquired 
 If I had seen her Husband. As she spake 
 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 \Vistfully she raised 
 Her head from ofl' her pillow, to look forth, 
 Like one in trouble, for returning light. 
 Within her chamber-casement she es[)ied 
 A folded paper, lying as if placed 
 To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 
 She opened-^found no writing, but beheld 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 21? 
 
 Pieces of money carsfully enclosed, 
 
 Silver and gold. — ' I shuddered at the sight,' 
 
 gaid Margaret, ' for I knew it was his hand 
 
 Wtiich placed it there : and ere that day was ended, 
 
 That long and anxious day! I learned from One 
 
 Sent hither by my Husband to impart 
 
 The heavy news, — that lie 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 r should follow with my Babes, and sink 
 
 Beneath the misery of tliat wandering Life.' 
 
 ♦'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 
 6uch words of hope from her own mouth as served 
 To cheer us both : — hut lone 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. — 'Twas the time of early spring ; 
 I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
 And well remember, o^'er that fence she look'd, 
 And, wliile T 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 Jia[)py 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 befal ; 
 My lest companions now the driving winds, 
 And now the 'trotting brooks' and whispering trees, 
 And now the m'lsic of my own sad steps. 
 With many a shnrt- 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, 
 Tile 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. Tt appeared 
 To lag behind the season, and had lost 
 Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 
 Had broken their trim lines, and straggled o'er 
 The paths Ihey 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 bella, 
 Had twined about her two small rows of pease, 
 And dragged them to the earth.— Ere this an hour 
 "as 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 
 ^ sate with sad impatience. From within 
 Her solitary Infant cried aloud ; 
 Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled, 
 J ne voice was silent. From the bench I rose; 
 ^"t neither could divert nor soothe my tiioughts. 
 T''e spot, though fair, was very desolate — 
 Tlie longer I remained more desolate : 
 Af'd, looking round me, now I first observed 
 'be corner stones, on eitl>er side the porch, 
 
 28 
 
 With dull red stains discoloured, a&d stuck o'er 
 
 With tufts and liairs of wool, as if the Sheep, 
 
 That fed upim 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 saidi 
 
 ' It grieves me you liave 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 h ive been travelling far ; and many days 
 
 About the fieldi 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 thifi 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 r 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 
 
 'Tis long and tedious ; but my spirit clings 
 
 To that poor Woman: — so familiyrly 
 
 Do I perceive her manner, and lier 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 were downward 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 hor liouse aff'airs, appeared 
 
 The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
 
 Self-occupied ; to which all outward things 
 
 Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 
 
 Btit yet no motion of the breast was seen, 
 
 No heaving of the heart. Wiiile by the fire 
 
 We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 
 
 I knew not how, and hardly v/hence they came. 
 
 " Ere my departure, to her caie I gave, 
 For her son's use, soma tokens of regard. 
 Which with a look of welcome she received ; 
 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 iu her eyes. I loft her then 
 With the best hope and comfort I could give • 
 She thanked me for my wish ;— but for my hopa 
 Methought, she did not thank me. 
 
 " I returned, 
 And took my rounds along this road again 
 Ere 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 
 
218 
 
 TIIK WANDERER. 
 
 No tidinjrg 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 «f 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 seem'y order, now, with strangling leaves 
 
 Lay sf^aitered here and there, open or shut, 
 
 As they had chanced to fall. Fler infant Babe 
 
 Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 
 
 And sighed among its playthings. Once again 
 
 I turned towards the garden gate, and saw, 
 
 More plainly still, ihat poverty and grief 
 
 Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced 
 
 The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass: 
 
 No ridges there apjjeared of clear black mold, 
 
 No winter greenne>:s ; of her herbs and flowers, 
 
 It seemed the better part were gnawed away 
 
 Or trampletr into earth ; n chain of straw, 
 
 Which had been twined about the slender stem 
 
 Of a yonnir 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 ' Towards the House 
 
 Together we returned ; and she enquired 
 
 If I had any hope : — but for her Babe 
 
 And for her little orphan Boy, she said. 
 
 She had no wi?h to live, that she must die 
 
 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 
 
 Still in its p'ace ; his Sunday garments hung 
 
 Upon the self-same nail ; his very statf 
 
 Stood undisturbed behind the door. And when, 
 
 In b!eah December, I retraced this way. 
 
 She told me tb.at 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 neighbour'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, Vt'heresoe'er I went, I still would ask 
 For him whom she bad lost. We parted then— 
 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 arbour 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 lieart beat quick. Yon see that path 
 Now faint,— the grass has crept o'er irs grey line ; 
 There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 
 Of the warm bummer, from a belt of hemp 
 Tiiat girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread 
 With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed 
 A man whose garnients showed the soldier's red, 
 Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor's garb, 
 
 The little Child who sate to turn the wheef 
 Ceased from his task ; and she with faltering voire 
 Made many a fond enquiry ; and when they, 
 Whose presence gave no comfort, were pone by 
 Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate 
 That bars tl.e Traveller's road, she often stood 
 And when a stranger Horseman came, the latch 
 Would lift, and in hi.s face look wistfully : 
 Most happy, if, from aught discovered there 
 Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
 The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hul 
 Sank to decay : for he was gone, whose hand 
 At the first nipping of October frost. 
 Closed up each chink, and with fresb bands of straw 
 (^hequered 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 nighdy 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 siill 
 She loved this wrefched spot, nor would for worlds 
 Have parted hence ; and still that length of road. 
 And this rude bench, one torturing hupe endeared, 
 Fast rooted at her heart : and here, ray Friend, 
 In sickness she remained ; and here she died, 
 Last human tenant of these ruined Wails." 
 
 The Old Man ceased : he saw that T was moved; 
 From that low Bench, rising ins'inclively 
 
 turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
 To thank him for the Tale which he bad 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. 
 At length towards the Cottage I returned 
 Fondly, — and traced, witn interest more mOd, 
 That secret spirit of humanity 
 Which, mid the calm oblivious tendencies 
 Of nature, mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, 
 And silent overgrovvings, still survived. 
 The Old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 
 " My Fri'nd I enough to sorrow you have given. 
 The purposes of wisdom ask no more ; 
 Be wise and cheerful ; and no longer read 
 The fo'ms of things with an unworthy eye. 
 She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 
 f 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, did to my heart convey 
 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 
 The passing shows of Being leave behind. 
 Appeared an idle dream, that could not live 
 Where meditation was. 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, 
 Admonislied thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
 A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
 A thrush sang loud, and other melodies. 
 At distance h^ard, 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 Iim, — our Evening resting-place. 
 
^IIE SOLITARY. 
 
 219 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Book II. 
 
 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Aroumbnt. — The Author describes hJ3 travels with the 
 Wanderer, whose character is further illustrated— 
 Morning scene, and view of a Village Wake — Wan- 
 derer's account of a Friend whom he purposes to visit 
 — View, from an eminence, of the Valley which his 
 Friend had chosen for liis retreat — feelings of the 
 Author at the sight of it — Sound of singing from 
 below — a funeral procession — Descent into the Val- 
 ley — Observations drawn from the Wanderer at 
 sight of a Book accidentally discovered in a re- 
 cess in the Valley— Meeting with the Wanderer's 
 friend, the Solitary— Wanderer's description of the 
 uiotle of burial in this mountainous district — Soli- 
 tary contrasts with this, that of the Individual 
 carried a lew minutes before from the Cottage — 
 Brief conversation — Tiie Cottage entered — descrip- 
 tion of the Solitary's apartment — repast theie — 
 View from the Window of two mountain summits — 
 and the Solitary's description of the Companion- 
 ship they affurd him — account of the departed In- 
 mate of the Cottage— description of a grand spec 
 tacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the 
 Solitary's mind— Quit the House. 
 
 In days of yore how fortunately fared 
 
 The Minstrel: wandering on from Hall to Hall, 
 
 Baronial Court or Royal ; cheered with gifts 
 
 Muiuficent, and love, and Ladies' praise ; 
 
 Now meeting on his road an armed Knight, 
 
 Now resting with a Pilgrim by the side 
 
 Cif 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. 
 
 Hiui, sleeping or awake, 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 rom[)anion wheresoe'er he went 
 
 Opening from Land to Land an easy way 
 
 By melody, and by the cliarm of verse. 
 
 Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race 
 
 Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned thoughts 
 
 From his long journeyings and eventful life, 
 
 Than this obscure Itineiant had skill 
 
 To gather, ranging through the tamer ground 
 
 Of the?e 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 favourite School 
 Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, 
 Looked on this Guide with reverential love 1 
 Each with the other pleased, we now pursued 
 Our journey— beneath favourable 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 regard 
 Accompanied those strains of apt discourse, 
 Which Nature's various objects might inspire ; 
 And in the silence of his- face I read 
 His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, 
 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, 
 ^n his capacious mind— he loved them all : 
 Their rights acknowledging he felt for all 
 
 Oft was occasion given me ta 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 I all too often smote liis heart 
 With unavailing pity. Rich in love 
 And sweet iiumanity, he was, himself, 
 To the degree that he desired, beloved. 
 —Greetings and smiles we met with all day long 
 From faces that he knew ; we took our seats 
 By many u cottage hearth, where he received 
 The welcome of an Inmate come from far. 
 —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, whe.ie the Poor Man held dispute 
 With bis own mind, unable to subdue 
 [mpaiienre through inaptness to perceive 
 General distress in liis particular lot ; 
 Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
 Struggling against it, with a soul perplexed, 
 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, allayed 
 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 condemned. 
 
 Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved, 
 Now as his choice directed, now as mine ; 
 Or both, wiih 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 our walk, 
 My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice. 
 As if the thought were but a moment old, 
 Claimed absolute dominion for the day. 
 We started— and lie led towards the hills, 
 Up through an ample vale, with higher bills 
 Before us, mountains stern and desolate ; 
 But, in the majesty of distance, now 
 Set off, and to our ken Rjipearing fair 
 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, witli 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 journey long, 
 By this dark hill protected from thy beams! 
 Such is the summer Pilgrim's frequent wish ; 
 But quickly from among our morning thoughts 
 'Twas chased away: for, toward the western side 
 Of the broad Vale, casting a casual glance. 
 We saw a throng of People ;— wherefore met? 
 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 favours. — Tabor and Pipe 
 In purpose join to hasten and reprove 
 
S20 
 
 TUB SOLITAB,Y. 
 
 The laggard Rustic ; and repay with boon 
 Of merriment a party-coloured Knot, 
 Already formed upon tlie 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 darit recesses ir'terposed, 
 Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 
 Half-veiled in vapoury cloud, the silver steam 
 Of dews fast melting on their leafy bouglis 
 By the strong sunbeams sujitten. Like a mast 
 Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
 Of morning, aided by exhaling dew. 
 With gladsome in/iuence could re-animate 
 The faded garlands dangling from its sides. 
 
 Said I, " The music and the sprightly scene 
 Invite us ; shall we quit our road, and join 
 These festive matins?"— He replied, " Not loth 
 Here would I linger, and with you partake, 
 Not one hour merely, but till evening's close, 
 The simple pastimes of the day and filace. 
 By the fleet Racers, ere the Sun be set. 
 The turf of yon largo pasture will be skimmed ; 
 There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall contend : 
 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 liner spirits that refuse 
 To flow, when purposes are lightly changed ? 
 We must proceed — a length of journey yet 
 Remains untraced." Then, pointing with his stalT 
 Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent 
 He thus imparted. 
 
 " In a spot that liea 
 Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed. 
 You will receive, before the hour of noon, 
 Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil — 
 From sight ol one who Jives secluded there. 
 Lonesome and lost : of whom, and whose past life, 
 (Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
 More faithfully collected from himself) 
 This brief couimunication shall suflice. 
 
 " Though now sojourning there, he, like myself. 
 Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
 Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract 
 Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant, 
 Bears, on the humblest ground of social lite, 
 Blossoms of piety and innocence. 
 Such grateful promises his youth displayed : 
 And, having shown in study forward zeal, 
 He to the Ministry was duly called ; 
 And straight incited hy a curious mind 
 Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge 
 Of Chaplain to a Military Troop 
 Cheered by the Highland Bagpipe, as they marched 
 In plaided vest, — bis fellow-countrymen. 
 This Office filling, yet hy native power 
 And force of native inclination, made 
 An intellectual Ruler in the haunts 
 Of social vanity— be walked the World, 
 Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety; 
 Lax, buoyant — less a Pastor with his Flock 
 Than a Soldier among Soldiers — lived &nd roamed 
 Where Fortune led: — and Fortune, who oft proves 
 The careless Wanderer's Friend, to him made known 
 A blooming Ladj^ — a conspicuous Flower, 
 Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised ; 
 Whom he had sensibility to love. 
 Ambition 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 wag Bcarccly past; 
 
 And she was in youth's prime. How full their joy, 
 
 How free their love! nor did that love decay, 
 
 Nor joy abate, 'till, pitiable doom ! 
 
 In the short course of one undreaded year 
 
 Death blasted all. — Death suddenly o'erthrew 
 
 Two lovely Children— all that they possessed I 
 
 The Mother followed : — miserably bare 
 
 The one Survivor Ptood ; he wept, he prayed 
 
 For his dismissal; day and night, compelled 
 
 By pain to turn his thoughts towards the grave, 
 
 And face 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 be might have died. 
 
 *' But now. 
 To the wide world's astonishment, appeared 
 A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn, 
 That promised everlasting joy to P>ance ! 
 Her voice of social transport reached even him J- 
 He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired 
 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 maintained 
 The cause of Christ and civil liberty, 
 As one, and moving tu one glorious end. 
 Intoxicating service ! I might say 
 A happy service ; for ha was sincere 
 As vanity and fon"'ness for applause, 
 And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 
 
 " That righteous Cause (fiuch power hath Freedom) 
 bound, 
 For one hostility, in friendly league 
 Ethereal Natures and the worst of Slaves ; 
 Was served by rival Advocates that came 
 From regions opposite as heaven and hell, 
 One couragp seemed to animate them all : 
 And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained 
 By their united efforts, there arose 
 A proud and most presumptuous confidence 
 In the Iranscendant 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 uniou spread, whose subtle bane 
 The strongest did not easily escape; 
 And He, what wonder! took a mortal taint. 
 How shall I trace the change, bow bear tc» tell 
 That he broke faith with them whom he had laid 
 [u earth's dark chambers, with a Christian'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 leagued with fear, but pride. 
 Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls ; 
 But, for discijiles of the inner school. 
 Old fieedom was old servitude, and they 
 The wisest whose opinions stooped the least 
 To known restraints : and who most boldly drew 
 Flopeful prognostications from a creed, 
 That, in the light of false philosopy, 
 Spread like a halo round a misty moon. 
 Widening its circle as the storms advance. 
 
 " His sacred function was at length renounced ; 
 And every day and every place enjoyed 
 The unshackled Layman's natural liberty; 
 Speech, manners, morals, all without dieguise. 
 
THK SOLlTARr. 
 
 221 
 
 I Ao not wish to wrong him ;— though the course 
 
 Of private life licentiously disjtlayed 
 
 Unhallowed actions — planted like a crown 
 
 Upon the insolent aspiring brow 
 
 Of spurious notions — worn as open signs 
 
 Of prejudice subdued — he still retained, 
 
 'Mid such abasement, what he had received 
 
 From nature — an intense and glowing mind. 
 
 Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak, 
 
 And mortal sickness on lier face appeared, 
 
 He coloured objects to his own desire 
 
 As with a Lover's passion. Vet 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 
 
 Of all this outside bravery, within, 
 
 He neither felt encouragement nor hope : 
 
 For moral dignity, and strength of mind, 
 
 Were wanting; and simplicity of Life ; 
 
 And reverence for 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 in a tossing eea. 
 
 " The glory of t]ie times fading away, 
 The splendour, which had given .t festal air 
 To f-elf-iniportance, hallowed it, and veiled 
 From his own sight, — this gone, he forfeited 
 All joy in human nature ; was consumed, 
 And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn, 
 And fruitlej^s 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 hi^ hate I 
 Tormented thus, after a wandering course 
 Of discontent, and inwardly opprest 
 With malady — in part, 1 fear, provoked 
 By weariness of life, he fixed his Home, 
 Or, :aiher say, sate down by yery chance. 
 Among these rugged hills ; where now he dwells. 
 And wastes the sad remainder of his hours 
 In self-indulging spleen, that doth not want 
 lis own voluptuousness ; — on this resolved, 
 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 bejjuile 
 The way, while we advanced up that wide Vale. 
 Diverging now (as if his quest had been 
 Some secret of the Rlountains, Cavern, Fall 
 Of water— or some boastful Eminence, 
 Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide) 
 We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, 
 A steep ascent ; and reached a drearv plain, 
 With a tumultuous waste of huge hill topg 
 before us; savnge region ! which f paced 
 Dispirited : when, all at once, behold ! 
 Beneath our feet, a little lowly Vale, 
 A lowly Vale, and yet uplifted high 
 Among the mountains ; even as if the .-'pot 
 JJad been, from eldest time by wish of theirs, 
 S" placed, to be shut out from all ihe world ! 
 J^Ji-like it was in shape, deep as an Urn ; 
 With rocks encompassed, save that to the South 
 "'as 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 pool that glittered in the sun, 
 And one bare Dwellins ; one Abode, no more I 
 " seemed the Iiome of poverty and toil, 
 
 Though not of want : the little field*?, made green 
 By husbandry of many thrifty years. 
 Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland House. 
 — Tliere crows the Cock, single in his domain : 
 The small birds find in spring no thicket there 
 To shroud them ; only from the neighbouring Vales 
 Tjie Cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, 
 Shouteth faint tidijigs of some gladder place. 
 
 Ah ! what a sweet Recess, thouglit I, is here I 
 Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
 Upon 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 thai life requireo. 
 — In rugged arms how soft it seems to lio, 
 How tenderly protected ! Far and near 
 We have an image of the pristine earth. 
 The planet in i;s nakedness ; were this 
 Alan's only dwelling, sole appointed seat. 
 First, last, and sitigle in the breathing world, 
 It could not be more quiet: peace is liere 
 Or nowhere ; days unruffled by the gale 
 Of public news or private ; years that pass 
 Forgetfully ; uncalled upon ,o pay 
 Tlie common penalties of mortal life, 
 Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 
 
 On these and kindred thoughts intent I Uy 
 In silence musing by my Comrade's side. 
 He also silent : when from out the heart 
 Of that profound Abyss a solemn Voice, 
 Or several voices in one solemn sound, 
 Was heard— ascending: mouralul, deep, and slow 
 The Cadence, as of Psalms— a funeral <.irge; 
 We listened, looking down upon the Hut 
 But seeing no One: meanw! ile from below 
 The strain continued, spiritual as before; 
 And now distinctly could I recognise 
 These words :-" Shall in the Grave thy love be known, 
 In Death thy faithfulness ?''—'^ Qnd rest his soul I'' 
 The Wanderer cried, 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 
 Hearing a Coffin in the midst, with which 
 They shaped their course along the sloping side 
 Of that small Valley ; singing as they moved ; 
 A sober company and few, the jMeri 
 Bare-headed, and all decently attired I 
 Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirg« 
 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, upon the heathy top 
 Of that off-sloping Outlet, disappeared, 
 I, more impatient in iny downward course, 
 Had landed upon easy ground ; and there 
 Stood wailing for my comrade. When behold 
 An object that enticed my steps aside ! 
 A narrow, wiiiding Entry opened out 
 Into a platform— that lay, eheepfold-wise, 
 
fm 
 
 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 Enclosed between an upright vnasa of rock 
 
 A!k1 one old moss-grown wall; — a cool Recess, 
 
 And fanciful ! For, where the rock and wall 
 
 Met in an an^le, hung a penthonse, framed 
 
 By thrusting two rude staves into the wall 
 
 And overlaying them with mountain sods ; 
 
 To woather-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 Children's hands I 
 
 Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show 
 
 Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ; 
 
 Nor wanting ornaments ( f walks between, 
 
 With mimic trees inserted in the turf. 
 
 And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, 
 
 1 could not choose but beckon to my Giiide, 
 
 Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, 
 
 Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed, 
 
 *' Lo ! what i^ here V and, stooping down, drew forth 
 
 A Book, that, in the midst of stones and moss 
 
 And wreck of party-coloured earthern-ware 
 
 Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
 
 One of those petty structures. "Gracious Heaven!" 
 
 The Wanderer cried, " it 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,) [ found to be a work 
 
 In the French Tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 
 
 His famous Optimist. " Unhappy Man !" 
 
 Exclaimed my F/iend : " here then has been to him 
 
 Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place 
 
 Within hovv deep a shelter ! He had fits, 
 
 Even to the last, of genuine tenderness. 
 
 And lovfd the haunts of children here, no doubt, 
 
 Pleasing and pleased, he shared their sin7ple sports, 
 
 Or sale companionless ; and here the Book, 
 
 Left and Ibrgotien in his careless way. 
 
 Must by the Cottage Children have been found : 
 
 Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work ! 
 
 To what odd purpose have the Dariiugs turned 
 
 Tiiis sad Memorial of their hapless Friend !" 
 
 " Me," said F, " 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 i-urrounding things ; 
 'Tis strange, [ grant; and stranger still had been 
 To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here. 
 With one poor Sliepherd, far from all the world ! 
 Now. if our errand hath been thrown away. 
 As from these intimations I fprebode, 
 Grieved shall I 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 hand ; 
 And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
 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 bis 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 hi^'e his head 
 Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 
 A kerchief sprinkled with his Master's blood, 
 And he too haih his comforter. How poor, 
 Beyond all poverty how destitute. 
 Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven, 
 Flying or seeking, could yet bring with Jiim 
 No dearer relique, and no better stay, 
 Than this dull product of a Scofler's pen, 
 Impure conceits discharging from 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 
 
 [nto the presence of the cheerful light — 
 
 " For 1 have knowledge that you do not shrial^ 
 
 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 tall and meagre person, 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 honoured 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 : the sickness from his face 
 Passed like a fancy that is swept away; 
 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 much of what had vanished was returned, 
 An amicable smile retained the life 
 Wliich 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 (."^hild — 
 " A little Mourner, whom it is my task 
 To comfort ;— but how came Ye? — if yon track 
 (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) 
 Conducted hither your most welcome feet, 
 Ye could not miss the Funeral Train — they yet 
 Have scarcely disappear<;d." " This blooming Child," 
 Said the Old Man, " is of an age to weep 
 At any grave or solemn spectacle. 
 Inly distressed or overpowered with awe. 
 He knows not why; — but he, perchance, this day, 
 Is shedilins Orphan's tears ; and you yourself 
 INIust 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 any where, but in a place like this 
 'Tis more than human ! Many precious rites 
 And customs of our rural ancestry 
 Are gone, or stealing from us ; this, I hope. 
 Will last for ever. Often have 1 stopped 
 When on my way, 1 could not chnse but stop, 
 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, to its home, 
 Its final home in earth. What traveller— who— 
 (How far soe'er a Stranger) does not own 
 The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them gQ, 
 A mute Procession on the housclesa road ; 
 
THE flOLITARV. 
 
 223 
 
 Or passing bjr some single tenement 
 
 Or clustered dwellirifis, where again ihey raise 
 
 Tlie monitory voice 1 But most of fill 
 
 It touches, it confirms, and elevates, 
 
 Then, when llie Body, soon to be consigned 
 
 Ashes to asiies, 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 tl Pir nnuplifted heads. 
 
 And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint, 
 
 And that most awful scripture which declares 
 
 We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed ! 
 
 — Have I not seen 7 — Ye likewise may have seen — 
 
 Son, Husband, Brothers — Brothers side by side. 
 
 And Son and Father also si(ie by side. 
 
 Rise from that po.-ture : — nnd in concert move, 
 
 On the green tu -f follnwing the vested Priest, 
 
 Four dear Supporters of one senseless Weight, 
 
 From which they do not shrink, and under which 
 
 They tnint not, but advance towards the grave 
 
 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 I blest are they who live and die like these, 
 
 Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned !" 
 
 " That poftr Man taken hence to day," replied 
 The Solitary, wiih a faint sarcastic smile 
 Which did not please me, " must be deemed, I fear, 
 Of the unblest ; for he will surely sink 
 Into his mother earth without such pomp 
 Of grief, depart without occasion given 
 By him for such array of fortitude. 
 Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark ! 
 This sim[)le Child will mourn his one short hour, 
 And I shall miss him ; scanty tribute ! yet, 
 This wanting, he would leave the sight of men, 
 If love were his sole claim up'^n 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." — '' 'Tvvas 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 liere, 
 Temptation so prevailing as to change 
 That mood, or undermine my first resolve." — 
 Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said 
 To my benign Companion, — " Pity 'lis 
 That fortune did not guide you to this house 
 A few days earlier ; then wou'd 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 remembrance 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 
 Way fairly claim, by niggard age enriched 
 Ii» what she values most — the love of God 
 And his frail creature Man :— but ye shall hear. 
 I talk— and ye are standing in the sun 
 Without refreshment !" 
 
 Saying this, he led 
 Towards 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 ; and the solitary clock 
 
 Ticked, as I thoughi, with melancholy sound. — 
 
 Following our Guide, we c'omb the cottace stairs 
 
 And reached a small apartment dark and low, 
 
 Which was no sooner entered than our Host 
 
 Said gaily, " 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 ardour tl.«an an unripe girl 
 
 Left one day mistress of her mothei's stores, 
 
 He went about iiis hf)spitable task. 
 
 My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less, 
 
 And plea«ed I looked upon my grey-hair'd Friend, 
 
 As if to thank him ; he returned that look. 
 
 Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck 
 
 Had we around us I scattered was the fioor, 
 
 And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf, 
 
 With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and floweref, 
 
 And tufts of mountain moss : mechanic tools 
 
 Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, — some 
 
 Scribbled with verse • a broken angling-rod 
 
 And shattered telescope, together linked 
 
 By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook ; 
 
 And instruments of music, some half-made, 
 
 Some in disurac^, hung dangling frou) the walls. 
 
 — But speedily the promise was fulfilled ; 
 
 A feist before us, and a courteous Host 
 
 Inviiing us in glee to sit and eat- 
 
 A napkin, while as foam of that rough brook 
 
 By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the hoard ; 
 
 And was itself half covered with a load 
 
 Of dainties, — oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream. 
 
 And cakes of butter curiously embossed, 
 
 Butter that 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 garden fruits, 
 
 And whortleberries from the mountain-side. 
 
 The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs, 
 
 Was now a help to his late Comforter, 
 
 And moved, a willing Page, 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 not, ever and anon, forbear 
 To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, 
 That frcm 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 
 fn 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 mijrhty current ; theirs, too, is the song 
 Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails ; 
 And, in the gritn and bieaihless hour of noon, 
 !\Iethinks that I have heard them echo back 
 The thunder's greeting : — nor hav« 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 gilence, though there be no voice; — the clouds. 
 
*S24 
 
 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 The mist, the nhadows, light of golden Bung, 
 Motions of mnonljf^ht, 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 Iieights 
 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, 
 Had scarcely closed this high-wrought Rhapsody, 
 Ere with inviting smile tlie Wanderer said, 
 *' 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 fi"om mankind, 
 As to your eyes and thoughts v/e must have seemed 
 When ye looked down upon us from the crag, 
 Islanders of a stormy mountain sea. 
 We are not so ; — perpetually we touch 
 Upon the vulgar orrlinance of the world, 
 A\n\ he, whom this our Cottage hath to-day 
 Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread 
 Upon the laws of public charity. 
 The Housewife, tempted hy such slender gaina 
 As might from that occasion be distilled. 
 Opened, as she before fiad done for me, 
 Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner; 
 The portion gave of coarse hut wholesome fare 
 Which appetite required — a blind dull nook 
 Such as she had — the k^nnnl of his rest ! 
 This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 
 111 borne in earlier life, but h's was now 
 The still conienredness of seventy years. 
 Calm did he sit beneath the wide-spread tree 
 Of his old ace; and yet le«ss ca'm and meek. 
 Willingly meek or venerably ca'm, 
 Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 
 A penalty, if penalty it were. 
 For spendfbrift 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 cathi^ring up his thoughts. 
 But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes; 
 Mi'd, inoffensive, ready in his way, 
 And helpful to his utmost power: and there 
 Our Housewife knew full well what she pos.'jessed ! 
 He was her Vassal of all labour, tilled 
 Her garden, from the pature fetched her Kine ; 
 And, one among the orderly array 
 Of Hay-makers, beneath 'he burning sun 
 Maintained his place : or heedfully pursued 
 His course, oti errands bound, to other vales, 
 Loading sometimes an inexperienced Child, 
 Too young for any profitable task. 
 So moved he like a Shadow that performed 
 Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn 
 For what reward 1 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 trebli^ humanized, 
 And features in deplorable dismay. — 
 I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! 
 It is most serious : persevering rain 
 Had fallen in torrents ; all the mountain tops 
 Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides ; 
 This had r seen, and saw ; but, till she spake, 
 Was wholly ignorant lliat 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 Heighti 
 Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 
 ' Inhuman !'— said I, ' was an Old Man's life 
 Not Worth the trouble of a thought 7— alas ! 
 This notice comes too late.' With joy 1 saw 
 Her Husband enter — from a distant Vale. 
 We sallied forth tonether ; found the tools 
 Which the neglected Veteran had dropped, 
 But through all quarters looked for him in vain. 
 We shoured — but no answer ! Darkness fell 
 Without remission of the b'ast or shower. 
 And fears for our own safety drove us home. 
 I, who weep little, did, i will confess. 
 The moment I was seated here alone. 
 Honour my little Cell with some few tears 
 Which anger and resentment could not dry. 
 All night the stomi endured ; and, soon as help 
 Had been collected from the neighbouring 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 lofty ridge to pass 
 A heap of ruin, almost without walls, 
 And wholly without roof, (the bleached remain* 
 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 e<=pied the Object of our search. 
 
 Lying full three parts buried among tufts 
 
 Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn. 
 
 To baffle, as lie might, the watery storm : 
 
 And there we found him breathing peaceably, 
 
 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 bewilderinjr thoughts. 
 
 So was he lifted gently from the ground, 
 
 And with their freight the Shepherds homeward moved 
 
 Through ihe dull mist, I following— when a step, 
 
 A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
 
 Of the blind vapour, opened to my view 
 
 Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
 
 By waking sense or by the dreaming soul! 
 
 The Appearance, instantaneously disclosed, 
 
 Was of a mighty City— boldly say 
 
 A wilderness of building, sinking far 
 
 And sell-withdrawn into a wondrous depth, 
 
 Far sinking into s[ilendour -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, whereunto 
 
 The vapours had receded, taking there 
 
 Their station under a cerulean sky. 
 
 Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! 
 
 Cloud-, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald tutf. 
 
 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 appeared 
 
 Of open court, an object like a throne 
 
 Beneath a shining canopy of state 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 225 
 
 Stood fixed ; and fixed resennblances were seen 
 
 To implements' of ordinaiv use, 
 
 But vas-t ill s-ii^e, in sul.stanre glorified ; 
 
 Suci) as by Hebimv Prophets wnre helield 
 
 In vision— forms uncouth of njiizhtiest power 
 
 For admiration and mysterious awe. 
 
 Beiow me was tlie earth ; ihiri iittle Vale 
 
 Lay low benealli my feet ; 'twas vi>ible— 
 
 I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 
 
 That which I saw vvas the revealed abode 
 
 Of spirits ill beaiiiuiie : my heart 
 
 Swelled ill my breast— 'I have been dead,' I cried, 
 
 ' And now I live! Oh ! wln^refore do I live?' 
 
 And wiih that pan?; I prayed to br- no more! 
 
 —But 1 forget our C-har«[e, as utterly 
 
 I then ff)r}iot him -.—there I sfood and gazed; 
 
 The apparition fadt d not away, 
 
 And I descended —Having ri-ached the House, 
 
 I found its rescued Inmate safely lodged, 
 
 And in srrene possession of himself, 
 
 Beside a penial tire ; that seemed to spread 
 
 A gleam of com fort o'er his pallid face. 
 
 G-eat sljow of joy the HousewitV made, and truly 
 
 Was glad to find her conscience set at ease ; 
 
 And not less glad, for sake of her good n mie, 
 
 That the poor Sntterer had escaped with life. 
 
 But, though he seemed at first to have received 
 
 No ha'm, af;d uricoiuplainip.g as before 
 
 Went through his usual tasks, a silent change 
 
 Soon shewed itself; lie lingered three short weeks; 
 
 And from the Cottage haih been borne today. 
 
 " So ends my dolorous Tale, and glad I am 
 That it is eeih d " Ar. these words he turned — 
 And, wi;h blithe air of open fellowship, 
 Brought from the Cupboard wine and stouter cheer, 
 Like one wlio w mid bf merry. Seeing this, 
 My gre\-haired Friend said courteously— " Nay, uay. 
 Yon liave regaled us as a Hermit ought; 
 Now let us forth into the sun !"— Our Flost 
 Ruse, though reluctantly, and forth we went. 
 
 END OF THE SECOND BOOK. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Book Ifl. 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 ARQUMENT.-Images in the Valley — AnotherRecess init 
 entered and described — Wanderer's sensations — Soli- 
 tary's excited by the same objects — Contrast be- 
 tween these — Despondency of the Soliiary gently re_ 
 proved— Conversation exhibiting the Solitary's past 
 and present opinions and feelings, till he enters upon 
 bis own History at length — His domestic felicity — 
 affiiciinris — dejection — roused by the French Revolu- 
 tion— Di.'^appointnient and disgust— Voyage to Ariier- 
 ica— disappointment and disgust pursue him — his re 
 turn — His languor and depression of mind, frtim want 
 of faith in the great truths of Religion, and want of 
 confidence in the virtue of Mankind. 
 
 A HUMMING Bee— a little tinkling Rill — 
 A pair of Falcons, wheeling on the wing, 
 III clamorous agitation, round the crest 
 Of a tall rock, their airy Citadel — 
 By each and all of these the pensive ear 
 Wns greeted, in the silence that ensued. 
 When through the Cottage-threshold we had passed. 
 And, deep within thai lonesome Valley stood 
 Once more, beneath the concave of a blue 
 And cloudless sky. — Anon ! exclaimed our Host 
 Tiiiiniphantly disperting with the taunt 
 The sliade of discontent which on his brow 
 Had gathered,—" Ye have left my cell,— but see 
 
 20 
 
 How Nature hems you in with friendly arms ! 
 
 And by her help ye are my Prisoners still. 
 
 But w.i.ich way shall I lead you 7-how contrive, 
 
 In Si-ot so parsimoniously endowed. 
 
 That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap 
 
 Some recompense of knowledge or delight ?" 
 
 So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed ; 
 
 And, to remove those doubts, my grey-haired Friend 
 
 Said— " Shall we take this pathway for our guide 1— 
 
 U[;ward it winds, as if, in summer heats, 
 
 Its line had firsr, been fasliio'.ied by the flock 
 
 A filace of refuue seeking at tl e root 
 
 Of y(m black Yew-tree ; wiiose protruded boughs 
 
 Darken the silver bosom of the crag. 
 
 From which she draws her meagre sustenance. 
 
 There in commodious sheUer may we rest. 
 
 Or let us trace this Stieamlet to his source; 
 
 Feebly it tinkles with an eartliiy sound, 
 
 And a few steps may bring us to the spot 
 
 Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs, 
 
 The mouniaiu Infant to the sun comes forth. 
 
 Like Imman Li'e from dfrkness."— A quick turn 
 
 'Ihrough 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 saw the water, that compos, d this Rill, 
 
 Descending, di.-embodied, and diffused 
 
 O'er the smooth surface of an ample Crag, 
 
 Lofty, and steep, and naked as a Tovi'er. 
 
 Ail further progress here was barred ; — And who, 
 
 Thought I, if master of a vacant hour, 
 
 Here woulrl not lin< er, wiiiingly detained? 
 
 Wheiher to such wild objects he were led 
 
 When copious rains have magnified the stream 
 
 Into a loud ai;d whiie-robed Waterfall, 
 
 Or introduced at this more quiet time. 
 
 Upon a semicirque of turfclad ground, 
 The hidden neck rii>covered to cur 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 ol winds and wav(s. Three several Stones 
 Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
 To monumental pillars ; and from these 
 Some little space disjoined, a pair were s en. 
 That with united shoulders bor" aloft 
 A Fragment, liKe an Altar, flat and smooth ; 
 Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared 
 A tall and shining Holly, that had found 
 A hoppirable chink, and stood upright, 
 As if inserted by some human hand 
 In mockery, to vviiher in the sun, 
 Or lay its beauty flat bef(ue 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, metltiiiks, I see 
 More than the heedless impress that belongs 
 To lonely Nature's casual work ; they bear 
 A semblance strange of [lower intelligent, 
 And of design not wholly wurn av/ay. 
 Boldest of plants that ever faced the v.'ind, 
 How gracefully that slender Shrub looks forth 
 From its fantastic birth-place I And I own, 
 Sdme shadowy tatimalioiis haant me here, 
 
226 
 
 DESFONDENCY. 
 
 That in these shows a chronicle survives 
 
 or purposes akin to those of Man, 
 
 But wrouglit wiih mightier arjn than now prevails. 
 
 — Voicele.-s the Stream cksceiuls iiiio the <:ulf 
 
 Willi timiil lapse ;—aiici Jo! wliiic in this Sirait 
 
 I stand— the ciiasm of sky above my head 
 
 Is heaven's prol'tunKlest azure; no domain 
 
 For fickle, shorl-jived chnids to occupy, 
 
 Or to pass through, but rat er an Abyss 
 
 In wliicfi the evfriasiiu^ Siars abide; 
 
 And whose soft gloom, anl boundless depth, mij^ht 
 
 ti^inpt 
 The curious eye to look for tliem by day. 
 — Hail r'ontcmpIatJon ! frc.ni the statfly lowers, 
 Kcaied by the industrious hand of human art 
 To liit tl;ee hi^h above tlio misty air 
 And turbulence of murmuiinji cities vaet : 
 From academic groves, that have for thee 
 Been planted, hitlier come and find a Loiipe 
 To which tluwi mayest resort for Jiolier peace, — 
 Frnm whose calm ccuitre Thou, through height or depth, 
 Mayest penetrate, wherever Truth s^Iinll lead: 
 Measurinjr through all deforces, uniil the scale 
 Of Tinip and conscious N lure disappear. 
 Lost in unsearchable Eternity !"* 
 
 A p.\uso ensued ; and wiih minuter care 
 We scanned the various features of the scene : 
 And soon tho Tenant of that lonely Vale 
 With C(jur{eous voice thus spake — 
 
 •' I should have grieved 
 Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach. 
 
 * Since this paragraph was composed, T have read 
 wi;h so ]5)urh jjleasnie, in Burnet's Theory of the 
 Earth, a passage i^xpresting coriespoiuh^nt sentiments, 
 e\'ei:td by (injects of a similar naiure, that 1 cannot 
 forbear to tra;;scribe it. 
 
 " Siqund veib Natura nobis dedit sperlarulnni, in 
 liac teJiure, vere giatum, et philosopho dijinnm. id se- 
 me! Uiilil con!ipi>se aibitror; cum ex cel^isima rnpe 
 speculabiiudiis ail oram maris IVlediti-rranei. hiec v. quor 
 cierulenm, i;!inc iractns Ali>ifK s prosjiexi ; niliil qnidem 
 niaj:!S di.-^|;ar aur disfc;imile, nee in suo genere, n;a< is 
 egreriiun et sinj^ulaie. Hoc theatinm <'go faei''e p-ff-iu- 
 leiim Romanis cuneiis, Giascisve ; at(jne irl que d natura 
 hie sp( ciawdnm e.xhibct, sceni('is hulls omnibus, aut 
 amphiihea:ri eeriarninibns. Nihil hie eh gars ant ve- 
 nwstum, sed ingens et magnificum, etqued placet masni- 
 tudine sna et qe.adam spt^cie innneiis^iiaiis. Hinc iiitu- 
 ebar niaris jtqnabiiem snperhci; rn, usqi'e riiti'nsam, 
 quantum maximum oculorum aeies ferri potuit; illinc 
 disrnpii.-siniam (eiia3 laciem et vatias nuiies va; ie fle- 
 vatas ant depressas, erectas, projiendeotes, rec!inata«, 
 coacervatas. omni situ inaquali et tnrbido Piacuii. ex 
 hac pa'io, Natura3 unilas et simplieiias, et inexhai sta 
 qna-dam planitics; ex altera, muliiformisconfusio ma - 
 iiornm corpoinm, et in-ana; renim sria.crrs: qwas fi'in 
 intuebar, non urbis alicujns aut oppirli, sed coufracti 
 mundi rndera, anie octilos liai)erp mihi visus sum. 
 
 " fn singulis feie mon'ibus erat aliquid insolens et 
 inirabile, sed pia^ eajteiis mihi placebat ilia, q'.a sede- 
 bau), rupes ; erat maxima et altissima, et qua teriam 
 respiciehat, molliori ascensu aliiiudinem suam dissimu- 
 iabaf. qnn vi-'vh mare, horrendum pra^ceps, et qua^i ad 
 perpeiidiculum facta, instar parieiis. Piictevea facies 
 ilia marina adeb erat lievis ac uniiormis (quod in rupi- 
 bus aliqnaido observare licet) ac isi scissa fni-set a 
 enmmo ad irnuni, in illo pla.io ; veJ terra- motu aliquo, 
 aut fulmine, divnlsa. 
 
 " Ima pasrf rupis erat cava, rece?su?qne habuit, et 
 saxeos specus, euntes in vacuum mont( m : sive natura 
 pi idem lactns, sive exesos mari, et undarum crebris ic- 
 tibus : In hos etriin cum impetu ruebant et frngoie, 
 ffititnantis tnaiir^ fincM-s : (pios iternm spnmanies reddi- 
 dit autrnnj, et qu:\yi e.h inio vetitre evouuiit. 
 
 '• Dextinn> latns montis erat pra}ruptuni, aspero saxo 
 et nnda, cau;e ; einistium non adeb ticghxeiai JN'atuta, 
 aibnrihus u'pf^tre oiriatum : et prope pedem montis rivns 
 limpidffi aqua^ pvotupit ; qui cum viciiuim vallem irri- 
 gaverat, lento motu serpens, et per varjns ineandrns, 
 quasi ad protrahendrm vitain, in magno mari nbsoip- 
 tus subi:o periit. Deniqi.-e in suninio vertice promon- 
 torii, commode eniii ebai saxnnr, eui in^idebam cfuiiem- 
 p'abundus. Vah^ aeg.is-t: sedes, Kegcd gi:a : Auirusta 
 rupeB, semper mihi incpioranda !" P. 89. Tdluris 
 Thcoria sacra, <S,'C. iLditio secanda. 
 
 I 'i^ from my poor Retirement ye had jjone' 
 Leaving this Nook unvisited ; but, in sootli. 
 Your unexpected presence had go rou-'^ed 
 My spirits, that iliey were beni on enterprise,' 
 Ami, like an ardent Hunter, I Jorgot, 
 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, O'ded by blind Chance 
 Rudely to mock the works of toiling Wan. 
 And hence, this upright Siiaft of unhewn Stone, 
 From Fancy, willing to set off her stores 
 By sounding Titles, Jtaih acquired the name 
 Of Pon'p^-y's Pillar; that f gravely style 
 My Tbeban Oi»e isk ; and, tiiere, behold 
 A Druid Cromlech I — thus I enteriatn 
 The antiquarian liumour, and- arn p'eased 
 To .<-kim along the surfaces of things, 
 Resuiling harmlessly the listless hours. 
 But if the spirit he 0[)pre8sed by sense 
 Of instabi'iry, revolt, decay, 
 
 And change, and emptlnes-s, these freak= of Natore 
 Ava\ her blind helper, Cliance, do then suffice 
 To quicken, and to agjrrava^e — to feed 
 Pity and scorn, and melancholy piide, 
 Not less than that huge Pile (fr^m some abyss 
 Of n)orTa! power nrquestionably sprung) 
 Whose hoary Diadem of pendent rocks 
 Confines the shrill-veiced wliir'wi'^d, round and round 
 Eddying witliin its vast circumference. 
 On Sarutn's naked plain ; — than pyramid 
 Of E'.'vpt, unsubverfed, undissolved ; 
 Or Syria's marble Ruins towering hish 
 Above the sandy Desert, in the lijrht 
 Of sun or moon,— Forgive me, if I say 
 That an appearance w! icl) hath rais^ d your minds 
 To an exalted pitch (the self-same cause 
 Different elTect producing) is for me 
 Fraught rath'^r with depression than delight, 
 Though sfiame it were, cmild I not look around. 
 By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 
 Yet happier in my judL'nient, even than you 
 With your bright transports fairly may i)e deemed, 
 The wandering Herbalist, — who, clear alike 
 From vain, and, thai worse evil, vexing thoughts. 
 Casts, if he ever chanee to enter here, 
 Upon these uncouth Forms a slight r<'gard 
 Of transitory interest, and peeps round 
 For some rare Floweiet of the hills, (>r Plant 
 Of craggy fountain ; what he hopes for wins, 
 Or learns, at least, that 'tis 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 his onwaid quest ! 
 Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem T, 
 Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft 
 By scars wliich his activity has left 
 Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven! 
 This covert nook reports not of his Iiand) 
 He who with pocket hammer smites the edge 
 Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised 
 Tn 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 namOj 
 And hurries on ; or from the fiagments picks 
 Flis specimen, if haply interveined 
 With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube 
 Lurk in its cells — and thinks himself enriched, 
 Wealthier, ai;d doubtless wiser, than before! 
 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— no pain is in their sport." 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 227 
 
 ^^^Thcn,"" said r, interposing, " One is near, 
 Who cannot but poss(^ss in your «»Ptef;pa 
 Pl«ce worthier still of envy. May I name, 
 Without f fi -nee, that fair-faced Cottage-boy 1 
 Danje Nature's Pupil of the lowest Form, 
 Youngest Apprentice in the School of Art! 
 Him, as we entered from the open Glen, 
 Yo\i niipht have noticed busily engaged, 
 Heart, soul, and hands, — in mending the defects 
 Left in the fabric of a leaky dnm, 
 Knifed for onab'insi this penurious stream 
 To turn a slender mil! (that new-made plaything) 
 For his delight — the happiest he of all!" 
 
 " Far happiest," answer<^d the desponding Man, 
 *' Tf, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
 Ah I what avails Imagination high 
 Or Question deep 1 what profits all that Earth, 
 Or Heaven's blue Vault, is suffered to put forth 
 Of impulse or aPuremsnt, for the 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 
 Through lime or spare ; if neither in tlie one, 
 Nor in the other region, nor in aught 
 That Fancy, dreaminfr o'er the map of things. 
 Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds. 
 Words of assurance can be beard; if nowhere 
 A habitation, for conoum:.'iate good, 
 Nor for progressive virtue, by the search 
 Can be attained, — a belter sanctuary 
 From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless gra.ve ?" 
 
 "Is this," the grey-haired Wanderer mildly said, 
 "The voice, which we so lately overheard, 
 To that same Child, addressing tenderly 
 The Consolations of a hopeful mind ? 
 ' His body is at rest^ his soul in heaven.^ 
 These were your words; and, verily, n)efhinks 
 Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
 Than when we soar." — 
 
 The Other, not displeased, 
 Promptly replied — " My notion is the same. 
 And I, without reluctance, could decline 
 All act of Inquisition whence we rise, 
 And what, when brea:h hath ceased, we may become. 
 Here are we, in a biiglit and breathing World— 
 Our oriijin, wliat matters it ? In lack 
 Of worthier explanaiion, say at once 
 Wiih the American (a thought which suits 
 The place where now we stand) that certain Men 
 Lenpt out together from a ro( ky Cave ; 
 And these were the first Parents of Mankind: 
 Or, if a different imatre be recalled 
 By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice 
 Of insectt— chirping out their careless lives 
 On these soft beds of thynie-besprinkled turf, 
 Chnosp, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
 As soun«l— blithe race ! whose mantles were bedecked 
 With golden Grasshoppers, in sign that they 
 Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the soil 
 Whereon their endless generations dwelt. 
 But stop! — these tlieoretic fancies jar 
 On serious minds ; then, as the Hindoos draw 
 Their holy Gauges 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 Gangi^s, t.o make part 
 Of a living Ocean ; or, to sink engulfed, 
 Like Niger in impenetrable sands 
 And utter darkness: thoutrht which may be faced, 
 Thoiigh comfortless !— Not of myself I speak ; 
 Slid) acquiescetu-e neither <loth imply, 
 ^» nie, a niec'kly bending spirit— soothed 
 ^y natural pi«ty ; nor a lofty mind, 
 % philosophic discipline prepared 
 
 For calm subjection to acknowledged law ; 
 Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
 Such palms I boast not ;— no ! to me, who find, 
 Reviewing tny past way, much to condemn, 
 Little to praise, ajid noihing to i egret 
 (Save some remembrances of dream-like joys 
 That scarcely seem to iiave belonged to me) 
 If I must take my choice between the pair 
 That rule alternately the weary hours, 
 Night is than Day more acceptabh.' ; sleep 
 Doth, in my estimate of good, appt-ar 
 A better state than waking; deatii thnn sleep: 
 Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 
 Though under covert of the worrny ground ! 
 
 " Yet be it said, in justice to myself, 
 That in more genial tinies, when I was free 
 To explore the destiny of human kind, 
 (Not as an ititellectnal game pursued 
 With cu)-ious subtilty, from v/ish to cheat 
 Irksome sensations ; but by love of truth 
 Urged on, or haply by intense delight 
 fn feeding thought, wherever tlionght could feed) 
 [ did not rank with those (too dull or mc, 
 For to my judgment such tliey then appeared, 
 Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) 
 Who, in this frame of human life, perceive 
 An object wherennto their souls are tied 
 In discontented wedlock ; nor did e'er, 
 From me, those dark impervious shades, that hang 
 Upon tlie region whither we are bound, 
 Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams, 
 Of present snnsiiiMe.— Deities that float 
 On wings, angelic Spirits, I could muse 
 O'er wliat from ehiest tinie we have been told 
 « f your bright forms and glorious faculties, 
 And with the imagination be content, 
 Not wishin": more; repining not to tread 
 The little sinuous path of earthly care, 
 By flowers emhellished, ai)d by springs refreshed. 
 — ' D!ow 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 fientle Brooks I — Your desolating sway,* 
 Thus [ exclaimed, ' no sadness sheds on me, 
 And no disorder in your rage [ And. 
 What dignify, what b(>aury, in this cliangt; 
 From mild to angry, and from sad to gay. 
 Alternate and revolvirig ! How iienign. 
 How rich in animation and delight, 
 How bountiful the^^e elements— compared 
 With aught, as more desirable and lair 
 Devised by Fancy tor the Golden Age ; 
 Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 
 [n 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 solitude is apt 
 To anticipate the privilege of Age. 
 From far ye come ; and surely with a hope 
 Of better entertainment — let us hence 1" 
 
 Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 
 To be diverted fmm our present theme, 
 I said, " My thoughts agreeing, Sir, with your?, 
 Would push this censure farther; — for, if smiles 
 Of scornful [»i;y 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 Ph.ilo^opliy be styled, 
 ller^-elf, a Dreamer ol a kindred stock, 
 A Dreamer yet more spiritless and dull? 
 Yes, shall tiie fine immunities she boasts 
 Establish sounder titles of esteem 
 
m 
 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 For T\er^ who (all loo timid and reserved 
 
 For onsof, for resistance too inert, 
 
 Too weak for siifteiinp;, and for hope too tame) 
 
 Placed niMonin: flowery gardens, curtained round 
 
 With world-excluding groves, the Brotherhood 
 
 Of soft Epicurean!?, taught— if they 
 
 The ends of being would secure, and win 
 
 The crown of wisdnm— to yield up their souls 
 
 To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 
 
 Tranquility to all things. Or is She," 
 
 T cried, " more worthy of regard, the Power, 
 
 Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 
 
 The Sioic's heart against the vain approach 
 
 Of admiration, and all sense of joy ?" 
 
 His Countcriance gave noiicc that my zeal 
 Accorded little witli his present mind; 
 I ceased, and he resumed. — " Ah ! gentle Sir, 
 Slight, if you will, the means ; hut spare to slight 
 The end of those, who did, by system, rank, 
 As the prime object of a wise Man's aim. 
 Security from ^hock of accident, 
 Release from fear ; and cherished peaceful days 
 For their own sakes, a^ mortal life's chief good, 
 And only rea?;f)nable felicity. 
 What motive dievv', what impulse, \ 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 
 Tpok their last farewell of the sun and stars, 
 Fast atichored in the desert 1 — '^'ot alone 
 Dread of the persecuting sword— remorse, 
 Wrongs unredressed, or in«ults unavenged 
 And u)inven?eahle, defeated pride, 
 Prosperity subverted, maddening want, 
 Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned, 
 Love witii d''S[)air, or grief in agony ;— 
 Not a! ways from intolerable [langs 
 He fled- bu', compa?>fHl round by pleasure, sighed 
 For independent ha{)r)ine:-s ; craving peace, 
 The central feeling of all hapi)inf'ss. 
 Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 
 A breathijig-time, vacation, or a trure, 
 But for its absolute self; a life of peace, 
 Stability without legret or fear ; 
 That hath beon, is, and shall be evermore ! 
 guch the reward he souirht ; and wore out life, 
 There, vvheie on few external thinirs his h(.*art 
 Was set, and those his f>wn ; or, if not his, 
 Subsisting under Nature's steadfast law. 
 
 " What other yearning was the ma^^ter tie 
 Of the monastic Biotherhood, upon Rock 
 Ae.ial, or in green secUuied Vale, 
 OiiC after one, collected from n^ar. 
 An undlssolvinir Fellowship ? — Wliat but this, 
 The universal insiinrt of repose, 
 The longing for confirmed tranquility. 
 Inward ;ind outwaid ; hun)l»'e, yet sublime: — 
 The <i(e where hope ami metnory are as o'^e ; 
 Earth quiet and unrhanDed ; the hunian Soul 
 Consistent in self-rule; and heaven revealed 
 To mediiation in that (pnetneps ! 
 Siich was their scheme : — ihrirn hapfiv he who cained 
 The eiid pioposi'd ! And, — lliougb the same were aiissed 
 By muliitudes, perhnps obiained by none, — 
 Tliey, for the attempt, and for the pains employed 
 Do, j;i niy present c^^nsure, stand redeemed 
 From the unqualilied disdain, that once 
 Would have been cast upon them, by my Voice 
 Delivering her decisions from the seat 
 Of forward Youth : — tliat scruples not to solve 
 Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules 
 Of inexperiemed judiiment, ever prone 
 To overweening taih ; and is inflamed, 
 By courage, to demand from real life 
 •The test of act and suffering— to provoke 
 
 Hoslilily, how dreadful when it cowetf, 
 Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt ! 
 
 "A Child of earth. I rested, in that stage 
 Of my past course to which these thoughts advert, 
 Upon earth's native energies; forgetting 
 That mine was a condition which required 
 Nor energy, nor fortitude— a calm 
 Without vicissitude; which, if the like 
 FTad been presented to my view elsewhere, 
 I might have even been tempted to despise. 
 But that which was serene was also bright; 
 Enlivened happiness with joy overflowing, 
 With joy, and — oh : that njemory should survive 
 To speak the word — with rapture ! Nature's boon, 
 Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
 Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign ; 
 Abused, as all possessions are abused 
 That are not prized 'according to their worth. 
 And yet, what worth ? what good is given to Men, 
 More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven ? 
 What joy more lasting than a vernal flower? 
 None ! 'tis the general plaint of human kind 
 In solitude, and mutuallv addressed 
 From each to all, for wisdom's sake : — This truth 
 The Priest announces from his holy seat : 
 And, Clowned with garlands in the summer grove, 
 The Poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 
 Yet, ere that final resting-j)lace be gained, 
 Sharp contradictions may arise by doom 
 Of this same liie, compelling us to grieve 
 That the prosperities of l«»ve and joy 
 Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 
 So long, and be at once cast down for ever. 
 Oh ! tremble, Ye, to whom hath been assigned 
 A cou'se of days composing happy montlis, 
 Ar'd 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 n)Ove withoiit the aid of hope : 
 For Mutahiliiy is Nature's bane ; 
 And slighted Hope will be avenged ; Jiud, wheq 
 Ye need her favours. Ye shall find her not ; 
 But in hi!r stead — fear — doubt— and agoiiv I" 
 
 This was the bitter language of the heart: 
 But, whi'e he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice, 
 Thouirh discomposed and vehement, were such 
 As skill and graceful Naiure misiht suggest 
 To a Proficient of the tra>:ic scene 
 Stariding before the multitude, beset 
 Wi;h dark events. De-irous to divert 
 Or siein the current of the Speaker's thoughts, 
 We signified a wish to leave that Place 
 Of stillness and close ])?ivacy, a nook 
 That seemed for self-exaniina ion mnde, 
 Or, for confession, in the sinnc'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. 
 Anil, on that coucli inviiinfr us to rest. 
 Full Oii that tender-hearted Man he turned 
 A serious eye, and thus his speech renewed. 
 
 *^ You never saw, j^our eyes did never look 
 On the brigiit Form of Her whom once I loved : — 
 Her silver voice was beard upon the earth, 
 A s<mnd unkno\yn to you; else, honoured Friend! 
 Your heart had borne a pitiable shae 
 Of what I suffered, when 1 wept that loss, 
 And snfT-r 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; 
 , I wouli not yet be of such wintry bareness 
 But that some leaf of your regard should hang 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 229 
 
 Upon my naked branches: — lively tliouglua 
 Give birth, full often, to unjruaided words ; 
 I erieve that, in yonr presence, from my tongue 
 Too much of frailty haih already dropped ; 
 But thai too much detnands still more. 
 
 " You know, 
 Revered Compatriot -.— and to you, kind Sir, 
 (Not to bo deemed a Stranper, 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 pay companions, to the natal roof, 
 And all known p!acts and familiar sights 
 (Resignefl with sadness gently weigliing down 
 Her trembling expectations, but no more 
 Than did to her due honour, and to me 
 Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
 In what I had to build upon) — this Bride, 
 Yoiing, modest, meok, and iieaiuiful, I led 
 To a low Cortaiie in a sunny Bay, 
 Where the salt sea innocuowsly breaks, 
 And t'"e sea breeze as innocently breathes. 
 On Devon's leafy shores ; — a siieltered Hold, 
 In ^ soft clinie encouraging the soil 
 To a Inxuriaiit honuiy I — As our steps 
 Approach ilie eujliowered Abode — o\ir chosen Seat— 
 Sde, rooted in the earih, her kindly bed. 
 The unendangered Myrtle, decked wi;h flowers, 
 Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 
 VVliile . in the flowering Myrtle's neighbourhood, 
 Not overlroked but conrfing no regard, 
 Tiuise na ive plants, the Holly and the Yew, 
 Gave modest iminiaiion to the mind 
 H<iw wi;iing y th; ir aid they would unite 
 Wiih ihe gieen Myrtle, lo endear the hours 
 Of winter, and protect that p'easant place. 
 — Wi^d were the Walks upon those lonely Downs 
 Track leadi g into Track, how marked, how worn, 
 Into biiiiht verdnre, between fern and gorse 
 Winilinji away it-* never-ending line 
 On their smooih sjirface, evidence was none : 
 But, there, lay open to our dai'y haunt, 
 A rnnge of nnnppropriat'-d earth, 
 Where youth's and)i inns leet niisht move at large ; 
 Whence, uiujiolesred Wanderers, we beheld 
 •The shining Giver of the Day diiTnse 
 His bri;:htncss o'er a tra«-.t of sea and land 
 Gay as oiir spiri's, free as our desires, 
 As our enjoyments, boundless. — Fiom those Heights 
 W(3 dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan Coijibs ; 
 W'liere arbours oi impenetrable shade. 
 And mossy seals, detained us side b^ side, 
 VV^iih hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts 
 'Tiiat all the grove and all the day was ours.' 
 
 " But Nature called my Partner to resign 
 Her share in the pure freedom of that life, 
 E.ijoyed by us in C(nnmon. — To my hope, 
 To niy heait's wish, my tender Mate became 
 TliH thankful captive i)t' maternal bonds ; 
 And those vvi.d [»a[hw were left to me alone. 
 Tiitre couid I meditate on follies past ; 
 Aud, like a weary Voyager escaped 
 Proiu risk and liardsliip, inwardly retrace 
 A couise of vain delijihts a id thoughtless guilt. 
 And sell-imlulpence — without shame pursued. 
 There, undisturbed, could tliink of, and could thank 
 Her— whose submissive spirit was to me 
 R.'le and resti-aint— my Guardian— shall I say 
 That earthly Piovidcnce, whose guiding love 
 Within a port of rest had lodged me safe ; 
 Safe from Jernptaiion, nnd from danger far 7 
 
 Strains followed of acknowledgment addressed 
 
 To an Atithority enthroned 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 I 
 
 These acts of mind, and uiemory, 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 iruense. 
 
 As the mute insect fixed upon the plant 
 
 Oi\ whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup 
 
 Draws imperceptibly its nouriiihment — 
 
 Endeared my wanderings ; and the Mother's kiss 
 
 And Infant's smile awaited my return. 
 
 " In privacy we dwelt — a wedded pair — 
 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 cot age born, 
 [nmales, and heirs of our united love ; 
 Graced mutually by diff'erence of sex. 
 By the endearing names of nature bound. 
 And with no wider interval of time 
 Between their several births than served for One 
 To e:-tablish something of a leader's 5-way ; 
 Yet left the)n joined by sympathy in age ; 
 Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. 
 On these two pillars rested as in ajr 
 Our solitude. 
 
 " It soothes me to perceive, 
 Your courtesy withholds not from my words 
 Attentive audience. But, oh! gentle Friends, 
 *s times of quiet and unbroken piMce 
 Though, for a .rjation, limes of blessedness, 
 Give back faint echoes from the Historian's page; 
 So, in tne imperfect sounds oT tins discourse, 
 Depressed I hear, how laithless is the voice 
 Wiiiclj tho>e most bli>sfu! da\s reverberate. 
 Wiiat Kjiecial record can, or need, be given 
 To rues and habits, whereby much was dune, 
 But all wiiiiin the sphere of little things. 
 Of humble, though, to us, important cares. 
 And precious interests? Snmothly did our life 
 Advance, not swerving from the path jirescribed ; 
 Her annual, her diurnal round alike 
 Maintained with faithful care. And you divine 
 The worst eftects that our condition saw 
 If you imagine changes slowly wrought, 
 And in their progress imperceptible ; 
 Not wished for, sometinu^s noticed with a ^igh, 
 (Whafe'er of good or lovely they might bring) 
 Sighs of regret, for the familiar good. 
 And loveliness endeared— wliich they removed. 
 
