DUKE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Treasure 'Room 
 
■ 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 LYRICAL BALLADS, 
 
 AND THE 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 WITH ADDITIONAL POEMS, 
 
 A NEW PREFACE, AND A SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAY. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTER FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1815. 
 
T. Davison, Lombard-street, 
 Whitefriars, Loudon. 
 
POEMS 
 
 OF THE IMAGINATION 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2013 
 
 http://archive.org/details/poemsbywilliamwo01word 
 
XVIII. 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 
 
 (At Inversneyde, upon Lock 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 gray Rocks ; this household Lawn ; 
 
 These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 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 ye do seem 
 
 Like something fashioned in a dream ; 
 
 Such Forms as from their covert peep 
 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 
 B 2 
 
Yet, dream and vision as thou art, 
 I bless thee with a human heart : 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 I neither know thee nor thy peers ; 
 And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 With 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 maidenly shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer. 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 Sweet looks, 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 thee who art so beautiful ? 
 O 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 ! 
 
Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 
 Hath led me to this lonely place. 
 
 Joy have I had; and going hence 
 
 I bear away my recompence. 
 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
 
 Then, why should I be loth to stir? 
 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 
 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl ! from Thee to part : 
 
 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 ! 
 
XIX. 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER. 
 
 Behold her, single in the field, 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 Stop here, 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 chaunt 
 
 So sweetly to reposing bands 
 
 Of Travellers in some shady haunt, 
 
 Among Arabian Sands : 
 
 No sweeter voice was ever heard 
 
 In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
8 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 And battles long ago : 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 Familiar matter of to-day ? 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 That has been, and may be again ! 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending; 
 I saw her singing at her work, 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
 I listened till I had my fill; 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
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 twitter, 
 
 The lake doth glitter, 
 The green field sleeps in the sun ; 
 
 The oldest and youngest 
 
 Are at work with the strongest ; 
 
 The cattle are grazing, 
 
 Their heads never raising ; 
 There are forty feeding like one ! 
 
10 
 
 Like an army defeated 
 
 The Snow hath retreated, 
 
 And now doth fare ill 
 
 On the top of the bare hill; 
 The Plough-boy 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 ! 
 
31 
 
 XXI. 
 
 GIPSIES. 
 
 Yet are they here? — the same unbroken knot 
 Of human Beings, iajthe self-same spot ! 
 
 Men, Women, Children, yea the frame 
 
 Of the whole Spectacle the same ! 
 Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, 
 Now deep and red, the 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 ! 
 
12 
 
 The weary Sun betook himself to rest. 
 — Then issued Vesper from the fulgent West, 
 Outshining like a visible God 
 The glorious path in which he trod. 
 And now, ascending, after one dark hour, 
 And one night's diminution of her power, 
 Behold the mighty Moon ! this way 
 She looks as if at them — but they 
 Regard not her: — oh better wrong and strife,, 
 Better vain deeds or evil than such life ! 
 The silent Heavens have goings-on ; 
 The stars have tasks— but these have none ! 
 

 XXII. 
 BEGGARS. 
 
 She had a tall Man's height, or more ; 
 No bonnet screened her from the heat ; 
 A long drab-coloured Cloak she wore, 
 A Mantle reaching to her feet : 
 What other dress she had I could not know ; 
 Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow. 
 
 In all my walks, through field or town, 
 Such Figure had I never seen : 
 Her face was of Egyptian brown : 
 Fit person was^she for a Queen, 
 To head those ancient Amazonian files : 
 Or ruling Bandit's Wife, among the Grecian Isles. 
 
14 
 
 Before me begging did she stand, 
 Pouring out sorrows like a sea ; 
 Grief after grief: — on English Land 
 Such woes I knew could never be ; 
 And yet a boon I gave her ; for the Creature 
 Was beautiful to see ; " a Weed of glorious feature !" 
 
 I left her, and pursued my way ; 
 And soon before me did espy 
 A pair of little Boys at play, 
 Chasing a crimson butterfly ; 
 The Taller followed with his hat in hand, 
 Wreathed round with yellow flow'rs, the gayest of the land. 
 
 The Other wore a rimless crown, 
 With leaves of laurel stuck about : 
 And they both followed up and down, 
 Each whooping with a merry shdut; 
 Two Brothers seemed they, eight and ten years old; 
 And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold. 
 
15 
 
 They bolted on me thus, and lo ! 
 Each ready with a plaintive whine ; 
 Said I, " Not half an hour ago 
 Your Mother has had alms of mine." 
 " That cannot be," one answer'd, " She is dead." 
 '* Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread." 
 
 " She has been dead, Sir, many a day." 
 " Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie ; 
 " It was your Mother, as I say — " 
 And in the twinkling of an eye, 
 " Come, come !" cried one ; and, without more ado, 
 Off to some other play they both together flew. 
 
16 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 1803. 
 
 (See the various Poems the Scene of which is laid upon the Banks of the 
 Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning 
 
 " Busk ye, busk ye my bonny, bonny Bride, 
 Busk ye, busk ye my winsome Marrow !" — ) 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravell'd ; 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
 And with the Tweed had travell'd ; 
 And, when we came to Clovenford, 
 Then said my " winsome Marrow," 
 " Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
 " And see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
17 
 
 " Let Yarrow Folk, frae Selkirk Town, 
 
 " Who have been buying, selling, 
 
 " Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own, 
 
 " Each Maiden to her Dwelling! 
 
 " On Yarrow's Banks let herons feed, 
 
 " Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 
 
 " But we will downwards with the Tweed, 
 
 " Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 " There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
 
 " Botli lying right before us ; 
 
 " And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 
 
 " The Lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
 
 " There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
 
 " Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
 
 « Why throw away a needful day 
 
 " To go in search of Yarrow ? 
 
 " What's Yarrow but a River bare 
 
 " That glides the dark hills under ? 
 
 " There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 
 " As worthy of your wonder." 
 • — Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; 
 
 My True-love sighed for sorrow ; 
 
 And looked me in the face, to think 
 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 VOL. II. .. 
 
18 
 
 ' Oh ! green," said I, " are Yarrow's Holms. 
 
 " And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 
 " Fair hangs the apple frae the rock*, 
 
 H But we will leave it growing. 
 
 ** O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
 
 u 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 Burn-mill meadow ; 
 " The Swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
 " Float double, Swan and Shadow ! 
 " We will not see them ; will not go, 
 " To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
 " Enough if in our hearts we know 
 " There's such a place as Yarrow 
 
 " Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown ! 
 " It must, or we shall rue it : 
 " We have a vision of our own'; 
 " Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
 " The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 " We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! 
 " For when we're there although 'tis fair 
 " 'Twill be another Yarrow ! 
 
 * See Hamilton's Ballad as above. 
 
 . 
 
19 
 
 " If Care with freezing years should come, 
 
 " And wandering seem but folly, — 
 
 " Should we be loth to stir from home, 
 
 " And yet be melancholy ; 
 
 " Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 
 " 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow 
 
 " That earth has something yet to show, 
 
 " The bonny Holms of Yarrow !" 
 
 C 2 
 
'20 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 YARROW VISITED, 
 
 September, 1814. 
 
 And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherisb/d, 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream ? 
 
 An image that hath perish'd ! 
 
 O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 
 
 To utter notes of gladness, 
 
 And chase this silence from the air, 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness ! 
 
 Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 
 
 With uncontrolled meanderings ; 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 
 And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 
 
 Is visibly delighted ; 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 
 [s in the mirror slighted. 
 
21 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender, hazy brightness ; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection ; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Where was it that the famous Flower 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleediug ? 
 
 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 ! 
 
22 . 
 
 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 ! 
 
 The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 
 
 Renowned in Border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom. 
 
 For sportive youth to stray in; 
 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 
 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 
 Yon Cottage seems a bower of bliss ; 
 
 It promises protection 
 
 To studious ease, and generous cares, 
 
 And every chaste affection ! 
 
23 
 
 How sweet, on this autumnal day, 
 The wild wood's fruits to gather, 
 And on my True-love's forehead plant 
 A crest of blooming heather ! 
 And what if I enwreathed my own ! 
 'Twere no offence to reason ; 
 The sober Hills thus deck their brows 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see— but not by sight alone, 
 
 Lov'd 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. 
 
24 
 
 XXV. 
 
 STJR-GJZERS. 
 
 What crowd is this ? what have we here ! we must not 
 
 pass it by ; 
 A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky : 
 Long is it as a Barber's Pole, or Mast of little Boat, 
 Some little Pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames's waters 
 
 float. 
 
 The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy 
 
 Square ; 
 And he's as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue 
 
 and fair ; 
 Calm, though impatient is the Crowd ; Each is ready with 
 
 the fee, 
 ,\nd envies him that's looking — what an insight must 
 
 it be ! 
 
25 
 
 Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy 
 
 Implement have blame, 
 A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame ? 
 Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault ? 
 fheir eyes, or minds ? or, finally, is this resplendent Vault? 
 
 Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here ? 
 
 Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear ? 
 
 The silver Moon with all her Vales, and Hills of migh- 
 tiest fame, 
 
 Do they betray us when they're seen ? and are they but a 
 name r 
 
 Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, 
 And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her 
 
 wrong ? 
 Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had, 
 And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad? 
 
 Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators 
 
 rude, 
 Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, 
 Have souls which never yet have ris'n, and therefore 
 
 prostrate lie ? 
 No, no, this cannot be — Men thirst for power and 
 
 majesty ! 
 
26 
 
 Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind 
 
 employ 
 Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy, 
 That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward sign, 
 Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine ! 
 
 Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore 
 Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than 
 
 before : 
 One after One they take their turns, nor have I one 
 
 espied 
 That doth not slacky go away, as if dissatisfied. 
 
27 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night ; 
 
 The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 
 
 But now the sun is rising calm and bright ; 
 
 The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 
 
 Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods ; 
 
 The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters ; 
 
 And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. 
 
 All things that love the sun are out of doors ; 
 
 The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; 
 
 The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on the moors 
 
 The Hare is running races in her mirth ; 
 
 And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
 
 Raises a mist ; which, glittering in the sun, 
 
 Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 
 
28 
 
 I was a Traveller then upon the moor ; 
 I saw the Hare that raced about with joy ; 
 I heard the woods, and distant waters, roar ; 
 Or heard them not, as happy as a Boy : 
 The pleasant season did my heart employ : 
 My old remembrances went from me wholly ; 
 And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 
 
 But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
 
 Of joy in minds that can no farther 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, thick upon me came ; 
 
 Dim sadness, andblind thoughts Iknewnot nor couldname. 
 
 I heard the Sky-lark singing in the sky; 
 And I bethought me of the playful Hare : 
 Even such a happy Child of earth am I ; 
 Even as these blissful Creatures do I fare ; 
 Far from the world I walk, and from all care ; 
 But there may come another day to me — 
 Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 
 
m 
 
 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 Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, 
 
 The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; 
 
 Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 
 
 Behind his plough, upon 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 up and down my fancy thus was driven, 
 
 And I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 
 
 I saw a Man before me unawares : 
 
 The oldest Man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. 
 
30 
 
 My. course I stopped as soon as I espied 
 The Old Man in that naked wilderness : 
 Close bv a Pond, upon the further side, 
 He stood alone : a minute's space I guess 
 I watched him, he continuing motionless : 
 To the Pool's further margin then I drew ; 
 He being all the while before me full in view- 
 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 what means it could thither come, and whence : 
 So that it seems a thing endued with sense : 
 Like a Sea-beast crawled forth, which 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 their 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. 
 
31 
 
 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, 
 Beside the little pond or moorish flood 
 Motionless as a Cloud the Old Man stood ; 
 That hearetb not the loud winds when they call ; 
 And moveth altogether, 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 conn'd, 
 
 As if he had been reading in a book : 
 
 And now such freedom as I could 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 I thus bespake, 
 
 " What kind of work is that which you pursue ? 
 
 This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
 
 He answered me with pleasure and surprise ; 
 
 And there was, while he spake, a fire about his eyes. 
 
3'2 
 
 His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
 
 Yet 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. 
 
 He told me that he to this pond had come 
 
 To gather Leeches, being old and poor : 
 
 Employment hazardous and wearisome! 
 
 And he had many hardships to endure : 
 
 From Pond to Pond he roamed, from moor to moor ; 
 
 Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance : 
 
 And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. 
 
 The Old Man still stood talking by my side ; 
 
 But now his voice to me was like a stream 
 
 Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I divide ; 
 
 And the whole Body of 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, and strong admonishment. 
 
33 
 
 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. 
 
 But now, perplex'd by what the Old Man had said, 
 
 My question eagerly did I renew, 
 
 " How is it that you live, and what is it you do ?" 
 
 He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 
 And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide 
 He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet 
 The waters of the Ponds where they abide. 
 " Once I could meet with them on every side ; 
 But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
 Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 
 
 While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 
 
 The Old Man's shape, and speech, all troubled me : 
 
 In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
 
 About the weary moors continually, 
 
 Wandering about alone and silently. 
 
 While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 
 
 He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed . 
 
 VOL. II. d 
 
34 
 
 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." 
 
XXVII. 
 
 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. 
 
 d 2 
 
36 
 
 Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown 
 
 With lichens to the very top, 
 
 And hung with heavy tufts of moss, 
 
 A melancholy crop : 
 
 Up from the earth these mosses creep, 
 
 And this poor Thorn they clasp it round 
 
 So close, you'd say that they were bent 
 
 With plain and 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, while through the clouds 
 
 It sweeps from vale to vale ; 
 
 Not five yards from the mountain path, 
 
 This Thorn you on your left espy ; 
 
 And to the left, three yards beyond, 
 
 You see a little muddy Pond 
 
 Of water, never dry ; 
 
 I've measured it from side to side : 
 
 'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide- 
 
37 
 
 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 net-work too is there, 
 As if by hand of lady fair 
 The work had woven been ; 
 And cups, the darlings of the eye, 
 So deep is their vermilion dye. 
 
 Ah me ! what lovely tints are there ! 
 
 Of olive green and scarlet bright, 
 
 In spikes, in branches, and in stars, 
 
 Green, red, and pearly white. 
 
 This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, 
 
 Which close beside the Thorn you see, 
 
 So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, 
 
 Is like an infant's grave in size, 
 
 As like as like can be : 
 
 But never, never any where, 
 
 An infant's grave was half so fair. 
 
38 
 
 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 
 
 That's 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 !" 
 
S9 
 
 u 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 ? — 
 
 Oh wherefore ? wherefore ? tell me why 
 
 Does she repeat that doleful cry ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell ; I wish I could ; 
 
 For the true reason no one knows : 
 
 But if you'd gladly view the spot, 
 
 The spot to which she goes ; 
 
 The Heap that's like an infant's grave, 
 
 The Pond — and Thorn, so old and gray; 
 
 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." 
 
40 
 
 " But wherefore to the mountain-top 
 Can this unhappy Woman go, 
 Whatever star is in the skies, 
 Whatever wind may blow ?" 
 u Nay, rack your brain — 'tis all in vain, 
 I'll tell you every thing I know ; 
 But to the Thorn, and to the Pond 
 Which is a little step beyond, 
 I wish that you would go : 
 Perhaps, when you are at the place, 
 You something of her tale may trace. 
 
 I'll give you the best help I can : 
 Before you up the mountain go, 
 Up to the dreary mountain-top, 
 I'll tell you all I know. 
 'Tis now some two-and-twenty years 
 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, 
 And she was happy, happy still 
 Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. 
 
41 
 
 And they had fix'd 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 ; 
 
 A Fire was kindled in her breast, 
 
 Which might not burn itself to rest. 
 
 They say, full six months after this, 
 
 While yet the summer leaves were green, 
 
 She to the mountain-top would go, 
 
 And there was often seen. 
 
 'Tis said, a child was in her womb, 
 
 As now to any eye was plain; 
 
 She was with child, and she was mad ; 
 
 Yet often she was sober sad 
 
 From her exceeding pain. 
 
 Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather 
 
 That he had died, that cruel father ! 
 
42 
 
 Sad case for such a brain to hold 
 
 Communion with a stirring child ! 
 
 Sad case, as you may think, for one 
 
 Who had a brain so wild ! 
 
 Last Christmas when we talked of this, 
 
 Old farmer Simpson did maintain, 
 
 That in her womb the infant wrought 
 
 About its mother's heart, and brought 
 
 Her senses back again : 
 
 And when at last her time drew near, 
 
 Her looks were calm, her senses clear. 
 
 No more I know, I wish I did, 
 And I would tell it all to you ; 
 For what became of this poor child 
 There's none that ever knew : 
 And if a child was born or no, 
 There's no one that could ever tell ; 
 And if 'twas born alive or dead, 
 There's no one knows, as I have said ; 
 But some remember well, 
 That Martha Ray about this time 
 Would up the mountain often climb. 
 
43 
 
 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 Ray. 
 
 But that she goes to this old Thorn, 
 
 The Thorn which I've described to you, 
 
 And there sits in a scarlet cloak, 
 
 I will be sworn is true. 
 
 For one day with my telescope, 
 
 To view the ocean wide and bright, 
 
 When to this country first I came, 
 
 Ere I had heard of Martha's name, 
 
 I climbed the mountain's height : 
 
 A storm came on, and I could see 
 
 No object higher than my knee. 
 
44 
 
 '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, 
 
 " O misery ! O misery !" 
 
 And there she sits, until the moon 
 
 Through half the clear blue sky will go ; 
 
 And, when the little breezes make 
 
 The waters of the Pond to shake, 
 
 As all the country know, 
 
 She shudders, and you hear her cry, 
 
 " Oil misery ! oh misery !" 
 
4.5 
 
 " But what's the Thorn ? and what's the Pond? 
 
 And what's the Hill of moss to her ? 
 
 And what's the creeping breeze that comes 
 
 The little Pond to stirf 
 
 " I cannot tell ; but some will say 
 
 She hanged her baby on the tree ; 
 
 Some say she drowned it in the pond, 
 
 Which is a little step beyond : 
 
 But all and each agree, 
 
 The little babe was buried there, 
 
 Beneath that Hill of moss so fair. 
 
 I've heard, the moss is spotted red 
 
 With drops of that poor infant's blood ; 
 
 But kill a new-born infant thus, 
 
 I do not think she could ! 
 
 Some say, if to the Pond you go, 
 
 And fix on it a steady view, 
 
 The shadow of a babe you trace, 
 
 A baby and a baby's face, 
 
 And that it looks at you ; 
 
 Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain 
 
 The baby looks at you again. 
 
46 
 
 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 ; 
 
 But 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 js bound 
 
 With heavy tufts of moss, that strive 
 
 To drag it to the ground ; 
 
 And this I know, full many a time, 
 
 When she was on the mountain high, 
 
 By day, and in the silent night, 
 
 When all the stars shone clear and bright, 
 
 That I have heard her cry, 
 
 " Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 Oh woe is me ! oh misery!" 
 
47 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 HART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about Jive miles from Richmond in 
 Yorkshire, and near the side of the road which leads from Richmond to Ask- 
 rigg- Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the memory of which is 
 preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, 
 which monuments do now exist as I have there described them. 
 
 The Knight had ridden down from Wensley moor 
 With the slow motion of a summer's cloud; 
 He turned aside towards a Vassal's door, 
 And, " Bring another Horse'!" he 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 glorious day. 
 
48 
 
 Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes ; 
 The Horse and Horseman are a happy pair ; 
 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, 
 There is a doleful silence in the air. 
 
 A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
 That as they galloped made the echoes roar; 
 But Horse and Man are vanished, one and all ; 
 Such race, I think, was never seen before. 
 
 Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
 Calls to the few tired Dogs that yet remain : 
 Brach, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, 
 Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. * 
 
 The Knight hallooed, he chid and cheered them on 
 With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern; 
 But breath and eye-sight fail ; and, one by one, 
 The Dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. 
 
 Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ? 
 The bugles that so joyfully were blown? 
 — This Chase it looks not like an earthly Chase ; 
 Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 
 
49 
 
 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 smacked 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 act ; 
 Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned j 
 And foaming like a mountain cataract. 
 
 Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched : 
 His nose half-touched a spring beneath a hill, 
 And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched 
 The waters of the spring were trembling still. 
 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
 (Was never man in such a joyful case !) 
 Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, 
 And gazed and gazed upon that darling place. 
 VOL. II. e 
 
50 
 
 And climbing 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 verdant 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 ArtUt will I have to frame 
 
 A bason 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 brute! 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. 
 
51 
 
 And, in the summer-time when days are long, 
 I will come hither with my Paramour ; 
 And with the Dancers, and the Minstrel's song, 
 We will make merry in that pleasant Bower. 
 
 Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
 My Mansion with its Arbour shall endure ; — 
 The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
 And them who dwell among the woods of Ure !" 
 
 Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, 
 With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. 
 — Soon did the Knight perform what he had said, 
 And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 
 
 Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, 
 A Cup of Stone received the living Well ; 
 Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, 
 And built a House of Pleasure in the dell. 
 
 And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 
 With trailing plants and trees were intertwined, — 
 Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall, 
 A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 
 
 e 2 
 
m 
 
 And thither, when the summer-days were long, 
 Sir Walter journey'd with his Paramour ; 
 And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song 
 Made merriment within that pleasant Bower, 
 
 The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, 
 And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
 But there is matter for a second rhyme, 
 And I to this would add another tale. 
 
53 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The moving accident is not my trade : 
 To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : 
 'Tis my delight, aloue in summer shade, 
 To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 
 
 As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
 It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
 Three Aspens at three corners of a square, 
 And one, not four yards distant, near a Well. 
 
 What this imported I could ill divine : 
 And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
 I saw three Pillars standing in a line, 
 The last Stone Pillar on a dark hill-top. 
 
 The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head ; 
 Half-wasted the square Mound of tawny green; 
 So that you just might say, as then I said, 
 " Here in old time the hand of man hath been." 
 
54 
 
 I looked upon the hill both far and near, 
 More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
 It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, 
 And Nature here were willing to decay. 
 
 1 stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
 When one, who was in Shepherd's garb attired, 
 Came up the Hollow : — Him did I accost, 
 And what this place might be I then inquired. 
 
 The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told 
 Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. 
 " A jolly place," said he, " in times of old! 
 But something ails it now ; the spot is curst. 
 
 You see these lifeless Stumps of aspen wood — 
 Some say that they are beeches, others elms — 
 These were the Bower ; and here a Mansion stood, 
 The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 
 
 The Arbour does its own condition tell ; 
 You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the Stream ; 
 But as to the great Lodge ! you might as well 
 Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 
 
There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, 
 Will wet his lips within that Cup of stone ; 
 And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 
 This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 
 
 Some say that here a murder has been done, 
 And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part, 
 I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, 
 That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 
 
 What thoughts must through the Creature's brain have 
 
 passed ! 
 Even from the top-most 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 iu my simple mind we cannot tell 
 What cause the Hart might have to love this place, 
 And come and make his death-bed near the Well. 
 
 Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
 Lulled by this Fountain in the summer-tide ; 
 This water was perhaps the first he drank 
 When he had wandered from his mother's side. 
 
56 
 
 In April here beneath the scented thorn 
 He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; 
 And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 
 Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. 
 
 But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade ; 
 
 The sun on drearier Hollow never shone ,• 
 
 So will it be, as I have often said, 
 
 Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain all are gone." 
 
 " Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; 
 Small difference lies between thy creed and mine : 
 This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell; 
 His death was mourned by sympathy divine. 
 
 The Being, that is in the clouds and air, 
 That is in the green leaves among the groves^ 
 Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. 
 
 The Pleasure-house is dust: — behind, before, 
 This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 
 But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
 Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 
 
51 
 
 She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 
 
 That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 
 
 But, at the coming of the milder day, 
 
 These monuments shall all be overgrown. 
 
 One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, 
 
 Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals, 
 
 Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 
 
5S 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 SONG, 
 
 AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, 
 
 Upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates. 
 and Honours of his Ancestors. 
 
 High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate, 
 And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song- 
 The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
 A festal Strain that hath been silent long. 
 
 " From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower, 
 The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower. 
 Her thirty years of Winter past, 
 The Red Rose is revived at last ; 
 
59 
 
 She lifts her head for endless spring, 
 For everlasting blossoming : 
 Both Roses flourish, Red and White. 
 In love and sisterly delight 
 The two that were at strife are blended, 
 And all old troubles now are ended. — 
 Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her 
 Who is the Flower of Lancaster ! 
 Behold her how She smiles to-day 
 On this great throng, this bright array! 
 Fair greeting doth she send to all 
 From every corner of the Hall ; 
 But, chiefly, from above the Board 
 Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 
 A Clifford to his own restored ! 
 
 They came with banner, spear, and shield ; 
 And it was proved in Bosworth-field. 
 Not long the Avenger was withstood, 
 Earth helped him with the cry of blood : 
 St. George was for us, and the might 
 Of blessed Angels crown'd the right. 
 Loud voice the Land hath uttered forth, 
 We loudest in the faithful North : 
 
60 
 
 Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring., 
 
 Our Streams proclaim a welcoming ; 
 
 Our Strong-abodes and Castles see 
 
 The glory of their royalty. 
 
 How glad is Skipton at this hour — 
 
 Though she is but a lonely Tower ! 
 
 Silent, deserted of her best, 
 
 Without an Inmate or a Guest, 
 
 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 ! 
 
61 
 
 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 undenled, 
 Save a Mother and her Child ! 
 
 Now Who is he that bounds with joy 
 
 On Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy ? 
 
 No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass 
 
 Light as the wind along the grass. 
 
 Can this be He who hither came 
 
 In secret, like a smothered flame I 
 
62 
 
 O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
 For shelter, and a poor Man's bread ? 
 God loves the Child ; and God hath willed 
 That those dear words should be fulfilled, 
 The Lady's words, when forced away, 
 The last she to her Babe did say, 
 " My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest 
 I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, 
 For lowly Shepherd's life is best !" 
 
 Alas ! when evil men are strong 
 
 No life is good, no pleasure long. 
 
 The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves, 
 
 And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves, 
 
 And quit the Flowers that Summer brings 
 
 To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; 
 
 Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
 
 Be turned to heaviness and fear. 
 
 — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 
 
 Hear it, good Man, old in days ! 
 
 Thou Tree of covert and of rest 
 
 For this young Bird that is distrest ; 
 
 Among thy branches safe he lay, 
 
 And he was free to sport and play, 
 
 When Falcons were abroad for prey. 
 
63 
 
 A recreant Harp, that sings of fear 
 And heaviness in Clifford's ear ! 
 I said, when evil Men are strong, 
 No life is good, no pleasure long, 
 A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
 Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
 And thankful through a weary time, 
 That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
 — Again he wanders forth at will, 
 And tends a Flock from hill to hill : 
 His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen 
 Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
 Among the Shepherd-grooms no Mate 
 Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! 
 Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee, 
 And a cheerful company, 
 That learned of him submissive ways ; 
 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. 
 
64 
 
 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 kenn'd them taking wing : 
 
 And the Caves where Faeries sing 
 
 He hath entered ; and been told 
 
 By Voices how Men liv'd of old. 
 
 Among the Heavens his eye can see 
 
 Face of thing that is to be ; 
 
 And, if Men report him right, 
 
 He can 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 Clifford calls ; — 
 
 " Quell the Scot," exclaims the Lance, 
 
 Bear me to the heart of France, 
 
 Is the longing of the Shield — 
 
 Tell thy name, thou trembling Field ,- 
 
ft 
 
 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 feeling, soothed, and tamed. 
 
 Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie, 
 His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills, 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 
 
 In him the savage Virtue of the Race, 
 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : 
 Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
 The wisdom which adversity had bred. 
 
 VOL. II. F 
 
66 
 
 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. 
 
67 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Yes ! full surely 'twas the Echo, 
 Solitary, clear, profound, 
 Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo ! 
 Giving to thee Sound for Sound. 
 
 Unsolicited reply 
 
 To a babbling wanderer sent; 
 
 Like her ordinary cry, 
 
 Like — but oh how different ! 
 
 Hears not also mortal Life ? 
 Hear not we, unthinking Creatures ! 
 Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife, 
 Voices of two different Natures ? 
 
 f 2 
 
68 
 
 Have not We too ? — Yes we have 
 Answers, and we know not whence ; 
 Echoes from beyond the grave, 
 Recognized intelligence ? 
 
 Such within ourselves we hear 
 Oft-times, ours though sent from far ; 
 Listen, ponder, hold them dear ; 
 For of God, — of God they are ! 
 
m 
 
 XXXI. 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION, 
 
 AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT*. 
 Beprinted from " The Friend." 
 
 Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy! 
 
 For might) 7 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 heaven ! — 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 
 
 * This, and the Extract, vol. I. page 44, and the first Piece of this 
 Class, are from the unpublished Poem of which some account is 
 "iven in the Preface to the Excursion. 
 
A prime Enchantress — to assist the work, 
 Which then was going forward in her name ! 
 Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth 
 The beauty wore of promise — that which sets 
 (To take an image which was felt no doubt 
 Among the bowers of paradise itself) 
 The budding rose above the rose full blown. 
 What Temper at the prospect did not wake 
 To happiness unthought of? The inert 
 Were roused, and lively Natures rapt away ! 
 They who had fed their childhood upon dreams, 
 The play-fellows of fancy, who had made 
 All powers of swiftness, subtilty and strength 
 Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had stirred 
 Among the grandest objectsof the sense, 
 And dealt with whatsoever they found there 
 As if they had within some lurking right 
 To wield it ; — they, too, who of gentle mood 
 Had watched all gentle motions, and to these 
 Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild, 
 And in the region of their peaceful selves ; — 
 Now was it that both found, the Meek and Lofty, 
 Did both find helpers to their heart's desire ; 
 And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish ! 
 
71 
 
 Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
 Not in Utopia, subterraneous 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 ! 
 
72 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown, 
 
 And is descending on his embassy ; 
 
 Nor Traveller gone from Earth the Heavens to espy ! 
 
 'Tis Hesperus — there he stands with glittering crown, 
 
 First admonition that the sun is down, 
 
 For yet it is broad day-light ! — clouds pass by ; 
 
 A few are near him still — and now the sky, 
 
 He hath it to himself — 'tis all his own. 
 
 O most ambitious Star ! an inquest wrought 
 
 Within me when I recognised thy light ; 
 
 A moment I was startled at the sight : 
 
 And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought 
 
 That even I beyond my natural race 
 
 Might step as thou dost now : — might one day trace 
 
 Some ground not mine ; and, strong her strength above, 
 
 My Soul, an Apparition in the place, 
 
 Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove ! 
 
13 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Composed a few Miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the Banks 
 of the Wye during a Tour. 
 
 July 13, 1798. 
 
 Five years have passed; five summers, with the length 
 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain- springs 
 
 With a sweet inland murmur*. — Once again 
 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
 
 Which 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, 
 
 * The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above 
 Tintern. 
 
74 
 
 Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
 Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
 The wild green landscape. Once again I see 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
 Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms 
 Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ; 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem, 
 Of vagrant Dwellers in the houseless woods, 
 Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
 The Hermit sits alone. 
 
 Though absent long, 
 These forms of beauty have not been to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
 And passing even into my purer mind, 
 With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
 Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 
 As may have had no trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 
75 
 
 His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
 To them I may have owed another gift, 
 Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, 
 In which the burthen of the mystery, 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 
 Of all this unintelligible world 
 Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, 
 In which the affections gently lead us 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 see into the life of things. 
 
 If this 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft, 
 In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless day-light ; 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, 
 O sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 
16 
 
 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 doubtj from what I was, when first 
 
 I came among these hills ; when like a roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
 Wherever nature led : more like a man 
 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by,) 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
 Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite : a feeling and a love, 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 
77 
 
 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, 
 
 Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 
 Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
 
 The still, sad music of humanity, 
 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 
 And the round ocean and the living air, 
 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
 
 And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
 
 From this green earth; of all the mighty world 
 
78 
 
 Of eye and ear, both what they half create # , 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
 In nature and the language of the sense, 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 Of all my moral beings 
 
 Nor perchance, 
 If 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 ! 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 
 
 * This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of 
 Young, tbe exact expression of which I cannot recollect. 
 
79 
 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
 Our cheerful faith that all which we behold 
 Isfull of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 And let the misty mountain winds be free 
 To blow against thee : and, in after years, 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; Oh ! then, 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance, 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 
 Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 
80 
 
 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 lofty cliffs, 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake. 
 
POEMS 
 
 PROCEEDING FROM SENTIMENT 
 AND REFLECTION. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
j 
 
I. 
 
 LINES 
 
 heft upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake of Esthwaitc> 
 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 ? 
 What if these barren boughs the bee not loves ? 
 Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 
 That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind 
 By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 
 
 -Who he was 
 
 That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod 
 First covered o'er, and taught this aged Tree 
 With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
 
 © 2 
 
84 
 
 I well remember.— He was one who owned 
 No common soul. In youth by science nursed, 
 And led by nature into a wild scene 
 Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
 A favoured Being, knowing 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 food of pride sustained his soul 
 In solitude. — Stranger ! these gloomy boughs 
 Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, 
 His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
 The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless Bird 
 Piping along the margin of the lake ; 
 And on these barren rocks, with juniper, 
 And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, 
 Fixing his down -cast 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 
 
8i 
 
 Thou seest,— 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 man himself, appeared a scene 
 
 Of kindred loveliness : then he 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 ! 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 
 
86 
 
 The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 
 Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou ! 
 Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, 
 True dignity abides with him alone 
 Who, in the silent hour of inward thought^ 
 Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 
 In lowliness of heart. 
 
87 
 
 II. 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 
 Whom every Man in arms should wish to be ? 
 
 It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
 
 Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
 Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought : 
 Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
 That make the path before him always bright : 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 
 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
 But makes his moral being his prime Care ; 
 Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
 And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain; 
 
88 
 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 Which is our human-nature's highest dower $ 
 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
 Of their bad influence, and their good receives ; 
 By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
 Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 
 Is placable — because occasions rise 
 So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
 As tempted more ; more able to endure, 
 As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 
 Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
 Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 
 Upon that law as on the best of friends; 
 Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 
 To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
 And what in quality or act is best 
 Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
 He fixes good on good alone, and owes 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows : 
 — Who, if he rise to station of command, 
 Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
 On honourable terms, or else retire, 
 And in himself possess his own desire j 
 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
 
 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 
 
 And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
 
 For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 
 
 Whom they must follow ; on whose head must fall, 
 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
 
 Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 
 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 
 A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
 
 But who, if he be called upon to face 
 
 Some awful moment to which heaven has join'd 
 
 Great issues, good or bad for human-kind, 
 
 Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 
 
 With sudden brightness like a Man inspired ; 
 
 And through the heat 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 and turbulence, 
 
 Is yet a Soul whose master bias leans 
 
 To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 
 
 Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 
 
 Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
 
90 
 
 It is his darling passion to approve ; 
 More brave for this, that he hath much to love i 
 "lis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 
 Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
 Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
 Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 
 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not> 
 Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
 Where what he most doth value must be won: 
 Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 
 Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
 Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 
 Looks forward, persevering to the last. 
 From well to better, daily self-surpast : 
 Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 
 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, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
 His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 
 This is the happy Warrior ; this is He 
 Whom every Man in arms should wish to be. 
 
91 
 
 III. 
 MOB ROY's GRAVE. 
 
 Use History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known ; his Grave is near the head of 
 Loch Keterine, in one of those small pin-fold-like Burial-grounds, of 
 neglected and desolate appearance, which the Traveller 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 off his Grave, 
 
 And let us chaunt 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. 
 
92 
 
 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 ? 
 " Burn all the Statutes and their shelves : 
 " They stir us up against our Kind ; 
 " And worse, against Ourselves. 
 
 " We have a passion, make a law, 
 " Too false to guide us or control ! 
 " And for the law itself we fight 
 ""In bitterness of soul. 
 
 " And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
 " Distinctions that are plain and few : 
 '* These find I graven on my heart : 
 " That tells me what to do. 
 
93 
 
 " The Creatures see of flood and field, 
 " And those that travel on the wind ! 
 " With them no strife can last ; they live 
 " In peace, and peace of mind. 
 
 " For why ? — because the good old Rule 
 " Sufliceth them, the simple Plan, 
 "That they should take who have the power, 
 " And they should keep who can, 
 
 " A lesson which is quickly learned, 
 " A signal this which all can see ! 
 " Thus nothing here provokes the Strong 
 "• To wanton cruelty. 
 
 " All freakishness of mind is checked ; 
 " He tamed, who foolishly aspires ; 
 " While to the measure of his might 
 " Each fashions his desires. 
 
 " All Kinds, and Creatures, stand and fall 
 " By strength of prowess or of wit : 
 " 'Tis God's appointment who must sway, 
 " And who is to submit. 
 
94 
 
 ** Since, then, the rule of right is plain, 
 " And longest life is but a day ; 
 " To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
 " I'll take the shortest way." 
 
 And thus among these rocks he lived, 
 Through summer's heat and winter's snow 
 The Eagle, he was Lord above, 
 And Rob was Lord below. 
 
 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 we say an age too soon ? 
 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, 
 Sheriffs, and Lairds and their domains, 
 Would all have seemed but paltry things, 
 Not worth a moment's pains. 
 
95 
 
 Rob Roy had never lingered here, 
 To these few meagre Vales confined ; 
 But thought how wide the world, the times 
 How fairly to his mind ! 
 
 And to his Sword he would have said, 
 " Do Thou my sovereign will enact 
 " From land to land through half the earth ! 
 " Judge thou of law and fact ! 
 
 " 'Tis fit that we should do our part ; 
 " Becoming, that mankind should learn 
 " That we are not to be surpassed 
 " In fatherly concern. 
 
 " Of old things all are over old, 
 " Of good things none are good enough : — 
 " We'll shew that we can help to frame 
 " A world of other stuff. 
 
 " I, too, will have my Kings that take 
 " From me the sign of life and death: 
 " Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, 
 " Obedient to my breath." 
 
96 
 
 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 brave Rob Roy ! 
 
 Oh ! say not so; compare them not; 
 I would not wrong thee, Champion brave ! 
 Would wrong thee no where ; 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 oppress'd, who wanted strength, 
 Had thine at their command. 
 
97 
 
 Bear witness many a pensive sigh 
 Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays 
 Alone upon Loch Veol's Heights, 
 And by Loch Lomond's Braes ! 
 
 And, far and near, through vale and hill, 
 Are faces that attest the same ; 
 And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd, 
 At sound of Rob Roy's name. 
 
 vol. n. 
 
98 
 
 IV. 
 
 A POETS EPITAPH, 
 
 Aet thou a Statesman, in the van 
 Of public business trained and bred ? 
 — First learn to love one living man • 
 Then mayst thou think upon the dead. 
 
 A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh J 
 Go, carry to some other place 
 The hardness of thy coward eye, 
 The falsehood of thy sallow face. 
 
 Art thou a Man of purple cheer ? 
 A rosy Man, right plump to see ? 
 Approach ; yet, Doctor, not too near ; 
 This grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
99 
 
 Art thou a man of gallant pride, 
 A Soldier, and no man of chaff? 
 Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
 And lean upon a Peasant's staff. 
 
 Physician art thou ? One, all eyes, 
 Philosopher ! a fingering slave, 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 Upon his mother's grave ? 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece 
 O turn aside, — and take, I pray, 
 That he below may rest in peace, 
 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-rubbed soul can cling 
 Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small ; 
 A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
 An intellectual All in All ! 
 
 h 2 
 
100 
 
 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 that round us lie 
 Some random truths he can impart, 
 — The harvest of a quiet eye 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
 
101 
 
 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. 
 
102 
 
 V. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION JND REPLY. 
 
 it Why, William, on that old gray 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 ! 
 
 " Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
 
 " From dead men to their kind. 
 
 " You look round on your mother earth, 
 " As if she for no purpose bore you ; 
 " As if you were her first-born birth, 
 " And none had lived before vou !" 
 
103 
 
 One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
 When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
 To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
 And thus I made reply : 
 
 " The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
 " We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
 " Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
 " Against, or with our will. 
 
 " Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
 " Which of themselves our minds impress 
 " That we can feed this mind of ours 
 " In a wise passiveness, 
 
 " Think you, mid all this mighty sum 
 " Of things for ever speaking, 
 " That nothing of itself will come, 
 " But we must still be seeking ? 
 
 f — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 
 " Conversing as I may, 
 
 " I sit upon this old gray stone, 
 
 " And dream my time away." 
 
104 
 
 vr. 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED; 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; 
 Why all this toil and trouble ? 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books, 
 Or surely you'll grow double. 
 
 The sun, above the mountain's head, 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow 
 
 Through all the long green fields has spread, 
 
 His first sweet evening yellow. 
 
 Books ! '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. 
 
105 
 
 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. 
 
106 
 
 VII. 
 
 JDDRESS 
 TO THE SONS OF BURNS 
 
 After visiting their Father's Grave. 
 (August 14th, 1803.) 
 
 Ye now are panting up life's hill ! 
 'Tis twilight lime of good and ill, 
 And more than common strength and skill 
 
 Must ye display 
 If ye would give the better will 
 
 Its lawful sway. 
 
 Strong-bodied if ye be to bear 
 Intemperance with less harm, beware ! 
 But if your Father's wit ye share, 
 
 Then, then indeed, 
 Ye Sons of Burns ! for watchful care 
 
 There will be need. 
 
107 
 
 For honest men delight will take 
 To shew you favor 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. 
 
 Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; 
 Be independent, generous, brave ! 
 Your Father such example gave, 
 
 And such revere ! 
 But be admonish'd by his Grave, — 
 
 And think, and fear ! 
 
108 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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 pleasant 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 ; 
 
 Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, 
 And industry of body and of mind ; 
 And elegant enjoyments, that are pure 
 As Nature is ; — too pure to be refined. 
 
109 
 
 Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing 
 In concord with his River murmuring 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 darksome 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 less, 
 Thee 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 uselessness will never scorn ; 
 An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be :- — 
 High will he hang thee up, and will adorn 
 His rustic chimney with the last of Thee ! 
 
JJO 
 
 IX. 
 WRITTEN IN GERMANY, 
 
 ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY. 
 
 I must apprise the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the 
 impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick 
 Arms. 
 
 A fig for your languages, German and Norse ! 
 Let me have the song of the Kettle ; 
 And the tongs and the poker, instead of that Horse 
 That gallops away with such fury and force 
 On this dreary dull plate of black metal. 
 
 Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff; 
 
 But her pulses beat slower and slower : 
 
 The weather in Forty was cutting and rough, 
 
 And then, as Heaven knows, the Glass stood low enough ; 
 
 And now it is four degrees lower. 
 
in 
 
 Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, — perhaps 
 A child of the field, or the grove ; 
 And, sorrow for him ! this dull treacherous heat 
 Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat, 
 And he creeps to the edge of my stove. 
 
 Alas ! how he fumbles about the domains 
 Which this comfortless oven environ ! 
 He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, 
 Now back to the tiles, 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, and the South and the North ; 
 
 But he finds neither Guide-post nor Guide. 
 
 See ! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh ; 
 His eye-sight 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. 
 
112 
 
 No Brother, no Friend has he near him — while I 
 Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love ; 
 As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom, 
 As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, 
 And woodbines were hanging above. 
 
 Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing! 
 Thy life I would gladly sustain 
 
 Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds 
 Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the 
 
 clouds, 
 And back to the forests ao;ain. 
 
113 
 
 X. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written at a small Distance from my Howe, and sent by my little Boy to the 
 Person to whom they are addressed* 
 
 It is the first mild day of March : 
 Each minute sweeter than before, 
 The Red-breast sings from the tall Larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 There is a blessing in the air, 
 Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
 To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
 And grass in the green field. 
 
 My Sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) 
 Now that our morning meal is done. 
 Make haste, your morning task resign ; 
 Come forth and feel the sun. 
 vql. li. t 
 
114 
 
 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 living Calendar : 
 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 may make, 
 Which they shall long obey : 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
115 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 About, below, above, 
 We'll frame the measure of our souls : 
 They shall be tuned to love. 
 
 Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray, 
 With speed put on your woodland dress ^ 
 — And bring no book : for this one day 
 We'll give to idleness. 
 
116 
 
 XI. 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 Who had been reproached for taking long Walks in (he 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, shalt see 
 
 Thy own delightful days, and be 
 
 A light to young and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy, 
 
 As if thy heritage were joy, 
 
 And pleasure were thy trade, 
 
 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. 
 
117 
 
 XII. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 
 
 1 heard a thousand blended notes, 
 While in a grove I sate reclined, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
118 
 
 The birds around me hopped and played; 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
 But the least motion which they made, 
 It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
 To catch the breezy air ; 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 If I these thoughts may not prevent, 
 If such be of my creed the plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What man has made of man ? 
 
119 
 
 XIII. 
 
 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, 
 I've heard he once was tall. 
 Of years he has upon his back, 
 No doubt, a burthen weighty ; 
 He says he is three score and ten, 
 But others say he's eighty. 
 
 A long blue livery-coat has he, 
 
 That's fair behind, and fair before ; 
 
 Yet, meet him where you will, you see 
 
 At once that he is poor. 
 
 Full five-and-twenty years he lived 
 
 A running Huntsman merry ; 
 
 And, though he has but one eye left, 
 
 His cheek is like a cherry. 
 
120 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound, 
 
 And no man was so full of glee ; 
 
 To say the least, four counties round 
 
 Had heard of Simon Lee ; 
 
 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 dwindled body's half awry ; 
 His ancles, too, are swoln and thick ; 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 When he was young he little knew 
 Of husbandry or tillage ; 
 
 And now is forced to work, though weak, 
 a — The weakest in the village. 
 
