w 
 
 ■ 
 
 I 
 
" The Child is Father of the Man; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. u 
 
POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 WORDSWORTH 
 
 CHOSEN AND EDITED BY 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 1888 
 
First Edition printed September 187Q. 
 Reprinted with additions November 187Q 
 Reprinted 1880, 1882, 1886, t888. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I remember hearing Lord Macaulay say, after Words- 
 worth's death, when subscriptions were being collected 
 to found a memorial of him, that ten years earlier more 
 money could have been raised in Cambridge alone, to do 
 honour to Wordsworth, than was now raised all through 
 the country. Lord Macaulay had, as we know, his own 
 heightened and telling way of putting things, and we 
 must always make allowance for it. But probably it is 
 true that Wordsworth has never, either before or since, 
 been so accepted and popular, so established in possession 
 of the minds of all who profess to care for poetry, as he 
 was between the years 1830 and 1840, and at Cambridge. 
 From the very first, no doubt, he had his believers and 
 witnesses. But I have myself heard him declare that, for 
 he knew not how many years, his poetry had never 
 brought him in enough to buy his shoe-strings. ' The 
 poetry-reading public was very slow to recognise him, and 
 was very easily drawn away from him. Scott effaced 
 him with this public, Byron effaced him. 
 
 The death of Byron seemed, however, to make an 
 opening for Wordsworth. Scott, who had for some time 
 ceased to produce poetry himself, and stood before the 
 public as a great novelist ; Scott, too genuine himself not 
 to feel the profound genuineness of Wordsworth, and 
 with an instinctive recognition of his firm hold on nature 
 and of his local truth, always admired him sincerely, and 
 a 
 
vi 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 praised him generously. The influence of Coleridge 
 upon young men of ability was then powerful, and was 
 still gathering strength ; this influence told entirely in 
 favour of Wordsworth's poetry. Cambridge was a place 
 where Coleridge's influence had great action, and where 
 Wordsworth's poetry, therefore, flourished especially. 
 But even amongst the general public its sale grew large, 
 the eminence of its author was widely recognised, and 
 Rydal Mount became an object of pilgrimage. I remem- 
 ber Wordsworth relating how one of the pilgrims, a 
 clergyman, asked him if he had ever written anything 
 besides the Guide to the Lakes. Yes, he answered 
 modestly, he had written verses. Not every pilgrim was 
 a reader, but the vogue was established, and the stream 
 of pilgrims came. 
 
 Mr. Tennyson's decisive appearance dates from 1842. 
 One cannot say that he effaced Wordsworth as Scott and 
 Byron had effaced him. The poetry of Wordsworth had 
 been so long before the public, the suffrage of good judges 
 was so steady and so strong in its favour, that by 1842 
 the verdict of posterity, one may almost say, had been 
 already pronounced, and Wordsworth's English fame was 
 secure. But the vogue, the ear and applause of the great 
 body of poetry-readers, never quite thoroughly perhaps 
 his, he gradually lost more and more, and Mr. Tennyson 
 gained them. Mr. Tennyson drew to himself, and away 
 from Wordsworth, the poetry-reading public, and the 
 new generations. Even in 1850, when Wordsworth 
 died, this diminution of popularity was visible, and 
 occasioned the remark of Lord Macaulay which I quoted 
 at starting. 
 
 The diminution has continued. The influence of 
 Coleridge has waned, and Wordsworth's poetry can no 
 longer draw succour from this ally. The poetry has not, 
 however, wanted eulogists ; and it may be said to have 
 brought its eulogists luck, for almost every one who has 
 praised Wordsworth's poetry has praised it well. But 
 the public has remained cold, or, at least, undetermined. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 vii 
 
 Even the abundance of Mr. Palgrave's fine and skilfully 
 chosen specimens of Wordsworth, in the Golden Trea- 
 sury, surprised many readers, and gave offence to not 
 a few. To tenth-rate critics and compilers, for whom 
 any violent shock to the public taste would be a temerity 
 not to be risked, it is still quite permissible to speak, of 
 Wordsworth's poetry, not only with ignorance, but with 
 impertinence. On the Continent he is almost unknown. 
 
 I cannot think, then, that Wordsworth has, up to this 
 time, at all obtained his deserts. ' ' Glory," said M. 
 Renan the other day, ' 'glory after all is the thing which 
 has the best chance of not being altogether vanity." 
 Wordsworth was a homely man, and himself would cer- 
 tainly never have thought of talking of glory as that which, 
 after all, has the best chance of not being altogether 
 vanity. Yet we may well allow that few things are 
 less vain than real glory. Let us conceive of the whole 
 group of civilised nations as being, for intellectual and 
 spiritual purposes, one great confederation, bound to 
 a joint action and working towards a common result ; 
 a confederation whose members have a due know- 
 ledge both of the past, out of which they all proceed, 
 and of one another. This was the ideal of Goethe, 
 and it is an ideal which will impose itself upon the 
 thoughts of our modern societies more and more. -Then 
 to be recognised by the verdict of such a confederation as 
 a master, or even as a seriously and eminently worthy 
 workman, in one's own line of intellectual or spiritual 
 activity, is indeed glory ; a glory which it would be 
 difficult to rate too highly. For what could be more 
 beneficent, more salutary? The world is forwarded by 
 having its attention fixed on the best things ; and here is 
 a tribunal, free from all suspicion of national and provin- 
 cial partiality, putting a stamp on the best things, and 
 recommending them for general honour and acceptance. 
 A nation, again, is furthered by recognition of its real 
 gifts and successes ; it is encouraged to develop them 
 further. And here is an honest verdict, telling us which 
 
viii 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 of our supposed successes are really, in the judgment of 
 the great impartial world, and not in our own private 
 judgment only, successes, and which are not. 
 
 It is so easy to feel pride and satisfaction in one's own 
 things, so hard to make sure that one is right in feeling 
 it { We have a great empire. But so had Nebuchad- 
 nezzar. We extol the 4 'unrivalled happiness" of our 
 national civilisation. But then comes a candid friend, 
 and remarks that our upper class is materialised, our 
 middle class vulgarised, and our lower class brutalised. 
 We are proud of our painting, our music. But we find 
 that in the judgment of other people our painting is 
 questionable, and our music non-existent. We are proud 
 of our men of science. And here it turns out that the 
 world is with us ; we find that in the judgment of other 
 people, too, Newton among the dead, and Mr. Darwin 
 among the living, hold as high a place as they hold in 
 our national opinion. 
 
 Finally, we are proud of our poets and poetry. Now 
 poetry is nothing less than the most perfect speech of 
 man, that in which he comes nearest to being able to 
 utter the truth. It is no small thing, therefore, to 
 succeed eminently in poetry. And so much is required 
 for duly estimating success here, that about poetry it is 
 perhaps hardest to arrive at a sure general verdict, and 
 takes longest. Meanwhile, our own conviction of the 
 superiority of our national poets is not decisive, is almost 
 certain to be mingled, as we see constantly in English 
 eulogy of Shakspeare, with much of provincial infatuation. 
 And we know what was the opinion current amongst our 
 neighbours the French, people of taste, acuteness, and 
 quick literary tact, not a hundred years ago, about our 
 great poets. The old Biographie Universelle notices the 
 pretension of the English to a place for their poets among 
 the chief poets of the world, and says that this is a pre- 
 tension which to no one but an Englishman can ever seem 
 admissible. And the scornful, disparaging things said 
 by foreigners about Shakspeare and Milton, and about 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 ix 
 
 our national over-estimate of them, have been often 
 quoted, and will be in every one's remembrance. 
 
 A great change has taken place, and Shakspeare is 
 now generally recognised, even in France, as one of the 
 greatest of poets. Yes, some anti-Gallican cynic will 
 say, the French rank him with Corneille and with Victor 
 Hugo ! But let me have the pleasure of quoting a 
 sentence about Shakspeare, which I met with by accident 
 not long ago in the Corresfiondant, a French review 
 which not a dozen English people, I suppose, look at. 
 The writer is praising Shakspeare's prose. With Shak- 
 speare, he says, " prose comes in whenever the subject, 
 being more familiar, is unsuited to the majestic English 
 iambic. " And he goes on : " Shakspeare is the king of 
 poetic rhythm and style, as well as the king of the realm 
 of thought ; along with his dazzling prose, Shakspeare 
 has succeeded in giving us the most varied, the most 
 harmonious verse which has ever sounded upon the 
 human ear since the verse of the Greeks." M. Henry 
 Cochin, the writer of this sentence, deserves our gratitude 
 for it ; it would not be easy to praise Shakspeare, in a 
 single sentence, more justly. And when a foreigner 
 and a Frenchman writes thus of Shakspeare, and when 
 Goethe says of Milton, in whom there was so much to 
 repel Goethe rather than to attract him, that ' i nothing 
 has been ever done so entirely in the sense of the Greeks 
 as Samson Agonistes" and that " Milton is in very truth 
 a poet whom we must treat with all reverence," then we 
 understand what constitutes a European recognition -of 
 poets and poetry as contradistinguished from a merely 
 national recognition, and that in favour both of Milton 
 and of Shakspeare the judgment of the high court of 
 appeal has finally gone. 
 
 I come back to M. Renan's praise of glory, from which 
 I started. Yes, real glory is a most serious thing, glory 
 authenticated by the Amphictyonic Court of final appeal, 
 definitive glory. And even for poets and poetry, long 
 and difficult as may be the process of arriving at the right 
 
X 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 award, the right award comes at last, the definitive glory 
 rests where it is deserved. Every establishment of such 
 a real glory is good and wholesome for mankind at large, 
 good and wholesome for the nation which produced the 
 poet crowned with it. To the poet himself it can seldom 
 do harm ; for he, poor man, is in his grave, probably, 
 long before his glory crowns him. 
 
 Wordsworth has been in his grave for some thirty 
 years, and certainly his lovers and admirers cannot flatter 
 themselves that this great and steady light of glory as yet 
 shines over him. He is not fully recognised at home ; 
 he is not recognised at all abroad. Yet I firmly believe 
 that the poetical performance of Wordsworth is, after 
 that of Shakspeare and Milton, of which all the world 
 now recognises the worth, undoubtedly the most consi- 
 derable in our language from the Elizabethan age to the 
 present time. Chaucer is anterior ; and on other grounds, 
 too, he cannot well be brought into the comparison. 
 But taking the roll of our chief poetical names, besides 
 Shakspeare and Milton, from the age of Elizabeth down- 
 wards, and going through it, — Spenser, Dryden, Pope, 
 Gray, Goldsmith, Cowper, Burns, Coleridge, Scott, Camp- 
 bell, Moore, Byron, Shelley, Keats (I mention those only 
 who are dead), — I think it certain that Wordsworth's 
 name deserves to stand, and will finally stand, above 
 them all. Several of the poets named have gifts and 
 excellences which Wordsworth has not. But taking the 
 performance of each as a whole, I say that Wordsworth 
 seems to me to have left a body of poetical work superior 
 in power, in interest, in the qualities which give enduring 
 freshness, to that which any one of the others has left. 
 
 But this is not enough to say. I think it certain, further, 
 that if we take the chief poetical names of the Continent 
 since the death of Moliere, and, omitting Goethe, confront 
 the remaining names with that of Wordsworth, the result 
 is the same. Let us take Klopstock, Lessing, Schiller, 
 Uhland, Riickert, and Heine for Germany ; Filicaia, Al- 
 fieri, Manzoni, and Leopardi for Italy ; Racine, Boileau, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xi 
 
 Voltaire, Andre Chenier, Beranger, Lamartine, Musset, 
 M. Victor Hugo (he has been so long celebrated that 
 although he still lives I may be permitted to name him) 
 for France. Several of these, again, have evidently gifts 
 and excellences to which Wordsworth can make no pre- 
 tension. But in real poetical achievement it seems to 
 me indubitable that to Wordsworth, here again, belongs 
 the palm. It seems to me that Wordsworth has left 
 behind him a body of poetical work which wears, and 
 will wear, better on the whole than the performance of 
 any one of these personages, so far more brilliant and 
 celebrated, most of them, than the homely poet of 
 Rydal. Wordsworth's performance in poetry is on the 
 whole, in power, in interest, in the qualities which give 
 enduring freshness, superior to theirs. 
 
 This is a high claim to make for Wordsworth. But 
 if it is a just claim, if Wordsworth's place among the 
 poets who have appeared in the last two or three 
 centuries is after Shakspeare, Moliere, Milton, Goethe, 
 indeed, but before all the rest, then in time Wordsworth 
 will have his due. We shall recognise him in his place, 
 as we recognise Shakspeare and Milton ; and not only 
 we ourselves shall recognise him, but he will be recog- 
 nised by Europe also. Meanwhile, those who recognise 
 him already may do well, perhaps, to ask themselves 
 whether there are not in the case of Wordsworth certain 
 special obstacles which hinder or delay his due recogni- 
 tion by others, and whether these obstacles are not in 
 some measure removable. 
 
 The Excursion and the Prelude^ his poems of greatest 
 bulk, are by no means Wordsworth's best work. His 
 best work is in his shorter pieces, and many indeed are 
 there of these which are of first-rate excellence. But in 
 * his seven volumes the pieces of high merit are mingled 
 with a mass of pieces very inferior to them ; so inferior 
 to them that it seems wonderful how the same poet 
 should have produced both. Shakspeare frequently has 
 lines and passages in a strain quite false, and which are 
 
xii 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 entirely unworthy of him. But one can imagine his 
 smiling if one could meet him in the Elysian Fields and tell 
 him so ; smiling and replying that he knew it perfectly well 
 himself, and what did it matter? But with Wordsworth 
 the case is different. Work altogether inferior, work quite 
 uninspired, flat and dull, is produced by him with evident 
 unconsciousness of its defects, and he presents it to us 
 with the same faith and seriousness as his best work. Now 
 a drama or an epic fill the mind, and one does not look 
 beyond them ; but in a collection of short pieces the im- 
 pression made by one piece requires to be continued and 
 sustained by the piece following. In reading Wordsworth 
 the impression made by one of his fine pieces is too often 
 dulled and spoiled by a very inferior piece coming after it. 
 
 Wordsworth composed verses during a space of some 
 sixty years ; and it is no exaggeration to say that within 
 one single decade of those years, between 1798 and 1808, 
 almost all his really first-rate work was produced. A 
 mass of inferior work remains, work done before and 
 after this golden prime, imbedding the first-rate work 
 and clogging it, obstructing our approach to it, chilling, 
 not unfrequently, the high-wrought mood with which we 
 leave it. To be recognised far and wide as a great poet, 
 to be possible and receivable as a classic, Wordsworth 
 needs to be relieved of a great deal of the poetical bag- 
 gage which now encumbers him. To administer this re- 
 lief is indispensable, unless he is to continue to be a poet 
 for the few only, a poet valued far below his real worth 
 by the world. 
 
 There is another thing. Wordsworth classified his 
 poems not according to any commonly received plan of 
 arrangement, but according to a scheme of mental 
 physiology. He has poems of the fancy, poems of the 
 imagination, poems of sentiment and reflexion, and so 
 on. His categories are ingenious but far-fetched, and 
 the result of his employment of them is unsatisfactory. 
 Poems are separated one from another which possess a 
 kinship of subject or of treatment far more vital and 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xiii 
 
 deep than the supposed unity of mental origin which was 
 Wordsworth's reason for joining them with others. 
 
 The tact of the Greeks in matters of this kind was in- 
 fallible. We may rely upon it that we shall not improve 
 upon the classification adopted by the Greeks for kinds of 
 poetry ; that their categories of epic, dramatic, lyric, and 
 so forth, have a natural propriety, and should be adhered 
 to. It may sometimes seem doubtful to which of two 
 categories a poem belongs ; whether this or that poem is 
 to be called, for instance, narrative or lyric, lyric or 
 elegiac. But there is to be found in every good poem a 
 strain, a predominant note, which determines the poem 
 as belonging to one of these kinds rather than the other ; 
 and here is the best proof of the value of the classification, 
 and of the advantage of adhering to it. Wordsworth's 
 poems will never produce their due effect until they are 
 freed from their present artificial arrangement, and 
 grouped more naturally. 
 
 Disengaged from the quantity of inferior work which 
 now obscures them, the best poems of Wordsworth, I 
 hear many people say, would indeed stand out in great 
 beauty, but they would prove to be very few in number, 
 scarcely more than half-a-dozen. I maintain, on the 
 other hand, that what strikes me with admiration, what 
 establishes in my opinion Wordsworth's superiority, is 
 the great and ample body of powerful work which 
 remains to him, even after all his inferior work has 
 been cleared away. He gives us so much to rest 
 upon, so much which communicates his spirit and en- 
 gages ours ! 
 
 This is of very great importance. If it were a compari- 
 son of single pieces, or of three or four pieces, by each poet, 
 I do not say that Wordsworth would stand decisively 
 above Gray, or Burns, or Coleridge, or Keats, or Manzoni, 
 or Heine. It is in his ampler body of powerful work 
 that I find his superiority. His good work itself, his work 
 which counts, is not all of it, of course, of equal value. 
 Some kinds of poetry are in themselves lower kinds than 
 
xiv 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 others. The ballad kind is a lower kind ; the didactic 
 kind, still more, is a lower kind. Poetry of this latter 
 sort, counts, too, sometimes, by its biographical interest 
 partly, not by its poetical interest pure and simple ; but 
 then this can only be when the poet producing it has the 
 power and importance of Wordsworth, a power and im- 
 portance which he assuredly did not establish by such 
 didactic poetry alone. Altogether, it is, I say, by the 
 great body of powerful and significant work which remains 
 to him, after every reduction and deduction has been 
 made, that Wordsworth's superiority is proved. 
 
 To exhibit . this body of Wordsworth's best work, to 
 clear away obstructions from around it, and to let it 
 speak for itself, is what every lover of Wordsworth should 
 desire. Until this has been done, Wordsworth, whom 
 we, to whom he is dear, all of us know and feel to be so 
 great a poet, has not had a fair chance before the world. 
 When once it has been done, he will make his way best 
 not by our advocacy of him, but by his own worth and 
 power. We may safely leave him to make his way thus, 
 we who believe that a superior worth and power in poetry 
 finds in mankind a sense responsive to it and disposed at 
 last to recognise it. Yet at the outset, before he has 
 been duly known and recognised, we may do Wordsworth 
 a service, perhaps, by indicating in what his superior 
 power and worth will be found to consist, and in what 
 it will not. 
 
 Long ago, in speaking of Homer, I said that the noble 
 and profound application of ideas to life is the most 
 essential part of poetic greatness. I said that a great 
 poet receives his distinctive character of superiority from 
 his application, under the conditions immutably fixed by 
 the laws of poetic beauty and poetic truth, from his ap- 
 plication, I say, to his subject, whatever it may be, of 
 the .ideas 
 
 " On man, on nature, and on human life," 
 which he has acquired for himself. The line quoted is 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xv 
 
 Wordsworth's own ; and his superiority arises from his 
 powerful use, in his best pieces, his powerful application 
 to his subject, of ideas "on man, on nature, and on 
 human life." 
 
 Voltaire, with his signal acuteness, most truly re- 
 marked that ' ' no nation has treated in poetry moral 
 ideas with more energy and depth than the English 
 nation. " And he adds : 1 £ There, it seems to me, is the 
 great merit of the English poets." Voltaire does not 
 mean, by * ' treating in poetry moral ideas, " the compos- 
 ing moral and didactic poems ; — that brings us but a very 
 little way in poetry. He means just the same thing as 
 was meant when I spoke above " of the noble and pro- 
 found application of ideas to life and he means the 
 application of these ideas under the conditions fixed for 
 us by the laws of poetic beauty and poetic truth. If it 
 is said that to call these ideas moral ideas is to introduce 
 a strong and injurious limitation, I answer that it is to do 
 nothing of the kind, because moral ideas are really so 
 main a part of human life. The question, hozv to live, 
 is itself a moral idea ; and it is the question which most 
 interests every man, and with which, in some way or 
 other, he is perpetually occupied. A large sense is of 
 course to be given to the term moral. Whatever bears 
 upon the question, "how to live," comes under it. 
 " Nor love thy life, nor hate ; but, what thou liv'st, 
 Live well ; how long or short, permit to heaven. 
 
 In those fine lines, Milton utters, as every one at once 
 
 perceives, a moral idea. Yes, but so too, when Keats 
 
 consoles the forward-bending lover on the Grecian Urn, 
 
 the lover arrested and presented in immortal relief by the 
 
 sculptor's hand before he can kiss, with the line, 
 
 " For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair" — 
 
 he utters a moral idea. When Shakspeare says, that 
 
 " We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep," 
 
 he utters a moral idea. 
 
xvi 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Voltaire was right in thinking that the energetic and 
 profound treatment of moral ideas, in this large sense, is 
 what distinguishes the English poetry. He sincerely 
 meant praise, not dispraise or hint of limitation ; and 
 they err who suppose that poetic limitation is a necessary 
 consequence of the fact, the fact being granted as Voltaire 
 states it. If what distinguishes the greatest poets is their 
 powerful and profound application of ideas to life, which 
 surely no good critic will deny, then to prefix to the term 
 ideas here the term moral makes hardly any difference, 
 because human life itself is in so preponderating a degree 
 moral. 
 
 It is important, therefore, to hold fast to this : that 
 poetry is at bottom a criticism of life ; that the greatness 
 of a poet lies in his powerful and beautiful application of 
 ideas to life, — to the question : How to live. Morals are 
 often treated in a narrow and false fashion, they are 
 bound up with systems of thought and belief which 
 have had their day, they are fallen into the hands of 
 pedants and professional dealers, they grow tiresome to 
 some of us. We find attraction, at times, even in a 
 poetry of revolt against them ; in a poetry which might 
 take for its motto Omar Kheyam's words: "Let us 
 make up in the tavern for the time which we have wasted 
 in the mosque." Or we find attractions in a poetry 
 indifferent to them, in a poetry where the contents may 
 be what they will, but where the form is studied and 
 exquisite. We delude ourselves in either case ; and the 
 best cure for our delusion is to let our minds rest upon 
 that great and inexhaustible word life, until we learn to 
 enter into its meaning. A poetry of revolt against moral 
 ideas is a poetry of revolt against life ; a poetry of in- 
 difference towards moral ideas is a poetry of indifference 
 towards life, 
 
 Epictetus had a happy figure for things like the play 
 of the senses, or literary form and finish, or argument- 
 ative ingenuity, in comparison with ' 1 the best and 
 master thing " for us, as he called it, the concern, how to 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xvii 
 
 live. Some people were afraid of them, he said, or they 
 disliked and undervalued them. Such people were 
 wrong ; they were unthankful or cowardly. But the 
 things might also be over-prized, and treated as final 
 when they are not. They bear to life the relation which 
 inns bear to home. "As if a man, journeying home, 
 and finding a nice inn on the road, and liking it, were 
 to stay for ever at the inn ! Man, thou hast forgotten 
 thine object ; thy journey was not to this, but throvigh 
 this. 1 But this inn is taking. ' And how many other 
 inns, too, are taking, and how many fields and meadows S 
 but as places of passage merely. You have an object, 
 which is this : to get home, to do your duty to your 
 family, friends, and fellow-countrymen, to attain inward 
 freedom, serenity, happiness, contentment. Style takes 
 your fancy, arguing takes your fancy, and you forget your 
 home and want to make your abode with them and to 
 stay with them, on the plea that they are taking. Who 
 denies that they are taking ? but as places of passage, as 
 inns. And when I say this, you suppose me to be 
 attacking the care for style, the care for argument. I 
 am not ; I attack the resting in them, the not looking to 
 the end which is beyond them." 
 
 Now, when we come across a poet like Theophile 
 Gautier, we have a poet who has taken up his abode at 
 an inn, and never got farther. There may be induce- 
 ments to this or that one of us, at this or that moment, 
 to find delight in him, to cleave to him ; but after all, 
 we do not change the truth about him, — we only stay 
 ourselves in his inn along with him. And when we 
 come across a poet like Wordsworth, who sings, 
 
 " Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love and hope. 
 And melancholy fear subdued by faith, 
 Of blessed consolations in distress, 
 Of moral strength and intellectual power, 
 Of joy in widest commonalty spread " — 
 
 then we have a poet intent on 1 ' the best and master 
 
xviii 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 thing," and who prosecutes his journey home. We say, 
 for brevity's sake, that he deals with life, because he 
 deals with that in which life really consists. This is 
 what Voltaire means to praise in the English poets, — 
 this dealing with what is really life. But always it is 
 the mark of the greatest poets that they deal with it ; 
 and to say that the English poets are remarkable for 
 dealing with it, is only another way of saying, what is 
 true, that in poetry the English genius has especially 
 shown its power. 
 
 Wordsworth deals with it, and his greatness lies in 
 his dealing with it so powerfully. I have named a 
 number of celebrated poets above all of whom he, in my 
 opinion, deserves to be placed. He is to be placed above 
 poets like Voltaire, Dryden, Pope, Lessing, Schiller, 
 because these famous personages, with a thousand gifts 
 and merits, never, or scarcely ever, attain the distinctive 
 accent and utterance of the high and genuine poets — 
 
 " Quique pii vates et Phoebo digna locuti," 
 
 at all. Burns, Keats, Heine, not to speak of others in 
 our list, have this accent ; — who can doubt it ? And at 
 the same time they have treasures of humour, felicity, 
 passion, for which in Wordsworth we shall look in vain. 
 Where, then, is Wordsworth's superiority ? It is here ; 
 he deals with more of life than they do ; he deals with 
 life, as a whole, more powerfully. 
 