 "Seven years of occupation undisturbed 
 Establit;hed seemii:g y a right to hold 
 That happiness: and use and habit gave 
 To what an alien spirit had acquired 
 A patrimonial sanctity. And thus. 
 With thoughts and wishes itounded to this world, 
 [ lived and breathed ; most grateful, if to enjoy 
 Without repining or de-ire for mtne, 
 For different lor, or change to higher sphere 
 (Only exce[)t some impulses ol pi ide 
 With no d termined object, though upheld 
 By theories with suitable support) 
 Most grateful, if in such wi?e to enjoy 
 Be proof of gratitude for what we have ; 
 Else, I allo,v, most thankle^^s. — But, at once, 
 From some dark seat of fatal Tower was urged 
 A claim that shattered all.— Our bloc mi ng Girl, 
 Caught in the gripe of Death, with such brief time 
 , To struggle in as scarcely would allow 
 
230 
 
 DESPONDJSNOy. 
 
 Her cheek to change ita colour, was conveyed 
 
 From us to regions inaccessible ; 
 
 Where hejcht or depth, admits not the approach 
 
 Of living Man, though lonping to pursue. 
 
 — Wiih even as brief a warning — and how soon, 
 
 With vvliat short interval of time between, 
 
 I trenib!e yet to think of — our last prop, 
 
 Our happy life's only remaining slay — 
 
 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 soni, 
 Had been erewhile nnseitled and disturbed, 
 This second visitation had no power 
 To shake ; but only to bind up and seal ; 
 And to establish ihankfulness of heart 
 In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 
 The ennnence on which 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, 1 felt 
 That consolation may descend from far ; 
 (And, that is intercourse, and union, too,) 
 While, overcome with speechless gratitude. 
 And, with a holier love inspired, I looked 
 On her — at once supeiior to my woes 
 And Partner of my loss. — O heavy change I 
 Dimness o'er this clear Luminary crept 
 Insensibly ; — the imujorial and divine 
 Yielded to mortal reflux ; her pure Glory, 
 As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
 Wretched Ambition drrps astounded, fell 
 Into a gulf obscure of silent grief. 
 And keen heart-anguish — of iiself ashamed, 
 Yet obstinait'ly cherishing itself: 
 And, so consumed. She melted from my arms; 
 And left me, on this earth, disconsolate. 
 
 " What followed cannot be reviewed in thought ; 
 Much less, retrar-ed in words. If She, of life 
 Blameless, so in.iniate with love and joy 
 And all the lender motions of the Snul, 
 Had been supplanted, >cou!d 1 hope to stand — 
 Infirm, (le[;eiident, and now desiiiuie? 
 I called on dream- and visions, to disclose 
 That which is veiled from waking thought; conjured 
 Eternity, as men coustiain a Gin si 
 To ajipear and answer ; to the grave I spake 
 Injploringly ; — looked up, and asked the Heavens 
 If Angels traversetl their cerulean floors, 
 If fixed or wandering Star could tidings yield 
 Of the departed S|)irit— what Abode 
 It occupies — what consciousness retains 
 Of former loves and inteiesls. Then my Soul 
 Turned inwaid,— to examine ol what stufl' 
 Time's fellers are comjjosed ; and Life was put 
 To inquisition, long and profitless ! 
 By pain of heart — now checked — and now impelled — 
 The intellectual P( vver. ihrou{.li woids and tilings, 
 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, — and how ? 
 Even as a ihouL^htful Sliepherd by a flash 
 Of liglitning 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 o'erthrown 
 Of indignation ; ami with shouts tliai drowned 
 The crash it made in falling ! From the wreck 
 A golden Palace rose, or seemed to rise. 
 
 The appointed Seat of equiiahle Law 
 And mild paternal Sway. The potent shock 
 1 fell : the transformation I perceived, 
 As marvellously seized as in that moment 
 When from the blind mist issuing, 1 beheld 
 Glory — beyond all glory ever seen, 
 Contusion infinite of heaven and earth, 
 Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps 
 In every grove were ringing, ' War sh:ill cease ; 
 ' Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured ? 
 ' Biiug garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck 
 'The Tree of Liberty.' — My heart rebounded; 
 My ujelaticholy voice the chorus joined ; 
 — ' Be joyful all ye Nations, in all Lands, 
 ' Ye that are capable of Joy be glad ! 
 Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves 
 ' [n others ye shall proujptly find ; — and all 
 ' Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth, 
 ' Shall with one heart honour their common kind/ 
 
 " Thus was I reconverted to the world ; 
 Society became my glittering Bride, 
 And airy hopes my Children.— From the depths 
 Of natural pass'on, seemingly escaped. 
 My soul riirt'used he; self in wide enjbrace 
 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 
 Kindhd 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 slnniid stretch 
 Beyond the seas, and lo the fan best pole, 
 There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 
 And acclaniation, crowds in open air 
 Expressed the lumult of their minds, my voice 
 There mingled, heard or not. Tlie nf)wers of song 
 I left not uninvoked ; and, in still groves, 
 Where niild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay 
 Of thanks and expectation., in accord 
 Wiih their belief, I san^r Saturnian Rule 
 Reiurned, — a progeny of golden i ears 
 Pt riniiied to descend, and Bless mankind. 
 — With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem: 
 I felt the invitation ; and resimied 
 A long-suspended rffice in the House 
 Of pubiic worship, where, the glowing phrase 
 Of ancient Inspiration serving me, 
 I promised also, — with imdaunted trust 
 Foretold, and added prayer to pro[)hecy ; 
 Tiie admit aiion winning of the crowd ; 
 The help desiting of the pure devout. 
 
 " Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed ! 
 But History, Time's slavish Scribe, will tell 
 Hmw rapidly the Zealots of the cause 
 Disbanded — or in hostile ranks app( ared ; 
 Some, tired of honest service ; tliese, outdone, 
 Disjjust'd, tbereffire, or appalled, by aims 
 Of fiercer Zealots — so Confusion reigned. 
 And ihe more faithful were cempelied to exclaim, 
 As Brutus did lo Virtue, ' Liberty, 
 ' I worshipped Thee, and find thee but a Shade!' 
 
 " Such recantation had for me no charm. 
 Nor w<iuld I bend to it; who should have grieved 
 At aught, however f;:ir, that bore the mien 
 Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. 
 Why then conceal, that, when the simply good 
 In timid se'.fishness withdrew, 1 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 qua'itips determined. — Aimmg men 
 So charactered did I maintain a strife 
 HopelcEs, and still more hopeless every hour ; 
 
DESP0NJ5ENCr. 
 
 231 
 
 ^ut, In the process, I began to feel 
 
 That, if the emancipaiion of the world 
 
 Were niiss(-d, I should at lenst secure my own, 
 
 Anil Ijh ill part cotiipciisaK d. For rights, 
 
 Widf'ly — Inveterately usurped upcin, 
 
 I spake with veiiemence ; and promptly seized 
 
 Whate'er Abstraciioii furriis>hed (or my needs 
 
 Or purposes ; nor scrupled to proclaim. 
 
 And prnpn?ate, hy liberty of life, 
 
 Tlidse ruvv persuasions. Nit that 1 rejoiced, 
 
 Or even fmnd pleasure, in such vajrrant course, 
 
 For its nwM s =ke ; but. farthest from the walk 
 
 Which I had trod in l'appine?-s and peace, 
 
 Was most invitinjr to a troubled mind ; 
 
 Thnt, ill a strupplinor and - istempered world, 
 
 Saw a seductive irnnire of I erself. 
 
 Yet, mark the contradirtions of which Man 
 
 T<3 still the sport I Here Nature wns my guide 
 
 The Nature of the dissolute : but Thee, 
 
 fnpterinp Nature ! 1 rejected — smiled 
 At others' fears in pity ; and in scorn 
 
 At those, which thy soft infltienre sotnefim-s drew 
 Finm my ungriiarded heart. — The irarquil shores 
 OfBritnin circnmsciihe*! me: else, perhaps, 
 
 1 misht have been enta tilled amonir deeds, 
 Wliifh, now, as infnminis, ! shoii'd abhor — 
 Despise, as senseless : for my spirit, relished 
 gfranpely tiie exasperation of t' at Land, 
 Which turned an anprry beak ajrainst the down 
 or her nvvu breast ; confounded into hope 
 
 Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings. 
 
 —But all was quieted bv iron bocds 
 
 Of ini'iary sway. The shiftinc aims, 
 
 The moral inte'ests, the creative micht, 
 
 The varied ftjnc'ions and hiph anribuies 
 
 Of civil Arti "n, yielded to a Power 
 
 Formal, a"d odi<<us, and ronieniptihle. 
 
 —In Britain, ru'ed a panic drend of chanpe ; 
 
 The weak were piai^sed, 'ewatded, and advanced ; 
 
 And, from the impulse of a just disdain, 
 
 Once more did I retire into myself. 
 
 Tl'ere feelin?! no contentment, T resolved 
 
 To fly, for safeL'uard, to some foreisn shore, 
 
 Rpmote from Europe; from her bla.sted hopes; 
 
 Her fields of carnage, and polluted air. 
 
 " Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the Atlantic Main 
 The Ship went frlidirifr with her thoughtless crew ; 
 And who among tliem but an Fxile, freed 
 From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit 
 Among the busily-employed, not more 
 Wiih obligation charged, with service taxed. 
 Than the loose pendant — to the idle wind 
 Upon the tall mast streaming: — but, ye Powers 
 Of soni and sense — mysteriously allied, 
 0, never let the Wretched, if a choice 
 Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 
 To a long voyage on the silent deeji 1 
 For, like a Plague, 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. Beautiful regards 
 Were turned on me — the face of her [ 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. 1 implored 
 Its guidance ; but the iufallable support 
 
 Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused 
 To One by storms annoyed and adverse winds ; 
 Perplexed with cunents ; of his weakness sick ; 
 Of vain es d.avours tiied ; and by his own. 
 And [jy iii.s Nature's, ignorance, dismayed! 
 
 " Long-wished for sight, the Western World appeared ; 
 And, when the Shij) was moored, I leaped ashore 
 Indignantly — resolved to be a Man, 
 Who, having o'er the past no power, would live 
 No longer in subjeciion to the past, 
 With abject jnind — from a tyrannic Lord 
 Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured. 
 So, like a Fugirivi'. whose feet have cleared 
 Some boundary, which Isis Followers may not crosa 
 In prosecution of thei • deadly chase. 
 Respiring 1 looked round. — How bright the Sun, 
 How pnunisiMg Hie Breeze! Can aught produced 
 In the old World coujpare, thought I, for i>ower 
 And majesty wi.h this gigantic Stream, 
 S[)rung from the Deseit ? Aiul h^diold a City 
 Fresh, youthful, and aspirini: ! What are these 
 To me, or I to fhenj ? As much at least 
 As He desires that tluy shouhl be, whom winds 
 And waves have waited to tl is distant shore. 
 In the condition of a daniajied set-d. 
 Whose fibres canrmt, if they would, take root. 
 Here may I roam at large ; — my business is. 
 Rooming at large, to ob'-erve, and not to feel ; 
 Aiid, therefore, not to j;ct — cot.vinc(d that all 
 Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er 
 Begiiuiing, ends in ser\itude — still painful, 
 And mostly profitless. Aiul, sooth lo say, 
 On nearer view, a motlny spectncle 
 Appeared, of high pretensions — unreproved 
 But by the obstreperous voice of higher slill ;. 
 Bis Passiotis strutting on a petty stage ; 
 Which a detached Spectator may regard 
 Not unamnsed — But ri(licule demands 
 Q,uick change of objects ; and, to laugh alone^ 
 At a composing distance from the haunts 
 Of strife and follv, -ihoush it be a treat 
 As choice as musing Leisure can bestow ;, 
 Yei, in the very centre of the crowd. 
 To keep the secret of a poignant scorn, 
 Howe'er to airy Demons suitjible. 
 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. — Let us. then, I said, 
 Leave this unkiiit Republic lo the scourge 
 Of her own passio.is ; and to Regions haste, 
 Whose shades have never felt the encroaching axe,- 
 Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 
 Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides. 
 Primeval Nature's (liild. A Creature weak 
 In comhinaiion, (wherefore else driven back 
 So far, and of his old inheritance 
 So easily drpriverl "?) but, for that cause, 
 More dignified, and stronger in himself; 
 Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoys. 
 True, the fntelligence of social Art 
 H;ith overpovs'ered his Forefathers, and soon 
 Will sweep the renmnnt of his line away ; 
 But contemplations, worthier, nobler far 
 Than her destructive energies, atiend 
 His Itidependence, when along the side 
 Of Mississippi, or that Northern Stream* 
 
 * " A man is supposed to improve bv going out into 
 the World, by visiiing Loyuloii. Artificial man does ; 
 he extends wiih his sphere ; but, alas ! that sphere is 
 microscopic: ir is formed of minutiae, and hesurretulers 
 his jiennine vision to the ariist, in order to embrace it 
 in his ken. His bodi'y senses grow acute, even to bar- 
 ren and inhuman pruriet'cy ; while his mental become 
 pr'portionally obiuse The reverse is the Man of Mind : 
 He who is placed in the sphere of Nature and of Gnd, 
 might be a mock at Tatleisall's and Brookes'*;, and a 
 
232 
 
 DESPONDENCY COB^ltECTED. 
 
 That spreads into successive seas, lie walks ; 
 Pleased to perceive Iiis own unshackled life, 
 And hif! innate ca|>.'uiiiet! of soul, 
 There iniaped : or, when having gained the top 
 Of stime commanding Eminence, which yet 
 Tntrufler ne'er brheld, he thence surveys 
 Regions of wood and wide Savannah, vast 
 Ex[)anse 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 I 
 
 "So, westward, toward the unviolnted Woods 
 I bent my way ; and, roaming far and wide, 
 Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird ; 
 And, while the melancholy Mnccawiss 
 (The sportive Bird's coni|»anion in the Grove) 
 Repeated, o'er and o'er, his piainiive cry, 
 T sympathized at leisure with the sotuid ; 
 But that pure Arclieiype of human greatness, 
 I fon"d hirn not. There, in hfs stead, a[tpeared 
 A Creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure ; 
 RefnorselevS^s, and submissive to no law 
 But superstitious tear, and abject sloth. 
 — Enoujjli is told ! H(;re am f — Ye have heard 
 What evidence I seek, and vainly seek ; 
 What from my Fellow-beings I require. 
 And cannot find ; what I my-^elf have lost, 
 Nor can retrain ; how languidly I look 
 Upon this vi^ible fabric of the World, 
 May be divined — perhaps it ha h been said : — 
 But spare your piiy, if there be in me 
 Aught that th^serves respect : for I exist — 
 Within myseir — nf)t comfortless. — Tlie tenour 
 Wliicli luy liie holds, he readily mav conceive 
 Wi oe'.^r hath stood to watch a monn*ain Brook 
 In s(une slill passage of its course, and seen, 
 Within the depchs of its capncious breast, 
 1 verted trees, and rocks, and azure sky ; 
 And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam, 
 Ami conglobated bubbles uiulissolved, 
 Nnmerous as stars; that, by their onward lapse, 
 Betray to sight the mf)lion of the strenm. 
 Else iuiperceplible ; meanwhile, is heard 
 A softened roar, a 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 
 Thrmigh what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt 
 Preci[)ita;ions, and untoward straits, 
 The earth-born Wan-'erer hath passed; and quickly. 
 That res|)iie o'er, like traverses and toils 
 Must be again encountered. — Such .a stream 
 Is human Life ; coul so the Spirit fares 
 In the best quiet to its course allowed; 
 And such is mine, — save only for a hope 
 That my particular current soon will reach 
 The unlaihomable gulf, where all is still 1" 
 
 eneer at St. James's : he would certainlv be swallowed 
 alive by the hrst Piiarro that cr<issed him : — But when 
 lie walks along the River of Aiuazons; when he rests 
 his eye on the unrivalled Andes : when he measures the 
 long and watered Sa^annah ; or con'enipiates from a 
 sudden PVomoniuiry. the distant, vast Pacific— and teels 
 himself a Freeman in this vast Theatre, and command- 
 ing each ready produc<d truit of this wilderness, and 
 each progeny of this streim— His exultation is not less 
 than Impeiial. He is as gentle, too, as he is great: His 
 emoiionsof tenderu<\^s keep pace with his elevation of 
 sentiment ; for he s.iys, ' These were made by a good 
 Beins:, who, uns<m^ht by me, jdaced me here to enjoy 
 ihem.' He bt-cnmes at once a ('lii!d ancf a King. His 
 mind is in himself ; from hence he arL'ues, and from 
 hence he acts, and he arirues unerringly, and acts ma- 
 gisterially: His mind in liiniself is also i"ii his Gnd ; and 
 therefore he loves, and therefore he soars."— From the 
 notes Ufiofi The Hurricane, a Poem, by IV illi am Gilbert. 
 The Reader, \ am sure, will thank me lor tiie above 
 Quotation, which, though from a strange book, i{? one 
 of the finest passages of modern English prose. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Book IV. 
 
 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Aroument. — Srate of feeling produced by the fore- 
 going Narrative — A belief in a superintending Pro- 
 vidence the only adequate support under affiiction — 
 Wanderer's ejacu'a'ion — account of his own devo- 
 tional feelings in youth involved — Aclcnowledges the" 
 difiiculiy of a lively faith— Hence immoderate sor- 
 row — dcMibt or despoi deuce not thc^e^ore to be in- 
 ferred — Consola'i' n to the So'itarv — Exhortations — 
 How received — Wanderer applies his discourse to 
 tliat other cause of dejection in the SoM'firy's mind 
 — disappnintment from the Frencli RevolnMon — 
 States grounds of hope — insists on th'=' neces?i*y of 
 patience and fortiMide with respect to t' e course of 
 great revolution^ — Knowlrdire the source of trar- 
 quillify — Rural S >!itude fnvoijr.ship fn krir>ur'ed?e of 
 the inferior Creature?! — Stndv of their habirs and 
 wavs recommended — Exhor'aMon to bi^rli'v exer- 
 tion and rommnniiin with Nafu-e — Morbvl Soli- 
 tude pi'iable— Snpersti'ion better t' an ^f^at^y — 
 Apat'y a-^d desti'utinn u"kno\vn im the in^'ancy of 
 societv — The various nv^des o^ Re'ie^o'^ prevented 
 it — illustrated in the Jewish. Pe'sian. Pah- tcniRn, 
 ChaMenn. and G'erian rrndes of be'i'^*' — So'i'ary 
 in'^e'"poses — Wn'derer points out the iT'fliifT^re of 
 relijrions and ima<TinaMt'e feeling in th^ hnmhle 
 ranks of societv — rUnstrated from ]'-rrspn' and past 
 times — The<e pvincip'es tej-rl to 'erall fxji'fdf'd su- 
 persti'inns and pop'^ry — Wanderer rebnts fl!i< cfmrrej- 
 and confa'^rs the digni'ies of the Ttna^innTiori wi h 
 the presump'ive litt'eness rf cprtain modern Phi- 
 losophe-s— Reconmi'Mids other liirhfs and guides — 
 Asserts the power of the S(>nl to regenerate her- 
 self— Solitary asks hew — Rep'y — Peisonal apiiPal 
 
 Happy that the imnriua'ion and the n^ections mi- 
 tigate t''e «n'i!s of that intellectual slavery which 
 
 the calculating irideistandin? i?: apt to p-frlupp 
 
 Exhortation to activity of body renewed — Pew to 
 conimnne wi'hNaMirp — Wanrlp'pr conctnd'^s wih a 
 lepiMniate union of the im-'frijiaiion. affect'ons, un- 
 derstandin?7, and reason— Effct of his discourse — ■' 
 Evening — Return to the Cottage. 
 
 Here closed the Tenant of that lonelv vale 
 His mournful Narrative — commenced in pain, 
 Tn pain commenced, and erde 1 wi'hont peace: 
 Vet tempered, not unfrequently, with sframs 
 Of native feelinjr, jrrateful to our minds ; 
 And doubtless yieldinir some relief to his, 
 While we sate listening with compassion due. 
 Such pity Vet surviving, with firm voice 
 That did not falter though the heart was movedj' 
 The Wanderer said — 
 
 " One adequate support 
 For the calamiMes of mortal li^e 
 Exists, one only ; — an assured belief 
 That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
 Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
 Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
 Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
 All accidents, converting them to good. 
 —The darts of anguish fiz nor where the seat 
 Of suffering hath bi en thoroughly fortified 
 By acquiescence in the Will Supreme 
 For Time and for Eterniiy ; by faith. 
 Faith absolute in God, including hope, 
 And the defence that lies in boundless love 
 Of his perfections ; with habitual dread 
 Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
 Impatiently; ill-done, or left undcme, 
 To the dishonour of his holy Name. 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 233 
 
 Soul of our Souls, and safegufird of the world 1 
 Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of heart ; 
 Kp.>^tore their larifriiid spirit?, and recall 
 Their lost atieciions unto TJice and thine I" 
 
 Then, as we issued from that covert Nook, 
 He tluis continued — lifting up his eyes 
 To Heaven — " How beautiful tliis 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 mule who will, who can, 
 Yet 1 will praise thee with impassioned voice: 
 My lips, that may forget iliee in the crowd, 
 Cannot forget flue 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 belmld 
 Reared for thy presence : therefore, am [ bound 
 To worship, here, and every where — as One 
 Not doomi'd to ignorance, though forced to tread, 
 From childhood up, the ways of poverty; 
 From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 
 And from debasement rescued. — By thy grace 
 Tiie particle divine remained unquenched ; 
 And, 'mid the wiid weeds of a rugged soil, 
 Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless ficwerts, 
 From Paradise transplanted; wintry age 
 Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart; 
 And, if they wiiher, 1 am worj^e than dead! 
 —Come, Labour, 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 favour, to the end of life, 
 Inspire me with ability to s^"ek 
 Repose and hope among eternal things — 
 Father of heaven and earth ! and I nm rich, 
 And will possess my portion in content I 
 
 " And what are things E-ernal ?— Powers depart," 
 The prey-haired Wanderer steadfastly replied, 
 Answering the question which himself had asked, 
 "Possessions vanish, and opinions cliange. 
 And Passions hold a fluctuating seat : 
 But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, 
 And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 
 Duty exists ;— immutably survive. 
 For our support, the Uieasures and the forms. 
 Which an abstract Intelligence supplies; 
 Whose kingdom is, where Tinia and Space are not^ 
 Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart. 
 Do, with united urgency, require, 
 Wiiatmore that may not perish ? Thou, dread Source, 
 Prime, self-existing Cause and End of all, 
 That, in the scale of Being fill their place. 
 Above oar human region, or below. 
 Set and sustained ; — Thou — Who didst wrap thecloud 
 Of Infancy around us, that Thyself, 
 Therein, with our simplicity a while 
 Mightest hold, on earth, communion undisturbed — 
 Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, 
 Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, 
 And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
 Restnrest us, daily, to the powers of sense. 
 And reason's steadt'nst rule — Thou, Thou alone 
 Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 
 Wiiicli thou includest, as the Sea her Waves: 
 For adoration tiiou endur'st ; endure 
 For consciousness the motions of thy will ; 
 For apprehen.-'ion those transcendent truths 
 Of llie pure Intellect, that stand as law.^, 
 (Subimssiou constituting strength and power) 
 Even to thy Being's infinite majesty ! 
 1'tiis Universe shall pa>s away— a work 
 Glorious : because the shadow of thy might, 
 ■A sit'n, or link, for intercourse \^ith Thee. 
 
 30 
 
 Ah ! if the time must como, In which my feet 
 
 No more shall stray where Meditation I^ads, 
 
 By flowing stream, through wood, or cragtiy v.MId, 
 
 Loved haunts like these, the uniniprisoned Wind 
 
 May yet have scope to range among her own, 
 
 Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 
 
 If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 
 
 Still, it may be allowed me to remember 
 
 Wliat visionary powers of eye and soul 
 
 In youth were mine; when, stationed on the top 
 
 Of some huge hil! — expectant, I beheld 
 
 The Sun rise up, from distant climes returned 
 
 Darkness to chase, and sleep, and I ring the day 
 
 His bounteous gift I or saw him toward the Deep 
 
 Sink — with a retinue of flaming Clouds 
 
 Attended ; then, my Spirit was entranced 
 
 With joy exalted to beatitude; 
 
 The measuie of my soul was filled with bli??. 
 
 And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, 
 
 With pomp, with gloiy, with magnificence 1 
 
 " Those fervent raptures are for ever flown ; 
 And, since their date, my Sou! haih undergone 
 Change manifold, for belter or for worse : 
 Yet cease T not to struggle, and aspire 
 Heavenward ; and chide the part of me that flags, 
 Thrf»u;.h sinful choice; or dread necessity, 
 On human Nature from above imposed. 
 'Tis, by comparison, an easy task 
 Earth to despise ;* but, to converse with Heaven — 
 This is not easy:— to relinquish all 
 We have, or hope, of liappiness and joy. 
 And stand in freedom loosened from this world, 
 I deem not arduous: — but must needs confess 
 That 'tis a thing impossible to frame 
 Conceptions equal to the Soul's desiref* ; 
 And the most difficult of ta^ks to krfp 
 Heights which the soul is crm[.;eteni to gain. 
 — Man is of dust: ethereal hopes are his, 
 Which, when they should sustain themselves aloft 
 Want due consistence ; like a piilar of smoke, 
 That with majestic energy from earth 
 Kises ; but, having reached the thinner air, 
 Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 
 From" this infirmiiy of mortal kind 
 Sorrow proceeds, which else were not ; — ai least, 
 If Gri f be snmeihing hallowed and ordained. 
 If, in proportion, ft be just and meet, 
 Thronj;!) this, 'lis able to niainiain its hold, 
 In that excess which Conscience disapproves'. 
 For who could sink and settle to tl ai 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, it he could fis 
 A satisfying view upon thai state 
 Of pure, imperishable blessedness, 
 Which Reason piomfses, and Holy Writ 
 Ensures to all Believers ? — Yet mistrust 
 Is of such incapacity, methinks, "— — 
 
 No natural branch ; des[)oiidency far less. '^■ 
 
 — 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, 
 Infer not hence a hope froni those withheld 
 When wanted most ; a confidence impaired 
 So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 
 With bodily eyes, they are borne down Ly love 
 Of what is lost, and [)erish through regret. 
 Oil 1 no, full oft the innocent Sufferer sees 
 Too clearly ; feels too vividiy ; and longs 
 
 * See, upon this subject, Baxter's most interrs'ing re- 
 vi('\y of his own opinions and s»,^!iiiumrus in the decline 
 of life. It may be found (lately rHprin;e{') in DV 
 Wordsworih's Ecclesir.stical Eio^ropl'j. 
 
S34 
 
 DESPONDENCY CORKECTED. 
 
 To realize the VisioD, with interiBe 
 
 And ovei'-constaat yenining— there- -there lies 
 
 I'he excess, by wlucli the balance is destroyed. 
 
 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 chanjie disdaining, takes its course 
 
 Alonj!; the line of limitless desires. 
 
 I, speaking now from such disorder fren, 
 
 Nor rapt, nor cravinjr, but in soltltd peace, 
 
 I cannot doubt that They whom you deplore 
 
 Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, pball wake 
 
 From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 
 
 Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
 
 Tn mercy, carried infinite degrees 
 
 Beyond the tenderness of human heart-: 
 
 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 o;ir creed 
 The worst that human reasoning can achieve, 
 To unsettle or perplex it: yet with pain 
 Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach, 
 That, though in)movably convinced, we want 
 Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
 As Soldiers live by courage ; as, by strength 
 Of heart, the Sailor fights with roaring seas. 
 Alas ! the endowment of immortal Power 
 -Is matched unequally with custom, time,* 
 And domineering faculties of sense 
 111 all ; in most with superadded foes, 
 Idle temptations — open vanities, 
 Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing world; 
 And, in the [uivate regions of the mind, 
 Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite, 
 immoderate wishes, |)ining discontent, 
 Distress and care. VVhat then remains ?— To seek 
 Those hel[)s, for his occasions ever near, 
 Who lacks not will to use them ; vovv's, renewed 
 On the first motion of a holy thought ; 
 Vigils of contemplation ; jiraise ; and prayer, 
 A Stream, which, from the fountain of the heart 
 Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 
 Without access of unexpec'ed strens^th. 
 But, above all, the victory is most sure 
 For Him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strives 
 To yield entire submission to the law 
 Of Conscience; Conscience reverenced and obeyed, 
 As God's most intimate Presence in the soul, 
 And his most perfect Image in the world. 
 — Endeavour thus to live ; these rules regard ; 
 Tnese l)el])s solicit; and a steadfast seat 
 Sliall then be yours among the happy few 
 Who dwell on earth, yet breathe emr.vreal air, 
 Sons of the morning. For your nobler Part, 
 Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains, 
 Doubt shall be quelled and trouble cl ased away; 
 With only such degree of sadness left 
 As may sn[>porl longings of pure desire; 
 And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 
 In the sublime attractions of the Grave." 
 
 While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
 Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 
 His judgments, near that lonely House we paced 
 A plot of green-sward, seemingly preserved 
 By JXature's care from wieck of scattered stones, 
 And from encroachment of encircling heath: 
 Small space 1 but, for reiterated steps, 
 Smooth and commodious; as a stalely deck 
 Which to and fro the Mariner is used 
 
 * This subject is treated at length in the Ode on in- 
 ' tiniatiqns of immortality from recollections of early 
 childhood. 
 
 To tread for pastime, talking with his Ma{ei?> 
 
 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, methougbt. 
 
 That He, whose fixed despondency had given 
 
 Impulse and motive to that strong discourse, 
 
 Was less upiaised in spirit than abashed ; 
 
 Shrinking from adm^onition, like a man 
 
 Who feels, that to exhort, is to reproach. 
 
 Yet not to be diverted from his aim, 
 
 The SagH continued — " For that other loss, 
 
 The loss of confidence in social Man, 
 
 Ry the unexpected transports of our Age 
 
 Carried so high, tliat every thought— which lookf.d 
 
 Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind 
 
 To many seemed superfluous; as, no cause 
 
 For such exalted confidence could e'er 
 
 Exist; so, none is now for fixed despair ; 
 
 The two extremes are equally disowned 
 
 By reason ; if, with sharp recoil, from one 
 
 Y<ju 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 illnsion: but was soon 
 
 Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 
 
 Which Nature gently gave, in woods and fields ; 
 
 Nor unreproved by Provider>ce, thus speaking 
 
 To the inattentive Children of the World, 
 
 ' Vain-glorious Generation I what new powers 
 
 'On you have been conferred 7 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 sudd^ n change ; 
 
 'And the weak functions of one busy day, 
 
 * Keclaiming and extirpating, perform 
 
 ' VVhat all the slowfy-rac ving Years of Time^ 
 
 ' With their united force, have left undone ? 
 
 'By Nature's gradual processes be taught; 
 
 ' By Story be confounded I Ye aspire 
 
 ' Rashly, to fall once more ; anrf that false fruit, 
 
 ' Which, to your over-weening spirits, yields 
 
 ' Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 
 
 ' ^Iiser_v and shame. But Wisdom of her sons 
 
 Shall not the less, though late, be justified.' 
 Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, " gave 
 That visionary Voice ; and, at this day, 
 When a Tartarian darkness oversf)reads 
 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 T bewail 
 Tliis triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
 Prevents me not from owning, that the law, 
 By which iMankind lu w sntfers, is most just 
 For by superior energits ; more strict 
 Affiance in each other; faiih more firm 
 In their unhallowed principles : the Bad 
 Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak, 
 The vacillating, inconsistent Good. 
 Therefore, not unconsojed, T wait — in hope 
 To see the moment, when the righteous Cause 
 Shall gain Deienders zealous and devout 
 As they who have opposed her ; in wliich Virtue 
 Will, to her efiorts, loleiate no bounds 
 That are not lofty as her rights ; aspiring 
 By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. 
 That Spirit only can redeem Mankind; 
 
 And when that sacred Spirit shall appear, 
 Then shall our triumph 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 ; 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 233 
 
 KnoT/ing tlie henrt of Man is set to be* 
 The centre of iliis World, about the which 
 Those revolmious of disturbances 
 "jBtill roll; where all th3 aspects of misery 
 Predominate : whose strong effects are such 
 As lie must bear, being powerless to redress ; 
 Jind that unless above kimself he can 
 Erect himself^ how poor a thing is Man /'f 
 
 Happv is He who lives to understand — 
 Not human Nature only, but explores 
 A41 Naturesv,— 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 thfy inherit, — cannot step beyond, — ■ 
 And cannot falJ beneath ; that do assign 
 To every Class its station and its office. 
 Through all the mighty Commonwealth of things 
 Up from the cr^ejung plant to sovereign Man, 
 Such Converse, if directed by a meek, 
 Sincere, and humble Spirit, teaches love; 
 For knowledge is delight; and such delight 
 Breeds love : yei, suited as it rather is 
 To thought and lo the climbing intellect, 
 It teaches le.^s to Njve, than to adore ; 
 If that be not indeed the highest Love !" 
 
 "Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 
 ♦'The dignity of Life is not impaired 
 By aught that innocently satisfies 
 The liumbler cravings t)f the heart ; and He 
 Is a still happier Man, who, for those heights 
 Of sperulatioii not unfit, descends ; 
 And such benign affections cultivates 
 Among the inferior Kinds ; not tnerely those 
 That he may call his ovv-n, and which depend, 
 As individual objects of regard. 
 Upon his care, — from whom he also looks 
 For signs and tokens of a mutual bond, — 
 
 * The passage quoted from Daniel is taken from a 
 poem addressed to ihe Lady Margaret, Countess of 
 Cumberland, and the two la>^t lines, printed in Itrilics, 
 are by him translated from .^encca. The who'e Poeni 
 is very beautit\il, I will transcribe four stanzas from it, 
 as theyconiain 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, or with the surly brow 
 
 Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes ; 
 
 Charged with more crying sins than those he checks. 
 
 The storms of sad cfuifiision that may grow 
 
 Up in tlie piesent for the coming times. 
 
 Appal not liim ; that hath tu) 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 own Sorrctvvs, md do still beget 
 Affliction upon rmbecility : 
 
 Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
 He lookM 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 desf)lation leaves 
 To great-expecting Fiopes : He looks thereon, 
 Aa 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 ; ami compared 
 The best of Glory with her sufferings: 
 By whom, 1 see, y<iu laltour all you can 
 To plant your rieaVt ! and set your tiioughls as near 
 His glorious Mansion as your powers can bear, 
 t Daniel. 
 
 But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, 
 Whom, for the very sake of love, he lores. 
 Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 
 And solitude, that they do favour most, 
 Most frequently call forth, and best sustain 
 These pure sensations ; that can penetrate 
 The obstreperous City ; on the barren Seas 
 Are not unfelt, — and much might recommend, 
 How much they might inspirit and endear, 
 The loneliness of this subliuie Retreat !" 
 
 " Yes," said the Sage, resuming the discourse 
 Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
 " If, with the frov/ard Vv'ill and grovelling soul 
 Of Man offended, litwrty is here, 
 And invitation every hour renewed, 
 To mark their placid stite, who never heard 
 Of a command which they liave power to break, 
 Or rule which they are tempted to transgress ; 
 These, with a soothed or elevated heart, 
 May we behold ; their knowledge register; 
 Observe their ways ; and, free from envy, find 
 Complacence there : — but wherefore this to You 1 
 I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth. 
 The Redbreast feeds in winter from your hand ; 
 A box, perchance, is from your casement hung 
 For the small Wren to build in ; — not in vain, 
 The baniers 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 floweri 
 Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
 In the waste wilderness : the Soul ascends 
 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 
 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 solemn bleat ; 
 Sent forth as if ii were the Mou. stain's voice, 
 As if the visible Mountain made the cry. 
 Again !"— The effect upon the soul was such 
 As he ex()ressed; from out the mountain's heart 
 The solemn bleat appeared to issue, startling 
 The blank air — for the region all around 
 Stood silent, empty of all shape of life ; 
 — It was a Lamb — left somewhere to itself, 
 The plaintive Spirit of the Solitude ! — 
 He paused, as if unwilling to proceed, 
 Through consciousness that silence in such ylaco 
 Was best, — the most affecting eloquence. 
 But soon his thoughts returned upon themselves, 
 And in soft tone of speech, he thus resumed. 
 
 "Ah ! if the heart, too confidently raised, 
 Perchance too light'y occupied, or lulled 
 Too easil}^ 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 thouglitlees prids % 
 
 " These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds 
 Does tliat 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 strong by social league ; 
 Supports the generations, multiplies 
 Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
 Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills— 
 Teir labour— coveredj as a Lake with waves ; 
 
236 
 
 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 Thoupand^ of Citiesi, in the dpsert place 
 
 Built up of life, and food, nnd means of life ! 
 
 Nor wanting here, to entertain tlie thought, 
 
 Creatures that in comniunitics exist, 
 
 Lcst\ as might seem, for general guardiandiip 
 
 Or tlirough dependence upon mutual aid, 
 
 Than bj'^ pnrliripaiion of delight 
 
 And a strict love of fellowship, coml)ined. 
 
 "What other spirit can it be that prompts 
 
 Tlic gilded summer Flies to mix and weave 
 
 Their sports together in the solar beam, 
 
 Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy 1 
 
 More obviously, the self-same influence rules 
 
 The feathered kinds; the Fieldfare's pensive t^ock, 
 
 The cawing Rooks, and Sea-mews from afar, 
 
 IJovering above these inland Solitudes, 
 
 By the rough wind unscattered, at whose call 
 
 Their voyage was begun : nor is its [)ower 
 
 Unfelt among the sedmitary Fowl 
 
 That seek yon Pool, and there prolong their stay 
 
 In sihMit congress ; or together roused 
 
 Take fiight : 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 luild asi^emblage of the starry heavens ; 
 
 And the great Sun, earth's universal Lord 1 
 
 " How bountiful is Nature ! he shall find 
 V/ho seeks not; and to him, who hath not asked, 
 fLarge mea?:nre sliall be dealt Three sabbath-days 
 Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent 
 of mere humanity. You clomb those tli'i£rhts ; 
 And what a marvellous and heavenly Show 
 Was to your si'iht revealed ! the Swaitis moved on, 
 And heeded not; you lingered, and perceived. 
 There is a luxury in self-dispraise ; 
 And inward self disparagement affords 
 To meditative Spleen a grateful feast. 
 Trust me, pronouncing on vour own desert. 
 You judize untliankfully ; distempered nervps 
 Infect the thoutrhts : the languor of the Frame 
 Depresses the Soul's vigour. Quit your Touch — 
 Cleave not so fondly to your njoody 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 midniaht hours, unseasonably twinkling 
 In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 
 Dmiy reflected in a lonely pool. 
 Take courasre, and withdraw yourself from ways 
 That run not parallel to Nature's course. 
 Rise with the Lark! your Matins shall obtnin 
 Grace, be their composition what it may, 
 If but with hers performed ; climb once again. 
 Climb evr.ry day, those ramparts ; meet the breeze 
 Upon their tops, — adventuroiis as a Bee 
 That from your garden thither soars, to feed 
 On new l»lown heath ; let yon conimanding rock 
 Be your frequj^nted Watch-tower; roll the stone 
 In thunder down the n)ountains: with all yoiw might 
 Chase tlie wild Goat ; and, if the bold red Deer 
 Fly to these harbours, driven by hound and horn 
 Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit; 
 So, wearied to your Hut shall you return, 
 And sink at evening into sound repose." 
 
 The Solitary lifted tovyard the hilla 
 A kindling eye ;— poetic feelings rushed 
 Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth : 
 " Oh A what a joy it were, in vigorous health. 
 To have a Body (this our vital frame 
 With slirinking sensibility endued. 
 And all the nice regards of flesh and blood) 
 And to the elements surrender it 
 As if it wiire a S^Uiit I— How divine, 
 
 The liberty, for frail, for mortal man 
 
 To roam at large among unpeopled glena 
 
 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 Pre.'^ence or a motion — one 
 
 Among the many there; and, while the Mists 
 
 Flying, and rainy Va..otirs, call out Shapes 
 
 And Phantoms from the crags and solid earth 
 
 As fast as a Musician scatters sounds 
 
 Out of an instrument ; and, while tiie Streams—* 
 
 As at a first creation and in hasie 
 
 To exercise tlieir untried faculties) 
 
 Descending from the region of the Clouds, 
 
 And starting from the hollows of the earLh 
 
 M(jre ujullitudinous every moment, rend 
 
 Their way before them — what a joy to roam 
 
 An equal among mightiest Energies; 
 
 And haply sometimes with articulate voice, 
 
 Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 
 
 By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 
 
 ' Be this continued so from day to day, 
 
 Nor let the fierce commotion have an end. 
 
 Ruinous though it be, from month to mouth 1' " 
 
 " Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from my lips 
 The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in youth 
 Has, through ambition of his soul, given way 
 To such desires, and grasped at such delight. 
 Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long, 
 ,n spite of all the weakness that life brings. 
 [ts cares and sorrows ; he though taught U) own 
 The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake, 
 Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness — 
 Loving the sports which once he gloried in. 
 
 " Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's Hills, 
 The Streams far distant of your native Glen ; 
 Yet is their form and Image here expressed 
 With brotherly resemblance. Turn your steps 
 Wherever fancy leads, by day, by niglit. 
 Are various engines working, not the same 
 As those by wliich your soul in youth was moved, 
 But by the creat Artificer endued 
 With no inferior power. You dwell alone ; 
 You walk, you live, you speculate alone; 
 Yet doth Remembrance, like a sovereign Prince, 
 For you a stately gallery maintain 
 Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen. 
 Have acted, suffered, travelled far, observed 
 With no incurious eye ; and books are \ours, 
 Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
 Pieserved fiom age to age : more precious far 
 Than that accumulated store of gold 
 And orient gems, which, for a day of need, 
 The Sultan hides within ancestral tombs. 
 Tliese hoards of truth you can unlock at will : 
 And music waits upon your skilful touch, 
 Sounds which the watidering Shepherd from these 
 
 Heights 
 Hears, and forgets his purpose ; — furnished thus, 
 How can you droop, if willing to be raised 1 
 
 " A piteous lot it were to flee from INIan — 
 Yet not rejoice in Nature. He — whose hours 
 Are by domestic Pleasures uncaiessed 
 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 
 A not unwholesome food, and earth and air 
 Supply his morbid humour with delight. 
 — Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of ease 
 And ea^y contemplation, — gay parterres, 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 S37 
 
 And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 
 
 And shady proves for recreation framed : 
 
 These may he range, if willintj to partake 
 
 Their soft indulgences, and in due time 
 
 May issue thence, recruit»'d for the taskg 
 
 And course of service Truth requires from those 
 
 Who tend her Altars, wait upon lier Throne, 
 
 And suard her Fortresses. Who thinks, and feels, 
 
 And recognises ever and anon 
 
 The breeze of Nature stirring in liis soul, 
 
 Why need such man go desperately astray, 
 
 And nurse ' the dreadful appetite of death V 
 
 If tired with Systems — each in its degree 
 
 Substantial — and all cnimhling in their turn, 
 
 Let him build Systems of his own, and smile 
 
 At the fond work— demolished with a touch; 
 
 If unieligioiis, let him be at once. 
 
 Among ten thousand Innocents, enrolled 
 
 A Pupil in the many-chnmbered sc'ool, 
 
 Where Superstition weaves her airy dreams. 
 
 "Life's Autumn pnst, I stand on Winter's verge. 
 And daily lose what I desire to keep: 
 Yet rather would I instantly decline 
 To the traditif)nary sympathies 
 Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
 A fearful apprehetision from the owl 
 Or death watch, — and as readily rejoice, 
 If two auspicious maupies crossed my way ; 
 To this would rather bend than see and hear 
 Tlif^ n^j)Htitioiis wearisome of sense. 
 Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place ; 
 Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark 
 On outvyard things, with formal inference ends: 
 jOr, if the Mind turn inward, 'tis perplexed, 
 Lost in a gloom of uninspired research ; 
 Meanvi^hile, the Heart within the Heart, the seat 
 Where peace and happy Consciousness should dwell, 
 On its own axis restlessly revolves, 
 Yet nowhere finds the cheering light of truth. 
 
 *'Upon the breast of new-created Earth 
 Man walked ; and when and wheresoe'er he moved, 
 Alone or mated, Solitude was not. 
 He heard, upon the wind, the articulate Voice 
 Of God ; and Angels to his sight appeared, 
 Crowning the glorious Iiills of Par.idise ; 
 Or through the groves gliding like morning mist 
 Enkindled by the sun. He sate— and talked 
 With winged Messengers ; who daily brought 
 To his small Island in the eihereal deep 
 Tidings of joy and love.— From these pure Heights 
 (Wlit'ther of actual vision, sensible 
 To sight and feeling, or that in this sort 
 Have condescendingly been shadowed forth 
 Conmuinications spiritually maintained, 
 Ard Intuitions moral and divine) 
 Fell Human-kind— to ba ishment condemned 
 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 ark; 
 Or, out of Sion, thunderiug from his throne 
 Between the Cherubim— on the chosen Race 
 Showered miracles, and ceased not lo dispense 
 Judgments, that filled the Land from age to age 
 With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear ; 
 And wiih amazement smote :— thereby to assert 
 His scorned, or unacknowledged Sovereignty. 
 And when the One. ineffiible of name, 
 Of nature indivisible, withdrew 
 Prom morial adoration or regard, 
 Not then was Deity engulfed, nor Man, 
 
 The rational Creature, left, to feel the weight 
 
 Of his own reason, without sense or ihougliw 
 
 Of higher reason and a purer will. 
 
 To benefit and bless, through mightier power : 
 
 — Whe her the Persian — zealous to reject 
 
 Altar and Image, and the inclusive walls 
 
 And roofs of Temples built by human hands— 
 
 To loftiest heights ascending, from their tops, 
 
 With myrtle-wreatlK:d Tiara on his brow, 
 
 Presented sacrifice to Moon and Stars, 
 
 And to the winds and Mother FJenjcnts, 
 
 And the whole Circle of the Heavens, lor 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, the Babylonian framed 
 
 For influence undefined a personal Shape ; 
 
 And, from the Plain, with toil immense, upreared 
 
 Tower eiiiht times planted on tlie top of Tower ; 
 
 That Bel us, nightly to his splendid Couch 
 
 Descending, there might rest; upon that Height 
 
 Pure and serene, diff'used — to overlook 
 
 Winding Euphrates, and the City vast 
 
 Of his devoted Worshippers, far-stretched, 
 
 With grove, and field, and garden, interspersed ; 
 
 Their Town, and foodful Region for support 
 
 Against the pressure of beleaguring war. 
 
 '' Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields, 
 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 courj-e, that never closed 
 His steadfast eye. The Planetary Five 
 With a submissive reverence they beheld; 
 Watched, from the centre of their sleeping flocks 
 Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to move 
 Carrying throngh Etlier, in i)erpetual round, 
 Decrees and resolutions of the Gods ; 
 And, by their aspects, signifyi g 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 celestml Messengers beheld 
 All accidents, and Judges were of all. 
 
 " The lively Grecian, in a Land of hills. 
 Rivers, and fertile plains, and sounding shores, 
 Under a cope of variegated sky. 
 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, did his hand bestow 
 On fluent Operations a fixed shape ; 
 Metal or Stf)ne, idolatrously served. 
 And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous show 
 Of Art, this palpable array of Sense, 
 On every side encf)untered ; in despite 
 Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 
 By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in contempt 
 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 
 
^8 
 
 DSSPONDBNCY CORRECTED. 
 
 And armed Warrior ; and in every grove 
 
 A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, 
 
 When piety more awful iiad relaxi-d. 
 
 — ' Take, running River, take theae Locks of mine' — 
 
 Thus wonld the Votary say — * this severed hair, 
 
 • My vow fulfiliiiif,', do I hero present, 
 
 'Thankful for my heloved Child's return. 
 
 ' Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod, 
 
 » Thy murmurs heard ; and drunk the crystal lymph 
 
 ' Wuh wiiich thou do.st refresh the thirsty lip, 
 
 ' And moisten all day long these flowery fields !' 
 
 And doubtless, somefin)es, when the hair was shed 
 
 Upon the flowing strenrn, a thought arose 
 
 Of Life continuous, Being uniinp'ired : 
 
 That hath been, is, and where it was and is 
 
 There shall endure, — existence unexfiosed 
 
 To the l)Iind walk of monal accident ; 
 
 Frnnn diniinuiiori 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. 
 
 ''We live by admiration, hope, and love; 
 And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, 
 In dignity of being we ascend. 
 But Vt^liat is error ?" — " Answer he who ran !" 
 The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclainied : 
 *' Love, Hope, and Admiration — are they not 
 Ma^^ Fancy's favourite Vassals? Does not life 
 Use them, full oft, as Pioneers to ruin, 
 Guides to destruction ? Is it well to trust 
 Imagination's light when Reason's fails, 
 The unguarded taper where the guarded faints ? 
 — Stoop (rom 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 1 Who shall regulate, 
 With truth, the scale of intellectual rank ?" 
 
 "Methinks," persuasively the Rage replied, 
 *' That for this arduous office You possess 
 Some rare advantages. Your early days 
 A grateful recollecti(m must sup|)ly 
 Of much exalted gon.l by Heaven vouchsafed 
 To dignify the humblest state. — Your voice 
 Hath, in my hearing, often testified 
 That poor Men's Children, they, and they alone. 
 By their condition taught, can understand 
 The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
 For daily bread. A consciousness is yours 
 How feelingly religion msy be learned 
 In smoky Cabins, from a Mother's tongue — 
 Heard while the Dwelling vibrates to the din 
 Of the contiguous Torrent, gathering strength 
 Ar every moment — and, with strength, increase 
 Of fiiry ; or, while Snow is at the door, 
 Assaulting and defending, and the Wind, 
 A sightless Labourer, whistles at his work-^ 
 Fearful, but resignation tempers fear, 
 And piety is sweet to infant minds. 
 —The Shepherd Lad, who in the sunshine carves. 
 On the green turf, a dial— to divide 
 The silent hours ; and who to that report 
 Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt 
 His rouiui of pastoral duties, is not left 
 With less intelligence for vio7-al things 
 Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 
 Within hims(!lf, 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 i^'ature's wants, he knows how few they are. 
 And where they lie, how answered and appeased. 
 This knowledge ample recompeiise affords 
 For manifold privations ; he refers 
 His notions to this standard , on this rock 
 
 Rests his desires ; and hence, in after liTe, 
 
 Soul-strengthening paiienre, and sublime content. 
 
 Imagination — not permitted here 
 
 To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind, 
 
 On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 
 
 And trivial ostentation— is left free 
 
 And puissant to range the sf)lemn walks 
 
 Of time and nature, girded by a zone 
 
 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 me cultured field, a Mhu so bred 
 
 (Take from him what you will upon the score 
 
 Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 
 
 For noble purposes of mi.d : his heart 
 
 Beats to the hertjic song of ancient days ; 
 
 His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 
 
 And those lliuslon.s, which excite the scorn 
 
 Or move the pity of unthinking minds. 
 
 Are tiiey not mainly ctutward Ministers 
 
 Ol inward Ccjuscience? with whose service charged 
 
 They came and go, appeared and disappear, 
 
 Diverting evil purposes, remoise 
 
 Awakening, chastening an iuten)perate grief, 
 
 Or pride of heart abating: and, whene'er 
 
 For less important ends those Phantoms move, 
 
 WIjo would forbid them, if their presence serve. 
 
 Among wild mountains and unpeopled heaths. 
 
 Filling a space, else vacant, to exalt 
 
 The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers 1 
 
 " Once more to distant Ages of the world 
 Let us revert, and place before our thoughts 
 The face which rural Solitude might wear 
 To the unenlightened Swains of pagan Greece. 
 — In that Jair 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 w^^ariness, if he, 
 When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 
 A distant strain, far swet-ter than the sf»unds 
 Which his poor skill could make, his Fancy fetched, 
 Even from the blazing Chariot of the Sun, 
 A beardless Youth, who touched a golden Inte, 
 And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. 
 The nightly Hunter, lifting up his eyes 
 Towards the crescent Mof)U, with grateful heart 
 (Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed 
 That timely light, to share his joyous sport: 
 And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs, 
 Across the lawn and throv'gh the darksome 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 cloude«f 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 dhadow^j in their train. 
 Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 
 Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 
 The Zephyrs, fanning as they passed, their 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, 
 Fr(nn depth of shaggy ci.vert peeping forth 
 In the low vale, or on steep mountain side ; 
 And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring homa 
 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 !" 
 
 As this apt strain proceeded, I could mark 
 Its kindly influence, o'er the yielding brow 
 Of our Companion, gradually ditfused ; 
 While, listening, he had paced tlie noiseless turf, 
 
]bES?ONDENCY CoHRECTSD. 
 
 239 
 
 t,!ke one whose untired ear a murmuring stream 
 petains;biii tempted now to interpose, 
 He with a smile exclaimed — 
 
 " 'Tis well 5'ou speak 
 /,t a sate distance from our native Land, 
 And from the Mansions where our youth was taught. 
 The true Descendants of those god'y Alen 
 Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal, 
 Shrine, Altar, Image, and the massy Piles 
 That harboured them, — the Souls retaining yet 
 The churlish features of that after Race 
 Who flfd to caver:, and woods, and naked rocks, 
 In deadly scorn of superstitious rites. 
 Or what their scruples construed to be such — 
 fjnvv, think you, would they tolerate tliis scheme 
 Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 
 Far as it mifrht 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 Snint Anne; 
 And from long banishment recall Saint Giles, 
 To watch again with tutelary love 
 O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags 1 
 A blessed restoration, to behold 
 The Patron, on the shoulders of his Priests, 
 Once more parading through her crowded streets ; 
 Now simply guarded by the sober Powers 
 Of Science, and Philosophy, and Sense 1" 
 
 This answer followed. — "You have turned my 
 thoughts 
 Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 
 Against ]d(.lalry with warlike mind, 
 And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 
 In caves, and woods, and under dismal rocks, 
 Deprived of shelter, covering, fire, and fond ; 
 Why ?— for this very reason that they felt, 
 And did ackrjowledge, whersoe'er they moved, 
 A spiritual Presence, oft-times misconceived ; 
 But still a high dependence, a divine 
 Bounty and government, that filled tlieir hearts 
 With joy, anrl gratitude, and fear, and Jove: 
 And from their fervent lips drew hy luis of praise, 
 That through the desert nuig. Though favour(d less. 
 Far less, than thnse, vet such, in their degiee, 
 Were those bewildered P.ignns of old time. 
 Beyond their own poor Natures and above 
 They looked : were humbly thankful for the good 
 Which tlie wa!m Sun soliciied — and Earth 
 Bt^stnwed; wnre ghidsome, — and iheir moral sense 
 They fortified with reverence for the Gods ; 
 And they h^d hopes tliat overstepped tiie Grave 
 
 " Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaimed 
 Raising his voice triumpliantlv, " obtain 
 From Sense and Rea-on less than These obtained. 
 Though far misled ? Shall Men for whom our Age 
 Uiibaffled powers of vi ion hath prepared, 
 To explore the world without and world within, 
 Be joyless as the blind 1 Ambition.-: Souls — 
 Whom Earth, at this laie season, liath produced 
 To reffulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
 The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 
 And They who rather die than soar, whose pains 
 Have solved the elemeKis, or analysed 
 The thinking principle— shall They in fact 
 Prove a degraded Race 1 and what avails 
 Renown, if rheir presumption make them such ? 
 Oh ! there is laughter at their work in Heaven ! 
 Inquire of anr.ient Wisdom ; go, demand 
 Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant 
 That we should pry far off yet be unraised ; 
 riiai we should pore, and dwindle as we pore, 
 viewing all ob ects unren)ittingly 
 ^^ di>connexiori dpad and spiritless; 
 An* still dividing, and dividing fitiil, 
 
 Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
 
 Willi the perverse attempt, while littleness 
 
 May yet become more little ; v/aging thus 
 
 An impious warfare with the very life 
 
 Of our own souls ! — And if indeed there be 
 
 An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom 
 
 Our dcLrk foundations rest, could He design 
 
 That this magnificent effect of Power, 
 
 The Earth we tread, the Sky that wr 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, 
 
 Prtjbed, vexed, and criticised 1 — Accuse me not 
 
 Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I an\ 
 
 [f, having walked with Nature threescore years, 
 
 And offered, far as t'railty would allow, 
 
 My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 
 
 I now affirm of Nature and of Truth, 
 
 Whom I have served, that their Divinity 
 
 Revolts, ofl^ended at the ways of Men 
 
 Swayed by such motives, to such end employed; 
 
 Philosophers, who, though the human Soul 
 
 Be of a thousand faculties composed. 
 
 And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize 
 
 This Soul, and the transcendent Universe, 
 
 No more than as a Mirror that reflects 
 
 To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
 
 That 0(ie, poor, infinite Object, in the Abysa 
 
 Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly ! 
 
 " Nor hish^r place can be ass^orned to him 
 And his Conipeers — the lauc;hin2 Sage of France. — ' 
 Crowned was He, if my memory do not err. 
 With laurel planted upon hnary hairs. 
 In sisrn of conquest hy his Wit achieved, 
 And benefits his Wisflom had conferred, 
 His tottering Bndy was with wreatlis of flowers 
 Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 
 Than Spring oft twines al»out a mo\ildering Tree; 
 Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain Old Man, 
 A nd a most frivolous People. Him [ rj-hean 
 Who penned, to ridicule confiding Fairh, 
 This sorry L^^^end ; w!iicli by chance vv.:; found 
 Piled in a nook, through malice, as miiiiit seem^ 
 Among more innocent rubbish." — Speaking thus, 
 With a brief notice when, and how, and where, 
 We had es[iie{l the Book, he drfw it forth ; 
 And cour[eonsly, as if the act removed, 
 At once, all traces from the good Man's heart 
 Ot unbeiiign aversion or conienipt, — 
 
 Restored it to Its oWner. " Gentle Friend," 
 Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand, 
 '•You have known belter Lmhis and Guides than these — 
 Ah I let not aught amiss within di>pose 
 A noble mind to practise on herself, 
 And tempt Opinion to support the wrongs 
 Of Passion : wtatsoe'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 .m oath proposed 
 By each new upstart Notion 1 In the ports 
 Of leviry no refuge can be found, 
 No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 
 He, who by wilful disesteem of Irfe, 
 And proud itisens^it ility to hope 
 Afl^ronts 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 
 Through each vicissitude of loss and gain, 
 Linked in entire complacence with her choice ;^ 
 
ua 
 
 DESPONDENCY COPwRECTKD'. 
 
 WhPTi Youth's prRsumptuoiisness is mellowed down, 
 
 And manhood's vain anxiety distnis^^ed: ; 
 
 WIkmi Wisdom shews her seasonable frurt, 
 
 Upon iho boughs of sheltering Leisure hung 
 
 Jn sober plenty ; when the spirit stoops 
 
 To drink with gratitude the crystal strea:in 
 
 or unreproved enjoyment ; and is pleased 
 
 To muse, — and be saluted by the air 
 
 Of meek repentance, wafting wail-flower scents 
 
 From out the crumbling ruins of fallen Pride 
 
 And chambers of Transgression now forlorn. 
 
 O, calm contented days, and peaceful nights ! 
 
 Who, when such good can be obtained, would strive 
 
 To reconcile his Manhood to a couch 
 
 Soft, as may spein, but, under that dis2;uise, 
 
 Stuffed witl> the thorny substance of the past, 
 
 For fixed annoyance ; aiui full oft bc^et 
 
 Willi floatitig dreams, disconsolate and black, 
 
 The vapoury phantoms of futurity 1 
 
 "Within the soul a Faculty abides. 
 That wiih 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 lot^ty grove, 
 Birrns like an unconsuming fire of light, 
 In the gre°n trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
 Their leafy uml)rage, turns the dusky vei^ 
 Into a suhstnnce glorious as her own, 
 Yea with her own incorporated, by power 
 Capacious and serene ; like power abides 
 In Man's celestial Spirit ; Virtue thus 
 Sets forth and maq;nifies herself; thus feeds 
 A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, 
 From the encumbrances of mortal life, 
 Frcmi error, disappointment, — nay from guilt: 
 And sometimes, so relenting Justice wills, 
 From [)alpnhle oppressions of Despair." 
 
 The Solitary by thpse words was touched 
 With manifest emotion, and excla-rnnd, 
 " But hovV begin? and whence? — The Mind is free; 
 Resolve, the haughty Moralist would say, 
 This single act is all that we demand. 
 Alas ! such wisdom bids a Crea'ure fiy 
 Whose very sorrow is, that time haih shorn 
 His natural wings ! — To Friendship let liim turn 
 For succor ; but perhaps he sits alone 
 On stormy waters, in a little Boat 
 That holds but him, and can contain no more I 
 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 1 — His gifts, 
 Arc they not srill. in some degree, rewards 
 For acts of service? Can his Ijove extend 
 To hearts that own not Him ? Will showers of grace, 
 When in the sky no promise may be seen. 
 Fall to refr(!sh a parched and withered land 1 
 Or shall the groanmg 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 nil that had been urged 
 To calm the Sutri:!rer when his story closed ; 
 I looked for counsel as unbending now ; 
 But a discriminating sympathy 
 Stooped to this apt reply — 
 
 " As Men from M-en 
 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-condtni led, 
 Through manifold degrees of guilt and shnme. 
 
 So manifold and various arc ti.'t^ vrnys 
 
 Of reif oration, fashioned to the steps 
 
 Of all infirmity, and tending all 
 
 To the same point, — attainable by all ; 
 
 Peace in ourselves, and union with our God/ 
 
 For you, assuredly, a hopeful road 
 
 Lies open : we have heard from You a voice' 
 
 At every moment softened in its course 
 
 By tenderness of heart ; have seen your Eye, 
 
 Even like an altar lit by fire from Heaven, 
 
 Kindle before us. — Your discourse this dny, 
 
 That, like the fabled Lethe, wii^hed to flow 
 
 fn creeping sadness, through oblivious shades 
 
 Of death and night, has caught at every turn* 
 
 The colours of the Sun. Access for yoii 
 
 Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 
 
 Which the Imaginative Will upholds 
 
 In seats of wisdom, not to be approached 
 
 By th3 inferior Faculty that moulds, 
 
 With her n>inute and speculative pains, 
 
 Opinion, ever changing! — f have seen 
 
 A curious Cliild, who dwell iij;on a tract 
 
 Of inland ground, applying to Jiis ear 
 
 The convolutions of a smooth-'ipped Shell ; 
 
 To which, in silence Imshed, his very soul 
 
 Listened intensely ; and his connienance .'^oon 
 
 Brightened with joy; ff)r murmuiings fr( m wilhia' 
 
 Were heard, — sonorous cadences I whereby 
 
 To his belief, the Moniior expressed 
 
 Mysterious union with its native Sea. 
 
 Even such a Shell the Universe itself 
 
 Is to the ear of Faith ; and tliere 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 lieart 
 
 Of endless agitation. Here you stand. 
 