 He all the country could outrun, 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind ; 
 
 And often, ere the race was done, 
 
 He reeled and was stone-blind. 
 
 And still there's something in the world 
 
 At which his heart rejoices ; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 
 He dearly loves their voices ! 
 
121 
 
 His hunting feats have him bereft 
 
 Of his right eye, as you may see: 
 
 And then, what limbs those feats have left 
 
 To poor old Simon Lee ! 
 
 He has no son, he has no child, 
 
 His Wife, an aged woman, 
 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
 
 Upon the village Common. 
 
 Old Ruth works out of doors with him, 
 
 And does what Simon cannot do ; 
 
 For she, not over stout of limb, 
 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 
 And, though you with your utmost skill 
 
 From labour could not wean them, 
 
 Alas ! 'tis very little, all 
 
 Which they can do between them. 
 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 This scrap of land he from the heath 
 Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
 But what avails the land to them, 
 Which they can till no longer ? 
 
122 
 
 Few months of life has he in store, 
 As he to you will tell, 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 Do his weak ancles swell. 
 My gentle Reader, I perceive 
 How patiently you've waited, 
 And I'm afraid that you expect 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O Reader ! had you in your mind 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 gentle Reader ! you would find 
 A tale in every thing. 
 
 What more I have to say is short, 
 
 1 hope you'll 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 hand j 
 So vain was his endeavour 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have worked for ever. 
 
123 
 
 " You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 
 Give me your tool," to him I said ; 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 Received my proffered aid. 
 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 eves were brought, 
 And thanks and praises seemed to run 
 So fast out of his heart, I thought 
 They never would have done. 
 — I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
 With coldness still returning. 
 Alas ! the gratitude of men 
 Has oftener left me mourning. 
 
124 
 ANDREW JONES. 
 
 I hate that Andrew Jones : he'll breed 
 His children up to waste and pillage : 
 I wish the press-gang, or the drum 
 Would, with its rattling music, come — 
 And sweep him from the village. 
 
 I said not this, because he loves 
 Through the long day to swear and tipple 
 But for the poor dear sake of one 
 To whom a foul deed he had done, 
 A friendless man, a travelling Cripple. 
 
 For this poor crawling helpless wretch 
 Some Horseman, who was passing by, 
 A penny on the ground had thrown ; 
 But the poor Cripple was alone, 
 And could not stoop — no help was nigh. 
 
125 
 
 Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground, 
 For it had long been droughty weather : 
 So with his staff the Cripple wrought 
 Among the dust, till he had brought 
 The halfpennies together. 
 
 It chanced that Andrew passed that way 
 Just at the time ; and there he found 
 The Cripple in the mid-day heat 
 Standing alone, and at his feet 
 He saw the penny on the ground. 
 
 He stooped and took the penny up : 
 And when the Cripple nearer drew, 
 Quoth Andrew, " Under half-a-crown, 
 What a man finds U all his ozm ; 
 And so, my friend, good day to you" 
 
 And hence I say, that Andrew's boys 
 Will all be trained to waste and pillage ; 
 And wished the press-gang or the drum 
 Would, with its rattling music, come — 
 And sweep him from the village. 
 
126 
 
 XV. 
 
 In the School of is a Tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the 
 
 Names of 'the sever alPer sons who have been Schoolmasters there since the Founds.' 
 tion of the School, with the Time at which they entered upon and quitted their 
 Office. Opposite one of those Names the Author wrote thefolbioing Lines. 
 
 If Nature, for a favourite Child 
 In thee hath tempered so her clay, 
 That every hour thy heart runs wild, 
 Yet never once doth go astray, 
 
 Read o'er these lines ; and then review 
 This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
 In such diversity of hue 
 Its history of two hundred years. 
 
 — When through this little wreck of fame, 
 Cypher and syllable! thine eye 
 Has travelled down to Matthew's name, 
 Pause with no common sympathy. 
 
127 
 
 And, if a sleeping tear should wake, 
 Then be it neither checked nor stayed : 
 For Matthew a request I make 
 Which for himself he had not made. 
 
 Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
 Is silent as a standing pool ; 
 Far from the chimney's merry roar, 
 And murmur of the village school. 
 
 The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs 
 Of one tired out with fun and madness; 
 The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
 Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 
 
 Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
 Of still aud serious thought went round, 
 It seemed as if he drank it up — 
 He felt with spirit so profound. 
 
 —Thou Soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
 Thou happy Soul ! and can it be 
 That these two words of glittering gold 
 Are all that must remain of thee ? 
 
128 
 
 XVI. 
 
 TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 We walked along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun ; 
 And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, 
 " The will of God be done !" 
 
 A village Schoolmaster was he, 
 With hair of glittering gray ; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass, 
 And by the steaming rills. 
 We travelled merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
129 
 
 " Our work," said I, " was well begun j 
 Then, from thy breast what thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
 So sad a sigh has brought f 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop ; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
 To me he made reply : 
 
 " Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 u 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. 
 vol. 41. k 
 
130 
 
 " Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 The pride of all the vale ; 
 And then she sang ; — she would have been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 w Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
 And yet I loved her more, 
 For so it seemed, than till, that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 
 
 " And, turning from her grave, I met 
 Beside the church-yard Yew 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 " A basket on her head she bare ; 
 Her brow was smooth and white : 
 To see a Child so very fair, 
 It was a pure delight ! 
 
 " No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
 She seemed as happy as a wave 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
131 
 
 " There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confine ; 
 I looked at her and looked again: 
 — And did not wish her mine." 
 
 Matthew is in his grave, yet now 
 Methinks I see him stand, 
 As at that moment, with his bough 
 Of wilding in his hand. 
 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE FOUNT J IN, 
 
 A CONVEBSATION. 
 
 We talked with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true ; 
 A pair of Friends, though I was young, 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak, 
 Beside a mossy seat ; 
 And from the turf a fountain broke, 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 " Now, Matthew ! let us try to match 
 This water's pleasant tune 
 With some old Border-song, or Catch 
 That suits a summer's noon. 
 
133 
 
 " Or of the Church-clock and the chimes 
 Sing here beneath the shade, 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made !" 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree ; 
 And thus the dear old man replied, 
 The gray-haired man of glee : 
 
 " 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. 
 
134 
 
 u Thus fares it still in our decay : 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what age takes away 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 " The Blackbird in the summer trees, 
 The Lark upon the hill, 
 Let loose their carols when theyplease, 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
 u With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife ; they see 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free: 
 
 " But we are pressed by heavy laws; 
 And often, glad no more, 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 " If there is one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth, 
 The household hearts that were his own, 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
135 
 
 " My days, my Friend, are almost gone, 
 My life has been approved, 
 And many love me; but by none 
 Am I enough beloved." 
 
 il Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
 The man who thus complains ! 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains, 
 
 " And, Matthew, for thy Children dead 
 I'll be a son to thee !" 
 At this he grasped my hand, and said 
 " Alas ! that cannot be." 
 
 We rose up from the fountain-side; 
 And down the smooth descent 
 Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; 
 And through the wood we went ; 
 
 And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, 
 He sang those witty rhymes 
 About the crazy old church clock, 
 And the bewildered chimes. 
 
136 
 
 XVIII. 
 LINES 
 
 WKIXTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENiN», 
 
 How richly glows the water's breast 
 Before us, tinged with Evening hues. 
 While, facing thus the crimson wesf, 
 The Boat her silent course pursues ! 
 And see how dark the backward stream! 
 A little moment past so smiling ! 
 And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 
 Some other Loiterers beguiling. 
 
 Such views the youthful Bard allure 5 
 But, heedless of the following gloom, 
 He deems their colours shall endure 
 Till peace go with him to the tomb. 
 — And let him nurse his fond deceit, 
 And what if he must die in sorrow ! 
 Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 
 Though grief and pain may come to-morrow ? 
 
137 
 
 XIX. 
 REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS, 
 
 Written 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. 
 O 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. 
 
138 
 
 Vain thought!. ...Yet be as now thou art, 
 That in thy waters may be seen 
 The image of a poet's heart, 
 How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 
 Such as did once the Poet bless, 
 Who murmuring here a later* ditty, 
 Could find no refuge from distress 
 But in the milder grief of pity. 
 
 Now let us, as we float along, 
 For him suspend the dashing oar; 
 And pray that never child of Song 
 May know that Poet's sorrows more. 
 How calm ! how still ! the only sound, 
 The dripping of the oar suspended ! 
 — The evening darkness gathers round 
 By virtue's holiest Powers attended. 
 
 * Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, 1 
 believe, of the poems which were published during his lifetime. 
 This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza. 
 
139 
 
 XX. 
 
 I AM not One who much or oft delight 
 To season my fireside with personal talk, — 
 Of Friends, who live within an easy walk, 
 Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : 
 And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright, 
 Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk, 
 These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk 
 Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. 
 Better than such discourse doth silence long, 
 Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; 
 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
 In the lov'd presence of my cottage-fire, 
 And listen to the flapping of the flame, 
 Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong. 
 
140 
 
 " Yet life," you say, " is life ; we have seen and see, 
 
 And with a living pleasure we describe; 
 
 And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
 
 The languid mind into activity. 
 
 Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee, 
 
 Are fostered by the comment and the gibe." 
 
 Even be it so : yet still among your tribe, 
 
 Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me ! 
 
 Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies 
 
 More justly balanced; partly at their feet, 
 
 And part far from them :— sweetest 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 ! 
 
 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, welmow, 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 
141 
 
 There do I find a never-failing store 
 
 Of personal themes, and such as I love best ; 
 
 Matter wherein right voluble I am : 
 
 Two will I mention, dearer than the rest ; 
 
 The gentle Lady, married to the Moor ; 
 
 And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. 
 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
 
 Great gains are mine : for thus I live remote 
 
 From evil-speaking ; rancour, nev£r sought, 
 
 Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 
 
 Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
 
 Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought 
 
 And thus from day to day my little Boat 
 
 Rocks in its 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. 
 
142 
 
 XXI. 
 
 INCIDENT, 
 
 Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belonged to a 
 Friend of the Author. 
 
 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 chace ; 
 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. 
 
143 
 
 Deep the River was, and crusted 
 
 Thinly by a one night's frost; 
 
 But the nimble Hare hath trusted 
 
 To the ice, and safely crost ; 
 
 She hath crost, and without heed 
 
 All are following at full speed, 
 
 When, lo ! the ice, so thinly spread, 
 
 Breaks — and the Greyhound, Daiit, is over head! 
 
 Better fate have Prince and Swallow — 
 
 See them cleaving to the sport! 
 
 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 to save. 
 
 From the brink her paws she stretches, 
 
 Very hands as you would say ! 
 
 And afflicting moans she fetches, 
 
 As he breaks the ice away. 
 
 For herself she hath no fears, — 
 
 Him alone she sees and hears, — 
 
 Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er 
 
 Until her Fellow sunk, and reappeared no more. 
 
145 
 
 XXII. 
 
 TRIBUTE 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG, 
 
 Lie here sequestered: — be this little moimd 
 For ever thine, and be it holy ground! 
 Lie here, without a record of thy worth, 
 Beneath the covering of the common earth ! 
 It is not from unwillingness to praise, 
 Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise ; 
 More thou deserv'st ; but this Man gives to Man, 
 Brother to Brother, this is all we can. 
 Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear 
 Shall find thee through all changes of the year : 
 This Oak points out thy grave ; the silent Tree 
 Will gladly stand a monument of thee. 
 
145 
 
 I prayed for thee, and that thy end were past ; 
 And willingly have laid thee here at last : 
 For thou hadst lived, till every thing that cheers 
 In thee had yielded to the weight of years ; 
 Extreme old age had wasted thee away ; 
 And left thee but a glimmering of the day ; 
 Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy knees, — 
 I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 
 Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, 
 And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. 
 It came, and we were glad ; yet tears were shed ; 
 Both Man and Woman wept when Thou wert dead ; 
 Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, 
 Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share ; 
 But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee, 
 Found scarcely any where in like degree ! 
 For love, that comes to all ; the holy sense, 
 Best gift of God, in thee was most intense ; 
 A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, 
 A tender sympathy, which did thee bind 
 Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind : 
 Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw 
 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 ! 
 
 VOL. II. l 
 
146 
 
 XXIII. 
 THE FORCE OF PRAYER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. 
 
 A TRADITION. 
 
 " Qfflfy&t te gooti for a ftoottaf* fan* I" 
 With these dark words begins my Tale ; 
 And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring- 
 When Prayer is of no avail ? 
 
 " SKUljat te good for a footless fane V* 
 
 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. 
 
 ■ 
 
147 
 
 — Young Romilly through Barden Woods 
 Is ranging high and low ; 
 And holds a Greyhound in a leash, 
 To let slip upon buck or doe. 
 
 And the Pair have reached that fearful chasm, 
 
 How tempting to bestride ! 
 
 For lordly Wharf is there pent in 
 
 With rocks on either side. 
 
 This Striding-place is called The Strid, 
 A name which it took of yore : 
 A thousand years hath it borne that name, 
 And shall, a thousand more. 
 
 And hither is young Romilly come, 
 And what may now forbid 
 That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 
 Shall bound across The Steid ? 
 
 He sprang in glee,— for what cared he 
 That the River was strong and the rocks were steep ? 
 —But the Greyhound in the leash hung back, 
 And checked him in his leap. 
 
 l 2 
 
148 
 
 The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
 And strangled by a merciless force ; 
 For never more was young Romilly seen 
 Till he rose a lifeless Corse! 
 
 Now there is stillness in the Vale, 
 And long unspeaking sorrow : — 
 Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 
 
 If foi" a Lover the Lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 
 From death, and from the passion of death ;- 
 
 Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 
 
 She weeps not for the wedding-day 
 Which was to be to-morrow : 
 Her hope was a farther-looking hope, 
 And hers is a Mother's sorrow. 
 
 He was a Tree that stood alone, 
 And proudly did its branches wave ; 
 And the Root of this delightful Tree 
 Was in her Husband's grave I 
 
149 
 
 Long, long in darkness did she sit, 
 And her first words were, " Let there be 
 In Bolton, on the Field of Wharf, 
 A stately Priory!" 
 
 The stately Priory was reared ; 
 And Wharf, as he moved along, 
 To Matins joined a mournful voice, 
 Nor failed at Even-song. 
 
 And the Lady prayed in heaviness 
 That looked not for relief; 
 But slowly did her succour come, 
 And a patience to her grief. 
 
 Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart 
 That shall lack a timely end 
 If but to God we turn, and ask 
 Of Him to be our Friend ! 
 
150 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 FIDELITY. 
 
 A barking sound the Shepherd hears, 
 
 A cry as of a Dog or Fox ; 
 
 He halts, and searches with his eyes 
 
 Among the scattered rocks : 
 
 And now at distance can discern 
 
 A stirring in a brake of fern ; 
 
 And instantly a Dog is seen, 
 
 Glancing from that covert green. 
 
 The Dog is not of mountain breed ; 
 Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; 
 With something, as the Shepherd thinks, 
 Unusual in its cry : 
 
151 
 
 Nor is there any one in sight 
 All round, in Hollow or on Height ; 
 Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear ; 
 What is the Creature doing here ? 
 
 It was a Cove, a huge Recess, f 
 
 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 does a leaping Fish 
 Send through the Tarn a lonely cheer ; 
 The Crags repeat the Raven's croak, 
 In symphony austere ; 
 Thither the Rainbow comes — the Cloud — 
 And Mists that spread the flying shroud ; 
 And Sun-beams ; and the sounding blast, 
 That, if it could, would hurry past, 
 But that enormous Barrier binds it fast. 
 * Tarn is a small Mere or Lake mostly high up in the mountains. 
 
152 
 
 Not free from boding thoughts, awhile 
 The Shepherd stood : then makes his way 
 Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones^ 
 As quickly as he may; 
 Nor far had gone before he found 
 7*- A human skeleton on the ground ; 6- ^ 
 The appalled Discoverer with a sigh 
 Looks round, to learn the history. 
 
 From those abrupt and perilous rocks 
 
 The Man had fallen, that place of fear ! 
 
 At length upon the Shepherd's mind 
 
 It breaks, and all is clear : 
 
 He instantly recalled the Name, 
 
 And who he was, and whence he came ; 
 
 Remembered, too, the very day 
 
 On which the Traveller passed this way. 
 
 But hear a wonder, for whose sake 
 
 This lamentable Tale I tell ! 
 
 A lasting monument of words 
 
 This wonder merits well. 
 
 The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, 
 
 Repeating the same timid cry, 
 
 This Dog had been through three months' space 
 
 A Dweller in that savage place. 
 
151 
 
 Yes, proof was plain that since the day 
 On which the Traveller thus had 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. 
 
154 
 
 XXV. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 
 Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 
 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 
 May joy be theirs while life shall last! 
 
 And Thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast ! 
 
155 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright, 
 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 
 And joy its own security. 
 
 And blest are they who in the main 
 
 This faith, even now, do entertain : 
 
 Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
 
 Yet find that other strength, according to their need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried ; 
 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
 
 Full oft, when in my heart was heard 
 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 
 The task imposed, from day to day ; 
 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul, 
 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 I supplicate for thy control ; 
 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
 
 My hopes no more must change their name, 
 
 I long for a repose which ever is the same. 
 
156 
 
 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 ; 
 Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient Heavens through Thee are fresh 
 and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 
 Oh ! let my weakness have an end ! 
 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 
 And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
159 
 
 PREFATORY SONNET. 
 
 Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room ; 
 And Hermits are contented with their Cells ; 
 And Students with their pensive Citadels : 
 Maids at the Wheel, the Weaver at his Loom, 
 Sit blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom, 
 High as the highest Peak of Furness Fells, 
 Will murmur by the hour in Foxglove bells : 
 In truth, the prison, unto which we doom 
 Ourselves, no prison is : and hence 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 short solace there, as I have found. 
 
160 
 
 II. 
 
 UPON THE SIGHT 
 
 BEAUTIFUL PICTURE. 
 
 Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay 
 Yon Cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape ; 
 Nor would permit the thiii 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 shewed the Bark upon the glassy flood 
 For ever anchored in her sheltering Bay. 
 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, hast given 
 To one brief moment caught from fleeting time 
 The appropriate calm of blest eternity. 
 
161 
 
 III. 
 
 Th e 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 
 In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high ; 
 He who stood visible to Mirzah's eye, 
 Never before to human sight betrayed. 
 Lo, in the vale the mists of evening spread ! 
 The visionary Arches are not there, 
 Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas ; 
 Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, 
 From which I have been lifted on the breeze 
 Of harmony, above all earthly care. 
 
 * See the vision of Mirzah in the Spectator. 
 
 VOL. II. M 
 
162 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Weak is the will of Man, his judgment 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 J71ower 
 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. 
 
\63 
 
 V. 
 
 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 miglity barriers, and the gulph between ; 
 
 The floods, — the stars, — a spectacle as old 
 
 As the beginning of the heavens and earth ! 
 
 M 
 
164 
 
 VI. 
 
 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, 
 
 " Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright ! y 
 
 Forthwith, that little Cloud, in ether spread, 
 
 And penetrated all with tender light, 
 
 She cast away, and shewed her fulgent head 
 
 Uncover'd ; — dazzling the Beholder's sight 
 
 As if to vindicate her beauty's right, 
 
 Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. 
 
 Meanwhile that Veil, removed or thrown aside, 
 
 Went, floating from her, darkening as it went ; 
 
 And a huge Mass, to bury or to hide, 
 
 Approached this glory of the firmament ; 
 
 Who meekly yields, and i& obscur'd ; — content 
 
 With one calm triumph of a modest pride. 
 
165 
 
 VII. 
 
 How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks 
 
 The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood ! 
 
 An old place, full of many a lovely brood, 
 
 Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks ; 
 
 And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, 
 
 Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranks 
 
 At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks, — 
 
 When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks 
 
 The crowd beneath her. Verily, I think, 
 
 Such place to me is sometimes like a dream 
 
 Or map of the whole world : thoughts, link by link, 
 
 Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam 
 
 Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, 
 
 And leap at once from the delicious stream. 
 
166 
 
 VilL 
 
 Where lies the Land to which you 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 enquiry ? — Neither friend nor foe 
 
 She cares for ; let her travel where she may, 
 
 She finds familiar names, a beaten way 
 
 Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 
 Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark? 
 And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 
 (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there 
 Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, 
 Of the old Sea some reverential fear, 
 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark ! 
 
167 
 
 IX. 
 
 Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress 
 Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp 
 Sullenly glaring through sepulchral damp, 
 So burns yon Taper mid its black recess 
 Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless : 
 The Lake below reflects it not ; the sky 
 Muffled in clouds affords no company 
 To mitigate and cheer its 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 sono- unite. 
 
168 
 
 X. 
 
 Mark 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 that grows 
 Upon that roof — amid embowering gloom 
 The very image framing of a Tomb, 
 In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose 
 Among the lonely mountains. — Live, ye Trees! 
 And Thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep 
 Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep : 
 For more than Fancy to the influence bends 
 When solitary Nature condescends 
 To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. 
 
169 
 
 XI. 
 
 COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE 
 HAMILTON HILLS, YORKSHIRE. 
 
 Dark, and more dark, the shades of Evening fell; 
 The wish'd-for point was reach'd — but late the hour ; 
 And little could we see of all that power 
 Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell. 
 The western sky did recompence us well 
 With Grecian Temple, Minaret, and Bower; 
 And, in one part, a Minster with its Tower 
 Substantially expressed — a place for Bell 
 Or Clock to toll from ! Many a glorious pile 
 Did we behold, fair sights that might repay 
 All disappointment ! and, as such, the eye 
 Delighted in them ; but we felt, the while, 
 We should forget them: — they are of the sky, 
 And from our earthly memory fade away. 
 
170 
 
 XII. 
 
 they are of the sky, 
 
 And from our earthly memory fade away. 
 
 These words were uttered in a pensive mood, 
 Mine eyes yet lingering on that solemn sight : 
 A contrast and reproach to gross delight, 
 And life's unspiritual pleasures daily woo'd ! 
 But now upon this thought I cannot brood ; 
 It is unstable, and deserts me quite : 
 Nor will I praise a Cloud, however bright, 
 Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. 
 The Grove, the sky-built Temple, and the 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. 
 
171 
 
 XIII. 
 
 COMPOSED AT CASTLE. 
 
 Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord ! 
 Whom mere despite of heart could so far please, 
 And love of havoc (for with such disease 
 Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word 
 To level with the dust a noble horde, 
 A brotherhood of venerable Trees, 
 Leaving an ancient Dome, and Towers like these, 
 Beggared and outraged ! — Many hearts deplored 
 The fate of those old Trees ; and oft with pain 
 The Traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze 
 On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed : 
 For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, 
 And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed, 
 And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 
 
3 72 
 
 XIV 
 
 TO THE POET, DYER. 
 
 Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful Genius made 
 
 That Work a living landscape fair and bright ; 
 
 Nor hallowed less with musical delight 
 
 Than those soft scenes through which thy Childhood stray'd, 
 
 Those southern Tracts of Cambria, " deep embayed, 
 
 By green hills fenced, by 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. 
 
173 
 
 XV. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee, 
 These twinklings of oblivion f Thou dost love 
 To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, 
 A Captive never wishing to be free. 
 
 This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me 
 A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove 
 Upon a fretful rivulet, now above, 
 Now on the water vexed with mockery. 
 
 1 have no pain that calls for patience, no ; 
 Hence I am cross and peevish as a child : 
 And pleased by 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! 
 
174 
 
 XVI. 
 
 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 ; 
 I've thought of all by turns ; and still 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, blessed barrier betwixt day and day, 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 
 
17-5 
 
 XVII. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Fond words have oft been spoken to 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 
 In rich reward all suffering ; Balm that tames 
 All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims 
 Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 
 Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, 
 I surely not a man ungently made, 
 Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost ? 
 Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, 
 Mere Slave of them who never for thee prayed, 
 Still last to come where thou art wanted most ! 
 
176 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 
 
 Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed ; 
 
 Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 
 
 Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 
 
 A goodly Vessel did I then espy 
 
 Come like a Giant from a haven broad ; 
 
 And lustily along the Bay she strode, 
 
 " Her tackling rich, and of apparel high." 
 
 This Ship was 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. 
 
177 
 
 XIX. 
 
 TO THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 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. 
 VOL. II. N 
 
178 
 
 XX. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 Yes ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 
 
 And I be undeluded, unbetray'd ; 
 
 For if of our affections none find grace 
 
 In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made 
 
 The world which we inhabit ? Better plea 
 
 Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 
 
 Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, 
 
 Who such Divinity to thee imparts 
 
 As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 
 
 His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 
 
 With beauty, which is varying every hour : 
 
 But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power 
 
 Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, 
 
 That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 
 
179 
 
 XXI. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 No mortal object did these eyes behold 
 When first they met the placid light of thine, 
 And my Soul felt her destiny divine, 
 And hope of endless peace in me grew bold : 
 Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold ; 
 Beyond the visible world She soars to seek, 
 (For what delights the sense is false and weak) 
 Ideal Form, the universal mould. 
 The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest 
 In that which perishes : nor will he lend 
 His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 
 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, 
 Which kills the soul: Love betters what is best, 
 Even here below, but more in heaven above. 
 
 N 2 
 
180 
 
 XXII. 
 
 FKOM THE SAME. 
 
 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, 
 
 Which of its native self can nothing feed : 
 
 Of good and pious works thou art the seed, 
 
 Which quickens only where thou say'st 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. 
 
181 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 TO THE LJDY 
 
 Lady ! the songs of Spring were in the grove 
 While I was framing 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 pines 
 Be gracious as the music and the bloom 
 And all the mighty ravishment of Spring. 
 
182 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 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 are out of tune ; 
 It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea ; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
183 
 
 XXV. 
 
 WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH. 
 
 Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. 
 
 The Kine are couched upon the dewy grass ; 
 
 The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, 
 
 Is up, and cropping yet his later meal : 
 
 Dark is the ground ; a slumber seems to steal 
 
 O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. 
 
 Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, 
 
 Home-felt, and home-created, 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. 
 
184 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 COMPOSED UPON 
 
 WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 
 
 Sept. 3, 1803. 
 
 Ea HTH has not any thing to shew more fair : 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty : 
 This City now doth like a garment wear 
 The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and 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 splendor valley, rock, or hill ; 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will: 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
185 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 P eli on and Ossa flourish side by side, 
 
 Together in imniortal books enrolled: 
 
 His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold ; 
 
 And that inspiring Hill, which " did divide 
 
 Into two ample horns his forehead wide," 
 
 Shines with poetic radiance as of old; 
 
 While not an English Mountain we behold 
 
 By the celestial Muses glorified. 
 
 Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds: 
 
 What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, 
 
 Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty 
 
 Our British Hill is fairer far : He shrouds 
 
 His double-fronted head in higher clouds, 
 
 And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly. 
 
186 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Brook, whose society the Poet seeks 
 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 I some type of thee did wish to view, 
 Thee, — and not thee thyself, I would not do 
 Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, 
 Channels for tears ; no Naiad should'st thou be, 
 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 without its cares. 
 
187 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 JDMONITION, 
 
 Intended more particularly for the Perusal of these who may have happened lo be 
 enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakti. 
 
 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 — Oh ! do not sigh, 
 
 As many do, repining while they look ; 
 
 Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's Book 
 
 This blissful leaf with harsh impiety. 
 
 Think what the home would 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! 
 
188 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Beloved Vale!" I said, " when I shall con 
 Those many records of my childish years, 
 Remembrance of myself and of my peers 
 Will press me down : to think of what is gone 
 Will be an awful thought, if life have one." 
 But, when into the Vale I came, no fears 
 Distressed me ; I looked round, I shed no tears ; 
 Deep thought, or awful vision, I had none. 
 By thousand petty fancies I was crost, 
 To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall, 
 Mere dwarfs ; the Brooks so narrow, Fields so small. 
 A Juggler'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. 
 
189 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 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 one 
 
 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 ! 
 
190 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Surprized by joy — impatient as the Wind 
 I wished to share the transport — Oh ! with whom 
 But Thee, long buried in the silent Tomb, 
 That spot which no vicissitude can find ? 
 Love, faithful love recalled thee to my mind- 
 But how could I forget thee ? — Through what power, 
 Even for the least division of an hour, 
 Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
 To my most grievous loss ? — That thought's return 
 Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, 
 Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 
 Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; 
 That neither present time, nor years unborn 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 
 
191 
 
 xxxur. 
 
 I r is a beauteous Evening, calm and free ; 
 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven 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, 
 
 If 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, 
 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
192 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND, IN 
 THE VALE OF GRASMERE. 
 
 What need of clamorous bells, or ribbands gay, 
 
 These humble Nuptials to proclaim or grace ? 
 
 Angels of Love, look down upon the place, 
 
 Shed on the chosen Vale a sun-bright day ! 
 
 Even for such omen would the Bride display 
 
 No mirthful gladness : — serious is her face, 
 
 Modest her mien ; and she, whose thoughts keep pace 
 
 With gentleness, in that becoming way 
 
 Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear, 
 
 No disproportion in her soul, no strife : 
 
 But, when the closer view of wedded life 
 
 Hath shewn that nothing human can be clear 
 
 From frailty, for that insight may the Wife 
 
 To her indulgent Lord become more dear. 
 
193 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 ON APPROACHING HOME 
 
 AFTER A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 1803. 
 
 Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale I 
 Say that we come, and come by this day's light ; 
 Glad tidings ! — spread them over field and height ; 
 But chiefly iet one Cottage hear the tale ; 
 There let a mystery of joy prevail, 
 The Kitten frolic with unruly 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, 
 That hath her six week's solitude beguiled 
 With intimations manifold and dear, 
 While we have wandered over wood and wild, 
 Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 
 vol. n. o 
 
194 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 TO 
 
 From the dark chambers of dejection freed, 
 
 Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care 
 
 Rise, * * * * rise : the gales of youth shall bear 
 
 Thy genius forward like a winged steed. 
 
 Though boM Bellerophon (so Jove decreed 
 
 In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, 
 
 Yet a high guerdon waits on minds that dare, 
 
 If aught be in them of immortal seed, 
 
 And reason govern that audacious flight 
 
 Which heav'n-ward they direct. — Then droop not thou, 
 
 Erroneously renewing a sad vow 
 
 In the low dell mid Roslin's fading grove : 
 
 A cheerful life is what the Muses love, 
 
 A soaring spirit is their prime delight, 
 
195 
 XXXVII. 
 
 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 hopeless wasting, root and stem : 
 That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
 Where'er I liked ; and finally array 
 My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
 Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth, 
 If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, 
 In my past verse, — or shall be, in the lays 
 Of higher mood, which now I meditate, — 
 It gladdens me, O "Worthy, short-lived Youth ! 
 To think how much of this will be thy praise. 
 
 o 2 
 
SONNETS 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 TO LIBERTY. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
199 
 
 I. 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, 
 
 August, 1802. 
 
 Fair Star of Evening, Splendor of the West, 
 
 Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's brink 
 
 Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 
 
 On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest, 
 
 Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
 
 Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
 
 Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and should'st wink. 
 
 Bright Star ! with laughter on her 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. 
 
200 
 
 II. 
 CALAIS, 
 
 August, 1802. 
 
 ^f 
 
 Is it a Reed that's shaken by the wind, 
 
 Or what is it that } 7 e go forth to see \ 
 
 Lords, Lawyers, Statesmen, Squires of low degree, 
 
 Men known, and men unknown, Sick, Lame, and Blind, 
 
 Post forward all, like Creatures of one kind, 
 
 With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee 
 
 In France, before the new-born Majesty. 
 
 '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 ? 
 
 Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone ! 
 
201 
 
 III. 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, 
 On the Road leading to Ardres, August 7th, 1802. 
 
 Jones! when from Calais southward you and I 
 
 Travelled on foot together ; then this Way, 
 
 Which I am pacing now, was like the May 
 
 With festivals of 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 ! 
 
 And now, sole register that these things were, 
 
 Two solitary greetings have I heard, 
 
 " Good morrow, Citizen /" a hollow word, 
 
 As if a dead Man spake it! Yet despair 
 
 I feel not : happy am I as a Bird : 
 
 Fair seasons yet will come, and hopes as fair. 
 
202 
 
 IV. 
 
 1801 
 
 I grieved for Buonaparte, 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 
 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. 
 
203 
 
 V. 
 CALAIS, 
 
 August 15th, 1802. 
 
 Festivals have I seen that were not names : 
 This is young Buonaparte's natal day ; 
 And his is henceforth an established sway, 
 Consul for life. With worship France proclaims 
 Her approbation, and with pomps and games. 
 Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay ! 
 Calais is not : and I have bent my way 
 To the Sea-coast, noting that each man frames 
 His business as he likes. Another time 
 That was, when I was here long years ago : 
 The senselessness of joy was then sublime ! 
 Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope, 
 Consul, or King, can sound himself to know 
 The destiny of Man, and live in hope. 
 
204 
 
 VI. 
 
 ON THE EXTINCTION 
 
 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 ; 
 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. 
 
205 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE RING OF SWEDEN. 
 
 The Voice of Song from distant lands shall call 
 
 To that great King ; shall hail the crowned Youth 
 
 Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth, 
 
 By one example hath set forth to all 
 
 How they with dignity may stand ; or fall, 
 
 If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend ? 
 
 And what to him and his shall be the end ? 
 
 That thought is one which neither can appal 
 
 Nor cheer him ; for the illustrious Swede hath done 
 
 The thing which ought to be : 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. 
 
206 
 
 VIII. 
 
 TO TOUSSAINT VOUVERTVRE. 
 
 Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men! 
 Whether the all-cheering sun be free to shed 
 His beams around thee, or thou rest thy head 
 Pillowed in some dark dungeon's noisome 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. 
 
207 
 
 JX. 
 
 September 1st, 1802. 
 
 We had a fellow-Passenger who came 
 
 From Calais with us, gaudy in array, — 
 
 A Negro Woman like a Lady gay, 
 
 Yet silent as a woman fearing blame; 
 
 Dejected, meek, yea pitiably tame, 
 
 She sate, from notice turning not away, 
 
 But on our proffered kindness still did lay 
 
 A weight of languid speech, — or at the same 
 
 Was silent, motionless in eyes and face. 
 
 She was a Negro Woman driven from France, 
 
 Rejected like all others of that race, 
 
 Not one of whom may now find footing there ; 
 
 This the poor Out-cast did to us declare, 
 
 Nor murmured at the unfeeling Ordinance. 
 
208 
 
 X. 
 COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY, NEAR DOVER, 
 
 ON THE DAY OF LANDING. 
 
 Dear Fellow-traveller! here we are once more. 
 
 The Cock that crows, the Smoke that curls, that sound 
 
 Of Bells, — those Boys that in yon meadow-ground 
 
 In white-sleev'd shirts are playing, — and the roar 
 
 Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore, — 
 
 All, all are English. Oft have I looked round 
 
 With joy in Kent's green vales ; but never found 
 
 Myself so satisfied in heart before. 
 
 Europe is yet in Bonds ; but let that pass, 
 
 Thought for another moment. Thou art free, 
 
 My Country ! and '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. 
 
£09 
 
 XL 
 
 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 r 
 A span of waters ; yet what power is there! 
 What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
 Even so doth God protect us if we be , 
 Virtuous and wise : Winds blow, and Waters roll, 
 Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity, 
 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. 
 N VOL. II. p 
 
210 
 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 ; 
 
 Thou from thy Alpine Holds at length art driven. 
 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
 
 Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 
 
 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left ! 
 
 For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 
 
 That mountain Floods should thunder as before, 
 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 
 
 And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! 
 
211 
 
 XIII. 
 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 shew ; 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 idolatry ; and these we adore : 
 Plain living and high thinking are no more : 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
 And pure religion breathing household laws. 
 
 p 1 
 
212 
 
 LONDON, 
 
 1802. , 
 
 Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour s 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 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 itself did lay. 
 
213 
 
 XV. 
 
 Gueat Men have been among us ; hands that penn'd 
 
 And tongues that uttered wisdom, better none : 
 
 The later Sydney, 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 splendor : what strength was, that would not bend 
 
 But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange 
 
 Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. 
 
 Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! 
 
 No single Volume paramount, no code, 
 
 No master spirit, no determined road ; 
 
 But equally a want of Books and Men J 
 
21% 
 
 XVI, 
 
 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/* 
 Road by which all might come and go that would, 
 And bear out freights of worth to foreign lands ; 
 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 Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals hold 
 Which Milton held. — In every thing we are sprung 
 Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 
 
21 
 
 XVII. 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 
 Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
 
 When men change Swords for Ledgers, and desert 
 
 The Student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
 
 I had, my Country ! am I to be blamed ? 
 
 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 of the cause of men ; 
 
 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. 
 
Qi6 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 October, 1803, 
 
 One might believe that natural miseries 
 Had blasted France, and made of it a land 
 Unfit for Men ; and that in one great Band 
 Her Sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease. 
 But 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze 
 Shed gentle favors ; rural works are there ; 
 And ordinary business without care ; 
 Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please ! 
 How piteous then that there should be such dearth 
 Of knowledge ; that whole myriads should unite 
 To work against themselves such fell despite : 
 Should come in phrenzy and in drunken mirth, 
 Impatient to put out the only light 
 Of Liberty that yet remains on Earth ! 
 
217 
 
 XIX. 
 
 There is a bondage which is 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 ? Never be it ours 
 
 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 
 
 Fade, and participate in Man's decline. 
 
XX 
 
 October, 1803. 
 
 These times touch money'd Worldlings with dismay 
 
 Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air 
 
 With words of apprehension and despair : 
 
 While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, 
 
 Men unto whom sufficient for the day 
 
 And minds not stinted or untilled are given, 
 
 Sound, healthy Children of the God of Heaven, 
 
 Are cheerful as the rising Sun in May. 
 
 What do we gather hence but firmer faith 
 
 That every gift of noble origin 
 
 Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath ; 
 
 That virtue and the faculties within 
 
 Are vital, — and that riches are akin 
 
 To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death ! 
 
219 
 
 XXL 
 
 England ! the time is come when thou shouldst wean 
 
 Thy heart from its emasculating food ; 
 
 The truth should now be better understood ; 
 
 Old things have been unsettled ; we have seen 
 
 Pair 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 wouldst 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 ! 
 
220 
 
 XXII. 
 
 October, 1803. 
 
 When, looking on the present face of things, 
 
 I see one Man, of Men the meanest too I 
 
 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 all things. But, great God ! 
 
 I measure back the steps which I have trod ; 
 
 And tremble, seeing, as I do, the strength 
 
 Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime 
 
 1 tremble at the sorrow of the time. 
 
221 
 
 XXIII. 
 TO THE MEN OF KENT. 
 
 October, 1803. 
 
 Vanguard of Liberty, ye Men of Kent, 
 
 Ye Children of a Soil that doth advance 
 
 Its haughty brow against the coast of France, 
 
 Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! 
 
 To France be words of invitation sent ! 
 
 They from their Fields can see the 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 ! In Britain is one breath ; 
 
 We all are with you now from Shore to Shore : — 
 
 Ye Men of Kent, 'tis Victory or Death ! 
 
222 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 October, 1803, 
 
 Six thousand Veterans practised in War's game, 
 Tried Men, at Killicranky were array'd 
 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. 
 Oh ! for a single hour of that Dundee 
 Who on that day the word of onset gave ! 
 Like conquest would the Men of England see ; 
 And her Foes find a like inglorious Grave. 
 
g& 
 
 XXV. 
 ANTICIPATION. 
 
 October, 1803. 
 
 Shout, for a mighty Victory is won ! 
 
 On British ground the Invaders are laid low ; 
 
 The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow, 
 
 And left them lying in the silent sun, 
 
 Never to rise again !— the work is done. 
 
 Come forth, ye Old Men, now in peaceful show 
 
 And greet your Sons ! drums beat, and trumpets blow ! 
 
 Make merry, Wives ! ye little Children stun 
 
 Your Grandame's ears with pleasure of your noise ! 
 
 Clap, Infants, clap your hands ! Divine must be 
 
 That triumph, when the very worst, the pain, 
 
 And even the prospect of our Brethren slain, 
 
 Hath something in it which the heart enjoys :-— 
 
 In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity. 
 
224 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 November, 1806. 
 
 Another year! — another deadly blow? 
 Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
 And we are left, or shall be left, alone ; 
 The last that dares 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 unpropp'd, or be laid low^ 
 O Dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer S 
 We shall exult, if They who rule the land 
 Be Men who hold its many blessings dear, 
 Wise, upright, valiant ; not a venal Band, 
 Who are to judge of danger which they fear, 
 And honour which they do not understand. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 TO LIBERTY. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
22 fc 
 
 I. 
 
 CELEBRATED EVENT IN ANCIENT HISTORY. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 And birds, high-flying in the element, 
 
 Dropped to the earth, astonished at the sound ! 
 
 — A melancholy Echo of that noise 
 
 Doth sometimes hang on musing Fancy's ear : 
 
 Ah ! that a Conqueror's words should be so dear ; 
 
 Ah! 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. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 
 
 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 iEtolians smiled with bitter scorn. 
 
 " 'Tis known," cried they, " that He, who would adorn 
 
 His envied temples with the Isthmian Crown, 
 
 Must either win, through effort of his own, 
 
 The prize, or be content to see it worn 
 
 By more deserving brows. — Yet so ye prop, 
 
 Sons of the Brave who fought at Marathon, 
 
 Your feeble Spirits. Greece her head hath bowed, 
 
 As if the wreath of Liberty thereon 
 
 Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud, 
 
 Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top !" 
 
S29 
 
 III. 
 
 TO THOMAS CLARKSON, 
 
 i the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slav* Trade, 
 March, 1807. 
 
 Clarkson ! it was an obstinate Hill to climb : 
 
 How toilsome, nay how dire it was, by Thee 
 
 Is known, — by none, perhaps, so feelingly; 
 
 But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, 
 
 Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime, 
 
 Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat, 
 
 Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat, 
 
 First roused thee. — O true yoke-fellow of Time 
 
 With unabating effort, see, the palm 
 
 Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn ! 
 
 The bloody Writing is for ever torn, 
 
 And Thou henceforth shalt have a good Man's calm,, 
 
 A great Man's happiness ; thy zeal shall find 
 
 Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind! - ¥ 
 
230 
 
 IV. 
 A PROPHECY, 
 
 February, 1807. 
 
 High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you ! 
 Thus in your Books the record shall be found, 
 (i A Watchword was pronounced, a potent sound, 
 Arminius! — all the people quaked like dew 
 Stirred by the breeze — they rose, a Ration, true, 
 True to itself — the mighty Germany, 
 She of the Danube and the Northern sea, 
 She rose,- — and off at once the yoke she threw. 
 All power was given her in the dreadful trance — r 
 Those new-born Kings she withered like a flame." 
 — Woe to them all ! but heaviest woe and shame 
 To that Bayarian who did first advance 
 His banner in accursed league with .France, 
 First open Traitor to her sacred name ! 
 
231 
 
 V. 
 
 COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR WAS ENCAGED IN WRITING 
 
 A TRACT, OCCASIONED BY THE CONVENTION 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 lead astray the wise and brave ; 
 Not there ! but in dark wood and rocky cave, 
 And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill 
 With omnipresent murmur as they rave 
 Down their steep beds that never shall be still : 
 Here, mighty Nature ! — in this school sublime 
 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 where I may 
 Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain. 
 
232 
 
 VI. 
 
 eOrtOSED AT THE SAME TIME, AND ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 I dropped my pen;— -and listened to the wind 
 
 That sang of trees up-torn and vessels tost ; 
 
 — A midnight harmony, and wholly lost 
 
 To the general sense of men by chains confined 
 
 Of business, care, or pleasure,— or resigned 
 
 To timely sleep. — Thought I, the impassioned strain, 
 
 Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain, 
 
 Like acceptation from the World 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 wild blast, 
 
 Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink, 
 
 Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed. 
 
233 
 
 VII. 
 
 HOFFER. 
 
 Of mortal Parents is the Hero born 
 
 By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led ? 
 
 Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead 
 
 Returned to animate an age forlorn ? 
 
 He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn 
 
 When dreary darkness is discomfited : 
 
 Yet mark his modest state ! — upon his head, 
 
 That simple crest — a heron's plume — is worn. 
 
 O Liberty ! they stagger at the shock ; 
 
 The Murderers are aghast ; they strive to flee 
 
 And half tlieir Host is buried : — rock on rock 
 
 Descends :— beneath this godlike Warrior, see ! 
 
 Hills, Torrents, Woods, embodied to bemock 
 
 The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty. 
 
c 23& 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground 
 Dear Liberty ! — stern Nymph of soul untamed, 
 Sweet Nymph, Oh ! rightly of the mountains named ! 
 Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound 
 And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound, — 
 Like Echo, when the Hunter-train at dawn 
 Have rouzed 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. 
 
235 
 
 IX. 
 
 FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE. 
 
 The Land we from our Fathers had in trust, 
 
 And to our Children will transmit, or die : 
 
 This is our maxim, this our piety ; 
 
 And God and Nature say that it is just. 
 
 That which we would perform in arms — we must! 
 
 We read the dictate in the Infant's eve; 
 
 In the Wife's smile ; and in the placid sky ; 
 
 And, at our feet, amid the silent dust 
 
 Of them that were before us. — Sing aloud 
 
 Old Songs, the precious music of the heart ! 
 