 No Wordsworthian will doubt this. Nay, the fervent 
 Wordsworthian will add, as Mr. Leslie Stephen does, 
 that Wordsworth's poetry is precious because his philo- 
 sophy is sound ; that his ' 1 ethical system is as distinctive 
 and capable of exposition as Bishop Butler's ; " that his 
 poetiy is informed by ideas which ' ' fall spontaneously 
 into a scientific system of thought." But we must be on 
 our guard against the Wordsworthians, if we want to 
 secure for Wordsworth his due rank as a poet. The 
 Wordsworthians are apt to praise him for the wrong 
 things, and to lay far too much stress upon what they 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xix 
 
 call his philosophy. His poetry is the reality, his philo- 
 sophy,-— so far, at least, as it may put on the form and 
 habit of "a scientific system of thought," and the more 
 that it puts them on, — is the illusion. Perhaps we shall 
 one day learn to make this proposition general, and to 
 say : Poetry is the reality, philosophy the illusion. But 
 in Wordsworth's case, at any rate, we cannot do him 
 justice until we dismiss his formal philosophy. 
 
 The Excursion abounds with philosophy, and there- 
 fore the Excursion is to the Wordsworthian what it never 
 can be to the disinterested lover of poetry, — a satisfactory 
 work. " Duty exists," says Wordsworth, in the Excur- 
 sion ; and then he proceeds thus : — 
 
 . . . . " Immutably survive, 
 
 For our support, the measures and the forms, 
 
 Which an abstract Intelligence supplies, 
 
 Whose kingdom is, where time and space are not." 
 
 And the Wordsworthian is delighted, and thinks that 
 here is a sweet union of philosophy and poetry. But the 
 disinterested lover of poetry will feel that the lines carry 
 us really not a step farther than the proposition which 
 they would interpret ; that they are a tissue of elevated 
 but abstract verbiage, alien to the very nature of poetry. 
 
 Or let us come direct to the centre of Wordsworth's 
 philosophy, as "an ethical system, as distinctive and 
 capable of systematical exposition as Bishop Butler's : " — 
 
 . . . . " 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." 
 
 That is doctrine such as we hear in church too, religious 
 and philosophic doctrine ; and the attached Words- 
 worthian loves passages of such doctrine, and brings them 
 
XX 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 forward in proof of his poet's excellence. But however 
 true the doctrine may be, it has, as here presented, none 
 of the characters of poetic truth, the kind of truth which 
 we require from a poet, and in which Wordsworth is 
 really strong. 
 
 Even the "intimations" of the famous Ode, those 
 corner-stones of the supposed philosophic system of 
 Wordsworth, — the idea of the high instincts and affec- 
 tions coming out in childhood, testifying of a divine home 
 recently left, and fading away as our life proceeds, — this 
 idea, of undeniable beauty as a play of fancy, has itself 
 not the character of poetic truth of the best kind ; it has 
 no real solidity. The instinct of delight in Nature and 
 her beauty had no doubt extraordinary strength in 
 Wordsworth himself as a child. But to say that uni- 
 versally this instinct is mighty in childhood, and tends to 
 die away afterwards, is to say what is extremely doubtful. 
 In many people, perhaps with the majority of educated 
 persons, the love of nature is nearly imperceptible at ten 
 years old, but strong and operative at thirty. In general 
 we may say of these high instincts of early childhood, the 
 base of the alleged systematic philosophy of Wordsworth, 
 what Thucydides says of the early achievements of the 
 Greek race : — " It is impossible to speak with certainty 
 of what is so remote ; but from all that we can really 
 investigate, I should say that they were no very great 
 things." 
 
 Finally the "scientific system of thought" in Words- 
 worth gives us at last such poetry as this, which the 
 devout Wordsworthian accepts : — 
 
 " O 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." 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xxi 
 
 Wordsworth calls Voltaire dull, and surely the production 
 of these un- Voltairian lines must have been imposed on 
 him as a judgment ! One can hear them being quoted 
 at a Social Science Congress ; one can call up the whole 
 scene. A great room in one of our dismal provincial 
 towns ; dusty air and jaded afternoon daylight ; benches 
 full of men with bald heads and women in spectacles ; 
 an orator lifting up his face from a manuscript written 
 within and without to declaim these lines of Wordsworth ; 
 and in the soul of any poor child of nature who may have 
 wandered in thither, an unutterable sense of lamentation, 
 and mourning, and woe ! 
 
 "But turn we," as Wordsworth says, "from these 
 bold, bad men," the haunters of Social Science Con- 
 gresses. And let us be on our guard, too, against the 
 exhibitors and extollers of a ''scientific system of thought" 
 in Wordsworth's poetry. The poetry will never be seen 
 aright while they thus exhibit it. The cause of its great- 
 ness is simple, and may be told quite simply. Words- 
 worth's poetry is great because of the extraordinary power 
 with which Wordsworth feels the joy offered to us in 
 nature, the joy offered to us in the simple primary affec- 
 tions and duties ; and because of the extraordinary power 
 with which, in case after case, he shows us this joy, and 
 renders it so as to make us share it. 
 
 The source of joy from which he thus draws is the 
 truest and most unfailing source of joy accessible to man. 
 It is also accessible universally. Wordsworth brings us 
 word, therefore, according to his own strong and charac- 
 teristic line, he brings us word 
 
 " Of joy in widest commonalty spread." 
 
 Here is an immense advantage for a poet. Wordsworth 
 tells of what all seek, and tells of it at its truest and 
 best source, and yet a source where all may go and draw 
 for it. 
 
 Nevertheless, we are not to suppose that everything is 
 precious which Wordsworth, standing even at this peren- 
 b 
 
xxii 
 
 PREFACE- 
 
 nial and beautiful source, may give us. Wordsworthians 
 are apt to talk as if it must be. They will speak with 
 the same reverence of The Sailors Mother, for example, 
 as of Lucy Gray. They do their master harm by such 
 lack of discrimination. Lucy Gray is a beautiful success ; 
 The Sailor's Mother is a failure. To give aright what he 
 wishes to give, to interpret and render successfully, is not 
 always within Wordsworth's own command. It is within 
 no poet's command ; here is the part of the Muse, the 
 inspiration, the God, the "not ourselves." In Words- 
 worth's case, the accident, for so it may almost be called, 
 of inspiration, is of peculiar importance. No poet, 
 perhaps, is so evidently filled with a new and sacred 
 energy when the inspiration is upon him ; no poet, when 
 it fails him, is so left " weak as is a breaking wave." I 
 remember hearing him say that ' ' Goethe's poetry was not 
 inevitable enough." The remark is striking and true; 
 no line in Goethe, as Goethe said himself, but its maker 
 knew well how it came there. Wordsworth is right, 
 Goethe's poetry is not inevitable ; not inevitable enough. 
 But Wordsworth's poetry, when he is at his best, is 
 inevitable, as inevitable as Nature herself. It might 
 seem that Nature not only gave him the matter for his 
 poem, but wrote his poem for him. He has no style. 
 He was too conversant w r ith Milton not to catch at times 
 his master's manner, and he has fine Miltonic lines ; 
 but he has no assured poetic style of his own, like 
 Milton. When he seeks to have a style he falls into 
 ponderosity and pomposity. In the Excursion we have 
 his style, as an artistic product of his own creation ; 
 and although Jeffrey completely failed to recognise 
 Wordsworth's real greatness, he was yet not wrong in 
 saying of the Excursion, as a work of poetic style : 
 ' ' This will never do. " And yet magical as is that 
 power, which Wordsworth has not, of assured and pos- 
 sessed poetic style, he has something which is an 
 equivalent for it. 
 
 Every one who has any sense for these things feels the 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xxiii 
 
 subtle turn, the heightening, which is given to a poet's 
 verse by his genius for style. We can feel it in the 
 
 " After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well " — 
 
 of Shakspeare ; in the 
 
 " though fall'n on evil days, 
 
 On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues " — 
 
 of Milton. It is the incomparable charm of Milton's 
 power of poetic style which gives such worth to Paradise 
 Regained, and makes a great poem of a work in which 
 Milton's imagination does not soar high. Wordsworth 
 has in constant possession, and at command, no style of 
 this kind ; but he had too poetic a nature, and had read 
 the great poets too well, not to catch, as I have already 
 remarked, something of it occasionally. We find it not 
 only in his Miltonic lines ; we find it in such a phrase as 
 this, where the manner is his own, not Milton's — 
 
 . . . . £< the fierce confederate storm 
 Of sorrow barricadoed evermore 
 Within the walls of cities ; " 
 
 although even here, perhaps, the power of style, which 
 is undeuiable, is more properly that of eloquent prose 
 than the subtle heightening and change wrought by 
 genuine poetic style. It is style, again, and the eleva- 
 tion given by style, which chiefly makes the effectiveness 
 of Laodameia. Still the right sort of verse to choose 
 from Wordsworth, if we are to seize his true and most 
 characteristic form of expression, is a line like this from 
 Michael : — 
 
 "And never lifted up a single stone." 
 
 There is nothing subtle in it, no heightening, no study of 
 poetic style, strictly so called, at all ; yet it is expression 
 of the highest and most truly expressive kind. 
 
 Wordsworth owed much to Burns, and a style of perfect 
 plainness, relying for effect solely on the weight and 
 
xxiv 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 force of that which with entire fidelity it utters, Burns 
 could show him. 
 
 " The poor inhabitant below 
 
 Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
 And keenly felt the friendly glow 
 
 And softer flame ; 
 But thoughtless follies laid him low 
 
 And stain'd his name. " 
 
 Every one will be conscious of a likeness here to Words- 
 worth ; and if Wordsworth did great things with this 
 nobly plain manner, we must remember, what indeed he 
 himself would always have been forward to acknowledge, 
 that Burns used it before him. 
 
 Still Wordsworth's use of it has something unique and 
 unmatchable. Nature herself seems, I say, to take the 
 pen out of his hand, and to write for him with her own 
 bare, sheer, penetrating power. This arises from two 
 causes : from the profound sincereness with which Words- 
 worth feels his subject, and also from the profoundly 
 sincere and natural character of his subject itself. He 
 can and will treat such a subject with nothing but the 
 most plain, first-hand, almost austere naturalness. His 
 expression may often be called bald, as, for instance, in 
 the poem of Resolution and Independence ; but it is bald 
 as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness which 
 is full of grandeur. 
 
 Wherever we meet with the successful balance, in 
 Wordsworth, of profound truth of subject with profound 
 truth of execution, he is unique. His best poems are 
 those which most perfectly exhibit this balance. I have 
 a warm admiration for Laodameia and for the great Ode ; 
 but if I am to tell the very truth, I find Laodameia not 
 wholly free from something artificial, and the great Ode 
 not wholly free from something declamatory. If I had 
 to pick out poems of a kind most perfectly to show 
 Wordsworth's unique power, I should rather choose poems 
 such as Michael, The Fountain, The Highland Reaper. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XXV 
 
 And poems with the peculiar and unique beauty which 
 distinguishes these, Wordsworth produced in considerable 
 number ; besides very many other poems of which the 
 worth, although not so rare as the worth of these, is still 
 exceedingly high. 
 
 On the whole, then, as I said at the beginning, not 
 only is Wordsworth eminent by reason of the goodness 
 of his best work, but he is eminent also by reason of 
 the great body of good work which he has left to us. 
 With the ancients I will not compare him. In many 
 respects the ancients are far above us, and yet there is 
 something that we demand which they can never give. 
 Leaving the ancients, let us come to the poets and poetry 
 of Christendom. Dante, Shakspeare, Moliere, Milton, 
 Goethe, are altogether larger and more splendid lumi- 
 naries in the poetical heaven than Wordsworth. But I 
 know not where else, among the moderns, we are to 
 find his superiors. 
 
 To disengage the poems which show his power, and 
 to present them to the English-speaking public and to 
 the world, is the object of this volume. I by no means 
 say that it contains all which in Wordsworth's poems is 
 interesting. Except in the case of Margaret, a story 
 composed separately from the rest of the Excursion, and 
 which belongs to a different part of England, I have not 
 ventured on detaching portions of poems, or on giving any 
 piece otherwise than as Wordsworth himself gave it. But, 
 under the conditions imposed by this reserve, the volume 
 contains, I think, everything, or nearly everything, which 
 may best serve him with the majority of lovers of poetry, 
 nothing which may disserve him. 
 
 I have spoken lightly of Wordsworthians : and if we 
 are to get Wordsworth recognised by the public and by 
 the world, we must recommend him not in the spirit of a 
 clique, but in the spirit of disinterested lovers of poetry. 
 But I am a Wordsworthian myself. I can read with 
 pleasure and edification Peter Bell, and the whole series 
 of Ecclesiastical Sonnets, and the address to Mr. Wilkin- 
 
xxvi 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 son's spade, and even the Thanksgiving Ode; — everything 
 of Wordsworth, I think, except Vandracour and Julia. 
 It is not for nothing that one has been brought up in the 
 veneration of a man so truly worthy of homage ; that one 
 has seen him and heard him, lived in his neighbourhood 
 and been familiar with his country. No Wordsworthianhas 
 a tenderer affection for this pure and sage master than I, 
 or is less really offended by his defects. But Wordsworth 
 is something more than the pure and sage master of a 
 small band of devoted followers, and we ought not to rest 
 satisfied until he is seen to be what he is. He is one of 
 the very chief glories of English Poetry ; and by nothing 
 is England so glorious as by her poetry. Let us lay aside 
 every weight which hinders our getting him recognised 
 as this, and let our one study be to bring to pass, as 
 widely as possible and as truly as possible, his own word 
 concerning his poems : — " They will co-operate with the 
 benign tendencies in human nature and society, and will, 
 in their degree, be efficacious in making men wiser, 
 better, and happier " 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface . . . . v 
 
 POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 We are Seven 3 
 
 Lucy Gray 5 
 
 Anecdote for Fathers . 8 
 
 Alice Fell ... . . . . ' tv J i * . . 10 
 
 The Pet Lamb .......... 12 
 
 The Childless Father 15 
 
 The Reverie of Poor Susan . . . . . • 16 
 
 Power of Music . . 17 
 
 Star-Gazers . . . . . . . . . 18 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Ruth . . ' • . , . 23 
 
 Simon Lee ...... "... 32 
 
 Fidelity . 35 
 
 Incident Characteristic of a Favourite Dog .... 37 
 
 Hart-Leap Well . . 39 
 
 The Force of Prayer 45 
 
 The Affliction of Margaret .48 
 
 The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman . ... 51 
 
 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle 54 
 
 The Leech-Gatherer, or, Resolution and Independence . . 59 
 
 The Brothers -65 
 
 Michael ........... 81 
 
 Margaret 96 
 
xxviii 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " My Heart leaps up " .....<,.. TI 5 
 
 To a Butterfly . . . . . . . . . ... 115 
 
 The Sparrow's Nest . . •« .... 116 
 
 To a Butterfly . . . , • , „ „. : ; - „ .117 
 
 The Redbreast and Butterfly . . . 0 ,118 
 
 " The Cock is crowing" 119 
 To the Daisy ...... 120 
 
 To the same . . . » . , , 123 
 
 To the Small Celandine . . , , , ; , .124 
 To the same Flower . . . , , t , , 126 
 " I wandered lonely as a Cloud 128 
 The Green Linnet . . , . < . « - , 129 
 
 To a Sky-Lark . . . 130 
 
 Stray Pleasures 132 
 
 To my Sister 133 
 Lines written in early Spring . . . . . , 135 
 Expostulation and Reply . . . , . . . .136 
 The Tables turned . . . , . , , . .137 
 
 To a Young Lady 139 
 
 To Hartley Coleridge 140 
 
 " O Nightingale, thou surely art " ...... 14.1 
 
 " Strange Fits of Passion have I k nown . . . .142 
 
 "Three Years she grew" . . . . . . . .143 
 
 " She dwelt among the untrodden Ways " .... 144 
 
 " A Slumber did my Spirit seal " T ^ 
 
 " I travelled among unknown Men " . . , . .145 
 
 To the Cuckoo .146 
 
 The Cuckoo again . .. 147 
 
 To a Sky-Lark .... ...... 148 
 
 "She was a Phantom of Delight 1 ' ...... 148 
 
 To a Highland Girl ... ...... 149 
 
 Stepping Westward . , . . . . . . .152 
 
 The Solitary Reaper . , . „ . . . .153 
 
 At the Grave of Burns 154 
 
 Thoughts suggested the day following . . . . .157 
 
 Yarrow Unvisited . ■ • • • • • • .159 
 
 Yarrow Visited 162 
 
 Yarrow Revisited 165 
 
 To May 169 
 
 The Primrose of the Rock , 172 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 xxix 
 
 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, AND ODES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Laodameia 177 
 
 Dion .183 
 
 Character of the Happy Warrior 188 
 
 Lines on the expected Invasion „ 191 
 
 The Pillar of Trajan .192 
 
 September 1819 ......... 194 
 
 Ode to Lycoris 197 
 
 Ode to Duty » 199 
 
 Ode on Intimations of Immortality . 201 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I. Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August 1802 211 
 
 II. Calais, August 1802 211 
 
 III. On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic . , 212 
 
 IV. To Toussaint l'Ouverture 212 
 
 V. September 1802 213 
 
 VI. Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzer- 
 land 213 
 
 VII. Written in London, September 1802 . . . 214 
 
 v VIII. " The World is too much with us " .... 214 
 
 IX. London, 1802 215 
 
 X. " It is not to be thought of" 215 
 
 XI. "When I have borne in Memory " .... 216 
 
 XII. October 1803 . . 216 
 
 XIII. To the Men of Kent. October 1803 . . .217 
 
 XIV. In the Pass of Killicranky, an Invasion being 
 
 expected, October 1803 ...... 217 
 
 XV. "England! the time is come" . .... 218 
 
 XVI. November 1806 . . . . . . . .218 
 
 XVII. To Thomas Clarkson . . . . . „ 219 
 
 XVIII. 1811 . 219 
 
 XIX. " Scorn not the Sonnet " . . 220 
 
 XX. " Nuns fret not " . . , . . „ 220 
 
 XXI, Catherine Wordsworth . ... 221 
 
 XXII. To the Author's Portrait . . . . . .221 
 
 XXIII. Personal Talk . . . . . . . .222 
 
 c 
 
xxx . CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXIV. Continued ... . ■ . 222 
 
 XXV. Concluded ........ 223 
 
 XXVI. To Sleep ........ 223 
 
 ^ XXVII. Composed upon the Beach near Calais, 1802 . 224 
 
 XXVIII. "Where lies the Land?" 224 
 
 XXIX. Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1803 22 5 
 
 XXX. Scenery between Namur and Liege . . . 225 
 
 XXXI. Admonition ........ 226 
 
 XXXII. " I watch, and long have watched " . . . 226 
 
 XXXIII. " Sole listener, Duddon ! " 227 
 
 XXXIV. " Wansfell ! this Household has a favoured Lot" 227 
 XXXV. " Return, Content ! " , 228 
 
 XXXVI. After-Thought 228 
 
 XXXVII. Seclusion 229 
 
 XXXVIII. Rush-Bearing 229 
 
 XXXIX. Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge . 230 
 
 XL. Continued . . 230 
 
 XLI. Mary, Queen of Scots, Landing at the Mouth of 
 
 the Derwent, Workington . . . 231 
 
 XLII. " Most sweet is it " 231 
 
 XLIII. On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from 
 
 Abbotsford, for Naples 232 
 
 XLIV. To R. B. Haydon, Esq 232 
 
 XLV. Mutability 233 
 
 XLVI. " The Pibroch's Note discountenanced or mute " . 233 
 
 XLVII. "A Poet!" , 234 
 
 XLVIII. The Pine of Monte Mario at Rome . . 234 
 XLIX. To the Memory of Raisley Calvert . . -235 
 
 L. To Rotha Quillinan . . . . • • 235 
 
 LI. To Lady Fitzgerald, in her seventieth Year . 236 
 
 LII. Composed on a May Morning, 1838 . . . 236 
 
 LIII. Highland Hut ....... 237 
 
 LIV. " There I" said a Stripling . ... . 237 
 
 LV. To a Painter 238 
 
 LVI. On the same Subject ...... 238 
 
 LVII. In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth \ . 239 
 
 LVIII. Tranquility ........ 239 
 
 LIX. Death ......... 240 
 
 LX. The Everlasting Temple .„".., 240 
 
CONTENTS. xxxi 
 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "If Thou indeed" 242 
 
 Influence of Natural Objects 243 
 
 "There was a Boy" 245 
 
 Yew-Trees 246 
 
 Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey . . 248 
 
 Address to my Infant Daughter Dora 253 
 
 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree 256 
 
 French Revolution . . 258 
 
 The Simplon Pass 259 
 
 Fragment from The Recluse 260 
 
 The Old Cumberland Beggar 264 
 
 Animal Tranquillity and Decay 270 
 
 Nutting . .......... 271 
 
 To Joanna .......... 273 
 
 The Fir-Grove Path 276 
 
 A Farewell 279 
 
 Stanzas written in Thomson's Castle of Indolence . . 281 
 
 Tribute to the Memory of a Dog 284 
 
 The Small Celandine . 285 
 
 Beggars 286 
 
 Sequel to the Foregoing 288 
 
 Matthew 289 
 
 The two April Mornings 2 g X 
 
 The Fountain 2 g^ 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph . . . ... . . . 2 g$ 
 
 Lines written on the expected death of Mr. Fox . . . 2 gg 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle . 300 
 
 Glen-Almain ; or, the Narrow Glen ..... 302 
 
 Written on a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's Ossian . . . 3Q3 
 
 The Wishing-Gate 306 
 
 To the Lady Fleming ^og 
 
 To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth 3I3 
 
 Evening Voluntaries — 
 
 1. " Not in the lucid intervals of life " . . . . 316 
 
 11. "The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire " . . . 317 
 
 To Mary Wordsworth 318 
 
 To a Child . . . . . " . . . . 318 
 
 Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg . . 319 
 
 Devotional Incitements 321 
 
 Inscription for a Stone in the Grounds of Rydal Mount . 323 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM 
 
 B 
 
WE ARE SEVE-N. 
 
 — 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 ? " 
 11 How many? Seven in all," she said, 
 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And where are they? I pray you tell." 
 She answered, " Seven are we ; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 ' Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And, in the churchyard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 - You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to -sea, 
 Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
 Sweet Maid, how this may be. " 
 
 Then did the little Maid reply, 
 ' Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 Beneath the churchyard tree. " 
 
 c You run about, my little Maid, 
 Your limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the churchyard 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 — 
 I sit and sing to them. 
 
 1 And often after sunset, Sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer, 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 ' The first that died was little Jane ; 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 ' So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
 And, when the grass was dry, 
 Together round her grave we played, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 4 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 ? " 
 
 The little Maiden did reply, 
 ' O Master ! we are seven. " 
 
 ' 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 !" 
 
 LUCY GRAY; 
 
 OR, 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. 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 . 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." 
 
 1 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 snow came on before its time : 
 She wandered up and down ; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb ; 
 But never reached the town. 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 7 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 Went shouting far and wide ; 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At day-break on a hill they stood 
 That overlooked the moor ; 
 And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, 
 " In Heaven we all shall meet : " 
 — When in the snow the mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Half breathless from the steep hill's edge 
 They tracked the footmarks small ; 
 And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, 
 And by the long stone-wall ; 
 
 And then an open field they crossed : 
 The marks were still the same ; 
 They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 
 And to the Bridge they came. 
 
 They followed from the snowy bank 
 Those footmarks, one by one, 
 Into the middle of the plank ; 
 And further there were none ! 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to this day 
 She is a living child ; 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome wild. 
 
8 
 
 POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along 
 And never looks behind ; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
 ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, 
 
 SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING 
 MAY BE TAUGHT. 
 
 I HAVE a boy of five years old ; 
 His face is fair and fresh to see ; 
 His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
 And dearly he loves me. 
 
 One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 
 Our quiet home all full in view, 
 And held such intermitted talk 
 As we are wont to do. 
 
 My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; 
 I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 
 Our pleasant home when Spring began, 
 A long, long year before. 
 
 A day it was when I could bear 
 Some fond 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. 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 Birds warbled round me — every trace 
 Of inward sadness had its charm ; 
 !< Kilve," said I, "was a favoured place, 
 And so is Liswyn farm. " 
 
 My Boy was by my side, so slim 
 And graceful in his rustic dress ! 
 And, as we talked, I questioned him, 
 In very idleness. 
 
 6 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." — 
 1 Why, this is strange," said I ; 
 
 1 For, here are woods, and green hills warm 
 There surely must some reason be 
 Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm 
 For Kilve by the green sea." 
 
 At this, my Boy hung down his head, 
 He blushed with shame, nor made reply ; 
 And five times to the child I said, 
 ' Why, Edward, tell me why?" 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 His head he raised — there was in sight. 
 It caught his eye, he saw it plain — 
 Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
 A broad and gilded Vane. 
 
 Then did the Boy his tongue unlock ; 
 And thus to me he made reply : 
 " At Kilve there was no weather-cock, 
 And that's the reason why." 
 
 O dearest, dearest Boy ! my heart 
 For better lore would seldom yearn, 
 Could I but teach the hundredth part 
 Of what from thee I learn. 
 
 ALICE FELL; 
 
 OR, POVERTY. 
 
 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. 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 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 he 
 
 I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
 
 A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
 
 From any garden scare-crow dangled. 
 
 There, twisted between nave and spoke, 
 It hung, nor could at once be freed ; 
 But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, 
 A miserable rag indeed ! 
 
 And whither are you going, child, 
 To-night along these lonesome ways?" 
 To Durham," 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. 
 
12 POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 " My child, in Durham do you dwell?" 
 She checked herself in her distress, 
 And said, " My name is Alice Fell ; 
 I'm fatherless and motherless. 
 
 " And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 
 Again, as if the thought would choke 
 Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; 
 And all was for her tattered cloak ! 
 
 The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 
 Was nigh ; and sitting by my side, 
 As if she had lost her only friend 
 She wept, nor would be pacified. 
 