 Adore, and worship, when you know it not ; 
 
 Pious beyond the intention of your tiiought ; 
 
 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 conclu^ions of the reascming 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 Life, 
 
 Received a shock of awful consciousness, 
 
 In some calm season, when these b)lty Rocks 
 
 At night's approach bring down the unclouded Sky' 
 
 To rest upon their circun^ambient wails; 
 
 A Temple framing of dimen^ions vast, 
 
 And yet not too enormous for the sound 
 
 Of human anthems, — choal song, or burst 
 
 Sublime of instrumental haimony 
 
 To glorify the Eternal ! What if these 
 
 Did never break the stillness that prevails 
 
 Here, if the soleujn Nightingale be njute," 
 
 And the soft Woodlaik here did never chant 
 
 Her vespers, Nature fails not to provide 
 
 Impulse and utte ance. The whisperiui: Air 
 
 Sends inspira.ion from the shadowy heights, 
 
 And bliiid recesses of the caverned rocks; 
 
 The little Rills, and Waters numberless, 
 
 Inaudible by daylight, blend their nc^tes 
 
 With the loud Streams : and often, at the hour 
 
 When issue forth the first pale S.ars, is heard,' 
 
 Within the circuit of this Fabric huge. 
 
 One Voice — the solitary Raven, flying 
 
 Athwart the concave of the dark-blue dijme. 
 
 Unseen, perchance above al! 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 id caught again,' 
 
 And yet again recovered 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 241 
 
 *' But descending 
 Prom these Imaginative Hejojhts, that yield 
 Frtr-stretcliing: views info Eicniity, 
 Acknowlfdge that in Nature's humbler power 
 Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend 
 Even here, where her amenilies are sown 
 Willi sparing hand. Tlien trust yourself abroad 
 To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fields, 
 Where on the labours of the happy Throng 
 She smilesi including in her wide embrace 
 City, and Town, and Tower,— and Sea with Ships 
 Sprinkled;— be our Companion while we track 
 Ker rivers populous with gliding lile ; 
 While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march, 
 Or pierce the gloom of I>er majf^stic woods ; 
 Roaming, or resting under grateful shade 
 In peace and meditative cheerfulness-, 
 Whore 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 with the Forma 
 Of Nature, who with understanding lieart 
 Doth know and love such Objects as excite 
 No morbid passions, no disquietude. 
 No vencreance, and no hatred, needs must feel 
 The joy of that pure principle of Love 
 So deep'y, that, unsali.-^fied with autrht 
 Less pure and exquisite, he cnnnot choose 
 But seek for objects of a kindred Jove 
 In Fellow -natures and a kindred joy. 
 Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
 Flis feelings of aversion softened down; 
 A holy tenderness perva<le his fratne, 
 Hi:J sanity of rers-m not impaired, 
 Say rather, all his thoughts imw flowing clear, 
 From a clear Fountain flowing, he looks round 
 And seeks for cood ; and finds the good he seeks; 
 Until abhorrence and comeinpt, are things 
 He only knows by name ; find, if he hear, 
 From other months, tlie hnjruage which they speak 
 He is compassionate ; and has no thought, 
 No feeling, which can overcome his love. 
 
 "And further; by contemplating these Forms 
 fn the relations which they bear to Man, 
 He shall discern, how, through the various means 
 Which silently they yield, are multiplied 
 The 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 suffering, or of human joy. 
 So shidl they learn, while all things speak of Man, 
 Their duties from all forms ; and general laws, 
 And local accidents, shall tend alike 
 To rouse, to urge; and, with the will, confer 
 The ability to spread the blessings wide 
 Of true philanthropy. The light of love 
 Not failinjr, perseverance from their steps 
 Departing not, for them shall be confirmed 
 The glorious hnhit by which Sense is made 
 Siihservient still to moral purposes, 
 Aiixiliar to divine. That change shall clothe 
 The naked Spirit, ceasing to deplore 
 The burthen of existence. Sciimcc then 
 Shall be a precious Visitant ; and then, 
 And oidy then, be worthy of her name. 
 vFor then her Heart shall kindle ; her dull Eye, 
 I^ull and inanimate, no more shall hang 
 
 31 
 
 Hhained to its object in brute slavery ; 
 
 Dut taught with patient interest to watch 
 
 The processes of things, and serve the causo 
 
 Of order and distinctness, not for this 
 
 Shall I forget that its most noble use, 
 
 Its most illustrious province, must be found 
 
 In furnishing clear guidance, a su[)port 
 
 Not treacherous to the fllind's excursive Power, 
 
 —So build we up the Being that we are; 
 
 TJius deeply drinking-in the Soul of Things, 
 
 We shall be wise perforce ; and while inspired 
 
 By choice, and conscious that the Will is free. 
 
 Unswerving sliall we move, as if impelltd 
 
 By stricl necessity, along the ptuh 
 
 Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
 
 Whaie'er we feel, by agency direct 
 
 Or indirect, shall tend to feed and nurse 
 
 Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats 
 
 Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights 
 
 Of love divine, our intellectual soul." 
 
 Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue, 
 Poured forth with fervour 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, wlien not a leaf 
 Stirs in tJie mighty woods. — So did he speak: 
 The words he uttered shall not pass away ; 
 For they sank into me — the bounteous gift 
 Of One whom time and nature hatl made wise. 
 Gracing his language with authority 
 Which hostile spirits silently aliow ; 
 Of One accustomed to desi:es 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 intuiiion ; 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 invi.-^ihle, — a pomp 
 Leaving behitid of yellow radiance spread 
 Upon the mountain side^, in contrast bold 
 With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 
 Than those resplendent lights, his rich bequest, 
 A dispensation of his evening power. 
 — Adown the path that fr'-.m the Glen hnd led 
 The funeral Train, the Shepherd ;m<l his mate 
 Were seen descending ; — forth to greet them raa 
 Our little Page ; the rustic Pair approach ; 
 And in the Matron's aspect may be read 
 A plain assuranc<' 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 — promi)tly served 
 With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 
 Of the small Cotrage in tlie lonely Dell 
 A grateful Couch was spread for our repose ; 
 Where, in the guise of Mountaineers, we slept. 
 Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled by sound 
 Of far-otf torrents charming the still night. 
 And to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts 
 Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 
 
 END OF TH2 FOURTH BOOK. 
 
24a 
 
 THE PASTOR. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Book V. 
 
 THE PASTOR. 
 
 itRGUMEKT. — Farewell to the Valley — Reflections — 
 Sight of a large and populous Vale — Solitary con- 
 sents to go forward — Vale described — The Pastor's 
 Dwelling, and some acconnt of hitn — The Church- 
 yard — Church and ]Monunients — The Solitary mu- 
 sing, and where— Roused— In the Churchyard the 
 Solitary communicates the thoughts which had re- 
 cmtly |)assed tlirough his mind — Lofty tone of the 
 Wanderer's discourse of yesterday adverted to — 
 Rite of Baptism, and the professions accompanying 
 it, contrasted with the real state of iiuman IKe — 
 Inconsistency of the best men — Acknnwleflgment 
 that practice lalls far below the injunctions of duty 
 as existing in the mind — General complaint of a 
 falling olT in the value of life afler the tin^ie of 
 yodth — Outward appearances of content and hap 
 piness in degree illusi\'c — Pastor approaches— Ap- 
 peal made to him— His answer — Wanderer in sym- 
 pathy with him— Suggestion that the least an)lii 
 timis Inquirers mr.y be most free frrm error — Thp 
 Pastor is desired to give s(nne Portrais of the li 
 ving or dead from his own observatirm of life among 
 these Mountains— and for what purpose— Pastor con- 
 sents — Mountain Cottage — Excellent qualiiies of its 
 Inhabii ants— Solitary expresses his pleasure ; but de- 
 nies the praise of virtue to worth of this kind — 
 Feelings of the P.iest before he enters upon his 
 account of Persons interred in the Churchyard — 
 Graves of unbaptised Infants — What sensations they 
 excite — Funeral and sepulchral Observances, \A'hence 
 —Ecclesiastical Establishments, whence derived — 
 Profession of Belief in the doctrine of Immortaii;y. 
 
 Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House, 
 
 And its small lot of Iif(--supporting fields, 
 
 And guardian rocks !— Farewell, attractive Seat ! 
 
 To the still influx of the morninj: light 
 
 OpHu, and day's uure cheerfulness, but veiled 
 
 From human observation, as if yet 
 
 Primeval Forests wrapped thee round with dark 
 
 Impenetrable shade ; once more farewell, 
 
 Majestic Circuit, beaunful Ai>y>-s, 
 
 By Nature destined t>om the birth of things 
 
 For quietness profound 1 
 
 Upon the side 
 Of that brown Slope, the outlpt of the Vale, 
 Lingf-ring behind my Comrades, thus T breathed 
 A parting tribute to a spot that seenu'd 
 Like the fixed centre of a troubled World. 
 And now, pursuing leisurely my way. 
 How v.iin, thought I, it is by change of place 
 To seek that comfort which the mind denies ; 
 Yet trial and lemptaticm oft are shunned 
 Wisely ; and by such tenure do we hold 
 Frail Life's possessions, that even they whose fate 
 Yields no peculiar reas<m of complaint 
 Might, by the piomise tiiat is here, be Woa 
 To steal from active duties, and embrace 
 Obscurity, and calm forgetfulness. 
 — Knowledge, meihinks in these disordered times, 
 Should be allowed a privilege to have 
 Her Anchorites, like Piety of old ; 
 Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstained 
 By war, might, if so minded, turn aside 
 Uncensured, and subsist, a scaitcned few 
 Living to God and Nature, and content 
 With that communion. (Consecrated be 
 The Spots where such abide ! But haijpier still 
 The Man, whom, furth.ermore, a hope attends 
 That meditation and research may guide 
 
 His privacy to principles and powers 
 
 Discovered or invented : or set forth, 
 
 Through his acquaintance with the ways of trutfj/ 
 
 [n lucid order; so that, when his course 
 
 Is run, some failhful Eulogist may say. 
 
 He sought not praise, and praise did overlook 
 
 His unobtrusive merit ; but his life. 
 
 Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 
 
 That shall survive his name and memory. 
 
 Acknowledgements of gratitude sincere 
 Accompanied these musings : — fervent thanks 
 For my own peaceful lot and happy choice ; 
 A choice that from the passions of the world 
 Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat, 
 Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, 
 Secluded, but not buried ; and with song 
 Cheering my days, and with industrious thougli 
 With ever-welcome company of books, 
 By virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid, 
 And with the blessings of domestic love. 
 
 Thus occupifd in mind I paced along. 
 Following the rueged road, by sledge or wheel 
 Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
 Mv two Associates, in the morning sunshina 
 Halting together on a rocky knoll. 
 From which the road descended rapidly 
 To the green meadows of another Vale. 
 
 Here did our pensive flost put forth his hand 
 In sign of farewell. " Nay," the Old man said, 
 •' Tlie fragrant Air its cooIne.«s still retains; 
 The Herds and Flocks are yet abroad to crop 
 The dewy giass ; you cannot leave us now, 
 We must not part at this inviiing hour." 
 He yiehled, though reluctant ; for his Mind 
 InstJnetively disposed hiin to retire 
 To kis own Covert ; as a billow, heaved 
 Upon the beach, rolls back into the Sea, 
 — So we descend ; and winding round a rock 
 Attain a point that showed ihe Valley— stretched 
 In length before us; and, not distant far. 
 Upon a rising ground a grey Church-tower, 
 Whose battUuienis were screened by tufied tree*. 
 And, towards a ciystal Mere, that lay beyond 
 Amoti^ steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed 
 A copious Stream wiih boldiy-winding course ; 
 Here traceable, there hidden — iliere again 
 To sight restored, and gliite-ing in the Sun, 
 On the Si ream's hank, and every where, appeared 
 Fair Dwellings, single, or in social kimts ; 
 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 1, "once happy, ere tyrannic Power, 
 Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 
 Destroyed their unoffendiiig Commonwealth, 
 A popular equality reigns here. 
 Save for one House ol Siaie beneath whose roof 
 A rural Lord might dwell."—" No feudal pomp.'* 
 Replied o\ir Friend, a Chronicler who stood 
 Where'er he moved upon familiar ground, 
 " Nor feudal power is there ; but there abides. 
 In his allotted Home, a genuine Priest, 
 The Shepherd of his Flock ; or, as a King 
 Is styled, when most atPectionately praised, 
 The Father of his People. Such is he ; 
 And rich and poor, and ycmng and old, rejoice 
 Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed 
 To me some portion of a kind regard ; 
 And something also of his inner mind 
 Hath he imparled— but I speak of him 
 As he is known to all. The calm delights 
 Of unambitious piety he chose, 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 24S 
 
 And learffinjs'g solid dignity; though born 
 
 Of kniphily race, nor wantino; powerful friends. 
 
 Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 
 
 From academic bovvers. He loved the spot, 
 
 Who does not love his native soiH he prized 
 
 The ancient rural character, composed 
 
 Of simple manners, feelings unsnppressed 
 
 And undisguised, and strong and serious thought ; 
 
 A character rellected in himself, 
 
 With such embellishment as well beseems 
 
 flis rank and sacred function. This deep vale 
 
 Winds far in reaches hidden from our eyes, 
 
 And one a turreted manorial Hall 
 
 Adorns, in which the good Man's Ancestors 
 
 Have dwelt through ages — Patrons of this Cure. 
 
 To them, and to his own judicious pains, 
 
 The Vicar's Dwelliug, and the whole Domain, 
 
 Owefe that pre?i(ling aspect whicli 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 hailing we pursued our way ; 
 Nor reached the Village Churchyard till the sun, 
 Travelling at steadier pace tlian ours, had risen 
 Above the summits of the highest hills, 
 And round our patli darted oppreseive beams. 
 
 As chanced, the Portals of the sacred Pile 
 Stood ope;., and we entered. On my frame, 
 At such transition from the fervid air, 
 A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike 
 The hf^art, in concert with that temperate awe 
 And natural reverence, which the Place inspired. 
 Not raised in n^'ce proportions was the Pile, 
 But larrre and niassy ; for duration buili ; 
 Witli [)i!iars crowded, and the roof upheld 
 By naked rafters iiuricately crossed, 
 Like leafless underbouglis, 'mid some thick grove, 
 All withered by the depth of shade above. 
 Admonitory Texts inscribed the walls. 
 Each, in its ornametual scroll, enclosed, 
 Each also crowui d with winged heads — a pair 
 Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The fioor 
 Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, 
 Was occupied by oaken benches, ranged 
 lu seemly rows ; the chancel only showed 
 Some inoffensive marks of earthly state 
 And vain distinction. A capacious pew 
 or sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined; 
 And marble Monuments were here displa ed 
 Thronging the walls; and on the fioor beneath 
 Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven 
 And foot- worn epitaphs, and some with small 
 And shining effigies of hrass inlaid. 
 —The tribute by these various records claimed, 
 Without reluctance did we pay ; and read 
 The ordinary clironicle of birth, 
 Office, a'liance. and promotion — all 
 Ending in dust ; of upright Magistrates, 
 Grave Doctors strenuous for the Mother Church, 
 And uncorrupted Senators, alike 
 To King aod People true. A brazen plate, 
 Not ea^iIy deciphered, told of One 
 Whose course of earthly honour was begun 
 In quality of page among the Train 
 Of the eighth Henrv, when he crossed the seas 
 His royal state to show, and prove his strength 
 In tonrnameut, upon the Fields of France. 
 Another Tablet registered the death, 
 And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight 
 Triej in the sea fiL^its of the second Charles. 
 Near this brave Knight his Father lay entombed ; 
 And, to the siletjt language giving voice, 
 I read,— how in his manhood's earlier day 
 He, 'raid the affiictions 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 numerous Issue filled his House. 
 
 Who throve, like Plants, uninjured by the SLorm 
 
 That laid their Country wasie. No need to speak 
 
 Of less particular notices assigned 
 
 To YouLii or Maiden gone before their time. 
 
 And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old ; 
 
 Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed 
 
 In modest panegyric. '' These dim lines, 
 
 What would they tell V said I,— but, from the task 
 
 Of puzzltng out that faded Narrative, 
 
 Willi wiiisper soft my venerable Friend 
 
 Called me ; and, looking down the darksome aisle, 
 
 1 saw the Tenant of the lonely Vale 
 
 Standing apart ; with curved aim reclined 
 
 On the baptismal Font; his pallid face 
 
 Upturned, as if his mind were wrnpt, or lost 
 
 In some abstraction ; — gracefully he stood, 
 
 The semblance bearing of a sculptured Form 
 
 Tliat leans upon a monumental Ihn 
 
 In peace, from morn to Jiight, from year to year. 
 
 Him from tliat posture did the Sexton rouse ; 
 Who entered, humming carelessly a tune. 
 Continuaiion haply of the notes 
 That had beguiled the work from which he canje, 
 Wiih spade and mattock o'er his shoulder ijung, 
 To be di'posired, for future need, 
 In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 
 Withdrew ; and straight we followed,— to a spot 
 Where sun and shade were intermixed ; fir there 
 A broad Oak, stretching forth its leafy aims 
 From an adjoioinw pasture, overhung 
 Small space of that green churchyard with a light 
 And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall 
 Mj- ancient Friend and I together took 
 Our seals ; and th.us tlie Solitarj' spake, 
 Sanding before ^^^. " Did you nore the mien 
 Of that self-so'aced, easy-hearred Churl, 
 Death's Hireling, who scnojisout his Xeiglibour's grave, 
 Or wraps an o!d Acquaintance up in clay, 
 ^s unconcerjied as when he plants a tree ? 
 I was abruptly summoned by his voice 
 From some affecting imajK^s and thoughts, 
 And from the company of serious words. 
 I\Iuch, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase 
 or our sub'ime dependencies, and hopes 
 For future states of Being; and tJie wings 
 Of rpeculation, joyfully outspread. 
 Hovered above our destiny on earth . — 
 But stoop, and place the prospect of the souJ 
 In sober contrast with reality. 
 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 recriil, stricken with sorrov\- and shams 
 To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill 
 That whic . is d<nie accords with wliat is known 
 To reason, and bj- conscience is enjoined ; 
 How idly, how perverse!}'. 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 tliis breathing world ; 
 One that hath barely learned to shape a smile ; 
 Though yet irrational of Soitl to grasp 
 With tiny fingers — to let fall a tear ;, 
 And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves. 
 To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem, 
 The outward functions of intelligent Man ; 
 
!S44 
 
 THE TASTOK. 
 
 A grave ProficieTit in amusive feats 
 
 Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 
 
 His exp(^claiions, and announce his claims 
 
 To that inheritance which millions rue 
 
 That they were ever born to ! In due time 
 
 A day of solemn ceremonial comes; 
 
 Wl en they, v/ho for this Minor hold in trust 
 
 Rights that transcend the humblest heritage 
 
 Of mere Humanity, present their Cliarge, 
 
 For this occasion daintily adorned. 
 
 At the baptisiinal Font. And when the pure 
 
 And consecrating element liath cleansed 
 
 The original slain, the Child is there received 
 
 Into the second Ark, Chri t's Church, with trust 
 
 That he, frojn wrath redfenied, therein shall float 
 
 Over the billows of this troublesome world 
 
 To the fair laud of everlasting Life. 
 
 Corrupt affi-ctit^ns, covetous desires. 
 
 Are all renounced ; high as the thought of man 
 
 Can carry virtue, virtue is professed; 
 
 A dedication made, a promise given 
 
 For due provj-,ion to control and guide. 
 
 And unr^-miiting i)rogiess to ensure 
 
 In holiness and truth." 
 
 " You cannot blame," 
 Here interposing fervently I said, 
 "Rites which attest that Rian liy nature lies 
 Bedded lor good and evil in a gulf 
 Fearfully low; nor v/ill your judgment scorn 
 Those services, wijereby aticmpi is made 
 To lift the Creature lowaid that eminence 
 On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 
 He stood ; or if not so, whose top serene 
 At lea.-t he feels 'tis given him to descry ; 
 Not without aspirations, evermore 
 Returning, and injuncriong from within 
 Doubt to cast otf and weariness; in fust 
 Tliat what the Snul perceives, if glory lost, 
 May be, througii pains and persevering hope, 
 Recovered ; or, if hitherto unknown. 
 Lies within reach, and one day shall be gained." 
 
 " I blame them not," he calnjly answered—" no ; 
 The out waul riiual and establi.-hed forms 
 With which Comnjuniiies of Men invesi 
 These inward feelings, and the aspiiing vows 
 To v/liich the lips give public utterance 
 Are both a natural process; and by me 
 Shall pass \mcensured; though the issue prove, 
 Bringing fmrn age to age its own reproach, 
 Incongruous, impotent, and blank. — But, oh ! 
 If to be weak is to be wretched — miserable, 
 As the lost. Angel by a human voice 
 Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind, 
 Far better m>r to move ai all than move 
 By impulse sent from such illusive Power, 
 That tinds and cannot fasten down ; that grasps 
 And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps ; 
 That lempis, emboldens—doth a while sustain. 
 And then bctiays ; accuses and inflicts 
 Remorseless punishment ; and so retreads 
 The inevitable circle • better far 
 Than this, to jrraze the herb in thoughtless peace. 
 By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed ! 
 
 " Philosophy ! and thou more vaunted name 
 Religion ! with thy statelier retinue. 
 Faith, Mope, and Charity---from the visible world 
 Choose for your Emblems whatsoe'er ye tind 
 Of safest guidance and of fnniest trust,— 
 The Torch, the Star, the Anchor; nor except 
 The Cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
 The Generations of Mankind have knelt 
 Ruefully seiz*'d, and shedding bitter tears. 
 And through that conflict seeking rest— of you, 
 Hi"h-litled Powers, am I constrained to ask, 
 
 Here standing, with the unvoyageable sKf 
 
 In faint reflection of infinitude 
 
 Stretched overhead, and at my pensive icet 
 
 A subterraneous magazine of bones, 
 
 In whose dark vaults my own shall tonn he lai(?y 
 
 Where are your triumphs 1 your dominion v^here 1 
 
 And in what age adn»itted and confirmed 1 
 
 —Not for a happy Land do I enquire, 
 
 Island or Grove, that hides a blessed few 
 
 Who, with obedience willing and sincere, 
 
 To your serene authorities conform ; 
 
 But whom, [ ask, of individual Souls, 
 
 Have ye withdrawn from Passion's crooked ways, 
 
 Inspired, and thoroughly fortified ?— If the Heart 
 
 Could be inspected to its inniost folds 
 
 By sight undazzled with the glf?)-e of praise, 
 
 Who shall be named — in the resplendent Vine 
 
 Of Sages, Mart3'rs, Confes?ors---the Man 
 
 Whom the best might of Conscience, Truth, and Hope, 
 
 For one day's little compass has preserved 
 
 From painful and discreditable shocks 
 
 Of contradiction, from some vague desire 
 
 Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse 
 
 To some unsanctioned fear 1" 
 
 "If this be BO, 
 And Man," said I, " be in his noblest shape 
 Thus pitiably infirm ; then. He who made. 
 And who shall judge the Creature, will fnrgive. 
 — Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint 
 Ts 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. W^ith the Dead 
 In their repose, the Living in their mirth^ 
 Wlio can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 
 Of smooth and solemnized complacencies, 
 By which, on Christian Lands, from age to age 
 Professi(m m'^cks Performance. Farth is sick, 
 And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 
 Which S:ares and Kingdoms utter when they talk 
 Of truth and justice. Turn to pri\ate life 
 And social neighbourhood ; look we to ourselves; 
 A light of duty shiries on every day 
 For all; and 3"et h( w few are waimed or cheered t 
 How few who mingle with their felh w-men 
 And still remain self-gctverned, and apart, 
 Like this our honoured Friend; and thence acquire 
 Riiiht to expect his vigorous decline, 
 That promises to the end a blest old age 1" 
 
 " 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 tliat S[)ring is there, 
 In spite of many a rough untoward blast, 
 Hop^'ful and promising with buds and flowers ; 
 Yet where is glowing Sunmier's long rich day, 
 That ought to follow raiilifully expressed? 
 And mellow Autumit, charged with bounteous fruit, 
 Where is she imaged ? in what favoured 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 ouiw:nd sunshine and internal warmth ; 
 And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves, 
 Foretelling total Winter, blank and cold. 
 
 "How gay the Habitations that bedeck 
 This fertile Valley 1 Not a House but seems 
 To give assurance of content within ; 
 Emhosomed happiness, and placid love ; 
 As if the sunshine of the day were met 
 
TII2 PASTOR. 
 
 245 
 
 With answering brightness in the hearts of all 
 
 Who walk this favoured ground. But chance-regards, 
 
 And notice forced upon incurious tars; 
 
 These, if these only, acting in despite 
 
 Of the pncurniums by my Friend pronounced 
 
 On humble ii(e, foihid the judging mind 
 
 To tiust the smiling aspect of this fair 
 
 And noiseless Couinionwealth. Tiie simple race 
 
 Of Mouniainrers (by A'atuie's self removed 
 
 From f«iul temptations, and by constant care 
 
 Of a pocd SiiepluMd tended as themselves 
 
 Do tend their flocks) pariake Man's general lot 
 
 With litile miiigaiion. They escape, 
 
 Perchance, guilt's heavier woes; and do not feel 
 
 The tedium of fantasiic idleness ; 
 
 Yet lite, as with the niuliitude, with them, 
 
 Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale ; 
 
 That on the outset wastes its gay desires, 
 
 Its fair adventures, lis enlivening hopes. 
 
 And pleasant interests — for the sequel leaving 
 
 Old things refieated with diminished grace ; 
 
 And all the laboured noveliies at best 
 
 Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 
 
 Evince the want and weakness whence ihey spring." 
 
 While in this serious mood we held discourse, 
 The reverend Pastor toward the church-yard gate 
 Approached ; an(', wiih a njild respeciful air 
 Of native cordia i;y, our Friend 
 Advanced to greet him. With a pracinus mien 
 Was he received, and mumal joy prevailed. 
 Awhile they stood in conference, and I guess 
 That H , who now upon the mossy wall 
 Sate by my side, Ind vanished, if a wish 
 ('ou!d have transferred him to his lonely House 
 Within the circuit of those guardian rocks. 
 —For me, ( looked upon the pair, well pleased : 
 Nature had framed them both, and both were marked 
 By circumstance, wiih intermixrure fine 
 Of contrast and resemblance. To an Oak 
 Harfly and grand, a weather-beaten Oak, 
 Fresh in the strength and majesty of age. 
 One mifiht be likened : flourishins: appeared, 
 Thoiijrh somewhat i ast t' e fulness of his prime, 
 The Other — like a stately Sycamore, 
 That spreads, in gentler pomp, its honied shade. 
 
 A general greeting was exchanged ; and soon 
 The Pastor learned that his afiproach had given 
 A welcome interruption to discourse 
 Grave, and in truth too often sad. — " Is Man 
 A child of hope ? Do generations press 
 On poneiations, without progiess made 1 
 Halts the Individual, er(^ his hairs be grey, 
 Perforce 1 Are we a (Creature in whom good 
 Preponderates, or evil ? Doth the Will 
 Acknowledge Reason's law 1 A living Power 
 Is Virtue, or no better than a name. 
 Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound 1 
 Sn that the only substance which remains, 
 (For thus the tenor of complaint hath run) 
 Among so ujany 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 I the light 
 Of your experience to dispel this doom : 
 ^3' your persuasive wMsdom shall the Heart 
 That frets, or languishes, be stilled and cheered." 
 
 " Our Nature," said tlie Priest, in mild reply, 
 " Angels may weigh and fathwm : they perceive, 
 ^Viih undistempered and unclouded spirit, 
 The object as it is ; but, for ourselves, 
 Thai speculative height we may not reach. 
 
 The good and evil are our own ; and we 
 
 Are that which w^e would contemplate from far. 
 
 Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain — 
 
 Is ditficult to gain, and hard to keep — 
 
 As Virtue's self ; like Virtue is beset 
 
 With snares; tried, tempted, subject to decay. 
 
 Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate, 
 
 Blind were We without these : through these alono 
 
 Are capable to notice or discern 
 
 Or to record ; we judge, but cannot bo 
 
 indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast, 
 
 Reason, best Reason, is to imperfect Man 
 
 An effort only, and a noble aim ; 
 
 A crown, an attribute of sovereign power, 
 
 Still to be courted — never to be won I 
 
 —Look forth, or each man dive into himself; 
 
 What sees he but a Creature too perturbed, 
 
 That is transported to excess ; that yearns, 
 
 Regrets, or treujbles, wrongly, or too much; 
 
 Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils; 
 
 Battens on spleen, or mouhlers in despair ? 
 
 Tiius truth is missed, and comprehension fails ; 
 
 And darkness and delusion round our path 
 
 Spread, from disease, whose subtile injury lurki 
 
 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 subject 
 The will to Reason's law, and strictliest live 
 And act in that obedience, he shall gam 
 The clearest apprehension of those truths, 
 Which unassisted Reason's utmost power 
 I- too infirm to reach. But — waniig this 
 And our regards confining within bounds 
 Of less exalted consciousness — through which 
 The \ery multitude are free t(» range — 
 We safely may affirm that human life 
 Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
 Gratel^il to sight, refreshing to tne soul, 
 Or a forbidding tract of cheerless view ; 
 Even as the same is looked at. or a{)proached. 
 Thus, when in changeful April snow has fallen, 
 And fields are white, if from the sullen north 
 Your walk conduct you hither, ere the Sun 
 Hath gained his noontide height, this church-yard, filled 
 With mounds transversely lying side by side 
 From east to west, before you will appear 
 An uniilumined, blank, and dieary pd.iin. 
 With more than wintery cheerlessness and gloom 
 Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look bnck , 
 Look, from the q\iarter whence the lord of light. 
 Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense 
 His beams , which, unexcluded in their fall, 
 Upon the southern side of eveiy grave 
 Have gently exercised a melting powor, 
 Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye, 
 All fresh and beautiful, and green and biight, 
 Hopeful and cheerful • — vani.-hed is the snow. 
 Vanished or hidden ; and the whole Domain, 
 To some too lightly minded might appear 
 A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. 
 — This contrast, not unsuitable to Life, 
 Is to that other sta:e more apposite. 
 Death and its iwo-fold aspect ; wintery — 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 Wanderer thus 
 With a complacent animation spake, 
 '^ And in your judgment. Sir 1 the Mind's repose 
 On evidence is nr»t to be ensured 
 By act of naked Reason. M(ual truth 
 Is no mechanic structure, built by rule ; 
 And which, once built, retains a steadfast shape 
 And undisturbed proportions ; but a thing 
 
S46 
 
 THE PASTOR. 
 
 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 
 
 To outward argument; the passive will 
 
 Meek to admit; the active energy, 
 
 .Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 
 
 To keep and cherish ? How shad Man unite 
 
 Wiih self- forgetting tenderness of heart 
 
 An earth despising dignity of soul? 
 
 Wise in that union, and without it blind !" 
 
 •'The way," said [, " to court, if not obtain 
 The ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright , 
 This, in the lonely DhII discoursing, you 
 Declared at large ; and by what exercise 
 From visible nature or the inner sp|f 
 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 1 
 The natural roof of that dark house in which 
 His soul is pent I How little can be known— 
 This is the wise man's sigh : how far we err — 
 This is the good man's not nnfrrquent pang ! 
 And they perhaps err least, the lowly Class 
 Whom a benign necessity compels 
 To follow Reason's least ambitious course ; 
 Such do T mean who, nnpprplcxed by doubt, 
 And unincited by a wish to look 
 Into high objects farther than they may, 
 Pace to and fro, from morn till even-tide, 
 The narrow avenue of daily toil 
 For daily bread." 
 
 " Yes," buoyantly exclaimed 
 The pale Recluse — " praise to the sturdy plough. 
 And patient spade, and shepherd's simple crook. 
 And ponderous loom--resounding while it holds 
 Body and mind in one captivity ; 
 A:id let the licht niRrhanic tool be hailed 
 With honour: which, encasiriff by the power 
 Of lone comp uiionship, the Artist's hand. 
 Tuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves. 
 From a too busy commerce with the heart! 
 - -Inglorious implements of craft and toi', 
 Both ve that shape and build, and ye that force. 
 By slow solicitation, Earth to yipid 
 Her annual botmty, sparingly dealt fortli 
 V^ iih wise reluctance, you would I extol, 
 Not for gross good alone which ye produce, 
 But for the impertinent and ceas-^'oss 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 ne'er renounced it !" 
 
 A slight flush 
 Of moral anger previouslv had tinged 
 The Old Man's cheek; but, at this closing turn 
 Of self-rP|)roach, it passed awa3^ Said he, 
 " That which we feel we utter ; as we think 
 So have we arsued ; reaping for our pains 
 No visible recompense. For our relief 
 Yon," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
 " Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
 Your further help? The mine of real life 
 Dig for us; and present us, in the shape 
 Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains 
 Fruitless as those of aery Alchemists, 
 Seek from the torturing crucible. Tliere lies 
 Around us a domain where You have long 
 Watched both the outward court^e 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 wn stand on holy earth. 
 And have the Dead around us,* take from them 
 Your instances; for they are both best known, 
 And by frail Man most equitably judged. 
 Epitomise the life ; pronounce. You can, 
 Authentic epitaphs on some of these 
 Who, from their lowly mansinng hither brought, 
 Beneath this lurf lie mouldering at our feet. 
 So, by your records, may our d.)ubts be solved ; 
 And so, not searching higher, we may learn 
 To prize the breath we share with human kind ; 
 Jliid Inuk upon the dust of vian with awe.'' 
 
 The Priest replied. — " An office you impose 
 For wliich peculiar requisites are mine ; 
 Yet much, I feel, is wanting — else the task 
 Would be most grateful. True indeed it is 
 That T.iey whom Death has hidden from our sigh^ 
 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 1 give, 
 Ere we descend into these silent vaults, 
 Otie 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 sleeping sunbeam ; 
 But 'tis a p!oL of cultivated ground, 
 Cut otf, an island in the «1usky waste ; 
 And that attractive brightness is its own. 
 The lofty Site, by nature franied to tempt 
 Amid a wilderness of rocks and stories 
 The Tiller's hand, a Hermit might have chosen, 
 For opportuniiy presented, thence 
 Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land 
 And ocean, and lof)k down upon the works, 
 The habitations, and the ways of men. 
 Himself unseen! I ut no tradition tells 
 That ever Hermit dipped his maple d'sh 
 In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields; 
 And no such visionary views belong 
 To those who occupy and till the ground, 
 And on the bosom of the mountain dwell 
 — 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, wliose crest 
 Of birch-trees waves above the cliitnney top : 
 A rough abode— in colour, shape, and size. 
 Such as in unsafe limes of Border war 
 Might have been vvislied for and contrived, to elude 
 Tlie 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; 
 
 * Lei). 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 lieard, 
 Perhaps I might ; — — — — — 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one. 
 We two could tiavel, Sir, through a strange round ; 
 Yet all in the broad high-wav of the world. 
 
 See p. 19 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 247 
 
 ^bere, or within the compass of her fields, 
 
 At nny moment may the Dame be found, 
 
 True as the Siock-dnve to Iiur shallow nest 
 
 And to the grove iliat holds it. S!ie beguiles 
 
 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 her Mate 
 
 From the far-distant Quarry's vault returns ; 
 
 And by his converse crowns a silent day 
 
 With evening cheerfulness. Tn povi^ers of mind, 
 
 ]n scale of culture, few among my Flock 
 
 Hold lower rank than this sequesiered Pair ; 
 
 But humbleness of heart descerds from Heaven; 
 
 And iliat best eif't of fleavea hath fallen on them ; 
 
 Abundant recompense for every want. 
 
 — Stoop from your ht-ight. ye proud, and copy these ! 
 
 Who, in iheir noiselpss dwelling-place, can hear 
 
 The voire nf wisdom whispering Scripture texts 
 
 For the mind's gf)vernmpnt, or temper's peace ; 
 
 And recommending, for their mutual ncfd, 
 
 Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity 1" 
 
 " Much was r pleased," tlie grey-haired W'anderer 
 said, 
 " When to those shining fields our notice first 
 You turned ; and yet more pleased have from your lipg 
 Gathered this fair report of them who dwell 
 In that reli-ement ; whither, bv such course 
 Of evil hap and srood as oft awaits 
 A lone wayfa»^in2 Man, [ once was brought. 
 Dnrk on mv rond the autumnal eve^^in^ fell 
 While r was traversinjr yon motintain-pass, 
 And nifflit succeeded with Jinusual eloom : 
 So that my feet and hands at lenirlh became 
 Guides better than mine eyes — until n lisfht 
 Piffh in the elontn appeared, too hish, methought 
 For human habiration ; but T longed 
 Tn rench it, desMtnte of other hope. 
 I Ionised with steadiness as Sailors look 
 On the north fstnr, or watch-tower's di's'ant lamp. 
 And s w the liahf — now fixed — and shifting now — 
 Not like a dancincr meteor, but in line 
 Of never-varyinji mo, ion, to and fro, 
 It is no niirht fire of the naked hills, 
 Tli()\isht T, some friendlv covert mu«t be near. 
 With this percuRsion tbitJierwa'-d mv steps 
 I turn, and reach at last the puidin? Light ; 
 Jny to myself! hut to The heart of Her 
 Who there was sTandinji on the open hi'l, 
 (The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised) 
 Alarm and disappointment I The alarm 
 rpased. when she lenrned throuuh what mishap f cnme, 
 And by what help had ffain'^d those distant fields. 
 Drawn from her Cottage, on that open height, 
 Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood. 
 Or paced the ground— to guide her Husband home, 
 By that unweatied signal, kenned afar ; 
 An anxious duty I which the lofty Site, 
 Traversed but by a few irregtilar paths. 
 Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 
 D'tains him after Iiis accustomed hour 
 Till nisht lie^ 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 Datne returne''.— Or ere that glowing pile 
 Of mountain turf required the Builder's hand 
 Its wasted splendour 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 morel 
 But more was given ; I studied as we sate 
 
 By the bright fire, the good Man's face—composed 
 
 Of features elegant ; an open brow 
 
 Of undisturbed humani'y ; 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 honoured ot)ce, these features and that mien 
 
 May have descended, though 1 see them here. 
 
 In such a Man, so gentle and subdued, 
 
 Withal so graceful iu his gentleness, 
 
 A race illustrious for heroic deeds, 
 
 Huiribled, but not degraded, may expire. 
 
 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 evt;n 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, 
 I yet had risen too late to interchange 
 A morning salutation with my Ho.st, 
 Gone lorth already to the lar-ofF seat 
 Of his day's work. ' Three dark mid-winter months 
 Pass,' said the Matron, ' and T 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 return^. 
 And, through H;^aven's blessing, thus we gai i the bread 
 For which we pray; and for the wants provide 
 Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 
 CompmioMS have I many : manv Friends, 
 Dependants, Comforters— my Wheel, my Fire, 
 All day the House-clock ticking in mine ear. 
 The cackling Hen, the tender Chicken brood. 
 And the wild Birds that gather round my porch. 
 Tliis honest Sheep-dog's countenance I re-'.d : 
 Wiih hirn can talk : nor blush to waste a word 
 On Creatures less inte'Mgent and Fl'rewd. 
 And if the blustering Wind that drives the clouds 
 Care not for m^, he ling rs ro und my door, 
 And makes me pasnme when o\ir tempers suit ; 
 — But, above all, mv Thoughts are my support.' 
 The Matron ended— nor could f forbear 
 To exclaim — ' O happv ! yielding to the law 
 Of these privations, richer iu the main I 
 While thankless thousands are opprest atid clogged 
 By ease and leisure--by the very wealth 
 And pri le of opoortunity made poor; 
 While lens of thousands falter in their p'lfh. 
 And sink, through utter want of cheering light ; 
 For you the hours of labour do not flag ; 
 For you e-^ch Evening hath its s'^ining Star, 
 And every S ibbath day its golden Sun.' " 
 
 " Yes !" said the Solitarv with a smile 
 That seemed to break from an expanding heart, 
 " The untutored Bird may found, and so construct, 
 And with such soft materi Is 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 h^r sp^cie^, Nat'fe's grace sometimes 
 L^pon the Individual doth confer, 
 Among her higher creatures born and trained 
 To use of reason. And, I own, that tired 
 Of the ostentations world— a swelling stage 
 With empty actions and vain passions stuffed, 
 And from the p ivate struggles of mankind 
 Hoping for less than I could wish to hope, 
 Far less than once I trusted and believed — 
 I love to hear of Those, who, not contending 
 Nor summoned to contend for Virtue's prize, 
 
248 
 
 THE PASTOR. 
 
 Miss not the humbler good at which they aim ; 
 Blest with a l<iiKliy faculty to blunt 
 The edjre of adverse circuuislance, and turn 
 Into their contrarie? tue petty plagues 
 And hiaderances with which they stand beset. 
 — In early youth, among my native hills, 
 1 knew a Scottish Ptiasifant who possessed 
 A i^aw small Crofts of stone-encumbered ground ; 
 Masses of every shape and sizp, 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 fertilising moislure,' said the Swain, 
 ' Gathers, and is preserved ; ami feeding dews 
 ' And damps, through all the droughty Summer day, 
 ' From out their substance issuing maintain 
 * Herbage that never fails ; no grass springs up 
 ' So green, so fresli, so plentiful, as mine ." 
 But Lliinly sown these Natures ; rare, at least, 
 The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 
 Tliat yields such kiniliy product. Ht;— whose bed 
 Perhaps yon loose sods cov(m-, the poor P(^nsioncr 
 Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell 
 Here to lie down in lasting quiet— he. 
 If living now, could otherwise report 
 Of rustic loneliness: that grey-haired Orphan- 
 So call him, for humanity to him 
 No parent was— feelisigly could have told, 
 In lilV, in death, what Solitude can breed 
 Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice ; 
 Or, if it breed not, hath nut p"wer 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 revfuerid Pastor said, 
 Around him looking, " Where shall I begin? 
 Who shall be first seh;cted from my Flock 
 Gaiiiered together in their peaceful lold ?" 
 He pauseU— and having lifted up his eyes 
 To th(-) pare Heaven, he cast them down again 
 Upon the earth beneath his feet ; and spake. 
 — ^' To a tiiysteriously-consorted Pair 
 This place is consecrate ; to Death and Life, 
 And to the bast AiFections that proceed 
 From their conjunction ; — consecrate to faith 
 In fiim who bled for man upon the JJross ; 
 Hallowed to Revelation ; aiul no less 
 To Rea«:on's mandates ; and the hopes divine 
 Of 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 the just and the unjust; 
 In which they find an equal reslirsg-place : 
 Even as th.; nmllitude of kindred brooks 
 And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale 
 Whether their course be turbulent or smooth, 
 Their waters clear or suMed, all are lost 
 Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 
 And end their journey in the same repose! 
 
 " And blf^st 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 lender shade. 
 Though loth and slow to come ! A battle-field 
 In stillness left when slaughter is no more 
 With This compared, is a strangn spectacle! 
 A rueful sight the wild shore strewn with wrecke, 
 
 And trod by people in afflicted quest 
 
 Of friends and kindred, whom tlie an^rry Sea 
 
 Restores not to thr^ir [)rayer ! Ah! who would think 
 
 That all the scattered subjects which cofjipose 
 
 Earth's melancholy vision throu'^h the space 
 
 Of all her climes ; these wretched, these depraved, 
 
 To virtue lost, insensible of peace, 
 
 From the delights of char-fy cut off, 
 
 To pity dead, the Oppressor and the Opprest ; 
 
 Tyrants who utier the destroying word, 
 
 And slaves who will consent to be destroyed — 
 
 Were of one species with the sheltered few, 
 
 Who, with a dutiful and tender hand, 
 
 Did lodge, in an appropriated spot, 
 
 This file of Infants ; some that never breathed 
 
 The vital air; and others, who, allowed 
 
 That privilege, did yet expire too soon. 
 
 Or with' too brief a warning, to admit 
 
 Administration of the holy" rite 
 
 That lovingly co isigiis the Babe to the arms 
 
 Of ,lesus, ami liis everlasting care. 
 
 These thnt in trembling linpe are laid apart ; 
 
 And the besprinkled Nursling, unrequired 
 
 Till he beeins to sn)ilft upon the breast 
 
 That feeds him ; and the torterin? Little-one 
 
 Taken from air and sunshine when the rose 
 
 Of Infancy first binnfns upon his cheek ; 
 
 The fhinkin?, thoughtless School-boy : the bold Youth 
 
 Of soul impetuous, and the bashful l\Iaid 
 
 Smitten while all the promises of life 
 
 Are opening round her : those of middle ase, 
 
 Past down while confirlent in strength tliev stand, 
 
 Like pillars fixed more firn)Iy, as mij;ht seem, 
 
 And more secure, by very weight of all 
 
 That, for sup[)ort, rests on them ; the decayed 
 
 And bnrthensome : and lastly, that poor few 
 
 Whose light of reason is with age extinct ; 
 
 The hopeful and ilie hopeless, first a';d last. 
 
 The earliest summoned a.'id the longest spared — 
 
 Are here deposiied, with tribute i)aid 
 
 Various, but unto each some tribute paid ; 
 
 As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, 
 
 Soci(^ty were touched wi;h kind roncern ; 
 
 And gentle ' Nature grieveil, that O.ie should die ;'* 
 
 Or, if the change demaiuled no regret, 
 
 Observed the liberaiiug stroke — and blessed. 
 
 —And whence that tribute ? wheiefore these regards ?t 
 
 Not from the naked Heart alone of man 
 
 (Though claiming high distinction upon earth 
 
 As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears, 
 
 His own peculiar uttei.tnce for distress 
 
 Or gladness). No," the philosophic Priest 
 
 Continued, " 'tis not in the vital seat 
 
 Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
 
 From the pure Soul, the Soul sublime 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, proclaims. 
 
 Not without such assistance could the use 
 
 Of these benign observances prevail. 
 
 Thus are they born, thus fostered, and maintained; 
 
 And by the care [)rospertive of our wise 
 
 Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks, 
 
 *" And suffer ins- -N'ature grieved that one sJiouId die^ 
 
 South/y's Retrospect. 
 tThe sentiments and opinions here uttered are in 
 unison with those expr^ss-d in the following Essay 
 upon Epitaphs, which was furnish ed bv the authoV 
 lor Mr. Coleridge's periodical work, the Friend ; and 
 as they are dictated by a spirit congenial to that which 
 pervades this and the two succeeding books, Ihe sym- 
 pathising reader will not be displeased to see the Es- 
 say at t>!e close of this volume 
 
THE CIIURCH-YAllD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 24^ 
 
 The flnc'iiation and decay of things, 
 
 Embodied and established these hieh Truths 
 
 In solemn insiitutions : — Men convinced 
 
 That Life is Love and Imniortality, 
 
 The Being one, and one the Element. 
 
 There lies the cliannol, and original bed, 
 
 From the beginning, hollowod out and scooped 
 
 For Man's Allections— el>?e 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 perverse, 
 
 The faith partaking of those holy times, 
 
 Life, I repeat, is energy of Love 
 
 JDivine or human ; e?-^ercised in pain, 
 
 In strife, and tribulation ; and ordained. 
 
 If so approved and sanctified, to pass. 
 
 Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy." 
 
 END OF THE FIFTH BOOK. 
 
 Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
 
 Of ancient Minster, lifted above the cloud 
 
 Of the dense air, which town or ciiy breeds 
 
 To intercept the sun's glad beams— may ne'er 
 
 That true succession fail of English Kearls, 
 
 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, unopposed ; 
 
 Nor shall the Elements be free to hurt 
 
 Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
 
 Of bigot zeal niaclly to overturn ; 
 
 And, if the desolating hand of war 
 
 Spare them, they shall coniinuc to bestow — 
 
 Upon the thronged abodes of busy Men 
 
 (Depraved, and ever prone to fill their minds 
 
 Exclusively with transitory things) 
 
 An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 
 
 Of sweet civility — on rustic wikls. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. —The poet, fostering for his native land 
 
 Such hope, entreats that Servants may abound 
 
 Book VT. ^^ those pure Altars worthy ; Ministers 
 
 Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. Superior, insusceptible of pride. 
 
 And by ambitious longings undisturbed ; 
 ARGUMENT.-Poet's Address to the State and Church of ^^^^^ ^^,^^^^ ^^j.^,^^ .^ ^^j^^_.^ ^^^.^, ^^^^^ ,^^^^ 
 
 England-ThePastornotsnferiorto the ancient Wor- , ^^ ^^^^ ^,^^^^^ . ^^^^^^ ,^^^^ distinguishrd dav 
 
 IhiesofiheChurch-HebeginshisNarrativeswithan ^,^._^^^ ^^.^,^ ^^^^^ p^^.^.^^ ^^ ^,^^^ beavenlv kistrb 
 
 Instance of unrequited Love-\nguish of Mind sub- vVhichmak.s the Sabbath lovely in the sight 
 
 dued-and how-The lonely Miner, an Instance of I ^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^ pitying human cares. 
 
 Perseverance, which leads by contrast to an Ex- _^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^j^ .^ j^ ^j^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^,^^^^ 
 
 ample of abused talents, irresolution, and weakness ^^ ^^ perpetually attacked by foes 
 
 -Solitary, applying this covertly to his own case, ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^.^^^^ ^^^ ^j^^^ Priesthood still, 
 
 asks for an Instance of some Stranger, whose dis- p^^ ^^^. ^^^^^^^^^ replenished with a Band 
 positions may have led him to end his days here 
 —Pastor, in answer, gives an account of the har- 
 
 ninnising influence of Solitude upon two Men of 
 ojiposite principles, who had encountered agitations 
 in public life— The Rule by which Peace may be 
 obtained expressed— and where— Solitary hints at an 
 overpowering T^atality — Answer of thePastor— What 
 subjects he will exclude from his Narratives— Con- 
 versation upon this— fnstance of an unamiable cha- 
 racter, a Female— and why given— Contrasted with 
 this, a meek Sufferer, from unguarded and betrayed 
 jnve— Instance of heavier guilt, and its consequen- 
 ces to the Offender— With this Instance of a Mar- 
 riage Contract broken is contrasted one of a Wi- 
 dower, evidencing his faithful affection towards bis 
 deceased wife by his care of their Female Children. 
 
 Hail to the Trown by Freedom shaped— to gird 
 An Eniilish Sovereign's brow ! and to the Throne 
 Whereon he sits ! Whose deep Foundations lie 
 In veneration and the People's love ; 
 Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 
 —Hail to the State of England ! And conjoin 
 With this a salutation as devout. 
 Made to the spiritual Fabric of her Church : 
 Founded in truth ; by blood of Martyrdom 
 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, iiiutually protected and sustained, 
 They may endure long as the sea surrounds 
 This favoured 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 ;"* 
 
 * An instinctive taste teaches men to build their 
 clnirclies in flat countries with spire-steeples, which 
 as they cannot be referred to any other object, point 
 as with silent finger to the sky and stars, and some- 
 
 Of strenuous Champions, in scholastic arts 
 
 Thoroughly disciplined ; nor (if in course 
 
 Of the revolving World's disturbances 
 
 Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven averts 
 
 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 : 
 
 Nor for their bodies would accept release ; 
 
 But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed 
 
 With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame,' 
 
 The faith which they by diligence had earned, 
 
 Or, through illuminating grace, received. 
 
 For their dear Countymen, and all mankind. 
 
 O high example, constancy divine I 
 
 Even such a man (inheriting the zeal 
 And from the sanctity of elder times 
 Not deviating,— a Priest, the like of whom, 
 If multiplied, and in their Stations set. 
 Would o'er the bosom of a joyful Land 
 Spread true Religion, and her genuine fruits) 
 Before me stood that day: 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 paramoutil of truths ; 
 Immortal life, in never-fading w^orlds, 
 For mortal Creatures, conquered and secured. 
 
 That basis laid, those principles of faith 
 Announced, as a preparatory act 
 Of reverence to the spirit of the place ; 
 
 times, when they reflect the brazen light of a rich' 
 though rainy sunset, appear like a pyramid of flame 
 burning heaven-ward. See " The Friend," by S. T. 
 Coleridge, No. 14, p. 2^3. 
 
250 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAI?^'S. 
 
 The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground, 
 Not, as before, J ike one oj)pressed with awe, 
 But with a njild and social cheerfulness, 
 The.n to the Solitary turned, and spake. 
 
 " At tnorn or eve, in your retired Domain, 
 Perchance you not unfrequently have marked 
 A visitor— in quest of herbs and flowers; 
 Too delicate employ, as would .'ippear 
 For One, who. though of drooping mien, had yet 
 From Nature's kindliness received a frame 
 Robust as ever rural labour bred." 
 
 The solitaiy nnswered : " Such a Form 
 Full wel! I recollect. We often crossed 
 Each other's path ; but, as the fntruder seemed 
 Fondly to prize the silence which he kept. 
 And [ ns wiliingiy did cherish mine. 
 We met, and passed, like shadows. 1 have heard. 
 From my good Flost that he wms crazed in brain 
 By unrequited love ; and scaled the rocks. 
 Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 
 In hope to find some virtuous herb of power 
 To cure his malady !" 
 
 The Vicar smiled, 
 " Alns I l)f!fore to-morrow's sun goes down 
 His haliitation will be here : for him 
 That open grave is destined." 
 
 " Died he then 
 Of pain and grief?" the Solitary asked, 
 " Believe it not — oh I never could that be !"^ 
 
 " He loved," the Vicar answered, " deeply loved. 
 Loved fondiv, truly, fervently; and darfd 
 At lenith to tell his love, but sued in vain ; 
 — Rejected — yea repelled — and, if with scorn 
 Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 'tis but 
 A high-p'ized plume whicli (emale Beauty wears 
 In wa tonress of co-quest, or j)uts on 
 To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 
 Humiliation, when no longer fvee. 
 That he could brook, and glory in ; — but when 
 The tiflings came that she whom he had wooea 
 Was wedded to another, and his heart 
 Was forced to rend away its only hope, 
 Then, Piiy could have scarcely found on earth 
 An Object worthier of regard than he, 
 In the transition of that bitter hour! 
 Jjost was she, lost; nor could the SuiTerer say 
 That in the act of preference he had been 
 Unjustly dealt with ; but the Maid was gone ! 
 Had vanished from bis prospects and desires ; 
 Not by translation to the heavenly Choir 
 Who have put off their mortal spoils — ah no I 
 She lives another's wishes to complete, — 
 'Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 
 ' His lot and hers as misery is mine !' 
 
 " Such was that strong concussion ; but the Man 
 Who trembled, trunk and lin)bs, like some huge Oak 
 By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 
 The steadfast quiet natural to a Mind 
 Of coujposiLio]! gentle and sedate. 
 And in its movenients circumspect and slow. 
 To bouks, and to the long-forsaken desk. 
 O'er which enchained by science he Tiad loved 
 To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself, 
 Resolved to quell his pain, and search for truth 
 With keener ap[)etite (if that might be) 
 And closer industry. Of whal ensued 
 Within the heart no outward sign appeared 
 Till a betraying sickliness was seen 
 To tinge his clieck ; and through his frame it crept 
 With slow mutation nnconcealable ; 
 Such universal change as autumn makes 
 In the fair body of a leafy grove 
 Discoloured, \hvA\ divested. 'Tis aflTirmed 
 By Poets ekilled in Nature's secret ways 
 
 That Love will not submit to he controlled 
 
 By mastery:— and the good Man lacked not Frien^^ 
 
 Who Ptrovs to irjstil this truth into his mind, 
 
 A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed. 
 
 ' Co to the hills,' said one, ' remit a v^hile 
 
 '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, construct 
 
 ' A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow 
 
 ' Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and peace.' 
 
 The attempt was made ;— 'tis needless to report 
 
 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 
 
 Within their souls, a fount of grace divine ; 
 
 And doth commend their weakness and disease 
 
 To Nature's care, assisted in her office 
 
 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 Wanderer, " I infer that he was healed 
 By perseverance in the course prescribed." 
 
 " You do not err : the powers, tliat had been lost 
 By slow degrees, were gradually regained ; 
 The fluttering nerves composed ; the beating hearl 
 In rest established ; and the jarring thouiihts 
 To harmony restored. — But yon dark mould 
 Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength — 
 Hastily smitten, by a fever's force ; 
 Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused 
 Time to look back with tenderness on lier 
 Whom he had loved in passion, — and to send 
 Some farewell words — with one, but one, request, 
 Thar, from his dyin/ land, 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 faitljful Love 
 Conquered, and in tranquility retained ! 
 
 '' Close to his destined habitation, lies 
 One who acliieved a humbler victory, 
 Though marvellous in its kind. A Place there is 
 High in these mountains, that all.ired a Band 
 Of keen Adveriturers to unite tlieir pains 
 In search of precious ore : Avho tried, were foiled — 
 And all desisted, all, save l)im alone. 
 He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts, 
 And trusting only to his own weak hands, 
 Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 
 Utiseconded, 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 Tin-all 
 Of subterranean Spirits feeding liope 
 By various mockery of sight and sound ; 
 Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed. 
 — But when the Lord of seasons had matured 
 The fruits of earth through space of twice ten yearsj 
 The mountain's entrails offered to his view 
 And trembling grasp the long deterred reward. 
 Not with more transport did Columl)us greet 
 A world, his rich discovery! But our Swaiiij 
 A very Hero till liis point was gained, ' .j 
 
THE CIIURCHYAIID AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 251 
 
 proved nli unable to support iho weight 
 
 Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked 
 
 With an unseLtled liberiy of thought, 
 
 Of schemes and wishes; in the daylight walked 
 
 Giddy and restless ; ever and anon 
 
 Cttiaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups ; 
 
 And truly might be said to die of joy ! 
 
 He vanished; but conspicuous to tiiis day 
 
 The Path remains iliat linked his Cottage-door 
 
 To the Mine's mouth; a long, and slanting track, 
 
 Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, 
 
 Worn by his daily visits to and from 
 
 Thu 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 Patpi of Perseveranck " 
 
 " Thou from whom 
 Man has his strength," exclaimed the Wanderer, " oh ! 
 Do Thou direct it! — 1(» the Virtuous grant 
 Tlie penetrative eye which can perceive 
 In this blind world the guiding vein of hope. 
 That like this Labourer, such may dig their way, 
 * Unshaken, unseduced, unterritied ;' 
 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, 
 Wher(!ver laid, w!io living fell below 
 Their virtue's humbler mark; a sigh of pain 
 If to the npposire extreme rhcy sank. 
 How would you pity Her wlio yonder rests; 
 Him, farthei" oti'; the Pair, who here are laid; 
 But, aliove al', that niixiure (jf Earth's Mould 
 Whom sight of tliis green Hillock to my mind 
 Recalls ! — He lived not till his locks were nipped 
 By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 
 Before his temples, preniaiurely forced 
 To mix the manly brown with silver grey, 
 Gave obvious instance of the sad etiect 
 Produced, vvhen ihoughiless Foli'y hath usurped 
 The natural crown tliat sage Experience wears 
 —Gay, volatile, i menious, quick to learn, 
 And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 
 Or could perform ! a zealoud actor — hired 
 Into the troop of mirth, a soldier — sworn 
 Into the liots of giddy enterprise — 
 Snch was he; yet, as if wit^Jiiu 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 unrutfled lake. 
 Anchors her placid beauty. Not a Leaf, 
 That flutters on the bough, more liglit than He ; 
 And not a flower, that droops in the green shade, 
 More winniiigly reserved! If ye enquire 
 How such consummate elegance was bred 
 Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice, 
 'Twas Nature's will ; wiio sometimes undertakes, 
 For the reproof of human vanity. 
 Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. 
 Hence, for this Favourite, lavishly endowed 
 With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit, 
 While both, eiubellishing each other, stood 
 Yet farther recommended by the charm 
 Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song, 
 And skill iu letters, every fancy shaped 
 Fair expectations ; nor, when to the World's 
 Capacious field forth went the Adventurer there 
 
 Were he and his attainments overlooked, 
 
 Or scantily rewarded ; but all hopes, 
 
 Cherished 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 wiu^ attractive — and harh ceased to be ! 
 
 — Yet. when this Prodigal returned, the rites 
 
 Of joyt'ul greeting were on him bestowed, 
 
 Who, by humiliation undeterred. 
 
 Sought for his weariness a place of rest 
 
 WithinhisFather'sgates. — Whencecame He?— clothed 
 
 In tattered g^rb, 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 beauty and of health, 
 
 The Wreck of gaiety ! But soon revived 
 
 In strength, in power refitted, he renewed 
 
 His suit to Fortune ; and she smiled again 
 
 Upon a tickle Ingraie. Thrice he rose, 
 
 Tiirice sank as willingly. For He, whose nervea 
 
 Were us(;d to tiirill wiih pleas, ire, Vv'hiie his voice 
 
 Softly accompanied the tuneful harp. 
 
 By the nice linger of fair Ladies, touched 
 
 In glittering Halls, was able to derive 
 
 No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
 
 Who hajipier for the moment — who more blitha 
 
 Than this fallen Spirit 1 in those dreary tloldi 
 
 His Talents lending to exalt the freaks 
 
 Of merry-makhig Beggars, — now, provoked 
 
 I'o laughter multiplied iu 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 veiy presence of the Fiend 
 
 VVlio dictates aijd inspires illusive feats. 
 
 For knavish purposes ! The Cit}^, too, 
 
 (Willi shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers 
 
 Allured him, sunk so low in .^elf-res]»ect 
 
 As there to linger, there to eat his bread, 
 
 liiied Ididstiel of voluptuous blandishment ; 
 
 Ciianning the air w'idi skill of hand or voice, 
 
 Listen wno would, be wrought upon who might, 
 
 Sincerely wretched Hearts, or falsely gay 
 
 — Such the too frequent lenour of his boast 
 
 In ears that reiis:jed the rejiort ; — but a 1 
 
 Was from his Parents iiappily concealed; 
 
 Who saw enough for blame and piiying love. 
 
 Th<;y also were permitted to receive 
 
 Ilis last, repentant breath , and closed his eyes, 
 
 No more to open on that irksouie world 
 
 Where he iiad long existed in the state 
 
 Of a young Fowl beneath one Mother hatched 
 
 Though Irom ancuher sprung — of ditferent kind : 
 
 Where lie had lived, and could not cease to live, 
 
 Distracted in propensity ; content 
 
 VVith neither element of good or ill ; 
 
 And yet in both rejoicing ; man unblest ; 
 
 Of contradictions infinite the slave. 
 
 Till his deliverance, when Wercy made him 
 
 One with Himself, and one with them who sleep." 
 
