THE 
 
 WILLIAM R. PERKINS 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 DUKE UNIVERSITY 
 
 Rare Books 
 
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THE 
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWOETH, 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 EDWAED MOXON, DOVER STREET. 
 
 1858. 
 
LONDON : 
 BRADBURY AND ETANS, PRINTERS, 'WEITEFRIARS. 
 
RBR 
 
 — As 
 
 If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven. 
 
 Then, to the measure of that heaven-horn light, 
 
 Shine, Poet ! in thy place, and he content : — 
 
 The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, 
 
 And they that from the zenith dart their heams, 
 
 (Visible though they he to half the earth, 
 
 Though half a sphere he conscious of their brightness) 
 
 Are yet of no diviner origin, 
 
 No purer essence, than the one that hums, 
 
 Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge 
 
 Of some dark mountain : or than those which seem 
 
 Humhly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, 
 
 Among the branches of the leafless trees ; 
 
 All are the undying offspring of one Sire : 
 
 Then, to the measure of the light vouchsafed, 
 
 Shine, Poet ! in thy place, and he content. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem, composed in anticipation of leaving School ... 1 
 
 Written in very early Youth ............. 1 
 
 An Evening Walk. Addressed to a Young Lady ......... 2 
 
 Lines written while sailing in a Boat at Evening ..... .... 6 
 
 Remembrance of Collins, composed upon the Thames near Richmond ..... 6 
 
 Descriptive Sketches taken during a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps ...... 6 
 
 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate 
 
 part of the Shore, commanding a beautiful Prospect . . . . . . ..14 
 
 Guilt and Sorrow ; or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain 15 
 
 The Borderers. A Tragedy 24 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 54 
 
 To a Butterfly 54 
 
 The Sparrow's Nest 54 
 
 Foresight 54 
 
 Characteristics of a Child three Years old 55 
 
 Address to a Child, during a Boisterous Winter Evening. . . . . ' . . . 55 
 
 The Mother's Return 55 
 
 Alice Fell ; or, Poverty 56 
 
 Lucy Gray; or, Solitude . . ............ 57 
 
 We are Seven ................ 58 
 
 The Idle Shepherd-boys ; or, Dungeon-Ghyll Force. A Pastoral 59 
 
 Anecdote for Fathers 60 
 
 Rural Architecture ............... 60 
 
 The Pet-lamb. A Pastoral 61 
 
 To H. C. Six Years old 62 
 
 Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth and strengthening the imagination in Boyhood and 
 
 early Youth 62 
 
 The longest Day. Addressed to my Daughter .63 
 
 The Norman Boy 64 
 
 The Poet's Dream. Sequel to the Norman Boy . 65 
 
 The Westmoreland Girl. — Part I. 66 
 
 Part II 67 
 
 6 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Brothers 68 
 
 Artegal and Elidure 72 
 
 To a Butterfly 75 
 
 A Farewell 75 
 
 Stanzas written in my Pocket-copy of Thomson's Castle of Indolence 76 
 
 Louisa. After accompanying her on a Mountain Excursion 77 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known . 77 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 77 
 
 I travelled among unknown men ............ 78 
 
 Ere with cold beads of midnight dew 78 
 
 To . 78 
 
 The Forsaken 78 
 
 'Tis said, that some have died for love 79 
 
 A Complaint 79 
 
 To 79 
 
 Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved 80 
 
 How rich that forehead's calm expanse 80 
 
 What heavenly smiles ! Lady mine . . . 80 
 
 To 80 
 
 Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the Eve of a New Year 80 
 
 The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman 81 
 
 The Last of the Flock 82 
 
 Repentance. A Pastoral Ballad .83 
 
 The Affliction of Margaret 84 
 
 The Cottager to her Infant 85 
 
 Maternal Grief 85 
 
 The Sailor's Mother 86 
 
 The Childless Father 86 
 
 The Emigrant Mother '. ... . . .87 
 
 Vaudracour and Julia ............... 88 
 
 The Idiot Boy 91 
 
 Michael. A Pastoral Poem . . . . . . . 96 
 
 The Widow on Windermere Side 101 
 
 The Armenian Lady's Love 101 
 
 Loving and Liking. Irregular Verses, addressed to a Child 104 
 
 Farewell Lines t 104 
 
 The Redbreast. Suggested in a Westmoreland Cottage 105 
 
 Her Eyes are Wild 1 06 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 It was an April morning : fresh and clear . . , . . . . - . . . .108 
 
 To Joanna 108 
 
 There is an Eminence, — of these our hills 109 
 
 A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags ] 09 
 
 To M. H no 
 
 When, to the attractions of the busy world Ill 
 
 Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base 112 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Morning Exercise 113 
 
 A Flower Garden, at Coleorton Hall, Leicestershire 113 
 
 A whirl-blast from behind the hill . ._. 114 
 
 The Waterfall and the Eglantine 114 
 
 The Oak and the Broom. A Pastoral 115 
 
 To a Sexton 116 
 
 To the Daisy . . . 117 
 
 To the same Flower 118 
 
 The Green Linnet 118 
 
 To a Sky-lark . 119 
 
 To the Small Celandine 119 
 
 To the same Flower 120 
 
 The Seven Sisters ; or, the Solitude of Binnorie 120 
 
 Who fancied what a pretty sight . . . . . . . . . . . ..121 
 
 The Redbreast chasing the Butterfly . .121 
 
 Song for the Spinning Wheel. Founded upon a Belief prevalent among the Pastoral Vales of 
 
 Westmoreland 122 
 
 Hint from the Mountains for certain Political Pretenders 122 
 
 On seeing a Needlecase in the Form of a Harp ........ 123 
 
 To a Lady, in answer to a request that I would write her a Poem upon some Drawings that she 
 
 had made of Flowers in the Island of Madeira . . . . . . . . . 123 
 
 Glad sight wherever new with old . . . . . . . . . . . .124 
 
 The Contrast. The Parrot and the Wren . . . . . . . . . . . 124 
 
 The Danish Boy. A Fragment ]24 
 
 Song for the Wandering Jew . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 
 
 Stray Pleasures 125 
 
 The Pilgrim's Dream ; or, the Star and the Glow-worm . . . . . , . . 126 
 
 The Poet and the Caged Turtledove 127 
 
 A Wren's Nest m 127 
 
 Love lies Bleeding ............. 128 
 
 Companion to the foregoing . .......... ,128 
 
 Rural Illusions • ••..........,', 12g 
 
 The Kitten and Falling Leaves ........... 129 
 
 Address to my Infant Daughter, on being reminded that she was a Month old, on that Day . 130 
 
 THE WAGGONER— Canto 1 131 
 
 Canto II. ••••..... 134 
 
 Canto III YS6 
 
 Canto IV. , o 7 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 There was a Boy 
 
 To the Cuckoo " . , 
 
 . , T . , . . 141 
 
 A Night-piece 
 
 Airey-force Valley 
 
 Yew-trees 
 
 Nutting '.".'.! 142 
 
 The Simplon Pass 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 
 
 62 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Nightingale ! thou surely art 143 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower . . . . 144 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal • 144 
 
 1 wandered lonely as a cloud . . . . ' 144 
 
 The Reverie of Poor Susan 145 
 
 Power of Music 145 
 
 Star-gazers 146 
 
 Written in March, while resting on the Bridge at the foot of Brother's Water . . . . 146 
 
 Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic live . 147 
 
 Beggars ■ 147 
 
 Sequel to the Foregoing, composed many Years after . . .148 
 
 Gipsies . 148 
 
 Ruth " 148 
 
 Resolution and Independence 151 
 
 The Thorn 153 
 
 Hart-leap Well.— Part I 156 
 
 . Part II 157 
 
 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to 
 
 the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors 158 
 
 Lines, composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the Banks of the Wye during 
 
 a Tour, July 13, 1798 160 
 
 It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown . 161 
 
 French Revolution, as it appeared to Enthusiasts at its Commencement. Reprinted from " The 
 
 Friend" . 161 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo 162 
 
 To a Sky-lark 162 
 
 Laodamia . . 162 
 
 Dion 165 
 
 The Pass of Kirkstone 166 
 
 To Enterprise . 167 
 
 To : — , on her First Ascent to the Summit of Helvellyn 169 
 
 To a Young Lady, who had been reproached for taking long Walks in the Country . . 169 
 
 Water-fowl 169 
 
 View from the top of Black Comb 170 
 
 The Haunted Tree. To 170 
 
 The Triad 171 
 
 The Wishing-gate . . . . „ . . , . . . . . , .173 
 
 The Wishing-gate destroyed . . . . ; 174 
 
 The Primrose of the Rock . . 174 
 
 Presentiments 175 
 
 Vernal Ode 176 
 
 Devotional Incitements 177 
 
 The Cuckoo-Clock 178 
 
 To the Clouds 179 
 
 Suggested by a Picture of the Bird of Paradise 180 
 
 A Jewish Family, 180 
 
 On the Power of Sound 181 
 
 PETER BELL — A Tale.— Prologue 184 
 
 ■ Part I. . 186 
 
 Part II 190 
 
 Part III 192 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 PART I. PAGE 
 
 Dedication. To 197 
 
 Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room . . 197 
 
 Admonition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , . 197 
 
 " Beloved Vale !" I said, " when I shall con " 198 
 
 At Applethwaite, near Keswick . .*. . . . . . . . . .198 
 
 Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side . . . . . . . . . . ..198 
 
 There is a little unpretending Rill 198 
 
 Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat . ..198 
 
 The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade 198 
 
 Upon the sight of a Beautiful Picture 199 
 
 " Why, Minstrel, these un tuneful murmurings " 199 
 
 Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 
 
 To Sleep 199 
 
 To Sleep 199 
 
 To Sleep 199 
 
 The Wild Duck's Nest 200 
 
 Written upon a Blank Leaf in " The Complete Angler " 200 
 
 To the Poet, John Dyer 200 
 
 On the Detraction which followed the Publication of a certain Poem 200 
 
 Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend ..200 
 
 To S. H 200 
 
 Composed in one of the Valleys of Westmoreland, on Easter Sunday 201 
 
 Decay of Piety 201 
 
 Composed on the eve of the Marriage of a Friend in the Vale of Grasmere, 1812 . . . . 201 
 From the Italian of Michael Angelo . . . . . . . . . . . .201 
 
 From the Same . 201 
 
 From the Same. To the Supreme Being . . 201 
 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind ........... 202 
 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne . 202 
 
 Even so for me a Vision sanctified 202 
 
 It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free 202 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ? . 202 
 
 With Ships the sea was spriulded far and nigh . 202 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and soon . 203 
 
 A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found 203 
 
 ' Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind 203 
 
 To the Memory of Raisley Calvert = . . . . 203 
 
 PART II, 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned ......... 203 
 
 How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks 203 
 
 To B. R. Haydon ( 204 
 
 From the dark chambers of dejection freed 204 
 
 Fan" Prime of life ! were it enough to gild 204 
 
 I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret ......... 204 
 
 I heard (alas ! 't was only in a dream) 204 
 
 Retirement ................. 204 
 
 Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell 205 
 
 Mark the concentred hazels that enclose 205 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Composed after a Journey across the Hambleton Hills, Yorkshire 205 
 
 Those words were uttered as in pensive mood . . 205 
 
 While not a leaf seems faded ; while the fields, 205 
 
 How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright 205 
 
 Composed during a Storm 206 
 
 To a Snow-drop 206 
 
 To the Lady Mary Lowther 206 
 
 To Lady Beaumont , 206 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains . . . . . . . . . . . .206 
 
 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said 206 
 
 When haughty expectations prostrate lie, 207 
 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour c . 207 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky ! 207 
 
 Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress 207 
 
 The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand, 207 
 
 Desponding Father ! mark this altered bough 207 
 
 Captivity. — Mary Queen of Scots 208 
 
 St. Catherine of Ledbury 208 
 
 Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near, 208 
 
 Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein . . . . . . . . ... . . 208 
 
 Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks, 208 
 
 Composed on the Banks of a Rocky Stream . . . . . . . , . . 208 
 
 Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er ........... 209 
 
 Malham Cove 209 
 
 Gordale 209 
 
 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802 209 
 
 Conclusion. To 209 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Though the bold wings of Poesy affect . , ..210 
 
 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! 210 
 
 Shame on this faithless heart ! that could allow 210 
 
 Recollection of the Portrait of King Henry Eighth, Trinity Lodge, Cambridge .... 210 
 
 On the Death of His Majesty (George the Third) . . 210 
 
 Fame tells of groves — from England far away — . . . . . . . , .210 
 
 A Parsonage in Oxfordshire 211 
 
 Composed among the Ruins of a Castle in North Wales 211 
 
 To the Lady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P 211 
 
 To the Torrent at the Devil's Bridge, North Wales, 1824 211 
 
 In the Woods of Rydal 211 
 
 When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle 211 
 
 While Anna's peers and early playmates tread 212 
 
 To the Cuckoo 212 
 
 To '..'.' 212 
 
 The Infant M M 212 
 
 To , in her seventieth year . 212 
 
 To Rotha Q, 212 
 
 A Grave-stone upon the Floor in the Cloisters of Worcester Cathedral 213 
 
 Roman Antiquities discovered at Bishopstone, Herefordshire . . . , . 213 
 Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and the pride . . . . . , m .213 
 
 A Tradition of Oker Hill in Darley Dale, Derbyshire .213 
 
 Filial Piety ... _ 213 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To the Author's Portrait . 213 
 
 Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 214 
 
 To B. R. Hay don, on seeing his Picture of Napoleon Buonaparte on the Island of St. Helena . 214 
 
 A Poet! — He hath put his heart to school 214 
 
 The most alluring clouds that mount the sky 214 
 
 On a Portrait of the Duke of Wellington upon the Field of Waterloo, by Hay don . . .214 
 
 Composed on a May Morning, 1838 214 
 
 Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance 215 
 
 To a Painter 215 
 
 On the same Subject 215 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest . . : 215 
 
 'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain 215 
 
 Oh what a Wreck ! how changed in mien and speech !. . . . . . . ..215 
 
 Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake 216 
 
 A Plea for Authors, May, 1838 216 
 
 Valedictory Sonnet 216 
 
 To the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, D.D., Master of Harrow School . . . ... 216 
 
 To the Planet Venus 216 
 
 Wansfell ! this Household has a favoured lot 216 
 
 While beams of orient light shoot wide and high 217 
 
 In my mind's eye a Temple like a cloud 217 
 
 On the projected Kendal and Windermere Railway . . . . • . . . .217 
 
 Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old . . . . . „ . . . . 217 
 
 At Furness Abbey 217 
 
 At Furness Abbey 217 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803. 
 
 Departure from the Vale of Grasmere, August, 1803 218 
 
 At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death 218 
 
 Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet's Residence . . 219 ' 
 
 To the Sons of Burns, after visiting the Grave of their Father 220 
 
 Ellen Irwin : or, the Braes of Kirtle 221 
 
 To a Highland Girl 221 
 
 Glen-Almain ; or, the Narrow Glen 222 
 
 Stepping Westward 222 
 
 The Solitary Reaper 223 
 
 Address to Kilchurn Castle, upon Loch Awe 223 
 
 Rob Roy's Grave 224 
 
 Sonnet. Composed at Castle ............ 225 
 
 Yarrow Unvisited 225 
 
 Sonnet in the Pass of Kilhcranky 226 
 
 The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband 226 
 
 Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale ! . . 227 
 
 The Blind Highland Boy 227 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1814. 
 
 The Brownie's Cell 231 
 
 Composed at Cora Linn, in sight of Wallace's Tower 232 
 
 Effusion, in the Pleasure-ground on the banks of the Bran, near Dunkeld . . . . . 233 
 
 Yarrow Visited, September, 1814 234 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 
 
 PART I. PAGE 
 
 Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August, 1802 236 
 
 Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind, 236 
 
 Composed near Calais, on the Road leading to Ardres, August 7, 1802 236 
 
 I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain 236 
 
 Festivals have I seen that were not names : 237 
 
 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic .......... 237 
 
 The King of Sweden 237 
 
 To Toussaiat L'Ouverture 237 
 
 We had a female Passenger who came . 237 
 
 Composed in the Valley near Dover, on the day of landing 237 
 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; , 238 
 
 Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland . . 238 
 
 Written in London, September, 1802 ..... 238 
 
 Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour : 238 
 
 Great men have been among us ; hands that penned . 238 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 238 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 239 
 
 One might believe that natural miseries . . . . , . . . . , .239 
 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 239 
 
 These times strike monied worldlings with dismay : 239 
 
 England ! the time is come when thou should'st wean 239 
 
 When, looking on the present face of things, . . ........ 239 
 
 To the Men of Kent. October, 1803 240 
 
 What if our numbers barely could defy . . . . . . . . . _ .240 
 
 Lines on the expected Invasion. 1803 . . , , . . . . . . . 240 
 
 Anticipation. October, 1803 240 
 
 Another year ! — another deadly blow ! . . 240 
 
 Ode. Who rises on the banks of Seine, 240 
 
 PART II. 
 
 On a celebrated Event in Ancient History .... ...... 241 
 
 Upon the same Event 241 
 
 To Thomas Clarkson, on the Final Passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade . . 242 
 
 A Prophecy. February, 1807 242 
 
 Composed by the Side of Grasmere Lake 242 
 
 Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes ............ 242 
 
 Composed while the Author was engaged in Writing a Tract, occasioned by the Convention of 
 
 Cintra ..••••.......... 242 
 
 Composed at the same Time and on the same Occasion ....... . 242 
 
 Hoffer . _ 243 
 
 Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground 243 
 
 Feelings of the Tyrolese 243 
 
 Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 243 
 
 And is it among rude untutored Dales, 243 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain 243 
 
 On the Final Submission of the Tyrolese - 244 
 
 Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye _ 244 
 
 Say, what is Honour ? — 'Tis the finest sense 244 
 
 The martial courage of a day is vain . . 244 
 
 Brave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy flight . . . 244 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Call not the royal Swede unfortunate 244 
 
 Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid 245 
 
 Is there a Power that can sustain and cheer 245 
 
 Ah ! where is Palafox ? Nor tongue nor pen 245 
 
 In due observance of an ancient rite 245 
 
 Feelings of a Noble Biscayan at one of those Funerals 245 
 
 The Oak of Guernica 245 
 
 Indignation of a high-minded Spaniard 246 
 
 A vaunt all specious pliancy of mind . . . . . . . . . • . . 246 
 
 O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied . . . . . . . . . .246 
 
 The French and the Spanish Guerillas . . . . . . . . . • . . 246 
 
 Spanish Guerillas ............... 246 
 
 The power of Armies is a visible thing 246 
 
 Here pause : the poet claims at least this praise ......... 247 
 
 The French Army in Russia 247 
 
 On the same Occasion .............. 247 
 
 By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 
 
 The Germans on the Heights of Hockheim . 248 
 
 Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright 248 
 
 Ode 1814. — When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch ....... 248 
 
 Feelings of a French Royalist, on the Disinterment of the Remains of the Duke d'Enghien . . 250 
 
 Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo ........... 250 
 
 Siege of Vienna raised by John Sobieski 250 
 
 Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo . . . . . . . . . . 250 
 
 Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung 250 
 
 Ode 1815. — Imagination— ne'er before content 250 
 
 Ode. — The Morning of the Day appointed for a General Thanksgiving. 1816 . . . . 252 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820. 
 
 Dedication 255 
 
 Fish- women. — On Landing at Calais 255 
 
 Bruges .................. 255 
 
 Bruges 255 
 
 Incident at Bruges 255 
 
 After visiting the Field of Waterloo ............ 256 
 
 Between Namur and Liege .............. 256 
 
 Aix-la-Chapelle ................ 256 
 
 In the Cathedral at Cologne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256 
 
 In a Carriage, upon the Banks of the Rhine .......... 257 
 
 Hymn, for the Boatmen, as they approach the Rapids under the Castle of Heidelberg . . . 257 
 
 The Source of the Danube 257 
 
 On approaching the Staub-bach, Lauterbrunnen .......... 257 
 
 The Fall of the Aar — Handec 257 
 
 Memorial, near the Outlet of the Lake of Thun 258 
 
 Composed in One of the Catholic Cantons ........... 258 
 
 After-thought 258 
 
 Scene on the Lake of Brientz 258 
 
 Engelberg, the Hill of Angels 259 
 
 Our Lady of the Snow .............. 259 
 
 Effusion, in Presence of the Painted Tower of Tell, at Altorf 259 
 
 The Town of Schwytz 260 
 
 On hearing the " Ranz des Vaches " on the Top of the Pass of St. Gothard . . . . . 260 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fort Fuentes 260 
 
 The Church of San Salvador, seen from the Lake of Lugano 261 
 
 The Italian Itinerant, and the Swiss Goatherd. — Part 1 261 
 
 Part II 262 
 
 The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, in the Refectory of the Convent of Maria della Grazia 
 
 — Milan 262 
 
 The Eclipse of the Sun, 1820 263 
 
 The Three Cottage Girls 264 
 
 The Column intended by Buonaparte for a Triumphal Edifice in Milan, now lying by the way- 
 side in the Simplon Pass 264 
 
 Stanzas, composed in the Simplon Pass 265 
 
 Echo, upon the Gemmi 265 
 
 Processions. Suggested on a Sabbath Morning in the Vale of Chamouny 265 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas 266 
 
 Sky-prospect — From the Plain of France 267 
 
 On being Stranded near the Harbour of Boulogne 268 
 
 After landing — the Valley of Dover 268 
 
 At Dover 268 
 
 Desultory Stanzas 268 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY, 1837. 
 
 To H. C. Robinson . 270 
 
 Musings near Aquapendente .............. 270 
 
 The Pine of Monte Mario at Rome 274 
 
 At Rome • 274 
 
 At Rome. — Regrets. — In allusion to Niebuhr and other modern Historians .... 274 
 
 Continued . . . . . . . . . . . . 274 
 
 Plea for the Historian 274 
 
 At Rome 275 
 
 Near Rome, in sight of St. Peter's 275 
 
 At Albano ........ f 275 
 
 Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove 275 
 
 From the Alban Hills, looking towards Rome .......... 275 
 
 Near the Lake of Thrasymene 275 
 
 Near the same Lake 276 
 
 The Cuckoo at Laverna .............. 276 
 
 At the Cpnvent of Camaldoli 277 
 
 ■ ■ Continued 277 
 
 At the Eremite or Upper Convent of Camaldoli 277 
 
 At Vallombrosa 277 
 
 At Florence 278 
 
 Before the Picture of the Baptist, by Raphael, in the Gallery at Florence . . . .278 
 
 At Florence. — From Michael Angelo 278 
 
 At Florence. — From M. Angelo 279 
 
 Among the Ruins of a Convent in the Apennines 279 
 
 In Lombardy ................ 279 
 
 After leaving Italy 279 
 
 Continued ............. 279 
 
 Composed at Rydal on May Morning, 1838 279 
 
 The Pillar of Trajan 280 
 
 The Egyptian Maid ; or, the Romance of the Water Lily 281 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE RIVER DUDDON. A SERIES OF SONNETS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth 285 
 
 Not envying Latian shades — if yet they throw 286 
 
 Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint .... 286 
 
 How shall I paint thee 1 — Be this naked stone .......... 286 
 
 Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take .......... 287 
 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 287 
 
 Flowers 287 
 
 " Change me, some God, into that breathing rose ! " 287 
 
 What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled 287 
 
 The Stepping-stones 287 
 
 The same Subject ............... 288 
 
 The Faery Chasm 288 
 
 Hints for the Fancy 288 
 
 Open Prospect 288 
 
 mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot . 288 
 
 From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play 288 
 
 American Tradition 289 
 
 Return 289 
 
 Seathwaite Chapel ............... 289 
 
 Tributary Stream ............... 289 
 
 The Plain of Donnerdale 289 
 
 Whence that low voice ? — A whisper from the heart, 289 
 
 Tradition 290 
 
 Sheep-washing 290 
 
 The Resting-place 290 
 
 Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat . . 290 
 
 Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued 290 
 
 Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap ........... 290 
 
 Journey renewed ............... 291 
 
 No record tells of lance opposed to lance 291 
 
 Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce . . ...... 291 
 
 The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye 291 
 
 Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep; . . . . . . . . . .291 
 
 Conclusion ................. 291 
 
 After-thought 292 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE ; or, The Fate of the Nortons.— Dedication . . 292 
 
 ■ — ■ Canto 1 293 
 
 Canto II 296 
 
 • Canto III 299 
 
 Canto IV 302 
 
 ■ • Canto V. 304 
 
 Canto VI 306 
 
 Canto VII 308 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 PART I. — From the Introduction of Christianity into Britain, to the Consummation of the 
 
 Papal Dominion. 
 
 Introduction 312 
 
 Conjectures 312 
 
 Trepidation of the Druids 313 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Druidical Excommunication 313 
 
 Uncertainty ................ 313 
 
 Persecution ................. 313 
 
 Recovery 313 
 
 Temptations from Roman Refinements 313 
 
 Dissensions ................ 314 
 
 Struggle of the Britons against the Barbarians 314 
 
 Saxon Conquest 314 
 
 Monastery of Old Bangor 314 
 
 Casual Incitement . .314 
 
 Glad Tidings 314 
 
 Paulinus 315 
 
 Persuasion 315 
 
 Conversion ................ 315 
 
 Apology 315 
 
 Primitive Saxon Clergy 315 
 
 Other Influences 315 
 
 Seclusion ....... ......... 316 
 
 Continued ................. 316 
 
 Reproof ................. 316 
 
 Saxon Monasteries, and Lights and Shades of the Religion 316 
 
 Missions and Travels 316 
 
 Alfred 316 
 
 His Descendants ............... 317 
 
 Influence Abused 317 
 
 Danish Conquests . 317 
 
 Canute 317 
 
 The Norman Conquest 317 
 
 Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered . . . . 317 
 
 The Council of Clermont - 318 
 
 Crusades o ..... . 318 
 
 Richard 1 318 
 
 An Interdict 318 
 
 Papal Abuses 318 
 
 Scene in Venice 318 
 
 Papal Dominion 319 
 
 PART II. — To the Close of the Troubles in the Reign of Charles I. 
 
 How soon — alas ! did Man, created pure .319 
 
 From false assumption rose, and fondly hail'd . . . . . . . . ..319 
 
 Cistertian Monastery 319 
 
 Deplorable his lot who tills the ground 319 
 
 Monks and Schoolmen ; 319 
 
 Other Benefits 320 
 
 Continued 320 
 
 Crusaders 320 
 
 As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest 320 
 
 "Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root 320 
 
 Transubstantiation . . ...... ....... 320 
 
 Tne Vaudois . 321 
 
 Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain springs 321 
 
 Waldenses 321 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 u n 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Archbishop Chichely to Henry V. 321 
 
 Wars of York and Lancaster 321 
 
 Wicliffe 321 
 
 Conniptions of the higher Clergy 322 
 
 Abuse of Monastic Power 322 
 
 Monastic Voluptuousness 322 
 
 Dissolution of the Monasteries . 322 
 
 The same Subject ............... 322 
 
 Continued ................. 322 
 
 Saints ............. .... 323 
 
 The Virgin 323 
 
 Apology ................. 323 
 
 Imaginative Regrets ............... 323 
 
 Reflections ................ 323 
 
 Translation of the Bible . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323 
 
 The Point at issue 324 
 
 Edward VI 324 
 
 Edward signing the Warrant for the Execution of Joan of Kent 324 
 
 Revival of Popery ............... 324 
 
 Latimer and Ridley ........ ........ 324 
 
 Cranmer ................. 324 
 
 General View of the Troubles of the Reformation ..... „ 325 
 
 English Reformers in Exile 325 
 
 Elizabeth 325 
 
 Eminent Reformers 325 
 
 The Same . 325 
 
 Distractions ................. 325 
 
 Gunpowder Plot . 326 
 
 Illustration. The Jung-Frau and the Fall of the Rhine near Schaffhausen 326 
 
 Troubles of Charles the First 326 
 
 Laud 326 
 
 Afflictions of England . 326 
 
 PART III. — From the Restoration to the Present Times. 
 
 I saw the figure of a lovely Maid 326 
 
 Patriotic Sympathies ' 327 
 
 Charles the Second 327 
 
 Latitudinarianism ............... 327 
 
 Walton's Book of Lives 327 
 
 Clerical Integrity 327 
 
 Persecution of the Scottish Covenanters 327 
 
 Acquittal of the Bishops 328 
 
 William the Third 328 
 
 Obligations of Civil to Religious Liberty 328 
 
 Sacheverel 328 
 
 Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design .......... 328 
 
 Aspects of Christianity in America. — I. The Pilgrim Fathers 323 
 
 ' II. Continued 329 
 
 III. Concluded. — American Episcopacy . . . 329 
 
 Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep 329 
 
 Places of Worship 329 
 
 Pastoral Character 329 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Liturgy 329 
 
 Baptism 330 
 
 Sponsors 330 
 
 Catechising 330 
 
 Confirmation 330 
 
 Confirmation — Continued 330 
 
 Sacrament 330 
 
 The Marriage Ceremony 231 
 
 Thanksgiving after Childbirth 331 
 
 Visitation of the Sick 331 
 
 The Commination Service 331 
 
 Forms of Prayer at Sea 331 
 
 Funeral Service 331 
 
 Rural Ceremony 332 
 
 Regrets ................. 332 
 
 Mutability 332 
 
 Old Abbeys 332 
 
 Emigrant French Clergy .... 332 
 
 Congratulation ................ 332 
 
 New Churches ................ 333 
 
 Church to be Erected ............... 333 
 
 Continued ................. 333 
 
 New Church-yard .... 333 
 
 Cathedrals, etc. ............... 333 
 
 Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge 333 
 
 The Same 334 
 
 Continued . ............... 334 
 
 Ejaculation 334 
 
 Conclusion 334 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS, 
 Composed (two excepted) during a Tour in Scotland, and on the English Border, in 
 
 THE AuTbMN OF 1831. 
 
 The gallant Youth, who may have gained 335 
 
 On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for Naples 336 
 
 A Place of Burial in the South of Scotland . . 336 
 
 On the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scotland 337 
 
 Composed in Roslin Chapel, during a Storm . . 337 
 
 The Trosachs 337 
 
 The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute . . . . . . . . . . 337 
 
 Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive 337 
 
 Eagles. Composed at Dunollie Castle in the Bay of Oban 337 
 
 In the Sound of Mull 338 
 
 Suggested at Tyndrum in a Storm ............ 338 
 
 The Earl of Breadalbane's Ruined Mansion, and Family Burial-place, near Killin . . . 338 
 
 'Rest and be Thankful!' At the Head of Glencroe . . . . • 338 
 
 Highland Hut > 338 
 
 The Highland Broach 338 
 
 The Brownie 340 
 
 To the Planet Venus, an Evening. Star. Composed at Loch Lomond 340 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Both well Castle. Passed unseen, on account of stormy Weather 340 
 
 Picture of Daniel in the Lion's Den, at Hamilton Palace 340 
 
 The Avon. A Feeder of the Annan 340 
 
 Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Inglewood Forest 341 
 
 Hart's-horn Tree, near Penrith 341 
 
 Fancy and Tradition 341 
 
 Countess' Pillar 341 
 
 Roman Antiquities. From the Roman Station at Old Penrith 341 
 
 Apology, for the foregoing Poems. . 341 
 
 EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
 
 Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose 342 
 
 On a high Part of the Coast of Cumberland 342 
 
 By the Sea-side 343 
 
 Not in the lucid intervals of life ... 343 
 
 By the Side of Rydal Mere 343 
 
 Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the Mere 344 
 
 The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned bill, 344 
 
 The sun has long been set 345 
 
 Composed upon an Evening of extraordinary Splendour and Beauty 345 
 
 Composed by the Sea-shore ... 346 
 
 The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love 346 
 
 To the Moon. Composed by the Sea-side, — on the Coast of Cumberland 346 
 
 To the Moon. Rydal. 347 
 
 POEMS, COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR, IN THE SUMMER 
 
 OF 1833. 
 
 Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown . . . 348 
 
 Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle 348 
 
 They called Thee Merry England, in old time ; .■ 348 
 
 To the River Greta, near Keswick . 349 
 
 To the River Derwent 349 
 
 In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth . 349 
 
 Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle . . . 349 
 
 Nun's Well, Brigham 349 
 
 To a Friend. On the Banks of the Derwent 349 
 
 Mary Queen of Scots. Landing at the Mouth of the Derwent, Workington. . . . 350 
 
 Stanzas suggested in a Steam-boat off Saint Bees' Heads, on the Coast of Cumberland . . 350 
 
 In the Channel, between the Coast of Cumberland and the Isle of Man ..... 352 
 
 At Sea off the Isle of Man 352 
 
 Desire we past illusions to recal ? 352 
 
 On entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man 352 
 
 By the Sea-shore, Isle of Man 352 
 
 Isle of Man 352 
 
 Isle of Man 353 
 
 By a Retired Mariner. (A Friend of the Author) 353 
 
 At Bala-Sala, Isle of Man. (Supposed to be written by a Friend.) 353 
 
 TynwaldHill 353 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Despond who will — i" heard a voice exclaim . . . . . . . . . .353 
 
 In the Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. During an Eclipse of the Sun, July 17 . . . = 353 
 
 On the Frith of Clyde. In a Steam-boat 354 
 
 On revisiting Dunolly Castle 354 
 
 The Dunolly Eagle 354 
 
 "Written in a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's Ossian 354 
 
 Cave of Staffa 355 
 
 Cave of Staffa. After the Crowd had departed 355 
 
 Cave of Staffa 355 
 
 Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the Entrance of the Cave 355 
 
 Iona 356 
 
 Iona. Upon Landing . 356 
 
 The Black Stones of Iona 356 
 
 Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell 356 
 
 Greenock 356 
 
 "There!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride 356 
 
 The River Eden, Cumberland . " 357 
 
 Monument of Mrs. Howard (by Nollekens), in Wetheral Church, near Corby, on the Banks of 
 
 the Eden 357 
 
 Suggested by the foregoing 357 
 
 Nunnery 357 
 
 Steamboats, Viaducts, and Railways ............ 357 
 
 The Monument commonly called Long Meg and her Daughters, near the River Eden . . . 357 
 
 Lowther 358 
 
 To the Earl of Lonsdale 358 
 
 The Somnambulist ' . . 358 
 
 To Cordelia M , Hallsteads, Ullswater 360 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 360 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 Expostulation and Reply 361 
 
 The Tables Turned. An evening Scene on the same Subject ..... . 361 
 
 Lines written in Early Spring 362 
 
 A Character 362 
 
 To my Sister 362 
 
 Simon Lee, the old Huntsman ; with an Incident in which he was concerned . . . . 363 
 
 Written in Germany, on one of the coldest Days of the Century . . . . . 364 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph 364 
 
 To the Daisy 365 
 
 Matthew 365 
 
 The two April Mornings 366 
 
 The Fountain. A Conversation ' . . . ... 366 
 
 Personal Talk 367 
 
 To the Spade of a Friend. (An Agriculturist.) Composed while we were labouring together in 
 
 his Pleasure-ground .............. 368 
 
 A Night Thought ... 369 
 
 Incident characteristic of a favourite Dog ........... 369 
 
 Tribute to the Memory of the same Dog .369 
 
 Fidelit y 370 
 
 Ode to Duty 379 
 
 Character of the Happy Warrior 37] 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Force of Prayer ; or, the Founding of Bolton Priory. A Tradition 372 
 
 A Fact, and an Imagination ; or, Canute and Alfred, on the Sea-shore 373 
 
 A little onward lend thy guiding hand 373 
 
 Ode to Lycoris 374 
 
 To the Same 374 
 
 The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 375 
 
 Upon the same Occasion 375 
 
 Memory 376 
 
 This Lawn, a carpet all alive 376 
 
 Humanity .........••••••. 377 
 
 Thought on the Seasons 378 
 
 To , upon the Birth of her First-born Child, March 1833 378 
 
 The Warning. A Secmel to the foregoing 379 
 
 If this great world of joy and pain 381 
 
 The Labourer's Noon-day Hymn 381 
 
 Ode, composed on May Morning 381 
 
 To May 382 
 
 Lines suggested by a Portrait from the Pencil of F. Stone 383 
 
 The foregoing Subject resumed 384 
 
 So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive 385 
 
 Upon seeing a coloured Drawing of the Bird of Paradise in an Album 385 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER. 
 
 Composed after reading a Newspaper of the Day 386 
 
 Upon the late General Fast. March, 1832 386 
 
 Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud . . . . . . . . . . .386 
 
 Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will ... ...... 386 
 
 In allusion to various recent Histories and Notices of the French Revolution .... 386 
 
 Continued 387 
 
 Concluded 387 
 
 Men of the Western World ! in Fate's dark book 387 
 
 To the Pennsylvanians . 387 
 
 At Bologna, in Remembrance of the late Insurrections, 1837 387 
 
 Continued ................ 387 
 
 Concluded 388 
 
 Young England — what is then become of Old 388 
 
 Feel for the wrongs to universal ken 388 
 
 SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 
 
 Suggested by the Yiew of Lancaster Castle (on the Road from the South) .... 389 
 
 Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law ............ 389 
 
 The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die 389 
 
 Is Death, when evil against good has fought 389 
 
 Not to the object specially designed 389 
 
 Ye brood of conscience — Spectres! that frequent . . . . . . ..390 
 
 Before the world had past her time of youth 390 
 
 Fit retribution, by the moral code , 390 
 
 Though to give timely warning and deter . 390 
 
 Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine 390 
 
 Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide 390 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 See the Condemned alone within his cell . . . . . . . . . . . 391 
 
 Conclusion 391 
 
 Apology 391 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Epistle to Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart. From the South-West Coast of Cumberland.— 1 811 392 
 
 Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty Years after its Composition 395 
 
 Gold and Silver Fishes in a Vase . . . . . . 395 
 
 Liberty. (Sequel to the above.) [Addressed to a Friend ; the Gold and Silver Fishes having 
 
 been removed to a Pool in the Pleasure-ground of Rydal Mount] 396 
 
 Poor Robin 397 
 
 The Gleaner. (Suggested by a Picture.) 398 
 
 To a Redbreast — (in Sickness.) 398 
 
 Floating Island . . . . .398 
 
 Ouce I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) .......... 399 
 
 To the Lady Fleming, on seeing the Foundation preparing for the Erection of Rydal Chapel, 
 
 Westmoreland ■ . 399 
 
 On the same Occasion .............. 400 
 
 The Horn of Egremont Castle . . . 401 
 
 Goody Blake and Harry Gill. A true Story 402 
 
 Prelude, prefixed to the Volume entitled " Poems chiefly of Early and Late Years." . . . 403 
 
 To a Child. Written in her Album 404 
 
 Lines written in the Album of the Countess of Lonsdale. Nov. 5, 1834 404 
 
 Grace Darling 405 
 
 The Russian Fugitive. — Part 1 406 
 
 Part II 407 
 
 Part III 408 
 
 Part IV " . . . 409 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., Leicestershire . .411 
 
 In a Garden of the Same . . . . . . . . . . . . . 411 
 
 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 . . . .411 
 
 For a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton 411 
 
 Written with a P encil upon a Stone in the Wall of the House (an Out-house), on the Island 
 
 at Grasmere ............... 412 
 
 Written with a Slate Pencil on a Stone, on the Side of the Mountain of Black Comb . . . 412 
 Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a Heap lying near a deserted Quarry 
 
 upon one of the Islands at Rydal 412 
 
 In these fair vales hath many a Tree 413 
 
 The massy Ways, carried across these heights . . . . . . . . ..413 
 
 Inscriptions supposed to be found in and near a Hermit's Cell 413 
 
 I. — Hopes what are they 1 — Beads of morning ......... 413 
 
 II. — Pause, Traveller ! whosoe'er thou be 414 
 
 III. — Hast thou seen with flash incessant 414 
 
 IV- — Near the Spring of the Hermitage • . .414 
 
 V. — Not seldom, clad in radiant vest 414 
 
 For the Spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent- water . .415 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER MODERNISED. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Prioress' Tale 416 
 
 The Cuckoo and the Nightingale 419 
 
 Troilus and Cresida • 423 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 
 
 The Old Cumberland Beggar 425 
 
 The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale 427 
 
 The Small Celandine 428 
 
 The Two Thieves ; or, the Last Stage of Avarice . . . . . . . . 428 
 
 Animal Tranquillity and Decay .........>•■• 429 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 Epitaphs translated from Chiabrera — 
 
 Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let the air . » . 430 
 
 Perhaps some needful service of the State . . . . - 430 
 
 Thou who movest onward with a mind . . . . . . . . . . 430 
 
 There never breathed a man who, when his life . . . . t . . .430 
 
 True is it that Ambrosio Salinero . . . . . . . . . . ..431 
 
 Destined to war from very infancy . . . . . . i ; . .431 
 
 flower of all that springs from gentle blood, . . . . . . . ..431 
 
 Not without heavy grief of heart did He . . . . . . . . . .431 
 
 Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi supplicates . 432 
 
 By a blest Husband guided, Mary came 432 
 
 Six months to six years added he remained . . . 432 
 
 Cenotaph 432 
 
 Epitaph in the Chapel-yard of Langdale, Westmoreland ........ 432 
 
 Address to the Scholars of the Village School of . . • . . .- . • .433 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir George 
 
 Beaumont ............... 434 
 
 To the Daisy 434 
 
 Elegiac Verses, in Memory of my Brother, John Wordsworth, Commander of the E.I. Company's 
 
 Ship the Earl of Abergavenny, in which he perished by Calamitous Shipwreck, Feb. 6, 1805 435 
 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 . . 436 
 Invocation to the Earth. February, 1816. . . . . . . . . . . . 436 
 
 Lines written 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 437 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas. Addressed to Sir G. H. B., upon the Death of his Sister-in-Law : . . 437 
 
 Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Coleorton Hall, the Seat of the late Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart. 438 
 Written after the Death of Charles Lamb . . ...... . . . 438 
 
 Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg ......... 440 
 
 Inscription for a Monument in Crosthwaite Church, in the Vale of Keswick .... 440 
 
 ODE. Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood . . . . 441 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE PRELUDE, OR GROWTH OF A POET'S MIND ; 
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEM. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Advertisement 444 
 
 Book I. Introduction. — Childhood and School-time 445 
 
 II. School-time (continued) 451 
 
 III. Residence at Cambridge 45 C 
 
 IV. Summer Vacation * 463 
 
 V. Books 467 
 
 VI. Cambridge and the Alps 474 
 
 VII. Residence in London 482 
 
 VIII. Retrospect. — Love of Nature leading to Love of Man 490 
 
 IX. Residence in France ............ 497 
 
 X. Residence in France (continued) 503 
 
 XI. Residence in France (concluded) 509 
 
 XII. Imagination and Taste, how impaired and restored 514 
 
 XIII. Imagination and Taste, how impaired and restored (concluded) . . . .517 
 
 XIV. Conclusion 521 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Dedication , 526 
 
 Preface to the Edition of 1814 . . 526 
 
 Book I. The Wanderer 528 
 
 II. The Solitary ' . 538 
 
 III. Despondency 547 
 
 IV. Despondency Corrected ............ 557 
 
 V. The Pastor. . 570 
 
 VI. The Church-yard among the Mountains . . . . . . . . . 580 
 
 VII. The Church-yard among the Mountains (continued) 592 
 
 VIII. The Parsonage 603 
 
 IX. Discourse of the Wanderer, and an Evening Visit to the Lake . . ... 609 
 
 NOTES . 619 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, ETC. ETC. 
 
 Preface to the Second Edition of several of the foregoing Poems, published, with an additional 
 
 Volume, under the Title of " Lyrical Ballads " 649 
 
 Appendix ................. 660 
 
 Essay, Supplementary to the Preface ........... 662 
 
 Dedication, prefixed to the Edition of 1815 674 
 
 Preface to the Edition of 1815 674 
 
 Postscript 681 
 
 Additional Poems 691 
 
 Index to the Poems 693 
 
 Index to the First Lines 698 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Of tho Poems in this class, "The Evening Walk" and" Descriptive Sketches" were first published in 1793. They 
 are reprinted with some alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their publication. 
 
 ******* 
 
 This notice, which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, " Descriptive Sketches," as it now stands. 
 The corrections, though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the 
 class of Juvenile Pieces. 
 
 1836. 
 
 EXTRACT 
 
 FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN ANTI- 
 CIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL. 
 
 Dear native regions, I foretell, 
 From what I feel at this farewell, 
 That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend, 
 And whensoe'er my course shall end, 
 If in that hour a single tie 
 Survive of local sympathy, 
 My soul will cast the backward view, 
 The longing look alone on you. 
 
 Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest 
 Far in the regions of the west, 
 Though to the vale no parting beam 
 Be given, not one memorial gleam, 
 A lingering light he fondly throws 
 On the dear hills where first he rose. 
 
 1786. 
 
 WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH 
 
 Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. 
 
 The kine are couched upon the dewy grass ; 
 
 The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, 
 
 Is cropping audibly 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, comes 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. 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 in. 
 AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 General Sketch of the Lakes — Author's regret of his youth 
 which was passed amongst them — Short description of 
 Noon — Cascade — Noon-tide Retreat — Precipice and 
 sloping Lights — Face of Nature as the Sun declines — 
 Mountain-farm, and the Cock — Slate-quarry — Sunset — 
 Superstition of the Country connected with that moment 
 — Swans — Female Beggar — Twilight-sounds — Western 
 Lights — Spirits — Night — Moonlight — Hope — Night- 
 sounds — Conclusion. 
 
 Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove 
 Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove ; 
 Where Derwent rests, and listens to the roar 
 That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore ; 
 Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads, 
 To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald meads ; 
 Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged 
 
 grounds, 
 Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds ; 
 Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander* sleeps 
 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps ; 
 Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore, 
 And memory of departed pleasures, more. 
 
 Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child, 
 The echoes of your rocks my carols wild : 
 The spirit sought not then, in cherished sadness, 
 A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. 
 In youth's keen eye the livelong day was bright, 
 The sun at morning, and the stars at night, 
 Alike, when first the bittern's hollow bill 
 Was heard, or woodcocks + roamed the moonlight 
 hill. 
 
 In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, 
 And hope itself was all I knew of pain ; 
 For then, the inexperienced heart would beat 
 At times, while young Content forsook her seat, 
 And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed, 
 Through passes yet unreached, a brighter road. 
 Alas ! the idle tale of man is found 
 Depicted in the dial's moral round ; 
 Hope with reflection blends her social rays 
 To gild the total tablet of his days ; 
 Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, 
 He knows but from its shade the present hour. 
 
 * These lines are only applicable to the middle part of 
 that lake. 
 
 + In the beginning of winter, ttiese mountains are fre- 
 quented by woodcocks, which in dark nights retire into 
 the woods. 
 
 But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain ? 
 To show what pleasures yet to me remain, 
 Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, 
 The history of a poet's evening hear ? 
 
 When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still, 
 Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill, 
 And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen, 
 Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between ; 
 When crowding cattle, checked by rails that make 
 A fence far stretched into the shallow lake, 
 Lashed the cool water with their restless tails, 
 Or from high points of rock looked out for fanning 
 
 gales ; 
 When school-boys stretched their length upon the 
 
 green ; 
 And round the broad-spread oak, a glimmering 
 
 scene, 
 In the rough fern-clad park, the herded deer 
 Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear ; 
 When horses in the sunburnt intake* stood, 
 And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, 
 Or tracked the passenger, in mute distress, 
 With forward neck the closing gate to press — 
 Then, while I wandered where the huddling rill 
 Brightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll \ 
 As by enchantment, an obscure retreat 
 Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. 
 While thick above the rill the branches close, 
 In rocky basin its wild waves repose, 
 Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green, 
 Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds be- 
 
 . tween ; 
 And its own twilight softens the whole scene, 
 Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine 
 On withered briars that o'er the crags recline ; 
 Save where, with sparkling foam, a small cascade 
 Illumines, from within, the leafy shade ; 
 Beyond, along the vista of the brook, 
 Where antique roots its bustling course o'erlook, 
 The eye reposes on a secret bridge J 
 Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge ; 
 There, bending o'er the stream, the listless swain 
 Lingers behind his disappearing wain. 
 — Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, 
 Blandusia's praise, wild stream, should yield to 
 
 thine ! 
 
 * The word intake is local, and signifies a mountain- 
 inelosure. 
 
 t Ghyll is also, I believe, a term confined to this coun- 
 try : ghyll, and dingle, have the same meaning. 
 
 t The reader who has made the tour of this country, will 
 recognise, in this description, the features which charac- 
 terise the lower waterfall in the grounds of Rydal. 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 Never shall ruthless minister of death 
 'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath; 
 No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with flowers, 
 No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers ; 
 The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove 
 A more benignant sacrifice approve — 
 I A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood 
 Of happy wisdom, meditating good, 
 Beholds, of all from her high powers required, 
 Much done, and much designed, and more desired, — 
 Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined, 
 Entire affection for all human kind. 
 
 Dear Brook, farewell ! To-morrow's noon again 
 Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain ; 
 But now the sun has gained his western road, 
 And eve's mild hour invites my steps abroad. 
 
 While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite 
 In many a whistling circle wheels her flight ; 
 Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace 
 Travel along the precipice's base ; 
 Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, 
 By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o'ergrown ; 
 Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle's beard ; 
 And restless stone-chat, all day long, is heard. 
 
 How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view 
 The spacious landscape change in form and hue ! 
 Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood 
 Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood ; 
 There, objects, by the searching beams betrayed, 
 Come forth, and here retire in purple shade ; 
 Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white, 
 Soften their glare before the mellow fight ; 
 The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide 
 Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house hide, 
 Shed from their sides, that face the sun's slant beam, 
 Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream : 
 Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud 
 Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving 
 
 shroud ; 
 The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire, 
 Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire. 
 
 Into a gradual calm the breezes sink, 
 A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink ; 
 There doth the twinkling aspen's foliage sleep, 
 And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deep : 
 And now, on every side, the surface breaks 
 Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks ; 
 Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright 
 With thousand thousand twinkling points of light ; 
 There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away, 
 
 Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray ; 
 And now the whole wide lake in deep repose 
 Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror glows, 
 Save where, along the shady western marge, 
 Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge. 
 
 Then' panniered train a group of potters goad, 
 Winding from side to side up the steep road ; 
 The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge 
 Shot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge; 
 Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse illume 
 Feeding 'mid purple heath, "green lings*," and 
 
 broom ; 
 While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds, 
 Downward the ponderous timber-wain resounds ; 
 In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song, 
 Dashed o'er the rough rock, lightly leaps along ; 
 From lonesome chapel at the mountain's feet, 
 Three humble bells their rustic chime repeat ; 
 Sounds from the water-side the hammered boat ; 
 And Masted quarry thunders, heard remote ! 
 
 Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods, 
 Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling floods, 
 Not undefightful are the simplest charms, 
 Found by the grassy door of mountain-farms. 
 
 Sweetly ferociousf, round his native walks, 
 
 Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch stalks ; 
 
 Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread : 
 
 ■tf 
 A crest of purple tops the warrior's head. 
 
 Bright sparks Ins black and rolling eye-ball hurls 
 
 Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls ; 
 
 On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat, 
 
 Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote : 
 
 Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings, 
 
 While, flapped with conscious pride, resound Ins 
 
 wings ! 
 
 Where, mixed with graceful birch, the sombrous 
 
 pine 
 And yew-tree o'er the silver rocks recline ; 
 I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, 
 Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous 
 
 wains : 
 How busy all the enormous hive within, 
 While Echo dallies with its various din ! 
 Some (hear you not their chisels' clinking sound ?) 
 
 * "Vivid rings of green." — greenwood's poem on 
 
 SHOOTING. 
 
 t " Dolcemente feroce." — Tasso. — In this description of 
 the cock, I remembered a spirited one of the same anima] 
 in L'Agriculture, ou Les Georgiques Francoises, of M. 
 Rossuet. 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound ; 
 Some, dim between the lofty cliffs descried, 
 O'erwalk the slender plank from side to side ; 
 These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring, 
 In airy baskets hanging, work and sing. 
 
 Just where a cloud above the mountain rears 
 An edge all flame, the broadening sun appears ; 
 A long blue bar its segis orb divides, 
 And breaks the spreading of its golden tides ; 
 And now that orb has touched the purple steep 
 Whose softened image penetrates the deep. 
 'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire, 
 With towers and woods, a " prospect all on fire ; " 
 While coves and secret hollows, through a ray 
 Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. 
 Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between 
 Shines in the light with more than earthly green : 
 Deep yellow beams the scattered stems illume, 
 Far in the level forest's central gloom : 
 Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, 
 Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale, — 
 The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, 
 Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted 
 
 flocks. 
 Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots 
 On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots ; 
 The druid-stones a brightened ring unfold ; 
 And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold ; 
 Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, 
 Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill *. 
 
 In these secluded vales, if village fame, 
 Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim ; 
 When up"the hills, as now, retired the light, 
 Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd's sight. 
 
 The form appears of one that spurs his steed 
 Midway along the hill with desperate speed ; 
 Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while all 
 Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. 
 Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show 
 Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro ; 
 At intervals imperial banners stream, 
 And now the van reflects the solar beam ; 
 The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam. 
 While silent stands the admiring crowd below, 
 Silent the visionary warriors go, 
 Winding in ordered pomp their upward way •)* 
 Till the last banner of the long array 
 
 * From Thomson. 
 ' f See a description of an appearance of this kind in 
 Clark's Survey of the Lakes, accompanied by vouchers of 
 its veracity, that may amuse the reader. 
 
 Has disappeared, and every trace is fled 
 Of splendor — save the beacon's spiry head 
 Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red. 
 
 Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail, 
 On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale ; 
 And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines, 
 Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines ; 
 'Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray 
 Where, winding on along some secret bay, 
 The swan uplifts his chest, and backward flings 
 His neck, a varying arch, between his towering 
 
 wings : 
 The eye that marks the gliding creature sees 
 How graceful, pride can be, and how majestic, ease. 
 While tender cares and mild domestic loves 
 With furtive watch pursue her as she moves. 
 The female with a meeker charm succeeds, 
 And her brown little-ones around her leads, 
 Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, 
 Or playing wanton with the floating grass. 
 She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride 
 Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side ; 
 Alternately they mount her back, and rest 
 Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest. 
 
 Long may they float upon this flood serene ; 
 Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and green, 
 Where leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, 
 And breathes in peace the lily of the vale ! 
 Yon isle, which feels not even the milk-maid's feet, 
 Yet hears her song, " by distance made more sweet," 
 Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like bower ; 
 Green water-rushes overspread the floor ; 
 Long grass and willows form the woven wall, 
 And swings above the roof the poplar tall. 
 Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk, 
 They crush with brpad black feet then' flowery 
 
 walk ; 
 Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at mom 
 The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow horn ; 
 Involve their serpent-necks in changeful rings, 
 Rolled wantonly between their slippery wings, 
 Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, 
 Force half upon the wave their cumbrous flight. 
 
 Fair Swan ! by all a mother's joys caressed, 
 Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee 
 
 blessed ; 
 When with her infants, from some shady seat 
 By the lake's edge, she rose — to face the noontide 
 
 heat ; 
 Or taught their limbs along the dusty road 
 A few short steps to totter with their load. 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 I see her now, denied to lay her head, 
 On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed, 
 Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry, 
 By pointing to the gliding moon on high. 
 — When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide, 
 And fireless are the vallies far and wide, 
 Where the brook brawls along the public road 
 Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching broad, 
 Oft has she taught them on her lap to lay 
 The shining glow-worm ; or, in heedless play, 
 Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted ; 
 While others, not unseen, are free to shed 
 Green unmolested light upon their mossy bed. 
 
 Oh ! when the sleety showers her path assail, 
 And like a torrent roars the headstrong gale ; 
 No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, 
 Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold ; 
 Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield, 
 And faint the fire a dying heart can yield ! 
 Press the sad kiss, fond mother ! vainly fears 
 Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears ; 
 No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms, 
 Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms ! 
 
 Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, 
 Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, 
 Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, 
 And feeding pike starts from the water's edge, 
 Or the swan stirs the reeds, Ins neck and bill 
 Wetting, that drip upon the water still ; 
 And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, 
 Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. 
 
 Now, with religious awe, the farewell light 
 Blends with the solemn colouring of night ; 
 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, 
 And round the west's proud lodge their shadows 
 
 throw, 
 Like Una shining on her gloomy way, 
 The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray ; 
 Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small, 
 Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall ; 
 Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale 
 Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. 
 With restless interchange at once the bright 
 Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. 
 No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze 
 On lovelier spectacle in faery days ; 
 When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, 
 Brushing with lucid wands the water's face ; 
 While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps, 
 Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps. 
 — The lights are vanished from the watery plains : 
 
 No wreck of all the pageantry remains. 
 Unheeded night has overcome the vales : 
 On the dark earth the wearied vision fails ; 
 The latest lingerer of the forest train, 
 The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain ; 
 Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more, 
 Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar ; 
 And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, 
 Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps appear. 
 — Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel 
 A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, 
 And ever, as we fondly muse, we find 
 The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. 
 Stay ! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay ! 
 Ah no ! as fades the vale, they fade away : 
 Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains ; 
 Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains. 
 
 The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread 
 Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed, 
 From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon 
 Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, 
 While with a hoary fight she frosts the ground, 
 And pours a deeper blue to ^Ether's bound ; 
 Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold 
 In robes of azure, fleecy -white, and gold. 
 
 Above yon eastern hill, where darkness broods 
 O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods ; 
 Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace, 
 Even now she shews, half-veiled, her lovely face : 
 Across the gloomy valley flings her light, 
 Far to the western slopes with hamlets white ; 
 And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew, 
 To the green com of summer, autumn's hue. 
 
 Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn 
 Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own 
 
 morn, 
 'Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer 
 The weary hil!s, impervious, blackening near ; 
 Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while 
 On darling spots remote her tempting smile. 
 
 Even now she decks for me a distant scene, 
 (For dark and broad the gulf of time between) 
 Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, 
 (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way ; 
 How fan.' its lawns and sheltering woods appear ! 
 How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear !) 
 Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, 
 'Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs 
 (For sighs will ever trouble human breath) 
 Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death. 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, 
 And, rimy without speck, extend the plains : 
 The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays 
 Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays ; 
 From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide 
 The hflls, while gleams below the azure tide ; 
 Time softly treads ; throughout the landscape 
 
 breathes 
 A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths 
 Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood, 
 Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood. 
 
 The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day, 
 Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. 
 Ah' listens, like the sleeping water, still, 
 To catch the spiritual music of the hill, 
 Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, 
 Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep, 
 The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore, 
 The boat's first motion — made with dashing oar : 
 Sound of closed gate, across the water borne, 
 Hurrying the timid hare through rustling corn ; 
 The sportive outcry of the mocking owl ; 
 And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl ; 
 The distant forge's swinging thump profound ; 
 Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 
 
 1787, 8, & 9. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN WHTLE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. 
 
 How richly glows the water's breast 
 Before us, tinged with evening hues, 
 While, facing thus the crimson west, 
 The boat her silent course pursues ! 
 And see how dark the backward stream ! 
 A little moment past so smiling ! 
 And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 
 Some other loiterers beguiling. 
 
 Such views the youthful Bard allure ; 
 But, heedless of the following gloom, 
 He deems their 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 I 
 
 1789. 
 
 REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS, 
 
 COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND. 
 
 Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 
 Thames ! that other bards may see 
 As lovely visions by thy side 
 As now, fair river ! come to me. 
 glide, fair stream ! for ever so, 
 Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 
 Till all our minds for ever flow 
 As thy deep waters now are flowing. 
 
 Vain thought ! — Yet be as now thou art, 
 That in thy waters may be seen 
 The image of a poet's heart, 
 How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 
 Such as did once the Poet bless, 
 Who murmuring here a later * ditty, 
 Could find no refuge from distress 
 But in the milder grief of pity. 
 
 Now let us, as we float along, 
 For Mm 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. 
 
 1789. 
 
 VI. 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 
 
 TAKEN 
 DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG THE ALPS. 
 
 TO 
 THE REV. ROBERT JONES, 
 
 FELLOW OF ST. JOHIl's COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Dear Sib, 
 
 However desirous I might have been of giving 
 you proofs of the high place you hold in my esteem, I 
 should have been cautious of wounding your delicacy by 
 thus publicly addressing you, had not the circumstance of 
 our having been companions among the Alps, seemed to 
 give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any 
 scruples which your modesty might otherwise have 
 suggested. 
 
 * Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last writ- 
 ten, I believe, of the poems which were published during 
 his life-time. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES, &c. 
 
 In inscribing thislittle work to you, I consult my heart. 
 You know well how great is the difference between two 
 companions lolling in a post-chaise, and two travellers 
 plodding slowly along the road, side by side, each with 
 his little knapsack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How 
 much more of heart between the two latter ! 
 
 I am happy in being conscious that I shall have one 
 reader who will approach the conclusion of thesefew pages 
 with regret. You they must certainly interest, in remind- 
 ing you of moments to which you can hardly look back 
 without a pleasure not the less dear from a shade of me- 
 lancholy. You will meet with few images without recol- 
 lecting the spot where we observed them together ; 
 consequently, whatever is feeble in my design, or spiritless 
 in my colouring, will be amply supplied by your own 
 memory. 
 
 With still greater propriety I might have inscribed to 
 you a description of some of the features of your native 
 mountains, through which we have wandered together, in 
 the same manner, with so much pleasure. But the sea- 
 sunsets, which give such splendour to the vale of Chvyd, 
 Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bethgelert, 
 Menai and her Druids, the Alpine steeps of the Conway, 
 and the still more interesting windings of the wizard stream 
 of the Dee, remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that 
 my pencil may never be exercised on these subjects, I 
 cannot let slip this opportunity of thus publicly assuring 
 you with how much affection and esteem 
 
 I am, dear Sir, 
 
 Most sincerely yours, 
 
 W. WORDSWORTH. 
 London, 1793. 
 
 Happiness (if she had been to be found on earth) among 
 the charms of Nature — Pleasures of the pedestrian 
 Traveller — Author crosses France to the Alps — Present 
 state of the Grande Chartreuse— Lake of Como — Time, 
 Sunset — Same Scwe, Twilight — Same Scene, Morning ; 
 it3 voluptuous Character ; Old man and forest-cottage 
 music — River Tusa — Via Mala and Grison Gipsy — 
 Sckellenen-thal — Lake of Uri — Stormy sunset — Chapel 
 of William Tell — Force of local emotion — Chamois- 
 chaser — View of the higher Alps — manner of life of a 
 Swiss mountaineer, interspersed with views of the higher 
 Alps — Golden age of the Alps — Life and views continued 
 — Ranz des Vaches, famous Swiss Air — Abbey of Einsied- 
 len and its pilgrims — Valley of Chamouny — Mont Blanc 
 — Slavery of Savoy — Influence of liberty on cottage-happi- 
 ness — France — Wish for the Extirpation of slavery — 
 Conclusion. 
 
 Were there, below, a spot of holy ground 
 Where from distress a refuge might be found, 
 And solitude prepare the soul for heaven ; 
 Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given 
 Where falls the purple morning far and wide 
 In flakes of light upon the mountain side ; 
 Where with loud voice the power of water shakes 
 The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes. 
 
 Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, 
 Who at the call of summer quits his home, 
 
 And plods through some wide realm o'er vale and 
 
 height, 
 Though seeking only holiday delight ; 
 At least, not owning to himself an aim 
 To which the sage would give a prouder name. 
 No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, 
 Though every passing zephyr whispers joy ; 
 Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, 
 Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. 
 For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn ; 
 And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn ! 
 Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, 
 And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread : 
 Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye I 
 Upward he looks — " and calls it luxury :" 
 Kind Nature's charities his steps attend ; 
 In every babbling brook he finds a friend ; 
 While chastening thoughts of sweetest use,bestowed 
 By wisdom, moralise his pensive road. 
 Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower, 
 To his spare meal he calls the passing poor ; 
 He views the sun uplift his golden fire, 
 Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre * ; 
 Blesses the moon that comes with kindly ray, 
 To fight him shaken by his rugged way. 
 Back from his sight no bashful children steal ; 
 He sits a brother at the cottage-meal ; 
 His humble looks no shy restraint impart ; 
 Around him plays at will the virgin heart. 
 While unsuspended wheels the village dance, 
 The maidens eye him with enquiring glance, 
 Much wondering by what fit of crazing care, 
 Or desperate love, bewildered, he came there. 
 
 A hope, that prudence could not then approve, 
 That clung to Nature with a truant's love, 
 O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps led ; 
 Her files of road-elms, high above my head 
 In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze ; 
 Or where her pathways straggle as they please 
 By lonely farms and secret villages. 
 But lo ! the Alps ascending white in air, 
 Toy with the sun and glitter from afar. 
 
 And now, emerging from the forest's gloom, 
 I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy doom. 
 Whither is fled that Power whose frown severe 
 Awed sober Reason till she crouched in fear ? 
 That Silence, once in deathlike fetters bound, 
 Chains that were loosened only by the sound 
 Of holv rites chanted in measured round % 
 
 * The lyre of Memnon is reported to have emitted 
 melancholy or cheerful tones, as it was touched by the 
 sun's evening or morning rays. 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 — The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms, 
 The cloister startles at the gleam of arms. 
 The thundering tube the aged angler hears, 
 Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps away his 
 
 tears. 
 Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled heads, 
 Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night o'er- 
 
 spreads ; 
 Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, 
 And start the astonished shades at female eyes. 
 From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay, 
 And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. 
 A viewless flight of laughing Demons mock 
 The Cross, by angels planted * on the aerial rock. 
 The "parting Genius " sighs with hollow breath 
 Along the mystic streams of Life and Death +. 
 Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds 
 Portentous through her old woods' trackless 
 
 bounds, 
 Vallombre J, 'mid her falling fanes, deplores, 
 For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. 
 
 More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves 
 Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. 
 No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps 
 Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. 
 — To towns, whose shades of no rude noise com- 
 plain, 
 From ringing team apart and grating wain — 
 To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound, 
 Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, 
 Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, 
 And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling — 
 The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines ; 
 And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. 
 The loitering traveller hence, at evening, sees 
 From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees ; 
 Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maids 
 Tend the small harvest of then* garden glades ; 
 Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view 
 Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and blue, 
 And track the yellow lights from steep to steep, 
 As up the opposing hills they slowly creep. 
 Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed 
 In golden light ; half hides itself in shade : 
 While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire, 
 Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire : 
 There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw 
 Rich golden verdure on the lake below. 
 
 * Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the spiry rocks 
 of Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being 
 inaccessible. 
 
 f Names of rivers at the Chartreuse. 
 
 t Name of one of the valleys of the Chartreuse. 
 
 Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore, 
 And steals into the shade the lazy oar ; 
 Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs,. 
 And amorous music on the water dies. 
 
 How blest, delicious scene ! the eye that greets 
 Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats ; 
 Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales 
 Thy cliffs ; the endless waters of thy vales ; 
 Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, 
 Each with its household boat beside the door ; 
 Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky ; 
 Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, on 
 
 high ; 
 That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descried 
 Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, 
 Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted 
 
 woods 
 Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods ; 
 — Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or 
 
 grey, 
 'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning's ray 
 Slow- travelling down the western hills, to' enfold 
 Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold ; 
 Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bell 
 Calls forth the woodman from his desert cell, 
 And quickens the blithe sound of oars that pass 
 Along the steaming lake, to early mass. 
 But now farewell to each and all — adieu 
 To every charm, and last and chief to you, 
 Ye lovely maidens that hi noontide shade 
 Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade ; 
 To all that binds the soul in powerless trance, 
 Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance ; 
 Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume 
 The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. 
 — Alas ! the very murmur of the streams 
 Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams, 
 While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell 
 On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, 
 Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge, 
 And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge. 
 
 Yet are thy softer arts with power indued 
 To soothe and cheer the poor man's solitude. 
 By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's home 
 Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam. 
 But once I pierced the mazes of a wood 
 In which a cabin undeserted stood ; 
 There an old man an olden measure scanned 
 On a rude viol touched with withered hand. 
 As lambs or fawns m April clustering lie 
 Under a hoary oak's thin canopy, 
 Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward eye, 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES, &c. 
 
 His children's children listened to the sound ; 
 — A Hermit with his family around ! 
 
 But let us hence ; for fair Locarno smiles 
 Embowered in walnut slopes and citron isles : 
 Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, 
 Where, 'mid dim towers and woods, her * waters 
 
 gleam. 
 From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire 
 The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspire 
 To where afar rich orange lustres glow 
 Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and 
 
 snow : 
 Or, led where Via MaJa's chasms confine 
 The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, 
 Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious gloom 
 His burning eyes with fearful light illume. 
 
 The mind condemned, without reprieve, to go 
 O'er life's long deserts with its charge of woe, 
 With sad congratulation joins the train 
 Where beasts and men together o'er the plain 
 Move on— a mighty caravan of pain : 
 Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering 
 
 brings, 
 Freshening (.he wilderness with shades and springs. 
 — There be whose lot far otherwise is cast : 
 Sole human tenant of the piny waste, 
 By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, 
 A nursling babe her only comforter ; 
 Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, 
 A cowering shape half hid in curling smoke ! 
 
 When lightning among clouds and mountain- 
 snows 
 Predominates, and darkness comes and goes, 
 And the fierce torrent, at the flashes broad 
 Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring road — 
 She seeks a covert from the battering shower 
 In the roofed bridge f ; the bridge, in that dread 
 
 hour, 
 Itself all trembling at the torrent's power. 
 
 Nor is she more at ease on some still night, 
 When not a star supplies the comfort of its light ; 
 Only the waning moon hangs dull and red 
 Above a melancholy mountain's head, 
 Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant sighs, 
 Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes ; 
 
 * The river along whose banks you descend in crossing 
 the Alps by the Simplon Pass. 
 
 t Most of the bridges among the Alps are of wood, and 
 covered : these bridges have a heavy appearance, and 
 rather injure the effect of the scenery in some places. 
 
 Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, 
 Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock, 
 Listens, or quakes while from the forest's gulf 
 Howls near and nearer yet the famished wolf. 
 
 From the green vale of Urseren smooth and wide 
 Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our guide ; 
 By rocks that, shutting out the blessed day, 
 Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they ; 
 By cells * upon whose image, while he prays, 
 The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to gaze ; 
 By many a votive death-cross -(- planted near, 
 And watered duly with the pious tear, 
 That faded silent from the upward eye 
 Unmoved with each rude form of peril nigh ; 
 Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves 
 Alike in whelming snows, and roaring waves. 
 
 But soon a peopled region on the sight 
 Opens — a little world of calm delight ; 
 Where mists, suspended on the expiring gale, 
 Spread rooflike o'er the deep secluded vale, 
 And beams of evening slipping in between, 
 Gently illuminate a sober scene : — 
 Here, on the brown wood-cottages J they sleep, 
 There, over rock or sloping pasture creep. 
 On as we journey, in clear view displayed, 
 The still vale lengthens underneath its shade 
 Of low-hung vapour : on the freshened mead 
 The green light sparkles ; — the dim bowers recede. 
 While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull, 
 And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, 
 In solemn shapes before the admiring eye 
 Dilated hang the misty pines on high, 
 Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers, 
 And antique castles seen through gleamy showers. 
 
 From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake ! 
 To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake 
 In Nature's pristine majesty outspread, 
 Winds neither road nor path for foot to tread : 
 The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch, 
 Far o'er the water, hung with groves of beech ; 
 Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend, 
 Nor stop but where creation seems to end. 
 Yet here and there, if mid the savage scene 
 Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, 
 
 * The Catholic religion prevails here : these cells are, as 
 is well known, very common in the Catholic countries, 
 planted, like the Roman tombs, along the road side. 
 
 f Crosses, commemorative of the deaths of travellers 
 by the fall of snow, and other accidents, are very common 
 along this dreadful road. 
 
 % The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are all 
 built of wood. 
 
10 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep 
 
 To reach a small wood-hut hung boldly on the steep. 
 
 — Before those thresholds (never can they know 
 
 The face of traveller passing to and fro,) 
 
 No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell 
 
 For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell ; 
 
 Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes, 
 
 Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes ; 
 
 The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat 
 
 To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat. 
 
 Yet thither the world's business finds its way 
 
 At times, and tales unsought beguile the day, 
 
 And there are those fond thoughts which Solitude, 
 
 However stern, is powerless to exclude. 
 
 There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail 
 
 Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale ; 
 
 At midnight listens till his parting oar, 
 
 And its last echo, can be heard no more. 
 
 And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons cry, 
 Amid tempestuous vapours driving by, 
 Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear 
 That common growth of earth, the foodful ear ; 
 Where the green apple shrivels on the spray, 
 And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest 
 
 ray; 
 Contentment shares the desolate domain 
 With Independence, child of high Disdain. 
 Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies, 
 Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, 
 And grasps by fits her sword, and often eyes ; 
 And sometimes, as from rock to rock she bounds 
 The Patriot nymph starts at imagined sounds, 
 And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, 
 Whether some old Swiss air hath checked her haste 
 Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between the blast. 
 
 Swoln with incessant rains from hour to hour, 
 All day the floods a deepening murmur pour : 
 The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight : 
 Dark is the region as with coming night ; 
 But what a sudden burst of overpowering light ! 
 Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, 
 Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form ! 
 Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine 
 The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline ; 
 Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold, 
 At once to pillars turned that flame with gold : 
 Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shim 
 The west, that burns like one dilated sun, 
 A crucible of mighty compass, felt 
 By mountains, glowing till they seem to melt. 
 
 But, lo ! the boatman, overawed, before 
 The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar ; 
 
 Confused the Marathonian tale appears, 
 While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. 
 And who, that walks where men of ancient days 
 Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise 
 Feels not the spirit of the place control, 
 Or rouse and agitate his labouring soul ? 
 Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, 
 Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, 
 On Zutphen's plain ; or on that highland dell, 
 Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tell 
 What high resolves exalt the tenderest thought 
 Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, 
 Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's hap- 
 piest sigh, 
 And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye ; 
 Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired, 
 And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas " expired ? 
 
 But now with other mind I stand alone 
 Upon the summit of this naked cone, 
 And watch the fearless chamois-hunter chase 
 His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate space, 
 * Through vacant worlds where Nature never gave 
 A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, 
 Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep ; 
 Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and Motion 
 
 sleep ; 
 Where silent Hours then' death-like sway extend, 
 Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to rend 
 Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned 
 In some dense wood or gulf of snow profound, 
 Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive 
 
 sound. 
 — 'Tis his, while wandering on from height to 
 
 height, 
 To see a planet's pomp and steady light 
 In the least star of scarce-appearing night ; 
 While the pale moon moves near him, on the bound 
 Of ether, shining with diminished round, 
 And far and wide the icy summits blaze, 
 Rejoicing in the glory of her rays : 
 To him the day-star glitters small and bright, 
 Shorn of its beams, insufferably white, 
 And he can look beyond the sun, and view 
 Those fast-receding depths of sable blue 
 Flying till vision can no more pursue ! 
 — At once bewildering mists around him close, 
 And cold and hunger are his least of woes ; 
 The Demon of the snow, with angry roar 
 Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. 
 Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits sink ; 
 
 * For most of the images in the next sixteen verses, I 
 am indebted to M. Raymond's interesting observations 
 annexed to his translation of Coxe's Tour in Switzerland. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES, &c. 
 
 11 
 
 Bread has he none, the snow must be his drink ; 
 And, ere his eyes can close upon the day, 
 The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. 
 
 Now couch thyself where, heard with fear afar, 
 Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar ; 
 Or rather stay to taste the mild delights 
 Of pensive Underwalden's* pastoral heights. 
 — Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has seen 
 The native Genii walk the mountain green % 
 Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, 
 Soft music o'er the aerial summit steal ? 
 While o'er the desert, answering every close, 
 Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. 
 — And sure there is a secret Power that reigns 
 Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, 
 Nought but the chalets^, flat and bare, on high 
 Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky ; 
 Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep, 
 And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep. 
 How still ! no irreligious sound or sight 
 Rouses the soul from her severe delight. 
 An idle voice the sabbath region fills 
 Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, 
 And with that voice accords the soothing sound 
 Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round ; 
 Faint wail of eagle melting into blue 
 Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady sughX; 
 The solitary heifer's deepened low ; 
 Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow. 
 All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh, 
 Blend in a music of tranquillity ; 
 Save when, a stranger seen below, the boy 
 Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. 
 
 When, from the sunny breast of open seas, 
 And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern breeze 
 Comes on to gladden April with the sight 
 Of green isles widening on each snow-clad height : 
 When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, 
 And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, 
 The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, 
 Leaving to silence the deserted vale ; 
 And like the Patriarchs in their simple age 
 Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to stage ; 
 High and more high in summer's heat they go, 
 
 * The people of this Canton are supposed to be of a more 
 melancholy disposition than the other inhabitants of the 
 Alps ; this, if true, may proceed from their living more 
 secluded. 
 
 t This picture is from the middle region of the Alps. 
 Chalets are summer huts for the Swiss herdsmen. 
 
 t Sugh, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the 
 wind through the trees. 
 
 And hear the rattling thunder far below ; 
 Or steal beneath the mountains, half-deterred, 
 Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing herd. 
 
 One I behold who, 'cross the foaming flood, 
 Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood ; 
 Another high on that green ledge ; — he gained 
 The tempting spot with every sinew strained ; 
 And downward thence a knot of grass he throws, 
 Foo<? .ur his beasts in time of winter snows. 
 — Far different fife from what Tradition hoar 
 Transmits of happier lot in times of yore ! 
 Then Summer lingered long ; and honey flowed 
 From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode : 
 Continual waters welling cheered the waste, 
 And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste : 
 Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, 
 Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled : 
 Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare, 
 To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare. 
 Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land, 
 And forced the full-swoln udder to demand, 
 Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand. 
 Thus does the father to his children tell 
 Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. 
 Alas ! that human guilt provoked the rod 
 Of angry Nature to avenge her God. 
 Still, Nature, ever just, to liim imparts 
 Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. 
 
 'Tis morn : with gold the verdant mountain 
 glows ; 
 More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. 
 Far-stietched beneath the many-tinted hills, 
 A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, 
 A solemn sea ! whose billows wide around 
 Stand motionless, to awful silence bound : 
 Pines, on the coast, through mist then.' tops uprear, 
 That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear. 
 A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, 
 Gapes in the centre of the sea — and through 
 That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound 
 Innumerable streams with roar profound. 
 Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds, 
 And merry flageolet ; the low of herds, 
 The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling bell, 
 Talk, laughter, and perchance a church-tower knell : 
 Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed 
 And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised : 
 Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less 
 Alive to independent happiness, 
 Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at even-tide 
 Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side : 
 For as the pleasures of his simple day 
 
12 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Beyond his native valley seldom stray, 
 Nought round its darling precincts can he find 
 But hrings some past enjoyment to his mind ; 
 While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's urn, 
 Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return. 
 
 Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, 
 Was West as free — for he was Nature's child. 
 He, all superior hut his God disdained, 
 Walked none restraining, and by none restrained: 
 Confessed no law but what his reason taught, 
 Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. 
 As man in his primeval dower arrayed 
 The image of his glorious Sire displayed, 
 Even so, by faithful Nature guarded, here 
 The traces of primeval Man appear ; 
 The simple dignity no forms debase ; 
 The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace : 
 The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, 
 His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword ; 
 — Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared 
 With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." 
 
 And, as his native hills encircle ground 
 For many a marvellous victory renowned, 
 The work of Freedom daring to oppose, 
 With few in arms *, innumerable foes, 
 When to those famous fields his steps are led, 
 An unknown power connects him with the dead : 
 For images of other worlds are there ; 
 Awful the light, and holy is the air. 
 Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul, 
 Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll ; 
 His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain, 
 Beyond the senses and their little reign. 
 
 And oft, when that dread vision hath past by, 
 He holds with God himself communion high, 
 There where the peal of swelling torrents fills 
 The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills ; 
 Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow 
 Reclined, he sees, above him and below, 
 Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow ; 
 While needle peaks of granite shooting bare 
 Tremble in ever- varying tints of air. 
 
 * Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very 
 small numbers have gained over their oppressors, the 
 house of Austria ; and, in particular, to one fought at 
 Naeffels near Glarus, where three hundred and thirty men 
 are said to have defeated an army of between fifteen and 
 twenty thousand Austrians. Scattered over the valley are 
 to he found eleven stones, with this inscription, 1388, the 
 year the battle was fought, marking out, as I was told upon 
 the spot, the several places where the Austrians,attempting 
 to make a stand, were repulsed anew. 
 
 And when a gathering weight of shadows brown 
 
 Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down ; 
 
 And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and 
 
 storms *, 
 Uplift in quiet their illumined forms, 
 In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, 
 Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red — 
 Awe in his breast with holiest love unites, 
 And the near heavens impart their own delights. 
 
 When downward to his winter hut he goes, 
 Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows ; 
 That hut which on the hills so oft employs 
 His thoughts, the central point of all his joys. 
 And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, 
 Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, 
 So to the homestead, where the grandsire tends 
 A little prattling child, he oft descends, 
 To glance a look upon the well-matched pair; 
 Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. 
 There, safely guarded by the woods behind, 
 He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, 
 Hears Winter calling all his terrors round, 
 And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the 
 sound. 
 
 Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures 
 
 glide, 
 Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride ; 
 The bound of all his vanity, to deck, 
 With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's neck ; 
 Well pleased upon some simple annual feast, 
 Remembered half the year and hoped the rest, 
 If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, 
 Of thrice ten summers dignify the board. 
 — Alas ! in every clime a flying ray 
 Is all we have to cheer our wintry way ; 
 And here the unwilling mind may more than 
 
 trace 
 The general sorrows of the human race : 
 The churlish gales of penury, that blow 
 Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of snow, 
 To them the gentle groups of bliss deny 
 That on the noon-day bank of leisure he. 
 Yet more ; — compelled by Powers which only 
 
 That solitary man disturb their reign, 
 Powers that support an unremitting strife 
 With all the tender charities of life, 
 Full oft the father, when his sons have grown 
 To manhood, seems then* title to disown ; 
 
 * As Schreck-Horn, the pike of terror; Wetter-Horn, 
 the pike of storms, &c. &c. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES, &c. 
 
 13 
 
 And from his nest amid the storms of heaven 
 Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven ; 
 With stem composure watches to the plain — 
 And never, eagle-like, beholds again ! 
 
 When long-familiar joys are all resigned, 
 Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind ? 
 Lo ! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves, 
 Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves ; 
 O'er the curled waters Alpine measures swell, 
 And search the affections to their inmost cell ; 
 Sweet poison spreads along the listener's veins, 
 Turning past pleasures into mortal pains ; 
 Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave, 
 Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave.* 
 
 Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume ! 
 Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills 
 
 illume ! 
 Fresh gales and dews of life's delicious morn. 
 And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return ! 
 Alas ! the little joy to man allowed, 
 Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud ; 
 Or like the beauty in a flower installed, 
 Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. 
 Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care, 
 And taught that pain is pleasure's natural heir, 
 We still confide in more than we can know ; 
 Death would be else the favourite friend of woe. 
 
 . 'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine, 
 Between interminable tracts of pine, 
 Within a temple stands an awful shrine, 
 By an uncertain light revealed, that falls 
 On the mute Image and the troubled walls. 
 Oh ! give not me that eye of hard disdain 
 That views, undimmed, Einsiedlen's f wretched 
 
 fane. 
 While ghastly faces through the gloom appear, 
 Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear ; 
 While prayer contends with silenced agony, 
 Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 
 If the sad grave of human ignorance bear 
 One flower of hope — oh, pass and leave it there ! 
 
 The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire, 
 Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire : 
 Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day 
 Close on the remnant of their weary way ; 
 
 * The well-known effect of. the famous air, called in 
 French Ranz des Vaches, upon the Swiss troops. 
 
 t This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by 
 multitudes, from every corner of the Catholic world, 
 labouring under mental or bodily afflictions. 
 
 While they are drawing toward the sacred floor 
 Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw- 
 no more. 
 How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste 
 The fountains * reared for them amid the waste ! 
 Their thirst they slake : — they wash their toil- 
 worn feet, 
 And some with tears of joy each other greet. 
 Yes, I must see you when ye first behold 
 Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, 
 In that glad moment will for you a sigh 
 Be heaved, of charitable sympathy ; 
 In that glad moment when your hands are prest 
 In mute devotion on the thankful breast ! 
 
 Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields 
 With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields : 
 Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, 
 And with wild flowers and blooming orchards 
 
 blend ; — 
 A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns 
 Of purple fights and ever- vernal plains ; 
 Here all the seasons revel hand in hand : 
 'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned, 
 They sport beneath that mountain's matchless 
 
 height 
 That holds no commerce with the summer night. 
 From age to age, throughout his lonely bounds 
 The crash of ruin fitfully resounds ; 
 Appalling havoc ! but serene his brow, 
 Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow ; 
 Glitter the stars above, and all is black below. 
 
 What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh, 
 While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, 
 That not for thy reward, unrivalled Vale ! 
 Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale ; 
 That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed to pine 
 And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, 
 To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. 
 
 Hail Freedom ! whether it was mine to stray, 
 With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way, 
 On the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors, 
 Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores ; 
 To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, 
 And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows ; 
 Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails, 
 That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, 
 While the remotest hamlets blessings share 
 In thy loved presence known, and only there ; 
 
 * Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for 
 the accommodation of the Pilgrims, in their ascent of the 
 mountain. 
 
14 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Heart-blessings- — outward treasures too which the 
 
 eye 
 Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy, 
 And every passing breeze will testify. 
 There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound 
 Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound ; 
 The housewife there a brighter garden sees, 
 Where hum on busier wing her happy bees ; 
 On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow ; 
 And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow, — 
 To greet the traveller needing food and rest ; 
 Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's guest. 
 
 And oh, fair France ! though now the traveller sees 
 Thy three- striped banner fluctuate on the breeze ; 
 Though martial songs have banished songs of love, 
 And nightingales desert the village grove, 
 Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, 
 And the short thunder, and the flash of arms ; 
 That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh, 
 Sole sound, the Sourd * prolongs his mournful cry ! 
 — Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her 
 
 power 
 Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door : 
 All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes 
 Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. 
 Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide 
 Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, 
 When from October clouds a milder light 
 Fell where the blue flood rippled into white ; 
 Methought from every cot the watchful bird 
 Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard ; 
 Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring 
 
 streams, 
 Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful 
 
 dreams ; 
 Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling leaf 
 Awoke a fainter sense of moral grief ; 
 The measured echo of the distant flail 
 Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale ; 
 With more majestic course + the water rolled, 
 And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. 
 — But foes are gathering — Liberty must raise 
 Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze ; 
 Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower ! — 
 Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour ! 
 Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted ire 
 
 * An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy 
 cry, heard at the close of the summer evenings, on the 
 banks of the Loire. 
 
 t The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were 
 so exorbitant, that the poorer people, deprived of the 
 benefit of water carriage, were obliged to transport their 
 goods by land: 
 
 Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire : 
 Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth ; 
 As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth ! 
 — All cannot be : the promise is too fair 
 For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air : 
 Yet not for this will sober reason frown 
 Upon that promise, nor the hope disown ; 
 She knows that only from high aims ensue 
 Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. 
 
 Great God ! by whom the strifes of men are 
 
 weighed 
 In an impartial balance, give thine aid 
 To the just cause ; and, oh ! do thou preside 
 Over the mighty stream now spreading wide : 
 So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied 
 In copious showers, from earth by wholesome 
 
 springs, 
 Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile-like 
 
 wings ! 
 And grant that every sceptred child of clay 
 Who cries presumptuous, " Here the flood shall 
 
 stay," 
 May in its progress see thy guiding hand, 
 And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand ; 
 Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, 
 Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more ! 
 
 To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot 
 Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot 
 In timely sleep ; and when, at break of day, 
 On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, 
 With a light heart our course we may renew, 
 The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 
 
 1791 & 1792. 
 
 VII. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the 
 lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, com- 
 manding 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 the bee love not these barren boughs ? 
 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, and here taught this aged Tree 
 With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
 I well remember. — He was one who owned 
 
DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES, &c. 
 
 15 
 
 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 glancing sand-piper : 
 
 And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, 
 
 And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, 
 
 Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 
 
 A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 
 
 An emblem of his own unfruitful life : 
 
 And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze 
 
 On the more distant scene, — how lovely 'tis 
 
 Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it became 
 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
 
 The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, that tune, 
 
 When nature had subdued him to herself, 
 
 Would he forget those Beings to whose minds 
 
 Warm from the labours of benevolence 
 
 The world, and human life, appeared a scene 
 
 Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh, 
 
 Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 
 
 What he must never feel : and so, lost Man ! 
 
 On visionary views would fancy feed, 
 
 Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale 
 
 He died, — this seat his only monument. 
 
 If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms 
 Of young imagination have kept pure, 
 Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and know that 
 
 pride, 
 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 
 Is littleness ; that he who feels contempt 
 For any living thing, hath faculties 
 Which he has never used ; that thought with him 
 Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
 Is ever on himself doth look on one, 
 The least of Nature's works, one who might move 
 The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 
 Unlawful, ever. 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. l 795. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 GUILT AND SORROW ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT, 
 
 i'KEFLXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS POEM, PUBLISHED 
 IN 1842. 
 
 Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it 
 has from time to time been altered in the expression, was 
 published so far back as the year 1798, under the title of 
 " The Female Vagrant." The extract is of such length that 
 an apology seems to be required for reprinting it here : but 
 it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or the 
 rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was writ- 
 ten before the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, 
 rather as matter of literary biography than for any other 
 reason, the circumstances under which it was produced. 
 
 During the latter part of the summer of J 793, having 
 passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet 
 which was then preparing for sea off Portsmouth at the 
 commencement of the war, I left the place with melan- 
 choly forebodings. The American war was still fresh in 
 memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which 
 many thought would be brought to a speedy close by the 
 irresistible arms of Great Britain being added to those of 
 the allies, I was assured in my own mind would be of long 
 continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond 
 all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon 
 me by having been a witness, during a long residence in 
 revolutionary France, of the spirit which prevailed in that 
 country. After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent two 
 days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, 
 though cultivation was then widely spread through parts 
 of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive appear- 
 ance than it now retains. 
 
 The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in 
 abundance over that region, led me unavoidably to com- 
 pare what we know or guess of those remote times with 
 certain aspects of modern society, and with calamities, 
 principally those consequent upon war, to which, more 
 than other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those 
 reflections, joined with particular facts that had come to 
 my knowledge, the following stanzas originated. 
 
 In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds 
 of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it 
 may be proper to say, that of the features described as 
 belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate 
 parts of England. 
 
 A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain 
 Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare ; 
 Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain 
 Help from the staff he bore ; for mien and air 
 Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with 
 
 care 
 Both of the time to come, and time long fled : 
 
16 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair ; 
 
 A coat he wore of military red 
 
 But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and 
 
 shred. 
 
 ir. 
 While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, 
 He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure 
 That welcome in such house for him was none. 
 No board inscribed the needy to allure 
 Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor 
 And desolate, " Here you will find a friend ! " 
 The pendent grapes glittered above the door ; — 
 On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, 
 Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines 
 
 extend. 
 
 ut. 
 The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire, 
 In streaks diverging wide and mounting high ; 
 That inn he long had passed ; the distant spire, 
 Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, 
 Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. 
 Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, 
 And scarce could any trace of man descry, 
 Save cornfields stretched and stretching without 
 
 bound ; 
 But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be 
 
 found. 
 
 IV. 
 
 No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, 
 
 No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear ; 
 
 Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, 
 
 But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. 
 
 Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near ; 
 
 And so he sent a feeble shout — in vain ; 
 
 No voice made answer, he could only hear 
 
 Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, 
 
 Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed 
 
 plain. 
 
 v. 
 Long had he fancied each successive slope 
 Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn 
 And rest ; but now along heaven's darkening cope 
 The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. 
 Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading 
 
 thorn 
 Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, 
 But sought in vain ; for now, all wild, forlorn, 
 And vacant, a huge waste around him spread ; 
 The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only 
 
 bed. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And be it so — for to the chill night shower 
 And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared ; 
 
 A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour 
 Hath told ; for, landing after labour hard, 
 Full long endured in hope of just reward, 
 He to an armed fleet was forced away 
 By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared 
 Like fate ; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 
 'Gainst all that in Ms heart, or theirs perhaps, said 
 nay. 
 
 VII. 
 
 For years the work of carnage did not cease, 
 And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, 
 Death's minister ; then came his glad release, 
 And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made 
 Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid 
 The happy husband flies, his arms to throw 
 Round his wife's neck ; the prize of victory laid 
 In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow 
 As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could 
 know. 
 
 Vain hope ! for fraud took all that he had earned. 
 The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 
 Even in the desert's heart ; but he, returned, 
 Bears not to those he loves their needful food. 
 His home approaching, but in such a mood 
 That from his sight his children might have run, 
 He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood ; 
 And when the miserable work was done 
 He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to 
 shun. 
 
 From that day forth no place to him could be 
 So lonely, but that thence might come a pang 
 Brought from without to inward misery. 
 Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang 
 A sound of chains along the desert rang ; 
 He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high 
 A human body that in irons swang, 
 Uplifted by the tempest whirling by ; 
 And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. 
 
 It was a spectacle which none might view, 
 In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain ; 
 Nor only did for him at once renew 
 All he had feared from man, but roused a train 
 Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. 
 The stones, as if to cover him from day, 
 Rolled at his back along the living plain ; 
 He fell, and without sense or motion lay ; 
 But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued his 
 way. 
 
GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 17 
 
 As one whose brain habitual phrensy fires 
 
 Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed 
 
 Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, 
 
 Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed 
 
 His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, 
 
 Left his mind stiU as a deep evening stream. 
 
 Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, 
 
 Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem 
 
 To traveller who might talk of any casual theme. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, 
 Gone is the raven timely rest to seek ; 
 He seemed the only creature in the wild 
 On whom the elements their rage might wreak ; 
 Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak 
 Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light 
 A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, 
 And half upon the ground, with strange affright, 
 Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy 
 flight. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound ; 
 The weary eye — which, wheresoe'er it strays, 
 Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, 
 Or on the earth strange lines, in former days 
 Left by gigantic arms — at length surveys 
 What seems an antique castle spreading wide ; 
 Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise 
 Their brow sublime : in shelter there to bide 
 He turned, while rain poured down smoking on 
 every side. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Pile of Stone-henge ! so proud to hint yet keep 
 Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear 
 The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, 
 Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year ; 
 Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear 
 For sacrifice its throngs of living men, 
 Before thy face did ever wretch appear, 
 Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain 
 Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now 
 would gain. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Within that fabric of mysterious form, 
 Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme ; 
 And, from the perilous ground dislodged, through 
 
 storm 
 And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream 
 From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, 
 Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led ; 
 Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam 
 
 Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, 
 Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure 
 shed. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm 
 To stay his steps with faintness overcome ; 
 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm 
 Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom ; 
 No gipsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom ; 
 No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, 
 Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room ; 
 Along the waste no line of mournful light 
 From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart 
 the night. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose ; 
 The downs were visible — and now revealed 
 A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. 
 It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, 
 Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build 
 A lonely Spital, the belated swain 
 From the night terrors of that waste to shield : 
 But there no human being could remain, 
 And now the walls are named the " Dead House " 
 of the plain. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Though he had little cause to love the abode 
 
 Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, 
 
 Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, 
 
 How glad he was at length to find some trace 
 
 Of human shelter in that dreary place. 
 
 Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, 
 
 Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. 
 
 In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows 
 
 He lays his stiffened limbs, — his eyes begin to close ; 
 
 When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come 
 From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his 
 
 head, 
 And saw a woman in the naked room 
 Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed : 
 The moon a wan dead light around her shed. 
 He waked her — spake in tone that would not fail, 
 He hoped, to calm her mind ; but ill he sped, 
 For of that ruin she had heard a tale 
 Which now with freezing thoughts did all her 
 
 powers assail ; 
 
 XX. 
 
 Had heard of one who, forced from storms to 
 
 shroud, 
 Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat 
 
18 
 
 'OEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, 
 While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat ; 
 Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, 
 Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse : 
 The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, 
 Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force 
 Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. 
 
 Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned 
 And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half 
 
 drowned, 
 By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, 
 Cold stony horror all her senses bound. 
 Her he addressed in words of cheering sound ; 
 Recovering heart, like answer did she make ; 
 And well it was that, of the corse there found, 
 In converse that ensued she nothing spake ; 
 She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale 
 
 could wake. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But soon his voice and words of kind intent 
 
 Banished that dismal thought ; and now the wind 
 
 In fainter howlings told its rage was spent : 
 
 Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, 
 
 Which by degrees a confidence of mind 
 
 And mutual interest failed not to create. 
 
 And, to a natural sympathy resigned, 
 
 In that forsaken building where they sate 
 
 The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. 
 
 " By Derwent's side my father dwelt — a man 
 Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred ; 
 And I believe that, soon as I began 
 To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, 
 And in his hearing there my prayers I said : 
 And afterwards, by my good father taught, 
 I read, and loved the books in which I read ; 
 For books in every neighbouring house I sought, 
 And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. 
 
 A little croft we owned — a plot of corn, 
 A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, 
 And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn 
 Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest 
 
 chime. 
 Can I forget our freaks at shearing time ! ' 
 My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; 
 The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime ; 
 The swans that with white chests upreared in pride 
 Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water- 
 side ! 
 
 The staff I well remember which upbore 
 The bending body of my active sire ; 
 His seat beneath the honied sycamore 
 Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire ; 
 When market-morning came, the neat attire 
 With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked ; 
 Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire 
 The stranger till its barking-fit I checked ; 
 The red-breast, known for years, which at my 
 casement pecked. 
 
 The suns of twenty summers danced along, — 
 Too little marked how fast they rolled away : 
 But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, 
 My father's substance fell into decay : 
 We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day 
 When Fortune might put on a kinder look ; 
 But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they ; 
 He from his old hereditary nook 
 Must part ; the summons came ; — our final leave 
 we took. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 It was indeed a miserable hour 
 When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, 
 Peering above the trees, the steeple tower 
 That on his marriage day sweet music made ! 
 Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid 
 Close by my mother in their native bowers : 
 Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed ; — 
 I could not pray : — through tears that fell in 
 
 showers 
 Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas ! no longer 
 
 ours ! 
 
 xxvin. 
 There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, 
 That when I loved him not I cannot say : 
 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song 
 We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May ; 
 When we began to tire of childish play, 
 We seemed still more and more to prize each other; 
 We talked of marriage and our marriage day ; 
 And I in truth did love him like a brother, 
 For never could I hope to meet with such another. 
 
 Two years were passed since to a distant town 
 He had repaired to ply a gainful trade : 
 What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown ! 
 What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed ! 
 To him we turned : — we had no other aid : 
 Like one revived, upon his neck I wept ; 
 
GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 19 
 
 And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, 
 He well could love in grief ; his faith he kept ; 
 And in a quiet home once more my father slept. 
 
 We lived in peace and comfort ; and were blest 
 With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. 
 Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast : 
 And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 
 And knew not why. My happy father died, 
 When threatened war reduced the children's meal : 
 Thrice happy ! that for him the grave could hide 
 The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, 
 And tears that flowed for ills which patience might 
 not heal. 
 
 xxxr. 
 'Twas a hard change ; an evil time was come ; 
 We had no hope, and no relief could gain : 
 But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum 
 Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain. 
 My husband's arms now only served to strain 
 Me and his children hungering in his view ; 
 In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain : 
 To join those miserable men he flew, 
 And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we 
 drew. 
 
 There were we long neglected, and we bore 
 Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed ; 
 Green fields before us, and our native shore, 
 We breathed a pestilential air, that made 
 Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed 
 For our departure ; wished and wished — nor knew, 
 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, 
 That happier days we never more must view. 
 The parting signal streamed — at last the land with- 
 drew. 
 
 xxxnr. 
 But the calm summer season now was past. 
 On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 
 Ran mountains high before the howling blast, 
 And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. 
 We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, 
 Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, 
 Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 
 That we the mercy of the waves should rue : 
 We reached the western world, a poor devoted 
 crew. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The pains and plagues that on our heads came 
 
 down, 
 Disease and famine, agony and fear, 
 
 In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 
 
 It would unman the firmest heart to hear. 
 
 All perished — all in one remorseless year, 
 
 Husband and children ! one by one, by sword 
 
 And ravenous plague, all perished : every tear 
 
 Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 
 
 A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored." 
 
 Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, 
 Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain expressed, 
 Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, 
 From her full eyes their watery load released. 
 He too was mute ; and, ere her weeping ceased, 
 He rose, and to the ruin's pBrtal went, 
 And saw the dawn opening the silvery east 
 With rays of promise, north and southward sent ; 
 And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. 
 
 " come," he cried, " come, after weary night 
 Of such rough storm, this happy change to view." 
 So forth she came, and eastward looked ; the sight 
 Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw ; 
 Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue 
 Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, 
 And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew : 
 The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer 
 Tempered fit words of hope ; and the lark warbled 
 
 They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain 
 That rang down a bare slope not far remote : 
 The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, 
 Whistled the waggoner with merry note, 
 The cock far off sounded his clarion throat ; 
 But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, 
 Only were told there stood a lonely cot 
 A long mile thence. While thither they pursued 
 Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale 
 renewed. 
 
 xxxvnr. 
 
 ** Peaceful as this immeasurable plain 
 
 Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, 
 
 In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main ; 
 
 The very ocean hath its hour of rest. 
 
 I too forgot the heavings of my breast. 
 
 How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were ! 
 
 As quiet all within me. I was blest, 
 
 And looked, and fed upon the silent air 
 
 Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair, 
 c 2 
 
20 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 XXXIX, 
 
 All ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, 
 And groans that rage of racking famine spoke ; 
 The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps, 
 The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, 
 The shriek that from the distant battle broke, 
 The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host 
 Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke 
 To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish 
 
 tossed, 
 Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost ! 
 
 Some mighty gulf of separation past, 
 
 I seemed transported^ another world ; 
 
 A thought resigned with pain, when from the 
 
 mast 
 The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, 
 And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled 
 The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home 
 And from all hope I was for ever hurled. 
 For me — farthest from earthly port to roam 
 Was best, could I but shun the spot where man 
 
 might come. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) 
 That I, at last, a resting-place had found ; 
 ' Here will I dwell,' said I, ' my whole life long, 
 Roaming the illimitable waters round ; 
 Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, 
 And end my days upon the peaceful flood.' — 
 To break my dream the vessel reached its bound ; 
 And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, 
 And near a thousand tables pined and wanted 
 food. 
 
 xur. 
 No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, 
 Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock ; 
 Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, 
 Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. 
 I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock 
 From the cross-timber of an out-house hung : 
 Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock ! 
 At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, 
 Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my 
 tongue. 
 
 So passed a second day ; and, when the third 
 Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. 
 — In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, 
 Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort ; 
 There, pains which nature could no more support, 
 
 With blindness linked, did on my vitals fail ; 
 And, after many interruptions short 
 Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl : 
 Unsought for was the help that did my life recal. 
 
 Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain 
 Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory ; 
 I heard my neighbours in their beds complain 
 Of many things which never troubled me — 
 Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, 
 Of looks where common kindness had no part, 
 Of service done with cold formality, 
 Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 
 And groans which, as they said, might make a dead 
 man start. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 These things just served to stir the slumbering 
 
 sense, 
 Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. 
 With strength did memory return ; and, thence 
 Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, 
 At houses, men, and common light, amazed. 
 The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, 
 Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed; 
 The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired, 
 And gave me food — and rest, more welcome, more 
 
 desired. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly 
 With panniered asses driven from door to door ; 
 But life of happier sort set forth to me, 
 And other joys my fancy to allure — 
 The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 
 In barn uplighted ; and companions boon, 
 Well met from far with revelry secure 
 Among the forest glades, while jocund June 
 Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial 
 moon. 
 
 XLVir. 
 But ill they suited me — those journeys dark 
 O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch ! 
 To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, 
 Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. 
 The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, 
 The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 
 And ear still busy on its nightly watch, 
 Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill : 
 Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brood- 
 ing still. 
 
 xlvhi. 
 What could I do, unaided and unblest ? 
 My father ! gone was every friend of thine : 
 
GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 •21 
 
 And kindred of dead husband are at best 
 Small help ; and, after marriage such as mine, 
 With little kindness would to me incline. 
 Nor was I then for toil or service fit ; 
 My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine ; 
 In open air forgetful would I sit 
 Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow 
 knit. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields ; 
 Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, 
 Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, 
 Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 
 The ground I for my bed have often used : 
 But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, 
 Is that I have my inner self abused, 
 Foregone the home delight of constant truth, 
 And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless 
 youth. 
 
 L. 
 
 Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, 
 Through tears have seen him towards that world 
 
 descend 
 Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : 
 Three years a wanderer now my course I bend — 
 Oh ! tell me whither— for no earthly friend 
 Have I." — She ceased, and weeping turned away ; 
 As if because her tale was at an end, 
 She wept ; because she had no more to say 
 Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. 
 
 True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, 
 His looks — for pondering he was mute the while. 
 Of social Order's care for wretchedness, 
 Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, 
 Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured 
 
 smile, 
 'Twas not for Mm to speak— a man so tried. 
 Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style 
 Proverbial words of comfort he applied, 
 And not in vain, while they went pacing side by 
 
 side. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, 
 Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, 
 Rise various wreaths that into one unite 
 Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam : 
 Fair spectacle, — brt instantly a scream 
 Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent ; 
 They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, 
 And female cries. Their course they thither bent, 
 And met a man who foamed with anger vehement. 
 
 A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, 
 And, pointing to a little child that lay 
 Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale ; 
 How in a simple freak of thoughtless play 
 He had provoked his father, who straightway, 
 As if each blow were deadlier than the last, 
 Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay 
 The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast ; 
 And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Com- 
 rade cast. 
 
 His voice with indignation rising high 
 Such further deed in manhood's name forbade ; 
 The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 
 With bitter insult and revilings sad ; 
 Asked him in scorn what busmess there he had ; 
 What kind of plunder he was hunting now ; 
 The gallows would one day of him be glad ; — 
 Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, 
 Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would 
 allow. 
 
 Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched 
 With face to earth ; and, as the boy turned round 
 His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched 
 As if he saw — there and upon that ground — 
 Strange repetition of the deadly wound 
 He had himself inflicted. Through his brain 
 At once the griding iron passage found ; 
 Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, 
 Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. 
 
 Within himself he said — What hearts have we ! 
 The blessing this a father gives his child ! 
 Yet happy thou, poor boy ! compared with me, 
 Suffering not doing ill — fate far more mild. 
 The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled 
 The father, and relenting thoughts awoke ; 
 He kissed his son — so all was reconciled, 
 Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke 
 Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke. 
 
 " Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law 
 Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece ; 
 Much need have ye that time more closely draw 
 The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, 
 And that among so few there still be peace : 
 Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes 
 Your pains shall ever with your years increase 2" — 
 
22 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, 
 A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes. 
 
 Forthwith the pair passed on ; and down they look 
 Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 
 Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, 
 That babbled on through groves and meadows 
 
 green ; 
 A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between ; 
 The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, 
 And melancholy lowings intervene 
 Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, 
 Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the 
 
 sun's rays. 
 
 LEX. 
 
 They saw and heard, and, winding with the road 
 Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale ; 
 Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed 
 Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon 
 
 regale. 
 Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale : 
 It was a rustic inn ; — the board was spread, 
 The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, 
 And lustily the master carved the bread, 
 Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort 
 
 fed. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must 
 
 part ; 
 Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. 
 She rose and bade farewell ! and, while her heart 
 Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, 
 She left him there ; for, clustering round his knees, 
 With his oak-staff the cottage children played ; 
 And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees 
 And banks of ragged earth ; beneath the shade 
 Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. 
 
 A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood ; 
 Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. 
 She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood 
 As the wain fronted her, — wherein lay one, 
 A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. 
 The carman wet her. lips as well behoved ; 
 Bed under her lean body there was none, 
 Though even to die near one she most had loved 
 She could not of herself those wasted limbs have 
 moved. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain 
 And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, 
 
 Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain 
 The jolting road and morning air severe. 
 The wain pursued its way ; and following near 
 In pure compassion she her steps retraced 
 Far as the cottage. " A sad sight is here," 
 She cried aloud ; and forth ran out in haste 
 The friends whom she had left but a few minutes 
 past. 
 
 Lxin. 
 While to the door with eager speed they ran, 
 From her bare straw the Woman half upraised 
 Her bony visage — gaunt and deadly wan ; 
 No pity asking, on the group she gazed 
 With a dim eye, distracted and amazed ; 
 Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. 
 Fervently cried the housewife — " God be praised, 
 I have a house that I can call my own ; 
 Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone !" 
 
 So in they bear her to the chimney seat, 
 And busily, though yet with fear, untie 
 Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 
 And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. 
 Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh 
 She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear ; 
 Then said — " I thank you all ; if I must die, 
 The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear ; 
 Till now 1 did not think my end had been so near. 
 
 " Barred every comfort labour could procure, 
 Suffering what no endurance could assuage, 
 I was compelled to seek my father's door, 
 Though loth to be a burthen on his age. 
 But sickness stopped me in an early stage 
 Of my sad journey ; and within the wain 
 They placed me — there to end life's pilgrimage, 
 Unless beneath your roof I may remain : 
 For I shall never see my father's door again. 
 
 " My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthen- 
 some ; 
 But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek 
 May my end be ! Soon will this voice be dumb : 
 Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak 
 Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek. — 
 Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea 
 Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, 
 My husband served in sad captivity 
 On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set 
 him free. 
 
 
GUILT AND SORROW. 
 
 23 
 
 " A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, 
 
 Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed ; 
 
 Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers 
 
 Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread ; 
 
 Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, 
 
 Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie ; 
 
 A dire suspicion drove us from our shed ; 
 
 In vain to find a friendly face we try, 
 
 Nor could we live together those poor boys and I ; 
 
 " For evil tongues made oath how on that day 
 My husband lurked about the neighbourhood ; 
 Now he had fled, and whither none could say, 
 And he had done the deed in the dark wood — 
 Near his own home ! — but he was mild and good ; 
 Never on earth was gentler creature seen ; 
 He 'd not have robbed the raven of its food. 
 My husband's loving kindness stood between 
 Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however 
 keen." 
 
 Alas ! the thing she told with labouring breath 
 
 The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness 
 
 His hand had wrought ; and when, in the hour of 
 
 death, 
 He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless 
 With her last words, unable to suppress 
 His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive ; 
 And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, 
 He ci'ied — " Do pity me ! That thou shouldst live 
 I neither ask nor wish — forgive me, but forgive ! " 
 
 To tell the change that Voice within her wrought 
 
 Nature by sign or sound made no essay ; 
 
 A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, 
 
 And every mortal pang dissolved away. 
 
 Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay ; 
 
 Yet still while over her the husband bent, 
 
 A look was in her face which seemed to say, 
 
 " Be blest ; by sight of thee from heaven was sent 
 
 Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." 
 
 She slept in peace, — his pulses throbbed and stopped, 
 Breathless he gazed upon her face, — then took 
 Her hand in Ms, and raised it, but both dropped, 
 When on his own he cast a rueful look. 
 His ears were never silent ; sleep forsook 
 His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead ; 
 All night from time to time under him shook 
 The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed ; 
 And oft he groaned aloud, " God, that I were 
 dead ! " 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot ; ' 
 And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care 
 Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter 
 
 brought, 
 Died in his arms ; and with those thanks a prayer 
 He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. 
 The corse interred, not one hour he remained 
 Beneath their roof, but to the open air 
 A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, 
 He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet 
 
 reigned. 
 
 Lxxnr. 
 Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared 
 For act and suffering, to the city straight 
 He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared : 
 " And from your doom," he added, " now I wait, 
 Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." 
 Not ineffectual was that piteous claim : 
 " O welcome sentence which will end though late," 
 He said, " the pangs that to my conscience came 
 Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour ! is in thy 
 name ! " 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 His fate was pitied. Him in iron case 
 (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) 
 They hung not : — no one on his form or face 
 Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought ; 
 No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought 
 By lawless curiosity or chance, 
 When into storm the evening sky is wrought, 
 Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, 
 And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance. 
 
 1793-4. 
 
24 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTPI. 
 
 THE BORDERERS. 
 
 (Composed 1795-6.) 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Of the Baud of Borderers. 
 
 Forester. 
 
 Eldred, a Peasant. 
 Peasant, Pilgrims, &c. 
 
 Idonea. 
 
 Female Beggar. 
 Eleanor, Wife to Eldred 
 
 Marmaduke 
 
 Oswald. 
 
 Wallace. 
 
 Lacy. 
 
 Lennox. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 Wilfred, Servant to Marmaduke. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Scene, Borders of England and Scotland. 
 Time, the Reign of Henry III. 
 
 Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the following composition, some eight or ten lines, 
 which I have not scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is proper however to add, that they 
 would not have been used elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might he induced to publish this Tragedy. 
 February 28, 1842. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene, road in a Wood. 
 
 Wallace and Lacy. 
 
 Lacy. The Troop will be impatient ; let us hie 
 Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray 
 Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border. 
 — Pity that our young Chief will have no part 
 In this good service. 
 
 Wal. Rather let us grieve 
 
 That, in the undertaking which has caused 
 His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim, 
 Companionship with One of crooked ways, 
 From whose perverted soul can come no good 
 To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. 
 
 Lacy. True ; and, remembering how the Band 
 have proved 
 That Oswald finds small favour in our sight, 
 Well may we wonder he has gained such power 
 Over our much-loved Captain. 
 
 Wal. I have heard 
 
 Of some dark deed to which in early life 
 His passion drove him — then a Voyager 
 Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing 
 In Palestine ? 
 
 Lacy. Where he despised alike 
 
 Mohammedan and Christian. But enough ; 
 Let us begone — the Band may else be foiled. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Marmaduke and Wilfred. 
 Wil. Be cautious, my dear Master ! 
 Mar. I perceive 
 
 That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle 
 About their love, as if to keep it warm. 
 
 Wil. Nay, but I grieve that we should part. 
 This Stranger, 
 
 For such he is 
 
 Mar. Your busy fancies, Wilfred, 
 
 Might tempt me to a smile ; but what of him I 
 Wil. You know that you have saved his life. 
 Mar. I know it. 
 
 Wil. And that he hates you ! — Pardon me, per- 
 haps 
 That word was hasty. 
 Mar. Fy ! no more of it. 
 
 Wil. Dear Master ! gratitude 's a heavy burden 
 To a proud Soul. — Nobody loves this Oswald — 
 Yourself, you do not love him. 
 
 Mar. I do more, 
 
 I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart 
 Are natural ; and from no one can be learnt 
 More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience 
 Has given him power to teach : and then for courage 
 And enterprise — what perils hath he shunned ? 
 What obstacles hath he failed to overcome ? 
 Answer these questions, from our common know- 
 ledge, 
 And be at rest. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 25 
 
 Wil. Oh, Sir ! 
 
 Mar. Peace, my good Wilfred ; 
 
 Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band 
 I shall be with them in two days, at farthest. 
 
 Wil. May He whose eye is over all protect you ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Oswald (a bunch of plants in his hand). 
 
 Osw. This wood is rich in plants and curious 
 simples. 
 
 Mar. (looking at them). The wild rose, and the 
 poppy, and the nightshade : 
 Which is your favorite, Oswald ? 
 
 Osw. That which, while it is 
 
 Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal — 
 
 [Looking forward. 
 Not yet in sight ! — We '11 saunter here awhile ; 
 They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. 
 
 Mar. (a letter in his hand). It is no common 
 thing when one like you 
 Performs these delicate services, and therefore 
 I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald ; 
 'Tis a strange letter this ! — You saw her write it ? 
 
 Osw. And saw the tears with which she blotted it. 
 
 Mar. And nothing less would satisfy him ? 
 
 Osw. No less ; 
 
 For that another in his Child's affection 
 Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery, 
 He seemed to quarrel with the very thought. 
 Besides, I know not what strange prejudice 
 Is rooted in his mind ; this Band of ours, 
 Which you 've collected for the noblest ends, 
 Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed 
 To guard the Innocent — he calls us " Outlaws :" 
 And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts 
 This garb was taken up that indolence 
 Might want no cover, and rapacity 
 Be better fed. 
 
 Mar. Ne'er may I own the heart 
 
 That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is. 
 
 Osw. Thou know'st me for a Man not easily 
 moved, 
 Yet was I grievously provoked to think 
 Of what I witnessed. 
 
 Mar. This day will suffice 
 
 To end her wrongs. 
 
 Osw. But if the blind Man's tale 
 
 Should yet be true ? 
 
 Mar. Would it were possible ! 
 
 Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself, 
 And others who survived the wreck, beheld 
 The Baron Herbert perish in the waves 
 Upon the coast of Cyprus ? 
 
 Osw. Yes, even so, 
 
 And I had heard the like before : in sooth 
 
 The tale of this his quondam Barony 
 
 Is cunningly devised ; and, on the back 
 
 Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail 
 
 To make the proud and vain his tributaries, 
 
 And stir the pulse of lazy charity. 
 
 The seignories of Herbert are in Devon ; 
 
 We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed : 'tis much 
 
 The Arch-impostor 
 
 Mar. Treat him gently, Oswald ; 
 
 Though I have never seen his face, methinks, 
 There cannot come a day when I shall cease 
 To love him. I remember, when a Boy 
 Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm 
 That casts its shade over our village school, 
 'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea 
 Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, 
 Till all the band of play -mates wept together ; 
 And that was the beginning of my love. 
 And, through all converse of our later years, 
 An image of this old Man still was present, 
 When I had been most happy. Pardon me 
 If this be idly spoken. 
 
 Osw. See, they come, 
 
 Two Travellers ! 
 
 Mar. {points). The woman is Idonea. 
 
 Osw. And leading Herbert. 
 
 Mar. We must let them pass — 
 
 This thicket will conceal us. [They step aside. 
 
 Enter Idonea, leading Herbert blind. 
 
 Idon. Dear Father, you sigh deeply ; ever since 
 We left the willow shade by the brook-side, 
 Your natural breathing has been troubled. 
 
 Her. Nay, 
 
 You are too fearful ; yet must I confess, 
 Our march of yesterday had better suited 
 A firmer step than mine. 
 
 Idon. That dismal Moor — 
 
 In spite of all the larks that cheered our path, 
 I never can forgive it : but how steadily 
 You paced along, when the bewildering moonlight 
 Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape ! — 
 I thought the Convent never would appear ; 
 It seemed to move away from us : and yet, 
 That you are thus the fault is mine ; for the air 
 Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass, 
 And midway on the waste ere night had fallen 
 I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods — 
 A miniature ; belike some Shepherd-boy, 
 Who might have found a nothing-doing hour 
 Heavier than work, raised it : within that hut 
 We might have made a kindly bed of heath, 
 And thankfully there rested side by side 
 
26 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength, 
 Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, 
 
 Father, — 
 That staff of yours, I could almost have heart 
 To fling 't away from you : you make no use 
 Of me, or of my strength ; — come, let me feel 
 That you do press upon me. There — indeed 
 You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile 
 On this green bank. [He sits down. 
 
 Her. {after some time). Idonea, you are silent, 
 And I divine the cause. 
 
 Idon. Do not reproach me : 
 
 I pondered patiently your wish and will 
 When I gave way to your request ; and now, 
 When I behold the ruins of that face, 
 Those eyeballs dark — dark beyond hope of light, 
 And think that they were blasted for my sake, 
 The name of Marmaduke is blown away : 
 Father, I would not change that sacred feeling 
 For all this world can give. 
 
 Her. Nay, be composed : 
 
 Few minutes gone a faintness overspread 
 My frame, and I bethought me of two things 
 I ne'er had heart to separate — my grave, 
 And thee, my Child ! 
 
 Idon. Believe me, honoured She ! 
 'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies, 
 And you mistake the cause : you hear the woods 
 Resound with music, could you see the sun, 
 And look upon the pleasant face of Nature 
 
 Her. I comprehend thee — I should be as cheerful 
 As if we two were twins ; two songsters bred 
 In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine. 
 My fancies, fancies if they be, are such 
 As come, dear Child ! from a far deeper source 
 Than bodily weariness. While here we sit 
 I feel my strength returning. — The bequest 
 Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive 
 We have thus far adventured, will suffice 
 To save thee from the extreme of penury ; 
 But when thy Father must he down and die, 
 How wilt thou stand alone ? 
 
 Idon. Is he not strong ? 
 
 Is he not valiant ? 
 
 Her. Am I then so soon 
 Forgotten 1 have my warnings passed so quickly 
 Out of thy mind ? My dear, my only, Child ; 
 Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed — 
 This Marmaduke 
 
 Idon. could you hear his voice : 
 
 Alas ! you do not know him. He is one 
 (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you) 
 All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks 
 A deep and simple meekness : and that Soul, 
 
 Which with the motion of a virtuous act 
 Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, 
 Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean, 
 By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. 
 
 Her. Unhappy Woman ! 
 
 Idon. Nay, it was my duty 
 
 Thus much to speak ; but think not I forget — 
 Dear Father ! how could I forget and live — 
 You and the story of that doleful night 
 When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers, 
 You rushed into the murderous flames, returned 
 Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me, 
 Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart. 
 
 Her. Thy Mother too ! — scarce had I gained the 
 door, 
 I caught her voice ; she threw herself upon me, 
 I felt thy infant brother in her arms ; 
 She saw my blasted face — a tide of soldiers 
 That instant rushed between us, and I heard 
 Her last death- shriek, distinct among a thousand. 
 
 Idon. Nay, Father, stop not ; let me hear it alL 
 
 Her. Dear Daughter ! precious relic of that time — 
 For my old age, it doth remain with thee 
 To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told, 
 That when, on our return from Palestine, 
 I found how my domains had been usurped, 
 I took thee in my arms, and we began 
 Our wanderings together. Providence 
 At length conducted us to Rossland, — there, 
 Our melancholy story moved a Stranger 
 To take thee to her home — and for myself, 
 Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's 
 Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment, 
 And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot 
 Where now we dwell. — For many years I bore 
 Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities 
 Exacted thy return, and our reunion. 
 I did not think that, during that long absence, 
 My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, 
 Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, 
 Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, 
 Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries, 
 Traitor to both. 
 
 Idon. Oh, could you bear his voice ! 
 
 I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, 
 But let this kiss speak what is in my heart. 
 
 Enter a Peasant. 
 Pea. Good morrow, Strangers ! If you want a 
 Guide, 
 Let me have leave to serve you ! 
 
 Id on. My Companion 
 
 Hath need of rest ; the sight of Hut or Hostel 
 Would be most welcome. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 27 
 
 Pea. Yon white hawthorn gained, 
 
 You will look down into a dell, and there 
 Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs ; 
 The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man, 
 You seem worn out with travel — shall I support you? 
 
 Her. I thank you ; but, a resting-place so near, 
 'Twere wrong to trouble you. 
 
 Pea. God speed you both. 
 
 [Exit Peasant. 
 
 Her. Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed — 
 'Tis but for a few days — a thought has struck me. 
 
 Idem. That I should leave you at this house, and 
 thence 
 Proceed alone. It shall be so ; for strength 
 Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached. 
 [Exit Herbert supported by Idonea. 
 Re-enter Marmaduke and Oswald. 
 
 Mar. This instant will we stop him 
 
 Osw. Be not hasty, 
 
 For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction, 
 He tempted me to think the Story true ; 
 'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said 
 That savoured of aversion to thy name 
 Appeared the genuine colour of his soul — 
 Anxiety lest mischief should befal her 
 After his death. 
 
 Mar. I have been much deceived. 
 
 Osiv. But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love 
 Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely, 
 Thus to torment her with inventions ! — death — 
 There must be truth in this. 
 
 Mar. Truth in his story ! 
 
 He must have felt it then, known what it was, 
 And in such wise to rack her gentle heart 
 Had been a tenfold cruelty. 
 
 Osw. Strange pleasures 
 
 Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves ! 
 To see him thus provoke her tenderness 
 With tales of weakness and infirmity ! 
 I 'd wager on his life for twenty years. 
 
 Mar. We will not waste an hour in such a cause. 
 
 Osw. Why, this is noble ! shake her off at once. 
 
 Mar. Her virtues are his instruments. — A Man 
 Who has so practised on the world's cold sense, 
 May well deceive his Child — what ! leave her thus, 
 A prey to a deceiver ? — no — no — no — 
 'Tis but a word and then 
 
 Osw. Something is here 
 
 More than we see, or whence this strong aversion? 
 Marmaduke ! I suspect unworthy tales 
 Have reached his ear — you have had enemies. 
 
 Mar. Enemies ! — of his own coinage. 
 
 Osw. That may be, 
 
 But wherefore slight protection such as you 
 
 Have power to yield ? perhaps he looks elsewhere. — 
 I am perplexed. 
 
 Mar. What hast thou heard or seen ? 
 
 Osw. No — no — the thing stands clear of mystery ; 
 (As you have said) he coins himself the slander 
 With which he taints her ear ; — for a plain reason ; 
 He dreads the presence of a virtuous man 
 Like you ; he knows your eye would search his 
 
 heart, 
 Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds 
 The punishment they merit. All is plain : 
 It cannot be 
 
 Mar. What cannot be? 
 
 Osw. Yet that a Father 
 Should in his love admit no rivalship, 
 And torture thus the heart of his own Child 
 
 Mar. Nay, you abuse my friendship ! 
 
 Osw. Heaven forbid ! — 
 
 There was a circumstance, trifling indeed — 
 It struck me at the time — yet I believe 
 I never should have thought of it again 
 But for the scene which we by chance have wit- 
 nessed. 
 
 Mar. What is your meaning ? 
 
 Osw. Two days gone I saw, 
 
 Though at a distance and he was disguised, 
 Hovering round Herbert's door,a man whose figure 
 Resembled much that cold voluptuary, 
 The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows 
 Where he can stab you deepest. 
 
 Mar. Clifford never 
 
 Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door — 
 It could not be. 
 
 Osvj. And yet I now remember, 
 
 That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue, 
 And the blind Man was told how you had rescued 
 A maiden from the ruffian violence 
 Of this same Clifford, he became impatient 
 And would not hear me. 
 
 Mar. No — it cannot be — 
 I dare not trust myself with such a thought — 
 Yet whence this strange aversion ? You are a man 
 Not used to rash conjectures 
 
 Osiv. If you deem it 
 
 A thing worth further notice, we must act 
 With caution, sift the matter artfully. 
 
 [Exeunt Marmaduke and Oswald. 
 
 Scene, the door of the Hostel. 
 Herbert, Idonea, and Host. 
 Her. (seated). As I am dear to you, remember, 
 Child ! 
 This last request. 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Idem. You know me, Sire ; farewell ! 
 
 Her. And are you going then ? Come, come, 
 Idonea, 
 We must not part, — I have measured many a league 
 When these old limbs had need of rest, — and now 
 I will not play the sluggard. 
 
 Idon. Nay, sit down. 
 
 [Turning to Host. 
 Good Host, such tendance as you would expect 
 From your own Children, if yourself were sick, 
 Let this old Man find at your hands ; poor Leader, 
 [Looking at the dog. 
 We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect 
 This charge of thine, then ill befal thee ! — Look, 
 The little fool is loth to stay behind. 
 Sir Host ! by all the love you bear to courtesy, 
 Take care of him, and feed the truant well. 
 
 Host. Fear not, I will obey you ; — but One so 
 young, 
 And One so fair, it goes against my heart 
 That you should travel unattended, Lady! — 
 I have a palfrey and a groom : the lad 
 Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir ?) 
 And for less fee than I would let him run 
 For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth. 
 
 Idon. You know, Sir, I have been too long your 
 guard 
 Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. 
 Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket, 
 A look of mine would send him scouring back, 
 Unless I differ from the thing I am 
 When you ax*e by my side. 
 
 Her. Idonea, wolves 
 
 Are not the enemies that move my fears. 
 
 Idon. No more, I pray, of this. Three days at 
 farthest 
 Will bring me back — protect him, Saints — farewell ! 
 
 [Exit Idonea. 
 
 Host. 'Tis never drought with us — St. Cuthbert 
 and his Pilgrims, 
 Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort : 
 Pity the Maiden did not wait a while ; 
 She could not, Sir, have failed of company. 
 
 Her. Now she is gone, I fain would call her back. 
 
 Host (calling) . Holla ! 
 
 Her. No, no, the business must be done. — 
 
 What means this riotous noise ? 
 
 Host. The villagers 
 
 Are flocking in — a wedding festival — 
 That 's all — God save you, Sir. 
 
 Enter Oswald. 
 Osw. Ha ! as I live, 
 
 The Baron Herbert. 
 
 Host. Mercy, the Baron Herbert ! 
 
 Osw. So far into your journey ! on my life, 
 You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you ? 
 
 Her. Well as the wreck I am permits. And 
 you, Sir ? 
 
 Osw. I do not see Idonea. 
 
 Her. Dutiful Girl, 
 
 She is gone before, to spare my weariness. 
 But what has brought you hither \ 
 
 Osw. A slight affair, 
 
 That will be soon despatched. 
 
 Her. Did Marmaduke 
 
 Receive that letter ? 
 
 Osw. Be at peace. — The tie 
 
 Is broken, you will hear no more of him. 
 
 Her. This is true comfort, thanks a thousand 
 times ! — 
 That noise ! — would I had gone with her as far 
 As the Lord Clifford's Castle : I have heard 
 That, in his milder moods, he has expressed 
 Compassion for me. His influence is great 
 With Henry, our good King ; — the Baron might 
 Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court. 
 No matter — he 's a dangerous Man. — That noise! — 
 'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest. 
 Idonea would have fears for me, — the Convent 
 Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good 
 
 Host, 
 And he must lead me back. 
 
 Osw. You are most lucky ; 
 
 I have been waiting in the wood hard by 
 For a companion — here he comes ; our journey 
 
 Enter Marmaduke. 
 Lies on your way ; accept us as your Guides. 
 
 Her. Alas ! I creep so slowly. 
 
 Osio. Never fear ; 
 
 We '11 not complain of that. 
 
 Her. My limbs are stiff 
 
 And need repose. Could you but wait au hour ? 
 
 Osw. Most willingly ! — Come, let me lead you in, 
 And, while you take your rest, think not of us ; 
 We '11 stroll into the wood ; lean on my arm. 
 
 [Conducts Herbert into the house- Exit Marmaduke. 
 
 Enter Villagers. 
 Osio. (to himself coming out of the Hostel). I have 
 prepared a most apt Instrument — 
 The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering some- 
 where 
 About this ground ; she hath a tongue well skilled, 
 By mingling natural matter of her own 
 With all the daring fictions I have taught her, 
 To win belief, such as my plot requires. 
 
 [Exit Oswald. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 29 
 
 Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them. 
 Host (to them). Into the court, my Friend, and 
 perch yourself 
 Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, 
 Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts, 
 Are here, to send the sun into the west 
 More speedily than you belike would wish. 
 
 Scene changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel — 
 Marmaduke and Oswald entering. 
 
 Mar. I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves: 
 When first I saw him sitting there, alone, 
 It struck upon my heart I know not how. 
 
 Osiv. To-day will clear up all. — You marked a 
 Cottage, 
 That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock 
 By the brook-side : it is the abode of One, 
 A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, 
 Who soon grew weary of her ; but, alas ! 
 What she had seen and suffered turned her brain. 
 Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone, 
 Nor moves her hands to any needful work: 
 She eats her food which every day the peasants 
 Bring to her hut ; and so the Wretch has lived 
 Ten years ; and no one ever heard her voice ; 
 But every night at the first stroke of twelve 
 She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring 
 
 Churchyard 
 Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm, 
 She paces out the horn.' 'twixt twelve and one — 
 She paces round and round an Infant's grave, 
 And in the churchyard sod her feet have worn 
 
 A hollow ring ; they say it is knee-deep 
 
 Ah ! what is here \ 
 
 [A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in 
 sleep — a Child in her arms. 
 
 Beg. Oh ! Gentlemen, I thank you \ 
 
 I 've had the saddest dream that ever troubled 
 The heart of living creatui'e. — My poor Babe 
 Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread 
 When I had none to give him ; whereupon, 
 I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, 
 Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once : 
 When, into one of those same spotted bells 
 A bee came darting, which the Child with joy 
 Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, 
 And suddenly grew black, as he would die. 
 
 Mar. We have no time for this, my babbling 
 Gossip ; 
 Here's what will comfort you. [Gives her money. 
 
 Beg. The Saints reward you 
 
 For this good deed ! — Well, Sirs, this passed away ; 
 
 And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, 
 Trotting alone along the beaten road, 
 Came to my child as by my side he slept 
 And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden 
 Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head : 
 But here he is, [hissing the Child] it must have 
 been a dream. 
 
 Osw. When next inclined to sleep, take my advice, 
 And put your head, good Woman, under cover. 
 
 Beg. Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew 
 What life is this of ours, how sleep will master 
 The weary-worn. — You gentlefolk have got 
 Warm chambers to your wish. I 'd rather be 
 A stone than what I am. — But two nights gone, 
 The darkness overtook me — wind and rain 
 Beat hard upon my head — and yet I saw 
 A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze, 
 Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky : 
 At which I half accused the God in Heaven. — 
 You must forgive me. 
 
 Osw. Ay, and if you think 
 
 The Fames are to blame, and you should chide 
 Your favourite saint — no matter — this good day 
 Has made amends. 
 
 Beg. Thanks to you both ; but, sir ! 
 
 How would you like to travel on whole hours 
 As I have done, my eyes upon the ground, 
 Expecting still, I knew not how, to find 
 A piece of money glittering through the dust. 
 
 Mar. This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady ! 
 Do you tell fortunes ? 
 
 Beg. Oh Sir, you are like the rest. 
 
 This Little-one — it cuts me to the heart — 
 Well ! they might turn a beggar from their doors, 
 But there are Mothers who can see the Babe 
 Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it: 
 This they can do, and look upon my face — 
 But you, Sir, should be kinder. 
 
 Mar. Come hither, Fathers, 
 
 And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch ! 
 
 Beg. Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us. 
 Why now — but yesterday I overtook 
 A blind old Greybeard and accosted him, 
 I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass 
 He should have used me better ! — Charity ! 
 If you can melt a rock, he is your man ; 
 But I '11 be even with him — here again 
 Have I been waiting for him. 
 
 Osw. Well, but softly, 
 
 Who is it that hath wronged you \ 
 
 Beg. Mark you me ; 
 
 I'll point him out ; — a Maiden is his guide, 
 Lovely as Spring's first rose ; a little dog, 
 Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before 
 
30 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 With look as sad as he were dumh ; the cur, 
 I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth 
 He does his Master credit. 
 
 Mar. As I live, 
 
 'Tis Herbert and no other ! 
 
 Beg. 'Tis a feast to see him, 
 
 Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent, 
 And long beard white with age — yet evermore, 
 As if he were the only Saint on earth, 
 He turns his face to heaven. 
 
 Osw. But why so violent 
 
 Against this venerable Man ? 
 
 Beg. I'll tell you : 
 
 He has the very hardest heart on earth ; 
 I had as lief turn to the Friar's school 
 And knock for entrance, in mid holiday. 
 
 Mar. But to your story. 
 
 Beg. I was saying, Sir — 
 
 Well ! — he has often spurned me like a toad, 
 But yesterday was worse than all ; — at last 
 I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, 
 And begged a little aid for charity : 
 But he was snappish as a cottage cur. 
 Well then, says I — I '11 out with it ; at which 
 I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt 
 As if my heart would burst ; and so I left him. 
 
 Osw. I think, good Woman, you are the very person 
 Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale, 
 At Herbert's door. 
 
 Beg. Ay ; and if truth were known 
 
 I have good business there. 
 
 Osw. I met you at the threshold, 
 
 And he seemed angry. 
 
 Beg. Angry ! well he might ; 
 
 And long as I can stir I '11 dog him. — Yesterday, 
 To serve me so, and knowing that he owes 
 The best of all he has to me and mine. 
 But 'tis all over now. — That good old Lady 
 Has left a power of riches ; and I say it, 
 If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave 
 Shall give me half. 
 
 Osw. What 's this ? — I fear, good Woman, 
 
 You have been insolent. 
 
 Beg. And there 's the Baron, 
 
 I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress. 
 
 Osw. How say you 1 in disguise % — 
 
 Mar. But what's your business 
 
 With Herbert or his Daughter ? 
 
 Beg. Daughter ! truly — 
 
 But how 's the day ? — I fear, my little Boy, 
 We've overslept ourselves. — Sirs, have you seen 
 him ? [.Offers to go. 
 
 Mar. I must have more of this ; — you shall not 
 stir 
 
 An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught 
 That doth concern this Herbert ? 
 
 Beg, You are provoked, 
 
 And will misuse me, Sir ! 
 
 Mar. No trifling, Woman ! — 
 
 Osw. You are as safe as in a sanctuary ; 
 Speak. 
 
 Mar. Speak ! 
 
 Beg. He is a most hard-hearted Man. 
 
 Mar. Your life is at my mercy. 
 
 Beg. Do not harm me, 
 
 And I will tell you all ! — You know not, Sir, 
 What strong temptations press upon the Poor. 
 
 Osw. Speak out. 
 
 Beg. Oh Sir, I 've been a wicked Woman. 
 
 Osw. Nay, but speak out ! 
 
 Beg. He flattered me, and said 
 
 What harvest it would bring us both ; and so, 
 I parted with the Child. 
 
 Mar. Parted with whom 1 
 
 Beg. Idonea, as he calls her ; but the Girl 
 Is mine. 
 
 Mar. Yours, Woman ! are you Herbert's wife ? 
 
 Beg. Wife, Sir ! his wife — not I ; my husband, 
 Sir, 
 Was of Kirkoswald — many a snowy winter 
 We 've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred ! 
 He has been two years in his grave. 
 
 Mar. Enough. 
 
 Osw. We 've solved the riddle — Miscreant ! 
 
 Mar. Do you, 
 
 Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait 
 For my return ; be sure you shall have justice. 
 
 Osw. A lucky woman ! — go, you have done good 
 service. [Aside. 
 
 Mar. (to himself). Eternal praises on the power 
 that saved her ! — 
 
 Osw. (gives her money). Here 's for your little 
 boy — and when you christen him 
 I '11 be his Godfather. 
 
 Beg. Oh Sir, you are merry with me. 
 
 In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns 
 A dog that does not know me. — These good Folks, 
 For love of God, I must not pass their doors ; 
 But I '11 be back with my best speed : for you — 
 God bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters. 
 
 [Exit Beggar. 
 
 Mar. (to himself). The cruel Viper ! — Poor de- 
 voted Maid, 
 Now I do love thee. 
 
 Osw. I am thunderstruck. 
 
 Mar. Where is she — holla ! 
 
 [Calling to the Beggar, who returns ; he looks at her 
 stedfastly. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 31 
 
 You are Idonea's Mother \ — 
 Nay, be not terrified — it does me good 
 To look upon you. 
 
 Osw. (intermtpting). In a peasant's dress 
 You saw, who was it \ 
 
 Beg. Nay, I dare not speak ; 
 
 He is a man, if it should come to his ears 
 I never shall be heard of more. 
 
 Osw. Lord Clifford ? 
 
 Beg. What can I do ? believe me, gentle Sirs, 
 I love her, though I dare not call her daughter. 
 
 Osw. Lord Clifford — did you see him talk with 
 Herbert ? 
 
 Beg. Yes, to my sorrow — under the great oak 
 At Herbert's door — and when he stood beside 
 The blind Man — at the silent Girl he looked 
 With such a look — it makes me tremble, Sir, 
 To think of it. 
 
 Osw. Enough ! you may depart. 
 
 Mar. (to himself). Father! — to God himself we 
 cannot give 
 A holier name ; and, under such a mask, 
 To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, 
 To that abhorred den of brutish vice ! — 
 Oswald, the firm foundation of my life 
 Is going from under me ; these strange discoveries — 
 Looked at from every point of fear or hope, 
 Duty, or love — involve, I feel, my ruin. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene, A Chamber in the Hostel — Oswald alone, 
 rising from a Table on which he had been 
 writing. 
 
 Osw. They chose him for their Chief ! — what 
 covert part 
 He, in the preference, modest Youth, might take, 
 I neither know nor care. The insult bred 
 More of contempt than hatred ; both are flown ; 
 That either e'er existed is my shame : 
 'Twas a dull spark — a most unnatural fire 
 That died the moment the air breathed upon it. 
 — These fools of feeling are mere birds of winter 
 That haunt some barren island of the north, 
 Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his hand, 
 They think it is to feed them. I have left .him 
 To solitary meditation ;-— now 
 For a few swelling phrases, and a flash 
 Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind, 
 And he is mine for ever — here he comes. 
 
 Enter Marmaduke. 
 
 Mar. These ten years she has moved her lips 
 all day 
 And never speaks ! 
 
 Osw. Who is it ? 
 
 Mar. I have seen her. 
 
 Osw. Oh ! the poor tenant of that ragged home- 
 stead, 
 Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to madness. 
 
 Mar. I met a peasant near the spot ; he told me, 
 These ten years she had sate all day alone 
 Within those empty walls. 
 
 Osw. I too have seen her ; 
 
 Chancing to pass this way some six months gone, 
 At midnight, I betook me to the Churchyard : 
 The moon shone clear, the air was still, so still 
 The trees were silent as the graves beneath them. 
 Long did I watch, and saw her pacing round 
 Upon the self-same spot, still round and round, 
 Her lips for ever moving. 
 
 Mar. At her door 
 
 Rooted I stood ; for, looking at the woman, 
 I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea. 
 
 Osw. But the pretended Father 
 
 Mar. Earthly law 
 
 Measures not crimes like his. 
 
 Osw. We rank not, happily, 
 
 With those who take the spirit of their rule 
 From that soft class of devotees who feel 
 Reverence for life so deeply, that they spare 
 The verminous brood, and cherish what they spare 
 While feeding on their bodies. Would that Idonea 
 Were present, to the end that we might hear 
 What she can urge in his defence ; she loves him. 
 
 Mar. Yes, loves him ; 'tis a truth that multiplies 
 His guilt a thousand-fold. 
 
 Osw. 'Tis most perplexing : 
 
 What must be done ? 
 
 Mar, We will conduct her hither ; 
 
 These walls shall witness it — from first to last 
 He shall reveal him self. 
 
 Osw. Happy are we, 
 
 Who five in these disputed tracts, that own 
 No law but what each man makes for himself ; 
 Here justice has indeed a field of triumph. 
 
 Mar. Let us begone and bring her hither ; — here 
 The truth shall be laid open, his guilt proved 
 Before her face. The rest be left to me. 
 
 Osw. You will be firm : but though we well may 
 trust 
 The issue to the justice of the cause, 
 Caution must not be flung aside ; remember, 
 Yours is no common life. Self-stationed here. 
 Upon these savage confines, we have seen you 
 
32 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy seas 
 That oft have checked then' fury at your bidding. 
 'Mid the deep holds of Solway's mossy waste, 
 Your single virtue has transformed a Band 
 Of fierce barbarians into Ministers 
 Of peace and order. Aged men with tears 
 Have blessed then' steps, the fatherless retire 
 For shelter to their banners. But it is, 
 As you must needs have deeply felt, it is 
 In darkness and in tempest that we seek 
 The majesty of Him who rules the world. 
 Benevolence, that has not heart to use 
 The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, 
 Becomes at last weak and contemptible. 
 Your generous qualities have won due praise, 
 But vigorous Spirits look for something more 
 Than Youth's spontaneous products ; and to-day 
 You will not disappoint them ; and hereafter 
 
 Mar. You are wasting words ; hear me then, 
 once for all : 
 You are a Man — and therefore, if compassion, 
 Which to our kind is natural as life, 
 Be known unto you, you will love this Woman, 
 Even as I do ; but I should loathe the light, 
 If I could think one weak or partial feeling 
 
 Osw. You will forgive me 
 
 " Mar. If I ever knew 
 
 My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, 
 'Tis at this moment. — Oswald, I have loved 
 To be the friend and father of the oppressed, 
 A comforter of sorrow ; — there is something 
 Which looks like a transition in my soul, 
 And yet it is not. — Let us lead him hither. 
 
 Osw. Stoop for a moment ; 'tis an act of justice ; 
 And where 's the triumph if the delegate 
 Must fall in the execution of his office ? 
 The deed is done — if you will have it so — 
 Here where we stand — that tribe of vulgar wretches 
 (You saw them gathering for the festival) 
 Rush in — the villains seize us 
 
 Mar. Seize ! 
 
 Osw. Yes, they — 
 
 Men who are little given to sift and weigh — 
 Would wreak on us the passion of the moment. 
 
 Mar. The cloud will soon disperse — farewell — 
 but stay, 
 Thou wilt relate the story. 
 
 Osw. Am I neither 
 
 To bear a part in this Man's punishment, 
 Nor be its witness ? 
 
 Mar. I had many hopes 
 
 That were most dear to me, and some will bear 
 To be transferred to thee. 
 
 Osw. When I 'm dishonored ! 
 
 Mar. I would preserve thee. How may this be 
 done ? 
 
 Osiv. By showing that you look beyond the instant. 
 A few leagues hence we shall have open ground, 
 And nowhere upon earth is place so fit 
 To look upon the deed. Before we enter 
 The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling rock 
 The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft 
 Has held infernal orgies — with the gloom, 
 And very superstition of the place, 
 Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee 
 Would there perhaps have gathered the first fruits 
 Of this mock Father's guilt. 
 
 Enter Host conducting Herbert. 
 Sost. The Baron Herbert 
 
 Attends your pleasure. 
 
 Osw. (to Host). We are ready — 
 
 (to Herbert) Sir ! 
 I hope you are refreshed. — I have just written 
 A notice for your Daughter, that she may know 
 What is become of you. — You '11 sit down and 
 
 sign it ; 
 'Twill glad her heart to see her father's signature. 
 [Gives the letter he had written. 
 Her. Thanks for your care. 
 
 [Sits down and writes. Exit Host. 
 Osio. (aside to Marmaduke). Perhaps it would 
 be useful 
 That you too should subscribe your name. 
 [Marmaduke overlooks Herbert — then writes — examines 
 the letter eagerly. 
 
 Mar. I cannot leave this paper. 
 
 [He puts it up, agitated. 
 Osw. (aside). Dastard ! Come. 
 
 [Marmaduke goes towards Herbert and supports him — 
 Marmaduke tremblingly beckons Oswald to take his 
 place- 
 Mar, (as he quits Herbert). There is a palsy 
 in his limbs — he shakes. 
 [Exeunt Oswald and Herbert — Marmaduke fol- 
 lowing. 
 
 Scene changes to a Wood — a Group of Pilgrims 
 and Idonea with, them. 
 
 First Pil. A grove of darker and more lofty 
 shade 
 I never saw. 
 
 Sec. PH. The music of the birds 
 Drops deadened from a roof so thick with leaves. 
 
 Old Pil. This news ! It made my heart leap up 
 with joy. 
 
 Idon. I scarcely can believe it. 
 
 Old Pil. Myself, I heard 
 
 The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 33 
 
 Which purported it was the royal pleasure 
 The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed, 
 Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood, 
 Should be forthwith restored. The hearing, Lady, 
 Filled my dim eyes with tears.— When I returned 
 From Palestine, and brought with me a heart, 
 Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, comfort, 
 I met your Father, then a wandering Outcast : 
 He had a Guide, a Shepherd's boy ; but grieved 
 He was that One so young should pass his youth 
 In such sad service ; and he parted with him. 
 We joined our tales of wretchedness together, 
 And begged our daily bread from door to door. 
 1 talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady ! 
 For once you loved me. 
 
 Idon. You shall back with me 
 
 And see your Friend again. The good old Man 
 Will be rejoiced to greet you. 
 
 Old Pil. It seems but yesterday 
 
 That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with travel, 
 In a deep wood remote from any town. 
 A cave that opened to the road presented 
 A friendly shelter, and we entered in. 
 Idon. And I was with you % 
 Old Pil. If indeed 'twas you — 
 
 But you were then a tottering Little-one — 
 We sate us down. The sky grew dark and darker: 
 I struck my flint, and built up a small fire 
 With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the winds 
 Of many autumns in the cave had piled. 
 Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the woods ; 
 Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth 
 And we were comforted, and talked of comfort ; 
 But 'twas an angry night, and o'er our heads 
 The thunder rolled hi peals that would have made 
 A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. 
 O Lady, you have need to love your Father. 
 His voice — methinks I hear it now, his voice 
 When, after a broad flash that filled the cave, 
 He said to me, that he had seen his Child, 
 A face (no cherub's face more beautiful) 
 Revealed by lustre brought with it from Heaven ; 
 And it was you, dear Lady ! 
 
 Idon. God be praised, 
 
 That I have been his comforter till now ! 
 And will be so through every change of fortune 
 And every sacrifice his peace requires. — 
 Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear 
 These joyful tidings from no lips but mine. 
 
 \_Exeant Idonea and Pilgrims. 
 
 Scene, the Area of a half-ruined Castle — on one 
 side the entrance to a dune/eon — Oswald and 
 Marmaduke pacing backwards and forwards. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis a wild night. 
 
 Osw. I 'd give my cloak and bonnet 
 
 For sight of a warm fire. 
 
 Mar. The wind blows keen ; 
 
 My hands are numb. 
 
 Osw. Ha ! ha ! 'tis nipping cold. 
 
 [Blowing his fingers. 
 I long for news of our brave Comrades ; Lacy 
 Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their dens 
 If once they blew a horn this side the Tweed. 
 
 Mar. I think I see a second range of Towers ; 
 This castle has another Area — come, 
 Let us examine it. 
 
 Osw. 'Tis a bitter night ; 
 
 I hope Idonea is well housed. That horseman, 
 Who at full speed swept by us where the wood 
 Roared in the tempest, was within an ace 
 Of sending to his grave our precious Charge : 
 That would have been a vile mischance. 
 
 Mar. It would. 
 
 Osw. Justice had been most cruelly defrauded. 
 Mar. Most cruelly. 
 
 Osw. As up the steep we clomb, 
 
 I saw a distant fire in the north-east ; 
 I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon : 
 With proper speed our quarters may be gamed 
 To-morrow evening. 
 
 [Looks restlessly towards the mouth of the dungeon. 
 Mar. When, upon the plank, 
 
 I had led him 'cross the torrent, his voice blessed me : 
 You could not hear, for the foam beat the rocks 
 With deafening noise, — the benediction fell 
 Back on himself ; but changed into a curse. 
 Osw. As well indeed it might. 
 Mar. And this you deem 
 
 The fittest place 1 
 
 Osw. (aside). He is growing pitiful. 
 Mar. (listening). What an odd moaning that is ! — 
 Osw. Mighty odd 
 
 The wind should pipe a little, while we stand 
 Cooling our heels hi this way ! — I '11 begin 
 And count the stars. 
 
 Mar. (still listening). That dog of his, you are sure, 
 Could not come after us — he must have perished ; 
 The torrent would have dashed an oak to splinters. 
 You said you did not like his looks — that he 
 Would trouble us ; if he were here again, 
 I swear the sight of him would quail me moie 
 Than twenty armies. 
 
34 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Osw. How ? 
 
 Mar. The old blind Man, 
 
 When you had told him the mischance, was trou- 
 bled 
 Even to the shedding of some natural tears 
 Into the torrent over which he hung, 
 Listening in vain. 
 
 Osiv. He has a tender heart ! 
 
 [Oswald offers to go down into the dungeon. 
 
 Mar. How now, what mean you ? 
 
 Osiv. Truly, I was going 
 
 To waken our stray Baron. Were there not 
 A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues, 
 We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, 
 Three good round years, for playing the fool here 
 In such a night as this. 
 
 Mar. Stop, stop. 
 
 Osw. Perhaps, 
 
 You 'd better like we should descend together, 
 And lie down by his side — what say you to it % 
 Three of us— we should keep each other warm : 
 I '11 answer for it that our four-legged friend 
 Shall not disturb us ; further I '11 not engage ; 
 Come, come, for manhood's sake ! 
 
 Mar. These drowsy shiverings, 
 
 This mortal stupor which is creeping over me, 
 What do they mean ? were this my single body 
 Opposed to armies, not a nerve would tremble : 
 Why do I tremble now ? — Is not the depth 
 Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of thought ? 
 And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judgment, 
 Something I strike upon which turns my mind 
 Back on herself, I think, again — my breast 
 Concentres all the terrors of the Universe : 
 I look at him and tremble like a child. 
 
 Osw. Is it possible ? 
 
 Mar. One thing you noticed not : 
 
 Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder 
 Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing force. 
 This is a time, said he, when guilt may shudder ; 
 But there 's a Providence for them who walk 
 In helplessness, when innocence is with them. 
 At this audacious blasphemy, I thought 
 The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the air. 
 
 Osw. Why are you not the man you were that 
 moment ? 
 
 [He draws Marmaduke to the dungeon. 
 
 Mar. You say he was asleep, — look at this arm, 
 And tell me if 'tis fit for such a work. 
 Oswald, Oswald ! [Leans upon Oswald. 
 
 Osw. This is some sudden seizure ! 
 
 Mar. A most strange faintness, — will you hunt 
 me out 
 A draught of water ? 
 
 Osw. Nay, to see you thus 
 
 Moves me beyond my bearing. — I will try 
 To gain the torrent's brink. [Exit Oswald. 
 
 Mar. {after a pause). It seems an age 
 
 Since that Man left me. — No, I am not lost. 
 
 Her. {at the mouth of the dungeon). Give me your 
 hand ; where are you, Friends 1 and tell me 
 How goes the night. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis hard to measure time, 
 
 In such a weary night, and such a place. 
 
 Her. I do not hear the voice of my friend Oswald. 
 
 Mar. A minute past, he went to fetch a draught 
 Of water from the torrent. 'Tis, you '11 say, 
 A cheerless beverage. 
 
 Her. How good it was in you 
 
 To stay behind ! — Hearing at first no answer, 
 I was alarmed. 
 
 Mar. No wonder ; this is a place 
 
 That well may put some fears into your heart. 
 
 Her. Why so ? a roofless rock had been a com- 
 fort, 
 Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were ; 
 And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks 
 To make a bed for me ! — My Girl will weep 
 When she is told of it. 
 
 Mar. This Daughter of yours 
 
 Is very dear to you. 
 
 Her. Oh ! but you are young ; 
 
 Over your head twice twenty years must roll, 
 With all their natural weight of sorrow and pain, 
 Ere can be known to you how much a Father 
 May love his Child. 
 
 Mar. Thank you, old Man, for this ! [Aside. 
 
 Her. Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless Man; 
 Kindly have you protected me to-night, 
 And no return have I to make but prayers ; 
 May you in age be blest with such a daughter ! — 
 When from the Holy Land I had returned 
 Sightless, and from my heritage was driven, 
 A wretched Outcast — but this strain of thought 
 Would lead me to talk fondly. 
 
 Mar. Do not fear; 
 
 Your words are precious to my ears ; go on. 
 
 Her. You will forgive me, but my heart runs over. 
 When my old Leader slipped into the flood 
 And perished, what a piercing outcry you 
 Sent after him. I have loved you ever since. 
 You start — where are we ? 
 
 Mar. Oh, there is no danger ; 
 
 The cold blast struck me. 
 
 Her. 'Twas a foolish question. 
 
 Mar. But when you were an Outcast ? — Heaven 
 is just ; 
 Your piety would not miss its due reward ; 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 35 
 
 The little Orphan then would be your succour, 
 And do good service, though she knew it not. 
 
 Her. I turned me from the dwellings of my 
 Fathers, 
 Where none but those who trampled on my rights 
 Seemed to remember me. To the wide world 
 I bore her, in my arms ; her looks won pity ; 
 She was my Raven in the wilderness, 
 And brought me food. Have I not cause to love 
 her ? 
 
 Mar. Yes. 
 
 Her. More than ever Parent loved a Child ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, yes. 
 
 Her. I will not murmur, merciful God ! 
 
 I will not murmur ; blasted as I have been, 
 Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daughter's voice, 
 And arms to fold her to my heart. Submissively 
 Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith. 
 
 Enter Oswald. 
 
 Osw. Herbert ! — confusion ! (aside). Here it 
 is, my Friend, 
 
 [Presents the Horn. 
 A charming beverage for you to carouse, 
 This bitter night. 
 
 Her. Ha ! Oswald ! ten bright crosses 
 
 I would have given, not many minutes gone, 
 To have heard your voice. 
 
 Osw. Your couch, I fear, good Baron, 
 
 Has been but comfortless ; and yet that place, 
 When the tempestuous wind first drove us hither, 
 Felt warm as a wren's nest. You 'd better turn 
 And under covert rest till break of day, 
 Or till the storm abate. 
 
 (To Marmaduke aside). He has restored you. 
 No doubt you have been nobly entertained \ 
 But soft ! — how came he forth \ The Night-mare 
 
 Conscience 
 Has driven him out of harbour 1 
 
 Mar. ■ I believe 
 
 You have guessed right. 
 
 Her. The trees renew their murmur: 
 
 Come, let us house together. 
 
 [Oswald conducts him to the dungeon. 
 
 Osw. (returns). Had I not 
 
 Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair 
 To its most fit conclusion, do you think 
 I would so long have struggled with my Nature, 
 And smothered all that 's man in me ? — away ! — 
 
 [Looking towards the dungeon. 
 This man 's the property of him who best 
 Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a privilege ; 
 It now becomes my duty to resume it. 
 
 Mar. Touch not a finger 
 
 Osvj. What then must be done ? 
 
 Mar. Which way soe'er I turn, I am perplexed. 
 
 Osw. Now, on my life, I grieve for you. The 
 misery 
 Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts 
 Did not admit of stronger evidence ; 
 Twelve honest men, plain men, would set us right; 
 Their verdict would abolish these weak scruples. 
 
 Mar. Weak ! I am weak — there does my tor- 
 ment lie, 
 Feeding itself. 
 
 Osw. Verily, when he said 
 
 How his old heart would leap to hear her steps, 
 You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's. 
 
 Mar. And never heard a sound so terrible. 
 
 Osw. Perchance you think so now ? 
 
 Mar. I cannot do it : 
 
 Twee did I spring to grasp his withered throat, 
 When such a sudden weakness fell upon me, 
 I could have dropped asleep upon his breast. 
 
 Osw. Justice — is there not thunder in the word ? 
 Shall it be law to stab the petty robber 
 Who aims but at our purse ; and shall this Par- 
 ricide — 
 Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonour 
 Be worse than death) to that confiding Creature 
 Whom he to more than filial love and duty 
 Hath falsely trained — shall he fulfil his purpose ? 
 But you are fallen. 
 
 Mar. Fallen should I be indeed — 
 
 Murder — perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone, 
 Betrayed, in darkness ! Here to strike the blow — 
 Away ! away ! [Flings away his sword. 
 
 Osio. Nay, I have done with you : 
 
 We '11 lead him to the Convent. He shall live, 
 And she shall love him. With unquestioned title 
 He shall be seated in his Barony, 
 And we too chant the praise of his good deeds. 
 I now perceive we do mistake our masters, 
 And most despise the men who best can teach us : 
 Henceforth it shall be said that bad men only 
 Are brave : Clifford is brave ; and that old Man 
 Is brave. 
 
 [Taking Marmaduke's sword and giving it to him. 
 To Clifford's arms he would have led 
 His Victim — haply to this desolate house. 
 Mar. (advancing to the dungeon). It must be 
 ended ! — 
 
 Osw. Softly ; do not rouse him ; 
 
 He will deny it to the last. He lies 
 Within the Vault, a spear's length to the left. 
 
 [Marmaduke descends to the dungeon. 
 (Alone.) The Villains rose in mutiny to destroy me ; 
 I could have quelled the CowaSrds, but this Stripling 
 
■66 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Must needs step in, and save my life. The look 
 With which he gave the boon — I see it now ! 
 The same that tempted me to loathe the gift. — 
 For this old venerable Grey-beard — faith 
 'Tis his own fault if he hath got a face 
 Which doth play tricks with them that look on it : 
 'Twas this that put it in my thoughts — that coun- 
 tenance — 
 His staff — his figure — Murder ! — what, of whom ? 
 We kill a worn-out horse, and who but women 
 Sigh at the deed ? Hew down a withered tree, 
 And none look grave but dotards. He may live 
 To thank me for this service. Rainbow arches, 
 Highways of dreaming passion, have too long, 
 Young as he is, diverted wish and hope 
 From the unpretending ground we mortals tread ; — 
 Then shatter the delusion, break it up 
 And set him free. What follows ? I have learned 
 That things will work to ends the slaves o' the world 
 Do never dream of. I have been what he— 
 This Boy — when he comes forth with bloody 
 
 hands — 
 Might envy, and am now, — but he shall know 
 'What I am now — [ Goes and listens at the dungeon. 
 
 Praying or parleying ? — tut ! 
 Is he not eyeless ? He has been half-dead 
 These fifteen years 
 
 Enter female Beggar with two or three of her Companions. 
 
 (Turning abruptly). Ha! speak — what Thing 
 
 art thou ? 
 
 (Recognises her). Heavens ! my good Friend ! 
 
 [To her. 
 
 Beg. Forgive me, gracious Sir ! — 
 
 Osw. (to her companions). Begone, ye Slaves, or 
 
 I will raise a whirlwind 
 
 And send ye dancing to the clouds, like leaves. 
 
 [They retire affrighted. 
 
 Beg. Indeed we meant no harm ; we lodge 
 
 sometimes 
 
 In this deserted Castle — I repent me. 
 
 [Oswald noes to the dungeon — listens— returns to 
 the Beggar. 
 
 Osw. Woman, thou hast a helpless Infant — keep 
 
 Thy secret for its sake, or verily 
 
 That wretched life of thine shall be the forfeit. 
 
 Beg. I do repent me, Sir ; I fear the curse 
 
 Of that blind Man. 'Twas not your money, sir 
 
 Osw. Begone ! 
 
 Beg. (going). There is some wicked deed in 
 
 hand : [Aside. 
 
 Would I could find the old Man and his Daughter. 
 
 [Exit Beggar. 
 
 Marmaduke re-enters from the dungeon. 
 
 Osw. It is all over then ; — your foolish fears 
 
 Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and deed, 
 Made quiet as he is. 
 
 Mar. Why came you down ? 
 
 And when I felt your hand upon my arm 
 And spake to you, why did you give no answer ? 
 Feared you to waken him ? he must have been 
 In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. 
 There are the strangest echoes in that place ! 
 
 Osw. Tut ! let them gabble till the day of doom. 
 
 Mar. Scarcely, by groping, had I reached the 
 Spot, 
 When round my wi'ist I felt a cord drawn tight, 
 As if the blind Man's dog were pulling at it. 
 
 Osw. But after that ? 
 
 Mar. The features of Idonea 
 
 Lurked in his face 
 
 Osw. Psha ! Never to these eyes 
 
 Will retribution show itself again 
 With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me 
 To share your triumph ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, her very look, 
 
 Smiling in sleep 
 
 Osw. A pretty feat of Fancy ! 
 
 Mar. Though but a glimpse, it sent me to my 
 prayers. 
 
 Osw. Is he alive ? 
 
 Mar. What mean you \ who alive ? 
 
 Osw. Herbert ! since you will have it, Baron 
 Herbert ; 
 He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea 
 Hath become Clifford's harlot — is he living ? 
 
 Mar. The old Man in that dungeon is alive. 
 
 Osw. Henceforth, then, will I never in camp or 
 field 
 Obey you more. Your weakness, to the Band, 
 Shall be proclaimed : brave Men, they all shall 
 
 hear it. 
 You a protector of humanity ! 
 Avenger you of outraged innocence ! 
 
 Mar. 'Twas dark — dark as the grave ; yet did 
 I see, 
 Saw him — his face turned toward me ; and I tell 
 
 thee 
 Idonea's filial countenance was there 
 To baffle me — it put me to my prayers. 
 Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a crevice, 
 Beheld a star twinkling above my head, 
 And, by the living God, I could not do it. 
 
 [Sinks exhausted. 
 
 Osw. (to himself). Now may I perish if this turn 
 do more 
 Than make me change my course. 
 (To Marmaduke.) Dear Marmaduke, 
 
 My words were rashly spoken ; I recal them : 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 37 
 
 I feel my error ; shedding human blood 
 Is a most serious thing. 
 
 Mar. Not I alone, 
 
 Thou too art deep in guilt. 
 
 Osw. We have indeed 
 
 Been most presumptuous. There is guilt in this, 
 Else could so strong a mind have ever known 
 These trepidations ? Plain it is that Heaven 
 Has marked out this foul Wretch as one whose 
 
 crimes 
 Must never come before a mortal judgment-seat, 
 Or be chastised by mortal instruments. 
 
 Mar. A thought that 's worth a thousand 
 worlds ! [Goes towards the dungeon. 
 
 Osw. I grieve 
 
 That, in my zeal, I have caused you so much pain. 
 
 Mar. Think not of that ! 'tis over — we are safe. 
 
 Osw. (as if to himself, yet speaking aloud). The 
 truth is hideous, but how stifle it ? 
 
 [Turning to Marmaduke. 
 Give me your sword— nay, here are stones and 
 
 fragments, 
 The least of which would beat out a man's brains ; 
 Or you might drive your head against that wall. 
 No ! this is not the place to hear the tale : 
 It should be told you pinioned in your bed, 
 Or on some vast and solitary plain 
 Blown to you from a trumpet. 
 
 Mar. Why talk thus ? 
 
 Whate'er the monster brooding in your breast 
 
 I care not : fear I have none, and cannot fear 
 
 [The sound of a horn is heard. 
 That horn again — 'Tis some one of our Troop ; 
 What do they here ? Listen ! 
 
 Osw. What ! dogged like thieves ! 
 
 Enter Wallace and Lacy, &c. 
 
 Lacy. You are found at last, thanks to the 
 vagrant Troop 
 For not misleading us. 
 
 Osw. (looking at Wallace). That subtle Grey- 
 beard — 
 I 'd rather see my father's ghost. 
 
 Lacy (to Marmaduke). My Captain, 
 
 We come by order of the Band. Belike 
 You have not heard that Henry has at last 
 Dissolved the Barons' League, and sent abroad 
 His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate 
 The genuine owners of such Lands and Baronies 
 As, in these long commotions, have been seized. 
 His Power is this way tending. It befits us 
 To stand upon our guard, and with our swords 
 Defend the innocent. 
 
 Mar. Lacy ! we look 
 
 But at the surfaces of things ; we hear 
 
 Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young and old 
 Driven out in troops to want and nakedness ; 
 Then grasp our swords and rush upon a cure 
 That flatters us, because it asks not thought : 
 The deeper malady is better hid ; 
 The world is poisoned at the heart. 
 
 Lacy. What mean you ? 
 
 Wal. (whose eye has been fixed suspiciously upon 
 Oswald). Ay, what is it you mean ? 
 
 Mar. Harkee, my Friends ; — 
 
 [Appearing gay. 
 Were there a Man who, being weak and helpless 
 And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, pressed 
 By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, 
 A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, 
 Prattling upon his knee, to call him Father 
 
 Lacy. Why, if his heart be tender, that offence 
 I could forgive him. 
 
 Mar. (going on,). And should he make the Child 
 An instrument of falsehood, should he teach her 
 To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome light 
 Of infant playfulness with piteous looks 
 Of misery that was not 
 
 Lacy. Troth, 'tis hard — 
 
 But in a world like ours 
 
 Mar. (changing his tone). This self-same Man — 
 Even while he printed kisses on the cheek 
 Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent tongue 
 To lisp the name of Father — could he look 
 To the unnatural harvest of that time 
 When he should give her up, a Woman grown, 
 To him who bid the highest in the market 
 
 Of foul pollution ■ 
 
 * Lacy. The whole visible world 
 
 Contains not such a Monster ! 
 
 Mar. For this purpose 
 
 Should he resolve to taint her Soul by means 
 Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of them ; 
 Should he, by tales which would draw tears from iron, 
 Work on her nature, and so turn compassion 
 And gratitude to ministers of vice, 
 And make the spotless spirit of filial love 
 Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim 
 Both soul and body 
 
 Wal. 'Tis too horrible ; 
 
 Oswald, wnat say you to it 2 
 
 Lacy. Hew him down, 
 
 And fling him to the ravens. 
 
 Mar. But his aspect 
 
 It is so meek, his countenance so venerable. 
 
 Wal. (with an appearance of mistrust). But how, 
 what say you, Oswald ? 
 
 Lacy, (at the same moment). Stab him, were it 
 Before the Altar. 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Mar. What, if he were sick, 
 Tottering upon the very verge of life, 
 And old, and blind 
 
 Lacy. Blind, say you ? 
 
 Osw. {coming forward). Are we Men, 
 
 Or own we baby Spirits ? Genuine courage 
 Is not an accidental quality, 
 A thing dependent for its casual birth 
 On opposition and impediment. 
 Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats down 
 The giant's strength ; and, at the voice of Justice, 
 Spares not the worm. The giant and the worm — 
 She weighs them in one scale. The wiles of woman, 
 And craft of age, seducing reason, first 
 Made weakness a protection, and obscured 
 The moral shapes ot tnings. His tender cries 
 And helpless innocence — do they protect 
 The infant lamb ? and shall the infirmities, 
 Which have enabled this enormous Culprit 
 To perpetrate his crimes, serve as a Sanctuary 
 To cover him from punishment ? Shame !— Justice, 
 Admitting no resistance, bends alike 
 The feeble and the strong. She needs not here 
 Her bonds and chains, which make the mighty feeble. 
 — We recognise in this old Man a victim 
 Prepared already for the sacrifice. 
 
 Lacy. By heaven, his words are reason ! 
 
 Osw. Yes, my Friends, 
 
 His countenance is meek and venerable ; 
 And, by the Mass, to see him at his prayers ! — 
 I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish 
 When my heart does not ache to think of it ! — 
 Poor Victim ! not a virtue under heaven 
 But what was made an engine to ensnare thee ; ' 
 But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe. 
 
 Lacy. Idonea ! 
 
 Wal. How ! what ? your Idonea ? 
 
 [To Marmaduke. 
 
 Mar. Mine j 
 
 But now no longer mine. You know Lord Clifford ; 
 He is the Man to whom the Maiden — pure 
 As beautiful, and gentle and benign, 
 And in her ample heart loving even me — 
 Was to be yielded up. 
 
 Lacy. Now, by the head 
 
 Of my own child, this Man must die ; my hand, 
 A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine 
 In his grey hairs ! — 
 
 Mar. (to Lacy). I love the Father in thee. 
 You know me, Friends ; I have a heart to feel, 
 And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes me 
 Or duty sanctions. 
 
 Lacy. We will have ample justice. 
 
 Who are we, Friends \ Do we not live on ground 
 
 Where Souls are self-defended, free to grow 
 Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy wind. 
 Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which decreed 
 This monstrous crime to be laid open — here, 
 Where Reason has an eye that she can use, 
 And Men alone are Umpires. To the Camp 
 He shall be led, and there, the Country round 
 All gathered to the spot, in open day 
 Shall Nature be avenged. 
 
 Osw. 'Tis nobly thought ; 
 
 His death will be a monument for ages. 
 
 Mar. (to Lacy). I thank you for that hint. He 
 shall be brought 
 Before the Camp, and would that best and wisest 
 Of every country might be present. There, 
 His crime shall be proclaimed ; and for the rest 
 It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide : 
 Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and see 
 That all is well prepared. 
 
 Wal. We will obey you. 
 
 (Aside). But softly ! we must look a little nearer. 
 
 Mar. Tell where you found us. At some future 
 time 
 1 will explain the cause. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene, the door of the Hostel, a group of Pilgrims as 
 before; Idonea and the Host among them. 
 
 Host. Lady, you'll find your Father at the Convent 
 As I have told you : He left us yesterday 
 With two Companions ; one of them, as seemed, 
 His most familiar Friend. (Going.) There was a 
 
 letter 
 Of which I heard them speak, but that I fancy 
 Has been forgotten. 
 
 Idon. (to Host). Farewell ! 
 
 Host. Gentle pilgrims, 
 
 St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand. 
 
 [Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims. 
 
 Scene, a desolate Moor. 
 
 Oswald (alone). 
 Osw. Carry him to the Camp ! Yes, to the Camp. 
 Oh, Wisdom ! a most wise resolve ! and then, 
 That half a word should blow it to the winds ! 
 This last device must end my work. — Methinks 
 It were a pleasant pastime to construct 
 A scale and table of belief — as thus — 
 Two columns, one for passion, one for proof ; 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 39 
 
 Each rises as the other falls : and first, 
 
 Passion a unit and against us — proof — 
 
 Nay, we must travel in another path, 
 
 Or we 're stuck fast for ever ;— passion, then, 
 
 Shall be a unit for us ; proof — no, passion ! 
 
 We'll not insult thy majesty by time, 
 
 Person, and place — the where, the when, the how, 
 
 And all particulars that dull brains require 
 
 To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, 
 
 They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstration. 
 
 A whipping to the Moralists who preach 
 
 That misery is a sacred thing : for me, 
 
 I know no cheaper engine to degrade a man, 
 
 Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's mind 
 
 Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface ; 
 
 And, in the storm and anguish of the heart, 
 
 He talks of a transition in his Soul, 
 
 And dreams that he is happy. We dissect 
 
 The senseless body, and why not the mind \ — 
 
 These are strange sights — the mind of man, 
 
 upturned, 
 Is in all natures a strange spectacle ; 
 In some a hideous one — hem ! shall I stop ? 
 No. — Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, but then 
 They have no substance. Pass but a few minutes, 
 And something shall be done which Memory 
 May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at work. 
 
 Enter JVIarmaduke,/»-ow behind. 
 
 Osw. (turning to meet Mm). But listen, for 
 
 my peace 
 
 Mar. Why, I believe you. 
 
 Osw. But hear the proofs - 
 
 Mar. Ay, prove that when two peas 
 
 Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then 
 Be larger than the peas — prove this — 'twere matter 
 Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream 
 It ever could be otherwise ! 
 
 Osw. Last night 
 
 When I returned with water from the brook, 
 I overheard the Villains — every word 
 Like red-hot iron burnt into my heart. 
 Said one, " It is agreed on. The blind Man 
 Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, 
 Who on her journey must proceed alone, 
 Under pretence of violence, be seized. 
 She is," continued the detested Slave, 
 u She is right willing — strange if she were not ! — 
 They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man ; 
 But, faith, to see him in his silken tunic, 
 Fitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp, 
 There's witchery in't. I never knew a maid 
 That could withstand it. True," continued he, 
 f When we arranged the affair, she wept a little 
 
 (Not the less welcome to my Lord for that) 
 And said, ' My Father he will have it so'. " 
 
 Mar. I am your hearer. 
 
 Osw. This I caught, and more 
 
 That may not be retold to any ear. 
 The obstinate bolt of a small iron door 
 Detained them near the gateway of the Castle. 
 By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths 
 Of flowers were in their hands, as if designed 
 For festive decoration ; and they said, 
 With brutal laughter and most foul allusion, 
 That they should share the banquet with their Lord 
 And his new Favorite. 
 
 Mar. Misery ! — 
 
 Osw. I knew 
 
 How you would be disturbed by this dire news, 
 And therefore chose this solitary Moor, 
 Here to impart the tale, of which, last night, 
 I strove to ease my mind, when our two Comrades, 
 Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon us. 
 
 Mar. Last night, when moved to lift the avenging 
 steel, 
 I did believe all things were shadows — yea, 
 Living or dead all things were bodiless, 
 Or but the mutual mockeries of body, 
 Till that same star summoned me back again. 
 Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. Oh Fool ! 
 To let a creed, built in the heart of things, 
 Dissolve before a twinkling atom ! — Oswald, 
 I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools 
 Than you have entered, were it worth the pains. 
 Young as I am, I might go forth a teacher, 
 And you should see how deeply I could reason 
 Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends ; 
 Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects ; 
 Of actions, and their laws and tendencies. 
 
 Osw. You take it as it merits 
 
 Mar. One a King, 
 
 General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, 
 Strews twenty acres of good meadow-ground 
 With carcases, in lineament and shape 
 And substance, nothing differing from his own, 
 But that they cannot stand up of themselves ; 
 Another sits i' th' sun, and by the hour 
 Floats kingcups in the brook — a Hero one 
 We call, and scorn the other as Time's spend- 
 thrift ; 
 But have they not a world of common ground 
 To occupy — both fools, or wise alike, 
 Each in his way ? 
 
 Osw. Troth, I begin to think so. 
 
 Mar. Now for the corner-stone of my philosophy: 
 I would not give a denier for the man 
 Who, on such provocation as this earth 
 
40 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Yields, could not chuck his habe beneath the chin, 
 And send it with a fillip to its grave. 
 
 Osw. Nay, you leave me behind. 
 
 Mar. That such a One, 
 
 So pious in demeanour ! in his look 
 
 So saintly and so pure ! Hark'ee, my Friend, 
 
 I '11 plant myself before Lord Clifford's Castle, 
 A surly mastiff kennels at the gate, 
 And he shall howl and I will laugh, a medley 
 Most tunable. 
 
 Osw. In faith, a pleasant scheme ; 
 
 But take your sword along with you, for that 
 Might in such neighbourhood find seemly use. — 
 But first, how wash our hands of this old Man \ 
 
 Mar. Oh yes, that mole, that viper in the path ; 
 Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten. 
 
 Osw. You know we left him sitting — see him 
 yonder. 
 
 Mar. Ha ! ha ! — 
 
 Osw. As 'twill be but a moment's work, 
 
 I will stroll on ; you follow when 'tis done. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene changes to another part of the Moor at a short 
 distance — Herbert is discovered seated on a stone. 
 
 Her. A sound of laughter, too ! — 'tis well — I 
 feared, 
 The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow 
 Pressing upon his solitary heart. 
 Hush ! — 'tis the feeble and earth-loving wind 
 That creeps along the bells of the crisp heather. 
 Alas ! 'tis cold — I shiver in the sunshine — 
 What can this mean ? There is a psalm that speaks 
 Of God's parental mercies — with Idonea 
 I used to sing it. — Listen !— what foot is there ? 
 
 Enter Marmaduke. 
 
 Mar. {aside— looking at Herbebt). And I have 
 
 loved this Man ! and she hath loved him ! 
 
 And I loved her, and she loves the Lord Clifford ! 
 
 And there it ends ; — if this be not enough 
 
 To make mankind merry for evermore, 
 
 Then plain it is as day, that eyes were made 
 
 For a wise purpose — verily to weep with ! 
 
 [Looking round. 
 A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece 
 
 Of Nature, finished with most curious skill ! 
 
 {To Herbert). Good Baron, have you ever 
 
 practised tillage ? 
 
 Pray tell me what this land is worth by the acre ? 
 
 Her. How glad I am to hear your voice ! I know not 
 
 Wherein I have offended you ; — last night 
 
 I found in you the kindest of Protectors ; 
 
 This morning, when I spoke of weariness, 
 
 You from my shoulder took my scrip and threw it 
 
 About your own ; but for these two hours past 
 
 Once only have you spoken, when the lark 
 
 Whirred from among the fern beneath our feet, 
 
 And I, no coward in my better days, 
 
 Was almost terrified. 
 
 Mar. That 's excellent ! — 
 
 So, you bethought you of the many ways 
 In which a man may come to his end, whose crimes 
 Have roused all Nature up against him — pshaw ! — 
 
 Her. For mercy's sake, is nobody in sight ? 
 No traveller, peasant, herdsman ? 
 
 Mar. Not a soul : 
 
 Here is a tree, ragged, and bent, and bare, 
 That turns its goat's-beard flakes of pea-green moss 
 From the stern breathing of the rough sea- wind ; 
 This have we, but no other company : 
 Commend me to the place. If a man should die 
 And leave his body here, it were all one 
 As he were twenty fathoms underground. 
 
 Her. Where is our common Friend ? 
 
 Mar. A ghost, methinks — 
 
 The Spirit of a murdered man, for instance — 
 Might have fine room to ramble about here, 
 A grand domain to squeak and gibber in. 
 
 Her. Lost Man ! if thou have any close-pent 
 guilt 
 Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour 
 Of visitation 
 
 Mar. A bold word from you ! 
 
 Her. Restore him, Heaven ! 
 
 Mar. The desperate Wretch ! — A Flower, 
 
 Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but now 
 They have snapped her from the stem — Poll ! let 
 
 her he 
 Besoiled with mire, and let the houseless snail 
 Feed on her leaves. You knew her well — ay, 
 
 there, 
 Old Man ! you were a very Lynx, you knew 
 The worm was in her 
 
 Her. Mercy ! Sir, what mean you ? 
 
 Mar. You have a Daughter ! 
 
 Her. Oh that she were here ! — 
 
 She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts, 
 And if I have in aught offended you, 
 Soon would her gentle voice make peace between 
 us. 
 
 Mar. (aside). I do believe he weeps — I could 
 weep too — 
 There is a vein of her voice that runs through his : 
 Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth 
 From the first moment that I loved the Maid ; 
 And for his sake I loved her more : these tears — 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 41 
 
 I did not think that aught was left in me 
 
 Of what I have been — yes, I thank thee, Heaven ! 
 
 One happy thought has passed across my mind.- 
 
 — It may not be — I am cut off from man ; 
 
 No more shall I be man — no more shall I 
 
 Have human feelings !— {To Herbert) — Now, for 
 
 a little more 
 About your Daughter ! 
 
 Her. Troops of armed men, 
 
 Met in the roads, would bless us ; little children, 
 Rushing along in the full tide of play, 
 Stood silent as we passed them ! I have heard 
 The boisterous carman, in the miry road, 
 Check Ins loud whip and hail us with mild voice, 
 And speak with milder voice to his poor beasts. 
 
 Mar. And whither were you going ? 
 
 Her. Learn, young Man, 
 
 To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery, 
 Whether too much for patience, or, like mine, 
 Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy. 
 
 Mar. Now, this is as it should be ! 
 
 Her. I am weak ! — 
 My Daughter does not know how weak I am ; 
 And, as thou see'st, under the arch of heaven 
 Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness, 
 By the good God, our common Father, doomed ! — 
 But I had once a spirit and an arm 
 
 Mar. Now, for a word about your Barony : 
 I fancy when you left the Holy Land, 
 And came to — what 's your title — eh ? your claims 
 Were undisputed ! 
 
 Her. Like a mendicant, 
 
 Whom no one comes to meet, I stood alone ; — 
 I murmured — but, remembering Him who feeds 
 The pelican and ostrich of the desert, 
 From my own threshold I looked up to Heaven 
 And did not want glimmerings of quiet hope. 
 So, from the court I passed, and down the brook, 
 Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak 
 I came ; and when I felt its cooling shade, 
 I sate me down, and cannot but believe — 
 While in my lap I held my little Babe 
 And clasped her to my heart, my heart that ached 
 More with delight than grief — I heard a voice 
 Such as by Cherith on Elijah called ; 
 It said, " I will be with thee." A little boy, 
 A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was gone, 
 Hailed us as if he had been sent from heaven, 
 And said, with tears, that he would be our guide : 
 I had a better guide — that innocent Babe — 
 Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from harm, 
 From cold, from hunger, penury, and death ; 
 To whom I owe the best of all the good 
 I have, or wish for, upon earth — and more 
 
 And higher far than lies within earth's bounds : 
 Therefore I bless her : when I think of Man, 
 I bless her with sad spirit, — when of God, 
 I bless her in the fulness of my joy ! 
 
 Mar. The name of daughter in his mouth, he 
 prays ! 
 With nerves so steady, that the very flies 
 Sit unmolested on his staff. — Innocent ! — 
 If he were innocent — then he would tremble 
 And be disturbed, as I am. [Turning aside). I 
 
 have read 
 In Story, what men now alive have witnessed, 
 How, when the People's mind was racked with 
 
 doubt, 
 Appeal was made to the great Judge : the 
 
 Accused 
 With naked feet walked over burning ploughshares. 
 Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared 
 For a like trial, but more merciful. 
 Why else have I been led to this bleak Waste ? 
 Bare is it, without house or track, and destitute 
 Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. 
 Here will I leave him — here — All-seeing God ! 
 Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I am, 
 I will commit him to this final Ordeal I — 
 He heard a voice — a shepherd-lad came to him 
 And was his guide ; if once, why not again, 
 And in this desert ? If never — then the whole 
 Of what he says, and looks, and does, and is, 
 Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave him here 
 To cold and hunger ! — Pain is of the heart, 
 And what are a few throes of bodily suffering 
 If they can waken one pang of remorse \ 
 
 [Goes up to Herbert. 
 Old Man ! my wrath is as a flame burnt out, 
 It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here 
 Led by my hand to save thee from perdition ; 
 Thou wilt have time to breathe and think 
 
 Her. Oh, Mercy ! 
 
 Mar. I know the need that all men have of mercy, 
 And therefore leave thee to a righteous judgment. 
 
 Her. My Child, my blessed Child ! 
 
 Mar. No more of that ; 
 
 Thou wilt have many guides if thou art innocent ; 
 Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth, 
 That Woman will come o'er this Waste to save thee. 
 [He pauses and looks at Herbert's staff. 
 Ha ! what is here ? and carved by her own hand ! 
 [Reads upon the stuff. 
 " I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. 
 He that puts his trust in me shall not fail !" 
 Yes, be it so ; — repent and be forgiven — ■ 
 God and that staff are now thy only guides. 
 
 [He leaves Herbert on the Moor. 
 
42 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Scene, an eminence, a Beacon on the summit. 
 
 Lacy, Wallace, Lennox, &c. &c. 
 Several of the Band {confusedly). But patience ! 
 One of the Band. Curses on that Traitor, 
 
 Oswald ! — 
 Our Captain made a prey to foul device ! — 
 
 Len. (toWal.). His tool, the wandering Beggar, 
 made last night 
 A plain confession, such as leaves no douht, 
 Knowing what otherwise we know too well, 
 That she revealed the truth. Stand by me now ; 
 For rather would I have a nest of vipers 
 Between my breast-plate and my skin, than make 
 Oswald my special enemy, if you 
 Deny me your support. 
 
 Lacy. We have been fooled — 
 
 But for the motive ? 
 
 Wal. Natures such as his 
 
 Spin motives out of their own bowels, Lacy ! 
 I learn'd this when I was a Confessor. 
 I know him well ; there needs no other motive 
 Than that most strange incontinence in crime 
 Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life to him 
 And breath and being ; where he cannot govern, 
 He will destroy. 
 
 Lacy. To have been trapped like moles ! — 
 
 Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for motives : 
 There is no crime from which this man would shrink ; 
 He recks not human law ; and I have noticed 
 That often when the name of God is uttered, 
 A sudden blankness overspreads his face. 
 
 Len. Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride has built 
 Some uncouth superstition of its own. 
 
 Wal. I have seen traces of it. 
 
 Len. Once he headed 
 
 A band of Pirates in the Norway seas ; 
 And when the King of Denmark summoned him 
 To the oath of fealty, I well remember, 
 'Twas a strange answer that he made ; he said, 
 " 1 hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven." 
 
 Lacy. He is no madman. 
 
 Wal. A most subtle doctor 
 
 Were that man, who could draw the line that parts 
 Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from Madness, 
 That should be scourged, not pitied. Restless 
 
 Minds, 
 Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men 
 No heart that loves them, none that they can love, 
 Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy 
 In dim relation to imagined Beings. 
 
 One of the Band. What if he mean to offer up 
 our Captain 
 
 An expiation and a sacrifice 
 To those infernal fiends ! 
 
 Wal. Now, if the event 
 
 Should be as Lennox has foretold, then swear, 
 My Friends, his heart shall have as many wounds 
 As there are daggers here. 
 
 Lacy. What need of swearing ! 
 
 One of the Band. Let us away ! 
 
 Another. Away ! 
 
 A third. Hark ! how the horns 
 Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the vale. 
 
 Lacy. Stay you behind; and when the sun is down, 
 Light up this beacon. 
 
 One of the Band. You shall be obeyed. 
 
 [They go out together. 
 
 
 Scene, the Wood on the edye of the Moor. 
 Marmaduke (alone). 
 
 Mar. Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond human 
 thought, 
 Yet calm. — I could believe, that there was here 
 The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, 
 Remembered terror, there is peace and rest. 
 Enter Oswald. 
 
 Osw. Ha ! my dear Captain. 
 
 Mar. A later meeting, Oswald, 
 
 Would have been better timed. 
 
 Osw. Alone, I see ; 
 
 You have done your duty. I had hopes, which now 
 I feel that you will justify. 
 
 Mar. I had fears, 
 
 From which I have freed myself — but 'tis my wish 
 To be alone, and therefore we must part. 
 
 Osw. Nay, then — I am mistaken. There's a 
 weakness 
 About you still ; you talk of solitude — 
 I am your friend. 
 
 Mar. What need of this assurance 
 
 At any time ? and why given now ? 
 
 Osiv. Because 
 
 You are now in truth my Master ; you have 
 
 taught me 
 What there is not another living man 
 Had strength to teach ; — and therefore gratitude 
 Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise. 
 
 Mar. Wherefore press this on me ? 
 
 Osw. Because I feel 
 
 That you have shown, and by a signal instance, 
 How they who would be just must seek the rule 
 By diving for it into then' own bosoms. 
 To-day you have thrown off a tyranny 
 That lives but in the torpid acquiescence 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 43 
 
 Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny 
 
 Of the world's masters, with the musty rules 
 
 By which they uphold their craft from age to age : 
 
 You have obeyed the only law that sense 
 
 Submits to recognise ; the immediate law, 
 
 From the clear tight of circumstances, flashed 
 
 Upon an independent Intellect. 
 
 Henceforth new prospects open on your path ; 
 
 Your faculties should grow with the demand ; 
 
 I still will be your friend, will cleave to you 
 
 Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn, 
 
 Oft as they dare to follow on your steps. 
 
 Mar. I would be left alone. 
 
 Osiv. (exultingly). I know your motives ! 
 
 I am not of the world's presumptuous judges, 
 Who damn where they can neither see nor feel, 
 With a hard-hearted ignorance ; your struggles 
 I witness'd, and now hail your victory. 
 
 Mar. Spare me awhile that greeting. 
 
 Osw. It may be, 
 
 That some there are, squeamish half-thinking 
 
 cowards, 
 Who will turn pale upon you, call you murderer, 
 And you will walk in solitude among them. 
 A mighty evil for a strong-built mind ! — 
 Join twenty tapers of unequal height 
 And light them joined, and you will see the less 
 How 'twill burn down the taller ; and they all 
 Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude ! — 
 The Eagle lives in Solitude ! 
 
 Mar. Even so, 
 
 The Sparrow so on the house-top, and I, 
 The weakest of God's creatures, stand resolved 
 To abide the issue of my act, alone. 
 
 Osw. Now would you ? and for ever ? — My young 
 Friend, 
 As time advances either we become 
 The prey or masters of our own past deeds. 
 Fellowship we must have, willing or no ; 
 And if good Angels fail, slack in their duty, 
 Substitutes, turn our faces where we may, 
 Are still forthcoming ; some which, though they bear 
 111 names, can render no ill services, 
 In recompense for what themselves required. 
 So meet extremes in this mysterious world, 
 And opposites thus melt into each other. 
 
 Mar. Time, since Man first drew breath, has 
 never moved 
 With such a weight upon his wings as now ; 
 But they will soon be lightened. 
 
 Osw. Ay, look up — 
 
 Cast round you your mind's eye, and you will learn 
 Fortitude is the child of Enterprise : 
 Great actions move our admiration, chiefly 
 
 Because they carry in themselves an earnest 
 That we can suffer greatly. 
 
 Mar. Very true. 
 
 Osw. Action is transitory — a step, a blow, 
 The motion of a muscle — this way or that — 
 'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy 
 We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed : 
 Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, 
 And shares the nature of infinity. 
 
 Mar. Truth— and I feel it. 
 
 Osw. What ! if you had bid 
 
 Eternal farewell to unmingled joy 
 And the light dancing of the thoughtless heart ; 
 It is the toy of fools, and little fit 
 For such a world as this. The wise abjure 
 All thoughts whose idle composition lives 
 In the entire forgetfulness of pain. 
 — I see I have disturbed you. 
 
 Mar. By no means. 
 
 Osw. Compassion ! — pity !— pride can do without 
 them ; 
 And what if you should never know them more ! — 
 He is a puny soul who, feeling pain, 
 Finds ease because another feels it too. 
 If e'er I open out this heart of mine 
 It shall be for a nobler end — to teach 
 And not to purchase puling sympathy. 
 — Nay, you are pale. 
 
 Mar. It may be so. 
 
 Osw. Remorse — 
 
 It cannot five with thought ; think on, think on, 
 And it will die. What ! in this universe, 
 Where the least things control the greatest, where 
 The faintest breath that breathes can move a world ; 
 What ! feel remorse, where, if a cat had sneezed, 
 A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been 
 Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals. 
 
 Mar. Now, whither are you wandering ? That 
 a man 
 So used to suit his language to the time, 
 Should thus so widely differ from himself — 
 It is most strange. 
 
 Osio. Murder ! — what 's in the word ! — 
 
 I have no cases by me ready made 
 To fit all deeds. Carry him to the Camp !— 
 A shallow project ; — you of late have seen 
 More deeply, taught us that the institutes 
 Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation 
 Banished from human intercourse, exist 
 Only in our relations to the brutes 
 That make the fields their dwelling. If a snake 
 Crawl from beneath our feet we do not ask 
 A license to destroy him : our good governors 
 Hedge in the life of every pest and plague 
 
44 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 That bears the shape of man ; and for what pur- 
 pose, 
 But to protect themselves from extirpation ? — ■ 
 This flimsy barrier you have overleaped. 
 
 Mar. My Office is fulfilled — the Man is now 
 Delivered to the Judge of all things. 
 
 Osio. Dead ! 
 
 Mar. Ihavebornemy burthen to its destined end. 
 
 Osw. This instant we '11 return to our Com- 
 panions — 
 Oh how I long to see their faces again ! 
 
 Enter Idonba, with Pilgrims who continue their journey. 
 
 Idon. {after some time). What, Marmaduke ! 
 now thou art mine for ever. 
 And Oswald, too ! (To Marmaduke). On will we 
 
 to my Father 
 With the glad tidings which this day hath brought ; 
 We '11 go together, and, such proof received 
 Of his own rights restored, his gratitude 
 To God above will make him feel for ours. 
 
 Osw. I interrupt you ? 
 
 Idon. Think not so. 
 
 Mar. Idonea, 
 
 That I should ever live to see this moment ! 
 
 Idon. Forgive me. — Oswald knows it all — he 
 knows, 
 Each word of that unhappy letter fell 
 As a blood drop from my heart. 
 
 Osw. 'Twas even so. 
 
 Mar. I have much to say, but for whose ear ? — 
 not thine. 
 
 Idon. Ill can I bear that look — Plead for me, 
 Oswald ! 
 You are my Father's Friend. 
 (To Marmaduke). • Alas, you know not, 
 
 And never can you know, bow much he loved me. 
 Twice had he been to me a father, twice 
 Had given me breath, and was I not to be 
 His daughter, once his daughter ? could I withstand 
 His pleading face, and feel his clasping arms, 
 And hear his prayer that I would not forsake him 
 In his old age [Hides her face. 
 
 Mar. Patience — Heaven grantme patience ! — 
 She weeps, she weeps — my brain shall burn for hours 
 Ere / can shed a tear. 
 
 Idon. I was a woman ; 
 
 And, balancing the hopes that are the dearest 
 To womankind with duty to my Father, 
 I yielded up those precious hopes, which nought 
 On earth could else have wrested from me ; — if 
 
 erring, 
 Oh let me be forgiven ! 
 
 Mar. I do forgive thee. 
 
 Idon. But take me to your arms — this breast, 
 alas ! 
 It throbs, and you have a heart that does not feel it. 
 
 Mar. (exultingly) . She is innocent. 
 
 [He embraces her. 
 
 Osw. (aside). Were I a Moralist, 
 
 I should make wondrous revolution here ; 
 It were a quaint experiment to show 
 The beauty of trutb — [Addressing them. 
 
 I see I interrupt you ; 
 I shall have business with you, Marmaduke ; 
 Follow me to the Hostel. [Exit Oswald. 
 
 Idon. Marmaduke, 
 
 This is a happy day. My Father soon 
 Shall sun himself before his native doors ; 
 The lame, the hungry, will be welcome there. 
 No more shall he complain of wasted strength, 
 Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart ; 
 His good works will be balm and life to him. 
 
 Mar. This is most strange ! — I know not what 
 it was, 
 But there was something which most plainly said, 
 That thou wert innocent. 
 
 Idon. How innocent ! — 
 
 Oh heavens ! you 've been deceived. 
 
 Mar. Thou art a Woman, 
 
 To bring perdition on the universe. 
 
 Idon. Already I 've been punished to the height 
 Of my offence. [Smiling affectionately. 
 
 I see you love me still. 
 The labours of my hand are still your joy ; 
 Bethink you of the hour when on your shoulder 
 I hung this belt. 
 
 [Pointing to the belt on which ivas suspended 
 Herbert's scrip. 
 
 Mar. Mercy of Heaven ! - [Sinks. 
 
 Idon. What ails you ! [Distractedly. 
 
 Mar. The scrip that held his food, and I forgot 
 To give it back again ! 
 
 Idon. What mean your words ? 
 
 Mar. I know not what I said — all may be well. 
 
 Idon. That smile hath life in it ! 
 
 Mar. This road is perilous ; 
 
 I will attend you to a Hut that stands 
 Near the wood's edge — rest there to-night, I pray 
 
 you : 
 For me, I have business, as you heard, with Oswald, 
 But will return to you by break of day. [Exeunt. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 45 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene, A desolate prospect — a ridge of rocks — a 
 Chapel on the summit of one — Moon behind the 
 rocks — night stormy — irregular sound of a bell — ■ 
 Herbert enters exhausted. 
 
 Her. That Chapel-bell in mercy seemed to guide me, 
 But now it mocks my steps ; its fitful stroke 
 Can scarcely be the work of human hands. 
 Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such 
 There be who pray nightly before the Altar. 
 Oh that I had but strength to reach the place ! 
 My Child — my child — dark — dark — I faint — this 
 
 wind — 
 These stifling blasts — God help me ! 
 
 Enter Eldred. 
 Eld. Better this bare rock, 
 
 Though it were tottering over a man's head, 
 Than a tight case of dungeon walls for shelter 
 From such rough dealing. 
 
 [_A moaning voice is heard. 
 Ha ! what sound is that 1 
 Trees creaking in the wind (but none are here) 
 Send forth such noises — and that weary bell ! 
 Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night 
 Is ringing it — 'twould stop a Saint in prayer, 
 And that — what is it ? never was sound so like 
 A human groan. Ha ! what is here ? Poor Man — 
 Murdered ! alas ! speak— speak, I am your friend : 
 No answer — hush — lost wretch, he lifts his hand 
 And lays it to his heart — (Kneels to him). I pray 
 
 you speak ! 
 What has befallen you ? 
 
 Her. (feebly). A stranger has done this, 
 
 And in the arms of a stranger I must die. 
 
 Eld. Nay, think not so : come, let me raise 
 you up : [Raises him. 
 
 This is a dismal place — well— that is well — 
 I was too fearful — take me for your guide 
 And your support — my hut is not far off. 
 
 [Draws him gently off the stage. 
 
 Scene, a room in the Hostel — Marmaduke and 
 Oswald. 
 
 Mar. But for Idonea ! — I have cause to think 
 That she is innocent. 
 
 Osw. Leave that thought awhile, 
 
 As one of those beliefs which in their hearts 
 Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no better 
 Than feathers clinging to their points of passion. 
 
 This day's event has laid on me the duty 
 
 Of opening out my story ; you must hear it, 
 
 And without further preface. — In my youth, 
 
 Except for that abatement which is paid 
 
 By envy as a tribute to desert, 
 
 I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling 
 
 Of every tongue — as you are now. You 've heard 
 
 That I embarked for Syria. On our voyage 
 
 Was hatched among the crew a foul Conspiracy 
 
 Against my honour, in the which our Captain 
 
 Was, I believed, prime Agent. The wind fell ; 
 
 We lay becalmed week after week, until 
 
 The water of the vessel was exhausted ; 
 
 I felt a double fever in my veins, 
 
 Yet rage suppressed itself ; — to a deep stillness 
 
 Did my pride tame my pride ; — for many days, 
 
 On a dead sea under a burning sky, 
 
 I brooded o'er my injuries, deserted 
 
 By man and nature ; — if a breeze had blown, 
 
 It might have found its way into my heart, 
 
 And I had been — no matter — do you mark me ? 
 
 Mar. Quick — to the point — if any untold crime 
 Doth haunt your memory. 
 
 Osw., Patience, hear me further ! — 
 
 One day in silence did we drift at noon 
 By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and bare ; 
 No food was there, no drink, no grass, no shade, 
 No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form 
 Inanimate large as the body of man, 
 Nor any living thing whose lot of life 
 Might stretch beyond the measure of one moon. 
 To dig for water on the spot, the Captain 
 Landed with a small troop, myself being one : 
 There I reproached him with his treachery. 
 Imperious at all times, his temper rose ; 
 He struck me ; and that instant had I killed him, 
 And put an end to his insolence, but my Comrades 
 Rushed in between us : then did I insist 
 (All hated him, and I was stung to madness) 
 That we should leave him there, alive ! — we did so. 
 
 Mar. And he was famished ? 
 
 Osw. Naked was the spot ; 
 
 Methinks I see it now — how in the sun 
 Its stony surface glittered hke a shield ; 
 And in that miserable place we left him, 
 Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures 
 Not one of which could help him while alive, 
 Or mourn him dead. 
 
 Mar. A man by men cast off, 
 
 Left without burial ! nay, not dead nor dying, 
 But standing, walking, stretching forth his arms, 
 In all things hke ourselves, but in the agony 
 With which he called for mercy ; and — even so — 
 He was forsaken ? 
 
4a 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Osiv, There is a power in sounds : 
 The cries he uttered might have stopped the boat 
 That bore us through the water 
 
 Mar. You returned 
 
 Upon that dismal hearing — did you not ? 
 
 Osvj. Some scoffed at him with hellish mockery, 
 And laughed so loud it seemed that the smooth sea 
 Did from some distant region echo us. 
 
 Mar. We all are of one blood, our veins are filled 
 At the same poisonous fountain ! 
 
 Osw. 'Twas an island 
 
 Only by sufferance of the winds and waves, 
 Which with their foam could cover it at will. 
 I know not how he perished ; but the calm, 
 The same dead calm, continued many days. 
 
 Mar. But his own crime had brought on him 
 this doom, 
 His wickedness prepared it ; these expedients 
 Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault. 
 
 Osio. The man was famished, and was innocent! 
 
 Mar. Impossible ! 
 
 Osw. The man had never wronged me. 
 
 Mar. Banish the thought, crush it, and be at 
 peace. 
 His guilt was marked — these things could never be 
 Were there not eyes that see, and for good ends, 
 Where ours are baffled. 
 
 Osw. I had been deceived. 
 
 Mar. And from that hour the miserable man 
 No more was heard of ? 
 
 Os%v. I had been betrayed. 
 
 Mar. And he found no deliverance ! 
 
 Osw. The Crew 
 
 Gave me a hearty welcome ; they had laid 
 The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, 
 Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. 
 So we pursued our voyage : when we landed, 
 The tale was spread abroad ; my power at once 
 Shrunk from me ; plans and schemes, and lofty 
 
 hopes — 
 All vanished. I gave way — do you attend ? 
 Mar. The Crew deceived you ? 
 
 Osw. Nay, command yourself. 
 
 Mar. It is a dismal night — how the wind howls ! 
 
 Osw. I hid my head within a Convent, there 
 Lay passive as a dormouse in mid winter. 
 That was no life for me — I was o'erthrown, 
 But not destroyed. 
 
 Mar. The proofs — you ought to have seen 
 
 The guilt — have touched it — felt it at your heart — 
 As I have done. 
 
 Osw. A fresh tide of Crusaders 
 
 Drove by the place of my retreat : three nights 
 Did constant meditation dry my blood ; 
 
 Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, 
 Through words and things, a dim and perilous way ; 
 And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld 
 A slavery compared to which the dungeon 
 And clanking chains are perfect liberty. 
 You understand me — I was comforted ; 
 I saw that every possible shape of action 
 Might lead to good — I saw it and burst forth 
 Thirsting for some of those exploits that fill 
 The earth for sure redemption of lost peace. 
 
 [Marking Marmaduke's countenance. 
 Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity 
 Subsided in a moment, like a wind 
 That drops down dead out of a sky it vexed. 
 And yet I had within me evermore 
 A salient spring of energy ; I mounted 
 From action up to action with a mind 
 That never rested — without meat or drink 
 Have I lived many days — my sleep was bound 
 To purposes of reason — not a dream 
 But had a continuity and substance 
 That waking life had never power to give. 
 
 Mar. wretched Human-kind ! — Until the 
 mystery 
 Of all this world is solved, well may we envy 
 The worm, that, underneath a stone whose weight 
 Would crush the lion's paw with mortal anguish, 
 Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, in safety. 
 Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those traitors ? 
 Osw. Give not to them a thought. From Palestine 
 We marched to Syria : oft I left the Camp, 
 When all that multitude of hearts was still, 
 And followed on, through woods of gloomy cedar, 
 Into deep chasms troubled by roaring streams ; 
 Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed 
 The moonlight desert, and the moonlight sea : 
 In these my lonely wanderings I perceived 
 What mighty objects do impress then.' forms 
 To elevate our intellectual being ; 
 And felt, if aught on earth deserves a curse, 
 'Tis that worst principle of ill which dooms 
 A thing so. great to perish self-consumed. 
 — So much for my remorse ! 
 
 Mar. Unhappy Man ! 
 
 Osw. When from these forms I turned to con- 
 template 
 The World's opinions and her usages, 
 I seemed a Being who had passed alone 
 Into a region of futurity, 
 
 Whose natural element was freedom 
 
 Mar. Stop — 
 
 I may not, cannot, follow thee. 
 
 Osw. You must. 
 
 I had been nourished by the sickly food 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 47 
 
 Of popular applause. I now perceived 
 That we are praised, only as men in us 
 Do recognise some image of themselves, 
 An abject counterpart of what they are, 
 Or the empty thing that they would wish to be. 
 I felt that merit has no surer test 
 Than obloquy ; that, if we wish to serve 
 The world in substance, not deceive by show, 
 We must become obnoxious to its hate, 
 Or fear disguised in simulated scorn. 
 Mar. I pity, can forgive, you ; but those 
 wretches — ■ 
 That monstrous perfidy ! 
 
 Osiv. Keep down your wrath. 
 
 False Shame discarded, spurious Fame despised, 
 Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found 
 Life stretched before me smooth as some broad way 
 Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests might spin 
 Theb veil, but not for me — 'twas in fit place 
 Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been, 
 And in that dream had left my native land, 
 One of Love's simple bondsmen — the soft chain 
 Was off for ever ; and the men, from whom 
 This liberation came, you woidd destroy : 
 Join me in thanks for their blind services. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis a strange aching that, when we would 
 curse 
 And cannot. — You have betrayed me — I have 
 
 done — ■ 
 I am content — I know that he is guiltless — 
 That both are guiltless, without spot or stain, 
 Mutually consecrated. Poor old Man ! 
 And I had heart for this, because thou lovedst 
 Her who from very infancy had been 
 Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood ! — Together 
 [Turning to Oswald. 
 We propped his steps, he leaned upon us both. 
 
 Osw. Ay, we are coupled by a chain of adamant ; 
 Let us be fellow-labourers, then, to enlarge 
 Man's intellectual empire. We subsist 
 In slavery ; all is slavery ; we receive 
 Laws, but we ask not whence those laws have come ; 
 We need an inward sting to goad us on. 
 Mar. Have you betrayed me ? Speak to that. 
 Osw. The mask, 
 
 Which for a season I have stooped to wear, 
 Must be cast off. — Know then that I was urged, 
 (For other impulse let it pass) was driven, 
 To seek for sympathy, because I saw 
 In you a mirror of my youthful self ; 
 I would have made us equal once again, 
 But that was a vain hope. You have struck home, 
 With a few drops of blood cut short the business ; 
 Therein for ever you must yield to me. 
 
 But what is done will save you from the blank 
 Of living without knowledge that you live : 
 Now you are suffering — for the future day, 
 'Tis his who will command it. — Think of my story — 
 Herbert is innocent. 
 
 Mar. (in a faint voice, and doubtingly) You do 
 but echo 
 My own wild words ? 
 
 Osto. Young Man, the seed must lie 
 
 Hid in the earth, or there can be no harvest ; 
 'Tis Nature's law. What I have done in darkness 
 I will avow before the face of day. 
 Herbert is innocent. 
 
 Mar. What fiend could prompt 
 
 This action \ Innocent ! — oh, breaking heart ! — 
 Alive or dead, I '11 find him. [Exit. 
 
 .Osw. Alive — perdition ! [Exit. 
 
 Scene, the inside of a poor Cottage. 
 
 Eleanor and Idonea seated. 
 Idon. The storm beats hard — Mercy for poor 
 or rich, 
 Whose heads are shelterless in such a night ! 
 A Voice without. Holla ! to bed, good Folks, 
 
 within ! 
 Elea. O save us ! 
 
 Idon. What can this mean ? 
 Elea. Alas, for my poor husband ! — 
 
 We '11 have a counting of our flocks to-morrow ; 
 The wolf keeps festival these stormy nights : 
 Be calm, sweet Lady, they are wassailers 
 
 [The voices die away in the distance. 
 Returning from their Feast — my heart beats so — 
 A noise at midnight does so frighten me. 
 
 Idon. Hush ! [Listening. 
 
 Elea. They are gone. On such a night, my 
 
 husband, 
 Dragged from Ms bed, was cast into a dungeon, 
 Where, hid from me, he counted many years, 
 A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs — 
 Not even in theirs — whose brutal violence 
 So dealt with him. 
 
 Idon. 1 have a noble Friend 
 
 First among youths of knightly breeding, One 
 Who fives but to protect the weak or injured. 
 There again ! [Listening. 
 
 Elea. 'Tis my husband's foot. Good Eldred 
 Has a kind heart ; but his imprisonment 
 Has made him fearful, and he '11 never be 
 The man he was. 
 
 Idon. I will retire ; — good night ! 
 
 [She goes within. 
 
43 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Enter Eldred, (hides a bundle). 
 Eld. Not yet in bed, Eleanor ! — there are stains 
 in that frock which must be washed out. 
 Meet. What has befallen you ? 
 Eld. 1 am belated, and you must know the cause 
 — {speaking low) that is the blood of an unhappy 
 Man. 
 
 Elect. Oh ! we are undone for ever. 
 Eld. Heaven forbid that I should lift my hand 
 against any man. Eleanor, I have shed tears to- 
 night, and it comforts me to think of it. 
 Elea. Where, where is he ? 
 
 Eld. I have done him no harm, but it will 
 
 be forgiven me ; it would not have been so once. 
 
 Elea. You have not buried anything ? You are 
 no richer than when you left me ? 
 Eld. Be at peace ; I am innocent. 
 Elea. Then God be thanked — 
 
 [A short pause i she falls upon his neck. 
 
 Eld. To-night I met with an old Man lying 
 
 stretched upon the ground — a sad spectacle : I 
 
 raised him up with a hope that we might shelter 
 
 and restore him. 
 
 Elea. (as if ready to run). Where is he? You 
 were not able to bring him all the way with you ; 
 let us return, I can help you. 
 
 [Eldred shakes his head. 
 Eld. He did not seem to wish for life : as I was 
 struggling on, by the light of the moon I saw the 
 stains of blood upon my clothes — he waved his 
 hand, as if it were all useless ; and I let him sink 
 again to the ground. 
 
 Elea. Oh that I had been by your side ! 
 Eld. I tell you his hands and his body were cold 
 — how could I disturb his last moments ? he strove 
 to turn from me as if he wished to settle into 
 sleep. 
 
 Elea. But, for the stains of blood — 
 Eld. He must have fallen, I fancy, for his head 
 was cut ; but I think his malady was cold and 
 hunger. 
 
 Elea. Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able to look 
 up at this roof in storm or fair but I shall 
 tremble. 
 
 Eld. Is it not enough that my ill stars have kept 
 me abroad to-night till this hour ? I come home, 
 and this is my comfort ! 
 
 Elea. But did he say nothing which might have 
 set you at ease ? 
 
 Eld. I thought he grasped my hand while he 
 was muttering something about his Child — his 
 Daughter — (starting as if he heard a noise). What 
 is that ? 
 
 Elea. Eldred, you are a father. 
 Eld. God knows what was in my heart, and will 
 not curse my son for my sake. 
 
 Elea. But you prayed by him ? you waited the 
 hour of his release ? 
 
 Eld. The night was wasting fast ; I have no 
 friend ; I am spited by the world — his wound 
 terrified me — if I had brought him along with me, 
 
 and he had died in my arms ! 1 am sure I heard 
 
 something breathing — and this chair ! 
 
 Elea. Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. You will 
 have nobody to close your eyes — no hand to grasp 
 your dying hand — I shall be in my grave. A curse 
 will attend us all. 
 
 Eld. Have you forgot your own troubles when I 
 was in the dungeon ? 
 
 Elea. And you left him alive ? 
 Eld. Alive ! — the damps of death were upon him 
 ■ — he could not have survived an hour. 
 Elea. In the cold, cold night. 
 Eld. (in a savage tone). Ay, and his head was 
 bare ; I suppose you would have had me lend my 
 bonnet to cover it. — You will never rest till I am 
 brought to a felon's end. 
 
 Elea. Is there nothing to be done ? cannot we go 
 to the Convent? 
 
 Eld. Ay, and say at once that I murdered 
 him ! 
 
 Elea. Eldred, I know that ours is the only house 
 upon the Waste ; let us take heart ; this Man may 
 be rich ; and could he be saved by our means, hia 
 gratitude may reward us. 
 Eld. 'Tis all in vain. 
 
 Elea. But let us make the attempt. This old 
 Man may have a wife, and he may have children 
 — let us return to the spot ; we may restore 
 him, and his eyes may yet open upon those that 
 love him. 
 
 Eld. He will never open them more ; even when 
 he spoke to me, he kept them firmly sealed as 
 if he had been blind. 
 
 Idon. (rushing out). It is, it is, my Father — 
 Eld. We are betrayed (looking at Idonea). 
 Elea. His Daughter ! — God have mercy ! (turn- 
 ing to Idonea). 
 
 Idon. (sinking down). Oh ! lift me up and carry 
 me to the place. 
 You are safe ; the whole world shall not harm you. 
 Elea. This Lady is his Daughter. 
 Eld. (moved). I '11 lead you to the spot. 
 Idon. (springing up). Alive ! — you heard him 
 breathe ? quick, quick — [Exeunt. 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 49 
 
 ACT V. 
 Scene, A wood on the edge of the Waste. 
 
 Enter Oswald and a Forester. 
 
 For. Heleaneduponthebridgethatspanstheglen, 
 And down into the bottom cast his eye, 
 That fastened there, as it would check the current. 
 
 Osw. He listened too ; did you not say he listened ? 
 
 For. As if there came such moaning from the 
 flood 
 As is heard often after stormy nights. 
 
 Osw. But did he utter nothing 1 
 
 For. See him there ! 
 
 Marmaduke appearing. 
 
 Mar. Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged freebooters ; 
 That is no substance which ye settle on ! 
 
 For. His senses play him false ; and see, Ms arras 
 Outspread, as if to save himself from falling ! — 
 Some terrible phantom I believe is now 
 Passing before him, such as God will not 
 Permit to visit any but a man 
 Who has been guilty of some horrid crime. 
 
 [Marmaduke disappears. 
 
 Osw. The game is up ! — 
 
 For. If it be needful, Sir, 
 
 I will assist you to lay hands upon him. 
 
 Osw. No, no, my Friend, you may pursue your 
 business — 
 'Tis a poor wretch of an unsettled mind, 
 Who has a trick of straying from his keepers ; 
 We must be gentle. Leave him to my care. 
 
 [Exit Forester. 
 If his own eyes play false with him, these freaks 
 Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine ; 
 The goal is reached. My Master shall become 
 A shadow of myself — made by myself. 
 
 Scene, the edge of the Moor. 
 
 Marmajduke and Eldred enter from opposite sides. 
 
 Mar. (raising his eyes and perceiving Eldred). 
 In any corner of this savage Waste, 
 Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old Man ? 
 
 Eld. I heard 
 
 Mar. You heard him, where ? when 
 
 heard him 1 
 
 Eld. As you know, 
 
 The first hours of last night were rough with stonn : 
 I had been out in search of a stray heifer ; 
 Returning late, I heard a moaning sound ; 
 Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived me, 
 I hurried on, when straight a second moan, 
 
 A human voice distinct, struck on my ear. 
 So guided, distant a few steps, I found 
 An aged Man, and such as you describe. 
 
 Mar. You heard ! — he called you to him ? Of all 
 men 
 The best and kindest ! — but where is he 1 guide me, 
 That I may see him. 
 
 Eld. On a ridge of rocks 
 
 A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now : 
 The bell is left, which no one dares remove ; 
 And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the peak, 
 It rings, as if a human hand were there 
 To pull the cord. I guess he must have heard it ; 
 And it had led him towards the precipice, 
 To climb up to the spot whence the sound came ; 
 But he had failed through weakness. From his 
 
 hand 
 His staff had dropped, and close upon the brink 
 Of a small pool of water he was laid, 
 As if he had stooped to drink, and so remained 
 Without the strength to rise. 
 
 Mar. Well, well, he lives, 
 
 And all is safe : what said he ? 
 
 Eld. But few words : 
 
 He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, 
 Who, so he feared, would never see him more ; 
 And of a Stranger to him, One by whom 
 He had been sore misused ; but he forgave 
 The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are trou- 
 bled— 
 Perhaps you are his son ? 
 
 Mar. The All-seeing knows, 
 
 I did not think he had a living Child. — 
 But whither did you carry him ? 
 
 Eld. He was torn, 
 
 His head was bruised, and there was blood about 
 him 
 
 Mar. That was no work of mine. 
 
 Eld. Nor was it mine. 
 
 Mar. But had he strength to walk ? I could have 
 borne him 
 A thousand miles. 
 
 Eld. I am in poverty, 
 
 And know how busy are the tongues of men ; 
 My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one 
 Whose good deeds will not stand by their own light; 
 And, though it smote me more than words can tell, 
 I left him. 
 
 Mar. I believe that there are phantoms, 
 That in the shape of man do cross our path 
 On evil instigation, to make sport 
 Of our distress — and thou art one of them ! 
 But things substantial have so pressed on me 
 
 Eld. My wife and children came into my mind. 
 
50 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 Mar. Oh Monster ! Monster ! there are three 
 of us, 
 And we shall howl together. 
 
 [After a pause and in a feeble voice. 
 I am deserted 
 At my worst need, my crimes have in a net 
 (Pointing to Eldeed) Entangled this poor man. — 
 Where was it ? where ? 
 
 [Dragging him along. 
 Eld. 'Tis needless ; spare your violence. His 
 
 Daughter 
 
 • Mar. Ay, in the word a thousand scorpions lodge: 
 This old man had a Daughter. 
 
 Eld. To the spot 
 
 I hurried back with her. — save me, Sir, 
 
 From such a journey ! there was a black tree, 
 
 A single tree ; she thought it was her Father. — 
 
 Oh Sir, I would not see-that hour again 
 
 For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, and now — ■ 
 
 Nay ; hear my tale, 'tis fit that you should hear it — 
 
 As we approached, a solitary crow 
 
 Rose from the spot ; — the Daughter clapped her 
 
 hands, 
 And then I heard a shriek so terrible 
 
 [Marmaduke shri?iks back. 
 The startled bird quivered upon the wing. 
 Mar. Dead, dead ! — 
 
 Eld. (after a pause). A dismal matter, Sir, forme, 
 And seems the like for you ; if 'tis your wish, 
 I '11 lead you to his Daughter ; but 'twere best 
 That she should be prepared ; I '11 go before. 
 Mar. There will be need of preparation. 
 
 [Eldred goes off- 
 Elea. (enters). Master ! 
 
 Your limbs sink under you, shall I support you ? 
 Mar. (talcing her arm). Woman, I 've lent my 
 body to the service 
 Which now thou tak'st upon thee. God forbid 
 That thou shouldst ever meet a like occasion 
 With such a purpose in thine heart as mine was. 
 Elea. Oh, why have I to do with things like these? 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene changes to the door of Eldred's cottage — 
 Idonea seated — enter Eldred. 
 
 Eld. Your Father, Lady, from a wilful hand 
 Has met unkindness ; so indeed he told me, 
 And you remember such was my report : 
 From what has just befallen me I have cause 
 To fear the very worst. 
 
 Idon. My Father is dead ; 
 
 Why dost thou come to me with words like these ? 
 
 Eld. A wicked Man should answer for his crimes. 
 
 Idon. Thou seest me what I am. 
 
 Eld. It was most heinous, 
 
 And doth call out for vengeance. 
 
 Idon. Do not add, 
 
 I prithee, to the harm thou 'st done already. 
 
 Eld. Hereafter you will thank me for this service. 
 Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain proofs 
 Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt, 
 Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were 
 You should prepare to meet him. 
 
 Idon. I have nothing 
 
 To do with others ; help me to my Father — 
 
 [She turns and sees Marmaduke leaning on Eleanor 
 — throws herself upon his neck, and after some 
 time, 
 In joy I met thee, but a few hours past ; 
 And thus we meet again ; one human stay 
 Is left me still in thee. Nay, shake not so. 
 
 Mar. In such a wilderness — to see no thing, 
 No, not the pitying moon ! 
 
 Idon. And perish so. 
 
 Mar. Without a dog to moan for him. 
 
 Idon. Think not of it, 
 
 But enter there and see him how he sleeps, 
 Tranquil as he had died in his own bed. 
 
 Mar. Tranquil — why not ? 
 
 Idon. Oh, peace ! 
 
 Mar. He is at peace ; 
 
 His body is at rest : there was a plot, 
 A hideous plot, against the soul of man : 
 It took effect — and yet I baffled it, 
 In some degree. 
 
 Idon. Between us stood, I thought, 
 
 A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven 
 For both our needs ; must I, and in thy presence, 
 Alone partake of it ? — Beloved Marmaduke ! 
 
 Mar. Give me a reason why the wisest thing 
 That the earth owns shall never choose to die, 
 But some one must be near to count his groans. 
 The wounded deer retires to solitude, 
 And dies in solitude : all things but man, 
 
 All die in solitude. 
 
 [Moving towards the cottage door. 
 Mysterious God, 
 If she had never lived I had not done it ! — 
 
 Idon. Alas, the thought of such a cruel death 
 Has overwhelmed him. — I must follow. 
 
 Eld. Lady ! 
 
 You will do well ; (she goes) unjust suspicion may 
 Cleave to this Stranger : if, upon his entering, 
 The dead Man heave a groan, or from his side 
 Uplift his hand — that would be evidence. 
 Elea. Shame ! Eldred, shame ! 
 Mar. (both returning) The dead have but 
 
 one face, (to himself). 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 51 
 
 And such a Man — so meek and unoffending — 
 Helpless and harmless as a babe : a Man, 
 By obvious signal to the world's protection 
 Solemnly dedicated — to decoy him ! — 
 Idon. Oh, had you seen him living ! — 
 Mar. I (so filled 
 
 With horror is this world) am unto thee 
 The thing most precious, that it now contains : 
 Therefore through me alone must be revealed 
 By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea ! 
 I have the proofs ! — 
 
 Idon. miserable Father ! 
 
 Thou didst command me to bless all mankind ; 
 Nor to this moment, have I ever wished 
 Evil to any living thing ; but hear me, 
 Hear me, ye Heavens ! — (Jcneeling) — may venge- 
 ance haunt the fiend 
 For this most cruel murder : let him live 
 And move in terror of the elements ; 
 The thunder send him on his knees to prayer 
 In the open streets, and let him think he sees, 
 If e'er he entereth the house of God, 
 The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his head ; 
 And let him, when he would lie down at night, 
 Point to his wife the blood-drops on his pillow ! 
 Mar. My voice was silent, but my heart hath 
 
 joined thee. 
 Idon. (leaning on Marmaduke). Left to the 
 mercy of that savage Man ! 
 How could he call upon his Child ! — Friend ! 
 
 [Turns to Makjiaduke. 
 My faithful true and only Comforter. 
 
 Mar. Ay, come to me and weep. (He Jcisses her.) 
 (To Eldred). Yes, Varlet, look, 
 The devils at such sights do clap their hands. 
 
 [Eldred retires alarmed. 
 Idon. Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is deadly pale ; 
 Hast thou pursued the monster \ 
 
 Mar. I have found him. — 
 
 Oh ! would that thou hadst perished in the flames ! 
 Idon. Here art thou, then can I be desolate ? — 
 Mar. There was a time, when this protecting hand 
 Availed against the mighty ; never more 
 Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine. 
 Idon. Wild words for me to hear, for me, an 
 orphan, 
 Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven ; 
 And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope, 
 In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine 
 For closer care ; — here, is no malady. 
 
 [Taking his arm. 
 Mar. There, is a malady — 
 (Striking his heart and forehead) And here, and 
 here, 
 
 A mortal malady. — I am accurst : 
 All nature curses me, and in my heart 
 Thy curse is fixed ; the truth must be laid bare. 
 It must be told, and borne. I am the man, 
 (Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not) 
 Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, 
 Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person 
 Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did become 
 An instrument of Fiends. Through me, through me . 
 Thy Father perished. 
 
 Idon. Perished — by what mischance ? 
 
 Mar. Beloved ! — if I dared, so would I call thee — 
 Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart, 
 The extremes of suffering meet in absolute peace. 
 [lie gives her a letter. 
 Idon. (reads) * Be not surprised if you hear 
 that some signal judgment has befallen the man 
 who calls himself your father ; he is now with 
 me, as his signature will shew : abstain from con- 
 jecture till you see me. 
 
 ' Herbert. 
 ' Marmaduke.' 
 The writing Oswald's ; the signature my Father's : 
 (Looks steadily at the paper) And here is yours, — 
 
 or do my eyes deceive me ? 
 You have then seen my Father ? 
 
 Mar. He has leaned 
 
 Upon this arm. 
 
 Idon. You led him towards the Convent ? 
 
 Mar. That Convent was Stone-Arthur Castle. 
 Thither 
 We were his guides. I on that night resolved 
 That he should wait thy coming till the day 
 Of resurrection. 
 
 Idon. Miserable Woman, 
 
 Too quickly moved, too easily giving way, 
 1 put denial on thy suit, and hence, 
 With the disastrous issue of last night, 
 Thy perturbation, and these frantic words. 
 Be calm, I pray thee ! 
 
 Mar. Oswald 
 
 Idon. Name him not. 
 
 Enter female Beggar. 
 
 Beg. And he is dead ! — that Moor — how shall 
 I cross it ? 
 By night, by day, never shall I be able 
 To travel half a mile alone. — Good Lady ! 
 Forgive me ! — Saints forgive me. Had I thought 
 It would have come to this ! — 
 
 Idon. What brings you hither ? speak ! 
 
 Beg. (pointing to Marmaduke). This innocent 
 Gentleman. Sweet heavens ! I told him 
 Such tales of your dead Father ! — God is my judge, 
 
 E 2 
 
52 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 I thought there was no harm : but that bad Man, 
 He bribed me with his gold, and looked so fierce. 
 Mercy ! I said I know not what — oh pity me — 
 I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daughter — 
 Pity me, I am haunted ; — thrice this day 
 My conscience made me wish to be struck blind ; 
 And then I would have prayed, and had no voice. 
 Idon. (to Marmadtjke). Was it my Father ? — 
 
 no, no, no, for he 
 Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind, 
 Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life. 
 — But hear me. For one qiiestion, I have a heart 
 That will sustain me. Did you murder him ? 
 Mar. No, not by stroke of arm. But learn the 
 
 process : 
 Proof after proof was pressed upon me ; guilt 
 Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt, 
 Whose impious folds enwrapped even thse ; and truth 
 And innocence, embodied in his looks, 
 His words and tones and gestures, did but serve 
 With me to aggravate his crimes, and heaped 
 Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. 
 Then pity crossed the path of my resolve : 
 Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and cast, 
 Idonea ! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal 
 Of the bleak Waste — left him — and so he died ! — 
 [Idonea sinks senseless ; Beggar, Eleanor, fyc, 
 crowd round, and bear her off. 
 Why may we speak these things, and do no more ; 
 Why should a thrust of the arm have such a power, 
 And words that tell these things be heard in vain 1 
 She is not dead. Why ! — if I loved this Woman, 
 I would take care she never woke again ; 
 But she will wake, and she will weep for me, 
 And say, no blame was mine — and so, poor fool, 
 Will waste her curses on another name. 
 
 [He walks about distractedly. 
 
 Enter Oswald. 
 Oswald (to himself). Strong to o'erturn, strong 
 
 also to buildup. [To Marmaduke. 
 
 The starts and sallies of our last encounter 
 Were natural enough ; but that, I trust, 
 Is all gone by. You have cast off the chains 
 That fettered your nobility of mind — 
 Delivered heart and head ! 
 
 Let us to Palestine ; 
 This is a paltry field for enterprise. 
 
 Mar. Ay, what shall we encounter next ? This 
 
 issue — 
 'Twas nothing more than darkness deepening 
 
 darkness, 
 And weakness crowned with the impotence of 
 
 death ! — 
 Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient, (ironically) . 
 
 Start not ! — Here is another face hard by ; 
 Come, let us take a peep at both together, 
 And, with a voice at which the dead will quake, 
 Resound the praise of your morality — 
 Of this too much. 
 
 [Drawing Oswald towards the Cottage — stops short 
 at the door. 
 
 Men are there, millions, Oswald, 
 Who with bare hands would have plucked out thy 
 
 heart 
 And flung it to the dogs : but I am raised 
 Above, or sunk below, all further sense 
 Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight 
 Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy heart, 
 Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. 
 Coward I have been ; know, there lies not now 
 Within the compass of a mortal thought, 
 A deed that I would shrink from ; — but to endure, 
 That is my destiny. May it be thine : 
 Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth 
 To feed remorse, to welcome every sting 
 Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. 
 When seas and continents shall lie between us — ■ 
 The wider space the better — we may find 
 In such a course fit links of sympathy, 
 An incommunicable rivalship 
 Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our view. 
 
 [Confused voices — several of the band enter — rush 
 upon Oswald and seize him. 
 One of them. I would have dogged him to the 
 
 jaws of hell — 
 Osw. Ha ! is it so ! — That vagrant Hag ! — this 
 comes 
 Of having left a thing like her alive ! [Aside. 
 
 Several voices. Despatch him ! 
 Osw. If I pass beneath a rock 
 
 And shout, and, with the echo of my voice, 
 Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush me, 
 I die without dishonour. Famished, starved, 
 A Fool and Coward blended to my wish ! 
 
 [Smiles scornfully and exultingly at Marmaduke. 
 Wal. 'Tis done ! (stabs him.) 
 Another of the band. The ruthless Traitor ! 
 Mar. A rash deed ! — 
 
 With that reproof I do resign a station 
 Of which I have been proud. 
 
 Wil. (approaching Marmaduke). my poor 
 
 Master ! 
 Mar. Discerning Monitor, my faithful Wilfred, 
 Why art thou here % [Turning to Wallace. 
 
 Wallace, upon these Borders, 
 Many there be whose eyes will not want cause 
 To weep that I am gone. Brothers in arms ! 
 Raise on that dreary Waste a monument 
 
THE BORDERERS. 
 
 53 
 
 That may record my story : nor let words — 
 Few must they be, and delicate in their touch 
 As light itself — be there withheld from Her 
 Who, through most wicked arts, was made an 
 
 orphan 
 By One who would have died a thousand times, 
 To shield her from a moment's harm. To you, 
 Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady, 
 By lowly nature reared, as if to make her 
 In all things worthier of that noble birth, 
 Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve 
 Of restoration : with your tenderest care 
 Watch over her, I pray — sustain her 
 
 Several of the band (eagerly). Captain ! 
 
 Mar. No more of that ; in silence hear my doom : 
 
 A hermitage has furnished fit relief 
 To some offenders ; other penitents, 
 Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen, 
 Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point. 
 They had their choice : a wanderer must I go, 
 The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide. 
 No human ear shall ever hear me speak ; 
 No human dwelling ever give me food, 
 Or sleep, or rest : but, over waste and wild, 
 In search of nothing, that this earth can give, 
 But expiation, will I wander on — 
 A Man by pain and thought compelled to live, 
 Yet loathing life— till anger is appeased 
 In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die. 
 
 1795-6. 
 
54 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky : 
 So was it when my life began ; 
 So is it now I ani a man ; 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The Child is father of the Man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Stay near me — do not take thy flight ! 
 
 A little longer stay in sight ! 
 
 Much converse do I find in thee, 
 
 Historian of my infancy ! 
 
 Float near me ; do not yet depart ! 
 
 Dead times revive in thee : 
 
 Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art ! 
 
 A solemn image to my heart, 
 
 My father's family ! 
 
 Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 
 The time, when, in our childish plays, 
 My sister Emmeline and I 
 Together chased the butterfly ! 
 A very hunter did I rush 
 Upon the prey : — with leaps and springs 
 I followed on from brake to bush ; 
 But she, God love her ! feared to brush 
 The dust from off its wings. 
 
 THE SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 Behold, within the leafy shade, 
 Those bright blue eggs together laid ! 
 On me the chance-discovered sight 
 Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
 I started — seeming to espy 
 The home and sheltered bed, 
 
 The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
 My Father's house, in wet or dry 
 My sister Emmeline and I 
 Together visited. 
 
 She looked at it and seemed to fear it ; 
 Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it • 
 Such heart was in hex', being then 
 A little Prattler among men. 
 The Blessing of my later years 
 Was with me when a boy : 
 She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; 
 And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 
 And love, and thought, and joy. 
 
 FORESIGHT. 
 
 That is work of waste and ruin — 
 Do as Charles and I are doing ! 
 Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, 
 We must spare them — here are many : 
 Look at it — the flower is small, 
 Small and low, though fair as any : 
 Do not touch it ! summers two 
 I am older, Anne, than you. 
 
 Pull the primrose, sister Anne ! 
 
 Pull as many as you can. 
 
 — Here are daisies, take your fill ; 
 
 Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower : 
 
 Of the lofty daffodil 
 
 Make your bed, or make your bower ; 
 
 Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ; 
 
 Only spare the strawberry-blossom ! 
 
 Primroses, the Spring may love them — 
 Summer knows but little of them : 
 Violets, a barren kind, 
 Withered on the ground must he ; 
 Daisies leave no fruit behind 
 When the pretty flowerets die ; 
 Pluck them, and another year 
 As many will be blowing here. 
 
THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 55 
 
 God has given a kindlier power 
 To the favoured strawberry-flower. 
 Hither soon as spring is fled 
 You and Charles and I will walk ; 
 Lurking berries, ripe and red, 
 Then M'ill hang on every stalk, 
 Each within its leafy bower ; 
 And for that promise spare the flower ! 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE 
 YEARS OLD. 
 
 Loving she is, and tractable, though wild ; 
 
 And Innocence hath privilege in her 
 
 To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes ; 
 
 And feats of cunning ; and the pretty round 
 
 Of trespasses, affected to provoke 
 
 Mock- chastisement and partnership in play. 
 
 And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth, 
 
 Not less if unattended and alone 
 
 Than when both young and old sit gathered round 
 
 And take delight in its activity ; 
 
 Even so this happy Creature of herself 
 
 Is all-sufficient ; solitude to her 
 
 Is blithe society, who fills the air 
 
 With gladness and involuntary songs. 
 
 Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's 
 
 Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched ; 
 
 Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir 
 
 Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers, 
 
 Or from before it chasing wantonly 
 
 The many-coloured images imprest 
 
 Upon the bosom of a placid lake. 
 
 ADDRESS TO A CHILD, 
 
 DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING. 
 BY MY SISTER. 
 
 What way does the Wind come ? What way does 
 
 he go ? 
 He rides over the water, and over the snow, 
 Through wood, and through vale ; and, o'er rocky 
 
 height 
 Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding 
 
 flight ; 
 He tosses about in every bare tree, 
 As, if you look up, you plainly may see ; 
 
 But how he will come, and whither he goes, 
 There 's never a scholar in England knows. 
 
 He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, 
 
 And ring a sharp 'larum ; — but, if you should look, 
 
 There 's nothing to see but a cushion of snow 
 
 Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk, 
 
 And softer than if it were covered with silk. 
 
 Sometimes he '11 hide in the cave of a rock, 
 
 Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock ; 
 
 — Yet seek him,— and what shall you find in the 
 
 place 1 
 Nothing but silence and empty space ; 
 Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, 
 That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves ! 
 
 As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me 
 You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see 
 That he has been there, and made a great rout, 
 And cracked the branches, and strewn them about ; 
 Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright 
 
 twig 
 That looked up at the sky so proud and big 
 All last summer, as well you know, 
 Studded with apples, a beautiful show ! 
 
 Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, 
 And growls as if he would fix his claws 
 Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 
 Drive them down, like men in a battle : 
 — But let him range round ; he does us no harm. 
 We build up the fire, we 're snug and warm ; 
 Untouched by his breath see the candle shinesbright, 
 And burns with a clear and steady light ; 
 Books have we to read,— but that half-stifled knell, 
 Alas ! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. 
 — Come now we '11 to bed ! and when we are there 
 He may work his own will, and what shall we care ? 
 He may knock at the door, — we '11 not let him in ; 
 May drive at the windows, — we '11 laugh at his din ; 
 Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; 
 Here 's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. 
 
 1806. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S RETURN. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 A month, sweet Little-ones, is past 
 Since your dear Mother went away,- 
 And she to-morrow will return ; 
 To-morrow is the happy day. 
 
56 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO 
 
 blessed tidings ! thought of joy ! 
 The eldest heard with steady glee ; 
 Silent he stood ; then laughed amain,— 
 And shouted, " Mother, come to me !" 
 
 Louder and louder did he shout, 
 With witless hope to bring her near ; 
 " Nay, patience ! patience, little boy ! 
 Your tender mother cannot hear." 
 
 1 told of hills, and far-off towns, 
 
 And long, long vales to travel through ; — 
 He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 
 But he submits ; what can he do ? 
 
 No strife disturbs his sister's breast ; 
 She wars not with the mystery 
 Of time and distance, night and day ; 
 The bonds of our humanity. 
 
 Her joy is like an instinct, joy 
 Of kitten, bird, or summer fly ; 
 She dances, runs without an aim, 
 She chatters in her ecstasy. 
 
 Her brother now takes up the note, 
 And echoes back his sister's glee ; 
 They hug the infant in my arms, 
 As if to force his sympathy. 
 
 Then, settling into fond discourse, 
 We rested in the garden bower ; 
 While sweetly shone the evening sun 
 In his departing hour. 
 
 We told o'er all that we had done, — 
 Our rambles by the swift brook's side 
 Far as the willow-skirted pool, 
 Where two fair swans together glide. 
 
 We talked of change, of winter gone, 
 Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, 
 Of birds that build their nests and sing 
 And all " since Mother went away ! " 
 
 To her these tales they will repeat, 
 To her our new-born tribes will show, 
 The goslings green, the ass's colt, 
 The lambs that in the meadow go. 
 
 . — But, see, the evening star comes forth ! 
 To bed the children must depart ; 
 A moment's heaviness they feel, 
 A sadness at the heart : 
 
 'Tis gone — and in a merry fit 
 
 They run up stairs in gamesome race ; 
 
 I, too, infected by their mood, 
 
 I could have joined the wanton chase. 
 
 Five minutes past — and, the change ! 
 Asleep upon their beds they lie ; 
 Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 
 And closed the sparkling eye. 
 
 1807. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ALICE FELL; 
 
 OR, FOVERTY. 
 
 The post-boy drove with fierce career, 
 
 For threatening clouds the moon had drowned ; 
 
 When, as we hurried on, my ear 
 
 Was smitten with a startling sound. 
 
 As if the wind blew many ways, 
 I heard the sound, — and more and more ; 
 It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
 And still I heard it as before. 
 
 At length I to the boy called out ; 
 He stopped his horses at the word, 
 But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 
 Nor aught else like it, could be heard. 
 
 The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
 The horses scampered through the rain ; 
 But, hearing soon upon the blast 
 The cry, I bade him halt again. . 
 
 Forthwith alighting on the ground, 
 
 " Whence comes," said I, " this piteous moan ? " 
 
 And there a little Girl I found, 
 
 Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 
 
 " My cloak !" no other word she spake, 
 But loud and bitterly she wept, 
 As if her innocent heart would break ; 
 And down from off her seat she leapt. 
 
 " What ails you, child ?" — she sobbed "Look here !' 
 
 I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
 
 A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
 
 From any garden scare-crow dangled. 
 
 There, twisted between nave and spoke, 
 It hung, nor could at once be freed ; 
 But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, 
 A miserable rag indeed ! 
 
THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 57 
 
 « And whither are you going, child, 
 To-night along these lonesome ways V 
 " To Durham," answered she, half wild — 
 " Then come with me into the chaise." 
 
 Insensible to all relief 
 Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 
 Sob after sob, as if her grief 
 Could never, never have an end. 
 
 " My child, in Durham do you dwell 2" 
 She checked herself in her distress, 
 And said, " My name is Alice Fell ; 
 I'm fatherless and motherless. 
 
 And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 
 Again, as if the thought would choke 
 Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; 
 And all was for her tattered cloak ! 
 
 The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 
 Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side, 
 As if she had lost her only friend 
 She wept, nor would be pacified. 
 
 Up to the tavern-door we post ; 
 Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
 And I gave money to the host, 
 To buy a new cloak for the old. 
 
 « And let it be of duffil grey, 
 As warm a cloak as man can sell !" 
 Proud creature was she the next day, 
 The little orphan, Alice Fell ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 LUCY GRAY; 
 
 OB, SOLITUDE. 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
 And, when I crossed the wild, 
 I chanced to see at break of day 
 The solitary child. 
 
 No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
 She dwelt on a wide moor, 
 — The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a human door ! 
 
 You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
 The hare upon the green ; 
 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
 Will never more be seen. 
 
 " To-night will be a stormy night — 
 You to the town must go ; 
 And take a lantern, Child, to light 
 Your mother through the snow." 
 
 " That, Father ! will I gladly do : 
 'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
 The minster-clock has just struck two, 
 And yonder is the moon '" 
 
 At this the Father raised his hook, 
 And snapped a faggot-band ; 
 He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe : 
 With many a wanton stroke 
 Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time : 
 She wandered up and down ; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
 But never reached the town. 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 Went shouting far and wide ; 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At day-break on a hill they stood 
 That overlooked the moor ; 
 And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, 
 " In heaven we all shall meet ;" 
 — When in the snow the mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
 They tracked the footmarks small ; 
 And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
 And by the long stone-wall ; 
 
 And then an open field they crossed : 
 The marks were still the same ; 
 They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 
 And to the bridge they came. 
 
58 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO 
 
 They followed from the snowy bank 
 Those footmarks, one by one, 
 Into the middle of the plank ; 
 And further there were none ! 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to this day 
 She is a living child ; 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome wild. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips 
 And never looks behind ; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
 1799. 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 A simple Child, 
 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage Girl : 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air, 
 And she was wildly clad : 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 
 — Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
 How many may you be 1" 
 " How many ? Seven hi all," she said, 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And where are they ? I pray you tell." 
 She answered, " Seven are we ; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 u You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea, 
 Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
 Sweet Maid, how this may be." 
 
 Then did the little Maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 Beneath the church-yard tree." 
 
 " You run about, my little Maid, 
 Your limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the church-yard laid, 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 " Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
 The little Maid replied, 
 
 " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 My stockings there I often knit, 
 My kerchief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit, 
 And sing a song to them. 
 
 And often after sun-set, Sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer, 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 The first that died was sister Jane ; 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
 And, when the grass was dry, 
 Together round her grave we played, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 And when the ground was white with snow, 
 
 And I could run and slide, 
 
 My brother John was forced to go, 
 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 " How many are you, then," said I, 
 " If they two are in heaven I" 
 Quick was the little Maid's reply, 
 " Master ! we are seven." 
 
 a But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
 Their spirits are in heaven !" 
 'Twas throwing words away ; for still 
 The little Maid would have her will, 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven !" 
 
 1796. 
 
 H 
 
THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 59 
 
 THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; 
 
 OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE*. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 The valley rings with mirth and joy ; 
 
 Among the hills the echoes play 
 
 A never never ending song, 
 
 To welcome in the May. 
 
 The magpie chatters with delight ; 
 
 The mountain raven's youngling hrood 
 
 Have left the mother and the nest ; 
 
 And they go rambling east and west 
 
 In search of their own food ; 
 
 Or through the glittering vapours dart 
 
 In very wantonness of heart. 
 
 Beneath a rock, upon the grass, 
 
 Two hoys are sitting in the sun ; 
 
 Their work, if any work they have, 
 
 Is out of mind — or done. 
 
 On pipes of sycamore they play 
 
 The fragments of a Christmas hymn ; 
 
 Or with that plant which in our dale 
 
 We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, 
 
 Their rusty hats they trim : 
 
 And thus, as happy as the day, 
 
 Those Shepherds wear the time away. 
 
 Along the river's stony marge 
 
 The sand-lark chants a joyous song ; 
 
 The thrush is busy in the wood, 
 
 And carols loud and strong. 
 
 A thousand lambs are on the -rocks, 
 
 All newly born ! both earth and sky 
 
 Keep jubilee, and more than all, 
 
 Those boys with their green coronal ; 
 
 They never hear the cry, 
 
 That plaintive cry ! which up the hill 
 
 Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 
 
 Said Walter, leaping from the ground, 
 I Down to the stump of yon old yew 
 We '11 for our whistles run a race." 
 
 Away the shepherds flew ; 
 
 They leapt — they ran — and when they came 
 Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
 
 * Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmore- 
 land, is a short and, for the most part, a steep narrow 
 valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the 
 word universally employed in these dialects for waterfall. 
 
 Seeing that he should lose the prize, 
 " Stop ! " to his comrade Walter cries — 
 James stopped with no good will : 
 Said Walter then, exulting ; " Here 
 You '11 find a task for half a year. 
 
 Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross — 
 
 Come on, and tread where I shall tread." 
 
 The other took him at his word, 
 
 And followed as he led. 
 
 It was a spot which you may see 
 
 If ever you to Langdale go ; 
 
 Into a chasm a mighty block 
 
 Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock : 
 
 The gulf is deep below ; 
 
 And, in a basin black and small, 
 
 Receives a lofty waterfall. 
 
 With staff in hand across the cleft 
 
 The challenger pursued his march ; 
 
 And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained 
 
 The middle of the arch. 
 
 When list ! he hears a piteous moan — 
 
 Again ! — his heart within him dies — 
 
 His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, 
 
 He totters, pallid as a ghost, 
 
 And, looking down, espies 
 
 A lamb, that in the pool is pent 
 
 Within that black and frightful rent. 
 
 The lamb had slipped into the stream, 
 
 And safe without a bruise or wound 
 
 The cataract had borne him down 
 
 Into the gulf profound. 
 
 His dam had seen him when he fell, 
 
 She saw him down the torrent borne ; 
 
 And, while with all a mother's love 
 
 She from the lofty rocks above 
 
 Sent forth a cry forlorn, 
 
 The lamb, still swimming round and round, 
 
 Made answer to that plaintive sound. 
 
 When he had learnt what thing it was, 
 That sent this rueful cry ; I ween 
 The Boy recovered heart, and told 
 The sight which he had seen. 
 Both gladly now deferred their task ; 
 Nor was there wanting other aid — 
 A Poet, one who loves the brooks 
 Far better than the sages' books, 
 By chance had thither strayed ; 
 And there the helpless lamb he found 
 By those huge rocks encompassed round. 
 
60 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO 
 
 He drew it from the troubled pool. 
 
 And brought it forth into the light : 
 
 The Shepherds met him with his charge, 
 
 An unexpected sight ! 
 
 Into their arms the lamb they took, 
 
 Whose life and limbs the flood had spared ; 
 
 Then up the steep ascent they hied, 
 
 And placed him at his mother's side ; 
 
 And gently did the Bard 
 
 Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, 
 
 And bade them better mind their trade. 
 
 1800. 
 
 ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, 
 
 ' Eetine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges.' 
 
 Eusbbius. 
 
 I have a boy of five years old ; 
 His face is fair and fresh to see ; 
 His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
 And dearly he loves me. 
 
 One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 
 Our quiet home all full in view, 
 And held such intermitted talk 
 As we are wont to do. 
 
 My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; 
 I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 
 Our pleasant home when spring began, 
 A long, long year before. 
 
 A day it was when I could bear 
 Some fond regrets to entertain ; 
 With so much happiness to spare, 
 I could not feel a pain. 
 
 The green earth echoed to the feet 
 Of lambs that bounded through the glade, 
 From shade to sunshine, and as fleet 
 From sunshine back to shade. 
 
 Birds warbled round me — and each trace 
 Of inward sadness had its charm ; 
 Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place, 
 And so is Liswyn farm. 
 
 My boy beside me tripped, so slim 
 And graceful in his rustic dress ! 
 And, as we talked, I questioned him, 
 In very idleness. 
 
 " Now tell me, had you rather be," 
 
 I said, and took him by the arm, 
 
 " On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, 
 
 Or here at Liswyn farm ? " 
 
 In careless mood he looked at me, 
 While still I held him by the arm, 
 And said, " At Kilve I 'd rather be 
 Than here at Liswyn farm." 
 
 " Now, little Edward, say why so : 
 My little Edward, tell me why." — 
 " I cannot tell, I do not know." — 
 " Why, this is strange," said I ; 
 
 " For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm ; 
 There surely must some reason be 
 Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm 
 For Kilve by the green sea." 
 
 At this, my boy hung down his head, 
 He blushed with shame, nor made reply ; 
 And three times to the child I said, 
 " Why, Edward, tell me why ? " 
 
 His head he raised — there was in sight, 
 It caught Ms eye, he saw it plain — 
 Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
 A broad and gilded vane. 
 
 Then did the boy his tongue unlock, 
 And eased his mind with this reply : 
 " At Kilve there was no weather-cock ; 
 And that 's the reason why." 
 
 dearest, dearest boy ! my heart 
 For better lore would seldom yearn, 
 Could I but teach the hundredth part 
 
 Of what from thee I learn. 
 
 1798. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 RURAL ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and 
 
 Reginald Shore, 
 Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not 
 
 more 
 Than the height of a counsellor's bag j 
 To the top of Great How * did it please them to 
 
 climb : 
 
 * Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which 
 rises towards the foot of Thirlmere, on the western side of 
 
THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 61 
 
 And there they built up, without mortar or lime, 
 ! A Man on the peak of the crag. 
 
 They built him of stones gathered up as they lay : 
 They built him and christened him all in one day, 
 An urchin both vigorous and hale ; 
 And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones. 
 Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones; 
 The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. 
 
 Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, 
 And, in anger or merriment, out of the north, 
 Coming on with a terrible pother, 
 From the peak of the crag blew the giant away. 
 And what did these school-boys 1 — The very next 
 
 day 
 They went and they built up another. 
 
 —Some little I 've seen of blind boisterous works 
 By Christian disturbers more savage than Turks, 
 Spirits busy to do and undo : 
 At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will 
 
 flag; 
 Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the crag ; 
 And I '11 build up a giant with you. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE PET-LAMB. 
 
 A PASTOItAL. 
 
 The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ; 
 I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty creature, 
 
 drink!" 
 And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied 
 A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its 
 
 side. 
 
 Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb was all 
 
 alone, 
 And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; 
 With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden 
 
 kneel, 
 While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening 
 
 meal. 
 
 The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper 
 
 took, 
 Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his tail 
 
 with pleasure shook. 
 
 the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road 
 between Keswick and Ambleside. 
 
 " Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such 
 
 a tone 
 That I almost received her heart into my own. 
 
 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty 
 
 rare ! 
 I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair. 
 Now with her empty can the maiden turned away : 
 But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she 
 
 stay. 
 
 Right towards the lamb she looked ; and from a 
 
 shady place 
 I unobserved could see the workings of her face : 
 If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers 
 
 bring, 
 Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might 
 
 sing: 
 
 " What ails thee, young One ? what 1 Why pull 
 
 so at thy cord ? 
 Is itnot well with thee ? well both for bed and board? 
 Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; 
 Rest, little young One, rest ; what is 't that aileth 
 
 thee ? 
 
 What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is wanting 
 
 to thy heart 2 
 Thy limbs are they not strong ? And beautiful 
 
 thou art : 
 This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have 
 
 no peers ; 
 And that green com all day is rustling in thy ears ! 
 
 If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen 
 
 chain, 
 This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain ; 
 For rain and mountain-storms ! the like thou 
 
 need'st not fear, 
 The rain and storm are things that scarcely can 
 
 come here. 
 
 Rest, little young One, rest ; thou hast forgot the day 
 When my father found thee first in places far away ; 
 Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned 
 
 by none, 
 And thy mother from thy side for evermore was 
 
 gone. 
 
 He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee 
 
 home : 
 A blessed day for thee ! then whither wouldst 
 
 thou roam ? 
 
POEMS REFERRING TO 
 
 A faithful nurse thou hast ; the dam that did thee 
 
 yean 
 Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been. 
 
 Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee 
 
 in this can 
 Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; 
 And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with 
 
 dew, 
 I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and 
 
 new. 
 
 Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they 
 
 are now, 
 Then I '11 yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the 
 
 plough ; 
 My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is 
 
 cold 
 Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be 
 
 thy fold. 
 
 It will not, will not rest ! — Poor creature, can it be 
 That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so 
 
 in thee ? 
 Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, 
 And dreams of things which thou canst neither see 
 
 nor hear. 
 
 Alas, the mountain- tops that look so green and fair ! 
 I 've heard of feai-ful winds and darkness that come 
 
 there ; 
 The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play, 
 When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. 
 
 Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky ; 
 Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage is hard by. 
 Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain 1 
 Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee 
 again !" 
 
 — As homeward through the lane I went with lazy 
 
 feet, 
 This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 
 And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, 
 That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was 
 
 Again, and once again, did I repeat the song ; 
 
 " Nay," said I, " more than half to the damsel 
 
 must belong, 
 For she looked with such a look, and she spake 
 
 with such a tone, 
 That I almost received her heart into my own." 
 
 1800. 
 
 TO H. C. 
 
 SfX YEARS OLD. 
 
 O thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought : 
 
 Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 
 
 And fittest to unutterable thought 
 
 The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol 
 
 Thou faery voyager ! that dost float 
 
 In such clear water, that thy boat 
 
 May rather seem 
 
 To brood on air than on an earthly stream; 
 
 Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
 
 Where earth and heaven do make one imagery ; 
 
 blessed vision ! happy child ! 
 Thou art so exquisitely wild, 
 
 1 think of thee with many fears 
 
 For what may be thy lot hi future years. 
 
 I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, 
 
 Lord of thy house and hospitality; 
 
 And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 
 
 But when she sate within the touch of thee. 
 
 too industrious folly ! 
 
 vain and causeless melancholy ! 
 
 Nature will either end thee quite; 
 
 Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, 
 
 Preserve for thee, by individual right, 
 
 A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. 
 
 What hast thou to do with sorrow, 
 
 Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 
 
 Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, 
 
 111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 
 
 Or to be trailed along the soiling earth; 
 
 A gem that glitters while it fives, 
 
 And no forewarning gives; 
 
 But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 
 
 Slips in a moment out of life. 
 
 
 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS 
 
 IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGI- 
 NATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH. 
 
 FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POKM. 
 
 [This extract is reprinted from " The Friend."] 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
 
 Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought ! 
 
 And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
 
 And everlasting motion ! not in vain, 
 
 By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 
 
THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 63 
 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 The passions that build up our human soul; 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man; 
 But with high objects, with enduring things, 
 With life and nature ; purifying thus 
 The elements of feeling and of thought, 
 And sanctifying by such discipline 
 Both pain and fear, — until we recognise 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
 With stinted kindness. In November days, 
 When vapours rolling down the valleys made 
 A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods 
 At noon ; and mid the calm of summer nights, 
 When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 
 Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 
 Mine was it in the fields both day and night, 
 And by the waters, all the summer long. 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 Was set, and, visible for many a mile, 
 The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed, 
 I heeded not the summons: happy time 
 It was indeed for all of us; for me 
 It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
 The village-clock tolled six — I wheeled about, 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 That cares not for his home. — All shod with steel 
 We hissed along the polished ice, in games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 
 The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
 And not a voice was idle: with the din 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars, 
 Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 Into a silent bay, or sportively 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 
 To cut across the reflex of a star ; 
 Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
 Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes, 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
 
 Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
 Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 
 
 1799. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE LONGEST DAY. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MY DAUGHTER. 
 
 Let us quit the leafy arbour, 
 And the torrent murmuring by; 
 For the sun is in his harbour, 
 Weary of the open sky. 
 
 Evening now unbinds the fetters 
 Fashioned by the gloving light; 
 All that breathe are thankful debtors 
 To the harbinger of night. 
 
 Yet by some grave thoughts attended 
 Eve renews her calm career; 
 For the day that now is ended, 
 Is the longest of the year. 
 
 Dora ! sport, as now thou sportest, 
 On this platform, light and free; 
 Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest, 
 Are indifferent to thee ! 
 
 Who would check the happy feeling 
 That inspires the linnet's song ? 
 Who would stop the swallow, wheeling 
 On her pinions swift and strong ? 
 
 Yet at this impressive season, 
 Words which tenderness can speak 
 From the truths of homely reason, 
 Might exalt the loveliest cheek; 
 
 And, while shades to shades succeeding 
 Steal the landscape from the sight, 
 I would urge this moral pleading, 
 Last forer unn er of " Good night !" 
 
 Summer ebbs; — each day that follows 
 Is a reflux from on high, 
 Tending to the darksome hollows 
 Where the frosts of winter he. 
 
64 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO 
 
 He who governs the creaiiou, 
 In his providence, assigned 
 Such a gradual declination 
 To the life of human kind. 
 
 Yet we mark it not; — fruits redden, 
 Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown, 
 And the heart is loth to deaden 
 Hopes that she so long hath known. 
 
 Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden ! 
 And when thy decline shall come, 
 Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden, 
 Hide the knowledge of thy doom. 
 
 Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber, 
 Fix thine eyes upon the sea 
 That absorbs time, space, and number ; 
 Look thou to Eternity ! 
 
 Follow thou the flowing river 
 On whose breast are thither borne 
 All deceived, and each deceiver, 
 Through the gates of night and morn ; 
 
 Through the year's successive portals ; 
 Through the bounds which many a star 
 Marks, not mindless of frail mortals, 
 When his light returns from far. 
 
 Thus when thou with Time hast travelled 
 Toward the mighty gulf of things, 
 And the mazy stream unravelled 
 With thy best imaginings ; 
 
 Think, if thou on beauty leanest, 
 Think how pitiful that stay, 
 Did not virtue give the meanest 
 Charms superior to decay. 
 
 Duty, like a strict preceptor, 
 Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown ; 
 Choose her thistle for thy sceptre, 
 While youth's roses are thy crown. 
 
 Grasp it, — if thou shrink and tremble, 
 Fairest damsel of the green, 
 Thou wilt lack the only symbol 
 That proclaims a genuine queen ; 
 
 And ensures those palms of honour 
 Which selected spirits wear, 
 Bending low before the Donor, 
 Lord of heaven's unchanging year ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE NORMAN BOY. 
 
 High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted 
 
 Down, 
 Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man 
 
 his own, 
 From home and company remote and every playful 
 
 Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged 
 Norman Boy. 
 
 Him never saw I, nor the spot; but from an English 
 Dame, 
 
 Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice 
 came, 
 
 With suit that I would speak in vei'se of that seques- 
 tered child 
 
 Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met upon the 
 dreary Wild. 
 
 His flock, along the woodland's edge with relics 
 
 sprinkled o'er 
 Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threatening the 
 
 fall of more, 
 Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at 
 
 their feed, 
 And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of 
 
 anxious heed. 
 
 There was he, where of branches rent and withered 
 
 and decayed, 
 For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a 
 
 hut had made. 
 A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be 
 A thing of such materials framed, by a builder 
 
 such as he. 
 
 The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly 
 
 lacked aught 
 That skill or means of his could add, but the 
 
 architect had wrought 
 Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped with 
 
 fingers nice, 
 To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. 
 
 That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest 
 
 power and best 
 For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude 
 
 nest 
 In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving 
 
 far and wide, 
 The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head 
 
 must hide. 
 
THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 65 
 
 That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for 
 
 the true 
 And faithful service of his heart in the worst that 
 
 might ensue 
 Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless 
 
 waste 
 Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence 
 
 was placed. 
 
 Here, Lady ! might I cease ; but nay, let us 
 
 before we part 
 
 With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer 
 of earnest heart, 
 
 That unto him, where'er shall he his life's appointed 
 way, 
 
 The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all- 
 sufficing stay. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE POET'S DREAM, 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN HOY. 
 
 Just as those final words were penned, the sun 
 
 broke out in power, 
 And gladdened all things ; but, as chanced^ within 
 
 that very hour, 
 Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed from 
 
 clouds that hid the sky, 
 And, for the Subject of my Verse, I heaved a 
 
 pensive sigh. 
 
 Nor could my heart by second thoughts from 
 heaviness be cleared, 
 
 For bodied forth before my eyes the cross-crowned 
 hut appeared ; 
 
 And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troub- 
 ling earth and air, 
 
 I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling alone in 
 prayer. 
 
 The Child, as if the thunder's voice spake with 
 
 articulate call, 
 Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the Lord 
 
 of All; 
 His lips were moving ; and his eyes, upraised to 
 
 sue for grace, 
 With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that 
 
 place. 
 
 How beautiful is holiness ! — what wonder if the sight, 
 Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at 
 night? 
 
 It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no cherub, 
 
 not transformed, 
 But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human 
 
 heart had warmed. 
 
 Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took 
 
 him in my arms, 
 And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint 
 
 alarms, 
 And bore him high through yielding air my debt 
 
 of love to pay, 
 By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of 
 
 holiday. 
 
 I whispered, " Yet a little while, dear Child ! thou 
 
 art my own, 
 To show thee some delightful thing, in country or 
 
 in town. 
 What shall it be ? a mirthful throng ? or that holy 
 
 place and calm 
 St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the Church of 
 
 Notre Dame ? 
 
 " St. Ouen's golden Shrine ? Or choose what else 
 
 would please thee most 
 Of any wonder Normandy, or all proud France, 
 
 can boast ! " 
 " My Mother," said the Boy, " was born near to a 
 
 blessed Tree, 
 The Chapel Oak of Allonville ; good Angel, show 
 
 it me !" 
 
 On wings, from broad and stedfast poise let loose 
 
 by this reply, 
 For Allonville, o'er down and dale, away then did 
 
 we fly; 
 O'er town and tower we flew, and fields in May's 
 
 fresh verdure drest ; 
 The wings they did not flag; the Child, though 
 
 grave, was not deprest. 
 
 But who shall show, to waking sense, the gleam of 
 
 light that broke 
 Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy looked 
 
 down on that huge oak, 
 For length of days so much revered, so famous 
 
 where it stands 
 For twofold hallowing — Nature's care, and work 
 
 of human hands ? 
 
 Strong as an Eagle with my charge I glided round 
 
 and round 
 The wide-spread boughs, for view of door, window, 
 
 and stair that wound 
 
66 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Gracefully up the gnarled trunk ; nor left we 
 
 unsurveyed 
 The pointed steeple peering forth from the centre 
 
 of the shade. 
 
 I lighted — opened with soft touch the chapel's iron 
 
 door, 
 Past softly, leading in the Boy ; and, while from 
 
 roof to floor 
 From floor to roof all round his eyes the Child 
 
 with wonder cast, 
 Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each livelier than 
 
 the last. 
 
 For, deftly framed within the trunk, the sanctuary 
 
 showed, 
 By light of lamp and preci ous stones, that glimmered 
 
 here, there glowed, 
 Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of 
 
 gratitude ; 
 Sight that inspired accordant thoughts ; and speech 
 
 I thus renewed : 
 
 "Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard 
 
 thy Mother say, 
 And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de 
 
 la Paix ; 
 What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, 
 
 when the voice was stopt 
 By sudden pangs ; what bitter tears have on this 
 
 pavement dropt ! 
 
 " Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a favoured 
 
 lot is thine, 
 Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full many 
 
 to this shrine ; 
 From body pains and pains of soul thou needest no 
 
 release, 
 Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy, 
 
 in peace. 
 
 " Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness 
 
 and praise, 
 Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, in thy 
 
 most busy days ; 
 And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy small 
 
 hut, will be 
 Holy as that which long hath crowned the Chapel 
 
 of this Tree ; 
 
 " Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous 
 
 Church in Rome 
 Where thousands meet to worship God under a 
 
 mighty Dome ; 
 
 He sees the bending multitude, he hears the choral 
 
 rites, 
 Yet not the less, in children's hymns and lonely 
 
 prayer, delights. 
 
 " God for his service needeth not proud work of 
 
 human skill ; 
 They please him best who labour most to do in 
 
 peace his will : 
 So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits will be 
 
 given 
 Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear 
 
 us up to heaven." 
 
 The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest 
 
 was his look, 
 Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream — recorded in 
 
 this book, 
 Lest all that passed should melt away in silence 
 
 from my mind, 
 As visions still more bright have done, and left no 
 
 trace behind. 
 
 But oh ! that Country-man of thine, whose eye, 
 
 loved Child, can see 
 A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety, 
 In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat 
 
 this simple theme, 
 Nor leave untold our happy flight in that 
 
 adventurous dream. 
 
 Alas the dream, to thee, poor Boy ! to thee from 
 
 whom it flowed, 
 Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 'twas 
 
 bounteously bestowed, 
 If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will 
 
 read 
 Not loth, and listening Little-ones, heart-touched, 
 
 their fancies feed.* 
 
 xx. 
 
 THE WESTMORELAND GIRL. 
 
 TO MV GRANDCHILDREN. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Seek who will delight in fable 
 I shall tell you truth. A Lamb 
 Leapt from this steep bank to follow 
 'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam. 
 
 * See note. 
 
THE WESTMORELAND GIRL. 
 
 67 
 
 Far and wide on hill and valley 
 Rain had fallen, unceasing rain. 
 And the bleating mother's Young-one 
 Struggled with the flood in vain : 
 
 But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden 
 (Ten years scarcely had she told) 
 Seeing, plunged into the torrent, 
 Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold. 
 
 Whirled adown the rocky channel, 
 Sinking, rising, on they go, 
 Peace and rest, as seems, before them 
 Only in the lake below. 
 
 Oh ! it was a frightful current 
 Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved 
 Clap your hands with joy my Hearers, 
 Shout in triumph, both are saved ; 
 
 Saved by courage that with danger 
 Grew, by strength the gift of love, 
 And belike a guardian angel 
 Came with succour from above. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Now, to a maturer Audience, 
 Let me speak of this brave Child 
 Left among her native mountains 
 With wild Nature to run wild. 
 
 So, unwatched by love maternal, 
 Mother's care no more her guide, 
 Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan 
 Even while at her father's side. 
 
 Spare your blame, — remembrance makes him 
 Loth to rule by strict command ; 
 Still upon his cheek are living 
 Touches of her infant hand, 
 
 Dear caresses given in pity, 
 Sympathy that soothed his grief, 
 As the dying mother witnessed 
 To her thankful mind's relief. 
 
 Time passed on ; the Child was happy, 
 Like a Spirit of air she moved, 
 Wayward, yet by all who knew her 
 For her tender heart beloved. 
 
 Scarcely less than sacred passions, 
 Bred in house, in grove, and field, 
 Link her with the inferior creatures, 
 Urge her powers their rights to shield. 
 
 Anglers, bent on reckless pastime, 
 Learn how she can feel alike 
 Both for tiny harmless minnow 
 And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike. 
 
 Merciful protectress, kindling 
 Into anger or disdain ; 
 Many a captive hath she rescued, 
 Others saved from lingering pain. 
 
 Listen yet awhile; — with patience 
 Hear the homely truths I tell, 
 She in Grasmere's old church-steeple 
 Tolled this day the passing-bell. 
 
 Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains 
 To their echoes gave the sound, 
 Notice punctual as the minute, 
 Warning solemn and profound. 
 
 She, fulfilling her sire's office, 
 Rang alone the far-heard kuell, 
 Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow, 
 Paid to One who loved her well. 
 
 When his spirit was departed 
 On that service she went forth ; 
 Nor will fail the like to render 
 When his corse is laid in earth. 
 
 What then wants the Child to temper, 
 In her breast, unruly fire, 
 To control the froward impulse 
 And restrain the vague desire ? 
 
 Easily a pious training 
 
 And a stedfast outward power 
 
 Would supplant the weeds and cherish, 
 
 In their stead, each opening flower. 
 
 Thus the fearless Lamb-deliv'rer, 
 Woman-grown, meek-hearted, sage, 
 May become a blest example 
 For her sex, of every age. 
 
 Watchful as a wheeling eagle, 
 Constant as a soaring lark, 
 Should the country need a heroine, 
 She might prove our Maid of Arc. 
 
 Leave that thought ; and here be uttered 
 Prayer that Grace divine may raise 
 Her humane courageous spirit 
 Up to heaven, thro' peaceful ways. 
 
 F2 
 
68 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 " These Tourists, heaven preserve us ! needs must 
 
 live 
 A profitable life: some glance along, 
 Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 
 And they were butterflies to wheel about 
 Long as the summer lasted : some, as wise, 
 Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, 
 Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, 
 Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, 
 Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, 
 Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 
 But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
 Why can he tarry yonder ? — In our church-yard 
 Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
 Tombstone nor name — only the turf we tread 
 And a few natural graves." 
 
 To Jane, his wife, 
 Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
 It was a July evening; and he sate 
 Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves 
 Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, 
 Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone 
 His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, 
 While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering 
 
 wire, 
 He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 
 Who, in the open air, with due accord 
 Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, 
 Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field 
 In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, 
 Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 
 While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent 
 Many a long look of wonder : and at last, 
 Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 
 Of carded wool which the old man had piled 
 He laid his implements with gentle care, 
 Each in the other locked; and, down the path 
 That from his cottage to the church-yard led, 
 He took his way, impatient to accost 
 The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 
 
 'Twas one well known to him in former days, 
 A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year 
 
 Had left that calling, tempted to entrust 
 
 His expectations to the fickle winds 
 
 And perilous waters; with the mariners 
 
 A fellow-mariner; — and so had fared 
 
 Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared 
 
 Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
 
 Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. 
 
 Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
 
 The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
 
 Of caves and trees : — and, when the regular wind 
 
 Between the tropics filled the steady sail, 
 
 And blew with the same breath through days and 
 
 weeks, 
 Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
 Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours 
 Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
 Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 
 And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam 
 Flashed round him images and hues that wrought 
 In union with the employment of his heart, 
 He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 
 Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
 Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
 Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed 
 On verdant hills — with dwellings among trees, 
 And shepherds clad in the same country grey 
 Which he himself had worn*. 
 
 And now, at last, 
 From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
 Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
 To his paternal home he is returned, 
 With a determined purpose to resume 
 The life he had lived there; both for the sake 
 Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
 Which to an only brother he has borne 
 In all his hardships, since that happy time 
 When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
 Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. 
 — They were the last of all their race: and now, 
 When Leonard had approached his home, his heart 
 Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire 
 Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, 
 
 * This description of the Calenture is sketched from an 
 imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. 
 Gilbert, author of the Hurricane. 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 69 
 
 He to the solitary church-yard turned; 
 
 That, as he knew in what particular spot 
 
 His family were laid, he thence might learn 
 
 If still his Brother lived, or to the file 
 
 Another grave was added. — He had found 
 
 Another grave, — near which a full half-hour 
 
 He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew 
 
 Such a confusion in his memory, 
 
 That he began to doubt; and even to hope 
 
 That he had seen this heap of turf before, — 
 
 That it was not another grave ; but one 
 
 He had forgotten. He had lost his path, 
 
 As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 
 
 Through fields which once had been well known to 
 
 him : 
 And oh what joy this recollection now 
 Sent to his heart ! he lifted up his eyes, 
 And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
 Strange alteration wrought on every side 
 Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, 
 And everlasting hills themselves were changed. 
 
 By this the Priest, who down the field had come, 
 Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate 
 Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 
 Perused him with a gay complacency. 
 Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path 
 Of the world's business to go wild alone : 
 His arms have a perpetual holiday ; 
 The happy man will creep about the fields, 
 Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
 Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 
 Into his face, until the setting sun 
 Write fool upon his forehead. — Planted thus 
 Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate 
 Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared 
 The good Man might have communed with himself, 
 But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, 
 Approached ; he recognised the Priest at once, 
 And, after greetings interchanged, and given 
 By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
 Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 
 
 Leonard. You five, Sir, in these dales, a quiet 
 life: 
 Your years make up one peaceful family ; 
 And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come 
 And welcome gone, they are so like each other, 
 They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a funeral 
 Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months; 
 And yet, some changes must take place among you : 
 And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks, 
 Can trace the finger of mortality, 
 And see, that with our threescore years and ten 
 
 We are not all that perish. 1 remember, 
 
 (For many years ago I passed this road) 
 There was a foot-way all along the fields 
 By the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that dark cleft ! 
 To me it does not seem to wear the face 
 Which then it had ! 
 
 Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 
 
 That chasm is much the same — 
 
 Leonard.. But, surely, yonder — 
 
 Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend 
 That does not play you false. — On that tall pike 
 (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 
 There were two springs which bubbled side by 
 
 side, 
 As if they had been made that they might be 
 Companions for each other : the huge crag 
 Was rent with lightning — one hath disappeared ; 
 The other, left behind, is flowing still. 
 For accidents and changes such as these, 
 We want not store of them ; — a water-spout 
 Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast 
 For folks that wander up and down like you, 
 To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff 
 One roaring cataract ! a sharp May-storm 
 Will come with loads of January snow, 
 And in one night send twenty score of sheep 
 To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies 
 By some untoward death among the rocks : 
 The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge ; 
 A wood is felled : — and then for our own homes ! 
 A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, 
 A daughter sent to service, a web spun, 
 The old house-clock is decked with a new face ; 
 And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 
 To chronicle the time, we all have here 
 A pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir, 
 For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side — 
 Yours was a stranger's judgment : for historians, 
 Commend me to these valleys ! 
 
 Leonard. Yet your Church-yard 
 
 Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, 
 To say that you are heedless of the past : 
 An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 
 Here 's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, 
 Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state 
 Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man's home 
 Ts but a fellow to that pasture-field. 
 
 Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that 's new 
 to me ! 
 The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread 
 If every English church-yard were like ours ; 
 Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 
 We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 
 We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 
 
70 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 And then, for our immortal part ! we want 
 No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale : 
 The thought of death sits easy on the man 
 Who has been born and dies among the mountains. 
 
 Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's 
 thoughts 
 Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 
 You, Sir, could help me to the history 
 Of half these graves 1 
 
 Priest. For eight-score winters past, 
 
 With what I 've witnessed, and with what I 've 
 
 heard, 
 Perhaps I might ; and, on a winter-evening, 
 If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 
 We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round ; 
 Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
 Now there 's a grave — your foot is half upon it, — 
 It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man 
 Died broken-hearted. 
 
 Leonard. 'Tis a common case. 
 
 We '11 take another : who is he that lies 
 Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves ? 
 It touches on that piece of native rock 
 Left in the church-yard wall. 
 
 Priest. That 's Walter Ewbank. 
 
 He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
 As ever were produced by youth and age 
 Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
 Through five long generations had the heart 
 Of Walter's forefathers o'erfiowed the bounds 
 Of their inheritance, that single cottage — 
 You see it yonder ! and those few green fields. 
 They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to 
 
 son, 
 Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
 A little — yet a little, — and old Walter, 
 They left to him the family heart, and land 
 With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
 Year after year the old man still kept up 
 A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with bond, 
 Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank, 
 And went into his grave before his time. 
 Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurred 
 
 him 
 God only knows, but to the very last 
 He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
 His pace was never that of an old man : 
 I almost see him tripping down the path 
 With his two grandsons after him : — but you, 
 Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, 
 Have far to travel, — and on these rough paths 
 Even in the longest day of midsummer — 
 
 Leonard. But those two Orphans ! 
 
 Priest. Orphans ! — Such they were- 
 
 Yet not while Walter lived : — for, though their 
 
 parents 
 Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
 The old man was a father to the boys, 
 Two fathers in one father : and if tears, 
 Shed when he talked of them where they were not, 
 And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 
 Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, 
 This old Man, in the day of his old age, 
 Was half a mother to them. — If you weep, Sir, 
 To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 
 Heaven bless you when you are among your 
 
 kindred ! 
 Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave 
 Which will bear looking at. 
 
 Leonard. These boys — I hope 
 
 They loved this good old Man 1 — 
 
 Priest. They did — and truly : 
 
 But that was what we almost overlooked, 
 They were such darlings of each other. Yes, 
 Though from the cradle they had lived with 
 
 Walter, 
 
 The only kinsman near them, and though he 
 Inclined to both by reason of his age, 
 With a more fond, familiar, tenderness ; 
 They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, 
 And it all went into each other's hearts. 
 Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 
 Was two years taller : 'twas a joy to see, 
 To hear, to meet them ! — From their house the 
 
 school 
 Is distant three short miles, and in the time 
 Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 
 And unbridged stream, such as you may have 
 
 noticed 
 Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, 
 Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, 
 Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained 
 At home, go staggering through the slippery fords, 
 Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him, 
 On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, 
 Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, 
 Their two books lying both on a dry stone, 
 Upon the hither side : and once I said, 
 As I remember, looking round these rocks 
 And hills on which we all of us were bora, 
 That God who made the great book of the world 
 Would bless such piety — 
 
 Leonard. It may be then — 
 
 Priest. Never did worthier lads break English 
 bread ; 
 The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw 
 With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 71 
 
 Could never keep those boys away from church, 
 Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. 
 Leonard and James ! I warrant, every comer 
 Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
 That venturous foot could reach, to one or both 
 Was known as well as to the flowers that grow 
 
 there. 
 Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; 
 They played like two young ravens on the crags : 
 Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well 
 As many of their betters — and for Leonard ! 
 The very night before be went away, 
 In my own house I put into his hand 
 A bible, and I 'd wager house and field 
 That, if he be alive, he has it yet. 
 
 Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have not lived 
 to be 
 A comfort to each other — 
 
 Priest. That they might 
 
 Live to such end is what both old and young 
 In this our valley all of us have wished, 
 And what, for my part, I have often prayed : 
 But Leonard — 
 
 Leonard. Then James still is left among you ! 
 
 Priest. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking : 
 They had an uncle; — he was at that time 
 A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas: 
 And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 
 Leonard had never handled rope or shroud: 
 For the boy loved the life which we lead here; 
 And though of unripe years, a stripling only, 
 His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
 But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
 To strive with such a torrent; when he died, 
 The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep, 
 A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, 
 Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years : — 
 Well — all was gone, and they were destitute, 
 And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, 
 Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
 Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. 
 If there were one among us who had heard 
 That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, 
 From the Great Gavel *, down by Leeza's banks, 
 And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 
 The day would be a joyous festival ; 
 
 * The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resem- 
 blance to the gable end of a house, is one of the highest of 
 the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the 
 several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale. 
 
 The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Enner- 
 dale : on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and 
 is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a 
 little below Egremont. 
 
 And those two bells of ours, which there you see — 
 
 Hanging in the open air — but, good Sir ! 
 
 This is sad talk — they '11 never sound for him — 
 
 Living or dead. — When last we heard of him, 
 
 He was in slavery among the Moors 
 
 Upon the Barbary coast. — 'Twas not a little 
 
 That would bring down his spirit ; and no doubt, 
 
 Before it ended in his death, the Youth 
 
 Was sadly crossed. — Poor Leonard ! when we 
 
 parted, 
 He took me by the hand, and said to me, 
 If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, 
 To live in peace upon his father's land, 
 And lay his bones among us. 
 
 Leonard. If that day 
 
 Should come, 't would needs be a glad day for him ; 
 He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
 As any that should meet him — ■ 
 
 Priest. Happy ! Sir — 
 
 Leonard. You said his kindred all were in their 
 graves, 
 And that he had one Brother — 
 
 Priest. That is but 
 
 A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth 
 James, though not sickly, yet was delicate ; 
 And Leonard being always by his side 
 Had done so many offices about him, 
 That, though he was not of a timid nature, 
 Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy 
 In him was somewhat checked; and, when his 
 
 Brother 
 Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, 
 The little colour that he had was soon 
 Stolen from his cheek ; he drooped, and pined, and 
 pined — 
 Leonard. But these are all the graves of full- 
 grown men ! 
 Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away : we took him 
 to us ; 
 He was the cliild of all the dale — he lived 
 Three months with one, and six months with another ; 
 And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love : 
 And many, many happy days were his. 
 But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief 
 His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
 And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found 
 (A practice till this time unknown to him) 
 That often, rising from his bed at night, 
 He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping 
 He sought his brother Leonard. — You are moved! 
 Forgive me, Sir : before I spoke to you, 
 I judged you most unkindly. 
 
 Leonard. But this Youth, 
 
 How did he die at last ? 
 
72 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Priest. One sweet May-morning, 
 
 (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) 
 He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, 
 With two or three companions, whom their course 
 Of occupation led from height to height 
 Under a cloudless sun — till he, at length, 
 Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge 
 The humour of the moment, lagged behind. 
 You see yon precipice ; — it wears the shape 
 Of a vast building made of many crags ; 
 And in the midst is one particular rock 
 That rises like a column from the vale, 
 Whence by our shepherds it is called, The Pillar. 
 Upon its aery summit crowned with heath, 
 The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, 
 Lay stretched at ease ; but, passing by the place 
 On their return, they found that he was gone. 
 No ill was feared ; till one of them by chance 
 Entering, when evening was far spent, the house 
 Which at that time was James's home, there learned 
 That nobody had seen him all that day : 
 The morning came, and still he was unheard of : 
 The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook 
 Some hastened ; some ran to the lake : ere noon 
 They found him at the foot of that same rock 
 Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
 I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 
 Leonard. And that then is his grave ! — Before 
 his death 
 You say that he saw many happy years ? 
 Priest. Ay, that he did — 
 
 Leonard. And all went well with him ? — 
 
 Priest. If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. 
 Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind 
 
 was easy ? — 
 Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that 
 time 
 Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless 
 His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless 
 
 fortune, 
 He talked about him with a cheerful love. 
 
 Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed 
 
 end ! 
 Priest. Nay, God forbid !— You recollect I 
 mentioned 
 A habit which disquietude and grief 
 Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured 
 That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
 On the soft heath, — and, waiting for his comrades, 
 He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep 
 He to the margin of the precipice 
 Had walked, and from the summit had fallen 
 
 headlong : 
 And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth 
 
 Fell, in his hand he must have grasp'd, we think, 
 His shepherd's staff ; for on that Pillar of rock 
 It had been caught mid way ; and there for years 
 It hung ; — and mouldered there. 
 
 The Priest here ended — 
 The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt 
 A gushing from his heart, that took away 
 The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence ; 
 And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard 
 
 gate, 
 As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round, — 
 And, looking at the grave, he said, " My Brother !" 
 The Vicar did not hear the words : and now, 
 He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating 
 That Leonard would partake his homely fare : 
 The other thanked him with an earnest voice ; 
 But added, that, the evening being calm, 
 He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 
 
 It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove 
 That overhung the road : he there stopped short, 
 And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed 
 All that the Priest had said : his early years 
 Were with him : — his long absence, cherished hopes, 
 And thoughts which had been his an hour before, 
 All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, 
 This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed 
 A place in which he could not bear to live : 
 So he relinquished all his purposes. 
 He travelled back to Egremont : and thence, 
 That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
 Reminding him of what had passed between them ; 
 And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, 
 That it was from the weakness of his heart 
 He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
 This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
 A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. 
 
 1800. 
 
 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 
 
 (see the chronicle of geoffrey of monmouth and 
 milton's history of England ) 
 
 Where be the temples which, in Britain's Isle, 
 For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised ? 
 Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile 
 Of clouds that in cerulean ether blazed ! 
 Ere Julius landed on her white-cliffed shore, 
 
 They sank, delivered o'er 
 To fatal dissolution ; and, I ween, 
 No vestige then was left that such had ever been. 
 
ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 
 
 Nathless, a British record (long concealed 
 In old Armorica, whose secret springs 
 No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed 
 The marvellous current of forgotten things ; 
 How Brutus came, by oracles impelled, 
 
 And Albion's giants quelled, 
 A brood whom no civility could melt, 
 ' Who never tasted grace, and goodness ne'er had 
 
 felt.' 
 
 By brave Corineus aided, he subdued, 
 
 And rooted out the intolerable kind ; 
 
 And this too-long-polluted land imbued 
 
 With goodly arts and usages refined ; 
 
 Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike towers, 
 And pleasure's sumptuous bowers ; 
 
 Whence all the fixed delights of house and home, 
 
 Friendships that will not break, and love that can- 
 not roam. 
 
 O, happy Britain ! region all too fair 
 For self-delighting fancy to endure 
 That silence only should inhabit there, 
 Wild beasts, or uncouth savages impure ! 
 But, intermingled with the generous seed, 
 
 Grew many a poisonous weed ; 
 Thus fares it still with all that takes its birth 
 From human care, or grows upon the breast of earth. 
 
 Hence, and how soon ! that war of vengeance waged 
 By Guendolen against her faithless lord ; 
 Till she, in jealous fury unassuaged 
 Had slain his paramour with ruthless sword : 
 Then, into Severn hideously defiled, 
 She flung her blameless child, 
 Sabrina, — vowing that the stream should bear 
 That name through every age, her hatred to declare. 
 
 So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear 
 
 By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift. 
 
 Ye lightnings, hear his voice !— they cannot hear, 
 
 Nor can the winds restore his simple gift. 
 
 But One there is, a Child of nature meek, 
 
 Who comes her Sire to seek ; 
 And he, recovering sense, upon her breast 
 Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect rest. 
 
 There too we read of Spenser's fairy themes, 
 And those that Milton loved in youthful years ; 
 The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes ; 
 The feats of Arthur and his knightly peers ; 
 Of Arthur, — who, to upper light restored, 
 
 With that terrific sword 
 Which yet he brandishes for future war, 
 Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star ! 
 
 What wonder, then, if in such ample field 
 Of old tradition, one particular flower 
 Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield, 
 And bloom unnoticed even to this late hour ? 
 Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant, 
 
 While I this flower transplant 
 Into a garden stored with Poesy ; 
 Where flowers and herbs unite, and haply some 
 
 weeds be, 
 That, wanting not wild grace, are from all mischief 
 
 free ! 
 
 A King more worthy of respect and love 
 Than wise Gorbonian ruled not in his day ; 
 And grateful Britain prospered far above 
 All neighbouring countries through his righteous 
 
 sway; 
 He poured rewards and honours on the good ; 
 
 The oppressor he withstood ; 
 And while he served the Gods with reverence clue 
 Fields smiled, and temples rose, and towns and 
 
 cities grew. 
 
 He died, whom Artegal succeeds — his son ; 
 
 But how unworthy of that sire was he ! 
 
 A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun, 
 
 Was darkened soon by foul iniquity. 
 
 From crime to crime he mounted, till at length 
 
 The nobles leagued their strength 
 With a vexed people, and the tyrant chased ; 
 And, on the vacant throne, his worthier Brother 
 
 placed. 
 
 From realm to realm the humbled Exile went, 
 Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain ; 
 In many a court, and many a warrior's tent, 
 He urged his persevering suit in vain. 
 Him, in whose wretched heart ambition failed, 
 
 Dire poverty assailed ; 
 And, tired with slights his pride no more could 
 
 brook, 
 He towards his native country cast a longing look. 
 
 Fair blew the wished-for wind — the voyage sped ; 
 
 He landed ; and, by many dangers scared, 
 
 ' Poorly provided, poorly followed,' 
 
 To Calaterium's forest he repaired. 
 
 How changed from him who, born to highest place, 
 
 Had swayed the royal mace, 
 Flattered and feared, despised yet deified, 
 In Troynovant, his seat by silver Thames's side ! 
 
 From that wild region where the crownless King 
 Lay in concealment with his scanty train, 
 
74 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Supporting life by water from the spring, 
 And such chance food as outlaws can obtain, 
 Unto the few whom he esteems his friends 
 
 A messenger he sends ; 
 And from their secret loyalty requires 
 Shelter and daily bread, — the sum of his desires. 
 
 While he the issue waits, at early morn 
 Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced to hear 
 A startling outcry made by hound and horn, 
 From which the tusky wild boar flies in fear ; 
 And, scouring toward him o'er the grassy plain, 
 
 Behold the hunter train ! 
 He bids his little company advance 
 With seeming unconcern and steady countenance. 
 
 The royal Elidure, who leads the chase, 
 Hath checked his foaming courser : — can it be ! 
 Methinks that I should recognise that face, 
 Though much disguised by long adversity ! 
 He gazed rejoicing, and again he gazed, 
 
 Confounded and amazed — 
 K It is the king, my brother ! " and, by sound 
 Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps upon the 
 
 ground. 
 
 Long, strict, and tender was the embrace he gave, 
 Feebly returned by daunted Artegal ; 
 Whose natural affection doubts enslave, 
 And apprehensions dark and criminal. 
 Loth to restrain the moving interview, 
 
 The attendant lords withdrew ; 
 And, while they stood upon the plain apart, 
 Thus Elidure, by words, relieved his struggling 
 
 heart. 
 
 a By heavenly Powers conducted, we have met ; 
 — Brother ! to my knowledge lost so long, 
 But neither lost to love, nor to regret, 
 Nor to my wishes lost ; — forgive the wrong, 
 (Such it may seem) if I thy crown have borne, 
 
 Thy royal mantle worn : 
 I was their natural guardian ; and 'tis just 
 That now I should restore what hath been held in 
 trust." 
 
 A while the astonished Artegal stood mute, 
 Then thus exclaimed : " To me, of titles shorn, 
 And stripped of power ! me, feeble, destitute, 
 j To me a kingdom ! spare the bitter scorn : 
 If justice ruled the breast of foreign kings, 
 
 Then, on the wide-spread wings 
 Of war, had I returned to claim my right ; 
 This will I here avow, not dreading thy despite." 
 
 " I do not blame thee," Elidure replied ; 
 " But, if my looks did with my words agree, 
 I should at once be trusted, not defied, 
 And thou from all disquietude be free. 
 May the unsullied Goddess of the chase, 
 
 Who to this blessed place 
 At this blest moment led me, if I speak 
 With insincere intent, on me her vengeance wreak? 
 
 Were this same spear, which in my hand I grasp, 
 The British sceptre, here would I to thee 
 The symbol yield ; and would undo this clasp, 
 If it confined the robe of sovereignty. 
 Odious to me the pomp of regal court. 
 
 And joyless sylvan sport, 
 While thou art roving, wretched and forlorn, 
 Thy coueh the dewy earth, thy roof the forest 
 
 thorn !" 
 
 Then Artegal thus spake : " I only sought, 
 Within this realm a place of safe retreat ; 
 Beware of rousing an ambitious thought ; 
 Beware of kindling hopes, for me unmeet ! 
 Thou art reputed wise, but in my mind 
 
 Art pitiably blind : 
 Full soon this generous purpose thou may'st rue, 
 When that which has been done no wishes can undo. 
 
 Who, when a crown is fixed upon his head, 
 Would balance claim with claim, and right with 
 
 right ? 
 But thou — I know not how inspired, how led — 
 Wouldst change the course of things in all men's 
 
 sight ! 
 And this for one who cannot imitate 
 
 Thy virtue, who may hate : 
 For, if, by such strange sacrifice restored, 
 He reign, thou still must be his king, and sovereign 
 
 lord; 
 
 Lifted in magnanimity above 
 Aught that my feeble nature could perform, 
 Or even conceive ; surpassing me in love 
 Far as in power the eagle doth the worm : 
 I, Brother ! only should be king in name, 
 
 And govern to my shame ; 
 A shadow in a hated land, while all 
 Of glad or willing service to thy share would fall." 
 
 " Believe it not," said Elidure ; "respect 
 Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most 
 Attends on goodness with dominion decked, 
 Which stands the universal empire's boast ; 
 This can thy own experience testify : 
 Nor shall thy foes deny 
 
ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 
 
 75 
 
 That, in the gracious opening of thy reign, 
 
 Our father's spirit seemed in thee to breathe again. 
 
 And what if o'er that bright unbosoming 
 Clouds of disgrace and envious fortune past ! 
 Have we not seen the glories of the spring 
 By veil of noontide darkness overcast ? 
 The frith that glittered like a warrior's shield, 
 
 The sky, the gay green field, 
 Are vanished ; gladness ceases in the groves, 
 And trepidation strikes the blackened mountain- 
 coves. 
 
 But is that gloom dissolved ? how passing clear 
 Seems the wide world, far brighter than before ! 
 Even so thy latent worth will re-appear, 
 Gladdening the people's heart from shore to shore; 
 For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone ; 
 
 Re-seated on thy throne, 
 Proof shalt thou furnish that misfortune, pain, 
 And sorrow, have confirmed thy native right to 
 
 reign. 
 
 But, not to overlook what thou may'st know, 
 Thy enemies are neither weak nor few ; 
 And circumspect must be our course, and slow, 
 Or from my purpose ruin may ensue. 
 Dismiss thy followers ; — let them calmly wait 
 
 Such change in thy estate 
 As I already have in thought devised ; 
 And which, with caution due, may soon be realised." 
 
 The Story tells what courses were pursued, 
 Until king Elidure, with full consent 
 Of all his peers, before the multitude, 
 Rose, — and, to consummate this just intent, 
 Did place upon his brother's head the crown, 
 
 Relinquished by his own ; 
 Then to his people cried, " Receive your lord, 
 Gorbonian's first-born son, your rightful king 
 
 restored ! " 
 
 The people answered with a loud acclaim : 
 Yet more ; — heart-smitten by the heroic deed, 
 The reinstated Artegal became 
 Earth's noblest penitent ; from bondage freed 
 Of vice— thenceforth unable to subvert 
 
 Or shake his high desert. 
 Long did he reign ; and, when he died, the tear 
 Of universal grief bedewed his honoured bier. 
 
 Thus was a Brother by a Brother saved ; 
 With whom a crown (temptation that hath set 
 Discord in hearts of men till they have braved 
 Their nearest kin with deadly purpose met) 
 
 'Gainst duty weighed, and faithful love, did seem 
 
 A thing of no esteem ; 
 And, from this triumph of affection pure, 
 He bore the lasting name of " pious Elidure ! " 
 
 1815. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 I 've watch'd you now a full half-hour, 
 Self-poised upon that yellow flower ; 
 And, little Butterfly ! indeed 
 I know not if you sleep or feed. 
 How motionless ! — not frozen seas 
 More motionless ! and then 
 What joy awaits you, when the breeze 
 Hath found you out among the trees, 
 And calls you forth again ! 
 
 This plot of orchard-ground is ours ; 
 
 My trees they are, my Sister's flowers ; 
 
 Here rest your wings when they are weary : 
 
 Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 
 
 Come often to us, fear no wrong ; 
 
 Sit near us on the bough ! 
 
 We '11 talk of sunshine and of song, 
 
 And summer days, when we were young ; 
 
 Sweet childish days, that were as long 
 
 As twenty days are now. 
 
 1801. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground, 
 
 Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 
 
 Of that magnificent temple which doth bound 
 
 One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare ; 
 
 Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, 
 
 The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, 
 
 Farewell! — we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care, 
 
 Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround. 
 
 Our boat is safely anchored by the shore, 
 And there will safely ride when we are gone ; 
 The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door 
 Will prosper, though untended and alone : 
 Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none : 
 These narrow bounds contain our private store 
 Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon ; 
 Here are they in our sight — we have no more. 
 
76 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell ! 
 For two months now in vain we shall be sought ; 
 We leave you here in solitude to dwell 
 With these our latest gifts of tender thought ; 
 Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, 
 Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell ! 
 Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, 
 And placed together near our rocky Well. 
 
 We go for One to whom ye will be dear ; 
 And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed, 
 Our own contrivance, Building without peer ! 
 — A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, 
 Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, 
 With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, 
 Will come to you ; to you herself will wed ; 
 And love the blessed life that we lead here. 
 
 Dear Spot ! which we have watched' with tender heed, 
 Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown 
 Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, 
 Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own, 
 Making all kindness registered and known ; 
 Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed, 
 Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, 
 Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 
 
 And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, 
 That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show 
 To them who look not daily on thy face ; 
 Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, 
 And say'st, when we forsake thee, " Let them go ! " 
 Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race 
 Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, 
 And travel with the year at a soft pace. 
 
 Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, 
 
 And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best ; 
 
 Joy will be flown in its mortality ; 
 
 Something must stay to tell us of the rest. 
 
 Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's 
 
 breast 
 Glittered at evening like a starry sky ; 
 And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, 
 Of which I sang one song that will not die 
 
 happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep 
 Hath been so friendly to industrious hours ; 
 And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep 
 Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, 
 And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers ; 
 Two burning months let summer overleap, 
 And, coming back with Her who will be ours, 
 Into thy bosom we again shall creep. I8(i2. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON'S CASTLE OF 
 INDOLENCE. 
 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 
 Whom without blame I may not overlook ; 
 For never sun on living creature shone 
 Who more devout enjoyment with us took : 
 Here on his hours he hung as on a book, 
 On his own time here would he float away, 
 As doth a fly upon a summer brook ; 
 But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, 
 Seek for him, — he is fled ; and whither none can 
 say. 
 
 Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, 
 
 And find elsewhere his business or delight ; 
 
 Out of our Valley's limits did he roam : 
 
 Full many a time, upon a stormy night, 
 
 His voice came to us from the neighbouring height : 
 
 Oft could we see him driving full in view 
 
 At mid-day when the sun was shining bright ; 
 
 What ill was on him, what he had to do, 
 
 A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. 
 
 Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man 
 When he came back to us, a withered flower, — 
 Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 
 Down would he sit ; and without strength or power 
 Look at the common grass from hour to hour : 
 And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, 
 Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, 
 Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay ; 
 And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. 
 
 Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was 
 
 Whenever from our Valley he withdrew ; 
 
 For happier soul no living creature has 
 
 Than he had, being here the long day through. 
 
 Some thought he was a lover, and did woo : 
 
 Some thought far worse of him, and judged him 
 
 wrong; 
 But verse was what he had been wedded to ; 
 And his own mind did like a tempest strong 
 Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight 
 
 along. 
 
 With him there often walked in friendly guise, 
 Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 
 A noticeable Man with large grey eyes, 
 And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 
 As if a blooming face it ought to be ; 
 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Heavy Ms low-hung Up did oft appear, 
 Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy ; 
 Profound his forehead was, though not severe ; 
 Yet some did think that he had httle business here : 
 
 Sweet heaven forefend ! his was a lawful right ; 
 Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy; 
 His limbs would toss about him with delight 
 Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy. 
 Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 
 To banish listlessness and irksome care ; 
 He would have taught you how you might employ 
 Yourself ; and many did to him repair, — 
 And certes not in vain ; he had inventions rare. 
 
 Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 
 
 Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay, 
 
 Made, to his ear attentively applied, 
 
 A pipe on which the wind would deftly play ; 
 
 Glasses he had, that httle things display, 
 
 The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, 
 
 A mailed angel on a battle-day ; 
 
 The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, 
 
 And all the gorgeous sights which fames do behold. 
 
 He would entice that other Man to hear 
 
 His music, and to view his imagery : 
 
 And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear : 
 
 No livelier love in such a place could be : 
 
 There did they dwell — from earthly labour free, 
 
 As happy spirits as were ever seen ; 
 
 If but a bird, to keep them company, 
 
 Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, 
 
 As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen. 
 
 1802. 
 
 LOUISA. 
 
 AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUNTAIN EXCURSION. 
 
 I met Louisa in the shade, 
 
 And, having seen that lovely Maid, 
 
 Why should I fear to say 
 
 That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, 
 
 And down the rocks can leap along 
 
 Like rivulets in May ? 
 
 She loves her fire, her cottage-home ; 
 Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
 In weather rough and bleak ; 
 And, when against the wind she strains, 
 Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains 
 That sparkle on her cheek. 
 
 Take aU that 's mine ' beneath the moon,' 
 
 If I with her but half a noon 
 
 May sit beneath the walls 
 
 Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 
 
 When up she winds along the brook 
 
 To hunt the waterfalls. 
 
 1805. 
 
 Strange fits of passion have 1 known : 
 And I will dare to tell, 
 But in the Lover's ear alone, 
 What once to me befel. 
 
 When she I loved looked every day 
 Fresh as a rose in June, 
 I to her cottage bent my way, 
 Beneath an evening-moon. 
 
 Upon the moon I fixed my eye, 
 
 All over the wide lea ; 
 
 With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 
 
 Those paths so dear to me. 
 
 And now we reached the orchard-plot ; 
 And, as we climbed the hill, 
 The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 
 Came near, and nearer still. 
 
 In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
 Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
 And all the while my eyes I kept 
 On the descending moon. 
 
 My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
 He raised, and never stopped : 
 When down behind the cottage roof, 
 At once, the bright moon dropped,, 
 
 What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 
 
 Into a Lover's head ! 
 
 " mercy ! " to myself I cried, 
 
 " If Lucy should be dead ! " 
 
 1799. 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A Maid whom there were none to praise 
 
 And very few to love : 
 
78 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee, 
 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 
 But scorn with scorn outbrave ; 
 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 A Briton, even in love, should be 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 A subject, not a slave ! 
 
 1H26. 
 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 
 XI. 
 
 But she is in her grave, and, oh, 
 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 
 TO 
 
 1799. 
 
 Look at the fate of summer flowers, 
 
 
 Which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song ; 
 
 
 And, grieved for then.' brief date, confess that ours, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Measured by what we are and ought to be, 
 
 I travelled among unknown men, 
 
 Measured by all that, trembling, we foresee, 
 
 In lands beyond the sea ; 
 
 Is not so long ! 
 
 Nor, England ! did I know till then 
 
 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 J f human Life do pass away, 
 
 
 Perishing yet more swiftly than the flower, 
 
 'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 
 
 If we are creatures of a whiter' s day ; 
 
 Nor will I quit thy shore 
 
 What space hath Virgin's beauty to disclose 
 
 A second time ; for still I seem 
 
 Her sweets, and triumph o'er the breathing rose ? 
 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 Not even an hour ! 
 
 Among thy mountains did I feel 
 
 The joy of my desire ; 
 And she I cherished turned her wheel 
 
 
 The deepest grove whose foliage hid 
 The happiest lovers Arcady might boast, 
 
 
 Could not the entrance of this thought forbid : 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 be thou wise as they, soul-gifted Maid ! 
 
 Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed 
 
 Nor rate too high what must so quickly fade, 
 
 The bowers where Lucy played ; 
 
 So soon be lost. 
 
 And thine too is the last green field 
 
 
 That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 
 
 Then shall love teach some virtuous Youth 
 
 1799. 
 
 ' To draw, out of the object of his eyes,' 
 
 
 The while on thee they gaze in simple truth, 
 Hues more exalted, ' a refined Form,' 
 
 
 X. 
 
 That dreads not age, nor suffers from the worm, 
 
 
 And never dies. 
 
 Ere with cold beads of midnight dew 
 
 1824. 
 
 Had mingled tears of thine, 
 I grieved, fond Youth ! that thou shouldst sue 
 
 
 
 To haughty Geraldine. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Immoveable by generous sighs, 
 
 THE FORSAKEN. 
 
 She glories in a train 
 Who drag, beneath our native skies, 
 
 
 The peace which others seek they find ; 
 
 The heaviest storms not longest last ; 
 
 An oriental chain. 
 
 o 3 
 
 
 Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind 
 
 Pine not like them with arms across, 
 
 An amnesty for what is past ; 
 
 Forgetting in thy care 
 
 When will my sentence be reversed ? 
 
 How the fast-rooted trees can toss 
 
 I only pray to know the worst ; 
 
 Their branches in mid air. 
 
 And wish as if my heart would burst. 
 
 The humblest rivulet will take 
 
 weary struggle ! silent years 
 
 Its own wild liberties ; 
 
 Tell seemingly no doubtful tale ; 
 
 And, every day, the imprisoned lake 
 
 And yet they leave it short, and fears 
 
 Is flowing in the breeze. 
 
 And hopes are strong and will prevail. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 70 
 
 My calmest faith escapes not pain ; 
 And, feeling that the hope is vain, 
 I think that he will come again. 
 
 Tis said, that some have died for love : 
 
 And here and there a church-yard grave is found 
 
 In the cold north's unhallowed ground, 
 
 Because the wretched man himself had slain, 
 
 His love was such a grievous pain. 
 
 And there is one whom I five years have known ; 
 
 He dwells alone 
 
 Upon Helvellyn's side : 
 
 He loved — the pretty Barbara died ; 
 
 And thus he makes his moan : 
 
 Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid 
 
 When thus his moan he made : 
 
 " Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak ! 
 
 Or let the aged tree uprooted he, 
 
 That in some other way yon smoke 
 
 May mount into the sky ! 
 
 The clouds pass on ; they from the heavens depart: 
 
 I look — the sky is empty space ; 
 
 I know not what I trace ; 
 
 But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. 
 
 ! what a weight is in these shades ! Ye leaves, 
 
 That murmur once so dear, when will it cease ? 
 
 Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, 
 
 It robs my heart of peace. 
 
 Thou Thrush, that singest loud — and loud and free, 
 
 Into yon row of willows flit, 
 
 Upon that alder sit ; 
 
 Or sing another song, or choose another tree. 
 
 Roll back, sweet Rill ! back to thy mountain-bounds, 
 
 And there for ever be thy waters chained ! 
 
 For thou dost haunt the air with sounds 
 
 That cannot be sustained ; 
 
 If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough 
 
 Headlong yon waterfall must come, 
 
 Oh let it then be dumb ! 
 
 Be anything, sweet Rill, but thatwhich thou artnow. 
 
 Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers, 
 Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale, 
 Thou one fair shrub, oh ! shed thy flowers, 
 And stir not in the gale. 
 
 For thus to see thee nodding in the air, 
 
 To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, 
 
 Thus rise and thus descend, — ■ 
 
 Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear. 
 
 The Man who makes this feverish complaint 
 Is one of giant stature, who could dance 
 Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. 
 Ah gentle Love ! if ever thought was thine 
 To store up kindred hours for me, thy face 
 Turn from me, gentle Love ! nor let me walk 
 Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know 
 Such happiness as I have known to-day. 
 
 1800. 
 
 A COMPLAINT. 
 
 There is a change — and I am poor ; 
 Your love hath been, nor long ago, 
 A fountain at my fond heart's door, 
 Whose only business was to flow ; 
 And flow it did ; not taking heed 
 Of its own bounty, or my need. 
 
 What happy moments did I count ! 
 Blest was I then all bliss above ! 
 Now, for that consecrated fount 
 Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 
 What have I ? shall I dare to tell ? 
 A comfortless and hidden well. 
 
 A well of love — it may be deep — 
 I trust it is, — and never dry : 
 What matter ? if the waters sleep 
 In silence and obscurity. 
 — Such change, and at the very door 
 Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. 
 
 TO 
 
 Let other bards of angels sing, 
 Bright suns without a spot ; 
 
 But thou art no such perfect thing 
 Rejoice that thou art not ! 
 
80 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Heed not tho' none should call thee fair ; 
 
 So, Mary, let it be 
 If nought in loveliness compare 
 
 With what thou art to me. 
 
 True beauty dwells in deep retreats, 
 
 Whose veil is unremoved 
 Till heart with heart in concord beats ? 
 
 And the lover is beloved. 
 
 Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved 
 
 To scorn the declaration, 
 That sometimes I in thee have loved 
 
 My fancy's own creation. 
 
 Imagination needs must stir ; 
 
 Dear Maid, this truth believe, 
 Minds that have nothing to confer 
 
 Find little to perceive. 
 
 Be pleased that nature made thee fit 
 To feed my heart's devotion, 
 
 By laws to which all Forms submit 
 In sky, ah', earth, and ocean. 
 
 How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! 
 
 How bright that heaven-directed glance ! 
 
 — Waft her to glory, winged Powers, 
 
 Ere sorrow be renewed, 
 
 And intercourse with mortal hours 
 
 Bring back a humbler mood ! 
 
 So looked Cecilia when she drew 
 
 An Angel from his station ; 
 
 So looked ; not ceasing to pursue 
 
 Her tuneful adoration ! 
 
 But hand and voice alike are still ; 
 
 No sound here sweeps away the will 
 
 That gave it birth : in service meek 
 
 One upright arm sustains the cheek, 
 
 And one across the bosom lies — 
 
 That rose, and now forgets to rise, 
 
 Subdued by breathless harmonies 
 
 Of meditative feeling ; 
 
 Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies, 
 
 Through the pure light of female eyes, 
 
 Their sanctity revealing ! 
 
 1824. 
 
 What heavenly smiles ! Lady mine 
 Through my very heart they shine ; 
 And, if my brow gives back their light, 
 Do thou look gladly on the sight ; 
 As the clear Moon with modest pride 
 
 Beholds her own bright beams 
 Reflected from the mountain's side 
 
 And from the headlong streams. 
 
 TO 
 
 dearer far than light and life are dear, 
 Full oft our human foresight I deplore ; 
 Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear 
 That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more! 
 
 Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control, 
 Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest ; 
 While all the future, for thy purer soul, 
 With ' sober certainties ' of love is blest. 
 
 That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear, 
 Tells that these words thy humbleness offend ; 
 Yet bear me up — else faltering in the rear 
 Of a steep march : support me to the end. 
 
 Peace settles where the intellect is meek, 
 And Love is dutiful in thought and deed ; 
 Through Thee communion with that Love I seek : 
 The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the 
 Creed. 
 
 1824. 
 
 LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 ON THE EVE OP A NEW YEAR. 
 I. 
 
 Smile of the Moon ! — for so I name 
 
 That silent greeting from above ; 
 
 A gentle flash of light that came 
 
 From her whom drooping captives love ; 
 
 Or art thou of still higher birth % 
 
 Thou that didst part the clouds of earth, 
 
 My torpor to reprove ! 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 81 
 
 Bright boon of pitying Heaven ! — alas, 
 I may not trust thy placid cheer ! 
 Pondering that Time to-night will pass 
 The threshold of another year ; 
 For years to me are sad and dull ; 
 My very moments are too full 
 Of hopelessness and fear. 
 
 A Woman rules my prison's key ; 
 A sister Queen, against the bent 
 Of law and holiest sympathy, 
 Detains me, doubtful of the event ; 
 Great God, who feel'st for my distress, 
 My thoughts are all that I possess, 
 keep them innocent ! 
 
 And yet, the soul-awakening gleam, 
 That struck perchance the farthest cone 
 Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem 
 To visit me, and me alone ; 
 Me, unapproached by any friend, 
 Save those who to my sorrows lend 
 Tears due unto their own. 
 
 To-night the church-tower bells will r inn- 
 Through these wide realms a festive peal 
 To the new year a welcoming ; 
 A tuneful offering for the weal 
 Of happy millions lulled in sleep ; 
 While I am forced to watch and weep, 
 By wounds that may not heal. 
 
 Born all too high, by wedlock raised 
 Still higher — to be cast thus low ! 
 Would that mine eyes had never gazed 
 On aught of more ambitious show 
 Than the sweet flowerets of the fields ! 
 — It is my royal state that yields 
 This bitterness of woe. 
 
 Yet how ? — for I, if there be truth 
 In the world's voice, was passing fair ; 
 And beauty, for confiding youth, 
 Those shocks of passion can prepare 
 That kill the bloom before its time ; 
 And blanch, without the owner's crime, 
 The most resplendent hair. 
 
 Unblest distinction ! showered on me 
 To bind a lingering life in chains : 
 All that could quit my grasp, or flee, 
 Is gone ; — but not the subtle stains 
 Fixed in the spirit ; for even here 
 Can I be proud that jealous fear 
 Of what I was remains. 
 
 Farewell desire of human aid, 
 Which abject mortals vainly court ! 
 By friends deceived, by foes betrayed, 
 Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport ; 
 Nought but the world-redeeming Cross 
 Is able to supply my loss, 
 My burthen to support. 
 
 Hark ! the death-note of the year 
 Sounded by the castle-clock ! 
 From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear 
 Stole forth, unsettled by the shock ; 
 But oft the woods renewed their green, 
 Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen 
 Reposed upon the block ! 
 
 1H17 
 
 XXI. 
 
 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. 
 
 [When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unablr to con- 
 tinue his journey with his companions, he is left behind, 
 covered over with deer-skins, and is supplied with water, 
 food, and fuel, if the situation of the place will afford it. 
 He is informed of the track which his companions intend 
 to pursue, and if he be unable to follow, or overtake 
 them, he perishes alone in the desert ; unless he should 
 have the good fortune to fall in with some other tribes 
 of Indians. The females are equally, or still more, 
 exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting 
 work Hkarnk's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the 
 Northern Ocean. In the high northern latitudes, as 
 the same writer informs us, when the northern lights 
 vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and 
 a crackling noise, as alluded to in the following poem.] 
 
 Before I see another day, 
 
 Oh let my body die away ! 
 
 In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; 
 
 The stars, they were among my dreams 
 
 In rustling conflict through the skies, 
 
 I heard, 1 saw the flashes drive. 
 
32 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 And yet they are upon my eyes, 
 And yet I am alive ; 
 Before I see another day, 
 Oh let my body die away ! 
 
 My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; 
 
 Yet is it dead, and I remain : 
 
 All stiff with ice the ashes lie ; 
 
 And they are dead, and I will die. 
 
 When I was well, I wished to live, 
 
 For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire 
 
 But they to me no joy can give, 
 
 No pleasure now, and no desire. 
 
 Then here contented will I he ! 
 
 Alone, I cannot fear to die. 
 
 Alas ! ye might have dragged me on 
 
 Another day, a single one ! 
 
 Too soon I yielded to despair ; 
 
 Why did ye listen to my prayer ? 
 
 When ye were gone my limbs were stronger 
 
 And oh, how grievously I rue, 
 
 That, afterwards, a little longer, 
 
 My friends, I did not follow you ! 
 
 For strong and without pain I lay, 
 
 Dear friends, when ye were gone away. 
 
 My Child ! they gave thee to another, 
 A woman who was not thy mother. 
 When from my arms my Babe they took, 
 On me how strangely did he look ! 
 Through his whole body something ran, 
 A most strange working did I see ; 
 — As if he strove to be a man, 
 That he might pull the sledge for me : 
 And then he stretched his arms, how wild ! 
 Oh mercy ! like a helpless child. 
 
 My little joy ! my little pride ! 
 In two days more I must have died. 
 Then do not weep and grieve for me ; 
 I feel I must have died with thee. 
 
 wind, that o'er my head art flying 
 
 The way my friends their course did bend, 
 
 1 should not feel the pain of dying, 
 Could I with thee a message send ; 
 Too soon, my friends, ye went away ; 
 For I had many things to say. 
 
 I '11 follow you across the snow ; 
 Ye travel heavily and slow ; 
 In spite of all my weary pain 
 I '11 look upon your tents again. 
 ■ — My fire is dead, and snowy white 
 The water which beside it stood : 
 The wolf has come to me to-night, 
 And he has stolen away my food. 
 For ever left alone am I ; 
 Then wherefore should I fear to die ? 
 
 vtr. K 
 
 Young as I am, my course is run, 
 I shall not see another sun ; 
 I cannot lift my limbs to know 
 If they have any life or no. 
 My poor forsaken Child, if I 
 For once could have thee close to me, 
 With happy heart I then would die, 
 And my last thought would happy be ; 
 But thou, dear Babe, art far away, 
 Nor shall I see another day. 
 
 1798. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. 
 
 i. 
 
 In distant countries have I been, 
 And yet I have not often seen 
 A healthy man, a man full grown, 
 Weep in the public roads, alone. 
 But such a one, on English ground, 
 And in. the broad highway, I met ; 
 Along the broad highway he came, 
 His cheeks with tears were wet : 
 Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad ; 
 And in his amis a Lamb he had. 
 
 He saw me, and he turned aside, 
 
 As if he wished himself to hide : 
 
 And with his coat did then essay 
 
 To wipe those briny tears away. 
 
 I followed him, and said, " My friend, 
 
 What ails you ? wherefore weep you so ? " 
 
 — " Shame on me, Sir ! this lusty Lamb, 
 
 He makes my tears to flow. 
 
 To-day I fetched him from the rock ; 
 
 He is the last of all my flock. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 83 
 
 in. 
 
 'Till thirty were not left alive 
 
 When I was young, a single man, 
 
 They dwindled, dwindled, one by one ; 
 
 And after youthful follies ran, 
 
 And I may say, that many a time 
 
 Though little given to care and thought, 
 
 I wished they all were gone — 
 
 Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought ; 
 
 Reckless of what might come at last 
 
 And other sheep from her I raised, 
 
 Were but the bitter struggle past. 
 
 As healthy sheep as you might see ; 
 
 
 And then I married, and was rich 
 
 VTTT. 
 
 As I could wish to be ; 
 
 To wicked deeds I was inclined, 
 
 
 And wicked fancies crossed my mind ; 
 
 Of sheep I numbered a full score, 
 
 And every man I chanced to see, 
 
 And every year increased my store. 
 
 I thought he knew some ill of me : 
 
 
 No peace, no comfort could I find, 
 
 TV. 
 
 No ease, within doors or without ; 
 
 Year after year my stock it grew ; 
 
 And, crazily and wearily 
 
 And from this one, this single ewe, 
 
 I went my work about ; 
 
 Full fifty comely sheep I raised, 
 
 And oft was moved to flee from home, 
 
 As fine a flock as ever grazed ! 
 
 And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 
 
 Upon the Quantock hills they fed ; 
 
 They throve, and we at home did thrive : 
 
 IX. 
 
 — This lusty Lamb of all my store 
 
 Sir ! 'twas a precious flock to me, 
 
 Is all that is alive ; 
 
 As dear as my own children be ; 
 
 And now I care not if we die, 
 
 For daily with my growing store 
 
 And perish all of poverty. 
 
 I loved my children more and more. 
 
 
 Alas ! it was an evil time ; 
 
 V. 
 
 God cursed me in my sore distress ; 
 
 Six Children, Sir ! had I to feed ; 
 
 1 prayed, yet every day I thought 
 
 Hard labour in a time of need ! 
 
 I loved my children less ; 
 
 My pride was tamed, and in our grief 
 
 And every week, and every day, 
 
 I of the Parish asked relief. 
 
 My flock it seemed to melt away. 
 
 They said, I was a wealthy man ; 
 
 
 My sheep upon the uplands fed, 
 
 X. 
 
 And it was fit that thence I took 
 
 They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see ! 
 
 Whereof to buy us bread. 
 
 From ten to five, from five to three, 
 
 ' Do this : how can we give to you,' 
 
 A lamb, a wether, and a ewe ; — 
 
 They cried, ' what to the poor is due ? ' 
 
 And then at last from three to two ; 
 
 
 And, of my fifty, yesterday 
 
 vr. 
 
 I had but only one : 
 
 I sold a sheep, as they had said, 
 
 And here it lies upon my arm, 
 
 And bought my little children bread, 
 
 Alas ! and I have none ; — 
 
 And they were healthy with their food ; 
 
 To-day I fetched it from the rock ; 
 
 For me — it never did me good. 
 
 It is the last of all my flock." 
 
 A woeful time it was for me, 
 To see the end of all my gains, 
 
 1798. 
 
 
 The pretty flock which I had reared 
 
 
 With all my care and pains, 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 To see it melt like snow away — 
 
 
 For me it was a woeful day. 
 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 
 A PASTORAL BALLAD. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The fields which with covetous spirit we sold, 
 
 Another still ! and still another ! 
 
 Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day, 
 
 A little lamb, and then its mother ! 
 
 Would have brought us more good than a burthen 
 
 It was a vein that never stopped — 
 
 of gold, 
 
 Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped. 
 
 Could we but have been as contented as they. 
 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, 
 ' Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in 
 
 his hand ; 
 But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, — we'll die 
 Before he shall go with an inch of the land ! ' 
 
 There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers ; 
 Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide ; 
 We could do what we liked with the land, it was ours ; 
 And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side. 
 
 But now we are strangers, go early or late ; 
 And often, like one overburthened with sin, 
 With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate, 
 I look at the fields, but I cannot go in ! 
 
 When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's 
 
 day, 
 Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree, 
 A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, 
 'What ails you, that you must come creeping to me!' 
 
 With our pastures about ufi, we could not be sad ; 
 Our comfort was near if we ever were crost ; 
 But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we 
 
 had, 
 We slighted them all, — and our birth-right was lost. 
 
 Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son 
 
 Who must now be a wanderer ! but peace to that 
 
 strain ! 
 Think of evening's repose when ourlabourwas done, 
 The sabbath's return ; and its leisure's soft chain ! 
 
 And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, 
 How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, 
 Looking down on the kine,and our treasure of sheep 
 That besprinkled the field ; 'twas like youth in my 
 blood ! 
 
 Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail ; 
 And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh, 
 That follows the thought — We've no land in the vale, 
 Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie ! 
 
 1804. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 
 
 r. 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
 Where art thou, worse to me than dead ' 
 Oh find me, prosperous or undone ! 
 Or, if the grave be now thy bed, 
 
 Why am I ignorant of the same 
 That I may rest ; and neither blame 
 Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 
 
 Seven years, alas ! to have received 
 No tidings of an only child ; 
 To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 
 And been for evermore beguiled ; 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
 I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
 Was ever darkness like to this \ 
 
 He was among the prime in worth, 
 An object beauteous to behold ; 
 Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth 
 Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
 If things ensued that wanted grace, 
 As hath been said, they were not base ; 
 And never blush was on my face. 
 
 Ah ! little doth the young-one dream, 
 When full of play and childish cares, 
 What power is in his wildest scream, 
 Heard by his mother unawares ! 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
 Years to a mother bring distress ; 
 But do not make her love the less. 
 
 Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 
 From that ill thought ; and, being blind, 
 Said, ' Pride shall help me in my wrong 
 Kind mother have I been, as kind 
 As ever breathed : ' and that is true ; 
 I 've wet my path with tears like dew, 
 Weeping for him when no one knew. 
 
 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
 Hopeless of honour and of gain, 
 Oh 1 do not dread thy mother's door ; 
 Think not of me with grief and pain : 
 I now can see with better eyes ; 
 And worldly grandeur I despise, 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
 Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
 And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; 
 They mount — how short a voyage brings 
 The wanderers back to their delight ! 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 85 
 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea ; 
 
 There 's nothing stirring in the house 
 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may he 
 
 Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse, 
 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
 Then why so busy thou 1 
 
 vrn. 
 
 Nay ! start not at that sparkling fight ; 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 
 
 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright 
 
 Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 
 
 On the window pane bedropped with rain : 
 
 Or thou upon a desert thrown 
 
 Then, little Darling ! sleep again, 
 
 Inheritest the lion's den ; 
 
 And wake when it is day. 
 
 Or hast been summoned to the deep, 
 
 1805. 
 
 Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
 
 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 IX. 
 
 MATERNAL GRIEF. 
 
 I look for ghosts ; but none will force 
 
 Departed Child ! I could forget thee once 
 
 Their way to me : 'tis falsely said 
 
 Though at my bosom nursed ; this woeful gain 
 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 
 Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul 
 
 Between the living and the dead ; 
 
 Is present and perpetually abides 
 
 For, surely, then I should have sight 
 
 A shadow, never, never to be disjdaced 
 
 Of him I wait for day and night, 
 
 By the returning substance, seen or touched, 
 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace. 
 
 
 Absence and death how differ they ! and how 
 
 X. 
 
 Shall I admit that nothing can restore 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
 
 What one short sigh so easily removed ? — 
 
 I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 
 Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought, 
 Assist me, God, their boundaries to know, 
 
 Have power to shake me as they pass : 
 
 teach me calm submission to thy Will ! 
 
 I question things and do not find 
 
 
 One that will answer to my mind ; 
 
 The Child she mourned had overstepped the pale 
 
 And all the world appears unkind. 
 
 Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air 
 
 
 That sanctifies its confines, and partook 
 
 Xf. 
 
 Reflected beams of that celestial light 
 
 Beyond participation lie 
 
 My troubles, and beyond relief : 
 
 If any chance to heave a sigh, 
 
 To all the Little-ones on sinful earth 
 
 Not unvouchsafed — a fight that warmed and 
 
 cheered 
 Those several qualities of heart and mind 
 
 They pity me, and not my grief. 
 Then come to me, my Son, or send 
 Some tidings that my woes may end ; 
 I have no other earthly friend ! 
 
 1804. 
 
 Which, in her own blest nature, rooted deep, 
 
 Daily before the Mother's watchful eye, 
 
 And not hers only, their peculiar charms 
 
 
 Unfolded, — beauty, for its present self, 
 And for its promises to future years, 
 
 
 XXV. 
 
 With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed. 
 
 THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. 
 
 Have you espied upon a dewy lawn 
 
 
 A pair of Leverets each provoking each 
 
 BY MY SISTER. 
 
 To a continuance of their fearless sport, 
 
 The days are cold, the nights are long, 
 
 Two separate Creatures in their severed gifts 
 
 The north-wind sings a doleful song ; 
 
 Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all 
 
 Then hush again upon my breast ; 
 
 That Nature prompts them to display, their looks, 
 
 All merry things are now at rest, 
 
 Their starts of motion and their fits of rest, 
 
 Save thee, my pretty Love ! 
 
 An undistinguishable style appears 
 
 
 And character of gladness, as if Spring 
 
 The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, 
 
 Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the spirit 
 
 The crickets long have ceased their mirth ; 
 
 Of the rejoicing morning were their own. 
 
8(5 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained 
 And her twin Brother, had the parent seen, 
 Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey, 
 Death in a moment parted them, and left 
 The Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse 
 Than desolate ; for oft-times from the sound 
 Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear child, 
 He knew it not) and from his happiest looks, 
 Did she extract the food of self-reproach, 
 As one that lived ungrateful for the stay 
 By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed 
 And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy, 
 Now first acquainted with distress and grief, 
 Shrunk from his Mother's presence, shunned with 
 
 fear 
 Her sad approach, and stole away to find, 
 In his known haunts of joy where'er he might, 
 A more congenial object. But, as time 
 Softened her pangs and reconciled the child 
 To what he saw, he gradually returned, 
 Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew 
 A broken intercourse ; and, while his eyes 
 Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe 
 Turned upon her who bore him, she would stoop 
 To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to spread 
 Faint colour over both then' pallid cheeks, 
 And stilled his tremidous lip. Thus they were calmed 
 And cheered ; and now together breathe fresh air 
 In open fields ; and when the glare of day 
 Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish 
 Befriends the observance, readily they join 
 In walks whose boundary is the lost One's grave, 
 Which he with flowers hath planted, finding there 
 Amusement, where the Mother does not miss 
 Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf 
 In prayer, yet blending with that solemn rite 
 Of pious faith the vanities of grief ; 
 For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits 
 Transferred to regions upon which the clouds 
 Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed 
 Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs, 
 And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow, 
 Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of 
 
 Heaven 
 As now it is, seems to her own fond heart, 
 Immortal as the love that gave it being. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 
 One morning (raw it was and wet — 
 A foggy day in winter time) 
 A Woman on the road I met, 
 Not old, though something past her prime : 
 
 Majestic in her person, tall and straight ; 
 And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. 
 
 The ancient spirit is not dead ; 
 Old times, thought I, are breathing there ; 
 Proud was I that my country bred 
 Such strength, a dignity so fair : 
 She begged an alms, like one in poor estate ; 
 I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. 
 
 When from these lofty thoughts I woke, 
 " What is it," said I, " that you bear, 
 Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 
 Protected from this cold damp air ? " 
 She answered, soon as she the question heard, 
 " A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird." 
 
 And, thus continuing, she said, 
 " I had a Son, who many a day 
 Sailed on the seas, but he is dead ; 
 In Denmark he was cast away : 
 And I have travelled weary miles to see 
 If aught which he had owned might still remain 
 for me. 
 
 The bird and cage they both were his : 
 'Twas my Son's bird ; and neat and trim 
 He kept it : many voyages 
 The singing-bird had gone with him ; 
 When last he sailed, he left the bird behind ; 
 From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind . 
 
 He to a fellow-lodger's care 
 Had left it, to be watched and fed, 
 And pipe its song in safety ; — there 
 I found it when my Son was dead ; 
 And now, God help me for my little wit ! 
 I bear it with me, Sir ; — he took so much deb'ght 
 in it." 
 
 181)0. 
 
 
 THE CHILDLESS FATHER. 
 
 " Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away ! 
 Not a soul in the village this morning will stay ; 
 The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, 
 And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds." 
 
 — Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, 
 On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen ; 
 With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as 
 
 snow, 
 The girls on the hills made a holiday show. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 87 
 
 Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months 
 
 before, 
 Filled the funeral basin * at Timothy's door ; 
 A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past ; 
 One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last. 
 
 Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, 
 The horse and the horn, and the hark ! hark away ! 
 Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut 
 With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. 
 
 Perhaps to himself at that moment he said ; 
 ' The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.' 
 But of this in my ears not a word did he speak ; 
 And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. 
 
 1800. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. 
 
 Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned 
 In which a Lady driven from France did dwell ; 
 The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned, 
 In friendship she to me would often tell. 
 
 This Lady, dwelling upon British ground, 
 Where she was childless, daily would repair 
 To a poor neighbouring cottage ; as I found, 
 For sake of a young Child whose home was there. 
 
 Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace 
 This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, 
 Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace 
 Such things as she unto the Babe might say : 
 And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed, 
 My song the workings of her heart expressed. 
 
 " Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, 
 
 One moment let me be thy mother ! 
 
 An infant's face and looks are thine 
 
 And sure a mother's heart is mine : 
 
 Thy own dear mother 's far away, 
 
 At labour in the harvest field : 
 
 Thy little sister is at play ; — 
 
 What warmth, what comfort would it yield 
 
 To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be 
 
 One little hour a child to me ! 
 
 * In several parts of the North of England, when a 
 funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of box-wood is 
 placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is 
 taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordi- 
 narily takes a sprig of this box-wood, and throws it into 
 the grave of the deceased. 
 
 Across the waters I am come, 
 
 And I have left a babe at home : 
 
 A long, long way of land and sea ! 
 
 Come to me — I 'm no enemy : 
 
 I am the same who at thy side 
 
 Sate yesterday, and made a nest 
 
 For thee, sweet Baby ! — thou hast tried, 
 
 Thou know'st the pillow of my breast ; 
 
 Good, good art thou : — alas ! to me 
 
 Far more than I can be to thee. 
 
 Here, little Darling, dost thou he ; 
 
 An infant thou, a mother I ! 
 
 Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears ; 
 
 Mine art thou — spite of these my tears. 
 
 Alas ! before I left the spot, 
 
 My baby and its dwellhig-place ; 
 
 The nurse said to me, ' Tears should not 
 
 Be shed upon an infant's face, 
 
 It was unlucky '—no, no, no ; 
 
 No truth is in them who say so ! 
 
 My own dear Little-one will sigh, 
 Sweet Babe ! and they will let him die. 
 ' He pines,' they '11 say, ' it is his doom, 
 And you may see his hour is come.' 
 Oh ! had he but thy cheerful smiles, 
 Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 
 Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, 
 And countenance like a summer's day, 
 They would have hopes of him ; — and then 
 I should behold his face again ! 
 
 'Tis gone — like dreams that we forget ; 
 
 There was a smile or two — yet — yet 
 
 I can remember them, I see 
 
 The smiles, worth all the world to me. 
 
 Dear Baby ! I must lay thee down ; 
 
 Thou troublest me with strange alarms ; 
 
 Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own ; 
 
 I cannot keep thee in my arms ; 
 
 For they confound me ; — where — where is 
 
 That last, that sweetest smile of his \ 
 
 Oh ! how I love thee ! — we will stay 
 Together hei'e this one half day. 
 My sister's child, who bears my name, 
 From France to sheltering England came : 
 
(38 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 She with her mother crossed the sea ; 
 The babe and mother near me dwell : 
 Yet does my yearning heart to thee 
 Turn rather, though I love her well : 
 Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here ! 
 Never was any child more dear ! 
 
 vrr. 
 — I cannot help it ; ill intent 
 I 've none, my pretty Innocent ! 
 I weep — I know they do thee wrong, 
 These tears — and my poor idle tongue. 
 Oh, what a kiss was that ! my cheek 
 How cold it is ! but thou art good ; 
 Thine eyes are on me — they would speak, 
 I think, to help me if they could. 
 Blessings upon that soft, warm face, 
 My heart again is in its place ! 
 
 Villi 
 
 While thou art mine, my little Love, 
 
 This cannot be a sorrowful grove ; 
 
 Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, 
 
 I seem to find them all in thee : 
 
 Here 's grass to play with, here are flowers ; 
 
 I '11 call thee by my darling's name ; 
 
 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, 
 
 Thy features seem to me the same ; 
 
 His little sister thou shalt be ; 
 
 And, when once more my home I see, 
 
 I '11 tell him many tales of Thee." 
 
 1802. 
 
 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 
 
 The following tale was written as an Episode, in a work 
 from which its length may perhaps exclude it. The 
 facts are true ; no invention as to these has bei j n 
 exercised, as none was needed. 
 
 happy time of youthful lovers (thus 
 
 My story may begin) balmy time, 
 
 In which a love-knot on a lady's brow 
 
 Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven ! 
 
 To such inheritance of blessed fancy 
 
 (Fancy that sports more desperately with minds 
 
 Than ever fortune hath been known to do) 
 
 The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by years 
 
 Whose progress had a little overstepped 
 
 His stripling prime. A town of small repute, 
 
 Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne, 
 
 Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed a 
 
 Maid 
 Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit 
 
 With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock, 
 
 Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock, 
 
 From which her graces and her honours sprung : 
 
 And hence the father of the enamoured Youih, 
 
 With haughty indignation, spurned the thought 
 
 Of such alliance. — From their cradles up, 
 
 With but a step between their several homes, 
 
 Twins had they been in pleasure ; after strife 
 
 And petty quarrels, had grown fond again ; 
 
 Each other's advocate, each other's stay ; 
 
 And, in their happiest moments, not content, 
 
 If more divided than a sportive pair 
 
 Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering 
 
 Within the eddy of a common blast, 
 
 Or hidden only by the concave depth 
 
 Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight. 
 
 Thus, not without concurrence of an age 
 Unknown to memory, was an earnest given 
 By ready nature for a life of love, 
 For endless constancy, and placid truth ; 
 But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay 
 Reserved, had fate permitted, for support 
 Of their maturer years, his present mind 
 Was under fascination ; — he beheld 
 A vision, and adored the thing he saw. 
 Arabian fiction never filled the world 
 With half the wonders that were wrought for him. 
 Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring ; 
 Life turned the meanest of her implements, 
 Before his eyes, to price above all gold ; 
 The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine ; 
 Her chamber-window did surpass in glory 
 The portals of the dawn ; all paradise 
 Could, by the simple opening of a door, 
 Let itself in upon him : — pathways, walks, 
 Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank, 
 Surcharged, within him, overblest to move 
 Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world 
 To its dull round of ordinary cares ; 
 A man too happy for mortality ! 
 
 So passed the time, till whether through effect 
 Of some unguarded moment that dissolved 
 Virtuous restraint — ah, speak it, think it, not ! 
 Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who saw 
 So many bars between his present state 
 And the dear haven where he wished to be 
 In honourable wedlock with his Love, 
 Was in his judgment tempted to decline 
 To perilous weakness., and entrust his cause 
 To nature for a happy end of all ; 
 Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was swayed, 
 And bear with then' transgression, when 1 add 
 
VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 
 
 89 
 
 That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife, 
 Carried about her for a secret grief 
 The promise of a mother. 
 
 To conceal 
 The threatened shame, the parents of the Maid 
 Found means to hurry her away by night, 
 And unforewarned, that in some distant spot 
 She might remain shrouded in privacy, 
 Until the babe was born. When morning came, 
 The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss, 
 And all uncertain whither he should turn, 
 Chafed like a wild beast in the toils ; but soon 
 Discovering traces of the fugitives, 
 Their steps he followed to the Maid's retreat. 
 Easily may the sequel be divined — 
 Walks to and fro — watchings at every hour ; 
 And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she may, 
 Is busy at her casement as the swallow 
 Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach, 
 About the pendent nest, did thus espy 
 Her Lover ! — thence a stolen interview, 
 Accomplished under friendly shade of night. 
 
 I pass the raptures of the pair ; — such theme 
 Is, by innumerable poets, touched 
 In more delightful verse than skill of mine 
 Could fashion ; chiefly by that darling bard 
 Who told of Juliet and her Romeo, 
 And of the lark's note heard before its time, 
 And of the streaks that laced the severing clouds 
 In the unrelenting east.— Through all her courts 
 The vacant city slept ; the busy winds, 
 That keep no certain intervals of rest, 
 Moved not ; meanwhile the galaxy displayed 
 Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat 
 Aloft ; — momentous but uneasy bliss ! 
 To their full hearts the universe seemed hung 
 On that brief meeting's slender filament ! 
 
 They parted ; and the generous Vaudracour 
 Reached speedily the native threshold, bent 
 On making (so the Lovers had agreed) 
 A sacrifice of birthright to attain 
 A final portion from his' father's hand ; 
 Which granted, Bride and Bridegroom then would 
 
 flee 
 To some remote and solitary place, 
 Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven, 
 Where they may live, with no one to behold 
 Their happiness, or to disturb their love. 
 But now of this no whisper ; not the less, 
 If ever an obtrusive word were dropped 
 Touching the matter of his passion, still, 
 In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracour 
 
 Persisted openly that death alone 
 Should abrogate his human privilege 
 Divine, of swearing everlasting truth, 
 Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved. 
 
 "You shall be baffled in your mad intent 
 If there be justice in the court of France," 
 Muttered the Father. — From these words the Youth 
 Conceived a terror ; and, by night or day, 
 Stirred nowhere without weapons, that full soon 
 Found dreadful provocation : for at night 
 When to his chamber he retired, attempt 
 Was made to seize him by three armed men, 
 Acting, in furtherance of the father's will, 
 Under a private signet of the State. 
 One the rash Youth's ungovernable hand 
 Slew, and as quickly to a second gave 
 A perilous wound — he shuddered to behold 
 The breathless corse ; then peacefully resigned 
 His person to the law, was lodged in prison, 
 And wore the fetters of a criminal. 
 
 Have you observed a tuft of winged seed 
 That, from the dandelion's naked stalk, 
 Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use 
 Its natural gifts for purposes of rest, 
 Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro 
 Through the wide element % or have you marked 
 The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough, 
 Within the vortex of a foaming flood, 
 Tormented ? by such aid you may conceive 
 The perturbation that ensued ; — ah, no ! 
 Desperate the Maid — the Youth is stained with 
 
 blood ; 
 Unmatchable on earth is their disquiet ! 
 Yet as the troubled seed and tortured bough 
 Is Man, subjected to despotic sway. 
 
 For him, by private influence with the Court, 
 Was pardon gained, and liberty procured; 
 But not without exaction of a pledge, 
 Which liberty and love dispersed in air. 
 He flew to her from whom they would divide him — 
 He clove to her who could not give him peace — 
 Yea, his first word of greeting was, — " All right 
 Is gone from me ; my lately-towering hopes, 
 To the least fibre of their lowest root, 
 Are withered ; thou no longer canst be mine, , 
 I thine — the conscience-stricken must not woo 
 The unruffled Innocent, — I see thy face, 
 Behold thee, and my misery is complete ! " 
 
 " One,are wenot ? " exclaimed the Maiden — " One, 
 For innocence and youth, for weal and woe ? " 
 
90 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Then with the father's name she coupled words 
 Of vehement indignation ; but the Youth 
 Checked her with filial meekness ; for no thought 
 Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense 
 Of hasty anger rising in the eclipse 
 Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er 
 Find place within his bosom. — Once again 
 The persevering wedge of tyranny 
 Achieved their separation : and once more 
 Were they united, — to be yet again 
 Disparted, pitiable lot ! But here 
 A portion of the tale may well be left 
 In silence, though my memory could add 
 Much how the Youth, in scanty space of time, 
 Was traversed from without ; much, too, of thoughts 
 That occupied his days in so'.itude 
 Under privation and restraint ; and what, 
 Through dark and shapeless fear of tilings to come, 
 And what, through strong compunction for the past, 
 He suffered — breaking down hi heart and mind ! 
 
 Doomed to a third and last captivity, 
 His freedom he recovered on the eve 
 Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born, 
 Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes 
 Of future happiness. "You shall return, 
 Julia," said he, "and to your father's house 
 Go with the child. — You have been wretched ; yet 
 The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs 
 Too heavily upon the lily's head, 
 Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. 
 Malice, beholding you, will melt away. 
 Go ! — 'tis a town where both of us were born ; 
 None will reproach you, for our truth is known ; 
 And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate 
 Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. 
 With ornaments — the prettiest, nature yields 
 Or art can fashion, shall you deck our boy, 
 And feed his countenance with your own sweet looks 
 Till no one can resist him. — Now, even now, 
 I see him sporting on the sunny lawn ; 
 My father from the window sees Mm too ; 
 Startled, as if some new-created thing 
 Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods 
 Bounded before him ; — but the unweeting Child 
 Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's heart 
 So that it shall be softened, and our loves 
 End happily, as they began ! " 
 
 These gleams 
 Appeared but seldom ; oftener was he seen 
 Propping a pale and melancholy face 
 Upon the Mother's bosom ; resting thus 
 His head upon one breast, while from the other 
 The Babe was drawing in its quiet food. 
 
 — That pillow is no longer to be thine, 
 
 Fond Youth ! that mournful solace now must pass 
 
 Into the list of things t'nat cannot be ! 
 
 Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears 
 
 The sentence, by her mother's lip pronounced, 
 
 That dooms her to a convent. — Who shall tell, 
 
 Who dares report, the tidings to the lord 
 
 Of her affections ? so they blindly asked 
 
 Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight 
 
 Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down : 
 
 The word, by others dreaded, he can hear 
 
 Composed and silent, without visible sign 
 
 Of even the least emotion. Noting this, 
 
 When the impatient object of his love 
 
 Upbraided him with slackness, he returned 
 
 No answer, only took the mother's hand 
 
 And kissed it ; seemingly devoid of pain, 
 
 Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed, 
 
 Was a dependant on the obdurate heart 
 
 Of one who came to disunite their lives 
 
 For ever — sad alternative ! preferred, 
 
 By the unbending Parents of the Maid, 
 
 To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed. 
 
 —So be it ! 
 
 In the city he remained 
 A season after Julia had withdrawn 
 To those religious walls. He, too, departs — 
 Who with him ? — even the senseless Little-one. 
 With that sole charge he passed the city-gates, 
 For the last time, attendant by the side 
 Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan, 
 In which the Babe was carried. To a hill, 
 That rose a brief league distant from the town, 
 The dwellers in that house where he had lodged 
 Accompanied his steps, by anxious love 
 Impelled ; — they parted from him there, and stood 
 Watching below till he had disappeared 
 On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took, 
 Throughout that journey, from the vehicle 
 (Slow-moving ark of all Ms hopes !) that veiled 
 The tender infant : and at every inn, 
 And under every hospitable tree 
 At which the bearers halted or reposed, 
 Laid Mm with timid care upon his knees, 
 And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look, 
 Upon the nursling which Ms arms embraced. 
 
 This was the manner in wMch Vaudracour 
 Departed with his infant ; and thus reached 
 His father's house, where to the innocent child 
 Admittance was denied. The young man spake 
 No word of mdignation or reproof, 
 But of Ms father begged, a last request, 
 That a retreat might be assigned to him 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 91 
 
 Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, 
 With such allowance as his wants required ; 
 For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood 
 Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age 
 Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew ; 
 And thither took with him his motherless Babe, 
 And one domestic for their common needs, 
 An aged woman. It consoled him here 
 To attend upon the orphan, and perform 
 Obsequious service to the precious child, 
 Which, after a short time, by some mistake 
 Or indiscretion of the Father, died. — 
 The Tale I follow to its last recess 
 Of suffering or of peace, I know not which : 
 Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine ! 
 
 From this time forth he never shared a smile 
 With mortal creature. An Inhabitant 
 Of that same town, in which the pair had left 
 So lively a remembrance of their griefs, 
 By chance of business, coming within reach 
 Of his retirement, to the forest lodge 
 Repaired, but only found the matron there, 
 Who told lhhi that his pains were thrown away, 
 For that her Master never uttered word 
 To living thing — not even to her. — Behold ! 
 While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached; 
 But, seeing some one near, as on the latch 
 Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunk — 
 And, like a shadow, glided out of view. 
 Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place 
 The visitor retired. 
 
 Thus lived the Youth 
 Cut off from all intelligence with man, 
 And shunning even the light of common day ; 
 Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through 
 
 France 
 Full speedily resounded, public hope, 
 Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs, 
 Rouse him : but in those solitary shades 
 His days he wasted, an imbecile mind ! 
 
 1805. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 'Tis eight o'clock,— a clear March night, 
 The moon is up, — the sky is blue, 
 The owlet, in the moonlight air, 
 Shouts from nobody knows where ; 
 He lengthens out his lonely shout, 
 Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo ! 
 
 — Why bustle thus about your door, 
 What means this bustle, Betty Foy ? 
 Why are you in this mighty fret ! 
 And why on horseback have you set 
 Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy \ 
 
 Scarcely a soul is out of bed ; 
 Good Betty, put him down again ; 
 His lips with joy they burr at you ; 
 But, Betty ! what has he to do 
 With stirrup, saddle, or with rein 1 
 
 But Betty 's bent on her intent ; 
 For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, 
 Old Susan, she who dwells alone, 
 Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 
 As if her very life would fail. 
 
 There 's not a house within a mile, 
 No hand to help them in distress ; 
 Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, 
 And sorely puzzled are the twain, 
 For what she ails they cannot guess. 
 
 And Betty's husband 's at the wood, 
 Where by the week he doth abide, 
 A woodman in the distant vale ; 
 There 's none to help poor Susan Gale ; 
 What must be done \ what will betide % 
 
 And Betty from the lane has fetched 
 Her Pony, that is mild and good j 
 Whether he be in joy or pain, 
 Feeding at will along the lane, 
 Or bringing faggots from the wood. 
 
 And he is all in travelling trim, — 
 And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy 
 Has on the well-girt saddle set 
 (The like was never heard of yet) 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And he must post without delay 
 Across the bridge and through the dale, 
 And by the church, and o'er the down, 
 To bring a Doctor from the town, 
 Or she will die, old Susan Gale. 
 
 There is no need of boot or spur, 
 There is no need of whip or wand ; 
 For Johnny has his holly-bough, 
 And with a hurly-burly now 
 He shakes the green bough in his hand. 
 
92 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 And Betty o'er and o'er has told 
 The Boy, who is her best delight, 
 Both what to follow, what to shun, 
 What do, and what to leave undone, 
 How turn to left, and how to right. 
 
 And Betty's most especial charge, 
 Was, " Johnny ! Johnny ! mind that you 
 Come home again, nor stop at all, — 
 Come home again, whate'er befal, 
 My Johnny, do, I pray you do." 
 
 To this did Johnny answer make, 
 Both with his head and with his hand, 
 And proudly shook the bridle too ; 
 And then ! his words were not a few, 
 Which Betty well could understand. 
 
 And now that Johnny is just going, 
 Though Betty 's in a mighty flurry, 
 She gently pats the Pony's side, 
 On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 
 And seems no longer in a hurry. 
 
 But when the Pony moved his legs, 
 Oh ! then for the poor Idiot Boy ! 
 For joy he cannot hold the bridle, 
 For joy his head and heels are idle, 
 He 's idle all for very joy. 
 
 And while the Pony moves his legs, 
 In Johnny's left hand you may see 
 The green bough motionless and dead : 
 The Moon that shines above bis head 
 Is not more still and mute than he. 
 
 His heart it was so full of glee, 
 That till full fifty yards were gone, 
 He quite forgot his holly whip, 
 And all his skill in horsemanship : 
 Oh ! happy, happy, happy John. 
 
 And while the Mother, at the door, 
 Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows, 
 Proud of herself, and proud of him, 
 She sees him in his travelling trim, 
 How quietly her Johnny goes. 
 
 The silence of her Idiot Boy, 
 What hopes it sends to Betty 's heart ! 
 He 's at the guide-post — he turns right ; 
 She watches till he 's out of sight, 
 And Betty will not then depart. 
 
 Burr, burr — now Johnny's lips they burr, 
 As loud as any mill, or near it ; 
 Meek as a lamb the Pony moves, 
 And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 
 And Betty listens, glad to hear it. 
 
 Away she hies to Susan Gale : 
 Her Messenger 's in merry tune ; 
 The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, 
 And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, 
 As on he goes beneath the moon. 
 
 His steed and he right well agree ; 
 For of this Pony there 's a rumour, 
 That, should he lose his eyes and ears, 
 And should he live a thousand years, 
 He never will be out of humour. 
 
 But then he is a horse that thinks ! 
 And when he thinks, his pace is slack ; 
 Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, 
 Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 
 What he has got upon his back. 
 
 So through the moonlight lanes they go, 
 And far into the moonlight dale, 
 And by the church, and o'er the down, 
 To bring a Doctor from the town, 
 To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 
 
 And Betty, now at Susan's side, 
 Is in the middle of her story, 
 What speedy help her Boy will bring, 
 With many a most diverting thing, 
 Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. 
 
 And Betty, still at Susan's side, 
 By this time is not quite so flurried : 
 Demure with porringer and plate 
 She sits, as if in Susan's fate 
 Her life and soul were buried. 
 
 But Betty, poor good woman ! she, 
 You plainly in her face may read it, 
 Could lend out of that moment's store 
 Five years of happiness or more 
 To any that might need it. 
 
 But yet I guess that now and then 
 With Betty all was not so well ; 
 And to the road she turns her ears, 
 And thence full many a sound she hears, 
 Which she to Susan will not tell. 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 93 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
 " As sure as there 's a moon in heaven," 
 Cries Betty, " he '11 be back again ; 
 They '11 both be here — 'tis almost ten — 
 Both will be here before eleven." 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
 The clock gives warning for eleven ; 
 'Tis on the stroke — " He must be near," 
 Quoth Betty, " and will soon be here, 
 As sure as there 's a moon in heaven." 
 
 The clock is on the stroke of twelve, 
 
 And Johnny is not yet in sight : 
 
 — The Moon 's in heaven, as Betty sees, 
 
 But Betty is not quite at ease ; 
 
 And Susan has a dreadful night. 
 
 And Betty, half an hour ago, 
 On Johnny vile reflections cast : 
 " A little idle sauntering Thing !" 
 With other names, an endless string ; 
 But now that time is gone and past. 
 
 And Betty 's drooping at the heart, 
 That happy time all past and gone, 
 " How can it be he is so late ? 
 The Doctor, he has made him wait ; 
 Susan ! they '11 both be here anon." 
 
 And Susan 's growing worse and worse, 
 And Betty 's in a sad quandary; 
 And then there 's nobody to say 
 If she must go, or she must stay ! 
 — She 's in a sad quandary. 
 
 The clock is on the stroke of one ; 
 But neither Doctor nor his Guide 
 Appears along the moonlight road ; 
 There 's neither horse nor man abroad, 
 And Betty 's still at Susan's side. 
 
 And Susan now begins to fear 
 
 Of sad mischances not a few, 
 
 That Johnny may perhaps be drowned ; 
 
 Or lost, perhaps, and never found ; 
 
 Which they must both for ever rue. 
 
 She prefaced half a hint of this 
 With, " God forbid it should be true !" 
 At the first word that Susan said 
 Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 
 " Susan, I 'd gladly stay with you. 
 
 I must be gone, I must away : 
 
 Consider, Johnny 's but half-wise ; it 
 
 Susan, we must take care of him, 
 
 If he is hurt in life or limb " — 
 
 " Oh God forbid ! " poor Susan cries. 
 
 " What can I do \ " says Betty, going, 
 " What can I do to ease your pain ? 
 Good Susan tell me, and I '11 stay ; 
 I fear you 're in a dreadful way, 
 But I shall soon be back again." 
 
 " Nay, Betty, go ! good Betty, go ! 
 There's nothing that can ease my pain." 
 Then off she hies ; but with a prayer 
 That God poor Susan's life would spare, 
 Till she comes back again. 
 
 So, through the moonlight lane she goes, 
 And far into the moonlight dale ; 
 And how she ran, and how she walked, 
 And all that to herself she tallied, 
 Would surely be a tedious tale. 
 
 In high and low, above, below, 
 In great and small, in round and square, 
 In tree and tower was Johnny seen, 
 In bush and brake, in black and green ; 
 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where. 
 
 And while she crossed the bridge, there came 
 A thought with which her heart is sore — 
 Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, 
 To hunt the moon within the brook, 
 And never will be heard of more. 
 
 Now is she high upon the down, 
 Alone amid a prospect wide ; 
 There 's neither Johnny nor his Horse 
 Among the fern or hi the gorse ; 
 There 's neither Doctor nor his Guide. 
 
 " Oh saints ! what is become of him ? 
 Perhaps he 's climbed into an oak, 
 Where he will stay till he is dead ; 
 Or, sadly he has been misled, 
 And joined the wandering gipsy-folk. 
 
 Or him that wicked Pony 's carried 
 To the dark cave, the goblin's hall ; 
 Or in the castle he's pursuing 
 Among the ghosts his own undoing ; 
 Or playing with the waterfall." 
 
f )l 
 
 POEMS POUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS, 
 
 At poor old Susan then she railed, 
 ■While to the town she posts away ; 
 " If Susan had not been so ill, 
 Alas ! I should have had him still, 
 My Johnny, till my dying day." 
 
 And now she 's high upon the down, 
 And she can see a mile of road : 
 " cruel ! I 'm almost threescore ; 
 Such night as this was ne'er before, 
 There 's not a single soul abroad." 
 
 Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, 
 The Doctor's self could hardly spare : 
 Unworthy things she talked, and wild ; 
 Even he, of cattle the most mild, 
 The Pony had his share. 
 
 She listens, but she cannot hear 
 The foot of horse, the voice of man ; 
 The streams with softest sound are flowing, 
 The grass you almost hear it growing, 
 You hear it now, if e'er you can. 
 
 But now she 's fairly in the town, 
 And to the Doctor's door she hies ; 
 'Tis silence all on every side ; 
 The town so long, the town so wide, 
 Is silent as the skies. 
 
 The owlets through the long blue night 
 Are shouting to each other still : 
 Fond lovers ! yet not quite hob nob, 
 They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 
 That echoes far from hill to hill. 
 
 And now she 's at the Doctor's door, 
 She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap ; 
 The Doctor at the casement shows 
 His glimmering eyes that peep and doze ! 
 And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 
 
 Poor Betty now has lost all hope, 
 Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, 
 A green-grown pond she just has past, 
 And from the brink she hurries fast, 
 Lest she should drown herself therein. 
 
 K Oh Doctor ! Doctor ! where 's my Johnny ?" 
 " I 'm here, what is 't you want with me V 
 " Oh Sir ! you know I 'm Betty Foy, 
 And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 
 You know him — him you often see ; 
 
 And now she sits her down and weeps ; 
 Such tears she never shed before ; 
 " Oh dear, dear Pony ! my sweet joy ! 
 Oh carry back my Idiot Boy ! 
 And we will ne'er o'erload thee more." 
 
 He 's not so wise as some folks be :" 
 
 " The devil take his wisdom !" said 
 
 The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 
 
 " What, Woman ! should I know of him ? " 
 
 And, grumbling, he went back to bed ! 
 
 A thought is come into her head : 
 The Pony he is mild and good, 
 And we have always used him well ; 
 Perhaps he 's gone along the dell, 
 And carried Johnny to the wood. 
 
 " woe is me ! woe is me ! 
 Here will I die ; here will I die ; 
 I thought to find my lost one here, 
 But he is neither far nor near, 
 Oh ! what a wretched Mother I !" 
 
 Then up she springs as if on wings ; 
 She thinks no more of deadly sin ; 
 If Betty fifty ponds should see, 
 The last of all her thoughts would be 
 To drown herself therein. 
 
 She stops, she stands, she looks about; 
 
 Which way to turn she cannot tell. 
 
 Poor Betty ! it would ease her pain 
 
 If she had heart to knock again ; 
 
 — The clock strikes three — a dismal knell ! 
 
 Pleader ! now that I might tell 
 What Johnny and his Horse are doing ! 
 What they 've been doing all this time, 
 Oh could I put it into rhyme, 
 A most delightful tale pursuing ! 
 
 Then up along the town she hies, 
 
 No wonder if her senses fail ; 
 
 This piteous news so much it shocked her, 
 
 She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 
 
 To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 
 
 Perhaps, and no unlikely thought ! 
 He with his Pony now doth roam 
 The cliffs and peaks so high that are, 
 To lay his hands upon a star, 
 And in his pocket bring it home. 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 93 
 
 Perhaps he 's turned himself about, 
 His face unto his horse's tail, 
 And, still and mute, in wonder lost, 
 All silent as a horseman-ghost, 
 He travels slowly down the vale. 
 
 And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep, 
 A fierce and dreadful hunter he ; 
 Yon valley, now so trim and green, 
 In five months' time, should he be seen, 
 A desert wilderness will be ! 
 
 Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, 
 And like the very sold of evil, 
 He 's galloping away, away, 
 And so will gallop on for aye, 
 The bane of all that dread the devil ! 
 
 I to the Muses have been bound 
 
 These fourteen years, by strong indentures : 
 
 gentle Muses ! let me tell 
 
 But half of what to him befel ; 
 
 He surely met with strange adventures. 
 
 gentle Muses ! is this kind ? 
 Why will ye thus my suit repel ? 
 Why of your further aid bereave me ? 
 And can ye thus unfriended leave me ; 
 Ye Muses ! whom I love so well ? 
 
 Who 's yon, that, near the waterfall, 
 Which thunders down with headlong force, 
 Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, 
 As careless as if nothing were, 
 Sits upright on a feeding horse ? 
 
 Unto his horse— there feeding free, 
 He seems, I think, the rein to give ; 
 Of moon or stars he takes no heed ; 
 Of such we in romances read : 
 — 'Tis Johnny ! Johnny ! as I live. 
 
 And that's the very Pony, too ! 
 Where is she, where is Betty Foy ? 
 She hardly can sustain her fears ; 
 The roaring waterfall she hears. 
 And cannot find her Idiot Boy. 
 
 Your Pony 's worth his weight in gold : 
 Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy ! 
 She 's coming from among the trees, 
 And now all full in view she sees 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And Betty sees the Pony too : 
 
 Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy 1 
 
 It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 
 
 'Tis he whom you so long have lost, 
 
 He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. 
 
 She looks again — her arms are up — 
 She screams — she camiot move for joy ; 
 She darts, as with a torrent's force, 
 She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 
 And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud ; 
 Whether in cunning or in joy 
 I cannot tell ; but while he laughs, 
 Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 
 To hear again her Idiot Boy. 
 
 And now she 's at the Pony's tail, 
 And now is at the Pony's head, — 
 On that side now, and now on this ; 
 And, almost stifled with her bliss, 
 A few sad tears does Betty shed. 
 
 She kisses o'er and o'er again 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy ; 
 She 's happy here, is happy there, 
 She is uneasy every where ; 
 Her limbs are all alive with joy. 
 
 She pats the Pony, where or when 
 She knows not, happy Betty Foy ! 
 The little Pony glad may be, 
 But he is milder far than she, 
 You hardly can perceive his joy. 
 
 " Oh ! Johnny, never mind the Doctor ; 
 You 've done your best, and that is all : " 
 She took the reins, when this was said, 
 And gently turned the Pony's head 
 From the loud waterfall. 
 
 By this the stars were almost gone, 
 The moon was setting on the hill, 
 So pale you scarcely looked at her : 
 The little birds began to stir, 
 Though yet their tongues were still. 
 
 The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, 
 Wind slowly through the woody dale ; 
 And who is she, betimes abroad, 
 That hobbles up the steep rough road ? 
 Who is it, but old Susan Gale ? 
 
96 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Long time lay Susan lost in thought; 
 And many dreadful fears beset her, 
 Both for her Messenger and Nurse ; 
 And, as her mind grew worse and worse, 
 Her body — it grew better. 
 
 She turned, she tossed herself in bed, 
 On all sides doubts and terrors met her ; 
 Point after point did she discuss ; 
 And, while her mind was fighting thus, 
 Her body still grew better. 
 
 "Alas ! what is become of them ? 
 
 These fears can never be endured ; 
 
 I '11 to the wood." — The word scarce said, 
 
 Did Susan rise up from her bed, 
 
 As if by magic cured. 
 
 Away she goes up hill and down, 
 
 And to the wood at length is come ; 
 
 She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting ; 
 
 Oh me ! it is a merry meeting 
 
 As ever was in Christendom. 
 
 The owls have hardly sung their last, 
 While our four travellers homeward wend ; 
 The owls have hooted all night long, 
 And with the owls began my song, 
 And with the owls must end. 
 
 For while they all were travelling home, 
 Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do, 
 Where all this long night you have been, 
 What you have heard, what you have seen : 
 And, Johnny, mind you tell us true." 
 
 Now Johnny all night long had heard 
 The owls in tuneful concert strive ; 
 No doubt too he the moon had seen ; 
 For in the moonlight he had been 
 From eight o'clock till five. 
 
 And thus, to Betty's question, he 
 
 Made answer, like a traveller bold, 
 
 (His very words I give to you,) 
 
 " The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 
 
 And the sun did shine so cold ! " 
 
 — Thus answered Johnny in his glory, 
 
 And that was all his travel's story. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 A PASTORAL POEiU. 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps 
 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 
 You will suppose that with an upright path 
 
 Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 
 
 The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 
 
 But, courage ! for around that boisterous brool 
 
 The mountains have all opened out themselves. 
 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 
 No habitation can be seen ; but they 
 
 Who journey thither find themselves alone 
 
 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kite 
 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 
 It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
 
 Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 
 
 But for one object which you might pass by, 
 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
 
 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ! 
 
 And to that simple object appertains ■ 
 
 A story — unenriched with strange events, 
 
 Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 
 
 Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
 
 Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
 
 Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
 
 Whom I already loved ; — not verily 
 
 For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 
 
 Where was their occupation and abode. 
 
 And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 
 
 Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
 
 Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
 
 Of natural objects, led me on to feel 
 
 For passions that were not my own, and think 
 
 (At random and imperfectly indeed) 
 
 On man, the heart of man, and human life. 
 
 Therefore, although it be a history 
 
 Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
 
 For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
 
 And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
 
 Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
 
 Will be my second self when I am gone. 
 
 Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
 There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ; 
 An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen, 
 Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 
 And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
 And watchful more than ordinary men. 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 97 
 
 Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, 
 
 Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentimes, 
 
 When others heeded not, He heard the South 
 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 
 Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
 
 The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
 
 Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
 
 ' The winds are now devising work for me ! ' 
 
 And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives 
 
 The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
 
 Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
 
 Amid the heart of many thousand mists, 
 
 That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 
 
 So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
 
 And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 
 
 That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, 
 
 Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 
 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 
 
 The common air ; hills, which with vigorous step 
 
 He had so often climbed ; which had impressed 
 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 
 Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 
 
 Which, like a book, preserved the memory 
 
 Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 
 
 Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 
 
 The certainty of honourable gain ; 
 
 Those fields, those hills — what could they less ? 
 
 had laid 
 Strong hold on his affections, were to him 
 A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 
 The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
 
 His days had not been passed in singleness. 
 His Helpmate was a comely matron, old — 
 Though younger than himself full twenty years. 
 She was a woman of a stirring life, 
 Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had 
 Of antique form ; this large, for spinning wool ; 
 That small, for flax ; and if one wheel had rest 
 It was because the other was at work. 
 The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
 An only Child, who had been born to them 
 When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
 To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's phrase, 
 With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
 With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, 
 The one of an inestimable worth, 
 Made all their household. I may truly say, 
 That they were as a proverb in the vale 
 For endless industry. When day was gone, 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 The Son and Father were come home, even then, 
 Their labour did not cease ; unless when all 
 Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there, 
 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 
 Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when 
 
 the meal 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
 And his old Father both betook themselves 
 To such convenient work as might employ 
 Their hands by the fire-side ; perhaps to card 
 Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
 Or other implement of house or field. 
 
 Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, 
 That in our ancient uncouth country style 
 With huge and black projection overbrowed 
 Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
 Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp ; 
 An aged utensil, which had performed 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. 
 Early at evening did it burn — and late, 
 Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, 
 Which, going by from year to year, had found, 
 And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, 
 Living a life of eager industry. 
 And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth 
 
 year, 
 There by the light of this old lamp they sate, 
 Father and Son, while far into the night 
 The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, 
 Making the cottage through the silent hours 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
 This light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
 And was a public symbol of the life 
 That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, 
 Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
 Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, 
 High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
 And westward to the village near the lake ; 
 And from this constant fight, so regular 
 And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
 Both old and young, was named TheEvening Staji, 
 
 Thus living on through such a length of years, 
 The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
 Have loved Ins Helpmate ; but to Michael's heart 
 This son of his old age was yet more dear — 
 Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
 Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all — 
 Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
 That earth can offer to declining man, 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 
98 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 1 
 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
 Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
 His heart and his heart's joy ! For oftentimes 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
 Had done him female service, not alone 
 For pastime and delight, as is the use 
 Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
 To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
 His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 
 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the Bo/ 
 Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 
 Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
 To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
 Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool 
 Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched 
 Under the large old oak, that near his door 
 Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, 
 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
 The Clipping Tree *, a name which yet it bears. 
 There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 
 With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
 Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
 Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
 Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
 By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
 Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 
 
 And when by Heaven'sgood grace theboy grew up 
 A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
 Two steady roses that were five years old ; 
 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
 With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, 
 And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt 
 He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
 And, to his office prematurely called, 
 There stood the urchin, as you will divine, 
 Something between a hindrance and a help ; 
 And for this cause not always, I believe, 
 Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
 Though nought was left undone which staff, or 
 
 voice, 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 
 
 But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
 Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights, 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
 
 * Clipping is the word used in the North of England for 
 shearing. 
 
 He with his Father daily went, and they 
 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
 
 Were dearer now 1 that from the Boy there came 
 
 Feelings and emanations — things which were 
 
 Light to the sun and music to the wind; 
 
 And that the old Man's heart seemed born again ? 
 
 Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up : 
 And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 
 He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
 
 While in this sort the simple household lived 
 From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
 Distressful tidmgs. Long before the time 
 Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 
 In surety for his brother's son, a man 
 Of an industrious life, and ample means ; 
 But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 Had prest upon him ; and old Michael now 
 Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 
 A grievous penalty, but httle less 
 Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, 
 At the first hearing, for a moment took 
 More hope out of his life than he supposed 
 That any old man ever could have lost. 
 As soon as he had armed himself with strength 
 To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 
 The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once 
 A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
 Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, 
 And Ms heart failed him. " Isabel," said he, 
 Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
 " I have been toiling more than seventy years, 
 And in the open sunshine of God's love 
 Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 
 Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
 That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
 Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself 
 Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 
 And I have lived to be a fool at last 
 To my own family. An evil man 
 That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
 Were false to us ; and if he were not false, 
 There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
 Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ; — but 
 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
 
 When I began, my purpose was to speak 
 Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
 Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
 Shall not go from us, and it shall be free ; 
 He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
 That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 9.') 
 
 Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 
 Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go, 
 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
 He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
 He may return to us. If here he stay, 
 What can be done 1 Where every one is poor, 
 What can be gained ? " 
 
 At this the old Man paused, 
 And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
 Was busy, looking back into past times. 
 There 's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, 
 He was a parish-boy — at the church-door 
 They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence 
 And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought 
 A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares ; 
 And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 
 Went up to London, found a master there, 
 Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
 To go and overlook his merchandise 
 Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich, 
 And left estates and monies to the poor 1 , 
 And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored 
 With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 
 These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
 Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
 And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, 
 And thus resumed : — * Well, Isabel ! this scheme 
 These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 
 Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
 ■ — We have enough— I wish indeed that I 
 Were younger ;— but this hope is a good hope. 
 — Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 
 Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 
 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 
 —If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." 
 
 Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 
 With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
 Things needful for the journey of her son. 
 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
 To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 
 By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep : 
 And when they rose at morning she could see 
 That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
 She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
 Were sitting at the door, " Thou must not go : 
 We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
 None to remember — do not go away, 
 For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
 The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ; 
 
 And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
 Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
 Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
 Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
 
 With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
 And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
 The expected letter from their kinsman came, 
 With kind assurances that he would do 
 His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
 To which, requests were added, that forthwith 
 He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
 The letter was read over ; Isabel 
 Went forth to show it to the neighbours round ; 
 Nor was there at that time on English land 
 A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
 Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 
 " He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
 The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
 Which, if at such short notice he should go, 
 Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
 She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 
 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 In that deep vaUey, Michael had designed 
 To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard 
 The tidings of his melancholy loss, 
 For this same purpose he had gathered up 
 A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he walked : 
 And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, 
 And thus the old Man spake to him : — " My Son, 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart. 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
 That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
 And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
 I will relate to thee some little part 
 Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good 
 When thou art from me, even if I should touch 
 
 On things thou canst not know of. After thou 
 
 First cam'st into the world — as oft befals 
 To new-born infants — thou didst sleep away 
 Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 
 Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, 
 And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
 Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side 
 First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 
 While thou, a feeding babe, didst hi thy joy 
 Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, 
 And in the open fields my life was passed 
 And on the mountains ; else I think that thou 
 
100 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. 
 
 But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills, 
 
 As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 
 
 Have played together, nor with me didst thou 
 
 Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
 
 Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 
 
 He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, 
 
 And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 
 
 That these are things of which I need not speak. 
 
 — Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
 
 A kind and a good Father : and herein 
 
 I but repay a gift which I myself 
 
 Received at others' hands ; for, though now old 
 
 Beyond the common life of man, I still 
 
 Remember them who loved me in my youth. 
 
 Both of them sleep together : here they lived, 
 
 As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 
 
 At length their time was come, they were not loth 
 
 To give their bodies to the family mould. 
 
 I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived : 
 
 But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 
 
 And see so little gain from threescore years. 
 
 These fields were burthened when they came to me ; 
 
 Till I was forty years of age, not more 
 
 Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
 
 I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work, 
 
 And till these three weeks past the land was free. 
 
 — It looks as if it never could endure 
 
 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
 
 That thou should'st go." 
 
 At this the old Man paused ; 
 Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, 
 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 
 " This was a work for us ; and now, my Son, 
 It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
 Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we both may live 
 To see a better 4ay. At eighty-four 
 I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy part ; 
 I will do mine. — I will begin again 
 With many tasks that were resigned to thee : 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 All works which I was wont to do alone, 
 Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, Boy ! 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
 With many hopes ; it should be so — yes — yes — 
 I knew that tbou could'st never have a wish 
 To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me 
 Only by links of love : when thou art gone, 
 What will be left to us !— But, I forget 
 My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 
 As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 
 
 When thou art gone away, should evil men 
 Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
 And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts, 
 And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 
 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
 May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 
 Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
 Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — 
 When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 'Twill be between us ; but, whatever fate 
 Befal thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
 And bear thy memory with me to the grave." 
 
 The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped 
 
 down, 
 And, as his Father had requested, laid 
 The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 
 The old Man's grief broke from him ; to his heart 
 He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept ; 
 And to the house together they returned. 
 — Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming 
 
 peace, 
 Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the Boy 
 Began his journey, and when he had reached 
 The public way, he put on a bold face ; 
 And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, 
 Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 
 That followed him till he was out of sight. 
 
 A good report did from their Kinsman come, 
 Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy 
 Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
 Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 
 ' The prettiest letters that were ever seen.' 
 Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
 So, many months passed on : and once again 
 The Shepherd went about his daily work 
 With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now 
 Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
 He to that valley took his way, and there 
 Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began 
 To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, 
 He in the dissolute city gave himself 
 To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
 Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
 To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 
 
 There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 
 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
 Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 
 I have conversed with more than one who well 
 Remember the old Man, and what he was 
 Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
 
THE WIDOW ON V/INDERMERE SIDE. 
 
 101 ! 
 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
 He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, 
 And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 
 Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, 
 And for the land, his small inheritance. 
 And to that hollow dell from time to time 
 Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
 His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
 The pity which was then in every heart 
 For the old Man — and 'tis believed by all 
 That many and many a day he thither went, 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 
 There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he 
 seen 
 Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
 The length of full seven years, from time to time, 
 He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, 
 And left the work unfinished when he died. 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
 Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 
 Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
 The Cottage which was named the Evening Star 
 Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the 
 
 ground 
 On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 
 In all the neighbourhood : — yet the oak is left 
 That grew beside their door ; and the remains 
 Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. 
 
 1800. 
 
 THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE SIDE, 
 r. 
 
 How beautiful when up a lofty height 
 Honour ascends among the humblest poor, 
 And feeling sinks as deep ! See there the door 
 Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight 
 Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune's spite 
 She wasted no complaint, but strove to make 
 A just repayment, both for conscience-sake 
 | And that herself and hers should stand upright 
 ! In the world's eye. Her work when daylight failed 
 | Paused not, and through the depth of night she kept 
 | Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed 
 With some, the noble Creature never slept ; 
 But, one by one, the hand of death assailed 
 Her children from her inmost heart bewept, 
 
 The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow, 
 Till a winter's noon-day placed her buried Son 
 Before her eyes, last child of many gone — 
 His raiment of angelic white, and lo ! 
 His very feet bright as the dazzling snow 
 Which they are touching ; yea far brighter, even 
 As that which comes, or seems to come, from heaven, 
 Surpasses aught these elements can show. 
 Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that hour 
 Whate'er befel she could not grieve or pine ; 
 But the Transfigured, in and out of season, 
 Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a power 
 Over material forms that mastered reason. 
 OIi, gracious Heaven, in pity make her thine ! 
 
 hi. 
 
 But why that prayer 1 as if to her could come 
 No good but by the way that leads to bliss 
 Through Death, — so judging we should judge amiss. 
 Since reason failed want is her threatened doom, 
 Yet frequent transports mitigate the gloom : 
 Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss 
 The air or laugh upon a precipice ; 
 No, passing through strange sufferings toward the 
 
 tomb 
 She smiles as if a martyr's crown were won : 
 Oft, when light breaks through clouds or waving 
 
 trees, 
 With outspread arms and fallen upon her knees 
 The Mother hails in her descending Son 
 An Angel, and in earthly ecstacies 
 Her own angelic glory seems begun. 
 
 THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 
 
 [The subject of the following poem is from the Orlandus 
 of the author's friend, Kenelm Henry Digby: and the 
 liberty is taken of inscribing it to him as an acknowledg- 
 ment, however unworthy, of pleasure and instruction 
 derived from his numerous and valuable writings, 
 illustrative of the piety and chivalry of the olden time.] 
 
 You have heard ' a Spanish Lady 
 
 How she wooed an English man * ;' 
 Hear now of a fair Armenian, 
 Daughter of the proud Soldan ; 
 How she loved a Christian Slave, and told her pain 
 By word, look, deed, with hope that he might love 
 again. 
 
 * See, in Percy's Reliqnes, that fine old ballad, "The 
 Spanish Lady's Love;" from which Poem the form of 
 stanza, as suitable to dialogue, is adopted. 
 
102 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 " Pluck that rose, it moves my liking," 
 
 Said she, lifting up her veil ; 
 " Pluck it for me, gentle gardener, 
 Ere it wither and grow pale." 
 " Princess fair, I till the ground, hut may not take 
 From twig or hed an humbler flower, even for 
 your sake !" 
 
 •"< Grieved am I, submissive Christian ! 
 
 To behold thy captive state ; 
 Women, in your land, may pity 
 (May they not?) the unfortunate." 
 " Yes, kind Lady ! otherwise man could not bear 
 Life, which to every one that breathes is full of 
 care." 
 
 " Worse than idle is compassion 
 
 If it end in tears and sighs ; 
 Thee from bondage would I rescue 
 And from vile indignities ; 
 Nurtured, as thy mien bespeaks, in high degree, 
 Look up — and help a hand that longs to set thee 
 free." 
 
 " Lady ! dread the wish, nor venture 
 
 In such peril to engage ; 
 Think how it would stir against you 
 Your most loving father's rage : 
 Sad deliverance would it be, and yoked with shame, 
 Should troubles overflow on her from whom it 
 
 " Generous Frank ! the just in effort 
 
 Are of inward peace secure : 
 Hardships for the brave encountered, 
 Even the feeblest may endure : 
 If almighty grace through me thy chains unbind 
 My father for slave's work may seek a slave in 
 mind." 
 
 " Princess, at this burst of goodness, 
 
 My long-frozen heart grows warm ! " 
 '•'■ Yet you make all courage fruitless, 
 Me to save from chance of harm : 
 Leading such companion I that gilded dome, 
 Yon minarets, would gladly leave for his worst 
 home." 
 
 •'< Feeling tunes your voice, fair Princess ! 
 
 And your brow is free from scorn, 
 Else these words would come like mockery, 
 Sharper than the pointed thorn." 
 " Whence the undeserved mistrust ? Too wide apart 
 Our faith hath been, — O would that eyes could see 
 the heart ! " 
 
 " Tempt me not, I pray ; my doom is 
 
 These base implements to wield ; 
 Rusty lance, I ne'er shall grasp thee, 
 Ne'er assoil my cobwebb'd shield ! 
 Never see my native land, nor castle towers, 
 Nor Her who thinking of me there counts widowed 
 hours." 
 
 " Prisoner ! pardon youthful fancies ; 
 
 Wedded ? If you can, say no ! 
 Blessed is and be your consort ; 
 Hopes I cherished — let them go ! 
 Handmaid's privilege would leave my purpose free, 
 Without another link to my felicity." 
 
 " Wedded love with loyal Christians, 
 
 Lady, is a mystery rare ; 
 Body, heart, and soul in union, 
 Make one being of a pair." 
 u Humble love in me would look for no return, 
 Soft as a guiding star that cheers, but cannot burn." 
 
 
 " Gracious Allah ! by such title 
 Do I dare to thank the God, 
 Him who thus exalts thy spirit, 
 Flower of an unchristian sod ! 
 Or hast thou put off wings which thou in heaven 
 
 dost wear ? 
 What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt ? where 
 am I ? where ? " 
 
 Here broke off the dangerous converse : 
 Less impassioned words might tell 
 How the pair escaped together, 
 Tears not wanting, nor a knell 
 
 Of sorrow in her heart while through her father's 
 door, 
 
 And from her narrow world, she passed for ever- 
 more. 
 
THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE. 103 
 
 XIV 
 
 But affections higher, holier, 
 
 XX. 
 
 Make it known that my Companion 
 
 Urged her steps ; she shrunk from trust 
 
 Is of royal eastern blood, 
 
 In a sensual creed that trampled 
 
 Thirsting after all perfection, 
 
 Woman's hirthright into dust. 
 
 Innocent, and meek, and good, 
 
 Little be the wonder then, the blame be none, 
 
 Though with misbelievers bred; but that dark 
 
 If she, a timid Maid, hath put such boldness on. 
 
 night 
 
 
 Will holy Church disperse by beams of gospel- 
 
 XV. 
 
 light." 
 
 Judge both Fugitives with knowledge : 
 
 
 In those old romantic days 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Mighty were the soul's commandments 
 
 Swiftly went that grey-haired Servant, 
 
 To support, restrain, or raise. 
 
 Soon returned a trusty Page 
 
 Foes might hang upon their path, snakes rustle 
 
 Charged with greetings, benedictions, 
 
 near, 
 
 Thanks and praises, each a gage 
 
 But nothing from their inward selves had they to 
 
 For a sunny thought to cheer the Stranger's way, 
 
 fear. 
 
 Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears allay. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Thought infirm ne'er came between them, 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Whether printing desert sands 
 
 And how blest the Reunited, 
 
 With accordant steps, or gathering 
 
 While beneath their castle-walls, 
 
 Forest-fruit with social hands ; 
 
 Runs a deafening noise of welcome ! — 
 
 Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moon- 
 
 Blest, though every tear that falls 
 
 beam 
 
 Doth in its silence of past sorrow tell, 
 
 Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal 
 
 And makes ameeting seemmosthke a dear farewell. 
 
 stream. 
 
 
 XVII. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 On a friendly deck reposing 
 
 Through a haze of human nature, 
 
 They at length for Venice steer ; 
 
 Glorified by heavenly light, 
 
 There, when they had closed their voyage, 
 
 Looked the beautiful Deliverer 
 
 One, who daily on the pier 
 
 On that overpowering sight, 
 
 Watched for tidings from the East, beheld his Lord, 
 
 While across her virgin cheek pure blushes strayed, 
 
 Fell down and clasped his knees for joy, not 
 
 For every tender sacrifice her heart had made. 
 
 uttering word. 
 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 xxiv. 
 
 Mutual was the sudden transport ; 
 
 Ou the ground the weeping Countess 
 
 Breathless questions followed fast, 
 
 Knelt, and kissed the Stranger's hand ; 
 
 Years contracting to a moment, 
 
 Act of soul-devoted homage, 
 
 Each word greedier than the last ; 
 
 Pledge of an eternal band : 
 
 " Hie thee to the Countess, friend ! return with 
 
 Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie, 
 
 speed, 
 
 Which, with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify. 
 
 And of this Stranger speak by whom her lord was 
 
 
 freed. 
 
 
 
 XXV. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Constant to the fan.' Armenian, 
 
 Say that I, who might have languished, 
 
 Gentle pleasures round her moved, 
 
 Drooped and pined till life was spent, 
 
 Like a tutelary spirit 
 
 Now before the gates of Stolberg 
 
 Reverenced, like a sister, loved. 
 
 My Deliverer would present 
 
 Christian meekness smoothed for all the path of 
 
 For a crowning recompense, the precious grace 
 
 life, 
 
 Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient 
 
 Who, loving most, should wiseliest love, then* only 
 
 place. 
 
 strife. 
 
104 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 xx vr. 
 
 Sav not you love the delicate treat, 
 
 Mute memento of that union 
 
 But like it,, enjoy it, and thankfully eat. 
 
 In a Saxon church survives, 
 
 
 Where a cross-legged Knight lies sculptured 
 
 Long may you love your pensioner mouse, 
 
 As between two wedded Wives — 
 
 Though one of a tribe that torment the house : 
 
 Figures with armorial signs of race and birth, 
 
 Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat, 
 
 And the vain rank the pilgi'ims bore while yet on 
 
 Deadly foe both of mouse and rat ; 
 
 earth. 
 
 Remember she follows the law of her kind, 
 
 1830. 
 
 And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind. 
 Then think of her beautiful gliding form, 
 
 
 
 Her tread that would scarcely crush a worm, 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 And her soothing song by the winter fire, 
 
 LOVING AND LIKING: 
 
 Soft as the dying throb of the lyre. 
 
 IRREGULAR VERSES, 
 
 
 
 I would not circumscribe your love : 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A CHILD. 
 
 It may soar with the eagle and brood -with the dove 
 
 (BY MY SISTER.) 
 
 May pierce the earth with the patient mole, 
 
 There 's more in words than I can teach : 
 
 Or track the hedgehog to his hole. 
 
 Yet listen, Child ! — I would not preach ; 
 
 Loving and liking are the solace of life, 
 
 But only give some plain directions 
 
 Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death-bed o 
 
 To guide your speech and your affections. 
 
 strife. 
 
 Say not you love a roasted fowl, 
 
 You love your father and your mother, 
 
 But you may love a screaming owl, 
 
 Your grown-up and your baby brother ; 
 
 And, if you can, the unwieldy toad 
 
 You love your sister, and your friends, 
 
 That crawls from his secure abode 
 
 And countless blessings which God sends : 
 
 Within the mossy garden wall 
 
 And while these right affections play, 
 
 When evening dews begin to fall. 
 
 You live each moment of your day ; 
 
 Oh mark the beauty of his eye : 
 
 They lead you on to full content, 
 
 What wonders in that circle he ! 
 
 And likings fresh and innocent, 
 
 So clear, so bright, our fathers said 
 
 That store the mind, the memory feed, 
 
 He wears a jewel in his head ! 
 
 And prompt to many a gentle deed : 
 
 And when, upon some showery day, 
 
 But likings come, and pass away ; 
 
 Into a path or public way 
 
 'Tis love that remains till our latest day : 
 
 A frog leaps out from bordering grass, 
 
 Our heavenward guide is holy love, 
 
 Startling the timid as they pass, 
 
 And will be our bliss with saints above. 1&3& 
 
 Do you observe him, and endeavour 
 To take the intruder into favour ;' 
 
 
 
 Learning from him to find a reason 
 
 
 For a light heart in a dull season. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And you may love him in the pool, 
 
 
 
 FAREWELL LINES. 
 
 That is for him a happy school, 
 
 
 In which he swims as taught by nature, 
 
 'High bliss is only for a higher state,' 
 
 Fit pattern for a human creature, 
 
 But, surely, if severe afflictions borne 
 
 Glancing amid the water bright, 
 
 With patience merit the reward of peace, 
 
 And sending upward sparkling light. 
 
 Peace ye deserve ; and may the solid good, 
 
 
 Sought by a wise though late exchange, and here 
 
 Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing 
 
 With bounteous hand beneath a cottage-roof 
 
 A love for things that have no feeling : 
 
 To you accorded, never be withdrawn, 
 
 The spring's first rose by you espied, 
 
 Nor for the world's best promises renounced. 
 
 May fill your breast with joyful pride ; 
 
 Most soothing was it for a welcome Friend, 
 
 And you may love the strawberry-flower, 
 
 Fresh from the crowded city, to behold 
 
 And love the strawberry in its bower ; 
 
 That lonely union, privacy so deep, 
 
 But when the fruit, so often praised 
 
 Such calm employments, such entire content. 
 
 For beauty, to your hp is raised, 
 
 So when the rain is over, the storm laid, 
 
THE REDBREAST. 
 
 105 
 
 A pair of herons oft-times have I seen, 
 
 Upon a rocky islet, side by side, 
 
 Drying their feathers in the mn, at ease ; 
 
 And so, when night with grateful gloom had fallen, 
 
 Two glow-worms in such nearness that they shared, 
 
 As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light, 
 
 Each with the other, on the dewy ground, 
 
 Where He that made them blesses their repose. — 
 
 When wandering among lakes and hills I note, 
 
 Once more, those creatures thus by nature paired, 
 
 And guarded in their tranquil state of life, 
 
 Even, as your happy presence to my mind 
 
 Their union brought, will they repay the debt, 
 
 And send a thankful spirit back to you, 
 
 With hope that we, dear Friends ! shall meet again. 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 (SUGGESTED IN A WESTMORELAND COTTAGE.) 
 
 Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air 
 
 From half-stripped woods and pastures bare, 
 
 Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier Home : 
 
 Not like a beggar is he come, 
 
 But enters as a looked-for guest, 
 
 Confiding in his ruddy breast, 
 
 As if it were a natural shield 
 
 Charged with a blazon on the field, 
 
 Due to that good and pious deed 
 
 Of which we in the Ballad read. 
 
 But pensive fancies putting by, 
 
 And wild-wood sorrows, speedily 
 
 He plays the expert ventriloquist ; 
 
 And, caught by glimpses now — now missed, 
 
 Puzzles the listener with a doubt 
 
 If the soft voice he throws about 
 
 Comes from within doors or without ! 
 
 Was ever such a sweet confusion, 
 
 Sustained by delicate illusion ? 
 
 He 's at your elbow — to your feeling 
 
 The notes are from the floor or ceiling ; 
 
 And there 's a riddle to be guessed, 
 
 "Till you have marked his heaving chest, 
 
 And busy throat whose sink and swell, 
 
 Betray the Elf that loves to dwell 
 
 In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. 
 
 Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird 
 If seen, and with like pleasure stirred 
 Commend him, when he's only heard. 
 
 But small and fugitive our gain 
 Compared with hers who long hath lain, 
 With languid limbs and patient head 
 Reposing on a lone sick-bed ; 
 Where now, she daily hears a strain 
 That cheats her of too busy cares, 
 Eases her pain, and helps her prayers. 
 And who but this dear Bird beguiled 
 The fever of that pale-faced Child ; 
 Now cooling, with his passing wing, 
 Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring : 
 Recalling now, with descant soft 
 Shed round her pillow from aloft, 
 Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh, 
 And the invisible sympathy 
 Of 'Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
 Blessing the bed she lies upon * % ' 
 And sometimes, just as listening ends 
 In slumber, with the cadence blends 
 A dream of that low-warbled hymn 
 Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim 
 Lamps of faith, now burning dim, 
 Say that the Cherubs carved in stone, 
 When clouds gave way at dead of night 
 And the ancient church was filled with light, 
 Used to sing in heavenly tone, 
 Above and round the sacred places 
 They guard, with winged baby-faces. 
 
 Thrice happy Creature ! in all lands 
 Nurtured by hospitable hands : 
 Free entrance to this cot has he, 
 Entrance and exit both yet free ; 
 And, when the keen unruffled weather 
 That thus brings man and bird together, 
 Shall with its pleasantness be past, 
 And casement closed and door made fast, 
 To keep at bay the howling blast, 
 He needs not fear the season's rage, 
 For the whole house is Robin's cage. 
 Whether the bird flit here or there, 
 O'er table lilt, or perch on chair, 
 Though some may frown and make a stir, 
 To scare him as a trespasser, 
 And he belike will flinch or start, 
 Good friends he has to take his part ; 
 One chiefly, who with voice and look 
 Pleads for him from the chimney-nook, 
 Where sits the Dame, and wears away 
 
 * The words — 
 
 ' Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
 Bless the bed that I lie on,' 
 are part of a child's prayer, still in general use through 
 the northern counties. 
 
106 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Her long and vacant holiday ; 
 With images about her heart, 
 Reflected from the years gone by, 
 On human nature's second infancy. 
 
 1834. 
 
 xxxvm. 
 
 HER EYES ARE WILD. 
 
 i. 
 Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, 
 The sun has burnt her coal-black hair 
 Her eyebrows have a rusty stain, 
 And she came far from over the main. 
 She has a baby on her arm, 
 Or else she were alone : 
 And underneath the hay-stack warm, 
 And on the greenwood stone, 
 She talked and sung the woods among, 
 And it was in the English tongue. 
 
 " Sweet babe ! they say that I am mad, 
 But nay, my heart is far too glad ; 
 And I am happy when I sing 
 Full many a sad and doleful thing : 
 Then, lovely baby, do not fear ! 
 I pray thee have no fear of me ; 
 But safe as in a cradle, here 
 My lovely baby ! thou shalt be : 
 To thee I know too much I owe ; 
 I cannot work thee any woe. 
 
 A fire was once within my brain ; 
 And in my head a dull, dull pain ; 
 And fiendish faces, one, two, three, 
 Hung at my breast, and pulled at me ; 
 But then there came a sight of joy ; 
 It came at once to do me good ; 
 I waked, and saw my little boy, 
 My little boy of flesh and blood ; 
 Oh joy for me that sight to see ! 
 For he was here, and only he. 
 
 Suck, little babe, oh suck again ! 
 It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 
 Tby lips I feel them, baby ! they 
 Draw from my heart the pain away. 
 Oh ! press me with thy little hand ; 
 It loosens something at my chest ; 
 
 About that tight and deadly band 
 I feel thy little fingers prest. 
 The breeze I see is in the tree : 
 It comes to cool my babe and me. 
 
 Oh ! love me, love me, little boy ! 
 Thou art thy mother's only joy ; 
 And do not dread the waves below, 
 When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go ; 
 The high crag cannot work me harm, 
 Nor leaping torrents when they howl ; 
 The babe I carry on my arm, 
 He saves for me my precious soul ; 
 Then happy he ; for blest am I ; 
 Without me my sweet babe would die. 
 
 Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 
 
 Bold as a lion will I be ; 
 
 And I will always be thy guide, 
 
 Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 
 
 I '11 build an Indian bower ; I know 
 
 The leaves that make the softest bed : 
 
 And, if from me thou wilt not go, 
 
 But still be true till I am dead, 
 
 My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing 
 
 As merry as the birds in spring. 
 
 Thy father cares not for my breast, 
 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest ; 
 'Tis all thine own ! — and, if its hue 
 Be changed, that was so fair to view, 
 Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! 
 My beauty, little child, is flown, 
 But thou wilt live with me in love ; 
 And what if my poor cheek be brown ? 
 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see 
 How pale and wan it else would be. 
 
 Dread not their taunts, my little Life ; 
 I am thy father's wedded wife ; 
 And underneath the spreading tree 
 We two will live in honesty. 
 If his sweet boy he could forsake, 
 With me he never would have stayed : 
 From him no harm my babe can take ; 
 But he, poor man ! is wretched made ; 
 And every day we two will pray 
 For him that 's gone and far away. 
 
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 
 
 107 
 
 I '11 teach my boy the sweetest things : 
 
 I '11 teach him how the owlet sings. 
 
 My little babe ! thy lips are still, 
 
 And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. 
 
 — Where art thou gone, my own dear child ? 
 
 What wicked looks are those I see ? 
 
 Alas ! alas ! that look so wild, 
 
 It never, never came from me : 
 
 If thou art mad, my pretty lad, 
 
 Then I must be for ever sad. 
 
 Oh ! smile on me, my little lamb ! 
 
 For I thy own dear mother am : 
 
 My love for thee has well been tried : 
 
 I 've sought thy father far and wide. 
 
 I know the poisons of the shade ; 
 
 I know the earth-nuts fit for food : 
 
 Then, pretty dear, be not afraid : 
 
 We '11 find thy father in the wood. 
 
 Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away ! 
 
 And there, my babe, we '11 five for aye." 
 
 1798. 
 
108 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 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 must have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such place 
 a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents, and renew the gratification 
 of 6uch feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems 
 written in consequence. 
 
 Ix 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 
 
 Wont circling, like a multitude of sounds. 
 
 Tlio budding groves seemed eager to urge on 
 
 The steps of June ; as if then' various hues 
 
 Were only hindrances that stood between 
 
 Them and their object : but, meanwhile, prevailed 
 
 Such an entire contentment in the air 
 
 That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
 
 Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance 
 
 With which it looked on this delightful day 
 
 Were native to the summer. — Up the brook 
 
 I roamed in the confusion of my heart. 
 
 Alive to all things and forgetting all. 
 
 At length I to a sudden turning came 
 
 In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
 
 The Stream, so ardent in its course before, 
 
 Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all 
 
 Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice 
 
 Of common pleasure : beast and bird, the lamb, 
 
 The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush 
 
 Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, 
 
 Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth 
 
 Or like some natural produce of the air, 
 
 That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here ; 
 
 But 'twas the foliage of the rocks — the birch, 
 
 The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, 
 
 With hanging islands of resplendent furze : 
 
 And, on a summit, distant a short space, 
 
 By any who should look beyond the dell, 
 
 A single mountain-cottage might be seen. 
 
 I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 
 
 " Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this wild nook, 
 My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." 
 
 Soon did the spot become my other home, 
 
 My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 
 And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, 
 To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 
 Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, 
 Years after we are gone and in our graves, 
 When they have cause to speak of this wild place 
 May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. 
 
 180(1. 
 
 TO JOANNA. 
 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
 
 The time of early youth ; aud there you learned, 
 
 From years of quiet industry, to love 
 
 The living Beings by your own fire-side, 
 
 With such a stroDg devotion, that your heart 
 
 Is slow to meet the sympathies of them 
 
 Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 
 
 And make dear friendships with the streams and 
 
 groves. 
 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 be taught 
 That they, with whom you once were happy, talk 
 Familiarly of you and of old times. 
 
 While I was seated, now some ten days past, 
 Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
 Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower, 
 The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
 
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 109 
 
 Came forth to greet me ; and when he had asked, 
 
 " How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid ! 
 
 And when will she return to us ?" he paused ; 
 
 And, after short exchange of village news, 
 
 He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, 
 
 Reviving obsolete idolatry, 
 
 I, like a Runic Priest, in characters 
 
 Of formidable size had chiselled out 
 
 Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
 
 Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. 
 
 — Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
 
 Engendered between malice and true love, 
 
 I was not loth to be so catechised, 
 
 And this was my reply : — " As it befel, 
 
 One summer morning we had walked abroad 
 
 At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
 
 — '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 
 
 That eastward looks, I there stopped short — and 
 
 stood 
 Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye 
 From base to summit ; such delight I found 
 To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower 
 That intermixture of delicious hues, 
 Along so vast a surface, all at once, 
 In one impression, by connecting force 
 Of then' 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 
 To me alone imparted, sure I am 
 That there was a loud uproar in the hills. 
 And, while we both were listening, to my side 
 
 The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 
 
 To shelter from some object of her fear. 
 
 — Andhence.long afterwards, when eighteen moons . 
 
 Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
 
 Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 
 
 And silent morning, I sat down, and there, 
 
 In memory of affections old and true, 
 
 I chiselled out in those rude characters 
 
 Joanna's name deep in the living stone : — 
 
 And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, 
 
 Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock." 
 
 1H00. 
 
 Note. — In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several 
 Inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from the wast- 
 ing 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 Wynandermere. On Helmcrag, that impressive single 
 mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a rock 
 which from most points of view bears a striking resem- 
 blance to an old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is 
 one of those fissures or caverns, which in the language of 
 the country are called dungeons. Most of the mountains 
 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. 
 
 There is an Eminence, — of these our hills 
 
 The last that parleys with the setting sun ; 
 
 We can behold it from our orchard-seat ; 
 
 And, when at evening we pursue our walk 
 
 Along the public way, this Peak, so high 
 
 Above us, and so distant in its height, 
 
 Is visible ; and often seems to send 
 
 Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. 
 
 The meteors make of it a favourite haunt : 
 
 The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
 
 In the mid heavens, is never half so fair 
 
 As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth 
 
 The loneliest place we have among the clouds. 
 
 And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved 
 
 With such communion, that no place on earth 
 
 Can ever be a solitude to me, 
 
 Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. 
 
 1800. 
 
 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 
 
no 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy : 
 And there myself and two beloved Friends, 
 One calm September morning, ere the mist 
 Had altogether yielded to the sun, 
 Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. 
 
 Ill suits the road with one in haste ; but we 
 
 Played with our time ; and, as we strolled along. 
 
 It was our occupation to observe 
 
 Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore — 
 
 Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, 
 
 Each on the other heaped, along the line 
 
 Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, 
 
 Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft 
 
 Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, 
 
 That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake, 
 
 Suddenly halting now — a lifeless stand ! 
 
 And starting off again with freak as 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 playmate, rather say, its moving soul. 
 
 And often, trifling with a privilege 
 
 Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now, 
 And now the other, to point out, perchance 
 To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair 
 Either to be divided from the place 
 On which it grew, or to be left alone 
 To its own beauty. Many such there are, 
 Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern, 
 So stately, of the 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 bright morning : from the fields, 
 Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy niirth 
 Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls. 
 Delighted much to listen to those sounds, 
 And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced 
 Along the indented shore ; when suddenly, 
 Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen 
 Before us, on a point of jutting land, 
 The tall and upright figure of a Man 
 Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, 
 Angling beside the margin of the lake. 
 " Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed, 
 " The Man must be, who thus can lose a day 
 Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire 
 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. — 
 
 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. 
 
 1800. 
 
 TO M. H. 
 
 Our walk was far among the ancient trees : 
 
 There was no road, nor any woodman's path ; 
 
 But a thick umbrage — checking the wild growth 
 
 Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf 
 
 Beneath the branches — of itself had made 
 
 A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn, 
 
 And a small bed of water in the woods. 
 
 All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink 
 
 On its firm margin, even as from a well, 
 
 Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand 
 
 Had shaped for their refreshment ; nor did sun, 
 
 Or wind from any quarter, ever come, 
 
 But as a blessing to this calm recess, 
 
 This glade of water and this one green field. 
 
 The spot was made by Nature for herself; 
 
 The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain 
 
 Unknown to them ; but it is beautiful ; 
 
 And if a man should plant his cottage near, 
 
 Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, 
 
 And blend its waters with his daily meal, 
 
 He would so love it, that in his death-hour 
 
 Its image would survive among his thoughts : 
 
 And. therefore, my sweet Mary, this still Nook, 
 
 With all its beeches, we have named from You ! 
 
 1800. 
 
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 Ill 
 
 When, to the attractions of the busy world, 
 
 Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen 
 
 A habitation in this peaceful Vale, 
 
 Sharp season followed of continual storm 
 
 In deepest winter ; and, from week to week, 
 
 Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged 
 
 With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill 
 
 At a short distance from my cottage, stands 
 
 A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont 
 
 To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 
 
 Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place 
 
 Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. 
 
 Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, 
 
 And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, 
 
 The redbreast near me hopped ; nor was I loth 
 
 To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds 
 
 That, for protection from the nipping blast, 
 
 Hither repaired. — A single beech-tree grew 
 
 Within this grove of firs ! and, on the fork 
 
 Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest ; 
 
 A last year's nest, conspicuously built 
 
 At such small elevation from the ground 
 
 As gave sure sign that they, who in that house 
 
 Of nature and of love had made their home 
 
 Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long 
 
 Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, 
 
 A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock, 
 
 Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, 
 
 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 
 
 Hei'e did I lose. But in this grove the trees 
 
 Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven 
 
 In such perplexed and intricate array ; 
 
 That vainly did I seek, beneath their stems 
 
 A length of open space, where to and fro 
 
 My feet might move without concern or care ; 
 
 And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day 
 
 Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed, 
 
 I ceased the shelter to frequent, — and prized, 
 
 Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess. 
 
 The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned 
 To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts 
 Meanwhile were mine ; till, one bright April day, 
 By chance retiring from the glare of noon 
 To this forsaken covert, there I found 
 A hoary pathway traced between the trees, 
 And winding on with such an easy line 
 Along a natural opening, that I stood 
 
 Much wondering how I could have sought in vaiD 
 
 For what was now so obvious. To abide, 
 
 For an allotted interval of ease, 
 
 Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come 
 
 From the wild sea a cherished Visitant ; 
 
 And with the sight of this same path — begun, 
 
 Begun and ended, in the shady grove, 
 
 Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind 
 
 That, to this opportune recess allured, 
 
 He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 
 
 A heart more wakeful ; and had worn the track 
 
 By pacing here, unwearied and alone, 
 
 In that habitual restlessness of foot 
 
 That haunts the Sailor measuring o'er and o'er 
 
 His short domain upon the vessel's deck, 
 
 While she pursues her course through the dreary sea. 
 
 When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant 
 shore, 
 And taken thy first leave of those green hills 
 And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth, 
 Year followed year, my Brother ! and we two, 
 Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
 Each other's mind was fashioned ; and at length, 
 When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, 
 Between us there was little other bond 
 Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
 But thou, a 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 ; 
 Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 
 Could I withhold thy honoured name, — and now 
 I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. 
 Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns 
 Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong ; 
 And there I sit at evening, when the steep 
 Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful lake, 
 And ope green island, gleam between the stems 
 Of the dark firs, a visionary scene ! 
 And, while I gaze upon the spectacle 
 Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight 
 Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, 
 My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost. 
 Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou, 
 Muttering the verses which I muttered first 
 Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 
 Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck 
 In some far region, here, while o'er my head, 
 
112 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 A.t every impulse of the moving breeze, 
 The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, 
 Alone I tread this path ; — for aught I know, 
 Timing my steps to thine ; and, with a store 
 Of undistinguishable sympathies, 
 Mingling most earnest wishes for the day 
 When we, and others whom we love, shall meet 
 A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. 
 
 1805. 
 
 Note This wish was not granted ; the lamented Person 
 
 not long after perished by shipwreck, in discharge of his 
 duty as Commander of the Honourable East India Com- 
 pany's Vessel, the Earl of Abergavenny. 
 
 Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base 
 
 Winds our deep Vale, two heath-clad Rocks ascend 
 
 In fellowship, the loftiest of the pair 
 
 Rising to no ambitious height; yet both, 
 
 O'er lake and stream, mountain and flowery mead, 
 
 Unfolding prospects fair as human eyes 
 
 Ever beheld. Up-led with mutual help, 
 To one or other brow of those twin Peaks 
 Were two adventurous Sisters wont to climb, 
 And took no note of the hour while thence the 
 
 gazed, 
 The blooming heath their couch, gazed, side 
 
 side, 
 In speechless admiration. I, a witness 
 And frequent sharer of their calm delight 
 With thankful heart, to either Eminence 
 Gave the baptismal name each Sister bore. 
 Now are they parted, far as Death's cold hand 
 Hath power to part the Spirits of those who love 
 As they did love. Ye kindred Pinnacles — 
 That, while the generations of mankind 
 Follow each other to their hiding-place 
 In time's abyss, are privileged to endure 
 Beautiful in yourselves, and richly graced 
 With like command of beauty — grant your aid 
 For Mary's humble, Sarah's silent, claim, 
 That their pure joy in nature may survive 
 From age to age in blended memory. 
 
 1845, 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 113 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 A MORNING EXERCISE. 
 
 Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad, 
 Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw ; 
 Sending sad shadows after things not sad, 
 Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe : 
 Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry 
 Becomes an echo of man's misery. 
 
 Blithe ravens croak of death ; and when the owl 
 Tries his two voices for a favourite strain — ■ 
 Tu-whit — Tu-whoo! the unsuspecting fowl 
 Forebodes mishap or seems but to complain ; 
 Fancy, intent to harass and annoy, 
 Can thus pervert the evidence of joy. 
 
 Through border wilds where naked Indians stray, 
 Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill ; 
 A feathered task-master cries, "Work away ! " 
 And, in thy iteration, u Whip poor Will * ! " 
 Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave, 
 Lashed out of life, not cpiiet in the grave. 
 
 What wonder ? at her bidding, ancient lays 
 Steeped in dire grief the voice of Philomel ; 
 And that fleet messenger of summer days, 
 The Swallow, twittered subject to like spell ; 
 But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant Lark 
 To melancholy service — hark ! hark ! 
 
 The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn, 
 Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed ; 
 But He is risen, a later star of dawn, 
 GUttering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud ; 
 Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark ; 
 The happiest bird that sprang out of the Ark ! 
 
 Hail, blest above all kinds ! — Supremely skilled 
 j Restless with fixed to balance, high with low, 
 : Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to build 
 j On such forbearance as the deep may show ; 
 ! Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties, 
 Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise. 
 
 Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek do ve ; 
 Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee ; 
 So constant with thy downward eye of love, 
 Yet, in aerial singleness, so free ; 
 So humble, yet so ready to rejoice 
 In power of wing and never-wearied voice. 
 
 To the last point of vision, and beyond, 
 Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain, 
 ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
 Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 
 Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 
 All independent of the leafy spring. 
 
 How would it please old Ocean to partake, 
 With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, 
 The harmony thy notes most gladly make 
 Where earth resembles most his own domain ! 
 Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear 
 These matins mounting towards her native sphere. 
 
 Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no bars 
 To day-light known deter from that pursuit, 
 'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars 
 Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute ; 
 For not an eyelid could to sleep incline 
 Wert thou among them, singing as they shine ! 
 
 1828. 
 
 * See Waterton's Wanderings in South America. 
 
 A FLOWER GARDEN, 
 
 AT COLEOBTON HALL, LEICESTERSHIRE. 
 
 Tell me, ye Zephyrs ! that unfold, 
 
 While fluttering o'er this gay Recess, 
 
 Pinions that fanned the teeming mould 
 
 Of Eden's blissful wilderness, 
 
 Did only softly-stealing hours 
 
 There close the peaceful lives of flowers \ 
 
 Say, when the moving creatures saw 
 All kinds commingled without fear, 
 Prevailed a like indulgent law 
 For the still growths that prosper here ? 
 Did wanton fawn and kid forbear 
 The half-blown rose, the lily spare ? 
 
114 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 Or peeped they often from their beds 
 And prematurely disappeared, 
 Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads 
 A bosom to the sun endeared ? 
 If such then.' harsh untimely doom, 
 It falls not here on bud or bloom. 
 
 All summer-long the happy Eve 
 Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind, 
 Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve, 
 From the next glance she casts, to find 
 That love for little things by Fate 
 Is rendered vain as love for great. 
 
 Yet, where the guardian fence is wound, 
 So subtly are our eyes beguiled 
 We see not nor suspect a bound, 
 No more than in some forest wild ; 
 The sight is free as ah' — or crost 
 Only by art in nature lost. 
 
 And, though the jealous turf refuse 
 By random footsteps to be prest, 
 And feed on never-sullied dews, 
 Ye, gentle breezes from the west, 
 With all the ministers of hope 
 Are tempted to this sunny slope ! 
 
 And hither throngs of birds resort ; 
 Some, inmates lodged in shady nests, 
 Some, perched on stems of stately port 
 That nod to welcome transient guests ; 
 While hare and leveret, seen at play, 
 Appear not more shut out than they. 
 
 Apt emblem (for reproof of pride) 
 This delicate Enclosure shows 
 Of modest kindness, that would hide 
 The firm protection she bestows ; 
 Of manners, like its viewless fence, 
 Ensuring peace to innocence. 
 
 Thus spake the moral Muse — her wing 
 Abruptly spreading to depart, 
 She left that farewell offering, 
 Memento for some docile heart ; 
 That may respect the good old age 
 When Fancy was Truth's willing Page ; 
 And Truth would skim the flowery glade, 
 Though entering but as Fancy's Shade. 
 
 1824. 
 
 A whirl-blast from behind the hill 
 Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound ; 
 Then — all at once the air was still, 
 And showers of hailstones pattered round. 
 Where leafless oaks towered high above, 
 I sat within an undergrove 
 Of tallest hollies, tall and green ; 
 A fairer bower was never seen. 
 From year to year the spacious floor 
 With withered leaves is covered o'er, 
 And all the year the bower is green. 
 But see ! where'er the hailstones drop 
 The withered leaves all skip and hop ; 
 There's not a breeze — no breath of air- 
 Yet here, and there, and every where 
 Along the floor, beneath the shade 
 By those embowering hollies made, 
 The leaves in myriads jump and spring, 
 As if with pipes and music rare 
 Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 
 And all those leaves, in festive glee, 
 Wei'e dancing to the minstrelsy. 
 
 THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 
 
 i. 
 " Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," 
 Exclaimed an angry Voice, 
 " Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 
 Between me and my choice !" 
 A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 
 Thus threatened a poor Briaivrose, 
 That, all bespattered with his foam, 
 And dancing high and dancing low, 
 Was living, as a child might know, 
 In an unhappy home. 
 
 "Dost thou presume my course to block? 
 
 Off, off ! or, puny Thing ! 
 
 I '11 hurl thee headlong with the rock 
 
 To which thy fibres cling." 
 
 The Flood was tyrannous and strong ; 
 
 The patient Briar suffered long, 
 
 Nor did he utter groan or sigh, 
 
 Hoping the danger would be past ; 
 
 But, seeing no relief, at last, 
 
 He ventured to reply. 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 115 
 
 "Ah !" said the Briar, "blame me not ; 
 
 Why should we dwell in strife ? 
 
 We who in this sequestered spot 
 
 Once lived a happy life ! 
 
 You stirred me on my rocky bed — 
 
 What pleasure through my veins you spread 
 
 The summer long, from day to day, 
 
 My leaves you freshened and bedewed ; 
 
 Nor was it common gratitude 
 
 That did your cares repay. 
 
 When spring came on with bud and bell, 
 
 Among these rocks did I 
 
 Before you hang my wreaths to tell 
 
 That gentle days were nigh ! 
 
 And in the sultry summer hours, 
 
 I sheltered you with leaves and flowers ; 
 
 And in my leaves — now shed and gone, 
 
 The linnet lodged, and for us two 
 
 Chanted his pretty songs, when you 
 
 Had little voice or none. 
 
 But now proud thoughts are in your breast — 
 
 What grief is mine you see, 
 
 Ah ! would you think , even yet how blest 
 
 Together we might be ! 
 
 Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 
 
 Some ornaments to me are left — 
 
 Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
 
 With which I, in my humble way, 
 
 Would deck you many a winter day, 
 
 A happy Eglantine ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 What more he said I cannot tell, 
 The Torrent clown the rocky dell 
 Came thundering loud and fast ; 
 I listened, nor aught else could hear ; 
 The Briar quaked — and much I fear 
 Those accents were his last. 
 
 THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
 
 A TASTORAL. 
 
 r. 
 His simple truths did Andrew glean 
 Beside the babbling rills ; 
 A careful student he had been 
 Among the woods and hills. 
 
 One winter's night, when through the trees 
 The wind was roaring, on his knees 
 His yoimgest born did Andrew hold : 
 And while the rest, a ruddy quire, 
 Were seated round their blazing fire, 
 This Tale the Shepherd told. 
 
 " I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
 
 As ever tempest beat ! 
 
 Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
 
 A Broom out of its feet. 
 
 The time was March, a cheerful noon — 
 
 The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, 
 
 Breathed gently from the warm south-west : 
 
 When, in a voice sedate with age, 
 
 This Oak, a giant and a sage, 
 
 His neighbour thus addressed : — 
 
 ' Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, 
 
 Along this mountain's edge, 
 
 The Frost hath wrought both night and day, 
 
 Wedge driving after wedge. 
 
 Look up ! and think, above your head 
 
 What trouble, surely, will be bred ; 
 
 Last night I heard a crash — 'tis true, 
 
 The splinters took another road — 
 
 I see them yonder — what a load 
 
 For such a Thing as you ! 
 
 You are preparing as before, 
 
 To deck your slender shape ; 
 
 And yet, just three years back — no more — 
 
 You had a strange escape : 
 
 Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; 
 
 It thundered down, with fire and smoke, 
 
 And hitherward pursued its way ; 
 
 This ponderous block was caught by me, 
 
 And o'er your head, as you may see, 
 
 "Tis hanging to this day ! 
 
 If breeze or bird to this rough steep 
 
 Your kind's first seed did bear ; 
 
 The breeze had better been asleep, 
 
 The bird caught in a snare : 
 
 For you and your green twigs decoy 
 
 The little witless shepherd-boy 
 
 To come and slumber in your bower ; 
 
 And, trust me, on some sultry noon, 
 
 Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon ! 
 
 Will perish in one hour. 
 
116 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Their nuptial song, a gladsome air ; 
 
 From me this friendly warning take' — 
 
 And to her own green bower the breeze 
 
 The Broom began to doze, 
 
 That instant brought two stripling bees 
 
 And thus, to keep herself awake, 
 
 To rest, or murmur there. 
 
 Did gently interpose : 
 
 
 'My thanks for your discourse are due ; 
 
 XI. 
 
 That more than what you say is true, 
 
 One night, my Children ! from the north 
 
 I know, and I have known it long ; 
 
 There came a furious blast ; 
 
 Frail is the bond by which we hold 
 
 At break of day I ventured forth, 
 
 Our being, whether young or old, 
 
 And near the cliff I passed. 
 
 Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. 
 
 The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 
 
 
 And struck him with a mighty stroke, 
 
 VII. 
 
 And whirled, and whirled him far away ; 
 
 Disasters, do the best we can, 
 
 And, in one hospitable cleft, 
 
 Will reach both great and small ; 
 
 The little careless Broom was left 
 
 And he is oft the wisest man, 
 
 To live for many a day." 
 
 Who is not wise at all. 
 
 1800. 
 
 For me, why should I wish to roam 1 
 
 
 This spot is my paternal home, 
 
 
 It is my pleasant heritage ; 
 
 
 My father many a happy year, 
 
 VI. 
 
 Spread here his careless blossoms, here 
 
 TO A SEXTON. 
 
 Attained a good old age. 
 
 
 
 Let thy wheel-barrow alone — 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Wherefore, Sexton, piling still 
 
 Even such as his may be my lot. 
 
 In thy bone-house bone on bone ? 
 
 What cause have I to haunt 
 
 'Tis already like a hill 
 
 My heart with terrors ? Am I not 
 
 In a field of battle made, 
 
 In truth a favoured plant ! 
 
 Where three thousand skulls are laid; 
 
 On me such bounty Summer pours, 
 
 These died in peace each with the other,. — ■ 
 
 That I am covered o'er with flowers ; 
 
 Father, sister, friend, and brother. 
 
 And, when the Frost is in the sky, 
 
 
 My branches are so fresh and gay 
 
 Mark the spot to which I point ! 
 
 That you might look at me and say, 
 
 From this platform, eight feet square, 
 
 This Plant can never die. 
 
 Take not even a finger-joint: 
 
 
 Andrew's whole fire-side is there. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Here, alone, before thine eyes, 
 Simon's sickly daughter lies, 
 
 The butterfly, all green and gold, 
 
 To me hath often flown, 
 
 
 From weakness now, and pain defended, 
 
 Here in my blossoms to behold 
 
 Whom he twenty winters tended. 
 
 Wings lovely as his own. 
 
 
 When grass is chill with rain or dew, 
 
 
 Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe 
 
 Look but at the gardener's pride — 
 
 Lies with her infant lamb ; I see 
 
 How he glories, when he sees 
 
 The love they to each other make, 
 
 Roses, lilies, side by side, 
 
 And the sweet joy which they partake, 
 
 Violets in families ! 
 
 It is a joy to me.' 
 
 By the heart of Man, his tears, 
 
 
 By his hopes and by his fears, 
 
 X. 
 
 Thou, too heedless, art the Warden 
 
 Her voice was blithe, her heart was light ; 
 
 Of a far superior garden. 
 
 The Broom might have pursued 
 
 
 Her speech, until the stars of night 
 
 Thus then, each to other dear, 
 
 Their journey had renewed ; 
 
 Let them all in quiet lie, 
 
 But in the branches of the oak 
 
 Andrew there, and Susan here, 
 
 Two ravens now began to croak 
 
 Neighbours in mortality. 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 117 
 
 And, should I live through sun and rain 
 Seven widowed years without my Jane, 
 Sexton, do not then remove her, 
 Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover ! 
 
 1799. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 ' Her * divine skill taught me this, 
 That from every thing I saw 
 I could some instruction draw, 
 And raise pleasure to the height 
 Through the meanest object's sight. 
 By the murmur of a spring, 
 Or the least bough's rustelling ; 
 By a Daisy whose leaves spread 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
 Or a shady bush or tree ; 
 She could more infuse in me 
 Than all Nature's beauties can 
 In some other wiser man.' 
 
 G. Wither. 
 
 In youth from rock to rock I went, 
 From hill to hill in discontent 
 Of pleasure high and turbulent, 
 
 Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
 But now my own delights I make, — 
 My thirst at every rill can slake, 
 And gladly Nature's love partake, 
 
 Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 
 
 Thee Winter in the garland wears 
 That thinly decks his few grey hairs ; 
 Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 
 
 That she may sun thee ; 
 Whole Summer-fields are thine by right ; 
 And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
 Doth in thy crimson head delight 
 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
 In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
 Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; 
 Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 
 
 Yet nothing daunted, 
 Nor grieved if thou be set at nought : 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 Be violets in their secret mews 
 The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; 
 Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
 Her head impearling, 
 
 * His muse. 
 
 Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
 Thou art indeed by many a claim 
 The Poet's darling. 
 
 If to a rock from rains he fly, 
 Or, some bright day of April sky, 
 Imprisoned by hot sunshine He 
 
 Near the green holly, 
 And wearily at length should fare ; 
 He needs but look about, and there 
 Thou art !— a friend at hand, to scare 
 
 His melancholy. 
 
 A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
 Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 
 Some apprehension ; 
 Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
 Some memory that had taken flight ; 
 Some chime of fancy wrong or right ; 
 
 Or stray invention. 
 
 If stately passions in me burn, 
 
 And one chance look to Thee should turn, 
 
 I drink out of an humbler urn 
 
 A lowlier pleasure ; 
 The homely sympathy that heeds 
 The common life, our nature breeds ; 
 A wisdom fitted to the needs 
 
 Of hearts at leisure. 
 
 Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
 When thou art up, alert and gay, 
 Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 
 
 With kindred gladness : 
 And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
 Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
 Hath often eased my pensive breast 
 
 Of careful sadness. 
 
 And all day long I number yet, 
 All seasons through, another debt, 
 Which I, wherever thou art met, 
 
 To thee am owing; 
 An instinct call it, a blind sense ; 
 A happy, genial influence, 
 Coming one knows not how, nor whence. 
 
 Nor whither going. 
 
 Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
 Thy pleasant course, — when day's begun 
 As ready to salute the sun 
 
118 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 As lark or leveret. 
 Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; 
 Nor be less dear to future men 
 Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 
 
 Art Nature's favourite.* 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that in the great world be, 
 
 Daisy ! again I talk to thee, 
 
 For thou art worthy, 
 Thou unassuming Common-place 
 Of Nature, with that homely face, 
 And yet with something of a grace, 
 
 Which Love makes for thee ! 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 
 I sit, and play with similies, 
 
 Loose types of things through all degrees, 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising : 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
 As is the humour of the game, 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A nun demure of lowly port; 
 
 Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations ; 
 A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
 Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little cyclops, with one eye 
 Staring to threaten and defy, 
 That thought comes next — and instantly 
 
 The fj-eak is over, 
 The shape will vanish — and behold 
 A silver shield with boss of gold, 
 That spreads itself, some faery bold 
 
 In fight to cover ! 
 
 I see thee glittering from afar — 
 And then thou art a pretty star ; 
 Not quite so fan' as many are 
 
 * See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours 
 formerly paid to this flower. 
 
 In heaven above thee ! 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
 Self-poised in ah' thou seem'st to rest ; — - 
 May peace come never to his nest, 
 
 Who shall reprove thee ! 
 
 Bright Floiver ! for by that name at last, 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 
 
 Sweet silent creature ! 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET. 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
 Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
 With brightest sunshine round me spread 
 
 Of spring's unclouded weather, 
 In this sequestered nook how sweet 
 To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
 And birds and flowers once more to greet, 
 
 My last year's friends together. 
 
 One have I marked, the happiest guest 
 In all this covert of the blest : 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 
 In joy of voice and pinion ! 
 Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, 
 Presiding Spirit here to-day, 
 Dost lead the revels of the May ; 
 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, 
 Make all one band of paramours, 
 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 
 
 Art sole in thy employment : 
 A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
 Scattering thy gladness without care, 
 Too blest with any one to pair ; 
 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
 Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
 Behold him perched in ecstacies, 
 
 Yet seeming still to hover ; 
 There ! where the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 

 
 
 POEMS OF ' 
 
 rHE FANCY. 
 
 119 
 
 My dazzled sight he oft deceives. 
 
 
 
 A Brother of the dancing leaves ; 
 
 XI. 
 
 
 Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.* 
 
 
 Pours forth his song in gushes ; 
 
 
 
 As if by that exulting strain 
 
 He mocked and treated with disdain 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
 
 
 Let them live upon their praises ; 
 
 
 The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 
 
 Long as there's a sun that sets, 
 
 
 While fluttering in the bushes. 
 
 Primroses will have their glory ; 
 
 
 JW3. 
 
 Long as there are violets, 
 They will have a place in story : 
 There 's a flower that shall be mine, 
 
 
 
 X. 
 
 'Tis the little Celandine. 
 
 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 For the finding of a star ; 
 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds .' 
 
 Up and down the heavens they go, 
 
 
 For thy song, Lark, is strong; 
 
 Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
 
 
 Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 I 'm as great as they, I trow, 
 
 
 Singing, singing, 
 
 Since the day I found thee out, 
 
 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 
 
 Little Flower ! — I '11 make a stir, 
 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 
 Like a sage astronomer. 
 
 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 
 
 Modest, yet withal an Elf 
 Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 
 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary 
 
 Since we needs must first have met 
 
 
 And to-day my heart is weary ; 
 
 I have seen thee, high and low, 
 
 
 Had I now the wings of a Faery, 
 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 
 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 
 'Twas a face I did not know ; 
 
 
 There is madness about thee, and joy divine 
 
 Thou hast now, go where I may, 
 
 
 In that song of thine ; 
 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 
 Lift me, guide me high and high 
 
 
 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 
 
 Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
 
 In the time before the thrush 
 
 
 Joyous as morning, 
 
 Has a thought about her nest, 
 
 
 Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
 
 Thou wilt come with half a call, 
 
 
 Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 
 
 And, though little troubled with sloth, 
 
 Like a careless Prodigal ; 
 
 
 Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth 
 
 Telling tales about the sun, 
 
 
 To be such a traveller as I. 
 
 When we 've little warmth, or none. 
 
 
 Happy, happy Liver, 
 
 
 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain river 
 
 Poets, vain men in their mood ! 
 
 
 Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver, 
 
 Travel with the multitude : 
 
 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 
 
 Never heed them ; I aver 
 
 That they all are wanton wooers ; 
 
 But the thrifty cottager, 
 
 
 Alao ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 
 
 Who stirs little out of doors, 
 
 
 Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; 
 
 Joys to spy thee near her home ; 
 
 
 But healing thee, or others of thy kind, 
 
 Spring is coming, Thou art come ! 
 
 
 As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
 
 
 I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
 
 
 And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. 
 
 1805. 
 
 
 Careless of thy neighbourhood, 
 
 
 
 Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
 
 
 
 
 * Common Pilewort. 
 
120 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 On the moor, and in the wood, 
 
 Often have I sighed to measure 
 
 
 In the lane ; — there 's not a place, 
 
 By myself a lonely pleasure, 
 
 
 Howsoever mean it be, 
 
 Sighed to think, I read a book 
 
 
 But 'tis good enough for thee. 
 
 Only read, perhaps, by me ; 
 Yet I long could overlook 
 
 
 Ill befal the yellow flowers, 
 
 Thy bright coronet and Thee, 
 
 
 Children of the flaring hours ! 
 
 And thy arch and wily ways, 
 
 
 Buttercups, that will be seen, 
 
 And thy store of other praise. 
 
 
 Whether we will see or no ; 
 
 
 
 Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
 
 Blithe of heart, from week to week 
 
 
 They have done as worldlings do, 
 
 Thou dost play at hide-and-seek ; 
 
 
 Taken praise that should be thine, 
 
 While the patient primrose sits 
 
 
 Little, humble Celandine ! 
 
 Like a beggar in the cold, 
 Thou, a flower of wiser wits, 
 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth, 
 
 Slip'st into thy sheltering hold ; 
 
 
 Ill-requited upon earth ; 
 
 Liveliest of the vernal train 
 
 
 Herald of a mighty band, 
 
 When ye all are out again. 
 
 
 Of a joyous train ensuing, 
 
 
 
 Serving at my heart's command, 
 
 Drawn by what peculiar spell, 
 
 
 Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
 
 By what charm of sight or smell, 
 
 
 I will sing, as doth behove, 
 
 Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
 
 
 Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
 
 Labouring for her waxen cells, 
 
 
 J803. 
 
 Fondly settle upon Thee 
 Prized above all buds and bells 
 
 
 
 
 
 Opening daily at thy side, 
 
 
 XII. 
 
 By the season multiplied? 
 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 Thou art not beyond the moon, 
 
 
 Pleasures newly found are sweet 
 
 But a thing ' beneath our shoon : ' 
 
 
 When they lie about our feet : 
 
 Let the bold Discoverer thrid 
 
 
 February last, my heart 
 
 In his bark the polar sea ; 
 
 
 First at sight of thee was glad ; 
 
 Rear who will a pyramid ; 
 
 
 All unheard of as thou art, 
 
 Praise it is enough for me, 
 
 
 Thou must needs, I think, have had, 
 
 If there be but three or four 
 
 
 Celandine ! and long ago, 
 
 Who will love my little Flower. 
 
 
 Praise of which I nothing know. 
 
 1803 
 
 
 I have not a doubt but he, 
 
 xnr. 
 
 
 Whosoe'er the man might be, 
 
 THE SEVEN SISTERS ; 
 
 
 Who the first with pointed rays 
 
 
 
 (Workman worthy to be sainted) 
 
 OR, 
 
 
 Set the sign-board in a blaze, 
 
 THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. 
 
 
 When the rising sun he painted, 
 
 i. 
 
 
 Took the fancy from a glance 
 
 Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, 
 
 
 At thy glittering countenance. 
 
 All children of one mother : 
 
 You could not say in one short day 
 
 
 Soon as gentle breezes bring 
 
 What love they bore each other. 
 
 
 News of winter's vanishing, 
 
 A garland, of seven lilies, wrought ! 
 
 
 And the children build their bowers, 
 
 Seven Sisters that together dwell ; 
 
 
 Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 
 
 But he, bold Knight as ever fought, 
 
 
 All about with full-blown flowers, 
 
 Their Father, took of them no thought, 
 
 
 Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold ! 
 
 He loved the wars so well. 
 
 
 With the proudest thou art there, 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 
 
 Mantling in the tiny square. 
 
 The solitude of Binnorie ! 
 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 121 
 
 Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, 
 
 And from the shores of Erin, 
 
 Across the wave, a Rover brave 
 
 To Binnorie is steering : 
 
 Right onward to the Scottish strand 
 
 The gallant ship is bome ; 
 
 The warriors leap upon the land, 
 
 And hark ! the Leader of the band 
 
 Hath blown his bugle horn. 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 
 The solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Beside a grotto of their own, 
 With boughs above them closing, 
 The Seven are laid, and in the shade 
 They lie like fawns reposing. 
 But now, upstarting with affright 
 At noise of man and steed, 
 Away they fly to left, to right — 
 Of your fair household, Father-knight, 
 Methinks you take small heed ! 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 The solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Away the seven fair Campbells fly, 
 
 And, over hill and hollow, 
 
 With menace proud, and insult loud, 
 
 The youthful Rovers follow. 
 
 Cried they, " Your Father loves to roam 
 
 Enough for him to find 
 
 The empty house when he comes home ; 
 
 For us your yellow ringlets comb, 
 
 For us be fair and kind ! " 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 
 The solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Some close behind, some side by side, 
 
 Like clouds in stormy weather ; 
 
 They run, and cry, " Nay, let us die, 
 
 And let us die together." 
 
 A lake was near ; the shore was steep 
 
 There never foot had been ; 
 
 They ran, and with a desperate leap 
 
 Together plunged into the deep, 
 
 Nor ever more were seen. 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 
 The solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 The stream that flows out of the lake, 
 As through the glen it rambles, 
 Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, 
 For those seven lovely Campbells. 
 Seven little Islands, green and bare • 
 Have risen from out the deep : 
 The fishers say, those sisters fair, 
 By faeries all are buried there, 
 And there together sleep. 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 The solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Who fancied what a pretty sight 
 This Rock would be if edged around 
 With living snow-drops ? circlet bright ! 
 How glorious to this orchard-ground ! 
 Who loved the little Rock, and set 
 Upon its head this coronet ? 
 
 Was it the humour of a child \ 
 
 Or rather of some gentle maid, 
 
 Whose brows, the day that she was styled 
 
 The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed ? 
 
 Of man mature, or matron sage ? 
 
 Or old man toying with his age ! 
 
 I asked — 'twas whispered ; The device 
 To each and all might well belong : 
 Tt is the Spirit of Paradise 
 That prompts such work, a Spirit strong, 
 That gives to all the self-same bent 
 Where life is wise and innocent. 
 
 REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, 
 The pious bird with the scarlet breast, 
 
 Our little English Robin ; 
 The bird that comes about our doors 
 When Autumn-winds are sobbing ? 
 Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors ? 
 
 Their Thomas in Finland, 
 
 And Russia far inland \ 
 The bird, that by some name or other 
 All men who know thee call then" brother, 
 
122 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 The darling of children and men ? 
 Could Father Adam * open his eyes 
 And see this sight beneath the skies, 
 He 'd wish to close them again. 
 — If the Butterfly knew but his friend. 
 Hither Ms flight he woidd bend ; 
 And find his way to me, 
 Under the branches of the tree : 
 In and out, he darts about ; 
 Can this be the bird, to man so good, 
 That, after their bewildering, 
 Covered with leaves the little children, 
 So painfully in the wood ? 
 
 What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue 
 
 A beautiful creature, 
 That is gentle by nature ? 
 Beneath the summer sky 
 From flower to flower let him fly ; 
 'Tis all that he wishes to do. 
 The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 
 He is the friend of our summer gladness : 
 What hinders, then, that ye should be 
 Playmates in the sunny weather, 
 And fly about in the air together ! 
 His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 
 A crimson as bright as thine own : 
 Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, 
 O pious Bird ! whom man loves best, 
 Love him, or leave him alone ! 
 
 1806. 
 
 SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL. 
 
 FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAX, 
 VALES OF WESTMORELAND. 
 
 Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel ! 
 Night has brought the welcome hour, 
 When the weary fingers feel 
 Help, as if from faery power ; 
 Dewy night o'ershades the ground ; 
 Turn the swift wheel round and round ! 
 
 Now, beneath the starry sky, 
 Couch the widely-scattered sheep ; — 
 Ply the pleasant labour, ply ! 
 For the spindle, while they sleep, 
 Runs with speed more smooth and fine, 
 Gathering up a trustier line. 
 
 * See Paradise Lost, Book XI., where Adam points out 
 to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing < two Birds 
 of gayest plume,' and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued 
 by their enemy. 
 
 Short-lived likings may be bred 
 By a glance from fickle eyes ; 
 But true love is like the thread 
 Which the kindly wool supplies, 
 When the flocks are all at rest 
 Sleeping on the mountain's breast. 
 
 XVII, 
 
 HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS. 
 
 " Who but hails the sight with pleasure 
 When the wings of genius rise, 
 Their ability to measure 
 
 With great enterprise ; 
 But in man was ne'er such daring 
 As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing 
 His brave spirit with the war in 
 
 The stormy skies ! 
 
 Mark him, how his power he uses, 
 Lays it by, at will resumes ! 
 Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses 
 
 Clouds and utter glooms ! 
 There, he wheels in downward mazes ; 
 Sunward now his flight he raises, 
 Catches fire, as seems, and blazes 
 
 With uninjured plumes !" — 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 " Stranger, 'tis no act of courage 
 Which aloft thou dost discern ; 
 No bold bird gone forth to forage 
 
 'Mid the tempest stern ; 
 But such mockery as the nations 
 See, when public perturbations 
 Lift men from their native stations, 
 
 Like yon Tuft of fern ; 
 
 Such it is ; the aspiring creature 
 Soaring on undaunted wing, 
 (So you fancied) is by nature 
 
 A dull helpless thing, 
 Dry and withered, light and yellow ; — 
 That to be the tempest's fellow ! 
 Wait — and you shall see how hollow 
 
 Its endeavouring !" 
 
 1817. 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 123 
 
 xvm. 
 
 ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE 
 FORM OF A HARP. 
 
 THE WORK OF K.M.S. 
 
 Frowns are on every MuseVface, 
 Reproaches from their lips are sent, 
 
 That mimicry should thus disgrace 
 The noble Instrument. 
 
 A very Harp in all but size ! 
 
 Needles for strings in apt gradation ! 
 Minerva's self would stigmatize 
 
 The unclassic profanation. 
 
 Even her own needle that subdued 
 
 Arachne's rival spirit, 
 Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, 
 
 Such honour could not merit. 
 
 And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, 
 
 A living lord of melody ! 
 How will her Sire be reconciled 
 
 To the refined indignity \ 
 
 I spake, when whispered a low voice, 
 
 " Bard ! moderate your ire ; 
 Spirits of all degrees rejoice 
 
 In presence of the lyre. 
 
 The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, 
 Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, 
 
 Have shells to fit their tiny hands 
 And suit their slender lays. 
 
 Some, still more delicate of ear, 
 
 Have lutes (believe my words) 
 Whose framework is of gossamer, 
 
 While sunbeams are the chords. 
 
 Gay Sylphs this miniature will court, 
 Made vocal by then- brushing wings, 
 
 And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport 
 Around its polished strings ; 
 
 Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear, 
 While in her lonely bower she tries 
 
 To cheat the thought she cannot cheer, 
 By fanciful embroideries. 
 
 Trust, angry Bard ! a knowing Sprite, 
 
 Nor think, the Harp her lot deplores ; 
 
 Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine bright, 
 
 Love stoops as fondly as he soars." 
 
 1827. 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A 
 
 POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF 
 
 FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA. 
 
 Faie Lady ! can I sing of flowers 
 
 That in Madeira bloom and fade, 
 I who ne'er sate -within their bowers, 
 
 Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed \ 
 How they in sprightly dance are worn 
 
 By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, 
 Or holy festal pomps adorn, 
 
 These eyes have never seen. 
 
 Yet tho' to me the pencil's art 
 
 No like remembrances can give, 
 Your portraits still may reach the heart 
 
 And there for gentle pleasure live ; 
 While Fancy ranging with free scope 
 
 Shall on some lovely Alien set 
 A name with us endeared to hope, 
 
 To peace, or fond regret. 
 
 Still as we look with nicer care, 
 
 Some new resemblance we may trace : 
 A Hearth-ease will perhaps be there, 
 
 A Speedwell may not want its place. 
 And so may we, with charmed mind 
 
 Beholding what your skill has wrought, 
 Another Star-of-Betldeliem find, 
 
 A new Forget-me-not. 
 
 From earth to heaven with motion fleet 
 
 From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass, 
 A Holy-thistle here we meet 
 
 And there a Shepherd's weather-glass; 
 And haply some familiar name 
 
 Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant 
 Whose presence cheers the drooping frame 
 
 Of English Emigrant. 
 
 Gazing she feels its power beguile 
 
 Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath ; 
 Alas ! that meek that tender smile 
 
 Is but a harbinger of death : 
 And pointing with a feeble hand 
 
 She says, in faint words by sighs broken, 
 Bear for me to my native land 
 
 This precious Flower, true love's last token. 
 
124 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 Glad sight wherever new with old 
 
 Is joined through some dear homehorn tie ; 
 
 The life of all that we behold 
 
 Depends upon that mystery. 
 
 Vain is the glory of the sky, 
 
 The beauty vain of field and grove 
 
 Unless, while with admiring eye 
 
 We gaze, we also learn to love. 
 
 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 THE PARROT AND THE WREN. 
 I. 
 
 Within her gilded cage confined, 
 I saw a dazzling Belle, 
 A Parrot of that famous kind 
 Whose name is Non-pareil. 
 
 Like beads of glossy jet her eyes ; 
 And, smoothed by Nature's skill, 
 With pearl or gleaming agate vies 
 Her finely-curved bill. 
 
 Her plumy mantle's living hues 
 In mass opposed to mass, 
 Outshine the splendour that imbues 
 The robes of pictured glass. 
 
 And, sooth to say, an apter Mate 
 Did never tempt the choice 
 Of feathered Thing most delicate 
 In figure and in voice. 
 
 But, exiled from Australian bowers, 
 And singleness her lot, 
 She trills her song with tutored powers, 
 Or mocks each casual note. 
 
 No more of pity for regrets 
 With which she may have striven ! 
 Now but in wantonness she frets, 
 Or spite, if cause be given ; 
 
 Arch, volatile, a sportive bird 
 By social glee inspired ; 
 Ambitious to be seen or heard, 
 And pleased to be admired ! 
 
 This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry, 
 Harbours a self-contented Wren, 
 Not shunning man's abode, though shy, 
 Almost as thought itself, of human ken. 
 
 Strange places, coverts unendeared, 
 
 She never tried ; the very nest 
 
 In which this Child of Spring was reared, 
 
 Is warmed, thro' winter, by her feathery breast. 
 
 To the bleak winds she sometimes gives 
 A slender unexpected strain ; 
 Proof that the hermitess still lives, 
 Though she appear not, and be sought in vain. 
 
 Say, Dora ! tell me, by yon placid moon, 
 If called to choose between the favoured pair, 
 Which would you be, — the bird of the saloon, 
 By lady-fingers tended with nice care, 
 Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed, 
 Or Nature's Darkling of this mossy shed 1 
 
 1825. 
 
 THE DANISH BOY. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Between two sister moorland rills 
 
 There is a spot that seems to lie 
 
 Sacred to flowerets of the hills, 
 
 And sacred to the sky. 
 
 And in this smooth and open dell 
 
 There is a tempest-stricken tree ; 
 
 A corner-stone by lightning cut, 
 
 The last stone of a lonely hut ; 
 
 And in this dell you see 
 
 A thing no storm can e'er destroy, 
 
 The shadow of a Danish Boy. 
 
 In clouds above, the lark is heard, 
 But drops not here to earth for rest ; 
 Within this lonesome nook the bird 
 Did never build her nest. 
 No beast, no bird hath here his home ; 
 Bees, wafted on the breezy air, 
 Pass high above those fragrant bells 
 To other flowers : — to other dells 
 Their burthens do they bear ; 
 The Danish Boy walks here alone : 
 The lovely dell is all his own. 
 
POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 125 
 
 A Spirit of noon-day is he ; 
 
 Yet seems a form of flesh and blood; 
 
 Nor piping shepherd shall he be, 
 
 Nor herd-boy of the wood. 
 
 A regal vest of fur he wears, 
 
 In colour like a raven's wing; 
 
 It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew ; 
 
 But in the storm tis fresh and blue 
 
 As budding pines in spring ; 
 
 His helmet has a vernal grace, 
 
 Fresh as the bloom upon his face. 
 
 A harp is from his shoulder slung ; 
 Resting the harp upon his knee ; 
 To words of a forgotten tongue, 
 He suits its melody. 
 Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill 
 He is the darling and the joy ; 
 And often, when no cause appears, 
 The mountain-ponies prick their ears, 
 — They hear the Danish Boy, 
 While in the dell he sings alone 
 Beside the tree and corner-stone. 
 
 There sits he ; in his face you spy 
 
 No trace of a ferocious air, 
 
 Nor ever was a cloudless sky 
 
 So steady or so fair. 
 
 The lovely Danish Boy is blest 
 
 And happy in his flowery cove : 
 
 From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; 
 
 And yet he warbles songs of war, 
 
 That seem like songs of love, 
 
 For calm and gentle is his mien ; 
 
 Like a dead Boy he is serene. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 SONG 
 
 FOR THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 Though the torrents from their fountains 
 Roar down many a craggy steep, 
 Yet they find among the mountains 
 Resting-places calm and deep. 
 
 Clouds that love through air to hasten, 
 Ere the storm its fury stills, 
 Helmet-like thdmselves will fasten 
 On the heads of towering hills. 
 
 What, if through the frozen centre 
 Of the Alps the Chamois bound, 
 Yet he has a home to enter 
 In some nook of chosen ground : 
 
 And the Sea-horse, though the ocean 
 Yield him no domestic cave, 
 Slumbers without sense of motion, 
 Couched upon the rocking wave. 
 
 If on windy days the Raven 
 Gambol like a dancing skiff, 
 Not the less she loves her haven 
 In the bosom of the cliff. 
 
 The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, 
 Vagrant over desert sands, 
 Brooding on her eggs reposes 
 When chill night that care demands. 
 
 Day and night my toils redouble, 
 Never nearer to the goal ; 
 Night and day, I feel the trouble 
 Of the Wanderer in my soul. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 STRAY PLEASURES. 
 
 ■ Pleasure is spread through the earth 
 
 In stray gifts to he claimed, by whoever shall find.' 
 
 By their floating mill, 
 
 That lies dead and still, 
 Behold yon Prisoners three, 
 The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the 
 
 Thames ! 
 The platform is small, but gives room for them all ; 
 And they 're dancing merrily. 
 
 From the shore come the notes 
 To their mill where it floats, 
 To their house and their mill tethered fast : 
 To the small wooden isle where, their work to 
 
 beguile, 
 They from morning to even take whatever is given ; — 
 And many a blithe day they have past. 
 
 In sight of the spires, 
 
 All alive with the fires 
 Of the sun going down to his rest, 
 In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, 
 They dance, — there are three, as jocund as free, 
 While they dance on the calm river's breast. 
 
12G 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 Man and Maidens wheel, 
 They themselves make the reel, 
 
 And their music 's a prey which they seize ; 
 
 It plays not for them, — what matter ? 'tis theirs ; 
 
 And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, 
 
 While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please ! " 
 
 They dance not for me, 
 
 Yet mine is their glee ! 
 Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 
 In sti'ay gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find ; 
 Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, 
 Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 
 
 The showers of the spring 
 Rouse the birds, and they sing ; 
 If the wind do but stir for his proper delight, 
 Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss ; 
 Each wave, one and t' other, speeds after his brother : 
 They are happy, for that is their right ! 
 
 1806. 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S DREAM; 
 
 OR, THR STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM. 
 
 A Pilgrim, when the summer day 
 
 Had closed upon his weary way, 
 
 A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof ; 
 
 But him the haughty Warder spurned ; 
 
 And from the gate the Pilgrim turned, 
 
 To seek such covert as the field 
 
 Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield, 
 
 Or lofty wood, shower-proof. 
 
 He paced along ; and, pensively, 
 
 Halting beneath a shady tree, 
 
 Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or 
 
 seat, 
 Fixed on a Star his upward eye ; 
 Then, from the tenant of the sky 
 He turned, and watched with kindred look, 
 A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook, 
 Apparent at his feet.' 
 
 The murmur of a neighbouring stream 
 
 Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, 
 
 A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds 
 
 He recognised the earth-born Star, 
 
 And Tliat which glittered from afar ; 
 
 And (strange to witness !) from the frame 
 
 Of the ethereal Orb, there came 
 
 Intelligible sounds. 
 
 Much did it taunt the humble Light 
 That now, when day was fled, and night 
 Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes, 
 A very reptile could presume 
 To show her taper in the gloom, 
 As if in rivalship with One 
 Who sate a ruler on his throne 
 Erected in the skies. 
 
 " Exalted Star !" the Worm replied, 
 " Abate this unbecoming pride, 
 Or with a less uneasy lustre shine ; 
 Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays 
 Are mastered by the breathing haze ; 
 While neither mist, nor thickest cloud 
 That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, 
 Hath power to injure mine. 
 
 But not for this do I aspire 
 
 To match the spark of local fire, 
 
 That at my will burns on the dewy lawn, 
 
 With thy acknowledged glories ; — No ! 
 
 Yet, thus upbraided, I may show 
 
 What favours do attend me here, 
 
 Till, like thyself, I disappear 
 
 Before the purple dawn." 
 
 When this in modest guise was said, 
 Across the welkin seemed to spread 
 A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit ! 
 Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran ; 
 That Star, so proud 01 late, looked wan ; 
 And reeled with visionary stir 
 In the blue depth, like Lucifer 
 Cast headlong to the pit ! 
 
 Fire raged : and, when the spangled floor 
 
 Of ancient ether was no more, 
 
 New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought fort 
 
 And all the happy Souls that rode 
 
 Transfigured through that fresh abode, 
 
 Had heretofore, in humble trust, 
 
 Shone meekly mid their native dust, 
 
 The Glow-worms of the earth ! 
 
 This knowledge, from an Angel's voice 
 Proceeding, made the heart rejoice 
 Of Him who slept upon the open lea : 
 Waking at morn he murmured not ; 
 And, till life's journey closed, the spot 
 Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared, 
 Where by that dream he had been cheered 
 Beneath the shady tree. 
 
 
— — . 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 127 
 
 i 
 
 
 These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A canopy in some still nook ; 
 
 THE 
 
 Others are pent-housed by a brae 
 
 
 That overhangs a brook. 
 
 POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE. 
 
 
 As often as I murmur here 
 
 There to the brooding bird her mate 
 
 My half-formed melodies, 
 
 Warbles by fits his low clear song ; 
 
 Straight from her osier mansion near, 
 
 And by the busy streamlet both 
 
 The Turtledove replies : 
 
 Are sung to all day long. 
 
 Though silent as a leaf before, 
 
 
 The captive promptly coos ; 
 
 Or in sequestered lanes they build, 
 
 Is it to teach her own soft lore, 
 
 Where, till the flitting bird's return, 
 
 Or second my weak Muse ? 
 
 Her eggs within the nest repose, 
 
 
 Like relics in an urn. 
 
 I rather think, the gentle Dove 
 
 
 Is murmuring a reproof, 
 
 But still, where general choice is good, 
 
 Displeased that I from lays of love 
 
 There is a better and a best ; 
 
 Have dared to keep aloof; 
 
 And, among fairest objects, some 
 
 That I, a Bard of hill and dale, 
 
 Are fairer than the rest ; 
 
 Have caroll'd, fancy free, 
 
 
 As if nor dove nor nightingale, 
 
 This, one of those small builders proved 
 
 Had heart or voice for me. 
 
 In a green covert, where, from out 
 
 
 The forehead of a pollard oak, 
 
 If such thy meaning, forbear, 
 Sweet Bird ! to do me wrong ; 
 
 
 The leafy antlers sprout ; 
 
 Love, blessed Love, is every where 
 
 The spirit of my song : 
 'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, 
 
 
 For She who planned the mossy lodge, 
 Mistrusting her evasive skill, 
 
 
 Had to a Primrose looked for aid 
 
 Love animates my lyre — 
 
 
 Her wishes to fulfil. 
 
 That coo again ! — 't is not to chide, 
 
 
 I feel, but to inspire. 
 
 
 1830. 
 
 High on the trunk's projecting brow, 
 
 
 And fixed an infant's span above 
 The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest 
 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The prettiest of the grove ! 
 
 A WREN'S NEST. 
 
 The treasure proudly did I show 
 
 Among the dwellings framed by birds 
 
 To some whose minds without disdain 
 
 In field or forest with nice care, 
 
 Can turn to little things ; but once 
 
 Is none that with the little Wren's 
 
 Looked up for it in vain : 
 
 In snugness may compare. 
 
 
 
 'Tis gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey, 
 
 No door the tenement requires, 
 
 Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 
 
 And seldom needs a laboured roof ; 
 
 'Tis gone ! (so seemed it) and we grieved 
 
 Yet is it to the fiercest sun 
 
 Indignant at the wrong. 
 
 Impervious, and storm-proof. 
 
 
 So warm, so beautiful withal, 
 In perfect fitness for its aim, 
 
 Just three days after, passing by 
 In clearer light the moss-built cell 
 
 I saw, espied its shaded mouth ; 
 And felt that all was well. 
 
 That to the Kind by special grace 
 
 Their instinct surely came. 
 
 
 And when for their abodes they seek 
 
 The Primrose for a veil had spread 
 
 An opportune recess, 
 
 The largest of her upright leaves ; 
 
 The hermit has no finer eye 
 
 And thus, for purposes benign, 
 
 For shadowy quietness. 
 
 A simple flower deceives. 
 
 
 
128 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 Concealed from friends who might disturb 
 
 Thy quiet with no ill intent, 
 Secure from evil eyes and hands 
 
 Ou barbarous plunder bent, 
 
 Rest, Mother-bird ! and when thy young 
 Take flight, and thou art free to roam, 
 
 When withered is the guardian Flower, 
 And empty thy late home, 
 
 Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, 
 
 Amid the unviolated grove 
 Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft 
 In foresight, or in love. 
 
 LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 
 
 You call it, " Love lies bleeding," — so you may, 
 Though the i*ed Flower, not prostrate, only droops, 
 As we have seen it here from day to day, 
 From month to month, life passing not away : 
 A flower how rich in sadness ! Even thus stoops, 
 (Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous power) 
 Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent 
 Earthward in uncomplaining languishment, 
 The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower ! 
 ('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led, 
 Though by a slender thread,) 
 So drooped Adonis bathed hi sanguine dew 
 Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air 
 The gentlest breath of resignation drew ; 
 While Venus in a passion of despair 
 Rent, weeping over him, her golden hah 
 Spangled with drops of that celestial shower. 
 She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do ; 
 But pangs more lasting far, that Lover knew 
 Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone 
 
 bower 
 Did press this semblance of unpitied smart 
 Into the service of his constant heart, 
 His own dejection, downcast Flower ! could share 
 With thine, and gave the mournful name which 
 
 thou wilt ever bear. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. 
 
 Never enlivened with the liveliest ray 
 That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay, 
 Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest, 
 This Flower, that first appeared as summer's guest, 
 
 Preserves her beauty mid autumnal leaves 
 And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. 
 When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloor 
 One after one submitting to their doom, 
 When her coevals each and all are fled, 
 What keeps her thus reclined upon her loneson 
 bed? 
 
 The old mythologists, more impress'd than we 
 Of this late day by character in tree 
 Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, 
 Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, 
 Or with the language of the viewless air 
 By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause 
 To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws 
 But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales 
 Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. 
 Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed 
 The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid, 
 Who, while each stood companionless and eyed 
 This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, 
 Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, 
 A fate that has endured and will endure, 
 And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, 
 Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding. 
 
 RURAL ILLUSIONS. 
 
 Sylph was it ? or a Bird more bright 
 
 Than those of fabulous stock ? 
 A second darted by ; — and lo ! 
 
 Another of the flock, 
 Through sunshine flitting from the bough 
 
 To nestle in the rock. 
 Transient deception ! a gay freak 
 
 Of April's mimicries ! 
 Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy 
 
 Among the budding trees, 
 Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the spray 
 
 To frolic on the breeze. 
 
 Maternal Flora ! show thy face, 
 
 And let thy hand be seen, 
 Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers, 
 
 That, as they touch the green, 
 Take root (so seems it) and look up 
 
 In honour of their Queen. 
 Yet, sooth, those little starry specks, 
 
 That not in vain aspired 
 
POEJMS OF THE FANCY. 129 
 
 To be confounded with live growths, 
 
 Now she works with three or four, 
 
 Most dainty, most admired, 
 
 Like an Indian conjurer ; 
 
 Were only blossoms dropped from twigs 
 
 Quick as he in feats of art, 
 
 Of their own offspring tired. 
 
 Far beyond in joy of heart. 
 
 
 Were her antics played in the eye 
 
 Not such the World's illusive shows ; 
 
 Of a thousand standers-by, 
 
 Her wingless flutterings, 
 
 Clapping hands with shout and stare, 
 
 Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave 
 
 What would little Tabby care 
 
 The floweret as it springs, 
 
 For the plaudits of the crowd ? 
 
 For the undeceived, smile as they may, 
 
 Over happy to be proud, 
 
 Are melancholy things : 
 
 Over wealthy in the treasure 
 
 But gentle Nature plays her part 
 
 Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 
 
 With ever-varying wiles, 
 And transient feignings with plain truth 
 
 'Tis a pretty baby-treat ; 
 Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ; 
 
 So well she reconciles, 
 
 
 
 Here, for neither Babe nor me, 
 
 That those fond Idlers most are pleased 
 
 Other play-mate can I see. 
 Of the countless living things, 
 
 Whom oftenest she beguiles. 
 
 1832. 
 
 
 That with stir of feet and wings 
 
 
 (In the sun or under shade, 
 Upon bough or grassy blade) 
 
 
 
 And with busy revellmgs, 
 
 
 Chirp and song, and murmurings, 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Made this orchard's narrow space, 
 
 
 And this vale so blithe a place ; 
 
 THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 
 Multitudes are swept away 
 
 That way look, my Infant, lo ! 
 
 Never more to breathe the day : 
 
 What a pretty baby-show ! 
 
 Some are sleeping ; some in bands 
 
 See the Kitten on the wall, 
 
 Travelled into distant lands ; 
 
 Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
 
 Others slunk to moor and wood, 
 
 Withered leaves — one — two — and three — 
 
 Far from human neighbourhood ; 
 
 From the lofty elder-tree ! 
 
 And, among the Kinds that keep 
 
 Through the calm and frosty ah' 
 
 With us closer fellowship, 
 
 Of this morning bright and fair, 
 
 With us openly abide, 
 
 Eddying round and round they sink 
 
 All have laid their mirth aside. 
 
 Softly, slowly: one might think, 
 
 
 From the motions that are made, 
 
 Where is he that giddy Sprite, 
 
 Every little leaf conveyed 
 
 Blue-cap, with his colours bright, 
 
 Sylph or Faery hither tending, — 
 
 Who was blest as bird could be, 
 
 To this lower world descending, 
 
 Feeding in the apple-tree ; 
 
 Each invisible and mute, 
 
 Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
 
 In his wavering parachute. 
 
 Turning blossoms inside out ; 
 
 But the Kitten, how she starts, 
 
 Hung — head pointing towards the ground — 
 
 Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 
 
 Fluttered, perched, into a round 
 
 First at one, and then its fellow 
 
 Bound himself, and then unbound ; 
 
 Just as light and just as yellow ; 
 
 Lithest, gaudiest Harlecpiin ! 
 
 There are many now — now one — 
 
 Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 
 
 Now they stop and there are none : 
 
 Light of heart and light of limb ; 
 
 What intenseness of desire 
 
 What is now become of Him ? 
 
 In her upward eye of fire ! 
 
 Lambs, that through the mountains went 
 
 With a tiger-leap half way 
 
 Frisking, bleating merriment, 
 
 Now she meets the coming prey, 
 
 When the year was in its prime, 
 
 Lets it go as fast, and then 
 
 They are sobered by this time. 
 
 Has it in her power again : 
 
 If you look to vale or hill, 
 
 1 
 
130 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 If you listen, all is still, 
 Save a little neighbouring rill, 
 That from out the rocky ground 
 Strikes a solitary sound. 
 Vainly glitter hill and plain. 
 And the air is calm in vain ; 
 Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
 Of a sky serene and pure ; 
 Creature none can she decoy 
 Into open sign of joy : 
 Is it that they have a fear 
 Of the dreary season near % 
 Or that other pleasures be 
 Sweeter even than gaiety ? 
 
 Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 
 In the impenetrable cell 
 Of the silent heart which Nature 
 Furnishes to every creature ; 
 Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
 Too sedate for outward show, 
 Such a light of gladness breaks, 
 Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,— 
 Spreads with such a living grace 
 O'er my little Laura's face ; 
 Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
 Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, 
 That almost I could repine 
 That your transports are not mine, 
 That I do not wholly fare 
 Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! 
 And I will have my careless season 
 Spite of melancholy reason, 
 Will walk through life in such a way 
 That, when time brings on decay, 
 Now and then I may possess 
 Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 
 — Pleased by any random toy ; 
 By a kitten's busy joy, 
 Or an infant's laughing eye 
 Sharing in the ecstasy ; 
 I would fare like that or this, 
 Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 
 Keep the sprightly soul awake, 
 And have faculties to take, 
 Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
 Matter for a jocund thought, 
 Spite of care, and spite of grief, 
 To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 
 
 xxxn. 
 
 ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, 
 
 DORA, 
 
 ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT 
 DAY, SEPTEMBER 16. 
 
 Hast thou then survived — 
 
 Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, 
 Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things 
 The most forlorn — one life of that bright star, 
 The second glory of the Heavens ? — Thou hast ; 
 Already hast survived that great decay, 
 That transformation through the wide earth felt, 
 And by all nations. In that Being's sight 
 From whom the Race of human kind proceed, 
 A thousand years are but as yesterday ; 
 And one day's narrow circuit is to Him 
 Not less capacious than a thousand years. 
 But what is time 1 What outward glory % neithe 
 A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend 
 Through 'heaven's eternal year.' — Yet hail to The 
 Frail, feeble, Monthling !— by that name, met! 
 Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out 
 Not idly. — Hadst thou been of Indian birth, 
 Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, 
 And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, 
 Or to the churlish elements exposed 
 On the blank plains, — the coldness of the night, 
 Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face 
 Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned, 
 Would, with imperious admonition, then 
 Have scored thine age, and punctually timed 
 Thine infant history, on the minds of those 
 Who might have wandered with thee. — Mother 
 
 love, 
 
 Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, 
 Will, among us warm- clad and warmly housed, 
 Do for thee what the finger of the heavens 
 Doth all too often harshly execute 
 For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds 
 Where fancy hath small liberty to grace 
 The affections, to exalt them or refine ; 
 And the maternal sympathy itself, 
 Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie 
 Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. 
 Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours ! 
 Even now — to solemnise thy helpless state, 
 And to enliven in the mind's regard 
 Thy passive beauty — parallels have risen, 
 Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, 
 Within the region of a father's thoughts, 
 Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. 
 And first ; — thy sinless progress, through a world 
 By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, 
 Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds, 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 131 
 
 : Moving untouched in silver purity, 
 
 I And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. 
 Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain : 
 
 ( But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn 
 With brightness ! leaving her to post along, 
 
 j And range about, disquieted in change, 
 And still impatient of the shape she wears. 
 Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe 
 That will suffice thee ; and it seems that now 
 
 ! Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine : 
 Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st 
 In such a heedless peace. Alas ! full soon 
 
 '■ Hath this conception, grateful to behold, 
 Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er 
 By breathing mist; and thine appears to be 
 
 A mournful labour, while to her is given 
 Hope, and a renovation without end. 
 — That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face 
 Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, 
 To shoot and circulate ; smiles have there been seen ; 
 Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports 
 The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers 
 Thy loneliness : or shall those smiles be called 
 Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore 
 This untried world, and to prepare thy way 
 Through a strait passage intricate and dim ? 
 Such are they; and the same are tokens, signs, 
 Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, 
 Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt ; 
 And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own. 
 
 1804. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 THE WAGGONER. 
 
 In Cairo's crowded streets 
 The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain, 
 And Mecca saddens at the long delay. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB, ESQ,. 
 
 My Dear Friend, 
 
 When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked ' why The Waggoner was not added ? ' 
 — To say the truth, — from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I 
 apprehended, this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, 
 The Waggoner was read to you in manuscript, and, as you have rememhered it for so long a time, I am the more 
 encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on which the Poem partly depends did not prevent its being interesting 
 to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you 
 must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you ; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your 
 Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am very truly yours, 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 Rydal Mount, May 20, 1819. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 'Tis spent — this burning day of June ! 
 Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing ; 
 The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheel- 
 ing,— 
 That solitary bird 
 Is all that can be heard 
 In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon ! 
 
 Confiding Glow-worms, 'tis a night 
 Propitious to your earth-bom light ! 
 But, where the scattered stars are seen 
 In hazy straits the clouds between, 
 Each, in his station twinkling not, 
 Seems changed into a pallid spot. 
 The mountains against heaven's grave weight 
 Rise up, and grow to wondrous height. 
 
 The air, as in a lion's den, 
 
 Is close and hot ; — and now and then 
 
 Comes a tired and sultry breeze 
 
 With a haunting and a panting, 
 
 Like the stifling of disease ; 
 
 But the dews allay the heat, 
 
 And the silence makes it sweet. 
 
 Hush, there is some one on the stir ! 
 'Tis Benjamin the Waggoner ; 
 Who long hath trod this toilsome way, 
 Companion of the night and day. 
 That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, 
 Mix'd with a faint yet grating sound 
 In a moment lost and found, 
 The Wain announces — by whose side 
 Along the banks of Rydal Mere 
 He paces on, a trusty Guide, — 
 
132 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 Listen ! you can scarcely hear ! 
 Hither he his course is bending ; — 
 Now he leaves the lower ground, 
 And up the craggy hill ascending 
 Many a stop and stay he makes, 
 Many a breathing-fit he takes ; — 
 Steep the way and wearisome, 
 Yet all the while his whip is dumb ! 
 
 The Horses have worked with right good-will, 
 And so have gained the top of the hill ; 
 He was patient, they were strong, 
 And now they smoothly glide along, 
 Recovering breath, and pleased to win 
 The praises of mild Benjamin. 
 Heaven shield him from mishap and snare ! 
 But why so early with this prayer ? — 
 Is it for threatenings in the sky ? 
 Or for some other danger nigh ? 
 No ; none is near him yet, though he 
 Be one of much infirmity ; 
 For at the bottom of the brow, 
 Where once the Dove and Olive-bough 
 Offered a greeting of good ale 
 To all who entered Grasmere Vale ; 
 And called on him who must depart 
 To leave it with a jovial heart ; 
 There, where the Dove and Olive-bough 
 Once hung, a Poet harbours now, 
 A simple water-drinking Bard ; 
 Why need our Hero then (though frail 
 His best resolves) be on his guard ? 
 He marches by, secure and bold ; 
 Yet while he thinks on times of old, 
 It seems that all looks wondrous cold ; 
 He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, 
 And, for the honest folk within, 
 It is a doubt with Benjamin 
 Whether they be alive or dead ! 
 
 Here is no danger, — none at all ! 
 Beyond his wish he walks secure ; 
 But pass a mile — and then for trial, — 
 Then for the pride of self-denial ; 
 If he resist that tempting door, 
 Which with such friendly voice will call ; 
 If he resist those casement panes, 
 And that bright gleam which thence will fall 
 Upon his Leaders' bells and manes, 
 Inviting him with cheerful lure : 
 For still, though all be dark elsewhere, 
 Some shining notice will be there, 
 Of open house and ready fare. 
 
 The place to Benjamin right well 
 Is known, and by as strong a spell 
 As used to be that sign of love 
 And hope — the Olive-bough and Dove ; 
 He knows it to his cost, good Man ! 
 Who does not know the famous Swan ? 
 Object uncouth ! and yet our boast, 
 For it was painted by the Host ; 
 His own conceit the figure planned, 
 'Twas coloured all by his own hand ; 
 And that frail Child of thirsty clay, 
 Of whom I sing this rustic lay, 
 Could tell with self-dissatisfaction 
 Quaint stories of the bird's attraction ! * 
 
 Well ! that is past — and in despite 
 Of open door and shining light. 
 And now the conqueror essays 
 The long ascent of Dunmail-raise ; 
 And with his team is gentle here 
 As when he clomb from Rydal Mere ; 
 His whip they do not dread — his voice 
 They only hear it to rejoice. 
 To stand or go is at their pleasure ; 
 Their efforts and their time they measure 
 By generous pride within the breast ; 
 And, while they strain, and while they rest, 
 He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure. 
 
 Now am I fairly safe to-night — 
 And with proud cause my heart is light : 
 I trespassed lately worse than ever — 
 But Heaven has blest a good endeavour ; 
 And, to my soul's content, I find 
 The evil One is left behind. 
 Yes, let my master fume and fret, 
 Here am I — with my horses yet ! 
 My jolly team, he finds that ye 
 Will work for nobody but me ! 
 Full proof of this the Country gained ; 
 It knows how ye were vexed and strained, 
 And forced unworthy stripes to bear, 
 When trusted to another's care. 
 Here was it — on this rugged slope, 
 Which now ye climb with heart and hope. 
 I saw you, between rage and fear, 
 Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear, 
 And ever more and more confused, 
 As ye were more and more abused : 
 As chance would have it, passing by 
 I saw you in that jeopardy : 
 
 * This rude piece of self-taught art (such is the progress 
 of refinement) has been supplanted by a professional pro- 
 duction. 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 13-3 
 
 A word from me was like a charm ; 
 Ye pulled together with one mind ; 
 And your huge burthen, safe from harm, 
 Moved like a vessel in the wind ! 
 — Yes, without me, up hills so high 
 'Tis vain to strive for mastery. 
 Then grieve not, jolly team ! though tough 
 The road we travel, steep, and rough ; 
 Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise, 
 And all their fellow banks and braes, 
 Full often make you stretch and strain, 
 And halt for breath and halt again, 
 Yet to their sturdiness 'tis owing 
 That side by side we still are going ! 
 
 While Benjamin in earnest mood 
 His meditations thus pursued, 
 A storm, which had been smothered long, 
 Was growing inwardly more strong ; 
 And, in its struggles to get free, 
 Was busily employed as he. 
 The thunder had begun to growl- 
 He heard not, too intent of soul ; 
 The air was now without a breath — 
 He marked not that 'twas still as death. 
 But soon large rain-drops on his head 
 Fell with the weight of drops of lead ; — 
 He starts — and takes, at the admonition, 
 A sage survey of his condition. 
 The road is black before his eyes, 
 Glimmering faintly where it lies ; 
 Black is the sky — and every hill, 
 Up to the sky, is blacker still — 
 Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, 
 Hung round and overhung with gloom ; 
 Save that above a single height 
 Is to be seen a lurid light, 
 Above Helm-crag * — a streak half dead, 
 A burning of portentous red ; 
 And near that lurid light, full well 
 The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel, 
 Where at his desk and book he sits, 
 Puzzling aloft his curious wits ; 
 He whose domain is held in common 
 With no one but the ancient woman, 
 Cowering beside her rifted cell, 
 As if intent on magic spell ; — 
 Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather, 
 Still sit upon Helm- crag together ! 
 
 * A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit of which 
 presents two figures, full as distinctly shaped as that of the 
 famous Cobbler near Arroquhar in Scotland. 
 
 The Astrologer was not unseen 
 By solitary Benjamin ; 
 But total darkness came anon, 
 And he and every thing was gone : 
 And suddenly a ruffling breeze, 
 (That would have rocked the sounding trees 
 Had aught of sylvan growth been there) 
 Swept through the Hollow long and bare : 
 The rain rushed down — the road was battered, 
 As with the force of billows shattered ; 
 The horses are dismayed, nor know 
 Whether they should stand or go ; 
 And Benjamin is groping near them, 
 Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them. 
 He is astounded, — wonder not, — 
 With such a charge in such a spot ; 
 Astounded in the mountain gap 
 With thunder-peals, clap after clap, 
 Close-treading on the silent flashes — 
 And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes 
 Among the rocks ; with weight of rain, 
 And sullen motions long and slow, 
 That to a dreary distance go — 
 Till, breaking in upon the dying strain, 
 A rending o'er his head begins the fray again. 
 
 Meanwhile, uncertain what to do, 
 And oftentimes compelled to halt, 
 The horses cautiously pursue 
 Their way, without mishap or fault ; 
 And now have reached that pile of stones, 
 Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones ; 
 He who had once supreme command, 
 Last king of rocky Cumberland ; 
 His bones, and those of all his Power, 
 Slain here in a disastrous hour ! 
 
 When, passing through this narrow strait, 
 Stony, and dark, and desolate, 
 Benjamin can faintly hear 
 A voice that comes from some one near, 
 A female voice : — " Whoe'er you be, 
 Stop," it exclaimed, (i and pity me 1" 
 And, less in pity than in wonder, 
 Amid the darkness and the thunder, 
 The Waggoner, with prompt command, 
 Summons his horses to a stand. 
 
 While, with increasing agitation, 
 The Woman urged her supplication, 
 In rueful words, with sobs between — 
 The voice of tears that fell unseen ; 
 There came a flash — a startling glare, 
 And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare ! 
 
134 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 'Tis not a time for nice suggestion, 
 And Benjamin, without a question, 
 Taking her for some way-worn rover, 
 Said, " Mount, and get you under cover !" 
 
 Another voice, in tone as hoarse 
 As a swoln brook with rugged course, 
 Cried out, " Good brother, why so fast ? 
 I 've had a glimpse of you — avast I 
 Or, since it suits you to be civil, 
 Take her at once — for good and evil !" 
 
 w It is my Husband," softly said 
 The Woman, as if half afraid : 
 By this time she was snug within, 
 Through help of honest Benjamin ; 
 She and her Babe, which to her breast 
 With thankfulness the Mother pressed ; 
 And now the same strong voice more near 
 Said cordially, " My Friend, what cheer ? 
 Rough doings these ! as God's my judge, 
 The sky owes somebody a grudge ! 
 We 've had in half an hour or less 
 A twelvemonth's terror and distress !" 
 
 Then Benjamin entreats the Man 
 Would mount, too, quickly as he can : 
 The Sailor — Sailor now no more, 
 But such he had been heretofore — 
 To courteous Benjamin replied, 
 " Go you your way, and mind not me ; 
 For I must have, whate'er betide, 
 My Ass and fifty things beside, — 
 Go, and I '11 follow speedily !" 
 
 The Waggon moves — and with its load 
 Descends along the sloping road ; 
 And the rough Sailor instantly 
 Turns to a little tent hard by : 
 For when, at closing-in of day, 
 The family had come that way, 
 Green pasture and the soft warm air 
 Tempted them to settle there. — 
 Green is the grass for beast to graze, 
 Around the stones of Dunmail-raise ! 
 
 The Sailor gathers up his bed, 
 Takes down the canvass overhead ; 
 And, after farewell to the place, 
 A parting word — though not of grace, 
 Pursues, with Ass and all his store, 
 The way the Waggon went before. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 If Wytheburn's modest House of prayer, 
 
 As lowly as the lowliest dwelling, 
 
 Had, with its belfry's humble stock, 
 
 A little pair that hang in air, 
 
 Been mistress also of a clock, 
 
 (And one, too, not in crazy plight) 
 
 Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling 
 
 Under the brow of old Helvellyn — 
 
 Its bead-roll of midnight, 
 
 Then, when the Hero of my tale 
 
 Was passing by, and, down the vale 
 
 (The vale now silent, hushed I ween 
 
 As if a storm had never been) 
 
 Proceeding with a mind at ease ; 
 
 While the old Familiar of the seas 
 
 Intent to use his utmost haste, 
 
 Gained ground upon the Waggon fast, 
 
 And gives another lusty cheer ; 
 
 For spite of rumbling of the wheels, 
 
 A welcome greeting he can hear ; — 
 
 It is a fiddle in its glee 
 
 Dinning from the Cherry Tree ! 
 
 Thence the sound — the light is there— 
 As Benjamin is now aware, 
 Who, to his inward thoughts confined, 
 Had almost reached the festive door, 
 When, startled by the Sailor's roar, 
 He hears a sound and sees the light, 
 And in a moment calls to mind 
 That 'tis the village Merry-night ! * 
 
 Although before in no dejection, 
 At this insidious recollection 
 His heart with sudden joy is filled, — 
 His ears are by the music thrilled, 
 His eyes take pleasure in the road 
 Glittering before him bright and broad ; 
 And Benjamin is wet and cold, 
 And there are reasons manifold 
 That make the good, tow'rds which he 's yearning, 
 Look fairly like a lawful earning. 
 
 Nor has thought time to come and go, 
 To vibrate between yes and no ; 
 For, cries the Sailor, " Glorious chance 
 That blew us hither ! — let him dance, 
 Who can or will ! — my honest soul, 
 Our treat shall be a friendly bowl ! " 
 
 * A term well known in the North of England, and 
 applied to rural Festivals where young persons meet in 
 the evening for the purpose of dancing. 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 135 
 
 He draws him to the door — " Come in, 
 Come, come," cries he to Benjamin ! 
 And Benjamin — ah, woe is me ! 
 Gave the word — the horses heard 
 And halted, though reluctantly. 
 
 ' Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we, 
 
 Feasting at the Cheery Tree !' 
 
 This was the outside proclamation, 
 
 This was the inside salutation ; 
 
 What bustling— jostling— high and low ! 
 
 A universal overflow ! 
 i What tankards foaming from the tap ! 
 ' What store of cakes in every lap ! 
 ; What thumping — stumping — overhead ! 
 
 The thunder had not been more busy : 
 
 With such a stir you would have said, 
 
 This little place may well be dizzy ! 
 
 'Tis who can dance with greatest vigour — 
 
 'Tis what can be most prompt and eager ; 
 
 As if it heard the fiddle's call, 
 
 The pewter clatters on the wall ; 
 
 The very bacon shows it feeling, 
 
 Swinging from the smoky ceiling ! 
 
 A steaming bowl, a blazing fire, 
 What greater good can heart desire ? 
 'Twere worth a wise man's while to try 
 The utmost anger of the sky : 
 To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast, 
 If such the bright amends at last. 
 Now should you say I judge amiss, 
 The Cherry Tree shows proof of this ; 
 For soon of all the happy there, 
 Our Travellers are the happiest pair ; 
 All care with Benjamin is gone — 
 A Caesar past the Rubicon ! 
 He thinks not of his long, long, strife ; — 
 The Sailor, Man by nature gay, 
 Hath no resolves to throw away ; 
 And he hath now forgot his Wife, 
 Hath quite forgotten her — or may be 
 Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth, 
 Within that warm and peaceful berth, 
 
 Under cover, 
 
 Terror over, 
 Sleeping by her sleeping Baby. 
 
 With bowl that sped from hand to hand, 
 The gladdest of the gladsome band, 
 Amid their own delight and fun, 
 They hear— when every dance is done, 
 When every whirling bout is o'er — 
 
 The fiddle's squeak* — that call to bliss, 
 Ever followed by a kiss ; 
 They envy not the happy lot, 
 But enjoy their own the more ! 
 
 While thus our jocund Travellers fare, 
 Up springs the Sailor from his chair — 
 Limps (for I might have told before 
 That he was lame) across the floor- — 
 Is gone — returns — and with a prize ; 
 With what ? — a Ship of lusty size ; 
 A gallant stately Man-of-war, 
 Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car. 
 Surprise to all, but most surprise 
 To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes, 
 Not knowing that he had befriended 
 A Man so gloriously attended ! 
 
 " This," cries the Sailor, " a Third-rate is — 
 Stand back, and you shall see her gratis ! 
 This was the Flag-ship at the Nile, 
 The Vanguard — you may smirk and smile, 
 But, pretty Maid, if you look near, 
 You '11 find you 've much in little here ! 
 A nobler ship did never swim, 
 And you shall see her in full trim : 
 I'll set, my friends, to do you honour, 
 Set every inch of sail upon her." 
 So said, so done ; and masts, sails, yards, 
 He names them all ; and interlards 
 His speech with uncouth terms of art, 
 Accomplished in the showman's part ; 
 And then, as from a sudden check, 
 Cries out — " 'Tis there, the quarter-deck 
 On which brave Admiral Nelson stood — 
 A sight that would have roused your blood ! 
 One eye he had, which, bright as ten, 
 Burned like a fire among his men ; 
 Let this be land, and that be sea, 
 Here lay the French — and thus came we ! " 
 
 Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound, 
 The dancers aU were gathered round, 
 And, such the stillness of the house, 
 You might have heard a nibbling mouse : 
 While, borrowing helps where'er he may, 
 The Sailor through the story runs 
 Of ships to ships and guns to guns ; 
 And does his utmost to display 
 The dismal conflict, and the might 
 And terror of that marvellous night ! 
 
 * At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular 
 note from the fiddle summons the Rustic to the agreeable 
 duty of saluting liis partner. 
 
136 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 " A bowl, a bowl of double measure," 
 
 Can any low-born care pursue her, 
 
 Cries Benjamin, " a draught of length, 
 
 Can any mortal clog come to her? 
 
 To Nelson, England's pride and treasure, 
 
 No notion have they — not a thought, 
 
 Her bulwark and her tower of strength ! " 
 
 That is from joyless regions brought ! 
 
 When Benjamin had seized the bowl, 
 
 And, while they coast the silent lake, 
 
 The mastiff, from beneath the waggon, 
 
 Then.' inspiration I partake ; . 
 
 Where he lay, watchful as a dragon, 
 
 Share their empyreal spirits — yea, 
 
 Rattled his chain ; — 'twas all in vain, 
 
 With their enraptured vision, see — 
 
 For Benjamin, triumphant soul ! 
 
 fancy — what a jubilee ! 
 
 He heard the monitory growl ; 
 
 What shifting pictures — clad in gleams 
 
 Heard — and in opposition quaffed 
 
 Of colour bright as feverish dreams ! 
 
 A deep, determined, desperate draught ! 
 
 Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene, 
 
 Nor did the battered Tar forget, 
 
 Involved and restless all — a scene 
 
 Or flinch from what he deemed his debt : 
 
 Pregnant with mutual exaltation, 
 
 Then, like a hero crowned with laurel, 
 
 Rich change, and multiplied creation ! 
 
 Back to her place the ship he led ; 
 
 This sight to me the Muse imparts ; — 
 
 Wheeled her back in full apparel ; 
 
 And then, what kindness in their hearts ! 
 
 And so, flag flying at mast head, 
 
 What tears of rapture, what vow-making, 
 
 Re-yoked her to the Ass : — anon, 
 
 Profound entreaties, and hand-shaking ! 
 
 Cries Benjamin, " We must be gone." 
 
 What solemn, vacant, interlacing, 
 
 Thus, after two hours' hearty stay, 
 
 As if they 'd fall asleep embracing ! 
 
 Again behold them on their way ! 
 
 Then, in the turbulence of glee, 
 
 
 And in the excess of amity, 
 
 Says Benjamin, " That Ass of thine, 
 
 
 
 He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine : 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 If he were tethered to the waggon, 
 
 Right gladly had the horses stirred, 
 
 He 'd drag as well what he is dragging ; 
 
 When they the wished-for greeting heard, 
 
 And we, as brother should with brother 
 
 The whip's loud notice from the door, 
 
 Might trudge it alongside each other ! " 
 
 That they were free to move once more. 
 
 
 You think, those doings must have bred 
 
 Forthwith, obedient to command, 
 
 In them disheartening doubts and dread ; 
 
 The horses made a quiet stand ; 
 
 No, not a horse of all the eight, 
 
 And to the waggon's skirts was tied 
 
 Although it be a moonless night, 
 
 The Creature, by the Mastiff's side, 
 
 Fears either for himself or freight ; 
 
 The Mastiff wondering, and perplext 
 
 For this they know (and let it hide, 
 
 With dread of what will happen next ; 
 
 In part, the offences of their guide) 
 
 And thinking it but sorry cheer, 
 
 That Benjamin, with clouded brains, 
 
 To have such company so near ! 
 
 Is worth the best with all their pains ; 
 
 
 And, if they had a prayer to make, 
 
 This new arrangement made, the Wain 
 
 The prayer would be that they may take 
 
 Through the still night proceeds again ; 
 
 With him whatever comes in course, 
 
 No Moon hath risen her light to lend ; 
 
 The better fortune or the worse ; 
 
 But indistinctly may be kenned 
 
 That no one else may have business near them, 
 
 The Vanguard, following close behind, 
 
 And, drank or sober, he may steer them. 
 
 Sails spread, as if to catch the wind ! 
 
 So, forth in dauntless mood they fare, 
 
 " Thy wife and child are snug and warm, 
 
 And with them goes the guardian pair. 
 
 Thy ship will travel without harm ; 
 
 
 I like," said Benjamin, u her shape and stature : 
 
 Now, heroes, for the time commotion, 
 
 And this of mine — this bulky creature 
 
 The triumph of your late devotion ! 
 
 Of which I have the steering — this, 
 
 Can aught on earth impede delight, 
 
 Seen fairly, is not much amiss ! 
 
 Still mounting to a higher height ; 
 
 We want your streamers, friend, you know; 
 
 And higher still — a greedy flight ! 
 
 But, altogether as we go, 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 137 
 
 We make a land of handsome show ! 
 
 Among these hills, from first to last, 
 
 We 've weathered many a furious blast ; 
 
 Hard passage forcing on, with head 
 
 Against the storm, and canvass spread. 
 
 I hate a boaster ; but to thee 
 
 Will say 't, who know'st both land and sea, 
 
 The unluckiest hulk that stems the brine 
 
 Is hardly worse beset than mine, 
 
 When cross-winds on her quarter beat ; 
 
 And, fairly lifted from my feet, 
 
 I stagger onward — heaven knows how ; 
 
 But not so pleasantly as now : 
 
 Poor pilot I, by snows confounded, 
 
 And many a foundrous pit surrounded ! 
 
 Yet here we are, by night and day 
 
 Grinding through rough and smooth our way ; 
 
 Through foul and fair our task fulfilling ; 
 
 And long shall be so yet — God willing !" 
 
 " Ay," said the Tar, * through fair and foul — 
 But save us from yon screeching owl ! " 
 That instant was begun a fray 
 Which called their thoughts another way : 
 The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl ! 
 What must he do but growl aud snarl, 
 Still more and more dissatisfied 
 With the meek comrade at his side ! 
 Till, not incensed though put to proof, 
 The Ass, uplifting a hind hoof, 
 Salutes the Mastiff on the head ; 
 And so were better manners bred, 
 And all was calmed and quieted. 
 
 u Yon screech-owl," says the Sailor, turning 
 Back to his former cause of mourning, 
 " Yon owl ! — pray God that all be well ! 
 'Tis worse than any funeral bell ; 
 As sure as I 've the gift of sight, 
 We shall be meeting ghosts to-night !" 
 — Said Benjamin, " This whip shall lay 
 A thousand, if they cross our way. 
 I know that Wanton's noisy station, 
 I know him and his occupation ; 
 The jolly bird hath learned his cheer 
 Upon the banks of Windermere ; 
 Where a tribe of them make merry, 
 Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry ; 
 Hallooing from an open throat, 
 Like travellers shouting for a boat. 
 — The tricks he learned at Windermere 
 This vagrant owl is playing here — 
 I That is the worst of his employment : 
 He 's at the top of his enjoyment !" 
 
 This explanation stilled the alarm, 
 Cured the foreboder like a charm ; 
 This, and the manner, and the voice, 
 Summoned the Sailor to rejoice ; 
 His heart is up — he fears no evil 
 From life or death, from man or devil ; 
 He wheels — and, making many stops, 
 Brandished his crutch against the mountain tops ; 
 And, while he talked of blows and scars, 
 Benjamin, among the stars, 
 Beheld a dancing — and a glancing ; 
 Such retreating and advancing 
 As, I ween, was never seen 
 In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars ! 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 Thus they, with freaks of proud delight, 
 Beguile the remnant of the night ; 
 And many a snatch of jovial song 
 Regales them as they wind along ; 
 While to the music, from on high, 
 The echoes make a glad reply. — 
 But the sage Muse the revel heeds 
 No farther than her story needs ; 
 Nor will she servilely attend 
 The loitering journey to its end. 
 — Blithe spirits of her own impel 
 The Muse, who scents the morning air, 
 To take of this transported pair 
 A brief and unreproved farewell ; 
 To quit the slow-paced waggon's side, 
 And wander down yon hawthorn dell, 
 With murmuring Greta for her guide. 
 — There doth she ken the awful form 
 Of Raven-crag — black as a storm — 
 Glimmering through the twilight pale ; 
 And Ghimmer-crag, * his tall twin brother, 
 Each peering forth to meet the other : — 
 And, while she roves through St. John's Vale, 
 Along the smooth unpathwayed plain, 
 By sheep-track or through cottage lane, 
 Where no disturbance comes to intrude 
 Upon the pensive solitude, 
 Her unsuspecting eye, perchance, 
 With the rude shepherd's favoured glance, 
 Beholds the faeries in array, 
 Whose party-coloured garments gay 
 The silent company betray : 
 Red, green, and blue ; a moment's sight 1 
 For Skiddaw-top with rosy light 
 Is touched — and all the band take flight. 
 
 * The crag of the ewe lamb. 
 
138 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 — Fly also, Muse ! and from the dell 
 Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell ; 
 Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawn 
 Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn ; 
 Across yon meadowy hottom look, 
 Where close fogs hide their parent hrook ; 
 And see, beyond that hamlet small, 
 The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall, 
 Lurking in a double shade, 
 By trees and lingering twilight made ! 
 There, at Blencathara's rugged feet, 
 Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat 
 To noble Clifford ; from annoy 
 Concealed the persecuted boy, 
 Well pleased in rustic garb to feed 
 His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed 
 Among this multitude of hills, 
 Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills ; 
 Which soon the morning shall enfold, 
 From east to west, in ample vest 
 Of massy gloom and radiance bold. 
 
 The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed 
 Hung low, begin to rise and spread ; 
 Even while I speak, their skirts of grey 
 Are smitten by a silver ray ; 
 And lo ! — up Castrigg's naked steep 
 (Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweep 
 Along — and scatter and divide, 
 Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied) 
 The stately waggon is ascending, 
 With faithful Benjamin attending, 
 Apparent now beside his team — 
 Now lost amid a glittering steam : 
 And with him goes his Sailor-friend, 
 By this time near their journey's end ; 
 And, after their high-minded riot, 
 Sickening into thoughtful quiet ; 
 As if the morning's pleasant hour, 
 Had for their joys a killing power. 
 And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein 
 Is opened of still deeper pain 
 As if his heart by notes were stung 
 From out the lowly hedge-rows flung ; 
 As if the warbler lost in light 
 Reproved his soarings of the night, 
 In strains of rapture pure and holy 
 Upbraided his distempered folly. 
 
 Drooping is he, his step is dull ; 
 But the horses stretch and pull ; 
 With increasing vigour climb, 
 Eager to repair lost time ; 
 Whether, by their own desert, 
 
 Knowing what cause there is for shame, 
 They are labouring to avert 
 As much as may be of the blame, 
 Which, they foresee, must soon alight 
 Upon his head, whom, in despite 
 Of all his failings, they love best ; 
 Whether for him they are distrest, 
 Or, by length of fasting roused, 
 Are impatient to be housed : 
 Up against the hill they strain 
 Tugging at the iron chain, 
 Tugging all with might and main, 
 Last and foremost, every horse 
 To the utmost of his force ! 
 And the smoke and respiration, 
 Rising like an exhalation, 
 Blend with the mist — a moving shroud 
 To form, an undissolving cloud ; 
 Which, with slant ray, the merry sun 
 Takes delight to play upon. 
 Never golden-haired Apollo, 
 Pleased some favourite chief to follow 
 Through accidents of peace or war, 
 In a perilous moment threw 
 Around the object of his care 
 Veil of such celestial hue ; 
 Interposed so bright a screen — 
 Him and his enemies between ! 
 
 Alas ! what boots it ? — who can hide, 
 When the malicious Fates are bent 
 On working out an ill intent ? 
 Can destiny be turned aside 1 
 No — sad progress of my story ! 
 Benjamin, this outward glory 
 Cannot shield thee from thy Master, 
 Who from Keswick has pricked forth, 
 Sour and surly as the north ; 
 And, in fear of some disaster, 
 Comes to give what help he may, 
 And to hear what thou canst say ; 
 If, as needs he must forebode, 
 Thou hast been loitering on the road ! 
 His fears, his doubts, may now take flight — 
 The wished-for object is in sight ; 
 Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath 
 Stirred him up to livelier wrath ; 
 Which he stifles, moody man ! 
 With all the patience that he can ; 
 To the end that, at your meeting, 
 He may give thee decent greeting. 
 
 There he is — resolved to stop, 
 Till the waggon gains the top ; 
 
THE WAGGONER. 
 
 139 
 
 Put stop he cannot — must advance : 
 Him Benjamin, with lucky glance, 
 Espies — and instantly is ready, 
 Self-collected, poised, and steady : 
 And, to he the hetter seen, 
 Issues from his radiant shroud, 
 From his close-attending cloud, 
 With careless air and open mien. 
 Erect his port, and firm his going ; 
 So struts yon cock that now is crowing ; 
 And the morning light in grace 
 Strikes upon his lifted face, 
 Hurrying the pallid hue away 
 That might his trespasses betray. 
 But what can all avail to clear him, 
 Or what need of explanation, 
 Parley or interrogation ? 
 For the Master sees, alas ! 
 That unhappy Figure near him, 
 'Limping o'er the dewy grass, 
 Where the road it fringes, sweet, 
 Soft and cool to way-worn feet; 
 And, indignity ! an Ass, 
 By his noble Mastiff's side, 
 Tethered to the waggon's tail : 
 And the ship, in all her pride, 
 Following after in full sail ! 
 Not to speak of babe and mother ; 
 Who, contented with each other, 
 And snug as birds in leafy arbour, 
 Find, within, a blessed harbour ! 
 
 With eager eyes the Master pries ; 
 (Looks in and out, and through and through : 
 Says nothing — till at last he spies 
 A wound upon the Mastiff's head, 
 A wound, where plainly might be read 
 What feats an Ass's hoof can do ! 
 But drop the rest : — this aggravation, 
 This complicated provocation, 
 A. hoard of grievances unsealed ; 
 All past forgiveness it repealed ; 
 And thus, and through distempered blood 
 On both sides, Benjamin the good, 
 The patient, and the tender-hearted, 
 Was from his team and waggon parted ; 
 When duty of that day was o'er, 
 Laid down his whip — and served no more.— 
 Nor could the waggon long survive, 
 j Which Benjamin had ceased to drive : 
 ilt lingered on ; — guide after guide 
 (Ambitiously the office tried ; 
 ;But each unmanageable hill 
 ] Called for his patience and his skill ; — 
 
 And sure it is, that through this night, 
 And what the morning brought to light, 
 Two losses had we to sustain, 
 We lost both Waggoner and Wain ! 
 
 Accept, Friend, for praise or blame, 
 
 The gift of this adventurous song ; 
 
 A record which I dared to frame, 
 
 Though timid scruples checked me long ; 
 
 They checked me — and I left the theme 
 
 Untouched ; — in spite of many a gleam 
 
 Of fancy which thereon was shed, 
 
 Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still 
 
 Upon the side of a distant hill : 
 
 But Nature might not be gainsaid ; 
 
 For what I have and what I miss 
 
 I sing of these ; — it makes my bliss ! 
 
 Nor is it I who play the part, 
 
 But a shy spirit in my heart, 
 
 That comes and goes — will sometimes leap 
 
 From hiding-places ten years deep ; 
 
 Or haunts me with familiar face, 
 
 Returning, like a ghost unlaid, 
 
 Until the debt I owe be paid. 
 
 Forgive me, then ; for I had been 
 
 On friendly terms with this Machine : 
 
 In him, while he was wont to trace 
 
 Our roads, through many a long year's space, 
 
 A living almanack had we; 
 
 We had a speaking diary, 
 
 That in this uneventful place, 
 
 Gave to the days a mark and name 
 
 By which we knew them when they came. 
 
 — Yes, I, and all about me here, 
 
 Through all the changes of the year, 
 
 Had seen him through the mountains go, 
 
 In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, 
 
 Majestically huge and slow : 
 
 Or, with a milder grace adorning 
 
 The landscape of a summer's morning ; 
 
 While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain 
 
 The moving image to detain; 
 
 And mighty Fairfield, with a chime 
 
 Of echoes, to his march kept time ; 
 
 When little other business stirred, 
 
 And little other sound was heard ; 
 
 In that delicious hour of balm, 
 
 Stillness, solitude, and calm, 
 
 While yet the valley is arrayed, 
 
 On this side with a sober shade ; 
 
 On that is prodigally bright — 
 
 Crag, lawn, and wood — with rosy light. 
 
140 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 — But most of all, thou lordly Wain ! 
 
 I wish to have thee here again, 
 
 When windows flap and chimney roars, 
 
 And all is dismal out of doors ; 
 
 And, sitting by my fire, I see 
 
 Eight sorry carts, no less a train ! 
 
 Unworthy successors of thee, 
 
 Come straggling through the wind and rain : 
 
 And oft, as they pass slowly on, 
 
 Beneath my windows, one by one, 
 
 See, perched upon the naked height 
 
 The summit of a cumbrous freight, 
 
 A single traveller — and there 
 
 Another ; then perhaps a pair — 
 
 The lame, the sickly, and the old ; 
 Men, women, heartless with the cold ; 
 And babes in wet and starveling plight ;. 
 Which once, be weather as it might, 
 Had still a nest within a nest, 
 Thy shelter — and their mother's breast ! 
 Then most of all, then far the most, 
 Do I regret what we have lost ; 
 Am grieved for that unhappy sin 
 Which robbed us of good Benjamin ; — ■ 
 And of his stately Charge, which none 
 Could keep alive when He was gone ! 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 141 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 THERE WAS A BOY. 
 There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs 
 And islands of Winander ! — many a time, 
 At evening, when the earliest stars began 
 To move along the edges of the hills, 
 Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 
 Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
 Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
 Blew mim ic hootings to the silent owls, 
 That they might answer him. — And they would shout 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
 Responsive to Ms call, — with quivering peals, 
 And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 
 Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 
 Of jocund din ! And, when there came a pause 
 Of silenco such as baffled his best skill : 
 Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 Of mountain-torrents ; or the visible scene 
 Would enter unawares into his mind 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 
 Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
 
 This boy was taken from his mates, and died 
 In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
 Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 
 Where he was born and bred : the church-yard hangs 
 Upon a slope above the village-school ; 
 And, through that church-yard when my way has led 
 On summer-evenings, I believe, that there 
 A long half-hour together I have stood 
 Mute — looking at the grave in which he lies ! 
 
 1799- 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 blithe New-comer ! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice. 
 
 Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice ? 
 
 While I am lying on the grass 
 Thy twofold shout I hear, 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off, and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the Vale, 
 Of sunshine and of flowers, 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible tiling, 
 
 A voice, a mystery ; 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy days 
 I listened to ; that Cry 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
 Still longed for, never seen. 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet ; 
 Can He upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, faery place ; 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
 ill. 
 A NIGHT-PIECE. 
 
 The sky is overcast 
 
 With a continuous cloud of texture close, 
 Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, 
 Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, 
 A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
 So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, 
 
142 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Chequering the ground — from rock, plant, tree, or 
 
 tower. 
 At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
 Startles the pensive traveller while he treads 
 His lonesome path, with unohserving eye 
 Bent earthwards ; he looks up — the clouds are split 
 Asunder, — and above his head he sees 
 The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. 
 There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, 
 Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 
 And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss 
 Drive as she drives : how fast they wheel away, 
 Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree, 
 But they are silent ; — still they roll along 
 Immeasurably distant ; and the vault, 
 Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, 
 Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
 At length the Vision closes ; and the mind, 
 Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, 
 Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 
 Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 
 
 1798. 
 
 AIREY-FORCE VALLEY. 
 
 Not a breath of air 
 
 Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. 
 
 From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees 
 
 Are stedfast as the rocks ; the brook itself, 
 
 Old as the hills that feed it from afar, 
 
 Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm 
 
 Where all things else are still and motionless. 
 
 And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance 
 
 Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without, 
 
 Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt, 
 
 But to its gentle touch how sensitive 
 
 Is the light ash ! that, pendent from the brow 
 
 Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes 
 
 A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs, 
 
 Powerful almost as vocal harmony 
 
 To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts. 
 
 YEW-TEEES. 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
 Which to this day stands single, in the midst 
 Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore : 
 Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands 
 Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
 
 To Scotland's heaths ; or those that crossed the j 
 And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, 
 Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
 Of vast circumference and gloom profound • 
 This solitary Tree ! a living thing 
 Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
 Of form and aspect too magnificent 
 To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 
 Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, 
 Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 
 Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a gro\ 
 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
 Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; 
 Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks 
 That threaten the profane ; — a pillared shade, 
 Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, 
 By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 
 Perennially — beneath whose sable roof 
 Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked 
 With unrejoicing berries — ghostly Shapes 
 May meet at noontide ; Fear and trembling Hop 
 Silence and Foresight ; Death the Skeleton 
 And Time the Shadow ; — there to celebrate, 
 As in a natural temple scattered o'er 
 With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 
 United worship ; or in mute repose 
 To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
 Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 
 
 1803 
 
 NUTTING. 
 
 It seems a day 
 
 (I speak of one from many singled out) 
 
 One of those heavenly days that cannot die ; 
 
 When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
 
 I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
 
 With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
 
 A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned my steps 
 
 Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, 
 
 Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds 
 
 Which for that service had been husbanded, 
 
 By exhortation of my frugal Danie — 
 
 Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
 
 At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, in truth, 
 
 More ragged than need was ! O'er pathless rocks, 
 
 Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, 
 
 Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
 
 Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
 
 Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 
 
 Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 
 
 Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 141 
 
 k virgin scene ! — A little while I stood, 
 
 j3reathing with such suppression of the heart 
 
 Is joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint 
 
 Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
 
 •[he banquet ; — or beneath the trees I sate 
 
 bnong the flowers, and with the flowers I played; 
 
 V temper known to those, who, after long 
 
 \nd weary expectation, have been blest 
 
 With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 
 
 Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 
 
 Che violets of five seasons re-appear 
 
 ^.nd fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
 
 Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
 
 ror ever ; and I saw the sparkling foam, 
 
 \nd — with my cheek on one of those green stones 
 
 That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, 
 
 jay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep — 
 
 '. heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, 
 
 ' n that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 
 
 Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure, 
 
 The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 
 
 Wasting its kindliness on stocks and Stones, 
 
 ^nd on the vacant ah*. Then up I rose, 
 
 ^nd dragged to earth both branch and bough, with 
 
 crash 
 bid merciless ravage : and the shady nook 
 )f hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
 )eformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
 ^eir quiet being : and, unless I now 
 Jonfound my present feelings with the past ; 
 ire from the mutilated bower I turned 
 Sxulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
 Che silent trees, and saw the intruding sky. — 
 Chen, dearest Maiden, move along these shades 
 In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
 Couch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 
 
 1799. 
 
 THE SIMPLON PASS. 
 
 -Brook and road 
 
 'Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, 
 ^nd with them did we journey several hours 
 iVt a slow step. The immeasurable height 
 )f woods decaying, never to be decayed, 
 the stationary blasts of waterfalls, 
 4nd in the narrow rent, at every turn, 
 [Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, 
 The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, 
 The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, 
 31ack drizzling crags that spake by the wayside 
 
 As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
 
 And giddy prospect of the raving stream, 
 
 The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, 
 
 Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light — 
 
 Were all like workings of one mind, the features 
 
 Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, 
 
 Characters of the great Apocalypse, 
 
 The types and symbols of Eternity, 
 
 Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 
 
 1799. 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 
 A lovely Apparition, sent 
 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 
 Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 
 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 
 From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
 
 To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin-liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A Creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food ; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A Traveller between life and death ; 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
 A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 With something of angelic light. 
 
 O Nightingale ! thou surely art 
 
 A creature of a ' fiery heart ' : — 
 
 These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce ; 
 
 Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
 
 Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 
 
 Had helped thee to a Valentine ; 
 
144 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 A song in mockery and despite 
 Of shades, and dews, and silent night ; 
 And steady bliss, and all the loves 
 Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 
 
 I heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
 
 His homely tale, this very day ; 
 
 His voice was buried among trees, 
 
 Yet to be come-at by the breeze : 
 
 He did not cease ; but cooed — and cooed : 
 
 And somewhat pensively he wooed : 
 
 He sang of love, with quiet blending, 
 
 Slow to begin, and never ending ; 
 
 Of serious faith, and inward glee ; 
 
 That was the song — the song for me ! 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sown ; 
 This Child I to myself will take ; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse : and with me 
 
 The Girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And her's shall be the breathing balm, 
 And her's the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 
 Even in the motions of the Storm 
 
 Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 
 To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face, 
 
 And vital feelings of delight 
 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 
 While she and I together live 
 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal ; 
 
 I had no human fears : 
 She seemed a thing that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. 
 
 No motion has she now, no force ; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees ; 
 Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 
 
 With x'ocks, and stones, and trees. 
 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host, of golden daffodils ; 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced ; but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 
 
 A poet could not but be gay, 
 
 In such a jocund company : 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought : 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I He 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 145 
 
 ; They flash upon that inward eye 
 I Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 1804. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight 
 
 appears, 
 Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for 
 
 three years : 
 Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 
 
 'Tis a note of enchantment; whatailsher? Shesees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 
 And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
 Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; 
 And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
 The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 
 
 She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
 And the colours have all passed away from her eyes ! 
 
 1797- 
 
 XIV. 
 
 POWER OF MUSIC. 
 
 An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faith may grow bold, 
 And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — 
 Near the stately Pantheon you '11 meet with the same 
 In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its 
 
 His station is there ; and he works on the crowd, 
 He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; 
 He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim — 
 Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him % 
 
 What an eager assembly ! what an empire is this ! 
 The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss ; 
 The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest ; 
 And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest. 
 
 As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the 
 
 night, 
 So He, where he stands, is a centre of light ; 
 It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack, 
 And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back. 
 
 That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste — 
 What matter ! he 's caught — and his time runs to 
 
 waste ; 
 The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the 
 
 fret ; 
 And the half-breathless Lamplighter — he 's in the 
 
 net! 
 
 The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ; 
 The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ; — 
 If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease ; 
 She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees ! 
 
 He stands, backed by the wall ; — he abates not his 
 
 din; 
 His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in, 
 From the old and the young, from the poorest ; 
 
 and there ! 
 The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. 
 
 blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand 
 Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a 
 
 band ; 
 
 1 am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the while 
 If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a 
 
 smile. 
 
 That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height, 
 Not an inch of his body is free from delight ; 
 Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oh, not he ! 
 The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. 
 
 Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch ; like a 
 
 tower 
 That long has leaned forward, leans hour after 
 
 hour ! — 
 That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound, 
 While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound. 
 
 Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a stream ; 
 Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream : 
 They are deaf to your murmurs— they care not for 
 
 Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue ! 
 
 lfiOfi. 
 
146 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 xv. 
 STAR-GAZERS. 
 
 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 is as happy in his night, for the heavens are 
 
 blue and fair ; 
 Calm, though impatient, is the crowd ; each stands 
 
 ready with the fee, 
 And envies him that 's looking ; — what an insight 
 
 must it be ! 
 
 Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause ? Shall thy 
 
 Implement have blame, 
 A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put 
 
 to shame ? 
 Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in 
 
 fault? 
 Their eyes, or minds ? or, finally, is yon resplendent 
 
 vault ? 
 
 Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have 
 
 here? 
 Or gives a thing but small delight that never can 
 
 be dear? 
 The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of 
 
 mightiest fame, 
 Doth she betray us when they 're seen ? or are they 
 
 but a name ? 
 
 Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, 
 And bounty never yields so much but it seems to 
 
 do her wrong ? 
 Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long 
 
 have had 
 And are returned into themselves, they cannot but 
 
 be sad ? 
 
 Or must we be constrained to think that these 
 Spectators rude, 
 
 Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multi- 
 tude, 
 
 Have souls which never yet have risen, and there- 
 fore prostrate lie ? 
 
 No, no, this cannot be ; — men thirst for power and 
 majesty ! 
 
 Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful 
 
 mind employ 
 Of him who gazes, or has gazed ? a grave and steady 
 
 j°y» 
 
 That doth reject all show of pride, admits no out- 
 ward 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 turn, nor have I one 
 
 espied 
 That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. 
 
 1806. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Like an army defeated 
 
 The snow hath retreated, 
 
 And now doth fare ill 
 
 On the top of the bare hill ; 
 The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon : 
 
 There 's joy in the mountains ; 
 
 There 's life in the fountains ; 
 
 Small clouds are sailing, 
 
 Blue sky prevailing ; 
 The rain is over and gone ! 
 
 1801. 
 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 147 
 
 Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic live 
 As might from India's farthest plain 
 Recal the not unwilling Maid, 
 
 Assist me to detain 
 
 The lovely Fugitive : 
 Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed 
 By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid. 
 Here let me gaze em-apt upon that eye, 
 The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort 
 Of contemplation, the calm port 
 By reason fenced from winds that sigh 
 Among the restless sails of vanity. 
 But if no wish be hers that we should part, 
 A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart. 
 
 Where all things are so fair, 
 Enough by her dear side to breathe the air 
 
 Of this Elysian weather ; 
 And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy 
 Shade upon the sunshine lying 
 
 Faint and somewhat pensively ; 
 And downward Image gaily vying 
 
 With its upright living tree 
 Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky 
 As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye. 
 
 Nor less the joy with many a glance 
 Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeehing, 
 To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest 
 By ever-changing shape and want of rest ; 
 
 Or watch, with mutual teaching, 
 
 The current as it plays 
 
 In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps 
 
 Adown a rocky maze ; 
 Or note (translucent summer's happiest chance !) 
 In the slope-channel floored with pebbles bright, 
 Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem, 
 So vivid that they take from keenest sight 
 The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them. 
 
 BEGGARS. 
 
 She had a tall man's height or more ; 
 
 Her face from summer's noontide heat 
 
 No bonnet shaded, but she wore 
 
 A mantle, to her very feet 
 
 Descending with a graceful flow, 
 
 And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. 
 
 Her skin was of Egyptian brown : 
 
 Haughty, as if her eye had seen 
 
 Its own light to a distance thrown, 
 
 She towered, fit person for a Queen 
 
 To lead those ancient Amazonian files ; 
 
 Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles. 
 
 Advancing, forth she stretched her hand 
 
 And begged an alms with doleful plea 
 
 That ceased not ; on our English land 
 
 Such woes, I knew, could never be ; 
 
 And yet a boon I gave her, for the 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 flowers the gayest of 
 the land. 
 
 The other wore a rimless crown 
 
 With leaves of laurel stuck about ; 
 
 And, while both followed up and down, 
 
 Each whooping with a merry shout, 
 
 Inj their fraternal features I could trace 
 
 Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. 
 
 Yet the y, so blithe of heart, seemed fit 
 
 For finest tasks of earth or air : 
 
 Wings let them have, and they might flit 
 
 Precursors to Aurora's car, 
 
 Scattering fresh flowers ; though happier far, I 
 
 ween, 
 To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level 
 
 green. 
 
 They dart across my path — but lo, 
 Each ready with a plaintive whine ! 
 Said I, " not half an hour ago 
 Your Mother has had alms of mine." 
 " That cannot be," one answered — " she is dead : " — 
 I looked reproof — they saw— but neither hung his 
 head. 
 
 " She has been dead, Sir, many a day." — 
 
 "Hush, boys ! you 're telling me a lie ; 
 
 It was your Mother, as I say !" 
 
 And, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 
 " Come ! come !" cried one, and without more ado, 
 
 Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! 
 
 1802. 
 
148 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING, 
 
 COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Where are they now, those wanton Boys ? 
 
 For whose free range the daedal earth 
 
 Was filled with animated toys, 
 
 And implements of frolic mirth ; 
 
 With tools for ready wit to guide ; 
 
 And ornaments of seemlier pride, 
 
 More fresh, more bright, than princes wear ; 
 
 For what one moment flung aside, 
 
 Another could repair ; 
 
 What good or evil have they seen 
 
 Since I their pastime witnessed here, 
 
 Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer ? 
 
 I ask — hut all is dark between ! 
 
 They met me in a genial hour, 
 When universal nature breathed 
 As with the breath of one sweet flower, — 
 A time to overrule the power 
 Of discontent, and check the birth 
 Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, 
 The most familiar bane of life 
 Since parting Innocence bequeathed 
 Mortality to Earth ! 
 Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, 
 Sailed through the sky — the brooks ran clear ; 
 The lambs from rock to rock were bounding ; 
 With songs the budded groves resounding ; 
 And to my heart are still endeared 
 The thoughts with which it then was cheered ; 
 The faith which saw that gladsome pah- 
 Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 
 Or, if such faith must needs deceive — 
 Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, 
 Associates in that eager chase ; 
 Ye, who within the blameless mind 
 Your favourite seat of empire find — 
 Kind Spirits ! may we not believe 
 That they, so happy and so fair 
 Through your sweet influence, and the care 
 Of pitying Heaven, at least were free 
 From touch of deadly injury 1 
 Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, 
 For mercy and immortal bloom ! 
 
 1817. 
 
 GIPSIES. 
 
 Yet are they here the same unbroken knot 
 Of human Beings, in the self-same spot ! 
 Men, women, children, yea the frame 
 Of the whole spectacle the same ! 
 Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, 
 Now deep and red, the colouring of night ; 
 That on their Gipsy-faces falls, 
 Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. 
 — Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, 
 
 while I 
 Have been a traveller under open sky, 
 
 Much witnessing of change and cheer, 
 Yet as I left I find them here ! 
 The weary Sun betook himself to rest ; — 
 Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west, 
 Outshining like a visible God 
 The glorious path in which he trod. 
 And now, ascending, after one dark hour 
 And one night's diminution of her power, 
 Behold the mighty Moon ! this way 
 She looks as if at them — but they 
 Regard not her : — oh better wrong and strife 
 (By nature transient) than this torpid fife ; 
 Life which the very stars reprove 
 As on their silent tasks they move ! 
 Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth ! 
 In scorn I speak not ; — they are what their birfc 
 And breeding suffer them to be ; 
 Wild outcasts of society ! 
 
 180 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate, 
 Her Father took another Mate ; 
 And Ruth, not seven years old, 
 A slighted child, at her own will 
 Went wandering over dale and hill, 
 In thoughtless freedom, bold. 
 
 And she had made a pipe of straw, 
 And music from that pipe could draw 
 Like sounds of winds and floods ; 
 Had built a bower upon the green, 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
RUTH. 
 
 149 
 
 Beneath her father's roof, alone 
 
 She seemed to live ; her thoughts her own ; 
 
 Herself her own delight ; 
 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay ; 
 
 And, passing thus the live-long day, 
 
 She grew to woman's height. 
 
 There came a Youth from Georgia's shore- 
 
 A military casque he wore, 
 
 With splendid feathers drest ; 
 
 He brought them from the Cherokees ; 
 
 The feathers nodded in the breeze, 
 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him sprung : 
 But no ! he spake the English tongue, 
 And bore a soldier's name ; 
 And, when America was free 
 From battle and from jeopardy, 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 
 
 With hues of genius on his cheek 
 
 In finest tones the Youth could speak : 
 
 — While he was yet a boy, 
 
 The moon, the glory of the sun, 
 
 And streams that murmur as they run, 
 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely Youth ! I guess 
 
 The panther in the wilderness 
 
 Was not so fair as he ; 
 
 And, when he chose to sport and play, 
 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 
 Upon the tropic sea. 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought, 
 
 And with him many tales he brought 
 
 Of pleasure and of fear ; 
 
 Such tales as told to any maid 
 
 By such a Youth, in the green shade, 
 
 Were perilous to hear. 
 
 He told of girls — a happy rout ! 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 
 
 Their pleasant Indian town, 
 
 To gather strawberries all day long ; 
 
 Returning with a choral song 
 
 When daylight is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants that hourly change 
 Their blossoms, through a boundless range 
 Of intermingling hues ; 
 With budding, fading, faded flowers 
 They stand the wonder of the bowers 
 From morn to evening dews. 
 
 He told of the magnolia, spread 
 High as a cloud, high over head ! 
 The cypress and her spire ; 
 — Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 To set the hills on fire. 
 
 The Youth of green savannahs spake, 
 And many an endless, endless lake, 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 Of islands, that together he 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 " How pleasant," then he said, " it were 
 
 A fisher or a hunter there, 
 
 In sunshine or in shade 
 
 To wander with an easy mind ; 
 
 And build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade ! 
 
 What days and what bright years ! Ah me ! 
 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 
 So passed in quiet bliss, 
 
 And all the while," said he, K to know 
 
 That we were in a world of woe, 
 
 On such an earth as this !" 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 
 Fond thoughts about a father's love : 
 " For there," said he, " are spun 
 Around the heart such tender ties, 
 That our own children to our eyes 
 Are dearer than the sun. 
 
 Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 
 My helpmate in the woods to be, 
 Our shed at night to rear ; 
 Or run, my own adopted bride, 
 A sylvan huntress at my side, 
 And drive the flying deer ! 
 
 Beloved Ruth !" — No more he said. 
 The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
 A solitary tear : 
 
 She thought again — and did agree 
 With him to sail across the sea, 
 And drive the flying deer. 
 
 a And now, as fitting is and right, 
 We in the church our faith will plight, 
 A husband and a wife." 
 Even so they did ; and I may say 
 That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
 Was more than human life. 
 
150 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink, 
 
 And yet he with no feigned delight 
 
 Delighted all the while to think 
 
 Had wooed the Maiden, day and night 
 
 That on those lonesome floods, 
 
 Had loved her, night and morn : 
 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 
 What could he less than love a Maid 
 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 
 Whose heart with so much nature played ? 
 
 His name in the wild woods. 
 
 So kind and so forlorn ! 
 
 But, as you have before been told, 
 
 Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
 
 This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
 
 " Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ; 
 
 And, with his dancing crest, 
 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 
 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 
 Encompassed me on every side 
 
 Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
 
 When I, in confidence and pride, 
 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
 Had crossed the Atlantic main. 
 
 The wind, the tempest roaring high, 
 
 Before me shone a glorious world — 
 
 The tumult of a tropic sky, 
 
 Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled 
 
 Might well be dangerous food 
 
 To music suddenly : 
 
 For him, a Youth to whom was given 
 
 I looked upon those hills and plains, 
 
 So much of earth — so much of heaven, 
 
 And seemed as if let loose from chains, 
 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 To live at liberty. 
 
 Whatever in those climes he found 
 
 No more of this ; for now, by thee 
 
 Irregular in sight or sound 
 
 Dear Ruth ! more happily set free 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 With nobler zeal I burn ; 
 
 A kindred impulse, seemed allied 
 
 My soul from darkness is released, 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 Like the whole sky when to the east 
 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 The morning doth return." 
 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
 
 Full soon that better mind was gone ; 
 
 The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
 
 No hope, no wish remained, not one, — 
 
 Fair trees and gorgeous flowers ; 
 
 They stirred him now no more ; 
 
 The breezes their own languor lent ; 
 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 
 And once again he wished to live 
 
 Into those favored bowers. 
 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 
 They for the voyage were prepared, 
 
 Pure hopes of high intent : 
 
 And went to the sea-shore, 
 
 For passions linked to forms so fair 
 
 But, when they thither came, the Youth 
 
 And stately, needs must have their share 
 
 Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 But ill he lived, much evil saw, 
 
 God help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she had, 
 
 With men to whom no better law 
 
 That she in half a year was mad, 
 
 Nor better life was known ; 
 
 And in a prison housed ; 
 
 Deliberately, and undeceived, 
 
 And there, with many a doleful song 
 
 Those wild men's vices he received, 
 
 Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 
 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
 She fearfully caroused. 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
 
 Were thus impaired, and he became 
 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
 
 The slave of low desires : 
 
 Nor pastimes of the May ; 
 
 A Man who without self-control 
 
 — They all were with her in her cell ; 
 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 
 And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 151 
 
 When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 
 There came a respite to her pain ; 
 She from her prison fled ; 
 But of the Vagrant none took thought ; 
 And where it liked her best she sought 
 Her shelter and her bread. 
 
 Among the fields she breathed again : 
 The master-current of her brain 
 Ran permanent and free ; 
 And, coming to the Banks of Tone, 
 There did she rest ; and dwell alone 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 The engines of her pain, the tools 
 
 That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 
 
 And airs that gently stir 
 
 The vernal leaves — she loved them still ; 
 
 Nor ever taxed them with the ill 
 
 Which had been done to her. 
 
 A Barn her winter bed supplies ; 
 
 But, till the warmth of summer skies 
 
 And summer days is gone, 
 
 (And all do in this tale agree) 
 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 
 
 And other home hath none. 
 
 An innocent life, yet far astray ! 
 
 And Ruth will, long before her day, 
 
 Be broken down and old : 
 
 Sore aches she needs must have ! but less 
 
 Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 
 
 From damp, and rain, and cold. 
 
 If she is prest by want of food, 
 She from her dwelling in the wood 
 Repairs to a road-side ; 
 And there she begs at one steep place 
 Where up and down with easy pace 
 The horsemen-travellers ride. 
 
 That oaten pipe of hers is mute, 
 Or thrown away ; but with a flute 
 Her loneliness she cheers : 
 This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 
 At evening in his homeward walk 
 The Quantock woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have passed her on the hills 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 By spouts and fountains wild — 
 Such small machinery as she turned 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 
 A young and happy Child ! 
 
 Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 
 
 Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould . 
 
 Thy corpse shah buried be, 
 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
 
 And all the congregation sing 
 
 A Christian psalm for thee. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 i. 
 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. 
 
 n. 
 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 moovs 
 The hare is running races in her mirth ; 
 And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
 Raises a mist ; that, glittering in the sun, 
 Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 
 
 in. 
 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. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
 Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
 As high as we have mounted in delight 
 In our dejection do we sink as low ; 
 To me that morning did it happen so ; 
 And fears and fancies thick upon me came ; 
 Dim sadness— and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor 
 could name. 
 
 v. 
 I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky ; 
 And I bethought me of the playful hare : 
 Even such a happy Child of earth am I ; 
 Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 
 Far from the world I walk, and from all care ; 
 But there may come another day to me — 
 Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 
 
152 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 
 
 As if life's business were a summer mood ; 
 
 As if all needful tilings 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 
 Following his plough, along the mountain-side : 
 By our own spirits are we deified : 
 We Poets in our youth begin in gladness ; 
 But thereof come in the end despondency and 
 madness. 
 
 Now, whether it were hy peculiar grace, 
 
 A leading from above, a something given, 
 
 Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place, 
 
 When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 
 
 Beside a pool hare to the eye of heaven 
 
 I saw a Man before me unawares : 
 
 The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. 
 
 As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
 Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 
 Wonder to all who do the same espy, 
 By what means it could thither come, and whence ; 
 So that it seems a thing endued with sense : 
 Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
 Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself ; 
 
 Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, 
 
 Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age : 
 
 His body was bent double, feet and head 
 
 Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; 
 
 As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
 
 Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
 
 A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 
 
 Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
 Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood : 
 And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
 Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
 Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call ; 
 And moveth all together, if it move at all. 
 
 At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
 
 Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
 
 Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 
 
 As if he had been reading in a book : 
 
 And now a stranger's privilege I took ; 
 
 And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 
 
 " This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.' 
 
 A gentle answer did the old Man make, 
 
 In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew : 
 
 And him with further words I thus bespake, 
 
 " What occupation do you there pursue 1 
 
 This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
 
 Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. 
 
 His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
 But each in solemn order followed each, 
 With something of a lofty utterance drest — 
 Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 
 Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; 
 Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, 
 Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. 
 
 He told, that to these waters he had come 
 
 To gather leeches, being old and poor : 
 
 Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 
 
 And he had many hardships to endure : 
 
 From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor ; 
 
 Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance ; 
 
 And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. 
 
 The old Man still stood talking by my side ; 
 But now his voice to me was like a stream 
 Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I divide ; 
 And the whole body of the Man did seem 
 Like one whom I had met with in a dream ; 
 Or like a man from some far region sent, 
 To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. 
 
 My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills ; 
 
 And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 
 
 Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills ; 
 
 And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
 
 — Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
 
 My question eagerly did I renew, 
 
 " How is it that you five, and what is it you do ?" 
 
 1 
 
THE THOHN. 
 
 153 
 
 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 pools where they abide. 
 " Once I could meet with them on every side ; 
 But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
 Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may. 
 
 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. 
 
 And soon with this he other matter blended, 
 
 Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, 
 j But stately in the main ; and when he ended, 
 ! I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
 j In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
 
 " God," said I, " be my help and stay secure ; 
 
 I '11 think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor !' 
 
 1807. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 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 grey. 
 
 Not higher than a two years' child 
 
 It stands erect, this aged Thorn ; 
 
 No leaves it has, no prickly points ; 
 
 It is a mass of knotted joints, 
 
 A wretched thing forlorn. 
 
 It stands erect, and like a stone 
 
 With lichens is it overgrown. 
 
 Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, 
 
 With lichens to the very top, 
 
 And hung with heavy tufts of moss, 
 
 A melancholy crop : 
 
 Up from the earth these mosses creep, 
 
 And this poor Thorn they clasp it round 
 
 So close, you 'd say that they are bent 
 
 With plain and manifest intent 
 
 To drag it to the ground ; 
 
 And all have joined in one endeavour 
 
 To bury this poor Thorn for ever. 
 
 in. 
 High on a mountain's highest ridge, 
 Where oft the stormy winter gale 
 Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 
 It sweeps from vale to vale ; 
 Not five yards from the mountain path, 
 This Thorn you on your left espy ; 
 And to the left, three yards beyond, 
 You see a little muddy pond 
 Of water — never dry 
 Though but of compass small, and bare 
 To thirsty suns and parching air. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And, close beside this aged Thorn, 
 
 There is a fresh and lovely sight, 
 
 A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, 
 
 Just half a foot in height. 
 
 All lovely colours there you see, 
 
 All colours that were ever seen ; 
 
 And mossy network too is there, 
 
 As if by hand of lady fair 
 
 The work had woven been ; 
 
 And cups, the darlings of the eye, 
 
 So deep is their 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. 
 
 Now would you see this aged Thorn, 
 
 This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, 
 
 You must take care and choose your time 
 
 The mountain when to cross. 
 
 For oft there sits between the heap 
 
 So like an infant's grave in size, 
 
 And that same pond of which I spoke, 
 
 A Woman in a scarlet cloak, 
 
154 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 And to herself she cries, 
 
 XI. 
 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 And they had fixed the wedding day, 
 
 Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! ' 
 
 The morning that must wed them both ; 
 
 VII. 
 
 But Stephen to another Maid 
 
 At all times of the day and night 
 
 Had sworn another oath ; 
 
 This wretched Woman thither goes ; 
 
 And, with this other Maid, to church 
 
 And she is known to every star, 
 
 Unthinking Stephen went — 
 
 And every wind that hlows ; 
 
 Poor Martha ! on that woeful day 
 
 And there, heside the Thorn, she sits 
 
 A pang of pitiless dismay 
 
 When the blue daylight 's in the skies, 
 
 Into her soul was sent ; 
 
 And when the whirlwind 's on the hill, 
 
 A fire was kindled in her breast, 
 
 Or frosty air is keen and still, 
 
 Which might not burn itself to rest. 
 
 And to herself she cries, 
 
 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 XII 
 
 Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! ' " 
 
 They say, full six months after this, 
 
 vii r. 
 
 While yet the summer leaves were green, 
 
 " Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, 
 
 She to the mountain-top would go, 
 
 In rain, in tempest, and in snow, 
 
 And there was often seen. 
 
 Thus to the dreary mountain-top 
 
 What could she seek ? — or wish to hide 1 
 
 Does this poor Woman go ? 
 
 Her state to any eye was plain ; 
 
 And why sits she beside the Thorn 
 
 She was with child, and she was mad ; 
 
 When the blue daylight 's in the sky 
 
 Yet often was she sober sad 
 
 Or when the whirlwind 's on the hill, 
 
 From her exceeding pain. 
 
 Or frosty air is keen and still, 
 
 guilty Father — would that death 
 
 And wherefore does she cry 1 — 
 
 Had saved him from that breach of faith ! 
 
 wherefore ? wherefore ? tell me why 
 
 
 Does she repeat that doleful cry ? " 
 
 xii r. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sad case for such a brain to hold 
 
 " I cannot tell ; I wish I could ; 
 
 Communion with a stirring child ! 
 
 For the true reason no one knows : 
 
 Sad case, as you may think, for one 
 
 But would you gladly view the spot, 
 
 Who had a brain so wild ! 
 
 The spot to which she goes ; 
 
 Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, 
 
 The hillock like an infant's grave, 
 
 And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen 
 
 The pond — and Thorn, so old and grey ; 
 
 Held that the unborn infant wrought 
 
 Pass by her door — 'tis seldom shut — 
 
 About its mother's heart, and brought 
 
 And, if you see her in her hut — 
 
 Her senses back again : 
 
 Then to the spot away ! 
 
 And, when at last her time drew near, 
 
 I never heard of such as dare 
 
 Her looks were calm, her senses clear. 
 
 Approach the spot when she is there." 
 
 
 X. 
 
 " But wherefore to the mountain-top 
 
 XIV. 
 
 More know I not, I wish I did, 
 
 Can this unhappy Woman go, 
 
 And it should all be told to you ; 
 
 Whatever star is in the skies, 
 
 For what became of this poor child 
 
 Whatever wind may blow ? " 
 
 No mortal ever knew ; 
 
 " Full twenty years are past and gone 
 
 Nay — if a child to her was born 
 
 Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 
 
 No earthly tongue could ever tell ; 
 
 Gave with a maiden's true good-will 
 
 And if 'twas born alive or dead, 
 
 Her company to Stephen Hill ; 
 
 Far less could this with proof be said; 
 
 And she was blithe and gay, 
 
 But some remember well, 
 
 While friends and kindred all approved 
 
 That Martha Ray about this time 
 
 Of him whom tenderly she loved. 
 
 Would up the mountain often climb. 
 
 
 
THE THORN. 
 
 155 
 
 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 J 
 
 And others, I 've heard many swear, 
 
 Were voices of the dead : 
 
 I cannot think, whate'er they say, 
 
 They had to do with Martha Ray. 
 
 But that she goes to this old Thorn, 
 The Thorn which I described to you, 
 And there sits in a scarlet cloak, 
 I will be sworn is true. 
 For one day with my telescope, 
 To view the ocean wide and bright, 
 When to this country first I came, 
 Ere I had heard of Martha's name, 
 I climbed the mountain's height : — 
 A storm came on, and I could see 
 No object higher than my knee. 
 
 'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain : 
 
 No screen, no fence could I discover ; 
 
 And then the wind ! in sooth, it was 
 
 A wind full ten times over. 
 
 I looked around, I thought I saw 
 
 A jutting crag, — and off I ran, 
 
 Head-foremost, through the driving rain, 
 
 The shelter of the crag to gain ; 
 
 And, as I am a man, 
 
 Instead of jutting crag, I found 
 
 A Woman seated on the ground. 
 
 I did not speak — I saw her face ; 
 
 Her face ! — it was enough for me ; 
 
 I turned about and heard her cry, 
 
 ' Oh misery ! oh misery ! ' 
 
 And there she sits, until the moon 
 
 Through half the clear blue sky will go ; 
 
 And, when the little breezes make 
 
 The waters of the pond to shake, 
 
 As all the country know, 
 
 She shudders, and you hear her cry, 
 
 'Oh misery ! oh misery ! ' " 
 
 " But what 's the Thorn \ and what the pond I 
 
 And what the hill of moss to her ? 
 
 And what the creeping breeze that comes 
 
 The little pond to stir 1 " 
 
 " 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. 
 
 And some had sworn an oath that she 
 Should be to public justice brought ; 
 And for the little infant's bones 
 With spades they would have sought. 
 But instantly the hill of moss 
 Before their eyes began to stir ! 
 And, for full fifty yards around, 
 The grass — it shook upon the ground ! 
 Yet all do still aver 
 The little Babe lies buried there, 
 Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 
 
 I cannot tell how this may be 
 
 But plain it is the Thorn is bound 
 
 With heavy tufts of moss that strive 
 
 To drag it to the ground ; 
 
 And this I know, full many a time, 
 
 When she was on the mountain high, 
 
 By day, and in the silent night, 
 
 When all the stars shone clear and bright, 
 
 That I have heard her cry, 
 
 ' misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! ' " 
 
 j 798. 
 
156 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 HART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles 
 from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the 
 road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is 
 derived from a remarkable Chase, the memory of which 
 is preserved by the 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 
 And now, as he approached a vassal's door, 
 " Bring forth another horse ! " he cried aloud. 
 
 "Another horse !" — That shout the vassal heard 
 And saddled Ms best Steed, a comely grey ; 
 Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
 Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 
 
 Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ; 
 The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; 
 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, 
 There is a doleful silence in the air. 
 
 A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
 That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; 
 But horse and man are vanished, one and all ; 
 Such race, I think, was never seen before. 
 
 Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
 Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
 . Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, 
 Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 
 
 The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on 
 With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern ; 
 But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one, 
 The dogs are stretched among the 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. 
 
 The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side ; 
 I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 
 Nor will I mention by what death he died ; 
 But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. 
 
 Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn ; 
 He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy : 
 He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn, 
 But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 
 
 Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, 
 Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat ; 
 Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ; 
 And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. 
 
 Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched : 
 His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, 
 And with the last deep groan his breath had fetcl 
 The waters of the spring were trembling still. 
 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
 (Never had living man such joyful lot !) 
 Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west 
 And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 
 
 And climbing up the hill — (it was at least 
 Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found 
 Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Be 
 Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now 
 Such sight was never seen by human eyes : 
 Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow 
 Down to the very fountain where he lies. 
 
 I '11 build a pleasure-house upon this spot, 
 And a small arbour, made for rural joy ; 
 'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, 
 A place of love for damsels that are coy. 
 
 A cunning artist will I have to frame 
 
 A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 
 
 And they who do make mention of the same, 
 
 From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Wel 
 
 And, gallant Stag ! to make thy praises known, 
 Another monument shall here be raised ; 
 Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone, 
 And planted where thy hoofs the turf have graze 
 
 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-dea 
 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. 
 
HART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 is; 
 
 lire thrice the Moon into her port had steered, 
 V cup of stone received the living well ; 
 L'hree pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, 
 ^.nd built a house of pleasure in the dell. 
 
 And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 
 With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,- 
 Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 
 A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 
 
 And thither, when the summer days were long 
 sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 
 nd with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 ade merriment within that pleasant bower. 
 
 The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, 
 And his bones he in his paternal vale. — 
 8ut there is matter for a second rhyme, 
 And I to this would add another tale. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The moving accident is not my trade ; 
 To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : 
 Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
 To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 
 
 As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
 It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
 Three aspens at three corners of a square ; 
 And one, not four yards distant, near a well. 
 
 What this imported I could ill divine : 
 And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
 I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
 : The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 
 
 The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head 
 Half wasted the square mound of tawny green ; 
 So that you just might say, as then I said, 
 " Here in old time the hand of man hath been." 
 
 I looked upon the hill both far and near, 
 More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
 It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, 
 And Nature here were willing to decay. 
 
 I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
 When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired, 
 Came up the hollow : — him did I accost, 
 And what this place might be I then 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 past ! 
 Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, 
 Are but tln'ee bounds — and look, Sir, at this last — 
 O Master ! it has been a cruel leap. 
 
 For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
 And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
 What cause the Hart might have to love this place, 
 And come and make his death-bed near the well. 
 
 Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
 Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide ; 
 This water was perhaps the first he drank 
 When he had wandered from his mother's side. 
 
 In April here beneath the flowering thorn 
 He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; 
 And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 
 Not hah a furlong from that self-same spring. 
 
 Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ; 
 
 The sun on drearier hollow never shone ; 
 
 So will it be, as I have often said, 
 
 Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone." 
 
 " Grey-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. 
 
158 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 The Being, that is in the clouds and air, 
 That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
 Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. 
 
 The pleasure-house is dust : — behind, before, 
 This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 
 But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
 Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 
 
 She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 
 
 That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 
 
 But at the coming of the milder day, 
 
 These monuments shall all be overgrown. 
 
 One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, 
 Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals; 
 Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 
 
 SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM 
 CASTLE, 
 
 UPON THE RESTORATION OP LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEP- 
 HERD, 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 ; 
 
 She lifts her head for endless spring, 
 
 For everlasting blossoming : 
 
 Both roses flourish, red and white : 
 
 In love and sisterly delight 
 
 The two that were at strife are blended, 
 
 And all old troubles now are ended.- — 
 
 Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her 
 
 Who is the flower of Lancaster ! 
 
 Behold her how She smiles to-day 
 
 On this great throng, this bright array ! 
 
 Fair greeting doth she send to all 
 
 From every corner of the hall ; 
 
 But chiefly from above the board 
 
 Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 
 
 A Clifford to his own restored ! 
 
 They came with banner, spear, and shield ; 
 And it was proved in Bosworth-field. 
 Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
 Earth helped him with the cry of blood : 
 St. George was for us, and the might 
 Of blessed Angels crowned the right. 
 Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, 
 We loudest in the faithful north : 
 Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 
 Our streams proclaim a welcoming ; 
 Our strong-abodes and castles see 
 The glory of their loyalty. 
 
 How glad is Skipton at this hour — 
 Though lonely, a deserted Tower ; 
 Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom 
 We have them at the feast of Brough'm. 
 How glad Pendragon — though the sleep 
 Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 
 A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
 As in a dream her own renewing. 
 Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem 
 Beside her little humble stream ; 
 And she that keepeth watch and ward 
 Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; 
 They both are happy at this hour, 
 Though each is but a lonely Tower : — • 
 But here is perfect joy and pride 
 For one fair House by Emont's side, 
 This day, distinguished without peer 
 To see her Master and to cheer — 
 Him, and his Lady-mother dear ! 
 
 Oh ! it was a time forlorn 
 When the fatherless was born — 
 Give her wings that she may fly, 
 Or she sees her infant die ! 
 Swords that are with slaughter wild 
 Hunt the Mother and the Child. 
 Who will take them from the light ? 
 — Yonder is a man in sight — 
 Yonder is a house — but where ? 
 No, they must not enter there. 
 To the caves, and to the brooks, 
 To the clouds of heaven she looks ; 
 She is speechless, but her eyes 
 Pray in ghostly agonies. 
 Blissful Mary, Mother mild, 
 Maid and Mother undefiled, 
 Save a Mother and her Child ! 
 
 Now Who is he that bounds with joy 
 On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy 1 
 No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass 
 Light as the wind along the grass. 
 
SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 159 
 
 Can this be He who hither came 
 In secret, like a smothered flame ? 
 O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
 For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! 
 God loves the Child ; and God hath willed 
 That those dear words should be fulfilled, 
 The Lady's words, when forced away 
 The last she to her Babe did say : 
 ' My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest 
 I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, 
 For lowly shepherd's life is best !' 
 
 Alas ! when evil men are strong 
 No life is good, no pleasure long. 
 The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves, 
 And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, 
 And quit the flowers that summer brings 
 To Glenderainakin'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. 
 
 A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
 And heaviness in Clifford's ear ! 
 I said, when evil men are strong, 
 No life is good, no pleasure long, 
 A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
 Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
 And thankful through a weary time, 
 That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
 — Again he wanders forth at will, 
 And tends a flock from hill to hill : 
 His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen 
 Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
 Among the shepherd grooms no mate 
 Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! 
 Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, 
 Nor yet for higher sympathy. 
 To his side the fallow-deer 
 Came, and rested without fear ; 
 The eagle, lord of land and sea, 
 Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 
 And both the undying fish that swim 
 Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him ; 
 The pair were servants of his eye 
 In their immortality ; 
 And glancing, glea ming , dark or bright, 
 Moved to and fro, for his delight. 
 
 He knew the rocks which Angels haunt 
 
 Upon the mountains visitant ; 
 
 He hath kenned them taking wing : 
 
 And into caves where Faeries sing 
 
 He hath entered ; and been told 
 
 By Voices how men lived of old. 
 
 Among the heavens his eye can see 
 
 The face of thing that is to be ; 
 
 And, if that men report him right, 
 
 His tongue could whisper words of might. 
 
 ■ — Now another day is come, 
 
 Fitter hope, and nobler doom ; 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Field of death, where'er thou be, 
 
 Groan thou with our victory ! 
 
 Happy day, and mighty hour, 
 
 When our Shepherd, in his power, 
 
 Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, 
 
 To his ancestors restored 
 
 Like a re-appearing Star, 
 
 Like a glory from afar, 
 
 First shall head the flock of war ! " 
 
 Alas ! the impassioned minstrel did not know 
 How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was 
 
 framed : 
 How he, long forced in humble walks to go, 
 Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. 
 
 Love had he found in huts where poor men he ; 
 His daily teachers had been woods and rills, 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 
 
 In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : 
 Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
 The wisdom which adversity had bred. 
 
 Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth ; 
 The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more ; 
 And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
 u The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore. 
 
 J 807. 
 
ico 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, QN 
 
 REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE 
 
 DURING A TOUR. 
 
 JULY 13, 1798. 
 
 Five years have past; five summers, with the length 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 
 With a soft inland murmur *. — Once again 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
 That on a wild secluded scene impress 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 
 Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
 Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, 
 Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
 Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
 The Hermit sits alone. 
 
 These beauteous forms, 
 Through a long absence, have not been to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
 And passing even into my purer mind, 
 With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
 Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unremembered, acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
 To them I may have owed another gift, 
 Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, 
 In which the burthen of the mystery, 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 
 Of all this unintelligible world, 
 Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, 
 
 * The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above 
 Tintern. 
 
 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 daylight; when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
 How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 
 
 sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 
 And now, with gleams of half-extinguished 
 
 thought, 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
 The picture of the mind revives again : 
 While here I stand, not only with the sense 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
 That in this moment there is life and food 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when 
 
 first 
 
 1 came among these 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, 
 By thought supplied, nor any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye.— That time is past, 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
 Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe, 
 Abundant recompence. For I have learned 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
 The still, sad music of humanity, 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 161 
 
 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 
 Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create *, 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise 
 In nature and the language of the sense, 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 Of aU my moral being. 
 
 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 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 
 I 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 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
 
 ' To blow against thee : and, in after years, 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 
 < Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 
 
 I Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 
 J Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 
 * This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line 
 of Young's the exact expression of which I do not recollect. 
 
 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 
 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 ! 
 
 1/9U. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 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. 
 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 I might step beyond my natural race 
 As thou seem'st now to do ; might one day trace 
 Some ground not mine ; and, strong her strength 
 
 above, 
 My Soul, an Apparition in the place, 
 Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove ! 
 
 1S03. 
 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION, 
 
 AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT *. 
 REPRINTED FROM "THE FRIEND." 
 
 Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
 
 For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood 
 
 * This and the Extract, page 62, and the first Piece of 
 this Class are from the unpublished Poem of which some 
 account is given in the Preface to the Excursion. 
 
162 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 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 
 
 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 
 
 (As at some moment might not be unfelt 
 
 Among the bowers of paradise itself) 
 
 The budding rose above the rose full blown. 
 
 What temper at the prospect did not wake 
 
 To happiness unthought of? The inert 
 
 Were roused, and lively natures rapt away ! 
 
 They who had fed their childhood upon dreams, 
 
 The playfellows of fancy, who had made 
 
 All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength 
 
 Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had stirred 
 
 Among the grandest objects of the sense, 
 
 And dealt with whatsoever they found there 
 
 As if they had within some lurking right 
 
 To wield it ; — they, too, who, of gentle mood, 
 
 Had watched all gentle motions, and to these 
 
 Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild, 
 
 And in the region of then.' peaceful selves ; — 
 
 Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty 
 
 Did both find, helpers to their heart's desire, 
 
 And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish ; 
 
 Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
 
 Not in Utopia, subterranean fields, 
 
 Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where ! 
 
 But in the very world, which is the world 
 
 Of all of us, — the place where in the end 
 
 We find our happiness, or not at all ! 
 
 1805. 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
 Solitary, clear, profound, 
 Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
 Giving to her sound for sound ! 
 
 Unsolicited reply 
 To a babbling wanderer sent ; 
 Like her ordinary cry, 
 Like — but oh, how different ! 
 
 Hears not also mortal Life? 
 
 Hear not we, unthinking Creatures ! 
 
 Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 
 Voices of two different natures 2 
 
 Have not we too ? — yes, we have 
 Answers, and we know not whence ; 
 Echoes from beyond the grave, 
 Recognised intelligence ! 
 
 Such rebounds our inward ear 
 Catches sometimes from afar — 
 Listen, ponder, hold them dear ; 
 For of God, — of God they are. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
 l3ost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? 
 Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music 
 still! 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 
 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine; 
 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
 
 Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 
 
 Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; 
 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 « 'With sacrifice before the rising morn 
 Vows have I made by limitless hope inspired ; 
 And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 
 Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required : 
 Celestial pity I again implore ; — 
 Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore !" 
 
 So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
 
 With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands ; 
 
 While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, 
 
 Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands ; 
 
 Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; 
 
 And she expects the issue in repose. 
 
LA OD AMI A. 
 
 163 
 
 b terror! what hath she perceived? — joy ! 
 What doth she look on ?— whom doth she behold ? 
 Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
 His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
 [t is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ! 
 And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 
 
 Mild Hermes spake— and touched her with his 
 
 wand 
 That calms all fear ; "Such grace hath crowned 
 
 thy prayer, 
 Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 
 Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air : 
 He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 
 Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 
 
 Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to 
 
 Again that consummation she essayed ; 
 But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 
 As often as that eager grasp was made. 
 The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 
 And re-assume his place before her sight. 
 
 " Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
 Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : 
 This is our palace,— yonder is thy throne ; 
 Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
 Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
 This precious boon ; and blest a sad abode." 
 
 '•' Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave 
 His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I be, 
 I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
 But in reward of thy fidelity. 
 And something also did my worth obtain ; 
 For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 
 
 Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 
 
 That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 
 
 Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold : 
 
 A generous cause a victim did demand ; 
 
 And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; . 
 
 A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 
 
 " Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best ! 
 Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
 Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 
 By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
 Thou found'st— and I forgive thee — here thou art — 
 A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 
 
 But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
 
 And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
 
 Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave : 
 
 Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
 
 As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 
 
 No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this ; 
 Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! 
 Give, on this well known couch, one nuptial kiss 
 To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " 
 Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parcae 
 
 threw 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 " This visage tells thee that my doom is past : 
 Nor should the change be mourned, even if the 
 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 
 Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains : 
 Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 
 
 Be taught, faithful Consort, to control 
 Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
 The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 
 A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
 Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 
 
 " Ah, wherefore 1 — Did not Hercules by force 
 Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
 Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
 Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
 And ^Eson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 
 
 The Gods to us are merciful— and they 
 Yet further may relent : for mightier far 
 Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
 Of magic potent over sun and star, 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
 And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's 
 breast. 
 
 But if thou goest, I follow — " "Peace !" he said,— 
 
 She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered; 
 
 The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; 
 
 In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 
 
 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 
 
 Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 
 
164 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 ~ 
 
 He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
 In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
 No fears to heat away — no strife to heal— 
 The past unsighed for, and the future sure; 
 Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
 Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 
 
 In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams, 
 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
 
 And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 
 
 Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 
 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
 
 Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 
 
 That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, 
 
 " The end of man's existence I discerned, 
 
 Who from ignoble games and revelry 
 
 Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, 
 
 While tears were thy best pastime, day and night; 
 
 And while my youthful peers before my eyes 
 (Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
 Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
 By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 
 Chieftains and kings in council were detained ; 
 What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 
 
 The wished-for wind was given : — I then revolved 
 The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 
 And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
 That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
 The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 
 Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 
 
 Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 
 
 On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 
 
 And on the j oys we shared in mortal life, — 
 
 The paths which we had trod — these fountains, 
 
 flowers ; 
 My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 
 
 But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
 ' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 
 Yet of their number no one dares to die ? ' 
 In soul I swept the indignity away : 
 Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty thought, 
 In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 
 
 And Thou, though strong in love, act all too weak 
 
 In reason, in self-government too slow; 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 The invisible world with thee hath sympathised • 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 
 
 Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 
 Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 
 Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end : 
 For this the passion to excess was driven — 
 That self might be annulled : her bondage prove 
 The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re-appears ! 
 Round the dear Shade she would have clung — 'tis 
 
 vain : 
 The hours are past — too brief had they been years : 
 And him no mortal effort can detain : 
 Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly dav. 
 He through the portal takes his silent way, 
 And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay. 
 
 Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, 
 She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime, 
 By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 
 Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, 
 Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers 
 Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 
 
 — Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
 And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
 Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
 As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
 A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
 From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; 
 And ever, when such stature they had gained 
 That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, 
 The trees' tall summits withered at the sight ; 
 A constant interchange of growth and blight ! * 
 
 1814. 
 
 * For the account of these long-lived trees, see Pliny' 
 Natural History, lib. xvi. cap. 44. ; and for the features i) 
 the character of Protesilaus see the Iphigenia in Aulis o 
 Euripides. "Virgil places the Shade of Laodamia in i 
 mournful region, among unhappy Lovers, 
 
 His Laodamia 
 
 It Comes.. . 
 
DION. 
 
 16.5 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 DION. 
 
 (SEE PLOTABCH). 
 1. 
 
 Serene, and fitted to embrace, 
 Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace 
 Of haughtiness without pretence, 
 And to unfold a still magnificence, 
 Was princely Dion, in the power 
 And beauty of his happier hour. 
 And what pure homage then did wait 
 On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam 
 Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, 
 Fell round him in the grove of Academe, 
 Softening their inbred dignity austere — 
 
 That he, not too elate 
 
 With self-sufficing solitude, 
 But with majestic lowliness endued, 
 
 Might in the universal bosom reign, 
 And from affectionate observance gain 
 Help, under every change of adverse fate. 
 
 Five thousand warriors — the rapturous day ! 
 Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear 
 
 and shield, 
 Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, 
 To Syracuse advance in bright array. 
 Who leads them on? — The anxious people see 
 Long-exiled Dion marching at their head, 
 He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, 
 And in a white, far-beaming, corslet clad ! 
 Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear 
 The gazers feel ; and, rushing to the plain, 
 Salute those strangers as a holy train 
 Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) 
 That brought their precious liberty again. 
 Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each hand, 
 Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine 
 
 In seemly order stand, 
 On tables set, as if for rites divine ; — 
 And, as the great Deliverer marches by, 
 
 He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown ; 
 And flowers are on his person thrown 
 
 In boundless prodigality ; 
 Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, 
 Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 
 As if a very Deity he were ! 
 
 Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and mourn 
 Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
 
 Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
 Your once sweet memory, studious walks and 
 
 shades ! 
 For him who to divinity aspired, 
 Not on the breath of popular applause, 
 But through dependence on the sacred laws 
 Framed in the schoojs where Wisdom dwelt retired, 
 Intent to trace the ideal path of right 
 (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved 
 
 with stars) 
 Which Dion learned to measure with sublime 
 
 delight ; — 
 But He hath overleaped the eternal bars ; 
 And, following guides whose craft holds no consent 
 With aught that breathes the ethereal element, 
 Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood, 
 Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 
 Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, 
 Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain ; 
 And oft his cogitations sink as low 
 As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 
 The heaviest plummet of despair can go- 
 But whence that sudden check 1 that fearful start ! 
 He hears an uncouth sound — 
 Anon his lifted eyes 
 Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 
 A Shape of more than mortal size 
 And hideous aspect, stalking round and round ! 
 A woman's garb the Phantom wore, 
 And fiercely swept the marble floor, — 
 Like Auster whirling to and fro, 
 His force on Caspian foam to try ; 
 Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
 That skins the plains of Thessaly, 
 Or when aloft on Maenalus he stops 
 His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 
 
 So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, 
 The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed, 
 
 Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — 
 No pause admitted, no design avowed ! 
 u Avaunt, inexplicable Guest ! — a vaunt," 
 Exclaimed the Chieftain — " let me rather see 
 The coronal that coiling vipers make ; 
 The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, 
 And the long train of doleful pageantry 
 Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt ; 
 Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, 
 Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, 
 And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have 
 
 borne !" 
 
166 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, 
 
 Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 
 
 Lords of the visionary eye whose lid, 
 
 Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! 
 
 Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement 
 
 Obeys a mystical intent ! 
 
 Your Minister would brush away 
 
 The spots that to my soul adhere ; 
 
 But should she labour night and day, 
 
 They will not, cannot disappear ; 
 
 Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 
 
 Winch no Philosophy can brook ! 
 
 Ill-fated Chief ! there are whose hopes are built 
 Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 
 Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, 
 Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! 
 O matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 
 Of monstrous crime ! — that horror-striking blade, 
 Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid 
 The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 
 Shudder'd the walls — the marble city wept — 
 And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ; 
 But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept, 
 As he had fallen in magnanimity ; 
 Of spirit too capacious to require 
 That Destiny her course should change ; too just 
 To his own native greatness to desire 
 That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust. 
 So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 
 The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 
 Released from life and cares of princely state, 
 He left this moral grafted on his Fate ; 
 ' Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, 
 Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 
 Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends.' 
 
 1S1G. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. 
 i. 
 Within the mind strong fancies work, 
 A deep delight the bosom thrills, 
 Oft as I pass along the fork 
 Of these fraternal hills : 
 Where, save the rugged road, we find 
 No appanage of human kind, 
 Nor hint of man ; if stone or rock 
 Seem not his handy- work to mock 
 By something cognizably shaped ; 
 
 
 Mockery — or model roughly hewn, 
 
 And left as if by earthquake strewn, 
 
 Or from the Flood escaped : 
 
 Altars for Druid service fit ; 
 
 (But where no fire was ever lit, 
 
 Unless the glow-worm to the skies 
 
 Thence offer nightly sacrifice) 
 
 Wrinkled Egyptian monument ; 
 
 Green moss-grown tower ; or hoary tent ; 
 
 Tents of a camp that never shall be razed— 
 
 On which four thousand years have gazed ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes ! 
 
 Ye snow-white lambs that trip 
 
 Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 
 
 Of restless ownership ! 
 
 Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 
 
 To feed the insatiate Prodigal ! 
 
 Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields, 
 
 All that the fertile valley shields ; 
 
 Wages of folly — baits of crime, 
 
 Of life's uneasy game the stake, 
 
 Playthings that keep the eyes awake 
 
 Of drowsy, dotard Time ; — 
 
 care ! guilt ! — vales and plains, 
 
 Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains, 
 
 A Genius dwells, that can subdue 
 
 At once all memory of You, — 
 
 Most potent when mists veil the sky, 
 
 Mists that distort and magnify ; 
 
 While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze. 
 
 Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 
 
 in. 
 
 List to those shriller notes ! — that march 
 
 Perchance was on the blast, 
 
 When, through this Height's inverted arch, 
 
 Rome's earliest legion passed ! 
 
 — They saw, adventurously impelled, 
 
 And older eyes than theirs beheld, 
 
 This block — and yon, whose church-like frame 
 
 Gives to this savage Pass its name. 
 
 Aspiring Road ! that lov'st to hide 
 
 Thy daring in a vapoury bourn, 
 
 Not seldom may the hour return 
 
 When thou shalt be my guide : 
 
 And I (as all men may find cause, 
 
 When life is at a weary pause, 
 
 And they have panted up the hill 
 
 Of duty with reluctant will) 
 
 Be thankful, even though tired and faint, 
 
 For the rich bounties of constraint ; 
 
 Whence oft invigorating transports flow 
 
 That choice lacked courage to bestow ! 
 
 
TO ENTERPRISE. 
 
 167 
 
 My Soul was grateful for delight 
 
 That wore a threatening brow ; 
 
 A veil is lifted — can she slight 
 
 The scene that opens now ? 
 
 Though habitation none appear, 
 
 The greenness tells, man must be there ; 
 
 The shelter — that the perspective 
 
 Is of the clime in which we live ; 
 
 Where Toil pursues his daily round ; 
 
 Where Pity sheds sweet tears — and Love, 
 
 In woodbine bower or birchen grove, 
 
 Inflicts his tender wound. 
 
 — Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 
 
 How beautiful the world below ; 
 
 Nor can he guess how lightly leaps 
 
 The brook adown the rocky steeps. 
 
 Farewell, thou desolate Domain ! 
 
 Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, 
 
 Carols like a shepherd-boy ; 
 
 And who is she \ — Can that be Joy ! 
 
 Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, 
 
 Smoothly skims the meadows wide ; 
 
 While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, 
 
 To hill and vale proclaims aloud, 
 
 " Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, 
 
 Thy lot, Man, is good, thy portion fair !" 
 
 1817. 
 
 TO ENTERPRISE. 
 
 Keep for the Young the impassioned smile 
 Shed from thy countenance, as I see thee stand 
 High on that chalky cliff of Briton's Isle, 
 A slender volume grasping hi thy hand — 
 (Perchance the pages that relate 
 The various turns of Crusoe's fate) — 
 Ah, spare the exulting smile, 
 
 ! And drop thy pointing finger bright 
 As the first flash of beacon light ; 
 
 i Eut neither veil thy head in shadows dim, 
 
 1 Nor turn thy face away 
 From One who, in the evening of his day, 
 To thee would offer no presumptuous hymn ! 
 
 i. 
 Bold Spirit ! who art free to rove 
 Among the starry courts of Jove, 
 And oft in splendour dost appear 
 Embodied to poetic eyes, 
 While traversing this nether sphere, 
 Where Mortals call thee Enterprise. 
 
 Daughter of Hope ! her favourite Child, 
 Whom she to young Ambition bore, 
 When hunter's arrow first defiled 
 The grove, and stained the turf with gore ; 
 Thee winged Fancy took, and nursed 
 On broad Euphrates' palmy shore, 
 And where the mightier Waters burst 
 From caves of Indian mountains hoar ! 
 She wrapped thee in a panther's skin ; 
 And Thou, thy favourite food to win, 
 The flame-eyed eagle oft wouldst scare 
 From her rock-fortress in mid air, 
 With infant shout ; and often sweep, 
 Paired with the ostrich, o'er the plain ; 
 Or, tired with sport, wouldst sink asleep 
 Upon the couchant lion's mane ! 
 With rolling years thy strength increased ; 
 And, far beyond thy native East, 
 To thee, by varying titles known 
 As variously thy power was shown, 
 Did incense-bearing altars rise, 
 Which caught the blaze of sacrifice, 
 From suppliants panting for the skies ! 
 
 What though this ancient Earth be trod 
 
 No more by step of Demi-god 
 
 Mounting from glorious deed to deed 
 
 As thou from clime to clime didst lead ; 
 
 Yet still, the bosom beating high, 
 
 And the hushed farewell of an eye 
 
 Where no procrastinating gaze 
 
 A last infirmity betrays, 
 
 Prove that thy heaven-descended sway 
 
 Shall ne'er submit to cold decay. 
 
 By thy divinity impelled, 
 
 The Stripling seeks the tented field ; 
 
 The aspiring Virgin kneels ; and, pale 
 
 With awe, receives the hallowed veil, 
 
 A soft and tender Heroine 
 
 Vowed to severer discipline ; 
 
 Inflamed by thee, the blooming Boy 
 
 Makes of the whistling shrouds a toy, 
 
 And of the ocean's dismal breast 
 
 A play-ground, — or a couch of rest ; 
 
 'Mid the blank world of snow and ice, 
 
 Thou to his dangers dost enchain 
 
 The Chamois-chaser awed in vain 
 
 By chasm or dizzy precipice ; 
 
 And hast Thou not with triumph seen 
 
 How soaring Mortals glide between 
 
 Or through the clouds, and brave the light 
 
 With bolder than Icarian flight ? 
 
168 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 How they, in bells of crystal, dive — 
 
 Where winds and waters cease to strive — 
 
 For no unholy visitings, 
 
 Among the monsters of the Deep ; 
 
 And all the sad and precious things 
 
 Which there in ghastly silence sleep 1 
 
 Or, adverse tides and currents headed, 
 
 And breathless calms no longer dreaded, 
 
 In never-slackening voyage go 
 
 Straight as an arrow from the bow ; 
 
 And, slighting sails and scorning oars, 
 
 Keep faith with Time on distant shores ? 
 
 — Within our fearless reach are placed 
 
 The secrets of the burning Waste ; 
 
 Egyptian tombs unlock their dead, 
 
 Nile trembles at his fountain head ; 
 
 Thou speak'st — and lo ! the polar Seas 
 
 Unbosom their last mysteries. 
 
 — But oh ! what transports, what sublime reward, 
 
 Won from the world of mind, dost thou prepare 
 
 For philosophic Sage ; or high-souled Bard 
 
 Who, for thy service trained in lonely woods, 
 
 Hath fed on pageants floating through the air, 
 
 Or calentured in depth of limpid floods ; 
 
 Nor grieves — tho' doomed thro' silent night to bear 
 
 The domination of his glorious themes, 
 
 Or struggle in the net-work of thy dreams ! 
 
 If there be movements in the Patriot's soul, 
 From source still deeper, and of higher worth, 
 'Tis thine the quickening impulse to control, 
 And in due season send the mandate forth ; 
 Thy call a prostrate Nation can restore, 
 When but a single Mind resolves to crouch no 
 more. 
 
 Dread Minister of wrath ! 
 
 Who to their destined punishment dost urge 
 
 The Pharaohs of the earth, the men of hardened 
 
 heart ! 
 Not unassisted by the flattering stars, 
 Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path 
 When they in pomp depart 
 With trampling horses and refulgent cars — 
 Soon to be swallowed by the briny surge ; 
 Or cast, for lingering death, on unknown strands ; 
 Or caught amid a whhd of desert sands — 
 An Army now, and now a living hill 
 That a brief while heaves with convulsive throes — 
 Then all is still ; 
 
 Or, to forget their madness and their woes, 
 Wrapt in a winding-sheet of spotless snows ! 
 
 Back flows the willing current of my Song : 
 
 If to provoke such doom the Impious dare, 
 
 Why should it daunt a blameless prayer ? 
 
 — Bold Goddess ! range our Youth among ; 
 
 Nor let thy genuine impulse fail to beat 
 
 In hearts no longer young ; 
 
 Still may a veteran Few have pride 
 
 In thoughts whose sternness makes them sweet ; 
 
 In fixed resolves by Reason justified ; 
 
 That to their object cleave like sleet 
 
 Whitening a pine tree's northern side, 
 
 When fields are naked far and wide, 
 
 And withered leaves, from earth's cold breast 
 
 Up-caught in whirlwinds, nowhere can find rest. 
 
 But, if such homage thou disdain 
 
 As doth with mellowing years agree, 
 
 One rarely absent from thy train 
 
 More humble favours may obtain 
 
 For thy contented Votary. 
 
 She, who incites the frolic lambs 
 
 In presence of their heedless dams, 
 
 And to the solitary fawn 
 
 Vouchsafes her lessons, bounteous Nymph 
 
 That wakes the breeze, the sparkling lymph 
 
 Doth hurry to the lawn ; 
 
 She, who inspires that strain of joyance holy 
 
 Which the sweet Bird, misnamed the melancholy 
 
 Pours forth in shady groves, shall plead for rae ; 
 
 And vernal mornings opening bright 
 
 With views of undefined delight, 
 
 And cheerful songs, and suns that shine 
 
 On busy days, with thankful nights, be mine. 
 
 But thou, Goddess ! in thy favourite Isle 
 
 (Freedom's impregnable redoubt, 
 
 The wide earth's store-house fenced about 
 
 With breakers roaring to the gales 
 
 That stretch a thousand thousand sails) 
 
 Quicken the slothful, and exalt the vile ! — 
 
 Thy impulse is the life of Fame ; 
 
 Glad Hope would almost cease to be 
 
 If torn from thy society ; 
 
 And Love, when worthiest of his name, 
 
 Is proud to walk the earth with Thee 1 
 
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 169 
 
 TO- 
 
 ON HEB FIEST ASCENT TO THS SUMMIT OF HELVELLTN. 
 
 Inmate of a mountain-dwelling, 
 Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed 
 From the watch-towers of Heivellyn ; 
 Awed, delighted, and amazed ! 
 
 Potent was the spell that hound thee 
 Not unwilling to obey ; 
 For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee, 
 Stilled the pantings of dismay. 
 
 Lo ! the dwindled woods and meadows ; 
 What a vast abyss is there ! 
 Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadows, 
 And the glistenings — heavenly fair ! 
 
 And a record of commotion 
 Which a thousand ridges yield ; 
 Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
 Gleaming like a silver shield ! 
 
 Maiden ! now take flight ; — inherit 
 Alps or Andes — they are thine ! 
 With the morning's roseate Spirit, 
 Sweep their length of snowy line ; 
 
 Or survey their bright dominions 
 In the gorgeous colours drest 
 Flung from off the purple pinions, 
 Evening spreads throughout the west ! 
 
 Thine are all the coral fountains 
 Warbling in each sparry vault 
 Of the untrodden lunar mountains ; 
 Listen to their songs ! — or halt, 
 
 To Niphates' top invited, 
 W hither spiteful Satan steered ; 
 Or descend where the ark alighted, 
 When the green earth re-appeared ; 
 
 For the power of hills is on thee, 
 As was witnessed through thine eye 
 Then, when old Heivellyn won thee 
 To confess their majesty ! 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOK TAKING LONG WALKS 
 IN THE CODNTRT. 
 
 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 heart-stirring days, and be 
 
 A light to young and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a shepherd boy, 
 
 And treading among flowers of joy 
 
 Which at no season fade, 
 
 Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 
 
 Shalt show us how divine a tiling 
 
 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. 
 
 WATER-FOWL. 
 
 ' Let me be allowed the aid of verse to describe the evolu- 
 ' tions which these visitants sometimes perform, on a fine 
 ' day towards the close of winter.' — Extract from, the 
 Author's Book on the Lakes. 
 
 Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood, 
 With grace of motion that might scarcely seem 
 Inferior to angelical, prolong 
 Their curious pastime ! shaping in mid air 
 (And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars 
 High as the level of the mountain-tops) 
 A circuit ampler than the lake beneath — 
 Their own domain ; but ever, while intent 
 On tracing and retracing that large round, 
 Their jubilant activity evolves 
 Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, 
 Upward and downward, progress intricate 
 Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed 
 Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done — 
 Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased ; 
 But lo ! the vanished company again 
 Ascending ; they approach — I hear their wings, 
 Faint, faint at first ; and then an eager sound, 
 Past in a moment— and as faint again ! 
 They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes ; 
 
170 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice, 
 To show them a fair image ; 'tis themselves, 
 Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain, 
 Painted more soft and fair as they descend 
 Almost to touch ; — then up again aloft, 
 Up with a sally and a flash of speed, 
 As if they scorned both resting-place and rest ! 
 
 1812. 
 
 VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB. 
 
 This Height a ministering Angel might select : 
 For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name 
 Derived from clouds and storms ! ) the amplest range 
 Of unobstructed prospect may be seen 
 That British ground commands : — low dusky tracts, 
 Where Trent is nursed, far southward ! Cambrian 
 
 hills 
 To the south-west, a multitudinous show ; 
 And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, 
 The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth 
 To Tiviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde : — 
 Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth 
 Gigantic mountains rough with crags ; beneath, 
 Right at the imperial station's western base 
 Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched 
 Far into silent regions blue and pale ; — 
 And visibly engirding Mona's Isle 
 That, as we left the plain, before our sight 
 Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly 
 (Above the convex of the watery globe) 
 Into clear view the cultured fields that streak 
 Her habitable shores, but now appears 
 A dwindled object, and submits to he 
 At the spectator's feet. — Yon azure ridge, 
 Is it a perishable cloud ? Or there 
 Do we behold the line of Erin's coast? 
 Land sometimes by the roving shepherd-swain 
 (Like the bright confines of another world) 
 Not doubtfully perceived. — Look homeward now ! 
 In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene 
 The spectacle, how pure !— Of Nature's works, 
 In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, 
 A revelation infinite it seems ; 
 Display august of man's inheritance, 
 Of Britain's calm felicity and power ! 
 
 1813. 
 
 Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of 
 Cumberland : its base covers a much greater extent of 
 ground than any other mountain in those parts ; and, 
 from its situation, the summit commands a more extensive 
 view than any other point in Britain. 
 
 THE HAUNTED TREE. 
 
 Those silver clouds collected round the sun 
 
 His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less 
 
 To overshade than multiply his beams 
 
 By soft reflection — grateful to the sky, 
 
 To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human 
 
 sense 
 Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy 
 More ample than the time-dismantled Oak 
 Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired 
 In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords 
 Couch beautiful as e 'er for earthly use 
 Was fashioned ; whether by the hand of Art, 
 That eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought 
 On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs 
 In languor ; or, by Nature, for repose 
 Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied with the chase. 
 Lady ! fairer in thy Poet's sight 
 Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves, 
 Approach ; — and, thus invited, crown with rest 
 The noon-tide hour : though truly some there are 
 Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid 
 This venerable Tree ; for, when the wind 
 Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound 
 (Above the general roar of woods and crags) 
 Distinctly heard from far — a doleful note ! 
 As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed) 
 The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed 
 Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved, 
 By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost 
 Haunts the old trunk ; lamenting deeds of which 
 The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind 
 Sweeps now along this elevated ridge ; 
 Not even a zephyr stirs ; — the obnoxious Tree 
 Is mute ; and, in his silence, would look down, 
 O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills, 
 On thy reclining form with more delight 
 Than his coevals in the sheltered vale 
 Seem to participate, the while they view 
 Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads 
 Vividly pictured in some glassy pool, 
 That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying 
 stream ! 
 
THE TRIAD. 
 
 171 
 
 THE TEIAD. 
 
 Show me the noblest Youth of present time, 
 
 Whose trembling fancy would to love give birth ; 
 
 Some God or Hero, from the Olympian clime 
 
 Returned, to seek a Consort upon earth ; 
 
 Or, in no doubtful prospect, let me see 
 
 The brightest star of ages yet to be, 
 
 And I will mate and match him blissfully. 
 
 I will not fetch a Naiad from a flood 
 
 Pure as herself — (song lacks not mightier power) 
 
 Nor leaf-crowned Dryad from a pathless wood, 
 
 Nor Sea-nymph glistening from her coral bower ; 
 
 Mere Mortals bodied forth in vision still, 
 
 Shall with Mount Ida's triple lustre fill 
 
 The chaster coverts of a British hill. 
 
 " Appear ! — obey my lyre's command ! 
 
 Come, like the Graces, hand in hand ! 
 
 For ye, though not by birth allied, 
 \ Are Sisters in the bond of love ; 
 
 Nor shall the tongue of envious pride 
 ! Presume those interweavings to reprove 
 ! In you, which that fair progeny of Jove, 
 
 Learned from the tuneful spheres that glide 
 '. In endless union, earth and sea above." 
 1 — I sing in vain ; — the pines have hushed their 
 
 waving: 
 ' A peerless Youth expectant at my side, 
 ! Breathless as they, with unabated craving 
 
 Looks to the earth, and to the vacant air ; 
 ; And, with a wandering eye that seems to chide, 
 
 Asks of the clouds what occupants they hide : — 
 
 But why solicit more than sight could bear, 
 ; By casting on a moment all we dare ? 
 
 Invoke we those bright Beings one by one ; 
 
 I And what was boldly promised, truly shall be done. 
 " Fear not a constraining measure ! 
 
 —Yielding to this gentle spell, 
 
 Lucida ! from domes of pleasure. 
 
 Or from cottage-sprinkled dell, 
 I Come to regions solitary, 
 1 Where the eagle builds her aery, 
 ; Above the hermit's long-forsaken cell ! " 
 f —She comes ! — behold 
 : That Figure, like a ship with snow-white sail ! 
 
 Nearer she draws ; a breeze uplifts her veil ; 
 
 Upon her coming wait 
 
 As pure a sunshine and as soft a gale 
 
 As e'er, on herbage covering earthly mold, 
 
 Tempted the bird of Juno to unfold 
 
 His richest splendour — when his veering gait 
 
 And every motion of his starry train 
 
 Seem governed by a strain 
 
 Of music, audible to him alone. 
 
 " Lady, worthy of earth's proudest throne ! 
 Nor less, by excellence of nature, fit 
 Beside an unambitious hearth to sit 
 Domestic queen, where grandeur is unknown ; 
 What living man could fear 
 The worst of Fortune's malice, wert Thou near, 
 Humbling that lily-stem, thy sceptre meek, 
 That its fair flowers may from his cheek 
 Brush the too happy tear? 
 
 Queen, and handmaid lowly ! 
 
 Whose skill can speed the day with lively cares, 
 
 And banish melancholy 
 
 By all that mind invents or hand prepares ; 
 
 Thou, against whose lip, without its smile 
 
 And in its silence even, no heart is proof ; 
 
 Whose goodness, sinking deep, would reconcile 
 
 The softest Nursling of a gorgeous palace 
 
 To the bare life beneath the hawthorn-roof 
 
 Of Sherwood's Archer, or in caves of Wallace — - 
 
 Who that hath seen thy beauty could content 
 
 His soul with but a glimpse of heavenly day ? 
 
 Who that hath loved thee, but would lay 
 
 His strong hand on the wind, if it were bent 
 
 To take thee in thy majesty away I 
 
 — Pass onward (even the glancing deer 
 
 Till we depart intrude not here ;) 
 
 That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine throws 
 
 A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose ! " 
 
 Glad moment is it when the throng 
 
 Of warblers in full concert strong 
 
 Strive, and not vainly strive, to rout 
 
 The lagging shower, and force coy Phoebus out, 
 
 Met by the rainbow's form divine, 
 
 Issuing from her cloudy shrine ; — 
 
 So may the thrillings of the lyre 
 
 Prevail to further our desire, 
 
 While to these shades a sister Nymph I call. 
 
 " Come, if the notes thine ear may pierce, 
 Come, youngest of the lovely Three, 
 Submissive to the might of verse 
 And the dear voice of harmony, 
 By none more deeply felt than Thee ! " 
 — I sang ; and lo ! from pastimes virginal 
 She hastens to the tents 
 Of nature, and the lonely elements. 
 
172 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Air sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen ; 
 
 But mark her glowing cheek, her vesture green ! 
 
 And, as if wishful to disarm 
 
 Or to repay the potent Charm, 
 
 She hears the stringed lute of old romance, 
 
 That cheered the trellised arbour's privacy, 
 
 And soothed war-wearied knights in raftered hall. 
 
 How vivid, yet how delicate, her glee ! 
 
 So tripped the Muse, inventress of the dance ; 
 
 So, truant in waste woods, the blithe Euphrosyne ! 
 
 But the ringlets of that head 
 
 Why are they ungarlanded ? 
 
 Why bedeck her temples less 
 
 Than the simplest shepherdess ? 
 
 Is it not a brow inviting 
 
 Choicest flowers that ever breathed, 
 
 Which the myrtle would delight in 
 
 With Idalian rose enwreathed \ 
 
 But her humility is well content 
 
 With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn) 
 
 Flower of the winds, beneath her bosom worn — 
 
 Yet more for love than ornament. 
 
 Open, ye thickets ! let her fly, 
 
 Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and height ! 
 
 For She, to all but those who love her, shy, 
 
 Would gladly vanish from a Stranger's sight ; 
 
 Though where she is beloved and loves, 
 
 Light as the wheeling butterfly she moves ; 
 
 Her happy spirit as a bird is free, 
 
 That rifles blossoms on a tree, 
 
 Turning them inside out with arch audacity. 
 
 Alas ! how little can a moment show 
 
 Of an eye where feeling plays 
 
 In ten thousand dewy rays ; 
 
 A face o'er which a thousand shadows go ! 
 
 — She stops — is fastened to that rivulet's side ; 
 
 And there (while, with sedater mien, 
 
 O'er timid waters that have scarcely left 
 
 Their birth-place in the rocky cleft 
 
 She bends) at leisure may be seen 
 
 Features to old ideal grace allied, 
 
 Amid their smiles and dimples dignified — 
 
 Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth ; 
 
 The bland composure of eternal youth ! 
 
 What more changeful than the sea ? 
 
 But over his great tides 
 
 Fidelity presides ; 
 
 And this light-hearted Maiden constant is as he. 
 
 High is her aim as heaven above, 
 
 And wide as ether her good-will ; 
 
 And, like the lowly reed, her love 
 
 Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill : 
 
 Insight as keen as frosty star 
 
 Is to her charity no bar, 
 
 Nor interrupts her frolic graces 
 
 When she is, far from these wild places, 
 
 Encircled by familiar faces. 
 
 the charm that manners draw, 
 Nature, from thy genuine law ! 
 If from what her hand would do, 
 Her voice would utter, aught ensue 
 Untoward or unfit ; 
 She, in benign affections pure, 
 In self-forgetfulness secure, 
 
 Sheds round the transient harm or vague mis- 
 chance 
 A fight unknown to tutored elegance : 
 Her's is not a cheek shame-stricken, 
 But her blushes are joy-flushes ; 
 And the fault (if fault it be) 
 Only ministers to quicken 
 Laughter-loving gaiety, 
 And kindle sportive wit — 
 Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free 
 As if she knew that Oberon king of Faery 
 Had crossed her purpose with some quaint vagary, 
 And heard his viewless bands 
 Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands. 
 
 
 " Last of the Three, though eldest born, 
 Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn 
 Touched by the skylark's earliest note, 
 Ere humbler gladness be afloat. 
 But whether in the semblance drest 
 Of Dawn — or Eve, fair vision of the west, 
 Come with each anxious hope subdued 
 By woman's gentle fortitude, 
 Each grief, through meekness, settling into rest. 
 — Or I would hail thee when some high-wrought 
 
 page 
 Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand 
 Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand 
 Among the glories of a happier age." 
 
 Her brow hath opened on me — see it there, 
 Brightening the umbrage of her hair ; 
 So gleams the crescent moon, that loves 
 To be descried through shady groves. 
 Tenderest bloom is on her cheek ; 
 Wish not for a richer streak ; 
 Nor dread the depth of meditative eye j 
 But let thy love, upon that azure field 
 Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield 
 Its homage offered up in purity. 
 What would'st thou more ? In sunny glade, 
 Or under leaves of thickest shade, 
 
THE WISHING-GATE. 
 
 173 
 
 Was such a stillness e'er diffused 
 ; Since earth grew calm while angels mused ? 
 ' Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth 
 To crush the mountain dew-drops — soon to melt 
 I On the flower's breast ; as if she felt 
 That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue, 
 With all their fragrance, all their glistening, 
 Call to the heart for inward listening — 
 And though for bridal wreaths and tokens true 
 Welcomed wisely ; though a growth 
 'Which the careless shepherd sleeps on, 
 As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps on — 
 And without wrong are cropped the marble tomb 
 
 to strew. 
 The Charm is over ; the mute Phantoms gone, 
 Nor will return— but droop not, favoured Youth ; 
 The apparition that before thee shone 
 .Obeyed a summons covetous of truth. 
 From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide 
 To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried, 
 And one of the bright Three become thy happy 
 
 Bride. 
 
 1828. 
 
 
 XLI. 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE, 
 
 In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old high-way lead- 
 ! ing to Ambleside, is a gate, which, time out of mind, 
 has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that 
 . wishes formed or indulged there have a favourable 
 , issue. 
 
 Hope rules a land for ever green : 
 
 All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen 
 
 Are confident and gay ; 
 Clouds at her bidding disappear ; 
 Points she to aught 1 — the bliss draws near, 
 
 And Fancy smooths the way. 
 
 Not such the land of Wishes— there 
 Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer, 
 
 And thoughts with things at strife ; 
 Yet how forlorn, should ye depart 
 Ye superstitions of the heart, 
 
 How poor, were human life ! 
 
 When magic lore abjured its might, 
 Ye did not forfeit one dear right, 
 
 One tender claim abate ; 
 Witness this symbol of your sway, 
 Surviving near the public way, 
 
 The rustic Wishing-gate ! 
 
 Inquire not if the faery race 
 Shed kindly influence on the place, 
 
 Ere northward they retired ; 
 If here a warrior left a spell, 
 Panting for glory as he fell ; 
 
 Or here a saint expired. 
 
 Enough that all around is fair, 
 Composed with Nature's finest care, 
 
 And in her fondest love — 
 Peace to embosom and content — 
 To overawe the turbulent, 
 
 The selfish to reprove. 
 
 Yea ! even the Stranger from afar, 
 Reclining on this moss-grown bar, 
 
 Unknowing, and unknown, 
 The infection of the ground partakes, 
 Longing for his Belov'd — who makes 
 
 All happiness her own. 
 
 Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
 The mystic stirrings that are here, 
 
 The ancient faith disclaim ? 
 The local Genius ne'er befriends 
 Desires whose course in folly ends, 
 
 Whose just reward is shame. 
 
 Smile if thou wilt, but not hi scorn, 
 If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, 
 
 Here crave an easier lot ; 
 If some have thirsted to renew 
 A broken vow, or bind a true, 
 
 With firmer, holier knot. 
 
 And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
 Upon the irrevocable past, 
 
 Some Penitent sincere 
 May for a worthier future sigh, 
 While trickles from his downcast eye 
 
 No unavailing tear. 
 
 The Worldling, pining to be freed 
 From turmoil, who would turn or speed 
 
 The current of his fate, 
 Might stop before this favoured scene, 
 At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 
 
 Upon the Wishing-gate. 
 
 The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
 Is man, though loth such help to seek, 
 
 Yet, passing, here might pause, 
 And thirst for insight to allay 
 Misgiving, while the crimson day 
 
 In quietness withdraws ; 
 
174 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Or when the church-clock's knell profound 
 To Time's first step across the bound 
 
 Of midnight makes reply ; 
 Time pressing on with starry crest, 
 To filial sleep upon the breast 
 
 Of dread eternity. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED. 
 
 'Tis gone — with old belief and dream 
 That round it clung, and tempting scheme 
 
 Released from fear and doubt ; 
 And the bright landscape too must lie, 
 By this blank wall, from every eye, 
 
 Relentlessly shut out. 
 
 Bear witness ye who seldom passed 
 That opening — but a look ye cast 
 
 Upon the lake below, 
 What spirit-stirring power it gained 
 From faith which here was entertained, 
 
 Though reason might say no. 
 
 Blest is that ground, where, o'er the springs 
 Of history, Glory claps her wings, 
 
 Fame sheds the exulting tear ; 
 Yet earth is wide, and many a nook 
 Unheard of is, like this, a book 
 
 For modest meanings dear. 
 
 It was in sooth a happy thought 
 That grafted, on so fair a spot, 
 
 So confident a token 
 Of coming good ; — the charm is fled ; 
 Indulgent centuries spun a thread, 
 
 Which one harsh day has broken. 
 
 Alas ! for him who gave the word : 
 Could he no sympathy afford, 
 
 Derived from earth or heaven, 
 To hearts so oft by hope betrayed ; 
 Their very wishes wanted aid 
 
 Which here was freely given ? 
 
 Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound, 
 Will now so readily be found 
 
 A balm of expectation 1 
 Anxious for far-off children, where 
 Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air 
 
 Of home-felt consolation 1 
 
 And not unfelt will prove the loss 
 'Mid trivial care and petty cross 
 
 And each day's shallow grief; 
 Though the most easily beguiled 
 Were oft among the first that smiled 
 
 At their own fond belief. 
 
 If still the reckless change we mourn, 
 A reconciling thought may turn 
 
 To harm that might lurk here, 
 Ere judgment prompted from within 
 Fit aims, with courage to begin, 
 
 And strength to persevere. 
 
 Not Fortune's slave is Man : our state 
 Enjoins, while firm resolves await 
 
 On wishes just and wise, 
 That strenuous action follow both, 
 And life be one perpetual growth 
 
 Of heaven- ward enterprise. 
 
 So taught, so trained, we boldly face 
 All accidents of time and place ; 
 
 Whatever props may fail, 
 Trust in that sovereign law can spread 
 New glory o'er the mountain's head, 
 
 Fresh beauty through the vale. 
 
 That truth informing mind and heart, 
 The simplest cottager may part, 
 
 Ungrieved, with charm and spell ; 
 And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee 
 The voice of grateful memory 
 
 Shall bid a kind farewell ! 
 
 See Note at the end of the Volume. 
 
 XL1II. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 
 
 A Rock there is whose homely front 
 
 The passing traveller slights ; 
 Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, 
 
 Like stars, at various heights ; 
 And one coy Primrose to that Rock 
 
 The vernal breeze invites. 
 
 What hideous warfare hath been waged, 
 
 What kingdoms overthrown, 
 Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft 
 
 And marked it for my own ; 
 A lasting link in Nature's chain 
 
 From highest heaven let down ! 
 
PRESENTIMENTS. 
 
 175 
 
 The flowers, still faithful to the stems, 
 
 Their fellowship renew ; 
 The stems are faithful to the root, 
 
 That worketh out of view ; 
 And to the rock the root adheres 
 
 In every fihre true. 
 
 Close clings to earth the living rock, 
 Though threatening still to fall ; 
 
 The earth is constant to her sphere ; 
 And God upholds them all : 
 
 So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads 
 Her annual funeral. 
 
 Here closed the meditative strain ; 
 
 But air breathed soft that day, 
 The hoary mountain-heights were cheered, 
 
 The sunny vale looked gay ; 
 And to the Primrose of the Rock 
 
 I gave this after-lay. 
 
 I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers, 
 
 Like Thee, in field and grove 
 Revive unenvied ; — mightier far, 
 
 Than tremblings that reprove 
 Our vernal tendencies to hope, 
 
 Is God's redeeming love ; 
 
 That love which changed — for wan disease, 
 
 For sorrow that had bent 
 O'er hopeless dust, for withered age — 
 
 Their moral element, 
 And turned the thistles of a curse 
 
 To types beneficent. 
 
 Sin-blighted though we are, we too, 
 
 The reasoning Sons of Men, 
 From one oblivious winter called 
 
 Shall rise, and breathe again ; 
 And in eternal summer lose 
 
 Our threescore years and ten. 
 
 To humbleness of heart descends 
 
 This prescience from on high, 
 The faith that elevates the just, 
 Before and when they die ; 
 And makes each soul a separate heaven, 
 
 A court for Deity. 
 
 xuv. 
 
 PRESENTIMENTS. 
 
 Presentiments ! they judge not right 
 Who deem that ye from open light 
 
 Retire in fear of shame ; 
 All heaven-born Instincts shun the touch 
 Of vulgar sense, — and, being such, 
 
 Such privilege ye claim. 
 
 The tear whose source I could not guess, 
 The deep sigh that seemed fatherless, 
 
 Were mine in early days ; 
 And now, unforced by time to part 
 With fancy, I obey my heart, 
 
 And venture on your praise. 
 
 What though some busy foes to good, 
 Too potent over nerve and blood, 
 
 Lurk near you — and combine 
 To taint the health which ye infuse ; 
 This hides not from the moral Muse 
 
 Your origin divine. 
 
 How oft from you, derided Powers ! 
 Comes Faith that in auspicious hours 
 
 Builds castles, not of air : 
 Bodings unsanctioned by the will 
 Flow from your visionary skill, 
 
 And teach us to beware. 
 
 The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, 
 That no philosophy can lift, 
 
 Shall vanish, if ye please, 
 Like morning mist : and, where it lay, 
 The spirits at your bidding play 
 
 In gaiety and ease. 
 
 Star-guided contemplations move 
 
 Through space, though calm, not raised above 
 
 Prognostics that ye rule; 
 The naked Indian of the wild, 
 And haply, too, the cradled Child, 
 
 Are pupils of your school. 
 
 But who can fathom your intents, 
 Number their signs or instruments ? 
 
 A rainbow, a sunbeam, 
 A subtle smell that Spring unbinds, 
 Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 
 
 An echo, or a dream. 
 
176 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
 With sighs of self-exhausted mirth 
 
 Ye feelingly reprove ; 
 And daily, in the conscious breast, 
 Your visitations are a test 
 
 And exercise of love. 
 
 When some great change gives boundless scope 
 To an exulting Nation's hope, 
 
 Oft, startled and made wise 
 By your low-breathed interpretings, 
 The simply-meek foretaste the springs 
 
 Of bitter contraries. 
 
 Ye daunt the proud array of war, 
 Pervade the lonely ocean far 
 
 As sail hath been unfurled; 
 For dancers in the festive hall 
 What ghastly partners hath your call 
 
 Fetched from the shadowy world. 
 
 'Tis said, that warnings ye dispense, 
 Emboldened by a keener sense ; 
 
 That men have lived for whom, 
 With dread precision, ye made clear 
 The hour that in a distant year 
 
 Should knell them to the tomb. 
 
 Unwelcome insight ! Yet there are 
 Blest times when mystery is laid bare, 
 
 Truth shows a glorious face, 
 While on that isthmus which commands 
 The councils of both worlds, she stands, 
 
 Sage Spirits ! by your grace. 
 
 God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
 All changes of the element, 
 
 Whose wisdom fixed the scale 
 Of natures, for our wants provides 
 By higher, sometimes'humbler, guides, 
 
 When lights of reason fail. 
 
 VERNAL ODE. 
 
 Rerum Niitura tota est nusquam magis quam in minimis. 
 
 Pun. Nat. Hist. 
 I, 
 Beneath the concave of an April sky, 
 When all the fields with freshest green were dight, 
 Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eye 
 That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, 
 
 The form and rich habiliments of One 
 Whose countenance bore resemblance to the sun, 
 When it reveals, in evening majesty, 
 Features half lost amid their own pure light. 
 Poised like a weary cloud, in middle air 
 He hung, — then floated with angelic ease 
 (Softening that bright effulgence by degrees) 
 Till he had reached a summit sharp and bare, 
 Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the noon- 
 tide breeze. 
 Upon the apex of that lofty cone 
 Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone ; 
 Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the east 
 Suddenly raised by some enchanter's power, 
 Where nothing was ; and firm as some old Tower 
 Of Britain's realm, whose leafy crest 
 Waves high, embellished by a gleaming shower 
 
 ver! i 
 ies: li 
 
 Beneath the shadow of his purple wings 
 Rested a golden harp ;— he touched the strings 
 And, after prelude of unearthly sound 
 Poured through the echoing hills around, 
 He sang — 
 
 " No wintry desolations, 
 Scorching blight or noxious dew, 
 Affect my native habitations ; 
 Buried in glory, far beyond the scope 
 Of man's mquiring gaze, but to his hope 
 Imaged, though faintly, in the hue 
 Profound of night's ethereal blue ; 
 And in the aspect of each radiant orb ; — 
 Some fixed, some wandering with no timid curb ; 
 But wandering star and fixed, to mortal eye, 
 Blended in absolute serenity, 
 And free from semblance of decline ; — 
 Fresh as if Evening brought their natal hour, 
 Her darkness splendour gave, her silence powor, 
 To testify of Love and Grace divine. 
 
 What if those bright fires 
 
 Shine subject to decay, 
 
 Sons haply of extinguished sires, 
 
 Themselves to lose their light, or pass away 
 
 Like clouds before the wind, 
 
 Be thanks poured out to Him whose hand bestows 
 
 Nightly, on human land 
 
 That vision of endurance and reposs. 
 
 — And though to every draught of vital breaffl 
 
 Renewed throughout the bounds of earth or oceaiij 
 
 The melancholy gates of Death 
 
 Respond with sympathetic motion ; 
 
DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 
 
 177 
 
 Though all that feeds on nether air, 
 
 Howe'er magnificent or fair, 
 
 Grows hut to perish, and entrust 
 
 Its ruins to their kindred dust ; 
 
 Yet, by the Almighty's ever-during care, 
 
 Her procreant vigils Nature keeps 
 
 Amid the unfathomable deeps ; 
 
 And saves the peopled fields of earth 
 
 From dread of emptiness or dearth. 
 
 Thus, in their stations, lifting tow'rd the sky 
 
 The foliaged head in cloud-like majesty, 
 
 The shadow-casting race of trees survive : 
 
 Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive 
 
 Sweet flowers ; — what living eye hath viewed 
 
 Their myriads 1 — endlessly renewed, 
 
 Wherever strikes the sun's glad ray ; 
 
 Where'er the subtle waters stray ; 
 
 Wherever sportive breezes bend 
 
 Their course, or genial showers descend ! 
 
 Mortals, rejoice ! the very Angels quit 
 
 Their mansions unsusceptible of change, 
 
 Amid your pleasant bowers to sit, 
 
 [And through your sweet vicissitudes to range !" 
 
 mO, nursed at happy distance from the cares 
 ||0f a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse ! 
 That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears, 
 I And to her sister Clio's laurel wreath, 
 Prefer'st a garland culled from purple heath, 
 Or blooming thicket moist with morning dews ; 
 Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to me \ 
 [And was it granted to the simple ear 
 Of thy contented Votary 
 Such melody to hear ! 
 
 Him rather suits it, side by side with thee, 
 Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, 
 While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn-tree, 
 To He and listen — till o'er-drowsed sense 
 Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence — 
 To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee. 
 —A slender sound ! yet hoary Time 
 ; Doth to the Soul exalt it with the chime 
 Df all his years ; — a company 
 Of ages coming, ages gone ; 
 
 Nations from before them sweeping, 
 Regions in destruction steeping,) 
 But every awful note in unison 
 pith that faint utterance, which tells 
 
 Of treasure sucked from buds and bells, 
 For the pure keeping of those waxen cells ; 
 (Where She — a statist prudent to confer 
 ppon the common weal ; a warrior bold, 
 Radiant all over with unburnished gold, 
 
 And armed with living spear for mortal fight ; 
 
 A cunning forager 
 That spreads no waste ; a social builder ; one 
 In whom all busy offices unite 
 With all fine functions that afford delight — 
 Safe through the winter storm in quiet dwells ! 
 
 v. 
 
 And is She brought within the power 
 Of vision ? — o'er this tempting flower 
 Hovering until the petals stay 
 Her flight, and take its voice away ! — 
 Observe each wing ! — a tiny van ! 
 The structure of her laden thigh, 
 How fragile ! yet of ancestry 
 Mysteriously remote and high ; 
 High as the imperial front of man ; 
 The roseate bloom on woman's cheek ; 
 The soaring eagle's curved beak ; 
 The white plumes of the floating swan ; 
 Old as the tiger's paw, the lion's mane 
 Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain 
 At which the desert trembles. — Humming Bee ! 
 Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown, 
 The seeds of malice were not sown ; 
 All creatures met in peace, from fierceness five, 
 And no pride blended with their dignity. 
 — Tears had not broken from their source ; 
 Nor Anguish strayed from her Tartarean den ; 
 The golden years maintained a course 
 Not undiversified though smooth and even ; 
 We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow then, 
 Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men ; 
 And earth and stars composed a universal heaven ! 
 
 1817. 
 
 DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 
 
 ' Not to the earth confined, 
 Ascend to heaven." 
 
 Where will they stop, those breathing Powers, 
 
 The Spirits of the new-born flowers \ 
 
 They wander with the breeze, they wind 
 
 Where'er the streams a passage find ; 
 
 Up from their native ground they rise 
 
 In mute aerial harmonies ; 
 
 From humble violet — modest thyme — 
 
 Exhaled, the essential odours climb, 
 
 As if no space below the sky 
 
 Their subtle flight could satisfy : 
 
 Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride 
 
 If like ambition be their guide. 
 
178 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Roused by this kindliest of May-showers, 
 The spirit-quickener of the flowers, 
 That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
 The buds, and freshens the young leaves, 
 The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
 Of rapture from a thousand throats — 
 Here checked by too impetuous haste, 
 While there the music runs to waste, 
 With bounty more and more enlarged, 
 Till the whole air is overcharged ; 
 Give ear, Man ! to their appeal 
 And thirst for no inferior zeal, 
 Thou, who canst think, as well as feel. 
 
 Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire ! 
 So pleads the town's cathedral quire, 
 In strains that from then." solemn height 
 Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; 
 While incense from the altar breathes 
 Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths ; 
 Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds 
 The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
 Around angelic Forms, the still 
 Creation of the painter's skill, 
 That on the service wait concealed 
 One moment, and the next revealed 
 - — Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, 
 And for no transient ecstasies ! 
 What else can mean the visual plea 
 Of still or moving imagery — 
 The iterated summons loud, 
 Not wasted on the attendant crowd, 
 Nor wholly lost upon the throng 
 Hurrying the busy streets along ? 
 
 Alas ! the sanctities combined 
 By art to unsensualise the mind, 
 Decay and languish ; or, as creeds 
 And humours change, are spurned like weeds : 
 The priests are from their altars thrust ; 
 Temples are levelled with the dust ; 
 And solemn rites and awful forms 
 Founder amid fanatic storms. 
 Yet evermore, through years renewed 
 In undisturbed vicissitude 
 Of seasons balancing then' flight 
 On the swift wings of day and night, 
 Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
 Wide open for the scattered Poor. 
 Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 
 Is wafted in mute harmonies ; 
 And ground fresh-cloven by the plough 
 Is fragrant with a humbler vow ; 
 
 Where birds and brooks from leafy dells 
 Chime forth unwearied canticles, 
 And vapours magnify and spread 
 The glory of the sun's bright head — 
 Still constant in her worship, still 
 Conforming to the eternal Will, 
 Whether men sow or reap the fields, 
 Divine monition Nature yields, 
 That not by bread alone we live, 
 Or what a hand of flesh can give ; 
 That every day should leave some part 
 Free for a sabbath of the heart : 
 So shall the seventh be truly blest, 
 From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. 
 
 THE CUCKOO-CLOCK. 
 
 Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken 
 
 flight, 
 By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, 
 How far-off yet a glimpse of morning light, 
 And if to lure the truant back be well, 
 Forbear to covet a Repeater's stroke, 
 That, answering to thy touch, will sound the hour ; 
 Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock 
 For service hung behind thy chamber-door ; 
 And in due time the soft spontaneous shock, 
 The double note, as if with living power, 
 Will to composure lead — or make thee blithe as! 
 
 bird in bower. 
 
 List, Cuckoo — Cuckoo ! — oft tho' tempests hew!, 
 Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare, 
 How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl, 
 Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air : 
 I speak with knowledge, — by that Voice beguiled, 
 Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng 
 Into thy heart ; and fancies, running wild 
 Through fresh green fields, and budding gi o> es 
 
 among, 
 Will make thee happy, happy as a child ; 
 Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, and songJ 
 And breathe as in a world where nothing can g< 
 
 wrong. 
 
 And know — that, even for him who shuns the da) 
 And nightly tosses on a bed of pain ; 
 Whose joys, from all but memory swept awav, 
 Must come unhoped for, if they come again ; 
 
TO THE CLOUDS. 
 
 179 
 
 Know — that, for him whose waking thoughts, severe 
 As his distress is sharp, would scorn my theme, 
 The mimic notes, striking upon his ear 
 In sleep, and intermingling with his dream, 
 Could from sad regions send him to a dear 
 Delightful land of verdure, shower and gleam, 
 'To mock the wandering Voice beside some haunted 
 stream. 
 
 bounty without measure ! while the grace 
 
 ! 0f Heaven doth in such wise, from humblest 
 
 springs, 
 Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace 
 A mazy course along familial* things, 
 Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come, 
 streaming from founts above the starry sky, 
 With angels when their own untroubled home 
 They leave, and speed on nightly embassy 
 To visit earthly chambers, — and for whom % 
 ifea, both for souls who God's forbearance try, 
 And those that seek his help, and for his mercy sigh. 
 
 TO THE CLOUDS. 
 
 Lrmy of Clouds ! ye winged Host in troops 
 Ascending from behind the motionless brow 
 W that tall rock, as from a hidden world, 
 ) whither with such eagerness of speed ? 
 jVhat seek ye, or what shun ye ? of the gale 
 ''ompanions, fear ye to be left behind, 
 ,*r racing o'er your blue ethereal field 
 'ontend ye with each other? of the sea 
 hildren, thus post ye over vale and height 
 'o sink upon your mother's lap — and rest ? 
 j'r were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine eyes 
 ieheld in your impetuous march the likeness 
 :'f a wide army pressing on to meet 
 t overtake some unknown enemy ? — 
 lut your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim ; 
 ..nd Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares 
 our squadrons to an endless flight of birds 
 erial, upon due migration bound 
 ;o milder climes ; or rather do ye urge 
 'i caravan your hasty pilgrimage 
 o pause at last on more aspiring heights 
 Jhan these, and utter your devotion there 
 jf ith thunderous voice ? Or are ye jubilant, 
 jnd would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun, 
 e present at his setting ; or the pomp 
 f Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand 
 
 Poising your splendours high above the heads 
 Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God ? 
 Whence, whence, ye Clouds ! this eagerness of 
 
 speed ? 
 Speak, silent creatures. — They are gone, are fled, 
 Buried together in yon gloomy mass 
 That loads the middle heaven ; and clear and bright 
 And vacant doth the region which they thronged 
 Appear ; a calm descent of sky conducting 
 Down to the unapproachable abyss, 
 Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose 
 To vanish — fleet as days and months and years, 
 Fleet as the generations of mankind, 
 Power, glory, empire, as the world itself, 
 The lingering world, when time hath ceased to be. 
 But the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees, 
 And see ! a bright precursor to a train 
 Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock 
 That sullenly refuses to partake 
 Of the wild impulse. From a fount of hie 
 Invisible, the long procession moves 
 Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale 
 Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye 
 That sees them, to my soul that owns in them, 
 And in the bosom of the firmament 
 O'er which they move, wherein they are contained, 
 A type of her capacious self and all 
 Her restless progeny. 
 
 A humble walk 
 Here is my body doomed to tread, this path, 
 A little hoary line and faintly traced, 
 Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd's foot 
 Or of his flock \ — joint vestige of them both. 
 I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts 
 Admit no bondage and my words have wings. 
 Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, 
 To accompany the verse ? The mountain blast 
 Shall be our hand of music ; he shall sweep 
 The rocks, and quivering trees, and biUowy lake, 
 And search the fibres of the caves, and they 
 Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds 
 And the wind loves them ; and the gentle gales — 
 Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn 
 With annual verdure, and revive the woods, 
 And moisten the parched lips of thirsty flowers — 
 Love them ; and every idle breeze of air 
 Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and stars 
 Keep their most solemn vigils when the Clouds 
 Watch also, shifting peaceably their place 
 Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie, 
 As if some Protean art the change had wrought, 
 In listless quiet o'er the ethereal deep 
 Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes 
 And all degrees of beauty. ye Lightnings ! 
 
 n2 
 
180 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Ye are their perilous offspring ; and the Sun — 
 
 Source inexhaustible of life and joy, 
 
 And type of man's far-darting reason, therefore 
 
 In old time worshipped as the god of verse, 
 
 A blazing intellectual deity — 
 
 Loves his own glory in their looks, and showers 
 
 Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood 
 
 Visions with all but beatific light 
 
 Enriched — too transient were they not renewed 
 
 From age to age, and did not, while we gaze 
 
 In silent rapture, credulous desire 
 
 Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power 
 
 To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain thought ! 
 
 Yet why repine, created as we are 
 
 For joy and rest, albeit to find them only 
 
 IiOdged in the bosom of eternal things ? 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF THE BIRD 
 OF PARADISE. 
 
 The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed, 
 
 And a true master of the glowing strain, 
 
 Might scan the narrow province with disdain 
 
 That to the Painter's skill is here allowed. 
 
 This, this the Bird of Paradise ! disclaim 
 
 The daring thought, forget the name ; 
 
 This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers might 
 
 own 
 As no unworthy Partner in their flight 
 Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway 
 Of nether air's rude billows is unknown ; 
 Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime they 
 Through India's spicy regions wing their way, 
 Might bow to as their Lord. What character, 
 sovereign Nature ! I appeal to thee, 
 Of all thy feathered progeny 
 Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair ? 
 So richly decked in variegated down, 
 Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy brown, 
 Tints softly with each other blended, 
 Hues doubtfully begun and ended; 
 Or intershooting, and to sight 
 Lost and recovered, as the rays of light 
 Glance on the conscious plumes touched here and 
 
 there ? 
 Full surely, when with such proud gifts of life 
 Began the pencil's strife, 
 O'erweening Art was caught as in a snare. 
 
 A sense of seemingly presumptuous wrong 
 Gave the first impulse to the Poet's song ; 
 But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew 
 A juster judgment from a calmer view; 
 And, with a spirit freed from discontent, 
 Thankfully took an effort that was meant 
 Not with God's bounty, Nature's love, to vie, 
 Or made with hope to please that inward eye 
 Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy, 
 But to recal the truth by some faint trace 
 Of power ethereal and celestial grace, 
 That in the living Creature find on earth a place. 
 
 A JEWISH FAMILY. 
 
 (IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAB, TPON THE RHINE. 
 
 Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings 
 
 Might bear thee to this glen, 
 With faithful memory left of things 
 
 To pencil dear and pen, 
 Thou would'st forego the neighbouring Rhine, 
 
 And all his majesty — 
 A studious forehead to incline 
 
 J er this poor family. 
 
 The Mother — her thou must have seen, 
 
 In spirit, ere she came 
 To dwell these rifted rocks between, 
 
 Or found on earth a name ; 
 An image, too, of that sweet Boy, 
 
 Thy inspirations give — 
 Of playfulness, and love, and joy, 
 
 Predestined here to live. 
 
 Downcast, or shooting glances far, 
 
 How beautiful his eyes, 
 That blend the nature of the star 
 
 With that of summer skies ! 
 I speak as if of sense beguiled ; 
 
 Uncounted months are gone, 
 Yet am I with the Jewish Child, 
 
 That exquisite Saint John. 
 
 I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, 
 
 The smooth transparent skin, 
 Refined, as with intent to show 
 
 The holiness within ; 
 
ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 181 
 
 The grace of parting Infancy 
 
 By blushes yet untamed ; 
 Age faithful to the mother's knee, 
 
 Nor of her arms ashamed. 
 
 Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet 
 
 As flowers, stand side by side ; 
 Their soul-subduing looks might cheat 
 
 The Christian of his pride : 
 Such beauty hath the Eternal poured 
 
 Upon them not forlorn, 
 Though of a lineage once abhorred, 
 
 Nor yet redeemed from scorn. 
 
 Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite 
 
 Of poverty and wrong, 
 Doth here preserve a living light, 
 
 From' Hebrew fountains sprung ; 
 That gives this ragged group to cast 
 
 Around the dell a gleam 
 Of Palestine, of glory past, 
 
 And proud Jerusalem ! 
 
 ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 rheEar addressed, as occupied by a spiritual functionary, 
 in communion with sounds, individual, or combined in 
 studied harmony. — Sources and effects of those sounds 
 (to the close of 6th Stanza).— The power of music, 
 whence proceeding, exemplified in the idiot. — Origin of 
 music, and its effect in early ages — how produced (to the 
 middle of 10th Stanza).— The mind recalled to sounds 
 
 : acting casually and severally. — "Wish uttered (11th 
 Stanza) that these could be united into a scheme or 
 
 ! 6ystem for moral interests and intellectual contempla- 
 tion — (Stanza 12th). The Pythagorean theory of 
 numbers and music, with their supposed power over the 
 motions of the universe — imaginations consonant with 
 such a theory. — "Wish expressed (in 11th Stanza) realised, 
 
 ! in some degree, by the representation of all sounds under 
 
 ' the form of thanksgiving to the Creator. — (Last Stanza) 
 the destruction of earth and the planetary system — the 
 survival of audible harmony, and its support in the 
 
 i Divine Nature, as revealed in Holy Writ. 
 
 ;Chy functions are ethereal, 
 
 ii-s if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, 
 
 prgan of vision ! And a Spirit aerial 
 
 nforms the cell of Hearing, dark and blind ; 
 
 ntricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 
 .Co enter than oracular cave ; 
 
 Strict passage, through which sighs are brought, 
 
 And whispers for the heart, their slave ; 
 
 And shrieks, that revel in abuse 
 
 Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air, 
 
 Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
 
 The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 
 
 Into the ambush of despair ; 
 
 Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle, 
 
 And requiems answered by the pulse that beats 
 
 Devoutly, in life's last retreats ! 
 
 The headlong streams and fountains 
 
 Serve Thee, invisible Spirit, with untired powers ; 
 
 Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains, 
 
 They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers. 
 
 That roar, the prowling lion's Here I am, 
 
 How fearful to the desert wide ! 
 
 That bleat, how tender ! of the dam 
 
 Calling a straggler to her side. 
 
 Shout, cuckoo ! — let the vernal soul 
 
 Go with thee to the frozen zone ; 
 
 Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird, toll ! 
 
 At the still hour to Mercy dear, 
 
 Mercy from her twilight throne 
 
 Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear, 
 
 To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea, 
 
 Or widow's cottage-lullaby. 
 
 Ye Voices, and ye Shadows 
 
 And Images of voice — to hound and horn 
 
 From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows 
 
 Flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves, reborn — 
 
 On with your pastime ! till the church-tower bells 
 
 A greeting give of measured glee ; 
 
 And milder echoes from their cells 
 
 Repeat the bridal symphony. 
 
 Then, or far earlier, let us rove 
 
 Where mists are breaking up or gone, 
 
 And from aloft look down into a cove 
 
 Besprinkled with a careless quire, 
 
 Happy milk-maids, one by one 
 
 Scattering a ditty each to her desire, 
 
 A liquid concert matchless by nice Art, 
 
 A stream as if from one full heart. 
 
 Blest be the song that brightens 
 
 The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth ; 
 
 Unscorned the peasant's whistling breath, that 
 
 lightens 
 His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth. 
 
182 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 For the tired slave, Song lifts the languid oar, 
 
 And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
 
 That beautifies the fairest shore, 
 
 And mitigates the harshest clime. 
 
 Yon pilgrims see — in lagging file 
 
 They move ; but soon the appointed way 
 
 A choral Ave Marie shall beguile, 
 
 And to their hope the distant shrine 
 
 Glisten with a livelier ray : 
 
 Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine, 
 
 Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast 
 
 Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 
 
 v. 
 When civic renovation 
 Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
 Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration 
 Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 
 Piping through cave and battlemented tower ; 
 Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 
 That voice of Freedom, in its power 
 Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet ! 
 Who, from a martial pageant, spreads 
 Incitements of a battle-day, 
 Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with plumeless 
 
 heads ? — 
 Even She whose Lydian airs inspire 
 Peaceful striving, gentle play 
 Of timid hope and innocent desire 
 Shot from the dancing Graces, as they move 
 Fanned by the plausive wings of Love. 
 
 VI. 
 
 How oft along thy mazes, 
 
 Regent of sound, have dangerous Passions trod ! 
 
 Thou, through whom the temple rings with praises, 
 
 And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God, 
 
 Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
 
 Thy votaries, wooingly resigned 
 
 To a voluptuous influence 
 
 That taints the purer, better, mind ; 
 
 But lead sick Fancy to a harp 
 
 That hath in noble tasks been tried ; 
 
 And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp, 
 
 Soothe it into patience, — stay 
 
 The uplifted arm of Suicide ; 
 
 And let some mood of thine in firm array 
 
 Knit every thought the impending issue needs, 
 
 Ere mar.tyr burns, or patriot bleeds ! 
 
 vir. 
 As Conscience, to the centre 
 Of being, smites with irresistible pain 
 So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 
 The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain, 
 
 Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurled — 
 
 Convulsed as by a jarring din ; 
 
 And then aghast, as at the world 
 
 Of reason partially let in 
 
 By concords winding with a sway 
 
 Terrible for sense and soul ! 
 
 Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. 
 
 Point not these mysteries to an Art 
 
 Lodged above the starry pole ; 
 
 Pure modulations flowing from the heart 
 
 Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth 
 
 With Order dwell, in endless youth ? 
 
 Oblivion may not cover 
 
 All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time. 
 
 Orphean Insight ! truth's undaunted lover, 
 
 To the first leagues of tutored passion climb, 
 
 When Music deigned within this grosser sphere 
 
 Her subtle essence to enfold, 
 
 And voice and shell drew forth a tear 
 
 Softer than Nature's self could mould. 
 
 Yet strenuous was the infant Age : 
 
 Art, daring because souls could feel, 
 
 Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage 
 
 Of rapt imagination sped her march 
 
 Through the realms of woe and weal : 
 
 Hell to the lyre bowed low ; the upper arch 
 
 Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse 
 
 Her wan disasters could disperse. 
 
 The Gift to king Amphion 
 
 That walled a city with its melody 
 
 Was for belief no dream :— thy skill, Arion ! 
 
 Could humanise the creatures of the sea, 
 
 Where men were monsters. A last grace he craves, 
 
 Leave for one chant ; — the dulcet sound 
 
 Steals from the deck o'er willing waves, 
 
 And listening dolphins gather round. 
 
 Self-cast, as with a desperate course, 
 
 'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 
 
 A proud One docile as a managed horse ; 
 
 And singing, while the accordant hand 
 
 Sweeps his harp, the Master rides ; 
 
 So shall he touch at length a friendly strand, 
 
 And he, with his preserver, shine star-bright 
 
 In memory, through silent night. 
 
 The pipe of Pan, to shepherds 
 Couched in the shadow of Msenalian pines, 
 Was passing sweet ; the eyeballs of the leopards, 
 That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines, 
 
ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 183 
 
 How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang ! 
 While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground 
 I In cadence, — and Silenus swang 
 This way and that, with wild-flowers crowned. 
 To life, to life give back thine ear : 
 Ye who are longing to be rid 
 !Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear 
 The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 
 Echoed from the coffin-lid ; 
 The convict's summons in the steeple's knell ; 
 The vain distress-gun,' from a leeward shore, 
 'Repeated — heard, and heard no more ! 
 
 For terror, joy, or pity, 
 
 Vast is the compass and the swell of notes : 
 
 From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city, 
 
 Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 
 
 iFar as the woodlands — with the trill to blend 
 
 Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale 
 
 Might tempt an angel to descend, 
 
 While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. 
 
 |5fe wandering Utterances, has earth no scheme, 
 
 jNo scale of moral music — to unite 
 
 Powers that survive but in the faintest dream 
 
 Df memory ?-^JD that ye might stoop to bear 
 
 Chains, such precious chains of sight 
 
 As laboured minstrelsies through ages wear ! 
 
 p for a balance fit the truth to tell 
 
 Df the Unsubstantial, pondered well ! 
 
 By one pervading spirit 
 
 Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, 
 
 Ka sages taught, where faith was found to merit 
 
 . nidation in that mystery old. 
 
 The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still 
 
 Vs they themselves appear to be, 
 
 Enumerable voices fill 
 
 tV'ith everlasting harmony ; 
 
 The towering headlands, crowned with mist, 
 
 Their feet among the billows, know 
 
 That Ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 
 
 Thy pinions, universal Air, 
 
 Ever waving to and fro, 
 
 Are delegates of harmony, and bear 
 
 Strains that support the Seasons in their round ; 
 
 Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. 
 
 Break forth into thanksgiving, 
 
 Ye banded instruments of wind and chords ; 
 
 Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 
 
 Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words ! 
 
 Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead, 
 
 Nor mute the forest hum of noon ; 
 
 Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 
 
 From snowy peak and cloud, attune 
 
 Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 
 
 Of joy, that from her utmost walls 
 
 The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim 
 
 Transmits to Heaven ! As Deep to Deep 
 
 Shouting through one valley calls, 
 
 All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep 
 
 For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured 
 
 Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 
 
 A Voice to Light gave Being ; 
 
 To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler ; 
 
 A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing, 
 
 And sweep away life's visionary stir ; 
 
 The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride, 
 
 Arm at its blast for deadly wars) 
 
 To archangelic lips applied, 
 
 The grave shall open, quench the stars. 
 
 Silence ! are Man's noisy years 
 
 No more than moments of thy life ? 
 
 Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears, 
 
 With her smooth tones and discords just, 
 
 Tempered into rapturous strife, 
 
 Thy destined bond-slave ? No ! though earth be dust 
 
 And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay 
 
 Is in the Word, that shall not pass away. 
 
184 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 PETER BELL. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 What 'b in a Name 9 
 Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Cassar ! 
 
 TO ROBERT SOTJTHEY, ESQ., P.L., etc. etc. 
 
 My Dear Frieni,, 
 
 The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to that of the rVjIie, 
 has, in its Manuscript state, nearly survived its minority :— -for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During 
 this long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favourable 
 reception ; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the Literature of our Country. 
 This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavours in Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious 
 to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached ; and that the attainment of excellence in it, may laudably 
 be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, 
 has faith in his own impulses. 
 
 The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the Imagination not only does 
 not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency be excluded, the 
 faculty may be called forth as imperiously and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of 
 poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was written, you have exhibited 
 most splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledgment make my peace 
 with the lovers of the supernatural ; and I am persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as a Master in that province 
 of the art, the fallowing Tale, whether from contrast or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. Accept it, then, 
 as a public testimony of affectionate admiration from one with whose name yours has been often coupled (to use your 
 own words) for evil and for good ; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health may be granted you to 
 complete the many important works in which you are engaged, and with high respect, 
 
 Most faithfully yours, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Rvdal Mount, April 7, 1819. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 There 's something in a flying horse, 
 There 's something in a huge balloon ; 
 But through the clouds 1 '11 never float 
 Until I have a little Boat, 
 Shaped like the crescent-moon. 
 
 And now I have a little Boat, 
 
 In shape a very crescent-moon : 
 
 Fast through the clouds my boat can sail ; 
 
 But if perchance your faith should fail, 
 
 Look up — and you shall see me soon ! 
 
 The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring, 
 Rocking and roaring like a sea ; 
 The noise of danger's in your ears, 
 And ye have all a thousand fears 
 Both for my little Boat and me ! 
 
 Meanwhile untroubled I admire 
 The pointed horns of my canoe ; 
 And, did not pity touch my breast, 
 To see how ye are all distrest, 
 Till my ribs ached, I 'd laugh at you ! 
 
 Away we go, my Boat and I — 
 Frail man ne'er sate in such another ; 
 Whether among the winds we strive, 
 Or deep into the clouds we dive, 
 Each is contented with the other. 
 
 Away we go — and what care we 
 For treasons, tumults, and for wars ? 
 We are as calm in our delight 
 As is the crescent-moon so bright 
 Among the scattered stars. 
 
 Up goes my Boat among the stars 
 Through many a breathless field of light, 
 Through many a long blue field of ether, 
 Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her : 
 Up goes my little Boat so bright ! 
 
 The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull — 
 We pry among them all ; have shot 
 High o'er the red-haired race of Mars, 
 Covered from top to toe with scars ; 
 Such company I like it not ! 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 185 
 
 The towns in Saturn are decayed, 
 
 And melancholy Spectres throng them ; — 
 
 The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 
 
 Each other in the vast abyss, 
 
 With ioy I sail among them. 
 
 Swift Mercury resounds with mirth, 
 Great Jove is full of stately bowers ; 
 But these, and all that they contain, 
 What are they to that tiny grain, 
 That little Earth of ours ? 
 
 Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth : — 
 Whole ages if I here should roam, 
 The world for my remarks and me 
 Would not a whit the better be ; 
 I 've left my heart at home. 
 
 See ! there she is, the matchless Earth ! 
 There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean ! 
 Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 
 Through the grey clouds ; the Alps are here, 
 Like waters in commotion ! 
 
 Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands ; 
 That silver thread the river Dnieper ; 
 And look, where clothed in brightest green 
 Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen ; 
 Ye fairies, from all evil keep her ! 
 
 And see the town where I was born ! 
 Around those happy fields we span 
 In boyish gambols ; — I was lost 
 Where I have been, but on this coast 
 I feel I am a man. 
 
 Never did fifty things at once 
 Appear so lovely, never, never ; — 
 How tunefully the forests ring ! 
 To hear the earth's soft murmuring 
 Thus could I hang for ever ! 
 
 " Shame on you ! " cried my little Boat, 
 " Was ever such a homesick Loon, 
 Within a living Boat to sit, 
 | And make no better use of it ; 
 A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon ! 
 
 Ne'er in the breast, of full-grown Poet 
 Fluttered so faint a heart before ;— 
 Was it the music of the spheres 
 That overpowered your mortal ears 1 
 — Such din shall trouble them no more. 
 
 These nether precincts do not lack 
 Charms of their own ; — then come with me ; 
 I want a comrade, and for you 
 There 's nothing that I would not do ; 
 Nought is there that you shall not see. 
 
 Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
 We '11 sport amid the boreal morning ; 
 Will mingle with her lustres gliding 
 Among the stars, the stars now hiding, 
 And now the stars adorning. 
 
 I know the secrets of a land 
 Where human foot did never stray ; 
 Fair is that land as evening skies, 
 And cool, though in the depth it lies 
 Of burning Africa. 
 
 Or we '11 into the realm of Faery, 
 Among the lovely shades of things ; 
 The shadowy forms of mountains bare, 
 And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, 
 The shades of palaces and kings ! 
 
 Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal 
 Less quiet regions to explore, 
 Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
 How earth and heaven are taught to feel 
 The might of magic lore ! " 
 
 "My little vagrant Form of light, 
 
 My gay and beautiful Canoe, 
 
 Well have you played your friendly part ; 
 
 As kindly take what from my heart 
 
 Experience forces — then adieu ! 
 
 Temptation lurks among your words ; 
 But, while these pleasures you 're pursuing 
 Without impediment or let, 
 No wonder if you quite forget 
 What on the earth is doing. 
 
 There was a time when all mankind 
 Did listen with a faith sincere 
 To tuneful tongues in mystery versed ; 
 Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed 
 The wonders of a wild career. 
 
 Go — (but the world 's a sleepy world, 
 And 'tis, I fear, an age too late) 
 Take with you some ambitious Youth ! 
 For, restless Wanderer ! I, in truth, 
 Am all unfit to be your mate. 
 
186 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Long have I loved what I behold, 
 
 The night that calms, the day that cheers ; 
 
 The common growth of mother-earth 
 
 Suffices me — her tears, her mirth, 
 
 Her humblest mirth and tears. 
 
 The dragon's wing, the magic ring, 
 I shall not covet for my dower, 
 If I along that lowly way 
 With sympathetic heart may stray, 
 And with a soul of power. 
 
 These given, what more need I desire 
 To stir, to soothe, or elevate ? 
 What nobler marvels than the mind 
 May in life's daily prospect find, 
 May find or there create ? 
 
 A potent wand doth Sorrow wield ; 
 What spell so strong as guilty Fear ! 
 Repentance is a tender Sprite ; 
 If aught on earth have heavenly might, 
 'Tis lodged within her silent tear. 
 
 But grant my wishes, — let us now 
 Descend from this ethereal height ; 
 Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff, 
 More daring far than Hippogriff, 
 And be thy own delight ! 
 
 To the stone-table in my garden, 
 Loved haunt of many a summer hour, 
 The Squire is come : his daughter Bess 
 Beside him in the cool recess 
 Sits blooming like a flower. 
 
 With these are many more convened ; 
 They know not I have been so far ; — 
 I see them there, in number nine, 
 Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine ! 
 I see them — there they are ! 
 
 There sits the Vicar and his Dame ; 
 
 And there my good friend, Stephen Otter ; 
 
 And, ere the light of evening fail, 
 
 To them I must relate the Tale 
 
 Of Peter Bell the Potter." 
 
 Off flew the Boat — away she flees, 
 Spurning her freight with indignation ! 
 And I, as well as I was able, 
 On two poor legs, toward my stone-table 
 Limped on with sore vexation. 
 
 "0, here he is !" cried little Bess — 
 She saw me at the garden-door ; 
 "We 've waited anxiously and long," 
 They cried, and all around me throng, 
 Full nine of them or more ! 
 
 " Reproach me not — your fears be still — 
 Be thankful we again have met ; — 
 Resume, my Friends ! within the shade 
 Your seats, and quickly shall be paid 
 The well-remembered debt." 
 
 I spake with faltering voice, like one 
 Not wholly rescued from the pale 
 Of a wild dream, or worse illusion ; 
 But, straight, to cover my confusion, 
 Began the promised Tale. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 All by the moonlight river side 
 Groaned the poor Beast — alas ! in vain ; 
 The staff was raised to loftier height, 
 And the blows fell with heavier weight 
 As Peter struck — and struck again. 
 
 "Hold !" cried the Squire, " against the rules 
 Of common sense you 're surely sinning ; 
 This leap is for us all too bold ; 
 Who Peter was, let that be told, 
 And start from the beginning." 
 
 "A Potter*, Sir, he was by trade," 
 
 Said I, becoming quite collected ; 
 "And wheresoever he appeared, 
 Full twenty times was Peter feared 
 For once that Peter was respected. 
 
 He, two-and-thirty years or more, 
 Had been a wild and woodland rover ; 
 Had heard the Atlantic surges roar 
 On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore, 
 And trod the cliffs of Dover. 
 
 And he had seen Caernarvon's towers, 
 And well he knew the spire of Sarum ; 
 And he had been where Lincoln bell 
 Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell — 
 A far-renowned alarum ! 
 
 * In the dialect of the North, a hawker of earthenwar 
 is thus designated. 
 
PETER BELL. 187 
 .. 
 
 At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, 
 i And merry Carlisle had he been ; 
 ! And all along the Lowlands fair, 
 
 All through the bonny shire of Ayr; 
 : And far as Aberdeen. 
 
 At noon, when, by the forest's edge 
 He lay beneath the branches high, 
 The soft blue sky did never melt 
 Into his heart ; he never felt 
 The witchery of the soft blue sky ! 
 
 , And he had been at Inverness ; 
 And Peter, by the mountain-rills, 
 Had danced his round with Highland lasses ; 
 
 , And he had lain beside his asses 
 On lofty Cheviot Hills : 
 
 On a fair prospect some have looked 
 And felt, as I have heard them say, 
 As if the moving time had been 
 A thing as steadfast as the scene 
 On which they gazed themselves away. 
 
 And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales, 
 Among the rocks and winding scars; 
 Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
 Beneath their little patch of sky 
 And little lot of stars : 
 
 Within the breast of Peter Bell 
 These silent raptures found no place ; 
 He was a Carl as wild and rude 
 As ever hue-and-cry pursued, 
 As ever ran a felon's race. 
 
 And all along the indented coast, 
 Bespattered with the salt-sea foam ; 
 
 \ Where'er a knot of houses lay 
 On headland, or in hollow bay ; — 
 
 ' Sure never man like him did roam ! 
 
 Of all that lead a lawless life, 
 
 Of all that love their lawless lives, 
 
 In city or in village small, 
 
 He was the wildest far of all ; — 
 
 He had a dozen wedded wives. 
 
 As well might Peter, in the Fleet, 
 Have been fast bound, a begging debtor ; — 
 ! He travelled here, he travelled there ; — 
 But not the value of a hair 
 Was heart or head the better. 
 
 Nay, start not ! — wedded wives — and twelve ! 
 But how one wife could e'er come near him, 
 In simple truth I cannot tell ; 
 For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
 To see him was to fear him. 
 
 He roved among the vales and streams, 
 In the green wood and hollow deU ; 
 They were his dwellings night and day, — 
 But nature ne'er could find the way 
 Into the heart of Peter Bell. 
 
 Though Nature could not touch his heart 
 By lovely forms, and silent weather, 
 And tender sounds, yet you might see 
 At once, that Peter Bell and she 
 Had often been together. 
 
 In vain, through every changeful year, 
 Did Nature lead him as before ; 
 A primrose by a river's brim 
 A. yellow primrose was to him, 
 And it was nothing more. 
 
 A savage wildness round him hung 
 As of a dweller out of doors ; 
 In his whole figure and his mien 
 A savage character was seen 
 Of mountains and of dreary moors. 
 
 Small change it made in Peter's heart 
 To see his gentle panniered train 
 With more than vernal pleasure feeding, 
 Where'er the tender grass was leading 
 Its earliest green along the lane. 
 
 To all the unshaped half-human thoughts 
 
 Which solitary Nature feeds 
 
 'Mid summer storms or winter's ice, 
 
 Had Peter joined whatever vice 
 
 The cruel city breeds. 
 
 In vain, through water, earth, and air, 
 The soul of happy sound was spread, 
 When Peter on some April morn, 
 Beneath the broom or budding thorn, 
 Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 
 
 His face was keen as is the wind 
 That cuts along the hawthorn-fence ; 
 Of courage you saw little there, 
 But, in its stead, a medley air 
 Of cunning and of impudence. 
 
188 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 He had a dark and sidelong walk, 
 And long and slouching was his gait ; 
 Beneath his looks so bare and bold, 
 You might perceive, his spirit cold 
 Was playing with some inward bait. 
 
 His forehead wrinkled was and furred ; 
 A work, one half of which was done 
 By thinking of his ' whens' and ' hows ;' 
 And half, by knitting of his brows 
 Beneath the glaring sun. 
 
 There was a hardness in his cheek, 
 There was a hardness in his eye, 
 As if the man had fixed his face, 
 In many a solitary place, 
 Against the wind and open sky ! " 
 
 One night, (and now my little Bess ! 
 We 've reached at last the promised Tale ;) 
 One beautiful November night, 
 When the full moon was shining bright 
 Upon the rapid river Swale, 
 
 Along the river's winding banks 
 Peter was travelling all alone ; — 
 Whether to buy or sell, or led 
 By pleasure running in his head, 
 To me was never known. 
 
 He trudged along through copse and brake, 
 He trudged along o'er hill and dale ; 
 Nor for the moon cared he a tittle, 
 And for the stars he cared as little, 
 And for the murmuring river Swale. 
 
 But, chancing to espy a path 
 That promised to cut short the way ; 
 As many a wiser man hath done, 
 He left a trusty guide for one 
 That might his steps betray. 
 
 To a thick wood he soon is brought 
 Where cheerily his course he weaves, 
 And whistling loud may yet be heard, 
 Though often buried, like a bird 
 Darkling, among the boughs and leaves. 
 
 But quickly Peter's mood is changed, 
 And on he drives with cheeks that burn 
 In downright fury and in wrath ; — 
 There 's little sign the treacherous path 
 Will to the road return ! 
 
 The path grows dim, and dimmer still ; 
 Now up, now down, the Rover wends, 
 With all the sail that he can carry, 
 Till brought to a deserted quarry — 
 And there the pathway ends. 
 
 He paused — for shadows of strange shape, 
 Massy and black, before him lay ; 
 But through the dark, and through the cold, 
 And through the yawning fissures old, 
 Did Peter boldly press bis way 
 
 Right through the quarry ; — and behold 
 A scene of soft and lovely hue ! 
 Where blue and grey, and tender green. 
 Together make as sweet a scene 
 As ever human eye did view. 
 
 Beneath the clear blue sky he saw 
 A little field of meadow ground ; 
 But field or meadow name it not ; 
 Call it of earth a small green plot, 
 With rocks encompassed round. 
 
 The Swale flowed under the grey rocks, 
 But he flowed quiet and unseen ; — 
 You need a strong and stormy gale 
 To bring the noises of the Swale 
 To that green spot, so calm and green ! 
 
 And is there no one dwelling here, 
 No hermit with his beads and glass ? 
 And does no little cottage look 
 Upon this soft and fertile nook ? 
 Does no one five near this green grass ? 
 
 Across the deep and quiet spot 
 Is Peter driving through the grass — 
 And now has reached the skirting trees ; 
 When, turning round his head, he sees 
 A solitary Ass. 
 
 " A prize !" cries Peter — but he first 
 Must spy about him far and near : 
 There 's not a single house in sight, 
 No woodman's hut, no cottage light — 
 Peter, you need not fear ! 
 
 There 's nothing to be seen but woods, 
 And rocks that spread a hoary gleam, 
 And this one Beast, that from the bed 
 Of the green meadow hangs his head 
 Over the silent stream. 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 189 
 
 His head is with a halter bound; 
 The halter seizing, Peter leapt 
 Upon the Creature's back, and plied 
 With ready heels his shaggy side ; 
 But still the Ass Ms station kept. 
 
 Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, 
 A jerk that from a dungeon-floor 
 Would have pulled up an iron ring ; 
 But still the heavy-headed Thing 
 Stood just as he had stood before ! 
 
 Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, 
 " There is some plot against me laid ;" 
 Once more the little meadow-ground 
 And all the hoary cliffs around 
 He cautiously surveyed. 
 
 All, all is silent — rocks and woods, 
 All still and silent — far and near ! 
 Only the Ass, with motion dull, 
 Upon the pivot of his skull 
 Turns round his long left ear. 
 
 Thought Peter, What can mean all this ? 
 Some ugly witchcraft must be here ! 
 — Once more the Ass, with motion dull, 
 Upon the pivot of his skull 
 ' Turned round his long left ear. 
 
 Suspicion ripened into dread ; 
 
 ■ Yet with deliberate action slow, 
 His staff high-raising, in the pride 
 Of skill, upon the sounding hide, 
 
 i He dealt a sturdy blow. 
 
 The poor Ass staggered with the shock ; 
 And then, as if to take his ease, 
 1 In quiet uncomplaining mood, 
 Upon the spot where he had stood, 
 Dropped gently down upon his knees ; 
 
 \ As gently on his side he fell ; 
 , And by the river's brink did lie ; 
 And, while he lay like one that mourned, 
 
 iThe patient Beast on Peter turned 
 His shining hazel eye. 
 
 'Twas but one mild, reproachful look, 
 A look more tender than severe ; 
 And straight in sorrow, not in dread, 
 He turned the eye-ball in his head 
 Towards the smooth river deep and clear. 
 
 Upon the Beast the sapling rings ; 
 
 His lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred ; 
 
 He gave a groan, and then another, 
 
 Of that which went before the brother, 
 
 And then he gave a third. 
 
 All by the moonlight river side 
 He gave three miserable groans ; 
 And not till now hath Peter seen 
 How gaunt the Creature is, — how lean 
 And sharp his staring bones ! 
 
 With legs stretched out and stiff he lay : — 
 No word of land commiseration 
 Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue ; 
 With hard contempt his heart was wrung, 
 With hatred and vexation. 
 
 The meagre beast lay still as death ; 
 And Peter's lips with fury quiver ; 
 Quoth he, " You little mulish dog, 
 I '11 fling your carcass like a log 
 Head-foremost down the river !" 
 
 An impious oath confirmed the threat — 
 Whereat from the earth on which he lay 
 To all the echoes, south and north, 
 And east and west, the Ass sent forth 
 A long and clamorous bray ! 
 
 This outcry, on the heart of Peter, 
 Seems like a note of joy to strike, — 
 Joy at the heart of Peter knocks ; 
 But in the echo of the rocks 
 Was something Peter did not like. 
 
 Whether to cheer his coward breast, 
 Or that he could not break the chain, 
 In this serene and solemn hour, 
 Twined round him by demoniac power, 
 To the blind work he turned again. 
 
 Among the rocks and winding crags ; 
 
 Among the mountains far away ; 
 
 Once more the Ass did lengthen out 
 
 More ruefully a deep-drawn shout, 
 
 The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray ! 
 
 What is there now in Peter's heart ! 
 
 Or whence the might of this strange sound I 
 
 The moon uneasy looked and dimmer, 
 
 The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer, 
 
 And the rocks staggered all around — 
 
190 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 From Peter's hand the sapling dropped ! 
 Threat has he none to execute ; 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 " If any one should come and see 
 
 We left our Hero in a trance, 
 
 That I am here, they '11 think," quoth he, 
 
 Beneath the alders, near the river ; 
 
 " I 'm helping this poor dying hrute." 
 
 The Ass is by the river-side, 
 
 And, where the feeble breezes glide, 
 
 He scans the Ass from limb to limb, 
 
 Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver. 
 
 And ventures now to uplift his eyes ; 
 More steady looks the moon, and clear, 
 More like themselves the rocks appear 
 And touch more quiet skies. 
 
 A happy respite ! but at length 
 He feels the glimmering of the moon ; 
 Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing — 
 To sink, perhaps, where he is lying, 
 
 His scorn returns — his hate revives ; 
 
 Into a second swoon ! 
 
 He stoops the Ass's neck to seize 
 With malice — that again takes flight ; 
 For in the pool a startling sight 
 Meets him, among the inverted trees. 
 
 He lifts his head, he sees his staff ; 
 He touches — 'tis to him a treasure ! 
 Faint recollection seems to tell 
 That he is yet where mortals dwell — 
 
 Is it the moon's distorted face I 
 
 A thought received with languid pleasure ! 
 
 The ghost-like image of a cloud ? 
 Is it a gallows there portrayed ! 
 Is Peter of himself afraid ? 
 Is it a coffin, — or a shroud \ 
 
 His head upon his elbow propped, 
 Becoming less and less perplexed, 
 Sky-ward he looks — to rock and wood — 
 And then — upon the glassy flood 
 
 A grisly idol hewn in stone ? 
 
 His wandering eye is fixed. 
 
 Or imp from witch's lap let fall ? 
 
 Thought he, that is the face of one 
 
 Perhaps a ring of shining fairies ? 
 
 In his last sleep securely bound ! 
 
 Such as pursue their feared vagaries 
 In sylvan bower, or haunted hall ? 
 
 Is it a fiend that to a stake 
 
 Of fire his desperate self is tethering ? 
 
 Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell 
 
 In solitary ward or cell, 
 
 Ten thousand miles from all his brethren ? 
 
 Never did pulse so quickly throb, 
 And never heart so loudly panted ; 
 He looks, he cannot choose but look ; 
 Like some one reading in a book — 
 A book that is enchanted. 
 
 Ah, weil-a-day for Peter Bell ! 
 He will be turned to iron soon, 
 Meet Statue for the court of Fear ! 
 His hat is up — and every hair 
 Bristles, and whitens in the moon ! 
 
 He looks, he ponders, looks again ; 
 
 He sees a motion — hears a groan ; 
 
 His eyes will burst — his heart will break — 
 
 He gives a loud and frightful shriek, 
 
 And back he falls, as if his life were flown ! 
 
 So toward the stream his head he bent, 
 And downward thrust his staff, intent 
 The river's depth to sound. 
 
 Now — like a tempest-shattered bark, 
 That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, 
 And in a moment to the verge 
 Is lifted of a foaming surge — 
 Full suddenly the Ass doth rise ! 
 
 His staring bones all shake with joy, 
 And close by Peter's side he stands : 
 While Peter o'er the river bends, 
 The little Ass his neck extends, 
 And fondly licks his hands. 
 
 Such life is in the Ass's eyes, 
 Such life is in his limbs and ears ; 
 That Peter Bell, if he had been 
 The veriest coward ever seen, 
 Must now have thrown aside his fears. 
 
 The Ass looks on — and to his work 
 Is Peter quietly resigned ; 
 He touches here — he touches there — 
 And now among the dead man's hair 
 His sapling Peter has entwined. 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 191 
 
 He pulls — and looks — and pulls again ; 
 And he whom the poor Ass had lost, 
 The man who had been four days dead, 
 Head-foremost from the river's bed 
 Uprises like a ghost ! 
 
 1 And Peter draws him to dry land ; 
 And through the brain of Peter pass 
 I Some poignant twitches, fast and faster ; 
 ;"No doubt," quoth he, "he is the Master 
 ! Of this poor miserable Ass ! " 
 
 The meagre Shadow that looks on — 
 i What would he now 1 what is he doing ? 
 
 I His sudden fit of joy is flown, — 
 
 i He on his knees hath laid him down, 
 ! As if he were his grief renewing ; 
 
 But no — that Peter on his back 
 Must mount, he shews well as he can : 
 ' Thought Peter then, come weal or woe, 
 
 I I '11 do what he would have me do, 
 I In pity to this poor drowned man. 
 
 ; With that resolve he boldly mounts 
 : Upon the pleased and thankful Ass ; 
 
 And then, without a moment's stay, 
 ! That earnest Creature turned away, 
 
 Leaving the body on the grass. 
 
 Intent upon his faithful watch, 
 The Beast four days and nights had past ; 
 A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen, 
 And there the Ass four days had been, 
 i Nor ever once did break his fast : 
 
 Yet firm his step, and stout his heart ; 
 The mead is crossed- — the quarry's mouth 
 Is reached ; but there the trusty guide 
 Into a thicket turns aside, 
 And deftly ambles towards the south. 
 
 J When hark a burst of doleful sound ! 
 : And Peter honestly might say, 
 :, The like came never to his ears, 
 1 Though he has been, full thirty years, 
 A rover — night and day ! 
 
 I . 
 
 I 'Tis not a plover of the moors, 
 I 'Tis not a bittern of the fen; 
 ! Nor can it be a barking fox, 
 j Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks, 
 Nor wild-cat in a woody glen! 
 
 The Ass is startled — and stops short 
 Right in the middle of the thicket ; 
 And Peter, wont to whistle loud 
 Whether alone or in a crowd, 
 Is silent as a silent cricket. 
 
 What ails you now, my little Bess ? 
 Well may you tremble and look grave ! 
 This cry — that rings along the wood, 
 This cry — that floats adown the flood, 
 Comes from the entrance of a cave : 
 
 I see a blooming Wood-boy there, 
 And if I had the power to say 
 How sorrowful the wanderer is, 
 Your heart would be as sad as his 
 Till you had kissed his tears away ! 
 
 Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand, 
 All bright with berries ripe and red, 
 Into the cavern's mouth he peeps ; 
 Thence back into the moonlight creeps ; 
 Whom seeks he — whom ?— the silent dead : 
 
 His father ! — Him doth he require — 
 Him hath he sought with fruitless pains, 
 Among the rocks, behind the trees ; 
 Now creeping on his hands and knees, 
 Now running o'er the open plains. 
 
 And hither is he come at last, 
 When he through such a day has gone, 
 By this dark cave to be distrest 
 Like a poor bird — her plundered nest 
 Hovering around with dolorous moan ! 
 
 Of that intense and piercing cry 
 The listening Ass conjectures well; 
 Wild as it is, he there can read 
 Some intermingled notes that plead 
 With touches irresistible. 
 
 But Peter — when he saw the Ass 
 Not only stop but turn, and change 
 The cherished tenor of his pace 
 That lamentable cry to chase — 
 It wrought in him conviction strange ; 
 
 A faith that, for the dead man's sake 
 And this poor slave who loved him well, 
 Vengeance upon his head will fall, 
 Some visitation worse than all 
 Which ever till this night befel. 
 
192 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home, 
 Is striving stoutly as he may ; 
 But, while he climbs the woody hill, 
 The cry grows weak — and weaker still ; 
 And now at last it dies away. 
 
 So with his freight the Creature turns 
 Into a gloomy grove of beech, 
 Along the shade with footsteps true 
 Descending slowly, till the two 
 The open moonlight reach. 
 
 And there, along the narrow dell, 
 A fair smooth pathway you discern, 
 A length of green and open road— 
 As if it from a fountain flowed — 
 Winding away between the fern. 
 
 The rocks that tower on either side 
 
 Build up a wild fantastic scene ; 
 
 Temples like those among the Hindoos, 
 
 And mosques, and spires, and abbey windows, 
 
 And castles all with ivy green ! 
 
 And, while the Ass pursues his way, 
 
 Along this solitary dell, 
 
 As pensively his steps advance, 
 
 The mosques and spires change countenance, 
 
 And look at Peter Bell ! 
 
 That unintelligible cry 
 Hath left him high in preparation, — 
 Convinced that he, or soon or late, 
 This very night will meet his fate — 
 And so he sits in expectation ! 
 
 The strenuous Animal hath clomb 
 With the green path ; and now he wends 
 Where, shining like the smoothest sea, 
 In undisturbed immensity 
 A level plain extends. 
 
 But whence this faintly-rustling sound 
 By which the journeying pair are chased ? 
 — A withered leaf is close behind, 
 Light plaything for the sportive wind 
 Upon that solitary waste. 
 
 When Peter spied the moving thing, 
 It only doubled his distress ; 
 " Where there is not a bush or tree, 
 The very leaves they follow me — 
 So huge hath been my wickedness !" 
 
 To a close lane they now are come, 
 Where, as before, the enduring Ass 
 Moves on without a moment's stop, 
 Nor once turns round his head to crop 
 A bramble-leaf or blade of grass. 
 
 Between the hedges as they go, 
 The white dust sleeps upon the lane ; 
 And Peter, ever and anon 
 Back-looking, sees, upon a stone, 
 Or in the dust, a crimson stain. 
 
 
 A stain — as of a drop of blood 
 
 By moonlight made more faint and wan ; 
 
 Ha ! why these sinkings of despair ? 
 
 He knows not how the blood comes there— 
 
 And Peter is a wicked man. 
 
 At length he spies a bleeding wound, 
 Where he had struck the Ass's head ; 
 He sees the blood, knows what it is, — 
 A glimpse of sudden joy was his, 
 But then it quickly fled ; 
 
 Of him whom sudden death had seized 
 He thought, — of thee, faithful Ass ! 
 And once again those ghastly pains, 
 Shoot to and fro through heart and reins, 
 And through his brain like lightning pass. 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 I 've heard of one, a gentle Soul, 
 Though given to sadness and to gloom, 
 And for the fact will vouch, — one night 
 It chanced that by a taper's light 
 This man was reading in his room ; 
 
 Bending, as you or I might bend 
 At night o'er any pious book, 
 When sudden blackness overspread 
 The snow-white page on which he read, 
 And made the good man round him look. 
 
 The chamber walls were dark all round,- 
 And to his book he turned again ; 
 — The light had left the lonely taper, 
 And formed itself upon the paper 
 Into large letters — bright and plain ! 
 
 The godly book was in his hand — 
 And, on the page, more black than coal, 
 Appeared, set forth in strange array, 
 A word — which to his dying day 
 Perplexed the good man's gentle soul. 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 193 
 
 The ghostly word, thus plainly seen, 
 Did never from his lips depart ; 
 But he hath said, poor gentle wight ! 
 It brought full many a sin to light 
 Out of the bottom of his heart. 
 
 Dread Spirits ! to confound the meek 
 Why wander from your course so far, 
 Disordering colour, form, and stature ! 
 
 Let good men feel the soul of nature, 
 
 And see things as they are. 
 