 Up to the tavern-door we post ; 
 Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
 And I gave money to the host, 
 To buy a new cloak for the old. 
 
 * ' And let it be of dufnl grey, 
 As warm a cloak as man can sell !" 
 Proud creature was she the next day, 
 The little orphan, Alice Fell ! 
 
 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ; 
 
 I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty Creature, drink ! " 
 
 And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied 
 
 A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side. 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 13 
 
 No other sheep 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. 
 " 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. 
 
 Towards the Lamb she looked ; and from that shady place 
 I unobserved could see the workings of her face : 
 If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, 
 Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid might sing : 
 
 "What ails thee, Young One? what? Why pull so at thy 
 cord? 
 
 Is it not well with thee ? well both for bed and board ? 
 Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; 
 Rest, little Young One, rest ; what is't that aileth thee ? 
 
 " What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is wanting to thy 
 heart ? 
 
 Thy limbs are they not strong ? And beautiful thou art : 
 This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have no peers ; 
 And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears ! 
 
 ' ' If the Sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, 
 This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain ; 
 For rain and mountain storms ! the like thou needest not 
 fear — 
 
 The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here. 
 
14 POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 " 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 w T ouldst thou roam ? 
 A faithful Nurse thou hast ; the dam that did thee yean 
 Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been. 
 
 " Thou knowest that twice a day I have brought thee in 
 this can 
 
 Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; 
 
 And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, 
 
 I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new. 
 
 " Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, 
 Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony 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 fearful 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 needest 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 ? 
 Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee again !* 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 — As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, 
 This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 
 And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, 
 That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. 
 
 Again, and once again, did I repeat the song ; 
 "Nay," said I, "more than half to the Damsel must 
 belong, 
 
 For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such 
 a tone, 
 
 That I almost received her heart into my own." 
 
 THE CHILDLESS FATHER. 
 
 "Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away ! 
 Not a soul in the village this morning will stay ; 
 The Hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, 
 And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds." 
 
 — Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, 
 On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen ; 
 With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow, 
 The girls on the hills made a holiday show. 
 
 Fresh sprigs of green box- wood, not six months before, 
 Filled the funeral basin 1 at Timothy's door ; 
 A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past ; 
 One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last. 
 
 1 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 ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and 
 throws it into the grave of the deceased. 
 
1 6 POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 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, 
 4 4 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. 
 
 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 ; what ails her ? She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 
 And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
 Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; 
 And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
 The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 
 
 She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
 And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 17 
 
 POWER OF MUSIC. 
 
 An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! — yes, Faith may grow bold, 
 And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — 
 Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same 
 In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name. 
 
 His station is there ; — and he works on the crowd, 
 He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; 
 He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim — 
 Was aught ever heard like his Fiddle and 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 I 
 c 
 
18 POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 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. 
 
 0 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 you, 
 Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue ! 
 
 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. 
 
POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 19 
 
 The Showman chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's 
 busy Square ; 
 
 And is as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and 
 fair ; 
 
 Calm, though impatient, is the crowd ; each stands ready 
 with the fee, 
 
 Impatient till his moment comes — what an insight must 
 it be ! 
 
 Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause ? Shall thy im- 
 plement have blame, 
 A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame ? 
 Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault ? 
 Their eyes, or minds ? or, finally, is yon resplendent Vault? 
 
 Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here ? 
 Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear ? 
 The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest 
 fame, 
 
 Doth she betray us when they're seen ? or are they but a 
 name ? 
 
 Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, 
 And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her 
 wrong ? 
 
 Or is it, that when human souls a journey long have had 
 And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad? 
 
 Or must we be constrained to think that these spectators 
 rude, 
 
 Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, 
 Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore pro- 
 strate lie ? 
 
 No, no, this cannot be — Men thirst for power and majesty ! 
 
20 POEMS OF BALLAD FORM. 
 
 Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind 
 employ 
 
 Of him who gazes, or has gazed ? a grave and steady joy, 
 That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign, 
 Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine ! 
 
 Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore 
 Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before : 
 One after one they take their turn, nor have I one espied 
 That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
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 from that oaten pipe could draw 
 All sounds of winds and floods ; 
 Had built a bower upon the green, 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
 Beneath her father's roof, alone 
 
 She seemed to live ; her thoughts her own ; 
 
 Herself her own delight ; 
 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay ; 
 
 And, passing thus the livelong 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. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him sprung : 
 Ah no ! he spake the English tongue, 
 And bore a soldier's name ; 
 And, when America was free 
 From battle and from jeopardy, 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 
 
 With hues of genius on his cheek 
 In finest tones the Youth could speak : 
 — While he was yet a boy, 
 The moon, the glory ol 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. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 He spake of plants divine and strange 
 That every hour their blossoms change, 
 Ten thousand lovely hues ! 
 "With budding, fading, faded flowers 
 They stand the wonder of the bowers 
 From morn to evening dews. 
 
 He told of the magnolia, spread 
 High as a cloud, high over head ! 
 The cypress and her spire ; 
 — Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 To set the hills on fire. 
 
 The Youth of green savannahs spake, 
 And many an endless, endless lake, 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 And then he said, " How sweet it were 
 
 A fisher or a hunter there, 
 
 A gardener in the shade, 
 
 Still wandering with an easy mind 
 
 To build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade ! 
 
 " What days and what sweet years ! Ah me 
 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 
 So passed in quiet bliss, 
 
 And all the while," said he, " to know 
 # That we were in a world of woe, 
 
 On such an earth as this ! " 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 4 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. 
 
 1 And now, as fitting is and right, 
 We in the church our faith will plight, 
 A husband and a wife. " 
 Even so they did ; and I may say 
 That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
 Was more than human life. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink, 
 Delighted all the while to think 
 That on those lonesome floods, 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 His name in the wild woods. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 But, as you have before been told, 
 This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
 And with his dancing crest 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
 The wind, the tempest roaring high, 
 
 The tumult of a tropic sky, 
 
 Might well be dangerous food 
 
 For him, a Youth to whom was given 
 
 So much of earth — so much of Heaven, 
 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Whatever in those climes he found 
 
 Irregular in sight or sound 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 A kindred impulse, seemed allied 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
 The beauteous forms of nature wrought ? 
 Fair trees and lovely flowers ; 
 The breezes their own languor lent ; 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those gorgeous bowers. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 Pure hopes of high intent : 
 For passions linked to forms so fair 
 And stately, needs must have their share 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 But ill he lived, much evil saw, 
 With men to whom no better law 
 Nor better life was known ; 
 Deliberately, and undeceived, 
 Those wild men's vices he received, 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impaired, and he became 
 The slave of low desires : 
 A man who without self-control 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 And yet he with no feigned delight 
 Had wooed the Maiden, day and night 
 Had loved her, night and morn : 
 What could he less than love a maid 
 Whose heart with so much nature played 
 So kind and so forlorn ! 
 
 Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
 ' O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ; 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 
 Encompassed me on every side 
 When first, in confidence and pride, 
 I crossed the Atlantic Main. 
 
 * It was a fresh and glorious world, 
 A banner bright that was unfurled 
 Before me suddenly : 
 I looked upon those hills and plains, 
 And seemed as if let loose from chains, 
 To live at liberty. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 29 
 
 4 1 But wherefore speak of this ? For now, 
 Sweet Ruth ! with thee, I know not how, 
 I feel my spirit burn — 
 Even as the east when day comes forth ; 
 And, to the west, and south, and north, 
 The morning doth return." 
 
 Full soon that purer mind was gone ; 
 No hope, no wish remained, not one, — 
 They stirred him now no more ; 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 And once again he wished to live 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
 They for the voyage were prepared, 
 And went to the sea-shore ; 
 But, when they thither came, the Youth 
 Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 " God help thee, Ruth !" — Such pains she had, 
 That she in half a year was mad, 
 And in a prison housed ; 
 And. there she sang tumultuous songs, 
 By recollection of her wrongs 
 To fearful passion roused. 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
 Nor pastimes of the May, 
 — They all were with her in her cell ; 
 And a wild brook with cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 shall buried be ; 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
 And all the congregation sing 
 A Christian psalm for thee. 
 
32 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 SIMON LEE, 
 
 THE OLD HUNTSMAN, 
 WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
 An Old Man dwells, a little man, 
 'Tis said he once was tall. 
 Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
 A running Huntsman merry ; 
 And still the centre of his cheek 
 Is blooming as a cherry. 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound, 
 
 And hill and valley rang with glee 
 
 When Echo bandied, round and round, 
 
 The halloo of Simon Lee. 
 
 In those proud days, he little cared 
 
 For husbandry or tillage ; 
 
 To blither tasks did Simon rouse 
 
 The sleepers of the village. 
 
 He all the country could outrun, 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind ; 
 
 And often, ere the chase was done, 
 
 He reeled and was stone-blind. 
 
 And still there's something in the world 
 
 At which his heart rejoices ; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 
 He dearly loves their voices ! 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 33 
 
 But, oh the heavy change ! — bereft 
 
 Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see ! 
 
 Old Simon to the world is left 
 
 In liveried poverty. 
 
 His Master's dead, — and no one now 
 
 Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 
 
 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ; 
 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick ; 
 His body, dwindled and awry, 
 Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ; 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 One prop he has, and only one, 
 His Wife, an aged woman, 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
 Upon the village Common. 
 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 This scrap of land he from the heath 
 Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
 But what avails it now, the land 
 Which he can till no longer ? 
 
 Oft, working by her husband's side, 
 Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; 
 For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 And though you with your utmost skill 
 From labour could not wean them, 
 Alas ! 'tis very little — all 
 Which they can do between them. 
 
 D 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Few months of life has he in store, 
 
 As he to you will tell, 
 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 
 Do his weak ankles swell. 
 
 My gentle Reader, I perceive 
 
 How patiently you've waited, 
 
 And now I fear that you expect 
 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O Reader ! had you in your mind 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 0 gentle Reader ! you would find 
 A tale in everything. 
 
 What more I have to say is short, 
 And you must kindly take it : 
 It is no tale ; but, should you think. 
 Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 
 
 One summer-day I chanced to see 
 This Old Man doing all he could 
 To unearth the root of an old tree, 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 The mattock totter'd in his hand ; 
 So vain was his endeavour, 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have worked for ever. 
 
 " You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 
 Give me your tool, " to him I said ; 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 Received my proffered aid. 
 
 1 struck, and with a single blow 
 The tangled root I severed, 
 
 At which the poor Old Man so long 
 And vainly had endeavoured. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ? 
 
36 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 It was a cove, a huge recess, 
 
 That keeps, till June, December's snow ; 
 
 A lofty precipice in front, 
 
 A silent tarn 1 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 binds it fast. 
 
 Not free from boding thoughts, a while 
 The Shepherd stood : then makes his way 
 Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones, 
 As quickly as he may ; 
 Nor far had gone before he found 
 A human skeleton on the ground ; 
 The appalled discoverer with a sigli 
 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. 
 
 1 Tarn is a small Mere or Lake, mostly high up in the mountains. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 37 
 
 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 
 x Above all human estimate. 
 
 INCIDENT 
 
 CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG. 
 
 On his morning rounds the Master 
 
 Goes to learn how all things fare > 
 
 Searches pasture after pasture, 
 
 Sheep and cattle eyes with care ; 
 
 And for silence or for talk, 
 
 He hath comrades in his walk ; 
 
 Four dogs, each pair of different breed, 
 
 Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 See a hare before him started ! 
 —Off they fly in earnest chase ; 
 Every dog is eager-hearted, 
 All the four are in the race : 
 And the hare whom they pursue, 
 Hath an instinct what to do ; 
 Her hope is near : no turn she makes > 
 But, like an arrow, to the river takes. 
 
 Deep the river was, and crusted 
 
 Thinly by a one night's frost ; 
 
 But the nimble Hare hath trusted 
 
 To the ice, and safely crost ; 
 
 She hath crost, and without heed 
 
 All are following at full speed, 
 
 When, lo ! the ice, so thinly spread, 
 
 Breaks — and the Greyhound, Dart, is over head 
 
 Better fate have Prince and Swallow — 
 
 See them cleaving to the sport ! 
 
 Music has no heart to follow, 
 
 Little Music, she stops short. 
 
 She hath neither wish nor heart, 
 
 Hers is now another part : 
 
 A loving creature she, and brave ! 
 
 And fondly strives her struggling friend to save. 
 
 From the brink her paws she stretches, 
 
 Very hands as you would say ! 
 
 And afflicting moans she fetches, 
 
 As he breaks the ice away. 
 
 For herself she hath no fears, — 
 
 Him alone she sees and hears, — 
 
 Makes efforts and complainings ; nor gives o'er 
 
 Until her Fellow sank, and re-appeared no more. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 39 
 
 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 remark- 
 able Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments 
 spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, which 
 monuments do now exist as I have there described them. 
 
 The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 
 With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ; 
 He turned aside towards a vassal's door, 
 And " Bring another horse ! " he cried aloud. 
 
 "Another horse !" — That shout the vassal heard 
 And saddled his best steed, a comely gray ; 
 Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
 Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 
 
 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. 
 
4 o 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 fetched 
 
 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. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 4i 
 
 And climbing up the hill — (it was at least 
 Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found 
 Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast 
 Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, ' ' Till now 
 Such sight was never seen by living eyes : 
 Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, 
 Down to the very fountain where he lies. 
 
 I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, 
 And a small Arbour, made for rural joy ; 
 'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, 
 A place of love for damsels that are coy. 
 
 A cunning artist will I have to frame 
 
 A basin for that Fountain in the dell ! 
 
 And they who do make mention of the same, 
 
 From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well. 
 
 And, gallant Stag ! to make thy praises known, 
 Another monument shall here be raised ; 
 Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn stone, 
 And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. 
 
 And, in the summer-time when days are long, 
 I will come hither with my Paramour ; 
 And with the dancers and the 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 ! " 
 
42 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, 
 With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. 
 — Soon did the Knight perform what he had said, 
 And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 
 
 Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered, 
 A Cup of stone received the living Well ; 
 Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, 
 And built a House of Pleasure in the dell. 
 
 And near the Fountain, flowers of stature tall 
 With trailing plants and trees were intertwined, — 
 Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall, 
 A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 
 
 And thither, when the summer-days were long, 
 Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 Made merriment within that pleasant Bower. 
 
 The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, 
 And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
 But there is matter for a second rhyme, 
 And I to this would add another tale. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The moving accident is not my trade : 
 To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : 
 '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. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 What this imported I could ill divine : 
 And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
 I saw three Pillars standing in a line, 
 The last stone-Pillar on a dark hill-top. 
 
 The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head ; 
 Half- wasted the square Mound of tawny green ; 
 So that you just might say, as then I said, 
 Here in old time the hand of man hath been." 
 
 I looked upon the hill both far and near, 
 More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
 It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, 
 And Nature here were willing to decay. 
 
 I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
 When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired, 
 Came up the hollow : — Him did I accost, 
 And what this place might be I then 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. 
 
44 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 " 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 three bounds — and look, Sir, at this last — 
 — O Master ! it has been a cruel leap. 
 
 1 1 For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
 And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
 What cause the Hart might have to love this place, 
 And come and make his deathbed near the Well. 
 
 <{ Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
 Lulled by the Fountain in the summer- tide ; 
 This water was perhaps the first he drank 
 When he had wandered from his mother's side. 
 
 " In April here beneath the scented thorn 
 He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; 
 And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 
 Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. 
 
 " 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. " 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well ; 
 Small difference lies between thy creed and mine : 
 This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; 
 His death was mourned by sympathy divine. 
 
 The Being, that is in the clouds and air, 
 That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
 Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. 
 
 The Pleasure-house is dust : — behind, before, 
 This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 
 But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
 Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 
 
 She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 
 
 That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 
 
 But, at the coming of the milder day, 
 
 These monuments shall all be overgrown. 
 
 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." 
 
 THE FORCE OF PRAYER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. 
 
 A TRADITION. 
 
 " OTjat goon for a fcootfegg frnte? " 
 With these dark words begins my Tale ; 
 And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring 
 When Prayer is of no avail ? 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 " OT&at gooti for a ftootkstf 3bene i " 
 The Falconer to the Lady said ; 
 And she made answer " endless sorrow ! " 
 For she knew that her son was dead. 
 
 She knew it by the Falconer's words, 
 And from the look of the Falconer's eye ; 
 And from the love which was in her soul 
 For her youthful Romilly. 
 
 — Young Romilly through Barden woods 
 Is ranging high and low ; 
 And holds a Greyhound in a leash, 
 To let slip upon buck or doe. 
 
 The Pair have reached that fearful chasm, 
 How tempting to bestride ! 
 For lordly Wharf is there pent in 
 With rocks on either side. 
 
 This Striding-place is called The Strid, 
 A name which it took of yore : 
 A thousand years hath it borne that name, 
 And shall a thousand more. 
 
 And hither is young Romilly come, 
 And what may now forbid 
 That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 
 Shall bound across The Strid ? 
 
 He sprang in glee, — for what cared he 
 
 That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep 
 
 But the Greyhound in the leash hung back, 
 
 And checked him in his leap. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
 And strangled by a merciless force ; 
 For never more was young Romilly seen 
 Till, he rose a lifeless corse. 
 
 Now there is stillness in the Vale, 
 And deep, unspeaking sorrow : 
 Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 
 
 If for a lover the Lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 
 From death, and from the passion of death ; 
 
 Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 
 
 She weeps not for the wedding-day 
 Which was to be to-morrow : 
 Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
 And hers is a Mother's sorrow. 
 
 He was a Tree that stood alone, 
 And proudly did its branches wave ; 
 And the root of this delightful Tree 
 Was in her Husband's grave ! 
 
 Long, long in darkness did she sit, 
 And her first words were, ' ' Let there be 
 In Bolton, on the Field of Wharf, 
 A stately Priory !" 
 
 The stately Priory was reared ; 
 And Wharf, as he moved along, 
 To Matins joined a mournful voice, 
 Nor failed at Even-song. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 And the Lady prayed in heaviness 
 That looked not for relief ! 
 But slowly did her succour come, 
 And a patience to her grief. 
 
 Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart 
 That shall lack a timely end, 
 If but to God we turn, and ask 
 Of Him to be our Friend ! 
 
 THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. 
 
 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, and have believed, 
 And be 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. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 ! do not dread thy mother's door ; 
 Think not of me with grief and pain ; 
 I now can see with better eyes ; 
 And worldly grandeur I despise, 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
 Alas ! the fowls of Heaven have wings, 
 And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight 
 They mount — how short a voyage brings 
 The wanderers back to their delight ! 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea ; 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 
 Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 
 Or thou upon a desert thrown 
 Inheritest the Lion's den ; 
 Or hast been summoned to the deep, 
 Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 I look for Ghosts ; but none will force 
 Their way to me : — 'tis falsely said 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 Between the living and the dead ; 
 For, surely, then I should have sight 
 Of Him I wait for day and night, 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
 I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 Have power to shake me as they pass : 
 I question things, and do not find 
 One that will answer to my mind ; 
 And all the world appears unkind. 
 
 Beyond participation lie 
 My troubles, and beyond relief : 
 If any chance to heave a sigh, 
 They pity me, and not my grief. 
 Then come to me, my Son, or send 
 Some tidings that my woes may end ; 
 I have no other earthly friend ! 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. 
 
 [When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his 
 journey with his companions, he is left behind, covered over 
 with Deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel, if 
 the situation of the place will afford it He is informed of the 
 track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is 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, 
 Hearne'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 were mingled with my dreams ; 
 
 In rustling conflict through the skies, 
 
 I heard, I saw the flashes drive, 
 
 And yet they are upon my eyes, 
 
 And yet' I am alive ; 
 
 Before I see another day, 
 
 Oh let my body die away. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; 
 
 Yet is it dead, and I remain. 
 
 All stiff with ice the ashes lie ; 
 
 And they are dead, and I will die. 
 
 When I was well, I wished to live, 
 
 For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire ; 
 
 But they to me no joy can give, 
 
 No pleasure now, and no desire. 
 
 Then here contented will I lie ! 
 
 Alone I cannot fear to die. 
 
 Alas ! 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, 
 
 My 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. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 S3 
 
 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. 
 
 0 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'll follow you across the snow ; 
 
 Ye travel heavily and slow ; 
 
 In spite of all my weary pain 
 
 I'll 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 i 
 
54 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 SONG 
 
 AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, 
 
 UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE 
 SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF 
 HIS ANCESTORS. 
 
 High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate, 
 And Eamont's murmur mingled with the Song. — 
 The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
 A festal Strain that hath been silent long. 
 
 ' c 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 nourish, 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. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 she is but a lonely Tower ! 
 To vacancy and silence left ; 
 Of all her guardian sons bereft- — 
 Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page or Groom 
 We have them at the feast of Brougham. 
 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 Eamont's side, 
 This day distinguished without peer 
 To see her Master and to cheer — 
 Him, and his Lady Mother dear ! 
 
 1 * Oh ! it was a time forlorn 
 When the fatherless was born — 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Give her wings that she may fly, 
 Or she sees her infant die ! 
 Swords that are with slaughter wild 
 Hunt the Mother and the Child. 
 Who will take them from the light ? 
 —Yonder is a man in sight — 
 Yonder is a house — but where ? 
 No, they must not enter there. 
 To the caves, and to the brooks, 
 To the clouds of Heaven she looks ; 
 She is speechless, but her eyes 
 Pray in ghostly agonies. 
 Blissful Mary, Mother mild, 
 Maid and Mother undefiled, 
 Save a Mother and her Child ! 
 
 " Now who is he that bounds with joy 
 On Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy ? 
 No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass 
 Light as the wind along the grass. 
 Can this be He who hither came 
 In secret, like a smothered flame ? 
 O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
 For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! 
 God loves the Child ; and God hath willed 
 That those dear words should be fulfilled, 
 The Lady's words, when forced away 
 The last she to her Babe did say, 
 * My own, my own, thy fellow-guest 
 I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, 
 For lowly Shepherd's life is best ! ' 
 
 ' 'Alas ! when evil men are strong 
 No life is good, no pleasure long, 
 The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves, 
 And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 And quit the flowers that summer brings 
 To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; 
 Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
 Be turned to heaviness and fear. 
 — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 
 Hear it, good man, old in days ! 
 Thou Tree of covert and of rest ! 
 For this young Bird that is distrest ; 
 Among thy branches safe he lay, 
 And he was free to sport and play, 
 When falcons were abroad for prey. 
 
 ' ' A recreant Harp that sings of fear 
 And heaviness in Clifford's ear ! 
 I said, when evil men are strong, 
 No life is good, no pleasure long, 
 A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
 Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
 And thankful through a weary time, 
 That brought him up to manhood's prime. 
 — Again he wanders forth at will, 
 And tends a flock from hill to hill ; 
 His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen 
 Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
 Among the shepherd-grooms no mate 
 Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! 
 Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee, 
 And a cheerful company, 
 That learned of him submissive ways • 
 And comforted his private days. 
 To his side the Fallow-deer 
 Came, and rested without fear ; 
 The Eagle, lord of land and sea, 
 Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 And both the undying fish that swim 
 Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him ; 
 The Pair were servants of his eye 
 In their immortality ; 
 They moved about in open sight, 
 To and fro, for his delight. 
 He knew the rocks which Angels haunt 
 On the mountains visitant ; 
 He hath kenned them taking wing : 
 And the caves where Faeries sing 
 He hath entered ; and been told 
 By Voices how men lived of old. 
 Among the Heavens his eye can see 
 Face of thing that is to be ; 
 And, if men report him right, 
 He could whisper words of might. 
 — Now another day is come, 
 Fitter hope, and nobler doom ; 
 He hath thrown aside his Crook, 
 And hath buried deep his Book ; 
 Armour rusting in his Halls 
 On the blood of Clifford calls ; — 
 1 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 ! " 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 59 
 
 Alas ! the fervent Harper did not know- 
 That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed, 
 Who, long compelled in humble walks to go, 
 Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. 
 
 Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; 
 His daily teachers had been woods and rills, 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 
 
 In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : 
 Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
 The wisdom which adversity had bred. 
 
 Glad were the Vales, and every cottage hearth ; 
 The Shepherd Lord was honoured more and more ; 
 And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
 st The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore. 
 
 THE LEECH- GATHERER; 
 
 OR, 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night ; 
 The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 
 But now the sun is rising calm and bright ; 
 The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 
 Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods ; 
 The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters ; 
 And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. 
 
6o 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 All things that love the sun are out of doors ; 
 
 The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
 
 The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on the moors 
 
 The Hare is running races in her mirth ; 
 
 And with her feet she from the plashy earth 
 
 Raises a mist ; that, glittering in the sun, 
 
 [Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 
 
 I was a traveller then upon the moor ; 
 
 I saw the Hare that raced about with joy ; 
 
 I heard the woods and distant waters roar ; 
 
 Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 
 
 The pleasant season did my heart employ : 
 
 My old remembrances went from me wholly ; 
 
 And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy J 
 
 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 
 name. 
 
 I heard the Sky-lark warbling in the sky ; 
 And I bethought me of the playful Hare : 
 Even such a happy child of earth am I ; 
 Even as these blissful creatures do 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. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 61 
 
 My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 
 
 As if life's business were a summer mood : 
 
 As if all needful things would come unsought 
 
 To genial faith, still rich in genial good : 
 
 But how can He expect that others should 
 
 Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 
 
 Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? 
 
 I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, 
 
 The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; 
 
 Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 
 
 Following his plough, along the mountain-side : 
 
 By our own spirits are we deified ; 
 
 We Poets in our youth begin in gladness ; 
 
 But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness. 
 