 " 'Tis strange," observed the Solitary, " strange 
 It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful. 
 That in a Land where Charity provides 
 For all that can no longer fc^id themselves, 
 A Man like this should clujose to bring his shame 
 To the f)arenlal door ; and with his sighs 
 Infect the air which hy hud freely breathed 
 In happy infancy. He could not pine. 
 Through lack of converse, no, he must have found 
 Abundant exercise tor thought and speech, 
 In hi3 dividual Being, self-reviewed, 
 
252 
 
 THE CIIURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 gelf-catechised, self-pnnislietl.— Some there are 
 Who, drawing near their final Honne, and much 
 And daily longing that the same were reached, 
 Would ratlier shun than seek the fellowship 
 Of kindred mould.— Such haply here are laid V^ 
 
 " Yes," said tlie Priest, " the Genius of our Hills, 
 Who seems, by tliese stupendous barriers cast 
 Round his Domain, desirous not alone 
 To keep his own, but also to exclude 
 All other progeny, doth sometimes lure, 
 Even by this studied depth of privacy, 
 The unhappy Alien hoping to obtain 
 Concealment, or seduced by wish ti) find, 
 In place from outward molestation free, 
 Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
 Could I discourse ; b\it as their stay was brief, 
 So their departure only left behind 
 Fancies, and loose conjrjctures. Other trace 
 Survives, for worthy mention, of a Pair 
 Who, from the pressure of their Ffveral fates, 
 Meeting as Strangers, in a petty Town 
 Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
 Of this far winding Vale, remained as Friends 
 True to their choice ; and gave their bones in trust 
 To this loved Cemetery, here to lodge 
 With unescuicheoried privacy inferred 
 Far from the 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, bv force 
 Of arms, the crown which Bigotry had lost. 
 Aroused his clan ; and, fighting at their head, 
 With his brave sword endeavoured to prevent 
 Culloden'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, nn obscure 
 Ketreat, within this nook of English ground. 
 — The Other, born in Britain's southern tract, 
 Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed 
 His gentler sentiments of love and hate, 
 ThfM-e, where i/if?/ placed them who in conscience prized 
 The new succession, as a line of Kings 
 WJiose 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 causu for most rare triumph will be thine 
 If, spite of keenest eve and steadiest hand. 
 The Stream, that bears thee forward, prove not, soon 
 Or late, a perilous Master. He, who oft. 
 Under the bjittlements and stately trees 
 That round his Mansion cast a sober gloom, 
 Had moralised 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 bitterness, 
 Wiien he bad 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, beneath a borrozccd name, 
 (For the mere sound and echo of his OA'n 
 Haunted him with sen ations of disgust 
 That he was glad to lose) slunk from the World 
 To the deep shade of these untravelled \Vilds; , 
 In which the Scottish Laird bad long possessed 
 An undisturbed Abode. — Here, then, they met, 
 Two doughty Champions; flaming Jacobite 
 And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think 
 That losses and vexations, less severe 
 Than those which they had seveially sustained, 
 
 Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 
 For his ungrateful cause ; no,— I have heard 
 My reverend Father tel! 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 change towards each other, that their days 
 By choice were spent in constant fellowship; 
 And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, 
 Those very bickerings made them love it more. 
 
 " A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks 
 This Church-yard 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 th' y awhile had marked 
 The visible quiet of this holy ground. 
 And breathed its soothing air ; — the Spirit of hop© 
 And saintly magnanimity ; that, spurning 
 The field of selfish difference and dispute, 
 And every care which transi;ory llii.'igs, 
 Earth, and the kingdoms of tne earth, create, 
 Doth, b}^ a rapture of forgetfulness. 
 Preclude forgiveness, frf»m the praise debarred, 
 Which el.^^e the Christian Virtue might have claimed. 
 — There live who yet remember here to have seen 
 Their courtly Figures, — sealed on the stump 
 Of an old Yew, their favourite resiing-]>lace. 
 But. as the Remnant of the long-lived Tree 
 VV;is disafipearing 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 th<'y 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 Struct ire, framing, with the ascent of stepi 
 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 trails 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^ delusive hopes, 
 ^nd re-produce the troubles he destroys. 
 But^ while his blindness thus is occupied^ 
 Disecrvivg Mortal ! do thou serve the will 
 Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace 
 
 Which the World icants, shall be for Thee confirmed.'^* 
 
 " Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered 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 
 TTpon our hearts not wholly lost, I grant, 
 Even upon mine, the more a-e we required 
 To feel for those, among car 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, 
 j Their life's appointed prison; not more free 
 Thau Sentinels, between two armies, set, 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 253 
 
 With nothing better, in the chill night air, 
 
 Than their own thoughts to comfort them. — Say why 
 
 That ancient story of Prometheus chained 1 
 
 The Vulture — ihe inexhaustible repast 
 
 Drawn from his viials 1 Say what meant the woes 
 
 By Tantalus entailed upon his rare, 
 
 And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes ? 
 
 Ficiions in form, but in their substance truths, 
 
 Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men 
 
 Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. 
 
 — Exchange the Shepherd's frock of native grey 
 
 For robes with regal purple tinged ; convert 
 
 The crook into a sceptre : — give the pnmp 
 
 Of circumstance, and here the tragic Muse 
 
 Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
 
 —Amid the groves, beneath the shadowy hills, 
 
 The generations are prepared ; the pangs, 
 
 The internal pangs are rt^ady ; the dread strife 
 
 Of poor humanity's afflicted will 
 
 Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 
 
 " Though," scid 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 life abounds 
 With mysteries ; — for, if Faith were left untried, 
 HdW could the might, that lurks within !ier, then 
 Be shown 1 her glorious excellence — that ranks 
 Among the first of Powers and Virtues — proved 1 
 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 wJiat 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 snch Portraits, (hough a vulgar face 
 And a coarse oi.tside of repulsive life 
 And unaffecting manners might at once 
 Be recognised by all — " " Ah ! do not think," 
 The Wanderer somewhat eager'y exclFJmed, 
 " Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, 
 (Gain shall I call it 1 — 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 forhearance and reserve 
 Which common Imman-heartedness inspires, 
 And mortal ignorance and tVailty claim, 
 Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." 
 
 " True," said the Solitary " be it far 
 From ns to infringe the laws of charity. 
 Let judgment here in mercy Ue pronounced ; 
 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 
 Colours 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 liere is none to exceed the truth ; 
 No evidence appears that ihey who rest 
 Within this ground, were covetous of praise, 
 Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. 
 Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and green, 
 -Rifige rising gently by the side of ridge, 
 A heaving surface — almost wholly free 
 From interruption of sepulchral stones. 
 And mantled o'er with aboricinal turf 
 And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust 
 The lingering gleam of their departed Lives 
 
 To oral records and the silent heart ; 
 
 Depository faithful, and more kind 
 
 Tiiain fondest Epitaphs : for, if that fail, 
 
 What boots the sculptured Tomb 7 and who can blame, 
 
 Who rather would not envy, men tha feel 
 
 This mutual confidence ; if, from such source, 
 
 The practice flow, — if thence, or from a deep 
 
 And general humility in death 1 
 
 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 lilt its forehead emulous of stone 
 
 In courting notice, and the ground all paved 
 
 With commendations of departed Wortli ; 
 
 Re .ding, where'er we turn, of innocent lives, 
 
 Of each domestic charily 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 b/eathe. 
 
 And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
 
 Is rank with all unkiudness, compassed round 
 
 With such Memorials, I have sometimes felt, 
 
 It was no momentar}^ happinesH 
 
 To have one Enckjsure where the voice that speaks 
 
 In envy or detraction is not heard ; 
 
 Which malice njay 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," 
 The Pastor said, " I willingly confine 
 My narratives to subjects tliat excite 
 Feelings with these accordant ; love, esteem. 
 And a'^miration ; lifting up a veil, 
 A sunbeam introducing among hearts 
 Reiired and covert; so that ye stiall have 
 Clear images belore your gladdened eyes 
 Of Nature's uriambiiious underwood, 
 And flowers that prosper in the shade. And wher^ 
 I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
 Or fell, those only will 1 single out 
 Upon whose lapse, or error, something more 
 Than brotherly forgiveness may attend ; 
 To such will we restrict our notice— else 
 Better my tongue were mule. And yet there are, 
 I feel, good reasons why we should not leave 
 Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
 For strength to persevere and to support, ~ 
 And energy to conquer and repel ; — 
 These elements of virtue, that declare 
 The native grandeur of the human Soul, 
 Are oft-times not unprofitably shown 
 In the perverseness of a selfish course : 
 Truth every day exemplified, no less 
 In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream 
 Thai in fantastic Conqueror's roving camp, 
 Or 'mid the factious Senate, uriappalled 
 While 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 coujplexion dark 
 And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
 Converse with Heaven, nor yet deprest tow'rds earth, 
 But in projection carried, as she walked 
 For ever 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 painful glare 
 Of overpowering light. — While yet a Child, 
 ' She, 'mid the humble Flowerets of the vale, 
 
254 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Towered like the imperial Thistle, not imfuriiished 
 Wirl] its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking 
 To bti admired, than coveted ariri loved. 
 Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign Queen 
 Over Jjer Comrades ; else their simple sports, 
 Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind, 
 Had cross^ed 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 servitude. 
 Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
 Such doom was hers ; yet nothing could subdue 
 Her keen desire of knowledge, nor effiice 
 Tliose brighten- images— by books imprest 
 Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
 Tliat occupy their places — and, though oft 
 Hidden by clouds, and oft bediinmed by haze, 
 Are not to be extinguished, nur imi)aired. 
 
 " Two passions, both degenerate, for they both 
 Began in honour, gradually obtained 
 RiiJe over her, and vexed her daily life ; 
 An unrelenting, avaricious thrift ; 
 A)id 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 piide suppressed, in shame concealed^ 
 To a poor dissolute Son, her only Child. 
 — Her wedded days had opened with mishap. 
 Whence dire dependence. — What conid 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 p.iins and parsimonious care. 
 Which got, and sternly hoarded each day's 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 cherishmg the pang which it deplored. 
 Dread life of conflict ! which I oft compared 
 To the agitatioii of a brook t' at runs 
 Down rocky mountains— buried now and lost 
 In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained, — ■ 
 But never to be charmed to gentleness; 
 Its best attainment tits of such re[)Ose 
 As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming. 
 
 " A sudden illness seized her in the strength 
 Of life's autumnal season. — Slmll 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 maljidy that griped 
 Her prostrate frame with nnrelaxi'ig power, 
 As the tierce Eagle fastens on tlie Lamb ? 
 Sh(i prayed, she nioaned — 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 dying Wonjan heard to say 
 In bitterness,' and mu-4 she rule and reign, 
 
 * Sole Mistress of this huuse, when 1 am gone ? 
 ' Sit by my tire— possess what I possessed— 
 
 * Tend what I tended— calling it her own !' 
 Enough ;— I fear, too much.— One vernal evening. 
 While she was yet in prime of health and strength 
 I well remenjber, while I passed her door 
 
 Musing with loitering step, and upward eye 
 Turned tow'rds the planet Jupiter that hung 
 
 Above the centre of the vale, a voice 
 Routed 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.' — She is safe, 
 And her uncharitable acts, I tru3t, 
 And harsh unkindnesses, are all forgiven; 
 Though, in this Vale, remembered with deep awe !' 
 
 The Vicar paused ; and tow'rd a seat advanced, 
 
 A lonji stone-seat, fixed in the Church-yard wall '* 
 
 Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
 
 Oti'eiing a sunny resting place to them 
 
 Who s(.'ek the House of worship, while the Bella 
 
 Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
 
 The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
 
 Under the shade we all sate d 'wn ; and there 
 
 His office, uninvited, lie 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 neighbour; the small heap 
 Speaks for itself; — an Infant there doth rest, 
 Tlie sheltering Hillock is the Mother's grave. 
 If mild discourse, and manners that conferred 
 A natural dignity on humblest rank I 
 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 [)eMitential tears 
 Shed when the clouds had gfathered and distained 
 The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 
 If these njay make a hallowed spot of earth 
 More holy in the sight of God or Man ; 
 Then, o'e;- that mould, a sanctity shall brood 
 Till the stars sicken at the day of duom. 
 
 " Ah ! what a warning for a tlioughtless Man, 
 Could field or grove, could any sp »t of earth, 
 Sliow 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 Baliy's precious grave, 
 Yea, doubtless, on the turf that roofs her own, 
 The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel 
 In the brcjad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
 Now she is not; the swelling turf reports 
 Of the fresh shower, but of f)oor Ell^^n's tears 
 Is silent; nor is any vestige left 
 Of tiie path worn by mournful tread of Her 
 \Vho, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved 
 In virgin fearlessness, with step tliat seemed 
 Caught from tlje pressuie of elastic turf 
 Upon the mountains gemmed wiih morning dew, 
 In the prime hour of tweetest scents and airs. 
 — Serious and rhoughtlu! was her mind ; and yet. 
 By reconcilement exquisite and rare, 
 The form, port, motions of this Cottage-Girl 
 Were such as might have quickened atid inspired 
 A Titian's hand, addrest to i)^cture forth 
 Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 
 What time the Huntw's earliest horn is heard 
 Startling the golden hills. A wide spread Elm 
 Stands in our Valley, named The Joyful Tree j 
 Fron\ dateless usace which our Peasants hold 
 Of giving welcome to the first of May 
 By dances round its trunk. — And if the sky 
 Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid 
 To the Twelfth Night, beneath the fr..siy Stars 
 Or the clear M'xrn. The Oneen of these gay sports, 
 If not in beauty yet in spiiglitl>' air, 
 Was hapless Ellen.— No one touched the ground 
 So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks 
 
THE CIIURCH-YAIIB AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 255 
 
 Xjess gracefully were braided ;— but this praise, 
 Metbinks, would better suit another place. 
 
 " She b)ved, and fondly deemed herself beloved. 
 —The road is dim, the current unperceived, 
 The weakness painful and most pitiful, 
 jiv wliich a vi'tuous Woman, in pure youth, 
 May be delivered to distre&s and shame. 
 Buch fate vvas hers.— The last time Ellen danced, 
 Amonjz her Eq'ials, round Tiia JdyfI'L Tree, 
 She bore a secret burthen ; and full soon 
 Was left to tre.mble for a breaking vow, — 
 Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow. 
 Alone, within her widowed Mother's house. 
 Tt was the season sweet, of budding leaves, 
 Of days advancing tmv'rd their utmost length, 
 And small birds singing to their happy mates. 
 Wild is the music of tlie autumiial wind 
 Among the faded woods ; but ih^se hiitlie notes 
 Strike the desnrted to the heart ; — I speak 
 Of what r know, and what we feel wihin. 
 —Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
 Stands a tall asli-tree ; to whose topmost twig 
 A Thrush resorts, and annually chants. 
 At mom and evening from ihat naked perch. 
 While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, 
 A time-heguiling ditty, for deliuht 
 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 ir) 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 bciran 
 'Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 
 'Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
 'To grant, or he received ; while tliat poor Bird, 
 '— O come and hear hiiri ! Thou who hast to me 
 'Been faithless, hear him, though a low ly Creature, 
 'One of God's simple children that yet know not 
 'The universal Parent, how he sings 
 'As if he wished the firmainii'nt of IJeaven 
 'Should listen, and give back to him the voice 
 ' or his triumphant constancy and love ; 
 ' The proclamation that he ujakes, how far 
 'His darkness doth transcend our tickle light!' 
 
 "Such was the tender passage, not by me 
 Repeated without loss of simple phrase. 
 Which I perused, even as the words Had been 
 Corntniited by forsaken Ellen's hand 
 To the blank margin of a valentine, 
 Bedropped with tears. 'Twill please you to be told 
 That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
 Of all companionship, the SutTerer 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 open sky. 
 Till the dark niiiht 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 looked as on a pure and spotless gift 
 Of 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 harrnssed him— toiling through fearful storm, 
 When he b.diolds the first pale speck serene 
 Of day-spring, in the gloomy east revealed, 
 
 And greets it with thanksgiving. ' Till this hour,' 
 Thu?, 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 quenching streanr, 
 Hath softened thai obduracy, and made 
 Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 
 To save the perishing ; and, henceforth, I look 
 Upon the lii^ht with cheerfvllness, for thee 
 My Infant: and for that good Mother dear. 
 Who bore nie, — and hath prayed for me in vain ; — • 
 Yet not in vain, it shall not be in vain.' 
 Slie spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled, 
 And if heart-rending thousihts would oft return, 
 They stayed not lonir- — The blameless Infant grew ; 
 The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved 
 They soon were proud of; ten-ded 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 observe 
 Fair-flo\vering in a thinly-peopled house. 
 Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 
 — Through four months' si)ace the Infant drew its food 
 From the maternal brt-ast ; then scruples rose ; 
 Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and 
 
 crossed 
 The sweet affection. She no more could bear 
 By her offence to lay a twofold weight 
 On a kind [larent willing to forget 
 Their sl'^nder means ; so, to that parent's care 
 Trusting lier child, she left their common home 
 And with contented spirit undertook 
 A Foster-Mother's office. 
 
 'Tis, perchance, 
 Unknown to you that in these siujple Vales 
 The natural feeling of equality 
 Is by domestic service unimpaired ; 
 Yet, though such service he, with us, removed 
 From sense of degradation, not the less 
 The ungentle mind can easily find means 
 To impose severe retraints and laws unjust. 
 Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel. 
 — For (blinded by an over-anxious dread 
 Of such excifenjent and divided thought 
 As with her office would but ill accord) 
 The Pair, whose Infant she was bound to nurse, 
 Forbad her all communion with her own ; 
 Week after week, the mandate they enforced. 
 — So near! — yet not allowed, upon that sight 
 To fix her eyes— alas ! 'twas hard to bear ! 
 But wfuse affliction must be borne — far worse ; 
 For 'tis Heaven's will — that, after a disease 
 Begun and eruled within three days' sjiace. 
 Her Child should die; as Ellen now exclaimed, 
 Her own— deserted Child ! — Once, only once, 
 She saw it in that mortal malady; 
 And, on the burial dav, 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 departure, 
 ' 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 the 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 Motlier, oft as she was sent abroad. 
 And whatsoi'er the errand, urged her steps: 
 Hither she came ; here stood, and sometimes knelt 
 In the broad day— -a rueful Magdalene ! 
 So call her ; for not only she bewailed 
 
256 
 
 THE CHURCH -YAB,D AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 A Motlier's loss, but mourned in bitterness 
 
 Her own transgression, Penitent sincere 
 
 As ever raised lo Heaven a streaniing eye. 
 
 — At length the Parents of the Fustcr-child, 
 
 Noting that in des[iite of thrdr commands 
 
 She still renewed and could not but renew 
 
 Those visitations, ceased to send her forth; 
 
 Or, to Jhe garden's narrow bounds, confined. 
 
 I failed not to remind them tJiat Ihey erred; 
 
 For holy Nature might not thus be crossed, 
 
 Thus wronged in woniari's breast: in vain T pleaded — 
 
 Bui the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped, 
 
 And the flower drooped ; as every eye could see, 
 
 Tt hung its head in mortal languislinient. 
 
 — Aided by this appearance, I at length 
 
 Prevailed; and, from those bonds relpased, she went 
 
 Home to lier mother's house. The Youth was fled; 
 
 The rash B(?traycr could not face the shame 
 
 Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused ; 
 
 And little would J)is presence, or proof given 
 
 Of a relenting soul, have now availed ; 
 
 For, like a shadow, he was passed away 
 
 t'rom Ellen's thoughts ; had perished to ber 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 brouglit 
 
 A heavenly comfort- there she recognised 
 
 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 tlie 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 was wasted day by day; 
 
 Mea;ivvhile, relinquishing all other cares, 
 
 ller mind she strictly tutored to find f)eace 
 
 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 in) pnins were spared 
 
 To mitigate, as gently as I could, 
 
 The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. 
 
 --Meek Saint ! through patience glorified on earth ! 
 
 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 hei pious wish, 
 
 The Consregation 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 wlio atflicts me knows wliat I can bear; 
 
 ' A»id, when I fail, and can endure no more, 
 
 * Will mercifully take me to hiuiself.' 
 
 So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed 
 
 Into that pure and unknowa 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 ihan that which I hnd felt 
 When, seated near ikiy venerable Friend, 
 Beneath 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 wliich she clung. 
 —I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
 Confessed the Power of nature.— Pleased though sad, 
 
 More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer sate ; 
 
 Thanks to Jiis pure imaginative sou! 
 
 Capacious and serene, his blameless life. 
 
 His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love 
 
 Of human kind I Re was it who first broke 
 
 The pensive silence, saying, " Blest are they 
 
 Whose sorrow rather is to sufl^er wrong 
 
 Than to do wrong, although themse'ves 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, 
 
 I'all to my mind dark hints which [ have heard 
 
 Of One who died within this Vale, by doom 
 
 Heavier, as his oflJence was Iieavicr far. 
 
 Where Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones 
 
 Of Wilfred Armathwaite 7"'~The Vicar answered, 
 
 "In that green nook, close by the Church-yard 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 ofl^ence, 
 
 There doth he rest. — No theme his fate supplies 
 
 For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world ; 
 
 Nor need tl)e windings of his devious course 
 
 Be here retraced ; — enough that, by mishap 
 
 And venial error, robbed of competence. 
 
 And her obsequious sJiadow, 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 slung. 
 
 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 : bis paternal fields 
 
 Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished 
 
 To fly, but whitiier ! And this gracious Church, 
 
 That wears a look so full of peace and hope 
 
 And love, benignant Mother of the Vale, 
 
 How fair amid lier brood of Cottages ! 
 
 She was to him a sickness and reproach. 
 
 Much to the last remained unknown : but this 
 
 Is sure, that through reniorse 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 shaiiie'. 
 
 " Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn 
 And from her Grave. — Behold — upon that Ridge, 
 That, stretching boldly from the nmuntain 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 lo 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 Ihey for the pensive brow' 
 Of their undrooping Father's widowhood, 
 Those six fair Daughters, budditig 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 taughs he stands assured. 
 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 endeavours have refused to till, 
 
TliE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 257 
 
 And tlope hath never watered. The Aho<ie, 
 
 Whose {rratf'ful Owner can attest these truths, 
 
 Even wove the object nearer to onr sifiht, 
 
 Would seejr« in no distinction to siirpas3 
 
 The rudest Jiahitaiions. 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, ilien, a studious work 
 
 Of many fancies, promoting many hands. 
 
 — BrouL'ht from the woods the honeysuckle twines 
 
 Around the porch, and seems, in that tiim place, 
 
 A Plant no longer wild ; the cultured rose 
 
 There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon 
 
 JRiiof-high ; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall, 
 
 And with the flowers are intermingled stones 
 
 Sparry and bright, rough scatter! nus 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 delijiht 
 
 M'lre keen and prouder darjng; yet hath she, 
 
 Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 
 
 For her own flrwers and favourite herbs — a space, 
 
 By sacred charter, holden for her use. 
 
 —These, and whatever else ti)e garden bears 
 
 Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, 
 
 I freely eather ; and my leisure draws 
 
 A not unfrequent pastime from the sight 
 
 Of the Bees murmuring round their shelteied hives 
 
 In that Enclosure ; while the mountain rill. 
 
 That sparkling thrids the ro(;ks, attuTies his voice 
 
 To the pure course of human life, wliirh there 
 
 Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom 
 
 Of night is falling round mv steps, then most 
 
 This Dwelling charms me: often 1 stop short, 
 
 (Who could refrain 1) 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 n6ver-haltmg Time ; or, in her turn, 
 
 Teaching some Novice of the Sisterhood 
 
 That skill in this "r other household work, 
 
 Which, from her Father's iionoured hand, herself, 
 
 While she Was yet a little-one, had learned 
 
 — xMild Man ! he is not gay, hut they are gay ; 
 
 And the whole house seems filled vvith gaiety. 
 
 —Thrice happy, then, the mother may be deemed, 
 
 The Wife, from whose consolotary grave 
 
 I turned, tliat ye in mind might witness where 
 
 And how, her Spirit yet survives on Earth." 
 
 END OF THE SIXTH BOOK. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Book Vri. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 continued. 
 
 ARGUMENT. — Impre.^sion of these Narratives upon the 
 Author's mind — Pastor invifed 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 chniacter of resolute Virtue — Lamentations ove 
 Jnis-directed applause — Instance of les^s exalted excel- 
 lence in a deaf man — Elevated character of a blind 
 nifni— Rieflfxtion upon Blindness— lnterru])ted by a 
 Peasant who passes — his animal cheerfulness and 
 careless vivacity — He occasions a digression on the 
 fa41 of beautiful and interesting Tfcea— A f«rHale 
 
 53 
 
 Infant's Grave— Toy at her birth— Sorrow at her 
 Departure— .'^ youthful Peasant— his |)at iotic en- 
 thusiasm— distinguishi'd qualities — ami untimely 
 death— Exultation of the Wanderer, as a patriot j 
 in this Picture— Solirary how affected- Monument 
 of a knight — Tradirijus coMciirning him — Peroration 
 of the Wanderer on the transitoriness of things and 
 the revolutions of society — Hints at liis 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-pnst hours ; 
 
 When, in the hollow of some shadowy Vale, 
 
 (What time the sclendonr of tlie setting sun 
 
 Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereisJi brow, 
 
 On Cader Idis, or huge Penmanniaur) 
 
 A wandering Youth, 1 liste'ied with delight 
 
 To pastoral melody or warlike air, 
 
 Dravt'u from the cliords of the ai'cieTit British harp 
 
 By some accomt.lished Master, while he sate 
 
 Amid the quiet of the green recess, 
 
 And there did inexhausiibly 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 M;iidi-n, or som-i honoured Chief 
 
 Of his cmnpatriot villagers (that hung 
 
 Around him. drinking in the impassioned notes 
 
 Of the time-hallowed minstresly) required 
 
 For their heart's ease or p'easure. Sirains of power 
 
 Were they, to seizt; and occupy the sense ; 
 
 But to a higher mark than song can reach 
 
 Rose this pure eloquence. And, when th • streanl 
 
 Which overflowed the ^oul was pa.'^sed away, 
 
 A consciousness ren)ained that it l;ad left. 
 
 Deposited upon the silent shore 
 
 Of memory, images and precious thoughts. 
 
 That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. 
 
 " These grassy heaps lie amicably close," 
 Said I, " like surges heaving in the wind 
 Upon the surface of a mountain pool ; 
 -Whence comes it then, that yonder we behold 
 Five graves, and only five, that rise together 
 Uusociably sequestered, and encroaching ^ 
 
 On the smooth play-ground of the Village school 1" 
 
 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. 
 — Ouce more look forth, and follow v;'lih your sight 
 The length of road that from yon mountain's base 
 Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its line 
 Is lost within a Utile tuft of trees, — 
 Then reappearing in a mom<jfit, quits 
 The cultured fields,— and up the heathy waste, 
 Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine, 
 Towards an easy outlet of the Vale. 
 —That little shady spot, tliat sylvan lult. 
 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 cliininey-top.— All unembuwered 
 And naked stood that lowly Parsciuage 
 (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 crosseci;'' 
 And into most of these secluded Vales 
 'A as no access for wain, heavy or li^ht 
 So, at his Dwelling-place the Piitst arrived 
 With «rore of houaehold good3, in panniers siting 
 
253 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 On Fturdy horses graced with jfripling bells, 
 
 And on thp back of more isjnr'ble beast; 
 
 That '.viTJ! nice burl hen of efft'cts uiost prized 
 
 Or eayu'st caiii'd, closed the motley trnin. 
 
 Y.iiiTip was f ihevi, n sehnol-boy of «'ifrbt years; 
 
 But siill, nje-biiik?, I see them as tbey pas:sed 
 
 In order, draw'iii<: low'rd tbcir wi.^lKid-for home. 
 
 — Rocked by the iijf)tioii of a tnis'y Ass 
 
 Two ruddy Chilihen linnfj, a we!l-poir.ed freight, 
 
 Each in his basket noddinp: drowsily ; 
 
 Their bonnets, 1 remember, wreathed wiih flowers, 
 
 Whirl) told it was the phnpant month of June ; 
 
 A nd, _cIose behind, the comely Matron rode, 
 
 A Woirinn of soft spprch and jrrarious Fmile, 
 
 And with a Tandy's mien. — From far thfy came, 
 
 Even from Northumb^inn hiiJs: yet thf^irs had been 
 
 A morry journey — ii'h in pastinie — rlu^en-'d 
 
 Py niii-ir, prnrik, and !;unr''iri—- -Mrt iii'T jesf ; 
 
 Av(\ frr.'ik put on, and arch u'-ord dropped — to swell 
 
 The f!(Mid of faury atui urrouili siivrni'e 
 
 That fHrhcred round the sIow'ymo^•i^J: train. 
 
 — ' Whencp do they conje ? and with what errand 
 
 (•harped 1 
 ' r.e'onji tbcv to the fortune-tpllins: Trib.-i 
 * Who pi'ch th'ir tenis brupath the ^recn-wood Tree? 
 ' Or arp thev S^rollprs!, fnrni-hpd to enact 
 ' Fair Ro>;amand, and tbp f'lild'pn of the Wood, 
 ' A'^.d, by that whiskerpd Tal.bv's aid, «5Pt forth 
 ' Thp hn ky venturp of ?a?e W'it'ip.Tioj), 
 ' Wl.'Pn The next Vil!a<,'e Inars tlie Phow rinnonnrpd 
 ' By b'!)!=f of tiumpet ?" Plpnteous wa^ the growth 
 Of such conjprtnrps. overheard — or ?pp)i 
 O'l n-.anv a sparine cnnn^^enancp portrjiyed 
 Of Cnor or P.nreljer, as they marrhpd alons. 
 And more than onre tJieir steadinpss of face 
 Was put to ptpof, and exercise snpp'ipd 
 To ^hcir invpMlivp hinnon , by stern looks, 
 And questions in au^hofitalivp tone. 
 From "^ome staid Guardian of the public ppacc, 
 (^herki't? t(>p pohpr stppd on wnirh he rode, 
 In bis sMppirions Avis'dom : oftpner sii'I, 
 Fy not'cp indi-prt. or b'nnt dpni'Uid 
 Fi'Pin Trnv^'l'pf hahi^s in bis own despite, 
 A simp'e ori 'si'v to eape • 
 
 ()f whirh rd\'pntuvpp, that bp?"ilpd and rbpe'ed 
 Thnir Loave jniLon'irin tltp {rood Pair would tell, 
 With undimliiislied glee, in hoary ape. 
 
 " A Priest he \A-as bv f\i"c'ion: but bi^^ course 
 F'^^m his youth up, a'^d hi<jh as manhood's noon, 
 (Thp hour of li'e to wl'irh lie fhpn was brought) 
 find bpen ifiprrn'ar, I niiiiht say, wi'd ; 
 Ev bonks nnstpadipd, by hi"' [)astoral care 
 Too liMJe checked. An active, ardent n)ind ; 
 A fancy pre.'rnant with resource and sclieme 
 To cheat the sndupss of a rai^y dav ; 
 Hands apt for ;i!l isij/pu-ous arts; and jrames ; 
 A frenerous spiiif, and a todv strong 
 To copp wiili jsTnutfst Champions of the bowl ; 
 Fad parn-'l fnr liini sun* welcorup. and the rights 
 or a prizpd Visif.-mf, in the jolly hall 
 Of CfMinny Squirp; or at the statpjicr bonrd 
 Of Duke or Earl, from scenes of conr iy [loinp 
 Withdrawn, — to while away the summer Jioius 
 In condescension among rural guests. 
 
 " With these hiiih Comrad(^s he had reyelled lonjr, 
 F;oli(kt'd i:)(lustri(ujsly, a simp'p (.'brk 
 By hopps of coming patronage bpguiled 
 Till the heart sickened. So each fo/tier aim 
 Abandoning and all his showy Friends, 
 For a life's stay, though slender yet assured, 
 He turned to this secluded Cbapelry ; 
 Tiiat had bepn ofTjred To his doubtful choice 
 By an unlhought of Patron. Bleak and bare 
 Tiiey found the Cottage, their allotted home ; 
 
 Naked wiihont, and rude within ; a ppot 
 
 Wi'h which the scanri'y proyidpd ('me 
 
 Not long had bepn endcwed: and far rpmofe 
 
 Tlip OJinpel stood, divided from that flouse 
 
 By an unppriplpd tract of mcujitain waste. 
 
 — Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang^ 
 
 On his own mind, to quarrel vi'i:h the choice 
 
 Or the nece>sify that fixed hini Iutp : 
 
 Apart from old teitjptaiions, and constrained 
 
 To puncuial labour in bis sacix-d charce. 
 
 See him a constant Preacher to tie Poor ! 
 
 And visiting, though not with saintlv zeal, 
 
 Yet, when need was?, with no reluctant will, 
 
 The sick in bofly, or disrrest in ini'd ; 
 
 And. by as sa'utary chanse. c nippllpd 
 
 To rise from timply sleep, and meet the d-^y 
 
 With no ensffijTPinent, in his thonf'ht-\ more proud 
 
 Or splpudid than his g'ardpn cou'd afford, 
 
 F^is fiplds. — or mountains by the hpath cock rant'e*?, 
 
 Or tlip wild brooks ; from which hf' now returned 
 
 Contpntpd to parrake the quiet meal 
 
 Of Ills o\yri bonrd. wlipre safp his ffpntle Mate 
 
 And thrpp fair Ohi'dren, plpn^i^u'lv Cec] 
 
 T!i(ni7h simply, from their lii»le household farm; 
 
 With accppfahle treat of fish or fr^v] 
 
 Py natufp yipldcd f- his pncri'-cd harri — 
 
 To liplp the small but cer'ain crmiM£i.'--in 
 
 nf that spare I-Jpncfico. Yet not f/»e less 
 
 Theirs was a hocpitriblp boa d, and theirs 
 
 A charitah'e door. — Po dav;- and ypa-s 
 
 PasFpd on : — thp inside of that mrcpd T^cn.ce 
 
 Ws trimmpd and hriirhtp'^pd by flip IM.it'OM's care 
 
 -^nd srradnaf'y en'fcl ed wi'h tliin^F of' picp. 
 
 Which mi?ht he lacked f<*r use or ornanspnt. 
 
 What, though no so'"t and co?i)y co^t there 
 
 fn-idiously stre'chcd oPt i's l.izv Iprtfth 
 
 A"d no vain mi"ror p'ittp^cd on ^''p wil'.a, 
 
 Yet u pi-p thp wi'id-^w* of the low Abode 
 
 Py shutters wpathpr-''ei>dpd, which ^t cvfe 
 
 P<^pplipfl thp s'orin ard dpadcnpd its -opd roar, 
 
 The'-p snou' whi'p curtains hunu in dpcent fo'ds • 
 
 Touj^h nK»s«, a 'id lo^^-pridu'inir rnou'imin ph Mr? 
 
 Thnt crppp alonir thp irrouTi/l ^y^lh sinuous trail 
 
 Wpre nicf^ly braided, and crnipo'=^pd a work 
 
 1 ike Indian ma^s, tha^ niih app••(■'p<iat^■ grace 
 
 Lav ai the thrpshold and the innpr doers ; 
 
 And a fair carppt, woven of bonipspnn wool, 
 
 Rni tincturpd damti'y wiii florid huPs, 
 
 For seemliness and wnrui^h, on festal davs, 
 
 ''overid the sm- o»h binp slabs of mountniti stone 
 
 With which the pa lonr-fl'^o-, in simplest jruise 
 
 Of pistoral honipsfcads, hnd liecn lopfr f-^'aid. 
 
 — These pleasing works the ITonspwife's skill produced: 
 
 !\1pai!whilp the un^cdentary Wns'pr's band 
 
 Was busier with his task — to rid, to plant,' 
 
 To rear for food, for she'tpr, and dplifrht; 
 
 A thriving covert I Ami when wishes, formed 
 
 fn 3'outb, and sanctioned by the rippr mind, 
 
 Restored me to my native Val'ey, Jie-e 
 
 To end my davs; well ph-ased was T to see 
 
 The oncp-bnrp Oottaee, on the rn'nnitain-side, 
 
 S'M-ppu'd from assault of pypry bitfpr b'ast ; 
 
 Whi'e the dark shadows of the sinnrnpr 'eaves 
 
 Danced in thp brppze, upon i^s mr^s^y roof. 
 
 Timp, which bad tlins afl^ordpd vii'Iimr help 
 
 To bpautifv with ?v^ature's fairest i'rewth 
 
 T'his rustic Tpupuipnt, had sently shed, 
 
 ITpon its Master's frame, a wintry grace; 
 
 The comeliness of unenfefbled age. 
 
 But bow conUl I -^ay, gently ? for lie still 
 
 Retained a flashing eye, a hurnin;? palm, 
 
 A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights 
 
 Upon its pillow with a thou.^and schemes. 
 
 Fpw likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost; 
 
 Generous and charitable, prompt to serve ; 
 
 And sLill his harsher pasi>ione kept their hold 
 
THE CHURCH-VARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 219 
 
 Ani^er tn\d ind^^nntion ; still he loved 
 
 The sound of Titled iiamos, and talked in jrlee 
 
 Of Innr^-pnst banqneMniis with hiorh-b'irn Friends: 
 
 Then, from those lu] injr fits of vain delight 
 
 iTproiijsed hv recollertpd injury, railed 
 
 At t' eir fa'pe wnys dit-dainfnily, — and oft 
 
 In bitterness, and with a tlirea^enin? eye 
 
 O'' (i'e, inrensfd beneath its hon'y htnw. 
 
 —These tv nsnorts. with staid looks of pnre jr^od-will 
 
 Ar}(] with soft smile, ' is Consort would reprove. 
 
 g .p far Iv-hind him in the rare nf vears, 
 
 Yet keepin? h^r fifst rrii'dnpcp, was advanced 
 
 Y^r n"ai'pr, jn the h'^hi'^ nf her sonl. 
 
 To that s^i'l re'-'ion whi'tier a'l a-f h^nnd. 
 
 — Him micht w** liVpn to the cettinq Snn 
 
 ^<5 pppn not seMom on snmp «Tn>!tv dav, 
 
 «StrnfT,riiMrr pnd hn'd. a"d phininfT f'om the west 
 
 With an infonctnnt and n"rnelIinA'ed 'i"ht : 
 
 She WT" a sn^t a'^'^endant riond, that hung 
 
 y\o \c vv'*'"» wi^h to vfit t''p r'^'Mess r>rb ; 
 
 From w'-'i'-h \^ did i'se'^ irnhih« a nv 
 
 Of p'eapinfT tii'^tre. T^nt no mn>-e of this; 
 
 T better t^vp to cir-inW n thp <ir\r\ 
 
 T'^a* nnxv #1;vi(1ps Mip Pai*". or rntlier s^V 
 
 T'T»t si*\'.: M'^i'^e's t'lO'Ti. n'-ai^ps!. liVp 'ipaven^'s dew, 
 Witliont reserve dpscendin? upon both. 
 
 " O'l** AT'M-v fi'-p* in pn''^'ie*'>'^r' of Tpn'*<? 
 T'M'^ oM '^'^nn «'oor). tv»o P-i^'-inTh o^ the Vale! 
 /ir<r\ to h\'' iTntT<o^<>«t'^d tri n, »'«i'')n . T>i^a*h 
 Jt'T? ni>'5'o»" ni^rrift, ♦1»'-oii"'h pnT'f* n^ fo!-*v vpars ! 
 {jnn-i'ifT ho«h o'f] n r"' ''r^n"ff i*i that A''>'^de. 
 f!..-^,lr.,,'r t'^'on th<'\' rli q r>n'^;i*-pd ' "^ot fr\r-c** 
 
 jJir] ciirnrn"^" cro--"'-^'->^t ♦ho -^o'rtc! • -no* t'n-i'"p ^ad faMen, 
 O'l t!''f>'"o Tiirrh po»i'.-o tbp 6-at r>n«-nm^a! snow, 
 
 PfiO-ii-p tVio <Ti'pp''»7- T'ici + i .->»T \^rnq o'ocof^ 
 
 y^r>fl »bp loTT-nvivitp'Tprl r-ff>MOQ |p''t pp't'^tv — swept 
 
 yi c h^' 1 n'a"'"^ ■ \^'^* no '■^po'^ion'' n'a"*!'^ 
 
 po't t^pon or^io'irT f'T^m ; a" TA'^a^: T n*^'e dcath, 
 
 Qnp r\ftfi'- nno. xvi''^ th^'M-vt'* of 'f^app. 
 
 — \ li^nn^T^ oon=!'^mnTi'i ^n ' n'l q<^po'-d 
 
 p^ront. pof<v,/,» — trv J^p wi=:''^efl ^oi" ! F^ve ♦^'''at he»'e 
 
 Wa- c!'im''''"''rff "'hir^'i ^o •n'^'t'il oo-t^p ni^rht pound 
 
 T^i'^e ha-nhn^'so — ':hnt ♦'r^ old nr ch ''■->"> a ''°d Sire, 
 
 TVo o'd<^^t, tip ^fTir. <,iT-^.r) iqc*^ — i5n''VM'^pd 
 
 \Yhori tl-tn ^pn^.lf J^-^r^y^c^- of ]li« a«T", tii^ i^On , 
 
 Pi,, nan'^h''^''. an'i *>»r»t 'atp a^rl hi"'h-n'i7°d gift, 
 His little smi'inij G'andchild, were no more. 
 
 u t All ron'*, a^^ vapi-'^hpd ' h^ den*-ivpd arid bare, 
 « TT w "'i' ^i(^ ^nf*p ftT* '•nrn^^'it of h'l'^ t1'V>'? 
 ' W^iat ivill Vipporrip o'' i''»-n ?' WO -aul. and mused 
 In «:nrl roni'^''tiii-pc — ' pv,qu wp me'^t 'nni now 
 ' Ttan'^tincr wiMi -od a^d line the crarpfry brooks ? 
 • Or shni] we oi.'e''h'^'ar I'im. as wp pass, 
 ' Brrivine ^o enter^^ain the lonely h^nirs 
 ' Wi!h mn^ic V ( oi- he had not rpas^d to touch 
 The hnrp or viol whif^h him-Hlf had frnu'^d, 
 For Th;-'ir <aw^''T p'i''pi<r>s, wiMi pprfpct ski'l.) 
 ' VV!iat ti'les will lie k^fn ? w:l' he remain 
 ' M'l-i'^ian, G rdoner, P.ni'der, Mf'rhani>it, 
 ' A P'antpr, and a r«'a pr frnm the Sfpd ? 
 'A Man of hnpp and ^o-wT-d-IofikinT mind 
 Fv n to the I ist I' — Sneh wa^ he, unsubdued. 
 But f^pav^^n was ciacious : yet a little while, 
 And this S:irvivor, with his cheerful thrui^ 
 Of o[)en scheuK's, and all his inward hoard 
 Of unsunned jrriefs, too many and too keen, 
 Was overcome by unexpected sleep, 
 In one blest m imejit. Like a shadow thrown 
 Softly an-* liiihtly from a passi-ig rioud, 
 Death fell upon him, while reclined he Jay 
 For noontide solace on ihp summer grass, 
 The warm lap of liis Mother Earth: and so, 
 Their lerrient term of separation past, 
 That family (whose graves you there behold) 
 
 By yet a higher privilege once more 
 Were gathered to each other." 
 
 Calm of mind 
 And silence waited on these clositij^ words ; 
 Until the Wanderer (wiiether moved by fear 
 Lest in those passages of life were some 
 Thai minht have touched the sick heart of his Friend 
 Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
 His own firm spirit in deforce d:^prest • 
 By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
 Thus silence oroke : — " Behold a thou?hMoss rvlaii 
 From vice and premature d(^cay preserved 
 By useful habi;,s, to a fiLter soil 
 Transi>lanted ere too late.— Tiie Hermit, lodged 
 In the untrodd.jii desert, tells his bi.'ads, 
 With each repealing its allotted prayer. 
 And tlius divid\-< and thus relieves the lime; 
 Smooth task, with hii compared, waoie mind could 
 
 striuf^, 
 Not scantily, hrl^lit minutes on the tliread 
 A keen domesic aii<:ui.-h, — and beguile 
 Of solitude, nnchosen, unprofessed ; 
 Till gputipst dr-atl) released nim. — Far from U3 
 Bh the desire — too curiously to ask 
 Unw much of this is b-.Jt the blind result 
 Of cordial spirits and viral temperaui'nt^ 
 And what to higher powers is justly dne. 
 But you, Sir, kufivv that in a neighboi; ing Vale 
 A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
 Fa''l to the irround : whose LMfts of Nature lie 
 Rorio'd fom no: ice, lost in atfibures 
 Ot^ Reason— honourably elTaced by d( btg 
 Which her poor treasure-house is Cimrent to owe, 
 An<l conquest over her dominion gained, 
 T<i which her fowardness must nrt'd^^ submit. 
 In this one Mm is shown a temperance — proof 
 Against a'l trials : ind;isiry severe 
 And constant as thn mDtion of the day; 
 S.eru self-denial round him spread, with shade 
 That might be der-m-d foibiddinji, did not there 
 All gener(Mjs feelings flourish and rejoice ; 
 Forbearanf-p, charity iu dr-ed and thought, 
 And resolunou competent to take 
 Out of the bosom of simplicity 
 All that her holy customs recommend, 
 And the be^t aies of the world p-e^cnbe. 
 — P'eachi:i!J, administering, in every work 
 or his subliiue vocation, in the walks 
 or wor'diy intercou'se 'twixt man and mail, 
 Mid in his liumble dwelli 'g, he appears 
 A Labourer, with moral virtue girt, 
 Witi) spi i:aal graces, like a glory, crowned." 
 
 " Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, " for whom 
 This Portraiiure is ske:che([.— The G-ear, the Good, 
 T!!e Well beloved, the Fortunate, the Wi-e, 
 These Titles Emp(n-ors and riih-.'s hr.ve home, 
 Hon(;ur a sumed or givjn : ; n 1 Him, the Wosderfui,, 
 Our simple Shepherds, speaking frnm the heart, 
 Deservedly have slyled.— From his Abode 
 In a di'pendent Chapehy, that lies 
 Behind y(ui hill, a poor and rugged wild, 
 Which in his soul he lovingly fnubraced,— 
 And, having once espoused, would never quit; 
 Hither, ere long, that low'y, jrreat, good Man 
 Will be conveyed. An unelaboiate S^nie 
 May cover him ; and by its help, perciinnce, 
 A century shall hear his name pronounced, 
 With images attendant on the sound : 
 Then, shall the slowly gailiering twilight close 
 In utter night; and of his couisje remain 
 No cognizable vestiges, no more 
 Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words 
 To speak of him, and insiautiy dissolves. 
 —Noise is there not enough in dcueful war. 
 But that the heavcu-born poet must stand forth, 
 
ft60 
 
 THE CIIURCH*YARD AMONO THE MOUNTAIN'S. 
 
 And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, 
 
 To multiply niid a;igrnvat° lh<^ diu 7 
 
 Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love — 
 
 And, in requited passion, all too much 
 
 Of turbulence, anxieiy, and fear — 
 
 But that the Minstrel of tlie rural sha^e 
 
 Must tune lis pipe, insidiously to nurse 
 
 The perturbation in the snllVring breast, 
 
 And propagate its kind, far ag he may ? 
 
 — Ah who (and with such rapture as befita 
 
 The hallowed thi^ino) will rise and celebrate 
 
 The good Man's dt.'eds and purposes; retrace 
 
 His struggles, his discomfiture dej lore, 
 
 Eis triumplis hail, and glorify his end ? 
 
 That Virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds 
 
 Through Fancy's heat redounding in the brain, 
 
 ^nd like the soft infections of the heart, 
 
 5y charm of measured words may spread o'er field, 
 
 Hamlet, and town ; ami Pit-ty survive 
 
 Upon the lips of Men in hall or bower ; 
 
 Kot for reproof, but high and waim delitfht, 
 
 And grave eticouragcment, by song inspired. 
 
 — Vain thouglit ! but wherefore murmur or repine? 
 
 The memory of the just survives in Heaven : 
 
 And, vviihout sorrow, will this ground receive 
 
 Thar venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 
 
 Of what it holds confines us to degrees 
 
 In excellence less' difficult to reacii, 
 
 And milder worth : nor need we travel far 
 
 From those to whom our last regards were paid, 
 
 "For such exan:!ple. 
 
 Almost at the root 
 Of that tall Pme, the shaiidW of whose bare 
 And slender stem, w!)ile here I sit at eve. 
 Oft srretehes tow'rds me, like a long straight path 
 Traced faintly in the greensward ; there, beneath 
 A plain blue Stone, a gtMitie Dalesman lies, 
 From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 
 The precious frrft of hearing. Ho grew up 
 Prom year to y .'ar in loiieliness of pouI ; 
 And this def-p mountain Valley was to bim 
 Bouridies^s, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 
 Did never rouff* this Cottager from sleep 
 With startlitis sninmotip ; not for his delight 
 The vernal cuckoo shoiiied ; not for him 
 Murmured the- labouring bee. When stormy winds 
 W^ere working the broad bosom of the lake 
 into a thousarid th!)usand sparkling waves, 
 Hocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
 Along the yliarp edge of yon lofty crags, 
 The acfitated scene bef(ue his eye 
 V^as silent as a picture: evermore 
 Were all thiniis silent, wheresoe'er he moved. 
 Yet, liy the solace of his own pure thoughts 
 IT{)iie!d, he dutef)nsly pursued the round 
 Of rural laltours : the steep mountain-side 
 Ascended wi^h his sialf and faithful dog; 
 The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed; 
 And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 
 Among the jocund rrapers. For himself. 
 All watchful and industrious as he was, 
 jfle wrought not; neither field nor flock he owned: 
 No wish for v^'eaith 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 hond of independent love 
 An inmate of a second fam-ly, 
 The fellow-labourer and friend of bim 
 To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
 —Nor deem that his n)ild presence was a weight 
 ^hat pressed upon his Brother's house, for books 
 
 W^ere ready comrades whom he could not tire,— 
 
 Of whose society the blameless Man 
 
 Was never satiate. Their fi miliar 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 arknowledged. 7'he dark winter night, 
 
 The stormy day, had each its own resource ; 
 
 Song of the muses, sage i.istoric tale, 
 
 Science severe, or word of Holy Writ 
 
 Announcing immortality and joy 
 
 To the assembled spirits of the just. 
 
 From imperfection and decay secure. 
 
 — Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field, 
 
 To no perverse suspicion he gave way, 
 
 No languor, peevi-hness, nor vain complaint : 
 
 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 countenance. 
 
 Were met with answering sympathy and love. 
 
 " At length, When sixty years and five were told^ 
 A slow disease insensibly consumed 
 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 profonnder stillupss of the grave. 
 — Nor was his funeral denied the prace 
 Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtfjil grief j 
 Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. 
 And now that monumental Stf)ne preserves 
 His name, and unamhitiously relates 
 How long, and by what kindly outward aids, 
 And in what pure contentedness of mind, 
 The sad privation was by him endured. 
 — And yon tall Pine-tree, wlntse composing sound 
 Was wasted on the good Man's living fs,r^ 
 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 J 
 Guide of our way, mysterious Comforter! 
 Whose sacred intiuence, spread through earth and hea 
 
 ven, 
 We all too thanklessly partiri .ate, 
 Thy gifts were utterly withheld from Him 
 Whose place of rest is near yon ivied Porch. 
 Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained ; 
 Ask of the channelled rivers if they held 
 A safer, easier, nM)re determined course. 
 What terror d(Mh it strike into the mini 
 To think of One, who cannot see, advancing 
 Toward some precipice's airy brink I 
 But, timely warned. He would have stayed his steps 
 Protected, say enlightened, by his ear. 
 And on the very edge of vacancy 
 I^ot more endangered than a Man whose eye 
 Beholds the gulf beneath.— Nf) floweret blooms 
 Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills, 
 Or in the woods, that could from him conceal 
 Its birth-place ; none whose figure did in)t live 
 Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
 Enriched with knowh^lge his industrious mind; 
 The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
 Lodged in her bosom ; and, by science led, 
 His jrenius mounted to the plains of HeaveT>. 
 — Methinks I see him— how his eye-balls rolled, 
 B< neath 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. 
 
THE CHURCh-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAIWg. 
 
 261 
 
 That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood 
 AbasUed, and tender piiy overawed." 
 
 " A noble— and, to unreflectinji minds, 
 A marvellous ppi-ctarie," llie WandtMcr said, 
 *' Beings like these present! But proof abounds 
 V[)ou the earth that faculties, which teem 
 Extinguished, do not, tktrffore, cease to be. 
 And to the mind amono: her powers of sense 
 This tratisf'er is permitted. — not alone 
 That the bereft their recompense may win; 
 Bui for remoter purposes of love 
 And charily ; nor last nor least for this, 
 That to the iiuaLnnation may be piven 
 A type and shadow of an awful triith ; 
 How, likewise, under sufferance divine. 
 Darkness is banished from the realms of Death, 
 By man's imperishable spirit, quelled. 
 Unio the men who see not as we see 
 Futurity was thought, in ancient times 
 To he laid open, and they prophesied. 
 Arid know we not that from the blind have flowed 
 Tiie hifrhest, holiest, raptures of the lyre; 
 And wisdom married to immortal verse?" 
 
 Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet 
 Lyinp insensible to human praise. 
 Love, o/ regret, — whose lineaments would next 
 Have been portrayed, I guess not ; but it chanced 
 Thai, near the quiet church-yard where we sale, 
 A Team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
 Pressing behiiul, adown a rugged slope. 
 Whose sharp descent confounded their array, 
 Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 
 
 " Here,'' said the Pastor, " de we muse, and mourn 
 The waste of death ; and lo ! the giant Oak 
 Stretched on his bier — that nmssy timber wain ; 
 Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team." 
 
 He was a Peasant of the lowest class ! 
 Grey locks profusely round his temples hung 
 In c'nstering curls, like ivy, which the bite 
 or Winter cannot thin ; the fresh air lodged 
 Within his 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 wor'dly-minded, for if, bears too much 
 Of Nature's impress, — gaiety and health, 
 Freedom and liope ; but keen, withal, and shrewd. 
 His gestures note, — and hark ! his tones of voice 
 Are all viv;icious as his mien and looks." 
 
 The Pastor answered. " You liave read him well_ 
 ypar af!er year is added to his store 
 With silrnt increase : sunmiers, winters — past, 
 Pa>!t or to como : yea, boldly miuht I say, 
 Ten summers and ten winters of a space 
 That lies beymid life's ordinary bounds, 
 Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix 
 The ob'izaion 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 i>: the creature rational — endowed 
 With foresight; hears, too, every Sabbath day. 
 The Christian pronjise with attentive ear ; 
 Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven 
 R'ject the incense offered up by him, 
 Thongh of the kind which beasts and birds present 
 In prove or pasture; cheerfulness of soul. 
 From tre[)idation and repining free. 
 How many scrupulous worshippers fall down 
 
 Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 
 Lees worthy, less religious even, than Iiis ! 
 
 •' This qualified respect, the Old Man's due, 
 Is paid wiLhout reluctance ; but in truth," 
 (Said the good Vicar with a fond hall-smile) 
 '' I feel at times a motion of despite 
 Tow'rds One, whose bold contrivances and skill, 
 As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part 
 lu Works of havoc ; taking from these vales. 
 One after or^e, their proudest ornaments. 
 Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 
 Tall ash-tree sown by winds, by vapf)urs nursed, 
 In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks ; 
 Light birch, aloft upim the horizon's edge, 
 A veil of glory for the ascending moon ; 
 And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped, 
 And on whose fmehead inaccessible 
 The raven lodged in safety. — Many a Ship 
 Launched into Mcuecamb Bay, to him hath owed 
 Her strong knee-limbers, and the mast that bears 
 The lofti(^st 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 labouring in the mine. 
 Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked 
 The trunk and body of its marvellous strength, 
 If bis undaunted enterprise had failed 
 Among the mountaiu coves. 
 
 " Yon houoehold Fir, 
 A guardian planted to fence off the blast, 
 But towering high the roof above, as if 
 lis humble destination were forgot; 
 That Sycamore, which annually holds 
 Wiihin 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 Joyful Elm, 
 Around whose trunk the Maidens dance in May ;—i 
 And the Lord's Oak ; — would plead iheirseveral rights) 
 In vain, if He were master of their fate; 
 His sentence to the axe would doom them all. 
 — But, greeti in age and lusly 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 endui-ing growth, 
 His own appointed hf)ur 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 un'amented drops. 
 And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long I 
 — Si'ven lusty Sons sate daily round the board 
 Of Gold-rill side; and, when the hope had cease4 
 Of other progeny, a Daughter then 
 Was given, the crowning liounty of the whole; 
 And so acknowledged, wiih a tremulous joy 
 Felt to the centre of that heave. ily calm 
 With which by nature every Mother's Soul 
 Is stricken, in the moment when her throes 
 Are ended, and her ears liave 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 weaihered 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, and almost all that pass ; 
 Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
 
 * This Sycamore oft musical with Bees; 
 Such Tents the Patriarchs loved. 
 
 S. T. Coleridge, 
 
262 
 
 1»H1E CHURCH YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Spread on the never-empty board, and drink 
 
 Heal lb and good wisbes to his new-born Girl, 
 
 From cups rcpleiiisiied by bis joyous band. 
 
 — Tbose seven lair Brotbers vaiiously wore moved 
 
 Eacli by tbe tbougbts best suited to bis years: 
 
 But most of all and witli most tbankiul mind 
 
 Tbe boary Grand.sire felt iiimself enriclied ; 
 
 A iiappiness tbat ebbed nol, but reruiiined 
 
 To till tlie total measure of tbe soul ! 
 
 — From tbe UjW tenement, bis own abode, 
 
 Wbiilier, as to a little private f•e^l, 
 
 He bad wiihdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, 
 
 To spend tbe Sabbatb of old aj,'e in peace, 
 
 Once eveiy day be duleously repaired 
 
 To rock tbe ciadle of Ibe slunibt;nn}i IJabe -. 
 
 For in ibat fenmie lulaiu's name be Ijeard 
 
 The teiieni Nauie of bis d.paiKd Wife; 
 
 Hfart-siiiriiij: music! bouiiy iieard ihat name; 
 
 p'uli bietit be was, ' AnoibiM- Warfjarei Green,' 
 
 vOit (lid be say, ' was come to Goid-iill side.' 
 
 — Ob ! pang uniliouybt of, as tbe piecious boon 
 
 Ilself bad been uiiiouked lor ; — ob ! diie stroke 
 
 Oi ilesoiaiing aiij^ui.'^b lor tlu:m all ! 
 
 — JusL as tbe n^Uial cou d toiier on tbe floor, 
 
 And, by some fiiiidly linker's belp upstayed, 
 
 Range round ibe gaiden walk, wbile Sne perchance 
 
 W.is caiching ai. souje novelty of Spring, 
 
 .•Giound-flt'Wer, or glossy insect Iron) ils ceH 
 
 Diawn by t e suiisbint — at tbat bop, lul season 
 
 TIk; winds of Marcb, smiling insidiousiy. 
 
 Raised lu iliti itiud-er paas-age ol tbe ibioat 
 
 Vi. w;e.-s ob.-iruciion ; wbeitte — all unfortwarned, 
 
 "Tbe Housebolti lost their pri<Je and soul's delight. 
 
 — Bui Time liaiii power to soiten ail regrets, 
 
 And pia3er and ibongbt can biiug to woist distiet-'s 
 
 Due re.-igna.ion. I'iiereloie, ti/c ngli some tears 
 
 Fail not to bpiir;g Horn ei;ber Parent's eye 
 
 Oit as they luar of soih.w like ibeir own. 
 
 Yet ibis departed Lidle one, loo long 
 
 Tbe innocent troublei of tlieii- quiet, sleeps 
 
 In wbai ujay now be tailed a peaceful jjiave. 
 
 " On a bright day, tbe lu-igbtest of the year, 
 These mountains echoed wj.b an nnkni.wti sound, 
 A voiley, lli.ice lepeaicd o'er ibe Coise 
 Let down inio tbe lioliew of that Giave, 
 Whose sbelvihg sides aie nti wiib nalced mould. 
 Ye Rains oi April, duly wet ibis tajih! 
 jSpaie, burning Hua of Midsumujer, iJM^-e sods, 
 Tnai tiiev may knit togeiber, and iheicwiih 
 Pur tboughls unite in kindred quieinetsl 
 Nor so the Valley shall lo;get her loss. 
 Dear Youili, by youi g and old aiike beloved 
 To me as precious as my «)vvn ! — G.een lierbs 
 JMay creep (I wish tliat tl)ey would sofily creep) 
 Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
 Reminded less iin|-eiiously of ilue ;— 
 Tlie vidge itself uiay sink into the breast 
 Of earth, ihe great ali.\ss, and be im more; 
 Yet shall not iliy k ujiinbiance lea\e our hearts, 
 Tby image diaapijcur ! 
 
 '• Tlie niouniain Ash 
 No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
 Of yet unladed trees slie lilts her head 
 Decked vviiii aulumnal berries, that o iishine 
 Sping's tiche,-t blossoms; and ye may have marked. 
 By a ludok side or solitaiy iarn, 
 Huw she her s.aiicui doib adorn ; — ibe pool 
 Glows at her leel, and all the gloomy locks 
 Are brightened round her. In Jiis nauve Vale 
 Such ami so gUuious did this Youth appear; 
 A sight that Kindled pleasure in ail luarts 
 By bis ingenuous beamy, by the gleam 
 Of his tair eyes, by bis <a|)acion5< biow. 
 By all tlie graces with which Nature's band 
 Had lavishly arrayed hira. As old Bards 
 
 Tell in their idle sonars of wandering Gods, . 
 Han or Apollo, veiled in human form; 
 Yet, like tbe sweet-breathed violet of the shade, 
 Discovered in tbeii own despite to sense 
 Of Mortals (if such fables without blame 
 ..lay tind chance-mention on this sac red ground) 
 :So, tbiougb a simple rustic garb's disgui.-e, 
 And through the impedinienl of rural cares, 
 In him repealed a Scholar's genius shone ; 
 \nd so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, 
 ;n l.-im the spirit of a Hero walked 
 Our unpretending valley. — flow tbe coit 
 VVbi/zed frriij the Sirip'ing's aim ! If louched by him» 
 The i.'iglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch 
 Of tbe lark's flight, — or sba;ed a rainbow curve. 
 Molt, in i)rospcrt of the shounng field ! 
 The indefa:igahle fox had learned 
 To dread his perseveia; ce in tie chase. 
 Wiib admiration wou'd he lift his e>e9 
 To tbe wide-ruling eagie, and his baud 
 Was loth to a.-sault tbe m.ije.'^iy lie loved: 
 "Flse had tbe strojigest fasine.«.s:es pr(-ved weak 
 To guard the royal brood. The sailing g'ead. 
 The wheeling svvaib w. and the dariing snipe. 
 The sportive sea-gull dancing with (he waves. 
 And cautious water-f< wl, from distant climes, 
 Fixed at their scar, tbe centre of the Meie, 
 Were subject to young O.'.wald's steady aim. 
 
 " From Gallia's coast a Tyrant burled bis threats; 
 Our Count! y marked tlie prepara:ion vast 
 <)' bosiiie F(n-ces : and she called- -with voice 
 That filled b-r plains, tl'at reaciied her urniost shores, 
 Anil in remotest vales was heard-- to Aims ! 
 —Then, for the first time, here ViU inij;; t have seen 
 Tbe Sbepbeid's grey lo mar iai scaile: changed, 
 T.'iat flashed nncoutbly through tbe woods and fields. 
 Ten baidy St.ipiings. a 1 in biighi atiire, 
 And giaced with s^hinimr weapons, we. kly marched, 
 F om tbi.-: bme valley, U) a central f-pot 
 Wiieie, in a.-^semblage wi.h the F.(.wer and Choice 
 Oi tbe surrounding distiict, they might learn 
 Tl)e rudiiuens o; war: ten — liaidy, strong, 
 Ai'.d valiant; but yo\ing 0^vvald, like a Chief 
 And vet a ujo«test Conuade, led tbeuj forth 
 From their sby soliiude, to face the world 
 With a gay rontidence and seemly pride ; 
 i>'ea.~uring the soil beneath their ba|»py teet 
 I/ike Youths relea.-ed fVoni labour, and yet bound 
 To umst laborimis service, though to them 
 A fesiival of unenc uniher -d ease ; 
 The inner spint keeping Ifoliday, 
 Lil^e vernal ground to sabbaJt sunshine left. 
 