 Yet, potent Spirits ! well I know, 
 How ye, that play with soul and sense, 
 Are not unused to trouble friends 
 Of goodness, for most gracious ends — 
 And this I speak in reverence ! 
 
 E-ut might I give advice to you, 
 Whom in my fear I love so well ; 
 From men of pensive virtue go, 
 Dread Beings ! and your empire show 
 On hearts like that of Peter Bell. 
 
 Your presence often have I felt 
 In darkness and the stormy night ; 
 And, with like force, if need there be, 
 1 Ye can put forth your agency 
 When earth is calm, and heaven is bright. 
 
 Then, coming from the wayward world, 
 : That powerful world in which ye dwell, 
 l Come, Spirits of the Mind ! and try 
 . To-night, beneath the moonlight sky r , 
 ' What may be done with Peter Bell ! 
 
 , — 0, would that some more skilful voice 
 My further labour might prevent ! 
 Kind Listeners, that around me sit, 
 I feel that I am all unfit 
 For such high argument. 
 
 I 've played, I 've danced, with my narration ; 
 
 I loitered long ere I began : 
 
 Ye waited then on my good pleasure ; 
 
 Pour out indulgence still, in measure 
 
 As liberal as ye can ! 
 
 Our Travellers, ye remember well, 
 Are thridding a sequestered lane ; 
 And Peter many tricks is trying, 
 And many anodynes applying, 
 To ease his conscience of its pain. 
 
 By this his heart is lighter far ; 
 And, finding that he can account 
 So snugly for that crimson stain, 
 His evil spirit up again 
 Does like an empty bucket mount. 
 
 And Peter is a deep logician 
 
 Who hath no lack of wit mercurial ; 
 
 " Blood drops — leaves rustle — yet," quoth he, 
 
 " This poor man never, but for me, 
 
 Could have had Christian burial. 
 
 And, say the best you can, 'tis plain, 
 That here has been some wicked dealing ; 
 No doubt the devil in me wrought ; 
 I 'm not the man who could have thought 
 An Ass like this was worth the stealing !" 
 
 So from his pocket Peter takes 
 His shining horn tobacco-box ; 
 And, in a light and careless way, 
 As men who with their purpose play, 
 Upon the lid he knocks. 
 
 Let them whose voice can stop the clouds, 
 
 Whose cunning eye can see the wind, 
 
 Tell to a curious world the cause 
 
 Why, making here a sudden pause, 
 
 The Ass turned round his head, and grinned. 
 
 Appalling process ! I have marked 
 The like on heath, in lonely wood ; 
 And, verily, have seldom met 
 A spectacle more hideous — yet 
 It suited Peter's present mood. 
 
 And, grinning in his turn, his teeth 
 He in jocose defiance showed — 
 When, to upset his spiteful mirth, 
 A murmur, pent within the earth, 
 In the dead earth beneath the road, 
 
 Rolled audibly ! it swept along, 
 A muffled noise — a rumbling sound ! — 
 'Twas by a troop of miners made, 
 Plying with gunpowder their trade, 
 Some twenty fathoms underground. 
 
 Small cause of dire effect ! for, surely, 
 If ever mortal, King or Cotter, 
 Believed that earth was charged to quake 
 And yawn for his unworthy sake, 
 'Twas Peter Bell the Potter. 
 
194 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 But, as an oak in breathless air 
 
 Will stand though to the centre hewn ; 
 
 Or as the weakest things, if frost 
 
 Have stiffened them, maintain their post ; 
 
 So he, beneath the gazing moon !— 
 
 The Beast bestriding thus, he reached 
 A spot where, in a sheltering cove, 
 A httle chapel stands alone, 
 With greenest ivy overgrown, 
 And tufted with an ivy grove ; 
 
 Dying insensibly away 
 From human thoughts and purposes, 
 It seemed — wall, window, roof and tower- 
 To bow to some transforming power, 
 And blend with the surrounding trees. 
 
 As ruinous a place it was, 
 Thought Peter, in the shire of Fife 
 That served my turn, when following still 
 From land to land a reckless will 
 I married my sixth wife ! 
 
 The unheeding Ass moves slowly on, 
 And now is passing by an inn 
 Brim-full of a carousing crew, 
 That make, with curses not a few, 
 An uproar and a drunken din. 
 
 I cannot well express the thoughts 
 Which Peter in those noises found ; — 
 A stifling power compressed his frame, 
 While-as a swimming darkness came 
 Over that duU and dreary sound. 
 
 For well did Peter know the sound ; 
 The language of those drunken joys 
 To him, a jovial soul, I ween, 
 But a few hours ago, had been 
 A gladsome and a welcome noise. 
 
 Now, turned adrift into the past, 
 He finds no solace in his course ; 
 Like planet-strieken men of yore, 
 He trembles, smitten to the core 
 By strong compunction and remorse. 
 
 But, more than all, his heart is stung 
 To think of one, almost a child ; 
 A sweet and playful Highland girl, 
 As light and beauteous as a squirrel, 
 As beauteous and as wild ! 
 
 Her dwelling was a lonely house, 
 A cottage in a heathy dell ; 
 And she put on her gown of green, 
 And left her mother at sixteen, 
 And followed Peter Bell. 
 
 But many good and pious thoughts 
 
 Had she ; and, in the kirk to pray, 
 
 Two long Scotch miles, through rain or snow, 
 
 To kirk she had been used to go, 
 
 Twice every Sabbath-day. 
 
 And, when she followed Peter Bell, 
 It was to lead an honest life ; 
 For he, with tongue not used to falter, 
 Had pledged his troth before the altar 
 To love her as Ms wedded wife. 
 
 A mother's hope is hers ; — but soon 
 She drooped and pined like one forlorn ; 
 From Scripture she a name did borrow ; 
 Benoni, or the child of sorrow, 
 She called her babe unborn. 
 
 For she had learned how Peter lived, 
 And took it in most grievous part ; 
 She to the very bone was worn, 
 And, ere that httle child was born, 
 Died of a broken heart. 
 
 And now the Spirits of the Mind 
 Are busy with poor Peter Bell ; 
 Upon the rights of visual sense 
 Usurping, with a prevalence 
 More terrible than magic spell. 
 
 Close by a brake of flowering furze 
 (Above it shivering aspens play) 
 He sees an unsubstantial creature, 
 His very self in form and feature, 
 Not four yards from the broad highway : 
 
 And stretched beneath the furze he sees 
 The Highland girl — it is no other ; 
 And hears her crying as she cried, 
 The very moment that she died, 
 " My mother ! oh my mother !" 
 
 The sweat pours down from Peter's face, 
 So grievous is his heart's contrition ; 
 With agony his eye-balls ache 
 While he beholds by the furze-brake 
 This miserable vision ! 
 
PETER BELL. 
 
 195 
 
 Jalm is the well-deserving brute, 
 His peace hath no offence betrayed ; 
 3ut now, while down that slope he wends, 
 \ voice to Peter's ear ascends, 
 Resounding from the woody glade : 
 
 The voice, though clamorous as a horn 
 
 Re-echoed by a naked rock, 
 
 !!omes from that tabernacle — List ! 
 
 iiVithin, a fervent Methodist 
 
 s preaching to no heedless flock ! 
 
 : Repent ! repent !" he cries aloud, 
 : While yet ye may find mercy ; — strive 
 Co love the Lord with all your might ; 
 ["urn to him, seek him day and night, 
 ind save your souls alive ! 
 
 Repent ! repent ! though ye have gone, 
 ?hrough paths of wickedness and woe, 
 Lfter the Babylonian harlot ; 
 llnd, though your sins be red as scarlet, 
 'hey shall be white as snow !" 
 
 : lvea as he passed the door, these words 
 )id plainly come to Peter's ears ; 
 Lnd they such joyful tidings were, 
 "he joy was more than he could bear ! — 
 le melted into tears. 
 
 Iweet tears of hope and tenderness ! 
 ind fast they fell, a plenteous shower ! 
 iis nerves, his sinews seemed to melt ; 
 through all his iron frame was felt 
 i gentle, a relaxing, power ! 
 
 'ach fibre of his frame was weak ; 
 Veak all the animal within ; 
 )iut, in its helplessness, grew mild 
 md gentle as an infant child, 
 In infant that has known no sin. 
 
 Tis said, meek Beast ! that, through Heaven's grace, 
 
 le not iinmoved did notice now 
 
 'he cross upon thy shoulder scored, 
 .'or lasting impress, by the Lord 
 J'o whom all human-kind shall bow ; 
 
 jlemorial of his touch— that day 
 |VTien Jesus humbly deigned to ride, 
 Entering the proud Jerusalem, 
 !>y an immeasurable stream 
 >f shouting people deified ! 
 
 Meanwhile the persevering Ass, 
 Turned towards a gate that hung in view 
 Across a shady lane ; his chest 
 Against the yielding gate he pressed 
 And quietly passed through. 
 
 And up the stony lane he goes ; 
 No ghost more softly ever trod ; 
 Among the stones and pebbles, he 
 Sets down his hoofs inaudibly, 
 As if with felt his hoofs were shod. 
 
 Along the lane the trusty Ass 
 
 Went twice two hundred yards or more, 
 
 And no one could have guessed his aim, — 
 
 Till to a lonely house he came, 
 
 And stopped beside the door. 
 
 Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home ! 
 He listens — not a sound is heard 
 Save from the trickling household rill ; 
 But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill, 
 Forthwith a little Girl appeared. 
 
 She to the Meeting-house was bound 
 In hopes some tidings there to gather : 
 No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam ; 
 She saw — and uttered with a scream, 
 "My father ! here's my father !" 
 
 The very word was plainly heard, 
 Heard plainly by the wretched Mother — 
 Her joy was like a deep affright: 
 And forth she rushed into the light, 
 And saw it was another ! 
 
 And, instantly, upon the earth, 
 Beneath the full moon shining bright, 
 Close to the Ass's feet she fell; 
 At the same moment Peter Bell 
 Dismounts in most unhappy plight. 
 
 As he beheld the Woman lie 
 Breathless and motionless, the mind 
 Of Peter sadly was confused ; 
 But, though to such demands unused, 
 And helpless almost as the blind, 
 
 He raised her up ; and, while he held 
 Her body propped against his knee, 
 The Woman waked — and when she spied 
 The poor Ass standing by her side, 
 She moaned most bitterly. 
 
 I 
 
196 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 " Oh ! God be praised — my heart 's at ease — 
 For he is dead — I know it well ! " 
 — At this she wept a bitter flood ; 
 And, in the best way that he could, 
 His tale did Peter tell. 
 
 He trembles — he is pale as death ; 
 His voice is weak with perturbation ; 
 He turns aside his head, he pauses ; 
 Poor Peter from a thousand causes, 
 Is crippled sore in his narration. 
 
 At length she learned how he espied 
 The Ass in that small meadow-ground ; 
 And that her Husband now lay dead, 
 Beside that luckless river's bed 
 In which he had been drowned. 
 
 A piercing look the Widow cast 
 Upon the Beast that near her stands ; 
 She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same ; 
 She calls the poor Ass by his name, 
 And wrings, and wrings her hands. 
 
 " wretched loss — untimely stroke ! 
 If he had died upon his bed ! 
 He knew not one forewarning pain ; 
 He never will come home again — 
 Is dead, for ever dead ! " 
 
 Beside the Woman Peter stands ; 
 His heart is opening more and more ; 
 A holy sense pervades his mind ; 
 He feels what he for human kind 
 Had never felt before. 
 
 At length, by Peter's arm sustained, 
 The Woman rises from the ground — 
 " Oh, mercy ! something must be done, 
 My little Rachel, you must run, — 
 Some willing neighbour must be found. 
 
 Make haste— my little Rachel — do, 
 The first you meet with — bid him come, 
 Ask him to lend his horse to-night, 
 And this good Man, whom Heaven requite, 
 Will help to bring the body home." 
 
 Away goes Rachel weeping loud ; — 
 An Infant, waked by her distress, 
 Makes in the house a piteous cry; 
 And Peter hears the Mother sigh, 
 " Seven are they, and all fatherless ! " 
 
 And now is Peter taught to feel 
 That man's heart is a holy thing ; 
 And Nature, through a world of death, 
 Breathes into him a second breath, 
 More searching than the breath of spring. 
 
 Upon a stone the Woman sits 
 
 In agony of silent grief — 
 
 From his own thoughts did Peter start ; 
 
 He longs to press her to his heart, 
 
 From love that cannot find relief. 
 
 But roused, as if through every limb 
 Had past a sudden shock of dread, 
 The Mother o'er the threshold flies, 
 And up the cottage stairs she hies, 
 And on the pillow lays her burning head. 
 
 And Peter turns his steps aside 
 Into a shade of darksome trees, 
 Where he sits down, he knows not how, 
 With his hands pressed against his brow, 
 His elbows on his tremulous knees. 
 
 There, self-involved, does Peter sit 
 Until no sign of life he makes, 
 As if his mind were sinking deep 
 Through years that have been long asleep ! 
 The trance is passed away — he wakes ; 
 
 He lifts his head — and sees the Ass 
 Yet standing in the clear moonshine ; 
 "When shall I be as good as thou? 
 Oh ! would, poor beast, that I had now 
 A heart but half as good as thine ! " 
 
 But He — who deviously hath sought 
 
 His Father through the lonesome woods, . 
 
 Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear 
 
 Of night his grief and sorrowful fear — 
 
 He comes, escaped from fields and floods ; — 
 
 With weary pace is drawing nigh ; 
 He sees the Ass — and nothing living 
 Had ever such a fit of joy 
 As hath this little orphan Boy, 
 For he has no misgiving ! 
 
 Forth to the gentle Ass he springs, 
 And up about his neck he climbs ; 
 In loving words he talks to him, 
 He kisses, kisses face and limb, — 
 He kisses him a thousand times ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 197 
 
 This Peter sees, while in the shade 
 He stood beside the cottage-door ; 
 And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild, 
 Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child, 
 "Oh ! God, I can endure no more ! " 
 
 — Here ends my. Tale : for in a trice 
 Arrived a neighbour with his horse ; 
 Peter went forth with him straightway ; 
 And, with due care, ere break of day, 
 Together they brought back the Corse. 
 
 And many years did this poor Ass, 
 Whom once it was my luck to see 
 Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, 
 Help by his labour to maintain 
 The Widow and her family. 
 
 And Peter Bell, who, till that night, 
 Had been the wildest of his clan, 
 Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly, 
 And, after ten months' melancholy, 
 Became a good and honest man. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown 
 1 In perfect shape (whose beauty Time shall spare 
 • Though a breath made it) like a bubble blown 
 < For summer pastime into wanton air ; 
 1 Happy the thought best likened to a stone 
 Of the sea-beach, when, polished with nice care, 
 Veins it discovers exquisite and rare, 
 
 Which for the loss of that moist gleam atone 
 
 That tempted first to gather it. That here, 
 
 O chief of Friends ! such feelingsl presenti 
 
 To thy regard, with thoughts so fortunate, 
 
 Were a vain notion ; but the hope is dear, 
 
 That thou, if not with partial joy elate, 
 
 Wilt smile upon this gift with more than mild content ! 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
 And hermits are contented with their cells ; 
 And students with their pensive citadels ; 
 i Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
 ' Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom, 
 : High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
 Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
 In truth the prison, unto which we doom 
 Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me, 
 , In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
 ! Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
 Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must 
 
 be) 
 Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, 
 Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 
 
 ADMONITION. 
 
 Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have 
 happened to he enamoured of some heautiful Place of Retreat, in 
 the Country of the Lakes. 
 
 Well may'st thou halt — and gaze with brightening 
 
 eye! 
 The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
 Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 
 But covet not the Abode ; — forbear to sigh, 
 As many do, repining while they look ; 
 Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book 
 This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. 
 Think what the Home must be if it were thine, 
 Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, window, 
 
 door, 
 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
 The roses to the porch which they entwine : 
 Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day 
 On which it should be touched, would melt away. 
 
198 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 " Beloved Vale !" I said, " when I shall con 
 Those many records of my childish years, 
 Remembrance of myself and of my peers 
 Will press me down : to think of what is gone 
 Will be an awful thought, if life have one." 
 But, when into the Vale I came, no fears 
 Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no tears ; 
 Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none. 
 By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost 
 I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall ; 
 So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small ! 
 A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed ; 
 I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed ; and all 
 The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. 
 
 AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK. 
 1804. 
 
 Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should rear 
 
 A seemly Cottage in tins sunny Dell, 
 
 On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell 
 
 In neighbourhood with One to me most dear, 
 
 That undivided we from year to year 
 
 Might work in our high Calling — a bright hope 
 
 To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope 
 
 Till checked by some necessities severe. 
 
 And should these slacken, honoured Beaumont ! 
 
 still 
 Even then we may perhaps in vain implore 
 Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. 
 Whether this boon be granted us or not, 
 Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot 
 With pride, the Muses love it evermore. 
 
 Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, 
 
 Together in immortal books enrolled : 
 
 His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold ; 
 
 And that inspiring Hill, which '< did divide 
 
 Into two ample horns his forehead wide,' 
 
 Shines with poetic radiance as of old ; 
 
 While not an English Mountain we behold 
 
 By the celestial Muses glorified. 
 
 Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds : 
 
 What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, 
 
 Mount Skiddaw ? In his natural sovereignty 
 
 Our British Hill is nobler far ; he shrouds 
 
 His double front among Atlantic clouds, 
 
 And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly. 
 
 There is a little unpretending Rill 
 Of limpid water, humbler far than aught 
 That ever among Men or Naiads sought 
 Notice or name ! — It quivers down the hill, 
 Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will ; 
 Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought 
 Oftener than Ganges or the Nile ; a thought 
 Of private recollection sweet and still ! 
 Months perish with their moons ; year treads on 
 
 year; 
 But, faithful Emma ! thou with me canst say 
 That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear, 
 And flies their memory fast almost as they ; 
 The immortal Spirit of one happy day 
 Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear. 
 
 
 Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 
 
 Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied ; 
 
 With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side, 
 
 And the glad Muse at liberty to note 
 
 All that to each is precious, as we float 
 
 Gently along ; regardless who shall chide 
 
 If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, 
 
 Happy Associates breathing air remote 
 
 From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, 
 
 Why have I crowded this small bark with you 
 
 And others of your kind, ideal crew ! 
 
 While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues 
 
 To flesh and blood ; no Goddess from above, 
 
 No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love ? 
 
 The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade ; 
 The sweetest notes must terminate and die ; 
 O Friend ! thy flute has breathed a harmony 
 Softly resounded through this rocky glade ; 
 Such strains of rapture as* the Genius played 
 In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high ; 
 He who stood visible to Mirza's eye, 
 Never before to human sight betrayed. 
 Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread ! 
 The visionary Arches are not there, 
 Nor the green Islands, nor the sinning Seas ; 
 Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, 
 Whence I have risen, uplifted on the breeze 
 Of harmony, above all earthly care. 
 
 * See the Vision of Mirza in the Spectator. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 109 
 
 UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE, 
 Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart. 
 
 i Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay- 
 Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape ; 
 Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, 
 Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day ; 
 Which stopped that band of travellers on their way, 
 
 1 Ere they were lost within the shady wood ; 
 
 ( And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood 
 
 ' For ever anchored in her sheltering bay. 
 Soul-soothing Art ! whom 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. 
 
 I" Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings — 
 
 Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar V 
 
 " Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far 
 
 From its own country, and forgive the strings." 
 
 (A simple answer ! but even so forth springs, 
 
 From the Castalian fountain of the heart, 
 
 The Poetry of Life, and all that Art 
 
 Divine of words quickening insensate things. 
 
 From the submissive necks of guiltless men 
 
 iStretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils ; 
 
 ,Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils 
 
 Of mortal sympathy ; what wonder then 
 
 That the poor Harp distempered music yields 
 
 To its sad Lord, far from his native fields ? 
 
 Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow 
 
 From this low threshold daily meets my sight ; 
 
 When I step forth to hail the morning light ; 
 
 ; Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell — how 
 
 .Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow ? 
 
 How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest ? 
 
 —By planting on thy naked head the crest 
 
 Of an imperial Castle, which the plough 
 
 Of main shall not touch. Innocent scheme ! 
 
 I That doth presume no more than to supply 
 
 A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream 
 
 'Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity. 
 
 |Rise, then, ye votive Towers ! and catch a gleam 
 
 Df golden sunset, ere it fade and die. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee, 
 These twinklings of oblivion ? Thou dost love 
 To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, 
 
 A captive never wishing to be free. 
 
 This tiresome night, 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 am I cross and peevish as a child : 
 Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, 
 Yet ever willing to be reconciled : 
 
 gentle Creature ! do not use me so, 
 But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 
 
 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep ! 
 And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names ; 
 The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames, 
 When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep ! 
 Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep 
 In rich reward all suffering ; Balm that tames 
 All anguish ; Saint that evil thoughts and aims 
 Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 
 Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, 
 I surely not a man ungently made, 
 CaU 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 ! 
 
 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 have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
 Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies 
 Mtfst hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, 
 And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : 
 So do not let me wear to-night away : 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 
 
200 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 THE WILD DUCK'S NEST. 
 
 The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king 
 Owns not a sylvan bower ; or gorgeous cell 
 With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell 
 Ceilinged and roofed ; that is so fan* a thing 
 As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring, 
 Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell 
 Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell ; 
 And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing. 
 Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree 
 And dimly-gleaming Nest, — ahollow crown [bough, 
 Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, 
 Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow : 
 I gazed — and, self-accused while gazing, sighed 
 For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous pride ! 
 
 WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN " THE COMPLETE 
 ANGLER." 
 
 While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, 
 
 Shall live the name of Walton : Sage benign ! 
 
 Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line 
 
 Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort 
 
 To reverend watching of each still report 
 
 That Nature utters from her rural shrine. 
 
 Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline — 
 
 He found the longest summer day too short, 
 
 To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee, 
 
 Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook — 
 
 Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, 
 
 The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree ; 
 
 And the fresh meads — where flowed, from every 
 
 Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety ! [nook 
 
 TO THE POET, JOHN DYER. 
 
 Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made 
 That work a living landscape fair and bright ; 
 Nor hallowed less with musical delight 
 Than those soft scenes through which thy child- 
 hood strayed, 
 Those southern tracts of Cambria, ' deep embayed, 
 With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lull'd;' 
 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 ! 
 
 ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLI- 
 CATION OF A CERTAIN POEM. 
 
 A Book came forth of late, called Peter Bell ; 
 Not negligent the style ; — the matter ? — good 
 As aught that song records of Robin Hood ; 
 Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell ; 
 But some (who brook those hackneyed themes 
 
 full well, 
 Nor heat, at Tarn o' Shanter's name, their blood) 
 Waxed wroth, and with foul claws,, a harpy brood, 
 On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. 
 Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen, 
 Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice, 
 Heed not such onset ! nay, if praise of men 
 To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, 
 Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice 
 In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen ! 
 
 Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend 
 Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute ; 
 And Care — a comforter that best could suit 
 Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend ; 
 And Love — a charmer's voice, that used to lend, 
 More efficaciously than aught that flows 
 From harp or lute, kind influence to compose 
 The throbbing pulse — else troubled without end : 
 Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest 
 From her own overflow, what power sedate 
 On those revolving motions did await 
 Assiduously — to soothe her aching breast ; 
 And, to a point of just relief, abate 
 The mantling triumphs of a day too blest. 
 
 to s. H. 
 Excuse is needless when with love sincere 
 Of occupation, not by fashion led, [spread ; 
 
 Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'er- 
 My nerves from no such murmur shrink, — tho' near, 
 Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, 
 When twilight shades darken the mountain's head. 
 Even She who toils to spin our vital thread 
 Might smile on work, Lady, once so dear 
 To household virtues. Venerable Art, 
 Torn from the Poor ! yet shall kind Heaven protect 
 Its own ; though Rulers, with undue respect, 
 Trusting to crowded factory and mart 
 And proud discoveries of the intellect, 
 Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 201 
 
 IMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VA'LLEYS OF WESTMORE- 
 LAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY. 
 
 With each recurrence of this glorious morn 
 That saw the Saviour in his human frame 
 ftise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame 
 ?ut on fresh raiment — till that hour unworn : 
 (Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn, 
 Ind she who span it culled the daintiest fleece, 
 In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace, 
 jiVhose temples bled beneath the platted thorn. 
 ji. blest estate when piety sublime 
 These humble props disdained not ! green dales ! 
 >ad may I be who heard your sabbath chime 
 When Art's abused inventions were unknown ; 
 iind Nature's various wealth was all your own ; 
 i.nd benefits were weighed in Reason's scales ! 
 
 DECAY OF PIETY. 
 
 I)ft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek, 
 Matrons and Sires — who, punctual to the call 
 |)f their loved Church, on fast or festival 
 Through the long year the House of Prayer would 
 3y Christmas snows, by visitation bleak [seek : 
 ; ')f Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall 
 They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall, 
 ,3ut with one fervour of devotion meek. 
 ! see the places where they once were known, 
 ind ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds, 
 Is ancient Piety for ever flown ? 
 'Uas ! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds 
 Chat, struggling through the western sky, have won 
 Their pensive light from a departed sun ! 
 
 (COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A 
 FRIEND IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812. 
 
 JiVhat need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay, 
 These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace ? 
 Angels of love, look down upon the place ; 
 Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day ! 
 8fet no proud gladness would the Bride display 
 iven for such promise : — serious is her face, 
 Modest her mien ; and she, whose thoughts keep pace 
 With gentleness, in that becoming way 
 Fill thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear ; 
 Ko disproportion in her soul, no strife : 
 ,3ut, when the closer view of wedded life 
 Hath shown that nothing human can be clear 
 !From frailty, for that insight may the Wife 
 j r ° her indulgent Lord become more dear. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 I. 
 
 Yes ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 
 
 And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; 
 
 For if of our affections none finds grace 
 
 In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made 
 
 The world which we inhabit ? Better plea 
 
 Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 
 
 Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, 
 
 Who such divinity to thee imparts 
 
 As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 
 
 His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 
 
 With beauty, which is varying every hour ; 
 
 But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power 
 
 Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, 
 
 That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 II. 
 
 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 
 
 Beyond the visible world she soars to seek [hold ; 
 
 (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, 
 
 That kills the soul : love betters what is best, 
 
 Even here below, but more in heaven above. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING. 
 in. 
 The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed 
 If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : 
 My unassisted heart is barren clay, 
 That of its native self can nothing feed : 
 Of good and pious works thou art the seed, 
 That quickens only where thou say'st it may : 
 Unless Thou 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. 
 
202 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind 
 I turned to share the transport — Oh ! with whom 
 But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, 
 That spot which no vicissitude can find ? 
 Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind- 
 But how could I forget thee ? Through what power, 
 Even for the least division of an hour, 
 Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
 To my most grievous loss ? — That thought's return 
 Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, 
 Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 
 Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; 
 That neither present time, nor years unborn 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 
 
 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, Death ! to thee we groan." 
 Those steps I clomb ; the mists before me gave 
 Smooth way ; and I beheld the face of one 
 Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, 
 With her face up to heaven ; that seemed to have 
 Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone ; 
 A lovely Beauty in a summer grave ! 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1336. 
 
 ii. 
 Even so for me a Vision sanctified 
 The sway of Death ; long ere mine eyes had seen 
 Thy countenance — the still rapture of thy mien — 
 When thou, dear Sister ! wert become Death's 
 No trace of pain or languor could abide [Bride : 
 That change : — age on thy brow was smoothed — 
 
 thy cold 
 Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold 
 A loveliness to living youth denied. 
 Oh ! if within me hope should e'er dec'ine, 
 The lamp of faith, lost Friend ! too faintly burn ; 
 Then may that heaven-revealing smile of thine, 
 The bright assurance, visibly return : 
 And let my spirit in that power divine 
 Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased to mourn. 
 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea : 
 
 Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me 
 
 here, 
 If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; 
 And worship' st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it not 
 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ! 
 Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, 
 Festively she puts forth in trim array ; 
 Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow ? 
 What boots the inquiry ? — Neither friend nor foe 
 She cares for ; let her travel where she may, 
 She finds familiar names, a beaten way 
 Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 
 Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark ? 
 And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 
 (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there 
 Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, 
 Of the old Sea some reverential fear, 
 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark ! 
 
 XXX,, 
 
 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 ta,ckling 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 
 
 No tarrying ; where She comes the winds mu-t 
 
 stir: 
 On went She, and due north her journey took. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 203 
 
 he world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
 etting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
 ittle we see in Nature that is ours ; 
 
 e have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
 Ills Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
 lie winds that will be howling at all hours, 
 nd are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
 for this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; 
 1 moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather be 
 
 Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
 ) might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 ave glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 ave sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
 r hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found, 
 r ho, while the flattering Zephyrs round them 
 
 play, 
 l ' coignes of vantage ' hang their nests of clay ; 
 ow quickly from that aery hold unbound, 
 iiist for oblivion ! To the solid ground 
 £ nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye ; 
 .mvinced that there, there only, she can lay 
 ! cure foundations. As the year runs round, 
 part she toils within the chosen ring ; 
 ■■ liile the stars shine, or while day's purple eye 
 j gently closing with the flowers of spring ; 
 here even the motion of an Angel's wing 
 i : ould interrupt the intense tranquillity 
 ' silent hills, and more than silent sky. 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 >Veak. is the will of Man, his judgment blind ; 
 
 .lemembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays ; 
 
 leavy is woe ; — and joy, for human-kind, 
 
 \ mournful thing, so transient is the blaze ! ' 
 
 ms might he paint our lot of mortal days 
 
 j'ho wants the glorious faculty assigned 
 
 p elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, 
 
 id colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. 
 
 Imagination is that sacred power, 
 
 pagination lofty and refined : 
 
 |is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower 
 
 j: Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind 
 
 , reaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, 
 
 nd do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind. 
 
 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, worthy, short-lived, Youth ! 
 To think how much of this will be thy praise. 
 
 PART II. 
 r. 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, 
 Mindless of its just honours ; with this key 
 Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 
 Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
 With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief ; 
 The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
 His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew 
 Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 
 
 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 a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks 
 AtWakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks, — 
 When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and 
 The crowd beneath her. Verily I think, [mocks 
 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. 
 
204 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 TO B. R. HAYDON. 
 
 High is our calling, Friend ! — Creative Art 
 (Whether the instrument of words she use, 
 Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) 
 Demands the service of a mind and heart, 
 Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, 
 
 Heroically fashioned to infuse 
 
 Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, 
 While the whole world seems adverse to desert. 
 And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may, 
 Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, 
 Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, 
 And in the soul admit of no decay, 
 Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness — 
 Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! 
 
 From the dark chambers of dejection freed, 
 
 Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care, 
 
 Rise, Gillies, rise : the gales of youth shall bear 
 
 Thy genius forward like a winged steed. 
 
 Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed 
 
 In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, 
 
 Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare, 
 
 If aught be in them of immortal seed, 
 
 And reason govern that audacious flight 
 
 Which heaven-ward they direct. — Then droop not 
 
 thou, 
 Erroneously renewing a sad vow 
 In the low dell 'mid Roslin's faded grove : 
 A cheerful life is what the Muses love, 
 A soai'ing spirit is their prime delight. 
 
 Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild 
 With ready sunbeams every straggling shower ; 
 And, if an unexpected cloud should lower, 
 Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build 
 For Fancy's errands,— then, from fields half-tilled 
 Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower, 
 Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy 
 
 power, 
 Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled. 
 Ah ! show that worthier honours are thy due ; 
 Fair Prime of life ! arouse the deeper heart ; 
 Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue 
 Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim ; 
 And, if there be a joy that slights the claim 
 Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart. 
 
 I watch, and long have watched, with calm reTet 
 
 Yon slowly-sinking star — immortal Sire 
 
 (So might he seem) of all the glittering quire ! 
 
 Blue ether still surrounds him — yet— and yet ; 
 
 But now the horizon's rocky parapet 
 
 Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire, 
 
 He burns — transmuted to a dusky fire — 
 
 Then pays submissively the appointed debt 
 
 To the flying moments, and is seen no more. 
 
 Angels and gods ! We struggle with our fate, 
 
 While health, power, glory, from their height 
 
 decline, 
 Depressed ; and then extinguished : and our state. 
 In this, how different, lost Star, from thine, 
 That no to-morrow shall our beams restore ! 
 
 I heard (alas ! 't was only in a dream) 
 Strains — which, as sage Antiquity believed, 
 By waking ears have sometimes been received 
 Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream ; 
 A most melodious requiem, a supreme 
 And perfect harmony of notes, achieved 
 By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved, 
 O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam. 
 For is she not the votary of Apollo 1 
 And knows she not, singing as he inspires, 
 That bliss awaits her which the ungenial Hollow* 
 Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires ? 
 Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires !| 
 She soared — and I awoke, struggling in vain tcl 
 follow. 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 If the whole weight of what we think and feel, 
 Save only far as thought and feeling blend 
 With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend ! 
 From thy remonstrance would be no appeal ; 
 But to promote and fortify the weal 
 Of our own Being is her paramount end ; 
 A truth which they alone shall comprehend 
 Who shun the mischief which they cannot i.'cal. 
 Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss: 
 Here, with no thirst but what the stream can Blake 
 And startled only by the rustling brake, 
 Cool air I breathe ; while the unincumbered Mind 
 By some weak aims at services assigned 
 To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss. 
 
 * See the Phsedon of Plato, by which this Sonnet w.i I 
 suggested. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 205 
 
 )T Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell 
 ■ civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, 
 
 :>r Duty struggling with afflictions strange — 
 
 it these alone inspire the tuneful shell ; 
 It where untroubled peace and concord dwell, 
 ' ere also is the Muse not loth to range, 
 
 atching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, 
 ,Jyward ascending from a woody dell. 
 j;ek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, 
 . id sage content, and placid melancholy ; 
 i e loves to gaze upon a crystal river — 
 ! iphanous because it travels slowly ; 
 lift is the music that would charm for ever ; 
 ' e flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. 
 
 .ek the concentred hazels that enclose 
 ' ( n old grey Stone, protected from the ray 
 (Inoontide suns : — and even the beams that play 
 . d giarice, while wantonly the rough wind blows, 
 t e seldom free to touch the moss that grows 
 1 on that roof, amid embowering gloom, 
 'e very image framing of a Tomb, 
 J which some ancient Chieftain finds repose 
 /long the lonely mountains. — Live, ye trees ! 
 id thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep 
 < a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep : 
 f more than Fancy to the influence bends 
 hen solitary Nature condescends 
 ' mimic Time's forlorn humanities. 
 
 [POSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMBLETON 
 HILLS, YORKSHIRE. 
 
 RK and more dark the shades of evening fell ; 
 Be wished-for point was reached— but at an hour 
 lien little could be gained from that rich dower 
 1 prospect, whereof many thousands tell. 
 t did the glowing west with marvellous power 
 lute us ; there stood Indian citadel, 
 '.oaple of Greece, and minster with its tower 
 istantially expressed — a place for bell 
 I clock to toU from ! Many a tempting isle, 
 ;-th groves that never were imagined, lay 
 jid seas how steadfast ! objects all for the eye 
 1 silent rapture ; but we felt the while 
 p should forget them ; they are of the sky, 
 •id from our earthly memory fade away. 
 
 ■ they are of the sky, 
 
 And from our earthly memory fade away.' 
 
 Those words were uttered as in pensive mood 
 We turned, departing from that solemn sight : 
 A contrast and reproach to gross delight, 
 And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed ! 
 But now upon this thought I cannot brood ; 
 It is unstable as a dream of night ; 
 Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright, 
 Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. 
 Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome, 
 Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, 
 Find in the heart of man no natural home : 
 The immortal Mind craves objects that endure : 
 These cleave to it ; from these it cannot roam, 
 Nor they from it : their fellowship is secure. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 18 J 5. 
 
 While not a leaf seems faded ; while the fields, 
 
 With ripening harvest prodigally fair, 
 
 In brightest sunshine bask ; this nipping air, 
 
 Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields 
 
 His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields 
 
 Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware ; 
 
 And whispers to the silent birds, " Prepare 
 
 Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields." 
 
 For me, who under kindlier laws belong 
 
 To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry 
 
 Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky, 
 
 Announce a season potent to renew, 
 
 Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, 
 
 And nobler cares than listless summer knew. 
 
 NOVEMBER 1. 
 
 How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright 
 The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, 
 Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can 
 
 shed, 
 Shines like another sun — on mortal sight 
 Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, 
 And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, 
 If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head — 
 Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 
 Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, 
 Unswept, unstained ? Nor shall the aerial Powers 
 Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, 
 White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, 
 Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring 
 Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers. 
 
206 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 COMPOSED DURING A STORM. 
 
 One who was suffering tumult in his soul 
 Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, 
 Went forth — his course surrendering to the care 
 Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl 
 Insidiously, untimely thunders growl ; 
 While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numhers, tear 
 The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, 
 And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl 
 As if the sun were not. He raised his eye 
 Soul-smitten ; for, that instant, did appear 
 Large space (mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky, 
 An azure disc — shield of Tranquillity ; % 
 
 Invisible, unlooked-for, minister 
 Of providential goodness ever nigh ! 
 
 TO A SNOW-DROP. 
 
 Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as 
 But hardier far, once more I see thee bend [they 
 Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, 
 Like an unhidden guest. Though day by day, 
 Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, way-lay 
 The rising sun, and on the plains descend ; 
 Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend 
 Whose zeal outruns his promise ! Blue-eyed May 
 Shall soon behold this border thickly set 
 With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing 
 On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers ; 
 Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, 
 Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, 
 And pensive monitor of fleeting years ! 
 
 TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER. 
 
 W ith a selection from the Poems of Anne, Countess of Winchilsea; 
 and extracts of similar character from other Writers ; transcribed 
 by a female friend. 
 
 Lady ! I rifled a Parnassian Cave 
 (But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore ; 
 And culled, from sundry beds, a lucid store 
 Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave 
 The azure brooks, where Dian joys to lave 
 Her spotless limbs ; and ventured to explore 
 Dim shades — for reliques, upon Lethe's shore, 
 Cast up at random by the sullen wave. 
 To female hands the treasures were resigned ; 
 And lo this Work !- — a grotto bright and clear 
 From stain or taint ; in which thy blameless mind 
 May feed on thoughts though pensive not austere ; 
 Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined 
 To holy musing, it may enter here. 
 
 TO LADY BEAUMONT. 
 
 Lady ! the songs of Spring were in the grove 
 While I was shaping beds for winter flowers ; 
 While I was planting green unfading bowci s, 
 And shrubs — to hang upon the warm alcove, 
 And sheltering wall ; and still, as Fancy wove 
 The dream, to time and nature's blended powen 
 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 inurmurijig jiint 
 Be gracious as the music and the bloom 
 And all the mighty ravishment of spring. 
 
 There zs a pleasure in poetic pains 
 Wliich only Poets know; — 't was rightly said ; 
 Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
 Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest ciiai: ■ 
 When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains, 
 How oft the malice of one luckless word 
 Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board, 
 Haunts him belated on the silent plains ! 
 Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear, 
 At last, of hindrance and obscurity, 
 Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn ; 
 Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear 
 The moment it has left the virgin's eye, 
 Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn. 
 
 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, 
 " Bright is thy veil, Moon, as thou art bright ! 
 Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread 
 And penetrated all with tender light, 
 She cast away, and showed her fulgent head 
 Uncovered ; dazzling the Beholder's sight 
 As if to vindicate her beauty's right, 
 Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. 
 Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown asUc. 
 Went floating from her, darkening as it went ; 
 And a huge mass, to bury or to hide, 
 Approached this glory of the firmament ; 
 Who meekly yields, and is obscured — content 
 With one calm triumph of a modest pride. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 207 
 
 ' hen haughty expectations prostrate he, 
 jii grandeur crouches like a guilty thing, 
 ('■; shall the lowly weak, till nature bring 
 J iture release, in fair society 
 J Wive, and Fortune's utmost anger try ; 
 ] ie these frail snow-drops that together cling, 
 I d nod their helmets, smitten by the wing 
 (. many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. 
 • serve the faithful flowers ! if small to great 
 j iy lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand 
 ' e Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate ; 
 . d so the bright immortal Theban band, 
 tiom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command 
 '. ght overwhelm, but could not separate ! 
 
 1 il, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour! 
 
 Bt dull art Thou as undiscerning Night ; 
 
 ]|t studious only to remove from sight 
 
 ly's mutable distinctions. — Ancient Power ! 
 
 lijiis did the waters gleam, the mountains lower, 
 
 r .j the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest" 
 
 Ire roving wild, he laid him down to rest 
 
 ( the bare rock, or through a leafy bower 
 
 Joked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen 
 
 1 3 self-same Vision which we now behold, 
 
 j thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought 
 
 forth ; 
 1 3se mighty barriers, and the gulf between ; 
 j 3 flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old 
 i'the beginning of the heavens and earth ! 
 
 I th how sad steps, Moon, thou climb' st the sky, 
 I )w silently, and with how wan a face !' 
 Here art thou 1 Thou so often seen on high 
 I aning among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race ! 
 
 I happy Nuns, whose common breath 's a sigh 
 ^ lich they would stifle, move at such a pace ! 
 
 northern Wind, to call thee to the chase, 
 t blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I 
 % power of Merlin, Goddess ! this should be : 
 
 I I all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven, 
 ■uld sally forth, to keep thee company, 
 
 nying and sparkling through the clear blue 
 
 heaven ; 
 :, Cynthia ! should to thee the palm be given, 
 sen both for beauty and for majesty. 
 
 Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress 
 Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp 
 Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, 
 So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess 
 Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless : 
 The lake below reflects it not ; the sky 
 Muffled in clouds, affords no company 
 To mitigate and cheer its lonehness. 
 Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing 
 Which sends so far its melancholy light, 
 Perhaps are seated in domestic ring 
 A gay society with faces bright, 
 Conversing, reading, laughing ; — or they sing, 
 While hearts and voices in the song unite. 
 
 The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand, 
 And, haply, there the spirits of the blest 
 Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest ; 
 Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand, 
 A habitation marvellously planned, 
 For life to occupy in love and rest ; 
 All that we see — is dome, or vault, or nest, 
 Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage command. 
 Glad thought for every season ! but the Spring 
 Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart, 
 'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring ; 
 And while the youthful year's prolific art — 
 Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was fashioning 
 Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part. 
 
 Desponding Father ! mark this altered bough, 
 
 So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, 
 
 Or moist with dews ; what more unsightly now, 
 
 Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if formed, 
 
 Invisible ? yet Spring her genial brow 
 
 Knits not o'er that discolouring and decay 
 
 As false to expectation. Nor fret thou 
 
 At like unlovely process in the May 
 
 Of human life : a Stripling's graces blow, 
 
 Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall 
 
 (Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow 
 
 Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call : 
 
 In all men, sinful is it to be slow 
 
 To hope — in Parents, sinful above all. 
 
2U8 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CAPTIVITY. — MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 " As the cold aspect of a sunless way 
 
 Strikes through the Traveller's frame with deadlier 
 
 chill, 
 Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill, 
 Glistening with unparticipated ray, 
 Or shining slope where he must never stray ; 
 So joys, remembered without wish or will, 
 Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill, — ■ 
 On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay. 
 Just Heaven, contract the compass of my mind 
 To fit proportion with my altered state ! 
 Quench those felicities whose light I find 
 Reflected in my bosom all too late ! — 
 be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait ; 
 And, like mine eyes that stream with sorrow, blind!" 
 
 ST. CATHERINE OF LEDBURY. 
 
 When human touch (as monkish books attest) 
 Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bells 
 Broke forth in concert flung adown the dells, 
 And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy crest ; 
 Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady blest 
 To rapture ! Mabel listened at the side 
 Of her loved mistress : soon the music died, 
 And Catherine said, ^tVC 3E 3ct tt}) lUg YCSt. 
 Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long had sought 
 A home that by such miracle of sound 
 Must be revealed : — she heard it now, or felt 
 The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought ; 
 And there, a saintly Anchoress, she dwelt 
 Till she exchanged for heaven that happy ground. 
 
 Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near, 
 The poor old Man is greater than he seems : 
 For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams ; 
 An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. 
 Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer ; 
 The region of his inner spirit teems 
 With vital sounds and monitory gleams 
 Of high astonishment and pleasing fear. 
 He the seven birds hath seen, that never part, 
 Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds, 
 And counted them : and oftentimes will start — 
 For overhead are sweeping Gabriel's Hounds 
 Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart 
 To chase for ever, on aerial grounds ! 
 
 Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein 
 Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath a sky 
 As void of sunshine, when, from that wide plain, 
 Clear tops of far-off mountains we descry, 
 Like a Sierra of cerulean Spain, 
 All light and lustre. Did no heart reply ? 
 Yes, there was One ; — for One, asunder fly 
 The thousand links of that ethereal chain ; 
 And green vales open out, with grove and field, 
 And the fair front of many a happy Home ; 
 Such tempting spots as into vision come 
 While Soldiers, weary of the arms they wield 
 And sick at heart of strifeful Christendom, 
 Gaze on the moon by parting clouds revealed. 
 
 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 wish were mine some type of thee to view, 
 Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do 
 Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, 
 Channels for tears ; no Naiad should'st thou be,- 
 Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs 
 It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee 
 With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, 
 And hath bestowed on thee a safer good ; 
 Unwearied joy, and fife without its cares. 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM. 
 
 Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur! 
 Ye wrangling Schoolmen, of the scarlet hood ! 
 Who, with a keenness not to be withstood, 
 Press the point home, or falter and demur, 
 Checked in your course by many a teasing burr ; 
 These natural council-seats your acrid blood 
 Might cool ; — and, as the Genius of the flood 
 Stoops willingly to animate and spur 
 Each fighter function slumbering in the brain, 
 Yon eddying balls of foam, these arrowy gleMBS 
 That o'er the pavement of the surging streams 
 Welter and flash, a synod might detain 
 With subtle speculations, haply vain, 
 But surely less so than your far-fetched themes ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 209 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 HIS, AND THE TWO FOLLOWING, WERE SUGGESTED 
 BY MR. W. WESTALL'S VIEWS OF THE CAVES, ETC. 
 IN YORKSHIRE. 
 
 3 ure element of waters ! wheresoe'er 
 [hou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts, 
 xreen herbs, bright flowers, and berry-bearing 
 
 plants, 
 itise into life and in thy train appear : 
 \\.ni, through the sunny portion of the year, 
 iiwift insects shine, thy hovering pursuivants : 
 i^.nd, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants ; 
 Lnd hart and hind and hunter with his spear, 
 ..anguish and droop together. Nor unfelt 
 In man's perturbed soul thy sway benign ; 
 |Lnd, haply, far within the marble belt 
 |)f central earth, where tortured Spirits pine 
 'or grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs melt 
 'heir anguish, — and they blend sweet songs with 
 
 thine.* 
 
 MALHAM COVE. 
 
 ^as the aim frustrated by force or guile, 
 vhen giants scooped from out the rocky ground, 
 jier under tier, this semicirque profound 1 
 Jiants — the same who built hi Erin's isle 
 jhat Causeway with incomparable toil !) — 
 L had this vast theatric structure wound 
 Fith finished sweep into a perfect round, 
 jo mightier work had gained the plausive smile 
 If all-beholding Phoebus ! But, alas, 
 ;ain earth ! false world ! Foundations must be laid 
 i Heaven ; for, 'mid the wreck of is and was, 
 lungs incomplete and purposes betrayed 
 ake sadder transits o'er thought's optic glass 
 pan noblest objects utterly decayed. 
 
 t early dawn, or rather when the air 
 
 !immers with fading light, and shadowy Eve 
 busiest to confer and to bereave ; 
 ien, pensive Votary ! let thy feet repair 
 ) Gordale-chasm, terrific as the lair 
 here the young lions couch ; for so, by leave 
 
 : Waters (as Mr. Westall informs us in the letter-press 
 ;fixed to his admirable views) are invariably found to 
 iv through these caverns. 
 
 Of the propitious hour, thou may'st perceive 
 
 The local Deity, with oozy hair 
 
 And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn, 
 
 Recumbent : Him thou may'st behold, who hides 
 
 His lineaments by day, yet there presides, 
 
 Teaching the docile waters how to turn, 
 
 Or (if need be) impediment to spurn, 
 
 And force their passage to the salt-sea tides ! 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, i802. 
 
 Earth has not any thing to show 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 splendour, 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 ! 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 If these brief Records, by the Muses' art 
 Produced as lonely Nature or the strife 
 That animates the scenes of public life * 
 Inspired, may in thy leisure claim a part ; 
 And if these Transcripts of the private heart 
 Have gained a sanction from thy falling tears ; 
 Then 1 repent not. But my soul hath fears 
 Breathed from eternity ; for as a dart 
 Cleaves the blank air, Life flies : now every day 
 Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift wheel 
 Of the revolving week. Away, away, 
 All fitful cares, all transitory zeal ! 
 So timely Grace the immortal wing may heal, 
 And honour rest upon the senseless clay. 
 
 * This line alludes to Sonnets which will be found in 
 another Class. 
 
— 
 
 210 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Though the bold wings of Poesy affect 
 The clouds, and wheel around the mountain tops 
 Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops 
 Well pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers 
 
 deckt, 
 Or muse in solemn grove whose shades protect 
 The lingering dew — there steals along, or stops 
 Watching the least small bird that round her hops, 
 Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. 
 Her functions are they therefore less divine, 
 Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent 
 Her simplest fancies ? Should that fear be thine, 
 Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present 
 One offering, kneel before her modest shrine, 
 With brow in penitential sorrow bent ! 
 
 OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 
 
 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! 
 
 In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers 
 
 Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours 
 
 The air of liberty, the light of truth ; 
 
 Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth : 
 
 Yet, ye spires of Oxford ! domes and towers ! 
 
 Gardens and groves ! your presence overpowers 
 
 The soberness of reason ; till, in sooth, 
 
 Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange, 
 
 I slight my own beloved Cam, to range 
 
 Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet ; 
 
 Pace the long avenue, or glide adown 
 
 The stream-like windings of that glorious street — 
 
 An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown ! 
 
 OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. 
 
 Shame on this faithless heart ! that could allow 
 Such transport, though but for a moment's space ; 
 Not while — to aid the spirit of the place — 
 The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow 
 The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough ; 
 But in plain daylight : — She, too, at my side, 
 Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, 
 Maintains inviolate its slightest vow ! 
 Sweet Fancy ! other gifts must I receive ; 
 Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim ; 
 Take from her brow the withering flowers of eve, 
 And to that brow life's morning wreath restore : 
 Let her be comprehended in the frame 
 Of these illusions, or they please no more. 
 
 RECOLLECTION OF THE PORTRAIT OF KING HENRY 
 EIGHTH, TRINITY LODGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 The imperial Stature, the colossal stride, 
 Are yet before me ; yet do I behold 
 The broad full visage, chest of amplest mould, 
 The vestments 'broidered with barbaric pride : 
 And lo ! a poniard, at the Monarch's side, 
 Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy 
 With the keen threatenings of that fulgent eye. 
 Below the white-rimmed bonnet, far-descried. 
 Who trembles now at thy capricious mood ? 
 'Mid those surrounding Worthies, haughty Kh g, 
 We rather think, with grateful mind sedate, 
 How Providence educeth, from the spring 
 Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of good, 
 Which neither force shall check nor time abate ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY (GEORGE THE THIRD) 
 
 Ward of the Law ! — dread Shadow of a King ! 
 Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room ; 
 Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom, 
 Darkness as thick as life o'er life could fling, 
 Save haply for some feeble glimmering 
 Of Faith and Hope— if thou, by nature's doom, 
 Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb, 
 Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling, 
 When thankfulness were best?— Fresh-flowing tears 
 Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh, 
 Yield to such after-thought the sole reply 
 Which justly it can claim. The Nation hears 
 In this deep knell, silent for threescore years, 
 An unexampled voice of awful memory ! 
 
 JUNE, 1820. 
 
 Fame tells of groves — from England far away — 
 * Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill 
 And modulate, with subtle reach of skill 
 Elsewhere unmatched, her ever- varying lay ; 
 Such bold report I venture to gainsay : 
 For I have heard the quire of Richmond biil 
 Chanting, with indefatigable bill, 
 Strains that recalled to mind a distant day ; 
 When, haply under shade of that same wood, 
 And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars 
 Plied steadily between those willowy shores, 
 The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood — 
 Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood, 
 Ye heavenly Birds ! to your Progenitors. 
 
 * Wallacliia is the country alluded to. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 211 
 
 A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE. 
 
 IvVhere holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, 
 
 Is marked by no distinguishable line ; 
 
 the turf unites, the pathways intertwine ; 
 
 ilnd, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends, 
 
 iarden, and that Domain where kindred, friends, 
 
 Lnd neighbours rest together, here confound 
 
 .'heir several features, mingled like the sound 
 
 bf many waters, or as evening blends 
 
 iVith shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower, 
 
 Vaft fragrant greetings to each silent grave ; 
 
 md while those lofty poplars gently wave 
 
 'heir tops, between them comes and goes a sky 
 
 ( !right as the glimpses of eternity, 
 
 i'o saints accorded in their mortal hour. 
 
 OMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN NORTH 
 WALES. 
 
 Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, 
 iVandering with timid footsteps oft betrayed, 
 |he Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid 
 fid Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls 
 |f Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid 
 lis lenient touches, soft as light that falls, 
 irom the wan Moon, upon the towers and walls, 
 ight deepening the profoundest sleep of shade, 
 '.elic of Kings ! Wreck of forgotten wars, 
 |0 winds abandoned and the prying stars, 
 iime loves Thee ! at his call the Seasons twine 
 [uxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar ; 
 ! nd, though past pomp no changes can restore, 
 soothing recompence, his gift, is thine ! 
 
 TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P. 
 imposed in the Grounds of Plass Newidd, near Llangollen, 1824. 
 
 Stream, to mingle with your favourite Dee, 
 long the Vale of Meditation * flows ; 
 i styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see 
 i Nature's face the expression of repose ; 
 p haply there some pious hermit chose 
 ) live and die, the peace of heaven his aim ; 
 
 whom the wild sequestered region owes, 
 t this late day, its sanctifying name. 
 lyn Cafaillgaroch, in the Cambrian tongue, 
 l ours, the Vale of Friendship, let this spot 
 3 named ; where, faithful to a low-roofed Cot, 
 i Deva's banks, ye have abode so long ; 
 sters in love, a love allowed to climb, 
 ven on this earth, above the reach of Time ! 
 
 1- 
 
 * Glyn Myrvr. 
 
 TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE, NORTH 
 WALES 1824. 
 
 How art thou named \ In search of what strange land 
 From what huge height, descending % Can such force 
 Of waters issue from a British source, 
 Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the band 
 Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with hand 
 Desperate as thine ? Or come the incessant shocks 
 From that young Stream, that smites the throbbing 
 
 rocks 
 Of Viamala ? There I seem to stand, 
 As in life's morn ; permitted to behold, 
 From the dread chasm, woods climbing above woods, 
 In pomp that fades not ; everlasting snows ; 
 And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose ; 
 Such power possess the family of floods 
 Over the minds of Poets, young or old ! 
 
 IN THE WOODS OF RYDAL. 
 
 Wild Redbreast ! hadst thou at Jemima's lip 
 Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love might say, 
 A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip 
 Its glistening dews ; but hallowed is the clay 
 Which the Muse warms ; and I, whose head is grey, 
 Am not unworthy of thy fellowship ; 
 Nor could I let one thought — one motion — slip 
 That might thy sylvan confidence betray. 
 For are we not all His without whose care 
 Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the ground 1 
 "Who gives his Angels wings to speed through air, 
 And rolls the planets through the blue profound ; 
 Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer ! nor forbear 
 To trust a Poet in still musings bound. 
 
 When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle 
 Like a Form sculptured on a monument 
 Lay couched ; on him or his dread bow unbent 
 Some wild Bird oft might settle and beguile 
 The rigid features of a transient smile, 
 Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, 
 Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment 
 From his lov'd home, and from heroic toil. 
 And trust that spiritual Creatures round us move, 
 Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal ; 
 Yea, veriest reptiles have sufficed to prove 
 To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile 
 Is deep enough to exclude the light of love, 
 Though man for brother man has ceased to feel, 
 p 2 
 
-I 
 
 2i-: 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 While Anna's peers and early playmates tread, 
 In freedom, mountain-turf and river's marge ; 
 Or float with music in the festal barge ; 
 Rein the proud steed, or through the dance are led ; 
 Her doom it is to press a weary bed — 
 Till oft her guardian Angel, to some charge 
 More urgent called, will stretch his wings at large, 
 And friends too rarely prop the languid head. 
 Yet, helped by Genius — untired comforter, 
 The presence even of a stuffed Owl for her 
 Can cheat the time ; sending her fancy out 
 To ivied castles and to moonlight skies, 
 Though he can neither stir a plume, nor shout ; 
 Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard 
 When sunshine follows shower, the breast can thrill 
 Like the first summons, Cuckoo ! of thy bill, 
 With its twin notes inseparably paired. 
 The captive 'mid damp vaults' unsunned, unaired, 
 Measuring the periods of his lonely doom, 
 That cry can reach ; and to the sick man's room 
 Sends gladness, by no languid smile declared. 
 The lordly eagle-race through hostile search 
 May perish; time may come when never more 
 The wilderness shall hear the lion roar; 
 But, long as cock shall crow from household perch 
 To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing, 
 And thy erratic voice be faithful to the Spring ! 
 
 TO 
 
 [Miss not the occasion : by the foreloclc take 
 That subtile Power, the never-halting Time, 
 Lest a mere moment's putting-off should make 
 Mischance almost as heavy as a crime.] 
 
 " Wait, prithee, wait !" this answer Lesbia threw 
 Forth to her Dove, and took no further heed. 
 Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew 
 Across the harp, with soul engrossing speed ; 
 Butfrom that bondage when her thoughts were freed 
 She rose, and toward the close-shut casement drew, 
 Whence the poor unregarded Favourite, true 
 To old affections, had been heard to plead 
 With flapping wing for entrance. What a shriek 
 Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a strain 
 Of harmony ! — a shriek of terror, pain, 
 And self-reproach ! for, from aloft, a Kite [beak 
 Pounced, — and the Dove, which from its ruthless 
 She could not rescue, perished in her sight ! 
 
 THE INFANT M- 
 
 Unquiet Childhood here by special grace 
 Forgets her nature, opening like a flower 
 That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power 
 In painful struggles. Months each other chase, 
 And nought untunes that Infant's voice ; no trace ii 
 Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek; 
 Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek 
 That one enrapt with gazing on her face 
 (Which even the placid innocence of death 
 Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more 
 
 bright) 
 Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, 
 The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light; 
 A nursling couched upon her mother's knee, 
 Beneath some shady palm of Galilee. 
 
 TO , IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR. 
 
 Such age how beautiful ! Lady bright, 
 Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 
 By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind 
 To something purer and more exquisite [sight. 
 Than flesh and blood ; whene'er thou meet'st n;y 
 When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, 
 Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, 
 And head that droops because the soul is meek, 
 Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare ; 
 That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb 
 From desolation toward the genial prime ; 
 Or with the Moon conquering earth's mist) air, 
 And filling more and more with crystal light 
 As pensive Evening deepens into night. 
 
 to rotha q . 
 
 Rotha, my Spiritual Child ! this head was grey 
 When at the sacred font for thee I stood ; 
 Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, 
 And shalt become thy own sufficient stay : 
 Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan ! was the day 
 For stedfast hope the contract to fulfil ; 
 Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, 
 Embodied in the music of this Lay, [Stream * i 
 
 Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain 
 Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear 
 After her throes, this Stream of name more dear 
 Since thou dost bear it, — a memorial theme 
 For others ; for thy future self, a spell 
 To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell. 
 
 * The river Rotha, that flows into Windermere from the 
 Lakes of Grasmere and Rydal. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 213 
 
 GRAVE-STONE UPON THE FLOOR IN THE CLOISTERS 
 OF WORCESTER CATHEDRAL, 
 
 Miserrimvs!" and neither name nor date, 
 'rayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone ; 
 fought but that word assigned to the unknown, 
 hat solitary word — to separate 
 'rom all, and cast a cloud around the fate 
 if him who lies beneath. Most wretched one, 
 Yho chose his epitaph \ — Himself alone 
 ould thus have dared the grave to agitate, 
 .nd claim, among the dead, this awful crown ; 
 for doubt that He marked also for his own 
 lose to these cloistral steps a burial-place, 
 'hat every foot might fall with heavier tread, 
 rampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass 
 oftly ! — To save the contrite, Jesus bled. 
 
 OMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED AT BISHOPSTONE, 
 HEREFORDSHIRE. 
 
 ^hile poring Antiquarians search the ground 
 ifpturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer, 
 Jakes fire : — The men that have been reappear ; 
 tomans for travel girt, for business gowned ; 
 i.nd some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned, 
 a festal glee : why not ? For fresh and clear, 
 Is if its hues were of the passing year, 
 jiawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound 
 l-oards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins, 
 ihrunk into coins with all their warlike toil : 
 jr a fierce impress issues with its foil 
 f tenderness — the Wolf, whose suckling Twins 
 he unlettered ploughboy pities when he wins 
 he casual treasure from the furrowed soil. 
 
 1830. 
 
 hatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and the pride 
 If thy domain, strange contrast do present 
 jo house and home in many a craggy rent 
 If the wild Peak ; where new-born waters glide 
 through fields whose thrifty occupants abide 
 Is in a dear and chosen banishment, 
 ■'nth every semblance of entire content ; 
 ;o kind is simple Nature, fairly tried ! 
 et He whose heart in childhood gave her troth 
 i'o pastoral dales, thin-set with modest farms, 
 Jay learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth, 
 j'hat, not for Fancy only, pomp hath charms ; 
 (aid, strenuous to protect from lawless harms 
 'he extremes of favoured life, may honour both. 
 
 A TRADITION OF OKEfi HILL IN DARLEY DALE, 
 DERBYSHIRE. 
 
 'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill 
 
 Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face from face, 
 
 Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still 
 
 Or feed, each planted on that lofty place 
 
 A chosen Tree ; then, eager to fulfil 
 
 Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they 
 
 In opposite directions urged their way 
 
 Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill 
 
 Or blight that fond memorial ; — the trees grew, 
 
 And now entwine their arms ; but ne'er again 
 
 Embraced those Brothers upon earth's wide plain; 
 
 Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew 
 
 Until their spirits mingled in the sea 
 
 That to itself takes all, Eternity. 
 
 FILIAL PIETY. 
 (ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PBESTON AND LIVERPOOL.) 
 
 Untouched through all severity of cold ; 
 
 Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth 
 
 Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth ; 
 
 That Pile of Turf is half a century old : 
 
 Yes, Traveller ! fifty winters have been told 
 
 Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 
 
 'Gainst him who raised it, — his last work on earth: 
 
 Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold 
 
 Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, 
 
 Through reverence, touch it only to repair 
 
 Its waste.— Though crumbling with each breath of air, 
 
 In annual renovation thus it stands — 
 
 Rude Mausoleum ! but wrens nestle there, 
 
 And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare. 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 [Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickefsgill, Esq., for St. John's 
 College, Cambridge.] 
 
 Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt 
 Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place ; 
 And, if Time spare the colours for the grace 
 Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, 
 Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt 
 And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem 
 To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream, 
 And think and feel as once the Poet felt. 
 Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown 
 Unrecognised through many a household tear 
 More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew 
 By morning shed around a flower half-blown ; 
 Tears of delight, that testified how true 
 To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how deal- ! 
 
214 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant 
 Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
 Of absence withers what was once so fair ? 
 Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ? 
 Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant — 
 Bound to thy service with unceasing care, 
 The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
 For nought but what thy happiness could spare. 
 Speak — though this soft warm heart, once free to 
 
 hold 
 A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 
 Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 
 Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 
 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — 
 Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know ! 
 
 TO B. R. HAYBON, ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPO- 
 LEON BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLANB OF ST. HELENA. 
 
 Haydon ! let worthier judges praise the skill 
 Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines 
 And charm of colours ; / applaud those signs 
 Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill ; 
 That unencumbered whole of blank and still, 
 Sky without cloud — ocean without a wave ; 
 And the one Man that laboured to enslave 
 The World, sole-standing high on the bare hill — 
 Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent face 
 Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place 
 With light reflected from the invisible sun 
 Set, like his fortunes ; but not set for aye 
 Like them. The unguilty Power pursues his way, 
 And before Mm doth dawn perpetual run. 
 
 A Poet I — He hath put his heart to school, 
 Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff 
 Which Art hath lodged within his hand — must laugh 
 By precept only, and shed tears by rule. 
 Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, 
 And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, 
 In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool 
 Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. 
 How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold ? 
 Because the lovely little flower is free 
 Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; 
 And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 
 Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 
 But from its own divine vitality. 
 
 The most alluring clouds that mount the sky 
 Owe to a troubled element their forms, 
 Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye 
 We watch their splendor, shall we covet storms, 
 And wish the Lord of day his slow decline 
 Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high! 
 Behold, already they forget to shine, 
 Dissolve — and leave to him who gazed a sigh. 
 Not loth to thank each moment for its boon 
 Of pure delight, come whencesoe'er it may, 
 Peace let us seek, — to stedfast things attune 
 Calm expectations, leaving to the gay 
 And volatile their love of transient bowers, 
 The house that cannot pass away be ours. 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 
 UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON. 
 
 By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse 
 
 stand 
 On ground yet strewn with their last battle's wreck ; 
 Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand 
 Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck ; 
 But by the Chieftain's look, though at his side 
 Hangs that day's treasured sword,how firm a check 
 Is given to triumph and all human pride ! 
 Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy speck 
 In his calm presence ! Him the mighty deed 
 Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's rest, 
 As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed 
 Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame 
 In Heaven ; hence no one blushes for thy name, 
 Conqueror, mid some sad thoughts, divinely blest ! 
 
 COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838. 
 
 Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, 
 Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. 
 Does joy approach % they meet the coming tide; 
 And sullenness avoid, as now they shun 
 Pale twilight's lingering glooms, — and in the sun 
 Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied ; 
 Or gambol — each with his shadow at his side, 
 Varying its shape wherever he may run. 
 As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew 
 All turn, and court the shining and the green., 
 Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen ] 
 Why to God's goodness cannot We be true, 
 And so, His gifts and promises between, 
 Feed to the last on pleasures ever new ? 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 215 
 
 3 ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance, 
 
 ae upward hand, as if she needed rest 
 
 pom rapture, lying softly on her breast ! 
 
 or wants her eyeball an ethereal glance ; 
 
 it not the less — nay more — that countenance, 
 
 hile thus illumined, tells of painful strife 
 
 )r a sick heart made weary of this life 
 
 f love, long crossed with adverse circumstance. 
 
 •Would She were now as when she hoped to pass 
 
 ; God's appointed hour to them who tread 
 
 saven's sapphire pavement, yet breathed well 
 
 content, 
 ell pleased, her foot should print earth's common 
 
 grass, 
 ved thankful for day's light, for daily bread, 
 >r health, and time in obvious duty spent. 
 
 TO A PAINTER. 
 
 ll praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed; 
 
 it 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me, 
 
 iho, yielding not to changes Time has made, 
 
 \r the habitual light of memory see 
 
 /es unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, 
 
 jid smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee 
 
 ;to the land where ghosts and phantoms be ; 
 
 nd, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. 
 
 '•uldst thou go back into far- distant years, 
 
 '• share with me, fond thought ! that inward eye, 
 
 jien, and then only, Painter ! could thy Art 
 
 le visual powers of Nature satisfy, 
 
 jhich hold, whate'er to common sight appears, 
 
 aeir sovereign empire in a faithful heart. 
 
 ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 iough 1 beheld at first with blank surprise 
 lis Work, I now have gazed on it so long 
 pee its truth with unreluctant eyes ; 
 ; my Beloved ! I have done thee wrong, 
 l nscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, 
 frer too heedless, as I now perceive : 
 brn into noon did pass, noon into eve, 
 id the old day was welcome as the young, 
 1 welcome, and as beautiful — in sooth 
 pre beautiful, as being a thing more holy : 
 lanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth 
 ! all thy goodness, never melancholy ; 
 j> thy large heart and humble mind, that cast 
 to one vision, future, present, past. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, 
 By twilight premature of cloud and rain ; 
 Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain 
 Who carols thinking of his Love and nest, 
 And seems, as more incited, still more blest. 
 Thanks ; thou hast snapped a fire-side Prisoner's 
 
 chain, 
 Exulting Warbler ! eased a fretted brain, 
 And hi a moment charmed my cares to rest. 
 Yes, I will forth, bold Bird ! and front the blast, 
 That we may sing together, if thou wilt, 
 So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's day, 
 Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built 
 Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, 
 Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay. 
 
 Rydal Mount, 1838. 
 
 'Tts He whose yester-evening's high disdain 
 
 Beat back the roaring storm — but how subdued 
 
 His day-break note, a sad vicissitude ! 
 
 Does the hour's drowsy weight his glee restrain ? 
 
 Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein 
 
 Pleased to renounce, does this dear Thrush attune 
 
 His voice to suit the temper of yon Moon 
 
 Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane ? 
 
 Rise, tardy Sun ! and let the Songster prove 
 
 (The balance trembling between night and morn 
 
 No longer) with what ecstasy upborne 
 
 He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven above, 
 
 And earth below, they best can serve true gladness 
 
 Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness. 
 
 Oh what a Wreck ! how changed in mien and 
 
 speech ! 
 Yet — though dread Powers, that work in mystery, 
 
 spin 
 Entanglings of the brain ; though shadows stretch 
 O'er the chilled heart — reflect ; far, far within 
 Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. 
 She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, 
 But delegated Spirits comfort fetch 
 To Her from heights that Reason may not win. 
 Like Children, She is privileged to hold 
 Divine communion ; both do live and move, 
 Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold, 
 Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love ; 
 Love pitying innocence not long to last, 
 In them — in Her our sins and sorrows past. 
 
216 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake 
 Yon busy Little-ones rejoice that soon 
 A poor old Dame will bless them for the boon : 
 Great is their glee while flake they add to flake 
 With rival earnestness ; far other strife 
 Than will hereafter move them, if they make 
 Pastime their idol, give their day of life 
 To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure's sake. 
 Can pomp and show allay one heart-born grief? 
 Pains which the World inflicts can she requite ? 
 Not for an interval however brief; 
 The silent thoughts that search for stedfast light, 
 Love from her depths, and Duty in her might, 
 And Faith — these only yield secure relief. 
 March 8th, 1842. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 A PLEA FOR AUTHORS, MAY 1838. 
 
 Faii ing impartial measure to dispense 
 To every suitor, Equity is lame ; 
 And social Justice, stript of reverence 
 For natural rights, a mockery and a shame ; 
 Law but a servile dupe of false pretence, 
 If, guarding grossest things from common claim 
 Now and for ever, She, to works that came 
 From mind and spirit, grudge a short-lived fence. 
 " What ! lengthened privilege, a lineal tie, 
 For Books I " Yes, heartless Ones, or be it proved 
 That 'tis a fault in Us to have lived and loved 
 Like others, with like temporal hopes to die ; 
 No public harm that Genius from her course 
 Be turned ; and streams of truth dried up, even at 
 their source ! 
 
 VALEDICTORY SONNET. 
 Closing the Volume of Sonnets published in 1S3S. 
 
 Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here 
 Disposed some cultured Flowerets (drawn from spots 
 Where they bloomed singly, or in scattered knots), 
 Each kind in several beds of one parterre ; 
 Both to allure the casual Loiterer, 
 And that, so placed, my Nurslings may requite 
 Studious regard with opportune delight, 
 Nor be unthanked, unless I fondly err. 
 But metaphor dismissed, and thanks apart, 
 Reader, farewell ! My last words let them be — 
 If in this book Fancy and Truth agree ; 
 If simple Nature trained by careful Art 
 Through It have won a passage to thy heart ; 
 Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee ! 
 
 TO THE REV. CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH, D.D. 
 
 MASTER OF HARROW SCHOOL, 
 After the perusal of his Theophilus Ar.glicanus, recently published. 
 
 Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy hand 
 Have I received this proof of pains bestowed 
 By Thee to guide thy Pupils on the road 
 That, in our native isle, and every land, 
 The Church, when trusting in divine command 
 And in her Catholic attributes, hath trod : 
 may these lessons be with profit scanned 
 To thy heart's wish, thy labour blest by God ! 
 So the bright faces of the young and gay 
 Shall look more bright — the happy, happier still ; 
 Catch, in the pauses of their keenest play, 
 Motions of thought which elevate the will 
 And, like the Spire that from your classic Hill 
 Points heavenward, indicate the end and way. 
 Rydal Mount, Dec. 11, 1843. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 TO THE PLANET VENUS. 
 
 Upon its approximation (as an Evening Star) to the Earth, JaD. i838. 
 
 What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides, 
 Thee, Vesper ! brightening still, as if the nearer 
 Thou com'st to man's abode the spot grew dearer 
 Night after night ? True is it Nature hides 
 Her treasures less and less. — Man now presides 
 In power,.where once he trembled in his weakness; 
 Science advances with gigantic strides ; 
 But are we aught enriched in love and meekness? 
 Aught dost thou see, bright Star ! of pure and wise 
 More than in humbler times graced human story ; 
 That makes our hearts more apt to sympathise 
 With heaven, our souls more fit for future gloi'y, 
 When earth shall vanish from our closing eyes, 
 Ere we lie down in our last dormitory ? 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Wansfell !* this Household has a favoured 1 jt, 
 Living with liberty on thee to gaze, 
 To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rayB, 
 Or when along thy breast serenely float 
 Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note 
 Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard !) thy praise 
 For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought 
 Of glory lavished on our quiet days. 
 Bountiful Son of Earth ! when we are gone 
 From every object dear to mortal sight, 
 As soon we shall be, may these words attest 
 How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone 
 Thy visionary majesties of light, 
 How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found rest. 
 Dec. 24, 1842. 
 
 * The Hill that rises to the south-east, above Ambleside. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 217 
 
 While beams of orient light shoot wide and high, 
 
 Deep in the vale a little rural Town * 
 
 iBreathes forth a cloud-like creature of its own, 
 
 That mounts not toward the radiant morning sky, 
 
 IBut, with a less ambitious sympathy, 
 
 bangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares 
 
 Troubles and toils that every day prepares. 
 
 so Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, 
 
 (Bndears that Lingerer. And how blest her f way 
 
 jLike influence never may my soul reject) 
 
 If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked 
 
 With glorious forms in numberless array, 
 
 To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose 
 
 ileams from a world in which the saints repose. 
 
 Jan 1, 1843. 
 
 jj my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud 
 "slowly surmounting some invidious hill, 
 jftose out of darkness : the bright Work stood still ; 
 knd might of its own beauty have been proud, 
 3ut it was fashioned and to God was vowed 
 By Virtues that diffused, in every part, 
 Spirit divine through forms of human art : 
 Faith had her arch — her arch, when winds blow loud, 
 !nto the consciousness of safety thrilled; 
 ind Love her towers of dread foundation laid 
 Jnder the grave of things ; Hope had her spire 
 Star-high, and pointing still to something higher ; 
 ^rembling I gazed, but heard a voice — it said, 
 Hell-gates arepowerless Phantoms when we build." 
 
 ON THE PROJECTED KENDAL AND WINDERMERE 
 RAILWAY. 
 
 ■s then no nook of English ground secure 
 
 'rom rash assault If Schemes of retirement sown 
 
 n youth, and mid the busy world kept pure 
 
 ls when their earliest flowers of hope were blown, 
 
 lust perish ; — how can they this blight endure ? 
 
 aid must he too the ruthless change bemoan 
 
 * Ambleside. 
 
 t The degree and kind of attachment which many of the 
 imanry feel to their small inheritances can scarcely he 
 rer-rated. Near the house of one of them stands a mag- 
 cent tree, which a neighbour of the owner advised him 
 ) fell for profit's sake. " Fell it ! " exclaimed the yeoman, 
 I had rather fall on my knees and worship it." It happens, 
 believe, that the intended railway would pass through 
 
 Pis little property, and I hope that an apology for the 
 swer will not be thought necessary by one who enters 
 ito the strength of the feeling. 
 
 Who scorns a false utilitarian lure 
 Mid his paternal fields at random thrown ? 
 Baffle the threat, bright Scene, from Orrest-head 
 Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous glance : 
 Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance 
 Of nature ; and, if human hearts be dead, 
 Speak, passing winds ; ye torrents, with your strong 
 And constant voice, protest against the wrong. 
 October 12th, 1844. 
 
 Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old, 
 Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war, 
 Intrenched your brows ; ye gloried in each scar : 
 Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thirst of Gold, 
 That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star, 
 Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be sold, 
 And clear way made for her triumphal car 
 Through the beloved retreats your arms enfold ! 
 Heard ye that Whistle ? As her long-linked Train 
 Swept onwards, did the vision cross your view ? 
 Yes, ye were startled ; — and, in balance true, 
 Weighing the mischief with the promised gain, 
 Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on you 
 To share the passion of a just disdain. 
 
 AT FURNESS ABBEY. 
 
 Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing, 
 
 Man left this Structure to become Time's prey 
 
 A soothing spirit follows in the way 
 
 That Nature takes, her counter-work pursuing. 
 
 See how her Ivy clasps the sacred Ruin 
 
 Fall to prevent or beautify decay ; 
 
 And, on the mouldered waUs, how bright, how gay, 
 
 The flowers in pearly dews their bloom renewing ! 
 
 Thanks to the place, blessings upon the hour ; 
 
 Even as I speak the rising Sun's first smile 
 
 Gleams on the grass-crowned top of yon tall Tower 
 
 Whose cawing occupants with joy proclaim 
 
 Prescriptive title to the shattered pile 
 
 Where, Cavendish, thine seems nothing bu ! a name ! 
 
 AT FURNESS ABBEY. 
 
 Well have yon Railway Labourers to this ground 
 Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, they walk 
 Among the Ruins, but no idle talk 
 Is heard ; to grave demeanour all are bound ; 
 And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful sound 
 Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire 
 
213 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 And thrills the old sepulchral earth, around. 
 
 Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire 
 
 That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it was 
 
 raised, 
 To keep, so high in air, its strength and grace : 
 
 n 
 
 All seem to feel the spirit of the place, 
 And by the general reverence God is praised : 
 Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved, 
 While thus these simple-hearted men are moved ! 
 June 21si, 1845. 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 1803. 
 
 DEPARTURE 
 
 PROM THE VALE OF GRASMEEE. AUGUST, 1803. 
 
 The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains 
 
 Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains ; 
 
 Even for the tenants of the zone that lies 
 
 Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise, 
 
 Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap 
 
 At will the crystal battlements, and peep 
 
 Into some other region, though less fair, 
 
 To see how things are made and managed there. 
 
 Change for the worse might please, incursion bold 
 
 Into the tracts of darkness and of cold ; 
 
 O'er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer, 
 
 And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear. 
 
 Such animation often do I find, 
 
 Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind, 
 
 Then, when some rock or hill is overpast, 
 
 Perchance without one look behind me cast, 
 
 Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth 
 
 Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth. 
 
 O pleasant transit, Grasmere ! to resign 
 
 Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine ; 
 
 Not like an outcast with himself at strife ; . 
 
 The slave of business, time, or care for life, 
 
 But moved by choice ; or, if constrained in part, 
 
 Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart ; — 
 
 To cull contentment upon wildest shores, 
 
 And luxuries extract from bleakest moors ; 
 
 With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold, 
 
 And having rights in all that we behold. 
 
 — Then why these lingering steps? — A bright 
 
 adieu, 
 For a brief absence, proves that love is true ; 
 Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn 
 That winds into itself for sweet return. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 
 1803. 
 
 SEVEN TEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. 
 
 I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, 
 
 At thought of what I now behold : 
 
 As vapours breathed from dungeons cold 
 
 Strike pleasure dead, 
 So sadness conies from out the mould 
 
 Where Burns is laid. 
 
 And have I then thy bones so near, 
 And thou forbidden to appear ? 
 As if it were thyself that 's here 
 
 I shrink with pain ; 
 And both my wishes and my fear 
 
 Alike are vain. 
 
 Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away 
 Dark thoughts !— they came, but not to stay ; 
 With chastened feelings would I pay 
 
 The tribute due 
 To him, and aught that hides his clay 
 
 From mortal view. 
 
 Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
 He sang, his genius ' glinted ' forth, 
 Rose like a star that touching earth, 
 
 For so it seems, 
 Doth glorify its humble birth 
 
 With matchless beams. 
 
 The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, 
 The struggling heart, where be they now ? — 
 Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, 
 
 The prompt, the brave, 
 Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 
 
 And silent grave. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 229 
 
 I mourned with thousands, but as one 
 ;More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
 i Whose light I hailed when first it shone, 
 
 And showed my youth 
 How Verse may build a princely throne 
 
 On humble truth. 
 
 Alas ! where'er the current tends, 
 jRegret pursues and with it blends, — 
 "Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends 
 
 By Skiddaw seen, — 
 'Neighbours we were, and loving friends 
 
 We might have been ; 
 
 True friends though diversely inclined ; 
 But heart with heart and mind with mind., 
 Where the main fibres are entwined, 
 
 Through Nature's skill, 
 May even by contraries be joined 
 
 More closely still. 
 
 The tear will start, and let it flow ; 
 Thou ' poor Inhabitant below,' 
 Ai this dread moment — even so — 
 
 Might we together 
 Have sate and talked where gowans blow, 
 
 Or on wild heather. 
 
 What treasures would have then been placed 
 (Within my reach ; of knowledge graced 
 •3y fancy what a rich repast ! 
 
 But why go on % — 
 )h ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 
 
 His grave grass-grown. 
 
 [here, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
 'Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
 ,-iies gathered to his Father's side, 
 
 Soul-moving sight ! 
 f et one to which is not denied 
 
 Some sad delight. 
 
 !?or he is safe, a quiet bed 
 
 lath early found among the dead, 
 
 larboured where none can be misled, 
 
 Wronged, or distrest ; 
 ^.nd surely here it may be said 
 That such are blest. 
 
 ^.nd oh for Thee, by pitying grace 
 Checked oft-times in a devious race, 
 tfay He who halloweth the place 
 
 Where Man is laid 
 leceive thy Spirit in the embrace 
 
 For which it prayed ! 
 
 Sighing I turned away ; but ere 
 Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, 
 Music that sorrow comes not near, 
 
 A ritual hymn, 
 Chaunted in love that casts out fear 
 
 By Seraphim. 
 
 THOUGHTS 
 
 SUGGESTED THE DAT FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, 
 NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE. 
 
 Too frail to keep the lofty vow 
 
 That must have followed when his brow 
 
 Was wreathed — " The Vision " tells us how — 
 
 With holly spray, 
 He faultered, drifted to and fro, 
 
 And passed away. 
 
 Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng 
 Our minds when, lingering all too long, 
 Over the grave of Burns we hung 
 
 In social grief — 
 Indulged as if it were a wrong 
 
 To seek relief. 
 
 But, leaving each unquiet theme 
 
 Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, 
 
 And prompt to welcome every gleam 
 
 Of good and fair, 
 Let us beside this limpid Stream 
 
 Breathe hopeful air. 
 
 Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight ; 
 Think rather of those moments bright 
 When to the consciousness of right 
 
 His course was true, 
 When Wisdom prospered in his sight 
 
 And virtue grew. 
 
 Yes, freely let our hearts expand, 
 Freely as in youth's season bland, 
 When side by side, his Book in hand, 
 
 We wont to stray, 
 Our pleasure varying at command 
 
 Of each sweet Lay. 
 
 How oft inspired must he have trod 
 These pathways, yon far-stretching road ! 
 There lurks his home ; in that Abode, 
 
 With mirth elate, 
 Or in his nobly-pensive mood, 
 
 The Rustic sate. 
 
220 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Proud thoughts that Image overawes, 
 
 Through twilight shades of good and ill 
 
 Before it humbly let us pause, 
 
 Ye now are panting up life's hill, 
 
 And ask of Nature, from what cause 
 
 And more than common strength and skill 
 
 And by what rules 
 
 Must ye display ; 
 
 She trained her Burns to win applause 
 
 If ye would give the better will 
 
 That shames the Schools. 
 
 Its lawful sway. 
 
 Through busiest street and loneliest glen 
 
 Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear 
 
 Are felt the flashes of his pen ; 
 
 Intemperance with less harm, beware ! 
 
 He rules mid winter snows, and when 
 
 But if the Poet's wit ye share, 
 
 Bees fill their hives ; 
 
 Like him can speed 
 
 Deep hi the general heart of men 
 
 The social hour — of tenfold care 
 
 His power survives. 
 
 There will be need ; 
 
 What need of fields in some far clime 
 
 
 Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 
 
 For honest men delight will take 
 
 And all that fetched the flowing rhyme 
 
 To spare your failings for his sake, 
 
 Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 
 
 From genuine springs, 
 Shall dwell together till old Time 
 
 Your steps pursue ; 
 
 
 And of your Father's name will make 
 
 Folds up his wings ? 
 
 A snare for you. 
 
 Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
 
 
 This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ; 
 
 Far from their noisy haunts retire, 
 
 The rueful conflict, the heart riven 
 
 And add your voices to the quire 
 
 With vain endeavour, 
 
 That sanctify the cottage fire 
 
 And memory of Earth's bitter leaven, 
 
 With service meet ; 
 
 Effaced for ever. 
 
 There seek the genius of your Sire, 
 
 
 His spirit greet ; 
 
 But why to Him confine the prayer, 
 
 
 When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear 
 
 Or where, 'mid ' lonely heights and hows,' 
 
 On the frail heart the purest share 
 
 He paid to Nature tuneful vows ; 
 
 With all that five ?— 
 
 Or wiped his honourable brows 
 
 The best of what we do and are, 
 
 Bedewed with toil, 
 
 Just God, forgive !* 
 
 While reapers strove, or busy plouglis 
 
 
 Upturned the soil ; 
 
 
 His judgment with benignant ray 
 
 IV. 
 
 Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; 
 
 
 But ne'er to a seductive lay 
 
 TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 
 
 Let faith be given ; 
 
 AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIE FATHER. 
 
 Nor deem that ' light which leads astray, 
 
 ' The Poet's grave is in a corner of the churchyard. We 
 
 Is light from Heaven.' 
 
 • looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, 
 
 
 * repeating to each other his own verses — 
 
 
 
 Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; 
 
 ♦ ' Is there a man whose judgment clear,' &c.' 
 
 Extract from the Journal of my Felbw-traveller. 
 
 Be independent, generous, brave ; 
 
 'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 
 
 Your Father such example gave, 
 
 And such revere ; 
 But be admonished by his grave, 
 
 I sought the untimely grave of Burns ; 
 Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns 
 
 
 And think, and fear ! 
 
 With sorrow true ; 
 
 
 And more would grieve, but that it turns 
 
 
 Trembling to you ! 
 
 
 
 * See note. 
 
 
 !• 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 221 
 
 ELLEN IRWIN : 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE BRAES OF KIRTLE*. 
 
 Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate 
 Upon the braes of Kirtle, 
 Was lovely as a Grecian maid 
 Adorned with wreaths of myrtle ; 
 ^oung Adam Bruce beside her lay, 
 And there did they beguile the day 
 With love and gentle speeches, 
 [Beneath the budding beeches. 
 
 From many knights and many squires 
 The Bruce had been selected ; 
 ind Gordon, fairest of them all, 
 By Ellen was rejected. 
 3ad tidings to that noble Youth ! 
 jFor it may be proclaimed with truth, 
 iff Bruce hath loved sincerely, 
 That Gordon loves as dearly. 
 
 'But what are Gordon's form and face, 
 
 IHis shattered hopes and crosses, 
 
 To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes, 
 
 Reclined on flowers and mosses? 
 
 I 
 
 jAlas that ever he was born ! 
 
 The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, 
 
 3ees them and their caressing ; 
 
 (Beholds them blest and blessing. 
 
 roud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts 
 That through his brain are travelling, 
 Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce 
 He launched a deadly javelin ! 
 [Fair Ellen saw it as it came, 
 And, starting up to meet the same, 
 Did with her body cover 
 The Youth, her chosen lover. 
 
 ^And, falling into Bruce's arms, . 
 Thus died the beauteous Ellen, 
 rhus, from the heart of her True-love, 
 jUie mortal spear repelling. 
 And Bruce, as soon as he had slain 
 ( Fhe Gordon, sailed away to Spain ; 
 And fought with rage incessant 
 Against the Moorish crescent. 
 
 The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of Scotland, 
 'the banks of which the events here related took place. 
 
 But many days, and many months, 
 And many years ensuing, 
 This wretched Knight did vainly seek 
 The death that he was wooing. 
 So, coming his last help to crave, 
 Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave 
 His body he extended, 
 And there his sorrow ended. 
 
 Now ye, who willingly have heard 
 The tale I have been telling, 
 May in Kirkonnel churchyard view 
 The grave of lovely Ellen : 
 By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid ; 
 And, for the stone upon his head, 
 May no rude hand deface it, 
 And its forlorn ^ic jxtet ! 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 
 
 (AT INVEKSNEl'DE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.) 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 
 And these grey rocks ; that household lawn ; 
 
 Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 
 A murmur near the silent lake ; 
 
 This little bay ; a quiet road 
 
 That holds in shelter thy Abode — ■ 
 
 In truth together do ye seem 
 
 Like something fashioned in a dream ; 
 
 Such Forms as from their covert peep 
 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 
 But, fair Creature ! in the light 
 
 Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
 
 I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
 
 I bless thee with a human heart ; 
 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 
 Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers ; 
 
 And yet my eyes are filled with 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 
 
222 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
 And maidenly shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead cloai 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer : 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
 And seemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech : 
 A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
 What hand but would a garland cull 
 For thee who art so beautiful ? 
 
 happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 
 Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
 
 Though but of common neighbourhood. 
 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
 
 Thy elder Brother I would be, 
 
 Thy Father — anything to thee ! 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place. 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 
 1 bear away my 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 
 
 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 ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 GLEN-ALMAIN ; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE NARROW GLEN. 
 
 In this still place, remote from men, 
 
 Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow glen ; 
 
 In this still place, where murmurs on 
 
 But one meek streamlet, only one : 
 
 He sang of battles, and the breath 
 
 Of stormy war, and violent death ; 
 
 And should, methinks, when all was past, 
 
 Have rightfully been laid at last 
 
 Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent 
 
 As by a spirit turbulent ; 
 
 Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 
 
 And everything unreconciled; 
 
 In some complaining, dim retreat, 
 
 For fear and melancholy meet ; 
 
 But this is calm ; there cannot be 
 
 A more entire tranquillity. 
 
 Does then the Bard sleep here indeed ? 
 Or is it but a groundless creed ? 
 What matters it ? — I blame them not 
 Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 
 Was moved ; and in such way expressed 
 Their notion of its perfect rest. 
 A convent, even a hermit's cell, 
 Would break the silence of this Dell : 
 It is not quiet, is not ease ; 
 But something deeper far than these : 
 The separation that is here 
 Is of the grave ; and of austere 
 Yet happy feelings of the dead : 
 And, therefore, was it rightly said 
 That Ossian, last of all his race ! 
 Lies buried in this lonely place. 
 
 STEPPING WESTWARD. 
 
 While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by tbesi'l 
 of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset in 
 road to a Hut where, in the course of our Tour, we 
 been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we Bii 
 in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, tw 
 well-dressed Women, one of whom said tous,byw^i 
 of greeting, "What, you are stepping westward Pj 
 
 " Wha t, you are stepping westward ?" — " Yea." 
 
 — 'Twould be a wildisli destiny, 
 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 
 In a strange Land, and far from home, 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 223 
 
 Were in this place the guests of Chance : 
 • Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 
 Though home or shelter he had none, 
 With such a sky to lead him on ? 
 
 The dewy ground was dark and cold ; 
 Behind, all gloomy to hehold ; 
 And stepping westward seemed to be 
 A kind of heavenly destiny : 
 1 1 liked the greeting ; 'twas a sound 
 : Of something without place or bound ; 
 And seemed to give me spiritual right 
 To travel through that region bright. 
 
 The voice was soft, and she who spake 
 Was walking by her native lake : 
 The salutation had to me 
 The very sound of courtesy : 
 Its power was felt; and while my eye 
 Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, 
 The echo of the voice enwrought 
 I A human sweetness with the thought 
 Of travelling through the world that lay 
 Before me in my endless way. 
 
 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 ; 
 listen ! for the Vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No Nightingale did ever chaunt 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
 i In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
 'Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And battles long ago : 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 
 Familiar matter of to-day ? 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 
 That has been, and may be again 1 
 
 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, motionless and still ; 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE. 
 
 'From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened 
 ' upon our view, — a ruined Castle on an Island (for an 
 'Island the flood had made it) at some distance from the 
 'shore, hacked by a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, 
 ' down which came a foaming stream. The Castle 
 ' occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, 
 ' appearing to rise out of the water, — mists rested upon 
 ' the mountain side, with spots of sunshine; there was a 
 ' mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn grandeur 
 ' in the mountains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately — 
 'not dismantled of turrets — nor the walls broken down, 
 ' though obviously a ruin.' — Extract from the Journal of 
 my Companion. 
 
 Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain Stream 
 Roars in thy hearing ; but thy hour of rest 
 Is come, and thou art silent in thy age ; 
 Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught 
 Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. 
 Oh ! there is life thatbreathesnot ; Powers there are 
 That touch each other to the quick in modes 
 Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, 
 No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care 
 Cast off — abandoned by thy rugged Sire, 
 Nor by soft Peace adopted ; though, in place 
 And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem 
 But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord, 
 Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills 
 Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm ;) 
 Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims 
 To reverence, suspends his own ; submitting 
 All that the God of Nature hath conferred, 
 All that he holds in common with the stars, 
 To the memorial majesty of Time 
 Impersonated in thy calm decay ! 
 
 Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved ! 
 Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light 
 Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front, 
 Do thou, in turn, be paramount ; and rule 
 
224 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Over the pomp and beauty of a scene 
 
 Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite 
 
 To pay thee homage ; and with these are joined, 
 
 In willing admiration and respect, 
 
 Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called 
 
 Youthful as Spring. — Shade of departed Power, 
 
 Skeleton of unfleshed humanity. 
 
 The chronicle were welcome that should call 
 
 Into the compass of distinct regard 
 
 The toils and struggles of thy infant years ! 
 
 Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice ; 
 
 Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, 
 
 Frozen by distance ; so, majestic Pile, 
 
 To the perception of this Age, appear 
 
 Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued 
 
 And quieted in character — the strife, 
 
 The pride, the fury uncontrollable, 
 
 Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades* ! 
 
 ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 
 
 The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known ; his grave 
 is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small 
 pinfold-like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate 
 appearance, which the traveller meets with in the High- 
 lands of Scotland. 
 
 A famous man is Robin Hood, 
 
 The English ballad-singer's joy ! 
 
 And Scotland has a thief as good, 
 
 An outlaw of as daring mood ; 
 
 She has her brave Rob Roy ! 
 
 Then clear the weeds from off his Grave, 
 
 And let us chant a passing stave, 
 
 In honour of that Hero brave ! 
 
 Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart 
 And wondrous length and strength of arm : 
 Nor craved he more to quell his foes, 
 Or keep his friends from harm. 
 
 Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave ; 
 Forgive me if the phrase be strong ; — 
 A Poet worthy of Rob Roy 
 Must scorn a timid song. 
 
 Say, then, that he was wise as brave ; 
 As wise in thought as bold in deed : 
 For in the principles of things 
 He sousrht his moral creed. 
 
 * The tradition is, that the Castle was built by a Lady 
 during the absence of her Lord in Palestine. 
 
 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. 
 
 The creatures see of flood and field, 
 And those that travel on the wind ! 
 With them no strife can last ; they live 
 In peace, and peace of mind. 
 
 For why ? — because the good old rule 
 Sufficeth them, the simple plan, 
 That they should take, who have the power, 
 And they should keep who can. 
 
 A lesson that is quickly learned, 
 A signal this which all can see ! 
 Thus nothing here provokes the strong 
 To wanton cruelty. 
 
 All freakishness of mind is checked ; 
 He tamed, who foolishly aspires ; 
 While to the measure of his might 
 Each fashions his desires. 
 
 All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall 
 By strength of prowess or of wit : 
 'Tis God's appointment who must sway, 
 And who is to submit. 
 
 Since, then, the rule of right is plain, 
 And longest life is but a day ; 
 To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
 I '11 take the shortest way." 
 
 And thus among these rocks he lived, 
 Through summer heat and winter snow : 
 The Eagle, he was lord above, 
 And Rob was lord below. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 : 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 225 
 
 Or shall we say an age too soon ? 
 For, were the bold Man living now, 
 How might he flourish in Ms pride, 
 With buds on every bough ! 
 
 Then rents and factors, rights of chase, 
 Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains, 
 Would all have seemed but paltry things, 
 Not worth a moment's pains. 
 
 Rob Roy had never lingered here, 
 To these few meagre Vales confined ; 
 But thought how wide the world, the times 
 How fairly to his mind ! 
 
 And to his Sword he would have said, 
 " Do Thou my sovereign will enact 
 From land to land through half the earth ! 
 Judge thou of law and fact ! 
 
 'Tis fit that we should do our part, 
 Becoming, that mankind should learn 
 | That we are not to be surpassed 
 In fatherly concern. 
 
 I Of old things all are over old, 
 
 ■ Of good things none are good enough : — 
 i We '11 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." 
 
 ; And, if the word had been fulfilled, 
 i As might have been, then, thought of joy ! 
 France would have had her present Boast, 
 And we our own Rob Roy ! 
 
 Oh ! say not so ; compare them not ; 
 
 II would not wrong thee, Champion brave ! 
 .Would wrong thee nowhere ; least of all 
 
 Here standing by thy grave. 
 
 For Thou, although with some wild thoughts, 
 Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan ! 
 Hadst this to boast of ; thou didst love 
 The liberty of man. 
 
 And, had it been thy lot to live 
 With us who now behold the light, 
 Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself, 
 And battled for the Right. 
 
 For thou wert still the poor man's stay, 
 The poor man's heart, the poor' man's hand ; 
 And all the oppressed, who wanted strength, 
 Had thine at their command. 
 
 Bear witness many a pensive sigh 
 Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays 
 Alone upon Loch Vool's heights, 
 And by Loch Lomond's braes ! 
 
 And, far and near, through vale and hill, 
 Are faces that attest the same ; 
 The proud heart flashing through the eyes, 
 At sound of Rob Roy's name. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 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. 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 (See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the 
 banks of the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad 
 of Hamilton beginning 
 
 * Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! ' — ) 
 
 From Stirling castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
 And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
 And when we came to Clovenford, 
 Then said my ' ivinsome Marrow] 
 " Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside, 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
226 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 u 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 downward with the Tweed, 
 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
 Both lying right before us ; 
 And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 
 The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
 There 's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
 Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 To go in search of Yarrow ? 
 
 What 's Yarrow but a river bare, 
 
 That glides the dark hills under ? 
 
 There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 
 As worthy of your wonder." 
 
 — Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; 
 
 My True-love sighed for sorrow ; 
 
 And looked me in the face, to think 
 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 
 "Oh ! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock*, 
 But we will leave it growing. 
 O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
 We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 
 
 Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
 The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow ! 
 We will not see them ; will not go, 
 To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
 Enough if in our hearts we know 
 There 's such a place as Yarrow. 
 
 Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 
 We have a vision of our own ; 
 Ah ! why should we mido it ? 
 The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
 For when we 're there, although 'tis fair, 
 'Twill be another Yarrow ! 
 
 * See Hamilton's Ballad as above. 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 SONNET 
 
 IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY, 
 An invasion being expected, October 1803. 
 
 Six thousand veterans practised in war's game, 
 Tried men, at Kilhcranky were arrayed 
 Against an equal host that wore the plaid, 
 Shepherds and herdsmen. — Like a whirlwind camp 
 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. 
 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. 
 
 THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER 
 
 HUSBAND. 
 
 At Jedborough, my companion and I went into print* 
 lodgings for a few days ; and the following Verses wort 
 called forth by the character and domestic situation ol 
 our Hostess. 
 
 Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowws 
 And call a train of laughing Hours ; 
 And bid them dance, and bid them sing ; 
 And thou, too, mingle in the ring ! 
 Take to thy heart a new delight; 
 If not, make merry in despite 
 That there is One who scorns thy power : — 
 But dance ! for under Jedborough Towei , 
 A Matron dwells who, though she bears 
 The weight of more than seventy years, 
 Lives in the light of youthful glee, 
 And she will dance and sing with thee. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 227 
 
 Nay ! start not at that Figure — there ! 
 Him who is rooted to his chair ! 
 Look at him — look again ! for he 
 Hath long been of thy family. 
 With legs that move not, if they can, 
 And useless arms, a trunk of man, 
 He sits, and with a vacant eye ; 
 A sight to make a stranger sigh ! 
 Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom : 
 His world is in this single room : 
 Is this a place for mirthful cheer ? 
 Can merry-making enter here ? 
 
 The joyous Woman is the Mate 
 Of him in that forlorn estate ! 
 He breathes a subterraneous damp ; 
 But bright as Vesper shines her lamp : 
 He is as mute as Jedborough Tower : 
 She jocund as it was of yore, 
 With all its bravery on ; in times 
 When all alive with merry chimes, 
 Upon a sun-bright morn of May, 
 It roused the Vale to holiday. 
 
 I praise thee, Matron ! and thy due 
 Is praise, heroic praise, and true ! 
 With admiration I behold 
 Thy gladness unsubdued and bold : 
 I ; 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 persons that before them go, 
 He tracks her motions, quick or slow. 
 \ Her buoyant spirit can prevail 
 Where common cheerfulness would fail ; 
 She strikes upon him with the heat 
 Of July suns ; he feels it sweet; 
 An animal delight though dim ! 
 'Tis all that now remains for him ! 
 
 The more I looked, I wondered more — 
 And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, 
 Some inward trouble suddenly 
 Broke from the Matron's strong black eye- 
 A remnant of uneasy light, 
 A flash of something over-bright ! 
 Nor long this mystery did detain 
 My thoughts; — she told in pensive strain 
 That she had borne a heavy yoke, 
 Been stricken by a twofold stroke ; 
 111 health of body ; and had pined 
 Beneath worse ailments of the mind. 
 
 So be it ! — but let praise ascend 
 To Him who is our lord and friend ! 
 Who from disease and suffering 
 Hath called for thee a second spring ; 
 Repaid thee for that sore distress 
 By no untimely joyousness ; 
 Which makes of thine a blissful state ; 
 And cheers thy melancholy Mate ! 
 
 Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale ! 
 
 Say that we come, and come by this day's light : 
 
 Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height, 
 
 But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale ; 
 
 There let a mystery of joy prevail, 
 
 The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite, 
 
 And Rover whine, as at a second sight 
 
 Of near-approaching good that shall not fail : 
 
 And from that Infant's face let joy appear ; 
 
 Yea, let our Mary's one companion child — 
 
 That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled 
 
 With intimations manifold and dear, 
 
 While we have wandered over wood and wild — 
 
 Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 
 
 THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 
 
 A TALE TOLD BY THE FIBE-SIDE. AFTER RETURNING TO 
 THE VALE OF GRASMERE. 
 
 Now we are tired of boisterous joy, 
 Have romped enough, my little Boy ! 
 Jane hangs her head upon my breast, 
 And you shall bring your stool ac-d rest ; 
 This corner is your own. 
 Q 2 
 
- 
 
 228 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 There ! take your seat, and let me see 
 That you can listen quietly : 
 And, as I promised, I will tell 
 That strange adventure which befel 
 A poor blind Highland Boy. 
 
 A Highland Boy ! — why call him so \ 
 Because, my Darlings, ye must know 
 That, under hills which rise like towers, 
 Far higher hills than these of ours ! 
 He from his birth had lived. 
 
 He ne'er had seen one earthly sight 
 The sun, the day ; the stars, the night ; 
 Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, 
 Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, 
 Or woman, man, or child. 
 
 And yet he neither drooped nor pined, 
 Nor had a melancholy mind ; 
 For God took pity on the Boy, 
 And was his friend ; and gave him joy 
 Of which we nothing know. 
 
 His Mother, too, no doubt, above 
 Her other children him did love : 
 For, was she here, or was she there, 
 She thought of him with constant care, 
 And more than mother's love. 
 
 And proud she was of heart, when clad 
 In crimson stocldngs, tartan plaid, 
 And bonnet with a feather gay, 
 To Kirk he on the sabbath day 
 Went hand in hand with her. 
 
 A dog too, had he ; not for need, 
 But one to play with and to feed ; 
 Which would have led him, if bereft 
 Of company or friends, and left 
 Without a better guide. 
 
 And then the bagpipes he could blow — 
 And thus from house to house would go 
 And all were pleased to hear and see, 
 For none made sweeter melody 
 Than did the poor blind Boy. 
 
 Yet he had many a restless dream ; 
 Both when he heard the eagles scream, 
 And when he heard the torrents roar, 
 And heard the water beat the shore 
 Near which their cottage stood. 
 
 Beside a lake their cottage stood, 
 Not small like ours, a peaceful flood ; 
 But one of mighty size, and strange ; 
 That, rough or smooth, is full of change, 
 And stirring in its bed. 
 
 For to this lake, by night and day, 
 The great Sea-water finds its way 
 Through long, long windings of the lulls 
 And drinks up all the pretty rills 
 And rivers large and strong : 
 
 Then hurries back the road it came — 
 Returns, on errand still the same ; 
 This did it when the earth was new ; 
 And this for evermore will do, 
 As long as earth shall last. 
 
 And, with the coming of the tide, 
 Come boats and ships that safely ride 
 Between the woods and lofty rocks ; 
 And to the shepherds with their flocks 
 Bring tales of distant lands. 
 
 And of those tales, whate'er they were, 
 The blind Boy always had his share ; 
 Whether of mighty towns, or vales 
 With warmer suns and softer gales, 
 Or wonders of the Deep. 
 
 Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred, 
 When from the water-side he heard 
 The shouting, and the jolly cheers ; 
 The bustle of the mariners 
 In stillness or in storm. 
 
 But what do his desires avail ? 
 For He must never handle sail ; 
 Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float 
 In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat, 
 Upon the rocking waves. 
 
 His Mother often thought, and said, 
 What sin would be upon her head 
 If she should suffer this : " My Son, 
 Whate'er you do, leave this undone ; 
 The danger is so great." 
 
 Thus lived he by Loch-Leven's side 
 Still sounding with the sounding tide, 
 And heard the billows leap and dance, 
 Without a shadow of mischance, 
 Till he was ten years old. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 229 
 
 When one day (and now mark me well, 
 Ye soon shall know how this befel) 
 He in a vessel of his own, 
 On the swift flood is hurrying down, 
 Down to the mighty Sea. 
 
 In such a vessel never more 
 May human creature leave the shore ! 
 If this or that way he should stir, 
 Woe to the poor blind Mariner ! 
 For death will be his doom. 
 
 But say what bears him ? — Ye have seen 
 The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, 
 Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright ; 
 Gifts which, for wonder or delight, 
 Are brought in ships from far. 
 
 Such gifts had those seafaring men 
 Spread round that haven in the glen ; 
 Each hut, perchance, might have its own ; 
 And to the Boy they all were known — 
 He knew and prized them all. 
 
 The rarest was a Turtle-shell 
 Which he, poor Child, had studied well ; 
 A shell of ample size, and light 
 As the pearly car of Amphitrite, 
 That sportive dolphins drew. 
 
 And, as a Coracle that braves 
 On Vaga's breast the fretful waves, 
 This shell upon the deep would swim, 
 And gaily lift its fearless brim 
 Above the tossing surge. 
 
 And this the little blind Boy knew : 
 And he a story strange yet true 
 Had heard, how in a shell like this 
 An English Boy, thought of bliss ! 
 Had stoutly launched from shore ; 
 
 Launched from the margin of a bay 
 Among the Indian isles, where lay 
 His father's ship, and had sailed far — 
 To join that gallant ship of war, 
 In his delightful shell. 
 
 Our Highland Boy oft visited 
 The house that held this prize ; and, led 
 By choice or chance, did thither come 
 One day when no one was at home, 
 And found the door unbarred. 
 
 While there he sate, alone and blind, 
 That story flashed upon his mind ; — 
 A bold thought roused him, and he took 
 The shell from out its secret nook, 
 And bore it on his head. 
 
 He launched his vessel, — and in pride 
 Of spirit, from Loch Leven's side, 
 Stepped into it — his thoughts all free 
 As the light breezes that with glee 
 
 Sang through the adventurer's hair. 
 
 A while he stood upon his feet ; 
 He felt the motion — took his seat ; 
 Still better pleased as more and more 
 The tide retreated from the shore, 
 And sucked, and sucked him in. 
 
 And there he is in face of Heaven. 
 How rapidly the Child is driven ! 
 The fourth part of a mile, I ween, 
 He thus had gone, ere he was seen 
 By any human eye. 
 
 But when he was first seen, oh me 
 What shrieking and what misery ! 
 For many saw ; among the rest 
 His Mother, she who loved him best, 
 She saw her poor blind Boy. 
 
 But for the child, the sightless Boy, 
 It is the triumph of his joy ! 
 The bravest traveller in balloon, 
 Mounting as if to reach the moon, 
 Was never half so blessed. 
 
 And let him, let him go his way, 
 Alone, and innocent, and gay ! 
 For, if good Angels love to wait 
 On the forlorn unfortunate, 
 
 This Child will take no harm. 
 
 But now the passionate lament, 
 Which from the crowd on shore was sent, 
 The cries which broke from old and young 
 In Gaelic, or the English tongue, 
 Are stifled — all is still. 
 
 And quickly with a silent crew 
 A boat is ready to pursue ; 
 And from the shore their course they take, 
 And swiftly down the running lake 
 They follow the blind Boy. 
 
230 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 - 
 
 But soon they move with softer pace ; 
 So have ye seen the fowler chase 
 On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast 
 A youngling of the wild-duck's nest 
 With deftly-lifted oar ; 
 
 Or as the wily sailors crept 
 To seize (while on the Deep it slept) 
 The hapless creature which did dwell 
 Erewhile within the dancing shell, 
 They steal upon their prey. 
 
 With sound the least that can be made, 
 They follow, more and more afraid, 
 More cautious as they draw more near ; 
 But in his darkness he can hear, 
 And guesses their intent. 
 
 a Lei-glia — Zei-gha" — he then cried out, 
 " Zei-gha — Zei-gha" — with eager shout ; 
 Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, 
 And what he meant was, " Keep away, 
 And leave me to myself !" 
 
 Alas ! and when he felt their hands 
 
 You 've often heard of magic wands, 
 That with a motion overthrow 
 A palace of the proudest show, 
 Or melt it into air : 
 
 So all his dreams — that inward light 
 With which his soul had shone so bright — 
 All vanished ; — 'twas a heartfelt cross 
 To him, a heavy, bitter loss, 
 As he had ever known. 
 
 But hark ! a gratulating voice, 
 With which the very hills rejoice : 
 'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly 
 Have watched the event, and now can see 
 That he is safe at last. 
 
 And then, when he was brought to land, 
 Full sure they were a happy band, 
 Which, gathering round, did on the banks 
 Of that great Water give God thanks, 
 And welcomed the poor Child. 
 
 And in the general joy of heart 
 The blind Boy's little dog took part ; 
 He leapt about, and oft did kiss 
 His master's hands in sign of bliss, 
 With sound like lamentation. 
 
 But most of all, his Mother dear, 
 She who had fainted with her fear, 
 Rejoiced when waking she espies 
 The Child ; when she can trust her eyes, 
 And touches the blind Boy. 
 
 She led him home, and wept amain, 
 When he was in the house again : 
 Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes ; 
 She kissed him — how could she chastise I 
 She was too happy far. 
 
 Thus, after he had fondly braved 
 The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved ; 
 And, though his fancies had been wild, 
 Yet he was pleased and reconciled 
 To live in peace on shore. 
 
 And in the lonely Highland dell 
 Still do they keep the Turtle-shell ; 
 And long the story will repeat 
 Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat, 
 And how he was preserved. 
 
 Note. — It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages, that a boy, 
 son of the captain of a Man-of-War, seated himself in a 
 Turtle-shell, and floated in it from the shore to his fai oer'e 
 ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. 
 In deference to the opinion of a Friend, I have substituted 
 such a shell for the less elegant vessel in which my blind 
 Voyager did actually entrust himself to the dangerous cur- 
 rent of Loch Leven, as was related to me by an eye-witness. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 231 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 
 
 1814. 
 
 JGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON ONE OP THE 
 ISLANDS OP LOCH LOMOND, A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE 
 BETBEAT OF A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL, FROM WHOM THIS 
 HABITATION ACQUIRED THE NAME OF 
 
 THE BROWNIE'S CELL. 
 
 i. 
 
 o barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen, 
 r depth of labyrinthine glen ; 
 ,r into trackless forest set 
 '/ith trees, whose lofty umbrage met ; 
 /orld-wearied Men withdrew of yore ; 
 IPenance their trust, and prayer their store ;) 
 nd in the wilderness were bound 
 o such apartments as they found ; 
 ;r with a new ambition raised ; 
 hat God might suitably be praised. 
 
 ii. 
 •igh lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey ; 
 r where broad waters round him lay : 
 ut this wild Ruin is no ghost 
 f his devices — buried, lost ! 
 Vithin this little lonely isle 
 ihere stood a consecrated Pile ; 
 /here tapers burned, and mass was sung, 
 or them whose timid Spirits clung 
 o mortal succour, though the tomb 
 '.ad fixed, for ever fixed, then.' doom ! 
 
 in. 
 pon those servants of another world 
 7 hen madding Power her bolts had hurled, 
 iheir habitation shook ; — it fell, 
 , nd perished, save one narrow cell ; 
 ■Tiither, at length, a Wretch retired 
 /ho neither grovelled nor aspired : 
 '-e, struggling in the net of pride, 
 he future scorned, the past defied ; 
 Jtill tempering, from the unguilty forge 
 f vain conceit, an iron scourge ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 roud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, 
 yho stood and flourished face to face 
 
 With their perennial hills ; — but Crime, 
 Hastening the stern decrees of Time, 
 Brought low a Power, which from its home 
 Burst, when repose grew wearisome ; 
 And, taking impulse from the sword, 
 And, mocking its own plighted word, 
 Had found, in ravage widely dealt, 
 Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt ! 
 
 All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile 
 Shot lightning through this lonely Isle ! 
 No right had he but what he made 
 To this small spot, his leafy shade ; 
 But the ground lay within that ring 
 To which he only dared to cling ; 
 Renouncing here, as worse than dead, 
 The craven few who bowed the head 
 Beneath the change ; who heard a claim 
 How loud ! yet lived in peace with shame. 
 
 From year to year this shaggy Mortal went 
 (So seemed it) down a strange descent : 
 Till they, who saw his outward frame, 
 Fixed on him an unhallowed name ; 
 Him, free from all malicious taint, 
 And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, 
 A pen unwearied — to indite, 
 In his lone Isle, the dreams of night ; 
 Impassioned dreams, that strove to span 
 The faded glories of his Clan ! 
 
 Suns that through blood their western harbour 
 
 sought, 
 And stars that in their courses fought ; 
 Towers rent, winds combating with woods, 
 Lands deluged by unbridled floods ; 
 And beast and bird that from the spell 
 Of sleep took import terrible ; — 
 These types mysterious (if the show 
 Of battle and the routed foe 
 Had failed) would furnish an array 
 Of matter for the dawning day ! 
 
232 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 How disappeared He ? — ask the newt and toad, 
 
 Inheritors of his abode ; 
 
 The otter crouching undisturbed, 
 
 In her dank cleft ;— but be thou curbed, 
 
 froward Fancy ! 'mid a scene 
 
 Of aspect winning and serene ; 
 
 For those offensive creatures shun 
 
 The inquisition of the sun ! 
 
 And in this region flowers delight, 
 
 And all is lovely to the sight. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, 
 When she applies her annual test 
 To dead and living ; when her breath 
 Quickens, as now, the withered heath ; — 
 Nor flaunting Summer — when he throws 
 His soul into the briar-rose ; 
 Or calls the lily from her sleep 
 Prolonged beneath the bordering deep ; 
 Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren 
 Is warbling near the Brownie's Den. 
 
 Wild Relique ! beauteous as the chosen spot 
 In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot ; 
 Whither, by care of Libyan Jove, 
 (High Servant of paternal Love) 
 Young Bacchus was conveyed — to lie 
 Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye ; 
 Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed, 
 Close-crowding round the infant-god ; 
 All colours, — and the liveliest streak 
 A foil to his celestial cheek ! 
 
 COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, 
 
 IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER. 
 
 ' — ITow Wallace fought for Scotland, left the n:ime 
 
 Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 
 
 AU over his dear Country ; left the deeds 
 
 Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts, 
 
 To people the steep rocks and river banks, 
 
 Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 
 
 Of independence and stern liberty.' MS. 
 
 Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood ; 
 The dullest leaf in this thick wood 
 Quakes — conscious of thy power ; 
 The caves reply with hollow moan ; 
 And vibrates, to its central stone, 
 Yon time-cemented Tower ! 
 
 And yet how fair the rural scene ! 
 For thou, Clyde, hast ever been 
 Beneficent as strong ; 
 Pleased in refreshing dews to steep 
 The little trembling flowers that peep 
 Thy shelving rocks among. 
 
 Hence all who love their country, love 
 To look on thee — delight to rove 
 Where they thy voice can hear ; 
 And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, 
 Lord of the vale ! to Heroes laid 
 In dust, that voice is dear ! 
 
 Along thy banks, at dead of night 
 Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight ; 
 Or stands, in warlike vest, 
 Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, 
 A Champion worthy of the stream, 
 Yon grey tower's living crest ! 
 
 But clouds and envious darkness hide 
 A Form not doubtfully descried : — 
 Their transient mission o'er, 
 say to what blind region flee 
 These Shapes of awful phantasy ? 
 To what untrodden shore ? 
 
 Less than divine command they spurn ; 
 But this we from the mountains learn, 
 And this the valleys show ; 
 That never will they deign to hold 
 Communion where the heart is cold 
 To human weal and woe. 
 
 The man of abject soul in vain 
 Shall walk the Marathonian plain ; 
 Or thrid the shadowy gloom, 
 That still invests the guardian Pass, 
 Where stood, sublime, Leonidas 
 Devoted to the tomb. 
 
 And let no Slave his head incline, 
 Or kneel, before the votive shrine 
 By Uri's lake, where Tell 
 Leapt, from his storm- vext boat, to land, 
 Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand 
 That day the Tyrant fell. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 233 
 
 EFFUSION, 
 
 S THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE BRAN, 
 NEAR DONKELD. 
 
 ' The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when we 
 aust expect it. We were first, however, conducted into 
 , small apartment, where the Gardener desired us to look 
 t a picture of Ossian, which, while he was telling the 
 istory of the young Artist who executed the work, dis- 
 ppeared, parting in the middle— flying asunder as by the 
 mch of magic — and lo ! we are at the entrance of a 
 jlendid apartment, which was almost dizzy and alive 
 ith waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions ; the great 
 iscade, opposite the window, which faced us, being 
 iflected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and 
 ;ainst the walls.'— Extractfrom the Journal of my Fellow- 
 raveller. 
 
 What He — who, mid the kindred throng 
 , Of Heroes that inspired Ms song, 
 
 Doth yet frequent the hill of storms, 
 I The stars dim-twinlding through their forms ! 
 
 What ! Ossian here — a painted Thrall, 
 : Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall ; 
 ■ To serve — an unsuspected screen 
 
 For show that must not yet be seen ; 
 
 And, when the moment comes, to part 
 
 And vanish by mysterious art ; 
 1 Head, harp, and body, split asunder, 
 
 For ingress to a world of wonder ; 
 , A gay saloon, with waters dancing 
 i Upon the sight wherever glancing ; 
 
 One loud cascade in front, and lo ! 
 1 A thousand like it, white as snow — 
 
 Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam 
 
 As active round the hollow dome, 
 
 Illusive cataracts ! of their terrors 
 
 Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors, 
 
 That catch the pageant from the flood 
 
 Thundering adown a rocky wood. 
 
 What pains to dazzle and confound ! 
 | What strife of colour, shape and sound 
 : In this quaint medley, that might seem 
 
 ! Devised out of a sick man's dream ! 
 Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy 
 As ever made a maniac dizzy, 
 When disenchanted from the mood 
 That loves on sullen thoughts to brood ! 
 
 Nature — in thy changeful visions, 
 Through all thy most abrupt transitions 
 Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime— 
 ;Ever averse to pantomime, 
 
 Thee neither do they know nor us 
 
 Thy servants, who can trifle thus ; 
 
 Else verily the sober powers 
 
 Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, 
 
 Exalted by congenial sway 
 
 Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, 
 
 And Names that moulder not away, 
 
 Had wakened some redeeming thought 
 
 More worthy of this favoured Spot ; 
 
 Recalled some feeling— to set free 
 
 The Bard from such indignity ! 
 
 * The Effigies of a valiant Wight 
 I once beheld, a Templar Knight ; 
 Not prostrate, not like those that rest 
 On tombs, with palms together prest, 
 But sculptured out of living stone, 
 And standing upright and alone, 
 Both hands with rival energy 
 Employed in setting his sword free 
 From its dull sheath — stern sentinel 
 Intent to guard St. Robert's cell ; 
 As if with memory of the affray 
 Far distant, when, as legends say, 
 The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force 
 From its dear home the Hermit's corse, 
 That in their keeping it might he, 
 To crown their abbey's sanctity. 
 So had they rushed into the grot 
 Of sense despised, a world forgot, 
 And torn him from his loved retreat, 
 Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat 
 Still hint that quiet best is found, 
 Even by the Living, under ground ; 
 But a bold Knight, the selfish aim 
 Defeating, put the Monks to shame, 
 There where you see his Image stand 
 Bare to the sky, with threatening brand 
 Which lingering Nid is proud to show 
 Reflected in the pool below. 
 
 Thus, like the men of earliest days, 
 Our sires set forth their grateful praise : 
 Uncouth the workmanship, and rude ! 
 But, nursed in mountain solitude, 
 Might some aspiring artist dare 
 To seize whate'er, through misty air, 
 A ghost, by glimpses, may present 
 Of imitable lineament, 
 And give the phantom an array 
 That less should scorn the abandoned clay ; 
 Then let him hew with patient stroke 
 An Ossian out of mural rock, 
 
 * On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough. 
 

 
 234 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 And leave the figurative Man — 
 
 
 Upon thy margin, roaring Bran ! — 
 
 
 Fixed, like the Templar of the steep, 
 
 
 An everlasting watch to keep ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 With local sanctities in trust, 
 
 
 More precious than a hermit's dust ; 
 
 YARROW VISITED, 
 
 And virtues through the mass infused, 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1814. 
 
 Which old idolatry abused. 
 
 
 
 (See page 225). 
 
 What though the Granite would deny 
 
 And is this — Yarrow 1 — This the Stream 
 
 All fervour to the sightless eye ; 
 
 Of which my fancy cherished, 
 
 And touch from rising suns in vain 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream ? 
 
 Solicit a Memnonian strain ; 
 
 An image that hath perished ! 
 
 Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, 
 
 that some Minstrel's harp were near, 
 
 The wind might force the deep-grooved harp 
 
 To utter notes of gladness, 
 
 To utter melancholy moans 
 
 And chase this silence from the air, 
 
 Not unconnected with the tones 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness ! 
 
 Of soul-sick flesh and weary hones ; 
 
 
 While grove and river notes would lend, 
 
 Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 
 
 Less deeply sad, with these to blend ! 
 
 With uncontrolled meanderings ; 
 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Vain pleasures of luxurious life, 
 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 
 For ever with yourselves at strife ; 
 
 And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 
 
 Through town and country both deranged 
 
 Is visibly delighted ; 
 
 By affectations interchanged, 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 
 And all the perishable gauds 
 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 That heaven-deserted man applauds ; 
 
 
 When will your hapless patrons learn 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 
 
 To watch and ponder — to discern 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 The freshness, the everlasting youth, 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 Of admiration sprung from truth ; 
 
 A tender hazy brightness ; 
 
 From beauty infinitely growing 
 
 Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 
 
 Upon a mind with love o'erfiowing — 
 
 All profitless dejection ; 
 
 To sound the depths of every Art 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 That seeks its wisdom through the heart ? 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced 
 
 Where was it that the famous Flower 
 
 With baubles of theatric taste, 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 
 
 O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On motley bands of alien flowers 
 
 On which the herd is feeding : 
 
 In stiff confusion set or sown, 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool, 
 
 Till Nature cannot find her own, 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning, 
 
 Or keep a remnant of the sod 
 
 The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 
 
 Which Caledonian Heroes trod) 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 I mused ; and, thirsting for redress, 
 
 
 Recoiled into the wilderness. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 235 
 
 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, 
 
 A covert for protection 
 
 Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 
 
 The brood of chaste affection. 
 
 How sweet, on this autumnal day, 
 
 The wild-wood fruits to gather, 
 
 And on my True-love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of blooming heather ! 
 
 And what if I enwreathed my own ! 
 
 'Twere no offence to reason ; 
 
 The sober Hills thus deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see — but not by sight alone, 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 
 
 A ray of fancy still survives — 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 
 
 Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure ; 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 
 
 The vapours linger round the Heights, 
 They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
 Sad thought, which I would banish, 
 But that I know, where'er I go, 
 Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
 Will dwell with me — to heighten joy, 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. 
 
r 
 
 236 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, 
 AUGUST, 1802. 
 
 Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, 
 Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's brink 
 Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 
 On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest, 
 Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
 Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
 Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and should'st 
 
 wink, 
 Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest 
 In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot 
 Beneath thee, that is England ; there she lies. 
 Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot, 
 One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear 
 For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, 
 Among men who do not love her, linger here. 
 
 CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. 
 
 Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind, 
 
 Or what is it that ye go forth to see ? 
 
 Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree, 
 
 Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and 
 
 blind, 
 Post forward all, like creatures of one kind, 
 With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee 
 In France, before the new-born Majesty. 
 '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 ! 
 
 Composed near Calais, on the road leading: to Ardres, August 7, i 
 
 Jones ! as from Calais southward you and I 
 Went pacing side by side, this public Way 
 Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day*. 
 When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty : 
 A homeless sound of joy was in the sky: 
 From hour to hour the antiquated Earth, 
 Beat like the heart of Man : songs, garlands, mirth J 
 Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh ! 
 And now, sole register that these things were, 
 Two solitary greetings have I heard, 
 ' Good morrow, Citizen 1 ' a hollow word, 
 As if a dead man spake it ! Yet despair 
 Touches me not, though pensive as a bird 
 Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare f. 
 
 1801. 
 
 I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain 
 And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest raood 
 Of that Man's mind — what can it be ? what food 
 Fed his first hopes 1 what knowledge could he j 
 '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 five with children round her knee* 
 Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
 Man holds with week-day man in the hourly wal 
 Of the mind's business : these are the degrees I 
 By which true Sway doth mount ; this is the stai 
 True Power doth grow on; and her rights ai 
 these. 
 
 * 14th July, 1790. 
 
 1 SoeNote. 
 
DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 
 
 237 
 
 CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802. 
 
 stivals have I seen that were not names : 
 'lis is young Buonaparte's natal day, 
 .id his is henceforth an established sway — 
 dhsul for life. With worship France proclaims 
 jsp approbation, and with pomps and games, 
 iaven grant that other Cities may be gay ! 
 ulais is not : and I have bent my way 
 '! the sea-coast, noting that each man frames 
 fs business as he likes. Far other show 
 'if youth here witnessed, in a prouder time ; 
 le senselessness of joy was then sublime ! 
 vPP v ^ s ne > w h°> caring not for Pope, 
 •JQSul, or King, can sound himself to know 
 r e destiny of Man, and live in hope. 
 
 THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC. 
 
 < ce did She hold the gorgeous east in fee ; 
 d was the safeguard of the west : the worth 
 Venice did not fall below her birth, 
 nice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
 'i3 was a maiden City, bright and free ; 
 II guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
 M, when she took unto herself a Mate, 
 le must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
 j',d what if she had seen those glories fade, 
 r .jose titles vanish, and that strength decay ; 
 It shall some tribute of regret be paid 
 wen her long life hath reached its final day : 
 Jjn are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 
 (ithat which once was great, is passed away. 
 
 THE KING OF SWEDEN. 
 
 | e Voice of song from distant lands shall call 
 that great King ; shall hail the crowned Youth 
 io, taking counsel of unbending Truth, 
 one example hath set forth to all 
 w they with dignity may stand ; or fall, 
 I all they must. Now, whither doth it tend ? 
 la what to him and his shall be the end ? 
 "iit thought is one which neither can appal 
 ISr cheer him ; for the illustrious Swede hath done 
 '1)3 thing which ought to be ; is raised above 
 
 consequences : work he hath begun 
 fortitude, and piety, and love, 
 uch all his glorious ancestors approve : 
 h heroes bless him, him their rightful son *. 
 
 * See note. 
 
 TO TOUSSAINT L OUVERTURE. 
 
 Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men ! 
 Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough 
 Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
 Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — 
 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 ; ah', 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. 
 
 IX. 
 SEPTEMBER 1, 1802. 
 
 Amons the capricious acts of tyranny that disgraced those times, was 
 the chasing of al INegroe's from France by decree of the govern- 
 ment : we had a Fellow-passenger who was one of the expelled. 
 
 We had a female Passenger who came 
 From Calais with us, spotless in array, — 
 A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay, 
 Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame ; 
 Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim 
 She sate, from notice turning not away, 
 But on all proffered intercourse did lay 
 A weight of languid speech, or to the same 
 No sign of answer made by word or face : 
 Yet still her eyes retained their tropic fire, 
 That, burning independent of the mind, 
 Joined with the lustre of her rich attire 
 To mock the Outcast — ye Heavens, be kind ! 
 And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted Race ! 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER, ON THE 
 DAY OF LANDING. 
 
 Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. 
 The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound 
 Of bells ; — those boys who in yon meadow-ground 
 In white-sleeved shirts are playing ; and the roar 
 Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore ; — 
 All, all are English. Oft have I looked round 
 With joy in Kent's green vales ; but never found 
 Myself so satisfied in heart before. 
 Europe is yet in bonds ; but let that pass, 
 Thought for another moment. Thou art free, 
 My Country ! and '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. 
 
238 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1802. NEAR DOVER. 
 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 
 
 And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, 
 
 The coast of France — the coast of Prance how near ! 
 
 Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. 
 
 I shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood 
 
 Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 
 
 A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! 
 
 What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
 
 Even so doth God protect us if we be 
 
 Virtuous and wise. 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. 
 
 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, cleave to tbat 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 ! 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802. 
 
 Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 
 
 To think that now our life is only drest 
 
 For show ; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 
 
 Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook 
 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : 
 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
 
 No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
 
 This is 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. 
 
 LONDON, 1802. 
 
 Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour : 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
 In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
 Great men have been among us ; hands that penned 
 And tongues that uttered wisdom — better none : 
 The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 
 Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. 
 These moralists could act and comprehend : 
 They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 
 Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
 In splendour : what strength was, that would not 
 
 bend 
 But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis - 
 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 ! 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
 Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 
 Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity 
 Hath flowed, ' with pomp of waters, unwithstood,' 
 Roused though it be full often to a mood 
 Which spurns the check of salutary bands, 
 That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands 
 Should perish ; and to evil and to good 
 Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung 
 Armoury of the invincible Knights of old : 
 We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
 That Shakspeare spake ; the faith and morals hoi 
 Which Milton held. — In every thing we are spruii 
 Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 
 
DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 
 
 239 
 
 hen I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 ■eat Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
 hen men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
 .e student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
 tad, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ? 
 >w, when I think of thee, and what thou art, 
 •rily, in the bottom of my heart, 
 I those unfihal fears I am ashamed. 
 " r dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
 ; thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; 
 .nd I by my affection was beguiled : 
 hat wonder if a Poet now and then, 
 aong the many movements of his mind, 
 It for thee as a lover or a child ! 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 1 e might believe that natural miseries 
 ,d blasted France, and made of it a land 
 Vfit for men ; and that in one great band 
 1 r sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease. 
 ],t 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze 
 fed gentle favours : rural works are there, 
 Id ordinary business without care ; 
 fbt rich in all things that can soothe and please ! 
 llw piteous then that there should be such dearth 
 < knowledge ; that whole myriads should unite 
 ' work against themselves such fell despite : 
 buld come in phrensy and in drunken mirth, 
 Ipatient to put out the only light 
 ( Liberty that yet remains on earth ! 
 
 Iere is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 
 1;m his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall, 
 J it in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall : 
 ''Is his who walks about in the open air, 
 I 
 ] 
 
 3 of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear 
 ir fetters in their souls. For who could be, 
 ^ io, even the best, in such condition, free 
 I >m self-reproach, reproach that he must share 
 ^th Human-nature ? Never be it ours 
 I see the sun how brightly it will shine, 
 ^ 1 know that noble feelings, manly powers, 
 I bead of gathering strength, must droop and pine; 
 ^ 1 earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers 
 Pie, and participate in man's decline. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 These times strike monied worldlings with dismay: 
 
 Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air 
 
 With words of apprehension and despair : 
 
 While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, 
 
 Men unto whom sufficient for the day 
 
 And minds not stinted or 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 ? 
 
 England ! the time is come when thou should'st 
 
 wean 
 Thy heart from its emasculating food ; 
 The truth should now be better understood ; 
 Old things have been unsettled ; we have seen 
 Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been 
 But for thy trespasses ; and, at this day, 
 If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, 
 Aught good were destined, thou would'st step 
 
 between. 
 England ! all nations in this charge agree : 
 But worse, more ignorant in love and hate, 
 Far — far more abject, is thine Enemy : 
 Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight 
 Of thy offences be a heavy weight : 
 Oh grief that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee ! 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 When, looking on the present face of things, 
 I see one Man, of men the meanest too ! 
 Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo, 
 With mighty Nations for his underlings, 
 The great events with which old story rings 
 Seem vain and hollow ; I find nothing great : 
 Nothing is left which I can venerate ; 
 So that a doubt almost within me springs 
 Of Providence, such emptiness at length 
 Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God! 
 I measure back the steps which I have trod ; 
 And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the strength 
 Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime 
 I tremble at the sorrow of the time. 
 
240 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 TO THE MEN OF KENT. OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 
 
 Ye children of a Soil that doth advance 
 
 Her haughty brow against the coast of France, 
 
 Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! 
 
 To France be words of invitation sent ! 
 
 They from their fields can see the 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 ! 
 
 What if our numbers barely could defy 
 The arithmetic of babes, must foreign hordes, 
 Slaves, vile as ever were befooled by words, 
 Striking through English breasts the anarchy 
 Of Terror, bear us to the ground, and tie 
 Our hands behind our backs with felon cords 1 
 Yields every thing to discipline of swords ? 
 Is man as good as man, none low, none high ?- 
 Nor discipline nor valour can withstand 
 The shock, nor quell the inevitable rout, 
 When in some great extremity breaks out 
 A people, on their own beloved Land 
 Risen, like one man, to combat in the sight 
 Of a just God for liberty and right. 
 
 LINES ON THE EXPECTED INVASION. 
 
 1803. 
 Come ye — who, if (which Heaven avert !) the Land 
 Were with herself at strife, would take your stand, 
 Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's side, 
 And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your pride — 
 Come ye — who, not less zealous, might display 
 Banners at enmity with regal sway, 
 And, like the Pyms and Miltons of that day, 
 Think that a State would live in sounder health 
 If Kingship bowed its head to Commonwealth — ■ 
 Ye too — whom no discreditable fear 
 Would keep, perhaps 'with many a fruitless tear, 
 Uncertain what to choose and how to steer — 
 And ye — who might mistake for sober sense 
 And wise reserve the plea of indolence — 
 
 Come ye — whate'er your creed — waken all 
 Whate'er your temper, at your Country's call • 
 Resolving (this a free-bom Nation can) 
 To have one Soul, and perish to a man, 
 Or save this honoured Land from every Lord 
 But British reason and the British sword. 
 
 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 s an 
 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 paia, 
 And even the prospect of our brethren slain, 
 Hath something in it which the heart enjoys : — 
 In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity. 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1806. 
 
 Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
 Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
 And We are left, or shall be left, alone : 
 The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 
 'Tis well ! from this day forward we shall know 
 That in ourselves our safety must be sought ; 
 That by our own right hands it must be wrought 
 That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low. 
 O dastard whom such foretaste doth not clu er ! 
 We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
 Be men who hold its many blessings dear, 
 Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile band, 
 Who are to judge of danger which they fear, 
 And honour which they do not understand. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Who rises on the banks of Seine, 
 And binds her temples with the civic wreath ? 
 What joy to read the promise of her mien ! 
 How sweet to rest her wide-spread wings beneatl 
 
DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 
 
 241 
 
 But they are ever playing, 
 
 And twinkling in the light, 
 
 And, if a breeze be straying, 
 
 That breeze she will invite ; 
 :,.nd stands on tiptoe, conscious she is fair, 
 .nd calls a look of love into her face, 
 !,nd spreads her arms, as if the general air 
 t lone could satisfy her wide embrace. 
 -Melt, Principalities, before her melt ! 
 ler love ye hailed — her wrath have felt ! 
 '5ut She through many a change of form hath gone, 
 Lnd stands amidst you now an armed creature, 
 |/hose panoply is not a thing put on, 
 !ut the live scales of a portentous nature ; 
 hat, having forced its way from birth to birth, 
 talks round — abhorred by Heaven, a terror to 
 the Earth ! 
 
 n. 
 ! I marked the breathings of her dragon crest ; 
 [y Soul, a sorrowful interpreter, 
 1 many a midnight vision bowed 
 efore the ominous aspect of her spear ; 
 whether the mighty beam, in scorn upheld, 
 threatened her foes, — or, pompously at rest, 
 pemed to bisect her orbed shield, 
 Is stretches a blue bar of solid cloud 
 icross the setting sun and all the fiery west. 
 
 1 So did she daunt the Earth, and God defy ! 
 lnd, wheresoe'er she spread her sovereignty, 
 Dilution tainted all that was most pure. 
 ;-Have we not known — and live we not to tell — 
 pat Justice seemed to hear her final knell ? 
 faith buried deeper in her own deep breast 
 ier stores, and sighed to find them insecure ! 
 d Hope was maddened by the drops that fell 
 om shades, her chosen place of short-lived rest. 
 jiame followed shame, and woe supplanted woe — 
 ■ this the only change that time can show ? 
 3W long shall vengeance sleep ? Ye patient 
 Heavens, how long ? 
 nfirm ejaculation ! from the tongue 
 Nations wanting virtue to be strong 
 o to the measure of accorded might, 
 id daring not to feel the majesty of right ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Weak Spirits are there — who would ask, 
 )on the pressure of a painful thing, 
 ie lion's sinews, or the eagle's wing ; 
 let their wishes loose, in forest-glade, 
 Among the lurking powers 
 Of herbs and lowly flowers, 
 seek, from saints above, miraculous aid — 
 
 That Man may be accomplished for a task 
 Which his own nature hath enjoined ; — and why \ 
 If, when that interference hath relieved him, 
 
 He must sink down to languish 
 In worse than former helplessness— and lie 
 
 Till the caves roar, — and, imbecility 
 Again engendering anguish, [ceived him. 
 The same weak wish returns, that had before de- 
 
 v. 
 But Thou, supreme Disposer ! may'st not speed 
 The course of things, and change the creed 
 Which hath been held aloft before men's sight 
 Since the first framing of societies, 
 Whether, as bards have told in ancient song, 
 Built up by soft seducing harmonies ; 
 Or prest together by the appetite, 
 
 And by the power, of wrong. 
 
 PART II. 
 i. 
 
 ON A CELEBRATED EVENT IN ANCIENT HISTORY. 
 
 A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground, 
 And to the people at the Isthmian Games 
 Assembled, He, by a herald's voice, proclaims 
 The Liberty of Greece : — the words rebound 
 Until all voices hi 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 ! 
 Yet were the thoughtful grieved; and still that voice 
 Haunts, with sad echoes, 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. 
 
 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 ^Etohans 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." 
 
242 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 TO THOMAS CLARKSOX, OX THE FINAL PASSING OF THE 
 
 BILL FOB THE ABOLITION OF THE SLATE TEADE. 
 
 March, 1807. 
 
 Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to climb : 
 How toilsome — nay, how dire — it was, by thee 
 Is known ; by none, perhaps, so feelingly : 
 But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, 
 Didst first lead forth that enterprise sublime, 
 Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat, 
 Which, out of thy young hearts oracular seat, 
 First roused thee. — true yoke-fellow of Time, 
 Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm 
 Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn ! 
 The blood-stained Writing is for ever torn ; 
 And thou henceforth wilt have a good man's calm, 
 A great man's happiness ; thy zeal shall find 
 Repose at length, firm friend of human kind ! 
 
 A PROPHECY. FEBRUARY, 1807. 
 
 High deeds, Germans, are to come from you ! 
 Thus in your books the record shall be found, 
 'A watchword was pronounced, a potent sound — 
 Arminius ! — all the people quaked like dew 
 Stirred by the breeze ; they rose, a Nation, true, 
 True to herself — the mighty Germany, 
 She of the Danube and the Northern Sea, 
 She rose, and off at once the yoke she threw. 
 All power was given her in the dreadful trance ; 
 Those new-born Kings she withered like a flame.' 
 — Woe to them all ! but heaviest woe and shame 
 To that Bavarian who could first advance 
 His banner in accursed league with France, 
 First open traitor to the German name ! 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE LAKE. 
 1807- 
 
 Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 
 
 Through the grey west ; and lo ! these waters, steeled 
 
 By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 
 
 A vivid repetition of the stars ; 
 
 Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 
 
 Amid his fellows beauteously revealed 
 
 At happy distance from earth's groaning field, 
 
 Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. 
 
 Is it a mirror \ — or the nether Sphere 
 
 Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds 
 
 Her own calm fires ? — But list ! a voice is near ; 
 
 Great Pan himself low-whispering through the 
 
 " Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds [reeds, 
 
 Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!" 
 
 
 Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes 
 The genuine mien and character would trace 
 Of the rash Spirit that still holds her place, 
 Prompting the world's audacious vanities ! 
 Go back, and see the Tower of Babel rise ; 
 The pyramid extend its monstrous base, 
 For some Aspirant of our short-lived race, 
 Anxious an aery name to immortalize. 
 There, too, ere wiles and politic dispute 
 Gave specious colouring to aim and act, 
 See the first mighty Hunter leave the brute— 
 To chase mankind, with men in armies packei 
 For his field-pastime high and absolute, 
 While, to dislodge his game, cities are sacked ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR WAS ENGAGED 111 
 WRITING A TRACT, OCCASIONED BY THE CONVEX 
 TION OF CINTRA. 
 
 1808. 
 
 Not 'mid the World's vain objects that enslave 
 The free-born Soul — that World whose vaunted skil f 
 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, whence I may, 
 Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain. 
 
 COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME AND ON THE SAM 
 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 straiij 
 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 sh: 
 Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed. 
 
DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 
 
 243 
 
 HOFFER. 
 
 P mortal parents is the Hero born 
 W whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led ? 
 p is it TelFs great Spirit, from the dead 
 eturned to animate an age forlorn ? 
 je comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn 
 Tien dreary darkness is discomfited, 
 pt mark his modest state ! upon his head, 
 jiat simple crest, a heron's plume, is worn. 
 Liberty ! they stagger at the shock 
 pom van to rear — and with one mind would flee, 
 at half their host is buried : — rock on rock 
 ascends : — beneath this godlike Warrior, see ! 
 ills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock 
 le Tyrant, and confound his cruelty. 
 
 dvance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground, 
 ear Liberty ! stern Nymph of soul untamed ; 
 veet Nymph, rightly of the mountains named ! 
 irough the long chain of Alps from mound to 
 
 mound 
 
 ad o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound ; 
 ke Echo, when the hunter train at dawn 
 lave roused her from her sleep : and forest-lawn, 
 iffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound 
 ad babble of her pastime ! — On, dread Power ! 
 ith such invisible motion speed thy flight, 
 irough hanging clouds, from craggy height to 
 height, 
 
 ough the green vales and through the herds- 
 man's bower — 
 at all the Alps may gladden in thy might, 
 Te, there, and in all places at one hour. 
 
 FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE. 
 
 e Land we from our fathers had in trust, 
 ud to our children will transmit, or die : 
 iiis is our maxim, this our piety ; 
 nd God and Nature say that it is just, 
 lat which we would perform in arms — we must ! 
 ,'e read the dictate in the infant's eye ; 
 v the wife's smile ; and in the placid sky ; 
 nd, at our feet, amid the silent dust 
 I them that were before us. — Sing aloud 
 Id songs, the precious music of the heart ! 
 jive, herds and flocks, your voices to the wind ! 
 r hile we go forth, a self-devoted crowd, 
 Fith weapons grasped in fearless hands, to assert 
 jnr virtue, and to vindicate mankind. 
 
 Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 
 
 Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill ; 
 
 Or pains abstruse — to elevate the will, 
 
 And lead us on to that transcendent rest 
 
 Where every passion shall the sway attest 
 
 Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill ; 
 
 What is it but a vain and curious skill, 
 
 If sapient Germany must lie deprest, 
 
 Beneath the brutal sword ? — Her haughty Schools 
 
 Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow say, 
 
 A few strong instincts and a few plain rules, 
 
 Among the -herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought 
 
 More for mankind at this unhappy day 
 
 Than all the pride of intellect and thought ? 
 
 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 1 
 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 which without industry they find. 
 
 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 1 
 
 Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it Heaven ! 
 
 We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws 
 
 To which the triumph of all good is given, 
 
 High sacrifice, and labour without pause, 
 
 Even to the death : — else wherefore should the eye 
 
 Of man converse with immortality 1 
 k 2 
 
244 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE. 
 
 It was a moral end for which they fought ; 
 
 Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame, 
 
 Could they, poor Shepherds, have 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 control 
 
 Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul : 
 
 And when, impatient of her guilt and woes, 
 
 Europe breaks forth ; then, Shepherds ! shall ye 
 
 rise 
 For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 Invades a Realm, so pressed that 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 
 Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 fight. 
 
 A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night : 
 
 Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime, 
 
 Stand in the spacious firmament of time, 
 
 Fixed as a star : such glory is thy right. 
 
 Alas ! it may not be : for earthly fame 
 
 Is Fortune's frail dependant ; yet there lives 
 
 A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives ; 
 
 To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim, 
 
 Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed ; 
 
 In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed. 
 
 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 fives 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 Heavei; 
 
 ordain 
 That this great Servant of a righteous cause 
 Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure, 
 Yet may a sympathising spirit pause, 
 Admonished by these truths, and quench all pam 
 In thankful joy and gratulation pure*. 
 
 * See Note to Sonnet VII. page 2,17- 
 
DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 
 
 245 
 
 Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid 
 jHis vows to Fortune ; who, in cruel slight 
 I 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. 
 
 Is there a power that can sustain and cheer 
 The captive chieftain, by a tyrant's doom, 
 Forced to descend into his destined tomb — 
 A dungeon dark ! where he must waste the year, 
 And lie cut off from all his heart holds dear ; 
 What time his injured country is a stage 
 Whereon deliberate Valour and the rage 
 Df righteous Vengeance side by side appear, 
 'Filling from morn to night the heroic scene 
 jtVith deeds of hope and everlasting praise : — 
 Say can he think of this with mind serene 
 '\nd silent fetters ? Yes, if visions bright 
 l^bine on his soul, reflected from the days 
 Vhen he himself was tried in open light. 
 
 h ! where is Palafox ? Nor tongue nor pen 
 Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave ! 
 i)oes yet the unheard-of vessel ride the wave \ 
 <)v is she swallowed up, remote from ken 
 »f pitying human-nature ? Once again 
 Rethinks that we shall hail thee, Champion brave, 
 jtedeemed to baffle that imperial Slave, 
 md through all Europe cheer desponding men 
 l Vith new-born hope. Unbounded is the might 
 |)f martyrdom, and fortitude, and right, 
 jlark, how thy Country triumphs !— Smilingly 
 
 'he Eternal looks upon her sword that gleams, 
 jake his own lightning, over mountains high, 
 ,)n rampart, and the banks of all her streams. 
 
 In due observance of an ancient rite, 
 
 The rude Biscayans, when their children he 
 
 Dead in the sinless time of infancy, 
 
 Attire the peaceful corse in vestments white ; 
 
 And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright, 
 
 They bind the unoffending creature's brows 
 
 With happy garlands of the pure white rose : 
 
 Then do a festal company unite 
 
 In choral song ; and, while the uplifted cross 
 
 Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne 
 
 Uncovered to his grave : 'tis closed, — her loss 
 
 The Mother then mourns, as she needs must mourn ; 
 
 But soon, through Christian faith, is grief subdued ; 
 
 And joy returns, to brighten fortitude. 
 
 FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BISCAYAN AT ONE OF 
 THOSE FUNERALS. 
 
 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 1 
 
 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. 
 
 THE OAK OF GUERNICA. 
 
 The ancient oak of Guernica, says Laborde in his account of Biscay, 
 is a most venerable natural monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, in 
 the year 1476, after hearing mass in the church of Santa Maria de 
 la Antigua, repaired to this tree, under which they swore to the 
 Biscayans to maintain their/weros (privileges). What other interest 
 belongs to it in the minds of this people will appear from the 
 following 
 
 SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO 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 ? 
 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 I 
 Stroke merciful and welcome would that be 
 Which should extend thy branches on the ground, 
 
246 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 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. 
 
 INDIGNATION OP 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 He dead. But, when of bands 
 Which he will break for us he dares to speak, 
 Of benefits, and of a future day 
 When our enlightened minds shall bless his sway ; 
 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. 
 
 Avaunt 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 towards God. Such men of old 
 
 Were England's native growth ; and, throughout 
 
 Spain, 
 (Thanks to high God) forests of such remain : 
 Then for that Country let our hopes be bold ; 
 For matched with these shall policy prove vain, 
 Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold. 
 
 1810. 
 
 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 
 Erewhile, by solemn consecration, given 
 To labour, and to prayer, to nature, and to heaven*. 
 
 THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH GUERILLAS. 
 
 Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast 
 From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night 
 Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height— 
 These hardships ill-sustained, these 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 I 
 And thus from year to year his walk they thwart, 
 And hang like dreams around his guilty bed. 
 
 SPANISH GUERILLAS. 
 1811. 
 
 They seek, are sought ; to daily battle led, 
 Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes, 
 For they have learnt to open and to close 
 The ridges of grim war ; and at their head 
 Are captains such as erst their country bred 
 Or fostered, self-supported chiefs, — like those 
 Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose ; 
 Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled. 
 In One who lived unknown a shepherd's life 
 Redoubted Viriatus breathes again ; 
 And Mina, nourished in the studious shade, 
 With that great Leader*)* vies, who, sick of strife 
 And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid 
 In some green island of the western main. 
 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 1811. 
 The power of Armies is a visible thing, 
 Formal, and circumscribed in time and space ; 
 But who the limits of that power shall trace 
 Which a brave People into light can bring 
 
 * See Laborde's character of the Spanish people ; from 
 him the sentiment of these last two lines is taken. 
 t Sertorius. 
 
DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 
 
 247 
 
 ; )r hide, at will, — for freedom combating 
 
 3y just revenge inflamed 1 No foot may chase, 
 
 i^o eye can follow, to a fatal place 
 
 ."'hat power, that spirit, whether on the wing 
 
 jike the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind 
 
 Vithin its awful caves. — From year to year 
 
 Iprings this indigenous produce far and near : 
 
 \ T o craft this subtle element can bind, 
 
 Using like water from the soil, to find 
 
 n every nook a lip that it may cheer. 
 
 Iere pause : the poet claims at least this praise, 
 •'hat virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 
 )f his pure song, which did not shrink from hope 
 ■n the worst moment of these evil days ; 
 ■rom hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, 
 ^or its own honour, on man's suffering heart, 
 iever may from our souls one truth depart — 
 i ,'hat an accursed thing it is to gaze 
 I >n prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye ; 
 Tor — touched with due abhorrence of their guilt 
 'or whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, 
 ind justice labours in extremity — 
 'orgst thy weakness, upon which is built, 
 ! > wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 
 
 THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 
 1812—13. 
 
 Iumanity, delighting to behold 
 
 k fond reflection of her own decay, 
 
 ;Iath painted Winter like a traveller old, 
 
 topped on a staff, and, through the sullen day, 
 
 n hooded mantle, limping o'er the plain, 
 
 is though his weakness were disturbed by pain : 
 
 )r, if a juster fancy should allow 
 
 In undisputed symbol of command, 
 
 'he chosen sceptre is a withered bough, 
 
 nfirmly grasped within a palsied hand. 
 
 ?hese emblems suit the helpless and forlorn ; 
 
 But mighty Winter the device shall scorn. 
 
 'or he it was — dread Winter ! who beset, 
 "linging round van and rear his ghastly net, 
 'hat host, when from the regions of the Pole 
 i'hey shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal — 
 i.'hat host, as huge and strong a,s e'er defied 
 '-'heir God, and placed their trust in human pride ! 
 jvs fathers persecute rebellious sons, 
 le smote the blossoms of their warrior youth ; 
 
 He called on Frost's inexorable tooth 
 Life to consume in Manhood's firmest hold ; 
 Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs ; 
 For why — unless for liberty enrolled 
 And sacred home — ah ! why should hoary Age be 
 bold? 
 
 Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed, 
 But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, 
 Which from Siberian caves the Monarch freed, 
 And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind, 
 And bade the Snow their ample backs bestride, 
 
 And to the battle ride. 
 No pitying voice commands a halt, 
 No courage can repel the dire assault ; 
 Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind, 
 Whole legions sink — and, in one instant, find 
 Burial and death : look for them — and descry, 
 When morn returns, beneath the clear blue sky, 
 A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy ! 
 
 ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King ! 
 And ye mild Seasons — in a sunny clime, 
 Midway on some high hill, while father Time 
 Looks on delighted — meet in festal ring, 
 And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing ! 
 Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits, and 
 
 flowers, 
 Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers, 
 And the dire flapping of his hoary wing ! 
 Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass ; 
 With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain; 
 Whisper it to the billows of the main, 
 And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass, 
 That old decrepit Winter — He hath slain 
 That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain ! 
 
 By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 
 
 Of dreadful sacrifice ; by Russian blood 
 
 Lavished in fight with desperate hardihood ; 
 
 The unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise 
 
 To rob our Human-nature of just praise 
 
 For what she did and suffered. Pledges sure 
 
 Of a deliverance absolute and pure 
 
 She gave, if Faith might tread the beaten ways 
 
 Of Providence. But now did the Most High 
 
 Exalt his still small voice ; — to quell that Host 
 
 Gatliered his power, a manifest aUy ; 
 
 He, whose heaped waves confounded the proud boast 
 
 Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Frost, 
 
 " Finish the strife by deadliest victory ! " 
 
248 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 THE GERMANS ON THE HEIGHTS OF HOCK HE1M 
 
 Abruptly paused the strife ; — the field throughout 
 Resting upon his arms each warrior stood, 
 Checked in the very act and deed of blood, 
 With breath suspended, like a listening scout. 
 Silence ! thou wert mother of a shout 
 That through the texture of yon azure dome 
 Cleaves its glad way, a cry of harvest home 
 Uttered to Heaven in ecstasy devout ! [smoke, 
 The barrier Rhine hath flashed, through battle- 
 On men who gaze heart-smitten by the view, 
 As if all Germany had felt the shock ! 
 — Fly, wretched Gauls ! ere they the charge renew 
 Who have seen — themselves now casting off the 
 
 yoke — 
 The unconquerable Stream his course pursue. 
 
 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 then* joy or woe, 
 Insensible. He sits deprived of sight, 
 And lamentably wrapt in twofold night, 
 Whom no weak hopes deceived ; whose mind ensued, 
 Through perilous wai", 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 to embrace 
 (Though it were only for a moment's space) 
 The triumphs of this hour ; for they are Thine ! 
 
 ODE. 
 
 1814. 
 . Carmina possumus 
 
 Donare, et pretium dicere muneri. 
 Non incisa notis marmora publicis, 
 Per quas spiritus et vita redit bonis 
 Post mortem dueibus 
 
 clarius indicant 
 
 Laudes, quam Pierides; neque, 
 
 Si charts sileant quod bene feceris, 
 Mercedem tuleris. Hor. Car. 8. Lib. 4. 
 
 When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch 
 On the tired household of corporeal sense, 
 
 And Fancy, keeping unreluctant watch, 
 Was free her choicest favours to dispense ; 
 I saw, in wondrous perspective displayed, 
 A landscape more august than happiest skill 
 Of pencil ever clothed with light and shade ; 
 An intermingled pomp of vale and hill, 
 City, and naval stream, suburban grove, 
 And stately forest where the wild deer rove ; 
 Nor wanted lurking hamlet, dusky towns, 
 And scattered rural farms of aspect bright ; 
 And, here and there, between the pastoral dowoa, 
 The azure sea upswelled upon the sight. 
 Fair prospect, such as Britain only shows ! 
 But not a living creature could be seen 
 Through its wide circuit, that, in deep repose, 
 And, even to sadness, lonely and serene, 
 Lay hushed ; till — thi'ough a portal in the sky 
 Brighter than brightest loop-hole, in a storm, 
 Opening before the sun's triumphant eye — 
 Issued, to sudden view, a glorious Form ! 
 Earthward it glided with a swift descent : 
 Saint George himself this Visitant must be ; 
 And, ere a thought could ask on what intent 
 He sought the regions of humanity, 
 A thrilling voice was heard, that vivified 
 City and field and flood ; — aloud it cried — 
 
 " Though from my celestial home, 
 
 " Like a Champion, armed I come ; 
 
 " On my helm the dragon crest, 
 
 " And the red cross on my breast ; 
 
 " I, the Guardian of this Land, 
 
 " Speak not now of toilsome duty ; 
 
 " Well obeyed was that command — 
 
 " Whence bright days of festive beauty ; 
 " Haste, Virgins, haste ! — the flowers which sum- 
 mer gave 
 
 " Have perished in the field ; 
 " But the green thickets plenteously shall yield 
 
 " Fit garlands for the brave, 
 " That will be welcome, if by you entwined ; 
 " Haste, Virgins, haste ; and you, ye Matrons 
 
 grave, 
 " Go forth with rival youthfulness of mind, 
 
 " And gather what ye find 
 " Of hardy laurel and wild holly boughs — 
 " To deck your stern Defenders' modest brows ! 
 
 " Such simple gifts prepare, 
 " Though they have gained a worthier meed ; 
 
 " And in due time shall share 
 " Those palms and amaranthine wreaths 
 " Unto their martyred Countrymen decreed, 
 "In realms where everlasting freshness breathes. 
 
DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 
 
 249 
 
 And lo ! with crimson banners proudly streaming, 
 
 ad upright weapons innocently gleaming, 
 
 long the surface of a spacious plain 
 
 ivance in order the redoubted Bands, 
 
 ad there receive green chaplets from the hands 
 
 Of a fair female train — 
 
 Maids and Matrons, dight 
 
 In robes of dazzling white ; 
 I bile from the crowd bursts forth a rapturous noise 
 ! By the cloud-capt hills retorted ; 
 
 And a throng of rosy boys » 
 
 : In loose fashion tell their joys ; 
 ad grey-haired sires, on staffs supported, 
 ok round, and by their smiling seem to say, 
 ms strives a grateful Country to display 
 ie mighty debt which nothing can repay ! 
 
 lAnon before my sight a palace rose 
 jiilt of all precious substances, — so pure 
 lid exquisite, that sleep alone bestows 
 bility like splendour to endure : 
 iitered,with streaming thousands, through the gate, 
 aw the banquet spread beneath a Dome of state, 
 lofty Dome, that dared to emulate 
 le heaven of sable night 
 :ith starry lustre ; yet had power to throw 
 ijlemn effulgence, clear as solar light, 
 )on a princely company below, 
 ihile the vault rang with choral harmony, 
 te some Nymph-haunted grot beneath the roar- 
 ing sea. 
 
 o sooner ceased that peal, than on the verge 
 exultation hung a dirge 
 eathed from a soft and lonely instrument, 
 That kindled recollections 
 Of agonised affections ; 
 d, though some tears the strain attended, 
 
 The mournful passion ended 
 peace of spirit, and sublime content ! 
 
 But garlands wither ; festal shows depart, 
 <e dreams themselves ; and sweetest sound — 
 
 (Albeit of effect profound) 
 
 It was — and it is gone ! 
 storious England ! bid the silent Art 
 fleet, in glowing hues that shall not fade, 
 ose high achievements ; even as she arrayed 
 ith second life the deed of Marathon 
 
 Upon Athenian walls ; 
 
 So may she labour for thy civic halls : 
 
 And be the guardian spaces 
 
 Of consecrated places, 
 As nobly graced by Sculpture's patient toil ; 
 And let imperishable Columns rise 
 Fixed in the depths of this courageous soil ; 
 Expressive signals of a glorious strife, 
 And competent to shed a spark divine 
 Into the torpid breast of daily life ; — 
 Records on which, for pleasure of ail eyes, 
 
 The morning sun may shine 
 With gratulation thoroughly benign ! 
 
 And ye, Pierian Sisters, sprung from Jove 
 And sage Mnemosyne, — full long debarred 
 From your first mansions, exiled all too long 
 From many a hallowed stream and grove, 
 Dear native regions where ye wont to rove, 
 Chanting for patriot heroes the reward 
 
 Of never-dying song ! 
 Now (for, though Truth descending from above 
 The Olympian summit hath destroyed for aye 
 Your kindred Deities, Te live and move, 
 Spared for obeisance from perpetual love 
 For privilege redeemed of godlike sway) 
 Now, on the margin of some spotless fountain, 
 Or top serene of unmolested mountain, 
 Strike audibly the noblest of your lyres, 
 And for a moment meet the soul's desires ! 
 That I, or some more favoured Bard, may hear 
 What ye, celestial Maids ! have often sung 
 Of Britain's acts, — may catch it with rapt ear, 
 And give the treasure to our British tongue ! 
 So shall the characters of that proud page 
 Support their mighty theme from age to age ; 
 And, in the desert places of the earth, 
 When they to future empires have given birth, 
 So shall the people gather and believe 
 The bold report, transferred to every clime ; 
 And the whole world, not envious but admiring, 
 
 And to the like aspiring, 
 Own — that the progeny of this fair Isle 
 Had power as lofty actions to achieve 
 As were performed in man's heroic prime ; 
 Nor wanted, when their fortitude had held 
 Its even tenor, and the foe was quelled, 
 A corresponding virtue to beguile 
 The hostile purpose of wide- wasting Time — 
 That not in vain they laboured to secure, 
 For their great deeds, perpetual memory, 
 And fame as largely spread as land and sea, 
 By Works of spirit high and passion pure ! 
 
250 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 - 
 
 FEELINGS OF A FRENCH ROYALIST, 
 
 on the disinterment op the remains of the ddke 
 d'enghien. 
 
 Dear Reliques ! from a pit of vilest mould 
 
 Uprisen — to lodge among ancestral kings ; 
 
 And to inflict shame's salutary stings 
 
 On the remorseless hearts of men grown old 
 
 In a blind worship ; men perversely bold 
 
 Even to this hour, — yet, some shall now forsake 
 
 Their monstrous Idol if the dead e'er spake, 
 
 To warn the living ; if truth were ever told 
 
 By aught redeemed out of the hollow grave : 
 
 murdered Prince ! meek, loyal, pious, brave ! 
 
 The power of retribution once was given : 
 
 But 'tis a rueful thought that willow bands 
 
 So often tie the thunder-wielding hands 
 
 Of Justice sent to earth from highest Heaven ! 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 
 
 (The last six lines intended for an Inscription.) 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 Intrepid sons of Albion ! not by you 
 
 Is life despised ; ah no, the spacious earth 
 
 Ne'er saw a race who held, by right of birth, 
 
 So many objects to which love is due : 
 
 Ye slight not life — to God and Nature true ; 
 
 But death, becoming death, is dearer far, 
 
 When duty bids you bleed in open war : 
 
 Hence hath your prowess quelled that impious crew. 
 
 Heroes ! — for instant sacrifice prepared ; 
 
 Yet filled with ardour and on triumph bent 
 
 'Mid direst shocks of mortal accident — 
 
 To you who fell, and you whom slaughter spared 
 
 To guard the fallen, and consummate the event, 
 
 Your Country rears this sacred Monument ! 
 
 SIEGE OF VIENNA RAISED BY JOHN SOBIESKI. 
 FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 O, for a kindling touch from that pure flame 
 
 Which ministered, erewhile, to a sacrifice 
 
 Of gratitude, beneath Italian slues, 
 
 In words like these : ' Up, Voice of song ! proclaim 
 
 ' Thy saintly rapture with celestial aim : 
 
 ' For lo ! the Imperial City stands released 
 
 ' From bondage threatened by the embattled East, 
 
 ' And Christendom respires ; from guilt and shame 
 
 ' Redeemed, from miserable fear set free 
 
 ' By one day's feat, one mighty victory. 
 
 ' — Chant the Deliverer's praise in every tongue ! 
 ' The cross shall spread, the crescent hath waxed 
 
 dim; 
 ' He conquering, as in joyful Heaven is sung, 
 ' He conquering through God, and God by him *.' 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 
 FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 The Bard — whose soul is meek as dawning day, 
 Yet trained to judgments righteously severe, 
 Fervid, yet conversant with holy fear, 
 As recognising one Almighty sway : 
 He — whose experienced eye can pierce the array 
 Of past events ; to whom, in vision clear, 
 The aspiring heads of future things appear, 
 Like mountain-tops whose mists have rolled away— 
 Assoiled from all encumbrance of our time f, 
 He only, if such breathe, in strains devout 
 Shall comprehend this victory sublime ; 
 Shall worthily rehearse the hideous rout, 
 The triumph hail, which from their peaceful clime 
 Angels might welcome with a choral shout ! 
 
 Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung 
 With impious thanksgiving, the Almighty's scorn! 
 How oft above their altars have been hung 
 Trophies that led the good and wise to mourn 
 Triumphant wrong, battle of battle born, 
 And sorrow that to fruitless sorrow clung ! 
 Now, from Heaven-sanctioned victory, Peace w 
 
 sprung; 
 In this firm hour Salvation lifts her horn. 
 Glory to arms ! But, conscious that the nerve 
 Of popular reason, long mistrusted, freed 
 Your thrones, ye Powers, from duty fear to swerve! 
 Be just, be grateful ; nor, the oppressor's erf id 
 Reviving, heavier chastisement deserve 
 Than ever forced unpitied hearts to bleed. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 ODE. 
 1815. 
 I. 
 Imagination — ne'er before content, 
 But aye ascending, restless in her pride 
 From all that martial feats could yield 
 To her desires, or to her hopes present — 
 
 * See Filicaia'e Ode. 
 
 t * From all this world's encumbrance did himself assort 
 — Spenser. 
 
DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 
 
 251 
 
 '■oped to the Victory, on that Belgic field, 
 ihieved, this closing deed magnificent, 
 And with the embrace was satisfied. 
 — Fly, ministers of Fame, 
 Yth every help that ye from earth and heaven 
 may claim ! 
 
 I ir through the world these tidings of delight ! 
 
 - lours, Days, and Months, have borne them in 
 the sight 
 
 (jmortals, hurrying like a sudden shower 
 That land-ward stretches from the sea, 
 The morning's splendours to devour ; 
 
 I I this swift travel scorns the company 
 
 ( irksome change, or threats from saddening 
 power. 
 — The shock is given — the Adversaries bleed — 
 . Lo, Justice triumphs ! Earth is freed ! 
 J : ful annunciation ! — it went forth — 
 I lierced the caverns of the sluggish North — 
 
 It found no barrier on the ridge 
 CAndes — frozen gulphs became its bridge — 
 Is vast Pacific gladdens with the freight — 
 Ipn the Lakes of Asia 'tis bestowed — 
 Is Arabian desart shapes a willing road 
 
 Across her burning breast, 
 F this refreshing incense from the West ! — 
 — Where snakes and lions breed, 
 
 V ere towns and cities thick as stars appear, 
 "Vierever fruits are gathered, and where'er 
 T:> upturned soil receives the hopeful seed — 
 
 V ilethe Sun rules, and cross the shades of night — 
 T t unwearied arrow hath pursued its flight ! 
 
 Ti eyes of good men thankfully give heed, 
 And in its sparkling progress read 
 e crowned with glory's deathless meed : 
 T ants exult to hear of kingdoms won, 
 A 1 slaves are pleased to learn that mighty feats 
 are done ; 
 
 ■n the proud Realm, from whose distracted 
 borders 
 T 3 messenger of good was launched in air, 
 F nee, humbled France, amid her wild disorders, 
 I Is, and hereafter shall the truth declare, 
 T-.t she too lacks not reason to rejoice, 
 Mutter England'sname with sadly-plausive voice. 
 
 C enuine glory, pure renown ! 
 
 1 1 well might it beseem that mighty Town 
 
 I ) whose bosom earth's best treasures flow, 
 
 '1 whom all persecuted men retreat ; 
 
 L new Temple lift her votive brow 
 
 I ;h on the shore of silver Thames — to greet 
 
 The peaceful guest advancing from afar. 
 
 Bright be the Fabric, as a star 
 
 Fresh risen, and beautiful within ! — there meet 
 
 Dependence infinite, proportion just ; 
 
 A Pile that Grace approves, and Time can trust 
 
 With his most sacred wealth, heroic dust. 
 
 But if the valiant of this land 
 In reverential modesty demand, 
 That all observance, due to them, be paid 
 Where their serene progenitors are laid ; 
 Kings, warriors, high-souled poets, saint-like sages, 
 England's illustrious sons of long, long ages ; 
 Be it not unordained that solemn rites, 
 Within the circuit of those Gothic walls, 
 Shall be performed at pregnant intervals ; 
 Commemoration holy that unites 
 The living generations with the dead ; 
 By the deep soul-moving sense 
 Of religious eloquence, — 
 By visual pomp, and by the tie 
 Of sweet and threatening harmony ; 
 Soft notes, awful as the omen 
 Of destructive tempests coming, 
 And escaping from that sadness 
 Into elevated gladness ; 
 While the white-rob'd choir attendant, 
 Under mouldering banners pendant, 
 Provoke all potent symphonies to raise 
 
 Songs of victory and praise, 
 For them who bravely stood unhurt, or bled 
 With medicable wounds, or found their graves 
 Upon the battle field, or under ocean's waves ; 
 Or were conducted home in single state, 
 And long procession — there to he, 
 Where their sons' sons, and all posterity, 
 Unheard by them, then.' deeds shall celebrate ! 
 
 Nor will the God of peace and love 
 Such martial service disapprove. 
 He guides the Pestilence — the cloud 
 Of locusts travels on his breath ; 
 The region that in hope was ploughed 
 His drought consumes, his mildew taints with death ; 
 
 He springs the hushed Volcano's mine, 
 He puts the Earthquake on her still design, 
 Darkens the sun, hath bade the forest sink, 
 And, drinking towns and cities, stiU can drink 
 Cities and towns — 'tis Thou — the work is Thine ! — 
 The fierce Tornado sleeps within thy courts — 
 He hears the word — he flies — 
 And navies perish in their ports ; 
 
252 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 For Thou art angry with thine enemies ! 
 
 For these, and mourning for our errors, 
 And sins, that point their terrors, 
 We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud 
 And magnify thy name, Almighty God ! 
 
 But Man is thy most awful instrument, 
 In working out a pure intent ; 
 Thou cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling mail, 
 And for thy righteous purpose they prevail ; 
 Thine arm from peril guards the coasts 
 Of them who in thy laws delight : 
 Thy presence turns the scale of doubtful fight, 
 Tremendous God of battles, Lord of Hosts ! 
 
 Forbear : — to Thee — 
 Father and Judge of all, with fervent tongue 
 
 But in a gentler strain 
 Of contemplation, by no sense of wrong, 
 (Too quick and keen) incited to disdain 
 Of pity pleading from the heart in vain — 
 
 To Thee— To Thee 
 Just God of christianised Humanity 
 Shall praises be poured forth, and thanks ascend, 
 That thou hast brought our warfare to an end, 
 And that we need no second victory ! 
 Blest, above measure blest, 
 If on thy love our Land her hopes shall rest, 
 And all the Nations labour to fulfil 
 Thy law, and live henceforth in peace, in pure 
 
 good will. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 THE MORNING OF THE DAT APPOINTED FOR A GENERAL 
 THANKSGIVING. JANUARY 18, 1816. 
 
 Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night ! 
 Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude 
 On hearts howe'er insensible or rude ; 
 Whether thy punctual visitations smite 
 The haughty towers where monarchs dwell ; 
 Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence bright 
 Cheer'st the low threshold of the peasant's cell ! 
 Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sly 
 In naked splendour, clear from mist or haze, 
 Or cloud approaching to divert the rays, 
 Which even in deepest winter testify 
 
 Thy power and majesty, 
 Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze. 
 — Well does thine aspect usher in this Day ; 
 
 As aptly suits therewith that modest pace 
 
 Submitted to the chains 
 That bind thee to the path which God ordains 
 
 That thou shalt trace, 
 Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass awav ' 
 Nor less, the stillness of these frosty plains, 
 Their utter stillness, and the silent grace 
 Of yon ethereal summits white with snow, 
 (Whose tranquil pomp and spotless purity 
 
 Report of storms gone by 
 
 To us who tread below) 
 Do with the service of this Day accord. 
 — Divinest Object which the uplifted eye 
 Of mortal man i3 suffered to behold ; [pture' 
 Thou, who upon those snow-clad Heights ha 
 Meek lustre, nor forget'st the humble Vale ; 
 Thou who dost warm Earth's universal mould, 
 And for thy bounty wert not unadored 
 
 By pious men of old ; 
 Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee hail ! 
 Bright be thy course to-day, let not this promise fciii 
 
 
 'Mid the deep quiet of this morning hour, 
 All nature seems to hear me while I speak, 
 By feelings urged that do not vainly seek 
 Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes 
 That stream in blithe succession from the throat 1 
 
 Of birds, in leafy bower, 
 Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower. 
 — There is a radiant though a short-lived flame, 
 That burns for Poets in the dawning east ; 
 And oft my soul hath kindled at the same, 
 When the captivity of sleep had ceased ; 
 But He who fixed immoveably the frame 
 Of the round world, and built, by laws as strong, 
 
 A solid refuge for distress — 
 
 The towers of righteousness ; 
 He knows that from a holier altar came 
 The quickening spark of this day's sacrifice ; 
 Knows that the source is nobler whence doth ri- 
 
 The current of this matin song ; 
 That deeper far it lies 
 Than aught dependent on the fickle skies. 
 
 Have we not conquered ? — by the vengeful rtrw 
 Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity ; 
 That curbed the baser passions, and left free 
 A loyal band to follow their liege Lord 
 Clear-sighted Honour, and his staid Compeers, 
 Along a track of most unnatural years ; 
 In execution of heroic deeds 
 Whose memory, spotless as the crystal beads 
 
THANKSGIVING ODE. 
 
 253 
 
 morning dew upon the untrodden meads, 
 all live enrolled above the starry spheres. 
 , who in concert with an earthly string 
 Of Britain's acts would sing, 
 He with enraptured voice will tell 
 
 ■ One whose spirit no reverse could quell ; 
 
 ■ One that mid the failing never failed — 
 
 ' ho paints how Britain struggled and prevailed 
 ,' all represent her labouring 'with an eye 
 
 Of circumspect humanity ; 
 ;;all show her clothed with strength and skill, 
 
 All martial duties to fulfil ; 
 ] -m as a rock in stationary fight ; 
 ] motion rapid as the lightning's gleam ; 
 hrce as a flood-gate bursting at mid night 
 
 rouse the wicked from their giddy dream — 
 ')e, woe to all that face her in the field ! 
 I palled she may not be, and cannot yield. 
 
 And thus is missed the sole true glory 
 
 That can belong to human story ! 
 
 At which they only shall arrive 
 
 Who through the abyss of weakness dive. 
 1 i very humblest are too proud of heart ; 
 
 1 one brief day is rightly set apart 
 L' Him who lifteth up and layeth low ; 
 I' that Almighty God to whom we owe, 
 £' not that we have vanquished — but that we 
 survive. 
 
 3ow dreadful the dominion of the impure ! 
 fcy should the Song be tardy to proclaim 
 -'at less than power unbounded could not tame 
 jbt soul of Evil — which, from hell let loose, 
 1 d filled the astonished world with such abuse 
 
 - boundless patience only could endure ? 
 
 - Vide- wasted regions — cities wrapt in flame — 
 1 10 sees, may lift a streaming eye 
 
 ■> Heaven ; — who never saw, may heave a sigh ; 
 J t the foundation of our nature shakes, 
 i|d with an infinite pain the spirit aches, 
 A ten desolated countries, towns on fire, 
 
 Are but the avowed attire 
 I warfare waged with desperate mind 
 •ainst the life of virtue in mankind ; 
 
 Assaulting without ruth 
 
 The citadels of truth ; 
 ^lile the fair gardens of civility, 
 
 By ignorance defaced, 
 
 By violence laid waste, 
 Irish without reprieve for flower or tree ! 
 
 A crouching purpose — a distracted will — 
 Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn, 
 And to desires whose ever- waxing horn 
 Not all the light of earthly power could fill ; 
 Opposed to dark, deep plots of patient skill, 
 And to celerities of lawless force ; 
 Which, spurning God, had flung away remorse — 
 What could they gain but shadows of redress ? 
 — So bad proceeded propagating worse ; 
 And discipline was passion's dire excess. 
 Widens the fatal web, its fines extend, 
 And deadlier poisons in the chalice blend. 
 When will your trials teach you to be wise ? 
 — prostrate Lands, consult your agonies ! 
 
 No more — the guilt is banish'd, 
 And, with the guilt, the shame is fled ; 
 And, with the guilt and shame, the Woe hath 
 
 vanish'd, 
 Shaking the dust and ashes from her head ! 
 — No more — these fingerings of distress 
 Sully the limpid stream of thankfulness. 
 What robe can Gratitude employ 
 So seemly as the radiant vest of Joy ? 
 What steps so suitable as those that move 
 In prompt obedience to spontaneous measures 
 Of glory, and felicity, and love, 
 Surrendering the whole heart to sacred pleasures ? 
 
 Britain ! dearer far than life is dear, 
 If one there be 
 Of all thy progeny 
 Who can forget thy prowess, never more 
 Be that ungrateful Son allowed to hear 
 Thy green leaves rustle or thy torrents roar. 
 As springs the lion from his den, 
 As from a forest-brake 
 Upstarts a glistering snake, 
 The bold Arch-despot re-appeared ; — again 
 Wide Europe heaves, impatient to be cast, 
 With all her armed Powers, 
 On that offensive soil, bike waves upon a 
 thousand shores. 
 The trumpet blew a universal blast ! 
 But Thou art foremost in the field : — there stand : 
 Receive the triumph destined to thy hand ! 
 All States have glorified themselves ; — their claims 
 Are weighed by Providence, in balance even ; 
 
254 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 And now, in preference to the mightiest names, 
 To Thee the exterminating sword is given. 
 Dread mark of approbation, justly gained ! 
 Exalted office, worthily sustained ! 
 
 Preserve, Lord ! within our hearts 
 
 The memory of thy favour, 
 
 That else insensibly departs, 
 
 And loses its sweet savour ! 
 Lodge it within us ! — as the power of light 
 Lives inexhaustibly in precious gems, 
 Fixed on the front of Eastern diadems, 
 So shine our thankfulness for ever bright ! 
 What offering, what transcendent monument 
 Shall our sincerity to Thee present ? 
 — Not work of hands; but trophies that may 
 
 reach 
 To highest Heaven — the labour of the Soul ; 
 That builds, as thy unerring precepts teach, 
 Upon the internal conquests made by each, 
 Her hope of lasting glory for the whole. 
 Yet will not heaven disown nor earth gainsay 
 The outward service of this day ; 
 Whether the worshippers entreat 
 Forgiveness from God's mercy-seat ; 
 Or thanks and praises to His throne ascend 
 That He has brought our warfare to an end, 
 
 And that we need no second victory ! 
 
 Ha ! what a ghastly sight for man to see ; 
 And to the heavenly saints in peace who dwell, 
 
 For a brief moment, terrible ; 
 But, to thy sovereign penetration, fair, 
 Before whom all things are, that were, 
 All judgments that have been, or e'er shall be ; 
 Links in the chain of thy tranquillity ! 
 Along the bosom of this favoured Nation, 
 Breathe Thou, this day, a vital undulation ! 
 Let all who do this land inherit 
 Be conscious of thy moving spirit ! 
 Oh, 'tis a goodly Ordinance, — the sight, 
 Though sprung from bleeding war, is one of pure 
 
 delight ; 
 Bless Thou the hour, or ere the hour arrive, 
 When a whole people shall kneel down in prayer, 
 And, at one moment, in one rapture, strive 
 With lip and heart to tell their gratitude 
 For thy protecting care, 
 
 Their solemn joy — praising the Eternal Lord 
 
 For tyranny subdued, 
 And for the sway of equity renewed, 
 For liberty confirmed, and peace restored ! 
 
 But hark — the summons ! — down the placid lak. 
 Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells ; 
 Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams would wak 
 The tender insects sleeping in their cells ; 
 Bright shines the Sun — and not a breeze to shak 
 The drops that tip the melting icicles. 
 
 0, enter now his temple gate ! 
 Inviting words — perchance already flung 
 (As the crowd press devoutly down the aisle 
 Of some old Minster's venerable pile) 
 From voices into zealous passion stung, 
 While the tubed engine feels the inspiring blast, 
 And has begun — its clouds of sound to cast 
 
 Forth towards empyreal Heaven, ' 
 
 As if the fretted roof were riven. 
 Us, humbler ceremonies now await ; 
 But in the bosom, with devout respect 
 The banner of our joy we will erect, 
 And strength of love our souls shall elevate : 
 For to a few collected in his name, 
 Their heavenly Father will incline an ear 
 Gracious to service hallowed by its aim ; — 
 Awake ! the majesty of God revere ! 
 
 Go — and with foreheads meekly bowed 
 Present your prayers — go — and rejoice aloud— 
 
 The Holy One will hear ! 
 And what, 'mid silence deep, with faith sincere, 
 Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate, 
 Shall simply feel and purely meditate — 
 •Of warnings — from the unprecedented might, 
 Which, in our time, the impious have disclosed ; 
 And of more arduous duties thence imposed 
 Upon the future advocates of right ; 
 Of mysteries revealed, 
 And judgments unrepealed, 
 Of earthly revolution, 
 And final retribution, — 
 
 To his omniscience will appear 
 An offering not unworthy to find place, 
 On this high Day of Thanks, before the Thro 
 of Grace ! 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 255 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 1820. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 (sent with these POEMS, IN MS., TO ). 
 
 )ear Fellow-travellers ! think not that the Muse, 
 
 'o You presenting these memorial Lays, 
 
 lan hope the general eye thereon would gaze, 
 
 lS on a mirror that gives back the hues 
 
 ;>f living Nature ; no — though free to choose 
 
 .'he greenest bowers, the most inviting ways, 
 
 i'he fairest landscapes and the brightest days— 
 
 Rvdal Mount, Nov. 1821. 
 
 FISH-WOMEN. — ON LANDING AT CALAIS. 
 
 ' s said, fantastic ocean doth enfold 
 
 '.ie likeness of whate'er on land is seen ; 
 
 It, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen, 
 
 .|ove whose heads the tide so long hath rolled, 
 
 Ie Dames resemble whom we here behold, 
 
 l|w fearful were it down through opening waves 
 
 9 sink, and meet them in their fretted caves, 
 
 1 thered, grotesque, immeasurably old, 
 
 j,& shrill and fierce in accent ! — Fear it not : 
 
 lie they Earth's fairest daughters do excel ; 
 
 Ire undecaying beauty is their lot ; 
 
 Oeir voices into liquid music swell, 
 
 'rilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot, 
 
 '■ 3 undisturbed abodes where Sea-nymphs dwell ! 
 
 BRUGES. 
 
 Iuges I saw attired with golden light 
 ( reamed from the west) as with a robe of power : 
 ' e splendour fled ; and now the sunless hour, 
 r at, slowly making way for peaceful night, 
 nt suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight 
 
 < era the beauty, the magnificence, 
 Id sober graces, left her for defence 
 ' ainst the injuries of time, the spite 
 
 < fortune, and the desolating storms 
 •ifuture war. Advance not — spare to hide, 
 gentle Power of darkness ! these mild hues ; 
 
 < scure not yet these silent avenues 
 
 * stateliest architecture, where the Forms 
 (.nun-like females, with soft motion, glide ! 
 
 Her skill she tried with less ambitious views. 
 For You she wrought : Ye only can supply 
 The life, the truth, the beauty : she confides 
 In that enjoyment which with You abides, 
 Trusts to your love and vivid memory ; 
 Thus far contented, that for You her verse 
 Shall lack not power the ' meeting soul to pierce ! ' 
 
 W. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The Spirit of Antiquity — enshrined 
 
 In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, 
 
 In picture, speaking with heroic tongue, 
 
 And with devout solemnities entwined — 
 
 Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind : 
 
 Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along, 
 
 Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng, 
 
 To an harmonious decency confined : 
 
 As if the streets were consecrated ground, 
 
 The city one vast temple, dedicate 
 
 To mutual respect in thought and deed ; 
 
 To leisure, to forbearances sedate ; 
 
 To social cares from jarring passions freed ; 
 
 A deeper peace than that in deserts found ! 
 
 INCIDENT AT BRUGES. 
 
 In Bruges town is many a street 
 
 Whence busy life hath fled ; 
 Where, without hurry, noiseless feet, 
 
 The grass-grown pavement tread. 
 There heard we, halting in the shade 
 
 Flung from a Convent-tower, 
 A harp that tuneful prelude made 
 
 To a voice of thrilling power. 
 
256 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 The measure, simple truth to tell, 
 
 Was fit for some gay throng ; 
 Though from the same grim turret fell 
 
 The shadow and the song. 
 When silent were both voice and chords, 
 
 The strain seemed doubly dear, 
 Yet sad as sweet, — for English words 
 
 Had fallen upon the ear. 
 
 It was a breezy hour of eve ; 
 
 And pinnacle and spire v 
 
 Quivered and seemed almost to heave, 
 
 Clothed with innocuous fire ; 
 But, where we stood, the setting sun 
 
 Showed little of his state ; 
 And, if the glory reached the Nun, 
 
 'Twas through an iron grate. 
 
 Not always is the heart unwise, 
 
 Nor pity idly born, 
 If even a passing Stranger sighs 
 
 For them who do not mourn. 
 Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 
 
 Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 
 Oh ! what is beauty, what is love, 
 
 And opening fife to thee ? 
 
 Such feeling pressed upon my soul, 
 
 A feeling sanctified 
 By one soft trickling tear that stole 
 
 From the Maiden at my side ; 
 Less tribute could she pay than this, 
 
 Borne gaily o'er the sea, 
 Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 
 
 Of English liberty ? 
 
 AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 A winged Goddess — clothed in vesture wrought 
 Of rainbow colours ; One whose port was bold, 
 Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold 
 The glittering crowns and garlands which 
 
 brought — 
 Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot. 
 She vanished ; leaving prospect blank and cold 
 Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled 
 In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot, 
 And monuments that soon must disappear : 
 Yet a dread local recompence we found ; 
 While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot-zeal 
 Sank in our hearts, we felt as men should feel 
 With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near, 
 And horror breathing from the silent ground ! 
 
 it 
 
 BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE. 
 
 What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose! 
 Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and plains, 
 War's favourite playground, are with crimson stains 
 Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews 1 
 The Morn, that now, along the silver Mecse, 
 Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains 
 To tend their silent boats and ringing wains, 
 Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews 
 The ripening com beneath it. As mine eyes 
 Turn from the fortified and threatening hill, 
 How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade, 
 With its grey rocks clustering in pensive shade — 
 That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise 
 From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still ! 
 
 VII. 
 AIX-LA-CHAPELLE. 
 
 Was it to disenchant, and to undo, 
 That we approached the Seat of Charlemaine? 
 To sweep from many an old romantic strain 
 That faith which no devotion may renew ! 
 Why does this puny Church present to view 
 Her feeble columns ? and that scanty chair ! 
 This sword that one of our weak times might wear i 
 Objects of false pretence, or meanly true ! 
 If from a traveller's fortune I might claim 
 A palpable memorial of that day, 
 Then would I seek the Pyrenean Breach 
 That Roland clove with huge two-handed sway, 
 And to the enormous labour left his name, 
 Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach 
 
 IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. 
 
 for the help of Angels to complete 
 This Temple — Angels governed by a plan 
 Thus far pursued (how gloriously !) by Man, 
 Studious that He might not disdain the seat 
 Who dwells in heaven ! But that aspiring heat 
 Hath failed ; and now, ye Powers ! whose gorgeou 
 
 wings 
 And splendid aspect yon emblazonings 
 But faintly picture, 'twere an office meet 
 For you, on these unfinished shafts to try 
 The midnight virtues of your harmony : — 
 This vast design might tempt you to repeat 
 Strains that call forth upon empyreal ground 
 Immortal Fabrics, rising to the sound 
 Of penetrating harps and voices sweet ! 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 N A CARRIAGE, UPON THE BANKS OF THE RHINE. 
 
 Amid this dance of objects sadness steals 
 
 i3'er the defrauded heart — while sweeping by, 
 
 As in a fit of Thespian jollity, 
 
 Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green Earth reels : 
 
 Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels 
 
 The venerable pageantry of Time, 
 
 Each beetling rampart, and each tower sublime, 
 
 A.nd what the Dell unwillingly reveals 
 
 Df lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied 
 
 ^ear the bright River's edge. Yet why repine 1 
 
 To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze — 
 
 such sweet way-faring — of life's spring the pride, 
 
 Her summer's faithful joy — that still is mine, 
 
 And in fit measure cheers autumnal days. 
 
 HYMN, 
 
 i.'OR THE BOATMEN, AS THEY APPROACH THE RAP 
 UNDER THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. 
 
 Jesu ! bless our slender Boat, 
 
 By the current swept along ; 
 Loud its threatenings — let them not 
 
 Drown the music of a song 
 Breathed thy mercy to implore, 
 Where these troubled waters roar ! 
 
 Saviour, for our warning, seen 
 Bleeding on that precious Rood ; 
 
 If, while through the meadows green 
 Gently wound the peaceful flood, 
 
 We forgot Thee, do not Thou 
 
 Disregard thy Suppliants now ! 
 
 Hither, like yon ancient Tower 
 Watching o'er the River's bed, 
 
 Fling the shadow of thy power, 
 Else we sleep among the dead ; 
 
 Thou who trod'st the billowy sea, 
 
 Shield us in our jeopardy ! 
 
 Guide our Bark among the waves ; 
 
 Through the rocks our passage smooth ; 
 Where the whirlpool frets and raves 
 
 Let thy love its anger soothe : 
 All our hope is placed in Thee ; 
 Miserere Domine * ! 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE. 
 
 Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly 
 
 Doth Danube spring to fife * ! The wandering 
 
 Stream 
 (Who loves the Cross, yet to the Crescent's gleam 
 Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee 
 Slips from his prison walls : and Fancy, free 
 To follow in his track of silver light, 
 Mounts on rapt wing, and with a moment's flight 
 Hath reached the encincture of that gloomy sea 
 Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbad to meet 
 In conflict ; whose rough winds forgot their jars 
 To waft the heroic progeny of Greece ; 
 When the first Ship sailed for the Golden Fleece — 
 Argo — exalted for that daring feat 
 To fix in heaven her shape distinct with stars. 
 
 ON APPROACHING THE STAUB-BACH, LAUTERBRUNNEN. 
 
 Uttered by whom, or how inspired^-designed 
 
 For what strange service, does this concert reach 
 
 Our ears, and near the dwellings of mankind ! 
 
 Mid fields familiarized to human speech ? — 
 
 No Mermaids warble — to allay the wind 
 
 Driving some vessel toward a dangerous beach — 
 
 More thrilling melodies ; Witch answering Witch, 
 
 To chant a love-spell, never intertwined 
 
 Notes shrill and wild with art more musical : 
 
 Alas ! that from the lips of abject Want 
 
 Or Idleness in tatters mendicant 
 
 The strain should flow— free Fancy to enthral, 
 
 And with regret and useless pity haunt 
 
 This bold, this bright, this sky-born, Waterfall +! 
 
 THE FALL OF THE AAR HANDEC. 
 
 From the fierce aspect of this River, throwing 
 His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink, 
 Back in astonishment and fear we shrink : 
 But, gradually a calmer look bestowing, 
 Flowers we espy beside the torrent growing ; 
 Flowers that peep forth from many a cleft and 
 
 chink, 
 And, from the whirlwind of his anger, drink 
 Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing : 
 They suck — from breath that, threatening to 
 
 destroy, 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 t See Note. 
 
258 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Is more benignant than the dewy eve — 
 
 I love, where spreads the village lawn, 
 
 Beauty, and life, and motions as of joy : 
 
 Upon some knee- worn cell to gaze : 
 
 Nor doubt but He to whom yon Pine-trees nod 
 
 Hail to the firm unmoving cross, 
 
 Their heads in sign of worship, Nature's God, 
 
 Aloft, where pines their branches toss ! 
 
 These humbler adorations will receive. 
 
 And to the chapel far withdrawn, 
 
 
 That lurks by lonely ways ! 
 Where'er we roam — along the brink 
 
 
 
 Of Rhine — or by the sweeping Po, 
 
 
 Through Alpine vale, or champain wide, 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Whate'er we look on, at our side 
 
 MEMORIAL, 
 
 Be Charity ! — to bid us think, 
 
 
 And feel, if we would know. 
 
 NEAB THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF THDN. 
 
 
 'DEM 
 
 
 ANDENKEN 
 
 
 MEINES FREVNDES 
 
 
 AZOYS BEDING 
 
 
 MDCCCXriU.' 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was Captain- 
 
 AFTER-THOUGHT. 
 
 General of the Swiss forces, which, with a courage 
 
 
 and perseverance worthy of the cause, opposed the 
 
 Oh Life ! without thy chequered scene 
 
 flagitious and too successful attempt of Buonaparte 
 
 Of right and wrong, of weal and woe, 
 
 to subjugate their country. 
 
 Success and failure, could a ground 
 
 Around a wild and woody hill 
 
 For magnanimity be found ; 
 
 A gravelled pathway treading, 
 
 For faith, 'mid ruined hopes, serene ? 
 
 We reached a votive Stone that bears 
 
 Or whence could virtue flow ? 
 
 The name of Aloys Reding. 
 
 Pain entered through a ghastly breach — 
 
 
 Nor while sin lasts must effort cease ; 
 
 Well judged the Friend who placed it there 
 For silence and protection ; 
 
 Heaven upon earth 's an empty boast ; 
 
 But, for the bowers of Eden lost, 
 
 And haply with a finer care 
 Of dutiful affection. 
 
 
 Mercy has placed within our reach 
 
 
 A portion of God's peace. 
 
 The Sun regards it from the West ; 
 
 
 And, while in summer glory 
 
 
 He sets, his sinking yields a type 
 
 
 Of that pathetic story : 
 
 XVII. 
 
 
 SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ. 
 
 And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss 
 
 ' What know we of the Blest above 
 
 Amid the grove to linger ; 
 
 But that they sing and that they love ?' 
 
 Till all is dim, save this bright Stone 
 
 Yet, if they ever did inspire 
 
 Touched by his golden finger. 
 
 A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir, 
 
 
 Now, where those harvest Damsels float 
 
 
 Homeward in their rugged Boat, 
 (While all the ruffling winds are fled — 
 
 
 
 Each slumbering on some mountain' s head) 
 
 XV. 
 
 Now, surely, hath that gracious aid 
 
 
 Been felt, that influence is displayed. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS. 
 
 
 Pupils of Heaven, in order stand 
 
 Doomed as we are our native dust 
 
 The rustic Maidens, every hand 
 
 To wet with many a bitter shower, 
 
 Upon a Sister's shoulder laid, — 
 
 It ill befits us to disdain 
 
 To chant, as glides the boat along, 
 
 The altar, to deride the fane, 
 
 A simple, but a touching, song ; 
 
 Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust 
 
 To chant, as Angels do above, 
 
 To win a happier hour. 
 
 The melodies of Peace in love ! 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 259 
 
 ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS*. 
 
 For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes 
 I The work of Fancy from her willing hands ; 
 And such a beautiful creation makes 
 As renders needless spells and magic wands, 
 And for the boldest tale belief commands. 
 SVhen first mine eyes beheld that famous Hill 
 The sacred Engelberg, celestial Bands, 
 With intermingling motions soft and still, 
 Jung round its top, on wings that changed their 
 hues at will. 
 
 Olouds do not name those Visitants ; they were 
 Che very Angels whose authentic lays, 
 '5ung from that heavenly ground in middle air, 
 tfade known the spot where piety should raise 
 i. holy Structure to the Almighty's praise. 
 Resplendent Apparition ! if in vain 
 ,ily ears did listen, 'twas enough to gaze ; 
 iind watch the slow departure of the train, 
 Vhose skirts the glowing Mountain thirsted to 
 detain. 
 
 OUR LADY OF THE SNOW. 
 
 Meek Virgin Mother, more benign 
 Than fairest Star, upon the height 
 Of thy own mountain f, set to keep 
 Lone vigils through the hours of sleep, 
 What eye can look upon thy shrine 
 Untroubled at the sight ? 
 
 These crowded offerings as they hang 
 In sign of misery relieved, 
 Even these, without intent of theirs, 
 Report of comfortless despairs, 
 Of many a deep and cureless pang 
 And confidence deceived. 
 
 To Thee, in this aerial cleft, 
 As to a common centre, tend 
 All sufferers that no more rely 
 On mortal succour — all who sigh 
 And pine, of human hope bereft, 
 Nor wish for earthly friend. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 t Mount Righi. 
 
 And hence, Virgin Mother mild ! 
 Though plenteous flowers around thee blow, 
 Not only from the dreary strife 
 Of Winter, but the storms of life, 
 Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled, 
 Our Lady of the Snow. 
 
 Even for the Man who stops not here, 
 But down the irriguous valley hies, 
 Thy very name, Lady ! flings, 
 O'er blooming fields and gushing springs 
 A tender sense of shadowy fear, 
 And chastening sympathies ! 
 
 Nor falls that intermingling shade 
 To summer-gladsomeness unkind : 
 It chastens only to requite 
 With gleams of fresher, purer, light ; 
 While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade, 
 More sweetly breathes the wind. 
 
 But on ! — a tempting downward way, 
 A verdant path before us lies ; 
 Clear shines the glorious sun above ; 
 Then give free course to joy and love, 
 Deeming the evil of the day 
 Sufficient for the wise. 
 
 EFFUSION, 
 
 IN PKESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWER OF TELL, 
 AT ALTORF. 
 
 This Tower stands upon the spot where grew the Linden 
 Tree against which his Son is said to have been placed, 
 when the Father's archery was put to proof under cir- 
 cumstances so famous in Swiss Story. 
 
 What though the Italian pencil wrought not here, 
 Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow 
 On Marathonian valour, yet the tear 
 Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show, 
 While narrow cares their limits overflow. 
 Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors old, 
 Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go 
 Home-ward or school-ward, ape what ye behold ; 
 Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold ! 
 
 And when that calm Spectatress from on high 
 
 Looks down — the bright and solitary Moon, 
 
 Who never gazes but to beautify ; 
 
 And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon 
 
 Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune 
 
 That fosters peace, and gentleness recals ; 
 s2 
 
260 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 - 
 
 Tlien might the passing Monk receive a hoon 
 Of saintly pleasure from these pictured walls, 
 While, on the warlike groups, the mellowing lustre 
 falls. 
 
 How hlest the souls who when their trials come 
 Yield not to terror or despondency, 
 But face like that sweet Boy their mortal doom, 
 Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he 
 Expectant stands beneath the linden tree : 
 He quakes not like the timid forest game, 
 But smiles — the hesitating shaft to free ; 
 Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim, 
 And to his Father give its own unerring aim. 
 
 THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ. 
 
 By antique Fancy trimmed — though lowly, bred 
 
 To dignity — in thee, O Schwytz ! are seen 
 
 The genuine features of the golden mean ; 
 
 Equality by Prudence governed, 
 
 Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead ; 
 
 And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, serene 
 
 As that of the sweet fields and meadows green 
 
 In unambitious compass round thee spread. 
 
 Majestic Berne, high on her guardian steep, 
 
 Holding a central station of command, 
 
 Might well be styled this noble body's Head ; 
 
 Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrenchments deep, 
 
 Its Heart ; and ever may the heroic Land 
 
 Thy name, O Schwytz, in happy freedom keep * ! 
 
 ON HEARING THE " RANZ DES VACHES " ON THE TOP 
 OF THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. 
 
 I listen — but no faculty of mine 
 
 Avails those modulations to detect, 
 
 Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect 
 
 With tenderest passion ; leaving him to pine 
 
 (So fame reports) and die, — his sweet-breath'd 
 
 kine 
 Remembering, and green Alpine pastures decked 
 With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject 
 The tale as fabulous. — Here while I recline, 
 Mindful how others by this simple Strain 
 
 * Nearly 500 years (says Ebel, speaking of the French 
 Invasion,) had elapsed, when, for the first time, foreign 
 soldiers were seen upon the frontiers of this small Canton, 
 to impose upon it the laws of their governors. 
 
 Are moved, for me — upon this Mountain named 
 Of God himself from dread pre-eminence — 
 Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed, 
 Yield to the Music's touching influence ; 
 And joys of distant home my heart enchain. 
 
 FORT FUENTES. 
 
 The Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of a rock; 
 eminence that rises from the plain at the head of the lak 
 of Como, commanding views up the Valteline, and towan 
 the town of Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter directioi 
 is characterised by melancholy sublimity. We rejoice 
 at being favoured with a distinct view of those Alpin 
 heights ; not, as we had expected from the breaking up o 
 the storm, steeped in celestial glory, yet in communioi 
 wi th clouds floating or stationary — scatterings from heaver 
 The Ruin is interesting hoth in mass and in detiiil. Ai 
 Inscription, upon elaborately-sculptured marhle lying 01 
 the ground, records that the Fort had been erected b 
 Count Fuentes in the year 1(500, during the reign of Phili 
 the Third; and the Chapel, about twenty years after, b 
 one of his Descendants. Marble pillars of gateway! &r 
 yet standing, and a considerable part of the Chapel walls 
 a smooth green turf has taken place of the pavement, an 
 we could see no trace of altar or image ; hut evcrywher, 
 something to remind one of former splendour, and ( 
 devastation and tumult. In our ascent we had passei 
 abundance of wild vines intermingled with bushes : ne« 
 the ruins were some ill tended, but growing willingly 
 and rock, turf, and fragments of the pile, are alike coverc 
 or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which tl 
 rose-coloured pink was growing in great beauty. Wlii! 
 descending, we discovered on the ground, apart from tl 
 path, and at a considerable distancefrom the ruined Chape 
 a statue of a Child in pure white marhle, uninjured by tl 
 explosion that had driven it so far down the hill. "Ho 
 little," we exclaimed, "are these things valued hen 
 Could we hut transport this pretty Image to our on 
 garden ! " — Yet it seemed it would have been a pity any oi 
 should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, wbk 
 may be its own for hundreds of years.— Extract /n 
 Journal. 
 
 Dread hour ! when, upheaved by war's sulphuroi 
 blast, 
 
 This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian stone 
 So far from the holy enclosure was cast, 
 
 To couch in this thicket of brambles alone, 
 
 To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm 
 Of his half-open hand pure from blemish orspeel 
 
 And the green, gilded snake, without troubling tl 
 calm 
 Of the beautiful countenance, twine round his nee 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 261 
 
 ;Vhere haply (kind service to Piety due !) 
 ■ When winter the grove of its mantle bereaves, 
 '■Some bird (like our own honoured redbreast) may 
 strew 
 The desolate Slumberer with moss and with leaves. 
 
 "uentes once harboured the good and the brave, 
 i Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure unknown ; 
 ;Ier banners for festal enjoyment did wave 
 1 While the thrill of her fifes thro' the mountains 
 was blown : 
 
 hw gads the wild vine o'er the pathless ascent ; — 
 silence of Nature, how deep is thy sway, 
 
 Vhen the whMwind of human destruction is spent, 
 Our tumults appeased, and our strifes passed away ! 
 
 HE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN FROM THE 
 LAKE OF LUGANO. 
 
 his Church was almost destroyed by lightning a few years 
 ago, but the altar and the image of the Patron Saint 
 were untouched. The Mount, upon the summit of 
 which the Church is built, stands amid the intricacies 
 of the Lake of Lugano ; and is, from a hundred points 
 of view, its principal ornament, rising to the height of 
 2000 feet-, and, on one side, nearly perpendicular. The 
 ascent is toilsome ; but the traveller who performs it 
 will be amply rewarded. Splendid fertility, rich woods 
 and dazzling waters, seclusion and confinement of view 
 contrasted with sea-like extent of plain fading into the 
 sky ; and this again, in an opposite quarter, with an 
 horizon of the loftiest and boldest Alps — unite in com- 
 posing a prospect more diversified by magnificence, 
 beauty, and sublimity, than perhaps any other point 
 in Europe, of so inconsiderable an elevation, commands. 
 
 ; Thou sacred Pile ! whose turrets rise 
 ! From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage, 
 f Guarded by lone San Salvador ; 
 ; Sink (if thou must) as heretofore, 
 i To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice, 
 
 iBut ne'er to human rage ! 
 On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned 
 To rest the universal Lord : 
 ' Why leap the fountains from their cells 
 1 Where everlasting Bounty dwells ? — 
 
 iThat, while the Creature is sustained, 
 His God may be adored. 
 Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times — 
 | Let all remind the soul of heaven ; 
 Our slack devotion needs them all ; 
 And Faith— so oft of sense the thrall, 
 
 While she, by aid of Nature, climbs — 
 May hope to be forgiven. 
 
 Glory, and patriotic Love, 
 
 And all the Pomps of this frail < spot 
 
 Which men call Earth,' have yearned to seek, 
 
 Associate with the simply meek, 
 
 Religion in the sainted grove, 
 
 And in the hallowed grot. 
 
 Thither, in time of adverse shocks, 
 Of fainting hopes and backward wills, 
 Did mighty Tell repair of old — 
 A Hero cast in Nature's mould, 
 Deliverer of the stedfast rocks 
 And of the ancient hills ! 
 
 He, too, of battle-martyrs chief ! 
 Who, to recal his daunted peers, 
 For victory shaped an open space, 
 By gathering with a wide embrace, 
 Into his single breast, a sheaf 
 Of fatal Austrian spears *. 
 
 THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE SWISS GOATHERD. 
 PART I. 
 r. 
 Now that the farewell tear is dried, 
 Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide ! 
 Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy ; 
 The wages of thy travel, joy ! 
 Whether for London bound — to trill 
 Thy mountain notes with simple skill ; 
 Or on thy head to poise a show 
 Of Images in seemly row ; 
 The graceful form of milk-white Steed, 
 Or Bird that soared with Ganymede ; 
 Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear 
 The sightless Milton, with his hair 
 Around his placid temples curled ; 
 And Shakspeare at his side — a freight, 
 If clay could think and mind were weight, 
 For him who bore the world ! 
 Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy j 
 The wages of thy travel, joy ! 
 
 * Arnold Winkelried, at the battle of Sempacb, broke 
 an Austrian phalanx in this manner. The event is one of 
 the most famous in the annals of Swiss heroism; and 
 pictures and prints of it are frequent throughout the 
 country. 
 
262 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 But thou, perhaps, (alert as free 
 
 Though serving sage philosophy) 
 
 Wilt ramble over hill and dale, 
 
 A Vender of the well- wrought Scale, 
 
 Whose sentient tube instructs to time 
 
 A purpose to a fickle clime : 
 
 Whether thou choose this useful part, 
 
 Or minister to finer art, 
 
 Though robbed of many a cherished dream, 
 
 And crossed by many a shattered scheme, 
 
 What stirring wonders wilt thou see 
 
 In the proud Isle of liberty ! 
 
 Yet will the Wanderer sometimes pine 
 
 With thoughts which no delights can chase, 
 
 Recal a Sister's last embrace, 
 
 His Mother's neck entwine ; 
 
 Nor shall forget the Maiden coy 
 
 That xoonld have loved the bright-haired Boy ! 
 
 My Song, encouraged by the grace 
 
 That beams from his ingenuous face, 
 
 For this Adventurer scruples not 
 
 To prophesy a golden lot ; 
 
 Due recompence, and safe return 
 
 To Como's steeps — : his happy bourne ! 
 
 Where he, aloft in garden glade, 
 
 Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid, 
 
 The towering maize, and prop the twig 
 
 That ill supports the luscious fig ; 
 
 Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof 
 
 With purple of the trellis-roof, 
 
 That through the jealous leaves escapes 
 
 From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes. 
 
 — Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child 
 
 To share his wanderings ! him whose look 
 
 Even yet my heart can scarcely brook, 
 
 So touchingly he smiled — 
 
 As with a rapture caught from heaven — 
 
 For unasked alms in pity given. 
 
 With nodding plumes, and lightly drest 
 Like foresters in leaf-green vest, 
 The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground 
 For Tell's dread archery renowned, 
 Before the target stood — to claim 
 The guerdon of the steadiest aim. 
 Loud was the rifle-gun's report — 
 A startling thunder quick and short ! 
 
 But, flying through the heights around, 
 Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound 
 Of hearts and hands alike ' prepared 
 The treasures they enjoy to guard !' 
 And, if there be a favoured hour 
 When Heroes are allowed to quit 
 The tomb, and on the clouds to sit 
 With tutelary power, 
 On their Descendants shedding grace — 
 This was the hour, and that the place. 
 
 n. 
 But Truth inspired the Bards of old 
 When of an iron age they told, 
 Which to unequal laws gave birth, 
 And drove Astraea from the earth. 
 — A gentle Boy (perchance with blood 
 As noble as the best endued, 
 But seemingly a Thing despised ; 
 Even by the sun and air unprized ; 
 For not a tinge or flowery streak 
 Appeared upon Ms tender cheek) 
 Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes, 
 Apart, beside his silent goats, 
 Sate watching in a forest shed, 
 Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head ; 
 Mute as the snow upon the hill, 
 And, as the saint he prays to, still. 
 Ah, what avails heroic deed ? 
 What liberty ] if no defence 
 Be won for feeble Innocence. 
 Father of all ! though wilful Manhood read 
 His punishment in soul-distress, 
 Grant to the morn of life its natural blessedness ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 THE LAST SUPPER, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, IN Till 
 REFECTORY OF THE CONVENT OF MARIA DELL* 
 GRAZIA MILAN *. 
 
 Tho' searching damps and many an envious flaw 
 Have marred this Work ; the calm ethereal gra<v 
 The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face, 
 The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe 
 The Elements ; as they do melt and thaw 
 The heart of the Beholder — and erase 
 (At least for one rapt moment) every trace 
 Of disobedience to the primal law. 
 The annunciation of the dreadful truth 
 Made to the Twelve, survives: Up, forehead, cheek j 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 26c 
 
 Imd hand reposing on the board in ruth 
 j)f what it utters, while the unguilty seek 
 ilnquestionable meanings — still bespeak 
 I labour worthy of eternal youth ! 
 
 THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1820. 
 
 High on her speculative tower 
 Stood Science waiting for the hour 
 When Sol was destined to endure 
 That darkening of his radiant face 
 Which Superstition strove to chase, 
 Erewhile, with rites impure. 
 
 Afloat beneath Italian sides, 
 Through regions fair as Paradise 
 We gaily passed, — till Nature wrought 
 A silent and unlooked-for change, 
 That checked the desultory range 
 Of joy and sprightly thought. 
 
 Where'er was dipped the toiling oar, 
 The waves danced round us as before, 
 As lightly, though of altered hue, 
 Mid recent coolness, such as falls 
 At noontide from umbrageous walls 
 That screen the morning dew. 
 
 No vapour stretched its wings ; no cloud 
 
 Cast far or near a murky shroud ; 
 
 The sky an azure field displayed ; 
 
 'Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed, 
 
 Of all its sparkling rays disarmed, 
 
 And as in slumber laid, — 
 
 Or something night and day between, 
 i Like moonshine — but the hue was green ; 
 ', Still moonshine, without shadow, spread 
 i On jutting rock, and curved shore, 
 .. Where gazed the peasant from his door 
 | And on the mountain's head. 
 
 I It tinged the Julian steeps — it lay, 
 Lugano ! on thy ample bay ; 
 
 • The solemnizing veil was drawn 
 
 • O'er villas, terraces, and towers ; 
 ! To Albogasio's olive bowers, 
 
 j Porlezza's verdant lawn. 
 
 But Fancy with the speed of fire 
 Hath past to Milan's loftiest spire, 
 And there alights 'mid that aerial host 
 Of Figures human and divine*, 
 White as the snows of Apennine 
 Indurated by frost. 
 
 Awe-stricken she beholds the array 
 That guards the Temple night and day ; 
 Angels she sees — that might from heaven have 
 
 flown, 
 And Virgin-saints, who not in vain 
 Have striven by purity to gain 
 The beatific crown — 
 
 Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings 
 Each narrowing above, each ; — the wings, 
 The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips 
 The starry zone of sovereign height "j* — ■ 
 All steeped in this portentous light ! 
 All suffering dim eclipse ! 
 
 Thus after Man had fallen (if aught 
 These perishable spheres have wrought 
 May with that issue be compared) 
 Throngs of celestial visages, 
 Darkening like water in the breeze, 
 A holy sadness shared. 
 
 Lo ! while I speak, the labouring Sun 
 His glad deliverance has begun : 
 The cypress waves her sombre plume 
 More cheerily ; and town and tower, 
 The vineyard and the olive-bower, 
 Their lustre re-assume ! 
 
 O Ye, who guard and grace my home 
 
 While in far-distant lands we roam, 
 
 What countenance hath this Day put on for you ? 
 
 While we looked round with favoured eyes, 
 
 Did sullen mists hide lake and skies 
 
 And mountains from your view \ 
 
 Or was it given you to behold 
 
 Like vision, pensive though not cold, 
 
 From the smooth breast of gay Winandermere ? 
 
 Saw ye the soft yet awful veil 
 
 Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale, 
 
 Helvellyn's brow severe ? 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 f Above the highest circle of figures is a zone of metallic 
 stars. 
 
264 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 I ask in vain — and know far less 
 If sickness, sorrow, or distress 
 Have spared my Dwelling to this hour ; 
 Sad blindness ! hut ordained to prove 
 Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love 
 And all-controlling power. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS. 
 
 I. 
 
 How blest the Maid whose heart — yet free 
 
 From Love's uneasy sovereignty — 
 
 Beats with a fancy running high, 
 
 Her simple cares to magnify ; 
 
 Whom Labour, never urged to toil, 
 
 Hath cherished on a healthful soil ; 
 
 Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf ; 
 
 Whose heaviest sin it is to look 
 
 Askance upon her pretty Self 
 
 Reflected in some crystal brook; 
 
 Whom grief hath spared — who sheds no tear 
 
 But in sweet pity ; and can hear 
 
 Another's praise from envy clear. 
 
 n. 
 Such (but O lavish Nature ! why 
 That dark unfathomable eye, 
 Where lurks a Spirit that replies 
 To stillest mood of softest skies, 
 Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown, 
 Another's first, and then her own ?) 
 Such, haply, yon Italian Maid, 
 Our Lady's laggard Votaress, 
 Halting beneath the chestnut shade 
 To accomplish there her loveliness : 
 Nice aid maternal fingers lend; 
 A Sister serves with slacker hand ; 
 Then, glittering like a star, she joins the festal band. 
 
 in. 
 How blest (if truth may entertain 
 Coy fancy with a bolder strain) 
 The Helvetian Girl — who daily braves, 
 In her light skiff, the tossing waves, 
 And quits the bosom of the deep 
 Only to climb the rugged steep ! 
 — Say whence that modulated shout ! 
 From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng ? 
 Or does the greeting to a rout 
 Of giddy Bacchanals belong ? 
 Jubilant outcry ! rock and glade 
 Resounded — but the voice obeyed 
 The breath of an Helvetian Maid. 
 
 Her beauty dazzles the thick wood ; 
 
 Her courage animates the flood ; 
 
 Her steps the elastic green-sward meets 
 
 Returning unreluctant sweets ; 
 
 The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice 
 
 Aloud, saluted by her voice ! 
 
 Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace, 
 
 Be as thou art — for through thy veins 
 
 The blood of Heroes runs its race ! 
 
 And nobly wilt thou brook the chains 
 
 That, for the virtuous, Life prepares ; 
 
 The fetters which the Matron wears ; 
 
 The patriot Mother's weight of anxious cares ! 
 
 v. 
 
 * 'Sweet Highland Girl ! a very shower 
 
 Of beauty was thy earthly dower,' 
 
 When thou didst flit before mine eyes, 
 
 Gay Vision under sullen skies, 
 
 While Hope and Love around thee played, 
 
 Near the rough falls of Inversneyd ! 
 
 Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen 
 
 No breach of promise in the fruit 2 
 
 Was joy, in following joy, as keen 
 
 As grief can be in grief's pursuit ? 
 
 When youth had flown did hope still bless 
 
 Thy goings — or the cheerfulness 
 
 Of innocence survive to mitigate distress 1 
 
 VI. 
 
 But from our course why turn — to tread 
 
 A way with shadows overspread ; 
 
 Where what we gladliest would believe 
 
 Is feared as what may most deceive ? 
 
 Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned 
 
 But heath-bells from thy native ground. 
 
 Time cannot thin thy flowing hair, 
 
 Nor take one ray of light from Thee ; 
 
 For in my Fancy thou dost share 
 
 The gift of immortality ; 
 
 And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, 
 
 The Votaress by Lugano's side ; 
 
 And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep, descried ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 THE COLUMN INTENDED BY BUONAPARTE FOIl A TRI- 
 UMPHAL EDIFICE IN MILAN, NOW LYING BY IHH 
 WAY-SIDE IN THE SIMPLON PASS. 
 
 Ambition— following down this far-famed slope 
 Her Pioneer, the snow-dissolving Sun, 
 While clarions prate of kingdoms to be won — 
 Perchance, in future ages, here may stop ; 
 
 * See address to a Highland Girl, p. 221. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 265 
 
 faught to mistrust her nattering horoecope 
 By admonition from this prostrate Stone ! 
 VIemento uninscribed of Pride o'erthrown ; 
 Canity's hieroglyphic ; a choice trope 
 In Fortune's rhetoric. Daughter of the Rock, 
 rtest where thy course was stayed by Power divine ! 
 The Soul transported sees, from hint of thine, 
 primes which the great Avenger's hand provoke, 
 lears combats whistling o'erthe ensanguined heath: 
 •tVhat groans ! what shrieks ! what quietness in 
 death ! 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE SIMPLON PASS. 
 
 /allombrosa ! I longed in thy shadiest wood 
 Po slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor^ 
 fo listen to Anio's precipitous flood, 
 liVhenthe stillness of evening hath deepened its roar; 
 |lo range through the Temples of P^estum, to muse 
 in Pompeii preserved by her burial in earth ; 
 )n pictures to gaze where they drank in their hues ; 
 'ind murmur sweet songs on the ground of their 
 birth ! 
 
 ■'he beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome, 
 ,!ould I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret ? 
 Yith a hope (and no more) for a season to come, 
 ]Vhich ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt 1 
 j'hou fortunate Region ! whose Greatness inurned 
 
 ..woke to new life from its ashes and dust ; 
 "wice-glorified fields ! if in sadness I turned 
 
 rom your infinite marvels, the sadness was just. 
 
 fow, risen ere the light-footed Chamois retires 
 'rom dew-sprinkled grass to heights guarded with 
 
 snow, 
 Ward themiststhathang overtheland of my Sires, 
 i'rom the climate of myrtles contented I go. 
 ily thoughts become bright like yon edging of Pines 
 )n the steep's lofty verge : how it blacken'd the 
 
 air! 
 5ut, touched from behind by the Sun, it now shines 
 Vith threads that seem part of his own silver hair. 
 
 hough the toil of the way with dear Friends we 
 
 divide, 
 Chough by the same zephyr our temples be fanned 
 Vs we rest in the cool orange-bower side by side, 
 V yearning survives which few hearts shall with- 
 stand : 
 
 Each step hath its value while homeward we move ; — 
 joy when the girdle of England appears ! 
 What moment in life is so conscious of love, 
 Of love in the heart made more happy by tears ? 
 
 ECHO, UPON THE GEMMI. 
 
 What beast of chase hath broken from the cover l 
 
 Stern Gemmi listens to as full a cry, 
 
 As multitudinous a harmony 
 
 Of sounds as rang the heights of Latmos over, 
 
 When, from the soft couch of her sleeping Lover, 
 
 Up-starting, Cynthia skimmed the mountain-dew 
 
 In keen pursuit — and gave, where'er she flew, 
 
 Impetuous motion to the Stars above her. 
 
 A solitary Wolf-dog, ranging on 
 
 Through the bleak concave, wakes this wondrous 
 
 chime 
 Of aery voices locked in unison, — 
 Faint— far-off— near— deep- solemn and sublime! — 
 So, from the body of one guilty deed, 
 A thousand ghostly fears, and haunting thoughts, 
 
 proceed ! 
 
 PROCESSIONS. 
 
 SUGGESTED ON A SABBATH MOKNING IN THE VALE OF 
 CHAMOONT. 
 
 To appease the Gods ; or public thanks to yield ; 
 Or to solicit knowledge of events, 
 Which in her breast Futurity concealed ; 
 And that the past might have its true intents 
 Feelingly told by living monuments — 
 Mankind of yore were prompted to devise 
 Rites such as yet Persepolis presents 
 Graven on her cankered walls, solemnities 
 That moved in long array before admiring eyes. 
 
 The Hebrews thus, carrying in joyful state 
 Thick boughs of palm, and willows from the brook, 
 Marched round the altar — to commemorate 
 How, when their course they through the desert 
 
 took, 
 Guided by signs which ne'er the sky forsook, 
 They lodged in leafy tents and cabins low ; 
 Green boughs were borne, while, for the blast that 
 
 shook 
 Down to the earth the walls of Jericho, 
 Shouts rise, and storms of sound from lifted trum- 
 pets blow ! 
 
266 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 H 
 
 And thus, in order, 'mid the sacred grove 
 Fed in the Libyan waste by gushing wells, 
 The priests and damsels of Ammonian Jove 
 Provoked responses with shrill canticles ; 
 While, iii a ship begirt with silver bells, 
 They round his altar bore the horned God, 
 Old Cham, the solar Deity, who dwells 
 Aloft, yet hi a tilting vessel rode, 
 When universal sea the mountains overflowed. 
 
 Why speak of Roman Pomps ? the haughty claims 
 Of Chiefs triumphant after ruthless wars ; 
 The feast of Neptune — and the Cereal Games, 
 With images, and crowns, and empty cars ; 
 The dancing Salii — on the shields of Mars 
 Smiting with fury ; and a deeper dread 
 Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars 
 Of Corybantian cymbals, while the head 
 Of Cybele was seen, sublimely turreted ! 
 
 At length a Spirit more subdued and soft 
 Appeared — to govern Christian pageantries : 
 The Cross, in calm procession, borne aloft 
 Moved to the chant of sober litanies. 
 Even such, this day, came wafted on the breeze 
 From a long train — in hooded vestments fair 
 Enwrapt — and winding, between Alpine trees 
 Spiry and dark, around their House of prayer, 
 Below the icy bed of bright Argentiere. 
 
 Still in the vivid freshness of a dream, 
 
 The pageant haunts me as it met our eyes ! 
 
 Still, with those white-robed Shapes — a living 
 
 Stream, 
 The glacier Pillars join in solemn guise * 
 For the same service, by mysterious ties ; 
 Numbers exceeding credible account 
 Of number, pure and silent Votaries 
 Issuing or issued from a wintry fount ; 
 The impenetrable heart of that exalted Mount ! 
 
 They, too, who send so far a holy gleam 
 While they the Church engird with motion slow, 
 A product of that awful Mountain seem, 
 Poured from his vaults of everlasting snow ; 
 Not virgin lilies marshalled in bright row, 
 Not swans descending with the stealthy tide, 
 A livelier sisterly resemblance show 
 Than the fair Forms, that in long order glide, 
 Bear to the glacier band — those Shapes aloft 
 descried. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 Trembling, I look upon the secret springs 
 Of that licentious craving in the mind 
 To act the God among external things, 
 To bind, on apt suggestion, or unbind ; 
 And marvel not that antique Faith inclined 
 To crowd the world with metamorphosis, 
 Vouchsafed in pity or in wrath assigned ; 
 Such insolent temptations wouldst thou miss, 
 Avoid these sights ; nor brood o'er Fable's dark 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 The lamented Youth whose untimely death gave occa- 
 sion to these elegiac verses, was Frederick William God- 
 dard, from Boston in North America. He was in his 
 twentieth year, and had resided for some time with a 
 clergyman in the neighbourhood of Geneva for the com- 
 pletion of his education. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, 
 a native of Scotland, he had ju^t set out on a Swiss tour 
 when it was his misfortune to fall in with a friend nt mine 
 who was hastening to join our party. The travellers, after 
 spending a day together on the road from Berne and at 
 Soleure, took leave of each other at night, the young men 
 having intended to proceed directly to Zurich. But, early 
 in the morning my friend found his new acquaintances, 
 who were informed of the object of his journey, and the 
 friends he was in puruit of, equipped to accompany him, 
 We met at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G 
 and his fellow-student became in consequence our travel 
 ling companions for a couple of days. We ascended tti« 
 Kighi together ; and. after contemplating the sunrise from 
 that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on a 
 spot well suited to the parting of those who were to meof 
 no more. Our party descended through the valley of oui 
 Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to Art. W« 
 had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva ; but on the 
 third succeeding day (on the 21st of August) Mr. Goddarii 
 perished, being overset in a boat while crossing the Jakco! 
 Zurich. His companion saved himself by swimmiiif, anc 
 was hospitably received in the mansion of a Swiss gent'e 
 man (M. Keller) situated on the eastern coast of the lake 
 The corpse of poor Goddard was c2tt ashore on the Htati 
 of the same gentleman, who generously performed n'l th< 
 rites of hospitality which could be rendered to tho dead hi 
 well as to the living. He caused a handsome mural innnii 
 ment to be erected in the church of Ktisnacht, whiol 
 records the premature fate of the young American, and or 
 the shores too of the lake the traveller may read an inscrip 
 tion pointing out the spot where the body was dtJKMitei 
 by the waves. 
 
 Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, 
 Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, 
 From the dread summit of the Queen * 
 Of mountains, through a deep ravine, 
 Where, in her holy chapel, dwells 
 * Our Lady of the Snow.' 
 
 * Mount Righi— Regina Montium. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 267 
 
 The sky was blue, the air was mild ; 
 j Free were the streams and green the bowers ; 
 ! As if, to rough assaults unknown, 
 i The genial spot had ever shown 
 
 A countenance that as sweetly smiled — 
 , The face of summer-hours. 
 
 And we were gay, our hearts at ease ; 
 
 With pleasure dancing through the frame 
 ; We journeyed ; all we knew of care — 
 , Our path that straggled here and there ; 
 
 Of trouble — but the fluttering breeze ; 
 
 Of Winter — but a name. 
 
 If foresight could have rent the veil 
 : Of three short days — but hush — no more ! 
 ■ Calm is the grave, and calmer none 
 \ Than that to which thy cares are gone, 
 
 Thou Victim of the stormy gale ; 
 
 Asleep on Zurich's shore ! 
 
 i Oh Goddard ! what art thou \ — a name — 
 
 A sunbeam followed by a shade ! 
 
 Nor more, for aught that time supplies, 
 : The great, the experienced, and the wise : 
 
 Too much from this frail earth we claim, 
 
 And therefore are betrayed. 
 
 We met, while festive mirth ran wild, 
 i Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, 
 j Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, 
 
 A sea-green river, proud to lave, 
 \ With current swift and undented, 
 ' The towers of old Lucerne. 
 
 We parted upon solemn ground 
 Far-lifted towards the unfading sky ; 
 i But all our thoughts were then of Earth, 
 That gives to common pleasures birth ; 
 And nothing in our hearts we found 
 That prompted even a sigh. 
 
 Fetch, sympathising Powers of air, 
 Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, 
 Herbs moistened by Virginian dew, 
 '., A most untimely grave to strew, 
 Whose turf may never know the care 
 Of kindred human hands ! 
 
 i Beloved by every gentle Muse 
 : He left his Transatlantic home : 
 j Europe, a realised romance, 
 ; Had opened on his eager glance ; 
 What present bliss ! — what golden views ! 
 j What stores for years to come ! 
 
 Though lodged, within no vigorous frame, 
 His soul her daily tasks renewed, 
 Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings 
 High poised — or as the wren that sings 
 In shady places, to proclaim 
 Her modest gratitude. 
 
 Not vain is sadly-uttered praise ; 
 The words of truth's memorial vow 
 Are sweet as morning fragrance shed 
 From flowers mid Goldau's ruins bred ; 
 As evening's fondly-lingering rays, 
 On Righi's silent brow. 
 
 Lamented Youth ! to thy cold clay 
 Fit obsequies the Stranger paid ; 
 And piety shall guard the Stone 
 Which hath not left the spot unknown 
 Where the wild waves resigned their prey- 
 And that which marks thy bed. 
 
 And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, 
 Lost Youth ! a solitary Mother ; 
 This tribute from a casual Friend 
 A not unwelcome aid may lend, 
 To feed the tender luxury, 
 The rising pang to smother *. 
 
 SKY-PROSPECT FROM THE PLAIN OF FRANCE. 
 
 Lo ! in the burning west, the craggy nape 
 Of a proud Ararat ! and, thereupon, 
 The Ark, her melancholy voyage done ! 
 Yon rampant cloud mimics a lion's shape ; 
 There, combats a huge crocodile — agape 
 A golden spear to swallow ! and that brown 
 And massy grove, so near yon blazing town, 
 Stirs and recedes — destruction to escape ! 
 Yet all is harmless — as the Elysian shades 
 Where Spirits dwell in undisturbed repose — 
 Silently disappears, or quickly fades : 
 Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows 
 That for oblivion take their daily birth 
 From all the fumin g vanities of Earth ! 
 
 * The persuasion here expressed was not groundless. 
 The first human consolation that the afflicted Mother felt, 
 was derived from this tribute to her son's memory, a fact 
 which the author learned, at his own residence, from her 
 Daughter, who visited Europe some years afterwards. — 
 Goldau is one of the villages desolated by the fall of part 
 of the Mountain Rossberg. 
 
268 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARBOUR OF 
 BOULOGNE *. 
 
 Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore 
 Ye furious waves ! a patriotic Son 
 Of England — who in hope her coast had won, 
 His project crowned, his pleasant travel o'er 2 
 Well — let him pace this noted beach once more, 
 That gave the Roman his triumphal shells ; 
 That saw the Corsican his cap and bells 
 Haughtily shake, a dreaming Conqueror ! — 
 Enough : my Country's cliffs I can behold, 
 And proudly think, beside the chafing sea, 
 Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled, 
 And folly cursed with endless memory : 
 These local recollections ne'er can cloy ; 
 Such ground I from my very heart enjoy ! 
 
 AFTER LANDING — THE VALLEY OF DOVER. 
 Nov. 1820. 
 Where be the noisy followers of the game [passed 
 Which faction breeds ; the turmoil where ? that 
 Through Europe, echoing from the newsman's blast, 
 Andfilled our hearts with grief for England's shame. 
 Peace greets us ; — rambling on without an aim 
 We mark majestic herds of cattle, free 
 To ruminate, couched on the grassy lea ; 
 And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim 
 The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound 
 Stirs not ; enrapt I gaze with strange delight, 
 While consciousnesses, not to be disowned, 
 Here only serve a feeling to invite 
 That lifts the spirit to a calmer height, 
 And makes this rural stillness more profound. 
 
 AT DOVER. 
 
 From the Pier's head, musing, and with increase 
 Of wonder, I have watched this sea-side Town^ 
 Under the white cliff's battlemented crown, 
 Hushed to a depth of more than Sabbath peace : 
 The streets and quays are thronged, but why disown 
 Their natural utterance : whence this strange 
 
 release 
 From social noise — silence elsewhere unknown ? — 
 A Spirit whispered, " Let all wonder cease ; 
 Ocean's o'erpowering murmurs have set free 
 Thy sense from pressure of life's common din ; 
 As the dread Voice that speaks from out the sea 
 Of God's eternal Word, the Voice of Time 
 Doth deaden, shocks of tumult, shrieks of crime, 
 The shouts of folly, and the groans of sin." 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 DESULTORY STANZAS, 
 
 UPON RECEIVING THE PEECEDING SHEETS FKOM THE PHE8S 
 
 Is then the final page before me spread, 
 Nor further outlet left to mind or heart ? 
 Presumptuous Book ! too forward to be read, 
 How can I give thee licence to depart ? 
 One tribute more : unbidden feelings start 
 Forth from their coverts ; slighted objects rise ; 
 My spirit is the scene of such wild art 
 As on Parnassus rules, when hghtning flies, 
 Visibly leading on the thunder's harmonics. 
 
 All that I saw returns upon my view, 
 All that I heard comes back upon my ear, 
 All that I felt this moment doth renew ; 
 And where the foot with no unmanly fear 
 Recoiled — and wings alone could travel — there 
 I move at ease ; and meet contending themes 
 That press upon me, crossing the career 
 Of recollections vivid as the dreams [streams. 
 Of midnight, — cities, plains, forests, and mighty i 
 
 Where Mortal never breathed I dare to sit 
 Among the interior Alps, gigantic crew, 
 Who triumphed o'er diluvian power ! — and yet 
 What are they but a wreck and residue, 
 Whose only business is to perish ? — true 
 To which sad course, these wrinkled Sons of Time 
 Labour their proper greatness to subdue ; 
 Speaking of death alone, beneath a clime 
 Where life and rapture flow in plenitude sublime. 
 
 Fancy hath flung for me an airy bridge 
 Across thy long deep Valley, furious Rhone ! 
 Arch that here rests upon the granite ridge 
 Of Monte Rosa — there on frailer stone 
 Of secondary birth, the Jung-frau's cone ; 
 And, from that arch, down-looking on the Vale 
 The aspect I behold of every zone ; 
 A sea of foliage, tossing with the gale, 
 Blithe Autumn's purple crown, and Winter's icj 
 mail ! 
 
 Far as St. Maurice, from yon eastern Forks *, 
 Down the main avenue my sight can range : 
 And all its branchy vales, and all that lurks 
 Within them, church, and town, and hut, and grange 
 For my enjoyment meet in vision strange ; 
 Snows, torrents ; — to the region's utmost bound, 
 Life, Death, in amicable interchange ; — 
 
 * At the head of the Vallais. See Note. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 269 
 
 But list ! the avalanche — the hush profound 
 i'hatfollows — yet more awful than that awful sound ! 
 
 }s not the chamois suited to his place ? 
 
 'he eagle worthy of her ancestry ? 
 
 ,-Let Empires fall ; but ne'er shall Ye disgrace 
 
 7 our noble birthright, ye that occupy 
 
 !our council-seats beneath the open sky, 
 
 >n Sarnen's Mount *, there judge of fit and right, 
 
 in simple democratic majesty ; 
 
 i oft breezes fanning your rough brows — the might 
 
 |.nd purity of nature spread before your sight ! 
 
 'rom this appropriate Court, renowned Lucerne 
 'alls meto pace her honoured Bridge * — that cheers 
 /he Patriot's heart with pictures rude and stern, 
 , L n uncouth Chronicle of glorious years, 
 .ike portraiture, from loftier source, endears 
 'hat work of kindred frame, which spans the lake 
 ust at the point of issue, where it fears 
 i'he form and motion of a stream to take ; 
 yhere it begins to stir, yet voiceless as a snake. 
 
 r olumea of sound, from the Cathedral rolled, 
 'his long-roofed Vista penetrate — but see, 
 
 * See Notes. 
 
 One after one, its tablets, that unfold 
 The whole design of Scripture history ; 
 From the first tasting of the fatal Tree, 
 Till the bright Star appeared in eastern skies, 
 Announcing, One was born mankind to free ; 
 His acts, his wrongs, his final sacrifice ; 
 Lessons for every heart, a Bible for all eyes. 
 
 Our pride misleads, our timid likings kill. 
 
 — Long may these homely Works devised of old, 
 
 These simple efforts of Helvetian skill, 
 
 Aid, with congenial influence, to uphold 
 
 The State, — the Country's destiny to mould ; 
 
 Turning, for them who pass, the common dust 
 
 Of servile opportunity to gold ; 
 
 Filling the soul with sentiments august — 
 
 The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and the just ! 
 
 No more ; Time halts not in his noiseless march — ■ 
 Nor turns, nor winds, as doth the liquid flood ; 
 Life slips from underneath us, like that arch 
 Of airy workmanship whereon we stood, 
 Earth stretched below, heaven in our neighbourhood. 
 Go forth, my little Book ! pursue thy way ; 
 Go forth, and please the gentle and the good ; 
 Nor be a whisper stifled, if it say 
 That treasures, yet untouched, may grace some 
 future Lay. 
 
270 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 MEMOEIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 1837. 
 
 TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON. 
 
 Companion ! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered, 
 In whose experience trusting, day by day 
 Treasures I gained with zeal that neither feared 
 The toils nor felt the crosses of the way, 
 
 Rvdal Mount, Feb. Uth, 1842 
 
 These records take, and happy should I be 
 Were but the Gift a meet Return to thee 
 For kindnesses that never ceased to flow, 
 And prompt self-sacrifice to which I owe 
 Far more than any heart but mine can know. 
 AV. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The Tour of which the following Poems are very inadequate remembrances was shortened by report, too woll 
 founded, of the prevalence of Cholera at Naples. To make some amends for what was reluctantly left unseen in the 
 South of Italy, we visited the Tuscan Sanctuaries among the Apennines, and the principal Italian Lakes among tlie 
 Alps. Neither of those lakes, nor of Venice, is there any notice in these Poems, chiefly because I have touched npou 
 them elsewhere. See, in particular, " Descriptive Sketches," " Memorials of a Tour on the Continent in 1820 " and a 
 Sonnet upon the extinction of the Venetian Republic. 
 
 MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE. 
 April, 1837. 
 
 Ye Apennines ! with all your fertile vales 
 Deeply embosomed, and your winding shores 
 Of either sea, an Islander by birth, 
 A Mountaineer by habit, would resound 
 Your praise, in meet accordance with your claims 
 Bestowed by Nature, or from man's great deeds 
 Inherited : — presumptuous thought ! — it fled 
 Like vapour, like a towering cloud, dissolved. 
 Not, therefore, shall my mind give way to sadness ; — 
 Yon snow-white torrent-fall, plumb down it drops 
 Yet ever hangs or seems to hang in air, 
 Lulling the leisure of that high perched town, 
 Aquapendente, in her lofty site 
 Its neighbour and its namesake — town, and flood 
 Forth flashing out of its own gloomy chasm 
 Bright sunbeams — the fresh verdure of this lawn 
 Strewn with grey rocks, and on the horizon's verge, 
 O'er intervenient waste, through glimmering haze, 
 Unquestionably kenned, that cone-shaped hill 
 With fractured summit, no indifferent sight 
 To travellers, from such comforts as are thine, 
 Bleak Radicofani ! escaped with joy — 
 These are before me ; and the varied scene 
 May well suffice, till noon-tide's sultry heat 
 
 Relax, to fix and satisfy the mind 
 
 Passive yet pleased. What ! with this Broom in 
 
 flower 
 Close at my side! She bids me fly to greet 
 Her sisters, soon like her to be attired 
 With golden blossoms opening at the feet 
 Of my own Fairfield. The glad greeting gfren, ! 
 Given with a voice and by a look returned 
 Of old companionship, Time counts not minutes 
 Ere, from accustomed paths, familiar fields, 
 The local Genius hurries me aloft, 
 Transported over that cloud-wooing hill, 
 Seat Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds, 
 With dream-like smoothness, to Helvellyn's top, 
 There to alight upon crisp moss and range, 
 Obtaining ampler boon, at every step, 
 Of visual sovereignty — hills multitudinous, 
 (Not Apennine can boast of fairer) hills 
 Pride of two nations, wood and lake and plains, 
 And prospect right below of deep coves sli 
 By skeleton arms, that, from the mountain's bTUM 
 Extended, clasp the winds, with mutual moan 
 Struggling for liberty, while undismayed 
 The shepherd struggles with them. Onward tlienc 
 And downward by the skirt of Greenside fell, 
 And by Glenridding-screes, and low Glencoign, 
 Places forsaken now, though loving still 
 The muses, as they loved them in the days 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 271 
 
 the old minstrels and the border bards. — 
 iit here am I fast bound ; and let it pass, 
 e simple rapture ; — who that travels far 
 feed his mind with watchful eyes could share 
 wish to share it % — One there surely was, 
 'he Wizard of the North," with anxious hope 
 ought to this genial climate, when disease 
 \ eyed upon body and mind — yet not the less 
 \ ,d his sunk eye kindled at those dear words 
 'fat spake of bards and minstrels ; and his spirit 
 Id flown with mine to old Helvellyn's brow, 
 Biere once together, in his day of strength, 
 ">.i stood rejoicing, as if earth were free 
 '. Dm sorrow, like the sky above our heads. 
 
 ^ears followed years, and when, upon the eve 
 (his last going from Tweed-side, thought turned, 
 (i by another's sympathy was led, 
 ' this bright land, Hope was for him no friend, 
 ] owledge no help ; Imagination shaped 
 I promise. Still, in more than ear-deep seats, 
 a.'vives for me, and cannot but survive 
 Is tone of voice which wedded borrowed words 
 '. sadness not their own, when, with faint smile 
 I.'ced by intent to take from speech its edge, 
 1| said, "When I am there, although 'tis fair, 
 Vill be another Yarrow." Prophecy 
 lire than fulfilled, as gay Campania's shores 
 fin witnessed, and the city of seven hills, 
 I r sparkling fountains, and her mouldering tombs ; 
 . 1 more than all, that Eminence which showed 
 I.r splendours, seen, not felt, the while he stood 
 ./lew short steps (painful they were) apart 
 ] >m Tasso's Convent-haven, and retired grave. 
 
 J eace to their Spirits ! why should Poesy 
 Id to the lure of vain regret, and hover 
 1: gloom on wings with confidence outspread 
 '. move in sunshine 1 — Utter thanks, my Soul ! 
 1 opered with awe, and sweetened by compassion 
 I - them who in the shades of sorrow dwell, 
 3[it I — so near the term to human life 
 J.oointed by man's common heritage, 
 Bil as the frailest, one withal (if that 
 Iserve a thought) but little known to fame- - 
 free to rove where Nature's loveliest looks, 
 s noblest relics, history's rich bequests, 
 I led to reanimate and but feebly cheered 
 1 i whole world's Darling— free to rove at will 
 r high and low, and if requiring rest, 
 t from enjoyment only. 
 
 Thanks poured forth 
 • what thus far hath blessed my wanderings, 
 thanks 
 
 Fervent but humble as the lips can breathe 
 Where gladness seems a duty — let me guard 
 Those seeds of expectation which the fruit 
 Already gathered in this favoured Land 
 Enfolds within its core. The faith be mine, 
 That He who guides and governs all, approves 
 When gratitude, though disciplined to look 
 Beyond these transient spheres, doth wear a crown 
 Of earthly hope put on with trembling hand ; 
 Nor is least pleased, we trust, when golden beams, 
 Reflected through the mists of age, from hours 
 Of innocent delight, remote or recent, 
 Shoot but a little way — 'tis all they can — 
 Into the doubtful future. Who would keep 
 Power must resolve to cleave to it through life, 
 Else it deserts him, surely as he lives. 
 Saints would not grieve nor guardian angels frown 
 If one — while tossed, as was my lot to be, 
 In a frail bark urged by two slender oars 
 Over waves rough and deep, that, when they broke, 
 Dashed their white foam against the palace walls 
 Of Genoa the superb — should there be led 
 To meditate upon his own appointed tasks, 
 However humble in themselves, with thoughts 
 Raised and sustained by memory of Him 
 Who oftentimes within those narrow bounds 
 Rocked on the surge, there tried his spirit's strength 
 And grasp of purpose, long ere sailed his ship 
 To lay a new world open. 
 
 Nor less prized 
 Be those impressions which incline the heart 
 To mild, to lowly, and to seeming weak, 
 Bend that way her desires. The dew, the storm — 
 The dew whose moisture fell in gentle drops 
 On the small hyssop destined to become, 
 By Hebrew ordinance devoutly kept, 
 A purifying instrument — the storm 
 That shook on Lebanon the cedar's top, 
 And as it shook, enabling the blind roots 
 Further to force their way, endowed its trunk 
 With magnitude and strength fit to uphold 
 The glorious temple — did alike proceed 
 From the same gracious will, were both an offspring 
 Of bounty infinite. 
 
 Between Powers that aim 
 Higher to lift their lofty heads, impelled 
 By no profane ambition, Powers that thrive 
 By conflict, and their opposites, that trust 
 In lowliness — a mid- way tract there lies 
 Of thoughtful sentiment for every mind 
 Pregnant with good. Young, Middle-aged, and Old, 
 From century on to century, must have known 
 The emotion — nay, more fitly were it said — 
 The blest tranquillity that sunk so deep 
 
272 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Into my spirit, when I paced, enclosed 
 
 In Pisa's Campo Santo, the smooth floor 
 
 Of its Arcades paved with sepulchral slabs, 
 
 And through each window's open fret- work looked 
 
 O'er the blank Area of sacred earth 
 
 Fetched from Mount Calvary, or haply delved 
 
 In precincts nearer to the Saviour's tomb, 
 
 By hands of men, humble as brave, who fought 
 
 For its deliverance — a capacious field 
 
 That to descendants of the dead it holds 
 
 And to all living mute memento breathes, 
 
 More touching far than aught which on the walls 
 
 Is pictured, or their epitaphs can speak, 
 
 Of the changed City's long-departed power, 
 
 Glory, and wealth, which, perilous as they are, 
 
 Here did not kill, but nourished, Piety. 
 
 And, high above that length of cloistral roof, 
 
 Peering in air and backed by azure sky, 
 
 To kindred contemplations ministers 
 
 The Baptistery's dome, and that which swells 
 
 From the Cathedral pile ; and with the twain 
 
 Conjoined in prospect mutable or fixed 
 
 (As hurry on in eagerness the feet, 
 
 Or pause) the summit of the Leaning-tower. 
 
 Nor less remuneration waits on him 
 
 Who having left the Cemetery stands 
 
 In the Tower's shadow, of decline and fall 
 
 Admonished not without some sense of fear, 
 
 Fear that soon vanishes before the sight 
 
 Of splendor unextinguished, pomp unscathed, 
 
 And beauty unimpaired. Grand in itself, 
 
 And for itself, the assemblage, grand and fair 
 
 To view, and for the mind's consenting eye 
 
 A type of age in man, upon its front 
 
 Bearing the world-acknowledged evidence 
 
 Of past exploits, nor fondly after more 
 
 Struggling against the stream of destiny, 
 
 But with its peaceful majesty content. 
 
 ■ — Oh what a spectacle at every turn 
 
 The Place unfolds, from pavement skinned with 
 
 moss, 
 Or grass-grown spaces, where the heaviest foot 
 Provokes no echoes, but must softly tread ; 
 Where Solitude with Silence paired stops short 
 Of Desolation, and to Ruin's scythe 
 Decay submits not. 
 
 But where'er my steps 
 Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care 
 Those images of genial beauty, oft 
 Too lovely to be pensive in themselves 
 But by reflexion made so, which do best 
 And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant wreaths 
 Life's cup when almost filled with years, like mine. 
 — How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade, 
 
 Each ministering to each, didst thou appear 
 Savona, Queen of territory fair 
 As aught that marvellous coast thro' all its length 
 Yields to the Stranger's eye. Remembrance holds 
 As a selected treasure thy one cliff, 
 That, while it wore for melancholy crest 
 A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to have 
 Clinging to its steep sides a thousand herbs 
 And shrubs, whose pleasant looks gave proof ho'\ 
 
 kind 
 The breath of air can be where earth had else 
 Seemed churlish. And behold, both far and near 
 Garden and field all decked with orange bloom, 
 And peach and citron, in Spring's mildest breeze 
 Expanding ; and, along the smooth shore curved 
 Into a natural port, a tideless sea, 
 To that mild breeze with motion and with voice 
 Softly responsive ; and, attuned to all 
 Those vernal charms of sight and sound, appear 
 Smooth space of turf which from the guardian for 
 Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April green, 
 In coolest climes too fugitive, might even here 
 Plead with the sovereign Sun for 1-onger stay 
 Than his unmitigated beams allow, 
 Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve, 
 From mortal change, aught that is born on earth 
 Or doth on time depend. 
 
 While on the brink 
 Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood, 
 Modest Savona ! over all did brood 
 A pure poetic Spirit — as the breeze, 
 Mild — as the ver durej fresh — the sunshine, bright- 
 Thy gentle Chiabrera ! — not a stone, 
 Mural or level with the trodden floor, 
 In Church or Chapel, if my curious quest 
 Missed not the truth, retains a single name 
 Of young or old, warrior, or saint, or sage, 
 To whose dear memories his sepulchral veree 
 Paid simple tribute, such as might have flowed 
 From the clear spring of a plain English heart, 
 Say rather, one in native fellowship 
 With all who want not skill to couple grief 
 With praise, as genuine admiration prompts. 
 The grief, the praise, are severed from their dus. 
 Yet in his page the records of that worth 
 Survive, uninjured ;-^-glory then to words, 
 Honour to word-preserving Arts, and hail 
 Ye kindred local influences that still, 
 If Hope's familiar whispers merit faith, 
 Await my steps when they the breezy height 
 Shall range of philosophic Tusculum ; 
 Or Sabine vales explored insptire a wish 
 To meet the shade of Horace by the side 
 Of his Bandusian fount ; or I invoke 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 273 
 
 is presence to point out the spot where once 
 e sate, and eulogized with earnest pen 
 eace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires ; 
 nd all the immunities of rural life 
 Xtolled, behind Vacuna's crumbling fane. 
 ;r let me loiter, soothed with what is given 
 'or asking more, on that delicious Bay, 
 arthenope's Domain — Virgilian haunt, 
 lustrated with never-dying verse, 
 ;nd, by the Poet's laurel-shaded tomb, 
 ige after age to Pilgrims from all lands 
 ndeared. 
 
 And who — if not a man as cold 
 i heart as dull in brain — while pacing ground 
 iosen by Rome's legendary Bards, high minds 
 Eat of her early straggles well inspired 
 d localize heroic acts — could look 
 •pon the spots with undelighted eye, 
 hough even to their last syllable the Lays 
 nd very names of those who gave them birth 
 jave perished \ — Verily, to her utmost depth, 
 pagination feels what Reason fears not 
 lo recognize, the lasting virtue lodged 
 [ those bold fictions that, by deeds assigned 
 p the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race, 
 !nd others like in fame, created Powers 
 i r ith attributes from Hutory derived, 
 y Poesy irradiate, and yet graced, 
 trough marvellous felicity of skill, 
 ; r ith something more propitious to high aims 
 pan either, pent within her separate sphere, 
 oft with justice claim. 
 
 And not disdaining 
 Jon with those primeval energies 
 p virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your height 
 iristian Traditions ! at my Spirit's call 
 iescend, and, on the brow of ancient Rome 
 ;s she survives in ruin, manifest 
 our glories mingled with the brightest hues 
 i her memorial halo, fading, fading, 
 lit never to be extinct while Earth endures. 
 , come, if undishonoured by the prayer, 
 from all her Sanctuaries ! — Open for my feet 
 le Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse 
 f the Devout, as, mid your glooms convened 
 ox safety, they of yore enclasped the Cross 
 Q knees that ceased from trembling, or intoned 
 Heir orisons with voices half-suppressed, 
 jut sometimes heard, or fancied to be heard, 
 |ven at this hour. 
 
 And thou Mamertine prison, 
 ito that vault receive me from whose depth 
 sues, revealed in no presumptuous vision, 
 lbeit lifting human to divine, 
 
 A Saint, the Church's Rock, the mystic Keys 
 Grasped in his hand ; and lo ! with upright sword 
 Prefiguring his own impendent doom, 
 The Apostle of the Gentiles ; both prepared 
 To suffer pains with heathen scorn and hate 
 Inflicted ;— blessed Men, for so to Heaven 
 They follow their dear Lord ! 
 
 Time flows — nor winds, 
 Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course, 
 But many a benefit borne upon his breast 
 For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone, 
 No one knows how ; nor seldom is put forth 
 An angry arm that snatches good away, 
 Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream 
 Has to our generation brought and brings 
 Innumerable gains ; yet we, who now 
 Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely 
 To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out 
 From that which is and actuates, by forms, 
 Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact 
 Minutely linked with diligence uninspired, 
 Unrectified, unguided, unsustained, 
 By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed 
 Science, wide-spread and spreading still as be 
 Her conquests, in the world of sense made known. 
 So with the internal mind it fares ; and so 
 With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear 
 Of vital principle's controlling law, 
 To her purblind guide Expediency ; and so 
 Suffers religious faith. Elate with view 
 Of what is won, we overlook or scorn 
 The best that should keep pace with it, and must, 
 Else more and more the general mind will droop, 
 Even as if bent on perishing. There lives 
 No faculty within us which the Soul 
 Can spare, and humblest earthly Weal demands, 
 For dignity not placed beyond her reach, 
 Zealous co-operation of all means 
 Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire, 
 And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. 
 By gross Utilities enslaved we need 
 More of ennobling impulse from the past, 
 If to the future aught of good must come 
 Sounder and therefore holier than the ends 
 Which, in the giddiness of self-applause, 
 We covet as supreme. grant the crown 
 That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous staff 
 From Knowledge ! — If the Muse, whom I have 
 
 served 
 This day, be mistress of a single pearl 
 Fit to be placed in that pure diadem ; 
 Then, not in vain, under these chesnut boughs 
 Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul 
 To transports from the secondary founts 
 
274 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Flowing of time and place, and paid to both 
 Due homage ; nor shall fruitlessly have striven, 
 By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in verse 
 Accordant meditations, which in times 
 Vexed and disordered, as our own, may shed 
 Influence, at least among a scattered few, 
 To soberness of mind and peace of heart 
 Friendly ; as here to my repose hath been 
 This flowering broom's dear neighbourhood, the 
 
 light 
 And murmur issuing from yon pendent flood, 
 And all the varied landscape. Let us now 
 Rise, and to-morrow greet magnificent Rome.* 
 
 THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT ROME. 
 
 I saw far off the dark top of a Pine 
 Look like a cloud — a slender stem the tie 
 That bound it to its native earth — poised high 
 'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, 
 Striving in peace each other to outshine. 
 But when I learned the Tree was living there, 
 Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care, 
 Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine ! 
 The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so bright 
 And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home, 
 Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight, 
 Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome 
 (Then first apparent from the Pincian Height) 
 Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome f. 
 
 Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill ? 
 Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock, 
 Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still 
 That name, a local Phantom proud to mock 
 The Traveller's expectation 1 — Could our Will 
 Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere done 
 Thro' what men see and touch, — slaves wandering on, 
 Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill. 
 Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh ; 
 Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn, 
 From that depression raised, to mount on high 
 With stronger wing, more clearly to discern 
 Eternal things ; and, if need be, defy 
 Change, with a brow not insolent, though stern. 
 
 t See note. 
 
 AT ROME. REGRETS. — IN ALLUSION TO NlEBUm 
 
 AND OTHER MODERN HISTORIANS. 
 
 Those old credulities, to nature dear, 
 Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock 
 Of History, stript naked as a rock 
 'Mid a dry desert ? What is it we hear ? 
 The glory of Infant Rome must disappear, 
 Her morning splendors vanish, and their place 
 Know them no more. If Truth, who veiled her fae 
 With those bright beams yet hid it not, must stee 
 Henceforth a humbler course perplexed and slow 
 One solace yet remains for us who came 
 Into this world in days when story lacked 
 Severe research, that in our hearts we know 
 How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, 
 Assent is power, belief the soul of fact. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same 
 Involved a history of no doubtful sense, 
 History that proves by inward evidence 
 From what a precious source of truth it came. 
 Ne'er could the boldest Eulogist have dared 
 Such deeds to paint, such characters to frame, 
 But for coeval sympathy prepared 
 To greet with instant faith their loftiest claim. 
 None but a noble people could have loved 
 Flattery in Ancient Rome's pure-minded style : 
 Not in like sort the Runic Scald was moved ; 
 He, nursed 'mid savage passions that defile 
 Humanity, sang feats that well might call 
 For the blood-thirsty mead of Odin's riotous Ha 
 
 PLEA FOR THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise, 
 Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth, 
 Who, gathering up all that Time's envious too 
 Has spared of sound and grave realities, 
 Firmly rejects those dazzling flatteries, 
 Dear as they are to unsuspecting Youth, 
 That might have drawn down Clio from the skic 
 To vindicate the majesty of truth. 
 Such was her office while she walked with men, 
 A Muse, who, not unmindful of her Sire 
 All-ruling Jove, whate'er the theme might be 
 Revered her Mother, sage Mnemosyne, 
 And taught her faithful servants how the lyre 
 Should animate, but not mislead, the pen *. 
 
 * Quern virum lyra 
 
 sumes celebrare Clio ? 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 275 
 
 AT ROME. 
 
 JThet — who have seen the noble Roman's scorn 
 
 ■ Break forth at thought of laying down his head, 
 
 [When the blank day is over, garreted 
 
 jtn his ancestral palace, where, from morn 
 
 j To night, the desecrated floors are worn 
 
 l By feet of purse-proud strangers ; they — who have 
 
 read 
 In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's shed, 
 How patiently the weight of wrong is borne ; 
 They — who have heard some learned Patriot treat 
 Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole theme 
 From ancient Rome, downwards through that 
 
 bright dream 
 Of Commonwealths, each city a starlike seat 
 ■Of rival glory ; they — fallen Italy — 
 Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of Thee ! 
 
 NEAR ROME, IN SIGHT OF ST. PETER S. 
 
 ;Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn j 
 O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon 
 Is shed, the languor of approaching noon ; 
 iro shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn 
 Mute are all creatures, as this couchant fawn, 
 pave insect-swarms that hum in air afloat, 
 5ave that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note, 
 Startling and shrill as that which roused the dawn. 
 !— Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the nerve 
 Shrinks from the note as from a mis-timed thing, 
 ■)ft for a holy warning may it serve, 
 Charged with remembrance of Ms sudden sting, 
 His bitter tears, whose name the Papal Chair 
 \nd yon resplendent Church are proud to hear. 
 
 AT ALBA NO. 
 
 j)ays passed — and Monte Calvo would not clear 
 lis head from mist : and, as the wind sobbed 
 
 through 
 ,Ubano's dripping Ilex avenue, 
 My dull forebodings in a Peasant's ear 
 I'^ound casual vent. She said, " Be of good cheer ; 
 )ur yesterday's procession did not sue 
 p vain ; the sky will change to sunny blue, 
 'hanks to our Lady's grace." I smiled to hear, 
 But not in scorn : — the Matron's Faith may lack 
 jihe heavenly sanction needed to ensure 
 fulfilment; but, we trust, her upward track 
 'Stops not at this low point, nor wants the lure 
 yt flowers the Virgin without fear may own, 
 ?or by her Son's blest hand the seed was sown. 
 
 Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove 
 
 Perched on an olive branch, and heard her cooing 
 
 'Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs were wooing, 
 
 While all things present told of joy and love. 
 
 But restless Fancy left that olive grove 
 
 To hail the exploratory Bird renewing 
 
 Hope for the few, who, at the world's undoing, 
 
 On the great flood were spared to live and move. 
 
 O bounteous Heaven ! signs true as dove and bough 
 
 Brought to the ark are coming evermore, 
 
 Given though we seek them not, but, while we plough 
 
 This sea of life without a visible shore, 
 
 Do neither promise ask nor grace implore 
 
 In what alone is ours, the living Now. 
 
 FROM THE ALBAN HILLS, LOOKING TOWARDS ROME. 
 
 Forgive, illustrious Country ! these deep sighs, 
 
 Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills bestrewn 
 
 With monuments decayed or overthrown, 
 
 For all that tottering stands or prostrate lies, 
 
 Than for like scenes in moral vision shown, 
 
 Ruin perceived for keener sympathies ; 
 
 Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her gaudy crown ; 
 
 Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies. 
 
 Yet why prolong this mournful strain? — Fallen 
 
 Power, 
 Thy fortunes, twice exalted, might provoke 
 Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour 
 When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy double yoke, 
 And enter, with prompt aid from the Most High, 
 On the third stage of thy great destiny. 
 
 NEAR THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE. 
 
 When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came, 
 
 An earthquake, mingling with the battle's shock, 
 
 Checked not its rage ; unfelt the ground did rock, 
 
 Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim. — 
 
 Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's shame, 
 
 Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure, 
 
 Save in this Rill that took from blood the name* 
 
 Which yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crystal pure. 
 
 So may all trace and sign of deeds aloof 
 
 From the true guidance of humanity, 
 
 Thro' Time and Nature's influence, purify 
 
 Their spirit ; or, unless they for reproof 
 
 Or warning serve, thus let them all, on ground 
 
 That gave them being, vanish to a sound. 
 
 * Sanguinetto. 
 t2 
 
276 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 NEAR THE SAME LAKE. 
 
 For action born, existing to be tried, 
 
 Powers manifold we have that intervene 
 
 To stir the heart that would too closely screen 
 
 Her peace from images to pain allied. 
 
 What wonder if at midnight, by the side 
 
 Of Sanguinetto or broad Thrasymene, 
 
 The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide, 
 
 Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen ; 
 
 And singly thine, vanquished Chief ! whose corse, 
 
 Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain : 
 
 But who is He 1 — the Conqueror. Would he force 
 
 His way to Rome ? Ah, no, — round hill and plain 
 
 Wandering, he haunts, at fancy's strong command, 
 
 This spot — his shadowy death-cup in his hand. 
 
 THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA. 
 
 Mav 25th, 1837. 
 
 List — 'twas the Cuckoo. — with what delight 
 Heard I that voice ! and catch it now, though faint, 
 Far off and faint, and melting into air, 
 Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again ! 
 Those louder cries give notice that the Bird, 
 Although invisible as Echo's self, 
 Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy Creature, 
 For this unthought-of greeting ! 
 
 While allured 
 From vale to hill, from hill to vale led on, 
 We have pursued, through various lands, a long 
 And pleasant course ; flower after flower has blown, 
 Embellishing the ground that gave them birth 
 With aspects novel to my sight ; but still 
 Most fair, most welcome, when they drank the dew 
 In a sweet fellowship with kinds beloved, 
 For old remembrance sake. And oft — where Spring 
 Display'd her richest blossoms among files 
 Of orange-trees bedecked with glowing fruit 
 Ripe for the hand, or under a thick shade 
 Of Ilex, or, if better suited to the hour, 
 The lightsome Olive's twinkling canopy — 
 Oft have I heard the Nightingale and Thrush 
 Blending as in a common English grove 
 Their love-songs ; but, where'er my feet mightroam, 
 Whate'er assemblages of new and old, 
 Strange and familiar, might beguile the way, 
 A gratulation from that vagrant Voice 
 Was wanting; — and most happily till now. 
 
 
 For see, Laverna ! mark the far-famed Pile, 
 High on the brink of that precipitous rock, 
 Implanted like a Fortress, as in truth 
 It is, a Christian Fortress, garrisoned 
 In faith and hope, and dutiful obedience, 
 By a few Monks, a stern society, 
 Dead to the world and scorning earth-born joys. 
 Nay — though the hopes that drew, the fears that 
 
 drove, 
 St. Francis, far from Man's resort, to abide 
 Among these sterile heights of Apennine, 
 Bound him, nor, since he raised yon House, have 
 
 ceased 
 To bind his spiritual Progeny, with rules 
 Stringent as flesh can tolerate and live ; 
 His milder Genius (thanks to the good God 
 That made us) over those severe restraints 
 Of mind, that dread heart-freezing discipline, 
 Doth sometimes here predominate, and works 
 By unsought means for gracious purposes ; 
 For earth through heaven, for heaven, by changeful 
 
 earth, 
 Illustrated, and mutually endeared. 
 
 Rapt though He were above the power of sense, 
 Familiarly, yet out of the cleansed heart 
 Of that once sinful Being overflowed 
 On sun, moon, stars, the nether elements, 
 And every shape of creature they sustain, 
 Divine affections ; and with beast and bird 
 (Stilled from afar — such marvel story tells — 
 By casual outbreak of his passionate words, 
 And from their own pursuits in field or grove 
 Drawn to his side by look or act of love 
 Humane, and virtue of his innocent life) 
 He wont to hold companionship so free, 
 So pure, so fraught with knowledge and delight, 
 As to be likened in his Followers' minds 
 To that which our first Parents, ere the fall 
 From their high state darkened the Earth with fear 
 Held with all Kinds in Eden's blissful bowers. 
 
 Then question not that, 'mid the austere Band, 
 Who breathe the air he breathed,tread where he trod 
 Some true Partakers of his loving spirit 
 Do still survive, and, with those gentle hearta 
 Consorted, Others, in the power, the faith, 
 Of a baptized imagination, prompt 
 To catch from Nature's humblest monitors 
 Whate'er they bring of impulses sublime. 
 
 Thus sensitive must be the Monk, though pale 
 With fasts, with vigils worn, depressed by years, 
 Whom in a sunny glade I chanced to see, 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 277 - 
 
 Jpon a pine-tree's storm-uprooted trunk, 
 
 peated alone, with forehead sky-ward raised, 
 
 lands clasped above the crucifix he wore 
 
 Appended to his bosom, and lips closed 
 
 3y the joint pressure of his musing mood 
 
 ind habit of his vow. That ancient Man — 
 
 \Tor hapry less the Brother whom I marked, 
 
 ^s we approached the Convent gate, aloft 
 
 Poking far forth from his aerial cell, 
 
 k young Ascetic — Poet, Hero, Sage, 
 
 le might have been, Lover belike he was — 
 
 f they received into a conscious ear 
 
 The notes whose first faint greeting startled me, 
 
 Vhose sedulous iteration thrilled with joy 
 
 My heart — may have been moved like me to think, 
 
 \h ! not like me who walk in the world's ways, 
 
 )n the great Prophet, styled the Voice of One 
 
 yrymg amid the wilderness, and given, 
 
 \ T ow that their snows must melt, their herbs and 
 
 flowers 
 Revive, their obstinate winter pass away, 
 That awful name to Thee, thee, simple Cuckoo, 
 jiVandering in solitude, and evermore 
 foretelling and proclaiming, ere thou leave 
 This thy last haunt beneath Italian skies 
 To carry thy glad tidings over heights 
 kill loftier, and to climes more near the Pole. 
 
 Voice of the Desert, fare-thee-well ; sweet Bird ! 
 If that substantial title please thee more, 
 !? arewell ! — but go thy way, no need hast thou 
 )f a good wish sent after thee ; from bower 
 jPo bower as green, from sky to sky as clear, 
 Thee gentle breezes waft — or airs that meet 
 ,rhy course and sport around thee softly fan — 
 fill Night, descending upon hill and vale, 
 Jrants to thy mission a brief term of silence, 
 Vnd folds thy pinions up in blest repose. 
 
 AT THE CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI. 
 
 Brieve for the Man who hither came bereft, 
 And seeking consolation from above ; 
 >or grieve the less that skill to him was left 
 To paint this picture of his lady-love : 
 "an she, a blessed saint, the work approve ? 
 i \.nd 0, good Brethren of the cowl, a tiling 
 Bo fair, to which with peril he must cling, 
 Ipestroy in pity, or with care remove. 
 iThat bloom — those eyes — can they assist to bind 
 ^noughts that would stray from Heaven? The 
 dream must cease 
 
 To be ; by Faith, not sight, his soul must five ; 
 Else will the enamoured Monk too surely find 
 How wide a space can part from inward peace 
 The most profound repose his cell can give. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 The world forsaken, all its busy cares 
 
 And stirring interests shunned with desperate flight, 
 
 All trust abandoned in the healing might 
 
 Of virtuous action ; all that courage dares, 
 
 Labour accomplishes, or patience bears — 
 
 Those helps rejected, they, whose minds perceive 
 
 How subtly works man's weakness, sighs may heave 
 
 For such a One beset with cloistral snares. 
 
 Father of Mercy ! rectify his view, 
 
 If with his vows this object ill agree ; 
 
 Shed over it thy grace, and thus subdue 
 
 Imperious passion in a heart set free : — 
 
 That earthly love may to herself be true, 
 
 Give him a soul that cleaveth unto thee *. 
 
 AT THE EREMITE OR UPPER CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI. 
 
 What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size 
 Enormous, dragged, while side by side they sate, 
 By panting steers up to this convent gate ? 
 How, with empurpled cheeks and pampered eyes, 
 Dare they confront the lean austerities 
 Of Brethren who, here fixed, on Jesu wait 
 In sackcloth, and God's anger deprecate 
 Through all that humbles flesh and mortifies ? 
 Strange contrast ! — verily the world of dreams, 
 Where mingle, as for mockery combined, 
 Things in their very essences at strife, 
 Shows not a sight incongruous as the extremes 
 That everywhere, before the thoughtful miud, 
 Meet on the solid ground of waking life +. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 AT VALLOMBROSA. 
 
 Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks 
 In Vallombrosa, where Etrurian shades 
 High over-arch'd embower %. 
 
 Paradise Lost. 
 
 " Vallombrosa — I longed in thy shadiest wood 
 To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor !" 
 Fond wish that was granted at last, and the Flood, 
 That lulled me asleep bids me listen once more. 
 
 * See Note. t See note. 
 
 $ See for the two first lines, " Stanzas composed in the 
 Simplon Pass," 
 
278 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Its murmur how soft ! as it falls down the steep, 
 Near that Cell — yon sequestered Retreat high in 
 
 ah* — 
 Where our Milton was wont lonely vigils to keep 
 For converse with God, sought through study and 
 
 prayer. 
 
 The Monks still repeat the tradition with pride, 
 And its truth who shall doubt ? for his Spirit is 
 
 here ; 
 In the cloud-piercing rocks doth her grandeur abide, 
 In the pines pointing heavenward her beauty 
 
 austere ; 
 In the flower-besprent meadows his genius we trace 
 Turned to humbler delights, in which youth might 
 
 confide, 
 That would yield him fit help while prefiguring that 
 
 Place 
 Where, if Sin had not entered, Love never had died. 
 
 When with life lengthened out came a desolate time, 
 And darkness and danger had compassed him round, 
 With a thought he would flee to these haunts of his 
 
 prime, 
 And here once again a kind shelter be found. 
 And let me believe that when nightly the Muse 
 Did waft him to Sion, the glorified hill, 
 Here also, on some favoured height, he would choose 
 To wander, and drink inspiration at will 
 
 Vallombrosa ! of thee I first heard in the page 
 Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mind 
 Had a musical charm, which the winter of age 
 And the changes it brings had no power to unbind. 
 And now, ye Miltonian shades ! under you 
 I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part, 
 While your leaves I behold and the brooks they 
 
 will strewj 
 And the realised vision is clasped to my heart. 
 
 Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as we may 
 
 In Forms that must perish, frail objects of sense ; 
 
 Unblamed — if the Soul be intent on the day 
 
 When the Being of Beings shall summon her hence. 
 
 For he and he only with wisdom is blest 
 
 Who, gathering true pleasures wherever they grow, 
 
 Looks up in all places, for joy or for rest, 
 
 To the Fountain whence Time and Eternity flow. 
 
 AT FLORENCE. 
 
 Under the shadow of a stately Pile, 
 
 The dome of Florence, pensive and alone, 
 
 Nor giving heed to aught that passed the while, 
 
 I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone, 
 
 The laurelled Dante's favourite seat. A throne, 
 
 In just esteem, it rivals ; though no style 
 
 Be there of decoration to beguile 
 
 The mind, depressed by thought of greatness flown, 
 
 As a true man, who long had served the lyre, 
 
 I gazed with earnestness, and dared no more. 
 
 But in his breast the mighty Poet bore 
 
 A Patriot's heart, warm with undying fire. 
 
 Bold with the thought, in reverence I sate down, 
 
 And, for a moment, filled that empty Throne. 
 
 BEFORE THE PICTURE OF THE BAPTIST, BY RAPHAEL, 
 IN THE GALLERY AT FLORENCE. 
 
 The Baptist might have been ordain'd to cry 
 
 Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, wherein 
 
 His Father served Jehovah ; but how win 
 
 Due audience, how for aught hut scorn defy 
 
 The obstinate pride and wanton revelry 
 
 Of the Jerusalem below, her sin 
 
 And folly, if they with united din 
 
 Drown not at once mandate and prophecy ? 
 
 Therefore the Voice spake from the Desert, thenoe 
 
 To Her, as to her opposite in peace, 
 
 Silence, and holiness, and innocence, 
 
 To Her and to all Lands its warning sent, 
 
 Crying with earnestness that might not cease, 
 
 " Make straight a highway for the Lord — repent ! " 
 
 AT FLORENCE. FROM MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 Rapt above earth by power of one fair face, 
 Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights, 
 I mingle with the blest on those pure heights 
 Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place. 
 With Him who made the Work that Work accords 
 So well, that by its help and through his grace 
 I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words, 
 Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace. 
 Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn, 
 I feel how in their presence doth abide 
 Light which to God is both the way and guide ; 
 And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn, 
 My noble fire emits the joyful ray 
 That through the realms of glory shines for aye. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY. 
 
 279 
 
 AT FLORENCE. FROM M. ANGELO. 
 
 JEternal Lord ! eased of a cumbrous load, 
 And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee ; 
 >hnn, like a shattered hark, the storm, and flee 
 To thy protection for a safe abode, 
 [he crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, 
 rhe meek, benign, and lacerated face, 
 iro a sincere repentance promise grace, 
 To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. 
 iVith justice mark not Thou, Light divine, 
 vly fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear ; 
 Neither put forth that way thy arm severe ; 
 iVash with thy blood my sins ; thereto incline 
 klore readily the more my years require 
 lelp, and forgiveness speedy and entire. 
 
 lMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES. 
 
 f E Trees ! whose slender roots entwine 
 
 l Altars that piety neglects ; 
 
 iVhose infant arms enclasp the shrine 
 
 Which no devotion now respects ; 
 i not a straggler from the herd 
 Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, 
 Chanting her low- voiced hymn, take pride 
 ,'n aught that ye would grace or hide — 
 low sadly is your love misplaced, 
 j?air Trees, your bounty run to waste ! 
 
 ife, too, wild Flowers ! that no one heeds, 
 And ye — full often spurned as weeds — 
 In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness 
 From fractured arch and mouldering wall — 
 Do but more touchingly recal 
 Vlan's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness, 
 Making the precincts ye adorn 
 Appear to sight still more forlorn. 
 
 IN LOMBARDY. 
 
 See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins 
 Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves ! — most hard 
 Appears Ms lot, to the small Worm's compared, 
 (For whom his toil with early day begins. 
 [Acknowledging no task-master, at will 
 '(As if her labour and her ease were twins) 
 \She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still ; — 
 ,And softly sleeps within the thread she spins. 
 
 So fare they — the Man serving as her Slave. 
 Ere long their fates do each to each conform : 
 Both pass into new being, — but the Worm, 
 Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave ; 
 His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend 
 To bliss unbounded, glory without end. 
 
 AFTER LEAVING ITALY. 
 
 Fair Land ! Thee all men greet with joy ; how few, 
 Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame, 
 Part from thee without pity dyed in shame : 
 I could not — while from Venice we withdrew, 
 Led on till an Alpine strait confined our view 
 Within its depths, and to the shore we came 
 Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name, 
 Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder colouring threw. 
 Italia ! on the surface of thy spirit, 
 (Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake) 
 Shall a few partial breezes only creep ? — 
 Be its depths quickened ; what thou dost inherit 
 Of the world's hopes, dare to fulfil ; awake, 
 Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like sleep ! 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 As indignation mastered grief, my tongue 
 Spake bitter words ; words that did ill agree 
 With those rich stores of Nature's imagery, 
 And divine Art, that fast to memory clung — 
 Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young 
 In the sun's eye, and in his sister's sight 
 How beautiful ! how worthy to be sung 
 In strains of rapture, or subdued delight ! 
 I feign not ; witness that unwelcome shock 
 That followed the first sound of German speech, 
 Caught the far-winding barrier Alps among. 
 In that announcement, greeting seemed to mock 
 Parting ; the casual word had power to reach 
 My heart, and filled that heart with conflict strong. 
 
 COMPOSED AT RYDAL ON MAY MORNING, 1838. 
 
 If with old love of you, dear Hills ! I share 
 New love of many a rival image brought 
 From far, forgive the wanderings of my thought : 
 Nor art thou wronged, sweet May ! when I compare 
 Thy present birth-morn with thy last, so fair, 
 So rich to me in favours. For my lot 
 Then was, within the famed Egerian Grot 
 To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air 
 
280 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Mingling with thy soft breath ! That morning too, 
 
 Warblers I heard their joy unbosoming 
 
 Amid the sunny, shadowy, Colyseum ; 
 
 Heard them, unchecked by aught of saddening hue, 
 
 For victories there won by flower-crowned Spring, 
 
 Chant in full choir their innocent Te Deum. 
 
 THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. 
 
 Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds 
 
 O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds ; 
 
 And temples, doomed to milder change, unfold 
 
 A new magnificence that vies with old ; 
 
 Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood 
 
 A votive Column, spared by fire and flood : — 
 
 And, though the passions of man's fretful race 
 
 Have never ceased to eddy round its base, 
 
 Not injured more by touch of meddling hands 
 
 Than a lone obelisk, 'mid Nubian sands, 
 
 Or aught in Syrian deserts left to save 
 
 From death the memory of the good and brave. 
 
 Historic figures round the shaft embost 
 
 Ascend, with lineaments in air not lost : 
 
 Still as he turns, the charmed spectator sees 
 
 Group winding after group with dream-like ease ; 
 
 Triumphs in sunbright gratitude displayed, 
 
 Or softly stealing into modest shade. 
 
 — So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine 
 
 Some lofty elm-tree, mounts the daring vine ; 
 
 The woodbine so, with spiral grace, and breathes 
 
 Wide-spreading odours from her flowery wreaths. 
 
 Borne by the Muse from rills in shepherds' ears 
 Murmuring but one smooth story for all years, 
 I gladly commune with the mind and heart 
 Of him who thus survives by classic art, 
 His actions witness, venerate his mien, 
 And study Trajan as by Pliny seen ; 
 Behold how fought the Chief whose conquering 
 
 sword 
 Stretched far as earth might own a single lord ; 
 
 In the delight of moral prudence schooled, 
 How feelingly at home the Sovereign ruled ; 
 Best of the good — in pagan faith allied 
 To more than Man, by virtue deified. 
 
 Memorial Pillar ! 'mid the wrecks of Time 
 Preserve thy charge with confidence sublime — 
 The exultations, pomps, and cares of Rome, 
 Whence half the breathing world x-eceived its doom; 
 Things that recoil from language ; that, if shown 
 By apter pencil, from the light had flown. 
 A Pontiff, Trajan here the Gods implores, 
 There greets an Embassy from Indian shores ; 
 Lo ! he harangues his cohorts — there the storm 
 Of battle meets him in authentic form ! 
 Unharnessed, naked, troops of Moorish horse 
 Sweep to the charge ; more high, the Dacian force, 
 To hoof and finger mailed ; — yet, high or low, 
 None bleed, and none lie prostrate but the foe ; 
 In every Roman, through all turns of fate, 
 Is Roman dignity inviolate ; 
 Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides, 
 Supports, adorns, and over all presides ; 
 Distinguished only by inherent state 
 From honoured Instruments that round him wait; 
 Rise as he may, his grandeur scorns the test 
 Of outward symbol, nor will deign to rest 
 On aught by which another is deprest. 
 — Alas ! that One thus disciplined could toil 
 To enslave whole nations on their native soil ; 
 So emulous of Macedonian fame, 
 That, when his age was measured with his aim, 
 He drooped, 'mid else unclouded victories, 
 And turned his eagles back with deep-drawn sis;lis: 
 weakness of the Great ! folly of the Wise ! 
 
 Where now the haughty Empire that was tqmad 
 With such fond hope \ her very speech is deat'. ; 
 Yet glorious Art the power of Time defies, 
 And Trajan still, through various enterprise, 
 Mounts, in this fine illusion, toward the skies : 
 Still are we present with the imperial Chief, 
 Nor cease to gaze upon the bold Relief 
 Till Rome, to silent marble unconfined, 
 Becomes with all her years a vision of the Mind. 
 
THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 
 
 281 
 
 THE EGYPTIAN MAID; 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER LILY. 
 
 [For the names and persons in the following poem, see the "History of the renowned Prince Arthur and his 
 ights of the Round Table ;" for the rest the Author is answerable ; only it may be proper to add, that the Lotus, 
 ,h the bust of the Goddess appearing to rise out of the full-blown flower, was suggested by the beautiful work of 
 j;ient art, once included among the Townley Marbles, and now in the British Museum.] 
 
 While Merlin paced the Cornish sands, 
 
 ?orth-looking toward the rocks of Scilly, 
 
 The pleased Enchanter was aware 
 
 |)f a bright Ship that seemed to hang in air, 
 
 ifet was she work of mortal hands, 
 
 d took from men her name — The Water Lily. 
 
 ■Soft was the wind, that landward blew ; 
 A.nd, as the Moon, o'er some dark hill ascendant, 
 jirows from a little edge of light 
 To a full orb, this Pinnace bright 
 became, as nearer to the coast she drew, 
 Ire glorious, with spread sail and streaming 
 pendant. 
 
 |Jpon this winged Shape so fair 
 page Merlin gazed with admiration : 
 
 ler lineaments, thought he, surpass 
 ilught that was ever shown in magic glass ; 
 
 »Vas ever built with patient care ; 
 <i, at a touch, produced by happiest transformation. 
 
 ^ow, though a Mechanist, whose skill 
 shames the degenerate grasp of modern science, 
 irave Merlin (and belike the more 
 i|ir practising occult and perilous lore) 
 iVas subject to a freakish will 
 'it sapped good thoughts, or scared them with 
 defiance. 
 
 3 rovoked to envious spleen, he cast 
 
 !^.n altered look upon the advancing Stranger 
 
 i'Vhom he had hailed with joy, and cried, 
 
 ! : My Art shall help to tame her pride — " 
 
 ^non the breeze became a blast, 
 
 d the waves rose, and sky portended danger. 
 
 With thrilling word, and potent sign 
 
 Traced on the beach, his work the Sorcerer 
 
 urges ; 
 The clouds in blacker clouds are lost, 
 Like spiteful Fiends that vanish, crossed 
 By Fiends of aspect more malign ; 
 And the winds roused the Deep with fiercer 
 scourges. 
 
 But worthy of the name she bore 
 Was this Sea-flower, this buoyant Galley ; 
 Supreme in loveliness and grace 
 Of motion, whether in the embrace 
 Of trusty anchorage, or scudding o'er 
 The main flood roughened into hill and valley. 
 
 Behold, how wantonly she laves 
 Her sides, the Wizard's craft confounding ; 
 Like something out of Ocean sprung 
 To be for ever fresh and young, 
 Breasts the sea-flashes, and huge waves 
 Top-gallant high, rebounding and rebounding ! 
 
 But Ocean under magic heaves, 
 And cannot spare the Thing he cherished : 
 Ah ! what avails that she was fair, 
 Luminous, blithe, and debonair ? 
 The storm has stripped her of her leaves ; 
 The Lily floats no longer ! — She hath perished. 
 
 Grieve for her, — she deserves no less ; 
 So like, yet so unlike, a living Creature ! 
 No heart had she, no busy brain ; 
 Though loved, she could not love again; 
 Though pitied, feel her own distress ; 
 Nor aught that troubles us, the fools of Nature. 
 
282 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Yet is there cause for gushing tears ; 
 So richly was this Galley laden, 
 A fairer than herself she bore, 
 And, in her struggles, cast ashore ; 
 A lovely One, who nothing hears 
 Of wind or wave — a meek and guileless Maiden. 
 
 Into a cave had Merlin fled 
 
 From mischief, caused by spells himself had 
 
 muttered ; 
 And while, repentant all too late, 
 In moody posture there he sate, 
 He heard a voice, and saw, with half-raised head, 
 A Visitant by whom these words were uttered ; 
 
 " On Christian service this frail Bark 
 Sailed " (hear me, Merlin !) " under high pro- 
 tection, 
 Though on her prow a sign of heathen power 
 Was carved — a Goddess with a Lily flower, 
 The old Egyptian's emblematic mark 
 Of joy immortal and of pure affection. 
 
 Her course was for the British strand ; 
 Her freight, it was a Damsel peerless ; 
 God reigns above, and Spirits strong 
 May gather to avenge this wrong 
 Done to the Princess, and her Land 
 Which she in duty left, sad but not cheerless. 
 
 And to Caerleon's loftiest tower 
 Soon will the Knights of Arthur's Table 
 A cry of lamentation send ; 
 And all will weep who there attend, 
 To grace that Stranger's bridal hour, 
 For whom the sea was made unnavigable. 
 
 Shame ! should a Child of royal line 
 Die through the blindness of thy malice I " 
 Thus to the Necromancer spake 
 Nina, the Lady of the Lake, 
 A gentle Sorceress, and benign, 
 Who ne'er embittered any good man's chalice. 
 
 " What boots," continued she, K to mourn \ 
 To expiate thy sin endeavour : 
 From the bleak isle where she is laid, 
 Fetched by our art, the Egyptian Maid 
 May yet to Arthur's court be borne 
 Cold as she is, ex'e life be fled for ever. 
 
 My pearly Boat, a shining Light, 
 That brought me down that sunless river, 
 Will bear me on from wave to wave, 
 And back with her to this sea-cave ; — 
 Then Merlin ! for a rapid flight 
 Through air, to thee my Charge will I deliver. 
 
 The very swiftest of thy cars 
 Must, when my part is done, be ready ; 
 Meanwhile, for further guidance, look 
 Into thy own prophetic book ; 
 And, if that fail, consult the Stars 
 To learn thy course ; farewell ! be prompt and j 
 steady." 
 
 This scarcely spoken, she again 
 Was seated in her gleaming shallop, 
 That, o'er the yet-distempered Deep, 
 Pursued its way with bird-like sweep, 
 Or like a steed, without a rein, 
 Urged o'er the wilderness in sportive gallop. 
 
 Soon did the gentle Nina reach 
 That Isle without a house or haven ; 
 Landing, she found not what she sought, 
 Nor saw of wreck or ruin aught 
 But a carved Lotus cast upon the beach 
 By the fierce waves, a flower in marble graven. 
 
 Sad relique, but how fair the while ! 
 For gently each from each retreating 
 With backward curve, the leaves revealed 
 The bosom half, and half concealed, 
 Of a Divinity, that seemed to smile 
 On Nina, as she passed, with hopeful greeting. 
 
 No quest was hers of vague desire, 
 Of tortured hope and purpose shaken ; 
 Following the margin of a bay, 
 She spied the lonely Cast-away, 
 Unmarred, unstripped of her attire, 
 But with closed eyes, — ofbreathandbloomforsaken. 
 
 Then Nina, stooping down, embraced, 
 With tenderness and mild emotion, 
 The Damsel, in that trance embound ; 
 And, while she raised her from the ground, 
 And in the pearly shallop placed, 
 Sleep fell upon the air, and stilled the ocean. 
 
 The turmoil hushed, celestial springs 
 Of music opened, and there came a blending 
 Of fragrance, underived from earth, 
 With gleams that owed not to the sun their birth 
 And that soft rustling of invisible wings 
 Which Angels make, on works of love descending 
 
 And Nina heard a sweeter voice 
 Than if the Goddess of the flower had spoken : j 
 " Thou hast achieved, fair Dame ! what none 
 Less pure in spirit could have done ; 
 Go, in thy enterprise rejoice ! 
 Air, earth, sea, sky, and heaven, success betoken. 
 
THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 
 
 283 
 
 So cheered, she left that Island bleak, 
 
 A bare- rock of the Scilly cluster ; 
 
 And, as they traversed the smooth brine, 
 
 The self-illumined Brigantine 
 
 Shed, on the Slumberer's cold wan cheek 
 
 ad pallid brow, a melancholy lustre. 
 
 Fleet was their course, and when they came 
 
 To the dim cavern, whence the river 
 
 Issued into the salt-sea flood, 
 
 : Merlin, as fixed in thought he stood, 
 
 Was thus accosted by the Dame ; 
 
 Behold to thee my Charge I now deliver ! 
 
 But where attends thy chariot — where % " — 
 Quoth Merlin, " Even as I was bidden, 
 So have I done ; as trusty as thy barge 
 My vehicle shall prove — precious Charge ! 
 •If this be sleep, how soft ! if death, how fair ! 
 jch have my books disclosed, but the end is 
 hidden." 
 
 He spake ; and gliding into view 
 
 iForth from the grotto's dimmest chamber 
 
 Oame two mute Swans,whose plumes of dusky white 
 
 Changed, as the pair approached the fight, 
 
 Drawing an ebon car, their hue 
 
 ike clouds of sunset) into lucid amber. 
 
 ■Once more did gentle Nina lift 
 The Princess, passive to all changes : 
 The car received her : — then up-went 
 [nto the ethereal element 
 The Birds with progress smooth and swift 
 .. thought, when through bright regions memory 
 ranges. 
 
 3age Merlin, at the Slumberer's side, 
 Instructs the Swans their way to measure ; 
 \nd soon Caerleon's towers appeared, 
 Ajid notes of minstrelsy were heard 
 From rich pavilions spreading wide, 
 j . r some high day of long-expected pleasure. 
 
 .^we-stricken stood both Knights and Dames 
 
 Ere on firm ground the car alighted ; 
 
 Eftsoons astonishment was past, - 
 
 For in that face they saw the last 
 
 Last lingering look of clay, that tames 
 
 I. pride ; by which all happiness is blighted. 
 
 laid Merlin, " Mighty King, fair Lords, 
 A.way with feast and tilt and tourney ! 
 Ve saw, throughout this royal House, 
 Ve heard, a rocking marvellous 
 Of turrets, and a clash of swords 
 tf-shaken, as I closed my airy journey. 
 
 Lo ! by a destiny well known 
 To mortals, joy is turned to sorrow; 
 This is the wished-for Bride, the Maid 
 Of Egypt, from a rock conveyed 
 Where she by shipwreck had been thrown ; 
 111 sight ! but grief may vanish ere the morrow." 
 
 " Though vast thy power, thy words are weak," 
 Exclaimed the King, "a mockery hateful ; 
 Dutiful Child, her lot how hard ! 
 Is this her piety's reward ? 
 Those watery locks, that bloodless cheek ! 
 winds without remorse \ shore ungrateful ! 
 
 Rich robes are fretted by the moth ; 
 Towers, temples, fall by stroke of thunder ; 
 Will that, or deeper thoughts, abate 
 A Father's sorrow for her fate ? 
 He will repent him of his troth ; 
 His brain will burn, his stout heart split asunder. 
 
 Alas ! and I have caused this woe ; 
 For, when my prowess from invading Neighbours 
 Had freed his Realm, he plighted word 
 That he would turn to Christ our Lord, 
 And his dear Daughter on a Knight bestow 
 Whom I should choose for love and matchless 
 labours. 
 
 Her birth was heathen ; but a fence 
 Of holy Angels round her hovered : 
 A Lady added to my court 
 So fair, of such divine report 
 And worship, seemed a recompense 
 For fifty kingdoms by my sword recovered. 
 
 Ask not for whom, Champions true ! 
 She was reserved by me her life's betrayer ; 
 She who was meant to be a bride 
 Is now a corse : then put aside 
 Vain thoughts, and speed ye, with observance due 
 Of Christian rites, in Christian ground to lay her." 
 
 "The tomb," said Merlin, "may not close 
 Upon her yet, earth hide her beauty ; 
 Not froward to thy sovereign will 
 Esteem me, Liege ! if I, whose skill 
 Wafted her hither, interpose 
 To check this pious haste of erring duty. 
 
 My books command me to lay bare 
 
 The secret thou art bent on keeping : 
 
 Here must a high attest be given, 
 
 What Bridegroom was for her ordained by 
 
 Heaven : 
 And in my glass significants there are 
 Of things that may to gladness turn this weeping. 
 
284 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 For this, approaching, One hy One, 
 
 Thy Knights must touch the cold hand of the 
 
 Virgin; 
 So, for the favoured One, the Flower may bloom 
 Once more : but, if unchangeable her doom, 
 If life departed be for ever gone, 
 Some blest assurance, from this cloud emerging, 
 
 May teach him to bewail his loss ; 
 Not with a grief that, like a vapour, rises 
 And melts ; but grief devout that shall endure, 
 And a perpetual growth secure 
 Of purposes which no false thought shall cross, 
 A harvest of high hopes and noble enterprises." 
 
 "So be it," said the King ; — "anon, 
 Here, where the Princess lies, begin the trial ; 
 Knights each in order as ye stand 
 Step forth." — To touch the pallid hand 
 Sir Agravaine advanced ; no sign he won 
 From Heaven or earth ; — Sir Kaye had like denial. 
 
 Abashed, Sir Dinas turned away ; 
 Even for Sir Percival was no disclosure ; 
 Though he, devoutest of all Champions, ere 
 He reached that ebon car, the bier 
 Whereon diffused like snow the Damsel lay, 
 Full thrice had crossed himself in meek composure. 
 
 Imagine (but ye Saints ! who can V) 
 How in still air the balance trembled — 
 The wishes, peradventure the despites 
 That overcame some not ungenerous Knights ; 
 And all the thoughts that lengthened out a span 
 Of time to Lords and Ladies thus assembled. 
 
 What patient confidence was here ! 
 And there how many bosoms panted ! 
 While drawing toward the car Sir Gawaine, mailed 
 For tournament, his beaver vailed, 
 And softly touched ; but, to his princely cheer 
 And high expectancy, no sign was granted. 
 
 Next, disencumbered of his harp, 
 Sir Tristram, dear to thousands as a brother, 
 Came to the proof, nor grieved that there ensued 
 No change ; — the fair Izonda he had wooed 
 With love too true, a love with pangs too sharp, 
 From hope too distant, not to dread another. 
 
 Not so Sir Launcelot ; — from Heaven's grace 
 A sign he craved, tired slave of vain contrition ; 
 The royal Guinever looked passing glad 
 When his touch failed. — Next came Sir Galahad ; 
 He paused, and stood entranced by that still face 
 Whose features he had seen in noontide vision. 
 
 For late, as near a murmuring stream 
 He rested 'mid an arbour green and shady, 
 Nina, the good Enchantress, shed 
 A fight around his mossy bed ; 
 And, at her call, a waking dream 
 Prefigured to his sense the Egyptian Lady. 
 
 Now, while his bright-haired front he bowed, 
 And stood, far-kenned by mantle furred witli 
 
 ermine, 
 As o'er the insensate Body hung 
 The enrapt, the beautiful, the young, 
 Belief sank deep into the crowd 
 That he the solemn issue would determine. 
 
 Nor deem it strange ; the Youth had worn 
 That very mantle on a day of glory, 
 The day when he achieved that matchless feat, 
 The marvel of the Perilous Seat, 
 Which whosoe'er approached of strength wa 
 shorn, 
 Though King or Knight the most renowned in ston 
 
 He touched with hesitating hand — 
 
 And lo ! those Birds, far-famed through Love' 
 
 dominions, 
 The Swans, in triumph clap their wings ; 
 And their necks play, involved in rings, 
 Like sinless snakes in Eden's happy land ; — 
 "Mine is she," cried the Knight; — again the;,; 
 
 clapped their pinions. 
 
 " Mine was she — mine she is, though dead, 
 And to her name my soul shall cleave in sorrow ; 
 Whereat, a tender twilight streak 
 Of colour dawned upon the Damsel's cheek ; 
 And her lips, quickening with uncertain red, 
 
 Seemed from each other a faint warmlh to horrov 
 
 Deep was the awe, the rapture high, 
 Of love emboldened, hope with dread entwinin 
 When, to the mouth, relenting Death 
 Allowed a soft and flower-like breath, 
 Precursor to a timid sigh, 
 To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining. 
 
 In silence did King Arthur gaze 
 Upon the signs that pass away or tarry ; 
 In silence watched the gentle strife 
 Of Nature leading back to life ; 
 Then eased his soul at length by praise 
 Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen — the bliasf 
 Mary. 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 285 
 
 Then said he, " Take her to thy heart, 
 jSir Galahad ! a treasure, that God giveth, 
 (Bound by indissoluble ties to thee 
 iThrough mortal change and immortality ; 
 jBe happy and unenvied, thou who art 
 
 goodly Knight that hath no peer that liveth ! ' 
 
 ;Not long the Nuptials were delayed ; 
 
 [And sage tradition still rehearses 
 
 The pomp, the glory of that hour 
 
 (When toward the altar from her bower 
 
 iKing Arthur led the Egyptian Maid, 
 
 lid Angels carolled these far-echoed verses ; — 
 
 Who shrinks not from alliance 
 Of evil with good Powers, 
 To God proclaims defiance, 
 And mocks whom he adores. 
 
 A Ship to Christ devoted 
 From the Land of Nile did go ; 
 Alas ! the bright Ship floated, 
 An Idol at her prow. 
 
 By magic domination, 
 The Heaven-permitted vent 
 Of purblind mortal passion, 
 Was wrought her punishment. 
 
 The Flower, the Form within it, 
 What served they in her need ? 
 Her port she could not win it, 
 Nor from mishap be freed. 
 
 The tempest overcame her, 
 And she was seen no more ; 
 But gently, gently blame her — 
 She cast a Pearl ashore. 
 
 The Maid to Jesu hearkened, 
 And kept to him her faith, 
 Till sense in death was darkened, 
 Or sleep akin to death. 
 
 But Angels round her pillow 
 Kept watch, a viewless band ; 
 And, billow favouring billow, 
 She reached the destined strand. 
 
 Blest Pair ! whate'er befal you, 
 Your faith in Him approve 
 Who from frail earth can call you 
 To bowers of endless love ! 
 
 THE RIVER- DUDDON. 
 
 A SERIES OF SONNETS. 
 
 The River Duddon rises upon Wrynose Fell, on the confines of Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lancashire ; 
 nd, having served as a boundary to the two last counties for the space of about twenty-five miles, enters the Irish 
 ea, between the Isle of Walney and the Lordship of Milium. 
 
 TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 (WITH THE SONNETS TO THE RIVER DUDDON, AND OTHER POEMS IN THIS COLLECTION, ]£ 
 
 The Minstrels played their Christmas tune 
 To-night beneath my cottage-eaves ; 
 While, smitten by a lofty moon, 
 The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
 Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, 
 That overpowered their natural green. 
 
 Through hill and valley every breeze 
 
 Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 
 
 Keen was the air, but could not freeze, 
 
 Nor check, the music of the strings ; 
 
 So Btout and hardy were the band 
 
 That scraped the chords with strenuous hand ! 
 
 And who but listened ? — till was paid 
 Respect to every Inmate's claim : 
 The greeting given, the music played, 
 In honour of each household name, 
 Duly pronounced with lusty call, 
 And ' merry Christmas ' wished to all ! 
 
 O Brother ! I revere the choice 
 That took thee from thy native hills ; 
 And it is given thee to rejoice • 
 Though public care full often tills 
 (Heaven only witness of the toil) 
 A barren and ungrateful soil. 
 

 286 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, 
 
 Hadst heard this never-failing rite ; 
 
 And seen on other faces shine 
 
 A true revival of the light 
 
 Which Nature and these rustic Powers, 
 
 In simple childhood, spread through ours ! 
 
 For pleasure hath not ceased to wait 
 On these expected annual rounds ; 
 Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate 
 Call forth the unelaborate sounds, 
 Or they are offered at the door 
 That guards the lowliest of the poor. 
 
 How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 
 Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, 
 To hear— and sink again to sleep ! 
 Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 
 By blazing fire, the still suspense 
 Of self-complacent innocence ; 
 
 The mutual nod,— the grave disguise 
 
 Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ; 
 
 And some unbidden tears that rise 
 
 For names once heard, and heard no more ; 
 
 Tears brightened by the serenade 
 
 For infant in the cradle laid. 
 
 Ah ! not for emerald fields alone, 
 
 With ambient streams more pure and bright 
 
 Than fabled Cytherea's zone 
 
 Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, 
 
 Is to my heart of hearts endeared 
 
 The ground where we were born and reared ! 
 
 Hail, ancient Manners ! sure defence, 
 Where they survive, of wholesome lawB ; 
 Remnants of love whose modest sense 
 Thus into narrow room withdraws ; 
 Hail, Usages of pristine mould, 
 And ye that guard them, Mountains old ! 
 
 Bear with me, Brother ! quench the thought 
 
 That slights this passion, or condemns ; 
 
 If thee fond Fancy ever brought 
 
 From the proud margin of the Thames, 
 
 And Lambeth's venerable towers, 
 
 To humbler streams, and greener bowers. 
 
 Yes, they can make, who fail to find, 
 
 Short leisure even in busiest days ; 
 
 Moments, to cast a look behind, 
 
 And profit by those kindly rays 
 
 That through the clouds do sometimes steal, 
 
 And all the far-off past reveal. 
 
 Hence, while the imperial City's din 
 Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, 
 A pleased attention I may win 
 To agitations less severe, 
 That neither overwhelm nor cloy, 
 But fill the hollow vale with joy ! 
 
 Not envying Latian shades — if yet they throw 
 
 A grateful coolness round that crystal Spring, 
 
 Blandusia, prattling as when long ago 
 
 The Sabine Bard was moved her praise to sing ; 
 
 Careless of flowers that in perennial blow 
 
 Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling; 
 
 Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering 
 
 Through ice-built arches radiant as heaven's bow ; 
 
 1 seek the birth-place of a native Stream. — 
 
 All hail, ye mountains ! hail, thou morning light ! 
 
 Better to breathe at large on this clear height 
 
 Than toil in needless sleep from dream to dream : 
 
 Pure flow the verse, pure, vigorous, free, and bright, 
 
 For Duddon, long-loved Duddon, is my theme ! 
 
 Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint 
 Of sordid industry thy lot is cast ; 
 Thine are the honours of the lofty waste ; 
 Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint, 
 Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint 
 Thy cradle decks ; — to chant thy birth, thou hast 
 No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, 
 And Desolation is thy Patron-saint! 
 
 She guards thee, ruthless Power ! who would n< 
 
 spare 
 Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen, 
 Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair* 
 Through paths and alleys roofed with darkest greei 
 Thousands of years before the silent air 
 Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen i 
 
 How shall I paint thee ? — Be this naked stone 
 My seat, while I give way to such intent ; 
 Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument, 
 Make to the eyes of men thy features known. 
 But as of all those tripping lambs not one 
 Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent 
 To thy beginning nought that doth present 
 Peculiar ground for hope to build upon. 
 To dignify the spot that gives thee birth, 
 No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem 
 Appears, and none of modern Fortune's care ; 
 Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a gieam 
 Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness rare ; 
 Prompt offering to thy Foster-mother, Earth ! 
 
 * The deer alluded to is the Leigh, a gigantic spcci 
 long since extinct. 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 287 
 
 ike, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take 
 lis parting glance, no negligent adieu ! 
 Protean change seems wrought while I pursue 
 le curves, a loosely-scattered chain doth make ; 
 \ rather thou appear'st a glistering snake, 
 lent, and to the gazer's eye untrue, 
 jiridding with sinuous lapse the rushes, through 
 jtvarf willows gliding, and by ferny brake, 
 larts from a dizzy steep the undaunted Rill 
 :abed instantly in garb of snow-white foam ; 
 !ad laughing dare3 the Adventurer, who hath clomb 
 1 high, a rival purpose to fulfil ; 
 ise let the dastard backward wend, and roam, 
 Peking less bold achievement, where he will ! 
 
 ;>le listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 
 lith thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound 
 ''afted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound — 
 jafruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid 
 lie sun in heaven ! — but now, to form a shade 
 >r Thee, green alders have together wound 
 lieir foliage ; ashes flung their arms around ; 
 ad birch-trees risen in silver colonnade, 
 ad thou hast also tempted here to rise, 
 ilid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and grey ; 
 hose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes 
 tirelessly watched, sport through the summer day, 
 ly pleased associates : — light as endless May 
 infant bosoms lonely Nature lies. 
 
 aE yet our course was graced with social trees 
 lacked not old remains of hawthorn bowers, 
 f 'here small birds warbled to their paramours ; 
 lad, earlier still, was heard the hum of bees ; 
 ;saw them ply their harmless robberies, 
 ad caught the fragrance which the sundry flowers, 
 ■2d by the stream with soft perpetual showers, 
 enteously yielded to the vagrant breeze. 
 ^iere bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness ; 
 be trembling eyebright showed her sapphire blue, 
 jie thyme her purple, like the blush of Even ; 
 tad if the breath of some to no caress 
 jivited, forth they peeped so fair to view, 
 fi kinds alike seemed favourites of Heaven. 
 
 " Change me, some God, into that breathing rose!" 
 The love-sick Stripling fancifully sighs, 
 The envied flower beholding, as it lies 
 On Laura's breast, in exquisite repose ; 
 Or he would pass into her bird, that throws 
 The darts of song from out its wiry cage ; 
 Enraptured, — could he for himself engage 
 The thousandth part of what the Nymph bestows ; 
 And what the little careless innocent 
 Ungraciously receives. Too daring choice ! 
 There are whose calmer mind it would content 
 To be an unculled floweret of the glen, 
 Fearless of plough and scythe ; or darkling wren 
 That tunes on Duddon's banks her slender voice. 
 
 "What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled, 
 First of his tribe, to this dark dell — who first 
 In this pellucid Current slaked his thirst 1 
 What hopes came with him ? what designs were 
 
 spread 
 Along his path ? His unprotected bed [nursed 
 What dreams encompassed? Was the intruder 
 In hideous usages, and rites accursed, 
 That thinned the living and disturbed the dead ? 
 No voice replies ; — both air and earth are mute ; 
 And Thou, blue Streamlet, murmuring yield'st no 
 
 more 
 Than a soft record, that, whatever fruit 
 Of ignorance thou might'st witness heretofore, 
 Thy function was to heal and to restore, 
 To soothe and cleanse, not madden and pollute ! 
 
 THE STEPPING-STONES. 
 
 The struggling Rill insensibly is grown 
 Into a Brook of loud and stately march, 
 Crossed ever and anon by plank or arch ; 
 And, for like use, lo ! what might seem a zone 
 Chosen for ornament — stone matched with stone 
 In studied symmetry, with interspace 
 For the clear waters to pursue their race 
 Without restraint. How swiftly have they flown, 
 Succeeding — still succeeding ! Here the Child 
 Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs fierce and 
 
 wild, 
 His budding courage to the proof ; and here 
 Declining Manhood learns to note the sly 
 And sure encroachments of infirmity, 
 Thinking how fast time runs, life's end how near ! 
 
288 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance 
 With prompt emotion, urging them to pass ; 
 A sweet confusion checks the Shepherd-lass ; 
 Blushing she eyes the dizzy flood askance ; 
 To stop ashamed — too timid to advance ; 
 She ventures once again — another pause ! 
 His outstretched hand He tauntingly withdraws — 
 She sues for help with piteous utterance ! 
 Chidden she chides again ; the thrilling touch 
 Both feel, when he renews the wished-for aid : 
 Ah ! if their fluttering hearts should stir too much, 
 Should heat too strongly, both may be betrayed. 
 The frolic Loves, who, from yon high rock, see 
 The struggle, clap their wings for victory ! 
 
 THE FAERY CHASM. 
 
 No fiction was it of the antique age : 
 
 A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft, 
 
 Is of the very foot-marks unbereft 
 
 Which tiny Elves impressed ; — on that smooth stage 
 
 Dancing with all their brilliant equipage 
 
 In secret revels — haply after theft 
 
 Of some sweet Babe — Flower stolen, and coarse 
 
 Weed left 
 For the distracted Mother to assuage 
 Her grief with, as she might ! — But, where, oh ! 
 Is traceable a vestige of the notes [where 
 
 That ruled those dances wild in character ? — 
 Deep underground I Or in the upper air, 
 On the shrill wind of midnight ? or where floats 
 O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer ? 
 
 HINTS FOR THE FANCY. 
 
 On, loitering Muse — the swift Stream chides us — 
 
 Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure [on ! 
 
 Objects immense portrayed in miniature, 
 
 Wild shapes for many a strange comparison ! 
 
 Niagaras, Alpine passes, and anon 
 
 Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure, 
 
 Bright liquid mansions, fashioned to endure 
 
 When the broad oak drops, a leafless skeleton, 
 
 And the solidities of mortal pride, 
 
 Palace and tower, are crumbled into dust ! — 
 
 The Bard who walks with Duddon for his guide, 
 
 Shall find such toys of fancy thickly set : 
 
 Turn from the sight, enamoured Muse — -we must ; 
 
 And, if thou canst, leave them without regret ! 
 
 OPEN PROSPECT. 
 
 Hail to the fields — with Dwellings sprinkled o'er 
 And one small hamlet, under a green hill 
 Clustering, with barn and byre, and spouting mill ! 
 A glance suffices ; — should we wish for more, 
 Gay June would scorn us. But when bleak winds 
 
 roar 
 Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard ash, 
 Dread swell of sound ! loud as the gusts that lash 
 The matted forests of Ontario's shore 
 By wasteful steel unsmitten — then would I 
 Turn into port ; and, reckless of the gale, 
 Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by, 
 While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale, 
 Laugh with the generous household heartily 
 At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeam! 
 
 play 
 Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold 
 A gloomy niche, capacious, blank, and cold ; 
 A concave free from shrubs and mosses grey ; 
 In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray, 
 Some Statue, placed amid these regions old 
 For tutelary service, thence had rolled, 
 Startling the flight of timid Yesterday ! 
 Was it by mortals sculptured ? — weary slaves 
 Of slow endeavour ! or abruptly cast 
 Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast 
 Tempestuously let loose from central caves ? 
 Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves, 
 Then, when o'er highest hills the Deluge pass'd ? 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 289 
 
 AMERICAN TRADITION. 
 
 jch fruitless questions may not long beguile 
 [r plague the fancy 'mid the sculptured shows 
 mspicuous yet where Oroonoko flows ; 
 fiere would the Indian answer with a smile 
 ;imed at the White Man's ignorance the while, 
 F the Great Waters telling how they rose, 
 jivered the plains, and, wandering where they 
 iounted through every intricate defile, [chose, 
 I'iumphant. — Inundation wide and deep, 
 er which his Fathers urged, to ridge and steep 
 se unapproachable, their buoyant way ; 
 -id carved, on mural cliff's undreaded side, 
 In, moon, and stars, and beast of chase or prey ; 
 hate'er they sought, shunned, loved, or deified * ! 
 
 RETURN. 
 
 dark plume fetch me from yon blasted yew, 
 Jirched on whose top the Danish Raven croaks ; 
 joft, the imperial Bird of Rome invokes 
 ^parted ages, shedding where he flew 
 wse fragments of wild wailing, that bestrew 
 «e clouds and thrill the chambers of the rocks ; 
 id into silence hush the timorous flocks, 
 'at, calmly couching while the nightly dew 
 listened each fleece, beneath the twinkling stars 
 ;pt amid that lone Camp on Hardknot's height +, 
 ihose Guardians bent the knee to Jove and Mars : 
 L near that mystic Round of Druid frame 
 Irdily sinking by its proper weight 
 |ep into patient Earth, from whose smooth breast 
 it came ! 
 
 SEATHWAITE CHAPEL. 
 
 Iicred Religion ! ' mother of form and fear,' 
 
 ead arbitress of mutable respect, 
 
 w rites ordaining when the old are wrecked, 
 ' cease to please the fickle worshipper ; 
 other of Love ! (that name best suits thee here) 
 other of Love ! for this deep vale, protect 
 
 ith's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect, 
 ( : ted to purge the vapoury atmosphere 
 I at seeks to stifle it ;— as in those days 
 '|ien this low Pile J a Gospel Teacher knew, 
 
 lose good works formed an endless retinue : 
 
 Pastor such as Chaucer's verse pourtrays ; 
 
 :h as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew ; 
 
 d tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless 
 praise ! 
 
 * See Humboldt's Personal Narrative. 
 
 t See Note. j See Note. 
 
 TRIBUTARY STREAM. 
 
 My frame hath often trembled with delight 
 When hope presented some far-distant good, 
 That seemed from heaven descending, like the flood 
 Of yon pure waters, from their aery height 
 Hurrying, with lordly Duddon to unite ; 
 Who, 'mid a world of images imprest 
 On the calm depth of his transparent breast, 
 Appears to cherish most that Torrent white, 
 The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all ! 
 And seldom hath ear listened to a tune 
 More lulling than the busy hum of Noon, 
 Swoln by that voice — whose murmur musical 
 Announces to the thirsty fields a boon 
 Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fail. 
 
 THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE. 
 
 The old inventive Poets, had they seen, 
 
 Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains 
 
 Thy waters, Duddon ! 'mid these flowery plains ; 
 
 The still repose, the liquid lapse serene, 
 
 Transferred to bowers imperishably green, 
 
 Had beautified Elysium ! But these chains 
 
 Will soon be broken ; — a rough course remains, 
 
 Rough as the past ; where Thou, of placid mien, 
 
 Innocuous as a firstling of the flock, 
 
 And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, 
 
 Shalt change thy temper ; and, with many a shock 
 
 Given and received in mutual jeopardy, 
 
 Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock, 
 
 Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high ! 
 
 Whence that low voice ? — A whisper from the heart, 
 That told of days long past, when here I roved 
 With friends and kindred tenderly beloved ; 
 Some who had early mandates to depart, 
 Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart 
 By Duddon's side ; once more do we unite, 
 Once more beneath the kind Earth's tranquil light ; 
 And smothered joys into new being start. 
 From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall 
 Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory ; 
 Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free 
 As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall 
 On gales that breathe too gently to recal 
 Aught of the fading year's inclemency ! 
 
2P0 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 TRADITION. 
 
 A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time, 
 
 Came to this hidden pool, whose depths surpass 
 
 In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass ; 
 
 And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the prime 
 
 Derives its name, reflected as the chime 
 
 Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound : 
 
 The starry treasure from the blue profound 
 
 She longed to ravish ; — shall she plunge, or climb 
 
 The humid precipice, and seize the guest 
 
 Of April, smiling high in upper air % 
 
 Desperate alternative ! what fiend could dare 
 
 To prompt the thought ? — Upon the steep rock's 
 
 breast 
 The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, 
 Untouched memento of her hapless doom ! 
 
 SHEEP-WASHING. 
 
 Sad thoughts, avaunt ! — partake we their blithe 
 
 cheer 
 Who gathered in betimes the unshorn flock 
 To wash the fleece, where haply bands of rock, 
 Checking the stream, make a pool smooth and clear 
 As this we look on. Distant Mountains hear, 
 Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites 
 Clamour of boys with innocent despites 
 Of barking dogs, and bleatings from strange fear. 
 And what if Duddon's spotless flood receive 
 Unwelcome mixtures as the uncouth noise 
 Thickens, the pastoral River will forgive 
 Such wrong ; nor need we blame the licensed joys, 
 Though false to Nature's quiet equipoise : 
 Frank are the sports, the stains are fugitive. 
 
 THE RESTING-PLACE. 
 
 Mid-noon is past ; — upon the sultry mead 
 
 No zephyr breathes, no cloud its shadow throws : 
 
 If we advance unstrengthened by repose, 
 
 Farewell the solace of the vagrant reed ! 
 
 This Nook — with woodbine hung and straggling 
 
 Tempting recess as ever pilgrim chose, [weed, 
 
 Half grot, half arbour — proffers to enclose 
 
 Body and mind, from molestation freed, 
 
 In narrow compass — narrow as itself: 
 
 Or if the Fancy, too industrious Elf, 
 
 Be loth that we should breathe awhile exempt 
 
 From new incitements friendly to our task, 
 
 Here wants not stealthy prospect, that may tempt 
 
 Loose Idless to forego her wily mask. 
 
 Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat 
 
 Should some benignant Minister of air 
 
 Lift, and encircle with a cloudy chair, 
 
 The One for whom my heart shall ever beat 
 
 With tenderest love ; — or, if a safer seat 
 
 Atween his downy wings be furnished, there 
 
 Would lodge her, and the cherished burden bear 
 
 O'er hill and valley to this dim retreat ! 
 
 Rough ways my steps have trod ; — too rough and 
 
 long 
 For her companionship ; here dwells soft ease : 
 With sweets that she partakes not some distaste 
 Mingles, and lurking consciousness of wrong ; 
 Languish the flowers ; the waters seem to waste 
 Their vocal charm ; their sparklings cease to please. 
 
 Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued, 
 Even when a child, the Streams — unheard, unseen 
 Through tangled woods, impending rocks between 
 Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed 
 The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood- 
 Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, keen, 
 Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green- 
 Poured down the hills, a choral multitude ! 
 Nor have I tracked their course for scanty gair.s ; 
 They taught me random cares and truant joys, 
 That shield from mischief and preserve from stain' 
 Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys 
 Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise 
 Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins. 
 
 Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap, 
 
 Or quietly self-buried in earth's mould, 
 
 Is that embattled House, whose massy Keep 
 
 Flung from yon cliff a shadow large and cold. 
 
 There dwelt the gay, the bountiful, the bold ; 
 
 Till nightly lamentations, like the sweep 
 
 Of winds — though winds were silent— struck a dee; 
 
 And lasting terror through that ancient Hold. 
 
 Its line of Warriors fled ; — they shrunk when trie 
 
 By ghostly power : — but Time's unsparing hand 
 
 Hath plucked such foes, like weeds, from out tli 
 
 land; 
 And now, if men with men in peace abide, 
 All other strength the weakest may withstand, 
 All worse assaults may safely be defied. 
 
THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 291 
 
 JOURNEY RENEWED. 
 
 I rose while yet the cattle, heat-opprest, 
 Irowded together under rustling trees 
 lirushed by the current of the water-breeze ; 
 A nd for their sakes, and love of all that rest, 
 in Duddon's margin, in the sheltering nest ; 
 'or all the startled scaly tribes that slink 
 t'ato his coverts, and each fearless link 
 |if dancing insects forged upon his breast ; 
 for these, and hopes and recollections worn 
 lose to the vital seat of human clay ; 
 I lad meetings, tender parting*, that iipstay 
 [he drooping mind of absence, by vows sworn 
 p his pure presence near the trysting thorn — 
 ; thanked the Leader of my onward way. 
 
 o record tells of lance opposed to lance, 
 
 torse charging horse, 'mid these retired domains ; 
 
 i ells that their turf drank purple from the veins 
 
 If heroes, fallen, or struggling to advance, 
 
 iill doubtful combat issued in a trance 
 
 K victory, that struck through heart and reins 
 
 >en to the inmost seat of mortal pains, 
 
 'nd lightened o'er the pallid countenance. 
 
 let, to the loyal and the brave, who lie 
 
 'i the blank earth, neglected and forlorn, 
 
 the passing Winds memorial tribute pay ; 
 
 he Torrents chant their praise, inspiring scorn 
 
 ;f power usurped ; with proclamation high, 
 
 ,nd glad acknowledgment, of lawful sway. 
 
 /ho swerves from innocence, who makes divorce 
 
 I that serene companion — a good name, 
 
 ecovers not his loss ; hut walks with shame, 
 
 1th doubt, with fear, and haply with remorse : 
 
 ud oft-times he — who, yielding to the force 
 
 f chance-temptation, ere his journey end, 
 
 com chosen comrade turns, or faithful friend — 
 
 ; vain shall rue the broken intercourse. 
 
 ot so with such as loosely wear the chain 
 
 lat binds them, pleasant River ! to thy side : — 
 
 irough the rough copse wheel thou with hasty 
 
 stride ; 
 ehoose to saunter o'er the grassy plain, 
 ire, when the separation has been tried, 
 pat we, who part in love, shall meet again. 
 
 The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye 
 
 Is welcome as a star, that doth present 
 
 Its shining forehead through the peaceful rent 
 
 Of a black cloud diffused o'er half the sky : 
 
 Or as a fruitful palm-tree towering high 
 
 O'er the parched waste beside an Arab's tent ; 
 
 Or the Indian tree whose branches, downward bent, 
 
 Take root again, a boundless canopy. 
 