 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
 A leading from above, a something given, 
 Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place, 
 When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 
 Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
 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 : 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, 
 
 Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age : 
 
 His body was bent double, feet and head 
 
 Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; 
 
 As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
 
 Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
 
 A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 
 
 Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face, 
 Upon a long grey Staff of shaven wood : 
 And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
 Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
 Motionless as a Cloud the Old-man stood ; 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call ; 
 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 ? 
 This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
 He answered, while a flash of mild surprise 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 63 
 
 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 live, and what is it you do ?" 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 1 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, 
 But stately in the main ; and when he ended, 
 I could have laughed myself to scorn to find 
 In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
 ' God," said I, "be my help and stay secure ; 
 I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor ! " 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 65 
 
 H THE BROTHERS. 1 
 
 " 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 churchyard 
 Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
 Tombstone nor name — only the turf we tread 
 And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife, 
 Thus spake the homely Priest of 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 turned her large round wheel in the open air 
 With back and forward steps. Towards the field 
 In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, 
 
 1 This Poem was intended to conclude a series of pastorals, the 
 scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and 
 Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the abruptness with 
 which the poem begins. 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 churchyard 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 green wave and sparkling foam 
 Flashed round him images and hues that wrought 
 In union with the employment of his heart, 
 He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 
 Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
 Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 67 
 
 Saw mountains, — saw the forms of sheep that grazed 
 On verdant hills — with dwellings among trees, 
 And shepherds clad in the same country gray 
 Which he himself had worn. 1 
 
 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 whom he so dearly loved, 
 Towards the churchyard he had turned aside ; 
 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 hope was his 
 That he had seen this heap of turf before, — 
 That it was not another grave ; but one 
 He had forgotten. He had lost his path, 
 As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 
 
 1 This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect 
 recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of 
 " The Hurricane." 
 
68 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Through fields which once had been well known to 
 him: 
 
 And oh what joy the recollection now 
 Sent to his heart ! He lifted up his eyes, 
 And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
 Strange alteration wrought on every side 
 Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, 
 And everlasting hills themselves were changed. 
 
 By this the Priest, who down the field had come, 
 Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate 
 Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 
 Perused him with a gay complacency. 
 Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
 '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 churchyard, 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 live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life : 
 Your years make up one peaceful family ; 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 69 
 
 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 churchyard 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. 1 
 
 For accidents and changes such as these, 
 
 1 This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head of 
 Haweswater. 
 
7o 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 We want not store of them ; — a water-spout 
 Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast 
 For folks that wander up and down like you, 
 To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff 
 One roaring cataract ! — a sharp May-storm 
 Will come with loads of January snow, 
 And in one night send twenty score of sheep 
 To feed the ravens ; or a Shepherd dies 
 By some untoward death among the rocks : 
 The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge — 
 A wood is felled : — and then for our own homes ! 
 A Child is born or christened, a Field ploughed, 
 A Daughter sent to service, a Web spun, 
 The old House-clock is decked with a new face ; 
 And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 
 To chronicle the time, we all have here 
 A pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir, 
 For the whole dale, and one for each fireside — 
 Yours was a stranger's judgment : for historians, 
 Commend me to these valleys ! 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 Yet your Churchyard 
 Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, 
 To say that you are heedless of the past : 
 An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 
 Here's neither head nor foot stone, plate of brass, 
 Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state 
 Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man's home 
 Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me ! 
 The Stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 7i 
 
 If every English Churchyard 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 firesides. 
 
 And then, for our immortal part ! we want 
 
 No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale : 
 
 The thought of death sits easy on the man 
 
 Who has been born and dies among the mountains. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts 
 Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 
 You, Sir, could help me to the history 
 Of half these graves ? 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 For 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'll 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 churchyard wall. 
 
72 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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'erflowed the bounds 
 Of their inheritance, that single cottage — 
 You see it yonder ! — and those few green fields. 
 They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son, 
 Each struggled, and each yielded as 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 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 73 
 
 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 ? 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 They did — and truly : 
 But that was what we almost overlooked, 
 They were such darlings of each other. For, 
 Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, 
 The only kinsman near them, and though he 
 Inclined to them by reason of his age, 
 With a more fond, familiar tenderness, 
 They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, 
 And it all went into each other's hearts. 
 Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 
 Was two years taller : 'twas a joy to see, 
 To hear, to meet them ! — From their house the School 
 Is distant three short miles — and in the time 
 Of storm and thaw, when every water- course 
 And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed 
 Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, 
 
74 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, 
 
 Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps 
 
 Remained at home, go staggering through the fords, 
 
 Bearing his Brother on his back. I have seen him, 
 
 On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, 
 
 Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, 
 
 Their two books lying both on a dry stone, 
 
 Upon the hither side : and once I said, 
 
 As I remember, looking round these rocks 
 
 And hills on which we all of us were born, 
 
 That God who made the great book of the world 
 
 Would bless such piety — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 It may be then — ■ 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Never did worthier lads break English bread ; 
 The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw 
 With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 
 Could never keep these boys away from church, 
 Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach. 
 Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner 
 Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
 Where foot could come, to one or both of them 
 Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. 
 Like Roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; 
 They played like two young Ravens on the crags : 
 Then they would write, ay and speak too, as well 
 As many of their betters — and for Leonard ! 
 The very night before he went away, 
 In my own house I put into his hand 
 A Bible, and I'd wager house and field 
 That, if he is alive, he has it yet. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 75 
 
 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 nmong- us who had heard 
 That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, 
 
76 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 From the great Gavel, 1 down by Leeza's Banks, 
 
 And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 
 
 The day would be a very festival ; 
 
 And those two bells of ours, which there you see — 
 
 Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir ! 
 
 This is sad talk — they'll never sound for him — 
 
 Living or dead. — When last we heard of him, 
 
 He 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 — 
 
 1 The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to 
 the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland 
 mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, 
 Wastdale, and Borrowdale. 
 
 The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale : on 
 issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, 
 Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 77 
 
 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 Child of all the dale — he lived 
 
 Three months with one, and six months with another ; 
 
 And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love : 
 
 And many, many happy days were his. 
 
 But, whether 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 ? 
 
78 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 ; but one of them by chance 
 Entering, when evening was far spent, the house 
 Which at that time was James's home, there learned 
 That nobody had seen him all that day : 
 The morning came, and still he was unheard of : 
 The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook 
 Some hastened, some towards the lake : ere noon 
 They found him at the foot of that same rock 
 Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
 I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 And that then is his grave ! — Before his death 
 You say that he saw many happy years ? 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Ay, that he did — 
 
 « 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 79 
 
 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 
 
 Upon the grass, — 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, nb doubt, he perished : at the time, 
 
 We guess, that in his hand he must have held 
 
 His Shepherd's staff ; for midway in the cliff 
 
 It had been caught ; and there for many years 
 
 It hung — and mouldered there. 
 
 The Priest here ended — 
 The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt 
 
8o 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 A gushing from his heart, that took away 
 
 The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence ; 
 
 And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard gate, 
 
 As the Priest lifted up the latch turned round, — 
 
 And, looking at the grave, he said, " My Brother !" 
 
 The Vicar did not hear the words : and now, 
 
 Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated 
 
 That Leonard would partake his homely fare : 
 
 The Other thanked him with a fervent voice ; 
 
 But added, that, the evening being calm, 
 
 He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 
 
 It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove 
 
 That overhung the road ; he there stopped short, 
 
 And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed 
 
 All that the Priest had said : his early years 
 
 Were with him in his heart : his cherished hopes, 
 
 And thoughts which had been his an hour before, 
 
 All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, 
 
 This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed 
 
 A place in which he could not bear to live : 
 
 So he relinquished all his purposes. 
 
 He travelled on to Egremont : and thence, 
 
 That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
 
 Reminding him of what had passed between them ; 
 
 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 gray-headed Mariner. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 81 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM. 
 
 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 Brook 
 
 The mountains have all opened out themselves, 
 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 
 No habitation can be seen ; but they 
 
 Who journey hither find themselves alone 
 
 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 
 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 
 It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
 
 Nor should I have made mention of this Dell. 
 
 But for one object which you might pass by, 
 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
 
 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ! 
 
 And to that place a story appertains, 
 
 Which, though it be ungarnished with events, 
 
 Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 
 
 Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
 
 Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
 
 Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
 
 Whom I already loved ; — not verily 
 
 For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 
 
 Where was their occupation and abode. 
 
 And hence this tale, while I was yet a Boy 
 
 Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
 
 Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
 
 Of natural objects led me on to feel 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 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. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 83 
 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 
 
 The common air ; the hills, which he so oft 
 
 Had climbed with vigorous steps ; which had impressed 
 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 
 Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 
 
 Which, like a book, preserved the memory 
 
 Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 
 
 Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts, 
 
 The certainty of honourable gain, 
 
 Those fields, those hills — 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 
 
8 4 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, 
 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 
 
 Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, 
 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal 
 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
 
 And his old Father both betook themselves 
 
 To such convenient work as might employ 
 
 Their hands by the fireside ; 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 
 Did with a huge projection overbrow 
 Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
 Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a Lamp ; 
 An aged utensil, which had performed 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. 
 Early at evening did it burn and late, 
 Surviving comrade of uncounted Hours, 
 Which, going by from year to year, had found, 
 And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, 
 Living a life of eager industry. 
 
 And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year 
 
 There by the light of this old lamp they sat, 
 
 Father and Son, while late into the night 
 
 The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, 
 
 Making the cottage through the silent hours 
 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
 
 This Light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
 
 And was a public symbol of the life 
 
 That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, 
 
 Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 85 
 
 Stood single, with large prospect, North and South, 
 
 High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
 
 And westward to the village near the Lake ; 
 
 And from this constant light, so regular 
 
 And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
 
 Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. 
 
 Thus living on through such a length of years, 
 The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
 Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's heart 
 This Son of his old age was yet more dear — 
 Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
 Blind spirit, which is in the blood of all — 
 Than that a child more than all other gifts, 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
 Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
 His Heart and his Heart's joy ! For oftentimes 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
 Had done him female service, not alone 
 For pastime and delight, as is the use 
 Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
 To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
 His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. 
 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
 Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 
 Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
 To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
 Had work by his own door, or when he sat 
 With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, 
 Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door 
 Stood, — and, from its enormous breadth of shade 
 
86 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun, 
 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
 
 The Clipping Tree, 1 a name which yet it bears. 
 
 There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 
 
 .With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
 
 Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
 
 Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
 
 Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
 
 By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
 
 Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 
 
 And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up 
 A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek 
 Two steady roses that were five years old, 
 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
 With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff, 
 And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt 
 He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
 And, to his office prematurely called, 
 There stood the Urchin, as you will divine, 
 Something between a hinderance and a help ; 
 And for this cause not always, I believe, 
 Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
 Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 
 
 But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
 Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights, 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
 He with his Father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 
 1 Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
 Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there came 
 Feelings and emanations — things which were 
 Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
 And that the Old Man's heart seemed born again ? 
 
 Thus in his Father's sight the boy grew up : 
 And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 
 He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
 
 While in this sort the simple Household lived 
 From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
 Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
 Of which 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 little 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 gathered so much strength 
 That he could look his trouble in the face, 
 It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell 
 A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
 Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, 
 And his heart failed him. ' ' Isabel, " said he, 
 Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
 ' ' I have been toiling more than seventy years, 
 And in the open sunshine of God's love 
 Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 
 Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
 
88 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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, 
 
 Another Kinsman — he will be our friend 
 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 
 
 Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go, 
 
 And with his Kinsman's help and his own thrift 
 
 He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
 
 May come again to us. If here he stay, 
 
 What can be done ? Where every one is poor, 
 
 What can be gained ?" 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 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Beyond the seas : where he grew wondrous rich, 
 And left estates and monies to the poor, 
 And, at his birth-place, built a Chapel floored 
 With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 
 These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
 Passed quickly through- the mind of Isabel, 
 And her face brightened. The Old Man 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 two last nights 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep : 
 And when they rose at morning she could see 
 That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
 She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
 Were sitting at the door, " Thou must not go : 
 We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
 None to remember — do not go away, 
 For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
 The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ; 
 And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
 Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
 
90 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
 Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
 
 With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
 And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
 The expected letter from their Kinsman came, 
 With kind assurances that he would do 
 His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
 To which, requests were added, that forthwith 
 He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
 The letter was read over ; Isabel 
 Went forth to show it to the neighbours round ; 
 Nor was there at that time on English land 
 A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
 Had to her house returned, the Old Man said, 
 He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
 The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
 Which, if at such short notice he should go, 
 Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
 She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 
 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 In that deep Valley, Michael had designed 
 To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard 
 The tidings of his melancholy loss, 
 For this same purpose he had gathered up 
 A heap of stones, which by the Streamlet's edge 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he walked ; 
 And soon as they had reached the place he stopped 
 And thus the Old Man spake to him : — " My Son, 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
 That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 91 
 
 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 speak 
 
 Of things thou canst not know of. After thou 
 
 First earnest into the world — as oft befalls 
 
 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 fireside 
 
 First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 
 
 When thou, a feeding babe, didst in 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 
 
 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 
 
92 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 shouldst go." At this the Old Man paused ; 
 Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood, 
 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 
 " This was a work for us ; and now, my Son, 
 It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands, 
 Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we both may live 
 To see a better day. At eighty-four 
 I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy part ; 
 I will do mine. — I will begin again 
 With many tasks that were resigned to thee : 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 All works which I was wont to do alone, 
 Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, Boy ! 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
 With many hopes. — It should be so — Yes — yes — 
 I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 
 To leave me, Luke ; thou hast been bound to me 
 Only by links of love : when thou art gone 
 What will be left to us !— But, I forget 
 My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 
 As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 93 
 
 When thou art gone away, should evil men 
 Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
 And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts, 
 And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 
 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
 Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 
 Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
 Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — 
 When thou returnest, thou in this place wilt see 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 
 'Twill be between us But, whatever fate 
 
 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
 And bear thy memory with me to the grave." 
 
 The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down, 
 And, as his Father had requested, laid 
 The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 
 The Old Man's grief broke from him ; to his heart 
 He pressed his son, he kissed him and wept ; 
 And to the house together they returned. 
 — Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, 
 Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the Boy 
 Began his journey, and when he had reached 
 The public way, he put on a bold face ; 
 And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, 
 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 
 
94 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 The Shepherd went about his daily work 
 
 With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now 
 
 Sometimes when he could rind 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. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
 He went, and still looked up towards the sun, 
 And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 
 Performed all kinds of labour for his Sheep, 
 And for the land his small inheritance. 
 And to that hollow Dell from time to time 
 Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
 His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
 The pity which was then in every 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, with that his faithful Dog, 
 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
 The length of full seven years, from time to time, 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 95 
 
 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. 
 
9 6 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high : 
 
 Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 
 
 Through a pale steam ; but all the northern downs 5 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Pleasant to him who on the 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. Other lot was mine ; 
 
 Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain 
 
 As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. 
 
 Across a bare wide common I was toiling 
 
 With languid steps that by the slippery ground 
 
 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 level 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 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 97 
 
 That stared upon each other ! I looked round, 
 And to my wish and to my hope espied 
 Him whom 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. 
 
 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 word, 
 Pointing towards a sweet-brier, 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 boughs 
 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 
 H 
 
9 8 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Things which you cannot see : we die, my Friend, 
 
 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, 
 
 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 the relic lie — fond thought — vain words ! 
 
 Forgive them ; — never — never did my steps 
 
 Approach this door but she who dwelt within 
 
 A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 
 
 As my own child. Oh, Sir ! the good die first, 
 
 And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
 
 Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 
 
 Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, 
 
 When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 From that forsaken Spring : and no one came 
 But he was welcome ; no one went away 
 But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, 
 The light extinguished of her lonely Hut, 
 The Hut itself abandoned to decay, 
 And She forgotten in the quiet grave ! 
 
 " I speak," continued he, "of One whose stock 
 Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. 
 She was a woman of a steady mind, 
 Tender and deep in her excess of love, 
 Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 
 Of her own thoughts : by some especial care 
 Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
 A being — who by adding love to peace 
 Might live on earth a life of happiness. 
 Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 
 The humble worth that satisfied her heart : 
 Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 
 Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 
 That he was often seated at his loom, 
 In summer, ere the mower was abroad 
 Among the dewy grass, — in early spring, 
 Ere the last star had vanished. — They who passed 
 At evening, from behind the garden fence 
 Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, 
 After his daily work, until the light 
 Had. failed, and every leaf and flower were lost 
 In the dark hedges. So their days were spent 
 In peace and comfort ; and a pretty Boy 
 Was their best hope, — next to the God in Heaven. 
 
 "Not twenty years ago, but you I think 
 Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came 
 Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left 
 
100 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 struggling 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 I 
 
 ' ' A sad reverse it was for him who long 
 Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, 
 This lonely Cottage. At his 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 — 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 IOI 
 
 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 blended, where he might, the various tasks 
 Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
 But this endured not ; his good humour soon 
 Became a av eight 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, 
 Without an errand, would direct his 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, 
 4 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 
 Is filling all the air with melody ; 
 Why should a tear be in an Old Man's eye ? 
 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 ?" 
 
102 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 dullness crept along my veins. 
 
 I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade, 
 
 Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun, 
 
 That had not cheered me long — ere, looking round 
 
 Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, 
 
 And begged of the Old Man that, for my sake, 
 
 He would resume his story. — 
 
 He replied, 
 " It were a wantonness, and would demand 
 Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts 
 Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 
 Even of the dead ; contented thence to draw 
 A momentary pleasure, never marked 
 By reason, barren of all future good. 
 But we have known that there is often found 
 In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, 
 A power to virtue friendly ; were't not so, 
 I am a dreamer among men, indeed 
 An idle dreamer ! 'Tis a common tale, 
 An ordinary sorrow of Man's life, 
 A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 In bodily form. — But without furth*er 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, — O Sir ! 
 I cannot tell how she pronounced my name : — 
 With fervent love, and with a face of grief 
 Unutterably helpless, and a look 
 That seemed to cling upon me, she enquired 
 If I had seen her Husband. As she spake 
 A strange surprise and fear came to my heart, 
 Nor had I power to answer ere she told 
 That he had disappeared — not two months gone. 
 He left his house : two wretched days had past, 
 And on the third, as 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. — e I shuddered at the sight,' 
 Said Margaret, * for I knew it was his hand 
 
104 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Which placed it there : and ere that day was ended, 
 
 That long and anxious day ! I learned from one 
 
 Sent hither by my Husband to impart 
 
 The heavy news, — that 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 
 To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
 Such words of hope from her own mouth as served 
 To cheer us both : — but long we had not talked 
 Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
 And with a brighter eye she looked around 
 As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
 We parted. — 'Twas the time of early spring ; 
 I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
 And well remember, o'er that fence she look'd, 
 And, 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, 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 i 
 
 And disappeared. — I journeyed back this way, 
 
 When, in the warmth of Midsummer, the wheat 
 
 Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed grass, 
 
 Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread 
 
 Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 
 
 I found that she was absent. In the shade, 
 
 Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
 
 Her Cottage, then a cheerful object, wore 
 
 Its customary look, — only, it seemed, 
 
 The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 
 
 Hung down in heavier tufts : and that bright weed, 
 
 The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root 
 
 Along the window's edge, profusely grew, 
 
 Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 
 
 And strolled into her garden. It appeared 
 
 To lag behind the season, and had lost 
 
 Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 
 
 Had broken their trim lines, and straggled o'er 
 
 The paths they used to deck : — Carnations, once 
 
 Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 
 
 For the peculiar pains they had required, 
 
 Declined their languid heads, wanting support. 
 
 The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells, 
 
 Had twined about her two small rows of pease, 
 
 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 — 
 
io6 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 The longer I remained more desolate : 
 
 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, '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 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 And to myself I seem to muse on One 
 
 By sorrow laid asleep ; — or borne away, 
 
 A human being destined to awake 
 
 To human life, or something very near 
 
 To human life, when he shall come again 
 
 For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved 
 
 Your very soul to see her : evermore 
 
 Her eyelids drooped, her eyes were downward cast ; 
 
 And, when she at her table gave me food, 
 
 She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 
 
 Her body was subdued. In every act 
 
 Pertaining to 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 
 
ioS 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 
 Methought she did not thank me. 
 
 " I returned, 
 And took my rounds along this road again 
 Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower 
 Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. 
 I found her sad and drooping ; she had learned 
 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. Once again 
 I turned towards the garden gate, and 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 mould, 
 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, 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 109 
 
 And, noting that my eye was on the tree, 
 
 She said, ' I fear it will be dead and gone 
 
 Ere Robert come again.' Towards the house 
 
 Together we returned ; and she enquired 
 
 If I had any hope : — but for her Babe 
 
 And for her little orphan Boy, she said, 
 
 She had no 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, whereso'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 I returned 
 
 Into this tract again. 
 
 ' ' Nine tedious years ; 
 From their first separation, nine long years, 
 She lingered in unquiet widowhood ; 
 A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 
 A sore heart- wasting ! I have heard, my Friend, 
 That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate 
 Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath day ; 
 
no NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 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 line ; 
 
 There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 
 
 Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 
 
 That girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread 
 
 With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed 
 
 A man whose garments showed the soldier's red, 
 
 Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, 
 
 The little Child who sate to turn the wheel 
 
 Ceased from his task ; and she with faltering voice 
 
 Made many a fond 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 ought 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, 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 in 
 
 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. 
 At length towards the Cottage I returned 
 Fondly, — and traced, with 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, 
 ct My Friend ! enough to sorrow you have given, 
 The purposes of wisdom ask no more ; 
 Be wise and cheerful ; and no longer read 
 The forms of things with an unworthy eye. 
 She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 
 I well remember that those very plumes, 
 Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, 
 By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, 
 As once I passed, did to my heart convey 
 So still an image of tranquillity, 
 So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
 Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, 
 That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
 From ruin and from change, and all the grief 
 The passing shows of Being leave behind, 
 Appeared an idle dream, that could not live 
 
112 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Where meditation was. I turned away, 
 And walked along my road in happiness." 
 
 He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 
 A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
 To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, 
 We sate on that low bench : and now we felt, 
 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS 
 
 1 
 
"MY HEART LEAPS UP. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 A Rainbow in the sky : 
 
 So was it when my life began ; 
 
 So is it now I am a Man ; 
 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 Or let me die ! 
 
 The Child is Father of the Man ; 
 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 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 J 
 
 A solemn image to my heart, 
 
 My Father's Family ! 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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 as if she feared it ; 
 Still wishing, dreading, to be near it : 
 Such heart was in her, being then 
 A little Prattler among men. 
 The Blessing of my later years 
 Was with me when a Boy : 
 She gave. me eyes, she gave me ears ; 
 And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 
 
 And love, and thought, and joy. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 I 've watched you now a full half-hour, 
 Self-poised upon that yellow flower ; 
 And, little Butterfly ! indeed 
 I know not if you sleep or feed. 
 How motionless ! — 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 wear 
 Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 
 Come often to us, fear no wrong ; 
 Sit near us on the bough ! 
 We'll 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. 
 
n8 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 THE REDBREAST AND 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, who by some name or other 
 All men who know thee call their Brother, 
 The Darling of children and men ? 
 Could Father Adam 1 open his eyes 
 And see this sight beneath the skies, 
 He'd wish to close them again. 
 
 If the Butterfly knew but his friend, 
 Hither his flight he would bend ; 
 And find his way to me, 
 Under the branches of the tree : 
 In and out, he darts about ; 
 Can this be the Bird, to man so good, 
 That, after their bewildering, 
 Covered with leaves the little children, 
 So painfully in the wood ? 
 
 1 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 119 
 
 "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 bosom is drest, 
 In crimson as bright as thine own : 
 If thou would'st be happy in thy nest, 
 O pious Bird ! whom man loves best, 
 Love him or leave him alone ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
120 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 121 
 
 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. 
 Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
 Thou art indeed by many a claim 
 
 The Poet's darling. 
 
 If to a rock from rains he fly, 
 Or, some bright day of April sky, 
 Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 
 
 Near the green holly, 
 And wearily at length should fare ; 
 He needs but look about, and there 
 Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 
 
 His melancholy. 
 
 A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
 Ere thus I have lain crouched an hour, 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 Some apprehension ; 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 123 
 
 Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
 Thy course, bold lover of the sun, 
 And cheerful when the day's begun 
 
 As lark or leveret, 
 Thy long-lost praise 1 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. 
 
 Bright flower, whose home is everywhere ! 
 
 A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care, 
 
 And oft, the long year through, the heir 
 
 Of joy or sorrow ; 
 Methinks that there abides in thee 
 Some concord with humanity, 
 Given to no other flower I see 
 
 The forest through ! 
 
 And wherefore ? Man is soon deprest ; 
 A thoughtless Thing ! who, once unblest, 
 Does little on his memory rest, 
 
 Or on his reason ; 
 But Thou would' st teach him how to find 
 A shelter under every wind, 
 A hope for times that are unkind 
 
 And every season. 
 
 See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid 
 this flower. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 1 
 
 Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies, 
 Let them live upon their praises ; 
 Long as there's a sun that sets, 
 Primroses will have their glory ; 
 Long as there are Violets, 
 They will have a place in story : 
 There's a flower that shall be mine, 
 'Tis the little Celandine. 
 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 For the finding of a star ; 
 Up and down the heavens they go, 
 Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
 I'm as great as they, I trow, 
 Since the day I found thee out, 
 Little flower ! — I'll make a stir, 
 Like a great astronomer. 
 
 Modest, yet withal an Elf 
 Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 
 Since we needs must first have met 
 I have seen thee, high and low, 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 'Twas a face I did not know ; 
 Thou hast now, go where I may, 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 1 Common Pilewort. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
 In the time before the Thrush 
 Has a thought about her nest, 
 Thou wilt come with half a call, 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 Like a careless prodigal ; 
 Telling tales about the sun, 
 When we've little warmth, or none. 
 
 Poets, vain men in their mood ! 
 Travel with the multitude : 
 Never heed them ; I aver 
 That they all are wanton wooers : 
 But the thrifty Cottager, 
 Who stirs little out of doors, 
 Joys to spy thee near her home ; 
 Spring is coming, Thou art come i 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
 Careless of thy neighbourhood, 
 Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
 On the moor, and in the wood, 
 In the lane — there's not a place, 
 Howsoever mean it be, 
 But 'tis good enough for thee. 
 