 Give, Herds and Flocks! your voices to the wind! 
 
 While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd, 
 
 With weapons in the fearless hand, to assert 
 
 Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind. 
 
256 
 
 X. 
 
 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 transcendant rest 
 Where every passion shall the sway attest 
 Of Reason seated on her sovereign hill ; — 
 What is it but a vain and curious skill, 
 If sapient Germany must lie deprest, 
 Beneath the brutal sword? — Her haughty Schools 
 Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow say, 
 A few strong instincts and a few plain rules, 
 Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought 
 More for mankind at this unhappy day 
 Than all the pride of intellect and thought. 
 
237 
 
 XI. 
 
 And is it among rude untutored Dales, 
 There, and there only, that the heart is true ? 
 And, rising to repel or to subdue, 
 Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails ? 
 Ah, no ! — though Nature's dread protection fails 
 There is a bulwark in the soul. — This knew 
 Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew 
 In Zaragoza, naked to the gales 
 Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt 
 By Palafox, and many a brave Compeer, 
 Like him of noble birth and noble mind ; 
 By Ladies, meek-eyed Women without fear ; 
 And Wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt 
 The bread w r hich without industry they find. 
 
233 
 
 XII. 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, 
 Dwells in the affections and the soul of man 
 A Godhead, like the universal Pan, 
 But more exalted, with a brighter train. 
 And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, 
 Showered equally on City and on Field, 
 And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield 
 In these usurping times of fear and pain ? 
 Such doom awaits us. — Nay, forbid it Heaven! 
 We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws 
 To which the triumph of all good is given, 
 High sacrifice, and labour without pause, 
 Even to the death : — else wherefore should the eye 
 Of man converse with immortality ? 
 
239 
 
 XIII. 
 
 FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE. 
 
 It was a m^ral end for which they fought; 
 
 Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame, 
 
 Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim, 
 
 A resolution, or enlivening thought ? 
 
 Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought ; 
 
 For in their magnanimity and fame 
 
 Powers have they left — an impulse—- and a claim 
 
 Which neither can be overturned nor bought. 
 
 Sleep, Warriors, sleep ! among your hills repose ! 
 
 We know that ye, beneath the stern controul 
 
 Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul. 
 
 And when, impatient of her guilt and woes 
 
 Europe breaks forth ; then, Shepherds ! shall ye rise 
 
 For perfect triumph o'er your*Enemies. 
 
240 
 
 XIV 
 
 Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye 
 We can approach, thy sorrow to behold, 
 Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold ; 
 Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh. 
 These desolate Remains are trophies high 
 Of more than martial courage in the breast 
 Of peaceful civic virtue : they attest 
 Thy matchless worth to all posterity. 
 Blood flowed before thy sight without remorse ; 
 Disease consumed thy vitals ; War upheaved 
 The ground beneath thee with volcanic force ; 
 Dread trials ! yet encountered and sustained 
 Till not a wreck of help or hope remained, 
 And Law was from necessity received. 
 
241 
 
 XV. 
 
 Say, what is Honour? — '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 terms unjust, 
 Stoop their proud heads ; — but not unto the dust,- 
 A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil ! 
 Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust I 
 Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill. 
 
 VOL. II. R 
 
242 
 
 XVI. 
 
 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 behold 
 
 Murdered like one ashore by shipwreck cast, 
 
 Murdered without relief. Oh! blind as bold, 
 
 To think that such assurance can stand fast ! 
 
243 
 
 XVII. 
 
 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 wert thou in a darksome night ; 
 Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime, 
 Stand in the spacious firmament of time, 
 Fixed as a star : such glory is thy right. 
 Alas ! it may not be : for earthly fame 
 Is Fortune's frail dependant ; yet there lives 
 A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives ; 
 To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim, 
 Faithfully kept, is as a «oble deed ; 
 In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed. 
 
 r 2 
 
244 
 
 XVIIL 
 
 Call not the royal Swede unfortunate 
 
 Who never did to Fortune bend the knee ; 
 
 Who slighted fear, — rejected steadfastly 
 
 Temptation ; and whose kingly name and state 
 
 Have " perished by his choice, and not his fate !" 
 
 Hence lives He, to his inner self endeared ; 
 
 And hence, wherever virtue is revered, 
 
 He sits 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 sympathizing spirit pause, 
 
 Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain 
 
 In thankful joy and gratulation pure. 
 
24; 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid 
 His vows to Fortune ; who, in cruel slight 
 Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right, 
 Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made 
 By the blind Goddess ; — ruthless, undismayed ; 
 And so hath gained at length a prosperous Height, 
 Round which the Elements of worldly might 
 Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid. 
 O joyless power that stands by lawless force ! 
 Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and hate, 
 Internal darkness and unquiet breath ; 
 And, if old judgments keep their sacred course, 
 Him from that Height shall Heaven precipitate 
 By violent and ignominious death- 
 
246 
 
 XX. 
 
 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 off from all his heart holds dear ; 
 What time his injured Country is a stage 
 Whereon deliberate Valour and the Rage 
 Of righteous Vengeance side by side appeal- 
 Filling from morn to night the heroic scene 
 With deeds of hope and everlasting praise : 
 Say can he think of this with mind serene 
 And silent fetters ? — Yes, if visions bright 
 Shine on his soul, reflected from the days 
 When he himself was tried in open light. 
 
Ml 
 
 XXI. 
 
 1810. 
 
 An ! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen 
 Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave ! 
 Does yet the unheard-of Vessel ride the wave? 
 Or is she swallowed up — remote from ken 
 Of pitying human nature ? Once again 
 Methinks that we shall hail thee, Champion brave, 
 Redeemed to baffle that imperial Slave, 
 And through all Europe cheer desponding men 
 With new-born hope. Unbounded is the might 
 Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right. 
 Hark, how thy Country triumphs ! — Smilingly 
 The Eternal looks upon her sword that gleams, 
 Like his own lightning, over mountains high, 
 On rampart, and the banks of all her streams. 
 
248 
 
 XXII. 
 
 In due observance of an ancient rite, 
 
 The rude Biscayans, when their Children lie 
 
 Dead in the sinless time of infancy, 
 
 Attire the peaceful Corse in vestments white ; 
 
 And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright, 
 
 They bind the unoffending Creature's brows 
 
 With happy garlands of the pure white rose : 
 
 This done, a festal Company unite 
 
 In choral song ; and, while the uplifted Cross 
 
 Of Jesus goes before, the Child is borne 
 
 Uncovered to his grave. — Her piteous loss 
 
 The lonesome Mother cannot chuse but mourn 
 
 Yet soon by Christian faith is grief subdued. 
 
 And joy attends upon her fortitude. 
 
249 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BISCAY AN 
 
 AT ONE OF THESE FUNERALS. 
 1810. 
 
 Yet, 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 Grave ! 
 
 These venerable mountains now enclose 
 
 A People sunk in apathy and fear. 
 
 If this endure, farewell, for us, all good! 
 
 The awful light of heavenly Innocence 
 
 Will fail to illuminate the Infant's bier ; 
 
 And guilt and shame, from which is no defence, 
 
 Descend on all that issues from our blood. 
 
250 
 
 XXIV. 
 THE OAK OF GUERNICA. 
 
 The ancient Oak of Guernica, says Laborde in bis account of Biscay, is a 
 mo9t venerable natural Monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, in the year 
 1476, after hearing mass in the Church of Santa Maria de la Antigua, 
 repaired to this tree, under which they swore to the Biseayans to maintain 
 their fueros (privileges). What other interest belongs to it in the mind* 
 of this People will appear from the following 
 
 SUPPOSED ADDRESS OF THE SAME. 
 
 1810. 
 
 Oak of Guernica ! Tree of holier power 
 Than that which in Dodona did enshrine 
 (So faith tOo fondly deemed) a voice divine 
 Heard from the depths of its aerial bower, 
 How canst thou flourish at this blighting hour r 
 What hope, what joy can sunshine bring to thee, 
 Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea, 
 The dews of morn, or April's tender shower ? 
 
 Stroke merciful and welcome would that be 
 
 Which would 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. 
 
251 
 XXV. 
 
 INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED 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 hands 
 
 Spain may be overpowered, and he possess, 
 
 For his delight, a solemn wilderness, 
 
 Where all the Brave lie dead. But when of bands, 
 
 Which he will break for us, he dares to speak, — 
 
 Of benefits, and of a future day 
 
 When pur enlightened minds shall bless his sway, 
 
 Then, the strained heart of fortitude proves weak : 
 
 Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare 
 
 That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to bear. 
 
252 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 At aunt all specious pliancy of mind 
 
 In men of low degree, all smooth pretence ! 
 
 I better like a blunt indifference 
 
 And self-respecting slowness, disinclined 
 
 To win me at first sight : — and be there joined 
 
 Patience and temperance with this high reserve, — 
 
 Honour that knows the path and will not swerve ; 
 
 Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind; 
 
 And piety tow'rds God.— Such Men of old 
 
 Were England's native growth ; and, throughout Spain, 
 
 Forests of such do at this day remain ; 
 
 Then for that Country let our hopes be bold ; 
 
 For matched with these shall Policy prove vain, 
 
 Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold. 
 
253 
 
 XXVII. 
 1810. 
 
 O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied 
 
 On fleets and armies, and external wealth : 
 
 But from within proceeds a Nation's health ; 
 
 Which shall not fail, though poor men cleave with pride 
 
 To the paternal floor; or turn aside, 
 
 In the thronged City, from the walks of gain, 
 
 As being all unworthy to detain 
 
 A Soul by contemplation sanctified. 
 
 There are who cannot languish in this strife, 
 
 Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good 
 
 Of such high course was felt and understood ; 
 
 Who to their Country's cause have bound a life, 
 
 Ere while by solemn consecration given 
 
 To labour, and to prayer, to nature, and to heaven. * 
 
 * See Laborde's Character of the Spanish People j from him the 
 sentiment of these two last lines is taken. 
 
254 
 
 XXVIII. 
 THE FRENCH, 
 
 ABJD 
 
 THE SPANISH GUERILLAS. 
 
 Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast 
 From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night 
 Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height, 
 These hardships ill sustained, these dangers past, 
 The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last, 
 Charged, and dispersed like foam : — but as a flight 
 Of scattered quails by signs do reunite 
 So these, — and, heard of once again, are chased 
 With combinations of long practised art 
 And newly-kindled hope ; — but they are fled, 
 Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead ; 
 Where now? — Their sword is at the Foeman^s heart! 
 And thus from year to year his walk they thwart, 
 And hang like dreams around his guilty bed. 
 
255 
 
 XXIX 
 
 SPANISH GUERILLAS. 
 1811. 
 
 They seek, are sought; to daily "battle led, 
 
 Shrink not, though far out-numbered by their Foes : 
 
 For they have learnt to open and to close 
 
 The ridges of grim War; and at their head 
 
 Are Captains such as erst their Country bred 
 
 Or fostered, self-supported Chiefs, — like those 
 
 Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose, 
 
 Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled. 
 
 In one who lived unknown a Shepherd's life 
 
 Redoubted Viriatus breathes again ; 
 
 And Mina, nourished in the studious shade, 
 
 With that great Leader vies, who, sick of strife 
 
 And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid 
 
 In some green Island of the western main. 
 
256 
 
 XXX. 
 
 1811. 
 
 The power of Armies is a visible thing, 
 Formal, and circumscribed in time and place ; 
 But who the limits of that power can trace 
 Which a brave People into light can bring, 
 Or hide, at will, — for Freedom combating, 
 By just revenge enfiamed ? No foot can chase. 
 No eye can follow to a fatal place 
 That power, that spirit, whether on the wing 
 kike the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind 
 Within its awful caves. — From year to year 
 Springs this indigenous produce far and near; 
 No craft this subtle element can bind, 
 Rising like water from the soil, to find 
 In every nook a lip that it may cheer. 
 
257 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 1811. 
 
 Here pause : the Poet claims at least this praise 
 That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 
 Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope 
 In the worst moment of these evil days ; 
 From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, 
 For its own honour, on man's suffering heart. 
 Never may from our souls one truth depart, 
 That an accursed thing it is to gaze 
 On prosperous Tyrants with a dazzled eye ; 
 Nor, touched with due abhorrence of their guilt 
 For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, 
 And justice labours in extremity, 
 Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, 
 O wretched Man, the throne of Tyranny ! 
 VOL. II. s 
 
258 
 
 xxxir. 
 
 Added, November, 1813. 
 
 Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, 
 
 Our aged Sovereign sits ; — to the ebb and flow 
 
 Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe 
 
 Insensible ; — he sits deprived of sight, 
 
 And lamentably wrapped in twofold night, 
 
 Whom no weak hopes deceived, — whose mind ensued, 
 
 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 were it only for a moment's space) 
 
 The triumphs of this hour ; for they are Thine ! 
 
POEMS 
 
 NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 s 2 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many 
 places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents 
 will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given 
 to such places a private and peculiar interest. 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 Poems written in consequence. 
 
POEMS 
 
 ON THE 
 
 NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 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 circling, 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 hindrances 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 leafless, seemed as though the countenance 
 
262 
 
 With which it looked on this delightful day 
 
 Were native to the summer. — Up the brook 
 
 I roamed in the confusion of my heart, 
 
 Alive to all things and forgetting all. 
 
 At length I to a sudden turning came 
 
 In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
 
 The stream^ so ardent in its course before, 
 
 Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all 
 
 Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice 
 
 Of 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 'tike the wild growth 
 
 Or like some natural produce of the air, 
 
 That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here ; 
 
 But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, 
 
 The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, 
 
 With hanging islands of resplendent furze : 
 
 And on a summit, distant a short space, 
 
 By any who should look beyond the dell, 
 
 A single mountain Cottage might be seen. 
 
 I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 
 
 •' Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this wild nook, 
 
 My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." 
 
263 
 
 •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. 
 
264 
 
 II. 
 TO JOANNJ. 
 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
 
 Your time 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 towards the sympathies of them 
 
 Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 
 
 And make dear friendships 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 thence 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 
 
Z65 
 
 Their ancient neighbour, 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 r" 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 chisseled 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 catechized, 
 
 And this was my reply : — " As it befel, 
 
 One summer morning we had walked abroad 
 
 At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
 
 — 'Twas 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 towards the East, I there stopped short, 
 
 And traced the lofty barrier with my eye 
 
 From base to summit; such delight f found 
 
§66 
 
 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 Loughrigg heard, 
 
 And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone : 
 
 Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 
 
 Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skiddaw blew 
 
 His speaking-trumpet ; — back out of the clouds 
 
 Of Glaramara southward came the voice; 
 
 And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. 
 
 — Now whether, (said I to our cordial Friend 
 
 Who in the hey-day of astonishment 
 
 Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 
 
 A work accomplished by the brotherhood 
 
 Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 
 
 With dreams and visionary impulses, 
 
Q67 
 
 Is not for me to tell ; but 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 sun-rise, on a calm 
 
 And silent morning, I sat down, and there, 
 
 In memory of affections old and true, 
 
 I chisseled 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 Westmoreland are several Inscriptions, upon 
 the native rock, which, from the wasting of Time, and the rudeness of the 
 Workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt 
 Roman. 
 
 The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flowing through 
 the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wyndermere. On Helm- 
 Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, 
 is a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an 
 Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Ca- 
 verns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. Most 
 of the Mountains here mentioned immediately surround the Vale of Gras- 
 mere ; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong 
 to the same cluster. 
 
<m 
 
 in. 
 
 There is an Eminence, — of these our hills 
 
 The last that parleys with the setting sun. 
 
 We can behold it from our Orchard-seat; 
 
 And, when at evening we pursue our walk 
 
 Along the public way, this 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 1 have loved 
 
 With such communion, that no place on earth 
 
 Can ever be a solitude to me, 
 
 Hath to this lonely summit given my Name. 
 
269 
 
 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 morning, ere the mist 
 Had altogether yielded to the sun, 
 Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. 
 
 Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we 
 Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, 
 It was our occupation to observe 
 Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore, 
 Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, 
 Each on the other heaped along the line 
 Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, 
 Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft 
 Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, 
 
2?0 
 
 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, 
 
 Its very playmate, and 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 Queen Osmunda named ; 
 
 Plant lovelier in its own retired abode 
 
 On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side 
 
 Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere 
 
 Sole-sitting by the shores of old Romance. 
 
 — So fared we that sweet 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, 
 
271 
 
 And, in the fashion which I have described, 
 Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanced 
 Along the indented shore ; when suddenly, 
 Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw 
 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. 
 That way we turned our steps ; nor was it long 
 Ere, making ready comments on the sight 
 Which then we saw, with one and the same voice 
 Did all cry out, that he must be indeed 
 An Idler, he who thus could lose a day 
 Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire 
 Is 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. — 
 
272 
 
 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 serious musing and to self-reproach. 
 
 Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 
 
 What need there is to be reserved in speech, 
 
 And temper all our thoughts with charity. 
 
 — Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, 
 
 My Friend, Myself, and She who then received 
 
 The same admonishment, have called the place 
 
 By a memorial name, uncouth indeed 
 
 As e'er by Mariner was given to Bay 
 
 Or Foreland on a new-discovered coast ; 
 
 And Point Rash-Judgment is the Name it bears. 
 
%73 
 
 V. 
 
 TO M. H. 
 
 Our walk was far among the ancient trees; 
 There was no road, nor any wood-man's path ; 
 But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth 
 Of weed and sapling, on the soft green turf 
 Beneath the branches of itself had made 
 A track, which brought us to a slip of lawn, 
 And a small bed of water in the woods. 
 All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink 
 On its firrn margin, even as from a Well, 
 Or some Stone-bason 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 
 vol. n. T 
 
274 
 
 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 survive among his thoughts: 
 And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still nook 
 With all its beeches we have named from You. 
 
275 
 
 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 storm 
 In deepest winter; and, from week to week, 
 Path-way, and lane, and public road were clogged 
 With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill 
 At a short distance from my Cottage, stands 
 A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont 
 To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 
 Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place 
 Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. 
 Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, 
 And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, 
 The redbreast near me hopped ; nor was I loth 
 To sympathize with vulgar coppice Birds 
 That, for protection from the nipping blast, 
 Hither repaired. — A single beech-tree grew 
 
 T 2 
 
276 
 
 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, 
 
 From the remotest outskirts of the grove, — 
 
 Some nook where they had made their final stand, 
 
 Huddling together from two fears — the fear 
 
 Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour 
 
 Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees 
 
 Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven 
 
 In such perplexed and intricate array, 
 
 That vainly did I seek, 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 that 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 
 
277 
 
 Meanwhile were mine ; till, one bright April day, 
 
 By chance retiring from the glare of noon 
 
 To this forsaken covert, there I found 
 
 A hoary path-way traced between the trees, 
 
 And winding on with such an easy line 
 
 Along a natural opening, that I stood 
 
 Much wondering at my own simplicity 
 
 How I could e'er have made a fruitless search 
 
 For what was now so obvious. At the sight 
 
 Conviction also flashed upon my mind 
 
 That this same path (within the shady grove 
 
 Begun and ended) by my Brother's steps 
 
 Had been impressed. — To sojourn a short while 
 
 Beneath my roof He from the barren seas 
 
 Had newly come — a cherished Visitant ! 
 
 And much did it delight me to perceive 
 
 That, to this opportune recess allured, 
 
 He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 
 
 A heart more wakeful ; that, more loth to part 
 
 From place so lovely, he had worn the track 
 
 By pacing here, unwearied 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. 
 
278 
 
 When Thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, 
 And taken thy first leave of those green hills 
 And rocks that were the play-ground of thy Youth, 
 Year followed year, my Brother, and we two, 
 Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
 Each other's minds were fashioned; and at length, 
 When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, 
 Between us there was little other bond 
 Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
 But thou, a 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 become 
 A silent Poet ; from the solitude 
 Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart 
 Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 
 And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. 
 — Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone; 
 And now I call the path-way by thy name, 
 And 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 placid Lake, 
 
279 
 
 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 1 rightly guess, while Thou, 
 
 Muttering the Verses which I muttered first 
 
 Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 
 
 Art pacing to and fro 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 
 A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. 
 
 Note. — This wish was not granted ; the lamented Person, not 
 long after, perished by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty a<, Com- 
 mander of the Honourable East India Company's Vessel, the 
 Earl of Abergavenny. 
 
INSCRIPTIONS, 
 
Written with a Slate-pencil, upon a Stone, the largest of a Heap lying near a 
 deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydale. 
 
 Stranger! this hillock of misshapen stones 
 
 Is not a ruin of the ancient time, 
 
 Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn 
 
 Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more 
 
 Than the rude embryo of a little Dome 
 
 Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built 
 
 Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. 
 
 But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned 
 
 That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, 
 
 And make himself a freeman of this spot 
 
 At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith 
 
 Desisted, and the quarry and the mound 
 
284 
 
 Are monuments of his unfinished task. 
 
 The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, 
 
 Was once selected as the corner-stone 
 
 Of the intended Pile, which would have been 
 
 Some quaint odd play-thing 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 destin'd 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, 
 
 And let the Red-breast hop from stone to stone. 
 
285 
 
 II. 
 
 ritten u-ith a Slate-pencil, on a Stone, on the Side of the Mountain of Black 
 Comb. 
 
 Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs 
 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 ! 
 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, 
 
286 
 
 Week after week pursued ! — To him was given 
 
 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 work 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumberland : 
 its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other 
 Mountain in these parts; and, from its situation, the summit 
 commands a more extensive view than any other point in Britain. 
 See page 305, Vol. T. 
 
287 
 
 III. 
 
 In theGroundtofColeortm, the Seat if 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, 
 
 And to a favourite resting-place invite, 
 
 For coolness grateful and a sober light ; 
 
 Here may some Painter sit in future days, 
 
 Some future Poet meditate his lays ; 
 
288 
 
 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 Shakespear's self approved, 
 
 Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved. 
 
289 
 
 IV. 
 
 In a Garden of the same. 
 
 Oft is the Medal faithful to its' trust 
 
 When Temples, Columns, Towers are laid in dust ; 
 
 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 shape the work, what time these walks and bowers 
 
 Were framed to cheer dark winter's lonely hours. 
 
 VOL. II. u 
 
290 
 
 V. 
 
 Written at the Request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart, and in his Name, for an 
 
 Urn, placed by him at the Termination of a newly-planted Avenue, 
 
 in the same Grounds. 
 
 Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this 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 at length have framed a darksome Aisle ; — 
 
 Like a recess within that awful Pile 
 
 Where Reynolds, mid our Country's noblest Dead, 
 
 In the last sanctity of Fame is laid. 
 
 — There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep 
 
 Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep, 
 
 Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear 
 
 Self-hidden praise and Friendship's 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. 
 
291 
 VI. 
 
 Inscription for a Seat in the Groves of Cokorton. 
 