 How sweet were leisure ! could it yield no more 
 
 Than 'mid that wave- washed Church-yard to recline, 
 
 From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine ; 
 
 Or there to pace, and mark the summits hoar 
 
 Of distant moon-lit mountains faintly shine, 
 
 Soothed by the unseen River's gentle roar. 
 
 Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep ; 
 Lingering no more 'mid flower-enamelled lands 
 And blooming thickets ; nor by rocky hands 
 Held ; but in radiant progress toward the Deep 
 Where mightiest rivers into powerless sleep 
 Sink, and forget their nature — now expands 
 Majestic Duddon, over smooth flat sands 
 Gliding in silence with unfettered sweep ! 
 Beneath an ampler sky a region wide 
 Is opened round him : — hamlets, towers, and towns, 
 And blue-topped hills, behold him from afar ; 
 In stately mien to sovereign Thames allied 
 Spreading his bosom under Kentish downs, 
 With commerce freighted, or triumphant war. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 But here no cannon thunders to the gale ; 
 Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast 
 A crimson splendour : lowly is the mast 
 That rises here, and humbly spread, the sail ; 
 While, less disturbed than in the narrow Vale 
 Through which with strange vicissitudes he passed, 
 The Wanderer seeks that receptacle vast 
 Where all his unambitious functions fail. 
 And may thy Poet, cloud-born Stream ! be free — ■ 
 The sweets of earth contentedly resigned, 
 And each tumultuous working left behind 
 At seemly distance — to advance like Thee ; 
 Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm of mind 
 And soul, to mingle with Eternity ! 
 
292 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 AFTER-THOUGHT. 
 
 / thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, 
 As being past away. — Vain sympathies! 
 Fur, backward, Duddon ! as I cast my eyes, 
 I see what was, and is, and will abide ; 
 Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide ; 
 The Form remains, the Function never dies ; 
 
 While vie, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, 
 
 We Men, who in our mom of youth defied 
 
 The elements, must vanish; — be it so! 
 
 Enough, if something from our hands have power 
 
 To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; 
 
 A nd if, as toward the silent tomb we go, 
 
 Tlirough love, through hope, and faith's transcendent 
 
 dower, 
 We feel that we are greater than we Tcnow. 
 
 THE WHITE DOE OF EYLSTONE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FATE OF THE NORTONS. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 During the Summer of 1807, 1 visited, for the first time, the beautiful country that surrounds Bolton Priory, 
 in Yorkshire ; and the Poem of the White Dob, founded upon a Tradition connected with that place, was composed 
 at the close of the same year. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 In trellised shed with clustering roses gay, 
 And, Mary ! oft beside our blazing fire, 
 When years of wedded life were as a day 
 Whose current answers to the heart's desire, 
 Did we together read in Spenser's Lay 
 How Una, sad of soul — in sad attire, 
 The gentle Una, of celestial birth, 
 To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth. 
 
 Ah, then, Beloved ! pleasing was the smart, 
 
 And the tear precious in compassion shed 
 
 For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart, 
 
 Did meekly bear the pang unmerited ; 
 
 Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart 
 
 The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led, — 
 
 And faithful, loyal in her innocence, 
 
 Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. 
 
 Notes could we hear as of a faery shell 
 Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught; 
 Free Fancy prized each specious miracle, 
 And all its finer inspiration caught ; 
 Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell, 
 We by a lamentable change were taught 
 That ' bliss with mortal Man may not abide : ' 
 How nearly joy and sorrow are allied ! 
 
 For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, 
 For us the voice of melody was mute. 
 — But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow, 
 And give the timid herbage leave to shoot, 
 
 Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow 
 A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit, 
 Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content 
 From blossoms wild of fancies innocent. 
 
 It soothed us — it beguiled us — then, to hear 
 Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell ; 
 And griefs whose aery motion comes not near 
 The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel : 
 Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer, 
 High over hill and low adown the dell 
 Again we wandered, willing to partake 
 All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake. 
 
 Then, too, this Song of mine once more could please, 
 
 Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless 9leep, 
 
 Is tempered and allayed by sympathies 
 
 Aloft ascending, and descending deep, 
 
 Even to the inferior Kinds ; whom forest-trees 
 
 Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep 
 
 Of the sharp winds ;— fair Creatures !— to whom RmtW 
 
 A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given. 
 
 This tragic Story cheered us ; for it speaks 
 Of female patience winning firm repose ; 
 And, of the recompense that conscience seeks, 
 A bright, encouraging, example shows ; 
 Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks, 
 Needful amid life's ordinary woes; — 
 Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless 
 A happy hour with holier happiness. 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 293 
 
 ; [e serves the Muses erriDgly and ill, 
 
 Vhose aim is pleasure light and fugitive : 
 
 i , that my mind were equal to fulfil 
 
 :he comprehensive mandate which they give — 
 
 ! Kydaj, Mount, Westmoreland, 
 April 20, 1815. 
 
 * Action is transitory — a step, a blow, 
 The motion of a muscle — this way or that — 
 'Tis done ; and in the after-vacancy 
 We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed : 
 Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, 
 And has the nature of infinity. 
 Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem 
 
 | * They that deny a God, destroy Man's nobility : for 
 certainly Man is of kinn to the Beast by his Body; 
 and if he be not of kinn to God by his Spirit, he is a 
 base ignoble Creature. It destroys likewise Magna- 
 nimity, and the raising of humane Nature : for take an 
 example of a Dogg, and mark what a generosity and 
 I courage he will put on, when he finds himself main- 
 |tained by a Man, who to him is instead of a God, or 
 Melior Natura. Which courage is manifestly such, as 
 'that Creature without that confidence of a better 
 ■ Nature than his own could never attain. So Man, when 
 I he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine protection 
 ;and favour, gathereth a force and faith which human 
 iNature in itself could not obtain." 
 
 Lord Bacon. 
 
 CANTO F1KST. 
 
 > From Bolton's old monastic tower 
 
 ; The bells ring loud with gladsome power; 
 
 The sun shines bright ; the fields are gay 
 , With people in their best array 
 i Of stole and doublet, hood and scai-f, 
 
 Along the banks of crystal Wharf, 
 1 Through the Vale retired and lowly, 
 | Trooping to that summons holy. 
 
 And, up among the moorlands, see 
 ! What sprinklings of blithe company ! 
 
 Of lasses and of shepherd grooms, 
 s That down the steep hills force their way, 
 , Like cattle through the budded brooms ; 
 : Path, or no path, what care they 2 
 
 And thus in joyous mood they hie 
 ' To Bolton's mouldering Priory. 
 
 What would they there ] — Full fifty years 
 That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers, 
 Too harshly hath been doomed to taste 
 The bitterness of wrong and waste : 
 Its courts are ravaged; but the tower 
 j Is standing with a voice of power, 
 
 Vain aspiration of an earnest will ! 
 Yet in this moral Strain a power may live, 
 Beloved Wife ! such solace to impart 
 As it hath yielded to thy tender heart. 
 
 Andirremoveable) gracious openings lie, 
 
 By which the soul— with patient steps of thought 
 
 Now toiling, wafted now on wings of prayer 
 
 May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds 
 Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent 
 Even to the fountain-head of peace divine.' 
 
 That ancient voice which wont to call 
 To mass or some high festival ; 
 And in the shattered fabric's heart 
 Remaineth one protected part ; 
 A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, 
 Closely embowered and trimly drest ; 
 And thither young and old repair, 
 This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 
 
 Fast the church-yard fills ; — anon 
 Look again, and they all are gone ; 
 The cluster round the porch, and the folk 
 Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak ! 
 And scarcely have they disappeared 
 Ere the prelusive hymn is heard : — 
 With one consent the people rejoice, 
 Filling the church with a lofty voice ! 
 They sing a service which they feel : 
 For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal ; 
 Of a pure faith the vernal prime — 
 In great Eliza's golden time. 
 
 A moment ends the fervent din, 
 And all is hushed, without and within ; 
 For though the priest, more tranquilly, 
 Recites the holy liturgy, 
 The only voice which you can hear 
 Is the river murmuring near. 
 — When soft ! — the dusky trees between, 
 And down the path through the open green, 
 Where is no living thing to be seen ; 
 And through yon gateway, where is found, 
 Beneath the arch with ivy bound, 
 Free entrance to the church-yard ground- — 
 Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 
 Comes gliding in serene and slow, 
 Soft and silent as a dream, • 
 
 A solitary Doe ! 
 
294 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 - 
 
 White she is as lily of June, 
 
 And beauteous as the silver moon 
 
 When out of sight the clouds are driven 
 
 And she is left alone in heaven ; 
 
 Or like a ship some gentle day 
 
 In sunshine sailing far away, 
 
 A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
 
 Of ocean for her own domain. 
 
 Lie silent in your graves, ye dead ! 
 Lie quiet in your church-yard bed ! 
 Ye living, tend your holy cares ; 
 Ye multitude, pursue your prayers ; 
 And blame not me if my heart and sight 
 Are occupied with one delight ! 
 'Tis a work for sabbath hours 
 If I with this bright Creature go : 
 Whether she be of forest bowers, 
 From the bowers of earth below ; 
 Or a Spirit for one day given, 
 A pledge of grace from purest heaven. 
 
 What harmonious pensive changes 
 Wait upon her as she ranges 
 Round and through this Pile of state 
 Overthrown and desolate ! 
 Now a step or two her way 
 Leads through space of open day, 
 Where the enamoured sunny light 
 Brightens her that was so bright ; 
 Now doth a delicate shadow fall, 
 Falls upon her like a breath, 
 From some lofty arch or wall, 
 As she passes underneath : 
 Now some gloomy nook partakes 
 Of the glory that she makes, — 
 High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell, 
 With perfect cunning framed as well 
 Of stone, and ivy, and the spread 
 Of the elder's bushy head ; 
 Some jealous and forbidding cell, 
 That doth the living stars repel, 
 And where no flower hath leave to dwell. 
 
 The presence of this wandering Doe 
 Fills many a damp obscure recess 
 With lustre of a saintly show ; 
 And, reappearing, she no less 
 Sheds on the flowers that round her blow 
 A more than sunny liveliness. 
 But say, among these holy places, 
 Which thus assiduously she paces, 
 Comes she with a votary's task, 
 Rite to perform, or boon to ask ? 
 
 Fair Pilgrim ! harbours she a sense 
 
 Of sorrow, or of reverence \ 
 
 Can she be grieved for quire or shrine, 
 
 Crushed as if by wrath divine ? 
 
 For what survives of house where God 
 
 Was worshipped, or where Man abode ; 
 
 For old magnificence undone ; 
 
 Or for the gentler work begun 
 
 By Nature, softening and concealing, 
 
 And busy with a hand of healing? 
 
 Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth 
 
 That to the sapling ash gives birth; 
 
 For dormitory's length laid bare 
 
 Where the wild rose blossoms fair ; 
 
 Or altar, whence the cross was rent, 
 
 Now rich with mossy ornament ? 
 
 — She sees a warrior carved in stone, 
 
 Among the thick weeds, stretched alone ; 
 
 A warrior, with his shield of pride 
 
 Cleaving humbly to his side, 
 
 And hands in resignation prest, 
 
 Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast; 
 
 As little she regards the sight 
 
 As a common creature might : 
 
 If she be doomed to inward care, 
 
 Or service, it must lie elsewhere. 
 
 — But hers are eyes serenely bright, 
 
 And on she moves — with pace how light ! 
 
 Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste 
 
 The dewy turf with flowers bestrown ; 
 
 And thus she fares, until at last 
 
 Beside the ridge of a grassy grave 
 
 In quietness she lays her down ; 
 
 Gentle as a weary wave 
 
 Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, 
 
 Against an anchored vessel's side ; 
 
 Even so, without distress, doth she 
 
 Lie down hi peace, and lovingly. 
 
 The day is placid in its going, 
 To a lingering motion bound, 
 Like the crystal stream now flowing 
 With its softest summer sound : 
 So the balmy minutes pass, 
 While this radiant Creature lies 
 Couched upon the dewy grass, 
 Pensively with downcast eyes. 
 — But now again the people raise 
 With awful cheer a voice of praise ; 
 It is the last, the parting song ; 
 And from the temple forth they throng, 
 And quickly spread themselves abroad, 
 While each pursues his several road. 
 But some — a variegated band 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 295 
 
 Of middle-aged, and old, and young, 
 
 And little children by the hand 
 
 Upon their leading mothers hung — 
 
 With mute obeisance gladly paid 
 
 Turn towards the spot, where, full in view, 
 
 The white Doe, to her service true, 
 
 Her sabbath couch has made. 
 
 It was a solitary mound ; 
 Which two spears' length of level ground 
 Did from all other graves divide : 
 As if in some respect of pride ; 
 Or melancholy's sickly mood, 
 Still shy of human neighbourhood ; 
 Or guilt, that humbly would express 
 A penitential loneliness. 
 
 " Look, there she is, my Child ! draw near ; 
 She fears not, wherefore should we fear 1 
 She means no harm ;" — but still the Boy, 
 To whom the words were softly said, 
 Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy, 
 A shame-faced blush of glowing red ! 
 Again the Mother whispered low, 
 " Now you have seen the famous Doe ; 
 From Rylstone she hath found her way 
 Over the hills this sabbath day ; 
 Her work, whate'er it be, is done, 
 And she will depart when we are gone ; 
 Thus doth she keep, from year to year, 
 Her sabbath morning, foul or fair." 
 
 Bright was the Creature, as in dreams 
 The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright ; 
 But is she truly what she seems ? 
 He asks with insecure delight, 
 Asks of himself, and doubts, — and still 
 The doubt returns against his will : 
 Though he, and all the standers-by, 
 Could tell a tragic history 
 Of facts divulged, wherein appear 
 Substantial motive, reason clear, 
 Why thus the milk-white Doe is found 
 Couchant beside that lonely mound; 
 And why she duly ±oves to pace 
 The circuit of this hallowed place. 
 Nor to the Child's inquiring mind 
 Is such perplexity confined : 
 For, spite of sober Truth that sees 
 A world of fixed remembrances 
 Which to this mystery belong, 
 If, undeceived, my skill can trace 
 The characters of every face, 
 
 There lack not strange delusion here, 
 Conjecture vague, and idle fear, 
 And superstitious fancies strong, 
 Which do the gentle Creature wrong. 
 
 That bearded, staff-supported Sire — 
 Who in his boyhood often fed 
 Full cheerily on convent-bread 
 And heard old tales by the convent-fire, 
 And to his grave will go with scars, 
 Relics of long and distant wars — 
 That Old Man, studious to expound 
 The spectacle, is mounting high 
 To days of dim antiquity ; 
 When Lady Aaliza mourned 
 Her Son, and felt in her despair 
 The pang of unavailing prayer ; 
 Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned, 
 The noble Boy of Egremound. 
 From which affliction— when the grace 
 Of God had in her heart found place — 
 A pious structure, fair to see, 
 Rose up, this stately Priory ! 
 The Lady's work ; — but now laid low ; 
 To the grief of her soul that doth come and go, 
 In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe : 
 Which, though seemingly doomed in its breast to 
 
 sustain 
 A softened remembrance of sorrow and pain, 
 Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright ; 
 And glides o'er the earth like an angel of light. 
 
 Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door ; 
 And, through the chink in the fractured floor 
 Look down, and see a griesly sight ; 
 A vault where the bodies are buried upright ! 
 There, face by face, and hand by hand, 
 The Claphams and Mauleverers stand ; 
 And, in his place, among son and sire, 
 Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire, 
 A valiant man, and a name of dread 
 In the ruthless wars of the White and Red; 
 Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury church 
 And smote off his head on the stones of the porch ! 
 Look down among them, if you dare ; 
 Oft does the White Doe loiter there, 
 Prying into the dax'ksome rent ; 
 Nor can it be with good intent : 
 So thinks that Dame of haughty air, 
 Who hath a Page her book to hold, 
 And wears a frontlet edged with gold. 
 Harsh thoughts with her high mood agree — 
 Who counts among her ancestry 
 Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously ! 
 
296 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 - 
 
 That slender Youth, a scholar pale, 
 From Oxford come to his native vale, 
 He also hath his own conceit : 
 It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy, 
 Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meet 
 In his wanderings solitary : 
 Wild notes she in his hearing sang, 
 A song of Nature's hidden powers ; 
 That whistled like the wind, and rang 
 Among the rocks and holly bowers. 
 'Twas said that She all shapes could wear ; 
 And oftentimes before him stood, 
 Amid the trees of some thick wood, 
 In semblance of a lady fair ; 
 And taught him signs, and showed him sights, 
 In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian heights ; 
 When under cloud of fear he lay, 
 A shepherd clad in homely grey ; 
 Nor left him at his later day. 
 
 And hence, when he, with spear and shield, 
 
 Rode full of years to Flodden-field, 
 
 His eye could see the hidden spring, 
 
 And how the current was to flow ; 
 
 The fatal end of Scotland's King, 
 
 And all that hopeless overthrow. 
 
 But not in wars did he delight, 
 
 This Clifford wished for worthier might ; 
 
 Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state ; 
 
 Him his own thoughts did elevate, — 
 
 Most happy in the shy recess 
 
 Of Barden's lowly quietness. 
 
 And choice of studious friends had he 
 
 Of Bolton's dear fraternity ; 
 
 Who, standing on this old church tower, 
 
 In many a calm propitious hour, 
 
 Perused, with him, the starry sky ; 
 
 Or, in their cells, with him did pry 
 
 For other lore, — by keen desire 
 
 Urged to close toil with chemic fire ; 
 
 In quest belike of transmutations 
 
 Rich as the mine's most bright creations. 
 
 But they and their good works are fled, 
 
 And all is now disquieted — 
 
 And peace is none, for living or dead ! 
 
 Ah, pensive Scholar, think not so, 
 But look again at the radiant Doe ! 
 What quiet watch she seems to keep, 
 Alone, beside that grassy heap ! 
 Why mention other thoughts unmeet 
 For vision so composed and sweet? 
 While stand the people in a ring, 
 Gazing, doubting, questioning ; 
 Yea, many overcome in spite 
 
 Of recollections clear and bright ; 
 Which yet do unto some impart 
 An undisturbed repose of heart. 
 And all the assembly own a law 
 Of orderly respect and awe ; 
 But see — they vanish one by one, 
 And last, the Doe herself is gone. 
 
 Harp ! we have been full long beguiled 
 By vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild ; 
 To which, with no reluctant strings, 
 Thou hast attuned thy murmurings; 
 And now before this Pile we stand 
 In solitude, and utter peace : 
 But, Harp ! thy murmurs may not cease — 
 A Spirit, with his angelic wings, 
 In soft and breeze-like visitmgs, 
 Has touched thee — and a Spirit's hand : 
 A voice is with us — a command 
 To chant, in strains of heavenly glory, 
 A tale of tears, a mortal story ! 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 The Harp in lowliness obeyed ; 
 
 And first we sang of the green-wood shade 
 
 And a solitary Maid ; 
 
 Beginning, where the song must end, 
 
 With her, and with her sylvan Friend ; 
 
 The Friend who stood before her sight, 
 
 Her only unextinguished light ; 
 
 Her last companion in a dearth 
 
 Of love, upon a hopeless earth. 
 
 For She it was — this Maid, who wrought 
 Meekly, with foi'eboding thought, 
 In vermeil colours and in gold 
 An unblest work ; which, standing by, 
 Her Father did with joy behold, — 
 Exulting in its imagery ; 
 A Banner, fashioned to fulfil 
 Too perfectly his headstrong will : 
 For on this Banner had her hand 
 Embroidered (such her Sire's command) 
 The sacred Cross ; and figured there 
 The five dear wounds our Lord did bear ; 
 Full soon to be uplifted high, 
 And float in rueful company ! 
 
 It was the time when England's Queen 
 Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread ; 
 Nor yet the restless crown had been 
 Disturbed upon her virgin head ; 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 297 
 
 ut now the inly-working North 
 
 if as ripe to send its thousands forth, 
 
 | potent vassalage, to fight 
 
 II Percy's and in Neville's right, 
 
 iwo Earls fast leagued in discontent, 
 
 faio gave their wishes open vent ; 
 
 Ind boldly urged a general plea, 
 
 he rites of ancient piety 
 
 jo be triumphantly restored, 
 
 ;y the stern justice of the sword ! 
 
 ind that same Banner, on whose breast 
 
 he blameless Lady had exprest 
 
 Memorials chosen to give life 
 
 nd sunshine to a dangerous strife ; 
 
 hat Banner, waiting for the Call, 
 
 ;ood quietly in Bylstone-hall. 
 
 : It came ; and Francis Norton said, 
 '0 Father ! rise not in this fray — 
 !he hairs are white upon your head ; 
 ear Father, hear me when I say 
 
 is for you too late a day ! 
 ethink you of your own good name : 
 
 just and gracious Queen have we, 
 
 pure religion, and the claim 
 if peace on our humanity. — 
 [is meet that I endure your scorn ; 
 am your sou, your eldest born ; 
 ut not for lordship or for land, 
 |y Father, do I clasp your knees ; 
 he Banner touch not, stay your hand, 
 pis multitude of men disband, 
 jnd live at home in blameless ease ; 
 'or these my brethren's sake, for me ; 
 .nd, most of all, for Emily ! " 
 
 Tumultuous noises filled the hall ; 
 nd scarcely could the Father hear 
 hat name — pronounced with a dying fall — 
 he name of his only Daughter dear, 
 s on the banner which stood near 
 e glanced a look of holy pride, 
 1 nd his moist eyes were glorified ; 
 'hen did he seize the staff, and say : 
 [Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's name, 
 1 eep thou this ensign till the day 
 j/hen I of thee require the same : 
 hy place be on my better hand ; — 
 nd seven as true as thou, I see, 
 Pill cleave to this good cause and me." 
 Ie spake, and eight brave sons straightway 
 ul followed him, a gallant band ! 
 
 ; Thus, with his sons, when forth he came 
 j'he sight was hailed with loud acclaim 
 
 And din of arms and minstrelsy, 
 
 From all his warlike tenantry, 
 
 All horsed and harnessed with him to ride, — 
 
 A voice to which the hills replied ! 
 
 But Francis, in the vacant hall, 
 Stood silent under dreary weight, — 
 A phantasm, in which roof and wall 
 Shook, tottered, swam before his sight ; 
 A phantasm like a dream of night ! 
 Thus overwhelmed, and desolate, 
 He found his way to a postern-gate ; 
 And, when he waked, his languid eye 
 Was on the calm and silent sky ; 
 With air abotit him breathing sweet, 
 And earth's green grass beneath his feet ; 
 Nor did he fail ere long to hear 
 A sound of military cheer, 
 Faint — but it reached that sheltered spot ; 
 He heard, and it disturbed him not. 
 
 There stood he, leaning on a lance 
 Which he had grasped unknowingly, 
 Had blindly grasped in that strong trance, 
 That dimness of heart-agony ; 
 There stood he, cleansed from the despair 
 And sorrow of his fruitless prayer. 
 The past he calmly hath reviewed : 
 But where will be the fortitude 
 Of this brave man, when he shall see 
 That Form beneath the spreading tree, 
 And know that it is Emily ? 
 
 He saw her where in open view 
 She sate beneath the spreading yew — 
 Her head upon her lap, concealing 
 In solitude her bitter feeling : 
 " Might ever son command a sire, 
 The act were justified to-day." 
 This to himself — and to the Maid, 
 Whom now he had approached, he said — 
 " Gone are they, — they have their desire ; 
 And I with thee one hour will stay, 
 To give thee comfort if I may." 
 
 She heard, but looked not up, nor spake ; 
 And sorrow moved him to partake 
 Her silence ; then his thoughts turned romid, 
 And fervent words a passage found. 
 
 " Gone are they, bravely, though misled ; 
 With a dear Father at their head ! 
 The Sons obey a natural lord ; 
 The Father had given solemn word 
 
-i 
 
 290 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 To noble Percy ; and a force 
 
 Therewith he threw away the lance, 
 
 Still stronger, bends him to his course. 
 
 Which he had grasped in that strong trance • 
 
 This said, our tears to-day may fall 
 
 Spurned it, like something that would stand 
 
 As at an innocent funeral. 
 
 Between him and the pure intent 
 
 In deep and awful channel runs 
 
 Of love on which his soul was bent. 
 
 This sympathy of Sire and Sons ; 
 
 
 Untried our Brothers have been loved 
 
 " For thee, for thee, is left the sense 
 
 With heart by simple nature moved ; 
 
 Of trial past without offence 
 
 And now their faithfulness is proved : 
 
 To God or man ; such innocence, 
 
 For faithful we must call them, bearing 
 
 Such consolation, and the excess 
 
 That soul of conscientious daring. 
 
 Of an unmerited distress ; 
 
 — There were they all in circle — there 
 
 In that thy very strength must lie. 
 
 Stood Richard, Ambrose, Christopher, 
 
 — Sister, I could prophesy ! 
 
 John with a sword that will not fail, 
 
 The time is come that rings the knell 
 
 And Marmaduke in fearless mail, 
 
 Of all we loved, and loved so well : 
 
 And those bright Twins were side by side ; 
 
 Hope nothing, if I thus may speak 
 
 And there, by fresh hopes beautified, 
 
 To thee, a woman, and thence weak : 
 
 Stood He, whose arm yet lacks the power 
 
 Hope nothing, I repeat ; for we 
 
 Of man, our youngest, fairest flower ! 
 I, by the right of eldest born, 
 And in a second father's place, 
 Presumed to grapple with their scorn, 
 And meet their pity face to face ; 
 Yea, trusting in God's holy aid, 
 I to my Father knelt and prayed ; 
 And one, the pensive Marmaduke, 
 Methought, was yielding inwardly, 
 And would have laid his purpose by, 
 But for a glance of his Father's eye, 
 Which I myself could scarcely brook. 
 
 Then be we, each and all, forgiven ! 
 Thou, chiefly thou, my Sister dear, 
 Whose pangs are registered in heaven — 
 The stifled sigh, the hidden tear, 
 And smiles, that dared to take their place, 
 Meek filial smiles, upon thy face, 
 As that unhallowed Banner grew 
 Beneath a loving old Man's view. 
 Thy part is done — thy painful part ; 
 Be thou then satisfied in heart ! 
 A further, though far easier, task 
 Than thine hath been, my duties ask ; 
 With theirs my efforts cannot blend, 
 I cannot for such cause contend ; 
 Their aims I utterly forswear ; 
 But I in body will be there. 
 Unarmed and naked will I go, 
 Be at their side, come weal or woe : 
 On kind occasions I may wait, 
 See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate. 
 Bare breast I take and an empty hand*."— 
 
 * See the Old Ballad,—" The Rising of the North.' 
 
 Are doomed to perish utterly : 
 
 'Tis meet that thou with me divide 
 
 The thought while I am by thy side, 
 
 Acknowledging a grace in this, 
 
 A comfort in the dark abyss. 
 
 But look not for me when I am gone, 
 
 And be no farther wrought upon : 
 
 Farewell all wishes, all debate, 
 
 All prayers for this cause, or for that ! 
 
 Weep, if that aid thee ; but depend 
 
 Upon no help of outward friend ; 
 
 Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave 
 
 To fortitude without reprieve. 
 
 For we must fall, both we and ours — 
 
 This Mansion and these pleasant bowers, 
 
 Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall— 
 
 Our fate is theirs, will reach them all ; 
 
 The young horse must forsake his manger. 
 
 And learn to glory in a Stranger ; 
 
 The hawk forget his perch ; the hound 
 
 Be parted from his ancient ground : 
 
 The blast will sweep us all away — 
 
 One desolation, one decay ! 
 
 And even this Creature ! " which words saying, 
 
 He pointed to a lovely Doe, 
 
 A few steps distant, feeding, straying ; 
 
 Fair creature, and more white than snow ! 
 
 " Even she will to her peaceful woods 
 
 Return, and to her murmuring floods, 
 
 And be in heart and soul the same 
 
 She was before she hither came ; 
 
 Ere she had learned to love us all, 
 
 Herself beloved in Rylstone-hall. 
 
 — But thou, my Sister, doomed to be 
 
 The last leaf on a blasted tree ; 
 
 If not in vain we breathed the breath 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 299 
 
 Together of a purer faith ; 
 ■ If hand in hand we have been led, 
 And thou, (0 happy thought this day !) 
 Not seldom foremost in the way ; 
 1 If on one thought our minds have fed, 
 And we have in one meaning read ; 
 If, when at home our private weal 
 Hath suffered from the shock of zeal, 
 Together we have learned to prize 
 Forbearance and self-sacrifice ; 
 If we like combatants have fared, 
 And for this issue been prepared ; 
 If thou art beautiful, and youth 
 And thought endue thee with all truth- 
 Be strong ; — be worthy of the grace 
 Of God, and fill thy destined place : 
 A Soul, by force of sorrows high, 
 ■Uplifted to the purest sky 
 Of undisturbed humanity !" 
 
 , He ended, — or she heard no more ; 
 He led her from the yew-tree shade, 
 JAnd at the mansion's silent door, 
 He kissed the consecrated Maid ; 
 And down the valley then pursued, 
 Alone, the armed Multitude. 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
 'Now joy for you who from the towers 
 Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear, 
 Telling melancholy hours ! 
 'Proclaim it, let your Masters hear 
 That Norton with his band is near ! 
 The watchmen from their station high 
 Pronounced the word, — and the Earls descry, 
 Well-pleased, the armed Company 
 Marching down the banks of Were. 
 
 ] Said fearless Norton to the pair 
 Gone forth to greet him on the plain — 
 ' This meeting, noble Lords ! looks fair, 
 I bring with me a goodly train ; 
 Their hearts are with you : hill and dale 
 Have helped us : Ure we crossed, and Swale, 
 And horse and harness followed — see 
 The best part of their Yeomanry ! 
 —Stand forth, my Sons ! — these eight are mine, 
 Whom to this service I commend ; 
 [Which way soe'er our fate incline, 
 iThese will be faithful to the end ; 
 They are my all " — voice failed him here — 
 " My all save one, a Daughter dear ! 
 
 Whom I have left, Love's mildest birth, 
 The meekest Child on this blessed earth. 
 I had — but these are by my side, 
 These Eight, and this is a day of pride ! 
 The time is ripe. With festive din 
 Lo ! how the people are flocking in, — 
 Like hungry fowl to the feeder's hand 
 When snow lies heavy upon the land." 
 
 He spake bare truth ; for far and near- 
 From every side came noisy swarms 
 Of Peasants in their homely gear ; 
 And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth came 
 Grave Gentry of estate and name, 
 And Captains known for worth in arms ; 
 And prayed the Earls in self-defence 
 To rise, and prove their innocence. — 
 " Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might 
 For holy Church, and the People's right !" 
 
 The Norton fixed, at this demand, 
 His eye upon Northumberland, 
 And said ; " The Minds of Men will own 
 No loyal rest while England's Crown 
 Remains without an Heir, the bait 
 Of strife and factions desperate ; 
 Who, paying deadly hate in kind 
 Through all things else, in this can find 
 A mutual hope, a common mind ; 
 And plot, and pant to overwhelm 
 All ancient honour in the realm. 
 — Brave Earls ! to whose heroic veins 
 Our noblest blood is given in trust, 
 To you a suffering State complains, 
 And ye must raise her from the dust. 
 With wishes of still bolder scope 
 On you we look, with dearest hope ; 
 Even for our Altars — for the prize 
 In Heaven, of life that never dies ; 
 For the old and holy Church we mourn, 
 And must in joy to her return. 
 Behold ! " — and from his Son whose stand 
 Was on his right, from that guardian hand 
 He took the Banner, and unfurled 
 The precious folds — " behold," said he, 
 " The ransom of a sinful world ; 
 Let this your preservation be ; 
 The wounds of hands and feet and side, 
 And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died 
 — This bring I from an ancient hearth, 
 These Records wrought in pledge of love 
 By hands of no ignoble birth, 
 A Maid o'er whom the blessed Dove 
 Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood 
 
300 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 While she the holy work pursued." 
 
 " Uplift the Standard ! " was the cry 
 
 From all the listeners that stood round, 
 
 " Plant it, — by this we live or die." 
 
 The Norton ceased not for that sound, 
 
 But said ; " The prayer which ye have heard, 
 
 Much injured Earls ! by these preferred, 
 
 Is offered to the Saints, the sigh 
 
 Of tens of thousands, secretly." 
 
 " Uplift it ! " cried once more the Band, 
 
 And then a thoughtful pause ensued : 
 
 " Uplift it ! " said Northumberland — 
 
 Whereat, from all the multitude 
 
 Who saw the Banner reared on high 
 
 In all its dread emblazonry, 
 
 A voice of uttermost joy brake out : 
 
 The transport was rolled down the river of Were, 
 
 And Durham, the time-honoured Durham, did 
 
 hear, 
 And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were stirred 
 
 by the shout ! 
 
 Now was the North in arms : — they shine 
 In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne, 
 At Percy's voice : and Neville sees 
 His Followers gathering in from Tees, 
 From Were, and all the little rills 
 Concealed among the forked hills — 
 Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all 
 Of Neville, at their Master's call 
 Had sate together in Raby Hall ! 
 Such strength that Earldom held of yore ; 
 Nor wanted at this time rich store 
 Of well-appointed chivalry. 
 — Not loth the sleepy lance to wield, 
 And greet the old paternal shield, 
 They heard the summons ; — and, furthermore, 
 Horsemen and Foot of each degree, 
 Unbound by pledge of fealty, 
 Appeared, with free and open hate 
 Of novelties in Church and State ; 
 Knight, burgher, yeoman, and esquire ; 
 And Romish priest, in priest's attire. 
 And thus, in arms, a zealous Band 
 Proceeding under joint command, 
 To Durham first their course they bear ; 
 And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat 
 Sang mass, — and tore the book of prayer, — 
 And trod the bible beneath their feet. 
 
 Thence marching southward smooth and free 
 { They mustered their host at Wetherby, 
 Full sixteen thousand fair to see * ; ' 
 
 * From the old ballad. 
 
 The Choicest Warriors of the North ! 
 But none for beauty and for worth 
 Like those eight Sons — who, in a ring, 
 (Ripe men, or blooming in life's spring) 
 Each with a lance, erect and tall, 
 A falchion, and a buckler small, 
 Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor, 
 To guard the Standard which he bore. 
 On foot they girt their Father round ; 
 And so will keep the appointed ground 
 Where'er their march : no steed will he 
 Henceforth bestride ; — triumphantly, 
 He stands upon the grassy sod, 
 Trusting himself to the earth, and God. 
 Rare sight to embolden and inspire ! 
 Proud was the field of Sons and Sire ; 
 Of him the most ; and, sooth to say, 
 No shape of man in all the array 
 So graced the sunshine of that day. 
 The monumental pomp of age 
 Was with this goodly Personage ; 
 A stature undepressed in size, 
 Unbent, which rather seemed to rise, 
 In open victory o'er the weight 
 Of seventy years, to loftier height ; 
 Magnific limbs of withered state ; 
 A face to fear and venerate ; 
 Eyes dark and strong ; and on his head 
 Bright locks of silver hair, thick spread, 
 Which a brown morion half-concealed, 
 Light as a hunter's of the field ; 
 And thus, with girdle round his waist, 
 Whereon the Banner-staff might rest 
 At need, he stood, advancing high 
 The ghttering, floating Pageantry. 
 
 Who sees him ? — thousands see, aud One 
 With unparticipated gaze ; 
 Who, 'mong those thousands, friend hath none. 
 And treads in solitary ways. 
 He, following 'wheresoe'er he might, 
 Hath watched the Banner from afar, 
 As shepherds watch a lonely star, 
 Or mariners the distant light 
 That guides them through a stormy night. 
 And now, upon a chosen plot 
 Of rising ground, yon heathy spot ! 
 He takes alone his far-off stand, 
 With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand. 
 Bold is his aspect ; but his eye 
 Is pregnant with anxiety, 
 While, like a tutelary Power, 
 He there stands fixed from hour to hour : 
 Yet sometimes in more humble guise, 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 301 
 
 pon the turf-clad height he lies 
 retched, herdsman-like, as if to bask 
 sunshine were his only task, 
 • by his mantle's help to find 
 shelter from the nipping wind : 
 id thus, with short oblivion blest, 
 is weary spirits gather rest. 
 rain he lifts his eyes ; and lo ! 
 je pageant glancing to and fro ; 
 id hope is wakened by the sight, 
 3 thence may learn, ere fall of night, 
 Inch way the tide is doomed to flow. 
 
 To London were the Chieftains bent ; 
 lit what avails the bold intent ? 
 j Royal army is gone forth 
 I quell the Rising of the North ; 
 ley march with Dudley at their head, 
 id, in seven days' space, will to York be led ! — 
 •jn such a mighty Host be raised 
 'us suddenly, and brought so near ? 
 'je Earls upon each other gazed, 
 Id Neville's cheek grew pale with fear ; 
 ]jr, with a high and valiant name, 
 I bore a heart of timid frame ; 
 id bold if both had been, yet they 
 ''gainst so many may not stay *.' 
 "ck therefore will they hie to seize 
 [strong Hold on the banks of Tees ; 
 iere wait a favourable hour, 
 jitil Lord Dacre with his power 
 oru Naworth come ; and Howard's aid 
 | with them openly displayed. 
 
 ile through the Host, from man to man, 
 I rumour of this purpose ran, 
 le Standard trusting to the care 
 ; him who heretofore did bear 
 lat charge, impatient Norton sought 
 lie Chieftains to unfold his thought, 
 jid thus abruptly spake ; — " We yield 
 [nd can it be ?) an unfought field ! — 
 ')w oft has strength, the strength of neaven, 
 > few triumphantly been given ! 
 |1I do our very children boast 
 ■ mitred Thurston— what a Host 
 p conquered ! — Saw we not the Plain 
 bid flying shall behold again) 
 J here faith was proved? — while to battle moved 
 ie Standard, on the Sacred Wain 
 jiat bore it, compassed round by a bold 
 maternity of Barons old ; 
 
 * Fron the old Ballad. 
 
 And with those grey-haired champions stood, 
 
 Under the saintly ensigns three, 
 
 The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood — 
 
 All confident of victory ! — 
 
 Shall Percy blush, then, for his name? 
 
 Must Westmoreland be asked with shame 
 
 Whose were the numbers, where the loss, 
 
 In that other day of Neville's Cross ? 
 
 When the Prior of Durham with holy hand 
 
 Raised, as the Vision gave command, 
 
 Saint Cuthbert's Relic — far and near 
 
 Kenned on the point of a lofty spear ; 
 
 While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower 
 
 To God descending in his power. 
 
 Less would not at our need be due 
 
 To us, who war against the Untrue ; — 
 
 The delegates of Heaven we rise, 
 
 Convoked the impious to chastise : 
 
 We, we, the sanctities of old 
 
 Would re-establish and uphold : 
 
 Be warned " — His zeal the Chiefs confounded, 
 
 But word was given, and the trumpet sounded : 
 
 Back through the melancholy Host 
 
 Went Norton, and resumed his post. 
 
 Alas ! thought he, and have I borne 
 
 This Banner raised with joyful pride, 
 
 This hope of all posterity, 
 
 By those dread symbols sanctified ; 
 
 Thus to become at once the scorn 
 
 Of babbling winds as they go by, 
 
 A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye, 
 
 To the light clouds a mockery ! 
 
 — " Even these poor eight of mine would stem — ' 
 
 Half to himself, and half to them 
 
 He spake — " would stem, or quell, a force 
 
 Ten times their number, man and horse; 
 
 This by their own unaided might, 
 
 Without their father in their sight, 
 
 Without the Cause for which they fight ; 
 
 A Cause, which on a needful day 
 
 Would breed us thousands brave as they." 
 
 — So speaking, he his reverend head 
 
 Raised towards that Imagery once more : 
 
 But the familiar prospect shed 
 
 Despondency unfelt before : 
 
 A shock of intimations vain, 
 
 Dismay, and superstitious pain, 
 
 Fell on him, with the sudden thought 
 
 Of her by whom the work was wrought : — 
 
 Oh wherefore was her countenance bright 
 
 With love divine and gentle light ? 
 
 She would not, could not, disobey, 
 
 But her Faith leaned another way. 
 
 Ill tears she wept ; I saw them fall, 
 
302 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 I overheard her as she spake 
 
 Sad words to that mute Animal, 
 
 The White Doe, in the hawthorn brake ; 
 
 She steeped, hut not for Jesu's sake, 
 
 This Cross in tears : by her, and One 
 
 Unworthier far we are undone — 
 
 Her recreant Brother — he prevailed 
 
 Over that tender Spirit — assailed 
 
 Too oft alas ! by her whose head 
 
 In the cold grave hath long been laid : 
 
 She first, in reason's dawn beguiled 
 
 Her docile, unsuspecting Child : 
 
 Far back — far back my mind must go 
 
 To reach the well-spring of this woe ! 
 
 While thus he brooded, music sweet 
 Of border tunes was played to cheer 
 The footsteps of a quick retreat ; 
 But Norton lingered in the rear, 
 Stung with sharp thoughts ; and ere the last 
 From his distracted brain was cast, 
 Before his Father, Francis stood, 
 And spake in firm and earnest mood. 
 
 " Though here I bend a suppliant knee 
 In reverence, and unarmed, I bear 
 In your indignant thoughts my share ; 
 Am grieved this backward march to see 
 So careless and disorderly. 
 I scorn your Chiefs — men who would lead. 
 And yet want courage at their need : 
 Then look at them with open eyes ! 
 Deserve they further sacrifice ? — 
 If — when they shrink, nor dare oppose 
 In open field their gathering foes, 
 (And fast, from this decisive day, 
 Yon multitude must melt away ;) 
 If now I ask a grace not claimed 
 While ground was left for hope ; unblamed 
 Be an endeavour that can do 
 No injury to them or you. 
 My Father ! I would help to find 
 A place of shelter, till the rage 
 Of cruel men do like the wind 
 Exhaust itself and sink to rest ; 
 Be Brother now to Brother joined ! 
 Admit me in the equipage 
 Of your misfortunes, that at least, 
 Whatever fate remain behind, 
 I may bear witness in my breast 
 To your nobility of mind !" 
 
 " Thou Enemy, my bane and blight ! 
 Oh ! bold to fight the Coward's fight 
 
 Against all good " — but why declare, 
 At length, the issue of a prayer 
 Which love had prompted, yielding scope 
 Too free to one bright moment's hope ? 
 Suffice it that the Son, who strove 
 With fruitless effort to allay 
 That passion, prudently gave way ; 
 Nor did he turn aside to prove 
 His Brothers' wisdom or their love — 
 But calmly from the spot withdrew ; 
 His best endeavours to renew, 
 Should e'er a kindlier time ensue. 
 
 - 
 
 CANTO FOURTH. 
 
 'Tis night : in silence looking down, 
 The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees 
 A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, 
 And Castle like a stately crown 
 On the steep rocks of winding Tees ;— 
 And southward far, with moor between, 
 Hill-top, and flood, and forest greeD, 
 The bright Moon sees that valley small 
 Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall 
 A venerable image yields 
 Of quiet to the neighbouring fields ; 
 While from one pillared chimney breathes 
 The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths. 
 — The courts are hushed ; — for timely sleep 
 The grey -hounds to their kennel creep ; 
 The peacock in the broad ash tree 
 Aloft is roosted for the night, 
 He who in proud prosperity 
 Of colours manifold and bright 
 Walked round, affronting the daylight ; 
 And higher still, above the bower 
 Where he is perched, from yon lone Tow-<sr 
 The hall-clock in the clear moonshine 
 With glittering finger points at nine. 
 
 Ah ! who could think that sadness here 
 Hath any sway ? or pain, or fear ? 
 A soft and lulling sound is heard 
 Of streams inaudible by day ; 
 The garden pool's dark surface, stirred 
 By the night insects in their play, 
 Breaks into dimples small and bright ; 
 A thousand, thousand rings of light 
 That shape themselves and disappear 
 Almost as soon as seen : — and lo ! 
 Not distant far, the milk-white Doe — 
 The same who quietly was feeding 
 On the green herb, and nothing heeding, 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 30? 
 
 When Francis, uttering to the Maid 
 
 When here, in this remote alcove, 
 
 His last words in the yew-tree shade, 
 
 (While from the pendent woodbine came 
 
 Involved whate'er by love was brought 
 
 Like odours, sweet as if the same) 
 
 Out of his heart, or crossed his thought, 
 
 A fondly-anxious Mother strove 
 
 Or chance presented to his eye, 
 
 To teach her salutary fears 
 
 In one sad sweep of destiny — 
 
 And mysteries above her years. 
 
 The same fab Creature, who hath found 
 
 Yes, she is soothed : an Image faint, 
 
 Her way into forbidden ground ; 
 
 And yet not faint — a presence bright 
 
 Where now — within this spacious plot 
 
 Returns to her — that blessed Saint 
 
 For pleasure made, a goodly spot, 
 
 Who with mild looks and language mild 
 
 With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades 
 
 Instructed here her darling Child, 
 
 Of trellis- work in long arcades, 
 
 While yet a prattler on the knee, 
 
 And cirque and crescent framed by wall 
 
 To worship in simplicity 
 
 Of close-clipt foliage green and tall, 
 
 The invisible God, and take for guide 
 
 Converging walks, and fountains gay, 
 
 The faith reformed and purified. 
 
 And terraces in trim array — 
 
 
 Beneath yon cypress spiring high, 
 
 'Tis flown — the Vision, and the sense 
 
 With pine and cedar spreading wide 
 
 Of that beguiling 1 influence ; 
 
 Their darksome boughs on either side, 
 
 " But oh ! thou Angel from above, 
 
 [n open moonlight doth she he ; 
 
 Mute Spirit of maternal love, 
 
 Happy as others of her kind, 
 
 That stood' st before my eyes, more clear 
 
 That, far from human neighbourhood, 
 
 Than ghosts are fabled to appear 
 
 Range unrestricted as the wind, 
 
 Sent upon embassies of fear ; 
 
 Through park, or chase, or savage wood. 
 
 As thou thy presence hast to me 
 
 
 Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry 
 
 But see the consecrated Maid 
 
 Descend on Francis ; nor forbear 
 
 [Emerging from a cedar shade 
 
 To greet him with a voice, and say ; — 
 
 •To open moonshine, where the Doe 
 
 'If hope be a rejected stay, 
 
 (Seneath the cypress-spire is laid ; 
 
 ' Do thou, my christian Son, beware 
 
 Like a patclj^jf April snow — 
 
 ' Of that most lamentable snare, 
 
 Jpon a bed of herbage green, 
 
 ' The self-reliance of despair !' " 
 
 fingering in a woody glade 
 
 
 Or behind a rocky screen — 
 
 Then from within the embowered retreat 
 
 Lonely relic ! which, if seen 
 
 (By the shepherd, is passed by 
 
 jWith an inattentive eye. 
 
 jNor more regard doth She bestow 
 
 Jpon the uncomplaining Doe 
 
 [Now couched at ease, though oft this day 
 
 Not unperplexed nor free from pain, 
 
 ISVhen she had tried, and tried in vain, 
 
 Approaching in her gentle way, 
 
 [To win some look of love, or gain 
 
 Encouragement to sport or play ; 
 
 Attempts which still the heart-sick Maid 
 
 Rejected, or with slight repaid. 
 
 Yet Emily is soothed ; — the breeze 
 !ame fraught with kindly sympathies. 
 jAs she approached yon rustic Shed 
 jflung with late-flowering woodbine, spread 
 'Along the walls and overhead, 
 (The fragrance of the breathing flowers 
 Revived a memory of those hours 
 
 Where she had found a grateful seat 
 
 Perturbed she issues. She will go ! 
 
 Herself will follow to the war, 
 
 And clasp her Father's knees ; — ah, no ! 
 
 She meets the insuperable bar, 
 
 The injunction by her Brother laid ; 
 
 His parting charge — but ill obeyed — 
 
 That interdicted all debate, 
 
 All prayer for this cause or for that ; 
 
 All efforts that would turn aside 
 
 The headstrong current of their fate : 
 
 Her duty is to stand and wait; 
 
 In resignation to abide 
 
 The shock, and finally secure 
 
 O'er pain and grief a triumph pure. 
 
 — She feels it, and her pangs are checked. 
 
 But now, as silently she paced 
 
 The turf, and thought by thought was chased, 
 
 Came One who, with sedate respect, 
 
 Approached, and, greeting her, thus spake ; 
 
 " An old man's privilege I take : 
 
304 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Dark is the time — a woeful day ! 
 Dear daughter of affliction, say- 
 How can I serve you ? point the way." 
 
 " Rights have you, and may well be hold : 
 You with my Father have grown old 
 In friendship — strive— for his sake go — 
 Turn from us all the coming woe : 
 This would I beg ; but on my mind 
 A passive stillness is enjoined. 
 On you, if room for mortal aid 
 Be left, is no restriction laid ; 
 You not forbidden to recline 
 With hope upon the Will divine." 
 
 "Hope," said the old Man, "must abide 
 With all of us, whate'er betide. 
 In Craven's Wilds is many a den, 
 To shelter persecuted men : 
 Far under ground is many a cave, 
 Where they might lie as in the grave, 
 Until this storm hath ceased to rave : 
 Or let them cross the River Tweed, 
 And be at once from peril freed !" 
 
 "Ah tempt me not ! " she faintly sighed ; 
 "I will not counsel nor exhort, 
 With my condition satisfied ; 
 But you, at least, may make report 
 Of what befals ; — be this your task — ■ 
 This may be done ; — 'tis all I ask ! " 
 
 She spake — and from the Lady's sight 
 The Sire, unconscious of his age, 
 Departed promptly as a Page 
 Bound on some errand of delight. 
 — The noble Francis — wise as brave, 
 Thought he, may want not skill to save. 
 With hopes in tenderness concealed, 
 Unarmed he followed to the field ; 
 Him will I seek : the insurgent Powers 
 Are now besieging Barnard's Towers, — 
 " Grant that the Moon which shines this night 
 May guide them in a prudent flight ! " 
 
 But quick the turns of chance and change, 
 And knowledge has a narrow range ; 
 Whence idle fears, and needless pain, 
 And wishes blind, and efforts vain. — 
 The Moon may shine, but cannot be 
 Their guide in flight — already she 
 Hath witnessed their captivity. 
 She saw the desperate assault 
 Upon that hostile castle made ; — 
 But dark and dismal is the vault 
 
 Where Norton and his sons are laid ! 
 
 Disastrous issue ! — he had said 
 
 " This night yon faithless Towers must yield, 
 
 Or we for ever quit the field. 
 
 — Neville is utterly dismayed, 
 
 For promise fails of Howard's aid ; 
 
 And Dacre to our call replies 
 
 That he is unprepared to rise. 
 
 My heart is sick ; — this weary pause 
 
 Must needs be fatal to our cause. 
 
 The breach is open — on the wall, 
 
 This night, the Banner shall be planted!" 
 
 ■ — 'Twas done : his Sons were with him — all ; 
 
 They belt him round with hearts undaunted 
 
 And others follow ; — Sire and Son 
 
 Leap down into the coui*t ; — " 'Tis won " — 
 
 They shout aloud — but Heaven decreed 
 
 That with their joyful shout should close 
 
 The triumph of a desperate deed 
 
 Which struck with terror friends and foes ! 
 
 The friend shrinks back — the foe recoils 
 
 From Norton and his filial band ; 
 
 But they, now caught within the toils, 
 
 Against a thousand cannot stand ; — 
 
 The foe from numbers courage drew, 
 
 And overpowered that gallant few. 
 
 " A rescue for the Standard !" cried 
 
 The Father from within the walls ; 
 
 But, see, the sacred Standard falls ! — 
 
 Confusion through the Camp spmad wide : 
 
 Some fled ; and some their fears detained : 
 
 But ere the Moon had sunk to rest 
 
 In her pale chambers of the west, 
 
 Of that rash levy nought remained. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 
 High on a point of rugged ground 
 Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell 
 Above the loftiest ridge or mound 
 Where foresters or shepherds dwell, 
 An edifice of warlike frame 
 Stands single — Norton Tower its name — 
 It fronts all quarters, and looks round 
 O'er path and road, and plain and dell, 
 Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream 
 Upon a prospect without bound. 
 
 The summit of this bold ascent — 
 Though bleak and bare, and seldom free 
 As Pendle-hill or Pennygent 
 From wind, or frost, or vapours wet — 
 Had often heard the sound of glee 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 305 
 
 i When there the youthful Nortons met, 
 :To practise games and archery : 
 How proud and happy they ! the crowd 
 Of Lookers-on how pleased and proud ! 
 And from the scorching noon-tide sun, 
 From showers, or when the prize was won, 
 They to the Tower withdrew, and there 
 Would mirth ran round, with generous fare ; 
 :And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall, 
 ;Was happiest, proudest, of them all ! 
 
 But now, his Child, with anguish pale, 
 Upon the height walks to and fro ; 
 i'Tis well that she hath heard the tale, 
 Received the bitterness of woe : 
 :For she had hoped, had hoped and feared, 
 Such rights did feeble nature claim ; 
 'And oft her steps had hither steered, 
 Though not unconscious of self-blame ; 
 For she her brother's charge revered, 
 His farewell words ; and by the same, 
 5fea by her brother's very name, 
 Had, in her solitude, been cheered. 
 
 i Beside the lonely watch-tower stood 
 That grey-haired Man of gentle blood, 
 Who with her Father had grown old 
 ;fn friendship ; rival hunters they, 
 And fellow warriors in their day ; 
 To Rylstone he the tidings brought ; 
 Then on this height the Maid had sought, 
 A.nd, gently as he could, had told 
 The end of that dire Tragedy, 
 Which ifc had been his lot to see. 
 
 I To him the Lady turned ; " You said 
 That Francis lives, lie is not dead ? " 
 
 "Your noble brother hath been spared ; 
 To take his life they have not dared ; 
 On him and on his high endeavour 
 The light of praise shall shine for ever ! 
 ;^or did he (such Heaven's will) in vain 
 His solitary course maintain ; 
 N'ot vainly struggled in the might 
 3f duty, seeing with clear sight ; 
 Te was their comfort to the last, 
 Their joy till every pang was past. 
 
 I witnessed when to York they came — 
 What, Lady, if their feet were tied ; 
 They might deserve a good Man's blame ; 
 But marks of infamy and shame — 
 These were their triumph, these their pride ; 
 
 Nor wanted 'mid the pressing crowd 
 
 Deep feeling, that found utterance loud, 
 
 ' Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried, 
 
 ' A Prisoner once, but now set free ! 
 
 'Tis well, for he the worst defied 
 
 Through force of natural piety ; 
 
 He rose not in this quarrel, he, 
 
 For concord's sake and England's good, 
 
 Suit to his Brothers often made 
 
 With tears, and of his lather prayed — 
 
 And when he had in vain withstood 
 
 Their purpose — then did he divide, 
 
 He parted from them ; but at their side 
 
 Now walks in unanimity. 
 
 Then peace to cruelty and scorn, 
 
 While to the prison they are borne, 
 
 Peace, peace to all indignity ! ' 
 
 And so in Prison were they laid — 
 Oh hear me, hear me, gentle Maid, 
 For I am come with power to bless, 
 By scattering gleams, through your distress, 
 Of a redeeming happiness. 
 Me did a reverent pity move 
 And privilege of ancient love ; 
 And, in your service, making bold, 
 Entrance I gained to that strong-hold. 
 
 Your Father gave me cordial greeting \ 
 But to his purposes, that burned 
 Within him, instantly returned i 
 He was commanding and entreating, 
 And said — ' We need not stop, my Son ! 
 Thoughts press, and time is hurrying on ' — 
 And so to Francis he renewed 
 His words, more calmly thus pursued. 
 
 ' Might this our enterprise have sped, 
 Change wide and deep the Land had seen, 
 A renovation from the dead, 
 A spring-tide of immortal green : 
 The darksome altars would have blazed 
 Like stars when clouds are rolled away ; 
 Salvation to all eyes that gazed, 
 Once more the Rood had been upraised 
 To spread its arms, and stand for aye. 
 Then, then — had I survived to see 
 New life in Bolton Priory ; 
 The voice restored, the eye of Truth 
 Re-opened that inspired my youth ; 
 To see her in her pomp arrayed — 
 This Banner (for such vow I made) 
 Should on the consecrated breast 
 Of that same Temple have found rest : 
 
306 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 I would myself have hung it high, 
 
 So cruel Sussex, unrestrained 
 
 Fit offering of glad victory ! 
 
 By human feeling, had ordained. 
 
 
 The unhappy Banner Francis saw, 
 
 A shadow of such thought remains 
 
 And, with a look of calm command 
 
 To cheer this sad and pensive time ; 
 
 Inspiring universal awe, 
 
 A solemn fancy yet sustains 
 
 He took it from the soldier's hand ; 
 
 One feeble Being — bids me climb 
 
 And all the people that stood round 
 
 Even to the last — one effort more 
 
 Confirmed the deed in peace profound. 
 
 To attest my Faith, if not restore. 
 
 — High transport did the Father shed 
 
 
 Upon his Son — and they were led, 
 
 Hear then,' said he, ' while I impart, 
 
 Led on, and yielded up their breath ; 
 
 My Son, the last wish of my heart. • 
 
 Together died, a happy death ! — 
 
 The Banner strive thou to regain ; 
 
 But Francis, soon as he had braved 
 
 And, if the endeavour prove not vain, 
 
 That insult, and the Banner saved, 
 
 Bear it — to whom if not to thee 
 
 Athwart the unresisting tide 
 
 Shall I this lonely thought consign ? — 
 
 Of the spectators occupied 
 
 Bear it to Bolton Priory, 
 
 In admiration or dismay, 
 
 And lay it on Saint Mary's shrine ; 
 
 Bore instantly his Charge away." 
 
 To wither in the sun and breeze 
 
 
 'Mid those decaying sanctities. 
 
 These things, which thus had in the sight 
 
 There let at least the gift be laid, 
 
 And hearing passed of Him who stood 
 
 The testimony there displayed ; 
 
 With Emily, on the Watch-tower height, 
 
 Bold proof that with no selfish aim, 
 
 In Rylstone's woeful neighbourhood, 
 
 But for lost Faith and Christ's dear name, 
 
 He told ; and oftentimes with voice 
 
 I helmeted a brow though white, 
 
 Of power to comfort or rejoice; 
 
 And took a place hi all men's sight ; 
 
 For deepest sorrows that aspire, 
 
 Yea offered up this noble Brood, 
 
 Go high, no transport ever higher. 
 
 This fair unrivalled Brotherhood, 
 
 " Yes — God is rich in mercy," said 
 
 And turned away from thee, my Son ! 
 
 The old Man to the silent Maid, 
 
 And left — but be the rest unsaid, 
 
 "Yet, Lady ! shines, through this black night, 
 
 The name untouched, the tear unshed ; — ■ 
 
 One star of aspect heavenly bright ; 
 
 My wish is known, and I have done : 
 
 Your Brother lives — he lives — is come 
 
 Now promise, grant this one request, 
 
 Perhaps already to his home ; 
 
 This dying prayer, and be thou blest ! ' 
 
 Then let us leave this dreary place." 
 
 
 She yielded, and with gentle pace, 
 
 Then Francis answered — ' Trust thy Son, 
 
 Though without one uplifted look, 
 
 For, with God's will, it shall be done ! ' — 
 
 To Rylstone-hall her way she took. 
 
 The pledge obtained, the solemn word 
 Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard, 
 
 
 
 And Officers appeared in state 
 
 CANTO SIXTH. 
 
 To lead the prisoners to their fate. 
 
 Why comes not Francis ? — From the doleful Ci 
 
 They rose, oh ! wherefore should I fear 
 
 He fled, — and, in his flight, could hear 
 
 To tell, or, Lady, you to hear ? 
 
 The death-sounds of the Minster-bell : 
 
 They rose — embraces none were given — 
 
 That sullen stroke pronounced farewell 
 
 They stood like trees when earth and heaven 
 
 To Marmaduke, cut off from pity ! 
 
 Are calm ; they knew each other's worth, 
 
 To Ambrose that ! and then a knell 
 
 And reverently the Band went forth. 
 
 For him, the sweet half-opened Flower ! 
 
 They met, when they had reached the door, 
 
 For all — all dying in one hour ! 
 
 One with profane and harsh intent 
 
 — Why comes not Francis ? Thoughts of love 
 
 Placed there — that he might go before 
 
 Should bear him to his Sister dear 
 
 And, with that rueful Banner borne 
 
 With the fleet motion of a dove ; 
 
 Aloft in sign of taunting scorn, 
 
 Yea, like a heavenly messenger 
 
 Conduct them to their punishment : 
 
 Of speediest wing, should he appear. 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 307 
 
 ; Why comes he not ? — for westward fast 
 
 i Along the plain of York he past ; 
 
 j Reckless of what impels or leads, 
 
 i Unchecked he hurries on ; — nor heeds 
 
 I The sorrow, through the Villages, 
 
 i Spread by triumphant cruelties 
 
 i Of vengeful military force, 
 
 1 And punishment without remorse. 
 
 j: He marked not, heard not, as he fled ; 
 
 i All but the suffering heart was dead 
 
 | For him abandoned to blank awe, 
 
 i To vacancy, and horror strong : 
 
 i And the first object which he saw, 
 
 ; With conscious sight, as he swept along — 
 
 J It was the Banner in his hand ! 
 
 j He felt — and made a sudden stand. 
 
 He looked about like one betrayed : 
 
 What hath he done ? what promise made ? 
 i Oh weak, weak moment ! to what end 
 , Can such a vain oblation tend, 
 
 And he the Bearer ? — Can he go 
 
 Carrying this instrument of woe, 
 . And find, find any where, a right 
 
 To excuse him in his Country's sight? 
 i No ; will not all men deem the change 
 i A downward course, perverse and strange? 
 , Here is it ; — but how 1 when 1 must she, 
 
 The unoffending Emily, 
 
 i Again this piteous object see? 
 
 ! Such conflict long did he maintain, 
 [Nor liberty nor rest could gain : 
 [His own life into danger brought 
 ,By this sad burden — even that thought, 
 Exciting self 'suspicion strong 
 Swayed the brave man to his wrong. 
 And how — unless it were the sense 
 Of all-disposing Providence, 
 Its will unquestionably shown — 
 ! How has the Banner clung so fast 
 I To a palsied, and unconscious hand ; 
 ; Clung to the hand to which it passed 
 ; Without impediment ? And why 
 : But that Heaven's purpose might be known 
 Doth now no hindrance meet his eye, 
 ' No intervention, to withstand 
 Fulfilment of a Father's prayer 
 Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest 
 I When all resentments were at rest, 
 I And life in death laid the heart bare ? — 
 1 Then, like a spectre sweeping by, 
 Rushed through his mind the prophecy 
 Of utter desolation made 
 
 To Emily in the yew-tree shade : 
 He sighed, submitting will and power 
 To the stern embrace of that grasping hour. 
 " No choice is left, the deed is mine — 
 Dead are they, dead ! — and I will go, 
 And, for their sakes, come weal or woe, 
 Will lay the Relic on the shrine." 
 
 So forward with a steady will 
 He went, and traversed plain and hill ; 
 And up the vale of Wharf his way 
 Pursued ; — and, at the dawn of day, 
 Attained a summit whence his eyes 
 Could see the Tower of Bolton rise. 
 There Francis for a moment's space 
 Made halt — but hark ! a noise behind 
 Of horsemen at an eager pace ! 
 He heard, and with misgiving mind. 
 — 'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band : 
 They come, by cruel Sussex sent ; 
 Who, when the Nortons from the hand 
 Of death had drunk their punishment, 
 Bethought him, angry and ashamed, 
 How Francis, with the Banner claimed 
 As his own charge, had disappeared, 
 By all the standers-by revered. 
 His whole bold carriage (which had quelled 
 Thus far the Opposer, and repelled 
 All censure, enterprise so bright 
 That even bad men had vainly striven 
 Against that overcoming light) 
 Was then reviewed, and prompt word given, 
 That to what place soever fled 
 He should be seized, alive or dead. 
 
 The troop of horse have gained the height 
 Where Francis stood in open sight. 
 They hem him round — u Behold the proof," 
 They cried, " the Ensign in his hand ! 
 He did not arm, he walked aloof ! 
 For why ? — to save his Father's land ; — 
 Worst Traitor of them all is he, 
 A Traitor dark and cowardly ! " 
 
 "I am no Traitor," Francis said, 
 "Though this unhappy freight I bear ; 
 And must not part with. But beware ; — 
 Err not, by hasty zeal misled, 
 Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong, 
 Whose self-reproaches are too strong ! " 
 At this he from the beaten road 
 Retreated towards a brake of thorn, 
 That like a place of vantage showed ; 
 And there stood bravely, though forlorn. 
 
308 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 In self-defence with warlike brow 
 
 He stood, — nor weaponless was now ; 
 
 He from a Soldier's hand had snatched 
 
 A spear, — and, so protected, watched 
 
 The Assailants, turning round and round ; 
 
 But from behind with treacherous wound 
 
 A Spearman brought him to the ground. 
 
 The guardian lance, as Francis fell, 
 
 Dropped from him ; but his other hand 
 
 The Banner clenched ; till, from out the Band, 
 
 One, the most eager for the prize, 
 
 Rushed in ; and — while, grief to tell ! 
 
 A glimmering sense still left, with eyes 
 
 Unclosed the noble Francis lay — 
 
 Seized it, as hunters seize their prey; 
 
 But not before the warm life-blood 
 
 Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed, 
 
 The wounds the broidered Banner showed, 
 
 Thy fatal work, Maiden, innocent as good ! 
 
 Proudly the Horsemen bore away 
 The Standard ; and where Francis lay 
 There was he left alone, unwept, 
 And for two days unnoticed slept. 
 For at that time bewildering fear 
 Possessed the eountry, far and near ; 
 But, on the third day, passing by 
 One of the Norton Tenantry 
 Espied the uncovered Corse ; the Man 
 Shrunk as he recognised the face, 
 And to the nearest homesteads ran 
 And called the people to the place.- 
 — How desolate is Rylstone-hall ! 
 This was the instant thought of all ; 
 And if the lonely Lady there 
 Should be ; to her they cannot bear 
 This weight of anguish and despair. 
 So, when upon sad thoughts had prest 
 Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best 
 That, if the Priest should yield assent 
 And no one hinder their intent, 
 Then, they, for Christian pity's sake, 
 In holy ground a grave would make ; 
 And straightway buried he should be 
 In the Church-yard of the Priory. 
 
 Apart, some little space, was made 
 The grave where Francis must be laid. 
 In no confusion or neglect 
 This did they,— but in pure respect 
 That he was born of gentle blood ; 
 And that there was no neighbourhood 
 Of kindred for him in that ground : 
 So to the Church-yard they are bound, 
 
 Bearing the body on a bier ; 
 
 And psalms they sing — a holy sound 
 
 That hill and vale with sadness hear. 
 
 But Emily hath raised her head, 
 And is again disquieted ; 
 She must behold ! — so many gone, 
 Where is the solitary One ? 
 And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she, — 
 To seek her Brother forth she went, 
 And tremblingly her course she bent 
 Toward Bolton's ruined Priory. 
 She comes, and in the vale hath heard 
 The funeral dirge ; — she sees the knot 
 Of people, sees them in one spot — 
 And darting like a wounded bird 
 She reached the grave, and with her breast 
 Upon the ground received the rest, — 
 The consummation, the whole ruth 
 And sorrow of this final truth ! 
 
 CANTO SEVENTH. 
 
 ' Powers there are 
 That touch each other to the quick — in modes 
 Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, 
 No soul to dream of.' 
 
 Thou Spirit, whose angelic hand 
 Was to the harp a strong command, 
 Called the submissive strings to wake 
 In glory for this Maiden's sake, 
 Say, Spirit ! whither hath she fled 
 To hide her poor afflicted head ? 
 What mighty forest in its gloom 
 Enfolds her ? — is a rifted tomb 
 Within the wilderness her seat ? 
 Some island which the wild waves beat — 
 Is that the Sufferer's last retreat ? 
 Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds 
 Its perilous front in mists and clouds ? 
 High-climbing rock, low sunless dale, 
 Sea, desert, what do these avail ? 
 Oh take her anguish and her fears 
 Into a deep recess of years ! 
 
 'Tis done ; — despoil and desolation 
 O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown ; 
 Pools, terraces, and walks are sown 
 With weeds ; the bowers are overthrown, 
 Or have given way to slow mutation, 
 While, in their ancient habitation 
 The Norton name hath been unknown. 
 The lordly Mansion of its pride 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 309 
 
 stripped ; the ravage hath spread wide 
 '[irough park and field, a perishing 
 hat mocks the gladness of the Spring I 
 ;nd, with this silent gloom agreeing, 
 ppears a joyless human Being, 
 |f aspect such as if the waste 
 !'ere under her dominion placed, 
 pon a primrose hank, her throne 
 c quietness, she sits alone ; 
 :mong the ruins of a wood, 
 irewhile a eovert bright and green, 
 ad where full many a brave tree stood, 
 mt used to spread its boughs, and ring 
 i'ith the sweet bird's carolling, 
 jhold her, like a virgin Queen, 
 eglecting in imperial state 
 lese outward images of fate, 
 ad carrying inward a serene 
 ;ad perfect sway, through many a thought 
 f chance and change, that hath been brought 
 p the subjection of a holy, 
 tough stern and rigorous, melancholy ! 
 lie like authority, with grace 
 * awfulness, is in her face,, — 
 ,iere hath she fixed it ; yet it seems 
 p o'ershadow by no native right 
 liat face, which cannot lose the gleams, 
 |Dse utterly the tender gleams, 
 f gentleness and meek delight, 
 [ad loving-kindness ever bright : 
 tch is her sovereign mien :— her dress 
 li vest with woollen cincture tied, 
 hood of mountain- wool undyed) 
 
 homely, — fashioned to express 
 : wandering Pilgrim's humbleness. 
 
 And she hath wandered, long and far, 
 aieath the light of sun and star j. 
 lath roamed in trouble and in grief, 
 riven forward like a withered leaf, 
 sa like a ship at random blown 
 p distant places and unknown. 
 'it now she dares to seek a haven. 
 !mong her native wilds of Craven ; 
 ath seen again her Father's roof,. 
 ,id put her fortitude to proof ; 
 lie mighty sorrow hath been borne, 
 id she is thoroughly forlorn : 
 jer soul doth in itself stand fast, 
 kstained by memory of the past 
 |id strength of Reason ; held above 
 be infirmities of mortal love ; 
 ladaunted, lofty, calm, and stable, 
 bd awfully impenetrable. 
 
 And so — beneath a mouldered tree, 
 A self-surviving leafless oak 
 By unregarded age from stroke 
 Of ravage saved — sate Emily. 
 There did she rest, with head reclined, 
 Herself most like a stately flower, 
 (Such have I seen) whom chance of birth 
 Hath separated from its kind, 
 To live and die in a shady bower, 
 Single on the gladsome earth. 
 
 When, with a noise like distant thunder, 
 A troop of deer came sweeping by ; 
 And, suddenly, behold a wonder ! 
 For One, among those rushing deer, 
 A single One, in mid career 
 Hath stopped, and fixed her large full eye 
 Upon the Lady Emily ; 
 A Doe most beautiful, clear-white, 
 A radiant creature, silver-bright ! 
 
 Thus checked, a little while it stayed ; 
 A little thoughtful pause it made ; 
 And then advanced with stealth-like pace, 
 Drew softly near her, and more near — 
 Looked round — but saw no cause for fear ; 
 So to her feet the Creature came, 
 And laid its head upon her knee, 
 And looked into the Lady's face, 
 A look of pure benignity, 
 And fond unclouded memory. 
 It is, thought Emily, the same, 
 The very Doe of other years ! — 
 The pleading look the Lady viewed, 
 And, by her gushing thoughts subdued, 
 She melted into tears — 
 A flood of tears, that flowed apace, 
 Upon the happy Creature's face. 
 
 Oh, moment ever blest ! Pair 
 Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen care, 
 This was for you a precious greeting ; 
 And may it prove a fruitful meeting ! 
 Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe 
 Can she depart ? can she forego 
 The Lady, once her playful peer, 
 And now her sainted Mistress dear ? 
 And will not Emily receive 
 This lovely chronicler of things 
 Long past, delights and sorrowings ? 
 Lone Sufferer ! will not she believe 
 The promise in that speaking face ; 
 And welcome, as a gift of gi*ace, 
 The saddest thought the Creature brings ? 
 
310 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 That day, the first of a re-union 
 
 Or in the meadow wandered wide ! 
 
 Which was to teem with high communion, 
 
 How pleased, when down the Straggler sank 
 
 That day of balmy April weather, 
 
 Beside her, on some sunny bank ! 
 
 They tarried in the wood together. 
 
 How soothed, when in thick bower enclosed, 
 
 And when, ere fall of evening dew, 
 
 They, like a nested pair, reposed ! 
 
 She from her sylvan haunt withdrew, 
 
 Fair Vision ! when it crossed the Maid 
 
 The White Doe tracked with faithful pace 
 
 Within some rocky cavern laid, 
 
 The Lady to her dwelling-place ; 
 
 The dark cave's portal gliding by, 
 
 That nook where, on paternal ground, 
 
 White as whitest cloud on high 
 
 A habitation she had found, 
 
 Floating through the azure sky. 
 
 The Master of whose humble board 
 
 —What now is left for pain or fear ? 
 
 Once owned her Father for his Lord ; 
 
 That Presence, dearer and more dear, 
 
 A hut, by tufted trees defended, 
 
 While they, side by side, were straying, 
 
 Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended. 
 
 And the shepherd's pipe was playing, 
 
 
 Did now a very gladness yield 
 
 When Emily by morning light 
 
 At morning to the dewy field, 
 
 Went forth, the Doe stood there in sight. 
 
 And with a deeper peace endued 
 
 She shrunk : — with one frail shock of pain 
 
 The hour of moonlight solitude. 
 
 Received and followed by a prayer, 
 
 
 She saw the Creature once again ; 
 
 With her Companion, in such frame 
 
 Shun will she not, she feels, will bear ; — 
 
 Of mind, to Rylstone back she came ; 
 
 But, wheresoever she looked round, 
 
 And, ranging through the wasted groves, 
 
 All now was trouble-haunted ground ; 
 
 Received the memory of old loves, 
 
 And therefore now she deems it good 
 
 Undisturbed and undistrest, 
 
 Once more this restless neighbourhood 
 
 Into a soul which now was blest 
 
 To leave. — Unwooed, yet unforbidden, 
 
 With a soft spring-day of holy, 
 
 The White Doe followed up the vale, 
 
 Mild, and grateful, melancholy : 
 
 Up to another cottage, hidden 
 
 Not sunless gloom or unenlightened, 
 
 In the deep fork of Amerdale ; 
 
 But by tender fancies brightened. 
 
 And there may Emily restore 
 
 
 Herself, in spots unseen before. 
 
 When the bells of Rylstone played 
 
 — Why tell of mossy rock, or tree, 
 
 Their sabbath music — ' <§0tf tt£ ZVfcC !' 
 
 By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side, 
 
 That was the sound they seemed to speak ; 
 
 Haunts of a strengthening amity 
 
 Inscriptive legend which I ween 
 
 That calmed her, cheered, and fortified ? 
 
 May on those holy bells be seen, 
 
 For she hath ventured now to read 
 
 That legend and her Grandsire's name ; 
 
 Of time, and place, and thought, and deed — 
 
 And oftentimes the Lady meek 
 
 Endless history that lies 
 
 Had in her childhood read the same ; 
 
 In her silent Follower's eyes ; 
 
 Words which she slighted at that day ; 
 
 Who with a power like human reason 
 
 But now, when such sad change was wrought, 
 
 Discerns the favourable season, 
 
 And of that lonely name she thought, 
 
 Skilled to approach or to retire, — 
 
 The bells of Rylstone seemed to say, 
 
 From looks conceiving her desire ; 
 
 While she sate listening in the shade, 
 
 From look, deportment, voice, or mien, 
 
 With vocal music, ' <©0tf tt£ agifC ; ' 
 
 That vary to the heart within. 
 
 And all the hills were glad to bear 
 
 If she too passionately wreathed 
 
 Their part in this effectual prayer. 
 
 Her arms, or over-deeply breathed, 
 
 
 Walked quick or slowly, every mood 
 
 Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power ; 
 
 In its degree was understood ; 
 
 But with the White Doe at her side 
 
 Then well may their accord be true, 
 
 Up would she climb to Norton Tower, 
 
 And kindliest intercourse ensue. 
 
 And thence look round her far and wide, 
 
 — Oh ! surely 'twas a gentle rousing 
 
 Her fate there measuring ; — all is stilled, — 
 
 When she by sudden glimpse espied 
 
 The weak One hath subdued her heart ; 
 
 The White Doe on the mountain browsing, 
 
 Behold the prophecy fulfilled. 
 
 - 
 
THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE. 
 
 311 
 
 • Fulfilled, and she sustains her part ! 
 I But here her Brother's words have failed ; 
 1 Here hath a milder doom prevailed ; 
 That she, of him and all bereft, 
 ■Hath yet this faithful Partner left ; 
 Thii one Associate that disproves 
 [His words, remains for her, and loves. 
 -If tears are shed, they do not fall 
 !For loss of him — for one, or all ; 
 Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep 
 'Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep ; 
 A few tears down her cheek descend 
 iFor this her last and living Friend. 
 
 Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot, 
 And bless for both this savage spot ; 
 Which Emily doth sacred hold 
 For reasons dear and manifold — 
 Here hath she, here before her sight, 
 Close to the summit of this height, 
 jThe grassy rock-encircled Pound 
 lln which the Creature first was found. 
 'So beautiful the timid Thrall 
 (A spotless Youngling white as foam) 
 Her youngest Brother brought it home ; 
 The youngest, then a lusty boy, 
 Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall 
 With heart brimful of pride and joy ! 
 
 1 But most to Bolton's sacred Pile, 
 
 On favouring nights, she loved to go ; 
 
 There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle, 
 
 Attended by the soft-paced Doe ; 
 
 ,Nor feared she in the still moonshine 
 To look upon Saint Mary's shrine ; 
 Nor on the lonely turf that showed 
 Where Francis slept in his last abode. 
 
 i For that she came ; there oft she sate 
 Forlorn, but not disconsolate : 
 And, when she from the abyss returned 
 Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned ; 
 
 ! Was happy that she lived to greet 
 
 j Her mute Companion as it lay 
 
 ; In love and pity at her feet ; 
 How happy in its turn to meet 
 
 ! The recognition ! the mild glance 
 
 ' Beamed from that gracious countenance ; 
 Communication, like the ray 
 
 | Of a new morning, to the nature 
 And prospects of the inferior Creature ! 
 
 A mortal Song we sing, by dower 
 Encouraged of celestial power ; 
 
 Power which the viewless Spirit shed 
 
 By whom we were first visited ; 
 
 Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings 
 
 Swept like a breeze the conscious strings, 
 
 When, left in solitude, erewhile 
 
 We stood before this ruined Pile, 
 
 And, quitting unsubstantial dreams, 
 
 Sang in this Presence kindred themes ; 
 
 Distress and desolation spread 
 
 Through human hearts, and pleasure dead, — 
 
 Dead — but to live again on earth, 
 
 A second and yet nobler birth ; 
 
 Dire overthrow, and yet how high 
 
 The re-ascent in sanctity ! 
 
 From fair to fairer ; day by day 
 
 A more divine and loftier way ! 
 
 Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod, 
 
 By sorrow lifted towards her God ; 
 
 Uplifted to the purest sky 
 
 Of undisturbed mortality. 
 
 Her own thoughts loved she ; and could bend 
 
 A dear look to her lowly Friend ; 
 
 There stopped ; her thirst was satisfied 
 
 With what this innocent spring supplied : 
 
 Her sanction inwardly she bore, 
 
 And stood apart from human cares : 
 
 But to the world returned no more, 
 
 Although with no unwilling mind 
 
 Help did she give at need, and joined 
 
 The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers. 
 
 At length, thus faintly, faintly tied 
 
 To earth, she was set free, and died. 
 
 Thy soul, exalted Emily, 
 
 Maid of the blasted family, 
 
 Rose to the God from whom it came ! 
 
 — In Rylstone Church her mortal frame 
 
 Was buried by her Mother's side. 
 
 Most glorious sunset ! and a ray 
 Survives— the twilight of this day — 
 In that fair Creature whom the fields 
 Support, and whom the forest shields ; 
 Who, having filled a holy place, 
 Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace ; 
 And bears a memory and a mind 
 Raised far above the law of kind ; 
 Haunting the spots with lonely cheer 
 Which her dear Mistress once held dear : 
 Loves most what Emily loved most — 
 The enclosure of this church-yard ground ; 
 Here wanders like a gliding ghost, 
 And every sabbath here is found ; 
 Comes with the people when the bells 
 Are heard among the moorland dells, 
 
312 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Finds entrance through yon arch, where way 
 
 That one sequestered hillock green, 
 
 Lies open on the sabbath-day ; 
 
 The pensive visitant is seen. 
 
 Here walks amid the mournful waste 
 
 There doth the gentle Creature lie 
 
 Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced, 
 
 With those adversities unmoved ; 
 
 And floors encumbered with rich show 
 
 Calm spectacle, by earth and sky 
 
 Of fret- work imagery laid low ; 
 
 In their benignity approved ! 
 
 Paces softly, or makes halt, 
 
 And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile, 
 
 By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault ; 
 
 Subdued by outrage and decay, 
 
 By plate of monumental brass 
 
 Looks down upon her with a smile, 
 
 Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass, 
 
 A gracious smile, that seems to say — 
 
 And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave : 
 
 " Thou, thou art not a Child of Time, 
 
 But chiefly by that single grave. 
 
 But Daughter of the Eternal Prime ! " 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 IN SERIES. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 FROM THE INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTIANITY INTO BRITAIN, TO THE CONSUMMATION OF THE TAPAL 
 
 DOMINION. 
 
 ' A verse may catch a wandering Soul, that flies 
 Profounder Tracts, and hy a hlest surprise 
 Convert delight into a Sacrifice.' 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I, who accompanied with faithful pace 
 Cerulean Duddon from his cloud-fed spring, 
 And loved with spirit ruled by his to sing 
 Of mountain-quiet and boon nature's grace ; 
 I, who essayed the nobler Stream to trace 
 Of Liberty, and smote the plausive string 
 Till the checked torrent, proudly triumphing, 
 Won for herself a lasting resting-place ; 
 Now seek upon the heights of Time the source 
 Of a Holy River, on whose banks are found 
 Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that have crowned 
 Full oft the unworthy brow of lawless force ; 
 And, for delight of him who tracks its course, 
 Immortal amaranth and palms abound. 
 
 CONJECTURES. 
 
 If there be prophets on whose spirits rest 
 Past things, revealed like future, they can tell 
 What Powers, presiding o'er the sacred well 
 Of Christian Faith, this savage Island blessed 
 With its first bounty. Wandering through the west, 
 Did holy Paul * a while in Britain dwell, 
 And call the Fountain forth by miracle, 
 And with dread signs the nascent Stream invest ? 
 Or He, whose bonds dropped off, whose prison dooi-s 
 Flew open, by an Angel's voice unbarred ? 
 Or some of humbler name, to these wild shores 
 Storm-driven ; who, having seen the cup of woe 
 Pass from their Master, sojourned here to guard 
 The precious Current they had taught to flow? 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 813 
 
 TREPIDATION OF THE DRUIDS. 
 
 :reams round the Arch-druid's brow the seaniew * 
 
 — white 
 
 s Menai's foam ; and toward the mystic ring 
 r here Augurs stand, the Future questioning, 
 owly the cormorant aims her heavy flight, 
 ortending ruin to each baleful rite, 
 pat, in the lapse of ages, hath crept o'er 
 .'iluvian truths, and patriarchal lore. 
 :aughty the Bard : can these meek doctrines blight 
 is transports ? wither Ms heroic strains ? 
 at all shall be fulfilled ; — the Julian spear 
 way first opened ; and, with Roman chains, 
 pe tidings come of Jesus crucified ; 
 ley come — they spread — the weak, the suffering, 
 eceive the faith, and in the hope abide. [hear ; 
 
 DRUIDICAL EXCOMMUNICATION. 
 
 ercy and Love have met thee on thy road, 
 
 jiou wretched Outcast, from the gift of fire 
 
 'ad food cut off by sacerdotal ire, 
 
 i.'om every sympathy that Man bestowed ! 
 
 let shall it claim our reverence, that to God, 
 
 'icient of days ! that to the eternal Sire, 
 
 |iese jealous Ministers of law aspire, 
 
 p to the one sole fount whence wisdom flowed, 
 
 .istice, and order. Tremblingly escaped, 
 
 13 if with prescience of the coming storm, 
 
 '.at intimation when the stars were shaped; 
 
 ! id still, 'mid yon thick woods, the primal truth 
 
 'immers through many a superstitious form 
 
 mt fills the Soul with unavailing ruth. 
 
 UNCERTAINTY. 
 
 iiRKNESS surrounds us ; seeking, we are lost 
 1 Snowdon's wilds, amid Brigantian coves, 
 • where the solitary shepherd roves 
 long the plain of Sarum, by the ghost 
 .' Time and shadows of Tradition, crost ; 
 id where the boatman of the Western Isles 
 ackens his course — to mark those holy piles 
 liich yet survive on bleak Iona's coast. 
 ')r these, nor monuments of eldest name, 
 pr Taliesin's unforgotten lays, 
 ir characters of Greek or Roman fame, 
 P an unquestionable Source have led ; 
 lough — if eyes, that sought the fountain-head 
 vain, upon the growing Rill may gaze. 
 
 1* This water-fowl was, among the Druids, an emhlem of 
 ,ose traditions connected with the deluge that made an 
 
 PERSECUTION. 
 
 Lament ! for Diocletian's fiery sword 
 Works busy as the lightning ; but instinct 
 With malice ne'er to deadliest weapon linked, 
 Which God's ethereal store-houses afford : 
 Against the Followers of the incarnate Lord 
 It rages ; — some are smitten in the field — [shield 
 Some pierced to the heart through the ineffectual 
 Of sacred home ; — with pomp are others gored 
 And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban tried, 
 England's first Martyr, whom no threats could shake ; 
 Self-offered victim, for his friend he died, 
 And for the faith ; nor shall his name forsake 
 That Hill, whose flowery platform seems to rise 
 By Nature decked for holiest sacrifice *. 
 
 RECOVERY. 
 
 As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain 
 
 Their cheerfulness, and busily retrim 
 
 Their nests, or chant a gratulating hymn 
 
 To the blue ether and bespangled plain ; 
 
 Even so, in many a re-constructed fane, 
 
 Have the survivors of this Storm renewed 
 
 Their holy rites with vocal gratitude : 
 
 And solemn ceremonials they ordain 
 
 To celebrate their great deliverance ; 
 
 Most feelingly instructed 'mid their fear — 
 
 That persecution, blind with rage extreme, [nance, 
 
 May not the less, through Heaven's mild counte- 
 
 Even in her own despite, both feed and cheer ; 
 
 For all things are less dreadful than they seem. 
 
 TEMPTATIONS FROM ROMAN REFINEMENTS. 
 
 Watch, and be firm ! for, soul-subduing vice, 
 
 Heart-killing luxury, on your steps await. 
 
 Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate, 
 
 And temples flashing, bright as polar ice, 
 
 Their radiance through the woods — may yet suffice 
 
 To sap your hardy virtue, and abate 
 
 Your love of Him upon whose forehead sate 
 
 The crown of thorns ; whose life-blood flowed, the 
 
 price 
 Of your redemption. Shun the insidious arts 
 That Rome provides, less dreading from her frown 
 Than from her wily praise, her peaceful gown, 
 Language, and letters ; — these, though fondly viewed 
 As humanising graces, are but parts 
 And instruments of deadliest servitude ! 
 
 important part of their mysteries. The Cormorant was a 
 
 bird of bad omen 
 
 * See Note. 
 
- 
 
 314 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION 
 
 DISSENSIONS. 
 
 That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned 
 Presumptuously) their roots both wide and deep, 
 Is natural as dreams to feverish sleep. 
 Lo ! Discord at the altar dares to stand 
 Uplifting toward high Heaven her fiery brand, 
 A cherished Priestess of the new-baptized ! 
 But chastisement shall follow peace despised. 
 The Pictish cloud darkens the enervate land 
 By Rome abandoned ; vain are suppliant cries, 
 And prayers that would undo her forced farewell 
 For she returns not. — Awed by her own knell, 
 She casts the Britons upon strange Allies, 
 Soon to become more dreaded enemies 
 Than heartless misery called them to repel. 
 
 STRUGGLE OF THE BRITONS AGAINST THE BARBARIANS. 
 
 Rise ! — they have risen : of brave Aneurin ask 
 How they have scourged old foes, perfidious friends : 
 The Spirit of Caractacus descends 
 Upon the Patriots, animates their task ; — 
 Amazement runs before the towering casque 
 Of Arthur, bearing through the stormy field 
 The virgin sculptured on his Christian shield : — 
 Stretched in the sunny light of victory bask 
 The Host that followed Urien as he strode 
 O'er heaps of slain ; — from Cambrian wood and 
 Druids descend, auxiliars of the Cross ; [moss 
 
 Bards, nursed on blue Plinlimmon's still abode, 
 Rush on the fight, to harps preferring swords, 
 And everlasting deeds to burning words ! 
 
 SAXON CONQUEST. 
 
 Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid 
 
 Of hallelujahs * tost from hill to hill — 
 
 For instant victory. But Heaven's high will 
 
 Permits a second and a darker shade 
 
 Of Pagan night. Afflicted and dismayed, 
 
 The Relics of the sword flee to the mountains : 
 
 wretched Land ! whose tears have flowed like 
 
 fountains ; 
 Whose arts and honours in the dust are laid 
 By men yet scarcely conscious of a care 
 For other monuments than those of Earth ; 
 Who, as the fields and woods have given them birth, 
 Will build their savage fortunes only there ; 
 Content, if foss, and barrow, and the girth 
 Of long-drawn rampart, witness what they were. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 MONASTERY OF OLD BANGOR*. 
 
 The oppression of the tumult — wrath and scorn— 
 The tribulation — and the gleaming blades — 
 Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades 
 The song of Taliesin ; — Ours shall mourn [turi 
 The unarmed Host who by their prayers wouli 
 The sword from Bangor's walls, and guard the ston 
 Of Aboriginal and Roman lore, 
 And Christian monuments, that now must burn 
 To senseless ashes. Mark ! how all things wervi 
 From their known course, or vanish like a dram 
 Another language spreads from coast to coast ; 
 Only perchance some melancholy Stream 
 And some indignant Hills old names preserve, 
 When laws, and creeds, and people all are lost ! 
 
 CASUAL INCITEMENT. 
 
 A bright-haired company of youthful slaves, 
 Beautiful strangers, stand within the pale 
 Of a sad market, ranged for public sale, 
 Where Tiber's stream the immortal City laves : 
 Angli by name ; and not an Angel waves 
 His wing who could seem lovelier to man's eye 
 Than they appear to holy Gregory ; 
 Who, having learnt that name, salvation craves 
 For Them, and for their Land. The earnest Sir 
 His questions urging, feels, in slender ties 
 Of chiming sound, commanding sympathies ; 
 De-irians — he would save them from God's Iek 
 Subjects of Saxon ./Ella — they shall sing 
 Glad HALLE-lujahs to the eternal King ! 
 
 glad tidings. 
 For ever hallowed be this morning fair, 
 Blest be the unconscious shore on which ye trea> 
 And blest the silver Cross, which ye, instead 
 Of martial banner, in procession bear ; 
 The Cross preceding Him who floats in air, 
 The pictured Saviour ! — By Augustin led, 
 They come — and onward travel without dread, 
 Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful prayer — 
 Sung for themselves, and those whom they wou 1 
 
 free ! 
 Rich conquest waits them : — the tempestuous - 
 Of Ignorance, that ran so rough and high 
 And heeded not the voice of clashing swords, 
 These good men humble by a few bare words, 
 And calm with fear of God's divinity. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 315 
 
 iPAULINUS *. 
 ut, to remote Northumbrian royal Hall, 
 :,liere thoughtful Edwin, tutored in the school 
 f sorrow, still maintains a heathen rule, 
 yho comes with functions apostolical ? 
 Lark him, of shoulders curved, and stature tall, 
 lack hair, and vivid eye, and meagre cheek, 
 is prominent feature like an eagle's beak ; 
 ' Man whose aspect doth at once appal 
 nd strike with reverence. The Monarch leans 
 oward the pure truths this Delegate propounds, 
 epeatedly his own deep mind he sounds 
 /ith careful hesitation, — then convenes 
 synod of his Councillors : — give ear, 
 nd what a pensive Sage doth utter, hear ! 
 
 PERSUASION. 
 
 Man's life is like a Sparrow, mighty King ! 
 ,That— while at banquet with your Chiefs you sit 
 iHoused near a blazing fire — is seen to flit 
 Safe from the wintry tempest. Fluttering, 
 Here did it enter ; there, on hasty wing, 
 'Flies out, and passes on from cold to cold ; 
 But whence it came we know not, nor behold 
 i Whither it goes. Even such, that transient Thing, 
 I The human Soul ; not utterly unknown 
 While in the Body lodged, her warm abode ; 
 But from what world She came, what woe or weal 
 ;0n her departure waits, no tongue hath shown ; 
 .This mystery if the Stranger can reveal, 
 His be a welcome cordially bestowed + ! " 
 
 rxvn. 
 
 CONVERSION. 
 
 rompt transformation works the novel Lore ; 
 he Council closed, the Priest in full career 
 :ides forth, an armed man, and hurls a spear 
 o desecrate the Fane which heretofore 
 le served in folly. Woden falls, and Thor 
 B overturned ; the mace, in battle heaved 
 Bo might they dream) till victory was achieved, 
 •rops, and the God himself is seen no more, 
 emple and Altar sink, to hide their shame 
 >niid oblivious weeds. « come to me, 
 r e heavy laden /' such the inviting voice 
 Jeard near fresh streams J ; and thousands, who 
 
 rejoice 
 p the new Bite— the pledge of sanctity, 
 hall, by regenerate life, the promise claim. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 t See Note. 
 
 $ See Note. 
 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend 
 The Soul's eternal interests to promote : 
 Death, darkness, danger, are our natural lot ; 
 And evil Spirits may our walk attend 
 For aught the wisest know or comprehend ; 
 Then be good Spirits free to breathe a note 
 Of elevation ; let their odours float 
 Around these Converts ; and their glories blend, 
 The midnight stars outshining, or the blaze 
 Of the noon-day. Nor doubt that golden cords 
 Of good works, mingling with the visions, raise 
 The Soul to purer worlds : and who the line 
 Shall draw, the limits of the power define, 
 That even imperfect faith to man affords ? 
 
 PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY *. 
 
 How beautiful your presence, how benign, 
 Servants of God ! who not a thought will share 
 With the vain world ; who, outwardly as bare 
 As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign 
 That the firm soul is clothed with fruit divine ! 
 Such Priest, when service worthy of his care 
 Has called him forth to breathe the common air, 
 Might seem a saintly Image from its shrine 
 Descended : — happy are the eyes that meet 
 The Apparition ; evil thoughts are stayed 
 At his approach, and low-bowed necks entreat 
 A benediction from his voice or hand ; 
 Whence grace, through which the heart can 
 
 understand, 
 And vows, that bind the will, in silence made. 
 
 OTHER INFLUENCES. 
 
 Ah, when the Body, round which in love we clung, 
 
 Is chilled by death, does mutual service fail 1 
 
 Is tender pity then of no avail ? 
 
 Are intercessions of the fervent tongue 
 
 A waste of hope ? — From this sad source have 
 
 Rites that console the Spirit, under grief [sprung 
 
 Which ill can brook more rational relief : 
 
 Hence, prayers are shaped amiss, and dirges sung 
 
 For Souls wnose doom is fixed ! The way is smooth 
 
 For Power that travels with the human heart : 
 
 Confession mini sters the pang to soothe 
 
 In him who at the ghost of guilt doth start. 
 
 Ye holy Men, so earnest in your care, 
 
 Of your own mighty instruments beware ! 
 
316 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 - 
 
 SECLUSION. 
 
 Lance, shield, and sword relinquished — at his side 
 
 A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book, 
 
 Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook, 
 
 The war-worn Chieftain quits the world — to hide 
 
 His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide 
 
 In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell 
 
 In soft repose he comes. Within his cell, 
 
 Round the decaying trunk of human pride, 
 
 At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour, 
 
 Do penitential cogitations cling ; 
 
 Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine 
 
 In grisly folds and strictures serpentine ; 
 
 Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring, 
 
 For recompence — their own perennial bower. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Methinks that to some vacant hermitage 
 My feet would rather turn— to some dry nook 
 Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook 
 Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to stage, 
 Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage 
 In the soft heaven of a translucent pool ; 
 Thence creeping under sylvan arches cool, 
 Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage 
 Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl, 
 A maple dish, my furniture should be ; 
 Crisp, yellow leaves my bed ; the hooting owl 
 My night-watch : nor should e'er the crested fowl 
 From thorp or vill his matins sound for me, 
 Tired of the world and all its industry. 
 
 REPROOF. 
 
 But what if One, through grove or flowery mead, 
 
 Indulging thus at will the creeping feet 
 
 Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet 
 
 Thy hovering Shade, venerable Bede ! 
 
 The saint, the scholar, from a circle freed 
 
 Of toil stupendous, in a hallowed seat 
 
 Of learning, where thou heard'st the billows beat 
 
 On a wild coast, rough monitors to feed 
 
 Perpetual industry. Sublime Recluse ! 
 
 The recreant soul, that dares to shun the debt 
 
 Imposed on human kind, must first forget 
 
 Thy diligence, thy unrelaxing use 
 
 Of a long life ; and, in the hour of death, 
 
 The last dear service of thy passing breath* ! 
 
 * He expired dictating the last words of a translation 
 of St. John's Gospel. 
 
 SAXON MONASTERIES, AND LIGHTS AND SHADES OF 
 THE RELIGION. 
 
 By such examples moved to unbought pains 
 The people work like congregated bees ; 
 Eager to build the quiet Fortresses 
 Where Piety, as they believe, obtains 
 From Heaven a general blessing ; timely rains 
 Or needful sunshine ; prosperous enterprise, 
 Justice and peace : — bold faith ! yet also rise 
 The sacred Structures for less doubtful gains. 
 The Sensual think with reverence of the palms 
 Which the chaste Votaries seek, beyond the grave 
 If penance be redeemable, thence alms 
 Flow to the poor, and freedom to the slave ; 
 And if full oft the Sanctuary save 
 Lives black with guilt, ferocity it calms. 
 
 MISSIONS AND TRAVELS. 
 
 Not sedentary all : there are who roam 
 To scatter seeds of life on barbarous shores ; 
 Or quit with zealous step their knee-worn floors 
 To seek the general mart of Christendom ; 
 Whence they, like richly-laden merchants, eon " 
 To their beloved cells : — or shall we say 
 That, like the Red-cross Knight, they urge their way 
 To lead in memorable triumph home 
 Truth, their immortal Una ? Babylon, 
 Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, 
 Nor leaves her Speech one word to aid the sigli 
 That would lament her ; — Memphis, Tyre, are gon< 
 With all their Arts, — but classic lore glides on 
 By these Religious saved for all posterity. 
 
 ALFRED. 
 
 Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 
 The pious Alfred, King to Justice dear ! 
 Lord of the harp and liberating spear ; 
 Mirror of Princes ! Indigent Renown 
 Might range the starry ether for a crown 
 Equal to his deserts, who, like the year, 
 Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth cheer, 
 And awes like night with mercy-tempered frown 
 Ease from this noble miser of his time 
 No moment steals ; pain narrows not his cares*. 
 Though small his kingdom as a spark or gem, 
 Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, 
 And Christian India, through her wide-spread clime 
 In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 317 
 
 HIS DESCENDANTS. 
 
 hen thy great soul was freed from mortal chains, 
 Irling of England ! many a bitter shower 
 111 on thy tomb ; but emulative power 
 ](>wed in thy line through undegenerate veins. 
 
 Se Race of Alfred covet glorious pains 
 len dangers threaten, dangers ever new ! 
 ick tempests bursting, blacker still in view ! 
 ]|t manly sovereignty its hold retains ; 
 r J3 root sincere, the branches bold to strive 
 ' th the fierce tempest, while, within the round 
 (;their protection, gentle virtues thrive ; 
 i\ oft, 'mid some green plot of open ground, 
 
 I de as the oak extends its dewy gloom, 
 
 I I fostered hyacinths spread their purple bloom. 
 
 INFLUENCE ABUSED. 
 
 1,ged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill 
 
 (mges her means, the Enthusiast as a dupe 
 
 Sill soar, and as a hypocrite can stoop, 
 
 K turn the instruments of good to ill, 
 
 ftulding the credulous people to his will. 
 
 Sh Dunstan : — from its Benedictine coop 
 
 Lies the master Mind, at whose fell swoop 
 
 'Ij; chaste affections tremble to fulfil 
 
 l:ir purposes. Behold, pre-signified, 
 
 % Might of spiritual sway ! his thoughts, his 
 
 dreams, 
 I in the supernatural world abide : 
 Sivaunt a throng of Followers, filled with pride 
 I'vvhat they see of virtues pushed to extremes, 
 41 sorceries of talent misapplied. 
 
 DANISH CONQUESTS. 
 
 \ ie to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey* ! 
 
 sension, checking arms that would restrain 
 
 3 incessant Rovers of the northern main, 
 I.lps to restore and spread a Pagan sway : 
 lio Gospel- truth is potent to allay 
 1'rceness and rage ; and soon the cruel Dane 
 wis, through the influence of her gentle reign, 
 Ij. native superstitions melt away. 
 'is, often, when thick gloom the east o'ershrouds, 
 b full-orbed Moon, slow-climbing, doth appear 
 'jmtly to consume the heavy clouds ; 
 Aw no one can resolve ; but every eye 
 
 mndher sees, while air is hushed, a clear 
 
 d widening circuit of ethereal sky. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 A pleasant music floats along the Mere, 
 From Monks in Ely chanting service high, 
 While-as Canute the King is rowing by : [near, 
 " My Oarsmen," quoth the mighty King, " draw 
 " That we the sweet song of the Monks may hear ! " 
 He listens (all past conquests and all schemes 
 Of future vanishing like empty dreams) 
 Heart-touched, and haply not without a tear. 
 The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still, 
 While his free Barge skims the smooth flood along, 
 Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme*. 
 suffering Earth ! be thankful ; sternest clime 
 And rudest age are subject to the thrill 
 Of heavtn-descended Piety and Song. 
 
 THE NORMAN CONQUEST. 
 
 The woman-hearted Confessor prepares 
 
 The evanescence of the Saxon line. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the tolling Curfew ! — the stars sliine ; 
 
 But of the lights that cherish household cares 
 
 And festive gladness, burns not one that dares 
 
 To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine, 
 
 Emblem and instrument, from Thames to Tyne, 
 
 Of force that daunts, and cunning that ensnares ! 
 
 Yet as the terrors of the lordly bell, 
 
 That quench, from hut to palace, lamps and fires, 
 
 Touch not the tapers of the sacred quires ; 
 
 Even so a thraldom, studious to expel 
 
 Old laws, and ancient customs to derange, 
 
 To Creed or Ritual brings no fatal change. 
 
 Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered 
 By wrong triumphant through its own excess, 
 From fields laid waste, from house and home 
 
 devoured 
 By flames, look up to heaven and crave redress 
 From God's eternal justice. Pitiless 
 Though men be, there are angels that can feel 
 For wounds that death alone has power to heal, 
 For penitent guilt, and innocent distress. 
 And has a Champion risen in arms to try 
 His Country's virtue, fought, and breathes no more ; 
 Him in their hearts the people canonize ; 
 And far above the mine's most precious ore 
 The least small pittance of bare mould they prize 
 Scooped from the sacred earth where his dear relics 
 
 he. 
 
 * Which is still extant. 
 
— 
 
 318 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF CLERMONT. 
 
 " And shall," the Pontiff asks, " profaneness flow 
 " From Nazareth — source of Christian piety, 
 " From Bethlehem, from the Mounts of Agony 
 " And glorified Ascension ? Warriors, go, 
 * With prayers and blessings we your path will sow; 
 " Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye 
 " Have chased far off by righteous victory 
 " These sons of Amalek, or laid them low ! " — 
 " God willeth it," the whole assembly cry ; 
 Shout which the enraptured multitude astounds ! 
 The Council-roof and Clermont's towers reply ; — 
 " God willeth it," from hill to hill rebounds, 
 And, in awe -stricken Countries far and nigh, 
 Through * Nature's hollow arch ' that voice 
 resounds *. 
 
 CRUSADES. 
 
 The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms 
 Along the west ; though driven from Aquitaine, 
 The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain ; 
 And soft Italia feels renewed alarms ; 
 The scimitar, that yields not to the charms 
 Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain ; 
 Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain 
 Their tents, and check the current of their arms. 
 Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever 
 Known to the moral world, Imagination, 
 Upheave, so seems it, from her natural station 
 All Christendom : — they sweep along (was never 
 So huge a host !) — to tear from the Unbeliever 
 The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation. 
 
 RICHARD I. 
 
 Redoubted King, of courage leonine, 
 I mark thee, Richard ! urgent to equip 
 Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip ; 
 1 watch thee sailing o'er the midland brine ; 
 In conquered Cyprus see thy Bride decline 
 Her blushing cheek, love-vows upon her lip, 
 And see love-emblems streaming from thy ship, 
 As thence she holds her way to Palestine. 
 My Song, a fearless homager, would attend 
 Thy thundering battle-axe as it cleaves the press 
 Of war, but duty summons her away 
 To tell — how, finding in the rash distress 
 Of those Enthusiasts a subservient friend, 
 To giddier heights hath clomb the Papal sway. 
 
 * The decision of this council was believed to be 
 instantly known in remote parts of Europe. 
 
 AN INTERDICT. 
 
 Realms quake by turns : proud Arbitress of gmce 
 The Church, by mandate shadowing forth the 
 
 power 
 She arrogates o'er heaven's eternal door, 
 Closes the gates of every sacred place. 
 Straight from the sun and tainted air's embrace 
 All sacred things are covered : cheerful morn 
 Grows sad as night — no seemly garb is worn, 
 Nor is a face allowed to meet a face 
 With natural smiles of greeting. Bells are dumb 
 Ditches are graves — funereal rites denied ; 
 And in the church-yard he must take his bride 
 Who dares be wedded ! Fancies thickly come 
 Into the pensive heart ill fortified, 
 And comfortless despairs the soul benumb. 
 
 PAPAL ABUSES. 
 
 As with the Stream our voyage we pursue, 
 The gross materials of this world present 
 A marvellous study of wild accident ; 
 Uncouth proximities of old and new ; 
 And bold transfigurations, more untrue 
 (As might be deemed) to disciplined intent 
 Than aught the sky's fantastic element, 
 When most fantastic, offers to the view. 
 Saw we not Henry scourged at Becket's sbriir i 
 Lo ! John self-stripped of his insignia : — crown, 
 Sceptre and mantle, sword and ring, laid down 
 At a proud Legate's feet ! The spears that line 
 Baronial halls, the opprobrious insult feel ; 
 And angry Ocean roars a vain appeal. 
 
 SCENE IN VENICE. 
 
 Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head, 
 To Caesar's Successor the Pontiff spake ; 
 " Ere I absolve thee, stoop ! that on thy neck 
 " Levelled with earth this foot of mine may tic:) J 
 Then he, who to the altar had been led, 
 He, whose strong arm the Orient could notchec 
 He, who had held the Soldan at his beck, 
 Stooped, of all glory disinherited, 
 And even the common dignity of man ! — 
 Amazement strikes the crowd : while many tan 
 Their eyes away in sorrow, others burn 
 With scorn, invoking a vindictive ban 
 From outraged Nature ; but the sense of most 
 In abject sympathy with power is lost. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 PAPAL DOMINION. 
 
 iiless to Peter's Chair the viewless wind 
 lost come and ask permission when to blow, 
 hat further empire would it have? for now 
 'ghostly Domination, unconfmed 
 j that by dreaming Bards to Love assigned, 
 Is there in sober truth — to raise the low, 
 rplex the wise, the strong to overthrow ; 
 trough earth and heaven to bind and to unbind ! — 
 !;sist— the thunder quails thee ! — crouch — rebuff 
 all be thy recompence ! from land to land 
 
 ie ancient thrones of Christendom are stuff 
 r occupation of a magic wand, 
 Ld 'tis the Pope that wields it : — whether rough 
 smooth his front, our world is in his hand ! 
 
 PART II. 
 
 TO THE CLOSE OF THE TROUBLES IN THE REIGN OF 
 CHARLES I. 
 
 )W soon — alas ! did Man, created pure — 
 Angels guarded, deviate from the hue 
 escribed to duty : — woeful forfeiture 
 ) made by wilful breach of law divine. 
 ith like perverseness did the Church abjure 
 edience to her Lord, and haste to twine, 
 id Heaven-born flowers that shall -for aye eudure, 
 eeds on whose front the world had fixed her sign. 
 Man, — if with thy trials thus it fares, 
 good can smooth the way to evil choice, 
 "om all rash censure be the mind kept free ; 
 3 only judges right who weighs, compares, 
 id, in the sternest sentence which his voice 
 onounces, ne'er abandons Charity. 
 
 om false assumption rose, and fondly hail'd 
 • superstition, spread the Papal power ; 
 it do not deem the Autocracy prevail'd 
 ms only, even in error's darkest hour. [tower 
 e daunts, forth-thundering from her spiritual 
 ■ute rapine, or with gentle lure she tames, 
 stice and Peace through Her uphold their claims ; 
 id Chastity finds many a sheltering bower. 
 ;alm there is none that if controul'd or sway'd 
 ' her commands partakes not, in degree, 
 good, o'er manners arts and arms, diffused : 
 ;s, to thy domination, Roman See, 
 io' miserably, oft monstrously, abused 
 ' blind ambition, be this tribute paid. 
 
 
 CISTERTIAN MONASTERY. 
 
 " Here Man more purely lives, less oft cloth fall, 
 " More promptly rises, walks with stricter heed, 
 "More safely rests, dies happier, is freed 
 " Earlier from cleansing fires, and gains withal 
 "A brighter crown*." — On yon Cistertian wall 
 That confident assurance may be read ; 
 And, to like shelter, from the world have fled 
 Increasing multitudes. The potent call 
 Doubtless shall cheat full oft the heart's desires ; 
 Yet, while the rugged Age on pliant knee 
 Vows to rapt Fancy humble fealty, 
 A gentler life spreads round the holy spires ; 
 Where'er they rise, the sylvan waste retires, 
 And aery harvests crown the fertile lea. 
 
 Deplorable his lot who tills the ground, 
 His whole life long tills it, with heartless toil 
 Of villain-service, passing with the soil 
 To each new Master, like a steer or hound, 
 Or like a rooted tree, or stone earth-bound ; 
 But mark how gladly, through their own domains, 
 The Monks relax or break these iron chains ; 
 While Mercy, uttering, through their voice, a sound 
 Echoed in Heaven, cries out, " Ye Chiefs, abate 
 These legalized oppressions ! Man — whose name 
 And nature God disdained not ; Man — whose soul 
 Christ died for — cannot forfeit his high claim 
 To live and move exempt from all controul 
 Which fellow-feeling doth not mitigate !" 
 
 MONKS AND SCHOOLMEN. 
 
 Record we too, with just and faithful pen, 
 That many hooded Cenobites there are, 
 Who in their private cells have yet a care 
 Of public quiet ; unambitious Men, 
 Counsellors for the world, of piercing ken ; 
 Whose fervent exhortations from afar 
 Move Princes to their duty, peace or war ; 
 And oft-times in the most forbidding den 
 Of solitude, with love of science strong, 
 How patiently the yoke of thought they bear ! 
 How subtly glide its finest threads along ! 
 Spirits that crowd the intellectual sphere 
 With mazy boundaries, as the astronomer 
 With orb and cycle girds the starry throng. 
 
320 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 OTHER BENEFITS. 
 
 And, not in vain embodied to the sight, 
 Religion finds even in the stern retreat 
 Of feudal sway her own appropriate seat ; 
 From the collegiate pomps on Windsor's height 
 Down to the humbler altar, which the Knight 
 And his Retainers of the embattled hall 
 Seek in domestic oratory small, 
 For prayer in stillness, or the chanted rite ; 
 Then chiefly dear, when foes are planted round, 
 Who teach the intrepid guardians of the place — 
 Hourly exposed to death, with famine worn, 
 And suffering under many a perilous wound — 
 How sad would be their durance, if forlorn 
 Of offices dispensing heavenly grace ! 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 And what melodious sounds at times prevail ! 
 And, ever and anon, how bright a gleam 
 Pours on the surface of the turbid Stream ! 
 What heartfelt fragrance mingles with the gale 
 That swells the bosom of our passing sail ! 
 For where, but on this River's margin, blow 
 Those flowers of chivalry, to bind the brow 
 Of hardihood with wreaths that shall not fail ? — 
 Fair Court of Edward ! wonder of the world ! 
 I see a matchless blazonry unfurled 
 Of wisdom, magnanimity, and love ; 
 And meekness tempering honourable pride ; 
 The lamb is couching by the lion's side, 
 And near the flame-eyed eagle sits the dove. 
 
 CRUSADERS. 
 
 Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars 
 Through these bright regions, casting many a glance 
 Upon the dream-like issues — the romance 
 Of many-coloured life that Fortune pours 
 Round the Crusaders, till on distant shores 
 Their labours end ; or they return to he, 
 The vow performed, in cross-legged effigy, 
 Devoutly stretched upon their chancel floors. 
 Am I deceived ? Or is their requiem chanted 
 By voices never mute when Heaven unties 
 Her inmost, softest, tenderest harmonies ; 
 Requiem which Earth takes up with voice undaunted, 
 When she would tell how Brave, and Good, and 
 
 Wise, 
 For their high guerdon not in vain have panted ! 
 
 As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest 
 While from the Papal Unity there came, 
 What feebler means had fail'd to give, one aim 
 Diffused thro' all the regions of the West ; 
 So does her Unity its power attest 
 By works of Art, that shed, on the outward frame 
 Of worship, glory and grace, which who shall blame 
 That ever looked to heaven for final rest ? 
 Hail countless Temples ! that so well befit 
 Your ministry ; that, as ye rise and take 
 Form spirit and character from holy writ, 
 Give to devotion, wheresoe'er awake, 
 Pinions of high and higher sweep, and make 
 The unconverted soul with awe submit. 
 
 Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root 
 In the blest soil of gospel truth, the Tree, 
 (Blighted or scathed tho' many branches be, 
 Put forth to wither, many a hopeful shoot) 
 Can never cease to bear celestial fruit. 
 Witness the Church that oft times, with effect 
 Dear to the saints, strives earnestly to eject 
 Her bane, her vital energies recruit. 
 Lamenting, do not hopelessly repine 
 When such good work is doomed to be undone, 
 The conquests lost that were so hardly won : — 
 All promises vouchsafed by Heaven will shine 
 In light confirmed while years their course shall run 
 Confirmed alike in progress and decline. 
 
 TR A NSU BST ANTI ATI ON. 
 
 Enough ! for see, with dim association 
 The tapers burn ; the odorous incense feeds 
 A greedy flame ; the pompous mass proc: eds ; 
 The Priest bestows the appointed consecration ; 
 And, while the Host is raised, its elevation 
 An awe and supernatural horror breeds ; 
 And all the people bow their heads, hke reeds 
 To a soft breeze, in lowly adoration. 
 This Valdo brooks not. On the banks of Rhone 
 He taught, till persecution chased him thence, 
 To adore the Invisible, and Him alone. 
 Nor are his Followers loth to seek defence, 
 Mid woods and wilds, on Nature's craggy throne, 
 From rites that trample upon soul and sense. 
 
 I 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 321 
 
 THE TAUDOIS. 
 
 3T whence came they who for the Saviour Lord 
 ave long borne witness as the Scriptures teach ? — 
 *es ere Valdo raised his voice to preach 
 Gallic ears the unadulterate Word, 
 leir fugitive Progenitors explored 
 ibalpine vales, in quest of safe retreats 
 ■ here that pure Church survives, though summer 
 
 heats 
 oen a passage to the Romish sword, 
 tr as it dares to follow. Herbs self-sown, 
 :d fruitage gathered from the chesnut wood, 
 jurish the sufferers then ; and mists, that brood 
 er chasms with new-fallen obstacles bestrown, 
 ■otect them ; and the eternal snow that daunts 
 iens, is God's good winter for their haunts. 
 
 liiSEDbethe Rivers, from their mountain springs 
 iouting to Freedom, "Plant thy banners here !" 
 t harassed Piety, " Dismiss thy fear, 
 lid in our caverns smooth thy ruffled wings ! " 
 )r be unthanked their final lingerings — 
 ,.ent, but not to high-souled Passion's ear — 
 Lid reedy fens wide-spread and marshes drear, 
 leir own creation. Such glad welcomings 
 I Po was heard to give where Venice rose 
 >iled from aloft those Heirs of truth divine 
 ho near his fountains sought obscure repose, 
 fet came prepared as glorious lights to shine, 
 jould that be needed for their sacred Charge ; 
 est Prisoners They, whose spirits were at large ! 
 
 WALDENSES. 
 
 iiosE had given earliest notice, as the lark 
 rings from the ground the morn to gratulate ; 
 rather rose the day to antedate, 
 I striking out a solitary spark, [dark. — 
 
 hen all the world with midnight gloom was 
 en followed the Waldensian bands, whom Hate 
 vain endeavours to exterminate, 
 horn Obloquy pursues with hideous bark* : 
 j.t they desist not ;— and the sacred fire, 
 kindled thus, from dens and savage woods 
 j>ves, handed on with never-ceasing care, 
 irough courts, through camps, o'er hmitary floods ; 
 •r lacks this sea-girt Isle a timely share 
 the new Flame, not suffered to expire. 
 
 # See Note. 
 
 ARCHBISHOP CHICHELY TO HENRY V. 
 
 "What beast in wilderness or cultured field 
 
 " The lively beauty of the leopard shows ? 
 
 " What flower in meadow-ground or garden grows 
 
 " That to the towering lily doth not yield ? 
 
 " Let both meet only on thy royal shield ! 
 
 "Go forth, great King! claim what thy birth bestows ; 
 
 "Conquer the Gallic lily winch thy foes 
 
 "Dare to usurp ; — thou hast a sword to wield, 
 
 "And Heaven will crown the right." — The mitred 
 
 Sire 
 Thus spake— and lo ! a Fleet, for Gaul addrest, 
 Ploughs her bold course across the wondering seas ; 
 For, sooth to say, ambition, in the breast 
 Of youthful heroes, is no sullen fire, 
 But one that leaps to meet the fanning breeze. 
 
 WARS OF YORK AND LANCASTER. 
 
 Thus is the storm abated by the craft 
 Of a shrewd Counsellor, eager to protect [checked, 
 The Church, whose power hath recently been 
 Whose monstrous riches threatened. So the shaft 
 Of victory mounts high, and blood is quaffed 
 In fields that rival Cressy and Poictiers — 
 Pride to be washed away by bitter tears ! 
 For deep as hell itself, the avenging draught 
 Of civil slaughter. Yet, while temporal power 
 Is by these shocks exhausted, spiritual truth 
 Maintains the else endangered gift of life ; 
 Proceeds from infancy to lusty youth ; 
 And, under cover of this woeful strife, 
 Gathers unblighted strength from hour to hour. 
 
 WICLIFFE. 
 
 Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear, 
 And at her call is Wicliffe disinhumed : 
 Yea, his dry bones to ashes are consumed 
 And flung into the brook that travels near ; [hear 
 Forthwith, that ancient Voice which Streams can 
 Thus speaks (that Voice which walks upon the wind, 
 Though seldom heard by busy human kind) — 
 " As thou these ashes, little Brook ! wilt bear 
 "Into the Avon, Avon to the tide 
 " Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, 
 " Into main Ocean they, this deed accurst 
 "An emblem yields to friends and enemies 
 "How the bold Teacher's Doctrine, sanctified 
 "By truth, shall spread, throughout the world 
 dispersed." 
 
322 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CORRUPTIONS OF THE HIGHER CLERGY. 
 
 " Woe to you, Prelates ! rioting in ease 
 " And cumbrous wealth — the shame of your estate; 
 " You, on whose progress dazzling trains await 
 " Of pompous horses ; whom vain titles please ; 
 " Who will he served by others on their knees, 
 " Yet will yourselves to God no service pay ; 
 " Pastors who neither take nor point the way 
 " To Heaven ; for, either lost in vanities 
 ." Ye have no skill to teach, or if ye know 
 
 " And speak the word " Alas ! of fearful 
 
 things 
 'Tis the most fearful when the people's eye 
 Abuse hath cleared from vain imaginings ; 
 And taught the general voice to prophesy 
 Of Justice armed, and Pride to be laid low. 
 
 ABUSE OF MONASTIC POWER. 
 
 And what is Penance with her knotted thong ; 
 
 Mortification with the shirt of hair, 
 
 Wan cheek, and knees indurated with prayer, 
 
 Vigils, and fastings rigorous as long ; 
 
 If cloistered Avarice scruple not to wrong 
 
 The pious, humble, useful Secular, 
 
 And rob the people of his daily care, 
 
 Scorning that world whose blindness makes her 
 
 Inversion strange ! that, unto One who lives 
 For self, and struggles with himself alone, 
 The amplest share of heavenly favour gives ; 
 That to a Monk allots, both hi the esteem 
 Of God and man, place higher than to him 
 Who on the good of others builds his own ! 
 
 MONASTIC VOLUPTUOUSNESS. 
 
 Yet more, — round many a Convent's blazing fire 
 Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun ; 
 There Venus sits disguised like a Nun, — 
 While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of a Friar, 
 Pours out his choicest beverage high and higher 
 Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run 
 Over the bowl, whose silver lip hath won 
 An instant kiss of masterful desire — 
 To stay the precious waste. Through every brain 
 The domination of the sprightly juice 
 Spreads high conceits to madding Fancy dear, 
 Till the arched roof, with resolute abuse 
 Of its grave echoes, swells a choral strain, 
 Whose votive burthen is — " Our kingdom 's here !" 
 
 DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES. 
 
 Threats come which no submission may assuage; 
 No sacrifice avert, no power dispute ; 
 The tapers shall be quenched, the belfries mute, 
 And, 'mid their choirs um'oofed by selfish rage, 
 The warbling wren shall find a leafy cage ; 
 The gadding bramble hang her purple fruit ; 
 And the green lizard and the gilded newt 
 Lead unmolested lives, and die of age. 
 The owl of evening and the woodland fox 
 For their abode the shrines of Waltham choose : 
 Proud Glastonbury can no more refuse 
 To stoop her head before these desperate shocks- 
 She whose high pomp displaced, as story teUs, 
 Arimathean Joseph's wattled cells. 
 
 the same subject. 
 
 The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek 
 Through saintly habit than from effort due 
 To unrelenting mandates that pursue 
 With equal wrath the steps of strong and weak) 
 Goes forth — unveiling timidly a cheek 
 Suffused with blushes of celestial hue, 
 While through the Convent's gate to open view 
 Softly she glides, another home to seek. 
 Not Iris, issuing from her cloudy shrine, 
 An Apparition more divinely bright ! 
 Not more attractive to the dazzled sight 
 Those watery glories, on the stormy brine 
 Poured forth, while summer suns at distance shini 
 And the green vales lie hushed in sober light ! 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Yet many a Novice of the cloistral shade, 
 And many chained by vows, with eager glee 
 The warrant hail, exulting to be free ; 
 Like ships before whose keels, full long embaved 
 In polar ice, propitious winds have made 
 Unlooked-for outlet to an open sea, 
 Their liquid world, for bold discovery, 
 In all her quarters temptingly displayed ! 
 Hope guides the young ; but when the old pu| 
 
 pass 
 The threshold, whither shall they turn to fiud 
 The hospitality — the alms (alas ! 
 Alms may be needed) which that House bestowed 
 Can they, in faith and worship, train the mind 
 To keep this new and questionable road ? 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 V e, too, must fly before a chasing hand, 
 Angels and Saints, in every hamlet mourned ! 
 h ! if the old idolatry be spurned, 
 ,et not your radiant Shapes desert the Land : 
 ler adoration was not your demand, 
 •.'he fond heart proffered it — the servile heart ; 
 >in& therefore are ye summoned to depart, 
 i/Kchael, and thou, St. George, whose flaming brand 
 'he Dragon quelled ; and valiant Margaret 
 Vhose rival sword a like Opponent slew : 
 md rapt Cecilia, seraph-haunted Queen 
 )f harmony ; and weeping Magdalene, 
 Vho in the penitential desert met 
 Jales sweet as those that over Eden blew ! 
 
 THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Mother ! whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
 With the least shade of thought to sin allied ; 
 iVoman ! above all women glorified, 
 )ur tainted nature's solitary boast; 
 5 urer than foam on central ocean tost ; 
 brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn 
 ./Vith fancied roses, than the unblemished moon 
 3efore her wane begins on heaven's blue coast ; 
 thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, 
 Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend, 
 A.s to a visible Power, in which did blend 
 ill that was mixed and reconciled in Thee 
 Of mother's love with maiden purity, 
 )f high with low, celestial with terrene ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 "f ot utterly unworthy to endure 
 ..Vas the supremacy of crafty Rome ; 
 lige after age to the arch of Christendom 
 Serial keystone haughtily secure ; 
 Supremacy from Heaven transmitted pure, 
 Is many hold; and, therefore, to the tomb 
 .^assjsome through fire— and by the scaffold some- 
 -iike saintly Fisher, and unbending More. 
 i Lightly for both the bosom's lord did sit 
 ! Upon his throne ; ' unsoftened, undismayed 
 Py aught that mingled with the tragic scene 
 pf pity or fear; and More's gay genius played 
 IvVith the inoffensive sword of native wit, 
 ,rhan the bare axe more luminous and keen. 
 
 IMAGINATIVE REGRETS. 
 
 Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone 
 From Sages justly honoured by mankind; 
 But from the ghostly tenants of the wind, 
 Demons and Spirits, many a dolorous groan 
 Issues for that dominion overthrown : 
 Proud Tiber grieves, and far-off Ganges, blind 
 As his own worshippers : and Nile, reclined 
 Upon his monstrous urn, the farewell moan 
 Renews. Through every forest, cave, and den, 
 Where frauds were hatched of old, hath sorrow 
 
 past — 
 Hangs o'er the Arabian Prophet's native Waste, 
 Where once his airy helpers schemed and planned 
 Mid spectral lakes bemocking thirsty men, 
 And stalking pillars built of fiery sand. 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane 
 Green leaves with yellow mixed are torn away, 
 And goodly fruitage with the mother spray ; 
 'Twere madness — wished we, therefore, to detain, 
 With hands stretched forth in mollified disdain, 
 The ' trumpery' that ascends in bare display — 
 Bulls, pardons, relics, cowls black, white, and grey — 
 Upwhirled, and flying o'er the ethereal plain 
 Fast bound for Limbo Lake. And yet not choice 
 But habit rules the unreflecting herd, 
 And airy bonds are hardest to disown ; 
 Hence, with the spiritual sovereignty transferred 
 Unto itself, the Crown assumes a voice 
 Of reckless mastery, hitherto unknown. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, 
 
 In dusty sequestration wrapt too long, 
 
 Assumes the accents of our native tongue ; 
 
 And he who guides the plough, or wields the crook, 
 
 With understanding spirit now may look 
 
 Upon her records, listen to her song, 
 
 And sift her laws — much wondering that the wrong, 
 
 Which Faith has suffered, Heaven could calmly 
 
 brook. 
 
 Transcendent boon ! noblest that earthly King 
 
 Ever bestowed to equalize and bless 
 
 Under the weight of mortal wretchedness ! 
 
 But passions spread like plagues, and thousands wild 
 
 With bigotry shall tread the Offering 
 
 Beneath their feet, detested and defiled. 
 y 2 
 
324 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 THE POINT AT ISSUE, 
 
 For what contend the wise ? — for nothing less 
 
 Than that the Soul, freed from the bonds of Sense, 
 
 And to her God restored by evidence 
 
 Of things not seen, drawn forth from their recess, 
 
 Root there, and not in forms, her holiness ; — ■ 
 
 For Faith, which to the Patriarchs did dispense 
 
 Sure guidance, ere a ceremonial fence 
 
 Was needful round men thirsting to transgress ; — 
 
 For Faith, more perfect still, with which the Lord 
 
 Of all, himself a Spirit, in the youth 
 
 Of Christian aspiration, deigned to fill 
 
 The temples of their hearts who, with his word 
 
 Informed, were resolute to do his will, 
 
 And worship him in spirit and in truth. 
 
 EDWARD VI. 
 
 ' Sweet is the holiness of Youth' — so felt 
 
 Time-honoured Chaucer speaking through that Lay 
 
 By which the Prioress beguiled the way, 
 
 And many a Pilgrim's rugged heart did melt. 
 
 Hadst thou, loved Bard ! whose spirit often dwelt 
 
 In the clear land of vision, but foreseen 
 
 King, child, and seraph, blended in the mien 
 
 Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt 
 
 In meek and simple infancy, what joy 
 
 For universal Christendom had thrilled 
 
 Thy heart ! what hopes inspired thy genius, skilled 
 
 (0 great Precursor, genuine morning Star) 
 
 The lucid shafts of reason to employ, 
 
 Piercing the Papal darkness from afar ! 
 
 EDWARD SIGNING THE WARRANT FOR THE 
 EXECUTION OF JOAN OF KENT. 
 
 The tears of man in various measure gush 
 
 From various sources ; gently overflow 
 
 From blissful transport some — from clefts of woe 
 
 Some with ungovernable impulse rush ; 
 
 And some, coeval with the earliest blush 
 
 Of infant passion, scarcely dare to show 
 
 Their pearly lustre — coming but to go ; 
 
 And some break forth when others' sorrows crush 
 
 The sympathising heart. Nor these, nor yet 
 
 The noblest drops to admiration known, 
 
 To gratitude, to injuries forgiven — 
 
 Claim Heaven's regard like waters that have wet 
 
 The innocent eyes of youthful Monarchs driven 
 
 To pen the mandates, nature doth disown. 
 
 REVIVAL OF POPERT. 
 
 The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, discrowned 
 
 By unrelenting Death. People keen 
 
 For change, to whom the new looks always green ! 
 
 Rejoicing did they cast upon the ground 
 
 Then.' G ods of wood and stone ; and, at the sound 
 
 Of counter-proclamation, now are seen, 
 
 (Proud triumph is it for a sullen Queen !) 
 
 Lifting them up, the worship to confound 
 
 Of the Most High. Again do they invoke 
 
 The Creature, to the Creature glory give ; 
 
 Again with frankincense the altars smoke 
 
 Like those the Heathen served ; and mass is sung ; 
 
 And prayer, man's rational prerogative, 
 
 Runs through blind channels of an unknown tongue. 
 
 LATIMER AND RIDLEY. 
 
 How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled ! 
 
 See Latimer and Ridley in the might 
 
 Of Faith stand coupled for a common flight ! 
 
 One (like those prophets whom God sent of old) 
 
 Transfigured *, from this kindling hath foretold 
 
 A torch of inextinguishable light ; 
 
 The Other gains a confidence as bold ; 
 
 And thus they foil their enemy's despite. 
 
 The penal instruments, the shows of crime, 
 
 Are glorified while this once-mitred pair 
 
 Of saintly Friends the ' murtherer's chain partake 
 
 Corded, and burning at the social stake:' 
 
 Earth never witnessed object more sublime 
 
 In constancy, in fellowship more fair ! 
 
 Outstretching flame-ward his upbraided hand 
 (0 God of mercy, may no earthly Seat 
 Of judgment such presumptuous doom repeat !) 
 Amid the shuddering throng doth Cranmer stand 
 Firm as the stake to which with iron band 
 His frame is tied ; firm from the naked feet 
 To the bare head. The victory is complete ; 
 The shrouded Body to the Soul's command 
 Answers with more than Indian fortitude, 
 Through all her nerves with finer sense endued, 
 Till breath departs in blissful aspiration : 
 Then, 'mid the ghastly ruins of the fire, 
 Behold the unalterable heart entire, 
 Emblem of faith untouched, miraculous attesi 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 1 For the belief in this fact, see the contemporary Hu 
 torians. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 825 
 
 GENERAL VIEW OF THE TROUBLES OF THE 
 REFORMATION. 
 
 lid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light, 
 •ur mortal ken ! Inspire a perfect trust 
 While we look round) that Heaven's decrees are 
 ^liich few can hold committed to a fight [just : 
 hat shows, ev'n on its better side, the might 
 If proud Self-will, Rapacity, and Lust, 
 did clouds enveloped of polemic dust, 
 1 i^hich showers of blood seem rather to incite 
 han to allay. Anathemas are hurled 
 rom both sides ; veteran thunders (the brute test 
 •f truth) are met by fulminations new — 
 artarean flags are caught at, and unfurled — 
 riends strike at friends — the flying shall pursue — 
 nd Victory sickens, ignorant where to rest ! 
 
 ENGLISH REFORMERS IN EXILE. 
 
 cattering, like birds escaped the fowler's net, 
 ome seek with timely flight a foreign strand ; 
 tost happy, re-assembled in a land 
 W dauntless Luther freed, could they forget 
 heir Country's woes. But scarcely have they met, 
 ;artners in faith, and brothers in distress, 
 ree to pour forth their common thankfulness, 
 re hope declines : — their union is beset 
 
 ith speculative notions rashly sown, 
 
 hence thickly-sprouting growth of poisonous 
 weeds ; 
 
 eir forms are broken staves ; their passions, 
 
 at master them. How enviably blest [steeds 
 '•> he who can, by help of grace, enthrone 
 he peace of God within his single breast ! 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 ail, Virgin Queen ! o'er many an envious bar 
 riumphant, snatched from many a treacherous 
 11 hail, sage Lady, whom a grateful Isle [wile ! 
 ath blest, respiring from that dismal war 
 illed by thy voice ! But quickly from afar 
 efiance breathes with more malignant aim ; 
 nd alien storms with home-bred ferments claim 
 ortentous fellowship. Her silver car, 
 y sleepless prudence ruled, glides slowly on ; 
 |Uhurt by violence, from menaced taint 
 jtnerging pure, and seemingly more bright : 
 ih ! wherefore yields it to a foul constraint 
 1 Jack as the clouds its beams dispersed, while shone, 
 y men and angels blest, the glorious light 2 
 
 EMINENT REFORMERS. 
 
 Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, 
 Light as a buoyant bark from wave to wave, 
 Were mine the trusty staff that Jewel gave 
 To youthful Hooker, in familiar style 
 The gift exalting, and with playful smile * : 
 For thus equipped, and bearing on his head 
 The Donor's farewell blessing, can he dread 
 Tempest, or length of way, or weight of toil ? — 
 More sweet than odours caught by him who sails 
 Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, 
 A thousand times more exquisitely sweet, 
 The freight of holy feeling which we meet, 
 In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales 
 From fields where good men walk, or bowers 
 wherein they rest. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are, 
 
 Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise, 
 
 With what entire affection do they prize [care 
 
 Their Church reformed ! labouring with earnest 
 
 To baffle all that may her strength impair ; 
 
 That Church, the unperverted Gospel's seat ; 
 
 In their afflictions a divine retreat ; [prayer ! — 
 
 Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest 
 
 The truth exploring with an equal mind, 
 
 In doctrine and communion they have sought 
 
 Firmly between the two extremes to steer ; 
 
 But theirs the wise man's ordinary lot, 
 
 To trace right courses for the stubborn blind, 
 
 And prophesy to ears that will not hear. 
 
 DISTRACTIONS. 
 
 Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy 
 Their forefathers ; lo ! sects are formed, and split 
 With morbid restlessness ; — the ecstatic fit 
 Spreads wide ; though special mysteries multiply, 
 The Saints must govern, is their common cry ; 
 And so they labour, deeming Holy Writ 
 Disgraced by aught that seems content to sit 
 Beneath the roof of settled Modesty. 
 The Romanist exults ; fresh hope he draws 
 From the confusion, craftily incites 
 The overweening, personates the mad- 
 To heap disgust upon the worthier Cause : 
 Totters the Throne ; the new-born Church is sad 
 For every wave against her peace unites. 
 
52 G 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 GUNPOWDER PLOT. 
 
 Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree 
 
 To plague her heating heart ; and there is one 
 
 (Nor idlest that !) which holds communion 
 
 With things that were not, yet were meant to be. 
 
 Aghast within its gloomy cavity 
 
 That eye (which sees as if fulfilled and done 
 
 Crimes that might stop the motion of the sun) 
 
 Beholds the horrible catastrophe 
 
 Of an assembled Senate unredeemed 
 
 From subterraneous Treason's darkling power : 
 
 Merciless act of sorrow infinite ! 
 
 Worse than the product of that dismal night, 
 
 When gushing, copious as a thunder-shower, 
 
 The blood of Huguenots through Paris streamed. 
 
 ILLUSTRATION. 
 
 THE JUNG-FRAU AND THE PALL OF THE RHINE NEAR 
 SCHAFFHAOSEN. 
 
 The Virgin Mountain *, wearing like a Queen 
 
 A brilliant crown of everlasting snow, 
 
 Sheds ruin from her sides ; and men below 
 
 Wonder that aught of aspect so serene 
 
 Can link with desolation. Smooth and green, 
 
 And seeming, at a little distance, slow, 
 
 The waters of the Rhine ; but on they go 
 
 Fretting and whitening, keener and more keen ; 
 
 Till madness seizes on the whole wide Flood, 
 
 Turned to a fearful Thing whose nostrils breathe 
 
 Blasts of tempestuous smoke — wherewith he tries. 
 
 To hide himself, but only magnifies ; 
 
 And doth in more conspicuous torment writhe, 
 
 Deafening the region in his ireful mood. 
 
 TROUBLES OF CHARLES THE FIRST. 
 
 Even such the contrast that, where'er we move, 
 To the mind's eye Religion doth present ; 
 Now with her own deep quietness content ; 
 Then, like the mountain, thundering from above 
 Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove 
 And the Land's humblest comforts. Now her 
 Recals the transformation of the flood, [mood 
 
 Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove, 
 Earth cannot check. terrible excess 
 Of headstrong will ! Can this be Piety ? 
 No — some fierce Maniac hath usurped her name ; 
 And scourges England struggling to be free : 
 Her peace destroyed ! her hopes a wilderness ! 
 Her blessings cursed— her glory turned to shame! 
 
 * The Jung-frau. 
 
 XLV. 
 LAUD *. 
 
 Prejudged by foes determined not to spare, 
 An old weak Man for vengeance thrown aside, 
 Laud, • in the painful art of dying ' tried, 
 (Like a poor bird entangled in a snare 
 Whose heart still flutters, though his wings forbear 
 To stir in useless struggle) hath relied 
 On hope that conscious innocence supplied, 
 And in. his prison breathes celestial air. 
 Why tarries then thy chariot ? Wherefore staff, 
 Death ! the ensanguined yet triumphant wheeis 
 Which thou prepar'st, full often, to convey 
 (What time a State with madding faction reels) 
 The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals 
 All wounds, all perturbations doth allay ? 
 
 AFFLICTIONS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Harp ! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string 
 The faintest note to echo which the blast 
 Caught from the hand of Moses as it pass'd 
 O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd-king, 
 Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing 
 Of dread Jehovah ; then, should wood and waste 
 Hear also of that name, and mercy cast 
 Off to the mountains, like a covering 
 Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, oh ! wee 
 Weep with the good, beholding King and Priest 
 Despised by that stern God to whom they raise 
 Their suppliant hands ; but holy is the feast 
 He keepeth ; like the firmament his ways : 
 His statutes like the chambers of the deep. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE PRESENT TIMB. 
 I. 
 
 I saw the figure of a lovely Maid 
 Seated alone beneath a darksome tree, 
 Whose fondly-overhanging canopy 
 Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade. 
 No Spirit was she ; that my heart betrayed, 
 For she was one I loved exceedingly ; 
 But while I gazed in tender reverie 
 (Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played ?) 
 The bright corporeal presence — form and face- 
 Remaining still distinct grew thin and rare, 
 Like sunny mist ; — at length the golden hair, 
 Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keeping p*C 
 Each with the other in a fingering race 
 Of dissolution, melted into air. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 327 
 
 PATRIOTIC SYMPATHIES. 
 
 Last night, without a voice, that Vision spake 
 
 Fear to my Soul, and sadness which might seem 
 
 Wholly dissevered from our present theme ; 
 
 Yet, my beloved Country ! I partake 
 
 Of kindred agitations for thy sake ; 
 
 Thou, too, dost visit oft my midnight dream ; 
 
 ,Thy glory meets me with the earliest beam 
 
 Of light, which tells that Morning is awake. 
 
 If aught impair thy beauty or destroy, 
 
 Or but forebode destruction, I deplore 
 
 With filial love the sad vicissitude ; 
 
 If thou hast fallen, and righteous Heaven restore 
 
 The prostrate, then my spring-time is renewed, 
 
 And sorrow bartered for exceeding joy. 
 
 CHARLES THE SECOND. 
 
 Who comes — with rapture greeted, and caress'd 
 
 I With frantic love — his kingdom to regain? 
 
 Him Virtue's Nurse, Adversity, in vain 
 
 Received, and fostered in her iron breast : 
 
 For all she taught of hardiest and of best, 
 
 Or would have taught, by discipline of pain 
 
 And long privation, now dissolves amain, 
 
 Or is remembered only to give zest 
 
 To wantonness. — Away, Circean revels ! 
 
 iBut for what gain ? if England soon must sink 
 
 Into a gulf which all distinction levels — 
 
 That bigotry may swallow the good name, 
 
 And, with that draught, the life-blood : misery, 
 
 ! shame, 
 
 By Poets loathed ; from which Historians shrink ! 
 
 LA TITUDINARI ANISM. 
 
 Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind 
 Charged with rich words poured out in thought's 
 
 i defence ; 
 
 Whether the Church inspire that eloquence, 
 
 ' Or a Platonic Piety confined 
 To the sole temple of the inward mind ; 
 And One there is who builds immortal lays, 
 Though doomed to tread in solitary ways, 
 Darkness before and danger's voice behind ; 
 
 i Yet not alone, nor helpless to repel 
 
 ! Sad thoughts ; for from above the starry sphere 
 
 ; Come secrets, whispered nightly to his ear ; 
 And the pure spirit of celestial light 
 Shines through his soul — 'that he may see and tell 
 
 ■ Of things invisible to mortal sight.' 
 
 walton's book of lives. 
 There are no colours in the fairest sky 
 So fair as these. The feather, whence the pen 
 Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, 
 Dropped from an Angel's wing. With moistened eye 
 We read of faith and purest charity 
 In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen : 
 O could we copy their mild virtues, then 
 What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! 
 Methinks their very names shine still and bright : 
 Apart — like glow-worms on a summer night ; 
 Or lonely tapers when from far they fling 
 A guiding ray ; or seen — like stars on high, 
 Satellites burning in a lucid ring 
 Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 
 
 CLERICAL INTEGRITY. 
 
 Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject 
 Those Unconforming ; whom one rigorous day 
 Drives from their Cures, a voluntary prey 
 To poverty, and grief, and disrespect, 
 And some to want — as if by tempests wrecked 
 On a wild coast ; how destitute ! did They 
 Feel not that Conscience never can betray, 
 That peace of mind is Virtue's sure effect. 
 Their altars they forego, their homes they quit, 
 Fields which they love, and paths they daily trod, 
 And cast the future upon Providence ; 
 As men the dictate of whose inward sense 
 Outweighs the world ; whom self-deceiving wit 
 Lures not from what they deem the cause of God. 
 
 PERSECUTION OF THE SCOTTISH COVENANTERS. 
 
 When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry, 
 
 The majesty of England interposed [closed ; 
 
 And the sword stopped ; the bleeding wounds were 
 
 And Faith preserved her ancient purity. 
 
 How little boots that precedent of goodj 
 
 Scorned or forgotten, Thou canst testify, 
 
 For England's shame, Sister Realm ! from wood, 
 
 Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, where lie 
 
 The headless martyrs of the Covenant, 
 
 Slain by Compatriot-protestants that draw 
 
 From councils senseless as intolerant 
 
 Their warrant. Bodies fall by wild sword-law ; 
 
 But who would force the Soul, tilts with a straw 
 
 Against a Champion cased in adamant. 
 
328 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 ACQUITTAL OF THE BISHOPS. 
 
 A voice, from long-expecting thousands sent, 
 
 Shatters the air, and troubles tower and spire ; 
 
 For Justice hath absolved the innocent, 
 
 And Tyranny is balked of her desire : 
 
 Up, down, the busy Thames — rapid as fire 
 
 Coursing a train of gunpowder — it went, 
 
 And transport finds in every street a vent, 
 
 Till the whole City rings like one vast quire. 
 
 The Fathers urge the People to be still, [vain ! 
 
 With outstretched hands and earnest speech — in 
 
 Yea, many, haply wont to entertain 
 
 Small reverence for the mitre's offices, 
 
 And to Religion's self no friendly will, 
 
 A Prelate's blessing ask on bended knees. 
 
 WILLIAM THE THIRD. 
 
 Calm as an under- current, strong to draw 
 
 Millions of waves into itself, and run, 
 
 From sea to sea, impervious to the sun 
 
 And ploughing storm, the spirit of Nassau 
 
 Swerves not, (how blest if by religious awe 
 
 Swayed, and thereby enabled to contend 
 
 With the wide world's commotions) from its end 
 
 Swerves not — diverted by a casual law. 
 
 Had mortal action e'er a nobler scope? 
 
 The Hero comes to liberate, not defy ; 
 
 And, while he marches on with stedfast hope, 
 
 Conqueror beloved ! expected anxiously ! 
 
 The vacillating Bondman of the Pope 
 
 Shrinks from the verdict of his stedfast eye. 
 
 OBLIGATIONS OF CIVIL TO RELIGIOUS LIBERTY. 
 
 Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget 
 
 The sons who for thy civil rights have bled ! 
 
 How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head, 
 
 And RussePs milder blood the scaffold wet ; 
 
 But these had fallen for profitless regret 
 
 Had not thy holy Church her champions bred, 
 
 And claims from other worlds inspirited 
 
 The star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet 
 
 (Grave this within thy heart !) if spiritual things 
 
 Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear, 
 
 Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support, 
 
 However hardly won or justly dear : 
 
 What came from heaven to heaven by nature clings, 
 
 And, if dissevered thence, its course is short. 
 
 sacheverel. 
 
 A sudden conflict rises from the swell 
 Of a proud slavery met by tenets strained 
 In Liberty's behalf. Fears, true or feigned, 
 Spread through all ranks ; and lo ! the Sentiuel 
 Who loudest rang his pulpit 'larum bell, 
 Stands at the Bar, absolved by female eyes 
 Mingling their glances with grave flatteries 
 Lavished on Him — that England may rebel 
 Against her ancient virtue. High and Low, 
 Watch- words of Party, on all tongues are rife ; 
 As if a Church, though sprung from heaven, must 
 To opposites and fierce extremes her life, — [owe 
 Not to the golden mean, and quiet flow 
 Of truths that soften hatred, temper strife 
 
 Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design 
 Have we pursued, with livelier stir of heart 
 Than his who sees, borne forward by the Rhine, 
 The living landscapes greet him, and depart ; 
 Sees spires fast sinking— up again to start ! 
 And strives the towers to number, that recline 
 O'er the dark steeps, or on the horizon line 
 Striding with shattered crests his eye athwart. 
 So have we hurried on with troubled pleasure : 
 Henceforth, as on the bosom of a stream 
 That slackens, and spreads wide a watery gleam, 
 We, nothing loth a lingering course to measure, 
 May gather up our thoughts, and mark at leisure 
 How widely spread the interests of our theme. 
 
 ASPECTS OF CHRISTIANITY IN AMERICA. 
 I. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 Well worthy to be magnified are they 
 Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took 
 A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook, 
 And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay ; 
 Then to the new-found World explored their way, 
 That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook 
 Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook 
 Her Lord might worship and his word obey 
 In freedom. Men they were who could not bend ; 
 Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide 
 A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified ; 
 Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend 
 Along a Galaxy that knows no end, 
 But in His glory who for Sinners died. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 329 
 
 II. CONTINUED. 
 
 'rom Rite and Ordinance abused they fled 
 o Wilds where both were utterly unknown ; 
 ut not to them had Providence foreshown 
 hat benefits are missed, what evils bred, 
 worship neither raised nor limited 
 .Save by Self-will. Lo ! from that distant shore, 
 'or Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led 
 Sack to the Land those Pilgrims left of yore, 
 «d by her own free choice. So Truth and Love 
 y Conscience governed do their steps retrace. — 
 'athers ! your Virtues, such the power of grace, 
 'heir spirit, in your Children, thus approve, 
 'ranscendent over time, unbound by place, 
 loncord and Charity in circles move. 
 
 III. CONCLUDED. AMERICAN EPISCOPACY. 
 
 Patriots informed with Apostolic light 
 
 Vere they, who, when their Country had been freed, 
 
 Sowing with reverence to the ancient creed, 
 
 'ixed on the frame of England's Church their eight, 
 
 md strove in filial love to reunite 
 
 Vhat force had severed. Thence they fetched the 
 
 seed 
 >f Christian unity, and won a meed 
 tf praise from Heaven. To Thee, saintly White, 
 'atriarch of a wide-spreading family, 
 temotest lands and unborn times shall turn, 
 Whether they would restore or build — to Thee, 
 s one who rightly taught how zeal should burn, 
 is one who drew from out Faith's holiest urn 
 .'he purest stream of patient Energy. 
 
 3ishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep 
 As yours above all offices is high) 
 )eep in your hearts the sense of duty lie ; 
 ,'harged as ye are by Christ to feed and keep 
 rom wolves your portion of his chosen sheep : 
 labouring as ever in your Master's sight, 
 laking your hardest task your best delight, 
 Vhat perfect glory ye in Heaven shall reap ! — 
 jiut, in the solemn Office which ye sought 
 jlnd undertook premonished, if unsound 
 ifour practice prove, faithless though but in thought, 
 3ishops and Priests, think what a gulf profound 
 A waits you then, if they were rightly taught 
 jVho framed the Ordinance by your lives disowned ! 
 
 PLACES OF WORSHIP. 
 
 As star that shines dependent upon star 
 
 Is to the sky while we look up in love ; 
 
 As to the deep fair ships which though they move 
 
 Seem fixed, to eyes that watch them from afar ; 
 
 As to the sandy desert fountains are, 
 
 With palm-groves shaded at wide intervals, 
 
 Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native falls 
 
 Of roving tired or desultory war — 
 
 Such to this British Isle her christian Fanes, 
 
 Each linked to each for kindred services ; 
 
 Her Spires, her Steeple-towers with glittering vanes 
 
 Far-kenned, her Chapels lurking among trees, 
 
 Where a few villagers on bended knees 
 
 Find solace which a busy world disdains. 
 
 PASTORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 A genial hearth, a hospitable board, 
 
 And a refined rusticity, belong 
 
 To the neat mansion, where, his flock among, 
 
 The learned Pastor dwells, their watchful Lord. 
 
 Though meek and patient as a sheathed sword; 
 
 Though pride's least lurking thought appear a 
 
 wrong 
 To human kind ; though peace be on his tongue, 
 Gentleness in his heart — can earth afford 
 Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free, 
 As when, arrayed in Christ's authority, 
 He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand ; 
 Conjures, implores, and labours all he can 
 For re-subjecting to divine command 
 The stubborn spirit of rebellious man ? 
 
 THE LITURGY. 
 
 Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear 
 Attract us still, and passionate exercise 
 Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies 
 Distinct with signs, through which in set career, 
 As through a zodiac, moves the ritual year 
 Of England's Church ; stupendous mysteries ! 
 Which whoso travels in her bosom eyes, 
 As he approaches them, with solemn cheer. 
 Upon that circle traced from sacred story 
 We only dare to cast a transient glance, 
 Trusting in hope that Others may advance 
 With mind intent upon the King of Glory, 
 From his mild advent till his countenance 
 Shall dissipate the seas and mountains hoary. 
 
330 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Dear be the Church, that, watching o'er the needs 
 Of Infancy, provides a timely shower 
 Whose virtue changes to a christian Flower 
 A Growth from sinful Nature's bed of weeds ! — 
 Fitliest beneath the sacred roof proceeds 
 The ministration ; while parental Love 
 Looks on, and Grace descendeth from above 
 As the high service pledges now, now pleads. 
 There, should vain thoughts outspread their wings 
 To meet the coming hours of festal mirth, [and fly 
 The tombs— which hear and answer that brief cry, 
 The Infant's notice of his second birth — 
 Recal the wandering Soul to sympathy 
 With what man hopes from Heaven, yet fears from 
 Earth. 
 
 Father ! to God himself we cannot give 
 A holier name ! then lightly do not bear 
 Both names conjoined, but of thy spiritual care 
 Be duly mindful : still more sensitive 
 Do Thou, in truth a second Mother, strive 
 Against disheartening custom, that by Thee 
 Watched, and with love and pious industry 
 Tended at need, the adopted Plant may thrive 
 For everlasting bloom. Benign and pure 
 This Ordinance, whether loss it would supply, 
 Prevent omission, help deficiency, 
 Or seek to make assurance doubly sure. 
 Shame if the consecrated Vow be found 
 An idle form, the Word an empty sound ! 
 
 CATECHISING. 
 
 From Little down to Least, in due degree, 
 Around the Pastor, each in new- wrought vest, 
 Each with a vernal posy at his breast, 
 We stood, a trembling, earnest Company ! 
 With low soft murmur, like a distant bee, 
 Some spake, by thought-perplexing fears betrayed ; 
 And some a bold unerring answer made : 
 How fluttered then thy anxious heart for me, 
 Beloved Mother ! Thou whose happy hand 
 Had bound the flowers I wore, with faithful tie : 
 Sweet flowers ! at whose inaudible command 
 Her countenance, phantom-like, doth re-appear : 
 lost too early for the frequent tear, 
 And ill requited by this heartfelt sigh ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 CONFIRMATION. 
 
 The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale, 
 With holiday delight on every brow : 
 'Tis passed away ; far other thoughts prevail ; 
 For they are taking the baptismal Vow 
 Upon their conscious selves ; then* own lips spec 
 The solemn promise. Strongest sinews fail, 
 And many a blooming, many a lovely, cheek 
 Under the holy fear of God turns pale ; 
 While on each head his lawn-robed Servant lays 
 An apostolic hand, and with prayer seals 
 The Covenant. The Omnipotent will raise 
 Their feeble Souls ; and bear with Ms regrets, 
 Who, looking round the fair assemblage, feels 
 That ere the Sun goes down their childhood seu 
 
 CONFIRMATION CONTINUED. 
 
 I saw a Mother's eye intensely bent 
 Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt ; 
 In and for whom the pious Mother felt 
 Things that we judge of by a light too faiut: 
 Tell, if ye may, some star-crowned Muse, or Itiu 
 Tell what rushed in, from what she was relieved 
 Then, when her Child the hallowing touch reeeivi 
 And such vibration through the Mother went 
 That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams appea 
 Opened a vision of that blissful place 
 Where dwells a Sister-child \ And was power giv 
 Part of her lost One's glory back to trace 
 Even to this Rite ? For thus She knelt, and, or 
 The summer-leaf had faded, passed to Heaven 
 
 SACRAMENT. 
 
 By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied : 
 One duty more, last stage of this ascent, 
 Brings to thy food, mysterious Sacrament ! 
 The Offspring, haply at the Parent's side ; 
 But not till They, with all that do abide 
 In Heaven, have lifted up their hearts to laud 
 And magnify the glorious name of God, 
 Fountain of grace, whose Son for sinners died. 
 Ye, who have duly weighed the summons, {BUS 
 No longer ; ye, whom to the saving rite 
 The Altar calls ; come early under laws 
 That can secure for you a path of fight 
 Through gloomiest shade j put on (nor dread 
 
 weight) 
 Armour divine, and conquer in your cause ! 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 331 
 
 THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY. 
 
 he Vested Priest before the Altar stands ; 
 pproach, come gladly, ye prepared, in sight 
 ,f God and chosen friends, your troth to plight 
 'ith the symbolic ring, and willing hands 
 >lenmly joined. Now sanctify the bands 
 
 Father ! — to the Espoused thy blessing give, 
 !hat mutually assisted they may live 
 bedient, as here taught, to thy commands. 
 ) prays the Church, to consecrate a Vow 
 The which would endless matrimony make ; " 
 nion that shadows forth and doth partake 
 
 mystery potent human love to endow [sake ; 
 7ith heavenly, each more prized for the other's 
 T eep not, meek Bride ! uplift thy timid brow. 
 
 ! THANKSGIVING AFTER CHILDBIRTH, 
 
 f oman ! the Power who left his throne on high, 
 nd deigned to wear the robe of flesh we wear, 
 lie Power that thro' the straits of Infancy 
 iid pass dependant on maternal care, 
 is own humanity with Thee will share, 
 leased with the thanks that in his People's eye 
 hou offerest up for safe Delivery 
 rom Childbirth's perilous throes. And should 
 
 the Heir 
 f thy fond hopes hereafter walk inclined 
 o courses fit to make a mother rue 
 hat ever he was born, a glance of mind 
 ast upon this observance may renew 
 better will ; and, in the imagined view 
 if thee thus kneeling, safety he may find. 
 
 VISITATION OF THE SICK. 
 
 he Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal ; 
 /lad music ! yet there be that, worn with pain 
 ■ nd sickness, listen where they long have lain, 
 b sadness listen. With maternal zeal 
 aspired, the Church sends ministers to kneel 
 '■eside the afflicted ; to sustain with prayer, 
 •nd soothe the heart confession hath laid bare— 
 'hat pardon, from God's throne, may set its seal 
 >n a true Penitent. When breath departs 
 iVom one disburthened so, so comforted, 
 jlis Spirit Angels greet ; and ours be hope 
 hat, if the Sufferer rise from his sick-bed, 
 lence he will gain a firmer mind, to cope 
 Vith a bad world, and foil the Tempter's arte. 
 
 THE COMMINATION SERVICE. 
 
 Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred, 
 
 By some of unreflecting mind, as calling 
 
 Man to curse man, (thought monstrous and 
 
 appalling.) 
 Go thou and hear the threatenings of the Lord; 
 Listening within his Temple see his sword 
 Unsheathed in wrath to strike the offender's head, 
 Thy own, if sorrow for thy sin be dead, 
 Guilt unrepented, pardon unimplored. 
 Two aspects bears Truth needful for salvation ; 
 Who knows not that 1 ? — yet would this delicate age 
 Look only on the Gospel's brighter page : 
 Let light and dark duly our thoughts employ ; 
 So shall the fearful words of Commination 
 Yield timely fruit of peace and love and joy. 
 
 FORMS OF PRATER AT SEA. 
 
 To kneeling Worshippers no earthly floor 
 Gives holier invitation than the deck 
 Of a storm-shattered Vessel saved from Wreck 
 (When all that Man could do avail'd no more) 
 By him who raised the Tempest and restrains : 
 Happy the crew who this have felt, and pour 
 Forth for his mercy, as the Church ordains, 
 Solemn thanksgiving. Nor will they implore 
 In vain who, for a rightful cause, give breath 
 To words the Church prescribes aiding the lip 
 For the heart's sake, ere ship with hostile ship 
 Encounters, armed for work of pain and death. 
 Suppliants ! the God to whom your cause ye trust 
 Will listen, and ye know that He is just. 
 
 FUNERAL SERVICE. 
 
 From the Baptismal hour, thro' weal and woe, 
 The Church extends her care to thought and deed; 
 Nor quits the Body when the Soul is freed, 
 The mortal weight cast off to be laid low. 
 Blest Rite for him who hears in faith, " I know 
 That my Redeemer liveth," — hears each word 
 That follows — striking on some kindred chord 
 Deep in the thankful heart ; — yet tears will flow. 
 Man is as grass that springeth up at morn, 
 Grows green, and is cut down and withereth 
 Ere nightfall — truth that well may claim a sigh, 
 Its natural echo ; but hope comes reborn 
 At Jesu's bidding. We rejoice, " Death 
 Where is thy Sting ? — Grave where is thy Vic- 
 tory ? " 
 
332 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 RURAL CEREMONY*. 
 
 Closing the sacred Book which long has fed 
 
 Our meditations, give we to a day 
 
 Of annual joy one tributary lay ; 
 
 This day, when, forth by rustic music led, 
 
 The village Children, while the sky is red 
 
 With evening lights, advance in long array [gay, 
 
 Through the still church-yard, each with garland 
 
 That, carried sceptre-like, o'ertops the head 
 
 Of the proud Bearer. To the wide church-door, 
 
 Charged with these offerings which their fathers bore 
 
 For decoration in the Papal time, 
 
 The innocent Procession softly moves : — 
 
 The spirit of Laud is pleased in heaven's pure clime, 
 
 And Hooker's voice the spectacle approves ! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 REGRETS. 
 
 Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave 
 Less scanty measure of those graceful rites 
 And usages, whose due return invites 
 A stir of mind too natural to deceive ; 
 Giving to Memory help when she would weave 
 A crown for Hope !— I dread the boasted lights 
 That all too often are but fiery blights, 
 Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve. 
 Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring, 
 The counter Spirit found in some gay church 
 Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch 
 In which the linnet or the thrush might sing, 
 Merry and loud and safe from prying search, 
 Strains offered only to the genial Spi*ing. 
 
 MUTABILITY. 
 
 From low to high doth dissolution climb, 
 
 And sink from high to low, along a scale 
 
 Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail ; 
 
 A musical but melancholy chime, 
 
 Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, 
 
 Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 
 
 Truth fails not ; but her outward forms that bear 
 
 The longest date do melt like frosty rime, 
 
 That in the, morning whitened hill and plain 
 
 And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime 
 
 Of yesterday, which royally did wear 
 
 His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain 
 
 Some casual shout that broke the silent air, 
 
 Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 
 
 OLD ABBEYS. 
 
 Monastic Domes ! following my downward way, 
 Untouched by due regret I marked your fall ! 
 Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all 
 Dispose to judgments temperate as we lay 
 On our past selves in life's declining day : 
 For as, by discipline of Time made wise, 
 We learn to tolerate the infirmities 
 And faults of others — gently as he may, 
 So with our own the mild Instructor deals, 
 Teaching us to forget them or forgive. 
 Perversely curious, then, for hidden ill 
 Why should we break Time's charitable seals ? 
 Once ye were holy, ye are holy still ; 
 Your spirit freely let me drink, and live ! 
 
 EMIGRANT FRENCH CLERGY. 
 
 Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France 
 Are shattered into dust ; and self-exiled 
 From altars threatened, levelled, or defiled, 
 Wander the Ministers of God, as chance 
 Opens a way for life, or consonance 
 Of faith invites. More welcome to no land 
 The fugitives than to the British strand, 
 Where priest and layman with the vigilance 
 Of true compassion greet them. Creed and test 
 Vanish before the unreserved embrace 
 Of catholic humanity : — distrest 
 They came, — and, while the moral tempest roars 
 Throughout the Country they have left, our shor. 
 Give to their Faith a fearless resting-place. 
 
 CONGRATULATION. 
 
 Thus all things lead to Charity, secured 
 By them who blessed the soft and happy gale 
 That landward urged the great Deliverer's sai!, 
 Till in the sunny bay his fleet was moored ! 
 Propitious hour ! had we, like them, endured 
 Sore stress of apprehension *, with a mind 
 Sickened by injuries, dreading worse designed, 
 From month to month trembling and unassured, 
 How had we then rejoiced ! But we have felt, 
 As a loved substance, their futurity : 
 Good, which they dared not hope for, we have seer 
 A State whose generous will through earth is dealt 
 A State — which, balancing herself between 
 Licence and slavish order, dares be free. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 
 
 333 
 
 NEW CHURCHES. 
 
 t liberty, and triumphs on the Main, 
 
 d laurelled armies, not to be withstood — 
 hat serve they ? if, on transitory good 
 tent, and sedulous of abject gain, 
 e State (ah, surely not preserved in vain !) 
 rbeav to shape due channels which the Flood 
 
 sacred truth may enter — till it brood 
 sr the wide realm, as o'er the Egyptian plain 
 e all-sustaining Nile. No more — the time 
 
 conscious of her want; through England's 
 bounds, 
 I rival haste, the wished-for Temples rise ! 
 iiear their sabbath bells' harmonious chime 
 ,oat on the breeze — the heavenliest of all sounds 
 iat vale or hill prolongs or multiplies ! 
 
 xxxix. 
 
 CHURCH TO BE ERECTED. 
 
 p this the chosen site ; the virgin sod, 
 listened from age to age by dewy eve, 
 all disappear, and grateful earth receive 
 le corner-stone from hands that build to God. 
 m reverend hawthorns, hardened to the rod 
 I winter storms, yet budding cheerfully ; 
 iiose forest oaks of Druid memory, 
 iiall long survive, to shelter the Abode 
 t genuine Faith. Where, haply, 'mid this band 
 I daisies, shepherds sate of yore and wove 
 (ay-garlands, there let the holy altar stand 
 pr kneeling adoration ; — while — above, 
 roods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove, 
 iat shall protect from blasphemy the Land. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Iine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued, 
 aaring the strong emotion of the crowd, 
 l^hen each pale brow to dread hosannas bowed 
 liile clouds of incense mounting veiled the rood, 
 hat glimmered like a pine-tree dimly viewed 
 hrough Alpine vapours. Such appalling rite 
 '.ur Church prepares not, trusting to the might 
 f simple truth with grace divine imbued ; 
 jet will we not conceal the precious Cross, 
 ike men ashamed : the Sun with his first smile 
 shall greet that symbol crowning the low Pile : 
 nd the fresh air of incense-breathing morn 
 hall wooingly embrace it ; and green moss 
 jreep round its arms through centuries unborn. 
 
 xli. 
 new church-yard. 
 The encircling ground, iu native turf arrayed, 
 Is now by solemn consecration given 
 To social interests, and to favouring Heaven, 
 And where the rugged colts their gambols played, 
 And wild deer bounded through the forest glade, 
 Unchecked as when by merry Outlaw driven, 
 Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and even ; 
 And soon, full soon, the lonely Sexton's spade 
 Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture small, 
 But infinite its grasp of weal and woe ! 
 Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and flow ; — 
 The spousal trembling, and the 'dust to dust,' 
 The prayers, the contrite struggle, and the trust 
 That to the Almighty Father looks through all. 
 
 CATHEDRALS, ETC. 
 
 Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles ! 
 Types of the spiritual Church which God hath reared ; 
 Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward 
 And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles 
 To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles, 
 Or down the nave to pace in motion slow ; 
 Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower grow 
 And mount, at every step, with living wiles 
 Instinct — to rouse the heart and lead the will 
 By a bright ladder to the world above. 
 Open your gates, ye Monuments of love 
 Divine ! thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill ! 
 Thou, stately York ! and Ye, whose splendours cheer 
 Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear ! 
 
 INSIDE OF KING S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
 
 With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned — 
 
 Albeit labouring for a scanty band 
 
 Of white robed Scholars only — this immense 
 
 And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 
 
 Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore 
 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more ; 
 
 So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense 
 
 These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
 
 Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, 
 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
 
 Lingering — and wandering on as loth to die ; 
 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
 
 That they were born for immortality. 
 
S34 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 What awful perspective ! while from our sight 
 With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide 
 Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, 
 
 dyed 
 In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. 
 Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, 
 Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen, 
 Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, 
 Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night ! — ■ 
 But, from the arms of silence — list ! list ! 
 The music bursteth into second life ; 
 The notes luxuriate, every stone is Idssed 
 By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ; 
 Heart -thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye 
 Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy ! 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 They dreamt not of a perishable home 
 Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear 
 Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here ; 
 Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam ; 
 Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam 
 Melts, if it cross the threshold ; where the wreath 
 Of awe-struck wisdom droops : or let my path 
 Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome 
 Hath typified by reach of daring art 
 Infinity's embrace ; whose guardian crest, 
 The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread 
 As now, when She hath also seen her breast 
 Filled with mementos, satiate with its part 
 Of grateful England's overflowing Dead. 
 
 ejaculation. 
 
 Glory to God ! and to the Power who came 
 In filial duty, clothed with love divine, 
 That made his human tabernacle shine 
 Like Ocean burning with purpureal flame ; 
 Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its name 
 From roseate hues, far kenned at mom and even 
 In hours of peace, or when the storm is driven 
 Along the nether region's rugged frame ! 
 Earth prompts — Heaven urges ; let us seek :i 
 
 light, 
 Studious of that pure intercourse begun 
 When first our infant brows their lustre won ; 
 So, like the Mountain, may we grow more bright 
 From unimpeded commerce with the Sun, 
 At the approach of all -involving night. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled. 
 Coil within coil, at noon-tide ? For the Wori> 
 Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explore'. 
 Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold 
 His drowsy rings. Look forth ! — that Strea 
 
 behold, 
 That Stream upon whose bosom we have passe 
 Floating at ease while nations have effaced 
 Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold 
 Long lines of mighty Kings — look forth, my Sou 
 (Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust) 
 The living Waters, less and less by guilt 
 Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll, 
 Till they have reached the eternal City — b'liit 
 For the perfe'eted Spirits of the just ! 
 
YARROW REVISITED. 
 
 335 
 
 YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS, 
 
 IPOSED (TWO EXCEPTED) DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, AND ON THE ENGLISH BORDER, 
 IN THE AUTUMN OF 1831. 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., 
 
 A3 A TESTIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, AND ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF INTELLECTUAL OBLIGATIONS 
 THESE MEMORIALS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
 Rydal Mount, Dec. 11, 1834. 
 
 [ie following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed 
 ith Sir Walter Scott, and other Friends visiting the 
 anks of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately 
 iSfore his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples. 
 
 The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no need of 
 iplanation, for Readers acquainted with the Author's 
 revious poems suggested by that celebrated Stream.] 
 
 '. e gallant Youth, who may have gained, 
 
 )r seeks, a ' winsome Marrow,' 
 1 is but an Infant in the lap 
 
 :iVhen first I looked on Yarrow ; 
 <!ce more, by Newark's Castle-gate 
 
 lLong left without a warder, 
 ] tood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 
 
 jreat Minstrel of the Border ! 
 
 ( ave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 
 jrheir dignity installing 
 
 I gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 
 Were on the bough, or falling ; 
 
 I I breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — 
 The forest to embolden ; 
 
 ddened the fiery hues, and shot 
 'ransparence through the golden. 
 
 r busy thoughts the Stream flowed on 
 
 Cn foamy agitation ; 
 
 id slept in many a crystal pool 
 
 !For quiet contemplation : 
 
 I 1 public and no private care 
 
 The freeborn mind enthralling, 
 
 made a day of happy hours, 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
 Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, 
 
 With freaks of graceful folly, — 
 Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 
 
 Her Night not melancholy ; 
 Past, present, future, all appeared 
 
 In harmony united, 
 Like guests that meet, and some from far, 
 
 By cordial love invited. 
 
 And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 
 
 And down the meadow ranging, 
 Did meet us with unaltered face, 
 
 Though we were changed and changing ; 
 If, then, some natural shadows spread 
 
 Our inward prospect over, 
 The soul's deep valley was not slow 
 
 Its brightness to recover. 
 
 Eternal blessings on the Muse, 
 
 And her divine employment ! 
 The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 
 
 For hope and calm enjoyment ; 
 Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 
 
 Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
 And Care waylays their steps — a Sprite 
 
 Not easily eluded. 
 
 For thee, Scott ! compelled to change 
 
 Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 
 For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 
 
 And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot 
 For mild Sorento's breezy waves ; 
 
 May classic Fancy, linking 
 With native Fancy her fresh aid, 
 
 Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 
 
336 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 ! while they minister to thee, 
 
 Each vying with the other, 
 May Health return to mellow Age 
 
 With Strength, her venturous brother ; 
 And Tiber, and each brook and rill 
 
 Renowned in song and story, 
 With unimagined beauty shine, 
 
 Nor lose one ray of glory ! 
 
 For Thou, upon a hundred streams, 
 
 By tales of love and sorrow, 
 Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 
 
 Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 
 And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 
 
 Wherever they invite Thee, 
 At parent Nature's grateful call, 
 
 With gladness must requite Thee. 
 
 A gracious welcome shall be thine, 
 
 Such looks of love and honour 
 As thy own Yarrow gave to me 
 
 When first I gazed upon her ; 
 Beheld what I had feared to see, 
 
 Unwilling to surrender 
 Dreams treasured up from early days, 
 
 The holy and the tender. 
 
 And what, for this frail world, were all 
 
 That mortals do or suffer, 
 Did no responsive harp, no pen, 
 
 Memorial tribute offer ? 
 Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? 
 
 Her features, could they win us, 
 Unhelped by the poetic voice 
 
 That hourly speaks within us ? 
 
 Nor deem that localised Romance 
 
 Plays false with our affections ; 
 Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 
 
 For fanciful dejections : 
 Ah, no ! the visions of the past 
 
 Sustain the heart in feeling 
 Life as she is — our changeful Life, 
 
 With friends and kindred dealing. 
 
 Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 
 
 In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
 Who through the silent portal arch 
 
 Of mouldering Newark enter'd ; 
 And clomb the winding stair that once 
 
 Too timidly was mounted 
 By the ' last Minstrel,' (not the last !) 
 
 Ere he his Tale recounted. 
 
 Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream ! 
 
 Fulfil thy pensive duty, 
 Well pleased that future Bards should chant 
 
 For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
 To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 
 
 Dear to the common sunshine, 
 And dearer still, as now I feel, 
 
 To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FRO 
 ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. 
 
 A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 
 Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
 Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height : 
 Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
 For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 
 While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blitb 
 
 strain, 
 Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
 Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 
 Of the whole world's good wishes with him gi 
 Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue 
 Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror know 
 Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
 Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, 
 Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 
 
 A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAN 
 
 Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep 
 That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies ; 
 The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep 
 Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes 
 Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties, 
 No vestige now remains ; yet thither creep 
 Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep 
 Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies, 
 Proud tomb is none; but rudely-sculptured knight 
 By humble choice of plain old times, are seen 
 Level with earth, among the hillocks green : 
 Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites 
 The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets ru 
 With jubilate from the choirs of spring! 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1831. 
 
 337 
 
 (ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN THE SOUTH OF 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills — 
 Among the happiest-looking homes of men 
 Scatter'd all Britain over, through deep glen, 
 On airy upland, and by forest rills, 
 And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills 
 ,His sky-born warblings — does aught meet your ken 
 More fit to animate the Poet's pen, 
 Aught that more surely by its aspect fills 
 Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode 
 Of the good Priest : who, faithful through all hours 
 To his high charge, and truly serving God, 
 Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers, 
 Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod, 
 Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING A STORM. 
 
 The wind is now thy organist ; — a clank 
 'We know not whence) ministers for a bell 
 To mark some change of service. As the swell 
 Df music reached its height, and even when sank 
 The notes, in prelude, Roslin ! to a blank 
 Df silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof, 
 Pillars, and arches, — not in vain time-proof, 
 Though Christian rites be wanting ! From what bank 
 
 Same those live herbs 1 by what hand were they 
 sown [unknown ? 
 
 •rtTiere dew falls not, where rain-drops seem 
 Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche [grown, 
 ihare with their sculptured fellows, that, green- 
 >opy their beauty more and more, and preach, 
 Chough mute, of all things blending into one. 
 
 THE TROSACHS. 
 
 here's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 
 'ut were an apt confessional for One 
 taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, 
 'hat Life is but a tale of morning grass 
 Vitkered at eve. From scenes of art which chase 
 fhat thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 
 Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, 
 locks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 
 Jntouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, 
 if from a golden perch of aspen spray 
 jOctober's workmanship. to rival May) 
 l'he pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
 i'hat moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, 
 .'filing the year, with all its cares, to rest ! 
 
 The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute ; 
 
 The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy 
 
 Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy ; 
 
 The target mouldering like ungathered fruit ; 
 
 The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit, 
 
 As eagerly pursued ; the umbrella spread 
 
 To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head — 
 
 All speak of manners withering to the root, 
 
 And of old honours, too, and passions high : 
 
 Then may we ask, though pleased that thought 
 
 Among the conquests of civility, [should range 
 
 Survives imagination — to the change 
 
 Superior ? Help to virtue does she give ? 
 
 If not, Mortals, better cease to live ! 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF LOCH ETIVE. 
 
 "This Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose 
 
 walls, 
 Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured mists — 
 Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood never 
 
 rests — ■ 
 Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls — 
 Of Mountains varying momently their crests — 
 Proud be this Land ! whose poorest huts are halls 
 Where Fancy entertains becoming guests ; 
 While native song the heroic Past recals." 
 Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught, 
 The Muse exclaimed ; but Story now must hide 
 Her trophies, Fancy crouch ; the course of pride 
 Has been diverted, other lessons taught, 
 That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head 
 Where the all-conquering Roman feared to tread. 
 
 IX. 
 
 EAGLES. 
 COMPOSED AT DUNOLHE CASTLE IN THE BAT OF OBAN. 
 
 Dishonoured Rock and Ruin ! that, by law 
 Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred 
 Like a lone criminal whos? life is spared. 
 Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw 
 Was on the wing ; stooping, he struck with awe 
 Man, bird, and beast ; then, with a consort paired, 
 From a bold headland, their loved aery's guard, 
 Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw 
 Light from the fountain of the setting sun. 
 Such was this Prisoner once ; and, when his plumes 
 The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on, 
 Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes 
 His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free, 
 His power, his beauty, and his majesty. 
 
338 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 IN THE SOUND OF MULL. 
 
 Tradition, be thou mute ! Oblivion, throw 
 Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung 
 Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient 
 On rock and ruin darkening as we go, — [tongue 
 Spots where a word, ghost-like, survives to show 
 What crimes from hate, or desperate love, have 
 
 sprung ; 
 From honour misconceived, or fancied wrong, 
 What feuds, not quenched but fed by mutual woe. 
 Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, untamed 
 By civil arts and labours of the pen, 
 Could gentleness be scorned by those fierce Men, 
 Who, to spread wide the reverence they claimed 
 For patriarchal occupations, named 
 Yon towering Peaks, ' Shepherds of Etive Glen* 1 ' 
 
 SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN A STORM. 
 
 Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, 
 And all that Greece and Italy have sung 
 Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among ! 
 Ours couch on naked rocks, — will cross a brook 
 Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 
 This way or that, or give it even a thought 
 More than by smoothest pathway may be brought 
 Into a vacant mind. Can written book 
 Teach what they learn ? Up, hardy Mountaineer ! 
 And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One 
 Of Nature's privy council, as thou art, 
 On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and hear 
 To what dread Powers He delegates his part 
 On earth, who works in the heaven of heavens, 
 alone. 
 
 THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S RUINED MANSION, 
 AND FAMILY BURIAL-PLACE, NEAR KILLIN. 
 
 Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in strains 
 Thoughtful and sad, the ' narrow house.' No style 
 Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile 
 Grief of her sting ; no» cheat, where he' detains 
 The sleeping dust, stern Death. How reconcile 
 With truth, or with each other, decked remains 
 Of a once warm Abode, and that new Pile, 
 For the departed, built with curious pains 
 And mausolean pomp ? Yet here they stand 
 Together, — 'mid trim walks and artful bowers, 
 To be looked down upon by ancient hills, 
 That, for the living and the dead, demand 
 And prompt a harmony of genuine powers ; 
 Concord that elevates the mind, and stills. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ' REST AND BE THANKFUL t ' 
 
 AT THE HEAD OF GLENCROE. 
 
 Doubling and doubling with laborious walk, 
 Who, that has gained at length the wished-foi 
 
 Height, 
 This brief this simple way-side Call can slight, 
 And rests not thankful 1 Whether cheered by tall 
 With some loved friend, or by the unseen hawk 
 Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that thin 
 At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine, 
 Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk 
 Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs repose, 
 Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep 
 Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air, 
 And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep,- 
 So may the Soul, through powers that Faith bestow 
 Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss tlu 
 
 Angels share. 
 
 highland hut. 
 
 See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cc 
 Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it m 
 Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray 
 Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. 
 The limpid mountain rill avoids it not ; 
 And why shouldst thou? — If rightly trained andbrt 
 Humanity is humble, finds no spot 
 Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. 
 The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, 
 Undressed the pathway leading to the door ; 
 But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor ; 
 Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wtoe 
 
 proof, 
 Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer, 
 Belike less happy.— Stand no more aloof* ! 
 
 * In Gaelic, Buachaill Eile. 
 
 THE HIGHLAND BROACH. 
 
 The exact resemblance which the old Broach (■-•in in I 
 though rarely met with, among the Highlanders) benr 
 the Roman Fibula must strike every one, and conci 
 with the plaid and kilt, to recal to mind the coniu.i 
 cation which the ancient Romans had with this rem 
 country. 
 
 If to Tradition faith be due, 
 
 And echoes from old verse speak true, 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1831. 
 
 339 
 
 Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore 
 Glad tidings to Iona's shore, 
 No common light of nature blessed 
 The mountain region of the west, 
 A land where gentle manners ruled 
 O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled, 
 That raised, for centuries, a bar 
 Impervious to the tide of war : 
 Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain 
 . Where haughty Force had striven in vain ; 
 j And, 'mid the works of skilful hands, 
 By wanderers brought from foreign lands 
 And various climes, was not unknown 
 The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown ; 
 ! The Fibula, whose shape, I ween, 
 : Still in the Highland Broach is seen, 
 ! The silver Broach of massy frame, 
 ' Worn at the breast of some grave Dame 
 On road or path, or at the door 
 Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor : 
 • But delicate of yore its mould, 
 I And the material finest gold ; 
 j As might beseem the fairest Fair, 
 Whether she graced a royal chair, 
 '■ Or shed, within a vaulted hall, 
 ; No fancied lustre on the wall 
 ; Where shields of mighty heroes hung, 
 While Fingal heard what Ossian sung. 
 
 The heroic Age expired — it slept 
 
 Deep in its tomb :— the bramble crept 
 j O'er Fingal's hearth ; the grassy sod 
 i Grew on the floors his sons had trod : 
 
 Malvina ! where art thou ? Their state 
 | The noblest-born must abdicate ; 
 ( The fairest, while with fire and sword 
 ; Come Spoilers — horde impelling horde, 
 
 Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest 
 (By ruder hands in homelier vest. 
 
 Yet still the female bosom lent, 
 
 And loved to borrow, ornament ; 
 
 Still was its inner world a place 
 
 ; Reached by the clews of heavenly grace ; 
 
 '< Still pity to this last retreat 
 
 \ Clove fondly ; to his favourite seat 
 
 -Love wound his way by soft approach, 
 
 | Beneath a massier Highland Broach. 
 
 (When alternations came of rage 
 ! Yet fiercer, in a darker age ; 
 I And feuds, where, clan encountering clan, 
 The weaker perished to a man ; 
 (For maid and mother, when despair 
 j Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer, 
 
 One small possession lacked not power, 
 Provided in a calmer hour, 
 To meet such need as might befal — 
 Roof, raiment, bread, or burial : 
 For woman, even of tears bereft 
 The hidden silver Broach was left. 
 
 As generations come and go 
 Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow ; 
 Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, 
 And feeble, of themselves, decay ; 
 What poor abodes the heir-loom hide, 
 In which the castle once took pride ! 
 Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth, 
 If saved at all, are saved by stealth. 
 Lo ! ships, from seas by nature barred, 
 Mount along ways by man prepared ; 
 And in far-stretching vales, whose streams 
 Seek other seas, their canvass gleams. 
 Lo ! busy towns spring up, on coasts 
 Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts ; 
 Soon, like a lingering star forlorn 
 Among the novelties of morn, 
 While young delights on old encroach, 
 Will vanish the last Highland Broach. 
 
 But when, from out their viewless bed, 
 Like vapours, years have rolled and spread ; 
 And this poor verse, and worthier lays, 
 Shall yield no light of love or praise ; 
 Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough, 
 Or torrent from the mountain's brow, 
 Or whirlwind, reckless what his might 
 Entombs, or forces into light ; 
 Blind Chance, a volunteer ally, 
 That oft befriends Antiquity, 
 And clears Oblivion from reproach, 
 May render back the Highland Broach*. 
 
 * How much the Broach is sometimes prized by persons 
 in humble stations may be gathered from an occurrence 
 mentioned to me by a female friend. She had had an 
 opportunity of benefiting a poor old woman in her own 
 hut, who, wishing to make a return, said to her daughter, 
 in Erse, in a tone of plaintive earnestness, " I would give 
 anything I have, but I hope she does not wish for my 
 Broach !" and, uttering these words, she put her hand upon 
 the Broach which fastened her kerchief, and which, she 
 imagined, had attracted the eye of her benefactress. 
 
340 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 THE BROWNIE. 
 
 Upon a small island not far from the head of Loch 
 Lomond, are some remains of an ancient building, which 
 was for several years the abode of a solitary Individual, 
 one of the last survivors of the clan of Macfarlane, once 
 powerful in that neighbourhood. Passing along the 
 shore opposite this island in the year 1814, the Author 
 learned these particulars, and that this person then 
 living there had acquired the appellation of ' The 
 Brownie.' See " The Brownie's Cell," p. 231, to which 
 the following is a sequel. 
 
 'How disappeared he ? ' Ask the newt and toad ; 
 
 Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell 
 
 How he was found, cold as an icicle, 
 
 Under an arch of that forlorn abode ; 
 
 Where he, unpropp'd, and by the gathering flood 
 
 Of years hemm'd round, had dwelt, prepared to try 
 
 Privation's worst extremities, and die 
 
 With no one near save the omnipresent God. 
 
 Verily so to live was an awful choice — ■ 
 
 A choice that wears the aspect of a doom ; 
 
 But in the mould of mercy all is cast 
 
 For Souls familiar with the eternal "Voice ; 
 
 And this forgotten Taper to the last 
 
 Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful gloom. 
 
 TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR. 
 COMPOSED AT 10CH LOMOND. 
 
 Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth 
 
 Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most 
 
 To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from earth, 
 
 In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost, 
 
 Perplexed as if between a splendour lost 
 
 And splendour slowly mustering. Since the Sun, 
 
 The absolute, the world-absorbing One, 
 
 Relinquished half his empire to the host 
 
 Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star, 
 
 Holy as princely, who that looks on thee 
 
 Touching, as now, in thy humility 
 
 The mountain borders of this seat of care, 
 
 Can question that thy countenance is bright, 
 
 Celestial Power, as much with love as light ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 bothwell castle, 
 (passed unseen, on accodnt op stormy weather.) 
 Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave 
 (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn 
 The liberty they lost at Bannockburn. 
 Once on those steeps /roamed at large, and have 
 
 In mind the landscape, as if still in sight ; 
 The river glides, the woods before me wave • 
 Then why repine that now in vain I crave 
 Needless renewal of an old delight ? 
 Better to thank a dear and long-past day 
 For joy its sunny hours were free to give 
 Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost. 
 Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams 
 
 obey, 
 Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive : 
 How little that she cherishes is lost ! 
 
 PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN, 4T 
 HAMILTON PALACE. 
 
 Amid a fertile region green with wood 
 And fresh with rivers, well did it become 
 The ducal Owner, in his palace-home 
 To naturalise this tawny Lion brood ; 
 Children of Art, that claim strange brotherhood 
 (Couched in their den) with those that roam at iarg 
 Over the burning wilderness, and charge 
 The wind with terror while they roar for food 
 Satiate are these; and stilled to eye and ear ; 
 Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring feari 
 Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave 
 Daunt him — if his Companions, now be-drowsel 
 Outstretched and listless, were by hunger roused 
 Man placed him here, and God, he knows, can sav 
 
 THE AVON. 
 (A FEEDER OF THE ANNAN.) 
 
 Avon — a precious, an immortal name ! 
 Yet is it one that other rivulets bear 
 Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear 
 Like this contented, though unknown to Fame 
 For great and sacred is the modest claim 
 Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow 
 And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go. 
 Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without Man; 
 But Praise can waste her voice on work of tear? 
 Anguish, and death : full oft where innocent blo< 
 Has mixed its current with the limpid flood, 
 Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears : 
 Never for like distinction may the good 
 Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with unpleas 
 ears. 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1831. 
 
 341 
 
 i SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM AN EMINENCE TN 
 INGLEWOOD FOREST. 
 
 j he forest huge of ancient Caledon 
 I but a name, no more is Inglewood, 
 hat swept from lull to hill, from flood to flood : 
 n her last thorn the nightly moon has shone ; 
 et still, though unappropriate Wild be none, 
 air parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign 
 i/ith Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again, 
 jo kill for merry feast their venison. 
 or wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade 
 is church with monumental wreck bestrown ; 
 he feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid, 
 lath still his castle, though a skeleton, 
 that he may watch by night, and lessons con 
 f power that perishes, and rights that fade. 
 
 HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH. 
 
 ere stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed 
 
 o his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art, 
 
 mong its withering topmost brcinches mixed, 
 
 !lie palmy antlers of a limited Hart, 
 
 ! r hom the Dog Hercules pursued — his part 
 
 ach desperately sustaining, till at last 
 
 oth sank and died, the life- veins of the chased 
 
 nd chaser bursting here with one dire smart. 
 
 j.utual the victory, mutual the defeat ! 
 
 iigh was the trophy hung with pitiless pride ; 
 
 iy, rather, with that generous sympathy 
 
 lliat wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat ; 
 
 fd, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide 
 rse that would guard thy memory, Hart's-horn 
 Tree* ! 
 
 FANCY AND TRADITION. 
 
 he Lovers took within this ancient grove 
 lieir last embrace ; beside those crystal springs 
 lie Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings 
 ->r instant flight ; the Sage in yon alcove 
 ite musing ; on that hill the Bard would rove, 
 ot mute, where now the linnet only sings : 
 uus every where to truth Tradition clings, 
 r Fancy localises Powers we love, 
 'ere only History licensed to take note 
 f things gone by, her meagre monuments 
 fould ill suffice for persons and events : 
 liere is an ampler page for man to quote, 
 
 readier book of manifold contents, 
 
 ■udied alike in palace and in cot. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 COUNTESS PILLAR. 
 
 [On the roadside between Penrith and Appleby, there 
 stands a pillar with the following inscription : — 
 
 ' This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne 
 Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of 
 her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess 
 Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616 ; in 
 memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 41. to be 
 distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 
 2d day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard 
 by. Laus Deo ! '] 
 
 While the Poor gather round, till the end of time 
 May this bright flower of Charity display 
 Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day ; 
 Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime 
 Lovelier — transplanted from heaven's purest clime ! 
 ' Charity never faileth : ' on that creed, 
 More than on written testament or deed, 
 The pious Lady built with hope sublime. 
 Alms on this stone to be dealt out, /or ever! 
 ' Laus Deo.' Many a Stranger passing by 
 Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh, 
 Blest its humane Memorial's fond endeavour ; 
 And, fastening on those lines an eye tear-glazed, 
 Has ended, though no Clerk, with ' G od be praised ! ' 
 
 ROMAN ANTIQUITIES. 
 (FROM THE EOMAN STATION AT OLD PENBITH.) 
 
 How profitless the relics that we cull, 
 Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, 
 Unless they chasten fancies that presume 
 Too high, or idle agitations lull ! 
 Of the world r s flatteries if the brain be full, 
 To have no seat for thought were better doom, 
 Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull 
 Of him who gloried in its nodding plume. 
 Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they \ 
 Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp ? 
 The Sage's theory \ the Poet's lay % — 
 Mere Fibulae without a robe to clasp ; 
 Obsolete lamps, whose fight no time recals ; 
 Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 APOLOGY, 
 
 FOR THE FOREGOING POEMS. 
 
 No more : the end is sudden and abrupt, 
 Abrupt — as without preconceived design 
 Was the beginning ; yet the several Lays 
 Have moved in order, to each other bound 
 
342 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 By a continuous and acknowledged tie 
 
 Though unapparent — like those Shapes distinct 
 
 That yet survive ensculptured on the walls 
 
 Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck 
 
 Of famed Persepolis ; each following each, 
 
 As might beseem a stately embassy, 
 
 In set array ; these bearing in their hands 
 
 Ensign of civil power, weapon of war, 
 
 Or gift to be presented at the throne 
 
 Of the Great King ; and others, as they go 
 
 In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged, 
 
 Or leading victims drest for sacrifice. 
 
 Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power, 
 
 The Spirit of humanity, disdain 
 
 A ministration humble but sincere, 
 
 That from a threshold loved by every Muse 
 
 Its impulse took — that sorrow-stricken door, 
 
 Whence, as a current from its fountain-head, 
 Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed. 
 Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength 
 From kindred sources ; while around us sighed 
 (Life's three first seasons having passed away) 
 Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings 
 
 feU 
 (Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights ; 
 And every day brought with it tidings new 
 Of rash change, ominous for the public weaL 
 Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached 
 Upon that sweet and tender melancholy 
 Which may itself be cherished and caressed 
 More than enough ; a fault so natural 
 (Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay) 
 For prompt frrgiveness will not sue in vain. 
 
 EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
 
 Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose 
 
 Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews. 
 
 Look for the stars, you '11 say that there are none ; 
 
 Look up a second time, and, one by one, 
 
 You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, 
 
 And wonder how they could elude the sight ! 
 
 The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, 
 
 Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers, 
 
 But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers : 
 
 Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone 
 
 The time's and season's influence disown ; 
 
 Nine beats distinctly to each other bound 
 
 In drowsy sequence — how unlike the sound 
 
 That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear 
 
 On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear ! 
 
 The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun, 
 
 Had closed his door before the day was done, 
 
 And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep, 
 
 And joins his little children in their sleep. 
 
 The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade, 
 
 Flits and reflits along the close arcade ; 
 
 The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth 
 
 With burring note, which Industry and Sloth 
 
 Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both. 
 
 A stream is heard — I see it not, but know 
 
 By r its soft music whence the waters flow : 
 
 Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more 
 One boat there was, but it will touch the shore 
 With the next dipping of its slackened oar : 
 Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay, 
 Might give to serious thought a moment's sway, 
 As a last token of man's toilsome day ! 
 
 1KB. 
 
 ir. 
 
 ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUMBEB-A>T- 
 Easter Sunday, April 7- 
 
 THE AUTHOB'S SIXTT-THIBD BntTH-DAT. 
 
 The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, 
 Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire, 
 Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams, 
 Prelude of night's approach with soothing dn-ar 
 Look round ; — of all the clouds not one is D 
 'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving. 
 Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky, 
 The boundless plain of waters seems to lie :— 
 Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er 
 The grass-crowned headland that conceals the 
 
 shore ? 
 No ; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea, 
 Whispering how meek and gentle he can be ! 
 
EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
 
 343 
 
 Thou Power supreme ! who, arming to rebuke 
 (fenders, dost put off the gracious look, 
 J A clothe thyself with terrors like the flood 
 (ocean roused into Ms fiercest mood, 
 l[ iatever discipline thy Will ordain 
 Ir the brief course that must for me remain ; 
 r Jich me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice 
 I admonitions of thy softest voice ! 
 1 late'er the path these mortal feet may trace, 
 jjeathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace, 
 (U, through a perfect love, a faith sincere 
 1 awn from the wisdom that begins with fear, 
 (lid to expand ; and, for a season, free 
 l)m finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee ! 
 
 1833. 
 
 (by the sea-side.) 
 
 I e sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest, 
 
 I I the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest ; 
 slumbers — wave with wave no longer strives, 
 
 < y a heaving of the deep survives, 
 
 I ell-tale motion ! soon will it be laid, 
 
 I I by the tide alone the water swayed. 
 
 S althy wiihdra wings, interminglings mild 
 ( light with shade in beauty reconciled — 
 £ :h is the prospect far as sight can range, 
 '],; soothing recompence, the welcome change. 
 \iere now the ships that drove before the blast, 
 Veatened by angry breakers as they passed ; 
 j\i by a train of flying clouds bemocked ; 
 ( in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked 
 i on a bed of death ? Some lodge in peace, 
 ' r ed by His care who bade the tempest cease ; 
 id some, too heedless of past danger, court 
 ] 2sh gales to waft them to the far-off port ; 
 1 1 near, or hanging sea and sky between, 
 1 1 one of all those winged powers is seen, 
 ''in in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard ; 
 t oh ! how gladly would the air be stirred 
 some acknowledgment of thanks and praise, 
 |'t in its temper as those vesper lays 
 >' :g to the Virgin while accordant oars 
 1 ge the slow bark along Calabrian shores ; 
 iea-born service through the mountains felt 
 ' 1 into one loved vision all things melt : 
 like those hymns that soothe with graver sound 
 e gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound ; 
 - d, from the wide and open Baltic, rise 
 ;th punctual care, Lutherian harmonies. 
 J sh, not a voice is here ! but why repine, 
 1 w when the star of eve comes forth to shine 
 
 On British waters with that look benign \ 
 Ye mariners, that plough your onward way, 
 Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay, 
 May silent thanks at least to God be given 
 With a full heart ; ' our thoughts are heard in 
 heaven !' 
 
 1833. 
 
 Not in the lucid intervals of life 
 
 That come but as a curse to party-strife ; 
 
 Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh 
 
 Of languor puts his rosy garland by ; 
 
 Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave 
 
 Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave — 
 
 Is Nature felt, or can be ; nor do words, 
 
 Which practised talent readily affords, 
 
 Prove thatherhandhas touched responsive chords ; 
 
 Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 
 
 With genuine rapture and with fervent love 
 
 The soul of Genius, if he dare to take 
 
 Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake ; 
 
 Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent 
 
 Of all the truly great and all the innocent. 
 
 But who is innocent ? By grace divine, 
 Not otherwise, Nature ! we are thine, 
 Through good and evil thine, in just degree 
 Of rational and manly sympathy. 
 To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing, 
 And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing, 
 Add every charm the Universe can show 
 Through every change its aspects undergo — 
 Care may be respited, but not repealed ; 
 No perfect cure grows on that bounded field. 
 Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace, 
 If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease, 
 Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, 
 Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance ; 
 To the distempered Intellect refuse 
 His gracious help, or give what we abuse. 
 
 (by the side of bydal mebe.) 
 
 The linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, 
 Hints to the thrush 'tis time for their repose ; 
 The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and again 
 The monitor revives his own sweet strain ; 
 But both will soon be mastered, and the copse 
 Be left as silent as the mountain-tops, 
 
344 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest 
 
 The throng of rooks, that now, from twig or nest, 
 
 (After a steady flight on home-bound wings, 
 
 And a last game of mazy hoverings 
 
 Around their ancient grove) with cawing noise 
 
 Disturb the liquid music's equipoise. 
 
 Nightingale ! ' Who ever heard thy song 
 Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so strong 
 That listening sense is pardonably cheated 
 Where wood or stream by thee was never greeted. 
 Surely, from fairest spots of favoured lands, 
 Were not some gifts withheld by jealous hands, 
 This hour of deepening darkness here would be 
 As a fresh morning for new harmony ; 
 And lays as prompt would hail the dawn of Night : 
 A dawn she has both beautiful and bright, 
 When the East kindles with the full moon's light ; 
 Not like the rising sun's impatient glow 
 Dazzling the mountains, but an overflow 
 Of solemn splendour, in mutation slow. 
 
 Wanderer by spring with gradual progress led, 
 For sway profoundly felt as widely spread ; 
 To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear, 
 And to the soldier's trumpet-wearied ear ; 
 How welcome wouldst thou be to this green Vale 
 Fairer than Tempe ! Yet, sweet Nightingale ! 
 From the warm breeze that bears thee on, alight 
 At will, and stay thy migratory flight ; 
 Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or fount, 
 Who shall complain, or call thee to account ? 
 The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they 
 That ever walk content with Nature's way, 
 God's goodness — measuring bounty as it may ; 
 For whom the gravest thought of what they miss, 
 Chastening the fulness of a present bliss, 
 Is with that wholesome office satisfied, 
 While unrepining sadness is allied 
 In thankful bosoms to a modest pride. 
 
 1834. 
 
 Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the Mere 
 Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear, 
 And motionless ; and, to the gazer's eye, 
 Deeper than ocean, in the immensity 
 Of its vague mountains and unreal sky ! 
 But, from the process in that still retreat, 
 Turn to minuter changes at our feet ; 
 Observe how dewy Twilight has withdrawn 
 The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn, 
 
 And has restored to view its tender green, 
 That, while the sun rode high, was lost beneath 
 
 their dazzling sheen. 
 — An emblem this of what the sober Hour 
 Can do for minds disposed to feel its power ! 
 Thus oft, when we in vain have wish'd awav 
 The petty pleasures of the garish day, 
 Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host 
 (Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his post) 
 And leaves the disencumbered spirit free 
 To reassume a staid simplicity. 
 
 'Tis well — but what are helps of time and phee 
 When wisdom stands in need of nature's grace ; 
 Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend, 
 Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues to be- 
 friend ; 
 If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say, 
 " I come to open out, for fresh display, 
 The elastic vanities of yesterday ? " 
 
 18M 
 
 The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill, 
 And sky that danced among those leaves, are still : 
 Rest smooths the way for sleep ; in field and bower 
 Soft shades and dews have shed their MemkJ 
 
 power 
 On drooping eyelid and the closing flower ; 
 Sound is there none at which the faintest heart 
 Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start ; 
 Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream 
 Pierces the ethereal vault ; and (mid the gleam 
 Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream, 
 From the hushed vale's realities, transferred 
 To the still lake) the imaginative Bird 
 Seems, 'mid inverted mountains, not unheard. 
 
 Grave Creature ! — whether, while the nioon 
 
 shines bright 
 On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight, 
 Thou art discovered in a roofless tower, 
 Rising from what may once have been a lath - * 
 
 bower ; 
 Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy BMW 
 At the dim centre of a churchyard yew ; 
 Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod 
 Deep in a forest, thy secure abode, 
 Thou giv'st, for pastime's sake, by shriek or shout, 
 A puzzling notice of thy whereabout — 
 May the night never come, nor day be seen, 
 When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy mien ! 
 
EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
 
 345 
 
 In classic ages men perceived a soul 
 f sapience in thy aspect, headless Owl ! 
 fhee Athens reverenced in the studious grove ; 
 nd, near the golden sceptre grasped by Jove, 
 [is Eagle's favourite perch, while round him sate 
 he Gods revolving the decrees of Fate, 
 1011, too, wert present at Minerva's side : — 
 ark to that second larum ! — far and wide 
 ie elements have heard, and rock and cave replied. 
 
 1834. 
 
 ibis Impromptu appeared, many years ago, among the 
 Author's poems, from which, in subsequent editions, it 
 
 ivas excluded. It is reprinted, at the request of the 
 Mend in whose presence the lines were thrown off.] 
 
 i The sun has long been set, 
 
 The stars are out by twos and threes, 
 The little birds are piping yet 
 
 Among the bushes and trees ; 
 There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes, 
 And a far-off wind that rushes, 
 And a sound of water that gushes, 
 And the cuckoo's sovereign cry 
 Fills all the hollow of the sky. 
 
 Who would ' go parading ' 
 In London, ' and masquerading,' 
 On such a night of June 
 With that beautiful soft half-moon, 
 And all these innocent blisses ? 
 On such a night as this is ! 
 
 MPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY 
 SPLENDOUR AND BEAUTY. 
 
 d this effulgence disappeared 
 
 th flying haste, I might have sent, 
 ..long the speechless clouds, a look 
 ' blank astonishment ; 
 jt 'tis endued with power to stay, 
 
 d sanctify one closing day, 
 fet frail Mortality may see — ■ 
 pat is ? — ah no, but what can be ! 
 
 ne was when field and watery cove 
 iith modulated echoes rang, 
 
 jiile choirs of fervent Angels sang 
 ' eir vespers in the grove ; 
 
 Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, 
 Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, 
 Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rite, 
 Methinks, if audibly repeated now 
 From hill or valley, could not move 
 Sublimer transport, purer love, 
 Than doth this silent spectacle — the gleam — 
 The shadow — and the peace supreme ! 
 
 No sound is uttered, — but a deep 
 
 And solemn harmony pervades 
 
 The hollow vale from steep to steep, 
 
 And penetrates the glades. 
 
 Far-distant images draw nigh, 
 
 Called forth by wondrous potency 
 
 Of beamy radiance, that imbues, 
 
 Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues ! 
 
 In vision exquisitely clear, 
 
 Herds range along the mountain side ; 
 
 And glistening antlers are descried ; 
 
 And gilded flocks appear. 
 
 Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve ! 
 
 But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, 
 
 Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 
 
 That this magnificence is wholly thine ! 
 
 — From worlds not quickened by the sun 
 
 A portion of the gift is won ; 
 
 An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread 
 
 On ground which British shepherds tread ! 
 
 And, if there be whom broken ties 
 
 Afflict, or injuries assail, 
 
 Yon hazy ridges to their eyes 
 
 Present a glorious scale, 
 
 Climbing suffused with sunny ah*, 
 
 To stop — no record hath told where ! 
 
 And tempting Fancy to ascend, 
 
 And with immortal Spirits blend ! 
 
 — Wings at my shoulders seem to play ; 
 
 But, rooted here, I stand and gaze 
 
 On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise 
 
 Their practicable way. 
 
 Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, 
 
 And see to what fair countries ye are bound ! 
 
 And if some traveller, weary of his road, 
 
 Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, 
 
 Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ; 
 
 And wake him with such gentle heed 
 
 As may attune his soul to meet the dower 
 
 Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! 
 
34 f> 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 - 
 
 Such hues from their celestial Urn 
 
 "Were wont to stream before mine eye, 
 
 Where'er it wandered in the morn 
 
 Of blissful infancy. 
 
 This glimpse of glory, why renewed ? 
 
 Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 
 
 For, if a vestige of those gleams 
 
 Survived, 'twas only in my dreams. 
 
 Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve 
 
 No less than Nature's threatening voice, 
 
 If aught unworthy be my choice, 
 
 From Thee if I would swerve ; 
 
 Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light 
 
 Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored ; 
 
 Which, at this moment, on my waking sight 
 
 Appears to shine, by miracle restored ; 
 
 My soul, though yet confined to earth, 
 
 Rejoices in a second birth ! 
 
 — 'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades ; 
 
 And night approaches with her shades. 
 
 1818. 
 
 Note. — The multiplication of mountain-ridges, described 
 at the commencement of the third Stanza of this Ode, as a 
 kind of Jacob's Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced 
 either by watery vapours, or sunny haze ; — in the present 
 instance by the latter cause. Allusions to the Ode, entitled 
 ' Intimations of Immortality,' pervade the last stanza of 
 the foregoing Poem. 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SHORE. 
 
 What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret, 
 
 How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset ; 
 
 How baffled projects on the spirit prey, 
 
 And fruitless wishes eat the heart away, 
 
 The Sailor knows ; he best, whose lot is cast 
 
 On the relentless sea that holds him fast 
 
 On chance dependent, and the fickle star 
 
 Of power, through long and melancholy war. 
 
 sad it is, in sight of foreign shores, 
 
 Daily to think on old familiar doors, 
 
 Hearths loved in childhood, and ancestral floors ; 
 
 Or, tossed about along a waste of foam, 
 
 To ruminate on that delightful home 
 
 Which with the dear Betrothed was to come ; 
 
 Or came and was and is, yet meets the eye 
 
 Never but in the world of memory ; 
 
 Or in a dream recalled, whose smoothest range 
 
 Is crossed by knowledge, or by dread, of change, 
 
 And if not so, whose perfect joy makes sleep 
 A thing too bright for breathing man to keep. 
 Hail to the virtues which that perilous life 
 Extracts from Nature's elemental strife ; 
 And welcome glory won in battles fought 
 As bravely as the foe was keenly sought. 
 But to each gallant Captain and his crew 
 A iess imperious sympathy is due, 
 Such as my verse now yields, while moonbeams pla 
 On the mute sea in this unruffled bay ; 
 Such as will promptly flow from every breast 
 Where good men, disappointed in the quest 
 Of wealth and power and honours, long for rest ■ 
 Or, having known the splendours of success, 
 Sigh for the obscurities of happiness. 
 
 The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love. 
 Glories of evening, as ye there are seen 
 With but a span of sky between — 
 Speak one of you, my doubts remove, 
 
 Which is the attendant Page and which the Qneei 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 (COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, — ON THE COAST OF 
 CUMBERLAND.) 
 
 Wanderer ! that stoop'st so low, and com'stsone 
 To human life's unsettled atmosphere ; 
 Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake, 
 So might it seem, the cares of them that wake ; 
 And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping, 
 Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleepin; 
 What pleasure once encompassed those sweet nam 
 Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims, 
 An idolizing dreamer as of yore ! — 
 I slight them all ; and, on this sea-beat shore 
 Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend 
 That bid me hail thee as the Sailor's Friend ; 
 So call thee for heaven's grace through thee ma>' 
 
 known 
 By confidence supplied and mercy shown, 
 When not a twinkling star or beacon's light 
 Abates the perils of a stormy night ; 
 And for less obvious benefits, that find 
 Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mini 
 Both for the adventurer starting in life's prime ; 
 And veteran ranging round from clime to clime, 
 
EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
 
 347 
 
 jong-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins, 
 Ind wounds and weakness oft his labour's sole 
 remains. 
 
 The aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams, 
 Impress of Night ! are gladdened by thy beams ; 
 L look of thine the wilderness pervades, 
 t nd penetrates the forest's inmost shades ; 
 'hou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom, 
 ;ruid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb ; 
 'anst reach the Prisoner — to his grated cell 
 Velcome, though silent and intangible ! — 
 L nd lives there one, of all that come and go 
 >n the great waters toiling to and fro, 
 'ne, who has watched thee at some quiet hour 
 Inthroned aloft in undisputed power, 
 >r crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds that move 
 'atching the lustre they in part reprove — 
 lor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway 
 o call up thoughts that shun the glare of day, 
 .nd make the serious happier than the gay ? 
 
 Yes, lovely Moon ! if thou so mildly bright 
 Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, 
 'o fiercer mood the phrenzy-stricken brain, 
 i.et me a compensating faith maintain ; 
 'hat there 's a sensitive, a tender, part 
 'Vhick thou canst touch in every human heart, 
 for healing and composure. — But, as least 
 j.nd mightiest billows ever have confessed 
 hy domination ; as the whole vast Sea 
 !eels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty ; 
 ;o shines that countenance with especial grace 
 n them who urge the keel her plains to trace 
 urrowing its way right onward. The most rude, 
 ut off from home and country, may have stood — 
 iven till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye, 
 r the mute rapture ended in a sigh — 
 ouched by accordance of thy placid cheer, 
 Vith. some internal lights to memory dear, 
 t fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast 
 ;red with its daily share of earth's unrest, — 
 i entle awakenings, visitations meek ; 
 |. kuxlly influence whereof few will speak, 
 
 I hough it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek. 
 And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave 
 3 hidden, buried in its monthly grave ; 
 i'hen, while the Sailor, mid an open sea 
 wept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free, 
 'aces the deck — no star perhaps in sight, 
 -nd nothing save the moving ship's own light 
 o cheer the long dark hours of vacant night — 
 
 Oft with his musings does thy image blend, 
 In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend, 
 And thou art still, O Moon, that Sailor's Friend 
 
 1835. 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 (KTDAI,.) 
 
 Queen of the stars ! — so gentle, so benign, 
 That ancient Fable did to thee assign, 
 When darkness creeping o'er thy silver brow 
 Warned thee these upper regions to forego, 
 Alternate empire in the shades below — 
 A Bard, who, lately near the wide-spread sea 
 Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up to thee 
 With grateful thoughts, doth now thy rising hail 
 From the close confines of a shadowy vale. 
 Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene, 
 Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen 
 Through cloudy umbrage, well might that fair face, 
 And all those attributes of modest grace, 
 In days when Fancy wrought unchecked by fear, 
 Down to the green earth fetch thee from thy sphere, 
 To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear ! 
 
 still belov'd (for thine, meek Power, are charms 
 That fascinate the very Babe in arms, 
 While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright, 
 Spreading his little palms in his glad Mother's sight) 
 O still belov'd, once worshipped ! Time, that frowns 
 In his destructive flight on earthly crowns, 
 Spares thy mild splendour; still those far-shot 
 
 beams 
 Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams 
 With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy praise 
 Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays ; 
 And through dark trials still dost thou explore 
 Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, 
 When teeming Matrons — yielding to rude faith 
 In mysteries of birth and life and death 
 And painful struggle and deliverance — prayed 
 Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. 
 What though the rites be swept away, the fanes 
 Extinct that echoed to the votive strains ; 
 Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot, cease 
 Love to promote and purity and peace ; 
 And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace 
 Faint types of suffering in thy beamless face. 
 
 Then, silent Monitress ! let us — not blind 
 To worlds unthought of till the searching mind 
 Of Science laid them open to mankind — 
 
340 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 = 
 
 Told, also, how the voiceless heavens declare 
 God's glory; and acknowledging thy share 
 In that blest charge; let us — without offence 
 To aught of highest, holiest, influence — 
 Receive whatever good 'tis given thee to dispense. 
 May sage and simple, catching with one eye 
 The moral intimations of the sky, 
 
 Learn from thy course, where'er their own be taken 
 'To look on tempests, and be never shaken •' 
 To keep with faithful step the appointed way 
 Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day, 
 And from example of thy monthly range 
 Gently to brook decline and fatal change ; 
 Meek, patient, stedfast, and with loftier scope, 
 Than thy revival yields, for gladsome hope ! 
 
 1835. 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR, IN THE SUMMER OP 1833. 
 
 [Having been prevented by the lateness of the season, in 1831, from visiting Staffa and Iona, the author made the* the 
 principal objects of a short tour in the summer of 1833, of which the following series of poems is a Memorial. The cour* 
 pursued was down the Cumberland river Derwent, and to Whitehaven ; thence (by the Isle of Man, where a few days 
 were passed) up the Frith of Clyde to Greenock, then to Oban, Staffa, Iona; and back towards England, by Loch 
 Awe, Inverary, Loch Goil-head, Greenock, and through parts of Renfrewshire, Ayrshire, and Dumfries-shire to Carlisle. |i 
 and thence up the river Eden, and homewards by Ullswater.] 
 
 Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown 
 And spread as if ye knew that days might come 
 When ye would shelter in a happy home, 
 On this fair Mount, a Poet of your own, 
 One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown 
 To sue the God ; but, haunting your green shade 
 All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid 
 Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self 
 
 sown. 
 Farewell ! no Minstrels now with harp new-strung 
 For summer wandering quit their householdbowers ; 
 Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue 
 To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours 
 Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors, 
 Or musing sits forsaken halls among. 
 
 Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through 
 
 this Isle 
 Repine as if his hour were come too late \ 
 Not unprotected in her mouldering state, 
 Antiquity salutes him with a smile, 
 Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil, 
 And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined Co-mate 
 
 Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate, 
 
 Far as she may, primeval Nature's style. 
 
 Fair Land ! by Time's parental love made free, 
 
 By Social Order's watchful arms embraced ; 
 
 With unexampled union meet in thee, 
 
 For eye and mind, the present and the past ; 
 
 With golden prospect for futurity, 
 
 If that be reverenced which ought to last. 
 
 They called Thee Merry England, in old time ; 
 A happy people won for thee that name 
 With envy heard in many a distant clime ; 
 And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the fuuae 
 Endearing title, a responsive chime 
 To the heart's fond belief ; though some there W 
 Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snai't 
 For inattentive Fancy, like the lime 
 Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I asK. 
 This face of rural beauty be a mask 
 For discontent, and poverty, and crime ; 
 These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will ? 
 Forbid it, Heaven ! — and Merry England still 
 Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme ! 
 
SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR, 1833. 
 
 349 
 
 TO THE RIYER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK. 
 
 i eta, what fearful listening ! when huge stones 
 
 limble along thy bed, block after block : 
 
 ( whirling with reiterated shock, 
 
 Cnbat, while darkness aggravates the groans : 
 
 ft if thou (like Cocytus from the moans 
 
 1 ird on his rueful margin) thence wert named 
 
 % Mourner, thy true nature was defamed, 
 
 /ji the habitual murmur that atones 
 
 Sf thy worst rage, forgotten. Oft as Spring 
 
 1 :ks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones, 
 
 9ts of glad instinct and love's carolling, 
 
 li: concert, for the happy, then may vie 
 
 \ th liveliest peals of birth-day harmony : 
 
 '1 a grieved heart, the notes are benisons. 
 
 TO THE RIVER DERWENT. 
 
 J*ong the mountains were we nursed, loved 
 
 Stream ! 
 1 m near the eagle's nest — within brief sail, 
 I f his bold wing floating on the gale, 
 Vere thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the 
 
 ■ human life when first allowed to gleam [beam 
 Clmortal notice. — Glory of the vale, 
 
 ■ h thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail, 
 Bit in perpetual verdure by the steam 
 
 i thy soft breath ! — Less vivid wreath entwined 
 71 nnean victor's brow ; less bright was worn, 
 fy?d of some Roman chief — in triumph borne 
 Tjth captives chained ; and shedding from his car 
 ft sunset splendours of a finished war 
 Km the proud enslavers of mankind ! 
 
 | IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH. 
 
 'i ere the Author was born, and his Father's remains 
 ielaid.) 
 
 oint of life between my Parents' dust, 
 AI yours, my buried Little-ones ! am 1 ; 
 ■p to those graves looking habitually 
 1 kindred quiet I repose my trust, 
 I 
 
 th to the innocent is more than just, 
 1, to the sinner, mercifully bent ; 
 may I hope, if truly I repent 
 n meekly bear the ills which bear I must : 
 ^jl You, my Offspring ! that do still remain, 
 may outstrip me in the appointed race, 
 'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain 
 breathed together for a moment's space, 
 wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign, 
 1 only love keep in your hearts a place. 
 
 ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKERMOUTH 
 
 CASTLE. 
 
 " Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, 
 
 Poet ! that, stricken as both are by years, 
 
 We, differing once so much, are now Compeers, 
 
 Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink 
 
 Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link 
 
 United us ; when thou, in boyish play, 
 
 Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey 
 
 To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink 
 
 Of light was there ; — and thus did I, thy Tutor, 
 
 Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave ; 
 
 While thou wert chasing the wing'd butterfly 
 
 Through my green courts ; or climbing, a bold suitor, 
 
 Up to the flowers whose golden progeny 
 
 Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave." 
 
 nun's well, brigham. 
 The cattle crowding round this beverage clear 
 To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod 
 The encircling turf into a barren clod ; 
 Through which the waters creep, then disappear, 
 Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near ; 
 Yet, o'er the brink, and round the lime-stone cell 
 Of the pure spring (they call it the " Nun's Well," 
 Name that first struck by chance my startled ear) 
 A tender Spirit broods — the pensive Shade 
 Of ritual honours to this Fountain paid 
 By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer ; 
 Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild 
 Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled 
 Into the shedding of 'too soft a tear.' 
 
 to a friend, 
 (on the bakes of the dekwent.) 
 Pastor and Patriot !— at whose bidding rise 
 These modest walls, amid a flock that need, 
 For one who comes to watch them and to feed, 
 A fixed Abode — keep down presageful sighs. 
 Threats, which the unthinking only can despise, 
 Perplex the Church ; but be thou firm, — be true 
 To thy first hope, and this good work pursue, 
 Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice 
 Dost Thou prepare, whose sign will be the smoke 
 Of thy new hearth ; and sooner shall its wreaths, 
 Mounting while earth her morning incense breathes, 
 From wandering fiends of air receive a yoke, 
 And straightway cease to aspire, than God disdain 
 This humble tribute as ill-timed or vain. 
 
350 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 (LANDING AT THE MOUTH OP THE DERWENT, WORKINGTON.) 
 
 Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, 
 The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore ; 
 And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shore 
 Her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed ! 
 And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud 
 Of pine-tree foliage poised in ah-, forth darts. 
 When a soft summer gale at evening parts 
 The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) 
 She smiled ; but Time, the old Saturnian seer, 
 Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand, 
 With step prelusive to a long array 
 Of woes and degradations hand in hand — 
 Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
 Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay ■ 
 
 STANZAS SUGGESTED IN A STEAM-BOAT OFF SAINT 
 BEES' HEADS, ON THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND. 
 
 If Life were slumber on a bed of down, 
 Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown, 
 Sad were our lot: no hunter of the hare 
 Exults like him whose javelin from the lair 
 Has roused the lion ; no one plucks the rose, 
 Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter blows 
 'Mid a trim garden's summer luxuries, 
 With joy like his who climbs, on hands and knees, 
 For some rare plant, yon Headland of St. Bees. 
 
 This independence upon oar and sail, 
 This new indifference to breeze or gale, 
 This straight-lined progress, furrowing a flat lea, 
 And regular as if locked in certainty — 
 Depress the hours. Up, Spirit of the storm ! 
 That Courage may find something to perforin ; 
 That Fortitude, whose blood disdains to freeze 
 At Danger's bidding, may confront the seas, 
 Firm as the towering Headlands of St. Bees. 
 
 Dread cliff of Baruth ! that wild wish may sleep, 
 Bold as if men and creatures of the Deep 
 Breathed the same element ; too many wrecks 
 Have struck thy sides, too many ghastly decks 
 Hast thou looked down upon, that such a thought 
 Should here be welcome, and in verse enwrought : 
 With thy stern aspect better far agrees 
 Utterance of thanks that we have past with ease, 
 As millions thus shall do, the Headlands of St. Bees. 
 
 Yet, while each useful Art augments her store 
 What boots the gain if Nature should lose more ! 
 And Wisdom, as she holds a Christian place 
 In man's intelligence sublimed by grace l 
 When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian coast 
 Tempestuous winds her holy errand cross'd : 
 She knelt in prayer — the waves their wrath appease 
 And, from her vow well weighed in Heaven's deerees 
 Rose, where she touched the strand, the Chantr 
 of St. Bees. 
 
 ' Cruel of heart were they, bloody of hand,' 
 Who in these Wilds then struggled for command 
 The strong were merciless, without hope the weak 
 Till this bright Stranger came, fair as day-break, 
 And as a cresset true that darts its length 
 Of beamy lustre from a tower of strength ; 
 Guiding the mariner through troubled seas, 
 And cheering oft his peaceful reveries, 
 Like the fixed Light that crowns yon Headland i 
 St. Bees. 
 
 To aid the Votaress, miracles believed 
 Wrought in men's minds, like miracles achieved 
 So piety took root ; and Song might tell 
 What humanizing virtues near her cell 
 Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide aroun 
 How savage bosoms melted at the sound 
 Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonies 
 Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through close tree 
 From her religious Mansion of St. Bees. 
 
 When her sweet Voice, that instrument of love, 
 Was glorified, and took its place, above 
 The silent stars, among the angelic quire, 
 Her chantry blazed with sacrilegious fire, 
 And perished utterly ; but her good deeds 
 Had sown the spot, that witnessed them, with sev 
 Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze 
 With quickening impulse answered their mute plei 
 And lo ! a statelier pile, the Abbey of St. Bees. 
 
 There are the naked clothed, the hungry fed ; 
 And Charity extendeth to the dead 
 Her intercessions made for the soul's rest 
 Of tardy penitents ; or for the best 
 Among the good (when love might else have sle 
 Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept. 
 Thanks to the austere and simple Devotees, 
 Who, to that service bound by venial fees, 
 Keep watch before the altars of St. Bees. 
 
 Are not, in sooth, their Requiems sacred ties 
 Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies, 
 
SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR, 1833. 
 
 351 
 
 bdued, composed, and formalized by art, 
 
 fix a wiser sorrow in the heart ? 
 1 e prayer for them whose hour is past away 
 I ys to the Living, profit while ye may ! 
 .little part, and that the worst, he sees 
 
 10 thinks that priestly cunning holds the keys 
 1 at best unlock the secrets of St. Bees. 
 
 science, the timid being's inmost light, 
 pe of the dawn and solace of the night, 
 eers these Recluses with a steady ray 
 many an hour when judgment goes astray. 
 ., ! scorn not hastily their rule who try 
 Irth to despise, and flesh to mortify ; 
 asume with zeal, in winged ecstasies 
 prayer and praise forget their rosaries, 
 r hear the loudest surges of St. Bees. 
 
 t none so prompt to succour and protect 
 I e forlorn traveller, or sailor wrecked 
 the bare coast ; nor do they grudge the boon 
 rich staff and cockle hat and sandal shoon 
 ,im for the pilgrim : and, though cliidings sharp 
 ]|y sometimes greet the strolling minstrel's harp, 
 ;is not then when, swept with sportive ease, 
 ] charms a feast-day throng of all degrees, 
 ] ightening the archway of revered St. Bees. 
 
 1 w did the cliffs and echoing hills rejoice 
 1 lat time the Benedictine Brethren's voice, 
 ] ploring, or commanding with meet pride, 
 
 mnoned the Chiefs to lay their feuds aside, 
 jjd under one blest ensign serve the Lord 
 IsPalestine. Advance, indignant Sword ! 
 Ivming till thou from Panym hands release 
 
 at Tomb, dread centre of all sanctities 
 u-sed in the quiet Abbey of St. Bees. 
 
 . t look we now to them whose minds from far 
 llow the fortunes which they may not share, 
 bile in Judea Fancy loves to roam, 
 
 • b helps to make a Holy-land at home : 
 
 e Star of Bethlehem from its sphere invites 
 ' sound the crystal depth of maiden rights ; 
 
 • d wedded Life, through scriptural mysteries, 
 lavenward ascends with all her charities, 
 'i'ight by the hooded Celibates of St. Bees. 
 
 ■jr be it e'er forgotten how by skill 
 
 J cloistered Architects, free their souls to fill 
 
 Ith love of God, throughout the Land were raised ! 
 « urches, on whose symbolic beauty gazed 
 Jasant and mail-clad Chief with pious awe; 
 
 j at this day men seeing what they saw, 
 
 Or the bare wreck of faith's solemnities, 
 Aspire to more than earthly destinies ; 
 Witness yon Pile that greets us from St. Bees. 
 
 Yet more; around those Churches, gathered Towns 
 
 Safe from the feudal Castle's haughty frowns ; 
 
 Peaceful abodes, where Justice might uphold 
 
 Her scales with even hand, and culture mould 
 
 The heart to pity, train the mind in care 
 
 For rules of life, sound as the Time could bear. 
 
 Nor dost thou fail, thro' abject love of ease, 
 
 Or hindrance raised by sordid purposes, 
 
 To bear thy part in this good work, St. Bees. 
 
 Who with the ploughshare clove the barren moors, 
 And to green meadows changed the swampy shores ? 
 Thinned the rank woods; and for the cheerful 
 
 grange 
 Made room where wolf and boar were used to range? 
 Who taught, and showed by deeds, that gentler 
 
 chains 
 Should bind the vassal to Ms lord's domains ? 
 The thoughtful Monks, intent their God to please, 
 For Christ's dear sake, by human sympathies 
 Poured from the bosom of thy Church, St. Bees ! 
 
 But all availed not ; by a mandate given 
 Through lawless will the Brotherhood was driven 
 Forth from their cells ; their ancient House laid low 
 In Reformation's sweeping overthrow. 
 But now once more the local Heart revives, 
 The inextinguishable Spirit strives. 
 Oh may that Power who hushed the stormy seas, 
 And cleared a way for the first Votaries, 
 Prosper the new-born College of St. Bees ! 
 
 Alas ! the Genius of our age, from Schools 
 
 Less humble, draws her lessons, aims, and rules. 
 
 To Prowess guided by her insight keen 
 
 Matter and Spirit are as one Machine ; 
 
 Boastful Idolatress of formal skill 
 
 She in her own would merge the eternal will : 
 
 Better, if Reason's triumphs match with these, 
 
 Her flight before the bold credulities 
 
 That furthered the first teaching of St. Bees.* 
 
 1833. 
 
 * See Excursion, seventh part ; and Ecclesiastical 
 Sketches, second part, near the beginning. 
 
352 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 IN THE CHANNEL, BETWEEN THE COAST OF CUM- 
 BERLAND AND THE ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Black-comb, 
 In his lone course the Shepherd oft will pause, 
 And strive to fathom the mysterious laws 
 By which the clouds, arrayed in light or gloom, 
 On Mona settle, and the shapes assume 
 Of all her peaks and ridges. What he draws 
 From sense, faith, reason, fancy, of the cause, 
 He will take with him to the silent tomb. 
 Or, by his fire, a child upon his knee, 
 Haply the untaught Philosopher may speak 
 Of the strange sight, nor hide his theory 
 That satisfies the simple and the meek, 
 Blest in their pious ignorance, though weak 
 To cope with Sages undevoutly free. 
 
 AT SEA OFF THE ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was strong 
 And doubts and scruples seldom teazed the brain, 
 That no adventurer's bark had power to gain 
 These shores if he approached them bent on wrong ; 
 For, suddenly up-conjured from the Main, 
 Mists rose to hide the Land — that search, though 
 
 long 
 And eager, might be still pursued in vain. 
 O Fancy, what an age was that for song ! 
 That age, when not by laws inanimate, 
 As men believed, the waters were impelled, 
 The air controlled, the stars their courses held ; 
 But element and orb on acts did wait 
 Of Powers endued with visible form, instinct 
 With will, and to their work by passion linked. 
 
 Desire we past illusions to recal? 
 
 To reinstate wild Fancy, would we hide 
 
 Truths whose thick veil Science has drawn aside ? 
 
 No, — let this Age, high as she may, instal 
 
 In her esteem the thirst that wrought man's fall, 
 
 The universe is infinitely wide ; 
 
 And conquering Reason, if self-glorified, 
 
 Can nowhere move uncrossed by some new wall 
 
 Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone, 
 
 Imaginative Faith ! canst overleap, 
 
 In progress toward the fount of Love, — the throne 
 
 Of Power whose ministers the records keep 
 
 Of periods fixed, and laws established, less 
 
 Flesh to exalt than prove its nothingness. 
 
 ON ENTERING DOUGLAS BAT, ISLE OF MAN. 
 ' Dignum laude virum Musa vetat moil' 
 
 The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, 
 Even when they rose to check or to repel 
 Tides of aggressive war, oft served as well 
 Greedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn 
 Just limits ; but yon Tower, whose smiles adon 
 This perilous bay, stands clear of all offence ; 
 Blest work it is of love and innocence, 
 A Tower of refuge built for the else forlorn. 
 Spare it, ye waves, and lift the mariner, 
 Struggling for life, into its saving arms ! 
 Spare, too, the human helpers ! Do they stir 
 'Mid your fierce shock like men afraid to die ? 
 No ; their dread service nerves the heart it wan 
 And they are led by noble Hillary*. 
 
 BY THE SEA-SHORE, ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine. 
 With wonder srnit by its transparency, 
 And all-enraptured with its purity ? — 
 Because the unstained, the clear, the crystallim 
 Have ever in them something of benign ; 
 Whether in gem, in water, or in sky, 
 A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye 
 Of a young maiden, only not divine. 
 Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm 
 For beverage drawn as from a mountain-well. 
 Temptation centres in the liquid Calm ; 
 Our daily raiment seems no obstacle 
 To instantaneous plunging in, deep Sea ! 
 And revelling in long embrace with theef 
 
 ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 A youth too certain of Ms power to wade 
 On the smooth bottom of this clear bright Sf 
 To sight so shallow, with a bather's glee 
 Leapt from this rock, and but for timely aid 
 He, by the alluring element betrayed, 
 Had perished. Then might Sea-nymphs (and v 
 Of self-reproach) have chanted elegies 
 Bewailing his sad fate, when he was laid 
 In peaceful earth : for, doubtless, he was frank 
 Utterly in himself devoid of guile ; 
 Knew not the double-dealing of a smile ; 
 Nor aught that makes men's promises a Wank, 
 Or deadly snare : and He survives to bless 
 The Power that saved him in his strange distr 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 + The sea-water on the coast of the Isle of Man is 
 gularly pure and beautiful 
 
SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR, 1833. 
 
 353 
 
 ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 id pangs of grief for lenient time too keen, 
 
 rief that devouring waves had caused — or guilt 
 
 liich they had witnessed, sway the man who built 
 
 iiis Homestead, placed where nothing could be seen, 
 
 ought heard, of ocean troubled or serene ? 
 
 i tired Ship-soldier on paternal land, 
 
 >iat o'er the channel holds august command, 
 
 iie dwelling raised, — a veteran Marine. 
 
 le, in disgust, turned from the neighbouring sea 
 
 i> shun the memory of a listless life 
 
 lat hung between two callings. May no strife 
 
 jore hurtful here beset him, doomed though free, 
 
 lf-doomed, to worse inaction, till his eye 
 
 firink from the daily sight of earth and sky ! 
 
 BY A RETIRED MARINER. 
 (A FBIEND OF THE ADTJSOJ1.) 
 
 iom early youth I ploughed the restless Main, 
 y mind as restless and as apt to change ; 
 
 u*ough every clime and ocean did I range, 
 
 i hope at length a competence to gain ; 
 
 .ir poor to Sea I went, and poor I still remain. 
 
 par after year I strove, but strove in vain, 
 
 •id hardships manifold did I endure, 
 
 Ir Fortune on me never deign'd to smile ; 
 
 pt I at last a resting-place have found, 
 
 ith just enough life's comforts to procure, 
 
 | a snug Cove on this our favoured Isle, 
 
 I peaceful spot where Nature's gifts abound ; 
 en sure I have no reason to complain, 
 .ough poor to Sea I went, and poor I still remain. 
 
 AT BALA-SALA, ISLE OF MAN. 
 (SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.) 
 
 tOKEN in fortune, but in mind entire 
 
 ;id sound in principle; I seek repose 
 
 (here ancient trees this convent-pile enclose*, 
 
 • ruin beautiful. When vain desire 
 
 ;trudes on peace, I pray the eternal Sire 
 
 | cast a soul-subduing shade on me, 
 
 grey-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee ; 
 
 shade — but with some sparks of heavenly fire 
 
 ce to these cells vouchsafed. And when I note 
 
 e old Tower's brow yellowed a3 with the beams 
 
 sunset ever there, albeit streams 
 
 1 stormy weather-stains that semblance wrought, 
 hank the silent Monitor, and say 
 ' ihine so, my aged brow, at all hours of the day !" 
 
 
 * Rushen Abbey. 
 
 TYNWALD HILL. 
 
 Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound 
 (Still marked with green turf circles narrowing 
 Stage above stage) would sit this Island's King, 
 The laws to promulgate, enrobed and crowned ; 
 While, compassing the little mount around, 
 Degrees and Orders stood, each under each : 
 Now, like to tilings within fate's easiest reach, 
 The power is merged, the pomp a grave has found. 
 Off with yon cloud, old Snafell ! that thine eye 
 Over three Realms may take its widest range ; 
 And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange 
 Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy, 
 If the whole State must suffer mortal change, 
 Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty. 
 
 Despond who will — / heard a voice exclaim, 
 
 " Though fierce the assault, and shatter'd the defence, 
 
 It cannot be that Britain's social frame, 
 
 The glorious work of time and providence, 
 
 Before a flying season's rash pretence, 
 
 Should fall ; that She, whose virtue put to shame, 
 
 When Europe prostrate lay, the Conqueror's aim, 
 
 Should perish, self-subverted. Black and dense 
 
 The cloud is ; but brings that a day of doom 
 
 To Liberty ? Her sun is up the while, 
 
 That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred shone : 
 
 Then laugh, ye innocent Vales ! ye Streams, sweep 
 
 on, 
 Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest Isle 
 Toss in the fanning wind a humbler plume." 
 
 IN THE FRITH OF CLYDE, AILSA CRAG. 
 DURING AN ECLIPSE OP THE SUN, JULY 17. 
 
 Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy, 
 Appeared the Crag of Ailsa, ne'er did morn 
 With gleaming lights more gracefully adorn 
 His sides, or wreathe with mist his forehead high: 
 Now, faintly darkening with the sun's eclipse, 
 Still is he seen, in lone sublimity, 
 Towering above the sea and little ships ; 
 For dwarfs the tallest seem while sailing by, 
 Each for her haven ; with her freight of Care, 
 Pleasure, or Grief, and Toil that seldom looks 
 Into the secret of to-morrow's fare ; 
 Though poor, yet rich, without the wealth of books, 
 Or aught that watchful Love to Nature owes 
 For her mute Powers, fix'd Forms, or transient 
 Shows. 
 
354 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 ON THE FRITH OF CLYDE. 
 (IN A STEAM-BOAT.) 
 
 Arran ! a single- crested Teneriffe, 
 A St. Helena next — in shape and hue, 
 Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue ; 
 Who but must covet a cloud-seat, or skiff 
 Built for the air, or winged Hippogriff ? 
 That he might fly, where no one could pursue, 
 From this dull Monster and her sooty crew ; 
 And, as a God, light on thy topmost cliff. 
 Impotent wish ! which reason would despise 
 If the mind knew no union of extremes, 
 No natural bond between the boldest schemes 
 Ambition frames, and heart-humilities. 
 Beneath stern mountains many a soft vale lies, 
 And lofty springs give birth to lowly streams. 
 
 ON REVISITING DUNOLLY CASTLE. 
 [See former series, p. 337.] 
 The captive Bird was gone ; — to cliff or moor 
 Perchance had flown, delivered by the storm ; 
 Or he had pined, and sunk to feed the worm : 
 Him found we not : but, climbing a tall tower, 
 There saw, impaved with rude fidelity 
 Of art mosaic, in a roofless floor, 
 An Eagle with stretched wings, but beamless eye- 
 An Eagle that could neither wail nor soar. 
 Effigy of the Vanished — (shall I dare 
 To call thee so ?) or symbol of fierce deeds 
 And of the towering courage which past times 
 Rejoiced in — take, whate'er thou be, a share, 
 Not undeserved, of the memorial rhymes 
 That animate my way where'er it leads ! 
 
 THE DUNOLLY EAGLE. 
 
 Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew ; 
 But when a storm, on sea or mountain bred, 
 Came and delivered him, alone he sped 
 Into the castle-dungeon's darkest mew. 
 Now, near his master's house in open view 
 He dwells, and hears indignant tempests howl, 
 Kennelled and chained. Ye tame domestic fowl, 
 Beware of him ! Thou, saucy cockatoo, 
 Look to thy plumage and thy life ! — The roe, 
 Fleet as the west wind, is for Mm no quarry ; 
 Balanced in ether he will never tarry, 
 Eyeing the sea's blue depths. Poor Bird ! even so 
 Doth man of brother man a creature make 
 That clings to slavery for its own sad sake. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF MACPHERSON's 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, 
 
 Fragments of far-off melodies, 
 
 With ear not coveting the whole, 
 
 A part so charmed the pensive soul : 
 
 While a dark storm before my sight 
 
 Was yielding, on a mountain height 
 
 Loose vapours have I watched, that won 
 
 Prismatic colours from the sun ; 
 
 Nor felt a wish that heaven would show 
 
 The image of its perfect bow. 
 
 What need, then, of these finished Strains? 
 
 Away with counterfeit Remains ! 
 
 An abbey in its lone recess, 
 
 A temple of the wilderness, 
 
 Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling 
 
 The majesty of honest dealing. 
 
 Spirit of Ossian ! if unbound 
 
 In language thou may'st yet be found, 
 
 If aught (intrusted to the pen 
 
 Or floating on the tongues of men, 
 
 Albeit shattered and impaired) 
 
 Subsist thy dignity to guard, 
 
 In concert with memorial claim 
 
 Of old grey stone, and high-born name 
 
 That cleaves to rock or pillared cave 
 
 Where moans the blast, or beats the wave, 
 
 Let Truth, stern arbitress of all, 
 
 Interpret that Original, 
 
 And for presumptuous wrongs atone ; — 
 
 Authentic words be given, or none ! 
 
 Time is not blind ; — yet He, who spares 
 Pyramid pointing to the stars, 
 Hath preyed with ruthless appetite 
 On all that marked the primal flight 
 Of the poetic ecstasy 
 Into the land of mystery. 
 No tongue is able to rehearse 
 One measure, Orpheus ! of thy verse ; 
 Musseus, stationed with his lyre 
 Supreme among the Elysian quire, 
 Is, for the dwellers upon earth, 
 Mute as a lark ere morning's birth. 
 Why grieve for these, though past away 
 The music, and extinct the lay ? 
 When thousands, by severer doom, 
 Full early to the silent tomb 
 Have sunk, at Nature's call ; or strayed 
 From hope and promise, self-betrayed ; 
 
SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR, 1833. 
 
 355 
 
 The garland withering on their brows ; 
 , Stung with remorse for broken vows ; 
 Frantic — else how might they rejoice? 
 And friendless, by their own sad choice ! 
 
 Hail, Bards of mightier grasp ! on you 
 I chiefly call, the chosen Few, 
 Who cast not off the acknowledged guide, 
 Who faltered not, nor turned aside ; 
 Whose lofty genius could survive 
 Privation, under sorrow thrive ; 
 In whom the fiery Muse revered 
 The symbol of a snow-white beard, 
 Bedewed with meditative tears 
 Dropped from the lenient cloud of years. 
 
 Brothers in soul ! though distant times 
 i Produced you nursed in various climes, 
 Ye, when the orb of life had waned, 
 A plenitude of love retained : 
 Hence, while in you each sad regret 
 By corresponding hope was met, 
 Ye lingered among human kind, 
 Sweet voices for the passing wind ; 
 Departing sunbeams, loth to stop, 
 Though smiling on the last hill top ! 
 Such to the tender-hearted maid 
 Even ere her joys begin to fade ; 
 Such, haply, to the rugged chief 
 By fortune crushed, or tamed by grief; 
 Appears, on Morven's lonely shore, 
 Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore, 
 The Son of Fingal ; such was blind 
 Meeonides of ampler mind ; 
 Such Milton, to the fountain head 
 Of glory by Urania led ! 
 
 1824 
 
 XXVIII. 
 CAVE OF STAFFA. 
 
 e saw, but surely, in the motley crowd, 
 It One of us has felt the far-famed sight ; 
 ,'w could we feel it ? each the other's blight, 
 uried and hurrying, volatile and loud. 
 'for those motions only that invite 
 
 e Ghost of Fingal to his tuneful Cave 
 I the breeze entered, and wave after wave 
 : 'tly embosoming the timid light ! 
 ••'d by one Votary who at will might stand 
 '■zing and take into his mind and heart, 
 iith undistracted reverence, the effect 
 I those proportions where the almighty hand 
 
 at made the worlds, the sovereign Architect, 
 
 13 deigned to work as if with human Art ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA. 
 AFTER THE CROWD HAD DEPARTED. 
 
 Thanks for the lessons of this Spot — fit school 
 For the presumptuous thoughts that would assign 
 Mechanic laws to agency divine ; 
 And, measuring heaven by earth, would overrule 
 Infinite Power. The pillared vestibule, 
 Expanding yet precise, the roof embowed, 
 Might seem designed to humble man, when proud 
 Of his best workmanship by plan and tool. 
 Down-bearing with his whole Atlantic weight 
 Of tide and tempest on the Structure's base, 
 And flashing to that Structure's topmost height, 
 ?ean has proved its strength, and of its grace 
 In calms is conscious, finding for his freight 
 Of softest music some responsive place. 
 
 CAVE OF STAFFA. 
 
 Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims 
 In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot, 
 Where are ye ? Driven or venturing to the spot, 
 Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin Frames, 
 And, by your mien and bearing, knew your names ; 
 And they could hear Ms ghostly song who trod 
 Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load, 
 While he struck his desolate harp without hopes or 
 Vanished ye are, but subject to recal ; [aims. 
 
 Why keep we else the instincts whose dread law 
 Ruled here of yore, till what men felt they saw, 
 Not by black arts but magic natural ! 
 If eyes be still sworn vassals of belief, 
 Yon light shapes forth a Bard, that shade a Chief. 
 
 FLOWEES ON THE TOP OF THE PILLARS AT THE 
 ENTRANCE OF THE CAVE. 
 
 Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, 
 Children of Summer ! Ye fresh Flowers that brave 
 What Summer here escapes not, the fierce wave, 
 And whole artillery of the western blast, 
 Battering the Temple's front, its long-drawn nave 
 Smiting, as if each moment were their last. 
 But ye, bright Flowers, on frieze and architrave 
 Survive, and once again the Pile stands fast : 
 Calm as the Universe, from specular towers 
 Of heaven contemplated by Spirits pure 
 With mute astonishment, it stands sustained 
 Through every part in symmetry, to endure, 
 Unhurt, the assault of Time with all his hours, 
 As the supreme Artificer ordained. 
 
356 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 IONA. 
 
 On to Iona ! — What can she afford 
 
 To us save matter for a thoughtful sigh, 
 
 Heaved over ruin with stahility 
 
 In urgent contrast ? To diffuse the Word 
 
 (Thy Paramount, mighty Nature ! and Time's Lord) 
 
 Her Temples rose, 'mid pagan gloom ; but why, 
 
 Even for a moment, has our verse deplored 
 
 Their wrongs, since they fulfilled their destiny \ 
 
 And when, subjected to a common doom 
 
 Of mutabihty, those far-famed Piles 
 
 Shall disappear from both the sister Isles, 
 
 Iona's Saints, forgetting not past days, 
 
 Garlands shall wear of amaranthine bloom, 
 
 While heaven's vast sea of voices chants their praise. 
 
 IONA. 
 (OPON LANDING.) 
 
 How sad a welcome ! To each voyager 
 Some ragged child holds up for sale a store 
 Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore 
 Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir, 
 Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer. 
 Yet is yon neat trim church a grateful speck 
 Of novelty amid the sacred wreck 
 Strewn far and wide. Think, proud Philosopher ! 
 Fallen though she be, this Glory of the west, 
 Still on her sons, the beams of mercy shine ; 
 And ' hopes, perhaps more heavenly bright than 
 A grace by thee unsought and unpossest, [thine, 
 A faith more fixed, a rapture more divine 
 Shall gild their passage to eternal rest.' 
 
 THE BLACK STONES OF IONA. 
 
 [See Martin's Voyage among the Western Isles.] 
 
 Here on their knees men swore : the stones were 
 
 black, 
 Black in the people's minds and words, yet they 
 Were at that time, as now, in colour grey. 
 But what is colour, if upon the rack 
 Of conscience souls are placed by deeds that lack 
 Concord with oaths ? What differ night and day 
 Then, when before the Perjured on his way 
 Hell opens, and the heavens in vengeance crack 
 Above his head uplifted in vain prayer 
 To Saint, or Fiend, or to the Godhead whom 
 He had insulted — Peasant, King, or Thane ? 
 Fly where the culprit may, guilt meets a doom ; 
 And, from invisible worlds at need laid bare, 
 Come links for social order's awful chain. 
 
 Homeward we tarn. Isle of Columba's Cell, 
 Where Christian piety's soul-cheering spark 
 (Kindled from Heaven between the light and dar 
 Of time) shone like the morning-star, farewell !- 
 And fare thee well, to Fancy visible, 
 Remote St. Kilda, lone and loved sea-mark 
 For many a voyage made in her swift bark, 
 When with more hues than in the rainbow dwell 
 Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold, 
 Extracting from clear skies and air serene, 
 And out of sun-bright waves, a lucid veil, 
 That thickens, spreads, and, mingling fold with id 
 Makes known, when thou no longer canst be see 
 Thy whereabout, to warn the approaching sail. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 
 GREENOCK. 
 Per me si va nella Citta dolente. 
 
 We have not passed into a doleful City, 
 We who were led to-day down a grim dell, 
 By some too boldly named ' the Jaws of Hell : ' 
 Where be the wretched ones, the sights for pit} 
 These crowded streets resound no plaintive ditty : 
 As from the hive where bees in summer dwell, 
 Sorrow seems here excluded ; and that knell, 
 It neither damps the gay, nor checks the witty. 
 Alas ! too busy Rival of old Tyre, [throne 
 
 Whose merchants Princes were, whose decks we 
 Soon may the punctual sea in vain respire 
 To serve thy need, in union with that Clyde 
 Whose nursling current brawls o'er mossy ston-. 
 The poor, the lonely, herdsman's joy and pride. 
 
 " There !" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pri 
 Towards a low roof with green trees half conceal 
 " Is Mosgiel Farm ; and that 's the very field 
 Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far a 
 
 wide 
 A plain below stretched seaward, while, descrif 
 Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran ros? ; 
 And, by that simple notice, the repose 
 Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
 Beneath < the random bield of clod or stone ' 
 Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
 Have passed away ; less happy than the One 
 That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to pre 
 The tender charm of poetry and love. 
 
SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR, 1833. 
 
 857 
 
 THE RIVER EDEN, CUMBERLAND. 
 
 den ! till now thy beauty had I viewed 
 y glimpses only, and confess with shame 
 hat verse of mine, whate'er its varying mood, 
 epeats but once the sound of thy sweet name : 
 et fetched from Paradise that honour came, 
 ightfully borne ; for Nature gives thee flowers 
 feat have no rivals among British bowers ; 
 ; nd thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame. 
 Measuring thy course, fair Stream ! at length I pay 
 p my life's neighbour dues of neighbourhood ; 
 ut I have traced thee on thy winding way 
 T ith pleasure sometimes by this thought restrained 
 3r things far off we toil, while many a good 
 ot sought, because too near, is never gained. 
 
 MONUMENT OF MRS. HOWARD, 
 (by Nollekens,) 
 
 WETHERAL CHURCH, NEAR CORBY, ON THE BANKS OF 
 THE EDEN. 
 
 retched on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead 
 ;er new-born Babe ; dire ending of bright hope ! 
 at Sculpture here, with the divinest scope 
 'luminous faith, heavenward hath raised that head 
 .> patiently ; and through one hand has spread 
 touch so tender for the insensate Child — 
 larth's lingering love to parting reconciled, 
 Kef parting, for the spirit is all but fled) — 
 lat we, who contemplate the turns of life 
 jirough this still medium, are consoled and cheered ; 
 '^el with the Mother, think the severed Wife 
 , less to be lamented than revered ; 
 id own that Art, triumphant over strife 
 pain, hath powers to Eternity endeared. 
 
 suggested by the foregoing, 
 ianquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou 
 ; heathen schools of philosophic lore ; 
 sart-stricken by stern destiny of yore 
 tie Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow ; 
 id what of hope Elysium could allow 
 as fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore 
 .■ace to the Mourner. But when He who wore 
 le crown of thorns around his bleeding brow 
 armed our sad being with celestial light, 
 | en. Arts which still had drawn a softening grace 
 i'om shadowy fountains of the Infinite, 
 ^mmuned with that Idea face to face : 
 id move around it now as planets run, 
 tch in its orbit round the central Sun. 
 
 NUNNERY. 
 
 The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary ; 
 
 Down from the Pennine Alps* how fiercely sweeps 
 
 Croglin, the stately Eden's tributary ! 
 
 He raves, or through some moody passage creeps 
 
 Plotting new mischief — out again he leaps 
 
 Into broad light, and sends, through regions airy, 
 
 That voice which soothed the Nuns while on the 
 
 steeps 
 They knelt in prayer, or sang to blissful Mary. 
 That union ceased : then, cleaving easy walks 
 Through crags, and smoothing paths beset with 
 
 danger, 
 Came studious Taste; and many a pensive stranger 
 Dreams on the banks, and to the river talks. 
 What change shall happen next to Nunnery Dell ? 
 Canal, and Viaduct, and Railway, tell ! 
 
 STEAMBOATS, VIADUCTS, AND RAILWAYS. 
 
 Motions and Means, on land and sea at war 
 
 With old poetic feeling, not for this, 
 
 Shall ye, by Poets even, be judged amiss ! 
 
 Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar 
 
 The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar 
 
 To the Mind's gaining that prophetic sense 
 
 Of future change, that point of vision, whence 
 
 May be discovered what in soul ye are. 
 
 In spite of all that beauty may disown 
 
 In your harsh features, Nature doth embrace 
 
 Her lawful offspring in Man's art ; and Time, 
 
 Pleased with your triumphs o'er his brother Space, 
 
 Accepts from your bold hands the proffered crown 
 
 Of hope, and smiles on you with cheer sublime. 
 
 THE MONUMENT COMMONLY CALLED LONG MEG AND HER 
 DAUGHTERS, NEAR THE RIVER EDEN. 
 
 A weight of awe, not easy to be borne, 
 
 Fell suddenly upon my Spirit — cast 
 
 From the dread bosom of the unknown past, 
 
 When first I saw that family forlorn. 
 
 Speak Thou, whose massy strength and stature scorn 
 
 The power of years — pre-eminent, and placed 
 
 Apart, to overlook the circle vast — 
 
 Speak, Giant-mother ! tell it to the Morn 
 
 While she dispels the cumbrous shades of Night ; 
 
 Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud ; 
 
 At whose behest uprose on British ground 
 
 That Sisterhood, in hieroglyphic round 
 
 Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite 
 
 The inviolable God, that tames the proud f ! 
 
 * The chain of Crossfell. 
 
 f See Note. 
 
358 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 
 
 XLIV. 
 LOWTHER. 
 
 Lowther ! in thy majestic Pile are seen 
 
 Cathedral pomp and grace, in apt accord 
 
 With the baronial castle's sterner mien ; 
 
 Union significant of God adored, 
 
 And charters won and guarded by the sword 
 
 Of ancient honour ; whence that goodly state 
 
 Of polity which wise men venerate, 
 
 And will maintain, if God his help afford. 
 
 Hourly the democratic torrent swells ; 
 
 For airy promises and hopes suborned [scorned. 
 
 The strength of backward-looking thoughts is 
 
 Fall if ye must, ye Towers and Pinnacles, 
 
 With what ye symbolise ; authentic Story 
 
 Will say, Ye disappeared with England's Glory ! 
 
 TO THE EARL OF LONSDALE. 
 ' Magistratus indicat virum.' 
 Lonsdale ! it were unworthy of a Guest, 
 Whose heart with gratitude to thee inclines, 
 If he should speak, by fancy touched, of signs 
 On thy Abode harmoniously imprest, 
 Yet be unmoved with wishes to attest 
 How in thy mind and moral frame agree 
 Fortitude, and that Christian Charity 
 Which, filling, consecrates the human breast. 
 And if the Motto on thy 'scutcheon teach 
 With truth, ' The Magistracy shows the Man ;' 
 That searching test thy public course has stood ; 
 As will be owned alike by bad and good, 
 Soon as the measuring of life's little span 
 Shall place thy virtues out of Envy's reach*. 
 
 THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower + 
 
 At eve ; how softly then 
 Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse, 
 
 Speak from the woody glen ! 
 Fit music for a solemn vale ! 
 
 And holier seems the ground 
 To him who catches on the gale 
 The spirit of a mournful tale, 
 
 Embodied in the sound. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
 t A pleasure-house built by the late Duke of Norfolk 
 upon the banks of Ullswater. Force is the word used in 
 the Lake District for Water-fall. 
 
 Not far from that fair site whereon 
 
 The Pleasure-house is reared, 
 As story says, in antique days 
 
 A stern-brow'd house appeared ; 
 Foil to a Jewel rich in light 
 
 There set, and guarded well ; 
 Cage for a Bird of plumage bright, 
 Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight 
 
 Beyond her native dell. 
 
 To win this bright Bird from her cage, 
 
 To make this Gem their own, 
 Came Barons bold, with store of gold, 
 
 And Knights of high renown ; 
 But one She prized, and only one ; 
 
 Sir Eglamore was he ; 
 Full happy season, when was known, 
 Ye Dales and Hills ! to you alone 
 
 Their mutual loyalty — 
 
 Known chiefly, Aira ! to thy glen, 
 
 Thy brook, and bowers of holly ; 
 Where Passion caught what Nature taught, 
 
 That all but love is folly ; 
 Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play ; 
 
 Doubt came not, nor regret — 
 To trouble hours that winged their way, 
 As if through an immortal day 
 
 Whose sun could never set. 
 
 But in old times Love dwelt not long 
 
 Sequester' d with repose ; 
 Best throve the fire of chaste desire, 
 
 Fanned by the breath of foes. 
 " A conquering lance is beauty's test, 
 
 (C And proves the Lover true ;" 
 So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed 
 The drooping Emma to his breast, 
 
 And looked a blind adieu. 
 
 They parted. — Well with him it fared 
 
 Through wide-spread regions errant ; 
 A knight of proof in love's behoof, 
 
 The thirst of fame his warrant : 
 And She her happiness can build 
 
 On woman's quiet hours ; 
 Though faint, compared with spear and 
 The solace beads and masses yield, 
 
 And needlewoi'k and flowers. 
 
 Yet blest was Emma when she heard 
 Her Champion's praise recounted ; 
 
 Though brain would swim, and eyes grow i 
 And high her blushes mounted ; 
 
SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR, 1833. 
 
 359 
 
 Or when a bold heroic lay 
 
 She warbled from full heart ; 
 Delightful blossoms for the May 
 Of absence ! but they will not stay, 
 
 Born only to depart. 
 
 Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills 
 
 Whatever path he chooses ; 
 As if his orb, that owns no curb, 
 
 Received the light hers loses. 
 He comes not back ; an ampler space 
 
 Requires for nobler deeds ; 
 He ranges on from place to place, 
 Till of his doings is no trace, 
 
 But what her fancy breeds. 
 
 His fame may spread, but in the past 
 
 Her spirit finds its centre ; 
 ; Clear sight She has of what he was, 
 
 And that would now content her. 
 " Still is he my devoted Knight ?" 
 ! The tear in answer flows ; 
 iMonth falls on month with heavier weight ; 
 iDay sickens round her, and the night 
 
 Is empty of repose. 
 
 In sleep She sometimes walked abroad, 
 I Deep sighs with quick words blending, 
 'Like that pale Queen whose hands are seen 
 .' With fancied spots contending ; 
 jBut she is innocent of blood, — 
 i The moon is not more pure 
 That shines aloft, while through the wood 
 (She thrids her way, the sounding Flood 
 Her melancholy lure ! 
 
 While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, 
 
 And owls alone are waking, 
 'In white arrayed, glides on the Maid 
 ' The downward pathway taking, 
 That leads her to the torrent's side 
 j And to a holly bower ; 
 By whom on this still night descried ? 
 By whom in that lone place espied ? 
 I By thee, Sir Eglamore ! 
 
 A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, 
 ! His coming step has thwarted, 
 Beneath the boughs that heard their vows, 
 | Within whose shade they parted. 
 Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see ! 
 j Perplexed her fingers seem, 
 As if they from the holly tree 
 Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly 
 Flung from her to the stream. 
 
 What means the Spectre ? Why intent 
 
 To violate the Tree, 
 Thought Eglamore, by which I swore 
 
 Unfading constancy ? 
 Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, 
 
 To her I left, shall prove 
 That bliss is ne'er so surely won 
 As when a circuit has been run 
 
 Of valour, truth, and love. 
 
 So from the spot whereon he stood, 
 
 He moved with stealthy pace ; 
 And, drawing nigh, with his living eye, 
 
 He recognised the face ; 
 And whispers caught, and speeches small, 
 
 Some to the green-leaved tree, 
 Some muttered to the torrent-fall ; — 
 " Roar on, and bring him with thy call ; 
 
 " I heard, and so may He !" 
 
 Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew 
 
 If Emma's Ghost it were, 
 Or boding Shade, or if the Maid 
 
 Her very self stood there. 
 He touched ; what followed who shall tell ? 
 
 The soft touch snapped the thread 
 Of slumber — shrieking back she fell, 
 And the Stream whirled her down the dell 
 
 Along its foaming bed. 
 
 In plunged the Knight ! — when on firm ground 
 
 The rescued Maiden lay, 
 Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, 
 
 Confusion passed away ; 
 She heard, ere to the throne of grace 
 
 Her faithful Spirit flew, 
 His voice — beheld his speaking face ; 
 And, dying, from his own embrace, 
 
 She felt that he was true. 
 
 So was he reconciled to life : 
 
 Brief words may speak the rest ; 
 Within the dell he built a cell, 
 
 And there was Sorrow's guest ; 
 In hermits' weeds repose he found, 
 
 From vain temptations free ; 
 Beside the torrent dwelling — bound 
 By one deep heart-controlling sound, 
 
 And awed to piety. 
 
 Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course, 
 
 Nor fear memorial lays, 
 Where clouds that spread in solemn shade, 
 
 Are edged with golden rays ! 
 
360 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 Dear art thou to the light of heaven, 
 Though minister of sorrow ; 
 
 Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ; 
 
 And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, 
 Shalt take thy place with Yarrow ! 
 
 TO CORDELIA M- 
 
 HALLSTEADS, ULLSWATER. 
 
 Not in the mines beyond the western main, 
 You say, Cordelia, was the metal sought, 
 Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought 
 Into this flexible yet faithful Chain ; 
 Nor is it silver of romantic Spain 
 Butfrom our loved Helvellyn's depths was brought, 
 Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought 
 Mix strangely ; trifles light, and partly vain, 
 Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler being : 
 Yes, Lady, while about your neck is wound 
 
 (Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord 
 What witchery, for pure gifts of inward seeing, 
 Lurks in it, Memory's Helper, Fancy's Lord, 
 For precious tremblings in your bosom found ! 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 
 To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 
 
 While a fair region round the traveller lies 
 
 Which he forbears again to look upon ; 
 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 
 
 The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 
 The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
 
 If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 
 
 Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : 
 
 With Thought and Love companions of our way, 
 
 Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, 
 
 The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 
 
 Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 
 
 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 361 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 
 
 " Why, William, on that old grey stone, 
 Thus for the length of half a day, 
 Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
 And dream your time away ? 
 
 Where are your books ? — that light bequeathed 
 To Beings else forlorn and blind ! 
 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, 
 id none had lived before you !" 
 
 An, 
 
 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. 
 
 'hink you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
 Of things for ever speaking, 
 That nothing of itself will come, 
 But we must still be seeking? 
 
 — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 
 Conversing as I may, 
 
 I sit upon this old grey stone, 
 
 And dream my time away." 
 
 . 
 
 179a. 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED. 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 
 Or surely you '11 grow double : 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; 
 Why all this toil and trouble ? 
 
 The sun, above the mountain's head, 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow 
 
 Through all the long green fields has spread, 
 
 His first sweet evening yellow. 
 
 Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : 
 Come, hear the woodland linnet, 
 How sweet his music ! on my life, 
 There's more of wisdom in it. 
 
 And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
 He, too, is no mean preacher : 
 Come forth into the light of things, 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 She has a world of ready wealth, 
 Our minds and hearts to bless — 
 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
 
 One impulse from a vernal wood 
 May teach you more of man, 
 Of moral evil and of good, 
 Than all the sages can. 
 
 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; 
 Our meddling intellect 
 
 Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things :— 
 We murder to dissect. 
 
 Enough of Science and of Art ; 
 
 Close up those barren leaves ; 
 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 
 That watches and receives. 
 
 1798. 
 
362 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes, 
 While in a grove I sate reclined, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopped and played, 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
 But the least motion which they made, 
 It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
 To catch the breezy air ; 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 If this belief from heaven be sent, 
 
 If such be Nature's holy plan, 
 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 
 What man has made of man? 
 
 1798. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 E marvel how Nature could ever find space 
 For so many strange contrasts in one human face : 
 There 's thought and no thought, and there 's pale- 
 ness and bloom 
 And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. 
 
 There 's weakness, and strength both redundant 
 
 and vain ; 
 Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain 
 Could pierce through a temper that 'ssoft to disease, 
 Would be rational peace — a philosopher's ease. 
 
 There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, 
 And attention full ten times as much as there needs ; 
 Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy ; 
 And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy. 
 
 There 's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare 
 Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she 's there 
 There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, 
 Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name 
 
 This picture from nature may seem to depart, 
 Yet the Man would at once run away with you: 
 
 heart ; 
 And I for five centuries right gladly would be 
 Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he. 
 
 laoo. 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 It is the first mild day of March : 
 Each minute sweeter than before 
 The redbreast sings from the tall larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 There is a blessing in the air, 
 Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
 To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
 And grass in the green field. 
 
 My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) 
 Now that our morning meal is done, 
 Make haste, your morning task resign ; 
 Come forth and feel the sun. 
 
 Edward will come with you ; — and, pray, 
 Put on with speed your woodland dress ; 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 We '11 give to idleness. 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 Our living calendar : 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 Love, now a universal birth, 
 From heart to heart is stealing, 
 From earth to man, from man to earth : 
 — It is the hour of feeling. 
 
 One moment now may give us more 
 Than years of toiling reason : 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 The spirit of the season. 
 
 Some silent laws our hearts will make, 
 Which they shall long obey : 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 363" 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick ; 
 
 1 About, below, above, 
 
 His body, dwindled and awry, 
 
 We'll frame the measure of our souls : 
 
 Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ; 
 
 They shall be tuned to love. 
 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 
 ■ 
 
 One prop he has, and only one, 
 
 Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray, 
 
 His wife, an aged woman, 
 
 With speed put on your woodland dress ; 
 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 
 Upon the village Common. 
 
 We '11 give to idleness. 
 
 
 1798. 
 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
 
 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 
 
 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 
 VI. • 
 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 
 
 Tins scrap of land he from the heath 
 
 SIMON LEE, 
 
 Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
 
 
 But what to them avails the land 
 
 THE OLD HUNTSMAN ; 
 
 
 
 Which he can till no longer ? 
 
 WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. 
 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 
 Oft, working by her Husband's side, 
 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
 
 Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 
 
 !An old Man dwells, a little man, — 
 
 For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
 
 j'Tis said he once was tall. 
 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 
 IFull five-and-thirty years he lived 
 
 And, though you with your utmost skill 
 
 A running huntsman merry ; 
 
 From labour could not wean them, 
 
 And still the centre of his cheek 
 
 'Tis little, very little — all 
 
 Is red as a ripe cherry. 
 
 That they can do between them. 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound, 
 
 Few months of life has he in store 
 
 iA.nd hill and valley rang with glee 
 
 As he to you will tell, 
 
 iWhen Echo bandied, round and round, 
 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 
 The halloo of Simon Lee. 
 
 Do his weak ankles swell. 
 
 'In those proud days, he little cared 
 
 My gentle Reader, I perceive 
 
 For husbandry or tillage ; 
 
 How patiently you 've waited, 
 
 To blither tasks did Simon rouse 
 
 And now I fear that you expect 
 
 The sleepers of the village. 
 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 He all the country could outrun, 
 
 Reader ! had you in your mind 
 
 iCould leave both man and horse behind ; 
 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 And often, ere the chase was done, 
 
 gentle Reader ! you would find 
 
 He reeled, and was stone-blind. 
 
 A tale in every thing. 
 
 And still there 's something in the world 
 
 What more I have to say is short, 
 
 At which his heart rejoices ; 
 
 And you must kindly take it : 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 
 It is no tale ; but, should you think, 
 
 He dearly loves their voices ! 
 
 Perhaps a tale you '11 make it. 
 
 'But, oh the heavy change ! — bereft 
 
 One summer-day I chanced to see 
 
 ! 0f health, strength, friends, and kindred, see ! 
 
 This old Man doing all he could 
 
 Old Simon to the world is left 
 
 To unearth the root of an old tree, 
 
 [in liveried poverty. 
 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 
 jHis Master's dead, — and no one now 
 
 The mattock tottered in his hand ; 
 
 'Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 
 
 So vain was his endeavour, 
 
 ,Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ; 
 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 He might have worked for ever. 
 
364 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 " 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 eyes were brought, 
 And thanks and praises seemed to run 
 So fast out of his heart, I thought 
 They never would have done. 
 — I 've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
 With coldness still returning ; 
 Alas ! the gratitude of men 
 Hath oftener left me mourning. 
 
 1798. 
 
 VII. 
 
 WRITTEN IN GERMANY, 
 
 ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY. 
 
 The Reader must be apprised, that the Stoves in North- 
 Germany generally have the impression of a galloping 
 horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms. 
 
 A plague on your languages, German and Norse ! 
 Let me have the song of the kettle ; 
 And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse 
 That gallops away with such fury and force 
 On this dreary dull plate of black metal. 
 
 See that Fly, — a disconsolate creature ! perhaps 
 A child of the field or the grove ; 
 And, sorrow for him ! the dull treacherous heat 
 Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat, 
 And he creeps to the edge of my stove. 
 
 Alas ! how he fumbles about the domains 
 Which this comfortless oven environ ! 
 He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, 
 Now back to the tiles, then in search of the wall, 
 And now on the brink of the iron. 
 
 Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed: 
 The best of his skill he has tried ; 
 His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth 
 To the east and the west, to the south and the 
 
 north ; 
 But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. 
 
 His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh ! 
 His eyesight and hearing are lost ; 
 Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws • 
 And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze 
 Are glued to his sides by the frost. 
 
 No brother, no mate has he near him — while I 
 Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love ; 
 As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom, 
 As if green summer grass were thefloor of myroom 
 And woodbines were hanging above. 
 
 Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Tiling 
 
 Thy life I would gladly sustain 
 
 Till summer come up from the south, and witl 
 
 crowds 
 Of thy brethren a march thou should'st souni 
 
 through the clouds. 
 And back to the forests again ! 
 
 1/9S. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Art thou a Statist in the van 
 Of public conflicts trained and bred ? 
 — First learn to love one living man ; 
 Then may'st thou think upon the dead. 
 
 A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! 
 Go, carry to some fitter place 
 The keenness of that practised eye, 
 The hardness of that sallow face. 
 
 Art thou a Man of purple cheer ? 
 A rosy Man, right plump to see ? 
 Approach ; yet, Doctor, not too near, 
 This grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
 Or art thou one of gallant pride. 
 A Soldier and no man of chaff ? 
 Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
 And lean upon a peasant's staff. 
 
 Physician art thou ? one, all eyes, 
 Philosopher ! a fingering slave, 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 Upon his mother's grave ? 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
 turn aside, — and take, I pray, 
 That he below may rest in peace, 
 Thy ever-dwindling soul, away 1 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 365 
 
 A Moralist perchance appears ; 
 Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod : 
 And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
 imself his world, and his own God ; 
 
 One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling 
 <$ov form, nor feeling, great or small ; 
 A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
 An intellectual All-in-all ! 
 
 ijhut close the door ; press down the latch ; 
 sleep in thy intellectual crust ; 
 Sfor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
 ear this unprofitable dust. 
 
 But who is He, with modest looks, 
 kni clad in homely russet brown 1 
 3e murmurs near the running brooks 
 1 music sweeter than their own. 
 
 ile is retired as noontide dew, 
 )r fountain in a noon-day grove ; 
 Vnd you must love him, ere to you 
 ie will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky and earth, 
 Df hill and valley, he has viewed ; 
 ind impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
 [n common things that round us lie 
 Some random truths he can impart, — 
 The harvest of a quiet eye 
 
 Ehat broods and sleeps on his own heart, 
 ut he is weak ; both Man and Boy, 
 3ath been an idler in the land ; 
 Contented if he might enjoy 
 [Che things which others understand. 
 
 —Come hither in thy hour of strength ; 
 oome, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
 Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
 )r build thy house upon this grave. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 3right Flower ! whose home is everywhere, 
 3old in maternal Nature's care, 
 \.nd all the long year through the heir 
 Of joj or sorrow. 
 
 Methinks that there abides in thee 
 Some concord with humanity, 
 Given to no other flower I see 
 The forest thorough ! 
 
 Is it that Man is soon deprest ? 
 
 A thoughtless Thing ! who, once unblest, 
 
 Does little on his memory rest, 
 
 Or on his reason, 
 And Thou would'st teach him how to find 
 A shelter under every wind, 
 A hope for times that are unkind 
 
 And every season ? 
 
 Thou wander'st the wide world about, 
 Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, 
 With friends to greet thee, or without, 
 
 Yet pleased and willing ; 
 Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, 
 And all things suffering from all, 
 Thy function apostolical 
 
 In peace fulfilling. 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 In the School of is a tablet, on which are inscribed, 
 
 in gilt letters, the Nanus of the several persons who have 
 been School-masters there since the foundation of the 
 School, with the time at which they entered upon and 
 quitted their office. Opposite to one of those Names 
 the Author wrote the following lines. 
 
 If Nature, for a favourite child, 
 In thee hath tempered so her clay, 
 That every hour thy heart rims wild, 
 Yet never once doth go astray, 
 
 Read o'er these lines ; and then review 
 This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
 In such diversity of hue 
 Its history of two hundred years. 
 
 — When through this little wreck of fame, 
 Cipher and syllable ! thine eye 
 Has travelled down to Matthew's name, 
 Pause with no common sympathy. 
 
 And, if a sleeping tear should wake, 
 Then be it neither checked nor stayed : 
 For Matthew a request I make 
 Which for himself he had not made. 
 
366 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
 Is silent as a standing pool ; 
 Far from the chimney's merry roar, 
 And inunnur of the village school. 
 
 The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs 
 Of one tired out with fun and madness ; 
 The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
 Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 
 
 Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
 Of still and serious thought went round, 
 It seemed as if he drank it up — 
 He felt with spirit so profound. 
 
 — Thou soul of God's hest earthly mould ! 
 Thou happy Soul ! and can it be 
 That these two words of glittering gold 
 Are all that must remain of thee ? 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 We walked along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun ; 
 And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, 
 « The will of God be done ! " 
 
 A village schoolmaster was he, 
 With hair of glittering grey ; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass, 
 And by the steaming rills, 
 We travelled merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 " Our work," said I, "was well begun, 
 Then, from thy breast what thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
 So sad a sigh has brought 2" 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop ; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 L T pon the eastern mountain-top, 
 To me he made reply : 
 
 * Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 And just above yon slope of corn 
 Such 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, to the church-yard come, stopped short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 The pride of all the vale ; 
 And then she sang ; — she would have been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
 And yet I loved her more, 
 For so it seemed, than till that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 
 
 And, turning from her grave, I met, 
 Beside the churchyard yew, 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 A basket on her head she bare ; 
 Her brow was smooth and white : 
 To see a child so very fair, 
 It was a pure delight ! 
 
 No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
 She seemed as happy as a ware 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
 There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confine ; 
 I looked at her, and looked again : 
 And did not wish her mine !" 
 
 Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 
 Methinks, I see him stand, 
 As at that moment, with a bough 
 Of wilding in his hand. 
 
 XII. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A COXVEKSATIOS. 
 
 We talked with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true, 
 A pair of friends, though I was young, 
 And Matthew seventv-two. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 367 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak, 
 Beside a mossy seat ; 
 And from the turf a fountain broke, 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 " Now, Matthew ! " said I, "let us match 
 This water's pleasant tune 
 With some old border-song, or catch 
 That suits a summer's noon ; 
 
 Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
 Sing here beneath the shade, 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made ! " 
 
 [n silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree ; 
 Ind thus the dear old Man replied, 
 Che grey-haired man of glee : 
 
 •'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears ; 
 low merrily it goes ! 
 Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
 hid flow as now it flows. 
 
 Lnd here, on this delightful day, 
 cannot choose but think 
 low oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
 Jeside this fountain's brink. 
 
 ■Iy eyes are dim with childish tears, 
 ■ly heart is idly stirred, 
 ? or the same sound is in my ears 
 Vhich in those days I heard. 
 
 lus fares it still in our decay : 
 Lnd yet the wiser mind 
 ilourns less for what age takes away 
 'ban what it leaves behind. 
 
 le blackbird amid leafy trees, 
 Tie lark above the hill, 
 ^et loose their carols when they 
 ire quiet when they will. 
 
 Vith Nature never do they wage 
 i. foolish strife ; they see 
 l happy youth, and their old age 
 s beautiful and free : 
 
 put we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
 V.nd often, glad no more, 
 'Ve wear a face of joy, because 
 j-Ve have been glad of yore. 
 
 If there be one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth, 
 The household hearts that were his own 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
 My days, my Friend, are almost gone, 
 My life has been approved, 
 And many love me ; but by none 
 Am I enough beloved." 
 
 " Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
 The man who thus complains ! 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains ; 
 
 And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
 I '11 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. 
 
 1799. 
 
 PERSONAL TALK. 
 
 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 loved presence of my cottage-fire, 
 And listen to the flapping of the flame, 
 Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 
 
368 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 " 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, we 
 
 know, 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, 
 Matter wherein right voluble I am, 
 To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
 Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 
 The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 
 And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. 
 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
 Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
 From evil-speaking ; rancour, never sought, 
 Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or he. 
 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. 
 
 TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND. 
 (an agriculturist.) 
 
 COMPOSED WHILE WE WEKE LABOURING TOGETHER IX 
 HIS PLEASUKE-GBOUND. 
 
 Spade ! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands 
 And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont'i jiJ 
 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 labouring many and the resting few ; 
 
 Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure, 
 And industry of body and of mind ; 
 And elegant enjoyments, that are pure 
 As nature is ; — too pure to be refined. 
 
 Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing 
 In concord with his river 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 ! 
 
 He will not dread with Thee a toilsome da;; - 
 Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate ! 
 And, when thou art past service, worn away, 
 No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate. 
 
 His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn ; 
 An heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be : — 
 High will he hang thee up, well pleased to ador 
 His rustic chimney with the last of Thee ! 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 369 
 
 xv. 
 A NIGHT THOUGHT. 
 Lo ! where the Moon along the sky 
 Sails with her happy destiny ; 
 Oft is she hid from mortal eye 
 
 Or dimly seen, 
 But when the clouds asunder fly 
 How bright her mien ! 
 
 Far different we — a froward race, 
 Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace 
 With cherished sullemiess of pace 
 
 Their way pursue, 
 Ingrates who wear a smileless face 
 
 The whole year through. 
 
 If kindred humours e'er would make 
 My spirit droop for drooping's sake, 
 From Fancy following in thy wake, 
 
 Bright ship of heaven ! 
 A counter impulse let me take 
 
 And be forgiven. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 INCIDENT 
 
 CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOO. 
 
 ' his morning rounds the Master 
 
 les to learn how ail things fare ; 
 
 i irches pasture after pasture, 
 
 feep and cattle eyes with care ; 
 
 j id, for silence or for talk, 
 
 I hath comrades in his walk ; 
 
 lar dogs, each pair of different breed, 
 
 lj tinguished two for scent, and two for speed. 
 
 I a hare before him started ! 
 
 -;)ff they fly in earnest chase ; 
 
 I;iry dog is eager-hearted, 
 
 I the four are in the race : 
 
 H the hare whom they pursue, 
 
 Bowa from instinct what to do ; 
 
 Er hope is near : no turn she makes ; 
 
 ft, like an arrow, to the river takes. 
 
 I -p the river was, and crusted 
 
 I nly by a one night's frost ; 
 
 Uj the nimble Hare hath trusted 
 
 Ijthe ice, and safely crost ; 
 
 I hath crost, and without heed 
 
 Aare following at full speed, 
 
 ^en, lo ! the ice, so thinly spread, 
 
 JJ aks — and the greyhound, Dart, 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 with complainings ; nor gives o'er 
 
 Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more. 
 
 1805. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 TRIBUTE 
 
 TO TEE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG. 
 
 Lie here, without a record of thy worth, 
 
 Beneath a covering of the common earth ! 
 
 It is not from unwillingness to praise, 
 
 Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise ; 
 
 More thou deserv'st ; but this man gives to man, 
 
 Brother to brother, this is all we can. 
 
 Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear 
 
 Shall find thee through all changes of the year : 
 
 This Oak points out thy grave ; the silent tree 
 
 Will gladly stand a monument of thee. 
 
 We grieved for thee, and wished thy end were 
 
 past ; 
 And willingly have laid thee here at last : 
 For thou hadst lived till 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 wherever life and sense 
 Are given by God, in thee was most intense ; 
 
370 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 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 
 A soul of love, love's intellectual law : — 
 Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame ; 
 Our tears from passion and from reason came, 
 And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name ! 
 
 1805. 
 
 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 through that covert green. 
 
 The Dog is not of mountain breed ; 
 Its motions, too, are wild and shy ; 
 With something, as the Shepherd thinks, 
 Unusual in its cry : 
 Nor is there any one in sight 
 All round, in hollow or on height ; 
 Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear ; 
 What is the creature doing here 1 
 
 It was a cove, a huge recess, 
 
 That keeps, till June, December's snow ; 
 
 A lofty precipice in front, 
 
 A silent tarn * below ! 
 
 Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
 
 Remote from public road or dwelling, 
 
 Pathway, or cultivated land ; 
 
 From trace of human foot or hand. 
 
 There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 
 The crags repeat the raven's croak, 
 In symphony austere; 
 Thither the rainbow comes — the cloud — 
 And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 
 And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast, 
 That, if it could, would hurry past ; 
 But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 
 
 Not free from boding thoughts, a while 
 The Shepherd stood ; then makes his way 
 O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog 
 As quickly as he may ; 
 Nor far had gone before he found 
 A human skeleton on the ground ; 
 The appalled Discoverer with a sigh 
 Looks round, to learn the history. 
 
 From those abrupt and perilous rocks 
 
 The Man had fallen, that place of fear ! 
 
 At length upon the Shepherd's mind 
 
 It breaks, and all is clear : 
 
 He instantly recalled the name, 
 
 And who he was, and whence he came ; 
 
 Remembered, too, the very day 
 
 On which the Traveller passed this way. 
 
 But hear a wonder, for whose sake 
 
 This lamentable tale I tell ! 
 
 A lasting monument of words 
 
 This wonder merits well. 
 
 The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, 
 
 Repeating the same timid cry, 
 
 This Dog, had been through three months' space 
 
 A dweller in that savage place. 
 
 Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 
 When this ill-fated Traveller died, 
 The Dog had watched about the spot, 
 Or by his master's side : 
 How nourished here through such long time 
 He knows, who gave that love sublime ; 
 And gave that strength of feeling, great 
 Above all human estimate ! 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 * Tarn is a small Mere or Lake, mostly high up in the 
 mountains. 
 
 « Jam non consilio bonus, sed more e6 perductus, ul no 
 tantum recte faeere possim, sed nisi recte facere no 
 possim.' 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 
 
 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 cahn'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 371 
 
 ?here are who ask not if thine eye 
 3e on them ; who, in love and truth, 
 Vhere no misgiving is, rely 
 Ipon the genial sense of youth : 
 Had Hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 
 Wio do thy work, and know it not : 
 |h ! if through confidence misplaced 
 hey fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around 
 them cast. 
 
 srene will be our days and bright, 
 nd happy will our nature be, 
 lien love is an unerring light, 
 nd joy its own security, 
 nd they a blissful course may hold 
 ven now, who, not unwisely bold, 
 ve in the spirit of this creed ; 
 et seek thy firm support, according to their need. 
 
 loving freedom, and untried ; 
 
 > sport of every random gust, 
 
 jt being to myself a guide, 
 
 10 blindly have reposed my trust : 
 
 {id oft, when in my heart was heard 
 
 ly timely mandate, I deferred 
 
 le task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
 
 it thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 rough no disturbance of my soul, 
 
 1 strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 upplicate for thy control ; 
 
 t in the quietness of thought : 
 
 : this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 
 .2el the weight of chance-desires : 
 
 . ' hopes no more must change their name, 
 
 - mg for a repose that ever is the same. 
 
 ! m Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 ' 3 Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 It know we any thing so fair 
 >■ is the smile upon thy face : 
 I wers laugh before thee on their beds 
 i i fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 J )u dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
 ± i the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are 
 fresh and strong. 
 
 •1 humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 
 All thee: I myself commend 
 
 l|.o thy guidance from this hour ; 
 
 I let ray weakness have an end ! 
 
 .Me unto me, made lowly wise, 
 
 % spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 i % confidence of reason give ; 
 { 4l in the light of truth thy Bondman let me five ! 
 
 1805. 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 
 
 That every man in arms should wish to be ? 
 
 — It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
 
 Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
 
 Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : 
 
 Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
 
 That makes the path before him always bright : 
 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 
 What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 
 
 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
 
 But makes his moral being his prime care ; 
 
 Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
 
 And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 
 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 
 Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
 
 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
 
 Of their bad influence, and their good 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. 
 
 — "lis 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 labours good on good to fix, and owes 
 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows : 
 
 — Who, if lie 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 ; 
 
 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 honours, or for worldly state ; 
 
 Whom they must follow ; oil whose head must fall, 
 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
 
 Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 
 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 
 A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
 
 But who, if he be called upon to face 
 
 Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
 
 Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
 
372 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 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 homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 
 
 Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 
 
 Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
 
 It is his darling passion to approve ; 
 
 More brave for this, that he hath much to love :— 
 
 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 
 
 Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
 
 Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
 
 Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 
 
 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 
 
 Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
 
 Where what he most doth value must be won : 
 
 Whom neither shape of danger can 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 fall, to sleep without his fame, 
 
 And leave a dead unprofitable name — 
 
 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
 
 And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
 
 His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 
 
 This is the happy Warrior ; this is He 
 
 That every Man in arms should wish to be. 
 
 1806. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 THE FORCE OF PRAYER * ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. 
 
 A TRADITION. 
 
 " TOfjat te S00U- for a hantlctte htm ? " 
 
 With these dark words begins my Tale ; 
 
 And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring 
 
 When Prayer is of no avail ? 
 
 " £23I)at is QaaXs lav a hootlnte hmc?" 
 
 The Falconer to the Lady said ; 
 
 And she made answer " endless sorrow ! " 
 
 For she knew that her Son was dead. 
 
 * See the White Doe of Rylstone. 
 
 She knew it by the Falconer's words, 
 And from the look of the Falconer's eye ; 
 And from the love which was in her soul 
 For her youthful Romilly. 
 
 — Young Romilly tlirough Barden woods 
 Is ranging high and low ; 
 And holds a greyhound in a leash, 
 To let slip upon buck or doe. 
 
 The pair have reached that fearful chasm, 
 How tempting to bestride ! 
 For lordly Wharf is there pent in 
 With rocks on either side. 
 
 This striding-place is called The Strid, 
 A name which it took of yore : 
 A thousand years hath it borne that name, 
 And shall a thousand more. 
 
 And hither is young Romilly come, 
 And what may now forbid 
 That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 
 Shall bound across The Strid ? 
 
 He sprang in glee, — for what cared he 
 
 That the river was strong, and the rocks we 
 
 steep ?— 
 But the greyhound in the leash hung back, 
 And checked him in his leap. 
 
 The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
 And strangled by a merciless force ; 
 For never more was young Romilly seen 
 Till he rose a lifeless corse. 
 
 Now there is stillness in the vale, 
 And long, unspeaking, sorrow : 
 Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 
 
 If for a lover the Lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 
 From death, and from the passion of death ; 
 
 Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 
 
 She weeps not for the wedding-day 
 Which was to be to-morrow : 
 Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
 And hers is a mother's sorrow. 
 
 He was a tree that stood alone, 
 And proudly did its branches wave ; 
 And the root of this delightful tree 
 Was in her husband's grave ! 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 373 
 
 ong, long in darkness did she sit, ■ 
 jnd her first words were, " Let there be 
 L Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
 stately Priory ! " 
 
 he stately Priory was reared ; 
 i n d Wharf, as he moved along, 
 a matins joined a mournful voice, 
 or failed at even-song. 
 
 •'nd the Lady prayed in heaviness 
 hat looked not for relief ! 
 
 ut slowly did her succour come, 
 
 ad a patience to her grief. 
 
 fci ! there is never sorrow of heart 
 lat shall lack a timely end, 
 but to God we turn, and ask 
 : Him to be our friend t 
 
 XXII. 
 
 A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION ; 
 
 OB, 
 
 ANUTE AND ALFRED, ON THE SEA-SHORE. 
 
 ie Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair, 
 ; ustering a face of haughty sovereignty, 
 i aid a covert purpose, cried — " O ye 
 oproaching Waters of the deep, that share 
 jith this green isle my fortunes, come not where 
 jut Master's throne is set." — Deaf was the Sea ; 
 ;r waves rolled on, respecting his decree 
 ;ss than they heed a breath of wanton air. 
 Then Canute, rising from the invaded throne, 
 id to his servile Courtiers, — " Poor the reach, 
 le undisguised extent, of mortal sway ! 
 3 only is a King, and he alone 
 iiserves the name (this truth the billows preach) 
 ; hose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and heaven, 
 obey." 
 
 iThis just reproof the prosperous Dane 
 pew from the influx of the main, 
 •>r some whose rugged northern mouths would 
 strain 
 
 oriental flattery ; 
 
 id Canute (fact more worthy to be known) 
 
 om that time forth did for his brows disown 
 
 ie ostentatious symbol of a crown ; 
 
 teeming earthly royalty 
 
 ntemptible as vain. 
 
 Now hear what one of elder days, 
 ch theme of England's fondest praise, 
 
 Her darling Alfred, might have spoken ; 
 To cheer the remnant of his host 
 When he was driven from coast to coast, 
 Distressed and harassed, but with mind unbroken : 
 
 " My faithful followers, lo ! the tide is spent 
 That rose, and steadily advanced to fill 
 The shores and channels, working Nature's will 
 Among the mazy streams that backward went, 
 And in the sluggish pools where ships are pent : 
 And now, his task performed, the flood stands still, 
 At the green base of many an inland hill, 
 In placid beauty and sublime content ! 
 Such the repose that sage and hero find ; 
 Such measured rest the sedulous and good 
 Of humbler name ; whose souls do, like the flood 
 Of Ocean, press right on ; or gently wind, 
 Neither to be diverted nor withstood, 
 Until they reach the bounds by Heaven assigned." 
 
 1816. 
 
 'A little onward lend thy guiding hand 
 To these dark steps, a little further on/' 
 — What trick of memory to my voice hath brought 
 This mournful iteration ? For though Time, 
 The Conqueror, crowns the Conquered, on this brow 
 Planting his favourite silver diadem, 
 Nor he, nor minister of his — intent 
 To run before him, hath enrolled me yet, 
 Though not unmenaced, among those who lean 
 Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight. 
 — O my own Dora, my beloved child !. 
 Should that day come — but hark ! the birds salute 
 The cheerful dawn, brightening for me the east; 
 For me, thy natural leader, once again 
 Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst 
 A tottering infant, with compliant stoop 
 From flower to flower supported ; but to curb 
 Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er the lawn. 
 Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge 
 Of foaming torrents. — From thy orisons 
 Come forth ; and, while the morning air is yet 
 Transparent as the soul of innocent youth, 
 Let me, thy happy guide, now point thy way, 
 And now precede thee, winding to and fro, 
 Till we by perseverance gain the top 
 Of some smooth ridge, whose brink precipitous 
 Kindles intense desire for powers withheld 
 From this corporeal frame ; whereon who stands, 
 Is seized with strong incitement to push forth 
 His arms, as swimmers use, and plunge — dread 
 thought, 
 
374 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 For pastime plunge — into the ' abrupt abyss,' 
 Where ravens spread their plumy vans, at ease ! 
 
 And yet more gladly thee would I conduct 
 Through woods and spacious forests, — to behold 
 There, how the Original of human art, 
 Heaven-prompted Nature, measures and erects 
 Her temples, fearless for the stately work, 
 Though waves, to every breeze, its high-arched roof, 
 And storms the pillars rock. But we such schools 
 Of reverential awe will chiefly seek 
 In the still summer noon, while beams of light, 
 Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond 
 Traceably gliding through the dusk, recal 
 To mind the living presences of nuns ; 
 A gentle, pensive, white-robed sisterhood, 
 Whose saintly radiance mitigates the gloom 
 Of those terrestrial fabrics, where they serve, 
 To Christ, the Sun of righteousness, espoused. 
 
 Now also shall the page of classic lore, 
 
 To these glad eyes from bondage freed,, again 
 
 Lie open ; and the book of Holy Writ, 
 
 Again unfolded, passage clear shall yield 
 
 To heights more glorious still, and into shades 
 
 More awful, where, advancing hand in hand, 
 
 We may be taught, O Darling of my care ! 
 
 To calm the affections, elevate the soul, 
 
 And consecrate our lives to truth and love. 
 
 1816. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ODE TO LYCORIS. 
 
 May, 1817. 
 
 i. 
 An age hath been when Earth was proud 
 Of lustre too intense 
 To be sustained ; and Mortals bowed 
 The front in self-defence. 
 Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, 
 Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed 
 While oh the wing the Urchin played, 
 Could fearlessly approach the shade ? 
 — Enough for one soft vernal day, 
 If I, a bard of ebbing time, 
 And nurtured in a fickle clime, 
 May haunt this horned bay ; 
 Whose amorous water multiplies 
 The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes ; 
 And smooths her liquid breast — to show 
 These swan-like specks of mountain snow, 
 White as the pair that slid along the plains 
 Of heaven, when Venus held the reins ! 
 
 In youth we love the darksome lawn 
 
 Brushed by the owlet's wing ; 
 
 Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, 
 
 And Autumn to the Spring. 
 
 Sad fancies do we then affect, 
 
 In luxury of disrespect 
 
 To our own prodigal excess 
 
 Of too familiar happiness. 
 
 Lycoris (if such name befit 
 
 Thee, thee my life's celestial sign !) 
 
 When Nature marks the year's decline, 
 
 Be ours to welcome it ; 
 
 Pleased with the harvest hope that runs 
 
 Before the path of milder suns ; 
 
 Pleased while the sylvan world displays 
 
 Its ripeness to the feeding gaze ; 
 
 Pleased when the sullen winds resound the kn 
 
 Of the resplendent miracle. 
 
 in. 
 But something whispers to my heart 
 That, as we downward tend, 
 Lycoris ! life requires an art 
 To which our souls must bend ; 
 A skill — to balance and supply ; 
 And, ere the flowing fount be dry, 
 As soon it must, a sense to sip, 
 Or drink, with no fastidious lip. 
 Then welcome, above all, the Guest 
 Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, 
 Seem to recal the Deity 
 Of youth into the breast : 
 May pensive Autumn ne'er present 
 A claim to her disparagement ! 
 While blossoms and the budding spray 
 Inspire us in our own decay ; 
 Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark gorJ, 
 Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul ! 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Enough of climbing toil ! — Ambition treads 
 Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rou 
 Or slippery even to peril I and each step, 
 As we for most uncertain recompence 
 Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds, 
 Each weary step, dwarfing the world bciov;', 
 Induces, for its old familiar sights, 
 Unacceptable feelings of contempt, 
 With wonder mixed— that Man could e'er be ti 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 375 
 
 anxious bondage, to such nice array- 
 ed formal fellowship of petty things ! 
 Oh ! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life, 
 iking a truth and beauty of her own ; 
 id moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades, 
 id gurgling rills, assist her in the work 
 n-e efficaciously than realms outspread, 
 in a map, before the adventurer's gaze — 
 ean and Earth contending for regard. 
 
 The umbrageous woods are left — how far beneath ! 
 It lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth 
 i yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are fringed 
 ' th flaccid threads of ivy, in the still 
 . d sultry air, depending motionless. 
 
 t cool the space within, and not uncheered 
 1 3 whoso enters shall ere long perceive) 
 I stealthy influx of the timid day 
 JjUgling with night, such twilight to compose 
 j Numa loved ; when, in the Egerian grot, 
 j )m the sage Nymph appearing at his wish, 
 j gained whate'er a regal mind might ask, 
 ( need, of counsel breathed through lips divine. 
 
 ong as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave 
 btect us, there deciphering as we may 
 ]|uvian records ; or the sighs of Earth 
 lierpreting ; or counting for old Time 
 ft minutes, by reiterated drops, 
 i dible tears, from some invisible source 
 '.jit deepens upon fancy — more and more 
 ] twn toward the centre whence those sighs creep 
 r ,awe the lightness of humanity. [forth 
 
 1 shutting up thyself within thyself, 
 . :re let me see thee sink into a mood 
 (gentler thought, protracted till thine eye 
 I calm as water when the winds are gone, 
 ijd no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend ! 
 
 too have known such happy hours together 
 'lit, were power granted to replace them (fetched 
 1 >m out the pensive shadows where they lie) 
 1; the first warmth of their original sunshine, 
 J h should I be to use it : passing sweet 
 \ i the domains of tender memory ! 
 
 1817- 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1819. 
 
 The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 
 Are hung, as if with golden shields, 
 Bright trophies of the sun ! 
 Like a fair sister of the sky, 
 Unruffled doth the blue lake he, 
 The mountains looking on. 
 
 And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, 
 Albeit uninspired by love, 
 By love untaught to ring, 
 May well afford to mortal ear 
 An impulse more profoundly dear 
 Than music of the Spring. 
 
 For that from turbulence and heat 
 Proceeds, from some uneasy seat 
 In nature's struggling frame, 
 Some region of impatient life : 
 And jealousy, and quivering strife, 
 Therein a portion claim. 
 
 This, this is holy ; — while I hear 
 These vespers of another year, 
 This hymn of thanks and praise, 
 My spirit seems to mount above 
 The anxieties of human love, 
 And earth's precarious days. 
 
 But list ! — though winter storms be nigh, 
 Unchecked is that soft harmony : 
 There lives Who can provide 
 For all his creatures ; and in Him, 
 Even like the radiant Seraphim, 
 These choristers confide. 
 
 xxvu. 
 
 UPON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 Departing summer hath assumed 
 An aspect tenderly illumed, 
 The gentlest look of spring ; 
 That calls from yonder leafy shade 
 Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
 A timely carolling. 
 
 No faint and hesitating trill, 
 Such tribute as to winter chill 
 The lonely redbreast pays ! 
 Clear, loud, and lively is the din, 
 From social warblers gathering in 
 Their harvest of sweet lays. 
 
 Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
 Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, 
 And yellow on the bough : — 
 Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! 
 Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
 Around a younger brow ! 
 
376 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 Yet will I temperately rejoice ; 
 
 Wide is the range, and free the choice 
 
 Of undiscordant themes ; 
 
 Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 
 
 Not less than vernal ecstasies, 
 
 And passion's feverish dreams. 
 
 For deathless powers to verse belong, 
 And they like Demi-gods are strong 
 On whom the Muses smile ; 
 But some their function have disclaimed, 
 Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 
 To enervate and defile. 
 
 Not such the initiatory strains 
 
 Committed to the silent plains 
 
 In Britain's earliest dawn : 
 
 Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 
 
 While all-too-daringly the veil 
 
 Of nature was withdrawn ! 
 
 Nov such the spirit-stirring note 
 When the live chords Alcaeus smote, 
 Inflamed by sense of wrong ; 
 Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 
 Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 
 Of fierce vindictive song. 
 
 And not unhallowed was the page 
 By winged Love inscribed, to assuage 
 The pangs of vain pursuit ; 
 Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
 With finest touch of passion swayed 
 Her own iEolian lute. 
 
 ye, who patiently explore 
 The wreck of Herculanean lore, 
 What rapture ! could ye seize 
 Some Theban fragment, or unroll 
 One precious, tender-hearted, scroll 
 Of pure Simonides. 
 
 That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
 Of poesy ; a bursting forth 
 Of genius from the dust : 
 What Horace gloried to behold, 
 What Maro loved, shall we enfold ? 
 Can haughty Time be just ! 
 
 xxvnr. 
 MEMORY. 
 A pen — to register ; a key — 
 That winds through secret wards ; 
 Are well assigned to Memory 
 By allegoric Bards. 
 
 As aptly, also, might be given 
 
 A Pencil to her hand ; 
 
 That, softening objects, sometimes even 
 
 Outstrips the heart's demand ; 
 
 That smoothes foregone distress, the lines 
 Of lingering care subdues, 
 Long- vanished happiness refines, 
 And clothes in brighter hues ; 
 
 Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
 Those Spectres to dilate 
 That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
 Within her lonely seat. 
 
 ! that our lives, which flee so fast, 
 In purity were such, 
 That not an image of the past 
 Should fear that pencil's touch ! 
 
 Retirement then might hourly look 
 Upon a soothing scene, 
 Age steal to his allotted nook 
 Contented and serene ; 
 
 With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 
 In frosty moonlight glistening ; 
 Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
 Along a channel smooth and deep, 
 To their own far-off murmurs listening. 
 
 This Lawn, a carpet all alive 
 
 With shadows flung from leaves — to strive 
 
 In dance, amid a press 
 Of sunshine, an apt emblem yields 
 Of Worldlings revelling in the fields 
 
 Of strenuous idleness ; 
 
 Less quick the stir when tide and breeze 
 Encounter, and to narrow seas 
 
 Forbid a moment's rest ; 
 The medley less when boreal Lights 
 Glance to and fro, like aery Sprites 
 
 To feats of arms addrest ! 
 
 Yet, spite of all this eager strife, 
 This ceaseless play, the genuine life 
 
 That serves the stedfast hours, 
 Is in the grass beneath, that grows 
 Unheeded, and the mute repose 
 
 Of sweetly-breathing flowers. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 377 
 
 HUMANITY. 
 
 [The Roclnng-6tones, alluded to in the beginning of the 
 following verses, are supposed to have been used, by our 
 British ancestors, both for judicial and religious pur- 
 poses. Such stones are not uncommonly found, at this 
 day, both in Great Britain and in Ireland.] 
 
 What though the Accused, upon his own appeal 
 
 i To righteous Gods when man has ceased to feel, 
 
 ' Or at a doubting Judge's stern command, 
 Before the Stone of Power no longer stand — 
 To take his sentence from the balanced Block, 
 As, at his touch, it rocks, or seems to rock ; 
 Though, in the depths of sunless groves, no more 
 The Druid-priest the hallowed Oak adore ; 
 
 . Yet, for the Initiate, rocks and whispering trees 
 
 i Do still perform mysterious offices ! 
 And functions dwell in beast and bird that sway 
 The reasoning mind, or with the fancy play, 
 
 l Inviting, at all seasons, ears and eyes 
 
 | To watch for undelusive auguries : — 
 Not uninspired appear their simplest ways ; 
 
 ! Their voices mount symbolical of praise — 
 
 ; To mix with hymns that Spirits make and hear ; 
 And to fallen man their innocence is dear. 
 
 ' Enraptured Art draws from those sacred springs 
 Streams that reflect the poetry of things ! 
 Where christian Martyrs stand in hues portrayed, 
 
 I That, might a wish avail, would never fade, 
 Borne in their hands the lily and the palm 
 
 ' Shed round the altar a celestial calm ; 
 
 1 There, too, behold the lamb and guileless dove 
 Prest in the tenderness of virgin love 
 To saintly bosoms ! — Glorious is the blending 
 Of right affections climbing or descending 
 
 ■ Along a scale of light and life, with cares 
 
 ; Alternate ; carrying holy thoughts and prayers 
 
 1 Up to the sovereign seat of the Most High ; 
 Descending to the worm in charity ; 
 Like those good Angels whom a dream of night 
 Gave, in the field of Luz, to Jacob's sight 
 All, while he slept, treading the pendent stairs 
 Earthward or heavenward, radiant messengers, 
 That, with a perfect will in one accord 
 
 i Of strict obedience, serve the Almighty Lord ; 
 And with untired humility forbore 
 To speed their errand by the wings they wore. 
 
 What a fair world were ours for verse to paint, 
 j If Power could live at ease with self-restraint ! 
 : Opinion bow before the naked sense 
 Of the great Vision, — faith in Providence ; 
 
 Merciful over all his creatures, just 
 To the least particle of sentient dust ; 
 But, fixing by immutable decrees, 
 Seedtime and harvest for his purposes ! 
 Then would be closed the restless oblique eye 
 That looks for evil like a treacherous spy ; 
 Disputes would then relax, like stormy winds 
 That into breezes sink ; impetuous minds 
 By discipline endeavour to grow meek 
 As Truth herself, whom they profess to seek. 
 Then Genius, shunning fellowship with Pride, 
 Would braid his golden locks at Wisdom's side ; 
 Love ebb and flow untroubled by caprice ; 
 And not alone harsh tyranny would cease, 
 But unoffending creatures find release 
 From qualified oppression, whose defence 
 Rests on a hollow plea of recompence ; 
 Thought-tempered wrongs, for each humane respect 
 Oft worse to bear, or deadlier in effect. 
 Witness those glances of indignant scorn 
 From some high-minded Slave, impelled to spurn 
 The kindness that would make him less forlorn ; 
 Or, if the soul to bondage be subdued, 
 His look of pitiable gratitude ! 
 
 Alas for thee, bright Galaxy of Isles, 
 Whose day departs in pomp, returns with smiles — 
 To greet the flowers and fruitage of a land, 
 As the sun mounts, by sea-born breezes fanned ; 
 A land whose azure mountain-tops are seats 
 For Gods in council, whose green vales, retreats 
 Fit for the shades of heroes, mingling there 
 To breathe Elysian peace in upper air. 
 
 Though cold as winter, gloomy as the grave, 
 Stone-walls a prisoner make, but not a slave. 
 Shall man assume a property in man ? 
 Lay on the moral will a withering ban \ 
 Shame that our laws at distance still protect 
 Enormities, which they at home reject ! 
 ' Slaves cannot breathe in England' — yet that 
 
 boast 
 Is but a mockery ! when from coast to coast, 
 Though fettered slave be none, her floors and soil 
 Groan underneath a weight of slavish toil, 
 For the poor Many, measured out by rules 
 Fetched with cupidity from heartless schools, 
 That to an Idol, falsely called ' the Wealth 
 Of Nations,' sacrifice a People's health, 
 Body and mind and soul ; a thirst so keen 
 Is ever urging on the vast machine 
 Of sleepless Labour, 'mid whose dizzy wheels 
 The Power least prized is that which thinks and 
 
 feels. 
 
378 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 Then, for the pastimes of this delicate age, 
 And all the heavy or light vassalage 
 Which for their sakes we fasten, as may suit 
 Our varying moods, on human kind or brute, 
 'Twere well in little, as in great, to pause, 
 Lest Fancy trifle with eternal laws. 
 Not from his fellows only man may learn 
 Rights to compare and duties to discern ! 
 All creatures and all objects, in degree, 
 Are friends and patrons of humanity. 
 There are to whom the garden, grove, and field, 
 Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield ; 
 Who would not lightly violate the grace 
 The lowliest flower possesses in its place ; 
 Nor shorten the sweet life, too fugitive, 
 Which nothing less than Infinite Power could give. 
 
 1829. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. 
 
 Flattered with promise of escape 
 
 From every hurtful blast, 
 Spring takes, sprightly May ! thy shape, 
 
 Her loveliest and her last. 
 
 Less fair is summer riding high 
 
 In fierce solstitial power, 
 Less fair than when a lenient sky 
 
 Brings on her parting hour. 
 
 When earth repays with golden sheaves 
 
 The labours of the plough, 
 And ripening fruits and forest leaves 
 
 All brighten on the bough ; 
 
 What pensive beauty autumn shows, 
 
 Before she hears the sound 
 Of winter rushing in, to close 
 
 The emblematic round ! 
 
 Such be our Spring, our Summer such ; 
 
 So may our Autumn blend 
 With hoary Winter, and Life touch, 
 
 Through heaven-born hope, her end ! 
 
 1829. 
 
 TO 
 
 UPON THE BIETH OF HER FIRST-BORN CHILD, MARCH, 1831. 
 
 ' Turn porro puer, ut saevis projectus ab undis 
 Navita, nudus humi jacet, &c.' — Lucretius. 
 
 Like a shipwreck'd Sailor tost 
 By rough waves on a perilous coast, 
 Lies the Babe, in helplessness 
 And in tenderest nakedness, 
 Flung by labouring nature forth 
 Upon the mercies of the earth. 
 Can its eyes beseech ?— no more 
 Than the hands are free to implore : 
 Voice but serves for one brief cry ; 
 Plaint was it ? or prophecy 
 Of sorrow that will surely come ? 
 Omen of man's grievous doom ! 
 
 But, Mother ! by the close 
 Duly granted to thy throes ; 
 By the silent thanks, now tending 
 Incense-like to Heaven, descending 
 Now to mingle and to move 
 With the gush of earthly love, 
 As a debt to that frail Creature, 
 Instrument of struggling Nature 
 For the blissful calm, the peace 
 Known but to this one release — 
 Can the pitying spirit doubt 
 That for human-kind springs out 
 From the penalty a sense 
 Of more than mortal recompence ? 
 
 As a floating summer cloud, 
 Though of gorgeous drapery proud, 
 To the sun-burnt traveller, 
 Or the stooping labourer, 
 Oft-times makes its bounty known 
 By its shadow round him thrown ; 
 So, by chequerings of sad cheer, 
 Heavenly Guardians, brooding near, 
 Of their presence tell — too bright 
 Haply for corporeal sight ! 
 Ministers of grace divine 
 Feelingly their brows incline 
 O'er this seeming Castaway 
 Breathing, in the light of day, 
 Something like the faintest breath 
 That has power to baffle death — 
 Beautiful, while very weakness 
 Captivates like passive meekness. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 379 
 
 And, sweet Mother ! under warrant 
 Of the universal Parent, 
 Who repays in season due 
 Them who have, like thee, been true 
 To the filial chain let down 
 From his everlasting throne, 
 Angels hovering round thy couch, 
 With their softest whispers vouch, 
 That— whatever griefs may fret, 
 Cares entangle, sins beset, 
 This thy First-born, and with tears 
 Stain her cheek in future years — 
 Heavenly succour, not denied 
 To the babe, whate'er betide, 
 Will to the woman be supplied ! 
 
 Mother ! blest be thy calm ease ; 
 Blest the starry promises, — 
 And the firmament benign 
 Hallowed be it, where they shine ! 
 Yes, for them whose souls have scope 
 Ample for a winged hope, 
 And can earthward bend an ear 
 For needful listening, pledge is here, 
 That, if thy new-born Charge shall tread 
 In thy footsteps, and be led 
 By that other Guide, whose light 
 Of manly virtues, mildly bright, 
 Gave him first the wished-for part 
 In thy gentle virgin heart ; 
 Then, amid the storms of fife 
 Presignified by that dread strife 
 Whence ye have escaped together, 
 She may look for serene weather ; 
 In all trials sure to find 
 Comfort for a faithful mind ; 
 Kindlier issues, holier rest, 
 Than even now await her prest, 
 Conscious Nursling, to thy breast ! 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 A SEQUEL TO THE FOKEGOING. 
 
 iiST, the winds of March are blowing ; 
 
 ter ground-flowers shrink, afraid of showing 
 
 .'heir meek heads to the nipping air, 
 
 ■Vhich ye feel not, happy pair ! 
 
 jink into a kindly sleep. 
 
 ^e, meanwhile, our hope will keep ; 
 
 .nd if Time leagued with adverse Change 
 
 (Too busy fear !) shall cross its range, 
 Whatsoever check they bring, 
 Anxious duty hindering, 
 To like hope our prayers will cling. 
 
 Thus, while the ruminating spirit feeds 
 Upon the events of home as life proceeds, 
 Affections pure and holy in their source 
 Gain a fresh impulse, run a livelier course ; 
 Hopes that within the Father's heart prevail, 
 Are in the experienced Grandsire's slow to fail ; 
 And if the harp pleased his gay youth, it rings 
 To his grave touch with no unready strings, 
 While thoughts press on, and feelings overflow, 
 And quick words round him fall like flakes of snow. 
 
 Thanks to the Powers that yet maintain their 
 sway, 
 And have renewed the tributary Lay. 
 Truths of the heart flock in with eager pace, 
 And Fancy greets them with a fond embrace ; 
 Swift as the rising sun his beams extends 
 She shoots the tidings forth to distant friends ; 
 Their gifts she hails (deemed precious, as they prove 
 For the unconscious Babe so prompt a love !) — 
 But from this peaceful centre of delight 
 Vague sympathies have urged her to take flight : 
 Rapt into upper regions, like the bee 
 That sucks from mountain heath her honey fee ; 
 Or, like the warbling lark intent to shroud 
 His head in sunbeams or a bowery cloud, 
 She soars — and here and there her pinions rest 
 On proud towers, like this humble cottage, blest 
 With a new visitant, an infant guest — 
 Towers where red streamers flout the breezy sky 
 In pomp foreseen by her creative eye, 
 When feasts shall crowd the hall, and steeple bells 
 Glad proclamation make, and heights and dells 
 Catch the blithe music as it sinks and swells, 
 And harboured ships, whose pride is on the sea, 
 Shall hoist their topmast flags in sign of glee, 
 Honouring the hope of noble ancestry. 
 
 But who (though neither reckoning ills assigned 
 By Nature, nor reviewing in the mind 
 The track that was, and is, and must be, worn 
 With weary feet by all of woman born) — 
 Shall now by such a gift with joy be moved, 
 Nor feel the fulness of that joy reproved ? 
 Not He, whose last faint memory will command 
 The truth that Britain was his native land ; 
 Whose infant soul was tutored to confide 
 In the cleansed faith for which her martyrs died ; 
 Whose boyish ear the voice of her renown 
 
380 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 With rapture thrilled ; whose Youth revered the 
 
 crown 
 Of Saxon liberty that Alfred wore, 
 Alfred, dear Babe, thy great Progenitor ! 
 — Not He, who from her mellowed practice drew 
 His social sense of just, and fair, and true ; 
 And saw, thereafter, on the soil of France 
 Rash Polity begin her maniac dance. 
 Foundations broken up, the deeps run wild, 
 Nor grieved to see (himself not unbeguiled) — 
 Woke from the dream, the dreamer to upbraid, 
 And learn how sanguine expectations fade 
 When novel trusts by folly are betrayed, — 
 To see Presumption, turning pale, refrain 
 From further havoc, but repent in vain, — 
 Good aims lie down, and perish in the road 
 Where guilt had urged them on with ceaseless goad, 
 Proofs thickening round her that on public ends 
 Domestic virtue vitally depends, 
 That civic strife can turn the happiest hearth 
 Into a grievous sore of self-tormenting earth. 
 
 Can such a One, dear Babe ! though glad and 
 proud 
 To welcome thee, repel the fears that crowd 
 Into his English breast, and spare to quake 
 Less for his own than for thy innocent sake ? 
 Too late — or, should the providence of God 
 Lead, through dark ways by sin and sorrow trod, 
 Justice and peace to a secure abode, 
 Too soon — thou com'st into this breathing world ; 
 Ensigns of mimic outrage are unfurled. 
 Who shall preserve or prop the tottering Realm ? 
 What hand suffice to govern the state-helm ? 
 If, in the aims of men, the surest test 
 Of good or bad (whate'er be sought for or profest) 
 Lie in the means required, or ways ordained, 
 For compassing the end, else never gained ; 
 Yet governors and govern'd both are blind 
 To this plain truth, or fling it to the wind ; 
 If to expedience principle must bow ; 
 Past, future, shrinking up beneath the incumbent 
 
 Now; 
 If cowardly concession still must feed 
 The thirst for power in men who ne'er concede ; 
 Nor turn aside, unless to shape a way 
 For domination at some riper day ; 
 If generous Loyalty must stand in awe 
 Of subtle Treason, in his mask of law, 
 Or with bravado insolent and hard, 
 Provoking punishment, to win reward ; 
 If office help the factious to conspire, 
 And they who should extinguish, fan the fire — 
 Then, will the sceptre be a straw, the crown 
 
 Sit loosely, like the thistle's crest of down • 
 To be blown off at will, by Power that spares it 
 In cunning patience, from the head that wears it. 
 
 Lost people, trained to theoretic feud ! 
 Lost above all, ye labouring multitude ! 
 Bewildered whether ye, by slanderous tongues 
 Deceived, mistake calamities for wrongs ; 
 And over fancied usurpations brood, 
 Oft snapping at revenge in sullen mood ; 
 Or, from long stress of real injuries fly 
 To desperation for a remedy ; 
 In bursts of outrage spread your judgments wide. 
 And to your wrath cry out, " Be thou our guide f 
 Or, bound by oaths, come forth to tread earth's 
 
 floor 
 In marshalled thousands, darkening street and moor 
 With the worst shape mock-patience ever wore ; 
 Or, to the giddy top of self-esteem 
 By Flatterers carried, mount into a dream 
 Of boundless suffrage, at whose sage behest 
 Justice shall rule, disorder be supprest, 
 And every man sit down as Plenty's Guest ! 
 — for a bridle bitted with remorse 
 To stop your Leaders in their headstrong course ! 
 Oh may the Almighty scatter with his grace 
 These mists, and lead you to a safer place, 
 By paths no human wisdom can foretrace ! 
 May He pour round you, from worlds far above 
 Man's feverish passions, his pure light of love, 
 That quietly restores the natural mien 
 To hope, and makes truth willing to be seen ! 
 Else shall your blood-stained hands in frenzy reap 
 Fields gaily sown when promises were cheap. — 
 Why is the Past belied with wicked art, 
 The Future made to play so false a part, 
 Among a people famed for strength of mind, 
 Foremost in freedom, noblest of mankind ? 
 We act as if we joyed in the sad tune 
 Storms make in rising, valued in the moon 
 Nought but her changes. Thus, ungrateful Nation ! 
 If thou persist, and, scorning moderation, 
 Spread for thyself the snares of tribulation, 
 Whom, then, shall meekness guard ? What BttHDg 
 
 skill 
 Lie in forbearance, strength in standing still? 
 —Soon shall the widow (for the speed of Time 
 Nought equals when the hours are winged with 
 
 crime) 
 Widow, or wife, implore en tremulous knee. 
 From him who judged her lord, a like decree J 
 The skies will weep o'er old men desolate : 
 Ye little-ones ! Earth shudders at your fate, 
 Outcasts and homeless orphans 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 381 
 
 But turn, my Soul, and from the sleeping pair 
 
 Lord ! since his rising in the East, 
 
 earn thou the beauty of omniscient care ! 
 
 If we have faltered or transgressed, 
 
 e strong in faith, bid anxious thoughts lie still ; 
 
 Guide, from thy love's abundant source, 
 
 3ek for the good and cherish it — the ill 
 
 What yet remains of this day's course : 
 
 ppose, or bear with a submissive will. 
 
 1833. 
 
 
 Help with thy grace, through life's short day, 
 
 
 Our upward and our downward way ; 
 And glorify for us the west, 
 
 
 
 When we shall sink to final rest. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 If this great world of joy and pain 
 
 1834. 
 
 
 Revolve in one sure track ; 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 If freedom, set, will rise again, 
 
 ODE, 
 
 And virtue, flown, come back ; 
 
 
 
 COMPOSED ON MAT MORNING. 
 
 Woe to the purblind crew who fill 
 
 
 The heart with each day's care ; 
 Nor gain, from past or future, skill 
 
 While from the purpling east departs 
 The star that led the dawn, 
 
 To bear, and to forbear ! 
 
 Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, 
 
 1833. 
 
 For May is on the lawn. 
 
 
 A quickening hope, a freshening glee, 
 Foreran the expected Power, 
 
 
 
 Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree, 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Shakes off that pearly shower. 
 
 THE LABOURER'S NOON -DAY HYMN. 
 
 All Nature welcomes Her whose sway 
 
 Up to the throne of God is borne 
 
 Tempers the year's extremes ; 
 
 
 Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day, 
 
 The voice of praise at early morn, 
 
 And he accepts the punctual hymn 
 Sung as the light of day grows dim. 
 
 Like morning's dewy gleams ; 
 While mellow warble, sprightly trill, 
 
 
 The tremulous heart excite ; 
 
 Nor will he turn his ear aside 
 
 And hums the balmy air to still 
 
 From holy offerings at noontide. 
 
 The balance of delight. 
 
 Then here reposing let us raise 
 
 Time was, blest Power ! when youths and maids 
 
 A song of gratitude and praise. 
 
 At peep of dawn would rise, 
 
 
 And wander forth, in forest glades 
 Thy birth to solemnize. 
 
 What though our burthen be not light 
 
 We need not toil from morn to night ; 
 
 Though mute the song — to grace the rite 
 
 The respite of the mid-day hour 
 
 Untouched the hawthorn bough, 
 Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight ; 
 
 Is in the thankful Creature's power. 
 
 
 Man changes, but not Thou ! 
 
 Blest are the moments, doubly blest, 
 
 
 That, drawn from this one hour of rest, 
 
 Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings 
 
 Are with a ready heart bestowed 
 
 In love's disport employ ; 
 
 Upon the service of our God ! 
 
 Warmed by thy influence, creeping things 
 
 
 Awake to silent joy : 
 
 Each field is then a hallowed spot, 
 
 Queen art thou still for each gay plant 
 
 An altar is in each man's cot, 
 
 Where the slim wild deer roves; 
 
 A church in every grove that spreads 
 
 And served in depths where fishes haunt 
 
 Its living roof above our heads. 
 
 Their own mysterious groves. 
 
 Look up to Heaven ! the industrious Sun 
 
 Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath, 
 
 Already half his race hath run ; 
 
 Instinctive homage pay ; 
 
 > He cannot halt nor go astray, 
 
 Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath 
 
 But our immortal Spirits may. 
 
 To honour thee, sweet May ! 
 
 
 
382 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs 
 
 Behold a smokeless sky, 
 Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares 
 
 To open a bright eye. 
 
 And if, on this thy natal morn, 
 
 The pole, from which thy name 
 Hath not departed, stands forlorn 
 
 Of song and dance and game ; 
 Still from the village-green a vow 
 
 Aspires to thee addrest, 
 Wherever peace is on the brow, 
 
 Or love within the breast. 
 