 " Oft have I ma k d him at some leisure hour, 
 Stretched on the gra?s or seated in the shade 
 Among bis Fellows, wiule an anip'e Map 
 Before their eyes lay carefully <uiispread. 
 From wliirh the gallant Teacher would discourse. 
 New pointing this way and now tbat. — • Mere flows,' 
 Tims would he say. ' the Rinne, jh;vi (anions Stieam ! 
 ' Easiwaid, tbe Danube tow'rd tliis irdand sea, 
 ' A mightier river, winds from reabn to rea!m ; — 
 ' And, like a seipent, shows bis glitiering hack 
 ' Bespotied with innumeiabJe isles: 
 ' Heie reigns the Russian, there the Turk ; observe 
 ' Hi capi al ci:y !' — Thence — along a tract 
 Of livelier interest to liis ho| es and fears 
 Flis finger moved, distinguishing the spots 
 Wiiere wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged; 
 Nor left unstiginaiized those fatal Fields 
 On which the Sons of tnighly Germany 
 Were taught a base submi.ssion. — ' Flere behold 
 ' A nobler race, tbe Swi:zers, and their Land ; 
 ' Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods 
 ^ ' And mountains while with everlasting snQW V 
 
TriE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 263 
 
 J— And, purely, he, that gpake with kindling brow, 
 Was a true Pntriot, l-opelul as fhe best 
 0: tliat yonjijL' Prr-'r-anivy, wJ'.o, in (;ur days, 
 Have fbtJght ami peiisl!e<l for Helvetia's lif'fits, — 
 Ah not ill vniri ! — or ihose wNo, in old lime, 
 For work of happier issue, to ihe side 
 Of Teil came troojiing fioin a thrtiisand huts, 
 When he had risen alone! No braver Youlh 
 Defoer'ded fr( ni Ji;d( an liei^'h s. to manli 
 Wiih righn-ons Joshua; or ajp^ared in arms 
 When prove \v;;s felied, ai;d aitar was cast down, 
 And Gideon hitw the rinmp<-f, sonl-iiiflumed, 
 Aud siiong in haired of idolatiy." 
 
 This spoken, fr< ni his seat tiie Pastor rose, 
 And nmved towards the gnive ; — instiiiciively 
 His sn'ps we fnjli wed ; and my voice exrlainied, 
 " Pdwer to the *_ [ijtressors of the wnritl is given, 
 A niiglit of which ihey ('»« r.m nc»t. Oh I the curse' 
 To be the Aw^akener of divinest tlioughts, 
 Father and Founder of exalted deeds. 
 And In whole nations hound in servile straits 
 The liheral Donor of capaciiies 
 Mure than heroic 1 this to he, nor yet 
 Have sense of one connanra! wi?h, nor yet 
 Deserve the leas* return of hnrnan thanks ; 
 Winning no recompense but de^dy hate 
 Wiih phy mixed, a^toi;ithm' nt wiJi scorn ."' 
 
 When iliese iiivelu; tavy words hnd ceased, 
 The Pastor said, '■ So P;(;\ idti-ce is served; 
 The fori ed weap'-n of thi' skies ca!i send' 
 Illiinii'iauo'i into deep, dark Holds, 
 Wf'irh : iie mid snnheam hath not p(>wer to pierce. 
 Wfjy do ye quake, iniimidated Th>o!;es? 
 For, not unco!.s;,ious of the migiity ilehr 
 Which to oui.'ageous Wionsf the Sutferer owes, 
 Europe, through all her haliiahle .^^eats, 
 Is ihi'Sting (or th I'r ovenhrtAv, wno siill 
 Exist, as paya.i Temples stood of oid, 
 By ver> horror of their inipi(Mjs ;i:es 
 Pieserved ; are sutfeicd to t:x:end iheir pride. 
 Like Cedais on the top of Lebanon 
 Darkening liie sun.— But le.-s imj)atieiit thoughts, 
 And love ' all Insi'ing a?id expecing^- all,' j 
 
 This hallow ..d G ave demand^, whe.e rests in peace 
 A hinnble Champion of the Itetrer <'ause; 
 A Pi H-a.it-yon;h, so call him, lor he arked 
 No higher name ; in wiiom our Country showed. 
 As in a (avouriie Son, most henntil'ni. 
 In si''t.^ of vice, and misery, ai d disease, 
 Spread wi.h the sp eading r f her wealthy arts, 
 Eiigiai.d, the ancieiit ai;d rhe free, appi aied, 
 III liiin to siai.d helore niy swinimiiig eyes, 
 Uiictiiiqiierabl> vi tuons and secure. 
 —No more of this, lest I ofiend his dust : 
 Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 
 
 " One snmiuer's day— a day of annual prrnp 
 And solemn chase — fr(uri morn to sultiy noon 
 His steps had billowed, fieeiest of the fleet, 
 Tiie red-deer driven along its naiive heights 
 Wiih cry of hound and iiorn ; and, fioni that toil 
 Relumed wiih sinews w.-aiiemMl and relaxed. 
 Tins generous Youih, too negligent of sell, 
 Paniged — 'mid a gay and busy rhrm.g convened 
 To wash the fleeces of Jiis Fnther's flock— 
 Into the chilling flood. 
 
 " Convulsions dire 
 Seized him, that self-same niglit; and through the space 
 Of twelve ensuing days iiis Frame was wrenched, 
 Till nature rested from her work in death. 
 —To iiiin, ihiis snatched away, his Comrades paid 
 A Soldier's honours. At his funeral hour 
 Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue — 
 A golden lustre slept upon ilie hills ; 
 And if by chance a Suanger, wandering there, 
 
 From some commanding eminence liad looked 
 
 Down on this spot, well pleased would he iiove seerv 
 
 A gliire:ing Spectacie ; but eve. y iace 
 
 Was pui'iid,— se;d(:in haih that eye lieen moist 
 
 With tears, i.liat wept not then ; nor were the few 
 
 Who from their Dwellings came not forth to join 
 
 In this sad service, K ss disturbed tiian we. 
 
 They stalled at the tributary peal 
 
 Of instantaneous thunder, which announced 
 
 Through the still air the elosinif of the Gave; 
 
 And distanr mruntains echoeil with :i sound 
 
 OC hiniiMiiaiion, n<;ver Jieard beiore I" 
 
 The Pastor censed.— I\Iy veneiahle Friend 
 Vicioiiously u[nais( d his clear bright eye ; 
 And, when that (Milopv was ended, s;ood 
 Eii:api, — as il his inward sense perceived 
 The proloiigarioii ol" some still iespoi..'-e. 
 Sent by the aecient Soul of this wide Land, 
 The Spirit of its mountains and its seag, 
 Its ci ies, temples, lields, i:s awh.l power, 
 Its rights and virtues — by that Dei^y 
 Descending, and supporing his pure heart 
 Wiili [jatrioiic confidence and joy. 
 /ltd, at the hiSt of those njemoiial words', 
 The |)i;.ing Soliia.y turned aside, 
 Wherlier ilirougli manly instinct to conceal 
 Tender emoiions spieadiiig I rem the heart 
 To his worn cheek ; or wiMi unea.-y shame 
 For tl;« se cu'd In inoiirs of hal-iinal s{»Ieen, 
 That ibi d _v se<'kii;g in d'sp ai^e oi Man 
 ifolace and ^eil-e^c^l^e, hid s( me.imes urged 
 To selt-ubiit-e a 1.01 ii.eif quent fungue, 
 — light i( w id (he sacred E(iifice his sieps 
 Had been diieeted ; and we taw him now 
 Inient up'ui a UHMiumenlal Stone, 
 Wbose uncouih Foim was g;afted on the wall, 
 Or rather seemed to have grr wn inio tiie side 
 Of iho rude Pile ; as olt-fime? trunks of trees,- 
 Wiiere nature woiks in wi.d aofl cra?gy spots, 
 Are seen ineorp< rare wiih the iivi !g reck — 
 To ei dure for a}e. Tlie Vicar, taking note 
 Oi' Jiis employment, wi;h a courteous smile '' 
 
 Exclaimed. '• The saiicst Antiqiia-ian's eye 
 That Task wou'd foii ;" then, letirng fall his voice 
 W: i.e tie advanced, thus spake : ' Tadiiion telU 
 That, in Eliza's <(oidf n days, a Knijiht 
 Came on a wai-ho:se sunipiK js y a-ired, 
 And fixed his home in this seqnostered Vale. 
 'Tis lett nnioid if iiere he rtrsl drew brea'h, 
 Or as a Saanger reached this deep recess, 
 Unkm wing at;d unkn(»wn. A p;ea>ing thought 
 I ^eme'.imes enre;iain, that, hs^ply h<;und 
 To S.oi.and's court in service of his Queerij 
 Or sent en mi^H(ln to ^ome northern Chief 
 Of England's Realm, this Vale h^e might have seen 
 Wiih transient ob^ervatien; aid tiier ce canglit 
 An Image tair. which brirh;enirg in his soul 
 When joy of war and p.ideof Ciiivalry 
 Languished beneath accumulated years. 
 Had power to draw him fnmi the world— resolved- 
 To m; ke that paiadise his chosen home 
 To whi( h his p aceful fancy oft had turned.— 
 Vague ll;oiii.'hts aie these ; but, if belief may rest 
 Upon nnwiiiten story fondly traced 
 From sire to t-on, in this obscure Retreat 
 'i'he Kniizht arrived, with pomp of spear and shield^ 
 And home upon a Charger covered o'er 
 Wi.h gi ried hon«ir,gs. And the lofty Steed— 
 His sole compifnion, and his faithful friend 
 Whom he, in graiitude, let loose to ranee 
 In fertile pastures— was beheld with eyes 
 Of admiration and deiifrijtful 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 Jowly band 
 
264 
 
 THE PAHSONAGE. 
 
 Of their rude tfomestfiads. Here the Warrior dwelt; 
 
 And, in that Mnnsion, Children of his own, 
 
 Or Kindred, paihered round him. As a Tree 
 
 That falls and di?api)pars, the Hous^e ia gone ; 
 
 And, thronph improvidence or want of love 
 
 For ancient worth and iioiiourahie thinjjs, 
 
 The spear and shield are vanished, which the Knight 
 
 Hung in his ruFiic Hall. One ivied arch 
 
 Myself have seen, a gateway, last rerniins 
 
 Of ttat Foundation in domestic care 
 
 Rnisf'd hy his hands. And now no trace is left 
 
 Of the mild-hcarted Champion, save this Stone, 
 
 Faithless memorial! and his family name 
 
 Borne hy yon clustering coltasres, that sprang 
 
 From out the ruins of J)is stately lodge : 
 
 These, and the name and title at full length,-— 
 
 Sir Alfred Irthing, with appropriate words 
 
 Accompanied, siill extant, in a wreath 
 
 Or posy— gilding round the several fronts 
 
 Of three clear-sounding and liarmonious bells, 
 
 Tijat in tlie steeple liang, his pious gilt." 
 
 " So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," 
 The grey- hailed Waiideier pensively exclaimed, 
 " All that this World is proud of. From their spiieres 
 The s ars of human glory are cast down ; 
 Perisih the roses and the flowers of Kings,* 
 Princes, and Emperors, and the crowns and palms 
 Of All the Mighty, withered and consumed I 
 Nor is power given to lowhcsi Innocence 
 Long to protect her own. The Man himself 
 Departs; and soon is spent the Line of those 
 Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 
 In he irt or soul, in station or pursuit, 
 Did most resemble him. Degrees and Ranks, 
 Fraternities and Oiders — 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 foreta^te, from the secret stand 
 Of Desolation, aimed: to slow decline 
 These yield, and these to sudden overthrow; 
 Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 
 Ex()iro ; and Nature's pleasant r«d)e of green. 
 Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 
 Their monuments and their memcny. The vast Frame 
 Of social Nature ciianges 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 subsists : 
 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 mcmoiable age! 
 Which did to him assign a pensive lot — 
 To linger 'mid the last of those bright Clouds, 
 Thar, on the steady breeze of Imnour. sailed 
 In long procession caIn) 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, 
 
 * The "^J'ransit gloria mundi"is fire'v expressed in 
 the lnMndncti<.M to the Foundation Cliarfrs of some 
 of the ancient Abbeys. Some expressions here used 
 are taken from that of the Abbey of St MarVs 
 Furness, the transla:ion of which is as follow^-— ^ 
 
 '' Conside^rinu every day the nnrerrainty of life,' that 
 the roses and flowers ot Kings, Emperor's and Dukes 
 and the crowns and palms of all the great wither 
 and decay : and -■•■'■ 
 course 
 
 That violent CominofiOTi, which o'erthreTV/ 
 
 In town, and city, ard sequestered glen, 
 
 Altar, and Crrss, aid CliiKh offr'(iin roof, 
 
 And o'd religions I:!ouft— Pile after Pile; 
 
 And shook the I'erants out into the fields, 
 
 Like wild Beasts without home! Theirhour wascome; 
 
 But why no softening thonpht of gratitude, 
 
 No just remembrance, scrup'e, or wi.^e doubt 1 
 
 Benevolence is mild ; nor borrows help, 
 
 Save at worst need, frrm bold impetuous force, 
 
 Fitliest alli(d to anger and reverge. 
 
 But Humankind rejoices in the might 
 
 Of Mutability, and airy Hopes, 
 
 Dancing around iier, hinder and disturb 
 
 Those medi;ations of the soul that feed 
 
 The retrospective Virtues. Festive sonfs 
 
 Break from the n:addened Nati< ns at the sight 
 
 Of sudden oveithicw; and co'd lujlKt 
 
 Is the sure censeqnence of slew de(py. 
 
 — Even," said the Waiiderer, " astl at courteous Knight',- 
 
 Bound hy his vrw to labour 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) J too shall be doomed 
 
 To outlive the kindly use ard f.nir este«m 
 
 Of the poor calling which my Youth embraced 
 
 With no unworthy prospect. But enough ; 
 
 — Thoughts crowd upon me — and 'iwere seemliernoW 
 
 To stop, and yield our gracious Tuacher thanks 
 
 For the pathetic Records wiiich his voice 
 
 Hath here delivered ; words of heartfelt trwtb, 
 
 Tending to patience when Affliction strikes ; 
 
 To hope and love; to confident rep-ose 
 
 In God: and reverence for the dust of Man."' 
 
 END OF THE SEVE^TH BOOK.- 
 
 eray : and that ail ilniigs, wiih an uninterrupted 
 J, lead to dissoluiicn and ceulh :1 therefore. "> r 
 
 ^^c. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Book VIII. 
 
 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 Argument. — Pastor's appreliension.«:that he might have 
 detained his Auditors too long — Tnviiation to his 
 House — Solitary disinclined to coniply — rallies the 
 Wanderer; and somewhat playfully draws a com- 
 parison between his itinerant profession and that 
 of the Knight-trranl — which leads to Wanderer's 
 giving an account of changes in the Country from 
 the manufacturing spirit— Favourable eftecis— The 
 other side of the picture, and chiefly as it has affect- 
 ed the humbler classes — Wanderer asserts the hol- 
 lowness of all national grai deur if unsnpportf d by 
 moral worth — gives Instances — Physical science un- 
 able to support it>^eif — Lamentations over an ex- 
 cess of manufacturing industry pmong the Jinnibler 
 Classes of Society — Picture of a (^iiihl emph ycd in 
 a <otton-mill — Ignorance and degradation o( Children 
 among the agricultuial Prpulation reviewed — Con- 
 versation broken ofl' by arem wed Invitation fr( m the 
 Pastor — Path leading to his Hous( — Its appearance 
 described — His Daughter — Hi> Wife— His Son (a Boy) 
 enters with his Companion — Their iiappy appear. 
 
 ance— TJie Wanderer how affected by the sight of 
 them. 
 
 The pensive Sceptic of the lonely Vale 
 To those acknowledgtnents subscribed his own, 
 With a sedate compliance, which the Priest 
 Failed not to notice, in'y pleased, and said, 
 '' If Ye, hy whom invited I commenced 
 These Narratives of calm and humble life, 
 Be satisfied, 'tis well,— the end is gained ; 
 And .in return for sympathy bestowed 
 
TllH: PARSOJiAGE. 
 
 ^2-55' 
 
 And pnti^nt lislenln?, thanks accept from rue. 
 —Life, Dealh, Eiorniry ! niomentnus tJiemes 
 Are tliey — find might demand a Seraph's tongue, 
 Were tlit^y «><>t. equal to their own sujiport ; 
 And therefore n.) incompetence of njine 
 Coiild do them wrong. The universal forms 
 Of human nature, in a Spot like this, 
 p-resent 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 jud^rment could select 
 From what the place afforded have been given ; 
 Thougii ap|)rehensions crossed me that my zeal 
 To his ini^ht well be likened, who unlocks 
 A Cabinet with gems or pictures stored. 
 And draws them fo-.th — soliciting regard 
 To this, and this, as Worthier than the last, 
 Till the Spectator, who awhile Was pleased 
 More than the Exhibitor Inm?e!f, becomes 
 Weary and faint, and lonsis to be released. 
 — ' ut lei ns hence! my Dwelling is in sight, 
 And there—" 
 
 At this the Solitary sl)runk 
 With backward will : but, wanting not address 
 That inwrird nmtion to disguise, he said 
 To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake ; 
 — " The peaceable Remains of this good Knight 
 Would be disturbed, I fear, vvith wrathful scorn, 
 If corisciousnt'ss could reach hifli where h-e lies 
 That One, albeit of these desenerate times, 
 Deploring changes past, or dreaditjg change 
 Foreseen, h;id 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 wlio walk the earth 
 Piiied, and wliere they are not known, dt'spised, 
 —Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two Estates 
 Are rai-ed with some resemblance. Errant 7'Jiose, 
 Exiles and Wanderers — and tlie like are these ; 
 Who with ih'-ir burthen, traverse hill aod dale. 
 Carrying relief Jor Natiire's simple wants. 
 —What though no higher recompense they seek 
 Than lionest maintenance, by irksome toil 
 Full "fi procured, yet Such may claim respect. 
 Among the Iiilelligent, for 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 defects 
 By the division of her inward self. 
 For grateful converse : and to these poor Men 
 (As I have heard you boast with honest pride) 
 Nature is bountiful, where'er they go ; 
 Kind Nature's various wealth is all their own. 
 Versed in the characters of men : and bound. 
 By ties of dni.'y interest, to maintain 
 Conciliatory manners and smooth speech ; 
 Such have been, ard still are in their degree, 
 Examples efficacious to refine 
 liiide intercourse ; apt Agents to expel, 
 By importation of unlooked-for Arts, 
 Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice ; 
 B.aising, through just gradation, savage lif€ 
 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 ; contention they appease 
 ^Viih gentle language ; in remotest Wilds, 
 Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring ; 
 Could the proud quest of Chivalry do more T' 
 
 ''Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, "they who gain 
 24 
 
 A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
 
 But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained 
 
 Aught of lomantic interest, 'lis gone; 
 
 Tiieir purer service, in ttiis realuj at least, 
 
 Is past for ever. — An inventive Age 
 
 Has wrought, it not With speed of magic, yet 
 
 To most strange issui's. I have lived to mark 
 
 A new and unforeseen Cieation rise 
 
 From out the labours of a peaceful Land, 
 
 Wielding lier potent Enginery to frame 
 
 And to produce, with appetite as keen 
 
 As that of War, which rests not night or day, 
 
 Industrious in destroy ! With fruitless pains 
 
 Might one like mo vo2v visit many a tract 
 
 Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, 
 
 A lone Perlestrian with a scanty freight. 
 
 Wished for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came, 
 
 Among the Tenantry of Ti)orpe nod Ville ; 
 
 Or straggling Burgh, of ancient charter proud, 
 
 And dignified liy battlements and towers 
 
 Of some stern Castle, mouldering on the brow 
 
 Of a green hill or hunk of nigged stream. 
 
 T|ie foot-p-.th faintly marked, the horse-track wild' 
 
 And formidable length of plashy lane, 
 
 (Piized avenues ere others Ijtid been shaped 
 
 Or easier lin1?s connecting place with place) 
 
 Have vanished, — swallowed up l>y stately roads 
 
 Easy and bold, that penetra c the gloom 
 
 0( Britain's farthest Glens. The Earth has lent 
 
 Her waters, Air her breezes:* and the Sail 
 
 Of traffic g ides with ceaseless interchange. 
 
 Glistening along the low and woody da'Ie, 
 
 Or on the naked mountain's lofty side, 
 
 Meanwlii!e, at social Industry s command. 
 
 How quick, how vast an increase ! From the gernf 
 
 Of s(>me poor Hamlet, rapidly produced 
 
 Here a huge Town, continuoiis and compact. 
 
 Hiding the face of earth f^jr leagues — and there, 
 
 Where not a Habitation stood before, 
 
 Abodes of men inegularly massed 
 
 Like trees in forest, — spread through spacious tracts" 
 
 O'er which the smoke of unremiitirig fires 
 
 Hangs permarienr, and plentiful as wreaths 
 
 Of vapour glittering in the morning sim 
 
 And wheresoe'er the Traveller turns his steps, 
 
 He sees tlie barren wilderness erased, 
 
 Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims 
 
 How much the mild Directress of the plough 
 
 Owes t(t alliance with these new-born Arts ' 
 
 — Hence is the fviile Sea pf'opled,— hence the Shore? 
 
 Of Britain are resorted to by Ships 
 
 Freighted from every climate of the v.'orld 
 
 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 
 
 Which, through her inland regions, to and fro 
 
 Pass wiih the respirations of the tide, 
 
 Perpetual, multiludinoua ! Finally, 
 
 Hence a dread arm of floating Power, a voice 
 
 Of Thunder daunting those who would approach 
 
 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 care 
 
 * In treating this subject, it was impossible not to' 
 recollect, with gratitude, the pleasing picture, which, 
 in his Poem of the Fleece, the excellent and amiable 
 Dyer lias given of the influences of manufacturing in- 
 dustry upon the face of this Island. He wrote at a iinn* 
 When machinery w^as first beginning to be introduced, 
 and his benevolent heart prompted him to auiiur fronj 
 it nothing but good. Truth has cojiipelled me'to dwell 
 u|)on the baneful effects arising out of an ill-regulated 
 and exces.-:ive application of powers so admirable ia' 
 themselves. 
 
tG6 
 
 TUH PARSONAGE. 
 
 And Heaven's good providence, prcsfrved from taint I 
 
 Witli Ynu I jrriHvn, when on the darker Fide 
 
 Of this great chnnge I look ; and there behold 
 
 SiTch ouirape done to Natnro as compels 
 
 The indijjnant Pnvver to justify herself; 
 
 Yea, »o avenpe her violaied right;?, 
 
 For Eii|?!and's bane.— When soothin ' darkness ppread^ 
 
 O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer tfius expressed 
 
 His recol ecfionp, " and the punctual stars, 
 
 While all thinjis e'pe are pathertnjr to their home?? 
 
 Advance, and in the firrn;nnent of heaven 
 
 Glitter — but undisturhin?, undisturbed ; 
 
 As; if their silent con>pany were charfjed 
 
 Wi;h peaceful admonilion*; for the heart 
 
 Of all beholdirigr Man, earth's fhonjrhtful Lord; 
 
 Then, in full many a rejrron, once like this 
 
 The assured df-nialn of calm simpMcity 
 
 And pensive quiet, an unnaiural light 
 
 Prepared for never-resting liribour's eyes, 
 
 Breaks from a mnriy-vvindowed Fabric huge ; 
 
 And at the appointed hour a bell fs heard, 
 
 Of harsher import than the Curfevv-knoII 
 
 That spake the Norman C^'onqueror's stern behest — 
 
 A Inral summons to unceasing toil ! 
 
 Disgorged are now the IMinisters of day; 
 
 And, as they issue from the illumined File, 
 
 A fresh Band meets them, ar the cr' wdpd dnor- 
 
 And in the Courts — and where the rumb'ir)g Stream, 
 
 Thar turns the muliifnd ■ of dizzy whefis, 
 
 Glares, like a troubled Spi'it, in i's bed 
 
 Amouir the rocks belnw. Men, PdnidpTis. Youths, 
 
 Mother r^r^t] little ('hildrpn, Boys and Girls, 
 
 Fnrer, and enrh ihe wonte] task resumes 
 
 Within ihis Temp'e, where is offered up 
 
 To Gain— the master Tdol of the Rpahn — 
 
 Perpetual sacrifice Fven thus of old 
 
 Our Ancestotp, within the still d'-mnin 
 
 Of vast '"athedral or ^'onventual (^huTh, 
 
 Their Vigils kept ; where tapers day and night 
 
 On the dim ahar burned contTnuallv, 
 
 In tok n that the Hotii^p w'as evr-rmore 
 
 Watchinc to Gorl. Religious Men were they; 
 
 N«>r would tliei'- Reason, tutored 'o aspire 
 
 Above this transitory world, allow 
 
 That there s'^ould pass a momf^nt of the 3'ear, 
 
 When in their land the Almighty's Service ceased. 
 
 " Triumph who will in these profancr riles 
 Which We, a generation s' If exlolled, 
 Af zealoiislv perform ! F cannot share 
 His proud complacency ; yet T exult, 
 Casting reserve away, exult to see 
 An Intellectual mastery exercised 
 O'er the blind Elements ; n purpose given, 
 A perseverance fed ; alm'^st a soul 
 Imparted — to brute Matter. 1 rejoice, 
 Measuiing 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 
 'J'he 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 s me 
 In due proportion to their Country's need; 
 Learnii g, iliough late, that all true glory rests, 
 All praise, all safety, and all happiness, 
 Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thrbes, 
 Tyre by the margin of the sounding waves. 
 Palmyra, central in the Desert, fell ; 
 And the Arts died hy which they had been raised. 
 — Call Archimedes from his buried Tomb 
 Upon the plain of vanished Syracuse, 
 Ami feelingly the Sage shall make report 
 How insecure, how baseless in itself, 
 Is the Philosophy, whose sway depends 
 
 On mere ninterial instruments ; — Iiow weak 
 Those Arts, and high Inventions, if unpro{ipe<S 
 By Virtue.— He with sighs of pensive grief, 
 Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 
 That not the slender privilege is theirs 
 To save themselves from blank forgetfulness !'' 
 
 When from the Wanderer's lips these words had fallen, 
 I said, " And, did in truth these vaunted Arts 
 Possess such privilege, how could we escape 
 Regret and painful sadness, who revere, 
 And would preserve as things above all price, 
 The old domestic morals of the land, 
 Her simple manners, and the stable worth 
 Thar difjuified and cheered a low estate! 
 Oh I where is now the character of peace, 
 Sobriety, and order, and chaste love, 
 And honest dealing, and untainted speech, 
 And ptire goodwill, and hospitable cheer ; 
 That made the very thought of Country-life 
 A ihoiicht of refuge, for a Mind detained 
 Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd ? 
 Where now the beauty of the SabDath kept 
 With conscientious reverence, as a day 
 By the Almighty Lawgiver pronounced 
 Holy and blest ? and where the wiiming grace 
 Of all the Irsrhter ornaments attached 
 To lime and season, as the year rolled round I'* 
 
 " Fled !" was the Wanderer^s passionate rtsponse, 
 '■'■ Fled utterly : or only to be traced 
 !n 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 untetnpted 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 hum! ler name,) 
 How art thou bliglned for the poor Man's heart I 
 Lo ! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve, 
 Tiie Habitations empty I 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 dir^patch of each day's little growth 
 Of household occupation ; no nice arts 
 Of needlework ; no bustle at th? fire, 
 Where once the dinner was prepared with pride; 
 Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind ; 
 r\othiug to praise, to teach, or to command ! 
 — The Father, if perchance he still retain 
 His old employments, goes to field or wood, 
 No longer led or followed by the Sons; 
 Idlers perchance they were, — but in his sight; 
 Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth; 
 'Till Iheir short holiday of childhood ceased, 
 Ne'er to return I 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 destructi m o\ her innocent Suns ? 
 In whom a premature Necessity 
 Blocks out the forms of Nature, preconsumes 
 The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 
 The Infant Being in itself, ami makes 
 Its very spring a season of drcay I 
 The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 
 Whether a pining discontent survive, 
 And thirst for change ; or habit hath subdued 
 The soul deprest, dejected — even to love 
 Of her dull tasks, and close captivity. 
 — Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
 A native Briton to these inward chains. 
 Fixed in his kouI, bo early and bo deep, 
 
THE PARSONAOff. 
 
 ^ithnut his own cowsenr, or knowledge, fixed ! 
 
 He is H Slave to whom release comes not, 
 
 And cannot come. The Boy, wliertj'er li€ turns, 
 
 Is still a prisoner ; when the wind is up 
 
 ArnnnK the clouds and in the ancient woods ; 
 
 Or when the sun is shining in the east, 
 
 ^uiftt and calm. Behold him — in the school 
 
 Of his a'talnments 1 no; but with the air 
 
 IFanniner his temple's under heaven's blue arch. 
 
 His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton fla'ltes, 
 
 Or locks of wool, announces whence he crm iS. 
 
 Creeping his gait and cowering — his lip pale — 
 
 His respiration quick and audible ; 
 
 And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 
 
 From out those languid eyes could break, or blush 
 
 Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form. 
 
 Is that the countennnre, and such the port. 
 
 Of no mean B(-i!ig ? One who should be clothed 
 
 With dignity befitting his proud hope ; 
 
 Who, in his very childhood, should appear 
 
 Sublime— fmm present purity and joy ! 
 
 The limbs increase, but liiierty of mind 
 
 fs gone for ever ; this oreanic Frame, 
 
 So joyful in lier motions, is become 
 
 Dull, to the joy of her (jwn moijons dead ; 
 
 And even the Touch, so ejxquisjtely poured 
 
 Through the whole body, with a languid Will 
 
 Performs her functi<^)ns ; rarely competent 
 
 To impress a vivid feeling on tlie mind 
 
 Of what there is delightful in the breeze, 
 
 The gentle visitations of the sun, 
 
 Or lapse of liquid element — by hand, 
 
 Or foot, or lip, in sunnner's warmth — perceived. 
 
 — Can hope lof)k forward to a manhood lai^ed 
 
 On such foundations I" 
 
 " Hope is none for him !'^ 
 The pale Recluse indignantly exclainjed, 
 *' And tens of thousands s^ulTer wrong as deep. 
 Yet be it asked, in justice to our age-, 
 If tlit^re were not, before those Arts appeared. 
 These structures rose, commingling old and young. 
 And unripe se.x with sex, for mutual taint; 
 Then, if there were not in our far-famed Isle, 
 Multitudrs, who from infancy had breathed 
 Air unimprisoned, and had liveil at large ; 
 Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape, 
 As abject, as degraded 1 At this day, 
 Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
 And tottering hovels, wlience do issue forth 
 A ragged Otfspring, with their own b!anched hair 
 Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear ; 
 Or Wearing, we might sny, in that white growth 
 An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
 Or fierceness, wreathed aroun<l their sun-burnt brows^ 
 By -savage Nature's unassisted v.^re. 
 Naked, and coloured like the soil, the feel 
 On which they stand . as if thereby they drew 
 Same nourishment, as Tre-s do by their roots, 
 From Earth the common Mother of us all. 
 F-igure and mien, complexion and attire. 
 Are leagui^d to strike di^mny, but outstretched hand 
 And whining voice denote them Supplicants 
 For the least bocm that pity caii bestow. 
 Such on "the breast of darksome heaths are found ; 
 And with their Parents dw-U upon the skirts 
 Of fuize-clad commons; sue are born and rea»-ed 
 At the mine's mouth, beneath impending rocks, 
 Or ill the chambers of some natural cavo ; 
 And where their Ancestors erected huts, 
 For the convenience of unlawful gain, 
 in forest Purlieus ; and the like are bred, 
 All England through, where rmoks and slip.s of ground, 
 Purloined, in tiuu-s less jealous than our own, 
 Fr(nn ilie green maigin of the public way, 
 A reiidence afford them, 'mid the 'bloom 
 And gaiety of cultivated fields. 
 
 —Such (we will hope the lowest in tlie scale) 
 
 Do I remember oft-times to have seen 
 
 'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. Upon tlie watch, 
 
 Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand ; 
 
 Then, follnwing closely with the cloud of dust, 
 
 An uncoulli teat exliil)it, and are gone 
 
 Heels over lu^ad, like Tumblers on a stage 
 
 — Up from the ground they snatch the copper coia, 
 
 And, on ihe freight of merry Passengers 
 
 Fixing a steady eye, maintain tiieir speed ; 
 
 And spin — and {)ant— and overhead agi<in, 
 
 Wild Pursuivants ! i-ntil their breath is lost, 
 
 Or bounty tires— and every face, that smiled 
 
 Encourageaient, hath ceased to look iliat way. 
 
 — But, like the Vagrants of the Gyp.sy tribe, 
 
 Tliese, bred to little pleasure in themselves, 
 
 Are profitless to others. Turn we then 
 
 To Biitiins born and bred within the pale 
 
 Of civil i>oliiy, and early trained 
 
 To earn, by wholesome labour in the field. 
 
 The bread they eat. A sample should ( give 
 
 Of what this stock produces to enrich 
 
 The lender age of lite, ye would exclaim, 
 
 ' Is this the whistling Piough-boy wiiose shrill notea 
 
 Impart new gladness to the morning air 1" 
 
 Forgive me if I venture to suspect 
 
 That njany, sweet to hear of in soft verse, 
 
 Are of no finer frame : — his joints are stiff; 
 
 Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 
 
 Invests the thriving Churl, his legs appear, 
 
 Ffdhnvs to those that lustily upheld 
 
 The wooden stools for everlasting use. 
 
 Whereon our Fathers sale. And mark his brow I 
 
 Under whose shag^ry canopy are set 
 
 Two eyes not dim, but of a healthy stare ; 
 
 '"Vide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange , 
 
 Proclaiming boldly that ihey never drew 
 
 A look or motion of intelligence 
 
 From infant conning of the Christ-cross-row, 
 
 Or puzzling through a Primer, line by lir-e. 
 
 Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. 
 
 —What kindly warmth from touch of fosteririg hand. 
 
 What penetrating pf.wer of sun or breoze, 
 
 Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul 
 
 Sleep;^, like a catterpillar sheathed in ice? 
 
 This torpor is no pidable work 
 
 of modf^rn ingenui;y ; no Town 
 
 Nor ciowded City may be taxed with aught 
 
 Of sottish vice or dcsjierate breach of law 
 
 To which in after years he may be roused. 
 
 —This Boy the Fields produce : his spade and hoe — 
 
 The ('arter's whip that on his shoulder rests 
 
 In air high-towering wiih a boorish pomp, 
 
 The sceptre of his swiiy ; his Country's name, 
 
 Her equal rights, her churches and her schools— 
 
 What have they done for him ? And, let me ask. 
 
 For tens of tlu.usands uninf(unied as he 1 
 
 In brief, what liberty of mind is here ?" 
 
 This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man, 
 To whom the appeal couched in its closing words 
 Was pointedly addressed; and to the thoughts 
 That, in assent or oppos-irion, rose 
 Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give 
 Prompt utteiance ; but, rising from our seat, 
 Tlip hosfd.able Vicar interposed 
 With invitation urgently renewed. 
 — We followed, taking as he led, a Path 
 Along a hedge of hollies, dark atrd tall, 
 Whose flexile boughs, descending with a weight 
 Of leafy spray, concealwl the stems and roots 
 That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds 
 Howl from the north, what kind'y warmth, methought, 
 Is here, how grateful this inqiervious screen ! 
 Not shaped by simple wea ing of the foot 
 On rural business passing to and fro 
 Was the commodious Walk ; a careful hand 
 
.263 
 
 TIIH PARSONAGjf. 
 
 Had markfid the line, and strewn llie surface o'er 
 Witn pure cerulean gravel from the heights 
 Fetciied by the neighbouring brook. — Across the Vak 
 The stalely Fence accompanied our steps ; 
 And thus the Pathway, by perennial green 
 Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite, 
 As by a beautiful yet solemn cliain, 
 The Pastor's Mansion with the House of Prayer. 
 
 Like Tntage of solemnity, conjoined 
 With feminine allurement soft and fair, 
 The Mansion's self displayed ; — a reverend Pile 
 With bold T)iojecti(jns and recesses deep ; 
 Shndowy, yet gay nnd lightsome as it stood 
 Fronting the noontide Sun. We paused to admire 
 The pillareil Porch, elaborately embossed ; 
 The low wide windows wiih tlieir mullions old ; 
 The cornice richly fretted, of grey stone; 
 And that smooth slope from which the Dwelling rose. 
 By beds atid hanks Arcadian of gay flow ra 
 And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned; 
 Profusion blight! and every flower assuming 
 A more than natural vividness of hue, 
 J'rom unaffected contrast with the gloom 
 Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 
 Of yew, in A^hich survived some traces, here 
 Kot unt)ecoming, of grotesque device 
 And uncouth fancy. Frou> behind the roof 
 Rose the slim ash and mtii^f^y sycamore, 
 Blending their diverse foliage with the green 
 Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clapped 
 The huge round chimneys, iiarbour f>f delight 
 For wren and retlbreasi, — where they sit and sing 
 Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. 
 Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else 
 Were incomplete) a r.-Ii(iue of old times 
 Happily spared, a little Gothic niche 
 .Of nicest workmanship: that once had h^Id 
 The sculi)tured Imacie of some Piitron Saint, 
 Or of the Blessed Virgin, looking diswn 
 On all who entered those religipus doors. 
 
 But lo 1 where from the rocky rarden Mount 
 iCrowned by its antique summer-house — descends, 
 Lit'ht as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl ; 
 For she hath recognised her honoured Friend, 
 The Wanderer ever welcome! A prom[)t kiss 
 The gladsome Chih) be>tows at his requet:t; 
 And, up ihe flowery lawn as we advance. 
 Hangs on the Old Mhu with a happy look, 
 And v^'ith It pretty restless hruid of love. 
 — We enter— by the Lady of the Place 
 Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port : 
 A lol^ty stature undepressed by Time, 
 Whose visMa'.ion had nnt wholly spared 
 The finer liMeaments of form and face ; 
 To that conrpK-xioM brought which prudence trusts m 
 And wisdoi/i loves. — r)Ut when a stately Sfiip 
 Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast 
 On homeward voyage, what — if wind and wave, 
 And hardship undergone irj v;>rions climes, 
 Have caused her to abate the virgin [uide, 
 And that full trim of inexperienced hope 
 With Which she left her haven — not for this. 
 Should the sun stiike her, and tlie impartial breeze 
 Play cm her streanuMs, fails t-he to assume 
 Brightness and touching beauty of her own. 
 That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared 
 This goodly Matron, shining in the l)eams 
 Of unexpected pleasure. Soon the hoard 
 Was spread, and we partook a plain re.nast. 
 
 Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled 
 The mid day hours with desultory talk ; 
 From trivial themes to general argument 
 Fassinrr, as accident or fancy led, 
 
 Or courtesy prescribed. While questfon fag« 
 \nd answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 
 Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 
 Resumed the marmers of his happier days j 
 \nd, in the various conversation, bore 
 '\ 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 giver)' him to display his skill, 
 Upon the steadfast Vantage ground of truth. 
 He gazed with a.imiration unsuppressed 
 Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, 
 Seen, from the shady room in which we sate, 
 fn softened perspective ; and more than once 
 Praised the consusnmate harmony gerene 
 Of gravity and elegance — diffused 
 Around the Mansion and its whole domain ; 
 Not, doubtless, withcmt help of female tasie 
 And female care. — '' A blessed lot is yours !'^ 
 The words escaped his lip with a tender sigU 
 Breathed over them ; but suddenly the doof 
 Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
 Appeared — confusion checking their delighL 
 — Not Brothers they in feature or attire. 
 But fond Companions, so f guessed, in field^ 
 And by ilie river's margin — whence they come, 
 Anglers elated with unusual spoil. 
 One bears a willi.w-pannier on his back, 
 The Boy of plainer gar' , whose blush survives 
 More deeply tinged. Twin n:iight the oliu-r be 
 To that fair Girl who from the gariien Mount 
 Br)unded— triutnphant entry this for him ! 
 Between his hands he holds a smooth Idue stone^ 
 On whose capacious surface see outirpread 
 Large store of gleaming crimson-spotied trouts ; 
 Ranged side by side, and lessenin'j by degrees 
 Up to the d^varf that tops the pinnacle. 
 Upon the Board he lays the skv-bluc stone 
 With its rich freight ;— their number he p;ocIaims, 
 Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged; 
 And where the very monarch of the brook, 
 At'ter long struggle, had escaped at last — 
 Srealitig alternately at them and us 
 (As doth his Con)rade 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 lo piiy what he could not sjiare. 
 
 But O, the animation in the mien 
 Of those two Boys I Yea in the very words 
 With which the young N.urator was inspired^ 
 W;ien, as our questions led, he told at large 
 Of that day's prowess! Him might I compare, 
 His look, tones, gestures, eager eloquence. 
 To a bold EJrook that splits for better speed, 
 And, at the self-same nmment, works its way 
 Through many channels, ever and anon 
 Parted and reunited • 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 equalities of bothj 
 Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. 
 
 My grey-haired Friend was moved- his vivid eye 
 Glistened with tenderness; his Mind I knew, 
 Was full ; and had, I doubted not, returned, 
 Upon this impulse, to the theme — erewhile 
 Abruptly broken olT. The ruddy Boys 
 Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned meaJ ; 
 And He — (to whom all tongues resigned tlieir right;^ 
 With willingness, to whom the general ear 
 Listened with readier patience than to strain 
 Of music, lute or harp,— a long delight 
 
DiStJOURSE OF THE WANDERER, &C. 
 
 269 
 
 ■That -ceased not when his voice had ceased) as One 
 Who from truth's central point serenely views 
 The compass of his argument— l)e;?an 
 Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone. 
 
 END OF THE EIGHTH BOOK. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Book IX. 
 
 DfSCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN 
 EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 
 
 Argument. — Wanderer asserts that an active principle 
 pervades the Universe — iis noblest seat the human 
 soul— How lively this piinciple 1s in Childhood — 
 Hence the dt-iiiiht in Old \\ie of looking liack upon 
 Childhood — The diiiiiity, powers, and privileges of 
 Age as-serted — ^These not to be looked for generally 
 but under a just government— Riiilit of a human 
 Creaturt^ to be exempt from being c<msidered as a 
 mere Instrument— Vicious inclinations arebrst kept 
 under by giving good ones an opportunity to show them- 
 selves -The condition of multitudes deplored, from 
 want of due respect to this truth on the part of their 
 superiors in society — Former conversation recurred 
 to, and the Wanderer's opinions tet in a clearer 
 ligrit---Gc;nuliie principles of equality — Truth placed 
 within reach of the humblest-- Happy state of the 
 two Boys airnin adverted to— Ear lest wis^h expres- 
 sed lor a System of National Education established 
 univertai.y by Government— Glorious eflects of this 
 foretold— VVaiide I er breaks off— Walk to the Lake- 
 embark— Descrip. ion of scenery and amusements-- 
 Grand spectacle from the side of a liill--Address of 
 Priest to the Supreme Being— in the course of which 
 he contrasts wiili aacieiit Barbarism the present ap- 
 pearance of the scene before him- Tiie change as- 
 cribed to Christia ii(y— Apostrophe to bis Flock, liv- 
 ing and dead---G,a.iuide to the Almighty-- Return 
 over the Lake--Parting with the Soil lary— Under 
 what circumstances. 
 
 " To every Form of being is assigned," 
 
 Thn-i calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
 
 "An active principle: — howe'er removed 
 
 From sense and observation, it subsi.^ts 
 
 In all things, in all natures, in the stars 
 
 Of azure heaven, the unetiduring clouds, 
 
 \n flower and tree, in every pebblv stone 
 
 That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 
 
 The moving waters, and the invisible air. 
 
 Whate'er exists haih properties that spread 
 
 Beymid itself, communicating good 
 
 A simple blessing, or wiih evil mixed; 
 
 Spiiit that knows no insulated spot. 
 
 No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 
 
 Jt circulates, the Soul of all the Worlds. 
 
 This is the freedom of the Universe ; 
 
 Unlolded still the more, more visible. 
 
 The more we know ; and yet is reverenced least, 
 
 And least resp(!Cted, in the humnn Mind, 
 
 It:; most apparent home. The food of hope 
 
 Is metli.ated action ; robbed of this 
 
 Her sole support, she languishes and dies. 
 
 We perisli also ; for we live by hope 
 
 And by desire ; we see hy the glad light, 
 
 And breathe the sweet air of futurity, 
 
 And so we live, or else we liave no life. 
 
 To-morrow— nay perchance this very hour, — 
 
 (For every moment hath its own to-morrow!) 
 
 Those blooming Boys, whose hearts aie almost sick 
 
 VVih present triumph, will he sure to find 
 
 A field before them freshened with the dew 
 
 Of other expectations ;~in which course 
 
 Their happy year spins round. The youth ottcys 
 
 A like glad impulse; and so moves the Man 
 
 'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears,— 
 
 Or so he ought to move. Ah ! wliy in age 
 
 Do we revert so fondly to the walks 
 
 Of Ciiildhood— -but that there the Soul discerns 
 
 The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired 
 
 Of her own native vigour — thence can hear 
 
 Reverberations; and a choral song, 
 
 Commingling with the incense that asccnd^s 
 
 Undaunted, tow'rd the inipeii^^hable heavens, 
 
 From her own lonely altar 1— Do not think 
 
 Tliat Good and Wise ever will be allowed, 
 
 Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate 
 
 As shall divide them wholly from the etir 
 
 Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
 
 That Man descends into the Vai.e of years ; 
 
 Yet have I thought thai we might also speak, 
 
 And not presumptuously. 1 trust, of Age, 
 
 As of a fin;il EMiNENOb;, though bare 
 
 'n aspect and forbidding, yet a Point 
 
 On which 'tis 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 
 
 Hi ill Peaks, that bound the vale where now we are. 
 
 Faint, and diminishe<l to the gazing eye. 
 
 Forest and field, and hill and dale appear. 
 
 With all the shapes upon their surface spread : 
 
 But, while the gross and %'isible frame of thinga 
 
 Relinquishes its hold upon the sense, 
 
 Yea almost on the Mind herself, and seems 
 
 Al) unsubstantializ,-.d, — how loud the voice 
 
 Of waters, with invigorated peal 
 
 From the full River in the vale below, 
 
 Ascending I — 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. 
 
 " \\\(i 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 favour, suittul to our need? 
 What more than that the severing sliould confer 
 Fresh power to commune with the invisible vyorld, 
 And hear the mighty stream of tendency 
 Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 
 A clear sonorous voice, inaudibbi 
 To the vast mwltitude : wliose doom it is 
 To run the giddy round of vain delight. 
 Or fret and labour on the Plain below. 
 
 " Rut, if to such suhiime ascent the hopes 
 Of Man, may rise', as to a welcome close 
 And te-niination of his mortal course. 
 Them only can such hope inspire whose minda 
 Have not been starved by ahs{dnte neglect ; 
 Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil ; 
 To whom kind Nature, therefore, may afford 
 Proof of the sacred love she bears for all ; 
 Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may ensure. 
 For me, consulting what I feel wiiliin 
 In times when most existence with herself 
 Is satisfied, I cannot but believe, 
 That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 
 And Reason's sway predominates, even so far, 
 Country, society, jjnd time itself, 
 
2T0 
 
 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, 
 
 That saps the Iiidividuars Itndily frame, 
 
 And lays the fieneration? low in dust, 
 
 Do, by the Ahnighty Ruler's grace, partake 
 
 Of one inaK^rnal spirU, hriiigiiig forth 
 
 And cherishing with ever-constant love. 
 
 That tires not, nor betrays. Onr Life is turned 
 
 Out of her course, wherever Man is made 
 
 An offering, or a sacrifice, a tool 
 
 Cr implement, a passive Thing employed 
 
 As a brute mean, without acknowledgnieni 
 
 Of common risrht 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 pood, 
 
 And strength in evil ? Hence an afier-cali 
 
 For chastisement, and custody, and bonds, 
 
 And oft-times Death, avenger of the past, 
 
 And the soIh guardian in whose hands we dare 
 
 Entrust the future — Not for these sad issues 
 
 Was Man created; but to obey the 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 themselves become 
 
 .-Strong to subvert our noxious qualities : 
 
 They sweep Histen)per from the busy day. 
 
 And n)ake the Cha.ice of the big round Vear 
 
 Run o'er with gladness; whence the Being moves 
 
 In beauty through the world ; and all who see 
 
 Bless him, rejoicing in his neighbourhood." 
 
 " Then," said the Solitary, " by what force 
 .Of language shall a feeling Heart express 
 Her sorrow for that multitude in wiiom 
 We look for health from seeds that have been sown 
 In sickness, and for increase in a pf)wer 
 That works but by extinction ? On themselves 
 They rannot han, nor turn to their (rwn hearts 
 To know what they must do ; their wisdom ia 
 To look into the eyes of others, thence 
 To be instriicted 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 ihe air 
 The Oppressor breathes, their human Form divine, 
 And their immortal Soul, may waste away." 
 
 The Sase rejoined, " I t>ank yon— you have spared 
 My voire the utterance of a keen reirret, 
 A wide compassion which with you I share. 
 When, heretofore, I pinced 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, F con'd forget 
 The rustic Boy. who wnlks the fields, untaught ; 
 Tf>e s'nve of iunornnce, and oft of want, 
 And miserable hunger. Mnc'i, too much 
 O'* this unhappy lot, in early youth 
 We both have witnessed, lot which T myself 
 Shared, though in mild and merciful detrree : 
 Yet was the mind to hinderances exposed, 
 Throuffh which I struggled, not without distress 
 And sometimes injury, like a Lamb enthralled 
 'Mid thorns and brambles ; or a Bird that breaks 
 Throngh a strong net, and mounts upon the wind, 
 Though with her plumes impaired. If the\ , whose souls 
 Should open while they ranjze the richer fields 
 Of merry England, are obstrticted less 
 By indigence, their ignorance is not less, 
 Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt 
 That tens of thousands at this dny exist 
 Sue'' as the Boy you pnirtted, lineal Heirs 
 Of those who once were Vassals of her soil, 
 Following its fot tunes like the beasts or trees 
 
 Which it sustained. But no one takes delight 
 
 In this oppression ; none c:re 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, — 
 
 Arts in themselves beneficent and kind. 
 
 But all too fondly followed and too far; 
 
 To Victims, which the merciful can see 
 
 Nor ihink that ihey are Victims ; turned to wrongs *> 
 
 By Women, who have Children of their own, 
 
 Beheld without compassion, yea with praise I 
 
 I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
 
 With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads 
 
 The healil'.ier, the securer, we liecome ; 
 
 Delusion which a moment may destroy ! 
 
 Lastly, [ mourned for those whom I had seen 
 
 Corrupted and cast down, on favoured ground. 
 
 Where circumstance and nature had combined 
 
 T(» 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 Rare endowed 
 With the same upright form ! — The sun is fixed, 
 And the infinite magnificence of heaven. 
 Fixed within reat^h of every human eye; 
 The sleepless Ocean murniurs (brail ears; 
 The vernal field infuses fresh deliglu 
 Into all hearts. Throughout ihe Wf>rld of sense. 
 Even as an object is sublime or fair, 
 That object is laid op^-n to t!ie vii w 
 Without reserve or veil ; and as a power 
 fs salutary, oi an influence sweet. 
 Are each and all enaliled 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, freedom in thft will, 
 Conscience 'o guide and check ; and death to be 
 Foretasted, inimortaliiy presumed. 
 Sirange, then, nor less than monstroup might be deemed 
 The failure, it the Almi^hty, to this point 
 Liberal and nndistinguishing, should hide 
 The excellence of moral qualities 
 From common understanding ; leaving truth 
 And virtue, difiicuh, abstruse, and dark; 
 Hard to be won, and <mly by a few ; 
 Sirange, should He deal herein with nice respects, 
 And frustrate all the rest! Believe it not: 
 The jnimal dutns shine alolt — like stars; 
 The chaiiiie::, 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 mystery is here ; no special boon 
 For high and not for low, for proudly graced 
 And not for meek of heart. The smcvke ascends 
 To heaven as lightly froni the Cottage hearth 
 As from the hangliiy palace. He, whose &ouI 
 Ponders this true equality, may walk 
 The fields of earth Vv'iih gratitude asid hope ; 
 Yet, in that nie«iiiaiion, will he find 
 Moiive to sadder grief, as we have found, — 
 Lamenting ancient virtues overthiown, 
 And for the injustice giieving, that hath made 
 So wide a difference betwixt Man and Man. 
 
 " But let us rather turn our gladdened thoughts 
 Upon the bri<.'hter scene. How blest that Pair 
 Of blooming Boys (whom we beheld even now) 
 Blest in their several and their common lot ! 
 
And an evening visit to the lake. 
 
 271 
 
 A few short hours of each returning day 
 The thriving Prisoners of iheir Villape school : 
 . And thence let loose, lo seek their pleasant homes 
 Or ranp»? the prawsy lawn in varan' y, 
 To breaihe and to he happv, run and shout 
 Idle, — but no dplay, no harm, no loss ; 
 For every pcniial Power of heaven and earth, 
 Through all ihe seasons of the changeful year, 
 Obsequiously doth take nprtn herself 
 To lalidiir for them ; bririj:ing each in turn 
 The tribute of enjoyment, knowiedpe, health, 
 1 eauty, or strejigih 1 Such privi:e<:e is theirs, 
 Granfed alike in llje outset of their course 
 To both; and, if that partnership must cease, 
 I grieve no',," to ihi> Pastor here lie turned, 
 "Much as I plory in that I'hiid of yours, 
 Ri'pitie not, for his ('otTage-comrade, whom 
 Belike no higher destiny awaits 
 Than the old hereditary wii-h fulfilled, 
 The wish for liberty to live — content 
 With what Heaven grants, and die — in peace of mind, 
 Within the hosoui of fiis native Vale. 
 At least, whatever fate the noon of life 
 Reserves for either, this is sure, that both 
 Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn ; 
 Whether regarded as a jocun*' time, 
 Thai in itself may terminate, or lead 
 In course of nature to a s(jber eve. 
 Both have been f;iirly dealt with ; looking back 
 They will allow that justice has in them 
 Been shown— alike to body and to inind." 
 
 He paused, ns if revolving in his soul 
 Some weighty matter, then, with fervent voice 
 And an impassi«med majesty, exclaimed, 
 " O for the eoming of that glorious time 
 Whe'i, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
 And best protection, this Imperial Realm, 
 While she exacts allegiance, sha'l admit 
 An obligation, on her part, to teach 
 Them who are born to serve her and obey; 
 Binding herself by Statute* to secure 
 Fur all the Children whom her soil maintains 
 The ruditnents of Letters, and inform 
 The mind with moral and religious truth. 
 Both understood, and practised,— so that none, 
 However destitute, be left to droop 
 By timely culture unsjstained ; or run 
 Into a wild disorder ; or be forced 
 To drudge through weary' life without the aid 
 Of intellectual implements and tools; 
 A savage Horde among the civilized, 
 A servile Band among the lordly free ! 
 Tliis sacred right, the lisping Babe proclaims 
 To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will. 
 For the protecticm of bis 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 iujpious use— by process indirect 
 Drclares his due, while he makes known his need. 
 -This sacred right is fruitlessly announced, 
 This universal plea in vain addressed, 
 To eyes and ears of Pa-ents who themselves 
 Did. in the time of their necessity. 
 Urge it in vain ; and, therefore, like a prayer 
 That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven, 
 It mounts to reach the State's parental ear ; 
 Who, if indeed she own a Mother's lieart, 
 
 * The discovery of Dr. Bell affords marvellous facili- 
 ties forcarryiria:|,is ii.ro effect; atid it is impossible 
 tnovcr-ra e the benefit which might accrue to humani;y 
 from the univer^al api)lica,ion of this ^i.uple engine 
 Under aa enlightened and conscientious government. 
 
 And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
 
 Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 
 
 The ui qufstionable good; which England, 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 Ca'pe's sunburnt cliff* ■ 
 To the flat margin of the Baltic sea, 
 Lcng-ieverenced Titles cast away as weeds ; 
 Laws overiurned ;— 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 destroyed. 
 Meantime the Sovereignty of these fair Isles 
 Remains entire and indivisible; 
 
 And, if th.it ignorance were removed, which breeds 
 Witlim the compass of their several shores 
 Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each 
 Might still preserve llie ijeauiilul repose 
 Of heavenly Bodies shining in their spheres. 
 — The discipline or slavery is unknown 
 Amongst us,— iience the more do we require 
 The discipline of virtue ; order else 
 Oannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
 Thus, duties rising out of good possessed, 
 And prudent cauiion needful to avert 
 Impending evil, equally require 
 
 That the whole pe(ip!e should be taught and trained.- 
 So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
 Be rooted out, and virtuous JialMts take 
 Their place ; and genuine piety des d 
 Like an inheritance, from age to age. 
 
 " With such foundations laid, avaunt the feaT 
 Of numbers crowded on their native soil, 
 To the prevention of all healthful growth 
 Thiongh mutual injury ! Rather in the law 
 Of increase and the mandate fn)m above 
 Rejoice I — and Ye have special cause for joy. 
 — For, as ihe element of air affords 
 An easy passage to the industrious bees 
 Fraught with their burthens ; and a way as smooth- 
 For thuse ordained to take their sounding flight 
 From the thronged hive, and settle where they list' 
 In fresh abodes, their labour to renew ; 
 So the wide waters, open to the power, 
 The will, the instincts, and appointed nteds 
 Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 
 Her swarms, and in succession send them fortlii 
 Bound to establish new communities 
 On every shore whose aspect favours hope 
 Or bold adventure; promising to skill 
 And perseverance their deserved reward. 
 — Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake. 
 " Change wide, and deep, and silently performed, 
 This Land shall witness; and as days roll on, 
 Earih'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 
 With civil arts, that send their fragrance forth, 
 A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 
 From Culture, unexclusively best(!wed 
 On Albion's noble Race in fre'-dom 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 cirumference of hope — and Ye 
 Are at its centre, British Lawgivers ; 
 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, 
 
272 
 
 DISCOURSE 0^ THE WAN'D2RKIt, 
 
 And shall the venerable Halls J'e fill 
 
 Refuse to echo the sublime decree ? 
 
 Trust not to partial care a general good ; 
 
 Transfer not to Futuriiy a work 
 
 Of urgent need.— Your Country must complete 
 
 Her glorious destiny. — Begin pven now, 
 
 Now, when Oppression, like the Egyptian plngue 
 
 Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe, makes 
 
 The brightness more con.'picuous, that invests 
 
 The happy Island where ye think and act; 
 
 Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit, 
 
 Show to the wretched Nations for what end 
 
 The Powers of civil Polity were given 1" 
 
 Abruptly here, but with a grnceful air, 
 The Sage broke off. No sooner had he ceased 
 Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
 ' Behold the shades of afternoon have f;illen 
 Upon this flowery slope ; and see — beyond — 
 The Lake, though bright, is of a placid blue ; 
 As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
 How temptingly the Landscape shines I — The air 
 Breathes invitation ; easy is the walk 
 T»^ the Lake's margm, where a Boat lies moored 
 Beneath her 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 ?unb<am glides along the hills 
 She vanished— eager to in)pnrt the scheme 
 Tj her beloved Brother anrl his shy Compeer. 
 -^Now was there bustle in the Vicar's house 
 And enrnest preparation.— Forth we went. 
 And down the Vale along the Streamlet's edge 
 Pursued our way, a brt.ken Company, 
 I>Iute or conversing, single or in ]mi''3- 
 Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched 
 The hasty rivniet where it lay becalmed 
 In a deep pool, by napi)y chance we saw 
 A two-fold imace ; on a grassy bank 
 A snow-white Ram, and in the crystal flood 
 AtKHlier and the same ! INJost beautiful, 
 On the green turf, with his imperial front 
 
 Sl;aj.'gy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, 
 The breathing Creature stood ; as beautiful, 
 Beneath liim, shtv/t d his shadowy Counterpart. 
 Each had his g'owing mountains, each his sky, 
 And each seemed centre of his own fair world : 
 Antipodes unconscious of each otiier. 
 Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 
 Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight I 
 
 " 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 jiariicular ear, 
 " I love to hear that eloquent Old Man 
 Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
 On human life from infanry to age. 
 How pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
 His nwiid 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, 
 Like those reflected in yon quiet Pool, 
 Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, 
 To great and small disturbances exposed." 
 Moe had she said -but sportive shouts were heard ; 
 S.e'it from the jocund hearts of those two Boys, 
 Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
 Down the green field came tripping after us. 
 -When we had cauiionsly embarked, the Fair 
 
 Now for a prouder service were addresf 
 
 But an inexorable law forbade. 
 
 And each resigned the oar which he had seized: 
 
 Wliereat, wiih willing hand I undcMtook 
 
 The needful labour; grateful task !- -to me 
 
 Pregnant with recollections of the time 
 
 When, on thy bosorn, spacious Windermere! 
 
 A Youth, I practised this delightful art; 
 
 Tossed on the waves alone, or niid a crew 1 
 
 Of joyous Comrades.--Now, the reedy marge 
 
 Cleared, with a strenuous arm I dif)ped the oar, 
 
 Free from obstruction ; and the Boat advanced 
 
 Through crystal water, smoo.hly as a Hawk, 
 
 That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
 
 Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves 
 
 With corresi ondent wings the abyss of air. 
 
 — " Observe," the Vicar said, " Yon rocky Isle 
 
 With birch-trees fringed ; my hand shall guide the helm, 
 
 While thitherward we bend our course ; or while 
 
 We seek that other, on the western shore, — 
 
 Where the bare columns of those lofty firs, 
 
 Supporting gracefullv a massy Dome 
 
 Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 
 
 A Grecian Temiile rising from the Deep." 
 
 " Turn where we may," said T, " we cannot err 
 In this delicious Rejzion."- -Cultured slopes, 
 W^ild tracts of fore-t-ground, and scattered grove.*?, 
 And mountains bare---or clothed with ancientwoods, 
 Surrounded ns ; 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 diver.«e'y combined. 
 Producing change of beauty ever new. 
 — Ah' that such beauty, var\ing in the light 
 Of living nature, cannot be portrayed 
 By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill; 
 But is tlie property of him alone 
 Who hath beheld it, noted it with care. 
 And in his mind recorded it vam h love! 
 Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 
 Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks 
 Of trivial occnpatirns wo]\ devised. 
 And unsoushr pleasures sprinrinff up by chance ; 
 As if some friendly Genius hrd ordained 
 That, as the day thus far had been enriched 
 Bv acqiiisition of sincere delight. 
 The fame should be continued to its close. 
 