 Ill befall the yellow Flowers, 
 Children of the flaring hours ! 
 Buttercups, that will be seen, 
 Whether we will see or no ; 
 Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
 They have done as worldlings do, 
 Taken praise that should be thine, 
 Little, humble Celandine ! 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth, 
 Scorned and slighted upon earth ; 
 Herald of a mighty band, 
 Of a joyous train ensuing, 
 Singing at my heart's command, 
 In the lanes my thoughts pursuing, 
 I will sing, as doth behove, 
 Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 Pleasures newly found are sweet 
 
 When they lie about our feet : 
 
 February last, my heart 
 
 First at sight of thee was glad ; 
 
 All unheard of as thou art, 
 
 Thou must needs, I think, have had, 
 
 Celandine ! and long ago, 
 
 Praise of which I nothing know. 
 
 I have not a doubt but he, 
 "Whosoe'er the man might be, 
 Who the first with pointed rays 
 (Workman worthy to be sainted) 
 Set the Sign-board in a blaze, 
 When the risen sun he painted, 
 Took the fancy from a glance 
 At thy glittering countenance. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 Soon as gentle breezes bring 
 News of winter's vanishing, 
 And the children build their bowers, 
 Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 
 All about with full-blown flowers, 
 Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold ! 
 With the proudest thou art there, 
 Mantling in the tiny square. 
 
 Often have I sighed to measure 
 By myself a lonely pleasure, 
 Sighed to think, I read a book 
 Only read, perhaps, by me ; 
 Yet I long could overlook 
 Thy bright coronet and Thee, 
 And thy arch and wily ways, 
 And thy store of other praise. 
 
 Blithe of heart, from week to week 
 Thou dost play at hide-and-seek ; 
 While the patient Primrose sits 
 Like a beggar in the cold, 
 Thou, a Flower of wiser wits, 
 Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold ; 
 Bright as any of the train 
 When ye all are out again. 
 
 Thou art not beyond the moon, 
 But a thing " beneath our shoon : " 
 Let the bold Adventurer thrid 
 In his bark the polar sea ; 
 Rear who will a pyramid ; 
 Praise it is enough for me, 
 If there be but three or four 
 Who will love my little Flower. 
 
128 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 " I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD. 
 
 I wandered lonely as a Cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host of golden Daffodils ; 
 
 Beside the Lake, beneath the trees, 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced, but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : — 
 
 A poet could not but be gay, 
 
 In such a jocund company ; 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought : 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude, 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the Daffodils. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 K 
 
130 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 Amid yon tuft of hazel trees 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
 Behold him perched in ecstasies, 
 
 Yet seeming still to hover ; 
 There ! where the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
 A brother of the dancing leaves ; 
 Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 
 
 Pours forth his song in gushes ; 
 As if by that exulting strain 
 He mocked and treated with disdain 
 The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 
 
 While fluttering in the bushes. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
 Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 Singing, singing, 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary. 
 
 And to-day my heart is weary ; 
 
 Had I now the wings of a Faery, 
 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 
 There's madness about thee, and joy divine 
 
 In that song of thine ; 
 
 Lift me, guide me high and high 
 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 
 
 Joyous as morning, 
 Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
 Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
 And, though little troubled with sloth, 
 Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth 
 To be such a traveller as I. 
 Happy, happy Liver, 
 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain River 
 Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 
 
 Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 
 
 Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind 
 
 But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 
 
 As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
 
 I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 
 
 And hope for higher raptures, when Life's day is done. 
 
132 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 STRAY PLEASURES. 
 
 " — Pleasure is spread through the earth 
 
 In stray gifts to be 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. 
 
 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 clance, crying, " Long as ye please ! " 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 133 
 
 They dance not for me, 
 
 Yet mine is their glee ! 
 Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 
 In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find ; 
 Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, 
 Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 
 
 The Showers of the Spring 
 Rouse the Birds, and they sing ; 
 
 If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight, 
 
 Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss ; 
 
 Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother ; 
 
 They are happy, for that is their right ! 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND 
 SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY. 
 
 It is the first mild day of March : 
 Each minute sweeter than before, 
 The Redbreast sings from the tall Larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 There is a 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 Edward will come with you ; — and, pray, 
 Put on with speed your woodland dress ; 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 We'll give to idleness. 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 Our living Calendar : 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 Love, now an universal birth, 
 From heart to heart is stealing, 
 From earth to man, from man to earth : 
 — It is the hour of feeling. 
 
 One moment now may give us more 
 Than fifty years of reason : 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 The spirit of the season. 
 
 Some silent laws our hearts will make, 
 Which they shall long obey : 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 About, below, above, 
 We'll frame the measure of our souls : 
 They shall be tuned to love. 
 
 Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray, 
 With speed put on your woodland dress ; 
 — And bring no book : for this one day 
 We'll give to idleness. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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 sweet 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 that they made, 
 It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
 To catch the breezy air ; 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 From Heaven if this belief be sent, 
 If such be Nature's holy plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What man has made of man ? 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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, 
 And none had lived before you !" 
 
 One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
 When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
 To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
 And thus I made reply : 
 
 The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
 We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
 Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
 Against, or with our will. 
 
 Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
 Which of themselves our minds impress ; 
 That we can feed this mind of ours 
 In a wise passiveness. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 " Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
 Of things for ever speaking, 
 That nothing of itself will come, 
 But we must still be seeking ? 
 
 " — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 Conversing as I may, 
 I sit upon this old grey stone, 
 And dream my time away." 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED; 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 
 Or surely you'll grow double : 
 Up ! up ! 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 And hark ! how blithe the Throstle sings 1 
 He, too, is no mean preacher : 
 Come forth into the light of things, 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 She has a world of ready wealth, 
 Our minds and hearts to bless — 
 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
 
 One impulse from a vernal wood 
 May teach you more of man, 
 Of moral evil and of good, 
 Than all the sages can. 
 
 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; 
 Our meddling intellect 
 Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : 
 — We murder to dissect. 
 
 Enough of Science and of Art ; 
 Close up these barren leaves : 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 That watches and receives. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 i 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG 
 WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! 
 
 —There is a nest in a green dale, 
 
 A harbour and a hold ; 
 
 Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see 
 
 Thy own delightful days, and be 
 
 A light to young and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy, 
 
 And treading among flowers of joy 
 
 Which at no season fade, 
 
 Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling, 
 
 Shalt show us how divine a thing 
 
 A Woman may be made. 
 
 Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, 
 Nor leave thee, when 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. 
 
140 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 To HARTLEY COLERIDGE, 
 
 SIX YEARS OLD. 
 
 O THOU ! whose fancies from afar are brought ; 
 
 Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 
 
 And fittest to unutterable thought 
 
 The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol ; 
 
 Thou faery Voyager ! that dost float 
 
 In such clear water, that thy boat 
 
 May rather seem 
 
 To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; 
 
 Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
 
 Where earth and heaven do make one imagery ; 
 
 0 blessed Vision ! happy Child ! 
 That art so exquisitely wild, 
 
 1 think of thee with many fears 
 
 For what may be thy lot in future years. 
 
 I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, 
 Lord of thy house and hospitality ; 
 And Grief, uneasy Lover ! never rest 
 But when she sate within the touch of thee. 
 O too industrious folly ! 
 O vain and causeless melancholy ! 
 Nature will either end thee quite ; 
 Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, 
 Preserve for thee, by individual right, 
 A young Lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. 
 What hast Thou to do with sorrow, 
 Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 14 
 
 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 lives, 
 
 And no forewarning gives ; 
 
 But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 
 
 Slips in a moment out of life. 
 
 O NIGHTINGALE, THOU SURELY ART.' 
 
 0 Nightingale ! thou surely art 
 A Creature of a fiery heart ; — 
 
 These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce ; 
 Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
 Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 
 Had helped thee to a Valentine ; 
 A song in mockery and despite 
 Of shades, and dews, and silent night ; 
 And steady bliss, and all the loves 
 Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 
 
 1 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 ! 
 
142 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 " STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I 
 KNOWN." 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known : 
 
 And I will dare to tell, 
 
 But in the Lover's ear alone, 
 
 What once to me befel. 
 
 When she I loved was strong and gay, 
 And like a rose in June, 
 I to her cottage bent my way, 
 Beneath the evening Moon. 
 
 Upon the Moon I fixed my eye, 
 
 All over the wide lea ; 
 
 My Horse trudged on— and we drew nigh 
 
 Those paths so dear to me. 
 
 And now we reached the orchard plot ; 
 And, as we climbed the hill, 
 Towards the roof of Lucy's cot 
 The Moon descended still. 
 
 In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
 Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
 And all the while my eyes I kept 
 On the descending Moon. 
 
 My Horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
 He raised, and never stopped : 
 When down behind the cottage roof, 
 At once, the bright Moon dropped. 
 
 What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 
 
 Into a Lover's head ! — 
 
 " O mercy !" to myself I cried, 
 
 " If Lucy should be dead !" 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 " THREE YEARS SHE GREW." 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 
 Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
 
 On earth was never sown ; 
 
 This Child I to myself will take ; 
 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 ' Myself will to my darling be 
 Both law and impulse : and with me 
 The Girl, in rock and plain, 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 ' She shall be sportive as the Fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 6 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. 
 
 1 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. 
 
144 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "SHE DWELT AMONG THE 
 UNTRODDEN WAYS." 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A Maid whom there were none to praise 
 
 And very few to love : 
 
 A Violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and, oh, 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 145 
 
 A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL. 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal ; 
 
 I had no human fears : 
 She seemed a thing that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. 
 
 No motion has she now, no force ; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees, 
 Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 
 
 With rocks, and stones, and trees. 
 
 ' I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN 
 MEN." 
 
 I travelled among unknown men, 
 
 In lands beyond the sea ; 
 Nor, England ! did I know till then 
 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 
 
 Nor will I quit thy shore 
 A second time ; for still I seem 
 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 Among thy mountains did I feel 
 
 The joy of my desire ; 
 And she I cherished turned her wheel 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed 
 The bowers where Lucy played ; 
 
 And thine is too the last green field 
 That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 0 blithe New-comer ! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice. 
 
 0 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 Thing, 
 A voice, a mystery ; 
 
 The same whom in my School-boy days 
 
 1 listened to ; that Cry 
 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
 Still longed for, never seen. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet ; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, faery place ; 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
 THE CUCKOO AGAIN. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Have not we too ? — yes, we have 
 Answers, and we know not whence ; 
 Echoes from beyond the grave, 
 Recognised intelligence ! 
 
 Often as thy inward ear 
 Catches such rebounds, beware ! — 
 Listen, ponder, hold them dear ; 
 For of God, — of God they are. 
 
148 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Ethereal Minstrel ! Pilgrim of the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? 
 Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ; SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.' 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely Apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 i 
 
 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 an angel light. 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 
 
 (AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.) 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 
 And these grey Rocks ; this household Lawn 
 
 These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
 
 This fall of water, that doth make 
 
 A murmur near the silent Lake ; 
 
 This little Bay, a quiet road 
 
 That holds in shelter thy abode ; 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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 ! 
 Yet, dream and 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 
 
 The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
 And maidenly shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer : 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
 And seemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech : 
 A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life 1 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 What hand but would a garland 
 For thee who art so beautiful ? 
 
 0 happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 
 Of the wild sea : and I would have 
 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
 
 Though but of common neighbourhood. 
 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
 
 Thy elder Brother I would be, 
 
 Thy Father, any thing to thee ! 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place. 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 
 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 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 ! 
 
152 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 STEPPING WESTWARD. 
 
 While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch 
 Katrine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a Hut 
 where in the course of our Tour we had been hospitably enter- 
 tained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts 
 of that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom 
 said to us, by way of greeting, "What, you are stepping west- 
 ward?" 
 
 " What, y on are stepping westward?" — " Yea" 
 
 — 'Twould be a wildish destiny, 
 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 
 In a strange land, and far from home, 
 
 Were in this place the guests of Chance : 
 
 Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 
 
 Though home or shelter he had none, 
 
 With such a Sky to lead him on ? 
 
 The dewy ground was dark and cold ; 
 Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 
 And stepping westward seemed to be 
 A kind of heavenly destiny : 
 I liked the greeting ; 'twas a sound 
 Of something without place or bound ; 
 And seemed to give me spiritual right 
 To travel through that region bright. 
 
 The voice was soft, and she who spake 
 Was walking by her native Lake : 
 The salutation had to me 
 The very sound of courtesy : 
 Its power was felt ; and while my eye 
 Was fixed upon the glowing sky, 
 The echo of the voice enwrought 
 A human sweetness with the thought 
 Of travelling through the world that lay 
 Before me in my endless way. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 0 listen ! for the Vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No Nightingale did ever chant 
 
 So sweetly to reposing bands 
 
 Of Travellers in some shady haunt, 
 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 
 A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
 
 In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 And battles long ago : 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 Familiar matter of to-day ? 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 That has been, and may be again ! 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending ; 
 
 1 saw her singing at her work, 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
 I listened till I had my fill, 
 
 And when I mounted up the hill, 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS, 
 1803. 
 
 SEVEN YEARS 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 comes from out the mould 
 
 Where Burns is laid. 
 
 And have I then thy bones so near, 
 And thou forbidden to appear ? 
 As if it were thyself that's here 
 
 I shrink with pain ; 
 And both my wishes and my fear 
 
 Alike are vain. 
 
 Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away 
 Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to stay ; 
 With chastened feelings would I pay 
 
 The tribute due 
 To him, and aught that hides his clay 
 
 From mortal view. 
 
 Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
 He sang, his genius " glinted" forth, 
 Rose like a star that touching earth, 
 
 For so it seems, 
 Doth glorify its humble birth 
 
 With matchless beams. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 Well might I mourn that He was gone, 
 Whose light I hail'd when first it shone, 
 When, breaking forth as nature's own, 
 
 It showed my youth 
 How Verse may build a princely throne 
 
 On humble truth. 
 
 Alas ! where'er the current tends, 
 Regret pursues and with it blends, ~ 
 Huge Criffers 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 ' 4 poor Inhabitant below," 
 At this dread moment — even so — 
 
 Might we together 
 Have sate and talked where gowans blow, 
 
 Or on wild heather. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 What treasures would have then been placed 
 Within my reach ; of knowledge graced 
 By fancy what a rich repast ! 
 
 But why go on ? — 
 Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 
 
 His grave grass-grown. 
 
 There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
 (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
 Lies gathered to his Father's side, 
 
 Soul-moving sight ! 
 Yet one to which is not denied 
 
 Some sad delight. 
 
 For he is safe, a quiet bed 
 
 Hath early found among the dead, 
 
 Harboured where none can be misled, 
 
 Wronged, or distrest ; 
 And surely here it may be said 
 
 That such are blest. 
 
 And oh for Thee, by pitying grace 
 Checked oft-times in a devious race, 
 May He, who halloweth the place 
 
 Where Man is laid, 
 Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 
 
 For which it prayed ! 
 
 Sighing I turned away ; 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 157 
 
 THOUGHTS 
 
 SUGGESTED THE DAY 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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 trode 
 These pathways, yon far-stretching road 
 There lurks his home ; in that Abode, 
 
 With mirth elate, 
 Or in his nobly-pensive mood, 
 
 The Rustic sate. 
 
 Proud thoughts that Image overawes. 
 
 Before it humbly let us pause, 
 
 And ask of Nature, from what cause 
 
 And by what rules 
 She trained her Burns to win applause 
 
 That shames the Schools. 
 
 Through busiest street and loneliest glen 
 
 Are felt the flashes of his pen : 
 
 He rules mid winter snows, and when 
 
 Bees fill their hives : 
 Deep in the general heart of men 
 
 His power survives. 
 
 What need of fields in some far clime 
 Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 
 And all that fetched the flowing rhyme 
 
 From genuine springs, 
 Shall dwell together till old Time 
 
 Folds up his wings ? 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 159 
 
 Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
 This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ; 
 The rueful conflict, the heart riven 
 
 With vain endeavour, 
 And memory of Earth's bitter leaven 
 
 Effaced for- ever. 
 
 But why to Him confine the prayer, 
 When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear 
 On the frail heart the purest share 
 
 With all that live ?— 
 The best of what we do and are, 
 
 Just God, forgive ! 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 i 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 I"—) 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
 And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
 And when we came to Clovenford, 
 Then said my "winsome Marrow" 
 " Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow. " 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 ' 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 sec 
 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's flowing ! 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 1 
 But we will leave it growing. 
 O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
 We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the Dale of Yarrow. 
 
 1 See Hamilton's Ballad as above. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
 The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow ! 
 We will not see them ; will not go, 
 To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
 Enough if in our hearts we know 
 There's such a place as Yarrow. 
 
 Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown ! 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 
 We have a vision of our own ; 
 Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
 The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
 For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
 'Twill be another Yarrow, 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 M 
 
l62 
 
 LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 YARROW VISITED, 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1814. 
 
 And is this— Yarrow?— This the Stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherished, 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream ? 
 
 An image that hath perished J 
 
 O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 
 
 To utter notes of gladness, 
 
 And chase this silence from the air, 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness ! 
 
 Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 
 
 With uncontrolled meanderings ; 
 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 
 And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake 
 
 Is visibly delighted ; 
 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness ; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection ; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 Where was it that the famous Flower 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On which the herd is feeding : 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool, 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning, 
 
 The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the Lay that sings 
 
 The haunts of happy Lovers, 
 
 The path that leads them to the grove, 
 
 The leafy grove that covers : 
 
 And Pity sanctifies the verse 
 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
 
 The unconquerable strength of love ; 
 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 
 
 But thou, that didst appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination, 
 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy ; 
 
 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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 around 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 165 
 
 YARROW REVISITED. 
 
 [The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir 
 Walter Scott, and other Friends visiting the Banks of the 
 Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before his departure 
 from Abbotsford for Naples.] 
 
 The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 
 
 Or seeks, a "winsome Marrow," 
 Was but an infant in the lap 
 
 "When first I looked on Yarrow ; 
 Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 
 
 Long left without a warder, 
 I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 
 
 Great Minstrel of the Border ! 
 
 Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 
 
 Their dignity installing 
 In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 
 
 Were on the bough, or falling ; 
 But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — 
 
 The forest to embolden ; 
 Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 
 
 Transparence through the golden. 
 
 For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on 
 
 In foamy agitation ; 
 And slept in many a crystal pool 
 
 For quiet contemplation : 
 No public and no private care 
 
 The freeborn mind enthralling, 
 We made a day of happy hours, 
 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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, O Scott ! compelled to change 
 
 Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 
 For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes, 
 
 And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
 For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; 
 
 May classic Fancy, linking 
 With native Fancy her fresh aid, 
 
 Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 O ! 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 ? 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 Nor deem that localised Romance 
 
 Plays false with our affections ; 
 Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 
 
 For fanciful dejections : 
 Oh, 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 
 _JFor simple hearts thy beauty ; 
 To dream-light dear while jet unseen, 
 
 Dear to the common sunshine, 
 And dearer still, as now I feel, 
 
 To memory"' s shadowy moonshine ! 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS, 
 
 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 train are proud to look, 
 
 And seem to love it best. 
 
 And yet how pleased we wander forth 
 
 When May is whispering, ' ' Come ! 
 Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 
 
 The happiest for your home ; 
 Heaven's bounteous love through me is 
 
 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. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 
 
 Mishap by worm and blight ; 
 If expectations newly blown 
 
 Have perished in thy sight ; 
 If loves and joys, while up they sprung, 
 
 Were caught as in a snare ; 
 Such is the lot of all the young, 
 
 However bright and fair. 
 
 Lo ! streams that April could not check 
 
 Are patient of thy rule ; 
 Gurgling in foamy water-break, 
 
 Loitering in glassy pool : 
 By thee, thee only, could be sent 
 
 Such gentle mists as glide, 
 Curling with unconfirmed intent, 
 
 On that green mountain's side. 
 
 How delicate the leafy veil 
 
 Through which yon House of God 
 Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale 
 
 By few but shepherds trod ! 
 And lowly huts near beaten ways, 
 
 No sooner stand attired 
 In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise 
 
 Peep forth, and are admired. 
 
 Season of fancy and of hope, 
 
 Permit not for one hour 
 A blossom from thy crown to drop, 
 
 Nor add to it a flower ! 
 Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 
 
 Of self-restraining art, 
 This modest charm of not too much, 
 
 Part seen, imagined part ! 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 The flowers, still faithful to the stems, 
 
 Their fellowship renew ; 
 The stems are faithful to the root, 
 
 That worketh out of view ; 
 And to the rock the root adheres 
 
 In every fibre true. 
 
 Close clings to earth the living rock, 
 Though threatening still to fall ; 
 
 The earth is constant to her sphere ; • 
 And God upholds them all : 
 
 So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads 
 Her annual funeral. 
 
LYRICAL POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
POEMS 
 
 AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE 
 
 AND 
 
 ODES 
 
LAODAMEIA. 
 
 « With sacrifice, before the rising morn 
 Performed, my slaughtered Lord have I required ; 
 And in thick darkness, amid shades forlorn, 
 Him of the infernal Gods have I desired : 
 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. 
 
 O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O joy ! 
 What doth she look on ? — whom doth she behold ? 
 Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
 His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
 It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ! 
 And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 
 
 Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 
 That calms all fear : 6 ' Such grace hath crowned thy 
 prayer, 
 
 Laodameia ! 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 ! " 
 
 N 
 
178 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp : 
 
 Again that consummation she essayed : 
 
 But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp 
 
 As often as that eager grasp was made. 
 
 The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 
 
 And re-assume his place before her sight. 
 
 " Protesilaos, 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, Laodameia ! 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. 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 179 
 
 ' But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
 And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
 That thou should' st cheat 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 Parcse threw 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 This visage tells thee that my doom is past : 
 Know, virtue were not virtue, if the joys 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 And surely as they vanish. — Earth destroys 
 Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains : 
 Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 
 
 Be taught, O faithful consort, to control 
 Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
 The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 
 A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
 Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn " 
 
 Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by force 
 Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
 Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
 Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
 And JEson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 
 
8o POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 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. 
 
 He spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
 In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
 No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
 The past unsigh'd 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 ODES. 
 
 181 
 
 4 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 counsel were detained ; 
 What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 
 
 i The wished-for wind was given : — I then revolved 
 The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 
 And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
 That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
 The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,- — 
 Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 
 
 Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 
 
 On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 
 
 And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 
 
 The paths which we have trod — these fountains, flowers ; 
 
 My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 
 
 But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 
 ' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array 
 Yet of their number no one dares to die ' ? 
 In soul I swept the indignity away : 
 Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty thought, 
 In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 
 
 And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak ; 
 
 In reason, in self-government too slow : 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 The invisible world with thee hath sympathised ; 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 
 
1 82 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 
 Towards a higher object. — Love was given, 
 Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
 For this the passion to excess was driven — 
 That self might be annulled : her bondage prove 
 The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." — 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re-appears ! 
 
 Round the dear Shade she would have clung — 'tis vain 
 
 The hours are past — too brief had they been years — 
 
 And him no mortal effort can detain : 
 
 Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, 
 
 He through the portal takes his silent way, 
 
 And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay. 
 
 Ah, judge her gently who so deeply loved ! 
 Her, who in reason's spite, yet without crime, 
 Was in a trance of passion thus removed ; 
 Delivered from the galling yoke of time 
 And these frail elements — to 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 ! 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 DION. 
 
 (SEE PLUTARCH.) 
 I. 
 
 Fair is the swan, whose majesty, prevailing 
 
 O'er breezeless 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace, 
 Where'er he turned, a natural grace 
 Of haughtiness without pretence, 
 And to unfold a still magnificence, 
 Was princely Dion, in the power 
 And beauty of his happier hour. 
 
184 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 Nor less the homage that was seen to wait 
 On Dion's virtues, when the lunar beam 
 Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, 
 Fell round him in the grove of Academe, 
 Softening their inbred dignity austere ; 
 
 That he, not too elate 
 
 With self-sufficing solitude, 
 But with majestic lowliness endued, 
 
 Might in the universal bosom reign, 
 And from affectionate observance gain 
 Help, under every change of adverse fate. 
 
 in. 
 
 Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous day ! 
 Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and 
 shield, 
 
 Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, 
 
 To Syracuse advance in bright array. 
 
 Who leads them on ? — The anxious people see 
 
 Long-exiled Dion marching at their head, 
 
 He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, 
 
 And in a white, far-beaming corslet clad 1 
 
 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 ; 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, 
 Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 
 As if a very Deity he were ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and mourn 
 
 Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
 
 Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
 
 Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades ! 
 
 For him who to divinity aspired, 
 
 Not on the breath of popular applause, 
 
 But through dependence on the sacred laws 
 
 Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired, 
 
 Intent to trace the ideal path of right 
 
 (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) 
 
 Which Dion learned to measure with delight ; 
 
 But he hath overleaped the eternal bars ; 
 
 And, following guides whose craft holds no consent 
 
 With aught that breathes the ethereal element, 
 
 Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood, 
 
 Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 
 
 Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, 
 
 Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain ; 
 
 And oft his cogitations sink as low 
 
 As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 
 
 The heaviest plummet of despair can go. 
 
 But whence that sudden check ? that 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, — 
 
1 86 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 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 Msenalus he stops 
 
 His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 
 
 v. 
 
 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 ! 
 "A vaunt, 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 !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 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 
 
 Which no philosophy can brook ! 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 187 
 
 VII. 
 
 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 : 
 (C Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, 
 Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 
 Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends." 
 
1 88 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 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 childish 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. 
 