 Yes ! where Love nestles thou canst teach 
 
 The soul to love the more ; 
 Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 
 
 That never loved before. 
 Stript is the haughty one of pride, 
 
 The bashful freed from fear, 
 While rising, like the ocean-tide, 
 
 In flows the joyous year. 
 
 Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words refuse 
 
 The service to prolong ! 
 To yon exulting thrush the Muse 
 
 Entrusts the imperfect song ; 
 His voice shall chant, in accents clear, 
 
 Throughout the live-long day, 
 Till the first silver star appear, 
 
 The sovereignty of May. 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 Though many suns have risen and set 
 
 Since thou, blithe May, wert born, 
 And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget 
 
 Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
 There are who to a birthday strain 
 
 Confine not harp and voice, 
 But evermore throughout thy reign 
 
 Are grateful and rejoice ! 
 
 Delicious odours ! music sweet, 
 
 Too sweet to pass away ! 
 Oh for a deathless song to meet 
 
 The soul's desire — a lay 
 That, when a thousand years are told, 
 
 Should praise thee, genial Power ! 
 Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 
 
 And winter's dreariest hour. 
 
 Earth, sea, thy presence feel — nor less, 
 
 If yon ethereal blue 
 With its soft smile the truth express, 
 
 The heavens have felt it too. 
 The inmost heart of man if glad 
 
 Partakes a livelier cheer ; 
 And eyes that cannot but be sad 
 
 Let fall a brightened tear. 
 
 Since thy return, through days and weeks 
 
 Of hope that grew by stealth, 
 How many wan and faded cheeks 
 
 Have kindled into health ! 
 The Old, by thee revived, have said, 
 
 " Another year is ours ;" 
 And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, 
 
 Have smiled upon thy flowers. 
 
 Who tripping lisps a merry song 
 
 Amid his playful peers ? 
 The tender Infant who was long 
 
 A prisoner of fond fears ; 
 But now, when every sharp-edged blast 
 
 Is quiet in its sheath, 
 His Mother leaves him free to taste 
 
 Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 
 
 Thy help is with the weed that creeps 
 
 Along the humblest ground ; 
 No cliff so bare but on its steeps 
 
 Thy favours may be found ; 
 But most on some peculiar nook 
 
 That our own hands have drest, 
 Thou and thy tram are proud to look, 
 
 And seem to love it best. 
 
 And yet how pleased we wander forth 
 
 When May is whispering, " Come ! 
 " Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 
 
 " The happiest for your home ; 
 " Heaven's bounteous love through me is 
 
 " From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 
 " Drops on the mouldering turret's head, 
 
 " And on your turf-clad graves ! " 
 
 Such greeting heard, away with sighs 
 
 For lilies that must fade, 
 Or ' the rathe primrose as it dies 
 
 Forsaken' in the shade ! 
 Vernal fruitions and desires 
 
 Are linked in endless chase ; 
 While, as one kindly growth retires, 
 
 Another takes its place. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 383 
 
 And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 
 '. Mishap by worm and blight ; 
 If expectations newly blown 
 
 Have perished in thy sight ; 
 jlf loves and joys, while up they sprung, 
 
 Were caught as in a snare ; 
 iSuch is the lot of all the young, 
 
 I However bright and fair. 
 Lo ! Streams that April could not check 
 i Are patient of thy rule ; 
 'Gurgling in foamy water-break, 
 
 Loitering in glassy pool : 
 By thee, thee only, could be sent 
 
 Such gentle mists as glide, 
 burling with unconfirmed intent, 
 On that green mountain's side. 
 
 How delicate the leafy veil 
 Through which yon house of God 
 
 jleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale 
 By few but shepherds trod ! 
 
 |ind lowly huts, near beaten ways, 
 
 I No sooner stand attired 
 n thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise 
 Peep forth, and are admired. 
 
 season of fancy and of hope, 
 
 Permit not for one hour, 
 A blossom from thy crown to drop, 
 I Nor add to it a flower ! 
 Seep, lovely May, as if by touch 
 ! Of self-restraining art, 
 This modest charm of not too much, 
 
 Part seen, imagined part ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED BT A PORTRAIT FROM THE PENCIL OF 
 F. STONE. 
 
 guiled into forgetfulness of care 
 ■ e to the day's unfinished task ; of pen 
 1 book regardless, and of that fair scene 
 (Nature's prodigality displayed 
 sfore my window, oftentimes and long 
 
 aze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam 
 I beauty never ceases to enrich 
 le common light ; whose stillness charms the air, 
 I seems to charm it, into like repose ; 
 
 hose silence, for the pleasure of the ear, 
 >asses sweetest music. There she sits 
 
 rp; 
 
 With emblematic purity attired 
 
 In a white vest, white as her marble neck 
 
 Is, and the pillar of the throat would be 
 
 But for the shadow by the drooping chin 
 
 Cast into that recess — the tender shade, 
 
 The shade and light, both there and every where, 
 
 And through the very atmosphere she breathes, 
 
 Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill 
 
 That might from nature have been learnt in the 
 
 hour 
 When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread 
 Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er 
 Thou be that, kindling with a poet's soul, 
 Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft 
 Intensely — from Imagination take 
 The treasure, — what mine eyes behold see thou, 
 Even though the Atlantic ocean roll between. 
 
 A silver line, that runs from brow to crown 
 And in the middle parts the braided hair, 
 Just serves to show how delicate a soil 
 The golden harvest grows in ; and those eyes, 
 Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky 
 Whose azure depth their colour emulates, 
 Must needs be conversant with upwaid looks, 
 Prayer's voiceless service ; but now, seeking nought 
 And shunning nought, their own peculiar life 
 Of motion they renounce, and with the head 
 Partake its inclination towards earth 
 In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness 
 Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness. 
 
 Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make me 
 Thy confidant ! say, whence derived that air 
 Of calm abstraction ? Can the ruling thought 
 Be with some lover far away, or one 
 Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith ? 
 Inapt conjecture ! Childhood here, a moon 
 Crescent in simple loveliness serene, 
 Has but approached the gates of womanhood, 
 Not entered them ; her heart is yet unpierced 
 By the blind Archer-god ; her fancy free : 
 The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere, 
 Will not be found. 
 
 Her right hand, as it lies 
 Across the slender wrist of the left arm 
 Upon her lap reposing, holds — but mark 
 How slackly, for the absent mind permits 
 No firmer grasp — a little wild-flower, joined 
 As in a posy, with a few pale ears 
 Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped 
 And in their common birthplace sheltered it 
 'Till they were plucked together ; a blue flower 
 Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed ; 
 
384 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn 
 That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held 
 In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows, 
 (Her Father told her so) in youth's gay dawn 
 Her Mother's favourite ; and the orphan Girl, 
 In her own dawn — a dawn less gay and bright, 
 Loves it, while there in solitary peace 
 She sits, for that departed Mother's sake. 
 — Not from a source less sacred is derived 
 (Surely I do not err) that pensive air 
 Of calm abstraction through the face diffused 
 And the whole person. 
 
 Words have something told 
 More than the pencil can, and verily 
 More than is needed, but the precious Art 
 Forgives their interference — Art divine, 
 That both creates and fixes, in despite 
 Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought. 
 
 Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours ! 
 That posture, and the look of filial love 
 Thinking of past and gone, with what is left 
 Dearly united, might be swept away 
 From this fair Portrait's fleshly Archetype, 
 Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak 
 Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored 
 To their lost place, or meet in harmony 
 So exquisite ; but here do they abide, 
 Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art 
 Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, 
 In visible quest of immortality, 
 Stretched forth with trembling hope?— In every 
 
 realm, 
 From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains, 
 Thousands, in each variety of tongue 
 That Europe knows, would echo this appeal ; 
 One above all, a Monk who waits on God 
 In the magnific Convent built of yore 
 To sanctify the Escurial palace. He — 
 Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room, 
 A British Painter (eminent for truth 
 In character, and depth of feeling, shown 
 By labours that have touched the hearts of kings, 
 And are endeared to simple cottagers) — - 
 Came, in that service, to a glorious work, 
 Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when first 
 The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's hand, 
 Graced the Refectory : and there, while both 
 Stood with eyes fixed upon that masterpiece, 
 The hoary Father in the Stranger's ear 
 Breathed out these words : — " Here daily do we sit, 
 Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here 
 Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times, 
 And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed, 
 
 Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze 
 
 Upon this solemn Company unmoved 
 
 By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years, 
 
 Until I cannot but believe that they — 
 
 They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadow 
 
 So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs 
 Melting away within him like a dream 
 Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak : 
 And I, grown old, but in a happier land, 
 Domestic Portrait ! have to verse consigned 
 In thy calm presence those heart-moving words : 
 Words that can soothe, more than they agitate : 
 Whose spirit, like the angel that went down 
 Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue 
 Informs the fountain in the human breast 
 Which by the visitation was disturbed. 
 
 But why this stealing tear % Companion mr 
 
 On thee I look, not sorrowing ; fare thee well, 
 My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell !* 
 
 THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED. 
 
 Among a grave fraternity of Monks, 
 For One, but surely not for One alone, 
 Triumphs, in that great work, the Painter's skill 
 Humbling the body, to exalt the soul ; 
 Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong 
 And dissolution and decay, the warm 
 And breathing life of flesh, as if already 
 Clothed with impassive majesty, and graced 
 With no mean earnest of a heritage 
 Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, too, 
 With thy memorial flower, meek Portraiture! 
 From whose serene companionship I passed 
 Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still ; tli 
 
 also — 
 Though but a simple object, into light 
 Called forth by those affections that endear 
 The private hearth ; though keeping thy sole sea 
 In singleness, and little tried by time, 
 Creation, as it were, of yesterday — 
 With a congenial function art endued 
 For each and all of us, together joined 
 In course of nature under a low roof 
 
 * The pile of buildings, composing the palace and on 
 vent of San Lorenzo, has, in common usage, lost il 
 name in that of the Escurial, a village at the foot of il" 
 hill upon which the splendid edifice, built by Philip"" 
 Second, stands. It need scarcely be added, that Wilkic il 
 the painter alluded to. 
 
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 385 
 
 ly charities and duties that proceed 
 hit of the bosom of a wiser vow. 
 
 a like salutary sense of awe 
 
 t sacred wonder, growing with the power 
 
 1 f meditation that attempts to weigh, 
 
 l faithful scales, things and their opposites, 
 an thy enduring quiet gently raise 
 household small and sensitive, — whose love, 
 ependent as in part its blessings are 
 ,pon frail ties dissolving or dissolved 
 earth, will be revived, we trust, in heaven.* 
 
 1834. 
 
 " 
 
 3 fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, 
 
 r ould that the little Flowers were born to live, 
 
 mscious of half the pleasure which they give ; 
 
 hat to this mountain-daisy's self were known 
 he beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown 
 q the smooth surface of this naked stone ! 
 
 i 
 
 ud what if hence a bold desire should mount 
 |igh as the Sun, that he could take account 
 f all that issues from his glorious fount ! 
 
 p might he ken how by his sovereign aid 
 aese delicate companionships are made ; 
 ad how he rules the pomp of light and shade ; 
 
 d were the Sister-power that shines by night 
 ,i privileged, what a countenance of delight 
 'ould through the clouds break forth on human 
 sight ! 
 
 md fancies ! wheresoe'er shall turn thine eye 
 
 I earth, air, ocean, or the starry sky, 
 inverse with Nature in pure sympathy ; 
 
 II vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled, 
 b Thou to love and praise alike impelled, 
 
 hatever boon is granted or withheld. 
 
 V In the class entitled " Musings," in Mr. Southey's 
 ' nor Poems, is one upon his own miniature Picture, 
 Jen in childhood, and another upon a landscape painted 
 Gaspar Poussin. It is possible that every word of the 
 iove verses, though similar in subject, might have been 
 kitten had the author been unacquainted with those 
 lutiful effusions of poetic sentiment. But, for his own 
 ;;isfaction, he must be allowed thus publicly to acknow- 
 Ige the pleasure those two Poems of his Friend have 
 'en him, and the grateful influence they have upon his 
 nd as often as he reads them, or thinks of them. 
 
 UPON SEEING A COLOURED DRAWING OF THE BIRD 
 OF PARADISE IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 Who rashly strove thy Image to portray ? 
 
 Thou buoyant minion of the tropic air ; 
 
 How could he think of the live creature — gay 
 
 With a divinity of colours, drest 
 
 In all her brightness, from the dancing crest 
 
 Far as the last gleam of the filmy train 
 
 Extended and extending to sustain 
 
 The motions that it graees — and forbear 
 
 To drop his pencil ! Flowers of every clime 
 
 Depicted on these pages smile at time ; 
 
 And gorgeous insects copied with nice care 
 
 Are here, and likenesses of many a shell 
 
 Tossed ashore by restless waves, 
 
 Or in the diver's grasp fetched up from caves 
 
 Where sea-nymphs might be proud to dwell : 
 
 But whose rash hand (again I ask) could dare, 
 
 'Mid casual tokens and promiscuous shows, 
 
 To circumscribe this Shape in fixed repose ; 
 
 Could imitate for indolent survey, 
 
 Perhaps for touch profane, 
 
 Plumes that might catch, but cannot keep, a stain ; 
 
 And, with cloud-streaks lightest and loftiest, share 
 
 The sun's first greeting, his last farewell ray ! 
 
 Resplendent Wanderer ! followed with glad eyes 
 Where'er her course ; mysterious Bird ! 
 To whom, by wondering Fancy stirred, 
 Eastern Islanders have given 
 A holy name — the Bird of Heaven ! 
 And even a title higher still, 
 The Bird of God ! whose blessed will 
 She seems performing as she flies 
 Over the earth and through the skies 
 In never-wearied search of Paradise — 
 Region that crowns her beauty with the name 
 She bears for us — for us how blest, 
 How happy at all seasons, could like aim 
 Uphold our Spirits urged to kindred flight 
 On wings that fear no glance of God's pure sight, 
 No tempest from his breath, their promised rest 
 Seeking with indefatigable quest 
 Above a world that deems itself most wise 
 When most enslaved by gross realities ! 
 
 183a. 
 
386 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER. 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER. 
 
 COMPOSED AFTER READING A NEWSPAPER OF THE DAY. 
 
 " People ! your chains are severing link by link ; 
 Soon shall the Rich be levelled down — the Poor 
 Meet them half way." Vain boast ! for These, the 
 
 more 
 They thus would rise, must low and lower sink 
 Till, by repentance stung, they fear to think ; 
 While all lie prostrate, save the tyrant few 
 Bent in quick turns each other to undo, 
 And mix the poison, they themselves must drink. 
 Mistrust thyself, vain Country ! cease to cry, 
 " Knowledge will save me from the threatened woe." 
 For, if than other rash ones more thou know, 
 Yet on presumptuous wing as far would fly 
 Above thy knowledge as they dared to go, 
 Thou wilt provoke a heavier penalty. 
 
 UPON THE LATE GENERAL FAST. 
 March, 1832. 
 
 Reluctant call it was ; the rite delayed ; 
 
 And in the Senate some there were who doffed 
 
 The last of their humanity, and scoffed 
 
 At providential judgments, undismayed 
 
 By their own daring. But the People prayed 
 
 As with one voice ; their flinty heart grew soft 
 
 With penitential sorrow, and aloft 
 
 Their spirit mounted, crying, " God us aid !" 
 
 Oh that with aspirations more intense, 
 
 Chastised by self-abasement more profound, 
 
 This People, once so happy, so renowned 
 
 For liberty, would seek from God defence 
 
 Against far heavier ill, the pestilence 
 
 Of revolution, impiously unbound ! 
 
 Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud, 
 
 Falsehood and Treachery, in close council met, 
 
 Deep under ground, in Pluto's cabinet, 
 
 " The frost of England's pride will soon be thawed ; 
 
 " Hooded the open brow that overawed 
 
 " Our schemes ; the faith and honour, never yet 
 
 " By us with hope encountered, be upset ; — 
 " For once I burst my bands, and cry, applaud !" 
 Then whispered she, " The Bill is carrying out !" 
 They heard, and, starting up, the Brood of Night 
 Clapped hands, and shook with glee their matie 
 
 locks ; 
 All Powers and Places that abhor the light 
 Joined in the transport, echoed back their shout, 
 Hurrah for , hugging his Ballot-box ! 
 
 Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will 
 Leaves him at ease among grand thoughts : whos 
 Sees that, apart from magnanimity, 
 Wisdom exists not ; nor the humbler skill 
 Of Prudence, disentangling good and ill 
 With patient care. What tho' assaults run high. 
 They daunt not him who holds his ministry, 
 Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil 
 Its duties ; — prompt to move, but firm to wait,— 
 Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely found ; 
 That, for the functions of an ancient State — 
 Strong by her charters, free because imbound, 
 Servant of Providence, not slave of Fate — 
 Perilous is sweeping change, all chance unsound. 
 
 IN ALLUSION TO VARIOUS RECENT HISTORIES 
 NOTICES OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 Portentous change when History can appear 
 As the cool Advocate of foul device ; 
 Reckless audacity extol, and jeer 
 At consciences perplexed with scruples nice ! 
 They who bewail not, must abhor, the sneer 
 Born of Conceit, Power's blind Idolater ; 
 Or haply sprung from vaunting Cowardice 
 Betrayed by mockery of holy fear. 
 Hath it not long been said the wrath of Man 
 Works not the righteousness of God ? Oh bend, 
 Bend, ye Perverse ! to judgments from on High, 
 Laws that lay under Heaven's perpetual ban 
 All principles of action that transcend 
 The sacred limits of humanity. 
 
SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER. 
 
 387 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 Vuo ponders National events shall find 
 
 L n awful balancing of loss and gain, 
 
 oy based on sorrow, good with ill combined, 
 
 ;nd proud deliverance issuing out of pain 
 
 jid direful throes ; as if the All-ruling Mind, 
 
 7itk whose perfection it consists to ordain 
 
 j'olcanic burst, earthquake, and hurricane, 
 
 i*ealt in like sort with feeble human kind 
 
 |y laws immutable. But woe for him 
 
 Vho thus deceived shall lend an eager hand 
 
 o social havoc. Is not Conscience ours, 
 
 ! .nd Truth, whose eye guilt only can make dim ; 
 
 .nd Will, whose office, by divine command, 
 
 B to control and check disordered Powers ? 
 
 CONCLUDED. 
 
 ong-favoured England ! be not thou misled 
 
 y monstrous theories of alien growth, 
 
 est alien frenzy seize thee, waxing wroth, 
 
 '3lf-smitten till thy garments reek dyed red 
 
 Pith thy own blood, which tears in torrents shed 
 
 ail to wash out, tears flowing ere thy troth 
 
 le plighted, not to ease but sullen sloth, 
 
 r wan despair — the ghost of false hope fled 
 
 ,'ito a shameful grave. Among thy youth, 
 
 ,"y Country ! if such warning be held dear, 
 
 ihen shall a Veteran's heart be thrilled with joy, 
 
 me who would gather from eternal truth, 
 
 ior time and season, rules that work to cheer — 
 
 lot scourge, to save the People — not destroy. 
 
 • en of the Western World ! in Fate's dark book 
 
 r hence these opprobrious leaves of dire portent ? 
 
 -link ye your British Ancestors forsook 
 
 lieir native Land, for outrage provident ; 
 
 rom unsubmissive necks the bridle shook 
 
 ■) give, in their Descendants, freer vent 
 
 nd wider range to passions turbulent, 
 
 3 mutual tyranny a deadlier look? 
 
 ay, said a voice, soft as the south wind's breath, 
 
 ,ive through the stormy surface of the flood 
 
 b the great current flowing underneath ; 
 
 xplore the countless springs of silent good ; 
 
 p shall the truth be better understood, 
 
 ,nd thy grieved Spirit brighten strong in faith. 
 
 TO THE PENNSYLVANIANS. 
 
 Days undefiled by luxury or sloth, 
 
 Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid, 
 
 Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness obeyed, 
 
 Words that require no sanction from an oath, 
 
 And simple honesty a common growth — 
 
 This high repute, with bounteous Nature's aid, 
 
 Won confidence, now ruthlessly betrayed 
 
 At will, your power the measure of your troth ! — 
 
 All who revere the memory of Penn 
 
 Grieve for the land on whose wild woods his name 
 
 Was fondly grafted with a virtuous aim, 
 
 Renounced, abandoned by degenerate Men 
 
 For state-dishonour black as ever came 
 
 To upper air from Mammon's loathsome den. 
 
 AT BOLOGNA, IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE LATE 
 INSURRECTIONS, 1837. 
 
 Ah why deceive ourselves ! by no mere fit 
 Of sudden passion roused shall men attain 
 True freedom where for ages they have lain 
 Bound in a dark abominable pit, 
 With life's best sinews more and more unbent. 
 Here, there, a banded few who loathe the chain 
 May rise to break it : effort worse than vain 
 For thee, great Italian nation, split 
 Into those jarring fractions. — Let thy scope 
 Be one fixed mind for all ; thy rights approve 
 To thy own conscience gradually renewed ; 
 Learn to make Time the father of wise Hope ; 
 Then trust thy cause to the arm of Fortitude, 
 The light of Knowledge, and the warmth of Love. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Hard task ! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean 
 
 On Patience coupled with such slow endeavour, 
 
 That long-lived servitude must last for ever. 
 
 Perish the grovelling few, who, prest between 
 
 Wrongs and the terror of redress, would wean 
 
 Millions from glorious aims. Our chains to sever 
 
 Let us break forth in tempest now or never ! — 
 
 What, is there then no space for golden mean 
 
 And gradual progress % — Twilight leads to day, 
 
 And, even within the burning zones of earth, 
 
 The hastiest sunrise yields a temperate ray ; 
 
 The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth : 
 
 Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, 
 
 She scans the future with the eye of gods. 
 c c 2 
 
388 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY AND ORDER. 
 
 XII. 
 
 CONCLUDED. 
 
 III. 
 
 As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow 
 
 And wither, every human generation 
 
 Is to the Being of a mighty nation, 
 
 Locked in our world's embrace through weal and 
 
 woe ; 
 Thought that should teach the zealot to forego 
 Rash schemes, to abjure all selfish agitation, 
 And seek through noiseless pains and moderation 
 The unblemished good they only can bestow. 
 Alas ! with most, who weigh futurity 
 Against time present, passion holds the scales : 
 Hence equal ignorance of both prevails, 
 And nations sink ; or, struggling to be free, 
 Are doomed to flounder on, like wounded whales 
 Tossed on the bosom of a stormy sea. 
 
 Young England — what is then become of Old 
 Of dear Old England ? Think they she is dead, 
 Dead to the very name ? Presumption fed 
 On empty air ! That name will keep its hold 
 
 In the true filial bosom's inmost fold 
 
 For ever. — The Spirit of Alfred, at the head 
 
 Of all who for her rights watch'd, toil'd and bled 
 
 Knows that this prophecy is not too bold. 
 
 What — how ! shall she submit in will and deed 
 
 To Beardless Boys — an imitative race, 
 
 The servum pecus of a Gallic breed ? 
 
 Dear Mother ! if thou must thy steps retrace, 
 
 Go where at least meek Innocency dwells ; 
 
 Let Babes and Sucklings be thy oracles. 
 
 Feel for the wrongs to universal ken 
 Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies ; 
 And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den, 
 Whether conducted to the spot by sighs 
 And moanings, or he dwells (as if the wren 
 Taught him concealment) hidden from all eyes 
 In silence and the awful modesties 
 Of sorrow ; — feel for all, as brother Men ! 
 Rest not in hope want's icy chain to thaw 
 By casual boons and formal charities ; 
 Learn to be just, just through impartial law ; 
 Far as ye may, erect and equalise ; 
 And, what ye cannot reach by statute, draw 
 Each from his fountain of self-sacrifice ! 
 
SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 
 
 389 
 
 SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 
 
 IN SERIES. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE VIEW OF LANCASTER CASTLE 
 (ON THE ROAD FROM THE SOUTH). 
 
 his Spot — at once unfolding sight so fair 
 f sea and land, with yon grey towers that still 
 ise up as if to lord it over air — 
 light soothe in human breasts the sense of ill, 
 r charm it out of memory ; yea, might fill 
 lie heart with joy and gratitude to God 
 lor all his bounties upon man bestowed : 
 r hy bears it then the name of " Weeping Hill " \ 
 ihousands, as toward yon old Lancastrian Towers, 
 prison's crown, along this way they past 
 or lingering durance or quick death with shame, 
 torn this bare eminence thereon have cast 
 heir first look — blinded as tears fell in showers 
 led on their chains ; and hence that doleful name. 
 
 enderly do we feel by Nature's law 
 
 or worst offenders : though the heart will heave 
 
 i ith indignation, deeply moved we grieve, 
 
 after thought, for Him who stood in awe 
 either of God nor man, and only saw, 
 >st wretch, a horrible device enthroned 
 p proud temptations, till the victim groaned 
 ader the steel his hand had dared to draw. 
 it 0, restrain compassion, if its course, 
 3 oft befals, prevent or turn aside 
 idgments and aims and acts whose higher source 
 
 sympathy with the unforewarned, who died 
 ameless — with them that shuddered o'er his grave, 
 id all who from the law firm safety crave. 
 
 ie Roman Consul doomed his sons to die 
 
 ,ho had betrayed their country. The stem word 
 
 jforded (may it through all time afford) 
 
 I theme for praise and admiration high. 
 
 )on the surface of humanity 
 
 i rested not ; its depths his mind explored ; 
 
 He felt ; but his parental bosom's lord 
 Was Duty, — Duty calmed his agony. 
 And some, we know, when they by wilful act 
 A single human life have wrongly taken, 
 Pass sentence on themselves, confess the fact, 
 And, to atone for it, with soul unshaken 
 Kneel at the feet of Justice, and, for faith 
 Broken with all mankind, solicit death. 
 
 Is Death, when evil against good has fought 
 With such fell mastery that a man may dare 
 By deeds the blackest purpose to lay bare ? 
 Is Death, for one to that condition brought, 
 For him, or any one, the thing that ought 
 To be most dreaded? Lawgivers, beware, 
 Lest, capital pains remitting till ye spare 
 The murderer, ye, by sanction to that thought 
 Seemingly given, debase the general mind ; 
 Tempt the vague will tried standards to disown, 
 Nor only palpable restraints unbind, 
 But upon Honour's head disturb the crown, 
 Whose absolute rule permits not to withstand 
 In the weak love of life his least command. 
 
 Not to the object specially designed, 
 
 Howe'er momentous in itself it be, 
 
 Good to promote or curb depravity, 
 
 Is the wise Legislator's view confined. 
 
 His Spirit, when most severe, is oft most kind ; 
 
 As all Authority in earth depends 
 
 On Love and Fear, their several powers he blends, 
 
 Copying with awe the one Paternal mind. 
 
 Uncaught by processes in show humane, 
 
 He feels how far the act would derogate 
 
 From even the humblest functions of the State ; 
 
 If she, self-shorn of Majesty, ordain 
 
 That never more shall hang upon her breath 
 
 The last alternative of Life or Death. 
 
390 
 
 SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 
 
 Ye brood of conscience— Spectres ! that frequent 
 
 The bad Man's restless walk, and haunt his bed — 
 
 Fiends in your aspect, yet beneficent 
 
 In act, as hovering Angels when they spread 
 
 Then' wings to guard the unconscious Innocent — 
 
 Slow be the Statutes of the land to share 
 
 A laxity that could not but impair 
 
 Tour power to punish crime, and so prevent. 
 
 And ye, Beliefs ! coiled serpent-like about 
 
 The adage on all tongues, " Murder will out," 
 
 How shall your ancient warnings work for good 
 
 In the full might they hitherto have shown, 
 
 If for deliberate shedder of man's blood 
 
 Survive not Judgment that requires his own \ 
 
 Before the world had past her time of youth 
 While polity and discipline were weak, 
 The precept eye for eye, and tooth for tooth, 
 Came forth — a light, though but as of day-break, 
 Strong as could then be borne. A Master meek 
 Proscribed the spirit fostered by that rule, 
 Patience his law, long-suffering his school, 
 And love the end, which all through peace must 
 
 seek. 
 But lamentably do they err who strain 
 His mandates, given rash impulse to controul 
 And keep vindictive thirstings from the soul, 
 So far that, if consistent in their scheme, 
 They must forbid the State to inflict a pain, 
 Making of social order a mere dream. 
 
 Fit retribution, by the moral code 
 Determined, lies beyond the State's embrace, 
 Yet, as she may, for each peculiar case 
 She plants well-measured terrors in the road 
 Of wrongful acts. Downward it is and broad, 
 And, the main fear once doomed to banishment, 
 Far oftener then, bad ushering worse event, 
 Blood would be spilt that in his dark abode 
 Crime might he better hid. And, should the 
 
 change 
 Take from the horror due to a foul deed, 
 Pursuit and evidence so far must fail, 
 And, guilt escaping, passion then might plead 
 In angry spirits for her old free range, 
 And the " wild justice of revenge " prevail. 
 
 Though to give timely warning and deter 
 
 Is one great aim of penalty, extend 
 
 Thy mental vision further and ascend 
 
 Far higher, else full surely shalt thou err. 
 
 What is a State ? The wise behold in her 
 
 A creature born of time, that keeps one eye 
 
 Fixed on the statutes of Eternity, 
 
 To which her judgments reverently defer. 
 
 Speaking through Law's dispassionate voice th 
 
 State 
 Endues her conscience with external life 
 And being, to preclude or quell the strife 
 Of individual will, to elevate 
 The grovelling mind, the erring to recal, 
 And fortify the moral sense of all. 
 
 Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine 
 Of an immortal spirit, is a gift 
 So sacred, so informed with light divine, 
 That no tribunal, though most wise to sift 
 Deed and intent, should turn the Being adrift 
 Into that world where penitential tear 
 May not avail, nor prayer have for God's ear 
 A voice — that world whose veil no hand can lift 
 For earthly sight. " Eternity and Time " 
 Tliey urge, " have interwoven claims and rights 
 Not to be jeopardised through foulest crime : 
 The sentence rule by mercy's heaven-born lights 
 Even so ; but measuring not by finite sense 
 Infinite Power, perfect Intelligence. 
 
 Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide 
 
 Locked in a dungeon needs must eat the heart 
 
 Out of his own humanity, and part 
 
 With every hope that mutual cares provide ; 
 
 And, should a less unnatural doom confide 
 
 In life-long exile on a savage coast, 
 
 Soon the relapsing penitent may boast 
 
 Of yet more heinous guilt, with fiercer pride 
 
 Hence thoughtful Mercy, Mercy sage and pare, 
 
 Sanctions the forfeiture that Law demands, 
 
 Leaving the final issue in His hands 
 
 Whose goodness Itnows no change, whose love 
 
 sure, 
 Who sees, foresees; who cannot judge amiss, 
 And wafts at will the contrite soul to bliss. 
 
SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. 
 
 391 
 
 ee the Condemned alone within his cell 
 
 i nd prostrate at some moment when remorse 
 
 tings to the quick, and, with resistless force, 
 
 ssaults the pride she strove in vain to quell. 
 
 hen mark him, him who could so long rebel, 
 
 he crime confessed, a kneeling Penitent 
 
 efore the Altar, where the Sacrament 
 
 jftens his heart, till from his eyes outwell 
 
 'sars of salvation. Welcome death ! while Heaven 
 
 oes in this change exceedingly rejoice ; 
 
 r hile yet the solemn heed the State hath given 
 
 elps him to meet the last Tribunal's voice 
 
 l faith, which fresh offences, were he cast 
 
 a old temptations, might for ever blast. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 es, though He well may tremble at the sound 
 fhis own voice, who from the judgment-seat 
 hnds the pale Convict to his last retreat 
 death ; though Listeners shudder all around, 
 ley know the dread requital's source profound ; 
 )r is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete — 
 Vould that it were !) the sacrifice unmeet 
 
 For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound j 
 The social rights of man breathe purer air ; 
 Religion deepens her preventive care ; 
 Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse, 
 Strike not from Law's firm hand that awful rod, 
 But leave it thence to drop for lack of use : 
 Oh, speed the blessed hour, Almighty God ! 
 
 The formal World relaxes her cold chain 
 
 For One who speaks in numbers ; ampler scope 
 
 His utterance finds ; and, conscious of the gain, 
 
 Imagination works with bolder hope 
 
 The cause of grateful reason to sustain ; 
 
 And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly beats 
 
 Against all barriers which his labour meets 
 
 In lofty place, or humble Life's domain. 
 
 Enough ; — before us lay a painful road, 
 
 And guidance have I sought in duteous love 
 
 From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath 
 
 flowed 
 Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way 
 Each takes in this high matter, all may move 
 Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day. 
 
 1840 
 
392 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 EPISTLE 
 
 TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART. 
 FEOM THE SODTH-WEST COAST OF CUMBERLAND. — 1811. 
 
 Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake, 
 From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake, 
 Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore 
 We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar ; 
 While, day by day, grim neighbour ! huge Black 
 
 Comb 
 Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom, 
 Unless, perchance rejecting in despite 
 What on the Plain we have of warmth and light, 
 In his own storms he hides himself from sight. 
 Rough is the time ; and thoughts, that would be free 
 From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee ; 
 Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road 
 Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad ; 
 Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might 
 Attained a stature twice a tall man's height, 
 Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere 
 Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer, 
 Like an unshifting weathercock which proves 
 How cold the quarter that the wind best loves, 
 Or like a Centinel that, evermore 
 Darkening the window, ill defends the door 
 Of this unfinished house — a Fortress bare, 
 Where strength has been the Builder's only care ; 
 Whose rugged walls may still for years demand 
 The final polish of the Plasterer's hand. 
 — This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks' 
 
 space 
 And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place, 
 I — of whose touch the fiddle would complain, 
 Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain, 
 In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill 
 A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill, 
 Tired of my books, a scanty company ! 
 And tired of listening to the boisterous sea — 
 Pace between door and window muttering rhyme, 
 An old resource to cheat a froward time ! 
 Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame ?) 
 Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim. 
 — But if there be a Muse who, free to take 
 Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake 
 
 Those heights (like Phoebus when his golden loch 
 He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks) 
 And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail 
 Trips down the pathways of some winding dale : 
 Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores 
 To fishers mending nets beside their doors ; 
 Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined, 
 Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind, 
 Or listens to its play among the boughs 
 Above her head and so forgets her vows — 
 If such a Visitant of Earth there be 
 And she would deign this day to smile on me 
 And aid my verse, content with local bounds 
 Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds, 
 Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tel 
 Without reserve to those whom we love weli — 
 Then haply, Beaumont ! words in current clear 
 Will flow, and on a welcome page appear 
 Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here. 
 
 What shall I treat of? News from Moua's Isle 
 Such have we, but unvaried in its style ; 
 No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence 
 And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence ; 
 Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind 
 Most restlessly alive when most confined. 
 Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease 
 The mighty tumults of the House of Keys ; 
 The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer gained, 
 What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained 
 An eye of fancy only can I cast 
 On that proud pageant now at hand or past, 
 When full five hundred boats in trim array, 
 With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay, 
 And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer, 
 For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair, 
 Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine 
 Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brint-. 
 
 Mona from our Abode is daily seen, 
 But with a wilderness of waves between ; 
 And by conjecture only can we speak 
 Of aught transacted there in bay or creek ; 
 No tidings reach us thence from town or field, 
 Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield, 
 And some we gather from the misty air, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 393 
 
 ind some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, 
 
 declare. 
 W these poetic mysteries I withhold ; 
 "or Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold, 
 L nd should the colder fit with You be on 
 Vhen You might read, my credit would be gone. 
 
 Let more substantial themes the pen engage, 
 ,nd nearer interests culled from the opening stage 
 if our migration. — Ere the welcome dawn 
 ;[ad from the east her silver star withdrawn, 
 lie Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door, 
 houghtfully freighted with a various store ; 
 .nd long or ere the uprising of the Sun 
 ''er dew-damped dust our journey was begun, 
 . needful journey, under favouring skies, 
 hrough peopled Vales ; yet something in the guise 
 If those old Patriarchs when from well to well 
 hey roamed through Wastes where now the tented 
 Arabs dwell. 
 
 Say first, to whom did we the charge confide, 
 /ho promptly undertook the Wain to guide 
 p many a sharply-twining road and down, 
 nd over many a wide hill's craggy crown, 
 hrough the quick turns of many a hollow nook, 
 nd the rough bed of many an unbridged brook ? 
 
 blooming Lass — who in her better hand 
 ore a light switch, her sceptre of command 
 /hen, yet a slender Girl, she often led, 
 wilful and bold, the horse and burthened sled * 
 rom the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's head, 
 'hat could go wrong with such a Charioteer 
 or goods and chattels, or those Infants dear, 
 l Pair who smilingly sate side by side, 
 ur hope confirming that the salt-sea tide, 
 ''hose free embraces we were bound to seek, 
 
 [ould their lost strength restore and freshen the 
 pale cheek ? 
 ach hope did either Parent entertain 
 acing behind along the silent lane. 
 
 . Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight, 
 
 ;or lo ! an uncouth melancholy sight — 
 
 n a green bank a creature stood forlorn 
 
 Jst half protruded to the light of morn, 
 
 is hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn. 
 
 he Figure called to mind a beast of prey 
 
 ript of its frightful powers by slow decay, 
 !ud, though no longer upon rapine bent, 
 
 im memory keeping of its old intent. 
 
 r e started, looked again with anxious eyes, 
 
 * A local word for Sledge. 
 
 And in that griesly object recognise 
 
 The Curate's Dog — his long -tried friend, for they, 
 
 As well we knew, together had. grown grey. 
 
 The Master died, his drooping servant's grief 
 
 Found at the Widow's feet some sad relief ; 
 
 Yet still he lived in pining discontent, 
 
 Sadness which no indulgence could prevent ; 
 
 Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps 
 
 And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps ; 
 
 Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute ! 
 
 Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute, 
 
 And of all visible motion destitute, 
 
 So that the very heaving of his breath 
 
 Seemed stopt, though by some other power than 
 
 death. 
 Long as we gazed upon the form and face, 
 A mild domestic pity kept its place, 
 Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue 
 That haunted us in spite of what we knew. 
 Even now I sometimes think of him as lost 
 In second-sight appearances, or crost 
 By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground, 
 On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound, 
 Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait 
 In days of old romance at Archimago's gate. 
 
 Advancing Summer, Nature's law fulfilled, 
 The choristers in every grove had stilled ; 
 But we, we lacked not music of our own, 
 For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown, 
 Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues, 
 Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs 
 With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird 
 That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard, 
 Her work and her work's partners she can cheer, 
 The whole day long, and all days of the year. 
 
 Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale we pass 
 And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass ! 
 To Loughrigg-tarn, round clear and bright as 
 
 heaven, 
 Such name Italian fancy would have given, 
 Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose 
 That yet disturb not its concealed repose 
 More than the feeblest wind that idly blows. 
 
 Ah, Beaumont ! when an opening in the road 
 Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed, 
 The encircling region vividly exprest 
 Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest — 
 Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy bield * , 
 And the smooth green of many a pendent field, 
 
 * A word common in the country, signifying shelter, as 
 in Scotland. 
 
394 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small, 
 
 A little daring would-be waterfall, 
 
 One chimney smoking and its azure wreath, 
 
 Associate all in the calm Pool beneath, 
 
 With here and there a faint imperfect gleam 
 
 Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam — 
 
 What wonder at this hour of stillness deep, 
 
 A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and sleep, 
 
 When Nature's self, amid such blending, seems 
 
 To render visible her own soft dreams, 
 
 If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood, 
 
 Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood, 
 
 A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee 
 
 Designed to rise in humble privacy, 
 
 A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread, 
 
 Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head 
 
 Half hid in native trees. Alas 'tis not, 
 
 Nor ever was ; I sighed, and left the spot 
 
 Unconscious of its own untoward lot, 
 
 And thought in silence, with regret too keen, 
 
 Of unexperienced joys that might have been ; 
 
 Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts, 
 
 And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts. 
 
 But time, irrevocable time, is flown, 
 
 And let us utter thanks for blessings sown 
 
 And reaped — what hath been, and what is, our own. 
 
 Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee, 
 Startling us all, dispersed my reverie ; 
 Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting 
 Oft-times from Alpine chalets sends a greeting. 
 Whence the blithe hail ? behold a Peasant stand 
 On high, a kerchief waving in her hand ! 
 Not unexpectant that by early day 
 Our little Band would thrid this mountain way, 
 Before her cottage on the bright hill side 
 She hath advanced with hope to be descried. 
 Right gladly answering signals we displayed, 
 Moving along a tract of morning shade, 
 And vocal wishes sent of like good will 
 To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill — 
 Luminous region, fair as if the prime 
 Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb ; 
 Only the centre of the shining cot 
 With door left open makes a gloomy spot, 
 Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found 
 Within the happiest breast on earthly ground. 
 
 Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, 
 And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale ; 
 Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain 
 With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing 
 
 grain — 
 An area level as a Lake and spread 
 
 Under a rock too steep for man to tread, 
 Where sheltered from the north and bleak north- 
 west 
 Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, 
 Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest 
 Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale ; but hark 
 At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark, 
 Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state 
 But the whole household, that our coming wait. 
 With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange 
 And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange 
 Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared. 
 Entering, we find the morning meal prepared : 
 So down we sit, though not till each had cast 
 Pleased looks around the delicate repast — 
 Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from th< 
 
 nest, 
 With amber honey from the mountain's breast ; 
 Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wilt 
 Of children's industry, in hillocks piled ; 
 Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to he 
 Upon a lordly dish ; frank hospitality 
 Where simple art with bounteous nature vied, 
 And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride. 
 
 Kind Hostess ! Handmaid also of the feast, 
 If thou be lovelier than the kindling East, 
 Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak 
 Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek 
 Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies, 
 Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes, 
 Dark but to every gentle feeling true, 
 As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue 
 
 Let me not ask what tears may have been wep 
 By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept, 
 Beside that hearth what sighs may have beei 
 
 heaved 
 For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved 
 By fortitude and patience, and the grace 
 Of heaven in pity visiting the place. 
 Not unadvisedly those secret springs 
 I leave unsearched : enough that memory dings. 
 Here as elsewhere, to notices that make 
 Their own significance for hearts awake, 
 To rural incidents, whose genial powers 
 Filled with delight three summer morning hours 
 
 More could my pen report of grave or gay 
 That through our gipsy travel cheered the way ; 
 But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun 
 Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, "Be doni'. 
 Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove 
 This humble offering made by Truth to Love, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 395 
 
 ■for chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell 
 Vhich might have else been on me yet : — 
 
 Farewell. 
 
 UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIRTY 
 TEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION. 
 
 iOon did the Almighty Giver of all rest 
 
 'ake those dear young Ones to a fearless nest ; 
 
 L nd in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend 
 
 or whom this simple Register was penned. 
 
 'hanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes ; 
 
 Lnd Strangers even the slighted Scroll may prize, 
 
 loved by the touch of kindred sympathies. 
 
 'or — gave the calm, repentance sheds o'er strife 
 
 Raised by remembrances of misused life, 
 
 'he light from past endeavours purely willed 
 
 ■jid by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled ; 
 
 ave hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may share 
 
 he joys of the Departed — what so fair 
 
 Is blameless pleasure, not without some tears, 
 
 leviewed through Love's transparent veil of years ? 
 
 ' Note, — Loughrigg Tarn, alluded to in the foregoing 
 pistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the 
 ake Nemi, or Speculum Diana: as it is often called, not 
 dy in its clear waters and circular form, and the beauty 
 amediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked 
 •! the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by 
 : iat of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written 
 jughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling 
 many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, 
 iirticularly upon the farm called " The Oaks," from the 
 mndance of that tree which grew there. 
 It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George 
 eaumont did not carry into effect his intention of con- 
 flicting here a Summer Retreat in the style I have 
 scribed ; as his taste would have set an example how 
 lildings, with all the accommodations modern society 
 quires, might be introduced even into the most secluded 
 irts of this country without injuring their native cha- 
 pter. The design was not abandoned from failure of 
 ,clination on his part, but in consequence of local unto- 
 wdnesses which need not be particularised. 
 
 iOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE, 
 
 ' The soaring lark is blest as proud 
 
 When at heaven's gate she sings ; 
 The roving bee proclaims aloud 
 
 Her flight by vocal wings ; 
 i While Ye, in lasting durance pent, 
 
 Your silent lives employ 
 For something more than dull content, 
 
 Though haply less than joy. 
 
 Yet might your glassy prison seem 
 
 A place where joy is known, 
 Where golden flash and silver gleam 
 
 Have meanings of their own ; 
 While, high and low, and all about, 
 
 Your motions, glittering Elves ! 
 Ye weave — no danger from without, 
 
 And peace among yourselves. 
 
 Type of a sunny human breast 
 
 Is your transparent cell ; 
 Where Fear is but a transient guest, 
 
 No sullen Humours dwell ; 
 Where, sensitive of every ray 
 
 That smites this tiny sea, 
 Your scaly panoplies repay 
 
 The loan with usury. 
 
 How beautiful ! — Yet none knows why 
 
 This ever-graceful change, 
 Renewed — renewed incessantly — 
 
 Within your quiet range. 
 Is it that ye with conscious skill 
 
 For mutual pleasure glide ; 
 And sometimes, not without your will, 
 
 Are dwarfed, or magnified ? 
 
 Fays, Genii of gigantic size ! 
 
 And now, in twilight dim, 
 Clustering like constellated eyes, 
 
 In wings of Cherubim, 
 When the fierce orbs abate their glare ; — 
 
 Whate'er your forms express, 
 Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are — ■ 
 
 All leads to gentleness. 
 
 Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure ; 
 
 Your birthright is a fence 
 From all that haughtier kinds endure 
 
 Through tyranny of sense. 
 Ah ! not alone by colours bright 4 
 
 Are Ye to heaven allied, 
 When, like essential Forms of light, 
 
 Ye mingle, or divide. 
 
 For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled 
 
 Day-thoughts while limbs repose ; 
 For moonlight fascinations mild, 
 
 Your gift, ere shutters close — 
 Accept, mute Captives ! thanks and praise ; 
 
 And may this tribute prove 
 That gentle admirations raise 
 
 Delight resembling love. W2U. 
 
396 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 (sequel to the above.) 
 [addressed to a friend ; THE gold and silver fishes 
 
 HAVING BEEN REMOVED TO A FOOL IN THE PLEASURE- 
 GROUND OF RYDAL MOUNT.] 
 
 ' The liberty of a people consists in being governed by laws 
 which they have made for themselves, under whatever 
 form it be of government. The liberty of a privateman, 
 in being master of his own time and actions, as far as 
 may consist with the laws of God and of his country. 
 Of this latter we are here to discourse.'— Cowley. 
 
 Those breathing Tokens of your kind regard, 
 
 (Suspect not, Anna, that their fate is hard ; 
 
 Not soon does aught to which mild fancies cling 
 
 In lonely spots, become a slighted thing ;) 
 
 Those silent Inmates now no longer share, 
 
 Nor do they need, our hospitable care, 
 
 Removed in kindness from their glassy Cell 
 
 To the fresh waters of a living Well — 
 
 An elfin pool so sheltered that its rest 
 
 No winds disturb ; the mirror of whose breast 
 
 Is smooth as clear, save where with dimples small 
 
 A fly may settle, or a blossom fall. 
 
 — There swims, of blazing sun and beating shower 
 
 Fearless (but how obscured !) the golden Power, 
 
 That from his bauble prison used to cast 
 
 Gleams by the richest jewel unsurpast ; 
 
 And near him, darkling like a sullen Gnome, 
 
 The silver Tenant of the crystal dome ; 
 
 Dissevered both from all the mysteries 
 
 Of hue and altering shape that charmed all eyes. 
 
 Alas ! they pined, they languished while they shone ; 
 
 And, if not so, what matters beauty gone 
 
 And admiration lost, by change of place 
 
 That brings to the inward creature no disgrace ? 
 
 But if the change restore his birthright, then, 
 
 Whate'er the difference, boundless is the gain. 
 
 Who can divine what impulses from God 
 
 Reach the caged lark, within a town-abode, 
 
 From his poor inch or two of daisied sod ? 
 
 yield him back his privilege ! — No sea 
 
 Swells like the bosom of a man set free ; 
 
 A wilderness is rich with liberty. 
 
 Roll on, ye spouting whales, who die or keep 
 
 Your independence in the fathomless Deep ! 
 
 Spread, tiny nautilus, the living sail ; 
 
 Dive, at thy choice, or brave the freshening gale ! 
 
 If unreproved the ambitious eagle mount 
 
 Sunward to seek the daylight in its fount, 
 
 Bays, gulfs, and ocean's Indian width, shall be, 
 
 Till the world perishes, a field for thee ! 
 
 While musing here I sit in shadow cool, 
 And watch these mute Companions, in the pool, 
 (Among reflected boughs of leafy trees) 
 By glimpses caught — disporting at their ease, 
 Enlivened, braced, by hardy luxuries, 
 I ask what warrant fixed them (like a spell 
 Of witchcraft fixed them) in the crystal cell ; 
 To wheel with languid motion round and round, 
 Beautiful, yet in mournful durance bound. 
 Their peace, perhaps, our lightest footfall marred 
 On their quick sense our sweetest music jarreii ; 
 And whither could they dart, if seized with fear > 
 No sheltering stone, no tangled root was near. 
 When fire or taper ceased to cheer the room, 
 They wore away the night in starless gloom ; 
 And, when the sun first dawned upon the streams 
 How faint their portion of his vital beams ! 
 Thus, and unable to complain, they fared, 
 While not one joy of ours by them was shared. 
 
 Is there a cherished bird (I venture now 
 To snatch a sprig from Chaucer's reverend brow)- 
 Is there a brilliant fondling of the cage, 
 Though sure of plaudits on his costly stage, 
 Though fed with dainties from the snow-white ham 
 Of a kind mistress, fairest of the land, 
 But gladly would escape ; and. if need were, 
 Scatter the colours from the plumes that bear 
 The emancipated captive through blithe air 
 Into strange woods, where he at large may live 
 On best or worst which they and Nature give ? 
 The beetle loves his unpretending track, 
 The snail the house he carries on his back ; 
 The far-fetched worm with pleasure would disow 
 The bed we give him, though of softest down ; 
 A noble instinct ; in all kinds the same, 
 All ranks ! What Sovereign, worthy of the name 
 If doomed to breathe against his lawful will 
 An element that flatters him — to kill, 
 But would rejoice to barter outward show 
 For the least boon that freedom can bestow? 
 
 But most the Bard is true to inborn right, 
 Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night, 
 Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch 
 For the dear blessings of a lowly couch, 
 A natural meal— days, months, from Nature's hand 
 Time, place, and business, all at his command !- 
 Who bends to happier duties, who more wise 
 Than the industrious Poet, taught to prize, 
 Above all grandeur, a pure life uncrossed 
 By cares in which simplicity is lost ? 
 That life— the flowery path that winds by stealth- 
 Which Horace needed for his spirit's health ; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 397 
 
 iighed for, in heart and genius, overcome 
 y noise and strife, and questions wearisome, 
 nd the vain splendours of Imperial Rome? — 
 iet easy mirth his social hours inspire, 
 nd fiction animate his sportive lyre, 
 ttuned to verse that, crowning light Distress 
 r ith garlands, cheats her into happiness ; 
 ive me the humblest note of those sad strains 
 rawn forth by pressure of his gilded chains, 
 is a chance-sunbeam from his memory fell 
 jpon the Sabine farm he loved so well ; 
 r when the prattle of Blandusia's spring 
 aunted his ear — he only listening — 
 e proud to please, above all rivals, fit 
 ) win the palm of gaiety and wit ; 
 je, doubt not, with involuntary dread, 
 irinking from each new favour to be shed, 
 y the world's Rider, on his honoured head ! 
 
 In a deep vision's intellectual scene, 
 ,ich earnest longings and regrets as keen 
 ppressed the melancholy Cowley, laid 
 bder a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade ; 
 , doleful bower for penitential song, 
 here Man and Muse complained of mutual wrong ; 
 pile Cam's ideal current glided by, 
 iid antique towers nodded their foreheads high, 
 itadels dear to studious privacy. 
 it Fortune, who had long been used to sport 
 lith this tried Servant of a thankless Court, 
 Renting met his wishes ; and to you 
 
 Ie remnant of his days at least was true ; 
 u, whom, though long deserted, he loved best ; 
 u, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest ! 
 l&v happier they who, fixing hope and aim 
 the humanities of peaceful fame, 
 .iter betimes with more than martial fire 
 le generous course, aspire, and still aspire ; 
 iheld by warnings heeded not too late 
 i fle the contradictions of their fate, 
 id to one purpose cleave, their Being's godlike 
 mate! 
 
 bus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow 
 woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow ; 
 ith modest scorn reject whate'er would blind 
 e ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged mind ! 
 en, with a blessing granted from above 
 every act, word, thought, and look of love, 
 'e's book for Thee may he unclosed, till age 
 all with a thankful tear bedrop its latest page *. 
 
 1829. 
 
 There is now, alas ! no possibility of the anticipation, 
 •h which the above Epistle concludes, being realised : 
 
 POOR ROBIN.* 
 
 Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, 
 And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, 
 And humbler growths as moved with one desire 
 Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire, 
 Poor Robin is yet flowerless ; but how gay 
 With his red stalks upon this sunny day ! 
 And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content 
 With a hard bed and scanty nourishment, 
 Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power 
 To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower ; 
 And flowers they well might seem to passers-by 
 If looked at only with a careless eye ; 
 Flowers — or a richer produce (did it suit 
 The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit. 
 
 But while a thousand pleasures come unsought, 
 Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought ? 
 Is the string touched in prelude to a lay 
 Of pretty fancies that would round him play 
 When all the world acknowledged elfin sway ? 
 Or does it suit our humour to commend 
 Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, 
 Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show 
 Bright colours whether they deceive or no ? — 
 Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will 
 With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill 
 Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill ; 
 Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now, 
 Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow : 
 Yet more, we wish that men by men despised, 
 And such as lift their foreheads overprized, 
 Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy 
 This child of Nature's own humility, 
 
 nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom 
 they were intended. She accompanied her husband, the 
 Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died *oi cholera, at 
 the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her way 
 from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented by all who 
 knew her. 
 
 Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast ; and her 
 great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful 
 in the difficult path of life to which she had been called. 
 The opinion she entertained of her own performances, 
 given to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was 
 modest and humble, and, indeed, far below their merits ; 
 as is often the case with those who are making trial of 
 their powers, with a hope to discover what they are best 
 fitted for. In one quality, viz., quickness in the motions of 
 her mind, she had, within the range of the Author's 
 acquaintance, no equal. 
 
 * The small wild Geranium known by that name. 
 
398 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 What recompense is kept in store or left 
 For all that seem neglected or bereft ; 
 With what nice care equivalents are given, 
 How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven. 
 
 March, 1840 
 
 THE GLEANER. 
 
 (SUGGESTED BY A PICTDBE.) 
 
 That happy gleam of vernal eyes, 
 Those locks from summer's golden skies, 
 
 That o'er thy brow are shed ; 
 That cheek — a kindling of the morn, 
 That lip — a rose-bud from the thorn, 
 
 I saw ; and Fancy sped 
 To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air, 
 Of bliss that grows without a care, 
 And happiness that never flies — 
 (How can it where love never dies ?) 
 Whispering of promise, where no blight 
 Can reach the innocent delight ; 
 Where pity, to the mind conveyed 
 In pleasure, is the darkest shade 
 That Time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings 
 From his smoothly gliding wings. 
 
 What mortal form, what earthly face 
 Inspired the pencil, lines to trace, 
 And mingle colours, that should breed 
 Such rapture, nor want power to feed ; 
 For had thy charge been idle flowers, 
 Fair Damsel ! o'er my captive mind, 
 To truth and sober reason blind, 
 'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers, 
 The sweet illusion might have hung, for hours. 
 
 Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn, 
 That touchingly bespeaks thee born 
 Life's daily tasks with them to share 
 Who, whether from their lowly bed 
 They rise, or rest the weary head, 
 Ponder the blessing they entreat 
 From Heaven, and feel what they repeat, 
 While they give utterance to the prayer 
 That asks for daily bread. 
 
 TO A REDBREAST— (IN SICKNESS). 
 
 Stay, little cheerful Robin ! stay, 
 
 And at my casement sing, 
 Though it should prove a farewell lay 
 
 And this our parting spring. 
 
 Though I, alas ! may ne'er enjoy 
 
 The promise in thy song ; 
 A charm, that thought can not destroy. 
 
 Doth to thy strain belong. 
 
 Methinks that in my dying hour 
 Thy song would still be dear, 
 
 And with a more than earthly power 
 My passing Spirit cheer. 
 
 Then, little Bird, this boon confer, 
 Come, and my requiem sing, 
 
 Nor fail to be the harbinger 
 Of everlasting Spring. 
 
 VII. 
 
 FLOATING ISLAND. 
 
 These lines are by the Author of the Address to ti 
 Wind, &c. published heretofore along with ray Poem 
 The above to a Redbreast are by a deceased female ReL 
 tive. 
 
 Harmonious Powers with Nature work 
 On sky, earth, river, lake and sea ; 
 Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze, 
 All in one duteous task agree. 
 
 Once did I see a slip of earth 
 (By throbbing waves long undermined) 
 Loosed from its hold ; how, no one knew, 
 But all might see it float, obedient to the win'] ; 
 
 Might see it, from the mossy shore 
 
 Dissevered, float upon the Lake, 
 
 Float with its crest of trees adorned 
 
 On which the warbling birds then- pastime take. 
 
 Food, shelter, safety, there they find ; 
 There berries ripen, flowerets bloom ; 
 There insects live their lives, and die ; 
 A peopled world it is ; in size a tiny room. 
 
 And thus through many seasons' space 
 This little Island may survive ; 
 But Nature, though we mark her not, 
 Will take away, may cease to give. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 399 
 
 •reliance when you are wandering forth 
 ipon some vacant sunny day, 
 ithout an object, hope, or fear, 
 lither your eyes may turn — the Isle is passed 
 away; 
 
 iried beneath the glittering Lake, 
 . place no longer to be found ; 
 :t the lost fragments shall remain 
 fertilize some other ground. 
 
 D. W. 
 
 ' late, late yestreen I saw the new moone 
 Wi' the auld moone in hir arme.' 
 
 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, Percy's Reliques. 
 
 • ce I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) 
 ' e Moon re-entering her monthly round, 
 \ faculty yet given me to espy 
 ' 3 dusky Shape within her arms imbound, 
 it thin memento of effulgence lost 
 1 lich some have named her Predecessor's ghost. 
 
 1 ang, like the Crescent that above me shone, 
 . ight I perceived within it dull or dim ; 
 -■ that appeared was suitable to One 
 \iose fancy had a thousand fields to skim ; 
 1 expectations spreading with wild growth, 
 l\ hope that kept with me her plighted troth. 
 
 1 w (ambition quickening at the view) 
 i ilver boat launched on a boundless flood ; 
 i early crest, like Dian's when it threw 
 I brightest splendour round a leafy wood ; 
 I not a hint from under-ground, no sign 
 I for the glimmering brow of Proserpine. 
 
 C was it Dian's self that seemed to move 
 I ire me ? — nothing blemished the fair sight ; 
 C her I looked whom jocund Fairies love, 
 C tliia, who puts the little stars to flight, 
 A', by that thinning magnifies the great, 
 I exaltation of her sovereign state. 
 
 when I learned to mark the spectral Shape 
 v ach new Moon obeyed the call of Time, 
 
 oom fell on me, swift was my escape ; 
 S i happy privilege hath life's gay Prime, 
 Ipee or not to see, as best may please 
 
 loyant Spirit, and a heart at ease. 
 
 * N , dazzling Stranger ! when thou meet'st my 
 glance, 
 dark Associate ever I discern ; 
 
 Emblem of thoughts too eager to advance 
 While I salute my joys, thoughts sad or stern ; 
 Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that, to gain 
 Their fill of promised lustre, wait in vain. 
 
 So changes mortal Life with fleeting years ; 
 A mournful change, should Reason fail to bring 
 The timely insight that can temper fears, 
 And from vicissitude remove its sting ; 
 While Faith aspires to seats in that domain 
 Where joys are perfect — neither wax nor wane. 
 
 1«26. 
 
 TO THE LADY FLEMING, 
 
 ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THE EREC- 
 TION OF RTDAL CHAPEL, WESTMORELAND. 
 
 Blest is this Isle — our native Land ; 
 Where battlement and moated gate 
 Are objects only for the hand 
 Of hoary Time to decorate ; 
 Where shady hamlet, town that breathes 
 Its busy smoke in social wreaths, 
 No rampart's stern defence require, 
 Nought but the heaven-directed spire, 
 And steeple tower (with pealing bells 
 Far-heard) — our only citadels. 
 
 ii. 
 Lady ! from a noble line 
 Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore 
 The spear, yet gave to works divine 
 A bounteous help in days of yore, 
 (As records mouldering in the Dell 
 Of Nightshade * haply yet may tell ;) 
 Thee kindred aspirations moved 
 To build, within a vale beloved, 
 For Him upon whose high behests 
 All peace depends, all safety rests. 
 
 in. 
 How fondly will the woods embrace 
 This daughter of thy pious care, 
 Lifting her front with modest grace 
 To make a fair recess more fair ; 
 And to exalt the passing hour ; 
 Or soothe it with a healing power 
 Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled, 
 Before this rugged soil was tilled, 
 Or human habitation rose 
 To interrupt the deep repose ! 
 
 * Bekangs Ghyll— or the dell of Nightshade— in which 
 stands St. Mary's Abbey in Low Furness. 
 
400 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Well may the villagers rejoice ! 
 
 Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways, 
 
 Will be a hindrance to the voice 
 
 That would unite in prayer and praise ; 
 
 More duly shall wild wandering Youth 
 
 Receive the curb of sacred truth, 
 
 Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear 
 
 The Promise, with uplifted ear ; 
 
 And all shall welcome the new ray 
 
 Imparted to their sabbath-day. 
 
 V. 
 
 Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced, 
 His fancy cheated — that can see 
 A shade upon the future cast, 
 Of time's pathetic sanctity ; 
 Can hear the monitory clock 
 Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock 
 At evening, when the ground beneath 
 Is ruffled o'er with cells of death ; 
 Where happy generations lie, 
 Here tutored for eternity. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lives there a man whose sole delights 
 Are trivial pomp and city noise, 
 Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 
 What every natural heart enjoys ? 
 Who never caught a noon-tide dream 
 From murmur of a running stream ; 
 Could strip, for aught the prospect yields 
 To him, their verdure from the fields ; 
 And take the radiance from the clouds 
 In which the sun his setting shrouds. 
 
 A soul so pitiably forlorn, 
 If such do on this earth abide, 
 May season apathy with scorn, 
 May turn indifference to pride ; 
 And still be not unblest — compared 
 With him who grovels, self-debarred 
 From all that lies within the scope 
 Of holy faith and christian hope ; 
 Or, shipwreck'd, kindles on the coast 
 False fires, that others may be lost. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Alas ! that such perverted zeal 
 
 Should spread on Britain's favoured ground ! 
 
 That public order, private weal, 
 
 Should e'er have felt or feared a wound 
 
 From champions of the desperate law 
 
 Which from their own blind hearts they draw ; 
 
 Who tempt their reason to deny 
 God, whom their passions dare defy, 
 And boast that they alone are free 
 Who reach this dire extremity ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 But turn we from these ' bold bad ' men ; 
 Tiie way, mild Lady ! that hath led 
 Down to their ' dark opprobrious den,' 
 Is all too rough for Thee to tread. 
 Softly as morning vapours glide 
 Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, 
 Should move the tenor of his song 
 Who means to charity no wrong ; 
 Whose offering gladly would accord 
 With this day's work, in thought and word. 
 
 X. 
 
 Heaven prosper it ! may peace, and love, 
 And hope, and consolation, fall, 
 Through its meek influence, from above, 
 And penetrate the hearts of all ; 
 All who, around the hallowed Fane, 
 Shall sojourn in this fair domain ; 
 Grateful to Thee, while service pure, 
 And ancient ordinance, shall endure, 
 For opportunity bestowed 
 To kneel together, and adore their God ! 
 
 ON THE SAME OCCASION. 
 
 Oh ! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may 
 The help which slackening Piety requirea; 
 Nor deem that he perforce must go astray 
 Who treads upon the footmarks of his sire*. 
 
 Our churches, invariably perhaps, stand east ard wisl 
 hut why is by few persons exactly known ; nor, ilia 
 the degree of deviation from due east often noticeabl 
 in the ancient ones was determined, in each parttcull 
 case, by the point in the horizon, at which the sun r»s 
 upon the day of the saint to whom the church »a 
 dedicated. These observances of our anoesto 
 the causes of them, are the subject of the foBowir 
 stanzas. 
 
 When in the antique age of bow and spear 
 And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail, 
 Came ministers of peace, intent to rear 
 The Mother Church in yon sequestered vale ; 
 
 Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite 
 Resounded with deep swell and solemn close, 
 Through unremitting vigils of the night, 
 Till from his couch the wished-for Sun uprose. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 401 
 
 e rose, and straight— as by divine command, 
 hey, who had waited for that sign to trace 
 leir work's foundation, gave with careful hand 
 i the high altar its determined place ; 
 
 indful of Him who in the Orient born 
 ,ere lived, and on the cross his life resigned, 
 id who, from out the regions of the morn, 
 uing in pomp, shall come to judge mankind. 
 
 taught their creed ; — nor failed the eastern sky, 
 id these more awful feelings, to infuse 
 e sweet and natural hopes that shall not die, 
 ng as the sun his gladsome course renews. 
 
 r us hath such prelusive vigil ceased ; 
 
 t still we plant, like men of elder days 
 • r christian altar faithful to the east, 
 ' aence the tall window drinks the morning rays ; 
 
 '. at obvious emblem giving to the eye 
 (meek devotion, which erewhile it gave, 
 tit symbol of the day-spring from on high, 
 'Jumphant o'er the darkness of the grave. 
 
 THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE. 
 
 Is the Brothers through the gateway 
 Iiied forth with old and young, 
 1 the Horn Sir Eustace pointed 
 Yich for ages there had hung, 
 I|rn it was which none could sound, 
 £ one upon living ground, 
 
 5 e He who came as rightful Heir 
 lEgremont's Domains and Castle fair. 
 
 I rs from times of earliest record 
 
 II the House of Lucie born, 
 
 T o of right had held the Lordship 
 C med by proof upon the Horn : 
 Eh at the appointed hour 
 1 |.-d the Horn, — it owned his power ; 
 
 6 was acknowledged : and the blast, 
 
 V ich good Sir Eustace sounded, was the last. 
 
 ^ h his lance Sir Eustace pointed, 
 
 A to Hubert thus said he, 
 
 '" hat I speak this Horn shall witness 
 
 E| thy better memory. 
 
 «ir, then, and neglect me not ! 
 
 A his time, and on this spot, 
 
 H words are uttered from my heart, 
 
 Amy last earnest prayer ere we depart. 
 
 On good service we are going 
 
 Life to risk by sea and land, 
 
 In which course if Christ our Saviour 
 
 Do my sinful soul demand, 
 
 Hither come thou back straightway, 
 
 Hubert, if alive that day ; 
 
 Return, and sound the Horn, that we 
 
 May have a living House still left in thee I" 
 
 " Fear not," quickly answered Hubert ; 
 
 " As I am thy Father's son, 
 
 What thou askest, noble Brother, 
 
 With God's favour shall be done." 
 
 So were both right well content : 
 
 Forth they from the Castle went, 
 
 And at the head of their Array 
 
 To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 
 
 Side by side they fought (the Lucies 
 
 Were a line for valour famed) 
 
 And where'er their strokes alighted, 
 
 There the Saracens were tamed. 
 
 Whence, then, could it come— -the thought — 
 
 By what evil spirit brought ? 
 
 Oh ! can a brave Man wish to take 
 
 His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's sake ? 
 
 " Sir ! " the Puiffians said to Hubert, 
 " Deep he lies in Jordan flood. " 
 Stricken by this ill assurance, 
 Pale and trembling Hubert stood. 
 " Take your earnings."— Oh ! that I 
 Could have seen my Brother die ! 
 It was a pang that vexed him then ; 
 And oft returned, again, and yet again. 
 
 Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace ! 
 
 Nor of him were tidings heard. 
 
 Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer 
 
 Back again to England steered. 
 
 To his Castle Hubert sped ; 
 
 Nothing has he now to dread. 
 
 But silent and by stealth he came, 
 
 And at an hour which nobody could name. 
 
 None could tell if it were night-time, 
 
 Night or day, at even or morn ; 
 
 No one's eye had seen him enter, 
 
 No one's ear had heard the Horn. 
 
 But bold Hubert lives in glee : 
 
 Months and years went smilingly ; 
 
 With plenty was his table spread ; 
 
 And bright the Lady is who shares his bed. 
 
402 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Likewise he had sons and daughters ; 
 
 And, as good men do, he sate 
 
 At his board by these surrounded, 
 
 Flourishing in fair estate. 
 
 And while thus in open day 
 
 Once he sate, as old books say, 
 
 A blast was uttered from the Horn, 
 
 Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 
 
 'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace ! 
 
 He is come to claim his right : 
 
 Ancient castle, woods, and mountains 
 
 Hear the challenge with delight. 
 
 Hubert ! though the blast be blown 
 
 He is helpless and alone : 
 
 Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word ! 
 
 And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord. 
 
 Speak ! — astounded Hubert cannot ; 
 And, if power to speak he had, 
 All are daunted, all the household 
 Smitten to the heart, and sad. 
 'Tis Sir Eustace ; if it be 
 Living man, it must be he ! 
 Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, 
 And by a postern-gate he slunk away. 
 
 Long, and long was he unheard of : 
 
 To his Brother then he came, 
 
 Made confession, asked forgiveness, 
 
 Asked it by a brother's name, 
 
 And by all the saints in heaven ; 
 
 And of Eustace was forgiven : 
 
 Then in a convent went to hide 
 
 His melancholy head, and there he died. 
 
 But Sir Eustace, whom good angels 
 Had preserved from murderers' hands, 
 And from Pagan chains had rescued, 
 Lived with honour on his lands. 
 Sons he had, saw sons of theirs : 
 And through ages, heirs of heirs, 
 A long posterity renowned, 
 
 Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound. 
 
 1806. 
 
 GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Oh ! what's the matter? what's the matter? 
 What is 't that ails young Harry Gill ? 
 That evermore his teeth they chatter, 
 Chatter, chatter, chatter still ! 
 
 Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 
 Good duffle grey, and flannel fine ; 
 He has a blanket on his back, 
 And coats enough to smother nine. 
 
 In March, December, and in July, 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
 The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 At night, at morning, and at noon, 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
 Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still ! 
 
 Young Harry was a lusty drover, 
 And who so stout of limb as he ? 
 His cheeks were red as ruddy clover ; 
 His voice was like the voice of three. 
 Old Goody Blake was old and poor ; 
 111 fed she was, and thinly clad ; 
 And any man who passed her door 
 Might see how poor a hut she had. 
 
 All day she spun in her poor dwelling : 
 And then her three hours' work at night, 
 Alas ! 'twas hardly worth the telling, 
 It would not pay for candle-light. 
 Remote from sheltered village-green, 
 On a hill's northern side she dwelt, 
 Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean. 
 And hoary dews are slow to melt. 
 
 By the same fire to boil their pottage, 
 Two poor old Dames, as I have known, 
 Will often live in one small cottage ; 
 But she, poor Woman ! housed alone. 
 'Twas well enough when summer came, 
 The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, 
 Then at her door the canty Dame 
 Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 
 
 But when the ice our streams did fetter, 
 Oh then how her old bones would shake ! 
 You would have said, if you had met her, 
 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 
 Her evenings then were dull and dead : 
 Sad case it was, as you may think, 
 For very cold to go to bed ; 
 And then for cold not sleep a wink. 
 
 O joy for her ! whene'er in winter 
 The winds at night had made a rout ; 
 And scattered many a lusty splinter 
 And many a rotten bough about. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 40?. 
 
 Yet never had she, well or sick, 
 i As every man who knew her says, 
 A pile beforehand, turf or stick, 
 Enough to warm her for three days. 
 
 Now, when the frost was past enduring, 
 And made her poor old bones to ache, 
 Could any thing be more alluring 
 Than an old hedge to Goody Blake ? 
 , And, now and then, it must be said, 
 When her old bones were cold and chill, 
 She left her fire, or left her bed, 
 To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 
 
 Now Harry he had long suspected 
 This trespass of old Goody Blake ; 
 And vowed that she should be detected — 
 That he on her would vengeance take. 
 And oft from his warm fire he 'd go, 
 And to the fields his road would take ; 
 And there, at night, in frost and snow, 
 He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 
 
 And once, behind a rick of barley, 
 Thus looking out did Harry stand : 
 The moon was full and shining clearly, 
 And crisp with frost the stubble land. 
 —He hears a noise — he 's all awake — 
 Again % — on tip-toe down the hill 
 He softly creeps — 'tis Goody Blake; 
 She 's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 
 
 flight glad was he when he beheld her : 
 stick after stick did Goody pull : 
 He stood behind a bush of elder, 
 Till she had filled her apron full. 
 iVhen with her load she turned about, 
 The by-way back again to take ; 
 le started forward, with a shout, 
 ^.nd sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 
 
 Ind fiercely by the arm he took her, 
 ind by the arm he held her fast, 
 ind fiercely by the arm he shook her, 
 And cried, "I've caught you then at last !" 
 
 'hen Goody, who had nothing said, 
 
 ler bundle from her lap let fall ; 
 
 aid, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 
 
 'o God that is the judge of all. 
 
 ,he prayed, her withered hand uprearing, 
 i^hile Harry held her by the arm- 
 God ! who art never out of hearing, 
 may he never more be warm ! " 
 
 The cold, cold moon above her head, 
 Thus on her knees did Goody pray ; 
 Young Harry heard what she had said : 
 And icy cold he turned away. 
 
 He went complaining all the morrow 
 That he was cold and very chill : 
 His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, 
 Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! 
 That day he wore a riding-coat, 
 But not a whit the warmer he : 
 Another was on Thursday brought, 
 And ere the Sabbath he had three. 
 
 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, 
 And blankets were about him pinned ; 
 Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 
 Like a loose casement in the wind. 
 And Harry's flesh it fell away ; 
 And all who see him say, 'tis plain, 
 That, live as long as live he may, 
 He never will be warm again. 
 
 No word to any man he utters, 
 A-bed or up, to young or old ; 
 But ever to himself he mutters, 
 "Poor Harry Gill is very cold." 
 A-bed or up, by night or day ; 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, 
 Of Goody Blake and Harry GUI ! 
 
 1798. 
 
 PEELUDE, 
 
 PREFIXED TO THE VOLUME ENTITLED " POEMS CHIEFLY 
 OF EARLY AND LATE TEARS." 
 
 In desultory walk through orchard grounds, 
 Or some deep chestnut grove, oft have I paused 
 The while a Thrush, urged rather than restrained 
 By gusts of vernal storm, attuned his song 
 To his own genial instincts ; and was heard 
 (Though not without some plaintive tones between) 
 To utter, above showers of blossom swept 
 From tossing boughs, the promise of a calm, 
 Which the unsheltered traveller might receive 
 With thankful spirit. The descant, and the wind 
 That seemed to play with it in love or scorn, 
 Encouraged and endeared the strain of words 
 That haply flowed from me, by fits of silence 
 Impelled to livelier pace. But now, my Book ! 
 Charged with those lays, and others of like mood, 
 
404 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Or loftier pitch if higher rose the theme. 
 
 Go, single — yet aspiring to be joined 
 
 With thy Forerunners that through many a year 
 
 Have faithfully prepared each other's way — 
 
 Go forth upon a mission best fulfilled 
 
 When and wherever, in this changeful world, 
 
 Power hath been given to please for higher ends 
 
 Than pleasure only ; gladdening to prepare 
 
 For wholesome sadness, troubling to refine, 
 
 Calming to raise ; and, by a sapient Art 
 
 Diffused through all the mysteries of our Being, 
 
 Softening the toils and pains that have not ceased 
 
 To cast their shadows on our mother Earth 
 
 Since the primeval doom. Such is the grace 
 
 Which, though unsued for, fails not to descend 
 
 With heavenly inspiration ; such the aim 
 
 That Reason dictates ; and, as even the wish 
 
 Has virtue in it, why should hope to me 
 
 Be wanting that sometimes, where fancied ills 
 
 Harass the mind and strip from off the bowers 
 
 Of private life then' natural pleasantness, 
 
 A Voice — devoted to the love whose seeds 
 
 Are sown in every human breast, to beauty 
 
 Lodged within compass of the humblest sight, 
 
 To cheerful intercourse with wood and field, 
 
 And sympathy with man's substantial griefs — 
 
 Will not be heard in vain ? And in those days 
 
 When unforeseen distress spreads far and wide 
 
 Among a People mournfully cast down, 
 
 Or into anger roused by venal words 
 
 In recklessness flung out to overturn 
 
 The judgment, and divert the general heart 
 
 From mutual good — some strain of thine, my Book ! 
 
 Caught at propitious intervals, may win 
 
 Listeners who not unwillingly admit 
 
 Kindly emotion tending to console 
 
 And reconcile ; and both with young and old 
 
 Exalt the sense of thoughtful gratitude 
 
 For benefits that still survive, by faith 
 
 In progress, under laws divine, maintained. 
 
 BYDAL MOUNT, 
 
 March 26, 1842. 
 
 XIV. 
 TO A CHILD. 
 
 WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. 
 
 Small service is true service while it lasts : 
 
 Of humblest Friends, bright Creature ! scorn not 
 
 one: 
 The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 
 Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun. 
 
 1834. 
 
 xv. 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OP THE COUNTESS OF LON8DALI 
 
 NOV. 5, 1834. 
 
 Lady ! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard, 
 Among the Favoured, favoured not the least) 
 Left, 'mid the Records of this Book inscribed, 
 Deliberate traces, registers of thought 
 And feeling, suited to the place and time 
 That gave them birth : — months passed, and sti 
 
 this hand, 
 That had not been too timid to imprint 
 Words which the virtues of thy Lord inspired, 
 Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee. 
 And why that scrupulous reserve 1 In sooth 
 The blameless cause lay in the Theme itself. 
 Flowers are there many that delight to strive 
 With the sharp wind, and seem to court the showc 
 Yet are by nature careless of the sun 
 Whether he shine on them or not ; and some, 
 Where'er he moves along the unclouded sky, 
 Turn a broad front full on his flattering beams 
 Others do rather from their notice shrink, 
 Loving the dewy shade, — a humble band, 
 Modest and sweet, a progeny of earth, 
 Congenial with thy mind and character, 
 High-born Augusta ! 
 
 Witness Towers, and Grove 
 And Thou, wild Stream, that giv'st the honour 
 
 name 
 Of Lowther to this ancient Line, bear witness 
 From thy most secret haunts ; and ye Parterre; 
 Which She is pleased and proud to call her own 
 •Witness how oft upon my noble Friend 
 Mute offerings, tribute from an inward sense 
 Of admiration and respectful love, 
 Have waited — till the affections could no more 
 Endure that silence, and broke out in song, 
 Snatches of music taken up and dropt 
 Like those self-solacing, those under, notes 
 Trilled by the redbreast, when autumnal leaves | 
 Are thin upon the bough. Mine, only mine, 
 The pleasure was, and no one heard the praise, 
 Checked, in the moment of its issue, checked 
 And reprehended, by a fancied blush 
 From the pure qualities that called it forth. 
 
 Thus Virtue lives debarred from Virtue's B>« 
 Thus, Lady, is retiredness a veil 
 That, while it only spreads a softening charm 
 O'er features looked at by discerning eyes, 
 Hides half their beauty from the common gaze ; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 405 
 
 id thus, even on the exposed and breezy hill 
 i lofty station, female goodness walks, 
 
 hen side by side with lunar gentleness, 
 j in a cloister. Yet the grateful Poor 
 
 uch the immunities of low estate, 
 
 lin Nature's enviable privilege, 
 ; r sacred recompence for many wants) 
 Ben their hearts before Thee, pouring out 
 1 that they think and feel, with tears of joy ; 
 „d benedictions not unheard in heaven : 
 ■d friend in the ear of friend, where speech is free 
 I follow truth, is eloquent as they. 
 
 ?hen let the Book receive in these prompt lines 
 Bust memorial; and thine eyes consent 
 1'read that they, who mark thy course, behold 
 i:ife declining with the golden light 
 (Rummer, in the season of sere leaves ; 
 I cheerfulness undamped by stealing Time ; 
 ■ studied kindness flow with easy stream, 
 i istrated with inborn courtesy ; 
 Al an habitual disregard of self 
 EJinced by vigilance for others' weal. 
 
 I 
 
 ijad shall the Verse not tell of lighter gifts 
 
 h these ennobling attributes conjoined 
 A,l blended, in peculiar harmony, 
 BlYouth's surviving spirit ? What agile grace ! 
 A ymph-like liberty, in nymph-like form, 
 Ejeld with wonder ; whether floor or path 
 T;u tread ; or sweep — borne on the managed 
 
 ; steed — 
 I <:t as the shadows, over down or field, 
 li'ven by strong winds at play among the clouds. 
 
 1 
 
 et one word more — one farewell word — a wish 
 
 V ich came, but it has passed into a prayer — 
 Tit, as thy sun in brightness is declining, 
 ft -at an hour yet distant for their sakes 
 Wise tender love, here faltering on the way 
 0; diviner love, will be foi'given — 
 W iay it set in peace, to rise again 
 F I everlasting glory won by faith. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 GRACE DARLING. 
 
 A ng the dwellers in the silent fields 
 Tl| natural heart is touched, and public way 
 A i crowded street resound with ballad strains, 
 Injired by one whose very name bespeaks 
 W>ur divine, exalting human love ; 
 
 Whom, since her birth on bleak Northumbrian 
 
 coast, 
 Known unto few but prized as far as known, 
 A single Act endears to high and low 
 Through the whole land — to Manhood, moved in 
 
 spite 
 Of the world's freezing cares — to generous Youth — 
 To Infancy, that lisps her praise — to Age 
 Whose eye reflects it, glistening through a tear 
 Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame 
 Awaits her now ; but, verily, good deeds 
 Do no imperishable record find 
 Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers may live 
 A theme for angels, when they celebrate 
 The high-souled virtues which forgetful earth 
 Has witness'd. Oh ! that winds and waves could 
 
 speak 
 Of things which their united power called forth 
 From the pure depths of her humanity ! 
 A Maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call, 
 Firm and unflinching, as the Lighthouse reared 
 On the Island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place ; 
 Or like the invincible Rock itself that braves, 
 Age after age, the hostile elements, 
 As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell. 
 
 All night the storm had raged, nor ceased, nor 
 paused, 
 When, as day broke, the Maid, through misty air, 
 Espies far off a Wreck, amid the surf, 
 Beating on one of those disastrous isles — 
 Half of a Vessel, half — no more ; the rest 
 Had vanished, swallowed up with all that there 
 Had for the common safety striven in vain, 
 Or thither thronged for refuge. With quick glance 
 Daughter and Sire through optic-glass discern, 
 Clinging about the remnant of this Ship, 
 Creatures— how precious in the Maiden's sight ! 
 For whom, belike, the old Man grieves still more 
 Than for their fellow-sufferers engulfed 
 Where every parting agony is hushed, 
 And hope and fear mix not in further strife. 
 " But courage, Father ! let us out to sea, — 
 A few may yet be saved." The Daughter's words, 
 Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith, 
 Dispel the Father's doubts : nor do they lack 
 The noble-minded Mother's helping hand 
 To launch the boat ; and with her blessing cheered, 
 And inwardly sustained by silent prayer, 
 Together they put forth, Father and Child ! 
 Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they go — 
 Rivals in effort ; and, alike intent 
 Here to elude and there surmount, they watch 
 The billows lengthening, mutually crossed 
 
406 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And shattered, and re-gathering their might ; 
 As if the tumult, by the Almighty's will 
 Were, in the conscious sea, roused and prolonged 
 That woman's fortitude — so tried, so proved — 
 May brighten more and more ! 
 
 True to the mark, 
 They stem the current of that perilous gorge, 
 Their arms still strengthening with the strength- 
 ening heart, 
 Though danger, as the Wreck is near'd, becomes 
 More imminent. Not unseen do they approach ; 
 And rapture, with varieties of fear 
 Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames 
 Of those who, in that dauntless energy, 
 Foretaste deliverance ; but the least perturbed 
 Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives 
 That of the pair — tossed on the waves to bring 
 Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life — ■ 
 One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister, 
 Or, be the Visitant other than she seems, 
 A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven, 
 In woman's shape. But why prolong the tale, 
 Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts 
 Armed to repel them ? Every hazard faced 
 And difficulty mastered, with resolve 
 That no one breathing should be left to perish, 
 This last remainder of the crew are all 
 Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep 
 Are safely borne, landed upon the beach, 
 And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged 
 Within the sheltering Lighthouse. — Shout, ye 
 
 Waves ! 
 Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and Winds, 
 Exult in this deliverance wrought through faith 
 In Him whose Providence your rage hath served! 
 Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert join ! 
 And would that some immortal Voice — a Voice 
 Fitly attuned to all that gratitude 
 Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid 
 
 lips 
 Of the survivors — to the clouds might bear — 
 Blended with praise of that parental love, 
 Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden grew 
 Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave, 
 Though young so wise, though meek so resolute — 
 Might carry to the clouds and to the stars, 
 Yea, to celestial Choirs, Grace Darling's name ! 
 
 1842. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes 
 
 Like harebells bathed in dew, 
 Of cheek that with carnation vies, 
 
 And veins of violet hue; 
 Earth wants not beauty that may scorn 
 
 A likening to frail flowers ; 
 Yea, to the stars, if they were bom 
 
 For seasons and for hours. 
 
 Through Moscow's gates, with gold unhanred, 
 
 Stepped One at dead of night, 
 Whom such high beauty could not guard 
 
 From meditated blight ; 
 By stealth she passed, and fled as fast 
 
 As doth the hvuited fawn, 
 Nor stopped, till in the dappling east 
 
 Appeared unwelcome dawn. 
 
 Seven days she lurked in brake and field, 
 
 Seven nights her course renewed, 
 Sustained by what her scrip might yield, 
 
 Or berries of the wood ; 
 At length, in darkness travelling on, 
 
 When lowly doors were shut, 
 The haven of her hope she won, 
 
 Her Foster-mother's hut. 
 
 " To put your love to dangerous proof 
 
 I come," said she, " from far; 
 For I have left my Father's roof, 
 
 In terror of the Czar." 
 No answer did the Matron give, 
 
 No second look she cast, 
 But hung upon the Fugitive, 
 
 Embracing and embraced. 
 
 She led the Lady to a seat 
 
 Beside the glimmering fire, 
 Bathed duteously her wayworn feet, 
 
 Prevented each desire : — 
 The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed, 
 
 And on that simple bed, 
 Where she in childhood had reposed, 
 
 Now rests her weary head. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 407 
 
 : When she, whose couch had been the sod, 
 
 Whose curtain, pine or thorn, 
 Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God, 
 
 Who comforts the forlorn ; 
 While over her the Matron bent 
 
 Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole 
 Feeling from limbs with travel spent, 
 
 And trouble from the soul. 
 
 Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn, 
 
 And soon again was dight 
 In those unworthy vestments worn 
 
 Through long and perilous flight ; 
 And " beloved Nurse," she said, 
 
 " My thanks with silent tears 
 Have unto Heaven and You been paid : 
 
 Now listen to my fears ! 
 
 "Have you forgot" — and here she smiled— 
 
 " The babbling flatteries 
 'You lavished on me when a child 
 I Disporting round your knees % 
 I was your lambkin, and your bird, 
 ' Your star, your gem, your flower ; 
 Light words, that were more lightly heard 
 
 In many a cloudless hour ! 
 
 * The blossom you so fondly praised 
 
 Is come to bitter fruit ; 
 LA. mighty One upon me gazed ; 
 
 I spurned his lawless suit, 
 ■And must be hidden from his wrath : 
 ' You, Foster-father dear, 
 Will guide me in my forward path ; 
 
 I may not tarry here ! 
 
 ' I cannot bring to utter woe 
 
 Your proved fidelity." — 
 ' Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so ! 
 
 For you we both would die." 
 ' Nay, nay, I come with semblance feigned 
 
 And cheek embrowned by art ; 
 5f et, being inwardly unstained, 
 
 With courage will depart." 
 
 ' But whither would you, could you, flee ? 
 
 A poor Man's counsel take ; 
 The Holy Virgin gives to me 
 
 A thought for your dear sake ; 
 
 est, shielded by our Lady's grace, 
 
 And soon shall you be led 
 j Forth to a safe abiding-place, 
 
 Where never foot doth tread." 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The dwelling of this faithful pan- 
 In a straggling village stood, 
 
 For One who breathed unquiet air 
 A dangerous neighbourhood ; 
 
 But wide around lay forest ground 
 With thickets rough and blind ; 
 
 And pine-trees made a heavy shade 
 Impervious to the wind. 
 
 And there, sequestered from the sight, 
 
 Was spread a treacherous swamp, 
 On which the noonday sun shed light 
 
 As from a lonely lamp ; 
 And midway in the unsafe morass, 
 
 A single Island rose 
 Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass 
 
 Adorned, and shady boughs. 
 
 The Woodman knew, for such the craft 
 
 This Russian vassal plied, 
 That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 
 
 Of archer, there was tried ; 
 A sanctuary seemed the spot 
 
 From all intrusion free ; 
 And there he planned an artful Cot 
 
 For perfect secrecy. 
 
 With earnest pains unchecked by dread 
 
 Of Power's far-stretching hand, 
 The bold good Man his labour sped 
 
 At nature's pure command ; 
 Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren, 
 
 While, in a hollow nook, 
 She moulds her sight-eluding den 
 
 Above a murmuring brook. 
 
 His task accomplished to his mind, 
 
 The twain ere break of day 
 Creep forth, and through the forest wind 
 
 Their solitary way ; 
 Few words they speak, nor dare to slack 
 
 Their pace from mile to mile, 
 Till they have crossed the quaking marsh, 
 
 And reached the lonely Isle. 
 
 The sun above the pine-trees showed 
 
 A bright and cheerful face ; 
 And Ina looked for her abode, 
 
 The promised hiding-place ; 
 She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled ; 
 
 No threshold could be seen, 
 Nor roof, nor window ; — all seemed wild 
 
 As it had ever been. 
 
408 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Advancing, you might guess an hour, 
 
 The front with such nice care 
 Is masked, 'if house it he or bower,' 
 
 But in they entered are ; 
 As shaggy as were wall and root 
 
 With branches intertwined, 
 So smooth was all within, air-proof, 
 
 And delicately lined : 
 
 And hearth was there, and maple dish, 
 
 And cups in seemly rows, 
 And couch — all ready to a wish 
 
 For nurture or repose ; 
 And Heaven doth to her virtue grant 
 
 That here she may abide 
 In solitude, with every want 
 
 By cautious love supplied. 
 
 No queen, before a shouting crowd, 
 
 Led on in bridal state, 
 E'er struggled with a heart so proud, 
 
 Entering her palace gate ; 
 Rejoiced to bid the world farewell, 
 
 No saintly anchoress 
 E'er took possession of her cell 
 
 With deeper thankfulness. 
 
 "Father of all, upon thy care 
 
 And mercy am I thrown ; 
 Be thou my safeguard ! " — such her prayer 
 
 When she was left alone, 
 Kneeling amid the wilderness 
 
 When joy had passed away, 
 And smiles, fond efforts of distress 
 
 To hide what they betray ! 
 
 The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, 
 
 Diffused through form and face, 
 Resolves devotedly serene ; 
 
 That monumental grace 
 Of Faith, which doth all passions tame 
 
 That Reason should control ; 
 And shows in the untrembling frame 
 
 A statue of the soul. 
 
 'Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy 
 That Phoebus wont to wear 
 
 The leaves of any pleasant tree 
 Around his golden hair; 
 
 Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 
 
 Of his imperious love, 
 At her own prayer transformed, took root, 
 
 A laurel in the grove. 
 
 Then did the Penitent adorn 
 
 His brow with laurel green ; 
 And 'mid his bright locks never shorn 
 
 No meaner leaf was seen ; 
 And poets sage, through every age, 
 
 About their temples wound 
 The bay ; and conquerors thanked the Gods, 
 
 With laurel chaplets crowned. 
 
 Into the mists of fabling Time 
 
 So far runs back the praise 
 Of Beauty, that disdains to climb 
 
 Along forbidden ways ; 
 That scorns temptation ; power defies 
 
 Where mutual love is not ; 
 And to the tomb for rescue flies 
 
 When life would be a blot. 
 
 To this fair Votaress, a fate 
 
 More mild doth Heaven ordain 
 Upon her Island desolate ; 
 
 And words, not breathed in vain, 
 Might tell what intercourse she found, 
 
 Her silence to endear ; 
 What birds she tamed, what flowers the groan 
 
 Sent forth her peace to cheer. 
 
 To one mute Presence, above all, 
 
 Her soothed affections clung, 
 A picture on the cabin wall 
 
 By Russian usage hung — 
 The Mother-maid, whose countenance bright 
 
 With love abridged the day ; 
 And, communed with by taper light, 
 
 Chased spectral fears away. 
 
 And oft, as either Guardian came, 
 
 The joy in that retreat 
 Might any common friendship shame, 
 
 So high then." hearts would beat ; 
 And to the lone Recluse, whate'er 
 
 They brought, each visiting 
 Was like the crowding of the year 
 
 With a new burst of spring. 
 
 But, when she of her Parents thought, 
 
 The pang was hard to bear ; 
 And, if with all things not enwrought, 
 
 That trouble still is near. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 409 
 
 Before her flight she had not dared 
 Their constancy to prove, 
 i Too much the heroic Daughter feared 
 The weakness of their love. 
 
 Dark is the past to them, and dark 
 
 The future still must be, 
 Till pitying Saints conduct her bark 
 
 Into a safer sea — 
 Or gentle Nature close her eyes, 
 
 And set her Spirit free 
 : From the altar of this sacrifice, 
 
 iln vestal purity. 
 Yet, when above the forest-glooms 
 
 The white swans southward passed, 
 High as the pitch of their swift plumes 
 
 Her fancy rode the blast ; 
 And bore her toward the fields of France 
 
 Her Father's native land, 
 
 i To mingle in the rustic dance, 
 
 The happiest of the band ! 
 
 Of those beloved fields she oft 
 
 Had heard her Father tell 
 In phrase that now with echoes soft 
 
 Haunted her lonely cell ; 
 She saw the hereditary bowers, 
 
 She heard the ancestral stream ; 
 The Kremlin and its haughty towers 
 
 Forgotten like a dream ! 
 
 The ever-changing Moon had traced 
 
 Twelve times her monthly round, 
 When through the unfrequented Waste 
 
 Was heard a startling sound ; 
 A shout thrice sent from one who chased 
 
 At speed a wounded deer, 
 Bounding through branches interlaced, 
 
 And where the wood was clear. 
 
 The fainting creature took the marsh, 
 
 And toward the Island fled, 
 While plovers screamed with tumult harsh 
 
 Above his antlered head ; 
 This, Ina saw ; and, pale with fear, 
 
 Shrunk to her citadel ; 
 The desperate deer rushed on, and near 
 
 The tangled covert fell. 
 
 Across the marsh, the game in view, 
 
 The Hunter followed fast, 
 Nor paused, till o'er the stag he blew 
 
 A death-proclaiming blast ; 
 Then, resting on her upright mind, 
 
 Came forth the Maid — " In me 
 Behold," she said, " a stricken Hind 
 
 Pursued by destiny ! 
 
 " From your deportment, Sir ! I deem 
 
 That you have worn a sword, 
 And will not hold in light esteem 
 
 A suffering woman's word ; 
 There is my covert, there perchance 
 
 I might have lain concealed, 
 My fortunes hid, my countenance 
 
 Not even to you revealed. 
 
 " Tears might be shed, and I might pray, 
 
 Crouching and terrified, 
 That what has been unveiled to day, 
 
 You would in mystery hide ; 
 But I will not defile with dust 
 
 The knee that bends to adore 
 The God in heaven; — attend, be just; 
 
 This ask I, and no more ! 
 
 " I speak not of the winter's cold, 
 
 For summer's heat exchanged, 
 While I have lodged in this rough hold, 
 
 From social life estranged ; 
 Nor yet of trouble and alarms : 
 
 High Heaven is my defence ; 
 And every season has soft arms 
 
 For injured Innocence. 
 
 " From Moscow to the Wilderness 
 
 It was my choice to come, 
 Lest virtue should be harbourless, 
 
 And honour want a home ; 
 And happy were I, if the Czar 
 
 Retain his lawless will, 
 To end life here like this poor deer, 
 
 Or a lamb on a green hill." 
 
 " Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried, 
 
 " From Gallic parents sprung, 
 Whose vanishing was rumoured wide, 
 
 Sad theme for every tongue ; 
 Who foiled an Emperor's eager quest ? 
 
 You, Lady, forced to wear 
 These rude habiliments, and rest 
 
 Your head in this dark lair ! " 
 
410 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But wonder, pity, soon were quelled ; 
 
 And in her face and mien 
 The soul's pure brightness he beheld 
 
 Without a veil between : 
 He loved, he hoped, — a holy flame 
 
 Kindled 'mid rapturous tears ; 
 The passion of a moment came 
 
 As on the wings of years. 
 
 " Such bounty is no gift of chance," 
 
 Exclaimed he ; " righteous Heaven, 
 Preparing your deliverance, 
 
 To me the charge hath given. 
 The Czar full oft in words and deeds 
 
 Is stormy and self-willed ; 
 But, when the Lady Catherine pleads, 
 
 His violence is stilled. 
 
 " Leave open to my wish the course, 
 
 And I to her will go ; 
 From that humane and heavenly source, 
 
 Good, only good, can flow." 
 Faint sanction given, the Cavalier 
 
 Was eager to depart, 
 Though question followed question, dear 
 
 To the Maiden's filial heart. 
 
 Light was his step, — his hopes, more light, 
 
 Kept pace with his desires ; 
 And the fifth morning gave him sight 
 
 Of Moscow's glittering spires. 
 
 He sued : — heart-smitten by the wrong, 
 
 To the lorn Fugitive 
 The Emperor sent a pledge as strong 
 
 As sovereign power could give. 
 
 more than mighty change ! If e'er 
 
 Amazement rose to pain, 
 And joy's excess produced a fear 
 
 Of something void and vain ; 
 'Twas when the Parents, who had mourned 
 
 So long the lost as dead, 
 Beheld their only Child returned, 
 
 The household floor to tread. 
 
 Soon gratitude gave way to love 
 
 Within the Maiden's breast : 
 Delivered and Deliverer move 
 
 In bridal garments drest; 
 Meek Catherine had her own reward ; 
 
 The Czar bestowed a dower ; 
 And universal Moscow shared 
 
 The triumph of that hour. 
 
 Flowers strewed the ground ; the nuptial feast 
 
 Was held with costly state ; 
 And there, 'mid many a noble guest, 
 
 The Foster-parents sate ; 
 Encouraged by the imperial eye, 
 
 They shrank not into shade ; 
 Great was their bliss, the honour high 
 
 To them and nature paid ! 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 411 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR 
 GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE. 
 
 1808. 
 
 IE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine, 
 
 ill not unwillingly their place resign ; 
 
 but the Cedar thrive that near them stands, 
 
 anted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands. 
 
 le wooed the silent Art with studious pains : 
 
 lese groves have heard the Other's pensive strains ; 
 
 'svoted thus, their spirits did unite 
 
 If interchange of knowledge and delight. 
 
 lay Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree, 
 
 ad Love protect it from all injury ! 
 
 ad when its potent branches, wide out-thrown, 
 
 arken the brow of this memorial Stone, 
 
 ere may some Painter sit in future days, 
 
 >me future Poet meditate his lays ; 
 
 ot mindless of that distant age renowned 
 
 :Tien Inspiration hovered o'er this ground, 
 
 le haunt of him who sang how spear and shield 
 
 1 civil conflict met on Bosworth-field ; 
 
 :ad of that famous Youth, full soon removed 
 
 "om earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved, 
 
 '.etcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved. 
 
 IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME. 
 
 ft is the medal faithful to its trust 
 'hen temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust ; 
 nd 'tis a common ordinance of fate 
 liat things obscure and small outlive the great : 
 ence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim 
 f this fair garden, and its aUeys dim, 
 nd ail its stately trees, are passed away, 
 bis little Niche, unconscious of decay, 
 jerchance may still survive. And be it known 
 ihat it was scooped within the living stone, — 
 i ot by the sluggish and ungrateful pains 
 f labourer plodding for his daily gains, 
 
 But by an industry that wrought in love ; 
 With help from female hands, that proudly strove 
 To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers 
 Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours. 
 
 in. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAU- 
 MONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, 
 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 have learned to frame a darksome aisle ; — 
 That may recal to mind that awful Pile 
 Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead, 
 In the last sanctity of fame is laid. 
 ■ — 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. 
 
 FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON. 
 
 Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, 
 Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground 
 Stand yet, but, Stranger ! hidden from thy view, 
 The ivied Ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu ; 
 Erst a religious House, which day and night 
 With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite : 
 And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave 
 
 birth 
 To honourable Men of various worth : 
 
412 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 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 he ; 
 They perish ; — but the Intellect can raise, 
 From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays. 
 
 1808. 
 
 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 closer fellowship with ideal grace. 
 But take it in good part : — alas ! the poor 
 Vitruvius of our village had no help 
 From the great City ; never, upon leaves 
 Of red Morocco foho saw displayed, 
 In long succession, pre-existing ghosts 
 Of Beauties yet unborn — the rustic Lodge 
 Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced, 
 Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove, 
 Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage. 
 Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls 
 The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here 
 The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind. 
 And hither does one Poet sometimes row 
 His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled 
 With plenteous store of heath and 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 looks, through the open door-place, toward the 
 
 lake 
 And to the stirring breezes, does he want 
 Creations lovely as the work of sleep — 
 Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy ! 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON TH 
 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, 
 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, colours, lines, 
 And the whole surface of the out-spread map, 
 Became invisible : for all around 
 Had darkness fallen— unthreatened,unproclaiiued- 
 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 ! 
 
 MX 
 
 VII. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A STONF, THI 
 LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESEBTEI 
 QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL. 
 
 Stranger ! this hillock of mis-shapen stones 
 Is not a Ruin spared or made by time, 
 Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairo 
 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 m 
 And make himself a freeman of this spot 
 At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 413 
 
 jsisted, and the quarry and the mound 
 |e monuments of his unfinished task. 
 
 e block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, 
 
 is once selected as the corner-stone 
 (that intended Pile, which would have been 
 §ae quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill, 
 ,' that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, 
 
 d other little builders who dwell here, 
 Id wondered at the work. But blame him not, 
 
 • old Sir William was a gentle Knight, 
 ] Ld in this vale, to which he appertained 
 i: th all his ancestry. Then peace to him, 
 j d for the outrage which he had devised 
 ■tire forgiveness ! — But if thou art one 
 1 fire with thy impatience to become 
 I inmate of these mountains, — if, disturbed 
 ] beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn 
 
 of the quiet rock the elements 
 
 (thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze 
 
 1 snow-white splendour, — think again; and, taught 
 I old Sir William and his quarry, leave 
 
 m fragments to the bramble and the rose ; 
 l:re let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, 
 /I let the redbreast hop from stone to stone. 
 
 1800. 
 
 n these fair vales hath many a Tree 
 
 At Wordsworth's suit been spared ; 
 ind from the builder's hand this Stone, 
 ^or some rude beauty of its own, 
 
 Was rescued by the Bard : 
 io let it rest ; and time will come 
 
 When here the tender-hearted 
 lay heave a gentle sigh for him, 
 
 As one of the departed. 
 
 He massy Ways, carried across these heights 
 1 Roman perseverance, are destroyed, 
 (hidden under ground, like sleeping worms. 
 1|> venture then to hope that Time will spare 
 Is humble Walk ? Yet on the mountain's side 
 'jPoet's hand first shaped it ; and the steps 
 Uhat same Bard — repeated to and fro 
 ^jmorn, at noon, and under moonlight skies 
 "I'ough the vicissitudes of many a year — 
 I bade the weeds to creep o'er its grey line. 
 ^ longer, scattering to the heedless winds 
 
 The vocal raptures of fresh poesy, 
 
 Shall he frequent these precincts ; locked no more 
 
 In earnest converse with beloved Friends, 
 
 Here will he gather stores of ready bliss, 
 
 As from the beds and borders of a garden 
 
 Choice flowers are gathered ! But, if Power may 
 
 spring 
 Out of a farewell yearning — favoured more 
 Than kindred wishes mated suitably 
 With vain regrets — the Exile would consign 
 This Walk, his loved possession, to the care 
 Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse. 
 
 1826. 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR 
 A hermit's CELL. 
 
 Hopes what are they ? — Beads of morning 
 
 Strung on slender blades of grass ; 
 
 Or a spider's web adorning 
 
 In a strait and treacherous pass. 
 
 What are fears but voices airy ? 
 Whispering harm where harm is not ; 
 And deluding the unwary 
 Till the fatal bolt is shot ! 
 
 What is glory ? — in the socket 
 See how dying tapers fare ! 
 What is pride ? — a whizzing rocket 
 That would emulate a star. 
 
 What is friendship 1 — do not trust her, 
 N or the vows which she has made ; 
 Diamonds dart their brightest lustre 
 From a palsy-shaken head. 
 
 What is truth ? — a staff rejected ; 
 Duty ? — an unwelcome clog ; 
 Joy ? — a moon by fits reflected 
 In a swamp or watery bog ; 
 
 Bright, as if through ether steering, 
 To the Traveller's eye it shone : 
 He hath hailed it re-appearing — 
 And as quickly it is gone ; 
 
 Such is Joy — as quickly hidden, 
 Or mis-shapen to the sight, 
 And by sullen weeds forbidden 
 To resume its native light. 
 
414 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 What is youth ? — a dancing billow, 
 (Winds behind, and rocks before !) 
 Age ? — a drooping, tottering willow 
 On a flat and lazy shore. 
 
 What is peace ? — when pain is over, 
 And love ceases to rebel, 
 Let the last faint sigh discover 
 That precedes the passing-knell ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK. 
 
 II. 
 
 Pause, Traveller ! whosoe'er thou be 
 Whom chance may lead to this retreat, 
 Where silence yields reluctantly 
 Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat ; 
 
 Give voice to what my hand shall trace, 
 And fear not lest an idle sound 
 Of words unsuited to the place 
 Disturb its solitude profound. 
 
 I saw this Rock, while vernal air 
 Blew softly o'er the russet heath, 
 Uphold a Monument as fair 
 As church or abbey furnisheth. 
 
 Unsullied did it meet the day, 
 Like marble, white, like ether, pure ; 
 As if, beneath, some hero lay, 
 Honoured with costliest sepulture. 
 
 My fancy kindled as I gazed ; 
 And, ever as the sun shone forth, 
 The flattered structure glistened, blazed, 
 And seemed the proudest thing on earth. 
 
 But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile 
 Unsound as those which Fortune builds— 
 To undermine with secret guile, 
 Sapped by the very beam that gilds. 
 
 And, while I gazed, with sudden shock 
 Fell the whole Fabric to the ground ; 
 And naked left this dripping Rock, 
 With shapeless ruin spread around ! 
 
 Hast thou seen, with flash incessant, 
 Bubbles gliding under ice, 
 Bodied forth and evanescent, 
 No one knows by what device ? 
 
 Such are thoughts ! — A wind-swept meadow 
 Mimicking a troubled sea, 
 Such is life ; and death a shadow 
 From the rock eternity ! 
 
 XIII. 
 NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Troubled long with warring notions 
 Long impatient of thy rod, 
 I resign my soul's emotions 
 Unto Thee, mysterious God ! 
 
 What avails the kindly shelter 
 Yielded by this craggy rent, 
 If my spirit toss and welter 
 On the waves of discontent ? 
 
 Parching Summer hath no warrant 
 To consume this crystal Well ; 
 Rains, that make each rill a torrent, 
 Neither sully it nor swell. 
 
 Thus, dishonouring not her station, 
 Would my Life present to Thee, 
 Gracious God, the pure oblation 
 Of divine tranquillity ! 
 
 Not seldom, clad in radiant vest, 
 Deceitfully goes forth the Morn ; 
 Not seldom Evening in the west 
 Sinks smilingly forsworn. 
 
 The smoothest seas will sometimes prove, 
 To the confiding Bark, untrue ; 
 And, if she trust the stars above, 
 They can be treacherous too. 
 
INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 415 
 
 The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread, 
 Full oft, when storms the welkin rend, 
 braws lightning down upon the head 
 [t promised to defend. 
 
 lut Thou art true, incarnate Lord, 
 .Who didst vouchsafe for man to die ; 
 Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word 
 No change can falsify ! 
 
 ;[ bent before thy gracious throne, 
 A.nd asked for peace on suppliant knee ; 
 \nd peace was given, — nor peace alone, 
 But faith sublimed to ecstasy ! 
 
 r the spot where the hermitage stood on 
 ■ st. Herbert's island, derwent-water. 
 
 Ithou in the dear love of some one Friend 
 
 I st been so happy thatthou know'st what thoughts 
 
 \[l sometimes in the happiness of love 
 
 Jike the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence 
 
 lis quiet spot ; and, Stranger ! not unmoved 
 
 Ylt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones, 
 
 Ts desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell. 
 
 I ?e stood his threshold ; here was spread the roof 
 %t sheltered him, a self-secluded Man, 
 
 I'ev long exercise in social cares 
 
 I I offices humane, intent to adore 
 
 The Deity, with undistracted mind, 
 And meditate on everlasting things, 
 In utter solitude.- — But he had left 
 A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved 
 As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised 
 To heaven he knelt before the crucifix, 
 While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore 
 Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced 
 Along the beach of this small isle and thought 
 Of his Companion, he would pray that both 
 (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) 
 Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain 
 So prayed he : — as our chronicles report, 
 Though here the Hermit numbered his last day 
 Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend, 
 Those holy Men both died in the same hour. 
 
 1800. 
 
 on the banks of a rocky stream. 
 
 Behold an emblem of our human mind 
 
 Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home, 
 
 Yet, like to eddying balls of foam 
 
 Within this whirlpool, they each other chase 
 
 Round and round, and neither find 
 
 An outlet nor a resting-place ! 
 
 Stranger, if such disquietude be thine, 
 
 Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine. 
 
 
416 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER 
 
 MODERNISED. 
 
 THE PRIORESS' TALE. 
 
 * Call up him who left half told 
 The story of Cambusean bold.' 
 
 In the following Poem no further deviation from the 
 original has been made than was necessary for the fluent 
 reading and instant understanding of the Author : so much, 
 however, is the language altered since Chaucer's time, 
 especially in pronunciation, that much was to be removed, 
 and its place supplied with as little incongruity as possible. 
 The ancient accent has been retained in a few con j unc- 
 tions, as alsd and alway, from a conviction that such 
 sprinklings of antiquity would be admitted, by persons of 
 taste, to have a graceful accordance with the subject. 
 The fierce bigotry of the Prioress forms a fine back-ground 
 for her tender-hearted sympathies with the Mother and 
 Child ; and the mode in which the story is told amply 
 atones for the extravagance of the miracle. 
 
 "0 Lord, our Lord ! how wondrously," (quoth she) 
 a Thy name in this large world is spread abroad ! 
 For not alone by men of dignity 
 Thy worship is performed and precious laud ; 
 But by the mouths of children, gracious God ! 
 Thy goodness is set forth ; they when they lie 
 Upon the breast thy name do glorify. 
 
 Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that I may, 
 
 Jesu ! of thee, and the white Lily-flower 
 
 Which did thee bear, and is a Maid for aye, 
 
 To tell a story I will use my power ; 
 
 Not that I may increase her honour's dower, 
 
 For she herself is honour, and the root 
 
 Of goodness, next her Son, our soul's best boot. 
 
 O Mother Maid ! Maid and Mother free ! 
 bush unburnt ! burning in Moses' sight ! 
 That down didst ravish from the Deity, 
 Through humbleness, the spirit that did alight 
 Upon thy heart, whence, through that glory's might, 
 Conceived was the Father's sapience, 
 Help me to tell it in thy reverence ! 
 
 Lady ! thy goodness, thy magnificence, 
 
 Thy virtue, and thy great humility, 
 
 Surpass all science and all utterance ; 
 
 For sometimes, Lady ! ere men pray to thee 
 
 Thou goest before in thy benignity, 
 
 The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer, 
 
 To be our guide unto thy Son so dear. 
 
 My knowledge is so weak, blissful Queen ! 
 To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness, 
 That I the weight of it may not sustain ; 
 But as a child of twelvemonths old or less, 
 That laboureth his language to express, 
 Even so fare I ; and therefore, I thee pray, 
 Guide thou my song which I of thee shall say. 
 
 There was in Asia, in a mighty town, 
 
 'Mong Christian folk, a street where Jews might t| 
 
 Assigned to them and given them for their own 
 
 By a great Lord, for gain and usury, 
 
 Hateful to Christ and to his company ; 
 
 And through this street who list might ride iu 
 
 wend ; 
 Free was it, and unbarred at either end. 
 
 A little school of Christian people stood 
 Down at the farther end, in which there were 
 A nest of children come of Christian blood, 
 That learned in that school from year to year 
 Such sort of doctrine as men used there, 
 That is to say, to sing and read also, 
 As little children in their childhood do. 
 
 Among these children was a Widow's son, 
 A little scholar, scarcely seven years old, 
 Who day by day unto this school hath gone, 
 And eke, when he the image did behold 
 Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told, 
 This Child was wont to kneel adown and say 
 Ave Marie, as he goeth by the way. 
 
THE PRIORESS' TALE. 
 
 417 
 
 his Widow thus her little Son hath taught 
 iur blissful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear, 
 p worship aye, and he forgat it not ; 
 bv simple infant hath a ready ear. 
 veet is the holiness of youth : and hence, 
 dling to mind this matter when I may, 
 iiint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye, 
 )r he so young to Christ did reverence. 
 
 lis little Child, while in the school he sate 
 s Primer conning with an earnest cheer, 
 le whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat 
 le Alma Redemptoris did he hear ; 
 id as he durst he drew him near and near, 
 id hearkened to the words and to the note, 
 11 the first verse he learned it all by rote. 
 
 :is Latin knew he nothing what it said, 
 
 !r he too tender was of age to know ; 
 t to his comrade he repaired, and prayed 
 at ho the meaning of this song would show, 
 d unto Mm declare why men sing so ; 
 is oftentimes, that he might be at ease, 
 ' is child did him beseech on his bare knees. 
 
 Ij3 Schoolfellow, who elder was than he, 
 
 Iswered him thus : — ' This song, I have heard say, 
 is fashioned for our blissful Lady free ; 
 r to salute, and also her to pray 
 be our help upon our dying day : 
 here is more in this, I know it not ; 
 ! ig do I learn, — small grammar I have got.' 
 
 ad is this song fashioned in reverence 
 < ; Jesu's Mother? ' said this Innocent ; 
 ' ow, certes, I will use my diligence 
 - con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent ; 
 t hough I for my Primer shall be shent, 
 id shall be beaten three times in an hour, 
 1 w Lady I will praise with all my power.' 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I Schoolfellow, whom he had so besought, 
 -'they went homeward taught him privily 
 
 I I then he sang it well and fearlessly, 
 
 ■ m word to word according to the note : 
 " ce in a day it passed through his throat ; 
 * neward and schoolward whensoe'er he went, 
 C Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent. 
 
 Through all the Jewry (this before said I) 
 This little Child, as he came to and fro, 
 Full merrily then would he sing and cry, 
 Alma Redemptoris 1 high and low : 
 The sweetness of Christ's Mother pierced so 
 His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray, 
 He cannot stop his singing by the way. 
 
 The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath 
 
 His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled — ' woe, 
 
 Hebrew people ! ' said he in his wrath, 
 
 ' Is it an honest thing ? Shall this be bo ? 
 
 That such a Boy where'er he lists shall go 
 
 In your despite, and sing his hymns and saws, 
 
 Which is against the reverence of our laws ! ' 
 
 From that day forward have the Jews conspired 
 Out of the world this Innocent to chase ; 
 And to this end a Homicide they hired, 
 That in an alley had a privy place, 
 And, as the Child 'gan to the school to pace, 
 This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast 
 And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast. 
 
 I say that him into a pit they threw, 
 
 A loathsome pit, whence noisome scents exhale ; 
 
 cursed folk ! away, ye Herods new ! 
 
 What may your ill intentions you avail ? 
 
 Murder will out ; certes it will not fail ; 
 
 Know, that the honour of high God may spread, 
 
 The blood cries out on your accursed deed. 
 
 Martyr 'stablished in virginity ! 
 
 Now may'st thou sing for aye before the throne, 
 
 Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she, 
 
 " Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John, 
 
 In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go 
 
 Before the Lamb singing continually, 
 
 That never fleshly woman they did know. 
 
 Now this poor widow waiteth all that night 
 After her little Child, and he came not ; 
 For which, by earliest glimpse of morning light, 
 With face all pale with dread and busy thought, 
 She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought, 
 Until thus far she learned, that he had been 
 In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen. 
 
418 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 
 
 With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed 
 She goeth, as she were half out of her mind, 
 To every place wherein she hath supposed 
 By likelihood her little Son to find ; 
 And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind 
 She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought, 
 And him among the accursed Jews she sought. 
 
 She asketh, and she piteously doth pray 
 To every Jew that dwelleth in that place 
 To tell her if her child had passed that way ; 
 They all said — Nay ; but Jesu of his grace 
 Gave to her thought, that in a little space 
 She for her Son in that same spot did cry 
 Where he was cast into a pit hard by. 
 
 O thou great God that dost perform thy laud 
 
 By mouths of Innocents, lo ! here thy might ; 
 
 This gem of chastity, this emerald, 
 
 And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright, 
 
 There, where with mangled throat he lay upright, 
 
 The Alma Redemptoris 'gan to sing 
 
 So loud, that with his voice the place did ring. 
 
 The Christian folk that through the Jewry went 
 
 Come to the spot in wonder at the thing ; 
 
 And hastily they for the Provost sent ; 
 
 Immediately he came, not tarrying, 
 
 And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly King, 
 
 And eke his Mother, honour of Mankind : 
 
 Which done,he bade that they the Jews should bind. 
 
 This Child with piteous lamentation then 
 Was taken up, singing his song alway ; 
 And with procession great and pomp of men 
 To the next Abbey him they bare away ; 
 His Mother swooning by the body lay : 
 And scarcely could the people that were near 
 Remove this second Rachel from the bier. 
 
 Torment and shameful death to every one 
 This Provost doth for those bad Jews prepare 
 That of this murder wist, and that anon : 
 Such wickedness his judgments cannot spare ; 
 Who will do evil, evil shall he bear ; 
 Them therefore with wild horses did he draw, 
 And after that he hung them by the law. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie 
 
 Before the altar while the Mass doth last : 
 
 The Abbot with his convent's company 
 
 Then sped themselves to bury him full fast ; 
 
 And, when they holy water on him cast, 
 
 Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was the water 
 
 And sang, Alma Redemptoris Mater t 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 This Abbot, for he was a holy man, 
 
 As all Monks are, or surely ought to be, 
 
 In supplication to the Child began 
 
 Thus saying, ' dear Child ! I summon thee 
 
 In virtue of the holy Trinity 
 
 Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this hymn, 
 
 Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth seem.' 
 
 ' My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,' 
 Said this young Child, 'and by the law of kind 
 I should have died, yea many hours ago ; 
 But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find, 
 Will that his glory last, and be in mind ; 
 And, for the worship of his Mother dear, 
 Yet may I sing, Alma I loud and clear. 
 
 ' This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet, 
 After my knowledge I have loved alway ; 
 And in the hour when I my death did meet 
 To me she came, and thus to me did say, 
 " Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay," 
 As ye have heard ; and soon as I had sung 
 Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue. 
 
 ' Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain, 
 In honour of that blissful Maiden free, 
 TiU from my tongue off-taken is the grain ; 
 And after that thus said she unto me : 
 "My little Child, then will I come for thee 
 Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they take : 
 Be not dismayed, I will not thee forsake !"' 
 
 This holy Monk, this Abbot — him mean I, 
 Touched then his tongue, and took away the grair 
 And he gave up the ghost full peacefully ; 
 And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen, 
 His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain 
 And on his face he dropped upon the ground, 
 And still he lay as if he had been bound. 
 
THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 419 
 
 xxxrn. 
 fee the whole Convent on the pavement lay, 
 keeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear ; 
 nd after that they rose, and took their way, 
 nd lifted up this Martyr from the bier, 
 tnd in a tomb of precious marble clear 
 nclosed his uncorrupted body sweet. — 
 Hiere'er he be, God grant us him to meet ! 
 
 'oung Hew of Lincoln ! in like sort laid low 
 
 y cursed Jews — thing well and widely known, 
 
 )r it was done a little while ago — 
 
 ; ray also thou for us, while here we tarry 
 
 I'eak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye, 
 
 . mercy would his mercy multiply 
 
 .1 us, for reverence of his Mother Mary !" 
 
 HE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 ie God of Love — ah, lenedicite I 
 
 ovr mighty and how great a Lord is he ! 
 
 j>r he of low hearts can make high, of high 
 
 3 can make low, and unto death bring nigh ; 
 
 ■id hard hearts he can make them land and free. 
 
 ithin a little time, as hath been found, 
 
 3 can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound : 
 
 lem who are whole in body and in mind, 
 
 3 can make sick, — bind can he and unbind 
 
 1 that he will have bound, or have unbound. 
 
 tell his might my wit may not suffice ; 
 iolish men he can make them out of wise ; — 
 >r he may do all that he will devise ; 
 ose livers he can make abate then' vice, 
 id proud hearts can make tremble in a trice. 
 
 brief, the whole of what he will, he may ; 
 
 jainst him dare not any wight say nay ; 
 humble or afflict whome'er he will, 
 gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill ; 
 
 .it most his might he sheds on the eve of May. 
 
 For every true heart, gentle heart and free, 
 
 That with him is, or thinketh so to be, 
 
 Now againstMay shall have some stirring — whether 
 
 To j oy, or be it to some mourning ; never 
 
 At other time, methinks, in like degree. 
 
 vr. 
 For now when they may hear the small birds' song, 
 And see the budding leaves the branches throng, 
 This unto their remembrance doth bring 
 All kinds of pleasure mix'd with sorrowing ; 
 And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long. 
 
 And of that longing heaviness doth come, 
 Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home; 
 Sick are they all for lack of their desire ; 
 And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, 
 So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. 
 
 In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now 
 Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow ; 
 Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, 
 Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day, — 
 How hard, alas ! to bear, I only know. 
 
 Such shaking doth the fever in me keep 
 
 Through all this May that I have little sleep ; 
 
 And also 'tis not likely unto me, 
 
 That any living heart should sleepy be 
 
 In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep. 
 
 But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, 
 I of a token thought which Lovers heed ; 
 How among them it was a common tale, 
 That it was good to hear the Nightingale, 
 Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be uttered. 
 
 And then I thought anon as it was day, 
 I gladly would go somewhere to essay 
 If I perchance a Nightingale might hear, 
 For yet had I heard none, of all that year, 
 And it was then the third night of the May. 
 
 And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, 
 
 No longer would I in my bed abide, 
 
 But straightway to a wood that was hard by, 
 
 Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, 
 
 And held the pathway down by a brook-side ; 
 
420 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 
 
 Till to a lawn I came all white and green, 
 
 I in so fair a one had never been. 
 
 The ground was green, with daisy powdered over; 
 
 Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover, 
 
 All green and white ; and nothing else was seen. 
 
 There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers, 
 And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers, 
 Where they had rested them all night ; and they, 
 Who were so joyful at the light of day, 
 Began to honour May with all their powers. 
 
 Well did they know that service all by rote, 
 And there was many and many a lovely note, 
 Some, singing loud, as if they had complained ; 
 Some with their notes another manner feigned ; 
 And some did sing all out with the full throat. 
 
 They pruned themselves, and made themselves right 
 Dancing and leaping light upon the spray ; [gay, 
 And ever two and two together were, 
 The same as they had chosen for the year, 
 Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. 
 
 Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon, 
 Was making such a noise as it ran on 
 Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony ; 
 Methought that it was the best melody 
 Which ever to man's ear a passage won. 
 
 And for delight, but how I never wot, 
 I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, 
 Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly ; 
 And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, 
 Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought. 
 
 And that was right upon a tree fast by, 
 
 And who was then ill satisfied but I ? 
 
 Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood, 
 
 From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good, 
 
 Full little joy have I now of thy cry. 
 
 And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, 
 In the next bush that was me fast beside, 
 I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, 
 That her clear voice made a loud rioting, 
 Echoing thorough all the green wood wide. 
 
 Ah ! good sweet Nightingale ! for my heart's cheei 
 Hence hast thou stay'd a little while too long ; 
 For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here, 
 And she hath been before thee with her song ; 
 Evil light on her ! she hath done me wrong. 
 
 But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray ; 
 As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, 
 Methought I wist right well what these birds meant 
 And had good knowing both of their intent, 
 And of their speech, and all that they would say. 
 
 The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake : — 
 Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake, 
 And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here ; 
 For every wight eschews thy song to hear, 
 Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 What! quoth she then, what is 't that ails thes now 
 
 It seems to me I sing as well as thou; 
 
 For mine 's a song that is both true and plain,— 
 
 Although I cannot quaver so in vain 
 
 As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how. 
 
 All men may understanding have of me, 
 But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee ; 
 For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry :— 
 Thou say'st Osee, Osee, then how may I 
 Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be ! 
 
 Ah, fool ! quoth she, wist thou not what it is ? 
 Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis, 
 Then mean I, that I should be wonderous fain 
 That shamefully they one and all were slain, 
 Whoever against Love mean aught amiss. 
 
 And also would I that they all were dead, 
 Who do not think in love their life to lead ; 
 For who is loth the God of Love to obey, 
 Is only fit to die, I dare well say, 
 And for that cause Osee I cry ; take heed ! 
 
 Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law, 
 That all must love or die ; but I withdraw, 
 And take my leave of all such company, 
 For mine intent it neither is to die, 
 Nor ever while I five Love's yoke to draw. 
 
THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 421 
 
 Por lovers of all folk that be alive, 
 'he most disquiet have and least do thrive ; 
 lost feeling have of sorrow woe and care, 
 aid the least welfare coraeth to their share ; 
 Vhat need is there against the truth to strive ? 
 
 Vhat ! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, 
 ; 'hat in thy churlishness a cause canst find 
 !'o speak of Love's true Servants in this mood ; 
 'or in this world no service is so good 
 
 I'o every wight that gentle is of kind. 
 XXXI. 
 
 ''or thereof comes all goodness and all worth ; 
 :dl gentiless and honour thence come forth ; 
 .'hence worship comes, content and true heart's 
 
 pleasure, 
 nd full-assured trust, joy without measure, 
 did jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth ; 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 nd bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, 
 iLnd seemliness, and faithful company, 
 ; L nd dread of shame that will not do amiss ; 
 'or he that faithfully Love's servant is, 
 'lather than be disgraced, would chuse to die. 
 
 ind that the very truth it is which I 
 Tow say — in such belief I '11 live and die ; 
 \ni Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. 
 I'hen, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, 
 f with that counsel I do e'er comply. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 rood Nightingale ! thou speakest wondrous fair, 
 /et for all that, the truth is found elsewhere ; 
 ? or Love in young folk is but rage, I wis ; 
 ind Love in old folk a great dotage is ; 
 Vho most it useth, him 'twill most impair. 
 
 xxxv. 
 i'or thereof come all contraries to gladness ; 
 'hence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, 
 listrust and jealousy, despite, debate, 
 dishonour, shame, envy importunate, 
 i'ride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness. 
 
 oving is aye an office of despair, 
 
 nd one thing is therein which is not fair ; 
 
 or whoso gets of love a little bliss, 
 
 'nless it alway stay with him, I wis 
 
 le may full soon go with an old man's hair. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And, therefore, Nightingale ! do thou keep nigh, 
 For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, 
 If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, 
 Thou 'It be as others that forsaken are ; 
 Then shalt thou raise a clamour as do I. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen ! 
 The God of Love afflict thee with all teen, 
 For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold ; 
 For many a one hath virtues manifold, 
 Who had been nought, if Love had never been. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 For evermore his servants Love amendeth, 
 
 And he from every blemish them defendeth ; 
 
 And maketh them to burn, as hi a fire, 
 
 In loyalty, and worshipful desire, 
 
 And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Thou Nightingale ! the Cuckoo said, be still, 
 For Love no reason hath but his own will ; — 
 For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy ; 
 True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, 
 He lets them perish through that grievous ill. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 With such a master would I never be * ; 
 
 For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see, 
 
 And knows not when he hurts and when he heals; 
 
 Within this court full seldom Truth avails, 
 
 So diverse in his wilfulness is he 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Then of the Nightingale did I take note, 
 
 How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought, 
 
 And said, Alas ! that ever I was born, 
 
 Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn, — 
 
 And with that word, she into tears burst out. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Alas, alas ! my very heart will break, 
 
 Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak 
 
 Of Love, and of his holy services ; 
 
 Now, God of Love ! thou help me in some wise, 
 
 That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 And so methought I started up anon, 
 And to the brook I ran and got a stone, 
 Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast, 
 And he for dread did fly away full fast ; 
 And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone. 
 
 * From a manuscript in the Bodleian, as are also stanzas 
 44 and 45, which are necessary to complete the sense. 
 
422 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 
 
 -I 
 
 And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye, 
 Kept crying, " Farewell ! — farewell, Popinjay ! 
 As if in scornful mockery of me ; 
 And on I hunted him from tree to tree, 
 Till he was far, all out of sight, away. 
 
 Then straightway came the Nightingale to me, 
 And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee, 
 That thou wert near to rescue me ; and now, 
 Unto the God of Love I make a vow, 
 That all this May I will thy songstress he. 
 
 Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, 
 
 By this mishap no longer be dismayed, 
 
 Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard ' st me ; 
 
 Yet if I live it shall amended be, 
 
 When next May comes, if I am not afraid. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 And one thing will I counsel thee also, 
 
 The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw ; 
 
 All that she said is an outrageous lie. 
 
 Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I, 
 
 For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe. 
 
 Yea, hath it ? use, quoth she, this medicine ; 
 This May-time, every day before thou dine, 
 Go look on the fresh daisy ; then say I, 
 Although for pain thou may'st be like to die, 
 Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine. 
 
 And mind always that thou be good and true, 
 And I will sing one song, of many new, 
 For love of thee, as loud as I may cry ; 
 And then did she begin this song full high, 
 ' Beslirew all them that are in love untrue/ 
 
 And soon as she had sung it to the end, 
 
 Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend ; 
 
 And, God of Love, that can right well and may, 
 
 Send unto thee as mickle joy this day, 
 
 As ever he to Lover yet did send. 
 
 Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me ; 
 I pray to God with her always to be, 
 And joy of love to send her evermore ; 
 And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, 
 For there is not so false a bird as she. 
 
 Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, 
 To all the Birds that lodged within that dale, 
 And gathered each and all into one place ; 
 And them besought to hear her doleful case, 
 And thus it was that she began her tale. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 The Cuckoo — 'tis not well that I should hide 
 How she and I did each the other chide, 
 And without ceasing, since it was daylight ; 
 And now I pray you all to do me right 
 Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide. 
 
 Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave ; 
 This matter asketh counsel good as grave, 
 For birds we are — all here together brought ; 
 And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not ; 
 And therefore we a Parliament will have. 
 
 And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, 
 And other Peers whose names are on record ; 
 A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, 
 And judgment there be given ; or that intent 
 Failing, we finally shall make accord. 
 
 I/VII. 
 
 And all this shall be done, without a nay, 
 The morrow after Saint Valentine's day, 
 Under a maple that is well beseen, 
 Before the chamber-window of the Queen, 
 At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay. 
 
 Lvni. 
 She thanked them ; and then her leave she took, 
 And flew into a hawthorn by that brook ; 
 And there she sate and sung — upon that tree — 
 "For term of life Love shall have hold of me" — 
 So loudly, that I with that song awoke. 
 
 Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, 
 For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, 
 Who did on thee the hardiness bestow 
 To appear before my Lady ? but a sense 
 Thou surely hast of her benevolence, 
 Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give ', 
 For of all good she is the best alive. 
 
 Alas, poor Book ! for thy unworthiness, 
 To show to her some pleasant meanings writ 
 In winning words, since through her gentikss, 
 Thee she accepts as for her service fit ! 
 Oh ! it repents me I have neither wit 
 Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give ; 
 For of all good she is the best alive. 
 
TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 
 
 423 
 
 sseech her meekly with all lowliness, 
 aough I be far from her I reverence, 
 ) think upon my truth and stedfastness, 
 ad to abridge my sorrow's violence, 
 tused by the wish, as knows your sapience, 
 le of her liking proof to me would give ; 
 3r of all good she is the best alive. 
 
 l'envot. 
 easure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness ! 
 ma by night, with heavenly influence 
 iimined ! root of beauty and goodnesse, 
 rite, and allay, by your beneficence, 
 |r sighs breathed forth iu silence, — comfort give 
 ice of all good, you are the best alive. 
 
 EXPLICIT. 
 
 TROILUS AND CRESIDA. 
 
 I :xt morning Troilus began to clear 
 s eyes from sleep, at the first break of day, 
 id unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, 
 r love of God, full piteously did say, 
 e must the Palace see of Cresida ; 
 r since we yet may have no other feast, 
 t us behold her Palace at the least ! 
 
 Ad therewithal to cover his intent 
 cause he found into the Town to go, 
 
 d they right forth to Cresid's Palace went ; 
 
 t, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe, 
 
 m thought his sorrowful heart would break in two ; 
 - r when he saw her doors fast bolted all, 
 
 sll nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall. 
 
 ' erewith when this true Lover 'gan behold, 
 w shut was every window of the place, 
 ie frost he thought his heart was icy cold ; 
 
 t which, with changed, pale, and deadly face, 
 thout word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace ; 
 d on his purpose bent so fast to ride, 
 
 ' at no wight his continuance espied. 
 
 I en said he thus, — O Palace desolate ! 
 
 ' aouse of houses, once so richly dight ! 
 
 iPalace empty and disconsolate ! 
 iou lamp of which extinguished is the light ; 
 Palace whilom day that now art night, 
 ou onght'st to fall and I to die ; since she 
 gone who held us both in sovereignty. 
 
 0, of all houses once the crowned boast ! 
 Palace illumined with the sun of bliss ; 
 ring of which the ruby now is lost, 
 
 cause of woe, that cause has been of bliss : 
 Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss 
 Thy cold doors ; but I dare not for this rout ; 
 Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out ! 
 
 Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, 
 With changed face, and piteous to behold ; 
 And when he might his time aright espy, 
 Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told 
 Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, 
 So piteously, and with so dead a hue, 
 That every wight might on his sorrow rue. 
 
 Forth from the spot he rideth up and down, 
 And everything to his rememberance 
 Came as he rode by places of the town 
 Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once 
 Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance, 
 And in that Temple she with her bright eyes, 
 My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise. 
 
 And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I 
 Heard my own Cresid's laugh ; and once at play 
 
 1 yonder saw her eke full blissfully ; 
 And yonder once she unto me 'gan say — 
 Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray ! 
 And there so graciously did me behold, 
 That hers unto the death my heart I hold. 
 
 And at the corner of that self-same house 
 Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, 
 So womanly, with voice melodious 
 Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, 
 That in my soul methinks I yet do hear 
 The blissful sound ; and in that very place 
 My Lady first me took unto her grace. 
 
 O blissful God of Love ! then thus he cried, 
 When I the process have in memory, 
 How thou hast wearied me on every side, 
 Men thence a book might make, a history ; 
 What need to seek a conquest over me, 
 Since I am wholly at thy will 1 what joy 
 Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy ? 
 
 Dread Lord ! so fearful when provoked, thine ire 
 Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief ; 
 Now mercy, Lord ! thou know'st well I desire 
 Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief; 
 And five and die I will in thy belief ; 
 For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, 
 That Cresida again thou send me soon. 
 
424 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM CHAUCER. 
 
 Constrain her heart as quickly to return, 
 
 As thou dost mine with longing her to see, 
 
 Then know I well that she would not sojourn. 
 
 Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be 
 
 Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, 
 
 As Juno was unto the Theban blood, 
 
 From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude. 
 
 And after this he to the gate did go 
 
 Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was ; 
 
 And up and down there went, and to and fro, 
 
 And to himself full oft he said, alas ! 
 
 From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass. 
 
 would the blissful God now for his joy, 
 
 1 might her see again coming to Troy ! 
 
 And up to yonder hill was I her guide ; 
 
 Alas, and there I took of her my leave ; 
 
 Yonder I saw her to her Father ride, 
 
 For very grief of which my heart shall cleave ;— 
 
 And hither home I came when it was eve ; 
 
 And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, 
 
 And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy. 
 
 And of himself did he imagine oft, 
 
 Tli at he was blighted, pale, and waxen less 
 
 Than he was wont ; and that in whispers soft 
 
 Men said, what may it be, can no one guess 
 
 Why Troilus hath all this heaviness ? 
 
 All which he of himself conceited wholly 
 
 Out of his weakness and his melancholy. 
 
 Another time he took into his head, 
 
 That every wight, who in the way passed by, 
 
 Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said, 
 
 I am right sorry Troilus will die : 
 
 And thus a day or two drove wearily ; 
 
 As ye have heard ; such life 'gan he to lead 
 
 As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread. 
 
 For which it pleased him in his songs to show 
 The occasion of his woe, as best he might ; 
 And made a fitting song, of words but few, 
 Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light ; 
 And when he was removed from all men's sight, 
 With a soft night voice, he of his Lady dear, 
 That absent was, 'gaii sing as ye may hear. 
 
 O star, of which I lost have all the light, 
 With a sore heart well ought I to bewail, 
 That ever dark in torment, night by night, 
 Toward my death with wind I steer and sail ; 
 
 For which upon the tenth night if thou fail 
 With thy bright beams to guide me but one horn 
 My ship and me Charybdis will devour. 
 
 As soon as he this song had thus sung through, 
 He fell again into his sorrows old ; 
 And every night, as was his wont to do, 
 Troilus stood the bright moon to behold ; 
 And all his trouble to the moon he told, 
 And said ; I wis, when thou art horn'd anev, 
 I shall be glad if all the world be true. 
 
 Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow, 
 When hence did journey my bright Lady dear, 
 That cause is of my torment and my sorrow ; 
 For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear, 
 For love of God, run fast above thy sphere: 
 For when thy horns begin once more to spring, 
 Then shall she come, that with her bliss may brim 
 
 The day is more, and longer every night 
 Than they were wont to be — for he thought so ; 
 And that the sun did take his course not right. 
 By longer way than he was wont to go ; 
 And said, I am in constant dread I trow, 
 That Phaeton his son is yet alive, 
 His too fond father's car amiss to drive. 
 
 Upon the walls fast also would he walk, 
 
 To the end that he the Grecian host might see ; 
 
 And ever thus he to himself would talk : — 
 
 Lo ! yonder is my own bright Lady free ; 
 
 Or yonder is it that the tents must be ; 
 
 And thence does come this ah' which is so sweet, 
 
 That in my soul I feel the joy of it. 
 
 And certainly this wind, that more and more 
 By moments thus increaseth in my face, 
 Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore ; 
 I prove it thus ; for in no other space 
 Of all this town, save only in this place, 
 Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain ; 
 It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain \ 
 
 A weary while in pain he tosseth thus, 
 
 Till fully past and gone was the ninth night ; 
 
 And ever at his side stood Pandarus, 
 
 Who busily made use of all his might 
 
 To comfort him, and make his heart more light ; 
 
 Giving him always hope, that she the mornw 
 
 Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow. 
 
 
POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 
 
 425 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 
 
 ; THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 
 
 e class of Beggars, to which the Old Man here described 
 )elongs,will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, 
 md, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined them- 
 elve9 to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and 
 lad certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, 
 hey regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but 
 ;nost!y in provisions. 
 
 jaw an aged Beggar in my walk ; 
 id he was seated, by the highway side, 
 V a low structure of rude masonry 
 ilt at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
 ho lead their horses down the steep rough road 
 iy thence remount at ease. The aged Man 
 Id placed his staff across the broad smooth stone 
 lat overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 
 1 white with flour, the dole of village dames, 
 ]; drew his scraps and fragments, one by one ; 
 . d scanned them with a fixed and serious look 
 'idle computation. In the sun, 
 1'on the second step of that small pile, 
 I -rounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
 Ij sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
 id ever, scattered from his palsied hand, 
 r ,at, still attempting to prevent the waste, 
 
 I is baffled still, the crumbs hi little showers 
 
 I I on the ground ; and the small mountain birds, 
 It venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 
 
 iiproached within the length of half his staff. 
 . 
 lim from my childhood have I known ; and then 
 I was so old, he seems not older now ; 
 I travels on, a solitary Man, 
 ^helpless in appearance, that for him 
 B sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack 
 m careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
 R stops, — that he may safely lodge the coin 
 ^,;hin the old Man's hat ; nor quits him so, 
 I still, when he has given his horse the rein, 
 \tches the aged Beggar with a look 
 Sblong, and half-reverted. She who tends 
 ' toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
 S; turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
 1 aged beggar coming, quits her work, 
 ™l lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
 
 The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
 
 The aged Beggar in the woody lane, 
 
 Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus warned 
 
 The old man does not change his course, the boy 
 
 Turns with, less noisy wheels to the roadside, 
 
 And passes gently by, without a curse 
 
 Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 
 
 He travels on, a solitary Man ; 
 His age has no companion. On the ground 
 His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, 
 They move along the ground ; and, evermore, 
 Instead of common and habitual sight 
 Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, 
 And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
 Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, 
 Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, 
 He plies his weary journey ; seeing still, 
 And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, 
 Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, 
 The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left 
 Impressed on the white road, — in the same line, 
 At distance still the same. Poor Traveller ! 
 His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet 
 Disturb the summer dust ; he is so still 
 In look and motion, that the cottage curs, 
 Ere he has passed the door, will turn away, 
 Weary of barking at Mm. 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, or 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. Then be assured 
 
426 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO 
 
 That least of all can ought — that ever owned 
 
 The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime 
 
 Which man is born to — sink, howe'er depressed, 
 
 So low as to be scorned without a sin ; 
 
 Without offence to God cast out of view; 
 
 Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 
 
 Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement 
 
 Worn out and worthless. While from door to door, 
 
 This old Man creeps, the villagers in him 
 
 Behold a record which together binds 
 
 Past deeds and offices of charity, 
 
 Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
 
 The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, 
 
 And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, 
 
 Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
 
 To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
 
 Among the farms and solitary huts, 
 
 Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, 
 
 Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, 
 
 The mild necessity of use compels 
 
 To acts of love ; and habit does the work 
 
 Of reason ; yet prepares that after-joy 
 
 Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
 
 By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, 
 
 Doth find herself insensibly disposed 
 
 To virtue and true goodness. 
 
 Some there are, 
 By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
 And meditative, authors of delight 
 And happiness, which to the end of time 
 Will live, and spread, and kindle : even such minds 
 In childhood, from this solitary Being, 
 Or from like wanderer, haply have received 
 (A thing more precious far than all that books 
 Or the solicitudes of love can do !) 
 That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 
 In which they found their kindred with a world 
 Where want and sorrow were. The easy man 
 Who sits at his own door, — and, like the pear 
 That overhangs his head from the green wall, 
 Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young, 
 The prosperous and unthinking, they who five 
 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 
 No self-reproach ; who of the moral law 
 Established in the land where they abide 
 Are strict observers ; and not negligent 
 In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, 
 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 
 Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace ! 
 • — But of the poor man ask, the abject poor ; 
 Go, and demand of him, if there be here 
 In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 
 And these inevitable charities, 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? 
 No — man is dear to man ; the poorest poor 
 Long for some moments in a weary life 
 When they can know and feel that they have bee 
 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 wei 
 Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself 
 By her own wants, she from her store of meal 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
 Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 
 Returning with exhilarated heart, 
 Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. 
 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 And while in that vast solitude to which 
 The tide of things has borne him, he appears 
 To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 Unblamed, 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 breaths 
 The freshness of the valleys ; let his blood 
 Struggle with frosty air and winter snou s ; 
 And let the chartered wind that sweeps the hwi 
 Beat his grey locks against his withered face. 
 Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousnoss 
 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, 
 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. 
 
THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 
 
 427 
 
 iiv are his pleasures : if his eyes have now 
 Ibn doomed so long to settle upon earth 
 Git not without some effort they behold 
 m countenance of the horizontal sun, 
 1 ing or setting, let the light at least 
 Ida free entrance to their languid orbs. 
 /I let him, where and when he will, sit down 
 Death the trees, or on a grassy bank 
 Ciighway side, and with the little birds 
 Sire his chance-gathered meal ; and, finally, 
 I in the eye of Nature he has lived, 
 S n the eye of Nature let him die ! 
 
 1798. 
 
 THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 
 
 ") not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, 
 T squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, 
 A . the small critic wielding his delicate pen, 
 T 1 1 sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. 
 
 H iwells in the centre of London's wide Town ; 
 H staff is a sceptre — his grey hairs a crown ; 
 V his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the 
 streak 
 lie unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. 
 
 M the dews, in the sunshine of mom, — 'mid the 
 
 joy 
 
 e fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy ; 
 T!,; countenance there fashioned, which, spite of 
 a stain 
 his life hath received, to the last will remain. 
 
 Ajarmer he was ; and his house far and near 
 V* the boast of the country for excellent cheer 
 H, eft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale 
 lie silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his 
 mild ale ! 
 
 • Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, 
 H fields seemed to know what their Master was 
 doing; 
 turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea, 
 aught the infection — as generous as he. 
 
 ¥' Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, — 
 H fields better suited the ease of his soul : 
 Strayed through the fields like an indolent wight, 
 flj quiet of nature was Adam's delight. 
 
 For Adam was simple in thought ; and the poor, 
 Familiar with him, made an inn of his door : 
 He gave them the best that he had ; or, to say 
 What less may mislead you, they took it away. 
 
 Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm: 
 The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm : 
 At length, what to most is a season of sorrow, 
 His means are run out, — he must beg, or must 
 borrow. 
 
 To the 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 with his ill-gotten pelf, 
 And something, it might be, reserved for himself : 
 Then (what is too true) without hinting a word, 
 Turned his back on the country — and off like a bird. 
 
 You lift up your eyes! — but I guess that you frame 
 A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame ; 
 In him it was scarcely a business of art, 
 For this he did all in the ease of his heart. 
 
 To London — a sad emigration I ween — 
 
 With his 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 need was, did old Adam assume, — 
 Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom ; 
 But nature is gracious, necessity kind, 
 And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his 
 mind, 
 
 He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is 
 
 stout ; 
 Twice as fast as before does his blood run about ; 
 You would say that each hair of his 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. 
 
428 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO 
 
 In the throng of the town like a stranger is he, 
 Like one whose own country's far over the sea; 
 And Nature, while through the great city he hies, 
 Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise. 
 
 This gives him the fancy of one that is young, 
 More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue ; 
 Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs, 
 And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes. 
 
 What 's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? 
 Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets; 
 With a look of such earnestness often will stand, 
 You might think he 'd twelve reapers at work in 
 the Strand. 
 
 Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours 
 Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her 
 
 flowers, 
 Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made 
 Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 
 
 'Mid coaches and chariots, a 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 Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way, 
 Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay ; 
 He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown, 
 And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. 
 
 But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair, — 
 
 If you pass by at morning, you '11 meet with him 
 
 there. 
 The breath of the cows you may see him inhale, 
 And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale. 
 
 Now farewell, old Adam ! when low thou art laid, 
 May one blade of gi'ass 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. 
 
 1803. 
 
 THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
 That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain : 
 And, the first moment that the sun may shine, 
 Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again ! 
 
 When hailstones have been falling, swarm 
 
 swarm, 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest. 
 Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, 
 In close self -shelter, like a Thing at rest. 
 
 But lately, one rough day, this Flower 1 passed 
 And recognised it, though an altered form, 
 Now standing forth an offering to the blast, 
 And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 
 
 I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice 
 " It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold 
 This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
 But its necessity in being old. 
 
 The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew • 
 It camiot 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 Favourite — then, worse trut 
 A Miser's Pensioner — behold our lot ! 
 Man, that from thy fair and shining youth 
 Age might but take the things Youth needed m 
 
 1804 
 
 THE TWO THIEVES; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE LAST STAGE OP AVARICE. 
 
 now that the genius of Bewick were mine, 
 And the skill which he learned on the banks of 
 
 Tyne, 
 Then the Muses might deal with me just as tl 
 
 chose, 
 For I 'd take my last leave both of vere mi 
 
 prose. 
 
 What feats would I work with my magical ban 
 Book-learning and books should be banished 
 
 land : 
 And, for hunger and thirst and such troableso 
 
 calls, 
 Every ale-house should then have a feast on 
 
 walls. 
 
 The traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chajj 
 Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw woi 
 
 -he care ! 
 For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and 
 
 sheaves, 
 Oh, what woidd they be to my tale of two Thievi 
 
THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE. 
 
 429 
 
 ' e One, yet unbreeched, is not three birthdays old, 
 ]s Grandsire that age more than thirty times told ; 
 'ere are ninety good seasons of fair and foul 
 
 •weather 
 Itween them, and both go a-pilfering together. 
 
 th chips is the carpenter strewing bis floor ? 
 ] i cart-load of turf at an old woman's door ? 
 (. Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide ! 
 id his Grandson 's as busy at work by his side. 
 
 C Daniel begins ; he stops short — and his eye, 
 1 -ough the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly : 
 : ' ; a look which at this time is hardly his own, 
 I ; tells a plain tale of the days that are flown. 
 
 I once had a heart which was moved by the wires 
 
 C manifold pleasures and many desires : 
 
 i*l what if he cherished his purse ? : Twas no 
 
 more 
 1 n treading a path trod by thousands before. 
 
 '". as a path trod by thousands ; but Daniel is one 
 \ o went something farther than others have gone, 
 .- 1 now with old Daniel you see how it fares ; 
 see to what end he has brought his grey hairs. 
 
 1 pair sally forth hand in hand : ere the sun 
 E. peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun : 
 A[ yet, into whatever sin they may fall, 
 ft child but half knows it, and that not at all. 
 
 ! v hunt through the streets with deliberate tread, 
 A;, each, in his turn, becomes leader or led ; 
 , wherever they carry their plots and their 
 wiles, 
 E ry face in the village is dimpled with smiles. 
 
 Neither checked by the rich nor the needy they 
 
 roam ; 
 For the grey-headed Sire has a daughter at home, 
 Who will gladly repair aU 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 may'st thou live I for a teacher we see 
 That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. 
 
 1800. 
 
 ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. 
 
 The little hedgerow 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 tiling 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. 
 
430 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 EPITAPHS 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM CHIABKEKA. 
 I. 
 
 Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let the air 
 For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life 
 Have I been taken ; this is genuine life 
 And this alone — the life which now I live 
 In peace eternal ; where desire and joy 
 Together move in fellowship without end. — 
 Francesco Ceni willed that, after death, 
 His tombstone thus should speak for him. And 
 
 surely 
 Small cause there is for that fond wish of ours 
 Long to continue in this world ; a world 
 That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope 
 To good, whereof itself is destitute. 
 
 Perhaps some needful service of the State 
 Drew Titus from the depth of studious bowers, 
 And doomed him to contend in faithless courts, 
 Where gold determines between right and wrong. 
 Yet did at length his loyalty of heart, 
 And his pure native genius, lead him back 
 To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses, 
 Whom he had early loved. And not in vain 
 Such course he held ! Bologna's learned schools 
 Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung 
 With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains. 
 There pleasure crowned his days ; and all his 
 
 thoughts 
 A roseate fragrance breathed. * — human life, 
 That never art secure from dolorous change ! 
 Behold a high injunction suddenly 
 To Arno's side hath brought him, and he charmed 
 A Tuscan audience : but full soon was called 
 To the perpetual silence of the grave. 
 Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood 
 A Champion stedfast 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. 
 
 Thou w T ho movest onward with a mind 
 Intent upon thy way, pause, though in hasw ! 
 '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. 
 Well did I watch, much laboured, nor had powt 
 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 
 Now, Reader, learn from this my fate, how l.i!- 
 How treacherous to her promise, is the world ; 
 And trust in God — to whose eternal doom 
 Must bend the sceptred Potentates of earth. 
 
 There never breathed a man who, when hi- li 
 Was closing, might not of that life relate 
 Toils long and hard. — The warrior will report 
 Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the fi< 
 And blast of trumpets. He who hath beec doon 
 To bow his forehead in the courts of kings, 
 Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, 
 Envy and heart-inquietude, derived 
 From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. 
 I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth, 
 Could represent the countenance horrible 
 Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage 
 Of Auster and Bootes Fifty years 
 Over the well-steered galleys did T rule : — 
 From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars, 
 Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown ; 
 And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft 
 Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir 
 I knew the force ; and hence the rough sea's pr 
 Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. 
 What noble pomp and frequent have not I 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 431 
 
 i regal decks beheld ! yet in the end 
 earned that one poor moment can suffice 
 
 equalise the lofty and the low. 
 e sail the sea of life — a Calm One finds, 
 id One a Tempest — and, the voyage o'er, 
 ■ath is the quiet haven of us all. 
 more of my condition ye would know, 
 vona was my birth-place, and I sprang 
 
 noble parents : seventy years and three 
 re( j J — then yielded to a slow disease. 
 
 I ue is it that Ambrosio Salinero 
 
 ith an untoward fate was long involved 
 odious litigation ; and full long, 
 te harder still ! had he to endure assaults 
 i racking malady. And true it is 
 ' at not the less a frank courageous heart 
 . d buoyant spirit triumphed over pain ; 
 { d he was strong to follow in the steps 
 
 I I the fair Muses. Not a covert path 
 
 Jiids to the dear Parnassian forest's shade, 
 '.(at might from him be hidden ; not a track 
 lunts to' pellucid Hippocrene, but he 
 1 d traced its windings. — This Savona knows, 
 'it no sepulchral honors to her Son 
 .'b paid, for in our age the heart is ruled 
 ■y by gold. And now a simple stone 
 licribed with this memorial here is raised 
 lj his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera. 
 j ink not, Passenger ! who read'st the lines 
 u an exceeding love hath dazzled me ; 
 I — he was One whose memory ought to spread 
 'lere'er Permessus bears an honoured name, 
 M live as long as its pure stream shall flow. 
 
 1 3TINED to war from very infancy 
 I is I, Roberto Dati, and I took 
 1 Malta the white symbol of the Cross : 
 u' in life's vigorous season did I shun 
 1 zard or toil ; among the sands was seen 
 ( Libya ; and not seldom, on the banks 
 ' wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot 
 hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded, 
 ''lived I, and repined not at such fate : 
 " s only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, 
 i it stripped of arms I to my end am brought 
 - j the soft down of my paternal home. 
 \ haply Arno shall be spared all cause 
 liblush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt 
 ■hy appointed way, and bear in mind 
 I v fleeting and how frail is human life ! 
 
 O flower of all that springs from gentle blood, 
 And all that generous nurture breeds to make 
 Youth amiable ; O friend so true of soul 
 To fair Aglaia ; by what envy moved, 
 Lelius ! has death cut short thy brilliant day 
 In its sweet opening ? and what dire mishap 
 Has from Savona torn her best delight ? 
 For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to mourn ; 
 And, should the out-pourings of her eyes suffice not 
 For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto 
 Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto 
 Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death, 
 In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love ! 
 What profit riches? what does youth avail? 
 Dust are our hopes ; — I, weeping bitterly, 
 Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray 
 That every gentle Spirit hither led 
 May read them not without some bitter tears. 
 
 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 Ins 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. 
 
 Now is there not good reason to break forth 
 
 Into a passionate lament ? — 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. 
 
 * In justice to the Author, I subjoin the original :— 
 
 e degli amici 
 
 Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri. 
 
432 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 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 
 
 Nymphs 
 Twine near their loved Permessus. — Finally, 
 Himself above each lower thought uplifting, 
 His ears he closed to listen to the songs 
 Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old ; 
 And his Permessus found on Lebanon. 
 A blessed Man ! who of protracted days 
 Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep ; 
 But truly did He live his life. Urbino, 
 Take pride in him ! — Passenger, farewell ! 
 
 the 
 
 By a blest Husband guided, Mary came 
 From nearest kindred, Vernon her new name ; 
 She came, though meek of soul, in seemly pride 
 Of happiness and hope, a youthful Bride. 
 O dread reverse ! if aught be so, which proves 
 That God will chasten whom he dearly loves. 
 Faith bore her up through pains in mercy given, 
 And troubles that were each a step to Heaven : 
 Two Babes were laid in earth before she died j 
 A third now slumbers at the Mother's side ; 
 Its Sister-twin survives, whose smiles afford 
 A trembling solace to her widowed Lord. 
 
 Reader ! if to thy bosom cling the pain 
 Of recent sorrow combated in vain ; 
 Or if thy cherished grief have failed to thwart 
 Time still intent on his insidious part, 
 Lulling the mourner's best good thoughts asleep, 
 Pilfering regrets we would, but cannot, keep ; 
 Bear with Him— judge Him gently who makes lcnown 
 His bitter loss by this memorial Stone ; 
 And pray that in his faithful breast the grace 
 Of resignation find a hallowed place. 
 
 Six months to six years added he remained 
 Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained : 
 blessed Lord ! whose mercy then removed 
 A Child whom every eye that looked on loved ■ 
 Support us, teach us calmly to resign 
 What we possessed, and now is wholly thine ! 
 
 CENOTAPH. 
 
 In affectionate remembrance of Frances Fermor. who 
 remains are deposited in the church of Claines, near W 
 cester, this stone is erected by her sister, Dame Marpm 
 wife of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., who, feeling nolle 
 than the love of a brother for the deceased, comment 
 this memorial to the care of his heirs and successors id ti 
 possession of this place. 
 
 By vain affections unenthralled, 
 Though resolute when duty called 
 To meet the world's broad eye, 
 Pure as the holiest cloistered nun 
 That ever feared the tempting sun, 
 Did Fermor live and die. 
 
 This Tablet, hallowed by her name, 
 One heart-relieving tear may claim ; 
 But if the pensive gloom 
 Of fond regret be still thy choice, 
 Exalt thy spirit, hear the voice 
 Of Jesus from her tomb ! 
 
 ' I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE UN.' 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 IN THE CHAPEL-YAKD OF LANGDALE, WESTMORELAND. 
 
 By playful smiles, (alas ! too oft 
 A sad heart's sunshine) by a soft 
 And gentle nature, and a free 
 Yet modest hand of charity, 
 Through life was Owen Lloyd endeared 
 To young and old ; and how revered 
 Had been that pious spirit, a tide 
 Of humble mourners testified, 
 When, after pains dispensed to prove 
 The measure of God's chastening love, 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 433 
 
 •lere, brought from far, his corse found rest,- 
 
 I'ulfilmeiit of his own request ; — 
 
 Irged less for this Yew's shade, though he 
 
 'lanted with such fond hope the tree ; 
 
 ,ess for the love of stream and rock, 
 
 'ear as they were, than that his Flock, 
 
 v'hen they no more their Pastor's voice 
 
 ould hear to guide them in their choice 
 
 hrough good and evil, help might have, 
 
 .dmonished, from his silent grave, 
 
 f righteousness, of sins forgiven, 
 
 or peace on earth and bliss in heaven. 
 
 DDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE 
 VILLAGE SCHOOL OF . 
 
 1798. 
 
 II come, ye little noisy Crew, 
 Not long your pastime to prevent ; 
 I heard the blessing which to you 
 Our common Friend and Father sent. 
 I kissed his cheek before he died ; 
 And when his breath was fled, 
 I raised, while kneeling by his side, 
 His hand : — it dropped like lead. 
 •Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all 
 That can be done, will never fall 
 Like his till they are dead, 
 i By night or day blow foul or fair, 
 Ne'er will the best of all your train 
 Play with the locks of his white hair, 
 Or stand between his knees again. 
 
 Here did he sit confined for hours ; 
 But he could see the woods and plains, 
 Could hear the wind and mark the showers 
 Come streaming down the streaming panes. 
 Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound 
 jHe rests a prisoner of the ground. 
 He loved the breathing air, 
 •He loved the sun, but if it rise 
 Or set, to him where now he lies, 
 Brings not a moment's care. 
 Alas ! what idle words; but take 
 The Dirge which for our Master's sake 
 iAnd yours, love prompted me to make, 
 ilhe rhymes s.o homely in attire 
 'With learned ears may ill agree, 
 But chanted by your Orphan Quire 
 Will make a touching melody. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone ; 
 Thou Angler, by the silent flood ; 
 And niourn when thou art all alone, 
 Thou Woodman, in the distant wood ! 
 
 Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy 
 Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum ; 
 And mourn, thou poor half witted Boy ! 
 Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb. 
 
 Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide 
 Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth, 
 As he before had sanctified 
 Thy infancy with heavenly truth. 
 
 Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay, 
 
 Bold settlers en some foreign shore, 
 
 Give, when your thoughts are turned this way, 
 
 A sigh to him whom we deplore. 
 
 For us who here in funeral strain 
 With one accord our voices raise, 
 Let sorrow overcharged with pain 
 Be lost in thankfulness and praise. 
 
 And when our hearts shall feel a sting 
 From ill we meet or good we miss, 
 May touches of his memory bring 
 Fond healing, like a mother's kiss. 
 
 BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS 
 AFTER. 
 
 Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat ; 
 But benefits, his gift, we trace — 
 Expressed in every eye we meet 
 Round this dear Vale, his native place. 
 
 To stately Hall and Cottage rude 
 Flowed from his life what still they hold, 
 Light pleasures, every day, renewed ; 
 And blessings half a century old. 
 
 Oh true of heart, of spirit gay, 
 Thy faults, where not already gone 
 From memory, prolong their stay 
 For charity's sweet sake alone. 
 
 Such solace find we for our loss ; 
 And what beyond this thought we crave 
 Comes in the promise from the Cross, 
 Shining upon thy happy grave.* 
 
 * See upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces the 
 Fountain, &c. &c, pages 365, 366. 
 
434 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 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 looked, thy Image still was there ; 
 It trembled, but it never passed away. 
 
 How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no sleep ; 
 No mood, which season takes away, or brings : 
 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. 
 
 Ah ! then, if mine had been the Painter's hand, 
 To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam, 
 The light that never was, on sea or land, 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile 
 Amid a world how different from this ! 
 Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 
 
 Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine 
 Of peaceful 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 stedfast peace that might not be betrayed. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more ; 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 
 A deep distress hath humanised my Soul. 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 
 The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 
 This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been tl 
 
 Friend, 
 If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 
 This work of thine I blame not, but common <i. ; 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 'tis a passionate Work ! — yet wise and well, 
 Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
 
 That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell, 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
 And this huge Castle, standing here sublim ?, 
 
 1 love to see the look with which it braves. 
 Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time, 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling wav 
 
 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 borne i 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me hen.— 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 Sweet Flower ! belike one day to have 
 
 A place upon thy Poet's grave, 
 
 I welcome thee once more : 
 
 But He, who was on land, at sea, 
 
 My Brother, too, in loving thee, 
 
 Although he loved more silently, 
 
 Sleeps by his native shore. 
 
 Ah ! hopeful, hopeful was the day 
 When to that Ship he bent his way, 
 To govern and to guide : 
 His wish was gained : a little time 
 Would bring him back in manhood's prime 
 And free for life, these hills to climb ; 
 With all his wants supplied. 
 
 And full of hope day followed day 
 
 While that stout Ship at anchor lay 
 
 Beside the shores of Wight ; 
 
 The May had then made all things green ; 
 
 And, floating there, in pomp serene, 
 
 That Ship was goodly to be seen, 
 
 His pride and his delight ! 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 435 
 
 ■Yet then, when called ashore, he sought 
 [The tender peace of rural thought : 
 In more than happy mood 
 To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers ! 
 He then would steal at leisure hours, 
 And loved you glittering in your bowers, 
 \k starry multitude. 
 
 ut hark the word ! — the ship is gone ; — 
 Eleturns from her long course : — anon 
 5ets sail : — in season due, 
 )nce more on English earth they stand : 
 3ut, when a third time from the land 
 "hey parted, sorrow was at hand 
 ''or Him and for his crew. 
 
 11-fated Vessel ! — ghastly shock ! 
 
 -At length delivered from the rock, 
 
 'he deep she hath regained ; 
 
 aid through the stormy night they steer ; 
 
 labouring for life,- in hope and fear, 
 
 'o reach a safer shore — how near, 
 
 r et not to be attained ! 
 
 Silence ! " the brave Commander cried ; 
 o that calm word a shriek replied, 
 fc was the last death-shriek. 
 A few (my soul oft sees that sight) 
 urvive upon the tall mast's height ; 
 lut one dear remnant of the night — 
 
 I or Him in vain I seek, 
 ix weeks beneath the moving sea 
 lie lay in slumber quietly ; 
 nforced by wind or wave 
 K) quit the Ship for which he died, 
 JU1 claims of duty satisfied ;) 
 ind there they found him at her side ; 
 nd bore him to the grave. 
 
 ain service ! yet not vainly done 
 or this, if other end were none, 
 hat He, who had been cast 
 |pon a way of life unmeet 
 pr such a gentle Soul and sweet, 
 ;iould find an undisturbed retreat 
 ear what he loved, at last — 
 
 flat neighbourhood of grove and field 
 
 b Him a resting-place should yield, 
 
 j meek man and a brave ! 
 
 he birds shall sing and ocean make 
 
 ' mournful murmur for Jtis sake ; 
 
 nd Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake 
 
 pon his senseless grave. 1805. 
 
 ELEGIAC VERSES, 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN WORDSWORTH, 
 
 COMMANDER OP THE E. I. COMPANY'S SHIP THE EARL OP 
 
 ABERGAVENNY, TN WHICH BE TEIUSHED BY CALAMITOUS 
 
 SHIPWRECK, FEB. 6TH, 1805. 
 
 Composed near the Mountain track, that leads from Gras- 
 
 mere through Grisdale Hawes, where it descends towards 
 
 Patterdale. 
 
 1805. 
 
 The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo ! 
 That instant, startled by the shock, 
 The Buzzard mounted from the rock 
 Deliberate and slow : 
 Lord of the air, he took his flight ; 
 Oh ! could he on that woeful night 
 Have lent his wing, my Brother dear, 
 For one poor moment's space to Thee, 
 And all who struggled with the Sea, 
 When safety was so near. 
 
 Thus in the weakness of my heart 
 
 I spoke (but let that pang be still) 
 
 When rising from the rock at will, 
 
 I saw the Bird depart. 
 
 And let me calmly bless the Power 
 
 That meets me in this unknown Flower, 
 
 Affecting type of him I mourn ! 
 
 With calmness suffer and believe, 
 
 And grieve, and know that I must grieve, 
 
 Not cheerless, though forlorn. 
 
 Here did we stop ; and here looked round 
 
 While each into himself descends, 
 
 For that last thought of parting Friends 
 
 That is not to be found. 
 
 Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight, 
 
 Our home and his, his heart's delight, 
 
 His quiet heart's selected home. 
 
 But time before him melts away, 
 
 And he hath feeling of a day 
 
 Of blessedness to come. 
 
 Full soon in sorrow did I weep, 
 
 Taught that the mutual hope was dust, 
 
 In sorrow, but for higher trust, 
 
 How miserably deep ! 
 
 All vanished in a single word, 
 
 A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard. 
 
436 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 S ea — Ship— drowned — Shipwreck — so it came, 
 The meek, the brave, the good, was gone ; 
 He who had been our living John 
 Was nothing but a name. 
 
 V. 
 
 That was indeed a parting ! oh, 
 
 Glad am I, glad that it is past ; 
 
 For there were some on whom it cast 
 
 Unutterable woe. 
 
 But they as well as I have gains ; — 
 
 From many a humble source, to pains 
 
 Like these, there comes a mild release ; 
 
 Even here I feel it, even this Plant 
 
 Is in its beauty ministrant 
 
 To comfort and to peace. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He would have loved thy modest grace, 
 
 Meek Flower ! To Him I would have said, 
 
 " It grows upon its native bed 
 
 Beside our Parting-place ; 
 
 There, cleaving to the ground, it lies 
 
 With multitude of purple eyes, 
 
 Spangling a cushion green like moss ; 
 
 But we will see it, joyful tide ! 
 
 Some day, to see it in its pride, 
 
 The mountain will we cross." 
 
 — Brother and friend, if verse of mine 
 
 Have power to make thy virtues known, 
 
 Here let a monumental Stone 
 
 Stand — sacred as a Shrine ; 
 
 And to the few who pass this way, 
 
 Traveller or Shepherd, let it say, 
 
 Long as these mighty rocks endure, — 
 
 Oh do not Thou too fondly brood, 
 
 Although deserving of all good, 
 
 On any earthly hope, however pure * ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 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, even to pain deprest, 
 Importunate and heavy load * ! 
 The Comforter hath found me here, 
 Upon this lonely road ; 
 
 And many thousands now are sad — 
 Wait the fulfilment of then.' fear ; 
 For he must die who is their stay, 
 Their glory disappear. 
 
 A Power is passing from the earth 
 To breathless Nature's dark abyss ; 
 But when the great and good depart 
 What is it more than tin's — 
 
 That Man, who is from God sent forth, 
 Doth yet again to God return ? — 
 Such ebb and flow must ever be, 
 Then wherefore should we mourn 1 
 
 * The plant alluded to is the Moss Campion (Silene 
 | acaulis, of Linnaeus). See note at the end of the volume. 
 See among the Poems on the " Naming of places," No vi. 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE EARTH. 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 " Rest, rest, perturbed Earth ! 
 rest, thou doleful Mother of Mankind r ' 
 A Spirit sang in tones more plaintive tbau the w u 
 " From regions where no evil thing has birth 
 I come — thy stains to wash away, 
 Thy cherished fetters to unbind, 
 And open thy sad eyes upon a milder day. 
 The Heavens are thronged with martyrs that bav' 
 risen 
 From out thy noisome prison ; 
 The penal caverns groan 
 With tens of thousands rent from off the tPBi 
 Of hopeful life, — by battle's whirlwind blown 
 Into the deserts of Eternity. 
 Unpitied havoc ! Victims unlamented ! 
 But not on high, where madness is resented, 
 And murder causes some sad tears to flow, 
 Though, from the widely-sweeping blow, 
 The choirs of Angels spread, triumphant!; 
 augmented. 
 
 * Importuna e grave salma. 
 
 Michael Angeio. 
 
- 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 437 
 
 " False Parent of Mankind ! 
 
 Obdurate, proud, and blind, 
 Sprinkle thee with soft celestial dews, 
 |y lost, maternal heart to re-infuse ! 
 jittering this far-fetched moisture from my wings, 
 Ton the act a blessing I implore, 
 (which the rivers in their secret springs,' 
 '. e rivers stained so oft with human gore, 
 m conscious ; — may the like return no more ! 
 l,y Discord — for a Seraph's care 
 j'dl be attended with a bolder prayer — 
 ly she, who once disturbed the seats of bliss 
 
 These mortal spheres above, 
 I chained for ever to the black abyss ! 
 i d thou, rescued Earth, by peace and love, 
 /d merciful desires, thy sanctity approve ! " 
 
 The Spirit ended his mysterious rite, 
 / d the pure vision closed in darkness infinite. 
 
 LINES 
 
 H'TTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN A COPY OF THE AUTHOR'S 
 
 iOEM " THE EXCURSION," UPON HEARING OF THE DEATH 
 F THE LATE VICAR OF KENDAL, 
 i public notice, with reluctance strong, 
 I I deliver this unfinished Song ; 
 \ for one happy issue ; — and I look 
 Vfch self-congratulation on the Book 
 I ich pious, learned, Murfitt saw and read ; — 
 L>n my thoughts his saintly Spirit fed ; 
 I,3onned the new-born Lay with grateful heart — 
 Feboding not how soon he must depart ; 
 I veeting that to him the joy was given 
 V:ich good men take with them from earth to 
 heaven. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 (A.RESSED TO SIR G. H. B. UPON THE DEATH 
 SISTER-IN-LAW.) 
 
 for a dirge ! But why complain ? 
 
 sk rather a triumphal strain 
 
 hen Fermor's race is run ; 
 
 garland of immortal boughs 
 
 ) twine around the Christian's brows, 
 
 hose glorious work is done. 
 
 
 We pay a high and holy debt ; 
 No tears of passionate regret 
 Shall stain this votive lay ; 
 Ill-worthy, Beaumont ! were the grief 
 That flings itself on wild relief 
 When Saints have passed away. 
 
 Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel, 
 
 For ever covetous to feel, 
 
 And impotent to bear ! 
 
 Such once was hers — to think and think 
 
 On severed love, and only sink 
 
 From anguish to despair ! 
 
 But nature to its inmost part 
 Faith had refined ; and to her heart 
 A peaceful cradle given : 
 Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest 
 Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast 
 Till it exhales to Heaven. 
 
 Was ever Spirit that could bend 
 So graciously ? — that could descend, 
 Another's need to suit, 
 So promptly from her lofty throne ? — 
 In works of love, in these alone, 
 How restless, how minute ! 
 
 Pale was her hue ; yet mortal cheek 
 Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak 
 When aught had suffered wrong, — 
 When aught that breathes had felt a wound ; 
 Such look the Oppressor might confound, 
 However proud and strong. 
 
 But hushed be every thought that springs 
 From out the bitterness of things ; 
 Her quiet is secure ; 
 No thorns can pierce her tender feet, 
 Whose life was, like the violet, sweet, 
 As climbing jasmine, pure — 
 
 As snowdrop on an infant's grave, 
 
 Or lily heaving with the wave 
 
 That feeds it and defends; 
 
 As Vesper, ere the star hath kissed 
 
 The mountain top, or breathed the mist 
 
 That from the vale ascends. 
 
 Thou takest not away, Death ! 
 Thou strikest — absence perisheth, 
 Indifference is no more ; 
 The future brightens on our sight ; 
 For on the past hath fallen a fight 
 That tempts us to adore. 
 
438 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 ELEGIAC MUSINGS 
 
 IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON HALL, THE SEAT OP THE 
 LATE SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART. 
 
 In these grounds stands the Parish Church, wherein is a 
 mural monument hearing an Inscription which , in defer- 
 ence to the earnest request of the deceased, is confined 
 to name, dates, and these words :— ■' Enter not into judg- 
 ment with thy servant, O Lord ! ' 
 
 With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme 
 Graven on the tomb we struggle against Time, 
 Alas, how feebly ! but our feelings rise 
 And still we struggle when a good man dies : 
 Such offering Beaumont dreaded and forbade, 
 A spirit meek in self-abasement clad. 
 Yet here at least, though few have numbered days 
 That shunned so modestly the light of praise, 
 His graceful manners, and the temperate ray 
 Of that arch fancy which would round him play, 
 Brightening a converse never known to swerve 
 From courtesy and delicate reserve ; 
 That sense, the bland philosophy of life, 
 Which checked discussion ere it warmed to strife ; 
 Those rare accomplishments, and varied powers, 
 Might have their record among sylvan bowers. 
 Oh, fled for ever ! vanished like a blast 
 That shook the leaves in myriads as it passed ; — 
 Gone from this world of earth, ah, sea, and sky. 
 From all its spirit-moving imagery, 
 Intensely studied with a painter's eye, 
 A poet's heart ; and, for congenial view, 
 Portrayed with happiest pencil, not untrue 
 To common recognitions while the line 
 Flowed in a course of sympathy divine ; — 
 Oh ! severed, too abruptly, from delights 
 That all the seasons shared with equal rights ; — 
 Rapt in the grace of undismantled age, 
 From soul-felt music, and the treasured page 
 Lit by that evening lamp which loved to shed 
 Its mellow lustre round thy honoured head ; 
 While Friends beheld thee give with eye, voice, 
 
 mien. 
 , More than theatric force to Shakspeare's scene ; — 
 If thou hast heard me — if thy Spirit know 
 Aught of these bowers and whence then* pleasures 
 
 flow ; 
 If things in our remembrance held so dear, 
 And thoughts and projects fondly cherished here, 
 To thy exalted nature only seem 
 Time's vanities, light fragments of earth's dream — 
 Rebuke us not ! — The mandate is obeyed 
 That said, " Let praise be mute where I am laid ; " 
 
 The holier deprecation, given in trust 
 
 To the cold marble, waits upon thy dust ; 
 
 Yet have we found how slowly genuine grief 
 
 From silent admiration wins relief. 
 
 Too long abashed thy Name is like a rose 
 
 That doth ' within itself its sweetness close ; ' 
 
 A drooping daisy changed into a cup 
 
 In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up. 
 
 Within these groves, where still are flitting by 
 
 Shades of the Past, oft noticed with a sigh, 
 
 Shall stand a votive Tablet, haply free, 
 
 When towers and temples fall, to speak of Thee ! 
 
 If sculptured emblems of our mortal doom 
 
 Recal not there the wisdom of the Tomb, 
 
 Green ivy risen from out the cheerful earth, 
 
 Will fringe the lettered stone ; and herbs spring 
 
 forth, 
 Whose fragrance, by soft dews and rain unbound, 
 Shall penetrate the heart without a wound ; 
 While truth and love their purposes fulfil, 
 Commemorating genius, talent, skill, 
 That could not lie concealed where Thou wert 
 
 known ; 
 Thy virtues He must judge, and He alone, 
 The God upon whose mercy they are thrown. 
 
 Nov. 1830. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 To a good Man of most dear memory 
 This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart 
 From the great city where he first drew breath, 
 Was reared and taught ; and humbly earned his 
 
 To the strict labours of the merchant's desk 
 By duty chained. Not seldom did those tasks 
 Tease, and the thought of time so spent depress, 
 His spirit, but the recompence was high ; 
 Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire ; 
 Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air ; 
 A.nd when the precious hours of leisure came, 
 Knowledge and wisdom, gained from converse sweet 
 With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets 
 With a keen eye, and overflowing heart : 
 So genius triumphed over seeming wrong, 
 And poured out truth in works by thoughtful love 
 Inspired — works potent over smiles and tears. 
 And as round mountain-tops the lightning plays, 
 Thus innocently sported, breaking forth 
 As from a cloud of seme grave sympathy, 
 Humour and wild instinctive wit, and all 
 
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 439 
 
 , The vivid flashes of his spoken words. 
 From the most gentle creature nursed in fields 
 Had been derived the name he bore — a name, 
 Wherever christian altars have been raised, 
 Hallowed to meekness and to innocence ; 
 And if in him meekness at times gave way, 
 Provoked out of herself by troubles strange, 
 Many and strange, that hung about his life ; 
 Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 
 A soul by resignation sanctified : 
 And if too often, self-reproached, he felt 
 That innocence belongs not to our kind, 
 A power that never ceased to abide in him, 
 Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins 
 That she can cover, left not his exposed 
 To an unforgiving judgment from just Heaven. 
 0, he was good, if e'er a good Man lived ! 
 
 From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart 
 Those simple lines flowed with an earnest wish, 
 Though but a doubting hope, that they might serve 
 Fitly to guard the precious dust of him 
 Whose virtues called them forth. That aim is 
 
 missed ; 
 For much that truth most urgently required 
 Had from a faltering pen been asked in vain : 
 Yet, haply, on the printed page received, 
 The imperfect record, there, may stand unblamed 
 As long as verse of mine shall breathe the air 
 Of memory, or see the light of love. 
 
 Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my Friend, 
 But more in show than truth ; and from the fields, 
 And from the mountains, to thy rural grave 
 Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er 
 Its green untrodden turf, and blowing flowers ; 
 And taldng up a voice shall speak (tho' still 
 Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity 
 Which words less free presumed not even to touch) 
 Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lamp 
 From infancy, through manhood, to the last 
 Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour, 
 Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrined 
 Within thy bosom. 
 
 ' Wonderful ' hath been 
 The love established between man and man, 
 ' Passing the love of women ;' and between 
 Man and his help-mate in fast wedlock joined 
 Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of love 
 Without whose blissful influence Paradise 
 Had been no Paradise ; and earth were now 
 A waste where creatures bearing human form, 
 Direst of savage beasts, would roam in fear, 
 Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on ; 
 
 And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieve 
 That he hath been an Elm without his Vine, 
 And her bright dower of clustering charities, 
 That, roundhis trunk andbranches,mighthave clung 
 Enriching and adorning. Unto thee, 
 Not so enriched, not so adorned, to thee 
 Was given (say rather thou of later birth 
 Wert given to her) a Sister — 'tis a word 
 Timidly uttered, for she lives, the meek, 
 The self-restraining, and the ever-kind ; 
 In whom thy reason and intelligent heart 
 Found — for all interests, hopes, and tender cai*es, 
 All softening, humanising, hallowing powers, 
 Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought — 
 More than sufficient recompence ! 
 
 Her love 
 (What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here?) 
 Was as the love of mothers ; and when years, 
 Lifting the boy to man's estate, had called 
 The long-protected to assume the part 
 Of a protector, the first filial tie 
 Was undissolved ; and, in or out of sight, 
 Remained imperishably interwoven 
 With life itself. Thus, 'mid a shifting world, 
 Did they together testify of time 
 And season's difference — a double tree 
 With two collateral stems sprung from one root ; 
 Such were they— such thro' life they might have been 
 In union, in partition only such ; 
 Otherwise wrought the will of the Most High ; 
 Yet, thro' all visitations and all trials, 
 Still they were faithful ; like two vessels launched 
 From the same beach one ocean to explore 
 With mutual help, and sailing — to their league 
 True, as inexorable winds, or bars 
 Floating or fixed of polar ice, allow. 
 
 But turn we rather, let my spirit turn 
 With thine, silent and invisible Friend ! 
 To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief, 
 When reunited, and by choice withdrawn 
 From miscellaneous converse, ye were taught 
 That the remembrance of foregone distress, 
 And the worse fear of future ill (which oft 
 Doth hang around it, as a sickly child 
 Upon its mother) may be both alike 
 Disarmed of power to unsettle present good 
 So prized, and things inward and outward held 
 In such an even balance, that the heart 
 Acknowledges God's grace, his mercy feels, 
 And in its depth of gratitude is still. 
 
 O gift divine of quiet sequestration ! 
 The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, 
 
440 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 And feeding daily on the hope of heaven, 
 
 Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves 
 
 To life-long singleness ; hut happier far 
 
 Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others, 
 
 A thousand times more beautiful appeared, 
 
 Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie 
 
 Is broken ; yet why grieve ? for Time but holds 
 
 His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 
 
 To the blest world where parting is unknown. 
 
 l«35. 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH 
 OF JAMES HOGG. 
 
 When first, descending from the moorlands, 
 I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 
 Along a bare and open valley, , 
 The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 
 
 When last along its banks I wandered, 
 Through groves that had begun to shed 
 Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
 My steps the Border-minstrel led. 
 
 The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
 Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 
 And death upon the braes of Yarrow, 
 Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : 
 
 Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
 From sign to sign, its stedfast course, 
 Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 
 
 The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
 The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 
 And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
 Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 
 
 Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits, 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
 How fast has brother followed brother, 
 From sunshine to the sunless land ! 
 
 Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
 Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
 A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 " Who next will drop and disappear ? " 
 
 Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, 
 Like London with its own black wreath, 
 On which with thee, Crabbe ! forth-looking, 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 
 
 As if but yesterday departed, 
 Thou too art gone before ; but why, 
 O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 
 Should frail survivors heave a sigh ? 
 
 Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
 Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 
 For Her who, ere her summer faded, 
 Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 
 
 No more of old romantic sorrows, 
 For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid ! 
 With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, 
 And Ettrick mourns with her then- Poet dead*. 
 
 Nov. 1835. 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 FOB, A MONUMENT IN CROSTHWAITE CHDECH, IN TEE 
 VALE OF KESWICK. 
 
 Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew 
 The poet's steps, and fixed him here, on you, 
 His eyes have closed ! And ye, lov'd books, no 
 
 more 
 Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore, 
 To works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown, 
 Adding immortal labours of his own — 
 Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal 
 For the State's guidance, or the Church's weal, 
 Or Fancy, disciplined by studious art, 
 Inform'd his pen, or wisdom of the heart, 
 Or judgments sanctioned in the Patriot's mind 
 By reverence for the rights of all mankind. 
 Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast 
 Could private feelings meet for holier rest. 
 His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a cloud 
 From Skiddaw's top ; but he to heaven was vowed 
 Through his industrious life, and Christian faith 
 Calmed in his soul the fear of change and death. 
 
ODE. 
 
 441 
 
 ODE. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 The Child is Father of the Man ; 
 And I could wish my days to he 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 See page 54. 
 
 i There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — ■ 
 Turn whereso'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 ir. 
 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 past away a glory from the earth. 
 
 in. 
 
 ;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, 
 ■pie 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, 
 'ohout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 Shepherd-boy ! 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 And the Children are culling 
 
 On every side, 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
 And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 — But there 's a Tree, of many, one, 
 A single Field which I have looked upon, 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
 The Pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream % 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 And cometh from afar : 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 
442 
 
 ODE. 
 
 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, 
 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 heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest, 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
 Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
 
 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 
 Is something that doth live, 
 
 That nature yet remembers 
 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
 breast : — 
 
 Not for these I raise 
 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realised, 
 High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 
 
 But for those first affections, 
 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 
 
 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. 
 
 
ODE. 
 
 443 
 
 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 ; 
 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, 
 n years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 
 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober 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. 
 
 1803—6. 
 
 1 
 
 
444 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 THE PRELUDE, 
 
 OR GEOWTH OF A POET'S MIND; 
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEM. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following Poem was commenced in the 
 beginning of the year 1799, and completed in 
 the summer of 1805. 
 
 The design and occasion of the work are de- 
 scribed by the Author in his Preface to the 
 Excursion, first published in 1814, where he 
 thus speaks : — 
 
 "Several years ago, when the Author retired to his 
 native mountains with the hope of being enabled to 
 construct a literary work that might live, it was a rea- 
 sonable thing that he should take a review of his own 
 mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had 
 qualified him for such an employment. 
 
 "As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to 
 record, in verse, the origin and progress of his own 
 powers, as far as he was acquainted with them. 
 
 "That work, addressed to a dear friend, most distin- 
 guished for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the 
 Author'3 intellect is deeply indebted, has been long 
 finished ; and the result of the investigation which gave 
 rise to it, was a determination to compose a philosophical 
 Poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society, 
 and to be entitled the ' Recluse ; ' as having for its 
 principal subject the sensations and opinions of a poet 
 living in retirement. 
 
 "The preparatory poem is biographical, and conducts 
 the history of the Author's mind to the point when he 
 was emboldened to hope that his faculties were suffici- 
 ently matured for entering upon the arduous labour 
 which he had proposed to himself ; and the two works 
 have the same kind of relation to each other, if he may 
 so express himself, as the Ante-chapel has to the body 
 of a Gothic church. Continuing this allusion, he may 
 be permitted to add, that his minor pieces, which have 
 been long before the public, when they shall be properly 
 arranged, will be found by the attentive reader to have 
 such connection with the main work as may give them 
 
 claim to be likened to the little cells, oratories, and 
 sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices." 
 
 Such was the Author's language in tlie year 
 1814. 
 
 It will thence be seen, that the present Poem 
 was intended to be introductory to the Recluse, 
 and that the Recluse, if completed, would have 
 consisted of Three Parts. Of these, the Second; 
 Part alone, viz., the Excursion, was finished, and 
 given to the world by the Author. 
 
 The First Eook of the First Part of th 
 Recluse still remains in manuscript; but th 
 Third Part was only planned. The materials o: 
 which it would have been formed have, however,: 
 been incorporated, for the most part, in the 
 Author's other Publications, written subsequently 
 to the Excursion. 
 
 The Friend, to whom the present Poem is ad- 
 dressed, was the late Samuel Taylor Coler t D';k. 
 who was resident in Malta, for the restoration ol 
 his health, when the greater part of it was com 
 posed. 
 
 Mr. Coleridge read a considerable portion o: 
 the Poem while he was abroad ; and his feelings 1 
 on hearing it recited by the Author (after his 
 return to his own country), are recorded in his 
 Verses, addressed to Mr. Wordsworth, which wil 
 be found in the, "Sibylline Leaves," p. 197, ed 
 1817, or " Poetical Works, by S. T. Coleridge, 
 vol. i., p. 206.— Ed. 
 
 Rtdal Mount, 
 
 My IZth, 1850. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 44! 
 
 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 INTRODUCTION.— CHILDHOOD AND 
 SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 THEEE is blessing in this gentle breeze, 
 A visitant that while it fans my cheek 
 Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings 
 From the green fields, and from yon azure sky. 
 Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come 
 To none more grateful than to me ; escaped 
 From the vast city, where I long had pined 
 
 A discontented sojourner : now free, 
 Free as a bird to settle where I will. 
 What dwelling shall receive me 1 in what vale 
 Shall be my harbour ] underneath what grove 
 Shall I take up my home ] and what clear stream 
 Shall with its murmur lull me into rest ? 
 The earth is all before me. With a heart 
 Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, 
 
 1 look about ; and should the chosen guide 
 Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, 
 I cannot miss my way. I breathe again ! 
 Trances of thought and mountings of the mind 
 Come fast upon me : it is shaken off, 
 
 That burthen of my own unnatural self, 
 The heavy weight of many a weary day 
 : Not mine, and such as were not made for me. 
 LoDg months of peace (if such bold word accord 
 
 ■ With any promises of human life), 
 
 Long months of ease and undisturbed delight 
 Are mine in prospect ; whither shall I turn, 
 By road or pathway, or through trackless field, 
 ' Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing 
 Upon the river point me out my course 1 
 
 Dear Liberty ! Yet what would it avail 
 , But for a gift that consecrates the joy 1 
 
 ■ For I, methought, while the sweet breath of 
 
 heaven 
 
 Was blowing on my body, felt within 
 i A correspondent breeze, that gently moved 
 
 With quickening virtue, but is now become 
 i A tempest, a redundant energy, 
 | Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both, 
 I And their congenial powers, that, while they join 
 1 In breaking up a long-continued frost, 
 j Bring with them vernal promises, the hope 
 
 Of active days urged on by flying hours, — 
 
 Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient thought 
 Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high, 
 Matins and vespers of harmonious verse ! 
 
 Thus fai', Friend ! did I, not used to make 
 A present joy the matter of a song, 
 Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains 
 That would not be forgotten, and are here 
 Recorded : to the open fields I told 
 A prophecy : poetic numbers came 
 Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe 
 A renovated spirit singled out, 
 Such hope was mine, for holy services. 
 My own voice cheered me, and, far more, the 
 
 mind's 
 Internal echo of the imperfect sound; 
 To both I listened, drawing from them both 
 A cheerful confidence in things to come. 
 
 Content and not unwilling now to give 
 A respite to this passion, I paced on 
 W T ith brisk and eager steps ; and came, at length, 
 To a green shady place, where down I sate 
 Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice, 
 And settling into gentler happiness. 
 'Twas autumn, and a clear and placid day, 
 With warmth, as much as needed, from a sun 
 Two hours declined towards the west ; a day 
 i With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass, 
 And in the sheltered and the sheltering grove 
 A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts 
 Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was made 
 Of a known Vale, whither my feet should turn, 
 Nor rest till they had reached the very door 
 Of the one cottage which methought I saw. 
 No picture of mere memory ever looked 
 So fair ; and while upon the fancied scene 
 I gazed with growing love, a higher power 
 Than Fancy gave assurance of some work 
 Of glory there forthwith to be begun, 
 Perhaps too there performed. Thus long I mused, 
 Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon, 
 Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks, 
 Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup 
 Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once 
 To the bare earth dropped with a startling sound. 
 From that soft couch I rose not, till the sun 
 Had almost touched the horizon ; casting then 
 
446 
 
 THE PEELUDE. 
 
 A backward glance upon the curling cloud 
 
 Of city smoke, by distance ruralised ; 
 
 Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive, 
 
 But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took, 
 
 Even with the chance equipment of that hour, 
 
 The road that pointed toward the chosen Vale. 
 
 It was a splendid evening, and my soul 
 
 Once more made trial of her strength, nor lacked 
 
 iEolian visitations ; but the harp 
 
 Was soon defrauded, and the banded host 
 
 Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds, 
 
 And lastly utter silence ! "Be it so ; 
 
 Why think of anything but present good ] " 
 
 So, like a home-bound labourer I pursued 
 
 My way beneath the mellowing sun, that shed 
 
 Mild influence ; nor left in me one wish 
 
 Again to bend the Sabbath of that time 
 
 To a servile yoke. What need of many words ? 
 
 A pleasant loitering journey, through three days 
 
 Continued, brought me to my hermitage. 
 
 I spare to tell of what ensued, the life 
 
 In common things — the endless store of things, 
 
 Rare, or at least so seeming, every day 
 
 Found all about me in one neighbourhood — 
 
 The self-congratulation, and, from morn 
 
 To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene. 
 
 But speedily an earnest longing rose 
 
 To brace myself to some determined aim, 
 
 Reading or thinking ; either to lay up 
 
 New stores, or rescue from decay the old 
 
 By timely interference : and therewith 
 
 Came hopes still higher, that with outward life 
 
 I might endue some airy phantasies 
 
 That had been floating loose about for years, 
 
 And to such beings temperately deal forth 
 
 The many feelings that oppressed my heart. 
 
 That hope hath been discouraged ; welcome light 
 
 Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear 
 
 And mock me with a sky that ripens not 
 
 Into a steady morning : if my mind, 
 
 Remembering the bold promise of the past, 
 
 Would gladly grapple with some noble theme, 
 
 Vain is her wish ; where'er she turns she finds 
 
 Impediments from day to day renewed. 
 
 And now it would content me to yield up 
 Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts 
 Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend ! 
 The Poet, gentle creature as he is, 
 Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times ; 
 His fits when he is neither sick nor well, 
 Though no distress be near him but his own 
 Unmanageable thoughts : his mind, best pleased 
 While she as duteous as the mother dove 
 
 Sits brooding, lives not always to that end, 
 But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on 
 That drive her as in trouble through the groves ■ 
 With me is now such passion, to be blamed 
 No otherwise than as it lasts too long. 
 
 When, as becomes a man who would prepare 
 For such an arduous work, I through myself 
 Make rigorous inquisition, the report 
 Is often cheering ; for I neither seem 
 To lack that first great gift, the vital soul, 
 Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort 
 Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers, 
 Subordinate helpers of the living mind : 
 Nor am I naked of external things, 
 Forms, images, nor numerous other aids 
 Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil 
 And needful to build up a Poet's praise. 
 Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these 
 Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such 
 As may be singled out with steady choice ; 
 No little band of yet remembered names 
 Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope 
 To summon back from lonesome banishment, 
 And make them dwellers in the hearts of men 
 Now living, or to live in future years. 
 Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mis- 
 taking 
 Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea, 
 Will settle on some British theme, some old 
 Romantic tale by Milton left unsung ; 
 More often turning to some gentle place 
 Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe 
 To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand, 
 Amid reposing knights by a river side 
 Or fountain, listen to the grave reports 
 Of dire enchantments faced and overcome 
 By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats, 
 Where spear encountered spear, and sword with 
 
 sword 
 Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry 
 That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife ; 
 Whence inspiration for a song that winds 
 Through ever changing scenes of votive quest 
 Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid 
 To patient courage and unblemished truth, 
 To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable, 
 And Christian meekness hallowing faithful ioves. 
 Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would rebte 
 How vanquished Mithridates northward passed, 
 And, hidden in the cloud of years, became 
 Odin, the Father of a race by whom 
 Perished the Roman Empire : how the friends 
 And followers of Sertorius, out of Spain 
 
 
CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 447 
 
 Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles, 
 
 And left their usages, their arts and laws, 
 
 To disappear by a slow gradual death, 
 
 To dwindle and to perish one by one, 
 
 Starved in those narrow bounds : but not the soul 
 
 Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years 
 
 Survived, and, when the European came 
 
 With skill and power that might not be withstood, 
 
 Did, lite a pestilence, maintain its hold 
 
 And wasted down by glorious death that race 
 
 Of natural heroes : or I would record 
 
 How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man, 
 
 Unnamed among the chronicles of kings, 
 
 Suffered in silence for Truth's sake : or tell, 
 
 How that one Frenchman,* through continued 
 
 force 
 Of meditation on the inhuman deeds 
 Of those who conquered first the Indian Isles, 
 Went single in his ministry across 
 The Ocean ; not to comfort the oppressed, 
 But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about 
 Withering the Oppressor : how Gustavus sought 
 jHelp at his need in Dalecarlia's mines : 
 How Wallace fought for Scotland ; left the name 
 Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, • 
 
 All over his dear Country ; left the deeds 
 |0f Wallace, like a family of Ghosts, 
 To people the steep rocks and river banks, ' 
 Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 
 Of independence and stern liberty. 
 Sometimes it suits me better to invent 
 A. tale from my own heart, more near akin 
 To my own passions and habitual.thoughts ; 
 Some variegated story, in the main 
 Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure melts 
 Before the very sun that brightens it, 
 Mist into air dissolving ! Then a wish, 
 My last and favourite aspiration, mounts 
 With yearning toward some philosophic song 
 'Of Truth that cherishes our daily life; 
 With meditations passionate from deep 
 Recesses in man's heart, immortal verse 
 Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre ; 
 But from this awful burthen I full soon 
 Take refuge and beguile myself with trust 
 That mellower years will bring a riper mind 
 And clearer insight. Thus my days are past 
 m contradiction ; with no skill to part 
 .^ague longing, haply bred by want of power, 
 l ? rom paramount impulse not to be withstood, 
 
 !* Dominique de Gourgues, a French gentleman who 
 vent in 1568 to Florida to avenge the massacre of the 
 'rench by the Spaniards there — Ed. 
 
 A timorous capacity from prudence, 
 From circumspection, infinite delay. 
 Humility and modest awe themselves 
 Betray me, serving often for a cloak 
 To a more subtle selfishness ; that now 
 Locks every function up in blank reserve, 
 Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye 
 That with intrusive restlessness beats off 
 Simplicity and self-presented truth. 
 Ah ! better far than this, to stray about 
 Voluptuously through fields and rural walks, 
 And ask no record of the hours, resigned 
 To vacant musing, unreproved neglect 
 Of all things, and deliberate holiday. 
 Far better never to have heard the name 
 Of zeal and just ambition, than to live 
 Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour 
 Turns recreant to her task ; takes heart again, 
 Then feels immediately some hollow thought 
 Hang like an interdict upon her hopes. 
 This is my lot ; for either still I find 
 Some imperfection in the chosen theme, 
 Or see of absolute accomplishment 
 Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, 
 That I recoil and droop, and seek repose 
 In listlessness from vain perplexity, 
 Unprofitably travelling toward the grave, 
 Like a false steward who hath much received 
 And renders nothing back. 
 
 Was it for this 
 That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved 
 To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song, 
 And, from his alder shades and rocky falls, 
 And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice 
 That flowed along my dreams'? For this, didst 
 
 thou, 
 Derwent ! winding among grassy holms 
 Where I was looking on, a babe in arms, 
 Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts 
 To more than infant softness, giving me 
 Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind 
 A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm 
 That Nature breathes among the hills and groves. 
 When he had left the mountains and received 
 On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers 
 That yet survive, a shattered monument 
 Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed 
 Along the margin of our terrace walk ; 
 A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved. 
 Oh, many a time have I, a five years' child, 
 In a small mill-race severed from his stream, 
 Made one long bathing of a summer's day ; 
 Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again 
 Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured 
 
 _J 
 
4-18 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves 
 Of yellow ragwort ; or when rock and hill, 
 The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height, 
 Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone 
 Beneath the sky, as if I had been born 
 On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut 
 Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport 
 A naked savage, in the thunder shower. 
 
 Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up 
 Fostered alike by beauty and by fear : 
 Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less 
 In that beloved Vale to which erelong 
 We were transplanted — there were we let loose 
 For sports of wider range. Ere I had told 
 Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes 
 Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped 
 The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy 
 With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung 
 To range the open heights where woodcocks run 
 Along the smooth green turf. Through half the 
 
 night, 
 Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied 
 That anxious visitation ; — moon and stars 
 Were shining o'er my head. I was alone, 
 And seemed to be a trouble to the peace 
 That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befel 
 In these night wanderings, that a strong desire 
 O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird 
 Which was the captive of another's toil 
 Became my prey ; and when the deed was done 
 I heard among the solitary hills 
 Low breathings coming after me, and sounds 
 Of undistinguishable motion, steps 
 Almost as silent as the turf they trod. 
 
 Nor less when spring had warmed the cultured 
 Vale, 
 Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird 
 Had in high places built her lodge ; though mean 
 Our object and inglorious, yet the end 
 Was not ignoble. Oh ! when I have hung 
 Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass 
 And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock 
 But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed) 
 Suspended by the blast that blew amain, 
 Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time 
 While on the perilous ridge I hung alone, 
 With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind 
 Blow through my ear ! the sky seemed not a sky 
 Of earth — and with what motion moved the clouds ! 
 
 Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows 
 Like harmony in music ; there is a dark 
 
 Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles 
 Discordant elements, makes them cling together 
 In one society. How strange that all 
 The terrors, pains, and early miseries, 
 Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused 
 Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part, 
 And that a needful part, in making up 
 The calm existence that is mine when I 
 Am worthy of myself ! Praise to the end ! 
 Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to 
 
 employ ; 
 Whether her fearless visitings, or those 
 That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light 
 Opening the peaceful clouds ; or she may use 
 Severer interventions, ministry 
 More palpable, as best might suit her aim. 
 
 One summer evening (led by her) I found 
 A little boat tied to a willow tree 
 Within a rocky cave, its usual home. 
 Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in 
 Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth 
 And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice 
 Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on; 
 Leaving behind her still, on either side, 
 Small circles glittering idly in the moon, 
 Until they melted all into one track 
 Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows, 
 Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point 
 With an unswerving line, I fixed my view 
 Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 
 The horizon's utmost boundary ; far above 
 Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky. 
 She was an elfin pinnace ; lustily 
 I dipped my oars into the silent lake, 
 And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat 
 Went heaving through the water like a swan ; 
 When, from behind that craggy steep till then 
 The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge. 
 As if with voluntary power instinct 
 Upreared its head. I struck and struck again. 
 And growing still in stature the grim shape 
 Towered up between me and the stars, and still, 
 For so it seemed, with purpose of its own 
 And measured motion like a living thing, 
 Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned. 
 And through the silent water stole my way 
 Back to the covert of the willow tree ; 
 There in her mooring-place I left my bark, — 
 And through the meadows homeward went, i" 
 
 grave 
 And serious mood ; but after I had seen 
 That spectacle, for many days, my brain 
 Worked with a dim and undetermined sense 
 
CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 449 
 
 Of unknown modes of being ; o'er my thoughts 
 There bung a darkness, call it solitude 
 Dr blank desertion. itSTo familiar shapes 
 Remained, no pleasant images of trees, 
 Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields ; 
 But huge and migbty forms, that do not live 
 'like living men, moved slowly through the mind 
 3y day, and were a trouble to my dreams. 
 
 ; * "Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
 Thou Soul tbat art the eternity of thought, 
 That givest to forms and images a breath 
 And everlasting motion, not in vain 
 3y day or star-light thus from my first dawn 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 The passions that build up our human soul ; 
 tfot with the mean and vulgar works of man, 
 'But with high objects, with enduring things — 
 With life and nature — purifying thus 
 The elements of feeling and of thought, 
 .ind sanctifying, by such discipline, 
 Both pain and fear, until we recognise 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
 With stinted kindness. In November days, 
 When vapours rolling down the valley made 
 A. lonely scene more lonesome, among woods, 
 At noon and 'mid the calm of summer nights, 
 When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 
 'Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went 
 in solitude, such intercourse was mine ; 
 Mine was it in the fields both day and night, 
 Ind by the waters, all the summer long. 
 
 ' And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 
 Was set, and visible for many a mile 
 
 rhe cottage windows blazed through twilight 
 
 gloom, 
 1 heeded not their summons : happy time 
 It was indeed for all of us — for me 
 It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
 The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled about, 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, 
 We hissed along the polished ice in games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 
 The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
 I And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 
 These lines have been printed before. See p. 62.— Ed. 
 
 Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills 
 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 
 Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars 
 
 Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 
 Into a silent bay, or sportively 
 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 
 
 To cut across the reflex of a star 
 
 That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed 
 
 Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes, 
 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning 
 
 still 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
 Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
 Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 
 
 Ye Presences of Nature in the sky 
 And on the earth ! Ye Visions of the hills ! 
 And Souls of lonely places ! can I think 
 A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed 
 Such ministry, when ye through many a year 
 Haunting me thus among my boyish sports, 
 On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills, 
 Impressed upon all forms the characters 
 Of danger or desire ) and thus did make 
 The surface of the universal earth 
 With triumph and delight, with hope and fear, 
 Work like a sea 1 
 
 Not uselessly employed, 
 Might I pursue this theme through every change 
 Of exercise and play, to which the year 
 Did summon us in his delightful round. 
 
 We were a noisy crew ; the sun in heaven 
 Beheld not vales more beautiful than ours ; 
 Nor saw a band in happiness and joy 
 Richer, or worthier of the ground they trod. 
 I could record with no reluctant voice 
 The woods of autumn, and their hazel bowers 
 With milk-white clusters hung ; the rod and line, 
 True symbol of hope's foolishness, whose strong 
 And unreproved enchantment led us on 
 By rocks and pools shut out from every star, 
 All the green summer, to forlorn cascades 
 Among the windings hid of mountain brooks. 
 — Unfading recollections ! at this hour 
 
450 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 The heart is almost mine with which I felt, 
 From some hill-top on sunny afternoons, 
 The paper kite high among fleecy clouds 
 Pull at her rein like an impetuous courser ; 
 Or, from the meadows sent on gusty days, 
 Beheld her breast the wind, then suddenly 
 Dashed headlong, and rejected by the storm. 
 
 Ye lowly cottages wherein we dwelt, 
 A ministration of your own was yours ; 
 Can I forget you, being as you were 
 So beautiful among the pleasant fields 
 In which ye stood 1 or can I here forget 
 The plain and seemly countenance with which 
 Ye dealt out your plain comforts ? Yet had ye 
 Delights and exultations of your own. 
 Eager and never weary we pursued 
 Our home-amusements by the warm peat-fire 
 At evening, when with pencil, and smooth slate 
 In square divisions parcelled out and all 
 With crosses and with cyphers scribbled o'er, 
 We schemed and puzzled, head opposed to head 
 In strife too humble to be named in verse : 
 Or round the naked table, snow-white deal, 
 Cherry or maple, sate in close array, 
 And to the combat, Loo or Whist, led on 
 A thick-ribbed army; not, as in the world, 
 Neglected and ungratefully thrown by 
 Even for the very service they had wrought, 
 But husbanded through many a long campaign. 
 Uncouth assemblage was it, where no few 
 Had changed their functions ; some, plebeian cards 
 Which Fate, beyond the promise of their birth, 
 Had dignified, and called to represent 
 The persons of departed potentates. 
 Oh, with what echoes on the board they fell ! 
 Ironic diamonds, — clubs, hearts, diamonds, spades, 
 A congregation piteously akin ! 
 Cheap matter offered they to boyish wit, 
 Those sooty knaves, precipitated down 
 With scoffs and taunts, like Vulcan out of heaven : 
 The paramount ace, a moon in her eclipse, 
 Queens gleaming through their splendour's last 
 
 decay, 
 And monarchs surly at the wrongs sustained 
 By royal visages. Meanwhile abroad 
 Incessant rain was falling, or the frost 
 Raged bitterly, with keen and silent tooth ; 
 And, interrupting oft that eager game, 
 From under Esthwaite's splitting fields of ice 
 The pent-up air, struggling to free itself, 
 Gave out to meadow grounds and hills a loud 
 Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves 
 Howling in troops along the Bothnic Main. 
 
 Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace 
 How Nature by extrinsic passion first 
 Peopled the mind with forms sublime or fair, 
 And made me love them, may I here omit 
 How other pleasures have been mine, and joys 
 Of subtler origin ; how I have felt, 
 Not seldom even in that tempestuous time, 
 Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense 
 Which seem, in their simplicity, to own 
 An intellectual charm; that calm delight 
 Which, if I err not, surely must belong 
 To those first-born affinities that fit 
 Our new existence to existing things, 
 And, in our dawn of being, constitute 
 The bond of union between life and joy. 
 
 Yes, I remember when the changeful earth, 
 And twice five summers on my mind had stamped 
 The faces of the moving year, even then 
 I held unconscious intercourse with beauty 
 Old as creation, drinking in a pure 
 Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths 
 Of curling mist, or from the level plain 
 Of waters coloured by impending clouds. 
 
 The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and baya 
 Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell 
 How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade, 
 And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills 
 Sent welcome notice of the rising moon, 
 How I have stood, to fancies such as these 
 A stranger, linking with the spectacle 
 No conscious memory of a kindred sight, 
 And bringing with me no peculiar sense 
 Of quietness or peace ; yet have I stood, 
 Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a 
 
 league 
 Of shining water, gathering as it seemed 
 Through every hair-breadth in that field of light 
 New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. 
 
 Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy 
 Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits 
 Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy bliss 
 Which, like a tempest, works along the blood 
 And is forgotten ; even then I felt 
 Gleams like the flashing of a shield ; — the earth 
 And common face of Nature spake to me 
 Rememberable things ; sometimes, 'tis true, 
 By chance collisions and quaint accidents 
 (Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed 
 Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain 
 Nor profitless, if haply they impressed 
 Collateral objects and appearances, 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 451 
 
 Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep 
 
 :Jntil maturer seasons called theni forth 
 
 'Co impregnate and to elevate the mind. 
 
 —And if the vulgar joy by its own weight 
 
 .Vearied itself out of the memory, 
 
 "he scenes which were a witness of that joy 
 
 temained in their substantial lineaments 
 
 )epicted on the brain, and to the eye 
 
 :Vere visible, a daily sight ; and thus 
 
 5y the impressive discipline of fear, 
 
 >y pleasure and repeated happiness, 
 
 |o frequently repeated, and by force 
 
 )f obscure feelings representative 
 
 )f things forgotten, these same scenes so bright, 
 
 o beautiful, so majestic in themselves, 
 
 'hough yet the day was distant, did become 
 
 labitually dear, and all their forms 
 
 Vnd changeful colours by invisible links 
 
 Vere fastened to the affections. 
 
 I began 
 ly story early — not misled, I trust, 
 y an infirmity of love for days 
 jlisowned by memory — ere the breath of spring 
 lantlng my snowdrops among winter snows : 
 Tor will it seem to thee, Friend ! so prompt 
 p sympathy, that I have lengthened out 
 iftth. fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale. 
 Meanwhile, my hope has been, that I might fetch 
 
 Invigorating thoughts from former years ; 
 Might fix the wavering balance of my mind, 
 And haply meet reproaches too, whose power 
 May spur me on, in manhood now mature 
 To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes 
 Prove vain, and thus should neither I be taught 
 To understand myself, nor thou to know 
 With better knowledge how the heart was 
 
 framed 
 Of him thou lovest ; need I dread from thee 
 Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit 
 Those recollected hours that have the charm 
 Of visionary things, those lovely forms 
 And sweet sensations that throw back our life, 
 And almost make remotest infancy 
 A visible scene, on which the sun is shining ? 
 
 One end at least hath been attained ; my mind 
 Hath been revived, and if this genial mood 
 Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought down 
 Through later years the story of my life. 
 The road lies plain before me ; — 'tis a theme 
 Single and of determined bounds ; and hence 
 I choose it rather at this time, than work 
 Of ampler or more varied argument, 
 Where I might be discomfited and lost : 
 And certain hopes are with me, that to thee 
 This labour will be welcome, honoured Friend ! 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 hus far, Friend ! have we, though leaving much 
 
 nvisited, endeavoured to retrace 
 
 he simple ways in which my childhood walked ; 
 
 hose chiefly that first led me to the love 
 
 f rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet 
 
 'as in its birth, sustained as might befal 
 
 V nourishment that came unsought ; for still 
 
 "om week to week, from month to month, we 
 
 lived 
 1 round of tumult. Duly were our games 
 I'olonged in summer till the day-light failed : 
 jo chair remained before the doors ; the bench 
 ad threshold steps were empty ; fast asleep 
 ie labourer, and the old man who had sate 
 
 A later lingerer ; yet the revelry 
 
 Continued and the loud uproar : at last, 
 
 When all the ground was dark, and twinkling stars 
 
 Edged the black clouds, home and to bed we went, 
 
 Feverish with weary joints and beating minds. 
 
 Ah ! is there one who ever has been young, 
 
 Nor needs a warning voice to tame the pride 
 
 Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem 1 
 
 One is there, though the wisest and the best 
 
 Of all mankind, who covets not at times 
 
 Union that cannot be ; — who would not give 
 
 If so he might, to duty and to truth 
 
 The eagerness of infantine desire ] 
 
 A tranquillising spirit presses now 
 
 On my corporeal frame, so wide appears 
 
 The vacancy between me and those days 
 
 Which yet have such self-presence in my mind, 
 
452 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 That, musing on them, often do I seem 
 Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself 
 And of some other Being. A rude mass 
 Of native rock, left midway in the square 
 Of our small market village, was the goal 
 Or centre of these sports ; and when, returned 
 After long absence, thither I repaired, 
 Gone was the old grey stone, and in its place 
 A smart Assembly-room usurped the ground 
 That had been ours. There let the fiddle scream, 
 And be ye happy ! Yet, my Friends ! I know 
 That more than one of you will think with me 
 Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame 
 From whom the stone was named, who there had 
 
 sate. 
 And watched her table with its huckster's wares 
 Assiduous, through the length of sixty years. 
 
 We ran a boisterous course; the year span round 
 With giddy motion. But the time approached 
 That brought with it a regular desire 
 For calmer pleasures, when the winning forms 
 Of Nature were collaterally attached 
 To every scheme of holiday delight 
 And every boyish sport, less grateful else 
 And languidly pursued. 
 
 When summer came, 
 Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays, 
 To sweep along the plain of Windermere 
 With rival oars ; and the selected bourne 
 Was now an Island musical with birds 
 That sang and ceased not ; now a Sister Isle 
 Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown 
 With lilies of the valley like a field ; 
 And now a third small Island, where survived 
 In solitude the ruins of a shrine 
 Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served 
 Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race 
 So ended, disappointment could be none, 
 Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy: 
 We rested in the shade, all pleased alike, 
 Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of 
 
 strength, 
 And the vain-glory of superior skill, 
 Were tempered ; thus was gradually produced 
 A quiet independence of the heart ; 
 And to my Friend who knows me I may add, 
 Fearless of blame, that hence for future days 
 Ensued a diffidence and modesty, 
 And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, 
 The self-sufficing power of Solitude. 
 
 Our daily meals were frugal, Sabine fare ! 
 More than we wished we knew the blessing then 
 
 Of vigorous hunger — hence corporeal strength 
 Unsapped by delicate viands ; for, exclude 
 A little weekly stipend, and we lived 
 Through three divisions of the quartered year 
 In penniless poverty. But now to school 
 From the half-yearly holidays returned, 
 We came with weightier purses, that sufficed 
 To furnish treats more costly than the Dame 
 Of the old grey stone, from her scant boar/ 
 
 supplied. 
 Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground, 
 Or in the woods, or by a river side 
 Or shady fountains, while among the leaves 
 Soft airs were stirring, and the mid-day sun 
 Unfelt shone brightly round us in our joy. 
 Nor is my aim neglected if I tell 
 How sometimes, in the length of those half-year 
 We from our funds drew largely ; — proud to curl 
 And eager to spur on, the galloping steed ; 
 And with the courteous inn-keeper, whose stud 
 Supplied our want, we haply might employ 
 Sly subterfuge, if the adventure's bound 
 Were distant : some famed temple where of yoi 
 The Druids worshipped, or the antique walls 
 Of that large abbey, where within the Vale 
 Of Nightshade, to St. Mary's honour built, 
 Stands yet a mouldering pile with fractured arc! 
 Belfry, and images, and living trees ; 
 A holy scene ! — Along the smooth green turf 
 Our horses grazed. To more than inland peace, 
 Left by the west wind sweeping overhead 
 From a tumultuous ocean, trees and towers 
 In that sequestered valley may be seen, 
 Both silent and both motionless alike ; 
 Such the deep shelter that is there, and such 
 The safeguard for repose and quietness. 
 
 Our steeds remounted and the summons givei 
 With whip and spur we through the chauntry fle 
 In uncouth race, and left the cross-legged knigh 
 And the stone-abbot, and that single wren 
 Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave 
 Of the old church, that — though from recer 
 
 showers 
 The earth was comfortless, and, touched by fail 
 Internal breezes, sobbings of the place 
 And respirations, from the roofless walls 
 The shuddering ivy dripped large drops — yet sti 
 So sweetly 'mid the gloom the invisible bird 
 Sang to herself, that there I could have made 
 My dwelling-place, and lived for ever there 
 To hear such music. Through the walls we fle 
 And down the valley, and, a circuit made 
 In wantonness of heart, through rough and smoot 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 453 
 
 ■ We scampered homewards. Oh, ye rocks and 
 
 streams, 
 And that still spirit shed from evening air ! 
 Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt 
 Tour presence, when with slackened step we 
 
 breathed 
 Along the sides of the steep hills, or when 
 Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the sea 
 We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand. 
 
 Midway on long Winander's eastern shore, 
 Within the crescent of a pleasant bay, 
 A tavern stood ; no homely-featured house, 
 Primeval like its neighbouring cottages, 
 But 'twas a splendid place, the door beset 
 With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and within 
 Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine. 
 ' In ancient times, and ere the Hall was built 
 On the large island, had this dwelling been 
 More worthy of a poet's love, a hut, 
 Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore shade. 
 But — though the rhymes were gone that once 
 
 inscribed 
 The threshold, and large golden characters, 
 Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had dislodged 
 The old Lion and usurped his place, in slight 
 And mockery of the rustic painter's hand — 
 Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear 
 With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay 
 Upon a slope surmounted by a plain 
 Of a small bowling-green ; beneath us stood 
 A grove, wi th gleams of water through the trees 
 And over the tree-tops ; nor did we want 
 Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream. 
 There, while through half an afternoon we played 
 On the smooth platform, whether skill prevailed 
 Or happy blunder triumphed, bursts of glee 
 Made all the mountains ring. But, ere night-fall, 
 •When in our pinnace we returned at leisure 
 Over the shadowy lake, and to the beach 
 Of some small island steered our course with one, 
 The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him there, 
 And rowed off gently, while he blew his flute 
 Alone upon the rock — oh, then, the calm 
 And dead still water lay upon my mind 
 Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky, 
 Never before so beautiful, sank down 
 Into my heart, and held me like a dream ! 
 Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and thus 
 |Daily the common range of visible things 
 Grew dear to me : already I began 
 To love the sun ; a boy I loved the sun, 
 Not as I since have loved him, as a pledge 
 And surety of our earthly life, a light 
 
 Which we behold and feel we are alive ; 
 Nor for his bounty to so many worlds — 
 But for this cause, that I had seen him lay 
 His beauty on the morning hills, had seen 
 The western mountain touch his setting orb, 
 In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess 
 Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow 
 For its own pleasure, and I breathed with joy. 
 And, from like feelings, humble though intense, 
 To patriotic and domestic love 
 Analogous, the moon to me was dear ; 
 For I could dream away my purposes, 
 Standing to gaze upon her while she hung 
 Midway between the hills, as if she knew 
 No other region, but belonged to thee, 
 Yea, appertained by a peculiar right 
 To thee and thy grey huts, thou one dear Vale ! 
 
 Those incidental charms which first attached 
 My heart to rural objects, day by day 
 Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell 
 How Nature, intervenient till this time 
 And secondary, now at length was sought 
 For her own sake. But who shall parcel out 
 His intellect by geometric rules, 
 Split like a province into round and square ? 
 Who knows the individual hour in which 
 His habits were first sown, even as a seed ? 
 Who that shall point as with a wand and say 
 " This portion of the river of my mind 
 Came from yon fountain ? " Thou, my Friend ! 
 
 art one 
 More deeply read in thy own thoughts ; to thee 
 Science appears but what in truth she is, 
 Not as our glory and our absolute boast, 
 But as a succedaneum, and a prop 
 To our infirmity. No officious slave 
 Art thou of that false secondary power 
 By which we multiply distinctions, then 
 Deem that our puny boundaries are things 
 That we perceive, and not that we have made. 
 To thee, unblinded by these formal arts, 
 The unity of all hath been revealed, 
 And thou wilt doubt, with me less aptly skilled 
 Than many are to range the faculties 
 In scale and order, class the cabinet 
 Of their sensations, and in voluble phrase 
 Bun through the history and birth of each 
 As of a single independent thing. 
 Hard task, vain hope, to analyse the mind, 
 If each most obvious and particular thought, 
 Not in a mystical and idle sense, 
 But in the words of Reason deeply weighed, 
 Hath no beginning. 
 
454 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Blest the infant Babe, 
 (For with my best conjecture I would trace 
 Our Being's earthly progress,) blest the Babe, 
 Nursed in his Mother's arms, who sinks to sleep 
 Rocked on his Mother's breast; who with his soul 
 Drinks in the feelings of his Mother's eye ! 
 For him, in one dear Presence, there exists 
 A virtue which irradiates and exalts 
 Objects through widest intercourse of sense. 
 No outcast he, bewildered and depressed : 
 Along his infant veins are interfused 
 The gravitation and the filial bond 
 Of nature that connect him with the world. 
 Is there a flower, to which he points with hand 
 Too weak to gather it, already love 
 Drawn from love's purest earthly fount for him 
 Hath beautified that flower ; already shades 
 Of pity cast from inward tenderness 
 Do fall around him upon aught that bears 
 Unsightly marks of violence or harm. 
 Emphatically such a Being lives, 
 Frail creature as he is, helpless as frail, 
 An inmate of this active universe : 
 For feeling has to him imparted power 
 That through the growing faculties of sense 
 Doth like an agent of the. one great Mind 
 Create, creator and receiver both, 
 Working but in alliance with the works 
 Which it beholds. — Such, verily, is the first 
 Poetic spirit of our human life, 
 By uniform control of after years, 
 In most, abated or suppressed ; in some, 
 Through every change of growth and of decay, 
 Pre-eminent till death. 
 
 From early days, 
 Beginning not long after that first time 
 In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch 
 I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart, 
 I have endeavoured to display the means 
 Whereby this infant sensibility, 
 Great birthright of our being, was in me 
 Augmented and sustained. Yet is a path 
 More difficult before me ; and I fear 
 That in its broken windings we shall need 
 The chamois' sinews, and the eagle's wing : 
 For now a trouble came into my mind 
 From unknown causes. I was left alone 
 Seeking the visible world, nor knowing why. 
 The props of my affections were removed, 
 And yet the building stood, as if sustained 
 By its own spirit ! All that I beheld 
 Was dear, and hence to finer influxes 
 The mind lay open to a more exact 
 And close communion. Many are our joys 
 
 In youth, but oh ! what happiness to live 
 When every hour brings palpable access 
 Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight, 
 And sorrow is not there ! The seasons came, 
 And every season wheresoe'er I moved 
 Unfolded transitory qualities, 
 Which, but for this most watchful power of love, 
 Had been neglected ; left a register 
 Of permanent relations, else unknown. 
 Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude 
 More active even than "best society" — 
 Society made sweet as solitude 
 By silent inobtrusive sympathies, 
 And gentle agitations of the mind 
 From manifold distinctions, difference 
 Perceived in things, where, to the unwatchful eye, 
 No difference is, and hence, from the same source, 
 Sublimer joy ; for I would walk alone, 
 Under the quiet stars, and at that time 
 Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound 
 To breathe an elevated mood, by form 
 Or image unprofaned ; and I would stand, 
 If the night blackened with a coming storm, 
 Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are 
 The ghostly language of the ancient earth, 
 Or make their dim abode in distant winds. 
 Thence did I drink the visionary power ; 
 And deem not profitless those fleeting moods 
 Of shadowy exultation : not for this, 
 That they are kindred to our purer mind 
 And intellectual life ; but that the soul, 
 Remembering how she felt, but what she felt 
 Remembering not, retains an obscure sense 
 Of possible sublimity, whereto 
 With growing faculties she doth aspire, 
 With faculties still growing, feeling still 
 That whatsoever point they gain, they yet 
 Have something to pursue. 
 
 And not alone, 
 'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid fair 
 And tranquil scenes, that universal power 
 And fitness in the latent qualities 
 And essences of things, by which the mind 
 Is moved with feelings of delight, to me 
 Came strengthened with a superadded soul, 
 A virtue not its own. My morning walk3 
 Were early; — oft before the hours of school 
 I travelled round our little lake, five miles 
 Of pleasant wandering. Happy time ! more dear 
 For this, that one was by my side, a Friend..* 
 Then passionately loved ; with heart how full 
 
 * The late Rev. John Fleming, of Rayrigg, Winder- 
 mere. — Ed. 
 
SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 455 
 
 Would he peruse these lines ! For many years 
 
 .Have since flowed in between us, and, our minds 
 
 Both silent to each other, at this time 
 
 "We live as if those hours had never been. 
 
 Nor seldom did I lift our cottage latch 
 
 Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risen 
 
 From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush 
 
 Was audible ; and sate among the woods 
 
 Alone upon some jutting eminence, 
 
 At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale, 
 
 Tet slumbering, lay in utter solitude. 
 
 How shall I seek the origin ! where find 
 
 Faith in the marvellous things which then I felt? 
 
 Oft in these moments such a holy calm 
 
 Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes 
 
 Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw 
 
 Appeared like something in myself, a dream, 
 
 A prospect in the mind. 
 
 'Twere long to tell 
 What spring and autumn, what the winter snows, 
 And what the summer shade, what day and night, 
 Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thought 
 (From sources inexhaustible, poured forth 
 To feed the spirit of religious love 
 In which I walked with Nature. But let this 
 Be not forgotten, that I still retained 
 My first creative sensibility; 
 That by the regular action of the world 
 My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power 
 Abode with me ; a forming hand, at times 
 Rebellious, acting in a devious mood ; 
 A local spirit of his own, at war 
 With general tendency, but, for the most, 
 Subservient strictly to external things 
 With which it communed. An auxiliar light 
 Came from my mind, which on the setting sun 
 Bestowed new splendour ; the melodious birds, 
 The fluttering breezes, fountains that run on 
 (Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obeyed 
 A like dominion, and the midnight storm 
 Grew darker in the presence of my eye : 
 Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence, 
 And hence my transport. 
 
 Nor should this, perchance, 
 Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved 
 The exercise and produce of a toil, 
 Than analytic industry to me 
 More pleasing, and whose character I deem 
 Is more poetic as resembling more 
 Creative agency. The song would speak 
 Pf that interminable building reared 
 i3y observation of affinities 
 jfn objects where no brotherhood exists 
 To passive minds. My seventeenth year was come; 
 
 And, whether from this habit rooted now 
 
 So deeply in my mind, or from excess 
 
 In the great social principle of life 
 
 Coercing all things into sympathy, 
 
 To unorganic natures were transferred 
 
 My own enjoyments ; or the power of truth 
 
 Coming in revelation, did converse 
 
 With things that really are ; I, at this time, 
 
 Saw blessings spread around me like a sea. 
 
 Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on, 
 
 From Nature and her overflowing soul, 
 
 I had received so much, that all my thoughts 
 
 Were steeped in feeling ; I was only then 
 
 Contented, when with bliss ineffable 
 
 I felt the sentiment of Being spread 
 
 O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still ; 
 
 O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought 
 
 And human knowledge, to the human eye 
 
 Invisible, yet liveth to the heart ; 
 
 O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings, 
 
 Or beats the gladsome air ; o'er all that glides 
 
 Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, 
 
 And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not 
 
 If high the transport, great the joy I felt, 
 
 Communing in this sort through earth and heaven 
 
 With every form of creature, as it looked 
 
 Towards the Uncreated with a countenance 
 
 Of adoration, with an eye of love. 
 
 One song they sang, and it was audible, 
 
 Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, 
 
 O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, 
 
 Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed. 
 
 If this be error, and another faith 
 Find easier access to the pious mind, 
 Yet were I grossly destitute of all 
 Those human sentiments that make this earth 
 So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice 
 To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes 
 And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds 
 That dwell among the hills where I was born. 
 If in my youth I have been pure in heart, 
 If, mingling with the world, I am content 
 With my own modest pleasures, and have lived 
 With God and Nature communing, removed 
 From little enmities and low desires, 
 The gift is yours ; if in these times of fear, 
 This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown, 
 If, 'mid indifference and apathy, 
 And wicked exultation when good men 
 On every side fall off, we know not how, 
 To selfishness, disguised in gentle names 
 Of peace and quiet and domestic love, 
 Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers 
 
456 
 
 THE PEELUDE. 
 
 On visionary minds ; if, in this time 
 
 Of dereliction and dismay, I yet 
 
 Despair not of our nature, but retain 
 
 A more than Roman confidence, a faith 
 
 That fails not, in all sorrow my support, 
 
 The blessing of my life ; the gift is yours, 
 
 Ye winds and sounding cataracts ! 'tis yours, 
 
 Ye mountains ! thine, Nature ! Thou hast fed 
 
 My lofty speculations ; and in thee, 
 
 For this uneasy heart of ours, I find 
 
 A never-failing principle of joy 
 
 And purest passion. 
 
 Thou, my Friend ! wert reared 
 In the great city, 'mid far other scenes ; 
 But we, by different roads, at length have gained 
 The self same bourne. And for this cause to thee 
 I speak, unapprehensive of contempt, 
 
 The insinuated scoff of coward tongues, 
 And all that silent language which so oft 
 In conversation between man and man 
 Blots from the human countenance all trace 
 Of beauty and of love. For thou hast sought 
 The truth in solitude, and, since the days 
 That gave thee liberty, full long desired, 
 To serve in Nature's temple, thou hast been 
 The most assiduous of her ministers ; 
 In many things my brother, chiefly here 
 In this our deep devotion. 
 
 Fare thee well ! 
 Health and the quiet of a healthful mind 
 Attend thee ! seeking oft the haunts of men, 
 And yet more often living with thyself, 
 And for thyself, so haply shall thy days 
 Be many, and a blessing to mankind. 
 
 BOOK THIRD 
 
 RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 It was a dreary morning when the wheels 
 Rolled over a wide plain o'erhung with clouds, 
 And nothing cheered our way till first we saw 
 The long-roofed chapel of King's College lift 
 Turrets and pinnacles in answering files, 
 Extended high above a dusky grove. 
 
 Advancing, we espied upon the road 
 A student clothed in gown and tasselled cap, 
 Striding along as if o'ertasked by Time, 
 Or covetous of exercise and air ; 
 He passed — nor was I master of my eyes 
 Till he was left an arrow's flight behind. 
 As near and nearer to the spot we drew, 
 It seemed to suck us in with an eddy's force. 
 Onward we drove beneath the Castle ; caught, 
 While crossing Magdalene Bridge, a glimpse of 
 
 Cam; 
 And at the Hoop alighted, famous Inn. 
 
 My spirit was up, my thoughts were full of 
 
 hope ; 
 Some friends I had, acquaintances who there 
 Seemed friends, poor simple school-boys, now 
 
 hung round 
 
 With honour and importance : in a world 
 Of welcome faces up and down I roved ; 
 Questions, directions, warnings and advice, 
 Flowed in upon me, from all sides ; fresh day 
 Of pride and pleasure ! to myself I seemed 
 A man of business and expense, and went 
 From shop to shop about my own affairs, 
 To Tutor or to Tailor, as befel, 
 From street to street with loose and careless mind, 
 
 I was the Dreamer, they the Dream ; I roamed 
 Delighted through the motley spectacle ; 
 Gowns grave, or gaudy, doctors, students, streets, 
 Courts, cloisters, flocks of churches, gateway-, 
 
 towers : 
 Migration strange for a stripling of the hills, 
 A northern villager. 
 
 As if the change 
 Had waited on some Fairy's wand, at once 
 Behold me rich in monies, and attired 
 In splendid garb, with hose of silk, and hair 
 Powdered like rimy trees, when frost is keen. 
 My lordly dressing-gown, I pass it by, 
 With other signs of manhood that supplied 
 The lack of beard. — The weeks went roundly on, 
 With invitations, suppers, wine and fruit, 
 Smooth housekeeping within, and all without 
 Liberal, and suiting gentleman's array. 
 
RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 457 
 
 The Evangelist St. John my patron was : 
 ■Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first 
 Was my ahiding-place, a nook ohscure ; 
 Ri^ht underneath, the College kitchens made 
 A humming sound, less tuneable than bees, 
 But hardly less industrious ; with shrill notes 
 Of sharp command and scolding intermixed. 
 Near me hung Trinity's loquacious clock, 
 Who never let the quarters, night or day, 
 Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the hours 
 'Twice over with a male and female voice. 
 Her pealing organ was my neighbour too ; 
 And from my pillow, looking forth by light 
 Of moon or favouring stars, I could behold 
 The antechapel where the statue stood 
 Of Newton with his prism and silent face, 
 The marble index of a mind for ever 
 .Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone. 
 
 Of College labours, of the Lecturer's room 
 All studded round, as thick as chairs could stand, 
 With loyal students, faithful to their books, 
 Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants, 
 And honest dunces — of important days, 
 Examinations, when the man was weighed 
 As in a balance ! of excessive hopes, 
 Tremblings withal and commendable fears, 
 iSmall jealousies, and triumphs good or bad — 
 Let others that know more speak as they know. 
 [Such glory was but little sought by me, 
 And little won. Yet from the first crude days 
 Of settling time in this untried abode, 
 I was disturbed at times by prudent thoughts, 
 Wishing to hope without a hope, some fears 
 ,About my future worldly maintenance, 
 j And, more than all, a strangeness in the mind, 
 A feeling that I was not for that hour, 
 Nor for that place. But wherefore be cast down ? 
 For (not to speak of Reason and her pure 
 Reflective acts to fix the moral law 
 Deep in the conscience, nor of Christian Hope, 
 Bowing her head before her sister Faith 
 As one far mightier), hither I had come, 
 Bear witness Truth, endowed with holy powers 
 And faculties, whether to work or feel. 
 Oft when the dazzling show no longer new 
 'Had ceased to dazzle, ofttimes did I quit 
 •My comrades, leave the crowd, buildings and 
 
 groves, 
 And as I paced alone the level fields 
 Far from those lovely sights and sounds sublime 
 With which I had been conversant, the mind 
 Drooped not ; but there into herself returning, 
 With prompt rebound seemed fresh as heretofore. 
 
 At least I more distinctly recognised 
 
 Her native instincts : let me dare to speak 
 
 A higher language, say that now I felt 
 
 What independent solaces were mine, 
 
 To mitigate the injurious sway of place 
 
 Or circumstance, how far soever changed 
 
 In youth, or to be changed in after years. 
 
 As if awakened, summoned, roused, constrained, 
 
 I looked for universal things ; perused 
 
 The common countenance of earth and sky : 
 
 Earth, nowhere unembellished by some trace 
 
 Of that first Paradise whence man was driven ; 
 
 And sky, whose beauty and bounty are expressed 
 
 By the proud name she bears — the name of 
 
 Heaven. 
 I called on both to teach me what they might ; 
 Or turning the mind in upon herself 
 Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my 
 
 thoughts 
 And spread them with a wider creeping ; felt 
 Incumbencies more awful, visitings 
 Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul, 
 That tolerates the indignities of Time, 
 And, from the centre of Eternity 
 All finite motions overruling, lives 
 In glory immutable. But peace ! enough 
 Here to record that I was mounting now 
 To such community with highest truth — • 
 A track pursuing, not untrod before, 
 From strict analogies by thought supplied 
 Or consciousnesses not to be subdued. 
 To every natural form, rock, fruit or flower, 
 Even the loose stones that cover the high-way, 
 I gave a moral life : I saw them feel, 
 Or linked them to some feeling : the great mass 
 Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all 
 That I beheld respired with inward meaning. 
 Add that whate'er of Terror or of Love 
 Or Beauty, Nature's daily face put on 
 From transitory passion, unto this 
 I was as sensitive as waters are 
 To the sky's influence in a kindred mood 
 Of passion ; was obedient as a lute 
 That waits upon the touches of the wind. 
 Unknown, unthought of, yet I was most rich — 
 I had a world about me — 'twas my own ; 
 I made it, for it only lived to me, 
 And to the God who sees into the heart. 
 Such sympathies, though rarely, were betrayed 
 By outward gestures and by visible looks : 
 "Some called it madness — so indeed it was, 
 If child-like fruitfulness in passing joy, 
 If steady moods of thoughtfulness matured 
 To inspiration, sort with such a name ; 
 
458 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 If prophecy be madness ; if things viewed 
 
 By poets in old time, and higher up 
 
 By the first men, earth's first inhabitants, 
 
 May in these tutored days no' more be seen 
 
 With undisordered sight. But leaving this, 
 
 It was no madness, for the bodily eye 
 
 Amid my strongest workings evermore 
 
 Was searching out the lines of difference 
 
 As they lie hid in all external forms, 
 
 Near or remote, minute or vast ; an eye 
 
 Which, from a tree, a stone, a withered leaf, 
 
 To the broad ocean and the azure heavens 
 
 Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars, 
 
 Could find no surface where its power might 
 
 sleep ; 
 Which spake perpetual logic to my soul, 
 And by an unrelenting agency 
 Did bind my feelings even as in a chain. 
 
 And here, Friend ! have I retraced my life 
 Up to an eminence, and told a tale 
 Of matters which not falsely may be called 
 The glory of my youth. Of genius, power, 
 Creation and divinity itself 
 I have been speaking, for my theme has been 
 What passed within me. Not of outward things 
 Done visibly for other minds, words, signs, 
 Symbols or actions, but of my own heart 
 Have I been speaking, and my youthful mind. 
 
 Heavens ! how awful is the might of souls, 
 And what they do within themselves while yet 
 The yoke of earth is new to them, the world 
 Nothing but a wild field where they were sown. 
 This is, in truth, heroic argument, 
 
 This genuine prowess, which I wished to touch 
 With hand however weak, but in the main 
 It lies far hidden from the reach of words. 
 Points have we all of us within our souls 
 Where all stand single ; this I feel, and make 
 Breathings for incommunicable powers; 
 But is not each a memory to himself, 
 And, therefore, now that we must quit this theme, 
 
 1 am not heartless, for there's not a man 
 
 That lives who hath not known his god-like hours, 
 And feels not what an empire we inherit 
 As natural beings in the strength of Nature. 
 
 No more : for now into a populous plain 
 We must descend. A Traveller I am, 
 Whose tale is only of himself; even so, 
 So be it, if the pure of heart be prompt 
 To follow, and if thou, my honoured Friend ! 
 Who in these thoughts art ever at my side, 
 Support, as heretofore, my fainting steps. 
 
 It hath been told, that when the first delight 
 That flashed upon me from this novel show 
 Had failed, the mind returned into herself; 
 Yet true it is, that I had made a change 
 In climate, and my nature's outward coat 
 Changed also slowly and insensibly. 
 Full oft the quiet and exalted thoughts 
 Of loneliness gave way to empty noise 
 And superficial pastimes ; now and then 
 Forced labour, and more frequently forced hopes ; 
 And, worst of all, a treasonable growth 
 Of indecisive judgments, that impaired 
 And shook the mind's simplicity. — And yet 
 This was a gladsome time. Could I behold — 
 Who, less insensible than sodden clay 
 In a sea-river's bed at ebb of tide, 
 Could have beheld, — with undelighted heart, 
 So many happy youths, so wide and fair 
 A congregation in its budding-time 
 Of health, and hope, and beauty, all at once 
 So many divers samples from the growth 
 Of life's sweet season — could have seen unmoved 
 That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers 
 Decking the matron temples of a place 
 So famous through the world 1 To me, at least, 
 It was a goodly prospect : for, in sooth, 
 Though I had learnt betimes to stand unpropped, 
 And independent musings pleased me so 
 That spells seemed on me when I was alone, 
 Yet could I only cleave to solitude 
 In lonely places ; if a throng was near 
 That way I leaned by nature ; for my heart 
 Was social, and loved idleness and joy. 
 
 Not seeking those who might participate 
 My deeper pleasures (nay, I had not once, 
 Though not unused to mutter lonesome songs, 
 Even with myself divided such delight, 
 Or looked that way for aught thatmight be clothed 
 In human language), easily I passed 
 From the remembrances of better things, 
 And slipped into the ordinary works 
 Of careless youth, unburthened, unalarmeJ. 
 Caverns there were within my mind which sun 
 Could never penetrate, yet did there not 
 Want store of leafy arbours where the light 
 Might enter in at will. Companionships, 
 Friendships, acquaintances, were welcome all. 
 We sauntered, played, or rioted ; we talked 
 Unprofitable talk at morning hours ; 
 Drifted about along the streets and walks, 
 Read lazily in trivial books, went forth 
 To gallop through the country in blind zeal 
 Of senseless horsemanship, or on the breast 
 
RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 459 
 
 ,0f Cam sailed boisterously, and let the stars 
 ,Come forth, perhaps without one quiet thought. 
 
 Such was the tenor of the second act 
 In this new life. Imagination slept, 
 And yet not utterly. I could not print 
 Ground where the grass had yielded to the steps 
 Of generations of illustrious men, 
 Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass 
 .Through the same gateways, sleep where they had 
 
 slept, 
 Wake where they waked, range that inclosure old, 
 That garden of great intellects, undisturbed. 
 Place also by the side of this dark sense 
 Of noble feeling, that those spiritual men, 
 Even the great Newton's own ethereal self, 
 Seemed humbled in these precincts thence to be 
 •The more endeared. Their several memories here 
 (Even like their persons in their portraits clothed 
 With the accustomed garb of daily life) 
 Put on a lowly and a touching grace 
 (Of more distinct humanity, that left 
 jAll genuine admiration unimpaired. 
 
 Beside the pleasant Mill of Trompington 
 b laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade ; 
 : Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales 
 |:0f amorous passion. And that gentle Bard, 
 i Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State — 
 Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded 
 
 heaven 
 With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft pace, 
 j[ called him Brother, Englishman, and Friend ! 
 Tea, our blind Poet, who in his later day, 
 Stood almost single ; uttering odious truth — 
 Darkness before, and danger's voice behind, 
 3oul awful — if the earth has ever lodged 
 in awful soul — I seemed to see him here 
 familiarly, and in his scholar's dress 
 3ounding before me, yet a stripling youth — 
 A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks 
 ingelical, keen eye, courageous look, 
 A.nd conscious step of purity and pride, 
 .imong the band of my compeers was one 
 Whom chance had stationed in the very room 
 ionoured by Milton's name. temperate Bard ! 
 3c it confest that, for the first time, seated 
 Within thy innocent lodge and oratory, 
 )ne of a festive circle, I poured out 
 |jihations, to thy memory drank, till pride 
 j^-nd gratitude grew dizzy in a brain 
 frever excited by the fumes of wine 
 j5efore that hour, or since. Then, forth I ran 
 ^rom the assembly; through a length of streets, 
 
 Ran, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel door 
 In not a desperate or opprobrious time, 
 Albeit long after the importunate bell 
 Had stopped, with wearisome Cassandra voice 
 No longer haunting the dark winter night. 
 Call back, Friend ! a moment to thy mind, 
 The place itself and fashion of the rites. 
 With careless ostentation shouldering up 
 My surplice, through the inferior throng I clove 
 Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood 
 On the last skirts of their permitted ground, 
 Under the pealing organ. Empty thoughts ! 
 I am ashamed of them : and that great Bard, 
 And thou, Friend ! who in thy ample mind 
 Hast placed me high above my best deserts, 
 Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour, 
 In some of its unworthy vanities, 
 Brother to many more. 
 
 In this mixed sort 
 The months passed on, remissly, not given up 
 To wilful alienation from the right, 
 Or walks of open scandal, but in vague 
 And loose indifference, easy likings, aims 
 Of a low pitch — duty and zeal dismissed, 
 Yet Nature, or a happy course of things 
 Not doing in their stead the needful work. 
 The memory languidly revolved, the heart 
 Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse 
 Of contemplation almost failed to beat. 
 Such life might not inaptly be compared 
 To a floating island, an amphibious spot 
 Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal 
 Not wanting a fair face of water weeds 
 And pleasant flowers. The thirst of living praise, 
 Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight 
 Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs, 
 Where mighty minds lie visibly entombed, 
 Have often stirred the heart of youth, and bred 
 A fervent love of rigorous discipline. — 
 Alas ! such high emotion touched not me. 
 Look was there none within these walls to shame 
 My easy spirits, and discountenance 
 i Their light composure, far less to instil 
 A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed 
 To puissant efforts. Nor was this the blame 
 Of others but my own; I should, in truth, 
 As far as doth concern my single self, 
 Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere : 
 For I, bred up 'mid Nature's luxuries, 
 Was a spoiled child, and, rambling like the wind, 
 As I had done in daily intercourse 
 With those crystalline rivers, solemn heights, 
 And mountains, ranging like a fowl of the air, 
 I was ill-tutored for captivity ; 
 
4t50 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 To quit my pleasure, and, from month to month, 
 Take up a station calmly on the perch 
 Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms 
 Had also left less space within my mind, 
 Which, wrought upon instinctively, had found 
 A freshness in those objects of her love, 
 A winning power, beyond all other power. 
 Not that I slighted books, — that were to lack 
 All sense, — but other passions in me ruled, 
 Passions more fervent, making me less prompt 
 To in-door study than was wise or well, 
 Or suited to those years. Yet I, though used 
 In magisterial liberty to rove, 
 Culling such flowers of learning as might tempt 
 A random choice, could shadow forth a place 
 (If now I yield not to a flattering dream) 
 Whose studious aspect should have bent me 
 
 down 
 To instantaneous service; should at once 
 Have made me pay to science and to arts 
 And written lore, acknowledged my liege lord, 
 A homage frankly offered up, like that 
 Which I had paid to Nature. Toil and pains 
 In this recess, by thoughtful Fancy built, 
 Should spread from heart to heart ; and stately 
 
 groves, 
 Majestic edifices, should not want 
 A corresponding dignity within. 
 The congregating temper that pervades 
 Our unripe years, not wasted, should be taught 
 To minister to works of high attempt — 
 Works which the enthusiast would perform with 
 
 love. 
 Youth should be awed, religiously possessed 
 With a conviction of the power that waits 
 On knowledge, when sincerely sought and prized 
 For its own sake, on glory and on praise 
 If but by labour won, and fit to endure 
 The passing day ; should learn to put aside 
 Her trappings here, should strip them off abashed 
 Before antiquity and stedfast truth 
 And strong book-mindedness ; and over all 
 A healthy sound simplicity should reign, 
 A seemly plainness, name it what you will, 
 Eepublican or pious. 
 
 If these thoughts 
 Are a gratuitous emblazonry 
 That mocks the recreant age we live in, then 
 Be Folly and False-seeming free to affect 
 Whatever formal gait of discipline 
 Shall raise them highest in their own esteem — 
 Let them parade among the Schools at will, 
 But spare the House of God. Was ever known 
 The witless shepherd who persists to drive 
 
 A flock that thirsts not to a pool disliked ] 
 A weight must surely hang on days begun 
 And ended with such mockery. Be wise, 
 Ye Presidents and Deans, and, till the spirit 
 Of ancient times revive, and youth be trained 
 At home in pious service, to' your bells 
 Give seasonable rest, for 'tis a sound 
 Hollow as ever vexed the tranquil air; 
 And your officious doings bring disgrace 
 On the plain steeples of our English Church, 
 Whose worship, 'mid remotest village tree8, 
 Suffers for this. Even Science, too, at hand 
 In daily sight of this irreverence, 
 Is smitten thence with an unnatural taint, 
 Loses her just authority, falls beneath 
 Collateral suspicion, else unknown. 
 This truth escaped me not, and I confess, 
 That having 'mid my native hills given loose 
 To a schoolboy's vision, I had raised a pile 
 Upon the basis of the coming time, 
 That fell in ruins round me. Oh, what joy 
 To see a sanctuary for our country's youth 
 Informed with such a spirit as might be 
 Its own protection ; a primeval grove, 
 Where, though the shades with cheerfulness were 
 
 filled, 
 Nor indigent of songs warbled from crowds 
 In under-coverts, yet the countenance 
 Of the whole place should bear a stamp of awe ; 
 A habitation sober and demure 
 For ruminating creatures ; a domain 
 For quiet things to wander in ; a haunt 
 In which the heron should delight to feed 
 By the shy rivers, and the pelican 
 Upon the cypress spire in lonely thought 
 Might sit and sun himself. — Alas ! Alas ! 
 In vain for such solemnity I looked ; 
 Mine eyes were crossed by butterflies, ears vfxed 
 By chattering popinjays ; the inner heart 
 Seemed trivial, and the impresses without 
 Of a too gaudy region. 
 
 Different sight 
 Those venerable Doctors saw of old, 
 When all who dwelt within these famous walla 
 Led in abstemiousness a studious life ; 
 When, in forlorn and naked chambers cooped 
 And crowded, o'er the ponderous books they hung 
 Like caterpillars eating out their way 
 In silence, or with keen devouring noise 
 Not to be tracked or fathered. Princes then 
 At matins froze, and couched at curfew-time, 
 Trained up through piety and zeal to prize 
 Spare diet, patient labour, and plain weeds. 
 seat of Arts ! renowned throughout the world ! 
 
RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 461 
 
 Far different service in those homely days 
 :The Muses' modest nurslings underwent 
 From their first childhood : in that glorious time 
 When Learning, like a stranger come from far, 
 Sounding through Christian lands her trumpet, 
 
 roused 
 Peasant and king; when boys and youths, the 
 
 growth 
 Of ragged villages and crazy huts, 
 Forsook their homes, and, errant in the quest 
 iOf Patron, famous school or friendly nook, 
 'Where, pensioned, they in shelter might sit down, 
 Prom town to town and through wide scattered 
 
 realms 
 Journeyed with ponderous folios in their hands; 
 And often, starting from some covert place, 
 Saluted the chance comer on the road, 
 •Crying, "An obolus, a penny give 
 To a poor scholar ! " — when illustrious men, 
 Lovers of truth, by penury constrained, 
 Bucer, Erasmus, or Melancthon, read 
 Before the doors or windows of their cells 
 By moonshine through mere lack of taper light. 
 
 j I But peace to vain regrets ! We see but darkly 
 Even when we look behind us, and best things 
 i Are not so pure by nature that they needs 
 i Must keep to all, as fondly all believe, 
 j Their highest promise. If the maiiner, 
 I When at reluctant distance he hath passed 
 Some tempting island, could but know the ills 
 That must have fallen upon him had he brought 
 ;His bark to land upon the wished-for shore, 
 Good cause would oft be his to thank the surf 
 .Whose white belt scared him thence, or wind that 
 
 blew 
 nexorably adverse : for myself 
 grieve not ; happy is the gowned youth, 
 | Who only misses what I missed, who falls 
 S r o lower than I fell. 
 
 I did not love, 
 ludging not ill perhaps, the timid course 
 )f our scholastic studies ; could have wished 
 |Co see the river flow with ampler range 
 And freer pace; but more, far more, I grieved 
 "o see displayed among an eager few, 
 'Vho in the field of contest persevered, 
 'assions unworthy of youth's generous heart 
 >.nd mounting spirit, pitiably repaid, 
 When so disturbed, whatever palms are won. 
 [ rom these I turned to travel with the shoal 
 j)f more unthinking natures, easy minds 
 i-nd pillowy ; yet not wanting love that makes 
 'he day pass lightly on, when foresight sleeps, 
 
 And wisdom and the pledges interchanged 
 With our own inner being are forgot. 
 
 Yet was this deep vacation not given up 
 To ntter waste. Hitherto I had stood 
 In my own mind remote from social life, 
 (At least from what we commonly so name,) 
 Like a lone shepherd on a promontory 
 Who lacking occupation looks far forth 
 Into the boundless sea, and rather makes 
 Than finds what he beholds. And sure it is, 
 That this first transit from the smooth delights 
 And wild outlandish walks of simple youth 
 To something that resembles an approach 
 Towards human business, to a privileged world 
 Within a world, a midway residence 
 With all its intervenient imagery, 
 Did better suit my visionary mind, 
 Far better, than to have been bolted forth, 
 Thrust out abruptly into Fortune's way 
 Among the conflicts of substantial life ; 
 By a more just gradation did lead on 
 To higher things ; more naturally matured, 
 For permanent possession, better fruits, 
 Whether of truth or virtue, to ensue. 
 In serious mood, but oftener, I confess, 
 With playful zest of fancy, did we note 
 (How could we less 1) the manners and the ways 
 Of those who lived distinguished by the badge 
 Of good or ill report ; or those with whom 
 By frame of Academic discipline 
 We were perforce connected, men whose sway 
 And known authority of office served 
 To set our minds on edge, and did no more. 
 Nor wanted we rich pastime of this kind, 
 Found everywhere, but chiefly in the ring 
 Of the grave Elders, men unscoured, grotesque 
 In character, tricked out like aged trees 
 Which through the lapse of their infirmity 
 Give ready place to any random seed 
 That chooses to be reared upon their trunks. 
 
 Here on my view, confronting vividly 
 Those shepherd swains whom I had lately left, 
 Appeared a different aspect of old age ; 
 How different ! yet both distinctly marked, 
 Objects embossed to catch the general eye, 
 Or portraitures for special use designed, 
 As some might seem, so aptly do they serve 
 To illustrate Nature's book of rudiments — 
 That book upheld as with maternal care 
 When she would enter on her tender scheme 
 Of teaching comprehension with delight, 
 And mingling playful with pathetic thoughts. 
 
462 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 The surfaces of artificial life 
 And manners finely wrought, the delicate race 
 Of colours, lurking, gleaming up and down 
 Through that state arras woven with silk and gold ; 
 This wily interchange of snaky hues, 
 Willingly or unwillingly revealed, 
 I neither knew nor cared for ; and as such 
 Were wanting here, I took what might be found 
 Of less elaborate fabric. At this day 
 I smile, in many a mountain solitude 
 Conjuring up scenes as obsolete in freaks 
 Of character, in points of wit as broad, 
 As aught by wooden images performed 
 For entertainment of the gaping crowd 
 At wake or fair. And oftentimes do flit 
 Remembrances before me of old men — 
 Old humourists, who have been long in their 
 
 graves, 
 And having almost in my mind put off 
 Their human names, have into phantoms passed 
 Of texture midway between life and books. 
 
 I play the loiterer : 'tis enough to note 
 That here in dwarf proportions were expressed 
 The limbs of the great world ; its eager strifes 
 Collaterally pourtrayed, as in mock fight, 
 A tournament of blows, some hardly dealt 
 Though short of mortal combat ; and whate'er 
 Might in this pageant be supposed to hit 
 An artless rustic's notice, this way less, 
 More that way, was not wasted upon me — 
 And yet the spectacle may well demand 
 A more substantial name, no mimic show, 
 Itself a living part of a live whole, 
 A creek in the vast sea ; for, all degrees 
 And shapes of spurious fame and short-lived praise 
 Here sate in state, and fed with daily alms 
 Retainers won away from solid good ; 
 And here was Labour, his own bond-slave ; Hope, 
 
 That never set the pains against the prize ; 
 Idleness halting with his weary clog, 
 And poor misguided Shame, and witless Fear 
 And simple Pleasure foraging for Death ; 
 Honour misplaced, and Dignity astray ; 
 Feuds, factions, flatteries, enmity, and guile 
 Murmuring submission, and bald government, 
 (The idol weak as the idolator), 
 And Decency and Custom starving Truth, 
 And blind Authority beating with his staff 
 The child that might have led him ; Emptiness 
 Followed as of good omen, and meek Worth 
 Left to herself unheard of and unknown. 
 
 Of these and other kindred notices 
 I cannot say what portion is in truth 
 'The naked recollection of that time, 
 And what may rather have been called to life 
 By after-meditation. But delight 
 That, in an easy temper lulled asleep, 
 Is still with Innocence its own reward, 
 This was not wanting. Carelessly I roamed 
 As through a wide museum from whose stores 
 A casual rarity is singled out 
 And has its brief perusal, then gives way 
 To others, all supplanted in their turn ; 
 Till 'mid this crowded neighbourhood of things 
 That are by nature most unneighbourly, 
 The head turns round and cannot right itself ; 
 And though an aching and a barren sense 
 Of gay confusion still be uppermost, 
 With few wise longings and but little love, 
 Yet to the memory something cleaves at last, 
 Whence profit may be drawn in times to come. 
 
 Thus in submissive idleness, my Friend ! 
 The labouring time of autumn, winter, spring, 
 Eight months ! rolled pleasingly away ; the ninth 
 Came and returned me to my native hills. 
 
 
SUMMER VACATION. 
 
 463 
 
 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 SUMMER VACATION. 
 
 Bright was the summer's noon when quickening 
 
 steps 
 followed each other till a dreary moor 
 Yas crossed, a bare ridge clonib, upon whose top 
 Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, 
 overlooked the bed of Windermere, 
 jike a vast river, stretching in the sun. 
 Yith exultation, at my feet I saw 
 jake, islands, promontories, gleaming bays, 
 L universe of Nature's fairest forms 
 'roudly revealed with instantaneous burst, 
 lagnificent, and beautiful, and gay. 
 bounded down the hill shouting amain 
 'or the old Ferryman ; to the shout the rocks 
 Replied, and when the Charon of the flood 
 lad staid his oars, and touched the jutting pier, 
 did not step into the well-known boat 
 Vithout a cordial greeting. Thence with speed 
 r p the familiar hill I took my way 
 owards that sweet Valley* where I had been 
 
 reared ; 
 "was but a short hour's walk, ere veering round 
 saw the snow-white church upon her hill 
 it like a throned Lady, sending out; 
 gracious look all over her domain, 
 on azure smoke betrays the lurking town ; 
 , 7 ith eager footsteps I advance and reach 
 he cottage threshold where my journey closed, 
 lad welcome had I, with some tears, perhaps, 
 rom my old Dame, so kind and motherly, 
 Tiile she perused me with a parent's pride, 
 he thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew 
 pon thy grave, good creature ! While my heart 
 in beat never will I forget thy name. 
 eaven's blessing be upon thee where thou liest 
 |fter thy innocent and busy stir 
 narrow cares, thy little daily growth 
 : calm enj oyments, after eighty years, 
 id more than eighty, of untroubled life, 
 lildless, yet by the strangers to thy blood 
 onoured with little less than filial love. 
 hat joy was mine to see thee once again, 
 iee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of things 
 i^out its narrow precincts all beloved, 
 
 * Hawkshead. — Ed. 
 
 And many of them seeming yet my own ! 
 
 Why should I speak of what a thousand hearts 
 
 Have felt, and every man alive can guess ? 
 
 The rooms, the court, the garden were not left 
 
 Long unsaluted, nor the sunny seat 
 
 Round the stone table under the dark pine, 
 
 Friendly to studious or to festive hours ; 
 
 Nor that unruly child of mountain birth, 
 
 The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxed 
 
 Within our garden, found himself at once, 
 
 As if by trick insidious and unkind, 
 
 Stripped of his voice and left to dimple down 
 
 (Without an effort and without a will) 
 
 A channel paved by man's officious care. 
 
 I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again, 
 
 And in the press of twenty thousand thoughts, 
 
 "Ha," quoth I, "pretty prisoner, are you there!' 
 
 Well might sarcastic Fancy then have whispered, 
 
 " An emblem here behold of thy own life ; 
 
 In its late course of even days with all 
 
 Their smooth enthralment ;" but the heart was full, 
 
 Too full for that reproach. My aged Dame 
 
 Walked proudly at my side : she guided me ; 
 
 I willing, nay — nay, wishing to be led. 
 
 — The face of every neighbour whom I met 
 
 Was like a volume to me ; some were hailed 
 
 Upon the road, some busy at their work, 
 
 Unceremonious greetings interchanged 
 
 With half the length of a long field between. 
 
 Among my schoolfellows I scattered round 
 
 Like recognitions, but with some constraint 
 
 Attended, doubtless, with a little pride, 
 
 But with more shame, for my habiliments, 
 
 The transformation wrought by gay attire. 
 
 Not less delighted did I take my place 
 
 At our domestic table : and, dear Friend ! 
 
 In this endeavour simply to relate 
 
 A Poet's history, may I leave untold 
 
 The thankfulness with which I laid me down 
 
 In my accustomed bed, more welcome now 
 
 Perhaps than if it had been more desired 
 
 Or been more often thought of with regret ; 
 
 That lowly bed whence I had heard the wind 
 
 Roar, and the rain beat hard ; where I so oft 
 
 Had lain awake on summer nights to watch 
 
 The moon in splendour couched among the leaves 
 
 Of a tall ash, that near our cottage stood ; 
 
 Had watched her with fixed eyes while to and fro 
 
464 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 In the dark summit of the waving tree 
 
 She rocked with every impulse of the breeze. 
 
 Among the favourites whom it pleased me well 
 To see again, was one by ancient right 
 Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills ; 
 By birth and call of nature pre-ordained 
 To hunt the badger and unearth the fox 
 Among the impervious crags, but having been 
 From youth our own adopted, he had passed 
 Into a gentler service. And when first 
 The boyish spirit nagged, and day by day 
 Along my veins I kindled with the stir, 
 The fermentation, and the vernal heat 
 Of poesy, affecting private shades 
 Like a sick Lover, then this dog was used 
 To watch me, an attendant and a friend, 
 Obsequious to my steps early and late, 
 Though often of such dilatory walk 
 Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made. 
 A hundred times when, roving high and low, 
 I have been harassed with the toil of verse, 
 Much pains and little progress, and at once 
 Some lovely Image in the song rose up 
 Full-formed, like Venus rising from the sea ; 
 Then have I darted forwards to let loose 
 My hand upon his back with stormy joy, 
 Caressing him again and yet again. 
 And when at evening on the public way 
 I sauntered, like a river murmuring 
 And talking to itself when all things else 
 Are still, the creature trotted on before ; 
 Such was his custom; but whene'er he met 
 A passenger approaching, he would turn 
 To give me timely notice, and straightway, 
 Grateful for that admonishment, I hushed 
 My voice, composed my gait, and, with the air 
 And mien of one whose thoughts are free, advanced 
 To give and take a greeting that might save 
 My name from piteous rumours, such as wait 
 On men suspected to be crazed in brain. 
 
 Those walks well worthy to be prized and 
 loved — 
 Regretted ! — that word, too, was on my tongue, 
 But they were richly laden with all good, 
 And cannot be remembered but with thanks 
 And gratitude, and perfect joy of heart — 
 Those walks in all their freshness now came back 
 Like a returning Spring. When first I made 
 Once more the circuit of our little lake, 
 If ever happiness hath lodged with man, 
 That day consummate happiness was mine, 
 Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative. 
 
 The sun was set, or setting, when I left 
 Our cottage door, and evening soon brought on 
 A sober hour, not winning or serene, 
 For cold and raw the air was, and untuned 
 But as a face we love is sweetest then 
 When sori'ow damps it, or, whatever look 
 It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart 
 Have fulness in herself; even so with me 
 It fared that evening. Gently did my soul 
 Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood 
 Naked, as in the presence of her God. 
 While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch 
 A heart that had not been disconsolate : 
 Strength came where weakness was not know 
 
 to be, 
 At least not felt ; and restoration came 
 Like an intruder knocking at the door 
 Of unacknowledged weariness. I took 
 The balance, and with firm hand weighed mysel 
 — Of that external scene which round me lay, 
 Little, in this abstraction, did I see ; 
 Remembered less ; but I had inward hopes 
 And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed 
 Conversed with promises, had glimmering views 
 How life pervades the undecaying mind ; 
 How the immortal soul with God-like power 
 Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep 
 That time can lay upon her ; how on earth, 
 Man, if he do but live within the light 
 Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad 
 His being armed with strength that cannot fail. 
 Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love 
 Of innocence, and holiday repose ; 
 And more than pastoral quiet, 'mid the stir 
 Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end 
 At last, or glorious, by endurance won. 
 Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down 
 Alone, continuing there to muse : the slopes 
 And heights meanwhile were slowly overspread 
 With darkness, and before a rippling breeze 
 The long lake lengthened out its hoary line, 
 And in the sheltered coppice where I sate, 
 Around me from among the hazel leaves, 
 Now here, now there, moved by the stragglm 
 
 wind, 
 Came ever and anon a breath-like sound, 
 Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog, 
 The off and on companion of my walk ; 
 And such, at times, believing them to be, 
 I turned my head to look if he were there ; 
 Then into solemn thought I passed once more. 
 
 A freshness also found I at this time 
 In human Life, the daily life of those 
 
 
SUMMER VACATION. 
 
 465 
 
 Whose occupations really I loved ; 
 The peaceful scene oft filled me with surprise 
 Changed like a garden in the heat of spring 
 After an eight-days' absence. Eor Cto omit 
 The things which were the same and yet appeared 
 Far otherwise) amid this rural solitude, 
 A. narrow Vale where each was known to all, 
 'Twas not indifferent to a youthful mind 
 To mark some sheltering bower or sunny nook, 
 [Where an old man had used to sit alone, 
 Now vacant ; pale-faced babes whom I had left 
 In arms, now rosy prattlers at the feet 
 ; Of a pleased grandame tottering up and down ; 
 .And growing girls whose beauty, filched away 
 With all its pleasant promises, was gone 
 To deck some slighted playmate's homely cheek. 
 
 i Yes, I had something of a subtler sense, 
 
 And often looking round was moved to smiles 
 
 Such as a delicate work of humour breeds ; 
 
 I read, without design, the opinions, thoughts, 
 
 Of those plain-living people now observed 
 
 With clearer knowledge ; with another eye 
 
 il saw the quiet woodman in the woods, 
 
 The shepherd roam the hills. With new delight, 
 
 IThis chiefly, did I note my grey-haired Dame ; 
 
 jSaw her go forth to church or other work 
 
 ,0f state equipped in monumental trim ; 
 
 Short velvet cloak, (her bonnet of the like), 
 
 A mantle such as Spanish Cavaliers 
 
 Wore in old time. Her smooth domestic life, 
 
 Affectionate without disquietude, 
 
 [Her talk, her business, pleased me ; and no less 
 
 'Her clear though shallow stream of piety 
 
 ,That ran on Sabbath days a fresher course ; 
 
 With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her read 
 
 iHer Bible on hot Sunday afternoons, 
 
 And loved the book, when she had dropped asleep 
 
 And made of it a pillow for her head. 
 
 J Nor less do I remember to have felt, 
 (Distinctly manifested at this time, 
 A human-heartedness about my love 
 por objects hitherto the absolute wealth 
 ; Of my own private being and no more ; 
 Which I had loved, even as a blessed spirit 
 Or Angel, if he were to dwell on earth, 
 'Might love in individual happiness. 
 But now there opened on me other thoughts 
 Of change, congratulation or regret, 
 [A pensive feeling ! It spread far and wide ; 
 (The trees, the mountains shared it, and the brooks, 
 The stars of Heaven, now seen in their old 
 haunts — 
 
 White Sirius glittering o'er the southern crags, 
 Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven, 
 Acquaintances of every little child, 
 And Jupiter, my own beloved star ! 
 Whatever shadings of mortality, 
 Whatever imports from the world of death 
 Had come among these objects heretofore, 
 Were, in the main, of mood less tender : strong, 
 Deep, gloomy were they, and severe; the scat- 
 terings 
 Of awe or tremulous dread, that had given way 
 In later youth to yearnings of a love 
 Enthusiastic, to delight and hope. 
 
 As one who hangs down-bending from the side 
 Of a slow-moving boat, upon the breast 
 Of a still water, solacing himself 
 With such discoveries as his eye can make 
 Beneath him in the bottom of the deep, 
 Sees many beauteous sights — weeds, fishes, flowers, 
 Grots, pebbles, roots of trees, and fancies more, 
 Yet often is perplexed, and cannot part 
 The shadow from the substance, rocks and sky, 
 Mountains and clouds, reflected in the depth 
 Of the clear flood, from things which there abide 
 In their true dwelling ; now is crossed by gleam 
 Of his own image, by a sun-beam now, 
 And wavering motions sent he knows not whence, 
 Impediments that make his task more sweet ; 
 Such pleasant office have we long pursued 
 Incumbent o'er the surface of past time 
 With like success, nor often have appeared 
 Shapes fairer or less doubtfully discerned 
 Than these to which the Tale, indulgent Friend! 
 Would now direct thy notice. Yet in spite 
 Of pleasure won, and knowledge not withheld, 
 There was an inner falling off — I loved, 
 Loved deeply all that had been loved before, 
 More deeply even than ever: but a swarm 
 Of heady schemes jostling each other, gawds, 
 And feast and dance, and public revelry, 
 And sports and games (too grateful in themselves, 
 Yet in themselves less grateful, I believe, 
 Than as they were a badge glossy and fresh 
 Of manliness and freedom) all conspired 
 To lure my mind from firm habitual quest 
 Of feeding pleasures, to depress the zeal 
 And damp those yearnings which had once been 
 
 mine — 
 A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given up 
 To his own eager thoughts. It would demand 
 Some skill, and longer time than may be spared 
 To paint these vanities, and how they wrought 
 In haunts where they, till now, had been unknown. 
 
466 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 It seemed the very garments that I wore 
 Preyed on my strength, and stopped the quiet 
 
 stream 
 Of self-forgetfulness. 
 
 Yes, that heartless chase 
 Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange 
 For books and nature at that early age. 
 'Tis true, some casual knowledge might be gained 
 Of character or life ; but at that time, 
 Of manners put to school I took small note, 
 And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere. 
 Far better had it been to exalt the mind 
 By solitary study, to uphold 
 Intense desire through meditative peace ; 
 And yet, for chastisement of these regrets, 
 The memory of one particular hour 
 Doth here rise up against me. 'Mid a throng 
 Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons staid, 
 A medley of all tempers, I had passed 
 The night in dancing, gaiety, and mirth, 
 With din of instruments and shuffling feet, 
 And glancing forms, and tapers glittering, 
 And unaimed prattle flying up and down ; 
 Spirits upon the stretch, and here and there 
 Slight shocks of young love-liking interspersed, 
 Whose transient pleasure mounted to the head, 
 And tingled through the veins. Ere we retired, 
 The cock had crowed, and now the eastern sky 
 Was kindling, not unseen, from humble copse 
 And open field, through which the pathway wound, 
 And homeward led my steps. Magnificent 
 The morning rose, in memorable pomp, 
 Glorious as e'er I had beheld — in front, 
 The sea lay laughing at a distance ; near, 
 The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds, 
 Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light ; 
 And in the meadows and the lower grounds 
 Was all the sweetness of a common dawn — 
 Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds, 
 And labourers going forth to till the fields. 
 Ah ! need I say, dear Friend ! that to the brim 
 My heart was full ; I made no vows, but vows 
 Were then made for me ; bond unknown to me 
 Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly, 
 A dedicated Spirit. On I walked 
 In thankful blessedness, which yet survives. 
 
 Strange rendezvous ! My mind was at that time 
 A parti-coloured show of grave and gay, 
 Solid and light, short-sighted and profound ; 
 Of inconsiderate habits and sedate, 
 Consorting in one mansion unreproved. 
 The worth I knew of powers that I possessed, 
 Though slighted and too oft misused. Besides, 
 
 That summer, swarming as it did with thoughts 
 Transient and idle, lacked not intervals 
 When Folly from the frown of fleeting Time 
 Shrunk, and the mind experienced in herself 
 Conformity as just as that of old 
 To the end and written spirit of God's works, 
 Whether held forth in Nature or in Man, 
 Through pregnant vision, separate or conjoined. 
 
 When from our better selves we have too long 
 Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, 
 Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, 
 How gracious, how benign, is Solitude ; 
 How potent a mere image of her sway ; 
 Most potent when impressed upon the mind 
 With an appropriate human centre — hermit, 
 Deep in the bosom of the wilderness ; 
 Votary (in vast cathedral, where no foot 
 Is treading, where no other face is seen) 
 Kneeling at prayers ; or watchman on the top 
 Of lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves ; 
 Or as the soul of that great Power is met 
 Sometimes embodied on a public road, 
 When, for the night deserted, it assumes 
 A character of quiet more profound 
 Than pathless wastes. 
 
 Once, when those summer months 
 Were flown, and autumn brought its annual show 
 Of oars with oars contending, sails with sails, 
 Upon Winander's spacious breast, it chanced 
 That — after I had left a flower-decked room 
 (Whose in-door pastime, lighted up, survived 
 To a late hour), and spirits overwrought 
 Were making night do penance for a day 
 Spent in a round of strenuous idleness — 
 My homeward course led up a long ascent, 
 Where the road's watery surface, to the top 
 Of that sharp rising, glittered to the moon 
 And bore the semblance of another stream 
 Stealing with silent lapse to join the brook 
 That murmured in the vale. All else was still ; 
 No living thing appeared in earth or air, 
 And, save the flowing water's peaceful voice, 
 Sound there was none— but, lo ! an uncouth shape, 
 Shown by a sudden turning of the road, 
 So near that, slipping back into the shade 
 Of a thick hawthorn, I could mark him well,. 
 Myself unseen. He was of stature tall, 
 A span above man's common measure, tall, 
 Stiff, lank, and upright ; a more meagre man 
 Was never seen before by night or day. 
 Long were his arms, pallid his hands ; his mouth 
 Looked ghastly in the moonlight : from behind, 
 A mile-stone propped him ; I could also ken 
 

 BOOKS. 
 
 467 
 
 That he was clothed in military garb, 
 
 Though faded, yet entire. Companionless, 
 
 No dog attending, by no staff sustained, 
 
 He stood, and in his very dress appeared 
 
 A desolation, a simplicity, 
 
 To which the trappings of a gaudy world 
 
 Make a strange back-ground. From his lips, ere 
 
 long, 
 Issued low muttered sounds, as if of pain 
 Or some uneasy thought ; yet still his form 
 Kept the same awful steadiness — at his feet 
 His shadow lay, and moved not. From self-blame 
 Not wholly free, I watched him thus ; at length 
 Subduing my heart's specious cowardice, 
 I left the shady nook where I had stood 
 And hailed him. Slowly from his resting-place 
 He rose, and with a lean and wasted arm 
 
 ■ In measured gesture lifted to his head 
 Returned my salutation ; then resumed 
 His station as before ; and when I asked 
 His history, the veteran, in reply, 
 Was neither slow nor eager ; but, unmoved, 
 
 j And with a quiet uncomplaining voice, 
 A stately air of mild indifference, 
 He told in few plain words a soldier's tale— 
 
 , That in the Tropic Islands he had served, 
 Whence he had landed scarcely three weeks past ; 
 That on his landing he had been dismissed, 
 And now was travelling towards his native home. 
 
 , This heard, I said, in pity, " Come with me." 
 
 j He stooped, and straightway from the ground 
 
 took up 
 An oaken staff by me yet unobserved — 
 
 1 A staff which must have dropped from his slack 
 
 hand 
 And lay till now neglected in the grass. 
 Though weak his step and cautious, he appeared 
 To travel without pain, and I beheld, 
 
 With an astonishment but ill suppressed, 
 
 His ghostly figure moving at my side : 
 
 Nor could I, while we journeyed thus, forbear 
 
 To turn from present hardships to the past, 
 
 And speak of war, battle, and pestilence, 
 
 Sprinkling this talk with questions, better spared, 
 
 On what he might himself have seen or felt. 
 
 He all the while was in demeanour calm, 
 
 Concise in answer ; solemn and sublime 
 
 He might have seemed, but that in all he said 
 
 There was a strange half-absence, as of one 
 
 Knowing too well the importance of his theme, 
 
 But feeling it no longer. Our discourse 
 
 Soon ended, and together on we passed 
 
 In silence through a wood gloomy and still. 
 
 Up-turning, then, along an open field, 
 
 We reached a cottage. At the door I knocked, 
 
 And earnestly to charitable care 
 
 Commended him as a poor friendless man, 
 
 Belated and by sickness overcome. 
 
 Assured that now the traveller would repose 
 
 In comfort, I entreated that henceforth 
 
 He would not linger in the public ways, 
 
 But ask for timely furtherance and help 
 
 Such as his state required. At this reproof, 
 
 With the same ghastly mildness in his look, 
 
 He said, " My trust is in the God of Heaven, 
 
 And in the eye of him who passes me ! " 
 
 The cottage door was speedily unbarred, 
 And now the soldier touched his hat once more 
 With his lean hand, and in a faltering voice, 
 Whose tone bespake reviving interests 
 Till then unfelt, he thanked me ; I returned 
 The farewell blessing of the patient man, 
 And so we parted. Back I cast a look, 
 And lingered near the door a little space, 
 Then sought with quiet heart my distant home. 
 
 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 BOOKS. 
 
 When Contemplation, like the night-calm felt 
 ' Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends 
 
 deep 
 1 Into the soul its tranquillising power, 
 j Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, Man, 
 
 Earth's paramount Creature ! not so much for woes 
 
 That thou endurest; heavy though that weight be, 
 Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light divine 
 Doth melt away ; but for those palms achieved, 
 Through length of time, by patient exercise 
 Of study and hard thought ; there, there, it is 
 That sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto, 
 In progress through this Verse, my mind hath 
 
 looked 
 
 h h 2 
 
468 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven 
 
 As her prime teacher, intercourse with man 
 
 Established by the sovereign Intellect, 
 
 "Who through that bodily image hath diffused, 
 
 As might appear to the eye of fleeting time, 
 
 A deathless spirit. Thou also, man ! hast wrought, 
 
 For commerce of thy nature with herself, 
 
 Things that aspire to unconquerable life ; 
 
 And yet we feel — we cannot choose but feel — 
 
 That they must perish. Tremblings of the heart 
 
 It gives, to think that our immortal being 
 
 No more shall need such garments ; and yet man, 
 
 As long as he shall be the child of earth, 
 
 Might almost " weep to have " what he may lose, 
 
 Nor be himself extinguished, but survive, 
 
 Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate. 
 
 A thought is with me sometimes, and I say, — 
 
 Should the whole frame of earth by inward throes 
 
 Be wrenched, or fire come down from far to scorch 
 
 Her pleasant habitations, and dry up 
 
 Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare, 
 
 Yet would the living Presence still subsist 
 
 Victorious, and composure would ensue, 
 
 And kindlings like the morning — presage sure 
 
 Of day returning and of life revived. 
 
 But all the meditations of mankind, 
 
 Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth 
 
 By reason built, or passion, which itself 
 
 Is highest reason in a soul sublime ; 
 
 The consecrated works of Bard and Sage, 
 
 Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men, 
 
 Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes ; 
 
 Where would they be ] Oh ! why hath not the 
 
 Mind 
 Some element to stamp her image on 
 In nature somewhat nearer to her own ? 
 Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad 
 Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail ] 
 
 One day, when from my lips a like complaint 
 Had fallen in presence of a studious friend, 
 He with a smile made answer, that in truth 
 'Twas going far to seek disquietude : 
 But on the front of his reproof confessed 
 That he himself had oftentimes given way 
 To kindred hauntings. Whereupon I told, 
 That once in the stillness of a summer's noon, 
 While I was seated in a rocky cave 
 By the sea-side, perusing, so it chanced, 
 The famous history of the errant knight 
 Recorded by Cervantes, these same thoughts 
 Beset me, and to height unusual rose, 
 While listlessly I sate, and, having closed 
 The book, had turned my eyes toward the wide sea. 
 
 On poetry and geometric truth, 
 
 And their high privilege of lasting life, 
 
 From all internal injury exempt, 
 
 I mused ; upon these chiefly : and at length, 
 
 My senses yielding to the sultry air, 
 
 Sleep seized me, and I passed into a dream. 
 
 I saw before me stretched a boundless plain 
 
 Of sandy wilderness, all black and void, 
 
 And as I looked around, distress and fear 
 
 Came creeping over me, when at my side, 
 
 Close at my side, an uncouth shape appeared 
 
 Upon a dromedary, mounted high. 
 
 He seemed an Arab of the Bedouin tribes : 
 
 A lance he bore, and underneath one arm 
 
 A stone, and in the opposite hand a shell 
 
 Of a surpassing brightness. At the sight 
 
 Much I rejoiced, not doubting but a guide 
 
 Was present, one who with unerring skill 
 
 Would through the desert lead me; and while yet 
 
 I looked and looked, self-questioned what this 
 
 freight 
 Which the new comer carried through the waste 
 Could mean, the Arab told me that the stone 
 (To give it in the language of the dream) 
 Was "Euclid's Elements; " and "This," said he, 
 " Is something of more worth ; " and at the worn 
 Stretched forth the shell, so beautiful in shape, 
 In colour so resplendent, with command 
 That I should hold it to my ear. I did so, 
 And heard that instant in an unknown tongue, 
 Which yet I understood, articulate sounds, 
 A loud prophetic blast of harmony ; 
 An Ode, in passion uttered, which foretold 
 Destruction to the children of the earth 
 By deluge, now at hand. No sooner ceased 
 The song, than the Arab with calm look declared 
 That all would come to pass of which the voice 
 Had given forewarning, and that he himself 
 Was going then to bury those two books : 
 The one that held acquaintance with the stars, 
 And wedded soul to soul in purest bond 
 Of reason, undisturbed by space or time; 
 The other that was a god, yea many gods, 
 Had voices more than all the winds, with power 
 To exhilarate the spirit, and to soothe, 
 Through every clime, the heart of human kind. 
 While this was uttering, strange as it may seem, 
 I wondered not, although I plainly saw 
 The one to be a stone, the other a shell ; 
 Nor doubted once but that they both were books, 
 Having a perfect faith in all that passed. 
 Far stronger, now, grew the desire I felt 
 To cleave unto this man ; but when I prayed 
 To share his enterprise, he hurried on 
 
BOOKS. 
 
 469 
 
 Reckless of me : I followed, not unseen, 
 IFor oftentimes he cast a backward look, 
 : Grasping his twofold treasure. — Lance in rest, 
 iHe rode, I keeping pace with him ; and now 
 He, to my fancy, had become the knight 
 Whose tale Cervantes tells ; yet not the knight, 
 But was an Arab of the desert too ; 
 Of these was neither, and was both at once. 
 His countenance, meanwhile, grewmore disturbed; 
 :And,looking backwards when he looked, mine eyes 
 Saw, over half the wilderness diffused, 
 A bed of glittering light : I asked the cause : 
 " It is," said he, "the waters of the deep 
 : Gathering upon us; " quickening then the pace 
 Of the unwieldy creature he bestrode, 
 He left me : I called after him aloud ; 
 He heeded not ; but, with his twofold charge 
 Still in his grasp, before me, full in view, 
 Went hurrying o'er the illimitable waste, 
 With the fleet waters of a drowning world 
 'In chase of him ; whereat I waked in terror, 
 |And saw the sea before me, and the book, 
 lln which I had been reading, at my side. 
 
 Full often, taking from the world of sleep 
 
 'This Arab phantom, which I thus beheld, 
 This semi-Quixote, I to him have given 
 
 A substance, fancied him a living man, 
 A gentle dweller in the desert, crazed 
 By love and feeling, and internal thought 
 
 j Protracted among endless solitudes ; 
 
 j.Have shaped him wandering upon this quest ! 
 
 'iNor have I pitied him ; but rather felt 
 
 ' Reverence was due to a being thus employed ; 
 
 iAnd thought that, in the blind and awful lair 
 
 [Of such a madness, reason did lie couched. 
 Enow there are on earth to take in charge 
 Their wives, their children, and their virgin loves, 
 
 I'Or whatsoever else the heart holds dear ; 
 
 | Enow to stir for these ; yea, will I say, 
 Contemplating in soberness the approach 
 Of an event so dire, by signs in earth 
 
 |0r heaven made manifest, that I could share 
 
 That maniac's fond anxiety, and go 
 
 Upon like errand. Oftentimes at least 
 Me hath such strong entrancement overcome, 
 When I have held a volume in my hand, 
 Poor earthly casket of immortal verse, 
 Shakespeare, or Milton, labourers divine ! 
 
 i 
 
 I Great and benign, indeed, must be the power 
 
 Of living nature, which could thus so long 
 
 jDetain me from the best of other guides 
 
 And dearest helpers, left unthanked, unpraised, 
 
 Even in the time of lisping infancy ; 
 
 And later down, in prattling childhood even, 
 
 While I was travelling back among those days, 
 
 How could I ever play an ingrate's part ] 
 
 Once more should I have made those bowers 
 
 resound, 
 By intermingling strains of thankfulness 
 With their own thoughtless melodies ; at least 
 It might have well beseemed me to repeat 
 Some simply fashioned tale, to tell again, 
 In slender accents of sweet verse, some tale 
 That did bewitch me then, and soothes me now. 
 O Friend ! Poet ! brother of my soul, 
 Think not that I could pass along untouched 
 By these remembrances. Yet wherefore speak? 
 Why call upon a few weak words to say 
 What is already written in the hearts 
 Of all that breathe 1 — what in the path of all 
 Drops daily from the tongue of every child, 
 Wherever man is found ? The trickling tear 
 Upon the cheek of listening Infancy 
 Proclaims it, and the insuperable look 
 That drinks as if it never could be full. 
 
 That portion of my story I shall leave 
 There registered : whatever else of power 
 Or pleasure sown, or fostered thus, may be 
 Peculiar to myself, let that remain 
 Where still it works, though hidden from all 
 
 search 
 Among the depths of time. Yet is it just 
 That here, in memory of all books which lay 
 Their sure foundations in the heart of man, 
 Whether by native prose, or numerous verse, 
 That in the name of all inspired souls — 
 From Homer the great Thunderer, from the voice 
 That roars along the bed of Jewish song, 
 And that more varied and elaborate, 
 Those trumpet-tones of harmony that shake 
 Our shores in England, — from those loftiest notes 
 Down to the low and wren-bike warblings, made 
 For cottagers and spinners at the wheel. 
 And sun-burnt travellers resting their tired limbs, 
 Stretched under wayside hedge-rows, ballad tunes, 
 Food for the hungry ears of little ones, 
 And of old men who have survived their joys — 
 'Tis just that in behalf of these, the works, 
 And of the men that framed them, whether known 
 Or sleeping nameless in their scattered graves, 
 That I should here assert their rights, attest 
 Their honours, and should, once for all, pronounce 
 Their benediction ; speak of them as Powers 
 For ever to be hallowed ; only less, 
 For what we are and what we may become, 
 
470 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Than Nature's self, which is the breath of God, 
 Or His pure Word by miracle revealed. 
 
 Karely and with reluctance would I stoop 
 To transitory themes ; yet I rejoice, 
 And, by these thoughts admonished, will pour out 
 Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was reared 
 Safe from an evil which these days have laid 
 Upon the children of the land, a pest 
 That might have dried me up, body and soul. 
 This verse is dedicate to Nature's self, 
 And things that teach as Nature teaches : then, 
 Oh ! where had been the Man, the Poet where, 
 Where had we been, we two, beloved Friend ! 
 If in the season of unperilous choice, 
 In lieu of wandering, as we did, through vales 
 Rich with indigenous produce, open ground 
 Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will, 
 Wehadbeenfollowed,hourly watched, andnoosed, 
 Each in his several melancholy walk 
 Stringed like a poor man's heifer at its feed, 
 Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude ; 
 Or rather like a stalled ox debarred 
 From touch of growing grass, that may not taste 
 A flower till it have yielded up its sweets 
 A prelibation to the mower's scythe. 
 
 Behold the parent hen amid her brood, 
 Though fledged and feathered, and well pleased 
 
 to part 
 And straggle from her presence, still a brood, 
 And she herself from the maternal bond 
 Still undischarged ; yet doth she little more 
 Than move with them in tenderness and love, 
 A centre to the circle which they make ; 
 And now and then, alike from need of theirs 
 And call of her own natural appetites, 
 She scratches, ransacks up the earth for food, 
 Which they partake at pleasure. Early died 
 My honoured Mother, she who was the heart 
 And hinge of all our learnings and our loves: 
 She left us destitute, and, as we might, 
 Trooping together. Little suits it me 
 To break upon the sabbath of her rest 
 With any thought that looks at others' blame ; 
 Nor would I praise her but in perfect love. 
 Hence am I checked: but let me boldly say, 
 In gratitude, and for the sake of truth, 
 Unheard by her, that she, not falsely taught, 
 Fetching her goodness rather from times past, 
 Than shaping novelties for times to come, 
 Had no presumption, no such jealousy, 
 Nor did by habit of her thoughts mistrust 
 Our nature, but had virtual faith that He 
 
 Who fills the mother's breast with innocent milk 
 
 Doth also for our nobler part provide, 
 
 Under His great correction and control, 
 
 As innocent instincts, and as innocent food ; 
 
 Or draws for minds that are left free to trust 
 
 In the simplicities of opening life 
 
 Sweet honey out of spurned or dreaded weeds. 
 
 This was her creed, and therefore she was pure 
 
 From anxious fear of error or mishap, 
 
 And evil, overweeningly so called ; 
 
 Was not puffed up by false unnatural hopes, 
 
 Nor selfish with unnecessary cares, 
 
 Nor with impatience from the season asked 
 
 More than its timely produce ; rather loved 
 
 The hours for what they are, than from regard 
 
 Glanced on their promises in restless pride. 
 
 Such was she — not from faculties more strong 
 
 Than others have, but from the times, perhaps, 
 
 And spot in which she lived, and through a grace 
 
 Of modest meekness, simple-mindedness, 
 
 A heart that found benignity and hope, 
 
 Being itself benign. 
 
 My drift I fear 
 Is scarcely obvious ; but, that common sense 
 May try this modern system by its fruits, 
 Leave let me take to place before her sight 
 A specimen pourtrayed with faithful hand. 
 Full early trained to worship seemliness, 
 This model of a child is never known 
 To mix in quarrels ; that were far beneath 
 Its dignity; with gifts he bubbles o'er 
 As generous as a fountain ; selfishness 
 May not come near him, nor the little throng 
 Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his path ; 
 The wandering beggars propagate his name, 
 Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun, 
 And natural or supernatural fear, 
 Unless it leap upon him in a dream, 
 Touches him not. To enhance the wonder, see 
 How arch his notices, how nice his sense 
 Of the ridiculous ; not blind is he 
 To the broad follies of the licensed world, 
 Yet innocent himself withal, though shrewd, 
 And can read lectures upon innocence ; 
 A miracle of scientific lore, 
 Ships he can guide across the pathless sea, 
 And tell you all their cunning ; he can read 
 The inside of the earth, and spell the stars ; 
 He knows the policies of foreign lands ; 
 Can string you names of districts, cities, towns, 
 The whole world over, tight as beads of dew 
 Upon a gossamer thread ; he sifts, he weighs ; 
 All things are put to question ; he must live 
 Knowing that he grows wiser every day 
 
BOOKS. 
 
 471 
 
 Dr else not live at all, and seeing too 
 
 gach little drop of wisdom as it falls 
 
 Into the dimpling cistern of his heart : 
 
 |?or this unnatural growth the trainer blame, 
 
 Pity the tree. — Poor human vanity, 
 
 Wert thou extinguished, little would be left 
 
 'iVhich he could truly love ; but how escape ? 
 
 ;?or, ever as a thought of purer birth 
 
 'lisea to lead him toward a better clime, 
 
 liome intermeddler still is on the watch 
 
 jPo drive him back, and pound him, like a stray, 
 
 I Within the pinfold of his own conceit. 
 
 itleanwhile old grandame earth is grieved to find 
 
 iPhe playthings, which her love designed for him, 
 
 Jnthought of: in their woodland beds the flowers 
 
 Veep, and the river sides are all forlorn. 
 
 )h ! give us once again the wishing cap 
 
 !)f Portunatus, and the invisible coat 
 
 )f Jack the Giant-killer, Robin Hood, 
 
 Ind Sabra in the forest with St. George ! 
 
 fhe child, whose love is here, at least, doth reap 
 
 pne precious gain, that he forgets himself. 
 
 These mighty workmen of our later age, 
 Yho, with a broad highway, have overbridged 
 ?he froward chaos of futurity, 
 Tamed to their bidding ; they who have the skill 
 To manage books, and things, and make them act 
 ,0n infant minds as surely as the sun 
 peals with a flower ; the keepers of our time, 
 jChe guides and wardens of our faculties, 
 jJages who in their prescience would control 
 lUl accidents, and to the very road 
 iiVhich they have fashioned would confine us down, 
 jjike engines ; when will their presumption learn, 
 That in the unreasoning progress of the world 
 &. wiser spirit is at work for us, 
 &. better eye than theirs, most prodigal 
 Df blessings, and most studious of our good, 
 |3ven in what seem our most unfruitful hours ? 
 
 [ * There was a Boy : ye knew him well, ye cliffs 
 
 |lnd islands of Winander ! — many a time 
 
 jit evening, when the earliest stars began 
 
 to move along the edges of the hills, 
 
 Using or setting, would he stand alone 
 
 j'eneath the trees or by the glimmering lake, 
 
 Ind there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
 
 pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth 
 
 |Jplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
 
 |31ew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 
 
 phat they might answer him; and they would shout 
 
 See p. 141.— Ed. 
 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
 Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, 
 And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud, 
 Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild 
 Of jocund din ; and, when a lengthened pause 
 Of silence came and baffled his best skill, 
 Then sometimes, in that silence while he hung 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene 
 Would enter unawares into his mind, 
 "With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received 
 Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
 
 This Boy was taken from his mates, and died 
 In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
 Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale 
 Where he was born ; the grassy churchyard hangs 
 Upon a slope above the village school, 
 And through that churchyard when my way has 
 
 led 
 On summer evenings, I believe that there 
 A long half hour together I have stood 
 Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies ! 
 Even now appears before the mind's clear eye 
 That self-same village church ; I see her sit 
 (The throned Lady whom erewhile we hailed) 
 On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy 
 Who slumbers at her feet, — forgetful, too, 
 Of all her silent neighbourhood of graves, 
 And listening only to the gladsome sounds 
 That, from the rural school ascending, play 
 Beneath her and about her. May she long 
 Behold a race of young ones like to those 
 With whom I herded !— (easily, indeed, 
 We might have fed upon a fatter soil 
 Of arts and letters — but be that forgiven) — 
 A race of real children ; not too wise, 
 Too learned, or too good ; but wanton, fresh, 
 And bandied up and down by love and hate ; 
 Not unresentful where self-justified; 
 Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, modest, shy ; 
 Mad at their sports like withered leaves in winds ; 
 Though doing wrong and suffering, and full oft 
 Bending beneath our life's mysterious weight 
 Of pain, and doubt, and fear, yet yielding not 
 In happiness to the happiest upon earth. 
 Simplicity in habit, truth in speech, 
 Be these the daily strengtheners of their minds ; 
 May books and Nature be their early joy ! 
 And knowledge, rightly honoured with that 
 
 name — 
 Knowledge not purchased by the loss of power ! 
 
472 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Well do I call to mind the very week 
 When I was first intrusted to the care 
 Of that sweet Valley ; when its paths, its shores, 
 And brooks were like a dream of novelty 
 To my half-infant thoughts ; that very week, 
 While I was roving up and down alone, 
 Seeking I knew not what, I chanced to cross 
 One of those open fields, which, shaped like ears, 
 Make green peninsulas on Esthwaite's Lake : 
 Twilight was coming on, yet through the gloom 
 Appeared distinctly on the opposite shore 
 A heap of garments, as if left by one 
 Who might have there been bathing. Long I 
 
 watched, 
 But no one owned them, - meanwhile the calm lake 
 Grew dark with all the shadows on its breast, 
 And, now and then, a fish up-leaping snapped 
 The breathless stillness. The succeeding day, 
 Those unclaimed garments telling a plain tale 
 Drew to the spot an anxious crowd ; some looked 
 In passive expectation from the shore, 
 While from a boat others hung o'er the deep, 
 Sounding with grappling irons and long poles. 
 At last, the dead man, 'mid that beauteous scene 
 Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright 
 Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre shape 
 Of terror ; yet no soul-debasing fear, 
 Young as I was, a child not nine years old, 
 Possessed me, for my inner eye had seen 
 Such sights before, among the shining streams 
 Of faery land, the forest of romance. 
 Their spirit hallowed the sad spectacle 
 With decoration of ideal grace ; 
 A dignity, a smoothness, like the works 
 Of Grecian art, and purest poesy. 
 
 A precious treasure had I long possessed, 
 A little yellow, canvas-covered book, 
 A slender abstract of the Arabian tales ; 
 And, from companions in a new abode, 
 When first I learnt, that this dear prize of mine 
 Was but a block hewn from a mighty quarry — 
 That there were four large volumes, laden all 
 With kindred matter, 'twas to me, in truth, 
 A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly, 
 With one. not richer than myself, I made 
 A covenant that each should lay aside 
 The moneys he possessed, and hoard up more, 
 Till our joint savings had amassed enough 
 To make this book our own. Through several 
 
 months, 
 In spite of all temptation, we preserved 
 Religiously that vow ; but firmness failed, 
 Nor were we ever masters of our wish. 
 
 And when thereafter to my father's house 
 The holidays returned me, there to find 
 That golden store of books which I had left, 
 What joy was mine ! How often in the course 
 Of those glad respites, though a soft west wind 
 Ruffled the waters to the angler's wish, 
 For a whole day together, have I lain 
 Down by thy side, Derwent ! murmuring stream, 
 On the hot stones, and in the glaring sun, 
 And there have read, devouring as I read, 
 Defrauding the day's glory, desperate ! 
 Till with a sudden bound of smart reproach, 
 Such as an idler deals with in hi3 shame, 
 I to the sport betook myself again. 
 
 A gracious spirit o'er this earth presides, 
 And o'er the heart of man ; invisibly 
 It comes, to works of unreproved delight, 
 And tendency benign, directing those 
 Who care not, know not, think not what they do. 
 The tales that charm away the wakeful night 
 In Araby, romances ; legends penned 
 For solace by dim light of monkish lamps ; 
 Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised 
 By youthful squires ; adventures endless, spun 
 By the dismantled warrior in old age, 
 Out of the bowels of those very schemes 
 In which his youth did first extravagate ; 
 These spread like day, and something in the shape 
 Of these will live till man shall be no more. 
 Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours, 
 And they must have their food. Our childhood 
 
 sits, 
 Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne 
 That hath more power than all the elementa. 
 I guess not what this tells of Being past, 
 Nor what it augurs of the life to come ; 
 But so it is, and, in that dubious hour, 
 That twilight when we first begin to see 
 This dawning earth, to recognise, expect, 
 And, in the long probation that ensues, 
 The time of trial, ere we learn to live 
 In reconcilement with our stinted powers ; 
 To endure this state of meagre vassalage, 
 Unwilling to forego, confess, submit, 
 Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows 
 To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed 
 And humbled down; oh ! then we feel, we feel, 
 We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, 
 
 then, 
 Forgers of daring tales ! we bless you then, 
 Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape 
 Philosophy will call you : then we feel 
 With what, and how great might ye are in league, 
 
BOOKS. 
 
 473 
 
 Who make our wish, our power, our thought a 
 
 deed, 
 An empire, a possession, — ye whom time 
 And seasons serve ; all Faculties to whom 
 Earth crouches, the elements are potter's clay, 
 Space like a heaven filled up with northern lights, 
 Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once. 
 
 Relinquishing this lofty eminence 
 , For ground, though humbler, not the less a tract 
 Of the same isthmus, which our spirits cross 
 In progress from their native continent 
 To earth and human life, the Song might dwell 
 On that delightful time of growing youth, 
 When craving for the marvellous gives way 
 To strengthening love for things that we have seen ; 
 
 : When sober truth and steady sympathies, 
 Offered to notice by less daring pens, 
 Take firmer hold of us, and words themselves 
 Move us with conscious pleasure. 
 
 I am sad 
 At thought of rapture now for ever flown ; 
 Almost to, tears I sometimes could be sad 
 To think of, to read over, many a page, 
 Poems withal of name, which at that time 
 Did never fail to entrance me, and are now 
 
 , Dead in my eyes, dead as a theatre 
 Fresh emptied of spectators. Twice five years 
 
 > Or less I might have seen, when first my mind 
 
 ' With conscious pleasure opened to the charm 
 Of words in tuneful order, found them sweet 
 
 . For their own sokes, a passion, and a power; 
 
 1 And phrases pleased me chosen for delight, 
 For pomp, or love. Oft, in the public roads 
 
 ! Yet unfrequented, while the morning light 
 Was yellowing the hill tops, I went abroad 
 With a dear friend, and for the better part 
 Of two delightful hours we strolled along 
 
 ' By the still borders of the misty lake, 
 Repeating favourite verses with one voice, 
 : Or conning more, as happy as the birds 
 
 That round us chaunted. Well might we be glad, 
 
 Lifted above the ground by airy fancies, 
 
 More bright than madness or the dreams of wine ; 
 
 And, though full oft the objects of our love 
 
 Were false, and in their splendour overwrought, 
 
 Yet was there surely then no vulgar power 
 
 Working within us, — nothing less, in truth, 
 
 Than that most noble attribute of man, 
 
 Though yet untutored and inordinate, 
 
 That wish for something loftier, more adorned, 
 
 Than is the common aspect, daily garb, 
 
 Of human life. What wonder, then, if sounds 
 
 Of exultation echoed through the groves ! 
 
 For, images, and sentiments, and words, 
 
 And everything encountered or pursued 
 
 In that delicious world of poesy, 
 
 Kept holiday, a never-ending show, 
 
 With music, incense, festival, and flowers ! 
 
 Here must we pause : this only let me add, 
 From heart-experience, and in humblest sense 
 Of modesty, that he, who in his youth 
 A daily wanderer among woods and fields 
 With living Nature hath been intimate, 
 Not only in that raw unpractised time 
 Is stirred to extasy, as others are, 
 By glittering verse ; but further, doth receive, 
 In measure only dealt out to himself, 
 Knowledge and increase of enduring joy 
 From the great Nature that exists in works 
 Of mighty Poets. Visionary power 
 Attends the motions of the viewless winds, 
 Embodied in the mystery of words : 
 There, darkness makes abode, and all the host 
 Of shadowy things work endless changes, — there, 
 As in a mansion like their proper home, 
 Even forms and substances are circumfused 
 By that transparent veil with light divine, 
 And, through the turnings intricate of verse, 
 Present themselves as objects recognised, 
 In flashes, and with glory not their own. 
 
474 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 The leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's banks 
 
 And the simplicities of cottage life 
 
 I bade farewell ; and, one among the youth 
 
 Who, summoned by that season, reunite 
 
 As scattered birds troop to the fowler's lure, 
 
 Went back to Granta's cloisters, not so prompt 
 
 Or eager, though as gay and undepressed 
 
 In mind, as when I thence had taken flight 
 
 A few short months before. I turned my face 
 
 Without repining from the coves and heights 
 
 Clothed in the sunshine of the withering fern ; 
 
 Quitted, not loth, the mild magnificence 
 
 Of calmer lakes and louder streams ; and you, 
 
 Frank-hearted maids of rocky Cumberland, 
 
 You and your not unwelcome days of mirth, 
 
 Relinquished, and your nights of revelry, 
 
 And in my own unlovely cell sate down 
 
 In lightsome mood — such privilege has youth 
 
 That cannot take long leave of pleasant thoughts. 
 
 The bonds of indolent society 
 Relaxing in their hold, henceforth I lived 
 More to myself. Two winters may be passed 
 Without a separate notice : many books 
 Were skimmed, devoured, or studiously perused, 
 But with no settled plan. I was detached 
 Internally from academic cares ; 
 Yet independent study seemed a course 
 Of hardy disobedience toward friends 
 And kindred, proud rebellion and unkind. 
 This spurious virtue, rather let it bear 
 A name it now deserves, this cowardice, 
 Gave treacherous sanction to that over-love 
 Of freedom which encouraged me to turn 
 From regulations even of my own 
 As from restraints and bonds. Yet who can tell — 
 Who knows what thus may have been gained, 
 
 both then 
 And at a later season, or preserved ; 
 What love of nature, what original strength 
 Of contemplation, what intuitive truths 
 The deepest and the best, what keen research, 
 Unbiassed, unbewildered, and unawed ? 
 
 The Poet's soul was with me at that time ; 
 Sweet meditations, the still overflow 
 
 Of present happiness, while future years 
 Lacked not anticipations, tender dreams, 
 No few of which have since been realised ; 
 And some remain, hopes for my futurelife. 
 Four years and thirty, told this very week, 
 Have I been now a sojourner on earth, 
 By sorrow not unsmitten ; yet for me 
 Life's morning radiance hath not left the hills, 
 Her dew is on the flowers. Those were the days 
 Which also first emboldened me to trust 
 With firmness, hitherto but slightly touched 
 By such a daring thought, that I might leave 
 Some monument behind me which pure hearts 
 Should reverence. The instinctive humbleness, 
 Maintained even by the very name and thought 
 Of printed books and authorship, began 
 To melt away ; and further, the dread awe 
 Of mighty names was softened down and seemed 
 Approachable, admitting fellowship 
 Of modest sympathy. Such aspect now, 
 Though not familiarly, my mind put on, 
 Content to observe, to achieve, and to enjoy. 
 
 All winter long, whenever free to choose, 
 Did I by night frequent the College grove 
 And tributary walks ; the last, and oft 
 The only one, who had been lingering there 
 Through hours of silence, till the porter's bell, 
 A punctual follower on the stroke of nine, 
 Rang with its blunt unceremonious voice, 
 Inexorable summons ! Lofty elms, 
 Inviting shades of opportune recess, 
 Bestowed composure on a neighbourhood 
 Unpeaceful in itself. A single tree 
 With sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitely wreathed, 
 Grew there ; an ash which Winter for himself 
 Decked out with pride, and with outlandish grace : 
 Up from the ground, and almost to the top, 
 The trunk and every master branch were green 
 With clustering ivy, and the lightsome twigs 
 And outer spray profusely tipped with seeds 
 That hung in yellow tassels, while the air 
 Stirred them, not voiceless. Often have I stood 
 Foot-bound uplooking at this lovely tree 
 Beneath a frosty moon. The hemisphere 
 Of magic fiction, verse of mine perchance 
 May never tread ; but scarcely Spenser's self 
 Could have more tranquil vision3 in his youth, 
 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 475 
 
 Or could more bright appearances create 
 .Of human forms with superhuman powers, 
 Than I beheld loitering on calm clear nights 
 Alone, beneath this fairy work of earth. 
 
 On the vague reading of a truant youth 
 ;' Twere idle to descant. My inner judgment 
 Not seldom differed from my taste in books, 
 As if it appertained to another mind, 
 And yet the books which then I valued most 
 Are dearest to me now ; for, having scanned, 
 Not heedlessly, the laws, and watched the forms 
 Of Nature, in that knowledge I possessed 
 A. standard, often usefully applied, 
 Even when unconsciously, to things removed 
 From a familiar sympathy. — In fine, 
 I was a better judge of thoughts than words, 
 Misled in estimating words, not only 
 By common inexperience of youth, 
 But by the trade in classic niceties, 
 The dangerous craft of culling term and phrase 
 From languages that want the living voice 
 To cany meaning to the natural heart ; 
 To tell us what is passion, what is truth, 
 ;What reason, what simplicity and sense. 
 
 Yet may we not entirely overlook 
 The pleasure gathered from the rudiments 
 Of geometric science. Though advanced 
 In these inquiries, with regret I speak, 
 'No farther than the threshold, there I found 
 Both elevation and composed delight: 
 With Indian awe and wonder, ignorance pleased 
 With its own struggles, did I meditate 
 On the relation those abstractions bear 
 To Nature's laws, and by what process led, 
 Those immaterial agents bowed their heads 
 Duly to serve the mind of earth-born man ; 
 From star to star, from kindred sphere to sphere, 
 From system on to system without end. 
 
 More frequently from the same source I drew 
 A pleasure quiet and profound, a sense 
 Of permanent and universal sway, 
 And paramount belief; there, recognised 
 1 type, for finite natures, of the one 
 Supreme Existence, the surpassing life 
 Which — to the boundaries of space and time, 
 )f melancholy space and doleful time, 
 Superior and incapable of change, 
 j^or touched by welterings of passion — is, 
 |ind hath the name of, God. Transcendent peace 
 And silence did await upon these thoughts 
 That were a frequent comfort to my youth. 
 
 'Tis told by one whom stormy waters threw, 
 With fellow-sufferers by the shipwreck spared, 
 Upon a desert coast, that having brought 
 To land a single volume, saved by chance, 
 A treatise of Geometry, he wont, 
 Although of food and clothing destitute, 
 And beyond common wretchedness depressed, 
 To part from company and take this book 
 (Then first a self-taught pupil in its truths) 
 To spots remote, and draw his diagrams 
 With a long staff upon the sand, and thus 
 Did oft beguile his sorrow, and almost 
 Forget his feeling : so (if like effect 
 From the same cause produced, 'mid outward 
 
 things 
 So different, may rightly be compared), 
 So was it then with me, and so will be 
 With Poets ever. Mighty is the charm 
 Of those abstractions to a mind beset 
 With images and haunted by herself, 
 And specially delightful unto me 
 Was that clear synthesis built up aloft 
 So gracefully ; even then when it appeared 
 Not more than a mere plaything, or a toy 
 To sense embodied : not the thing it is 
 In verity, an independent world, 
 Created out of pure intelligence. 
 
 Such dispositions then were mine unearned 
 By aught, I feai", of genuine desert — 
 Mine, through heaven's grace and inborn aptitudes. 
 And not to leave the story of that time 
 Imperfect, with these habits must be joined, 
 Moods melancholy, fits of spleen, that loved 
 A pensive sky, sad days, and piping winds, 
 The twilight more than dawn, autumn than spring; 
 A treasured and luxurious gloom of choice 
 And inclination mainly, and the mere 
 Redundancy of youth's contentedness. 
 — To time thus spent, add multitudes of hours 
 Pilfered away, by what the Bard who sang 
 Of the Enchanter Indolence hath called 
 " Good-natured lounging," and behold a map 
 Of my collegiate life— far less intense 
 Than duty called for, or, without regard 
 To duty, might have sprung up of itself 
 By change of accidents, or even, to speak 
 Without unkindness, in another place. 
 Yet why take refuge in that plea ? — the fault, 
 This I repeat, was mine ; mine be the blame. 
 
 In summer, making quest for works of art, 
 Or scenes renowned for beauty, I explored 
 That streamlet whose blue current works its way 
 
476 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Between romantic Dovedale's spiry rocks ; 
 Pried into Yorkshire dales, or hidden tracts 
 Of my own native region, and was blest 
 Between these sundry wanderings with a joy 
 Above all joys, that seemed another morn 
 Risen on mid noon; blest with the presence, 
 
 Friend ! 
 Of that sole Sister, her who hath been long 
 Dear to thee also, thy true friend and mine, 
 Now, after separation desolate, 
 Restored to me — such absence that she seemed 
 A gift then first bestowed. The varied banks 
 Of Emont, hitherto unnamed in song, 
 And that monastic castle, 'mid tall trees, 
 Low standing by the margin of the stream, 
 A mansion visited (as fame reports) 
 By Sidney, where, in sight of our Helvellyn, 
 Or stormy Cross-fell, snatches he might pen 
 Of his Arcadia, by fraternal love 
 Inspired; — that river and those mouldering towers 
 Have seen us side by side, when, having clomb 
 The darksome windings of a broken stair, * 
 And crept along a ridge of fractured wall, 
 Not without trembling, we in safety looked 
 Forth, through some Gothic window's open space, 
 And gathered with one mind a rich reward 
 From the far -stretching landscape, by the light 
 Of morning beautified, or purple eve ; 
 Or, not less pleased, lay on some turret's head, 
 Catching from tufts of grass and hare-bell flowers 
 Their faintest whisper to the passing breeze, 
 Given out while mid-day heat oppressed the plains. 
 
 Another maid there was, who also shed 
 A gladness o'er that season, then to me, 
 By her exulting outside look of youth 
 And placid under-countenance, first endeared ; 
 That other spirit, Coleridge ! who is now 
 So near to us, that meek confiding heart, 
 So reverenced by us both. O'er paths and fields 
 In all that neighbourhood, through narrow lanes 
 Of eglantine, and through the shady woods, 
 And o'er the Border Beacon, and the waste 
 Of naked pools, and common crags that lay 
 Exposed on the bare fell, were scattered love, 
 The spirit of pleasure, and youth's golden, gleam. 
 Friend ! we had not seen thee at that time, 
 And yet a power is on me, and a strong 
 Confusion, and I seem to plant thee there. 
 Far art thou wandered now in search of health 
 And milder breezes, — melancholy lot ! 
 But thou art with us, with us in the past, 
 The present, with us in the times to come. 
 There is no grief, no sorrow, no despair, 
 
 No languor, no dejection, no dismay, 
 
 No absence scarcely can there be, for those 
 
 Who love as we do. Speed thee well ! divide 
 
 With us thy pleasure ; thy returning strength, 
 
 Receive it daily as a joy of ours; 
 
 Share with us thy fresh spirits, whether gift 
 
 Of gales Etesian or of tender thoughts. 
 
 I, too, have been a wanderer ; but, alas ! 
 How different the fate of different men. 
 Though mutually unknown, yea nursed and reared 
 As if in several elements, we were framed 
 To bend at last to the same discipline, 
 Predestined, if two beings ever were, 
 To seek the same delights, and have one health, 
 One happiness. Throughout this narrative, 
 Else sooner ended, I have borne in mind 
 For whom it registers the birth, and marks the 
 
 growth, 
 Of gentleness, simplicity, and truth, 
 And joyous loves, that hallow innocent days 
 Of peace and self-command. Of rivers, fields, 
 And groves I speak to thee, my Friend ! to thee, 
 Who, yet a liveried schoolboy, in the depths 
 Of the huge city, on the leaded roof 
 Of that wide edifice, thy school and home, 
 Wert used to lie and gaze upon the clouds 
 Moving in heaven ; or, of that pleasure tired, 
 To shut thine eyes, and by internal light 
 See trees, and meadows, and thy native stream, 
 Far distant, thus beheld from year to year 
 Of a long exile. Nor could I forget, 
 In this late portion of my argument, 
 That scarcely, as my term of pupilage 
 Ceased, had I left those academic bowers 
 When thou wert thither guided. From the heart 
 Of London, and from cloisters there, thou earnest, 
 And didst sit down in temperance and peace, 
 A rigorous student. What a stormy course 
 Then followed. Oh ! it is a pang that calls 
 For utterance, to think what easy change 
 Of circumstances might to thee have spared 
 A world of pain, ripened a thousand hopes, 
 For ever withered. Through this retrospect 
 Of my collegiate life I still have had 
 Thy after-sojourn in the self-same place 
 Present before my eyes, have played with times 
 And accidents as children do with cards, 
 Or as a man, who, when his house is built, 
 A frame locked up in wood and stone, doth still, 
 As impotent fancy prompts, by his fireside, 
 Rebuild it to his liking. I have thought 
 Of thee, thy learning, gorgeous eloquence, 
 And all the strength and plumage of thy youth, 
 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 Thy subtle speculations, toils abstruse 
 Among the schoolmen, and Platonic forms 
 ! Of wild ideal pageantry, shaped out 
 From things well-matched or ill, and words for 
 
 things, 
 The self-created sustenance of a mind 
 Debarred from Nature's living images, 
 Compelled to be a life unto herself, 
 And unrelentingly possessed by thirst 
 ;0f greatness, love, and beauty. Not alone, 
 Ah ! surely not in singleness of heart 
 i Should I have seen the light of evening fade 
 From smooth Cam's silent waters : had we met, 
 Even at that early time, needs must I trust 
 tin the belief, that my maturer age, 
 :My calmer habits, and more steady voice, 
 iWould with an influence benigu have soothed, 
 !0r chased away, the airy wretchedness 
 That battened on thy youth. But thou hast trod 
 A march of glory, which doth put to shame 
 'These vain regrets ; health suffers in thee, else 
 ,Such grief for thee would be the weakest thought 
 (That ever harboured in the breast of man. 
 
 A passing word erewhile did lightly touch 
 On wanderings of my own, that now embraced 
 With livelier hope a region wider far. 
 
 When the third summer freed us from restraint, 
 
 A youthful friend, he too a mountaineer, 
 Not slow to share my wishes, took his staff, 
 
 And sallying forth, we journeyed side by side, 
 
 (Bound to the distant Alps. A hardy slight 
 Did this unprecedented course imply 
 
 ■Of college studies and their set rewards ; 
 
 ,- Nor had, in truth, the scheme been formed by me 
 Without uneasy forethought of the pain, 
 The censures, aud ill-omeniug of those 
 
 ITo whom my worldly interests were dear. 
 But Nature then was sovereign in my mind, 
 
 i And mighty forms, seizing a youthful fancy, 
 Had given a charter to irregular hopes. 
 
 ; In any age of uneventful calm 
 
 : Among the nations, surely would my heart 
 
 :Have been possessed by similar desire ; 
 But Europe at that time was thrilled with joy, 
 France standing on the top of golden hours, 
 And human nature seeming born again. 
 
 (Lightly equipped, and but a few brief looks 
 Cast on the white cliffs of our native shore 
 (From the receding vessel's deck, we chanced 
 jTo land at Calais on the very eve 
 j Of that great federal day ; and there we saw, 
 
 In a mean city, and among a few, 
 
 How bright a face is worn when joy of one 
 
 Is joy for tens of millions. Southward thence 
 
 We held our way, direct through hamlets, towns, 
 
 Gaudy with reliques of that festival, 
 
 Flowers left to wither on triumphal arcs, 
 
 And window-garlands. On the public roads, 
 
 And, once, three days successively, through paths 
 
 By which our toilsome journey was abridged, 
 
 Among sequestered villages we walked 
 
 And found benevolence aud blessedness 
 
 Spread like a fragrance everywhere, when spring 
 
 Hath left no corner of the land untouched ; 
 
 Where elms for many and many a league in files 
 
 With their thin umbrage, on the stately roads 
 
 Of that great kingdom, rustled o'er our heads, 
 
 For ever near us as we paced along : 
 
 How sweet at such a time, with such delight 
 
 On every side, in prime of youthful strength, 
 
 To feed a Poet's tender melancholy 
 
 And fond conceit of sadness, with the sound 
 
 Of undulations varying as might please 
 
 The wind that swayed them; once, and more 
 
 than once, 
 Unhoused beneath the evening star we saw 
 Dances of liberty, and in late hours 
 Of darkness, dances in the open air 
 Deftly prolonged, though grey-haired lookers on 
 Might waste their breath in chiding. 
 