 One spirit anlma<ing old and young, 
 A gipsy fire we kindled on the shore 
 Of the fair Isle with biich-trees fiinged— and there,- 
 Merrily seated in a ring, paiteok 
 The beveiage drawn from China's fragrant herb. 
 — Lanched from our handa tlie smooth stone skimmed- 
 
 the lake; 
 With shouts we roused tlie echoes ;--stiller sounds 
 The lovely Girl supplied- a simple song, 
 Whose low tones reached not to the distant rocks 
 To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
 Into our hearts; and charmed the peaceful flood. 
 Rapaciously we gathered floweiy 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 L'ly of the Vale, 
 That loves the ground, and from the sun withhold* 
 Her pensive beauty, from the breeze her sweets. 
 
 Such product, and such pastime did the place' 
 And season yield ; but, as we re-embarked, 
 Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 
 Of that wild Spot, the Soli;ary said 
 In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 
 '' The fire, that burned so brightly to our wish, 
 Where is it now 1 Deserted on the beach 
 It seems extinct; nor shall the fanning brecaa 
 
AND AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAiLE. 
 
 Revive its ashes. What care we for this, 
 
 Whose ends are {rained 1 Beliold an emblem here 
 
 <)f one day's pleasure, and all UKJital joys! 
 
 And, In this unpreuiediiated slight 
 
 Of that which is no longer needed, see 
 
 The conuiiou course of hunjan gratitude !" 
 
 This plaintive note disturbed not the repose 
 Of the still evniiig. P.ight acro^^s the Luke 
 Our pinnace moves: then, coasting creek and bay, 
 ixlades we behold — and into thickets peep--- 
 Where couch the Fpotted deer ; or raised our eyes 
 To shapgy steeps on which the careless goat 
 Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls. 
 Thus did the Bark, m,ea;idering vviih the shore, 
 Pursue 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, opt^ning out her bosom, gave 
 Fair prospect, intercepted less and less, 
 Of the flat rrr-iadows and indented coast 
 Of the smooib lake — in compass seen —far otf, 
 And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church-tower, 
 In majesty presiding over fields 
 And habiiwlions, seemingly preserved 
 From the intrusion of a restless world 
 By rocks impassable and monn.ams liuge. 
 
 Soft heath this elevated spot supplied. 
 And choice of ntoss-clad stones, whereon we couched 
 Or sate reclined— admiring quietly 
 The general aspect of the scene ; but each 
 Not s^^ldom over anxious to mike known 
 His owij discoveries; or to tavouriie points 
 Directing notice, merely from a wish 
 To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
 Ttiat rapturous mcnnent ne'er shall 1 forget 
 When these particular interests were effaced 
 From every mind I — Already had the sun, 
 Sitiking With less than ordinary state, 
 
 Attained his western bound: but rays of light — 
 
 Now suddenly diverging frnu) the orb 
 Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled 
 
 By the d use air — shot upwards to the crown 
 
 Of the blue firmament— aloft and wide: 
 
 And muliiiudHs of little floatimr clouds, 
 
 Ere we, who sav»r, of chang-- were conscious, pierced 
 
 Thronsh their ethereal texture, had become 
 
 Vivid as fire— clouds separately poised, 
 
 Innumerable ninliinide (jf Forms 
 
 Scattered through half the circle of the sky: 
 
 And giving back, and shedding each on each, 
 
 With prodigal couimunion, tin- bright hues 
 
 Which from the unapparent Fcmnt 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, wi U eyes intent 
 
 On the refulgent- spectacle— diffused 
 
 Through earth, sky. water, and all visible space, 
 
 The Priest in holy transport thus exclaimed-- 
 
 " Eternal Spirit! universal God! 
 Power inaccessible to hnmat) thought, 
 Save by degrees and step 
 To furnish : for tiiis efliuence of Thyself, 
 To the infirmity of mortal sense 
 Vouchsafed ; this local transitory type 
 
 273 
 
 Such as they are who iti thy presence staod 
 Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
 Impeiishable majesty streamed forth 
 From thy empyreal Throne, the elect of Earth 
 Shall be— divested at the appointed hour 
 Of all dishonour — cleansed from mortal stain. 
 —Accomplish, then, their number ; and conclude 
 Time's weary course ! Or if, by ihy 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 Lav7,' 
 As it is written in thy holy Book, 
 Throughout all lands : let every nation hear 
 The higli behest, and every heart obey ; 
 Both for the love of plurity, 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 I this prayer in bounty grant^' 
 In mercy grant it to thy wretched Sons. 
 Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease. 
 And cruel Wars expire. The way is marked, 
 The guide a[)pointed, and the ransom paid. 
 Alas! the Nations, Who of yore received 
 These tidings, and in Christian Temples meet 
 The sacred truth to acknowli'dge, linger still ; 
 Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
 Of holy freedoir*, by redeeming love 
 Proffered to all, while yet on earth detained. 
 
 " So fare the many ; and the thoughful few, 
 Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
 This dire perversen^ss, cannot choose but ask, 
 Shall it endure ? — Shall enmity and strife. 
 Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed ; 
 And the kind never perish 1 fs the hope 
 F'allacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
 A pea eab!e dominion, wide as earth. 
 And ne'er to fail ? Shall that blest day arrive 
 When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 
 hi crowded cities, without fear shall live 
 Stu('ious of mutual benefit ; and he. 
 Whom morning wakes, among sweet dews and flowers 
 Of every clime, to till the lonely field, 
 Re happy in himself? — The law of faith 
 Woiking throiiiih love, such conquest shall it gain. 
 Such iiiurnph over sin and guilt achieve 7 
 Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart! 
 And will) that help the wonder shall he seen 
 Fulfilled, the ho[ie accomplished ; and thy praise 
 Be sung with transport and unceasii g joy. 
 
 )s which Thou hast deigned 
 
 aven, 
 
 Of thy paternal splendours, and the po.np 
 
 Of those who ^^^^^y''^^''''''\';:^'tJ!^: 
 
 The radiant Cherubim ;-accept the thanks 
 
 iner.Kiiaiit , ,„ r.-^irnres here convened, 
 
 Which we, thy hnn.ble C.taiu.es, n r 
 
 ^ ,r,r. . ^vp v'ho from the nreasi 
 
 Presume to olfer ^^'[^ ^^ behold 
 
 Of the frail earth, i^ermUtcd lo 
 
 The faint reflections only o ihy J^p 
 
 Are yet exalted, and in sou^ adore . 
 
 "Once," and with mild demeanour, as he spake,' 
 On us the venerable Pastor turned 
 His beaminir 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 naticHi bowed the head 
 To Gods delighting in rernorseless deeds ; 
 Gods which themselves had fashioned, to promote 
 ni purposes, and flatter foul desires. 
 Then, -n the bo'om of yon mountain cove, 
 To those inventions of corrupted Man 
 Mysterious rites were solemnized ; and there. 
 Amid impending rocks at)d gloomy woods, 
 Of those terrific Idols, some received 
 Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 
 Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard 
 Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome, 
 Though aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks' 
 Of human Victims, offered up to appease 
 Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 
 fJad visionary faculties to see 
 The thing that haih been as the thing that i^, 
 Aghast we mjght behold this crystal Mere 
 Bedjmmed with ijnoke, in wreaths voluniinoug, 
 
274 
 
 ITARROW REVISITED. 
 
 FHin^ from the body of devouiiiig fires, 
 
 To Tavanis erected on tlie lieigliis 
 
 By piieptly linnds, for sMcrifici' perrormed 
 
 Exuliingly, in view of open day 
 
 And full Hsspmblage of a barbarous Host; 
 
 Or to Andates, Feinale Power! who gave 
 
 (For so ibey fancied) {iloiious Victory. 
 
 — A few rude Monum<'nts of mounuiin-stone 
 
 Survive; all else is swept away.— H( w biiifht 
 
 The appearanres of ibinps ! From such, how changed 
 
 The exislirip: worship; and with those compared, 
 
 The Worshippers hew iiinocen^ and blest ! 
 
 So wide the difference, a willing mind, 
 
 At this affecting hour, might almost think 
 
 That Parndi>--e, »he lost abode of man, 
 
 Was raised ngnin : and to a Iinpp\' Few, 
 
 In its original beauty, here restored. 
 
 — Whence but from Thee, the true and only God 
 
 And from the faith derived through Him wlio bled 
 
 Upon the <^ross, tlis 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, 
 
 Palled to such office by the ..eaceful sound 
 
 Of Sabbath bells; and Ye, who sleep in earth, 
 
 All cares foigotten, round ils buillowed \^alls ! 
 
 For You, in presence of tiiis linle liand 
 
 Gathered together on the green hill-.^ide, 
 
 Y'our Pas' or is emboldened to prefer 
 
 Vo( al thanksgivings to the Eten.al King ; 
 
 Whose love, wliose counsel, whose commands have 
 
 made 
 Your very poorest rich in peace of thcuight 
 Aiid in good works; and Him, who is endowed 
 With scantiest knowledge, Master of all trulli 
 Wliich the salvation of his soul requires, 
 r'oiisc.ious of i' at abundant (avoiir sliov/ered 
 On you, the Thi dien of my humli'e ca;e, 
 And this dear Land, our Countiy, while on Earth 
 We sojourn, have i lilted up mV soul, 
 Joy giving voice to fervent graii;u(;e. 
 These barren rocks, your stern inheriianre ; 
 These fertile fields, that recompense your pains; 
 The sliadowy vale, the sunn\ mountain-top; 
 Woods waving in the wind their lofty lieads, 
 Or hushed; the roaring waters, and the still; 
 They see the offering of my liftid hand- — 
 They hear my lips present their sr c -fice — 
 They know if I be silent,, morn or eveti : 
 
 For, though in whispers speaking, the fuU fiesLTt 
 Will find a vent; and Thought is praise to Him, 
 Audible praise, to Tliee, Omniscient Mind, 
 From Wiiom all gifts descend, all blessings flow!"" 
 
 This verper service closed, without delay, 
 From tliat exalted station to the plain 
 Descending, we pursued our henifward course^ 
 ir) mute composure, o'er the shad(iwy lake, 
 Beneath a faded sky. No trace remained 
 Of those celestial splendours : grey the vault, 
 Pure, cloudless ether; aid ihe Siar of Eve 
 Was wanting ;— but inferior Lights appeared 
 Faintly, too faint almost for sight ; and some 
 Above the darkened bills stood boldly forth 
 In twinkling lustre, ere tlie Boat attained 
 Her mooring-place ; — wlure, to the slielieiinjc tree 
 Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow, 
 Willi prompt yet careful hands. Tliis done, W<j paced 
 The dewy fields ; but ei° the Vicar's door 
 Was reached, the Solitary checked his steps; 
 Then, intermingling thanks, on each besKnved 
 A farewell salutaiifui, — and, the like 
 Receiving, took the slender path that leads 
 'i'o the one Cottage in the lonely dell ; 
 But turned not without welcome piomise given. 
 That he would sha^e the plea>uies and fiursuits 
 Of yet another summer's day, consumed 
 In wandeiing wiih us thmugh the Valleys fair, 
 And o'er the Mouniain wastes. " Another sun,'* 
 Said he, " shall shine upon us, ere we part, — 
 Another sun, and peradventure more ; 
 If time, wi(h free consent, is yours to give, — 
 And season favours." 
 
 To enfeebled Power, 
 From this communion with uninjuied Mind?, 
 What renovation had bten brcjught ; and what 
 Degree of healing to a wounded spirit, 
 Dejected, and habitually di.-posed 
 To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
 Excuse and solace lor ber own defects ; 
 H(;w lar those erring noiions were reformed ; 
 And whether aught, of tendency as good 
 And pure, from lurtJier inieicourse ensued; 
 Tlii? — (if de ighitul hopes, as heretofore, 
 hii-pirc the seiious soirg, and gentle Hearts 
 Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past) 
 My future Labours may not leave untold. 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESa. 
 
 AS A TESTIMONY OF FRIKNTSKIP, AKD AN ACKNOW- 
 LEDGMENT OF INTELLECTUAL OBLIGATIONS. THIS 
 VOLUME 13 AFKEf TlON nTELY INSCRinEP, BY 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 Rydal Mount, Dec. 11, 1834. 
 
 [The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day 
 passed with Sir Walter Scott, and other Friends vis- 
 iting the Banks of the Yarrow under his cuidance, 
 immediately before his departure from Abbotsford, 
 for Naples. 
 
 The title Yarroio Revisited will stand in no need 
 of explanation, for Readers acquainted with the Au- 
 thor's previous poem 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, 
 
 T'-eir 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 buFV thoughts the stream flowed on 
 
 Tn foamy agitation; 
 And slept in many a crystal pool 
 
 For quiet contemplation : 
 No public and no private care 
 
 The freeborn mind enthralling', 
 We made a day of haj-py hours, 
 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
YARROW REVISITED, 
 
 275 
 
 lirtfik youth appeared, the morn of youth, 
 
 With freaks of graceful folly,— 
 Life's temperate noon, her sober eve 
 
 Her night not meiancholly, 
 Past, present, futtire, all appeared 
 
 In harmony united, 
 Like guests that meet, and some from far, 
 
 By cordial love invited. 
 
 And if, as Yarrovi^, through the woods 
 
 And down the meadow ranging, 
 Did meet us with unaltered face, 
 
 Though we were changed and changing; 
 If then^ ^ctme natural shadows spread 
 
 Our inward prospect over. 
 The soul's deep valley was not slow 
 
 Its brightness to recover. 
 
 Eternal blessings on the Muse, 
 
 And her divine employment ! 
 The blameless Muse, who trains her sons 
 
 For hope and ralm enjoyment; 
 Albeit sickness linsering yet 
 
 Has o'er their pillow brooded; 
 And care waylay their steps— a Sprits 
 
 Not easily eluded. 
 
 For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change 
 
 Green Ei'dou hill and Cheviot, 
 For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes; 
 
 And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
 For mild Sorenio's hreezv waves; 
 
 May classic fancy, linking 
 With native fancy her fre>h aid, 
 
 Preserve thy heart from sinking! 
 
 O ! while they minister to liiee, 
 
 Each wing with the other, 
 May health return to mellow a'^e, 
 
 Wi!li strength, her venturous brother; 
 An! Tiber, and ea h brook ;»nd rill 
 
 Renowned in song and sTo-y, 
 ' With unimnsined beanty shine, 
 
 Nor lose one ray of glory ! 
 
 For thou, upon a hundred streams. 
 
 By lales of love and sorrfiw, 
 Of faithful love, und;iunted tru»h, 
 
 Hast shed the power of Yavrnw ; 
 And streams unknown, hilts yet unseen, 
 
 Where'er tliy path invite thee, 
 * At parent Nature's grf-te''ul call, 
 
 Wiih gladness must requite thee. 
 
 A gracious welcome shall be thine. 
 
 Such looks of love and honor 
 As thy own Ya-row gave to me 
 
 When first I gazed upon her ; 
 Behe'd what T h;.d feared to see, 
 
 Unwilling to surrender 
 Dreams treastiied np from early days, 
 
 The holy and the terwder. 
 And what, for this frail world, were all 
 
 That mortals do or suffer, 
 Did no responsive harp, no pen, 
 
 Mi-morial tril)nte offer 7 
 Yea, what werf mighty Vature's self? 
 
 Her featnres, could they win us, 
 Unhelped by the poetic voice 
 
 That hourly spf^aks within us 1 
 Nor deem that localized romance 
 
 Plays false with our atn-ctions ; 
 Unsanctifies our tears-made sport 
 
 For fanciful dejections: 
 Ah no! the visions of the past 
 
 Sustain the heart in feeling 
 
 -he i-^— onr changeful life, 
 ^ With friends and kindred dealing. 
 
 B'^ar witness, ye, whose thoughts that day 
 
 lu Yarrow's groves were center'd ; 
 Who through the silent portal arch 
 
 Of mouldering Newark enter'd ; 
 And clomb the winding stair that once 
 
 Too liundly wms mount«'d 
 By the " last Minstrel," (not the last) 
 
 Ere lie hi.s tale ..n.uiiied! 
 
 Flow on forever, Yarrow stream ! 
 
 Fulfil thy pensive duty. 
 Well pleaded that future bards should chant 
 
 For simple hearts thy beanty. 
 To dream-light dear while yet unseen. 
 
 Dear to the common sunshine. 
 And dearer still, as now 1 feel, 
 
 To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 
 
 SONNETS, 
 
 r. 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM: 
 ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. 
 
 A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain. 
 
 Nor of the setiiug sun's parhetic light 
 
 Engendered, hangs o'er EUdon's triple height: 
 
 Spirits of [)(>wer, assembh;d there, complain 
 
 For kinrlred power def)aning froFU their sight; 
 
 While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, 
 
 Sa<ldens his voice airain, and yet aEain. 
 
 Lift up your hearts, ye mourners! for the might 
 
 Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 
 
 Blest^ings and prayers in nf)b'er retinue 
 
 Than scepired king or laurelled conqueror knows, 
 
 Follow this wtmdrous poteiitate. Be true. 
 
 Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, 
 
 Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope ! 
 
 ir. 
 
 A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Part fenced by man, part by a raised stfep 
 That curbs a foamiiiz brook, a crave-vard lies ; 
 The hare's best confhiig-p'ace for fearless sleep ; 
 Which moonlit elves, far seen by cr'-d ilons eyes. 
 Enter in dance. Of church or Sahhafh ties, 
 No vestJL'e nrtvv remnin^^: yi^i^ thirher creep 
 Bereft oTies, and in low'y anLmish weep 
 Their [iravers out \^^ the wind and naked skies. 
 Proud tomb is none: but rud'-ly-sculptured Knights 
 By hnmh'e choice of plain old 'imes, are i^ee.a 
 Level with earih, aruMiuT the hillock^ ereen : 
 Union not sad, when snnny daybreak smites 
 The s[)an^gled turf, and nei ihhnnriiig thickets ring 
 W\ih jubilate from the choirs of spring! 
 
 III. 
 
 ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH OF SCOT- 
 LAND. 
 
 Say, ye far-t ravelled clouds, far-seeinir hills, 
 Among the hnppiest-lookitig homf:s of nien 
 Scatter'd all Britain over, throiurh deep glen. 
 On airy upland, and bv forc^st rills, 
 And o'er wide plains whereon the sky distils 
 Her lark's loved warblings ; does aught meet your ken 
 Mnre fit to animaie the poet's pen, 
 XuL'ht that more surely by its aspect fills 
 Pure minds with sinless envy, than the abode 
 Of the good priest : who faithful through all hours 
 
276 
 
 Sonnets. 
 
 Tp liis liigh charge, and truly eerving God, 
 Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers, 
 Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod, 
 Nor covets lineal rights in lands and lowers. 
 
 IV. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING A STORM. 
 
 The wind is now thy organist ;— a clank 
 (We know not whence) ministers for a bell 
 To mark sonjo change of seivice. As tiie 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 lijne-proof, 
 Tliough Chriiiiian rites be v/nnting ! From what bank 
 Came those live herbs ? by what hand were tliey sown 
 Where dew falls not, where rain drops seem unknown ? 
 Yet in the temple tbey a friendly niche 
 Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown 
 Copy their l)eauty more and more, and preach. 
 Though mute, of all things blending into one. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE TR0SACHI3. 
 
 There's not a nook wiihin this solemn pass, 
 
 But were an apt confessional for one 
 
 Taught by his sun)mer spent, his autumn gone, 
 
 •Th I life is but a tale of morning grass, 
 
 Withered at eve. From scenes of art that chase 
 
 That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 
 
 Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, 
 
 Kocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 
 
 Untouched, nnbrcaihed upon. ThricR happy quest. 
 
 If from a golden perch of asjjen sprny 
 
 (October's workmanship to rival Mny) 
 
 Ti:e pensive wariiler of the ruddy brenst 
 
 This mora! sweeten by a heaven-iaupht lay, 
 
 Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute ; 
 jThe Roman kilt, degraded to a toy 
 Of quaint appar(;l for a iialf-spcdlt boy ; 
 The target mouldering like ungaihered fruit; 
 Tlie smoking steamboat eagf^r in pursuit. 
 As eacerly pursued ; the nmb'ella spread 
 To weaiher-fend the Celtic hcrdmian's head — 
 j*«ll speak of manners withering to the rof)t, 
 And some old honors, too, and pa.<sions high : 
 Tljen may we ask, though pleaseJ that thought should 
 
 range 
 A^Tiong the conquests of civility, 
 Survives imagination — to the change 
 Superior? IIel[» to virtue does it give 1 
 |f not, O mortals, better cease to live ! 
 
 Vll. 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE. 
 
 This land of rainbows, spanning glens whose walls 
 Kock-built, are hung with rainbow-colored 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 haJls 
 Where Fancy entertains becoming guests; 
 While native song the heroic past recals. 
 
 Thus, in the net of her own wishes caughf, 
 The Muse exclaimed ; but story now must hide 
 Her trophies, fancy crouch ;— the course of prkle 
 Has been diverted, other lessons taught. 
 That make the patriot-spirit bow her head 
 Where the all-conquering Roman feared to tread. 
 
 VIII. 
 EAGLES. 
 
 C01«[P08BD AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE BAY OF OBAIT. 
 
 Dishonoured rock and ruin I that, by lav/ 
 Tyrannic, ket^p 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 vvi'.h awe 
 Man, bird, and beast; then, with a consort paired. 
 From a bold headland, their loved aery's guard. 
 Flew higli above Atlatitic waves, to draw 
 Light from the fountain of the setting sun. 
 Such was this prisoner once ; and when his plume§ 
 The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on, 
 In spirit, for a moment, he resumes 
 His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free. 
 His power, his beauty, and his majesty. 
 
 IX. 
 
 IN TEE SOUND OF MULL. 
 
 Tradition, be thou ni\ite ! Oblivion, thiow 
 
 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 wlieie a woid, ghostlike, survives to show 
 VVIiat crin)esfrom hate, or desperate love, have sprung; 
 From honor misconceived, or fan<ied vviong, 
 What feuds, not quenched hut led by mutual wo : 
 \^et, though a wild vindictive race, untamed 
 By civil arts and labors of the pttn, 
 Could gentleness l-e scorned by rhe.'^e fierce men, 
 Who to spread wide the reverence tJiai they claimed 
 For patriarchal occupations, named 
 Yon towering peaks, " Shepherds of Etive Glen ?"* 
 
 AT TYNDRUM. 
 
 Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, 
 
 And all that Greece and Italy have sung 
 
 Of sw\ains reposing myrtle groves among! 
 
 Ours conch on naked rocks, will cross a brook 
 
 Swoln with chill rains", nor ever cast a look 
 
 This way ar that, or give it even a tboujiht 
 
 More than by smoothest pathway may be brought 
 
 Into a vacant mind. Can written book 
 
 T'^^ach what t/inj learn? Up, hardy mountaineer!' 
 
 And guide the Bard, ambitious to be one 
 
 or Nature's pri\y council, as thou art. 
 
 On cloud-.^equestered heifrhts, that see and hear 
 
 To what dread power He delegates his part 
 
 On earth, who works in the heaven of heavens, alone. 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE EARL OF EREAD/ALBANE'S RUINED MAN- 
 SION, AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE. 
 
 Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in ftrains 
 Thoughtful and sad, the " narrow house." No style 
 
 ♦ In Gaelic Buackaill Kite. 
 
BONNETS. 
 
 1^77 
 
 /Of fotid sepulchral flattery can beguile 
 Grief of her sting: ; nor cheat, where he detains 
 The sleppiiig dii^t, stern deaih: how reconcile 
 With triith, or with each other, decktd remains 
 Of a once warm ahode, and that new piie, 
 For the departed, huill with curious pains 
 And mausolean pomp ? Yet here they stand 
 Together,— 'mid trim walks and artful bowers, 
 To be looked down upon by ancient hills, 
 That, for the living nnd the dead, demand 
 And prompt a harmony of genuine powers ; 
 Concoid that elevates the mind, and stills. , 
 
 xn. 
 
 REST AND BE THANKFUL. AT THE HEAD OF 
 GLLNCROE. 
 
 DouBT.TNG and doubling with laborious walk. 
 Who, that ha? gainrd at leigih the wished fr»r height, 
 This biief, this ?imple \Aay side rail can slifhf. 
 And rfSiS not il anknil 1 "W^helber rheprtd bv talk 
 With prine loved trie'id, or by the uri?e(n hawk 
 Whistlitig to cloTids and sky-born streams, that shine 
 At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine, 
 Ere they defcend to nouiiph root and stalk 
 Of valley flowers. Nor whi'e the limbs repose, 
 Will we forget that, as the fowl ran keep 
 AbFohjte stil'T'ers, pni^ed aloft in air. 
 And fishes front nrm< ved, the torrent's sweep, — 
 ♦So may the frul, ihroufh pcwets that faith t estnws, 
 W'in rest, ajid eas-e, and peace, with bliss tliat angels 
 share. 
 
 xnr 
 
 HIGHLAND HUT. 
 
 See what gay wi'd frwers de^k tliis earth-built cot, 
 Whope ^nif'ke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, 
 Shines in the greetingr of the sun's fist ray 
 Like wrrnibs of vapor wi'.hrut stain or blot. 
 The limpid monnuiin rill avrids it not ; 
 And why >houldst thou ? If rightl\' trained and bred, 
 P«'manity is hrmb'e— lirds no rpot 
 Which her heaven-guided feet refus-e to tread. 
 The walls are cracked, sunk is the f < wery roof, 
 Undressed the y ail way b-ading to the dror ; 
 Bnt Irve, as Naiure loves, the lonely ^oor ; 
 Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof 
 Meek, patient, kind, and were its trials fewer, 
 Belike lets happy.— Stand no moie aloof!* 
 
 * This sorinft describes the rrtrrwr of j\ Hii'h'and 
 but, a>: offer" seen iinder morning or evening sunshine. 
 The reader may not be displeased widi the fol'owing 
 extract from the ioiirttal of a LaHv. my ''eMnw traveller 
 in Scotland, in tiie niitnmn of 1F03, which accurately 
 describes, under |)articular circumstances, the beaunful 
 appearance of the interior of one of these rude habita- 
 tions. 
 
 " On our return from 'he Trossachs the evening began 
 to da-ken, ard it railed so Inavi'v That we were c« m- 
 pletelv wer before we bad come two miles, and it was 
 dark when we lanrb d wnli our boatman, at his hut up- 
 on the banks of Loch Katrine, f was faint from cold : 
 the good woman had provided, according to her promise, 
 a better fire than we had found in the nxirning ; and, in- 
 deed, when I sat down in the chimney comer of her 
 smokv hi£r«.Mn, I thonght 1 bad never felt mf)re comfort- 
 ahle in my life • a i an oi coffee was boiling for ns. and, 
 having pnt our clothes in the way o\' drying, we all sar 
 drwn thankful for a shelter. We could not prevs^l up- 
 on our boatn an, the n-aster of the honse, to dr:.w near 
 thef].e, thonirh he was co'd and wet, or to sofl^er bis 
 Wife to get him drv c'othes till she had served us. wh. h 
 She did most willi'glv. though not very exped.t.onsly. 
 
 "A rnmberiand man of the same rank would not 
 have had such a noiion of what was fit and r,ght in bis 
 r. i r.r- \f hp had one would have accused him 
 
 Of s"ervTty ; bit i„%he Highlander it only seemed like 
 
 XIV. 
 THE BROWNIE. 
 
 [Upon a small island not far from the head of Loch 
 Lfimond, are sonie remains of an ancient bui ding, 
 which was for several years the abode of a solitary in- 
 dividual, one of the last survivors of tne Clan of Mac- 
 farlane, once powerful in that neighbourhood. Passing 
 along the shore opposite this island in the year 1814, 
 the author learned ihe.'^^e particulars, and thai thi'^ per- 
 son then living there had acquired the appellation of 
 
 politeness (however erroneous and painful tous\ nalu- 
 lally glowing out of the defi'-ndenee o( ilie inferiors of 
 the clan u|ton their laiid : be did not, however, reluse 
 to let his wife bring out ihe wlii>ky noiile (or ins i efresii- 
 ment, at our request. " Slie keeps a diam," as the 
 phiaseis: indeed, I believe tliete i.s scaiceiy a l«)ncly 
 iiou^e by the wayside, in Scotland, where travellers 
 may noi heaccomniediiu d wiih a diain. Wea.^ked for 
 sugar, butter, harley bread, and milk; nnd,wiili a s-ujile 
 and a stare more of kindness tiian wonder, she replied, 
 " Ye'll gft that," bringing each ariicle tepaiateiy. We 
 caroused our cu})s of cofbe, laughing like children at 
 the strange aimo^phere in whi( h we were : the smoke 
 came in gusts, and >piead along the walls ; and ahove 
 our heads in the chimney (where the hens were roost- 
 ing) like clouds in the sky. We laughed and laughed 
 again, in spite of the sniartiiiii of our i^y^-^^ yet had a 
 quieter plea.-uru in observing the beauiy of the beams 
 a Jul ra Hers gleaming heiween ilie clouds of smoke : they 
 had been crusted over, and varnished hy many wiuiers, 
 till, wheie ihe tireliglii fell upon them, they had bec(jme 
 as glossy as black rocks, on a sunny day, ca>ed in ice. 
 When we had eaten our sufiper we sat about half an 
 hour, and I think I never fell so deeply the hle.-sing ot a 
 lioi-pitahjf welccuie and a warm fire. Tlie man u\ the 
 house iepeaie»l fi« m liine to 'inie tliat we >liould often 
 tell of iliis night when we gor to our hemes, and inter- 
 poted piaises of hist wn lake, which he luul more than 
 once, when we were returning in the boat, venturtd to 
 say was " lionnier ihan Loch Lomond." Our ctunoa- 
 nion fiom lit- Trost-achs, who, ii a; i|ieaie<l. was an Ed- 
 inhurgh drawing masier g< ing, duiing the vacation, on 
 a pedesliian t< ur 10 J<dMi o'Gioal's house, was to sleep 
 ill the harn wiili my (ellow-tiavellers, where the man 
 said he had i)ienty of di v hay. I do not heli(!ve that 
 the hay o( (he [highlands is ever very dry, but this year 
 it had a better chance than u>ual : wet or dry, htivvever, 
 the next morning they said ihe> ha<l slept comlonably. 
 When 1 Went to bed, the mistress, de.^iiing nie to ''^ go 
 bfv" attended me with a candle, and assuncl me that 
 the bed wis dry, though not " sic as I had bee.i used 
 to." It wasof chaft"; there were two oiliers in the 
 rorm. a cu| luuard and i wo chests, upon one of which 
 stood mi k in wooden vessels, covered over. The walls 
 of tin whole h<uise were of stone uiplasiered : it con- 
 sisted ot three apariments, the c< vvlKmse at one end, 
 the kiichen or house in the middle, and the spence at 
 theoihtr end; the rooms weie divided, not up ro the 
 rigging but on'y to the he^ inning of the rof)i, so that 
 there was a fiee pa>sage for light and sin(d<e from one 
 ei d of the house to tlie oiher. I went to h< d some time 
 before tl e rest of ihefiimi^y : tfie door was shut heivveen 
 us, and tfiey had a hiiglit fiie, which 1 C(tuld not see, 
 hut the lithi it sent up among ihe varnished rafters and 
 b<'ams, wfiich cossed ea( h other in almost as iniiicate 
 andlanJasiic a manner ;is 1 have seen the undei- houghs 
 ot a large beech tr( e withered hy the depih of shade 
 above, piodured the most heauiiful t'tfect that can be 
 conceived. It was like wliat I should suppose an un- 
 derground cave or teniph^ to be, with a dii|iping or 
 moist roof, and the moonliglu entering in upon ii by 
 some means or oilier ; and yet the colors were more 
 like those of melted gems. 1 lay looking u[> till the 
 light of the fire faded awav, and the man anfl his wife 
 and child bad crept into their hed at the oiher end of 
 the room : I did not sleep much, but passed a c( nifort- 
 able night; for my hed, though li.ird, was vvaim and 
 clean : Hie unusiialness of my situation prevented me 
 from sleeping. I cou'd hear the waves heataL'ainst the 
 shoie of the lake : a little rill close to the door made a 
 much louder noise, and, when I sat up in my bed, I 
 criild see tlie lake through an open window p!a<e at 
 tl e bed's head. Add to this, it rained all night. I was 
 less occupied hy lememhrance of ihe Trossachs, bcau- 
 lilul as they were, than the vision of the Ilii'hland hut, 
 which 1 coiild not get out of my head : I thought of the 
 Fairv-landf>f Spenser, and what I had read in romance 
 at <.ther times, and then what a feast it would he for a 
 Lrmdon Pantomine maker could he but transplant it to 
 Drury Lane, with all it3 beautiful colors V'—MS. 
 
•S78 
 
 SUNiVETS. 
 
 " The Brownie:'' [See " The Brownif;'s Cell," in the 
 aut'ior's poems, p. 115, to which the fuliowing sonnet is 
 a sequel.] 
 
 «' Hnw flisapppared 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 gatliering flood 
 
 Of years hemm'd ronnd, had dwelt, prepared to try 
 
 Privation's worst extremities, and die 
 
 With no one near save the omnipresent God. 
 
 Verily so to live was an awfnl choice— 
 
 A choice that wears the aspect of a doom ; 
 
 But in the mould of mercy all is cast 
 
 For sonis fantiliar with the eternal voice 
 
 And this forjiottcn taper to the last 
 
 Drove from iiself, we trust, all frightful gloom. 
 
 XV. 
 
 TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR. 
 
 COMPOSED AT LOCH LOMOND. 
 
 Though joy attend ther, orient at the birth 
 
 •Of dawn, ir cheers the lofty spirit most 
 
 To watch thy course when day-light, fled from earth, 
 
 In the prey sky hath left his linjiering ghost, 
 
 Perplexed as if between a sp'endonr lost 
 
 And splendour slow'y mnsterinc Since the sui), 
 
 The absolute, the world-absorbing one, 
 
 P'^Iinquished half his einjiire to the host 
 
 Emboldened by thy gnid;iiice, holy star, 
 
 Holy as princely, who that looks on thee 
 
 touching, as now, in thy hnmi'ity 
 
 The mountain borders of this seat of CMre, 
 
 Can question that tliy countenance is bright. 
 
 Celestial power, as much with love as light ? 
 
 xvr. 
 
 BOTHWELL CASTLE. 
 
 Tmmurkd 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* at large, and have 
 
 * The followinir is from the same MS., and gives an 
 accoiintof tile visit t<i Botlnvcll Castle herealiudrd to: — 
 
 " ft was (;xc(ii<Iin2lv diMitrhtful to enter thus nnex- 
 |,ecie(liy upon siir.li a b^'aniiful rei'ion. '^l"'he casilestands 
 nobly, overlooking the ( 'lyde. When we catri" up to it, 
 I was hurt to see that flower-boiders had taken [)lace 
 of tlie natural over-growings of the ruin, the scattered 
 fc^tonf'S and wild plants. It is a large and grand pile of 
 rid freestone, haimonising fjerlectly with the rocks of 
 the riv<?r, from which, no doubt, it has been hewn. 
 When I was a little accustomed to the nnnatnralness 
 of a modern ya den, I couM not hel[) admirinjr the ex- 
 cessive beauty and Inxniiance of some of the p'anis, 
 particularly the pnrple-flowered clemaiis, and a broad- 
 le lied creepinp plum wiibont flowers, which scrambled 
 up the casile wall, along with the ivy, and spread its 
 vine-like branches so lavishly that it seemed to be in its 
 Tiainral sitnaiion, ami one could not help thinking that, 
 thouirh not self-planted among the ruins of this country, 
 it must s('mi'wb(!re havt; its native aitode in such [)lac«^s. 
 If Bolliwell ('ast'e had not been close to tin; Doutrlas 
 mansion, we should have been discnsted with the pos- 
 sessor's miserabh^ conception of odorvinff such a vene- 
 rable ruin : but it is so very near to the house, that of 
 iiecessiiy tlie pleasiire-LM-onnds must have extetuled be- 
 yond it, and jierhapsthe rn^atm-ss of a shaven lawn and 
 the coinp!(ete desniaiion natural to a ruin iniiiht h;ive 
 made an unpleasing contrast; and, besides beins wiih- 
 in the precincts of tie pleasure-grounds, and so very near 
 the dwellinjr of a nob e fnmils', it has fV)rt'eited, in some 
 degree, its itidependeiit majesty, and becomes a tributary 
 to the niansion : it^ s( li*ud<^ being interrupted, it has 
 no lonjrer the command over the mind in seiuliini it 
 back into past times, or excluding the ordinary feelings 
 
 In mind the landscape, ps if sf'H fn fiirht; 
 
 The river glides, ihe woods befor- me wave ', 
 
 Rut, by occasion tempted, now 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 
 
 Than blame the present, that our wish liath crost. 
 
 Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams obey, 
 
 Dreams, vivid dreams, thai are not fugitive: 
 
 How little that Bhe cherishes is lost ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN, 
 AT HAMILTON PALACE. 
 
 Amid a fertile region green with wood 
 
 And fresh with rivers, well doth it become 
 
 The Ducal owner, in his palace-home 
 
 To naturalize this tawny lion brfjod ; 
 
 Children of art, that claim strange brotherhood, 
 
 C«)uched in their den, with those that roam at large 
 
 Over the burning wilderness, and charge 
 
 The wind with terror while they roar fnr food. 
 
 But these are satiate, and a stillness drear 
 
 Calls info life a more enduring fear: 
 
 Yet is the Prepliet calm, nor would tJte cave 
 
 Daunt him — if bis crmpanions, now be-drnwsed, 
 
 Yawning and listless, were by huji^'er reused: 
 
 J\Lan placed him here, and God, he knows, can save. 
 
 XVIIL 
 
 THE AVON (a feeder of the Annan.) 
 
 Avon — a precious, an immortal name ! 
 Yet is it one that other rivulets bear 
 
 which we bear about us in daily life. Wp had then 
 only to regret that the castle and the house were so near 
 to each other ; and it was impo.<silile vut to regret ii ; lor 
 the ruin presides in stale over the liver, far fiom city or 
 town, as if it mijihi have a peculiar ^lrivii^ge to pre- 
 seive its nieniorials of jtasi aues and maintitin its own 
 character for C(Mituriesio ronie. We sat upon a bench 
 under the liiL'h trei-s, and had beamiliil vi( ws of the 
 ditfeient reaches of tUe river, above and bei( vv. On 
 the (>[ posi e bank, which is lineiy wooded wiih elms 
 snd other trees, are tiie remains of a [nioiy bniil upon 
 a rock ; and rock and ruin are so blended, that ii is iin- 
 popsil)le t(» sepaiaie the one fr( m the other. Nothing 
 can be more bean idil than the little lenmanl of this 
 holy place : elm trees (for we were near enough to dis- 
 tinguish them bv thei bianrhes) gnw ou:ot the wails, 
 and overshadow a small, bur very elegant wiiuh w. It 
 can scarcely be CfUiceived what a grace the ca^ile and 
 priory impart if> each other ; and the liver C ydefl* ws 
 on snioot li and uni utfled below, sei ining to my though ts 
 nnne in harnntny wiih the sober and stately iinairesof 
 former times, than if it had roared ovei a ro( ky channel 
 forcing its sound upon the ear. it b;ei:ded irenlly wiih 
 the warbling of the smallrr birds, and tliecha terinir of 
 the larger (Mies, that had made iheir nesis in the ruii s. 
 In tins fortress the ciiief of the English nobility were 
 confined after the battle ot Bannockburn. If a nian is 
 to be a prisoner, hescatceh could have a more pleasant 
 place to solace his capiiviiy ; but I tliont.'ht »liat, for 
 close confinement, I slifuiid prefer the banks of a lake 
 (M- the seaside. The greatest charm of a brook or river 
 is in the lilierty to pursue itthrouiili its windings ; you 
 can then take it in wha:ever mood jmu like ; silent or 
 noisy, sportive or quiet. Tlie beauties of a brook or 
 river must be souiiht, and the pleasure is in going in 
 search of them ; those of a lake, or of the s a, come to 
 you of tliMuseives. These rude warriors cared little, 
 perhajis, about either : and yet, if one may judire from 
 the wiitings of Chain-er, and from the old riunances, 
 more interesiing passions were connected wi;h natural 
 objects in the days ofchivalry t/ian now ; tbougli going 
 in search of scenery, as it is called, had not then been 
 thought of. I had previously heaid nothing of Foth- 
 well Castle, at least nothing that I remembered : there- 
 fore, perhaps, my ple:isu e was greater, com|)areri with 
 what f received elsewhere, than oihers might fetl."r- 
 J\IS, Journal. 
 
APOLOGY. 
 
 279 
 
 Like this tin heard of, and their channels '^vear 
 
 Like this confeiittd, th( ugh unknown to fame: 
 
 Fur grt-at ai d sacred is the modest claim 
 
 Of streams lo Nature's love, WiieieVr th(-y flow; 
 
 And ne'er did genius slijrht thenl, as they g:h, 
 
 Tree, flower and pieeh herh, feedinp wiihout hiame. 
 
 But praise can wasste her voice on work of tears, 
 
 Aii^juish, and dea[h : fiill oft where innocfMit hlood 
 
 Has mixed its current wi:h ttie limpid flood, 
 
 Her heaveTi-offendinfj trophies glory rears ; 
 
 Never for like disiincimn may th«! good 
 
 Shrink from thy name, pure rill, with unpleased ears ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE IN INGLE- 
 WOOD FOREST. 
 
 The forest huge of ancient Caledorv 
 
 Is hut a name, nor nmre is Inglewnod. 
 
 That swept from liill to hill, Unw flood to flood : 
 
 Oti iier last thorn the nighih moon has fhone ; 
 
 Yet still, though unappropriate wild he none, 
 
 Ffiir parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign 
 
 VViMi riym o' the (^"ou?h, were rlu>y alive again, 
 
 To ki!l for merry feast their venison. 
 
 Nor want.' »he holy Ahhot's jr'ifling shade 
 
 His rhnrch with moTiiimenTal wreck hestrown ; 
 
 The feudal Warrior-chief a ghost nn'nid, 
 
 Hath still his castle, t'nuf^h a skeleton. 
 
 That he mav wau-h hy night, and lessors con 
 
 Of power that perishes, and rights that fade. 
 
 XX. 
 
 HART's-HORN tree, near PENRITH. 
 
 Here stood an oak, that lop£r had horne affixed 
 To his huge trunk, or, with ntore snhtle art, 
 Among its withering topmost hranches mixed, 
 The palmy antlers of a hunted liart. 
 Whom the dog Hercules pursued — his part 
 Ench despeately sustaining, till at last 
 Both sank and died, tlie life-veins of the chased 
 And chaser hursting here with one dire smart. 
 Mutual the victory, mu'.ual the defeat I 
 High was the trophy hung wiih pitiless ptide ; 
 Say, rather, with that generous sVinpathy 
 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, UarVs-hom 
 Tree!* 
 
 * " fn the time of the first Rohert de CliflYird, in the 
 year 1333 or 1.334, Edward Baliol kine of Scotland 
 came into Westmorland, and stayed some time with the 
 said Rohert at his castles of Applefiy. Brftucrhnm, and 
 Pendragon. And during that time they ran a stag hy 
 a single greyhound out of Whinfcll P.trk lo R( dkiik. in 
 Scotland, and hack ai^ain to this place ; where, heing 
 both spent, the stag leaped over the pales, hut died on 
 the other «ide ; ^nd the greyh( und, a!temf)ting to leap, 
 fell, and died on the contrary side. In memory of this 
 fact the stag's horns were nailed upon a tree just hy, 
 and (the dog heing named Hercules) this rythme was 
 niade upon them : 
 
 ' Hercules kill'd Hart a greese 
 And Hart a greese kill'd Flercules.' 
 
 The tree to this day hears the nameof Hart's-horn Tree, 
 The horns in process of time were a'mosi provvn over 
 by the growth of the tree, and another pair was put up 
 in their place." — J^icholson and Bxirni>''s History of 
 fVrstworland and Cnmhcrland. 
 
 The tree has now disappenred, but the author of these 
 poems well rememhers its iujposing appearance as it 
 stood, in a decayed state, by the side of ihe high road 
 Jeadin<' from Penrith to Appleby. This whole neigh- 
 borhoo'd abounds in iiitipresntig tradmons and ves'iges 
 of antiquity, viz , Julian's Bower : Brougham and Pen- 
 rith Casfes • Penrith Beacon, and the curious remains 
 in Penrith churchyard ; Arthur's Round Table ; the ex- 
 
 XXf. 
 
 countess's pillar. 
 
 [On tlie roadside between Penrith and i'\ pplehy, therd 
 stands a pillar with the following inscription : — 
 
 " This pillar was erected, in the year JC5G, by Anne, 
 Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &:c for a memuria' 
 of her last parting With her jiions mother, Margaret, 
 Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April 
 1616; in memory whereof she haih left an annuity 
 of 41. to be distiibuled to the poor of the parish of 
 Brougham, every 2d day of April for ever, upon the 
 stone table placed hard by. Laus D(io !"] 
 
 While the poor gather round, till the end of time 
 May this bright flower of charity disfilay 
 Its bloom unf(dding at the appointed day ; 
 Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime 
 Lovelier — liam^plarited frr'm heaven's purest clime! 
 '' (Charity never faileth :" on that creed, 
 More than on written testament or deed, 
 The pious lady built wilh hope subliihe. 
 Alms on this stone to be dealt out, for ei'crl 
 ^'■JjOus Dco " Many a stranger passing by 
 Has wiiii that parting mixed a filial sigh. 
 Blest its humane memorial's fond ejidiavour; 
 And, tastenhig on those lines an eye tear glazed, 
 Has ended,. thougli no clerk, with " God be praised V^^ 
 
 xxir. 
 
 ROMAN antiquities: 
 
 (from the ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH.) 
 
 Flow profitless the relics that we cull, 
 Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, 
 Unless they chasten fancies that presume 
 'J'oo high, or idle agitations lull ! 
 Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full, 
 7'o have no seat for thought were tetter doom; 
 Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull 
 Of him who gloried in its nodding plume. 
 Heaven nut of view, our wishes what are they 1 
 Our fond regrets, ins-anate in their grasp 1 
 The sage's theory ? the poet's lay ? 
 Mere Fibolffi without a robe to clasp; 
 Obsolete lam[)S. whose light no time recalls ; 
 Urns without ashes, teailess lacrimals I 
 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 No more : the end is sudden and abrupt 
 
 Abrupt — as without preconceived design 
 
 Was the beginning, yet the several lays 
 
 Have moved in oider, to each other bound 
 
 By a co)itituious and acknowledged tie 
 
 Though unapparent, like those shapes distinct 
 
 That yet survive ensculptu ed on the walls 
 
 Of palace, or of temple, 'mid the wreck 
 
 Of lamed Persejxjiis ; each following each, 
 
 As might beseem a stately erniiassy, 
 
 In set array ; these bearing in their hands 
 
 Ensign of civil power, weapon of wir, 
 
 Or gift, to be presented at the tlirone 
 
 Of the Great King ; and others, as they go 
 
 i^n priestly vest, with holy oflerings charged, 
 
 Or leading vicims drest lor saciifice. 
 
 Nor will the nmse condemn, or ireat with scorn 
 
 Our ministration, humble but sincere, 
 
 That from a threslioJd loved by every muse 
 
 cavation, called the Giant's Cave, on the banks of 
 the Eamoni ; Long Meg and her Daughters near Eden, 
 &c. &.C. 
 
280 
 
 THE HIGHLAND BROACH. — THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 
 
 its impulse took— that sorrow-strikpn door, 
 Whence, as a current from its fountniri-head, 
 Our thoiiglus have issued, and our feHlhigs flowed, 
 Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strengih 
 From kindred sources; while around us sighed 
 (Life's ihree first seasons having j-jassed away) 
 Leaf-scattering winds, and hoar-fiost sprinklings fell, 
 F-retaste of winter, on the moorland heights; 
 And every day brought with it tidings ru-w 
 Of rash chanjie, ominous for the public weal. 
 Hence, if dejeciion have too oft encroached 
 Upon lliat sweet and tender melancholy 
 Which may itself be cherished and caressed 
 More ihan enough, a fault so natural. 
 Even with the young, the hopeful or the gay, 
 For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain. 
 
 THE IHGHLAND BROACH. 
 
 If to tradition faith be due. 
 
 And echoes from old verse speak true', 
 
 Ere the meek saint, rnlnmba, bore 
 
 GInd tidijigs to lona's shore. 
 
 No c( nininn light of na'iire blessed 
 
 The mountain region of the west, 
 
 A land where gentle manners ruled 
 
 O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled, 
 
 That rnised, for centuries, a bar 
 
 Impervious to the tide of war; 
 
 Yet peaceful t-rts did entrance gam 
 
 Where haughty force had striven in vain ; 
 
 And, 'mid the works of skilful bands. 
 
 By wanderers brought from foreign lands 
 
 And variou>J c'imes, was not unknown 
 
 The clasp that fixed the Roman gow^n ; 
 
 Th<- Fibu'a whose shapn, I ween, 
 
 Siill in the Highland Broach is seen, 
 
 The silver Broarh of massy frame. 
 
 Worn at rlic breast of soriie grave Dame 
 
 On road or path, or at the door 
 
 Of fern-thntched lint on heathy moor: 
 
 But delicate of yore its mould, 
 
 And the material finest cold : 
 
 As miL^ht 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 niiiihiy heroes hung, 
 
 While Fingal heard what Ossian sung. 
 
 The heroic age expired — it slept 
 I>(-ep in its tomb . — the bramble crept 
 O'er Fingal's hearth ; the grasjiy sod 
 Grew on the floors his sons had trod : 
 Malvjna ! where art thou 1 Their state 
 The noblest-born must abdicate, 
 The fairest, while with fire and svVord 
 Come spoilers — horde impeding horde, 
 Must walk the s-orrowinc 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 approich, 
 Beneath a massier Highland Broach. 
 
 When alternations can)e 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 coine and go. 
 Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow ; 
 Fate, f(trtune, sweep strong powers away, 
 And feeble, of themselves, decay; 
 What poor abodes the J)eir-loom hide, 
 In which the castle once took pride! 
 Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth, 
 If saved at all, are saved by stealth. 
 Lo I ships, from seas by nature barred. 
 Mount along ways by man prepared ; 
 And in far-stretching vales, Whose streamsf' 
 S'-ek other seas, their canvas gleams. 
 Lo I hu«y towns spring up, on coasts 
 Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts; 
 Soon, like a lingering star forlorn 
 Among the novelties of rtnorn. 
 While young delijibis on old encroach. 
 Will vanish the last Highland Broach. 
 
 But when, from out their viewless bed, 
 Like vapours, years have rolled and spread;' 
 And this poor verse, and worthier lays, 
 Shall yield no light of love or praise, 
 I'hen, by the spade, or cleaving plough. 
 Or torrent from the mountain's brow. 
 Or whirlwind reckless what his might 
 Entombs, or forces into lii'lit. 
 Blind chance, .1 volunteer ally. 
 That oft befriends antiquity. 
 And clears oblivion fium reproach. 
 May render back the High. and Broach. 
 
 The exact resemblance which the old Broach (stilv 
 in use, though rarely met with, among the Highland- 
 ers) hears to the Roman Fibula must strike every one,- 
 and conciirs wiih the plaid and ki.t to recall to mind 
 the Communication which the ancient Romans had 
 with this remote conntiy. How much tiie Broads" 
 is .sometimes prized by persons in humble staiions 
 may be gathered froni an occurence mentioned to 
 me by a female fiieiid. She had han an opportuni- 
 ty of benefiting a poor ohi wr njan in her ewt> but^ 
 who, wishing to make a retur)!, said to her daugh- 
 ter, in Erse, in a tone of plaintive earnestness, " I 
 would give anything T 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 attract- 
 ed the e>e of her benefactress. 
 
 THE EGYPTIAN MAID ; 
 
 OR, THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILT. 
 
 [For the names and persons in the following poertr 
 see the " History of the renowned Prince /irthur and 
 his knights of the Pound Table;" for the rest the 
 Ai.thor is answerable; only it may be proper to add, 
 that the Lotus, with the Imst of the goddess appear- 
 ing to rise out of the full-blown flower, was suggest- 
 ed by the beautiful work of ancient an, once included 
 among the Townley Marbles, and now in the Bri- 
 tish Museum] 
 
 While Merlin paced the Cornish gand#, 
 Forth-looking toward the Rocks of Scilly 
 The pleased enchanter was awa e 
 Of a bright ship that seemed to hang in air> 
 
THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 
 
 281 
 
 Yet was she work of mortal hands, 
 And took from men her name— The Water Lilly 
 
 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 piimace 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, set forth with wondrous transforma- 
 tion. 
 
 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 
 i'hat sapped good thoughts, or scared them with defi- 
 ance. 
 
 Provoked to envious spleen, he cast 
 An altered look upon the advancing stranger 
 Whom he 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 sorcerer urges; 
 The clouds in blacker clouds are lost. 
 Like spiteful fiends that vanish, crossed 
 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, whpther in the embrace 
 Of trusty anchor.Mge, or scudding o'er 
 The main flood roughened into hill and valley. 
 
 Behold, how wantonly she laves 
 
 Her sides, the wizard's craft confounding ; 
 
 Like something out of ocean sprung 
 
 To be forever fresh and young, 
 
 Breasts the sea flashes, and huge waves 
 
 Top-gnllant high, rebounding and rebounding I 
 But Ocean under magic heaves. 
 And cannot spare the thing he cherished : 
 Ah ! what avails that she was fair. 
 Luminous, blithe, and debonair 1 
 The storm has stripped her of her leaves ; 
 
 'i'he 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, feel 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 bf)re, 
 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 himself had muttered; 
 And, while repentant all too late, 
 In mnodv posture there he sate, 
 He heard a voice, and saw, with half-raised head, 
 A visitant by whom these words were uttered 
 
 25 
 
 " On Christian service this frail bark 
 Sailed" fhpar me. Merlin !) " under high protection^ 
 Though on her prow a sign of heathen power 
 Was carved— a goddess with a lily flovver, 
 The old Egyptian's emblematic mark 
 Of joy immortal and of ()Uie aftection. 
 
 "Her course was for tlie 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, though sad not cheerless,' 
 
 " 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:" 
 Tt'.us to the Necromancer spake 
 Nina, the lady of the lake, 
 A gentle sorceress, and herign. 
 Who ne'er embittered any good nian's chaliceV 
 
 " What boots," contmued she, " to mourn ? 
 To expiate thy sin endeavour! 
 From the bleak isle where she is laid. 
 Fetched by our art, the Egyptian maid 
 May yet to Arthur's court be borne 
 Oold as she is, ere life be fled forever. 
 
 " My pearly boat, a shining light, 
 That brought me down that sunless river,- 
 Wili bear me on from wave to wave, 
 And back with her to this pea-cave; 
 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 vviiat she sougiit, 
 Nor saw of wreck or ruin aught 
 But a carved Lotus cast upon the shore 
 By the fierce waves, a flower in marble gravenV 
 
 Sad reliciue, but how fair the while ! 
 For gently each from each retreating 
 With backward curve, the leaves revealed 
 The bosom half, and half concealed, 
 Of a divinity, that seemed to snjile 
 On Nina as she passed, with hopeful greeting/ 
 
 No quest was hers of vague desire, 
 or tortured hope and purpose shaken ; 
 Following the margin of a bay, 
 She spied the lonely cast-away, 
 Unmarred, unstripped of her attire^ 
 But with closed eyes, — of breath and bloom forsakenv 
 
 Then Nina, stooping down, embraced, 
 With tenderness and mild emotion. 
 The damsel in that trauce cmbound ; 
 
THE EGYjPTlAx^ MAm. 
 
 And, while sho raised lier from the gronnd, 1 
 
 And in the pearly shallop placed, 
 Sleep fell upon the air, and stilled the ocean. 
 
 The turmoil hu?hed, celestial springs 
 Of music opened, avd 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 anjiels make, on works of love descending. 
 
 And Nina heard a sweeter voice 
 Than if the goddess of the flower })ad spoken : 
 " Thou hast achieved, fair dame ! what none 
 Less pure in spirit could have done ; 
 no, in thy enterprise rejoice ! 
 Air, earth, sea, sky, and heaven, success betoken." 
 
 So cheered she left that i^<land bleak, 
 A't>are rock of the Scilly cluster; 
 And, as they traversed the smooth brine, 
 The sGJf-illumlned brigantine 
 Shod, 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 7" 
 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 ray books disclosed, but the end is hidden." 
 
 Jle spake, and gliding info vievr 
 Forth from the grotto's dimmest chamber 
 Came two mute swans, whose plumesof dusky white 
 Changed, as the pair approached the light, 
 Drawirig an ebon car, their hue 
 (Like clouds of sunset) into lucid amber. 
 
 Once more did genlle 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 thought, 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 feasts and tilt and tourney ! 
 Ye saw, throughout this Royal House, 
 Ye heard, a rocking marvellous 
 Of turrets, and a clash of sw^ords 
 Self-shaken, as I closed my airy journey. 
 
 *' Lo ! by a destiny vv^ell known 
 To mortals, joy is turned to sorrow ; 
 This is the wished-for bride, the maid 
 Of E<jypt, from a rock conveyed 
 
 Where she by shipwreck hvA been throv^n ; 
 III sight I but grief may vanish ere the morrow.''' 
 
 " Though vast thy power, thy words are weak," 
 Exclaimed the king, " a mockery hateful ; 
 Dutiful child ! her lot how bard ! 
 Is this her piety's reward ? 
 Those watery locks, that bloodless cheek ! 
 O winds without remorse ! O shore ungratefal ' 
 
 " 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 ? 
 lie will repent him of his troth ; 
 His brain will burn, his stout heart split asunder. 
 
 " Alas ! and I have caused this wo ; 
 For, when my prowess from invading neighbours 
 Had freed his realm, he plighted word 
 That he would turn to Christ our Lord, 
 And bis dpar daughter on a knight bestow 
 Whom I should choose for love and matchless labours. 
 
 " Her birth was heathen, but a fence 
 Of hol3' angels round her hovered ; 
 A lady added to my court 
 So fair, of such divine report 
 And worship, seemed a recompence 
 For fifty kingdoms by my sword recovered^ 
 
 " Ask not for whom, O champions true I 
 She was reserved by me her life's betrayer; 
 She who was meant to be a bride 
 Is now a corse ; then put aside 
 Vain thoughts, and speed ye, with observance du© 
 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 liaste of erring duty. 
 
 " My books command me to lay bare 
 The secret thou art bent on keeping ; 
 Here must a high attest be given, 
 JVJiat 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 kBights must touch the cold hand of the virgin ; 
 So, for the favoured 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 vapour, 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 enterprises.'* 
 
 " 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 Agravainc 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, devoutcst of all champions, ere 
 He reached that ebon ear, the I ier 
 Whereon diffused like snow the damsel lay. 
 Full thrice had eroseed himself in meek composure^ 
 
THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 
 
 283 
 
 fm"agine (but, ye saints ! who can ?) 
 How in sijll air the balance trembled -, 
 The wishes, perad venture the despites 
 That overcame some not ungen^erous knights; 
 And all the thoughts that lengthen out a span 
 /Of time to lords and ladies thus assembled. 
 
 •What patient confidenoe was here ! 
 And there how many bosoms panted ! 
 While drawing toward tiie 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 Tzonda 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 st<:iod, far-kenned by mantle furred with ermine, 
 As o'er the insensate body hung 
 The enrapt, the beautiful, the young, 
 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 matchless feat, 
 The marvel of the Perilous Seat, 
 "Which whosoe'er approached of strength was shorn. 
 Though king or knight the most renowned in story- 
 
 He touched with hesitating hand, 
 
 And lo ! these birds, far-famed through Love's 
 
 dominions. 
 The swans, in triumph clap their wings; 
 
 And their necks play, involved in rings. 
 Like sinless snakes in Eden's happy land ; — 
 *' Mine is she," cried the Knight; — again they clap- 
 ped their pinions. 
 
 " Mine was she — mine she is, though dead, 
 And to her name my soul shall cleave in sorrow;" 
 Whereat, a tender twilMghi streak 
 Of colour dawned upon the damsel's cheek; 
 And her lips, quickening with uncertain red, 
 Seemed from each otlier a faint wai-mth to borrow. 
 
 Deep was the awe, the rapture Iwgh, 
 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 genii- strife 
 Of Nature leading back to life ; 
 Then eased his soul at length by praise 
 Of God, and Heaven's pure aueen— the blissful Mary. 
 
 Then said he, " Take her to thy heart 
 Bir Galahad ! a treasure that God givetb, 
 
 Bound by indissoluble ties to thee 
 Through mortal change and immortality; 
 Be happy and unenvied, thou who art 
 A gowlJy Knight that halh 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 thes« 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 Hcsaven-permitted vent 
 Of purblind mortal passion, 
 Was wrought her punishment 
 
 The flower, the form within it, 
 What served they in her need 1 
 Her port she could not win it, 
 Nor from mishap be freed. 
 
 The tempest overcame her, 
 And she w^as seen no more ; 
 But gently, gently blame her, 
 She cast a pearl ashore. 
 
 The Maid to Jesn 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. 
 
 Blest pair! whate'er befall you, 
 Your faith in Him approve 
 ' Who from frail earth can call you, 
 To bowers of endless love ! 
 
 ODE, 
 
 COMPOSED ON MA.Y MORNING. 
 
 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 maid 
 
 At peep of dawn would rise, 
 And wander forth, in forest gladea 
 
 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 ! 
 
•$34 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Tby feathered lieges bill and wings 
 
 ]n lov< 's disiort employ, 
 yVarmed by thy influence, creeping things 
 
 Awcike to silent joy : 
 Q,ue( n art tliou 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 honour thee, sweet May ! 
 Where cities fanned by thy britk airs 
 
 Behold a smokeless sky, 
 Their puniest flowcr-pot-nursling dares 
 
 To open a bright eye. 
 
 And if, on this ihy natnl morn, 
 
 The jiole, from m hich thy n;ime 
 Hath not dcp rtcd, stands forlorn 
 
 t»f song and dunce and game. 
 Still from the village-green a vow 
 
 Aspires to thee addrest, 
 Wherever peace is on the brow, 
 
 Or love witliin the breast. 
 
 Yes ! where love nestles thou canst teach 
 
 The soul lo love the more ; 
 Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 
 
 That never loved before. 
 Stri[)t is the haujihty one of pride, 
 
 The bashful freed from fear. 
 While rising, like the ocean-tide, 
 
 In flows tie joyous year. 
 
 Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words, refuse 
 
 The service to prolong ! 
 •To yon exulting thrush the Muse 
 
 Intrusts 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. 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 Though many suns have risen and set 
 
 Since thou, blithe May, wert born, 
 And baids, who hwiled tiee. may forget 
 
 Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
 There are who to a birthday strain 
 
 Confine not harp and voice. 
 But evermore ihioughout thy reigu 
 
 Are grateful and rejoice ! 
 