 — 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 
 
 Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 189 
 
 Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 
 
 To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
 
 And what in quality or act is best 
 
 Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
 
 He fixes good on good alone, and owes 
 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows : 
 
 — Who, if he rise to station of command, 
 
 Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
 
 On honourable terms, or else retire, 
 
 And in himself possess his own desire ; 
 
 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 ; on whose head must fall, 
 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
 
 Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 
 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 
 A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
 
 But who, if he be called upon to face 
 
 Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
 
 Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
 
 Is happy as a lover ; and attired 
 
 With sudden brightness, like a man 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 ; 
 
190 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 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 go to dust without his fame, 
 And leave a dead unprofitable name, 
 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
 And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
 His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 
 This is the happy Warrior ; this is he 
 Whom every man in arms should wish to be. 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 191 
 
 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 — O waken all, 
 Whate'er your temper, at your Country's call ; 
 Resolving (this a free-born Nation can) 
 To have one soul, and perish to a man, 
 Or save this honoured Land from every lord 
 But British reason and the British sword. 
 
192 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. 
 
 [I had observed in the newspaper that the Pillar of Trajan was 
 given as a subject for a prize-poem in English verse. I had a 
 wish that my son, who was then an undergraduate at Oxford, 
 should try his fortune, and I told him so ; but he, not having 
 been accustomed to write verse, wisely declined to enter on the 
 task; whereupon I showed him these lines as a proof of what 
 might be, without difficulty, done cn that subject.] 
 
 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. 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 193 
 
 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 received its doom ; 
 Things that recoil from language ; that, if shown 
 By apter pencil, from the light had flown. 
 A Pontiff, Trajan here the Gods implores, 
 There greets an embassy from Indian shores : 
 Lo ! he harangues his cohorts —there the storm 
 Of battle meets him in authentic form ! 
 Unharnessed, naked, troops of Moorish horse 
 Sweep to the charge ; more high, the Dacian force, 
 To hoof and finger mailed ; — 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. 
 
 o 
 
194 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 — Alas ! that one thus disciplined could toil 
 
 To enslave whole nations on their native soil ; 
 
 So emulous of Macedonian fame, 
 
 That, when his age was measured with his aim, 
 
 He drooped, 'mid else unclouded victories, 
 
 And turned his eagles back with deep-drawn sighs ; 
 
 O weakness of the great ! O folly of the wise ! 
 
 Where now the haughty Empire -that was spread 
 With such fond hope ? her very speech is dead ; 
 Yet glorious Art the power of Time defies, 
 And Trajan still, through various 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. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 1819. 
 
 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. 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
 Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, 
 And yellow on the bough : — 
 Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! 
 Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
 Around a younger brow ! 
 
 Yet will I temperately rejoice ; 
 
 Wide is the range, and free the choice 
 
 Of undiscordant themes ; 
 
 Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 
 
 Not less than vernal ecstasies, 
 
 And passion's feverish dreams. 
 
 For deathless powers to verse belong, 
 And they like Demigods are strong 
 On whom the Muses smile ; 
 But some their function have disclaimed. 
 Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 
 To enervate and defile. 
 
 Not such the initiatory strains 
 
 Committed to the silent plains 
 
 In Britain's earliest dawn : 
 
 Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 
 
 While all-too-daringly the veil 
 
 Of nature was withdrawn ! 
 
 Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
 When the live chords Alcseus smote, 
 Inflamed by sense of wrong ; 
 Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 
 Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 
 Of fierce vindictive song. 
 
POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 And not unhallowed was the page 
 By winged Love inscribed, to assuage 
 The pangs of vain pursuit ; 
 Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
 With finest touch of passion swayed 
 Her own ^Eolian lute. 
 
 O ye, who patiently explore 
 The wreck of Herculanean lore, 
 What rapture ! could ye seize 
 Some Theban fragment, or unroll 
 One precious, tender-hearted scroll 
 Of pure Simonides. 
 
 That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
 Of poesy ; a bursting forth 
 Of genius from the dust ! 
 What Horace gloried to behold, 
 What Maro loved, shall we unfold ? 
 Can haughty Time be just ? 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 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 on the wing the urchin played, 
 
 Could fearlessly approach the shade ? 
 
 — Enough for one soft vernal day. 
 
 If I, a bard of ebbing time, 
 
 And nurtured in a fickle clime, 
 
 May haunt this horned bay ; 
 
 W 7 hose 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 ! 
 
 II. 
 
 In youth we love the darksome lawn 
 Brushed by the owlet's wing ; 
 Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, 
 And Autumn to the Spring. 
 
POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 Sad fancies do we then affect, 
 
 In luxury of disrespect 
 
 To our own prodigal excess 
 
 Of too familiar happiness. 
 
 Lycoris (if such name befit 
 
 Thee, thee my life's celestial sign !) 
 
 When Nature marks the year's decline, 
 
 Be ours to welcome it ; 
 
 Pleased with the harvest hope that runs 
 
 Before the path of milder suns ; 
 
 Pleased while the sylvan world displays 
 
 Its ripeness to the feeding gaze ; 
 
 Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell 
 
 Of the resplendent miracle. 
 
 III. 
 
 But something whispers to my heart 
 
 That, as we downward tend, 
 
 Lycoris ! life requires an art 
 
 To which our souls must bend ; 
 
 A skill — to balance and supply ; 
 
 And, ere the flowing fount be dry, 
 
 As soon it must, a sense to sip, 
 
 Or drink, with no fastidious lip. 
 
 Then welcome, above all, the Guest 
 
 Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, 
 
 Seem to recall the Deity 
 
 Of youth into the breast : 
 
 May pensive Autumn- ne'er present 
 
 A claim to her disparagement ! 
 
 While blossoms and the budding spray 
 
 Inspire us in our own decay ; 
 
 Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, 
 
 Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the soul ! 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 199 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 "Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eb perductus, ut non tantum 
 recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim." 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 
 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love 
 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 
 Thou, who art victory and law 
 
 When empty terrors overawe ; 
 
 From vain temptations dost set free ; 
 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 Long may the kindly impulse last ! 
 But Thou, if they should totter, teach them to 
 stand fast ! 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright, 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 And joy its own security. 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
 Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
 Yet seek thy firm support, according to their 
 need. 
 
2oo POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried ; 
 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust ; 
 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul, 
 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 I supplicate for thy control ; 
 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
 
 My hopes no more must change their name, 
 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 
 
 Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are 
 fresh and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 
 Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 
 And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live ! 
 
AND ODES 
 
 20 1 
 
 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF 
 IMMORTALITY 
 
 FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 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 wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more, 
 
 11. 
 
 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 sunsh]ne is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath past away a glory from the earth, 
 
202 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 III. 
 
 Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song, 
 And while the young Lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong : 
 The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
 I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity, 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
 Thou child of joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 Shepherd-boy ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 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 
 O evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While the Earth herself is adorning 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 And the children are pulling 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 203 
 
 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 ? 
 
 v. 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 And cometh from afar : 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness. 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the East 
 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the Man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
20 4 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 VI. 
 
 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. 
 
 VII. 
 
 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. 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 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 ; 
 
206 POEMS AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE, 
 
 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. 
 
AND ODES. 
 
 207 
 
 x. 
 
 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, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
 
 Think not of any severing of our loves ! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 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 
 
208 
 
 POEMS AND ODES. 
 
 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. 
 
SONNETS 
 
 P 
 
L— 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, it is England ; there it lies. 
 
 Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot, 
 
 One life, one glory ! I with many a fear 
 
 For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, 
 
 Among Men who do not love her, linger here. 
 
 II. — 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 yon, feeble Heads, to slavery prone ! 
 
212 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 III. — On the Extinction of the Venetian 
 Republic. 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee ; 
 
 And was the safeguard of the West : the worth 
 
 Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
 
 Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
 
 She was a Maiden City, bright and free ; 
 
 No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
 
 And; when She took unto herself a Mate, 
 
 She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
 
 And what if she had seen those glories fade, 
 
 Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; 
 
 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
 
 When her long life hath reached its final day : 
 
 Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 
 
 Of that which once was great, is passed away. 
 
 IV. — To Toussaint l'Ouverture. 
 
 Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men ! 
 
 Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough 
 
 Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
 
 Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — ■ 
 
 O miserable Chieftain ! where and when 
 
 Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou 
 
 Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
 
 Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again, 
 
 Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 
 
 Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; 
 
 There's not a breathing of the common wind 
 
 That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 
 
 Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
 
 And love, and Man's unconquerable mind. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 213 
 
 V. — September 1802. 
 
 Inland, within a hollow Vale, I stood ; 
 
 And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, 
 
 The Coast of France, the Coast of France how near ! 
 
 Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood, 
 
 I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood 
 
 Was like a Lake, or River bright and fair, 
 
 A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! 
 
 What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
 
 Even so doth God protect us if we be 
 
 Virtuous and wise. 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. 
 
 VI. — 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 the Alpine holds at length art driven, 
 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
 
 Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 
 
 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left ; 
 
 For, high-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 ! 
 
214 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 VII.— Written in London, September 1802. 
 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 
 
 To think that now our Life is only drest 
 
 For show ; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 
 
 Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a Brook 
 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : 
 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
 
 No grandeur now in nature or in book 
 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
 
 This is idolatry ; and these we adore : 
 
 Plain living and high thinking are no more s 
 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 
 Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
 
 And pure religion breathing household laws. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
 This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
 And are up -gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
 For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; 
 It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 IX.— London, 1802. 
 
 Milton ! thou shouldst 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. 
 
 X. 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
 
 Of British freedom, which to the open Sea 
 
 Of the world's praise from dark antiquity 
 
 Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood,' 
 
 Roused though it be full often to a mood 
 
 Which spurns the check of salutary bands, 
 
 That this most famous Stream in Bogs and Sands 
 
 Should perish ; and to evil and to good 
 
 Be lost for ever. In our Halls is hung 
 
 Armoury of the invincible Knights of old : 
 
 We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
 
 That Shakspeare spake ; the faith and morals hold 
 
 Which Milton held. — In every thing we are sprung 
 
 Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 
 
2l6 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 
 Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
 
 When men change Swords for Ledgers, and desert 
 
 The Student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
 
 I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed? 
 
 But when I think of Thee, and what Thou art, 
 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 
 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 
 But dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
 
 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; 
 
 And I by my affection was beguiled : 
 
 What wonder if a Poet now and then, 
 
 Among the many movements of his mind, 
 
 Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child ! 
 
 XII.— October 1803. 
 
 These times touch monied Worldlings with dismay : 
 
 Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air 
 
 With words of apprehension and despair : 
 
 While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, 
 
 Men unto 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 V 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 217 
 
 XIII. — 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 ! 
 
 XIV. — In the Pass of Killicranky, an Invasion 
 
 BEING EXPECTED, OCTOBER 1803. 
 
 Six thousand Veterans practised in War's game, 
 Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed 
 Against an equal host that wore the plaid, 
 Shepherds and Herdsmen. — Like a whirlwind came 
 The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame ; 
 And Garry, thundering down his mountain road, 
 Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the ]oad 
 Of the dead bodies. — 'Twas a day of shame 
 For them whom precept and the pedantry 
 Of cold mechanic battle do enslave. 
 O for a single hour of that Dundee, 
 Who on that day the word of. onset gave ! 
 Like conquest would the Men of England see ; 
 And her Foes find a like inglorious grave. 
 
218 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 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 1 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 ! 
 
 XVI. — November 1806. 
 
 Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
 Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
 And We are left, or shall be left, alone ; 
 The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 
 'Tis well ! from this day forward we shall know 
 That in ourselves our safety must be sought ; 
 That by our own right hands it must be wrought, 
 That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low. 
 O Dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer ! 
 We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
 Be men who hold its many blessings dear, 
 Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile band, 
 Who are to judge of danger which they fear, 
 And honour which they do not understand. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 219 
 
 XVII. — To Thomas Clarkson, on the Final 
 Passing of the Bill for the Abolition of 
 the Slave Trade, March 1807. 
 
 Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to climb : 
 How toilsome — nay, how dire it was, by Thee 
 Is known, — by none, perhaps, so feelingly ; 
 But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, 
 Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime, 
 Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat, 
 Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat, 
 First roused thee. — O true yoke-fellow of Time, 
 Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm 
 Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn ! 
 The bloody Writing is for ever torn, 
 And Thou henceforth shalt have a good man's calm, 
 A great man's happiness ; thy zeal shall find 
 Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind ! 
 
 XVIII.— 181 1. 
 
 Here pause : the poet claims at least this praise, 
 
 That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 
 
 Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope 
 
 In the worst moment of these evil days ; 
 
 From hope, the paramount ditty that Heaven lays. 
 
 For its own honour, on man's suffering heart. 
 
 Never may from our souls one truth depart, 
 
 That an accursed thing it is to gaze 
 
 On prosperous Tyrants with a dazzled eye ; 
 
 Nor, touched with due abhorrence of their guilt 
 
 For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt. 
 
 And justice labours in extremity, 
 
 Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, 
 
 O wretched Man, the throne of Tyranny ! 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Camoens soothed w T ith it an exile's grief; 
 
 The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
 
 His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, 
 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land 
 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 
 The Thing became a trumpet, whence he blew 
 
 Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room, 
 And Hermits are contented with their cells, 
 And Students with their pensive citadels : 
 Maids at the wheel, the Weaver at his loom, 
 Sit blithe and happy ; Bees that soar for bloom, 
 High as the highest Peak of Furness Fells, 
 Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
 In truth, the prison, unto which we doom 
 Ourselves, no prison is : and hence to me, 
 In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
 Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground : 
 Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) 
 Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, 
 Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 221 
 
 XXI. — Catherine Wordsworth. 
 (Died June 4, 1812.) 
 
 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. 
 
 XXII. — To the Author's Portrait. 
 
 [Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, 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 dear ! 
 
222 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XXIII.— 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. 
 
 XXIV. — Continued. 
 
 Wings have we, — and as far as we can go 
 
 We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, 
 
 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
 
 Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
 
 Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know, 
 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
 
 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. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 223 
 
 XXV.— Concluded. 
 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
 Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
 From evil-speaking ; rancour, never sought, 
 Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 
 Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
 Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous 
 thought : 
 
 And thus from day to day my little boat 
 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. 
 
 XXVI.— To Sleep. 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, 
 One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
 Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky, 
 By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie 
 Sleepless ; and soon the small birds' melodies 
 Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; 
 And the first Cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, 
 And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : 
 So do not let me wear to-night away : 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 
 
224 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XXVI I.— Composed upon the Beach near Calais, 
 1802. 
 
 It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free ; 
 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven is on the sea : 
 
 Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here, 
 
 If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought, 
 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; 
 
 And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ? 
 
 Festively she puts forth in trim array ; 
 
 As vigorous as a Lark at break of day : 
 
 Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow ? 
 
 What boots the inquiry ? — 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 ! 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 2 
 
 XXIX. — Composed upon Westminster Bridge, 
 
 Sept. 3, 1803. 
 
 Earth has not anything 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 ! 
 
 XXX. — Scenery 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 ? 
 The Morn, that now, along the silver Meuse, 
 Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains 
 To tend their silent boats and ringing wains, 
 Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews 
 The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes 
 Turn from the fortified and threatening hill, 
 How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade, 
 With its grey rocks clustering in pensive shade, 
 That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise 
 From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still ! 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XXXI. — Admonition. 
 
 Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have 
 happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, 
 in the Country of the Lakes. 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye ! 
 
 — The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
 
 Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, 
 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! 
 
 But covet not the Abode ; — forbear to sigh, 
 
 As many do, repining while they look ; 
 
 Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book 
 
 This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. 
 
 Think what the Home must be if it were thine, 
 
 Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, window, door, 
 
 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor ; 
 
 The roses to the porch which they entwine. 
 
 Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day 
 
 On which it should be touched, would melt away. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret 
 
 Yon slowly-sinking star — immortal Sire 
 
 (So might he seem) of all the glittering quire ! 
 
 Blue ether still surrounds him — yet — and yet ; 
 
 But now the horizon's rocky parapet 
 
 Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire, 
 
 He burns — transmuted to a sullen fire, 
 
 That droops and dwindles — and the appointed debt 
 
 To the flying moments paid, is seen no more. 
 
 Angels and gods ! we struggle with our fate, 
 
 While health, power, glory, pitiably decline, 
 
 Depressed and then extinguished : and our state 
 
 In this how different, lost star, from thine, 
 
 That no to-morrow shall our beams restore ! 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 227 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 
 With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound 
 Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound, 
 Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid 
 The sun in heaven ! — but now, to form a shade 
 For Thee, green alders have together wound 
 Their foliage ; ashes flung their arms around ; 
 And birch- trees risen in silver colonnade. 
 And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 
 'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and grey ; 
 Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes 
 Carelessly watched, sport through the summer day 
 Thy pleased associates : — light as endless May 
 On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Wansfell I 1 this Household has a favoured lot, 
 Living with liberty on thee to gaze, 
 To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rays, 
 Or when along thy breast serenely float 
 Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note 
 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. 
 1 The Hill that rises to the south-east, above Ambleside, 
 
228 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 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 gains ; 
 They taught me random cares and truant joys, 
 That shield from mischief and preserve from stains 
 Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys ; 
 Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise 
 Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins. 
 
 XXXVI. — After-Thought. 
 
 I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, 
 As being past away. — Vain sympathies ! 
 For backward, Duddon ! as I cast my eyes, 
 I see what was, and is, and will abide ; 
 Still glides the Stream, and shall not cease to glide ; 
 The Form remains, the Function never dies ; 
 While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, 
 We Men, who in our morn of youth defied 
 The elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 
 Enough, if something from our hands have power 
 To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; 
 And if, as tow'rd the silent tomb we go, 
 Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent 
 dower, 
 
 We feel that we are greater than we know. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 229 
 
 XXXVII. —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 without mercy, bring 
 
 For recompence their own perennial bower. 
 
 XXXVIII. —Rush-Bearing. 
 
 Content with calmer scenes around us spread 
 
 And humbler objects, give we to a day 
 
 Of annual joy one tributary lay ; 
 
 This day, when, forth by rustic music led, 
 
 The village Children, while the sky is red 
 
 With evening lights, advance in long array 
 
 Through the still Churchyard, each with garland gay, 
 
 That, carried sceptre-like, o'ertops the head 
 
 Of the proud Bearer. To the wide Church-door, 
 
 Charged with these offerings which their Fathers bore 
 
 For decoration in the Papal time, 
 
 The innocent procession softly moves : — - 
 
 The spirit of Laud, is pleased in Heaven's pure clime, 
 
 And Hooker's voice the spectacle approves ! 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 XXXIX.— 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. 
 
 XL. — 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. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 231 
 
 XLI. — Mary, Queen of Scots, landing at the 
 Mouth of 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 air, 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 ! 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Most sweet is it with un-uplifted 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. 
 
232 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XLIII. — On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott 
 
 FROM 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 blithe strain, 
 
 Saddens his voice again and yet again. 
 
 Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 
 
 Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 
 
 Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue 
 
 Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, 
 
 Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
 
 Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, 
 
 Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 
 
 XLIV.— To R. B. Haydon, Esq. 
 
 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 ! 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 233 
 
 XLV. — 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. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 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 should 
 range 
 
 Among the conquests of civility, 
 Survives imagination — to the change 
 Superior ? Help to virtue does she give ? 
 If not, O Mortals, better cease to live ! 
 
234 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 A Poet / — He hath put his heart to school, 
 
 Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff 
 
 Which Art hath lodged within his hand — must laugh 
 
 By precept only, and shed tears by rule. 
 
 Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, 
 
 And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, 
 
 In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool 
 
 Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. 
 
 How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold ? 
 
 Because the lovely little flower is free 
 
 Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; 
 
 And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 
 
 Comes not by casting in a formal mould 
 
 But from its own divine vitality. 
 
 XLVIII. — 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. Peters everlasting Dome. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 235 
 
 XLIX. — To the Memory of Raisley Calvert. 
 
 Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them 
 Who may respect my name, that I to thee 
 Owed many years of early liberty. 
 This care was thine when sickness did condemn 
 Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem — 
 That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
 Where'er I liked ; and finally array 
 My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
 Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth ; 
 If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, 
 In my past verse ; or shall be, in the lays 
 Of higher mood which now I meditate ; — 
 It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth ! 
 To think how much of this will be thy praise. 
 
 L. — TO ROTHA QUILLINAN. 
 
 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 steadfast hope the contract to fulfil ; 
 
 Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, 
 
 Embodied in the music of this Lay, 
 
 Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream ] 
 
 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. 
 
 1 The river Rotha, that flows into Windermere from the Lakes of 
 Grasmere and Rydal. 
 
236 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 LI. — To Lady Fitzgerald, in her seventieth 
 year. 
 
 Such age how beautiful ! O Lady bright, 
 
 Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 
 
 By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind 
 
 To something purer and more exquisite 
 
 Than flesh and blood ; whene'er thou meet'st my sight, 
 
 When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, 
 
 Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, 
 
 And head that droops because the soul is meek, 
 
 Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare ; 
 
 That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb 
 
 From desolation toward the genial prime ; 
 
 Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, 
 
 And filling more and more with crystal light 
 
 As pensive Evening deepens into night. 
 
 LII. — 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 ? 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 237 
 
 LIII. — Highland Hut. 
 
 See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, 
 
 Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, 
 
 Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray 
 
 Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. 
 
 The limpid mountain rill avoids it not, 
 
 And why shouldst thou ? — If rightly trained and bred, 
 
 Humanity is humble, finds no spot 
 
 Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. 
 
 The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, 
 
 Undressed the pathway leading to the door. 
 
 But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor ! 
 
 Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, 
 
 Meek, patient, kind, — and, were its trials fewer, 
 
 Belike less happy. — Stand no more aloof ! 
 
 LIV. 
 
 66 There !" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride 
 Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, 
 
 " Ts Mosgiel Farm ; and that's the very field 
 Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide 
 A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried 
 Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose ; 
 And, by that simple notice, the repose 
 Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
 Beneath "the random Held of clod or stone" 
 Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
 Have passed away ; less happy than the One 
 That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove 
 The tender charm of poetry and love. 
 
2 3 8 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 LV. — To a Painter 
 
 WHO HAD PAINTED MRS. WORDSWORTH'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 All praise the Likeness by thy skill pourtrayed ; 
 
 But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me, 
 
 Who, yielding not to changes Time has made, 
 
 By the habitual light of memory see 
 
 Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, 
 
 And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee 
 
 Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be ; 
 
 And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. 
 
 Couldst thou go back into far distant years, 
 
 Or share with me, fond thought ! that inward eye, 
 
 Then, and then only, Painter ! could thy Art 
 
 The visual powers of Nature satisfy, 
 
 Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears, 
 
 Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart. 
 
 LVI.— On the same Subject. 
 
 Though I beheld at first with blank surprise 
 This Work, I now have gazed on it so long 
 I see its truth with unreluctant eyes ; 
 O, my Beloved ! I have done thee wrong, 
 Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, 
 Ever too heedless, as I now perceive : 
 Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, 
 And the old day was welcome as the young, 
 As welcome, and as beautiful — in sooth 
 More beautiful, as being a thing more holy : 
 Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth 
 Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; 
 To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast 
 Into one vision, future, present, past. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 239 
 
 LVII. — In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth. 
 
 (Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains are laid.) 
 
 A point of life between my Parents' dust, 
 And yours, my buried Little-ones ! ami; 
 And to those graves looking habitually 
 In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 
 Death to the innocent is more than just, 
 And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ; 
 So may I hope, if truly I repent 
 And meekly bear the ills which bear I must : 
 And You, my Offspring ! that do still remain, 
 Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race, 
 If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain 
 We breathed together for a moment's space, 
 The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign, 
 And only love keep in your hearts a place. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou 
 In heathen schools of philosophic lore ; 
 Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore 
 The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow ; 
 And what of hope Elysium could allow 
 Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore 
 Peace to the Mourner. But when He, who wore 
 The crown of thorns around His bleeding brow, 
 Warmed our sad being with His glorious light, 
 Then Arts, which still had drawn a softening grace 
 From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, 
 Communed with that Idea face to face ; 
 And move around it now, as planets run, 
 Each in its orbit, round the central Sun. 
 
240 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 LIX.— Death. 
 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne 
 Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud — 
 Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed ; 
 But all the steps and ground about were strown 
 With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone 
 Ever put on : a miserable crowd, 
 Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud, 
 " Thou art our king, O Death ! to thee we groan," 
 I seem'd to mount those steps ; the vapours gave 
 Smooth way : and I beheld the face of one 
 Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, 
 With her face up to heaven ; that seemed to have 
 Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone ; 
 A lovely Beauty in a summer grave ! 
 
 LX. — The Everlasting Temple. 
 
 In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud 
 Slowly surmounting some invidious hill, 
 Rose out of darkness : the bright Work stood still, 
 And might of its own beauty have been proud, 
 But it was fashioned and to God was vowed 
 By Virtues that diffused, in every part, 
 Spirit divine through forms of human art : 
 Faith had her arch — her arch, when winds blow loud, 
 Into the consciousness of safety thrilled ; 
 And Love her towers of dread foundation laid 
 Under the grave of things ; Hope had her spire 
 Star-high, and pointing still to something higher. 
 Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice — it said : 
 " Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build.' 5 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC 
 POEMS 
 
" IF THOU INDEED. 
 
 If Thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, 
 
 Shine, Poet, in thy place, and be content ! 
 
 The Star that from the zenith darts its beams, 
 
 Visible though it be to half the Earth, 
 
 Though half a sphere be conscious of its brightness, 
 
 Is yet 'of no diviner origin, 
 
 No purer essence, than the One that burns, 
 
 Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge 
 
 Of some dark mountain ; or than those which seem 
 
 Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, 
 
 Among the branches of the leafless trees. 
 
INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS 
 
 IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE 
 IMAGINATION IN T30YHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH. 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe ! 
 Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought ! 
 And givest to forms and images a breath 
 And everlasting motion ! not in vain, 
 By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 The passions that build up our human soul 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, 
 But with high objects, with enduring things, 
 With life and nature ; purifying thus 
 The elements of feeling and of thought, 
 And sanctifying by such discipline 
 Both pain and fear, — until we recognise 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to 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, I homeward went 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 
 
244 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 'Twas mine among the fields both day and night, 
 
 And by the waters, all the summer long. 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 
 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-bellowing, and the hunted hare. 
 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
 
 And not a voice was idle : with the din 
 
 Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud ; 
 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 
 Tinkled like iron ; while the distant hills 
 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 
 Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars, 
 
 Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 
 Into a silent bay, — or sportively 
 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 
 
 To cut across the reflex of a Star ; 
 
 Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
 
 Upon the glassy plain : and oftentimes, 
 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 
 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 245 
 
 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. 
 
 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 mimic hootings to the silent owls, 
 
 That they might answer him. — And they would shout 
 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
 
 Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals, 
 
 And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 
 
 Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 
 
 Of mirth and jocund din ! And, when it chanced 
 
 That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, 
 
 Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 
 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 
 Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene 
 
246 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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 Church-yard when my way has led 
 At evening, I believe that oftentimes 
 A long half-hour together I have stood 
 Mute — looking at the grave in which he lies ! 
 
 YEW-TREES. 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
 Which to this day stands single, in the midst 
 Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore, 
 Not loth to furnish weapons for the Bands 
 Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
 To Scotland's heaths ; or those that crossed the sea 
 And drew their sounding bows at 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 growth 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 247 
 
 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 Hope, 
 
 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. 
 
248 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 composed a few miles above tintern abbey, on 
 revisiting the banks of the wye during a tour. 
 
 July 13, 1798. 
 
 Five years have past ; five summers, with the length 
 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 
 
 With a sweet inland murmur. 1 — Once again 
 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
 
 That on a wild secluded scene impress 
 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 
 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 
 
 Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
 
 Among the woods and copses, nor disturb 
 
 The wild green landscape. Once again I see 
 
 These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, 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 
 
 1 The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 249 
 
 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. 
 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, 
 O sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 
2$o REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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 
 I came among these hills ; when like a roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
 Wherever nature led : more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
 Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 By thought supplied, or any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
 Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, 
 Abundant 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, 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 251 
 
 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, 1 
 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise 
 
 In nature and the language of the sense, 
 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor perchance, 
 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 
 
 1 This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, 
 the exact expression of which I do not recollect. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we 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 
 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 
 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance 
 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 
 
 Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 
 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 
 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 ! 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 253 
 
 ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER 
 DORA, 
 
 ON BEING 'REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD 
 THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 1 6. 
 
 Hast thou then survived — 
 
 Mild offspring of infirm humanity, 
 
 Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things 
 
 The most forlorn — one life of that bright star, 
 
 The second glory of the Heavens ? — Thou hast ; 
 
 Already hast survived that great decay, 
 
 That transformation through the wide earth felt, 
 
 And by all nations. In that Being's sight 
 
 From whom the race of human kind 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 ? What outward glory ? Neither 
 
 A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend 
 
 Through ' 'heaven's eternal year." — Yet hail to Thee, 
 
 Frail, feeble Monthling ! — by that name, me thinks, 
 
 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 
 
254 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Who might have wandered with thee. — Mother's 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, 
 
 Moving untouched in silver purity, 
 
 And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. 
 
 Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain : 
 
 But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn 
 
 With brightness ! leaving her to post along, 
 
 And range about, disquieted in change, 
 
 And still impatient of the shape she wears. 
 
 Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe, 
 
 That will suffice thee ; and it seems that now 
 
 Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine ; 
 
 Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st 
 
 In such a heedless peace. Alas ! full soon 
 
 Hath this conception, grateful to behold, 
 
 Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 2 
 
 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. 
 
256 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 o'er, and taught this aged Tree 
 
 With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
 
 I well remember. — He was one who owned 
 
 No common soul. In youth by science nursed, 
 
 And led by 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 : 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 257 
 
 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 see'st, — and he would gaze till it became 
 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
 
 The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, that time, 
 
 When nature had subdued him to herself, 
 
 Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, 
 
 Warm from the labours of benevolence, 
 
 The world and human life appeared a scene 
 
 Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh 
 
 With mournful joy, to think that others felt 
 
 What he must never feel : and so, lost Man ! 
 
 On visionary views would fancy feed, 
 
 Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale 
 
 He died, — this seat his only monument. 
 
 If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms 
 Of young imagination have kept pure, 
 Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and know that 
 pride, 
 
 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 
 Is littleness ; that he who feels contempt 
 For any living thing, hath faculties 
 Which he has never used ; that thought with him 
 Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
 Is ever on himself doth look on one, 
 The least of Nature's works, one who might move 
 The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 
 Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou ! 
 Instructed that true knowledge leads to love ? 
 s 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION, 
 
 AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS 
 COMMENCEMENT. 
 
 Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
 
 For mighty were the auxiliars, which then stood 
 
 Upon our side, we who were strong in love ! 
 
 Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
 
 But to be young was very 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 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 259 
 
 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 their peaceful selves ; — 
 
 Now was it that both found, the Meek and Lofty 
 
 Did both find helpers to their heart's desire, 
 
 And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish ; 
 
 Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
 
 Not in Utopia, subterranean Fields, 
 
 Or some secreted Island, Heaven knows where ! 
 
 But in the very world, which is the world 
 
 Of all of us, — the place where in the end 
 
 We find our happiness, or not at all ! 
 
 THE SIMPLON PASS. 
 
 Brook and road 
 
 Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, 
 And with them did we journey several hours 
 At a slow step. The immeasurable height 
 Of woods decaying, never to be 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 wayside 
 
26o REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 FRAGMENT FROM THE RECLUSE. 
 
 On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
 
 Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
 
 Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
 
 Accompanied by feelings of delight 
 
 Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
 
 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
 
 And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 
 
 Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
 
 The good and evil of our mortal state. 
 
 — To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 
 
 Whether from breath of outward circumstance, 
 
 Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself, 
 
 I would give utterance in numerous verse. 
 
 Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope — 
 
 And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 
 
 Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
 
 Of moral strength, and intellectual power ; 
 
 Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 
 
 Of the individual Mind that keeps her own 
 
 Inviolate retirement, subject there 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 261 
 
 To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
 
 Of that Intelligence which governs all ; 
 
 I sing : — " fit audience let me find though few ! " 
 
 So prayed, more gaining than he asked, the Bard, 
 Holiest of Men. — Urania, I shall need 
 Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
 Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven ! 
 For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink 
 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 Chaos, not 
 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
 .Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out 
 By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe 
 As fall upon us often when we look 
 Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man, 
 My haunt, and the main region of my song. 
 — Beauty — a living Presence of the earth, 
 Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
 Which craft of delicate Spirits hath 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 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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 forgoing, 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 inspirest 
 
 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, 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 263 
 
 Shedding benignant influence, — and secure, 
 Itself, from all malevolent effect 
 Of those mutations that extend their sway- 
 Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if with this 
 I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 
 Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 
 Contemplating, and who, and what he was, 
 The transitory Being that beheld 
 This Vision, — when and where, and how he lived ; — 
 Be not this 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 ; — nurse 
 My Heart in genuine freedom : — all pure thoughts 
 Be with me ; — so shall thy unfailing love 
 Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end ! 
 
264 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 
 
 The class of Beggars, to which the Old Man here described belongs, 
 will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, 
 old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated 
 round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on 
 which, at different houses, they regularly received alms, some- 
 times in money, but mostly in provisions. 
 
 I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk ; 
 
 And he was seated, by the highway side, 
 
 On a low structure of rude masonry 
 
 Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
 
 Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 
 
 May thence remount at ease. The aged Man 
 
 Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone 
 
 That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag 
 
 All white with flour, the dole* of village dames, 
 
 He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one ; 
 
 And scanned them with a fixed and serious look 
 
 Of idle computation. In the sun, 
 
 Upon the second step of that small pile, 
 
 Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
 
 He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
 
 And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, 
 
 That, still attempting to prevent the waste, 
 
 Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers 
 
 Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain birds, 
 
 Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 
 
 Approached within the length of half his staff. 
 
 Him from my childhood have I known ; and then 
 He was so old, he seems not older now ; 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 265 
 
 He travels on, a solitary Man, 
 
 So helpless in appearance, that for him 
 
 The sauntering horseman- traveller does not throw 
 
 With careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
 
 But stops, — that he may safely lodge the coin 
 
 Within the old Man's hat ; nor quits him so, 
 
 But still, when he has given his horse the rein, 
 
 Watches the aged Beggar with a look 
 
 Sidelong — and half-reverted. She who tends 
 
 The toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
 
 She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
 
 The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, 
 
 And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
 
 The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
 
 The aged Beggar in the woody lane, 
 
 Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus warned 
 
 The old 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 I 
 
266 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet 
 Disturb the summer dust ; he is so still 
 In look and motion, that the cottage curs, 
 Ere he have passed the door, will turn away, 
 Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, 
 The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, 
 And urchins newly breeched — all pass him by : 
 Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind. 
 
 But deem not this Man useless. — Statesmen ! ye 
 Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye 
 Who have a broom still ready in your hands 
 To rid the world of nuisances ; ye proud, 
 Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate 
 Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not 
 A burthen of the earth ! 'Tis Nature's law 
 That none, the meanest of created things, 
 Of forms created the most vile and brute, 
 The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
 Divorced from good — a spirit and pulse of good, 
 A life and soul, to every mode of being 
 Inseparably linked. While thus he creeps 
 From door to door, the Villagers in him 
 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 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 267 
 
 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 live 
 
 Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
 
 Of their own kindred ; — all behold in him 
 
 A silent monitor, which on their minds 
 
 Must needs impress a transitory thought 
 
 Of self- congratulation, to the heart 
 
 Of each recalling his peculiar boons, 
 
 His charters and exemptions ; and, perchance, 
 
 Though he to no one give the fortitude 
 
 And circumspection needful to preserve 
 
 His present blessings, and to husband up 
 
 The respite of the season, he at least — 
 
 And 'tis no vulgar service — makes them felt. 
 
 Yet further. Many, I believe, there are 
 
 Who live a life of virtuous decency, 
 
268 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel 
 
 No self-reproach ; who of the moral law 
 
 Established in the land where they abide 
 
 Are strict observers ; and not negligent, 
 
 In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, 
 
 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 
 
 Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace ! 
 
 — But of the poor man ask, the abject poor ; 
 
 Go, and demand of him, if there be here 
 
 In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 
 
 And these inevitable charities, 
 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human soul ? 
 
 No — Man is dear to Man ; the poorest poor 
 
 Long for some moments in a weary life 
 
 When they can know and feel that they have been, 
 
 Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out 
 
 Of some small blessings ; have been kind to such 
 
 As needed kindness, for this single cause, 
 
 That we have all of us one human heart. 
 
 — Such pleasure is to one kind being known, 
 
 My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week 
 
 Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself 
 
 By her own wants, she from her store of meal 
 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
 
 Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 
 
 Returning with exhilarated heart, 
 
 Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven. 
 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 And while in that vast solitude to which 
 The tide of things has borne him, he appears 
 To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
 The good which the benignant law of Heaven 
 Has hung around him : and, while life is his, 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 269 
 
 Still let him prompt the unlettered Villagers 
 To tender offices and pensive thoughts. 
 — Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 And, long as he can wander, let him breathe 
 The freshness of the valleys ; let his blood 
 Struggle with frosty air and winter snows ; 
 And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath 
 Beat his gray locks against his withered face. 
 Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness 
 Gives the last human interest to his heart ! 
 May never House, misnamed 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. 
 Few are his pleasures : if his eyes have now 
 Been doomed so long to settle on the earth 
 That not without some effort they behold 
 The countenance of the horizontal sun, 
 Rising or setting, let the light at least 
 Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 
 And let him, where and when he will, sit down 
 Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank 
 Of highway side, and with the little birds 
 Share his chance-gathered meal ; and, finally, 
 As in the eye of Nature he has lived, 
 So in the eye of Nature let him die ! 
 
270 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 The little hedgerow birds, 
 That peck along the road, regard him not. 
 He travels on, and in his face, his step, 
 His gait, is one expression ; every limb, 
 His look and bending figure, all bespeak 
 A man who does not move with pain, but moves 
 With thought. — He is insensibly subdued 
 To settled quiet : he is one by whom 
 All effort seems forgotten ; one to whom 
 Long patience hath such mild composure given, 
 That patience now doth seem a thing of which 
 He hath no need. He is by nature led 
 To peace so perfect, that the young behold 
 With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 271 
 
 NUTTING. 
 
 ; It seems a day 
 
 (I speak of one from many singled out) 
 
 One of those heavenly days which cannot die ; 
 
 When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
 
 I left our Cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
 
 With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
 
 A nutting- crook in hand, and turned my steps 
 
 Toward the distant woods, a Figure quaint, 
 
 Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds 
 
 Which for that service had been husbanded, 
 
 By exhortation of my frugal Dame ; 
 
 Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
 
 At thorns,- and brakes, and brambles, — and, in truth, 
 
 More ragged than need was ! Among the woods, 
 
 And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way 
 
 Until, at length, I came to one dear nook 
 
 Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
 
 Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 
 
 Of devastation, but the hazels rose 
 
 Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, 
 
 A virgin scene ! — A little while I stood, 
 
 Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
 
 As joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint 
 
 Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
 
 The banquet, — or beneath the trees I sate 
 
 Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played ; 
 
 A temper known to those, who, after long 
 
 And weary expectation, have been blest 
 
 With sudden happiness beyond all hope. — 
 
 Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 
 
 The violets of five seasons re-appear 
 
2 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 And fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
 Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
 For ever, — and I saw the sparkling foam, 
 And with my cheek on one of those green stones 
 That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees, 
 Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, 
 I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 
 Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure, 
 The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 
 Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 
 And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, 
 And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with 
 crash 
 
 And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook 
 Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
 Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
 Their quiet being : and, unless I now 
 Confound my present feelings with the past, 
 Even then, when from the bower I turned away 
 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
 The silent trees and the intruding sky. — 
 Then, dearest Maiden ! move along these shades 
 In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
 Touch— for there is a spirit in the woods. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 273 
 
 TO JOANNA. 
 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
 The time of early youth ; and there you learned, 
 From years of quiet industry, to love 
 The living beings by your own fireside, 
 With such a strong devotion, that your heart 
 Is slow toward the sympathies of them 
 Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 
 And make dear friendships with the streams and 
 groves. 
 
 Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, 
 
 Dwelling retired in our simplicity 
 
 Among the woods and fields, we love you well, 
 
 Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 
 
 So distant from us now for two long years, 
 
 That you will gladly listen to discourse, 
 
 However trivial, if you thence are taught 
 
 That they, with whom you once were happy, talk 
 
 Familiarly of you and of old times. 
 
 While I was seated, now some ten days past, 
 Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
 Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple tower, 
 The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
 Came forth to greet me ; and when he had asked, 
 " How fares Joanna, that wild -hearted Maid ! 
 And when will she return to us ?" 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 
 T 
 
274 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
 
 Above the Rotha, by the forest side. 
 
 — Now, by those dear immunities of heart « 
 
 Engendered betwixt malice and true love, 
 
 I was not loth to be so catechised, 
 
 And this was my reply : — " As it befel, 
 
 One summer morning we had walked abroad 
 
 At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
 
 — 'Twas that delightful season when the broom, 
 
 Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, 
 
 Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 
 
 Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks ; 
 
 And when we came in front of that tall rock 
 
 Which looks toward the East, I there stopped short, 
 
 And traced the lofty barrier with my eye 
 
 From base to summit ; such delight I found 
 
 To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower. 
 
 That intermixture of delicious hues, 
 
 Along so vast a surface, all at once, 
 
 In one impression, by connecting force 
 
 Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 
 
 — When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, 
 
 Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
 
 That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. 
 
 The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, 
 
 Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again : 
 
 That ancient Woman seated on Helm-Crag 
 
 Was ready with her cavern ; Hammer- 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 ; 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 275 
 
 And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. 
 
 — Now whether (said I to our cordial friend, 
 
 Who in the hey-day of astonishment 
 
 Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth 
 
 A work accomplished by the brotherhood 
 
 Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 
 
 With dreams and visionary impulses 
 
 To me alone imparted, sure I am 
 
 That there was a loud uproar in the hills : 
 
 And, while we both were listening, to my side 
 
 The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 
 
 To shelter from some object of her fear. 
 
 — And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons 
 
 Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
 
 Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 
 
 And silent morning, I sat down, and there. 
 
 In memory of affections old and true, 
 
 I chiselled out in those rude characters 
 
 Joanna's name upon the living stone. 
 
 And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, 
 
 Have called the lovely rock, 'Joanna's Rock.'" 
 
 Note. — In Cumberland and Westmorland are several Inscrip- 
 tions, upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of Time, and 
 the rudeness of the Workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. 
 They are without doubt Roman. 
 
 The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flowing 
 through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wynander. 
 On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the 
 Vale of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a 
 striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this 
 rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of 
 the country are called Dungeons. Most of the Mountains here 
 mentioned immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere ; of the others, 
 some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same 
 cluster. 
 
276 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS- 
 
 THE FIR-GROVE PATH. 
 
 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 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 277 
 
 Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour 
 Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees 
 Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven 
 In such perplexed and intricate array, 
 That vainly did I seek, between their stems, 
 A length of open space, where to and fro 
 My feet might move without concern or care ; 
 And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed, 
 I ceased 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 path-way traced between the trees, 
 And winding on with such an easy line 
 Along a natural opening, that I stood 
 Much wondering how I could have sought in vain 
 For what was now so obvious. To abide, 
 For an allotted interval of ease, 
 Beneath my cottage roof, had newly come 
 From the wild sea a cherished Visitant ; 
 And with the sight of this same path — begun, 
 Begun and ended, in the shady grove, 
 Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind 
 That, to this opportune recess allured, 
 He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 
 A heart more wakeful ; and had worn the track 
 By pacing here, unwearied and alone, 
 In that habitual restlessness of foot 
 With which the Sailor measures o'er and o'er 
 His short domain upon the vessel's deck, 
 While she is travelling through the dreary sea. 
 
27S REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, 
 And taken thy first leave of those green hills 
 And rocks that were the play-ground of thy Youth, 
 Year followed year, my Brother ! and we two, 
 Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
 Each other's minds were fashioned ; and at length, 
 When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, 
 Between us there was little other bond 
 Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
 But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried 
 Undying recollections ; Nature there 
 Was with thee ; she, who loved us both, she still 
 Was with thee ; and even so didst thou become 
 A silent Poet ; from the solitude 
 Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart 
 Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 
 And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. 
 — Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone ; 
 Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 
 Could I withhold thy honoured name, and now 
 I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. 
 Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns 
 Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong : 
 And there I sit at evening, when the steep 
 Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful Lake, 
 And one green Island, gleam between the stems 
 Of the dark firs, a visionary scene ! 
 And, while I gaze upon the spectacle 
 Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight 
 Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, 
 My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost. 
 Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, — while Thou, 
 Muttering the Verses which I muttered first 
 Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 
 Art pacing thoughtfully the Vessel's deck 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 279 
 
 In some far region, — here, while o'er my head, 
 At every impulse of the moving breeze, 
 The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, 
 Alone I tread this path ; — for aught I know, 
 Timing my steps to thine ; and, with a store 
 Of undistinguishable sympathies, 
 Mingling most earnest wishes for the day 
 When we, and others whom we love, shall meet 
 A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. 
 
 Note. — This wish was not granted ; the lamented Person not 
 long after perished by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as Com- 
 mander of the Honourable East India Company's Vessel, the Earl 
 of Abergavenny. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE YEAR l802. 
 
 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. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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 go wan, 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 sayest, when we forsake thee, " Let them go ! 
 Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race 
 Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, 
 And travel with the year at a soft pace. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 281 
 
 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. 
 
 O 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. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON^ CASTLE 
 OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 1 
 
 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 the day — 
 
 Seek for him, — he is fled ; and whither none can say. 
 
 l S. T. Coleridge. 
 
282 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Thus often would lie 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 did we see him driving full in view 
 
 At mid-day when the sun was shining bright ; 
 
 What ill was on him, what he had to do, 
 
 A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. 
 
 Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man 
 
 When he came back to us, a withered flower, — 
 
 Or, like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 
 
 Down would he sit ; and without strength or 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 gray eyes, 
 And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 
 As if a blooming face it ought to be ; 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 283 
 
 Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear 
 Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy ; 
 Profound his forehead was, though not severe ; 
 Yet some did think that he had little business here : 
 
 Sweet heaven 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 little things display, 
 
 The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, 
 
 A mailed angel on a battle day ; 
 
 The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, 
 
 And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold. 
 
 He would entice that other Man to hear 
 
 His music, and to view his imagery : 
 
 And, sooth, these two did love each other dear, 
 
 As far as love in such a place could be ; 
 
 There did they dwell — from earthly labour free, 
 
 As happy spirits as were ever seen ; 
 
 If but a bird, to keep them company, 
 
 Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, 
 
 As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden Queen. 
 
284 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 TRIBUTE 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A 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. 
 
 I grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past ; 
 And willingly have laid thee here at last : 
 For thou hadst lived till every thing that cheers 
 In thee had yielded to the weight of years ; 
 Extreme old age had wasted thee away, 
 And left thee but a glimmering of the day ; 
 Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy knees, — 
 I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 
 Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, 
 And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. 
 It came, and we were glad ; yet tears were shed ; 
 Both Man and Woman wept when Thou wert dead ; 
 Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, 
 Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share ; 
 But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee, 
 Found scarcely any where in like degree ! 
 For love, that comes to all — the holy sense, 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 285 
 
 Best gift of God — in thee was most intense ; 
 A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, 
 A tender sympathy, which did thee bind 
 Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind : 
 Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw 
 The soul of Love, Love's intellectual law : — 
 Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame ; 
 Our tears from passion and from reason came, 
 And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name ! 
 
 THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine, 
 That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain ; 
 And, the first moment that the sun may shine, 
 Bright as the sun itself, 'tis out again ! 
 
 When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 
 Or blasts the green field and the trees distressed, 
 Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, 
 In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. 
 
 But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed 
 And 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, 
 6 'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold : 
 This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
 But its necessity in being old. 
 
286 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew ; 
 It cannot help itself in its decay ; 
 Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue." 
 And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray. 
 
 To be a Prodigal's Favourite — then, worse truth, 
 A Miser's Pensioner — behold our lot ! 
 O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth 
 Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! 
 
 BEGGARS. 
 
 She had a tall man's height or more ; 
 
 No bonnet screen' d her from the heat ; 
 
 A long drab -coloured cloak 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 head those ancient Amazonian files ; 
 
 Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian Isles. 
 
 Before me begging did she stand, 
 
 Pouring out sorrows like a sea, 
 
 Grief after grief ; — on English land 
 
 Such woes, I knew, could never be ; 
 
 And yet a boon I gave her ; for the Creature 
 
 Was beautiful to see — a weed of glorious feature ! 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 287 
 
 I left her, and pursued my way ; 
 
 And soon before me did espy 
 
 A pair of little Boys at play, 
 
 Chasing a crimson butterfly ; 
 
 The Taller followed with his hat in hand, 
 
 Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. 
 
 The Other wore a rimless crown 
 
 "With leaves of laurel stuck about ; 
 
 And, while both followed up and down, 
 
 Each whooping with a merry shout, 
 
 In their fraternal features I could trace 
 
 Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. 
 
 Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit 
 For finest tasks of earth or air : 
 Wings let them have, and they may flit 
 Precursors of Aurora's Car, 
 
 Scattering fresh flowers ; though happier far, I ween, 
 To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green. 
 
 They dart across my path — and lo, 
 
 Each ready with a plaintive whine ! 
 
 Said I, " Not half an hour ago 
 
 Your Mother has had alms of mine." 
 
 " That cannot be," one answered — " she is dead :" — 
 
 I looked reproof — they saw — but neither hung his head. 
 
 " She has been dead, Sir, many a day " — 
 v " Sweet Boys ! you're telling me a lie ; 
 It was your Mother, as I say ! " 
 And, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 " Come ! come !" cried one, and without more ado, 
 Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! 
 
288 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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 — but all is dark between ! 
 
 Spirits of beauty and of grace ! 
 Associates in that eager chase ; 
 Ye, by a course to nature true, 
 The sterner judgment can subdue ; 
 And waken a relenting smile 
 When she encounters fraud or guile ; 
 And sometimes ye can charm away 
 The inward mischief, or allay, 
 Ye, who within the blameless mind 
 Your favourite seat of empire find ! 
 
 They met me in a genial hour, 
 
 When universal nature breathed 
 
 As with the breath of one sweet flower, — 
 
 A time to overrule the power 
 
 Of discontent, and check the birth 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 289 
 
 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 is still endeared 
 
 The faith with which it then was cheered ; 
 
 The faith which saw that gladsome pair 
 
 Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 
 
 Or, if such thoughts must needs deceive, 
 
 Kind Spirits ! may we not believe 
 
 That they, so happy and so fair, 
 
 Through your sweet influence and the care 
 
 Of pitying Heaven at least were free 
 
 From touch of deadly injury ? 
 
 Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, 
 
 For mercy and immortal bloom ! 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 In the School of Havvkshead is a Tablet, on which are inscribed, in 
 gilt letters, the Names of the several Persons who have been 
 Schoolmasters there since the Foundation of the School, with 
 the 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 runs wild, 
 Yet never once doth go astray, 
 u 
 
290 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Read o'er these lines ; and then review 
 This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
 In such diversity of hue 
 Its history of two hundred years. 
 
 — When through this little wreck of fame, 
 Cipher and syllable ! thine eye 
 Has travelled down to Matthew's name, 
 Pause with no common sympathy. 
 
 And, if a sleeping tear should wake, 
 Then be it neither checked nor stayed : 
 For Matthew a request I make 
 Which for himself he had not made. 
 
 Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
 Is silent as a standing pool ; 
 Far from the chimney's merry roar, 
 And murmur of the village school. 
 
 The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs 
 Of one tired out with fun and madness ; 
 The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
 Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 
 
 Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
 Of still and serious thought went round, 
 It seemed as if he drank it up — 
 He felt with spirit so profound. 
 
 — Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
 Thou happy Soul ! and can it be 
 That these two words of glittering gold 
 Are all that must remain of thee ? 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 291 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 We walked along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun ; 
 And Matthew stopped, he looked and said, 
 "The will of God be done!" 
 
 A village Schoolmaster was he, 
 With hair of glittering gray ; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass 
 And by the steaming rills, 
 We travelled merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 " Our work," said I, <c was well begun ; 
 Then, from thy breast what thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
 So sad a sigh has brought ? " 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop ; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
 To me he made reply : 
 
 ' * Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
292 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 " And just above yon slope of corn 
 Such colours, and no other, 
 Were in the sky, that April morn, 
 Of this the very brother. 
 
 ' ' With rod and line I sued the sport 
 Which that sweet season gave, 
 And, coming to the church, stopped short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 " Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 The pride of all the vale ; 
 And then she sang ; — she would have been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 ' 4 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 wave 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 293 
 
 ' ' 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. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 We talked with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true, 
 A pair of Friends, though I was young, 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak, 
 Beside a mossy seat ; 
 And from the turf a fountain broke, 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 11 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 ! " 
 
294 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree ; 
 And thus the dear old man replied, 
 The gray-haired man of glee : 
 
 * £ Down to the vale this water steers, 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 " And here, on this delightful day, 
 I cannot choose but think 
 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
 Beside this Fountain's brink. 
 
 " My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
 My heart is idly stirred, 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 Which in those days I heard. 
 
 1 6 Thus fares it still in our decay : 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what age takes away 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 ' i The Blackbird in the summer trees, 
 The Lark upon the hill, 
 Let loose their carols when they please, 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
 li With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife ; they see 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free : 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 (C But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
 And often, glad no more, 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 " If there be one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth, 
 The household hearts that were his own, 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
 <£ My days, my Friend, are almost gone, 
 My life has been approved, 
 And many love me ; but by none 
 Am I enough beloved. " 
 
 " Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
 The man who thus complains ! 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains, 
 
 ' ' And, Matthew, for thy Children dead 
 I'll be a son to thee ! " 
 At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
 " Alas ! that cannot be." 
 
 We rose up from the fountain-side ; 
 And down the smooth descent 
 Of the green sheep -track did we glide ; 
 And through the wood we went ; 
 
 And, ere we came to Leonard's-rock, 
 He sang those witty rhymes 
 About the crazy old church-clock, 
 And the bewildered chimes. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Art thou a Statesman, in the van 
 Of public business trained and bred ? 
 — First learn to love one living man ; 
 Then 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 j yet, Doctor, not too near. 
 This grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
 Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
 A Soldier, and no man of chaff ? 
 Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
 And lean upon a peasant's staff. 
 
 Physician art thou ? One, all eyes, 
 Philosopher ! a fingering slave, 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 Upon his mother's grave ? 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
 O turn aside, — and take, I pray, 
 That he below may rest in peace, 
 That abject thing, thy soul, away ! 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 A Moralist perchance appears ; 
 Led, Lleaven knows how ! to this poor sod 
 And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
 Himself his world, and his own God ; 
 
 One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling 
 Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ; 
 A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
 An intellectual All-in-all ! 
 
 Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; 
 Sleep in thy intellectual crust ; 
 Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
 Near this unprofitable dust. 
 
 But who is He, with modest looks, 
 And clad in homely russet brown ? 
 He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music sweeter than their own. 
 
 He is retired as noontide dew, 
 Or fountain in a noon-day grove : 
 And you must love him, ere to you 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky and earth, 
 Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; 
 And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
 In common things that round us lie 
 Some random truths he can impart ; — 
 The harvest of a quiet eye 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
 
298 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 But he is weak ; both Man and Boy, 
 Hath been an idler in the land ; 
 Contented if he might enjoy 
 The things which others understand. 
 
 — Come hither in thy hour of strength ; 
 Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
 Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
 Or build thy house upon this grave ! 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 299 
 
 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 ! 1 
 The Comforter hath found me here, 
 Upon this lonely road ; 
 
 And many thousands now are sad — 
 Wait the fulfilment of their fear ; 
 For he must die who is their stay, 
 Their glory disappear. 
 
 A Power is passing from the earth 
 To breathless Nature's dark abyss ; 
 But when the Mighty pass away 
 What is it more than this, 
 
 That Man, who is from God sent forth, 
 Doth yet again to God return ? — 
 Such ebb and flow must ever be, 
 Then wherefore should we mourn ? 
 
 1 Importuna e grave salma. — Michael Angelo. 
 
3 oo REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 301 
 
 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 the Friend, 
 
 If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 
 
 This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 
 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 0 'tis a passionate Work — yet wise and well, 
 Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 
 
 That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell, 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
 And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 
 
 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 waves, 
 
302 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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 ! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 
 
 GLEN-ALMAIN ; OR, THE NARROW 
 GLEN. 
 
 In this still place, remote from men, 
 
 Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow Glen ; 
 
 In this still place, where murmurs on 
 
 But one meek Streamlet, only one : 
 
 He sang of battles, and the breath 
 
 Of stormy war, and violent death ; 
 
 And should, methinks, when all was past, 
 
 Have rightfully been laid at last 
 
 Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent 
 
 As by a spirit turbulent ; 
 
 Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 
 
 And every thing unreconciled ; 
 
 In some complaining, dim retreat, 
 
 For fear and melancholy meet ; 
 
 But this is calm ; there cannot be 
 
 A more entire tranquillity. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 WRITTEN ON 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. 
 
304 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 What need, then, of these finished Strains ? 
 
 Away with counterfeit Remains ! 
 
 An abbey in its lone recess, 
 
 A temple of the wilderness, 
 
 Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling 
 
 The majesty of honest dealing. 
 
 Spirit of Ossian ! if imbound 
 
 In language thou may'st yet be found, 
 
 If aught (intrusted to the pen 
 
 Or floating on the tongues of men, 
 
 Albeit shattered and impaired) 
 
 Subsist thy dignity to guard, 
 
 In concert with memorial claim 
 
 Of old gray stone, and high-born name, 
 
 That cleaves to rock or pillared cave, 
 
 Where moans the blast, or beats the wave, 
 
 Let Truth, stern arbitress of all, 
 
 Interpret that original, 
 
 And for presumptuous wrongs atone ; 
 
 Authentic words be given, or none ! 
 
 Time is not blind ; — yet He, who spares 
 Pyramid pointing to the Stars, 
 Hath preyed with ruthless appetite 
 On all that marked the primal flight 
 Of the poetic ecstasy 
 Into the land of mystery. 
 . No tongue is able to rehearse 
 One measure, Orpheus ! of thy verse ; 
 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 ? 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 305 
 
 When thousands, by severer doom, 
 Full early to the silent tomb 
 Have sunk, at Nature's call ; or strayed 
 From hope and promise, self-betrayed ; 
 The garland withering on their brows ; 
 Stung with remorse for broken vows ; 
 Frantic — else how might they rejoice ! 
 And friendless, by their own sad choice. 
 
 Hail, Bards of mightier grasp ! on you 
 I chiefly call, the chosen Few, 
 Who cast not off the acknowledged guide, 
 Who faltered not, nor turned aside ; 
 Whose lofty Genius could survive 
 Privation, under sorrow thrive ; 
 In whom the fiery Muse revered 
 The symbol of a snow-white beard, 
 Bedewed with meditative tears 
 Dropped from the lenient cloud of years, 
 
 Brothers in Soul ! though distant times 
 Produced you, nursed in various climes. 
 Ye, when the orb of life had waned, 
 A 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 - f 
 
 X 
 
3 o6 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Appears, on Morven's lonely shore, 
 Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore, 
 The Son of Fingal ; such was blind 
 Mieonides of ample mind ; 
 Such Milton, to the fountain-head 
 Of glory by Urania led ! 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE. 
 
 In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the highway leading 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 ? — 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 hearty 
 How poor were human life ! 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 307 
 
 When magic lore abjured its might, 
 Ye did not forfeit one dear right, 
 One tender claim abate ; 
 Witness this symbol of your sway, 
 Surviving near the public way, 
 The rustic Wishing-gate ! 
 
 Inquire not if the faery race 
 Shed kindly influence on the place, 
 Ere northward they retired ; 
 If here a warrior left a spell, 
 Panting for glory as he fell ; 
 Or here a saint expired. 
 
 Enough that all around is fair, 
 Composed with Nature's finest care, 
 And in her fondest love ; 
 Peace to embosom and content, 
 To overawe the turbulent, 
 The selfish to reprove. 
 
 Yea ! even the Stranger from afar, 
 Reclining on this moss-grown bar, 
 Unknowing, and unknown, 
 The infection of the ground partakes, 
 Longing for his Beloved — who makes 
 All happiness her own. 
 
 Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
 The mystic stirrings that are here, 
 The ancient faith disclaim ? 
 The local Genius ne'er befriends 
 Desires whose course in folly ends, 
 Whose just reward is shame. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
 If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, 
 Here crave an easier lot ; 
 If some have thirsted to renew 
 A broken vow, or bind a true, 
 With firmer, 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 yearn for insight to allay 
 Misgiving, while the crimson day 
 In quietness withdraws ; 
 
 Or when the church-clock's knell profound 
 
 To Time's first step across the bound 
 
 Of midnight makes reply ; 
 
 Time pressing on with starry crest, 
 
 To filial sleep upon the breast 
 
 Of dread eternity ! 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 309 
 
 TO THE LADY FLEMING, 
 
 ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THE 
 ERECTION OF RYDAL 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. 
 
 O Lady ! from a noble line 
 Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore 
 The spear, yet gave to works divine 
 A bounteous help in days of yore 
 (As records mouldering in the Dell 
 Of Nightshade 1 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. 
 
 1 Bekangs Ghyll — or the dell of Nightshade— in which stands St 
 Mary's Abbey in Low Furness. 
 
3io REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 How fondly will the woods embrace 
 This Daughter of thy pious care, 
 Lifting her front with modest grace 
 To make a fair recess more fair ; 
 And to exalt the passing hour ; 
 Or soothe it with a healing power 
 Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled 
 Before this rugged soil was tilled, 
 Or human habitation rose 
 To interrupt the deep repose ! 
 
 Well may the villagers rejoice ! 
 Nor heat, nor cold, nor 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. 
 
 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. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 311 
 
 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 ; 
 Yea, strives for others to bedim 
 The glorious Light too pure for him. 
 
 Alas ! that such perverted zeal 
 
 Should spread on Britain's favoured ground I 
 
 That public order, private weal, 
 
 Should e'er have felt or feared a wound 
 
 From champions of the desperate law 
 
 Which from their own blind hearts they draw ; 
 
 Who tempt their reason to deny 
 
 God, whom their passions dare defy, 
 
 And boast that they alone are free 
 
 Who reach this dire extremity ! 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 But turn we from these " bold bad " men ; 
 The way, mild Lady ! that hath led 
 Down to their " dark opprobrious den," 
 Is all too rough for Thee to tread. 
 Softly as morning 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 313 
 
 TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 (with the sonnets to the river duddon, and 
 other poems.) 
 
 The minstrels played their Christmas tune 
 To-night beneath my cottage-eaves ; 
 While, smitten by a lofty moon, 
 The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
 Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, 
 That overpowered their natural green. 
 
 Through hill and valley every breeze 
 
 Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 
 
 Keen was the air, but could not freeze 
 
 Nor check the music of the strings ; 
 
 So stout 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 * 4 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 1 
 Though public care full often tills 
 (Heaven only witness of the toil) 
 A barren and ungrateful soil. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, 
 
 Iladst 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 ! 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Hail, ancient Manners ! sure defence, 
 Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; 
 Remnants of love whose modest sense 
 Thus into narrow room withdraws ; 
 Hail, Usages of pristine mould, 
 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 ! 
 
316 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 EVENING VOLUNTARIES. 
 I. ( 
 
 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 that her hand has 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, O Nature ! we are thine, 
 Through good and evil thine, in just degree 
 Of rational and manly sympathy. 
 To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing, 
 And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing, 
 Add every charm the universe can show 
 Through every change its aspects undergo — 
 Care may be respited, but not repealed ; 
 No perfect cure grows on that bounded field. 
 Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace, 
 If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease, 
 Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, 
 Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance ; 
 To the distempered Intellect refuse 
 His gracious help, or give what we abuse. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 317 
 
 II. 
 
 ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND. 
 
 Easter Sunday, April 7, 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 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 dreams. 
 Look round ; — of all the clouds not one is moving > 
 '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 I 
 
 Thou Power supreme ! who, arming to rebuke 
 Offenders, dost put off the gracious look, 
 And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood 
 Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood ; 
 Whatever discipline thy Will ordain 
 For the brief course that must for me remain, 
 Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice 
 In admonitions of thy softest voice ! 
 Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace, 
 Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace, 
 Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere 
 Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear ; 
 Glad to expand ; and, for a season, free 
 From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee ! 
 
3i 8 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 TO MARY WORDSWORTH." 
 
 O dearer far than light and life are dear, 
 Full oft our human foresight I deplore ; 
 Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear 
 That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more ! 
 
 Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control, 
 Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest ; 
 While all the future, for thy purer soul, 
 With ''sober certainties " of love is blest. 
 
 If a faint sigh, not meant for human ear, 
 Tell that these words thy humbleness offend, 
 Cherish me still — else faltering in the rear 
 Of a steep march : uphold me to the end. 
 
 Peace settles where the Intellect is meek, 
 And love is dutiful in thought and deed ; 
 Through Thee communion with that Love I seek ; 
 The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the creed. 
 
 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. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 3 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE 
 DEATH OF JAMES HOGG. 
 
 November, 1835. 
 
 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. 
 
3 20 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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, O Crabbe ! forth-looking, 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 
 
 As if but yesterday departed, 
 Thou too art gone before ; but why, 
 O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 
 Should frail survivors heave a sigh ? 
 
 Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
 Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 
 For Her 1 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 their Poet dead. 
 
 1 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 321 
 
 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. 
 
 Roused by this kindliest of May-showers, 
 The spirit-quickener of the flowers, 
 That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
 The buds, and freshens the young leaves, 
 The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
 Of rapture from a thousand throats — 
 Here checked by too impetuous haste, 
 While there the music runs to waste, 
 With bounty more and more enlarged, 
 Till the whole air is overcharged. 
 Give ear, O Man ! to their appeal, 
 And thirst for no inferior zeal, 
 Thou, who canst think, as well as feel. 
 
 Y 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 Mount from the earth ; aspire ! aspire ! 
 So pleads the town's cathedral quire, 
 In strains that from their solemn height 
 Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; 
 While incense from the altar breathes 
 Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths ; 
 Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds 
 The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
 Around angelic Forms, the still 
 Creation of the painter's skill, 
 That on the service wait concealed 
 One moment, and the next revealed. 
 — 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 their flight 
 
 On the swift wings of day and night, 
 
 Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
 
 Wide open for the scattered Poor. 
 
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE 
 
 TN THE GROUNDS OF RYDAL MOUNT. 
 
 In these fair vales hath many a Tree 
 
 At Wordsworth's suit been spared ; 
 And from the builder's hand this Stone,, 
 For some rude beauty of its own, 
 
 Was rescued by the Bard. 
 So let it rest ; and time will come 
 
 When here the tender-hearted 
 May heave a gentle sigh for him, 
 
 As one of the departed. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A barking sound the shepherd hears . . . . . .35 
 
 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by . 22 3 
 
 A poet ! — He hath put his heart to school . 234 
 A point of life between my parents' dust ..... 2 39 
 
 A rock there is whose homely front *7 2 
 
 A simple child 3 
 
 A slumber did my spirit seal . I 45 
 
 A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain 232 
 
 All praise the likeness by thy skill pourtrayed .... 238 
 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 273 
 
 An age hath been when earth was proud . . . . .197 
 An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! — yes, faith may grow bold . .17 
 And is this — Yarrow?— This the stream . . . . .162 
 Another year ! — another deadly blow . . . . .218 
 
 Art thou a Statesman, in the van 296 
 
 Art thou the bird whom man loves best 118 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears . .16 
 
 Before I see another day 5 1 
 
 Behold her, single in the field 153 
 
 Behold, within the leafy shade 116 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed . . ,12 
 
 Blest is this isle — our native land 309 
 
 Bright flower, whose home is everywhere ! . . .123 
 
 Brook and road . 259 
 
 By their floating mill .132 
 
 Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them . 235 
 
 Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to climb . . . .219 
 
328 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Come ye — who, if (which Heaven avert !) the land . . . I g I 
 
 Content with calmer scenes around us spread . 229 
 
 Dear child of nature, let them rail ! 139 
 
 Dear to the loves, and to the graces vowed . . . . 231 
 
 Degenerate Douglas ! oh, the unworthy Lord I .... . 226 
 
 Departing summer hath assumed . . . . . . 194 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair . 225 
 
 England ! the time is come when thou should'st wean . . 218 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 148 
 
 Fair is the swan, whose majesty, prevailing . . . s 183 
 
 Fair star of evening, splendour of the west .... 211 
 
 Farewell, thou little nook of mountain-ground ...» 279 
 
 Five years have past ; five summers, with the length . . 248 
 
 From low to high doth dissolution climb 233 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen . . ... . . 159 
 
 Go, faithful portrait ! and where long hath knelt . . .221 
 
 Hast thou then survived 253 
 
 Here pause : the poet claims at least this praise . . . 219 
 
 High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate .... 54 
 
 High is our calling, friend ! — Creative art .... 232 
 
 Hope rules a land for ever green ....... 306 
 
 I am not one who much or oft delight ..... 222 
 
 I have a boy of five years old . . . . . 8 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes x 35 
 
 I saw an aged beggar in my walk 264 
 
 I saw far off the dark top of a pine ..... . 234 
 
 I shiver, spirit fierce and bold . . . . . . . . 154 
 
 I thought of thee, my partner and my guide . . . .228 
 
 I travelled among unknown men 145 
 
 I've watched you now a full half-hour 117 
 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud .' . 128 
 
 I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile ! . . . . 300 
 
 I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret . . . 226 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps . . . . 81 
 
 If nature, for a favourite child . . . . . • 289 
 
 If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven . . . . 242 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood . . . . -213 
 
 In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud ..... 240 
 
 In these fair vales hath many a tree . . . . . . 323 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan 32 
 
 In this still place, remote from men 302 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 329 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In youth from rock to rock I went 120 
 
 Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind 211 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free . . . . . 224 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the flood ..... 215 
 
 It is the first mild day of March 133 
 
 It seems a day 271 
 
 Lance, shield, and sword relinquished — at his side . . . 229 
 
 Lie here, without a record of thy worth 284 
 
 Life with yon lambs, like day, is just begun .... 236 
 
 Loud is the vale ! the voice is up . . . . . . . . 299 
 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne . . . 240 
 Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour . . . .215 
 
 Most sweet is it with un-uplifted eyes ..... 231 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 Nay, traveller ! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands . . . 256 
 
 Nor can I not believe but that hereby . - . . . . 223 
 
 Not in the lucid intervals of life • 316 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room .... 220 
 
 O blithe new-comer ! I have heard 146 
 
 O dearer far than light and life are dear . . . . .318 
 
 O friend ! I know not which way I must look .... 214 
 
 O nightingale ! thou surely art 141 
 
 O thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought . . . . 140 
 
 Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze . 303 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ..... s f 5 
 
 Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 258 
 
 Once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee , , , . 212 
 
 On his morning rounds the master - 37 
 
 On man, on nature, and on human life . 260 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies ...... 124 
 
 Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side . . , , . 221 
 
 v Pleasures newly found are sweet .-..».,, 126 
 
 Return, content ! for fondly I pursued . . . , . 228 
 Rotha, my spiritual child ! this head was grey . . , .235 
 
 Sacred religion, "mother of form and fear " . . . . 237 
 
 Scorn not the sonnet ; critic, you have frowned . . . 22 o 
 
 See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built cot . . . 237 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways „ % * . . 144 
 
 She had a tall man's height or more . 286 
 Z 
 
33Q INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 
 
 She was a phantom of delight ...... 
 
 148 
 
 Siiv thmiQQnn vpfpi"5*nQ fiT , c*f*t"icpH in wrenr c o"Qmp 
 
 OlA tliVJLloctlUa VvLCXalid pittW-UoCU 111 W cLL j gctlllC • • • 
 
 . 217 
 
 OllicLll oCl VltC lo Ll UC oCi Vil/C W1111C 1L IdoLo • « • • 
 
 •3T8 
 
 . 310 
 
 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 
 
 227 
 
 O Let V IlCdl IliC Uu IIUL LcLJvC Lily lllgllL i • ^ » • 
 
 • XI 5 
 
 Stern daughter of the voice of God 
 
 • 199 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known 
 
 . 142 
 
 Such age how beautiful ! O Lady bright . 
 
 • 236 
 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind .... 
 
 221 
 
 Sweet Highland girl, a very shower . 
 
 . 149 
 
 Toy nril" f np yC\\7Ci 1 cainfr ixnfli train pvnpncfi 
 L (XX. 11UI 111C lUjfal Sdllll Willi V cl 111 CXpCilSC . , . 
 
 23d 
 
 X 11C LULlv lo eiUWlll|£ 
 
 HQ 
 
 The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink . 
 
 
 Tnf* craliQrif ArAi'ifn wnn ttioat novp train^ri 
 
 JJ. 11C gdlldlll J ULllll, W LLKJ LLL&y llclVC gdllieil . . ■ . 
 
 165 
 
 The knight had ridden down from Wensley IVIoor 
 
 39 
 
 The little hedgerow birds • . . . ... 
 
 270 
 
 The minstrels played their Christmas tune •» . . 
 
 
 TVif* ■nibmrb'sc nntp A\*icriiiv\tf*Tnctinre*r\ rw muff 
 
 j. lie piuiu^ii a nuie, uioeuuiiieiidiieevi. kji ihiiic . . . 
 
 233 
 
 The post-boy drove with fierce career .... 
 
 10 
 
 The sun, that seemed so mildly to retire .... 
 
 317 
 
 Trip* rl k fan miifn \\7'\ t n iic • ^3 t~i rl cr\r\i~\ 
 
 X 11C WUllV-l 13 LvJU lllLlell Willi Llo , Idle dllLl oUUll » » • 
 
 214 
 
 j narn ic o f\ fwxjf^Y' trie* iPQQPi* /"Pi nn 1 n 
 
 x iiei e 10 d iiuwcij nie icooci eeidiiuine . . . • 
 
 285 
 
 There is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton vale . . . 
 
 246 
 
 There ! ' said a stripling, pointing with meet pride 
 
 257 
 
 Xlieie 0 llUL d llLUJlv Wlllllll tlllo oUieillil jJcvoo • . . 
 
 236 
 
 There was a boy * ye knew him well, ye cliffs . . . 
 
 245 
 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night • • •■ 
 
 59 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream 
 
 201 
 
 These times touch monied worldlings with dismay . 
 
 216 
 
 These tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live 
 
 . 65 
 
 They dreamt not of a perishable home • • 
 
 230 
 
 T'Virnirrn T Vif»Vi*»1rl of flrcf- until IVIanl? Q1 1 fni*1 . 
 XliuUgii x uciiciu. dt nibL wim uidiiis. suijjiiov • • • 
 
 218 
 ^30 
 
 TVimicrn T*n oni; ClinQ navp vicpn onn QtfM _ , „ 
 lUULiwU iiidiiy ouxij iidvc 1 loeii atiu ov*i . - • • 
 
 169 
 
 'TIi^pp* xrporc c n crrf*wr in vii n onn ^hnwPl* • ■ • 
 X 111 cc ycdio oiie giew 111 duii diiu. suuww . . . . 
 
 143 
 
 Too frail to keep the lofty vow . . . . 
 
 • 157 
 
 Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men ! 
 
 • 212 
 
 TV a n ni m 1 1 1 t\r 1 t"Vif* envprpiern aim wprt tnoil . . 
 x 1 diii^iiiniiy . 111c ouvcici^u ctiiii w \~x l niu la . 
 
 239 
 
 'Tvxt-qc cnmmpr nnrl tVif <siin Tmri moiintpd hlfrh . . « 
 X Wdo ollllllliei, dllvl L11C ollil 11CHJ. 111VJ LXli lv— vj. xxi^xx . . 
 
 06 
 
 Two voices are there ; one is of the sea . 
 
 • 213 
 
 Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away ! . 
 
 • 15 
 
 Up ! up ! my friend, and quit your books 
 
 • i37 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 • 130 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 331 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Vanguard of liberty, ye men of Kent ..... 217 
 
 Wansfell ! this household has a favoured lot . , . 227 
 
 We talked with open heart, and tongue . . . . -293 
 
 We walked along, while bright and red 291 
 
 What crowd is this ? what- have we here ! we must not pass it by 18 
 " What is good for a bootless bene ? " ..... 45 
 What lovelier home could gentle fancy choose ? 225 
 " What, you are stepping westward ? " — "Yea" . . . 152 
 When first, descending from the moorlands . . . . 319 
 When I have borne in memory what has tamed . . .216 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate .23 
 
 When, to the attractions of the busy world . . . .276 
 
 Where are they now, those wanton boys ? 288 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved son 48 
 
 Where lies the land to which yon ship must go ? . . 224 
 
 Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds . . .192 
 Where will they stop, those breathing powers . . • 321 
 
 Who is the happy warrior ? Who is he . . • 188 
 
 Why, William, on that old grey stone 136 
 
 Wings have we, — and as far as we can go .... 222 
 
 Wisdom and spirit of the universe ! 243 
 
 Within our happy castle there dwelt one . . * . .281 
 With sacrifice, before the rising morn ..... X j 7 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo 147 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye ! . . , . . 226 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh. 
 
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