 Under hills — 
 The vine-clad hills and slopes of Burgundy, 
 Upon the bosom of the gentle Saone 
 We glided forward with the flowing stream. 
 Swift Rhone ! thou wert the wings on which we cut 
 A winding passage with majestic ease 
 Between thy lofty rocks. Enchanting show 
 Those woods and farms and orchards did present, 
 And single cottages and lurking towns, 
 Reach after reach, succession without end 
 Of deep and stately vales ! A lonely pair 
 Of strangers, till day closed, we sailed along 
 Clustered together with a merry crowd 
 Of those emancipated, a blithe host 
 Of travellers, chiefly delegates, returning 
 From the great spousals newly solemnised 
 At their chief city, in the sight of Heaven. 
 Like bees they swarmed, gaudy and gay as bees ; 
 Some vapoured in the unruliness of joy, 
 And with their swords flourished as if to fight 
 The saucy air. In this proud company 
 We landed — took with them our evening meal, 
 Guests welcome almost as the angels were 
 To Abraham of old. The supper done, 
 With flowing cups elate and happy thoughts 
 
478 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 We rose at signal given, and formed a ring 
 And, hand in hand, danced round and round the 
 
 board ; 
 All hearts were open, every tongue was loud 
 With amity and glee ; we bore a name 
 Honoured in France, the name of Englishmen, 
 And hospitably did they give us hail, 
 As their forerunners in a glorious course ; 
 And round and round the board we danced again. 
 With these blithe friends our voyage we renewed 
 At early dawn. The monastery bells 
 Made a sweet jingling in our youthful ears ; 
 The rapid river flowing without noise, 
 And each uprising or receding spire 
 Spake with a sense of peace, at intervals 
 Touching the heart amid the boisterous crew 
 By whom we were encompassed. Taking leave 
 Of this glad throng, foot-travellers side by side, 
 Measuring our steps in quiet, we pursued 
 Our journey, and ere twice the sun had set 
 Beheld the Convent of Chartreuse, and there 
 Rested within an awful solitude : 
 Yes ; for even then no other than a place 
 Of soul-affecting solitude appeared 
 That far-famed region, though our eyes had seen, 
 As toward the sacred mansion we advanced, 
 Arms flashing, and a military glare 
 Of riotous men commissioned to expel 
 The blameless inmates, and belike subvert 
 That frame of social being, which so long 
 Had bodied forth the ghostliness of things 
 In silence visible and perpetual calm. 
 — " Stay, stay your sacrilegious hands ! " — The 
 
 voice 
 Was Nature's, uttered from her Alpine throne ; 
 I heard it then and seem to hear it now — 
 " Your impious work forbear, perish what may, 
 Let this one temple last, be this one spot 
 Of earth devoted to eternity ! " 
 She ceased to speak, but while St. Bruno's pines 
 Waved their dark tops, not silent as they waved, 
 And while below, along their several beds, 
 Murmured the sister streams of Life and Death, 
 Thus by conflicting passions pressed, my heart 
 Responded ; " Honour to the patriot's zeal ! 
 Glory and hope to new-born Liberty ! 
 Hail to the mighty projects of the time ! 
 Discerning sword that Justice wields, do thou 
 Go forth and prosper ; and, ye purging fires, 
 Up to the loftiest towers of Pride ascend, 
 Fanned by the breath of angry Providence. 
 But oh ! if Past and Future be the wings 
 On whose support harmoniously conjoined 
 Moves the great sphit of human knowledge, spare 
 
 These courts of mystery, where a step advanced 
 Between the portals of the shadowy rocks 
 Leaves far behind life's treacherous vanities, 
 For penitential tears and trembling hopes 
 Exchanged — to equalise in God's pure sight 
 Monarch and peasant : be the house redeemed 
 With its unworldly votaries, for the sake 
 Of conquest over sense, hourly achieved 
 Through faith and meditative reason, resting 
 Upon the word of heaven-imparted truth, 
 Calmly triumphant ; and for humbler claim 
 Of that imaginative impulse sent 
 From these majestic floods, yon shining cliffs, 
 The untransmuted shapes of many worlds, 
 Cerulean ether's pure inhabitants, 
 These forests unapproachable by death, 
 That shall endure as long as man endures, 
 To think, to hope, to worship, and to feel, 
 To struggle, to be lost within himself 
 In trepidation, from the blank abyss 
 To look with bodily eyes, and be consoled." 
 Not seldom since that moment have I wished 
 That thou, Friend ! the trouble or the calm 
 Hadst shared, when, from profane regards apart, 
 In sympathetic reverence we trod 
 The floors of those dim cloisters, till that hour, 
 From their foundation, strangers to the presence 
 Of unrestricted and unthinking man. 
 Abroad, how cheeringly the sunshine lay 
 Upon the open lawns ! Vallombre's groves 
 Entering, we fed the soul with darkness ; thence 
 Issued, and with uplifted eyes beheld, 
 In different quarters of the bending sky, 
 The cross of Jesus stand erect, as if 
 Hands of angelic powers had fixed it there, 
 Memorial reverenced by a thousand storms ; 
 Yet then, from the undiscriminating sweep 
 And rage of one State-whirlwind, insecure. 
 
 'Tis not my present purpose to retrace 
 That variegated journey step by step. 
 A march it was of military speed, 
 And Earth did change her images and forms 
 Before us, fast as clouds are changed in heaven. 
 Day after day, up early and down late, 
 From hill to vale we dropped, from vale to hill 
 Mounted — from province on to province swept, 
 Keen hunters in a chase of fourteen weeks, 
 Eager as birds of prey, or as a ship 
 Upon the stretch, when winds are blowing fair : 
 Sweet coverts did we cross of pastoral life, 
 Enticing valleys, greeted them and left 
 Too soon, while yet the very flash and gleam 
 Of salutation were not passed away. 
 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 479 
 
 Oh ! sorrow for the youth who could have seen 
 
 Unchastened, unsubdued, unawed, unraised 
 
 To patriarchal dignity of mind, 
 
 And pure simplicity of wish and will, 
 
 Those sanctified abodes of peaceful man, 
 
 Pleased (though to hardship born, and compassed 
 
 round 
 Rlth danger, varying as the seasons change), 
 Pleased with his daily task, or, if not pleased, 
 Contented, from the moment that the dawn 
 Ah ! surely not without attendant gleams 
 Of soul-illumination) calls him forth 
 To industry, by glistenings flung on rocks, 
 iVhose evening shadows lead him to repose. 
 
 Well might a stranger look with bounding heart 
 Down on a green recess, the first I saw 
 )f those deep haunts, an aboriginal vale, 
 Juiet and lorded over and possessed 
 3y naked huts, wood-built, and sown like tents 
 )r Indian cabins over the fresh lawns 
 Ind by the river side. 
 
 That very day, 
 ?rom a bare ridge we also first beheld 
 Jnveiled the summit of Mont Blanc, and grieved 
 fo have a soulless image on the eye 
 ?hat had usurped upon a living thought 
 ?hat never more could be. The wondrous Vale 
 )f Chamouny stretched far below, and soon 
 Vith its dumb cataracts and streams of ice, 
 |L motionless array of mighty waves, 
 'ive rivers broad and vast, made rich amends, 
 ; t.nd reconciled us to realities ; 
 'here small birds warble from the leafy trees, 
 'he eagle soars high in the element, 
 'here doth the reaper bind the yellow sheaf, 
 'he maiden spread the haycock in the sun, 
 Yhile Winter like a well-tamed lion walks, 
 descending from the mountain to make sport 
 .mong the cottages by beds of flowers. 
 
 Whate'er in this wide circuit we beheld, 
 f heard, was fitted to our unripe state 
 !f intellect and heart. With such a book 
 efore our eyes, we could not choose but read 
 essons of genuine brotherhood, the plain 
 nd universal reason of mankind, 
 he truths of young and old. Nor, side by side 
 acing, two social pilgrims, or alone 
 jach with his humour, could we fail to abound 
 i dreams and fictions, pensively composed : 
 j ejection taken up for pleasure's sake, 
 nd gilded sympathies, the willow wreath, 
 nd sober posies of funereal flowers, 
 
 Gathered among those solitudes sublime 
 From formal gardens of the lady Sorrow, 
 Did sweeten many a meditative hour. 
 
 Yet still in me with those soft luxuries 
 Mixed something of stern mood, an under-thirst 
 Of vigour seldom utterly allayed : 
 And from that source how different a sadness 
 Would issue, let one incident make known. 
 When from the Vallais we had turned, and clomb 
 Along the Simplon's steep and rugged road, 
 Following a band of muleteers, we reached 
 A halting-place, where all together took 
 Their noon-tide meal. Hastily rose our guide, 
 Leaving us at the board ; awhile we lingered, 
 Then paced the beaten downward way that led 
 Eight to a rough stream's edge, and there broke 
 
 off; 
 The only track now visible was one 
 That from the torrent's further brink held forth 
 Conspicuous invitation to ascend 
 A lofty mountain. After brief delay 
 Crossing the unbridged stream, that road we took, 
 And clomb with eagerness, till anxious fears 
 Intruded, for we failed to overtake 
 Our comrades gone before. By fortunate chance, 
 While every moment added doubt to doubt, 
 A peasant met us, from whose mouth we learned 
 That to the spot which had perplexed us first 
 We must descend, and there should find the road, 
 Which in the stony channel of the stream 
 Lay a few steps, and then along its banks ; 
 And, that our future course, all plain to sight, 
 Was downwards, with the current of that stream. 
 Loth to believe what we so grieved to hear, 
 For still we had hopes that pointed to the clouds, 
 We questioned him again, and yet again ; 
 But every word that from the peasant's lips 
 Came in reply, translated by our feelings, 
 Ended in this, — that we had crossed the Alps. 
 
 Imagination — here the Power so-called 
 Through sad incompetence of human speech, 
 That awful Power rose from the mind's abyss 
 Like an unfathered vapour that enwraps, 
 At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost ; 
 Halted without an effort to break through; 
 But to my conscious soul I now can say — 
 " I recognise thy glory : " in such strength 
 Of usurpation, when the light of sense 
 Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed 
 The invisible world, doth greatness make abode, 
 There harbours ; whether we be young or old, 
 Our destiny, our being's heart and home, 
 
480 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Is with infinitude, and only there ; 
 With hope it is, hope that can never die, 
 Effort, and expectation, and desire, 
 And something evermore about to be. 
 Under such banners militant, the soul 
 Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no spoils 
 That may attest her prowess, blest in thoughts 
 That are their own perfection and reward, 
 Strong in herself and in beatitude 
 That hides ber, like the mighty flood of Nile 
 Poured from his fount of Abyssinian clouds 
 To fertilise the whole Egyptian plain. 
 
 The melancholy slackening that ensued 
 Upon those tidings by the peasant given 
 Was soon dislodged. Downwards we hurried fast, 
 And, with the half-shaped road which we had 
 
 missed, 
 Entered a narrow chasm. * The brook and road 
 Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait, 
 And with them did we journey several hours 
 At a slow pace. The immeasurable height 
 Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 
 The stationary blasts of waterfalls, 
 And in the narrow rent at every turn 
 Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn, 
 The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, 
 The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, 
 Black drizzling crags that spake by the way-side 
 As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
 And giddy prospect of the raving stream, 
 The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens, 
 Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light — 
 Were all like workings of one mind, the features 
 Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree ; 
 Characters of the great Apocalypse, 
 The types and symbols of Eternity, 
 Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 
 
 That night our lodging was a house that stood 
 Alone within the valley, at a point 
 Where, tumbling from aloft, a torrent swelled 
 The rapid stream whose margin we had trod ; 
 A dreary mansion, large beyond all need, 
 With high and spacious rooms, deafened and 
 
 stunned 
 By noise of waters, making innocent sleep 
 Lie melancholy among weary bones. 
 
 Uprisen betimes, our journey we renewed, 
 Led by the stream, ere noon-day mag ;ified 
 Into a lordly river, broad and deep, 
 
 * See p. 143.— Ed. 
 
 Dimpling along in silent majesty, 
 With mountains for its neighbours, and in view 
 Of distant mountains and their snowy tops, 
 And thus proceeding to Locarno's Lake, 
 Fit resting-place for such a visitant. 
 Locarno ! spreading out in width like Heaven, 
 How dost thou cleave to the poetic heart, 
 Bask in the sunshine of the memory ; 
 And Como ! thou, a treasure whom the earth 
 Keeps to herself, confined as in a depth 
 Of Abyssinian privacy. I spake 
 Of thee, thy chestnut woods, and garden plots 
 Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids ; 
 Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with vine; 
 Winding from house to house, from town to towr 
 Sole link that binds them to each other ; walks, 
 League after league, and cloistral avenues, 
 Where silence dwells if music be not there : 
 While yet a youth undisciplined in verse, 
 Through fond ambition of that hour I strove 
 To chant your praise ; nor can approach you not 
 Ungreeted by a more melodious Song, 
 Where tones of Nature smoothed by learned Ar 
 May flow in lasting current. Like a breeze 
 Or sunbeam over your domain I passed 
 In motion without pause ; but ye have left 
 Your beauty with me, a serene accord 
 Of forms and colours, passive, yet endowed 
 In their submissiveness with power as sweet 
 And gracious, almost might I dare to say, 
 As virtue is, or goodness ; sweet as love, 
 Or the remembrance of a generous deed, 
 Or mildest visitations of pure thought, 
 When God, the giver of all joy, is thanked 
 Religiously, in silent blessedness ; 
 Sweet as this last herself, for such it is. 
 
 With those delightful pathways we advanced, ! 
 For two days' space, in presence of the Lake, 
 That, stretching far among the Alps, assumed 
 A character more stern. The second night, 
 From sleep awakened, and misled by sound 
 Of the church clock telling the hours with stroke 
 Whose import then we had not learned, we rose 
 By moonlight, doubting not that day was nigh, | 
 And that meanwhile, by no uncertain patb, 
 Along the winding margin of the lake, 
 Led, as before, we should behold the scene 
 Hushed in profound repose. We left the town ! 
 Of Gravedona with this hope ; but soon 
 Were lost, bewildered among woods immense, 
 And on a rock sate down, to wait for day. 
 An open place it was, and overlooked, 
 From high, the sullen water far beneath, 
 
 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS. 
 
 481 
 
 n which a dull red image of the moon 
 Lay bedded, changing oftentimes its form 
 Like an uneasy snake. From hour to hour 
 We sate and sate, wondering, as if the night 
 Had been ensnared by witchcraft. On the rock 
 At last we stretched our weary limbs for sleep, 
 But could not sleep, tormented by the stings 
 Of insects, which, with noise like that of noon, 
 Filled all the woods : the cry of unknown birds ; 
 The mountains more by blackness visible 
 And their own size, than any outward light ; 
 The breathless wilderness of clouds ; the clock 
 That told, with unintelligible voice, 
 The widely pai-ted hours ; the noise of streams, 
 And sometimes rustling motions nigh at hand, 
 That did not leave us free from personal fear ; 
 And, lastly, the withdrawing moon, that set 
 Before us, while she still was high in heaven; — 
 These were our food ; and such a summer's night 
 Followed that pair of golden days that shed 
 On Como's Lake, and all that round it lay, 
 Their fairest, softest, happiest influence. 
 
 But here I must break off, and bid farewell 
 To days, each offering some new sight, or fraught 
 With some untried adventure, in a course 
 Prolonged till sprinklings of autumnal snow 
 phecked our unwearied steps. Let this alone 
 Be mentioned as a parting word, that not 
 In hollow exultation, dealing out 
 hyperboles of praise comparative ; 
 !Tot rich one moment to be poor for ever ; 
 ;Sot prostrate, overborne, as if the mind 
 'derself were nothing, a mere pensioner 
 ( Dn outward forms — did we in presence stand 
 Of that magnificent region. On the front 
 Of this whole Song is written that my heart 
 Hust, in such Temple, needs have offered up 
 X different worship. Finally, whate'er 
 
 I saw, or heard, or felt, was but a stream 
 
 That flowed into a kindred stream ; a gale. 
 
 Confederate with the current of the soul, 
 
 To speed my voyage ; every sound or sight, 
 
 In its degree of power, administered 
 
 To grandeur or to tenderness, — to the one 
 
 Directly, but to tender thoughts by means 
 
 Less often instantaneous in effect ; 
 
 Led me to these by paths that, in the main, 
 
 Were more circuitous, but not less sure 
 
 Duly to reach the point marked out by Heaven. 
 
 Oh, most beloved Friend ! a glorious time, 
 A happy time that was ; triumphant looks 
 Were then the common language of all eyes ; 
 As if awaked from sleep, the Nations hailed 
 Their great expectancy : the fife of war 
 Was then a spirit-stirring sound indeed, 
 A blackbird's whistle in a budding grove. 
 We left the Swiss exulting in the fate 
 Of their near neighbours ; and, when shortening 
 
 fast 
 Our pilgrimage, nor distant far from home, 
 We crossed the Brabant armies on the fret 
 For battle in the cause of Liberty. 
 A stripling, scarcely of the household then 
 Of social life, I looked upon these things 
 As from a distance ; heard, and saw, and felt, 
 Was touched, but with no intimate concern ; 
 I seemed to move along them, as a bird 
 Moves through the air, or as a fish pursues 
 Its sport, or feeds in its proper element ; 
 I wanted not that joy, I did not need 
 Such help; the ever-living universe, 
 Turn where I might, was opening out its glories, 
 And the independent spirit of pure youth 
 Called forth, at every season, new delights 
 Spread round my steps like sunshine o'er green 
 
 fields. 
 
£82 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 BOOK SEVENTH. 
 
 RESIDENCE IN LONDON. 
 
 Six changeful years have vanished since I first 
 Poured out (saluted by that quickening breeze 
 Which met me issuing from the City's * walls) 
 A glad preamble to this Verse : I sang 
 Aloud, with fervour irresistible 
 Of short-lived transport, like a torrent bursting, 
 From a black thunder-cloud, down Scafell's side 
 To rush and disappear. But soon broke forth 
 (So willed the Muse) a less impetuous stream, 
 That flowed awhile with unabating strength, 
 Then stopped for years ; not audible again 
 Before last primrose-time. Beloved Friend ! 
 The assurance which then cheered some heavy 
 
 thoughts 
 On thy departure to a foreign land 
 Has failed ; too slowly moves the promised work. 
 Through the whole summer have I been at rest, 
 Partly from voluntary holiday, 
 And part through outward hindrance. But I heard, 
 After the hour of sunset yester-even, 
 Sitting within doors between light and dark, 
 A choir of red-breasts gathered somewhere near 
 My threshold, — minstrels from the distant woods 
 Sent in on Winter's service, to announce, 
 AVith preparation artful and benign, 
 That the rough lord had left the surly North 
 On his accustomed journey. The delight, 
 Due to this timely notice, unawares 
 Smote me, and, listening, I in whispers said, 
 " Ye heartsome Choristers, ye and I will be 
 Associates, and, unscared by blustering winds, 
 Will chant together." Thereafter, as the shades 
 Of twilight deepened, going forth, I spied 
 A glow-worm underneath a dusky plume 
 Or canopy of yet unwithered fern, 
 Clear-shining, like a hermit's taper seen 
 Through a thick forest. Silence touched me here 
 No less than sound had done before ; the child 
 Of Summer, lingering, shining, by herself, 
 The voiceless worm on the unfrequented hills, 
 Seemed sent on the same errand with the choir 
 Of Winter that had warbled at my door, 
 And the whole year breathed tenderness and love. 
 
 The last night's genial feeling overflowed 
 Upon this morning, and my favourite grove, 
 Tossing in sunshine its dark boughs aloft, 
 As if to make the strong wind visible, 
 Wakes in me agitations like its own, 
 A spirit friendly to the Poet's task, 
 Which we will now resume with lively hope, 
 Nor checked by aught of tamer argument 
 That lies before us, needful to be told. 
 
 Returned from that excursion,* soon I bade 
 Farewell for ever to the sheltered seats 
 Of gowned students, quitted hall and bower, 
 And every comfort of that privileged ground, 
 Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent among 
 The unfenced regions of society. 
 
 Yet, undetermined to what course of life 
 I should adhere, and seeming to possess 
 A little space of intermediate time 
 At full command, to London first I turned, 
 In no disturbance of excessive hope, 
 By personal ambition unenslaved, 
 Frugal as there was need, and, though self-willed, 
 From dangerous passions free. Three years had 
 
 flown 
 Since I had felt in heart and soul the shock 
 Of the huge town's first presence, and had paced 
 Her endless streets, a transient visitant : 
 Now, fixed amid that concourse of mankind 
 Where Pleasure whirls about incessantly, 
 And life and labour seem but one, I filled 
 An idler's place ; au idler well content 
 To have a house (what matter for a home ?) 
 That owned him ; living cheerfully abroad 
 With unchecked fancy ever on the stir, 
 And all my young affections out of doors. 
 
 There was a time when whatsoe'er is feigned 
 Of airy palaces, and gardens built 
 By Genii of romance ; or hath in grave 
 Authentic history been set forth of Rome, 
 Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis ; 
 Or given upon report by pilgrim friars, 
 Of golden cities ten months' journey deep 
 Among Tartarian wilds — fell short, far short, 
 
 Tho City of Goslar, in Lower Saxony. — Ed. 
 
 i p. 477.— Ed. 
 
RESIDENCE IN LONDON. 
 
 483 
 
 Of what my fond simplicity believed 
 1 And thought of London — held me by a chain 
 
 Less strong of wonder and obscure delight. 
 
 Whether the bolt of childhood's Fancy shot 
 
 For me beyond its ordinary mark, 
 i 'Twere vain to ask ; but in our flock of boys 
 
 Was One, a cripple from his birth, whom chance 
 
 Summoned from school to London ; fortunate 
 
 And envied traveller ! When the Boy returned, 
 | After short absence, curiously I scanned 
 t His mien and person, nor was free, in sooth, 
 
 From disappointment, not to find some change 
 
 In look and air, from that new region brought, 
 
 As if from Fairy-land. Much I questioned him ; 
 iAnd every word he uttered, on my ears 
 
 Fell flatter than a caged parrot's note, 
 
 That answers unexpectedly awry, 
 
 And mocks the prompter's listening. Marvellous 
 things 
 
 Had vanity (quick Spirit that appears 
 jAlmost as deeply seated and as strong 
 lln a Child's heart as fear itself) conceived 
 iFor my enjoyment. Would that I could now 
 iRecal what then I pictured to myself, 
 
 Of mitred Prelates, Lords in ermine clad, 
 i The King, and the King's Palace, and, not last, 
 ; Nor least, Heaven bless him! the renowned Lord 
 Mayor : 
 
 Dreams not unlike to those which once begat 
 |A change of purpose in young Whittington, 
 
 When he, a friendless and a drooping boy, 
 ;Sate on a stone, and heard the bells speak out 
 
 Articulate music. Above all, one thought 
 
 Baffled my understanding : how men lived 
 
 Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still 
 i Strangers, not knowing each the other's name. 
 
 0, woud'rous power of words, by simple faith 
 Licensed to take the meaning that we love ! 
 jVauxhall and Ranelagh! I then had heard 
 Of your green groves, and wilderness of lamps 
 .Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical, 
 ;And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes, 
 'Floating in dance, or warbling high in air 
 'The songs of spirits ! Nor had Fancy fed 
 With less delight upon that other class 
 Of marvels, broad-day wonders permanent: 
 The River proudly bridged; the dizzy top 
 (And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's ; the tombs 
 |0f Westminster; the Giants of Guildhall ; 
 Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the gates, 
 'Perpetually recumbent; Statues— man, 
 And the horse under him — in gilded pomp 
 j Adorning flowery gardens, 'mid vast squares; 
 
 The Monument, and that Chamber of the Tower 
 Where England's sovereigns sit in long array, 
 Their steeds bestriding, — every mimic shape 
 Cased in the gleaming mail the monarch wore, 
 Whether for gorgeous tournament addressed, 
 Or life or death upon the battle-field. 
 Those bold imaginations in due time 
 Had vanished, leaving others in their stead : 
 And now I looked upon the living scene ; 
 Familiarly perused it ; oftentimes, 
 In spite of strongest disappointment, pleased 
 Through courteous self-submission, as a tax 
 Paid to the object by prescriptive right. 
 
 Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill on the plain 
 Of a too busy world ! Before me flow, 
 Thou endless stream of men and moving things ! 
 Thy every-d;iy appearance, as it strikes — 
 With wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe — 
 On strangers, of all ages ; the quick dance 
 Of colours, lights, and forms; the deafening din; 
 The comers and the goers face to face, 
 Face after face ; the string of dazzling wares, 
 Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned names, 
 And all the tradesman's honours overhead : 
 Here, fronts of houses, like a title-page, 
 With letters huge inscribed from top to toe, 
 Stationed above the door, like guardian saints ; 
 There, allegoric shapes, female or male, 
 Or physiognomies of real men, 
 Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the sea, 
 Boyle, Shakspeare, Newton, or the attractive head 
 Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day. 
 
 Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length, 
 Escaped as from an enemy, we turn 
 Abruptly into some sequestered nook, 
 Still as a sheltered place when winds blow 
 
 loud ! 
 At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin resort, 
 And sights and sounds that come at intervals, 
 We take our way. A raree-show is here, 
 With children gathered round ;. another street 
 Presents a company of dancing dogs, 
 Or dromedary, with an antic pair 
 Of monkeys on his back ; a minstrel band 
 Of Savoyards ; or, single and alone, 
 An English ballad-singer. Private courts, 
 Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes 
 Thrilled by some female vendor's scream, belike 
 The very shrillest of all London cries, 
 May then entangle our impatient steps ; 
 Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares, 
 To privileged regions and inviolate, 
 Il2 
 
484 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Where from their airy lodges studious lawyers 
 Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green. 
 
 Thence back into the throng, until we reach, 
 Following the tide that slackens by degrees, 
 Some half-frequented scene, where wider streets 
 Bring straggling breezes of suburban air. 
 Here files of ballads dangle from dead walls ; 
 Advertisements, of giant-size, from high 
 Press forward, in all colours, on the sight ; 
 These, bold in conscious merit, lower down ; 
 That, fronted with a most imposing word, 
 Is, peradventure, one in masquerade. 
 As on the broadening causeway we advance, 
 Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and strong 
 In lineaments, and red with over -toil. 
 'Tis one encountered here and everywhere ; 
 A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut short, 
 And stumping on his arms. In sailor's garb 
 Another lies at length, beside a range 
 Of well-formed characters, with chalk inscribed 
 Upon the smooth flat stones : the Nurse is here, 
 The Bachelor, that loves to sun himself, 
 The military Idler, and the Dame, 
 That field-ward takes her walk with decent steps. 
 
 Now homeward through the thickening hubbub, 
 where 
 See, among less distinguishable shapes, 
 The begging scavenger, with hat in hand ; 
 The Italian, as he thrids his way with care, 
 Steadying, far-seen, a frame of images 
 Upon his head ; with basket at his breast 
 The Jew ; the stately and slow-moving Turk, 
 With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm ! 
 
 Enough ; — the mighty concourse I surveyed 
 With no unthinking mind, well pleased to note 
 Among the crowd all specimens of man, 
 Through all the colours which the sun bestows, 
 And every character of form and face : 
 The Swede, the Russian ; from the genial south, 
 The Frenchman and the Spaniard ; from remote 
 America, the Hunter-Indian ; Moors, 
 Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese, 
 And Negro Ladies in white muslin gowns. 
 
 At leisure, then, I viewed, from day to day, 
 The spectacles within doors, — birds and beasts 
 Of every nature, and strange plants convened 
 From every clime ; and, next, those sights that ape 
 The absolute presence of reality, 
 Expressing, as in mirror, sea and land, 
 And what earth is, and what she has to show. 
 
 I do not here allude to subtlest craft, 
 
 By means refined attaining purest ends, 
 
 But imitations, fondly made in plain 
 
 Confession of man's weakness and his loves. 
 
 Whether the Painter, whose ambitious skill 
 
 Submits to nothing less than taking in 
 
 A whole horizon's circuit, do with power, 
 
 Like that of angels or commissioned spirits, 
 
 Fix us upon some lofty pinnacle, 
 
 Or in a ship on waters, with a world 
 
 Of life, and life-like mockery beneath, 
 
 Above, behind, far stretching and before ; 
 
 Or more mechanic artist represent 
 
 By scale exact, in model, wood or clay, 
 
 From blended colours also borrowing help, 
 
 Some miniature of famous spots or things, — 
 
 St. Peter's Church; or, more aspiring aim, 
 
 In microscopic vision, Rome herself ; 
 
 Or, haply, some choice rural haunt,-— the Falls 
 
 Of Tivoli; and, high upon that steep, 
 
 The Sibyl's mouldering Temple ! every tree, 
 
 Villa, or cottage, lurking among rocks 
 
 Throughout the landscape; tuft, stone scratch 
 
 minute — 
 All that the traveller sees when he is there. 
 
 Add to these exhibitions, mute and still, 
 Others of wider scope, where living men, 
 Music, and shifting pantomimic scenes, 
 Diversified the allurement. Need I fear 
 To mention by its name, as in degree, 
 Lowest of these and humblest in attempt, 
 Yet richly graced with honours of her own, 
 Half-rural Sadler's Wells 1 Though at that time 
 Intolerant, as is the way of youth 
 Unless itself be pleased, here more than once 
 Taking my seat, I saw (nor blush to add, 
 With ample recompense) giants and dwarfs, 
 Clowns, conjurors, posture-masters, harlequins, 
 Amid the uproar of the rabblement, 
 Perform their feats. Nor was it mean delight 
 To watch crude Nature work in untaught minds; 
 To note the laws and progress of belief; 
 Though obstinate on this way, yet on that 
 How willingly we travel, and how far ! 
 To have, for instance, brought upon the scene 
 The champion, Jack the Giant-killer : Lo ! 
 He dons his coat of darkness ; on the stage 
 Walks, and achieves his wonders, from the eye 
 Of living Mortal covert, " as the moon 
 Hid in her vacant interlunar cave." 
 Delusion bold ! and how can it be wrought ? 
 The garb he wears is black as death, the word 
 " Invisible " flames forth upon his chest. 
 
RESIDENCE IN LONDON". 
 
 485 
 
 Here, too, were "forms and pressures of the 
 time," 
 lough, bold, as Grecian comedy displayed 
 Vhen Art was young ; dramas of living men, 
 L nd recent things yet warm with life ; a sea-fight, 
 hipwreck, or some domestic incident 
 divulged by Truth and magnified by Fame; 
 uch as the daring brotherhood of late 
 et forth, too serious theme for that light place — 
 
 mean, distant Friend ! a story drawn 
 Yom our own ground , — theMaid of Buttermere, — 
 ind how, unfaithful to a virtuous wife 
 )eserted and deceived, the Spoiler came 
 i.nd wooed the artless daughter of the hills, 
 aid wedded her, in cruel mockery 
 )f love and marriage bonds. These words to thee 
 lust needs bring back the moment when we first, 
 'ire the broad world rang with the maiden's name, 
 Seheld her serving at the cottage inn ; 
 5oth stricken, as she entered or withdrew, 
 Yith admiration of her modest mien 
 md carriage, marked by unexampled grace. 
 \Ve since that time not unfamiliarly 
 lave seen her, — her discretion have observed, 
 ler just opinions, delicate reserve, 
 ler patience, and humility of mind 
 Jnspoiled by commendation and the excess 
 : )f public notice — an offensive light 
 fo a meek spirit suffering inwardly. 
 
 1 From this memorial tribute to my theme 
 was returning, when, with sundry forms 
 iommingled — shapes which met me in the way 
 'hat we must tread— thy image rose again, 
 .laiden of Buttermere ! She lives in peace 
 Ipon the spot where she was born and reared ; 
 Vithout contamination doth she live 
 n quietness, without anxiety : 
 •leside the mountain chapel, sleeps in earth 
 ler new-born infant, fearless as a lamb 
 'hat, thither driven from some unsheltered place, 
 tests underneath the little rock-like pile 
 Fhen storms are raging. Happy are they both — 
 lother and child ! — These feelings, in themselves 
 ,'rite, do yet scarcely seem so when I think 
 ; n those ingenuous moments of our youth 
 lire we have learnt by use to slight the crimes 
 'Jid sorrows of the world. Those simple days 
 .re now my theme ; and, foremost of the scenes, 
 l^hich yet survive in memory, appears 
 me, at whose centre sate a lovely Boy, 
 L sportive infant, who, for six months' space, 
 Tot more, had been of age to deal about 
 Articulate prattle — Child as beautiful 
 
 As ever clung around a mother's neck, 
 
 Or father fondly gazed upon with pride. 
 
 There, too, conspicuous for stature tall 
 
 And large dark eyes, beside her infant stood 
 
 The mother ; but, upon her cheeks diffused, 
 
 False tints too well accorded with the glare 
 
 From play-house lustres thrown without reserve 
 
 On every object near. The Boy had been 
 
 The pride and pleasure of all lookers-on 
 
 In whatsoever place, but seemed in this 
 
 A sort of alien scattered from the clouds. 
 
 Of lusty vigour, more than infantine 
 
 He was in limb, in cheek a summer rose 
 
 Just three parts blown — a cottage-child — if e'er, 
 
 By cottage-door on breezy mountain side, 
 
 Or in some sheltering vale, was seen a babe 
 
 By Nature's gifts so favoured. Upon a board 
 
 Decked with refreshments had this child been 
 
 placed, 
 His little stage in the vast theatre, 
 And there he sate surrounded with a throng 
 Of chance spectators, chiefly dissolute men 
 And shameless women, treated and caressed; 
 Ate, drank, and with the fruit and glasses played, 
 While oaths and laughter and indecent speech 
 Were rife about him as the songs of birds 
 Contending after showers. The mother now 
 Is fading out of memory, but I see 
 The lovely Boy as I beheld him then 
 Among the wretched and the falsely gay, 
 Like one of those who walked with hair unsinged 
 Amid the fiery furnace. Charms and spells 
 Muttered on black and spiteful instigation 
 Have stopped, as some believe, the kindliest 
 
 growths. 
 Ah, with how different spirit might a prayer 
 Have been preferred, that this fair creature, 
 
 checked 
 By special privilege of Nature's love, 
 Should in his childhood be detained for ever ! 
 But with its universal freight the tide 
 Hath rolled along, and this bright innocent, 
 Maiy ! may now have lived till he could look 
 With envy on thy nameless babe that sleeps, 
 Beside the mountain chapel, undisturbed. 
 
 Four rapid years had scarcely then been told 
 Since, travel! ing southward from our pastoral hills, 
 I heard, and for the first time in my life, 
 The voice of woman utter blasphemy — 
 Saw woman as she is, to open shame 
 Abandoned, and the pride of public vice ; 
 I shuddered, for a barrier seemed at once 
 Thrown in that from humanity divorced 
 
486 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Humanity, splitting the race of man 
 In twain, yet leaving the same outward form. 
 Distress of mind ensued upon the sight, 
 And ardent meditation. Later years 
 Brought to such spectacle a milder sadness, 
 Feelings of pure commiseration, grief 
 For the individual and the overthrow 
 Of her soul's beauty ; farther I was then 
 But seldom led, or wished to go ; in truth 
 The sorrow of the passion stopped me there. 
 
 But let me now, less moved, in order take 
 Our argument. Enough is said to show 
 How casual incidents of real life, 
 Observed where pastime only had been sought, 
 Outweighed, or put to flight, the set events 
 And measured passions of the stage, albeit 
 By Siddons trod in the fulness of her power. 
 Yet was the theatre my dear delight ; 
 The very gilding, lamps and painted scrolls, 
 And all the mean upholstery of the place, 
 Wanted not animation, when the tide 
 Of pleasure ebbed but to return as fast 
 "With the ever-shifting figures of the scene, 
 Solemn or gay : whether some beauteous dame 
 Advanced in radiance through a deep recess 
 Of thick entangled forest, like the moon 
 Opening the clouds; or sovereign king, announced 
 With flourishing trumpet, came in full-blown state 
 Of the world's greatness, winding round with train 
 Of courtiers, banners, and a length of guards ; 
 Or captive led in abject weeds, and jingling 
 His slender manacles ; or romping girl 
 Bounced, leapt, and pawed the air ; or mumbling 
 
 sire, 
 A scare-crow pattern of old age dressed up 
 In all the tatters of infirmity 
 All loosely put together, hobbled in, 
 Stumping upon a cane with which he smites, 
 From time to time, the solid boards, and makes 
 
 them 
 Prate somewhat loudly of the whereabout 
 Of one so overloaded with his years. 
 But what of this ! the laiigh, the grin, grimace, 
 The antics striving to outstrip each other, 
 Were all received, the least of them not lost, 
 With an unmeasured welcome. Through the night, 
 Between the show, and many-headed mass 
 Of the spectators, and each several nook 
 Filled with its fray or brawl, how eagerly 
 And with what flashes, as it were, the mind 
 Turned this way — that way ! sportive and alert 
 And watchful, as a kitten when at play, 
 While winds are eddying round her, among straws 
 
 And rustling lea\ es. Enchanting age and sweet ! 
 Romantic almost, looked at through a space, 
 How small, of intervening years ! For then, 
 Though surely no mean progress had been made 
 In meditations holy and sublime, 
 Yet somebhing of a girlish child-like gloss 
 Of novelty survived for scenes like these ; 
 Enjoyment haply handed down from times 
 When at a country-playhouse, some rude barn 
 Tricked out for that proud use, if I perchance 
 Caught, on a summer evening through a chink 
 In the old wall, an unexpected glimpse 
 Of daylight, the bare thought of where I was 
 Gladdened me more than if I had been led 
 Into a dazzling cavern" of romance, 
 Crowded with Genii busy among works 
 Not to be looked at by the common sun. 
 
 The matter that detains us now may seem, 
 To many, neither dignified enough 
 Nor arduous, yet will not be scorned by them, 
 Who, looking inward, have observed the ties 
 That bind the perishable hours of life 
 Each to the other, and the curious props 
 By which the world of memory and thought 
 Exists and is sustained. More lofty themes, 
 Such as at least do wear a prouder face, 
 Solicit our regard ; but when I think 
 Of these, I feel the imaginative power 
 Languish within me ; even then it slept, 
 When, pressed by tragic sufferings, the heart 
 Was more than full ; amid my sobs and tears 
 It slept, even in the pregnant season of youth. 
 For though I was most passionately moved 
 And yielded to all changes of the scene 
 With an obsequious promptness, yet the storm 
 Passed not beyond the suburbs of the mind ; 
 Save when realities of act and mien, 
 The incarnation of the spirits that move 
 In harmony amid the Poet's world, 
 Rose to ideal grandeur, or, called forth 
 By power of contrast, made me recognise, 
 As at a glance, the things which I had shaped, 
 And yet not shaped, had seen and scarcely seen.. 
 When, having closed the mighty Shakspeare's page. 
 I mused, and thought, and felt, in solitude. 
 
 Pass we from entertainments, that are such 
 Professedly, to others titled higher, 
 Yet, in the estimate of youth at least, 
 More near akin to those than names imply, — 
 I mean the brawls of lawyers in their courts 
 Before the ermined judge, or that great stage 
 Where senators, tongue-favoured men, perform, 
 
RESIDENCE IN LONDON. 
 
 Admired and envied. Oh ! the beating heart, 
 
 When one among the prime of these rose up, — 
 
 One, of whose name from childhood we had heard 
 
 Familiarly, a household term, like those, 
 
 The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old 
 
 Whom the fifth Harry talks of. Silence ! hush ! 
 
 This is no trifier, no short-flighted wit, 
 
 No stammerer of a minute, painfully 
 
 Delivered. No ! the Orator hath yoked 
 
 The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car : 
 
 Thrice welcome Presence ! how can patience e'er 
 
 Grow weary of attending on a track 
 
 That kindles with such glory ! All are charmed, 
 
 Astonished ; like a hero in romance, 
 
 He winds away his never-ending horn ; 
 
 Words follow words, sense seems to follow sense : 
 
 What memory and what logic ! till the strain 
 
 Transcendent, superhuman as it seemed, 
 
 Grows tedious even in a young man's ear. 
 
 Genius of Burke ! forgive the pen seduced 
 By specious wonders, and too slow to tell 
 Of what the ingenuous, what bewildered men, 
 Beginning to mistrust their boastful guides, 
 And wise men, willing to grow wiser, caught, 
 Rapt auditors ! from thy most eloquent tongue — 
 Now mute, for ever mute in the cold grave. 
 I see him, — old, but vigorous in age, — 
 Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches start 
 Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe 
 The younger brethren of the grove. But some — 
 While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth, 
 Against all systems built on abstract rights, 
 Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims 
 Of Institutes and Laws, hallowed by time ; 
 Declares the vital power of social ties 
 Endeared by Custom ; and with high disdain, 
 Exploding upstart Theory, insists 
 Upon the allegiance to which men are born — 
 Some — say at once a froward multitude — 
 Murmur (for truth is hated, where not loved) 
 As the winds fret within the iEolian cave, 
 Galled by their monarch's chain. The times were 
 
 big 
 With ominous change, which, night by night, pro- 
 voked 
 Keen struggles, and black clouds of passion raised; 
 But memorable moments intervened, 
 When Wisdom, like the Goddess from Jove'sbrain, 
 Broke forth in armour of resplendent words, 
 Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and one 
 la ancient story versed, whose breast had heaved 
 Under the weight of classic eloquence, 
 Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired ? 
 
 Nor did the Pulpit's oratory fail 
 To achieve its higher triumph. Not unfelt 
 Were its admonishments, nor lightly heard 
 The awful truths delivered thence by tongues 
 Endowed with various power to search the soul ; 
 Yet ostentation, domineering, offc 
 Poured forth harangues, how sadly out of place ! — 
 There have I seen a comely bachelor, 
 Fresh from a toilette of two hours, ascend 
 His rostrum, with seraphic glance look up, 
 And, in a tone elaborately low 
 Beginning, lead his voice through many a maze 
 A minuet course; and, winding up his mouth, 
 From time to time, into an orifice 
 Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small, 
 And only not invisible, again 
 Open it out, diffusing thence a smile 
 Of rapt irradiation, exquisite. 
 Meanwhile the Evangelists, Isaiah, Job, 
 Moses, and he who penned, the other day, 
 The Death of Abel, Shakspeare, and the Bard 
 Whose genius spangled o'er a gloomy theme 
 With fancies thick as his inspiring stars, 
 And Ossian (doubt not — 'tis the naked truth) 
 Summoned from streamy Morven — each and all 
 Would, in their turns, lend ornaments and flowers 
 To entwine the crook of eloquence that helped 
 This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains, 
 To rule and guide his captivated flock. 
 
 I glance but at a few conspicuous marks, 
 Leaving a thousand others, that, in hall, 
 Court, theatre, conventicle, or shop, 
 In public room or private, park or street, 
 Each fondly reared on his own pedestal, 
 Looked out for admiration. Folly, vice, 
 Extravagance in gesture, mien, and dress, 
 And all the strife of singularity, 
 Lies to the ear, and lies to every sense — 
 Of these, and of the living shapes they wear, 
 There is no end. Such candidates for regard, 
 Although well pleased to be where they were 
 
 found, 
 I did not hunt after, nor greatly prize, 
 Nor made unto myself a secret boast 
 Of reading them with quick and curious eye ; 
 But, as a common produce, things that are 
 To-day, to-morrow will be, took of them 
 Such willing note, as, on some errand bound 
 That asks not speed, a traveller might bestow 
 On sea-shells that bestrew the sandy beach, 
 Or daisies swarming through the fields of June. 
 
 But foolishness and madness in parade, 
 
THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Th'ough most at home in this their clear domain, 
 
 Are scattered everywhere, no rarities, 
 
 Even to the rudest novice of the Schools. 
 
 Me, rather, it employed, to note, and keep 
 
 In memory, those individual sights 
 
 Of courage, or integrity, or truth, 
 
 Or tenderness, which there, set off by foil, 
 
 Appeared more touching. One will I select ; 
 
 A Father— for he bore that sacred name — 
 
 Him saw I, sitting in an open square, 
 
 Upon a corner-stone of that low wall, 
 
 Wherein were fixed the iron pales that fenced 
 
 A spacious grass-plot ; there, in silence, sate 
 
 This One Man, with a sickly babe outstretched 
 
 Upon his knee, whom he had thither brought 
 
 For sunshine, and to breathe the fresher air. 
 
 Of those who passed, and me who looked at him, 
 
 He took no heed ; but in his brawny arms 
 
 (The Artificer was to the elbow bare, 
 
 And from his work this moment had been stolen) 
 
 He held the child, and, bending over it, 
 
 As if he were afraid both of the sun 
 
 And of the air, which he had come to seek, 
 
 Eyed the poor babe with love unutterable. 
 
 As the black storm upon the mountain top 
 Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so 
 That huge fermenting mass of human-kind 
 Serves as a solemn back-ground, or relief, 
 To single forms and objects, whence they draw, 
 For feeling and contemplative regard, 
 More than inherent liveliness and power. 
 How oft, amid those overflowing streets, 
 Have I gone forward with the crowd, and said 
 Unto myself, " The face of every one 
 That passes by me is a mystery ! " 
 Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed 
 By thoughts of what and whither, when and how, 
 Until the shapes before my eyes became 
 A second-sight procession, such as glides 
 Over still mountains, or appears in dreams ; 
 And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyond 
 The reach of common indication, lost 
 Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten 
 Abruptly, with the view (a sight not rare) 
 Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face, 
 Stood, propped against a wall, upon his chest 
 Wearing a written paper, to explain 
 His story, whence he came, and who he was. 
 Caught by the spectacle my mind turned round 
 As with the might of waters ; and apt type 
 'A'his label seemed of the utmost we can know, 
 Both of ourselves and of the universe ; 
 And, on the shape of that unmoving man, 
 
 His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I gazed, 
 As if admonished from another world. 
 
 Though reared upon the base of outward things, 
 Structures like these the excited spirit mainly 
 Builds for herself; scenes different there are, 
 Full-formed, that take, with small internal help, 
 Possession of the faculties, — the peace 
 That comes with night ; the deep solemnity 
 Of nature's intermediate hours of rest, 
 When the great tide of human life stands still ; 
 The business of the day to come, unborn, 
 Of that gone by, locked up, as in the grave; 
 The blended calmness of the heavens and earth, 
 Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, and 
 
 sounds, 
 Unfrequent as in deserts ; at late hours 
 Of winter evenings, when unwholesome rains 
 Are falling hard, with people yet astir, 
 The feeble salutation from the voice 
 Of some unhappy woman, now and then 
 Heard as we pass, when no one looks about, 
 Nothing is listened to. But these, I fear, 
 Are falsely catalogued ; things that are, are not, 
 As the mind answers to them, or the heart 
 Is prompt, or slow, to feel. What say you, then, 
 To times, when half the city shall break out 
 Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or fear ? 
 To executions, to a street on fire, 
 Mobs, riots, or rejoicings ? From these sights 
 Take one, — that ancient festival, the Fair, 
 Holden where martyrs suffered in past time, 
 And named of St. Bartholomew ; there, see 
 A work completed to our hands, that lays, 
 If any spectacle on earth can do, 
 The whole creative powers of man asleep ! — 
 For once, the Muse's help will we implore, 
 And she shall lodge us, wafted on her wings, 
 Above the press and danger of the crowd, 
 Upon some showman's platform. What a shock 
 For eyes and ears ! what anarchy and din, 
 Barbarian and infernal, — a phantasma, 
 Monstrous in colour, motion, shape, sight, sound ! 
 Below, the open space, through every nook 
 Of the wide area, twinkles, is alive 
 With heads ; the midway region, and above, 
 Is thronged with staring pictures and huge scrolls, 
 Dumb proclamations of the Prodigies ; 
 With chattering monkeys dangling from their 
 
 poles, 
 And children whirling in their roundabouts ; 
 With those that stretch the neck and strain the 
 
 eyes, 
 And crack the voice in rivalship, the crowd 
 
RESIDENCE IN LONDON". 
 
 489 
 
 Inviting ; with buffoons against buffoons 
 Grimacing, writhing, screaming, — him who grinds 
 The hurdy-gurdy, at the fiddle weaves, 
 Rattles the salt-box, thumps the kettle-drum, 
 And him who at the trumpet puffs his cheeks, 
 The silver-collared Negro with his timbrel, 
 Equestrians, tumblers, women, girls, and boys, 
 Blue-breeched, pink-vested, with high-towering 
 
 plumes. — 
 All moveables of wonder, from all parts, 
 i Are here — Albinos, painted Indians, Dwarfs, 
 j The Horse of knowledge, and the learned Pig, 
 The Stone-eater, the man that swallows fire, 
 Giants, Ventriloquists, the Invisible Girl, 
 The Bust that speaks and moves its goggling eyes, 
 : The Wax-work, Clock-work, all the marvellous 
 craft 
 
 ■ Of modern Merlins, Wild Beasts, Puppet-shows, 
 All out-o'-the way, far-fetched, perverted things, 
 All freaks of nature, all Promethean thoughts 
 
 , Of man, his dullness, madness, and their feats 
 
 All jumbled up together, to compose 
 
 |A Parliament of Monsters. Tents and Booths 
 
 Meanwhile, as if the whole were one vast mill, 
 
 Are vomiting, receiving on all sides, 
 
 Men, Women, three-years' Children, Babes in arms. 
 
 I Oh, blank confusion ! true epitome 
 
 Of what the mighty City is herself, 
 
 To thousands upon thousands of her sons, 
 
 ■ Living amid the same perpetual whirl 
 Of trivial objects, melted and reduced 
 
 'To one identity, by differences 
 
 ,'That have no law, no meaning, and no end — ■ 
 
 [Oppression, under which even highest minds 
 
 Must labour, whence the strongest are not free. 
 
 But though the picture weary out the eye, 
 
 By nature an unmanageable sight, 
 
 It is not wholly so to him who looks 
 
 In steadiness, who hath among least things 
 
 An under-sense of greatest ; sees the parts 
 
 As parts, but with a feeling of the whole. 
 
 This, of all acquisitions, first awaits 
 
 On sundry and most widely different modes 
 
 Of education, nor with least delight 
 
 Onthatthroughwhichlpassed. Attention springs, 
 
 And comprehensiveness and memory flow. 
 
 From early converse with the works of God 
 
 Among all regions ; chiefly where appear 
 
 Most obviously simplicity and power. 
 
 Think, how the everlasting streams and woods, 
 
 Stretched and still stretching far and wide, exalt 
 
 The roving Indian, on his desert sands : 
 
 What grandeur not unfelt, what pregnant show 
 
 Of beauty, meets the sun-burnt Arab's eye : 
 
 And, as the sea propels, from zone to zone, 
 
 Its currents ; magnifies its shoals of life 
 
 Beyond all compass ; spreads, and sends aloft 
 
 Armies of clouds, — even so, its powers and aspects 
 
 Shape for mankind, by principles as fixed, 
 
 The views and aspirations of the soul 
 
 To majesty. Like virtue have the forms 
 
 Perennial of the ancient hills ; nor less 
 
 The changeful language of their countenances 
 
 Quickens the slumbering mind, and aids the 
 
 thoughts, 
 However multitudinous, to move 
 With order and relation. This, if still, 
 As hitherto, in freedom I may speak, 
 Not violating any just restraint, 
 As may be hoped, of real modesty, — 
 This did I feel, in London's vast domain. 
 The Spirit of Nature was upon me there ; 
 The soul of Beauty and enduring Life 
 Vouchsafed her inspiration, and diffused, 
 Through meagre lines and colours, and the press 
 Of self-destroying, transitory things, 
 Composure, and ennobling Harmony. 
 
490 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 BOOK EIGHTH. 
 
 RETROSPECT.— LOVE OF NATURE 
 LEADING TO LOVE OF MAN. 
 
 What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are heard 
 
 Up to thy summit, through the depth of air 
 
 Ascending, as if distance had the power 
 
 To make the sounds more audible 1 What crowd 
 
 Covers, or sprinkles o'er, yon village green ] 
 
 Crowd seems it, solitary hill ! to thee, 
 
 Though but a little family of men, 
 
 Shepherds and tillers of the ground — betimes 
 
 Assembled with their children and their wives, 
 
 And here and there a stranger iuterspersed. 
 
 They hold a rustic fair — a festival, 
 
 Such as, on this side now, and now on that, 
 
 Repeated through his tributary vales, 
 
 Helvellyn, in the silence of his rest, 
 
 Sees annually, if clouds towards either ocean 
 
 Blown from their favourite resting-place, or mists 
 
 Dissolved, have left him an unshrouded head. 
 
 Delightful day it is for all who dwell 
 
 In this secluded glen, and eagerly 
 
 They give it welcome. Long ere heat of noon, 
 
 From byre or field the kine were brought ; the 
 
 Are penned in cotes ; the chaffering is begun. 
 The heifer lows, uneasy at the voice 
 Of a new master; bleat the flocks aloud. 
 Booths are there none ; a stall or two is here ; 
 A lame man or a blind, the one to beg, 
 The other to make music ; hither, too, 
 From far, with basket, slung upon her arm, 
 Of hawker's wares — books, pictures, combs, and 
 
 pins — 
 Some aged woman finds her way again, 
 Year after year, a punctual visitant ! 
 There also stands a speech-maker by rote, 
 Pulling the strings of his boxed raree-show; 
 And in the lapse of many years may come 
 Prouder itinerant, mountebank, or he 
 Whose wonders in a covered wain lie hid. 
 But one there is, the loveliest of them all, 
 Some sweet lass of the valley, looking out 
 For gains, and who that sees her would not buy? 
 Fruits of her father's orchard, are her wares, 
 And with the ruddy produce, she walks round 
 Among the crowd, half pleased with, half ashamed 
 
 Of her new office, blushing restlessly. 
 The children now are rich, for the old to-day 
 Are generous as the young ; and, if content 
 With looking on, some ancient wedded pair 
 Sit in the shade together, while they gaze, 
 "A cheerful smile unbends the wrinkled brow, 
 The days departed start again to life, 
 And all the scenes of childhood reappear, 
 Faint, but more tranquil, like the changing sun 
 To him who slept at noon and wakes at eve."* 
 Thus gaiety and cheerfulness prevail, 
 Spreading from young to old, from old to young, 
 And no one seems to want his share. — Immense 
 Is the recess, the circumambient world 
 Magnificent, by which they are embraced : 
 They move about upon the soft green turf: 
 How little they, they and their doings, seem, 
 And all that they can further or obstruct ! 
 Through utter weakness pitiably dear, 
 As tender infants are : and yet how great ! 
 For all things serve them : them the morning light 
 Loves, as it glistens on the silent rocks ; 
 And them the silent rocks, which now from high 
 Look down upon them ; the reposing clouds; 
 The wild brooks prattling from invisible haunts ; 
 And old Helvellyn, conscious of the stir 
 Which animates this day their calm abode. 
 
 With deep devotion, Nature, did I feel, 
 In that enormous City's turbulent world 
 Of men and things, what benefit I owed 
 To thee, and those domains of rural peace, 
 "Where to the sense of beauty first my heart 
 Was opened ; tract more exquisitely fair 
 Than that famed paradise of ten thousand trees, 
 Or Gehol's matchless gardens, for delight 
 Of the Tartarian dynasty composed 
 (Beyond that mighty wall, not fabulous, 
 China's stupendous mound) by patient toil 
 Of myriads and boon nature's lavish help ; 
 There, in a clime from widest empire chosen, 
 Fulfilling (could enchantment have done more ?) 
 A sumptuous dream of flowery lawns, with domes 
 Of pleasure sprinkled over, shady dells 
 
 * These lines are from a descriptive Poem— " Malvern 
 Hills "—by one of Mr. "Wordsworth's oldest friends, Mr. 
 Joseph Cottle. — Ed. 
 
EETEOSPECT. 
 
 491 
 
 For eastern monasteries, sunny mounts 
 j With temples crested, bridges, gondolas, 
 Eocks, dens, and groves of foliage taught to melt 
 Into each other their obsequious hues, 
 Vanished and vanishing in subtle chase, 
 Too fine to be pursued ; or standing forth 
 1 In no discordant opposition, strong 
 And gorgeous as the colours side by side 
 Bedded among rich plumes of tropic birds ; 
 , And mountains over all, embracing all; 
 And all the landscape, endlessly enriched 
 With waters running, falling, or asleep. 
 
 But lovelier far than this, the paradise 
 - Where I was reared ; in Nature's primitive gifts 
 Favoured no less, and more to evgry sense 
 Delicious, seeing that the sun and sky, 
 1 The elements, and seasons as they change, 
 Do find a worthy fellow-labourer there — 
 Man free, man working for himself, with choice 
 Of time, and place, and object; by his wants, 
 His comforts, native occupations, cares, 
 i Cheerfully led to individual ends 
 Or social, and still followed by a train 
 Unwooed, unthought-of even — simplicity, 
 And beauty, and inevitable grace. 
 
 Yea, when a glimpse of those imperial bowers 
 Would to a child be transport over-great, 
 
 • When but a half-hour's roam through such a place 
 Would leave behind a dance of images, 
 
 . That shall break in upon his sleep for weeks ; 
 i Even then the common haunts of the green earth, 
 
 And ordinary interests of man, 
 'Which they embosom, all without regard 
 
 As both may seem, are fastening on the heart 
 
 Insensibly, each with the other's help. 
 
 For me, when my affections first were led 
 ' From kindred, friends, and playmates, to partake 
 
 Love for the human creature's absolute self, 
 
 That noticeable kindliness of heart 
 
 Sprang out of fountains, there abounding most, 
 .Where sovereign Nature dictated the tasks 
 
 • And occupations which her beauty adorned, 
 And Shepherds were the men that pleased me 
 
 first ; 
 Not such as Saturn ruled 'mid Latian wilds, 
 With arts and laws so tempered, that their lives 
 Left, even to us toiling in this late day, 
 
 |A bright tradition of the golden age ; 
 
 ►Not such as, 'mid Arcadian fastnesses 
 Sequestered, handed down among themselves 
 
 j Felicity, in Grecian song renowned; 
 
 iNor such as — when an adverse fate had driven, 
 
 From house and home, the courtly band whose 
 
 fortunes 
 Entered, with Shakspeare's genius, the wild woods 
 Of Arden — amid sunshine or in shade 
 Culled the best fruits of Time's uncounted hours, 
 Ere Phoebe sighed for the false Ganymede ; 
 Or there where Perdita and Florizel 
 Together danced, Queen of the feast, and King ; 
 Nor such as Spenser fabled. True it is, 
 That I had heard (what he perhaps had seen) 
 Of maids at sunrise bringing in from far 
 Their May-bush, and along the streets in flocks 
 Parading with a song of taunting rhymes, 
 Aimed at the laggards slumbering within doors ; 
 Had also heard, from those who yet remembered, 
 Tales of the May-pole dance, and wreaths that 
 
 decked 
 Porch, door- way, or kirk-pillar; and of youths, 
 Each with his maid, before the sun was up, 
 By anmial custom, issuing forth in troops, 
 To drink the waters of some sainted well, 
 And hang it round with garlands. Love survives ; 
 But, for such purpose, flowers no longer grow : 
 The times, too sage, perhaps too proud, have 
 
 dropped 
 These lighter graces ; and the rural ways 
 And manners which my childhood looked upon 
 Were the unluxuriant produce of a life 
 Intent on little but substantial needs, 
 Yet rich in beauty, beauty that was felt. 
 But images of danger and distress, 
 Man suffering among awful Powers and Forms ; 
 Of this I heard, and saw enough to make 
 Imagination restless ; nor was free 
 Myself from frequent perils ; nor were tales 
 Wanting, — the tragedies of former times, 
 Hazards and strange escapes, of which the rocks 
 Immutable, and everflowing streams, 
 Where'er I roamed, were speaking monuments. 
 
 Smooth life had flock and shepherd in old time, 
 Long springs and tepid winters, on the banks 
 Of delicate Galesus ; and no less 
 Those scattered along Adria'3 myrtle shores : 
 Smooth life had herdsman, and his snow-white 
 
 herd 
 To triumphs and to sacrificial rites 
 Devoted, on the inviolable stream 
 Of rich Clitumnus ; and the goat-herd lived 
 As calmly, underneath the pleasant brows 
 Of cool Lucretilis, where the pipe was heard 
 Of Pan, Invisible God, thrilling the rocks 
 With tutelary music, from all harm 
 The fold protecting. I myself, mature 
 
492 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 In manhood then, have seen a pastoral tract 
 Like one of these, where Fancy might run wild, 
 Though under skies less generous, less serene : 
 There, for her own delight had Nature framed 
 A pleasure-ground, diffused a fair expanse 
 Of level pasture, islanded with grove3 
 And hanked with woody risings ; but the Plain 
 Endless, here opening widely out, and there 
 Shut up in lesser lakes or beds of lawn 
 And intricate recesses, creek or bay 
 Sheltered within a shelter, where at large 
 The shepherd strays, a rolling hut his home. 
 Thither he comes with spring-time, there abides 
 All summer, and at sunrise ye may hear 
 His flageolet to liquid notes of love 
 Attuned, or sprightly fife resounding far. 
 Nook is there none, nor tract of that vast space 
 Where passage opens, but the same shall have 
 In turn its visitant, telling there his hours 
 In unlaborious pleasure, with no task 
 More toilsome than to carve a beechen bowl 
 For spring or fountain, which the traveller finds, 
 When through the region he pursues at will 
 His devious course. A glimpse of such sweet life 
 I saw when, from the melancholy walls 
 Of Goslar, once imperial, I renewed 
 My daily walk along that wide champaign, 
 That, reaching to her gates, spreads east and west, 
 And northwards, from beneath the mountainous 
 
 verge 
 Of the Hercynian forest. Yet, hail to you 
 Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hollow vales, 
 Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's voice, 
 Powers of my native region ! Ye that seize 
 The heart with firmer grasp ! Your snows and 
 
 streams 
 Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds, 
 That howl so dismally for him who treads 
 Companionless your awful solitudes ! 
 There, 'tis the shepherd's task the winter long 
 To wait upon the storms : of their approach 
 Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives 
 His flock, and thither from the homestead bears 
 A toilsome burden up the craggy ways, 
 And deals it out, their regular nourishment 
 Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the spring 
 Looks out, and all the pastures dance with lambs, 
 And when the flock, with warmer weather, climbs 
 Higher and higher, him his office leads 
 To watch their goings, whatsoever track 
 The wanderers choose. For this he quits his home 
 At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun 
 Begin to strike him with a fire- like heat, 
 Than he lies down upon some shining rock, 
 
 And breakfasts with his dog. When they have 
 
 stolen, 
 As is their wont, a pittance from strict time, 
 For rest not needed or exchange of love, 
 Then from his couch he starts ; and now his feet 
 Crush out a livelier fragrance from the flowers 
 Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill enwrought 
 In the wild turf: the lingering dews of morn 
 Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he hies, 
 His staff protending like a hunter's spear, 
 Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag, 
 And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged streams. 
 Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy s call, 
 Might deign to follow him through what he does 
 Or sees in his day's march ; himself he feels, 
 In those vast regions where his service lies, 
 A freeman, wedded to his life of hope 
 And hazard, and hard labour interchanged 
 With that majestic indolence so dear 
 To native man. A rambling school-boy, thus 
 I felt his presence in his own domain, 
 As of a lord and master, or a power, 
 Or genius, under Nature, under God, 
 Presiding ; and severest solitude 
 Had more commanding looks when he was there. 
 When up the lonely brooks on rainy days 
 Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills 
 By mists bewildered, suddenly mine eyes 
 Have glanced upon him distant a few steps, 
 In size a giant, stalking through thick fog, 
 His sheep like Greenland bears ; or, as he stepped 
 Beyond the boundary line of some hill-shadow, 
 His form hath flashed upon me, glorified 
 By the deep radiance of the setting sun : 
 Or him have I descried in distant sky, 
 A solitary object and sublime, 
 Above all height ! like an aerial cross 
 Stationed alone upon a spiry rock 
 Of the Chartreuse, for worship. Thus was man 
 Ennobled outwardly before my sight, 
 And thus my heart was early introduced 
 To an unconscious love and reverence 
 Of human nature ; hence the human form 
 To me became an index of delight, 
 Of grace and honour, power and worthiness. 
 Meanwhile this creature — spiritual almost 
 As those of books, but more exalted far ; 
 Far more of an imaginative form 
 Than the gay Corin of the groves, who lives 
 For his own fancies, or to dance by the hour, 
 In coronal, with Phyllis in the midst — 
 Was, for the purposes of kind, a man 
 With the most common; husband, father; learned, 
 Could teach, admonish ; suffered with the rest 
 
RETROSPECT. 
 
 493 
 
 ' From vice and folly, wretchedness and fear ; 
 
 1 Of this I little saw, cared less for it, 
 But something must have felt. 
 
 Call ye these appearances — 
 Which I beheld of shepherds in my youth, 
 This sanctity of Nature given to man — 
 A shadow, a delusion, ye who pore 
 On the dead letter, miss the spirit of things ; 
 Whose truth is not a motion or a shape 
 
 : Instinct with vital functions, but a block 
 
 : Or waxen image which yourselves have made, 
 And ye adore ! But blessed be the God 
 Of Nature and of Man that this wa3 so ; 
 That men before my inexperienced eyes 
 Did first present themselves thus purified, 
 Kemoved, and to a distance that was fit : 
 And so we all of us in some degree 
 Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led, 
 And howsoever ; were it otherwise, 
 And we found evil fast as we find good 
 In our first years, or think that it is found, 
 
 ] How could the innocent heart bear up and live ! 
 
 1 But doubly fortunate my lot ; not here 
 Alone, that something of a better life 
 
 ' Perhaps was round me than it is the privilege 
 Of most to move in, but that first I looked 
 
 * At Man through objects that were great or fair ; 
 
 ' First communed with him by their help. And thus 
 Was founded a sure safeguard and defence 
 
 ', Against the weight of meanness, selfish cares, 
 Coarse manners, vulgar passions, that beat in 
 
 ■ On all sides from the ordinary world 
 
 1 In which we traffic. Starting from this point 
 I had my face turned toward the truth, began 
 With an advantage furnished by that kind 
 Of prepossession, without which the soul 
 Receives no knowledge that can bring forth good, 
 No genuine insight ever comes to her. 
 From the restraint of over-watchful eyes 
 Preserved, I moved about, year after year, 
 Happy, and now most thankful that my walk 
 Was guarded from too early intercourse 
 With the deformities of crowded life, 
 
 ' And those ensuing laughters and contempts, 
 Self-pleasing, which, if we would wish to think 
 
 | With a due reverence on earth's rightful lord, 
 
 i Here placed to be the inheritor of heaven, 
 Will not permit us ; but pursue the mind, 
 
 I That to devotion willingly would rise, 
 
 ! Into the temple and the temple's heart. 
 
 Yet deem not, Friend ! that human kind with me 
 Thus early took a place pre-eminent ; 
 I Nature herself was, at this unripe time, 
 
 But secondary to my own pursuits 
 
 And animal activities, and all 
 
 Their trivial pleasures; and when these had 
 
 drooped 
 And gradually expired, and Nature, prized 
 For her own sake, became my joy, even then — 
 And upwards through late youth, until not less 
 Than two-and-twenty summers had been told — 
 Was Man in my affections and regards 
 Subordinate to her, her visible forms 
 And viewless agencies : a passion, she, 
 A rapture often, and immediate love 
 Ever at hand ; he, only a delight 
 Occasional, an accidental grace, 
 His hour being not yet come. Far less had then 
 The inferior creatures, beast or bird, attuned 
 My spirit to that gentleness of love 
 (Though they had long been carefully observed), 
 Won from me those minute obeisances 
 Of tenderness, which I may number now 
 With my first blessings. Nevertheless, on these 
 The light of beauty did not fall in vain, 
 Or gi-andeur circumfuse them to no end. 
 
 But when that first poetic faculty 
 Of plain Imagination and severe, 
 No longer a mute influence of the soul, 
 Ventured, at some rash Muse's earnest call, 
 To try her strength among harmonious words ; 
 And to book-notions and the rules of art 
 Did knowingly conform itself ; there came 
 Among the simple shapes of human life 
 A wilfulness of fancy and conceit ; 
 And Nature and her objects beautified 
 These fictions, as in some sort, in their turn, 
 They burnished her. From touch of this new power 
 Nothing was safe : the elder-tree that grew 
 Beside the well-known charnel-house had then 
 A dismal look : the yew-tree had its ghost, 
 That took his station there for ornament : 
 The dignities of plain occurrence then 
 Were tasteless, and truth's golden mean, a point 
 Where no sufficient pleasure could be found. 
 Then, if a widow, staggering with the blow 
 Of her distress, was known to have turned her 
 
 steps 
 To the cold grave in which her husband slept, 
 One night, or haply more than one, through pain 
 Or half-insensate impotence of mind, 
 The fact was caught at greedily, and there 
 She must be visitant the whole year through, 
 Wetting the turf with never-ending tears. 
 
 Through quaint obliquities I might pursue 
 
494 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 These cravings ; when the fox-glove, one by one, 
 Upwards through every stage of the tall stem, 
 Had shed beside the public way its bells, 
 And stood of all dismantled, save the last 
 Left at the tapering ladder's top, that seemed 
 To bend as doth a slender blade of grass 
 Tipped with a rain-drop, Fancy loved to seat, 
 Beneath the plant despoiled, but crested still 
 With this last relic, soon ibself to fall, 
 Some vagrant mother, whose arch little ones, 
 All unconcerned by her dejected plight, 
 Laughed as with rival eagerness their hands 
 Gathered the purple cups that round them lay, 
 Strewing the turf's green slope. 
 
 A diamond light 
 (Whene'er the summer sun, declining, smote 
 A smooth rock wet with constant springs) was 
 
 seen 
 Sparkling from out a copse-clad bank that rose 
 Fronting our cottage. Oft beside the hearth 
 Seated, with open door, often and long 
 Upon this restless lustre have I gazed, 
 That made my fancy restless as itself. 
 'Twas now for me a bui'nished silver shield 
 Suspended over a knight's tomb, who lay 
 Inglorious, buried in the dusky wood : 
 An entrance now into some magic cave 
 Or palace built by fairies of the rock ; 
 Nor could I have been bribed to disenchant 
 The spectacle, by visiting the spot. 
 Thus wilful Fancy, in no hurtful mood, 
 Engrafted far-fetched shapes on feelings bred 
 By pure Imagination : busy Power 
 She was, and with her ready pupil turned 
 Instinctively to human passions, then 
 Least understood. Yet, 'mid the fervent swarm 
 Of these vagaries, with an eye so rich 
 As mine was through the bounty of a grand 
 And lovely region, I had forms distinct 
 To steady me : each airy thought revolved 
 Round a substantial centre, which at once 
 Incited it to motion, and controlled. 
 I did not pine like one in cities bred, 
 As was thy melancholy lot, dear Friend ! 
 Great Spirit as thou art, in endless dreams 
 Of sickliness, disjoining, joining, things 
 Without the light of knowledge. Where the harm, 
 If, when the woodman languished with disease 
 Iriduced by sleeping nightly on the ground 
 Within his sod-built cabin, Indian-wise, 
 I called the pangs of disappointed love, 
 And all the sad etcetera of the wrong, 
 To help him to his grave. Meanwhile the man, 
 If not already from the woods retired 
 
 To die at home, was haply as I knew, 
 Withering by slow degrees, 'mid gentle airs, 
 Birds, running streams, and hills so beautiful 
 On golden evenings, while the charcoal pile 
 Breathed up its smoke, an image of his ghost 
 Or spirit that full soon must take her flight. 
 Nor shall we not be tending towards that point 
 Of sound humanity to which our Tale 
 Leads, though by sinuous ways, if here I shew 
 How Fancy, in a season when she wove 
 Those slender cords, to guide the unconscious Boy 
 For the Man's sake, could feed at Nature's call 
 Some pensive musings which might well beseem 
 Maturer years. 
 
 A grove there is whose bougha 
 Stretch from the western marge of Thurston-mere, 
 With length of shade so thick, that whoso glides 
 Along the line of low-roofed water, moves 
 As in a cloister. Once — while, in that shade 
 Loitering, I watched the golden beams of light 
 Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed 
 In silent beauty on the naked ridge 
 Of a high eastern hill — thus flowed my thoughts 
 In a pure stream of words fresh from the heart: 
 * Dear native Regions, wheresoe'er shall close 
 My mortal course, there will I think on you ; 
 Dying, will cast on you a backward look ; 
 Even as this setting sun (albeit the Vale 
 Is no where touched by one memorial gleam) 
 Doth with the fond remains of his last power 
 Still linger, and a farewell lustre sheds 
 On the dear mountain-tops where first he rose. 
 
 Enough of humble arguments ; recal, 
 My Song ! those high emotions which thy voice 
 Has heretofore made known. ; that bursting forth 
 Of sympathy, inspiring and inspired, 
 When everywhere a vital pulse was felt, 
 And all the several frames of things, like stars, 
 Through every magnitude distinguishable, 
 Shone mutually indebted, or half lost 
 Each in the other's blaze, a galaxy 
 Of life and glory. In the midst stood Man, 
 Outwardly, inwardly contemplated, 
 As, of all visible natures, crown, though bora 
 Of dust, and kindred to the worm ; a Being, 
 Both in perception and discernment, first 
 In every capability of rapture, 
 Through the divine effect of power and love ; 
 As, more than anything we know, instinct 
 With godhead, and, by reason and by will, 
 Acknowledging dependency sublime. 
 
 See p. 1.— Ed. 
 
RETROSPECT. 
 
 495 
 
 Ere long, the lonely mountains left, I moved, 
 i3e<>ii't, from day to day, with temporal shapes 
 )f vice and folly thrust upon my view, 
 Objects of sport, and ridicule, and scorn, 
 ■lanners and characters discriminate, 
 \.nd little bustling passions that eclipse, 
 Ls well they might, the impersonated thought, 
 ?he idea, or abstraction of the kind. 
 
 An idler among academic bowers, 
 iuch was my new condition, as at large 
 las been set forth ; yet here the vulgar light 
 )f present, actual, superficial life, 
 learning through colouring of other times, 
 1 )ld usages and local privilege, 
 •Yas welcomed, softened, if not solemnised. 
 ?his notwithstanding, being brought more near 
 n o vice and guilt, forerunning wretchedness, 
 
 trembled, — thought, at times, of human life 
 Vith an indefinite terror and dismay, 
 ■uch as the storms and angry elements 
 lad bred in me ; but gloomier far, a dim 
 Lnalogy to uproar and misrule, 
 )isqaiet, danger, and obscurity. 
 
 ' It might be told (but wherefore speak of things 
 ommon to all 1) that, seeing, I was led 
 •rravely to ponder — judging between good 
 .nd evil, not as for the mind's delight 
 •ut for her guidance — one who was to act, 
 .s sometimes to the best of feeble means 
 did, by human sympathy impelled : 
 nd, through dislike and most offensive pain, 
 r^as to the truth conducted ; of this faith 
 1 ever forsaken, that, by acting well, 
 nd understanding, I should learn to love 
 lie end of life, and everything we know. 
 
 ' Grave Teacher, stern Preceptress ! for at times 
 hou canst put on an aspect most severe ; 
 ondon, to thee I willingly return, 
 rewhile my verse played idly with the flowers 
 n wrought upon thy mantle ; satisfied 
 ''ith that amusement, and a simple look 
 •f child-like inquisition now and then 
 ( ist upwards on thy countenance, to detect 
 une inner meanings which might harbour there, 
 '.it how could I in mood so light indulge, 
 :eepiug such fresh remembrance of the day, 
 j'hen, having thridded the long labyrinth 
 If the suburban villages, I first 
 'utered thy vast dominion 'I On the roof 
 ("' an itinerant vehicle I sate, 
 I j ith vulgar men about me, trivial forms 
 
 Of houses, pavement, streets, of men and things, — 
 Mean shapes on every side : but, at the instant, 
 When to myself it fairly might be said, 
 The threshold now is overpast, (how strange 
 That aught external to the living mind 
 Should have such mighty sway ! yet so it was), 
 A weight of ages did at once descend 
 Upon my heart ; no thought embodied, no 
 Distinct remembrances, but weight and power, — - 
 Power growing under weight : alas ! I feel 
 That I am trifling : 'twas a moment's pause, — 
 All that took place within me came and went 
 As in a moment; yet with Time it dwells, 
 And grateful memory, as a thing divine. 
 
 The curious traveller, who, from open day, 
 Hath passed with torches into some huge cave, 
 The Grotto of Antiparos, or the Den 
 In old time haunted by that Danish Witch, 
 Yordas ; he looks around and sees the vault 
 Widening on all sides ; sees, or thinks he sees, 
 Erelong, the massy roof above his head, 
 That instantly unsettles and recedes, — 
 Substance and shadow, light and darkness, all 
 Commingled, making up a canopy 
 Of shapes and forms and tendencies to shape 
 That shift and vanish, change and interchange 
 Like spectres, — ferment silent and sublime ! 
 That after a short space works less and less, 
 Till, every effort, every motion gone, 
 The scene before him stands in perfect view 
 Exposed, and lifeless as a written book ! — 
 But let him pause awhile, and look again, 
 And a new quickening shall succeed, at first 
 Beginning timidly, then creeping fast, 
 Till the whole cave, so late a senseless mass, 
 Busies the eye with images and forms 
 Boldly assembled, — here is shadowed forth 
 From the projections, wrinkles, cavities, 
 A variegated landscape, — there the shape 
 Of some gigantic warrior clad in mail, 
 The ghostly semblance of a hooded monk, 
 Veiled nun, or pilgrim resting on his staff : 
 Strange congregation ! yet not slow to meet 
 Eyes that perceive through minds that can in- 
 spire. 
 
 Even in such sort had I at first been moved, 
 Nor otherwise continued to be moved, 
 As I explored the vast metropolis, 
 Fount of my country's destiny and the world's ; 
 That great emporium, chronicle at once 
 And burial-place of passions, and their home 
 Imperial, their chief living residence. 
 
496 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 "With strong sensations teeming as it did 
 Of past and present, such a place must needs 
 Have pleased me, seeking knowledge at that time 
 Far less than craving power ; yet knowledge came, 
 Sought or unsought, and influxes of power 
 Came, of themselves, or at her call derived 
 In fits of kindliest apprehensiveness, 
 From all sides, when whate'er was in itself 
 Capacious found, or seemed to find, in me 
 A correspondent amplitude of mind ; 
 Such is the strength and glory of our youth ! 
 The human nature unto which I felt 
 That I belonged, and reverenced with love, 
 Was not a punctual presence, but a spirit 
 Diffused through time and space, with aid derived 
 Of evidence from monuments, erect, 
 Prostrate, or leaning towards their common rest 
 In earth, the widely scattered wreck sublime 
 Of vanished nations, or more clearly drawn 
 From books and what they picture and record. 
 
 'Tis true, the history of our native land, 
 With those of Greece compared and popular Rome, 
 And in our high-wrought modern narratives 
 Stript of their harmonising soul, the life 
 Of manners and familiar incidents, 
 Had never much delighted me. And less 
 Than other intellects had mine been used 
 Tq lean upon extrinsic circumstance 
 Of record or tradition ; but a sense 
 Of what in the Great City had been done 
 And suffered, and was doing, suffering, still, 
 Weighed with me, could support the test of 
 
 thought ; 
 And, in despite of all that had gone by, 
 Or was departing never to return, 
 There I conversed with majesty and power 
 Like independent natures. Hence the place 
 Was thronged with impregnations like the Wilds 
 In which my early feelings had been nursed — 
 Bare hills and valleys, full of caverns, rocks, 
 And audible seclusions, dashing lakes, 
 Echoes and waterfalls, and pointed crags 
 That into music touch the passing wind. 
 Here then my young imagination found 
 No uncongenial element ; could here 
 Among new objects serve or give command, 
 Even as the heart's occasions might require, 
 
 To forward reason's else too-scrupulous march. 
 
 The effect was, still more elevated views 
 
 Of human nature. Neither vice nor guilt, 
 
 Debasement undergone by body or mind, 
 
 Nor all the misery forced upon my sight, 
 
 Misery not lightly passed, but sometimes scannec 
 
 Most feelingly, could overthrow my trust 
 
 In what we may become ; induce belief 
 
 That I was ignorant, had been falsely taught, 
 
 A solitary, who with vain conceits 
 
 Had been inspired, and walked about in dreams. 
 
 From those sad scenes when meditation turned, 
 
 Lo ! every thing that was indeed divine 
 
 Retained its purity inviolate, 
 
 Nay brighter shone, by this portentous gloom 
 
 Set off; such opposition as aroused 
 
 The mind of Adam, yet in Paradise 
 
 Though fallen from bliss, when in the East he Baw 
 
 * Darkness ere day's mid course, and morning light 
 
 More orient in the western cloud, that drew 
 
 O'er the blue firmament a radiant white, 
 
 Descending slow withsomething heavenly fraught. 
 
 Add also, that among the multitudes 
 Of that huge city, oftentimes was seen 
 Affectingly set forth, more than elsewhere 
 Is possible, the unity of man, 
 One spirit over ignorance and vice 
 Predominant, in good and evil hearts ; 
 One sense for moral judgments, as one eye 
 For the sun's light. The soul when smitten thus 
 By a sublime idea, whencesoe'er 
 Vouchsafed for union or communion, feeds 
 On the pure bliss, and takes her rest with God. 
 
 Thus from a very early age, Friend ! 
 My thoughts by slow gradations had been drawn 
 To human-kind, and to the good and ill 
 Of human life : Nature had led me on ; 
 And oft amid the " busy hum" I seemed 
 To travel independent of her help, 
 As if I had forgotten her ; but no, 
 The world of human-kind outweighed not hers 
 In my habitual thoughts ; the scale of love. 
 Though filling daily, still was light, compared 
 With that in which her mighty objects lay. 
 
 
 From Milton, Par. Lost, xi. 204.— Ed. 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 497 
 
 BOOK NINTH. 
 
 RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 Even as a river, — partly (it might seem) 
 Yielding to old remembrances, and swayed 
 In part by fear to shape a way direct, 
 That would engulph bim soon in the ravenous sea — 
 Turns, and will measure back his course, far back, 
 Seeking the very regions which he crossed 
 In his first outset ; so have we, my Friend ! 
 Turned and returned with intricate delay. 
 i Or as a traveller, who has gained the brow 
 ' Of some aerial Down, while there he halts 
 For breathing-time, is tempted to review 
 i The region left behind him ; and, if aught 
 I Deserving notice have escaped regard, 
 Or been regarded with too careless eye, 
 Strives, from that height, with one and yet one 
 
 more 
 Last look, to make the best amends he may : 
 iSo have we lingered. Now we start afresh 
 iWith courage, and new hope risen on our toil. 
 Fair greetings to this shapeless eagerness, 
 
 ■Whene'er it comes ! needful in work so Ions:, 
 
 I ■ 
 
 Thrice needful to the argument which now 
 
 A. waits us ! Oh, how much unlike the past ! 
 
 Free as a colt at pasture on the hill, 
 il ranged at large, through London's wide domain, 
 Month after month. Obscurely did I live, 
 Not seeking frequent intercourse with men, 
 By literature, or elegance, or rank, 
 jDistinguished. Scarcely was a year thus spent 
 iEre I forsook the crowded solitude, 
 i With less regret for its luxurious pomp, 
 j And all the nicely -guarded shows of art, 
 Than for the humble book-stalls in the streets, 
 (Exposed to eye and hand where'er I turned. 
 
 France lured me forth ; the realm that I had 
 crossed 
 
 'jo lately, journeying toward the snow-clad Alps. 
 5ut now, relinquishing the scrip and staff, 
 ^.nd all enjoyment which the summer sun 
 iheds round the steps of those who meet the day 
 'Vith motion constant as his own, I went 
 i repared to sojourn in a pleasant town, 
 'Vashed by the current of the stately Loire. 
 
 Through Paris lay my readiest course, and there 
 Sojourning a few days, I visited 
 In haste, each spot of old or recent fame, 
 The latter chiefly ; from the field of Mars 
 Down to the suburbs of St. Antony, 
 And from Mont Martyr southward to the Dome 
 Of Genevieve. In both her clamorous Halls, 
 The National Synod and the Jacobins, 
 I saw the Revolutionary Power 
 Toss like a ship at anchor, rocked by storms ; 
 The Arcades I traversed, in the Palace huge 
 Of Orleans ; coasted round and round the line 
 Of Tavern, Brothel, Gaming-house, and Shop, 
 Great rendezvous of worst and best, the walk 
 Of all who had a purpose, or had not ; 
 I stared and listened, with a sti'anger's ears, 
 To Hawkers and Haranguers, hubbub wild! 
 And hissing Factionists with ardent eyes, 
 In knots, or pairs, or single. Not a look 
 Hope takes, or Doubt or Fear is forced to wear, 
 But seemed there present; and I scanned them all, 
 Watched every gesture uncontrollable, 
 Of anger, and vexation, and despite, 
 All side by side, and struggling face to face, 
 With gaiety and dissolute idleness. 
 
 Where silent zephyrs sported with the dust 
 Of the Bastille, I sate in the open sun, 
 And from the rubbish gathered up a stone, 
 And pocketed the relic, in the guise 
 Of an enthusiast ; yet, in honest truth, 
 I looked for something that I could not find, 
 Affecting more emotion than I felt ; 
 For 'tis most certain, that these various sights, 
 However potent their first shock, with me 
 Appeared to recompense the traveller's pains 
 Less than the painted Magdalene of Le Brun, 
 A beauty exquisitely wrought, with hair 
 Dishevelled, gleaming eyes, and rueful cheek 
 Pale and bedropped with overflowing tears. 
 
 But hence to my more permanent abode 
 I hasten ; there, by novelties in speech, 
 Domestic manners, customs, gestures, looks, 
 And all the attire of ordinary life, 
 Attention was engrossed ; and, thus amused, 
 I stood 'mid those concussions, unconcerned, 
 Tranquil almost, and careless as a flower 
 
498 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Glassed in a green-house, or a parlour shrub 
 That spreads its leaves in unmolested peace, 
 While every bush and tree, the country through, 
 Is shaking to the roots : indifference this 
 Which may seem strange : but I was unprepared 
 With needful knowledge, had abruptly passed 
 Into a theatre, whose stage was filled 
 And busy with an action far advanced. 
 Like others, I had skimmed, and sometimes read 
 With care, the master pamphlets of the day ; 
 Nor wanted such half-insight as grew wild 
 Upon that meagre soil, helped out by talk 
 And public news ; but having never seen 
 A chronicle that might suffice to show 
 Whence the main organs of the public power 
 Had sprung, their transmigrations, when and how 
 Accomplished, giving thus unto events 
 A form and body ; all things were to me 
 Loose and disjointed, and the affections left 
 Without a vital interest. At that time, 
 Moreover, the first storm was overblown, 
 And the strong hand of outward violence 
 Locked up in quiet. For myself, I fear 
 Now in connection with so great a theme 
 To speak (as I must be compelled to do) 
 Of one so unimportant ; night by night 
 Did I frequent the formal haunts of men, 
 Whom, in the city, privilege of birth 
 Sequestered from the rest, societies 
 Polished in arts, and in punctilio versed ; 
 Whence, and from deeper causes, all discourse 
 Of good and evil of the time was shunned 
 With scrupulous care ; but these restrictions soon 
 Proved tedious, and I gradually withdrew 
 Into a noisier world, and thus ere long 
 Became a patriot ; and my heart was all 
 Given to the people, and my love was theirs. 
 
 A band of military Officers, 
 Then stationed in the city, were the chief 
 Of my associates : some of these wore swords 
 That had been seasoned in the wars, and all 
 Were men well-born ; the chivalry of France. 
 In age and temper differing, they had yet 
 One spirit ruling in each heart ; alike * 
 (Save only one, hereafter to be named) 
 Were bent upon undoing what was done : 
 This was their rest and only hope ; therewith 
 No fear had they of bad becoming worse, 
 For worst to them was come ; nor would have 
 
 stirred, 
 Or deemed it worth a moment's thought to stir, 
 In any thing, save only as the act 
 Looked thitherward. One, reckoning by years, 
 
 Was in the prime of manhood, and erewhile 
 He had sate lord in many tender hearts ; 
 Though heedless of such honours now, and 
 
 changed : 
 His temper was quite mastered by the times, 
 And they had blighted him, had eaten away 
 The beauty of his person, doing wrong 
 Alike to body and to mind : his port, 
 Which once had been erect and open, now 
 Was stooping and contracted, and a face, 
 Endowed by Nature with her fairest gifts 
 Of symmetry and light and bloom, expressed, 
 As much as any that was ever seen, 
 A ravage out of season, made by thoughts 
 Unhealthy and vexatious. With the hour, 
 That from the press of Paris duly brought 
 Its freight of public news, the fever came, 
 A punctual visitant, to shake this man, 
 Disarmed his voice and fanned his yellow cheek 
 Into a thousand colours ; while he read, 
 Or mused, his Sword was haunted by his touch 
 Continually, like an uneasy place 
 In his own body. 'Twas in truth an hour 
 Of universal ferment ; mildest men 
 Were agitated ; and commotions, strife 
 Of passion and opinion, filled the walls 
 Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds. 
 The soil of common life, was, at that time, 
 Too hot to tread upon. Oft said I then, 
 And not then only, " What a mockery this 
 Of history, the past and that to come ! 
 Now do I feel how all men are deceived, 
 Reading of nations and their works, in faith, 
 Faith given to vanity and emptiness ; 
 Oh ! laughter for the page that would reflect 
 To future times the face of what now is ! " 
 The land all swarmed with passion, like a plain 
 Devoured by locusts, — Carra, Gorsas, — add 
 A hundred other names, forgotten now, 
 Nor to be heard of more ; yet, they were powers 
 Like eai'thquakes, shocks repeated day by day, 
 And felt through every nook of town and field. 
 
 Such was the state of things. Meanwhile the chiel 
 Of my associates stood prepared for flight 
 To augment the band of emigrants in arms 
 Upon the borders of the Rhine, and leagued 
 With foreign foes mustered for instant war. 
 This was their undisguised intent, and they 
 Were waiting with the whole of their desires 
 The moment to depart. 
 
 An Englishman, 
 Born in a land whose very name appeared 
 To license some unruliness of mind ; 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 499 
 
 A stranger, with youth's further privilege, 
 Arid the indulgence that a half-learnt speech 
 i Wins from the courteous ; I, who had been else 
 ; Shunned and not tolerated, freely lived 
 With these defenders of the Crown, and talked, 
 And heard their notions ; nor did they disdain 
 | The wish to bring me over to their cause. 
 
 But though untaught by thinking or by books 
 To reason well of polity or law, 
 : And nice distinctions, then On every tongue, 
 I Of natural rights and civil; and to acts 
 Of nations and their passing interests, 
 (If with unworldly ends and aims compared) 
 Almost indifferent, even the historian'3 tale 
 Prizing but little otherwise than I prized 
 Tales of the poets, as it made the heart 
 . Beat high, and filled the fancy with fair forms, 
 Old heroes and their sufferings and their deeds ; 
 Yet in the regal sceptre, and the pomp 
 Of orders and degrees, I nothing found 
 : Then, or had ever, even in crudest youth, 
 I That dazzled me, but rather what I mourned 
 And ill could brook, beholding that the best 
 Ruled not, and feeling that they ought to rule. 
 
 For, born in a poor district, and which yet 
 
 Retaineth more of ancient homeliness, 
 
 Than any other nook of English ground, 
 ; It was my fortune scarcely to have seen, 
 1 Through the whole tenor of my school-day time, 
 
 The face of one, who, whether boy or man, 
 ; Was vested with attention or respect 
 ' Through claims of wealth or blood ; nor was it 
 least 
 
 Of many benefits, in later years 
 
 Derived from academic institutes 
 
 And rules, that they held something up to view 
 . Of a Republic, where all stood thus far 
 1 Upon equal ground ; that we were brothers all 
 Jin honour, as in one community, 
 
 Scholars and gentlemen ; where, furthermore, 
 •Distinction open lay to all that came, 
 'And wealth and titles were in less esteem 
 
 Than talents, worth, and prosperous industry. 
 ', Add unto this, subservience from the first 
 iTo presences of God's mysterious power 
 'Made manifest in Nature's sovereignty, 
 
 And fellowship with venerable books, 
 
 ITo sanction the proud workings of the soul, 
 
 jAnd mountain liberty. It could not be 
 
 jBut that one tutored thus should look with awe 
 
 Upon the faculties of man, receive 
 
 Gladly the highest promises, and hail, 
 
 As best, the government of equal rights 
 And individual worth. And hence, Friend ! 
 If at the first great outbreak I rejoiced 
 Less than might well befit my youth, the cause 
 In part lay here, that unto me the events 
 Seemed nothing out of nature's certain course, 
 A gift that was come rather late than soon. 
 No wonder, then, if advocates like these, 
 Inflamed by passion, blind with prej udice, 
 And stung with injury, at this riper day, 
 Were impotent to make my hopes put on 
 The shape of theirs, my understanding bend 
 In honour to their honour : zeal, which yet 
 Had slumbered, now in opposition burst 
 Forth like a Polar summer : every word 
 They uttered was a dart, by counter-winds 
 Blown back upon themselves ; their reason seemed 
 Confusion-stricken by a higher power 
 Than human understanding, their discourse 
 Maimed, spiritless ; and, in their weakness strong, 
 I triumphed. 
 
 Meantime, day by day, the roads 
 Were crowded with the bravest youth of France, 
 And all the promptest of her spirits, linked 
 In gallant soldiership, and posting on 
 To meet the war upon her frontier bounds. 
 Yet at this very moment do tears start 
 Into mine eyes : I do not say I weep — 
 I wept not then, — but tears have dimmed my sight, 
 In memory of the farewells *of that time, 
 Domestic severings, female fortitude 
 At dearest separation, patriot, love 
 And self-devotion, and terrestrial hope, 
 Encouraged with a martyr's confidence ; 
 Even files of strangers merely seen but once, 
 And for a moment, men from far with sound 
 Of music, martial tunes, and banners spread, 
 Entering the city, here and there a face, 
 Or person singled out among the rest, 
 Yet still a stranger and beloved as such ; 
 Even by these passing spectacles my heart 
 Was oftentimes uplifted, and they seemed 
 Arguments sent from Heaven to prove the cause 
 Good, pure, which no one could stand up against, 
 Who was not lost, abandoned, selfish, proud, 
 Mean, miserable, wilfully depraved, 
 Hater perverse of equity and truth. 
 
 Among that band of Officers was one, 
 Already hinted at, of other mould — 
 A patriot, thence rejected by the rest, 
 And with an oriental loathing spurned, 
 As of a different caste. A meeker man 
 Than this lived never, nor a more benign, 
 k k 2 
 
500 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Meek though enthusiastic. Injuries 
 
 Made him more gracious, and his nature then 
 
 Did breathe its sweetness out most sensibly, 
 
 As aromatic flowers on Alpine turf, 
 
 When foot hath crushed them. He through the 
 
 events 
 Of that great change wandered in perfect faith, 
 As through a book, an old romance, or tale 
 Of Fairy, or some dream of actions wrought 
 Behind the summer clouds. By birth he ranked 
 With the most noble, but unto the poor 
 Among mankind he was in service bound, 
 As by some tie invisible, oaths professed 
 To a religious order. Man he loved 
 As man ; and, to the mean and the obscure, 
 And all the homely in their homely works, 
 Transferred a courtesy which had no air 
 Of condescension ; but did rather seem 
 A passion and a gallantry, like that 
 Which he, a soldier, in his idler day 
 Had paid to woman : somewhat vain he was, 
 Or seemed so, yet it was not vanity, 
 But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy 
 Diffused around him, while he was intent 
 On works of love or freedom, or revolved 
 Complacently the progress of a cause, 
 Whereof he was a part : yet this was meek 
 And placid, and took nothing from the man 
 That was delightful. Oft in solitude 
 With him did I discourse about the end 
 Of civil government, and its wisest forms; 
 Of ancient loyalty, and chartered rights, 
 Custom and habit, novelty and change ; 
 Of self-respect, and virtue in the few 
 For patrimonial honour set apart, 
 And ignorance in the labouring multitude. 
 For he, to all intolerance indisposed, 
 Balanced these contemplations in his mind ; 
 And I, who at that time was scarcely dipped 
 Into the turmoil, bore a sounder judgment 
 Than later days allowed ; carried about me, 
 With less alloy to its integrity, 
 The experience of past ages, as, through help 
 Of books and common life, it makes sure way 
 To youthful minds, by objects over near 
 Not pressed upon, nor dazzled or misled 
 By struggling with the crowd for present ends. 
 
 But though not deaf, nor obstinate to find 
 Error without excuse upon the side 
 Of them who strove against us, more delight 
 We took, and let this freely be confessed, 
 In painting to ourselves the miseries 
 Of royal courts, and that voluptuous life 
 
 Unfeeling, where the man who is of soul 
 The meanest thrives the most ; where dignity, 
 True personal dignity, abideth not ; 
 A light, a cruel, and vain world cut off 
 From the natural inlets of just sentiment, 
 From lowly sympathy and chastening truth ; 
 Where good and evil interchange their names, 
 And thirst for bloody spoils abroad is paired 
 With vice at home. We added dearest themes — 
 Man and his noble nature, as it is 
 The gift which God has placed within his power. 
 His blind desires and steady faculties 
 Capable of clear truth, the one to break 
 Bondage, the other to build liberty 
 On firm foundations, making social life, 
 Through knowledge spreading and imperishable, 
 As just in regulation, and as pure 
 As individual in the wise and good. 
 
 We summoned up the honourable deeds 
 Of ancient Story, thought of each bright spot, 
 That would be found in all recorded time, 
 Of truth preserved and error passed away : 
 Of single spirits that catch the flame from Heaven, 
 And how the multitudes of men will feed 
 And fan each other ; thought of sects, how keen 
 They are to put the appropriate nature on, 
 Triumphant over every obstacle 
 Of custom, language, country, love, or hate, 
 And what they do and suffer for their creed ; 
 How far they travel, and how long endure ; 
 How quickly mighty Nations have been formed, 
 From least beginnings ; how, together locked 
 By new opinions, scattered tribes have made 
 One body, spreading wide as clouds in heaven. 
 To aspirations then of our own mind3 
 Did we appeal ; and, finally, beheld 
 A living confirmation of the whole 
 Before us, in a people from the depth 
 Of shameful imbecility uprisen, 
 Fresh as the morning star. Elate we looked 
 Upon their virtues ; saw, in rudest men, 
 Self-sacrifice the firmest; generous love, 
 And continence of mind, and sense of right, 
 Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife. 
 
 
 Oh, sweet it is, in academic groves/ 
 Or such retirement, Friend ! as we have known 
 In the green dales beside our Rotha's stream, 
 Greta, or Derwent, or some nameless rill, 
 To ruminate, with interchange of talk, 
 On rational liberty, and hope in man, 
 Justice and peace. But far more sweet such toil — 
 Toil, say I, for it leads to thoughts abstruse — 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 501 
 
 tf nature then be standing on the brink 
 
 3f some great trial, and we hear the voice 
 
 Df one devoted, — one whom circumstance 
 
 3ath called upon to embody his deep sense 
 
 [n action, give it outwardly a shape, 
 
 ind that of benediction, to the world. 
 
 rhen doubt is not, and truth is more than 
 
 truth, — 
 ^. hope it is, and a desire ; a creed 
 )f zeal, by an authority Divine 
 Sanctioned, of danger, difficulty, or death, 
 iuch conversation, under Attic shades, 
 )id Dion hold with Plato ; ripened thus 
 i'or a Deliverer's glorious task,- — and such 
 le, on that ministry already bound, 
 leld with Eudemus and Timonides, 
 lurrounded by adventurers in arms, 
 Vhen those two vessels with their daring freight, 
 'or the Sicilian Tyrant's overthrow, 
 ■ailed from Zacynthus, — philosophic war, 
 iied by Philosophers. With harder fate, 
 'hough like ambition, such was he, Friend ! 
 pf whom I speak. So Beaupuis (let the name 
 tand near the worthiest of Antiquity) 
 'ashioned his life ; and many a long discourse, 
 ; Vith like persuasion honoured, we maintained : 
 le, on his part, accoutred for the worst, 
 He perished fighting, in supreme command, 
 Tpon the borders of the unhappy Loire, 
 ''or liberty, against deluded men, 
 lis fellow country-men ; and yet most blessed 
 a this, that he the fate of later times 
 ived not to see, nor what we now behold, 
 7ho have as ardent hearts as he had then. 
 
 Along that very Loire, with festal mirth 
 : esounding at all hours, and innocent yet 
 f civil slaughter, was our frequent walk; 
 !r in wide forests of continuous shade, 
 ofty and over-arched, with open space 
 ieneath the trees, clear footing many a mile — 
 
 solemn region. Oft amid those haunts, 
 ;rom earnest dialogues I slipped in thought, 
 )nd let remembrance steal to other times, 
 'hen, o'er those interwoven roots, moss-clad, 
 :nd smooth as marble or a waveless sea, 
 >me Hermit, from his cell forth-strayed, might 
 
 pace 
 I sylvan meditation undisturbed ; 
 |3 on the pavement of a Gothic church 
 j alks a lone Monk, when service hath expired, 
 ! peace and silence. But if e'er was heard, — 
 jeard, though unseen, — a devious traveller, 
 firing or approaching from afar 
 
 With speed and echoes loud of trampling hoofs 
 
 From the hard floor reverberated, then 
 
 It was Angelica thundering through the woods 
 
 Upon her palfrey, or that gentle maid 
 
 Erminia, fugitive as fair as she. 
 
 Sometimes methought I saw a pair of knights 
 
 Joust underneath the trees, that' as in storm 
 
 Rocked high above their heads ; anon, the diu 
 
 Of boisterous merriment, and music's roar, 
 
 In sudden proclamation, burst from haunt 
 
 Of Satyrs in some viewless glade, with dance 
 
 Rejoicing o'er a female in the midst, 
 
 A mortal beauty, their unhappy thrall. 
 
 The width of those huge forests, unto me 
 
 A novel scene, did often in this way 
 
 Master my fancy while I wandered on 
 
 With that revered companion. And sometimes — 
 
 When to a convent in a meadow green, 
 
 By a brook-side, we came, a roofless pile, 
 
 And not by reverential touch of Time 
 
 Dismantled, but by violence abrupt — 
 
 In spite of those heart-bracing colloquies, 
 
 In spite of real fervour, and of that 
 
 Less genuine and wrought up within myself — 
 
 I could not but bewail a wrong so harsh, 
 
 And for the Matin-bell to sound no more 
 
 Grieved, and the twilight taper, and the cross 
 
 High on the topmost pinnacle, a sign 
 
 (How welcome to the weary traveller's eyes !) 
 
 Of hospitality and peaceful rest. 
 
 And when the partner of those varied walks 
 
 Pointed upon occasion to the site 
 
 Of Romorentin, home of ancient kings, 
 
 To the imperial edifice of Blois, 
 
 Or to that rural castle, name now slipped 
 
 From my remembrance, where a lady lodged, 
 
 By the first Francis wooed, and bound to him 
 
 In chains of mutual passion, from the tower, 
 
 As a tradition of the country tells, 
 
 Practised to commune with her royal knight 
 
 By cressets and love-beacons, intercourse 
 
 'Twixt her high-seated residence and his 
 
 Far off at Chambord on the plain beneath ; 
 
 Even here, though less than with the peaceful 
 
 house 
 Religious, 'mid those frequent monuments 
 Of Kings, their vices and their better deeds, 
 Imagination, potent to inflame 
 At times with virtuous wrath and noble scorn, 
 Did also often mitigate the force 
 Of civic prejudice, the bigotry, 
 So call it, of a youthful patriot's mind ; 
 And on these spots with many gleams I looked 
 Of chivalrous delight. Yet not the less, 
 
502 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Hatred of absolute rule, where will of one 
 
 Is law for all, and of that barren pride 
 
 In them who, by immunities unjust, 
 
 Between the sovereign and the people stand, 
 
 His helper and not theirs, laid stronger hold 
 
 Daily upon me, mixed with pity too 
 
 And loye ; for where hope is, there love will be 
 
 For the abject multitude. And when we chanced 
 
 One day to meet a hunger-bitten girl, 
 
 Who crept along fitting her languid gait 
 
 Unto a heifer's motion, by a cord 
 
 Tied to her arm, and picking thus from the lane 
 
 Its sustenance, while the girl with pallid hands 
 
 Was busy knitting in a heartless mood 
 
 Of solitude, and at the sight my friend 
 
 In agitation said, " 'Tis against that 
 
 That we are fighting," I with him believed 
 
 That a benignant spirit was abroad 
 
 Which might not be withstood, that poverty 
 
 Abject as this would in a little time 
 
 Be found no more, that we should see the earth 
 
 Unthwarted in her wish to recompense 
 
 The meek, the lowly, patient child of toil, 
 
 All institutes for ever blotted out 
 
 That legalised exclusion, empty pomp 
 
 Abolished, sensual state and cruel power, 
 
 Whether by edict of the one or few; 
 
 And finally, as sum and crown of all, 
 
 Should see the people having a strong hand 
 
 In framing their own laws ; whence better days 
 
 To all mankind. But, these things set apart, 
 
 Was not this single confidence enough 
 
 To animate the mind that ever turned 
 
 A thought to human welfare 1 That henceforth 
 
 C^tivity by mandate without law 
 
 Should cease ; and open accusation lead 
 
 To sentence in the hearing of the world, 
 
 And open punishment, if not the air 
 
 Be free to breathe in, and the heart of man 
 
 Dread nothing. From this height I shall not 
 
 stoop 
 To humbler matter that detained us oft 
 In thought or conversation, public acts, 
 And public persons, and emotions wrought 
 Within the breast, as ever- varying winds 
 Of record or report swept over vis ; 
 
 ven 
 
 ied: 
 
 But I might here, instead, repeat a tale,* 
 Told by my Patriot friend, of sad events, 
 That prove to what low depth had struck the roots 
 How widely spread the boughs, of that old tree 
 Which, as a deadly mischief, and a foul 
 And black dishonour, France was weary of. 
 
 Oh, happy time of youthful lovers, (thus 
 The story might begin,) oh, balmy time, 
 In which a love-knot, on a lady's brow, 
 Is fairer than the fairest star in Heaven ! 
 So might — and with that prelude did begin 
 The record ; and, in faithful verse, was given 
 The doleful sequel. 
 
 But our little bark 
 On a strong river boldly hath been launchei 
 And from the driving current should we turn 
 To loiter wilfully within a creek, 
 Howe'er attractive, Fellow voyager ! 
 Would'st thou not chide? Yet deem not m; 
 
 pains lost : 
 For Vaudracour and Julia (so were named 
 The ill-fated pair) in that plain tale will draw 
 Tears from the hearts of others, when their own 
 Shall beat no more. Thou, also, there mayst read 
 At leisure, how the enamoured youth was driven, 
 By public power abased, to fatal crime, 
 Nature's rebellion against monstrous law ; 
 •How, between heart and heart, oppression thrus 
 Her mandates, severing whom true love 
 
 joined, 
 Harassing both ,• until he sank and pressed 
 The couch his fate had made for him ; supine, 
 Save when the stings of viperous remorse, 
 Trying their strength, enforced him to start up, 
 Aghast and prayerless. Into a deep wood 
 He fled, to shun the haunts of human kind ; 
 There dwelt, weakened in spirit more and tf.ore 
 Nor could the voice of Freedom, which tlrouji 
 
 France 
 Full speedily resounded, public hope, 
 Or personal memory of his own worst wroDga 
 Rouse him ; but, hidden in those gloomy shades 
 His days he wasted, — an imbecile mind. 
 
 See "Vaudracour and Julia, "p. 8S. — Ed 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 503 
 
 BOOK TENTH. 
 
 RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 It was a beautiful and silent day 
 
 That overspread the countenance of earth, 
 
 Then fading with unusual quietness, — 
 
 A day as beautiful as e'er was given 
 
 To soothe regret, though deepening what it 
 
 soothed, 
 When by the gliding Loire I paused, and cast 
 Upon his rich domains, vineyard and tilth, 
 
 • Green meadow-ground, and many-coloured woods, 
 Again, and yet again, a farewell look ; 
 
 Then from the quiet of that scene passed on, 
 Bound to the fierce Metropolis. From his throne 
 The King had fallen, and that invading host — 
 
 • Presumptuous cloud, on whose black front was 
 
 written 
 The tender mercies of the dismal wind 
 That bore it — on the plains of Liberty 
 Had burst innocuous. Say in bolder words, 
 They — wbo had come elate as eastern hunters 
 Banded beneath the Great Mogul, when he 
 Erewhile went forth from Agra or Lahore, 
 Rajahs and Omrahs in his train, intent 
 To drive their prey enclosed within a ring 
 
 , Wide as a province, but, the signal given, 
 Before the point of the life- threatening spear 
 
 , Narrowing itself by moments — they, rash men, 
 Had seen the anticipated quarry turned 
 Into avengers, from wbose wrath they fled 
 
 : In terror. Disappointment and dismay 
 
 ■Remained for all whose fancies had run wild 
 With evil expectations ; confidence 
 And perfect triumph for the better cause. 
 
 The State, as if to stamp the final seal 
 On her security, and to the world 
 Show what she was, a high and fearless soul, 
 Exulting in defiance, or heart-stung 
 1 By sharp resentment, or belike to taunt 
 With spiteful gratitude the baffled League, 
 That had stirred up her slackening faculties 
 I To a new transition, when the King was crushed, 
 (Spared not the empty throne, and in proud haste 
 Assumed the body and venerable name 
 jOf a Republic. Lamentable crimes, 
 Tis true, had gone before this hour, dire work 
 
 Of massacre, in which the senseless sword 
 Was prayed to as a judge ; but these were past, 
 Earth free from them for ever, as was thought, — 
 Ephemeral monsters, to be seen but once ! 
 Things that could only show themselves and die. 
 
 Cheered with this hope, to Paris I returned, 
 And ranged, with ardour heretofore unfelt, 
 The spacious city, and in progress passed 
 The prison where the unhappy Monarch lay, 
 Associate with his children and his wife 
 In bondage ; and the palace, lately stormed 
 With roar of cannon by a furious host. 
 I crossed the square (an empty area then !) 
 Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain 
 The dead, upon the dying heaped, and gazed 
 On this and other spots, as doth a man 
 Upon a volume whose contents he knows 
 Are memorable, but from him locked up, 
 Being written in a tongue he cannot read, 
 So that he questions the mute leaves with pain, 
 And half upbraids their silence. But that night 
 I felt most deeply in what world I was, 
 What ground I trod on, and what air I breathed. 
 High was my room and lonely, near the roof 
 Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge 
 That would have pleased me in more quiet times ; 
 Nor was it wholly without pleasure then. 
 With unextinguished taper I kept watch, 
 Reading at intervals ; the fear gone by 
 Pressed on me almost like a fear to come. 
 I thought of those September massacres, 
 Divided from me by one little month, 
 Saw them and touched : the rest was conjured up 
 From tragic fictions or true history, 
 Remembrances and dim admonishments. 
 The horse is taught his manage, and no star 
 Of wildest course but treads back his own steps ; 
 For the spent hurricane the air provides 
 As fierce a successor ; the tide retreats 
 But to return out of its hiding-place 
 In the great deep ; all things have second birth ; 
 The earthquake is not satisfied at once ; 
 And in this way I wrought upon myself, 
 Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried, 
 To the whole city, "Sleep no more." The trance 
 Fled with the voice to which it had given birth ; 
 But vainly comments of a calmer mind 
 
504 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Promised soft peace and sweet forgetfulness. 
 The place, all hushed and silent as it was, 
 Appeared unfit for the repose of night, 
 Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam. 
 
 With early morning towards the Palace-walk 
 Of Orleans eagerly I turned ; as yet 
 The streets were still ; not so those long Arcades ; 
 There, 'mid a peal of ill-matched sounds and cries, 
 That greeted me on entering, I could hear 
 Shrill voices from the hawkers in the throng, 
 Bawling, " Denunciation of the Crimes 
 Of Maximilian Robespierre ; " the hand, 
 Prompt as the voice, held forth a printed speech, 
 The same that had been recently pronounced, 
 When Robespierre, not ignorant for what mark 
 Some words of indirect reproof had been 
 Intended, rose in hardihood, and dared 
 The man who had an ill surmise of him 
 To bring his charge in openness ; whereat, 
 When a dead pause ensued, and no one stirred, 
 In silence of all present, from his seat 
 Louvet walked single through the avenue, 
 And took his station in the Tribune, saying, 
 " I, Robespierre, accuse thee ! " Well is known 
 The inglorious issue of that charge, and how 
 He, who had launched the startling thunderbolt, 
 The one bold man, whose voice the attack had 
 
 sounded, 
 Was left without a follower to discharge 
 His perilous duty, and retire lamenting 
 That Heaven's best aid is wasted upon men 
 Who to themselves are false. 
 
 But these are things 
 Of which I speak, only as they were storm 
 Or sunshine to my individual mind, 
 No further. Let me then relate that now — 
 In some sort seeing with my proper eyes 
 That Liberty, and Life, and Death would soon 
 To the remotest corners of the land 
 Lie in the arbitrement of those who ruled 
 The capital City ; what was struggled for, 
 And by what combatants victory must be won ; 
 The indecision on their part whose aim 
 Seemed best, and the straightforward path of those 
 Who in attack or in defence were strong 
 Through their impiety — my inmost soul 
 Was agitated ; yea, I could almost 
 Have prayed that throughout earth upon all men, 
 By patient exercise of reason made 
 Worthy of liberty, all spirits filled 
 With zeal expanding in Truth's holy light, 
 The gift of tongues might fall, and power arrive 
 From the four quarters of the winds to do 
 
 For France, what without help she could not do 
 A work of honour ; think not that to this 
 I added, work of safety : from all doubt 
 Or trepidation for the end of things 
 Far was I, far as angels are from guilt. 
 
 Yet did I grieve, nor only grieved, but thought 
 Of opposition and of remedies : 
 An insignificant stranger and obscure, 
 And one, moreover, little graced with power 
 Of eloquence even in my native speech, 
 And all unfit for tumult or intrigue, 
 Yet would I at this time with willing heart 
 Have undertaken for a cause so great 
 Service however dangerous. I revolved, 
 How much the destiny of Man had still 
 Hung upon single persons ; that there was, 
 Transcendent to all local patrimony, 
 One nature, as there is one sun in heaven ; 
 That objects, even as they are A great, thereby 
 Do come within the reach of humblest eyes ; 
 That Man is only weak through his mistrust 
 And want of hope where evidence divine 
 Proclaims to him that hope should be most sure; 
 Nor did the inexperience of my youth 
 Preclude conviction, that a spirit strong 
 In hope, and trained to noble aspirations, 
 A spirit thoroughly faithful to itself, 
 Is for Society's unreasoning herd 
 A domineering instinct, serves at once 
 For way and guide, a fluent receptacle 
 That gathers up each petty straggling rill 
 And vein of water, glad to be rolled on 
 In safe obedience ; that a mind, whose rest 
 Is where it ought to be, in self-restraint, 
 In circumspection and simplicity, 
 Falls rarely in entire discomfiture 
 Below its aim, or meets with, from without, 
 A treachery that foils it or defeats ; 
 And, lastly, if the means on human will, 
 Frail human will, dependent should betray 
 Him who too boldly trusted them, I felt 
 That "mid the loud distractions of the world 
 A sovereign voice subsists within the soul, 
 Arbiter undisturbed of right and wrong, 
 Of life and death, in majesty severe 
 Enjoining, as may best promote the aims 
 Of truth and justice, either sacrifice, 
 From whatsoever region of our cares 
 Or our infirm affections Nature pleads, 
 Earnest and blind, against the stern decree. 
 
 On the other sido, I called to mind those truths 
 That are the common-places of the schools — 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 505 
 
 (A theme for boys, too hackneyed for their sires,) 
 
 Yet, with a revelation's liveliness, 
 
 In all their comprehensive bearings known 
 
 And visible to philosophers of old, 
 
 Men who, to business of the world untrained, 
 
 Lived in the shade ; and to Harmodius known 
 
 I And his compeer Aristogiton, known 
 To Brutus — that tyrannic power is weak, 
 Hath neither gratitude, nor faith, nor love, 
 Nor the support of good or evil men 
 To trust in ; that the godhead which is ours 
 Can never utterly be charmed or stilled ; 
 That nothing hath a natural right to last 
 But equity and reason ; that all else 
 
 . Meets foes irreconcilable, and at best 
 Lives only by variety of disease. 
 
 Well might my wishes be intense, my thoughts 
 : Strong and perturbed, not doubting at that time 
 But that the virtue of one paramount mind 
 i Would have abashed those impious crests — have 
 
 quelled 
 I Outrage and bloody power, and — in despite 
 Of what the People long had been and were 
 Through ignorance and false teaching, sadder 
 
 proof 
 Of immaturity, and — in the teeth. 
 : Of desperate opposition from without — 
 Have cleared a passage for just government, 
 'And left a solid birthright to the State, 
 Redeemed, according to example given 
 By ancient lawgivers. 
 
 In this frame of mind, 
 Dragged by a chain of harsh necessity, 
 i So seemed it, — now I thankfully acknowledge, 
 Forced by the gracious providence of Heaven, — 
 To England I returned, else (though assured 
 : That I both was and must be of small weight, 
 [No better than a landsman on the deck 
 Of a ship struggling with a hideous storm) 
 Doubtless, I should have then made common cause 
 With some who perished ; haply perished too, 
 A poor mistaken and bewildered offering, — 
 j Should to the breast of Nature have gone back, 
 With all my resolutions, all my hopes, 
 A Poet only to myself, to men 
 'Useless, and even, beloved Friend ! a soul 
 To thee unknown ! 
 
 Twice had the trees let fall 
 Their leaves, as often Winter had put on 
 His hoary crown, since I had seen the surge 
 Beat against Albion's shore, since ear of mine 
 jHad caught the accents of my native speech 
 'Upon our native country's sacred ground. 
 
 A patriot of the world, hew could I glide 
 
 Into communion with her sylvan shades, 
 
 Erewhile my tuneful haunt ? It pleased me more 
 
 To abide in the great City, where I found 
 
 The general air still busy with the stir 
 
 Of that first memorable onset made 
 
 By a strong levy of humanity 
 
 Upon the traffickers in Negro blood ; 
 
 Effort which, though defeated, had recalled 
 
 To notice old forgotten principles, 
 
 And through the nation spread a novel heat 
 
 Of virtuous feeling. For myself, I own 
 
 That this particular strife had wanted power 
 
 To rivet my affections ; nor did now 
 
 Its unsuccessful issue much excite 
 
 My sorrow ; for I brought with me the faith 
 
 That, if France prospered, good men would not 
 
 long 
 Pay fruitless worship to humanity, 
 And this most rotten branch of human shame, 
 Object, so seemed it, of superfluous pains, 
 Would fall together with its parent tree. 
 What, then, were my emotions, when in arms 
 Britain put forth her free-born strength in league, 
 Oh, pity and shame ! with those confederate 
 
 Powers ! 
 Not in my single self alone I found, 
 But in the minds of all ingenuous youth, 
 Change and subversion from that hour. No shock 
 Given to my moral nature had I known 
 Down to that very moment ; neither lapse 
 Nor turn of sentiment that might be named 
 A revolution, save at this one time ; 
 All else was progress on the self-same path 
 On which, with a diversity of pace, 
 I had been travelling : this a stride at once 
 Into another region. As a light 
 And pliant harebell, swinging in the breeze 
 On some grey rock — its birth-place — so had I 
 Wantoned, fast rooted on the ancient tower 
 Of my beloved country, wishing not 
 A happier fortune than to wither there : 
 Now was I from that pleasant station torn 
 And tossed about in whirlwind. I rejoiced, 
 Yea, afterwards — truth most painful to record ! — 
 Exulted, in the triumph of my soul, 
 When Englishmen by thousands were o'erthrown, 
 Left without glory on the field, or driven, 
 Brave hearts ! to shameful flight. It was a grief, — 
 Grief call it not, 'twas anything but that, — 
 A conflict of sensations without name, 
 Of which he only, who may love the sight 
 Of a village steeple, as I do, can judge, 
 When, in the congregation bending all 
 
506 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 To their great Father, prayers were offered up, 
 
 Or praises for our country's victories ; 
 
 And, 'mid the simple worshippers, perchance 
 
 I only, like an uninvited guest 
 
 Whom no one owned, sate silent, shall I add, 
 
 Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come. 
 
 Oh ! much have they to account for, who could 
 tear, 
 By violence, at one decisive rent, 
 From the best youth in England their dear pride, 
 Their joy, in England ; this, too, at a time 
 In which worst losses easily might wean 
 The best of names, when patriotic love 
 Did of itself in modesty give way, 
 Like the Precursor when the Deity 
 Is come Whose harbinger he was ; a time 
 In which ajjostasy from ancient faith 
 Seemed but conversion to a higher creed ; 
 Withal a season dangerous and wild, 
 A time when sage Experience would have snatched 
 Flowers out of any hedge-row to compose 
 A chaplet in contempt of his grey locks. 
 
 When the proud fleet that bears the red-cross 
 flag 
 In that unworthy service was prepared 
 To mingle, I beheld the vessels lie, 
 A brood of gallant creatures, on the deep ; 
 I saw them in their rest, a sojourner 
 Through a whole month of calm and glassy days 
 In that delightful island which protects 
 Their place of convocation — there I heard, 
 Each evening, pacing by the still sea-shore, 
 A monitory sound that never failed, — 
 The sunset cannon. While the orb went down 
 In the tranquillity of nature, came 
 That voice, ill requiem ! seldom heard by me 
 Without a spirit overcast by dark 
 Imaginations, sense of woes to come, 
 Sorrow for human kind, and pain of heart. 
 
 In France, the men, who, for their desperate 
 ends, 
 Had plucked up mercy by the roots, were glad 
 Of this new enemy. Tyrants, strong before 
 In wicked pleas, were strong as demons now ; 
 And thus, on every side beset with foes, 
 The goaded land waxed mad ; the crimes of few 
 Spread into madness of the many ; blasts 
 From hell came sanctified like airs from heaven. 
 The sternness of the just, the faith of those 
 Who doubted not that Providence had times 
 Of vengeful retribution, theirs who throned 
 
 The human Understanding paramount 
 
 And made of that their God, the hopes of men 
 
 Who were content to barter short-lived pangs 
 
 For a paradise of ages, the blind rage 
 
 Of insolent tempers, the light vanity 
 
 Of intermeddlers, steady purposes 
 
 Of the suspicious, slips of the indiscreet, 
 
 And all the accidents of life were pressed 
 
 Into one service, busy with one work. 
 
 The Senate stood aghast, her prudence quenched, 
 
 Her wisdom stifled, and her justice scared, 
 
 Her frenzy only active to extol 
 
 Past outrages, and shape the way for new, 
 
 Which no one dared to oppose or mitigate. 
 
 Domestic carnage now filled the whole year 
 With feast-days; old men from the chimney -nook, 
 The maiden from the bosom of her love, 
 The mother from the cradle of her babe, 
 The warrior from the field — all perished, all — 
 Friends, enemies, of all parties, ages, ranks, 
 Head after head, and never heads enough 
 For those that bade them fall. They found then- 
 joy, 
 
 They made it proudly, eager as a child, 
 (If like desires of innocent little ones 
 May with such heinous appetites be compared), 
 Pleased in some open field to exercise 
 A toy that mimics with revolving wings 
 The motion of a wind-mill ; though the air 
 Do of itself blow fresh, and make the vanes 
 Spin in his eyesight, that contents him not, 
 But, with the plaything at arm's length, he sets 
 His front against the blast, and runs amain, 
 That it may whirl the faster. 
 
 Amid the depth 
 Of those enormities, even thinking minds 
 Forgot, at seasons, whence they had their being; 
 Forgot, that such a sound was ever heard 
 As Liberty upon earth : yet all beneath 
 Her innocent authority was wrought, 
 Nor could have been, without her blessed name 
 The illustrious wife of Roland, in the hour 
 Of her composure, felt that agony, 
 And gave it vent in her last words. Friend ! 
 It was a lamentable time for man, 
 Whether a hope had e'er been his or not ; 
 A woful time for them whose hopes survived 
 The shock ; most woful for those few who still 
 Were flattered, and had trust in human kind : 
 They had the deepest feeling of the grief. 
 Meanwhile the Invaders fared as they deserved : 
 The Herculean Commonwealth had put forth her 
 arms, 
 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE. 
 
 507 
 
 And throttled with an infant godhead's might 
 ! The snakes ahout her cradle ; that was well, 
 And as it should be ; yet no cure for them 
 Whose souls were sick with pain of what would be 
 Hereafter brought in charge agaiust mankind. 
 Most melancholy at that time, Friend ! 
 Were my day-thoughts, — my nights were miser- 
 able ; 
 Through months, through years, long after the 
 
 last beat 
 Of those atrocities, the hour of sleep 
 To me came rarely charged with natural gifts, 
 Such ghastly visions had I of despair 
 And tyranny, and implements of death ; 
 And innocent victims sinking under fear, 
 And momentary hope, and worn-out prayer, 
 Each in his separate cell, or penned in crowds 
 ' For sacrifice, and struggling with fond mirth 
 And levity in dungeons, where the dust 
 Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the scene 
 Changed, and the unbroken dream entangled me 
 In long orations, which I strove to plead 
 Before unjust tiibunals, — with a voice 
 Labouring, a brain confounded, and a sense, 
 Death-like, of treacherous desertion, felt 
 In the last place of refuge — my own soul. 
 
 When I began in youth's delightful prime 
 To yield myself to Nature, when that strong 
 
 ■ And holy passion overcame me first, 
 Nor day nor night, evening or morn, was free 
 From its oppression. But, Power Supreme ! 
 
 ' Without Whose call this world would cease to 
 breathe, 
 
 , Who from the fountain of Thy grace dost fill 
 The veins that branch through every frame of life, 
 Making man what he is, creature divine, 
 In single or in social eminence, 
 Above the rest raised infinite ascents 
 When reason that enables him to be 
 Is not sequestered — what a change is here ! 
 How different ritual for this after-worship, 
 What countenance to promote this second love ! 
 The first was service paid to things which lie 
 Guarded within the bosom of Thy will. 
 Therefore to serve was high beatitude ; 
 Tumult was therefore gladness, and the fear 
 Ennobling, venerable ; sleep secure, 
 And waking thoughts more rich than happiest 
 dreams. 
 
 But as the ancient Prophets, borne aloft 
 In vision, yet constrained by natural laws 
 With them to take a troubled human heart, 
 
 Wanted not consolations, nor a creed 
 
 Of reconcilement, then when they denounced, 
 
 On towns and cities, wallowing in the abyss 
 
 Of their offences, punishment to come ; 
 
 Or saw, like other men, with bodily eyes, 
 
 Before them, in some desolated place, 
 
 The wrath consummate and the threat fulfilled ; 
 
 So, with devout humility be it said, 
 
 So, did a portion of that spirit fall 
 
 On me uplifted from the vantage-ground 
 
 Of pity and sorrow to a state of being 
 
 That through the time's exceeding fierceness saw 
 
 Glimpses of retribution, terrible, 
 
 And in the order of sublime behests : 
 
 But, even if that were not, amid the awe 
 
 Of unintelligible chastisement, 
 
 Not only acquiescences of faith 
 
 Survived, but daring sympathies with power, 
 
 Motions not treacherous or profane, else why 
 
 Within the folds of no ungentle breast 
 
 Their dread vibration to this hour prolonged ? 
 
 W 7 ild blasts of music thus could find their way 
 
 Into the midst of turbulent events ; 
 
 So that worst tempests might be listened to. 
 
 Then was the truth received into my heart, 
 
 That, under heaviest sorrow earth can bring, 
 
 If from the affliction somewhere do not grow 
 
 Honour which could not else have been, a faith, 
 
 An elevation, and a sanctity, 
 
 If new strength be not given nor old restored, 
 
 The blame is ours, not Nature's. When a taunt 
 
 Was taken up by scoffers in their pride, 
 
 Saying, " Behold the harvest that we reap 
 
 From popxilar government and equality," 
 
 I clearly saw that neither these nor aught 
 
 Of wild belief engrafted on their names 
 
 By false philosophy had caused the woe, 
 
 But a terrific reservoir of guilt 
 
 And ignorance filled up from age to age, 
 
 That could no longer hold its loathsome charge, 
 
 But burst and spread in deluge through the land. 
 
 And as the desert hath green spots, the sea 
 Small islands scattered amid stormy waves, 
 So that disastrous period did not want 
 Bright sprinklings of all human excellence, 
 To which the silver wands of saints in Heaven 
 Might point with rapturous joy. Yet not the less, 
 For those examples, in no age surpassed, 
 Of fortitude and energy and love, 
 And human nature faithful to herself 
 Under worst trials, was I driven to think 
 Of the glad times when first I traversed France 
 A youthful pilgrim ; above all reviewed 
 
508 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 That eventide, when under windows bright 
 
 With happy faces and with garlands hung, 
 
 And through a rainbow-arch that spanned the 
 
 street, 
 Triumphal pomp for liberty confirmed, 
 I paced, a dear companion at my side, 
 The town of Arras, whence with promise high 
 Issued, on delegation to sustain 
 Humanity and right, that Robespierre, 
 He who thereafter, and in how short time ! 
 Wielded the sceptre of the Atheist crew. 
 When the calamity spread far and wide — 
 And this same city, that did then appear 
 To outrun the rest in exultation, groaned 
 Under the vengeance of her cruel son, 
 As Lear reproached the winds — I could almost 
 Have quarrelled with that blameless spectacle 
 For lingering yet an image in my mind 
 To mock me under such a strange reverse. 
 
 Friend ! few happier moments have been mine 
 Than that which told the downfall of this Tribe 
 So dreaded, so abhorred. The day deserves 
 A separate record. Over the smooth sands 
 Of Leven's ample estuary lay 
 My journey, and beneath a genial sun, 
 With distant prospect among gleams of sky 
 And clouds, and intermingling mountain tops, 
 In one inseparable glory clad, 
 Creatures of one ethereal substance met 
 In consistory, like a diadem 
 Or crown of burning seraphs as they sit 
 In the empyrean. Underneath that pomp 
 Celestial, lay unseen the pastoral vales 
 Among whose happy fields I had grown up 
 From childhood. On the fulgent spectacle, 
 That neither passed away nor changed, I gazed 
 Enrapt; but brightest things are wont to draw 
 Sad opposites out of the inner heart, 
 As even their pensive influence drew from mine. 
 How could it otherwise ? for not in vain 
 That very morning had I turned aside 
 To seek the ground where, 'mid a throng of graves, 
 An honoured teacher of my youth was laid, 
 And on the stone were graven by his desire 
 Lines from the churchyard elegy of Gray. 
 This faithful guide, speaking from his death-bed, 
 Added no farewell to his parting counsel, 
 But said to me, " My head will soon lie low ; " 
 And when I saw the turf that covered him, 
 After the lapse of full eight years, those words, 
 With sound of voice and countenance of the Man, 
 Came back upon me, so that some few tears 
 Fell from me in my own despite. But now 
 
 I thought, still traversing that widespread plain, 
 With tender pleasure of the verses graven 
 Upon his tombstone, whispering to myself : 
 He loved the Poets, and, if now alive, 
 Would have loved me, as one not destitute 
 Of promise, nor belying the kind hope 
 That he had formed, when I, at his command, 
 Began to spin, with toil, my earliest songs. 
 
 As I advanced, all that I saw or felt 
 Was gentleness and peace. Upon a small 
 And rocky island near, a fragment stood 
 (Itself like a sea rock) the low remains 
 (With shells encrusted, dark with briny weeds) 
 Of a dilapidated structure, once 
 A. Romish chapel, where the vested priest 
 Said matins at the hour that suited those 
 Who crossed the sands with ebb of morning tide, 
 Not far from that still ruin all the plain 
 Lay spotted with a variegated crowd 
 Of vehicles and travellers, horse and foot, 
 Wading beneath the conduct of their guide 
 In loose procession through the shallow stream 
 Of inland waters ; the great sea meanwhile 
 Heaved at safe distance, far retired. I paused, 
 Longing for skill to paint a scene so bright 
 And cheerful, but the foremost of the band 
 As he approached, no salutation given 
 In the familiar language of the day, 
 Cried, " Robespierre is dead ! " — nor was a doubt, 
 After strict question, left within my mind 
 That he and his supporters all were fallen. 
 
 Great was my transport, deep my gratitude 
 To everlasting Justice, by this fiat 
 Made manifest. " Come now, ye golden times," 
 Said I forth-pouring on those open sands 
 A hymn of triumph : " as the morning comes 
 From out the bosom of the night, come ye : 
 Thus far our trust is verified ; behold ! 
 They who with clumsy desperation brought 
 A river of Blood, and preached that nothing elso 
 Could cleanse the Augean stable, by the might 
 Of their own helper have been swept away ; 
 Their madness stands declared and visible ; 
 Elsewhere will safety now be sought, and efirth jj 
 March firmly towards righteousness and peace." — ' 
 Then schemes I framed more calmly, when and 
 
 how 
 The madding factions might be tranquillised, 
 And how through hardships manifold and long 
 The glorious renovation would proceed. 
 Thus interrupted by uneasy bursts 
 Of exultation, I pursued my way 
 
FRANCE. 
 
 509 
 
 Along that very shore which I had skimmed 
 [n former days, when — spurring from the Vale 
 Of Nightshade, and St. Mary's mouldering fane, 
 And the stone abbot, after circuit made 
 
 In wantonness of heart, a joyous band 
 
 Of school-boys hastening to their distant home 
 
 Along the margin of the moonlight sea— 
 
 We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand. 
 
 BOOK ELEVENTH. 
 
 FRANCE. 
 
 CONCLUDED. 
 
 Prom that time forth, Authority in France 
 
 Put on a milder face ; Terror had ceased, 
 
 'fet everything was wanting that might give 
 
 Courage to them who looked for good by light 
 
 jf rational Experience, for the shoots 
 
 And hopeful blossoms of a second spring : 
 
 fet, in me, confidence was unimpaired ; 
 
 Che Senate's language, and the public acts 
 
 bid measures of the Government, though both 
 
 Veak, and of heartless omen, had not power 
 
 , 7 o daunt me ; in the People was my trust : 
 
 Vnd, in the virtues which mine eyes had seen, 
 
 ; knew that wound external could not take 
 
 jife from the young Republic ; that new foes 
 
 Vould only follow, in the path of shame, 
 
 ^heir brethren, and her triumphs be in the end 
 
 treat, universal, irresistible. 
 
 j'his intuition led me to confound 
 
 '>ne victory with another, higher far, — 
 
 ,'riumphs of unambitious peace at home, 
 
 .nd noiseless fortitude. Beholding still 
 
 Resistance strong as heretofore, I thought 
 
 ''hat what was in degree the same was likewise 
 
 'he same in quality, — that, as the worse 
 
 'f the two spirits then at strife remained 
 
 r ntired, the better, surely, would preserve 
 
 'he heart that first had roused him. Youth 
 
 maintains, 
 r i all conditions of society, 
 • ommunion more direct and intimate 
 fith Nature, — hence, ofttimes, with reason too — 
 !han age or manhood, even. To Nature, then, 
 ower had reverted : habit, custom, law, 
 ad left an interregnum's open space 
 ior her to move about in, uncontrolled. 
 I ence could I see how Babel-like their task, 
 r ho, by the recent deluge stupified, 
 j r ith their whole souls went culling from the day 
 i s petty promises, to build a tower 
 
 For their own safety; laughed with my compeers 
 At gravest heads, by enmity to France 
 Distempered, till they found, in every blast 
 Forced from the street-disturbing newsman's horn, 
 For her great cause record or prophecy 
 Of utter ruin. How might we believe 
 That wisdom could, in any shape, come near 
 Men clinging to delusions so insane 1 
 And thus, experience proving that no few 
 Of our opinions had been just, we took 
 Like credit to ourselves where less was due, 
 And thought that other notions were as sound, 
 Yea, could not but be right, because we saw 
 That foolish men opposed them. 
 
 To a strain 
 More animated I might here give way, 
 And tell, since juvenile errors are my theme, 
 What in those days, through Britain, was per- 
 formed 
 To turn all judgments out of their right course; 
 But this is passion over-near ourselves, 
 Reality too close and too intense, 
 And intermixed with something, in my mind, 
 Of scorn and condemnation personal, 
 That would profane the sanctity of verse. 
 Our Shepherds, this say merely, at that time 
 Acted, or seemed at least to act, like men 
 Thirsting to make the guardian crook of law 
 A tool of murder ; they who ruled the State, 
 Though with such awful proof before their eyes 
 That he, who would sow death, reaps death, or 
 
 worse, 
 And can reap nothing better, child-like longed 
 To imitate, not wise enough to avoid ; 
 Or left (by mere timidity betrayed) 
 The plain straight road, for one no better chosen 
 Than if their wish had been to undermine 
 Justice, and make an end of Liberty. 
 
 But from these bitter truths I must return 
 To my own history. It hath been told 
 That I was led to take an eager part 
 
510 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 In arguments of civil polity, 
 
 Abruptly, and indeed before my time : 
 
 I had approached, like other youths, the shield 
 
 Of human nature from the golden side, 
 
 And would have fought, even to the death, to attest 
 
 The quality of the metal which I saw. 
 
 What there is best in individual man, 
 
 Of wise in passion, and sublime in power, 
 
 Benevolent in small societies, 
 
 And great in large ones, I had oft revolved, 
 
 Felt deeply, but not thoroughly understood 
 
 By reason : nay, far from it ; they were yet, 
 
 As cause was given me afterwards to learn, 
 
 Not proof against the injuries of the day ; 
 
 Lodged only at the sanctuary's door, 
 
 Not safe within its bosom. Thus prepared, 
 
 And with such general insight into evil. 
 
 And of the bounds which sever it from good, 
 
 As books and common intercourse with life 
 
 Must needs have given — to the inexperienced 
 
 mind, 
 When the world travels in a beaten road, 
 Guide faithful as is needed — I began 
 To meditate with ardour on the rule 
 And management of nations ; what it is 
 And ought to be ; and strove to learn how far 
 Their power or weakness, wealth or poverty, 
 Their happiness or misery, depends 
 Upon their laws, and fashion of the State. 
 
 * pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
 For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood 
 Upon our side, us who were strong in love ! 
 Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
 But to be young was very Heaven ! times, 
 In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways 
 Of custom, law, and statute, took at once 
 The attraction of a country in romance ! 
 When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights 
 When most intent on making of herself 
 A prime enchantress — to assist the work, 
 Which then was going forward in her name ! 
 Not favoured spots alone, but the whole Earth, 
 The beauty wore of promise — that which sets 
 (As at some moments might not be unfelt 
 Among the bowers of Paradise itself ) 
 The budding rose above the rose full blown. 
 What temper at the prospect did not wake 
 To happiness unthought of? The inert 
 Were roused, and lively natures rapt away ! 
 They who had fed their childhood upon dreams, 
 The play-fellows of fancy, who had made 
 
 * See p. 161.— .EH. 
 
 All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength 
 Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had stirred 
 Among the grandest objects of the sense, 
 And dealt with whatsoever they found there 
 As if they had within some lurking right 
 To wield it ; — they, too, who of gentle mood 
 Had watched all gentle motions, and to these 
 Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers mor 
 
 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 hearts' desire, 
 And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish, — 
 Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
 Not in Utopia, — subterranean fields, — 
 Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where ! 
 But in the very world, which is the world 
 Of all of us, — the place where, in the end, 
 We find our happiness, or not at all ! 
 
 Why should I not confess that Earth was the 
 To me, what an inheritance, new-fallen, 
 Seems, when the first time visited, to one 
 Who thither comes to find in it his home ] 
 He walks about and looks upon the spot 
 With cordial transport, moulds it and remoulds 
 And is half pleased with things that are amiss, 
 'Twill be such joy to see them disappear. 
 
 An active partisan, I thus convoked 
 From every object pleasant circumstance 
 To suit my ends ; I moved among mankind 
 With genial feelings still predominant ; 
 When erring, erring on the better part, 
 And in the kinder spirit ; placable, 
 Indulgent, as not uninformed that men 
 See as they have been taught — Antiquity 
 Gives rights to error ; and aware, no less, 
 That throwing off oppression must be work 
 As well of License as of Liberty ; 
 And above all — for this was more than ail — 
 Not caring if the wind did now and then 
 Blow keen upon an eminence that gave 
 Prospect so large into futurity ; 
 In brief, a child of Nature, as at first, 
 Diffusing only those affections wider 
 That from the cradle had grown up with me, 
 And losing, in no other way than light 
 Is lost in light, the weak in the more strong. 
 
 In the main outline, such it might be said 
 Was my condition, till with open war 
 Britain opposed the liberties of France. 
 This threw me first out of the pale of love; 
 
 
FKANCE. 
 
 511 
 
 •Soured and corrupted, upwards to the source, 
 
 ,Hy sentiments ; was not, as hitherto, 
 
 A. swallowing up of lesser things in great, 
 
 3ut change of them into their contraries ; 
 
 Ind thus a way was opened for mistakes 
 
 Ind false conclusions, in degree as gross, 
 
 In kind more dangerous. "What had been a pride, 
 
 ,Vas now a shame ; my likings and my loves 
 
 ten in new channels, leaving old ones dry ; 
 
 i.nd hence a blow that, in maturer age, 
 
 Would but have touched the judgment, struck 
 
 more deep 
 nto sensations near the heart : meantime, 
 Ls from the first, wild theories were afloat, 
 ^o whose pretensions, sedulously urged, 
 had but lent a careless ear, assured 
 i'hat time was ready to set all things right, 
 xnd that the multitude, so long oppressed, 
 Would be oppressed no more. 
 
 But when events 
 irought less encouragement, and unto these 
 ihe immediate proof of principles no more 
 |!ould be entrusted, while the events themselves, 
 Vorn out in greatness, stripped of novelty, 
 iess occupied the mind, and sentiments 
 lould through my understanding's natural growth 
 To longer keep their ground, by faith maintained 
 If inward consciousness, and hope that laid 
 
 | ler hand upon her object — evidence 
 
 | afer, of universal application, such 
 
 i .s could not be impeached, was sought elsewhere. 
 
 But now, become oppressors in their turn, 
 'renchmen had changed a war of self-defence 
 or one of conquest, losing sight of all 
 iTiich they had struggled for : up mounted now, 
 penly in the eye of earth and heaven, 
 he scale of liberty. I read her doom, 
 Fith anger vexed, with disappointment sore, 
 ut not dismayed, nor taking to the shame 
 f a false prophet. While resentment rose 
 triving to hide, what nought could heal, the 
 
 wounds 
 f mortified presumption, I adhered 
 
 ore firmly to old tenets, and, to prove 
 
 heir temper, strained them more ; and thus, in 
 
 heat 
 f contest, did opinions every day 
 row into consequence, till round my mind 
 ihey clung, as if they were its life, nay more, 
 he very being of the immortal soul. 
 
 This was the time, when, all things tending fast 
 o depravation, speculative schemes — 
 
 That promised to abstract the hopes of Man 
 Out of his feelings, to be fixed thenceforth 
 For ever in a purer element — 
 Found ready welcome. Tempting region that 
 For Zeal to enter and refresh herself, 
 Where passions had the privilege to work, 
 And never hear the sound of their own names. 
 But, speaking more in charity, the dream 
 Flattered the young, pleased with extremes, nor 
 
 least 
 With that which makes our Eeason's naked self 
 The object of its fervour. What delight ! 
 How glorious ! in self-knowledge and self-rule, 
 To look through all the frailties of the world, 
 And, with a resolute mastery shaking off 
 Infirmities of nature, time, and place, 
 Build social upon personal Liberty, 
 Which, to the blind restraints of general laws 
 Superior, magisterially adopts 
 One guide, the light of circumstances, flashed 
 Upon an independent intellect. 
 Thus expectation rose again ; thus hope, 
 From her first ground expelled, grew proud once 
 
 more. 
 Oft, as my thoughts were turned to human kind, 
 I scorned indifference ; but, inflamed with thirst 
 Of a secure intelligence, and sick 
 Of other longing, I pursued what seemed 
 A more exalted nature ; wished that Man 
 Should start out of his earthy, worm-like state, 
 And spread abroad the wings of Liberty, 
 Lord of himself, in undisturbed delight — 
 A noble aspiration ! yet I feel 
 (Sustained by worthier as by wiser thoughts) 
 The aspiration, nor shall ever cease 
 To feel it ; — but return we to our course. 
 
 Enough, 'tis true — could such a plea excuse 
 Those aberrations — had the clamorous friends 
 Of ancient Institutions said and done 
 To bring disgrace upon their very names ; 
 Disgrace, of which, custom and written law, 
 And sundry moral sentiments as props 
 Or emanations of those institutes, 
 Too justly bore a part. A veil had been 
 Uplifted : why deceive ourselves 1 in sooth, 
 'Twas even so ; and sorrow for the man 
 "Who either had not eyes wherewith to see, 
 Or, seeing, had forgotten ! A strong shock 
 Was given to old opinions ; all men's minds 
 Had felt its power, and mine was both let loose, 
 Let loose and goaded. After what hath been 
 Already said of patriotic love, 
 Suffice it here to add, that, somewhat stern 
 
512 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 In temperament, withal a happy man, 
 
 And therefore bold to look on painful things, 
 
 Free likewise of the world, and thence more bold, 
 
 I summoned my best skill, and toiled, intent 
 
 To anatomise the frame of social life, 
 
 Yea, the whole body of society 
 
 Searched to its heart. Share with me, Friend ! the 
 
 wish 
 That some dramatic tale, endued with shapes 
 Livelier, and flinging out less guarded words 
 Than suit the work we fashion, might set forth 
 What then I learned, or think I learned, of truth, 
 And the errors into which I fell, betrayed 
 By present objects, and by reasonings false 
 From their beginnings, inasmuch as drawn 
 Out of a heart that had been turned aside 
 From Nature's way by outward accidents, 
 And which was thus confounded, more and more 
 Misguided, and misguiding. So I fared, 
 Dragging all precepts, judgments, maxims, creeds, 
 Like culprits to the bar ; calling the mind, 
 Suspiciously, to establish in plain day 
 Her titles and her honours ; now believing, 
 Now disbelieving ; endlessly perplexed 
 With impulse, motive, right and wrong, the-ground 
 Of obligation, what the rule and whence 
 The sanction ; till, demanding formal proof, 
 And seeking it in every thing, I lost 
 All feeling of conviction, and, in fine, 
 Sick, wearied out with contrarieties, 
 Yielded up moral questions in despair. 
 
 This was the crisis of that strong disease, 
 This the soul's last and lowest ebb ; I drooped, 
 Deeming our blessed reason of least use 
 Where wanted most : " The lordly attributes 
 Of will and choice," I bitterly exclaimed, 
 " What are they but a mockery of a Being 
 Who hath in no concerns of his a test 
 Of good and evil ; knows not what to fear 
 Or hope for, what to covet or to shun ; 
 And who, if those could be discerned, would yet 
 Be little profited, would see, and ask 
 Where is the obligation to enforce ? 
 And, to acknowledged law rebellious, still, 
 As selfish passion urged, would act amiss ; 
 The dupe of folly, or the slave of crime." 
 
 Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walk 
 With scoffers, seeking light and gay revenge 
 From indiscriminate laughter, nor sate down 
 In reconcilement with an utter waste 
 Of intellect ; such sloth I could not brook, 
 (Too well I loved, in that my spring of life, 
 
 Pains-taking thoughts, and truth, their dear re 
 
 ward) 
 But turned to abstract science, and there sougli 
 Work for the reasoning faculty enthroned 
 Where the disturbances of space and time — 
 Whether in matters various, properties 
 Inherent, or from human will and power 
 Derived — find no admission. Then it was — 
 Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good ! — 
 That the beloved Sister in whose sight 
 Those days were passed, now speaking in a voice 
 Of sudden admonition — like a brook 
 That did but cross a lonely road, and now 
 Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turt, 
 Companion never lost through many a league — 
 Maintained for me a saving intercourse 
 With my true self; for, though bedimmed an' 
 
 changed 
 Much, as it seemed, I was no further changed 
 Than as a clouded and a waning moon : 
 She whispered still that brightness would return 
 She, in the midst of all, preserved me still 
 A Poet, made me seek beneath that name, 
 And that alone, my office upon earth ; 
 And, lastly, as hereafter will be shown, 
 If willing audience fail not, Nature's self, 
 By all varieties of human love 
 Assisted, led me back through opening day 
 To those sweet counsels between head and hear 
 Whence grew that genuine knowledge, fraugb 
 
 with peace, 
 Which, through the later sinkings of this cause, 
 Hath still upheld me, and upholds me now 
 In the catastrophe (for so they dream, 
 And nothing less), when, finally to close 
 And seal up all the gains of France, a Pope 
 Is summoned in, to crown an Emperor — 
 This last opprobrium, when we see a people, 
 That once looked up in faith, as if to Heaven 
 For manna, take a lesson from the dog 
 Returning to his vomit; when the sun 
 That rose in splendour, was alive, and moved 
 In exultation with a living pomp 
 Of clouds — his glory's natural retinue — 
 Hath dropped all functions by the gods bestowed; 
 And, turned into a gewgaw, a machine, 
 Sets like an Opera phantom. 
 
 Thus, Friend ! 
 Through times of honour and through times q 
 
 shame 
 Descending, have I faithfully retraced 
 The perturbations of a youthful mind 
 Under a long-lived storm of great events — 
 A story destined for thy ear, who now, 
 
FRANCE. 
 
 513 
 
 • Among the fallen of nations, dost abide 
 I Where Etna, over hill and valley, casts 
 
 His shadow stretching towards Syracuse, 
 
 The city of Timoleon ! Righteous Heaven ! 
 ' How are the mighty prostrated ! They first, 
 
 They first of all that breathe should have awaked 
 j When the great voice was heard from out the tombs 
 
 Of ancient heroes. If I suffered grief 
 ! For ill-requited France, by many deemed 
 ; A trifler only in her proudest day ; 
 ! Have been distressed to think of what she once 
 
 Promised, now is ; a far more sober cause 
 
 Thine eyes must see of sorrow in a land, 
 
 To the reanimating influence lost 
 
 Of memory, to virtue lost and hope, 
 
 Though with the wreck of loftier years bestrewn. 
 
 But indignation works where hope is not, 
 And thou, Friend ! wilt be refreshed. There is 
 One great society alone on earth : 
 The noble Living and the noble Dead. 
 
 Thine be such converse strong and sanative, 
 A ladder for thy spirit to reascend 
 To health and joy and pure contentedness ; 
 To me the grief confined, that thou art gone 
 From this last spot of earth, where Freedom now 
 Stands single in her only sanctuary ; 
 A lonely wanderer art gone, by pain 
 Compelled and sickness, at this latter day, 
 This sorrowful reverse for all mankind. 
 I feel for thee, must utter what I feel : 
 The sympathies erewhile in part discharged, 
 Gather afresh, and will have vent again : 
 My own delights do scarcely seem to me 
 My own delights ; the lordly Alps themselves, 
 Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning looks 
 Abroad on many nations, are no more 
 For me that image of pure gladsomeness 
 Which they were wont to be. Through kindred 
 
 scenes, 
 For purpose, at a time, how different ! 
 Thou tak'st thy way, carrying the heart and soul 
 That Nature gives to Poets, now by thought 
 Matured, and in the summer of their strength. 
 Oh ! wrap him in your shades, ye giant woods, 
 On Etna's side ; and thou, flowery field 
 Of Enna ! is there not some nook of thine, 
 From the first play-time of the infant world 
 Kept sacred to restorative delight, 
 When from afar invoked by anxious love ? 
 
 Child of the mouutains, among shepherds 
 reared, 
 Ere yet familiar with the classic page, 
 I learnt to dream of Sicily ; and lo, 
 The gloom, that, but a moment past, was deepened 
 At thy command, at her command gives way ; 
 A pleasant promise, wafted from her shores, 
 Comes o'er my heart : in fancy I behold 
 Her seas yet smiling, her once happy vales ; 
 Nor can my tongue give utterance to a name 
 Of note belonging to that honoured isle, 
 Philosopher or Bard, Empedocles, 
 Or Archimedes, pure abstracted soul ! 
 That doth not yield a solace to my grief : 
 And, Theocritus,* so far have some 
 Prevailed among the powers of heaven and earth, 
 By their endowments, good or great, that they 
 Have had, as thou reportest, miracles 
 Wrought for them in old time : yea, not unmoved. 
 When thinking on my own beloved friend, 
 I hear thee tell how bees with honey fed 
 Divine Comates, by his impious lord 
 Within a chest imprisoned ; how they came 
 Laden from blooming grove or flowery field, 
 And fed him there, alive, month after month, 
 Because the goatherd, blessed man ! had lips 
 Wet with the Muses' nectar. 
 
 Thus I soothe 
 The pensive moments by this calm fire-side, 
 And find a thousand bounteous images 
 To cheer the thoughts of those I love, and mine. 
 Our prayers have been accepted ; thou wilt stand 
 On Etna's summit, above earth and sea, 
 Triumphant, winning from the invaded heavens 
 Thoughts without bound, magnificent designs, 
 Worthy of poets who attuned their harps 
 In wood or echoing cave, for discipline 
 Of heroes ; or, in reverence to the gods, 
 'Mid temples, served by sapient priests, and choii - 3 
 Of virgins crowned with roses. Not in vain 
 Those temples, where they in their ruins yet 
 Survive for inspiration, shall attract 
 Thy solitary steps : and on the brink 
 Thou wilt recline of pastoral Arethuse ; 
 Or, if that fountain be in truth no more, 
 Then, near some other spring — which, by the name 
 Thou gratulatest, willingly deceived — 
 I see thee linger a glad votary, 
 And not a captive pining for his home. 
 
 Theoorit. Idyll, vii. 78.— Ed. 
 
514 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 BOOK TWELFTH. 
 
 IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW 
 IMPAIRED AND RESTORED. 
 
 Long time have human ignorance and guilt 
 Detained us, on what spectacles of woe 
 Compelled to look, and inwardly oppressed 
 With sorrow, disappointment, vexing thoughts, 
 Confusion of the judgment, zeal decayed, 
 And, lastly, utter loss of hope itself 
 And things to hope for ! Not with these began 
 Our song, and not with these our song must end, — ■ 
 Ye motions of delight, that haunt the sides 
 Of the green hills ; ye breezes and soft airs, 
 Whose subtle intercourse with breathing flowers, 
 Feelingly watched, might teach Man's haughty 
 
 race 
 How without injury to take, to give 
 Without offence ; ye who, as if to show 
 The wondrous influence of power gently used, 
 Bend the complying heads of lordly pines, 
 And, with a touch, shift the stupendous clouds 
 Through the whole compass of the sky ; ye brooks, 
 Muttering along the stones, a busy noise 
 By day, a quiet sound in silent night ; 
 Ye waves, that out of the great deep steal forth 
 In a calm hour to kiss the pebbly shore, 
 Not mute, and then retire, fearing no storm; 
 And you, ye groves, whose ministry it is 
 To interpose the covert of your shades, 
 Even as a sleep, between the heart of man 
 And outward troubles, between man himself, 
 Not seldom, and his own uneasy heart : 
 Oh ! that I had a music and a voice 
 Harmonious as your own, that I might tell 
 What ye have done for me. The morning shines, 
 Nor heedeth Man's perverseness ; Spring returns, — 
 I saw the Spring return, and could rejoice, 
 In common with the children of her love, 
 Piping on boughs, or sporting on fresh fields, 
 Or boldly seeking pleasure nearer heaven 
 On wings that navigate cerulean skies. 
 So neither were complacency, nor peace, 
 Nor tender yearnings, wanting for my good 
 Through these distracted times ; in Nature still 
 Glorying, I found a counterpoise in her, 
 Which, when the spirit of evil reached its height 
 Maintained for me a secret happiness. 
 
 This narrative, my Friend ! hath chiefly told 
 Of intellectual power, fostering love, 
 Dispensing truth, and, over men and things, 
 Where reason yet might hesitate, diffusing 
 Prophetic sympathies of genial faith : 
 So was I favoured — such my happy lot — 
 Until that natural graciousness of mind 
 Gave way to overpressure from the times 
 And their disastrous issues. What availed, 
 When spells forbade the voyager to land, 
 That fragrant notice of a pleasant shore 
 Wafted, at intervals, from many a bower 
 Of blissful gratitude and fearless love ? 
 Dare I avow that wish was mine to see, 
 And hope that future times would surely see, 
 The man to come, parted, as by a gulph, 
 From him who had been ; that I could no more 
 Trust the elevation which had made me one 
 With the great family that still survives 
 To illuminate the abyss of ages past, 
 Sage, warrior, patriot, hero ; for it seemed 
 That their best virtues were not free from taint 
 Of something false and weak, that could not stand 
 The open eye of Reason. Then I said, 
 " Go to the Poets, they will speak to thee 
 More perfectly of purer creatures ; — yet 
 If reason be nobility in man, 
 Can aught be more ignoble than the man 
 Whom they delight in, blinded as he is 
 By prejudice, the miserable slave 
 Of low ambition or distempered love 1 " 
 
 In such strange passion, if I may once more 
 Review the past, I warred against myself — 
 A bigot to a new idolatry — 
 Like a cowled monk who hathforsworn the world, 
 Zealously laboured to cut off my heart 
 From all the sources of her former strength ; 
 And as, by simple waving of a wand, 
 The wizard instantaneously dissolves 
 Palace or grove, even so could I unsoul 
 As readily by syllogistic words 
 Those mysteries of being which have made, 
 And shall continue evermore to make, 
 Of the whole human race one brotherhood. 
 
 What wonder, then, if, to a mind so far 
 Perverted, even the visible Universe 
 
IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED. 
 
 515 
 
 Fell under the dominion of a taste 
 
 Less spiritual, with microscopic view 
 
 Was scanned, as I had scanned the moral world 1 
 
 Soul of Nature ! excellent and fair ! 
 That didst rejoice with me, with whom I, too, 
 Rejoiced through early youth, before the winds 
 And roaring waters, and in lights and shades 
 That marched and countermarched about the hills 
 : In glorious apparition, Powers on whom 
 I daily waited, now all eye and now 
 All ear ; but never long without the heart 
 Employed, and man's unfolding intellect : 
 
 Soul of Nature ! that, by laws divine 
 Sustained and governed, still dost overflow 
 With an impassioned life, what feeble ones 
 
 : Walk on this earth ! how feeble have I been 
 When thou wert in thy strength ! Nor this 
 
 through stroke 
 Of human suffering, such as justifies 
 
 1 Remissness and inaptitude of mind, 
 
 , But through presumption; even in pleasure pleased 
 
 i Unworthily, disliking here, and there 
 Liking ; by rules of mimic art transferred 
 To things above all art ; but more, — for this, 
 Although a strong infection of the age, 
 Was never much my habit — giving way 
 
 ■ To a comparison of scene with scene, 
 Bent overmuch on superficial things, 
 
 'Pampering myself with meagre novelties 
 Of colour and proportion ; to the moods 
 
 , Of time and season, to the moral power, 
 The affections and the spirit of the place, 
 Insensible. Nor only did the love 
 
 'Of sitting thus in judgment interrupt 
 My deeper feelings, but another cause, 
 More subtle and less easily explained, 
 That almost seems inherent in the creature, 
 A twofold frame of body and of mind. 
 
 1 speak in recollection of a time 
 
 When the bodily eye, in every stage of life 
 The most despotic of our senses, gained 
 Such strength in me as often held my mind 
 •In absolute dominion. Gladly here, 
 •Entering upon abstruser argument, 
 Could I endeavour to unfold the means 
 Which Nature studiously employs to thwart 
 Phis tyranny, summons all the senses each 
 To counteract the other, and themselves, 
 |A.nd makes them all, and the objects with which all 
 j&re conversant, subservient in their turn 
 To the great ends of Liberty and Power. 
 'But leave we this : enough that my delights 
 ,[Such as they were) were sought insatiably. 
 
 Vivid the transport, vivid though not profound ; 
 I roamed from hill to hill, from rock to rock, 
 Still craving combinations of new forms, 
 New pleasure, wider empire for the sight, 
 Proud of her own endowments, and rejoiced 
 To lay the inner faculties asleep. 
 Amid the turns and counterturns, the strife 
 And various trials of our complex being, 
 As we grow up, such thraldom of that sense 
 Seems hard to shun. And yet I knew a maid, 
 A young enthusiast, who escaped these bonds ; 
 Her eye was not the mistress of her heart ; 
 Far less did rules prescribed by passive taste, 
 Or barren intermeddling subtleties, 
 Perplex her mind ; but, wise as women are 
 When genial circumstance hath favoured them, 
 She welcomed what was given, and craved no more ; 
 Whate'er the scene presented to her view 
 That was the best, to that she was attuned 
 By her benign simplicity of life, 
 And through a perfect happiness of soul, 
 Whose variegated feelings were in this 
 Sisters, that they were each some new delight. 
 Bh-ds in the bower, and lambs in the green field, 
 Could they have known her, would have loved ; 
 
 methought 
 Her very presence such a sweetness breathed, 
 That flowers, and trees, and even the silent hills, 
 And every thing she looked on, should have had 
 An intimation how she bore herself 
 Towards them and to all creatures. God delights 
 In such a being ; for, her common thoughts 
 Are piety, her life is gratitude. 
 
 Even like this maid, before I was called forth 
 From the retirement of my native hills, 
 I loved whate'er I saw : nor lightly loved, 
 But most intensely ; never dreamt of aught 
 More grand, more fair, more exquisitely framed 
 Than those few nooks to which my happy feet 
 Were limited. I had not at that time 
 Lived long enough, nor in the least survived 
 The first diviner influence of this world, 
 As it appears to unaccustomed eyes. 
 Worshipping them among the depth of things, 
 As piety ordained ; could I submit 
 To measured admiration, or to aught 
 That should preclude humility and love 1 
 I felt, observed, and pondered ; did not judge, 
 Yea, never thought of judging; with the gift 
 Of all this glory filled and satisfied. 
 And afterwards, when through the gorgeous Alps 
 Roaming, I carried with me the same heart : 
 In truth, the degradation — howsoe'er 
 
 LIiS 
 
51(3 
 
 THE PEELUDE. 
 
 Induced, effect, in whatsoe'er degree, 
 
 Of custom that prepares a partial scale 
 
 In which the little oft outweighs the great ; 
 
 Or any other cause that hath been named ; 
 
 Or lastly, aggravated by the times 
 
 And their impassioned sounds, which well might 
 
 make 
 The milder minstrelsies of rural scenes 
 Inaudible — was transient ; I had known 
 Too forcibly, too early in my life, 
 Visitings of imaginative power 
 For this to last : I shook the habit off 
 Entirely and for ever, and again 
 In Nature's presence stood, as now I stand, 
 A sensitive being, a creative soul. 
 
 There are in our existence spots of time, 
 That with distinct pre-eminence retain 
 A renovating virtue, whence, depressed 
 By false opinion and contentious thought, 
 Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight, 
 In trivial occupations, and the round 
 Of ordinary intercourse, our minds 
 Are nourished and invisibly repaired ; 
 A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced, 
 That penetrates, enables us to mount, 
 When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen. 
 This efficacious spirit chiefly lurks 
 Among those passages of life that give 
 Profoundest knowledge to what point, and how, 
 The mind is lord and master — outward sense 
 The obedient servant of her will. Such moments 
 Are scattered everywhere, taking their date 
 From our first childhood. I remember well, 
 That once, while yet my inexperienced hand 
 Could scarcely hold a bridle, with proud hopes 
 I mounted, and we journeyed towards the hills : 
 An ancient servant of my father's house 
 Was with me, my encourager and guide : 
 We had not travelled long, ere some mischance 
 Disjoined me from my comrade; and, through fear 
 Dismounting, down the rough and stony moor 
 I led my horse, and, stumbling on, at length 
 Came to a bottom, where in former times 
 A murderer had been hung in iron chains. 
 The gibbet-mast had mouldered down, the bones 
 And iron case were gone ; but on the turf, 
 Hard by, soon after that fell deed was wrought, 
 Some unknown hand had carved the murderer's 
 
 name. 
 The monumental letters were inscribed 
 In times long past ; but still, from year to year, 
 By superstition of the neighbourhood, 
 The grass is cleared away, and to this hour 
 
 The characters are fresh and visible : 
 
 A casual glance had shown them, and I fled, 
 
 Faltering and faint, and ignorant of the road : 
 
 Then, reascending the bare common, saw 
 
 A naked pool that lay beneath the hills, 
 
 The beacon on the summit, and, more near, 
 
 A girl, who bore a pitcher on her head, 
 
 And seemed with difficult steps to force her way 
 
 Against the blowing wind. It was, in truth, 
 
 An ordinary sight; but I should need 
 
 Colours and words that are unknown to man, 
 
 To paint the visionary dreariness 
 
 Which, while I looked all round for my lost guide, 
 
 Invested moorland waste, and naked pool, 
 
 The beacon crowning the lone eminence, 
 
 The female and her garments vexed and tossed 
 
 By the strong wind. When, in the blessed hours 
 
 Of early love, the loved one at my side, 
 
 I roamed, in daily presence of this scene, 
 
 Upon the naked pool and dreary crags, 
 
 And on the melancholy beacon, fell 
 
 A spirit of pleasure and youth's golden gleam ; 
 
 And think ye not with radiance more sublime 
 
 For these remembrances, and for the power 
 
 They had left behind ? So feeling comes in aid 
 
 Of feeling, and diversity of strength 
 
 Attends us, if but once we have been strong. 
 
 Oh ! mystery of man, from what a depth 
 
 Proceed thy honours. I am lost, but see 
 
 In simple childhood something of the base 
 
 On which thy greatness stands ; but this I feel, 
 
 That from thyself it comes, that thou must give, 
 
 Else never canst receive. The days gone by 
 
 Return upon me almost from the dawn 
 
 Of life : the hiding-places of man's power 
 
 Open ; I would approach them, but they close. 
 
 I see by glimpses now ; when age comes on, 
 
 May scarcely see at all ; and I would give, 
 
 While yet we may, as far as words can give, 
 
 Substance and life to what I feel, enshrining, 
 
 Such is my hope, the spirit of the Past 
 
 For future restoration. — Yet another 
 
 Of these memorials : — 
 
 One Christmas-time, 
 On the glad eve of its dear holidays, 
 Feverish, and tired, and restless, I went forth 
 Into the fields, impatient for the sight 
 Of those led palfreys that should bear us home ; 
 My brothers and myself. There rose a crag, 
 That, from the meeting-point of two highways 
 Ascending, overlooked them both, far stretched ; 
 Thither, uncertain on which road to fix 
 My expectation, thither I repaired, 
 Scout-like, and gained the summit ; 'twas a day 
 
IMAGINATION" AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED. 
 
 517 
 
 Tempestuous, dark, and wild, and on the grass 
 
 I sate half-sheltered by a naked wall ; 
 
 Upon my right hand couched a single sheep, 
 
 Upon my left a blasted hawthorn stood ; 
 
 With those companions at my side, I watched, 
 
 Straining my eyes intensely, as the mist 
 
 Gave intermitting prospect of the copse 
 
 And plain beneath. Ere we to school returned, — ■ 
 
 That dreary time, — ere we had been ten days 
 
 Sojourners in my father's house, he died, 
 
 And I and my three brothers, orphans then, 
 
 Followed his body to the grave. The event, 
 
 With all the sorrow that it brought, appeared 
 
 A chastisement; and when I called to mind 
 
 That day so lately past, when from the crag 
 
 I looked in such anxiety of hope ; 
 
 With trite reflections of morality, 
 
 Yet in the deepest passion, I bowed low 
 
 To God, Who thus corrected my desires ; 
 
 And, afterwards, the wind and sleety rain, 
 And all the business of the elements, 
 The single sheep, and the one blasted tree, 
 And the bleak music from that old stone wall, 
 The noise of wood and water, and the mist 
 That on the line of each of those two roads 
 Advanced in such indisputable shapes ■ 
 All these were kindred spectacles and sounds 
 To which I oft repaired, and thence would drink, 
 As at a fountain ; and on winter nights, 
 Down to this very time, when storm and rain 
 Beat on my roof, or, haply, at noon-day, 
 While in a grove I walk, whose lofty trees, 
 Laden with summer's thickest foliage, rock 
 In a strong wind, some working of the spirit, 
 Some inward agitations thence are brought, 
 Whate'er their office, whether to beguile 
 Thoughts over busy in the course they took, 
 Or animate an hour of vacant ease. 
 
 BOOK THIRTEENTH. 
 
 IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW 
 IMPAIRED AND RESTORED. 
 
 CONCLUDED. 
 
 From Nature doth emotion come, and moods 
 Of calmness equally are Nature's gift : 
 This is her glory ; these two attributes 
 Are sister horns that constitute her strength. 
 Hence Genius, born to thrive by interchange 
 Of peace and excitation, finds in her 
 His best and purest friend ; from her receives 
 That energy by which he seeks the truth, 
 From her that happy stillness of the mind 
 Which fits him to receive it when unsought. 
 
 # 
 Such benefit the humblest intellects 
 
 Partake of, each in their degree ; 'tis mine 
 
 To speak, what I myself have known and felt ; 
 
 Smooth task ! for words find easy way, inspired 
 
 By gratitude, and confidence in truth. 
 
 Long time in search of knowledge did I range 
 
 The field of human life, in heart and mind 
 
 Benighted ; but, the dawn beginning now 
 
 To re-appear, 'twas proved that not in vain 
 
 I had been taught to reverence a Power 
 
 That is the visible quality and shape 
 
 And image of right reason ; that matures 
 
 Her processes by steadfast laws ; gives birth 
 
 To no impatient or fallacious hopes, 
 
 No heat of passion or excessive zeal, 
 
 No vain conceits ; provokes to no quick turns 
 
 Of self-applauding intellect ; but trains 
 
 To meekness, and exalts by humble faith; 
 
 Holds up before the mind intoxicate 
 
 With present objects, and the busy dance 
 
 Of things that pass away, a temperate show 
 
 Of objects that endure ; and by this course 
 
 Disposes her, when over-fondly set 
 
 On throwing off incumbrances, to seek 
 
 In man, and in the frame of social life, 
 
 Whate'er there is desirable and good 
 
 Of kindred permanence, unchanged in form 
 
 And function, or, through strict vicissitude 
 
 Of life and death, revolving. Above all 
 
 Were re-established now those watchful thoughts 
 
 Which, seeing little worthy or sublime 
 
 In what the Historian's pen so much delights 
 
 To blazon — power and energy detached 
 
 From moral purpose — early tutored me 
 
 To look with feelings of fraternal love 
 
 Upon the unassuming things that hold 
 
 A silent station in this beauteous world. 
 
 Thus moderated, thus composed, I found 
 
518 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Once more in Man an object of delight, 
 
 Of pure imagination, and of love; 
 
 And, as the horizon of my mind enlarged, 
 
 Again I took the intellectual eye 
 
 For my instructor, studious more to see 
 
 Great truths, than touch and handle little ones. 
 
 Knowledge was given accordingly ; my trust 
 
 Became more firm in feelings that had stood 
 
 The test of such a trial ; clearer far 
 
 My sense of excellence — of right and wrong : 
 
 The promise of the present time retired 
 
 Into its true proportion ; sanguine schemes, 
 
 Ambitious projects, pleased me less ; I sought 
 
 For present good in life's familiar face, 
 
 And built thereon my hopes of good to come. 
 
 With settling judgments now of what would last 
 And what would disappear; prepared to find 
 Presumption, folly, madness, in the men 
 Who thrust themselves upon the passive world 
 As Rulers of the world ; to see in these, 
 Even when the public welfare is their aim, 
 Plans without thought, or built on theories 
 Vague and unsound; and having brought thebooks 
 Of modern statists to their proper test, 
 Life, human life, with all its sacred claims 
 Of sex and age, and heaven-descended rights, 
 Mortal, or those beyond the reach of death ; 
 And having thus discerned how dire a thing 
 Is worshipped in that idol proudly named 
 " The Wealth of Nations," where alone that wealth 
 Is lodged, and how increased ; and having gained 
 A more judicious knowledge of the worth 
 And dignity of individual man, 
 No composition of the brain, but man 
 Of whom we read, the man whom we behold 
 With our own eyes — I could not but inquire — 
 Not with less interest than heretofore, 
 But greater, though in spirit more subdued — 
 Why is this glorious creature to be found 
 One only in ten thousand ? What one is, 
 Why may not millions be ? What bars are thrown 
 By Nature in the way of such a hope 1 
 Our animal appetites and daily wants, 
 Are these obstructions insurmountable ? 
 If not, then others vanish into air. 
 " Inspect the basis of the social pile : 
 Inquire," said I, " how much of mental power 
 And genuine virtue they possess who live 
 By bodily toil, labour exceeding far 
 Their due proportion, under all the weight 
 Of that injustice which upon ourselves 
 Ourselves entail." Such estimate to frame 
 I chiefly looked (what need to look beyond ]) 
 
 Among the natural abodes of men, 
 
 Fields with their rural works ; recalled to mind 
 
 My earliest notices ; with these compared 
 
 The observations made in later youth, 
 
 And to that day continued. — For, the time 
 
 Had never been when throes of mighty Nations 
 
 And the world's tumult unto me could yield, 
 
 How far soe'er transported and possessed, 
 
 Full measure of content; but still I craved 
 
 An intermingling of distinct regards 
 
 And truths of individual sympathy 
 
 Nearer ourselves. Such often might be gleaned 
 
 From the great City, else it must have proved 
 
 To me a heart-depressing wilderness ; 
 
 But much was wanting : therefore did I turn 
 
 To you, ye pathways, and ye lonely roads ; 
 
 Sought you enriched with everything I prized, 
 
 With human kindnesses and simple joys. 
 
 Oh ! next to one dear state of bliss, vouchsafed 
 Alas ! to few in this untoward world, 
 The bliss of walking daily in life's prime ' 
 Through field or forest with the maid we love, 
 While yet our hearts are young, while yet we 
 
 breathe 
 Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook, 
 Deep vale, or any where, the home of both, 
 From which it would be misery to stir : 
 Oh ! next to such enjoyment of our youth, 
 In my esteem, next to such dear delight, 
 Was that of wandering on from day to day 
 Where I could meditate in peace, and cull 
 Knowledge that step by step might lead me on 
 To wisdom ; or, as lightsome as a bird 
 Wafted upon the wind from distant lands, 
 Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or groves, 
 Which lacked not voice to welcome me in turn : 
 And, when that pleasant toil had ceased to please, 
 Converse with men, where if we meet a face , 
 We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths 
 With long long ways before, by cottage bench, 
 Or well-spring where the weary traveller rests. 
 
 Who doth not love to follow with his eye 
 The windings of a public way 1 the sight, 
 Familiar object as it is, hath wrought 
 On my imagination since the morn 
 Of childhood, when a disappearing line, 
 One daily present to my eyes, that crossed 
 The naked summit of a far-off hill 
 Beyond the limits that my feet had trod, 
 Was like an invitation into space 
 Boundless, or guide into eternity. 
 Yes, something of the grandeur which invests 
 
IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED. 
 
 519 
 
 The mariner who sails the roaring sea 
 
 Through storm and darkness, early in my mind 
 
 Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the earth ; 
 
 Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more. 
 
 Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites ; 
 
 From many other uncouth vagrants (passed 
 
 In fear) have walked with quicker step ; but why 
 
 Take note of this 1 When I began to enquire, 
 
 To watch and question those I met, and speak 
 
 Without reserve to them, the lonely roads 
 
 Were open schools in which I daily read 
 
 With most delight the passions of mankind, 
 
 Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, revealed ; 
 
 There saw into the depth of human souls, 
 
 Souls that appear to have no depth at all 
 
 To careless eyes. And — now convinced at heart 
 
 How little those formalities, to which 
 
 With overweening trust alone we give 
 
 The name of Education, have to do 
 
 With real feeling and just sense ; how vain 
 
 A correspondence with the talking world 
 
 Proves to the most; and called to make good search 
 
 If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked 
 
 With toil, be therefore yoked with ignorance ; 
 
 If virtue be indeed so hard to rear, 
 
 And intellectual strength so rare a boon — 
 
 I prized such walks still more, for there I found 
 
 Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace 
 
 And steadiness, and healing and repose 
 
 To every angry passion. There I heard, 
 
 From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths 
 
 Replete with honour ; sounds in unison 
 
 With loftiest promises of good and fair. 
 
 There are who think that strong affection, love 
 Known by whatever name, is falsely deemed 
 A gift, to use a term which they would use, 
 Of vulgar nature ; that its growth requires 
 Retirement, leisure, language purified 
 By manners studied and elaborate ; 
 That whoso feels such passion in its strength 
 Must live within the very light and air 
 Of courteous usages refined by art. 
 True is it, where oppression worse than death 
 Salutes the being at his birth, where grace 
 Of culture hath been utterly unknown, 
 And poverty and labour in excess 
 From day to day pre-occupy the ground 
 Of the affections, and to Nature's self 
 Oppose a deeper nature ; there, indeed, 
 Love cannot be ; nor does it thrive with ease 
 Among the close and overcrowded haunts 
 Of cities, where the human heart is sick, 
 And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed. 
 
 — Yes, in those wanderings deeply did I feel 
 
 How we mislead each other ; above all, 
 
 How books mislead us, seeking their reward 
 
 From judgments of the wealthy Few, who see 
 
 By artificial lights ; how they debase 
 
 The Many for the pleasure of those Few ; 
 
 Effeminately level down the truth 
 
 To certain general notions, for the sake 
 
 Of being understood at once, or else 
 
 Through want of better knowledge in the heads 
 
 That framed them; flattering self-conceit with 
 
 words, 
 That, while they most ambitiously set forth 
 Extrinsic differences, the outward marks 
 Whereby society has parted man 
 From man, neglect the universal heart. 
 
 Here, calling up to mind what then I saw, 
 A youthful traveller, and see daily now 
 In the familiar circuit of my home, 
 Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 
 To Nature, and the power of human minds, 
 To men as they are men within themselves. 
 How oft high service is performed within, 
 When all the external man is rude in show, — 
 Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 
 But a mere mountain chapel, that protects 
 Its simple worshippers from sun and shower. 
 Of these, said I, shall be my song ; of these, 
 If future years mature me for the task, 
 Will I record the praises, making verse 
 Deal boldly with substantial things ; in truth 
 And sanctity of passion, speak of these, 
 That justice may be done, obeisance paid 
 Where it is due : thus haply shall I teach, 
 Inspire ; through unadulterated eai's 
 Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope, — my theme 
 No other than the very heart of man, 
 As found among the best of those who live, 
 Not tmexalted by religious faith, 
 Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few, 
 In Nature's presence : thence may I select 
 Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight ; 
 And miserable love, that is not pain 
 To hear of, for the glory that redounds 
 Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. 
 Be mine to follow with no timid step 
 Where knowledge leads me : it shall be my pride 
 That I have dared to tread this holy ground, 
 Speaking no dream, but things oracular ; 
 Matter not lightly to be heard by those 
 Who to the letter of the outward promise 
 Do read the invisible soul ; by men adroit 
 In speech, and for communion with the world 
 
520 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Accomplished ; minds whose faculties are then 
 Most active when they are most eloquent, 
 And elevated most when most admired. 
 Men may be found of other mould than these, 
 "Who are their own upholders, to themselves 
 Encouragement, and energy, and will, 
 Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words 
 As native passion dictates. Others, too, 
 There are among the walks of homely life 
 Still higher, men for contemplation framed, 
 Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase ; 
 Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink 
 Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse : 
 Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power, 
 The thought, the image, and the silent joy : 
 Words are but under-agents in their souls ; 
 "When they are grasping with their greatest 
 
 strength, 
 They do not breathe among them : this I speak 
 In gratitude to God, "Who feeds our hearts 
 For His own service ; knoweth, loveth us, 
 When we are unregarded by the world. 
 
 Also, about this time did I receive 
 Convictions still more strong than heretofore, 
 Not only that the inner frame is good, 
 And graciously composed, but that, no less, 
 Nature for all conditions wants not power 
 To consecrate, if we have eyes to see, 
 The outside of her creatures, and to breathe 
 Grandeur upon the very humblest face 
 Of human life. I felt that the array 
 Of act and circumstance, and visible form, 
 Is mainly to the pleasure of the mind 
 What passion makes them ; that meanwhile the 
 
 forms 
 Of Nature have a passion in themselves, 
 That intermingles with those works of man 
 To which she summons him ; although the works 
 Be mean, have nothing lofty of their own ; 
 And that the Genius of the Poet hence 
 May boldly take his way among mankind 
 Wherever Nature leads ; that he hath stood 
 By Nature's side among the men of old, 
 And so shall stand for ever. Dearest Friend ! 
 If thou partake the animating faith 
 That Poets, even as Prophets, each with each 
 Connected in a mighty scheme of truth, 
 Have each his own peculiar faculty, 
 Heaven's gift, a sense that fits him to perceive 
 Objects unseen before, thou wilt not blame 
 The humblest of this band who dares to hope 
 That unto him hath also been vouchsafed 
 An insight that in some sort he possesses, 
 
 A privilege whereby a work of his, 
 
 Proceeding from a source of untaught things, 
 
 Creative and enduring, may become 
 
 A power like one of Nature's. To a hope 
 
 Not less ambitious once among the wilds 
 
 Of Sarum's Plain, my youthful spirit was raised ; 
 
 There, as I ranged at will the pastoral downs 
 
 Trackless and smooth, or paced the bare white 
 
 roads 
 Lengthening in solitude their dreary line, 
 Time with his retinue of ages fled 
 Backwards, nor checked his flight until I saw 
 Our dim ancestral Past in vision clear ; 
 Saw multitudes of men, and, here and there, 
 A single Briton clothed in wolf-skin vest, 
 With shield and stone-axe, stride across the wold; 
 The voice of spears was heard, the rattling spear 
 Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in strength, 
 Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty. 
 I called on Darkness — but before the word 
 Was uttered, midnight darkness seemed to take 
 All objects from my sight ; and lo ! again 
 The Desert visible by dismal flames ; 
 It is the sacrificial altar, fed 
 With living men — how deep the groans ! the voice 
 Of those that crowd the giant wicker thrills 
 The monumental hillocks, and the pomp 
 Is for both worlds, the living and the dead. 
 At other moments — (for through that wide waste 
 Three summer days I roamed) where'er the Plain 
 Was figured o'er with circles, lines, or mounds, 
 That yet survive, a work, as some divine, 
 Shaped by the Druids, so to represent 
 Their knowledge of the heavens, and image forth 
 The constellations — gently was I charmed 
 Into a waking dream, a reverie 
 That, with believing eyes, where'er I turned, 
 Beheld long-bearded teachers, with white wandfl 
 Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky, 
 Alternately, and plain below, while breath 
 Of music swayed their motions, and the waste 
 Rejoiced with them and me in those sweet sounds. 
 
 This for the past, and things that may be viewed 
 Or fancied in the obscurity of years 
 From monumental hints : and thou, Friend ! 
 Pleased with some unpremeditated strains 
 That served those wanderings to beguile, liast said 
 That then and there my mind had exercised 
 Upon the vulgar forms of present things, 
 The actual world of our familiar days, 
 Yet higher power ; had caught from them a tone, 
 An image, and a character, by books 
 Not hitherto reflected. Call we this 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 521 
 
 •A partial judgment — and yet why? for then 
 i We were as strangers ; and I may not speak 
 Thus wrongfully of verse, however rude, 
 Which on thy young imagination, trained 
 In the great City, broke like light from far. 
 Moreover, each man's Mind is to herself 
 Witness and judge ; and I remember well 
 That in life's every-day appearances 
 I seemed about this time to gain clear sight 
 
 Of a new world — a world, too, that was fit 
 To be transmitted, and to other eyes 
 Made visible ; as ruled by those fixed laws 
 Whence spiritual dignity originates, 
 Which do both give it being and maintain 
 A balance, an ennobling interchange 
 Of action from without and from within ; 
 The excellence, pure function, and best power 
 Both of the object seen, and eye that sees. 
 
 BOOK FOURTEENTH. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 In one of those excursions (may they ne'er 
 Fade from remembrance !) through the Northern 
 
 tracts 
 Of Cambria ranging with a youthful friend, 
 I left Bethgelert's huts at couching-time, 
 And westward took my way, to see the sun 
 Rise, from the top of Snowdon. To the door 
 Of a rude cottage at the mountain's base 
 We came, and roused the shepherd who attends 
 The adventurous stranger's steps, a trusty guide ; 
 Then, cheered by short refreshment, sallied forth. 
 
 It was a close, warm, breezeless summer night, 
 iVan, dull, and glaring, with a dripping fog 
 uow-hung and thick that covered all the sky ; 
 3ut, undiscouraged, we began to climb 
 The mountain-side. The mist soon girt us round, 
 Ind, after ordinary travellers' talk 
 rVith our conductor, pensively we sank 
 2ach into commerce with his private thoughts : 
 Thus did we breast the ascent, and by myself 
 -Vas nothing either seen or heard that checked 
 liose musings or diverted, save that once 
 The shepherd's lurcher, who, among the crags, 
 lad to his joy unearthed a hedgehog, teased 
 lis coiled-up prey with barkings turbulent, 
 'his small adventure, for even such it seemed 
 n that wild place and at the dead of night, 
 •eing over and forgotten, on we wound 
 p silence as before. With forehead bent 
 [Earthward, as if in opposition set 
 Lgainst an enemy, I panted up 
 ]Vith eager pace, and no less eager thoughts. 
 
 hus might we wear a midnight hour away, 
 
 Ascending at loose distance each from each, 
 
 And I, as chanced, the foremost of the band; 
 
 When at my feet the ground appeared to brighten, 
 
 And with a step or two seemed brighter still ; 
 
 Nor was time given to ask or learn the cause, 
 
 For instantly a light upon the turf 
 
 Fell like a flash, and lo ! as I looked up, 
 
 The Moon hung naked in a firmament 
 
 Of azure without cloud, and at my feet 
 
 Rested a silent sea of hoary mist. 
 
 A hundred hills their dusky backs upheaved 
 
 All over this still ocean ; and beyond, 
 
 Far, far beyond, the solid vapours stretched, 
 
 In headlands, tongues, and promontory shapes, 
 
 Into the main Atlantic, that appeared 
 
 To dwindle, and give up his majesty, 
 
 Usurped upon far as the sight could reach. 
 
 Not so the ethereal vault ; encroachment none 
 
 Was there, nor loss ; only the inferior stars 
 
 Had disappeared, or shed a fainter light 
 
 In the clear presence of the full-orbed Moon, 
 
 Who, from her sovereign elevation, gazed 
 
 Upon the billowy ocean, as it lay 
 
 All meek and silent, save that through a rift — 
 
 Not distant from the shore whereon we stood, 
 
 A fixed, abysmal, gloomy, breathing-place — 
 
 Mounted the roar of waters, torrents, streams 
 
 Innumerable, roaring with one voice ! 
 
 Heard over earth and sea, and, in that hour, 
 
 For so it seemed, felt by the starry heavens. 
 
 When into air had partially dissolved 
 That vision, given to spirits of the night 
 And three chance human wanderers, in calm 
 
 thought 
 Reflected, it appeared to me the type 
 Of a majestic intellect, its acts 
 
THE PRELUDE. 
 
 And its possessions, what it has and craves, 
 
 What in itself it is, and would become. 
 
 There I beheld the emblem of a mind 
 
 That feeds upon infinity, that broods 
 
 Over the dark abyss, intent to hear 
 
 Its voices issuing forth to silent light 
 
 In one continuous stream ; a mind sustained 
 
 By recognitions of transcendent power, 
 
 In sense conducting to ideal form, 
 
 In soul of more than mortal privilege. 
 
 One function, above all, of such a mind 
 
 Had Nature shadowed there, by putting forth, 
 
 'Mid circumstances awful and sublime, 
 
 That mutual domination which she loves 
 
 To exert upon the face of outward things, 
 
 So moulded, joined, abstracted, so endowed 
 
 With interchangeable supremacy, 
 
 That men, least sensitive, see, hear, perceive, 
 
 And cannot choose but feel. The power, which all 
 
 Acknowledge when thus moved, which Nature thus 
 
 To bodily sense exhibits, is the express 
 
 Eesemblance of that glorious faculty 
 
 That higher minds bear with them as their own. 
 
 This is the very spirit in which they deal 
 
 With the whole compass of the universe : 
 
 They from their native selves can send abroad 
 
 Kindred mutations ; for themselves create 
 
 A like existence ; and, whene'er it dawns 
 
 Created for them, catch it, or are caught 
 
 By its inevitable mastery, 
 
 Like angels stopped upon the wing by sound 
 
 Of harmony from Heaven's remotest spheres. 
 
 Them the enduring and the transient both 
 
 Serve to exalt ; they build up greatest things 
 
 From least suggestions ; ever on the watch, 
 
 Willing to work and to be wrought upon, 
 
 They need not extraordinary calls 
 
 To rouse them ; in a world of life they live, 
 
 By sensible impressions not enthralled, 
 
 But by their quickening impulse made more 
 
 prompt 
 To hold fit converse with the spiritual world, 
 And with the generations of mankind 
 Spread over time, past, present, and to come, 
 Age after age, till Time shall be no more. 
 Such minds are truly from the Deity, 
 For they are Powers ; and hence the highest bliss 
 That flesh can know is theirs — the consciousness 
 Of Whom they are, habitually infused 
 Through every image and through every thought, 
 And all affections by communion raised 
 From earth to heaven, from human to divine ; 
 Hence endless occupation for the Soul, 
 Whether discursive or intuitive; 
 
 Hence cheerfulness for acts of daily life, 
 Emotions which best foresight need not fear, 
 Most worthy then of trust when most intense. 
 Hence, amid ills that vex and wrongs that crush 
 Our hearts — if here the words of Holy Writ 
 May with fit reverence be applied — that peace 
 Which passeth understanding, that repose 
 In moral judgments which from this pure source 
 Must come, or will by man be sought in vain. 
 
 Oh ! who is he that hath his whole life loug 
 Preserved, enlarged, this freedom in himself? 
 For this alone is genuine liberty : 
 Where is the favoured being who hath held 
 That course unchecked, unerring, and untired, 
 In one perpetual progress smooth and bright ?— 
 A humbler destiny have we retraced, 
 And told of lapse and hesitating choice, 
 And backward wanderings along thorny ways : 
 Yet — compassed round by mountain solitudes, 
 Within whose solemn temple I received 
 My earliest visitations, careless then 
 Of what was given me ; and which now I range, 
 A meditative, oft a suffering man — 
 Do I declare — in accents which, from truth 
 Deriving cheerful confidence, shall blend 
 Their modulation with these vocal streams — 
 That, whatsoever falls my better mind, 
 Revolving with the accidents of life, 
 May have sustained, that, howsoe'er misled, 
 Never did I, in quest of right and wrong, 
 Tamper with conscience from a private aim ; 
 Nor was in any public hope the dupe 
 Of selfish passions ; nor did ever yield 
 Wilfully to mean cares or low pursuits, 
 But shrunk with apprehensive jealousy 
 From every combination which might aid 
 The tendency, too potent in itself, 
 Of use and custom to bow down the soul 
 Under a growing weight of vulgar sense, 
 And substitute a universe of death 
 Forthat which moves with lightand life informed, 
 Actual, divine, and true. To fear and love, 
 To love as prime and chief, for there fear ends, 
 Be this ascribed ; to early intercourse, 
 In presence of sublime or beautiful forms, 
 With the adverse principles of pain and joy — 
 Evil as one is rashly named by men 
 Who know not what they speak. By love subsists 
 Ail lasting grandeur, by pervading love ; 
 That gone, we are as dust. — Behold the fields 
 In balmy spring-time full of rising flowers 
 And joyous creatures ; see that pair, the lamb 
 And the lamb's mother, and their tender ways 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 523 
 
 hall touch thee to the heart ; thou callest this 
 
 love, 
 \ji& not inaptly so, for love it is, 
 far as it carries thee. In some green bower 
 lest, and be not alone, but have thou there 
 'he One who is thy choice of all the world : 
 'here linger, listening, gazing, with delight 
 upassioned, but delight how pitiable ! 
 "nless this love by a still higher love 
 |e hallowed, love that breathes not without awe ; 
 ove that adores, but on the knees of prayer, 
 y heaven inspired ; that frees from chains the soul, 
 if ted, in union with the purest, best, 
 f earth-born passions, on the wings of praise 
 ; earing a tribute to the Almighty's Throne. 
 
 i This spiritual Love acts not nor can exist 
 
 '7ithout Imagination, which, in truth, 
 
 , but another name for absolute power 
 
 :nd clearest insight, amplitude of mind, 
 
 ,nd Keason in her most exalted mood. 
 
 his faculty hath been the feeding source 
 
 f our long labour : we have traced the stream 
 
 roin the blind cavern whence is faintly heard 
 
 s natal murmur ; followed it to light 
 
 nd open day ; accompanied its course 
 
 Imong the ways of Nature, for a time 
 
 (Dst sight of it bewildered and engulphed ; 
 
 ihen given it greeting as it rose once more 
 
 it strength, reflecting from its placid breast 
 
 'tie works of man and face of human life ; 
 
 ad lastly, from its progress have we drawn 
 
 kith in life endless, the sustaining thought 
 
 f human Being, Eternity, and God. 
 
 Imagination having been our theme, 
 I also hath that intellectual Love, 
 :)r they are each in each, and cannot stand 
 ! vidually. — Here must thou be, Man ! 
 iwer to thyself; no Helper hast thou here; 
 3re keepest thou in singleness thy state : 
 p other can divide with thee this work : 
 p secondary hand can intervene 
 ;> fashion this ability ; 'tis thine, 
 ,ie prime and vital principle is thine 
 
 the recesses of thy nature, far 
 jom any reach of outward fellowship, 
 'se is not thine at all. But joy to him, 
 ■ l ) j°y to him who here hath sown, hath laid 
 
 ire, the foundation of his future years ! 
 
 r all that friendship, all that love can do, 
 
 1 that a darling countenance can look 
 dear voice utter, to complete the man, 
 
 rfect him, made imperfect in himself, 
 
 
 All shall be his : and he whose soul hath risen 
 
 Up to the height of feeling intellect 
 
 Shall want no humbler tenderness ; his heart 
 
 Be tender as a nursing mother's heart; 
 
 Of female softness shall his life be full, 
 
 Of. humble cares and delicate desires, 
 
 Mild interests and gentlest sympathies. 
 
 Child of my parents ! Sister of my soul ! 
 Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere 
 Poured out for all the early tenderness 
 Which I from thee imbibed : and 'tis most true 
 That later seasons owed to thee no less ; 
 For, spite of thy sweet influence and the touch 
 Of kindred hands that opened out the springs 
 Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite 
 Of all that unassisted I had marked 
 In life or nature of those charms minute 
 That win their way into the heart by stealth 
 (Still to the very going-out of youth) 
 I too exclusively esteemed that love, 
 And sought that beauty, which, as Milton sings, 
 Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften down 
 This over-sternness ; but for thee, dear Friend ! 
 My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood 
 In her original self too confident, 
 Retained too long a countenance severe ; 
 A rock- with torrents roaring, with the clouds 
 Familiar, and a favourite of the stars : 
 But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers, 
 Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze, 
 And teach the little birds to build their nests 
 And warble in its chambers. At a time 
 When Nature, destined to remain so long 
 Foremost in my affections, had fallen back 
 Into a second place, pleased to become 
 A handmaid to a nobler than herself, 
 When every day brought with it some new sense 
 Of exquisite regard for common things, 
 And all the earth was budding with these gifts 
 Of more refined humanity, thy breath, 
 Dear Sister ! was a kind of gentler spring 
 That went before my steps. Thereafter came 
 One whom with thee friendship had early paired ; 
 She came, no more a phantom to adorn 
 A moment, but an inmate of the heart, 
 And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined 
 To penetrate the lofty and the low; 
 Even as one essence of pervading light 
 Shines, in the brightest of ten thousand stars, 
 And, the meek worm that feeds her lonely lamp 
 Couched in the dewy grass. 
 
 With such a theme, 
 Coleridge ! with this my argument, of thee 
 
524 
 
 THE PRELUDE. 
 
 Shall I be silent '? capacious Soul ! 
 
 Placed on this earth to love and understand, 
 
 And from thy presence shed the light of love, 
 
 Shall I be mute, ere thou be spoken of? 
 
 Thy kindred influence to my heart of hearts 
 
 Did also find its way. Thus fear relaxed 
 
 Her over-weening grasp; thus thoughts and things 
 
 In the self-haunting spirit learned to take 
 
 More rational proportions ; mystery, 
 
 The incumbent mystery of sense and soul. 
 
 Of life and death, time and eternity, 
 
 Admitted more habitually a mild 
 
 Interposition — a serene delight 
 
 In closelier gathering cares, such as become 
 
 A human creature, howsoe'er endowed, 
 
 Poet, or destined for a humbler name ; 
 
 And so the deep enthusiastic joy, 
 
 The rapture of the hallelujah sent 
 
 From all that breathes and is, was chastened, 
 
 stemmed 
 And balanced by pathetic truth, by trust 
 In hopeful reason, leaning on the stay 
 Of Providence ; and in reverence for duty, 
 Here, if need be, struggling with storms, and there 
 Strewing in peace life's humblest ground with 
 
 herbs, 
 At every season green, sweet at all hours. 
 
 And now, Friend ! this history is brought 
 To its appointed close : the discipline 
 And consummation of a Poet's mind, 
 In everything that stood most prominent, 
 Have faithfully been pictured ; we have reached 
 The time (our guiding object from the first) 
 When we may, not presumptuously, I hope, 
 Suppose my powers so far confirmed, and such 
 My knowledge, as to make me capable 
 Of building up a Work that shall endure. 
 Yet much hath been omitted, as need was ; 
 Of books how much ! and even of the other wealth 
 That is collected among woods and fields, 
 Far more : for Nature's secondary grace 
 Hath hitherto been barely touched upon, 
 The charm more superficial that attends 
 Her works, as they present to Fancy's choice 
 Apt illustrations of the moral world, 
 Caught at a glance, or traced with curious pains. 
 
 Finally, and above all, Friend ! (I speak 
 With due regret) how much is overlooked 
 In human nature and her subtle ways, 
 As studied first in our own hearts, and then 
 In life among the passions of mankind, 
 Varying their composition and their hue, 
 
 Where'er we move, under the diverse shapes 
 That individual character presents 
 To an attentive eye. For progress meet, 
 Along this intricate and difficult path, 
 Whate'er was wanting, something had I gained 
 As one of many schoolfellows compelled, 
 In hardy independence, to stand up 
 Amid conflicting interests, and the shock 
 Of various tempers ; to endure and note 
 What was not understood, though known to be 
 Among the mysteries of love and hate, 
 Honour and shame, looking to right and left, 
 Unchecked by innocence too delicate, 
 And moral notions too intolerant, 
 Sympathies too contracted. Hence, when callei 
 To take a station among men, the step 
 Was easier, the transition more secure, 
 More profitable also; for, the mind 
 Learns from such timely exercise to keep 
 In wholesome separation the two natures, 
 The one that feels, the other that observes. 
 
 Yet one word more of personal concern ; — 
 Since I withdrew unwillingly from France, 
 I led an undomestic wanderer's life, 
 In London chiefly harboured, whence I roamed, 
 Tarrying at will in many a pleasant spot 
 Of rural England's cultivated vales 
 Or Cambrian solitudes. A youth — (he bore 
 The name of Calvert — it shall live, if words 
 Of mine can give it life,) in firm belief 
 That by endowments not from me withheld 
 Good might be furthered — in his last decay 
 By a bequest sufficient for my needs 
 Enabled me to pause for choice, and walk 
 At large and unrestrained, nor damped too sooi 
 By mortal cares. Himself no Poet, yet 
 Far less a common follower of the world, 
 He deemed that my pursuits and labours lay 
 Apart from all that leads to wealth, or even 
 A necessary maintenance insures, 
 Without some hazard to the finer sense ; 
 He cleared a passage for me, and the stream 
 Flowed in the bent of Nature. 
 
 Having now 
 Told what best merits mention, further pains 
 Our present purpose seems not to require, 
 And I have other tasks. Recall to mind 
 The mood in which this labour was begun, 
 
 Friend ! The termination of my course 
 Is nearer now, much nearer ; yet even then, 
 In that distraction and intense desire, 
 
 1 said unto the life which I had lived, 
 Where art thou 1 Hear I not a voice from thee 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 525 
 
 'Tiich 'tis reproach to hear ? Anon I rose 
 s if on wings, and saw beneath me stretched 
 ast prospect of the world which I had been 
 nd was ; and hence this Song, which like a lark 
 have protracted, in the unwearied heavens 
 nging, and often with more plaintive voice 
 
 earth attempered and her deep-drawn sighs, 
 et centring all in love, and in the end 
 
 11 gratulant, if rightly understood. 
 
 j Whether to me shall be allotted life, 
 
 nd, with life, power to accomplish aught of worth, 
 
 hat will be deemed no insufficient plea 
 
 pr having given the story of myself, 
 
 all uncertain : but, beloved Friend ! 
 ten, looking back, thou seest, in clearer view 
 han any liveliest sight of yesterday, 
 •bat summer, under whose indulgent skies, 
 pon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved 
 nchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs, 
 iou in bewitching words, with happy heart, 
 idst chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man, 
 lie bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes 
 idst utter of the Lady Christabel ; 
 ;ad I, associate with such labour, steeped 
 
 soft forgetfulness the livelong hours, 
 iurmuring of him who, joyous hap, was found, 
 'ffcer the perils of his moonlight ride, 
 'sar the loud waterfall ; or her who sate 
 
 1 misery near the miserable Thorn ; 
 
 hen thou dost to that summer turn thy 
 
 thoughts, 
 id hast before thee all which then we were, 
 
 > thee, in memory of that happiness, 
 
 ' will be known, by thee at least, my Friend ! 
 lit, that the history of a Poet's mind 
 labour not unworthy of regard : 
 
 > thee the work shall justify itself. 
 
 The last and later portions of this gift 
 
 Have been prepared, not with the buoyant spirits 
 
 That were our daily portion when we first 
 
 Together wantoned in wild Poesy, 
 
 But, under pressure of a private grief, 
 
 Keen and enduring, which the mind and heart, 
 
 That in this meditative history 
 
 Have been laid open, needs must make me feel 
 
 More deeply, yet enable me to bear 
 
 More firmly ; and a comfort now hath risen 
 
 From hope that thou art near, and wilt be soon 
 
 Restored to us in renovated health ; 
 
 When, after the first mingling of our tears, 
 
 'Mong other consolations, we may draw 
 
 Some pleasure from this offering of my love. 
 
 Oh ! yet a few short years of useful life, 
 And all will be complete, thy race be run, 
 Thy monument of glory will be raised ; 
 Then, though (too weak to tread the ways of truth) 
 This age fall back to old idolatry, 
 Though men return to servitude as fast 
 As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame 
 By nations sink together, we shall still 
 Find solace — knowing what we have learnt to know, 
 Rich in true happiness if allowed to be 
 Faithful alike in forwarding a day 
 Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work 
 (Should Providence such grace to us vouchsafe) 
 Of their deliverance, surely yet to come. 
 Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak 
 A lasting inspiration, sanctified 
 By reason, blest by faith : what we have loved, 
 Others will love, and we will teach them how; 
 Instruct them how the mind of man becomes 
 A thousand times more beautiful than the earth 
 On which he dwells, above this frame of things 
 (Which, 'mid all revolution in the hopes 
 And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged) 
 In beauty exalted, as it is itself 
 Of quality and fabric more divine. 
 
526 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K.G. 
 
 Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer ! 
 In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures hent ; 
 And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, 
 Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear. 
 — Now, hy thy care befriended, I appear 
 Before thee, Lonsdale, and this Work present, 
 A token (may it prove a monument !) 
 
 Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, 
 July 29, 1814. 
 
 Of high respect and gratitude sincere. 
 Gladly would I have waited till my task 
 Had reached its close ; but Life is insecure, 
 And Hope full oft fallacious a,s a dream : 
 Therefore, for what is here produced, I ask 
 Thy favour; trusting that tbou wilt not deem 
 The offering, though imperfect, premature. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1814. 
 
 The Title-page announces that this is only a 
 portion of a poem ; and the Reader must be here 
 apprised that it belongs to the second part of a long 
 and laborious Work, which is to consist of three 
 parts. — The Author will candidly acknowledge that, 
 if the first of these had been completed, and in such 
 a manner as to satisfy his own mind, he should 
 have preferred the natural order of publication, 
 and have given that to the world first ; but, as the 
 second division of the Work was designed to refer 
 more to passing events, and to an existing state of 
 things, than the others were meant to do, more 
 continuous exertion was naturally bestowed upon 
 it, and greater progress made here than in the rest 
 of the poem ; and as this part does not depend upon 
 the preceding, to a degree which will materially 
 injure its own peculiar interest, the Author, 
 complying with the earnest entreaties of some 
 valued Friends, presents the following pages to 
 the Public. 
 
 It may be proper to state whence the poem, of 
 which The Excursion is a part, derives its Title of 
 The Recluse. — Several years ago, when the 
 
 Author retired to his native mountains, with th 
 hope of being enabled to construct a literary Wor 
 that might live, it was a reasonable thing that h 
 should take a. review of his own mind, and examin 
 how far Nature and Education had qualified hir. 
 for such employment. As subsidiary tc thi 
 preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, th 
 origin and progress of his own powers, as far as h 
 was acquainted with them. That Work, addresse* 
 to a dear Friend, most distinguished for his know 
 ledge and genius, and to whom the Author" 
 Intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished 
 and the result of the investigation which gave ris- 
 to it was a determination to compose a philosophies 
 poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society] 
 and to be entitled, the Recluse ; as having for it 
 principal subject the sensations and opinions of 
 poet living in retirement. — The preparatory poei 
 is biographical, and conducts the history of th 
 Author's mind to the point when he was emboldenei 
 to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matures 
 for entering upon the arduous labour which he h: 
 proposed to himself ; and the two Works have tkt 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 527 
 
 ime kind of relation to each other, if he may so 
 jxpress himself, as the ante-chapel has to the body 
 f a gothic church. Continuing this allusion, he 
 |ay be permitted to add, that his minor Pieces, 
 ihich have been long before the Public, when they 
 lall be properly arranged, will be found by the 
 :;tentive Reader to have such connection with the 
 ain Work as may give them claim to be likened 
 I the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, 
 .•dinarily included in those edifices. 
 
 The Author would not have deemed himself 
 stifled in saying, upon this occasion, so much of 
 iirformances either unfinished, or unpublished, if 
 I had not thought that the labour bestowed by him 
 toon what he has heretofore and now laid before 
 e" Public, entitled him to candid attention for 
 eh a statement as he thinks necessary to throw 
 !;ht upon his endeavours to please and, he would 
 ipe, to benefit his countrymen. — Nothing further 
 ■ei be added, than that the first and third parts 
 ■ The Recluse will consist chiefly of meditations 
 I the Author's own person ; and that in the inter- 
 piate part (The Excursion) the intervention of 
 ,aracters speaking is employed, and something of 
 dramatic form adopted. 
 
 lit is not the Author's intention formally to 
 inounce a system : it was more animating to him 
 
 proceed in a different course ; and if he shall 
 cceed in conveying to the mind clear thoughts, 
 ' ely images, and strong feelings, the Reader will 
 ve no difficulty in extracting the system for him- 
 
 |*f. And in the mean time the following passage, 
 cen from the conclusion of the first book of The 
 Scluse, may be acceptable as a kind of Prospectus 
 'the design and scope of the whole Poem. 
 
 JOn Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
 ising in solitude, I oft perceive 
 lir trains of imagery before me rise, 
 companied by feelings of delight 
 Ire, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
 fid I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
 ild dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 
 elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
 J3 good and evil of our mortal state. 
 ,'o these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 
 Jiether from breath of outward circumstance, 
 1 from the Soul— an impulse to herself— 
 .jould give utterance in numerous verse. 
 
 • fruth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, 
 1 melancholy Fear subdued by Faith; 
 
 'blessed consolations in distress ; 
 
 < noral strength, and intellectual Power ; 
 
 < oy in widest commonalty spread ; 
 
 (Jhe individual Mind that keeps her own 
 I iolate retirement, subject there 
 Jponscience only, and the law supreme 
 ('hat Intelligence which governs all — 
 
 * ig :— ' fit audience let me find though few !' 
 
 So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard- 
 In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need 
 Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
 Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven ! 
 For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink 
 Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
 To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
 All strength — all terror, single or in bands, 
 That ever was put forth in personal form- 
 Jehovah — with his thunder, and the choir 
 Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones— 
 I pass them unalarmed. Not Cnaos, not 
 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
 Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out 
 By help of dreams— can breed such fear and awe 
 As fall upon us often when we look 
 Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man — 
 My haunt, and the main region of my song. 
 — Beauty — a living Presence of the earth, 
 Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
 Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed 
 From earth's materials — waits upon my steps ; 
 Pitches her tents before me as I move, 
 An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves 
 Elysian, Fortunate Fields— like those of old 
 Sought in the Atlantic Main — why should they be 
 A history only of departed things, 
 Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 
 For the discerning intellect of Man, 
 When wedded to this goodly universe 
 In love and holy passion, shall find these 
 A simple produce of the common day. 
 — I, long before the blissful hour arrives, 
 Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 
 Of this great consummation : — and, by words 
 Which speak of nothing more than what we are, 
 Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 
 Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 
 To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims 
 How exquisitely the individual Mind 
 (And the progressive powers perhaps no less 
 Of the whole species) to the external World 
 Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too — 
 Theme this but little heard of among men— 
 The external World is fitted to the Mind ; 
 And the creation (by no lower name 
 Can it be called) which they with blended might 
 Accomplish : — this is our high argument. 
 — Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 
 Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the tribes 
 And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
 Of madding passions mutually inflamed ; 
 Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 
 Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 
 Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 
 Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 
 Within the walls of cities — may these sounds 
 Have their authentic comment ; that even these 
 Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — 
 Descend, prophetic Spirit .' that inspir'st 
 The human Soul of universal earth, 
 Dreaming on things to come ; and dost possess 
 A metropolitan temple in the hearts 
 Of mighty Poets : upon me bestow 
 A gift of genuine insight ; that my Song 
 With star-like virtue in its place may shine, 
 Shedding benignant influence, and secure, 
 
528 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Itself, from all malevolent effect 
 
 Of those mutations that extend their sway 
 
 Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if with this 
 
 I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 
 
 Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 
 
 Contemplating ; and who, and what he was — 
 
 The transitory Being that beheld 
 
 This Vision ; when and where, and how he lived ;- 
 
 Be not this labour useless. If such theme 
 
 May sort with highest objects, then— dread Power ! 
 Whose gracious favour is the primal source 
 Of all illumination — may my Life 
 Express the image of a better time, 
 More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — nurso 
 My Heart in genuine freedom : — all pure thoughts 
 Be with me ; — so shall thy unfailing love 
 Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end ! ' 
 
 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 A summer forenoon. — The Author reaches a ruined Cot- 
 tage upon a Common, and there meets with a revered 
 Friend, the Wanderer, of whose education and course 
 of life he gives an account The Wanderer, while rest- 
 ing under the shade of the Trees that surround the 
 Cottage, relates the History of its last Inhabitant. 
 
 'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high : 
 Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 
 Through a pale steam ; but all the northern downs, 
 In clearest air ascending, showed far off 
 A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 
 From brooding clouds ; shadows that lay in spots 
 Determined and unmoved, with steady beams 
 Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed ; 
 To him most pleasant who on soft cool moss 
 Extends his careless limbs along the front 
 Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts 
 A twilight of its own, an ample shade, 
 Where the wren warbles, while the dreaming man, 
 Half conscious of the soothing melody, 
 With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, 
 By power of that impending covert, thrown, 
 To finer distance. Mine was at that hour 
 Far other lot, yet with good hope that soon 
 Under a shade as grateful I should find 
 Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy. 
 Across a bare wide Common I was toiling 
 With languid steps that by the slippery turf 
 Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm disperse 
 The host of insects gathering round my face, 
 And ever with me as I paced along. 
 
 Upon that open moorland stood a grove, 
 The wished-for port to which my course was bound. 
 Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 
 Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms, 
 Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked walls 
 That stared upon each other ! — I looked round, 
 
 And to my wish and to my hope espied 
 The Friend I sought ; a Man of reverend age, 
 But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 
 There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, 
 Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep ; 
 An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 
 
 Him had I marked the day before — alone 
 And stationed in the public way, with face 
 Turned toward the sun then setting, while that sta 
 Afforded, to the figure of the man 
 Detained for contemplation or repose, 
 Graceful support ; his countenance as he stood 
 Was hidden from my view, and he remained 
 Unrecognised ; but, stricken by the sight, 
 With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon 
 A glad congratulation we exchanged 
 At such unthought-of meeting. — For the night 
 We parted, nothing willingly ; and now 
 He by appointment waited for me here, 
 Under the covert of these clustering elms. 
 
 We were tried Friends : amid a pleasant vale, 
 In the antique market-village where was passed 
 My school-time, an apartment he had owned, 
 To which at intervals the Wanderer drew, 
 And found a kind of home or harbour there. 
 He loved me ; from a swarm of rosy boys 
 Singled out me, as he in sport would say, 
 For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my years 
 As I grew up, it was my best delight 
 To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, 
 On holidays, we rambled through the woods : 
 We sate — we walked ; he pleased me with report 
 Of things which he had seen ; and often touched 
 Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 
 Turned inward ; or at my request would sing 
 Old songs, the product of his native hills ; 
 A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, 
 Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 
 As cool refreshing water, by the care 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 529 
 
 Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 
 
 Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of 
 
 drought. 
 Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse : 
 How precious when in riper days I learned 
 To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 
 In the plain presence of his dignity ! 
 
 Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown 
 . By Nature ; men endowed with highest gifts, 
 The vision and the faculty divine ; 
 ' Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 
 (Which, in the docile season of their youth, 
 It was denied them to acquire, through lack 
 Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, 
 Or haply by a temper too severe, 
 Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) 
 Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 
 By circumstance to take unto the height 
 The measure of themselves, these favoured Beings, 
 ;A11 but a scattered few, live out their time, 
 iHusbanding that which they possess within, 
 And go to the grave, unthought of. Strongest minds 
 Are often those of whom the noisy world 
 Hears least ; else surely this Man had not left 
 His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 
 But, as the mind was filled with inward light, 
 3o not without distinction had he lived, 
 Beloved and honoured — far as he was known, 
 ^nd some small portion of his eloquent speech, 
 \nd something that may serve to set in view 
 The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, 
 l3is observations, and the thoughts his mind 
 rlad dealt with — I will here record in verse ; 
 'iVhich, if with truth it correspond, and sink 
 i)r rise as venerable Nature leads, 
 "he high and tender Muses shall accept 
 iVith gracious smile, deliberately pleased, 
 ; lnd listening Time reward with sacred praise. 
 
 Among the hills of Athol he was born ; 
 inhere, on a small hereditary farm, 
 |in unproductive slip of rugged ground, 
 'lis Parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt ; 
 I. virtuous household, though exceeding poor ! 
 
 Iure livers were they all, austere and grave, 
 nd fearing God ; the very children taught 
 tern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, 
 nd an habitual piety, maintained 
 1th strictness scarcely known on English ground. 
 
 From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I speak, 
 i summer, tended cattle on the hills ; 
 jut, through the inclement and the perilous days 
 
 Of long-continuing winter, he repaired, 
 
 Equipped with satchel, to a school, that stood 
 
 Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge, 
 
 Remote from view of city spire, or sound 
 
 Of minster clock ! From that bleak tenement 
 
 He, many an evening, to his distant home 
 
 In solitude returning, saw the hills 
 
 Grow larger in the darkness ; all alone 
 
 Beheld the stars come out above his head, 
 
 And travelled through the wood, with no one near 
 
 To whom he might confess the things he saw. 
 
 So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
 In such communion, not from terror free, 
 While yet a child, and long before his time, 
 Had he perceived the presence and the power 
 Of greatness ; and deep feelings had impressed 
 So vividly great objects that they lay 
 Upon his mind like substances, whose presence 
 Perplexed the bodily sense. He had received 
 A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years, 
 With these impressions would he still compare 
 Alibis remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms ; 
 And, being still unsatisfied with aught 
 Of dimmer character, he thence attained < 
 An active power to fasten images 
 Upon his brain ; and on their pictured lines 
 Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 
 The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail, 
 While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 
 Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 
 On all things which the moving seasons brought 
 To feed such appetite — nor this alone 
 Appeased his yearning : — in the after-day 
 Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 
 And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 
 He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments, 
 Or from the power of a peculiar eye, 
 Or by creative feeling overborne, 
 Or by predominance of thought oppressed, 
 Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 
 He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, 
 Expression ever varying ! 
 
 Thus informed, 
 He had j;mall need of books ; for many a tale 
 Traditionary, round the mountains hung, 
 And many a legend, peopling the dark woods, 
 Nourished Imagination in her growth, 
 And gave the Mind that apprehensive power 
 By which she is made quick to recognise 
 The moral properties and scope of things. 
 But eagerly he read, and read again, 
 Whate'er the minister's old shelf supplied ; 
 The life and death of martyrs, who sustained, 
 
 M M 
 
530 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
 Triumphantly displayed in records left 
 Of persecution, and the Covenant — times 
 Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour ! 
 And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved 
 A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, 
 That left half-told the preternatural tale, 
 Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends, 
 Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts 
 Strange and uncouth ; dire faces, figures dire, 
 Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled too, 
 With long and ghostly shanks — forms which once 
 
 seen 
 Could never be forgotten ! 
 
 In his heart, 
 Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, 
 Was wanting yet the pure delight of love 
 By sound diffused, or by the breathing air, 
 Or by the silent looks of happy things, 
 Or flowing from the universal face 
 Of earth and sky. But he had felt the power 
 Of Nature, and already was prepared, 
 By his intense conceptions, to receive 
 Deeply the lesson deep of love which he, 
 Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 
 To feel intensely, cannot but receive. 
 
 Such was the Boy — but for the growing Youth 
 What soul was his, when, from the naked top 
 Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
 Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked — 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
 Beneath him : — Far and wide the clouds were 
 
 touched, 
 And in their silent faces could he read 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
 Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
 The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form, 
 All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
 His animal being ; in them did he live, 
 And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
 In such access of mind, in such high hour 
 Of visitation from the living God, 
 Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
 No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request ; 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
 That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 
 
 A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
 Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
 Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
 
 then how beautiful, how bright, appeared 
 The written promise ! Early had he learned 
 To reverence the volume that displays 
 The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
 But in the mountains did he feel his faith. 
 All tilings, responsive to the writing, there 
 Breathed immortality, revolving life, 
 And greatness still revolving ; infinite : 
 There littleness was not ; the least of things 
 Seemed infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 
 Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he saw. 
 What wonder if his being thus became 
 Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires, 
 Low thoughts had there no place; yet was Lis 
 
 heart 
 Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 
 Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind, 
 And whence they flowed ; and from them he 
 
 acquired 
 Wisdom, which works thro' patience ; thence he 
 
 learned 
 In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 
 To look on Nature with a humble heart, 
 Self-questioned where it did not understand, 
 And with a superstitious eye of love. 
 
 So passed the time ; yet to the nearest town 
 He duly went with what small overplus 
 His earnings might supply, and brought away 
 The book that most had tempted his desires 
 While at the stall he read. Among the hills 
 He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, 
 The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 
 The annual savings of a toilsome life, 
 His School-master supplied ; books that explain 
 The purer elements of truth involved 
 In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
 (Especially perceived where nature droops 
 And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind 
 Busy in solitude and poverty. 
 These occupations oftentimes deceived 
 The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, 
 Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
 In pensive idleness. What could he do, 
 Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life, 
 With blind endeavours ? Yet, still uppermost, 
 Nature was at his heart as if he felt, 
 Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 
 In all things that from her sweet influence 
 Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, 
 Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, 
 He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
 While yet he fingered in the rudiments 
 Of science, and among her simplest laws, 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 531 
 
 His triangles — they were the stars of heaven, 
 
 The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
 i To measure the altitude of some tall crag 
 
 That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 
 ! Familiar with forgotten years, that shows 
 
 Inscribed upon its visionary sides, 
 'The history of many a winter storm, 
 
 Or obscure records of the path of fire. 
 
 And thus before his eighteenth year was told, 
 Accumulated feelings pressed his heart 
 1 With still increasing weight ; he was o'erpowered 
 By Nature ; by the turbulence subdued 
 Of his own mind ; by mystery and hope, 
 And the first virgin passion of a soul 
 Communing with the glorious universe. 
 Full often wished he that the winds might rage 
 .When they were silent : far more fondly now 
 Than in his earlier season did he love 
 Tempestuous nights — the conflict and the sounds 
 rhat five in darkness. From his intellect 
 Ind from the stillness of abstracted thought 
 le asked repose ; and, failing oft to win 
 Phe peace required, he scanned the laws of light 
 imid the roar of torrents, where they send 
 /rom hollow clefts up to the clearer air 
 i cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun 
 /aries its rainbow hues. But vainly thus, 
 uid vainly by all other means, he strove 
 i'o mitigate the fever of his heart. 
 
 In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, 
 Tius was he reared ; much wanting to assist 
 he growth of intellect, yet gaining more, 
 ,.nd every moral feeling of his soul 
 trengthened and braced, by breathing in content 
 he keen, the wholesome, air of poverty, 
 nd drinking from the well of homely life. 
 -But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, 
 e now was summoned to select the course 
 f humble industry that promised best 
 3 yield him no unworthy maintenance, 
 rged by his Mother, he essayed to teach 
 j village-school — but wandering thoughts were then 
 ;' misery to him ; and the Youth resigned 
 
 task he was unable to perform. 
 
 'That stern yet kindly Spirit, who constrains 
 ie Savoyard to quit his naked rocks, 
 lie free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, 
 ipirit attached to regions mountainous 
 jie their own stedfast clouds) did now impel 
 
 restless mind to look abroad with hope. 
 A.n irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, 
 
 Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, 
 A vagrant Merchant under a heavy load 
 Bent as he moves, and needing frequent rest ; 
 Yet do such travellers find their own delight ; 
 And their hard service, deemed debasing now, 
 Gained merited respect in simpler times ; 
 When squire, and priest, and they who round them 
 
 dwelt 
 In rustic sequestration — all dependent 
 Upon the Pedlar's toil — supplied their wants, 
 Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he brought. 
 Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few 
 Of his adventurous countrymen were led 
 By perseverance in this track of life 
 To competence and ease : — to him it offered 
 Attractions manifold ; — and this he chose. 
 — His Parents on the enterprise bestowed 
 Then." farewell benediction, but with hearts 
 Foreboding evil. From his native hills 
 He wandered far ; much did he see of men, 
 Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits, 
 Their passions and their feelings ; chiefly those 
 Essential and eternal in the heart, 
 That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 
 Exist more simple in their elements, 
 And speak a plainer language. In the woods, 
 A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields, 
 Itinerant in this labour, he had passed 
 The better portion of his time ; and there 
 Spontaneously had his affections thriven 
 Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 
 And liberty of nature ; there he kept 
 In solitude and solitary thought 
 His mind in a just equipoise of love. 
 Serene it was, unclouded by the cares 
 Of ordinary life ; unvexed, unwarped 
 By partial bondage. In his steady course, 
 No piteous revolutions had he felt, 
 No wild varieties of joy and grief. 
 Unoccupied by sorrow of its own, 
 His heart lay open ; and, by nature tuned 
 And constant disposition of his thoughts 
 To sympathy with man, he was alive 
 To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, 
 And all that was endured ; for, in himself 
 Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness, 
 He had no painful pressure from without 
 That made him turn aside from wretchedness 
 With coward fears. He could afford to suffer 
 With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came 
 That in our best experience he was rich, 
 And in the wisdom of our daily life. 
 For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, 
 He had observed the progress and decay 
 m M 2 
 
532 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Of many minds, of minds and bodies too ; 
 
 The history of many families ; 
 
 How they had prospered ; how they were o'erthrown 
 
 By passion or mischance, or such misrule 
 
 Among the unthinking masters of the earth 
 
 As makes the nations groan. 
 
 This active course 
 He followed till provision for his wants 
 Had been obtained ; — the Wanderer then resolved 
 To pass the remnant of his days, untasked 
 With needless services, from hardship free. 
 His calling laid aside, he lived at ease : 
 But still he loved to pace the public roads 
 And the wild paths ; and, by the summer's warmth 
 Invited, often would he leave his home 
 And j ourney far, revisiting the scenes 
 That to his memory were most endeared. 
 — Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped 
 By worldly-mindedness or anxious care ; 
 Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed 
 By knowledge gathered up from day to day ; 
 Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. 
 
 The Scottish Church, both on himself and those 
 With whom from childhood he grew up, had held 
 The strong hand of her purity ; and still 
 Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. 
 This he remembered in his riper age 
 With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. 
 But by the native vigour of his mind, 
 By his habitual wanderings out of doors, 
 By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, 
 Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, 
 He had imbibed of fear or darker thought 
 Was melted all away ; so true was this, 
 That sometimes his religion seemed to me 
 Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods ; 
 Who to the model of his own pure heart 
 Shaped his belief, as grace divine inspired, 
 And human reason dictated with awe. 
 — And surely never did there live on earth 
 A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports 
 And teasing ways of children vexed not him ; 
 Indulgent listener was he to the tongue 
 Of garrulous age ; nor did the sick man's tale, 
 To his fraternal sympathy addressed, 
 Obtain reluctant hearing. 
 
 Plain his garb ; 
 Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared 
 For sabbath duties ; yet he was a man 
 Whom no one could have passed without remark. 
 Active and nervous was his gait ; his limbs 
 And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 
 Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek 
 
 Into a narrower circle of deep red, 
 
 But had not tamed his eye ; that, under brows 
 
 Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought 
 
 From years of youth ; which, like a Being; made 
 
 Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill 
 
 To blend with knowledge of the years to come, 
 
 Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. 
 
 So was He framed ; and such his course of life 
 Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 
 The prized memorial of relinquished toils, 
 Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, 
 Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lav 
 His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 
 The shadows of the breezy elms above 
 Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound 
 Of my approaching steps, and in the shade 
 Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space. 
 At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat 
 Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
 Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose, 
 And ere our lively greeting into peace 
 Had settled, '"Tis," said I, "a burning day: 
 My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems 
 Have somewhere found relief." He, at the ward, 
 Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb 
 The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out 
 Upon the public way. It was a plot 
 Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds 
 Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed; 
 The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, 
 Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems, 
 In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 
 The broken wall. I looked around, and there, 
 Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder bough* 
 Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well 
 Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. 
 My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot 
 Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 
 Where sate the old Man on the cottage-bench ; 
 And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, 
 I yet was standing, freely to respire, 
 And cool my temples in the fanning air, 
 Thus did he speak. "I see around me here 
 Things which you cannot see : we die, my Fiiciii 
 Nor we alone, but that which each man loved 
 And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 
 Dies with him, or is changed ; and very soon 
 Even of the good is no memorial left. 
 — The Poets, in their elegies and songs 
 Lamenting the departed, call the groves, 
 They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 
 And senseless rocks ; nor idly ; for they speak, 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 533 
 
 In these their invocations, with a voice 
 : Obedient to the strong creative power 
 Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
 More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 
 That steal upon the meditative mind, 
 And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, 
 And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 
 One sadness, they and I. For them a bond 
 Of brotherhood is broken : time has been 
 When, every day, the touch of human hand 
 Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 
 In mortal stillness ; and they ministered 
 To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, 
 Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
 The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, 
 Green with the moss of years, and subject only 
 To the soft handling of the elements : 
 •There let it lie — how foolish are such thoughts ! 
 Forgive them ; — never— never did my steps 
 ! Approach this door but she who dwelt within 
 :A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 
 As my own child. Oh, Sir ! the good die first, 
 IjAnd they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
 Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 
 ! Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, 
 i.When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 
 1 b'rom that forsaken spring ; and no one came 
 I But he was welcome ; no one went away 
 3ut that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, 
 lithe light extinguished of her lonely hut, 
 j The hut itself abandoned to decay, 
 ini she forgotten in the quiet grave. 
 
 I speak," continued he, " of One whose stock 
 ,)f virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. 
 She was a Woman of a steady mind, 
 lender and deep in her excess of love ; 
 : ^ot speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 
 j)f her own thoughts : by some especial care 
 ler temper had been framed, as if to make 
 ; L Being, who by adding love to peace 
 light live on earth a life of happiness. 
 Ier wedded Partner lacked not on his side 
 ,'he humble worth that satisfied her heart : 
 , nigal, affectionate, sober, and withal 
 keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 
 hat he was often seated at his loom, 
 h summer, ere the mower was abroad 
 mong the dewy grass, — in early spring, 
 •re the last star had vanished. — They who passed 
 t evening, from behind the garden fence 
 light hear his busy spade, which he would ply, 
 iter his daily work, until the light 
 lad failed, and every leaf and flower were lost 
 
 In the dark hedges. So their days were spent 
 
 In peace and comfort ; and a pretty boy 
 
 Was their best hope, next to the God in heaven. 
 
 Not twenty years ago, but you I think 
 Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came 
 Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left 
 With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add 
 A worse affliction in the plague of war : 
 This happy Land was stricken to the heart '. 
 A Wanderer then among the cottages, 
 I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 
 The hardships of that season : many rich 
 Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor ; 
 And of the poor did many cease to be, 
 And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, 
 
 abridged 
 Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 
 To numerous self-denials, Margaret 
 Went straggling on through those calamitous years 
 With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, 
 When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay, 
 Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 
 He lingered long ; and, when his strength returned, 
 He found the little he had stored, to meet 
 The hour of accident or crippling age, 
 Was all consumed. A second infant now 
 Was added to the troubles of a time 
 Laden, for them and all of their degree, 
 With care and sorrow : shoals of artisans 
 From ill-requited labour turned adrift 
 Sought daily bread from public charity, 
 They, and their wives and children — happier far 
 Could they have lived as do the little birds 
 That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite 
 That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks ! 
 
 A sad reverse it was for him who long 
 Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, 
 This lonely Cottage. At the door he stood, 
 And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 
 That had no mirth in them ; or with his knife 
 Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks — . 
 Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook 
 In house or garden, any casual work 
 Of use or ornament ; and with a strange, 
 Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, 
 He mingled, where he might, the various tasks 
 Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
 But this endured not ; his good humour soon 
 Became a weight in which no pleasure was : 
 And poverty brought on a petted mood 
 And a sore temper : day by day he drooped, 
 And he would leave his work — and to the town 
 
534 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Would turn without an errand his slack steps ; 
 Or wander here and there among the fields. 
 One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 
 And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
 He tossed them with a false unnatural joy : 
 And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks 
 Of the poor innocent children. ' Every smile,' 
 Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 
 ' Made my heart bleed.' " 
 
 At this the Wanderer paused ; 
 And, looking up to those enormous elms, 
 He said, " 'Tis now the hour of deepest noon. 
 At this still season of repose and peace, 
 This hour when all things which are not at rest 
 Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies 
 With tuneful hum is filling all the air ; 
 Why should a tear be on an old Man's cheek 1 
 Why should we thus, with an untoward mind, 
 And in the weakness of humanity, 
 From natural wisdom turn our hearts away ; 
 To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears ; 
 And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
 The calm of nature with our restless thoughts? " 
 
 He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone : 
 
 But, when he ended, there was in his face 
 
 Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild, 
 
 That for a little time it stole away 
 
 All recollection ; and that simple tale 
 
 Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 
 
 A while on trivial things we held discourse, 
 
 To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, 
 
 I thought of that poor Woman as of one 
 
 Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed 
 
 Her homely tale with such familiar power, 
 
 With such an active countenance, an eye 
 
 So busy, that the things of which he spake 
 
 Seemed present ; and, attention now relaxed, 
 
 A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins. 
 
 I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade, 
 
 Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun, 
 
 That had not cheered me long — ere, looking round 
 
 Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, 
 
 And begged of the old Man that, for my sake, 
 
 He would resume his story. 
 
 He replied, 
 " It were a wantonness, and would demand 
 Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts 
 Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 
 Even of the dead ; contented thence to draw 
 A momentary pleasure, never marked 
 By reason, barren of all future good. 
 
 
 But we have known that there is often found 
 
 In mournful thoughts, and always might be found 
 
 A power to virtue friendly ; wer 't not so. 
 
 I am a dreamer among men, indeed 
 
 An idle dreamer ! 'Tis a common tale, 
 
 An ordinary sorrow of man's life, 
 
 A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
 
 In bodily form. — But without further bidding 
 
 I will proceed. 
 
 While thus it fared with them, 
 To whom this cottage, till those hapless years, 
 Had been a blessed home, it was my chance 
 To travel in a country far remote ; 
 And when these lofty elms once more appeared 
 What pleasant expectations lured me on 
 O'er the flat Common ! — With quick step I reached 
 The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch ; 
 But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me 
 A little while ; then turned her head away 
 Speechless,— and, sitting down upon a chair, 
 Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, 
 Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch ! at last 
 She rose from off her seat, and then, — Sir ! 
 I cannot tell how she pronounced my name : — 
 With fervent love, and with a face of grief 
 Unutterably helpless, and a look 
 That seemed to cling upon me, she enquired 
 If I had seen her husband. As she spake 
 A strange surprise and fear came to my heart, 
 Nor had I power to answer ere she told 
 That he had disappeared — not two months gone. 
 He left his house : two wretched days had past, 
 And on the third, as wistfully she raised 
 Her head from off her pillow, to look forth, 
 Like one in trouble, for returning light, 
 Within her chamber-casement she espied 
 A folded paper, lying as if placed 
 To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 
 She opened — found no writing, but beheld 
 Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 
 Silver and gold. ' I shuddered at the sight,' 
 Said Margaret, ' for I knew it was his hand 
 That must have placed it there ; and ere that day 
 Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned, 
 From one who by my husband had been sent 
 With the sad news, that he had joined a troop 
 Of soldiers, going to a distant land. 
 — He left me thus — he could not gather heart 
 To take a farewell of me ; for he feared 
 That I should follow with my babes, and sink 
 Beneath the misery of that wandering life.' 
 
 This tale did Margaret tell with many tears : 
 And, when she ended, I had little power 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 535 
 
 To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
 i Such words of hope from her own mouth as served 
 To cheer us both. But long we had not talked 
 Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
 And with a brighter eye she looked around 
 As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
 We parted. — 'Twas the time of early spring ; 
 I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
 And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, 
 : And, while I paced along the foot- way path, 
 Called out, and sent a blessing after me, 
 With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 
 That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. 
 
 I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, 
 With my accustomed load ; in heat and cold, 
 Through many a wood and many an open ground, 
 In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 
 Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal ; 
 My best companions now the driving winds, 
 And now the ' trotting brooks ' and whispering 
 
 trees, 
 And now the music of my own sad steps, 
 With many a short-lived thought that passed 
 
 between, 
 And disappeared. 
 
 I journeyed back this way, 
 When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat 
 Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed grass, 
 ' : Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread 
 Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 
 1 1 found that she was absent. In the shade, 
 1 Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
 Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore 
 ' Its customary look, — only, it seemed, 
 ; The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 
 Hung down in heavier tufts ; and that bright weed, 
 The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root 
 I Along the window's edge, profusely grew 
 j Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 
 And strolled into her garden. It appeared 
 To lag behind the season, and had lost 
 ' Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 
 ' Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled 
 O'er paths they used to deck : carnations, once 
 Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 
 i For the peculiar pains they had required, 
 1 Declined their languid heads, wanting support. 
 I The cumbrous bind- weed, with its wreaths and bells, 
 ' Had twined about her two small rows of peas, 
 '■ And dragged them to the earth. 
 
 Ere this an hour 
 ! Was wasted. — Back I turned my restless steps ; 
 A stranger passed ; and, guessing whom I sought 
 
 He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
 The sun was sinking in the west ; and now 
 I sate with sad impatience. From within 
 Her solitary infant cried aloud ; 
 Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled, 
 The voice was silent. From the bench I rose ; 
 But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 
 The spot, though fair, was very desolate — 
 The longer I remained, more desokte : 
 And, looking round me, now I first observed 
 The corner stones, on either side the porch, 
 With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er 
 With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep, 
 That fed upon the Common, thither came 
 Familiarly, and found a couching-place 
 Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell 
 From these tall elms; the cottage-clock struck 
 
 eight ;— 
 I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 
 Her face was pale and thin — her figure, too, 
 Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 
 ' It grieves me you have waited here so long, 
 But, in good truth, I 've wandered much of late ; 
 And, sometimes — to my shame I speak — have need 
 Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 
 While on the board she spread our evening meal, 
 She told me — interrupting not the work 
 Which gave employment to her listless hands — 
 That she had parted with her elder child ; 
 To a kind master on a distant farm 
 Now happily apprenticed. — ' I perceive 
 You look at me, and you have cause ; to-day 
 I have been travelling far ; and many days 
 About the fields I wander, knowing this 
 Only, that what I seek I cannot find ; 
 And so I waste my time : for I am changed ; 
 And to myself,' said she, e have done much wrong 
 And to this helpless infant. I have slept 
 Weeping, and weeping have I waked ; my tears 
 Have flowed as if my body were not such 
 As others are ; and I could never die. 
 But I am now in mind and in my heart 
 More easy ; and I hope,' said she, ' that God 
 Will give me patience to endure the things 
 Which I behold at home.' 
 
 It would have grieved 
 Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel 
 The story linger in my heart ; I fear 
 'Tis long and tedious ; but my spirit clings 
 To that poor Woman : — so familiarly 
 Do I perceive her manner, and her look, 
 And presence ; and so deeply do I feel 
 Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks 
 A momentary trance comes over me ; 
 
536 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 And to myself I seem to muse on One 
 
 By sorrow laid asleep ; or borne away, 
 
 A human being destined to awake 
 
 To human life, or something very near 
 
 To human life, when he shall come again 
 
 For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved 
 
 Your very soul to see her : evermore 
 
 Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were cast; 
 
 And, when she at her table gave me food, 
 
 She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 
 
 Her body was subdued. In every act, 
 
 Pertaining to her house-affairs, appeared 
 
 The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
 
 Self- occupied ; to which all outward things 
 
 Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 
 
 But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 
 
 No heaving of the heart. While by the fire 
 
 We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 
 
 I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 
 
 Ere my departure, to her care I gave, 
 For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 
 Which with a look of welcome she received ; 
 And I exhorted her to place her trust 
 In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. 
 I took my staff, and, when I kissed her babe, 
 The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 
 With the best hope and comfort I could give : 
 She thanked me for my wish ; — but for my hope 
 It seemed she did not thank me. 
 
 I returned, 
 And took my rounds along this road again 
 When on its sunny bank the primrose flower 
 Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. 
 I found her sad and drooping : she had learned 
 No tidings of her husband ; if he lived, 
 She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead, 
 She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same 
 In person and appearance ; but her house 
 Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence ; 
 The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth 
 Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, 
 Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore 
 Had been piled up against the corner panes 
 In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves 
 Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, 
 As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe 
 Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 
 And sighed among its playthings. I withdrew, 
 And once again entering the garden saw, 
 More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
 Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced 
 The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass : 
 No ridges there appeared of clear black mold, 
 
 No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers, 
 It seemed the better part were gnawed away 
 Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw, 
 Which had been twined about the slender stem 
 Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root ; 
 The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. 
 — Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, 
 And, noting that my eye was on the tree, 
 She said, ' I fear it will be dead and gone 
 Ere Robert come again.' When to the House 
 We had returned together, she enquired 
 If I had any hope : — but for her babe 
 And for her little orphan boy, she said, 
 She had no wish to live, that she must die 
 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 
 Still in its place ; his Sunday garments hung 
 Upon the self-same nail ; his very staff 
 Stood undisturbed behind the door. 
 
 And when, 
 In bleak December, I retraced this way, 
 She told me that her little babe was dead, 
 And she was left alone. She now, released 
 From her maternal cares, had taken up 
 The employment common through these wilds, and 
 
 gained, 
 By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself ; 
 And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy 
 To give her needful help. That very time 
 Most willingly she put her work aside, 
 And walked with me along the miry road, 
 Heedless how far ; and, in such piteous sort 
 That any heart had ached to hear her, begged 
 That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask 
 For him whom she had lost. We parted then — 
 Our final parting ; for from that time forth 
 Did many seasons pass ere 1 returned 
 Into this tract again. 
 
 Nine tedious years ; 
 From their first separation, nine long years, 
 She lingered in unquiet widowhood ; 
 A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 
 A sore heart-wasting ! I have heard, my Friend, 
 That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate 
 Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day ; 
 And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit 
 The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench 
 For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye 
 Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
 That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, 
 Now faint, — the grass has crept o'er its grey Une ; 
 There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 
 Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 
 That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread 
 With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed 
 
THE WANDERER. 
 
 537 
 
 A man whose garments showed the soldier's red, 
 I Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, 
 The little child who sate to turn the wheel 
 Ceased from his task ; and she with faltering voice 
 Made many a fond enquiry ; and when they, 
 Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, 
 Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, 
 That bars the traveller's road, she often stood, 
 And when a stranger horseman came, the latch 
 Would lift, and in his face look wistfully : 
 Most happy, if, from aught discovered there 
 Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
 The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 
 Sank to decay ; for he was gone, whose hand, 
 At the first nipping of October frost, 
 Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw 
 Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 
 Through the long winter, reckless and alone ; 
 Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain, 
 Was sapped ; and while she slept, the nightly damps 
 Did chill her breast ; and in the stormy day 
 Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind, 
 Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 
 She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 
 Have parted hence ; and still that length of road, 
 And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, 
 Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my Friend, — 
 In sickness she remained ; and here she died ; 
 Last human tenant of these ruined walls ! " 
 
 The old Man ceased : he saw that I was moved ; 
 From that low bench, rising instinctively 
 I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
 To thank him for the tale which he had told. 
 I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall 
 Reviewed that Woman's sufferings ; and it seemed 
 To comfort me while with a brother's love 
 I blessed her in the impotence of grief. 
 Then towards the cottage T returned ; and traced 
 Fondly, though with an interest more mild, 
 That secret spirit of humanity 
 Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies 
 Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, 
 
 And silent overgrowings, still survived. 
 
 The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 
 
 "My Friend ! enough to sorrow you have given, 
 
 The purposes of wisdom ask no more : 
 
 Nor more would she have craved as due to One 
 
 Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes felt 
 
 The unbounded might of prayer ; and learned, with 
 
 soul 
 Fixed on the Cross, that consolation springs, 
 From sources deeper far than deepest pain, 
 For the meek Sufferer. Why then should we read 
 The forms of things with an unworthy eye 1 
 She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 
 I well remember that those very plumes, 
 Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, 
 By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, 
 As once I passed, into my heart conveyed 
 So still an image of tranquillity, 
 So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
 Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, 
 That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
 From ruin and from change, and all the grief 
 That passing shows of Being leave behind, 
 Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain, 
 Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit 
 Whose meditative sympathies repose 
 Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away, 
 And walked along my road in happiness." 
 
 He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 
 A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
 To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, 
 We sate on that low bench : and now we felt, 
 Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
 A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
 A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, 
 At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
 The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 
 Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff; 
 Together casting then a farewell look 
 Upon those silent walls, we left the shade ; 
 And, ere the stars were visible, had reached 
 A village-inn, — our evening resting-place. 
 
538 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Author describes his travels with the Wanderer, 
 whose character is further illustrated — Morning scene, 
 and view of a Village Wake — Wanderer's account of a 
 Friend whom he purposes to visit — View, from an emi- 
 nence, of the Valley which his Friend had chosen for 
 his retreat — Sound of singing from below — a funeral 
 procession — Descent into the Valley — Observations 
 drawn from the Wanderer at sight of a book accident- 
 ally discovered in a recess in the Valley — Meeting with 
 the Wanderer's friend, the Solitary — Wanderer's descrip- 
 tion of the mode of burial in this mountainous district 
 — Solitary contrasts with this, that of the individual 
 carried a few minutes before from the cottage — The 
 cottage entered — Description of the Solitary's apartment 
 — Repast there — View, from the window, of two moun- 
 tain summits ; and the Solitary's description of the com- 
 panionship they afford him — Account of the departed 
 inmate of the cottage — Description of a grand spectacle 
 upon the mountains, with its effect upon the Solitary's 
 mind — Leave the house. 
 
 In days of yore how fortunately fared 
 
 The Minstrel ! wandering on from hall to hall, 
 
 Baronial court or royal ; cheered with gifts 
 
 Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise ; 
 
 Now meeting on his road an armed knight. 
 
 Now resting with a pilgrim hy the side 
 
 Of a clear brook ; — beneath an abbey's roof 
 
 One evening sumptuously lodged ; the next, 
 
 Humbly in a religious hospital ; 
 
 Or with some merry outlaws of the wood ; 
 
 Or haply shrouded in a hermit's ceU. 
 
 Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared ; 
 
 He walked — protected from the sword of war 
 
 By virtue of that sacred instrument 
 
 His harp, suspended at the traveller's side ; 
 
 His dear companion wheresoe'er he went 
 
 Opening from land to land an easy way 
 
 By melody, and by the charm of verse. 
 
 Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race 
 
 Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned, thoughts 
 
 From his long journeyings and eventful life, 
 
 Than this obscure Itinerant had skill 
 
 To gather, ranging through the tamer ground 
 
 Of these our unimaginative days ; 
 
 Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise 
 
 Accoutred with his burthen and his staff ; 
 
 And now, when free to move with lighter pace. 
 
 What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite school 
 Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, 
 
 Looked on this guide with reverential love ? 
 Each with the other pleased, we now pursued 
 Our journey, under favourable skies. 
 Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light 
 Unfailing : not a hamlet could we pass, 
 Rarely a house, that did not yield to him 
 Remembrances ; or from his tongue call forth 
 Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard 
 Accompanied those strains of apt discourse, 
 Which nature's various objects might inspire ; 
 And in the silence of his face I read 
 His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, 
 And the mute fish that glances in the stream, 
 And harmless reptile coiling in the sun, 
 And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, 
 The fowl domestic, and the household dog — 
 In his capacious mind, he loved them all : 
 Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. 
 Oft was occasion given me to perceive 
 How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd 
 To happy contemplation soothed his walk ; 
 How the poor brute's condition, forced to hid 
 Its course of suffering in the public road, 
 Sad contrast ! all too often smote his heart 
 With unavailing pity. Rich in love 
 And sweet humanity, he was, himself, 
 To the degree that he desired, beloved. 
 Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew 
 Greeted us all day long ; we took our seats 
 By many a cottage-hearth, where he received 
 The welcome of an Inmate from afar, 
 And I at once forgot, I was a Stranger. 
 — Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts, 
 Huts where his charity was blest ; his voice 
 Heard as the voice of an experienced friend. 
 And, sometimes — where the poor man held dispute 
 With his own mind, unable to subdue 
 Impatience through inaptness to perceive 
 General distress in his particular lot ; 
 Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
 Struggling against it ; with a sold perplexed, 
 And finding in herself no steady power 
 To draw the line of comfort that divides 
 Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 
 From the injustice of our brother men — 
 To him appeal was made as to a judge ; 
 Who, with an understanding heart, allayed 
 The perturbation ; listened to the plea ; 
 Resolved the dubious point ; and sentence gave 
 
 > ■ f 
 
- 
 
 THE SOLITARY. 
 
 539 
 
 So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 
 With softened spirit, even when it condemned. 
 
 Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved, 
 (Now as his choice directed, now as mine ; 
 Or both, with equal readiness of will, 
 'Our course submitting to the changeful breeze 
 : Of accident. But when the rising sun 
 'Had three times called us to renew our walk, 
 i My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice, 
 (As if the thought were but a moment old, 
 'Claimed absolute dominion for the day. 
 We started — and he led me toward the hills, 
 ;Up through an ample vale, with higher hills 
 Before us, mountains stern and desolate ; 
 ;But,in the majesty of distance, now 
 jSet off, and to our ken appearing fair 
 ■Of aspect, with aerial softness clad, 
 And beautified with morning's purple beams. 
 
 , The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress 
 Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time, 
 May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs 
 j Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 
 From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise ; 
 And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease, 
 Shall lack not their enjoyment: — but how faint 
 Compared with ours ! who, pacing side by side, 
 Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 
 That we beheld ; and lend the listening sense 
 To every grateful sound of earth and air ; 
 Pausing at will — our spirits braced, our thoughts 
 Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown, 
 I And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 
 
 Mount slowly, sun ! that we may journey long, 
 By this dark hill protected from thy beams ! 
 Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish ; 
 But quickly from among our morning thoughts 
 Twas chased away : for, toward the western side 
 Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance, 
 We saw a throng of people ; — wherefore met ? 
 Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
 On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield 
 Prompt answer ; they proclaim the annual Wake, 
 Which the bright season favours. — Tabor and pipe 
 In purpose join to hasten or reprove 
 The laggard Rustic ; and repay with boons 
 Of merriment a party-coloured knot, 
 Already formed upon the village-green. 
 i|— Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
 IBy the broad hill, glistened upon our sight 
 |That gay assemblage. Round them and above, 
 |: Glitter, with dark recesses interposed, 
 
 Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 
 Half- veiled in vapoury cloud, the silver steam 
 Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
 By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast 
 Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
 Of morning, aided by exhaling dew, 
 With gladsome influence could re-animate 
 The faded garlands dangling from its sides. 
 
 Said I, " The music and the sprightly scene 
 Invite us ; shall we quit our road, and join 
 These festive matins ? " — He replied, " Not loth 
 To linger I would here with you partake, 
 Not one hour merely, but till evening's close, 
 The simple pastimes of the day and place. 
 By the fleet Racers, ere the sun be set, 
 The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed ; 
 There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall contend : 
 But know we not that he, who intermits 
 The appointed task and duties of the day, 
 Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day ; 
 Checking the finer spirits that refuse 
 To flow, when purposes are lightly changed \ 
 A length of journey yet remains un traced : 
 Let us proceed." Then, pointing with his staff 
 Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent 
 He thus imparted : — 
 
 " In a spot that lies 
 Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed, 
 You will receive, before the hour of noOn, 
 Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil, 
 From sight of One who lives secluded there, 
 Lonesome and lost : of whom, and whose past life, 
 (Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
 More faithfully collected from himself) 
 This brief communication shall suffice. 
 
 Though now sojourning there, he, like myself, 
 Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
 Among the wilds of Scotland, hi a tract 
 Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant, 
 Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, 
 Blossoms of piety and innocence. 
 Such grateful promises his youth displayed : 
 And, having shown in study forward zeal, 
 He to the Ministry was duly called ; 
 And straight, incited by a curious mind 
 Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge 
 Of Chaplain to a military troop 
 Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they marched 
 In plaided vest, — his fellow-countrymen. 
 This office filling, yet by native power 
 And force of native inclination made 
 An intellectual ruler in the haunts 
 
540 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 - 
 
 Of social vanity, he walked the world, 
 Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety ; 
 Lax, buoyant — less a pastor with his flock 
 Than a soldier among soldiers — lived and roamed 
 Where Fortune led : — and Fortune, who oft proves 
 The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known 
 A blooming Lady — a conspicuous flower, 
 Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised ; 
 Whom he had sensibility to love, 
 Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 
 
 For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind, 
 Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth, 
 His office he relinquished ; and retired 
 From the world's notice to a rural home. 
 Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past, 
 And she was in youth's prime. How free their love, 
 How full their joy ! 'Till, pitiable doom ! 
 In the short course of one undreaded year, 
 Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew 
 Two lovely Children — all that they possessed ! 
 The Mother followed : — miserably bare 
 The one Survivor stood ; he wept, he prayed 
 For his dismissal, day and night, compelled 
 To hold communion with the grave, and face 
 With pain the regions of eternity. 
 An uncomplaining apathy displaced 
 This anguish ; and, indifferent to delight, 
 To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, 
 To private interest dead, and public care. 
 So lived he ; so he might have died. 
 
 But now, 
 To the wide world's astonishment, appeared 
 A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn, 
 That promised everlasting joy to France ! 
 Her voice of social transport reached even him I 
 He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired 
 To the great City, an emporium then 
 Of golden expectations, and receiving 
 Freights every day from a new world of hope. 
 Thither his popular talents he transferred ; 
 And, from the pulpit, zealously maintained 
 The cause of Christ and civil liberty, 
 As one, and moving to one glorious end. 
 Intoxicating service ! I might say 
 A happy service ; for he was sincere 
 As vanity and fondness for applause, 
 And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 
 
 That righteous cause (such power hath freedom) 
 bound, 
 For one hostility, in friendly league, 
 Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves ; 
 Was served by rival advocates that came 
 
 From regions opposite as heaven and hell. 
 
 One courage seemed to animate them all : 
 
 And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained 
 
 By their united efforts, there arose 
 
 A proud and most presumptuous confidence 
 
 In the transcendent wisdom of the age, 
 
 And her discernment ; not alone in rights, 
 
 And in the origin and bounds of power 
 
 Social and temporal ; but in laws divine, 
 
 Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed. 
 
 An overweening trust was raised ; and fear 
 
 Cast out, alike of person and of thing. 
 
 Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane 
 
 The strongest did not easily escape ; 
 
 And He, what wonder ! took a mortal taint. 
 
 How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell 
 
 That he broke faith with them whom he had laid 
 
 In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope! 
 
 An infidel contempt of holy writ 
 
 Stole by degrees upon his mind ; and hence 
 
 Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced ; 
 
 Vilest hypocrisy — the laughing, gay 
 
 Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. 
 
 Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls ; 
 
 But, for disciples of the inner school, 
 
 Old freedom was old servitude, and they 
 
 The wisest whose opinions stooped the least 
 
 To known restraints ; and who most boldly drew 
 
 Hopeful prognostications from a creed, 
 
 That, in the light of false philosophy, 
 
 Spread like a halo round a misty moon, 
 
 Widening its circle as the storms advance. 
 
 His sacred function was at length renounced ; 
 And every day and every place enjoyed 
 The unshackled layman's natural liberty ; 
 Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise. 
 1 do not wish to wrong him ; though the course 
 Of private life licentiously displayed 
 Unhallowed actions — planted like a crown 
 Upon the insolent aspiring brow 
 Of spurious notions — worn as open signs 
 Of prejudice subdued — still he retained, 
 'Mid much abasement, what he had received 
 From nature, an intense and glowing mind. 
 Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak, 
 And mortal sickness on her face appeared, 
 He coloured objects to his own desire 
 As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods 
 Of pain were keen as those of better men, 
 Nay keener, as his fortitude was less : 
 And he continued, when worse days were come, 
 To deal about his sparkling eloquence, 
 Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal 
 
THE SOLITARY. 
 
 541 
 
 That shewed like happiness. But, in despite 
 < Of all this outside bravery, within, 
 i He neither felt encouragement nor hope : • 
 i For moral dignity, and strength of mind, 
 
 "Were wanting ; and simplicity of life ; 
 
 And reverence for himself; and, last and best, 
 ! Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Him 
 
 Before whose sight the troubles of this world 
 
 Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea. 
 
 The glory of the times fading away — 
 ' The splendor, which had given a festal air 
 i To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled 
 From his own sight — this gone, he forfeited 
 t All joy in human nature ; was consumed, 
 ! And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn, 
 I And fruitless indignation ; galled by pride ; 
 i Made desperate by contempt of men who throve 
 : Before his sight in power or fame, and won, 
 Without desert, what he desired ; weak men, 
 , Too weak even for his envy or his hate ! 
 Tormented thus, after a wandering course 
 Of discontent, and inwardly opprest 
 With malady — in part, I fear, provoked 
 i By weariness of life — he fixed his home, 
 j Or, rather say, sate down by very chance, 
 j Among these rugged hills ; where now he dwells, 
 | And wastes the sad remainder of his hours, 
 Steeped in a self-indulging spleen, that wants not 
 ilts own voluptuousness ; — on this resolved, 
 With this content, that he will live and die 
 Forgotten, — at safe distance from ' a world 
 Not moving to his mind.' " 
 
 These serious words 
 i Closed the preparatory notices 
 That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile 
 The way, while we advanced up that wide vale, 
 f Diverging now (as if his quest had been 
 I Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall 
 Of water, or some lofty eminence, 
 Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide) 
 : We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, 
 i A steep ascent ; and reached a dreary plain, 
 , With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops 
 Before us ; savage region ! which I paced 
 Dispirited : when, all at once, behold ! 
 ! Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale, 
 ' A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high 
 Among the mountains ; even as if the spot 
 [Had been from eldest time by wish of theirs 
 j So placed, to be shut out from all the world ! 
 I Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn ; 
 With rocks encompassed, save that to the south 
 Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge 
 
 Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close ; 
 
 A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields, 
 
 A liquid pool that glittered in the sun, 
 
 And one bare dwelling ; one abode, no more ! 
 
 It seemed the home of poverty and toil, 
 
 Though not of want : the little fields, made green 
 
 By husbandry of many thrifty years, 
 
 Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house. 
 
 — There crows the cock, single in his domain : 
 
 The small birds find in spring no thicket there 
 
 To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales 
 
 The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, 
 
 Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place. 
 
 Ah ! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here ! 
 Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
 Upon a bed of heath ; — full many a spot 
 Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
 Among the mountains ; never one like this ; 
 So lonesome, and so perfectly secure ; 
 Not melancholy — no, for it is green, 
 And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself 
 With the few needful things that life requires. 
 —In rugged arms how softly does it lie, 
 How tenderly protected ! Far and near 
 We have an image of the pristine earth, 
 The planet in its nakedness : were this 
 Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, 
 First, last, and single, in the breathing world, 
 It could not be more quiet : peace is here 
 Or nowhere ; days unruffled by the gale 
 Of public news or private ; years that pass 
 Forgetfully ; uncalled upon to pay 
 The common penalties of mortal life, 
 Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 
 
 On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay 
 In silence musing by my Comrade's side, 
 He also silent ; when from out the heart 
 Of that profound abyss a solemn voice, 
 Or several voices in one solemn sound, 
 Was heard ascending ; mournful, deep, and slow 
 The cadence, as of psalms — a funeral dirge ! 
 We listened, looking down upon the hut, 
 But seeing no one : meanwhile from below 
 The strain continued, spiritual as before ; 
 And now distinctly could I recognise 
 These words : — ' Shall in the grave thy love be known, 
 In death thy faithfulness ? ' — " God rest his soul ! " 
 Said the old man, abruptly breaking silence, — 
 " He is departed, and finds peace at last ! " 
 
 This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains 
 Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band 
 
542 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Of rustic persons, from behind the hut 
 
 Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which 
 
 They shaped their course along the sloping side 
 
 Of that small valley, singing as they moved ; 
 
 A sober company and few, the men 
 
 Bare-headed, and all decently attired ! 
 
 Some steps when they had thus advanced, the 
 
 dirge 
 Ended ; and, from the stillness that ensued 
 Recovering, to my Friend I said, " You spake, 
 Methought, with apprehension that these rites 
 Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat 
 This day we purposed to intrude." — " I did so, 
 But let us hence, that we may learn the truth : 
 Perhaps it is not he but some one else 
 For whom this pious service is performed ; 
 Some other tenant of the solitude." 
 
 So, to a steep and difficult descent 
 Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, 
 Where passage could be won ; and, as the last 
 Of the mute train, behind the heathy top 
 Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared, 
 I, more impatient in my downward course, 
 Had landed upon easy ground ; and there 
 Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold 
 An object that enticed my steps aside ! 
 A narrow, winding, entry opened out 
 Into a platform — that lay, sheepfold-wise, 
 Enclosed between- an upright mass of rock 
 And one old moss-grown wall ; — a cool recess, 
 And fanciful ! For where the rock and wall 
 Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed- 
 By thrusting two rude staves into the wall 
 And overlaying them with mountain sods ; 
 To weather-fend a little turf-built seat 
 Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread 
 The burning sunshine, or a transient shower ; 
 But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands ! 
 Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud 
 
 show 
 Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ; 
 Nor wanting ornament of walks between, 
 With mimic trees inserted in the turf, 
 And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, 
 I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 
 Who, entering, round him tlirew a careless glance, 
 Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed, 
 " Lo ! what is here ? " and, stooping down, drew 
 
 forth 
 A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss 
 And wreck of party-coloured earthen-ware, 
 Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
 One of those petty structures. " His it must be !" 
 
 Exclaimed the Wanderer, " cannot but be his, 
 
 And he is gone ! " The book, which hi my hand 
 
 Had opened of itself (for it was swoln 
 
 With searching damp, and seemingly had lain 
 
 To the injurious elements exposed 
 
 From week to week,) I found to be a work 
 
 In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 
 
 His famous Optimist. u Unhappy Man! " 
 
 Exclaimed my Friend : "here then has been to him 
 
 Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place 
 
 Within how deep a shelter ! He had fits, 
 
 Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, 
 
 And loved the haunts of children : here, no doubt, 
 
 Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports, 
 
 Or sate companionless ; and here the book, 
 
 Left and forgotten in his careless way, 
 
 Must by the cottage-children have been found : 
 
 Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work ! 
 
 To what odd purpose have the darlings turned 
 
 This sad memorial of their hapless friend ! " 
 
 " Me, " said I, " most doth it surprise, to find 
 Such book in such a place ! " — " A book it is," 
 He answered, " to the Person suited well, 
 Though little suited to surrounding things : 
 'Tis strange, I grant ; and stranger still had been 
 To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here, 
 With one poor shepherd, far from all the world ! — 
 Now, if our errand hath been thrown away, 
 As from these intimations I forebode, 
 Grieved shall I be — less for my sake than yours, 
 And least of all for him who is no more." 
 
 By this, the book was in the old Man's hand ; 
 And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
 An eye of scorn : — " The lover," said he, " doomed 
 To love when hope hath failed him — whom no 
 
 depth 
 Of privacy is deep enough to hide, 
 Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, 
 And that is joy to him. When change of times 
 Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but give 
 The faithful servant, who must hide his head 
 Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may 
 A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood, 
 And he too hath his comforter. How poor, 
 Beyond all poverty how destitute, 
 Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven, 
 Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him 
 No dearer relique, and no better stay, 
 Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen, 
 Impure conceits discharging from a heart 
 Hardened by impious pride ! — I did not fear 
 To tax you with this journey ; " — mildly said 
 
 I 
 
THE SOLITARY. 
 
 543 
 
 •My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped 
 Into the presence of the cheerful light — 
 " For I have knowledge that you do not shrink 
 From moving spectacles ; — but let us on." 
 
 So speaking, on he went, and at the word 
 I followed, till he made a sudden stand : 
 For full in view, approaching through a gate 
 That opened from the enclosure of green fields 
 Into the rough uncultivated ground, 
 Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead ! 
 I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress, 
 That it could be no other ; a pale face, 
 A meagre person, tall, and in a garb 
 Not rustic — dull and faded like himself ! 
 He saw us not, though distant but few steps ; 
 For he was busy, dealing, from a store 
 Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings 
 Of red ripe currants ; gift by which he strove, 
 With intermixture of endearing words, 
 To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping 
 As if disconsolate. — " They to the grave 
 |Are bearing him, my Little- one," he said, 
 : 'To the dark pit ; but he will feel no pain; 
 His body is at rest, his soul in heaven." 
 
 More might have followed — but my honoured 
 Friend 
 Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 
 And cordial greeting. — Vivid was the light 
 That flashed and sparkled from the other's eyes ; 
 He was all fire : no shadow on his brow 
 Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face. 
 Hands joined he with his Visitant, — a grasp, 
 An eager grasp ; and many moments' space — 
 When the first glow of pleasure was no more, 
 And, of the sad appearance which at once 
 Had vanished, much was come and coming back— 
 An amicable smile retained the life 
 Which it had unexpectedly received, 
 Upon his hollow cheek. " How kind," he said, 
 'Nor could your coming have been better timed; 
 For this, you see, is in our narrow world 
 A day of sorrow. I have here a charge" — 
 And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly 
 The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child — 
 'A little mourner, whom it is my task 
 Io comfort ; — but how came ye ? — if yon track 
 (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) 
 Conducted hither your most welcome feet, 
 Ye could not miss the funeral train — they yet 
 jHave scarcely disappeared." "This blooming 
 
 Child," 
 .Said the old Man, "is of an age to weep 
 
 At any grave or solemn spectacle, 
 
 Inly distressed or overpowered with awe, 
 
 He knows not wherefore ; — but the boy to-day, 
 
 Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears ; you also 
 
 Must have sustained a loss." — " The hand of Death," 
 
 He answered, "has been here ; but could not well 
 
 Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 
 
 Upon myself." — The other left these words 
 
 Unnoticed, thus continuing. — 
 
 "From yon crag, 
 Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, 
 We heard the hymn they sang — a solemn sound 
 Heard any where ; but iu a place like this 
 'Tis more than human ! Many precious rites 
 And customs of our rural ancestry 
 Are gone, or stealing from us ; this, I hope, 
 Will last for ever. Oft on my way have I 
 Stood still, though but a casual passenger, 
 So much I felt the awfulness of life, 
 In that one moment when the corse is lifted 
 In silence, with a hush of decency ; 
 Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, 
 And confidential yearnings, tow'rds its home, 
 Its final home on earth. What traveller — who — 
 (How far soe'er a stranger) does not own 
 The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, 
 A mute procession on the houseless road ; 
 Or passing by some single tenement 
 Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise 
 The monitory voice ? But most of all 
 It touches, it confirms, and elevates, 
 Then, when the body, soon to be consigned 
 Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust, 
 Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne 
 Upon the shoulders of the next in love, 
 The nearest in affection or in blood ; 
 Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt 
 Beside the coffin, resting on its lid 
 In silent grief their unuplifted heads, 
 And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful 
 
 plaint, 
 And that most awful scripture which declares 
 We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed ! 
 — Have I not seen — ye likewise may have seen — 
 Son, husband, brothers — brothers side by side, 
 And son and father also side by side, 
 Rise from that posture : — and in concert move, 
 On the green turf following the vested Priest, 
 Four dear supporters of one senseless weight, 
 From which they do not shrink, and under which 
 They faint not, but advance towards the open grave 
 Step after step — together, with then* firm 
 Unhidden faces : he that suffers most, 
 He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, 
 
544 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 The most serene, with most undaunted eye ! — 
 Oh ! blest are they who live and die like these, 
 Loved with such love, and with such sorrow 
 mourned ! " 
 
 " That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied 
 The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
 Which did not please me, "must be deemed, I fear, 
 Of the unblest ; for he will surely sink 
 Into his mother earth without such pomp 
 Of grief, depart without occasion given 
 By him for such array of fortitude. 
 Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark ! 
 This simple Child will mourn his one short hour, 
 And I shall miss him ; scanty tribute ! yet, 
 This wanting, he would leave the sight of men, 
 If love were his sole claim upon their care, 
 Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 
 Without a hand to gather it." 
 
 At this 
 I interposed, though loth to speak, and said, 
 " Can it be thus among so small a band 
 As ye must needs be here ? in such a place 
 I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 
 Of a departing cloud." — " 'Twas not for love " 
 Answered the sick Man with a careless voice — 
 " That I came hither ; neither have I found 
 Among associates who have power of speech, 
 Nor in such other converse as is here, 
 Temptation so prevailing as to change 
 That mood, or undermine my first resolve." 
 Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said 
 To my benign Companion, — " Pity 'tis 
 That fortune did not guide you to this house 
 A few days earlier ; then would you have seen 
 What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude, 
 That seems by Nature hollowed out to be 
 The seat and bosom of pure innocence, 
 Are made of ; an ungracious matter this ! 
 Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too 
 Of past discussions with this zealous friend 
 And advocate of humble life, I now 
 Will force upon his notice ; undeterred 
 By the example of his own pure course, 
 And that respect and deference which a soul 
 May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched 
 In what she most doth value, love of God 
 And his frail creature Man ; — but ye shall hear. 
 I talk — and ye are standing in the sun 
 Without refreshment ! " 
 
 Quickly had he spoken, 
 And, with light steps still quicker than his words, 
 Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the spot ; 
 And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door, 
 
 Had almost a forbidding nakedness; 
 
 Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair, 
 
 Than it appeared when from the beetling roek 
 
 We had looked down upon it. All within, 
 
 As left by the departed company, 
 
 Was silent ; save the solitary clock 
 
 That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound. — 
 
 Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage-stairs 
 
 And reached a small apartment dark and low, 
 
 Which was no sooner entered than our Host 
 
 Said gaily, " This is my domain, my cell, 
 
 My hermitage, my cabin, what you will — 
 
 I love it better than a snail his house. 
 
 But now ye shall be feasted with our best." 
 
 So, with more ardour than an unripe girl 
 Left one day mistress of her mother's stores, 
 He went about his hospitable task. 
 My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less, 
 And pleased I looked upon my grey-haired Friend, 
 As if to thank him ; he returned that look, 
 Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck 
 Had we about us ! scattered was the floor, 
 And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf, 
 With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and 
 
 flowers, 
 And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic tools 
 Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some 
 Scribbled with verse : a broken angling-rod 
 And shattered telescope, together linked 
 By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook ; 
 And instruments of music, some half-made, 
 Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls. 
 But speedily the promise was fulfilled ; 
 A feast before us, and a courteous Host 
 Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 
 A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook 
 By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the 
 
 board ; 
 And was itself half-covered with a store 
 Of dainties, — oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream ; 
 And cakes of butter curiously embossed, 
 Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers 
 A golden hue, delicate as their own 
 Faintly reflected in a lingering stream. 
 Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day, 
 Our table, small parade of garden fruits, 
 And whortle-berries from the mountain side. 
 The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs. 
 Was now a help to his late comforter, 
 And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, 
 Ministering to our need. 
 
 In genial mood, 
 While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
 
THE SOLITARY. 
 
 545 
 
 Fronting the window of that little cell, 
 
 I could not, ever and anon, forbear 
 
 To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, 
 
 That from some other vale peered into this. 
 
 " Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, " if here 
 
 It were your lot to dwell, would soon become 
 
 Your prized companions. — Many are the notes 
 
 Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth 
 
 From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing 
 
 shores ; 
 And well those lofty brethren bear their part 
 In the wild concert — chiefly when the storm 
 Rides high ; then aU the upper air they fill 
 With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, 
 Like smoke, along the level of the blast, 
 In mighty current ; theirs, too, is the song 
 Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails ; 
 And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon, 
 Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
 The thunder's greeting. Nor have nature's laws 
 Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
 Music of finer tone ; a harmony, 
 So do I call it, though it be the hand 
 Of silence, though there be no voice ;— the clouds, 
 The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 
 Motions of moonlight, all come thither — touch, 
 And have an answer — thither come, and shape 
 A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 
 And idle spirits : — there the sun himself, 
 At the calm close of summer's longest day, 
 Rests his substantial orb ; — between those heights 
 And on the top of either pinnacle, 
 More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, 
 Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. 
 Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 
 Than the mute agents stirring there : — alone 
 Here do I sit and watch. — " 
 
 A fall of voice, 
 Regretted like the nightingale's last note, 
 Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain of 
 
 rapture 
 Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said : 
 " Now for the tale with which you threatened us ! " 
 " In truth the threat escaped me unawares : 
 Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand 
 For my excuse. Dissevered from mankind, 
 As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seemed 
 When ye looked down upon us from the crag, 
 ■ Islanders mid a stormy mountain sea, 
 i We are not so ; — perpetually we touch 
 Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world ; 
 And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day 
 Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread 
 Upon the laws of public charity. 
 
 The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains 
 
 As might from that occasion be distilled, 
 
 Opened, as she before had done for me, 
 
 Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner ; 
 
 The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare 
 
 Which appetite required — a blind dull nook, 
 
 Such as she had, the kennel of his rest ! 
 
 This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 
 
 111 borne in earlier fife ; but his was now 
 
 The still contentedness of seventy years. 
 
 Calm did he sit under the wide-spread tree 
 
 Of his old age ; and yet less calm and meek, 
 
 Winningly meek or venerably calm, 
 
 Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 
 
 A penalty, if penalty it were, 
 
 For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. 
 
 I loved the old Man, for I pitied him ! 
 
 A task it was, I own, to hold discourse 
 
 With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts, 
 
 But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes ; 
 
 Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way, 
 
 And helpful to his utmost power : and there 
 
 Our housewife knew full well what she possessed ! 
 
 He was her vassal of all labour, tilled 
 
 Her garden, from the pasture fetched her kiue ; 
 
 And, one among the orderly array 
 
 Of hay-makers, beneath the burning sun 
 
 Maintained his place ; or needfully pursued 
 
 His course, on errands bound, to other vales, 
 
 Leading sometimes an inexperienced child 
 
 Too young for any profitable task. 
 
 So moved he like a shadow that performed 
 
 Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn 
 
 For what reward ! — The moon her monthly round 
 
 Hath not completed since our dame, the queen 
 
 Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, 
 
 Into my little sanctuary rushed — 
 
 Voice to a rueful treble humanized, 
 
 And features in deplorable dismay. 
 
 I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! 
 
 It is most serious : persevering rain 
 
 Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain tops 
 
 Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides; 
 
 This had I seen, and saw ; but, till she spake, 
 
 Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend — 
 
 Who at her bidding, early and alone, 
 
 Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf 
 
 For winter fuel — to his noontide meal 
 
 Returned not, and now, haply, on the heights 
 
 Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 
 
 ' Inhuman !' — said I, ' was an old Man's life 
 
 Not worth the trouble of a thought ? — alas ! 
 
 This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw 
 
 Her husband enter— from a distant vale. 
 
 N N 
 
546 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 "We sallied forth together ; found the tools 
 Which the neglected veteran had dropped, 
 But through aU quarters looked for him in vain. 
 We shouted — hut no answer ! Darkness fell 
 Without remission of the blast or shower, 
 And fears for our own safety drove us home. 
 
 I, who weep little, did, I will confess, 
 The moment I was seated here alone, 
 Honour my little cell with some few tears 
 Which anger and resentment could not dry. 
 All night the storm endured ; and, soon as help 
 Had been collected from the neighbouring vale, 
 With morning we renewed our quest : the wind 
 Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 
 Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist ; 
 And long and hopelessly we sought in vain : 
 'Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass 
 A heap of ruin — almost without walls 
 And wholly without roof (the bleached remains 
 Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time, 
 The peasants of these lonely valleys used 
 To meet for worship on that central height) — 
 We there espied the object of our search, 
 Lying full three parts buried among tufts 
 Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn, 
 To baffle, as he might, the watery storm : 
 And there we found him breathing peaceably, 
 Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 
 'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 
 We spake — he made reply, but would not stir 
 At our entreaty ; less from want of power 
 Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts. 
 
 So was he lifted gently from the ground, 
 And with their freight homeward the shepherds 
 
 moved 
 Through the dull mist, I following — when a step, 
 A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
 Of the blind vapour, opened to my view 
 Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
 By waking sense or by the dreaming soul ! 
 The appearance, instantaneously disclosed, 
 Was of a mighty city — boldly say 
 A wilderness of building, sinking far 
 And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth, 
 Far sinking into splendor — without end ! 
 Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, 
 With alabaster domes, and silver spires, 
 And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 
 Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright, 
 In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt 
 With battlements that on their restless fronts 
 Bore stars — illumination of all gems ! 
 
 By earthly nature had the effect been wrought 
 
 Upon the dark materials of the storm 
 
 Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 
 
 And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 
 
 The vapours had receded, taking there 
 
 Their station under a cerulean sky. 
 
 Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! 
 
 Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald 
 
 turf, 
 Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, 
 Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, 
 Molten together, and composing thus, 
 Each lost in each, that marvellous array 
 Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
 Fantastic pomp of structure without name, 
 In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. 
 Right in the midst, where interspace appeared 
 Of open court, an object like a throne 
 Under a shining canopy of state 
 Stood fixed ; and fixed resemblances were seen 
 To implements of ordinary use, 
 But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 
 Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 
 In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power 
 For admiration and mysterious awe. 
 This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man, 
 Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible — 
 I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 
 That which I saw was the revealed abode 
 Of Spirits in beatitude : my heart 
 Swelled in my breast. — 'I have been dead, 1 
 
 cried, 
 ' And now I live ! Oh ! wherefore do I live ?' 
 And with that pang I prayed to be no more ! — 
 — But I forget our Charge, as utterly 
 I then forgot him : — there I stood and gazed : 
 The apparition faded not away, 
 And I descended. 
 
 Having reached the house, 
 I found its rescued inmate safely lodged, 
 And in serene possession of himself, 
 Beside a fire whose genial warmth seemed met 
 By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam 
 Of comfort, spread over his pallid face. 
 Great show of joy the housewife made, and truly 
 Was glad to find her conscience set at ease ; 
 And not less glad, for sake of her good name, 
 That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life. 
 But, though he seemed at first to have received 
 No harm, and uncomplaining as before 
 Went through his usual tasks, a silent change 
 Soon showed itself r. he lingered three short 
 
 weeks ; 
 And from the cottage hath been borne to-day. 
 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 547 
 
 So ends -my dolorous tale, and glad I am 
 That it is ended." At these words he turned — ■ 
 And, with blithe air of open fellowship, 
 Brought from the cupboard wine and stouter cheer, 
 Like one who would be merry. Seeing this, 
 
 My grey-haired Friend said courteously — " Nay, 
 
 nay, 
 You have regaled us as a hermit ought ; 
 Now let us forth into the sun ! " — Our Host 
 Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we went. 
 
 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Images in the Valley — Another Recess in it entered and 
 described. — Wanderer's sensations.— Solitary's excited 
 by the same objects.— Contrast between these.— Despon- 
 dency of the Solitary gently reproved.— Conversation 
 exhibiting the Solitary's past and present opinions 
 and feelings, till he enters upon his own History at 
 length.— His domestic felicity— Afflictions.— Dejection. 
 —Roused by the French Revolution — Disappointment 
 and disgust.— Voyage to America.— Disappointment 
 and disgust pursue him. — His return. — His languor 
 and depression of mind, from want of faith in the 
 great truths of Religion, and want of confidence in the 
 virtue of Mankind. 
 
 ; A humming bee — a little tinkling rill — 
 A pah* of falcons wheeling on the wing, 
 
 i In clamorous agitation, round the crest 
 
 | Of a tall rock, their airy citadel — 
 By each and all of these the pensive ear 
 
 I Was greeted, in the silence that ensued, 
 
 j When through the cottage-threshold we had passed, 
 And, deep within that lonesome valley, stood 
 
 ' Once more beneath the concave of a blue 
 And cloudless sky. — Anon exclaimed our Host, 
 Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt 
 The shade of discontent which on his brow 
 
 ! Had gathered, — " Ye have left my cell, — but see 
 
 ! How Nature hems you in with friendly arms ! 
 
 i And by her help ye are my prisoners still. 
 
 iBut which way shall I lead you ? — how contrive, 
 
 (In spot so parsimoniously endowed, 
 
 'That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap 
 Some recompense of knowledge or delight? " 
 So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed ; 
 
 And, to remove those doubts, my grey-haired 
 Friend 
 
 iSaid — "Shall we take this pathway for our guide \ — 
 
 ilUpward it winds, as if, in summer heats, 
 
 jfts line had first been fashioned by the flock 
 
 Seeking a place of refuge at the root 
 
 pf yon black Yew-tree, whose protruded boughs 
 
 Darken the silver bosom of the crag. 
 
 From which she draws her meagre sustenance. 
 There in commodious shelter may we rest. 
 Or let us trace this streamlet to its source • 
 Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound, 
 And a few steps may bring us to the spot [herbs, 
 Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green 
 The mountain infant to the sun comes forth, 
 Like human life from darkness." — A quick turn 
 Through a strait passage of encumbered ground, 
 Proved that such hope was vain : — for now we stood 
 Shut out from prospect of the open vale, 
 And saw the water, that composed this rill, 
 Descending, disembodied, and diffused 
 O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag, 
 Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower. 
 All further progress here was barred ; — And who, 
 Thought I, if master of a vacant hour, 
 Here would not linger, willingly detained ? 
 Whether to such wild objects he were led 
 When copious rains have magnified the stream 
 Into a loud and white-robed waterfall, 
 Or introduced at this more quiet time. 
 
 Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 
 The hidden nook discovered to our view 
 A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay 
 Right at the foot of that moist precipice, 
 A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that rests 
 Fearless of winds and waves. Three several stones 
 Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
 To monumental pillars : and, from these 
 Some little space disjoined, a pair were seen, 
 That with united shoulders bore aloft 
 A fragment, like an altar, flat and smooth : 
 Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared 
 A tall and shining holly, that had found 
 A hospitable chink, and stood upright, 
 As if inserted by some human hand 
 In mockery, to wither in the sun, 
 Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze, 
 The first that entered. But no breeze did now 
 Find entrance • — high or low appeared no trace 
 
 N N 2 
 
548 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Of motion, save the water that descended, 
 Diffused adown that barrier of steep rock, 
 And softly creeping, like a breath of air, 
 Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen, 
 To brush the still breast of a crystal lake. 
 
 " Behold a cabinet for sages built, 
 Which kings might envy ! " — Praise to this effect 
 Broke from the happy old Man's reverend lip ; 
 Who to the Solitary turned, and said, 
 " In sooth, with love's familiar privilege, 
 You have decried the wealth which is your own. 
 Among these rocks and stones, methinks, I see 
 More than the heedless impress that belongs 
 To lonely nature's casual work : they bear 
 A semblance strange of power intelligent, 
 And of design not wholly worn away. 
 Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind, 
 How gracefully that slender shrub looks forth 
 From its fantastic birth-place ! And I own, 
 Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, 
 That in these shows a chronicle survives 
 Of purposes aldn to those of Man, 
 But wrought with mightier arm than now prevails. 
 — Voiceless the stream descends into the gulf 
 With timid lapse ; — and lo ! while in this strait 
 I stand— the chasm of sky above my head 
 Is heaven's profoundest azure ; no domain 
 For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy, 
 Or to pass through ; but rather an abyss 
 In which the everlasting stars abide ; 
 And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might 
 
 tempt 
 The curious eye to look for them by day. 
 —Hail Contemplation ! from the stately towers, 
 Reared by the industrious hand of human art 
 To lift thee high above the misty air 
 And turbulence of murmuring cities vast ; 
 From academic groves, that have for thee 
 Been planted, hither come and find a lodge 
 To which thou mayst resort for holier peace, — 
 From whose calm centre thou, through height or 
 
 depth, 
 Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall lead ; 
 Measuring through all degrees, until the scale 
 Of time and conscious nature disappear, 
 Lost in unsearchable eternity ! " 
 
 A pause ensued ; and with minuter care 
 We scanned the various features of the scene : 
 And soon the Tenant of that lonely vale 
 With courteous voice thus spake — 
 
 " I should have grieved 
 Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach, 
 
 If from my poor retirement ye had gone 
 
 Leaving this nook unvisited : but, in sooth, 
 
 Your unexpected presence had so roused 
 
 My spirits, that they were bent on enterprise; 
 
 And, like an ardent hunter, I forgot, 
 
 Or, shall I say ? — disdained, the game that lurks 
 
 At my own door. The shapes before our eyes 
 
 And their arrangement, doubtless must be deemed 
 
 The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance 
 
 Rudely to mock the works of toiling Man. 
 
 And hence, this upright shaft of unhewn stone, 
 
 From Fancy, willing to set off her stores 
 
 By sounding titles, hath acquired the name 
 
 Of Pompey's pillar ; that I gravely style 
 
 My Theban obelisk ; and, there, behold 
 
 A Druid cromlech ! — thus I entertain 
 
 The antiquarian humour, and am pleased 
 
 To skim along the surfaces of things, 
 
 Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours. 
 
 But if the spirit be oppressed by sense 
 
 Of instability, revolt, decay, 
 
 And change, and emptiness, these freaks of Nature 
 
 And her blind helper Chance, do then suffice 
 
 To quicken, and to aggravate — to feed 
 
 Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride, 
 
 Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss 
 
 Of mortal power unquestionably sprung) 
 
 Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks 
 
 Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round and 
 
 round 
 Eddying within its vast circumference, 
 On Sarum's naked plain — than pyramid 
 Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved — 
 Or Syria's marble ruins towering high 
 Above the sandy desert, in the light 
 Of sun or moon.— Forgive me, if I say 
 That an appearance which hath raised your minds 
 To an exalted pitch (the self-same cause 
 Different effect producing) is for me 
 Fraught rather with depression than delight, 
 Though shame it were, could I not look around, 
 By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 
 Yet happier in my judgment, even than you 
 With your bright transports fairly may be deemed, 
 The wandering Herbalist, — who, clear alike 
 From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts, 
 Casts, if he ever chance to enter here, 
 Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard 
 Of transitory interest, and peeps round 
 For some rare floweret of the hills, or plant 
 Of craggy fountain ; what he hopes for wins, 
 Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won : 
 Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed hound 
 By soul-engrossing instinct driven along 
 

 
 Through wood or open field, the harmless Man 
 
 Departs, intent upon his onward quest ! — 
 
 Nor is that Fellow- wanderer, so deem I, 
 
 Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft 
 
 By scars which his activity has left 
 
 Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank 
 
 Heaven ! 
 This covert nook reports not of his hand) • 
 He who with pocket-hammer smites the edge 
 ,Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised 
 In weather-stains or crusted o'er by Nature 
 With her first growths, detaching by the stroke 
 A chip or splinter — to resolve his doubts ; 
 And, with that ready answer satisfied, 
 The substance classes by some barbarous name, 
 And hurries on ; or from the fragments picks 
 His specimen, if but haply interveined 
 With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube 
 Lurk in its cells — and thinks himself enriched, 
 Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before ! 
 Intrusted safely each to his pursuit, 
 .Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill 
 iRange ; if it please them, speed from clime to clime ; 
 The mindis full — andfree from pain their pastime." 
 
 | "Then," said I, interposing, "One is near, 
 Who cannot but possess in your esteem 
 Place worthier still of envy. May I name, 
 Without offence, that fair-faced cottage-boy ? 
 Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form, 
 j Youngest apprentice in the school of art ! 
 Him, as we entered from the open glen, 
 ijYou might have noticed, busily engaged, 
 Heart, soul, and hands, — in mending the defects 
 'Left in the fabric of a leaky dam 
 Raised for enabling this penurious stream 
 To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything) 
 For his delight — the happiest he of all !" 
 
 "Far happiest," answered the desponding Man, 
 'If, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
 
 Ah ! what avails imagination high. 
 
 Dr question deep ? what profits all that earth, 
 
 Or heaven's blue vault, is suffered to put forth 
 )f impulse or allurement, for the Soul 
 Po quit the beaten track of life, and soar 
 
 par as she finds a yielding element 
 n past or future ; far as she can go 
 
 |fhrough time or space — if neither in the one, 
 
 Nor in the other region, nor in aught 
 
 j?hat Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things, 
 lath placed beyond these penetrable bounds, 
 
 Words of assurance can be heard ; if nowhere 
 
 j^. habitation, for consummate good, 
 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 549 
 
 Or for progressive virtue, by the search 
 
 Can be attained, — a better sanctuary 
 
 From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave ? " 
 
 " Is this," the grey-haired Wanderer mildly said, 
 " The voice, which we so lately overheard, 
 To that same child, addressing tenderly 
 The consolations of a hopeful mind % 
 ' His tody is at rest, Ms soul in Jieavcn.' 
 These were your words ; and, verily, methinks 
 Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
 Than when we soar." — 
 
 The Other, not displeased, 
 Promptly replied — " My notion is the same. 
 And I, without reluctance, could decline 
 All act of inquisition whence we rise, 
 And what, when breath hath ceased, we may be- 
 come. 
 Here are we, in a bright and breathing world. 
 Our origin, what matters it ? In lack 
 Of worthier explanation, say at once 
 With the American (a thought which suits 
 The place where now we stand) that certain men 
 Leapt out together from a rocky cave ; 
 And these were the first parents of mankind : 
 Or, if a different image be recalled 
 By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice 
 Of insects chirping out their careless lives 
 On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf, 
 Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
 As sound — blithe race ! whose mantles were be- 
 decked 
 With golden grasshoppers, in sign that they 
 Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the 
 
 soil 
 Whereon their endless generations dwelt. 
 But stop ! — these theoretic fancies jar 
 On serious minds : then, as the Hindoos draw 
 Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount, 
 Even so deduce the stream of human life 
 From seats of power divine ; and hope, or trust, 
 That our existence winds her stately course 
 Beneath the sun, like Ganges, to make part 
 Of a living ocean ; or, to sink engulfed, 
 Like Niger, in impenetrable sands 
 And utter darkness : thought which may be faced, 
 Though comfortless ! — 
 
 Not of myself I speak ; 
 Such acquiescence neither doth imply, 
 In me, a meekly- bending spirit soothed 
 By natural piety ; nor a lofty mind, 
 By philosophic discipline prepared 
 For calm subjection to acknowledged law ; 
 Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
 
550 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Such palms I boast not ; — no ! to me, who find, 
 Reviewing my past way, much to condemn, 
 Little to praise, and nothing to regret, 
 (Save some remembrances of dream-like joys 
 That scarcely seem to have belonged to me) 
 If I must take my choice between the pair 
 That rule alternately the weary hours, 
 Night is than day more acceptable ; sleep 
 Doth, in my estimate of good, appear 
 A better state than waking ; death than sleep : 
 Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 
 Though under covert of the wormy ground ! 
 
 Yet be it said, in justice to myself, 
 That in more genial times, when I was free 
 To explore the destiny of human kind 
 (Not as an intellectual game pursued 
 With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat 
 Irksome sensations ; but by love of truth 
 Urged on, or haply by intense delight 
 In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed) 
 I did not rank with those (too dull or nice, 
 For to my judgment such they then appeared, 
 Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) 
 Who, in this frame of human life, perceive 
 An object whereunto their souls are tied 
 In discontented wedlock ; nor did e'er, 
 From me, those dark impervious shades, that hang 
 Upon the region whither we are bound, 
 Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 
 Of present sunshine. — Deities that float 
 On wings, angelic Spirits ! I could muse 
 O'er what from eldest time we have been told 
 Of your bright forms and glorious faculties, 
 And with the imagination rest content, 
 Not wishing more ; repining not to tread 
 The little sinuous path of earthly care, 
 By flowers embellished, and by springs refreshed. 
 — 'Blow winds of autumn ! — let your chilling breath 
 ' Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip 
 ' The shady forest of its green attire, — 
 ' And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 
 ' The gentle brooks ! — Your desolating sway, 
 ' Sheds,' I exclaimed, ' no sadness upon me, 
 ' And no disorder in your rage I find. 
 ' What dignity, what beauty, in this change 
 ' From mild to angry, and from sad to gay, 
 ' Alternate and revolving ! How benign, 
 ' How rich in animation and delight, 
 ' How bountiful these elements — compared 
 ' With aught, as more desirable and fair, 
 ' Devised by fancy for the golden age ; 
 ' Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 
 < In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies, 
 
 ' Through the long year in constant quiet bound, 
 
 ' Night hushed as night, and day serene as day ! ' 
 
 — But why this tedious record ? — Age, we know, 
 
 Is garrulous ; and solitude is apt 
 
 To anticipate the privilege of Age. 
 
 From far ye come ; and surely with a hope 
 
 Of better entertainment : — let us hence ! " 
 
 Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 
 To be diverted from our present theme, 
 I said, " My thoughts, agreeing, Sir, with yours, 
 Would push this censure farther ; — for, if smiles 
 Of scornful pity be the just reward 
 Of Poesy thus courteously employed 
 In framing models to improve the scheme 
 Of Man's existence, and recast the world, 
 Why should not grave Philosophy be styled, 
 Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock, 
 A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull ? 
 Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts 
 Establish sounder titles of esteem 
 For her, who (all too timid and reserved 
 For onset, for resistance too inert, 
 Too weak for suffering, and for hope too tame) 
 Placed, among flowery gardens curtained round 
 With world-excluding groves, the brotherhood 
 Of soft Epicureans, taught — if they 
 The ends of being would secure, and win 
 The crown of wisdom — to yield up their souls 
 To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 
 Tranquillity to all things. Or is she," 
 I cried, " more worthy of regard, the Power, 
 Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 
 The Stoic's heart against the vain approach 
 Of admiration, and all sense of joy ?" 
 
 His countenance gave notice that my zeal 
 Accorded little with his present mind ; 
 I ceased, and he resumed. — " Ah ! gentle Sir, 
 Slight, if you will, the means; but spare to slight 
 The end of those, who did, by system, rank, 
 As the prime object of a wise man's aim, 
 Security from shock of accident, 
 Release from fear ; and cherished peaceful days 
 For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good, 
 And only reasonable felicity. 
 What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask, 
 Through a long course of later ages, drove, 
 The hermit to his cell in forest wide ; 
 Or what detained him, till his closing eyes 
 Took their last farewell of the sun and stars, 
 Fast anchored in the desert ? — Not alone 
 Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse, 
 Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 551 
 
 And unavengeable, defeated pride, 
 i Prosperity subverted, maddening want, 
 Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned, 
 Love with despair, or grief in agony ; — 
 Not always from intolerable pangs 
 He fled ; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed 
 For independent happiness ; craving peace, 
 The central feeling of all happiness, 
 Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 
 . A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce, 
 But for its absolute self ; a life of peace, 
 Stability without regret or fear ; 
 That hath been, is, and shall be evermore ! — 
 Such the reward he sought ; and wore out life, 
 There, where on few external things his heart 
 Was set, and those his own ; or, if not his, 
 Subsisting under nature's stedfast law. 
 
 What other yearning was the master tie 
 Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock 
 Atrial, or in green secluded vale, 
 One after one, collected from afar, 
 An undissolving fellowship ? — What but this, 
 The universal instinct of repose, 
 The longing for confirmed tranquillity, 
 Inward and outward; humble, yet sublime : 
 The life where hope and memory are as one ; 
 Where earth is quiet and her face, unchanged 
 Save by the simplest toil of human hands 
 Or seasons' difference ; the immortal Soul 
 Consistent in self-rule ; and heaven revealed 
 To meditation in that quietness ! — 
 Such was their scheme : and though the wished for 
 
 end 
 By multitudes was missed, perhaps attained 
 By none, they for the attempt, and pains employed, 
 Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed 
 i From the unqualified disdain, that once 
 Would have been cast upon them by my voice 
 Delivering her decisions from the seat 
 Of forward youth — that scruples not to solve 
 Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules 
 Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 
 To overweening faith ; and is inflamed, 
 By courage, to demand from real life 
 The test of act and suffering, to provoke 
 Hostility — how dreadful when it comes, 
 Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt ! 
 
 i A child of earth, I rested, in that stage 
 Of my past course to which these thoughts advert, 
 Upon earth's native energies ; forgetting 
 That mine was a condition which required 
 
 Nor energy, nor fortitude — a calm 
 
 Without vicissitude ; which, if the like 
 
 Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 
 
 I might have even been tempted to despise. 
 
 But no — for the serene was also bright ; 
 
 Enlivened happiness with joy o'erfl owing, 
 
 With joy, and — oh ! that memory should survive 
 
 To speak the word — with rapture ! Nature's boon, 
 
 Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
 
 Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign; 
 
 Abused, as all possessions are abused 
 
 That are not prized according to their worth. 
 
 And yet, what worth ? what good is given to men, 
 
 More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven ? 
 
 What joy more lasting than a vernal flower I — 
 
 None ! 'tis the general plaint of human kind 
 
 In solitude : and mutually addressed 
 
 From each to all, for wisdom's sake : — This truth 
 
 The priest announces from his holy seat : 
 
 And, crowned with garlands in the summer grove, 
 
 The poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 
 
 Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained, 
 
 Sharp contradictions may arise, by doom 
 
 Of this same life, compelling us to grieve 
 
 That the prosperities of love and joy 
 
 Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 
 
 So long, and be at once cast down for ever. 
 
 Oh ! tremble, ye, to whom hath been assigned 
 
 A course of days composing happy months, 
 
 And they as happy years ; the present still 
 
 So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 
 
 Of a congenial future, that the wheels 
 
 Of pleasure move without the aid of hope : 
 
 For Mutability is Nature's bane ; 
 
 And slighted Hope will be avenged ; and, when 
 
 Ye need her favours, ye shall find her not; 
 
 But in her stead — fear — doubt — and agony !" 
 
 This was the bitter language of the heart : 
 But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice, 
 Though discomposed and vehement, were such 
 As skill and graceful nature might suggest 
 To a proficient of the tragic scene 
 Standing before the multitude, beset 
 With dark events. Desirous to divert 
 Or stem the current of the speaker's thoughts, 
 We signified a wish to leave that place 
 Of stillness and ciose privacy, a nook 
 That seemed for self-examination made ; 
 Or, for confession, in the sinner's need, 
 Hidden from all men's view. To our attempt 
 He yielded not; but, pointing to a slope 
 Of mossy turf defended from the sun, 
 And on that couch inviting us to rest, 
 
552 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Full on that tender-hearted Man he turned 
 A serious eye, and his speech thus renewed. 
 
 " You never saw, your eyes did never look 
 On the bright form of Her whom once I loved : — 
 Her silver voice was heard upon the earth, 
 A sound unknown to you ; else, honoured Friend ! 
 Your heart had borne a pitiable share 
 Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss, 
 And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought 
 That I remember, and can weep no more. — ■ 
 Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit 
 Of self-esteem ; and by the cutting blasts 
 Of self-reproach familiarly assailed ; 
 Yet would I not be of such wintry bareness 
 But that some leaf of your regard should hang 
 Upon my naked branches : — lively thoughts 
 Give birth, full often, to unguarded words ; 
 I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue 
 Too much of frailty hath already dropped ; 
 But that too much demands still more. 
 
 You know, 
 Revered Compatriot — and to you, kind Sir, 
 (Not to be deemed a stranger, as you come 
 Following the guidance of these welcome feet 
 To our secluded vale) it may be told — 
 That my demerits did not sue in vain 
 To One on whose mild radiance many gazed 
 With hope, and all with pleasure. This fair 
 
 Bride— 
 In the devotedness of youthful love, 
 Preferring me to parents, and the choir 
 Of gay companions, to the natal roof, 
 And all known places and familiar sights 
 (Resigned with sadness gently weighing down 
 Her trembling expectations, but no more 
 Than did to her due honour, and to me 
 Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
 In what I had to build upon) — this Bride, 
 Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led 
 To a low cottage in a sunny bay, 
 Where the salt sea innocuously breaks, 
 And the sea breeze as innocently breathes, 
 On Devon's leafy shores ; — a sheltered hold, 
 In a soft clime encouraging the soil 
 To a luxuriant bounty ! — As our steps 
 Approach the embowered abode — our chosen seat — 
 See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed, 
 The unendangered myrtle, decked with flowers, 
 Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 
 While, in the flowering myrtle's neighbourhood, 
 Not overlooked but courting no regard, 
 Those native plants, the holly and the yew, 
 Gave modest intimation to the mind 
 
 How willingly their aid they would unite 
 
 With the green myrtle, to endear the hours 
 
 Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. 
 
 — Wild were the walks upon those lonely Downs, 
 
 Track leading into track ; how marked, how worn 
 
 Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse, 
 
 Winding away its never ending line 
 
 On their smooth surface, evidence was none : 
 
 But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 
 
 A range of unappropriated earth, 
 
 Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large; 
 
 Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld 
 
 The shining giver of the day diffuse 
 
 His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land 
 
 Gay as our spirits, free as our desires ; 
 
 As our enjoyments, boundless. — From those heights 
 
 We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan combs ; 
 
 Where arbours of impenetrable shade, 
 
 And mossy seats, detained us side by side, 
 
 With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts 
 
 ' That all the grove and all the day was ours.' 
 
 happy time ! still happier was at hand ; 
 For Nature called my Partner to resign 
 Her share in the pure freedom of that life, 
 Enjoyed by us in common. — To my hope, 
 To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became 
 The thankful captive of maternal bonds ; 
 And those wild paths were left to me alone. 
 There could I meditate on follies past ; 
 And, like a weary voyager escaped 
 From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 
 A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt, 
 And self-indulgence — without shame pursued. 
 There, undisturbed, could think of and could thank 
 Her whose submissive spirit was to me 
 Rule and restraint — my guardian — shall I say 
 That earthly Providence, whose guiding love 
 Within a port of rest had lodged me safe ; 
 Safe from temptation, and from danger far ? 
 Strains followed of acknowledgment addressed 
 To an Authority enthroned above 
 The reach of sight; from whom, as from their 
 
 source, 
 Proceed all visible ministers of good 
 That walk the earth — Father of heaven and earth, 
 Father, and king, and judge, adored and feared ! 
 These acts of mind, and memory, and heart, 
 And spirit — interrupted and relieved 
 By observations transient as the glance 
 Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward form 
 Cleaving with power inherent and intense, 
 As the mute insect fixed upon the plant 
 On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 553 
 
 It draws its nourishment imperceptibly — 
 Endeared my wanderings ; and the mother's kiss 
 And infant's smile awaited my return. 
 
 In privacy we dwelt, a wedded pair, 
 Companions daily, often all day long ; 
 Not placed by fortune within easy reach 
 Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught 
 Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side, 
 The twain within our happy cottage born, 
 Inmates, and heirs of our united love ; 
 Graced mutually by difference of sex, 
 And with no wider interval of time 
 Between their several births than served for one 
 To establish something of a leader's sway ; 
 Yet left them joined by sympathy in age ; 
 Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. 
 On these two pillars rested as in air 
 Our solitude. 
 
 It soothes me to perceive, 
 Your courtesy withholds not from my words 
 Attentive audience. But, oh ! gentle Friends, 
 As times of quiet and unbroken peace, 
 Though, for a nation, times of blessedness, 
 Give back faint echoes from the historian's page ; 
 So, in the imperfect sounds of this discourse, 
 Depressed I hear, how faithless is the voice 
 Which those most blissful days reverberate. 
 What special record can, Or need, be given 
 To rules and habits, whereby much was done, 
 But all within the sphere of little things ; 
 Of humble, though, to us, important cares, 
 And precious interests ? Smoothly did our life 
 Advance, swerving not from the path prescribed ; 
 Her annual, her diurnal, round alike 
 Maintained with faithful care. And you divine 
 The worst effects that our condition saw 
 If you imagine changes slowly wrought, 
 And in their progress unperceivable ; 
 Not wished for ; sometimes noticed with a sigh, 
 (Whate'er of good or lovely they might bring) 
 Sighs of regret, for the familiar good 
 And loveliness endeared which they removed. 
 
 Seven years of occupation undisturbed 
 : Established seemingly a right to hold 
 > That happiness ; and use and habit gave 
 
 To what an alien spirit had acquired 
 i A patrimonial sanctity. And thus, 
 : With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world, 
 ]i I lived and breathed ; most grateful — if to enjoy 
 ; Without repining or desire for more, 
 
 For different lot, or change to higher sphere, 
 
 (Only except some impulses of pride 
 
 With no determined object, though upheld 
 
 By theories with suitable support) — 
 
 Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy 
 
 Be proof of gratitude for what we have ; 
 
 Else, I allow, most thankless. — But, at once, 
 
 From some dark seat of fatal power was urged 
 
 A claim that shattered all. — Our blooming girl, 
 
 Caught in the gripe of death, with such brief time 
 
 To struggle in as scarcely would allow 
 
 Her cheek to change its colour, was conveyed 
 
 From us to inaccessible worlds, to regions 
 
 Where height, or depth, admits not the approach 
 
 Of living man, though longing to pursue. 
 
 — With even as brief a warning — and how soon, 
 
 With what short interval of time between, 
 
 I tremble yet to think of — our last prop, 
 
 Our happy life's only remaining stay — 
 
 The brother followed ; and was seen no more ! 
 
 Calm as a frozen lake when ruthless winds 
 Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky, 
 The Mother now remained ; as if in her, 
 Who, to the lowest region of the soul, 
 Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed, 
 This second visitation had no power 
 To shake ; but only to bind up and seal ; 
 And to establish thankfulness of heart 
 In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 
 The eminence whereon her spirit stood, 
 Mine was unable to attain. Immense 
 The space that severed us ! But, as the sight 
 Communicates with heaven's ethereal orbs 
 Incalculably distant ; so, I felt 
 That consolation may descend from far 
 (And that is intercourse, and union, too,) 
 While, overcome with speechless gratitude, 
 And, with a holier love inspired, I looked 
 On her — at once superior to my woes 
 And partner of my loss. — heavy change ! 
 Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept 
 Insensibly ; — the immortal and divine 
 Yielded to mortal reflux ; her pure glory, 
 As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
 Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell 
 Into a gulf obscure of silent grief, 
 And keen heart-anguish— of itself ashamed, 
 Yet obstinately cherishing itself: 
 And, so consumed, she melted from my arms ; 
 And left me, on this earth, disconsolate ! 
 
 What followed cannot be reviewed in thought ; 
 Much less, retraced in words. If she, of life 
 Blameless, so intimate with love and joy 
 And all the tender motions of the soul, 
 
554 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand — 
 
 Infirm, dependent, and now destitute ? 
 
 I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 
 
 That which is veiled from waking thought ; 
 
 conjured 
 Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
 To appear and answer ; to the grave I spake 
 Imploringly ; — looked up, and asked the Heavens 
 If Angels traversed their cerulean floors, 
 If fixed or wandering star could tidings yield 
 Of the departed spirit — what abode 
 It occupies — what consciousness retains 
 Of former loves and interests. Then my soul 
 Turned inward, — to examine of what stuff 
 Time's fetters are composed ; and life was put 
 To inquisition, long and profitless ! 
 By pain of heart — now checked — and now impel- 
 led— 
 The intellectual power, through words and things, 
 Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way ! 
 And from those transports, and these toils abstruse, 
 Some trace am I enabled to retain 
 Of time, else lost ; — existing unto me 
 Only by records in myself not found. 
 
 From that abstraction I was rou?ed, — and how ? 
 Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash 
 Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave 
 Of these wild hills. For, lo! the dread Bastile, 
 With all the chambers in its horrid towers, 
 Fell to the ground : — by violence overthrown 
 Of indignation ; and with shouts that drowned 
 The crash it made in falling ! From the wreck 
 A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise, 
 The appointed seat of equitable law 
 And mild paternal sway. The potent shock 
 I felt : the transformation I perceived, 
 As marvellously seized as in that moment 
 When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld 
 Glory — beyond aU glory ever seen, 
 Confusion infinite of heaven and earth, 
 Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps 
 In every grove were ringing, ' War shall cease ; 
 ' Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured ? 
 ' Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to 
 
 deck 
 < The tree of Liberty.' — My heart rebounded ; 
 My melancholy voice the chorus joined ; 
 — ' Be joyful all ye nations ; in all lands, 
 ' Ye that are capable of joy be glad ! 
 ' Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves 
 ' In others ye shall promptly find ; — and all, 
 ' Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth, 
 ' Shall with one heart honour their common kind.' 
 
 Thus was I reconverted to the world ; 
 Society became my glittering bride, 
 And airy hopes my children. — From the depths 
 Of natural passion, seemingly escaped, 
 My soul diffused herself in wide embrace 
 Of institutions, and the forms of things ; 
 As they exist, in mutable array, 
 Upon life's surface. What, though in my veins 
 There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed 
 The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal 
 Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs 
 Of my exhausted heart. If busy men 
 In sober conclave met, to weave a web 
 Of amity, whose living threads should stretch 
 Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole, 
 There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 
 And acclamation, crowds in open air 
 Expressed the tumult of their minds, my voice 
 There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song 
 I left not uninvoked ; and, in still groves, 
 Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay 
 Of thanks and expectation, in accord 
 With their belief, I sang Saturnian rule 
 Returned, — a progeny of golden years 
 Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 
 — With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem : 
 I felt their invitation ; and resumed 
 A long-suspended office in the House 
 Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase 
 Of ancient inspiration serving me, 
 I promised also, — with undaunted trust 
 Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy ; 
 The admiration winning of the crowd ; 
 The help desiring of the pure devout. 
 
 Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed ! 
 But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell 
 How rapidly the zealots of the cause 
 Disbanded — or in hostile ranks appeared ; 
 Some, tired of honest service ; these, outdone, 
 Disgusted therefore, or appalled, by aims 
 Of fiercer zealots — so confusion reigned, 
 And the more faithful were compelled to exclaim, 
 As Brutus did to Virtue, ' Liberty, 
 ' I worshipped thee, and find thee but a Shade ! ' 
 
 Such recantation had for me no charm, 
 Nor would I bend to it ; who should have grieved 
 At aught, however fair, that bore the mien 
 Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. 
 Why then conceal, that, when the simply good 
 In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 
 Other support, not scrupulous whence it came ; 
 And, by what compromise it stood, not nice ? 
 
DESPONDENCY. 
 
 555 
 
 Enough if notions seemed to be high-pitched, 
 
 And qualities determined. — Among men 
 
 So charactered did I maintain a strife 
 
 Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour ; 
 
 But, in the process, I began to feel 
 
 That, if the emancipation of the world 
 
 Were missed, I should at least secure my own, 
 
 And be in part compensated. For rights, 
 
 Widely — inveterately usurped upon, 
 
 I spake with vehemence ; and promptly seized 
 
 All that Abstraction furnished for my needs 
 
 Or purposes ; nor scrupled to proclaim, 
 
 And propagate, by hberty of life, 
 
 Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced, 
 
 Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course, 
 
 For its own sake ; but farthest from the walk 
 
 Which I had trod in happiness and peace, 
 
 Was most inviting to a troubled mind ; 
 
 That, in a struggling and distempered world, 
 
 Saw a seductive image of herself. 
 
 Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man 
 
 Is still the sport ! Here Nature was my guide, 
 
 The Nature of the dissolute ; but thee, 
 
 fostering Nature ! I rejected — smiled 
 At others' tears in pity ; and in scorn 
 
 At those, which thy soft influence sometimes drew 
 From my unguarded heart. — The tranquil shores 
 Of Britain circumscribed me ; else, perhaps 
 
 1 might have been entangled among deeds, 
 Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor — 
 Despise, as senseless : for my spirit relished 
 Strangely the exasperation of that Land, 
 Which turned an angry beak against the down 
 Of her own breast ; confounded into hope 
 
 Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings. 
 
 But all was quieted by iron bonds 
 Of military sway. The shifting aims, 
 The moral interests, the creative might, 
 The varied functions and high attributes 
 Of civil action, yielded to a power 
 Formal, and odious, and contemptible. 
 — In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change ; 
 The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced ; 
 And, from the impulse of a just disdain, 
 Once more did I retire into myself. 
 There feeling no contentment, I resolved 
 To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore, 
 , Remote from Europe ; from her blasted hopes ; 
 Her fields of carnage, and polluted air. 
 
 Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the Atlantic Main 
 The ship went gliding with her thoughtless crew ; 
 And who among them but an Exile, freed 
 
 From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit 
 
 Among the busily-employed, not more 
 
 With obligation charged, with service taxed, 
 
 Than the loose pendant — to the idle wind 
 
 Upon the tall mast streaming. But, ye Powers 
 
 Of soul and sense mysteriously allied, 
 
 0, never let the Wretched, if a choice 
 
 Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 
 
 To a long voyage on the silent deep ! 
 
 For, like a plague, will memory break out ; 
 
 And, in the blank and solitude of things, 
 
 Upon his spirit, with a fever's strength, 
 
 Will conscience prey. — Feebly must they have felt 
 
 Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips 
 
 The vengeful Furies. Beautiful regards 
 
 Were turned on me — the face of her I loved ; 
 
 The Wife and Mother pitifully fixing 
 
 Tender reproaches, insupportable ! 
 
 Where now that boasted liberty ? No welcome 
 
 From unknown objects I received ; and those, 
 
 Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky 
 
 Did, in the placid clearness of the night, 
 
 Disclose, had accusations to prefer 
 
 Against my peace. Within the cabin stood 
 
 That volume — as a compass for the soul — 
 
 Revered among the nations. I implored 
 
 Its guidance ; but the infallible support 
 
 Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused 
 
 To One by storms annoyed and adverse winds ; 
 
 Perplexed with currents ; of his weakness sick ; 
 
 Of vain endeavours tired ; and by his own, 
 
 And by his nature's, ignorance, dismayed ! 
 
 Long-wished-for sight, the Western World 
 appeared ; 
 And, when the ship was moored, I leaped ashore 
 Indignantly — resolved to be a man, 
 Who, having o'er the past no power, would live 
 No longer in subjection to the past, 
 With abject mind — from a tyrannic lord 
 Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured : 
 So, like a fugitive, whose feet have cleared 
 Some boundary, which his followers may not cross 
 In prosecution of their deadly chase, 
 Respiring I looked round. — How bright the sun, 
 The breeze how soft ! Can any thing produced 
 In the old World compare, thought I, for power 
 And majesty with this gigantic stream, 
 Sprung from the desert ? And behold a city 
 Fresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are these 
 To me, or I to them ? As much at least 
 As he desires that they should be, whom winds 
 And waves have wafted to this distant shore, 
 In the condition of a damaged seed, 
 
55 G 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take root. 
 Here may I roam at large ; — my business is, 
 Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel 
 And, therefore, not to act — convinced that all 
 Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er 
 Beginning, ends in servitude — still painful, 
 And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say, 
 On nearer view, a motley spectacle 
 Appeared, of high pretensions — unreproved 
 But by the obstreperous voice of higher still ; 
 Big passions strutting on a petty stage ; 
 Which a detached spectator may regard 
 Not unamused. — But ridicule demands 
 Quick change of objects ; and, to laugh alone, 
 At a composing distance from the haunts 
 Of strife and folly, though it be a treat 
 As choice as musing Leisure can bestow ; 
 Yet, in the very centre of the crowd, 
 To keep the secret of a poignant scorn, 
 Howe'er to airy Demons suitable, 
 Of all unsocial courses, is least fit 
 For the gross spirit of mankind, — the one 
 That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns 
 Into vexation. 
 
 Let us, then, I said, 
 Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge 
 Of her own passions ; and to regions haste, 
 Whose shades have never felt the encroaching axe, 
 Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 
 Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides, 
 Primeval Nature's child. A creature weak 
 In combination, (wherefore else driven back 
 So far, and of his old inheritance 
 So easily deprived 1) but, for that cause, 
 More dignified, and stronger in himself ; 
 Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy. 
 True, the intelligence of social art 
 Hath overpowered his forefathers, and soon 
 Will sweep the remnant of his line away ; 
 But contemplations, worthier, nobler far 
 Than her destructive energies, attend 
 His independence, when along the side 
 Of Mississippi, or that northern stream 
 That spreads into successive seas, he walks ; 
 Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life, 
 And his innate capacities of soul, 
 There imaged : or when, having gained the top 
 Of some commanding eminence, which yet 
 Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys 
 Regions of wood and wide savannah, vast 
 Expanse of unappropriated earth, 
 With mind that sheds a light on what he sees ; 
 Free as the sun, and lonely as the sun, 
 
 Pouring above his head its radiance down 
 Upon a living and rejoicing world ! 
 
 So, westward, tow'rd the unviolated woods 
 I bent my way; and, roaming far and wide, 
 Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird ; 
 And, while the melancholy Muccawiss 
 (The sportive bird's companion in the grove) 
 Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry, 
 I sympathised at leisure with the sound ; 
 But that pure archetype of human greatness, 
 I found him not. There, in his stead, appeared 
 A creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure ; 
 Remorseless, and submissive to no law 
 But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 
 
 Enough is told ! Here am I — ye have heard 
 What evidence I seek, and vainly seek ; 
 What from my fellow-beings I require, 
 And either they have not to give, or I 
 Lack virtue to receive ; what I myself, 
 Too oft by wilful forfeiture, have lost 
 Nor can regain. How languidly I look 
 Upon this visible fabric of the world, 
 May be divined — perhaps it hath been said : — 
 But spare your pity, if there be in me 
 Aught that deserves respect : for I exist, 
 Within myself, not comfortless. — The tenour 
 Which my life holds, he readily may conceive 
 Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain brook 
 In some still passage of its course, and seen, 
 Within the depths of its capacious breast, 
 Inverted trees, rocks, clouds, and azure sky ; 
 And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam, 
 And conglobated bubbles undissolved, 
 Numerous as stars ; that, by their onward lapse, 
 Betray to sight the motion of the stream, 
 Else imperceptible. Meanwhile, is heard 
 A softened roar, or murmur ; and the sound 
 Though soothing, and the little floating isles 
 Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged 
 With the same pensive office ; and make known 
 Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt 
 Precipitations, and untoward straits, 
 The earth-born wanderer hath passed; and quickly, 
 That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 
 Must he again encounter. — Such a stream 
 Is human Life ; and so the Spirit fares 
 In the best quiet to her course allowed ; 
 And such is mine, — save only for a hope 
 That my particular current soon will reach 
 The unfathomable gulf, where all is still ! " 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 i57 
 
 "book fourth. 
 
 DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 State of feeling produced by the foregoing Narrative— A. 
 belief in a superintending Providence the only adequate 
 support under affliction — Wanderer's ejaculation — 
 Acknowledges the difficulty of a lively faith — Hence 
 immoderate sorrow— Exhortations — How received — 
 Wanderer applies his discourse to that other cause of 
 dejection in the Solitary's mind — Disappointment from 
 the French Revolution — States grounds of hope, and 
 insists on the necessity of patience and fortitude with 
 respect to the course of great revolutions — Knowledge 
 the source of tranquillity — Rural Solitude favourable to 
 knowledge of the inferior Creatures ; Study of their 
 habits and ways recommended ; exhortation to bodily 
 exertion and communion with Nature— Morbid Solitude 
 pitiable — Superstition better than apathy — Apathy and 
 destitution unknown in the infancy of society — The 
 various modes of Religion prevented it — Illustrated in 
 the Jewish, Persian, Babylonian, Chaldean, and Grecian 
 modes of belief — Solitary interposes — Wanderer points 
 out the influence of religious and imaginative feeling in 
 the humble ranks of society, illustrated from present 
 and past times — These principles tend to recal exploded 
 superstitions and popery — Wanderer rebuts this charge, 
 and contrasts the dignities of the Imagination with the 
 presumptuous littleness of certain modern Philosophers 
 —Recommends other lights and guides — Asserts the 
 power of the Soul to regenerate herself ; Solitary asks 
 how — Reply — Personal appeal — Exhortation to activity 
 of body renewed — How to commune with Nature — 
 Wanderer concludes with a legitimate union of the 
 imagination, affections, understanding, and reason — 
 Effect of his discourse — Evening; Return to the Cottage. 
 
 Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale 
 His mournful narrative — commenced in pain, 
 In pain commenced, and ended without peace : 
 Yet tempered, not unfrequently, with strains 
 Of native feeling, grateful to our minds ; 
 And yielding surely some relief to his, 
 While we sate listening with compassion due. 
 A pause of silence followed ; then, with voice 
 That did not falter though the heart was moved, 
 The Wanderer said': — 
 
 " One adequate support 
 For the calamities of mortal life 
 Exists — one only ; an assured belief 
 That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
 Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
 Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
 Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
 All accidents, converting them to good. 
 — The darts of anguish fix not where the seat 
 
 Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
 By acquiescence in the Will supreme 
 For time and for eternity ; by faith, 
 Faith absolute in God, including hope, 
 And the defence that lies in boundless love 
 Of his perfections ; with habitual dread 
 Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
 Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone, 
 To the dishonour of his holy name. 
 Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world ! 
 Sustain, thou only canst, the sick of heart; 
 Restore their languid spirits, and recal 
 Their lost affections unto thee and thine !" 
 
 Then, as we issued from that covert nook, 
 He thus continued, lifting up his eyes 
 To heaven : — " How beautiful this dome of sky ; 
 And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 
 At thy command, how awful ! Shall the Soul, 
 Human and rational, report of thee 
 Even less than these? — Be mute who will, who 
 
 can, 
 Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice : 
 My lips, that may forget thee in the crowd, 
 Cannot forget thee here ; where thou hast built, 
 For thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 
 Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine, 
 In such a temple as we now behold 
 Reared for thy presence : therefore, am I bound 
 To worship, here, and every where — as one 
 Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread, 
 From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; 
 From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 
 And from debasement rescued. — By thy grace 
 The particle divine remained unquenched ; 
 And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 
 Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers, 
 From paradise transplanted : wintry age 
 Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart ; 
 If the flowers wither, I am worse than dead ! 
 — Come, labour, when the worn-out frame requires 
 Perpetual sabbath ; come, disease and want ; 
 And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; 
 But leave me unabated trust in thee — 
 And let thy favour, to the end of life, 
 Inspire me with ability to seek 
 Repose and hope among eternal things — 
 Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich, 
 And will possess my portion in content ! 
 
558 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 And what are things eternal? — powers depart," 
 The grey-haired Wanderer stedfastly replied, 
 Answering the question which himself had asked, 
 " Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 
 And passions hold a fluctuating seat : 
 But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, 
 | And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 
 Duty exists ; — immutably survive, 
 For our support, the measures and the forms, 
 Which an abstract intelligence supplies ; 
 Whose kingdom is, where time and space are not. 
 Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart, 
 Do, with united urgency, require, 
 What more that may not perish ? — Thou, dread 
 
 source, 
 Prime, self-existing cause and end of all 
 That in the scale of being fill then- place ; 
 Above our human region, or below, 
 Set and sustained ; — thou, who didst wrap the cloud 
 Of infancy around us, that thyself, 
 Therein, with our simplicity awhile 
 Might'st hold, on earth, communion undisturbed ; 
 Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, 
 Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, 
 And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
 Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense 
 And reason's stedfast rule — thou, thou alone 
 Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 
 Which thou includest, as the sea her waves : 
 For adoration thou endur'st ; endure 
 For consciousness the motions of thy will ; 
 For apprehension those transcendent truths 
 Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws 
 (Submission constituting strength and power) 
 Even to thy Being's infinite majesty ! 
 This universe shall pass away- — a work 
 Glorious ! because the shadow of thy might, 
 A step, or link, for intercourse with thee. 
 Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet 
 No more shall stray where meditation leads, 
 By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 
 Loved haunts like these ; the unimprisoned Mind 
 May yet have scope to range among her own, 
 Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 
 If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 
 Still, it may be allowed me to remember 
 What visionary powers of eye and soul 
 In youth were mine ; when, stationed on the top 
 Of some huge hill — expectant, I beheld 
 The sun rise up, from distant climes returned 
 Darkness to chase, and sleep ; and bring the day 
 His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the deep 
 Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds 
 Attended ; then, my spirit was entranced 
 
 ' 
 
 With joy exalted to beatitude , 
 The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, 
 And holiast love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, 
 With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 
 
 Those fervent raptures are for ever flown ; 
 And, since their date, my soul hath undergone 
 Change manifold, for better or for worse : 
 Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
 Heavenward ; and chide the part of me that fla^s, 
 Through sinful choice ; or dread necessity 
 On human nature from above imposed. 
 'Tis, by comparison, an easy task 
 Earth to despise ; but, to converse with heaven — 
 This is not easy : — to relinquish all 
 We have, or hope, of happiness and joy, 
 And stand in freedom loosened from this world, 
 I deem not arduous ; but must needs confess 
 That 'tis a thing impossible to frame 
 Conceptions equal to the soul's desires ; 
 And the most difficult of tasks to Tceep 
 Heights which the soul is competent to gam. 
 — Man is of dust : ethereal hopes are his, 
 Which, when they should sustain themselves aloft, 
 Want due consistence ; like a pillar of smoke, 
 That with majestic energy from earth 
 Rises ; but, having reached the thinner air, 
 Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 
 From this infirmity of mortal kind 
 Sorrow proceeds, which else were not ; at least, 
 If grief be something hallowed and ordained, 
 If, in proportion, it be just and meet, 
 Yet, through this weakness of the general heart, 
 Is it enabled to maintain its hold 
 In that excess which conscience disapproves. 
 For who could sink and settle to that point 
 Of selfishness ; so senseless who could be 
 As long and perseveringly to mourn 
 For any object of his love, removed 
 From this unstable world, if he could fix 
 A satisfying view upon that state 
 Of pure, imperishable, blessedness, 
 Which reason promises, and holy writ 
 Ensures to all believers 1 — Yet mistrust 
 Is of such incapacity, methinks, 
 No natural branch ; despondency far less ; 
 And, least of all, is absolute despair. 
 — And, if there be whose tender frames have drooped 
 Even to the dust ; apparently, through weight 
 Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 
 An agonizing sorrow to transmute ; 
 Deem not that proof is here of hope withheld 
 When wanted most ; a confidence impaired 
 So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 559 
 
 • With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love 
 \ Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 
 '■ Oh ! no, the innocent Sufferer often sees 
 Too clearly ; feels too vividly ; and longs 
 To realize the vision, with intense 
 And over-constant yearning ; — there — there lies 
 The excess, by which the balance is destroyed. 
 Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh, 
 This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs, 
 . Though inconceivably endowed, too dim 
 For any passion of the soul that leads 
 To ecstasy ; and, all the crooked paths 
 Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 
 j Along the line of limitless desires. 
 ; I, speaking now from such disorder free, 
 Nor rapt, nor craving, but in settled peace, 
 I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore 
 Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, shall wake 
 From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 
 Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
 In mercy, carried infinite degrees 
 Beyond the tenderness of human hearts : 
 Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
 In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest power, 
 That finds no limits but her own pure will. 
 