 Delicious odours ! music sweet, 
 
 Too £weet to pass away ! 
 Oh for a deathless song to meet 
 
 The soul's desire — a lay 
 That, when a thousand years are told, 
 
 Should pvaise thee, genial power I 
 Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 
 
 And vvinter'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. 
 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 mauy wan and faded chceka 
 
 Have kindled into health ! 
 The old, hy thee revived, have said, 
 
 " Another year is ours ;" 
 And wayworn wanderers, poorly fed. 
 
 Have smiled u[)on thy flowers. 
 
 Who tripping lisps a merry song 
 
 Amid his pinyful peers 1 
 The lender infant who was long 
 
 A prisoner of fond fears ; 
 But now, when eveiy sharp-edged blast 
 
 Is quiet in its sheath. 
 His mother leaves liim 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 favours may be found ; 
 But most on some peculiar nook 
 
 Tliat our own hands have drest. 
 Thou and thy train are proud to lock. 
 
 And seem to love it best. 
 
 And yet how pleased we wander forth 
 
 When May is wi ispeiing, " Cr me ! 
 Choose frrm the brwers of virgin earth 
 
 The happiest for ycur 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 kindly 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 ! Strerms 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 unconfiimed 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 dalo 
 
 By few but shepherds trod! 
 And lowly hutg, 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 ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 215 
 
 INSCRIPTION. 
 
 <Thk 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 iiumble walk ? Yet on the mountain's side 
 
 A poet's hand first shaped it ; and tlie 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 favoured mora 
 
 Than kindred wishes mated suitably 
 
 With vain regrets, the exile would consign 
 
 This walk, his loved possession, to the care 
 
 Of those pure minds that reverence the muse. 
 
 ELEGIAC MUSINGS 
 
 IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON HALL, THE SEAT OF THE 
 LATE SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART. 
 
 [In these grounds stands the Parish Church, where 
 in is a mural monument, the Inscription upon 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 !"j 
 
 V/iTH copious eulogy in prose and 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 dreadf^d and forbade, 
 A spirit meek in selt-abasement clad. 
 Yet here at least, though few have numbered days 
 That shunned so modestly the light of praise, 
 His graceful manners, and the temperate ray 
 Of that arch fancy which v/ould round him play, 
 Brightening a converse never known to swerve 
 From courtesy and delicate reserve ; 
 That sense — the bland philosophy of life 
 Which checked discu:-sion ere it warmed to strife. 
 Those fine accomplishments, and varied powers, 
 Might have their record among sylvan bowers. 
 —Oh, fled forever' vanished like a blast 
 That shook the leaves in myriads as it passed ; 
 Gone from this world of earth, air, sea, and sky, 
 From all its spirit-moving initigery, 
 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 honoured head 
 While fiiends beheld thee give with eye, voice, mien. 
 More than theatric force to Shakspeare's scene- 
 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 admiral ion wins relief. 
 Too long abashed thy name is like a rose 
 
 That doth '• within itself its Hweetness clofse ;'' 
 
 A drooping daisy changed into a cup 
 
 In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up. 
 
 Within these groves, where still are flitting 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 
 
 Recall not there the wisdom of the tomb. 
 
 Green ivy, risen from out the cheerful earth. 
 
 Shall fringe the lettered stone; and herbs spring forth, 
 
 Whose fragrance, by soft dews and rain unbound, 
 
 Shall penetrate the heart without a wound; 
 
 While truth and love their purposes fulfil, 
 
 Commemorating genius, talent, skill. 
 
 That could not lie concealed wJiere thou wert known ; 
 
 Thy virtues He must judge, and He alone. 
 
 The God upon vi'hose mercy they are tlirov/n. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 By a blest husband guided, Mary came 
 
 From nearest kindred, ****** 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 Iieaven : 
 
 Two babes were laid in earth before she died ; 
 
 A third now slumbers at the mother's side ; 
 
 its sister-twin survives, whose smiles afford 
 
 A trembling solace to her widowed lord. 
 
 Reader ! if to thy bosom cling 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 ; 
 Hear with him— judge hhii 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. 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 INTENDED FOR A STONE IN THE 
 MOUNT. 
 
 GROUNDS OF RYDAJb 
 
 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. 
 
 INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 
 
 In Bruges 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. 
 
g85 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 When silent were both voice and chorda 
 The strain seemed donbly dear, 
 
 Yet sad as sweet, for English words 
 Had fallen upon the ear. 
 
 It was a breezy hour of eve ; 
 
 And pinnacle and spire 
 duivered 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, 
 
 'Twas 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, wliat is love, 
 
 And opening life to thee 1 
 
 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 gaily oVr the sea, 
 Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 
 
 Of English liberty '? 
 
 A JEWISH FAMILY. 
 
 /in a small valley opposite ST. GOAR, UPON THJE 
 RHINE.) 
 
 Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings 
 
 Might bear thee to this glen, 
 With fairhful memory left of things 
 
 To pencil dear and pen, 
 Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring 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 sunnajir skies ! 
 I speak as if of sense beguiled ; 
 
 Uncounted months are gone, 
 Vet am \ with the Jewish child, 
 
 That exquisite Saint John. 
 
 I see the d/irk 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 untnmed ; 
 Age faiihful 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 I 
 
 DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 
 
 " 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 thinJc, as well as feel. 
 
 Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire ! 
 So pleads the town's cathedral choir, 
 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 wail concealed 
 One moment, and the next revealed. 
 — Cast oft" your bonds, awake, arise. 
 And for no transient ecstasies! 
 What else can mean the visual plea 
 Of still or moving imagery 1 
 The iterated summons loud. 
 Not wasted on the attendant crowd, 
 Nor wholly lost upon the throng 
 Hurrying the busy streets along 1 
 
 Alas ! the sanctities combined 
 By art to unsensualize the mind, 
 Decay and languish ; or, as creeds 
 And humors change, are spurned like weeds 
 The solemn rites, the awful forms, 
 Founder amid fanatic storms; 
 The priests are from their altars thrust, 
 The temples levelled with the dust : 
 Yet evermore, through years renewed 
 In undisturbed vicissitude 
 
mischllanKous poems. 
 
 287 
 
 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 vapours magnify and spread 
 
 The glory of the sun's bright head ; 
 
 Still constant in her worship, still 
 
 Conforming to the almighty Will, 
 
 Whether men sow or reap the fields, 
 
 Her admonitions 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. 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 Small service is true service while it lasts ; 
 
 Of friends, however humble, scorn not one : 
 The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 
 
 Protects tlie lingering dew-drop from the sun. 
 
 THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 
 
 [The subject of the following poem is from the Or- 
 landus of the author's friend, Kenelm Henry Digby ; 
 and the liberty is taken of inscribing it to him as an ac- 
 knowledgement, however unworthy, of pleasure and 
 instruction derived from his numerous and valuable 
 writiti*, illustrative of the piety and chivalry of the 
 olden time.] 
 
 Yoxj have heard " a Spanish Lady- 
 How she wooed an English Man ;"'^ 
 Hear now of a fair Armenian, 
 Daughter of the proud Soldau ; 
 How she loved a Christian slave, and told her pain 
 By word, look, deed, with hope that he might love again. 
 
 " Pluck that rose, it moves my liking," 
 
 Said she, lifting up her veil ; 
 
 " riuck it for me, gentle gardener, 
 
 Ere it wither and grow pale." 
 •' Princess fair, I till the ground, but may not take 
 From tA'ig or bed an humbler flower, even for your 
 sake." 
 
 " Grieved am I, submissive Christian I 
 
 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 end 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 : 
 
 . p^iiniips that fine old ballad, "The 
 
 . See, in P;i;cy;^J^^'l?%';^' which Poem the form of 
 
 Spanish Lady ^^^.^^'^^'j^ioaue, is adopted, 
 itanza, as iuuable to dialogue, 
 
 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 : 
 tf 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 !" 
 " 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 worst home." 
 
 " Feeling tunes your voice, fair Princess !■ 
 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 cobwebb'd shield ! 
 Never see my native land, nor castle towers. 
 Nor her who thinking of me there counts widowed' 
 hours." 
 
 "Prisoner! pard«n youthful fancies; 
 
 Wedded ? Tf you can, say no ! — 
 
 Blessed is and be your consort ; 
 
 Hopes I cherished let them go ! 
 Handmaid's priyilege would leave my purpose freeV 
 Without another link to my felicity." 
 
 " 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 otT wings which thou in heaven dost 
 
 wear ? 
 What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt ? where am I ? 
 where ?" 
 
 Here broke off the dangerous converse : 
 
 Less impassioned words might tell 
 
 How the pair escaped together, 
 
 Tears not wanting, nor a knell 
 Of SOI row in her heart while through her father's door, 
 And Irom her narrow world, she passed for evermore. 
 
 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 boldness on. 
 
 Judge both fugitives with knowledge : 
 
 In those old romantic days 
 
 Mighty were the soul's commandments 
 
 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 
 With accordant steps, or gathering 
 Forest-fruit with social hands ; 
 
686r 
 
 MISCELLANKOUB POEMS. 
 
 Or Wliispering like two reeds that in the cold moonbeam 
 Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal stream. 
 
 On a friendly deck reposing 
 
 They at length for Venice steer ; 
 
 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 utter- 
 ing word. 
 
 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. 
 
 " Say that I, wlio might have languished, 
 
 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 sliU holds her ancient place. 
 
 " Make it known that my companion 
 
 Is of royal Eastern blood, 
 
 Thirsting afier all perfection. 
 
 Innocent, and meek, and good. 
 Though with misbelievers bred ; but that dark night 
 Will Holy Church disperse by beams of Gospel light." 
 
 Swiftly went that gray-haired servant, 
 
 Soon returned a trusty page 
 
 Charged with greetings, benedictions, 
 
 Thanks and prai?es, each a gage 
 For a sunny thought to cheer the stranger's way, 
 Her virtuous scruples to remove; her fears allay. 
 
 Fancy (while, to banners floating 
 I High on Stolberg's Castle walls. 
 
 Deafening noise of welcome mounted, 
 
 Trumpets, drums, and atabols,) 
 The devout embraces still, while such tears fell 
 As made a meeting seem most like a dear farewell. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 diays that kiss belie. 
 Which, with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify. 
 
 Constant to the fair Armenian, 
 
 Gentle pleasures round her moved, 
 
 Like a tutelary spirit 
 
 Reverenced, like a sister, loVed. 
 Christian n)eekness smoothed for all the path of life. 
 Who loving most, should wiseliest love, their only strife. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 * * * -^ 4: *' 
 
 Here closed the meditative strain ; 
 
 But air breathed soft that day, 
 The hoary mountain-heights were cheered^' 
 
 The sunny vale looked gay ; 
 And to the primrose of the rock 
 
 I gave this after-lay. 
 
 I sang, let myriads of bright flowers, 
 
 Ijike thee, in field and grove 
 Revive unenvied, — mightier far 
 
 Than tremblings that reprove 
 Our vernal tendencies to hupe 
 
 Is God's redeeming love: 
 
 That love which changed, for wan diseasGj 
 
 For sorrow that had bent 
 O'er hopeless dust, jor withered age, 
 
 Their moral element. 
 And turned the thietles 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 heavenj 
 A court for Deitv. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 
 
 A ROCK there is whose homely front 
 
 The passing traveller slights ; 
 Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, 
 
 PHESENTIMENTS. 
 
 Presentiments ! they judge not right 
 Who deem that ye from open light 
 
 Retire in fear of shame ; 
 All heaven-horn 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, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 ^S^ 
 
 . Lurk near you, and combine 
 *ro taint the health which ye infuse 
 This hides not from the moral muse 
 Your origin divine. 
 
 How oft from j'ou, derided powers ! 
 Comes faiih that in auspicious hours 
 
 Builds castles, not of air; 
 Codings 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 gaiety 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 1 
 
 A rainbow, a sunbeam, 
 A subtle smell that spring unbinds. 
 Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 
 
 An echo, or a dream. 
 
 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! 
 
 Tis said, that warnings ye dispense. 
 Embolden by a keener sense; 
 
 That men have lived for whom, 
 With dread precision, ye made clear 
 The hour that in a di^^tant year 
 
 Should knell them to the tomb. 
 
 tFnwelcome insight I Yet there are 
 Blest times when mystery is laid bare, 
 
 Truth shows a glorious face, 
 While on that isthmus which commands 
 T he councils of both worlds she stands. 
 Sage spirits I 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. 
 
 tHE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE" 
 
 As often as T murmur here 
 
 My-half-formed melodies. 
 Straight from her osier mansion near, 
 
 Th« 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 7 
 
 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 caroli'd, fancy free. 
 As if nor dove, nor nightingale, 
 
 Had heart or voice for me. 
 
 If such thy meaning, O forbear, 
 
 Svvte'r. bird ! to do me vvrf)ng ; 
 Love, blessed love, is everywhere 
 
 The spirit of my song : 
 'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside. 
 
 Love animates my lyre ; 
 That coo again !— 'tis not to chide, 
 
 1 feel, but to inspire. 
 
 Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and the prido 
 
 Of thy domain, strange contrapt do present 
 
 To house and home in many a craggy rent 
 
 Of the wild peak; where new-horn waters glide 
 
 Through fields whose thrifty occupants abide 
 
 As in a dear and chosen banishment. 
 
 With pvery semblance of entire content; 
 
 So kind is simple nature, fairly tried ! 
 
 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 favoured life, may honour botho 
 
 Desponding father! mark this altered bough, 
 
 So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, 
 
 Or moist with dews; what more unsightly 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 
 
 01 human life : a stripling's graces blow. 
 
 Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall 
 
 (Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may gn w 
 
 Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call ; 
 
 In all men, sinful is it to be slow 
 
 To hope — in parents^ sinful above all. 
 
 ROMAN ANTiaUITIES DISCOVERED, 
 
 AT BISHOPSTONE, HEREFOE.DSHIRE. 
 
 While poring antiquarians search the ground 
 
 U|)turned 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, myrtlt-crowned, 
 
 In festal glee: why not"? For fresh add clear, 
 
 As If its hues were of the passing year. 
 
 Dawns this lime buried pavement. From that moancT 
 
 Hoards may corne tortli of Trajans, Maximins, 
 
 Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil: 
 
 Or a fierce impress issues with its foil 
 
 Of tenderness— the wolf, whose suckling twins 
 
 The unlettered ploughboy pities when he wina^ 
 
 The casual treasure from the farrowed soil." 
 
 3? 
 
290 
 
 BTISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 ST. CATHERINE OF LEDBUR-?. 
 
 When human Touch, ns monkish books attest, 
 
 Nor was applied nor could he, Ledhury hells 
 
 Broke fonh in concert flung adovvn the dells, 
 
 And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy crc^st; 
 
 Sweet loneo, and caught by a noble iady blest 
 
 To rapture ! Mabrl listened at the side 
 
 Of her loved mistress : soon the musi'c died. 
 
 And Catherine snid, "Here I set up my rest." 
 
 Warned in a dream, tlie wanderer jo^g had sought 
 
 A home tliat by such miracle of sound 
 
 Must be revealed :—sbe heard it now, or felt 
 
 The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought; 
 
 And there, a saintly anchoress she dwelt 
 
 Till she excjjanged for heaven tl»at happy ground. 
 
 THE RUSSfAN FUGITrVE. 
 
 [Peter Henry Bruce, having given in his entertaining 
 Memoirs the substance of the following Tale, affirms, 
 that, besides the concui ring reports of others, he had 
 the story frcim the Ladv's own mouth. 
 
 The Lady Catherine, meniioneri' towards the close, 
 was the famous Catherine, then bearing that name as 
 the acknowledged wiffe of Peter the Great.] 
 
 FART 3. 
 
 Enough of rose-bud Ifps, and eyeg 
 
 Like harebells bathed in dew. 
 Of cheek that with camation 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 bora 
 
 For seasons and for hours. 
 
 Through Moscow's gates,, with gcrld unbarred, 
 
 Stepped one at dead of night, 
 Whom such high beauty could not guard 
 
 From me.iitated I)light ; 
 By stealth she passed, and fled as fast' 
 
 As doth the hunted fawn. 
 Nor stopped, till in tlie dappling east 
 
 Appeared unwelcome dawn. 
 
 Seven days she lurked in brake and field, 
 
 Seven nights her course renewed, 
 Sustained \>y what ber 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 1 have left my father's roof. 
 
 In tenor of the Czar." 
 No answer did the matron give, 
 
 No second look she cast ; 
 She hung upon the fugitive. 
 
 Embracing and embraced. 
 
 She led her lady to a seat 
 
 Beside tbe giimnjering fire, 
 Eaihed duteou>Iy her wayworn feet, 
 
 Prevented each desire : 
 The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed. 
 
 And on that simple bfd. 
 Where she in childhood had reposed. 
 
 Now rests her wenry head. 
 
 When she, vi^hose couch had been the Bod 
 
 Whose curtain pme or thorn, 
 Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God, 
 
 Who comforts the forlorn: 
 
 While over her the matron hent' 
 Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole 
 
 Feeling from limbs with travel epenf^ 
 And trouble from the soul. 
 
 Refreslied, the wanderer rose at moriTy, 
 
 And soon again was dight 
 [n those unworthy vestments worrr 
 
 Through long and perilous flight';' 
 And "O beloved nurse," she said, 
 
 My thanks with silent tears 
 Have unto Heaven and you been paid: 
 
 Now listen 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, 
 
 Vonr star, your gem, your flower; 
 Light words, that were more lightly heard 
 
 In many a cloudless hour I 
 
 "The blossom you so fondly praised 
 
 Is come to bitter fruit ; 
 A mighty one apon me gazed ,-" 
 
 I spurned his lawless suit, 
 And must be hidden from hia wrath r 
 
 You, foster-father dear. 
 Will guide mc in my forward path; 
 
 I may not tarry here ! 
 
 •' I ennnot bring to utter wo 
 
 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, coald you,^ flee 1 
 
 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 l>e led 
 Forth to a safe abiding-place, 
 
 Where never foot doih tread.** 
 
 THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 
 PART II 
 
 The dwelling of this faithful pair 
 
 In a straggling village stood, 
 For one who breathed unquiet air 
 
 A dangerous neighbourhood; 
 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 lig.ht 
 
 As from a lonely lamp ; 
 And midway in the unsafe morass, 
 
 A single island rose 
 Of firm dry ground, wit'i healthful grass 
 
 Adorned, and shady boughs. 
 
 The woodman knew, for such the craft 
 
 This Russian vassal pliedj 
 That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 
 
 Of archer, theie was tried ; 
 A sanctuary seemed the spot 
 
 From all intrusion free ; 
 And there he planned an artful cot 
 
 For perfect secrecy. 
 
Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 'With earnest pains unchecked by dread 
 
 Of power's far-stretching hand, 
 "The bold good man his labour sped 
 
 At nature's pure command ; 
 Heart-soothed and busy as a wren, 
 
 While, in a hollow nook, 
 rShe moulds her sight-eluding den 
 
 Above a muriiiu ring brook. 
 
 £91 
 
 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 s,peak, 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 [na looked for her abode, 
 
 The promised hiding-place; 
 She sought in vain, the woodman smiled ; 
 
 No threshold could be seen, 
 Kor 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 shuggy 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 Q,ueen, 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 1"— such her prayer 
 
 When she was left alone. 
 Kneeling amid the wild-erflesa 
 
 When joy had passed -away. 
 And smiles, fond efforts of distress 
 
 To hide what they betray 1 
 
 The prayer is heard, the saints have seen, 
 
 Diffused through form and face, 
 Resolves devotedly serene. 
 
 That monumental grace 
 Of faith, which doth all passions tame 
 
 That reason should controul ; 
 And shows in the unlrembling frame 
 
 A statue of the soul. 
 
 THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 'Tig sung in ancient minstrelsy 
 That Phoebus 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 shorB 
 
 No meaner leaf vv;is seen ; 
 And poets sage, through every age, 
 
 About their iempJ::is wound 
 The bay ; and conquerors thanked the Gods, 
 
 With laurel chapleis 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 lier 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 ciuintenance 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 thai retreat 
 Might any common friendship shame, 
 
 So high their hearts would beat ; 
 And to the lone recluse, whaie'er 
 
 They hraught, 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 nea--. 
 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 aliar of this sacrifice, 
 
 In vestal purity. 
 
 Yet, when above the forest-glooms 
 T!ie white swans soutlivvard passed, 
 
 High as the pitch of tijeir svvit\ plumes 
 Hei ranc3'^ rode the blast; 
 
 And bore her tow'rd the tields of France, 
 Her fainer's native laud, 
 
 * From GoldJng's Tran-^Iarion of Ovid's Metamor- 
 phoses. See also his Dedicatory Epistle prefixed iq 
 the same work. 
 
im 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To mingle in the rustic dance, 
 The liappiest 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 ! 
 
 THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 
 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, 
 BouUiling through branches interlaced, 
 
 And vvhcre the wood was clear. 
 
 The fainting creature took the marsh, 
 
 And toward the island fled, 
 While plovers screnmed with tumult harsh 
 
 Above his anflered head; 
 This, Ina saw ; and, pale with fear, 
 
 Shrunk to her citadel ; 
 The desperate deer rushed on, and near 
 
 The tanzled covert fell. 
 
 Across the marsh, the game in vievr, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 f From your deportment, sir I I deem 
 
 That 3^ou have worn a sword 
 And will not hold in light esteem 
 
 A suffering woman's word ; 
 There is my covert, there pet chance 
 
 I might have lain concealed. 
 My fortunes hid, my countenance 
 
 Not even to you revealed. 
 
 f Tears might be shed, and I might pray. 
 
 Crouching and terrified. 
 That what has been unveiled today, 
 
 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 
 
 " I speak not of the winter's cold. 
 
 For sumnjer's heat exchanged. 
 While I have lodge^l 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 harbnurlesa, 
 
 And honour want a home ; 
 And happy were I, if the Czar 
 
 Retain his lawless will. 
 To end life here like this poor deer. 
 
 Or a lamb on a green hiJi." 
 
 " Are you the maid,'* the Ktraager erierfj 
 
 " From Gallic parents sprung. 
 Whose vanishing was rumoured wide, 
 
 Sad theme for every tongue ; 
 Wlio foiled an emperor's eager quest t 
 
 You, lady, forced to wear 
 These rude habiliments, and rest 
 
 Your head in this dark lair I" 
 
 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 Czar 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 course, 
 
 And I to her will go ; 
 From that humane and lieavenly source^ 
 
 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 third 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 1 If e'er 
 
 Amazement rose to pain, 
 And over-joy produced a fear 
 
 Of something void and vain, 
 'Twas when the parents, who had mourned 
 
 So long the lost as dead. 
 Beheld their only child returned, 
 
 The household floor to tread. 
 
 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 Czar bestowed a dower; 
 And universal Moscow shared 
 
 The triumph of that hour. 
 
 Flowers strewed the ground; the nuptial feast 
 
 Was htld viith 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 \ 
 
 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 1 
 
 Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant 
 
 (As would my deeds have been) with hourly care> 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 293 
 
 •The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
 For nought but what thy happiness could spare, 
 ^peak, though this soft warm heart, once free to hold 
 A thousand tender pleasures, thine trnd mine, 
 Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 
 Than a forsaken hird's-nest filled with snow 
 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine ; 
 Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know ! 
 
 FotTR 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 1 
 Yes, there was one: — for one, asunder fly 
 The thousand links of that ethereal chain ; 
 And green vales open out, with grov^e and field, 
 And the fair front of many a happy home ; 
 Such tempting spots as into vision come 
 While soldiers, of the weapons that they wield 
 Weary, and sick of strifeful Christendom, 
 Gaze on the moon by parting clouds revealed. 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 [Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., 
 foi- St. John's College, Cambridge.] 
 
 Go, faithful portrait! and where long hath knelt 
 Margaret, the saintly foundress, take thy place; 
 A,<id, if time spare the colours for the grace 
 Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, 
 Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt 
 And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem 
 To breaihe in rural peace, to heai the stream. 
 To think and feel as once the poet felt. 
 Whate'er thy ^ate, those features have not grown 
 Unrecognised through many a household tear. 
 More prompt, more glad to fail 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 ! 
 
 GOLD AND SILVER FISHES, IN A VASE. 
 
 The soaring lark is blest as proud 
 When at heaven's gate she sings; 
 
 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 whi-re 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 humours 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— reneweJ incessantly — 
 
 Within your quiet range. 
 Is it that ye with conscious skill 
 
 For mutual pleasure glide ; 
 And sometimes, not without your will, 
 
 Are dwarfed, or magnified 1 
 
 Fays — Genii of gigantic size — 
 
 And now, in twilight dim. 
 Clustering like constellated eyes 
 
 In wings of cherubim, 
 When they abate their fiery glare: 
 
 Wliate'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 colours bright 
 
 Are yo to heaven allied. 
 When, like essential forms of light. 
 
 Ye minele, 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. 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 (sequel to the above.*) 
 
 " The liberty of a people consists in being governed; 
 by laws which they have made for themselves, under 
 whatever form it be of governmeat. 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 dis- 
 course." — Cowley. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 That spreads into an elfin pool opaque 
 
 Of which close boughs a glimmering mirror make, 
 
 On whose smooth breast with dimples light and small 
 
 The fly may settle, leaf or blossom fall. 
 
 — There swims, of blazing sun and beating 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 ; 
 
 Dissevered both from all the mysteries 
 
 Of hue and altering shape that charmed all eyes. 
 
 They pined, perhaps, 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 cieature no disgrace ? 
 
 But if the change restore his birthright, then, 
 
 Whate'er the ditferencc, boundless is the gain. 
 
 * Addressed to a Friend ; the Gold and Silver Fishes 
 having been removed to a pool in the pleasure-ground 
 of Rydal Mount . 
 
1^9 i 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Who can divine what impulses from God 
 Reach the ca^red lark, within a town-ahode, 
 From his poor inch or two of daisied sod 1 
 
 yield him back his privilege I 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 tijy choice, or brave the freshening gale! 
 If unreproved the ambitious eagle mount 
 Sunward to seek tlic daylight in its fount, 
 Bays, gulls, and ocean's Indian width, shall be, 
 Till the world perishes, a field for thee ! 
 
 While musing here I sit in shadow tool, 
 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 tixed tliem) in the crystal cell ; 
 
 To wheel with languid motion round and round, 
 Beautiful, yet in a mournful durance bound. 
 Their peace, perhaps, our lightest footfall marred ; 
 On their quick sense our sweetest music jarred ; 
 And whither could they dart, if seized with fear 1 
 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 reverend 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 colours 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 1 
 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 int^tinct; 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 bestow 1 
 
 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 ; 
 Time, place, and business, all at his command ! 
 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 which winds by stealth, 
 Which Horace needed for his spirit's health ; 
 Sighed for, in heart and genius, overcome 
 By noise and strife, and questions wearisome, 
 And the vain splendours of imperial Rome 1 
 Let easy mirth his social hours inspire. 
 And fiction animate his sportive lyta, 
 Attuned to verse that crowning light distress 
 With garlands cheats her into happiness ; 
 
 Give me the humblest note of those sad straini 
 Drawn forth by pressure of liis gilded chains, 
 As a chance sunbeam from his memory fell 
 Upon the Sabine farm he loved so well ; 
 Or when the prattle of Bandusia's spring 
 Haunted his ear— Jie only listening — 
 He proud to please, above all rivals, fit 
 To win the palm of gaiety and wit ; 
 He, doubt not, with involuntary dread, 
 Shrinking from each new favour to be shed. 
 By the world's ruler, on his honoured head ! 
 
 In a deep vision's intellectual scene, 
 Such earnest longings and regrets as keen 
 Depressed the melancholy Covt'ley, 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 foreheads 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 remvant of his days at least was true ; 
 You, whom, though long deserted, he loved best ; 
 You, muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest! 
 But 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 warning? heeded not too late 
 Stifle the contradictions of their fate, 
 And 10 one purpose cleave, their being's godlike mate ! 
 
 Thus, gifted friend, but with a 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.* 
 
 EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
 I. 
 
 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. 
 
 And wonder how they could elude the sight. 
 
 The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers. 
 
 Warbled a while with faint and fainter poweri, 
 
 But now are silent a« the dim-seen flowers : 
 
 Nor does the village church-clock's iron tone 
 
 The time's and season's influence disown ; 
 
 * There is now, alas ! no possibility of the anticipa- 
 tion, with whi( h the above Epistle concludes, being 
 realized : nor were the verses ever seen by the indi- 
 vidual for whom they were intended. She accompa- 
 nied 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 himented by all who knew her. 
 
 Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast ; 
 and her great talents would have enabled her to be 
 eminenily useful in the difficult path of life to which 
 she had been called. The o| inion she entertained of 
 her own performances, given to the world under her 
 maiden name. Jewsbury, was modest and humble, and, 
 indeed, lar below their merits ; as is often the case 
 wiih ti.ose 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 was in the author's estimation unequalled, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 295 
 
 lfJin6 beats distinctly to each other bound 
 
 In drowsy sequence; how unTke the sound 
 
 That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear 
 
 On fireside listeners, doubling 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 doih creep, 
 
 And join his little children in their sleep. 
 
 The bat, lur<-d forth Where trees the lane o'ershade, 
 
 Flits and reflits along the close arcade ; 
 
 Fnr-heard the dor-hawk chases the white moth 
 
 With burring note, which industry and sloth 
 
 Might both he pleased with, for ii suits them both. 
 
 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 jjay, 
 
 Might give to serious thought a moment's evvay, 
 
 As a last token of man's toilsome day ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Not in the lucid intervals of lite 
 
 That come but as a curse to p arty- strife ; 
 
 Not in some hour when pleasure with a sigh 
 
 Of languor puts his rosy garland by; 
 
 Not in the breathing-tim^s of that poor slave 
 
 Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave, 
 
 Is nature felt, or can be ; nor do w^ords. 
 
 Which practised talent reodily affords, 
 
 Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords ; 
 
 Noi has her gentle beauty power to move 
 
 With genuine rapture and with fervent love 
 
 The soul of genius, if he dares to take 
 
 Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake ; 
 
 Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent 
 
 Of all the truly great and all the innocent. 
 
 But who 75 innocent ? Bv grace divine, 
 
 Not otherwise, O nature ! we are thine. 
 
 Through good and evil thine, in just degree 
 
 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 undergo, 
 
 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 advance, 
 
 Come not to speed the soul's deliverance ; 
 
 To the distempered intellect refuse 
 
 His gracious help, or give what we abuse. 
 
 Were not some gifts withheld by jealous liands, 
 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 cast kindles with the full moon's light. 
 
 Wanderer by spring with gradual progress 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 vvouldst thou be to this green vale 
 Fairer tlian Tempe ! Yet, sweet nightingale ! 
 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 tl.ee to account ? 
 The wisest, hajipiest, 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 unrrpinitjg sadness is allied 
 In thankful bosoms to a modest pride. 
 
 III. 
 
 (by the side of rydal mere.) 
 
 The linnet's warble, sinking towards a close. 
 
 Hints to the thrush 'tis 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 rook?, 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 Nic^htengale ! Who ever heard thy song 
 
 \j LxuiJieii^c fajicv ffrovvs so strong 
 
 Miffht here be moved, till laiicy f^ 
 
 jwigni nere oardonably cheated 
 
 That listenine sense is prtiu.-i. j 
 
 Wh re wood or stream by thee was never greeted- 
 
 sTel^! 7Z. fairest spots af favoured lands, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Soft a.=? a cloud is yon blue ridge — the Mere 
 
 Seems firm as solid crystal, breathh^ss, 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 withdrawn 
 
 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 dazzli g s een. 
 — An emblem this of what the sober hour 
 Can do for minds disposed to feel its power ! 
 Thus oft, when we in vain have wish'd away 
 The petty pleasures of the garish day, 
 Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host 
 (Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his post) 
 And leaves the di.^encumbered spirit free 
 To reatsume ti staid simplicity. 
 'Tis 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 ?" 
 
 V. 
 
 The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill. 
 And sky that danced amoiig those leaves, are still 5 
 Rest smooths the way for sleep ; in field and bower 
 Soft shades and dews have shed their blended power 
 On droo[)ing eyelid and the closing flower ; 
 Sound is there none at which the faintest heart 
 Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start; 
 Save when the owlet's une.xpected scream- 
 Pierces the ethereal vault ; and 'mid the gleam 
 Of unsubstantial imagery — the dream, 
 From the hushed vale's realities, transferred 
 To the still lake, the imaginative hird 
 Seems, 'mid inverted mountains, not unheard. 
 Grave creature ! whether, while the moon shines bright 
 On thy wings opened wide for sniooihest flight, 
 Thou art disc(>vered in a roofless tower. 
 Rising from what may once have been a lady's bower , 
 
S96 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Or spied where thou sit'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 puzzling notice of thy whereabout ; 
 
 May the night never come, tlie 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 favourite 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 > 
 
 vr. 
 
 The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, 
 Fking back from distant chmes a streaming fire, 
 Whdse blaze is now subdued to tender gleams. 
 Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams. 
 Look round ; — of all the clouds not one is nioving ; 
 'T is the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving. 
 Silent, and steadfast as ihe vaulted sky. 
 The boundless plain of waters seetns to lie : — 
 Comes iliat low sound from bre(^zcs rustling o'er 
 The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore! 
 No, 't is the earth-voice of tl;e mighty sea, 
 Whispering how meek and gentle he can be I 
 
 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 his 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 I 
 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 
 JDrawn from the wisdom that begins wiih fear; 
 Glad to expand, and, for a season, free 
 From finite cares, to rest absorbed in thee ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 (by the sea-side.) 
 
 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 lieaving of the deep survives, 
 A tell-tale motion ! soon will it be laid, 
 And by the tide alone the water swayed. 
 Stealthy withdrawings, intermingiings 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 tempests 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 gladly would the air be 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 guify coast of Norway iron-bound ; 
 
 And, from the wide and open 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 I" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 [The former of the two following Pieces appeared 
 many years ago, among the Author's poems, from 
 which, in subsequent editions, it was excluded. It is 
 here reprinted, at the request of a friend who was pre- 
 sent when the lines were iJjrown off as an inpromptu. 
 
 For printing the latter, some reason should be given, 
 as not a word of it is original : it is simply a fine stanza 
 of Akenside, connected with a slill finer from Beattie* 
 b)' a couplet of Thomson. Tliis practice, hi which the 
 author sometimes indulges, of linking together, in his 
 own mind, favourite passages from different authors, 
 seems in itself unobjectionable : but, as the publishing 
 such compilations might lead to confusion in literature? 
 he should deem hiraselfinexcusable in giving this speci- 
 men, were it not from a hope ihat it might open to 
 others a harmless source of private gratification.] 
 
 The sun has long been set. 
 The stars are out by twos and threes, 
 
 The little birds are piping yet 
 Among 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" 
 In London, " and masquerading," 
 On such a night of June 
 With that beautiful soft half-moon, 
 And all these innocent blisses. 
 On such a night as this is ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Throned in the sun's descending car 
 
 What power unseen difluses far 
 This tenderness of mind 1 
 
 What genius smiles on yonder flood ? 
 
 What God in whispers from the wood- 
 Bids every thought be kind 1 
 
 O ever pleasing solitude, 
 Companion of the wise and good, 
 Thy sl-.ade'^, thy silence, now be mine, 
 
 Thy charms my only theme ; 
 My haunt the hollow cliff whose pine 
 
 Waves o'er the gloomy stream ; 
 Whence the scared owl on pinions gray 
 
 Breaks from the rustling boughs. 
 And down the lone vale sails away 
 
 To more profound repose ! 
 
MISCELLANIIOUS POEMS. 
 
 297 
 
 ^KE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY HYMN. 
 
 Up to the throne of God is borne 
 The voice of praise at early morn, 
 And he accepts the punctual liymn 
 SauQ as the light of day grows dim, 
 
 Nor will he turn his ear aside 
 From holy offerings at noontide : 
 Then here repnsinsj let us raise 
 A song of gratitude and praise. 
 
 What tliough our burtiien be not light 
 We need not toil from morn to night; 
 The respite of the mid-day hour 
 Is in tlie 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 I 
 
 Why should we crave a haliovv^ed spof^ 
 An altar is in each man's cot, 
 A church in every grove that spreads 
 Its living roof above our heads. 
 
 liOok 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 ns the west. 
 When we shall sink to final rest. 
 
 A WREN'S NEST. 
 
 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 laboured roof; 
 
 Yet is it to the fiercest sun 
 Impervious and storm-proof. 
 
 So warm, so beautiful withal, 
 In perfect fiine?s for its aim, 
 
 That to the kind by special grace 
 Their instinct surely came. 
 
 And when for their abodes they seelt 
 
 An opportune recess, 
 The hermit Jias 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 l>ird 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, 
 
 H(*r eggs within the nest repose, 
 Like relics in an urn. 
 
 P.iit Ptill, where general choiee ia good, 
 T ere Is better and a best ; 
 
 38 
 
 And, amoi?g 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 tlie 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 I 
 
 The treasure proudly did I show 
 To some whose minds without dii3dairi 
 
 Can turn to little things, but oncQ 
 Looked up for it in vain : 
 
 'Tis gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey. 
 Who heeds not beauty, love, or sonj, 
 
 Tis gone ! (so seemed it) and we grieved 
 Indignant at the wrong. 
 
 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 uprijiht leaves ; 
 
 And th-us, for purposes benign, 
 A simple flower deceives. 
 
 Concealed from friends who mi^ht disturb 
 
 Thy quiet with no ill intent. 
 Secure from evil eycis and hands 
 
 On barbarous plunder bent. 
 
 Rest, mother-bird ! and when thy j'oung 
 Take flight, and thou cjrt free to roam, 
 
 When withered is the guardian flower, 
 And empty thy late home, 
 
 Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, 
 
 Amid the un violated grove 
 Housed near the growing primrose tuft 
 
 la foresight, or in love. 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND,' 
 IN THE SUMMER OF 1833. 
 
 [Having been preventedby the lateness of the season 
 in 1831, from visiting Stalfa and lona, the author 
 made these the principal objects of a short tour in 
 the summer of 1833, of wliicii the foil iwing series 
 of sonnets is a memorial. The course pursued was 
 down the Cumberland river Derwent, and to Wliite- 
 haven ; thence (by the Isle of Man, where a few 
 days were passed) up the Frith oi Clyde to Greenock 
 then to Oban, Stafia, lona; and back towards Eng- 
 land, by Loch Awe, [nverary. Loch Goil head, Gree- 
 nock, and throngh parts of Rennewsbire, Ayrshire' 
 and Dumfries-shire, to Carlisle, and thence up the 
 river Eden, and homewards by Ullswaier.J 
 
 I. 
 
 Adieu, Rydalian Laurels I that have grown 
 
 And spread as if ye knew that d;iys miiiht come 
 
 When ye would shelter in a iuifipy home, 
 
 On this fair mount, a poet of your own, 
 
 One who ne'er ventured for a DeJphic crown 
 
 To Bue the God; but, haunting your greert Rhirde 
 
29^ 
 
 MISC'ELLANJ^OUa POEMS. 
 
 Allseasons thron^^h, is Iiiimbly pleased to braid 
 Grounfl-flnweif!, beiicaili your pnaidianship, self sown, 
 Faievvell ! no minstrols now with Iiarp ncw-stnnifr 
 For Fiininur wnrdeiinr qnii il:eii bms-fhold bowers; 
 Yf't not for tlii? wants poesy a tongue 
 To ciR'cr tlie itinerant on wJiorn she pours 
 Pier spirit, while he crosses Jonely moors, 
 Or musins; sits forcaken lialls anions. 
 
 IT. 
 
 Why should the enthusiast, journeying: through this isle, 
 
 Repine as if his hour woro come too late ? 
 
 Not unprotected in lier mouldering state, 
 
 -Antiquity saMites him with a smile, 
 
 ^Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil. 
 
 And plpasure-p:rounds where taste, refined co-mate 
 
 Of truth and beauty, strives to imitate, 
 
 Far as slie mny, primeval Nature's style. 
 
 Fnir land ! by time's parental love made free. 
 
 By social orders wntchful aims embraced, 
 
 With uncAnmpled union meet in thee. 
 
 For eye. and mind, Tlie present nnd tlie past;: 
 
 Witli polden prospect for futurity. 
 
 If what is rightly reverenced may last. 
 
 III. 
 
 They called thee merry England, in old time ; 
 
 A happy people won for thee that nnme 
 
 With envy heard in many a distant clime ; 
 
 And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same 
 
 Endearing title, a responsive chime 
 
 To the heart's fond belief, though some there are 
 
 Whose sterner judgments deem tliat word a snare 
 
 For inattentive fancy, like The lime 
 
 Which foo!i?h birds are caught with. Can, I ask, 
 
 This face of rural beauty be a mnsk 
 
 For discontent, and poverty, and crime ; 
 
 These spreading Towns a cloak for Inwless will ; 
 
 Forbid it. Heaven !— that " merry England" still 
 
 May be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 TO THE mVEH GRETA* NEAR KESWICK. 
 
 Grkta, what fearful listening! when huge stones 
 
 Rumble along thy bed, block after block: 
 
 Or, wliirling with reiterated shock. 
 
 Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans: 
 
 * Many yeors ago, when the author was at Greta 
 Bridge, in "Yorkshire, the hostess of the iim, proud 
 of her !-kiIl in etymology, said, tliat " the nnme of 
 the river was taken from the bridge, the foim of 
 which, as every one must notice, exactly resembled 
 a great A." l(ut Dr Whitnker has derived it fron) 
 the word of common occurrence in the north of 
 Fnglntid, " to rrrcct ;" signifying to lament aloud, 
 mcjf-Tly wilh weeping ; a conjecture rendered more 
 probable from (he i-tony and rocky channel of both 
 the Cnmherland and Yorksl iie rivers. The Ctimber- 
 land Greta, though it does not, among tlie country 
 people, take up tJtat rame till within three miles 
 of its disnppeaiance in the river Derwent, may be 
 ronsidcred as liaving its fource in the mounrain cove 
 of Wytbburn, and flowing Through Thirhnere, the 
 beautiiul features of which lake are known only to 
 those wln), ti.-ivelling hetween Grasmere and Kes- 
 wick, have quitted the main road in the vale of 
 Wvihburi), and, crot-sing over To the opposite side 
 of the lake, have proceeded with it on the right 
 Land. 
 
 • Ti'O cliannel of tlie Greta, immediately above Kes- 
 wick has, for the purpo.'-es of building, b( en in a 
 great measui'e cleared of the immense stones which, 
 by their concussi.' n in bifih floods, produced the loud 
 and awful noises described in the sonnet. 
 
 But if thou (like Cocytus, from the monna 
 
 Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert name^ 
 
 The mourner, thy true nature was defamed, 
 
 And the habitual murmur that atones 
 
 For thy worst rage, forgotten. Oft as Spring 
 
 Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand throneffj- 
 
 Seats of glad instinct and love's carolling, 
 
 The concert, for the happy, then may vie 
 
 With liveliest peals of birth-day harmony : 
 
 To a grieved heart, the notes are benisons. 
 
 TO THE RIVER DERWENT.* 
 
 Among the mountains were we nursed, loved streans" 
 
 Thou near the eagle's nest — within brief sail, 
 
 1, of his bold wing floating on the gale. 
 
 Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the beanx' 
 
 Of human life when first allowed to gleam 
 
 On mortal nt)tice.— Glory of the vale, 
 
 Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though fralTj. 
 
 Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 
 
 Of thy soft breath ! — Le^s vivid wreath entwined 
 
 Nemfean vicor's brow ; less bright was worn, 
 
 Meed of some Roman chief — in riumph borne 
 
 With captives chained ; and shedding from his car 
 
 The sunset splendours of a finished war 
 
 Upon thfi proud enslavers of mankind I 
 
 VI. 
 
 IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH, 
 
 (where the author was born, and his father's 
 rem-mns are laid.) 
 
 A POINT of life between my parent's dust^ 
 And your's, my huiied little-ones ! am I • 
 And to those graves looking habitually 
 In kindre<l 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 T must: 
 And you, my offspring ! that do still remain. 
 Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race. 
 If e'er, through lault 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. 
 
 Til. 
 
 ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKER- 
 MOUTH CASTLE. 
 
 Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, 
 Poet ! that, stiicken 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, did'st become a prey 
 To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink 
 
 " The scenery upon this river,"' saj^s Mr. Soutliey 
 in his Colloquies, " where it passes under the woody 
 side of Latrigg, is of the finest and moat remem- 
 berable kind : — 
 
 -' anibiguo lapsu reflluitque fluitque, 
 
 Occurren!?que sibi venturas aspicit undas." 
 
 * This sonnet has already appeared in several edi- 
 tions of the author's poems ; l>ut he is templed to 
 reprini it in this place, as a natural introduction to 
 tlie two that follow it. 
 
MIBCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 299 
 
 Of llglit was there ;— and thus did T, tliy tutor, 
 Make tliy young thoughts acquainted with the grave ; 
 While thou wert cliasing the vving'd 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. 
 
 VI n. 
 
 NUN'S WELL, BRIGHAM, 
 
 Thb cattle crowding round this beverage clear 
 
 To slake their thirst, wiih reckless hoofs have trod 
 
 The-encirclii'ig turf into a barren clod; 
 
 Through which the waters creep, then disappear, 
 
 Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near; 
 
 Yet, o'er the brink, and round the limestone-o€ll 
 
 ■Of a pure spring (they call it ti^^e " Nun's Well," 
 
 Name that first struck by chauce my startled ear) 
 
 A tender spirit broods— the pensive shade 
 
 Of ritual honours to this fountain paid 
 
 By hooded votaries* with saintly cheer ; 
 
 Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild 
 
 Xiooked down with pity upon eyes beguiled 
 
 lEto th€ shedding of " too soft a tear." 
 
 She smiled ; but time, the old Saturnian seer, 
 
 Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand, 
 
 With step prelusive to a long array 
 
 Of woes and degradations hand in hand, 
 
 Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
 
 Stilled by the eusanguined block of Folheringay ! 
 
 IX. 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 (on the banks of the derwent.) 
 
 Tastor and patriot! at whose bidding rise 
 These modest v\'alls amid a flock that need 
 For one who comes to watch them and to feed 
 A fixed abode, keep down presageful sighs. 
 Threats which the unthinking only can despise, 
 Perplex the church ; but be thou firm, — be true 
 To thy first hope, and this good v.^ork pursue, 
 Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice 
 Dost thou prepare, whose sign will be the smoke 
 iOf thy new liearth ; and sooner shall its wreaths, 
 Mounting while earth her morning incense breathes? 
 From wandering fiends of air receive a yoke, 
 And straightway cease to aspi^-e, than God disdain 
 This humble tribute as ill-timed or v^in. 
 
 MARY aUEEN OF SC0T3, 
 
 ^LANDING AT THE MOUTH OF THE DERWENT, WORK- 
 INGTON. t) 
 
 Dear to the loves, and to the graces vowed, 
 The queen drew back the wimple that she wore ; 
 And to the throng how touchingly she bowed 
 That hailed her landing on the Cumbrian shore ; 
 Bright as a star (that, from a sombre cloud 
 Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts, 
 When a soft summer gale at evening parts 
 The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) 
 
 * Attached to the church of Brigham was former- 
 ly a chantry, which held a moiety of the manor ; 
 and in the decayed parsonage some vestiges of mo- 
 nastic architecture are still to be seen. ^^ 
 
 t " The fears and impatience of Mary were so gieat, 
 savs Robertson, '' that she got into a fisher-boat, ami 
 with about twenty attendants landed at v'/orkington 
 in Cumberland ; and thence she was conducted with 
 manv m^rks of respect to Carlisle." The apartnient 
 in which the Queen had slept at Workington Hall 
 (where she was received by Sir Henry Curwen as 
 became her rank and misffulunes) was long preserved, 
 out of respect Jo her niemr)rv, as she had lelt it ; ana 
 one cannot but regret that some necessary altei;ntions 
 in the mansion could not be effected without its de- 
 «truction. 
 
 XI. 
 
 IN THE CHANNEL BETWEEN THE COAST OF 
 CUMBERLAND AND THE ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Ranging the heights of Scav.'fell or Elack-coom, 
 
 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, faiicy, 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 liis ilicory 
 
 That sati.sfies the siuiple and the meek, 
 
 Blest in their pious ignorance, though weak 
 
 To cope with sages undevoutly free. 
 
 XII. 
 
 AT SEA OFF THE ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Bold words aflirmed, in days when faith was strong 
 
 That no adventurer's bark had power to gain 
 
 These shores if he apjyroaclied them bent on wrong ; 
 
 For, sudilenly up-conjured from the main. 
 
 Mists rose to hide the land — that search, though lon-g 
 
 And eager, might be still pursued in vain. 
 
 O fancy, Vv'^hat an age was that for song 1 
 
 That age, when not by laws inanimate, 
 
 As men believed, t!ie vt\aters were impelled. 
 
 The air controlled, the stars their courses held, 
 
 But element and orb on acts did wait 
 
 Of Poiccrs endued with visible form, instinct 
 
 With v.'ill, and to their work by .passion linked. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Desire we past illusions to recall 1 
 
 To reinstate wild fancy would we hide 
 
 Truths whose thick veil science has drawn aside? 
 
 No, — let this age, iiigh as she may, install 
 
 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 s(jme new wall 
 
 Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone. 
 
 Imaginative faith ! canst overleap, 
 
 In progress fowa d the lount of love, — the throne 
 
 Of power, Wi.ose ministering sjniils records keep 
 
 Of periods fi.Yed, and laws established, less 
 
 Fiesh to exalt than prove its nothingness. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ON ENTERING DOUGLAS BAY, ISLE OF MAN, 
 
 " Dignuni lande viram Musa vetat inori." 
 
 The feudal keep, the bastions of Coliorn, 
 Even when th'y rose to check or to lepel 
 Tides of a-rgressivo war, oft served as well 
 Greedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn 
 Just limits; but yon tower, whoso smiles adoru 
 This perilous bay, stands clear of all offence ; 
 
mo 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Blest work it is of love and innocence, 
 A tower of refiifre to tlie else forlorn. 
 Spare it, ye waves, and lift the mariner, 
 Strujirgling far life, into its savinp: arn>s ! 
 Spare, too, the human helpers ! Do they stir 
 'Mid your fierce phock like men afraid to die ? 
 No, their dread service nerves the heart it warms 
 And they are led by nuble Hillary.* 
 
 XV. 
 
 BY THE SEA-SHORE, ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Why stand we pazinp; on tlie sparkling brine 
 
 Willi wonder, sniit by its transparency, 
 
 And all-enraptnred with its purity'? 
 
 Because the unstained, the clear, the crystalline, 
 
 Have ever in them sonifthing 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 forbeais to dip its palm 
 
 For beverage drawn as from a mountain well: 
 
 Temptation centres in the h'quid calm ; 
 
 Our daily raiment seeuis no obstacle 
 
 To instantaneous plunging in, deep sea ! 
 
 And revelling in long embrace Avith thee. 
 
 XVf. 
 
 ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 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 tliis rock, and surely, had not aid 
 
 Been near, must soon have breathed out life betrayed 
 
 By fondly trusting to an element 
 
 Fair, and to others more than innocent; 
 
 Then had sea-nymphs sung dirges for him 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. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 THE RETIRED MARINE OFFICER, ISLE OF 
 
 MAN. 
 
 Not pangs of grief for lenient time too kecTi, 
 
 Grief that devouring waves had caused, nor guilt 
 
 Which they had witnessed, swayed tlie 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 command. 
 
 The dwelling raised, — a veteran marine; 
 
 Who, in disgust, turned from the neighbouring sea 
 
 To shun the memory of a listless life 
 
 That hung between (wo calPncs. May no strife 
 
 More hurtful here beset him, doom'd, though free, 
 
 Self-doora'd to worse inaction, till his eye 
 
 Shrink from the daily flight of earth and sky ! 
 
 *The Tower of Refttge, an ornament to Df)uglas 
 Bny, was erected cliietly through the humanity and 
 «eal of Sir William Hillary : and he also was the 
 founder of the life-boat cstablif^hment, at that place; 
 by which, under his superiiiiendeuce, and often by his 
 exertions at the imminent hazard of his own life, many 
 sc^amen and passtjngers have been saved. 
 
 XVIH. 
 BY A RETIRED MARINEH, 
 
 (a friend of the AUTHaR.*) 
 
 From early youth I ploughed the restless mail?, 
 
 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 T endure. 
 
 For fortune on me never deigtVd to smile ; 
 
 Yet I at last a resting place have found, 
 
 With just enough life's comforts to procure. 
 
 In a snug cove on this our favoured 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 reraai , 
 
 XIX. 
 
 AT BALA-SALA, [SLE OF MAN. 
 
 (supposed to be written by a friend of the 
 
 AUTHOR.) 
 
 Broken in fortune, but in mind entire 
 
 And sound in principle, I seek repose 
 
 Where ancient trees this convent-pile inclose,! 
 
 In ruin beautiful. When vain desire 
 
 Intrudes on peace, I pray the eternal Sire 
 
 To cast a soul-subduing shade on me, 
 
 A gray-haired, pensive, thankful refugee, 
 
 A shade but with some sparks of heavenly fire 
 
 Once to these cells vouchsafed. And 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 tliank tlie silent monitor, and say 
 
 " Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of the day 1" 
 
 XX. 
 
 TYNWALD HILL. 
 
 Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound 
 (Still marked with green turf circles narrowing 
 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 m-^rged, the pomp a grave has found". 
 Off with yon cloud, old Siiafell It that tliine eye 
 Over three realms may take its widest range ; 
 And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange 
 Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy, 
 If the wiiol'j state must sutler mortal change, 
 Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty. 
 
 * This unpretending sonnet is by a gentleman nearly 
 connected with the avitlior, who hopes, as it falls so 
 easy into its place, tliai both the writer and the reader 
 will excuse iis appearance here. 
 
 t Rushen Abbey. 
 
 i The summit of this mountain is well chosen by 
 Ci»wley, as the scene of the " Vision," in which the 
 spectral angel discourses with him concerning the go- 
 vernment of Oliver sromwell. " I found myself," says 
 he, "on the top of that lauKuis 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 therH, ihey called forth the sad representation of 
 all the sins and all the miseries that had overwhelmed 
 them these twenty years." It isn(}t to be denied that the 
 clianges now in progress, and the passions, and the way 
 in which they work, stiikingly reseniule those which 
 led to the disasters the philosophic writer so feelingly 
 bewails. God grant that the lesemblance may not be- 
 come still more striking as months and years advance ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 301 
 
 XXL 
 
 T)erpond who will — / heard a voice exclaim, 
 
 *' Though fierce the assault, and shatter'd the defence, 
 
 It cannot be that Britain's social frame, 
 
 The glorious work of time and providence, 
 
 Before a flyinjr season's rash pretence, 
 
 Should fall ; that she, whose virtue put to shame. 
 
 When Europe prostrate lay, the conqueror's aim, 
 
 Should peri<5h, self subverted. Black and dense 
 
 The c'oud is ; but brings that a dny of doom 
 
 To liberty? Her sun is up the while, 
 
 That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred shone, 
 
 Then lau?h, ye innocent vales I ye streams, svv^eep on, 
 
 Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest isle 
 
 Toss in the fanning wind a humbler plume." 
 
 xxir. 
 
 [N THE FRfTH OF CLYDE, AILSA CRAG. 
 
 (JULY 17, 1833.) 
 
 Since \\s9n from ocean, ocean to defy, 
 
 Appeared the eras of Ailsa ; ne'er did morn 
 
 With gleaming lights more gracefully adorn 
 
 His sides, or wreathe with mist his forehend high : 
 
 Now, faintly darkening with the sun's eclipse, 
 
 Still is he seen, in lone sublimity, 
 
 Towering above the sea and little ships ; 
 
 For dwarfs the 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-mnrrow's fare; 
 
 Though poor, yet rich, without the wealth of books, 
 
 Or aught that watchful love to Nature owes 
 
 For her mute powers, fix'd forms, aiid transient shows. 
 
 xxnr. 
 
 ON THE FRITH OF CLYDE. 
 
 (in a steam-boat.) 
 
 Arran ! a single-crested TenerifTe, 
 A St. Helen next — in shape and hue. 
 Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue ; 
 Who but must covet a cloud-seat or skiff 
 Built for the air, or winged Hippogriff, 
 That he mi^rht fly, v/here no one could pursue, 
 From this dull mon^^ter and her sooty crew; 
 And, like a god, li<rht on thy topmost cliff. 
 Impotent wish ! which reason would despise 
 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 lies. 
 And lofty springs give birth to lowly streams. 
 
 An eagle with stretched wlnga, but beainless eye— - 
 
 An eagle that could neither wail nor soar. 
 
 Effigies of the vanished, (shall I dare 
 
 To call thee so 1) or symbol of past times, 
 
 That towering courage, and the savage deeds 
 
 Those times were proud of, take thou too a share. 
 
 Not undeserved, of the memorial rhymes 
 
 That animate my way where'er it leads ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ON REVISITING DUNOLLY CASTLE.* 
 
 [See page. 276.] 
 
 The captive bird was gone ;— to cliff or moor 
 Perchnnce had flown, delivered by the storm; 
 Or he had pined, and sunk to feed the worm: 
 Him found w<^ not ; bnt, climbing a tall tower, 
 There saw, impaved with rude fidelity 
 Of art mosaic, in a roofless floor, 
 
 * This inf'pnioiis! piece of workmanship, as the author 
 afterwards learned, had been executed for their ovyn 
 amusement by some labourers employed about the 
 place, 
 
 XXV. 
 
 THE DUNOLLY EAGLE. 
 
 Not to the clouds, not to the clifT, he flew ; 
 l)Ut when a storm, on sea or mountain bred, 
 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 domestic fowF, 
 Beware of him ! Thou, saucy cockatoo, 
 Look to thy plumage and thy life! — The roe. 
 Fleet as the west wind, is (or him no quarry ; 
 Balanced in ether lie will never tarry. 
 Eyeing the sea's blue depths. Poor bird I even so 
 Doth man of bri)ther-man a creature make, 
 That clings to slavery for its own sad sake. 
 
 XXVI. 
 CAVE OF STAFFA. 
 
 We saw, but surely, in the motley crow , 
 
 Not one of us has /e/i, 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 \ 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA.* 
 
 Thanks for the lessons of this spot — fit school 
 For the presumptuoi^s 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, 
 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 upwards to its topmost height. 
 Ocean has proved its strength, and of its grace 
 In calms is conscious, finding for his freight 
 Of »oftest music some responsive place. 
 
 * The reader may be tempted to exclaim, " How came 
 this and the two following sonnets to be written, after 
 the dissatisfaction expressed in the preceding one V 
 In fact, at the risk of incurring the reasonable displea- 
 sure of the master of the steamboat, the author returned 
 to the cave, and explored it under circumstances more 
 favourable to those imaginative impressions, which it 
 is so wonderfully fitted to make upon the min4, 
 
303 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XXVIfl. 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA. 
 
 Ye shadowy beings, that have rights and claims 
 In every cell of Fiiigal's mystic grot, 
 Wheie are ye? Driven or venturing to the spot, 
 Our fathers glimpes caught of your thin frames, 
 And, by your mien and bearing, knew your najnes ; 
 And they could hear his ghostly song who trod 
 Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load, 
 Wljile ho struck his desolate harp without hopes or aims- 
 Vanished ye are, but subject to recall; 
 Why keep wc else The instincts whose dread law 
 P,uled 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 shade a chief. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 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 brav® 
 What summer here escapes not, the fierce wave, 
 And whole artillery of the western blast, 
 Battering the temple's front, its long-drawn nave 
 Smiling, 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 lowers 
 Of heaven contemplated by spirits pure — 
 Suns and their systems, diverse yet sustained 
 -In symmetry, and fashioned to endure, 
 Unhurt, the assault of time with all his hours. 
 As the supreme .artificer ordained. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 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 deplored 
 
 Their wrongs, since they fulfilled their destiny 1 
 
 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- 
 
 XXXI. 
 lONA. 
 
 (upon landing.) 
 
 With earnest look, to every voyager, 
 Some ragged child holds up for sale his store 
 Of wave-vi'orn pebbles, pleading on the shore 
 Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir. 
 Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer. 
 
 * Upon tlie head of the columns which form the front 
 of the cave, rests a body of decomposed basaltic mat- 
 ter, which was richly decorated with that large bright 
 flower, the ox-eyed daisy. Tlie author h.'id noticed 
 the same flower growing with profusion among the 
 bold rocks on the western coast of the IsleofMun ; 
 making a brilliant contrast with their black and gloomy 
 surfaces. 
 
 But see yon neat'trim church, a grateful speck 
 Of novelty amid this sacred wreck- 
 Nay spare thy scorn, haughty 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 eterrial rest."* 
 
 XXXIL 
 
 THE BLACK STONES OF lONA. 
 
 [See Martin's Voyage among the Western Tsles.] 
 
 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 colour gray. 
 
 But what is colour, 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 vengeance 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 barCj 
 
 Come links for social order's awful chain. 
 
 XXXH[. 
 
 Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's cell, 
 
 Where Christian piety's soul-cheering spark 
 
 (Kindled from heaven between the light and dark 
 
 Of time) shone like the morning-star, farewell! — 
 
 Remote St. Ki'da, art thou visible ? 
 
 No— but farewell to thee, beloved sea-mark 
 
 For many a voyage made in fancy's 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 lucid veil. 
 
 That thickens, spreads, and, mingling fold with fold. 
 
 Makes known, when thou no longer canst be seen, 
 
 Thy whereabout, to warn the approaching sail. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 GREENOCK. 
 
 Per me si va nella Citla dolente. 
 
 We have not passed into a doleful city. 
 We who were 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 1 
 These crowded streets resound no plaintive ditty. 
 As from the hive where bees in summer dwell. 
 Sorrow seems here excluded ; and that knell. 
 It neither damps the gay, nor checks the witty. 
 Too busy mart ! thus fared it with 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. 
 
 * The four last lines of this sonnet are adopted 
 from a well known sonnet of Russel. as conveying 
 the author's feeling better than any words of his own 
 could do. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS P0EM3. 
 
 303 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 '' There !" said a stiipling, pointing with meet piide 
 Towards a low roof with pi Ren trees half concealed, 
 " Is Mossgiel farm ; and that's the very field 
 Where Burns ploughed up the daisy." Far and wide 
 A plain below stretched sea-ward, 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. 
 Be:jeath " the random Meld of clod or stone," 
 Myriads (if daisies have shone forth in flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
 Have passed away, less happy tlian the one 
 That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove 
 The tender charm of poetry and love. 
 
 xxxvr. 
 
 FANCY AND TRADITION. 
 
 The lovers took within this ancient grove 
 Their last embrace ; beside those crysrai springs 
 The hermit saw the angel spread his wings 
 For instant flight ; the sage in yon alcove 
 Sate musing ; on that hill the bard would rove, 
 Not mute, where now the linnet only sings: 
 Thus every where to truth tradition c'ings, 
 Or fancy localizes powers we love. 
 Were only history licensed to take note 
 Of things gone by, her meagre monuments 
 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. 
 
 xx:s:vir. 
 