 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 Gkace Dieu ; 
 Erst a religious House, that day and night 
 With hymns resounded, and the chaunted rite : 
 And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth 
 To honourable Men of various worth : 
 There, on the margin 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 decays, 
 
 u 2 
 
292 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage. 
 
 Thou seest 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 
 
293 
 
 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 ! 
 
POEMS 
 
 REFERRING TO THE PERIOD 
 OF OLD AGE. 
 
I. 
 
 OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 
 
 A DESCRIPTION. 
 
 The class of Beggars to which the Old Man here described belongs will 
 probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and 
 infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neigh- 
 bourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they 
 regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but mostly in pnmsions. 
 
 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 flour, the dole of village dames, 
 
298 
 
 He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one ; 
 And scanned them with a fixed and serious look 
 Of idle computation. In the sun, 
 Upon the second step of that small pile, 
 Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
 He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
 And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, 
 That, still attempting to prevent the waste, 
 Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers 
 Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain birds, 
 Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 
 Approached within the length of half his staff. 
 
 Him from my childhood have I known ; and then 
 
 He was so old, he seems not older now ; 
 
 He travels on, a solitary Man, 
 
 So helpless in appearance, that for him 
 
 The sauntering Horseman-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 
 
 Towards the aged Beggar turns a look 
 
 Side-long — and half-reverted. She who tends 
 
299 
 
 The Toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
 She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
 The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, 
 And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
 The Post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
 The aged Beggar in the woody lane, 
 Shouts to him from behind; and, if perchance 
 The old Man does not change his course, the Boy 
 Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side, 
 And passes gently by, — without a curse 
 Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 
 He travels on, a solitary Man, — 
 His age has no companion. On the ground 
 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, 
 They move along the ground ; and, evermore, 
 Instead of common and habitual sis;ht 
 Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, 
 And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
 Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, 
 Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground, 
 He plies his weary journey ; seeing still, 
 And never 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, 
 
300 
 
 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 
 Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye 
 Who have a broom still ready in your hands 
 To rid the world of nuisances ; ye proud, 
 Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate 
 Your 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 vile and brute, 
 The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
 Divorced from good — a spirit and pulse of good, 
 A life and soul to every mode of being 
 Inseparably linked. While thus he creeps 
 From door to door, the Villagers in him 
 
301 
 
 Behold a record which together binds 
 
 Past deeds and offices of charity, 
 
 Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
 
 The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, 
 
 And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, 
 
 Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
 
 To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
 
 Among the farms and solitary huts, 
 
 Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, 
 
 Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, 
 
 The mild necessity of use compels 
 
 To acts of love ; and habit does the work 
 
 Of reason ; yet prepares that after joy 
 
 Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
 
 By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, 
 
 Doth find itself insensibly disposed 
 
 To virtue and true goodness. Some there are, 
 
 By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
 
 And meditative, authors of delight 
 
 And happiness, which to the end of time 
 
 Will live, and spread, and kindle ; minds like these, 
 
 In childhood, from this solitary Being, 
 
 This helpless Wanderer, have perchance received 
 
 (A thing more precious far than all that books 
 
30 c 2 
 
 Or the solicitudes of love can do !) 
 That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 
 In which they found their kindred with a world 
 Where want and sorrow were. The easy Man 
 Who sits at his own door, — and, like the pear 
 Which overhangs his head from the green wall, 
 Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young, 
 The prosperous and unthinking, they who live 
 Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
 Of their own kindred; — all behold in him 
 A silent monitor, which on their minds 
 Must needs impress a transitory thought 
 Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
 Of each recalling his peculiar boons, 
 His charters and exemptions ; and, perchance, 
 Though he to no one give the fortitude 
 And circumspection needful to preserve 
 His present blessings, and to husband up 
 The respite of the season, he, at least, 
 And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt. 
 
 Yet further. Many, I believe, there are 
 
 Who live a life of virtuous decency, 
 
 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel 
 
303 
 
 No self-reproach ; who of the moral law 
 
 Established in the land where they abide 
 
 Are strict observers; and not negligent, 
 
 Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart 
 
 Or act of love to those with whom they dwell, 
 
 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 
 
 Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace ! 
 
 — But of the poor man ask, the abject poor, 
 
 Go and demand of him, if there be here 
 
 In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 
 
 And these inevitable charities, 
 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human soul ? 
 
 No — Man is dear to Man ; the poorest poor 
 
 Long for some moments in a weary life 
 
 When they can know and feel that they have been 
 
 Themselves the fathers and the dealers-out 
 
 Of some small blessings, have been kind to such 
 
 As needed kindness, for this single cause, 
 
 That we have all of us one human heart. 
 
 — Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 
 
 My Neighbour, when with punctual care, each week 
 
 Duly as Friday comes, though prest herself 
 
 By her own wants, she from her chest of meal 
 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
 
304 
 
 Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 
 
 Returning with exhilarated heart, 
 
 Sits by her fire and builds her hope in heaven. 
 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 .And while in that vast solitude to which 
 The tide of things has led him, he appears 
 To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 Unblamed, 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 atixiousness 
 Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
 May never House, misnamed of Industry, 
 Make him a captive ! for that pent-up din, 
 Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, 
 
305 
 
 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 high-way 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. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
306 
 
 II. 
 
 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 Adam, the pride of old men. 
 
 He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town ; 
 His staff is a sceptre — his grey hairs a crown ; 
 Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak 
 Of the unfaded rose is expressed on his cheek. 
 
 Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,— -mid the joy 
 Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a Boy; 
 There fashion'd that countenance, which, in spite of a stain 
 That his life hath received, to the last will remain. 
 
307 
 
 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 good 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 delight. 
 
 For Adam was simple in thought, and the Poor 
 Familiar with him made an inn of his door: 
 He gave them the best that he had ; or, to say 
 What less may mislead you, they took it away. 
 
 Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm ; 
 The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm : 
 At length, what to most is a season of sorrow, 
 His means are run out, — he must beg, or must borrow. 
 
 x 2 
 
308 
 
 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 rounds, 
 Knocked here — and knocked there, pounds still adding to 
 pounds. 
 
 He paid what he could of his ill-gotten pelf, 
 And something, it might be, reserved for himself: 
 Then, (what is too true,) without hinting a word, 
 Turned his back on the Country ; and off like a Bird. 
 
 You lift up your eyes ! — and I guess that you frame 
 A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame ; 
 In him it was scarcely a business of art, 
 For this he did all in the ease of his heart. 
 
 To London — a sad emigration I ween — 
 With his grey 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, needs 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, 
 
309 
 
 He seems ten birth-days younger, is green and is stout ; 
 Twice as fast as before does his blood run about ; 
 You would say that each hair of his beard was alive, 
 And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. 
 
 For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes 
 About work that he knows in a track that he knows ; 
 But often his mind is compelled to demur, 
 And you guess that the more then his body must stir. 
 
 In the throng of the Town like a Stranger is he, 
 Like one whose own Country's far over the sea, 
 And Nature, while through the great City he hies, 
 Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprize. 
 
 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 have come into his eyes. 
 
 What's a tempest to him or the dry parching heats ? 
 Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets ; 
 With a look of such earnestness often will stand 
 You might think he'd twelve Reapers at work in the Strand. 
 
310 
 
 Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours 
 Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruit and her flowers, 
 Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made 
 Poor Winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 
 
 Mid coaches and chariots, a Waggon of straw 
 Like a magnet the heart of old Adam can draw ; 
 With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem, 
 And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream. 
 
 Up the Hay-market hill he oft whistles his way, 
 Thrusts his hands in the Waggon, and smells at the hay j 
 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 pass 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 I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be, 
 Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree. 
 
311 
 
 III. 
 
 THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine, 
 That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain ; 
 And, the first moment that the sun may shine, 
 Bright as the sun itself, 'tis out again ! 
 
 When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,- 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees distress'd, 
 Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, 
 In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest. - 
 
 But lately, one rough day, this Flower I pass'd, 
 And recognized it, though an alter'd Form, 
 Now standing forth an offering to the Blast, 
 And buffeted at will by Rain and Storm. 
 
312 
 
 I stopp'd, and said with inly-muttered voice, 
 " It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold ; 
 This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
 But its necessity in being old. 
 
 The sunshine may not bless 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 grey. 
 
 To be a Prodigal's Favorite — 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! 
 
313 
 
 IV. 
 ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. 
 
 A SKETCH, 
 
 The little hedge-row birds 
 That peck along the road, regard him not. 
 He travels on, and in his face, his step, 
 His gait, is one expression ; every limb, 
 His look and bending figure, all bespeak 
 A man who does not move with pain, but moves 
 With thought.— He is insensibly subdued 
 To settled quiet : he is one by whom 
 All effort 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. 
 
314 
 
 V. 
 THE TWO THIEVES, 
 
 OR, 
 THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE. 
 
 O now that the genius of Bewick were mine, 
 And the skill which he learned on the banks of the Tyne ! 
 Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose, 
 For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose. 
 
 What feats would I work with my 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 have a feast on its walls. 
 
 The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair; 
 Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care ; 
 For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his Sheaves, 
 Ob, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves ? 
 
315 
 
 Little Dan is unbreeched, he is three birth-days old ; 
 His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told; 
 There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather 
 Between them, and both go a-stealing together. 
 
 With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor ? 
 Is a cart-load of peats at an old Woman's door? 
 Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide j 
 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 this time is hardly his own, 
 But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown. 
 
 Dan once had a heart which was moved by the wires 
 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 further than others have gone : 
 And now with old Daniel you see how it fares ; 
 You see to what end he has brought his gray hairs. 
 
316 
 
 The Pair sally forth hand in hand : ere the sun 
 Has peered o'er the beeches their work is begun : 
 And yet, into whatever sin they may fall, 
 This Child but half knows it, and that not at all. 
 
 They hunt through the streets with 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 smiles. 
 
 Neither checked by the rich nor the needy they roam 
 For gray-headed Dan 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. 
 
 Old Man ! whom so oft I with pity have eyed, 
 I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side : 
 Long yet mayst thou live ! for a teacher we see 
 That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. 
 
317 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH 
 
 AND HER HUSBAND. 
 
 At Jedborough, in the course of a Tour in Scotland, my Companion and I 
 went into private Lodgings for a few days ; and the following Verses were 
 called forth by the character and domestic situation of our Hostess. 
 
 Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers ! 
 
 And call a train of laughing Hours ; 
 
 And bid them dance, and bid them sing ; 
 
 And Thou, too, mingle in the Ring ! 
 
 Take to thy heart a new delight ; 
 
 If not, make merry in despite ! 
 
 For there is one who scorns thy power. 
 
 But dance ! for under Jedborough Tower 
 
 There liveth, in the prime of glee, 
 
 A Woman, whose years are seventy-three, 
 
 And she will dance and sing with thee. 
 
 Nay ! start not at that Figure — there i 
 Him who is rooted to his chair ! 
 
318 
 
 Look at him — look again ! for He 
 Hath long been of thy Family. 
 With legs that move not, if they can, 
 And useless arms, a Trunk of Man, 
 He sits, and with a vacant eye ; 
 A Sight to make a Stranger sigh! 
 Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom : 
 His world is in this single room : 
 Is this a place for mirth and cheer ? 
 Can merry-making enter here ? 
 
 The joyous Woman is the Mate 
 Of Him in that forlorn estate ! - 
 He breathes a subterraneous damp ; 
 But bright as Vesper shines her lamp 
 He is as mute as Jedborough Tower ; 
 She jocund as it was of yore, 
 With all its bravery on ; in times, 
 When, all alive with merry chimes, 
 Upon a sun-bright morn of May, 
 It roused the Vale to Holiday. 
 I praise thee, Matron ! and thy due 
 Is praise ; heroic praise, and true ! 
 With admiration I behold 
 Thy gladness unsubdued and bold : 
 
319 
 
 Thy looks, thy gestures, all present 
 The picture of a life well-spent : 
 This do I see ; and something more ; 
 A strength unthought of heretofore ! 
 Delighted am I for thy sake ; 
 And yet a higher joy partake. 
 Our Human-nature throws away 
 Its second Twilight, and looks gay : 
 A Land of promise and of pride 
 Unfolding, wide as life is wide. 
 
 Ah ! see her helpless Charge ! enclosed 
 Within himself, 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 eyes 
 Begin to follow to and fro 
 The person 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 j 
 
320 
 
 An animal delight though dim ! 
 'Tis all that now remains for him ! 
 
 X looked, I scanned her o'er and o'er ; 
 The more I looked I wondered more : 
 When suddenly I seemed to espy 
 A trouble in her strong black eye ; 
 A remnant of uneasy light, 
 A flash of something over-bright ! 
 And soon she made this matter plain ; 
 And told me, in a thoughtful strain, 
 That she had borne a heavy yoke, 
 Been stricken by a twofold stroke ; 
 111 health of body ; and had pined 
 Beneath worse ailments of the mind. 
 
 So be it ! — but let praise ascend 
 To Him who is our Lord and Friend ! 
 Who from disease and suffering 
 Hath called for thee a second Spring ; 
 Repaid thee for that sore distress 
 By no untimely joyousness ; 
 Which makes of thine a blissful state ; 
 And cheers thy melancholy Mate ! 
 
321 
 
 VII. 
 SONNET. 
 
 " 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 
 
 Qf 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. 
 
 VOL. II. y 
 
322 
 
 VIII. 
 
 INSCRIPTION, 
 
 ior the spot where the hermitage stood on st. 
 Herbert's island, derwent-water, 
 
 This Island, guarded from profane approach 
 
 By mountains high and waters widely spread, 
 
 Is that recess to which St. Herbert came 
 
 In life's decline ; 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. 
 
 — Stranger ! this shapeless heap of stones and earth 
 
 (Long be its mossy covering undisturbed !) 
 
 Is reverenced as a vestige of the Abode 
 
 In which, through many seasons, from the world 
 
 Removed, and the affections of the world, 
 
 He dwelt in solitude. — But he had left 
 
323 
 
 A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved 
 As his own soul. And, when within his cave 
 Alone 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 fufill'd) 
 Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain 
 So prayed he : — as our Chronicles report, 
 Though here the Hermit numbered his last day, 
 Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend, 
 Those holy Men both died in the same hour. 
 
 y a 
 
EPITAPHS 
 
 AND 
 
 ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
I. 
 
 EPITAPHS 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA. 
 
 1. 
 Perhaps some needful service of the State 
 
 Drew Titus from the depth of studious bowers, 
 
 And doomed him to contend in faithless courts, 
 
 Where gold determines between right and wrong. 
 
 Yet did at length his loyalty of heart 
 
 And his pure native genius lead him back 
 
 To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses 
 
 Whom he had early loved. And not in vain 
 
 Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools 
 
 Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, aud hung 
 
 With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains. 
 
 * There pleasure crowned his days ; and all his thoughts 
 
 A roseate fragrance breathed. — O human life, 
 
 That never art secure from dolorous change ! 
 
 Behold a high injunction suddenly 
 
 To Arno's side conducts him, and he charmed 
 
 A Tuscan audience: but full soon was called 
 
 To the perpetual silence of the grave. 
 
 Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood 
 
 A Champion steadfast and invincible, 
 
 To quell the rage of literary War! 
 
 * Ivi vivea giocondo e i suoi pensieri 
 Erano tutti rose. 
 The Translator had not skill to come nearer to his original. 
 
328 
 
 II. 
 
 O Thou who mo vest 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, Reader, 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. 
 
329 
 
 III. 
 
 3. 
 There never breathed a man who when his life 
 Was closing might not of that life relate 
 Toils long and hard. — The Warrior will report 
 Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field, 
 And blast of trumpets. He, who hath been doomed 
 To bow his forehead in the courts of kings, 
 Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, 
 Envy, and heart-inquietude, derived 
 From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. 
 I, who on ship-board lived from earliest Youth, 
 Could represent the countenance horrible 
 Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage 
 Of Auster and Bootes. Forty vears 
 Over the well-steered Gallies did I rule : — 
 From huge Peiorus 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 
 
330 
 
 I knew the force ; and hence the rough sea's pride 
 
 Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. 
 
 What noble pomp and frequent have not I 
 
 On regal decks beheld ! yet in the end 
 
 I learn that one poor moment can suffice 
 
 To equalize the lofty and the low. 
 
 We sail the sea of life — a Calm One finds, 
 
 And One a Tempest — and, the voyage o'er, 
 
 Death is the quiet haven of us all. 
 
 If more of my condition ye would know, 
 
 Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang 
 
 Of noble Parents : sixty years and three 
 
 Lived I then vielded to a slow disease. 
 
331 
 
 IV. 
 
 4. 
 
 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 Lybia, 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 is human life. 
 
33<Z 
 
 V. 
 
 5. 
 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 inspired 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 suffered not to languish or decay. 
 
 * In justice to the Author I subjoin the origin 
 
 ■ e degli amici 
 
 Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri. 
 
333 
 
 Now is there not good reason to break forth 
 Into a passionate lament ? — O Soul ! 
 Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world, 
 Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air ; 
 And round this earthly tomb let roses rise, 
 An everlasting spring ! in memory 
 Of that delightful fragrance which was once, 
 From thy mild manners, quietly exhaled. 
 
334 
 
 VI. 
 
 6. 
 
 Pause, courteous Spirit! — Balbi supplicates 
 
 That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him 
 
 Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst 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 suffice : for Plato's lore sublime 
 
 And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite 
 
 Enriched and beautified his studious mind : 
 
 With Archimedes also he conversed 
 
 As with a chosen Friend, nor did he leave 
 
 Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the Nymphs 
 
 Twine 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 5 — O Passenger farewell ! 
 
335 
 
 VII. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 Composed at Grasmere, during a walk, one Evening, after a stormy day, 
 the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of Mr, 
 Fox was hourly expected. 
 
 Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up 
 
 With which she speaks when storms are gone, 
 
 A mighty Unison of streams ! 
 
 Of all her Voices, One ! 
 
 Loud is the Vale ; — this inland Depth 
 In peace is roaring like the Sea ; 
 Yon Star upon the mountain- top 
 Is listening quietly. 
 
 Sad was I, ev'n to pain depress'd, 
 Importunate 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 must die who is their Stay, 
 
 Their Glory disappear. 
 
 * Importuna e grave salma. 
 
 Michael Angelo. 
 
336 
 
 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? 
 
 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 late Vicar of Kendal* 
 
 To public notice, with reluctance strong, 
 
 Did I deliver this unfinished Song ; 
 
 Yet for one happy issue ; — and I look 
 
 With self-congratulation on the Book 
 
 Which pious, learned Murfitt saw and read ; — 
 
 Upon my thoughts his saintly Spirit fed ; 
 
 He conn'd 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. 
 
S.?7 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS, 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM, 
 PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. 
 
 I was thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! 
 Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : 
 I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
 Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 
 
 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
 So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
 Whene'er I look'd, thy Image still was there ; 
 It trembled, but it never pass'd away. 
 
 How perfect was the' calm! it seem'd no sleep ; 
 No mood, which season takes away, or brings : 
 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. 
 
 VOL. II. z 
 
338 
 
 Ah ! then, if mine had been the Painter's hand, 
 To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam, 
 The light that never was, on sea or land, 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile ! 
 Amid a world how different from this ! 
 Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss : 
 
 Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house, a mine 
 Of peaceful years ; a chronicle of heaven : — 
 Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
 The very sweetest had to thee been given. 
 
 A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 
 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; 
 No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 
 
 Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 
 Such Picture would I at that time have made : 
 And seen the soul of truth in every part ; 
 A faith, a trust, that could not be betray'd. 
 
339 
 
 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 humaniz'd my Soul. 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 A smiling sea and be what I have been : 
 The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 
 This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend, 
 If he had lived, of 13 im whom I deplore, 
 This Work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 Oh 'tis a passionate Work! — 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, 
 I love to see the look with which it braves, 
 Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time, 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 
 
 z 2 
 
340 
 
 Farewell, farewell the Heart that lives alone, 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
 Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, 
 And frequent sights of what is to be born ! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 
 
341 
 
 IX. 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 Sweet Flower! belike one day to have 
 A place upon thy Poet's grave, 
 I welcome thee once more : 
 But He, who was on land, at sea, 
 My Brother, too, in loving thee, 
 Although he loved more silently, 
 Sleeps by his native shore. 
 
 Ah ! hopeful, hopeful was the day 
 
 When to that Ship he bent his way, 
 
 To govern and to guide : 
 
 His wish was gained: a little time 
 
 Would bring him back in manhood's prime, 
 
 And free for life, these hills to climb, 
 
 With all his wants supplied. 
 
342 
 
 And full of hope day followed day 
 
 While that stout Ship at anchor lay 
 
 Beside the shores of Wight; 
 
 The May had then made ail 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 lo\ed 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 Crew, 
 
343 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Silence ! 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 claims of duty satisfied;) 
 
 And there they found him at her side ; 
 
 And bore him to the grave. 
 
S44 
 
 Vain service ! yet not vainly done 
 For this, if other end were none, 
 That he, who had been casl 
 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 Him a resting-place should yield, 
 
 A meek man and a brave ! 
 
 The birds shall sing and ocean make 
 
 A mournful murmur for his sake; 
 
 And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake 
 
 Upon his senseless grave ! 
 
ODE. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY 
 
 CHILDHOOD. 
 
The Child is Father of the Man : 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
ODE. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it has been of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no moi 
 
 The Rainbow comes and goes, 
 
 And lovely is the Rose, — 
 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare; 
 
 Waters on a starry night 
 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath passed away a glory from the earth, 
 
348 
 
 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 that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong. 
 The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, — 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong : 
 I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity, 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every Beast keep holiday ;— 
 Thou Child of Joy 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 
 Shepherd Boyf 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel— I feel it all. 
 
349 
 
 Oh evil da) f ! 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 vallies far and wide, 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
 And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 — But there's a Tree, of many one, 
 A single Field which I have looked upon, 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
 The Pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And cometh from afar ? 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 
3,50 
 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the East 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended; 
 At length the Man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 The homely Nurse doth all she can 
 To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
 A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses, 
 
351 
 
 With light upon him from his Father's eyes ! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned 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 thrown aside, 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part, 
 Filling from time to time his " humorous stage" 
 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
 That Life brings with her in her Equipage ; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy Soul's immensity ; 
 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy hentage, thou Eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 
 
352 
 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 On whom those truths do rest, 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find ; 
 Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
 
 To whom the grave 
 Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight 
 
 Of day or the warm light, 
 A place of thought where we in waiting lie ; 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom, on thy Being's height, 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The Years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 Is something that doth live, 
 That nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive! 
 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 
 Perpetual benedictions : not indeed 
 
353 
 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :— 
 Not for these [ raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized, 
 High instincts, before which our mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprized ! 
 
 But for those first affections, 
 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us — cherish — and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 
 
 V(XL. II. A A 
 
354 
 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy .' 
 
 Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither; 
 Can in a moment travel thither, — 
 And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 Then, sing ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 And let the young Lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We in thought will join your throng, 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 Feel the gladness of the May! 
 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 
 Be now for ever taken from my sight, 
 
 Though nothing 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, 
 
355 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 Which having been must ever be, 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 Out of human suffering, 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And oh 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. 
 
 I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 
 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober 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. 
 
 A A 2 
 
NOTES TO VOLUME II. 
 
 Page J.—- The solitary Reaper. This Poem was sug- 
 gested by a beautiful sentence in a MS. Tour in Scotland 
 written by a Friend, the last line being taken from it verm 
 latim. 
 
 Page 58. — Song, at the Feast of Brougham Castle. 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, was the person who after the battle of 
 Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of Rutland, 
 son of the Duke of York who had fallen in the battle, " in 
 part of revenge" (say the Authors of the History of Cumber- 
 land and Westmoreland); " for the Earl's Father had 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 the vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not altogether so 
 bad as represented ; " for the Earl was no child, as some 
 writers would have him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen 
 
358 
 
 or seventeen years of age, as is evident from this (say the 
 Memoirs of the Countess of Pembroke, who was laudabl)' 
 anxious to wipe away, as far as could be,, this stigma from 
 the illustrious name to which she was born) ; that he was the 
 next Child to King Edward the Fourth, which his mother 
 had by Richard Duke of York, and that King was then 
 eighteen years of age : and for the small distance betwixt her 
 Children, see Austin Vincent in his book of Nobility, page 
 622, where he writes of them all. It may further be ob- 
 served, that Lord Clifford, who was then himself only 
 twenty-five years of age, had been a leading Man and Com- 
 mander, 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 might be entitled to 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 
 honours during the space of twenty-four years; all which 
 time he lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, 
 where the estate of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot Threl- 
 keld) lay. He was restored to his estate and honours in the 
 first year of Henry the Seventh. It is recorded that, tc when 
 called to parliament, he behaved nobly and wisely; but 
 otherwise came seldom to London or the Court ; and rather 
 delighted to live in the country, where he repaired several of 
 his Castles, which had gone to decay during the late trou- 
 bles." 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 
 
'359 
 
 neighbourhood, his principal retreat, that, in the course of 
 his shepherd life, he had acquired great astronomical know- 
 ledge. I cannot conclude this note without adding a word 
 upon the subject of those numerous and noble feudal Edi- 
 fices, 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 always been distinguished for an honourable 
 pride in these Castles ; and we have seen that after the wars 
 of York and Lancaster they were rebuilt ; in the civil Wars 
 of Charles the First, they were again laid waste, and again 
 "restored almost to their former magnificence by the cele- 
 brated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, &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 Castles, 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 which the in" 
 scription placed over the gate of Pendragon Castle, by the 
 Countess of Pembroke (I believe his Grandmother) at the 
 time she repaired that structure, refers the reader. " And 
 they that shall be of thee shall build the old "waste places ; thou 
 shall raise up the foundations of many generations, and thou 
 shalt be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths 
 to dwell in." The Earl of Thanet, the present possessor of 
 the Estates, with a due respect for the memory of his ances- 
 tors, and a proper sense of the value and beauty of these re- 
 mains of antiquity, has (I am told) given orders that -they 
 shall be preserved from all depredations. 
 
 Page 5g, line 19. — " Earth helped him with the cry of 
 
360 
 
 blood.*' 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 Chalmers's Collec- 
 tion of English Poets. 
 
 Page 63, line 23.— 
 
 " And both the undying Fish that swim 
 Through Bowscale-Tarn," &c. 
 
 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 vulgarly 
 called Saddle-back. 
 
 Page 64, lines 19 and 20. — 
 
 " Armour rusting in his Halls 
 On the blood of Clifford calls." 
 
 The martial character of the Cliffords is well known to the 
 readers of English History ; but it may not be improper here 
 •to say, by way of comment on these lines and what follows, 
 that, besides several others who perished in the same manner, 
 the four immediate Progenitors of the person in whose 
 hearing this is supposed to be spoken, all died in the Field. 
 
 Page 91. — Poem on Rob Roy's Grave. " And wondrous. 
 length and strength of arm." The people of the neighbour- 
 hood of Loch Ketterine, in order to prove the extraordinary 
 length of their Hero's arm, tell you that •* he could garter 
 his Tartan Stockings below the knee when standing upright." 
 According to their account he was a tremendous Swordsman ; 
 
361 
 
 after having sought all occasions of proving his prowess, he 
 was never conquered but once, and this not till he was an 
 Old Man. 
 
 Page 240. — The beginning is imitated from an Italian 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Page 291, 3d line from the bottom. 
 
 Strait all that holy was unhallowed lies. 
 
 Daniel. 
 Page 321, line 10. — 
 
 " Seen the Seven "Whistlers," &c. 
 Both these superstitions are prevalent in the midland 
 Counties of England : that of " Gabriel's Hounds" appears 
 to be very general over Europe ; being the same as the one 
 upon which the German Poet, Burger, has founded his 
 Ballad of the Wild Huntsman. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 To the Second Edition of several of the foregoing Poems, 
 published, with an additional Volume, under the Title 
 of Lyrical Ballads. 
 
 The. first Volume of these Poems has already been sub- 
 mitted to general perusal. It was published, as an experi- 
 ment, which, I hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, 
 how far, by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection of the 
 real language of men in a state of vivid sensation, that sort 
 of pleasure and that quantity of pleasure may be imparted, 
 which a Poet may rationally endeavour to impart. 
 
 I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the probable 
 effect of those Poems : I flattered 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 should dislike them, they would be 
 read with more than common dislike. The result has dif- 
 fered from my expectation in this only, that I have pleased 
 a greater number, than I ventured to hope I should please. 
 ******* 
 
 Several of my Friends are anxious for the success of these 
 Poems from a belief, that, if the views with which they were 
 composed were indeed realized, a class of Poetry would be 
 produced, well adapted to interest mankind permanently. 
 
364 
 
 and not unimportant in the multiplicity, and in the quality 
 of its moral relations : and on this account they have ad- 
 vised me to prefix a systematic defence of the theory upon 
 which the poems were written. But I was unwilling to un- 
 dertake 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 influenced by the 
 selfish and foolish hope of reasoning him into an approbation 
 of these particular Poems : and I was still more unwilling to 
 undertake the task, because, adequately to display my opi- 
 nions, and fully to enforce my arguments, would require a 
 space wholly disproportionate to the nature of a preface. 
 For to treat the subject with the clearness and coherence, 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 how far this taste is healthy or 
 depraved ; which, again, could not be determined, without 
 pointing out, in what manner language and the human mind 
 act and re-act on each other, and without retracing the revo- 
 lutions, not of literature alone, but likewise of society itself. 
 I have therefore altogether declined to enter regularly upon 
 this defence ; yet I am sensible, that there would be some 
 impropriety in abruptly obtruding upon the Public, without 
 a few words of introduction, Poems so materially different 
 from those, upon which general approbation is at present 
 bestowed. 
 
 It is supposed, that by the act of writing in verse an 
 Author makes a formal engagement that he will gratify cer- 
 tain known habits of association ; that he not only thus ap- 
 prizes the Reader that certain classes of ideas and expres- 
 sions will be found in his book, but that others will be 
 
S65 
 
 carefully excluded. This exponent or symbol held forth 
 by metrical language must in different seras of literature have 
 excited very different expectations : for example, in the age 
 of Catullus, Terence and Lucretius, and that of Statius or 
 Claudian ; and in our own country, in the age of Shakes- 
 peare and Beaumont and Fletcher, and that of Donne and 
 Cowley, or Dryden, 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 many persons 
 that I have not fulfilled the terms of an engagement thus 
 voluntarily contracted. They who have been accustomed to 
 the gaudiness 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 strange- 
 ness and awkwardness : they will look round for poetry, and 
 will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these 
 attempts can be permitted to assume that title. I hope there- 
 fore the Reader will not censure me, if I attempt to state 
 what I have proposed to myself to perform ; and also, (as 
 far as the limits of a preface 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 unplea- 
 sant feeling of disappointment, and that I m} r self may be 
 protected from the most dishonourable accusation which can 
 be brought against an Author, namely, that of an indolence 
 which prevents him from endeavouring to ascertain what is 
 his duty, or, when his duty is ascertained, prevents him from 
 performing it. 
 
 The principal object, then, which I proposed to myself in 
 these Poems was to choose incidents and situations from com- 
 
366 
 
 mon life, and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far 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, further, and above all, to 
 make these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in 
 them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws of 
 our nature : chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which 
 we associate ideas in a state of excitement. Low and rustic 
 life was generally chosen, because in that condition, the 
 essential 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 con-' 
 dition of life our elementary feelings co-exist in a state of 
 greater simplicity, and, consequently, may be more accu- 
 rately contemplated, and more forcibly communicated ; be- 
 cause the manners of rural life germinate from those elemen- 
 tary feelings ; and, from the necessary character of rural 
 occupations, are more easily comprehended ; and are more 
 durable; and lastly, because in that condition the passions 
 of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent 
 forms of nature. The language, too, of these men is adopted 
 (purified indeed from what appears to be it's real defects, 
 from all lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) be- • 
 cause 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 no* : 
 tions in simple and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly, 
 such a language, arising out of repeated experience and re- 
 
367 
 
 gular feelings, is a more permanent, and a far more philoso- 
 phical language, than that which is frequently substituted 
 for it by Poets, who think that they are conferring honour 
 upon themselves and their art, in proportion as they separate 
 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 creation*. 
 
 I cannot, however, be insensible of the present outcry 
 against the triviality and meanness both of thought and lan- 
 guage, which some of my contemporaries have occasionally 
 introduced into their metrical compositions ; and I acknow- 
 ledge that this defect, where it exists, is more dishonourable 
 to the Writer's own character than false refinement or arbi- 
 trary innovation, 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 
 distinguished at least by one mark of difference, that each of 
 them has a worthy purpose. Not that I mean to say, that I 
 always began to write with a distinct purpose formally con- 
 ceived ; but I believe that my habits of meditation have so 
 formed my feelings, as that my descriptions of such objects 
 as strongly excite those feelings, will be found to carry 
 along with them & 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 an)' variety of subjects but by a man, 
 
 * It is worth while here to observe that the affecting parts of Chaucer 
 are almost always expressecLin language pure and universally intelligible 
 even to this d.ay. 
 
368 
 
 who being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, 
 had also thought long and deeply. For our continued in- 
 fluxes of feeling are modified and directed by our thoughts, 
 which are indeed the representatives of all our past feelings ; 
 and, as by contemplating the relation of these general repre- 
 sentatives to each other we discover what is really important 
 to men, so, by the repetition and continuance of this act, our 
 feelings will be connected with important subjects, till at 
 length, if we be originally possessed of much sensibility, such 
 habits of mind will be produced, that, by obeying blindly 
 and mechanically the impulses of those habits, we shall de- 
 scribe objects, and utter sentiments, of such a nature and in 
 such connexion with each other, that the understanding of 
 the being to whom we address ourselves, if he be in a health- 
 ful state of association, must necessarily be in some degree 
 enlightened, and his affections 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 agitated 
 by the great and simple affections of our nature. This object 
 I have endeavoured in these short essays to attain by various 
 means ; by tracing the maternal passion through many of 
 its more subtile windings, as in the poems of the Idiot Boy 
 and the Mad Mother ; by accompanying the last struggles 
 of a human being, at the approach of death, cleaving in so- 
 litude to life and society, as in the Poem of the Foiisaken 
 Indian ; by showing, as in the Stanzas entitled We are 
 Seven, the perplexity and obscurity which in childhood 
 
369 
 
 attend our notion of death, or rather our utter inability to 
 admit that notion ; or by displaying the strength of fraternal, 
 or to speak more philosophically, of moral attachment when 
 early associated with the great and beautiful objects of na- 
 ture, as in The Brothers ; 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 impres- 
 sion than we are accustomed to receive from them. 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. charac- 
 ters of which the elements are simple, belonging 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. I will not abuse the 
 indulgence of my Reader by dwelling longer upon this sub- 
 ject ; 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 deve- 
 loped gives importance to the action and situation, and not 
 the action and situation to the feeling. My meaning will be 
 rendered perfectly intelligible by referring my Reader to the 
 Poems entitled Poor Susan and the Childless Father, 
 particularly to the last Stanza of the latter Poem. 
 
 I will not suffer a sense of false modesty to prevent me 
 from asserting, thai I point my Reader's attention to this 
 mark of distinction, far less for the sake of these particular 
 Poems than from the general importance of the subject. The 
 subject is indeed important ! For the human mind is capable 
 of being excited without the application of gross and violent 
 
 VOL. II. B B 
 
370 
 
 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 endeavour 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 especially so at the present day. For a multitude 
 of causes, unknown to former times, are now acting with a 
 combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the 
 mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to 
 a state of almost savage torpor. The most effective 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 intelligence 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 elder writers, I had almost said the works of Shake- 
 spear and Milton, are driven into neglect by frantic novels, 
 sickly and stupid German Tragedies, and deluges of idle and 
 extravagant stories in verse. — When I think upon this de- 
 grading thirst after outrageous stimulation, I am almost 
 ashamed to have spoken of the feeble effort with which I 
 have endeavoured to counteract it ; and, reflecting upon the 
 magnitude of the general evil, I should be oppressed with no 
 dishonorable melancholy, had I not a deep impression of 
 certain inherent and indestructible qualities of the human 
 mind, and likewise of certain powers in the great and per- 
 manent objects that act upon it, which are equally inherent 
 and indestructible ; and did I not further add to this impres- 
 
371 
 
 sion a belief, that the time is approaching when the evil will 
 be systematically opposed, 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 Reader's permission to apprize 
 him of a few circumstances relating to their style, in order, 
 among other reasons, that I may not be censured for not 
 having performed what I never attempted. The Reader will 
 find that personifications of abstract ideas rarely occur in 
 these volumes ; and, 1 hope, are utterly rejected, as an ordi" 
 nary device to elevate the style, and raise it above prose. I 
 have proposed to myself to imitate, and, as far as is possible, 
 to adopt the very language of men ; and assuredly such per- 
 sonifications do not make any natural or regular part of that 
 language. They are, indeed, a figure of speech occasionally 
 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 Writers in 
 metre seem to lay claim to by prescription. 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, how- 
 ever, well aware that others who pursue a different track may 
 interest him likewise ; I do not interfere with their claim, I 
 only wish to prefer a different claim of my own. There 
 will also 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 ; this I have done for 
 the reason already alleged, to bring my language near to the 
 language of men, and further, because the pleasure which I 
 have proposed to myself to impart is of a kind very different 
 from that which is supposed by many persons to be the 
 proper object of poetry. I do not know how, without being 
 
 b b 2 
 
372 
 
 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 en- 
 deavoured 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 language fitted to 
 their respective importance. Something I must have gained 
 by this practice, as it is friendly to one property of all good 
 poetry, namely, good sense ; but it has necessarily cut me 
 offfrom a large portion of phrases and figures of speech which 
 from- father 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 
 many expressions, in themselves proper and beautiful, but 
 which have been foolishly repeated by bad Poets, till such 
 feelings of disgust are connected with them as it is scarcely 
 possible by any art of association to overpower. 
 
 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 according 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 prosaisms, 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 pro- 
 fession. 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 him, that not only the language 
 of a large portion of every good poem, even of the most ele- 
 vated character, must necessarily, except with reference to 
 the metre, in no respect differ from that of good prose, but 
 
373 
 
 likewise that some of the most interesting parts of the best 
 poems will be found to be strictly the language of prose, 
 when prose is well written. The truth of this assertion 
 might be demonstrated by innumerable passages from almost 
 all the poetical writings, even of Milton himself. I have not 
 space for much quotation ; but, to illustrate the subject in a 
 general manner, I will here adduce a short composition 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 reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire : 
 The birds in vain their amorous descant join, 
 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. 
 These ears, alas ! for other notes repine ; 
 A different object do these eyes require; 
 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ; 
 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire ; 
 Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 
 And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ; 
 The fields to all their -wonted tribute bear ; 
 To warm their little loves the birds complain. 
 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, 
 And weep the mure because I weep in vain. 
 
 It will easily be perceived that the only part of this Sonnet 
 which is of any value is the lines printed in Italics ; it is 
 equally 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. 
 
374 
 
 By the foregoing quotation I have shown that the language 
 of Prose may yet be well adapted to Poetry ; and I have pre- 
 viously asserted that a large portion of the language of every 
 good poem can in no respect differ from that of good Prose. 
 I will go further. I do not doubt that it may be safely af- 
 firmed, that there neither is, nor can be, any essential differ- 
 ence between the language of prose and metrical composi- 
 tion. We are fond of tracing the resemblance between 
 Poetry and Painting, and, accordingly, we call them Sisters: 
 but where shall we find bonds of connexion 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 them are clothed may be said to be of the 
 same substance, their affections are kindred, and almost 
 identical, not necessarily differing even m degree ; Poetry * 
 sheds no tears " such as Angels weep," but natural and 
 human tears ; she can boast of no celestial Ichor that distin- 
 guishes her vital juices from those of prose ; the same human 
 blood circulates through the veins of them both. 
 
 If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical arrangement of 
 themselves constitute a distinction which overturns what I 
 have been saying on the strict affinity of metrical language 
 with that of prose, and paves the way for other artificial dis- 
 
 * I here use the word " Poetry" (though against my own judgment) as 
 opposed to the word Prose, and synonymous with metrical composition. 
 But much confusion has been introduced into criticism by this contradistinc • 
 tion of Poetry and Prose, instead of the more philosophical one of Poetry 
 and Matter of Fact, or Science. The only strict antithesis to Prose is 
 Metre ; nor is this, in truth, a strict antithesis ; because lines and passages of 
 metre so naturally occur in writing prose, that it would be scarcely possible 
 to avoid them, even were it desirable. 
 
375 
 
 tinctions which the mind voluntarily admits, I answer that 
 the language of such Poetry as I am recommending is, as 
 far as is possible, 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 dis- 
 similitude will be produced altogether sufficient for the gra- 
 tification of a rational mind. What other distinction 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 characters : it cannot be necessary here, either for eleva- 
 tion of style, or any of its supposed ornaments : for, if the 
 Poet's subject be judiciously chosen, it will naturally, and 
 upon fit occasion, lead him to passions the language of which, 
 if selected truly and judiciously, must necessarily be dignified 
 and variegated, and alive with metaphors and figures. I for- 
 bear to speak of an incongruity which would shock the intelli- 
 gent Reader, should the Poet interweave any foreign splen- 
 dour of his own with that which the passion naturally suggests: 
 it is sufficient to say that such addition is unnecessary. 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 which 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 highest 
 importance to our taste and moral feelings, I cannot content 
 
376 
 
 myself with these detached remarks. And if, in what I am 
 about to say, it shall appear to some that my labour is un- 
 necessary, and that I am like a man fighting a battle without 
 enemies, I would remind such persons, that, whatever may 
 be the language outwardly holden by men, a practical faith 
 in the opinions which I am wishing to establish is almost un- 
 known. If my conclusions are admitted, and carried as far 
 as they must be carried if admitted at all, our judgments 
 concerning the works of the greatest Poets both ancient and 
 modern will be far different from what they are at present, 
 both when 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 
 what is meant by the word Poet ? What is a Poet ? To whom 
 does he address himself? 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 enthu- 
 siasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human 
 nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to 
 be common among mankind ; a man pleased with his own 
 passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men 
 in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate 
 similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of 
 the Universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he 
 does not find them. To these qualities he has added a disposi- 
 tion to be affected more than other men by absent things as if 
 they were present ; an ability of conjuring up in himself pas- 
 sions, which are indeed far from being the same as those pro- 
 duced by real events, yet (especially in those parts of the ge- 
 neral sympathy which are pleasing and delightful) do more 
 
377 
 
 nearly resemble 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 practice, 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 structure of his own mind, arise in him without 
 immediate external excitement. 
 
 But, whatever portion of this faculty we may suppose even 
 the greatest Poet to possess, there cannot be a doubt but 
 that the language 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 obvious, 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 suffering. So that it will be the 
 wish of the Poet to bring his 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 delusion, and 
 even confound and identify his own feelings with theirs ; 
 modifying 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, he will apply the prin- 
 ciple on which I have so much insisted, namely, that of 
 selection ; on this he will depend for removing what would 
 otherwise be painful or disgusting in the passion ; he will 
 
378 
 
 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 «re the emanations of reality and truth. 
 
 But it maybe said by those who do not object 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 that which the real passion itself 
 suggests, it is proper that he should consider himself as in 
 the situation of a translator, who deems himself justified when 
 he substitutes excellences of another kind for those which 
 are unattainable by him ; and endeavours occasionally to 
 surpass his original, in order to make some amends for the 
 general inferiority to which he feels that he must submit. 
 But this would be to encourage idleness and unmanly 
 despair. Further, it is the language of men who speak 
 of what they do not understand ; who talk of Poetry as 
 of a matter of amusement and idle pleasure; who will 
 converse with us as gravely about a taste for Poetry, as 
 they express it, as if it were a thing as indifferent as a taste 
 for Rope-dancing, or Frontiniac or Sherry. Aristotle, I 
 have been told, hath said, that Poetry is the most philosophic 
 of all writing: it is so: its object is truth, not individual and 
 local, but general, and operative; not standing upon external 
 testimony, but carried alive into the heart by passion ; truth 
 which is its own testimony, which gives strength and divinity 
 to the tribunal to which it appeals, and receives them from 
 the same tribunal. Poetry is the image of man and nature. 
 The obstacles which stand in the Avay of the fidelity of the 
 Biographer and Historian, apd of their consequent utility, 
 
379 
 
 are incalculably greater than those which are to be encoun- 
 tered by the Poet who has an adequate notion of the dignity 
 of his art. The Poet writes under one restriction only, 
 namely, that of the necessity of giving immediate pleasure to 
 a human Being possessed of that information which may be 
 expected from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a mariner, 
 an astronomer or a natural philosopher, but as a Man. Ex- 
 cept this one restriction, there is no object standing between 
 the Poet and the image of things; between this, and the 
 Biographer and Historian there are a thousand. 
 
 Nor let this necessity of producing immediate pleasure be 
 considered as a degradation of the Poet's art. It 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 misunder- 
 stood ; but wherever we sympathize with pain it will be found 
 that the sympathy is produced and carried on by subtle 
 combinations with pleasure. We have no knowledge, that 
 is, no general principles drawn from the contemplation 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 difficulties and dis- 
 gusts they may have had to struggle with, know and feel this. 
 However painful 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. 
 