 Here then we rest; not fearing for our creed 
 The worst that human reasoning can achieve, 
 To unsettle or perplex it : yet with pain 
 Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach, 
 That, though immovably convinced, we want 
 (Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
 | As soldiers live by courage ; as, by strength 
 Of heart, the sailor fights with roaring seas. 
 Alas ! the endowment of immortal power 
 i Is matched unequally with custom, time, 
 i And domineering faculties of sense 
 In all; in most with superadded foes, 
 Idle temptations ; open vanities, 
 Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing world ; 
 And, in the private regions of the mind, 
 Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite, 
 Immoderate wishes, pining discontent, 
 'Distress and care. What then remains ? — To seek 
 Those helps for his occasions ever near 
 Who lacks not will to use them ; vows, renewed 
 On the first motion of a holy thought ; 
 ; Vigils of contemplation ; praise ; and prayer — 
 jA stream, which, from the fountain of the heart 
 (Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 
 
 • Without access of unexpected strength. 
 
 • But, above all, the victory is most sure 
 
 'For him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strives 
 (To yield entire submission to the law 
 
 Of conscience — conscience reverenced and obeyed, 
 As God's most intimate presence in the soul, 
 And his most perfect image in the world. 
 — Endeavour thus to five; these rules regard ; 
 These helps solicit ; and a stedfast seat 
 Shall then be yours among the happy few 
 Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal air, 
 Sons of the morning. For your nobler part, 
 Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains, 
 Doubt shall be quelled and trouble chased away ; 
 With only such degree of sadness left 
 As may support longings of pure desire ; 
 And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 
 In the sublime attractions of the grave." 
 
 While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
 Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 
 His judgments, near that lonely house we paced 
 A plot of green-sward, seemingly preserved 
 By nature's care from wreck of scattered stones, 
 And from encroachment of encircling heath : 
 Small space ! but, for reiterated steps, 
 Smooth and commodious ; as a stately deck 
 Which to and fro the mariner is used 
 To tread for pastime, talking with his mates, 
 Or haply thinking of far-distant friends, 
 While the ship glides before a steady breeze. 
 Stillness prevailed around us : and the voice 
 That spake was capable to lift the soul 
 Toward regions yet more tranquil. But, methought, 
 That he, whose fixed despondency had given 
 Impulse and motive to that strong discourse, 
 Was less upraised in spirit than abashed ; 
 Shrinking from admonition, like a man 
 Who feels that to exhort is to reproach. 
 Yet not to be diverted from his aim, 
 The Sage continued : — 
 
 "For that other loss, 
 The loss of confidence hi social man, 
 By the unexpected transports of our age 
 Carried so high, that every thought, which looked 
 Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind, 
 To many seemed superfluous — as, no cause 
 Could e'er for such exalted confidence 
 Exist ; so, none is now for fixed despair : 
 The two extremes are equally disowned 
 By reason : if, with sharp recoil, from one 
 You have been driven far as its opposite, 
 Between them seek the point whereon to build 
 Sound expectations. So doth he advise 
 Who shared at first the illusion ; but was soon 
 Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 
 Which Nature gently gave, in woods and fields ; 
 Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speaking 
 
560 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 To the inattentive children of the world : 
 
 1 Vain-glorious Generation ! what new powers 
 
 ' On you have heen conferred % what gifts, withheld 
 
 ' From your progenitors, have ye received, 
 
 6 Fit recompense of new desert ? what claim 
 
 ' Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 
 
 ' For you should undergo a sudden change ; 
 
 ' And the weak functions of one husy day, 
 
 ' Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 
 
 ' What all the slowly-moving years of time, 
 
 ' With their united force, have left undone ? 
 
 ' By nature's gradual processes be taught ; 
 
 ' By story be confounded ! Ye aspire 
 
 ' Rashly, to fall once more ; and that false fruit, 
 
 ' Which, to your over-weening spirits, yields 
 
 ' Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 
 
 ' Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her sons 
 
 ' Shall not the less, though late, be justified.' 
 
 Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, "gave 
 That visionary voice ; and, at this day, 
 When a Tartarean darkness overspreads 
 The groaning nations ; when the impious rule, 
 By will or by established ordinance, 
 Their own dire agents, and constrain the good 
 To acts which they abhor ; though I bewail 
 This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
 Prevents me not from owning, that the law, 
 By which mankind now suffers, is most just. 
 For by superior energies ; more strict 
 Affiance in each other ; faith more firm 
 In their unhallowed principles ; the bad 
 Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak, 
 The vacillating, inconsistent good. 
 Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait — in hope 
 To see the moment, when the righteous cause 
 Shall gain defenders zealous and devout 
 As they who have opposed her ; in which Virtue 
 Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds 
 That are not lofty as her rights ; aspiring 
 By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. 
 That spirit only can redeem mankind ; 
 And when that sacred spirit shall appear, 
 Then shall our triumph be complete as theirs. 
 Yet, should this confidence prove vain, the wise 
 Have still the keeping of their proper peace ; 
 Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 
 They act, or they recede, observe, and feel ; 
 ' Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
 The centre of this world, about the which 
 Those revolutions of disturbances 
 Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 
 Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 
 As he must bear, being powerless to redress ; 
 
 And that unless above himself he can 
 Erect himself , how poor a thing is Man J'* 
 
 Happy is he who lives to understand, 
 Not human nature only, but explores 
 All natures,— to the end that he may find 
 The law that governs each ; and where begins 
 The union, the partition where, that makes 
 Kind and degree, among all visible Beings ; 
 The constitutions, powers, and faculties, 
 Which they inherit, — cannot step beyond, — 
 And cannot fall beneath ; that do assign 
 To every class its station and its office, 
 Through all the mighty commonwealth of things ; 
 Up from the creeping plant to sovereign Man. 
 Such converse, if directed by a meek, 
 Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love : 
 For knowledge is delight ; and such delight 
 Breeds love : yet, suited as it rather is 
 To thought and to the climbing intellect, 
 It teaches less to love, than to adore ; 
 If that be not indeed the highest love ! " 
 
 "Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 
 " The dignity of life is not impaired 
 By aught that innocently satisfies 
 The humbler cravings of the heart ; and he 
 Is a still happier man, who, for those heights 
 Of speculation not unfit, descends ; 
 And such benign affections cultivates 
 Among the inferior kinds ; not merely those 
 That he may call his own, and which depend, 
 As individual objects of regard, 
 Upon his care, from whom he also looks 
 For signs and tokens of a mutual bond ; 
 But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, 
 Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. 
 Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 
 And solitude, that they do favour most, 
 Most frequently call forth, and best sustain, 
 These pure sensations ; that can penetrate 
 The obstreperous city ; on the barren seas 
 Are not unfelt ; and much might recommend, 
 How much they might inspirit and endear, 
 The loneliness of this sublime retreat ! " 
 
 " Yes," said the Sage, resuming the discourse 
 Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
 " If, with the froward will and grovelling soul 
 Of man, offended, liberty is here, 
 And invitation every hour renewed. 
 To mark their placid state, who never heard 
 
 * Daniel. 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 561 
 
 Of a command which they have power to break, 
 Or rule which they are tempted to transgress : 
 These, with a soothed or elevated heart, 
 May we behold ; their knowledge register ; 
 Observe their ways ; and, free from envy, find 
 Complacence there : — but wherefore this to you ? 
 I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth, 
 The redbreast, ruffled up by winter's cold 
 Into a ' feathery bunch,' feeds at your hand : 
 I A box, perchance, is from your casement hung 
 For the small wren to build in ; — not in vain, 
 The barriers disregarding that surround 
 This deep abiding place, before your sight 
 i Mounts on the breeze the butterfly ; and soars, 
 j Small creature as she is, from earth's bright flowers, 
 ! Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
 i In the waste wilderness : the Soul ascends 
 ' Drawn towards her native firmament of heaven, 
 When the fresh eagle, in the month of May, 
 Upborne, at evening, on replenished wing, 
 : This shaded valley leaves ; and leaves the dark 
 l Empui'pled hills, conspicuously renewing 
 I A proud communication with the sun 
 j Low sunk beneath the horizon ! — List ! — I heard, 
 ; From yon huge breast of rock, a voice sent forth 
 : As if the visible mountain made the cry. 
 ; Again ! " — The effect upon the soul was such 
 ; As he expressed : from out the mountain's heart 
 
 ■ The solemn voice appeared to issue, startling 
 j The blank air — for the region all around 
 
 ; Stood empty of all shape of life, and silent 
 1 Save for that single cry, the unanswer'd bleat 
 j Of a poor lamb — left somewhere to itself, 
 
 The plaintive spirit of the solitude ! 
 ' He paused, as if unwilling to proceed, 
 i Through consciousness that silence in such place 
 i Was best, the most affecting eloquence, 
 i But soon his thoughts returned upon themselves, 
 
 And, in soft tone of speech, thus he resumed. 
 
 " Ah ! if the heart, too confidently raised, 
 Perchance too lightly occupied, or lulled 
 i Too easily, despise or overlook 
 
 ■ The vassalage that binds her to the earth, 
 Her sad dependence upon time, and all 
 -The trepidations of mortality, 
 
 i What place so destitute and void — but there 
 The little flower her vanity shall check ; 
 ,The trailing worm reprove her thoughtless pride ? 
 
 i These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds, 
 Does that benignity pervade, that warms 
 'The mole contented with her darksome walk 
 In the cold ground ; and to the emmet gives 
 
 Her foresight, and intelligence that makes 
 
 The tiny creatures strong by social league ; 
 
 Supports the generations, multiplies 
 
 Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
 
 Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills — 
 
 Their labour, covered, as a lake with waves ; 
 
 Thousands of cities, in the desert place 
 
 Built up of life, and food, and means of life ! 
 
 Nor wanting here, to entertain the thought, 
 
 Creatures that in communities exist, 
 
 Less, as might seem, for general guardianship 
 
 Or through dependence upon mutual aid, 
 
 Than by participation of delight 
 
 And a strict love of fellowship, combined. 
 
 What other spirit can it be that prompts 
 
 The gilded summer flies to mix and weave 
 
 Their sports together in the solar beam, 
 
 Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy? 
 
 More obviously the self-same influence rules 
 
 The feathered kinds ; the fieldfare's pensive flock, 
 
 The cawing rooks, and sea-mews from afar, 
 
 Hovering above these inland solitudes, 
 
 By the rough wind unscattered, at whose call 
 
 Up through the trenches of the long-drawn vales 
 
 Their voyage was begun : nor is its power 
 
 Unfelt among the sedentary fowl 
 
 That seek yon pool, and there prolong their stay 
 
 Tn silent congress ; or together roused 
 
 Take flight; while with their clang the air resounds. 
 
 And, over all, in that ethereal vault, 
 
 Is the mute company of changeful clouds ; 
 
 Bright apparition, suddenly put forth, 
 
 The rainbow smiling on the faded storm ; 
 
 The mild assemblage of the starry heavens ; 
 
 And the great sun, earth's universal lord ! 
 
 How bountiful is Nature ! he shall find 
 Who seeks not ; and to him, who hath not asked, 
 Large measure shall be dealt. Three sabbath-days 
 Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent 
 Of mere humanity, you clomb those heights ; 
 And what a marvellous and heavenly show 
 Was suddenly revealed ! — the swains moved on, 
 And heeded not : you lingered, you perceived 
 And felt, deeply as living man could feel. 
 There is a luxury in self-dispraise ; 
 And inward self-disparagement affords . 
 To meditative spleen a grateful feast. 
 Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert, 
 You judge unthankfully : distempered nerves 
 Infect the thoughts : the languor of the frame 
 Depresses the soul's vigour. Quit your couch — 
 Cleave not so fondly to your moody cell ; 
 Nor let the hallowed powers, that shed from heaven 
 o o 
 
562 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye 
 
 Look down upon your taper, through a watch 
 
 Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling 
 
 In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 
 
 Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 
 
 Take courage, and withdraw yourself from ways 
 
 That run not parallel to nature's course. 
 
 Rise with the lark ! your matins shall obtain 
 
 Grace, be their composition what it may, 
 
 If but with hers performed ; climb once again, 
 
 Climb every day, those ramparts ; meet the breeze 
 
 Upon their tops, adventurous as a bee 
 
 That from your garden thither soars, to feed 
 
 On new-blown heath ; let yon commanding rock 
 
 Be your frequented watch-tower ; roll the stone 
 
 In thunder down the mountains; with all your 
 
 might 
 Chase the wild goat ; and if the bold red deer 
 Fly to those harbours, driven by hound and horn 
 Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit ; 
 So, wearied to your hut shall you return, 
 And sink at evening into sound repose." 
 
 The Solitary lifted toward the hills 
 A kindling eye : — accordant feelings rushed 
 Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth : 
 " Oh ! what a joy it were, in vigorous health, 
 To have a body (this our vital frame 
 With shrinking sensibility endued, 
 And all the nice regards of flesh and blood) 
 And to the elements surrender it 
 As if it were a spirit ! — How divine, 
 The liberty, for frail, for mortal, man 
 To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
 And mountainous retirements, only trod 
 By devious footsteps ; regions consecrate 
 To oldest time ! and, reckless of the storm 
 That keeps the raven quiet in her nest, 
 Be as a presence or a motion — one 
 Among the many there ; and while the mists 
 Flying, and rainy vapours, caU out shapes 
 And phantoms from the crags and solid earth 
 As fast as a musician scatters sounds 
 Out of an instrument ; and while the streams 
 (As at a first creation and in haste 
 To exercise their untried faculties) 
 Descending from the region of the clouds, 
 And starting from the hollows of the earth 
 More multitudinous every moment, rend 
 Their way before them — what a joy to roam 
 An equal among mightiest energies ; 
 And haply sometimes with articulate voice, 
 Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 
 By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 
 
 ' Rage on ye elements ! let moon and stars 
 Them aspects lend, and mingle in their turn 
 With this commotion (ruinous though it be) 
 From day to night,from night to day, prolonged ! '" 
 
 " Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from my lips 
 The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in youth 
 Has, through ambition of his soul, given way 
 To such desires, and grasped at such delight, 
 Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long, 
 In spite of all the weakness that fife brings, 
 Its cares and sorrows; he, though taught to own 
 The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake, 
 Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness — 
 Loving the sports which once he gloried in. 
 
 Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's hills, 
 The streams far distant of your native glen ; 
 Yet is their form and image here expressed 
 With brotherly resemblance. Turn your steps 
 Wherever fancy leads ; by day, by night, 
 Are various engines working, not the same 
 As those with which your soul in youth was moved, 
 But by the great Artificer endowed 
 With no inferior power. You dwell alone ; 
 You walk, you live, you speculate alone ; 
 Yet doth remembrance, like a sovereign prince, 
 For you a stately gallery maintain 
 Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen, 
 Have acted, suffered, travelled far, observed 
 With no incurious eye ; and books are yours, 
 Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
 Preserved from age to age ; more precious far 
 Than that accumulated store of gold 
 And orient gems, which, for a day of need, 
 The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. 
 These hoards of truth you can unlock at will : 
 And music waits upon your skilful touch, 
 Sounds which the wandering shepherd from these 
 
 heights 
 Hears, and forgets his purpose ; — furnished thus, 
 How can you droop, if willing to be upraised ? 
 
 A piteous lot it were to flee from Man — 
 Yet not rejoice in Nature. He, whose hours 
 Are by domestic pleasures uncaressed 
 And unenlivened ; who exists whole years 
 Apart from benefits received or done 
 'Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd ; 
 Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear, 
 Of the world's interests — such a one hath need 
 Of a quick fancy, and an active heart, 
 That, for the day's consumption, books may yield 
 Food not unwholesome ; earth and air correct 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 563 
 
 His morbid humour, with delight supplied 
 
 Or solace, varying as the seasons change. 
 
 — Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of 
 
 ease 
 And easy contemplation ; gay parterres, 
 And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 
 And shady groves in studied contrast — each, 
 For recreation, leading into each : 
 These may he range, if willing to partake 
 Their soft indulgences, and in due time 
 May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 
 ! And course of service Truth requires from those 
 Who tend her altars, wait upon her throne, 
 And guard her fortresses. Who thinks, and feels, 
 And recognises ever and anon 
 The breeze of nature stirring in his soul, 
 Why need such man go desperately astray, 
 And nurse ' the dreadful appetite of death ? ' 
 If tired with systems, each in its degree 
 Substantial, and all crumbling in their turn, 
 Let him build systems of his own, and smile 
 At the fond work, demolished with a touch ; 
 If unreligious, let him be at once 
 Among ten thousand innocents, enrolled 
 A pupil in the many-chambered school, 
 Where superstition weaves her airy dreams. 
 
 Life's autumn past, I stand on winter's verge ; 
 And daily lose what I desire to keep : 
 Yet rather would I instantly decline 
 To the traditionary sympathies 
 
 i Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
 A fearful apprehension from the owl 
 
 1 Or death-watch : and as readily rejoice, 
 If two auspicious magpies crossed my way ; — 
 To this would rather bend than see and hear 
 The repetitions wearisome of sense, 
 Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place ; 
 Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark 
 On outward things, with formal inference ends ; 
 Or, if the mind turn inward, she recoils 
 At once — or, not recoiling, is perplexed — 
 
 ■ Lost in a gloom of uninspired research ; 
 Meanwhile, the heart within the heart, the seat 
 Where peace and happy consciousness should 
 
 dwell, 
 On its own axis restlessly revolving, 
 Seeks, yet can nowhere find, the light of truth. 
 
 Upon the breast of new-created earth 
 Man walked ; and when and wheresoe'er he moved, 
 
 I Alone or mated, solitude was not. 
 He heard, borne on the wind, Ihe articulate voice 
 
 ' Of God ; and Angels to his sight appeared 
 
 Crowning the glorious hills of paradise ; 
 Or through the groves gliding like morning mist 
 Enkindled by the sun. He sate — and talked 
 With winged Messengers ; who daily brought 
 To his small island in the ethereal deep 
 Tidings of joy and love. — From those pure heights 
 (Whether of actual vision, sensible 
 To sight and feeling, or that in this sort 
 Have condescendingly been shadowed forth 
 Communications spiritually maintained, 
 And intuitions moral and divine) 
 Fell Human-kind — to banishment condemned 
 That flowing years repealed not : and distress 
 And grief spread wide ; but Man escaped the doom 
 Of destitution ; — solitude was not. 
 — Jehovah — shapeless Power above all Powers, 
 Single and one, the omnipresent God, 
 By vocal utterance, or blaze of light, 
 Or cloud of darkness, localised in heaven ; 
 On earth, enshrined within the wandering ark ; 
 Or, out of Sion, thundering from his throne 
 Between the Cherubim — on the chosen Race 
 Showered miracles, and ceased not to dispense 
 Judgments, that filled the land from age to age 
 With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear ; 
 And with amazement smote ; — thereby to assert 
 His scorned, or unacknowledged, sovereignty. 
 And when the One, ineffable of name, 
 Of nature indivisible, withdrew 
 From mortal adoration or regard, 
 Not then was Deity engulfed ; nor Man, 
 The rational creature, left, to feel the weight 
 Of his own reason, without sense or thought 
 Of higher reason and a purer will, 
 To benefit and bless, through mightier power : — 
 Whether the Persian — zealous to reject 
 Altar and image, and the inclusive walls 
 And roofs of temples built by human hands — 
 To loftiest heights ascending, from their tops, 
 With myrtle-wreathed tiara on his brow, 
 Presented sacrifice to moon and stars, 
 And to the winds and mother elements, 
 And the whole circle of the heavens, for him 
 A sensitive existence, and a God, 
 With lifted hands invoked, and songs of praise : 
 Or, less reluctantly to bonds of sense 
 Yielding his soul, the Babylonian framed 
 For influence undefined a personal shape ; 
 And, from the plain, with toil immense, upreared 
 Tower eight times planted on the top of tower, 
 That Belus, nightly to his splendid couch 
 Descending, there might rest ; upon that height 
 Pure and serene, diffused— to overlook 
 Winding Euphrates, and the city vast 
 oo 2 
 
564 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Of his devoted worshippers, far-stretched, 
 With grove and field and garden interspersed ; 
 Their town, and foodfnl region for support 
 Against the pressure of beleaguering war. 
 
 Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields, 
 Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 
 Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude, 
 Looked on the polar star, as on a guide 
 And guardian of their course, that never closed 
 His stedfast eye. The planetary Five 
 With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 
 Watched, from the centre of their sleeping flocks, 
 Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to move 
 Carrying through ether, in perpetual round, 
 Decrees and resolutions of the Gods ; 
 And, by their aspects, signifying works 
 Of dim futurity, to Man revealed. 
 — The imaginative faculty was lord 
 Of observations natural ; and, thus 
 Led on, those shepherds made report of stars 
 In set rotation passing to and fro, 
 Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 
 And its invisible counterpart, adorned 
 With answering constellations, under earth, 
 Removed from all approach of living sight 
 But present to the dead ; who, so they deemed, 
 Like those celestial messengers beheld 
 All accidents, and judges were of all. 
 
 The lively Grecian, in a land of hills, 
 Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding shores, — 
 Under a cope of sky more variable, 
 Could find commodious place for every God, 
 Promptly received, as prodigally brought, 
 From the surrounding countries, at the choice 
 ' Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill, 
 As nicest observation furnished hints 
 For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed 
 On fluent operations a fixed shape ; 
 Metal or stone, idolatrously served. 
 And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous show 
 Of art, this palpable array of sense, 
 On every side encountered ; in despite 
 Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 
 By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in contempt 
 Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 
 Amid the wrangling schools — a spirit hung, 
 Beautiful region ! o'er thy towns and farms, 
 Statues and temples, and memorial tombs ; 
 And emanations were perceived ; and acts 
 Of immortality, in Nature's course, 
 Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 
 As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed 
 
 And armed warrior ; and in every grove 
 
 A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, 
 
 When piety more awful had relaxed. 
 
 — ' Take, running river, take these locks of mine' — 
 
 Thus would the Votary say — ' this severed hair, 
 
 ' My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 
 
 ' Thankful for my beloved child's return. 
 
 ' Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod, 
 
 c Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the crystal lymph 
 
 ' With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, 
 
 ' And, all day long, moisten these flowery fields ! ' 
 
 And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 
 
 Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 
 
 Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired ; 
 
 That hath been, is, and where it was and is 
 
 There shall endure, — existence unexposed 
 
 To the blind walk of mortal accident ; 
 
 From diminution safe and weakening age ; 
 
 While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays ; 
 
 And countless generations of mankind 
 
 Depart ; and leave no vestige where they trod. 
 
 We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love ; 
 And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, 
 In dignity of being we ascend. 
 But what is error ?" — "Answer he who can !" 
 The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed : 
 " Love, Hope, and Admiration — are they not 
 Mad Fancy's favourite vassals ? Does not fife 
 Use them, full oft, as pioneers to ruin, 
 Guides to destruction ? Is it well to trust 
 Imagination's light when reason's fails, 
 The unguarded taper where the guarded faints ? 
 — Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare 
 What error is ; and, of our errors, which 
 Doth most debase the mind ; the genuine seats 
 Of power, where are they ? Who shall regulate, 
 With truth, the scale of intellectual rank ?" 
 
 " Methinks," persuasively the Sage replied, 
 " That for this arduous office you possess 
 Some rare advantages. Your early days 
 A grateful recollection must supply 
 Of much exalted good by Heaven vouchsafed 
 To dignify the humblest state. — Your voice 
 Hath, in my hearing, often testified 
 That poor men's children, they, and they alone, 
 By their condition taught, can understand 
 The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
 For daily bread. A consciousness is yours 
 How feelingly religion may be learned 
 In smoky cabins, from a mother's tongue — 
 Heard while the dwelling vibrates to the din 
 Of the contiguous torrent, gathering strength 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 565 
 
 At every moment — and, with strength, increase 
 Of fury; or, while snow is at the door, 
 Assaulting and defending, and the wind, 
 ' A sightless labourer, whistles at his work — 
 Fearful ; but resignation tempers fear, 
 And piety is sweet to infant minds. 
 — The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves, 
 On the green turf, a dial — to divide 
 The silent hours ; and who to that report 
 Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, 
 Throughout a long and lonely summer's day 
 His round of pastoral duties, is not left 
 With less intelligence for moral things 
 Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 
 Within himself, a measure and a rule, 
 Which to the sun of truth he can apply, 
 That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. 
 Experience daily fixing his regards 
 On nature's wants, he knows how few they are, 
 And where they lie, how answered and appeased. 
 This knowledge ample recompense affords 
 For manifold privations ; he refers 
 His notions to this standard ; on this rock 
 Rests his desires ; and hence, in after life, 
 Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content. 
 Imagination — not permitted here 
 To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind, 
 On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 
 And trivial ostentation — is left free 
 And puissant to range the solemn walks 
 Of time and nature, girded by a zone 
 That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. 
 Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side 
 Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top, 
 Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred 
 (Take from him what you will upon the score 
 Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 
 For noble purposes of mind : his heart 
 Beats to the heroic song of ancient days ; 
 His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 
 And those illusions, which excite the scorn 
 Or move the pity of unthinking minds, 
 Are they not mainly outward ministers 
 Of inwax-d conscience ? with whose service charged 
 They came and go, appeared and disappear, 
 Diverting evil purposes, remorse 
 Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief, 
 Or pride of heart abating : and, whene'er 
 For less important ends those phantoms move, 
 Who would forbid them, if their presence serve, 
 On thinly-peopled mountains and wild heaths, 
 Filling a space, else vacant, to exalt 
 The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers ? 
 
 Once more to distant ages of the world 
 Let us revert, and place before our thoughts 
 The face which rural solitude might wear 
 To the unenlightened swains of pagan Greece. 
 — In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched 
 On the soft grass through half a summer's day, 
 With music lulled his indolent repose : 
 And, in some fit of weariness, if he, 
 When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 
 A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds 
 Which his poor skiU could make, his fancy fetched, 
 Even from the blazing chariot of the sun, 
 A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute, 
 And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. 
 The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye 
 Up towards the crescent moon, with grateful heart 
 Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed 
 That timely light, to share his joyous sport: 
 And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs, 
 Across the lawn and through the darksome grove, 
 Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 
 By echo multiplied from rock or cave, 
 Swept in the storm of chase ; as moon and stars 
 Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven, 
 When winds are blowing strong. The traveller 
 
 slaked 
 His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked 
 The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills 
 Gliding apace, with shadows in their train, 
 Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 
 Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 
 The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their wings, 
 Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they wooed 
 With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque, 
 Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age, 
 From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
 In the low vale, or on steep mountain side ; 
 And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns 
 Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard, — 
 These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood 
 Of gamesome Deities ; or Pan himself, 
 The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God !" 
 
 The strain was aptly chosen; and I could mark 
 Its kindly influence, o'er the yielding brow 
 Of our Companion, gradually diffused ; 
 While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf, 
 Like one whose untired ear a murmuring stream 
 Detains ; but tempted now to interpose, 
 He with a smile exclaimed : — ■ 
 
 " 'Tis well you speak 
 At a safe distance from our native land, 
 And from the mansions where our youth was 
 taught. 
 
566 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 The true descendants of those godly men 
 
 Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal, 
 
 Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles 
 
 That harboured them, — the souls retaining yet 
 
 The churlish features of that after-race 
 
 Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting rocks, 
 
 In deadly scorn of superstitious rites, 
 
 Or what their scruples construed to be such — 
 
 How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme 
 
 Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 
 
 Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh 
 
 The weeds of Romish phantasy, in vain 
 
 Uprooted ; would re-consecrate our wells 
 
 To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne ; 
 
 And from long banishment recal Saint Giles, 
 
 To watch again with tutelary love 
 
 O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags ? 
 
 A blessed restoration, to behold 
 
 The patron, on the shoulders of his priests. 
 
 Once more parading through her crowded streets 
 
 Now simply guarded by the sober powers 
 
 Of science, and philosophy, and sense ! " 
 
 This answer followed. — " You have turned my 
 
 thoughts 
 Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 
 Against idolatry with warlike mind, 
 And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 
 In woods, and dwell under impending rocks 
 Ill-sheltered, and oft wanting fire and food ; 
 Why ? — for this very reason that they felt, 
 And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they moved, 
 A spiritual presence, oft-times misconceived, 
 But still a high dependence, a divine 
 Bounty and government, that filled their hearts 
 With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love ; 
 And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise, 
 That through, the desert rang. Though favoured 
 
 less, 
 Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree, 
 Were those bewildered Pagans of old time. 
 Beyond their own poor natures and above 
 They looked ; were humbly thankful for the good 
 Which the warm sun solicited, and earth 
 Bestowed ; were gladsome, — and their moral sense 
 They fortified with reverence for the Gods; 
 And they had hopes that overstepped the Grave. 
 
 Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaimed, 
 Raising his voice triumphantly, " obtain 
 From sense and reason less than these obtained, 
 Though far misled ? Shall men for whom our age 
 Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared, 
 To explore the world without and world within, 
 
 Be joyless as the blind? Ambitious spirits — 
 Whom earth, at this late season, hath produced 
 To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
 The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 
 And they who rather dive than soar, whose pains 
 Have solved the elements, or analysed 
 The thinking principle — shall they in fact 
 Prove a degraded Race ? and what avails 
 Renown, if their presumption make them such ? 
 Oh ! there is laughter at their work in heaven ! 
 Inquire of ancient Wisdom ; go, demand 
 Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant 
 That we should pry far off yet be unraised ; 
 That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore, 
 Viewing all objects unremittingly 
 In disconnexion dead and spiritless ; 
 And still dividing, and dividing still, 
 Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
 With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
 May yet become more little ; waging thus 
 An impious warfare with the very life 
 Of our own souls ! 
 
 And if indeed there be 
 An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom 
 Our dark foundations rest, could he design 
 That this magnificent effect of power, 
 The earth we tread, the sky that we behold 
 By day, and all the pomp which night reveals ; 
 That these — and that superior mystery 
 Our vital frame, so fearfully devised, 
 And the dread soul within it — should exist 
 Only to be examined, pondered, searched, 
 Probed, vexed, and criticised ? — Accuse me not 
 Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am, 
 If, having walked with Nature threescore years, 
 And offered, far as frailty would allow, 
 My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 
 I now affirm of Nature and of Truth, 
 Whom I have served, that their Divinity 
 Revolts, offended at the ways of men 
 Swayed by such motives, to such ends employed ; 
 Philosophers, who, though the human soul 
 Be of a thousand faculties composed, 
 And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize 
 This soul, and the transcendent universe, 
 No more than as a mirror that reflects 
 To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
 That one, poor, finite object, in the abyss 
 Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly ! 
 
 Nor higher place can be assigned to him 
 And his compeers — the laughing Sage of France. — 
 Crowned was he, if my memory do not err, 
 With laurel planted upon hoary hairs, 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 567 
 
 In sign of conquest by his wit achieved 
 And benefits his wisdom had conferred ; 
 His stooping body tottered with wreaths of flowers 
 Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 
 Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering tree ; 
 Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain, old Man, 
 And a most frivolous people. Him I mean 
 Who penned, to ridicule confiding faith, 
 This sorry Legend ; which by chance we found 
 Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seem, 
 Among more innocent rubbish." — Speaking thus, 
 With a brief notice when, and how, and where, 
 We had espied the book, he drew it forth ; 
 And courteously, as if the act removed, 
 At once, all traces from the good Man's heart 
 Of unbenign aversion or contempt, 
 Restored it to its owner. " Gentle Friend," 
 • Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand, 
 ' " You have known lights and guides better than these. 
 
 Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose 
 i A noble mind to practise on herself, 
 
 And tempt opinion to support the wrongs 
 J Of passion : whatsoe'er be felt or feared, 
 From higher judgment-seats make no appeal 
 To lower : can you question that the soul 
 Inherits an allegiance, not by choice 
 To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 
 By each new upstart notion ? In the ports 
 Of levity no refuge can be found, 
 ' No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 
 He, who by wilful disesteem of life 
 , And proud insensibility to hope, 
 i Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn 
 
 That her miTd nature can be terrible ; 
 ' That neither she nor Silence lack the power 
 , To avenge their own insulted majesty. 
 
 blest seclusion ! when the mind admits 
 ! The law of duty; and can therefore move 
 I Through each vicissitude of loss and gain, 
 : Linked in entire complacence with her choice ; 
 ; When youth's presumptuousness is mellowed down, 
 i And manhood's vain anxiety dismissed ; 
 ' When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit, 
 ; Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung 
 In sober plenty ; when the spirit stoops 
 To drink with gratitude the crystal stream 
 Of unreproved enjoyment; and is pleased 
 , To muse, and be saluted by the air 
 ! Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents 
 | From out the crumbling ruins of fallen pride 
 And chambers of transgression, now forlorn. 
 | 0, calm contented days, and peaceful nights ! 
 Who, when such good can be obtained, would strive 
 
 To reconcile his manhood to a couch 
 Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise, 
 Stuffed with the thorny substance of the past 
 For fixed annoyance ; and full oft beset 
 With floating dreams, black and disconsolate, 
 The vapoury phantoms of futurity ? 
 
 Within the soul a faculty abides, 
 That with interpositions, which would hide 
 And darken, so can deal that they become 
 Contingencies of pomp ; and serve to exalt 
 Her native brightness. As the ample moon, 
 In the deep stillness of a summer even 
 Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, 
 Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light, 
 In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
 Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
 Into a substance glorious as her own, 
 Yea, with her own incorporated, by power 
 Capacious and serene. Like power abides 
 In man's celestial spirit ; virtue thus 
 Sets forth and magnifies herself ; thus feeds 
 A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, 
 From the encumbrances of mortal life, 
 From error, disappointment — nay, from guilt ; 
 And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, 
 From palpable oppressions of despair." 
 
 The Solitary by these words was touched 
 With manifest emotion, and exclaimed ; 
 "But how begin? and whence?— 'The Mind is 
 
 free — 
 Resolve,' the haughty Moralist would say, 
 * This single act is all that we demand.' 
 Alas ! such wisdom bids a creature fly 
 Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn 
 His natural wings ! — To friendship let him turn 
 For succour ; but perhaps he sits alone 
 On stormy waters, tossed in a little boat 
 That holds but him, and can contain no more ! 
 Religion tells of amity sublime 
 Which no condition can preclude ; of One 
 Who sees all suffering, comprehends all wants, 
 All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs : 
 But is that bounty absolute ? — His gifts, 
 Are they not, still, in some degree, rewards 
 For acts of service ? Can his love extend 
 To hearts that own not him ? Will showers of grace, 
 When in the sky no promise may be seen, 
 Fall to refresh a parched and withered land ? 
 Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 
 At the Redeemer's feet ? " 
 
 In rueful tone, 
 With some impatience in his mien, he spake : 
 
568 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Back to my mind rushed all that had been urged 
 To calm the Sufferer when his story closed ; 
 I looked for counsel as unbending now ; 
 But a discriminating sympathy 
 Stooped to this apt reply : — 
 
 "As men from men 
 Do, in the constitution of their souls, 
 Differ, by mystery not to be explained ; 
 And as we fall by various ways, and sink 
 One deeper than another, self-condemned, 
 Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame ; 
 So manifold and various are the ways 
 Of restoration, fashioned to the steps 
 Of all infirmity, and tending all 
 To the same point, attainable by all — 
 Peace in ourselves, and union with our God. 
 For you, assuredly, a hopeful road 
 Lies open : we have heard from you a voice 
 At every moment softened in its course 
 By tenderness of heart ; have seen your eye, 
 Even like an altar lit by fire from heaven, 
 Kindle before us. — Your discourse this day, 
 That, like the fabled Lethe, wished to flow 
 In creeping sadness, through oblivious shades 
 Of death and night, has caught at every turn 
 The colours of the sun. Access for you 
 Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 
 Which the imaginative Will upholds 
 In seats of wisdom, not to be approached 
 By the inferior Faculty that moulds, 
 With her minute and speculative pains, 
 Opinion, ever changing ! 
 
 I have seen 
 A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
 Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
 The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ; 
 To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
 Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
 Brightened with joy; for from within were heard 
 Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed 
 Mysterious union with its native sea. 
 Even such a shell the universe itself 
 Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
 I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ; 
 And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
 Of endless agitation. Here you stand, 
 Adore, and worship, when you know it not ; 
 Pious beyond the intention of your thought ; 
 Devout above the meaning of your will. 
 — Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. 
 The estate of man would be indeed forlorn 
 If false conclusions of the reasoning power 
 
 Made the eye blind, and closed the passages 
 
 Through which the ear converses with the heart. 
 
 Has not the soul, the being of your life, 
 
 Received a shock of awful consciousness, 
 
 In some calm season, when these lofty rocks 
 
 At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky, 
 
 To rest upon their circumambient walls ; 
 
 A temple framing of dimensions vast, 
 
 And yet not too enormous for the sound 
 
 Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 
 
 Sublime of instrumental harmony, 
 
 To glorify the Eternal ! What if these 
 
 Did never break the stillness that prevails 
 
 Here, — if the solemn nightingale be mute, 
 
 And the soft woodlark here did never chant 
 
 Her vespers, — Nature fails not to provide 
 
 Impulse and utterance. The whispering air 
 
 Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights, 
 
 And blind recesses of the caverned rocks ; 
 
 The little rills, and waters numberless, 
 
 Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 
 
 With the loud streams : and often, at the hour 
 
 When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard, 
 
 Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 
 
 One voice — the solitary raven, flying 
 
 Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, 
 
 Unseen, perchance above all power of sight — 
 
 An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 
 
 Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, with which 
 
 The wanderer accompanies her flight 
 
 Through the calm region, fades upon the ear, 
 
 Diminishing by distance till it seemed 
 
 To expire ; yet from the abyss is caught again, 
 
 And yet again recovered ! 
 
 But descending 
 From these imaginative heights, that yield 
 Far-stretching views into eternity, 
 Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler power 
 Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend 
 Even here, where her amenities are sown 
 With sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad 
 To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fields, 
 Where on the labours of the happy throng 
 She smiles, including in her wide embrace 
 City, and town, and tower, — and sea with ships 
 Sprinkled ;— be our Companion while we track 
 Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 
 While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march, 
 Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 
 Roaming, or resting under grateful shade 
 In peace and meditative cheerfulness ; 
 Where living things, and things inanimate, 
 Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear, 
 And speak to social reason's inner sense, 
 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 
 
 569 
 
 With inarticulate language. 
 
 For, the Man — 
 Who, in this spirit, communes with the Forms 
 Of nature, who with understanding heart 
 Both knows and loves such objects as excite 
 No morbid passions, no disquietude, 
 No vengeance, and no hatred — needs must feel 
 The joy of that pure principle of love 
 So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
 Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
 
 i But seek for objects of a kindred love 
 
 1 In fellow-natures and a kindred joy. 
 Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
 His feelings of aversion softened down ; 
 
 j A holy tenderness pervade his frame. 
 
 J His sanity of reason not impaired, 
 
 | Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear, 
 
 .From a clear fountain flowing, he looks round 
 And seeks for good ; and finds the good he seeks : 
 Until abhorrence and contempt are things 
 
 .He only knows by name ; and, if he hear, 
 From other mouths, the language which they speak, 
 He is compassionate ; and has no thought, 
 No feeling, which can overcome his love. 
 
 And further ; by contemplating these Forms 
 In the relations which they bear to man, 
 ;,He shall discern, how, through the various means 
 Which silently they yield, are multiplied 
 The spiritual presences of absent things. 
 'Trust me, that for the instructed, time will come 
 When they shall meet no object but may teach 
 iSome acceptable lesson to their minds 
 Of human suffering, or of human j oy. 
 3o shall they learn, while all things speak of man, 
 Their duties from all forms ; and general laws, 
 And local accidents, shall tend alike 
 To rouse, to urge ; and, with the will, confer 
 The ability to spread the blessings wide 
 3f true philanthropy. The light of love 
 i^ot failing, perseverance from their steps 
 imparting not, for them shall be confirmed 
 The glorious habit by which sense is made 
 subservient still to moral purposes, 
 \uxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe 
 Che naked spirit, ceasing to deplore 
 ;?he burthen of existence. Science then 
 shall be a precious visitant ; and then, 
 ind only then, be worthy of her name : 
 for then her heart shall kindle ; her dull eye, 
 Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 
 Chained to its object in brute slavery ; 
 ])nt taught with patient interest to watch 
 The processes of things, and serve the cause 
 
 Of order and distinctness, not for this 
 
 Shall it forget that its most noble use, 
 
 Its most illustrious province, must be found 
 
 In furnishing clear guidance, a support 
 
 Not treacherous, to the mind's excursive power. 
 
 — So build we up the Being that we are ; 
 
 Thus deeply drinking-in the soul of things, 
 
 We shall be wise perforce ; and, while inspired 
 
 By choice, and conscious that the Will is free, 
 
 Shall move unswerving, even as if impelled 
 
 By strict necessity, along the path 
 
 Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
 
 Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine ; 
 
 Shall fix, in calmer seats of moral strength, 
 
 Earthly desires ; and raise, to loftier heights 
 
 Of divine love, our intellectual soul." 
 
 Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue, 
 Poured forth with fervour in continuous stream, 
 Such as, remote, mid savage wilderness, 
 An Indian Chief discharges from his breast 
 Into the hearing of assembled tribes, 
 In open circle seated round, and hushed 
 As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf 
 Stirs in the mighty woods. — So did he speak : 
 The words he uttered shall not pass away 
 Dispersed, like music that the wind takes up 
 By snatches, and lets fall, to be forgotten ; 
 No — they sank into me, the bounteous gift 
 Of one whom time and nature had made wise, 
 Gracing his doctrine with authority 
 Which hostile spirits silently allow ; 
 Of one accustomed to desires that feed 
 On fruitage gathered from the tree of life ; 
 To hopes on knowledge and experience built ; 
 Of one in whom persuasion and belief 
 Had ripened into faith, and faith become 
 A passionate intuition ; whence the Soul, 
 Though bound to earth by ties of pity and love, 
 From all injurious servitude was free. 
 
 The Sun, before his place of rest were reached, 
 Had yet to travel far, but unto us, 
 To us who stood low in that hollow dell, 
 He had become invisible, — a pomp 
 Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread 
 Over the mountain sides, in contrast bold 
 With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 
 Than those resplendent lights, his rich bequest ; 
 A dispensation of his evening power. 
 — Adown the path that from the glen had led 
 The funeral train, the Shepherd and his Mate 
 Were seen descending :— forth to greet them ran 
 Our little Page : the rustic pair approach ; 
 
570 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 And in the Matron's countenance may be read 
 
 Plain indication that the words, which told 
 
 How that neglected Pensioner was sent 
 
 Before his time into a quiet grave, 
 
 Had done to her humanity no wrong : 
 
 But we are kindly welcomed — promptly served 
 
 With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 
 
 Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell 
 A grateful couch was spread for our repose ; 
 Where, in the guise of mountaineers, we lay, 
 Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled by soun 
 Of far-off torrents charming the still night, 
 And, to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts, 
 Inviting sleep and soft forgetfuhiess. 
 
 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 THE PASTOR. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Farewell to the Valley— Reflections— A large and populous 
 Vale described— The Pastor's Dwelling, and some 
 account of him— Church and Monuments— The Solitary 
 musing, and where— Roused— In the Churchyard the 
 Solitary communicates the thoughts which had 
 recently passed through his mind— Lofty tone of the 
 Wanderer's discourse of yesterday adverted to— Rite 
 of Baptism, and the professions accompanying it, 
 contrasted with the real state of human life— Apology 
 for the Rite— Inconsistency of the best men— Acknow- 
 ledgment that practice falls far below the injunctions 
 of duty as existing in the mind— General complaint of 
 a falling-off in the value of life after the time of youth 
 —Outward appearances of content and happiness in 
 degree illusive— Pastor approaches— Appeal made to 
 him— His answer— Wanderer in sympathy with him— 
 Suggestion that the least ambitious enquirers may be 
 most free from error— The Pastor is desired to give some 
 portraits of the living or dead from his own observa- 
 tion of life among these Mountains — and for what pur- 
 pose—Pastor consents— Mountain cottage— Excellent 
 qualities of its Inhabitants— Solitary expresses his 
 pleasure ; but denies the praise of virtue to worth of 
 this kind— Feelings of the Priest before he enters upon 
 his account of persons interred in the Churchyard- 
 Graves of unbaptized Infants— Funeral and sepulchral 
 observances, whence— Ecclesiastical Establishments, 
 whence derived — Profession of belief in the doctrine 
 of Immortality. 
 
 " Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude 
 
 House, 
 And its small lot of life-supporting fields, 
 And guardian rocks ! — Farewell, attractive seat ! 
 To the still influx of the morning light 
 Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but veiled 
 From human observation, as if yet 
 Primeval forests wrapped thee round with dark 
 Impenetrable shade ; once more farewell, 
 Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss, 
 By Nature destined from the birth of things 
 For quietness profound ! " 
 
 Upon the side 
 
 Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the vale 
 
 Which foot of boldest stranger would attempt, 
 
 Lingering behind my comrades, thus I breathed 
 
 A parting tribute to a spot that seemed 
 
 Like the fixed centre of a troubled world. 
 
 Again I halted with reverted eyes ; 
 
 The chain that would not slacken, was at length 
 
 Snapt, — and, pursuing leisurely my way, 
 
 How vain, thought I, is it by change of place 
 
 To seek that comfort which the mind denies ; 
 
 Yet trial and temptation oft are shunned 
 
 Wisely ; and by such tenure do we hold, 
 
 Frail life's possessions, that even they whose fate 
 
 Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 
 
 Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
 
 To steal from active duties, and embrace 
 
 Obscurity, and undisturbed repose. 
 
 — Knowledge, methinks, in these disordered times, ' 
 
 Should be allowed a privilege to have 
 
 Her anchorites, like piety of old ; 
 
 Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstained 
 
 By war, might, if so minded, turn aside 
 
 Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few 
 
 Living to God and nature, and content 
 
 With that communion. Consecrated be 
 
 The spots where such abide ! But happier stil! 
 
 The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends 
 
 That meditation and research may guide 
 
 His privacy to principles and powers 
 
 Discovered or invented ; or set forth, 
 
 Through his acquaintance with the ways of truth, 
 
 In lucid order ; so that, when his course 
 
 Is run, some faithful eulogist may say, 
 
 He sought not praise, and praise did overlook 
 
 His unobtrusive merit ; but his life, 
 
 Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 
 
 That shall survive his name and memory. 
 
 Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 
 Accompanied these musings ; fervent thanks 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 571 
 
 For my own peaceful lot and happy choice ; 
 A choice that from the passions of the world 
 Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat ; 
 Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, 
 Secluded, but not buried ; and with song 
 Cheering my days, and with industrious thought ; 
 With the ever-welcome company of books ; 
 With virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid, 
 And with the blessings of domestic love. 
 
 Thus occupied in mind I paced along, 
 Following the rugged road, by sledge or wheel 
 Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
 My two Associates, in the morning sunshine 
 Halting together on a rocky knoll, 
 Whence the bare road descended rapidly 
 To the green meadows of another vale. 
 
 Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand 
 In sign of farewell. " Nay," the old Man said, 
 " The fragrant air its coolness still retains ; 
 The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop 
 The dewy grass ; you cannot leave us now, 
 We must not part at this inviting hour." 
 He yielded, though reluctant ; for his mind 
 
 : Instinctively disposed him to retire 
 To his own covert ; as a billow, heaved 
 Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea. 
 
 ' — So we descend : and winding round a rock 
 Attain a point that showed the valley — stretched 
 
 . In length before us ; and, not distant far, 
 
 • Upon a rising ground a grey church-tower, 
 Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. 
 
 ' And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond 
 Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed 
 A copious stream with boldly-winding course ; 
 Here traceable, there hidden — there again 
 To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. 
 On the stream's bank, and every where, appeared 
 Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots ; 
 Some scattered o'er the level, others perched 
 On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, 
 Now in its morning purity arrayed. 
 
 " As 'mid some happy valley of the Alps," 
 Said I, " once happy, ere tyrannic power, 
 Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 
 Destroyed their unoffending commonwealth, 
 A popular equality reigns here, 
 Save for yon stately House beneath whose roof 
 A rural lord might dwell." — " No feudal pomp, 
 Or power," replied the Wanderer, " to that House 
 Belongs, but there in his allotted Home 
 Abides, from year to year, a genuine Priest, 
 
 The shepherd of his flock ; or, as a king 
 
 Is styled, when most affectionately praised, 
 
 The father of his people. Such is' he ; 
 
 And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoice 
 
 Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed 
 
 To me some portion of a kind regard ; 
 
 And something also of his inner mind 
 
 Hath he imparted — but I speak of him 
 
 As he is known to all. 
 
 The calm delights 
 Of unambitious piety he chose, 
 And learning's solid dignity ; though born 
 Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends. 
 Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 
 From academic bowers. He loved the spot — 
 Who does not love his native soil ? — he prized 
 The ancient rural character, composed 
 Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest 
 And undisguised, and strong and serious thought ; 
 A character reflected in himself, 
 With such embellishment as well beseems 
 His rank and sacred function. This deep vale 
 Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight, 
 And one a turreted manorial hall 
 Adorns, in which the good Man's ancestors 
 Have dwelt through ages — Patrons of this Cure. 
 To them, and to his own judicious pains, 
 The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain, 
 Owes that presiding aspect which might well 
 Attract your notice ; statelier than could else 
 Have been bestowed, through course of common 
 
 chance, 
 On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 
 
 This said, oft pausing, we pursued our way ; 
 Nor reached the village-churchyard till the sun 
 Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen 
 Above the summits of the highest hills, 
 And round our path darted oppressive beams. 
 
 As chanced, the portals of the sacred Pile 
 Stood open ; and we entered. On my frame, 
 At such transition from the fervid air, 
 A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike 
 The heart, in concert with that temperate awe 
 And natural reverence which the place inspired. 
 Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, 
 But large and massy ; for duration built ; 
 With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
 By naked rafters intricately crossed, 
 Like leafless underboughs, in some thick wood, 
 All withered by the depth of shade above. 
 Admonitory texts inscribed the walls, 
 Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed ; 
 
572 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Each also crowned with winged heads — a pair 
 
 Of rudely -painted Cherubim. The floor 
 
 Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, 
 
 Was occupied by oaken benches ranged 
 
 In seemly rows ; the chancel only showed 
 
 Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly state 
 
 By immemorial privilege allowed ; 
 
 Though with the Encincture's special sanctity 
 
 But ill according. An heraldic shield, 
 
 Varying its tincture with the changeful light, 
 
 Imbued the altar- window ; fixed aloft 
 
 A faded hatchment hung, and one by time 
 
 Yet undiscoloured. A capacious pew 
 
 Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined ; 
 
 And marble monuments were here displayed 
 
 Thronging the walls ; and on the floor beneath 
 
 Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven 
 
 And foot-worn ejritaphs, and some with small 
 
 And shining effigies of brass inlaid. 
 
 The tribute by these various records claimed, 
 Duly we paid, each after each, and read 
 The ordinary chronicle of birth, 
 Office, alliance, and promotion — all 
 Ending in dust ; of upright magistrates, 
 Grave doctors strenuous for the mother-church, 
 And uncorrupted senators, alike 
 To king and people true. A brazen plate, 
 Not easily deciphered, told of one 
 Whose course of earthly honour was begun 
 In quality of page among the train 
 Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the seas 
 His royal state to show, and prove his strength 
 In tournament, upon the fields of France. 
 Another tablet registered the death, 
 And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight 
 Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles. 
 Near this brave Knight his Father lay entombed ; 
 And, to the silent language giving voice, 
 I read, — how in his manhood's earlier day 
 He, 'mid the afflictions of intestine war 
 And rightful government subverted, found 
 One only solace — that he had espoused 
 A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved 
 For her benign perfections ; and yet more 
 Endeared to him, for this, that, in her state 
 Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's regard, 
 She with a numerous issue filled his house, 
 Who throve, like plants, uninjured by the storm 
 That laid their country waste. No need to speak 
 Of less particular notices assigned 
 To Youth or Maiden gone before their time, 
 And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old ; 
 Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed 
 
 In modest panegyric. 
 
 " These dim lines, 
 What would they tell ?" said I, — but, from the task 
 Of puzzling out that faded narrative, 
 With whisper soft my venerable Friend 
 Called me ; and, looking down the darksome aisle, 
 I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale 
 Standing apart ; with curved arm reclined 
 On the baptismal font ; his pallid face 
 Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost 
 In some abstraction ; — gracefully he stood, 
 The semblance bearing of a sculptured form 
 That leans upon a monumental urn 
 In peace, from morn to night, from year to year. 
 
 Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse ; 
 Who entered, humming carelessly a tune, 
 Continuation haply of the notes 
 That had beguiled the work from which he caine, 
 With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung ; 
 To be deposited, for future need, 
 In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 
 Withdrew ; and straight we followed, — to a spot 
 Where sun and shade were intermixed ; for there 
 A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms 
 From an adjoining pasture, overhung 
 Small space of that green churchyard with a light 
 And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall 
 My ancient Friend and I together took 
 Our seats ; and thus the Solitary spake, 
 Standing before us : — 
 
 " Did you note the mien 
 Of that self-solaced, easy -hearted churl, 
 Death's hireling, who scoops out his neighbour's 
 
 grave, 
 Or wraps an old acquaintance up in clay, 
 All unconcerned as he would bind a sheaf, 
 Or plant a tree. And did you hear his voice ? 
 I was abruptly summoned by the sound 
 From some affecting images and thoughts, 
 Which then were silent ; but crave utterance now. 
 
 Much," he continued, with dejected look, 
 "Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase 
 Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 
 For future states of being ; and the wings 
 Of speculation, joyfully outspread, 
 Hovered above our destiny on earth : 
 But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul 
 In sober contrast with reality, 
 And man's substantial life. If this mute earth 
 Of what it holds could speak, and every grave 
 Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 
 Of yielding its contents to eye and ear, 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 $73 
 
 We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame, 
 To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill 
 That which is done accords with what is known 
 To reason, and by conscience is enjoined ; 
 How idly, how perversely, life's whole course, 
 To this conclusion, deviates from the line, 
 Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 
 At her aspiring outset. 
 
 Mark the babe 
 Not long accustomed to this breathing world ; 
 One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, 
 Though yet irrational of soul, to grasp 
 With tiny finger — to let fall a tear ; 
 And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, 
 To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem, 
 The outward functions of intelligent man ; 
 A grave proficient in amusive feats 
 Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 
 His expectations, and announce his claims 
 To that inheritance which millions rue 
 That they were ever born to ! In due time 
 A day of solemn ceremonial comes ; 
 When they, who for this Minor hold in trust 
 Rights that transcend the loftiest heritage 
 Of mere humanity, present their Charge, 
 For this occasion daintily adorned, 
 At the baptismal font. And when the pure 
 And consecrating element hath cleansed 
 The original stain, the child is there received 
 Into the second ark, Christ's church, with trust 
 That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall float 
 Over the billows of this troublesome world 
 To the fair land of everlasting life. 
 Corrupt affections, covetous desires, 
 1 Are all renounced ; high as the thought of man 
 Can carry virtue, virtue is professed ; 
 A dedication made, a promise given 
 For due provision to control and guide, 
 ' And unremitting progress to ensure 
 In holiness and truth." 
 
 " You cannot blame," 
 Here interposing fervently I said, 
 ;" Rites which attest that Man by nature lies 
 Bedded for good and evil in a gulf 
 Fearfully low ; nor will your judgment scorn 
 Those services, whereby attempt is made 
 To lift the creature toward that eminence 
 On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 
 He stood ; or if not so, whose top serene 
 lAt least he feels 'tis given him to descry ; 
 iNot without aspirations, evermore 
 'Returning, and injunctions from within 
 Doubt to cast off and weariness ; in trust 
 ,That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost, 
 
 May be, through pains and persevering hope, 
 
 Recovered ; or, if hitherto unknown, 
 
 Lies within reach, and one day shall be gained." 
 
 " I blame them not," he calmly answered — "no ; 
 The outward ritual and established forms 
 With which communities of men invest 
 These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows 
 To which the lips give public utterance 
 Are both a natural process; and by me 
 Shall pass uncensured ; though the issue prove, 
 Bringing from age to age its own reproach, 
 Incongruous, impotent, and blank. — But, oh ! 
 If to be weak is to be wretched — miserable, 
 As the lost Angel by a human voice 
 Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind, 
 Far better not to move at all than move 
 By impulse sent from such illusive power,— 
 That finds and cannot fasten down ; that grasps 
 And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps ; 
 That tempts, emboldens — for a time sustains, 
 And then betrays ; accuses and inflicts 
 Remorseless punishment ; and so retreads 
 The inevitable circle : better far 
 Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace, 
 By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed ! 
 
 Philosophy ! and thou more vaunted name 
 Religion ! with thy statelier retinue, 
 Faith, Hope, and Charity — from the visible world 
 Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er ye find 
 Of safest guidance or of firmest trust — 
 The torch, the star, the anchor ; nor except 
 The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
 The generations of mankind have knelt 
 Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, 
 And through that conflict seeking rest^of you, 
 High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask, 
 Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky 
 In faint reflection of infinitude 
 Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet 
 A subterraneous magazine of bones, 
 In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid, 
 Where are your triumphs? your dominion where? 
 And in what age admitted and confirmed ? 
 — Not for a happy land do I enquire, 
 Island or grove, that hides a blessed few 
 Who, with obedience willing and sincere, 
 To your serene authorities conform ; 
 But whom, I ask, of individual Souls, 
 Have ye withdrawn from passion's crooked ways, 
 Inspired, and thoroughly fortified?— If the heart 
 Could be inspected to its inmost folds 
 By sight undazzled with the glare of praise, 
 
574 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Who shall he named — in the resplendent line 
 Of sages, martyrs, confessors — the man 
 Whom the best might of faith, wherever fix'd, 
 For one day's little compass, has preserved 
 From painful and discreditable shocks 
 Of contradiction, from some vague desire 
 Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse 
 To some unsanctioned fear?" 
 
 " If this be so, 
 And Man," said I, " be in his noblest shape 
 Thus pitiably infirm ; then, he who made, 
 And who shall judge the creature, will forgive. 
 — Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint 
 Is all too true ; and surely not misplaced : 
 For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such 
 
 thoughts 
 Rise to the notice of a serious mind 
 By natural exhalation. With the dead 
 In their repose, the living in their mirth, 
 Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 
 Of smooth and solemnized complacencies, 
 By which, on Christian lands, from age to age 
 Profession mocks performance. Earth is sick, 
 And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 
 Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk 
 Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 
 And social neighbourhood ; look we to ourselves ; 
 A light of duty shines on every day 
 For all ; and yet how few are warmed or cheered ! 
 How few who mingle with their fellow-men 
 And still remain self-governed, and apart, 
 Like this our honoured Friend ; and thence acquire 
 Right to expect his vigorous decline, 
 That promises to the end a blest old age ! " 
 
 " Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed 
 The Solitary, " in the life of man, 
 If to the poetry of common speech 
 Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 
 A true reflection of the circling year, 
 With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is there, 
 In spite of many a rough untoward blast, 
 Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers ; 
 Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day, 
 That ought to follow faithfully expressed ? 
 And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit. 
 Where is she imaged ? hi what favoured clime 
 Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence ? 
 — Yet, while the better part is missed, the worse 
 In man's autumnal season is set forth 
 With a resemblance not to be denied, 
 And that contents him ; bowers that hear no more 
 The voice of gladness, less and less supply 
 Of outward sunshine and internal warmth ; 
 
 And, with this change, sharp air and falling 
 Foretelling aged Winter's desolate sway. 
 
 How gay the habitations that bedeck 
 This fertile valley ! Not a house but seems 
 To give assurance of content within ; 
 Embosomed happiness, and placid love ; 
 As if the sunshine of the day were met 
 With answering brightness in the hearts of all 
 Who walk this favoured ground. But chance- 
 regards, 
 And notice forced upon incurious ears ; 
 These, if these only, acting in despite 
 Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 
 On humble life, forbid the judging mind 
 To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 
 And noiseless commonwealth. The simple race 
 Of mountaineers (by nature's self removed 
 From foul temptations, and by constant care 
 Of a good shepherd tended as themselves 
 Do tend their flocks) partake man's general lot 
 With little mitigation. They escape, 
 Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt ; feel not 
 The tedium of fantastic idleness : 
 Yet life, as with the multitude, with them 
 Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale ; 
 That on the outset wastes its gay desires, 
 Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes, 
 And pleasant interests — for the sequel leaving 
 Old tilings repeated with diminished grace; 
 And all the laboured novelties at best 
 Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 
 Evince the want and weakness whence they spring." 
 
 While in this serious mood we held discourse, 
 The reverend Pastor toward the church-yard gate 
 Approached ; and, with a mild respectful air 
 Of native cordiality, our Friend 
 Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien 
 Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed. 
 Awhile they stood in conference, and I guess 
 That he, who now upon the mossy wall 
 Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish 
 Could have transferred him to the flying clouds, 
 Or the least penetrable hiding-place 
 In his own valley's rocky guardianship. 
 — For me, I looked upon the pair, well pleased : 
 Nature had framed themboth, and both were marked 
 By circumstance, with intermixture fine 
 Of contrast and resemblance. To an oak 
 Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak, 
 Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, 
 One might be likened : flourishing appeared, 
 Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 575 
 
 The other — like a stately sycamore, 
 I That spreads, in gentle pomp, its honied shade. 
 
 A general greeting was exchanged ; and soon 
 The Pastor learned that his approach had given 
 A welcome interruption to discourse 
 ; Grave, and in truth too often sad. — "Is Man 
 A child of hope ? Do generations press 
 On generations, without progress made ? 
 | Halts the individual, ere his hairs be grey, 
 | Perforce ? Are we a creature in whom good 
 Preponderates, or evil ? Doth the will 
 Acknowledge reason's law ? A living power 
 j Is virtue, or no better than a name, 
 i Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound ? 
 ! So that the only substance which remains, 
 (For thus the tenor of complaint hath run) 
 ' Among so many shadows, are the pains 
 And penalties of miserable life, 
 . Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust ! 
 ' — Our cogitations this way have been drawn, 
 i These are the points," the Wanderer said, "on which 
 I Our inquest turns. — Accord, good Sir ! the light 
 i Of your experience to dispel this gloom : 
 \ By your persuasive wisdom shall the heart 
 'That frets, or languishes, be stilled and cheered." 
 
 "Our nature," said the Priest, in mild reply, 
 •"Angels may weigh and fathom : they perceive, 
 With undistempered and unclouded spirit, 
 The object as it is ; but, for ourselves, 
 i That speculative height we may not reach. 
 iThe good and evil are our own ; and we 
 Are that which we would contemplate from far. 
 'Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain — 
 Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep — 
 As virtue's self; like virtue is beset 
 With snares ; tried, tempted, subject to decay. 
 jLove, admiration, fear, desire, and hate, 
 IBlind were we without these : through these alone 
 Are capable to notice or discern 
 Or to record ; we judge, but cannot be 
 (Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast, 
 /Reason, best reason, is to imperfect man 
 jAn effort only, and a noble aim ; 
 A crown, an attribute of sovereign power, 
 ■Still to be courted — never to be won. 
 —Look forth, or each man dive into himself ; 
 iWhat sees he but a creature too perturbed ; 
 Irhat is transported to excess ; that yearns, 
 IRegrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much ; 
 Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils ; 
 'Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair ? 
 jrhus comprehension fails, and truth is missed ; 
 
 Thus darkness and delusion round our path 
 Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury lurks 
 Within the very faculty of sight. 
 
 Yet for the general purposes of faith 
 In Providence, for solace and support, 
 We may not doubt that who can best subject 
 The will to reason's law, can strictliest live 
 And act in that obedience, he shall gain 
 The clearest apprehension of those truths, 
 Which unassisted reason's utmost power 
 Is too infirm to reach. But, waiving this, 
 And our regards confining within bounds 
 Of less exalted consciousness, through which 
 The very multitude are free to range, 
 We safely may affirm that human life 
 Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
 Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, 
 Or a forbidden tract of cheerless view ; 
 Even as the same is looked at, or approached. 
 Thus, when in changeful April fields are white 
 With new-fallen snow, if from the sullen north 
 Your walk conduct you hither, ere the sun 
 Hath gained his noontide height, this churchyard, 
 
 filled 
 With mounds transversely lying side by side 
 From east to west, before you will appear 
 An unillumined, blank, and dreary, plain, 
 With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom 
 Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back ; 
 Look, from the quarter whence the lord of light, 
 Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense 
 His beams ; which, unexcluded in their fall, 
 Upon the southern side of every grave 
 Have gently exercised a melting power ; 
 Tlien will a vernal prospect greet your eye, 
 All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright, 
 Hopeful and cheerful : — vanished is the pall 
 That overspread and chilled the sacred turf, 
 Vam'shed or hidden ; and the whole domain, 
 To some, too lightly minded, might appear 
 A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. 
 — This contrast, not unsuitable to life, 
 Is to that other state more apposite, 
 Death and its two-fold aspect ! wintry — one, 
 Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out ; 
 The other, which the ray divine hath touched, 
 Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring." 
 
 " We see, then, as we feel," the Wanderer thus 
 With a complacent animation spake, 
 " And in your judgment, Sir ! the mind's repose 
 On evidence is not to be ensured 
 By act of naked reason. Moral truth 
 
576 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Is no mechanic structure, built by rule ; 
 
 And which, once built, retains a stedfast shape 
 
 And undisturbed proportions ; but a thing 
 
 Subject, you deem, to vital accidents ; 
 
 And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives, 
 
 Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose head 
 
 Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere 
 
 I re-salute these sentiments confirmed 
 
 By your authority. But how acquire 
 
 The inward principle that gives effect 
 
 To outward argument ; the passive will 
 
 Meek to admit ; the active energy, 
 
 Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 
 
 To keep and cherish ? how shall man unite 
 
 With self-forgetting tenderness of heart 
 
 An earth-despising dignity of soul ? 
 
 Wise in that union, and without it blind ! " 
 
 " The way," said I, u to court, if not obtain 
 The ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright ; 
 This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you 
 Declared at large ; and by what exercise 
 From visible nature, or the inner self 
 Power may be trained, and renovation brought 
 To those who need the gift. But, after all, 
 Is aught so certain as that man is doomed 
 To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance ? 
 The natural roof of that dark house in which 
 His soul is pent ! How little can be known — 
 This is the wise man's sigh ; how far we err — 
 This is the good man's not unfrequent pang ! 
 And they perhaps err least, the lowly class 
 Whom a benign necessity compels 
 To follow reason's least ambitious course ; 
 Such do I mean who, unperplexed by doubt, 
 And unincited by a wish to look 
 Into high objects farther than they may, 
 Pace to and fro, from morn till even-tide, 
 The narrow avenue of daily toil 
 For daily bread." 
 
 " Yes," buoyantly exclaimed 
 The pale Recluse — " praise to the sturdy plough, 
 And patient spade ; praise to the simple crook, 
 And ponderous loom — resounding while it holds 
 Body and mind in one captivity ; 
 And let the light mechanic tool be hailed 
 With honour ; which, encasing by the power 
 Of long companionship, the artist's hand, 
 Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves, 
 From a too busy commerce with the heart ! 
 — Inglorious implements of craft and toil, 
 Both ye that shape and build, and ye that force, 
 By slow solicitation, earth to yield 
 Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
 
 With wise reluctance ; you would I extol, 
 Not for gross good alone which ye produce, 
 But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife 
 Of proofs and reasons ye preclude — in those 
 Who to your dull society are born, 
 And with their humble birthright rest content. 
 — Would I had ne'er renounced it ! " 
 
 A slight flush 
 Of moral anger previously had tinged 
 The old Man's cheek ; but, at this closing turn 
 Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, 
 " That which we feel we utter ; as we think 
 So have we argued ; reaping for our pains 
 No visible recompense. For our relief 
 You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
 " Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
 Your further help ? The mine of real life 
 Dig for us ; and present us, in the shape 
 Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains 
 Fruitless as those of aery alchemists, 
 Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies 
 Around us a domain where you have long 
 Watched both the outward course and inner 
 
 heart : 
 Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts ; 
 For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what man 
 He is who cultivates yon hanging field ; 
 What qualities of mind she bears, who comes, 
 For morn and evening service, with her pail, 
 To that green pasture ; place before our sight 
 The family who dwell within yon house 
 Fenced round with glittering laurel ; or in that 
 Below, from which the curling smoke ascends. 
 Or rather, as we stand on holy earth, 
 And have the dead around us, take from them 
 Your instances ; for they are both best known, 
 And by frail man most equitably judged. 
 Epitomise the life ; pronounce, you can, 
 Authentic epitaphs on some of these 
 Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought, 
 Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet : 
 So, by your records, may our doubts be solved ; 
 And so, not searching higher, we may learn 
 To prize the breath we share with human kind ; 
 And look upon the dust of man with awe." 
 
 The Priest replied — " An office you impose 
 For which peculiar requisites are mine ; 
 Yet much, I feel, is wanting — else the task- 
 Would be most grateful. True indeed it is 
 That they whom death has hidden from our sight 
 Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with these 
 The future cannot contradict the past : 
 Mortality's last exercise and proof 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 577 
 
 Is undergone ; the transit made that shows 
 The very Soul, revealed as she departs. 
 Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, 
 Ere we descend into these silent vaults, 
 One picture from the living. 
 
 You behold, 
 High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark 
 With stony barrenness, a shining speck 
 Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower 
 Brush it away, or cloud pass over it ; 
 I And such it might be deemed — a sleeping sunbeam ; 
 ! But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground, 
 
 Cut off, an island in the dusky waste ; 
 : And that attractive brightness is its own. 
 I The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt 
 
 Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 
 i The tiller's hand, a hermit might have chosen, 
 , For opportunity presented, thence 
 Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land 
 And ocean, and look down upon the works, 
 The habitations, and the ways of men, 
 Himself unseen ! But no tradition tells 
 | That ever hermit dipped his maple dish 
 ' In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields ; 
 : And no such visionary views belong 
 \ To those who occupy and till the ground, 
 ! High on that mountain where they long have dwelt 
 I A wedded pair in childless solitude. 
 ' A house of stones collected on the spot, 
 [ By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front, 
 ! Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 
 Of birch-trees waves over the chimney top ; 
 | A rough abode — in colour, shape, and size, 
 ' Such as in unsafe times of border-war 
 j Might have been wished for and contrived, to elude 
 The eye of roving plunderer — for their need 
 ' Suffices ; and unshaken bears the assault 
 i Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South-west 
 t In anger blowing from the distant sea. 
 ! — Alone within her solitary hut ; 
 i There, or within the compass of her fields, 
 At any moment may the Dame be found, 
 True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest 
 i And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles 
 I By intermingled work of house and field 
 The summer's day, and winter's ; with success 
 1 Not equal, but sufficient to maintain, 
 < Even at the worst, a smooth stream of content, 
 Until the expected hour at which her Mate 
 1 From the far-distant quarry's vault returns ; 
 I And by his converse crowns a silent day 
 I With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mind, 
 | In scale of culture, few among my flock 
 J Hold lower rank than this sequestered pair : 
 
 But true humility descends from heaven ; 
 
 And that best gift of heaven hath fallen on them ; 
 
 Abundant recompense for every want. 
 
 — Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these ! 
 
 Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear 
 
 The voice of wisdom whispering scripture texts 
 
 For the mind's government, or temper's peace ; 
 
 And recommending for their mutual need, 
 
 Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity !" 
 
 " Much was I pleased," the grey-haired Wanderer 
 
 said, 
 " When to those shining fields our notice first 
 You turned ; and yet more pleased have from your 
 
 lips 
 Gathered this fair report of them who dwell 
 In that retirement ; whither, by such course 
 Of evil hap and good as oft awaits 
 A tired way-faring man, once / was brought 
 While traversing alone yon mountain pass. 
 Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell, 
 And night succeeded with unusual gloom, 
 So hazardous that feet and hands became 
 Guides better than mine eyes— until a light 
 High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, 
 For human habitation ; but I longed 
 To reach it, destitute of other hope. 
 I looked with steadiness as sailors look 
 On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp, 
 And saw the light — now fixed — and shifting now — 
 Not like a dancing meteor, but in line 
 Of never- varying motion, to and fro. 
 It is no night-fire of the naked hills, 
 Thought I — some friendly covert must be near. 
 With this persuasion thitherward my steps 
 I turn, and reach at last the guiding light ; 
 Joy to myself ! but to the heart of her 
 Who there was standing on the open hill, 
 (The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath 
 
 praised) 
 Alarm and disappointment ! The alarm 
 Ceased, when she learned through what mishap I 
 
 came, 
 And by what help had gained those distant fields. 
 Drawn from her cottage, on that aery height, 
 Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood, 
 Or paced the ground — to guide her Husband home, 
 By that unwearied signal, kenned afar ; 
 An anxious duty ! which the lofty site, 
 Traversed but by a few irregular paths, 
 Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 
 Detains him after his accustomed hour 
 Till night lies black upon the ground. ' But come, 
 Come,' said the Matron, ' to our poor abode ; 
 p p 
 
578 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Those dark rocks hide it !' Entering, I beheld 
 A blazing fire — beside a cleanly hearth 
 Sate down ; and to her office, with leave asked, 
 The Dame returned. 
 
 Or ere that glowing pile 
 Of mountain turf required the builder's hand 
 Its wasted splendour to repair, the door 
 Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks, 
 Her Helpmate following. Hospitable fare, 
 Frank conversation, made the evening's treat : 
 Need a bewildered traveller wish for more ? 
 But more was given ; I studied as we sate 
 By the bright fire, the good Man's form, and face 
 Not less than beautiful ; an open brow 
 Of undisturbed humanity ; a cheek 
 Suffused with something of a feminine hue ; 
 Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard ; 
 But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, 
 Expression slowly varying, that evinced 
 A tardy apprehension. From a fount 
 Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, 
 But honoured once, those features and that mien 
 May have descended, though I see them here. 
 In such a man, so gentle and subdued, 
 Withal so graceful in his gentleness, 
 A race illustrious for heroic deeds, 
 Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
 This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld 
 By sundry recollections of such fall 
 From high to low, ascent from low to high, 
 As books record, and even the careless mind 
 Cannot but notice among men and things) 
 Went with me to the place of my repose. 
 
 Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of day, 
 I yet had risen too late to interchange 
 A morning salutation with my Host, 
 Gone forth already to the far-off seat 
 Of his day's work. ' Three dark mid-winter 
 
 months 
 ' Pass,' said the Matron, ' and I never see, 
 ' Save when the sabbath brings its kind release, 
 i My Helpmate's face by light of day. He quits 
 ' His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 
 ' And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we gain 
 
 the bread 
 ' For which we pray ; and for the wants provide 
 ' Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 
 ' Companions have I many ; many friends, 
 ' Dependants, comforters — my wheel, my fire, 
 ' All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear, 
 ' The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood, 
 ' And the wild birds that gather round my porch. 
 ' This honest sheep-dog's countenance I read ; 
 
 ' With him can talk ; nor blush to waste a word 
 ' On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 
 ' And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds 
 ' Care not for me, he lingers round my door, 
 ' And makes me pastime when our tempers suit ; — 
 ' But, above all, my thoughts are my support, 
 'My comfort: — would that they were of ten er fixed 
 ' On what, for guidance in the way that leads 
 ' To heaven, I know, by my Redeemer taught.' 
 The Matron ended — nor could I forbear 
 To exclaim — ' happy ! yielding to the law 
 Of these privations, richer in the main ! — 
 While thankless thousands are opprest and clogged 
 By ease and leisure ; by the very wealth 
 And pride of opportunity made poor ; 
 While tens of thousands falter in their path, 
 And sink, through utter want of cheering light ; 
 For you the hours of labour do not flag ; 
 For you each evening hath its shining star, 
 And every sabbath-day its golden sun.' " 
 
 u Yes ! " said the Solitary with a smile 
 That seemed to break from an expanding heart, 
 " The untutored bird may found, and so construct, 
 And with such soft materials line, her nest 
 Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake, 
 That the thorns wound her not ; they only guard. 
 Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts 
 Of happy instinct which the woodland bird 
 Shares with her species, nature's grace sometimes 
 Upon the individual doth confer, 
 Among her higher creatures born and trained 
 To use of reason. And, I own that, tired 
 Of the ostentatious world — a swelling stage 
 With empty actions and vain passions stuffed, 
 And from the private struggles of mankind 
 Hoping far less than I could wish to hope, 
 Far less than once I trusted and believed — 
 I love to hear of those, who, not contending 
 Nor summoned to contend for virtue's prize, 
 Miss not the humbler good at which they aim, 
 Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 
 The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 
 Into their contraries the petty plagues 
 And hindrances with which they stand beset. 
 In early youth, among my native hills, 
 I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed 
 A few small crofts of stone-encumbered ground ; 
 Masses of every shape and size, that lay 
 Scattered about under the mouldering walls 
 Of a rough precipice ; and some, apart, 
 In quarters unobnoxious to such chance, 
 As if the moon had showered them down in spite. 
 But he repined not. Though the plough was seared 
 
THE PASTOR. 
 
 579 
 
 By these obstructions, ' round the shady stones 
 A fertilising moisture,' said the Swain, 
 c Gathers, and is preserved ; and feeding dews 
 ; 'And damps, through all the droughty summer 
 day 
 ' From out their substance issuing, maintain 
 < Herbage that never fails : no grass springs up 
 
 ■ ' So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine ! ' 
 But thinly sown these natures ; rare, at least, 
 The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 
 
 ! That yields such kindly product. He, whose bed 
 ' Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner 
 
 Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell 
 
 Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he, 
 i If living now, could otherwise report 
 
 Of rustic loneliness : that grey-haired Orphan — 
 
 So call him, for humanity to him 
 
 ■ No parent was — feelingly could have told, 
 : In life, in death, what solitude can breed 
 
 Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice ; 
 , Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. 
 ! — But your compliance, Sir ! with our request 
 
 My words too long have hindered." 
 
 Undeterred, 
 
 Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks, 
 ', In no ungracious opposition, given 
 
 To the confiding spirit of his own 
 ; Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said, 
 
 Around him looking ; " Where shall I begin ? 
 ! Who shall be first selected from my flock 
 ! Gathered together in their peaceful fold ? " 
 
 He paused — and having lifted up his eyes 
 | To the pure heaven, he cast them down again 
 ' Upon the earth beneath his feet ; and spake : — 
 
 * To a mysteriously-united pair 
 ' This place is consecrate ; to Death and Life, 
 
 And to the best affections that proceed 
 , From their conjunction ; consecrate to faith 
 
 In him who bled for man upon the cross ; 
 
 Hallowed to revelation ; and no less 
 
 To reason's mandates ; and the hopes divine 
 
 Of pure imagination ; — above all, 
 \ To charity, and love, that have provided, 
 
 Within these precincts, a capacious bed 
 
 And receptacle, open to the good 
 1 And evil, to the just and the unjust ; 
 1 In which they find an equal resting-place : 
 
 Even as the multitude of kindred brooks 
 1 And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale, 
 i Whether their course be turbulent or smooth, 
 i Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 
 
 ■ Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 
 And end their journey in the same repose ! 
 
 And blest are they who sleep ; and we that know, 
 While in a spot like this we breathe and walk, 
 That all beneath us by the wings are covered 
 Of motherly humanity, outspread 
 And gathering all within their tender shade, 
 Though loth and slow to come ! A battle-field, 
 In stillness left when slaughter is no more, 
 With this compared, makes a strange spectacle ! 
 A dismal prospect yields the wild shore strewn 
 With wrecks, and trod by feet of young and old 
 Wandering about in miserable search 
 Of friends or kindred, whom the angry sea 
 Restores not to their prayer! Ah! who would 
 
 think 
 That all the scattered subjects which compose 
 Earth's melancholy vision through the space 
 Of all her climes — these wretched, these depraved, 
 To virtue lost, insensible of peace, 
 From the delights of charity cut off, 
 To pity dead, the oppressor and the opprest ; 
 Tyrants who utter the destroying word, 
 And slaves who will consent to be destroyed — 
 Were of one species with the sheltered few, 
 Who, with a dutiful and tender hand, 
 Lodged, in a dear appropriated spot, 
 This file of infants ; some that never breathed 
 The vital air ; others, which, though allowed 
 That privilege, did yet expire too soon, 
 Or with too brief a warning, to admit 
 Administration of the holy rite 
 That lovingly consigns the babe to the arms 
 Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. 
 These that in trembling hope are laid apart; 
 And the besprinkled nursling, unrequired 
 Till he begins to smile upon the breast 
 That feeds him ; and the tottering little-one 
 Taken from air and sunshine when the rose 
 Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek ; 
 The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy ; the bold 
 
 youth 
 Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid 
 Smitten while all the promises of life 
 Are opening round her ; those of middle age, 
 Cast down while confident in strength they stand, 
 Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might seem, 
 And more secure, by very weight of all 
 That, for support, rests on them ; the decayed 
 And burthensome ; and lastly, that poor few 
 Whose light of reason is with age extinct ; 
 The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last, 
 The earliest summoned and the longest spared — 
 Are here deposited, with tribute paid 
 Various, but unto each some tribute paid ; 
 As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, 
 p p 2 
 
580 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Society were touched with kind concern, 
 And gentle ' Nature grieved, that one should die ;' 
 Or, if the change demanded no regret, 
 Observed the liberating stroke — and blessed. 
 
 And whence that tribute? wherefore these 
 regards i 
 Not from the naked Heart alone of Man 
 (Though claiming high distinction upon earth 
 As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears, 
 His own peculiar utterance for distress 
 Or gladness) — No," the philosophic Priest 
 Continued, " 'tis not in the vital seat 
 Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
 From the pure soul, the soul sublime and pure ; 
 With her two faculties of eye and ear, 
 The one by which a creature, whom his sins 
 Have rendered prone, can upward look to heaven; 
 The other that empowers him to perceive 
 The voice of Deity, on height and plain, 
 Whispering those truths in stillness, which the 
 
 Word, 
 To the four quarters of the winds, proclaims. 
 
 Not without such assistance could the use 
 
 Of these benign observances prevail : 
 
 Thus are they born, thus fostered, thus maintained; 
 
 And by the care prospective of our wise 
 
 Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks 
 
 The fluctuation and decay of things, 
 
 Embodied and established these high truths 
 
 In solemn institutions : — men convinced 
 
 That life is love and immortality, 
 
 The being one, and one the element. 
 
 There lies the channel, and original bed, 
 
 From the beginning, hollowed out and scooped 
 
 For Man's affections — else betrayed and lost, 
 
 And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite ! 
 
 This is the genuine course, the aim, and end 
 
 Of prescient reason ; all conclusions else 
 
 Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse. 
 
 The faith partaking of those holy times, 
 
 Life, I repeat, is energy of love 
 
 Divine or human ; exercised in pain, 
 
 In strife, and tribulation ; and ordained, 
 
 If so approved and sanctified, to pass, 
 
 Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy." 
 
 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE 
 MOUNTAINS. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Poet's Address to the State and Church of England— The 
 Pastor not inferior to the ancient Worthies of the 
 Church — He begins his Narratives with an instance of 
 unrequited Love— Anguish of mind subdued, and how 
 —The lonely Miner — An instance of perseverance — 
 Which leads by contrast to an example of abused talents, 
 irresolution, and weakness— Solitary, applying this 
 covertly to his own case, asks for an instance of some 
 Stranger, whose dispositions may have led him to end 
 his days here— Pastor, in answer, gives an account of 
 the harmonising influence of Solitude upon two men of 
 opposite principles, who had encountered agitations in 
 public life— The rule by which Peace may be obtained 
 expressed, and where— Solitary hints at an overpower- 
 ing Fatality— Answer of the Pastor— What subjects he 
 will exclude from his Narratives— Conversation upon 
 this— Instance of an unamiable character, a Female 
 and why given— Contrasted with this, a meek sufferer, 
 from unguarded and betrayed love— Instance of heavier 
 guilt, and its consequences to the Offender— With this 
 instance of a Marriage Contract broken is contrasted 
 one of a Widower, evidencing his faithful affection 
 towards his deceased wife by his care of their female 
 Children. 
 
 Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped — to gird 
 An English Sovereign's brow ! and to the throne 
 Whereon he sits ! Whose deep foundations He 
 In veneration and the people's love ; 
 Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 
 ■ — Hail to the State of England ! And conjoin 
 With this a salutation as devout, 
 Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church ; 
 Founded in truth ; by blood of Martyrdom 
 Cemented ; by the hands of Wisdom reared 
 In beauty of holiness, with ordered pomp, 
 Decent and unreproved. The voice, that greets 
 The majesty of both, shall pray for both ; 
 That, mutually protected and sustained, 
 They may endure long as the sea surrounds 
 This favoured Land, or sunshine warms her soil. 
 
 And 0, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains ! 
 Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers, 
 And spires whose ' silent finger points to heaven ;' 
 Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
 Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud 
 Of the dense air, which town or city breeds 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 581 
 
 To intercept the sun's glad beams — may ne'er 
 
 That true succession fail of English hearts, 
 
 Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive 
 
 What in those holy structures ye possess 
 
 Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
 
 Of pious sentiment diffused afar, 
 
 And human charity, and social love. 
 
 . — Thus never shall the indignities of time 
 
 Approach their reverend graces, unopposed ; 
 
 Nor shall the elements be free to hurt 
 
 Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
 
 Of bigot zeal madly to overturn ; 
 
 And, if the desolating hand of war 
 
 Spare them, they shall continue to bestow, 
 
 Upon the thronged abodes of busy men 
 
 (Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind 
 
 Exclusively with transitory things) 
 
 An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 
 
 Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds. 
 
 The Poet, fostering for his native land 
 Such hope, entreats that servants may abound 
 Of those pure altars worthy ; ministers 
 Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain 
 Superior, insusceptible of pride, 
 And by ambitious longings undisturbed; 
 Men, whose delight is where their duty leads 
 Or fixes them ; whose least distinguished day 
 Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 
 Which makes the sabbath lovely in the sight 
 Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. 
 — And, as on earth it is the doom of truth 
 To be perpetually attacked by foes 
 Open or covert, be that priesthood still, 
 For her defence, replenished with a band 
 Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts 
 Thoroughly disciplined ; nor (if in course 
 Of the revolving world's disturbances 
 Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert ! 
 To meet such trial) from their spiritual sires 
 Degenerate ; who, constrained to wield the sword 
 Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed 
 With hostile din, and combating in sight 
 Of angry umpires, partial and unjust ; 
 And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire, 
 So to declare the conscience satisfied : 
 Nor for their bodies would accept release ; 
 But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed 
 With their last breath, from out the smouldering 
 
 ilame, 
 The faith which they by diligence had earned, 
 Or, through illuminating grace, received, 
 For their dear countrymen, and all mankind. 
 high example, constancy divine ! 
 
 Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal 
 And from the sanctity of elder times 
 Not deviating, — a priest, the like of whom, 
 If multiplied, and in their stations set, 
 Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land 
 Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 
 Before me stood that day ; on holy ground 
 Fraught with the relics of mortality, 
 Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
 To lofty raised ; and to the highest, last ; 
 The head and mighty paramount of truths, — 
 Immortal life, in never-fading worlds, 
 For mortal creatures, conquered and secured. 
 
 That basis laid, those principles of faith 
 Announced, as a preparatory act 
 Of reverence done to the spirit of the place, 
 The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground ; 
 Not, as before, Hke one oppressed with awe, 
 But with a mild and social cheerfulness ; 
 Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. 
 
 " At morn or eve, in your retired domain, 
 Perchance you not unfrequently have marked 
 A Visitor — in quest of herbs and flowers ; 
 Too delicate employ, as would appear, 
 For one, who, though of drooping mien, had yet 
 From nature's kindliness received a frame 
 Robust as ever rural labour bred." 
 
 The Solitary answered : " Such a Form 
 Full well I recollect. We often crossed 
 Each other's path ; but, as the Intruder seemed 
 Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, 
 And I as willingly did cherish mine, 
 We met, and passed, hke shadows. I have heard, 
 From my good Host, that being crazed in brain 
 By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks, 
 Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 
 In hope to find some virtuous herb of power 
 To cure his malady ! " 
 
 The Vicar smiled, — 
 " Alas ! before to-morrow's sun goes down 
 His habitation will be here : for him 
 That open grave is destined." 
 
 " Died he then 
 Of pain and grief?" the Solitary asked, 
 "Do not believe it ; never could that be !" 
 
 " He loved," the Vicar answered, " deeply loved, 
 Loved fondly, truly, fervently ; and dared 
 At length to tell his love, but sued in vain ; 
 Rejected, yea repelled ; and, if with scorn 
 Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 'tis but 
 
582 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 A high-prized plume which female Beauty wears 
 
 In wantonness of conquest, or puts on 
 
 To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 
 
 Humiliation, when no longer free. 
 
 TlMt he could hrook, and glory in ;— but when 
 
 The tidings came that she whom he had wooed 
 
 Was wedded to another, and his heart 
 
 Was forced to rend away its only hope ; 
 
 Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth 
 
 An object worthier of regard than he, 
 
 In the transition of that bitter hour ! 
 
 Lost was she, lost ; nor could the Sufferer say 
 
 That in the act of preference he had been 
 
 Unjustly dealt with ; but the Maid was gone ! 
 
 Had vanished from his prospects and desires ; 
 
 Not by translation to the heavenly choir 
 
 Who have put off their mortal spoils— ah no ! 
 
 She lives another's wishes to complete, — 
 
 ' Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 
 
 < His lot and hers, as misery must be mine ! ' 
 
 Such was that strong concussion ; but the Man, 
 Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some huge oak 
 By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 
 The stedfast quiet natural to a mind 
 Of composition gentle and sedate, 
 And, in its movements, circumspect and slow. 
 To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, 
 O'er which enchained by science he had loved 
 To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself, 
 Resolved to quell his pain, and search for truth 
 With keener appetite (if that might be) 
 And closer industry. Of what ensued 
 Within the heart no outward sign appeared 
 Till a betraying sickliness was seen 
 To tinge his cheek ; and through his frame it crept 
 With slow mutation unconcealable ; 
 Such universal change as autumn makes 
 In the fair body of a leafy grove 
 Discoloured, then divested. 
 
 'Tis affirmed 
 By poets skilled in nature's secret ways 
 That Love will not submit to be controlled 
 By mastery : — and the good Man lacked not friends 
 Who strove to instil this truth into his mind, 
 A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed. 
 ' Go to the hills,' said one, ' remit a while 
 ' This baneful diligence : — at early morn 
 ' Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods ; 
 ' And, leaving it to others to foretell, 
 ' By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 
 ' Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed, 
 ' Do you, for your own benefit, construct 
 ' A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow 
 
 ' Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and peace/ 
 
 The attempt was made ; — 'tis needless to report 
 
 How hopelessly ; but innocence is strong, 
 
 And an entire simplicity of mind 
 
 A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven ; 
 
 That opens, for such sufferers, relief 
 
 Within the soul, fountains of grace divine ; 
 
 And doth commend their weakness and disease 
 
 To Nature's care, assisted in her office 
 
 By all the elements that round her wait 
 
 To generate, to preserve, and to restore ; 
 
 And by her beautiful array of forms 
 
 Shedding sweet influence from above ; or pure 
 
 Delight exhaling from the ground they tread." 
 
 " Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaimed 
 The Wanderer, " I infer that he was healed 
 By perseverance in the course prescribed." 
 
 " You do not err : the powers, that had been lost 
 By slow degrees, were gradually regained ; 
 The fluttering nerves composed ; the beating heart 
 In rest established ; and the jarring thoughts 
 To harmony restored. — But yon dark mould 
 Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength, 
 Hastily smitten by a fever's force ; 
 Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused 
 Time to look back with tenderness on her 
 Whom he had loved in passion ; and to send 
 Some farewell words — with one, but one, request ; 
 That, from his dying hand, she would accept 
 Of his possessions that which most he prized ; 
 A book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants, 
 By his own hand disposed with nicest care, 
 In undecaying beauty were preserved ; 
 Mute register, to him, of time and place, 
 And various fluctuations in the breast ; 
 To her, a monument of faithful love 
 Conquered, and in tranquillity retained ! 
 
 Close to his destined habitation, lies 
 One who achieved a humbler victory, 
 Though marvellous in its kind. A place there is 
 High in these mountains, that allured a band 
 Of keen adventurers to unite their pains 
 In search of precious ore : they tried, were foiled— 
 And all desisted, all, save him alone. 
 He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts, 
 And trusting only to his own weak hands, 
 Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 
 Unseconded, uncountenanced ; then, as time 
 Passed on, while still his lonely efforts found 
 No recompense, derided ; and at length, 
 By many pitied, as insane of mind ; 
 
THE CHURCH- YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 533 
 
 By others dreaded as the luckless thrall 
 
 Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope 
 
 By various mockery of sight and sound ; 
 
 Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed. 
 
 — But when the lord of seasons had matured 
 
 The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years, 
 
 The mountain's entrails offered to his view 
 
 And trembling grasp the long-deferred reward. 
 
 Not with more transport did Columbus greet 
 
 A world, his rich discovery ! But our Swain, 
 
 A very hero till his point was gained, 
 
 Proved all unable to support the weight 
 
 Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked 
 
 With an unsettled liberty of thought, 
 
 Wishes and endless schemes ; by daylight walked 
 
 Giddy and restless ; ever and anon 
 
 Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups ; 
 
 And truly might be said to die of joy ! 
 
 He vanished ; but conspicuous to this day 
 
 The path remains that linked his cottage-door 
 
 To the mine's mouth ; a long and slanting track, 
 
 Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, 
 
 Worn by his daily visits to and from 
 
 The darksome centre of a constant hope. 
 
 This vestige, neither force of beating rain, 
 
 Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw 
 
 j Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away ; 
 
 i And it is named, in memory of the event, 
 
 , The Path of Perseverance." 
 
 " Thou from whom 
 Man has his strength," exclaimed the Wanderer, 
 " oh ! 
 
 j Do thou direct it ! To the virtuous grant 
 The penetrative eye which can perceive 
 
 1 In this blind world the guiding vein of hope ; 
 That, like this Labourer, such may dig their way, 
 ' Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ;' 
 Grant to the wise his firmness of resolve ! " 
 
 " That prayer were not superfluous," said the 
 Priest, 
 "Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust, 
 That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds 
 Within the bosom of her awful pile, 
 Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh, 
 Which wafts that prayer to heaven, is due to all, 
 Wherever laid, who living fell below 
 Their virtue's humbler mark ; a sigh of pain 
 If to the opposite extreme they sank. 
 How would you pity her who yonder rests ; 
 Him, farther off ; the pair, who here are laid ; 
 But, above all, that mixture of earth's mould 
 Whom sight of this green hillock to my mind 
 Recals ! 
 
 He lived not till his locks were nipped 
 By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 
 Before his temples, prematurely forced 
 To mix the manly brown with silver grey, 
 Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 
 Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped 
 The natural crown that sage Experience wears. 
 Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, 
 And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 
 Or could perform ; a zealous actor, hired 
 Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn 
 Into the lists of giddy enterprise — 
 Such was he ; yet, as if within his frame 
 Two several souls alternately had lodged, 
 Two sets of manners could the Youth put on ; 
 And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 
 That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage, 
 Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still 
 As the mute swan that floats adown the stream, 
 Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake, 
 Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf, 
 That flutters on the bough, lighter than he ; 
 And not a flower, that droops in the green shade, 
 More winningly reserved ! If ye enquire 
 How such consummate elegance was bred 
 Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice ; 
 'Twas Nature's will ; who sometimes undertakes, 
 For the reproof of human vanity, 
 Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. 
 Hence, for this Favourite — lavishly endowed 
 With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit, 
 While both, embellishing each other, stood 
 Yet farther recommended by the charm 
 Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song, 
 And skill in letters — every fancy shaped 
 Fair expectations ; nor, when to the world's 
 Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, there 
 Were he and his attainments overlooked, 
 Or scantily rewarded ; but all hopes, 
 Cherished for him, he suffered to depart, 
 Like blighted buds ; or clouds that mimicked land 
 Before the sailor's eye ; or diamond drops 
 That sparkling decked the morning grass ; or aught 
 That was attractive, and hath ceased to be ! 
 
 Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites 
 Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed, 
 Who, by humiliation undeterred, 
 Sought for his weariness a place of rest 
 Within his Father's gates. — Whence came he ? — 
 
 clothed 
 In tattered garb, from hovels where abides 
 Necessity, the stationary host 
 Of vagrant poverty ; from rifted barns 
 
584 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Where no one dwells but the wide-staring owl 
 
 And the owl's prey ; from these bare haunts, to which 
 
 He had descended from the proud saloon, 
 
 He came, the ghost of beauty and of health, 
 
 The wreck of gaiety ! But soon revived 
 
 In strength, in power refitted, he renewed 
 
 His suit to Fortune ; and she smiled again 
 
 Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose, 
 
 Thrice sank as willingly. For he — whose nerves 
 
 Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice 
 
 Softly accompanied the tuneful harp, 
 
 By the nice finger of fair ladies touched 
 
 In glittering halls — was able to derive 
 
 No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
 
 Who happier for the moment — who more blithe 
 
 Than this fallen Spirit? in those dreary holds- 
 
 His talents lending to exalt the freaks 
 
 Of merry-making beggars, — now, provoked 
 
 To laughter multiplied in louder peals 
 
 By his malicious wit ; then, all enchained 
 
 With mute astonishment, themselves to see 
 
 In their own arts outdone, their fame eclipsed, 
 
 As by the very presence of the Fiend 
 
 Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 
 
 For knavish purposes \ The city, too, 
 
 (With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers 
 
 Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 
 
 As there to linger, there to eat his bread, 
 
 Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandishment ; 
 
 Charming the air with skill of hand or voice, 
 
 Listen who would, be wrought upon who might, 
 
 Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay. 
 
 — Such the too frequent tenour of his boast 
 
 In ears that relished the report ; — but all 
 
 Was from his Parents happily concealed ; 
 
 Who saw enough for blame and pitying love. 
 
 They also were permitted to receive 
 
 His last, repentant breath ; and closed his eyes, 
 
 No more to open on that irksome world 
 
 Where he had long existed in the state 
 
 Of a young fowl beneath one mother hatched, 
 
 Though from another sprung, different in kind : 
 
 Where he had lived, and could not cease to live, 
 
 Distracted in propensity ; content 
 
 With neither element of good or ill ; 
 
 And yet in both rejoicing ; man unblest ; 
 
 Of contradictions infinite the slave, 
 
 Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him 
 
 One with himself, and one with them that sleep." 
 
 " 'Tis strange," observed the Solitary, " strange 
 It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 
 That in a land where charity provides 
 For all that can no longer feed themselves, 
 
 A man like this should choose to bring his shame 
 To the parental door ; and with his sighs 
 Infect the air which he had freely breathed 
 In happy infancy. He could not pine, 
 Through lack of converse ; no — he must have found 
 Abundant exercise for thought and speech, 
 In his dividual being, self-reviewed, 
 Self-catechised, self-punished. — Some there are 
 Who, drawing near their final home, and much 
 And daily longing that the same were reached, 
 Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 
 Of kindred mould. — Such haply here are laid ? " 
 
 "Yes," said the Priest, "the Genius of our hills— 
 Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast 
 Round his domain, desirous not alone 
 To keep his own, but also to exclude 
 All other progeny — doth sometimes lure, 
 Even by his studied depth of privacy, 
 The unhappy alien hoping to obtain 
 Concealment, or seduced by wish to find, 
 In place from outward molestation free, 
 Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
 Could I discourse ; but as their stay was brief, 
 So their departure only left behind 
 Fancies, and loose conjectures. Other trace 
 Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair 
 Who, from the pressure of their several fates, 
 Meeting as strangers, in a petty town 
 Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
 Of this far-winding vale, remained as friends 
 True to their choice ; and gave their bones in trust 
 To this loved cemetery, here to lodge 
 With unescutcheoned privacy interred 
 Far from the family vault. — A Chieftain one 
 By right of birth ; within whose spotless breast 
 The fire of ancient Caledonia burned : 
 He, with the foremost whose impatience hailed 
 The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 
 Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost, 
 Aroused his clan ; and, fighting at their head, 
 With his brave sword endeavoured to prevent 
 Culloden's fatal overthrow. Escaped 
 From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores 
 He fled ; and when the lenient hand of time 
 Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gained, 
 For his obscured condition, an obscure 
 Retreat, within tins nook of English ground. 
 
 The other, born in Britain's southern tract, 
 Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed 
 His gentler sentiments of love and hatej 
 There, where they placed them who in conscience 
 prized 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 585 
 
 The new succession, as a line of kings 
 
 Whose oath had virtue to protect the land 
 
 Against the dire assaults of papacy 
 
 And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark 
 
 On the distempered flood of public life, 
 
 And cause for most rare triumph will be thine 
 
 If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand, 
 
 The stream, that bears thee forward, prove not, soon 
 
 Or late, a perilous master. He — who oft, 
 
 Beneath the battlements and stately trees 
 
 That round his mansion cast a sober gloom, 
 
 Had moralised on this, and other truths 
 
 Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied — 
 
 Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh 
 
 Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness, 
 
 When he had crushed a plentiful estate 
 
 By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat 
 
 In Britain's senate. Fruitless was the attempt : 
 
 And while the uproar of that desperate strife 
 
 Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, 
 
 The vanquished Whig, under a borrowed name, 
 
 (For the mere sound and echo of his own 
 
 Haunted him with sensations of disgust 
 
 That he was glad to lose) slunk from the world 
 
 To the deep shade of those untra veiled Wilds ; 
 
 In which the Scottish Laird had long possessed 
 
 An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they met, 
 
 Two doughty champions ; flaming Jacobite 
 
 And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think 
 
 That losses and vexations, less severe 
 
 Than those which they had severally sustained, 
 
 Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 
 
 For his ungrateful cause ; no, — I have heard 
 
 My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm 
 
 Of that small town encountering thus, they filled, 
 
 Daily, its bowling-green with harmless strife ; 
 
 Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church ; 
 
 And vexed the market-place. But in the breasts 
 
 Of these opponents gradually was wrought, 
 
 With little change of general sentiment, 
 
 Such leaning towards each other, that their days 
 
 By choice were spent in constant fellowship ; 
 
 And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, 
 
 Those very bickerings made them love it more. 
 
 A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks 
 This Church- yard was. And, whether they had come 
 Treading their path in sympathy and linked 
 In social converse, or by some short space 
 Discreetly parted to preserve the peace, 
 One spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 
 Over both minds, when they awhile had marked 
 The visible quiet of this holy ground, 
 And breathed its soothing air ; — the spirit of hope 
 
 And saintly magnanimity ; that — spurning 
 
 The field of selfish difference and dispute, 
 
 And every care which transitory things, 
 
 Earth and the kingdoms of the earth, create — 
 
 Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, 
 
 Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarred, 
 
 Which else the Christian virtue might have claimed. 
 
 There five who yet remember here to have seen 
 Their courtly figures, seated on the stump 
 Of an old yew, their favourite resting-place. 
 But as the remnant of the long-lived tree 
 Was disappearing by a swift decay, 
 They, with joint care, determined to erect, 
 Upon its site, a dial, that might stand 
 For public use preserved, and thus survive 
 As their own private monument: for this 
 Was the particular spot, in which they wished 
 (And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) 
 That, undivided, their remains should lie. 
 So, where the mouldered tree had stood, was raised 
 Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of steps 
 That to the decorated pillar lead, 
 A work of art more sumptuous than might seem 
 To suit this place ; yet built in no proud scorn 
 Of rustic homeliness ; they only aimed 
 To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 
 Around the margin of the plate, whereon 
 The shadow falls to note the stealthy hours, 
 Winds an inscriptive legend." — At these words 
 Thither we turned ; and gathered, as we read, 
 The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched : 
 ' Time files ; it is Ms melancholy tash 
 To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes, 
 And re-produce the troubles he destroys. 
 But, while his blindness thus is occupied, 
 Discerning Mortal 1 do thou serve the will 
 Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace, 
 Which the world wants, shall be for thee confirmed / ' 
 
 " Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse," 
 Exclaimed the Sceptic, " and the strain of thought 
 Accords with nature's language ; — the soft voice 
 Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks 
 Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
 If, then, theh- blended influence be not lost 
 Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant, 
 Even upon mine, the more are we required 
 To feel for those among our fellow-men, 
 Who, offering no obeisance to the world, 
 Are yet made desperate by ' too quick a sense 
 Of constant infelicity,' cut off 
 From peace like exiles on some barren rock, 
 Their life's appointed prison ; not more free 
 
586 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Than sentinels, between two armies, set, 
 
 With nothing better, in the chill night air, 
 
 Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say 
 
 why 
 That ancient story of Prometheus chained 
 To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus ; 
 The vulture, the inexhaustible repast 
 Drawn from his vitals \ Say what meant the woes 
 By Tantalus entailed upon his race, 
 And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes? 
 Fictions in form, but in their substance truths, 
 Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men 
 Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. 
 Exchange the shepherd's frock of native grey 
 For robes with regal purple tinged ; convert 
 The crook into a sceptre ; give the pomp 
 Of circumstance ; and here the tragic Muse 
 Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
 Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills, 
 The generations are prepared ; the pangs, 
 The internal pangs, are ready ; the dread strife 
 Of poor humanity's afflicted will 
 Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 
 
 " Though," said the Priest in answer, "these be 
 terms 
 Which a divine philosophy rejects, 
 We, whose established and unfailing trust 
 Is in controlling Providence, admit 
 That, through all stations, human life abounds 
 With mysteries ;— for, if Faith were left untried, 
 How could the might, that lurks within her, then 
 Be shown ? her glorious excellence — that ranks 
 Among the first of Powers and Virtues — proved ? 
 Our system is not fashioned to preclude 
 That sympathy which you for others ask ; 
 And I could tell, not travelling for my theme 
 Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes 
 And strange disasters ; but I pass them by. 
 Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace. 
 — Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat 
 Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight 
 By the deformities of brutish vice : 
 For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face 
 And a coarse outside of repulsive life 
 And unaffecting manners might at once 
 Be recognised by all — " « Ah ! do not think," 
 The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, 
 " Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, 
 (Gain shall I call it ? — gain of what ? — for whom ?) 
 Should breathe a word tending to violate 
 Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for 
 In slight of that forbearance and reserve 
 Which common human-heartedness inspires, 
 
 And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, 
 Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." 
 
 " Time," said the Solitary, "be it far 
 From us to infringe the laws of charity. 
 Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced ; 
 This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this 
 Wisdom enjoins ; but if the thing we seek 
 Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind 
 How, from his lofty throne, the sun can fling 
 Colours as bright on exhalations bred 
 By weedy pool or pestilential swamp, 
 As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, 
 Or the pellucid lake." 
 
 " Small risk," said I, 
 " Of such illusion do we here incur ; 
 Temptation here is none to exceed the truth ; 
 No evidence appears that they who rest 
 Within this ground, were covetous of praise, 
 Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. 
 Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and green, 
 Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge, 
 A heaving surface, almost wholly free 
 From interruption of sepulchral stones, 
 And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf 
 And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust 
 The fingering gleam of their departed fives 
 To oral record, and the silent heart ; 
 Depositories faithful and more kind 
 Than fondest epitaph : for, if those fail, 
 What boots the sculptured tomb 1 And who can 
 
 blame, 
 Who rather would not envy, men that feel 
 This mutual confidence ; if, from such source, 
 The practice flow, — if thence, or from a deep 
 And general humility in death ? 
 Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 
 From disregard of time's destructive power, 
 As only capable to prey on things 
 Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. 
 
 Yet — in less simple districts, where we see 
 Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone 
 In courting notice ; and the ground all paved 
 With commendations of departed worth ; 
 Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent fives, 
 Of each domestic charity fulfilled, 
 And sufferings meekly borne — I, for my part, 
 Though with the silence pleased that here prevails, 
 Among those fair recitals also range, 
 Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. 
 And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
 Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round 
 With such memorials, I have sometimes felt, 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 587 
 
 It was no momentary happiness 
 
 To have one Enclosure where the voice that speaks 
 
 In envy or detraction is not heard ; 
 
 : "Which malice may not enter ; where the traces 
 Of evil inclinations are unknown ; 
 Where love and pity tenderly unite 
 With resignation ; and no jarring tone 
 Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 
 Of amity and gratitude." 
 
 " Thus sanctioned," 
 The Pastor said, " I willingly confine 
 My narratives to subjects that excite 
 Feelings with these accordant ; love, esteem, 
 And admiration ; lifting up a veil, 
 A sunbeam introducing among hearts 
 
 : Retired and covert ; so that ye shall have 
 Clear images before your gladdened eyes 
 
 • Of nature's unambitious underwood, 
 And flowers that prosper in the shade. And 
 
 when 
 I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
 Or fell, those only shall be singled out 
 
 I Upon whose lapse, or error, something more 
 Than brotherly forgiveness may attend ; 
 To such will we restrict our notice, else 
 Better my tongue were mute. 
 
 And yet there are, 
 I feel, good reasons why we should not leave 
 Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
 
 i For, strength to persevere and to support, 
 
 I And energy to conquer and repel — 
 These elements of virtue, that declare 
 
 ', The native grandeur of the human soul — 
 Are oft-times not unprofitably shown 
 
 , In the perverseness of a selfish course : 
 Truth every day exemplified, no less 
 In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream 
 Than in fantastic conqueror's roving camp, 
 Or 'mid the factious senate unappalled 
 Whoe'er may sink, or rise — to sink again, 
 As merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 
 
 There," said the Vicar, pointing as he spake, 
 " A woman rests in peace ; surpassed by few 
 j In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. 
 Tall was her stature ; her complexion dark 
 And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
 Converse with heaven, nor yet deprest towards 
 earth, 
 ' But in projection carried, as she walked 
 j For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes ; 
 i Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought 
 ; Was her broad forehead ; like the brow of one 
 Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare 
 
 Of overpowering light. — While yet a child, 
 She, 'mid the humble flowerets of the vale, 
 Towered like the imperial thistle, not unfurnished 
 With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking 
 To be admired, than coveted and loved. 
 Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen, 
 Over her comrades ; else their simple sports, 
 Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind, 
 Had crossed her only to be shunned with scorn. 
 — Oh ! pang of sorrowful regret for those 
 Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled, 
 That they have lived for harsher servitude, 
 Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
 Such doom was hers ; yet nothing could subdue 
 Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface 
 Those brighter images by books imprest 
 Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
 That occupy their places, and, though oft 
 Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by haze, 
 Are not to be extinguished, nor impaired. 
 
 Two passions, both degenerate, for they both 
 Began in honour, gradually obtained 
 Rule over her, and vexed her daily life ; 
 An unremitting, avaricious thrift ; 
 And a strange thraldom of maternal love, 
 That held her spirit, in its own despite, 
 Bound — by vexation, and regret, and scorn, 
 Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows, 
 And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame con- 
 cealed — 
 To a poor dissolute Son, her only child. 
 — Her wedded days had opened with mishap, 
 Whence dire dependence. What could she perform 
 To shake the burthen off? Ah ! there was felt, 
 Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 
 She mused, resolved, adhered to her resolve ; 
 The hand grew slack in alms -giving, the heart 
 Closed by degrees to charity ; heaven's blessing 
 Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust 
 In ceaseless pains — and strictest parsimony 
 Which sternly hoarded all that could be spared, 
 From each day's need, out of each day's least gain. 
 
 Thus all was re-established, and a pile 
 Constructed, that sufficed for every end, 
 Save the contentment of the builder's mind ; 
 A mind by nature indisposed to aught 
 So placid, so inactive, as content ; 
 A mind intolerant of lasting peace, 
 And cherishing the pang her heart deplored. 
 Dread life of conflict ! which I oft compared 
 To the agitation of a brook that runs 
 Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost 
 
588 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained ; 
 But never to be charmed to gentleness : 
 Its best attainment fits of such repose 
 As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming. 
 
 A sudden illness seized her in the strength 
 Of life's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
 How on her bed of death the Matron lay, 
 To Providence submissive, so she thought; 
 But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon, almost 
 To anger, by the malady that griped 
 Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, 
 As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb 1 
 She prayed, she moaned ; — her husband's sister 
 
 watched 
 Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs ; 
 And yet the very sound of that kind foot 
 Was anguish to her ears ! 'And must she rule,' 
 This was the death-doomed Woman heard to say 
 In bitterness, ' and must she rule and reign, 
 ' Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone ? 
 • Tend what I tended, calling it her own ! ' 
 Enough ; — I fear, too much. — One vernal evening, 
 While she was yet in prime of health and strength, 
 I well remember, while I passed her door 
 Alone, with loitering step, and upward eye 
 Turned towards the planet Jupiter that hung 
 Above the centre of the Vale, a voice 
 Roused me, her voice ; it said, ' That glorious star 
 ( In its untroubled element will shine 
 ' As now it shines, when we are laid in earth 
 ' And safe from all our sorrows.' With a sigh 
 She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustained 
 By faith hi glory that shall far transcend 
 Aught by these perishable heavens disclosed 
 To sight or mind. Nor less than care divine 
 Is divine mercy. She, who had rebelled, 
 Was into meekness softened and subdued ; 
 Did, after trials not in vain prolonged, 
 With resignation sink into the grave; 
 And her uncharitable acts, I trust, 
 And harsh unkindnesses are all forgiven, 
 Tho', in this Vale, remembered with deep awe." . 
 
 The Vicar paused ; and toward a seat advanced, 
 A long stone-seat, fixed in the Church-yard wall ; 
 Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
 Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
 Who seek the House of worship, while the bells 
 Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
 The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
 Beneath the shade we all sate down ; and there 
 His office, uninvited, he resumed. 
 
 " As on a sunny bank, a tender lamb 
 Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, 
 Screened by its parent, so that little mound 
 Lies guarded by its neighbour ; the small heap 
 Speaks for itself ; an Infant there doth rest ; 
 The sheltering hillock is the Mother's grave. 
 If mild discourse, and manners that conferred 
 A natural dignity on humblest rank ; 
 If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 
 That for a face not beautiful did more 
 Than beauty for the fairest face can do ; 
 And if religious tenderness of heart, 
 Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
 Shed when the clouds had gathered and distaintd 
 The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 
 If these may make a hallowed spot of earth 
 More holy in the sight of God or Man ; 
 Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood 
 Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 
 
 Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless man, 
 Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, 
 Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
 Which it hath witnessed ; render back an echo 
 Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod ! 
 There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave, 
 And on the very turf that roofs her own, 
 The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel 
 In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
 Now she is not; the swelling turf reports 
 Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears 
 Is silent ; nor is any vestige left 
 Of the path worn by mournful tread of her 
 Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved 
 In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed 
 Caught from the pressure of elastic tux*f 
 Upon the mountains gemmed with morning dew, 
 In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. 
 — Serious and thoughtful was her mind ; and yet, 
 By reconcilement exquisite and rare, 
 The form, port, motions, of this Cottage-girl 
 Were such as might have quickened and inspired 
 A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth 
 Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 
 What time the hunter's earliest horn is heard 
 Startling the golden hills. 
 
 A wide-spread elm 
 Stands in our valley, named The Joyful Tree ; 
 From dateless usage which our peasants hold 
 Of giving welcome to the first of May 
 By dances round its trunk. — And if the sky 
 Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid 
 To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars 
 Or the clear moon. The queen of these gay sports, 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 589 
 
 If not in beauty yet in sprightly air, 
 
 Was hapless Ellen. — No one touched the ground 
 
 So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks 
 
 Less gracefully were braided ; — but this praise, 
 
 Methinks, would better suit another place. 
 
 She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved. 
 — The road is dim, the current unperceived, 
 The weakness painful and most pitiful, 
 By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth, 
 May be delivered to distress and shame. 
 Such fate was hers. — The last time Ellen danced, 
 Among her equals, round The Joyful Tree, 
 She bore a secret burthen ; and full soon 
 Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, — 
 Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow, 
 Alone, within her widowed Mother's house. 
 
 • It was the season of unfolding leaves, 
 
 Of days advancing toward their utmost length, 
 And small birds singing happily to mates 
 Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power 
 Winds pipe through fading woods ; but those blithe 
 
 notes 
 Strike the deserted to the heart ; I speak 
 Of what I know, and what we feel within. 
 
 i —Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
 Stands a tall ash-tree ; to whose topmost twig 
 A thrush resorts, and annually chants, 
 At morn and evening from that naked perch, 
 
 , While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, 
 
 : A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 
 Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 
 
 j — ' Ah why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 
 
 ' ' Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge ; 
 
 , ' And nature that is kind in woman's breast, 
 ' And reason that in man is wise and good, 
 'And fear of him who is a righteous judge ; 
 
 : ' Why do not these prevail for human life, 
 
 : ' To keep two hearts together, that began 
 ' Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 
 ' Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
 ' To grant, or be received ; while that poor bird — 
 
 . ' come and hear him ! Thou who hast to me 
 
 , ' Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature, 
 ' One of God's simple children that yet know not 
 j The universal Parent, how he sings 
 
 ! ' As if he wished the firmament of heaven 
 
 * Should listen, and give back to him the voice 
 ' Of his triumphant constancy and love ; 
 
 I ' The proclamation that he makes, how far 
 ' His darkness doth transcend our fickle light !' 
 
 Such was the tender passage, not by me 
 Repeated without loss of simple phrase, 
 
 Which I perused, even as the words had been 
 
 Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
 
 To the blank margin of a Valentine, 
 
 Bedropped with tears. 'Twill please you to be told 
 
 That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
 
 Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet 
 
 In lonely reading found a meek resource : 
 
 How thankful for the warmth of summer days, 
 
 When she could slip into the cottage-barn, 
 
 And find a secret oratory there ; 
 
 Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 
 
 Of their long twilight, pore upon her book 
 
 By the last lingering help of the open sky 
 
 Until dark night dismissed her to her bed ! 
 
 Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose 
 
 The unconquerable pang of despised love. 
 
 A kindlier passion opened on her soul 
 When that poor Child was born. Upon its face 
 She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift 
 Of unexpected promise, where a grief 
 Or dread was all that had been thought of, — joy 
 Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels, 
 Amid a perilous waste that all night long 
 Hath harassed him toiling through fearful storm, 
 When he beholds the first pale speck serene 
 Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed, 
 And greets it with thanksgiving. ' Till this hour,' 
 Thus, in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake, 
 ' There was a stony region in my heart ; 
 ' But He, at whose command the parched rock 
 ' Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream, 
 ' Hath softened that obduracy, and made 
 ' Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 
 ' To save the perishing ; and, henceforth, I breathe 
 ' The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake 
 ' My Infant ! and for that good Mother dear, 
 ' Who bore me ; and hath prayed for me in vain ; — 
 ' Yet not in vain ; it shall not be hi vain.' 
 She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled ; 
 And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return, 
 They stayed not long. — The blameless Infant grew ; 
 The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved 
 They soon were proud of; tended it and nursed ; 
 A soothing comforter, although forlorn ; 
 Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands ; 
 Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by 
 With vacant mind, not seldom may observe 
 Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house, 
 Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 
 
 Through four months' space the Infant drew its 
 food 
 From the maternal breast ; then scruples rose ; 
 
590 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and 
 
 crossed 
 The fond affection. She no more could bear 
 By her offence to lay a twofold weight 
 On a kind parent willing to forget 
 Their slender means : so, to that parent's care 
 Trusting her child, she left their common home, 
 And undertook with dutiful content 
 A Foster-mother's office. 
 
 'Tis, perchance, 
 Unknown to you that in these simple vales 
 The natural feeling of equality 
 Is by domestic service unimpaired ; 
 Yet, though such service be, with us, removed 
 From sense of degradation, not the less 
 The ungentle mind can easily find means 
 To impose severe restraints and laws unjust, 
 Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel : 
 For (blinded by an over-anxious dread 
 Of such excitement and divided thought 
 As with her office would but ill accord) 
 The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse, 
 Forbad her all communion with her own : 
 Week after week, the mandate they enforced. 
 ■ — So near ! yet not allowed, upon that sight 
 To fix her eyes — alas ! 'twas hard to bear ! 
 But worse affliction must be borne — far worse ; 
 For 'tis Heaven's will — that, after a disease 
 Begun and ended within three days' space, 
 Her child should die ; as Ellen now exclaimed, 
 Her own — deserted child ! — Once, only once, 
 She saw it in that mortal malady ; 
 And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain 
 Permission to attend its obsequies. 
 She reached the house, last of the funeral train ; 
 And some one, as she entered, having chanced 
 To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 
 ' Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit 
 Of anger never seen in her before, 
 ' Nay, ye must wait my time !' and down she sate, 
 And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 
 Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, 
 Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 
 Until at length her soul was satisfied. 
 
 You see the Infant's Grave ; and to this spot, 
 The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad, 
 On whatsoever errand, urged her steps : 
 Hither she came ; here stood, and sometimes knelt 
 In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene ! 
 So call her ; for not only she bewailed 
 A mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness 
 Her own transgression ; penitent sincere 
 As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye ! 
 
 — At length the parents of the foster-child, 
 Noting that in despite of their commands 
 She still renewed and could not but renew 
 Those visitations, ceased to send her forth ; 
 Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined. 
 I failed not to remind them that they erred ; 
 For holy Nature might not thus be crossed, 
 
 Thus wronged in woman's breast : in vain I pleaded 
 
 But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped, 
 And the flower drooped ; as every eye could see, 
 It hung its head in mortal languishment. 
 — Aided by this appearance, I at length 
 Prevailed ; and, from those bonds released, she went 
 Home to her mother's house. 
 
 The Youth was fled ; 
 The rash betrayer could not face the shame 
 Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused ; 
 And little would his presence, or proof given 
 Of a relenting soul, have now availed ; 
 For, like a shadow, he was passed away 
 From Ellen's thoughts ; had perished to her mind 
 For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love, 
 Save only those which to their common shame, 
 And to his moral being appertained : 
 Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought 
 A heavenly comfort ; there she recognised 
 An unrelaxiug bond, a mutual need ; 
 There, and, as seemed, there only. 
 
 She had built, 
 Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest 
 In blindness all too near the river's edge ; 
 That work a summer flood with hasty swell 
 Had swept away ; and now her Spirit longed 
 For its last flight to heaven's security. 
 — The bodily frame wasted from day to day ; 
 Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, 
 Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace 
 And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought, 
 And much she read ; and brooded feelingly 
 Upon her own unworthiness. To me, 
 As to a spiritual comforter and friend, 
 Her heart she opened ; and no pains were spared 
 To mitigate, as gently as I could, 
 The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. 
 Meek Saint ! through patience glorified on earth ! 
 In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 
 The ghastly face of cold decay put on 
 A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine ! 
 May I not mention — that, within those walls, 
 In due observance of her pious wish, 
 The congregation joined with me in prayer 
 For her soul's good ? Nor was that office vain. 
 — Much did she suffer : but, if any friend, 
 Beholding her condition, at the sight 
 
THE CHURCH- YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 591 
 
 Gave way to words of pity or complaint, 
 She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, 
 *' ' He who afflicts me knows what I can bear ; 
 ' And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 
 
 ■ ' Will mercifully take me to himself.' 
 
 So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed 
 ; Into that pure and unknown world of love 
 Where injury cannot come : — and here is laid 
 The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 
 
 The Vicar ceased ; and downcast looks made known 
 i That each had listened with his inmost heart. 
 For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong 
 Or less benign than that which I had felt 
 '■ When seated near my venerable Friend, 
 , Under those shady elms, from him I heard 
 The story that retraced the slow decline 
 Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath 
 With the neglected house to which she clung. 
 — I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
 Confessed the power of nature. — Pleased though sad, 
 i More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer 
 
 sate; 
 I Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
 j Capacious and serene ; his blameless life, 
 
 ■ His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love 
 Of human kind ! He was it who first broke 
 
 ' The pensive silence, saying : — 
 
 "Blest are they 
 
 Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 
 i Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have erred. 
 
 This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals 
 ! With such, in their affliction. — Ellen's fate, 
 i Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, 
 
 Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard 
 
 Of one who died within this vale, by doom 
 
 Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. 
 
 Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones 
 
 Of Wilfred Armathwaite \ " 
 
 !The Vicar answered, 
 . "In that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall, 
 Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
 
 ■ In memory and for warning, and in sign 
 
 * Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known, 
 ' ! Of reconcilement after deep offence — 
 
 There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies 
 i For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world ; 
 I Nor need the windings of his devious course 
 
 Be here retraced ; — enough that, by mishap 
 I And venial error, robbed of competence, 
 
 And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind, 
 j He craved a substitute in troubled joy ; 
 I Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving 
 1 Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow. 
 
 That which he had been weak enough to do 
 Was misery in remembrance ; he was stung, 
 Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles 
 Of wife and children stung to agony. 
 Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad ; 
 Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth, 
 Asked comfort of the open air, and found 
 No quiet in the darkness of the night, 
 No pleasure in the beauty of the day. 
 His flock he slighted : his paternal fields 
 Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished 
 To fly — but whither ! And this gracious Church, 
 That wears a look so full of peace and hope 
 And love, benignant mother of the vale, 
 How fair amid her brood of cottages ! 
 She was to him a sickness and reproach. 
 Much to the last remained unknown : but this 
 Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died ; 
 Though pitied among men, absolved by God, 
 He could not find forgiveness in himself ; 
 Nor could endure the weight of his own shame. 
 
 Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn 
 And from her grave. — Behold — upon that ridge, 
 That, stretching boldly from the mountain side, 
 Carries into the centre of the vale 
 Its rocks and woods — the Cottage where she dwelt ; 
 And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left 
 (Full eight years past) the solitary prop 
 Of many helpless Children. I begin 
 With words that might be prelude to a tale 
 Of sorrow and dejection ; but I feel 
 No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 
 See daily in that happy family. 
 — Bright garland form they for the pensive brow 
 Of their undrooping Father's widowhood, 
 Those six fair Daughters, budding yet — not one, 
 Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower. 
 Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once 
 That Father was, and filled with anxious fear, 
 Now, by experience taught, he stands assured, 
 That God, who takes away, yet takes not half 
 Of what he seems to take ; or gives it back, 
 Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer ; 
 He gives it — the boon produce of a soil 
 Which our endeavours have refused to till, 
 And hope hath never watered. The Abode, 
 Whose grateful owner can attest these truths, 
 Even were the object nearer to our sight, 
 Would seem in no distinction to surpass 
 The rudest habitations. Ye might think 
 That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown 
 Out of the living rock, to be adorned 
 By nature only ; but, if thither led, 
 
592 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Ye would discover, then, a studious work 
 Of many fancies, prompting many hands. 
 
 Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines 
 Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, 
 A plant no longer wild ; the cultured rose 
 There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon 
 Roof-high ; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall, 
 And with the flowers are intermingled stones 
 Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills. 
 These ornaments, that fade not with the year, 
 A hardy Girl continues to provide ; 
 Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights, 
 Her Father's prompt attendant, does for him 
 All that a boy could do, but with delight 
 More keen and prouder daring ; yet hath she, 
 Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 
 For her own flowers and favourite herbs, a space, 
 By sacred charter, holden for her use. 
 — These, and whatever else the garden bears 
 Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, 
 I freely gather ; and my leisure draws 
 A not unfrequent pastime from the hum 
 
 Of bees around their range of sheltered hives 
 
 Busy in that enclosure ; while the rill, 
 
 That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice 
 
 To the pure course of human life which there 
 
 Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom 
 
 Of night is falling round my steps, then most 
 
 This Dwelling charms me ; often I stop short, 
 
 (Who could refrain ?) and feed by stealth my sight 
 
 With prospect of the company within, 
 
 Laid open through the blazing window : — there 
 
 I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel 
 
 Spinning amain, as if to overtake 
 
 The never-halting time ; or, in her turn, 
 
 Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood 
 
 That skill in this or other household work, 
 
 Which, from her Father's honoured hand, herself, 
 
 While she was yet a little-one, had learned. 
 
 Mild Man ! he is not gay, but they are gay ; 
 
 And the whole house seems filled with gaiety. 
 
 — Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed, 
 
 The Wife, from whose consolatory grave 
 
 I turned, that ye in mind might witness where, 
 
 And how, her Spirit yet survives on earth ! " 
 
 BOOK SEVENTH. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE 
 MOUNTAINS 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 Impression of these Narratives upon the Author's, mind 
 — Pastor invited to give account of certain Graves that 
 lie apart— Clergyman and his Family— Fortunate 
 influence of change of situation — Activity in extreme 
 old age — Another Clergyman, a character of resolute 
 Virtue — Lamentations over mis-directed applause — 
 Instance of less exalted excellence in a deaf man — 
 Elevated character of a blind man— Reflection upon 
 Blindness— Interrupted by a Peasant who passes — 
 his animal cheerfulness and careless vivacity — He 
 occasions a digression on the fall of beautiful and in- 
 teresting Trees— A female Infant's Grave— Joy at her 
 Birth— Sorrow at her Departure— A youthful Peasant 
 — his patriotic enthusiasm and distinguished qualities 
 —his untimely death— Exultation of the Wanderer, 
 as a patriot, in this Picture— Solitary how affected- 
 Monument of a Knight— Traditions concerning him — 
 Peroration of the Wanderer on the transitoriness of 
 things and the revolutions of society— Hints at his 
 own past Calling —Thanks the Pastor. 
 
 While thus from theme to theme the Historian 
 
 The words he uttered, and the scene that lay 
 Before our eyes, awakened in my mind 
 Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours ; 
 When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale, 
 (What time the splendour of the setting sun 
 Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereign brow, 
 On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur) 
 A wandering Youth, I listened with delight 
 To pastoral melody or warlike air, 
 Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp 
 By some accomplished Master, while he sate 
 Amid the quiet of the green recess, 
 And there did inexhaustibly dispense 
 An interchange of soft or solemn tunes, 
 Tender or blithe ; now, as the varying mood 
 Of his own spirit urged, — now, as a voice 
 From youth or maiden, or some honoured chief 
 Of his compatriot villagers (that hung 
 Around him, drinking in the impassioned notes 
 Of the time-hallowed minsfrelsy) required 
 For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains of power 
 
THE CHURCH- YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 593 
 
 Were they, to seize and occupy the sense ; 
 But to a higher mark than song can reach 
 Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream 
 Which overflowed the soul was passed away, 
 A consciousness remained that it had left, 
 Deposited upon the silent shore 
 Of memory, images and precious thoughts, 
 That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. 
 
 " These grassy heaps lie amicably close," 
 Said I, " like surges heaving in the wind 
 Along the surface of a mountain pool : 
 Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold 
 Five graves, and only five, that rise together 
 Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching 
 On the smooth play-ground of the village-school ? " 
 
 The Vicar answered, — " No disdainful pride 
 In them who rest beneath, nor any course 
 Of strange or tragic accident, hath helped 
 To place those hillocks in that lonely guise. 
 • — Once more look forth, and follow with your sight 
 The length of road that from yon mountain's base 
 Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its line 
 Is lost within a little tuft of trees ; 
 Then, reappearing in a moment, quits 
 The cultured fields ; and up the heathy waste, 
 Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine, 
 Led towards an easy outlet of the vale. 
 That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft, 
 By which the road is hidden, also hides 
 A cottage from our view ; though I discern 
 (Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees 
 The smokeless chimney-top. — 
 
 All unembowered 
 And naked stood that lowly Parsonage 
 (For such in truth it is, and appertains 
 To a small Chapel in the vale beyond) 
 When hither came its last Inhabitant. 
 Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads 
 By which our northern wilds could then be crossed; 
 And into most of these secluded vales 
 Was no access for wain, heavy or light. 
 So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived 
 With store of household goods, in panniers slung 
 On sturdy horses graced with jingling beUs, 
 And on the back of more ignoble beast ; 
 That, with like burthen of effects most prized 
 Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 
 Young was I then, a school-boy of eight years ; 
 But still, methinks, I see them as they passed 
 In order, drawing toward their wished-for home. 
 — Rocked by the motion of a trusty ass 
 Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised freight, 
 
 Each in his basket nodding drowsily ; 
 Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers, 
 Which told it was the pleasant month of June ; 
 And, close behind, the comely Matron rode, 
 A woman of soft speech and gracious smile, 
 And with a lady's mien. — From far they came, 
 Even from Northumbrian hills; yet theirs had 
 
 been 
 A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheered 
 By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest ; 
 And freak put on, and arch word dropped — to 
 
 swell 
 The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 
 That gathered round the slowly-moving train. 
 — f Whence do they come ? and with what errand 
 
 charged ? 
 ' Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe 
 ' Who pitch their tents under the green- wood tree? 
 ' Or Strollers are they, furnished to enact 
 ' Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood, 
 ' And, by that whiskered tabby's aid, set forth 
 1 The lucky venture of sage Whittington, 
 * When the next village hears the show announced 
 ' By blast of trumpet ? ' Plenteous was the growth 
 Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen 
 On many a staring countenance portrayed 
 Of boor or burgher, as they marched along. 
 And more than once their steadiness of face 
 Was put to proof, and exercise supplied 
 To their inventive humour, by stern looks, 
 And questions in authoritative tone, 
 From some staid guardian of the public peace, 
 Checking the sober steed on which he rode, 
 In his suspicious wisdom ; oftener still, 
 By notice indirect, or blunt demand 
 From traveller halting in his own despite, 
 A simple curiosity to ease : 
 Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheered 
 Their grave migration, the good pair would tell, 
 With undiminished glee, in hoary age. 
 
 A Priest he was by function ; but his course 
 From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon, 
 (The hour of life to which he then was brought) 
 Had been irregular, I might say, wild ; 
 By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care 
 Too little checked. An active, ardent mind ; 
 A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme 
 To cheat the sadness of a rainy day ; 
 Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games ; 
 A generous spirit, and a body strong 
 To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl ; 
 Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights 
 Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall 
 
594 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Of country 'squire ; or at the statelier board 
 Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp 
 Withdrawn,— to while away the summer hours 
 In condescension among rural guests. 
 
 With these high comrades he had revelled long, 
 Frolicked industriously, a simple Clerk 
 By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 
 Till the heart sickened. So, each loftier aim 
 Abandoning and all his showy friends. 
 For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) 
 He turned to this secluded chapelry ; 
 That had been offered to his doubtful choice 
 By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and bare 
 They found the cottage, their allotted home ; 
 Naked without, and rude within ; a spot 
 With which the Cure not long had been endowed : 
 And far remote the chapel stood, — remote, 
 And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable, 
 Save through a gap high in the hills, an opening 
 Shadeless and shelterless, by driving showers 
 Frequented, and beset with howling winds. 
 Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang 
 On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice 
 Or the necessity that fixed him here ; 
 Apart from old temptations, and constrained 
 To punctual labour in his sacred charge. 
 See him a constant preacher to the poor ! 
 And visiting, though not with saintly zeal, 
 Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will, 
 The sick in body, or distrest in mind ; 
 And, by as salutary change, compelled 
 To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 
 With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud 
 Or splendid than his garden could afford, 
 His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock ranged, 
 Or the wild brooks ; from which he now returned 
 Contented to partake the quiet meal 
 Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate 
 And three fair Children, plentifully fed 
 Though simply, from their little household farm ; 
 Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl 
 By nature yielded to his practised hand ; — 
 To help the small but certain comings-in 
 Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less 
 Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs 
 A charitable door. 
 
 So days and years 
 Passed on ; — the inside of that rugged house 
 Was trimmed and brightened by the Matron's care, 
 And gradually enriched with things of price, 
 Which might be lacked for use or ornament. 
 What, though no soft and costly sofa there 
 Insidiously stretched out its lazy length, 
 
 And no vain mirror glittered upon the walls, 
 Yet were the windows of the low abode 
 By shutters weather-fended, which at once 
 Repelled the storm and deadened its loud roar. 
 There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds ; 
 Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain plants, 
 That creep along the ground with sinuous trail, 
 Were nicely braided ; and composed a work 
 Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace 
 Lay at the threshold and the inner doors ; 
 And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool 
 But tinctured daintily with florid hues, 
 For seemliness and warmth, on festal days, 
 Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain-stone 
 With which the parlour-floor, in simplest guise 
 Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid. 
 
 Those pleasing works the Housewife's skill 
 produced : 
 Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's hand 
 Was busier with his task — to rid, to plant, 
 To rear for food, for shelter, and delight ; 
 A thriving covert ! And when wishes, formed 
 In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind, 
 Restored me to my native valley, here 
 To end my days ; well pleased was I to see 
 The once-bare cottage, on the mountain-side, 
 Screen'd from assault of every bitter blast ; 
 While the dark shadows of the summer leaves 
 Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof. 
 Time, which had thus afforded willing help 
 To beautify with nature's fairest growths 
 This rustic tenement, had gently shed, 
 Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace ; 
 The comeliness of unenfeebled age. 
 
 But how could I say, gently ? for he still 
 Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 
 A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights 
 Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. 
 Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost; 
 Generous and charitable, prompt to serve ; 
 And still his harsher passions kept their hold — 
 Anger and indignation. Still he loved 
 The sound of titled names, and talked in glee 
 Of long-past banquetings with high-born friends : 
 Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight 
 Uproused by recollected injury, railed 
 At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 
 In bitterness, and with a threatening eye 
 Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. 
 — Those transports, with staid looks of pure good- 
 will, 
 And with soft smile, his consort would reprove. 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 595 
 
 She, far behind him in the race of years, 
 
 Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced 
 
 Far nearer, in the habit of her soul, 
 
 To that still region whither all are bound. 
 
 Him might we liken to the setting sun 
 
 As seen not seldom on some gusty day, 
 
 Struggling and bold, and shining from the west 
 
 With an inconstant and unmellowed light ; 
 
 She was a soft attendant cloud, that hung 
 
 As if with wish to veil the restless orb ; 
 
 From which it did itself imbibe a ray 
 
 Of pleasing lustre. — But no more of this ; 
 
 I better love to sprinkle on the sod 
 
 That now divides the pair, or rather say, 
 
 That still unites them, praises, like heaven's dew, 
 
 Without reserve descending upon both. 
 
 Our very first in eminence of years 
 This old Man stood, the patriarch of the Vale ! 
 And, to his unmolested mansion, death 
 Had never come, through space of forty years ; 
 Sparing both old and young in that abode. 
 Suddenly then they disappeared : not twice 
 Had summer scorched the fields ; not twice had 
 
 fallen, 
 On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow, 
 Before the greedy visiting was closed, 
 And the long-privileged house left empty — swept 
 As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague 
 Had been among them ; all was gentle death, 
 One after one, with intervals of peace. 
 A happy consummation ! an accord 
 Sweet, perfect, to be wished for ! save that here 
 Was something which to mortal sense might sound 
 Like harshness, — that the old grey-headed Sire, 
 The oldest, he was taken last, survived 
 When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 
 His Daughter, and that late and high-prized gift, 
 His little smiling Grandchild, were no more. 
 
 ' All gone, all vanished ! he deprived and bare, 
 I How will he face the remnant of his life ? 
 ' What will become of him ? ' we said, and mused 
 In sad conjectures — ' Shall we meet him now 
 ' Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks ? 
 ' Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 
 ' Striving to entertain the lonely hours 
 | With music V (for he had not ceased to touch 
 The harp or viol which himself had framed, 
 For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.) 
 ' What titles will he keep \ will he remain 
 ' Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist, 
 ' A planter, and a rearer from the seed ? 
 ' A man of hope and forward-looking mind 
 
 ' Even to the last !' — Such was he, unsubdued. 
 But Heaven was gracious ; yet a little while, 
 And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng 
 Of open projects, and his inward hoard 
 Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen, 
 Was overcome by unexpected sleep, 
 In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown 
 Softly and lightly from a passing cloud, 
 Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay 
 For noontide solace on the summer grass, 
 The warm lap of his mother earth : and so, 
 Their lenient term of separation past, 
 That family (whose graves you there behold) 
 By yet a higher privilege once more 
 Were gathered to each other." 
 
 Calm of mind 
 And silence waited on these closing words ; 
 Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear 
 Lest in those passages of life were some 
 That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend 
 Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
 His own firm spirit in degree deprest 
 By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
 Thus silence broke : — " Behold a thoughtless Man 
 From vice and premature decay preserved 
 By useful habits, to a fitter soil 
 Transplanted ere too late. — The hermit, lodged 
 Amid the untrodden desert, tells his beads, 
 With each repeating its allotted prayer 
 And thus divides and thus relieves the time ; 
 Smooth task, with his compared, whose mind could 
 
 string, 
 Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 
 Of keen domestic anguish ; and beguile 
 A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed ; 
 Till gentlest death released him. 
 
 Far from us 
 Be the desire — too curiously to ask 
 How much of this is but the blind result 
 Of cordial spirits and vital temperament, 
 And what to higher powers is justly due. 
 But you, Sir, know that in a neighbouring vale 
 A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
 Fall to the ground ; whose gifts of nature lie 
 Retired from notice, lost in attributes 
 Of reason, honourably effaced by debts 
 Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe, 
 And conquests over her dominion gained, 
 To which her frowardness must needs submit. 
 In this one Man is shown a temperance — proof 
 Against all trials ; industry severe 
 And constant as the motion of the day ; 
 Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade 
 That might be deemed forbidding, did not there 
 QQ2 
 
596 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 All generous feelings flourish and rejoice ; 
 Forbearance, charity in deed and thought, 
 And resolution competent to take 
 Out of the bosom of simplicity- 
 All that her holy customs recommend, 
 And the best ages of the world prescribe. 
 — Preaching, administering, in every work 
 Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 
 Of worldly intercourse between man and man, 
 And in his humble dwelling, he appears 
 A labourer, with moral virtue girt, 
 With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned." 
 
 " Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, " for 
 whom 
 This portraiture is sketched. The great, the good, 
 The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise, — 
 These titles emperors and chiefs have borne, 
 Honour assumed or given : and him, the Wonderful, 
 Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart, 
 Deservedly have styled. — From his abode 
 In a dependent chapelry that lies 
 Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild, 
 Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, 
 And, having once espoused, would never quit ; 
 Into its graveyard will ere long be borne 
 That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone 
 May cover him ; and by its help, perchance, 
 A century shall hear his name pronounced, 
 With images attendant on the sound ; 
 Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight close 
 In utter night ; and of his course remain 
 No cognizable vestiges, no more 
 Than of this breath, winch shapes itself in words 
 To speak of him, and instantly dissolves. " 
 
 The Pastor pressed by thoughts which round his 
 theme 
 Still linger' d, after a brief pause, resumed ; 
 " Noise is there not enough in doleful war, 
 But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth, 
 And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, 
 To multiply and aggravate the din ? 
 Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love — 
 And, in requited passion, all too much 
 Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear — 
 But that the minstrel of the rural shade 
 Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse 
 The perturbation in the suffering breast, 
 And propagate its kind, far as he may 1 
 — Ah who (and with such rapture as befits 
 The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 
 The good man's purposes and deeds ; retrace 
 His struggles, his discomfitures deplore, 
 
 His triumphs hail, and glorify his end; 
 
 That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds 
 
 Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain, 
 
 And like the soft infections of the heart, 
 
 By charm of measured words may spread o'er field, 
 
 Hamlet, and town ; and piety survive 
 
 Upon the lips of men in hall or bower ; 
 
 Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, 
 
 And grave encouragement, by song inspired ? 
 
 — Vain thought ! but wherefore murmur or repine? 
 
 The memory of the just survives in heaven : 
 
 And, without sorrow, will the ground receive 
 
 That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 
 
 Of what lies here confines us to degrees 
 
 In excellence less difficult to reach, 
 
 And milder worth : nor need we travel far 
 
 From those to whom our last regards were paid, 
 
 For such example. 
 
 Almost at the root 
 Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
 And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, 
 Oft stretches toward me, like a long straight path 
 Traced faintly in the greensward ; there, beneath 
 A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, 
 From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 
 The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
 From year to year in loneliness of soul ; 
 And this deep mountain- valley was to him 
 Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 
 Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
 With startling summons ; not for his delight 
 The vernal cuckoo shouted ; not for him 
 Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds 
 Were working the broad bosom of the lake 
 Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, 
 Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
 Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, 
 The agitated scene before his eye 
 Was silent as a picture : evermore 
 Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved. 
 Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts 
 Upheld, he duteously pursued the round 
 Of rural labours ; the steep mountain-side 
 Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog ; 
 The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed ; 
 And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 
 Among the jocund reapers. For himself, 
 All watchful and industrious as he was, 
 He wrought not : neither field nor flock he owned: 
 No wish for wealth had place within his mind ; 
 Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or care. 
 
 Though born a younger brother, need was none 
 That from the floor of his paternal home 
 
THE CHURCH- YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 597 
 
 He should depart, to plant himself anew. 
 
 And when, mature in manhood, he beheld 
 
 His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 
 
 Of rights to him ; but he remained well pleased, 
 
 By the pure bond of independent love, 
 
 An inmate of a second family ; 
 
 The fellow-labourer and friend of him 
 
 To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
 
 — Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight 
 
 That pressed upon his brother's house ; for books 
 
 Were ready comrades whom he could not tire ; 
 
 Of whose society the blameless Man 
 
 Was never satiate. Their familiar voice, 
 
 Even to old age, with unabated charm 
 
 Beguiled his leisure hours ; refreshed his thoughts ; 
 
 Beyond its natural elevation raised 
 
 His introverted spirit ; and bestowed 
 
 Upon his life an outward dignity 
 
 Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, 
 
 The stormy day, each had its own resource ; 
 
 Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 
 
 Science severe, or word of holy Writ 
 
 Announcing immortality and joy 
 
 To the assembled spirits of just men 
 
 Made perfect, and from injury secure. 
 
 — Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field, 
 
 To no perverse suspicion he gave way, 
 
 No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint : 
 
 And they, who were about him, did not fail 
 
 In reverence, or in courtesy ; they prized 
 
 His gentle manners : and his peaceful smiles, 
 
 The gleams of his slow- varying countenance, 
 
 Were met with answering sympathy and love. 
 
 At length, when sixty years and five were told, 
 A slow disease insensibly consumed 
 The powers of nature : and a few short steps 
 Of friends and kindred bore him from his home 
 (Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags) 
 To the profounder stillness of the grave. 
 — Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
 Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief ; 
 Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. 
 And now that monumental stone preserves 
 His name, and unambitiously relates 
 How long, and by what kindly outward aids, 
 And in what pure contentedness of mind, 
 The sad privation was by him endured. 
 — And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound 
 Was wasted on the good Man's living ear, 
 Hath now its own peculiar sanctity ; 
 And, at the touch of every wandering breeze, 
 Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. 
 
 Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of things ! 
 Guide of our way, mysterious comforter ! 
 Whose sacred influence, spread through earth and 
 
 heaven, 
 We all too thanklessly participate, 
 Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him 
 Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch. 
 Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained ; 
 Ask of the channelled rivers if they held 
 A safer, easier, more determined, course. 
 What terror doth it strike into the mind 
 To think of one, blind and alone, advancing 
 Straight toward some precipice's airy brink ! 
 But, timely warned, He would have stayed Ms steps, 
 Protected, say enlightened, by his ear ; 
 And on the very edge of vacancy 
 Not more endangered than a man whose eye 
 Beholds the gulf beneath. — No floweret blooms 
 Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills, 
 Nor in the woods, that could from him conceal 
 Its birth-place ; none whose figure did not live 
 Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
 Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind ; 
 The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
 Lodged in her bosom ; and, by science led, 
 His genius mounted to the plains of heaven. 
 — Methinks I see. him— how his eye-balls rolled, 
 Beneath his ample brow, in darkness paired, — 
 But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
 Of the whole countenance alive with thought, 
 Fancy, and understanding ; while the voice 
 Discoursed of natural or moral truth 
 With eloquence, and such authentic power, 
 That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood 
 Abashed, and tender pity overawed." 
 
 "A noble — and, to unreflecting minds, 
 A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer said, 
 "Beings like these present ! But proof abounds 
 Upon the earth that faculties, which seem 
 Extinguished, do not, therefore, cease to be. 
 And to the mind among her powers of sense 
 This transfer is permitted, — not alone 
 That the bereft their recompense may win ; 
 But for remoter purposes of love 
 And charity ; nor last nor least for this, 
 That to the imagination may be given 
 A type and shadow of an awful truth ; 
 How, likewise, under sufferance divine, 
 Darkness is banished from the realms of death, 
 By man's imperishable spirit, quelled. 
 Unto the men who see not as we see 
 Futurity was thought, in ancient times, 
 To be laid open, and they prophesied. 
 
5. 98 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 And know we not that from the blind have flowed 
 The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre; 
 And wisdom married to immortal verse ? " 
 
 Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet 
 Lying insensible to human praise, 
 Love, or regret, — whose lineaments would next 
 Have been portrayed, I guess not ; but it chanced 
 That, near the quiet church-yard where we sate, 
 A team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
 Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope, 
 Whose sharp descent confounded their array, 
 Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 
 
 "Here," said the Pastor, " do we muse, and mourn 
 The waste of death ; and lo ! the giant oak 
 Stretched on his bier — that massy timber wain ; 
 Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team." 
 
 He was a peasant of the lowest class : 
 Grey locks profusely round his temples hung 
 In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite 
 Of winter cannot thin ; the fresh air lodged 
 Within his cheek, as light within a cloud; 
 And he returned our greeting with a smile. 
 When he had passed, the Solitary spake ; 
 " A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 
 And confident to-morrows ; with a face 
 Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much 
 Of Nature's impress, — gaiety and health, 
 Freedom and hope ; but keen, withal, and shrewd. 
 His gestures note, — and hark ! his tones of voice 
 Are all vivacious as his mien and looks." 
 
 The Pastor answered. " You have read him well. 
 Year after year is added to his store 
 With silent increase : summers, winters — past, 
 Past or to come ; yea, boldly might I say, 
 Ten summers and ten winters of a space 
 That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, 
 Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix 
 The obligation of an anxious mind, 
 A pride in having, or a fear to lose ; 
 Possessed like outskirts of some large domain, 
 By any one more thought of than by him 
 Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord ! 
 Yet is the creature rational, endowed 
 With foresight ; hears, too, every sabbath day, 
 The christian promise with attentive ear ; 
 Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven 
 Reject the incense offered up by him, 
 Though of the kind which beasts and birds present 
 In grove or pasture ; cheerfulness of soul, 
 From trepidation and repining free. 
 
 How many scrupulous worshippers fall down 
 Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 
 Less worthy, less religious even, than his ! 
 
 This qualified respect, the old Man's due, 
 Is paid without reluctance ; but in truth," 
 (Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile) 
 " I feel at times a motion of despite 
 Towards one, whose bold contrivances and skill, 
 As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part 
 In works of havoc ; taking from these vales, 
 One after one, their proudest ornaments. 
 Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 
 Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapours nursed, 
 In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks ; 
 Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's edge, 
 A veil of glory for the ascending moon ; 
 And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped, 
 And on whose forehead inaccessible 
 The raven lodged in safety. — Many a ship 
 Launched into Morecamb-bay, to Mm hath owed 
 Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears 
 The loftiest of her pendants ; He, from park 
 Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree 
 That whirls (howslow itself !) ten thousand spindles: 
 And the vast engine labouring in the mine, 
 Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked 
 The trunk and body of its marvellous strength, 
 If his undaunted enterprise had failed 
 Among the mountain coves. 
 
 Yon household fir, 
 A guardian planted to fence off the blast, 
 But towering high the roof above, as if 
 Its humble destination were forgot — 
 That sycamore, which annually holds 
 Within its shade, as in a stately tent 
 On all sides open to the fanning breeze, 
 A grave assemblage, seated while they shear 
 The fleece-encumbered flock — the Joyful Elm, 
 Around whose trunk the maidens dance in May — 
 And the Lord's Oak — would plead their several 
 In vain, if he were master of their fate ; [rights 
 His sentence to the axe would doom them all. 
 But, green in age and lusty as he is, 
 And promising to keep his hold on earth 
 Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men 
 Than with the forest's more enduring growth, 
 His own appointed hour will come at last ; 
 And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world, 
 This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall. 
 
 Now from the living pass we once again : 
 From Age," the Priest continued, " turn your 
 thoughts ; 
 
THE CHURCH- YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 599 
 
 From Age, that often unlamented drops, 
 
 And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long ! 
 
 — Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the hoard 
 
 Of Gold-rill side ; and, when the hope had ceased 
 
 Of other progeny, a Daughter then 
 
 Was given, the crowning bounty of the whole ; 
 
 And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy 
 
 Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm 
 
 With which by nature every mother's soul 
 
 Is stricken in the moment when her throes 
 
 Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry 
 
 Which tells her that a living child is born ; 
 
 And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest, 
 
 That the dread storm is weathered by them both. 
 
 The Father — him at this unlooked-for gift 
 A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
 Of his bright hearth, and from his open door, 
 Day after day the gladness is diffused 
 To all that come, almost to all that pass ; 
 Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
 Spread on the never-empty board, and drink 
 Health and good wishes to his new-born girl, 
 From cups replenished by his joyous hand. 
 — Those seven fair brothers variously were moved 
 Each by the thoughts best suited to his years : 
 But most of all and with most thankful mind 
 The hoary grandsire felt himself enriched ; 
 A happiness that ebbed not, but remained 
 To fill the total measure of his soul ! 
 — From the low tenement, his own abode, 
 Whither, as to a little private cell, 
 He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, 
 To spend the sabbath of old age in peace, 
 Once every day he duteously repaired 
 To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe : 
 For in that female infant's name he heard 
 The silent name of his departed wife ; 
 Heart-stirring music ! hourly heard that name ; 
 Full blest he was, ' Another Margaret Green,' 
 Oft did he say, ' was come to Gold-rill side.' 
 
 Oh ! pang unthought of, as the precious boon 
 Itself had been unlooked-for ; oh ! dire stroke 
 Of desolating anguish for them all ! 
 — Just as the Child could totter on the floor, 
 And, by some friendly finger's help upstayed, 
 Range round the garden walk, while she perchance 
 Was catching at some novelty of spring, 
 Ground-flower, or glossy insect from its cell 
 Drawn by the sunshine — at that hopeful season 
 The winds of March, smiting insidiously, 
 Raised in the tender passage of the throat 
 Viewless obstruction ; whence, all unforewarned, 
 
 The household lost their pride and soul's delight. 
 — But time hath power to soften all regrets, 
 And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress 
 Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears 
 Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye 
 Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own, 
 Yet this departed Little-one, too long 
 The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps 
 In what may now be called a peaceful bed. 
 
 On a bright day — so calm and bright, it seemed 
 To us, with our sad spirits, heavenly-fair — 
 These mountains echoed to an unknown sound ; 
 A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
 Let down into the hollow of that grave, 
 Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould. 
 Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
 Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these sods, 
 That they may knit together, and therewith 
 Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness ! 
 Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss. 
 Dear Youth, by young and old alike beloved, 
 To me as precious as my own ! — Green herbs 
 May creep (I wish that they would softly creep) 
 Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
 Reminded less imperiously of thee ; — 
 The ridge itself may sink into the breast 
 Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more ; 
 Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts, 
 Thy image disappear ! 
 
 The Mountain-ash 
 No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
 Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 
 Decked with autumnal berries, that outshine 
 Spring's richest blossoms ; and ye may have marked,' 
 By a brook-side or solitary tarn, 
 How she her station doth adorn : the pool 
 Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
 Are brightened round her. In his native vale 
 Such and so glorious did this Youth appear ; 
 A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
 By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam 
 Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow, 
 By all the graces with which nature's hand 
 Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards 
 Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, 
 Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form : 
 Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade 
 Discovered in their own despite to sense 
 Of mortals (if such fables without blame 
 May find chance-mention on this sacred ground) 
 So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, 
 And through the impediment of rural cares, 
 In him revealed a scholar's genius shone ; 
 
600 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, 
 In him the spirit of a hero walked 
 Our unpretending valley. — How the quoit 
 Whizzed from the Stripling's arm ! If touched by 
 
 him, 
 The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch 
 Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rainbow curve, 
 Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 
 The indefatigable fox had learned 
 To dread his perseverance in the chase. 
 With admiration would he lift his eyes 
 To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 
 Was loth to assault the majesty he loved : 
 Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 
 To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead, 
 The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe. 
 The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves, 
 And cautious water-fowl, from distant climes, 
 Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere, 
 Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim, 
 And lived by his forbearance. 
 
 From the coast 
 Of France a boastful Tyrant hurled his threats ; 
 Our Country marked the preparation vast 
 Of hostile forces ; and she called — with voice 
 That filled her plains, that reached her utmost 
 
 shores, 
 And in remotest vales was heard — to arms ! 
 — Then, for the first time, here you might have seen 
 The shepherd's grey to martial scarlet changed, 
 That flashed uncouthly through the woods and fields. 
 Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire, 
 And graced with shining weapons, weekly marched, 
 From this lone valley, to a central spot 
 Where, in assemblage with the flower and choice 
 Of the surrounding district, they might learn 
 The rudiments of war ; ten — hardy, strong, 
 And valiant; but young Oswald, like a chief 
 And yet a modest comrade, led them forth 
 From their shy solitude, to face the world, 
 With a gay confidence and seemly pride ; 
 Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet 
 Like Youths released from labour, and yet bound 
 To most laborious service, though to them 
 A festival of unencumbered ease ; 
 The inner spirit keeping holiday, 
 Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left. 
 
 Oft have I marked him, at some leisure hour, 
 Stretched on the grass, or seated in the shade, 
 Among his fellows, while an ample map 
 Before their eyes lay carefully outspread, 
 From which the gallant teacher would discourse, 
 Now pointing this way, and now that. — ' Here flows,' 
 
 Thus would he say, ' The Rhine, that famous 
 
 stream ! 
 * Eastward, the Danube toward this inland sea, 
 ' A mightier river, winds from realm to realm ; 
 ' And, like a serpent, shows his glittering back 
 ' Bespotted — with innumerable isles : 
 ' Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk ; observe 
 ' His capital city ! ' Thence, along a tract 
 Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears, 
 His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 
 Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged ; 
 Nor left unstigmatized those fatal fields 
 On which the sons of mighty Germany 
 Were taught a base submission. — £ Here behold 
 ' A nobler race, the Switzers, and their land, 
 ' Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods, 
 ' And mountains white with everlasting snow ! ' 
 — And, surely, he, that spake with kindling brow, 
 Was a true patriot, hopeful as the best 
 Of that young peasantry, who, in our days, 
 Have fought and perished for Helvetia's rights — 
 Ah, not in vain ! — or those who, in old time, 
 For work of happier issue, to the side 
 Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts, 
 When he had risen alone ! No braver Youth 
 Descended from Judean heights, to march 
 With righteous Joshua ; nor appeared in arms 
 When grove was felled, and altar was cast down, 
 And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed, 
 And strong in hatred of idolatry." 
 
 The Pastor, even as if by these last words 
 Raised from his seat within the chosen shade, 
 Moved toward the grave ; — instinctively his steps 
 We followed ; and my voice with joy exclaimed: 
 " Power to the Oppressors of the world is given, 
 A might of which they dream not. Oh ! the curse, 
 To be the awakener of divinest thoughts, 
 Father and founder of exalted deeds ; 
 And, to whole nations bound in servile straits, 
 The liberal donor of capacities 
 More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet 
 Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet 
 Deserve the least return of human thanks ; 
 Winning no recompense but deadly hate 
 With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn ! " 
 
 When this involuntary strain had ceased, 
 The Pastor said : " So Providence is served ; 
 The forked weapon of the skies can send 
 Illumination into deep, dark holds, 
 Which the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce. 
 Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and cast 
 Pity away, soon shall ye quake with/ea?'/ 
 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 601 
 
 For, not unconscious of the mighty debt 
 Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer owes, 
 Europe, through all her habitable bounds, 
 Is thirsting for their overthrow, who yet 
 Survive, as pagan temples stood of yore, 
 By horror of their impious rites, preserved ; 
 Are still permitted to extend their pride, 
 Like cedars on the top of Lebanon 
 Darkening the sun. 
 
 But less impatient thoughts, 
 And love ' all hoping and expecting all,' 
 This hallowed grave demands, where rests in peace 
 A humble champion of the better cause ; 
 A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked 
 No higher name ; in whom our country showed, 
 As in a favourite son, most beautiful. 
 In spite of vice, and misery, and disease, 
 Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts, 
 England, the ancient and the free, appeared 
 In him to stand before my swimming eyes, 
 Unconquerably virtuous and secure. 
 — No more of this, lest I offend his dust : 
 Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 
 
 One day — a summer's day of annual pomp 
 And solemn chase — from morn to sultry noon 
 His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, 
 The red-deer driven along its native heights 
 With cry of hound and horn ; and, from that toil 
 Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed, 
 This generous Youth, too negligent of self, 
 Plunged — 'mid a gay and busy throng convened 
 To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock — 
 Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire [space 
 Seized him, that self-same night ; and through the 
 Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched, 
 Till nature rested from her work in death. 
 To him, thus snatched away, his comrades paid 
 A soldier's honours. At his funeral hour 
 Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue — 
 A golden lustre slept upon the hills ; 
 And if by chance a stranger, wandering there, 
 From some commanding eminence had looked 
 Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen 
 A glittering spectacle ; but every face 
 Was pallid : seldom hath that eye been moist 
 With tears, that wept not then ; nor were the few, 
 Who from their dwellings came not forth to join 
 In this sad service, less disturbed than we. 
 They started at the tributary peal 
 Of instantaneous thunder, which announced, 
 Through the still air, the closing of the Grave ; 
 And distant mountains echoed with a sound 
 Of lamentation, never heard before ! " 
 
 The Pastor ceased. — My venerable Friend 
 Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye ; 
 And, when that eulogy was ended, stood 
 Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived 
 The prolongation of some still response, 
 Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land, 
 The Spirit of its mountains and its seas, 
 Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, 
 Its rights and virtues — by that Deity 
 Descending, and supporting his pure heart 
 With patriotic confidence and joy. 
 And, at the last of those memorial words, 
 The pining Solitary turned aside ; 
 Whether through manly instinct to conceal 
 Tender emotions spreading from the heart 
 To his worn cheek ; or with uneasy shame 
 For those cold humours of habitual spleen 
 That, fondly seeking in dispraise of man 
 Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged 
 To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue. 
 — Right toward the sacred Edifice his steps 
 Had been directed ; and we saw him now 
 Intent upon a monumental stone, 
 Whose uncouth form was grafted on the wall, 
 Or rather seemed to have grown into the side 
 Of the rude pile ; as oft-times trunks of trees, 
 Where nature works in wild and craggy spots, 
 Are seen incorporate with the living rock — 
 To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
 Of his employment, with a courteous smile 
 Exclaimed — 
 
 "The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
 That task would foil ; " then, letting fall his voice 
 While he advanced, thus spake : " Tradition tells 
 That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
 Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired, 
 And fixed his home in this sequestered vale. 
 'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath, 
 Or as a stranger reached this deep recess, 
 Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought 
 I sometimes entertain, that haply bound 
 To Scotland's court in service of Ins Queen, 
 Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
 Of England's realm, this vale he might have seen 
 With transient observation ; and thence caught 
 An image fair, which, brightening in his soul 
 When joy of war and pride of chivalry 
 Languished beneath accumulated years, 
 Had power to draw him from the world, resolved 
 To make that paradise his chosen home 
 To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned. 
 
 Vague thoughts are these ; but, if belief may rest 
 Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
 
602 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 From sire to son, in this obscure retreat 
 
 The Knight arrived, with spear and shield, and borne 
 
 Upon a Charger gorgeously bedecked 
 
 With broidered housings. And the lofty Steed — 
 
 His sole companion, and his faithful friend, 
 
 Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range 
 
 In fertile pastures — was beheld with eyes 
 
 Of admiration and delightful awe, 
 
 By those untravelled Dalesmen. With less pride, 
 
 Yet free from touch of envious discontent, 
 
 They saw a mansion at his bidding rise, 
 
 Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 
 
 Of their rude homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt ; 
 
 And, in that mansion, children of his own, 
 
 Or kindred, gathered round him. As a tree 
 
 That falls and disappears, the house is gone ; 
 
 And, through improvidence or want of love 
 
 For ancient worth and honourable things, 
 
 The spear and shield are vanished, which the 
 
 Knight 
 Hung in Ins rustic hall. One ivied arch 
 Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains 
 Of that foundation in domestic care 
 Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left 
 Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this stone, 
 Faithless memorial ! and his family name 
 Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang 
 From out the ruins of his stately lodge : 
 These, and the name and title at full length, — 
 &it glfretf IttljWfl, with appropriate words 
 Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath 
 Or posy, girding round the several fronts 
 Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells, 
 That in the steeple hang, his pious gift." 
 
 " So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," 
 The grey-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed, 
 " All that this world is proud of. From their spheres 
 The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
 Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, 
 Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms 
 Of all the mighty, withered and consumed ! 
 Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
 Long to protect her own. The man himself 
 Departs ; and soon is spent the line of those 
 Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 
 In heart or soul, in station or pursuit, 
 Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks, 
 Fraternities and orders — heaping high 
 New wealth upon the burthen of the old, 
 And placing trust in privilege confirmed 
 And re-confirmed — are scoffed at with a smile 
 Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 
 Of Desolation, aimed : to slow decline 
 
 These yield, and these to sudden overthrow : 
 Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 
 Expire ; and nature's pleasant robe of green, 
 Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 
 Their monuments and their memory. The vast 
 
 Frame 
 Of social nature changes evermore 
 Her organs and her members with decay 
 Restless, and restless generation, powers 
 And functions dying and produced at need,- 
 And by this law the mighty whole subsists : 
 With an ascent and progress in the main ; 
 Yet, oh ! how disproportioned to the hopes 
 And expectations of self-flattering min ds ! 
 
 The courteous Knight, whose bones are here 
 
 interred, 
 Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 
 For strife and ferment in the minds of men ; 
 Whence alteration in the forms of things, 
 Various and vast. A memorable age ! 
 Which did to him assign a pensive lot — 
 To linger 'mid the last of those bright clouds 
 That, on the steady breeze of honour, sailed 
 In long procession calm and beautiful. 
 He who had seen his own bright order fade, 
 And its devotion gradually decline, 
 (While war, relinquishing the lance and shield, 
 Her temper changed, and bowed to other laws) 
 Had also witnessed, in his morn of life, 
 That violent commotion, which o'erthrew, 
 In town and city and sequestered glen, 
 Altar, and cross, and church of solemn roof, 
 And old religious house — pile after pile ; 
 And shook their tenants out into the fields, 
 Like wild beasts without home ! Their hour was 
 
 come ; 
 But why no softening thought of gratitude, 
 No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt? 
 Benevolence is mild ; nor borrows help, 
 Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force, 
 Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. 
 But Human-kind rejoices in the might 
 Of mutability ; and airy hopes, 
 Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 
 Those meditations of the soul that feed 
 The retrospective virtues. Festive songs 
 Break from the maddened nations at the sight 
 Of sudden overthrow ; and cold neglect 
 Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 
 
 Even," said the Wanderer, " as that courteous 
 Knight, 
 Bound by his vow to labour for redress 
 
 
 __ 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 603 
 
 Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact 
 By sword and lance the law of gentleness, 
 (If I may venture of myself to speak, 
 Trusting that not incongruously I blend 
 Low things with lofty) I too shall be doomed 
 To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 
 Of the poor calling which my youth embraced 
 With no unworthy prospect. But enough ; 
 
 — Thoughts crowd upon me — and 'twere seemlier 
 
 now 
 To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher thanks 
 For the pathetic records which his voice 
 Hath here delivered ; words of heartfelt truth, 
 Tending to patience when affliction strikes ; 
 To hope and love ; to confident repose 
 In God ; and reverence for the dust of Man." 
 
 BOOK EIGHTH. 
 
 THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Pastor's apology and apprehensions that he might have 
 detained his Auditors too long, with the Pastor's invita- 
 tion to his house — Solitary disinclined to comply — rallies 
 the Wanderer — and playfully draws a comparison be- 
 tween his itinerant profession and that of the Knight- 
 errant — which leads to Wanderer's giving an account of 
 changes in the Country from the manufacturing spirit 
 — Favourable effects — The other side of the picture, and 
 chiefly as it has affected the humbler classes — Wanderer 
 asserts the hollowness of all national grandeur if un- 
 supported by moral worth — Physical science unable to 
 support itself — Lamentations over an excess of manu- 
 facturing industry among the humbler Classes of Society. 
 — Picture of a Child employed in a Cotton-mill — 
 Ignorance and degradation of Children among the agri- 
 cultural Population reviewed — Conversation broken off 
 by a renewed Invitation from the Pastor — Path leading 
 to his House — Its appearance described — His Daughter 
 — His Wife — His Son (a Boy) enters with his Companion 
 — Their happy appearance — The Wanderer how affected 
 by the sight of them. 
 
 The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale 
 
 To those acknowledgments subscribed his own, 
 
 With a sedate compliance, which the Priest 
 
 Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and said : — ■ 
 
 " If ye, by whom invited I began 
 
 These narratives of calm and humble life, 
 
 Be satisfied, 'tis well, — the end is gained ; 
 
 And, in return for sympathy bestowed 
 
 And patient listening, thanks accept from me. 
 
 — Life, death, eternity ! momentous themes 
 
 Are they — and might demand a seraph's tongue, 
 
 Were they not equal to their own support ; 
 
 And therefore no incompetence of mine 
 
 Could do them wrong. The universal forms 
 
 Of human nature, in a spot like this, 
 
 Present themselves at once to all men's view : 
 
 Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make 
 
 The individual known and understood ; 
 And such as my best judgment could select 
 From what the place afforded, have been given ; 
 Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal 
 To his might well be likened, who unlocks 
 A cabinet stored with gems and pictures — draws 
 His treasures forth, soliciting regard 
 To this, and this, as worthier than the last, 
 Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased 
 More than the exhibitor himself, becomes 
 Weary and faint, and longs to be released. 
 — But let us hence ! my dwelling is in sight, 
 And there — " 
 
 At this the Solitary shrunk 
 With backward will ; but, wanting not address 
 That inward motion to disguise, he said 
 To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake ; 
 — " The peaceable remains of this good Knight 
 Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn, 
 If consciousness could reach him where he lies 
 That one, albeit of these degenerate times, 
 Deploring changes past, or dreading change 
 Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought, 
 The fine vocation of the sword and lance 
 With the gross aims and body-bending toil 
 Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth 
 Pitied, and, where they are not known, despised. 
 
 Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two estates 
 Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those, 
 Exiles and wanderers — and the like are these ; 
 Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale, 
 Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. 
 — What though no higher recompense be sought 
 Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 
 Full oft procured, yet may they claim respect, 
 Among the intelligent, for what this course 
 Enables them to be and to perform. 
 
604 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Their tardy steps give leisure to observe, 
 While solitude permits the mind to feel ; 
 Instructs, and prompts her to supply defects 
 By the division of her inward self 
 For grateful converse : and to these poor men 
 Nature (I but repeat your favourite boast) 
 Is bountiful — go wheresoe'er they may ; 
 Kind nature's various wealth is all their own. 
 Versed in the characters of men ; and bound, 
 By ties of daily interest, to maintain 
 Conciliatory manners and smooth speech ; 
 Such have been, and still are in their degree, 
 Examples efficacious to refine 
 Rude intercourse ; apt agents to expel, 
 By importation of unlooked-for arts, 
 Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice ; 
 Raising, through just gradation, savage life 
 To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 
 — Within their moving magazines is lodged 
 Power that comes forth to quicken and exalt 
 Affections seated in the mother's breast, 
 And in the lover's fancy ; and to feed 
 The sober sympathies of long-tried friends. 
 — By these Itinerants, as experienced men, 
 Counsel is given ; contention they appease 
 With gentle language ; in remotest wilds, 
 Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring ; 
 Could the proud quest of chivalry do more \ " 
 
 " Happy," rej oined the Wanderer, " they who gain 
 A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
 But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained 
 Aught of romantic interest, it is gone. 
 Their purer service, in this realm at least, 
 Is past for ever. — An inventive Age 
 Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet 
 To most strange issues. I have lived to mark 
 A new and unforeseen creation rise 
 From out the labours of a peaceful Land 
 Wielding her potent enginery to frame 
 And to produce, with appetite as keen 
 As that of war, which rests not night or day, 
 Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless pains 
 Might one like me now visit many a tract 
 Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, 
 A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight, 
 Wished-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came — 
 Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill ; 
 Or straggling burgh, of ancient charter proud, 
 And dignified by battlements and towers 
 Of some stern castle, mouldering on the brow 
 Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream. 
 The foot-path faintly marked, the horse-track wild, 
 And formidable length of plashy lane, 
 
 (Prized avenues ere others had been shaped 
 
 Or easier links connecting place with place) 
 
 Have vanished — swallowed up by stately roads 
 
 Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom 
 
 Of Britain's farthest glens. The Earth has lent 
 
 Her waters, Air her breezes ; and the sail 
 
 Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse, 
 
 Glistening along the low and woody dale ; 
 
 Or, in its progress, on the lofty side, 
 
 Of some bare hill, with wonder kenned from far. 
 
 Meanwhile, at social Industry's command, 
 How quick, how vast an increase ! From the germ 
 Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced 
 Here a huge town, continuous and compact, 
 Hiding the face of earth for leagues — and there, 
 Where not a habitation stood before, 
 Abodes of men irregularly massed 
 Like trees in forests, — spread thrcugh spacious 
 
 tracts, 
 O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires 
 Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths 
 Of vapour glittering in the morning sun. 
 And, wheresoe'er the traveller turns liis steps, 
 He sees the barren wilderness erased, 
 Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims 
 How much the mild Directress of the plough 
 Owes to alliance with these new-bom arts ! 
 — Hence is the wide sea peopled, — hence the shores 
 Of Britain are resorted to by ships 
 Freighted from every climate of the world 
 With the world's choicest produce. Hence that 
 
 sum 
 Of keels that rest within her crowded ports, 
 Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays ; 
 That animating spectacle of sails 
 That, through her inland regions, to and fro 
 Pass with the respirations of the tide, 
 Perpetual, multitudinous ! Finally, 
 Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voice 
 Of thunder daunting those who would approach 
 With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 
 Truth's consecrated residence, the seat 
 Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. 
 
 And yet, happy Pastor of a flock 
 Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care 
 And Heaven's good providence, preserved from 
 
 taint ! 
 With you I grieve, when on the darker side 
 Of this great change I look ; and there behold 
 Such outrage done to nature as compels 
 The indignant power to justify herself ; 
 Yea, to avenge her violated rights, 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 605 
 
 For England's bane. — When soothing darkness 
 
 spreads 
 O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus expressed 
 His recollections, " and the punctual stars, 
 While all things else are gathering to their homes, 
 Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 
 Glitter — but undisturbing, undisturbed ; 
 As if their silent company were charged 
 With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
 Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful lord ; 
 Then, in full many a region, once like this 
 The assured domain of calm simplicity 
 And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 
 Prepared for never-resting Labour's eyes 
 Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge ; 
 And at the appointed hour a bell is heard, 
 Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll 
 That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest — 
 A local summons to unceasing toil ! 
 Disgorged are now the ministers of day ; 
 And, as they issue from the illumined pile, 
 A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door — 
 And in the courts — and where the rumbling stream, 
 That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, 
 Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed 
 Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths, 
 Mother and little children, boys and girls, 
 Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
 Within this temple, where is offered up 
 To Gain, the master idol of the realm, 
 Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 
 Our ancestors, within the still domain 
 Of vast cathedral or conventual church, 
 Their vigils kept ; where tapers day and night 
 On the dim altar burned continually, 
 In token that the House was evermore 
 Watching to God. Religious men were they ; 
 Nor would their reason, tutored to aspire 
 Above this transitory world, allow- 
 That there should pass a moment of the year, 
 When in their land the Almighty's service ceased. 
 
 Triumph who will in these profaner rites 
 Which we, a generation self-extolled, 
 As zealously perform ! I cannot share 
 His proud complacency : — yet do I exult, 
 Casting reserve away, exult to see 
 An intellectual mastery exercised 
 O'er the blind elements ; a purpose given, 
 A perseverance fed ; almost a soul 
 Imparted — to brute matter. I rejoice, 
 Measuring the force of those gigantic powers 
 That, by the thinking mind, have been compelled 
 To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. 
 
 For with the sense of admiration blends 
 
 The animating hope that time may come 
 
 When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might 
 
 Of this dominion over nature gained, 
 
 Men of all lands shall exercise the same 
 
 In due proportion to their country's need ; 
 
 Learning, though late, that all true glory rests, 
 
 All praise, all safety, and all happiness, 
 
 Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, 
 
 Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves, 
 
 Palmyra, central in the desert, fell ; 
 
 And the Arts died by which they had been raised. 
 
 — Call Archimedes from his buried tomb 
 
 Upon the grave of vanished Syracuse, 
 
 And feelingly the Sage shall make report 
 
 How insecure, how baseless in itself, 
 
 Is the Philosophy whose sway depends 
 
 On mere material instruments ;— how weak 
 
 Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropped 
 
 By virtue. — He, sighing with pensive grief, 
 
 Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 
 
 That not the slender privilege is theirs 
 
 To save themselves from blank forgetfumess ! " 
 
 When from the Wanderer's lips these words had 
 fallen, 
 I said, " And, did in truth those vaunted Arts 
 Possess such privilege, how could we escape 
 Sadness and keen regret, we who revere, 
 And would preserve as things above all price, 
 The old domestic morals of the land, 
 Her simple manners, and the stable worth 
 That dignified and cheered a low estate ? 
 Oh ! where is now the character of peace, 
 Sobriety, and order, and chaste love, 
 And honest dealing, and untainted speech, 
 And pure good- will, and hospitable cheer ; 
 That made the very thought of country-life 
 A thought of refuge, for a mind detained 
 Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd ? 
 Where now the beauty of the sabbath kept 
 With conscientious reverence, as a day 
 By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced 
 Holy and blest ? and where the winning grace 
 Of all the lighter ornaments attached 
 To time and season, as the year rolled round?" 
 
 " Fled! " was the Wanderer's passionate response, 
 " Fled utterly ! or only to be traced 
 In a few fortunate retreats like this ; 
 Which I behold with trembling, when 1 think 
 What lamentable change, a year — a month — 
 May bring ; that brook converting as it runs 
 Into an instrument of deadly bane 
 
606 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 For those, who, yet untempted to forsake 
 
 The simple occupations of their sires, 
 
 Drink the pure water of its innocent stream 
 
 With lip almost as pure. — Domestic bliss 
 
 (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 
 
 How art thou blighted for the poor Man's heart ! 
 
 Lo ! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve, 
 
 The habitations empty ! or perchance 
 
 The Mother left alone, — no helping hand 
 
 To rock the cradle of her peevish babe ; 
 
 No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, 
 
 Or in dispatch of each day's little growth 
 
 Of household occupation ; no nice arts 
 
 Of needle- work ; no bustle at the fire, 
 
 Where once the dinner was prepared with pride ; 
 
 Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind ; 
 
 Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command ! 
 
 The Father, if perchance he still retain 
 His old employments, goes to field or wood, 
 No longer led or followed by the Sons ; 
 Idlers perchance they were, — but in his sight ; 
 Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth ; 
 'Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, 
 Ne'er to return ! That birthright now is lost. 
 Economists will tell you that the State 
 Thrives by the forfeiture — unfeeling thought, 
 And false as monstrous ! Can the mother thrive 
 By the destruction of her innocent sons 
 In whom a premature necessity 
 Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes 
 The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 
 The infant Being in itself, and makes 
 Its very spring a season of decay ! 
 The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 
 Whether a pining discontent survive, 
 And thirst for change ; or habit hath subdued 
 The soul deprest, dejected — even to love 
 Of her close tasks, and long captivity. 
 
 Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
 A native Briton to these inward chains, 
 Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep ; 
 Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed ! 
 He is a slave to whom release comes not, 
 And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns, 
 Is still a prisoner ; when the wind is up 
 Among the clouds, and roars through the ancient 
 
 woods ; 
 Or when the sun is shining in the east, 
 Quiet and calm. Behold him — in the school 
 Of his attainments ? no ; but with the air 
 Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch. 
 His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton-flakes 
 
 Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes. 
 
 Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pale, 
 
 His respiration quick and audible ; 
 
 And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 
 
 Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush 
 
 Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form, 
 
 Is that the countenance, and such the port, 
 
 Of no mean Being 2 One who should be clothed 
 
 With dignity befitting his proud hope ; 
 
 Who, in his very childhood, should appear 
 
 Sublime from present purity and joy ! 
 
 The limbs increase ; but liberty of mind 
 
 Is gone for ever ; and this organic frame, 
 
 So joyful in its motions, is become 
 
 Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead ; 
 
 And even the touch, so exquisitely poured 
 
 Through the whole body, with a languid will 
 
 Performs its functions ; rarely competent 
 
 To impress a vivid feeling on the mind 
 
 Of what there is delightful in the breeze, 
 
 The gentle visitations of the sun, 
 
 Or lapse of liquid element — by hand, 
 
 Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth— perceived. 
 
 — Can hope look forward to a manhood raised 
 
 On such foundations?" 
 
 " Hope is none for himl" 
 The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, 
 " And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. 
 Yet be it asked, in justice to our age, 
 If there were not, before those arts appeared, 
 These structures rose, commingling old and young, 
 And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint ; 
 If there were not, then, in our far-famed Isle, 
 Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed 
 Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large ; 
 Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape, 
 As abject, as degraded ? At this day, 
 Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
 And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth 
 A ragged Offspring, with their upright hair 
 Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear ; 
 Or wearing, (shall we say ?) in that white growth 
 An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
 Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun-burnt 
 
 brows, 
 By savage Nature I Shrivelled are their lips ; 
 Naked, and coloured like the soil, the feet 
 On which they stand ; as if thereby they drew 
 Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots, 
 From earth, the common mother of us all. 
 Figure and mien, complexion and attire, 
 Are leagued to strike dismay; but outstretched 
 
 hand 
 And whining voice denote them supplicants 
 
THE PARSONAGE. 
 
 607 
 
 For the least boon that pity can bestow. 
 
 Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found ; 
 
 And with their parents occupy the skirts 
 
 Of furze-clad commons ; such are born and reared 
 
 At the mine's mouth under impending rocks ; 
 
 Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave ; 
 
 Or where their ancestors erected huts, 
 
 For the convenience of unlawful gain, 
 
 In forest purlieus ; and the like are bred, 
 
 All England through, where nooks and slips of 
 
 ground 
 Purloined, in times less jealous than our own, 
 From the green margin of the public way, 
 A residence afford them, 'mid the bloom 
 And gaiety of cultivated fields. 
 Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 
 Do I remember oft-times to have seen 
 'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. In earnest watch, 
 Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand ; 
 Then, following closely with the cloud of dust, 
 An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 
 Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage. 
 — Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin, 
 And, on the freight of merry passengers 
 Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed ; 
 And spin — and pant — and overhead again, 
 Wild pursuivants ! until their breath is lost, 
 Or bounty tires — and every face, that smiled 
 Encouragement, hath ceased to look that way. 
 — But, like the vagrants of the gipsy tribe, 
 These, bred to little pleasure in themselves, 
 Are profitless to others. 
 
 Turn we then 
 To Britons born and bred within the pale 
 Of civil polity, and early trained 
 To earn, by wholesome labour in the field, 
 The bread they eat. A. sample should I give 
 Of what this stock hath long produced to enrich 
 The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 
 ' Is this the whistling plough-boy whose shrill notes 
 Impart new gladness to the morning air ! ' 
 Forgive me if I venture to suspect 
 That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse, 
 Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints ; 
 Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 
 Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear, 
 Fellows to those that lustily upheld 
 The wooden stools for everlasting use, 
 Whereon our fathers sate. And mark his brow ! 
 Under whose shaggy canopy are set 
 Two eyes — not dim, but of a healthy stare — 
 Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange — 
 Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
 A look or motion of intelligence 
 
 From infant-conning of the Christ-cross-row, 
 Or puzzling through a primer, line by line, 
 Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. 
 — What kindly warmth from touch of fostering 
 
 hand, 
 What penetrating power of sun or breeze, 
 Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul 
 Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice ? 
 This torpor is no pitiable work 
 Of modern ingenuity ; no town 
 Nor crowded city can be taxed with aught 
 Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law, 
 To which (and who can tell where or how soon ?) 
 He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce : 
 His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering scythe, 
 The carter's whip that on his shoulder rests 
 In air high-towering with a boorish pomp, 
 The sceptre of his sway ; his country's name, 
 Her equal rights, her churches and her schools — 
 What have they done for him ? And, let me ask, 
 For tens of thousands uninformed as he ? 
 In brief, what liberty of mind is here ? " 
 
 This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man, 
 To whom the appeal couched in its closing words 
 Was pointedly addressed ; and to the thoughts 
 That, in assent or opposition, rose 
 Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give 
 Prompt utterance ; but the Vicar interposed 
 With invitation urgently renewed. 
 — We followed, taking as he led, a path 
 Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall, 
 Whose flexile boughs low bending with a weight 
 Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots 
 That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds 
 Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, me- 
 
 thought, 
 Is here — how grateful this impervious screen !' 
 — Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot 
 On rural business passing to and fro 
 Was the commodious walk : a careful hand 
 Had marked the line, and strewn its surface o'er 
 With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights 
 Fetched by a neighbouring brook. — Across the vale 
 The stately fence accompanied our steps ; 
 And thus the pathway, by perennial green 
 Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite, 
 As by a beautiful yet solemn chain, 
 The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer. 
 
 Like image of solemnity, conjoined 
 With feminine allurement soft and fair, 
 The mansion's self displayed ;— a reverend pile 
 With bold projections and recesses deep ; 
 
608 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood 
 
 Fronting the noontide sun. We paused to admire 
 
 The pillared porch, elaborately embossed ; 
 
 The low wide windows with their mullions old ; 
 
 The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone; 
 
 And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose, 
 
 By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers 
 
 And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned : 
 
 Profusion bright ! and every flower ass umin g 
 
 A more than natural vividness of hue, 
 
 From unaffected contrast with the gloom 
 
 Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 
 
 Of yew, in which survived some traces, here 
 
 Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 
 
 And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof 
 
 Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore, 
 
 Blending their diverse foliage with the green 
 
 Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped 
 
 The huge round chimneys, harbour of delight 
 
 For wren and redbreast, — where they sit and sing 
 
 Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. 
 
 Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else 
 
 Were incomplete) a relique of old times 
 
 Happily spared, a little Gothic niche 
 
 Of nicest workmanship ; that once had held 
 
 The sculptured image of some patron-saint, 
 
 Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down 
 
 On all who entered those religious doors. 
 
 But lo ! where from the rocky garden-mount 
 Crowned by its antique summer-house — descends, 
 Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl ; 
 For she hath recognised her honoured friend, 
 The Wanderer ever welcome ! A prompt kiss 
 The gladsome Child bestows at his request ; 
 And, up the flowery lawn as we advance, 
 Hangs on the old Man with a happy look, 
 And with a pretty restless hand of love. 
 — We enter — by the Lady of the place 
 Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port : 
 A lofty stature undepressed by time, 
 Whose visitation had not wholly spared 
 The finer lineaments of form and face ; 
 To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in 
 And wisdom loves. — But when a stately ship 
 Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast 
 On homeward voyage, what — if wind and wave, 
 And hardship undergone in various climes, 
 Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 
 And that full trim of inexperienced hope 
 With which she left her haven — not for this, 
 Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze 
 Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 
 Brightness and touching beauty of her own, 
 
 
 That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared 
 This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 
 Of unexpected pleasure. — Soon the board 
 Was spread, and we partook a plain repast. 
 
 Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled 
 The mid-day hours with desultory talk ; 
 From trivial themes to general argument 
 Passing, as accident or fancy led, 
 Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose 
 And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 
 Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 
 Resumed the manners of his happier days ; 
 And in the various conversation bore 
 A willing, nay, at times, a forward part ; 
 Yet with the grace of one who in the world 
 Had learned the art of pleasing, and had now 
 Occasion given him to display his skill, 
 Upon the stedfast 'vantage-ground of truth. 
 He gazed, with admiration unsuppressed, 
 Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, 
 Seen, from the shady room in which we sate, 
 In softened perspective ; and more than once 
 Praised the consummate harmony serene 
 Of gravity and elegance, diffused 
 Around the mansion and its whole domain ; 
 Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
 And female care. — " A blessed lot is yours ! " 
 The words escaped his lip, with a tender sigh 
 Breathed over them : but suddenly the door 
 Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
 Appeared, confusion checking their delight. 
 — Not brothers they in feature or attire, 
 But fond companions, so I guessed, in field, 
 And by the river's margin — whence they come, 
 Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated. 
 One bears a willow-pannier on his back, 
 The boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives 
 More deeply tinged. Twin might the other be 
 To that fair girl who from the garden-mount 
 Bounded : — triumphant entry this for him ! 
 Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone, 
 On whose capacious surface see outspread 
 Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts ; 
 Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees 
 Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 
 Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone 
 With its rich freight ; then' number he proclaims ; 
 Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged ; 
 And where the very monarch of the brook, 
 After long struggle, had escaped at last — 
 Stealing alternately at them and us 
 (As doth his comrade too) a look of pride : 
 And, verily, the silent creatures made 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, &c. 
 
 609 
 
 A splendid sight, together thus exposed ; 
 Dead — but not sullied or deformed by death, 
 That seemed to pity what he could not spare. 
 
 But 0, the animation in the mien 
 Of those two hoys ! yea in the very words 
 With which the young narrator was inspired, 
 When, as our questions led, he told at large 
 Of that day's prowess ! Him might I compare, 
 His looks, tones, gestures, eager eloquence, 
 To a bold brook that splits for better speed, 
 And at the self-same moment, works its way 
 Through many channels, ever and anon 
 Parted and re-united : his compeer 
 To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight 
 As beautiful — as grateful to the mind. 
 — But to what object shall the lovely Girl 
 Be likened? She whose countenance and air 
 
 Unite the graceful qualities of both, 
 
 Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. 
 
 My grey-haired Friend was moved ; his vivid eye 
 Glistened with tenderness ; his mind, I knew, 
 Was full ; and had, I doubted not, returned, 
 Upon this impulse, to the theme — erewhile 
 Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys 
 Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned meal ; 
 And He — to whom all tongues resigned their rights 
 With willingness, to whom the general ear 
 Listened with readier patience than to strain 
 Of music, lute or harp, a long delight 
 That ceased not when his voice had ceased — as One 
 Who from truth's central point serenely views 
 The compass of his argument — began 
 Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone. 
 
 BOOK NINTH. 
 
 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND 
 AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Wanderer asserts that an active principle pervades the 
 Universe, its nohlest seat the human soul— How lively 
 this principle is in Childhood— Hence the delight in old 
 Age of looking hack upon Childhood— The dignity, 
 powers, and privileges of Age asserted — These not to he 
 looked for generally but under a just government— Right 
 of a human Creature to be exempt from being considered 
 as a mere Instrument— The condition of multitudes 
 deplored— Former conversation recurred to, and the 
 Wanderer's opinions set in a clearer light— Truth placed 
 within reach of the humblest— Equality— Happy state 
 of the two Boys again adverted to— Earnest wish 
 expressed for a System of National Education established 
 universally by Government— Glorious effects of this 
 foretold— Walk to the Lake— Grand spectacle from the 
 side of a hill— Address of Priest to the Supreme Being 
 —in the course of which he contrasts with ancient Bar- 
 barism the present appearance of the scene before him 
 —The change ascribed to Christianity— Apostrophe to 
 his flock, living and dead— Gratitude to the Almighty 
 —Return over the Lake— Parting with the Solitary— 
 Under what circumstances. 
 
 "To every Form of being is assigned," 
 Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
 "An active Principle : — howe'er removed 
 From sense and observation, it subsists 
 In all things, in all natures ; in the stars 
 
 Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds, 
 
 In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 
 
 That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 
 
 The moving waters, and the invisible air. 
 
 Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 
 
 Beyond itself, communicating good, 
 
 A simple blessing, or with evil mixed ; 
 
 Spirit that knows no insulated spot, 
 
 No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 
 
 It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds. 
 
 This is the freedom of the universe ; 
 
 Unfolded still the more, more visible, 
 
 The more we know ; and yet is reverenced least, 
 
 And least respected in the human Mind, 
 
 Its most apparent home. The food of hope 
 
 Is meditated action ; robbed of this 
 
 Her sole support, she languishes and dies. 
 
 We perish also ; for we live by hope 
 
 And by desire ; we see by the glad light 
 
 And breathe the sweet air of futurity; 
 
 And so we live, or else we have no life. 
 
 To-morrow — nay perchance this very hour 
 
 (_For every moment hath its own to-morrow !) 
 
 Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are almost sick 
 
 With present triumph, will be sure to find 
 
 A field before them freshened with the dew 
 
 Of other expectations ;— in which course 
 
 Their happy year spins round. The youth obeys 
 
610 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 A like glad impulse ; and so moves the man 
 'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears, — 
 Or so he ought to move. Ah ! why in age 
 Do we revert so fondly to the walks 
 Of childhood — but that there the Soul discerns 
 The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired 
 Of her own native vigour ; thence can hear 
 Reverberations ; and a choral song, 
 Commingling with the incense that ascends, 
 Undaunted, toward the imperishable heavens, 
 From her own lonely altar ? 
 
 Do not think 
 That good and wise ever will be allowed, 
 Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate 
 As shall divide them wholly from the stir 
 Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
 That Man descends into the Vale of years ; 
 Yet have I thought that we might also speak, 
 And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, 
 As of a final Eminence; though bare 
 In aspect and forbidding, yet a point 
 On which 'tis not impossible to sit 
 In awful sovereignty ; a place of power, 
 A throne, that may be likened unto his, 
 Who, in some placid day of summer, looks 
 Down from a mountain-top, — say one of those 
 High peaks, that bound the vale where now we 
 
 are. 
 Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye, 
 Forest and field, and hill and dale appear, 
 With all the shapes over their surface spread : 
 But, while the gross and visible frame of things 
 Relinquishes its hold upon the sense, 
 Yea almost on the Mind herself, and seems 
 All unsubstantialized, — how loud the voice 
 Of waters, with invigorated peal 
 From the full river in the vale below, 
 Ascending ! For on that superior height 
 Who sits, is disencumbered from the press 
 Of near obstructions, and is privileged 
 To breathe in solitude, above the host 
 Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air 
 That suits not them. The murmur of the leaves 
 Many and idle, visits not his ear : 
 This he is freed from, and from thousand notes 
 (Not less unceasing, not less vain than these,) 
 By which the finer passages of sense 
 Are occupied ; and the Soul, that would incline 
 To listen, is prevented or deterred. 
 
 And may it not be hoped, that, placed by age 
 In like removal, tranquil though severe, 
 We are not so removed for utter loss ; 
 But for some favour, suited to our need ? 
 
 What more than that the severing should confer 
 
 Fresh power to commune with the invisible world, 
 
 And hear the mighty stream of tendency 
 
 Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 
 
 A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 
 
 To the vast multitude ; whose doom it is 
 
 To run the giddy round of vain delight, 
 
 Or fret and labour on the Plain below. 
 
 But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
 Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
 And termination of his mortal course ; 
 Them only can such hope inspire whose minds 
 Have not been starved by absolute neglect ; 
 Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil ; 
 To whom kind Nature, therefore, may afford 
 Proof of the sacred love she bears for all ; 
 Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may ensure. 
 For me, consulting what I feel within 
 In times when most existence with herself 
 Is satisfied, I cannot but believe, 
 That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 
 And Reason's sway predominates ; even so far, 
 Country, society, and time itself, 
 That saps the individual's bodily frame, 
 And lays the generations low in dust, 
 Do, by the almighty Ruler's grace, partake 
 Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth 
 And cherishing with ever-constant love, 
 That tires not, nor betrays. Our life is turned 
 Out of her course, wherever man is made 
 An offering, or a sacrifice, a tool 
 Or implement, a passive thing employed 
 As a brute mean, without acknowledgment 
 Of common right or interest in the end ; 
 Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt. 
 Say, what can follow for a rational soul 
 Perverted thus, but weakness in all good, 
 And strength in evil ? Hence an after-call 
 For chastisement, and custody, and bonds, 
 And oft-times Death, avenger of the past, 
 And the sole guardian in whose hands we dare 
 Entrust the future. — Not for these sad issues 
 Was Man created ; but to obey the law 
 Of life, and hope, and action. And 'tis known 
 That when we stand upon our native soil, 
 Unelbowed by such objects as oppress 
 Our active powers, thosepowers themselves become 
 Strong to subvert our noxious qualities : 
 They sweep distemper from the busy day, 
 And make the chalice of the big round year 
 Run o'er with gladness ; whence the Being moves 
 In beauty through the world ; and all who see 
 Bless him, rejoicing in his neighbourhood." 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, &c. 
 
 611 
 
 « Then," said the Solitary, "by what force 
 I Of language shall a feeling heart express 
 Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 
 We look for health from seeds that have been sown 
 In sickness, and for increase in a power 
 That works but by extinction ? On themselves 
 They cannot lean, nor turn to their own hearts 
 To know what they must do ; their wisdom is 
 To look into the eyes of others, thence 
 To be instructed what they must avoid : 
 Or rather, let us say, how least observed, 
 How with most quiet and most silent death, 
 With the least taint and injury to the air 
 The oppressor breathes, their human form divine, 
 And their immortal soul, may waste away." 
 
 The Sage rejoined, " I thank you — you have 
 spared 
 
 My voice the utterance of a keen regret, 
 
 A wide compassion which with you I share. 
 
 When, heretofore, I placed before your sight 
 
 A Little-one, subjected to the arts 
 
 Of modern ingenuity, and made 
 
 The senseless member of a vast machine, 
 
 Serving as doth a ypindle or a wheel ; 
 i Think not, that, pitying him, I could forget 
 J' The rustic Boy, who walks the fields, untaught ; 
 i The slave of ignorance, and oft of want, 
 I And miserable hunger. Much, too much, 
 , Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
 1 We both have witnessed, lot which I myself 
 
 Shared, though in mild and merciful degree : 
 j Yet was the mind to hinderances exposed, 
 I Through which I struggled, not without distress 
 ; And sometimes injury, like a lamb enthralled 
 
 'Mid thorns and brambles ; or a bird that breaks 
 ' Through a strong net, and mounts upon the wind, 
 ! Though with her plumes impaired. If they, whose 
 
 souls 
 I Should open while they range the richer fields 
 : Of merry England, are obstructed less 
 ; By indigence, their ignorance is not less, 
 , Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt 
 ' That tens of thousands at this day exist 
 , Such as the boy you painted, lineal heirs 
 ■ Of those who once were vassals of her soil, 
 ] Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees 
 I Which it sustained. But no one takes delight 
 j In this oppression ; none are proud of it ; 
 J It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore ; 
 i A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 
 j 1 Of every country under heaven. My thoughts 
 •' Were turned to evils that are new and chosen, 
 
 A bondage lurking under shape of good,- 
 
 Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 
 But all too fondly followed and too far ; — 
 To victims, which the merciful can see 
 Nor think that they are victims — turned to wrongs, 
 By women, who have children of their own, 
 Beheld without compassion, yea with praise ! 
 I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
 With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads 
 The healthier, the securer, we become ; 
 Delusion which a moment may destroy ! 
 Lastly, I mourned for those whom I had seen 
 Corrupted and cast down, on favoured ground, 
 Where circumstance and nature had combined 
 To shelter innocence, and cherish love ; 
 Who, but for this intrusion, would have lived, 
 Possessed of health, and strength, and peace of mind ; 
 Thus would have lived, or never have been born. 
 
 Alas ! what differs more than man from man ! 
 And whence that difference ? whence but from him- 
 self? 
 For see the universal Race endowed 
 With the same upright form ! — The sun is fixed, 
 And the infinite magnificence of heaven 
 Fixed, within reach of every human eye ; 
 The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears ; 
 The vernal field infuses fresh delight 
 Into all hearts. Throughout the world of sense, 
 Even as an object is sublime or fair, 
 That object is laid open to the view 
 Without reserve or veil ; and as a power 
 Is salutary, or an influence sweet, 
 Are each and all enabled to perceive 
 That power, that influence, by impartial law. 
 Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all ; 
 Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and tears ; 
 Imagination, freedom in the will ; 
 Conscience to guide and check ; and death to be 
 Foretasted, immortality conceived 
 By all, — a blissful immortality,' 
 To them whose holiness on earth shall make 
 The Spirit capable of heaven, assured. 
 Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, might be 
 
 deemed 
 The failure, if the Almighty, to this point 
 Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide 
 The excellence of moral qualities 
 From common understanding ; leaving truth 
 And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark ; 
 Hard to be won, and only by a few ; 
 Strange, should He deal herein with nice respects, 
 And frustrate all the rest ! Believe it not : 
 The primal duties shine aloft — like stars ; 
 The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, 
 a R 2 
 
612 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Are scattered at the feet of Man — like flowers. 
 
 The generous inclination, the just rule, 
 
 Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts — ■ 
 
 No mystery is here ! Here is no hoon 
 
 For high — yet not for low ; for proudly graced — ■ 
 
 Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends 
 
 To heaven as lightly from the cottage-hearth 
 
 As from the haughtiest palace. He, whose soul 
 
 Ponders this true equality, may walk 
 
 The fields of earth with gratitude and hope ; 
 
 Yet, in that meditation, will he find 
 
 Motive to sadder grief, as we have found ; 
 
 Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown, 
 
 And for the injustice grieving, that hath made 
 
 So wide a difference between man and man. 
 
 Then let us rather fix our gladdened thoughts 
 Upon the brighter scene. How blest that pair 
 Of blooming Boys (whom we beheld even now) 
 Blest in their several and their common lot ! 
 A few short hours of each returning day 
 The thriving prisoners of their village-school : 
 And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant homes 
 Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy ; 
 To breathe and to be happy, run and shout 
 Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss ; 
 For every genial power of heaven and earth, 
 Through all the seasons of the changeful year, 
 Obsequiously doth take upon herself 
 To labour for them ; bringing each in turn 
 The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, health, 
 Beauty, or strength ! Such privilege is theirs, 
 Granted alike in the outset of their course 
 To both ; and, if that partnership must cease, 
 I grieve not," to the Pastor here he turned, 
 " Much as I glory in that child of yours, 
 Repine not for his cottage-comrade, whom 
 Belike no higher destiny awaits 
 Than the old hereditary wish fulfilled ; 
 The wish for liberty to live — content 
 With what Heaven grants, and die — in peace of 
 
 mind, 
 Within the bosom of his native vale. 
 At least, whatever fate the noon of life 
 Reserves for either, sure it is that both 
 Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn ; 
 Whether regarded as a jocund time, 
 That in itself may terminate, or lead 
 In course of nature to a sober eve. 
 Both have been fairly dealt with ; looking back 
 They will allow that justice has in them 
 Been shown, alike to body and to mind." 
 
 He paused, as if revolving in his soul 
 
 Some weighty matter ; then, with fervent voice 
 And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed — 
 
 " for the coming of that glorious time 
 When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
 And best protection, this imperial Realm, 
 While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
 An obligation, on her part, to teach 
 Them who are born to serve her and obey; 
 Binding herself by statute to secure 
 For all the children whom her soil maintains 
 The rudiments of letters, and inform 
 The mind with moral and religious truth, 
 Both understood and practised, — so that none, 
 However destitute, be left to droop 
 By timely culture unsustained ; or run 
 Into a wild disorder ; or be forced 
 To drudge through a weary life without the help 
 Of intellectual implements and tools ; 
 A savage horde among the civilised, 
 A servile band among the lordly free ! 
 This sacred right, the lisping babe proclaims 
 To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will, 
 For the protection of his innocence ; 
 And the rude boy — who, having overpast 
 The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled, 
 Yet mutinously knits his angry brow, 
 And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent, 
 Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 
 To impious use— by process indirect 
 Declares his due, while he makes known his need. 
 — This sacred right is fruitlessly announced, 
 This universal plea in vain addressed, 
 To eyes and ears of parents who themselves 
 Did, in the time of their necessity, 
 Urge it in vain ; and, therefore, like a prayer 
 That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven, 
 It mounts to reach the State's parental ear ; 
 Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart, 
 And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
 Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 
 The unquestionable good — which, England, safe 
 From interference of external force, 
 May grant at leisure ; without risk incurred 
 That what in wisdom for herself she doth, 
 Others shall e'er be able to undo. 
 
 Look ! and behold, from Calpe's sunburnt cliffs 
 To the flat margin of the Baltic sea, 
 Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds ; 
 Laws overturned ; and territory split, 
 Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind, 
 And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes 
 Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, &c. 
 
 613 
 
 Of the same breath are shattered and destroyed. 
 
 Meantime the sovereignty of these fair Isles 
 
 Remains entire and indivisible : 
 
 And, if that ignorance were removed, which breeds 
 
 Within the compass of their several shores 
 
 Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each 
 
 Might still preserve the beautiful repose 
 
 Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres. 
 
 — The discipline of slavery is unknown 
 
 Among us, — hence the more do we require 
 
 The discipline of virtue ; order else 
 
 Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
 
 Thus, duties rising out of good possest 
 
 And prudent caution needful to avert 
 
 Impending evil, equally require 
 
 That the whole people should be taught and trained. 
 
 So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
 
 Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 
 
 Their place ; and genuine piety descend, 
 
 Like an inheritance, from age to age. 
 
 With such foundations laid, avaunt the fear 
 Of numbers crowded on their native soil, 
 To the prevention of all healthful growth 
 Through mutual injury ! Rather in the law 
 Of increase and the mandate from above 
 Rejoice ! — and ye have special cause for joy. 
 — For, as the element of air affords 
 An easy passage to the industrious bees 
 Fraught with their burthens ; and a way as smooth 
 For those ordained to take their sounding flight 
 From the thronged hive, and settle where they list 
 In fresh abodes — their labour to renew ; 
 So the wide waters, open to the power, 
 The will, the instincts, and appointed needs 
 Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 
 Her swarms, and in succession send them forth ; 
 Bound to establish new communities 
 On every shore whose aspect favours hope 
 Or bold adventure ; promising to skill 
 And perseverance their deserved reward. 
 
 Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake, 
 "Change wide, and deep, and silently performed, 
 This Land shall witness; and as days roll on, 
 Earth's universal frame shall feel the effect ; 
 Even till the smallest habitable rock, 
 Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs 
 Of humanised society ; and bloom 
 With civil arts, that shall breathe forth their 
 
 fragrance, 
 A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 
 From culture, unexclusively bestowed 
 On Albion's noble Race in freedom born, 
 
 Expect these mighty issues : from the pains 
 
 And faithful care of unambitious schools 
 
 Instructing simple childhood's ready ear : 
 
 Thence look for these magnificent results ! 
 
 — Vast the circumference of hope — and ye 
 
 Are at its centre, British Lawgivers ; 
 
 Ah! sleep not there in shame! Shall Wisdom's voice 
 
 From out the bosom of these troubled times 
 
 Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind, 
 
 And shall the venerable halls ye fill 
 
 Refuse to echo the sublime decree ? 
 
 Trust not to partial care a general good ; 
 
 Transfer not to futurity a work 
 
 Of urgent need. — Your Country must complete 
 
 Her glorious destiny. Begin even now, 
 
 Now, when oppression, like the Egyptian plague 
 
 Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe, makes 
 
 The brightness more conspicuous that invests 
 
 The happy Island where ye think and act ; 
 
 Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit, 
 
 Show to the wretched nations for what end 
 
 The powers of civil polity were given." 
 
 Abruptly here, but with a graceful air, 
 The Sage broke off. No sooner had he ceased 
 Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
 " Behold the shades of afternoon have fallen 
 Upon this flowery slope ; and see — beyond — 
 The silvery lake is streaked with placid blue ; 
 As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
 How temptingly the landscape shines ! The air 
 Breathes invitation ; easy is the walk 
 To the lake's margin, where a boat lies moored 
 Under a sheltering tree." — Upon this hint 
 We rose together : all were pleased ; but most 
 The beauteous girl, whose cheek was flushed with j oy. 
 Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 
 She vanished — eager to impart the scheme 
 To her loved brother and his shy compeer. 
 — Now was there bustle in the Yicar's house 
 And earnest preparation, — Forth we went, 
 And down the vale along the streamlet's edge 
 Pursued our way, a broken company, 
 Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
 Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched 
 The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed 
 In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
 A two-fold image ; on a grassy bank 
 A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 
 Another and the same ! Most beautiful, 
 On the green turf, with his imperial front 
 Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, 
 The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful, 
 Beneath him, shewed his shadowy counterpart. 
 
614 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky, 
 And each seemed centre of his own fair world : 
 Antipodes unconscious of each other, 
 Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 
 Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 
 
 " Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse, 
 Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle, 
 And yet a breath can do it ! " 
 
 These few words 
 The Lady whispered, while we stood and gazed 
 Gathered together, all in still delight, 
 Not without awe. Thence passing on, she said 
 Tn like low voice to my particular ear, 
 " I love to hear that eloquent old Man 
 Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
 On human life from infancy to age. 
 How pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
 His mind gives back the various forms of things, 
 Caught in their fairest, happiest, attitude ! 
 While he is speaking, I have power to see 
 Even as he sees ; but when his voice hath ceased, 
 Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel, as now, 
 That combinations so serene and bright 
 Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, 
 Whose highest beauty, beautiful as it is, 
 Like that reflected in yon quiet pool, 
 Seems but a fleeting sun-beam's gift, whose peace 
 The sufferance only of a breath of air ! " 
 
 More had she said — but sportive shouts were heard 
 Sent from the jocund hearts of those two Boys, 
 Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
 Down the green field came tripping after us. 
 With caution we embarked ; and now the pair 
 For prouder service were addrest ; but each, 
 Wishful to leave an opening for my choice, 
 Dropped the light oar his eager hand had seized. 
 Thanks given for that becoming courtesy, 
 Their place I took — and for a grateful office 
 Pregnant with recollections of the time 
 When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere ! 
 A Youth, I practised this delightful art ; 
 Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew 
 Of joyous comrades. Soon as the reedy marge 
 Was cleared, I dipped, with arms accordant, oars 
 Free from obstruction ; and the boat advanced 
 Through crystal water, smoothly as a hawk, 
 That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
 Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves 
 With correspondent wings the abyss of air. 
 — " Observe," the Vicar said, "yon rocky isle 
 With birch-trees fringed; my hand shall guide 
 the helm, 
 
 While thitherward we shape our course ; or while 
 
 We seek that other, on the western shore ; 
 
 Where the bare columns of those lofty firs, 
 
 Supporting gracefully a massy dome 
 
 Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 
 
 A Grecian temple rising from the Deep." 
 
 " Turn where we may," said I, " we cannot err 
 In this delicious region." — Cultured slopes, 
 Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered groves, 
 And mountains bare, or clothed with ancient woods, 
 Surrounded us ; and, as we held our way 
 Along the level of the glassy flood, 
 They ceased not to surround us ; change of place, 
 From kindred features diversely combined, 
 Producing change of beauty ever new. 
 — Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the light 
 Of living nature, cannot be portrayed 
 By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill ; 
 But is the property of him alone 
 Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, 
 And in his mind recorded it with love ! 
 Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 
 Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks 
 Of trivial occupations well devised, 
 And unsought pleasures springing up by chance ; 
 As if some friendly Genius had ordained 
 That, as the day thus far had been enriched 
 By acquisition of sincere delight, 
 The same should be continued to its close. 
 
 One spirit animating old and young, 
 
 A gipsy-fire we kindled on the shore 
 
 Of the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed — and there, 
 
 Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
 
 A choice repast — served by our young companions 
 
 With rival earnestness and kindred glee. 
 
 Launched from our hands the smooth stone 
 skimmed the lake ; 
 
 With shouts we raised the echoes ; — stiller sounds 
 The lovely Girl supplied — a simple song, 
 Whose low tones reached not to the distant rocks 
 To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
 Into our hearts ; and charmed the peaceful flood. 
 Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils 
 From land and water ; lilies of each hue — 
 Golden and white, that float upon the waves, 
 And court the wind ; and leaves of that shy plant, 
 (Her flowers were shed) the lily of the vale, 
 That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds 
 Her pensive beauty ; from the breeze her sweets. 
 
 Such product, and such pastime, did the place 
 And season yield ; but, as we re-embarked, 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, &c. 
 
 615 
 
 Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 
 Of that wild spot, the Solitary said 
 In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 
 | The fire, that burned so brightly to our wish, 
 Where is it now ? — Deserted on the beach — 
 Dying, or dead ! Nor shall the fanning breeze 
 Revive its ashes. What care we for this, 
 Whose ends are gained ? Behold an emblem here 
 Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys ! 
 And, in this unpremeditated slight 
 Of that which is no longer needed, see 
 The common course of human gratitude !" 
 
 This plaintive note disturbed not the repose 
 Of the still evening. Right across the lake 
 Our pinnace moves ; then, coasting creek and bay, 
 Glades we behold, and into thickets peep, 
 Where couch the spotted deer ; or raised our eyes 
 To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat 
 Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls ; 
 And thus the bark, meandering with the shore, 
 Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier 
 Of jutting rock invited us to land. 
 
 Alert to follow as the Pastor led, 
 We clomb a green hill's side ; and, as we clomb, 
 The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
 Fair prospect, intercepted less and less, 
 O'er the flat meadows and indented coast 
 Of the smooth lake, in compass seen : — far off, 
 And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church-tower, 
 In majesty presiding over fields 
 And habitations seemingly preserved 
 From all intrusion of the restless world 
 By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 
 
 Soft heath this elevated spot supplied, 
 And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we couched 
 Or sate reclined ; admiring quietly 
 The general aspect of the scene ; but each 
 Not seldom over anxious to make known 
 His own discoveries ; or to favourite points 
 Directing notice, merely from a wish 
 To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
 That rapturous moment never shall I forget 
 When these particular interests were effaced 
 From every mind ! — Already had the sun, 
 Sinking with less than ordinary state, 
 Attained his western bound ; but rays cf light — 
 Now suddenly diverging from the orb 
 Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled 
 By the dense air — shot upwards to the crown 
 Of the blue firmament — aloft, and wide : . 
 And multitudes of little floating clouds, 
 
 Through their ethereal texture pierced — ere we, 
 Who saw, of change were conscious — had become 
 Vivid as fire ; clouds separately poised, — 
 Innumerable multitude of forms 
 Scattered through half the circle of the sky; 
 And giving back, and shedding each on each, 
 With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
 Which from the unapparent fount of glory 
 They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive. 
 That which the heavens displayed, the liquid deep 
 Repeated ; but with unity sublime ! 
 
 While from the grassy mountain's open side 
 We gazed, in silence hushed, with eyes intent 
 On the refulgent spectacle, diffused 
 Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space, 
 The Priest in holy transport thus exclaimed : 
 
 " Eternal Spirit ! universal God ! 
 Power inaccessible to human thought, 
 Save by degrees and steps which thou hast deigned 
 To furnish ; for this effluence of thyself, 
 To the infirmity of mortal sense 
 Vouchsafed ; this local transitory type 
 Of thy paternal splendours, and the pomp 
 Of those who fill thy courts in highest heaven, 
 The radiant Cherubim ; — accept the thanks 
 Which we, thy humble Creatures, here convened, 
 Presume to offer ; we, who — from the breast 
 Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 
 The faint reflections only of thy face — 
 Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 
 Such as they are who in thy presence stand 
 Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
 Imperishable majesty streamed forth 
 From thy empyreal throne, the elect of earth 
 Shall be — divested at the appointed hour 
 Of all dishonour, cleansed from mortal stain. 
 — Accomplish, then, their number ; and conclude 
 Time's weary course ! Or if, by thy decree, 
 The consummation that will come by stealth 
 Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail, 
 Oh ! let thy Word prevail, to take away 
 The sting of human nature. Spread the law, 
 As it is written in thy holy book, 
 Throughout all lands : let every nation hear 
 The high behest, and every heart obey ; 
 Both for the love of purity, and hope 
 Which it affords, to such as do thy will 
 And persevere in good, that they shall rise, 
 To have a nearer view of thee, in heaven. 
 — Father of good ! this prayer in bounty grant, 
 In mercy grant it, to thy wretched sons. 
 Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease, 
 
616 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 And cruel wars expire. The way is marked, 
 The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. 
 Alas ! the nations, who of yore received 
 These tidings, and in Christian temples meet 
 The sacred truth to acknowledge, linger still ; 
 Preferring honds and darkness to a state 
 Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
 Proffered to all, while yet on earth detained. 
 
 So fare the many ; and the thoughtful few, 
 Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
 This dire perverseness, cannot choose but ask, 
 Shall it endure?— Shall enmity and strife, 
 Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed ; 
 And the land never perish ? Is the hope 
 Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
 A peaceable dominion, wide as earth, 
 And ne'er to fail ? Shall that blest day arrive 
 When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 
 In crowded cities, without fear shall live 
 Studious of mutual benefit ; and he, 
 Whom Morn awakens, among dews and flowers 
 Of every clime, to till the lonely field, 
 Be happy in himself \— The law of faith 
 Working through love, such conquest shall it gain, 
 Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve \ 
 Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart ! 
 And with that help the wonder shall be seen 
 Fulfilled, the hope accomplished ; and thy praise 
 Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. 
 
 Once," and with mild demeanour, as he spake, 
 On us the venerable Pastor turned 
 His beaming eye that had been raised to Heaven, 
 " Once, while the Name, Jehovah, was a sound 
 Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle 
 Unheard, the savage nations bowed the head 
 To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds ; 
 Gods which themselves had fashioned, to promote 
 111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. 
 Then, in the bosom of yon mountain-cove, 
 To those inventions of corrupted man 
 Mysterious rites were solemnised ; and there — 
 Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods — 
 Of those terrific Idols some received 
 Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 
 Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard 
 Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome, 
 Though aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks 
 Of human victims, offered up to appease 
 Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 
 Had visionary faculties to see 
 The thing that hath been as the thing that is, 
 Aghast we might behold this crystal Merc 
 
 Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths voluminous, 
 
 Flung from the body of devouring fires, 
 
 To Taranis erected on the heights 
 
 By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 
 
 Exultingly, in view of open day 
 
 And full assemblage of a barbarous host; 
 
 Or to Andates, female Power ! who gave 
 
 (For so they fancied) glorious victory. 
 
 — A few rude monuments of mountain-stone 
 
 Survive ; all else is swept away. — How bright 
 
 The appearances of tilings ! From such, how 
 
 changed 
 The existing worship ; and with those compared, 
 The worshippers how innocent and blest ! 
 So wide the difference, a willing mind 
 Might almost think, at this affecting hour, 
 That paradise, the lost abode of man, 
 Was raised again : and to a happy few, 
 In its original beauty, here restored. 
 
 Whence but from thee, the true and only God, 
 And from the faith derived through Him who bled 
 Upon the cross, this marvellous advance 
 Of good from evil ; as if one extreme 
 Were left, the other gamed. — O ye, who come 
 To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 
 Called to such office by the peaceful sound 
 Of sabbath bells ; and ye, who sleep in earth, 
 All cares forgotten, round its hallowed walls ! 
 For you, in presence of this little band 
 Gathered together on the green hill-side, 
 Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer 
 Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal King ; 
 Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands, have 
 
 made 
 Your very poorest rich in peace of thought 
 And in good works ; and him, who is endowed 
 With scantiest knowledge, master of all truth 
 Which the salvation of his soul requires. 
 Conscious of that abundant favour showered 
 On you, the children of my humble care, 
 And this dear land, our country, while on earth 
 We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, 
 Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude. 
 These barren rocks, your stern inheritance ; 
 These fertile fields, that recompense your pains : 
 The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top ; 
 Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads, 
 Or hushed ; the roaring waters, and the still — 
 They see the offering of my lifted hands, 
 They hear my lips present their sacrifice, 
 They know if I be silent, morn or even : 
 For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart 
 Will find a vent ; and thought is praise to him, 
 
DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, &c. 
 
 617 
 
 Audible praise, to thee, omniscient Mind, 
 
 From whom all gifts' descend, all blessings flow ! " 
 
 This vesper-service closed, without delay, 
 From that exalted station to the plain 
 Descending, we pursued our homeward course, 
 In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake, 
 Under a faded sky. No trace remained 
 Of those celestial splendours ; grey the vault — 
 Pure, cloudless, ether ; and the star of eve 
 Was wanting ; but inferior lights appeared 
 Faintly, too faint almost for sight ; and some 
 Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth 
 In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attained 
 Her mooring-place ; where, to the sheltering tree, 
 Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow, 
 With prompt yet careful hands. This done, we paced 
 The dewy fields ; but ere the Vicar's door 
 Was reached, the Solitary checked his steps ; 
 Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestowed 
 A farewell salutation ; and, the like 
 Receiving, took the slender path that leads 
 To the one cottage in the lonely dell : 
 
 But turned not without welcome promise made 
 
 That he would share the pleasures and pursuits 
 
 Of yet another summer's day, not loth 
 
 To wander with us through the fertile vales, 
 
 And o'er the mountain-wastes. " Another sun,' 
 
 Said he, " shall shine upon us, ere we part ; 
 
 Another sun, and peradventure more ; 
 
 If time, with free consent, be yours to give, 
 
 And season favours." 
 
 To enfeebled Power, 
 From this communion with uninjured Minds, 
 What renovation had been brought ; and what 
 Degree of healing to a wounded spirit, 
 Dejected, and habitually disposed 
 To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
 Excuse and solace for her own defects ; 
 How far those erring notions were reformed ; 
 And whether aught, of tendency as good 
 And pure, from further intercourse ensued ; 
 This— if delightful hopes, as heretofore, 
 Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts 
 Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past — 
 My future labours may not leave untold. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Page 16. 
 
 'And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly.' 
 
 From a short MS. poem read to me when an under- 
 graduate, by my schoolfellow and friend, Charles Farish, 
 long since deceased. The verses were by a brother of 
 his, a man of promising genius, who died young. 
 
 Page 24. 
 ' The Borderers.' 
 
 This Dramatic Piece, as noticed in its title-page, was 
 composed in 1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till 
 within the last two or three months unregarded among 
 my papers, without being mentioned even to my most 
 intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon 
 my mind which made me unwilling to destroy the MS., 
 I determined to undertake the responsibility of publish- 
 ing it during my own life, rather than impose upon my 
 successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it 
 has been revised with some care ; but, as it was at first 
 written, and is now published, without any view to its 
 exhibition upon the stage, not the slightest alteration 
 has been made in the conduct of the story, or the com- 
 position of the characters ; above all, in respect to the 
 two leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement 
 to make any change. The study of human nature sug- 
 gests this awful truth, that, as in the trials to which life 
 subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from their 
 very opposite qualities, so are there no limits to the 
 hardening of the heart, and the perversion of the under- 
 standing to which they may carry their slaves. During 
 my long residence in France, while the Revolution was 
 rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had 
 frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this 
 process, and it was while that knowledge was fresh upon 
 my memory, that the Tragedy of " The Borderers " was 
 composed. 
 
 Page 64. 
 ' The Norman boy.' 
 
 ' Among ancient Trees there are few, I believe, at least 
 in France, so worthy of attention as an Oak which may 
 be seen in the ' Pays de Caux,' about a league from 
 Tvetot, close to the church, and in the burial-ground of 
 Allonville. 
 
 ' The height of this Tree does not answer to its girth ; 
 the trunk, from the roots to the summit, forms a com- 
 plete cone ; and the inside of this cone is hollow through- 
 out the whole of its height. 
 
 ' Such is the Oak of Allonville, in its state of nature. 
 The hand of Man, however, has endeavoured to impress 
 upon it a character still more interesting, by adding a 
 religious feeling to the respect which its age naturally 
 inspires. 
 
 ' The lower part of its hollow trunk has been trans- 
 formed into a Chapel of six or seven feet in diameter, 
 
 carefully wainscotted and paved, and an open iron gate 
 guards the humble Sanctuary. 
 
 ' Leading to it there is a staircase, which twists round 
 the body of the Tree. At certain seasons of the year 
 divine service is performed in this Chapel. 
 
 ' The summit has been broken off many years, but 
 there is a surface at the top of the trunk, of the diameter 
 of a very large tree, and from it rises a pointed roof, 
 covered with slates, in the form of a steeple, which is 
 surmounted with an iron Cross, that rises in a pic- 
 turesque manner from the middle of the leaves, like an 
 ancient Hermitage above the surrounding Wood. 
 
 ' Over the entrance to the Chapel an Inscription ap- 
 pears, which informs us it was erected by the Abbe du 
 Detroit, Curate of Allonville in the year 1696 ; and over 
 a door is another, dedicating it ' To Our Lady of Peace.' ' 
 Vide 14 No. Saturday Magazine. 
 
 Page 117. 
 ' To the Daisy.' 
 
 This Poem, and two others to the same Flower, were 
 written in the year 1802 ; which is mentioned, because 
 in some of the ideas, though not in the manner in which 
 those ideas are connected, and likewise even in some of 
 the expressions, there is a resemblance to passages in a 
 Poem (lately published) of Mr. Montgomery's, entitled, a 
 Field Flower. This being said, Mr. Montgomery will 
 not think any apology due to him ; I cannot, however, 
 help addressing him in the words of the Father of 
 English Poets. 
 
 ' Though it happe me to rehersin — 
 ' That ye han in your freshe songis saied, 
 ' Forberith me, and beth not ill apaied, 
 ' Sith that ye se I doe it in the honour 
 • Of Love, and eke in service of the Flour.' 
 
 1807. 
 
 Page 120. 
 
 ' The Seven Sisters.' 
 
 The Story of this Poem is from the German of Fkede- 
 bica Brun. 
 
 Page 131. 
 ' The Waggoner.' 
 
 Several years after the event that forms the subject of 
 the Poem, in company with my friend, the late Mr. Cole- 
 ridge, I happened to fall in with the person to whom the 
 name of Benjamin is given. Upon our expressing regret 
 that we had not, for a long time, seen upon the road 
 either him or his waggon, he said :— " They could not do 
 without me ; and as to the man who was put in my place, 
 no good could come out of him ; he was a man of no 
 ideas." 
 
 The fact of my discarded hero's getting the horses out 
 of a great difficulty with a word, as related in the poem, 
 was told me by an eye-witness. 
 
620 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 131. 
 ' Tlie buzzing Dor-hmvk, round and round, is wheeling, — ' 
 When the Poem was first written the note of the bird 
 was thus described :— 
 
 ' The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune, 
 Twirling his watchman's rattle about — ' 
 
 but from unwillingness to startle the reader at the out- 
 set by so bold a mode of expression, the passage was 
 altered as it now stands. 
 
 Page 136. 
 After the line, ' Can any mortal clog come to Iter,' followed 
 in the MS. an incident which has been kept back. Part 
 of the suppressed verses shall here be given as a gratifi- 
 cation of private feeling, which the well-disposed reader 
 will find no difficulty in excusing. They are now printed 
 for the first time. 
 
 ' Can any mortal clog come to her ? 
 It can : * * * 
 
 But Benjamin, in his vexation, 
 Possesses inward consolation ; 
 He knows his ground, and hopes to find 
 A spot with all things to his mind, 
 ■ An upright mural block of stone, 
 Moist with pure water trickling down. 
 A slender spring ; but kind to man 
 It is, a true Samaritan ; 
 Close to the highway, pouring out 
 Its offering from a chink or spout ; 
 Whence all, howe'er athirst, or drooping 
 With toil, may drink, and without stooping. 
 
 Cries Benjamin, *' Where is it, where ? 
 Voice it hath none, but must be near." 
 ■ — A star, declining towards the west, 
 Upon the watery surface threw 
 Its image tremulously imprest, 
 That just marked out the object and withdrew : 
 Bight welcome service ! * * 
 
 Rock of Names ! 
 Light is the strain, but not unjust 
 To Thee, and thy memorial-trust 
 That once seemed only to express 
 Love that was love in idleness ; 
 Tokens, as year hath followed year 
 How changed, alas, in character ! 
 For they were graven on thy smooth breast 
 By hands of those my soul loved best ; 
 Meek women, men as true and brave 
 As ever went to a hopeful grave : 
 Their hands and mine, when side by side 
 With kindred zeal and mutual pride, 
 We worked until the Initials took 
 Shapes that defied a scornful look. — 
 Long as for us a genial feeling 
 Survives, or one in need of healing, 
 The power, dear Rock, around thee cast, 
 Thy monumental power, shall last 
 For me and mine ! thought of pain, 
 That would impair it or profane ! 
 Take all in kindness then, as said 
 With a staid heart but playful head ; 
 And fail not Thou, loved Rock ! to keep 
 Thy charge when we are laid asleep.' 
 
 Page 158. 
 
 ' Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle.' 
 
 Henry Lord Clifford, <tc. &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 Cumberland and Westmore- 
 land) ; '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 stand- 
 ing ; for so one maketh this Lord to speak.' This, no 
 doubt, I would observe by the bye, was an action suffi- 
 ciently 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 or seventeen years of age, as is evi- 
 dent from this, (say the Memoirs of the Countess of 
 Pembroke, who was laudably anxious to wipe away, as 
 far as could be, this stigma from the illustrious name to 
 which she was born,) that he was the next Child to King 
 Edward the Fourth, which his mother had by Richard 
 Duke of York, and that King was then eighteen years of 
 age : and for the small distance betwixt her children, 
 see Austin Vincent, in his Book of Nobility, p. 622, where 
 he writes of them all. It may further be observed, that 
 Lord Clifford, who was then himself only twenty-five 
 years of age, had been a leading man and commander, 
 two or three years together in the army of Lancaster, 
 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 York- 
 shire, or in Cumberland, where the estate of his Father- 
 in-law (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to 
 his estate and honours in the first year of Henry the 
 Seventh. It is recorded that, 'when called to Parlia- 
 ment, 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 
 troubles.' Thus far is chiefly collected from Nicholson 
 and Burn ; and I can add, from my own knowledge, 
 that there is a tradition current in the village of Threl- 
 keld and its neighbourhood, his principal retreat, that, 
 in the course of his shepherd-life, he had acquired great 
 astronomical knowledge. I cannot conclude this note 
 without adding a word upon the subject of those nume- 
 rous and noble feudal Edifices, spoken of in the Poem, 
 the ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great an 
 ornament to that interesting country. The Cliffords had 
 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 celebrated 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 inscription 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 sJialt raise up the foun- 
 dations of many generations ; and thou shalt be called Hit 
 
NOTES. 
 
 621 
 
 repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths to dwell in.' The 
 Earl of Thanet, the present possessor of the Estates, 
 with a due respect for the memory of his ancestors, and 
 a proper sense of the value and beauty of these remains 
 of antiquity, has (I am told) given orders that they shall 
 he preserved from all depredations. 
 
 Page 158. 
 
 'Earth helped him with the cry of 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 har- 
 mony ; and have deservedly been reprinted lately in 
 Chalmers' Collection of English Poets. 
 
 Page 159. 
 
 ' And both the undying Fish that swim 
 Through Bowscale-Tarn,' ice. 
 
 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.— Blenca- 
 thara, mentioned before, is the old and proper name of 
 the mountain vulgarly called Saddleback. 
 
 Page 159. 
 
 'Armour rusting in his Halts 
 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 im- 
 proper here to say, by way of comment on these lines 
 and what follows, that besides several others who pe- 
 rished in the same manner, the four immediate Progeni- 
 tors of the Person in whose hearing this is supposed to 
 be spoken, all died in the Field. 
 
 Page 165. 
 
 ' Dion.' 
 
 This poem began with the following stanza, which has 
 been displaced on account of its detaining the reader too 
 long from the subject, and as rather precluding, than 
 preparing for, the due effect of the allusion to the genius 
 of Plato :— 
 
 Fair is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing 
 
 O'er breeaeless water, on Locarno's lake, 
 
 Bears him on while proudly sailing 
 
 He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake : 
 
 Behold ! the mantling spirit of reserve 
 
 Fashions his neck into a goodly curve ; 
 
 An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings 
 
 Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs 
 
 To which, on some unruffled morning, clings 
 
 A flaky weight of winter's purest snows ! 
 
 — Behold ! — as with a gushing impulse heaves 
 
 That downy prow, and softly cleaves 
 
 The mirror of the crystal flood, 
 
 Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood, 
 
 And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state, 
 
 Winds the mute Creature without visible Mate 
 
 Or Rival, save the Queen of night 
 
 Showering down a silver light, 
 
 From heaven, upon her chosen Favourite ! 
 
 Page 168. 
 ' living hill ' 
 
 ' awhile the living hill 
 
 Heaved with convulsive throes, and all was still.' 
 
 DK. DARWIN. 
 
 Page 173. 
 ' TJie Wishing-gate.' 
 
 ' In the Vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old high- 
 way leading to Ambleside, is a gate which, time out of 
 mind, has been called the Wishing-gate.' 
 
 Having been told, upon what I thought good authority, 
 that this gate had been destroyed, and the opening, where 
 it hung, walled up, I gave vent immediately to my feel- 
 ings in these stanzas. But going to the place some time 
 after, I found, with much delight, my old favourite 
 unmolested. 
 
 Page 197. 
 ' Something less than joy, but more than dull content.' 
 
 COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA. 
 
 Page 211. 
 
 ' Wild Redbreast,' &c. 
 
 This Sonnet, as Poetry, explains itself, yet the scene 
 of the incident having been a wild wood, it may be 
 doubted, as a point of natural history, whether the bird 
 was aware that his attentions were bestowed upon a 
 human, or even a living, creature. Bat a Redbreast 
 will perch upon the foot of a gardener at work, and 
 alight on the handle of the spade when his hand is half 
 upon it — this I have seen. And under my own roof I 
 have witnessed affecting instances of the creature's 
 friendly visits to the chambers of sick persons, as de- 
 scribed in the verses to the Redbreast, page 105. One of 
 these welcome intruders used frequently to roost upon a 
 nail in the wall, from which a picture had hung, and was 
 ready, as morning came, to pipe his song in the hearing 
 of the Invalid, who had been long confined to her room. 
 These attachments to a particular person, when marked 
 and continued, used to be reckoned ominous ; but the 
 superstition is passing away. 
 
 Page 218. 
 
 The following is extracted from the journal of my 
 fellow-traveller, to which, as persons acquainted with 
 my poems will know I have been obliged on other occa- 
 sions : — 
 
 ' Dumfries, August, 1803. 
 
 ' On our way to the church-yard where Burns is buried, 
 we were accompanied by a bookseller, who showed us 
 the outside of Burns's house, where he had lived the last 
 three years of his life, and where he died. It has a 
 mean appearance, and is in a bye situation ; the front 
 whitewashed ; dirty about the doors, as most Scotch 
 houses are ; flowering plants in the window. Went to 
 visit his grave ; he lies in a corner of the churchyard, 
 and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside him. There 
 is no stone to mark the spot ; but a hundred guineas 
 have been collected to be expended upon some sort of mo- 
 nument. ' There,' said the bookseller, pointing to a 
 pompous monument, 'lies Mr. — (I have forgotten the 
 name)— a remarkably clever man ; he was an attorney, 
 and scarcely ever lost a cause he undertook. Burns 
 made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest as 
 you see.' We looked at Burns's grave with melancholy 
 and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own 
 poet's epitaph : — 
 
 ' Is there a man, &c. 
 
 ' The churchyard is full of grave-stones and expensive 
 monuments, in all sorts of fantastic shapes - obelisk- 
 wise, pillar-wise, &c. When our guide had left us we 
 turned again to Burns's grave, and afterwards went to 
 his house, wishing to inquire after Mrs. Burns, who was 
 gone to spend some time by the sea-shore with her chil- 
 dren. We spoke to the maid-servant at the door, who 
 invited us forward, and we sate down in the parlour. 
 
622 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 The walls were coloured with a blue wash ; on one side 
 of the fire was a mahogany desk; opposite the window 
 a clock, which Burns mentions, in one of his letters, hay- 
 ing received as a present. The house was cleanly and 
 neat in the inside, the stairs of stone scoured white, the 
 kitchen on the right side of the passage, the parlour on 
 the left. In the room above the parlour the poet died, 
 and his son, very lately, in the same room. The servant 
 told us she had lived four years with Mrs. Burns, who 
 was now in great sorrow for the death of Wallace. She 
 said that Mrs. B.'s youngest son was now at Christ's Hos- 
 pital. We were glad to leave Dumfries, where we could 
 think of little but poor Burns, and his moving about on 
 that unpoetic ground. In our road to Brownhill, the 
 next stage, we passed Ellisland, at a little distance on 
 our right — his farm-house. Our pleasure in looking 
 round would have been still greater, if the road had led 
 us nearer the spot. 
 
 ' I cannot take leave of this country which we passed 
 through to-day, without mentioning that we saw the 
 Cumberland mountains within half-a-mile of Ellisland, 
 Burns's house, the last view we had of them. Drayton 
 has prettily described the connexion which this neigh- 
 bourhood has with ours, when he makes Skiddaw say, — 
 
 ' Scruffel, from the sky 
 That Annandale doth crown, with a most amorous eye 
 Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim, 
 Oft threatening me with clouds, as I oft threaten him.' 
 
 ' These lines came to my brother's memory, as well as 
 the Cumberland saving, — 
 
 ' If Skiddaw hath a cap 
 Scruffel wots well of that.' 
 
 ' We talked of Burns, and of the prospect he must 
 have had, perhaps from his own door, of Skiddaw and 
 his companions ; indulging ourselves in the fancy that 
 we might have been personally known to each other, and 
 he have looked upon those objects with more pleasure 
 for our sakes.' 
 
 Page 236. 
 ' Jones ! as from Calais southward.' 
 (See Dedication to Descriptive Sketches.) 
 This excellent Person, one of my earliest and dearest 
 friends, died in the year 1835. We were under-graduates 
 together of the same year, at the same college ; and 
 companions in many a delightful ramble through his 
 own romantic Country of North Wales. Much of the 
 latter part of his life he passed in comparative solitude ; 
 which I know was often cheered by remembrance of our 
 youthful adventures, and of the beautiful regions which, 
 at home and abroad, we had visited together. Our long 
 friendship was never subject to a moment's interruption, 
 — and, while revising these volumes for the last time, I 
 have been so often reminded of my loss, with a not un- 
 pleasing sadness, that I trust the Reader will excuse this 
 passing mention of a Man who well deserves from me 
 something more than so brief a notice. Let me only 
 add, that during the middle part of his life he resided 
 many years (as Incumbent of the Living) at a Parsonage 
 in Oxfordshire, which is the subject of the 7th of the 
 "Miscellaneous Sonnets," Part 3. 
 
 Page 237. Sonnet vn. 
 
 In this and a succeeding Sonnet on the same subject, 
 let me be understood as a Poet availing himself of the 
 situation which the King of Sweden occupied, and of the 
 principles avowed in his manifestos ; as laying hold 
 of these advantages for the purpose of embodying moral 
 truths. This remark might, perhaps, as well have been 
 suppressed ; for to those who may be in sympathy with 
 
 the course of these Poems, it will be superfluous ; and 
 will, I fear, be thrown away upon that other class, whose 
 besotted admiration of the intoxicated despot hereafter 
 placed in contrast with him, is the most melancholy evi- 
 dence of degradation in British feeling and intellect 
 which the times have furnished. 
 
 Page 240. Sonnet xxvn. 
 ' Danger which they fear, and honour which they understand 
 not.' 
 
 Words in Lord Brooke's Life of Sir P. Sidney. 
 
 Page 244. 
 
 ' Zaragoza.' 
 
 In this Sonnet I am under some obligations to one of 
 an Italian author, to which I cannot refer. 
 
 Page 248. 
 
 The event is thus recorded in the journals of the day : 
 — ' When the Austrians took Hockheim, in one part of 
 the engagement they got to the brow of the hill, whence 
 they had their first view of the Rhine. They instantly 
 halted — not a gun was fired — not a voice heard : they 
 stood gazing on the river with those feelings which the 
 events of the last fifteen years at once called up. Prince 
 Schwartzenberg rode up to know the cause of this sudden 
 stop ; they then gave three cheers, rushed after the 
 enemy, and drove them into the water.' 
 
 Page 252. 
 ' Thanksgiving Ode.' 
 
 Wholly unworthy of touching upon the momentous 
 subject here treated would that Poet he, before whose 
 eyes the present distresses under which this kingdom 
 labours could interpose a veil sufficiently thick to bide, 
 or even to obscure, the splendour of this great moral 
 triumph. If I have given way to exultation, unchecked 
 by these distresses, it might be sufficient to protect me 
 from a charge of insensibility, should I state my own 
 belief that the sufferings will be transitory. Upon the 
 wisdom of a very large majority of the British nation 
 rested that generosity which poured out the treasures of 
 this country for the deliverance of Europe : and in the 
 same national wisdom, presiding in time of peace over 
 an energy not inferior to that which has been displayed 
 in war, they confide, who encourage a firm hope, that the 
 cup of our wealth will be gradually replenished. There 
 will, doubtless, be no few ready to indulge in regrets 
 and repinings ; and to feed a morbid satisfaction, by 
 aggravating these burthens in imagination ; in order 
 that calamity so confidently prophesied, as it has not 
 taken the shape which their sagacity allotted to it, may 
 appear as grievous as possible under another. But the 
 body of the nation will not quarrel with the gain, be- 
 cause it might have been purchased at a less price : and, 
 acknowledging in these sufferings, which they feel to 
 have been in a great degree unavoidable, a consecration 
 of their noble efforts, they will vigorously apply them- 
 selves to remedy the evil. 
 
 Nor is it at the expense of rational patriotism, or in 
 disregard of sound philosophy, that I have given vent to 
 feelings tending to encourage a martial spirit in the 
 bosoms of my countrymen, at a time when there is a 
 general outcry against the prevalence of these disposi- 
 tions. The British army, both by its skill and valour in 
 the field, and by the discipline which rendered it, to the 
 inhabitants of the several countries where its operations 
 were carried on, a protection from the violence of their 
 own troops, has performed services that will not allow 
 the language of gratitude and admiration to be sup- 
 pressed or restrained (whatever be the temper of the ! 
 
NOTES. 
 
 623 
 
 public mind) through a scrupulous dread lest the tribute 
 i due to the past should prove an injurious incentive for 
 the future. Every man deserving the name of Briton 
 adds his voice to the chorus which extols the exploits of 
 his countrymen, with a consciousness, at times overpow- 
 ering the effort, that they transcend all praise. — But 
 this particular sentiment, thus irresistibly excited, is not 
 sufficient. The nation would err grievously, if she suf- 
 fered the abuse which other states have made of military 
 power to prevent her from perceiving that no people ever 
 was or can be, independent, free, or secure, much less 
 great, in any sane application of the word, without a cul- 
 tivation of military virtues. Nor let it be overlooked, 
 that the benefits derivable from these sources are placed 
 ■ within the reach of Great Britain, under conditions 
 peculiarly favourable. The same insular position 
 which, by rendering territorial incorporation impossible, 
 utterly precludes the desire of conquest under the most 
 seductive shape it can assume, enables her to rely, for 
 her defence against foreign foes, chiefly upon a species 
 of armed force from which her own liberties have nothing 
 to fear. Such are the privileges of her situation ; and, 
 by permitting, they invite her to give way to the courage- 
 ous instincts of human nature, and to strengthen and 
 refine them by culture. 
 
 But some have more than insinuated that a design 
 exists to subvert the civil character of the English people 
 by unconstitutional applications and unnecessary in- 
 crease of military power. The advisers and abettors of 
 such a design, were it possible that it should exist, would 
 be guilty of the most heinous crime, which, upon this 
 planet, can be committed. Trusting that this appre- 
 hension arises from the delusive influences of an honour- 
 able jealousy, let me hope that the martial qualities 
 which I venerate will be fostered by adhering to those 
 good old usages which experience has sanctioned ; and 
 by availing ourselves of new means of indisputable pro- 
 mise: particularly by applying, in its utmost possible 
 extent, that system of tuition whose master-spring is a 
 habit of gradually enlightened subordination ; — by im- 
 parting knowledge, civil, moral, and religious, in such 
 measure that the mind, among all classes of the com- 
 munity, may love, admire, and be prepared and accom- 
 plished to defend, that country under whose protection 
 its faculties have been unfolded, and its riches acquired ; 
 — by just dealing towards all orders of the state, so that, 
 no members of it being trampled upon,couragemay every- 
 where continue to rest immoveably upon its ancient 
 English foundation, personal self-respect ; — by adequate 
 rewards, and permanent honours, conferred upon the 
 deserving ; — by encouraging athletic exercises and manly 
 sports among the peasantry of the country ; — and by 
 especial care to provide and support institutions, in 
 which, during a time of peace, a reasonable proportion 
 of the youth of the country may be instructed in military 
 science. 
 
 I have only to add, that I should feel little satisfaction 
 in giving to the world these limited attempts to celebrate 
 the virtues of my country, if I did not encourage a hope 
 that a subject, which it has fallen within my province to 
 treat only in the mass, will by other poets be illustrated 
 in that detail which its importance calls for, and which 
 will allow opportunities to give the merited applause to 
 peesons as well as to things. 
 
 The ode was published along with other pieces, now 
 interspersed through this volume. 
 
 Page 253. 
 
 'Discipline the rule whereof is passion.' 
 
 Loed Beooke. 
 
 Page 255. Sonnet i. 
 If in this Sonnet I should seem to have borne a little 
 too hard upon the personal appearance of the worthy 
 
 Poissards of Calais, let me take shelter under the autho- 
 rity of my lamented friend, the late Sir George Beaumont. 
 He, a most accurate observer, used to say of them, that 
 their features and countenances seemed to have con- 
 formed to those of the creatures they dealt in ; at all 
 events the resemblance was striking. 
 
 Page 255. 
 
 ' Bruges.' 
 This is not the first poetical tribute which in our times 
 has been paid to this beautiful city. Mr. Southey, in the 
 " Poet's Pilgrimage" speaks of it in lines which I cannot 
 deny myself the pleasure of connecting with my own. 
 
 ' Time hath not wronged her, nor hath ruin sought 
 Rudely her splendid structures to destroy, 
 
 Save in those recent days, with evil fraught, 
 "When mutability, in drunken joy 
 
 Triumphant, and from all restraint released, 
 
 Let loose her fierce and many-headed beast. 
 
 But for the scars in that unhappy rage 
 Inflicted, firm she stands and undecayed ; 
 
 Like our first Sires, a beautiful old age 
 Is hers in venerable years arrayed ; 
 
 And yet, to her, benignant stars may bring, 
 
 What fate denies to man, — a second spring. 
 
 When I may read of tilts in days of old, 
 And tourneys graced by Chieftains of renown, 
 
 Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriors bold, 
 If fancy would portray some stately town, 
 
 Which for such pomp fit theatre should be, 
 
 Fair Bruges, I shall then remember thee.' 
 
 In this city are many vestiges of the splendour of the 
 Burgandian Dukedom, and the long black mantle univer- 
 sally worn by the females is probably a remnant of the 
 old Spanish connection, which, if I do not much deceive 
 myself, is traceable in the grave deportment of its in- 
 habitants. Bruges is comparatively little disturbed by 
 that curious contest, or rather conflict, of Flemish with 
 French propensities in matters of taste, so conspicuous 
 through other parts of Flanders. The hotel to which we 
 drove at Ghent furnished an odd instance. In the pas- 
 sages were paintings and statues, after the antique, of 
 Hebe and Apollo ; and in the garden, a little pond, 
 about a yard and a half in diameter, with a weeping 
 willow bending over it, and under the shade of that tree, 
 in the centre of the pond a wooden painted statue of a 
 Dutch or Flemish boor, looking ineffably tender upon his 
 mistress, and embracing her. A living duck, tethered at 
 the feet of the sculptured lovers, alternately tormented a 
 miserable eel and itself with endeavours to escape from 
 its bonds and prison. Had we chanced to espy the 
 hostess of the hotel in this quaint rural retreat, the 
 exhibition would have been complete. She was a true 
 Flemish figure, in the dress of the days of Holbein ; her 
 symbol of office, a weighty bunch of keys, pendent from 
 her portly waist. In Brussels, the modern taste in cos- 
 tume, architecture, &c, has got the mastery ; in Ghent 
 there is a struggle : but in Bruges old images are still 
 paramount, and an air of monastic life among the quiet 
 goings-on of a thinly-peopled city is inexpressibly sooth- 
 ing ; a pensive grace seems to be cast over all, even the 
 very children. — Extract from Journal. 
 
 Page 256. 
 
 ' Where unremitting frosts the rocky Crescent bleach.' 
 
 ' Let a wall of rocks be imagined from three to six 
 hundred feet in height, and rising between France and 
 Spain, so as physically to separate the two kingdoms — 
 let us fancy this wall curved like a crescent, with its 
 convexity towards France. Lastly, let us suppose, that 
 
624 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 in the very middle of the wall, a breach of 300 feet 
 wide has been beaten down by the famous Roland, and 
 we may have a good idea of what the mountaineers call 
 the 'Breche de Roland." — Raymond's Pyrenees. 
 
 Page 257. 
 ' Miserere Domine.' 
 
 See the beautiful Song in Mr. Coleridge's Tragedy, 
 " The Remorse." Why is the harp of Quantock silent ? 
 
 Page 257. 
 • Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly 
 Doth Danube spring to life !' 
 Before this quarter of the Black Forest was inhabited, 
 the source of the Danube might have suggested some of 
 those sublime images which Armstrong has so finely 
 described ; at present, the contrast is most striking. 
 The Spring appears in a capacious stone Basin in front 
 of a Ducal palace, with a pleasure-ground opposite ; then, 
 passing under the pavement, takes the form of a little, 
 clear, bright, black, vigorous rill, barely wide enough 
 to tempt the agility of a child five years old to leap 
 over it,— and entering the garden, it joins, after a course 
 of a few hundred yards, a stream much more consider- 
 able than itself. The copiousness of the spring at Dones- 
 chingen must have procured for it the honour of being 
 named the Source of the Danube. 
 
 Page 257. 
 
 " The Staub-bach" is a narrow Stream, which, after 
 a long course on the heights, comes to the sharp edge of a 
 somewhat overhanging precipice, overleaps it with a 
 bound, and, after a fall of 930 feet, forms again a rivulet. 
 The vocal powers of these musical Beggars may seem to 
 be exaggerated ; butthis wild and savage air was utterly 
 unlike any sounds I had ever heard ; the notes reached 
 me from a distance, and on what occasion they were 
 sung I could not guess, only they seemed to belong, in 
 some way or other, to the Waterfall — and reminded me 
 of religious services chanted to Streams and Fountains 
 in Pagan times. Mr. Southey has thus accurately cha- 
 racterised the peculiarity of this music : ' While we were 
 at the Waterfall, some half-score peasants, chiefly 
 women and girls, assembled just out of reach of the 
 Spring, and set up — surely, the wildest chorus that ever 
 was heard by human ears, — a song not of articulate 
 sounds, but in which the voice was used as a mere in- 
 strument of music, more flexible than any which art 
 could produce, — sweet, powerful, and thrilling beyond 
 description.' — See Notes to " A Tale of Paraguay." 
 
 Page 259. 
 
 ' Engelberg.' 
 
 The Convent whose site was pointed out, according to 
 tradition, in this manner, is seated at its base. The 
 architecture of the building is unimpressive, but the 
 situation is worthy of the honour which the imagination 
 of the mountaineers has conferred upon it. 
 
 Page 262. 
 ' Though searching damps and many an envious flaw 
 Have marred this Work ; ' 
 
 This picture of the Last Supper has not only been 
 grievously injured by time, but the greatest part of it, if 
 not the whole, is said to have been retouched, or painted 
 over again. These niceties may be left to connoisseurs, 
 — I speak of it as I felt. The copy exhibited in London 
 some years ago, and the engraving by Merghen, are both 
 admirable ; but in the original is a power which neither 
 of those works has attained, or even approached. 
 
 Page 263. 
 
 ' Of figures human and divine,' 
 
 The Statues ranged round the spire and along the roof 
 of the Cathedral of Milan, have been found fault vrith 
 by persons whose exclusive taste is unfortunate for them- 
 selves. It is true that the same expense and labour, 
 judiciously directed to purposes more strictly architec- 
 tural, might have much heightened the general effect of 
 the building ; for, seen from the ground, the Statues ap- 
 pear diminutive. But the coup-d'oeil, from the best point 
 of view, which is half way up the spire, must strike an 
 unprejudiced person with admiration ; and surely the 
 selection and arrangement of the Figures is exquisitely 
 fitted to support the religion of the country in the imagi- 
 nations and feelings of the spectator. It was with great 
 pleasure that I saw, during the two ascents which we 
 made, several children, of different ages, tripping up and 
 down the slender spire, and pausing to look around 
 them, with feelings much more animated than could have 
 been derived from these or the finest works of art, if 
 placed within easy reach. — Remember also that you 
 have the Alps on one side, and on the other the Apen- 
 nines, with the plain of Lombardy between ! 
 
 Page 266. 
 
 ' Still, with those white-robed Shapes — a living Stream, 
 The glacier pillars join in solemn guise' 
 
 This Procession is a part of the sacramental service 
 performed once a month. In the valley of Engelberg we 
 had the good fortune to be present at the Grand Festival 
 of the Virgin — but the Procession on that day, though 
 consisting of upwards of 1000 persons, assembled from 
 all the branches of the sequestered valley, was much 
 less striking (notwithstanding the sublimity of the sur- 
 rounding scenery) : it wanted both the simplicity of the 
 other and the accompaniment of the Glacier-columns, 
 whose sisterly resemblance to the moving Figures gave it 
 a most beautiful and solemn peculiarity. 
 
 Page 268. Sonnet xxxv. 
 
 Near the town of Boulogne, and overhanging the beach, 
 are the remains of a tower which bears the name of 
 Caligula, who here terminated his western expedition, of 
 which these sea-shells were the boasted spoils. And at 
 no great distance from these ruins, Buonaparte, stand- 
 ing upon a mound of earth, harangued his " Army of 
 England," reminding them of the exploits of Csesar, and 
 pointing towards the white cliffs, upon which their stand- 
 ards were to float. He recommended also a subscription 
 to be raised among the Soldiery to erect on that ground, 
 in memory of the foundation of the " Legion of Honour," 
 a Column — which was not completed at the time we were 
 there. 
 
 Page 268. 
 
 * We mark majestic herds of cattle, free 
 To ruminate.' 
 
 This is a most grateful sight for an Englishman re- 
 turning to his native land. Every where one missos in 
 the cultivated grounds abroad, the animated and sooth- 
 ing accompaniment of animals ranging and selecting 
 their own food at will. 
 
 Page 268. 
 
 ' Far as St. Maurice, from yon eastern Forks,' 
 
 Les Fourches, the point at which the two chains of 
 mountains part, that inclose the Valais, which termi- 
 nates at St. Maurice. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 625 
 
 Page 2G9. 
 ' ye that occupy 
 
 Your Council-seats beneath the open sky, 
 On Sarnen's Mount,' 
 
 Sarnen, one of the two capitals of the Canton of Under- 
 waiJen ; the spot here alluded to is close to the town, 
 and is called the Landenberg, from the tyrant of that 
 name, whose chateau formerly stood there. On the 1st 
 of January, 1308, the great day which the confederated 
 Heroes had chosen for the deliverance of their country, 
 all the castles of the Governors were taken by force or 
 stratagem ; and the Tyrants themselves conducted, with 
 their creatures, to the frontiers, after having witnessed 
 the destruction of their strong-holds. From that time 
 the Landenberg has been the place where the Legislators 
 of this division of the Canton assemble. The site, which 
 is well described by Ebel, is one of the most beautiful in 
 Switzerland. 
 
 Page 269. 
 ' Calls me to pace her honoured Bridge — ' 
 
 The bridges of Lucerne are roofed, and open at the 
 sides, so that the passenger has, at the same time, the 
 benefit of shade, and a view of the magnificent country. 
 The pictures are attached to the rafters ; those from 
 Scripture History, on the Cathedral-bridge, amount, ac- 
 cording to my notes, to 210. Subjects from the Old Tes- 
 tament face the passenger as he goes towards the 
 Cathedral, and those from the New as he returns. The 
 pictures on these bridges, as well as those in most other 
 parts of Switzerland, are not to be spoken of as works of 
 art ; but they are instruments admirably answering the 
 purpose for which they were designed. 
 
 Page 271. 
 ' Although 'tis fair, 
 'Twill be another Yarrow.' 
 These words were quoted to me from " Yarrow Un- 
 visited," by Sir Walter Scott , when I visited him at Abbota- 
 ford, a day or two before his departure for Italy : and 
 the affecting condition in which he was when he looked 
 upon Rome from the Janicular Mount, was reported to 
 ine by a lady who had the honour of conducting him 
 thither, 
 
 Page 272. 
 * Sis sepulchral verse.' 
 
 If any English reader should be desirous of knowing 
 how far I am justified in thus describing the epitaphs of 
 Chiabrera, he will find translated specimens of them in 
 this Volume, under the head of " Epitaphs and Elegiac 
 Pieces." 
 
 Page 274. 
 ' Aquapendente.' 
 It would he ungenerous not to advert to the religious 
 movement that, since the composition of these verses in 
 1837, has made itself felt, more or less strongly, through- 
 out the English Church ; — a movement that takes, for 
 its first principle, a devout deference to the voice of 
 Christian antiquity. It is not my office to pass judgment 
 on questions of theological detail ; but my own repug- 
 nance to the spirit and system of Romanism has been 
 so repeatedly and, I trust, feelingly expressed, that I 
 shall not be suspected of a leaning that way, if I do not 
 join in the grave charge, thrown out, perhaps in the heat 
 of controversy, against the learned and pious men to 
 whose labours I allude. I speak apart from controversy ; 
 but, with strong faith in the moral temper which would 
 elevate the present by doing reverence to the past, I 
 would draw cheerful auguries for the English Church 
 from this movement, as likely to restore among us a 
 
 tone of piety more earnest and real, than that produced 
 by the mere formalities of the understanding, refusing, 
 in a degree, which I cannot hut lament, that its own 
 temper and judgment shall be controlled by those of 
 antiquity. 
 
 Page 274. 
 
 Within a couple of hours of my arrival at Rome, I saw 
 from Monte Pincio, the Pine tree as described in the 
 sonnet ; and, while expressing admiration at the beauty 
 of its appearance, I was told by an acquaintance of my 
 fellow-traveller, who happened to join us at the moment, 
 that a price had been paid for it by the late Sir G. Beau- 
 mont, upon condition that the proprietor should not act 
 upon his known intention of cutting it down. 
 
 Page 277. 
 ' Camaldoli.' 
 
 This famous sanctuary was the original establishment 
 of Saint Romualdo, (or Rumwald, as our ancestors 
 saxonised the name) in the 11th century, the ground 
 (campo) being given by a Count Maldo. The Camaldo- 
 lensi, however, have spread wide as a branch of Bene- 
 dictines, and may therefore be classed among the gentle- 
 men of the monastic orders. The society comprehends 
 two orders, monks and hermits ; symbolised by their 
 arms, two doves drinking out of the same cup. The 
 monastery in which the monks here reside, is beautifully 
 situated, but a large unattractive edifice, not unlike a 
 factory. The hermitage is placed in a loftier and wilder 
 region of the forest. It comprehends between 20 and 30 
 distinct residences, each including for its single hermit 
 an inclosed piece of ground and three very small apart- 
 ments. There are days of indulgence when the hermit 
 may quit his cell, and when old age arrives, he descends 
 from the mountain and takes his abode among the 
 monks. 
 
 My companion had in the year 1831, fallen in with the 
 monk, the subject of these two sonnets, who showed him 
 his abode among the hermits. It is from him that I re- 
 ceived the following particulars. He was then about 40 
 years of age, but his appearance was that of an older 
 man. He had been a painter by profession, but on 
 taking orders changed his name from Santi to Raffaello, 
 perhaps with an unconscious reference as well to the 
 great Sanzio d'Urbino as to the archangel. He assured 
 my friend that he had been 13 years in the hermitage and 
 had never known melancholy or ennui. In the little re- 
 cess for study and prayer, there was a small collection of 
 books. " I readonly," said he, "books of asceticism and 
 mystical theology." On being asked the names of the 
 most famous mystics, he enumerated Scaramelli, San 
 Giovanni della Croce, St. Dionysius the Areopagite (sup- 
 posing the work which hears his name to be really his), 
 and with peculiar emphasis Ricardo di San Vittori. The 
 works of Saint Theresa are also in high repute among 
 ascetics. These names may interest some of my readers. 
 
 We heard that Raffaello was then living in the con- 
 vent ; my friend sought in vain to renew his acquaint- 
 ance with him. It was probably a day of seclusion. 
 The reader will perceive that these sonnets were sup- 
 posed to be written when he was a young man. 
 
 Page 277. 
 * What aim had they the pair of Monks ?' 
 Injustice to the Benedictines of Camaldoli, by whom 
 strangers are so hospitably entertained, I feel obliged to 
 notice, that I saw among them no other figures at all re- 
 sembling, in size and complexion, the two Monks described 
 in this Sonnet. What was their office, or the motive 
 which brought them to this place of mortification, which 
 they could not have approached without being carried in 
 ss 
 
626 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 this or some other way, a feeling of delicacy prevented 
 me from inquiring. An account has before been given 
 of the hermitage they were about to enter. It was visited 
 by us towards the end of the month of May ; yet snow 
 was lying thick under the pine-trees, within a few yards 
 of the gate. 
 
 Page 277. 
 'At VaUombrosa.' 
 The name of Milton is pleasingly connected with Val- 
 lombrosa in many ways. The pride with which the Monk, 
 without any previous question from me, pointed out his 
 residence, I shall not readily forget. It may be proper 
 here to defend the Poet from a charge which has been 
 brought against him, in respect to the passage in " Para- 
 dise Lost," where this place is mentioned. It is said, 
 that he has erred in speaking of the trees there being de- 
 ciduous, whereas they are, in fact, pines. The fault- 
 finders are themselves mistaken ; the natural woods of 
 the region of VaUombrosa are deciduous, and spread to a 
 great extent ; those near the convent are, indeed, mostly 
 pines ; but they are avenues of trees planted within a few 
 steps of each other, and thus composing large tracts of 
 wood ; plots of which are periodically cut down. The 
 appearance of those narrow avenues, upon steep slopes 
 open to the sky, on account of the height which the trees 
 attain by being forced to grow upwards, is often very 
 impressive. My guide, a boy of about fourteen years old, 
 pointed this out to me iu several places. 
 
 Page 280. 
 ' More high the Dacian force, 
 
 To hoof and finger mailed !' 
 
 Here and infra, see Forsyth. 
 
 Page 286. 
 ' The River Duddon.' 
 A Poet, whose works are not yet known as they de- 
 serve to be, thus enters upon his description of the 
 " Ruins of Rome :" 
 
 ■ The rising Sun 
 Flames on the ruins in the purer air 
 Towering aloft;' 
 
 and ends thus — 
 
 ' The setting Sun displays 
 His visible great round, between yon towers, 
 As through two shady cliffs.' 
 
 Mr. Crowe, in his excellent loco-descriptive Poem, 
 " Lewesdon Hill," is still more expeditious, finishing the 
 whole on a May-morning, before breakfast. 
 
 ' To-morrow for severer thought, but now 
 To breakfast, and keep festival to-day.' 
 
 No one believes, or is desired to believe, that those 
 Poems were actually composed within such limits of 
 time ; nor was there any reason why a prose statement 
 should acquaint the Reader with the plain fact, to the 
 disturbance of poetic credibility. But, in the present 
 case, I am compelled to mention, that the above series of 
 Sonnets was the growth of many years ; — the one which 
 stands the 14th was the first produced ; and others were 
 added upon occasional visits to the Stream, or as recol- 
 lections of the scenes upon its banks awakened a wish 
 to describe them. In this manner I had proceeded in- 
 sensibly, without perceiving that I was trespassing upon 
 gi ound pre-occupied, at least as far as intention went, 
 by Mr. Coleridge ; who, more than twenty years ago, 
 used to speak of writing a rural Poem, to be entitled 
 " The Brook," of which he has given a sketch in a recent 
 publication. But a particular subject, cannot, I think, 
 
 much interfere with a general one ; and I have been 
 further kept from encroaching upon any right Mr. C. 
 may still wish to exercise, by the restriction which the 
 frame of the Sonnet imposed upon me, narrowing un- 
 avoidably the range of thought, and precluding, though 
 not without its advantages, many graces to which a freer 
 movement of verse would naturally have led. 
 
 May I not venture, then, to hope, that, instead of 
 being a hinderance, by anticipation of any part of the 
 subject, these Sonnets may remind Mr. Coleridge of his 
 own more comprehensive design, and induce him to fulfil 
 
 it ? There is a sympathy in streams, — ' one calleth to 
 
 another ; ' and I would gladly believe, that " The 
 Brook" will, ere long, murmur in concert with "The 
 Duddon." But, asking pardon for this fancy, I need 
 not scruple to say, that those verses must indeed be i:l- 
 fated which can enter upon such pleasant walks of 
 nature, without receiving and giving inspiration. The 
 power of waters over the minds of Poets has been 
 acknowledged from the earliest ages ; — through the 
 ' Flumina amem sylvasque inglorius ' of Virgil, down to 
 the sublime apostrophe to the great rivers of the earth, 
 by Armstrong, and the simple ejaculation of Burns, 
 (chosen, if I recollect right, by Mr. Coleridge, as a motto 
 for his embryo " Brook,") 
 
 ' The Muse nae Poet ever fand her, 
 Till by himsel' he learned to wander, 
 Adown some trotting burn's meander, 
 And na' think lang.' 
 
 Page 286. 
 ' There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness, 
 The trembling eyebright showed her sapphire blue.' 
 
 These two lines are in a great measure taken from 
 " The Beauties of Spring, a Juvenile Poem," by the Rev. 
 Joseph Sympson. He was a native of Cumberland, and 
 was educated in the vale of Grasmere, and at Hawks- 
 head school : his poems are little known, but they con- 
 tain passages of splendid description ; and the versifi- 
 cation of his "Vision of Alfred" is harmonious and 
 animated. In describing the motions of the Sylphs, that 
 constitute the strange machinery of his Poem, he uses 
 the following illustrative simile : — • 
 
 ' Glancing from their plumes 
 
 A changeful light the azure vault illumes. 
 Less varying hues beneath the Pole adorn 
 The streamy glories of the Boreal morn, 
 That wavering to and fro then 1 radiance shed 
 On Bothnia's gulf with glassy ice o'erspread, 
 Where the lone native, as he homeward glides, 
 On polished sandals o'er the imprisoned tides, 
 And still the balance of his frame preserves, 
 Wheeled on alternate foot in lengthening curves, 
 Sees at a glance, above him and below, 
 Two rival heavens with equal splendour glow. 
 Sphered in the centre of the world he seems ; 
 For all around with soft effulgence gleams ; 
 Stars, moons, and meteors, ray opposed to ray, 
 And solemn midnight pours the blaze of day,' 
 
 He was a man of ardent feeling, and his faculties of 
 mind, particularly his memory, were extraordinary. 
 Brief notices of his life ought to find a place in the 
 History of Westmoreland. 
 
 Page 289. Sonnets xvn. <fc xvni. 
 
 The Eagle requires a large domain for its support : 
 but several pairs, not many years ago, were constantly 
 resident in this country, building their nests in the steeps 
 of Borrowdale, Wastdale, Ennerdale, and on the eastern 
 side of Helvellyn. Often have I heard anglers speak of 
 the grandeur of their appearance, as they hovered over 
 Red Tarn, in one of the coves of this mountain. The 
 
NOTES. 
 
 627 
 
 bird frequently returns, but is always destroyed. Not 
 long since, one visited Rydal lake, and remained some 
 hours near its banks : the consternation which, it occa- 
 sioned among the different species of fowl, particularly 
 the herons, was expressed by loud screams. The horse 
 also is naturally afraid of the eagle. — There were several 
 Eoman stations among these mountains ; the most con- 
 siderable seems to have been in a meadow at the head of 
 Windermere, established, undoubtedly, as a check over 
 the Passes of Kirkstone, Dunmail-raise, and of Hardknot 
 and Wrynose. On the margin of Rydal lake, a coin of 
 Trajan was discovered very lately. — The Roman Fort 
 here alluded to, called by the country people "Hardknot 
 Castle," is most impressively situated half-way down the 
 hill on the right of the road that descends from Hard- 
 knot into Eskdale. It has escaped the notice of most 
 antiquarians, and is but slightly mentioned by Lysons. — 
 The Druidical Circle is about half a mile to the left of 
 the road ascending Stone-side from the vale of Duddon : 
 the country people call it " Sunken Church." 
 
 The reader who may have been interested in the fore- 
 going Sonnets, (which together may be considered as a 
 Poem,) will not be displeased to find in this place a prose 
 account of the Duddon, extracted from Green's compre- 
 hensive Guide to the Lakes, lately published. ' The road 
 leading from Coniston to Broughton is over high ground, 
 and commands a view of the River Duddon ; which, at 
 high water, is a grand sight, having the beautiful and 
 fertile lands of Lancashire and Cumberland stretching 
 each way from its margin. In this extensive view, the 
 face of nature is displayed in a wonderful variety of hill 
 and dale ; wooded grounds and buildings ; amongst the 
 latter Broughton Tower, seated on the crown of a hill, 
 rising elegantly from the valley, is an object of extraordi- 
 nary interest. Fertility on each side is gradually di- 
 minished, and lost in the superior heights of Blackcomb, 
 in Cumberland, and the high lands between Kirkby and 
 Ulverstone. 
 
 'The road from Broughton to Seathwaite is on the 
 banks of the Duddon, and on its Lancashire side it is of 
 various elevations. The river is an amusing companion, 
 one while brawling and tumbling over rocky precipices, 
 until the agitated water becomes again calm by arriving 
 at a smoother and less precipitous bed, but its course is 
 soon again ruffled, and the current thrown into every 
 variety of foam which the rocky channel of a river can 
 give to water.' — Vide Green's Guide to the Lakes, vol. i. 
 pp. 98—100. 
 
 After all, the traveller would be most gratified who 
 should approach this beautiful Stream, neither at its 
 source, as is done in the Sonnets, nor from its termina- 
 tion ; but from Coniston over Walna Scar ; first descend- 
 ing into a little circular valley, a collateral compartment 
 of the long winding vale through which flows the 
 Duddon. This recess, towards the close of September, 
 when the after-grass of the meadows is still of a fresh 
 green, with the leaves of many of the trees faded, but 
 perhaps none fallen, is truly enchanting. At a point 
 elevated enough to show the various objects in the 
 valley, and not so high as to diminish their importance, 
 the stranger will instinctively halt. On the foreground, 
 a little below the most favourable station, a rude foot- 
 bridge is thrown over the bed of the noisy brook foaming 
 by the way-side. Russet and craggy hills, of bold and 
 varied outline, surround the level valley, which is be- 
 sprinkled with grey rocks plumed with birch trees. A 
 few homesteads are interspersed, in some places peeping 
 out from among the rocks like hermitages, whose site has 
 been chosen for the benefit of sunshine as well as shelter ; 
 in other instances, the dwelling-house, barn, and byre, 
 compose together a cruciform structure, which, with its 
 embowering trees, and the ivy clothing part of the walls 
 and roof like a fleece, call to mind the remains of an 
 ancient abbey. Time, in most cases, and nature every 
 where, have given a sanctity to the humble works of 
 
 man, that are scattered over this peaceful retirement. 
 Hence a harmony of tone and colour, a consummation 
 and perfection of beauty, which would have been marred 
 had aim or purpose interfered with the course of conve- 
 nience, utility, or necessity. This unvitiated region 
 stands in no need of the veil of twilight to soften or 
 disguise its features. As it glistens in the morning sun- 
 shine, it would fill the spectator's heart with gladsome- 
 ness. Looking from our chosen station, he would feel 
 an impatience to rove among its pathways, to be greeted 
 by the milkmaid, to wander from house to house, ex- 
 changing ' good-morrows ' as he passed the open doors ; 
 but, at evening, when the sun is set, and a pearly light 
 gleams from the western quarter of the sky, with an 
 answering light from the smooth surface of the meadows ; 
 when the trees are dusky, but each kind still distinguish- 
 able ; when the cool air has condensed the blue smoke 
 rising from the cottage chimneys ; when the dark mossy 
 stones seem to sleep in the bed of the foaming brook ; 
 then, he would be unwilling to move forward, not less 
 from a reluctance to relinquish what he beholds, than 
 from an apprehension of disturbing, by his approach, the 
 quietness beneath him. Issuing from the plain of this 
 valley, the brook descends in a rapid torrent passing by 
 the church-yard of Seathwaite. The traveller is thus 
 conducted at once into the midst of the wild and beauti- 
 ful scenery which gave occasion to the Sonnets from the 
 14th to the 20th inclusive. From the point where the 
 Seathwaite brook joins the Duddon, is a view upwards, 
 into the pass through which the river makes its way into 
 the plain of Donnerdale. The perpendicular rock on the 
 right bears the ancient British name of The Pen ; the 
 one opposite is called "Walla-barrow Crag, a name that 
 occurs in other places to designate rocks of the same 
 character. The chaotic aspect of the scene is well marked 
 by the expression of a stranger, who strolled out while 
 dinner was preparing, and at his return, being asked by 
 his host, " What way he had been wandering ? " replied, 
 "As far as it is finished ! " 
 
 The bed of the Duddon is here strewn with large 
 fragments of rocks fallen from aloft ; which, as 
 Mr. Green truly says, ' are happily adapted to the many- 
 shaped waterfalls,' (or rather waterbreaks, for none of 
 them are high,) 'displayed in the short space of half a 
 mile.' That there is some hazard in frequenting these 
 desolate places, I myself have had proof ; for one night 
 an immense mass of rock fell upon the very spot where, 
 with a friend, I had lingered the day before. ' The con- 
 cussion,' says Mr. Green, speaking of the event, (for he 
 also, in the practice of his art, on that day sat exposed 
 for a still longer time to the same peril,) ' was heard, 
 not without alarm by the neighbouring shepherds.' But 
 to return to Seathwaite Church-yard : it contains the 
 following inscription : — ■ 
 
 ' In memory of the Reverend Robert Walker, who died 
 the 25th of June, 1802, in the 93d year of his age, and 
 67th of his curacy at Seathwaite. 
 
 ' Also, of Anne his wife, who died the 28th of January, 
 in the 93d year of her age.' 
 
 In the parish-register of Seathwaite Chapel, is this 
 notice: 
 
 ' Buried, June 28th, the Rev. Robert Walker. He was 
 curate of Seathwaite sixty-six years. He was a man 
 singular for his temperance, industry, and integrity.' 
 
 This individual is the Pastor alluded to, in the 
 eighteenth Sonnet, as a worthy compeer of the country 
 parson of Chaucer, <&c. In the seventh book of the 
 Excursion, an abstract of his character is given, begin- 
 ning — 
 
 'A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
 Fall to the ground ; — ' 
 and some account of his life, for it is worthy of being 
 recorded, will not be out of place here. 
 s s 2 
 
62R 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT "WALKER. 
 
 In the year 1709, Robert Walker was born at Under- 
 crag, in Seathvvaite ; he was the youngest of twelve 
 children. His eldest brother, who inherited the small 
 family estate, died at Under-crag, aged ninety-four, 
 being twenty-four years older than the subject of this 
 Memoir, who was born of the same mother. Robert was 
 a sickly infant ; and, through his boyhood and youth, 
 continuing to be of delicate frame and tender health, it 
 was deemed best, according to the country phrase, to 
 breed Mm a scholar ; for it was not likely that he would 
 be able to earn a livelihood by bodily labour. At that 
 period few of these dales were furnished with school- 
 houses ; the children being taught to read and write in 
 the chapel ; and in the same consecrated building, where 
 he officiated for so many years both as preacher and 
 schoolmaster, he himself received the rudiments of his 
 education. In his youth he became schoolmaster at 
 Loweswater ; not being called upon, probably, in that 
 situation to teach more than reading, writing, and 
 arithmetic. But, by the assistance of a ' Gentleman ' in 
 the neighbourhood, he acquired, at leisure hours, a 
 knowledge of the classics, and became qualified for taking 
 holy orders. Upon his ordination, he had the offer of 
 two curacies : the one, Torver, in the vale of Coniston, — 
 the other, Seathwaite, in his native vale. The value of 
 each was the same, viz., five pounds per annum : but the 
 cure of Seathwaite having a cottage attached to it, as 
 he wished to marry, he chose it in preference. The 
 young person on whom his affections were fixed, though 
 in the condition of a domestic servant, had given pro- 
 mise, by her serious and modest deportment, and by her 
 virtuous dispositions, that she was worthy to become the 
 helpmate of a man entering upon a plan of life such as 
 he had marked out for himself. By her frugality she 
 had stored up a small sum of money, with which they 
 began housekeeping. In 1735 or 1736, he entered upon 
 his curacy ; and, nineteen years afterwards, his situation 
 is thus described, in some letters to be found in the 
 Annual Register for 1760, from which the following is 
 extracted : — 
 
 « To Mr. . 
 
 ' Sik, ' Coniston, July 26, 1754. 
 
 ' I was the other day upon a party of pleasure, about 
 five or six miles from this place, where I met with a very 
 striking object, and of a nature not very common. Going 
 into a clergyman's house (of whom I had frequently 
 heard), I found him sitting at the head of a long square 
 table, such as is commonly used in this country by the 
 lower class of people, dressed in a coarse blue frock, 
 trimmed with black horn buttons ; a checked shirt, a 
 leathern strap about his neck for a stock, a coarse apron, 
 and a pair of great wooden-soled shoes plated with iron 
 to preserve them (what we call clogs in these parts), with 
 a child upon his knee, eating his breakfast ; his wife, 
 and the remainder of his children, were some of them 
 employed in waiting upon each other, the rest in teazing 
 and spinning wool, at which trade he is a great pro- 
 ficient ; and moreover, when it is made ready for sale, 
 will lay it, by sixteen or thirty-two pounds' weight, upon 
 his back, and on foot, seven or eight miles, will carry it 
 to the market, even in the depth of winter. I was not 
 much surprised at all this, as you may possibly be, 
 having heard a great deal of it related before. But I 
 must confess myself astonished with the alacrity and 
 the good humour that appeared both in the clergyman 
 and his wife, and more so at the sense and ingenuity of 
 the clergyman himself.' * * 
 
 Then follows a letter from another person, dated 1755, 
 from which an extract shall be given. 
 
 ' By his frugality and good management, he keeps the 
 wolf from the door, as we say ; and if he advances a 
 little in the world, it is owing more to his own care, than 
 
 to anything else he has to rely upon. I don't find his 
 inclination is running after further preferment. He is 
 settled among the people, that are happy among them- 
 selves ; and lives in the greatest unanimity and friend- 
 ship with them ; and, I believe, the minister and people 
 are exceedingly satisfied with each other; and imleed 
 how should they be dissatisfied when they have a person 
 of so much worth and probity for their pastor ? A man 
 who, for his candour and meekness, his sober, chaste, and 
 virtuous conversation, his soundness in principle and 
 practice, is an ornament to his profession, and an honour 
 to the country he is in ; and bear with me if I say, the 
 plainness of his dress, the sanctity of his manners, the 
 simplicity of his doctrine, and the vehemence of his ex- 
 pression, have a sort of resemblance to the pure practice 
 of primitive Christianity.' 
 
 We will now give his own account of himself, to be 
 found in the same place. 
 
 Fkom the Rev. Robert Walkeb. 
 
 ' Sik, — Yours of the 26th instant was communicated 
 
 to me by Mr. C , and I should have returned an 
 
 immediate answer, but the hand of Providence, then 
 laying heavy upon an amiable pledge of conjugal endear- 
 ment, hath since taken from me a promising girl, which 
 the disconsolate mother too pensively laments the loss of; 
 though we have yet eight living, all healthful, hopeful 
 children, whose names and ages are as follows :— 
 Zaccheus, aged almost eighteen years ; Elizabeth, six- 
 teen years and ten months ; Mary, fifteen ; Moses, thir- 
 teen years and three months ; Sarah, ten years and 
 three months ; Mabel, eight years and three months ; 
 William Tyson, three years and eight months ; and 
 Anne Esther, one year and three months ; besides Anne, 
 who died two years and six months ago, and was then 
 aged between nine and ten ; and Eleanor, who died the 
 23d inst., January, aged six years and ten months. Zac- 
 cheus, the eldest child, is now learning the trade of 
 tanner, and has two years and a half of his apprentice- 
 ship to serve. The annual income of my chapel at 
 present, as near as I can compute it, may amount to 
 about 171., of which is paid in cash, viz., hi. from the 
 bounty of Queen Anne, and 51. from W. P., Esq., of 
 
 P , out of the annual rents, he being lord of the 
 
 manor, and SI. from the several inhabitants of L , 
 
 settled upon the tenements as a rent-charge ; the house 
 and gardens I value at U. yearly, and not worth more ; 
 and I believe the surplice fees and voluntary contribu- 
 tions, one year with another, may be worth Zl. ■ but as 
 the inhabitants are few in number, and the fees very 
 low, this last-mentioned sum consists merely in free-will 
 offerings. 
 
 ' I am situated greatly to my satisfaction with regard 
 to the conduct and behaviour of my auditory, who not 
 only live in the happy ignorance of the follies and vices 
 of the age, but in mutual peace and goodwill with one 
 another, and are seemingly (I hope really too) sincere 
 Christians, and sound members of the established 
 church, not one dissenter of any denomination being 
 amongst them all. I got to the value of 401. for my 
 wife's fortune, but had no real estate of my own, being 
 the youngest son of twelve children, born of obscure 
 parents ; and, though my income has been but small, 
 and my family large, yet, by a providential blessing upon 
 my own diligent endeavours, the kindness of friends, 
 and a cheap country to live in, we have always had the 
 necessaries of life. By what I have written (which is a 
 true and exact account, to the best of my knowledge,) I 
 hope you will not think your favour to me, out of the 
 late worthy Dr. Stratford's effects, quite misbestowed, 
 for which I must ever gratefully own myself, 
 
 'Sir, 
 ' Your much obliged and most obedient humble Servant, 
 ' R. W., Curate of S . 
 
 ' To Mr. C, of Lancaster.' 
 
NOTES. 
 
 629 
 
 About the time when this letter was written, the 
 Bishop of Chester recommended the scheme of joining 
 the curacy of Ulpha to the contiguous one of Seathwaite, 
 and the nomination was offered to Mr. Walker ; but an 
 unexpected difficulty arising, Mr. W., in a letter to the 
 Bishop, (a copy of which, in his own beautiful hand- 
 writing, now lies before me,) thus expresses himself. 
 ' If he,' meaning the person in whom the difficulty 
 originated, ' had suggested any such objection before, I 
 should utterly have declined any attempt to the curacy 
 of Ulpha : indeed, I was always apprehensive it might 
 be disagreeable to my auditory at Seathwaite, as they 
 have been always accustomed to double duty, and the 
 inhabitants of Ulpha despair of being able to support a 
 schoolmaster who is not curate there also ; which sup- 
 pressed all thoughts in me of serving them both.' And 
 in a second letter to the Bishop he writes : — 
 
 'My Lord, — I have the favour of yours of the 1st 
 instant, and am exceedingly obliged on account of the 
 Ulpha affair : if that curacy should lapse into your Lord- 
 ship's hands, I would beg leave rather to decline than 
 embrace it ; for the chapels of Seathwaite and Ulpha, 
 annexed together, would be apt to cause a general dis- 
 content among the inhabitants of both places ; by either 
 thinking themselves slighted, being only served alter- 
 nately, or neglected in the duty, or attributing it to 
 covetousness in me ; all which occasions of murmuring 
 I would willingly avoid.' And in concluding his former 
 letter, he expresses a similar sentiment upon the same 
 occasion, ' desiring, if it be possible, however, as much 
 as in me lieth, to live peaceably with all men.' 
 
 The year following, the curacy of Seathwaite was 
 again augmented ; and, to effect this augmentation, fifty 
 pounds had been advanced by himself; and, in 1760, 
 lands were purchased with eight hundred pounds. Scanty 
 as was his income, the frequent offer of much better 
 benefices could not tempt Mr. W. to quit a situation 
 where he had been so long happy, with a consciousness 
 of being useful. Among his papers I find the following 
 copy of a letter, dated 1775, twenty years after his re- 
 fusal of the curacy of Ulpha, which will show what 
 exertions had been made for one of his sons. 
 
 'May it please your Grace, 
 
 ' Our remote situation here makes it difficult to get 
 the necessary information for transacting business regu- 
 larly ; such is the reason of my giving your Grace the 
 present trouble. 
 
 ' The bearer (my son) is desirous of offering himself 
 candidate for deacon's orders at your Grace's ensuing 
 ordination ; the first, on the 25th instant, so that his 
 papers could not be transmitted in due time. As he is 
 now fully at age, and I have afforded him education to 
 the utmost of my ability, it would give me great satis- 
 faction (if your Grace would take him, and find him 
 qualified) to have him ordained. His constitution has 
 been tender for some years ; he entered the college of 
 Dublin, but his health would not permit him to continue 
 there, or I would have supported him much longer. He 
 has been with me at home above a year, in which time 
 he has gained great strength of body, sufficient, I hope, 
 to enable him for performing the function. Divine Pro- 
 vidence, assisted by liberal benefactors, has blest my 
 endeavours, from a small income, to rear a numerous 
 family ; and as my time of life renders me now unfit for 
 much future expectancy from this world, I should be 
 glad to see my son settled in a promising way to acquire 
 an honest livelihood for himself. His behaviour, so far 
 in life, has been irreproachable ; and I hope he will not 
 degenerate, in principles or practice, from the precepts 
 and pattern of an indulgent parent. Your ' Grace's 
 favourable reception of this, from a distant corner of the 
 diocese, and an obscure hand, will excite filial gratitude, 
 
 and a due use shall be made of the obligation vouch- 
 safed thereby to 
 
 ' Tour Grace's very dutiful and most obedient 
 ' Son and Servant, 
 
 ' Robert Walker.' 
 
 The same man, who was thus liberal in the education 
 of his numerous family, was even munificent in hos- 
 pitality as a parish priest. Every Sunday, were served, 
 upon the long table, at which he has been described 
 sitting with a child upon his knee, messes of broth, for 
 the refreshment of those of his congregation who came 
 from a distance, and usually took their seats as parts of 
 his own household. It seems scarcely possible that this 
 custom could have commenced before the augmentation 
 of his cure ; and what would to many have been a high 
 price of self-denial, was paid, by the pastor and his 
 family, for this gratification ; as the treat could only be 
 provided by dressing at one time the whole, perhaps, of 
 their weekly allowance of fresh animal food ; conse- 
 quently, for a succession of days, the table was covered 
 with cold victuals only. His generosity in old age may be 
 still further illustrated by a little circumstance relating 
 to an orphan grandson, then ten years of age, which 
 I find in a copy of a letter to one of his sons ; he requests 
 that half a guinea may be left for ' little Robert's pocket- 
 money,' who was then at school : intrusting it to the 
 care of a lady, who, as he says, ' may sometimes frustrate 
 his squandering it away foolishly,' and promising to send 
 him an equal allowance annually for the same purpose. 
 The conclusion of the same letter is so characteristic, 
 that I cannot forbear to transcribe it. ' We,' meaning 
 his wife and himself, ' are in our wonted state of health, 
 allowing for the hasty strides of old age knocking daily 
 at our door, and threateningly telling us, we are not only 
 mortal, but must expect ere long to take our leave of our 
 ancient cottage, and lie down in our last dormitory. 
 Pray pardon my neglect to answer yours : let us hear 
 sooner from you, to augment the mirth of the Christmas 
 holidays. Wishing you all the pleasures of the approach- 
 ing season, I am, dear Son, with lasting sincerity, yours 
 affectionately, 
 
 ' Robert Walker.' 
 
 He loved old customs and old usages, and in some 
 instances stuck to them to his own loss ; for, having had 
 a sum of money lodged in the hands of a neighbouring 
 tradesman, when long course of time had raised the rate 
 of interest, and more was offered, he refused to accept 
 it ; an act not difficult to one, who, while he was drawing 
 seventeen pounds a year from his curacy, declined, as 
 we have seen, to add the profits of another small bene- 
 fice to his own, lest he should be suspected of cupidity. — 
 From this vice he was utterly free ; he made no charge 
 for teaching school ; such as could afford to pay, gave 
 him what they pleased. When very young, having 
 kept a diary of his expenses, however trifling, the large 
 amount, at the end of the year, surprised him ; and from 
 that time the rule of his life was to be economical, not 
 avaricious. At his decease he left behind him no less a 
 sum than 20001. ; and such a sense of his various excel- 
 lencies was prevalent in the country, that the epithet of 
 wonderful is to this day attached to his name. 
 
 There is in the above sketch something so extraordi- 
 nary as to require further explanatory details. — And to 
 begin with his industry ; eight hours in each day, during 
 five days in the week, and half of Saturday, except 
 when the labours of husbandry were urgent, he was 
 occupied in teaching. His seat was within the rails of 
 the altar ; the communion table was his desk ; and, like 
 Shenstone's schoolmistress, the master employed himself 
 at the spinning-wheel, while the children were repeating 
 their lesson3 by his side. Every evening, after school 
 hours, if not more profitably engaged, he continued the 
 same kind of labour, exchanging, for the benefit of exer- 
 cise, the small wheel, at which he had sate, for the large 
 
one on which wool is spun, the spinner stepping to and 
 fro. Thus, was the wheel constantly in readiness to 
 prevent the waste of a moment's time. Nor was his 
 industry with the pen, when occasion called for it, less 
 eager. Intrusted with extensive management of public 
 and private affairs, he acted, in his rustic neighbourhood, 
 as scrivener, writing out petitions, deeds of conveyance, 
 wills, covenants, <tc, with pecuniary gain to himself, and 
 to the great benefit of his employers. These labours 
 (at all times considerable) at one period of the year, viz., 
 between Christmas and Candlemas, when money trans- 
 actions are settled in this country, were often so intense, 
 that he passed great part of the night, and sometimes 
 whole nights, at his desk. His garden also was tilled by 
 his own hand ; he had a right of pasturage upon the 
 mountains for a few sheep and a couple of cows, which 
 required his attendance ; with this pastural occupation, 
 he joined the labours of husbandry upon a small scale, 
 renting two or three acres in addition to his own less 
 than one acre of glebe ; and the humblest drudgery which 
 the cultivation of these fields required was performed by 
 himself. 
 
 He also assisted his neighbours in haymaking and 
 shearing their flocks, and in the performance of this 
 latter service he was eminently dexterous. They, in 
 their turn, complimented him with the present of a 
 haycock, or a fleece ; less as a recompence for this par- 
 ticular service than as a general acknowledgment. The 
 Sabbath was in a strict sense kept holy ; the Sunday 
 evenings being devoted to reading the Scripture and 
 family prayer. The principal festivals appointed by 
 the Church were also duly observed ; but through every 
 other day in the week, through every week in the year, 
 he was incessantly occupied in work of hand or mind ; not 
 allowing a moment for recreation, except upon a Satur- 
 day afternoon, when he indulged himself with a News- 
 paper, or sometimes with a Magazine. The frugality 
 and temperance established in his house, were as ad- 
 mirable as the industry. Nothing to which the name of 
 luxury could be given was there known ; in the latter 
 part of his life, indeed, when tea had been brought into 
 almost general use, it was provided for visiters, and for 
 such of his own family as returned occasionally to his 
 roof, and had been accustomed to this refreshment else- 
 where ; but neither he nor his wife ever partook of it. 
 The raiment worn by his family was comely and decent, 
 but as simple as their diet ; the home-spun materials 
 were made up into apparel by their own hands. At the 
 time of the decease of this thrifty pair, their cottage 
 contained a large store of webs r f woollen and linen 
 cloth, woven from thread of their own spinning. And 
 it is remarkable that the pew in the chapel in which the 
 family used to sit, remains neatly lined with woollen 
 cloth spun by the pastor's own hands. It is the only 
 pew in the chapel so distinguished ; and I know of no 
 other instance of his conformity to the delicate accom- 
 modations of modern times. The fuel of the house, like 
 that of their neighbours, consisted of peat, procured 
 from the mosses by their own labour. The lights by 
 which, in the winter evenings, their work was performed, 
 were of their own manufacture, such as still continue to 
 be used in these cottages ; they are made of the pith of 
 rushes dipped in any unctuous substance that the house 
 affords. White candles, as tallow candles are here called, 
 were reserved to honour the Christmas festivals, and 
 were perhaps produced upon no other occasions. Once 
 a month, during the proper season, a sheep was drawn 
 from their small mountain flock, and killed for the use 
 of the family ; and a cow, towards the close of the year, 
 was salted and dried for winter provision : the hide was 
 tanned to furnish them with shoes. — By these various 
 resources, this venerable clergyman reared a numerous 
 family, not only preserving them, as he affectingly says, 
 ' from wanting the necessaries of life ; ' but affording 
 them an unstinted education, and the means of raising 
 
 themselves in society. In this they were eminently 
 assisted by the effects of their father's example, his pre- 
 cepts, and injunctions : he was aware that truth-speak- 
 ing, as a moral virtue, is best secured by inculcating 
 attention to accuracy of report even on trivial occasions • 
 and so rigid were the rules of honesty by which he 
 endeavoured to bring up his family, that if one of them 
 had chanced to find in the lanes or fields anything of the 
 least use or value without being able to ascertain to whom 
 it belonged, he always insisted upon the child's carrying 
 it back to the place from which it had been brought. 
 
 No one it might be thought could, as has been de- 
 scribed, convert his body into a machine, as it were, of 
 industry for the humblest uses, and keep his thoughts so 
 frequently bent upon secular concerns, without grievous 
 injury to the more precious parts of his nature. How 
 could the powers of intellect thrive, or its graces be 
 displayed, in the midst of circumstances apparently so 
 unfavourable, and where, to the direct cultivation of the 
 mind, so small a portion of time was allotted ? But, in 
 this extraordinary man, things in their nature adverse 
 were reconciled. His conversation was remarkable, not 
 only for being chaste and pure, but for the degree in 
 which it was fervent and eloquent ; his written style 
 was correct, simple, and animated. Nor did his affec- 
 tions suffer more than his intellect ; he was tenderly 
 alive to all the duties of his pastoral office : the poor 
 and needy 'he never sent empty away,' — the stranger 
 was fed and refreshed in passing that unfrequented vale 
 — the sick were visited ; and the feelings of humanity 
 found further exercise among the distresses and em- 
 barrassments in the worldly estate of his neighbours, with 
 which his talents for business made him acquainted ; 
 and the disinterestedness, impartiality, and uprightness 
 which he maintained in the management of all affairs 
 confided to him, were virtues seldom separated in his 
 own conscience from religious obligation. Nor could 
 such conduct fail to remind those who witnessed it of a 
 spirit nobler than law or custom : they felt convictions 
 which, but for such intercourse, could not have been 
 afforded, that, as in the practice of their pastor, there 
 was no guile, so in his faith there was nothing hollow ; 
 and we are warranted in believing, that upon these 
 occasions, selfishness, obstinacy, and discord would often 
 give way before the breathings of his good-will and 
 saintly integrity. It may be presumed also — while his 
 humble congregation were listening to the moral pre- 
 cepts which he delivered from the pulpit, and to the 
 Christian exhortations that they should love their neigh- 
 bours as themselves, and do as they would be done 
 unto — that peculiar efficacy was given to the preacher's 
 labours by recollections in the minds of his congregation, 
 that they were called upon to do no more than his own 
 actions were daily setting before their eyes. 
 
 The afternoon service in the chapel was less nume- 
 rously attended than that of the morning, but by a more 
 serious auditory ; the lesson from the New Testament, 
 on those occasions, was accompanied by Burkitt's Com- 
 mentaries. These lessons he read with impassioned 
 emphasis, frequently drawing tears from his hearers, and 
 leaving a lasting impression upon their minds. His 
 devotional feelings and the powers of his own mind were 
 further exercised, along with those of his family, in 
 perusing the Scriptures : not only on the Sunday even- 
 ings, but on every other evening, while the rest of the 
 household were at work, some one of the children, 
 and in her turn the servant, for the sake of practice in 
 reading, or for instruction, read the Bible aloud ; and in 
 this manner the whole was repeatedly gone through. 
 That no common importance was attached to the ob- 
 servance of religious ordinances by his family, appears 
 from the following memorandum by one of his descend- 
 ants, which I am tempted to insert at length, as it 
 is characteristic, and somewhat curious. ' There is a 
 small chapel in the county palatine of Lancaster, where 
 
NOTES. 
 
 631 
 
 a certain clergyman has regularly officiated above sixty 
 years, and a few months ago administered the sacrament 
 of the Lord's Supper in the same, to a decent number of 
 devout communicants. After the clergyman had re- 
 ceived himself, the first company out of the assembly 
 who approached the altar, and kneeled down to be par- 
 takers of the sacred elements, consisted of the parson's 
 wife ; to whom he had been married upwards of sixty 
 years ; one son and his wife ; four daughters, each with 
 her husband ; whose ages, all added together, amount to 
 above 714 years. The several and respective distances 
 from the place of each of their abodes, to the chapel 
 where they all communicated, will measure more than 
 1000 English miles. Though the narration will appear 
 surprising, it is without doubt a fact that the same per- 
 sons, exactly four years before, met at the same place, 
 and all joined in performance of the same venerable duty.' 
 
 He was indeed most zealously attached to the doctrine 
 and frame of the Established Church. We have seen 
 him congratulating himself that he had no dissenters in 
 his cure of any denomination. Some allowance must be 
 made for the state of opinion when his first religious 
 impressions were received, before the reader will acquit 
 him of bigotry, when I mention, that at the time of the 
 augmentation of the cure, he refused to invest part of the 
 money in the purchase of an estate offered to him upon 
 advantageous terms, because the proprietor was a Qua- 
 ker; — whether from scrupulous apprehension that a bless- 
 ing would not attend a contract framed for the benefit 
 of the church between persons not in religious sympathy 
 with each other ; or, as a seeker of peace, he was afraid 
 of the uncomplying disposition which at one time was 
 too frequently conspicuous in that sect. Of this an 
 instance had fallen under his own notice ; for, while he 
 taught school at Loweswater, certain persons of that 
 denomination had refused to pay annual interest due 
 under the title of Church-stock* ; a great hardship upon 
 the incumbent, for the curacy of Loweswater was then 
 scarcely less poor than that of Seathwaite. To what 
 degree this prejudice of his was blameable need not be 
 determined ; — certain it is, that he was not only desirous, 
 as he himself says, to live in peace, but in love, with all 
 men. He was placable, and charitable in his judgments ; 
 and, however correct in conduct and rigorous to himself, 
 he was ever ready to forgive the trespasses of others, and 
 to soften the censure that was cast upon their frailties. — 
 It would be unpardonable to omit that, in the mainte- 
 nance of his virtues, he received due support from the 
 partner of his long life. She was equally strict, in attend- 
 ing to her share of their joint cares, nor less diligent in her 
 appropriate occupations. A person who had been some 
 time their servant in the latter part of their lives, con- 
 cluded the panegyric of her mistress by saying to me, 
 " She was no less excellent than her husband ; she was 
 good to the poor ; she was good to every thing ! " He 
 survived for a short time this virtuous companion. When 
 she died, he ordered that her body should be borne to 
 the grave by three of her daughters and one grand- 
 daughter ; and, when the corpse was lifted from the 
 threshold, he insisted upon lending his aid, and feeling 
 about, for he was then almost blind, took hold of a 
 napkin fixed to the coffin ; and, as a bearer of the 
 body, entered the chapel, a few steps from the lowly 
 parsonage. 
 
 What a contrast does the life of this obscurely-seated, 
 and, in point of worldly wealth, poorly-repaid Church- 
 man, present to that of a. Cardinal Wolsey ! 
 
 ' 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, tis a burthen 
 Too heavy for a man who hopes for heaven ! ' 
 
 * Mr. Walker's charity being of that kind which 
 ' seeketh not her own,' he would rather forego his rights 
 than distrain for dues which the parties liable refused, 
 as a point of conscience, to pay. 
 
 We have been dwelling upon images of peace in the 
 moral world, that have brought us again to the quiet 
 enclosure of consecrated ground, in which this venerable 
 pair lie interred. The sounding brook, that rolls close 
 by the church-yard, without disturbing feeling or medita- 
 tion, is now unfortunately laid bare ; but not long ago 
 it participated, with the chapel, the shade of some 
 stately ash-trees, which will not spring again. While 
 the spectator from this spot is looking round upon the 
 girdle of stony mountains that encompasses the vale, — 
 masses of rock, out of which monuments for all men 
 that ever existed might have been hewn — it would sur- 
 prise him to be told, as with truth he might be, that the 
 plain blue slab dedicated to the memory of this aged 
 pair is a production of a quarry in North Wales. It was 
 sent as a mark of respect by one of their descendants 
 from the vale of Festiniog, a region almost as beautiful 
 as that in which it now lies ! 
 
 Upon the Seathwaite Brook, at a small distance from 
 the parsonage, has been erected a mill for spinning 
 yarn ; it is a mean and disagreeable object, though not 
 unimportant to the spectator, as calling to mind the 
 momentous changes wrought by such inventions in the 
 frame of society— changes which have proved especially 
 unfavourable to these mountain solitudes. So much had. 
 been effected by those new powers, before the subject of 
 the preceding biographical sketch closed his life, that 
 their operation could not escape his notice, and doubt- 
 less excited touching reflections upon the comparatively 
 insignificant results of his own manual industry. But 
 Bobert Walker was not a man of times and circum- 
 stances : had he lived at a later period, the principle of 
 duty would have produced application as unremitting ; 
 the same energy of character would have been displayed, 
 though in many instances with widely-different effects. 
 
 With pleasure I annex, as illustrative and confirma- 
 tory of the above account, extracts from a paper in the 
 Christian Bemembrancer, October, 1819 : it bears an 
 assumed signature, but is known to be the work of the 
 Bev. Bobert Bamford, vicar of Bishopton, in the county 
 of Durham ; a great-grandson of Mr. Walker, whose 
 worth it commemorates, by a record not the less valuable 
 for being written in very early youth. 
 
 ' His house was a nursery of virtue. All the inmates 
 were industrious, and cleanly, and happy. Sobriety, 
 neatness, quietness, characterised the whole family. No 
 railings, no idleness, no indulgence of passion were per- 
 mitted. Every child, however young, had its appointed 
 engagements ; every hand was busy. Knitting, spinning, 
 reading, writing, mending clothes, making shoes, were 
 by the different children constantly performing. The 
 father himself sitting amongst them, and guiding their 
 thoughts, was engaged in the same occupations. * * 
 
 ' He sate up late, and rose early ; when the family 
 were at rest, he retired to a little room which he had 
 built on the roof of his house. He had slated it, and 
 fitted it up with shelves for his books, his stock of cloth, 
 wearing apparel, and his utensils. There many a cold 
 winter's night, without fire, while the roof was glazed 
 with ice, did he remain reading or writing till the day 
 dawned. He taught the children in the chapel, for there 
 was no schoolhouse. Yet in that cold, damp place he 
 never had a fire. He used to send the children in parties 
 either to his own fire at home, or make them run up the 
 mountain side. 
 
 « « * » * 
 
 ' It may be further mentioned, that he was a passionate 
 admirer of Nature ; she was his mother, and he was a 
 dutiful child. While engaged on the mountains, it was 
 his greatest pleasure to view the rising sun ; and in 
 tranquil evenings, as it slided behind the hills, he 
 blessed its departure. He was skilled in fossils and 
 plants ; a constant observer of the stars and winds : the 
 atmosphere was his delight. He made many experiments 
 on its nature and properties. In summer he used to 
 
gather a multitude of flies and insects, and, by his 
 entertaining description, amuse and instruct his chil- 
 dren. They shared all his daily employments, and 
 derived many sentiments of love and benevolence from 
 his observations on the works and productions of nature. 
 Whether they were following him in the field, or sur- 
 rounding him in school, he took every opportunity of 
 storing their minds with useful information.— Nor was 
 the circle of his influence confined to Seathwaite. Many 
 a distant mother has told her child of Mr. Walker, and 
 begged him to be as good a man. 
 
 ***** 
 'Once, when I was very young, I had the pleasure of 
 seeing and hearing that venerable old man in his 90th 
 year, and even then, the calmness, the force, the perspi- 
 cuity of his sermon, sanctified and adorned by the wis- 
 dom of grey hairs, and the authority of virtue, had such 
 an effect upon my mind, that I never see a hoary-headed 
 clergyman, without thinking of Mr. Walker * * . 
 He allowed no dissenter or methodist to interfere in the 
 instruction of the souls committed to his cure : and so 
 successful were his exertions, that he had not one dis- 
 senter of any denomination whatever in the whole parish. 
 —Though he avoided all religious controversies, yet 
 when age had silvered his head, and virtuous piety had 
 secured to his appearance reverence and silent honour, 
 no one, however determined in bis hatred of apostolic 
 descent, could have listened to his discourse on eccle- 
 siastical history and ancient times, without thinking, 
 that one of the beloved apostles had returned to mor- 
 tality, and in that vale of peace had come to exemplify 
 the beauty of holiness in the life and character of 
 Mr. Walker. 
 
 ***** 
 ' Until the sickness of his wife, a few months previous 
 to her death, his health and spirits and faculties were 
 unimpaired. But this misfortune gave him such a 
 shock, that his constitution gradually decayed. His 
 senses, except sight, still preserved their powers. He 
 never preached with steadiness after his wife's death. 
 His voice faltered : he always looked at the seat she had 
 used. He could not pass her tomb without tears. He 
 became, when alone, sad and melancholy, though still 
 among his friends kind and good-humoured. He went 
 to bed about 12 o'clock the night before his death. As 
 his custom was, he went, tottering and leaning upon his 
 daughter's arm, to examine the heavens, and meditate a 
 few moments in the open air. " How clear the moon 
 shines to-night ! " He said these words, sighed, and laid 
 down. At six next morning he was found a corpse. 
 Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, and many a 
 grateful blessing followed him to the grave.' 
 
 Having mentioned in this narrative the vale of Lowes- 
 water as a place where Mr. Walker taught school, I will 
 add a few memoranda from its parish register, respect- 
 ing a person apparently of desires as moderate, with 
 whom he must have been intimate during his residence 
 there. 
 
 ' Let him that would, ascend the tottering seat 
 Of courtly grandeur, and become as great 
 As are his mounting wishes ; but for me, 
 Let sweet repose and rest my portion be. 
 
 Henry Fokest, Curate.' 
 
 ' Honour, the idol which the most adore, 
 Receives no homage from my knee ; 
 Content in privacy I value more 
 Than all uneasy dignity.' 
 
 ' Henry Forest came to Loweswater, 1708, being 25 
 years of age.' 
 
 ' This curacy was twice augmented by Queen Anne's 
 Bounty. The first payment, with great difficulty, was 
 paid to Mr. John Curwen of London, on the 9th of May, 
 
 1724, deposited by me, Henry Forest, Curate of Lowes, 
 water. Y e said 9th of May, y e said Mr. Curwen went to 
 the office, and saw my name registered there, &c. This, 
 by the Providence of God, came by lot to this poor 
 place. 
 
 Ha3c testor H. Forest.' 
 
 In another place he records, that the sycamore-trees 
 were planted in the church-yard in 1710. 
 
 He died in 1741, having been curate thirty-four years. 
 It is not improbable that H. Forest was the gentleman 
 who assisted Robert Walker in his classical studies at 
 Loweswater. 
 
 To this parish register is prefixed a motto, of which the 
 following verses are a part : 
 
 ' Invigilate viri, tacito nam tempora gressu 
 Diffugiunt, nulloque sono convertitur annus ; 
 Utendum est aetate, cito pede preterit a^tas.' 
 
 Page 292. 
 ' We feel that we are greater than we know.' 
 
 ' And feel that I am happier than I know.' — 
 
 Milton. 
 
 The allusion to the Greek Poet will be obvious to the 
 classical reader. 
 
 Page 293, 
 ' The White Doe of Rylstone.' 
 
 The Poem of the White Doe of Rylstone is founded 
 on a local tradition, and on the Ballad in Percy's Collec- 
 tion, entitled, " The Rising of the North." The tradition 
 is as follows : — ' About this time,' not long after the Dis- 
 solution, 'a White Doe,' say the aged people of the 
 neighbourhood, ' long continued to make a weekly pil- 
 grimage from Rylstone over the fells of Bolton, and was 
 constantly found in the Abbey Church-yard during divine 
 service ; after the close of which she returned home as" 
 regularly as the rest of the congregation.' — Da. Whit- 
 aker's History of the Deanery of Craven. — Rylstone was 
 the property and residence of the Nortons, distinguished 
 in that ill-advised and unfortunate Insurrection ; which 
 led me to connect with this tradition the principal cir- 
 cumstances of their fate, as recorded in the Ballad. 
 
 ' Bolton Priory,' says Dr. Whitaker in his excellent 
 book, The History and Antiquities of the Deanery of 
 Craven, ' stands upon a beautiful curvature of the Wharf, 
 on a level sufficiently elevated to protect it from inunda- 
 tions, and low enough for every purpose of picturesque 
 effect. 
 
 ' Opposite to the East window of the Priory Church, 
 the river washes the foot of a rock nearly perpendicular, 
 and of the richest purple, where several of the mineral 
 beds, which break out, instead of maintaining their 
 usual inclination to the horizon, are twisted by some in- 
 conceivable process into undulating and spiral lines. 
 To the South all is soft and delicious ; the eye reposes 
 upon a few rich pastures, a moderate reach of the river, 
 sufficiently tranquil to form a mirror to the sun, and the 
 bounding hills beyond, neither too near nor too lofty to 
 exclude, even in winter, any portion of his rays. 
 
 ' But, after all, the glories of Bolton are on the North. 
 Whatever the most fastidious taste could require to con- 
 stitute a perfect landscape, is not only found here, but in 
 its proper place. In front, and immediately under the 
 eye, is a smooth expanse of park-like enclosure, spotted 
 with native elm, ash, &c. of the finest growth : on the 
 right a skirting oak wood, with jutting points of grey 
 rock ; on the left a rising copse. Still forward, are seen 
 the aged groves of Bolton Park, the growth of centuries ; 
 and farther yet, the barren and rocky distances of Simon- 
 seat and Barden Fell contrasted with the warmth, fer- 
 tility, and luxuriant foliage of the valley below. 
 
 ' About half a mile above Bolton the valley closes, and 
 
NOTES. 
 
 633 
 
 either side of the Wharf is overhung hy solemn woods, 
 from which huge perpendicular masses of grey rock jut 
 out at intervals. 
 
 * This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible till of 
 late, that ridings have been cut on both sides of the river, 
 and the most interesting points laid open by judicious 
 thinnings in the woods. Here a tributary stream rushes 
 from a waterfall, and bursts through a woody glen to 
 mingle its waters with the Wharf: there the Wharf 
 itself is nearly lost in a deep cleft in the rock, and next 
 becomes a horned flood enclosing a woody island— some- 
 times it reposes for a moment, and then resumes its native 
 character, lively, irregular, and impetuous. 
 
 ' The cleft mentioned above is the tremendous Strid. 
 This chasm, being incapable of receiving the winter 
 floods, has formed on either side a broad strand of naked 
 gritstone full of rock-basins, or ' pots of the Linn,' which 
 bear witness to the restless impetuosity of so many Nor- 
 thern torrents. But, if here Wharf is lost to the eye, it 
 amply repays another sense by its deep and solemn roar, 
 like 'the Voice of the angry Spirit of the Waters,' heard 
 far above and beneath, amidst the silence of the sur- 
 rounding woods. 
 
 ' The terminating object of the landscape is the remains 
 of Barden Tower, interesting from their form and situa- 
 tion, and still more so from the recollections which they 
 excite.' 
 
 Page 293. 
 'Action is transitory — ' 
 
 This and the five lines that follow were either read or 
 recited by me, more than thirty years since, to the late 
 Mr. Hazlitt, who quoted some expressions in them (im- 
 perfectly remembered) in a work of his published several 
 years ago. 
 
 Page 293. 
 ' From Bolton's old monastic Tower ' 
 
 It is to be regretted that at the present day Bolton 
 Abbey wants this ornament : but the Poem, according to 
 the imagination of the Poet, is composed in Queen Eliza- 
 beth's time. 'Formerly,' says Dr. Whitaker, 'over the 
 Transept was a tower. This is proved not only from the 
 mention of bells at the Dissolution, when they could have 
 had no other place, but from the pointed roof of the choir, 
 which must have terminated westward, in some building 
 of superior height to the ridge.' 
 
 Page 293. 
 
 'A Cluxpel, like a wild bird's nest,' 
 
 'The Nave of the Church having been reserved at the 
 
 Dissolution, for the use of the Saxon Cure, is still a 
 
 parochial Chapel ; and, at this day, is as well kept as the 
 
 neatest English Cathedral.' 
 
 Page 293. 
 ' Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak !' 
 'At a small distance from the great gateway stood the 
 Prior's Oak, which was felled about the year 1720, and 
 sold for 70J . According to the price of wood at that time, 
 it could scarcely have contained less than 1400 feet of 
 timber.' 
 
 Page 295. 
 ' When Lady Aaliza mourned ' 
 The detail of this tradition may be found in Dr. 
 Whitaker'sbook, and in a Poem of this Collection, "The 
 Force of Prayer." 
 
 Page 295. 
 'Pass, pass who wiU, yon chantry door; 
 •At the East end of the North aisle of Bolton Priory 
 Church, is a chantry belonging to Bethmesly Hall, and 
 
 a vault, where, according to tradition, the Claphams' 
 (who inherited this estate, by the female line, from the 
 Mauleverers) ' were interred upright.' John de Clapham, 
 of whom this ferocious act is recorded, was a man of 
 great note in his time : 'he was a vehement partisan of 
 the house of Lancaster, in whom the spirit of his chief- 
 tains, the Cliffords, seemed to survive.' 
 
 Page 29G. 
 ' Wlio loved the Shepherd Lord to meet ' 
 
 In this Volume of Poems, will be found one entitled, 
 " Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, upon the Re- 
 storation of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates 
 and Honours of his Ancestors." To that Poem is an- 
 nexed an account of this personage, chiefly extracted 
 from Burns and Nicholson's History of Cumberland and 
 Westmoreland. It gives me pleasure to add these further 
 particulars concerning him, from Dr. Whitaker, who 
 says he ' retired to the solitude of Barden, where he 
 seems to have enlarged the tower out of a common 
 keeper's lodge, and where he found a retreat equally 
 favourable to taste, to instruction, and to devotion. The 
 narrow limits of his residence show that he had learned 
 to despise the pomp of greatness, and that a small train 
 of servants could suffice him, who had lived to the age 
 of thirty a servant himself. I think this nobleman re- 
 sided here almost entirely when in Yorkshire, for all his 
 charters which I have seen are dated at Barden. 
 
 'His early habits, and the want of those artificial mea- 
 sures of time which even shepherds now possess, had 
 given him a turn for observing the motions of the heavenly 
 bodies ; and, having purchased such an apparatus as 
 could then be procured, he amused and informed himself 
 by those pursuits, with the aid of the Canons of Bolton, 
 some of whom are said to have been well versed in what 
 was then known of the science. 
 
 'I suspect this nobleman tc have been sometimes occu- 
 pied in a more visionary pursuit, ana probably in the 
 same company. 
 
 ' For, from the family evidences, I have met with two 
 MSS. on the subject of Alchemy, which, from the charac- 
 ter, spelling, &c, may almost certainly be referred to the 
 reign of Henry the Seventh. If these were originally 
 deposited with the MSS. of the Cliffords, it might have 
 been for the use of this nobleman. If they were brought 
 from Bolton at the Dissolution, they must have been the 
 work of those Canons whom he almost exclusively con- 
 versed with. 
 
 ' In these peaceful employments Lord Clifford spent the 
 whole reign of Henry the Seventh, and the first years of 
 his son. But in the year 1513, when almost sixty years 
 old, he was appointed to a principal command over the 
 army which fought at Flodden, and showed that the 
 military genius of the family had neither been chilled 
 in him by age, nor extinguished by habits of peace. 
 
 ' He survived the battle of Flodden ten years, and died 
 April 23rd, 1523, aged about 70. I shall endeavour to 
 appropriate to him a tomb, vault, and chantry, in the 
 choir of the church of Bolton, as I should be sorry to 
 believe that he was deposited, when dead, at a distance 
 from the place which in his lifetime he loved so well. 
 
 ' By his last will he appointed his body to be interred 
 at Shap, if he died in Westmoreland ; or at Bolton, if he 
 died in Yorkshire. 
 
 With respect to the Canons of Bolton, Dr. Whitaker 
 shows from MSS. that not only alchemy but astronomy 
 was a favourite pursuit with them. 
 
 Page 299. 
 
 ' Now joy for you who from the towers 
 Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear,' 
 
 Brancepeth Castle stands near the river Were, a few 
 miles from the city of Durham. It formerly belonged 
 
634 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 to the Nevilles, Earls of Westmoreland. See Dr. Percy's 
 account. 
 
 Page 301. 
 ' Of mitred Thurston — what a Host 
 He conquered ! ' 
 
 See the Historians for the account of this memorable 
 battle, usually denominated the Battle of the Standard 
 
 Page 301. 
 
 * In that other day of Neville's Cross ? ' 
 
 ' In the night before the battle of Durham was strucken 
 and begun, the 17th day of October, anno 1346, there did 
 appear to John Fosser, then Prior of the abbey of 
 Durham, a "Vision, commanding him to take the holy 
 Corporax-cloth, wherewith St. Cuthbert did cover the 
 chalice when he used to say mass, and to put the same 
 holy relique like to a banner-cloth upon the point of a 
 spear, and the next morning to go and repair to a place 
 on the west side of the city of Durham, called the Red 
 Hills, where the Maid's Bower wont to be, and there to 
 remain and abide till the end of the battle. To which 
 vision, the Prior obeying, and taking the same for a 
 revelation of God's grace and mercy by the mediation of 
 Holy St. Cuthbert, did accordingly the next morning, 
 with the monks of the said abbey, repair to the said Red 
 Hills, and there most devoutly humbling and prostrating 
 themselves in prayer for the victory in the said battle : 
 (a great multitude of the Scots running and pressing by 
 them, with intention to have spoiled them, yet had no 
 power to commit any violence under such holy persons, 
 so occupied in prayer, being protected and defended by 
 the mighty Providence of Almighty God, and by the 
 mediation of Holy St. Cuthbert, and the presence of the 
 holy relique). And, after many conflicts and warlike 
 exploits there had and done between the Englishmen 
 and the King of Scots and his company, the said battle 
 ended, and the victory was obtained, to the great over- 
 throw and confusion of the Scots, their enemies : And 
 then the said Prior and monks accompanied with Ralph 
 Lord Nevil, and John Nevil his son, and the Lord Tercy, 
 and many other nobles of England, returned home and 
 went to the abbey church, there joining in hearty prayer 
 and thanksgiving to God and Holy St. Cuthbert for the 
 victory achieved that day.' 
 