 THE RIVER EDEN, CUMBERLAND. 
 
 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* that honour came. 
 Rightfully borne ; for nature gives thee flowers 
 That have no rivals among British bowers ; 
 And thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame. 
 Mensuring thy course, fair stream ! at length I pay 
 To my life's neighbour dues of neighbourhood ; 
 But I have traced thee on thy winding way 
 With pleasure sometimes by the thought restrained 
 That things far off are toiled for, while a good 
 Not sought, because too near, is seldom gained. 
 
 xxxviir. 
 
 MONUMENT OF MRS HOWARD, BY NOLLEKINS, 
 
 IN WKTHERAL CHURCH, NEAR CORBY, ON THE BANKS 
 OF THK EDEN. 
 
 Stretched on the dying mother's lap, lies dead 
 Her new-born babe, dire issue of bright hope ! 
 But sculpture here, with the divinest scope 
 Of luminous faith, heavenward hath raised that head 
 
 * It is to be feared that there is more of the poet than 
 the sound etymologist in tliis derivation of the name 
 Eden. On the western coast of (Cumberland is a rivu- 
 let which enters the sea at Moresbv, known also in the 
 neighbourhood by the name of Eden. May not the 
 latter syilahie come from the word Dean, a valley ? 
 Langdale nrar Anibleside, is by the inhabitants called 
 Langden,' The former syllable occurs in the name 
 Eamont, a principal feederof the Eden ; and the stream 
 which flows, when the tide is out, over Cartmel Sands, 
 is called the Ea. 
 
 So patiently ; and througft one hand has spread 
 A touch so tender for the insensate child, 
 Earth's lingering love to parting reconciled, 
 Brief parting — for the spirit is all but fled ! 
 That we, who contemplate the turns of life 
 Through this still meiliuni, are consoled and cheered •. 
 Feel with the moiher, think the severed wife 
 Is less to be lamented than revered ; 
 And own that art, trium.Jiant over strife 
 And pain, hath powers to eternity endeared. 
 
 xxxix. 
 
 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 wJiat of hope Elysian could allow 
 Was fondly seized by sculpture, to restore' 
 Peace to the mourner's soul ; but he who wore 
 I'he crown of thorns around his bleeding brow 
 Warmed our sad being with his glorious light: 
 Then arts, which still had drawn a softening 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, roun<l the central sun. 
 
 XJL. 
 
 NUNNERY. 
 
 The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary . 
 
 Down from the Pennine Alps* how 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 Nunnery Dell? 
 Canal, and viaduct, and railway, tell ! j 
 
 XLI. 
 
 STEAMBOATS, VIADUCTS, AND RAILWAYS. 
 
 Motions and means, on land and sea at war 
 
 With old poetic feeling, not for this. 
 
 Shall ye, by poels even, be judged amiss ! 
 
 Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar 
 
 The loveliness of Natnre, prove a bar 
 
 To the mind's gaining that prophetic sense 
 
 ( tf 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 embraee 
 
 Her lawful olTspring in man's art ; and time, 
 
 Pleased with your triumphs o'er his brother space, 
 
 Accepts from your bold hands the profFered crown 
 
 Of hope, and smiles on you with cheer sublime. 
 
 * The chain of Crossfell, which parts Cumberland 
 and Westmoreland from Northumberland and Dur- 
 ham. 
 
 t At Corby, a few miles below Nunnery, the Eden 
 is cross'd by a magnificent viaduct; and another of 
 thCfC works is thrown over a deep glen or ravine 
 at a very short distance from the main stream. 
 
304 
 
 MISCELLANEOTjB POEMSi 
 
 XLII. 
 
 LowTHER ! in thy majestic pile are seen 
 
 Cathedral pornp 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 honour; 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. 
 
 Fall if ye must, ye towers an:l pinnacles, 
 
 With what ye symbolise, authentic story 
 
 Will say, ye disappeared with England's glory ! 
 
 XLTII. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF LONSDALE.* 
 
 "Magistratus indicat virum." 
 
 LoNSDALK ! it were unworthy of a guest, 
 
 Whose heart with gratitude to thee inclines. 
 
 If he should speak, by fancy touched, of signa 
 
 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. 
 
 XLIV. 
 TO CORDELIA M- 
 
 HALLSTEADS, ULLSWATER. 
 
 Not in the mines beyond the western main, 
 
 You tell me, Delia ! was the metal sought. 
 
 Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought 
 
 Into this flexible yet faithful chain ; 
 
 Nor is it silver of romaniic Spain 
 
 You say, but from Helvellyn's depths was brought, 
 
 Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought 
 
 Mix strangely ; trifles light, and partly vain. 
 
 Can p''op, 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 yowx bosom found! 
 
 XLV. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Most sweet it is with unupliftcd eyes 
 
 To pace the ground, if path be th^re or none, 
 
 While a fair region round the traveller lies 
 
 *This sonnet was written immediately after cer- 
 tain trials, which took place at the Cumberland As- 
 sizes, when the Karl of Lonsdale, in consequence 
 of repeated and long continued attacks upon liis cha- 
 racter, through the local press, had thought it right 
 to prosecute the conductors 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 dis- 
 avowing the charges, expressing regret that they had 
 been made, and promising to abstain from the like 
 .n future. 
 
 Which he forbears again to look tipOTi ; 
 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene*. 
 
 The work of fancy, or some happy tone 
 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 
 The beauty comitig and the beauty gone. 
 
 If thought and love desert us, from that day 
 
 Let us break otf 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 inspiration on the humblest lay. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE COUNTESS OF . 
 
 Nov. 5. ]834. 
 
 Lady ! a pen, perhaps, with thy regard. 
 
 Among the favoured, favoured not the least, 
 
 Left, 'mid the records of this book inscribed, 
 
 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 inspired, 
 Was yet not bold enough to write of thee. 
 And why that scrupulous reserve 1 In sooth 
 The blameless cause lay in the theme itself. 
 Flowers, are there many that dehght to strive 
 With the sharp wind, and seem to court 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 drwy shade, — a humble band, 
 Modest and sweet, a progeny of earth, 
 Congenial with thy mind and character, 
 High-born Augusta ! 
 
 Towers, and stately groves ! 
 Bear witness for me; thou, too, mountain-stream, 
 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 
 JMutc ofl'erings, tribute from an inward sense 
 Of admiration and respectful love. 
 Have waited, till the affertions could no more 
 Endure that silence, and broke out in song; 
 Snatciies of music taken up and dropt 
 Like those self-solacing, those under notes 
 Trilled by the redbreast, when autumnal leaves 
 Are thin upon the hough. Mine, only mine. 
 The pleasure was, and no one heard the praise. 
 Checked, in ihe moment of its issue checked ; 
 And reprehended by a fancied blush 
 From the pure qualities that called it 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 eyesj 
 Hides half their beauty from the common gaze; 
 And thus, even on tlie exposed and breezy hill 
 Of lofty station, female goodness walks. 
 When side by side with lunar gentleness, 
 As in a cloister. Yet the grateful poor 
 (Such the immunities of Tow estate, 
 Plain nature's enviable privilege. 
 Her sacred recom pence 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 ie fr^f*' 
 To follow truth, is eloquent as they. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 m 
 
 Then let the book receive in these prompt lines 
 A juKt 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 ; 
 Bee cheerfulness undamped by stealing time ; 
 See studied kindntss 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 gift* 
 With these ennobling attributes conjoined 
 And blended, in peculiar harmony, 
 By youth's surviving spirit ? What agile grace ! 
 A nymph-like liberty, In nymph-like form, 
 Beheld with wonder ; whether floor or path 
 Thou tread, or on the managed steed art borne, 
 Fleet as the shadows, over down or field, 
 Driven by strong winds at play among tho clouds. 
 
 Yet one w^ord more— one farewell word— a wish 
 Which came, but it hag passed into a prayer, 
 That, as thy sun in brightness is declining, 
 Bo, at an hour yet distant for tJieir 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. 
 
 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 List, ye who pass by Lyulph's tower* 
 
 At eve ; hotr softly then 
 Doth Aira-force, that torreat 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-brow'd 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 deli. 
 
 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 priaed, and only one; 
 
 Sir Eglamore was he ; 
 Full happy season, when waa known, 
 Ye dales and hills ! to you alono 
 
 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. 
 
 * \ pleasure-hou^se built by the late Duke of Norfolk 
 tipoA the banks of Ullswatcr. Force h the word used 
 in the Lake District for VVaUT-falJ. 
 
 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 pressed 
 The drooping Emma to his breast, 
 
 And looked a blind adieu. 
 
 They parted.— Well with him it fared 
 
 Through wide-spread regions errant ; 
 A knight of proof in love's behoof, 
 
 The thirst of fame his v/arrant : 
 And she her happiness can build 
 
 On woman's quiet hours ; 
 Though faint, compared v>^ith spear and shield. 
 The solace beads and masses yield, 
 
 And needle work and flov/ers. 
 
 Yet blest was Emma 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 blopsoms for the J\Iay 
 Of absence ! but they will not Btaj, 
 
 Born only to depart. 
 
 Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills 
 
 Whatever path lie chooses ; 
 As if his orb, that owns no curb, 
 
 Received the light hers loses. 
 He comes not back ; an an)plcr 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 ths past 
 
 Her spirit finds its centre ; 
 Clear sight she has of what he v/ae, 
 
 And that would now content her. 
 " Still is he my devoted knight?" 
 
 The tear in answer flows ; 
 Month falls on month with heavier weight ; 
 Day sickens round her, and the night 
 
 Is empty of repoce. 
 
 In sleep she sometimes walked abroad, 
 
 Deep sighs with quick words blending, 
 Like that pale queen whose bauds are Be«n 
 
 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 takiog. 
 That leads her to the torrent's side 
 
 And to a holly bower ; 
 By whom on this still night descried 1 
 By whom in that lone place espied 7 
 
 By thee, Sir Eglamore ! 
 
 A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, 
 
 His coming step has thwarted, 
 Beneath the bo'ighs that heard their vow3, 
 
 Within whose shade they parted. 
 Hush, hush, tho busy sleeper see : 
 
 Perplexed her fingers seem. 
 As if they from the holly tree 
 Green twigs would pluck, as rap.dy 
 
 Flung from lier t^ the stream. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS foTHMS. 
 
 What means tha ppectro "? Why intent 
 
 To violate the tree, 
 Thought Eglamore, by which I swore 
 
 Unfading constancy 1 
 Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, 
 
 To her t left, shall prove 
 That bliss is ne'er so surely won 
 As when a circuit has been run 
 
 Of valour, truth, and love. 
 
 So from the spot whereon he stood, 
 
 Re moved with stealthy pace ; 
 And, drawing nigh, with his living eye, 
 
 Ho recognised tho face ; 
 And whispers caught, and speeches small, 
 
 Some to the green-leaved tree. 
 Some muttered to tho torrent-fall, — 
 " Roar on, and bring him with thy call ; 
 I heard, and so may he !" 
 
 Soul shattered was the knight, nor know 
 
 If Emma's ghost it were. 
 Or boding shade, or if the maid 
 
 Her very self stood there. 
 He touched, what followed who ghall telll 
 
 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, 
 Her eyes grew bright with blisisful 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, 
 
 Phe 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 gueat ; 
 In hermit's 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, 
 
 Aro edged with golden rays ! 
 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. 
 
 Shall take thy place with Yarrow ! 
 
 TO- 
 
 rPON THE BIRTH OP HER FIRST-DORN CHILD, 
 MARCH, 18.?3. 
 
 " Turn porro puer, ut srovis projectus ab undis 
 Navita; nudus burai jacet," &c. — Lucretius. 
 
 Like a ehipwreck'd sailor tost 
 By rough waves on a perilous coast, 
 Lies the babe, in helplessness 
 And in tenderest nakedness, 
 Flung by labouring nature foith 
 Upon the mercies of the earth. 
 Can its eyes beseech ? no more 
 Tiian the hands are free to implore : 
 
 Voice bat eorvea for one brief cry, -.^ 
 Plaint was it ? or prophecy 
 Of sorrow that will surely come?' 
 Omen of man's grievous doom I 
 
 But, O mother ! by the closd 
 Duly granted to thy throes ; 
 By the silent thanks now tending 
 Incense-like to Heaven, descending 
 Now to mipgle and to move 
 With the gush of earthly love, 
 As a debt to tliat frail creature, 
 Instrument of struggling nature 
 For the blissful calm, the peac6 
 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 mortal recompence 1 
 
 As a floating summer cloud, 
 Though of gorgeous drapery proud, 
 To the sun-burnt traveller, 
 Or the stooping labourer, 
 Ofttimes makes its bounty knows 
 By its shadow round him thrown; 
 So, by chequerings 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 meekneei! 
 
 And, sweet mother ! under warran* 
 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 succour, 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 
 Arap^e 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 pregt, 
 Conscious nursling, to thy breapt ! 
 

 MIJCELLANE0U3 POEMS 
 TME WARNING, 
 
 A SEQUEL TO THB FOREOOINQ. 
 
 307 
 
 <^ 
 
 0^ MARCH, 1833. 
 
 List, the winds of March are blowing ; 
 
 Her ground-flowRrs shrink, afraid of ghowing 
 
 Their meek heads to. the nipping air, 
 
 Which ye feel not, happy pair ! 
 
 Sunk into a kindly sleep. 
 
 We, meajiwliile, car 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 X^^^^ 
 Upon each home-event 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 j^randsire'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 feeMngs overflow, 
 And quffck words round him fall like flakes of snow. 
 
 Thanks to the powers that yet maintain their away, 
 And have renewed the tributary lay. 
 Trutiis of the heart flock in Vvqlh 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 an unbelated love !) 
 But from this peaceful centro^of delight 
 liague sympathies have urged her to take flight. 
 She rivals, the fleet swallow, making ringi? 
 In the smooth lake where'er he dips bis winga; 
 —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 pinions rest 
 On proud towers, like this humble cottage, blest 
 With a new visitant, an infant guest — 
 Towers where red streamei-s flout the breezy sky 
 iii pomp foreseen by'^ber creative eye. 
 When feasts shall crowd th§^ hall, and steeple bells 
 Glad proclamation make, and heights and dells 
 Catch tbe blithe music as it sinks or swells ; 
 And harboured ships, whose pric^e is on the sea, 
 Shall hoist their topmost flags in sign of glee, 
 Honouring 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 fset by all of woman born)— 
 Shall now by such a gift with joy be moved, 
 Nor feel the fulness of that joy reproved 1 
 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 whicli her martyrs died ; 
 Wliose boyish ear the voice of her renown 
 With rapture thrilled ; whose youth revered the crown 
 Of Saxon liberty that Alfred wore, 
 Alfred, dear babe, thy great progenitor ! 
 —Not he, who from her mellowed practice drew 
 Hia 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 nnbeguiled)- 
 
 Woke from the dream, the dreamer to upbraid, 
 
 And learn how iangnine expectations fade 
 
 When novel trusts by folly are betrayed,— 
 
 To see presumption, turning pale, refraia 
 
 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 
 
 Till undiscriminating ruin swept 
 
 The land, and wrong perpetual vigils kept; 
 
 With proof before her that on public ends 
 
 Domestic virtu© vitally depends. 
 
 Can such a one, dear babe ! though glad and proud 
 To welcome thee, repel the fears that crowd 
 Into bis English breast, and sipare to quake 
 Not for his own, but for thy innocent sake 1 
 Too late— or, should the providence of God 
 Lead, through blind ways by sin and sorrow trod, 
 justice and peace to a secure abode, 
 Too scon— thou cora'st into this breathing world ; 
 Ensigns of mimic outrage are unfurled. 
 Who shall preserve or prop the tottering realm ? 
 What hand suffice to govern the state-helm 1 
 'f, in the aims of men, the surest test 
 ^f good or bad (whate'er be souglit for or profest) 
 Lie in the means required, or ways ordained, 
 For compassing the end, else never gained; 
 Yet governors and govern'd 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 new 
 If cowardly concession still must i%ft^ 
 The thirst for power in men who ne'er concede ; 
 If generous loyalty must stand in awe 
 Of subtle treason, with his mask of law ; 
 Or with bravado insolent and ]jard. 
 Provoking punishment, to win reward; 
 If office help the factious to conspire, 
 And they who should extinguish, fan the tire — 
 Then, will the sceptre he a straw, the crown 
 Sit looGcly, 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 labouring 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 judgments wide, 
 And to your wrath cry out, " Be thou our guide ;'" 
 Or, bound by oaths, come forth to tread earth's floor 
 111 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 behest 
 Justice shall rule, disorder be supprest, 
 And every man sit down as plenty's guest ! 
 — O for a bridle bitted v/ith remorse 
 To stop 5'our 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 f 
 May he pour round you, from worlds far above 
 Man's feverish passioHs, his pure light of love, 
 That quietly restores the natural mein 
 To hope, and makes truth willing to be seen ! 
 Else shall your blood-stained hands in frenzy reap 
 Fields gaily sown when promises were cheap. 
 Why is the past belied with wicked art, 
 The future made to play so false a part. 
 Among a people famed for strength of mind, 
 Foremoi^t in freedom, noblest of mankind ? 
 
30B 
 
 MISCELLANEOUfl POEMS. 
 
 We aet as if vre joyed la the cad tune 
 
 Storms make in rising, valued in the moon 
 Nought but her changes. Thus, unjjrateful 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 crimo) 
 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 sleeping 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. 
 
 If this great world of joy and pain 
 
 Revolve in one sure track ; 
 If freedom, set, will rise again, 
 
 And virtue, flown, come back ; 
 Wo 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! 
 
 BONNET,* 
 
 COMPOSED AFTER READING A NEWSPAPER OP THE DAY- 
 
 " People ! your chains are severing link by link ; 
 Soon shall the rich be levelled down— the poor 
 Meet them halfway." Vain boast ! for these, the more 
 They thus would rise, must low and lower sink 
 Till, by repentance stung, they fear to think ; 
 While all lie prostrate, save the tyrant few 
 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 wo." 
 For, if than other rash ones more thou know, 
 Yet on presumptuous wing as far would fly 
 Aboyo thy knowledge as they dared to go, 
 Thou wilt provol^e a heavier penalty. 
 
 LOVING AND LIKING : 
 
 IRREGULAR VERSES, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A CHILD. 
 
 [In the preceding pages are three pieces addresssd 
 to Children :— the following, a few lines excepted, is 
 by the same Writer : and, as it belongs to the same 
 unassuming class of compositions, che has been pre- 
 vailed upon to consent to its publication.] 
 
 There's more in words than I can teach ; 
 Yet listen, child !— I would not preach ; 
 But only give seme plain directions 
 To guide your speech and your affectiona. 
 Say not you love a roasted fowl. 
 But you may love a screaming owl. 
 And, if you can, the unwieldy toad 
 That crawls from his secure abode 
 Within the mossy garden vv^all 
 When evening dews begin to fall. 
 
 ^ This Sonnet ought to have followed No VII. in 
 the Eeries of 1831, but was omitted by mistake. 
 
 Oh mark the beauty wT his eye 5 
 
 What wonders in that circle He! 
 
 So clear, so bright, our fathers slid 
 
 He wears a jewel in his head ! 41^ 
 
 And when, upon some showery day, 
 
 Into a path or public way 
 
 A frog leaps out from bordering grasi. 
 
 Startling the timid as they pass, 
 
 Do you observe him, and endeavour 
 
 To take the intruder into favour ; 
 
 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 natures, 
 
 A pattern for a human creature, 
 
 Glancing amid the water bright, 
 
 And sending upward sparkling light. 
 
 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 -flowey. 
 
 And love the strawberry in its bower ; 
 
 But when the fruit, ko often praised 
 
 Fer 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, 
 
 That deadly foe of both 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 not 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, 
 They foster all joy, and extinguish all strife. 
 You love your father and your mother, 
 Your grown-up and your baby broiher; 
 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 liki7}gs come, and pass away ; 
 *Tis love that remains till our latest day: 
 Our heavenward guide is hiol^ love, 
 And it will be our bliss with saints above. 
 
 ST. BEES, 
 
 SUGGESTED 
 
 IN A STEAM-BOAT OFF ST. BEES' HEADS, 
 
 ON THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND. 
 
 St. Bees' Heads, anciently called the ClifFof Baruth, 
 are a conspicuous sea-mark for all vessels sailing in the 
 N. E. parts of the Irish Sea. In a bay, one side of 
 which is formed by the southern headland, stands the 
 village of St. Bees ; a place distinguished, from very 
 early times, for its religious and scholastic foundations. 
 
 " 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. 
 
MiecELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 309 
 
 ^* The aforesaid religious house, being destroyed by 
 the Danes, was restored by William de Mescliiens, son 
 of Ranulph, and brother of Ranulph de Meschiens, first 
 Earl of Cumberland after the conquest ; and made a cell 
 of a prior and six Benedictine monks to the Abbey of St. 
 Mary at York." 
 
 Several traditions of miracles, connected with the 
 foundation of the first of these religious houses survive 
 among the people of the neighbourhood; one of which 
 is alluded to in the following Stanzas ; and another, of 
 a somewhat bolder and more peculiar character, has 
 furnished the subject 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 monasteries. Archbishop 
 Grindal founded a free school at St. Bees, from which 
 the counties of Cumberland and Westmoreland have 
 derived great benefit; and recently, under the patronage 
 of the Earl of Lonsdale, a college has been established 
 there for the education of ministers for the English 
 Church. The old Conventual Church has been repaired 
 under the superintendence of the Rev. Dr. Ainger, the 
 Head of the College ; and is well worthy of being visit 
 €d by any strangers who miglit be led to the neighbour- 
 hood of this celebrated spot. 
 
 The form of stanza in the following piece, and some- 
 thing in the style of versification, are adopted from the 
 " St. Monica," a poem of much beauty upon a monas- 
 tic 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 
 nature. 
 
 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 proiTered 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 strait-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 perform; 
 That fortitude, whose blood disdains to freeze 
 At danger's bidding, may confront the seas. 
 Firm as the towering headlands of St. Bees. 
 
 Dread cliif of Baruth ! that wild 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 
 Hast thou looked down upon, that such a thought 
 Should here be welcome, and in verse enwrought : 
 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 1 
 And wisdom, that once held a Christian placo 
 In man's intelligence sublimed by grace ? 
 When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian coast, 
 Tempestuous winds her holy errand cross'd ; 
 As high and higher heaved the billows, faith 
 Grew with them, mightier than the powers of death. 
 She knelt in prayer— the waves their wrath appease; 
 And, from her vow well weighed in heaven's decrees, 
 Rose, where ehe touched the strand, the Chaunlry ^ 
 of St. Bees. 
 
 " Cruel of heart were they, bloody of banJ," 
 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 votaries, miracles believed 
 
 Wrought in men's minds, like miracles achieved ; 
 
 So piety took root ; and song might tell 
 
 What humanizing virtues round her cell 
 
 Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide around 5 
 
 How savage bosoms melted at the sound 
 
 Of gospel-trufh enchained in harmonies 
 
 Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through close treei, 
 
 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 choir. 
 
 Her chauntry 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 were the naked clothed, the hungry fed ; 
 
 And charity extended 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 slepf, 
 
 Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept. 
 
 Thanks to the austere and simple devotees, 
 
 Who, to that service bound by venial fees, 
 
 Kept watch before the altars of St. Bees. 
 
 Were not, in sooth, their requiems sacred ties'" 
 
 Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies, 
 
 Subdued, composed, and formalized by art, 
 
 T o fix a wiser sorrow in the heart 1 
 
 The prayer for them whose hour was past away 
 
 Said 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. Bess. 
 
 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. 
 
 * The author is aware that he is here treading upon 
 tender ground ; but to the intelligent reader he feela 
 that no apology is due. Tiie prayers of survivors, du- 
 ring passionate grief for the recent loss of relatives and 
 friends, as the object of those prayers could no longer 
 be the suffering body of the dying, would natuially be 
 ejaculated 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 iheir 
 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 embodying them in rites and ceremonies, recurring 
 at Slated periods. All this, as it was in course of nature, 
 so was it blameless, and even praiseworthy ; but no re- 
 flecting person can view without sorrow the abuses 
 which rose out of thus formalizing sublime instincts, 
 and disinterested movements of passion, and perverting 
 them into means of gratifying the ambition and rapacity 
 of the priesthood. But, while we deplore and are in- 
 dignant at these abuses, it would be a great mistake if 
 we imputed the origin of the offices to prospective sel- 
 fishness on the part of the monks and clergy : they wera 
 at first sincere in their sympathy, and in their degree 
 dupes rather of their own erred, than artful and design- 
 ing men. Charity is, upon the whole, the safest guide 
 that we can take in judging our fellow men, whethev 
 of past ages, or of the present tinje. 
 
310 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Ah ! scorn not hastily their rule who try 
 Earth to despise, and flesh to mortify ; 
 Consume with zeal, in winged ecstaciea 
 Of prayer and praise forget their rosaries, 
 Nor hear the loudest surges of St. Bees. 
 
 Yet none so prompt to succour and protect 
 The forlorn traveller, or sailor wrecked 
 On the bare coast ; nor do they grudge the boon 
 Which staflf and cockle hat and sandal shoon 
 Claim for the pilgrim : and, though chidings sharp 
 May sometimes greet the strolling minstrel'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. Beee. 
 
 How did the clifts and echoing hills rejoice 
 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 release 
 That tomb, dread centre of all sanctities 
 Nursed in the quiet Abbey of St. Bees. 
 
 On champions, on !— But mark ! the passing day 
 Submits her intercourse to milder sway, 
 With high and low whose busy thoughts 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 hmne : 
 The star of Bethlehem from its sphere invites 
 To sound the crystal depth of maiden rights ; 
 And wedded life, through scriptural mysteries 
 Heavenward ascends with all Jier charities, 
 Taught by the hooded Celibates of St. Bees. 
 
 Who with the ploughshare clove the barren moorg. 
 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 1 
 Who taught, and showed by deeds, that gentler chains 
 Should bind the vassal to his lord's domains 7 
 The thoughtful monks, intent their God to please. 
 For Christ's dear sake, by human sympathies 
 Poured from the bosom of thy church, St. Bees I 
 
 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. 
 
 The inextinguishable spirit strives. 
 
 Oh may that power who hushed the stormy Beas, 
 
 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: 
 
 Expert to move in paths that Newton trod. 
 
 From Newton's universe would banish God. 
 
 Better, if reason's triumphs match with these, 
 
 Her flight before the bold credulities 
 
 That furthered the first teaching of St. Bees. 
 
 [The three following Sonnets arc an intended addi- 
 tion to all the " Ecclesiastical Sketches," the first to 
 stand second ; and the two that succeed, seventh and 
 eighth, in the second part of the Series. — See the Au- 
 thor's Poems.— They are placed here as having some 
 connexion with the foregoing Poem ] 
 Deplorable his lot who tills the ground. 
 His whole life long tills it, with heartless toil 
 
 Of villain-service, passing with the Boil 
 To each new master, like a steer or hound. 
 Or like a rooted tree, or etone earth-bound ; 
 But, mark how gladlj--, 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 bis high claim 
 To live and move exempt from all controul 
 Which fellow-feeling doth not mitigate !" 
 
 THE VAUDOIS. 
 
 But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord 
 
 Have long borne witness as the scriptures teach 1 
 
 Ages ere Valdo raised his voice to preach 
 
 Fn 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 chesnul v/ood, 
 
 Nourish the Buffei'ers then ; and mists, that brood 
 
 O'er chasms with new-fallen obstacles bestrown, 
 
 Frotect them ; and the eternal snow that daunts 
 
 Aliens, is God's good winter for their haunta. 
 
 Praised be the rivers, from their mountain-springs 
 
 Shouting to freedom, "Plant thy banners here!" 
 
 To harassed piety, "Dismiss thy fear. 
 
 And in our caverns smooth thy ruffled wings !" 
 
 Nor be unthanked their tardiest lingerings 
 
 'Mid reedy fens wide-spread and marshes drear, 
 
 Their own creation, till t^ieir long career 
 
 End in the sea engulphed. Such welcomings 
 
 As came from mighty Po when Venice rose. 
 
 Greeted those simple heirs of truth divine 
 
 Who near his fountains sought obscure repose, 
 
 Yet were prepared as glorious lights to shine, 
 
 Should that be needed for their sacred charge ; 
 
 Blest prisoners they, whose spirits are at large J 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 (suggested in a westmorelakd cottage ) 
 
 Driven in by autumn's sharpening air, 
 
 From half-stripped 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 liis 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 sorrovv'^s, speedily 
 
 He plays the expert ventriloquist; 
 
 And, caught by glimpses now— now missed' 
 
 Puzzles the listener with a doubt 
 
 If the soft voice he tlirows about 
 
 Comes from within doors or without ! 
 
 Was ever such a sweet confusion. 
 
 Sustained by delicate illusion 1 
 
 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 breast, 
 
 Where tiny sinking, and faint swell, 
 
 Betray the elf that loves to dwell 
 
 In robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POExMB. 
 
 311 
 
 Heart-pleased we emile upon the bird 
 If seen, and with like pleasure stirred 
 Commend him, when he's only heard. 
 But small and fugitive om- gain 
 Compared with his who long hath lain, 
 With languid limbs and patient head, 
 Reposing on a lone eick-bed ; 
 Where now he daily hears a strain 
 That cheats him of too busy cares, 
 Eases his pain, and helps his 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 moon filled the church with light, 
 Used to sing in heavenly tone. 
 Above and round the sacred places 
 They guard, with wing(id baby-faces. T 
 
 Thrice-happy creature ! in all lands 
 Nurtured by hospitable hands : 
 Free entrance to this cot has he, 
 Entrance and exit both yet free ; 
 And, when the keen unrufBed, weather 
 Tiiat 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 ; 
 With images about her heart. 
 Reflected, from the years gone by. 
 On human nature's second infancy. 
 
 TO 
 
 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 ruthiesi beak 
 She could not rescue, perished in her sight ! 
 
 [Miss not the occasion ; by the forelock take 
 That subtile power, the never-halting time. 
 Lest a mere moment's puUing-oft' 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 casemeni drew. 
 Whence the poor unregarded favourite, true 
 To old affections, had been heard to plead 
 
 * The words — 
 
 '' Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
 Bless tlie bed that I lie on," 
 are part of a child's prayer, still in general use through 
 liic northern counties. 
 
 RURAL ILLUSIONS. 
 
 Sylph was it? or a bird more bright 
 
 Than those of fabulous stock 1 
 A second darted by ;— and lo ! 
 
 Another of the flock. 
 Through sunshine flitting from th« 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 the spray 
 
 To frolic on the breeze. 
 
 Maternal Flora ! show thy face, 
 
 And let thy hand be seen 
 Which sprinkles here these tiny flowers. 
 
 That, as they touch the green. 
 Take root (so seems it) and look up 
 
 In honour 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 dropped from twigs 
 
 Of their own offspring tired. 
 
 Not such the world's illusive shows ; 
 
 Her wingless flutterings. 
 Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave 
 
 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. 
 
 THIS LAWN, &c. 
 
 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 light* 
 Glance to and fro like airy sprites 
 
 To feats of arms addrest ! 
 
 Yet, spite of all this eager strife. 
 This ceaseless play, the genuine lif« 
 
 That serves the steadfast hours, 
 Is in the grass beneath, that grows 
 Unheeded, and the mute lepose 
 
 Of sweetly- breathing flowers. 
 
 THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. 
 
 Flattered with promise of escape 
 
 From every hurtful blast, 
 Spring takes, O sprightly May ! thy shape, 
 
 Her loveliest and her last. 
 
313 
 
 / 
 
 [ISCELLANEOUa POEMS 
 
 Less fair is summor riding high 
 
 In fierce solstitial power, 
 Lesa fair than when a lenient sky 
 
 Brings on her parting hour. 
 
 When earth repays with golden sheaves 
 
 The labours of the plough, 
 And ripening fruits and forest leaves 
 
 All brighten on the bough, 
 
 What pensive beauty autumn ehows, 
 
 Before she hears the sound 
 Of winter rushing in, to close 
 
 The emblematic round ! '^ 
 
 Such be our spring, our Bummer such ; 
 
 So may our autumn blend 
 With hoary winter, and life touch. 
 
 Through heaven-born hope, her end." 
 
 HUMANITY. 
 
 (written in thb year 1829.) 
 JVo/ from his fellotcs only man may learn 
 Rights to compare and duties to discern: 
 All creatures and all objects^ in degree^ 
 Are friends and patrons of humanity. — MS. 
 
 [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 uncommon- 
 ly found, at this day, both in Great Britain and in 
 Ireland.] 
 
 What though the accused, upoB his own appeal 
 
 To righteous Gods when man has ceased to feci, 
 
 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 whispering trees 
 
 Do still perform mysterious offices! 
 
 And still in beast and bird a function dwells, 
 
 That, while we look and listen, sometimes tells 
 
 Upon the heart, in more authentic guise 
 
 Than oracles, or wing6d auguries, 
 
 Spake to the science of the ancient wise. 
 
 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 elept, treading the pendant stairs 
 
 Earthward or heavenward ; radiant messengers, 
 
 That, with a perfect will in one accord 
 
 Of strict obedience, served the Almighty Lord; 
 
 And with untired humility forbore 
 
 The ready service of the wings they wore. 
 
 * The author is indebted, here, to a passage in one 
 of Mr. Digby's valuable works. 
 
 What a fair world were ours for verse to paint, 
 If power could live at ease with self-restraint 
 Opinion bow before the naked sense 
 Of the great vision, — faith in Providence; 
 Merciful over all existence, just 
 To the least particle of sentient dust ; 
 And, fixing by immutable decrees, 
 Seedtime and harvest for his purposes ! 
 Then would be closed the restless oblique ey« 
 That looks for evil like a treacherous spy ; 
 Disputes would then relax, like stormy windi 
 That into breezes sink ; impetuous minds 
 By discipline endeavour 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 harsh tyranny would' clase, 
 But unoffending creatures find release 
 From qnalijied oppression, whose defence 
 Rests on a holloW plea of recompence ; 
 Thought-tempered wrong?, for each humane respe«t 
 Oft worse to bear, or deadlier in effect. 
 Witness those glances of indignant scorn 
 From some high minded slave, impelled to ppurn 
 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, 
 Where day departs in pomp, returns with smiles— = 
 To greet the flowers and fruitage of a land, 
 As the sun 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 sliades 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 1 
 Shame that our laws at distance should protect 
 Enormities, which they at home reject! 
 " Slaves cannot breathe in England" — a preud boast! 
 And yet a mockery ! if, from coast to coast. 
 Though fettered slave be none, her floors and eoil 
 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 labour, 'mid whose dizzy wheels 
 Tho power least prized is that which thinks and feels. 
 
 Then, for the pastimes of tkis delicate age. 
 And all the heavy or light vassalage 
 Which for their sakes w^e fasten, as may 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. 
 There are to whom even 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. 
 
 LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM TEE PENCIL 0? 
 F. STONE. 
 
 Beguiled into forgetfulness of care 
 Due to the day's unfinished task, of pen 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 313 
 
 Or book regardless, and of that fair scene 
 
 In Nature's prodigality displayed 
 
 Before my window, oftentimes and long 
 
 r 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 recesa— the tender shade, 
 
 The shade and light, both there and every where. 
 
 And through the very atmosphere she breathes. 
 
 Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill 
 
 That might from nature have been learnt in the hour 
 
 When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread 
 
 Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er 
 
 Thou be, that kindling 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 between. 
 
 A silver liae, that runs frcm 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 vpward looks. 
 Prayer's voiceless service ; but now, seeking 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 7 
 Inapt conjecture ! Childhood here, a moon 
 Crescent in simple loveliness serene. 
 Has but approached the gates of womanhood, 
 Not entered them ; her heart is yet unpierced 
 By the blind archer-god, her fancy free ; 
 The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere. 
 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 little wild-flower joined 
 As in a posy, with a few pale ears 
 Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped 
 And in their cammon birthplace sheltered it 
 'Till they were plucked together ; a blue flower 
 Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed ; 
 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 favourite ; 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 thiough the face diffused 
 And tha whole p3rson. 
 
 Words have something told, 
 
 Morp than the pencil can, and verily 
 
 40 
 
 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 archetype, 
 Even by an innocent 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 
 Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, 
 In visible quest of immortality. 
 Stretched forth with trembling hope 1 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) 
 Left not unvisited 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 masterpiece. 
 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, dispersed, . 
 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 v/ithin liim 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 consigned 
 Into thy calm presence those heart -moving words: 
 Words that can soothe, more than they agitate ; 
 Whoso spirit, like the angel that went down 
 Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue 
 Informs the fountain in the human breast 
 That by the visitation was disturbed. 
 
 But why this stealing tear 1 Companion mute 
 
 On thee 1 look, not sorrowing ; fare thee well. 
 My song's inspirer, once again farewell I 
 
 The pile of buildings, composing the palace and 
 convent of San Lorenzo, has, in common usage, los 
 its proper name in that of the Escurial^ a village att 
 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. 
 
 THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED. 
 
 Among a grave fraternity of monks. 
 
 For one, but surely not for one alone, 
 
 Triiimpi^is, in that great work, the painter's: skill, 
 
 Humbling the body, to exalt the soui : 
 
 Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong 
 
 And dissolution and decay, thf warm 
 
 And breathing life of flesh, as if already 
 
ni 
 
 MlfJCfiLLANEOLS POEMS. 
 
 Clothed wiih impassive innjesty, nnd graced 
 
 Willi no mean (jarnest of a herilajie 
 
 Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, too, 
 
 With thy memorial flower, meek portraiture ! 
 
 From whose serene companionship I passed, 
 
 Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still ; thou also — 
 
 Though hut a simple object, into light 
 
 Called forth by those afleciions that endear 
 
 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, 
 
 In course of nature, under a low roof 
 
 J>y charities and duties that proceed 
 
 Out of the bosom of a wiser vow. 
 
 To a like saluiary sense of awe. 
 
 Or sacred wonder, growing with the power 
 
 Of meditation that attempts to weigh. 
 
 In faithful scales, things and their oppoeites-', 
 
 Can thy enduring quiet gently rait;e 
 
 A household small and sensitive, — whose love, 
 
 Dependent as in part its blet^sings are 
 
 Upon frail ties dissolving or dissolved 
 
 On earth, will be revived, we trust, in heaven. 
 
 Tn 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 
 I)aijited by Gasper Poussin. It is possible that every 
 word of the above verses, though similar in subject, 
 might have been written had the author been unac- 
 quainted with those beautiful effusions of poetic sen- 
 timent. Cut, for his own satisfaction, he must be al^ 
 lowed 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 
 ag he reads them, or thinks of them. 
 
 STANZAS ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 Argument. — The ear addressed, as occupied by a 
 spiritual functionary, in communion with sounds, in- 
 dividual, or combined in studied harmony.— Sources 
 and edecta of those sounds (to the close of Gth Stan- 
 za.) — The power of music, whence proceeding, ex- 
 emplified in the idiot.— Origin of music, and its ef 
 feet in early ages — how produced (to the middle of 
 10th Stanza.)— The m4nd recalled to sounds acting 
 casually and severally.— Wish uttered (Ulh Stanza) 
 iliat these could be united into a scheme or system 
 for moral interests and intellectual contemplation. — 
 (Stanza 12lh.) The Pythagorean theory of numbers 
 and music, with their supposed power over the mo- 
 tions of the universe— imaginations consonant with 
 such a theory.— Wish expressed (in 11th Stanza) re- 
 alised, in some degree, by the representation of all 
 sounds under the form of thanksgiving to tho Crea- 
 tor.— (Last Stanza) the destruction of earth and the 
 planetary system— the survival of audible harniony, 
 and its support in the Divine Nature, as revealed in 
 Holy Writ. 
 
 TiiY 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, lor ilie heart, their slave ; 
 
 And shrieks, that revel in abuse 
 
 Of shivering tiesh ; and warbled air, 
 
 Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
 
 The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 
 
 Into the ambu&,h of despair ; 
 
 Hosannaa pealing down the long-drawn aisle, 
 And requiems answered by the pulse that beata 
 Devoutly, in life's last retreats ! 
 
 Tlie headlong streams and fountains 
 
 Serve thee, invisible spirit, with unlired powers; 
 
 Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains, 
 
 They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers. 
 
 That roar, 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 souT 
 
 Go with thee to the frozen zone ; 
 
 Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone Bell-bird, toll I 
 
 At the still hour to mercy dear, 
 
 Mercy from her twilight throne 
 
 Listening to nun's faint sob of holy fear. 
 
 To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea^. 
 
 Or widow's cottage lullaby. 
 
 Ye voices, and ye shadows, 
 
 And images of voice — to hound and liorn 
 
 From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows 
 
 Flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves, reborn. 
 
 On with your pastime ! till the church- lower 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 veteran's mirth ; 
 
 Unscorned the peasant's whistling breath, that lightens 
 
 His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth. 
 
 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. 
 
 Yon 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 I 
 
 Who, from a martial pageant, spreads 
 
 Incitements of a battle-day, 
 
 Thrilling theunwcaponed crowd witli plumeless heads; 
 
 Even she whose Lydian airs inspire 
 
 Peaceful stiiving, 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 I 
 
 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 
 
*ro a voluptuous lofluence 
 
 That taints the purer, better mind ; 
 
 But lead sick fancy to a liarp 
 
 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 issuo 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 1 
 
 Oblivion may not cover 
 
 All treasures hoarded by the miser, time. 
 
 Orphean insight! rruth's undaunted lover. 
 
 To the first leagues of tiitored passion climb, 
 
 V/hen 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 wo 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, 
 
 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, shines star-bright 
 
 In memory, through silent night. 
 
 The pipe of Pan, to shepherds 
 
 Couched in the shadow of Menalian 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 ! 
 
 WJiile 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 
 
 MISOELLANCOUS POEMS. 
 
 The littlG sprinkling of cold earth tliat fell 
 
 Echoed from the coffin lid ; 
 
 The convict's summons in the steeple 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 iiovcring o'er the moonligJit vale. 
 
 O for some soul-affecting scheme 
 
 Of moral music, to unite 
 
 Wanderers whose portion is the faintest dream 
 
 Of memory !— O that they might stoop to bear 
 
 Chains, such precious chains of sight 
 
 As laboured minstrelsies through ages wear ! 
 
 O for a balance fit the truth to tell 
 
 Of the unsubstantial, pondered well ! 
 
 3 If' 
 
 By one pervading -spirit 
 
 Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, 
 
 As sages taught, where faith was found to merit 
 
 Initiation in that mystery old. 
 
 The heavens, whose nspect 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. 
 
 Break forth into tlian'KSgiving, 
 
 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 
 
 Tliy hungry barkings to the hymn 
 
 Of jo}^ that from her utmost walls 
 
 The six-daj's' work, by flaming seraphim, 
 
 Transmits to heaven ! As deep to deep 
 
 Shouting through one valley calls, 
 
 All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep 
 
 For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured 
 
 Into the ear of God, their Lord! 
 
 A voice to light gave being ; 
 
 To tinie, and man his earth-born chronicler ; 
 
 A voice sh-all finish doubt and dim foreseeing. 
 
 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 1 
 
 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. 
 
316 
 
 ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS. 
 
 It needs scarcely be said, that an Epitapli presup- 
 poses a Monument, upon which it is to be engraven. 
 Almost all Nations have v^ished 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 
 Elones placed near the Graves, or by Mounds of earth 
 raised over them. This custom proceeded 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 
 Bomc savage Nations ; as the Bactrians, which cast 
 their dead to the dogs : some varlet Philosophers, as 
 Diogenes, who desired to be devoured of fishes : some 
 dissolute courtiers, as Mcca^nas, who was wont to 
 say, Non tumulum euro ; sepelit natura relictos. 
 
 I*m careless of a grave : — Nature her dead will save." 
 
 As soon as Nations had learned the Tise of letters. 
 Epitaphs were inscribed upon these Monuments ; in 
 order that their intention might be more surely and 
 Edequately fulfilled. I have derived Monuments and 
 Epitaphs from two sources of feeling : but these do 
 in fact resolve themselves into one. The invention of : 
 Epitaphs, Wecver, in his Discourse of Funeral Blonu- ^ 
 ments, says rightly, " proceeded from the presage or i 
 fore-feeling of Immortality, implanted in all men na- 
 turally, 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 be- 
 wailed this Linus their Master, when he was slain, 
 in doleful verses, then called of him (Elina, afterwards 
 Epitaphia, for that they were first sung at burials, 
 after engraved upon the Sepulchres." 
 
 And, verily, without the consciousness of a princi- 
 ple of Immortality in the human soul, Man could never 
 have had awakened in him the desire to live in the 
 remembrance of his fellows : mere love, or the yearn- 
 jng of Kind towards Kind, coukl not havc"prodnccd it. 
 The Dog or Horse perishes in the field, or in the stall, ,' 
 hy the side of his companion?, and is incapable of' 
 anticipating the sorrow with which his surrounding 
 Associates shall bemoan his death, or pine for his 
 loss; he cannot pre-conceive tiiis regret, he can form | 
 no thought of it ; and therefore cannot possibly have ; 
 a desire to leave such regret or remembrance behind | 
 liim. Add to the principle of love, which exists in: 
 the inferior animals, the faculty of reason which ex- 
 ists in Man alone ; will the conjunction of these ac- 
 count for the desire? Doubtless it is a necessary con- 1 
 sequence of this conjunction ; yet not [ think as ai 
 direct result, but only to be come at through an in- 
 termediate thought, viz. that of an intimation or as- , 
 Buranco within us, that some part ot our nature is > 
 imperishable. At least the precedence, in order of 
 Lirth, of one feeling to the other, is unquestionable- : 
 If w^e lookback upon the days of cliildhood, we shall 
 find that the time is not in remembrance wljeii, with t 
 respect to our own individual Being, the mind was 
 without this assurance ; whereas, the wish to be re- 
 membered 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 feelings have 
 been developed, and the Reason has connected itself 
 with a Vv^ide range of objects. Forlorn, and cut off 
 from communication wiili 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 unthinking gaiety or liveliness of animal 
 Spirits with which the Lamb in the meadow, or any 
 other irrational Creature, is endowed ; who should as- 
 cribe 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 being, into con- 
 tact with a notion of Death ; or to an unreflecting 
 acquiescence in what had 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 inqui- 
 sitiveness of Children upon the subject of origination 1 
 This single fact proves outwardly the monstrousness 
 of those suppositions : for, if we had no direct exter- 
 nal testimoiiy 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 
 correspondent habits of interrogation concerning 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 body of water was 
 supplied, but he must have been inevitably propelled 
 to follow this question by another : " Towards what 
 abyss is it in progress? what receptacle 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 lettcr^hat the spirit of the answer 
 must have been as inevitably, — a receptacle without 
 bounds or dimensions ; — 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 tlie earliest of her OlTspring: 
 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 investiga- 
 tions ; but the subject requires me here to make a plain 
 avowal, that, for niy own part, it is to me inconceiv- 
 able, 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 tlie outward senses tlie impressioii of 
 DeatJi, and were in the habit of having tliat impres- 
 sion daily renewed and its accompany! ng feeUng brought 
 home to ourselves, and to those we love; if the same 
 were not counteracted by those conlmunications v/ith 
 our internal Being, which are anterior to all these ex- 
 periences, and with which revelation coincides, and 
 has through that coincidence alone (for otherwise it 
 could not possess it) a power to affect us. T confess, 
 with me the conviction is absolute, that, if the im- 
 pression and sense of Death were not thus cnunccr- 
 ba lanced, sucli a hollowness would pervade 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 iinwcrful, that there could be no motions of the 
 ]ife 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. — [f, then, in a Creature endowed with the 
 faculties of foresight and reason, the social affections 
 could not have unfolded tJiemselves 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 preserve for future times vestiges of the departed ; 
 lit follows, as a final inference, that without the belief 
 'in immortality, wherein these several desires origin- 
 
ate, neither monuments nor epitaphs, in afFectionate 
 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 Sea-side ; he buried it, and was honoured 
 throughout Greece for the piety of that Act. Another 
 ancient Philosopher, chancing to fix his e5'es upon a 
 dead Body, regarded the same with slight, if not with 
 contempt ; saying, " See the Shell of the flown Bird !" 
 But it 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 inde- 
 structible 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 perform- 
 ance of that pious duty. And with regard to this lat- 
 ter we may be assured that, if he had been destitute 
 of the capability of communing with the fnore exac- 
 ted thoughts that appertain to liuman 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 habitation 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 connec- 
 tion formed through the subtle progress by which, both 
 in the natural and the moral world, qualities pass 
 insensibly into their contraries, and things revolve upo^^ 
 each other. As, in sailing upon the orb of this Planet, 
 a voyage towaids the regions where the Sun sets, 
 conducts gradually to the quarter where we have 
 been accustomed to behold it come forth at its rising ; 
 and, in like manner, a voyage towards the East, the 
 bu'th-place in our imagination of the morning, leads 
 finally to the quarter where the Sun is last seen when 
 he departs from our eyes ; so the contemplative Soul, 
 travelling in the direction of mortality, advances to 
 the Country of everlasting Life ; and, in like manner, 
 may she continue to explore those cheerful 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 guar- 
 ding the Remains of the deceased and preserving 
 their memory, it may be said that a sepulchral Monu- 
 ment 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 some- 
 thing more ; and is a record to preserve the memory 
 of the dead, as a tribute due to his individual worth, 
 for a satisfaction to the sorrowing hearts of the Sur- 
 vivors, and for the common benefit of the living : 
 which record is to be accomplished, not in a general 
 manner, but, where it can, in close connection with 
 the bodily remains 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 amongthe Greeks and Romans 
 They were frequently interred by the way-sides. 
 
 I could here pause with pleasure, and invite the 
 Reader to indulge with me in contemplation of the 
 advanta'^cs which must liavc attended such a practice. 
 
 ESSAY UPON nriTAFIIS. 
 
 We might ruminate upon the beauty wliich the Monu^ 
 ments,%hus placed, must have borrowed frem the sur- 
 rounding images of Nature— from the trees, the wild 
 flowers, from a stream running perhaps within sight 
 or hearing, from the beaten road stretching 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 reposing in the 
 coolness of its shade, whether he had halted from 
 weariness or in compliance 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 affecling analogies of Life as a Jour- 
 ney—Death as a Sleep overcoming the tired Way- 
 farer—of Misfortune as a Storm that falls suddenly 
 upon him— of Beauty as a Flower that 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 Popular by the side of the River that hag 
 fed it," or blasted in a moment like a Pine-tree by 
 the stroke of lightening upon the Mountain-top — of 
 admonitions and heart-stirring remembrances, like a 
 refreshing Breeze that comes without warning, or 
 the taste of the waters of an unexpected Fountain, 
 These, and similar suggestions, must have given, for- 
 merly, to the language of the senseless stone a voice 
 enforced and endeared by the benignity of that Na- 
 ture with which it was in unison-=— We, in modern 
 times, have lost much of these advantages; and they 
 are but in a small degree counterbalanced to the In- 
 habitants 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 how- 
 ever interesting or salutary the recollections associ- 
 ated 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, noth- 
 ing can make amends for the want of the sooihing 
 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 imagination the unsight- 
 ly manner in which our Monuments are crowded 
 together in the busy, noisy, unclean, and almost grass, 
 less Church-yard of a large Town, with the still se- 
 clusion of a Turkish Cemetery, in some remote place ; 
 and yet further sanctified by the Grove of Cypresg 
 in which it is embosomed. Thoughts in the same 
 temper as these have already been expressed with 
 true sensibility by an ingenuous Poet of the present 
 day. The subject of his Poem is " All Saints Church 
 Derby :" he has been deploring the forbidding and 
 unseomly appearance of its burial-ground, and ut 
 tering 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 scone, 
 So placid, so congenial to the wish 
 The Christian feels, of peaceful rest within 
 The silent grave, I would have strayed : 
 
 —wandered forth, where the cold dew of heaven 
 Lay on the humble graves around^ what time 
 
SIS 
 
 ESS^Y UPON EriTAPITS. 
 
 The pale moon gazed upon the tiiiTy mounds, 
 
 Tensive, as tliouf^h like me, in lonely muse, 
 
 'Twere brooding on tlie dead inliumed beneath. 
 
 There while with him, the holy man of Uz, 
 
 O'er human destiny I sympathised, 
 
 Counting the long, long periods prophecy 
 
 Decrees to roll, ere the great day arrives 
 
 Of resurrection, oft the blue-eyed Spring 
 
 TIad 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 
 
 'Tis sweet to trace the consonance that links 
 
 As one, the works of Nature and the word 
 
 Of God." 
 
 John Edwards. 
 
 A Village Church-yard, lying as it does in the lap 
 of Nature, may indeetl be most favourably contrast- 
 ed with that of a Town of crowded Population , 
 and Sepulchral therein combines many of the best ten. 
 dencies which belong to the mode practised by the 
 Ancients, with others peculiar to itself. The sensa- 
 tions of pious cheerfulness, which attend the cele 
 bration of the Sabbath-day in rural places, are pro_ 
 fitablj'^ chastised by the sight of the Graves of Kin. 
 dred and F/iei^ds, gathered together in that general 
 Home towards which the thoughtful yet happy Spec- 
 tators themselves are journeying. Hence a Parish 
 Church, in the stillness of the Country, is a visible 
 centre of a community of the living and the dead ; 
 n point to which are habitually referred the nearest 
 concerns 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 na" 
 turally turns, still more than among the Nations of 
 Antiquity, upon the most serious and solemn affec- 
 tions of tlie human mind ; upon departed Worth — 
 upon personal or social Sorrow and Admiration — up- 
 on Religion, individual and social — upon Time, and 
 upon Eternity. Accordingly, it suffices, in ordinary 
 cases, to secure a composition of this kind from cen- 
 sure, that it contains nothing that shall shock or be 
 inconsistent with this spirit. But, to entitle an Epi- 
 taph 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 sentiment may be, 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 hope over a lost Child ; a 
 Son utters a sentiment of filial reverence for a de- 
 parted 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 memo- 
 ry. This, and a pious admonition to the Living, 
 and a humble expression of Christian confidence in 
 Immortality, is the language of a thousand Church- 
 yards; and it does not often happen that anything, 
 in a greater degree discriminate or appropriate to 
 the Dead or to the liiving, 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 arc not 
 scanty, but abundant ; and every Man has a Cha- 
 racter of hi.s own, to the eye that has skill to per- 
 
 ceive it. The real cause of the acknowledged wain 
 of discrimination in sepulchral memorials is this . 
 That to analyse the Characters of others, especial- 
 ly of those whom we love, is not a common or na- 
 tural employment of Men at any time. We are not 
 anxious unerringly to understand the constitution of 
 the Minds of those who have soothed, who iiave 
 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 Hearcs is a satisfactory evidence that there 
 is a body of worth in the minds of our friends or 
 kindred, 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 di.seriminated in them from an excellence 
 known by the same general name as it exists in 
 the mind of another ; and, Itast of all, do we in- 
 cline to these refinements when under the pressure 
 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 re- 
 cords placed in the bosom of the all-uniting and 
 equalising Receptacle of the Dead. 
 
 The first requisite, then, ii; an Epitaph is, that it 
 should speak, in a tone which shall sink into the heart, 
 the general language of humanity as connected with 
 the subject of Death— the source from which an Epi- 
 taph proceeds ; of death and of life. To be born and 
 to die are the two points in which all men feel them- 
 selves to be in absolute coincidence. This general 
 language may be uttered so strikingly as to entitle an 
 Epitaph to high praise ; yet it cannot lay claim to the 
 highest unless other excellencies be superadded. Pass- 
 ing through all intermediate steps, we will attempt to 
 determine at once what these excellencies are, and 
 wherein consists the perfection of this species of com- 
 position. It will be found to lie in a due proportion of 
 the common or universal feeling of humanity to sensa- 
 tions excited by a distinct and clear conception, con- 
 veyed to the Reader's mind, of the fndividual, whose 
 death is deplored and whose memory is to be preser- 
 ved ; at least of his character as, after death, it ap- 
 peared to those who loved him and lament his loss. 
 The general sympathy ought to be quickened, provo- 
 ked, and diversified, by particular thoughts, actions, 
 images,— circumstances of age, occupation, manner of 
 life, prosperity which the Deceased had known, or 
 adversity to which he had been subject ; and these 
 ought to be bound together and solemnised 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 with 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 in entire tranquillity: 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 virtuo 
 clothed in, the image 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 spiritualises and beautifies it ; 
 that takes away, indeed, but only to the end that the 
 parts which are not abstracted may appear more dig- 
 nified and lovely, may impress and alfect the more. 
 Shall we say, then, that this is not truth, not a faithful 
 image ; and that, accordingly, the purposes of comme- 
 moration cannot he answered ?— It is truth, and of 
 
ESSAY UPON EPlT4j>ns. 
 
 the highest order ! for, though doubiless things are not ] 
 apparent which did exist; yet, the object being looked 
 at through this medium, parts and pfoportil)ns are 
 brought into distinct view which before had been only 
 imperfectly or unconsciously seen : it is truth hallowed 
 by love— the joint offspring of the worth of the Dead 
 and the affections of the Living l-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, 
 unsightliness, disproportion, and deformity, vanish; 
 and, through the inliuence of commiseration, a har- 
 mony of love and beauty succeeds. Bring such a Man 
 to the Tombstone on which shall be inscribed an Epi- 
 taph 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 generous, and good meaning ; and 
 that on the Writer's mind had remained an impression 
 which was a true abstract of the character of the 
 deceased ; that his gifts and graces were remembered 
 in the simplicity 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 presumed 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 represented. Any further detail, minutely 
 and scrupulously pursued, especially if this be done 
 with laborious and antithetic discriminations, must 
 inevitably frustrate its own purpose ; forcing the pass- 
 ing 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 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. 
 
 310 
 
 Much better is it to fall short in discrimination than 
 to pursue it too far, or to labour it unfeelingly. For in 
 no place are we so much disposed to dwell upon those 
 points, of nature and condition, wherein -ill Men re- 
 semble each other, as in the Temple where the universal 
 Father is worshipped, or by the side of the Grave 
 which gathers all Human Beings to itself, and " equal- 
 izes the lofty and the low." We suffer and we weep 
 with the same heart ; we love and are anxious for one 
 another in one s])irit ; 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, 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 import- 
 ance be sacrificed to a balance of opposite qualities or 
 minute distinctions in individual character; which if 
 they do not, (as will for the most part be the case) 
 when examined, 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 in- 
 teresting only to a few. But an Epitaph is not a 
 proud Writing shut up Coi the bludious ; it is exposed 
 
 to all, to the wise and the most ignorant ; it is con- 
 descending, perspicuous, and lovingly solicits regard ; 
 its story and admonitions are brief, that the thought- 
 Jess, the busy, and indolent, may not be deterred, nor 
 the impatient tired : the stooping Old Man cons ihc 
 engraven record like a second horn-book ;-the Child 
 is proud that he can read it ;— and the Stranger is 
 introduced by its mediation to the company of a Friend : 
 it is concerning all, and for all :-in the Church-yard 
 It is open to the day ; the sun looks down upon the 
 stone, and the rains of Heaven beat against it. 
 
 Yet, though the Writer who would excite sympa- 
 thy IS bound in this case, more than in any other, 
 to give proof that he himself 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 uni- 
 versal Perusal; and that, for this 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 in- 
 stinctive decency retires from notice. The passions 
 should be subdued, the emotions controlled; strong, 
 indeed, but nothing ungovernable or wholly involun- 
 tary. Seemliness requires this, and truth requires it 
 also : for how ca-n the Narrator otherwise be trusted J 
 Moreover, a Grave is a tranquillizing object : resi^-na- 
 tion in course of time springs up from it as natu- 
 rally as the wild flowers, besprinkling the turf with 
 which it maybe covered, or gathering round the monu- 
 ment by which it is defended. The very form and 
 substance of the monument which has received the 
 inscription, and the appearance of the letters, testify- 
 ing with what a slow and laborious hand they must 
 have been engraven, might seem to approach the Au- 
 thor who had given way upon this occasion to tran- 
 sports of mind, or to quick turns of conflicting pas- 
 sion ; though the same might constitute the life and 
 beauty of a funeral Oration or elegiac Poem. 
 
 These sensations and judgments, acted upon per- 
 haps unconsciously, have been one of the main causes 
 why Epitaphs so often personate the Decea.sed, and 
 represent 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 conjures ynu to weep for him no longer. He 
 admonishes with the voice of one experienced in the 
 vanity of those affections which are confined to earth- 
 ly objects and gives a verdict like a superior Being, 
 performing the office of a Judge, who has no temp- 
 tations to mislead him, and whose decision cannot 
 but be dispassionate. Thus is death disarmed of its 
 sting, and affliction unsubstantialised. By this tender 
 fiction, the Survivors bind themselves to a sedatcr 
 sorrow, and employ the intervention of the Imagina- 
 tion in order that the Reason may speak her own 
 language earlier than she would otherwise have been 
 enabled to do. This shadowy interposition also har- 
 moniously unites the two worlds of the Living and the 
 Dead by their appropriate affections. And it may 
 be observed, that here we have an additional proof 
 of the propriety with which sepulchral inscriptions 
 were referred to the consciousness of [mmortality as 
 their primal source. 
 
 I do not speak with a wish to recommend 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 out how natural those feelings are which 
 have induced men, in all states and ranks of So- 
 ciety, 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 Per- 
 sons, seems lo me upon the whole greatly preferable: 
 
320 
 
 ESSAY UPON EPITAFIIS. 
 
 as it admits a wider range of notices ; and, above 
 all, because, excluding the fiction which is the ground- 
 work 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 ia 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 situation and xharacter, will 
 be most honourably and profitably preserved in me- 
 mory. 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 em- 
 ployments of Peace or War, or by the surpassing 
 excellence of their works in Art, Literature, or 
 Science, have made themselves not only universally 
 known, but have filled the heart of their Country 
 with everlasting gratitude. Yet I must here pause to 
 correct myself. In describing the general tenour of 
 thought which Epitaphs ought to hold, I have omit- 
 ted to say, that if it be the actions of a Man, or 
 even some (??i6\ 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 tlie attention to be directed chiefly 
 to those actions^ or that act : and such sentiments 
 ?}welt upon as naturally arise out of them or it. 
 
 Having made this necessary 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 indi- 
 vidualise them. This is already done by their Works, 
 in the Memories of Men. Their naked names, and 
 a grand comprehensive sentiment of civic Gratitude, 
 patriotic Love, or human Admiration ; or the utter- 
 ance of some elementary Principle most essential in 
 the constitution of true Virtue ; or an intuition, com- 
 municated in adequate words, of the sublimity of 
 intellectual Power, — these are the only tribute which 
 can liere be paid — the only offering that upon such 
 an Altar would not be ujiworthy ! 
 
 "What needs my Shakspoare for his honoured bonea 
 The labour of an age in piled stones, 
 Or that hia hallowed reliques should be hid 
 Under a starry-pointing pyramid ? 
 Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame, 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name 1 
 Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
 Hast built thyself a livelong Monument, 
 And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, 
 That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die." 
 
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