380 
 
 What then does the Poet ? He considers man and the objects 
 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 imme- 
 diate knowledge, with certain convictions, 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 ne- 
 cessities 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 adapted to each other, and the 
 mind of man as naturally the mirror of the fairest and most 
 interesting qualities of nature. And thus the Poet, prompt- 
 ed by this feeling of pleasure which accompanies him through 
 the whole course of his studies, converses with general nature 
 with affections akin to those, which, through labour 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 per- 
 sonal and individual acquisition, slow to come to us, and by 
 no habitual and direct sympathy connecting us with our 
 fellow-beings. The Man of Science seeks truth as a remote 
 
381 
 
 find unknown benefactor ; he cherishes and loves it in his 
 solitude : the Poet, singing a song in which 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 spirit 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 Shakespeare 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 language and manners, of laws and 
 customs, in spite of things silently gone out of mind and 
 things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by 
 passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as 
 it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time. The 
 objects of the Poet's thoughts are ever} r where ; though the 
 eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, 
 yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of 
 sensation in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first 
 jitid last of all knowledge — it is as immortal as the heart of 
 man. If the labours of Men of Science should ever create 
 any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, 
 Mid in the impressions which we habitually receive, 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 employed, if the time should ever 
 come when these things shall be familia? to us, and the re- 
 lations under which they are contemplated by the followers 
 
of these respective Sciences shall be manifestly and palpably 
 material to us as enjoying 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 his divine spirit to 
 aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus 
 produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of 
 man.— It is not, then, to be supposed that any one, who 
 holds that sublime notion of Poetry which I have attempted 
 to convey, will break in upon the sanctity and truth of his 
 pictures by transitory and accidental ornaments, and endea- 
 vour to excite admiration of himself by arts, the necessity of 
 which must manifestly depend upon the assumed meanness 
 of his subject. 
 
 What I have thus far said applies to Poetry in general ; 
 but especially to those parts of composition where the Poet 
 speaks through the mouths of his characters; and upon this 
 point it appears 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 pro- 
 portion as they deviate from the real language of nature, and 
 are coloured by a diction of the Poet's own, either peculiar 
 to him as an individual Poet, or belonging simply to Poets 
 in general, to a body of men who, from the circumstance of 
 their compositions being in metre, it is expected will employ 
 a particular language. 
 
 It is not, then, in the dramatic 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 by referring 
 
382 
 
 my Reader to the description which I have before given of 
 a Poet. Among the qualities which I have enumerated as 
 principally, 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 
 distinguished from other men by a greater promptness to 
 think and feel without immediate external excitement, and 
 a greater power in expressing such thoughts and feelings as 
 are produced in him in that manner. But these passions 
 and thoughts and feelings are the general passions and 
 thoughts 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 elements and the appearances of 
 the visible universe ; with storm and sun-shine, with the 
 revolutions of the seasons, with cold and heat, with loss of 
 friends and kindred, with injuries and resentments, gratitude 
 and hope, with fear and sorrow. These, and the like, are the 
 sensations and objects which the Poet describes, as they ate 
 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 language differ in any material de- 
 gree from that of all other men who feel vividly and see clear- 
 ly ? It might be proved that it is impossible. But supposing that 
 this were not the case, the Poet might then be allowed to 
 use a peculiar language when expressing his feelings for his 
 own gratification, or that of men like himself. But Poets 
 do not write for Poets alone, but for men. Unless therefore 
 we are advocates for that admiration which depends upon 
 ignorance, and that pleasure which arises from hearing what 
 we do not understand, the Poet must descend from this 
 
384 
 
 supposed height, and, in order to excite rational 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 upon safe ground, and we know what we are 
 to expect from him. Our feelings are the same with respect 
 to metre; for, as it maybe proper 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 respecting 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 interference is made by them with 
 the passion but such as the concurring testimony of ages 
 has shown to heighten and improve the pleasure which co- 
 exists with it. 
 
 It will now be proper to answer an obvious question, 
 namely, Why, professing these opinions, have I written in 
 verse ? To this, in addition to such answer as is included in 
 what I have already said, I reply in the first place, Because, 
 however I may have restricted myself, there is still left 
 open to me what confessedly constitutes the most valuable 
 object of all writing, whether in prose or verse, the great 
 and universal passions of men, the most general and interest- 
 ing of their occupations, and the entire world of nature, 
 from which I am at liberty to supply myself with endless 
 
385 
 
 combinations of forms and imagery. Now, supposing for a mo- 
 ment 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 uncon- 
 vinced by what I have already said, it may be answered, that 
 a very small part of the pleasure given by Poetry depends 
 upon the metre, and that it is injudicious to write in metre, 
 unless it be accompanied with the other artificial distinctions 
 of style with which metre is usually accompanied, and that 
 by such deviation more will be lost from the shock which 
 will be thereby given 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 necessity of accompanying metre with cer- 
 tain appropriate colours of style in order to the accomplish- 
 ment 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 relates to these Poems, have been almost 
 sufficient to observe, that poems are extant, written 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. Now, if nakedness 
 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 written 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 metri- 
 VOL. n. c c 
 
386 
 
 cally arranged will long continue to impart such a pleasure 
 to mankind as he who is sensible of the extent of that plea- 
 sure 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 
 unusual 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 clanger that the excitement may be carried beyond its 
 proper bounds. Now the co-presence of something regular, 
 something to which the mind has been accustomed in various 
 moods and in a less excited state, cannot but have great 
 efficacy in tempering and restraining the passion by an inter- 
 texture of ordinary feeling, and of feeling not strictly and 
 necessarily connected with the passion. This is unquestiona- 
 bly 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 unsubstantial 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 
 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 following Poems be attentively 
 perused, similar instances will be found in them . This opinion 
 may be further illustrated by appealing to the Reader's own 
 ^experience of the reluctance with which he comes to the re- 
 perusal of the distressful parts of Clarissa Harlowe, or the 
 
3S7 
 
 Gamester. While Shakespeare's writings, in the most pathe- 
 tic scenes, never act upon us as pathetic beyond the bounds 
 of pleasure — an effect which, in a much greater degree than 
 might at first be imagined, is to be ascribed to small, but 
 continual and regular impulses of pleasurable surprise from 
 the metrical arrangement. — On the other hand (what it must 
 be allowed 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 ex- 
 citement, then, (unless the Poet's choice of his metre has 
 been grossly injudicious) in the feelings of pleasure which 
 the Reader has been accustomed to connect with metre in 
 general, and in the feeling, whether cheerful or melancholy, 
 which he has been accustomed to connect with that parti- 
 cular movement of metre, there will be found something 
 which will greatly contribute to impart passion to the words, 
 and to effect the complex end which the Poet proposes to 
 himself. 
 
 If I had undertaken a systematic defence of the theory 
 upon which these poems are written, it would have been my 
 duty to develope the various causes upon which the plea- 
 sure received 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 which 
 the mind derives from the perception of similitude in dissi- 
 militude. 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 
 
 c c 2 
 
388 
 
 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 metre, and to have 
 shown that metre is hence enabled to afford much pleasure, 
 and to have pointed out in what manner that pleasure is pro- 
 duced. But my limits will not permit me to enter upon this 
 subject, and I must content myself with a general summary. 
 
 I have said that Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of 
 powerful feelings : it takes its origin from emotion recol- 
 lected in tranquillity : the emotion is contemplated till by a 
 species of reaction the tranquillity gradually disappears, and 
 an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of 
 contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself ac- 
 tually exist in the mind. In this mood successful composi- 
 tion generally begins, and in a mood similar to this it is 
 carried on ; but the emotion, of whatever kind and in what- 
 ever degree, 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 pi'eserving in a state of enjoyment a being thus 
 employed, the Poet ought to profit by the lesson thus held 
 forth to him, and ought especially to take care, that what- 
 ever passions he communicates to his Reader, those passions, 
 if his Reader's mind be sound and vigorous, should always 
 be accompanied with an overbalance of pleasure. Now the 
 music of harmonious metrical language, the sense of diffi- 
 culty overcome, and the blind association of pleasure which 
 has been previously received from works of rhyme or metre 
 of the same or similar construction, an indistinct perception 
 
389 
 
 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 com- 
 plex feeling of delight, which is of the most important use in 
 tempering the painful feeling which will always be found in- 
 termingled with powerful descriptions of the deeper pas- 
 sions. This effect is always produced in pathetic and im- 
 passioned poetry ; while, in lighter compositions, the ease 
 and gracefulness with which the Poet manages his numbers 
 are themselves confessedly a principal source of the gratifi- 
 cation of the Reader. I might perhaps include air which it 
 is necessary to say upon this subject by affirming, what few 
 persons will deny, that, of two descriptions, either of pas- 
 sions, manners, or characters, each of them equally well 
 executed, the one in prose and the otlier 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 render the plainest common sense interesting, 
 and even frequently to invest it with the appearance of pas- 
 sion. In consequence of these convictions 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 atten- 
 tion to the truth, that the power of the human imagination is 
 sufficient to produce such changes even in our physical na- 
 ture as might almost appear miraculous. The truth is an 
 important one; the fact (for it is a fact) is a valuable illus- 
 tration of it: and I have the satisfaction of knowing that it 
 has been communicated to many hundreds of people who 
 would never have heard of it, had it not been narrated as a 
 Ballad, and in a more impressive metre than is usual in 
 Ballads. 
 
 Having thus explained a few of the reasons why I have 
 
390 
 
 written in verse, and why I have chosen subjects from com- 
 mon life, and endeavoured to bring my language near to the 
 real language of men, if I have been too minute in pleading 
 my own cause, I have at the same time been treating a sub- 
 ject of general interest ; and it is for this reason that I 
 request the Reader's permission to add a few words with 
 reference solely to these particular poems, and to some de- 
 fects which will probably be found in them. I am sensible 
 that my associations must have sometimes been particular 
 instead of general, and that, consequently, giving to things 
 a false importance, sometimes from diseased impulses I may 
 have written upon unworthy subjects ; but I am less appre- 
 hensive on this account, than that my language may fre- 
 quently have suffered from those arbitrary connections of 
 feelings and ideas with particular words and phrases, from 
 which no man can altogether protect himself. Hence I have 
 no doubt, that, in some instances, feelings even of the ludi- 
 crous may be given to my Readers by expressions which 
 appeared to me tender and pathetic. Such faulty expres- 
 sions, were I convinced they were faulty at present, and that 
 they must necessarily continue to be so, I would willingly 
 take all reasonable pains to correct. But it is dangerous to 
 make these alterations on the simple authority of a few in- 
 dividuals, or even of certain classes of men ; for where the 
 understanding of an Author is not convinced, or his feelings 
 altered, this cannot be done without great injury to himself: 
 for his own feelings are his stay and support, and, if he sets 
 them aside in one instance, he may be induced to repeat this 
 act till his mind loses all confidence in itself, and becomes 
 utterly debilitated. To this it may be added, that the 
 Reader ought never to forget that he is himself exposed to 
 the same errors as the Poet, and perhaps in a much greater 
 degree : for there can be no presumption in saying, that it is 
 
391 
 
 not probable he will be so well acquainted with the various 
 stages of meaning through which words have passed, or with 
 the fickleness or stability of the relations of particular idea 
 to each other ; and above all, since he is so much less in- 
 terested in the subject, he may decide lightly and carelessly. 
 
 Long as I have detained my Reader, I hope he will permit 
 me to caution him against a mode of false criticism which 
 has been applied to Poetry in which the language closely 
 resembles that of life and nature. Such verses have been 
 triumphed over in parodies of which Dr. Johnson's stanza is 
 a fair specimen. 
 
 " I put my hat upon ray head, 
 And walk'd into the Strand, 
 And there I met another man 
 Whose hat was in his hand." 
 
 Immediately under these lines I will place one of the most 
 justly admired stanzas of the " Babes in the Wood." 
 
 " These pretty Bahes with hand in hand 
 Went wandering up and down ; 
 But never more they saw the Man 
 Approaching from the Town." 
 
 In both these stanzas the words, and the order of the 
 words, in no respect differ from the most unim passioned 
 conversation. There are words in both, for example, "the 
 Strand," and " the Town," connected with none but the 
 most familiar ideas ; yet the one stanza we admit as ad- 
 mirable, and the other as a fair example of the superlatively 
 contemptible. Whence arises this difference? Not from 
 
392 
 
 the metre, not from the language, not from the order of the 
 words ; but the matter expressed in Dr. Johnson's stanza is 
 contemptible. The proper method of treating trivial and 
 simple verses, to 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 in- 
 teresting in itself, nor can lead to anything interesting; the 
 images neither originate in that sane state of feeling 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 species 
 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 he 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 feelings 
 genuinely, and not by reflection upon what will probably be 
 the judgment 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 expression, but to such and such classes of 
 people it will appear mean or ludicrous." This mode of 
 criticism, so destructive of all sound unadulterated judg- 
 ment, is almost universal : I have therefore to request, that 
 the Reader would abide independently, by his own feelings, 
 and that if he finds himself affected he would not suffer such 
 conjectures to interfere with his pleasure. 
 
 If an Author by any single composition has impressed us 
 with respect for his talents, it is useful to consider this as 
 affording a presumption, that, on other occasions where we 
 have been displeased, he nevertheless may not have written 
 
393 
 
 ill or absurdly ; and, further, to give him so much credit for 
 this one composition as may induce us to review what has 
 displeased 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 Rey- 
 nolds has observed, is an acquired talent, which can only be 
 produced by thought, and a long continued intercourse with 
 the best models of composition. This is mentioned, not with 
 so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the most inexperienced 
 Reader from judging for himself, (I have already said that I 
 wish him to judge for himself;) but merely to temper the 
 rashness of decision, and to suggest, that, if Poetry be a 
 subject on which much time has not been bestowed, the 
 judgment may be erroneous ; and that in many cases it ne- 
 cessarily will be so. 
 
 I know that nothing would have so effectually contributed 
 to further the end which I have in view, as to have shown of 
 what kind the pleasure is, and how that pleasure is produced, 
 which is confessedly produced by metrical composition es- 
 sentially different from that which I have here endeavoured 
 to recommend : for the Reader will say that he has been 
 pleased by such composition ; and what can I do more for 
 him ? The power of any art is limited ; and he will suspect, that, 
 if I propose to furnish him with new friends, it is only upon 
 condition of his abandoning his old friends. Besides, as /have 
 said, the Reader is himself conscious of the pleasure which he 
 has received from such composition, composition to which 
 he has peculiarly attached the endearing name of Poetry ; 
 and all men feel an habitual gratitude, and something of an 
 
394 
 
 honourable bigotry for the objects which have long continued 
 to please them ; we not only wish to be pleased, but to be 
 pleased in that particular way in which we have been accus- 
 tomed to be pleased. There is a host of arguments in these 
 feelings ; and I should be the less able to combat them suc- 
 cessfully, as I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely to 
 enjoy 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 pleasure is produced, I might have removed many 
 obstacles, and assisted my Reader in perceiving that the 
 powers of language are not so limited as he may suppose ; 
 and that it is possible that poetry may give other enjoy- 
 ments, of a purer, more lasting, and more exquisite na- 
 ture. This part of my subject I have not altogether neglect- 
 ed ; but it has been less my present aim to prove, that the 
 interest excited by some other kinds of poetry is less vivid, 
 and less worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, than to 
 offer reasons for presuming, that, if the object which I have 
 proposed to myself were adequately attained, a species of 
 poetry would be produced, which is genuine poetry ; in its 
 nature well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and 
 likewise important in the multiplicity and quality of its 
 moral relations. 
 
 From what has been said, and from a perusal of the 
 Poems, the Reader will be able clearly to perceive the 
 object which I have proposed to myself: he will determine 
 how far I have attained this object ; and, what is a much 
 more important question, whether it be worth attaining : 
 and upon the decision of these two questions will rest my 
 claim to the approbation of the public. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 See Preface, page 384. — " by what is usually called 
 Poetic Diction." 
 
 As perhaps I have no right to expect from a Reader of an 
 Introduction to a volume of Poems that attentive perusal 
 without which it is impossible, imperfectly as I have been 
 compelled to express my meaning, that what I have said in 
 the Preface should throughout be fully 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 purpose I will 
 here add a few words concerning the origin of the phraseo- 
 logy which I have condemned under that name. The 
 
 earliest poets of all nations generally wrote from passion ex- 
 cited by real events; they wrote naturally, and as men: 
 feeling powerfully as they did, their language was daring, 
 and figurative. In succeeding times, Poets, and men am- 
 bitious of the fame of Poets, perceiving the influence of such 
 language, and desirous of producing the same effect, with- 
 out having the same animating passion, set themselves to a 
 mechanical adoption of these figures of speech, and made 
 use of them, sometimes with propriety, but much more fre- 
 quently applied them to feelings and ideas with which they 
 had no natural connection whatsoever. A language was 
 thus insensibly produced, differing materially from the real 
 language of men in any situation. The Reader or Hearer 
 of this distorted language found himself in a perturbed and 
 unusual state of mind : when affected by the genuine lan- 
 guage of passion he had been in a perturbed and unusual 
 
396 
 
 state of mind also : in both cases he was willing that his com- 
 mon judgment and understanding should be laid asleep, and 
 he had no instinctive and infallible 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 delightful, and no wonder if he confounded the 
 one with the other, and believed them both to be produced 
 by the same, or similar causes. Besides, the Poet spake 
 to him in the character of a man to be looked up to, a man 
 of genius and authority. Thus, and from a variety of other 
 causes, this distorted language was received with admira- 
 tion ; and Poets, it is probable, who had before contented 
 themselves for the most part with misapplying only expres- 
 sions which at first had been dictated by real passion, carried 
 the abuse still further, and introduced phrases composed 
 apparently in the spirit of the original figurative language of 
 passion, yet altogether of their own invention, and distin- 
 guished by various degrees of wanton deviation from good 
 sense and nature. 
 
 It is indeed true that the language of the earliest Poets 
 was felt to differ materially from ordinary language, because 
 it was the language of extraordinary occasions ; but it was 
 really spoken by men, language which the. Poet himself 
 had uttered when he had been affected by the events which 
 he desci'ibed, or which he had heard uttered by those 
 around him. To this language it is probable that metre of 
 some sort or other was early superadded. This separated 
 the genuine language of Poetty still further from common 
 life, so that whoever read or heard the poems of these 
 earliest Poets felt himself moved in a way in which he had 
 not been accustomed to be moved in real life, and by causes 
 manifestly different from those which acted upon him in real 
 
.397 l • 
 
 life. This was the great temptation to all the corruptions 
 which have followed: under the protection of this feeling 
 succeeding Poets constructed a phraseology which had one 
 thing, 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 Poets, as I have 
 said, spake a language which, though unusual, was still the 
 language of men. This circumstance, however, was disre- 
 garded by their successors ; they found that they could 
 please by easier means : they became proud of a language 
 which they themselves had invented, and which was uttered 
 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 or promise of this unusual language, 
 and whoever took upon him to write in metre, 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 in- 
 terwoven 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 cer- 
 tain degree really become so. Abuses of this kind were 
 imported from one nation to another, and with the progress 
 of refinement this diction became daily more and more cor- 
 rupt, 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 extravagant and absurd language : 
 but this is not the place ; it depends upon a great variety of 
 causes, but upon none perhaps more than its influence in 
 impressing a notion of the peculiarity and exaltation of the 
 
398 
 
 Poet's character, and in flattering the Reader's self-love by 
 bringing him nearer to a sympathy with that character; an 
 effect which is accomplished by unsettling ordinary habits 
 of thinking, and thus assisting the Reader to approach to 
 that perturbed and dizzy state of mind in which if he does 
 not find himself, he imagines that he is balked of a peculiar 
 enjoyment which poetry can, and ought to bestow. 
 
 The sonnet which I have quoted from Gray, in the Pre- 
 face, except the lines printed in Italics, consists of little else 
 but this diction, though not of the worst kind ; and indeed, 
 if I may be permitted to say so, it is far too common in the 
 best writers, both ancient and modern. Perhaps I can in no 
 way, by positive example, more easily give my Reader a no- 
 tion of what I mean by the phrase poetic diction than by 
 referring him to a comparison between the metrical para- 
 phrase which we have of passages in the Old and New Tes- 
 tament, and those passages as they exist in our common 
 Translation. See Pope's " Messiah" throughout, Prior's 
 " Did sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue," &c. &c. 
 " Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels," 
 &c. &c. See 1st Corinthians, chapter xiiith. By way of 
 immediate example, take the following of Dr. Johnson : 
 
 " Turn on the prudent Ant thy heedless eyes, 
 Observe her labours, Sluggard, and be wise ; 
 No stern command, n6 monitory voice, 
 Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice ; 
 Yet, timely provident, she hastes away 
 To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day; 
 When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain, 
 She crops the harvest and she stores the grain. 
 How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours, 
 Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy powers ? 
 
399 
 
 While artful shades thy downy couch enclose, 
 
 And soft solicitation courts repose, 
 
 Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight, 
 
 Year chases year with unremitted flight, 
 
 Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow, 
 
 Shall spring to seize thee, like an ambushed foe." 
 
 From this hubbub of words pass to the original. " Go to 
 the Ant, thou Sluggard, consider her ways, and be wise : 
 which having no guide, overseer, or ruler, provideth her 
 meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest. 
 How long wilt thou sleep, O Sluggard ? when wilt thou arise 
 out of thy sleep ? Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little 
 folding of the hands to sleep. So shall th}' poverty come as 
 one that travaileth, and thy want as an armed man." Pro- 
 verbs, chap. vith. 
 
 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. 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 These valleys and rocks never heard, 
 Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell, 
 Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. 
 
 Ye winds, that have made me your sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I must visit no more. 
 
 My Friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 
 O tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see." 
 
440 
 
 I have quoted this passage as an instance of three different 
 styles of composition. The first four lines are poorly ex- 
 pressed ; 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 " 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 introduced into their 
 language till they and their Readers take them as matters of 
 course, if they do not single them out expressly as objects 
 of admiration. The two lines " Ne'er sigh'd at the sound/' 
 &c. are, in my opinion, an instance of the language of pas- 
 sion wrested from its proper use, and, from the mere circum- 
 stance of the composition being in metre, applied upon an 
 occasion that does not justify such violent expressions ; and 
 I should condemn the passage, though perhaps few Readers 
 will agree with me, as vicious poetic diction. The last 
 stanza is throughout admirably expressed: it would be 
 equally good whether in prose or verse, except that the 
 Reader has an exquisite pleasure in seeing such natural lan- 
 guage so naturally connected with metre. The beauty of 
 this stanza tempts me here to add a sentiment which ought 
 to be the pervading spirit of a system, detached parts of 
 which have been imperfectly explained in the Preface,— 
 namely, that in proportion as ideas and feelings are valuable, 
 whether the composition be in prose or in verse, they re- 
 quire and exact one and the same language. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 T. Davison, Lombard-street, 
 Whitefriars, London. 
 

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