 This battle was afterwards called the Battle of Ne- 
 ville's Cross from the following circumstance : — 
 
 ' On the west side of the city of Durham, where two 
 roads pass each other, a most notable, famous, and 
 goodly cross of stone-work was erected and set up to the 
 honour of God for the victory there obtained in the field 
 of battle, and known by the name of N evil's Cross, and 
 built at the sole cost of the Lord Ralph Nevil, one of the 
 most excellent and chief persons in the said battle.' The 
 Relique of St. Cuthbert afterwards became of great im- 
 portance in military events. For soon after this battle, 
 says the same author, ' The prior caused a goodly and 
 sumptuous banner to be made,' (which is then described 
 at great length,) ' and in the midst of the same banner- 
 cloth was the said holy relique and corporax-cloth en- 
 closed, &c. <fcc, and so sumptuously finished, and ab- 
 solutely perfected, this banner was dedicated to Holy 
 St. Cuthbert, of intent and purpose that for the future it 
 should be carried to any battle, as occasion should 
 serve ; and was never carried and showed at any battle 
 but by the especial grace of God Almighty, and the 
 mediation of Holy St. Cuthbert, it brought home victory ; 
 which banner-cloth, after the dissolution of the abbey, 
 fell into the possession of Dean Whittingham, whose 
 wife, called Katharine, being a French woman, (as is 
 most credibly reported by eye-witnesses,) did most in- 
 juriously burn the same in her fire, to the open contempt 
 and disgrace of all ancient and goodly reliques.' — Ex- 
 
 tracted from a book entitled, "Durham Cathedral, as it 
 stood before the Dissolution of the Monastery." It 
 appears, from the old metrical History, that the above- 
 mentioned banner was carried by the Earl of Surrey to 
 Flodden Field. 
 
 Page 304. 
 ' An edifice of warlike frame 
 Stands single — Norton Tower its name — ' 
 
 It is so called to this day, and is thus described by Dr. 
 "Whitaker : — * Rylstone Fell yet exhibits a monument of 
 the old warfare between the Nortons and Cliffords. On 
 a point of very high ground, commanding an immense 
 prospect, and protected by two deep ravines, are the 
 remains of a square tower, expressly said by Dodsworth 
 to have been built by Richard Norton. The walls are of 
 strong grout-work, about four feet thick. It seems to 
 have been three stories high. Breaches have been 
 industriously made in all the sides, almost to the ground, 
 to render it untenable. 
 
 'But Norton Tower was probably a sort of pleasure- 
 house in summer, as there are, adjoining to it, several 
 large mounds, (two of them are pretty entire,) of which 
 no other account can be given than that they were butts 
 for large companies of archers. 
 
 ' The place is savagely wild, and admirably adapted to 
 the uses of a watch tower.' 
 
 Page 308. 
 
 • ' despoil and desolation 
 
 O'er Rylstone' s fair domain have blown; ' 
 
 ' After the attainder of Richard Norton, his estates 
 were forfeited to the crown, where they remained till the 
 2nd or 3rd of James ; they were then granted to Francis 
 Earl of Cumberland.' From an accurate survey made 
 at that time, several particulars have been extracted by 
 Dr. W. It appears that ' the mansion-house was then 
 in decay. Immediately adjoining is a close, called the 
 Tivery, so called, undoubtedly, from the French Vivier, 
 or modern Latin Vivarium ; for there are near the house 
 large remains of a pleasure-ground, such as were intro- 
 duced in the earlier part of Elizabeth's time, with topiary 
 works, fish-ponds, an island, &c. The whole township 
 was ranged by an hundred and thirty red deer, the pro- 
 perty of the Lord, which, together with the wood, had, 
 after the attainder of Mr. Norton, been committed to 
 Sir Stephen Tempest. The wood, it seems, had been 
 abandoned to depredations, before which time it appears 
 that the neighbourhood must have exhibited a forest- 
 like and sylvan scene. In this survey among the old 
 tenants, is mentioned one Richard Kitchen, butler to 
 Mr. Norton, who rose in rebellion with his master, and 
 was executed at Ripon.' 
 
 Page 310. 
 * In the deep fork of Amerdale ; ' 
 ' At the extremity of the parish of Burnsal, the valley 
 of Wharf forks off into two great branches, one of which 
 retains the name of Wharfdale, to the source of the 
 river ; the other is usually called Littondale, but more 
 anciently and properly, Amerdale. Dernbrook, which 
 runs along an obscure valley from the N.W., is derived 
 from a Teutonic word, signifying concealment.'— 
 Dr. Whitaker. 
 
 Page 810. 
 ' When the Bells of Rylstone played 
 Their Sabbath music—' OKoD US ajtie !' ' 
 On one of the bells of Rylstone church, which seems 
 coeval with the building of the tower, is this cypher, 
 'LM.' for John Norton, and the motto, * <SoD US aj>0e.' 
 
NOTES. 
 
 G35 
 
 Page 311. 
 
 ' The grassy rock-encircled Pound ' 
 Which is thus described by Dr. Whitaker :— ' On the 
 plain summit of the hill are the foundations of a strong 
 wall stretching from the S.W. to the N.E. corner of the 
 tower, and to the edge of a very deep glen. From this 
 glen, a ditch, several hundred yards long, runs south to 
 another deep and rugged ravine. On the N. and W. 
 where the banks are very steep, no wall or mound is 
 discoverable, paling being the only fence that could stand 
 on such ground. 
 
 ' From the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, it ap- 
 pears that such pounds for deer, sheep, &c. were far 
 from being uncommon in the south of Scotland. The 
 principle of them was something like that of a wire 
 mouse-trap. On the declivity of a steep hill, the bottom 
 and sides of which were fenced so as to be impassable, 
 a wall was constructed nearly level with the surface on 
 the outside, yet so high within, that without wings it 
 was impossible to escape in the opposite direction. Care 
 was probably taken that these enclosures should contain 
 better feed than the neighbouring parks or forests ; and 
 whoever is acquainted with the habits of these sequa- 
 cious animals, will easily conceive, that if the leader was 
 once tempted to descend into the snare, a herd would 
 follow.' 
 
 I cannot conclude without recommending, to the 
 notice of all lovers of beautiful scenery, Bolton Abbey 
 and its neighbourhood. This enchanting spot belongs 
 to the Duke of Devonshire ; and the superintendence of 
 it has for some years been entrusted to the Rev. William 
 Carr, who has most skilfully opened out its features ; 
 and, in whatever he has added has done justice to the 
 place, by working with an invisible hand of art in the 
 very spirit of nature. 
 
 Page 312. 
 
 ' Ecclesiastical Sonnets' 
 
 During the month of December, 1820, I accompanied a 
 much-beloved and honoured Friend in a walk through 
 different parts of his estate, with a view to fix upon the 
 site of a new Church which he intended to erect. It was 
 one of the most beautiful mornings of a mild season, — 
 our feelings were in harmony with the cherishing influ- 
 ences of the scene ; and such being our purpose, we 
 were naturally led to look back upon past events with 
 wonder and gratitude, and on the future with hope. 
 Not long afterwards, some of the Sonnets which will be 
 found towards the close of this series were produced as 
 a private memorial of that morning's occupation. 
 
 The Catholic Question, which was agitated in Parlia- 
 ment about that time, kept my thoughts in the same 
 course ; and it struck me that certain points in the Eccle- 
 siastical History of our Country might advantageously 
 be presented to view in verse. Accordingly, I took up 
 the subject, and what I now offer to the reader was the 
 result. 
 
 When this work was far advanced, I was agreeably 
 surprised to find that my friend, Mr. Southey, had been 
 engaged with similar views in writing a concise History 
 of the Church in England. If our Productions, thus 
 unintentionally coinciding, shall be found to illustrate 
 each other, it will prove a high gratification to me, 
 which I am sure my friend will participate. 
 
 Rydal Mount, 
 
 January 24, 1822. 
 
 W. WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 For the convenience of passing from one point of the 
 subject to another without shocks of abruptness, this 
 work has taken the shape of a series of Sonnets : but the 
 
 Reader, it is to be hoped, will find that the pictures aro 
 often so closely connected as to have jointly the effect of 
 passages of a poem in a form of stanza to which there 
 is no objection but one that bears upon the Poet only- 
 its difficulty. 
 
 Page 312. 
 ' Did holy Paul,' Sec. 
 Stillingfleet adduces many arguments in support of 
 this opinion, but they are unconvincing. The latter 
 part of this Sonnet refers to a favourite notion of Roman 
 Catholic writers, that Joseph of Arimathea and his 
 companions brought Christianity into Britain, and built 
 a rude church at Glastonbury ; alluded to hereafter, in a 
 passage upon the dissolution of monasteries. 
 
 Page 313. 
 ' That Hill, whose flowery platform,' ice. 
 This hill at St. Alban's must have been an object of 
 great interest to the imagination of the venerable Bede, 
 who thus describes it, with a delicate feeling, delightful 
 to meet with in that rude age, traces of which are fre- 
 quent in his works :— ' Variis herbarum floribus depictus 
 imo usquequaque vestitus, in quo nihil repente arduum, 
 nihil praaceps, nihil abruptum, quern lateribus longe 
 lateque doductum in modum sequoris natura complanat, 
 dignum videlicet eum pro insita sibi specie venustatis 
 jam olim reddens, qui beati martyris cruore dicaretur.' 
 
 Page 314. 
 
 ' Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid 
 Of hallelujahs ' 
 
 Alluding to the victory gained under Germanus.— See 
 Bede. 
 
 Page 314. 
 ' By men yet scarcely conscious of a care 
 For other monuments than those of Earth ; ' 
 
 The last six lines of this Sonnet are chiefly from the 
 prose of Daniel ; and here I will state (though to the 
 Readers whom this Poem will chiefly interest it is unne- 
 cessary) that my obligations to other prose writers are 
 frequent, — obligations which, even if I had not a pleasure 
 in courting, it would have been presumptuous to shun, 
 in treating an historical subject. I must, however, par- 
 ticularise Fuller, to whom I am indebted in the Sonnet 
 upon Wicliffe and in other instances. And upon the 
 acquittal of the Seven Bishops I have done little more 
 than versify a lively description of that event in the MS. 
 Memoirs of the first Lord Lonsdale. 
 
 Page 314. Sonnet xii. 
 
 ' Ethelforth reached the convent of Bangor, he per- 
 ceived the Monks, twelve hundred in number, offering 
 prayers for the success of their countrymen : ' if they are 
 praying against us,' he exclaimed, ' they are fighting 
 against us ; ' and he ordered them to be first attacked : 
 they were destroyed ; and, appalled by their fate, the 
 courage of Brocmail wavered, and he fled from the field 
 in dismay. Thus abandoned by their leader, his army 
 soon gave way, and Ethelforth obtained a decisive con- 
 quest. Ancient Bangor itself soon fell into his hands, 
 and was demolished ; the noble monastery was levelled 
 to the ground ; its library, which is mentioned as a large 
 one, the collection of ages, the repository of the most 
 precious monuments of the ancient Britons, was con- 
 sumed ; half ruined walls, gates, and rubbish were all 
 that remained ot the magnificent edifice.' — See Turner's 
 valuable history of the Anglo-Saxons. 
 
 Taliesin was present at the battle which preceded this 
 desolation. 
 
 The account Bede gives of this remarkable event, sug- 
 
636 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 gests a most striking warning against National and Reli- 
 gious pvsjudices. 
 
 Page 315. Sonnet xv. 
 
 The person of Paulinus is thus described by Bede, 
 
 from the memory of an eye-witness : — ' Longae stature?, 
 
 paululum incurvus, nigro capillo, facie macilenta, naso 
 
 adunco, pertenui, venerabilis simul et terribilis aspectu.' 
 
 Page 315. 
 ' Man's life is like a Sparrow,' 
 See the original of this speech in Bede.— The Conver- 
 sion of Edwin, as related by him, is highly interesting— 
 and the breaking up of this Council accompanied with 
 an event so striking and characteristic, that I am tempted 
 to give it at length in a translation. ' "Who, exclaimed 
 the King, when the Council was ended, shall first dese- 
 crate the altars and the temples ? I, answered the Chief 
 Priest ; for who more fit than myself, through the wis- 
 dom which the true God hath given me, to destroy, for 
 the good example of others, what in foolishness I wor- 
 shipped ? Immediately, casting away vain superstition, 
 he besought the King to grant him what the laws did not 
 allow to a priest, arms and a courser (equum emissa- 
 rium) ; which mounting, and furnished with a sword and 
 lance he proceeded to destroy the Idols. The crowd, 
 seeing this, thought him mad— he however, halted not, 
 but, approaching, he profaned the temple, casting 
 against it the lance which he had held in his hand, and, 
 exulting in acknowledgment of the worship of the true 
 God, he ordered his companions to pull down the temple, 
 with all its enclosures. The place is shown where those 
 idols formerly stood, not far from York, at the source of 
 the river Derwent, and is at this day called Gormund 
 Gaham, ubi pontifex ille, insprrante Deo vero, pollnit ac 
 destruxit eas, quas ipse sacraverat aras.' The last ex- 
 pression is a pleasing proof that the venerable monk of 
 Wearmouth was familiar with the poetry of Virgil. 
 
 Page 315. 
 
 ' such the inviting voice 
 
 Heard near fresh streams ;' 
 
 The early propagators of Christianity were accustomed 
 to preach near rivers, for the convenience of baptism. 
 
 Page 315. Sonnet xix. 
 Having spoken of the zeal, disinterestedness, and tem- 
 perance of the clergy of those times, Bede thus proceeds : 
 — ' Unde et in magna erat veneratione tempore illo re- 
 ligionis habitus, ita ut ubicunque clericus aliquis, aut 
 monachus adveniret, gaudenter ab omnibus tanquam 
 Dei famulus exciperetur. Etiam si in itinere pergens 
 inveniretur, accurrebant, et flexa cervice, vel manu sig- 
 nari, vel ore illius se benedici, gaudebant. Verbis quoque 
 horum exhortatoriis diligenter auditum praebebant. Lib. 
 iii. cap. 26. 
 
 Page 316. 
 ' The people work like congregated bees' 
 
 See, in Turner's History, vol. iii. p. 528, the account of 
 the erection of Ramsey Monastery. Penances were 
 removable by the performance of acts of charity and 
 benevolence. 
 
 Page 316. 
 'pain narrows not his cares.' 
 
 Through the whole of his life, Alfred was subject to 
 grievous maladies. 
 
 Page 317. 
 ' Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey ! ' 
 The violent measures carried on under the influence of 
 Dunstan, for strengthening the Benedictine Order, were a 
 
 leading cause of the second series of Danish invasions. — 
 See Turner. 
 
 Page 319. 
 ' Here Man more purely lives,' <kc. 
 
 •Bonum est nos hie esse, quia homo vivit purius, cadit 
 rarius, surgit velocius, incedit eautius, quiescit securius, 
 moritur felicius, purgatur citius, praemiatur copiosius.' 
 Bernard. ' This sentence,' says Dr. Whitaker, ' ig 
 usually inscribed in some conspicuous part of the Cister- 
 tian houses.' 
 
 Page 321. 
 ' Whom Obloquy pursues with hideous bark : ' 
 
 The list of foul names bestowed upon those poor 
 creatures is long and curious ; — and, as is, alas ! too 
 natural, most of the opprobrious appellations are drawn 
 from circumstances into which they were forced by their 
 persecutors, who even consolidated their miseries into 
 one reproachful term, calling them Patarenians, or Pa. 
 turins, from pati, to suffer. 
 
 Dwellers with wolves, she names them, for the pine 
 And green oak are their covert ; as the gloom 
 Of night oft foils their enemy's design, 
 She calls them Riders on the flying broom ; 
 Sorcerers, whose frame and aspect have become 
 One and the same through practices malign. 
 
 Page 322. 
 ' And the green lizard and the gilded newt 
 Lead unmolested lives, and die of age.' 
 
 These two lines are adopted from a MS., written about 
 the year 1770, which accidentally fell into my possession. 
 The close of the preceding Sonnet on monastic voluptu- 
 ousness is taken from the same source, as is the verse, 
 ' Where Venus sits,' &c, and the line, ' Once ye were 
 holy, ye are holy still,' in a subsequent Sonnet. 
 
 Page 321. 
 
 ' One ( like those prophets whom Ood sent of old ) 
 Transfigured,' <£c. 
 
 ' M. Latimer suffered his keeper very quietly to pull off 
 his hose, and his other array, which to looke unto was 
 very simple : and being stripped into his shrowd, he 
 seemed as comely a person to them that were present, as 
 one should lightly see : and whereas in his clothes hee ap- 
 peared a withered and crooked sillie (weak) olde man, he 
 now stood bolt upright, as comely a father as one might 
 lightly behold. * * * « Then they brought a faggotte, 
 kindled with fire, and laid the same downe at doctor 
 Ridley's feete. To whome M. Latimer spake in this 
 manner, ' Bee of good comfort, master Ridley, and play 
 the man : wee shall this day light such a candle by God's 
 grace in England, as I trust shall never bee put out.' — 
 Fox's Acts, £e. 
 
 Similar alterations in the outward figure and deport- 
 ment of persons brought to like trial were not uncom- 
 mon. See note to the above passage in Dr. Wordsworth's 
 Ecclesiastical Biography, for an example in an humble 
 Welsh .fisherman. 
 
 Page 325. 
 
 ' The gift exalting, and with playful smile : ' 
 
 ' On foot they went, and took Salisbury in their way, 
 purposely to see the good Bishop, who made Mr. Hooker 
 sit at his own table ; which Mr. Hooker boasted of with 
 much joy and gratitude when he saw his mother and 
 friends ; and at the Bishop's parting with him, the Bishop 
 gave him good counsel and his benediction, but forgot to 
 give him money ; which when the Bishop had considered, 
 he sent a servant in all haste to call Richard back to 
 
NOTES. 
 
 637 
 
 him, and at Richard's return, the Bishop said to him, 
 ' Richard, I sent for you back to lend you a horse which 
 hath carried me many a mile, and I thank God with 
 much ease,' and presently delivered into his hand a walk- 
 ing-staff, with which he professed he had travelled 
 through many parts of Germany ; and he said, ' Richard, 
 I do not give, but lend you my horse ; be sure you be 
 honest, and bring my horse back to me, at your return 
 this way to Oxford. And I do now give you ten groats to 
 bear your charges to Exeter ; and here is ten groats more, 
 which I charge you to deliver to your mother, and tell 
 her I send her a Bishop's benediction with it, and beg 
 the continuance of her prayers for me. And if you bring 
 my horse back to me, I will give you ten groats more to 
 carry you on foot to the college ; and so God bless you, 
 good Richard.' ' — SeeWalton's Life of Richard Hooker. 
 
 Page 325. 
 
 ■ ' craftily incites 
 
 The overweening, personates the mad.' 
 
 A common device in religious and political conflicts. 
 — See Strype in support of this instance. 
 
 Page 326. 
 ' Laud,' 
 
 In this age a word cannot be said in praise of Laud, or 
 even in compassion for his fate, without incurring a 
 charge of bigotry ; but fearless of such imputation, I con- 
 cur with Hume, ' that it is sufficient for his vindication 
 to observe that his errors were the most excusable of all 
 those which prevailed during that zealous period.' A key 
 to the right understanding of those parts of his conduct 
 that brought the most odium upon him in his own time, 
 maybe found in the following passage of his speech 
 before the bar of the House of Peers :— ' Ever since I 
 came in place, I have laboured nothing more than that 
 the external publick worship of God, so much slighted in 
 divers parts of this kingdom, might be preserved, and 
 that with as much decency and uniformity as might be. 
 For I evidently saw that the public neglect of God's ser- 
 vice in the outward face of it, and the nasty lying of 
 many places dedicated to that service, had almost cast a 
 damp upon the true and inward worship of God, which while 
 we live in the body, needs external helps, and all little enough 
 to keep it in any vigour.' 
 
 Page 329. 
 ' The Pilgrim Fathers.' 
 American episcopacy, in union with the church in 
 England, strictly belongs to the general subject ; and I 
 here make my acknowledgments to my American friends, 
 Bishop Doane, and Mr. Henry Reed of Philadelphia, for 
 having suggested to me the propriety of adverting to it, 
 and pointed out the virtues and intellectual qualities of 
 Bishop White, which so eminently fitted him for the great 
 work he undertook. Bishop White was consecrated at 
 Lambeth, Feb. 4, 1787, by Archbishop Moore ; and before 
 his long life was closed, twenty-six bishops had been con- 
 secrated in America, by himself. For his character and 
 opinio is, see his own numerous Works, and a " Sermon 
 in commemoration of him, by George Washington Doane, 
 Bishop of New Jersey." 
 
 Page 329. 
 
 'A genial hearth 
 
 And a refined rusticity, belong 
 
 To the neat mansion,' 
 
 Among the benefits arising, as Mr. Coleridge has well 
 
 observed, from a Church establishment of endowments 
 
 corresponding with the wealth of the country to which 
 
 it belongs, may be reckoned as eminently important, 
 the examples of civility and refinement which the Clergy 
 stationed at intervals, afford to the whole people. Tba 
 established clergy in many parts of England have long 
 been, as they continue to be, the principal bulwark 
 against barbarism, and the link which unites the seques- 
 tered peasantry with the intellectual advancement of the 
 age. Nor is it below the dignity of the subject to observe, 
 that their taste, as acting upon rural residences and 
 scenery often furnishes models which country gentlemen, 
 who are more at liberty to follow the caprices of fashion, 
 might profit by. The precincts of an old residence must 
 be treated by ecclesiastics with raspect, both from pru- 
 dence and necessity. I remember being much pleased, 
 some years ago, at Rose Castle, the rural seat of the See 
 of Carlisle, with a style of garden and architecture, 
 which, if the place had belonged to a wealthy layman, 
 would no doubt have been swept away. A parsonage- 
 house generally stands not far from the church ; this 
 proximity imposes favourable restraints, and sometimes 
 suggests an affecting union of the accommodations and 
 elegances of life with the outward signs of piety and 
 mortality. With pleasure I recal to mind a happy 
 instance of this in the residence of an old and much- 
 valued Friend in Oxfordshire. The house and church 
 stand parallel to each other, at a small distance ; a cir- 
 cular lawn or rather grass-plot, spreads between them ; 
 shrubs and trees curve from each side of the dwelling, 
 veiling, but not hiding, the church. From the front of 
 this dwelling, no part of the burial-ground is seen ; but 
 as you wind by the side of the shrubs towards the steeple- 
 end of the church, the eye catches a single, small, low, 
 monumental headstone, moss-grown, sinking into, and 
 gently inclining towards the earth. Advance, and the 
 churchyard, populous and gay with glittering tombstones, 
 opens upon the view. This humble, and beautiful par- 
 sonage called forth a tribute, for which see the seventh 
 of the " Miscellaneous Sonnets," Part 3. 
 
 Page 332. Sonnet xxxn. 
 
 This is still continued in many churches in Westmore- 
 land. It takes place in the month of July, when the 
 floor of the stalls is strewn with fresh rushes ; and hence 
 it is called the ' Rush-bearing.' 
 
 Page 332. 
 ' Teaching us to forget them or forgive.' 
 This is borrowed from an affecting passage in Mr. 
 George Dyer's history of Cambridge. 
 
 Page 332. 
 
 ' had we, like them, endured 
 
 Sore stress of apprehension,' 
 
 See Burnet, who is unusually animated on this subject ; 
 the east wind, so anxiously expected and prayed for, was 
 called the ' Protestant wind.' 
 
 Page 333. 
 
 ' Yet will we not conceal the precious Cross, 
 Like men ashamed : ' 
 The Lutherans have retained the Cross within their 
 churches : it is to be regretted that we have not done the 
 same. 
 
 Page 334. 
 ' Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its name 
 From roseate hues,' &c. 
 Some say that Monte Rosa takes its name from a belt 
 of rock at its summit— a very unpoetical and scarcely a 
 probable supposition. 
 
638 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 MEMORIALS OF A TODR IN SCOTLAND, 1831. 
 
 ' Highland Hut.' 
 
 This sonnet describes the exteriot of a Highland hut, 
 as often seen under morning or evening sunshine. To 
 the authoress of the " Address to the Wind," and other 
 poems, in this volume, who was my fellow-traveller in 
 this tour, I am indebted for the following extract from 
 her journal, which accurately describes, under particular 
 circumstances, the beautiful appearance of the interior of 
 one of these rude habitations. 
 
 ' On our return from the Trossachs the evening began 
 to darken, and it rained so heavily that we were com- 
 pletely wet before we had come two miles, and it was 
 dark when we landed with our boatman, at his hut upon 
 the banks of Loch Katrine. I was faint from cold : the 
 good woman had provided, according to her promise, a 
 better fire than we had found in the morning ; and, 
 indeed, when I sat down in the chimney-corner of her 
 smoky biggin, I thought I had never felt more comfort- 
 able in my life : a pan of coffee was boiling for us, and, 
 having put our clothes in the way of drying, we all sat 
 down thankful for a shelter. We could not prevail upon 
 our boatman, the master of the house, to draw near the 
 fire, though he was cold and wet, or to suffer his wife to 
 get him dry clothes till she had served us, which she did 
 most willingly, though not very expeditiously. 
 
 ' A Cumberland man of the same rank would not have 
 had such a notion of what was fit and right in his own 
 house, or, if he had, one would have accused him of ser- 
 vility ; but in the Highlander it only seemed like polite- 
 ness (however erroneous and painful to us), naturally 
 growing out of the dependence of the inferiors of the 
 clan upon their laird ; he did not, however, refuse to let 
 his wife bring out the whisky bottle for his refreshment, 
 at our request. " She keeps a dram," as the phrase is : 
 indeed, I believe there is scarcely a lonely house by the 
 wayside, in Scotland, where travellers may not be ac- 
 commodated with a dram. We asked for sugar, butter, 
 barley-bread, and milk ; and, with a smile and a stare 
 more of kindness than wonder, she replied, " Ye'll get 
 that," bringing each article separately. We caroused 
 our cups of coffee, laughing like children at the strange 
 atmosphere in which we were : the smoke came in gusts, 
 and spread along the walls ; and above our heads in the 
 chimney (where the hens were roosting) it appeared like 
 clouds in the sky. We laughed and laughed again, in 
 spite of the smarting of our eyes, yet had a quieter plea- 
 sure in observing the beauty of the beams and rafters 
 gleaming between the clouds of smoke : they had been 
 crusted over, and varnished by many winters, till, where 
 the firelight fell upon them, they had become as glossy 
 as black rocks, on a sunny day, cased in ice. When we 
 had eaten our supper we sat about half an hour, and I 
 think I never felt so deeply the blessing of a hospitable 
 welcome and a warm fire. The man of the house re- 
 peated from time to time that we should often tell of this 
 night when we got to our homes, and interposed praises 
 of his own lake, which he had more than once, when we 
 were returning in the boat, ventured to say was " bon- 
 nier than Loch Lomond." Our companion from the 
 Trossachs, who, it appeared, was an Edinburgh draw- 
 ing-master going, during the vacation, on a pedestrian 
 tour to John o'Groat's house, was to sleep in the barn 
 with my fellow-travellers, where the man said he had 
 plenty of dry hay. I do not believe that the hay of the 
 Highlands is ever very dry, but this year it had a better 
 chance than usual : wet or dry, however, the next morn- 
 ing they said they had slept comfortably. When I went 
 to bed, the mistress, desiring me to "go ben," attended 
 me with a candle, and assured me that the bed was 
 dry, though not " sic as I had been used to." It was of 
 chaff; there were two others in the room, a cupboard 
 
 and two chests, upon one of which stood milk in wooden 
 vessels, covered over. The walls of the house were of 
 stone unplastered : it consisted of three apartments, the 
 cowhouse at one end, the kitchen or house in the middle 
 and the spence at the other end ; the rooms were divided 
 not up to the rigging, but only to the beginning of the 
 roof, so that there was a free passage for light and smoke 
 from one end of the house to the other. I went to bed 
 some time before the rest of the family; the door was 
 shut between us, and they had a bright fire, which I 
 could not see, but the light it sent up amongst the var. 
 nished rafters and beams, which crossed each other 
 in almost as intricate and fantastic a manner as I have 
 seen the under-boughs of a large beech tree withered by 
 the depth of shade above, produced the most beautiful effect 
 that can be conceived. It was like what I should sup. 
 pose an underground cave or temple to be, with a drip, 
 ping or moist roof, and the moonlight entering in upon 
 it by some means or other ; and yet the colours were 
 more like those of melted gems. I lay looking up till 
 the light of the fire faded away, and the man and his 
 wife and child had crept into their bed at the other end 
 of the room : I did not sleep much, but passed a com- 
 fortable night ; for my bed, though hard, was warm and 
 clean : the unusualness of my situation prevented me 
 from sleeping. I could hear the waves beat against the 
 shore of the lake ; a little rill close to the door made a 
 much louder noise, and, when I sat up in my bed, I could 
 see the lake through an open window-place at the bed's 
 head. Add to this, it rained all night. I was less occu- 
 pied by remembrance of the Trossachs, beautiful as they 
 were, than the vision of the Highland hut, which I could 
 not get out of my head ; I thought of the Faery-land of 
 Spenser, and what I had read in romance at other times ; 
 and then what a feast it would be for a London Panto- 
 mime-maker could he but transplant it to Drury-lane, 
 with all its beautiful colours ! ' — MS. 
 
 Page 340. 
 ' Once on those steeps 1 roamed' 
 
 The following is from the same MS., and gives an ac- 
 count of the visit to Bothwell Castle here alluded to : — 
 
 ' It was exceedingly delightful to enter thus unexpect- 
 edly upon such a beautiful region. The castle stands 
 nobly, overlooking the Clyde. When we came up to it, 
 I was hurt to see that flower-borders had taken place of 
 the natural overgrowings of the ruin, the scattered stones, 
 and wild plants. It is a large and grand pile of red free- 
 stone, harmonising perfectly with the rocks of the river, 
 from which, no doubt, it has been hewn. When I was a 
 little accustomed to the unnaturalness of a modern 
 garden, I could not help admiring the excessive beauty 
 and luxuriance of some of the plants, particularly the 
 purple-flowered clematis, and a broad-leafed creeping 
 plant without flowers, which scrambled up the castle 
 wall, along with the ivy, and spread its vine-like branches 
 so lavishly that it seemed to be in its natural situation, 
 and one could not help thinking that, though not self- 
 planted among the ruins of this country, it must some- 
 where have its native abode in such places. If Bothwell 
 Castle had not been close to the Douglas mansion, we 
 should have been disgusted with the possessor's miser- 
 able conception of adorning such a venerable ruin ; 
 but it is so very near to the house, that of necessity tne 
 pleasure-grounds must have extended beyond it, and 
 perhaps the neatness of a shaven lawn and the complete 
 desolation natural to a ruin might have made an un- 
 pleasing contrast ; and, besides being within the pre- 
 cincts of the pleasure-grounds, and so very near to the 
 dwelling of a noble family, it has forfeited, in some de- 
 gree, its independent majesty, and becomes a tributary 
 to the mansion : its solitude being interrupted, it has no 
 longer the command over the mind in sending it back 
 into past times, or excluding the ordinary feelings which 
 we bear about us in daily life. We had then only to re- 
 
NOTES. 
 
 639 
 
 gret that the castle and the house were so near to each 
 other ; and it was impossible not to regret it ; for the 
 ruin presides in state over the river, far from city or 
 town, as if it might have a peculiar privilege to preserve 
 its memorials of past ages, and maintain its own charac- 
 ter for centuries to come. "We sat upon a bench under 
 the high trees, and had beautiful views of the different 
 reaches of the river, above and below. On the opposite 
 bank, which is finely wooded with elms and other trees, 
 are the remains of a priory built upon a rock ; and rock 
 and ruin are so blended, that it is impossible to separate 
 the one from the other. Nothing can be more beautiful 
 than the little remnant of this holy place : elm trees (for 
 ne were near enough to distinguish them by their 
 branches) grow out of the walls, and overshadow a 
 small, but very elegant window. It can scarcely be con- 
 ceived what a grace the castle and priory impart to each 
 other ; and the river Clyde flows on, smooth and unruf- 
 fled below, seeming to my thoughts more in harmony 
 with the sober and stately images of former times, than 
 if it had roared over a rocky channel, forcing its sound 
 upon the ear. It blended gently with the warbling of the 
 smaller birds, and the chattering of the larger ones, that 
 had made their nests in the ruins. In this fortress the 
 chief of the English nobility were confined after the 
 battle of Bannockburn. If a man is to be a prisoner, he 
 scarcely could have a more pleasant place to solace his 
 captivity ; but I thought that, for close confinement, I 
 should prefer the banks of a lake, or the seaside. The 
 greatest charm of a brook or river is in the liberty to 
 pursue it through its windings : you can then take it in 
 whatever mood you like; silent or noisy, sportive or 
 quiet. The beauties of a brook or river must be sought, 
 and the pleasure is in going in search of them ; those of 
 a lake or of the sea come to you of themselves. These 
 rude warriors cared little, perhaps, about either ; and yet, 
 if one may judge from the writings of Chaucer, and from 
 the old romances, more interesting passions were con- 
 nected with natural objects in the days of chivalry than 
 now ; though going in search of scenery, as it is called, 
 had not then been thought of. I had previously heard 
 nothing of Both well Castle, at least nothing that I remem- 
 bered ; therefore, perhaps, my pleasure was greater, 
 compared with what I received elsewhere, than others 
 might feel.' — MS. Journal. 
 
 Page 341. 
 ' Hartfs-horn Tree.' 
 
 ' In the time of the first Robert de Clifford, in the year 
 1333 or 1334, Edward Baliol king of Scotland came into 
 Westmoreland, and stayed some time with the said 
 Robert at his castles of Appleby, Brougham, and Pen- 
 dragon. And during that time they ran a stag by a 
 single greyhound out of Whinfell Park to Redkirk, in 
 Scotland, and back again to this place ; where, being 
 both spent, the stag leaped over the pales, but died on 
 the other side ; and the greyhound, attempting to leap, 
 fell, and died on the contrary side. In memory of this 
 fact the stag's horns were nailed upon a tree just by, and 
 (the dog being named Hercules) this rhythm was made 
 upon them. : 
 
 ' Hercules kill'd Hart a greese, 
 And Hart a greese kill'd Hercules.' 
 
 The tree to this day bears the name of Hart's-horn Tree. 
 The horns in process of time were almost grown over by 
 the growth of the tree, and another pair was put up in 
 their place.' — Nicholson and Burns's History of Westmore- 
 land and Cumberland. 
 
 The tree has now disappeared, but I well remember its 
 imposing appearance as it stood, in a decayed state, by 
 the side of the high road leading from Penrith to Appleby. 
 This whole neighbourhood abounds in interesting tradi- 
 tions and vestiges of antiquity, viz., Julian's Bower ; 
 
 Brougham and Penrith Castles ; Penrith Beacon, and the 
 curious remains in Penrith Church-yard; Arthur's Round 
 Table, and, close by, Maybrougb ; the excavation, called 
 the Giant's Cave, on the banks of the Emont; Long Meg 
 and her Daughters, near Eden, &c. &c. 
 
 Page 345. 
 ' Wings at my shoulders seem to play.' 
 In these lines I am under obligation to the exquisite 
 picture of "Jacob's Dream," by Mr. Alstone, now in 
 America. It is pleasant to make this public acknow- 
 ledgment to a man of genius, whom I have the honour 
 to rank among my Mends. 
 
 Page 349. 
 'But if thou, like Cocytus,' &c. 
 
 Many years ago, when I was at Greta Bridge, in York- 
 shire, the hostess of the inn, proud of her skill in etymo- 
 logy, said, that "the name of the river was taken from 
 the bridge, the form of which, as every one must notice, 
 exactly resembled a great A." Dr. Wbitaker has derived 
 it from the word of common occurrence in the north of 
 England, "to greet j" signifying to lament aloud, mostly 
 with weeping: a conjecture rendered more probable from 
 the stony and rocky channel of both the Cumberland and 
 Yorkshire rivers. The Cumberland Greta, though it 
 does not, among the country people, take up that name 
 till within three miles of its disappearance in the river 
 Derwent, may be considered as having its source in the 
 mountain cove of Wythburn, and flowing through Thirl- 
 mere, the beautiful features of which lake are known only 
 to those who, travelling between Grasmere and Keswick, 
 have quitted the main road in the vale of Wythburn, 
 and, crossing over to the opposite side of the lake, have 
 proceeded with it on the right hand. 
 
 The channel of the Greta, immediately above Keswick, 
 has, for the purposes of building, been in a great measure 
 cleared of the immense stones which, by their concussion 
 in high floods, produced the loud and awful noises de- 
 scribed in the sonnet. 
 
 ' The scenery upon this river,' says Mr. Southey in his 
 Colloquies, 'where it passes under the woody side of 
 Latrigg, is of the finest and most rememberable kind : — 
 
 ' ambiguo lapsu refluitque fluitque, 
 
 Occurrensque sibi venturas aspicit undas.' 
 
 Page 349. 
 'By hooded votaresses,' &c. 
 
 Attached to the church of Brigham was formerly a 
 chantry, which held a moiety of the manor ; and in the 
 decayed parsonage some vestiges of monastic architecture 
 are still to be seen. 
 
 Page 350. 
 ' Mary Queen of Scots landing at Workington.' 
 
 ' The fears and impatience of Mary were so great,' says 
 Robertson, 'that she got into a fisher-boat, and with 
 about twenty attendants landed at Workington, in Cum- 
 berland ; and thence she was conducted with many 
 marks of respect to Carlisle.' The apartment in which 
 the Queen had slept at Workington Hall (where she was 
 received by Sir Henry Curwen as became her rank and 
 misfortunes) was long preserved, out of respect to her 
 memory, as she had left it ; and one cannot but regret 
 that some necessary alterations in the mansion could not 
 be effected without its destruction. 
 
 Page 350. 
 
 St. Bees' Heads, anciently called the ClifF of Baruth, 
 are a conspicuous sea-mark for all vessels sailing in the 
 N.E. parts of the Irish Sea. In a bay, one side of which 
 
is formed by the southern headland, stands the village 
 of St. Bees ; a place distinguished, from very early times, 
 for its religious and scholastic foundations. 
 
 'St. Bees,' say Nicholson and Burns, 'had its name 
 from Bega, an holy woman from Ireland, who is said to 
 have founded here, about the year of our Lord 650, a 
 small monastery, where afterwards a church was built in 
 memory of her. 
 
 ' The aforesaid religious house, being destroyed by the 
 Banes, was restored by William de Meschiens, son of 
 Ranulph, and brother of Ranulph de Meschiens, first 
 Earl of Cumberland after the Conquest: and made a cell 
 of a prior and six Benedictine monks to the Abbey of St. 
 Mary at York.' 
 
 Several traditions of miracles, connected with the 
 foundation of the first of these religious houses, sur- 
 vive among the people of the neighbourhood ; one of 
 which is alluded to in these Stanzas ; and another, of a 
 somewhat bolder and more peculiar character, has fur- 
 nished the subject of a spirited poem by the Rev. R. 
 Parkinson, M.A., late Divinity Lecturer of St. Bees' 
 College, and now Fellow of the Collegiate Church of 
 Manchester. 
 
 After the dissolution of the monasteries, Archbishop 
 Grindal founded a free school at St. Bees, from which the 
 counties of Cumberland and Westmoreland have derived 
 great benefit ; and recently, under the patronage of the 
 Earl of Lonsdale, a college has been established there 
 for the education of ministers for the English Church. 
 The old Conventual Church has been repaired under the 
 superintendence of the Rev. Dr. Ainger, the Head of the 
 College ; and is well worthy of being visited by any 
 strangers who might be led to the neighbourhood of this 
 celebrated spot. 
 
 The form of stanza in this Poem, and something 
 in the style of versification, are adopted from the " St. 
 Monica," a poem of much beauty upon a monastic 
 subject, by Charlotte Smith : a lady to whom English 
 verse is under greater obligations than are likely to be 
 either acknowledged or remembered. She wrote little, 
 and that little unambitiously, but with true feeling for 
 rural nature, at a time when nature was not much re- 
 garded by English Poets ; for in point of time her earlier 
 writings preceded, I believe, those of Cowper and Burns. 
 
 Page 350. 
 ' Are not, in sooth, their Requiems sacred ties ' 
 
 I am aware that I am here treading upon tender 
 ground ; but to the intelligent reader I feel that no 
 apology is due. The prayers of survivors, during pas- 
 sionate grief for the recent loss of relatives and friends, 
 as the object of those prayers could no longer be the 
 suffering body of the dying, would naturally be ejaculated 
 for the souls of the departed ; the barriers between the 
 two worlds dissolving before the power of love and faith. 
 The ministers of religion, from their habitual attendance 
 upon sick-beds, would be daily witnesses of these benign 
 results ; and hence would be strongly tempted to aim at 
 giving to them permanence, by embodying them in rites 
 and ceremonies, recurring at stated periods. All this, as 
 it was in course of nature, so was it blameless, and even 
 praiseworthy ; since some of its effects, in that rude 
 state of society, could not but be salutary. No reflecting 
 person, however, can view without sorrow the abuses 
 which rose out of thus formalising sublime instincts, and 
 disinterested movements of passion, and perverting them 
 into means of gratifying the ambition and rapacity of the 
 priesthood. But, while we deplore and are indignant at 
 these abuses, it would be a great mistake if we imputed 
 the origin of the offices to prospective selfishness on the 
 part of the monks and clergy : they were at first sincere 
 In their sympathy, and in their degree dupes rather of 
 their own creed, than artful and designing men. Charity 
 is, upon the whole, the safest guide that we can take in 
 
 judging our fellow-men, whether of past ages, or of the 
 present time. 
 
 Page 352. 
 ' And they are led by noble Biliary.' 
 
 The Tower of Refuge, an ornament to Douglas Bay, 
 was erected chiefly through the humanity and zeal of Sir 
 William Hillary ; and he also was the founder of the life- 
 boat establishment, at that place ; by which, under his 
 superintendence, and often by his exertions at the immi- 
 nent hazard of his own life, many seamen and passengers 
 have been saved. 
 
 Page 353. 
 ' By a retired Mariner.' 
 
 This unpretending sonnet is by a gentleman nearly 
 connected with me, and I hope, as it falls so easily into 
 its place, that both the writer and the reader will excuse 
 its appearance here. 
 
 Page 353. 
 
 ' Off with yon cloud, old Snafell ! ' 
 
 The summit of this mountain is well chosen by Cowley 
 as the scene of the " Vision," in which the spectral angel 
 discourses with him concerning the government of Oliver 
 Cromwell. 'I found myself,' says he, 'on the top of that 
 famous hill in the Island Mona, which has the prospect 
 of three great, and not long since most happy, kingdoms. 
 As soon as ever I looked upon them, they called forth the 
 sad representation of all the sins and all the miseries 
 that had overwhelmed them these twenty years.' It is 
 not to be denied that the changes now in progress, aud 
 the passions, and the way in which they work, strikingly 
 resemble those which led to the disasters the philosophic 
 writer so feelingly bewails. God grant that the resem- 
 blance may not become still more striking as months and 
 years advance ! 
 
 Page 354. 
 ' On revisiting DunoUy Castle.' 
 
 This ingenious piece of workmanship, as I afterwards 
 learned, had been executed for their own amusement by 
 some labourers employed about the place. 
 
 Page 355. 
 
 * Cave of Staffa.' 
 
 The reader may be tempted to exclaim, " How came 
 this and the two following sonnets to be written, after 
 the dissatisfaction expressed in the preceding one ? " In 
 fact, at the risk of incurring the reasonable displeasure 
 of the master of the steam-boat, I returned to the cave, 
 and explored it under circumstances more favourable to 
 those imaginative impressions which it is so wonder- 
 fully fitted to make upon the mind. 
 
 Page 355. 
 ' Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, 
 Children of summer ! ' 
 
 Upon the head of the eolumns which form the front of 
 the cave, rests a body of decomposed basaltic matter, 
 which was richly decorated with that large bright 
 flower, the ox-eyed daisy. I had noticed the same flower 
 growing with profusion among the bold rocks on the 
 western coast of the Isle of Man; making a brilliant 
 contrast with their black and gloomy surfaces. 
 
 Page 356. 
 ' lona.' 
 The four last lines of this sonnet are adopted from a 
 well-known sonnet of Russel, as conveying my feeling 
 better than any words of my own could do. 
 
Page 357. 
 ' Yet fetclied from Paradise.' 
 
 It is to be feared that there is more of the poet than 
 the sound etymologist in this derivation of the name 
 Eden. On the western coast of Cumberland is a rivulet 
 which enters the sea at Moresby, known also in the 
 neighbourhood by the name of Eden. May not the 
 latter syllable come from the word Dean, a valley ? 
 Langdale, near Ambleside is by the inhabitants called 
 Langden. The former syllable occurs in the name 
 Emont, a principle feeder of the Eden ; and the stream 
 which flows, when the tide is out, over Cartmel Sands, 
 is called the Ea — eau, French — aqua, Latin. 
 
 Page 357. 
 ' Canal, and Viaduct, and Railway, teU ! ' 
 
 At Corby, a few miles below Nunnery, the Eden is 
 crossed by a magnificent viaduct ; and another of these 
 works is thrown over a deep glen or ravine at a very 
 short distance from the main stream. 
 
 Page 357. 
 ' A weight of awe not easy to be borne.' 
 
 The daughters of Long Meg, placed in a perfect circle 
 eighty yards in diameter, are seventy-two in number 
 above ground ; a little way out of the circle stands Long 
 Meg herself, a single stone, eighteen feet high. When I 
 first saw this monument, as I came upon it by surprise, 
 I might over-rate its importance as an object ; but, 
 though it will not bear a comparison with Stonehenge, 
 I must say, I have not seen any other relique of those 
 dark ages, which can pretend to rival it in singularity 
 and dignity of appearance. 
 
 Page 358. 
 ' To the Earl of Lonsdale.' 
 
 This sonnet was written immediately after certain 
 trials, which took place at the Cumberland Assizes, 
 when the Earl of Lonsdale, in consequence of repeated 
 and long-continued attacks upon his character, through 
 the local press, had thought it right to prosecute the 
 conductors and proprietors of three several journals. 
 A verdict of libel was given in one case ; and, in the 
 others, the prosecutions were withdrawn, upon the indi- 
 viduals retracting and disavowing the charges, express- 
 ing regret that they had been made, and promising to 
 abstain from the like in future. 
 
 Page 377. 
 ' Descending to the worm in charity ; 
 I am indebted, here, to a passage in one of Mr. Digby's 
 valuable works. 
 
 Page 386. 
 ' All change is perilous, and all chance unsound.' 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBEETT AND ORDER. 
 
 Page 387. 
 ' Men of the Western World.' 
 These lines were written several years ago, when 
 reports prevailed of cruelties committed in many parts 
 of America, by men making a law of their own passions. 
 A far more formidable, as being a more deliberate mis- 
 chief, has appeared among those States, which have 
 lately broken faith with the public creditor in a manner 
 so infamous. I cannot, however, but look at both evils 
 under a similar relation to inherent good, and hope that 
 the time is not distant when our brethren of the West 
 will wipe off this stain from their name and nation. 
 
 Page 401. 
 
 ' The Horn of Egremont Castle.' 
 
 This story is a Cumberland tradition. I have heard 
 
 it also related of the Hall of Hutton John, an ancient 
 
 residence of the Hudleston's, in a sequestered valley 
 
 upon the river Dacor. 
 
 Page 406. 
 ' The Russian Fugitive.' 
 
 Peter Henry Brace, having given in his entertaining 
 Memoirs the substance of this Tale, affirms that, besides 
 the concurring reports of others, he had the story from 
 the lady's own mouth. 
 
 The Lady Catherine, mentioned towards the close, is 
 the famous Catherine, then bearing that name as the 
 acknowledged Wife of Peter the Great. 
 
 Page 427. 
 ' The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale.' 
 
 With this picture, which was taken from real life, 
 compare the imaginative one of " The Reverie of Poor 
 Susan," p. 145 ; and see (to make up the deficiencies of 
 this class) " The Excursion," passim. 
 
 Page 436. 
 'Moss Campion (Silene acaulis).' 
 
 This most beautiful plant is scarce in England, though 
 it is found in great abundance upon the mountains of 
 Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw of it, in its 
 native bed, was singularly fine, the tuft or cushion being 
 at least eight inches in diameter, and the root propor- 
 tionably thick. I have only met with it in two places 
 among our mountains, in both of which I have since 
 sought for it in vain. 
 
 Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, if I caution them 
 against carrying off, inconsiderately, rare and beautiful 
 plants. This has often been done, particularly from In- 
 gleborough and other mountains in Yorkshire, till the 
 species have totally disappeared, to the great regret of 
 lovers of nature living near the places where they grew. 
 
 Page 438. 
 'From the most gentle creature nursed in fields.' 
 
 This way of indicating the name of my lamented friend 
 has been found fault with ; perhaps rightly so ; but I may 
 say in justification of the double sense of the word, that 
 similar allusions are not uncommon in epitaphs. One of 
 the best in our language in verse, I ever read, was upon 
 a person who bore the name of Palmer ; and the course 
 of the thought, throughout, turned upon the Life of the 
 Departed, considered as a pilgrimage. Nor can I think 
 that the objection in the present case will have much 
 force with any one who remembers Charles Lamb's beau- 
 tiful sonnet addressed to his own name, and ending — 
 ' No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name !' 
 
 Walter Scott . 
 S. T. Coleridge 
 Charles Lamb . 
 Geo. Crabbe 
 Felicia Hemans 
 
 Page 440. 
 
 . died 21st Sept., 1832. 
 . „ 25th July, 1834. 
 . „ 27th Dec, 1834. 
 . „ 3rd Feb., 1832. 
 „ 16th May, 1835. 
 
 Preface to the Excdrsion. Page 527. 
 ' Descend, prophetic Spirit, that inspirest 
 The human soul,' &c, 
 'Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul 
 Of the wide world dreaming on things to come.' 
 
 Shakspeare's Sonnets. 
 T T 
 
642 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 531. 
 ' much did he see of Men.' 
 
 At the risk of giving a shock to the prejudices of arti- 
 ficial society, I have ever been ready to pay homage to 
 the aristocracy of nature ; under a conviction that vigor- 
 ous human-heartedness is the constituent principle of 
 true taste. It may still, however, be satisfactory to have 
 prose testimony how far a Character, employed for pur- 
 poses of imagination, is founded upon general fact. I, 
 therefore, subjoin an extract from an author who had 
 opportunities of being well acquainted with a class of 
 men, from whom my own personal knowledge emboldened 
 me to draw this portrait. 
 
 ' We learn from Caesar and other Roman Writers, that 
 the travelling merchants who frequented Gaul and other 
 barbarous countries, either newly conquered by the Ro- 
 i man arms, or bordering on the Roman conquests, were 
 ever the first to make the inhabitants of those countries 
 familiarly acquainted with the Roman modes of life, and 
 to inspire them with an inclination to follow the Roman 
 fashions, and to enjoy Roman conveniences. In North 
 America, travelling merchants from the Settlements 
 have done and continue to do much more towards 
 civilising the Indian natives, than all the missionaries, 
 papist or protestant, who have ever been sent among 
 them. 
 
 It is farther to be observed, for the credit of this most 
 useful class of men, that they commonly contribute, by 
 their personal manners, no less than by the sale of their 
 wares, to the refinement of the people among whom they 
 travel. Their dealings form them to great quickness of 
 wit and acuteness of judgment. Having constant occa- 
 sion to recommend themselves and their goods, they 
 acquire habits of the most obliging attention, and the 
 most insinuating address. As in their peregrinations 
 they have opportunity of contemplating the manners of 
 various men and various cities, they become eminently 
 skilled in the knowledge of the world. As they wander, 
 each alone, through thinly-inhabited districts, they form 
 habits of reflection and of sublime contemplation. With all 
 these qualifications, no wonder, that they should often 
 be, in remote parts of the country, the best mirrors of 
 fashion, and censors of manners ; and should contribute 
 much to polish the roughness, and soften the rusticity of 
 our peasantry. It is not more than twenty or thirty years 
 since a young man going from any part of Scotland to 
 England, of purpose to carry the pack, was considered as 
 going to lead the life and acquire the fortune of a gen- 
 tleman. When, after twenty years' absence, in that 
 honourable line of employment, he returned with his ac- 
 quisitions to his native country, he was regarded as a 
 gentleman to all intents and purposes.' 
 
 Heron's Journey in Scotland, Vol. i. p. 89. 
 
 Page 548. 
 ' Lost in unsearchable Eternity !' 
 
 Since this paragraph was composed, I have read with 
 so much pleasure, in Burnet's Theory of the Earth, a 
 passage expressing corresponding sentiments, excited by 
 objects of a similar nature, that I cannot forbear to 
 transcribe it. 
 
 ' Siquod verb Natura nobis dedit spectaculum, in hac 
 tellure, vere gratum, et philosopho dignum, id semel 
 niihi contigisse arbitror ; cum ex celsissima. rupe specu- 
 labundus ad oram maris Mediterranei, hinc sequor cseru- 
 leum, illinc tractus Alpinos prospexi ; nihil quidem 
 magls dispar aut dissimile, nee in suo genere, magis 
 egregium et singulare. Hoc theatrum ego facile praetu- 
 lerim Romanis cunctis, Graecisve ; atque id quod natura 
 hlc spectarvdum exhibet, scenicis ludis omnibus, aut 
 amphitheatri certaminibus. Nihil hie elegans aut ve- 
 
 nustum, sed ingens et magnificum, et quod placet mag- 
 nitudine sua. et quadam specie immensitatis. Hinc in- 
 tuebar maris asquabilem superficiem, usque et usque 
 diffusam, quantum maximum oculorum acies ferri potuit; 
 illinc disruptissimam terras faciem, et vastas moles varie 
 elevatas aut depressas, erectas, propendentes, reclinatas, 
 coacervatas, omni situ inaequali et turbido. Placuit, ex 
 hac parte, Natura; unitas et simplicitas, et inexhausta 
 quaedam planities ; ex altera, multiformis confusio mag- 
 norum corporum, et insanae rerum strages : quas cum 
 intuebar, non urbis alieujus aut oppidi, sed confracti 
 mundi rudera, ante oculos habere mihi visus sum. 
 
 In singulis fere montibus erat aliquid insolens etmira- 
 bile, sed pras ceeteris mihi placebat ilia, qua. sedebam, 
 rupes ; erat maxima et altissima, et qua, terram respicie. 
 bat, molliori ascensu altitudinem suam dissimulabat : 
 qu6 vero mare, horrendum praeceps, et quasi ad perpen- 
 diculum facta, instar parietis. Praeterea facies ilia 
 marina adeo erat laovis ac uniformis (quod in rupibus 
 aliquando observare licet) ac si scissa fuisset a summo 
 ad imum, in illo piano ; vel terras motu aliquo, aut ful- 
 mine, divulsa. 
 
 Ima pars rupis erat cava, recessusque habuit, et saxeos 
 specus, euntes in vacuum montem ; sive natura pridem 
 factos, sive exesos mari, et undarum crebris ictibus : In 
 hos enim cum impetu ruebantetfragore, aestuantis maris 
 fiuctus ; quos iterum spumantes reddidit antrum, et 
 quasi ab imo ventre evomuit. 
 
 Dextrum latus montis erat praeruptum, aspero saxo et 
 nuda caute ; sinistrum non adeo neglexerat Natura, ar- 
 boribus utpote ornatum : et prope pedem montis rivus 
 limpidae aquae prorupit ; qui cum vicinam vallem irriga- 
 verat, lento motu serpens, et per varios maeandros, quasi 
 ad protrahendam vitam, in magno mari absorptus subito 
 periit. Denique in summo vertice promontorii, commode 
 eminebat saxum, cui insidebam contemplabundus. Vale 
 augusta sedes, Rege digna : Augusta rupes, semper mihi 
 memoranda !' P. 89. Telluris Theoria sacra, &c. Editio 
 secunda. 
 
 Page 556. 
 
 ' Of Missisippi, or tjtat Northern Stream.' 
 
 ' A man is supposed to improve by going out into the 
 World, by visiting London. Artificial man does ; he ex- 
 tends with his sphere ; but, alas ! that sphere is micro- 
 scopic ; it is formed of minutiae, and he surrenders his 
 genuine vision to the artist, in order to embrace it in his 
 ken. His bodily senses grow acute, even to barren and 
 inhuman pruriency; while his mental become propor- 
 tionally obtuse. The reverse is the Man of Mind : he 
 who is placed in the sphere of Nature and of God, might 
 be a mock at Tattersall's and Brooks's, and a sneer at 
 St. James's : he would certainly be swallowed alive by 
 the first Pizarro that crossed him : — But when he walks 
 along the river of Amazons ; when he rests his eye on 
 the unrivalled Andes ; when he measures the long and 
 watered savannah ; or contemplates, from a sudden pro- 
 montory, the distant, vast Pacific — and feels himself a 
 freeman in this vast theatre, and commanding each 
 ready produced fruit of this wilderness, and each pro- 
 geny of this stream — his exaltation is not less than im- 
 perial. He is as gentle, too, as he is great : his emotions 
 of tenderness keep pace with his elevation of sentiment ; 
 for he says, ' These were made by a good Being, who, 
 unsought by me, placed me here to enjoy them.' He 
 becomes at once a child and a king. His mind is in him- 
 self ; from hence he argues, and from hence he acts, and 
 he argues unerringly, and acts magisterially : his mind 
 in himself is also in his God ; and therefore he loves, and 
 therefore he soars.' — From the notes upon The Hurricane, 
 a Poem, by WUliam Gilbert. 
 
 The Reader, I am sure, will thank me for the above 
 quotation, which, though from a strange book, is one of 
 the finest passages of modern English prose. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 643 
 
 Page 558. 
 "Tis, by comparison, an easy task 
 Earth to despise,' &c. 
 
 See, upon this subject, Baxter's most interesting re- 
 view of his own opinions and sentiments in the decline 
 of life. It may be found (lately reprinted) in Dr. Words- 
 worth's Ecclesiastical Biography. 
 
 Page 559. 
 * Alas ! the endowment of immortal Power, 
 Is matched unequally with custom, time,' &c. 
 
 This subject is treated at length in the Ode — Intima- 
 tions of Immortality, page 441. 
 
 Page 560. 
 'Knowing the heart of Man is set to be,' &c. 
 
 The passage quoted from Daniel is taken from a poem 
 addressed to the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumber- 
 land, and the two last lines, printed in Italics, are by him 
 translated from Seneca. The whole Poem is very beau- 
 tiful. I will transcribe four stanzas from it, as they con- 
 tain an admirable picture of the state of a wise Man's 
 mind in a time of public commotion. 
 
 Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks 
 Of tyrant's threats, or with the surly brow 
 Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes ; 
 Charged with more crying sins than those he checks. 
 The storms of sad confusion that may grow 
 Up in the present for the coming times, 
 Appal not him; that hath no side at all, 
 But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 
 
 Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
 Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
 Of troublous and distressed mortality, 
 That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
 Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
 Affliction upon Imbecility : 
 Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
 He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. 
 
 And whilst distraught ambition compasses, 
 And is encompassed, while as craft deceives, 
 And is deceived : whilst man doth ransack man, 
 And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 
 And th' Inheritance of desolation leaves 
 To great-expecting hopes : He looks thereon, 
 As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
 And bears no venture in Impiety. 
 
 Thus, Lady, fares that man that hath prepared 
 A rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
 Beneath him ; and hath learned this book ef man, 
 Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared 
 The best of glory with her sufferings : 
 By whom, I see, you labour all you can 
 To plant your heart ! and set your thoughts as near 
 His glorious mansion as your powers can bear. 
 
 Page 576. 
 * Or rather, as we stand on holy earth 
 And have the dead around us.' 
 Leo. You, Sir, could help me to the history 
 
 Of half these graves ? 
 Priest. For eight-score winters past, 
 
 With what I've witnessed, and with what I've 
 
 heard, 
 Perhaps I might ; — — — — — 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 
 
 We two could travel, Sir, through a strange 
 
 round ; 
 Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
 
 See the Brothers. 
 
 Page 580. 
 
 ■ And suffering Nature grieved that one should die.' 
 
 Southey's Retrospect. 
 
 Page 580. 
 ' And whence that tribute ? wherefore these regards ? ' 
 The sentiments and opinions here uttered are in unison 
 with those expressed in the following Essay upon Epi- 
 taphs, which was furnished by me for Mr. Coleridge's 
 periodical work, the Friend ; and as they are dictated by 
 a spirit congenial to that which pervades this and the 
 two succeeding books, the sympathising reader will not 
 be displeased to see the Essay here annexed. 
 
 ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS. 
 
 It needs scarcely be said, that an Epitaph presupposes 
 a Monument, upon which it is to be engraven. Almost 
 all Nations have wished that certain external signs 
 should point out the places where their dead are in- 
 terred. Among savage tribes unacquainted with letters 
 this has mostly been done either by rude stones placed 
 near the graves, or by mounds of earth raised over 
 them. This custom proceeded obviously from a twofold 
 desire ; first, to guard the remains of the deceased from 
 irreverent approach or from savage violation : and, se- 
 condly, to preserve their memory. ' Never any,' says Cam- 
 den, ' neglected burial but some savage nations ; as the 
 Bactrians, which cast their dead to the dogs ; some var- 
 let philosophers, as Diogenes, who desired to be devoured 
 of fishes ; some dissolute courtiers, as Maecenas, who 
 was wont to say, Non tumulum euro; sepelit natura re- 
 lictos. 
 
 I'm careless of a grave : — Nature her dead will save.' 
 
 As soon as nations had learned the use of letters, epi- 
 taphs were inscribed upon these monuments ; in order 
 that their intention might be more surely and adequately 
 fulfilled. I have derived monuments and epitaphs from 
 two sources of feeling : but these do in fact resolve them- 
 selves into one. The invention of epitaphs, Weever, in 
 his Discourse of Funeral Monuments, says rightly, ' pro- 
 ceeded from the presage or fore-feeling of immortality, 
 implanted in all men naturally, and is referred to the 
 scholars of Linus the Theban poet, who flourished about 
 the year of the world two thousand seven hundred ; who 
 first bewailed this Linus their Master, when he was slain, 
 in doleful verses, then called of him CElina, afterwards 
 Epitaphia, for that they were first sung at burials, after 
 engraved upon the sepulchres.' 
 
 And, verily, without the consciousness of a principle of 
 immortality in the human soul, Man could never have 
 had awakened in bim the desire to live in the remem- 
 brance of his fellows : mere love, or the yearning of kind 
 towards kind, could not have produced it. The dog or 
 horse perishes in the field, or in the stall, by the side of 
 his companions, and is incapable of anticipating the 
 sorrow with which his surrounding associates shall be- 
 moan his death, or pine for his loss ; he cannot pre-con- 
 ceive this regret, he can form no thought of it ; and 
 therefore cannot possibly have a desire to leave such 
 regret or remembrance behind him. Add to the prin- 
 ciple of love which exists in the inferior animals, the 
 faculty of reason which exists in Man alone ; will the 
 conjunction of these account for the desire ? Doubtless 
 it is a necessary consequence of this conjunction ; yet 
 not I think as a direct result, but only to be come at 
 T T 2 
 
644 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 through an intermediate thought, viz. that of an inti- 
 mation or assurance within us, that some part of our 
 nature is imperishable. At least the precedence, in order 
 of birth, of one feeling to the other, is unquestionable. 
 If we look back upon the days of childhood, we shall 
 find that the time is not in remembrance when, with 
 respect to our own individual Being, the mind was with- 
 out this assurance ; whereas, the wish to be remembered 
 by our friends or kindred after death, or even in 
 absence, is, as we shall discover, a sensation that does 
 not form itself till the social feelings have been developed, 
 and the Reason has connected itself with a wide range of 
 objects. Forlorn, and cut off from communication with 
 the best part of his nature, must that man be, who should 
 derive the sense of immortality, as it exists in the mind 
 of a child, from the same unthinking gaiety or liveliness 
 of animal spirits with which the lamb in the meadow, 
 or any other irrational creature is endowed ; who should 
 ascribe it, in short, to blank ignorance in the child ; to 
 an inability arising from the imperfect state of his facul- 
 ties to come, in any point of his being, into contact with 
 a notion of death ; or to an unreflecting acquiescence in 
 what had been instilled into him ! Has such an unfolder 
 of the mysteries of nature, though he may have forgotten 
 his former self, ever noticed the early, obstinate, and 
 unappeasable inquisitiveness of children upon the subject 
 of origination ? This single fact proves outwardly the 
 monstrousness of those suppositions : for, if we had no 
 direct external testimony that the minds of very young 
 children meditate feelingly upon death and immortality, 
 these inquiries, which we all know they are perpetually 
 making concerning the whence, do necessarily include 
 correspondent habits of interrogation concerning the 
 whither. Origin and tendency are notions inseparably 
 co-relative. Never did a child stand by the side of a 
 running stream, pondering within himself what power 
 was the feeder of the perpetual current, from what never- 
 wearied sources the body of water was supplied, but he 
 must have been inevitably propelled to follow this 
 question by another: "Towards what abyss is it in 
 progress ? what receptacle can contain the mighty in- 
 flux ?" And the spirit of the answer must have been, 
 though the word might be sea or ocean, accompanied 
 perhaps with an image gathered from a map, or from 
 the real object in nature — these might have been the 
 letter, but the sj?irit of the answer must have been as 
 inevitably, — a receptacle without bounds or dimensions ; 
 — nothing less than infinity. We may, then, be justified 
 in asserting, that the sense of immortality, if not a co- 
 existent and twin birth with Reason, is among the 
 earliest of her offspring : and we may further assert, 
 that from these conjoined, and under their countenance, 
 the human affections are gradually formed and opened 
 out. This is not the place to enter into the recesses of 
 these investigations ; but the subject requires me here 
 to make a plain avowal, that, for my own part, it is to 
 me inconceivable, that the sympathies of love towards 
 each other, which grow with our growth, could ever 
 attain any new strength, or even preserve the old, after 
 we had received from the outward senses the impression 
 of death, and were in the habit of having that impression 
 daily renewed and its accompanying feeling brought 
 home to ourselves, and to those we love ; if the same 
 were not counteracted by those communications with 
 our internal Being, which are anterior to all these expe- 
 riences, and with which revelation coincides, and has 
 through that coincidence alone (for otherwise it could 
 not possess it) a power to affect us. I confess, with me 
 the conviction is absolute, that, if the impression and 
 sense of death were not thus counterbalanced, such a 
 hollowness would pervade the whole system of things, 
 such a want of correspondence and consistency, a dispro- 
 portion so astounding betwixt means and ends, that there 
 could be no repose, no joy. Were we to grow up unfos- 
 tered by this genial warmth, a frost would chill the 
 
 sph'it, so penetrating and powerful, that there could be 
 no motions of the life of love ; and infinitely less could 
 we have any wish to be remembered after we had passed 
 away from a world in which each man had moved about 
 like a shadow. — If, then, in a creature endowed with the 
 faculties of foresight and reason, the social affections 
 could not have unfolded themselves uncountenanced by 
 the faith that Man is an immortal being ; and if, con- 
 sequently, neither could the individual dying have had 
 a desire to survive in the remembrance of his fellows, 
 nor on their side could they have felt a wish to preserve 
 for future times vestiges of the departed ; it follows, as 
 a final inference, that without the belief in immortality, 
 wherein these several desires originate, neither monu- 
 ments nor epitaphs, in affectionate or laudatory com- 
 memoration of the deceased, could have existed in the 
 world. 
 
 Simonides, it is related, upon landing in a strange 
 country, found the corse of an unknown person lying 
 by the sea-side ; he buried it, and was honoured through- 
 out Greece for the piety of that act. Another ancient 
 Philosopher, chancing to fix his eyes upon a dead body, 
 regarded the same with slight, if not with contempt; 
 saying, " See the shell of the flown bird ! " But it is not 
 to be supposed that the moral and tender-hearted Simo- 
 nides-was incapable of the lofty movements of thought, 
 to which that other Sage gave way at the moment while 
 his soul was intent only upon the indestructible being ; 
 nor, on the other hand, that he, in whose sight a lifeless 
 human body was of no more value than the worthless 
 shell from which the living fowl had departed, would 
 not, in a different mood of mind, have been affected by 
 those earthly considerations which had incited the 
 philosophic Poet to the performance of that pious duty. 
 And with regard to this latter we may be assured that, 
 if he had been destitute of the capability of communing 
 with the more exalted thoughts that appertain to human 
 nature, he would have cared no more for the corse of 
 the stranger than for the dead body of a seal or porpoise 
 which might have been cast up by the waves. We 
 respect the corporeal frame of Man, not merely because 
 it is the habitation of a rational, but of an immortal 
 Soul. Each of these Sages was in sympathy with the 
 best feelings of our nature ; feelings which, though they 
 seem opposite to each other, have another and a finer 
 connection than that of contrast. — It is a connection 
 formed through the subtle progress by which, both in 
 the natural and the moral world, qualities pass insen- 
 sibly into their contraries, and things revolve upon each 
 other. As, in sailing upon the orb of this planet, a 
 voyage towards the regions where the sun sets, conducts 
 gradually to the quarter where we have been accus- 
 tomed to behold it come forth at its rising ; and, in like 
 manner, a voyage towards the east, the birth-place in 
 our imagination of the morning, leads finally to the 
 quarter where the sun is last seen when he departs from 
 our eyes ; so the contemplative Soul, travelling in the 
 direction of mortality, advances to the country of ever- 
 lasting life ; and, in like manner, may she continue to 
 explore those cheerful tracts, till she is brought back, 
 for her advantage and benefit, to the land of transitory 
 things — of sorrow and of tears. 
 
 On a midway point, therefore, which commands the 
 thoughts and feelings of the two Sages whom we have 
 represented in contrast, does the Author of that species 
 of composition, the laws of which it is our present pur- 
 pose to explain, take his stand. Accordingly, recurring 
 to the twofold desire of guarding the remains of the 
 deceased and preserving their memory, it may be said 
 that a sepulchral monument is a tribute to a man as 
 a human being ; and that an epitaph (in the ordinary 
 meaning attached to the word) includes this general 
 feeling and something more ; and is a record to preserve 
 the memory of the dead, as a tribute due to his indi- 
 vidual worth, for a satisfaction to the sorrowing hearts 
 
NOTES. 
 
 645 
 
 of the survivors, and for the common benefit of the living : 
 which record is to be accomplished, not in a general 
 manner, hut, where it can, in close connection with the 
 bodily remains of the deceased : and these, it may be added, 
 among the modern nations of Europe, are deposited 
 within, or contiguous to, their places of worship. In 
 ancient times, as is well known, it was the custom to 
 bury the dead beyond the walls of towns and cities ; and 
 among the Greeks and Romans they were frequently 
 interred by the way-sides. 
 
 I could here pause with pleasure, and invite the 
 Reader to indulge with me in contemplation of the 
 advantages which must have attended such a practice. 
 We might ruminate upon the beauty which the monu- 
 ments, thus placed, must have borrowed from the sur- 
 rounding images of nature — from the trees, the wild 
 flowers, from a stream running perhaps within sight or 
 hearing, from the beaten road stretching its weary length 
 hard by. Many tender similitudes must these objects 
 have presented to the mind of the traveller leaning 
 upon one of the tombs, or reposing in the coolness of 
 its shade, whether he had halted from weariness or in 
 compliance with the invitation, ' Pause, Traveller ! ' 
 so often found upon the monuments. And to its epitaph 
 also must have been supplied strong appeals to visible 
 appearances or immediate impressions, lively and affect- 
 ing analogies of life as a journey — death as a sleep 
 overcoming the tired wayfarer — of misfortune as a storm 
 that falls suddenly upon him — of beauty as a flower 
 that passeth away, or of innocent pleasure as one that 
 may be gathered — of virtue that standeth firm as a rock 
 against the beating waves ; — of hope ' undermined insen- 
 sibly like the poplar by the side of the river that has 
 fed it,' or blasted in a moment like a pine-tree by the 
 stroke of lightning upon the mountain-top — of admo- 
 nitions and heart-stirring remembrances, like a refresh- 
 ing breeze that comes without warning, or the taste of 
 the waters of an unexpected fountain. These, and 
 similar suggestions, must have given, formerly, to the 
 language of the senseless stone a voice enforced and 
 endeared by the benignity of that nature with which it 
 was in unison. — We, in modern times, have lost much 
 of these advantages ; and they are but in a small degree 
 counterbalanced to the inhabitants of large towns and 
 cities, by the custom of depositing the dead within, or 
 contiguous to, their places of worship ; however splendid 
 or imposing may be the appearance of those edifices, or 
 however interesting or salutary the recollections asso- 
 ciated with them. Even were it not true that tombs lose 
 their monitory virtue when thus obtruded upon the notice 
 of men occupied with the cares of the world, and too often 
 sullied and defiled by those cares, yet still, when death 
 is in our thoughts, nothing can make amends for the 
 want of the soothing influences of nature, and for the 
 absence of those types of renovation and decay, which 
 the fields and woods offer to the notice of the serious 
 and contemplative mind. To feel the force of this 
 sentiment, let a man only compare in imagination the 
 unsightly manner in which our monuments are crowded 
 together in the busy, noisy, unclean, and almost grass- 
 less church-yard of a large town, with the still seclu- 
 sion of a Turkish cemetery, in some remote place ; and 
 yet further sanctified by the grove of cypress in which 
 it is embosomed. Thoughts in the same temper as these 
 have already been expressed with true sensibility by an 
 ingenuous Poet of the present day. The subject of his 
 poem is " All Saints Church, Derby :" he has been 
 deploring the forbidding and unseemly appearance of its 
 burial-ground, and uttering a wish, that in past times 
 the practice had been adopted of interring the inhabi- 
 tants of large towns in the country. — 
 
 ■ Then in some rural, calm, sequestered spot, 
 Where healing Nature her benignant look 
 Ne'er changes, save at that lorn season, when, 
 
 With tresses drooping o'er her sable stole, 
 She yearly mourns the mortal doom of man, 
 Her noblest work, (so Israel's virgins erst, 
 With annual moan upon the mountains wept 
 Their fairest gone,) there in that rural scene, 
 So placid, so congenial to the wish 
 The Christian feels, of peaceful rest within 
 The silent grave, I would have stayed : 
 
 * s « « 
 
 —wandered forth, where the cold dew of heaven 
 Lay on the humbler graves around, what time 
 The pale moon gazed upon the turfy mounds, 
 Pensive, as though like me, in lonely muse, 
 'Twere brooding on the dead inhumed beneath. 
 There while with him, the holy man of Uz, 
 O'er human destiny I sympathised, 
 Counting the long, long periods prophecy 
 Decrees to roll, ere the great day arrives 
 Of resurrection, oft the blue-eyed Spring 
 Had met me with her blossoms, as the Dove, 
 Of old, returned with olive leaf, to cheer 
 The Patriarch mourning o'er a world destroyed : 
 And I would bless her visit ; for to me 
 'Tis sweet to trace the consonance that links 
 As one, the works of Nature and the word 
 
 Of God.' 
 
 John Edwards. 
 
 A village church-yard, lying as it does in the lap of 
 nature, may indeed be most favourably contrasted with 
 that of a town of crowded population ; and sepulture 
 therein combines many of the best tendencies which 
 belong to the mode practised by the Ancients, with 
 others peculiar to itself. The sensations of pious cheer- 
 fulness, which attend the celebration of the sabbath- 
 day in rural places, are profitably chastised by the sight 
 of the graves of kindred and friends, gathered together 
 in that general home towards which the thoughtful yet 
 happy spectators themselves are journeying. Hence a 
 parish-church, in the stillness of the country, is a visible 
 centre of a community of the living and the dead ; a 
 point to which are habitually referred the nearest con- 
 cerns of both. 
 
 As, then, both in cities and in villages, the dead are 
 deposited in close connection with our places of worship, 
 with us the composition of an epitaph naturally turns, 
 still more than among the nations of antiquity, upon the 
 most serious and solemn affections of the human mind ; 
 upon departed worth — upon personal or social sorrow 
 and admiration — upon religion, individual and social — 
 upon time, and upon eternity. Accordingly, it suffices, 
 in ordinary cases, to secure a composition of this kind 
 from censure, that it contain nothing that shall shock 
 or be inconsistent with this spirit. But, to entitle an 
 epitaph to praise, more than this is necessary. It ought 
 to contain some thought or feeling belonging to the 
 mortal or immortal part of our nature touchingly ex- 
 pressed ; and if that be done, however general or even 
 trite the sentiment may be, every man of pure mind will 
 read the words with pleasure and gratitude. A husband 
 bewails a wife ; a parent breathes a sigh of disappointed 
 hope over a lost child ; a son utters a sentiment of filial 
 reverence for a departed father or mother ; a friend 
 perhaps inscribes an encomium recording the companion- 
 able qualities, or the solid virtues, of the tenant of the 
 grave, whose departure has left a sadness upon his 
 memory. This and a pious admonition to the living, 
 and a humble expression of Christian confidence in im- 
 mortality, is the language of a thousand church-yards ; 
 and it does not often happen that anything, in a greater 
 degree discriminate or appropriate to the dead or to the 
 living, is to be found in them. This want of discrimina. 
 tion has been ascribed by Dr. Johnson, in his Essay upon 
 the epitaphs of Pope, to two causes ; first, the scantiness 
 of the objects of human praise ; and, secondly, the want 
 
of variety in the characters of men ; or, to use his own 
 words, *to the fact, that the greater part of mankind 
 have no character at all.' Such language may he holden 
 without blame among the generalities of common con- 
 versation ; hut does not become a critic and a moralist 
 speaking seriously upon a serious subject. The objects 
 of admiration in human-nature are not scanty, but 
 abundant : and every man has a character of his own, 
 to the eye that has skill to perceive it. The real cause 
 of the acknowledged want of discrimination in sepulchral 
 memorials is this : Thattoanalysethecharactersofothers, 
 especially of those whom we love, is not a common or 
 natural employment of men at any time. We are not 
 anxious unerringly to understand the constitution of the 
 minds of those who have soothed, who have cheered, who 
 have supported us : with whom we have been long and 
 daily pleased or delighted. The affections are their own 
 justification. The light of love in our hearts is a satis- 
 factory evidence that there is a body of worth in the 
 minds of our friends or kindred, whence that light has 
 proceeded. "We shrink from the thought of placing their 
 merits and defects to be weighed against each other in 
 the nice balance of pure intellect ; nor do we find much 
 temptation to detect the shades by which a good quality 
 or virtue is discriminated in them from an excellence 
 known by the same general name as it exists in the 
 mind of another ; and, least of all, do we incline to these 
 refinements when under the pressure of sorrow, admira- 
 tion, or regret, or when actuated by any of those feelings 
 which incite men to prolong the memory of their friends 
 and kindred, by records placed in the bosom of the all- 
 uniting and equalising receptacle of the dead. 
 
 The first requisite, then, in an Epitaph is, that it 
 should speak, in a tone which shall sink into the heart, 
 the general language of humanity as connected with the 
 subject of death — the» source from which an epitaph 
 proceeds — of death, and of life. To be born and to die 
 are the two points in which all men feel themselves to 
 be in absolute coincidence. This general language may 
 be uttered so strikingly as to entitle an epitaph to high 
 praise ; yet it cannot lay claim to the highest unless 
 other excellencies be superadded. Passing through all 
 intermediate steps, we will attempt to determine at once 
 what these excellencies are, and wherein consists the 
 perfection of this species of composition. — It will be 
 found to lie in a due proportion of the common or 
 universal feeling of humanity to sensations excited by a 
 distinct and clear conception, conveyed to the reader's 
 mind, of the individual, whose death is deplored and 
 whose memory is to be preserved ; at least of his cha- 
 racter as, after death, it appeared to those who loved him 
 and lament his loss. The general sympathy ought to 
 be quickened, provoked, and diversified, by particular 
 thoughts, actions, images, — circumstances of age, occu- 
 pation, manner of life, prosperity which the deceased 
 had known, or adversity to which he had been subject; 
 and these ought to be bound together and solemnised 
 into one harmony by the general sympathy. The two 
 powers should temper, restrain, and exalt each other. 
 The reader ought to know who and what the man was 
 whom he is called upon to think of with interest. A 
 distinct conception should be given (implicitly where it 
 can, rather than explicitly) of the individual lamented.— 
 But the writer of an epitaph is not an anatomist, who 
 dissects the internal frame of the mind ; he is not even a 
 painter, who executes a portrait at leisure and in entire 
 tranquillity : his delineation, wo must remember, is per- 
 formed by the side of the grave ; and, what is more, the 
 grave of one whom he loves and admires. What purity 
 and brightness is that virtue clothed in, the image of 
 which must no longer bless our living eyes ! The cha- 
 racter of a deceased friend or beloved kinsman is not 
 seen, no— nor ought to be seen, otherwise than as a tree 
 through a tender haze or a luminous mist, that spi- 
 ritualises and beautifies it ; that takes away, indeed, but 
 
 only to the end that the parts which are not abstracted 
 may appear more dignified and lovely ; may impress and 
 affect the more. Shall we say, then, that this is not truth, 
 not a faithful image ; and that, accordingly, the purposes 
 of commemoration cannot be answered ? — It is truth, 
 and of the highest order ; for, though doubtless things 
 are not apparent which did exist ; yet, the object being 
 looked at through this medium, parts and proportions 
 are brought into distinct view which before had been 
 only imperfectly or unconsciously seen : it is truth 
 hallowed by love — the joint offspring of the worth of the 
 dead and the affections of the living ! This may easily 
 be brought to the test. Let one, whose eyes have been 
 sharpened by personal hostility to discover what was 
 amiss in the character of a good man, hear the tidings 
 of his death, and what a change is wrought in a mo- 
 ment ! Enmity melts away ; and, as it disappears, 
 unsightliness, disproportion, and deformity, vanish ; and, 
 through the influence of commiseration, a harmony of 
 love and beauty succeeds. Bring such a man to the 
 tombstone on which shall be inscribed an epitaph on his 
 adversary, composed in the spirit which we have recom- 
 mended. Would he turn from it as from an idle tale ? 
 No ; — the thoughtful look, the sigh, and perhaps the 
 involuntary tear, would testify that it had a sane, a 
 generous, and good meaning ; and that on the writer's 
 mind had remained an impression which was a true 
 abstract of the character of the deceased ; that his gifts 
 and graces were remembered in the simplicity in which 
 they ought to be remembered. The composition and 
 quality of the mind of a virtuous man, contemplated by 
 the side of the grave where his body is mouldering, 
 ought to appear, and be felt as something midway 
 between what he was on earth walking about with his 
 living frailties, and what he may be presumed to be as a 
 Spirit in heaven. 
 
 It suffices, therefore, that the trunk and the main 
 branches of the worth of the deceased be boldly and un- 
 affectedly represented. Any further detail, minutely and 
 scrupulously pursued, especially if this be done with 
 laborious and antithetic discriminations, must inevitably 
 frustrate its own purpose ; forcing the passing Spectator 
 to this conclusion, — either that the dead did not possess 
 the merits ascribed to him, or that they who have raised 
 a monument to his memory, and must therefore be sup- 
 posed to have been closely connected with him, were in- 
 capable of perceiving those merits ; or at least during 
 the act of composition had lost sight of them ; for, the 
 understanding having been so busy in its petty occupa- 
 tion, how could the heart of the mourner be other than 
 cold ? and in either of these cases, whether the fault he 
 on the part of the buried person or the survivors, the 
 memorial is unaflfecting and profitless. 
 
 Much better is it to fall short in discrimination than 
 to pursue it too far, or to labour it unfeelingly. For in 
 no place are we so much disposed to dwell upon those 
 points, of nature and condition, wherein all men re- 
 semble each other, as in the temple where the universal 
 Father is worshipped, or by the side of the grave which 
 gathers all human Beings to itself, and ' equalises the 
 lofty and the low.' We suffer and we weep with the 
 same heart ; we love and are anxious for one another in 
 one spirit ; our hopes look to the same quarter ; and the 
 virtues by which we are all to be furthered and sup- 
 ported, as patience, meekness, good-will, justice, tem- 
 perance, and temperate desires, are in an equal degree 
 the concern of us all. Let an Epitaph, then, contain at 
 least these acknowledgments to our common nature ; 
 nor let the sense of their importance be sacrificed to a 
 balance of opposite qualities or minute distinctions in 
 individual character ; which if they do not, (as will for 
 the most part be the case,) when examined, resolve them- 
 selves into a trick of words, will, even when they are 
 true and just, for the most part be grievously out of 
 place ; for, as it is probable that few only have explored 
 
NOTES. 
 
 647 
 
 these intricacies of human nature, so can the tracing 01 
 them he interesting only to a few. But an epitaph is not 
 a proud writing shut up for the studious : it is exposed 
 to all — to the wise and the most ignorant ; it is conde- 
 scending, perspicuous, and lovingly solicits regard ; its 
 story and admonitions are brief, that the thoughtless, 
 the busy, and indolent, may not be deterred, nor the 
 impatient tired : the stooping old man cons the engraven 
 record like a second horn-book ; — the child is proud that 
 he can read it ; — and the stranger is introduced through 
 its mediation to the company of a friend : it is concern- 
 ing all, and for all : — in the church-yard it is open to the 
 day ; the sun looks down upon the stone, and the rains 
 of heaven beat against it. 
 
 Yet, though the writer who would excite sympathy is 
 bound in this case, more than in any other, to give proof 
 that he himself has been moved, it is to be remembered, 
 that to raise a monument is a sober and a reflective act ; 
 that the inscription which it bears is intended to be per- 
 manent, and for universal perusal; and that, for this 
 reason, the thoughts and feelings expressed should be 
 permanent also — liberated from that weakness and 
 anguish of sorrow which is in nature transitory, and 
 which with instinctive decency retires from notice. The 
 passions should be subdued, the emotions controlled ; 
 strong, indeed, but nothing ungovernable or wholly in- 
 voluntary. Seemliness requires this, and truth requires 
 it also : for how can the narrator otherwise be trusted ? 
 Moreover, a grave is a tranquillising object : resignation 
 in course of time springs up from it as naturally as the 
 wild flowers, besprinkling the turf with which it may be 
 covered, or gathering round the monument by which it 
 is defended. The very form and substance of the monu- 
 ment which has received the inscription, and the appear- 
 ance of the letters, testifying with what a slow and 
 laborious hand they must have been engraven, might 
 seem to reproach the author who had given way upon 
 this occasion to transports of mind, or to quick turns of 
 conflicting passion ; though the same might constitute 
 the life and beauty of a funeral oration or elegiac poem. 
 
 These sensations and judgments, acted upon perhaps 
 unconsciously, have been one of the main causes why 
 epitaphs so often personate the deceased, and represent 
 him as speaking from his own tomb-stone. The de- 
 parted Mortal is introduced telling you himself that his 
 pains are gone ; that a state of rest is come ; and he 
 conjures you to weep for him no longer. He admonishes 
 with the voice of one experienced in the vanity of those 
 affections which are confined to earthly objects, and 
 gives a verdict like a superior Being, performing the 
 office of a judge, who has no temptations to mislead him, 
 and whose decision cannot but be dispassionate. Thus 
 is death disarmed of its sting, and affliction unsubstan- 
 tialised. By this tender fiction, the survivors bind them- 
 selves to a sedater sorrow, and employ the intervention 
 of the imagination in order that the reason may speak 
 her own language earlier than she would otherwise have 
 been enabled to do. This shadowy interposition also 
 harmoniously unites the two worlds of the living and the 
 dead by their appropriate affections. And it may be 
 observed, that here we have an additional proof of the 
 propriety with which sepulchral inscriptions were re- 
 ferred to the consciousness of immortality as their primal 
 source. 
 
 I do not speak with a wish to recommend that an epi- 
 taph should be cast in this mould preferably to the still 
 more common one, in which what is said comes from the 
 survivors directly ; but rather to point out how natural 
 those feelings are which have induced men, in all states 
 and ranks of society, so frequently to adopt this mode. 
 And this I have done chiefly in order that the laws, 
 which ought to govern the composition of the other, 
 may be better understood. This latter mode, namely, 
 lhat in which the survivors speak in their own persons, 
 seems to me upon the whole greatly preferable : as it 
 
 admits a wider range of notices ; and, above all, because, 
 excluding the fiction which is the groundwork of the 
 other, it rests upon a more solid basis. 
 
 Enough has been said to convey our notion of a perfect 
 epitaph ; but it must be borne in mind that one is meant 
 which will best answer the general ends of that species of 
 composition. According to the course pointed out, the 
 worth of private life, through all varieties of situation 
 and character, will be most honourably and profitably 
 preserved in memory. Nor would the model recom- 
 mended less suit public men, in all instances save of 
 those persons who by the greatness of their services in 
 the employments of peace or war, or by the surpassing ex- 
 cellence of their works in art, literature, or science, have 
 made themselves not only universally known, but have 
 filled the heart of their country with everlasting gratitude. 
 Yetlmusthere pause to correct myself. In describing the 
 general tenour of thought which epitaphs ought to hold, 
 I have omitted to say, that if it be the actions of a man, 
 or even some one conspicuous or beneficial act of local or 
 general utility, which have distinguished him, and ex- 
 cited a desire that he should be remembered, then, of 
 course, ought the attention to be directed chiefly to those 
 actions or that act : and such sentiments dwelt upon as 
 naturally arise out of them or it. Having made this 
 necessary distinction, I proceed. — The mighty bene- 
 factors of mankind, as they are not only known by the 
 immediate survivors, but will continue to be known 
 familiarly to latest posterity, do not stand in need of 
 biographic sketches, in such a place ; nor of delineations 
 of character to individualise them. This is already done 
 by their Works, in the memories of men. Their naked 
 names, and a grand comprehensive sentiment of civic 
 gratitude, patriotic love, or human admiration — or the 
 utterance of some elementary principle most essential 
 in the constitution of true virtue ; — or a declaration 
 touching that pious humility and self-abasement, which 
 are ever most profound as minds are most susceptible of 
 genuine exaltation — or an intuition, communicated in 
 adequate words, of the sublimity of intellectual power ; 
 — these are the only tribute which can here be paid — the 
 only offering that upon such an altar would not be un- 
 worthy. 
 
 ' What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones 
 The labour of an age in piled stones, 
 Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 
 Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? 
 Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame, 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name 1 
 Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
 Hast built thyself a livelong monument, 
 And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, 
 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.' 
 
 Page 580. 
 'And spires whose ' silent finger points to Heaven.' ' 
 An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches 
 in flat countries with spire-steeples, which as they cannot 
 be referred to any other object, point as with silent 
 finger to the sky and stars, and sometimes, when they 
 reflect the brazen light of a rich though rainy sunset, 
 appear like a pyramid of flame burning heaven-ward. 
 See " The Friend," by S. T. Coleridge, No. 14, p. 223. 
 
 Page 598. 
 
 ' TJiat Sycamore, which annually holds 
 Within its shade as in a stately tent.' 
 
 ' This Sycamore oft musical with Bees ; 
 Such Tents the Patriarchs loved.' 
 
 8. T. Coleridge. 
 
648 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page 602. 
 'Perish the roses and the flowers of Kings.' 
 
 The ' Transit gloria mundi ' is finely expressed in the 
 Introduction to the Foundation-charters of some of the 
 ancient Ahbeys. Some expressions here used are taken 
 from that of the Abbey of St. Mary's, Furness, the trans- 
 lation of which is as follows : — 
 
 ' Considering every day the uncertainty of life, that 
 the roses and flowers of Kings, Emperors, and Dukes, 
 and the crowns and palms of all the great, wither and 
 decay ; and that all things, with an uninterrupted course, 
 tend to dissolution and death : I therefore,' <fcc. 
 
 Page 604. 
 
 ' Earth has lent 
 
 Her waters, Air her breezes.' 
 
 In treating this subject, it was impossible not to recol- 
 lect, with gratitude, the pleasing picture, which, in his 
 
 Poem of the Fleece, the excellent and amiable Dyer has 
 given of the influences of manufacturing industry upon 
 the face of this Island. He wrote at a time when 
 machinery was first beginning to be introduced, and his 
 benevolent heart prompted him to augur from it nothing 
 but good. Truth has compelled me to dwell upon the 
 baneful effects arising out of an ill-regulated and exces- 
 sive application of powers so admirable in themselves. 
 
 Page 612. 
 
 'Binding herself by Statute.' 
 
 The discovery ot Dr. Bell affords marvellous facilities 
 for carrying this into effect ; and it is impossible to over- 
 rate the benefit which might accrue to humanity from 
 the universal application of this simple engine under an 
 enlightened and conscientious government. 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, 
 
 ETC. ETC. 
 
 Mitch the greatest part of the foregoing Poems has been so long before the Public that no 
 prefatory matter, explanatory of any portion of them, or of the arrangement which has been adopted, 
 appears to be required; and had it not been for the observations contained in those Prefaces upon 
 the principles of Poetry in general they would not have been reprinted even as an Appendix in 
 this Edition. 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION OF SEVERAL OF THE FOREGOING POEMS, PUBLISHED, WITH AN ADDITIONAL 
 VOLUME, UNDER THE TITLE OF " LYRICAL BALLADS." 
 
 [Note.— In succeeding Editions, when the Collection was much enlarged and diversified, this Preface was trans- 
 ferred to the end of the Volumes as having little of a special application to their contents.] 
 
 The first Volume of these Poems has already 
 been submitted to general perusal. It was published, 
 as an experiment, 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 plea- 
 sure 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 differed 
 from my expectation in this only, that a greater 
 number have been pleased 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 
 realised, a class of Poetry would be produced, well 
 adapted to interest mankind permanently, and not 
 unimportant in the quality, and in the multiplicity 
 
 of its moral relations: and on this account they 
 have advised me to prefix a systematic defence of 
 the theory upon which the Poems were written. 
 But I was unwilling to undertake the task, knowing 
 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 appro- 
 bation of these particular Poems : and I was still 
 more unwilling to undertake the task, because, 
 adequately to display the opinions, and fully to 
 enforce the arguments, would require a space 
 wholly disproportionate to a preface. For, to treat 
 the subject with the clearness and coherence of 
 which it is 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 
 revolutions, not of literature alone, but likewise of 
 society itself. I have therefore altogether declined 
 to enter regularly upon this defence ; yet I am sen- 
 sible, that there would be something like impro- 
 
650 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 priety 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 certain known habits of association ; that 
 he not only thus apprises the Reader that certain 
 classes of ideas and expressions will be found in 
 his book, but that others will be carefully excluded. 
 This exponent or symbol held forth by metrical 
 language must in different eras 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 Shakspeare 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 it will undoubtedly 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 strangeness 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 
 therefore the reader will not censure me for 
 attempting 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 
 unpleasant feeling of disappointment, and that I 
 myself may be protected from one of the most 
 dishonourable accusations 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, proposed in these 
 Poems was to choose incidents and situations from 
 common life, and to i-elateor describe them, through- 
 out, 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 aspect ; 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. Humble 
 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 condition of life our elementary feelings co- 
 exist in a state of greater simplicity, and, con- 
 sequently, may be more accurately contemplated, 
 and more forcibly communicated ; because the 
 manners of rural life germinate from those ele- 
 mentary 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 has been adopted 
 (purified indeed from what appear to be its real 
 defects, from all lasting and rational causes of 
 dislike or disgust) because such men hourly com- 
 municate with the best objects from which the best 
 part of language is originally derived ; and because, 
 from their rank in society and the sameness and 
 narrow circle of their intercourse, being less under 
 the influence of social vanity, they convey their 
 feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated 
 expressions. Accordingly, such a language, arising 
 out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is 
 a more permanent, and a far more philosophical 
 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 to the present 
 outcry against the triviality and meanness, both of 
 thought and language, which some of my con- 
 temporaries have occasionally introduced into their 
 metrical compositions; and I acknowledge that 
 this defect, where it exists, is more dishonourable 
 to the Writer's own character than false refine- 
 ment or arbitrary 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 
 
 * It is worth while here to observe, that the affecting 
 parts of Chaucer are almost always expressed in language 
 pure and universally intelligible even to this day. 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 651 
 
 found distinguished at least by one mark of differ- 
 ence, that each of them has a worthy purpose. 
 Not that I always began to write with a distinct 
 purpose formally conceived ; but habits of medi- 
 tation have, I trust, so prompted and regulated my 
 feelings, that my descriptions of such objects as 
 strongly excite those feelings, will be found to carry 
 along with them a purpose. If this opinion be 
 erroneous, I can have little right to the name of a 
 Poet. For all good poetry is the spontaneous 
 overflow of powerful feelings : and though this be 
 true, Poems to which any value can be attached 
 were never produced on any variety of subjects 
 but by a man who, being possessed of more than 
 usual organic sensibility, had also thought long and 
 deeply. For our continued influxes of feeling are 
 modified and directed by our thoughts, which are 
 indeed the representatives of all our past feelings ; 
 and, as by contemplating the relation of these 
 general representatives to each other, we discover 
 what is really important to men, so, by the repeti- 
 tion 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 describe objects, and utter 
 sentiments, of such a nature, and in such connection 
 with each other, that the understanding of the 
 Reader must necessarily be in some degree en- 
 lightened, and his affections strengthened and 
 purified. 
 
 It has been said that each of these poems has a 
 purpose. Another circumstance must be mentioned 
 which distinguishes these Poems from the popular 
 Poetry of the day ; it is this, that the feeling there- 
 in developed gives importance to the action and 
 situation, and not the action and situation to the 
 feeling. 
 
 A sense of false modesty shall not prevent me 
 from asserting, that the Reader's attention is 
 pointed 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 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 
 Shakspeare 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 degrading thirst 
 after outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed 
 to have spoken of the feeble endeavour made in 
 these volumes to counteract it; and, reflecting 
 upon the magnitude of the general evil, I should be 
 oppressed with no dishonourable 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 
 permanent objects that act upon it, which are 
 equally inherent and indestructible ; and were 
 there not added to this impression a belief, that the 
 time is approaching when the evil will be system- 
 atically 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 apprise him of a few circumstances 
 relating to their style, in order, among other reasons, 
 that he may not censure me for not having 
 performed what I never attempted. The Reader 
 will find that personifications of abstract ideas 
 rarely occur in these volumes ; and are utterly 
 rejected, as an ordinary device to elevate the style, 
 and raise it above prose. My purpose was to 
 imitate, and, as far as is possible, to adopt the very 
 language of men ; and assuredly such personifica- 
 tions 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 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 the Reader in the company of flesh and blood, 
 
652 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 persuaded that by so doing I shall interest him. 
 Others who pursue a different track will interest 
 him likewise ; I do not interfere with their claim, 
 but wish to prefer a claim of my own. There will 
 also be found in these volumes little of what is 
 usually called poetic diction ; as much pains has 
 been taken to avoid it as is ordinarily taken to 
 produce it; this has been 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. 
 Without being culpably particular, I do not know 
 how to give my Reader a more exact notion of 
 the style in which it was my wish and intention 
 to write, than by informing him that I have at all 
 times endeavoured to look steadily at my subject; 
 consequently, there is I hope in these Poems little 
 falsehood of description, and my ideas are expressed 
 in language fitted to their respective importance. 
 Something must have been gained by this practice, 
 as it is friendly to one property of all good poetry, 
 namely, good sense : but it has necessarily cut me 
 off from a large portion of phrases and figures of 
 speech which from 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 profession. Now these men 
 would establish a canon of criticism which the 
 Reader will conclude he must utterly reject, if he 
 wishes to be pleased with these volumes. And it 
 would be a most easy task to prove to him, that 
 not only the language of a large portion of every 
 good poem, even of the most elevated character, 
 must necessarily, except with reference to the 
 metre, in no respect differ from that of good prose, 
 but likewise that some of the most interesting parts 
 of the best poems will be found to be strictly the 
 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. 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 j 
 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 more 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. 
 
 By the foregoing quotation it has been shown 
 that the language of Prose may yet be well 
 adapted to Poetry ; and it was previously asserted, 
 that a large portion of the language of every 
 good poem can in no respect differ from that of 
 good Prose. We will go further. It may be 
 safely affirmed, that there neither is, nor can be, 
 any essential difference between the language of 
 prose and metrical composition. We are fond 
 of tracing the resemblance between Poetry and 
 Painting, and, accordingly, we call them Sisters : 
 but where shall we find bonds of connection 
 sufficiently strict to typify the affinity betwixt 
 metrical and prose composition? They both 
 speak by and to the same organs ; the bodies 
 in which both of them are clothed may be said 
 to be of the same substance, their affections are 
 kindred, and almost identical, not necessarily 
 differing even in degree ; Poetry* sheds no tears 
 
 * 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 contradistinction of 
 Poetry and Prose, instead of the more philosophical ono of 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c 
 
 653 
 
 'such as Angels weep,' but natural and human 
 tears ; she can boast of no celestial ichor that 
 distinguishes hei 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 distinc- 
 tion which overturns what has just been said 
 on the strict affinity of metrical language with 
 that of prose, and paves the way for other arti- 
 ficial distinctions which the mind voluntarily 
 admits, I answer that the language of such 
 Poetry as is here recommended 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 dissimilitude will be 
 produced altogether sufficient for the gratification 
 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 elevation 
 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 forbear to speak of an incongruity 
 which would shock the intelligent Reader, should 
 the Poet interweave any foreign splendour 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 now presented to the Reader must 
 depend entirely on just notions upon this sub- 
 ject, and, as it is in itself of high importance to 
 our taste and moral feelings, I cannot content 
 
 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 he scarcely possible 
 to avoid them, even were it desirable. 
 
 myself with these detached remarks. And if, 
 in what I am about to say, it shall appear to 
 some that my labour is unnecessary, and that 
 I am like a man fighting a battle without enemies, 
 such persons may be reminded, that, whatever 
 be the language outwardly holden by men, a 
 practical faith in the opinions which I am wish- 
 ing to establish is almost unknown. If my con- 
 clusions 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, let me 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, endowed with more 
 lively sensibility, more enthusiasm 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 disposition to be affected more than 
 other men by absent things as if they were present ; 
 an ability of conjuring up in himself passions, 
 which are indeed far from being the same as 
 those produced by real events, yet (especially in 
 those parts of the general sympathy which are 
 pleasing and delightful) do more nearly 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 them- 
 selves : — whence, and from practice, he has ac- 
 quired 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 that the language which it will 
 suggest to him, must often, in liveliness and truth, 
 fall short of that which is uttered by men in real 
 life, under the actual pressure of those passions, 
 
654 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 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 
 employment is in some degree mechanical, com- 
 pared with the freedom and power of real and sub- 
 stantial 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 principle of selection which has been 
 already insisted upon. He will depend upon this 
 for removing what would otherwise be painful or 
 disgusting in the passion ; he will feel that there is 
 no necessity to trick out or to elevate nature : and, 
 the more industriously he applies this principle, 
 the deeper will be his faith that no words, which 
 his fancy or imagination can suggest, will be to be 
 compared with those which are the emanations of 
 reality and truth. 
 
 But it may be said by those who do not object 
 to the general spirit of these remarks, that, as it is 
 impossible for the Poet to produce upon all occa- 
 sions 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 does not scruple to 
 substitute excellencies 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 des- 
 pair. 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, has 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 compe- 
 tence and confidence 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 way of the fidelity of 
 the Biographer and Historian, and of their conse- 
 quent utility, are incalculably greater than those 
 which are to be encountered by the Poet who 
 comprehends the dignity of his art. The Poet 
 writes under one restriction only, namely, 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. Except 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 acknow- 
 ledgment of the beauty of the universe, an acknow- 
 ledgment the more sincere, because not formal, 
 but indirect ; it is a task fight 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 sympathise 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 prin- 
 ciples 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 disgusts they may have had to 
 struggle with, know and feel this. However pain- 
 ful may be the objects with which the Anatomist's 
 knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge 
 is pleasure ; and where he has no pleasure he has 
 no knowledge. What then does the Poet ? He 
 considers man and the 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 immediate knowledge, with certain con- 
 victions, intuitions, and deductions, which from 
 habit acquire the quality of intuitions ; he considers 
 him as looking upon this complex scene of ideas 
 and sensations, and finding every where objects 
 that immediately excite in him sympathies which, 
 from the necessities of his nature, are accompanied 
 by an overbalance of enjoyment. 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 655 
 
 To this knowledge which all men carry about 
 with them, and to these sympathies in which, with- 
 out 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 properties of nature. And thus 
 the Poet, prompted 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 
 personal 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 and unknown 
 benefactor ; he cherishes and loves it in his soli- 
 tude : 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 know- 
 ledge ; it is the impassioned expression which is 
 in the countenance of all Science. Emphatically 
 may it be said of the Poet, as Shakspeare hath 
 said of man, ' that he looks before and after. ' He 
 is the rock of defence for human nature; an 
 upholder and preserver, carrying every where 
 with him relationship and love. In spite of differ- 
 ence 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 every 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 and 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, and in the impressions which we habit- 
 ually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than 
 at present ; 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 familiar to us, and the relations 
 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 familiarised 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 
 endeavour to excite admiration of himself by arts, 
 the necessity of which must manifestly depend upon 
 the assumed meanness of his subject. 
 
 What has been thus far said applies to Poetry 
 .in general ; but especially to those parts of com- 
 position where the Poet speaks through the mouths 
 of his characters ; and upon this point it appears 
 to authorise the conclusion that there are few 
 persons of good sense, who would not allow that 
 the dramatic parts of composition are defective, in 
 proportion as they deviate from the real language 
 of 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 composi- 
 tion 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 the Reader to the 
 description before given of a Poet. Among the 
 qualities there 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 was said is, that the Poet is chiefly dis- 
 tinguished 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 filings of men. And with what are they 
 
656 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 connected 2 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 sunshine, with the revolutions of the 
 seasons, with cold and heat, with loss of friends 
 and kindred, with injuries and resentments, grati- 
 tude and hope, with fear and sorrow. These, and 
 the like, are the sensations and objects which the 
 Poet describes, as they are the sensations of other 
 men, and the objects which interest them. The 
 Poet thinks and feels in the spirit of human passions. 
 How, then, can his language differ in any material 
 degree from that of all other men who feel vividly 
 and see clearly \ It might be proved that it is im- 
 possible. 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 subsists upon ignorance, and that 
 pleasure which arises from hearing what we do not 
 understand, the Poet must descend from this 
 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, compo- 
 sing 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 may be 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 has been 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 interesting of their occupations 
 and the entire world of nature before me — to supply 
 endless combinations of forms and imagery. Now, 
 supposing for a moment that whatever is interest- 
 ing in these objects may be as vividly described in 
 prose, why should I be condemned for attempting 
 to superadd to such description, the charm which, 
 by the consent of all nations, is acknowledged to 
 exist in metrical language ? To this, by such as 
 are yet unconvinced, 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 
 thereby be 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 certain appropriate 
 colours of style in order to the accomplishment 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 Volumes, 
 have been almost sufficient to observe, that poems 
 are extant, written upon more humble subjects, and 
 in a still more naked and simple style, which 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 various causes might be pointed out why, 
 when the style is manly, and the subject of some 
 importance, words metrically arranged will long 
 continue to impart such a pleasure to mankind as 
 he who proves the extent of that pleasure will be 
 desirous to impart. The end of Poetry is to pro- 
 duce excitement in co-existence with an over- 
 balance of pleasure ; but, 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. If the 
 words, however, by which this excitement is pro- 
 duced be in themselves powerful, or the images 
 and feelings have an undue proportion of pain 
 connected with them, there is some danger that 
 the excitement may be carried beyond its, proper 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 657 
 
 bounds. Now the co-presence of something regu- 
 lar, something to which the mind has been accus- 
 tomed in various moods and in a less excited state, 
 cannot but have great efficacy in tempering and 
 restraining the passion by an intertexture of 
 ordinary feeling, and of feehng not strictly and 
 necessarily connected with the passion. This is 
 unquestionably true ; and hence, though the 
 opinion will at first appear paradoxical, from the 
 tendency of metre to divest language, in a certain 
 degree, of its reality, and thus to throw a sort of 
 half-consciousness of 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 Gamester ; while 
 Shakspeare's writings, in the most pathetic 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 im- 
 pulses 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 excitement, 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 particular 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 here maintained, it would have been 
 my duty to develope the various causes upon 
 which the pleasure 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 ; namely, the 
 pleasure which the mind derives from the percep- 
 tion of similitude in dissimilitude. This principle 
 is the great spring of the activity of our minds, 
 and their chief feeder. From this principle the 
 direction of the sexual appetite, and all the passions 
 connected with it, take their origin : it is the life 
 of our ordinary conversation; and upon the 
 accuracy with which similitude in dissimilitude, 
 and dissimilitude in similitude are perceived, 
 depend our taste and our moral feelings. It 
 would not be a useless employment to apply this 
 principle to the consideration of metre, and to 
 show that metre is hence enabled to afford much 
 pleasure, and to point out in what manner that 
 pleasure is produced. 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 over- 
 flow of powerful feelings : it takes its origin from 
 emotiom recollected in tranquillity : the emotion 
 is contemplated till, by a species of re-action, the 
 tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, 
 kindred to that which was before the subject of 
 contemplation, is gradually produced, and does 
 itself actually exist in the mind. In this mood 
 successful composition generally begins, and in a 
 mood similar to this it is carried on ; but the emo- 
 tion, of whatever kind, and in whatever degree, 
 from various causes, is qualified by various 
 pleasures, so that in describing any passions what- 
 soever, which are voluntarily described, the mind 
 will, upon the whole, be in a state of enjoyment. 
 If Nature be thus cautious to preserve in a state 
 of enjoyment a being so employed, the Poet ought 
 to profit by the lesson held forth to him, and ought 
 especially to take care, that, whatever 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 difficulty overcome, and the 
 blind association of pleasure which has been pre- 
 viously received from works of rhyme or metre of 
 the same or similar construction, an indistinct per- 
 ception perpetually renewed of language closely 
 resembling that of real life, and yet, in the cir- 
 cumstance of metre, differing from it so widely — all 
 these imperceptibly make up a complex feeling of 
 delight, which is of the most important use in 
 tempering the painful feeling always found inter- 
 mingled with powerful descriptions of the deeper 
 passions. This effect is always produced in pathetic 
 and impassioned poetry ; while, in lighter compo- 
 
658 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 sitions, the ease and gracefulness with which the 
 Poet manages his numbers are themselves con- 
 fessedly a principal source of the gratification of 
 the Reader. All that it is necessary to say, how- 
 ever, upon this subject, may be effected by affirm- 
 ing, what few persons will deny, that, of two 
 descriptions, either of passions, manners, or cha- 
 racters, each of them equally well executed, the 
 one in prose and the other in verse, the verse will 
 be read a hundred times where the prose is read 
 once. 
 
 Having thus explained a few of my reasons for 
 writing in verse, and why I have chosen subjects 
 from common 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 subject of 
 general interest ; and for this reason a few words 
 shall be added with reference solely to these par- 
 ticular poems, and to some defects which will pro- 
 bably be found hi them. I am sensible that my 
 associations must have sometimes been particular 
 instead of general, and that, consequently, giving 
 to things a false importance, I may have some- 
 times written upon unworthy subjects ; but I am 
 less apprehensive on this account, than that my 
 language may frequently 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 
 ludicrous, may be given to my Readers by ex- 
 pressions which appeared to me tender and pathe- 
 tic. Such faulty expressions, were I convinced they 
 were faulty at present, and that they must neces- 
 sarily 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 individuals, 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 
 set them aside in one instance, he may be induced 
 to repeat this act till his mind shall lose all con- 
 fidence in itself, and become utterly debilitated. 
 To this it may be added, that the critic 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 of most readers, that it is not probable 
 they 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 ideas to each other ; and, 
 above all, since they are so much less interested in 
 the subject, they may decide lightly and carelessly. 
 Long as the Reader has been detained, 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 my head 
 And walked into the Strand, 
 And there I met another man 
 Whose hat was in his hand.' 
 
 Immediately under these lines let us place one 
 of the most justly-admired stanzas of the " Bales 
 in the Wood." 
 
 ' These pretty Babes 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 
 unimpassioned 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 admirable, and the 
 other as a fair example of the superlatively con- 
 temptible. Whence arises this difference? Not 
 from 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 interesting in itself, nor can 
 lead to any thing 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 your- 
 self 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 ? 
 
 One request I must 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 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 659 
 
 people it will appear mean or ludicrous ! This mode 
 of criticism, so destructive of all sound unadulterated 
 judgment, is almost universal : let the Reader then 
 abide, independently, by his own feelings, and, if 
 he finds himself affected, let him not suffer such 
 conjectures to interfere with his pleasure. 
 
 If an Author, by any single composition, has im- 
 pressed 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 ill or 
 absurdly ; and further, to give him so much credit 
 for this one composition as may induce us to re- 
 view 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 Reynolds 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 inex- 
 perienced 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 necessarily will be so. 
 
 Nothing would, I know, have so effectually con- 
 tributed 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 essentially dif- 
 ferent from that which I have here endeavoured 
 to recommend : for the Reader will say that he 
 has been pleased by such composition ; and what 
 more can be done for him? The power of any 
 art is limited ; and he will suspect, that, if it be 
 proposed to furnish him with new friends, that 
 
 can be only upon condition of his abandoning his 
 old friends. Besides, as I 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 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 accustomed to be pleased. There is in these 
 feelings enough to resist a host of arguments ; 
 and I should be the less able to combat them 
 successfully, as I am willing to allow, that, in order 
 entirely to enjoy the Poetry which I am recom- 
 mending, 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, many obstacles might have 
 been removed, and the Reader assisted in per- 
 ceiving that the powers of language are not so 
 limited as he may suppose ; and that it is possible 
 for poetry to give other enjoyments, of a purer, 
 more lasting, and more exquisite nature. This 
 part of the subj ect has not been altogether neglected, 
 but it has not been so much 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, as to offer reasons for pre- 
 suming, that if my purpose were fulfilled, a species 
 of poetry would be produced, which is genuine 
 poetry ; in its nature well adapted to interest man- 
 kind 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 per- 
 ceive the object which I had in view: he will 
 determine how far it has been attained ; 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. 
 
 u u 2 
 
660 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 See page 656 — ' by what is usually called Poetic Diction. 
 
 Perhaps, as I have no right to expect that 
 attentive perusal, without which, confined, as I 
 have been, to the narrow limits of a preface, my 
 meaning cannot be thoroughly understood, I am 
 anxious to give an exact notion of the sense in 
 which the phrase poetic diction has been used ; and 
 for this purpose, a few words shall here be added, 
 concerning the origin and characteristics of the phra- 
 seology, which I have condemned under that name. 
 
 The earliest poets of all nations generally wrote 
 from passion excited 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 ambitious of the 
 fame of Poets, perceiving the influence of such 
 language, and desirous of producing the same 
 effect without being animated by the same passion, 
 set themselves to a mechanical adoption of these 
 figures of speech, and made use of them, sometimes 
 with propriety, but much more frequently applied 
 them to feelings and thoughts 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 language of 
 passion he had been in a perturbed and unusual 
 state of mind also : in both cases he was willing 
 that his common 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 emotion was in both cases delight- 
 ful, 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 admiration ; and Poets, 
 it is probable, who had before contented themselves 
 for the most part with misapplying only expressions 
 which at first had been dictated by real passion, 
 
 carried the abuse still further, and introduced 
 phrases composed apparently in the spirit of the ori- 
 ginal figurative language of passion, yet altogether of 
 their own invention, and characterised by various de- 
 grees of wanton deviation from good sense and nature. 
 It is indeed true, that the language of the 
 earliest Poets was felt to differ 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 described, or which he had heard uttered 
 by those around him. To this language it is pro- 
 bable that metre of some sort or other was early 
 superadded. This separated the genuine language 
 of Poetry 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 life. This was 
 the great temptation to all the corruptions which 
 have followed : under the protection of this feel- 
 ing 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 conversation ; 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 disregarded by their successors ; they found 
 that they could please by easier means : they be- 
 came proud of modes of expression which they 
 themselves had invented, and which were uttered 
 only by themselves. In process of time metre 
 became a symbol or promise of this unusual lan- 
 guage, 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 compositions, 
 and the true and the false were inseparably 
 interwoven until, the taste of men becoming gra- 
 dually perverted, this language was received as 
 a natural language: and at length, by the in- 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 661 
 
 fluence of books upon men, did to a certain 
 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 corrupt, thrusting out of 
 sight the plain humanities of nature by a motley 
 masquerade of tricks, quaintnesses, hieroglyphics, 
 and enigmas. 
 
 It would not be uninteresting to point out the 
 causes of the pleasure given by this extravagant 
 and absurd diction. 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 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 ima- 
 gines that he is balked of a peculiar enjoyment 
 which poetry can and ought to bestow. 
 
 The sonnet quoted from Gray, in the Preface, 
 except the lines printed in Italics, consists of little 
 else but this diction, though not of the worst kind ; 
 and indeed, if one may be permitted to say so, it is 
 far too common in the best writers both ancient 
 and modern. Perhaps in no way, by positive ex- 
 ample, could more easily be given a notion of what 
 I mean by the phrase poetic diction than by re- 
 ferring to a comparison between the metrical 
 paraphrase which we have of passages in the Old 
 and New Testament, 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. 1st Corinthians, chap. xiii. 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, no 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? 
 "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, lite an ambush'd 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, 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 thy poverty come as one that travelleth, and 
 thy want as an armed man.' Proverbs, chap. vi. 
 
 One more quotation, and I have done. It is 
 from Cowper's Verses supposed to be written by 
 Alexander Selkirk : — 
 
 ' Religion ! what treasure untold 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 More precious than silver and gold, 
 Or all that this earth can afford. 
 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.' 
 
 This passage is quoted as an instance of three 
 different styles of composition. The first four 
 lines are poorly expressed ; some Critics would call 
 the language prosaic ; the fact is, it would be bad 
 prose, so bad, that it is scarcely worse in metre. 
 The epithet e 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 sighed at the sound,' &c, 
 are, in my opinion, an instance of the language of 
 passion wrested from its proper use, and, from the 
 mere circumstance 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 language so naturally connected 
 with metre. The beauty of this stanza tempts me 
 to conclude with a principle which ought never to 
 be lost sight of, and which has been my chief 
 
662 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 guide in all I have said, — namely, that in works 
 of imagination and sentiment, for of these only 
 have I been treating, in proportion as ideas and 
 feelings are valuable, whether the composition be 
 in prose or in verse, they require and exact one 
 
 and the same language. Metre is but adventitious 
 to composition, and the phraseology for which 
 that passport is necessary, even where it may be 
 graceful at all, will be little valued by the judi- 
 cious. 
 
 ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 With the young of both sexes, Poetry is, like 
 love, a passion ; but, for much the greater part of 
 those who have been proud of its power over their 
 minds, a necessity soon arises of breaking the 
 pleasing bondage; or it relaxes of itself; — the 
 thoughts being occupied in domestic cares, or the 
 time engrossed by business. Poetry then becomes 
 only an occasional recreation ; while to those whose 
 existence passes away in a course of fashionable 
 pleasure, it is a species of luxurious amusement. 
 In middle and declining age, a scattered number 
 of serious persons resort to poetry, as to religion, 
 for a protection against the pressure of trivial em- 
 ployments, and as a consolation for the afflictions 
 of life. And, lastly, there are many, who, having 
 been enamoured of this art in their youth, have 
 found leisure, after youth was spent, to cultivate 
 general literature ; in which poetry has continued 
 to be comprehended as a study. 
 
 Into the above classes the Readers of poetry 
 may be divided ; Critics abound in them all ; but 
 from the last only can opinions be collected of 
 absolute value, and worthy to be depended upon, 
 as prophetic of the destiny of a new work. The 
 young, who in nothing can escape delusion, are 
 especially subject to it in their intercourse with 
 Poetry. The cause, not so obvious as the fact is 
 unquestionable, is the same as that from which 
 erroneous judgments in this art, in the minds of 
 men of all ages, chiefly proceed ; but upon Youth 
 it operates with peculiar force. The appropriate 
 business of poetry, (which, nevertheless, if genuine, 
 is as permanent as pure science,) her appropriate 
 employment, her privilege and her duty, is to treat 
 of things not as they are, but as they appear; not 
 as they exist in themselves, but as they seem to 
 exist to the senses, and to the passions. What a 
 world of delusion does this acknowledged obligation 
 prepare for the inexperienced ! what temptations 
 to go astray are here held forth for them whose 
 thoughts have been little disciplined by the under- 
 
 standing, and whose feelings revolt from the sway 
 of reason ! — When a juvenile Reader is in the 
 height of his rapture with some vicious passage, 
 should experience throw in doubts, or common- 
 sense suggest suspicions, a lurking consciousness 
 that the realities of the Muse are but shows, and 
 that her liveliest excitements are raised by tran- 
 sient shocks of conflicting feeling and successive 
 assemblages of contradictory thoughts — is ever at 
 hand to justify extravagance, and to sanction 
 absurdity. But, it may be asked, as these illusions 
 are unavoidable, and, no doubt, eminently useful 
 to the mind as a process, what good can be gained 
 by making observations, the tendency of which is 
 to diminish the confidence of youth in its feelings, 
 and thus to abridge its innocent and even profit- 
 able pleasures \ The reproach implied in the 
 question could not be warded off, if Youth were 
 incapable of being delighted with what is truly 
 excellent ; or, if these errors always terminated of 
 themselves in due season. But, with the majority, 
 though their force be abated, they continue through 
 life. Moreover, the fire of youth is too vivacious 
 an element to be extinguished or damped by a 
 philosophical remark ; and, while there is no dan- 
 ger that what has been said will be injurious or 
 painful to the ardent and the confident, it may 
 prove beneficial to those who, being enthusiastic, 
 are, at the same time, modest and ingenuous. The 
 intimation may unite with their own misgivings to 
 regulate their sensibility, and to bring in, sooner 
 than it would otherwise have arrived, a more dis- 
 creet and sound judgment. 
 
 If it should excite wonder that men of ability, in 
 later life, whose understandings have been rendered 
 acute by practice in affairs, should be so easily and 
 so far imposed upon when they happen to take up 
 a new work in verse, this appears to be the cause ; 
 — that, having discontinued their attention to poetry, 
 whatever progress may have been made in other 
 departments of knowledge, they have not, as to 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 663 
 
 this art, advanced in true discernment beyond the 
 age of youth. If, then, a new poem fall in their 
 way, whose attractions are of that kind which 
 would have enraptured them during the heat of 
 youth, the judgment not being improved to a 
 degree that they shall be disgusted, they are 
 dazzled; and prize and cherish the faults for 
 having had power to make the present time vanish 
 before them, and to throw the mind back, as by 
 enchantment, into the happiest season of life. As 
 they read, powers seem to be revived, passions are 
 regenerated, and pleasures restored. The Book 
 was probably taken up after an escape from the 
 burden of business, and with a wish to forget the 
 world, and all its vexations and anxieties. Having 
 obtained this wish, and so much more, it is natural 
 that they should make report as they have felt. 
 
 If Men of mature age, through want of practice, 
 be thus easily beguiled into admiration of absur- 
 dities, extravagances, and misplaced ornaments, 
 thinking it proper that their understandings should 
 enjoy a holiday, while they are unbending their 
 minds with verse, it may be expected that such 
 Readers will resemble their former selves also in 
 strength of prejudice, and an inaptitude to be 
 moved by the unostentatious beauties of a pure 
 style. In the higher poetry, an enlightened Critic 
 chiefly looks for a reflection of the wisdom of the 
 heart and the grandeur of the imagination. 
 Wherever these appear, simplicity accompanies 
 them ; Magnificence herself, when legitimate, 
 depending upon a simplicity of her own, to regulate 
 her ornaments. But it is a well-known property 
 of human nature, that our estimates are ever 
 governed by comparisons, of which we are conscious 
 with various degrees of distinctness. Is it not, 
 then, inevitable (confining these observations to the 
 effects of style merely) that an eye, accustomed to 
 the glaring hues of diction by which such Readers 
 are caught and excited, will for the most part be 
 rather repelled than attracted by an original Work, 
 the colouring of which is disposed according to a 
 pure and refined scheme of harmony \ It is in the 
 fine arts as in the affairs of life, no man can serve 
 (i. e. obey with zeal and fidelity) two Masters. 
 
 As Poetry is most just to its own divine origin 
 when it administers the comforts and breathes the 
 spirit of religion, they who have learned to perceive 
 this truth, and who betake themselves to reading 
 verse for sacred purposes, must be preserved from 
 numerous illusions to which the two Classes of 
 Readers, whom we have been considering, are 
 liable. But, as the mind grows serious from the 
 weight of life, the range of its passions is contracted 
 
 accordingly; and its sympathies become so ex- 
 clusive, that many species of high excellence 
 wholly escape, or but languidly excite, its notice. 
 Besides, men who read from religious or moral 
 inclinations, even when the subject is of that kind 
 which they approve, are beset with misconceptions 
 and mistakes peculiar to themselves. Attaching 
 so much importance to the truths which interest 
 them, they are prone to over-rate the Authors by 
 whom those truths are expressed and enforced. 
 They come prepared to impart so much passion to 
 the Poet's language, that they remain unconscious 
 how little, in fact, they receive from it. And, on 
 the other hand, religious faith is to him who holds 
 it so momentous a thing, and error appears to be 
 attended with such tremendous consequences, that, 
 if opinions touching upon religion occur which the 
 Reader condemns, he not only cannot sympathise 
 with them, however animated the expression, but 
 there is, for the most part, an end put to all satis- 
 faction and enjoyment. Love, if it before existed, 
 is converted into dislike ; and the heart of the 
 Reader is set against the Author and his book. — 
 To these excesses, they, who from their professions 
 ought to be the most guarded against them, are 
 perhaps the most liable ; I mean those sects whose 
 religion, being from the calculating understanding, 
 is cold and formal. For when Christianity, the 
 religion of humility, is founded upon the proudest 
 faculty of our nature, what can be expected but 
 contradictions \ Accordingly, believers of this cast 
 are at one time contemptuous ; at another, being 
 troubled, as they are and must be, with inward 
 misgivings, they are jealous and suspicious ; — and 
 at all seasons, they are under temptation to supply 
 by the heat with which they defend their tenets, 
 the animation which is wanting to the constitution 
 of the religion itself. 
 
 Faith was given to man that his affections, 
 detached from the treasures of time, might be 
 inclined to settle upon those of eternity: — the 
 elevation of his nature, which this habit produces 
 on earth, being to him a presumptive evidence of 
 a future state of existence ; and giving him a title 
 to partake of its holiness. The religious man 
 values what he sees chiefly as an 'imperfect 
 shadowing forth' of what he is incapable of seeing. 
 The concerns of religion refer to indefinite objects, 
 and are too weighty for the mind to support them 
 without relieving itself by resting a great part of 
 the burthen upon words and symbols. The com- 
 merce between Man and his Maker cannot be 
 carried on but by a process where much is repre- 
 sented in little, and the Infinite Being accommo- 
 
fi64 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 dates himself to a finite capacity. In all this may 
 be perceived the affinity between religion and 
 poetry ; between religion — making up the deficien- 
 cies of reason by faith ; and poetry — passionate for 
 the instruction of reason; between religion — whose 
 element is infinitude, and whose ultimate trust is 
 the supreme of things, submitting herself to circum- 
 scription, and reconciled to substitutions; and 
 poetry— ethereal and transcendent, yet incapable 
 to sustain her existence without sensuous incarna- 
 tion. In this community of nature may be per- 
 ceived also the lurking incitements of kindred 
 error ; — so that we shall find that no poetry has 
 been more subject to distortion, than that species, 
 the argument and scope of which is religious ; and 
 no lovers of the art have gone farther astray than 
 the pious and the devout. 
 
 Whither then shall we turn for that union of 
 qualifications which must necessarily exist before 
 the decisions of a critic can be of absolute value 1 
 For a mind at once poetical and philosophical ; for 
 a critic whose affections are as free and kindly as 
 the spirit of sqciety, and whose understanding is 
 severe as that of dispassionate government ? Where 
 are we to look for that initiatory composure of 
 mind which no selfishness can disturb ? For a 
 natural sensibility that has been tutored into 
 correctness without losing anything of its quick- 
 ness ; and for active faculties, capable of answer- 
 ing the demands which an Author of original 
 imagination shall make upon them, associated 
 with a judgment that cannot be duped into 
 admiration by aught that is unworthy of it? — 
 among those and those only, who, never having 
 suffered their youthful love of poetry to remit 
 much of its force, have applied to the considera- 
 tion of the laws of this art the best power of their 
 understandings. At the same time it must be 
 observed — that, as this Class comprehends the 
 only judgments which are trust-worthy, so does it 
 include the most erroneous and perverse. For to 
 be mis-taught is worse than to be untaught ; and 
 no perverseness equals that which is supported by 
 system, no errors are so difficult to root out as 
 those which the understanding has pledged its 
 credit to uphold. In this Class are contained 
 censors, who, if they be pleased with what is good, 
 are pleased with it only by imperfect glimpses, and 
 upon false principles ; who, should they generalise 
 rightly, to a certain point, are sure to suffer for it 
 in the end ; who, if they stumble upon a sound 
 rule, are fettered by misapplying it, or by straining 
 it too far ; being incapable of perceiving when it 
 ought to yield to one of higher order. In it are 
 
 found critics too petulant to be passive to a genuine 
 poet, and too feeble to grapple with him ; men, 
 who take upon them to report of the course which 
 he holds whom they are utterly unable to accom- 
 pany, — confounded if he turn quick upon the wing, 
 dismayed if he soar steadily ' into the region ;' — 
 men of palsied imaginations and indurated hearts ; 
 in whose minds all healthy action is languid, who 
 therefore feed as the many direct them, or, with 
 the many, are greedy after vicious provocatives ; 
 — judges, whose censure is auspicious, and whose 
 praise ominous ! In this class meet together the 
 two extremes of best and worst. 
 
 The observations presented in the foregoing 
 series are of too ungracious a nature to have been 
 made without reluctance ; and, were it only on 
 this account, I would invite the reader to try them 
 by the test of comprehensive experience. If the 
 number of judges who can be confidently relied 
 upon be in reality so small, it ought to follow that 
 partial notice only, or neglect, perhaps long con- 
 tinued, or attention wholly inadequate to their 
 merits — must have been the fate of most works in 
 the higher departments of poetry ; and that, on 
 the other hand, numerous productions have blazed 
 into popularity, and have passed away, leaving 
 scarcely a trace behind them : it will be further 
 found, that when Authors shall have at length raised 
 themselves into general admiration and maintained 
 their ground, errors and prejudices have prevailed 
 concerning their genius and their works, which the 
 few who are conscious of those errors and prejudices 
 would deplore ; if they were not recompensed by 
 perceiving that there are select Spirits for whom 
 it is ordained that their fame shall be in the 
 world an existence like that of Virtue, which 
 owes its being to the struggles it makes, and its 
 vigour to the enemies whom it provokes ; — a viva- 
 cious quality, ever doomed to meet with opposition, 
 and still triumphing over it ; and, from the nature 
 of its dominion, incapable of being brought to the 
 sad conclusion of Alexander, when he wept that 
 there were no more worlds for him to conquer. 
 
 Let us take a hasty retrospect of the poetical 
 literature of this Country for the greater part of 
 the last two centuries, and see if the facts support 
 these inferences. 
 
 Who is there that now reads the "Creation" 
 of Dubartas ? Yet all Europe once resounded 
 with his praise ; he was caressed by kings ; and, 
 when his Poem was translated into our language, 
 the Faery Queen faded before it. The name of 
 Spenser, whose genius is of a higher order than 
 even that of Ariosto, is at this day scarcely 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 665 
 
 known beyond the limits of the British Isles. 
 And if the value of his works is to be esti- 
 mated from the attention now paid to them by 
 his countrymen, compared with that which they 
 bestow on those of some other writers, it must 
 be pronounced small indeed. 
 
 'The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors 
 And poets sage ' — 
 
 are his own words ; but his wisdom has, in this 
 particular, been his worst enemy : while its 
 opposite, whether in the shape of folly or madness, 
 has been their best friend. But he was a great 
 power, and bears a high name : the laurel has 
 been awarded to him. 
 
 A dramatic Author, if he write for the stage, 
 must adapt himself to the taste of the audience, or 
 they will not endure him ; accordingly the mighty 
 genius of Shakspeare was listened to. The people 
 were delighted : but I am not sufficiently versed 
 in stage antiquities to determine whether they did 
 not flock as eagerly to the representation of many 
 pieces of contemporary Authors, wholly undeserv- 
 ing to appear upon the same boards. Had there 
 been a formal contest for superiority among 
 dramatic writers, that Shakspeare, like his pre- 
 decessors Sophocles and Euripides, would have 
 often been subject to the mortification of seeing 
 the prize adjudged to sorry competitors, becomes 
 too probable, when we reflect that the admirers of 
 Settle and Shadwell were, in a later age, as nume- 
 rous, and reckoned as respectable in point of talent, 
 as those of Dryden. At all events, that Shak- 
 speare stooped to accommodate himself to the 
 People, is sufficiently apparent ; and one of the 
 most striking proofs of his almost omnipotent 
 genius, is, that he could turn to such glorious 
 purpose those materials which the prepossessions 
 of the age compeUed him to make use of. Yet 
 even this marvellous skill appears not to have 
 been enough to prevent his rivals from having 
 some advantage over him in public estimation ; 
 else how can we account for passages and scenes 
 that exist in his works, unless upon a supposition 
 that some of the grossest of them, a fact which in 
 my own mind I have no doubt of, were foisted in by 
 the Players, for the gratification of the many \ 
 
 But that his Works, whatever might be their 
 reception upon the stage, made but little impres- 
 sion upon the ruling Intellects of the time, may 
 be inferred from the fact that Lord Bacon, in his 
 multifarious writings, nowhere either quotes or 
 alludes to him*. — His dramatic excellence enabled 
 
 * The learned Hakewill (a third edition of whose hook 
 
 him to resume possession of the stage after the 
 Restoration ; but Dryden tells us that in his time 
 two of the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher were 
 acted for one of Shakspeare's. And so faint and 
 limited was the perception of the poetic beauties of 
 his dramas in the time of Pope, that, in his Edition 
 of the Plays, with a view of rendering to the gene- 
 ral reader a necessaiy service, he printed between 
 inverted commas those passages which he thought 
 most worthy of notice. 
 
 At this day, the French Critics have abated 
 nothing of their aversion to this darling of our 
 Nation : * the English, with their bouffon de 
 Shakspeare,' is as familiar an expression among 
 them as in the time of Voltaire. Baron Grimm is 
 the only French writer who seems to have perceived 
 his infinite superiority to the first names of the 
 French Theatre ; an advantage which the Parisian 
 critic owed to his German blood and German 
 education. The most enlightened Italians, though 
 well acquainted with our language, are wholly 
 incompetent to measure the proportions of Shak- 
 speare. The Germans only, of foreign nations, 
 are approaching towards a knowledge and feeling 
 of what he is. In some respects they have ac- 
 quired a superiority over the fellow-countrymen of 
 the Poet : for among us it is a current, I might say, 
 an established opinion, that Shakspeare is justly 
 praised when he is pronounced to be 'a wild 
 irregular genius, in whom great faults are com- 
 pensated by great beauties.' How long may it 
 be before this misconception passes away, and it 
 becomes universally acknowledged that the judg- 
 ment of Shakspeare in the selection of his mate- 
 rials, and in the manner in which he has made 
 them, heterogeneous as they often are, constitute 
 a unity of their own, and contribute all to one 
 great end, is not less admirable than his imagi- 
 nation, his invention, and his intuitive knowledge 
 of human Nature ! 
 
 There is extant a small Volume of miscellaneous 
 poems, in which Shakspeare expresses his own 
 feelings in his own person. It is not difficult to 
 conceive that the Editor, George Steevens, should 
 have been insensible to the beauties of one portion 
 of that Volume, the Sonnets ; though in no part 
 of the writings of this Poet is found, in an equal 
 compass, a greater number of exquisite feelings 
 felicitously expressed. But, from regard to the 
 
 bears date 1635), writing to refute the error * touching 
 Nature's perpetual and universal decay,' cites trium- 
 phantly the names of Ariosto, Tasso, Bartas, and Spenser, 
 as instances that poetic genius had not degenerated ; but 
 he makes no mention of Shakspeare. 
 
666 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 Critic's own credit, lie would not have ventured to 
 talk of an* act of parliament not being strong 
 enough to compel the perusal of those little pieces, 
 if he had not known that the people of England 
 were ignorant of the treasures contained in them : 
 and if he had not, moreover, shared the too com- 
 mon propensity of human nature to exult over a 
 supposed fall into the mire of a genius whom he 
 had been compelled to regard with admiration, as 
 an inmate of the celestial regions — ' there sitting 
 where he durst not soar.' 
 
 Nine years before the death of Shakspeare, 
 Milton was born ; and early in life he published 
 several small poems, which, though on their first 
 appearance they were praised by a few of the 
 judicious, were afterwards neglected to that degree, 
 that Pope in his youth could borrow from them 
 without risk of its being known. Whether these 
 poems are at this day justly appreciated, 1 will 
 not undertake to decide : nor would it imply a 
 severe reflection upon the mass of readers to 
 suppose the contrary ; seeing that a man of the 
 acknowledged genius of Voss, the German poet, 
 could suffer their spirit to evaporate ; and could 
 change their character, as is done in the trans- 
 lation made by him of the most popular of those 
 pieces. At all events, it is certain that these Poems 
 of Milton are now much read, and loudly praised ; 
 yet were they little heard of till more than ISO 
 years after then' publication ; and of the Sonnets, 
 Dr. Johnson, as appears from Boswell's Life of 
 him, was in the habit of thinking and speaking 
 as contemptuously as Steevens wrote upon those 
 of Shakspeare. 
 
 About the time when the Pindaric odes of 
 Cowley and his imitators, and the productions of 
 that class of curious thinkers whom Dr. Johnson 
 has strangely styled metaphysical Poets, were begin- 
 ning to lose something of that extravagant admi- 
 ration which they had excited, the Paradise Lost 
 made its appearance. ' Fit audience find though 
 few,' was the petition addressed by the Poet to his 
 inspiring Muse. I have said elsewhere that he 
 gained more than he asked ; this I believe to be 
 tme ; but Dr. Johnson has fallen into a gross 
 mistake when he attempts to prove, by the sale of 
 
 * This flippant insensibility was publicly reprehended 
 by Mr. Coleridge in a course of Lectures upon Poetry 
 given by him at the Royal Institution. For the various 
 merits of thought and language in Shakspeare's Sonnets, 
 see Numbers, 27, 29, 30, 32, 33, 54. 64, 66, 6B, 73, 76, 86, 91, 
 92, 93, 97, 98, 105, 107, 108, 109, 111, 113, 114, 116, 117, 129, 
 and many others. 
 
 the work, that Milton's Countrymen were 'just to 
 it ' upon its first appearance. Thirteen hundred 
 Copies were sold in two years ; an uncommon 
 example, he asserts, of the prevalence of genius 
 in opposition to so much recent enmity as Milton's 
 public conduct had excited. But, be it remem- 
 bered that, if Milton's political and religious 
 opinions, and the manner in which he announced 
 them, had raised him many enemies, they had 
 procured him numerous friends; who, as all 
 personal danger was passed away at the time of 
 publication, would be eager to procure the master- 
 work of a man whom they revered, and whom 
 they would be proud of praising. Take, from the 
 number of purchasers, persons of this class, and 
 also those who wished to possess the Poem as a 
 religious work, and but few I fear would be left 
 who sought for it on account of its poetical merits. 
 The demand did not immediately increase ; ' for,' 
 says Dr. Johnson, ' many more readers ' (lie means 
 persons in the habit of reading poetry) ' than were 
 supplied at first the Nation did not afford.' How 
 careless must a writer be who can make this asser- 
 tion in the face of so many existing title-pages to 
 belie it ! Turning to my own shelves, I find the 
 folio of Cowley, seventh edition, 1681. A book 
 near it is Flatman's Poems, fourth edition, 1686 ; 
 Waller, fifth edition, same date. The Poems of 
 Norris of Bemerton not long after went, I believe, 
 through nine editions. What further demand 
 there might be for these works I do not know ; 
 but I well remember, that, twenty-five years ago, 
 the booksellers' stalls in London swarmed with 
 the folios of Cowley. This is not mentioned in 
 disparagement of that able writer and amiable 
 man ; but merely to show — that, if Milton's work 
 were not more read, it was not because readers 
 did not exist at the time. The early editions of 
 the Paradise Lost were printed in a shape which 
 allowed them to be sold at a low price, yet only 
 three-thousand copies of the Work were sold in 
 eleven years ; and the Nation, says Dr. Johnson, 
 had been satisfied from 1623 to 1664, that is, 
 forty-one years, with only two editions of the 
 Works of Shakspeare; which probably did not 
 together make one-thousand Copies ; facts adduced 
 by the critic to prove the ' paucity of Readers.' — 
 There were readers in multitudes ; but their 
 money went for other purposes, as their admira- 
 tion was fixed elsewhere. We are authorized, 
 then, to affirm, that the reception of the Paradise 
 Lost, and the slow progress of its fame, are proofs 
 as striking as can be desired that the positions 
 which I am attempting to establish are not erro- 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 667 
 
 neous*. — How amusing to shape to one's self 
 such a critique as a Wit of Charles's days, or a 
 Lord of the Miscellanies or trading Journalist of 
 King William's time, would have brought forth, if 
 he had set his faculties industriously to work upon 
 this Poem, every where impregnated with original 
 excellence. 
 
 So strange indeed are the obliquities of admi- 
 ration, that they whose opinions are much influ- 
 enced by authority will often be tempted to think 
 that there are no fixed principles f in human 
 nature for this art to rest upon. I have been 
 honoured by being permitted to peruse in MS. a 
 tract composed between the period of the Revolu- 
 tion and the close of that century. It is the 
 Work of an English Peer of high accomplishments, 
 its object to form the character and direct tbe 
 studies of his son. Perhaps nowhere does a more 
 beautiful treatise of the kind exist. The good 
 sense and wisdom of the thoughts, the delicacy 
 of the feelings, and the charm of the style, are, 
 throughout, equally conspicuous. Yet the Author, 
 selecting among the Poets of his own country 
 those whom he deems most worthy of his son's 
 perusal, particularises only Lord Rochester, Sir 
 John Denham, and Cowley. Writing about the 
 same time, Shaftesbury, an author at present 
 unjustly depreciated, describes the English Muses 
 as only yet lisping in their cradles. 
 
 The arts by which Pope, soon afterwards, con- 
 trived to procure to himself a more general and 
 a higher reputation than perhaps any English Poet 
 ever attained during his life-time, are known to 
 the judicious. And as well known is it to them, 
 that the undue exertion of those arts is the cause 
 why Pope has for some time held a rank in litera- 
 ture, to which, if he had not been seduced by an 
 over-love of immediate popularity, and had con- 
 fided more in his native genius, he never could 
 have descended. He bewitched the nation by his 
 melody, and dazzled it by his polished style, and 
 was himself blinded by his own success. Having 
 wandered from humanity in his Eclogues with 
 boyish inexperience, the praise, which these com- 
 positions obtained, tempted him into a belief that 
 
 * Hughes is express upon this subject : in his dedica. 
 tion of Spenser's Works to Lord Somers, he writes thus. 
 ' It was your Lordship's encouraging a beautiful Edition 
 of Paradise Lost that first brought that incomparable 
 Poem to be generally known and esteemed.' 
 
 t This opinion seems actually to have been entertained 
 by Adam Smith, the worst critic, David Hume not excep- 
 ted, that Scotland, a soil to which this sort of weed seems 
 natural, has produced. 
 
 Nature was not to be trusted, at least in pastoral 
 Poetry. To prove this by example, he put his 
 friend Gay upon writing those Eclogues which 
 their author intended to be burlesque. The insti- 
 gator of the work, and his admirers, could perceive 
 in them nothing but what was ridiculous. Never- 
 theless, though these Poems contain some detest- 
 able passages, the effect, as Dr. Johnson well 
 observes, ' of reality and truth became conspicuous 
 even when the intention was to show them gro- 
 velling and degraded.' The Pastorals, ludicrous 
 to such as prided themselves upon their refine- 
 ment, in spite of those disgusting passages, 'became 
 popular, and were read with delight, as just 
 representations of rural manners and occupations.' 
 Something less than sixty years after the publi- 
 cation of the Paradise Lost appeared Thomson's 
 Winter ; which was speedily followed by his other 
 Seasons. It is a work of inspiration ; much of it is 
 written from himself, and nobly from himself. How 
 was it received? 'It was no sooner read,' says one 
 of his contemporary biographers, 'than universally 
 admired : those only excepted who had not been 
 used to feehorto look forany thing in poetry,beyond 
 a point of satirical or epigrammatic wit, a smart 
 antithesis richly trimmed with rhyme, or the softness 
 of an elegiac complaint. To such his manly classical 
 spirit could not readily commend itself ; till, after 
 a more attentive perusal, they had got the better 
 of their prejudices, and either acquired or affected 
 a truer taste. A few others stood aloof, merely 
 because they had long before fixed the articles of 
 their poetical creed, and resigned themselves to 
 an absolute despair of ever seeing any thing new 
 and original. These were somewhat mortified 
 to find their notions disturbed by the appearance 
 of a poet, who seemed to owe nothing but to 
 nature and his own genius. But, in a short time, 
 the applause became unanimous ; every one won- 
 dering how so many pictures, and pictures so 
 familiar, should have moved them but faintly to 
 what they felt in his descriptions. His digressions 
 too, the overflowings of a tender benevolent heart, 
 charmed the reader no less ; leaving him in doubt, 
 whether he should more admire the Poet or love 
 the Man.' 
 
 This case appears to bear strongly against us : — 
 but we must distinguish between wonder and legi- 
 timate admiration. The subject of the work is 
 the changes produced in the appearances of 
 nature by the revolution of the year : and, by 
 undertaking to write in verse, Thomson pledged 
 himself to treat his subject as became a Poet. 
 Now it is remarkable that, excepting the nocture 
 
668 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 nal Reverie of Lady Winchilsea, and a passage or 
 two in the Windsor Forest of Pope, the poetry of 
 the period intervening between the publication of 
 the Paradise Lost and the Seasons does not con- 
 tain a single new image of external nature ; and 
 scarcely presents a familiar one from which it can 
 be inferred that the eye of the Poet had been 
 steadily fixed upon his object, much less that his 
 feelings had urged him to work upon it in the 
 spirit of genuine imagination. To what a low 
 state knowledge of the most obvious and important 
 phenomena had sunk, is evident from the style 
 in which Dryden has executed a description of 
 Night in one of his Tragedies, and Pope his 
 translation of the celebrated moonlight scene in 
 the Ihad. A blind man, in the habit of attending 
 accurately to descriptions casually dropped from 
 the lips of those around him, might easily depict 
 these appearances with more truth. Dryden's 
 lines are vague, bombastic, and senseless* ; those 
 of Pope, though he had Homer to guide him, are 
 throughout false and contradictory. The verses 
 of Dryden, once highly celebrated, are forgotten ; 
 those of Pope still retain their hold upon public 
 estimation, — nay, there is not a passage of descrip- 
 tive poetry, which at this day finds so many and 
 such ardent admirers. Strange to think of an 
 enthusiast, as may have been the case with thou- 
 sands, reciting those verses under the cope of a 
 moonlight sky, without having his raptures in the 
 least disturbed by a suspicion of their absurdity ! 
 — If these two distinguished writers could habitu- 
 ally think that the visible universe was of so little 
 consequence to a poet, that it was scarcely neces- 
 sary for him to cast his eyes upon it, we may be 
 assured that those passages of the elder poets 
 which faithfully and poetically describe the phe- 
 nomena of nature, were not at that time holden in 
 much estimation, and that there was little accurate 
 attention paid to those appearances. 
 
 Wonder is the natural product of Ignorance ; 
 and as the soil was in such good condition at the 
 time of the publication of the Seasons, the crop 
 was doubtless abundant. Neither individuals nor 
 nations become corrupt all at once, nor are they 
 enlightened in a moment. Thomson was an in- 
 
 * Cortes alone in a night-gown. 
 All things are hush'd as Nature's self lay dead ; 
 The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head. 
 The little Birds in dreams their songs repeat, 
 And sleeping Flowers heneath the Night-dew sweat: 
 Even Lust and Envy sleep ; yet Love denies 
 Rest to my soul, and slumber to my eyes. 
 
 Dryden's Indian Emperor. 
 
 spired poet, but he could not work miracles ; hi 
 cases where the art of seeing had in some degree 
 been learned, the teacher would further the pro- 
 ficiency of his pupils, but he could do little more ; 
 though so far does vanity assist men in acts of 
 self-deception, that many would often fancy they 
 recognised a likeness when they knew nothing of 
 the original. Having shown that much of what 
 his biographer deemed genuine admiration must 
 in fact have been blind wonderment — how is the 
 rest to be accounted for ? — Thomson was fortunate 
 in the very title of his poem, which seemed to 
 bring it home to the prepared sympathies of every 
 one : in the next place, notwithstanding his high 
 powers, he writes a vicious style ; and his false 
 ornaments are exactly of that kind which would 
 be most likely to strike the undiscerning. He 
 likewise abounds with sentimental common-places, 
 that, from the manner in which they were brought 
 forward, bore an imposing air of novelty. In any 
 well-used copy of the Seasons the book generally 
 opens of itself with the rhapsody on love, or with 
 one of the stories (perhaps Damon and Musidora) ; 
 these also are prominent in our collections of 
 Extracts, and are the parts of his Work, which, 
 after all, were probably most efficient in first re- 
 commending the author to general notice. Pope, 
 repaying praises which he had received, and wish- 
 ing to extol him to the highest, only styles him 'an 
 elegant and philosophical Poet ; ' nor are we able 
 to collect any unquestionable proofs that the true 
 characteristics of Thomson's genius as an imagi- 
 native poet* were perceived, till the elder Warton, 
 almost forty years after the publication of the 
 Seasons, pointed them out by a note in his Essay 
 on the Life and Writings of Pope. In the Castle 
 of Indolence (of which Gray speaks so coldly) 
 these characteristics were almost as conspicuously 
 displayed, and in verse more harmonious, and 
 diction more pure. Yet that fine poem was 
 neglected on its appearance, and is at this day the 
 delight only of a few ! 
 
 When Thomson died, Collins breathed forth his 
 regrets in an Elegiac Poem, in which he pro- 
 nounces a poetical curse upon him who should 
 regard with insensibility the place where the 
 Poet's remains were deposited. The Poems of 
 the mourner himself have now passed through 
 
 * Since these observations upon Thomson were written, 
 I have perused the second edition of his Seasons, and find 
 that even that does not contain the most striking passages 
 which Warton points out for admiration ; these, with 
 other improvements, throughout the whole work, must 
 have been added at a later period. 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 669 
 
 innumerable editions, and are universally known ; 
 but if, when Collins died, the same kind of impre- 
 cation had been pronounced by a surviving admi- 
 rer, small is the number whom it would not have 
 comprehended. The notice which his poems 
 attained during his life-time was so small, and of 
 course the sale so insignificant, that not long 
 before his death he deemed it right to repay to 
 the bookseller the sum which he had advanced 
 for them, and threw the edition into the fire. 
 
 Next in importance to the Seasons of Thomson, 
 though at considerable distance from that work in 
 order of time, come the Reliques of Ancient 
 English Poetry ; collected, new-modelled, and in 
 many instances (if such a contradiction in terms 
 may be used) composed by the Editor, Dr. Percy. 
 This work did not steal silently into the world, as 
 is evident from the number of legendary tales, that 
 appeared not long after its publication ; and had 
 been modelled, as the authors persuaded them- 
 selves, after the old Ballad. The Compilation was 
 however ill suited to the then existing taste of 
 city society; and Dr. Johnson, 'mid the little 
 senate to which he gave laws, was not sparing in 
 his exertions to make it an object of contempt. The 
 critic triumphed, the legendary imitators were de- 
 servedly disregarded, and, as undeservedly, their 
 ill-imitated models sank, in this country, into 
 temporary neglect ; while Burger, and other able 
 writers of Germany, were translating, or imitating 
 these Reliques, and composing, with the aid of 
 inspiration thence derived, poems which are the 
 delight of the German nation. Dr. Percy was so 
 abashed by the ridicule flung upon his labours from 
 the ignorance and insensibility of the persons with 
 whom he lived, that, though while he was writing 
 under a mask he had not wanted resolution to 
 follow his genius into the regions of true simplicity 
 and genuine pathos (as is evinced by the exquisite 
 ballad of Sir Cauline and by many other pieces), 
 yet when he appeared in his own person and 
 character as a poetical writer, he adopted, as in the 
 tale of the Hermit of Warkworth, a diction scarcely 
 in any one of its features distinguishable from the 
 vague, the glossy, and unfeeling language of his 
 day. I mention this remarkable fact * with regret, 
 
 * Shenstone, in his Schoolmistress, gives a still more 
 remarkable instance of this timidity. On its first appear- 
 ance, (See D'Israeli's 2d Series of the Curiosities of Litera- 
 ture) the Poem was accompanied with an absurd prose 
 commentary, showing, as indeed some incongruous expres- 
 sions in the text imply, that the whole was intended for 
 burlesque. In subsequent editions, the commentary was 
 dropped, and the People have since continued to read in 
 
 esteeming the genius of Dr. Percy in this kind of 
 writing superior to that of any other man by whom 
 in modern times it has been cultivated. That even 
 Burger (to whom Klopstock gave, in my hearing, 
 a commendation which he denied to Goethe and 
 Schiller, pronouncing him to be a genuine poet, and 
 one of the few among the Germans whose works 
 would last) had not the fine sensibility of Percy, 
 might be shown from many passages, in which he 
 has deserted his original only to go astray. For 
 example, 
 
 Now daye was gone, and night was come, 
 And all were fast asleepe, 
 All save the Lady Emeline, 
 Who sate in her bowre to weepe : 
 
 And soone she heard her true Love's voice 
 Low whispering at the walle, 
 Awake, awake, my dear Ladye, 
 'Tis I thy true-love call. 
 
 Which is thus tricked out and dilated : 
 
 Als nun die Nacht Gebirg' und Thai 
 
 Vermummt in Kabenschatten, 
 
 Und Hoehburgs Lampen iiberall 
 
 Schon ausgeflimmert batten, 
 
 Und alles tief entschlafen war ; 
 
 Doch nur das Fraulein immerdar, 
 
 Voll Fieberangst, noch wachte, 
 
 Und seinen Ritter dachte : 
 
 Da horch ! Ein siisser Liebeston 
 
 Kam leis' empor geflogen. 
 
 " Ho, Trudchen. ho I Da bin ich schon ! 
 
 Frisch auf ! Dich angezogen !" 
 
 But from humble ballads we must ascend to 
 heroics. 
 
 All hail, Macpherson ! hail to thee, Sire of 
 Ossian ! The Phantom was begotten by the snug 
 embrace of an impudent Highlander upon a cloud 
 of tradition — it travelled southward, where it was 
 greeted with acclamation, and the thin Consistence 
 took its course through Europe, upon the breath of 
 popular applause. The Editor of the " Reliques" 
 had indirectly preferred a claim to the praise of 
 invention, by not concealing that his supplementary 
 labours were considerable ! how selfish his conduct, 
 contrasted with that of the disinterested Gael, who, 
 like Lear, gives his kingdom away, and is content 
 to become a pensioner upon his own issue for a 
 beggarly pittance ! — Open this far-famed Book ! — 
 I have done so at random, and the beginning of 
 the "Epic Poem Temora," in eight Books, presents 
 itself. ' The blue waves of Ullin roU in light. The 
 green hills are covered with day. Trees shake 
 
 seriousness, doing for the Author what he had not courage 
 openly to venture upon for himself. 
 
670 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 their dusky heads in the breeze. Grey torrente 
 pour their noisy streams. Two green hills with 
 aged oaks surround a narrow plain. The blue 
 course of a stream is there. On its banks stood 
 Cairbar of Atha. His spear supports the king; 
 the red eyes of his fear are sad. Cormac rises on 
 his soul with all his ghastly wounds.' Precious 
 memorandums from the pocket-book of the blind 
 Ossian ! 
 
 If it be unbecoming, as I acknowledge that for 
 the most part it is, to speak disrespectfully of 
 Works that have enjoyed for a length of time a 
 widely-spread reputation, without at the same time 
 producing irrefragable proofs of their unworthiness, 
 let me be forgiven upon this occasion. — Having 
 had the good fortune to be born and reared in a 
 mountainous country, from my very childhood I 
 have felt the falsehood that pervades the volumes 
 imposed upon the world under the name of Ossian, 
 From what I saw with my own eyes, I knew that 
 the imagery was spurious. In nature every thing 
 is distinct, yet nothing denned into absolute 
 independent singleness. In Macpherson's work, it 
 is exactly the reverse; every thing (that is not 
 stolen) is in this manner defined, insulated, dislo- 
 cated, deadened, — yet nothing distinct. It will 
 always be so when words are substituted for things. 
 To say that the characters never could exist, that 
 the manners are impossible, and that a dream has 
 more substance than the whole state of society, as 
 there depicted, is doing nothing more than pro- 
 nouncing a censure which Macpherson defied ; 
 when, with the steeps of Morven before his eyes, 
 he could talk so familiarly of his Car-borne heroes ; 
 — of Morven, which, if one may judge from its 
 appearance at the distance of a few miles, contains 
 scarcely an acre of ground sufficiently accommo- 
 dating for a sledge to be trailed along its surface. — 
 Mr. Malcolm Laing has ably shown that the diction 
 of this pretended translation is a motley assemblage 
 from all quarters ; but he is so fond of making out 
 parallel passages as to call poor Macpherson to 
 account for his l ands' and his ' butsT and he has 
 weakened his argument by conducting it as if he 
 thought that every striking resemblance was a 
 conscious plagiarism. It is enough that the coinci- 
 dences are too remarkable for its being probable or 
 possible that they could arise in different minds 
 without communication between them. Now as 
 the Translators of the Bible, and Shakspeare, 
 Milton, and Pope, could not be indebted to Mac- 
 pherson, it follows that he must have owed his fine 
 feathers to them ; unless we are prepared gravely 
 to assert, with Madame de Stae'l, that many of the 
 
 characteristic beauties of our most celebrated 
 English Poets are derived from the ancient Fin- 
 gallian ; in which case the modern translator would 
 have been but giving back to Ossian his own. — It 
 is consistent that Lucien Buonaparte, who could 
 censure Milton for having surrounded Satan in the 
 infernal regions with courtly and regal splendour, 
 should pronounce the modern Ossian to be the 
 glory of Scotland ; — a country that has produced a 
 Dunbar, a Buchanan, a Thomson, and a Burns! 
 These opinions are of ill omen for the Epic ambi- 
 tion of him who has given them to the world. 
 
 Yet, much as those pretended treasures of 
 antiquity have been admired, they have been 
 wholly uninfluential upon the literature of the 
 Country. No succeeding writer appears to have 
 caught from them a ray of inspiration ; no author, 
 in the least distinguished, has ventured formally 
 to imitate them — except the boy, Chatterton, on 
 their first appearance. He had perceived, from 
 the successful trials which he himself had made 
 in literary forgery, how few critics were able to 
 distinguish between a real ancient medal and a 
 counterfeit of modern manufacture ; and he set 
 himself to the work of filling a magazine with 
 Saxon Poems, — counterparts of those of Ossian, 
 as like his as one of his misty stars is to another. 
 This incapability to amalgamate with the literature 
 of the Island, is, in my estimation, a decisive 
 proof that the book is essentially unnatural ; nor 
 should I require any other to demonstrate it to 
 be a forgery, audacious as worthless. — Contrast, 
 in this respect, the effect of Macpherson's publi- 
 cation with the Reliques of Percy, so unassuming, 
 so modest in their pretensions ! — I have already 
 stated how much Germany is indebted to this 
 latter work ; and for our own country, its poetry 
 has been absolutely redeemed by it. I do not 
 think that there is an able writer in verse of the 
 present day who would not be proud to acknow- 
 ledge his obligations to the Reliques ; I know 
 that, it is so with my friends ; and, for myself, 
 I am happy in this occasion to make a public 
 avowal of my own. 
 
 Dr. Johnson, more fortunate in his contempt of 
 the labours of Macpherson than those of his modest 
 friend, was solicited not long after to furnish 
 Prefaces biographical and critical for the works of 
 some of the most eminent English Poets. The 
 booksellers took upon themselves to make the col- 
 lection ; they referred probably to the most popular 
 miscellanies, and, unquestionably, to their books 
 of accounts ; and decided upon the claim of authors 
 to be admitted into a body of the most eminent, 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 671 
 
 from the familiarity of their names with the 
 readers of that day, and by the profits, which, 
 from the sale of his works, each had brought and 
 was bringing to the Trade. The Editor was 
 allowed a limited exercise of discretion, and the 
 Authors whom he recommended are scarcely to 
 be mentioned without a smile. We open the 
 volume of Prefatory Lives, and to our astonish- 
 ment the first name we find is that of Cowley ! — 
 What is become of the morning-star of English 
 Poetry? Where is the bright Elizabethan con- 
 stellation ? Or, if names be more acceptable than 
 images, where is the ever-to-be-honoured Chaucer ? 
 where is Spenser ? where Sidney ? and, lastly, 
 where he, whose rights as a poet, contradistin- 
 guished from those which he is universally allowed 
 to possess as a dramatist, we have vindicated, — 
 where Shakspeare? — These, and a multitude of 
 others not unworthy to be placed near them, 
 their contemporaries and successors, we have not. 
 But in their stead, we have (could better be 
 expected when pi'ecedence was to be settled by 
 an abstract of reputation at any given period 
 made, as in this case before us?) Roscommon, 
 and Stepney, and Phillips, and Walsh, and Smith, 
 and Duke, andKing, and Spratt — Halifax, Granville, 
 Sheffield, Congreve, Broome, and other reputed 
 Magnates — metrical writers utterly worthless and 
 useless, except for occasions like the present, 
 when their productions are referred to as evidence 
 what a small quantity of brain is necessary to 
 procure a considerable stock of admiration, pro- 
 vided the aspirant will accommodate himself to the 
 likings and fashions of his day. 
 
 As I do not mean to bring down this retrospect 
 to our own times, it may with propriety be closed 
 at the era of this distinguished event. From the 
 literature of other ages and countries, proofs 
 equally cogent might have been adduced, that 
 the opinions announced in the former part of this 
 Essay are founded upon truth. It was not an 
 agreeable office, nor a prudent undertaking, to 
 declare them ; but their importance seemed to 
 render it a duty. It may still be asked, where 
 lies the particular relation of what has been said 
 to these Volumes? — The question will be easily 
 answered by the discerning Reader who is old 
 enough to remember the taste that prevailed when 
 some of these poems were first published, seventeen 
 years ago ; who has also observed to what degree 
 the poetry of this Island has since that period 
 been coloured by them ; and who is further aware 
 of the unremitting hostility with which, upon some 
 principle or other, they have each and all been 
 
 opposed. A sketch of my own notion of the 
 constitution of Fame has been given ; and, as far 
 as concerns myself, I have cause to be satisfied. 
 The love, the admiration, the indifference, the 
 slight, the aversion, and even the contempt, with 
 which these Poems have been received, knowing, 
 as I do, the source within my own mind, from 
 which they have proceeded, and the labour and 
 pains, which, when labour and pains appeared 
 needful, have been bestowed upon them, must all, 
 if I think consistently, be received as pledges and 
 tokens, bearing the same general impression? 
 though widely different in value ; — they are all 
 proofs that for the present time I have not 
 laboured in vain ; and afford assurances, more 
 or less authentic, that the products of my industry 
 will endure. 
 
 If there be one conclusion more forcibly pressed 
 upon us than another by the review which has 
 been given of the fortunes and fate of poetical 
 Works, it is this, — that every author, as far as 
 he is great and at the same time original, has 
 had the task of creating the taste by which he is 
 to be enjoyed : so has it been, so will it continue 
 to be. This remark was long since made to me 
 by the philosophical Friend for the separation of 
 whose poems from my own I have previously 
 expressed my regret. The predecessors of an 
 original Genius of a high order will have smoothed 
 the way for all that he has in common with them ; 
 — and much he will have in common ; but, for 
 what is peculiarly his own, he will be called upon 
 to clear and often to shape his own road : — he 
 will be m the condition of Hannibal among the Alps. 
 
 And where lies the real difficulty of creating 
 that taste by which a truly original poet is to be 
 relished ? Is it in breaking the bonds of custom, 
 in overcoming the prejudices of false refinement, 
 and displacing the aversions of inexperience ? Or, 
 if he labour for an object which here and else- 
 where I have proposed to myself, does it consist 
 in divesting the reader of the pride that induces 
 him to dwell upon those points wherein men differ 
 from each other, to the exclusion of those in which 
 all men are alike, or the same ; and in making 
 him ashamed of the vanity that renders him 
 insensible of the appropriate excellence which 
 civil arrangements, less unjust than might appear, 
 and Nature illimitable in her bounty, have con- 
 ferred on men who may stand below him in the 
 scale of society ? Finally, does it lie in establishing 
 that dominion over the spirits of readers by which 
 they are to be humbled and humanised, in order 
 that they may be purified and exalted? 
 
672 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 If these ends are to be attained by the mere 
 communication of knowledge, it does not He here. — 
 Taste, I would remind the reader, like Imagina- 
 tion, is a word which has been forced to extend its 
 services far beyond the point to which philosophy 
 would have confined them. It is a metaphor, taken 
 from a passive sense of the human body, and 
 transferred to things which are in their essence 
 not passive, — to intellectual acts and operations. 
 The word, Imagination, has been overstrained, 
 from impulses honourable to mankind, to meet 
 the demands of the faculty which is perhaps the 
 noblest of our nature. In the instance of Taste, 
 the process has been reversed; and from the 
 prevalence of dispositions at once injurious and 
 discreditable, being no other than that selfishness 
 which is the child of apathy, — which, as Nations 
 decline in productive and creative power, makes 
 them value themselves upon a presumed refine- 
 ment of judging. Poverty of language is the 
 primary cause of the use which we make of 
 the word, Imagination ; but the word, Taste, has 
 been stretched to the sense which it bears in 
 modern Europe by habits of self-conceit, inducing 
 that inversion in the order of things whereby a 
 passive faculty is made paramount among the facul- 
 ties conversant with the fine arts. Proportion and 
 congruity, the requisite knowledge being supposed, 
 are subjects upon which taste may be trusted ; it is 
 competent to this office; — for in its intercourse with 
 these the mind is passive, and is affected painfully 
 or pleasurably as by an instinct. But the profound 
 and the exquisite in feeling, the lofty and universal 
 in thought and imagination ; or, in ordinary lan- 
 guage, the pathetic and the sublime ;- — are neither 
 of them, accurately speaking, objects of a faculty 
 which could ever without a sinking in the spirit 
 of Nations have been designated by the metaphor 
 — Taste. And why ? Because without the exer- 
 tion of a co-operating power in the mind of the 
 Reader, there can be no adequate sympathy with 
 either of these emotions : without this auxiliary 
 impulse, elevated or profound passion cannot exist. 
 Passion, it must be observed, is derived from a 
 word which signifies suffering; but the connec- 
 tion which suffering has with effort, with exertion, 
 and action, is immediate and inseparable. How 
 strikingly is this property of human nature exhi- 
 bited by the fact, that, in popular language, to be 
 in a passion, is to be angry ! — But, 
 
 ' Anger in hasty words or blows 
 Itself discharges on its foes.' 
 
 To be moved, then, by a passion, is to be excited, 
 
 often to external, and always to internal, effort ; 
 whether for the continuance and strengthening of 
 the passion, or for its suppression, accordingly as 
 the course which it takes may be painful or plea- 
 surable. If the latter, the soul must contribute to 
 its support, or it never becomes vivid, — and soon 
 languishes, and dies. And this brings us to the 
 point. If every great poet with whose writings 
 men are familiar, in the highest exercise of his 
 genius, before he can be thoroughly enjoyed, has 
 to call forth and to communicate power, this ser- 
 vice, in a still greater degree, falls upon an original 
 writer, at his first appearance in the world. — Of 
 genius the only proof is, the act of doing well what 
 is worthy to be done, and what was never done 
 before : Of genius, in the fine arts, the only infallible 
 sign is the widening the sphere of human sensibility, 
 for the delight, honour, and benefit of human 
 nature. Genius is the introduction of a new ele- 
 ment into the intellectual universe : or, if that be 
 not allowed, it is the application of powers to 
 objects on which they had not before been exer- 
 cised, or the employment of them in such a manner 
 as to produce effects hitherto unknown. What is 
 all this but an advance, or a conquest, made by 
 the soul of the poet? Is it to be supposed that 
 the reader can make progress of this kind, like 
 an Indian prince or general — stretched on his 
 palanquin, and borne by his slaves? No; he is 
 invigorated and inspirited by his leader, in order 
 that he may exert himself; for he cannot pro- 
 ceed in quiescence, he cannot be carried like a 
 dead weight. Therefore to create taste is to 
 call forth and bestow power, of which knowledge 
 is the effect ; and there lies the true difficulty. 
 
 As the pathetic participates of an animal sensa- 
 tion, it might seem — that, if the springs of this 
 emotion were genuine, all men, possessed of com- 
 petent knowledge of the facts and circumstances, 
 would be instantaneously affected. And, doubt- 
 less, in the works of every true poet will be 
 found passages of that species of excellence, 
 which is proved by effects immediate and uni- 
 versal. But there are emotions of the pathetic 
 that are simple and direct, and others — that are 
 complex and revolutionary; some — to which the 
 heart yields with gentleness ; others — against which 
 it struggles with pride; these varieties are infinite 
 as the combinations of circumstance and the con- 
 stitutions of character. Remember, also, that the 
 medium through which, in poetry, the heart is 
 to be affected — is language; a thing subject to 
 endless fluctuations and arbitrary associations. 
 The genius of the poet melts these down for 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 673 
 
 hispurpose; buttheyretaintheir shape and quality 
 to him who is not capable of exerting, within his 
 own mind, a corresponding energy. There is also 
 a meditative, as well as a human, pathos ; an en- 
 thusiastic, as well as an ordinary, sorrow; a sadness 
 that has its seat in the depths of reason, to which 
 the mind cannot sink gently of itself — but to which 
 it must descend. by treading the steps of thought. 
 And for the sublime, — if we consider what are the 
 cares that occupy the passing day, and how remote 
 is the practice and the course of life from the sources 
 of sublimity in the soul of Man, can it be wondered 
 that there is little existing preparation for a poet 
 charged with a new mission to extend its kingdom, 
 and to augment and spread its enjoyments'? 
 
 Away, then, with the senseless iteration of the 
 word popular, applied to new works in poetry, as 
 if there were no test of excellence in this first of 
 the fine arts but that all men should run after its 
 productions, as if urged by an appetite, or con- 
 strained by a spell ! — The qualities of writing best 
 fitted for eager reception are either such as startle 
 the world into attention by their audacity and 
 extravagance ; or they are chiefly of a superficial 
 kind lying upon the surfaces of manners; or 
 arising out of a selection and arrangement of inci- 
 dents, by which the mind is kept upon the stretch 
 of curiosity and the fancy amused without the 
 trouble of thought. But in every thing which is 
 to send the soul into herself, to be admonished 
 of her weakness, or to be made conscious of her 
 power : — wherever life and nature are described 
 as operated upon by the creative or abstracting 
 virtue of the imagination ; wherever the instinc- 
 tive wisdom of antiquity and her heroic passions 
 uniting, in the heart of the poet, with the meditative 
 wisdom of later ages, have produced that accord 
 of sublimated humanity, which is at once a history 
 of the remote past and a prophetic enunciation of 
 the remotest future, there, the poet must reconcile 
 himself for a season to few and scattered hearers. 
 — Grand thoughts (and Shakspeare must often 
 have sighed over this truth), as they are most 
 naturally and most fitly conceived in solitude, so 
 can they not be brought forth in the midst of 
 plaudits, without some violation of their sanctity. 
 Go to a silent exhibition of the productions of the 
 Sister Art, and be convinced that the qualities 
 which dazzle at first sight, and kindle the admi- 
 ration of the multitude, are essentially different 
 from those by which permanent influence is 
 secured. Let us not shrink from following up 
 these principles as far as they will carry us, and 
 conclude with observing — that there never has 
 
 been a period, and perhaps never will be, in which 
 vicious poetry, of some kind or other, has not 
 excited more zealous admiration, and been far 
 more generally read, than good ; but this advan- 
 tage attends the good, that the individual, as well 
 as the species, survives from age to age ; whereas, 
 of the depraved, though the species be immortal, 
 the individual quickly perishes ; the object of pre- 
 sent admiration vanishes, being supplanted by 
 some other as easily produced ; which, though no 
 better, brings with it at least the irritation of 
 novelty, — with adaptation, more or less skilful, to 
 the changing humours of the majority of those wji 
 are most at leisure to regard poetical works when 
 they first solicit their attention. 
 
 Is it the result of the whole, that, in the opinion 
 of the Writer, the judgment of the People is not 
 to be respected ? The thought is most injurious ; 
 and, cculd the charge be brought against him, he 
 would repel it with indignation. The People have 
 already been justified, and their eulogium pro- 
 nounced by implication, when it was said, above — 
 that, of good poetry, the individual, as well as the 
 species, survives. And how does it survive but 
 through the People ? What preserves it but their 
 intellect and their wisdom 1 
 
 ' Past and future, are the wings 
 
 On whose support, harmoniously conjoined, 
 
 Moves the great Spirit of human knowledge * 
 
 MS. 
 
 The voice that issues from this Spirit, is that Vox 
 Populi which the Deity inspires. Foolish must he 
 be who can mistake for this a local acclamation, or 
 a transitory outcry — transitory though it be for 
 years, local though from a Nation. Still more 
 lamentable is his error who can believe that thex'e 
 is any thing of divine infallibility in the clamour 
 of that small though loud portion of the community, 
 ever governed by factitious influence, which, under 
 the name of the Public, passes itself, upon the 
 unthinking, for the People. Towards the Public, 
 the Writer hopes that he feels as much deference 
 as it is entitled to: but to the People, philoso- 
 phically characterised, and to the embodied spirit 
 of their knowledge, so far as it exists and moves, 
 at the present, faithfully supported by its two wings, 
 the past and the future, his devout respect, his 
 reverence, is due. He offers it willingly and readily ; 
 and, this done, takes leave of his Readers, by 
 assuring them — that, if he were not persuaded that 
 the contents of these Volumes, and the Work to 
 which they are subsidiary, evince something of the 
 ' Vision and the Faculty divine ;' and that, both in 
 words and things, they will operate in their degree, 
 
674 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 to extend the domain of sensibility for the delight, 
 the honour, and the benefit of human nature, not- 
 withstanding the many happy hours which he has 
 employed in their composition, and the manifold 
 comforts and enjoyments they have procured to 
 
 him, he would not, if a wish could do it, save them 
 from immediate destruction ; — from becoming at 
 this moment, to the world, as a tiling that had 
 never been. 
 
 1815. 
 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 PREFIXED TO THE EDITION OF 1815. 
 
 SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART. 
 
 My dear Sir George, 
 
 Accept my thanks for the permission given 
 me to dedicate these Volumes to you. In addi- 
 tion to a lively pleasure derived from general con. 
 siderations, I feel a particular satisfaction ; for, by 
 inscribing these Poems with your Name, I seem to 
 myself in some degree to repay, by an appropriate 
 honour, the great obligation which I owe to one 
 part of the Collection— as having been the means 
 of first making us personally known to each other. 
 Upon much of the remainder, also, you have a 
 peculiar claim, — for some of the best pieces were 
 composed under the shade of your own groves, 
 upon the classic ground of Coleorton; where I 
 was animated by the recollection of those illustri- 
 ous Poets of your name and family, who were bom 
 in that neighbourhood ; and, we may be assured, 
 did not wander with indifference by the dashing 
 stream of Grace Dieu, and among the rocks that 
 diversify the forest of Charnwood. — Nor is there 
 
 any one to whom such parts of this Collection as 
 have been inspired or coloured by the beautiful 
 Country from winch I now address you, could be 
 presented with more propriety th°n to yourself — ■ 
 to whom it has suggested so many admirable pic- 
 tures Early in life, the sublimity and beau ty of 
 this region excited your admiration ; and I know 
 that you are bound to it in mind by a still strength- 
 ening attachment. 
 
 Wishing and hoping that this Work, with the 
 embellishments it has received from your pencil * 
 may survive as a lasting memorial of a friendship, 
 which I reckon among the blessings of my life, 
 
 I have the honour to be, 
 
 My dear Sir George, 
 Yours most affectionately and faithfully, 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Rydal Moctnt, Westmoreland, 
 February 1, 1815. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1815. 
 
 The powers requisite for the production of 
 poetry are : first, those of Observation and De- 
 scription, — i. e., the ability to observe with accuracy 
 things as they are in themselves, and with fidelity 
 to describe them, unmodified by any passion or 
 feeling existing in the mind of the describer: 
 whether the things depicted be actually present 
 to the senses, or have a place only in the memory. 
 
 This power, though indispensable to a Poet, is 
 one which he employs only in submission to 
 necessity, and never for a continuance of tine: 
 as its exercise supposes all the higher qualities 
 of the mind to be passive, and in a state of sub- 
 
 * The state of the plates has, for some time, not allowed 
 them to be repeated. 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 675 
 
 jection to external objects, much in the same 
 way as a translator or engraver ought to be 
 to his original. 2ndly, Sensibility, — which, the 
 more exquisite it is, the wider will be the range 
 of a poet's perceptions ; and the more will he be 
 incited to observe objects, both as they exist in 
 themselves and as re-acted upon by his own 
 mind. (The distinction between poetic and human 
 sensibility has been marked in the character of 
 the Poet delineated in the original preface.) 3dly, 
 Reflection, — which makes the Poet acquainted 
 with the value of actions, images, thoughts, and 
 feelings ; and assists the sensibility in perceiving 
 their connection with each other. 4thly, Imagina- 
 tion and Fancy, — to modify, to create, and to 
 associate. Sthly, Invention, — by which characters 
 are composed out of materials supplied by ob- 
 servation ; whether of the Poet's own heart and 
 miud. or of external life and nature ; and 
 su-?h incidents and situations produced as are 
 most impressive to the imagination, and most 
 fitted to do justice to the characters, sentiments, 
 and passions, which the Poet undertakes to 
 illustrate. And, lastly, Judgment, — to decide 
 now and where, and in what degree, each of 
 these faculties ought to be exerted ; so that the 
 less shall not be sacrificed to the greater ; nor the 
 greater, slighting the less, arrogate, to its own 
 injury, more than its due. By judgment, also, is 
 determined what are the laws and appropriate 
 graces of every species of composition*. 
 
 The materials of Poetry, by these powers col- 
 lected and produced, are cast, by means of various 
 moulds, into divers forms. The moulds may be 
 enumerated, and the forms specified, in the follow- 
 ing order. 1st, The Narrative, — including the 
 Epopoeia, the Historic Poem, the Tale, the Ro- 
 mance, the Mock-heroic, and, if the spirit of 
 Homer will tolerate such neighbourhood, that dear 
 production of our days, the metrical Novel. Of 
 this Class, the distinguishing mark is, that the 
 Narrator, however liberally his speaking agents be 
 introduced, is himself the source from which every 
 thing primarily flows. Epic Poets, in order that 
 their mode of composition may accord with the 
 elevation of their subject, represent themselves as 
 singing from the inspiration of the Muse, ' Arma 
 virumque cano;' but this is a fiction, in modern 
 times, of slight value : the Iliad or the Paradise 
 
 * As sensibility to harmony of numbers, and the power 
 of producing it, ate invariably attendants upon the facul- 
 tits above specified, nothing has been said upon thos<s 
 requisites. 
 
 Lost would gain little in our estimation by being 
 chanted. The other poets who belong to this class 
 are commonly content to tell their tale ;— so that 
 of the whole it may be affirmed that they neither 
 require nor reject the accompaniment of music. 
 
 2ndly, The Dramatic, — consisting of Tragedy, 
 Historic Drama, Comedy, and Masque, in which 
 the poet does not appear at all in his own person, 
 and where the whole action is carried on by speech 
 and dialogue of the agents ; music being admitted 
 only incidentally and rarely. The Opera may be 
 placed here, inasmuch as it proceeds by dialogue ; 
 though depending, to the degree that it does, upon 
 music, it has a strong claim to be ranked with 
 the lyrical. The characteristic and impassioned 
 Epistle, of which Ovid and Pope have given 
 examples, considered as a species of monodrama, 
 may, without impropriety, be placed in this class. 
 
 3rdly, The Lyrical, — containing the Hymn, the 
 Ode, the Elegy, the Song, and the Ballad ; in all 
 which, for the production of their full effect, an 
 accompaniment of music is indispensable. 
 
 4thly, The Idyllium, — descriptive chiefly either 
 of the processes and appearances of external 
 nature, as the Seasons of Thomson ; or of cha- 
 racters, manners, and sentiments, as are Shen- 
 stone's Schoolmistress, The Cotter's Saturday 
 Night of Burns, The Twa Dogs of the same 
 Author; or of these in conjunction with the 
 appearances of Nature, as most of the pieces of 
 Theocritus, the Allegro and Penseroso of Milton, 
 Beattie's Minstrel, Goldsmith's Deserted Village. 
 The Epitaph, the Inscription, the Sonnet, most of 
 the epistles of poets writing in their own persons, 
 and all loco-descriptive poetry, belong to this class 
 
 5thly, Didactic, — the principal object of which 
 is direct instruction ; as the Poem of Lucretius, 
 the Georgics of Virgil, The Fleece of Dyer, 
 Mason's English Garden, &c. 
 
 And, lastly, philosophical Satire, like that of 
 Horace and Juvenal ; personal and occasional 
 Satire rarely comprehending sufficient of the 
 general in the individual to be dignified with the 
 name of poetry. 
 
 Out of the three last has been constructed 
 a composite order, of which Young's Night 
 Thoughts, and Cowper's Task, are excellent 
 examples. 
 
 It is deducible from the above, that poems, 
 apparently miscellaneous, may with propriety be 
 arranged either with reference to the powers of 
 miud predominant in the production of them ; or 
 to the mould in which they are cast ; or, lastly, 
 to the subjects to which they relate. From each 
 J xx2 
 
67b' 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 of these considerations, the following Poems have 
 been divided into classes; which, that the work 
 may more obviously correspond with the course of 
 human life, and for the sake of exhibiting in it the 
 three requisites of a legitimate whole, a beginning, 
 a middle, and an end, have been also arranged, as 
 far as it was possible, according to an order of 
 time, commencing with Childhood, and terminat- 
 ing with Old Age, Death, and Immortality. My 
 guiding wish was, that the small pieces of which 
 these volumes consist, thus discriminated, might 
 be regarded under a two-fold view ; as composing 
 an entire work within themselves, and as adjuncts 
 to the philosophical Poem, " The Recluse." This 
 arrangement has long presented itself habitually 
 to my own mind. Nevertheless, I should have 
 preferred to scatter the contents of these volumes 
 at random, if I had been persuaded that, by the 
 plan adopted, any thing material would be taken 
 from the natural effect of the pieces, individually, 
 on the mind of the unreflecting Reader. I trust 
 there is a sufficient variety in each class to prevent 
 this; while, for him who reads with reflection, 
 the arrangement will serve as a commentary unos- 
 tentatiously directing his attention to my purposes, 
 both particular and general. But, as I wish to 
 guard against the possibility of misleading by this 
 classification, it is proper first to remind the Reader, 
 that certain poems are placed according to the 
 powers of mind, in the Author's conception, 
 predominant in the production of them ; predomi- 
 nant, which implies the exertion of other faculties 
 in less degree. Where there is more imagination 
 than fancy in a poem, it is placed under the head 
 of imagination, and vice versa. Both the above 
 classes might without impropriety have been 
 enlarged from that consisting of " Poems founded 
 on the Affections ; " as might this latter from 
 those, and from the class "proceeding from 
 Sentiment and Reflection." The most striking 
 characteristics of each piece, mutual illustration, 
 variety, and proportion, have governed me 
 throughout. 
 
 None of the other Classes, except those of 
 Fancy and Imagination, require any particular 
 notice. But a remark of general application may 
 be made. All Poets, except the dramatic, have 
 been in the practice of feigning that their works 
 were composed to the music of the harp or lyre : 
 with what degree of affectation this has been 
 done in modern times, I leave to the judicious to 
 determine. For my own part, I have not been 
 disposed to violate probability so far, or to make 
 such a large demand upon the Reader's charity. 
 
 Some of these pieces are essentially lyrical ; and, 
 therefore, cannot have their due force without a 
 supposed musical accompaniment ; but, in much 
 the greatest part, as a substitute for the classic 
 lyre or romantic harp, I require nothing more 
 than an animated or impassioned recitation, 
 adapted to the subject. Poems, however humble 
 in their kind, if they be good in that kind, cannot 
 read themselves ; the law of long syllable and 
 short must not be so inflexible, — the letter of 
 metre must not be so impassive to the spirit of 
 versification, — as to deprive the Reader of all 
 voluntary power to modulate, in subordination to 
 the sense, the music of the poem ; — in the same 
 manner as his mind is left at liberty, and even 
 summoned, to act upon its thoughts and images. 
 But, though the accompaniment of a musical 
 instrument be frequently dispensed with, the true 
 Poet does not therefore abandon his privilege 
 distinct from that of the mere Proseman ; 
 
 ' He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music sweeter than their own.' 
 
 Let us come now to the consideration of the words 
 Fancy and Imagination, as employed in the classifi- 
 cation of the following Poems. ' A man,' says an 
 intelligent author, ' has imagination in proportion 
 as he can distinctly copy in idea the impressions of 
 sense : it is the faculty which images within the 
 mind the phenomena of sensation. A man has fancy 
 in proportion as he can call up, connect, or asso- 
 ciate, at pleasure, those internal images ((pavrd^iv 
 is to cause to appear) so as to complete ideal 
 representations of absent objects. Imagination is 
 the power of depicting, and fancy of evoking and 
 combining. The imagination is formed by patient 
 observation; the fancy by a voluntary activity 
 in shifting the scenery of the mind. The more 
 accurate the imagination, the more safely may a 
 painter, or a poet, undertake a delineation, or a 
 description, without the presence of the objects 
 to be characterised. The more versatile the 
 fancy, the more original and striking will be the 
 decorations produced.' — British Synonyms dis- 
 criminated, by W. Taylor. 
 
 Is not this as if a man should undertake to supply 
 an account of a building, and be so intent upon 
 what he had discovered of the foundation, as to 
 conclude his task without once looking up at the 
 superstructure] Here, as in other instances 
 throughout the volume, the judicious Author's 
 mind is enthralled by Etymology ; he takes up the 
 original word as his guide and escort, and too often 
 does not perceive how soon he becomes its prisoner. 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 677 
 
 without liberty to tread in any path but that to 
 which it confines him. It is not easy to find out 
 how imagination, thus explained, differs from 
 distinct remembrance of images ; or fancy from 
 quick and vivid recollection of them : each is 
 nothing more than a mode of memory. If the two 
 words bear the above meaning, and no other, what 
 term is left to designate that faculty of which the 
 Poet is ' all compact ;' he whose eye glances from 
 earth to heaven, whose spiritual attributes body 
 forth what his pen is prompt in turning to shape ; 
 or what is left to characterise Fancy, as insinuating 
 herself into the heart of objects with creative 
 activity? — Imagination, in the sense of the word 
 as giving title to a class of the following Poems, 
 has no reference to images that are merely a faith- 
 ful copy, existing in the mind, of absent external 
 objects ; but is a word of higher import, denoting 
 operations of the mind upon those objects, and 
 processes of creation or of composition, governed 
 by certain fixed laws. I proceed to illustrate my 
 meaning by instances. A parrot hangs from the 
 wires of his cage by bis beak or by his claws ; or 
 a monkey from the bough of a tree by his paws or 
 his tail. Each creature does so literally and 
 actually. In the first Eclogue of Virgil, the shep- 
 herd, thinking of the time when he is to take leave 
 of his farm, thus addresses his goats : — 
 
 ' Non ego vos posthac viridi projectus in antro 
 Dumosa pendere procul de rupe videbo.' 
 
 * half way down 
 
 Hangs one who gathers samphire,' 
 
 is the well-known expression of Shakspeare, de- 
 lineating an ordinary image upon the cliffs of 
 Dover. In these two instances is a slight exer- 
 tion of the faculty which I denominate imagination, 
 in the use of one word : neither the goats nor the 
 samphire-gatherer do literally hang, as does the 
 parrot or the monkey ; but, presenting to the 
 senses something of such an appearance, the mind 
 in its activity, for its own gratification, contemplates 
 them as hanging. 
 
 ' As when far off at sea a fleet descried 
 Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds 
 Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles 
 Of Ternate or Tidore, whence merchants bring 
 Their spicy drugs ; they on the trading flood 
 Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape 
 Ply, stemming nightly toward the Pole ; so seemed 
 Par off the flying Fiend.' 
 
 Here is the full strength of the imagination 
 involved in the word hangs, and exerted upon the 
 whole image : First, the fleet, an aggregate of 
 
 many ships, is represented as one mighty person, 
 whose track, we know and feel, is upon the waters ; 
 but, taking advantage of its appearance to the 
 senses, the Poet dares to represent it as hanging in 
 the clouds, both for the gratification of the mind in 
 contemplating the image itself, and in reference to 
 the motion and appearance of the sublime objects 
 to which it is compared. 
 
 From impressions of sight we will pass to those 
 of sound ; which, as they must necessarily be of a 
 less definite character, shall be selected from these 
 volumes : 
 
 ' Over his own sweet voice the Stock- dove broods , ' 
 
 of the same bird, 
 
 ' His voice was buried among trees, 
 Yet to be come at by the breeze ;' 
 
 ' O, Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice ? ' 
 
 The stock-dove is said to coo, a sound well 
 imitating the note of the bird ; but, by the inter- 
 vention of the metaphor broods, the affections are 
 called in by the imagination to assist in marking 
 the manner in which the bird reiterates and pro- 
 longs her soft note, as if herself delighting to listen 
 to it, and participating of a still and quiet satisfac- 
 tion, like that which may be supposed inseparable 
 from the continuous process of incubation. ' His 
 voice was buried among trees,' a metaphor express- 
 ing the love of seclusion by which this Bird is 
 marked ; and characterising its note as not par- 
 taking of the shrill and the piercing, and therefore 
 more easily deadened by the intervening shade ; 
 yet a note so peculiar and withal so pleasing, that 
 the breeze, gifted with that love of the sound which 
 the Poet feels, penetrates the shades in which it is 
 entombed, and conveys it to the ear of the listener. 
 
 ' Shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice ? 
 
 This concise interrogation characterises the 
 seeming ubiquity of the voice of the cuckoo, and 
 dispossesses the creature almost of a corporeal 
 existence ; the Imagination being tempted to this 
 exertion of her power by a consciousness in the 
 memory that the cuckoo is almost perpetually 
 heard throughout the season of spring, but seldom 
 becomes an object of sight. 
 
 Thus far of images independent of each other, 
 and immediately endowed by the mind with pro- 
 perties that do not inhere in them, upon an incite- 
 ment from properties and qualities the existence of 
 which is inherent and obvious. These processes of 
 
678 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 imagination- are carried on either by conferring 
 additional properties upon an object, or abstracting 
 from it some of those which it actually possesses, 
 and thus enabling it to re-act upon the mind which 
 hath performed the process, like a new existence. 
 
 I pass from the Imagination acting upon an 
 individual image to a consideration of the same 
 faculty employed upon images in a conjunction by 
 which they modify each other. The Reader has 
 already had a fine instance before him in the pas- 
 sage quoted from Virgil, where the apparently 
 perilous situation of the goat, hanging upon the 
 shaggy precipice, is contrasted with that of the 
 shepherd contemplating it from the seclusion of 
 the cavern in which he lies stretched at ease and 
 in security. Take these images separately, and 
 how unaffecting the picture compared with that 
 produced by their being thus connected with, and 
 opposed to, each other ! 
 
 • 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 himself. 
 
 Such seemed this Man ; not all alive or dead 
 Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age. 
 
 * * * # * 
 
 Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call, 
 And moveth altogether if it move at all.' 
 
 In these images, the conferring, the abstracting, 
 and the modifying powers of the Imagination, 
 immediately and mediately acting, are all brought 
 into conjunction. The stone is endowed with 
 something of the power of life to approximate it 
 to the sea-beast ; and the sea-beast stripped of 
 some of its vital qualities to assimilate it to the 
 stone ; which intermediate image is thus treated 
 for the purpose of bringing the original image, 
 that of the stone, to a nearer resemblance to 
 the figure and condition of the aged Man ; who 
 is divested of so much of the indications of life 
 and motion as to bring him to the point where 
 the two objects unite and coalesce in just com- 
 parison. After what has been said, the image of 
 the cloud need not be commented upon. 
 
 Thus far of an endowing or modifying power : 
 but the Imagination also shapes and creates; and 
 how 1 By innumerable processes ; and in none 
 does it more delight than in that of consolidating 
 numbers into unity, and dissolving and separating 
 unity into number,— alternations proceeding from, 
 
 and governed by, a sublime consciousness of the 
 soul in her own mighty and almost divine powers. 
 Recur to the passage already cited from Milton. 
 When the compact Fleet, as one Person, has been 
 introduced ' Sailing from Bengala.' * They,' i. e. 
 the 'merchants,' representing the fleet resolved 
 into a multitude of ships, 'ply' their voyage 
 towards the extremities of the earth : ' So ' (refer- 
 ring to the word ' As ' in the commencement) 
 ' seemed the flying Fiend ; ' the image of his 
 Person acting to recombine the multitude of 
 ships into one body, — the point from which the 
 comparison set out. ' So seemed,' and to whom 
 seemed ] To the heavenly Muse who dictates 
 the poem, to the eye of the Poet's mind, and 
 to that of the Reader, present at one moment 
 in the wide Ethiopian, and the next in the soli- 
 tudes, then first broken in upon, of the infernal 
 regions ! 
 
 ' Modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athsni3.' 
 
 Hear again this mighty Poet, — speaking of the 
 Messiah going forth to expel from heaven the 
 rebellious angels, 
 
 ' Attended by ten thousand thousand Saints 
 He onward came : far off his coming shone,' — 
 
 the retinue of Saints, and the Person of the 
 Messiah himself, lost almost and merged in the 
 splendour of that indefinite abstraction ' His 
 coming !' 
 
 As I do not mean here to treat this subject 
 further than to throw some light upon the pre- 
 sent Volumes, and especially upon one division of 
 them, I shall spare myself and the Reader the 
 trouble of considering the Imagination as it deals 
 with thoughts and sentiments, as it regulates the 
 composition of characters, and determines the 
 course of actions : I will not consider it (more 
 than I have already done by implication) as that 
 power which, in the language of one of my most 
 esteemed Friends, 'draws all things to one; which 
 makes things animate or inanimate, beings with 
 their attributes, subjects with their accessaries, 
 take one colour and serve to one effect*.' The 
 grand store-houses of enthusiastic and meditative 
 Imagination, of poetical, as contradistinguished 
 from human and dramatic Imagination, are the 
 prophetic and lyrical parts of the Holy Scriptures, 
 and the works of Milton ; to which I cannot forbear 
 to add those of Spenser. I select these writers in 
 preference to those of ancient Greece and Rome, 
 
 * Charles Lamb upon the genius of Hogarth. 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 679 
 
 because the anthropomorphitism of the Pagan reli- 
 gion subj ected the minds of the greatest poets in those 
 countries too much to the bondage of definite form ; 
 from which the Hebrews were preserved by their 
 abhorrence of idolatry. This abhorrence was almost 
 as strong in our great epic Poet, both from cir- 
 cumstances of his life, and from the constitution 
 of his mind. However imbued the surface might 
 be with classical literature, he was a Hebrew in 
 soul ; and all things tended in him towards the 
 sublime. Spenser, of a gentler nature, maintained 
 his freedom by aid of his allegorical spirit, at one 
 time inciting him to create persons out of abstrac- 
 tions; and, at another, by a superior effort of genius, 
 to give the universality and permanence of abstrac- 
 tions to his human beings, by means of attributes 
 and emblems that belong to the highest moral 
 truths and the purest sensations, — of which his 
 character of Una is a glorious example. Of the 
 human and dramatic Imagination the works of 
 Shakspeare are an inexhaustible source. 
 
 ' I tax not you, ye Elements, with unkindness, 
 I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you Daughters ! ' 
 
 And if, bearing in mind the many Poets distin- 
 guished by this prime quality, whose names I 
 omit to mention ; yet justified by recollection 
 of the insults which the ignorant, the incapable, 
 and the presumptuous, have heaped upon these 
 and my other writings, I may be permitted to 
 anticipate the judgment of posterity upon myself, I 
 shall declare (censurable, I grant, if the notoriety 
 of the fact above stated does not justify me) that I 
 have given in these unfavourable times, evidence 
 of exertions of this faculty upon its worthiest 
 objects, the external universe, the moral and reli- 
 gious sentiments of Man, his natural affections, 
 and his acquired passions ; which have the same 
 ennobling tendency as the productions of men, in 
 this kind, worthy to be holden in undying remem- 
 brance. 
 
 To the mode in which Fancy has already been 
 characterised as the power of evoking and com- 
 bining, or, as my friend Mr. Coleridge has styled 
 it, ' the aggregative and associative power,' my 
 objection is only that the definition is too general. 
 To aggregate and to associate, to evoke and to 
 combine, belong as well to the Imagination as 
 to the Fancy ; but either the materials evoked 
 and combined are different ; or they are brought 
 together under a different law, and for a different 
 purpose. Fancy does not require that the mate- 
 rials which she makes use of should be susceptible 
 of change in their constitution, from her touch ; 
 
 and, where they admit of modification, it is 
 enough for her purpose if it be slight, limited, 
 and evanescent. Directly the reverse of these, 
 are the desires and demands of the Imagination. 
 She recoils from every thing but the plastic, the 
 pliant, and the indefinite. She leaves it to Fancy 
 to describe Queen Mab as coming, 
 
 ' In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 
 On the fore-finger of an alderman.' 
 
 Having to speak of stature, she does not tell 
 you that her gigantic Angel was as tall as Pom- 
 pey's Pillar ; much less that he was twelve cubits, 
 or twelve hundred cubits high ; or that his dimen- 
 sions equalled those of Teneriffe or Atlas; — 
 because these, and if they were a million times 
 as high it would be the same, are bounded : The 
 expression is, '■ His stature reached the sky ! ' 
 the illimitable firmament ! — When the Imagina- 
 tion frames a comparison, if it does not strike 
 on the first presentation, a sense of the truth of 
 the likeness, from the moment that it is perceived, 
 grows — and continues to grow — upon the mind ; 
 the resemblance depending less upon outline of 
 form and feature, than upon expression and effect ; 
 less upon casual and outstanding, than upon inhe- 
 rent and internal, properties : moreover, the images 
 invariably modify each other. — The law under 
 which the processes of Fancy are carried on is 
 as capricious as the accidents of things, and the 
 effects are surprising, playful, ludicrous, amusing, 
 tender, or pathetic, as the objects happen to be appo- 
 sitely produced or fortunately combined. Fancy 
 depends upon the rapidity and profusion with 
 which she scatters her thoughts and images ; trust- 
 ing that their number, and the felicity with 
 which they are linked together, will make amends 
 for the want of individual value : or she prides 
 herself upon the curious subtilty and the suc- 
 cessful elaboration with which she can detect 
 their lurking affinities. If she can win you over 
 to her purpose, and impart to you her feelings, 
 she cares not how unstable or transitory may be 
 her influence, knowing that it will not be out of 
 her power to resume it upon an apt occasion. 
 But the Imagination is conscious of an indestruct- 
 ible dominion ; — the Soul may fall away from it, 
 not being able to sustain its grandeur; but, if 
 once felt and acknowledged, by no act of any 
 other faculty of the mind can it be relaxed, im- 
 paired, or diminished. — Fancy is given to quicken 
 and to beguile the temporal part of our nature, 
 Imagination to incite and to support the eternal. — 
 Yet is it not the less true that Fancy, as she is an 
 
 L_ 
 
680 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 active, is also, under her own laws and in her own 
 spirit, a creative faculty. In what manner Fancy 
 ambitiously aims at a rivalship with Imagination, 
 and Imagination stoops to work with the materials 
 of Fancy, might be illustrated from the compo- 
 sitions of all eloquent writers, whether in prose 
 or verse ; and chiefly from those of our own 
 Country. Scarcely a page of the impassioned 
 parts of Bishop Taylor's Works can be opened 
 that shall not afford examples. — Referring the 
 Reader to those inestimable volumes, I will con- 
 tent myself with placing a conceit (ascribed to 
 Lord Chesterfield) in contrast with a passage 
 from the Paradise Lost : — 
 
 ' The dews of the evening most carefully shun, 
 They are the tears of the sky for the loss of the sun. 
 
 After the transgression of Adam, Milton, with 
 other appearances of sympathising Nature, thus 
 marks the immediate consequence, 
 
 ' Sky lowered, and, muttering thunder, some sad drops 
 Wept at completion of the mortal sin.' 
 
 The associating link is the same in each instance : 
 Dew and rain, not distinguishable from the liquid 
 substance of tears, are employed as indications of 
 sorrow. A flash of surprise is the effect in the 
 former case ; a flash of surprise, and nothing more ; 
 for the nature of things does not sustain the com- 
 bination. In the latter, the effects from the act, 
 of which there is this immediate consequence and 
 visible sign, are so momentous, that the mind 
 acknowledges the justice and reasonableness of the 
 sympathy in nature so manifested; and the sky 
 weeps drops of water as if with human eyes, as 
 ' Earth had before trembled from her entrails, 
 and Nature given a second groan.' 
 
 Finally, I will refer to Cotton's "Ode upon 
 Winter," an admirable composition, though stained 
 with some peculiarities of the age in which he 
 lived, for a general illustration of the charac- 
 teristics of Fancy. The middle part of this ode 
 contains a most lively description of the entrance 
 of Winter, with his retinue, as 'A palsied king,' 
 and yet a military monarch, — advancing for con- 
 quest with his army ; the several bodies of which, 
 and their arms and equipments, are described with 
 a rapidity of detail, and a profusion of fanciful 
 comparisons, which indicate on the part of the 
 poet extreme activity of intellect, and a corre- 
 spondent hurry of delightful feeling. Winter 
 retires from the foe into his fortress, where 
 
 . *a magazine 
 
 Of sovereign juice is cellared in ; 
 Liquor that will the siege maintain 
 Should Phoebus ne'er return again.' 
 
 Though myself a water-drinker I cannot resist 
 the pleasure of transcribing what follows, as an 
 instance still more happy of Fancy employed in 
 the treatment of feeling than, in its preceding 
 passages, the Poem supplies of her management 
 of forms. 
 
 ' Tis that, that gives the poet rage, 
 And thaws the gelly'd blood of age ; 
 Matures the young, restores the old, 
 And makes the fainting coward hold. 
 
 It lays the careful head to rest, 
 Calms palpitations in the breast, 
 Renders our lives' misfortune sweet ; 
 ******* 
 
 Then let the chill Sirocco blow, 
 
 And gird us round with hills of snow, 
 
 Or else go whistle to the shore, 
 
 And make the hollow mountains roar, 
 
 Whilst we together jovial sit 
 Careless, and crowned with mirth and wit, 
 Where, though bleak winds confine us home. 
 Our fancies round the world shall roam. 
 
 We '11 think of all the Friends we know, 
 And drink to all worth drinking to ; 
 When having drunk all thine and mine, 
 We rather shall want healths than wine. 
 
 But where Friends fail us, we '11 supply 
 Our friendships with our charity ; 
 Men that remote in sorrows live, 
 Shall by our lusty brimmers thrive. 
 
 We '11 drink the wanting into wealth, 
 And those that languish into health, 
 The afflicted into joy ; th'opprest 
 Into security and rest. 
 
 The worthy in disgrace shall find 
 Favour return again more kind, 
 And in restraint who stifled lie, 
 Shall taste the air of liberty. 
 
 The brave shall triumph in success, 
 The lovers shall have mistresses, 
 Poor unregarded Virtue, praise, 
 And the neglected Poet, bays. 
 
 Thus shall our healths do others good, 
 Whilst we ourselves do all we would ; 
 For, freed from envy and from care, 
 What would we be but what we are ? ' 
 
 When I sate down to write this Preface, it was 
 my intention to have made it more comprehensive ; 
 but, thinking that I ought rather to apologise for 
 detaining the reader so long, I will here conclude. 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 681 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 1835. 
 
 In the present volume, as in those that have pre- 
 ceded it, the reader will have found occasionally 
 opinions expressed upon the course of public affairs, 
 and feelings given vent to as national interests ex- 
 cited them. Since nothing, I trust, has been 
 uttered but in the spirit of reflective patriotism, 
 those notices are left to produce their own effect ; 
 but, among the many objects of general concern, and 
 the changes going forward, which I have glanced 
 at in verse, are some especially affecting the lower 
 orders of society : in reference to these, I wish 
 here to add a few words in plain prose. 
 
 Were I conscious of being able to do justice to 
 those important topics, I might avail myself of 
 the periodical press for offering anonymously my 
 thoughts, such as they are, to the world ; but I 
 feel that, in procuring attention, they may derive 
 some advantage, however small, from my name, in 
 addition to that of being presented in a less fugitive 
 shape. It is also not impossible that the state of 
 mind which some of the foregoing poems may have 
 produced in the reader, will dispose him to receive 
 more readily the impression which I desire to 
 make, and to admit the conclusions I would esta- 
 blish. 
 
 I. The first thing that presses upon my attention 
 is the Poor-Law Amendment Act. I am aware of 
 the magnitude and complexity of the subject, and 
 the unwearied attention which it has received from 
 men of far wider experience than my own ; yet I 
 cannot forbear touching upon one point of it, and 
 to this I will confine myself, though not insensible 
 to the objection which may reasonably be brought 
 against treating a portion of this, or any other, 
 great scheme of civil polity separately from the 
 whole. The point to which I wish to draw the 
 reader's attention is, that all persons who cannot 
 find employment, or procure wages sufficient to 
 support the body in health and strength, are 
 entitled to a maintenance by law. 
 
 This dictate of humanity is acknowledged in the 
 Report of the Commissioners: but is there not 
 room for apprehension that some of the regulations 
 of the new act have a tendency to render the prin- 
 
 ciple nugatory by difficulties thrown in the way of 
 applying it ? If this be so, persons will not be 
 wanting to show it, by examining the provisions of 
 the act in detail, — an attempt which would be quite 
 out of place here ; but it will not, therefore, be 
 deemed unbecoming in one who fears that the 
 prudence of the head may, in framing some of 
 those provisions, have supplanted the wisdom of 
 the heart, to enforce a principle which cannot 
 be violated without infringing upon one of the 
 most precious rights of the English people, and 
 opposing one of the most sacred claims of civilised 
 humanity. 
 
 There can be no greater error, in this depart- 
 ment of legislation, than the belief that this prin- 
 ciple does by necessity operate for the degradation 
 of those who claim, or are so circumstanced as 
 to make it likely they may claim, through laws 
 founded upon it, relief or assistance. The direct 
 contrary is the truth : it may be unanswerably 
 maintained that its tendency is to raise, not to de- 
 press ; by stamping a value upon life, which can 
 belong to it only where the laws have placed men 
 who are willing to work, and yet cannot find em- 
 ployment, above the necessity of looking for pro- 
 tection against hunger and other natural evils, 
 either to individual and casual charity, to despair 
 and death, or to the breach of law by theft, or 
 violence. 
 
 And here, as in the Report of the Commissioners, 
 the fundamental principle has been recognised, 
 I am not at issue with them any farther than 
 I am compelled to believe that their 'remedial 
 measures ' obstruct the application of it more than 
 the interests of society require. 
 
 And, calling to mind the doctrines of political 
 economy which are now prevalent, I cannot 
 forbear to enforce the justice of the principle, and 
 to insist upon its salutary operation. 
 
 And first for its justice : If self-preservation be 
 the first law of our nature, would not every one 
 in a state of nature be morally justified in taking 
 to himself that which is indispensable to such 
 preservation, where, by so doing, he would not 
 rob another of that which might be equally 
 
682 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 indispensable to his preservation? And if the 
 value of life be regarded in a right point of view, 
 may it not be questioned whether this right of 
 preserving life, at any expense short of endanger- 
 ing the life of another, does not survive man's 
 entering into the social state ; whether this right 
 can be surrendered or forfeited, except when it 
 opposes the divine law, upon any supposition of 
 a social compact, or of any convention for the 
 protection of mere rights of property ? 
 
 But, if it be not safe to touch the abstract ques- 
 tion of man's right in a social state to help him- 
 self even in the last extremity, may we not still 
 contend for the duty of a christian government, 
 standing in loco parentis towards all its subjects, 
 to make such effectual provision, that no one shall 
 be in danger of perishing either through the 
 neglect or harshness of its legislation ? Or, waiv- 
 ing this, is it not indisputable that the claim of 
 the state to the allegiance, involves the protection, 
 of the subject? And, as all rights in one party 
 impose a correlative duty upon another, it follows 
 that the right of the state to require the services 
 of its members, even to the jeoparding of their 
 lives in the common defence, establishes a right 
 in the people (not to be gainsaid by utilitarians 
 and economists) to public support when, from any 
 cause, they may be unable to support themselves. 
 
 Let us now consider the salutary and benign 
 operation of this principle. Here we must have 
 recourse to elementary feelings of human nature, 
 and to truths which from their very obviousness 
 are apt to be slighted, till they are forced upon 
 our notice by our own sufferings or those of others. 
 In the Paradise Lost, Milton represents Adam, 
 after the Fall, as exclaiming, in the anguish of 
 his soul — 
 
 ' Did I request Thee, Maker, from my clay 
 To mould me man ; did I solicit Thee 
 From darkness to promote me ? 
 
 My will 
 
 Concurred not to my being.' 
 
 Under how many various pressures of misery 
 have men been driven thus, in a strain touching 
 upon impiety, to expostulate with the Creator ! 
 and under few so afflictive as when the source 
 and origin of earthly existence have been brought 
 back to the mind by its impending close in the 
 pangs of destitution. But as long as, in our 
 legislation, due weight shall be given to this 
 principle, no man will be forced to bewail the gift 
 of life in hopeless want of the necessaries of life. 
 
 Englishmen have, therefore, by the progress 
 of civilisation among them, been placed in cir- 
 
 cumstances more favourable to piety and resigna- 
 tion to the divine will, than the inhabitants of 
 other countries, where a like provision has not 
 been established. And as Providence, in this 
 care of our countrymen, acts through a human 
 medium, the objects of that care must, in like 
 manner, be more inclined towards a grateful love 
 of their fellow-men. Thus, also, do stronger 
 ties attach the people to their country, whether 
 while they tread its soil, or, at a distance, think 
 of their native land as an indulgent parent, to 
 whose arms, even they who have been imprudent 
 and undeserving may, like the prodigal son, 
 betake themselves, without fear of being rejected. 
 
 Such is the view of the case that would first 
 present itself to a reflective mind ; and it is in 
 vain to show, by appeals to experience, in contrast 
 with this view, that provisions founded upon the 
 principle have promoted profaneness of life, and 
 dispositions the reverse of philanthropic, by 
 spreading idleness, selfishness, and rapacity : 
 for these evils have arisen, not as an inevitable 
 consequence of the principle, but for want of 
 judgment in framing laws based upon it; and, 
 above all, from faults in the mode of administering 
 the law. The mischief that has grown to such 
 a height from granting relief in cases where proper 
 vigilance would have shown that it was not required, 
 or in bestowing it in undue measure, will be urged 
 by no truly enlightened statesman, as a sufficient 
 reason for banishing the principle itself from 
 legislation. 
 
 Let us recur to the miserable states of conscious- 
 ness that it precludes. 
 
 There is a story told, by a traveller in Spain, 
 of a female who, by a sudden shock of domestic 
 calamity, was driven out of her senses, and ever 
 after looked up incessantly to the sky, feeling that 
 her fellow-creatures could do nothing for her 
 relief. Can there be Englishmen who, with a 
 good end in view, would, upon system, expose 
 their brother Englishmen to a like necessity of 
 looking upwards only ; or downwards to the earth, 
 after it shall contain no spot where the destitute 
 can demand, by civil right, what by right of nature 
 they are entitled to ? 
 
 Suppose the objects of our sympathy not sunk 
 into this blank despair, but wandering about as 
 strangers in streets and ways, with the hope of 
 succour from casual charity ; what have we gained 
 by such a change of scene? Woful is the con- 
 dition of the famished Northern Indian, dependent, 
 among winter snows, upon the chance-passage of 
 a herd of deer, from which one, if brought down 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 683 
 
 by his riHe-gun, may be made the means of keep- 
 ing him and his companions alive. As miserable 
 is that of some savage Islander, who, when the 
 land has ceased to afford him sustenance, watches 
 for food which the waves may cast up, or in vain 
 endeavours to extract it from the inexplorable 
 deep. But neither of these is in a state of wretch- 
 edness comparable to that, which is so often 
 endured in civilised society : multitudes, in all 
 ages, have known it, of whom may be said : — 
 
 ' Homeless, near a thousand homes they stood, 
 And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food.' 
 
 Justly might I be accused of wasting time 
 in an uncalled-for attempt to excite the feel- 
 ings of the reader, if systems of political economy, 
 widely spread, did not impugn the principle, and 
 if the safeguards against such extremities were 
 left unimpaired. It is broadly asserted by many, 
 that every man who endeavours to find work, may 
 find it : were this assertion capable of being veri- 
 fied, there still would remain a question, what 
 kind of work, and how far may the labourer be 
 fit for it ? For if sedentary work is to be exchanged 
 for standing ; and some light and nice exercise of 
 the fingers, to which an artisan has been accus- 
 tomed all his life, for severe labour of the arms ; 
 the best efforts would turn to little account, and 
 occasion would be given for the unthinking and 
 the unfeeling unwarrantably to reproach those 
 who are put upon such employment, as idle, 
 froward, and unworthy of relief, either by law 
 or in any other way ! Were this statement 
 correct, there would indeed be an end of the 
 argument, the principle here maintained would 
 be superseded. But, alas! it is far otherwise. 
 That principle, applicable to the benefit of all 
 countries, is indispensable for England, upon whose 
 coast families are perpetually deprived of their 
 support by shipwreck, and where large masses 
 of men are so liable to be thrown out of their 
 ordinary means of gaining bread, by changes in 
 commercial intercourse, subject mainly or solely 
 to the will of foreign powers ; by new discoveries 
 in arts and manufactures ; and by reckless laws, 
 in conformity with theories of political economy, 
 which, whether right or wrong in the abstract, 
 have proved a scourge to tens of thousands, by 
 the abruptness with which they have been carried 
 into practice. 
 
 But it is urged, — refuse altogether compulsory 
 relief to the able-bodied, and the number of those 
 who stand in need of relief will steadily diminish 
 through a conviction of an absolute necessity for 
 
 greater forethought, and more prudent care of a 
 man's earnings. Undoubtedly it would, but so also 
 would it, and in a much greater degree, if the 
 legislative provisions were retained, and parochial 
 relief administered under the care of the upper 
 classes, as it ought to be. For it has been invaria- 
 bly found, that wherever the funds have been 
 raised and applied under the superintendence of 
 gentlemen and substantial proprietors, acting in 
 vestries, and as overseers, pauperism has diminished 
 accordingly. Proper care in that quarter would 
 effectually check what is felt in some districts to 
 be one of the worst evils in the poor law system, 
 viz. the readiness of small and needy proprietors 
 to join in imposing rates that seemingly subject 
 them to great hardships, while, in fact, this is done 
 with a mutual understanding, that the relief each 
 is ready to bestow upon his still poorer neighbours 
 will be granted to himself, or his relatives, should 
 it hereafter be applied for. 
 
 But let us look to inner sentiments of a nobler 
 quality, in order to know what we have to build 
 upon. Affecting proofs occur in every one's 
 experience, who is acquainted with the unfortunate 
 and the indigent, of their unwillingness to derive 
 their subsistence from aught but their own funds 
 or labour, or to be indebted to parochial assistance 
 for the attainment of any object, however dear to 
 them. A case was reported, the other day, from a 
 coroner's inquest, of a pair who, through the space 
 of four years, had carried about their dead infant 
 from house to house, and from lodging to lodging, 
 as then; necessities drove them, rather than ask 
 the parish to bear the expense of its interment : — 
 the poor creatures lived in the hope of one day 
 being able to bury their child at their own cost. 
 It must have been heart-rending to see and hear 
 the mother, who had been called upon to account 
 for the state in which the body was found, make 
 this deposition. By some, judging coldly, if not 
 harshly, this conduct might be imputed to an 
 unwarrantable pride, as she and her husband had, 
 it is true, been once in prosperity. But examples, 
 where the spirit of independence works with equal 
 strength, though not with like miserable accom- 
 paniments, are frequently to be found even yet 
 among the humblest peasantry and mechanics. 
 There is not, then, sufficient cause for doubting 
 that a like sense of honour may be revived among 
 the people, and their ancient habits of independence 
 restored, without resorting to those severities which 
 the new Poor Law Act has introduced. 
 
 But even if the surfaces of things only are to be 
 examined, we have a right to expect that lawgivers 
 
684 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 should take into account the various tempers and 
 dispositions of mankind: while some are led, by 
 the existence of a legislative provision, into idle- 
 ness and extravagance, the economical virtues 
 might be cherished in others by the knowledge 
 that, if all their efforts fail, they have in the Poor 
 Laws a ' refuge from the storm and a shadow from 
 the heat.' Despondency and distraction are no 
 friends to prudence : the springs of industry will 
 relax, if cheerfulness be destroyed by anxiety ; 
 without hope men become reckless, and have a 
 sullen pride in adding to the heap of their own 
 wretchedness. He who feels that he is abandoned 
 by his fellow-men will be almost irresistibly driven 
 to care little for himself ; will lose his self-respect 
 accordingly, and with that loss what remains to 
 him of virtue 2 
 
 With all due deference to the particular expe- 
 rience, and general intelligence of the individuals 
 who framed the Act, and of those who in and out 
 of parliament have approved of and supported it ; 
 it may be said, that it proceeds too much upon the 
 presumption that it is a labouring man's own fault 
 if he be not, as the phrase is, beforehand with the 
 world. But the most prudent are liable to be 
 thrown back by sickness, cutting them off from 
 labour, and causing to them expense : and who 
 but has observed how distress creeps upon multi- 
 tudes without misconduct of their own ; and merely 
 from a gradual fall in the price of labour, without 
 a correspondent one in the price of provisions ; so 
 that men who may have ventured upon the marriage 
 state with a fair prospect of maintaining their 
 families in comfort and happiness, see them reduced 
 to a pittance which no effort of theirs can increase ? 
 Let it be remembered, also, that there are thousands 
 with whom vicious habits of expense are not the 
 cause why they do not store up their gains ; but 
 they are generous and kind-hearted, and ready to 
 help their kindred and friends; moreover, they 
 have a faith in Providence that those who have 
 been prompt to assist others, will not be left 
 destitute, should they themselves come to need. 
 By acting from these blended feelings, numbers 
 have rendered themselves incapable of standing 
 up against a sudden reverse. Nevertheless, these 
 men, in common with all who have the misfortune 
 to be in want, if many theorists had their wish, 
 would be thrown upon one or other of those three 
 sharp points of condition before adverted to, from 
 which the intervention of law has hitherto saved 
 them. 
 
 All that has been said tends to show how the 
 principle contended for makes the gift of life more 
 
 valuable, and has, it may be hoped, led to the con- 
 clusion that its legitimate operation is to make men 
 worthier of that gift : in other words, not to degrade 
 but to exalt human nature. But the subject must 
 not be dismissed without adverting to the indirect 
 influence of the same principle upon the moral 
 sentiments of a people among whom it is embodied 
 in law. In our criminal jurisprudence there is a 
 maxim, deservedly eulogised, that it is better that 
 ten guilty persons should escape, than that one 
 innocent man should suffer ; so, also, might it be 
 maintained, with regard to the Poor Laws, that it 
 is better for the interests of humanity among the 
 people at large, that ten undeserving should partake 
 of the funds provided, than that one morally good 
 man, through want of relief, should either have his 
 principles corrupted, or his energies destroyed; 
 than that such a one should either be driven to do 
 wrong, or be cast to the earth in utter hopelessness. 
 In France, the English maxim of criminal juris- 
 prudence is reversed ; there, it is deemed better 
 that ten innocent men should suffer, than one guilty 
 escape : in France, there is no universal provision 
 for the poor; and we may judge of the small 
 value set upon human life in the metropolis of that 
 country, by merely noticing the disrespect with 
 which, after death, the body is treated, not by the 
 thoughtless vulgar, but in schools of anatomy, 
 presided over by men allowed to be, in their own 
 art and in physical science, among the most 
 enlightened in the world. In the East, where 
 countries are overrun with population as with a 
 weed, infinitely more respect is shown to the 
 remains of the deceased ; and what a bitter mockery 
 is it, that this insensibility should be found where 
 civil polity is so busy in minor regulations, and 
 ostentatiously careful to gratify the luxurious 
 propensities, whether social or intellectual, of the 
 multitude ! Irreligion is, no doubt, much concerned 
 with this offensive disrespect, shown to the bodies of 
 the dead in France ; but it is mainly attributable to 
 the state in which so many of the living are left by 
 the absence of compulsory provision for the indigent 
 so humanely established by the law of England. 
 
 Sights of abject misery, perpetually recurring, 
 harden the heart of the community. In the perusal 
 of history, and of works of fiction, we are not, 
 indeed, unwilling to have our commiseration ex- 
 cited by such objects of distress as they present to 
 us ; but, in the concerns of real life, men know 
 that such emotions are not given to be indulged 
 for their own sakes : there, the conscience de- 
 clares to them that sympathy must be followed by 
 action ; and if there exist a previous conviction 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 685 
 
 that the power to relieve is utterly inadequate to 
 the demand, the eye shrinks from communication 
 with wretchedness, and pity and compassion 
 languish, like any other qualities that are deprived 
 of their natural aliment. Let these considera- 
 tions be duly weighed by those who trust to the 
 hope that an increase of private charity, with all 
 its advantages of superior discrimination, would 
 more than compensate for the abandonment of 
 those principles, the wisdom of which has been 
 here insisted upon. How discouraging, also, would 
 be the sense of injustice, which could not fail 
 to arise in the minds of the well-disposed, if the 
 burden of supporting the poor, a burden of which 
 the selfish have hitherto by compulsion borne a 
 share, should now, or hereafter, be thrown exclu- 
 sively upon the benevolent. 
 
 By having put an end to the Slave Trade and 
 Slavery, the British people are exalted in the 
 scale of humanity ; and they cannot but feel so, 
 if they look into themselves, and duly consider 
 their relation to God and their fellow-creatures. 
 That was a noble advance ; but a retrograde 
 movement will assuredly be made, if ever the 
 principle, which has been here defended, should 
 be either avowedly abandoned or but ostensibly 
 retained. 
 
 But after all, there may be a little reason to 
 apprehend permanent injury from any experiment 
 that may be tried. On the one side will be 
 human nature rising up hi her own defence, and 
 on the other prudential selfishness acting to the 
 same purpose, from a conviction that, without a 
 compulsory provision for the exigencies of the 
 labouring multitude, that degree of ability to re- 
 gulate the price of labour, which is indispensable 
 for the reasonable interest of arts and manufac- 
 tures, cannot, in Great Britain, be upheld. 
 
 II. In a poem of the foregoing collection, allusion 
 is made to the state of the workmen congregated in 
 manufactories. In order to relieve many of the 
 evils to which that class of society are subject and 
 to establish a better harmony between them and 
 their employers, it would be well to repeal such 
 laws as prevent the formation of joint-stock com- 
 panies. There are, no doubt, many and great 
 obstacles to the formation and salutary working of 
 these societies, inherent in the mind of those whom 
 they would obviously benefit. But the combina- 
 tions of masters to keep down, unjustly, the price 
 of labour would be fairly checked by them, as 
 far as they were practicable ; they would encourage 
 economy, inasmuch as they would enable a man to 
 
 draw profit from hi3 savings, by investing them in 
 buildings or machinery for processes of manufacture 
 with which he was habitually connected. His little 
 capital would then be working for him while he was 
 at rest or asleep ; he would more clearly perceive 
 the necessity of capital for carrying on great 
 works ; he would better learn to respect the 
 larger portions of it in the hands of others ; he 
 would be less tempted to join in unjust combina- 
 tions ; and, for the sake of his own property, if 
 not for higher reasons, he would be slow to pro- 
 mote local disturbance, or endanger public tran- 
 quillity ; he would, at least, be loth to act in that 
 way knowingly : for it is not to be denied that 
 such societies might be nurseries of opinions 
 unfavourable to a mixed constitution of govern- 
 ment, like that of Great Britain. The democratic 
 and republican spirit which they might be apt to 
 foster would not, however, be dangerous in itself, 
 but only as it might act without being sufficiently 
 counterbalanced, either by landed proprietorship, 
 or by a Church extending itself so as to embrace 
 an ever-growing and ever-shifting population of 
 mechanics and artisans. But if the tendencies of 
 such societies would be to make the men prosper 
 who might belong to them, rulers and legislators 
 should rejoice in the result, and do their duty to 
 the state by upholding and extending the influence 
 of that Church to which it owes, in so great a 
 measure, its safety, its prosperity, and its glory. 
 
 This, in the temper of the present times, may 
 be difficult, but it is become indispensable, since 
 large towns in great numbers have sprung up, and 
 others have increased tenfold, with little or no 
 dependence upon the gentry and the landed pro- 
 prietors ; and apart from those mitigated feudal 
 institutions, which, till of late, have acted so 
 powerfully upon the composition of the House of 
 Commons. Now it may be affirmed that, in quar- 
 ters where there is not an attachment to the 
 Church, or the landed aristocracy, and a pride in 
 supporting them, there the people will dislike 
 both, and be ready, upon such incitements as are 
 perpetually recurring, to join in attempts to over- 
 throw them. There is no neutral ground here : 
 from want of due attention to the state of society 
 in large towns and manufacturing districts, and 
 ignorance or disregard of these obvious truths, innu- 
 merable well-meaning persons became zealous sup- 
 porters of a Reform Bill, the qualities and powers 
 of which, whether destructive or constructive, 
 they would otherwise have been afraid of; and even 
 the framers of that bill, swayed as they might be 
 by party resentments and personal ambition, 
 
686 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 could not have gone so far, had not they too been 
 lamentably ignorant or neglectful of the same 
 truths both of fact and philosophy. 
 
 But let that pass ; and let no opponent of the 
 bill be tempted to compliment his own foresight, 
 by exaggerating the mischiefs and dangers that 
 have sprung from it : let not time be wasted in 
 j profitless regrets ; and let those party distinctions 
 vanish to their very names that have separated 
 men who, whatever course they may have pur- 
 sued, have ever had a bond of union in the wish 
 to save the limited monarchy, and those other 
 institutions that have, under Providence, ren- 
 dered for so long a period of time this country the 
 happiest and worthiest of which there is any record 
 since the foundation of civil society. 
 
 III. A philosophic mind is best pleased when 
 looking at religion in its spiritual bearing ; as a 
 guide of conduct, a solace under affliction, and a 
 support amid the instabilities of mortal life : but 
 the Church having been forcibly brought by poli- 
 tical considerations to my notice, while treat- 
 ing of the labouring classes, I cannot forbear 
 saying a few words upon that momentous topic. 
 
 There is a loud clamour for extensive change in 
 that department. The clamour would be entitled 
 to more respect if they who are the most eager to 
 swell it with their voices were not generally the 
 most ignorant of the real state of the Church, and 
 the service it renders to the community. Reform 
 is the word employed. Let us pause and consider 
 what sense it is apt to carry, and how things are 
 confounded by a lax use of it. The great religious 
 Reformation, in the sixteenth century, did not 
 profess to be a new construction, but a restoration 
 of something fallen into decay, or put out of sight. 
 That familiar and justifiable use of the word seems 
 to have paved the way for fallacies with respect to 
 the term reform, which it is difficult to escape from. 
 Were we to speak of improvement, and the cor- 
 rection of abuses, we should run less risk of being 
 deceived ourselves, or of misleading others. We 
 should be less likely to fall blindly into the belief, 
 that the change demanded is a renewal of some- 
 thing that has existed before, and that, therefore, 
 we have experience on our side ; nor should we 
 be equally tempted to beg the question, that the 
 change for which we are eager must be advan- 
 tageous. From generation to generation, men are 
 the dupes of words ; and it is painful to observe, 
 that so many of our species are most tenacious of 
 those opinions which they have formed with the 
 least consideration. They who are the readiest to 
 
 1 
 
 meddle with public affairs, whether in church or 
 state, fly to generalities, that they may be eased 
 from the trouble of thinking about particulars ; and 
 thus is deputed to mechanical instrumentality the 
 work which vital knowledge only can do well. 
 
 K Abolish pluralities, have a resident incumbent 
 in every parish," is a favourite cry ; but, without 
 adverting to other obstacles in the way of this 
 specious scheme, it may be asked what benefit 
 would accrue from its indiscriminate, adoption to 
 counterbalance the harm it would introduce, by 
 nearly extinguishing the order of curates, unless 
 the revenues of the church should grow with the 
 population, and be greatly increased in many 
 thinly peopled districts, especially among the 
 parishes of the North. 
 
 The order of curates is so beneficial, that some 
 particular notice of it seems to be required in this 
 place. For a church poor as, relatively to the 
 numbers of people, that of England is, and pro- 
 bably will continue to be, it is no small advantage 
 to have youthful servants, who will work upon the 
 wages of hope and expectation. Still more advan- 
 tageous is it to have, by means of this order, young 
 men scattered over the country, who being more 
 detached from the temporal concerns of the bene- 
 fice, have more leisure for improvement and study, 
 and are less subject to be brought into secular 
 collision with those who are under their spiritual 
 guardianship. The curate, if he reside at a distance 
 from the incumbent, undertakes the requisite 
 responsibilities of a temporal kind, in that modified 
 way which prevents him, as a new-comer, from 
 being charged with selfishness : while it prepares 
 him for entering upon a benefice of his own, with 
 something of a suitable experience. If he should 
 act under and in co-operation with a resident 
 incumbent, the gain is mutual. His studies will 
 probably be assisted ; and his training, managed 
 by a superior, will not be liable to relapse in matters 
 of prudence, seemliness, or in any of the highest 
 cares of his functions ; and by way of return for 
 these benefits to the pupil, it will often happen 
 that the zeal of a middle-aged or declining incum- 
 bent will be revived, by being in near communion 
 with the ardour of youth, when his own efforts may 
 have languished through a melancholy conscious- 
 ness that they have not produced as much good 
 among his flock as, when he first entered upon the 
 charge, he fondly hoped. 
 
 Let one remark, and that not the least im- 
 portant, be added. A curate, entering for the 
 first time upon his office, comes from college after 
 a course of expense, and with such inexperience in 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 the use of money, that, in his new situation, he is 
 apt to fall unawares into pecuniary difficulties. If 
 this happens to him, much more likely is it to 
 happen to the youthful incumbent ; whose relations, 
 to his parishioners and to society, are more com- 
 plicated ; and, his income being larger and indepen- 
 dent of another, a costlier style of living is required 
 of him by public opinion. If embarrassment should 
 ensue, and with that unavoidably some loss of 
 respectability, his future usefulness will be propor- 
 tionably impaired : not so with the curate, for he 
 can easily remove and start afresh with a stock of 
 experience and an unblemished reputation ; whereas 
 the early indiscretions of an incumbent being rarely 
 forgotten, may be impediments to the efficacy of 
 his ministry for the remainder of his life. The 
 same observations would apply with equal force to 
 doctrine. A young minister is liable to errors, 
 from his notions being either too lax or overstrained. 
 In both cases it would prove injurious that the 
 error should be remembered, after study and re- 
 flection, with advancing years, shall have brought 
 him to a clearer discernment of the truth, and 
 better judgment in the application of it. 
 
 It must be acknowledged that, among the regu- 
 lations of ecclesiastical polity, none at first view 
 are more attractive than that which prescribes for 
 every parish a resident incumbent. How agreeable 
 to picture to one's self, as has been done by poets 
 and romance-writers, from Chaucer down to 
 Goldsmith, a man devoted to his ministerial office, 
 with not a wish or a thought ranging beyond the 
 circuit of its cares ! Nor is it in poetry and fiction 
 only that such characters are found ; they are 
 scattered, it is hoped not sparingly, over real life, 
 especially in sequestered and rural districts, where 
 there is but small influx of new inhabitants, and 
 little change of occupation. The spirit of the 
 Gospel, unaided by acquisitions of profane learning 
 and experience in the world,— that spirit, and the 
 obligations of the sacred office may, in such situa- 
 tions, suffice to effect most of what is needful. 
 But for the complex state of society that prevails 
 in England, much more is required, both in large 
 towns, and in many extensive districts of the 
 country. A minister there should not only be 
 irreproachable in maimers and morals, but accom- 
 plished in learning, as far as is possible without 
 sacrifice of the least of his pastoral duties. As 
 necessary, perhaps more so, is it that he should be 
 a citizen aswell as a scholar ; thoroughly acquainted 
 with the structure of society, and the constitution 
 of civil government, and able to reason upon both 
 with the most expert ; all ultimately in order to 
 
 support the truths of Christianity, and to diffuse 
 its blessings. 
 
 A young man coming fresh from the place of 
 his education, cannot have brought with him these 
 accomplishments ; and if the scheme of equalising 
 church incomes, which many advisers are much 
 bent upon, be realised, so that there should be 
 little or no secular inducement for a clergyman to 
 desire a removal from the spot where he may 
 chance to have been first set down ; surely not 
 only opportunities for obtaining the requisite qua- 
 lifications would be diminished, but the motives 
 for desiring to obtain them would be proportionably 
 weakened. And yet these qualifications are indis- 
 pensable for the diffusion of that knowledge, by 
 which alone the political philosophy of the New 
 Testament can be rightly expounded, and its 
 precepts adequately enforced. In these times, 
 when the press is daily exercising so great a power 
 over the minds of the people, for wrong or for 
 right as may happen, that preacher ranks among 
 the first of benefactors who, without stooping to 
 the direct treatment of current politics and passing 
 events, can furnish infallible guidance through the 
 delusions that surround them ; and who, appealing 
 to the sanctions of Scripture, may place the grounds 
 of its injunctions in so clear a light, that disaffec- 
 tion shall cease to be cultivated as a laudable 
 propensity, and loyalty cleansed from the dishonour 
 of a blind and prostrate obedience. 
 
 It is not, however, in regard to civic duties 
 alone, that this knowledge in a minister of the 
 Gospel is important ; it is still more so for softening 
 and subduing private and personal discontents. 
 In all places, and at all times, men have gra- 
 tuitously troubled themselves, because their sur- 
 vey of the dispensations of Providence has been 
 partial and narrow ; but now that readers are so 
 greatly multiplied, men judge as they are taught, 
 and repinings are engendered every where, by 
 imputations being cast upon the government ; and 
 are prolonged or aggravated by being ascribed to 
 misconduct or injustice in rulers, when the indi- 
 vidual himself only is in fault. If a Christian 
 pastor be competent to deal with these humours, 
 as they may be dealt with, and by no members of 
 society so successfully, both from more frequent 
 and more favourable opportunities of intercourse, 
 and by aid of the authority with which he speaks ; 
 he will be a teacher of moderation, a dispenser of 
 the wisdom that blunts approaching distress by 
 submission to God's will, and lightens, by patience, 
 grievances which cannot be removed. 
 
 We live in times when nothing, of public good 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 at least, is generally acceptable, but what we 
 believe can be traced to preconceived intention, 
 and specific acts and formal contrivances of human 
 understanding. A Christian instructor thoroughly 
 accomplished would be a standing restraint upon 
 such presumptuousness of judgment, by impressing 
 the truth that — 
 
 In the unreasoning progress of the world 
 A wiser spirit is at work for us, 
 • A better eye than ours. MS. 
 
 Revelation points to the purity and peace of a 
 future world; but our sphere of duty is upon 
 earth ; and the relations of impure and conflicting 
 things to each other must be understood, or we 
 shall be perpetually going wrong, in all but goodness 
 of intention ; and goodness of intention will itself 
 relax through frequent disappointment. How 
 desirable, then, is it, that a minister of the Gospel 
 should be versed in the knowledge of existing facts, 
 and be accustomed to a wide range of social ex- 
 perience ! Nor is it less desirable for the purpose 
 of counterbalancing and tempering in his own 
 mind that ambition with which spiritual power is 
 as apt to be tainted as any other species of power 
 which men covet or possess. 
 
 It must be obvious that the scope of the argu- 
 ment is to discourage an attempt which would 
 introduce into the Church of England an equality 
 of income, and station, upon the model of that of 
 Scotland. The sounder part of the Scottish nation 
 know what good their ancestors derived from their 
 church, and feel how deeply the living generation 
 is indebted to it. They respect and love it, as ac- 
 commodated in so great a measure to a compara- 
 tively poor country, through the far greater 
 portion of which prevails a uniformity of employ- 
 ment ; but the acknowledged deficiency of theo- 
 logical learning among the clergy of that church is 
 easily accounted for by this very equality. What 
 else may be wanting there, it would be unpleasant 
 to inquire, and might prove invidious to determine : 
 one thing, however, is clear ; that in all countries 
 the temporalities of the Church Establishment 
 should bear an analogy to the state of society, 
 otherwise it cannot diffuse its influence through 
 the whole community. In a country so rich and 
 luxurious as England, the character of its clergy 
 must unavoidably sink, and their influence be 
 every where impaired, if individuals from the 
 upper ranks, and men of leading talents, are to 
 have no inducements to enter into that body but 
 such as are purely spiritual. And this ' tinge of 
 secularity ' is no reproach to the clergy, nor does 
 
 it imply a deficiency of spiritual endowments. 
 Parents and guardians, looking forward to sources 
 of honourable maintenance for their children and 
 wards, often direct their thoughts early towards 
 the church, being determined partly by outward 
 circumstances, and partly by indications of serious- 
 ness, or intellectual fitness. It is natural that a 
 boy or youth, with such a prospect before him, 
 should turn his attention to those studies, and be 
 led into those habits of reflection, which will hi 
 some degree tend to prepare him for the duties 
 he is hereafter to undertake. As he draws nearer 
 to the time when he will be called to these duties, 
 he is both led and compelled to examine the 
 Scriptures. He becomes more and more sensible 
 of then' truth. Devotion grows in him ; and what 
 might begin in temporal considerations, will end 
 (as in a majority of instances we trust it does) in a 
 spiritual-mindedness not unworthy of that Gospel, 
 the lessons of which he is to teach, and the faith of 
 which he is to inculcate. Not inappositely may be 
 here repeated an observation which, from its ob- 
 viousness and importance, must have been fre- 
 quently made, viz. that the impoverishing of the 
 clergy, and bringing their incomes much nearer 
 to a level, would not cause them to become less 
 worldly-minded : the emoluments, howsoever re- 
 duced, would be as eagerly sought for, but by men 
 from lower classes in society ; men who, by their 
 manners, habits, abilities, and the scanty measure 
 of their attainments, would unavoidably be less 
 fitted for their station, and less competent to 
 discharge its duties. 
 
 Visionary notions have in all ages been afloat 
 upon the subject of best providing for the clergy ; 
 notions which have been sincerely entertained by 
 good men, with a view to the improvement of that 
 order, and eagerly caught at and dwelt upon, by the 
 designing, for its degradation and disparagement. 
 Some are beguiled by what they call the voluntary 
 system, not seeing (what stares one in the face at 
 the very threshold) that they who stand in most 
 need of religious instruction are unconscious of 
 the want, and therefore cannot reasonably be ex- 
 pected to make any sacrifices in order to supply 
 it. Will the licentious, the sensual, and the de- 
 praved, take from the means of their gratifications 
 and pursuits, to support a discipline that cannot 
 advance without uprooting the trees that bear the 
 fruit which they devour so greedily ? Will they 
 pay the price of that seed whose harvest is to be 
 reaped in an invisible world 1 A voluntary system 
 for the religious exigencies of a people numerous 
 and circumstanced as we are ! Not more absurd 
 
APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 689 
 
 would it be to expect that a knot of boys should 
 draw upon the pittance of their pocket-money to 
 build schools, or out of the abundance of their dis- 
 cretion be able to select fit masters to teach and 
 keep them in order ! Some, who clearly perceive 
 the incompetence and folly of such a scheme for 
 the agricultural part of the people, nevertheless 
 think it feasible in large towns, where the rich 
 might subscribe for the religious instruction of the 
 poor. Alas ! they know little of the thick dark- 
 ness that spreads over the streets and alleys of our 
 large towns. The parish of Lambeth, a few years 
 since, contained not more than one church and three 
 or four small proprietary chapels, while dissenting 
 chapels, of every denomination were still more scan- 
 tily found there ; yet the inhabitants of the parish 
 amounted at that time to upwards of 50,000. Were 
 the parish church and the chapels of the Establish- 
 ment existing there, an impediment to the spread 
 of the Gospel among that mass of people 1 Who 
 shall dare to say so ? But if any one, in the face 
 of the fact which has just been stated, and in op- 
 position to authentic reports to the same effect 
 from various other quarters, should still contend, 
 that a voluntary system is sufficient for the spread 
 and maintenance of religion, we would ask, what 
 kind of religion? wherein would it differ, among 
 the many, from deplorable fanaticism % 
 
 For the preservation of the Church Establish- 
 ment, all men, whether they belong to it or not, 
 could they perceive their true interest, would be 
 strenuous : but how inadequate are its provisions 
 for the needs of the country ! and how much is it 
 to be regretted that, while its zealous friends yield 
 to alarms on account of the hostility of dissent, 
 they should so much over-rate the danger to be 
 apprehended from that quarter, and almost over- 
 look the fact that hundreds of thousands of our 
 feUow-countrymen, though formally and nominally 
 of the Church of England, never enter her places 
 of worship, neither have they communication with 
 her ministers ! This deplorable state of things 
 was partly produced by a decay of zeal among the 
 rich and influential, and partly by a want of due 
 expansive power in the constitution of the Estab- 
 lishment as regulated by law. Private benefactors, 
 in their efforts to build and endow churches, have 
 been frustrated, or too much impeded by legal 
 obstacles : these, where they are unreasonable or 
 unfitted for the times, ought to be removed ; and, 
 keeping clear of intolerance and injustice, means 
 should be used to render the presence and powers 
 of the church commensurate with the wants of a 
 shifting and still-increasing population. 
 
 This cannot be effected, unless the English 
 Government vindicate the truth, that, as her 
 church exists for the benefit of all (though not in 
 equal degree), whether of her communion or not, 
 all should be made to contribute to its support. 
 If this ground be abandoned, cause will be given to 
 fear that a moral wound may be inflicted upon 
 the heart of the English people, for which a remedy 
 cannot be speedily provided by the utmost efforts 
 which the members of the Church will themselves 
 be able to make. 
 
 But let the friends of the church be of good 
 courage. Powers are at work, by which, under 
 Divine Providence, she may be strengthened and 
 the sphere of her usefulness extended ; not by 
 alterations in her Liturgy, accommodated to this 
 or that demand of finical taste, nor by cutting off 
 this or that from her articles or Canons, to which 
 the scrupulous or the overweening may object. 
 Covert schism, and open nonconformity, would 
 survive after alterations, however promising in 
 the eyes of those whose subtilty had been exercised 
 in making them. Latitudinarianism is the par- 
 helion of liberty of conscience, and will ever 
 successfully lay claim to a divided worship. 
 Among Presbyterians, Socinians, Baptists, and 
 Independents, there will always be found numbers 
 who will tire of their several creeds, and some 
 will come over to the Church. Conventicles may 
 disappear, congregations in each denomination 
 may fall into decay or be broken up, but the con- 
 quests which the National Church ought chiefly to 
 aim at, lie among the thousands and tens of thou- 
 sands of the unhappy outcasts who grow up with 
 no religion at all. The wants of these cannot 
 but be feelingly remembered. Whatever may be 
 the disposition of the new constituencies under 
 the reformed parliament, and the course which 
 the men of their choice may be inclined or com- 
 pelled to follow, it may be confidently hoped that 
 individuals acting in their private capacities, will 
 endeavour to make up for the deficiencies of the 
 legislature. Is it too much to expect that pro- 
 prietors of large estates, where the inhabitants 
 are without religious instruction, or where it is 
 sparingly supplied, will deem it their duty to take 
 part in this good work ; and that thriving manu- 
 facturers and merchants will, in their several 
 neighbourhoods, be sensible of the like obligation, 
 and act upon it with generous rivalry ? 
 
 Moreover, the force of public opinion is rapidly 
 increasing : and some may bend to it, who are not 
 so happy as to be swayed by a higher motive ; 
 especially they who derive large incomes from 
 
690 
 
 APPENDIX, PREFACES, &c. 
 
 lay-inipropriations, in tracts of country where 
 ministers are few and meagrely provided for. 
 A claim still stronger may be acknowledged by 
 those who, round their superb habitations, or else- 
 where, walk over vast estates which were lavished 
 upon their ancestors by royal favouritism or pur- 
 chased at insignificant prices after church-spo- 
 liation ; such proprietors, though not conscience- 
 stricken (there is no call for that) may be 
 prompted to make a return for which their tenantry 
 and dependents will learn to bless their names. 
 An impulse has been given ; an accession of means 
 from these several sources, co-operating with a 
 we^-considered change in the distribution of some 
 parts of the property at present possessed by the 
 church, a change scrupulously founded upon due 
 respect to law and justice, will, we trust, bring 
 about so much of what her friends desire, that the 
 rest may be calmly waited for, with thankfulness 
 for what shall have been obtained. 
 
 Let it not be thought unbecoming in a layman, 
 to have treated at length a subject with which the 
 clergy are more intimately conversant. All may, 
 without impropriety, speak of what deeply concerns 
 all ; nor need an apology be offered for going over 
 ground which has been trod before so ably and so 
 often : without pretending, however, to any thing 
 of novelty, either in matter or manner, something 
 may have been offered to view, which will save the 
 writer from the imputation of having little to re- 
 commend his labour, but goodness of intention. 
 
 It was with reference to thoughts and feelings 
 expressed in verse, that I entered upon the above 
 notices, and with verse I will conclude. The 
 passage is extracted from my MSS. written above 
 thirty years ago : it turns upon the individual 
 dignity which humbleness of social condition does 
 not preclude, but frequently promotes. It has no 
 direct bearing upon clubs for the discussion of 
 public affairs, nor upon political or trade-unions ; 
 but if a single workman — who, being a member of 
 one of those clubs, runs the risk of becoming an 
 agitator, or who, being enrolled in a union, must 
 be left without a will of his own, and therefore a 
 slave — should read these lines, and be touched 
 by them, I should indeed rejoice, and little 
 would I care for losing credit as a poet with 
 intemperate critics, who think differently from me 
 upon political philosophy or public measures, if the 
 
 sober-minded admit that, in general views, my 
 affections have been moved, and my imagination 
 exercised, under and for the guidance of reason. 
 
 ' Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 
 
 To Nature, and the power of human minds; 
 
 To men as they are men within themselves. 
 
 How oft high service is performed within, 
 
 When all the external man is rude in show ; 
 
 Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 
 
 But a mere mountain chapel that protects 
 
 Its simple worshippers from sun and shower ! 
 
 Of these, said I, shall be my song ; of these, 
 
 If future years mature me for the task, 
 
 Will I record the praises, making verse 
 
 Deal boldly with substantial things — in truth 
 
 And sanctity of passion, speak of these, 
 
 That justice may be done, obeisance paid 
 
 Where it is due. Thus haply shall I teach 
 
 Inspire, through unadulterated ears 
 
 Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope ; my theme 
 
 No other than the very heart of man, 
 
 Astound among the best of those who live, 
 
 Not unexalted by religious faith, 
 
 Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few, 
 
 In Nature's presence : thence may I select 
 
 Sorrow that is not sorrow, but delight, 
 
 And miserable love that is not pain 
 
 To hear of, for the glory that redounds 
 
 Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. 
 
 Be mine to follow with no timid step 
 
 Where knowledge leads me ; it shall be my pride 
 
 That I have dared to tread this holy ground, 
 
 Speaking no dream, but things oracular, 
 
 Matter not lightly to be heard by those 
 
 Who to the letter of the outward promise 
 
 Do read the invisible soul ; by men adroit 
 
 In speech, and for communion with the world 
 
 Accomplished, minds whose faculties are then 
 
 Most active when they are most eloquent, 
 
 And elevated most when most admired. 
 
 Men may be found of other mould than these ; 
 
 Who are their own upholders, to themselves 
 
 Encouragement and energy, and will ; 
 
 Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words 
 
 As native passion dictates. Others, too, 
 
 There are, among the walks of homely life, 
 
 Still higher, men for contemplation framed ; 
 
 Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase; 
 
 Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink 
 
 Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse. 
 
 Their's is the language of the heavens, the power, 
 
 The thought, the image, and the silent joy : 
 
 Words are but under-agents in their souls ; 
 
 When they are grasping with their greatest strength 
 
 They do not breatheamong them ; thislspeak 
 
 In gratitude to God, who feeds our hearts 
 
 For his own service, knoweth, loveth us, 
 
 When we are unregarded by the world.' 
 
ADDITIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Giohdano, verily thy Pencil's skill 
 Hath here portrayed with Nature's happiest grace 
 The fair Endymion couched on Latmos-hill ; 
 And Dian gazing on the Shepherd's face 
 In rapture, — yet suspending her embrace, 
 As not unconscious with what power the thrill 
 Of her most timid touch his sleep would chase, 
 And, with his sleep, that beauty calm and still. 
 may this work have found its last retreat 
 Here in a mountain-Bard's secure abode, 
 One to whom, yet a School-boy, Cynthia showed 
 A face of love which he in love would greet, 
 Fixed, by her smile, upon some rocky seat ; 
 Or lured along where green-wood paths he trod. 
 Rydal Mount, 1846. 
 
 Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high 
 Travelling where she from time to time enshrouds 
 Her head, and nothing loth her Majesty 
 Eenounces, till among the scattered clouds 
 One with its kindling edge declares that soon 
 "Will reappear before the uplifted eye 
 A Form as bright, as beautiful a moon, 
 To glide in open prospect through clear sky. 
 Pity that such a promise e'er should prove 
 False in the issue, that yon seeming space 
 Of sky, should be in truth the steadfast face 
 Of a cloud fiat and dense, through which must 
 
 move, 
 (By transit not unlike man's frequent doom) 
 The wanderer lost in more determined gloom ! 
 
 1S46. 
 
 Where lies the truth? has Man, in wisdom's 
 
 creed 
 A pitiable doom ; for respite brief 
 A care more anxious, or a heavier grief? 
 Is he ungrateful, and doth little heed 
 God's bounty, soon forgotten ; or indeed, 
 Must Man, with labour born, awake to sorrow 
 When flowers rejoice and Larks with rival speed 
 Spring from their nests to bid the Sun good 
 
 They mount for rapture as their songs proclaim 
 Warbled in hearing both of earth and sky ; 
 But o'er the contrast wherefore heave a sigh ? 
 Like those aspirants let us soar — our aim, 
 Through life's worst trials, whether shocks or 
 
 snares, 
 A happier, brighter, purer Heaven than theirs. 
 
 1846. 
 
 ILLUSTEATED BOOKS AND NEWSPAPERS. 
 
 Discourse was deemed Man's noblest attribute, 
 And written words the glory of his hand ; 
 Then followed Printing with enlarged command 
 For thought — dominion vast and absolute 
 For spreading truth, and making love expand. 
 Now prose and verse sunk into disrepute 
 Must lacquey a dumb Art that best can suit 
 The taste of this once-intellectual Land. 
 A backward movement surely have we here, 
 From manhood — back to childhood ; for the age — 
 Back towards caverned life's first rude career. 
 Avaunt this vile abuse of pictured page ! 
 Must eyes be all in all, the tongue and ear 
 Nothing ? Heaven keep us from a lower stage ! 
 
 1846. 
 
 The unremitting voice of nightly streams 
 That waste so oft, we think, its tuneful powers, 
 If neither soothing to the worm that gleams 
 Through dewy grass, nor small birds hushed in 
 
 bowers, 
 Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy flowers, — 
 That voice of unpretending harmony 
 (For who what is shall measure by what seems 
 To be, or not to be, 
 Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?) 
 Once not a healing influence that can creep 
 Into the human breast, and mix with sleep 
 To regulate the motion of our dreams 
 For kindly issues — as through every clime 
 Was felt near murmuring brooks in earliest time ; 
 As at this day, the rudest swains who dwell 
 Where torrents roar, or hear the tinkling knell 
 Of water-breaks, with grateful heart could tell. 
 
 1846. 
 
 T T 2 
 
692 
 
 ADDITIONAL POEMS. 
 
 I know an aged Man constrained to dwell 
 In a large house of public charity, 
 Where he abides, as in a Prisoner's cell, 
 With numbers near, alas ! no company. 
 
 When he could creep about, at will, though poor 
 And forced to live on alms, this old Man fed 
 A Redbreast, one that to his cottage door 
 Came not, but in a lane partook his bread. 
 
 There, at the root of one particular tree, 
 An easy seat this worn-out Labourer found 
 While Robin pecked the crumbs upon his knee 
 Laid one by one, or scattered on the ground. 
 
 Dear intercourse was theirs, day after day ; 
 What signs of mutual gladness when they met ! 
 Think of their common peace, their simple play, 
 The parting moment and its fond regret. 
 
 Months passed in love that failed not to fulfil, 
 In spite of season's change, its own demand, 
 By fluttering pinions here and busy bill ; 
 There by caresses from a tremulous hand. 
 
 Thus in the chosen spot a tie so strong 
 
 Was formed between the solitary pair, 
 
 That when his fate had housed him mid a throng 
 
 The Captive shunned all converse proffered there. 
 
 Wife, children, kindred, they were dead and gone ; 
 But, if no evil hap his wishes crossed, 
 One living Stay was left, and on that one 
 Some recompense for all that he had lost. 
 
 that the good old Man had power to prove, 
 By message sent through air or visible token, 
 That still he loves the Bird, and still must love ; 
 That friendship lasts though fellowship is broken ! 
 
 TO AN OCTOGENARIAN. 
 
 Affections lose their objects ; Time brings forth 
 No successors ; and, lodged in memory, 
 If love exist no longer, it must die, — 
 Wanting accustomed food must pass from earth, 
 Or never hope to reach a second birth. 
 This sad belief, the happiest that is left 
 To thousands, share not thou ; howe'er bereft, 
 Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a dearth. 
 Though poor and destitute of friends thou art, 
 Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race, 
 One to whom Heaven assigns that mournful part 
 The utmost solitude of age to face, 
 Still shall be left some corner of the heart 
 Where Love for living Thing can find a place. 
 
 1846. 
 
 How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high 
 
 Her way pursuing among scattered clouds, 
 
 Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds 
 
 Hidden from view in dense obscurity. 
 
 But look, and to the watchful eye 
 
 A brightening edge will indicate that soon 
 
 We shall behold the struggling Moon 
 
 Break forth, — again to walk the clear blue sky. 
 
 Why should we weep or mourn,— Angelic boy, 
 
 For such thou wert ere from our sight removed, 
 
 Holy, and ever dutiful — beloved 
 
 From day to day with never-ceasing joy, 
 
 And hopes as dear as could the heart employ 
 
 In aught to earth pertaining 1 Death has proved 
 
 His might, nor less his mercy, as behoved — 
 
 Death conscious that he only could destroy 
 
 The bodily frame. That beauty is laid low 
 
 To moulder in a far-off field of Rome ; 
 
 But Heaven is now, blest Child, thy Spirit's home : 
 
 When such choice communion which we know, 
 
 Is felt, thy Roman-burial place will be 
 
 Surely a sweet remembrancer of Thee. 
 
 1840. 
 
INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 Acquittal of the Bishops, 32 
 Address to a Child during a boisterous 
 Winter's Evening, 55 
 
 — to my Infant Daughter, 130 
 
 — to the Scholars of the Village 
 School of ,433 
 
 — from the Spirit of Cocker- 
 mouth Castle, 349 
 
 Admonition, 197 
 
 Affections. Poems founded on the, 68 
 
 Affliction of Margaret . The, 84 
 
 Afllictions of England, 326 
 After-thought, 258 
 
 — (another poem), 292 
 
 Airey-Force Valley, 142 
 Aix-la-Chapelle, 256 
 Albano. At, 275 
 Alfred (King), 316 
 
 — His Descendants, 317 
 Alice Fell, or Poverty, 56 
 American Episcopacy, 329 
 
 — Tradition, 289 
 
 Anecdote for Fathers, 60 
 
 Animal Tranquillity and Decay, 429 
 
 Anticipation, October 1803, 240 
 
 — of leaving School. Con- 
 
 clusion of a poem in, 1 
 
 Apology (Eccles. Sonnets), 315 
 
 — (another poem), 323 
 
 — (Punishment of Death), 391 
 
 — (Tour in Scotland), 341 
 Applethwaite. At, 198 
 Aquapendente. Musings near, 270 
 Armenian Lady's Love. The, 101 
 Artegal and Elidure, 72 
 
 Aspects of Christianity in America, 
 
 328 
 Author's Portrait. To the, 213 
 Avon. The, 340 
 
 Banks of the Bran. Effusion on the, 
 233 
 
 — oftheNith,&c. Thoughts, 219 
 
 — of a Rocky Stream. Composed 
 on the, 208 
 
 — — — Onthe,415 
 Baptism, 330 
 
 Beaumont. Epistle to Sir George H. 
 392 
 
 ■ — Upon perusing the fore- 
 
 going, &c, 395 
 
 — To Lady, 206 
 
 Beautiful Picture. Upon the sight of 
 
 a, &c, 199 
 Beggars, 147 
 
 — Sequel to the foregoing, 148 
 Benefits. Other (Eccles. Sonnets), 320 
 Bible. Translation of the, 323 
 Bird of Paradise. Picture of the, 180 
 
 — — Upon seeing a 
 Drawing of the, 385 
 
 Black Comb. On the side of, 412 
 
 — View on the top of, 1 7 
 
 Blind Highland Boy, 227 
 Bologna. At ; The late Insurrections 
 
 1837, 387 
 Books, 467 
 
 Borderers. The ; A Tragedy, 24 
 Bothwell Castle, 340 
 Boulogne. On being Stranded near, 
 
 268 
 Breadalbane's, The Earl of, Ruined 
 
 Mansion, &c, 338 
 Brothers. The, 68 
 Brougham Castle. Song at the Feast 
 
 of, 158 
 Brownie. The, 340 
 Brownie's Cell. The, 231 
 Bruges, 255 
 
 — Incident at, 255 
 Burns. At the Grave of, 218 
 
 — To the Sons of, 220 
 Butterfly. To a, 54 
 
 — (another poem), 75 
 
 Calais. Composed by the Sea-side 
 near, 236 
 
 — (another poem), 236 
 
 — (another), 236 
 
 — (another), 237 
 
 — Fishwomen at, 255 
 Cambridge and the Alps, 474 
 Canute, 317 
 
 Canute and Alfred, on the Sea-shore, 
 
 375 
 Captivity ; Mary Queen of Scots, 208 
 Casual Incitements, 314 
 Catecbising, 330 
 Cathedrals, &c, 333 
 Catholic Cantons. Composed in one 
 
 of the, 258 
 Cave of Staffa, 355 
 
 — — Flowers, &c, 355 
 Celandine. To the Small, 119 
 
 Celandine. To the same Flower, 120 
 
 — (another poem), 428 
 Celebrated Event in Ancient History. 
 
 On a, 241 
 
 — — On the same sub- 
 ject, 241 
 
 Cenotaph. Frances Fermor, 432 
 Character. A, 362 
 Character of the Happy Warrior, 371 
 Characteristics of a Child, 55 
 Charles I. To the close of the 
 Troubles, &c, 319 
 
 — Troubles of, 326 
 Charles II., 327 
 
 Chaucer. Selections from ; modern- 
 ised, 416 
 
 Chichely, Archbishop, to Hen. V., 321 
 
 Child. To a ; written in her Album, 
 404 
 
 Childhood. Poems referring to, 54 
 
 — and School-Time, 445 
 Childless Father. The, 86 
 Church, to be erected, 333 
 Churchyard among the Mountains. 
 
 The, 580 
 Cistercian Monastery, 319 
 Clarkson, Thomas. To, 242 
 Clerical Integrity, 327 
 Clouds. To the, 179 
 Cockermouth. In sight of the Town 
 
 of, 349 
 Coleorton. Inscription in the Grounds 
 
 of, 411 
 
 — In a Garden of the same, 
 411 
 
 — For a Seat in the Groves 
 of, 411 
 
 — In the Grounds of, 438 
 Cologne. Cathedral of, 256 
 Commination Service. The, 331 
 Complaint. A, 79 
 
 — of a Forsaken Indian 
 Woman. The, 81 
 
 Conclusion (Eccles. Sonnets), 334 
 
 — (Miscell. Sonnets), 209 
 
 — (River Duddon), 291 
 
 — (Prelude), 521 
 Confirmation, 330 
 Congratulation, 332 
 Conjectures (Eccles. Sonnets), 312 
 Contrast. The ; Parrot and the Wren, 
 
 124 
 Convent in the Apennines. Ruins of 
 a, 279 
 
694 
 
 INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 Convent of Camaldoli. At the, 276 
 
 — (another poem), 276 
 Convention of Cintra, 242 
 
 — On the same occasion, 242 
 
 Conversion, 315 
 Cora Linn. Composed at, 232 
 
 Cordelia M . To, 360 
 
 Corruption of the Higher Clergy, 322 
 Cottager to her Infant. The, 85 
 Council of Clermont. The, 318 
 Countess' Pillar, 341 
 Cranmer, 324 
 Crusades, 318 
 Crusaders, 320 
 Cuckoo. To the, 141 
 
 — (another poem), 212 
 
 — At Laverna, 276 
 Cuckoo and the Nightingale, 419 
 Cuckoo Clock. The, 178 
 Cumberland. Coast of, 342 
 
 Daisy. To the, 117 
 
 — (another poem), 118 
 
 — (another), 365 
 
 — (another), 434 
 
 Daniel in the Lion's Den. Picture 
 
 of, 340 
 Danish Boy. The ; A Fragment, 124 
 Danish Conquests, 317 
 Danube. The Source of the, 257 
 Decay of Piety, 201 
 Dedication (Miscell. Sonnets), 197 
 
 ■ — (White Doe of Rylstone), 
 
 292 
 Derwent. To the River, 349 
 
 — To a Friend, on the 
 
 Banks of the, 349 
 Despondency, 547 
 DesDondency Corrected, 557 
 Desultory Stanzas, &c, 268 
 Detraction, On the, which followed 
 
 the publication of a certain poem, 
 
 200 
 Devotional Incitements, 177 
 Dion, 165 
 
 Discourse of the Wanderer, &c, 609 
 Dissensions, 314 
 Distractions, 325 
 Dog. Characteristic of a Favourite, 
 
 369 
 ■ — TotheMemoryofthesame,369 
 Dover. At, 268 
 
 — Near, 238 
 
 — Valley of, 268 
 
 — "Valley near, 237 
 Druidical Excommunications, 313 
 Duddon. The River; A Series of 
 
 Sonnets, 285 
 Dunolly Castle. On Revisiting, 354 
 Dyer, John. To the Poet, 200 
 
 Eagle. The Dunolly, 354 
 Eagles, 33 
 
 Early Spring. Lines written in, 362 
 Early Youth. Written in very, 1 
 Earth. Invocation to the, 436 
 Easter Sunday. On, 201 
 Ecclesiastical Sonnets, 312 
 Echo upon the Gcmmi, 265 
 Eclipse of the Sun, 1820. The, 263 
 Eden. The River, 357 
 
 Edward VI., 324 
 
 — Signing the Warrant for the 
 
 Execution of Joan of Kent, 324 
 Egyptian Maid. The; or The Romance 
 
 of the Water Lily, 281 
 Ejaculation, 334 
 Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of 
 
 Coleorton Hall, 438 
 
 — Stanzas. Frederick W r m. 
 Goddard, 266 
 
 — — to Sir G. H. B. upon 
 the Death of his Sister-in-Law, 
 437 
 
 — Verses. JohnWordsworth,435 
 Elizabeth, 325 
 
 Ellen Irwin, ortheBraesof Kirtle,221 
 Emigrant French Clergy, 332 
 Emigrant Mother. The, 87 
 Emma's Dell, 108 
 
 Engelberg, the Hill of the Angels, 259 
 English Reformers in Exile, 325 
 Enterprise. To, 167 
 Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces, 430 
 Epitaph in the Chapel-yard of Lang- 
 dale, 432 
 Epitaphs, from Chiabrera, 430 
 Evening of Extraordinary Splendour. 
 Upon an, 345 
 
 — Sailing in a Boat at, 6 
 
 — Voluntaries, 342 
 
 — Walk. An Evening ; Ad- 
 dressed to a Young Lady, 2 
 
 Excursion. The, 526 
 Expected Invasion. On the, 240 
 Expostulation and Reply, 361 
 
 Fact, A, and an Imagination, 373 
 Faery Chasm. The, 288 
 Fall of the Aar, Handec, 257 
 Fancy. Poems of the, 113 
 — and Tradition, 341 
 Farewell. A, 75 
 
 — Lines, 104 
 
 Farmer of Tilsbury Vale. The, 427 
 Fidelity, 370 
 Filial Piety, 213 
 
 Fishwomen, on landing at Calais, 255 
 
 Fleming. To the Lady ; on the 
 
 Foundation of Rydal Chapel, 399 
 
 — On the same occasion, 400 
 Floating Island, 398 
 
 Florence. At, 278 
 
 — At ; before the Picture of 
 the Baptist by Raphael, 278 
 
 — At ; from Michael Angelo, 
 279 
 
 — At ; from the same, 279 
 Flower Garden. A, 113 
 
 — — At Coleorton Hall, 
 
 113 
 Flowers, 287 
 
 — Cave of Staffa, 355 
 Force of Prayer. The, 372 
 Foresight, 54 
 
 Forms of Prayer at Sea, 331 
 
 Forsaken. The, 78 
 
 Fort Fuente3, 260 
 
 Fountain. The, 366 
 
 Fox. Mr. ; Lines on the expected 
 
 Death of, 386 
 French Army in Russia, 247 
 
 — same subject, 247 
 
 French Revolution, 161 
 
 French Revolution. In allusion to 
 
 recent Histories, &c, 386 
 French Royalist. Feelings of a, 250 
 
 — and Spanish Guerillas, 246 
 Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. In the, 353 
 
 — — On the, 354 
 Funeral Service, 331 
 Furness Abbey. At, 217 
 
 — — Same subject, 217 
 
 General Fast. On the late, 386 
 General Thanksgiving, 1816. Ode, 
 
 252 
 George III. On the Death of, 210 
 Germans on the Heights of Hock- 
 
 heim, 248 
 Germany. Written in, 364 
 Gipsies, 148 
 Glad Tidings, 314 
 Gleaner. The, 398 
 Glen-Almain, or the Narrow Glen, 222 
 
 ■ — of Loch-Etive. Composed in 
 
 the, 337 
 Gold and Silver Fishes in a Vase, 395 
 
 ■ — Liberty ; Sequel to the above, 396 
 Goody Blake and Harry Gill, 402 
 Gordale, 209 
 Grace Darling, 405 
 Grasmere. Inscription in the Island 
 of, 412 
 
 — Lake, 242 
 
 — Vale of; Departure from 
 the, 218 
 
 Grave-stone in Worcester Cathedral, 
 
 213 
 Greenock, 356 
 Green Linnet. The, 118 
 Greta. To the River, 349 
 Guilt and Sorrow, or Incidents upon 
 
 Salisbury Plain, 15 
 Gunpowder Plot, 326 
 
 H. C. To ; Six years old, 62 
 Hambleton-Hills. After a Journey 
 
 across the, 205 
 Hart-leap Well, 156 
 Harts-horn Tree, near Penrith, 341 
 Haunted Tree. The, 170 
 Haydon. To B. R., 204 
 
 — To ; On seeing his Picture 
 of Napoleon, &c, 214 
 
 Henry VIII. Recollection of the 
 
 Portrait of, &c, 210 
 Her Eyes are Wild, 106 
 Hermitage. Inscription near the 
 
 Spring of the, 414 
 Hermit's Cell. Inscription, &c, 413 
 Highland Broach. The, 338 
 
 — Girl. To a, 221 
 
 — Hut, 338 
 
 Hint from the Mountains, 122 
 
 Hints for the Fancy, 288 
 
 Hoffer, 243 
 
 Hogg, James. Upon the Death of, 440 
 
 Horn of Egremont Castle. The, 401 
 
 Howard. Monument to Mrs., 357 
 
 — Suggested by the fore- 
 going, 357 
 
 Humanity, 377 
 
 Hymn for the Boatmen at Heidelberg, 
 257 
 
INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 695 
 
 Idiot Boy. The, 91 
 Idle Shepherd-boys. The, 59 
 Illustration ; The Jung-Frau, &c, 326 
 Imagination. Poems of the, 141 
 
 — and Taste, how Im- 
 paired and Kestored, 514 
 
 Imaginative Kegrets, 323 
 Incident at Bruges, 255 
 Indignation of a Spaniard, 246 
 Infant M. M. The, 212 
 Influence Abused, 317 
 
 — of Natural Objects, 62 
 Influences. Other (Eccles. Sonnets), 
 
 315 
 Inglewood Forest. "View from, &c, 
 
 340 
 Inscription at the request of Sir 
 
 George Beaumont, 411 
 
 — for a Monument in Cros- 
 thwaite Church, 440 
 
 Inscriptions, 411 
 
 Intimations of Immortality ; Ode, 441 
 
 Interdict. An, 318 
 
 Introduction (Eccles. Sonnets), 312 
 
 — (Prelude), 445 
 Invocation to the Earth, 436 
 Iona, 356 
 
 — The Black Stones of, 356 
 Isle of Man (various poems), 252 
 
 — At Bala-Sala, 353 
 Italian Itinerant and the Swiss Goat- 
 herd, 261 
 
 Italy. After leaving, 279 
 
 Jewish Family. A, 18 
 Joanna. To, 108 
 Journey Renewed, 291 
 
 Kendal and "Windermere Railway. 
 
 On the projected, 217 
 Kilchurn Castle. Address to, 223 
 King of Sweden. The, 237 
 King's College Chapel, Cambridge, 3 3 3 
 — The same; continued, 334 
 Kitten and Falling Leaves. The, 129 
 
 Labourers' Noon-day Hymn, 381 
 Lady. To a, upon Drawings she had 
 
 made of Flowers in Madeira, 123 
 Lady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P. To 
 
 the, 211 
 Lake of Brientz. Scene on the, 258 
 — Thun. The Outlet of the, 258 
 Lamb. Charles ; After the Death of, 
 
 438 
 Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots, 80 
 Lancaster Castle. Suggested by the 
 
 View of, 389 
 Langdale. Epitaph in the Chapel- 
 yard of, 432 
 Laodamia, 162 
 Last of the Flock. The, 82 
 Last Supper. The ; by Leonardo da 
 
 Vinci, at Milan, 262 
 Latimer and Ridley, 324 
 Latitudinarianism, 327 
 Laud, 326 
 Lauterbrunnen. The Staub-bach of, 
 
 257 
 
 Liberty, 396 
 
 Liberty and Order. Sonnets to, 386 
 
 Liturgy. The, 329 
 
 Lombardy. In, 279 
 
 London . "Written in Sept. 1 8 2 , 2 3 8 
 
 Longest Day. The, 63 
 
 Long Meg and her Daughters. The 
 
 Monument called, 357 
 Lonsdale, Countess of. "Written in 
 
 the Album of the, 405 
 Londsdale. To the Earl of, 358 
 
 — To William, Earl of, 444 
 
 Louisa. To ; after accompanying her 
 
 on a Mountain Excursion, 77 
 Lowther, 358 
 
 Lowther. To the Lady Mary, 206 
 Love lies bleeding, 128 
 
 — companion to the above, 128 
 Loving and Liking, 104 
 Lucy Gray, or Solitude, 57 
 Lycoris. Ode to, 374 
 — To the same, 374 
 
 M. H. To, 110 
 
 " Macpherson's Ossian." In a blank 
 
 leaf of, 354 
 Malham Cove, 209 
 Manse in Scotland. On the sight of 
 
 a, 337 
 March. "Written in ; at the foot of 
 
 Brother's "Water, 146 
 Marriage Ceremony. The, 331 
 
 — of a Friend. On the Eve 
 of the, 201 
 
 Mary, Queen of Scots, 80 
 
 — ' — 350 
 
 Maternal Grief, 85 
 Matron of Jedborough and her Hus- 
 band, 226 
 Matthew, 365 
 May. To, 382 
 May Morning. At Rydal, on, 279 
 
 — ■ — Ode, composedon,381 
 
 — — On a, 214 
 Memorial ; Lake of Thun, 258 
 Memory, 376 
 
 — of Raisley Calvert. To the, 
 203 
 Men of Kent. To the, 240 
 Michael ; A Pastoral Poem, 96 
 Michael Angelo. From the Italian, 
 of, 201 
 
 — — To the Supreme 
 Being, 201 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems, 392 
 
 — Sonnets, 197 
 Missions and Travels, 316 
 Monasteries. Dissolution of the, 322 
 
 — Same subject, 322 
 Monastery of Old Bangor, 314 
 Monastic Power. Abuse of, 322 
 
 — Voluptuousness, 322 
 Monks and Schoolmen, 319 
 Moon. To the ; Cumberland, 346 
 
 — To the; Rydal, 347 
 Morning Exercise. A, 113 
 Mother's Keturn. The, 55 
 Mutability, 332 
 
 Naming of Places. Poems on the, 1( 
 Namur and Liege. Between, 256 
 
 National Independence and Liberty ; 
 
 Poems to, 236 
 Needlecase in the form of a Harp, 123 
 New Churches, 333 
 
 — Church-yard, 333 
 
 Night Piece. A, 141 
 Night Thought. A, 369 
 Norman Boy. The, 64 
 
 — Conquest. The, 317 
 Nunnery, 357 
 Nun's Well, Brigham, 349 
 Nutting, 142 
 
 Oak and the Broom. The ; A Pas- 
 toral, 115 
 
 Oak of Guernica. The, 245 
 
 Obligations of Civil, to Religious, 
 Liberty, 328 
 
 Ode, 240 
 
 — 1814, 248 
 
 — 1815, 250 
 
 — January, 1816 
 
 — to Duty, 370 
 
 — to Lycnris, 374 
 Old Abbeys, 332 
 
 — Age. Poems referring to, 425 
 
 — Cumberland Beggar. The, 425 
 Open Prospect, 288 
 
 Our Lady of the Snow, 259 
 Oxford, May 30, 1820, 210 
 
 — ■ — (another poem), 210 
 
 Painter. To a, 215 
 
 — — Same subject, 215 
 Papal Abuses, 318 
 
 Papal Dominion, 319 
 
 Parrot and the Wren. The, 124 
 
 Parsonage. The, 603 
 
 — A, in Oxfordshire, 211 
 Pass of Killicranky, 226 
 
 Pass of Kirkstone, 166 
 
 Pastor. The, 570 
 
 Pastoral Character, 329 
 
 Patriotic Sympathies, 327 
 
 Paulinus, 315 
 
 Peele Castle, in a Storm, &c, 434 
 
 Pennsylvanians. To the, 387 
 
 Persecution, 313 
 
 Personal Talk, 367 
 
 Persuasion, 315 
 
 Peter Bell; A Tale, 184 
 
 Pet Lamb. The, 61 
 
 Pilgrim Fathers. The, 328 
 
 Pilgrim's Dream. The, 126 
 
 Pillar of Trajan. The, 280 
 
 Place of Burial. A ; in Scotland, 336 
 
 Places of Worship, 329 
 
 Plain of Donnerdale. The, 289 
 
 Planet Venus. To the, 216 
 
 — (another poem), 340 
 
 Plea for Authors. A, 216 
 ■ — the Historian, 274 
 Poet and the caged Turtledove. The, 
 
 127 
 Poet's Dream. The, 65 
 — Epitaph. A, 364 
 Point at Issue. The, 324 
 Poor Robin (Wild Geranium), 397 
 Popery. Revival of, 324 
 Power of Music, 145 
 
 — Sound. On the, 181 
 
696 
 
 INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 Prelude. The, 444 
 
 — to the Vol." Poems chiefly 
 
 of Early and Late Years," 403 
 Presentiments, 175 
 Primitive Saxon Clergy, 315 
 Prophecy. A, 242 
 Processions in the Vale of Chamouny, 
 
 265 
 Primrose of the Rock. The, 174 
 Prioress' Tale. The, 416 
 Punishment of Death. Sonnets upon 
 
 the,. 389 
 
 Rainbow in the Sky, 54 
 
 " Ranz des Vaches." On hearing the, 
 
 260 
 Recovery, 313 
 Redbreast. The, 105 
 Redbreast chasing the Butterfly. The, 
 
 121 
 Reflections, 323 
 Reformation. General View of the 
 
 Troubles of the, 325 
 Reformers. Eminent, 325 
 
 — The same subject, 325 
 
 Regrets (Eccles. Sonnets), 332 
 Remembrance of Collins, 6 
 Repentance. A Pastoral Ballad, 83 
 Reproof, 316 
 | Residence at Cambridge, 456 
 
 — in London, 482 
 
 — in France, 497 
 Resolution and Independence, 151 
 
 ' Rest and be Thankful ;' Glencroe, 338 
 
 Resting-Place. The, 290 
 
 Restoration. Prom the, &c, 326 
 
 Retired Mariner. By a, 353 
 
 Retirement, 204 
 
 Retrospect. — Love of Nature leading 
 to Love of Man, 490 
 
 Return, 289 
 
 Reverie of Poor Susan, 145 
 
 Rhine. Banks of the, 257 
 
 Richard I., 318 
 
 Robinson. Henry Crabb; To, 270 
 
 Rob Roy's Grave, 224 
 
 Rock. Inscribed upon a, 414 
 
 Rogers. Samuel, To ; Yarrow Re- 
 visited, 335 
 
 Roman Antiquities, at Bishopstone, 
 213 
 
 — — at Old Penrith, 
 341 
 
 Rome. At, 274 
 
 — (another poem), 275 
 Roslin Chapel. In; during a Storm, 337 
 
 Rotha Q . To, 212 
 
 Ruins of a Castle, in N. Wales, 211 
 Rural Architecture, 60 
 
 — Ceremony, 332 
 
 — Illusions, 128 
 Russian Fugitive. The, 406 
 Ruth, 148 
 
 Rydal. At ; on May Morning, 279 
 
 — In the Woods at, 211 
 Upon one of the Island^ of, 412 
 
 Rydal Mere. By the Side of, 343 
 
 Sacheverel, 328 
 
 Sacrament, 330 
 
 Sailor's Mother. The, 86 
 
 Saints, 323 
 
 St. Bees' Head. Off, 350 
 
 — Catherine of Ledbury, 208 
 
 — Herbert's Island, 415 
 
 San Salvador. Church of, 261 
 Saxon Conquest, 314 
 
 — Monasteries, &c, 316 
 Schwytz. The Town of, 260 
 Scott. Sir Walter. On the Depar- 
 ture of, &c, 336 
 
 Scottish Covenanters, 327 
 Sea-shore. By the, 346 
 Sea-side. By the, 343 
 Seathwaite Chapel, 289 
 Seclusion, 316 
 Sentiment and Reflection. Poems of, 
 
 361 
 Seven Sisters. The, 120 
 Sexton. To a, 116 
 S. H. To (Sonnet), 200 
 Sheep-washing, 290 
 Siege of Vienna, raised by John 
 
 Sobieski, 250 
 Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman, 363 
 Simplon Pass. The, 265 
 Sister. To my, 362 
 Sky-lark. To a, 162 
 
 — (another poem), 119 
 
 Sky Prospect. Plain of France, 267 
 Sleep. To, 199 
 Snow-drop. To a, 206 
 Solitary. The, 538 
 Solitary Reaper. The, 223 
 Somnambulist. The, 358 
 Sonnet, composed after reading a 
 
 Newspaper of the day, 386 
 Sonnets, &c. (distinguished by dates 
 
 only) : — 
 
 — June, 1820, 210 
 
 — November, 205 
 
 — November, 1806, 240 
 
 — November, 1813, 248 
 
 — November, 1836, 202 
 
 — October, 1803, 239 
 
 — September, 1802, 237 
 
 — September, 1802, 238 
 
 — September, 1815, 205 
 
 — September, 1819, 375 
 Sound of Mull. In the, 338 
 Spade of a Friend. To the, 368 
 Spanish Guerillas, 246 
 Sparrow's Nest, The, 54 
 Spinning Wheel. Song for the, 122 
 Spirit of Paradise, 121 
 
 Sponsors, 330 
 
 Stanzas. Written in my pocket copy 
 of Thomson's " Castle of Indo- 
 lence," 76 
 
 Star and the Glow-worm. The, 126 
 
 Star-gazers, 146 
 
 Steam-boats, Viaducts, and Railways, 
 357 
 
 Stepping-Stones. The, 287 
 
 1 — Same subject, 287 
 
 Stepping Westward, 222 
 
 Stone. F. Lines suggested by a 
 Portrait from the Pencil of, 383 
 — The foregoing subject re- 
 sumed, 384 
 
 Storm. Composed during a, 206 
 
 Stray Pleasures, 125 
 
 Struggle of the Britons, 314 
 
 Summer Vacation, 463 
 
 Switzerland. On the Subjugation of, 
 238 
 
 Tables Turned. The, 361 
 Tell. Tower of, at Altorf, 259 
 Temptations from Roman Refine- 
 ments, 313 
 Thanksgiving after Childbirth, 331 
 " The Complete Angler." Upon a 
 
 blank leaf in, 200 
 There was a Boy, 141 
 Thorn. The, 153 
 Thought on the Seasons, 378 
 I Thrasymene. Near the Lake of, 275 
 
 — Near the same Lake, 
 
 276 
 Three Cottage-Girls. The, 264 
 
 To ■. In her seventieth year, 212 
 
 To . (Miscell. Sonnets), 212 
 
 To . On her first ascent of Hel- 
 
 vellyn, 169 
 To . (Poems founded on the 
 
 Affections), 78 
 
 To . (The same), 79 
 
 To . (The same), 80 
 
 To . Upon the Birth of her 
 
 First-born Child, 378 
 — Sequel to the foregoing, 379 
 Torrent at the Devil's Bridge. To 
 
 the, 211 
 Tour among the Alps, 6 
 
 — on the Continent, 255 
 
 — in Italy, 270 
 
 — in Scotland, 231 
 
 — in the Summer of 1833, 348 
 Toussaint L'Ouverture. To, 237 
 Tradition, 290 
 
 — of Oaker Hill. A, 213 
 Translation of the Bible, 323 
 Transubstantiation, 320 
 Trepidation of the Druids, 313 
 Triad. The, 171 
 Tributary Stream, 289 
 Triumphal Column in Milan, &c, 264 
 Troilus and Cresida, 423 
 Trosachs. The, 337 
 Two April Mornings. The, 366 
 Two Thieves. The, 428 
 Tyndrum, in a Storm. Suggested at, 
 
 338 
 Tynwald Hill, 353 
 Tyrolese. Feelings of the, 243 
 — Their final Submission, 
 
 243 
 
 Uncertainty, 313 
 
 Valedictory Sonnet, 216 
 
 Vallombrosa. At, 276 
 
 Vaudois. The, 321 
 
 Vaudracour and Julia, 88 
 
 Venetian Republic. Extinction of 
 
 the, 237 
 Venice. Scene in, 318 
 Vernal Ode, 176 
 Vicar of Kendal. Upon hearing of 
 
 the Death of the, 437 
 Virgin. The, 323 
 Visitation of the Sick, 331 
 
 Waggoner. The, 131 
 Waldenses, 321 
 
INDEX TO THE POEMS. 
 
 697 
 
 "Walton's "Book of Lives," 327 
 Wanderer. The, 528 
 Wandering Jew. Song for the, 125 
 Warning. The, 379 
 Wars of York and Lancaster, 321 
 Waterfall and the Eglantine. The, 114 
 Water-Fowl, 169 
 
 Waterloo. Occasioned by the Battle 
 of, 250 
 
 — (another poem), 250 
 
 — After visiting the Field 
 of, 256 
 
 We are Seven, 58 
 
 Wellington. On a Portrait of the 
 Duke of, 214 
 
 Westall's Caves of Yorkshire, 209 
 Westminster Bridge. Composed 
 
 upon, 209 
 Westmoreland Girl. The, 66 
 White Doe of Bvlstone. The, 292 
 Wicliffe, 321 
 
 Widow on Windermere Side. The, 101 
 Wild-Duck's Nest. The, 200 
 William III., 328 
 Wishing-Gate. The, 173 
 Wishing-Gate Destroyed. The, 174 
 Wordsworth. John ; Elegiac Verses 
 in Memory of, 435 
 — To the Rev. Christo- 
 
 pher, 216 
 
 Wordsworth. To the Eev. Dr., 285 
 
 Wren's Nest. A., 127 
 
 Wye. On the Banks of the, 160 
 
 Yarrow Visited, 234 
 
 — Revisited, 335 
 
 — Unvisited, 225 
 Yew-Tree. Left upon a Seat, &c, 14 
 Y'ew-Trees, 142 
 
 Young Lady. To a ; Taking long 
 
 Walks, &c, 169 
 Youth. Poems written in, 1 
 
INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 A barking sound the shepherd hears, 370 
 
 A Book came forth of late, called Peter Bell, 200 
 
 A bright-haired company of youthful slaves, 314 
 
 Abruptly paused the strife ; — the field throughout, 248 
 
 A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted yew, 289 
 
 Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown, 348 
 
 Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground, 243 
 
 Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow, 199 
 
 A famous man is Robin Hood, 224 
 
 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, 199 
 
 A genial hearth, a hospitable board, 329 
 
 Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers, 226 
 
 Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide, 390 
 
 Ah, when the Body, round which in love we clung, 315 
 
 Ah ! where is Palafox ? Nor tongue nor pen, 245 
 
 Ah why deceive ourselves '. by no mere fit, 387 
 
 Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light, 325 
 
 Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest, 243 
 
 A little onward lend thy guiding hand, 373 
 
 All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed, 215 
 
 A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time, 290 
 
 Ambition — following down this far-famed slope, 264 
 
 Amid a fertile region green with wood, 340 
 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass, 108 
 
 Amid this dance of objects sadness steals, 257 
 
 Among a grave fraternity of Monks, 384 
 
 Among the dwellers in the silent fields, 405 
 
 Among the dwellings framed by birds, 127 
 
 Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream, 349 
 
 A month, sweet Little-ones, is past, 55 
 
 An age hath been when earth was proud, 374 
 
 A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, 109 
 
 And is it among rude untutored Dales, 243 
 
 And is this— Yarrow ?—This the Stream, 234 
 
 And, not in vain embodied to the sight, 320 
 
 And shall, the Pontiff asks, profaneness flow, 318 
 
 And what is Penance with her knotted thong, 322 
 
 And what melodious sounds at times prevail, 320 
 
 An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faith may grow bold, 145 
 
 Another year ! — another deadly blow, 240 
 
 A pen — to register ; a key, 376 
 
 A Pilgrim, when the summer day, 126 
 
 A plague on your languages, German and Norse, 364 
 
 A pleasant music floats along the Mere, 317 
 
 A Poet .' — He hath put his heart to school, 214 
 
 A point of life between my Parents' dust, 349 
 
 Army of Clouds ! ye winged Host in troops, 179 
 
 A rock there is whose homely front, 174 
 
 A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground, 241 
 
 Around a wild and woody hill, 258 
 
 Arran ! a single crested Teneriffe, 354 
 
 Art thou a Statist in the van, 364 
 
 Art thou the bird -whom Man loves best, 121 
 
 A simple child, 58 
 
 As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest, 320 
 
 As indignation mastered grief, my tongue, 279 
 
 As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow, 388 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal, 144 
 
 As often as I murmur here, 127 
 
 As star that shines dependent upon star, 329 
 
 As the cold aspect of a sunless way, 208 
 
 A stream, to mingle with your favourite Dee, 211 
 
 A sudden conflict rises from the swell, 328 
 
 As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain, 313 
 
 As with the Stream our voyage we pursue, 318 
 
 At early dawn, or rather when the air, 209 
 
 A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain, 15 
 
 A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 336 
 
 At the corner of "Wood Street, when daylight appears, 145 
 
 Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind, 246 
 
 A voice, from long-expecting thousands sent, 328 
 
 A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found, 203 
 
 Avon — a precious, an immortal name, 340 
 
 A weight of awe not easy to be borne, 357 
 
 A whirl-blast from behind the hill, 114 
 
 A winged Goddess — clothed in vesture wrought, 256 
 
 A Youth too certain of his power to wade, 352 
 
 Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made, 200 
 
 Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should rear, 198 
 
 Before I see another day, 81 
 
 Before the world had past her time of youth, 390 
 
 Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf, 114 
 
 Beguiled into forgetfulness of care, 383 
 
 Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 316 
 
 Behold her, single in the field, 223 
 
 Behold, within the leafy shade, 54 
 
 Beloved Vale ! I said, when I shall con, 198 
 
 Beneath the concave of an April sky, 176 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed, 118 
 
 Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, 411 
 
 Be this the chosen site, the virgin sod, 333 
 
 Between two sister moorland rills, 124 
 
 Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep, 329 
 
 Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head, 318 
 
 Blest is this Isle — our native Land, 399 
 
 Blest Statesman He, whose mind's unselfish will, 386 
 
 Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was strong, 352 
 
 Brave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy flight, 244 
 
 Bright Flower ! whose home is everywhere, 365 
 
 Broken in fortune, but in mind entire, 353 
 
 Brook and road, 143 
 
 Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks, 208 
 
 Bruges I saw attired with golden light, 255 
 
INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 But here no cannon thunders to the gale, 291 
 
 But liberty, and triumphs on the Main, 333 
 
 But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, 323 
 
 But, to remote Northumbrian royal Hall, 315 
 
 But what if One, through grove or flowery mead, 316 
 
 But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord, 321 
 
 By a blest Husband guided, Mary came, 432 
 
 By antique Fancy trimmed— though lowly, bred, 260 
 
 By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand, 214 
 
 By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied, 330 
 
 By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze, 247 
 
 By playful smiles, (alas, too oft, 432 
 
 By such examples moved to unbought pains, 316 
 
 By their floating mill, 125 
 
 By vain affections unenthralled, 432 
 
 Call not the royal Swede unfortunate, 244 
 Calm as an under-current, strong to draw, 328 
 Calm is all nature as a resting wheel, 1 
 Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose, 342 
 Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them, 203 
 Change me, some god, into that breathing rose, 287 
 Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and the pride, 213 
 Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain Stream, 223 
 Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint, 286 
 Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to climb, 242 
 Closing the sacred Book which long has fed, 332 
 Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars, 242 
 Coldly we spake. The S;ixons, overpowered, 317 
 Come ye — who, if (which Heaven avert !) the Land, 240 
 Companion ! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered, 270 
 Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same, 274 
 
 Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell, 205 
 
 Darkness surrounds us ; seeking, we are lost, 313 
 
 Days passed — and Monte Calvo would not clear, 275 
 
 Days undefiled by luxury or sloth, 387 
 
 Dear be the Church, that, watching o'er the needs, 330 
 
 Dear Child of Nature, let them rail, 169 
 
 Dear fellow-travellers ! think not that the Muse, 255 
 
 Dear native regions, I foretel, 1 
 
 Dear Reliques ! from a pit of vilest mould, 250 
 
 Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, 350 
 
 Deep is the lamentation ! not alone, 323 
 
 Degenerate Douglas ! oh, the unworthy Lord, 225 
 
 Departed Child ! I could forget thee once, 85 
 
 Departing summer hath assumed, 375 
 
 Deplorable his lot who tills the ground, 319 
 
 Desire we past illusions to recal, 352 
 
 Desponding Father ! mark this altered bough, 207 
 
 Despond who will — 1 heard a voice exclaim, 353 
 
 Destined to war from very infanoy, 431 
 
 Did pangs of grief for lenient time too keen, 353 
 
 Dishonoured Rock and Ruin ! that, by law, 337 
 
 Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur, 208 
 
 Doomed as we are our native dust, 258 
 
 Doubling and doubling with laborious walk, 338 
 
 Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design, 328 
 
 Dread hour ! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous blast, 260 
 
 Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air, 105 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair, 209 
 Eden ! till now thy beauty had I viewed, 357 
 Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung, 250 
 England ! the time is come when thou shouldst wean, 239 
 Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy hand, 216 
 Enough ! for see, with dim association, 320 
 
 Enough of climbing toil .'—Ambition treads, 374 
 
 Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, 338 
 
 Enough of rose-bud lips and eyes, 406 
 
 Ere the Brothers through the gateway, 401 
 
 Ere with cold beads of midnight dew, 78 
 
 Ere yet our course was graced with social trees, 287 
 
 Eternal Lord ! eased of a cumbrous load, 279 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky, 162 
 
 Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress, 207 
 
 Even so for me a Vision sanctified, 202 
 
 Even such the contrast that, where'er we move, 326 
 
 Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France, 332 
 
 Excuse is needless when with love sincere, 200 
 
 Failing impartial measure to dispense, 216 
 
 Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate, 221 
 
 Fair Lady ! can I sing of flowers, 123 
 
 Fair Land ! Thee all men greet with joy ; how few, 279 
 
 Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild, 204 
 
 Fair Star of evening, Slpendour of the west, 236 
 
 Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap, 290 
 
 Fame tells of groves — from England far away, 210 
 
 Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad, 113 
 
 Farewell, thou little nook of mountain-ground, 75 
 
 Far from my dearest friend, 'tis mine to rove, 2 
 
 Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet lake, 392 
 
 Father ! to God himself we cannot give, 330 
 
 Fear hath a hundred eyes, that all agree, 326 
 
 Feel for the wrongs to universal ken, 388 
 
 Festivals have I seen that were not names, 237 
 
 Fit retribution, by the moral code, 390 
 
 Five years have past ; five summers, with the length, 160 
 
 Flattered with promise of escape, 378 
 
 Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale, 227 
 
 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep, 199 
 
 For action born, existing to be tried, 276 
 
 Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise, 274 
 
 For ever hallowed be this morning fair, 314 
 
 For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes, 259 
 
 Forgive, illustrious Country ! these deep sighs, 275 
 
 Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base, 1J2 
 
 For what contend the wise ? — for nothing less, 324 
 
 Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein, 208 
 
 From Bolton's old monastic tower, 293 
 
 From early youth I ploughed the restless main, 353 
 
 From false assumption rose, and, fondly hailed, 319 
 
 From Little down to Least, in due degree, 330 
 
 From low to high doth dissolution climb, 332 
 
 From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled, 329 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen, 225 
 
 From the Baptismal hour, through weal and woe, 331 
 
 From the dark chambers of dejection freed, 204 
 
 From the fierce aspect of this River, throwing, 257 
 
 From the Pier's head, musing, and with increase, 268 
 
 From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play, 288 
 
 Frowns are on every Muse's face, 123 
 
 Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars, 320 
 
 Genius of Raphael .' if thy wings, 180 
 
 Glad sight ! wherever new with old, 124 
 
 Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 6 
 
 Glory to God ! and to the Power who came, 334 
 
 Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes, 242 
 
 Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt, 213 
 
 Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane, 323 
 
 Great men have been among us; hands that penned, 238 
 
700 
 
 INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 Greta, what fearful listening ! when huge stones, 349 
 Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend, 200 
 Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft, 277 
 
 Had this effulgence disappeared, 345 
 
 Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night, 252 
 
 Hail to the fields — with Dwellings sprinkled o er, 288 
 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour, 207 
 
 Hail, "Virgin Queen ! o'er many an envious bar, 325 
 
 Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye, 244 
 
 Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown, 197 
 
 Hard task ! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean, 387 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, 215 
 
 Harmonious Powers with Nature work, 398 
 
 Harp ! couldst thou venture, on thy boldest string, 326 
 
 Hast thou seen, with flash incessant, 414 
 
 Hast thou then survived, 130 
 
 Haydon ! let worthier judges praise the skill, 214 
 
 Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall, 319 
 
 Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more, 237 
 
 Here on their knees men swore : the stones were black, 356 
 
 Here pause : the Poet claims at least this praise, 247 
 
 Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed, 341 
 
 Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing, 217 
 
 Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, 106 
 
 Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat, 198 
 
 " High bliss is only for a higher state," 104 
 
 High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you, 242 
 
 High in the breathless hall the Minstrel sate, 158 
 
 High is our calling, Friend ! — Creative Art, 204 
 
 High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down, 64 
 
 High on her speculative tower, 263 
 
 His simple truths did Andrew glean, 115 
 
 Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are, 325 
 
 Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell, 356 
 
 Hope rules a land for ever green, 173 
 
 Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, 355 
 
 Hopes, what are they ? — Beads of morning, 413 
 
 How art thou named ? In search of what strange land, 21 1 
 
 How beautiful, when up a lofty height, 101 
 
 How beautiful your presence, how benign, 315 
 
 How blest the Maid whose heart — yet free, 264 
 
 How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright, 205 
 
 How disappeared he ? Ask the newt and toad, 340 
 
 How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled, 324 
 
 How profitless the relics that we cull, 341 
 
 How richly glows the water's breast, 6 
 
 How rich that forehead's calm expanse, 80 
 
 How sad a welcome ! To each voyager, 356 
 
 How shall I paint thee ?— Be this naked stone, 286 
 
 How soon— alas! did Man, created pure, 319 
 
 How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks, 203 
 
 Humanity, delighting to behold, 247 
 
 Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast, 246 
 
 I am not One who much or oft delight, 367 
 
 I come, ye little noisy Crew, 433 
 
 I dropped my pen ; and listened to the Wind, 242 
 
 Jesu ! bless our slender Boat, 257 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps, 96 
 
 If Life were slumber on a bed of down, 350 
 
 If Nature, for a favourite child, 365 
 
 If there be Prophets on whose spirits rest, 312 
 
 If these brief Records, by the Muse's art, 209 
 
 If the whole weight of what we think and feel, 204 
 
 If this great world of joy and pain, 381 
 
 If thou in the dear love of some one Friend, 415 
 
 If to Tradition faith be due, 338 
 
 If with old love of you, dear Hills ! I share, 279 
 
 I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain, 236 
 
 I have a boy of five years old, 60 
 
 I heard (alas ! 'twas only in a dream), 204 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes, 362 
 
 I listen— but no faculty of mine, 260 
 
 Imagination— ne'er before content, 250 
 
 I marvel how Nature could ever find space, 362 
 
 I met Louisa in the shade, 77 
 
 Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave, 340 
 
 In Bruges town is many a street, 255 
 
 In desultory walk through orchard grounds, 403 
 
 In distant countries have I been, 82 
 
 In due observance of an ancient rite, 245 
 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood, 238 
 
 Inmate of a mountain-dwelling, 169 
 
 In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud, 217 
 
 Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake, 216 
 
 In these fair vales hath many a tree, 413 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 363 
 
 In this still place, remote from men, 222 
 
 In trellised shed with clustering roses gay, 292 
 
 Intrepid sons of Albion ! not by you, 250 
 
 In youth from rock to rock I went, 117 
 
 Jones ! as from Calais southward you and I, 236 
 
 I rose while yet the cattle, heat-opprest, 291 
 
 I saw a mother's eye intensely bent, 330 
 
 I saw an aged Beggar in my walk, 425 
 
 I saw far off the dark top of a Pine, 274 
 
 I saw the figure of a lovely Maid, 326 
 
 Is Death, when evil against good has fought, 383 
 
 I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, 218 
 
 Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind, 236 
 
 Is then no nook of English ground secure, 217 
 
 Is then the final page before me spread, 268 
 
 Is there a power that can sustain and cheer, 245 
 
 Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill, 274 
 
 I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, 292 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 202 
 
 It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown, 161 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood, 238 
 
 It is the first mild day of March, 362 
 
 I travelled among unknown men, 78 
 
 It seems a day, 1 42 
 
 It was a moral end for which they fought, 244 
 
 It was an April morning : fresh and clear, 108 
 
 I 've watch'd you now a short half-hour, 75 
 
 Just as those final words were penned, the sun broke out 
 
 in power, 65 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud, 144 
 I was thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile, 434 
 I watch, and long have watch'd, with calm regret, 204 
 I, who accompanied with faithful pace, 312 
 
 Keep for the young the impassioned smile, 167 
 
 Lady ! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard, 404 
 
 Lady ! I rifled a Parnassian Cave, 206 
 
 Lady ! the songs of Spring were in the grove, 206 
 
 Lament ! for Dioclesian's fiery sword, 313 
 
 Lance, shield, and sword relinquished— at his side, 316 
 
 Last night, without a voice, that Vision spake, 327 
 
 Let other bards of angels sing, 79 
 
 Let thy wheel-barrow alone, 116 
 
 
INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 701 
 
 Let us quit the leafy arbour, 63 
 
 Lie here, without a record of thy worth, 369 
 
 Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, 214 
 
 Like a shipwreck'd Sailor tost, 378 
 
 List, the winds of March are blowing, 379 
 
 List — 'twas the Cuckoo. — O with what delight, 276 
 
 List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower, 358 
 
 Lo ! in the burning west, the craggy nape, 267 
 
 Lone Flower hemmed in with snows, and white as they, ?06 
 
 Long favoured England ! be not thou reisled, 387 
 
 Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn, 275 
 
 Lonsdale ! it were unworthy of a Guest, 358 
 
 Look at the fate of summer flowers, 78 
 
 Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid, 245 
 
 Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood, 232 
 
 Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up, 436 
 
 Loving she is, and tractable, though wild, 55 
 
 Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance, 215 
 
 Lo ! where the Moon along the sky, 369 
 
 Lowther ! in thy majestic Pile are seen, 358 
 
 Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, 266 
 
 Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic live, 147 
 
 Man's life is like a Sparrow, mighty King, 315 
 Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood, 169 
 Mark the concentred hazels that enclose, 205 
 Meek Virgin Mother, more benign, 259 
 Men of the Western World ! in Fate's dark book, 387 
 Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy, 325 
 Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road, 3! 3 
 Methinksthat I could trip o'er heaviest soil, 325 
 Methinks that to some vacant hermitage, 316 
 Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat, 290 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne, 202 
 'Mid crowded obelisks and urns, 220 
 Mid-noon is past ; — upon the sultry mead, 290 
 Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour, 238 
 Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued, 333 
 Miserrimus ! and neither name nor date, 213 
 Monastic domes ! following my downward way, 332 
 Most sweet it is with unuplif ted eyes, 360 
 Mother ! whose virgin bosom was uncrost, 323 
 Motions and Means, on land and sea at war, 357 
 My frame hath often trembled with delight, 289 
 My heart leaps up when I behold, 54 
 
 Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands, 14 
 
 Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove, 275 
 
 Never enlivened with the liveliest ray, 128 
 
 Next morning Troilus began to clear, 423 
 
 No fiction was it of the antique age, 288 
 
 No more : the end is sudden and abrupt, 341 
 
 No mortal object did these eyes behold, 201 
 
 No record tells of lance opposed to lance, 291 
 
 Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend, 315 
 
 Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject, 327 
 
 Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid, 314 
 
 Not a breath of air, 142 
 
 Not envying Latian shades— if yet they throw, 286 
 Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep, 291 
 Not in the lucid intervals of life, 343 
 Not in the mines beyond the western main, 360 
 Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly, 257 
 Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell, 205 
 Not 'mid the world's vain objects that enslave, 242 
 Not sedentary all : there are who roam 316 
 
 Not seldom, clad in radiant vest, 414 
 
 Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance. 288 
 
 Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard, 218 
 
 Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew, 354 
 
 Not to the object specially designed, 389 
 
 Not utterly unworthy to endure, 323 
 
 Not without heavy grief of heart did He, 431 
 
 Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, 248 
 
 Now that the farewell tear is dried, 261 
 
 Now we are tired of boisterous joy, 227 
 
 Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,397 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room, 197 
 
 Oak of Guernica ! Tree of holier power, 245 
 
 O blithe New-comer ! I have heard, 141 
 
 O dearer far than light and life are dear, 80 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, 243 
 
 O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied, 246 
 
 O Flower of all that springs from gentle blood, 431 
 
 Of mortal parents is the Hero born, 243 
 
 O for a dirge ! But why complain, 437 
 
 O, for a kindling touch from that pure flame, 250 
 
 O for the help of Angels to complete, 256 
 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must look, 238 
 
 Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, 354 
 
 Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek, 201 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, 57 
 
 Oft is the medal faithful to its trust, 411 
 
 O gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee, 199 
 
 O happy time of youthful lovers (thus, 88 
 
 Oh Life ! without thy chequered scene, 258 
 
 Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy, 161 
 
 Oh what a Wreck ! how changed in mien and speech, 215 
 
 Oh ! what 's the matter ? what 's the matter, 402 
 
 O Lord, our Lord ! how wondrously (quoth she), 416 
 
 O mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot, 288 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee, 237 
 
 Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky), 399 
 
 Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned, 87 
 
 Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear, 321 
 
 Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound, 353 
 
 One might believe that natural miseries, 239 
 
 One morning (raw it was and wet, 86 
 
 One who was suffering tumult in his soul, 206 
 
 On his morning rounds the Master, 369 
 
 O Nightingale ! thou surely art, 143 
 
 On, loitering Muse — the swift Stream chides us — on, 283 
 
 O now that the genius of Bewick were mine, 428 
 
 On to Iona ! — What can she afford, 356 
 
 Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles, 333 
 
 O there is blessing in this gentle breeze, 445 
 
 O thou who movest onward with a mind, 430 
 
 O thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought, 62 
 
 Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine, 390 
 
 Our walk was far among the ancient trees, 110 
 
 Outstretching flame- ward his upbraided hand, 324 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 119 
 Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep, 336 
 Pastor and Patriot ! — at whose bidding rise, 349 
 Patriots informed with Apostolic light, 329 
 Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi supplicates, 432 
 Pause, Traveller ! whosoe'er thou be, 414 
 Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, 198 
 People ! your chains are severing link by link, 386 
 Perhaps some needful service of the State, 430 
 
702 
 
 INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 Pleasures newly found are sweet, 120 
 Portentous change when History can appear, 386 
 Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay, 199 
 Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain springs, 321 
 Prejudged by foes determined not to spare, 326 
 Presentiments ! they judge not right, 175 
 Prompt transformation works the novel Lore, 315 
 Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old, 217 
 Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er, 209 
 
 Queen of the Stars !— so gentle, so benign, 3-47 
 
 Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Black-comb, 352 
 
 Rapt above earth by power of one fair face, 278 
 
 Realms quake by turns : proud Arbitress of grace, 318 
 
 Record we too, with just and faithful pen, 319 
 
 Redoubted King, of courage leonine, 318 
 
 Reluctant call it was ; the rite delayed, 386 
 
 Rest, rest, perturbed Earth, 436 
 
 Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued, 290 
 
 Rise ! — they have risen : of brave Aneurin ask, 314 
 
 Rotha, my Spiritual Child ! this head was grey, 212 
 
 Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen, 412 
 
 Sacred Religion ! Mother of form and fear, 289 
 
 Sad thoughts, avaunt ! — partake we their blithe cheer, 290 
 
 Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud, 386 
 
 Say, what is Honour ? — >'Tis the finest sense, 244 
 
 Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills, 337 
 
 Scattering, like birds escaped the fowler's net, 325 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, 203 
 
 Screams round the Arch-druid's brow the sea-mew — 
 
 Seek who will delight in fable, 66 [white, 313 
 
 See the Condemned alone within his cell, 391 
 
 See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, 338 
 
 See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins, 279 
 
 Serene, and fitted to embrace, 165 
 
 Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here, 216 
 
 Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, 120 
 
 Shame on this faithless heart ! that could allow, 210 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 77 
 
 She had a tall man's height or more, 147 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight, 143 
 
 Show me the noblest Youth of present time, 171 
 
 Shout, for a mighty Victory is won, 240 
 
 Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred, 331 
 
 Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy, 353 
 
 Six months to six years added he remained, 432 
 
 Six thousand veterans practised in war's game, 226 
 
 Small service is true service while it lasts, 404 
 
 Smile of the Moon ! — for so I name, 80 
 
 So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, 385 
 
 Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the Mere, 344 
 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played, 287 
 
 Spade ! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, 368 
 
 Stay, bold Adventurer ; rest awhile thy limbs, 412 
 
 Stay, little cheerful Robin ! stay, 398 
 
 Stay near me — do not take thy flight, 54 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God, 370 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known, 77 
 
 Stranger ! this hillock of mis-shapen stones, 412 
 
 Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead, 357 
 
 Such age how beautiful ! O Lady bright, 212 
 
 Such fruitless questions may not long beguile, 289 
 
 Surprised by joy— impatient as the Wind, 202 
 
 Sweet Flower ! belike one day to have, 434 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower, 221 
 Sweet is the holiness of Youth — so felt, 324 
 Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel, 122 
 Sylph was it ? or a Bird more bright, 128 
 
 Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take, 287 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 333 
 
 Tell me, ye Zephyrs ! that unfold, 113 
 
 Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law, 339 
 
 Thanks for the lessons of this Spot — fit school, 355 
 
 That happy gleam of vernal eyes, 398 
 
 That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned, 314 
 
 That is work of waste and ruin, 54 
 
 That way look, my Infant, lo, 129 
 
 The Baptist might have been ordained to cry, 278 
 
 The Bard — whose soul is meek as dawning day, 250 
 
 The captive Bird was gone ;— to cliff or moor, 354 
 
 The cattle crowding round this beverage clear, 349 
 
 The cock is crowing, 146 
 
 The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, 346 
 
 The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair, 373 
 
 The days are cold, the nights are long, 85 
 
 The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink, 61 
 
 The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine, 411 
 
 The encircling ground in native turf arrayed, 333 
 
 The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade, 198 
 
 The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, 352 
 
 The fields which with covetous spirit we sold, 83 
 
 The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary, 357 
 
 The forest huge of ancient Caledon, 341 
 
 The formal World relaxes her cold chain, 391 
 
 The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 335 
 
 The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed, 180 
 
 The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains, 218 
 
 The God of Love — ah, benedicite ! 419 
 
 The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king, 200 
 
 The imperial Stature, the colossal stride, 210 
 
 The Kirk of Ulpha to the Pilgrim's eye, 291 
 
 The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor, 156 
 
 The Land we from our fathers had in trust, 243 
 
 The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill, 344 
 
 The linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, 343 
 
 The little hedge-row birds, 429 
 
 The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek, 322 
 
 The Lovers took within this ancient grove, 341 
 
 The martial courage of a day is vain, 244 
 
 The massy Ways, carried across these heights, 413 
 
 The Minstrels played their Christmas tune, 285 
 
 The most alluring clouds that mount the sky, 214 
 
 The old inventive Poets, had they seen, 289 
 
 The oppression of the tumult — wrath and scorn, 3)4 
 
 The peace which others seek they find, 78 
 
 The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute, 337 
 
 The post-boy drove with fierce career, 56 
 
 The Power of Armies is a visible thing, 246 
 
 The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed, 201 
 
 There are no colours in the fairest sky, 327 
 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear, 239 
 
 There is a change— and I am poor, 79 
 
 There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 428 
 
 There is a little unpretending Rill, 198 
 
 There is an Eminence, — of these our hills, 109 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains, 206 
 
 There is a Thorn — it looks so old, 153 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 142 
 
 There never breathed a man who, when his life, 430 
 
INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 703 
 
 There ! said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride, 356 
 There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald 
 
 Shore, 60 
 There 's more in words than I can teach, 104 
 There's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 337 
 There 'ssomething in a flying horse, 184 
 There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs, 141 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night, 151 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 441 
 The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die, 389 
 The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal, 331 
 The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, discrowned, 324 
 These times strike monied worldlings with dismay, 239 
 These Tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live, 68 
 The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo ! 435 
 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, 206 
 
 The sky is overcast, 141 
 
 The soaring lark is blest as proud, 395 
 
 The Spirit of Antiquity — enshrined, 255 
 
 TheBtars are mansions built by Nature's hand, 207 
 
 The struggling Rill insensibly is grown, 287 
 
 The sun has long been set, 345 
 
 The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest, 343 
 
 The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, 342 
 
 The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields, 375 
 
 The tears of man in various measure gush, 324 
 
 The Troop will be impatient ; let us hie, 24 
 
 Theturbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms, 318 
 
 The valley rings with mirth and joy, 59 
 
 The Vested Priest before the Altar stands, 331 
 
 The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen, 326 
 
 The Voice of Song from distant lands shall call, 237 
 
 The wind is now thy organist ;— a clank, 337 
 
 The woman-hearted Confessor prepares, 317 
 
 The world forsaken, all its busy cares, 277 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 203 
 
 They called Thee Merry England, in old time, 348 
 
 They dreamt not of a perishable home, 334 
 
 The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale, 330 
 
 They seek, are sought ; to daily battle led, 246 
 
 They — who have seen the noble Roman's scorn, 275 
 
 This Height a ministering Angel might select, 170 
 
 This Land of Rainbows (spanning glens whose walls, 337 
 
 This Lawn, a carpet all alive, 376 
 
 This Spot— at once unfolding sight so fair, 389 
 
 Those breathing Tokens of your kind regard, 396 
 
 Those had given earliest notice, as the lark, 321 
 
 Those old credulities, to nature dear, 274 
 
 Those silver clouds collected round the sun, 170 
 
 Those words were uttered as in pensive mood, 205 
 
 Though I beheld at first with blank surprise, 215 
 
 Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth, 340 
 
 Though many suns have risen and set, 382 
 
 Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near, 208 
 
 Tho' searching damps and many an envious flaw, 262 
 
 Though the bold wings of Poesy affect, 210 
 
 Though the torrents from their fountains, 125 
 
 Though to give timely warning and deter, 390 
 
 Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, 349 
 
 Thou sacred Pile ! whose turrets rise, 261 
 
 Threats come which no submission may assuage, 322 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 144 
 
 Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, 211 
 
 Thus all things lead to Charity, secured, 332 
 
 Thus is the storm abated by the craft, 321 
 
 Thy functions are ethereal, 181 
 
 'Tis eight o'clock,— a clear March night, 91 
 
 'Tis gone— with old belief and dream, 174 
 
 'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain, 215 
 
 'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, 427 
 
 'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold, 255 
 
 'Tis said, that some have died for love, 79 
 
 'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill, 213 
 
 'Tis spent— this burning day of June, 1 31 
 
 To a good Man of most dear memory, 438 
 
 To appease the Gods ; or public thanks to yield, 265 
 
 To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen, 231 
 
 To kneeling Worshippers, no earthly floor, 331 
 
 Too frail to keep the lofty vow, 219 
 
 To public notice, with reluctance strong, 437 
 
 Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men, 237 
 
 Tradition, be thou mute ! Oblivion, throw, 338 
 
 Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou, 357 
 
 Troubled long with warring notions, 414 
 
 True is it that Ambrosio Salinero, 431 
 
 'Twas Summer and the sun had mounted high, 528 
 
 Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 238 
 
 Vallombrosa ! I longed in thy shadiest wood, 265 
 Vallombrosa— I longed in thy shadiest wood, 277 
 Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 240 
 
 Under the shadow of a stately Pile, 278 
 Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget, 328 
 Unless to Peter's Chair the viewless wind, 319 
 Unquiet childhood here by special grace, 212 
 Untouched through all severity of cold, 213 
 Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away, 86 
 Up to the throne of God is borne, 381 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books, 361 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds, 119 
 Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill, 317 
 Uttered by whom, or how inspired— designed, 257 
 
 Wait, prithee, wait ! this answer Lesbia threw, 212 
 
 Wanderer ! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so near, 346 
 
 Wansfell ! this Household has a favoured lot, 216 
 
 Ward of the Law .'—dread Shadow of a King, 210 
 
 Was it to disenchant, and to undo, 256 
 
 Was the aim frustrated by force or guile, 209 
 
 Watch, and be firm ! for, soul-subduing vice, 313 
 
 Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind, 203 
 
 We can endure that He should waste our lands, 246 
 
 Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let the air, 430 
 
 We had a female Passenger who came, 237 
 
 We have not passed into a doleful City, 356 
 
 Well have yon Railway Labourers to this ground, 217 
 
 Wellmay'st thou halt— and gaze with brightening eye, 197 
 
 Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in strains, 338 
 
 Well worthy to be magnified are they, 328 
 
 Were there, below, a spot of holy ground, 7 
 
 We saw, but Burely, in the motley crowd, 355 
 
 We talked with open heart, and tongue, 366 
 
 We walked along, while bright and red, 366 
 
 What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size, 277 
 
 What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled, 287 
 
 What awful perspective ! while from our sight, 334 
 
 What beast in wilderness or cultured field, 321 
 
 What beast of chase hath broken from the cover, 265 
 
 What crowd is this ? what have we here ! we must not 
 
 pass it by, 146 
 What heavenly smiles ! O Lady mine, 80 
 
704 
 
 INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES. 
 
 What He— who, 'mid the kindred throng, 233 
 
 What if our numbers barely could defy, 240 
 
 What is good for a bootless bene, 372 
 
 What know we of the Blest above, 258 
 
 What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose, 256 
 
 What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret, 346 
 
 What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay, 201 
 
 What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides, 216 
 
 What though the Accused, upon his own appeal, 377 
 
 What though the Italian pencil wrought not here, 259 
 
 What way does the Wind come ? What way does he go, S!> 
 
 What, you are stepping westward ? — Yea, 222 
 
 When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry, 327 
 
 Whence that low voice? — A whisper from the heart, 289 
 
 When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn, 241 
 
 When first descending from the moorlands, 440 
 
 When haughty expectations prostrate lie, 207 
 
 When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came, 275 
 
 When human touch (as monkish books attest), 208 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed, 239 
 
 When In the antique age of bow and spear, 400 
 
 When, looking on the present face of things, 239 
 
 When Philoetetes in the Lemnianisle, 211 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate, 148 
 
 When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch, 248 
 
 When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains, 317 
 
 When, to the attractions of the busy world, 111 
 
 Where are they now, those wanton Boys, 148 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 84 
 
 Where be the noisy followers of the game, 268 
 
 Where be the temples which, in Britain's Isle, 72 
 
 Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, 21 1 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go, 202 
 
 Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root, 320 
 
 Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds, 280 
 
 Where will they stop, those breathing Powers, 177 
 
 While Anna's peers and early playmates tread, 212 
 
 While beams of orient light shoot wide and high, 217 
 
 While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, 200 
 
 While from the purpling east departs, 381 
 
 While Merlin paced the Cornish sands, 281 
 
 While not a leaf seems faded ; while the fields, 205 
 
 While poring Antiquarians search the ground, 213 
 
 While the Poor gather round, till the end of time, 341 
 
 Who but hails the sight with pleasure, 122 
 
 Who comes — with rapture greeted, and caressed, 327 
 
 Who fancied what a pretty sight, 121 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he, 371 
 
 Who ponders National events shall find, 387 
 
 Who rashly strove thy Image to portray, 385 
 
 Who rises on the banks of Seine, 240 
 
 Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce, 291 
 
 Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant, 214 
 
 Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore, 268 
 
 Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murnjurings, 199 
 
 Why should the Enthusiast, journeying thro' this Isle, 348 
 
 Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, 334 
 
 Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine, 352 
 
 Why, William, on that old grey stone, 361 
 
 Wild Redbreast ! hadst thou at Jemima's lip, 211 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the universe, 62 
 
 With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme, 438 
 
 With each recurrence of this glorious morn, 201 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'stthe sky, 207 
 
 Within her gilded cage confined, 124 
 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt One, 76 
 
 Within the mind strong fancies work, 166 
 
 With little here to do or see, 118 
 
 With sacrifice before the rising morn, 162 
 
 With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 202 
 
 Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey, 317 
 
 Woe to you, Prelates ! rioting in ease, 322 
 
 Woman ! the Power who left his throne on high, 331 
 
 Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight, 178 
 
 Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave, 332 
 
 Ye Appenines ! with all your fertile vales, 270 
 
 Ye brood of conscience— Spectres ! that frequent, 390 
 
 Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn, 411 
 
 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth, 210 
 
 Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims, 355 
 
 Yes ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 201 
 
 Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear, 329 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 162 
 
 Yes 1 thou art fair, yet he not moved, 80 
 
 Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound, 391 
 
 Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King 247 
 
 Yet are they here the same unbroken knot, 148 
 
 Yet many a Novice of the cloistral shade, 322 
 
 Yet more — round many a Convent's blazing fire, 322 
 
 Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand, 323 
 
 Ye trees ! whose slender roots entwine, 279 
 
 Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind, 327 
 
 Yet, yet, Biscayans ! we must meet our Eoes, 245 
 
 Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew, 440 
 
 You call it, " Love lies bleeding,"— so you may, 128 
 
 You have heard a Spanish Lady, 101 
 
 Young England — what is then become of Old, 388 
 
 THE END. 
 
 ETANS, P-EIR1EB8 
 


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